Monday, 30 January 2012

Book Review - Sunday Supplement

Greetings. I come to you today as I sit in my fine leather chair in the drawing room, puffing on a pipe in my smoking jacket and slippers, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the latest book for me to review. That’s right, I bet you never had me down as a literacy critic did you? I’ll have you know that I have given a professional critique of some of our most acclaimed classics, including Where’s Wally (‘a contemporary masterpiece of minimalist charm’) and The Very Hungry Caterpillar (‘a rip roaring ride in which a ravenous insect devours all in his path’).

Any moment now, I will hear the soft pat of my latest arrival hitting the hessian welcome mat, covered by The Sunday Times. I have been an avid reader of their Sunday supplement for many a moon now. I appreciate the numerous branches of narrative which stray into celebrity culture, a synopsis on the week’s television schedules, and how to avoid cankles. To collate this into one unique and intriguing package is utterly sublime, and I hope that this week’s instalment manages to wrap up the story arc involving Michael Parkinson’s life insurance.

Do you need a life first before you take out life insurance?

It’s here! After throwing away the actual newspaper (who wants to read about bikini models giving away free money in the local park?), I am greeted by a glossy article of wonder. They say the first mistake of being a book reviewer is to judge a book by its cover, but I reckon I’m in for a treat today!

The inside cover has a note from the editor, which is rather sweet. If only more authors took the time to acknowledge their fans. Then a contents table helpfully guides you through the meat and bones of the novel. I wish Lord Of The Rings had something like this so I could have skipped all those damn descriptions about travelling and gotten to the bit where that bald mental kid falls into a volcano (oops, spoiler alert).

On page 4 is a pull out supplement on Ian Beale’s relationships. For those not in the know, Ian Beale is a character on one of those gaudy, depressing prole-pits called soap operas. This is handy if you find Eastenders so confusing that you need a pictorial diagram in order to follow the current plot. Then, there’s a roundup of the latest reality TV, with many wonderful pictures of chiselled presenter, Phillip Schofield. His contributions to television are nothing short of fucking awful. Sorry no, what’s the word? Legendary.

Then there’s an article about love and relationships, where readers write in (oddly enough, in an identical style and form to each other) to discuss all the sexy sex they’ve been having. This is where things get a bit blue. Apparently, Clive in Berkshire is knocking off his girlfriend’s dog, but the dog doesn’t even know its happening! He wants to know whether he should buy the dog a valentine’s gift or not. Oh-ho Clive, you filthy beggar, you! After that, there’s a woman who has had a bad vajazzle, making her beef curtains taste like oxtail soup. The agony uncle reckons they should kill themselves, then each other.

On the next page, awww it’s a lovely picture of a porcelain dog! Apparently, the dog was engraved especially for Princess Diana’s birthday, and can be mine for nothing apart from 24 monthly payments of £17.99, plus postage, plus labour, plus tax, plus dog handling charges, plus sky plus subscription. Where’s the scissors? I need to cut this bad boy out right now!

I gotta have that bitch!

Right, now let’s get on with the rest of the review. Next we arrive at the fashion pages. No mention of those cankles promised from last week (which I why I won’t be awarding this week’s edition 5 stars), but there are some handy hints for dressing to your body shape. I tend to spend most of my time in a smoking jacket and thick gardening trousers, but apparently I should be wearing a slim, A line dress with horizontal stripes if I’m an apple shape. Court shoes are so out this season, so I’ll need to skin a cougar and make it into trendy boots. I’ll also need to grease my thighs with bacon juice for that “celebrity shimmer” when I’m going out with the girls. I wonder what my wife’s sisters, Marlene and Doris will think of my new look? I tell you, you don’t get useful advice like this from reading Dickens!

Then there are the TV listings. A brief synopsis of each programme is elegantly written giving you the facts, and leaving plenty to your imagination. My mind soars over the possibilities left to chance when I read that on Tuesday there’s a mysteriously intriguing programme named “Coppers”. What could it be about? Perhaps it’s about the fall of the Mayan empire. Maybe it is an insightful documentary on molecular physics. Who knows?

The back cover is another postal order for a commemorative plate for the Queen’s jubilee this year. I reckon that this week’s supplement is more than worthy of four star status, and I heartily recommend it to anyone who enjoys cutting out and sending off for things in the post. Now where did I put those bastard scissors?

Friday, 27 January 2012

I Want To Take You To A Fish Bar

Millions of years ago a miracle of nature occurred. After swimming around first in primordial ooze, then puddles of sediment, then in oceans for millennia, fish spontaneously started to develop feet, and used them to conquer the land. This transformation was an unprecedented revolution which eventually led to the creation of humans, dancing, and flip flops. Now in a curious twist of fate, humans have started to flaunt our sophisticated feet in the faces of fishkind.

