Thursday 13 December 2012

an old review of the quirkiest quirking quirkster on the comedy circuit - Dave Gorman


Before the rollicking fun and bone achingly hilarious Dave Gorman we had to endure the introverted pseudo-nerd acoustic ramblings by music comedian Jay Foreman. Fitting the bill as a warm up act for a main act that never reaches tepid, Forman took the audience on a tedious acoustic journey with songs about stealing food and the royal wedding. Never weird enough to be Bill Bailey funny and never clever enough to be Flight of the Concords – Foreman is pretty forgettable, except to one gentleman behind me who almost got a hernia from laughter.




From the 'Dave Gorman Wears
a Jumper' series, where he had
to wear as many jumpers as
he could for a whole week
Performing to an almost completely sold out Cambridge Corn Exchange, you could be fooled into thinking that there is something funny about Dave Gorman. For this 30+ middle England audience however, I suspect they were paying £20 a ticket to be comforted, warmed by the inane familiarity of Gorman’s material and perhaps even pleased by his 1st year university lecturer style that makes them think of younger days. Gorman is in fact best understood as a supply teacher or junior lecturer who rather fancies himself as a comic, rather than a comic who fancies himself as someone who can impart any interesting information, which he avoids with admirable consistency. 

Gorman was not forgettable, quite memorable in fact, but for all the wrong reasons. As with every single piece of stand up or show based comedy he has ever done it is exclusively all about HIM. This show took the form of an analysis of Gorman’s thickly packed CV, allowing the audience much craved insight into his religion, diet and day to day life.
'Who let Gorman in the lab!?' - *havoc ensues

There are two main problems here. Firstly, for a comedian to take you on a journey through his life it is important that he is at least affable. Gorman doesn’t quite fit the bill here. Towards the end of the show, one crowd members was on their mobile phone to the furious outrage of Dave Gorman. He proceeded to march down the aisles and confiscate the individual’s phone, looming over them with the imposing aura of an elderly gardener he shouted: ‘Give me your fucking phone!’ and then balanced it on a jug of water hoping it might vibrate and fall in. Admittedly, the person may have been illegally filming the show, but his reaction, instead of informing the front of house staff, was characteristic of an aggressive and dislikeable comedian.
The second major problem, besides the fact that his material is simply unfunny, is that the root of it is drawn from the supposed absurdity of his real life. The premise for ‘Are you Dave Gorman?’, ‘Googlewhack Adventure’ (and all the rest) has been to recall to the flabbergasted audience how bizarre his life has been over the past few years. The message being ‘look how bloody kooky I am. I am so bloody kooky that I set up a real twitter account for a fictional character created by the HTC marketing company...so you don’t have to.’ To which the audience applaud, cheer and probably cry with laughter at the prospect that someone could live as mind-meltingly surreal a life as Dave Gorman seemingly has.

But it is important to remember that he is only doing these stupid things so he doesn’t have to write any actual material! The implicit humour of the show lies in finding his real lifestyle funny, but he has no real life as everything he does is seemingly for the purposes of his comedy shows. In being self-consciously wacky his life is in fact almost entirely fictional! When he tells us that he ate loads of berocca, asparagus and beetroot to see what would happen to his piss, he is lying. He did this to provide something funny to talk about in his show so as to avoid the painstaking process of actually thinking.
Another proposed BBC pilot show
where a group of drunks wait for
Gorman to make a shit joke in a pub
and then beat the crap out of him.
He wasn't smiling by the end.

No sane person lives the life he claims to have done. No mentally stable person spends an entire year collecting a group of people with the same name as them (‘Are you Dave Gorman?’) just because they feel like it. Indeed, if you did that and did not use it for comedy material purposes you might genuinely be investigated by the police as a real lunatic. If we are, therefore, to buy into Gorman’s totally bonkers life stories as being real, which is imperative if the comedy is to work, then we are laughing at a man who has literally lost his mind. We are laughing, as the Victorians did with their freak shows, at a man who is actually mentally ill. The greatest irony of all is that our unwavering fixation with this mental elephant man leads to ticket, merchandise and DVD sales which only further encourages management to perpetuate the process as they tour him ragged, no doubt caging him up in the back of a horse drawn circus carriage as he wails and pleads at passersby.
- 'Please get the fuck off my
doorstep, you're not funny'
- 'But I'm wearing a hat!'

