Talking through me trousers

So, Dave's sister was looking for something to use for a drama piece, at University, and wanted it along the lines of the Vagina Monologues, but for men. Dave asked me along and, together, we tossed some ideas around, kept the ones we liked, worked on a couple of pieces then went away and wrote them up. Later, we met, IN A PUB, and discussed bits, made changes where needed, added other parts and generally edited like REAL WRITERS ARE SUPPOSED TO, i.e. in a smoky room with pints.

The following is the second thing, tinkered with, again, when I was typing it up to mail off. It was originally one piece but was subsequently sectioned into five, smaller bits that should still read ok as a whole, but you might notice it. It is put up here to stop any further tinkerage.



Having thought about it recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that men are the worst.
I don’t mean man with a capital “M”, we all know global warming’s bad, but don’t let that fool you.
Hitler, Attila and Jack the Ripper all “pointed percy at the porcelain”. Face it, the destructive part of humanity doesn’t sit down when it wees.

Where women give birth and create life, it’s usually a man who takes it.
Someone shooting at you only exists because his dad shot his load.
Sex is found at the beginning and end of so many lives, it’s a wonder the species has survived this long. Femme fatale? A stab wound and penile penetration, chances are you’ll know who’s going to be behind them.

Getting the message from Society?
I know I am, every day.
Men are never allowed to forget who the bad guys are.

You know that bit in ‘Alien’ when an evil, veiny, snakey thing bursts out of his chest, spits at Sigourney Weaver then disappears? Sound familiar? Should do, it’s the monster inside. From The Serpent in Eden to one eyed trouser snake, it never gets a good word.

Mind you, it can be scary sometimes.
Like when he wants to get up to no good.
You’ll suddenly be aware of something, moving, in your boxers, a mind of its own, looking for trouble, or fun, and there’s little you can do.
It does what it likes, sometimes.

It’s so secretive, hiding away in the dark nest of your undercrackers, sleeping, dreaming, twitching, a bone chasing a dog/dog chasing a rabbit. You rarely see one in daylight, not unless you need to let him answer a call of Nature by dragging you to the toilet.

That’s where penis envy comes from, I think. It’s not the fact we’ve got one to play with, it’s the fact that we can whip it out and go where we like.
Not bad.
You’re glad of your little fireman when you pass the queue for the ladies.
Oh yes.

But that’s just its day job.
Not happy working part time, oh no.
For some reason, your meaty drainpipe doubles up as the muscle of love, your sperm delivery system, your six inch shooter.
“Stick up for your Dad, he stuck up for you”, they joke.
I sometimes wonder if he was really serious about it or just taking the piss.

Perverse, isn’t it?

That’s something else about being a bloke you’re never allowed to forget, the link between the penis and perversity.

“Look how few female perverts, paedos or rapists there are”, you hear.
It’s usually a prick with a wanker attached.
Non-sexual crimes are just as bad.
Street violence? Young men.
Serial killers? Strange men.
Smug tv presenters? Noel Edmonds.
No, scrub that, he’s a cunt.

Anyway, the list is always growing, and not just in the real world.
Don’t get me started on the Bond villain sitting there, stroking a pussy on his lap.

So, it seems having a winky automatically makes you naughty.
Possibly.
All I know is, if you go looking for the worst in the world, you usually uncover a knob end.

When you compare the sexes, its men who are the villains. We can blame it on our upbringing, society, peer pressure and tv, but the real reason is in our pants.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always looked down on it but I’m still glad I’ve got one.
I’d never get rid of it.
I’ve had too much fun.
But, in the day to day, what actual good does it do?

Yes, I can have a slash in a Dixons’ doorway on a Friday night while waiting in the cold for a cab, but catch the old feller in your zipper, you can forget “coming back for a coffee”, you’re off to Casualty.

Trousers?
You come back from the gents with a piss patch on them and he has fucked your chance of a… you get the picture. Taking her to Grimsby doesn’t kill a romance quicker, let me tell you.
Yep, you spend a lot of time shaking yourself dry when you’re in beige chinos. Urine being the operative word.

Another reason I don’t wear them.

(Looking down at crotch)
MUTTERED, AS THOUGH TO SELF.
It’s like he does it on purpose.

So, can I honestly trust a piece of me that has a mind of it’s own?
Just who is the brains of this organisation?
Who has the real influence and power?

When you see the amount of time and money spent on videos, magazines, websites and phonelines, just to get “Old one eye” to spill his yoghurt, you know who the real boss is.
I listen to him more than he does to me, and I usually go the way he points anyway.

Freud said that the urge to reproduce, the sexual drive, is the force that keeps the species going.
We’re going, all right, it’s just where that bothers some.
Looking back, you can see that it’s been men who’ve lead us, blindly, into some trouble or other.

So. Are we heading blindly into the future?
If so, I’m worried that Old One Eye is king.

Come with me to the casbah.

