Friday, 31 August 2012

Suicide And Cheese: Part 2

It all happened on another typical day in the Cheddar Grounds.  The sun was singing and the birds were shining brightly.  The cheese deliveries had just been taken, and the underlings were preparing the day’s cheeseboards as I strolled into the president’s office for the day’s events, my head held high as I caught a whiff of a delicious baked Camembert being wheeled along in the hallway.  

As I entered, my head dropped as I saw the hideous haunch of president Herman, huffing and perspiring bountifully over a freshly wooed Philly.  No, I don’t mean a young lady, I literally mean a Philly.  A cow.  The already rather unlikeable president was defiling an animal in the hall where we’d be eating our cheese selections later.  The stench of sex juice pervaded the air, hanging lazily like a stoned sloth on a washing line, and causing me to gag uncontrollably.  

This was probably the most scandalous event I’d ever been party to.  I’ve seen many depraved things in my time.  I once saw a man poke a poo with his bare finger.  I also once caught my brother watching primetime ITV, but neither of these was as disgusting as this heinous act before me.  Unable to contain my horror, I let out an audible wretch as I clasped my hands around my mouth, trying to stifle the surprise.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” Attested Herman as he tried to cover his dignity and hoist his XXXL boxers back up and over his bulbous thighs.  But it was too late.  I’d seen everything.  You could have branded the image onto my retinas with a soldering iron and I still wouldn’t be able to recall it as vividly as I do now.  It took another 30 seconds of silence before I regained my composure.

“I camembert-lieve it!” Was the best pun I could muster at such short notice.  I was still surprised by what I’d seen, so don’t judge me.

“Now you’re not going to tell anyone are you?”

“Herman, you’ve used this place as a barnyard of pleasure for the last time.  I’m going to tell EVERYONE about this!”

Finally, I had the leverage I needed to get rid of Herman once and for all.  Never again will he be able to gorge his stomach on fine cheese, or gorge his sexual appetite on impressionable livestock.  This was the event that would make me president!  As I turned to leave, Herman shuffled forward (still doing up his flies), still protesting.

“You intend to ruin me?  Pah!  No one will believe you!”

I shot him a disdainful glance over my shoulder, but didn’t say a word.

“I’m too well respected around here!”

My hand reached the door handle.

“And what about Daisy here?  A scandal like this could ruin her modelling contract with Anchor spread! This could leave her broke and paddockless!  You can't expect her to live hoof to mouth over this!”

His puns were almost better than mine, but I was not going to be defeated so easily.  Without a second thought, I closed the doors on that decadent scene, leaving Herman to mop up, and headed over to the Elites hall to deliver the bad/good news.

[End of Part 1]

[Part 2]

For a man who had just seen the most immoral event in the world, I still had a song in my step and a spring in my heart.  Today was the day that I’d finally be rid of that crass, belligerent fool Herman, and ascend to true greatness.
I dodged past a giant cheese wheel being rolled into the courtyard and tipped my hat to the gentlemen delivering it.  They were unaware of the sickening scenes I witnessed only a few minutes earlier.  I merrily skipped around them and continued onward to the Elite’s hall.  

I couldn’t wait to deliver the most salacious gossip the society had ever known.  This was even more scandalous than when Alfred was caught cutting his Edam with LSD for a little extra kick.

As I approached, the door to the Elite’s hall flung open as if to greet me.  It was as if the building was welcoming me inside, urging me to deliver my important news.  Alas, it turned out to be the other Elites leaving, so I hurried over to them, waving my arms to catch their attention.  It was only then that I realised they were already heading my way.

“Fellows!  Wait until you hear about this!”

“Get out!” shot Johnny, the youngest member of the Elites.  At 9 years old, he still commanded an air of authority, and I had an inkling that the other two Elites tended to follow his lead.  I never particularly liked him anyway, but what he said next confirmed my initial hatred for him.

“Your membership is terminated.  You’re no longer welcome here at the club.”

“But...why?  What have I done?” Seemed like the most appropriate question.

“You know what you’ve done.  Daisy is an esteemed member of our society.  What you did to her is degrading and foul!”