 If this is the case, if his life really is this weird, if he really is that mental and spends his days tracking down the authors of internet googlewhacks (‘Dave Gorman’s Googlewhack Adventure’) then any human with a sense of empathy and pity would do the right thing and stop the perpetual motion of wackiness, stop funding his illness. The best thing you can do to cure Dave of his malignant quirkiness is to stop buying tickets to his shows or books or DVDs. Please. 

Tuesday 4 December 2012

Skeeter Rides Again

Howdy y’all, Skeeter the Texan Ranger here, and I got some much-needed good news for the American people (you know the ones I mean):

In the wake of the most disastrous misfire of democracy since 1933 in Germany, there’s been talk of secession in conservative quarters.
Well, now there’s write of secession! Which is dang good news for any of y’all that can do the reading…

That’s right folks, Skeeter’s got a new book coming out: the highly-anticipated spiritual successor to 2009’s Lone Stars and Rights for Stripes and, seeing as how you subscribe to my e-letters, y’all are entitled to a 10 per cent discount on signed first edition copies of If At First You Don’t Secede (Try, Try and Buy a Gun) by Skeeter P. Cooter (with foreword by Bubba Crow Jr.). 

Buy it, read it, and discover:
-          Why Satan is real, but climate change ain’t.
-          How to keep your kids disciplined and self-reliant in today’s age of namby-pamby child labour laws and universal public education. Hint: it involves the use of smooth river pebbles and a thick sock.
-          How, if gay marriage is legalised, the number of children born to homosexual couples could exceed the number born to heterosexual couples by 2017!
-          Where Obama was REALLY born – you’ll wish he was a Kenyan after you read this!
-          And most importantly, how we can restore limited, constitutional government that serves only to seal the border with Mexico, hunt down terrorists inside and outside the United States, eradicate homosexuality, control women’s reproductive organs, win a new Cold War with China and trigger the Second Coming by putting all the world’s Jews in Israel (whether they want it or not!)

Not since Jesus finished writing the Bible in 34 AD has such an important book come out of Texas! You CANNOT afford to miss this!

Thursday 22 November 2012

some of Henning Wehn's newsletters


German Comedy Ambassador Header

August, 2012


Dear Friends of German Comedy,

I hope you’ve been enjoying the Games so far.

I know I have. Not least as this time, unlike at the last London Olympics in 1948, Germany is invited.

Back then, and not for the last time, a bankrupt, war-knackered Britain had to cobble together an Olympics made more difficult by the fact the previous Olympics had been so spectacular.

Undisputed highlight of 2012 so far was the German eventing team winning gold just ahead of Zara Phillips and her friends, which in a way made it a German 1-2.

Other than that, the Fatherland’s medal exploits have been rather disappointing. Just like at Euro 2012 our mentally weak athletes are not able to cope with pressure.

Very much unlike Team GB who just keeps on winning. And as if Britain’s excellent medal haul this time wasn’t enough, there’ll be an even bigger one at the Commonwealth Games 2014 in Glasgow.

The Commonwealth Games, where British fulltime athletes compete against the finest postmen, plumbers and bus drivers from Montserrat, Dominica and the Virgin Islands.

It’s like the first round of the FA Cup all the way through.

In the history of the Commonwealth Games Wales has won 51 gold medals. And we can all safely agree if Wales won 51 gold medals it’s not a proper sporting competition. 

In the 2006 Commonwealth Games in Melbourne there was one event that had too few participants to merit a bronze medal: women’s double trap pair. It’s some sort of pigeon shooting, which in itself is a right nonsense.

Just blow up the nest. That’s got to be maximum score.

So, that’s enough ill-informed and badly linked nonsense for one month.
I have to get back in front of the telly to watch some more random sport no-one will care about once the football season is underway. (which can’t be soon enough to be honest)

Have a great month!

Henning






October, 2012

Dear Friends Of German Humour...
 

Every month I’m dreading having to write a new bulletin.

Mind you, I’m not dreading the writing half as much as the actual sending-out process.

Usually some people get it four times, others not at all. And everyone gets diamonds where there should be apostrophes. I’ve now shelled out for a new mail-out programme. Let’s hope it works. Apparently it’s now possible to add photos and all but let’s not get carried away.

I can’t have been the only one utterly surprised this week to read that Tooting is home to the highest earners in the UK.
According to the Wealth of the Nation 2012 report, the average annual income is now £66,100, beating Knightsbridge and Chelsea.

This can mean one of four things.
A) There’s a lot more money in running late night kebab joints than I thought.
B) The borders of Tooting have been gerrymandered so they stretch all the way to Barnes.
C) It’s all nonsense. Or, most likely,
D) JK Rowling has moved into the area to write her next gritty novel about the thorough decency of the lower class.

