Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category


March 9, 2007

This morning I thought I’d make the effort (always rewarding) to arise earlier and do the minor amount of washing up and bring an actimel drink to room temperature for my girlfriend’s sensitive son. We started, at my instigation, a conversation, with me feeling I was truly making up for a lost couple of days due to illness. I told him of paintballing and juxtaposed it with real bullets ripping real flesh, get the lessons in early I say, especially the important ones, anyway he was suitably shocked and so I turned the conversation to one of go-karting and promised him a go locally when it’s season, he then asked what a season was (he is six, and Polish), I duly explained this to him and he seemed excited, but then he spoilt it by saying to me “I know why you were ill” to which I replied “what?”.
“you were smoking too many cigarettes”, he said with all the smug certainty of a government health warning. Oh god, here we go, I thought… Questioning his certainty and the sources of his conviction, I asked again, “what??”
“You were ill because you smoked too many cigarettes”, he reiterated, probably innocently enough, but to me the comment was smug and loaded with ‘take it home from school’ wisdom so often dished out like school dinners, unchecked, unappetizing, un-wanted. It was then that I realized the conversation could take a fun turn and so I offered,
“Jesus smoked cigarettes”, his first response moved me to re-enforcing my statement.
“It says so in the Bible”, his face (bless him) was a picture of surprise and confusion.
“Yeah, he smoked God Brand, twenty a day”, I continued, determined to create my own little epiphany, at least equal to the ones he was fed at school. I let the wonderment and shock linger, like smoke, for a few seconds before we both saw the funny side and erupted into our own brand of laughter, the sort that can only be had from the meeting in the middle of two equally opposed and unjust viewpoints. God, I love kids.


Imp Gedda

March 8, 2007

“Mumgnnnaah!!!” yells 6 year old Imp Gedda through his snot strewn helmet as the Yamaha R1 to which he clings spews through the late afternoon traffic like vomit blown down a rippled tube.
Imp represents just one piece of vomit though, and he’s out there at the front in todays’ ‘spesh-clash’, the race of the Kiddy Titans. I got to speak to him very briefly when he pulled in for a ‘snot-stop’, as he had snotty bogeys wiped from his face and visor, and as he drank from a small milkshake, i asked him; “Hey Imp!, hows it going? I saw you snuff the midget on the was that imp? How did it f e e l ?”
gt; “what about the bike imp? I hear it’s good for 230 ? ?”
Then, Mr Gedda appeared, relieved Imp of his milkshake, pressed a button on the petrol cap, and the wailing boy was off again, receding rapidly amidst thunder and dust and burnt rubber.
It began to dawn on me that the boy might not be enjoying the race, when his six foot seven, brick-shithouse built father turned around and stared, menacingly at me.. I allowed an ignorant dusk to descend rapidly upon my suspicions, as i tried hard to dumb my act down for this giant of a skullcrusher.
“Y’kidsz doin greeaat!”, i said as as I upped my redneck testosterone levels masterfully.
“He ought to be because we runnin’ nitrous today”, was imp’s dad’s only response, and it followed that it was aggressively delivered to boot.

animal show

March 3, 2007

Janet, aged six from Hull writes; “can a young kitten smell?”
Rod Killit, our resident cat and cat faeces specialist replies; “yes absolutely, if you stuff 2 or three dead ones in a bag and leave it for a few days it will smell quite bad, but no not usually, especially if you litter train it”
Thank you Rod, Janet I hope that’s answered your question.

Ben, aged 2 from Esher writes; “hello Rod and everyone, I love the show well here is my question; “If you clip a sparrows wings can it still fly”
Well Ben I have to say that after asking our resident bird sadist Peter flinch I was still none the wiser. It wasn’t that he didn’t know, he was out punching starlings so I couldn’t ask him. So what we did, Ben, was we set up a small experiment to find the elusive answer to your rather perplexing question. Here is a sparrow released from my hand earlier today. You will notice it fall straight to the floor. This is because it has no wings, I have clipped them off. This next clip is shorter and leaves some wing tip on. Did you see the sparrow half turn as it fell this time? But it was this third clip that really informed us of this little birds’ evolved audacity, and prompted Peter Flinch to shoot it in the head. Watch… the circular flight is caused by a difference in wing tip length, wow this must be really hard work for that little sparrow, well done though sparrow mate, you won me my bet with Peter!