Starting to understand the situation at hand, I spoke in a hushed tone and tried to avoid drawing any more attention than was necessary.  I was aware that many public eyes were suddenly upon me and that lower ranking members were stopping and staring at us.

“You think I had sex with her?  No, it was Herman!” I explained. “I was on my way over to tell you.”

“Save it.  He phoned ahead and said you’d try to pin the blame on him”

“This is outrageous!  I’ll take a DNA test to prove it!” I offered.

“Don’t make this into a scene.  Just leave now before I get the police involved.  It’s only because of your long standing service to this organisation that I haven’t alerted the authorities already.”  For a 9 year old, he could be rather eloquent at times.

“I will not be silenced” I declared in an ironically in a hushed tone.

“Frankly, it’s your word against Herman’s.  And we both know Herman has more clout around here”.

And that, my friends is how the best day of my life rapidly transformed into the worst.  I was escorted off premises to chants of “cow shagger!” and “udderly sexy”.  Outside the gates, a homeless man blocked my path and asked for some spare change, and I didn’t even have a lump of cheese to throw at him.  It was a truly vile day.

Monday, 27 August 2012

Suicide And Cheese: Part 1

To whoever may read this,

Please take this as a full and frank confession.  The events that you are about to read are as true and accurate as I can recall.  Night after night of trying to erase these memories with Toilet Duck have left my recollection slightly hazy, but the main details I believe to be accurate.  I hope that this declaration never sees the light of day whilst I am still alive.

You see, dear reader, this is a story of triumph to tragedy; of morals to mortality; of prestige to pauperism.  It is the story of how I went from being an esteemed man of integrity, to the underhanded and deceitful husk I am today.  It involves an underground society that I was party to, and my shameful dismissal from which ruined my life.

The Big Cheese Society was my entire world.  The society, in simpler times, used to be known under the less gaudy moniker of Curdled Dairy Appreciators Anonymous.  That is, until a major incident in our history forced the necessary name change.  Back in the 50’s, our members used to wear yellowish-white hoods with sacred swiss cheese holes.  We then used to advance through poorer communities in order to spread the good word of cheese.  Since our group consisted mainly of part timers with lives and jobs, the rallies were conducted in the evenings to fit around employment commitments.  As such, lit torches were often carried to see in the bleakness of the night.  Unfortunately, another group who called themselves “The Klan” planned a demonstration on the same night, and the Curdled Dairy Appreciators Anonymous ended up being tarred (and feathered) with the same brush, and pricked with the same pitchfork.

After this disgrace, a young upstart in the organisation led a coup, wrestling control from the former president, changing the society’s name, and installing himself as head honcho.  His name was Herman Whiff.

Herman was a talented cheese genius in his youth.  He could identify subtle nuances in a gorgonzola that simply could not be rivalled.  His palette was more finely tuned than an autistic piano played by Exact Van Pinpoint, the famous musical perfectionist.  When I first joined the society, I had the honour of selecting a new cheese for Herman to taste, while blindfolded, to which he would guess correctly and elaborate on its age.  I chose a rather nutty Reblochon which I thought might catch him out.  Not only did he identify it correctly, he also asked for an Atlas, and drew the exact location where the nuts had been grown.  His talent was astonishing.

Sadly enough, he was also one of life’s squanderers.  He was the type of person who, if he was lost in the woods with 7 other people and he was put in charge of the food supply, he’d have scoffed the rations in a private banquet on the first night, and by morning would be mopping up the remnants of his colleagues with a slice of crusty bread.  Naturally, with all this power and talent, he soon started using his status in foolish and reckless ways.  In the early days of his reign, the drinking and lewd behaviour wasn’t quite so apparent.  However, when he tried to snort a line of blow off of the vice-president’s youngest daughter’s naked backside during a public tasting display, it became too difficult to ignore.

How I envied Herman.  I despised his fat lips, the pop-eyed, rotund, git!  As I watched him age, slowly becoming more and more haggard from the drink, drugs and brie, I started to detest every aspect of his sickening physique and behaviour.  His years of cheese consumption had left him with a waistline that would instil jealousy in a Japanese Sumo, and he had a laugh that sounded like the death rattle of a walrus that was drowning in custard.  Yet, despite these hatefully grotesque attributes, he always came out on top in any given situation.  As an esteemed member of the society, he always had his pick of the ladies.  Women seemed inexplicably drawn to him as though he existed solely on a diet of magnets.  It must have been the whole power thing that made him irresistible.