I will definitely keep an eye out for her down the Lahore on Tooting Broadway after pub closing time.

In preparation I’ll also read her new book so I can break the ice by going “I’ve read your book” or, in case she needs reminding, “You’ve written a book”. Or if I want to play with her mind “Haven’t you written a book?”

But before I read The Casual Vacancy I first have to finish Dietmar Hamann’s The Didi Man, describing his journey from growing up in Munich to becoming a Liverpool institution.

It’s absolutely riveting but, when I read it, I struggle with what accent to do in my head. I’ve decided to read the bits when it’s all going hunky-dory in Bavarian. Once the wheels come off and he starts drinking and gambling I switch to Scouse. So far that does feel right.

But back to Ms Rowling: I really admire her for being such a positive role model what with having been a single mum yet having succeeded. Certainly much better than Kate Middleton, who shows nothing but contempt for ordinary British women.

For years British girls have been taught that the only way to have a fulfilled life and a successful career is by having photos of their tits published. Now Kate Middleton is lucky enough to be given that very opportunity and she fights tooth and nail against it. What an ungrateful, spoilt brat!

Talking of people who are a national disgrace: October marks the 22nd anniversary of West Germany paying for East Germany. And of late the rest of Europe, too. We can’t go on like this! Only last week Martin Kaymer felt the need to credit his fellow Europeans after he single-handedly won the Ryder Cup.

Where is it all going to end? Most likely in a spam filter.

Have a great month

Henning


Sunday 11 November 2012

The Godly, pt.2, 'Two youths having a conversation in the town square'


The market square
Two youths having casual conversation in the town square next to Hypatia’s Platonic Pizza Joint

Bastion – alrite
Telemachus – alrite
B – yep
T – nice
B – yea...nice
T – yep...
B - yea...

pause

T – how’s your mother
B – Shes got the sweat again
T – Phhh hate that man
B – Yea she’s really, well...sweaty...
T – Phhh...(pause) how’s your sister?
B – Aint got a sister
T – Nice! I’m guna get in there! Hahahaha
B – I said I don’t have a sister
T – Right...nice... your dad?
B – He’s dead
T – (faintly) Ohhh yea...I remember...hanging?
B – Um, yesss...or maybe drowning...no I think it was a hanging.
Pause....
T - phhhhhh
B - you err heard that new Bach track?
T – Well tempered Clavier?
B – yea
T – yea man, love it
B  - yea?
T – yea, big tune man, top production, he tempered the hell out of that clavier
B – yea, some hardcore clavier on there
T – king of the clavier they call him
B – yea, the ‘clavier cat’

Short pause
T- yea

pause
B – some amazing solos on there actually
T – Don’t need to tell me brother! My spirit yearns for those solos. Aint heard arpeggiated cords like that in a long time
B – Yea, and that fugal exposition...wow
T – The Lord hath delivered on that one, no doubt.
B - And the delicate deployment of the B-flat
T – Oh yea, praise be to the delicacy of that B-flat
B - definitely...it’s so...delicate

Pause
B - you heard the remix?
T – yea think so...
B – Gustavus von Schtikulberg. Belter.
T - On the Baroque Bangers EP?
B – Yes, I think so. Or it might be on Organ Madness vol.1...
T – Ah yeaaaa, yea yea yea..err yea.. Think I heard in ‘The Pox’ the other night after I dropped a couple of Garlic gloves in the toilets. Went down a storm
B – Yea, Schitkulberg’s an absolute heretic
T – He nails the major keys
B – Nails it
T – Christ almighty, I mean the way he manipulates that coda, it’s like a plague of curséd locusts dancing in my ears
B – Yea mate, manipulates that coda like no one else
T – yea yea
B – yea