You’ve probably noticed establishments (or temples) being erected in towns and cities specifically to allow fish to collectively worship our evolved appendages. Otherwise known as fish bars, these hallowed halls are designed to make us feel like gods. You pay your money, then perch on a seat and dangle your feet in a pool of hundreds of adoring, squirming minions, all jostling against each other for the chance to grovel at our toes. They then begin sucking on them gloriously as though by ingesting our dead foot skin, they might be able to obtain our power and grow their own.

I went into one of these bars about a year ago. They’ve opened one in my local town right underneath Tesco (yes, the Tesco in our town is large enough to have a range of shops underneath it. It blots out the sun and plays supermarket jingles across the entire town into the ever-present darkness) and Mrs Addman really wanted to try it.

There were some ground rules before you get to dip your toes:
1) No nail varnish as this can poison the fish.

2) No fake tan as the fish might become offended with your miscoloured, orangey skin and mistake you for a massive twat. It’s poisonous too.

3) Don’t kick, punch, bite, or grapple the fish. Although that one wasn’t a rule, I feel that it’s worth pointing out as some of the kids in there had an overwhelming urge to try and grab the fish and take them out the water, or kick their legs wildly.

Considering that you are essentially paying to have flesh ripped off of your feet, it’s surprisingly not painful. In fact it’s a slightly ticklish sensation, but that’s about it. They’ll get right between your toes if you let them. Some of the dumber ones end up latched onto your ankles and you have to shake them off when you take your feet out. Afterwards, we got a souvenir towel to remind us of our lovely 15 minutes with the fish (I’d have preferred an on ride photo) and were left with smoother soles for the rest of the day.

A fish bar for people who are scared of water

There are many annoying trends these days, but fish bars are difficult to condemn. The fish involved get fed regularly and customers get a pedicure. It’s a beautiful cycle, like the circle of life, or a perfectly spherical breast.

Animal rights activists might point out that these fish would rather be out in the open water sucking on a shark’s gills or something, but at least they are in gainful employment. A steady job keeps them off the streets, scraping for change or offering unsafe backstreet footjobs to fund their crack habits. The only hesitation I have is the welfare of the fish in the busier stores. Surely those fish that are eating flesh 400 times a day are in danger of becoming obese, and all the health complaints that can come from overeating. No doubt some careless hambeast will drop a glazed doughnut in there at some point, instantly giving the fish diabetes.

I decided to write about this phenomenon because I noticed that a rival fish bar is now opening up. In a comparatively small town like this, competing chains of this nature shows that they are successful and are opening up nationwide. Soon, you won’t take your date to a bar or a poorly lit cinema screening of a movie you don’t intend on watching. You’ll be booking her in for a romantic evening of having her legs chewed instead.

So in conclusion, I guess fish bars are a good thing? I’ll give them one thing; it cleared my genital warts up a treat.


The talented Mr Flip over at Hill Blocks View has been kind enough to give me a guest blog spot.  Nip over there if you fancy reading it, then read all of his other wonderful writings too.  I guarentee at least 137% satisfaction.

Monday, 23 January 2012

Skyrim Diaries

3rd Felstead 4th Era:

My name is Ivor Bighorn. I am but a lowly farmer trying to scratch a living from the barren wastelands around Ivarstead in the province of Skyrim. I hold no illusions that my journals will be of great importance or interest for future generations, however, I was compelled to put quill to parchment after a number of unusual disturbances in our quaint mountain town.

Yesterday, a stranger arrived in town wearing nothing but a pair of dirty discoloured briefs. A dark elf, with extraordinary facial features, exaggerated beyond the usual limits of nature. He has huge bug eyes, a bulbous forehead, and a chin that could cut through troll fat. Despite his hideous physical appearance, most other townsfolk seem unfazed by him, and speak to him as an ordinary visitor. How I wish he’d put on a tunic.

Whilst tending to my cabbages, he approached me from behind without a word, and made movements suggestive of fornication. As I tried to politely move away, he responded by leaping onto my roof and carelessly casting flame spells near the thatch. Fortunately, this failed to ignite, and I was about to summon the guards before he leaped off and ran off into the sunset towards Bleakfalls Barrow. I quietly hope that he fails to return.