Over the years, I myself also started to garner the approval of my fellow enthusiasts.  After a particularly tough taste challenge in which I nailed Julian Kenworth 11-9 (I can’t believe he failed to identify a moist Munster!), I found myself elected into the Elites, a subgroup within the organisation who decided and voted on matters of importance to the society.  Being part of the Elite Four was not only a privilege, but it came with a £10 voucher for the cheese counter at the local supermarket.  I still have that voucher, and although that supermarket closed five years ago, I will pass it on to my grandchildren.

The Elites answered directly to the vice president who chaired the meetings, who was then underneath Herman as President.  For a few months I was content with my new position and the newfound respect that came with it.  Making the new members cower as I came towards them with the Initiation Dildo of Cheese will always be a particular highlight.  My skill in this field eventually led to my promotion to Vice President within the year, after the previous VP was fired for eating Primula cheese.  This is the most blasphemous act that can be conducted in our society!  Nevertheless, his shameful exit led to the most glorious day of my existence; the day I was sworn in as Vice President, and the vow I gave to believe in the cheese, denounce the lactose intolerant, and spit on vegans in the street.

To say I was pleased with my promotion was an understatement.  My unbridled adulation was so vibrant that I was voted “happiest man in the world” by Time magazine for that year.  Well, by Time magazine I actually mean a pull out supplement in The Tumbridge-Wells Times, but that’s close enough for me.

Unfortunately enough, my sub-reign was all too short, less than a few weeks in fact.  I was to be knocked off my ivory perch by a man more vile than an ambergris sandwich.  You can probably guess to whom I refer.

Friday, 24 August 2012


I'm not at my desk at the moment.  In fact, I'm not even in my home country at the moment.  Right now I'm probably trying to pose near the Disney castle, pretending that I'm leaning on the building when I am in fact several hundred metres in front of it.  Yes, I have gone to Florida for a holiday.

I know that many of you will be disappointed/elated that I'm not around.  Many of you are probably already crying/popping open the champagne at the thought of no Muppets For Justice posts for the next couple of weeks.  But fear not!  I have prepared a rather substantial short story to keep you entertained in my absence.  Also, I understand the contradiction in the term "substantial short story", so don't bother pointing that out.

Starting from Monday, I am pleased to announce my new mini-novella type thing, Suicide and Cheese.  The title may suck, but I hope the content doesn't.  I also hope that it keeps you entertained until I return.

Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far and has continued to read this Blog.  Muppets For Justice is twice as much fun to write for when you know there is a supportive audience out there, and the comments are often funnier than the actual posts.  Please enjoy, and I'll catch you on the flip side, as I believe those trendy youngsters say these days.


Monday, 20 August 2012

Your Relationship Problems - Pecked

Love is a dangerous game.  When you’re winning it feels like you’ve rolled all sixes and got a triple word score on Mayfair.  But if things start to go wrong, that stack of cards suddenly goes kerplunk and you end up tumbling down a snake into an unavoidable checkmate.  As a result, there are a lot of unlucky people when it comes to love.

It was my intention to dole out some relationship advice to lovestruck strangers on the Internet.  However, as I am an equal opportunities employer (and unfathomably lazy), I drafted in a dirty street pigeon to help answer your romantic issues.  Ladies and gentlemen, I hand you over to everyone’s favourite feathered sexpert, Ollie The Pigeon.

Hi everyone, Ollie here.  I’m not sure what I’m doing here to be honest.  This Internet thing is a little beyond my bird-brained comprehension.  Also, I keep getting distracted by the crumbs in the keyboard.  Anyway, I suppose I better start by reading some of your letters.  If I do well, Addman’s promised me the crust from last night’s pizza.

Gemma Driveway – Car Park Attendant

Dear Ollie,

I’m afraid me and my boyfriend have hit a bit of a rough patch in our relationship.  I’ve been given the opportunity to be a night watchwoman at the car park, but my boyfriend works through the day.  He doesn’t want me to take the job as we won’t see each other very much, but it’s too much money to turn down.  What should I do?