Pause
T – Heard about the Anabaptist Crew?
B – Err is the Lord substantially present in the Host? Course I have! Structural and scriptural renegades.
T – They’re so original. I love how Preach Master Godfrey plays the Crumhorn. He just turns everything we thought we knew about the Crumhorn...
B – (aside) errr pretty much everything
T - ...and turns it on it’s head. And then curses it to damnation and a fiery death in the pits of a very real hell.
B – Yea...I like the lyrics too.
T – Oh yea, of course the lyrics. The lyrics are just so potent and yet pretty subtle
B – Yea, they tread that fine line between being doctrinally innovative and accursedly heretical. 
T – I love the one that goes: “The scriptures have divine authority, inspired by the Lord’s own majesty. But don’t forget when you pray on that hill, that we’re predestined to groove and have no free will”
T – Yes! Ah, Godbless their asses!
B - And their cattle.
T – They are such a doctrinally subversive bunch
B – I know, subverting doctrine all over the place. Questioning the restrictive theological framework we are so oblivious to
T – Yea, I mean when you think about it, doctrine and that is just the system at work really isn’t it?
B – Yea...
T – It’s the system trying...trying to fucking use doctrine to...
B – indoctrinate you
T – Yea! To control us. “Bless my soul?”, Bless your own sodding soul you paedo!
B – Hmmm. Maybe it’s not that simple...
T – Well of course it’s the big corporations too! Trying to get in our heads, make us buy more silkened hoods and linen hose that we don’t even want!
B – Right...
T - Fuckers. I’ve got a mind to join the fucking Papists man.
B – haha, yea...yea...you’re joking right?
T – Na man, fuck these stuck up Lutherans man. I’ll do what I want
B – The Papists though? Rumour has it that they encourage the use of scented candles in Mass
T – yea fine, I don’t agree with the more extreme stuff but the Lutherans are so square man. I mean Salvation by faith alone? What are you on about? See if you can find salvation with my knob in your face, you tossers.
B – hmmm...
T – Priesthood of all Believers, gimi a break. Priesthood of bummers and cock heads more like
B – right...
Father Gertrude walks by.
Father Gertrude – Good afternoon boys
T – Afternoon Father Gertrude. May peace reign down upon you with grace and tranquillity. (sings short Psalm). Bless you Father. (aside) Wanker.

Pause, waiting for Father Gertrude to walk by
B - Allot of good stuff coming out of Leipzig at the moment though, don’t you think?
T – Oh Yea, new record label started up there actually; “Earthenware Bass”
B – Part of the “Doublet and Hoe’s” imprint. Leipzig is pretty much the new Augsburg really
T – Yea man, progressive stuff
B – Yea
T – I mean, sod that Middle Renaissance rubbish
B – Yea
T - It’s all like...’get over it, we get it, you can produce some complex points of imitation and some passages of homophony counterpointed by a deviating minor scale...get over yourself’
B – Definitely, get over it
T – Anyone can make a homophony and then drop some deviation on it
B – That is true...
T - It’s just restrictive prima practica descending madrigal crap!
B – Yea definitely...did you get all this of Wikipedia?
T – what...

Pause
T - You goin’ Saxony Fest this year?
B – Ah would like to but it’s 5 guldens, can’t afford that and it takes about 6 days by horse
T – It’s not cheap. I could lend you some fowl if you’re short though.
B – Ah thanks, but I already owe you half an oxen
T – Holy Moses you do as well! You cheekey Ottoman!
B – Haha
T - Sebastien and the Locusts on the main stage though
B – Ah, they have one seriously competent lute player in that band
T – They do indeed. His solo on ‘The Lord is my Shepherd and my Brother’ just blew my mind.
B – yea and he’s not bad on ‘Holy Holy Holy Rock!’ either
T – I know. You’re guna miss out man. Frankfurter and Hasselhoff are both coming. And Hamburger might bring some sugared prunes.
B – Oh not again! You should really watch it, I think he’s got a problem.
T – Na. I’ve seen him take 6 spiced pheasant’s before and he was fine
B – Wasn’t that when he did a shit in the belfry?
T – Yea, but we’ve all been there...late at night, a wretched stomach cursed by a merciless fallen angel to the plundering depths of Armageddon, squatting out of a belfry. Just blamed it on the Calvinists anyway. He’s only guna take a couple of kilos of sugared prunes, it’ll be ok.
B – They do search you there though
T – They’ve never caught the H–Burger.

Pause
B – Thinking about it, we could always borrow my Dad’s news wagon
T – Ah yes!
B – He’s got some nice wheels, got some new hinges and some seriously slick oak sideboards.
T – Yea and iron coated rims
B – With a copper finish! Oh my Jesusing bloody Christ that copper finishing! And that divine navigational system, “powered by faith and faith alone”. brilliant
T – yes. Man I bet that thing can go from nought to holy in no time
B – yea, couple of minutes no probs.
T – Blimey! The Lord is my Saviour!
B – Yep, it is a real maiden magnet too
T – of course it is! Bring on the maidens and their mystical ways
B – Yea, it’s one blesséd wagon.