4th Felstead

The stranger appeared again today. One of the guards informed me that he was a Dragonborn, and had been summoned by the Greybeards. This essentially makes him the Chosen One, and he will be rewarded special dispensation as a result. I also found out his name; the curious moniker of “IM GAYLOL”. I can only hope that Mr GAYLOL’s behaviour improves in line with what we would expect from a Dragonborn.

Wish You Were Here...instead of me.

5th Felstead

Mr GAYLOL has returned from his training with the Greybeards and promptly proceeded to Shout at my chickens, making them crumble apart with the power of his magical voice. Quite why a person with the power to slay dragons would want to assault a flock of lowly chickens and destroy a simple farmer’s livelihood is beyond me. I called the guards, but they failed to catch him before he stole a horse from a nearby stable, and fled in the direction of Whiterun. If he appears again, I shall report him to the authorities without hesitation. My wife says I need to forget about it, but this injustice is playing on my mind constantly.

7th Felstead

I came across three dead guards stripped naked in the snow today. There were no witnesses, but I am convinced this is the heinous work of GAYLOL. Not only is he an abomination, but he is dangerous and a menace to our way of life. People are becoming frightened to leave their houses. The inn keeper said that GAYLOL was bartering with him over some imperial armour only a few days ago. No doubt he is slaying people and selling their cuirass’ for a few extra coin. I don’t understand why security cannot be stepped up in the face of this evil.

8th Felstead

That bastard! My wife and dog are both dead by his wretched hand!

I awoke in the middle of night to urinate. As I reached for the bedpan, I noticed someone had placed all of our food in there in some sort of disgraceful practical joke. This has spoiled our entire food supplies for the winter, which means that starvation is a distinct possibility. That’s when I heard a jug fall off the table in the main room. I grabbed my pitchfork and ventured forth, only to find GAYLOL squatting in our kitchen over the corpse of my beloved and newly eviscerated pooch. Upon being discovered, GAYLOL must have panicked and, in the ensuing scuffle, burned my poor wife to cinders with a fire spell before escaping into the night.

Me and Erin had been together for 38 years, and now this “Dragonborn” has ruined my livelihood, destroyed my dog, and brutally slaughtered my beautiful bride in one evening. I cannot cope. I don’t know how to come to terms with the loss.

Even his horse is evil

9th Felstead

The local community has been very supportive. The inn keeper has offered me free food and lodgings until I can get back on my feet. The blacksmith has provided me with a dagger, for protection in case the murderer reappears. The farm across the way sends it’s condolences, and has offered to replant some carrots for me come next spring. My wife’s body is currently being embalmed at Bleakfalls Barrow and is to be prepared for a funeral precession tomorrow afternoon.

No sightings of GAYLOL yet today, apart from the inn keeper heard someone walking around on his roof last night. I suspect this was him, escaping from the scene.

10th Felstead

Tragedy has struck again. As the undertakers carried my wife’s coffin through the village streets, that damned dark elf appeared again, leaping over the precession on a horse in an act of defiance. He then dismounted and used a Raise Undead spell to reanimate Erin’s corpse. Shortly after coming back to life, Erin went on a spree of unrepentant violence, sweeping aside her old acquaintances like mudcrabs in a mudslide.

It took a whole legion of the Emperor’s finest archers to finally bring her down. In the meantime, GAYLOL escaped yet again.

This is to be my last diary entry. I cannot cope with the twisted machinations of the Dragonborn, playing with me as though I am a character in a stage play. Tonight, I shall end it all by consuming my whole supply of Skooma. I only hope that whatever malicious being is responsible for the creation of GAYLOL is satisfied that it has bought an old man to take his own life.


So remember, next time you’re in Skyrim, take a moment to think about how your actions affect those around you.

Friday, 20 January 2012

I Hate Facebook

Although it’s been said many times, many ways; I hate Facebook.

It wasn’t always this way. A few years ago, Facebook was one of my favourite things on the Internet. There were fun times to be had with humorous status updates, catching up with old friends, and insulting people on various extreme right wing groups.

Back in 2009 I started using the Notes feature to automatically import posts from Muppets For Justice directly onto my Facebook profile. You just simply pointed it at your URL, and it created a Note everytime it detected a new post, then alerted all of your friends to it. This was a brilliant automatic feature. For a long time I had two small communities following the stuff I’d written, one on Blogger, and one on Facebook which my family and friends read.

Then, the evil Lord Zuckerberg noticed that Facebook had become an Internet sensation. Hundreds of millions of people were logging on every day to tell the world what they had for dinner, or to insult their boss after adding their boss as a friend, and this pleased Zuckerberg.