Dear Gemma,

This reminds me of my mate Robin Crisp.  He fell in love with a Canadian goose.  They had a crazy summer love affair, but at the end of September she had to head south for the winter for family reasons.  He waited out in the cold for her every day and every night, hoping and praying for her to return.  Well, one day we found that he had died of frostbite.  He had literally frozen solid overnight. What a fucking idiot!

As for my advice, I dunno.  If you don’t want your boyfriend to freeze to death, don’t leave him alone at night?  I think that'll do.

Alaister Drew – Bike Saddle Taster

Dear Ollie,

I’ve been out of the dating game for a long time.  About 6 years ago, I discovered an online game called Realm of Warlocks and I pledged all of my free time to it.  However, the game company recently went bust and the servers went down, cruelly throwing me out into the real world.  How can I trick a female into bumping uglies with me?

Dear Alaister,

The best way to pick up a girl is to inflate your chest and coo at her.  If that doesn’t work, steal a sausage roll from a fat kid outside Greggs and let her share it (you could peck the kid's eyes out if he resists.  Ladies dig that kind of bravery).  You could also try impressing her with great feats of strength and agility.  You know those spikes they put on ledges to stop birds landing on them?  I found a way to walk on them safely, which has got me laid no end of times.  The trick is to step between the spikes.  Hope this helps.

Barry Shogun – Salt Salesman

Dear Ollie,

Me and my girlfriend were having sex the other day, when she suddenly queefed.  At first I was repulsed, but then I realised that it rattled my junk around in a pleasurable way.  I was wondering, is there a sure-fire way to get her to queef regularly?  We’ve tried everything we can think of, but she hasn’t had another queef since.

Dear Barry,

I never have this problem as all the girls I sleep with are all serial queefers.  That might just be the type of crowd I hang out with though.  I reckon queefing is down to diet, so she probably needs a little more enrichment in her food.  Take her round the back of KFC after closing time; they have a massive bin that’s stocked to the gills, if you can get past the foxes.  My mate Jimmy Two-Toes once ate so much coleslaw that he sicked up everywhere, which was great because then we all had some.  Some of the best moments of my life have occurred in that bin.

Stuart Pourer – Heavy Metal Lifter

Dear Ollie,

My wife of 28 years has met a young gentleman online.  She doesn’t know that I know, but I found her chat logs with a young American buck.  They’ve had some pretty saucy chats.  She talks about doing stuff with him that we’ve never done.  I feel ashamed that my wife doesn’t get any excitement from our relationship anymore, but also angry at this infidelity.  Should I confront her about this?

Dear Stuart,

This reminds of a similar situation in which I accidentally proposed to Yasmin Yeast.  I was drunk and she was a tease, what else can I say? Anyway, her boyfriend was proper angry and he threatened to beat me up outside Kwik Fit.  Since he’s a stray boxer dog, I didn’t fancy my chances.  Luckily, a mechanic backed over him in a knackered Vauxhall Vectra so I got out of that one scott free.

In my experience, there’s nothing that can’t be sorted by getting someone run over.  In fact, that reminds me of my mum and dad.  My parents were a right pair of bastards, always fighting and pecking each other’s eyes out.  Anyway, they had a scrap over a piece of garlic bread in the middle of the road.  The number 47 bus put them out of their misery and ended their abusive relationship.  I can still remember my brothers and sisters and I gathering round to mourn/eat the remains.  That’s exactly what you should do, run him over and eat him.

Nicole Papa – Monster Masher

Dear Ollie,

My latest fella wants us to have another baby since we lost one in our rubbish pile.  I told him that it’s unlikely we’ll conceive.  After pushing out 13 so far my innards are like a retired wind sock, but he’s determined.  What positions would you recommend we try in the bedroom?

Dear Nicole,

I’m not sure what you’re on about to be honest.  I once snuck into Philip Schofield’s bedroom after he left the window open on a balmy summer’s evening.  His favourite bedroom position was to sit naked in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards with a box of cornflakes on his head.  He seemed to be masturbating to the ingredients list.  Either way, I didn’t stay long enough to see the conclusion of that one.  Is that what you’re asking?