Pause
T – If not though, we could always hitchhike?
B – Ah duno, the Empire’s pretty hairy at the moment
T – true
B - Some mates of my mates from Duisburg tried to hitchhike to Bohemia for this ‘lads on tour’ thing
T – yea
B - 5 of ‘em got conscripted into the Von Mansfeld’s militia and two got abducted by that religious sect out near that Upper Palatinate
B –The Brotherhood of Profane Pederasts?
T – Yep.
B – well we’ll figure something out. Got to go man, got a scripture tutorial with Father Hansgruber
T – Pain in the arse.
B – good one
T – May the Lord be with you.
B – And you.

Friday 9 November 2012

From the Indepedent's list of 100 favorite fictional characters


God
Chosen by Michael Marshall (The Lonely Dead)

Polymorphic, unpredictable, unaccountable; omnipotent yet negligent, kind yet vicious. Suitable to any genre or period. Able to hold centre stage in plot, or work subtly in deep background. Never requires a deus ex machina. A character you can immerse yourself in, forever.

Thursday 1 November 2012

John Hegley

Brilliant poet-comedian. He's been around since the early 80s. Does some great musical comedy - similar to poetry stuff. Going to Cambridge in late November to promote his new book: a collection of poems, prose and drawings. Apparently he used to be a bus conductor.

Sunday 21 October 2012

Zoo Wars, Parts 1 and 2


Zoo Wars:

Know Your Enemy:

Ryan had hand-delivered six tiger cubs. However, dragging those bloody bundles of teeth and claws from their barely-sedated mothers had never chilled him like a visit to his boss’s office. He knocked nervously on the heavy door, on which was screwed a brass nameplate: Victor Tasman BA, Managing Director, Sherwell Zoo.

“Come in” Ryan opened the door to find the slender figure of Victor slouched in a high-backed chair, fiddling with a silver lighter in the shape of a revolver. “Sit down Ryan.” Victor commanded. Ryan sat. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you in today” Victor gestured at Ryan with the lighter. Ryan, momentarily unsettled by the sight of his boss waving a gun-shaped object at his head, nodded. 

“Well, I’ll answer your question with one of my own. What does Sherwell Zoo mean to you Ryan?”

While he enjoyed his work as Head Keeper, Ryan first and foremost saw his job as a deal-clincher with animal-loving girls at local bars. Knowing that this was not the answer Victor sought, he fumbled for a more noble sentiment: “Er, a place for conservation, a place where people can come to explore nature, um, a job, I suppose…”

“Interesting.” Victor pocketed the lighter, stood up and walked to his window. “To me, it means something different. Something…grander” He turned to face Ryan, silhouetted in the evening sun. Affecting a slight New York Italian accent, he spoke: “It means family. And I don’t just mean the people. I mean the animals. Each and every last one of them, from the elephants down to little Billy Fins here.” Victor gestured to a bug-eyed goldfish swimming around a granite bust of Al Pacino as Scarface. “Do you have a family Ryan?” Victor strode over to Ryan and placed a hand on the back of his chair, peering down at his employee with an unflinching gaze. 


 “No, I don’t.”
 
Victor sighed and returned to his chair. “Sadly, there is someone out there who I have reason to believe intends to harm my family. And I have called you here to ask you for your help in protecting Sherwell Zoo.” Ryan swallowed hard. “Ryan, my boy, I have always seen great potential in you. You know that this zoo has a rival. Namely, the Sherwell Valley Wildlife Experience. For five years, this two-bit menagerie has done me a grave insult by its presence. Now, I have had enough.”

Victor leaned across his desk conspiratorially “In short, Ryan, I am declaring war on the Market Sherwell Wildlife Experience” Incredulity crept across Ryan’s face. “I am enlisting you as my second-in-command.”

“You will be my man on the ground: my enforcer, co-ordinating this campaign. Will you accept this responsibility?”

“What will happen if I refuse?” Ryan asked, his throat dry.

“Would you refuse this task? You would refuse to protect your family?” Victor emphasised the last word, clenching his fist slightly as he spoke.

Ryan was momentarily silent, then, unable to bear the tension any longer, he stammered, “I – I suppose not. I – I’ll do it.”

“A fine choice Ryan. You may leave now, I trust you will not let me down.”

The Spoonbill:

A thick morning mist rose around the pond in the waterfowl enclosure at Sherwell Zoo. The tall figure of Victor loomed out of the mist on the far side of the pond. Ryan, in his capacity as Head Keeper, had been called out of bed at 6 am by a clearly enraged Victor, who had told him that “A calamity has befallen us. I will meet you at the waterfowl enclosure. The nature of the incident should make itself obvious to you there.” 