So ladies, what first attracted you to the fabulously wealthy Mark Zuckerberg?
Despite his billions from advertising revenue and millions of loyal minions, he still found himself worried by a new social network launched by Google, appropriately named Google+. This angered the Dark One. How dare someone try and emulate his success? It’s not like he’d ever taken elements from other people’s websites to try and improve his own. Facebook Chat is in no way like other IM programs such as MSN Messenger (or as it’s now known, Live. God, that makes me feel old). This new social network would have to die. Sitting in his crimson citadel of the damned, the Demon Prince Of Teh Internets began to formulate a plan.

Fast forward a month or two, and Facebook suddenly drops its support for importing posts from Blogger (a Google company). For someone like me, that meant my readership was instantly cut in half. By way of apology for this heinous crime, Facebook cheerfully announces “you can always link people to your Blog through status updates”.

Thanks a fucking bunch for this helpful fucking feature you fucking fuckity fuckers! I’m so pleased that a beautifully automated process has been replaced with one which requires me to manually pester my friends and family like an extreme version of Nathan Barley.  As if people don't hate me enough!

So, there I go, laboriously posting a link each and every time I update (and yes, my problems are just as important as third world famine), when suddenly, Facebook informs me that I cannot post links to Muppets For Justice any longer, as it has been reported as "offensive".

What the titty-drippings is so offensive about my blog?  This place is about as offensive as a Christian pamphlet.  Or perhaps a Christian pamphlet folded in such a way that it looks like a phallus.

On another note, have you noticed that Facebook tends to display updates from people you don’t really like? According to my extensive research (i.e. a video that someone showed me), there is an algorithm which calculates how often you interact with certain people, and then shows you the status updates the people you are least interested in. It would seem that this is an effort to stop you from neglecting your least favourite friends. However, what this fails to realise is that there’s probably a strong case for not talking to those people very often. Perhaps it’s the annoying way in which they post every minute detail about their moronic children:

“shaneliza jus woke up an puked on herself!!! shes so clever!!!!1 i love mine princess foreva neva forget babydoll loves always!!!!!!!!!!11”

Or maybe it’s the moronic way in which women that end up in bad relationships end up posting things like this on a monthly basis:

“stupid fuckin men r all the same!!!! much better off single wiv my baby girl shaneliza huw i luv more than life itself!!!!!!”

I hope that one day these people will realise that, in a moment of self reflection, the only constant in their failed romances is themselves. The fact that Facebook tries to cram more of this junk onto my screen is one of the most annoying aspects.

Oh and in case you’re wondering, yes I will still be using Facebook, yes I do have a tendency towards hyperbole, and yes, the rages are becoming more frequent.  Next time, a rant on how much I hate reaching for the remote control.  I can feel a lie down in a darkened room coming on. And a wank.

Monday, 16 January 2012

Parkour Dreams

For years I have done remedial office work at a company I detest. For too long I have been paid to stand in a corner and have elastic bands flicked at me (I was a Stress Relief Technician). I’ve finally done the thing that my wife said she’d leave me if I did; I’ve jacked in the job to pursue my dreams of becoming a parkour champion.

This won’t be easy. I am notoriously non-athletic and have always avoided physical activity in the past. But after seeing some cool free running videos on YouTube, I am determined to make this a successful endeavour. I reckon that it’s all a case of mind over matter, and my mind has been honed after hours spent staring at a blank wall at work, meditating on philosophical matters and holding entire Scrabble tournaments in my head (of which I always emerged victorious). To document my progress, I have decided to write an online journal of my experiences. Hopefully, this will chart the rise of my parkour superstardom, and serve as a tome of worship for other aspiring free runners.

I'll be doing this soon enough

1st Jan – There’s no time like the New Year to begin my journey! I decided the place to start was to look the part, so I’ve decided to update my wardrobe and get some loose fitting sports gear. I went down the shops, but forgot that they are all shut on New Year’s Day. There’s always tomorrow.

2nd Jan – Woke up at 3:35PM after staying up all night studying parkour videos. There wasn’t enough time to get to the shops and get my new gear together. Otherwise, Marlene moved out and took the kids with her, meaning that I have a lot of room to turn my house into a parkour dojo. I’ve overturned the dining room table and the cupboard, but this proved to be rather tiring so I decided to get an early night.

3rd Jan – Finally managed to visit the urban sports store. I purchased myself a pair of loose fitting vans, and a pair of black trousers with loads of chains on them. The weight of all that extra metal pulls the waistband down around my knees, making me walk like a piles sufferer with severe rickets. It’s only later when I got home that I found out I’d bought skater clothes, and they were not really suitable for parkour. I’ve resolved to use a pair of old trainers and a white t shirt instead.

