Drink

04/10/07
This was sent to Susie by me just after she got ill and went to stay at her mum's for a couple of weeks. At time of writing, she was still there, still feeling rough, (but had a Mariella Frostrup growl apparently,) and had still not read this email. Hopefully it will be a nice surprise for her when she gets back. Get well chuck.

Alcohol: A field guide to inebriation.

By Malcom P. Wilderbeest.

It has often been said that it has often been said that variety is the spice of life. This is clearly untrue. Firstly, life is not a culinary dish as far as we are aware with only our limited perception of the many and various dimensions available from the catalogue. Therefore it cannot be ‘spiced’. Thirdly, variety describes something of an assortment and life is quite obviously an assortment of it’s own, (some scientists now speculate on the idea that life actually constitutes an ‘abundance’ and thereby follows a completely different set of socio-economic quasi-gravitational centrifugal rules, but they are usually asked to sit down and drink a hot, sweet cup of tea and have a Hob Nob before being gently led away by the elbow before never being seen again.) so how can you spice an assortment with another assortment? In algebraic logic theory, it would look something like this:

u==⌐T

Where u equals you and T equals true, so it reads you are not true.

In HTML it would look like this:

Variety is the spice of life.

Which is all by way of saying that alcoholic beverages are the nation’s favourite pastime. Which Nation I hear you cry? Well obviously I don’t since I’m here and you aren’t, (presumably you are ‘there’,) so there is no way I could hear you. Anyway as far as I am concerned you can pick one as it applies almost universally, apart from the Republic of Togo, where it is the nation’s second favourite pastime, after moose juggling. The National moose juggling finals are held in Pwayta Funta, the capital of Togo and can get quite messy.

So thus far we have conclusively proven that alcohol exists and that many scientists drink. So far none of this is my fault, apart from a scientist who I drove to drink in Iceland one balmy summer’s eve, but that was only because his pedalo had broken down. In terms of cause and effect, we have two situations that require further exploration: Either life is the cause and alcohol is the effect or else alcohol is the cause and the effect has yet to be discovered. This is because those brave explorers that have tried to map the furthest uncharted territories of alcohol have often either died from cirrhosis of the liver or have been, at best, too pissed to have been able to record their incredible journey and its subsequent findings.

It was Benedictine monks who first discovered that fermenting certain fruits, adding water and gently flavouring them got you completely munted and so a drink was of course named after them – Drambuie. These monks spent many happy days in blissful contentment, staggering through the monastery, swearing at the pigeons, trying to shag any nun in sight and vomiting copiously into the undergrowth. This is in contrast to the Buddhist monks, who abstained from drinking and trained for days to become rock hard and therefore kick seven bells out of anyone that looked at them funny for wearing orange dresses. The moral of the story is that drinking makes one slurry and drowsy but not drinking makes one more disciplined, but also violent and psychotic.

Of the many types of drink, only water is non-alcoholic. Some people mention fruit juices, cordials and even non-alcoholic beers and wines but usually I completely ignore them until they get upset and go away. If they persist I wrestle them to the floor and force feed them Stella until they acquiesce.

Furthermore on the subject of teats… where was I? Oh yes – backpacking in the Andes is fraught with… heh… Andes… I know a joke about that. Where does a soldier keep his armies? Up his sleevies! Ha ha! Oh wait… that was armies, not Andes… well anyway I think we have proven that you can’t get a dog drunk, especially without it’s owner’s consent… and… *urp*… I think I need to lie down. That absinthe was…

Wait! What was that?

I think I’m going to be sick…

Yer ma bezz mate. Yer are. No, yer are… *urp*…

Ooooh…. I’m gonna be sore in tha mornin’.

Malcom P. Wilderbeest is a notorious lush and currently of no fixed abode. He likes drinking and passing out, although not necessarily in that order. He is married to twins, one of whom mysteriously disappears every morning. He can often be found in the gutter wearing a technicolour yawn and can be contacted through your local rehab.

