Hello Fans, I cannot bare to see hurt on your pretty little faces so I am going to be honest with you. I am currently having a shit. That's right. Blogging on the toilet, it is the way forward. With it being Jeremy Beadle Month I've been too busy to relate to you my humble goings on. I have therefore taken it upon myself to use this current time to dump my thoughts onto your ever-impressionable mind meanderings.
For this week's entertaining tale I will be recounting to you the story of Ewan's unfortunate accident. This week poor Ewan was squashed under a tree. The outcome being that his shop was closed and all the bacon went stale. He is...
Hang on.
Shit! Someone's just broken into the flat. Can you email the police on this thing? How does it work? Login? There isn't time.
SOMEONE HELP! I'M BEING BURGLED!
I'm too much of a nervous shitter to yell for help. I've only just plucked up the courage to get in here today. If he finds me here things could get ugly. I'm very uneasy about this whole event. What do you do? Better make the best of this situation and get on with things. Fingers crossed his tastes lie in stamp money and Rice Krispies Squares instead of vintage cassette tapes.
So anyway, Ewan was strolling past the Church when this big old birch tree uprooted itself and fell on top of him. Typical Ewan. The Church in question was in the process of being fumigated due to its parishioner infestation so he was without aid. Three days Ewan lay dying under that tree. We all thought he had taken a surprise holiday, as is his want. He had been discussing Hull for a few days so we naturally thought he had tripped off up the A1.
Luckily Mike was hunting for road kill at the time and saw something was amiss. They dragged Ewan off to hospital and he has been there ever since. Shame, he missed the Jeremy Beadle Lookalike Contest. The entrants showed pure dedication, mangled hands, magic, the lot. It's good to keep the memory alive. In a tear filled ceremony we ended up giving everyone joint first. Except for Miss Bubble who had to be disqualified for tampering with the opposition's wigs. It is such a disgrace when...
I can hear a clanking, a rattle of hands against metal. HOLY SUGARSCROTES! He's got my Casio MT-600. I have to get out of here.
Phew, he's put it down, and, is, making himself some tea. Bastard, he didn't even offer to make me one! That is the last straw.
Sorry fans, I must put a stop to this, no one steals a Mix Master's Keyboard and gets away with it. Let's pray this doesn't go all Pulp Fiction as we have got Beadlefest Planned for next Saturday. Bye.
FLUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!!!
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
My Time At Radio Two
You may think that after relating my last tale a career at the BBC would be impossibly achieved. And you would be right. So under the pseudonym Paul McLennon I applied for a job as a Mix Master Understudy. Naturally my skills as a Mix Master Master got me thrown through the audition and into the broadcasting booth. My only problem lay in the fact that I was playing part in my host's egotistical plans to twist the world to his will with his loving voice.
I was thus angered by my creative stifling at the hands of this Irish wizard and was regularly seen venting my anger atop Western House. There is nothing like cloud abuse to lift the spirits and dampen the window boxes. My controller's spell binding voice had control over the entire nation. His charming magic nearly defeated me but I was saved by my singular desire to break this conjurer's tricks with my Mix Mastering.
It took many years to weaken his defenses but I was soon given my chance. After lacing the coffee pot with crack cocaine I was able to delay my nemesis' return to the microphone. While he was shivving a secretary and protecting his lucky charms I seized upon the opportunity to demonstrate my talents across the airwaves.
ALAS, TRAGEDY! I had lent my tapes to Ewan for use at his Son's First Scalping. It was at this point in history I called out to the Mixing Gods. I prayed them to bequeath me with the powers necessary to slay this demon. There was a flash of sound, and a magical disco ball descend from what had once been air. It's reflective power bestowed upon me a sensation. I had not felt such power and almost believed myself to be dreaming. Suddenly without any thought to my own safety a strange beat emerged from my lips. It continued and layer upon layer soon became a musical masterpiece. I have since dubbed it the Beatfox. A form of musicianship so confusingly cunning that it permanently broke the spell of my captor and freed his millions of enslaved listeners.
I was thus responsible for the lowest ever ratings experienced by this corporation. Thank you. My interruption killed the airwaves and saved the world. I had dispelled the bewitching chants of this delightful fiend. My dreams of a richer musical nation had alas, been temporary thwarted. Had I not intervened this warlock may have taken over the minds and indeed hearts of our fair people. His power was dispelled and though unnamed my deeds made the national press and Paul McLennon's picture graces the reception desk at Broadcasting House. To this day I am confused as to the words hidden message but it ran as such, "Wogan forced into early retirement after cocaine binge leaves three dead and a nation weeping." I am proud and grateful to the Mixing Gods for having such faith in a young disciple.