5th Jan – I found out there is a parkour group at my local youth centre. I went along this evening, but it turns out that the group is full of 14 year old boys in trendy vests and hats. One of them called me a paedophile after a boy fell over and I offered to massage his leg until the feeling came back. I was so upset that I took my 50p back, and left swiftly.

7th Jan – Without a regular parkour group, training has been slow (i.e. nonexistent). It’s a bit of a pain getting into my kitchen now that an overturned cupboard is blocking access, and I haven’t eaten in two days. Luckily, I still have a regular supply of water from the hosepipe tap in the garden. I tried eating the red berries growing off my neighbour’s bushes, but now my insides are itchy. I’ll drink more outside water to try and resolve this.

It's great that these conjoined twins can take part in the sport

8th Jan – Met a lithe young lad in the local park named Jean Paul who told me he was a Parkour grand champion. Jean Paul offered to teach me his “mad skills” in exchange for £50. The first lesson was to swim out to the middle of a lake and stand on one leg for two whole hours. I didn’t make it because a duck pecked me in the ear and I almost drowned, but when I returned to shore I noticed that Jean Paul was missing. This is probably part of the test.

9th Jan – Marlene rang me to talk about custody. She says there’s no money in free running and that I’m wasting my time. Well, she hasn’t seen my “Will Parkour For Money” sign. It’s got glitter on it and everything. A guaranteed money spinner!  Anyway, it turns out that she has a new partner already, a neighbour of ours in fact named Craig.  Craig is an absolute brute of a man; the kind of guy who thinks TLC stands for "Tender Loving Cock".  When my parkour training is complete, I intend to learn capoeria and kick his balls into his brain.

10th Jan - I locked myself out of the house today. I had left the bathroom window open near the drainpipe, but I decided against climbing up this. I reckon that by using my parkour skills too early, I might jeopardise my long term progress, so I called for a locksmith instead. On entry, I was surprised to find a burglar using my toilet.

12th Jan – Did a backflip off of a bollard and broke my spine in six places. Obviously, this minor setback will cause me to postpone my training for a little while. I’ll update you with any further progress I make.

Friday, 13 January 2012

Fate Of The World (Or How I Learned To Stop Vegetarianism And Love The Bomb)

Let me preface this by saying, I try not to talk about video games that often here on Muppets For Justice. It’s not that I don’t like them (that’s far from the truth), but I thought that if I allowed myself to write about them, I’d end up with a very dull Blog about graphical quality or who is the best out of Sonic and the guy who deals the cards on Microsoft Hearts. Regardless, I simply have to flag up a  fascinating game called Fate Of The World, and I'm not even being paid to do so.

Fate Of The World is not a traditional game in that you don’t shoot or stab anyone. I understand that some of you might feel slightly nauseous at this thought, but it is a beautiful simulation game with a simple interface, but a magnificently delicate model working behind the scenes.  It’s a strategy game which puts you in control of a fictional organisation (The GEO) tasked with combating global warming and improving the lives of the planet’s ever expanding population. To do this, you select policy cards ranging from improving healthcare and education, to reforestation and stopping the use of coal or oil in a region. Then you advance five years and see what effects your policies have had.

The fate of this thing is in your hands

Sounds pretty easy right? Give people access to aspirin and plant a few trees, job done. Wrong. Every action in Fate Of The World has an equal and opposite reaction and if left unchecked, what seem like sensible policies for a greener Earth can cause mass genocide.

I thought I’d talk about my first experiences of the game to help you understand how disastrously bad events can turn. After a short tutorial mission which was disarmingly easy, I chose the first main mission which required me to reduce global oil consumption whilst keeping the HDI (Human Development Index, a figure which shows people’s quality of life based on wealth, life expectancy, health, etc.) above 0.7 across the board.

My strategy was clear in my mind. I would improve healthcare across the poorest regions such as North and South Africa, then move onto compulsory education in those regions. For the wealthier regions like Europe, North America and Japan, I’d concentrate on renewable energy, planting trees, and stopping deep water oil drilling. An eco warrior’s dream world, right? Being the liberal lefty that I am, I thought I’d be able to finally prove that the world could exist peacefully if everyone had access to health and education, and all power was generated by wind farms.

Play your cards right

Right from turn one I realised that North Africa was basically spoiling for a fight. Mass outbreaks of violent protests and rioting were cropping up all over the region, forcing me to spend a little too much money on providing security to the continent. The whole continent was turning into Fight Club, only someone must have forgotten the first two rules as news of this brawl spread faster than Katie Price's vaginal butter.  I started by building a welfare office, whilst funding peacekeeping troops to try and keep dissent at bay. This escalated further when I found myself having to impose martial law to stop people from killing each other (one of my agents was even kidnapped and killed during this conflict). In a the space of about 15 years I’d personally transformed from a pacifist into a militaristic fascist, and found that I hadn’t even started my higher education program yet. This was disappointing, but inconsequential compared to what was happening elsewhere.