Glibness

03/10/07 - No actual offence is intended to Pam Ayres. She was picked at random for a random rant about randomness.
Five porcupines were arrested at JFK airport today for attempting to smuggle monkeys to Samoa as part of an international monkey smuggling ring. The porcupines were apprehended whilst wearing Benny Hill outfits and trying to hide the Monkeys’ appearances by disguising them as businessmen. The ruse was spotted when one of the chimps “relieved” himself in a bowler hat and then flung the hat at a stewardess when she offered him a drink.

According to witnesses, the monkey took offence at the calibre if gin he was offered and was heard to scream “only gay macaques drink Bombay Sapphire – give me some god damned Tanqueray!” before covering the stewardess.

The Porcupines were also found to be in possession of many contraband items, including Shatners bassoon, a Jethro DVD and a copy of “Petula Clark goes Electric”. Items such as
these are thought to fetch a high price in Samoa especially with wealthier Porcupine family’s who use them to tame their children and to throw at passing lemurs.

On a lighter note, the internationally unreknowned poet and corn slapping faux-fish wife Pam Ayres claimed to have discovered the meaning of life today.

Pam yesterday looking smug.

“It was tangled up in a load of crochet thread I’d been saving for a special occasion, such as the assassination of the Pope or Franz Ferdinand.” she blithered earlier today. This reporter pointed out that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand had already been assassinated, which many people attribute as the cause of the first world war, (it was in fact started between a Gay Welsh voice choir and an Austrian Women’s reading group and escalated rapidly. Wales sent a lovely summer spray bouquet and apologised and had nothing further to do with the war.) to which she replied by spitting Cornish game hen soup into this reporter’s face and screaming, “I meant the F*CKING BAND YOU C*NT!” before nibbling demurely on an opossum sandwich, provided by the cast of chitty chitty bang bang (currently on tour around Latvia and Scunthorpe.).

Where was I? Oh yes, we were discussing her frankly ridiculous claim to have found the meaning of life.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she belched, (this reporter was utterly sure she didn’t because he was, at the time, daydreaming about fisting weasels,) “but it’s not 42!” She laughed a tinkly little laugh that was obviously fake and put on for show, the shallow cow.

“I’m not going to tell you what it is before you ask,” she orally farted, “you’ll have to buy my new book: ‘Utterly shite poems vol. 4,317… oh and the meaning of life too.’ ”

Pam leaving. Good.

At which point this reporter was roused from a hypnogogic state of lucid dreaming where he had left several cast members from the hit TV show, “You’ll watch it because you’re hung over & it’s got fit birds with big knockers in it,” rubbing various sweetly scented oils into various parts of each other’s anatomy. This reporter was unhappy to have been roused from such a spectacle, particularly by a woman as talentless and unattractive as Ms. Ayres - which is when the fight broke out.

Pam Ayres may be many things; Poet, TV personality, z-list celebrity, ex right wing defence for the Berkshire all girls ear licking team, consummate liar and mother, mop headed funt and world class annoying tw*t, but this reporter can assure the readership of one thing: she’s a dirty fighter. Mere seconds into the scuffle, Pam displayed a comprehensive repertoire of eye gouges, sack pulls and balloon-knot thumb jabs and this reporter only got away with his life by choking her unconscious with her own pendulous breasts, which resemble beagle’s ears.

The book is out in hardback and is available from any bookshop that doesn’t have any taste. Signed copies can be ordered from www.pamayres.com and can be made to burn faster with the application of lighter fluid.

Mike Rickard is a world class journalist and author of the Times bestseller, “How to slack off at work by writing guff emails to friends, get away with it and get paid for it.” He would like to keep chickens but they seem to get away. He likes cheese, (but not as much as the rumours say,) and is currently living in Lapland in an autosexual relationship with a female beaver named Stan. His Editor hates him and is considering actual suicide instead of just career suicide by publishing his vitriolic rants.

Re: Missing!