I take no credit for these acts of heroism. A new music form has entered the mortal realm and a nation is free to weep for its freedom. Despite remaining anonymous I have been getting increasing volumes of fan mail from an organisation calling themselves TOG's so I better crack on and find out what I can do to enrich their lives. They probably wish me to perform a Beatfoxing fundraiser in celebration and I am happy to oblige.
I was thus angered by my creative stifling at the hands of this Irish wizard and was regularly seen venting my anger atop Western House. There is nothing like cloud abuse to lift the spirits and dampen the window boxes. My controller's spell binding voice had control over the entire nation. His charming magic nearly defeated me but I was saved by my singular desire to break this conjurer's tricks with my Mix Mastering.
It took many years to weaken his defenses but I was soon given my chance. After lacing the coffee pot with crack cocaine I was able to delay my nemesis' return to the microphone. While he was shivving a secretary and protecting his lucky charms I seized upon the opportunity to demonstrate my talents across the airwaves.
ALAS, TRAGEDY! I had lent my tapes to Ewan for use at his Son's First Scalping. It was at this point in history I called out to the Mixing Gods. I prayed them to bequeath me with the powers necessary to slay this demon. There was a flash of sound, and a magical disco ball descend from what had once been air. It's reflective power bestowed upon me a sensation. I had not felt such power and almost believed myself to be dreaming. Suddenly without any thought to my own safety a strange beat emerged from my lips. It continued and layer upon layer soon became a musical masterpiece. I have since dubbed it the Beatfox. A form of musicianship so confusingly cunning that it permanently broke the spell of my captor and freed his millions of enslaved listeners.
I was thus responsible for the lowest ever ratings experienced by this corporation. Thank you. My interruption killed the airwaves and saved the world. I had dispelled the bewitching chants of this delightful fiend. My dreams of a richer musical nation had alas, been temporary thwarted. Had I not intervened this warlock may have taken over the minds and indeed hearts of our fair people. His power was dispelled and though unnamed my deeds made the national press and Paul McLennon's picture graces the reception desk at Broadcasting House. To this day I am confused as to the words hidden message but it ran as such, "Wogan forced into early retirement after cocaine binge leaves three dead and a nation weeping." I am proud and grateful to the Mixing Gods for having such faith in a young disciple.
I take no credit for these acts of heroism. A new music form has entered the mortal realm and a nation is free to weep for its freedom. Despite remaining anonymous I have been getting increasing volumes of fan mail from an organisation calling themselves TOG's so I better crack on and find out what I can do to enrich their lives. They probably wish me to perform a Beatfoxing fundraiser in celebration and I am happy to oblige.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
My Time At Radio One
I've had a pretty mellow week. Went to the shops, spent three grand on a Jeremy Beadle Mural for the exterior of the basement and found that pen I was looking for. So instead of telling you all about how the painter got his head stuck in a paint tin I thought I would reminisce about my time at Radio One.
It was a long time ago. Ewan was still working in hoofs and Lucifer hadn't yet crushed his legs in that Himalayan cave. I was a plucky young Mix Master with nothing but a sweet record collection and optimism in hand. I remember walking those golden tinted halls, smelling the incense and pretension, and thinking I had just found my home. I finally found my office, seven floors down from the basement, which took some time to find, as there wasn't a B5 or B6. Once home I set up shop and got straight onto the airwaves.
It was three weeks later when Derek Chinnery's assistant burst in and ruined my morning broadcast. Apparently I was literally in the shit. I hadn't fixed the third floor lavatories, the carpets were getting soggy and John Peel was losing his buzz. It turns out the smell of rotting shit can really upset a higher state of consciousness. I was ushered into Aubrey Singer's office and immediately sacked. This came as a complete shock and my reaction didn't go down well. I don't know if lack of sleep from a constant three week Mix-up triggered my act or if it was just anger. I sort of lost it in the way that I totally lost it. The details of my outburst were far to sickening to relate to such a fragile audience but Aubrey will never look at a middle finger in the same way and to this day he has never been seen singing Ave Maria.
Although brief I consider my time at Radio One to have been a very fruitful and creative endeavour. I still get fan mail even now. What worries me is that it is always postmarked with Iranian stamps. To this day I don't know if they were just avid listeners of my breakfast show or if the signal I was using to pump out the magic was a secret MI5 spy frequency. All I know is that I rocked their lives and that is what it is all about.