In order to fund my projects in other areas of the globe, I decided to raise a little extra cash in richer areas. I introduced a tobin tax in Europe and Japan (this is basically the Robin Hood tax which takes a cut of all financial transactions). I noticed in Europe that after five years, businesses were threatening to leave the region, so I removed the tax to try and avoid a similar situation to North Africa. However, I forgot to remove it from Japan. The very next turn, Japan removed all support for me and pulled out of the GEO. When a region does this, it takes a substantial chunk of your funding away, so I was starting to feel the financial pinch.

However, my main issues were cropping up in India. This is a perfect example of how a fantastic plan can go horrendously wrong in Fate Of The World. From early on I noticed that, due to the massive population (which was still growing at an alarming rate), farming and agriculture was under immense pressure to supply food to the region. To alleviate this issue, I flicked through my policy cards to find a suitable solution. It was then I came across the brilliant idea of encouraging vegetarianism. This would relieve pressures on farming as they won’t be required to keep expensive animals, and Indian people love a good vegetable curry, right? So, I played my Vegetarian Revolution card and waited for my utopian iron-deficient society to emerge.

The orangutans were learning to use tools?!  Damn, they could have propped up the economy!
 A couple of turns later, I was alerted to the fact that people weren’t pleased about the reduction in meat. I figured that they were just suffering the last of their meat sweats and that they’d soon settle down. How wrong I was. The situation escalated to a point where I couldn’t contain it with peacekeeping forces. Conflicts were arising, people were trading arms, bacon was being imported on the black market (presumably), and then someone dropped the N word. Nuclear bombs. That’s right, people were so upset by the lack of minced beef that they decided to annihilate themselves in a nuclear armageddon.

So, thanks to what I thought was probably the meekest and most peaceful policy I could have enforced, I bought the world to the brink of nuclear war. Nearly 600 million people were wiped out of existence in the space of 5 years, the HDI in India fell to 0.2 and worst of all, the world’s supply of naan bread was totally destroyed. I have failed the world.

If you’d like to watch the Earth crumble around you for fun, please visit developer Red Redemption’s website. The game along with all the DLC is £15, and I’d heartily recommend it for those of you who think they know what it takes to save the world.

Monday, 9 January 2012

Your Pet Problems - Neutered

Howdy folks. Do you find going to the vets expensive? Don’t enjoy sitting next to other people’s smelly dogs? That’s why I’ve decided to give out some pet advice right here, on the Internet. Sure I might not have any official training, or a fancy diploma, or even owned an animal before, but I’ve recently watched Frozen Planet and have tasted many varieties of animals in restaurants.
With this expertise, I decided I’d help some clueless pet owners and give them a bit of advice on how idiotic they are, in the hopes that I can stop them from killing their pets. Below are some hopeless individuals who should probably be reported to the RSPCA:

Gemma Driveway – Gas Pumper

Dear Addman,

My cat has developed the rather strange habit of licking metallic objects. I first noticed this when I got my step ladder out and left it set up while I went to fetch something. When I came back, the whole thing was covered in cat saliva, causing me to slip off the top step and dislocate both shoulders. I’ve also caught him writhing around in the cutlery drawer in a state of oral ecstasy. Is there anything I can do?

Dear Gemma,

Cats tend to develop a taste for metal when they don’t have enough iron in their diet. In your stupidity, I imagine you’ve failed to buy a suitable cat food brand with the appropriate nutrition. If your regular cat food doesn’t include the recommended levels of iron, I’d usually suggest putting iron filings in his food, and ball bearings in his water. However, a cat that is licking step ladders is beyond help at this point. I’d recommend putting him down, which is a shame because he’d have been perfectly fine were it not for your blatant negligence.

Alaister Pigeon – Chartered Heston Accountant

Dear Addman,

I have a budgie named Bob who I have owned for around 4 years. I’ve spoken softly to him for at least 2 hours every day, repeating choice phrases such as “Pretty boy”, “Fuck Da Police”, and “Oooh Alaister, you’re soooo big!”. So far, he’s never uttered a word. What can I do to get him to talk?

Dear Alaister

It’s quite clear that Bob doesn’t like you. He probably hates your guts, what with your poor lifestyle choices and that annoying way you catalogue your shirts. On that description, I hate you too. Bob seems to be a sharp judge of character if you ask me.