Well, that's another year gone.

Didn't do too much yesterday, Liz is croaking and I'm not much better.
A bit, but not much.

Spent some birthday cash online, and got one of the mothers ordered today, see above for details. Good service, Amazon! Also ordered another copy of "Necrotrivia vs. SKULL" and finally got around to getting a copy of "God is love, get it in writing". Liz also got her copy of "Blue Hawaii", which, amazingly to me, stars Angela Lansbury. Why that amazes me, I don't know.

What is bothering me is that I cannot post an image for today, so you don't get to know that it was the dvd of "Pepe Le Moko" that I ordered and had delivered today. Have tried different images, settings and fillings, including barbecue, but nothin' doin'.

Ah well, another time.

And it was another time, then, last night, when I finally got back in touch with Sue, a good friend and follower of the Church of Gothic Cheekbones, The Latterday Pete Murphy. Plenty has been and gone and popped back because it had forgot it's keys since we last met, and I enjoyed a quick catch up with her before the police traced the number and raided this address. Like so many, I should keep in touch with her more often.

Happy birthday me.

Thirty freakin' seven.

Chest infection meant I was bedbound by 9.15 last night, up at 8.30 this morning feeling better but still chewing a lung. Birthdays are not something I get too worked up about, not since last year anyway, so today will include a trip to Merry Hill, a walk of the dog, a pub meal, some chocolates and a quiet drink with Liz.

Then, this afternoon...I'll make it up as I go along.

Still waiting for details on when we can move, no exchange date as yet, currently on hold to the solicitor now, ears seeping from a "pan pipe" "cover" "version" of "When you're in love with a beautiful woman", setting me up for Michael Ballcock's "Love changes stuff". Like gunk never happened.

Leopard laughs (spot the pun).

Where Zippy the Pinhead had
"remote keyless entry", among many, I too have phrases I like to recite, my modern mantra to burble along to, especially when hung over. "Tarka Liotta" is where that came from, but sometimes it's from stranger waters. "Titty socks" came to me one morning, as did the giggles and a strange bill from a boutique in Munich, closely followed by the ancient punchline, "oscillate it's tit a lot". For those who don't know, that's how you titillate an ocelot. For those who are thinking about it, I can recommend Johnny Morris' feline laceration cream and any of the Dirty Pussy infection control products. (Last month's issue of Cat Flaps had a money off coupon and a list of clinics)

Happy birthday Liz, by the way!!!

What can I say?
She has daft taste in hats, men and men in hats.
(Oh yes, we can dance, if we want to...)
May we see many more birthdays together.

And, for the cynics amongst you, this is NOT instead of a card.



It's instead of presents.

Which reminds me...

...never to get Ray Liotta and Tarka the otter mixed up.

Again.

That furry feel.

On me teeth.

Oooh, I feel like I was done over by Wombles last night, tongue that smells like a wet dog, guts like a slops bucket and a fear of being caught littering. I now know not to call Madam Cholet " a freaky French tart" in front of Tomsk, not unless you want a total Tobermorying.

Beyond a joke.

Now he tells me it was Saturday!

I have a history of getting the dates wrong for people's birthdays - Jacqui has hers 9 days before I think, Sue's is a moveable feast, like Easter.

Don't hate me cause I'm fallible, love me for the tat I think you'll enjoy.

A week late.

I blame the buses, one went into town around 11 and should have left the terminus by now. Should never have arranged to do a driveby shooting on the number 7, he's always late.

Yes, maybe I should get out more.

I'm out next week, mind. The Boosh is loose and appearing at the Hippodrome, and I'll be there with Liz, Dave and Mel. A birthday present from Dave, very kind, and very welcome. The second series is being shown again on BBC2 while Noel Fielding will appear in the IT crowd on Channel 4 in episodes 4 and 6.
(By the way, in a Radio 5 discussion, I heard it said that Graham Linehan, the writer and director says "it", not "I.T.", so now you know why I was right during that discussion we didn't have).

I like what I've seen, so far of this, quite rightly too, the lady at the bus stop says, tutting as another one goes the other way. Chris Morris is doing a grand job of scaring viewers with his acting performance, not with the four years too late Nathan Barley, a show that also starred Fielding and Julian Barrett, the other 50% of the Boosh, as well as Richard Ayoade (another Booshy boy on radio and tv) while Linehan, as we all know, wrote Father Ted, had a hand in Black Books and the "Talking to Mike at Picture Loans" advert, so the whole thing stinks of potential.

Funny. There's been a lot of talk recently on whether the sitcom has died, is dying, has taken it's drip stand for a walk outside while it has a fag, da diddily, diddily.

I like a laugh as much as the next man, unless the next man is standing next to me in the library, then he's on me, nipplewise.