Brian Herbie-White – Rash Spreader

Dear Ollie,

So I slept with this chick and now I’m like all itchy and stuff.  I don’t wanna go to the doctor ‘cause I’ve been stealing morphine from them, and you never return to the scene of the crime, ya know?  Anyway, how can I tell if I’ve caught something from this girl?

Dear Brian,

Don’t talk to me about infections.  My foot is so gammy that it tends to squelch when I walk.  My mate Dennis Coops reckons that there’s something living in there, but I don’t even want to look at it.  I’ve considered going to the hospital and pecking open the lock on the medical waste bins, but I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  Since you’re a human and can read the labels, perhaps you might have better luck.  Let me know if you find anything for septic feet.

Alison Packard – Communist Party Planner

Dear Ollie,

I’m a busy woman who juggles a high powered business career and two children.  My husband suffers from erectile dysfunction, and I just don’t have the time to wait around for him to stand to attention.  He won’t take Viagra as he wants to stand on his own, so to speak.  What can I do?

Dear Alison,

I knew a badger named Fred Best who had this problem.  We told him that the only way to fix his cock was to roll around in cow shit whilst crying like a baby.  He did it as well, the dozy prick.  Don’t feel too bad for him though, he used to think it was hilarious to frighten old ladies off their front porches and then try to rape them.  As for your problem, I don’t think I can help you.  I’m a pigeon for fuck’s sake!

Marissa Duracell – Camera Photographer

Dear Ollie,

Looks like I’ve ended up single again.  What masturbatory aids can you recommend so I can pleasure myself?

Dear Marissa,

Nothing in life gives me more pleasure than my shiny bottle cap collection.  I used to have around six of the little bleeders until Brutal Charlie stole some from me, and now I’m down to two.  They are quite literally the most precious things I have in my possession.  Seriously, you should get some!

Thanks Ollie, you’ve done sterling work today.  If you’re interested in following my side project Ollie on Twitter, follow him @Olliethepigeon.  Thanks for reading.

Friday, 17 August 2012

Robot Music

After looking at the charts for the first time in about 10 years, I came to a startling realisation.  Computers appear to be solely responsible most types of sonic output these days.  Music is no longer the domain meaty fleshbags, not since the advent of Autotune, synthesisers, and Japanese emotion cuboids.  If this is where the music industry is headed, how long will it be until our favourite recording artists are replaced by robots?

I started to envisage a world in which music is composed entirely by our electronic counterparts.  Can you imagine your how your favourite songs would have turned out had they instead been composed through the cold, artificial logic of a machine?  Let’s make that a reality.  See if you can guess these pop songs as covered by robots:

Robo-Katy Perry:  Less sexy, more talented















1.    Beyonce – Single Ladies
2.    Britany Spears – Hit Me Baby One More Time
3.    Rebecca Black – Friday
4.    Rhianna – Umbrella
5.    Jay Z – 99 Problems
6.    50 Cent – In Da Club
7.    MC Hammer – Hammer Time
8.    Amy Winehouse – Rehab
9.    Oasis – Wonderwall
10.  Lionel Ritchie – Hello
11.  Nelly - Hot In Here
12.  Bruno Mars – Lazy Song
13.  Madonna – Like A Prayer


I apologise if today's post isn't very funny or amazing.  I have a holiday coming up shortly, so I'm busy preparing something much more substantial to keep you all busy while I'm away.  

If you feel short changed by this post and want something funny to read, fear not!  I have a new Twitter account called Ollie The Pigeon.  It's basically me, pretending to be a pigeon and trying to be funny (as opposed to me pretending to be a muppet and trying to be funny).  If you have a Twitter account and want to witness my witticisms, please follow me. @olliethepigeon .  Be warned, Ollie can be pretty filthy sometimes.

Monday, 13 August 2012

Cooking Tips: Leek And Potato Soup

You may not realise this from reading Muppets For Justice, but there are a lot of things I'm not very good at.  I'd be the first to admit that I am completely hopeless at a lot of stuff that normal people take for granted.  But I'm not a quitter.  Lately, I've been going through some self improvement to try and alleviate some of these issues.  The most recent thing I've decided to learn is how to cook properly.