Well that’s all we have time for this week but please join us again next week when we will be finishing our very own ‘bat catapult’, shot-putting hedgehogs over cliffs in Eastbourne, and making chewing gum from cat gut.

Nitrous kids

March 2, 2007

Nitrous is not something you engage without at first being absolutely certain that the road in front of you is straight and dry for at least a mile or two and preferably devoid of most motor traffic- none is best.
What you do is you tuck in close and flat at about a hundred, and then twist her up in fourth until the custom V.twins are singing throatingly and with a threatening tone, as restrained as is possible for any big bore engine at 6000 revs to be. Then, you grip the bars a little harder, press the nitro button with your thumb and wind her up…
The already unnerving sustained engine note of the beast snarls instantly up into a screaming roar as stupendous amounts of power to weight ratio in the missiles favour propel you and you change up and up again, flattening out at 220 miles an hour, and all within a 5 second window. Kids with the yolk in Japan are thrashing these things around like mopeds and there’s no one that can catch them because the kids have taken to hired help in the form of missile hit-men who will happily “bruw up” anyone (the police),getting in your way . This was proved last week en-masse when nasty kid bosses hired a small, aboriginal boy to drop an atomic bomb off a bridge in Downtown Tokyo, killing all five occupants and Petula Clarke. They have since threatened to use a similar device, this time using entranced and HYPNOTISED well respected Heavy-Rock star Michael Jackson to deliver it to the police chiefs personal car entourage. The gang even gave details of their plan which will feature the hypnotised Jackson shouting at Mr Ishi to “beat it” off of highway 364 and then doing a precision explosion of himself and all of the next two city blocks. Ishi says he will be travelling as usual on highway 364 on Tuesday and will have “scant regard for Jackson bomb”
“indeed, if I see him I will run him over the head before he can do a thing. It will be fun, I will take my photo with me, to get him, haha ,oh yes”
So Ishi it seems is oblivious to the lengths the kids will go to keep their races on.
Other notable Police Chiefs of past to have been ‘taken out’ by the kids are Bikki Salmon, who had his car targeted by a USAF A10 Tankbuster Airstrike Squadron of 14 planes, who- lets face it couldn’t miss, except they were at the control of the kids’ top brain heads who were busy jamming all military frequencies. They played Chicken Run Shoot Out with poor Bikki for 30 miles until, with a petrol-less and terrified Mr Salmon slowing up and leaning out his car waving his kerchief desperately, one of the kids ordered a paveway bomb drop which did the trick, a little excessively it has to be said.
Mywawa iki has also been targeted but narrowly escaped; “they blew up an identical house and town 4 miles away, one of the kids had wiped a bogey on the map and they misread it”

Being the Adventures of a depressed maniac and how he got that way.

March 2, 2007

Once upon a time in a land not blessed with the usual green trees, rolling hills or indeed any peaceful imagery at all, existed a forlorn, lovesick hermit who was adept at feeling sorry for himself.Today felt gloomier than usual for the hermit as he pondered futility while gnawing on some rock.With breakfast eaten,he was ready to begin the days’ activity of holler-chanting, a technique he had himself pioneered that involved amongst other recitations, such chants as;”oh god it’s so terrible” and “why me” and usually by lunchtime reaching his ‘favourite’ one;”I am just an utterly useless nob-ratchet”, which he liked to say at least a couple of hundred times or until his jaw ached.
He was careful when walking to the empty well he kept for disappointment purposes to keep his head down and his arms flat to his sides, adopting this posture allowed him to maintain a satisfactory air of hopelessness.Just before reaching the well, he would allow his head to rise a few inches in hopeful anticipation of having his intolerable thirst quenched,then he would arrive and look down into the empty well, sigh and toss one of his precious coins into the dry black void.He never made a wish,instead he used those few silent coin dropping moments to ponder the loss of his savings.