However, you asked for a solution, so here it is. You could try finding out what aspect of your flawed character really irks your budgie and changing that. Try wearing a different jumper when you approach him. Perhaps speak to him in a different accent. Wear some glasses, anything to disguise that pathetic sense of self. Failing that, I’d have Bob put down.

Barry Shogun – Curtain Twitcher

Dear Addman

I am sick to death of my neighbour’s cats climbing over the fence and digging around in my back yard. Not only are they burying their shit all over the place and ruining my tulips, they are also uncovering human remains that I’d rather keep hidden. I’ve tried using landmines and bear traps, but the little buggers are too crafty. What else can I do?

Dear Barry,

I heard somewhere that cats don’t like orange peel so spreading some of that around might work. Try planting an orange tree, or if you need a higher concentration of orangey goodness to obliterate those pesky moggies, hollow out 10,000 jaffa cakes and spread the innards all over your garden. If the jaffa lawn idea doesn’t work, I’d recommend capturing the cats and having them put down.

Stuart Pourer – Sumo Sweat Wiper

A few months ago I found an owl tangled up in the mesh fencing surrounding a local park. I cut it free with wire clippers, but the poor thing was too weak to fly, so I took it home. Slowly but surely, I have nursed that little owl back to strength on a mixture of warm milk and fresh mice. Over time, we have developed a strong bond and his strength has returned. He’s able to catch prey in the long run I’ve created in the garden, and I’m confident that he’d do great in the wild. Have you got any tips on releasing him back into his natural habitat?

Dear Stuart,

You fool! After spending so long around humans, this owl will have lost its hunting and survival skills. He simply won’t be able to make it on his own in the wild. You should have him put down immediately!

Nicole Papa – Lambrini Spokeswoman & Enthusiast

Dear Addman,

My ex boyfriend bought a snake for our daughter, Shaneliza for Christmas. He bought it off a guy in a pub, and it didn’t come with a hutch or perches or anything. I think it might be ill because its skin keeps coming off and it doesn’t have any legs. None of us know anything about snakes, so we need some tips on how to take care of it. The snake is about the length of two empty wine bottles and is a beigey orange colour. Help!

Dear Nicole,

Me and Indiana Jones share many things in common. We both carry an emergency whip, we’ve been chased by large boulders, and we have both been portrayed in a movie by Harrison Ford. More pertinently, we also share a deep fear of snakes.

Let me level with you Nicole; snakes should not be kept as pets. Seriously, look at that thing. In the same way that I dislike Stephen Hawking, I just don’t trust something that can’t walk but can still move around. It’s an abomination of God’s green Earth. I don’t usually say this to people, but I think you should have your pet put down.

Brian Herbie-White – Test Centre Tester

Dear Addman,

My dog keeps getting erections for no apparent reason. I tried patting its thing back down, but that just made things worse. It’s starting to get embarrassing, especially when I’m hosting a dinner party and my guests have to endure a horny dog staring them straight in the eye. How can I calm him down?

Dear Brian,

Let me ask you this. If you were sprouting spontaneous boners all the time, what would you do about it? Aside from having a lonely wank into a crisp packet whilst lubricating yourself with your own blubbery tears of failure, you’d probably want to go out and have sex. This is how your dog feels. I’d suggest finding yourself a bitch who owns a female dog. If that fails, go on the Internet and search for “Furries”. You might be able to hire out one of these people to help your dog find relief.

If none of these things work, then I’m afraid that your dog has a broken penis. Broken organs, sexual or otherwise, are never good news and it’ll only be a matter of time before this takes its toll on your pooch. The kindest thing would be to have it put down.

Alison Packard – Post It Note Maker

Dear Addman

I’m a busy woman who juggles a high powered business career and two children. In between my long working hours, my evening classes and taking my children to their various after school clubs and activities, we barely even have the time to eat. Now my kids have started badgering me to buy them a pet, but I don’t know what kind of animal to get. Are there any suitable animals for the family that has little time in the day to devote to caring for them?

Dear Alison
All animals require care and attention, and the sooner your bratty kids learn that, the better. Animals are miracles of nature, not consumer goods like an iPod or a battery powered sex aid. It sounds to me like you don’t have the resources to properly care for a pet. Frankly, if I ever hear of you or your family purchasing any animals, I’m sending the police round and reporting you for animal cruelty. If your children pester you about this again, I’d recommend having them put down.