This cryptic call had led Ryan to the zoo on Sunday morning, mind racing with concerns about what the hell Victor might want with him this time. His boss had a tendency to make unusual demands of him: keep this briefcase in your house for the weekend, start putting caffeine tablets in the sloth feed, and post this threatening letter to People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals…That sort of thing.

Ryan noticed that, on this occasion, he was not alone with Victor. He spotted the diminutive form of Samaria Bougainville heading across the wet grass towards the bird house. Samaria was a junior keeper, whose eagerness to involve herself with nature (which sprang from an eye-wateringly expensive bohemian education in North London) ensured she was normally roped in to help with unpleasant tasks at the zoo. Her presence was not a good sign, Ryan thought apprehensively.

“Ryan! Ryan! Come over here, I need you over here right away boy!” barked Victor. Ryan started to jog around the pond towards Victor. When he was about halfway round, he caught sight of a lumpen and bloodied shape at Victor’s feet. It looked like one of the spoonbills had been killed. Christ, he hoped it wasn’t one of the black-faced spoonbills. They were the rarest species of waterfowl on display at Sherwell Zoo, and Victor had a particular penchant for them. 


 “They killed him! They killed him Ryan!” screamed Victor at the Head Keeper, who had arrived at the scene and had paused to catch his breath. 

“They killed who, Victor?” asked Ryan. 

“Luciano. They killed Luciano!” Victor’s voice was cracking with emotion. Oh fuck, not Luciano: this was going to be a nightmare, thought Ryan. “Um, are you sure that that was Luciano?” he asked hesitantly. 

Victor reached down into the grass with a gloved hand and lifted the decapitated corpse of a spoonbill up by the left leg with an air of morbid triumph. The bird’s long neck waggled in the air, spurting blood across Victor’s trenchcoat, whilst a lung flopped uselessly from its ravaged chest.

“Christ Victor, put that thing down, it’s bleeding all over the place.” Ryan said without thinking, and instantly regretted it.

“That thing?!” exclaimed Victor “That thing?! He had a name you impudent boy, he had a name!”
At this, Victor fell to his knees and buried his tear-streaked face in what remained of Luciano’s breast. Even by Victor’s scenery-chewing lunatic behavioural standards, this was some pretty melodramatic stuff, Ryan thought as he watched his middle-aged boss weeping into the spoonbill’s entrails.

“Is everything alright over there?” called Samaria. No, of course it isn’t, you stupid fucking hippy, Ryan thought angrily. This was worse than the time that that pit-bull attacked a goat in the petting zoo: at least then Victor had kept his face out of the remains. “Er, not really…I think you’d better come over here and help Victor!” Ryan called back. “Alright, hold on, I’ll be right over!” Samaria replied.

Victor’s sobs became louder, and he started to rock back and forth. Ryan noticed that some faecal matter had escaped Luciano’s guts and was creeping through Victor’s hair. He averted his gaze and watched Samaria as she ran towards the pair. When she caught sight of what Victor was doing, she suppressed a slight retch before speaking: “I’ve checked the bird house, and as far as I can tell, it’s just Luciano that got attacked.” Victor seemed oblivious, lost in his repulsive grief ritual. Ryan took Samaria aside and downwind of what was left of the spoonbill. 

“When was all this found?” he asked Samaria. “Um, I’m not absolutely sure. I was finishing up at the nocturnal mammal house when Victor called me. He was already quite bad when I got to the waterfowl enclosure.” Samaria replied. 


“Oh, I see. And, it is definitely Luciano that was killed?” said Ryan. “Yeah, we checked his leg ring, then Victor kind of went silent for a bit and just sort of stood there. I said that I’d go and check if the other birds were OK: he didn’t really say anything…” Samaria trailed off and the pair stood silently watching Victor’s anguish.

After a minute or so, Ryan collected his thoughts sufficiently to suggest that “Er…maybe one of us should, you know, stop him from…doing that. I mean, that cannot be healthy…”

“I suppose we could try and stop him…but he is grieving though, I mean, it’s important for him to get the grief out somehow. If he feels the need to emotionalise things in this way, maybe we should just let things take their course. I mean, he could be in shock or something, if we try and separate him from Luciano, he might faint or have a fit or something…” Samaria replied.

“Well, if he keeps doing what he’s doing, he’ll probably get bird flu, so I really think that one of us should take that thing away from him.” Said Ryan.