He never made a wish, instead he used those few silent coin falling moments to ponder the loss of his savings, this truth was always punctuated by the sound of coin landing upon coins, somewhere far below and out of reach. He once paid an artist much money to render his face as ugly and self deprecating as possible and the portrait now hangs from his cave wall, although it is difficult to see, even in contrast to the many bat droppings that surround it. It is as he likes to say “testament to my overall bad lot in life” He rarely grants an interview, the hermit, but when he does he goes out of his way to offer comfort and luxury to the visiting journalist, while he sits, suitably juxtaposed upon a jagged rock, beneath a dripping stalactite snivelling and mumbling almost incoherently while the journalist shorthands all he or she can de-cipher. Nothing is elucidated to the hermit, instead, as soon as he realises he is ‘on to something’, he casts as much doubt as he can upon the thought and then puts it in a “dark and confusing place”, his “pot of entropy”, thus he ensures that all his thought energy is wasted and nullified. He is in short, a waste of space, and by his own pathetic admission, too cowardly for suicide. So there he is, in part, the hermit man, incomplete fool, inept idiot, failed crusader of the psyche, the more the monikers mount up,the more he goes down,he likes it that way.

Pulp Eggies

March 2, 2007

“OK, NOW Everybody just stay cool, THIS IS A ROBBERY”
“PUT your eggs in the eggy-tub and everything will be o.k”
“Do you have eggies but are not telling?”
“Tip them out now! Into the eggy tub…”

Selected excerpts from pulp fiction writer Quentin “The white nig-nog” Tarantino’s alternative
script. In this scene, Tim Roth has just jumped up on a table at the eggiy-diner restaurant and is
demanding eggs for his and his girlfriend accomplice’s (Barbara Bush) Egg collection.
I asked Quentin about his inspiration for this piece recently while he was at home in Tooting, relaxing after more ‘brainstorming’..
“Well the piece arrived in my head quite naturally this time and i just KNEW i had to shoot it.
“I had some great lines and we were at the ‘rushes’ stage…”
“Thats when i decided i wanted Barbara for the piece and gave her a call directly (sniff) No pissing about with agents. “I had seen her on CNN, and was immediately taken with her screen presence”

Twat monkeys

March 2, 2007

one day, i was doing the fucking shopping at the corner shop and i was just reaching for some colourful sweeties when i saw them… No, NOT the 7 hyper vigilant indians (+3 babies) behind the counter, no..I was, for the first time looking up at the twat monkeys. There were four of them up there, nestling in amongst the rice puddings and imported nuts. I knew them to be monkeys immediately, my good schooling had taught me that…but what were they doing there?? I was pondering their purpose and origins when the first tin struck me upon the forehead…and then there were the voices.. Little mono-syllabilic mutterances, indiscernible to begin with but as i regained my senses i began to percieve their rude little utterances…..
“twat twat twat twat twat twat twat twat” I remember feeling 2 things, well 3 actually. The first was a sense of disappointment at what they were choosing to communicate to me, this being afterall the 1st ever such incidence of monkey talking. The second was a rising sense of indignence toward these rude little fuckers. The third thing i felt was a 1 litre tin of plum tomatoes as it struck me upon the crown of my head… “twat twat twat twat” went the monkeys, bobbing up and down excitedly. They also seemed to be chattering to each other, using a different, and more sophisticated language than the one they reserved for me…. “twat twat twat twat” They were planning something i was sure. I had to act fast and so with a swift and deft action, i drew the cricket bat out of the bag i had slung over my left shoulder and beat the top shelf, the monkeys’ hitherto lofty domain was instantly awash with an exploding mix of plum tomatoes and twat monkey
pieces… they were no more, the twat monkeys, but they had asked for it hadn’t they.. I know no-one will believe this story but i don’t give a fuck. TWAT MONKEYS ARE REAL…
P.S the indian shop-dwellers didn’t bat an eyelid while any of this was occuring. Strange eh?