Marissa Duracell – Civil Servant Slicer

Dear Addman,

My poor Gerbil recently passed away in a tragic incident involving a petrol fire, an articulated lorry, a flock of ravenous eagles, and a pickaxe. I miss her sooooo much! Is there any kind of witchcraft that can bring her back to life?

Dear Marissa,

Being dead is no type of life for an animal to lead. You’ll find that your Gerbil becomes despondent and unresponsive due to its recent death, which will put a real crimp on its lifestyle. The kindest thing to do in a situation like this is to have it put down.

Well, that’s all we have time for folks. I hope this has proved to be a useful guide in animal care and that you don’t kill your stupid pets anymore. In the immortal words of Porky Pig, “Th-th-th-thanks for readin’ my shit yo!”.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Dial 111 For Murder

Now that Christmas is over for another year and we start to get back into the daily grind, it is easy to become nostalgic for the festivities we enjoyed less than two weeks ago. Everyone misses that wonderful time of year where you can wear novelty jumpers without ridicule, play board games with your family, and go out and murder random strangers with illegal firearms.

Oddly enough, Christmas 2011 has seen an inordinate amount of murderings. First, someone was stabbed on London’s busiest high street in broad daylight on Boxing Day, then a guy calling himself “Psycho Stapleton” killed a kid in Salford, then another loon shot up his girlfriend’s whole family, killing three of them. Then, just when you felt bloated from the massive murder buffet, a dead woman turns up on the Queen’s Sandringham estate on New Year’s Day. It’s a psychopath jamboree!

Murders aren’t exactly rare events, even in a country such as England where people would to queue just to get away from an armed gunman. However, it seems that the excesses of Christmas have cracked our usually polite demeanour, sending us out into the streets for a killing or two. What’s gotten into everyone lately? Have we become jealous that the worst atrocity last year was committed in fucking Norway of all places? Maybe our nutters have become disillusioned that no one has managed to top the heady heights of Raoul Moat’s 10 strong pile of cadavers recently. Maybe they are setting out an agenda for 2012.

The UK's latest craze, after murdering

Mind you, considering that amount of grown men I’ve seen riding around on scooters since Christmas, it’s not all that surprising that some people have taken to mass murder. Seriously, I saw a guy riding a double scooter the other day. It was basically two scooters joined together at one end in a V shape. A double scooter makes you a double twat, it’s a scientific fact. Violence is the only answer in a situation like this.

Still, if you find yourself being tackled to your kitchen floor by an armed assailant in a knitted reindeer jumper, you’ll need to think about which emergency number you need to ring. While blood trickles from your atrophied organs, slowly drowning you in your own vital fluids, take a moment and think to yourself “does this really warrant a 999 call?” If not, you might like to try 111, the new number for emergencies that aren’t quite that urgent.

That’s right, now you have to prioritise your own injuries. 999 is only for the most serious eventualities such as nuclear holocaust, outbreak of intergalactic war, or if someone throws a soft fruit at Prince Phillip. 111 is better if you have a nosebleed that won’t stop, or a bruise on your knee in the shape of Italy. Considering that we already have a general helpline for health issues called NHS Direct, it is becoming a bit too confusing as to which number is the best to use in a given situation. You’ll find yourself flailing at your phone with whatever limbs you have left, hoping to get through to the right place.

But more important than NHS Direct

Never mind. With the rate at which this murderous trend is growing, we’ll all be swept up in this craze by the end of the year. Going out killing is the new staying in! Forget your Pogs, football cards and foldable scooters, grab your nearest automatic weapon and meet me in the park. Last one standing gets to eat my liver!

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

A-Z Of Blogging

In the immortal words of the French philosopher Descartes; "sup peeps".  How's it hanging?  I hope you've participated in causing a massive downward spiral in the turkey population and that you're ready to go back to school/work/daytime television.

Before Christmas, I came across another blog which I found rather interesting.  It is called the A-Z Of Blogging, and it challenges bloggers to write a post a day for an entire month (excluding Sundays).  Every day should be inspired by the next letter of the alphabet, meaning that you'll have 26 posts for all 26 letters by the end of the month.  The challenge starts in April, so you have plenty of time to prepare.

I've decided to give it a go this year.  It sounds very simple, yet also very time consuming.  That's why I don't want to do it alone.  In an effort to get you all to write some interesting stuff for me to read, I encourage you to give it a try.  We can be Blog Buddies!  I assure you that no one will point and laugh at us.

If you are interested, please visit their blog for more information.  There's some sort of sign up thing at some point in January which you'll have to do, and I think they have a logo which you can put up on your Blog too.  Who knows, you may come across some really interesting blogs, and you might bring in a lot of new readers for your own.