More disturbing was the story today in the Nempnet Thrubwell Examiner that a local man had been taken into care after thinking he was a squid. After days of careful observation, a part time student worker at the facility noted that the individual was in fact a squid, who thought he was a man, thinking he was a squid. That poor squid could be in counselling for the rest of its life. The student was fired by upper management because apparently, “no one like a smart ass.”

Earlier today in Pring, locals witnessed what was described by one man as a “full on carpet orgy”. Locals were shocked to find several rolls of axeminster capriciously cavorting in a local nature reserve. A spokesperson for the nature reserve, Dr Moffer Mcbonnhoffer spoke to the press openly. Once he realised that the press was an inanimate object that facilitated the printing process, he instead turned his attentions to the assembled journalists.

“what we have seen here today is both shocking and exciting,” he relayed to the throng, “In fact, I would go so far as to say that not only am I personally shocked and excited, I am obviously more shocked and excited than any of you and therefore I win.” When asked what he had won, he became introverted, stared at his feet for half an hour before finally muttering something about a fruit basket made from the woven shells of shrimp and containing a number of tasteless jumpers.

He went on to say, “We’re not sure where the axeminsters came from – this isn’t their normal spawning grounds and not even on their yearly migratory route. We can only assume some kind of almighty comsmological balls up involving yoghurt, the toy from a kinder surprise and a fleet of mackerel trawlers has somehow warped their ability to navigate the space-time continuum with any degree of success without resorting to sat-nav.

Dr. Bonnhoffer is currently under investigation for Bison fraud and selling tic-tacs to underage bridge builders.

Pirate news

19/09/07 - International talk like a pirate day.

Garrrrr,

Today I smelt the salt of the sea & decided to go a-plundering. I stole a barge from the docks and raided Weston Super Mare and returned with treasure, consisting of Rock, Kiss Me Quick (Squeeze me Slowly) hats, Spongebob Helium balloons and mud.

I was a good raid. . . tomorrow I will raid the company accounts and fill my own with plentiful booty arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Yaaarrr…

I be bored out of my tiny wooden skull. I’m thinking a plunderous day might be just the thing to relieve the tension in my three wooden legs, (don’t ask,) and besides, polly needs a walk.

Aaaaarrrrrrrrrr…rrr..r.

I thought of a title for a pirate song: “It’s difficult to plunder when your ship is going under.”

Voles, Moles, Shrews and porridge

19/09/07

Tuesday is the armpit of the week. I always hate Tuesday with a passion and would like to ban it. If I banned it, I would replace it with Swearsday. Swearsday would be a non working day; you would be able to swear at anyone you like as well as throwing spam at them. The wearing of false beards/moustaches/wigs would be encouraged, as well as trying to put as many hats on your head as possible.

On the hour, noted dignitaries would have to dance the hornpipe whilst garbed in clothes made from sweet corn, corrugated iron & cardboard for the amusement of the masses, the radio would play nothing but songs that involved the word “Booty”, re recorded into Pirate covers (except Professor Booty by the Beastie Boys as it is quite piratical anyway).

Free jelly would be doled out on street corners & each household would receive Rogers Profanisaurus Rex in the post to get the kids started young.

Of course, my idea of a good replacement for Tuesday could be construed as someone else’s idea of hell . . .

Hmm...

How about a sack race for stupid people, (we'll decide who they are,) and instead of standing in the sack, they have to wear it over their stupid heads. We'll make the track really winding and put lots of objects in the way, like archairs and rakes. It'll be kind of like 'it's a knockout' but more cruel.

things that go NURK!

17/09/07

(We had been talking about making stew out of whatever was left in the house.)

Of course the greater spotted common stew is enjoying something of a revival after its near extinction in the 1930’s due to the great stew hunts of that time, causing it to be renamed the lesser spotted uncommon stew until 1953, when it was taken back off the endangered list. Sadly no one realised the effect that culling a large part of the stew population would have on the whole casserole ecosystem and we saw the disappearance of a number of small Goulashes and hotpots. Of course beef Goulash and the Lancashire hotpot, being hardy breeds, weathered such troubles and became synonymous with their genus, (Goulashes and Hotpots respectively,) as the de facto breeds.