It was a memorable time for me and I was sad to leave. Still, things turned out for the best. Upon leaving the building I stumbled upon an idea so revolutionary I have only just entangled its complexity. The idea was for a, wait I've lost it. My fortune is tied up in there somewhere and once I decode my own complex thought patterns the world will be a better place.
I hope you have enjoyed this brief trip down memory lane as much as I have. I must head off as I am scheduled to play a church disco down in Cockford Falls. It will give me a chance to try out the new Moomins Dub Jam. Something I've been mulling over on the fringes of my imagination for many a minute. So I bid you a fond, HOLY SHIT THAT'S IT! Bicycle pedal straps. It's so simple. Let the revolution begin.
What? Ewan tells me it's been done and that they have met with only mild enthusiasm. Sigh. You can't win them all. Maybe if I stick a radio into them, that is a sure fire way to reinvent any form of cycling equipment. Indeed it can be a much-wanted addition to anything. How about Radio Radio's? WOOOOOOOOW!!! This is going to take some planning.
EWAN I NEED THIRTY GRAND FOR SOME RADIO PROTOTYPES, I'LL PAY YOU BACK WITH FAME AND ADMIRATION.
Ewan says it's fine. Eat that Radio One. I've just doubled your whole ethos. Radio Radio. It's the next big thing. If I had an evil megalomaniac laugh this would be the perfect opportunity to put it into practice. Better make a note of that, but when is another moment like this going to present itself? I'll have to wing it. WHWHWHAAAHYFJFHFOLFNFEYEHWYWHW!!!
It was a long time ago. Ewan was still working in hoofs and Lucifer hadn't yet crushed his legs in that Himalayan cave. I was a plucky young Mix Master with nothing but a sweet record collection and optimism in hand. I remember walking those golden tinted halls, smelling the incense and pretension, and thinking I had just found my home. I finally found my office, seven floors down from the basement, which took some time to find, as there wasn't a B5 or B6. Once home I set up shop and got straight onto the airwaves.
It was three weeks later when Derek Chinnery's assistant burst in and ruined my morning broadcast. Apparently I was literally in the shit. I hadn't fixed the third floor lavatories, the carpets were getting soggy and John Peel was losing his buzz. It turns out the smell of rotting shit can really upset a higher state of consciousness. I was ushered into Aubrey Singer's office and immediately sacked. This came as a complete shock and my reaction didn't go down well. I don't know if lack of sleep from a constant three week Mix-up triggered my act or if it was just anger. I sort of lost it in the way that I totally lost it. The details of my outburst were far to sickening to relate to such a fragile audience but Aubrey will never look at a middle finger in the same way and to this day he has never been seen singing Ave Maria.
Although brief I consider my time at Radio One to have been a very fruitful and creative endeavour. I still get fan mail even now. What worries me is that it is always postmarked with Iranian stamps. To this day I don't know if they were just avid listeners of my breakfast show or if the signal I was using to pump out the magic was a secret MI5 spy frequency. All I know is that I rocked their lives and that is what it is all about.
It was a memorable time for me and I was sad to leave. Still, things turned out for the best. Upon leaving the building I stumbled upon an idea so revolutionary I have only just entangled its complexity. The idea was for a, wait I've lost it. My fortune is tied up in there somewhere and once I decode my own complex thought patterns the world will be a better place.
I hope you have enjoyed this brief trip down memory lane as much as I have. I must head off as I am scheduled to play a church disco down in Cockford Falls. It will give me a chance to try out the new Moomins Dub Jam. Something I've been mulling over on the fringes of my imagination for many a minute. So I bid you a fond, HOLY SHIT THAT'S IT! Bicycle pedal straps. It's so simple. Let the revolution begin.
What? Ewan tells me it's been done and that they have met with only mild enthusiasm. Sigh. You can't win them all. Maybe if I stick a radio into them, that is a sure fire way to reinvent any form of cycling equipment. Indeed it can be a much-wanted addition to anything. How about Radio Radio's? WOOOOOOOOW!!! This is going to take some planning.
EWAN I NEED THIRTY GRAND FOR SOME RADIO PROTOTYPES, I'LL PAY YOU BACK WITH FAME AND ADMIRATION.
Ewan says it's fine. Eat that Radio One. I've just doubled your whole ethos. Radio Radio. It's the next big thing. If I had an evil megalomaniac laugh this would be the perfect opportunity to put it into practice. Better make a note of that, but when is another moment like this going to present itself? I'll have to wing it. WHWHWHAAAHYFJFHFOLFNFEYEHWYWHW!!!
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