I find it strange that we are having this kind of discussion.
(Radio 5 even asked when ITV would next make a decent comedy! Never, as long as they insist on giving Robson Green, Ross Kemp, Sarah Lancashire, the interchangeable kit list of actors that make up Casualty, Heartbeat, Emmerdale, Hollyoaks, Brookside, The Bill and It Ain't Half Hot Mum money to bother my telly)
I find it confusing that I am still unsure what's going on with Hyperdrive, with the first 3 episodes rushed, badly paced and just not funny enough, while the fourth was worth watching, twice!
(Petra Massey, who plays Sandstrom, the enhanced, I have to say has me growling at the screen and I admit to thinking she a cutey! But mainly impressed by what she's done before. Check her history, she mighty inneressin!! )

So, it's sad to say that I find the consistently funniest things on the box are the contestants on The Weakest Link ("What B is an insect that lives in highly organised social groups and include types known as Digger, and Bumble?" "Beavers?"), and Harry Hill's voiceovers on You've Been Framed, a programme that does for cinema verite and Mass Observation what rickets did to the Victorian Chimney Sweep Under 12 Five a Side Squad. Seriously, I worry that, while My Name is Earl is mild and sweet and smile along witty, it is on late on a Friday night so people will miss it, yet H.Hill has Saturday AND Sunday teatime on ITV sewn up. Mind you, the bit where Gene Simmons mumbles "Two pints of lager and a flaps of kreps, please", that well known Splodgenessabounds standard had me squirting milk out me nose.

And that's the point! The BBC3 "comedy", Two Pints is dire, sub Young ones toilet humour and fanny gags. A wry comment from an UNSEEN commentator (Lisa Reilly, take note) over the top of a clip from a triathalon is genuinely funnier, speaks more to the public, actually includes them and, ...oh I took things seriously for moment, didn't I? Must go out and get some air, maybe talk to Betty at the bus stop, find out what's really important in the world today, like who dissed who in the queue at Greggs this morning and how much the robber in the corner shop charges for 9mm clips.

Happy Non-Birthday Mark McQuitty!

According to the calendar I filled in during a New Year post piss up, it is Mark's birthday today, not, as he and his family have insisted upon celebrating it, on Sunday.

Someone should tell him.

Happy Birthday, Chris Dingley.

So I start off on the sofa, a number 7 in sleep deprived form. Hangover sets in as I sit up and the corned beef, I somehow opened without killing myself with, looks at me from the coffee table. Coffee doesn't help, I feel worse than the rubbish I put out for the binmen, rank fish and stale lager aftershave gets my bile dry heaving. See Liz, with her crippled back, off to work, then pass out due to daytime tv. When I wake again, I feel better, but only because I think I'm dead. More coffee, a fag, the world's most bear like bowel movement (brown, furry and I played dead in case it attacked me) and I was ready to go out.

I'd been celebrating, a bit, the fact that I'd actually done some creative stuff, pieces, working with Dave. We'd got some good stuff done the last 2 weeks, and last night saw us revelling in that fact. I was even happier as I'd waited til the last minute to actually write anything down, even going so far as to plan to stay up all night, as though it was an essay to hand in.

I was hoping for a meet and pint with the birthday boy today, but Liz's bad back knackered that idea. Apologies were made, and I hope to catch up next week.
The Battle of the Poll Tax had apparently ended this week, with me paying off the last of the cockeyed amount owed due to Sandwell Council being run by baboons without their glasses. Loads of interesting music had found me while I was listening to Pandora, mentioned before, and the Web was looking good. I had planned to do some blogging, but had to stop when I read a comment posted to my last entry. A dealing man, indeed, had been in touch, and I felt touched, daftly. Come on, pilgrim, does it mean that much? Well, I'm aware of only 2 other copies of Necrotrivia vs SKULL, one bought for a friend and the other last seen with a member of Broadcast when he worked with me in a call centre. There are more bits of JC's Crucifix flying round on ebay than that. Yeah, it meant that much.

So, I was a dazed, but happy, man. Until my stalker tried to call me again. For those who don't know, I had been getting calls, and texts, on and off, from a student at a college I used to work at. Although I never encouraged her, had made a complaint about her before being leaving, had got my girlfriend to call her and threaten her with the police, I was still getting badly worded messages. That annoyed me, not just because she ignored the obvious anger she was creating, but her spelling was lousy. Predictive text, people, it's what keeps us ahead of monkeys and dolphins.

So, tonight, after a missed call stopped me losing my rag, I called the police. I'm not happy about it, the fact that it got this far, the fact that an obviously troubled person has ignored entreaties to get real help, and that it is such a wimpy thing to call the cops about. Getting non-threatening, non-specific, incomprehensible text messages from someone who wants me to be her doctor. Call the Sweeney, the blags a goer!

Apparently, it's my fault for being too nice and understanding, I was told. Another reason to be queasy, the churning end to a fucked up day. Leave it like you found it, back away slowly and head to the sofa, there's nothing more to see here.


Sucker.