Interestingly the collective nouns for both Goulashes and Hotpots is a ‘Nurk’, due to their distinctive mating calls, which for some reason can only be heard by Greta Humbuckle and her husband Norbin, who are an elderly couple from Gibralta who settled in Wandsworth in 1920.

In contrast the mating call of the Common Stew goes more like, “Tukka! Tukka! Pa-Phwee!” and consequently their collective noun is known as a bowtruckle. The uncommon Stews (like rat meat, ginger and angel delight stew for example,) for some reason have evolved without mating calls, instead preferring to attract mates using a variety of sleazy dance moves whilst wearing speedos, a touch of eyeliner and performing a lewd spectacle with a fig, a feather boa and the contents of Noel Edmond’s glove compartment, which goes some way to explaining why they are not more common.

“instead preferring to attract mates using a variety of sleazy dance moves whilst wearing speedos, a touch of eyeliner and performing a lewd spectacle with a fig, a feather boa and the contents of Noel Edmond’s glove compartment”

Is it wrong that I find this description very alluring?

I have been the owner of many fake chickens in my time (my favourite being Savage the Chicken) and have never seen them running around post decapitation. In fact I have never seen them run around – I have seen them ricochet round the front room when my brother realised that they were very twangy.

Beef goulash is proud to be a pen pal with Hungarian goulash- they have pursued very healthy relationship over the years, involving swapping cards at Christmas, Easter & National Meat Day in both countries as well sending outlandish gifts to each other. The happiest occasion on Hungarian Goulash’s side was when Beef goulash popped over for a surprise mini break & presented him with a gift of paprika & David Hasselhoff LP’s.

The Bowtruckle is also the name of a tree/paper dwelling imp that is found in Harry Potter books, 4 year old Copies of Private Eye and boxes of sherbert.

The impish bowtruckle is characterised by it’s enormous frontal lobes that look like Lloyd Grossman and a high pitched squeal similar to that of a minor Beano character getting a beating “Yaroo, Owch etc”.It feeds on stale Pringles and discarded Fenchurch jumpers and has a distinct mating call of “Skiba – babba – dibit blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”.

Twangy fake chickens sound like a lot of fun. There may be a niche in the market.

Ah the Goulashes and their Hoff obsessions. Many a Goulash hunter has been saved by looking directly into the eyes of a charging Goulash and screaming “Look! It’s the Hoff and he’s signing 8x10 glossy’s!”

National Meat day in Hungary is taken very seriously. So seriously in fact, that all Hungarian citizens are forbidden from laughing or even smiling for the duration of the day. Last year, Otto von Wangschnitzel was found guilty of snickering before midnight and sentenced to eat his own head without using his hands.

Baboons

14/09/07

The highlight of the morning has been a suicidal pigeon hurling itself into the window opposite me in some kind of harikiri avian style.

I reckon there were three possible explanations for the pidgeon hurling itself headlong into reinforced glass:

1. It really couldn't cope with the daily grind of being a pidgeon and reckoned it would take its chances with reincarnation.

2. It really wanted to work for Axa and was trying to drop a CV in but thought the window was open.

3. It really fancied you and headed over to try out its best lines on you but didn't realise the glass was there.

What kind of lines do you think a pigeon would use? “Check out my manky feet?” & “Want to come & peck at some puke with me some time hot stuff?” And how could one reciprocate to such advances?!!

I think a pidgeon's most likely approach would be something like, "Hey sweet stuff, I know a great statue we can go crap on together sometime, or there's a guy down the street who's just finishing washing his car if you're up for it."

Either that or: "Hey did you know I carry 13 major infectious diseases."

I think a polite 'no thanks' or else making a sudden move or loud noise would be enough to spurn their advances.

I can’t believe I’m feeling mutinous on a Friday – must think of good things….badgers… monkeys…shiny things..humourous songs about Australians and cricket. . .small elves playing backgammon whilst wearing tennis visors & false moustaches…