“Well, alright, I suppose, if you want to stop him, go ahead, but I think maybe we should let him carry on until, you know, he feels able to stop.” Samaria fiddled nervously with one of her necklaces of hand-carved wooden beads as she spoke.

Ryan winced as Victor’s hard grip on the corpse caused a jet of warm blood to arc out of its right flank and fall, hissing, onto the grass. “No. No, we can’t let him carry on with this. It’d be totally irresponsible. He’s likely to get sick as it is. We really do have to intervene I think.” 

At this point, Victor suddenly drew his bloodied face out of the dead spoonbill and whispered: 

“I know who did this. I know who did this to him.”

Tuesday 16 October 2012

The Banter (an early Halloween special)


An investigation into the monstrous being that is 'Banter'.Try to enjoy.


The newspaper wrinkled out of shape as Arthur turned over to the ‘Student Comment’ section. His restless friend Marty O’Keegan sat next to him, gently vibrating with energy. He had met Marty at the Ultimate Frisby taster session at the beginning of the term and hadn’t been able to shake him since. Arthur reclined and clasped the paper with one hand, using the other to prop up his head. The university pub was busy and the air was heavy. Marty twitched and began to drum on the sticky pub table. His skeletal fingers pounded to a marching tune, his eyes scanned the room and his tongue dangled loosely out of his mouth scenting the air for stimuli and distraction.

They were positioned in the corner of the pub so as to allow Arthur to cower from social communication, for Marty though it was an opportune look-out post, a spot where he could gawp, stare and drool like a pubescent gibbon dangling from a fruit tree and fiddling with his tail. Arthur thumbed through the paper some more tutting with pompous dissent and occasionally throwing a limp wrist in the air. Marty was oblivious however, overcome with all smells and colour, his receptors gagging for something to fill his vacant frontal lobes.‘Some of the stuff they write in here...’, mumbled Arthur, ‘who cares what sexual antics the first years are up to?’ Marty’s primeval receptors started to fire. ‘I mean, who really cares if two students were caught...’Marty’s tongue stiffened and his palms began to moisten, Arthur took a long gulp on his pint, Marty clenched his toes. Arthur drifted off.

‘Caught what?!’ shouted Marty. Arthur had forgotten he was there.

‘What?’, replied Arthur.

‘You said: “two students were caught” something, “sexual antics”. And then what? Caught doing what, where?!’ Marty eyes widened, he was very attentive.

‘Oh right, erm...Caught’, he flicked back a page. ‘Erm, I can’t seem to...’, Arthur began to trail off again, ‘what a ridiculous name...’

‘Don’t fuck with me Arthur!’ Marty belted, provoking the interest of the two slender girls sharing a bottle of wine on the adjacent table.

‘God, ok. Two students were caught...shagging in the business school. Happy now you horny bugger?’Marty’s drumming stopped suddenly. His muscles seized and his back stiffened. An intense euphoric stare washed over his blue eyes, his left twitching quickly. He held his breath. Arthur stretched out his arm with the paper in and continued to read, quite oblivious to what he set in motion. Slowly, with languid and devious grace Marty’s body began to take on its natural form. His tense limbs charged with purpose. Slipping like a satanic eel cast from God’s common room he slid his head between Arthur and his paper. Floating on an unwavering purity of purpose. Facing upwards, he stared demonically at his friend.
‘Jesus, could you fuc...’, but before Arthur could finish Marty breathed the fateful word, hysteria’s cue, humanity’s death knoll.

‘B-A-N-T-E-R’. The word oozed out of his mouth, puffing into the air like a swarm of jellied flies. Marty held his stare for what felt like a minute and then vaporised into the dank atmosphere of the student pub, his duty fulfilled. The letters of the word ‘B-A-N-T-E-R’ hovered around Arthur’s head. Each individual letter spoke to the other as they possessed a level of sapience unbeknownst to any other. The ‘B’ started to twirl and spin, ordering the ‘A’ as it did, ‘N’ also rose into the air and the rest followed. The cyclone of inanity gathered speed and started to spin quietly towards the ceiling, trawling through the crowd as it did so, gathering and destroying interesting conversation on its way. With each rotation the word both grew in strength and multiplied, each letter dividing and duplicating at an incalculable rate, yet remaining intact and at one with the body of the swarm. Each fresh string of ‘Banter’ groping the room, clawing for conversations to ruin, it’s outer tentacles sweeping through tables and bags, sucking points of interest and humour from the skulls of the crowd and flinging them inwards to the spinning Banter core which duly crushed and decimated them beyond any existence.

After this terrifying and eerie process was complete, the Banter cloud hovered gently above the heads of the now vegetated crowd, not resting but lying in wait. The room had fallen silent, devoid of human noise, only the deathly hum of the cloud was audible. The hum started to gather and stick, it was gaining real substance. It developed from a dull note to a thicker, more ominous pulse of booms and thuds, like a pre-emptive requiem mass. No more dreadful or fearful a sound can be imagined. The letters howled and cackled as they warped from gas to thickened matter, mere utterance to chaos, thought to devastating mass. The Banter bound itself together, becoming more aware and single minded in the process, errant B’s and R’s now marched obediently into the core sacrificing their gaseous individual for a unified gloopy whole. This great organism began to drip onto the floor, as if panting in anticipation it drooled onto tables, and spat into pints of lager.

The shell-shocked crowd started to break from their induced slumber. The dripping gloop of idiocy felt alien yet also familiar as it slipped down their faces. One by one they started to look towards the ceiling, and one by one their hearts sank not only at their impending judgement but in the knowledge that they always knew this day would come, indeed they willed it forth.

The sticky mass began to slide down the far wall and as it did so small globules were directed out, like capsule cast from the mothership, toward their victims. Each letter pellet shot through the air and ricocheted off the walls, the word cut through and pierced the lobes of this dormant circus. ‘Banter, baaaaanter, banttter!’ This curse poisoned the air and swivelled deep into the ears of the students, it sliced through their unguarded canals like a fleet of barbaric Viking longboats, it tore through their cerebral folds pillaging their conversation nodes and plundering their imagination cortex. ‘Banter! banter! banterrrr! bbbannnnttteeeerrrr! ’. It swirled along the ventilation and scythed along the chairs, it decimated Nobby’s Nuts and dripped into the beer. A young Christian girl leaped over the seat partition, rolled across a table of beer glassless and crisps and made a dash for the fire escape. The bar jammed, she screamed and sunk to floor, flailing her arms around in desperate defence, but the cloud of banter was too strong by now, and her screams slid into inane chuckles. A stocky rugby player squared his shoulders and pummelled the air repeatedly, but it just drove him back until he was flush against the back wall of the pub. In a last gasp of effort he jerked his head forward in a head butting motion; a comical gesture against such an inexorable force and yelled the word again.

The crowd was encased now, having fully imbibed the spirit of the Banter. Any shreds of civilisation had been shattered and covered in this forceful moronic pool. None could escape. A usually sensitive Maths student slammed his face into his bowl of coleslaw and proceeded to vigorously wipe his head around it, snorting bits of cabbage and carrot as he went. A huddle of thinly bearded angry young men were engulfed by the Banter, it streamed into their blood fuelling an excess of gesticulation, their hand gestures began to exceed bodily capacity, their wrists cracked as their hands began to oscillate wildly, next their elbow joints rotated repeatedly beyond 360* snapping cartilage and bone and propelling them upwards into roof and then uncontrollably around the room like startled blue bottles. A Psychology module convenor dashed through the centre partition stark naked holding her flabby arms bolt up into the air like two wobbly rudders, whilst the pigtailed bar girl pulled aggressively on two beer pumps with her feet hoisted up beside them as if she were attempting to haul back her sanity from a now distant realm.

In the darkest corner of the pub sat Arthur. He wished he’s never said anything.

Friday 12 October 2012

My internet search history, 12/10/2012

The date is Friday 12th October 2012 (the last year of Earth's existence, if you believe stuff about the Mayan calendar that actual Mayans think is ridiculous bullshit)
My physical state is mildly hungover.
My internet history is reflective of a brain languidly gearing up for the new day, and possibly some mental health issues - feel free to post any suggestions as to which ones in the comments section..
Enjoy this extract from my history tab:

13:33 pm: Cracked.com - 5 Insanely Successful Video Games That Were Total Ripoffs

13:36 pm: The Guardian - US Election 2012: Biden and Ryan clash in VP debate - video

13:41 pm: Alternet - 10 Conservatives Who Have Praised American Slavery

13:47 pm: Epic Rap Battles of History - Frank Sinatra vs Freddie Mercury

13:50 pm: World Socialist Website - The class issues in the 2012 US elections

14:01 pm: The Dinosaur Toy Blog

14:08 pm: Epic Rap Battles of History - Frank Sinatra vs Freddie Mercury

14:10 pm: TVTropes - Peep Show

14:19 pm: TVTropes - Kavorka Man

14:20 pm: TVTropes - Peep Show

14:23 pm: Blue Jam (Wedding Monologue)