Now I’m a bad cook.  I cook like I make love: quick, greasy and unsatisfying.  I can just about handle microwavable food and meal kits, but anything more intricate would result in serious injury.  Due to this, Mrs Addman does most of the cooking around our house.  Being a modern guy, I wanted to take the pressure off of her and take on some of the culinary duties myself.

The first dish I decided to attempt was leek and potato soup.  I mean, how hard can that be?  Surely you only need a leek and potato.  I searched for a recipe and was immediately proved wrong:

1 tbsp virgin olive oil
1 onion, sliced
225g/8oz potatoes, cubed
2 medium leeks,sliced
1.2 litres/2 pints vegetable stock
150ml/5fl oz double cream or crème fraîche
salt and freshly ground black pepper

An artist's rendition

That doesn't seem so bad, does it?  I thought I’d be able to handle it, so I set about collecting my ingredients.  Most items were quite easy to procure, but my local supermarket didn’t seem to have any virgin olive oil.  As I explained, my culinary skills aren’t exactly amazing, but I knew that the soup wouldn't taste as great without this vital ingredient.  I figured the nearest substitute would be virgin’s blood.

Tesco didn’t have any of that in bottles.  The shelf stackers just laughed at me when I asked them about it, and suggested that I put an advert on the Internet.  Taking their advice, I headed home and pulled on my typing gloves.

I was initially disappointed at the lack of willing sacrifices there are online and it proved more difficult than I'd hoped to find a suitable virgin.  My adverts on and OKCupid didn't draw in any replies.  Eventually, I posted the following on Craiglist:

“Wanted:  Pure, nubile, young virgin to help me make soup.  Non smoker preferred.”

I received a response from a lovely Mormon lady named Natalie.  She was 18 and informed me that she’d “never been kissed” as she'd been saving herself, which seemed perfect as she would be clean of other people’s germs.  I understand that food hygiene is a big thing these days.

After I’d drained all the blood from her body (I misread the recipe and didn’t realise I only needed a tablespoon’s worth), I set about making my soup.  I cubed my potatoes and put them in a pan.  I added a finely chopped onion and a leek, then poured in my vegetable stock and bought it to a simmer.  10 minutes later I stirred in my crème fraîche, and seasoned with salt and black pepper.  Then I slapped my hands together and shouted “FUCK!  COME ON BIG BOY!” which, as I understand from watching Gordon Ramsey on telly, makes the food cook faster.

*Walks away shaking head* Fuck!  What a shame....

Then I drizzled in the virgin’s blood.  A thick plume of black smoke shot out of the pan, engulfing my kitchen in a dense mist.  This sent my smoke alarm into a panic as I fumbled my way around the kitchen to open a window.

As I fanned the fumes away, I noticed there was someone standing my kitchen.  I saw his feet first.  Well, when I say feet, I mean cloven hooves.  His goatly appendages were attached to a pair of crimson thighs and a forked tail.  The smoke finally parted to reveal his belt of shrunken skulls, and a pair of ram’s horns adorning his head.  It appeared that I had accidentally summoned up a rather substantial demon.

I’m a bit confused at this point.  I’ve watched plenty of Jamie Oliver’s 30 minute meals and I swear I’ve never seen him call upon banished creatures from the dark plane before.  In fact, most cooking shows seem distinctly devil free, if I remember correctly.

The demon says that I have 7 days in which to reap the souls of the unworthy, lest he cleave my body in twain and banish my ethereal form into purgatory.  He refuses to leave the house until the deadline is up, and has spent all day sitting in my favourite chair and watching his soap operas.  Any efforts to move him are simply “wasting precious mortal time”, apparently.

Does anyone know what I did wrong?  I don’t think cooking is something I’ll ever be good at.

Friday, 10 August 2012

Song Dissection

Have you ever listened to a song, then realised that the lyrics are utter nonsense?  I have.  In fact, I've noticed a startling trend that most artists seem to be talking out of their arse. I understand that some of it can be attributed to artistic expression, but shouldn't our music at least be coherent?  Here’s an example of a particularly bad case, KT Tunstall’s Suddenly I See:

Let’s dissect this song and discover the levels of inexplicable gibberish hidden within:

Her face is a map of the world
Is a map of the world

- So I can throw away my road atlas and my GPS, and instead use a photograph of KT Tunstall for all my navigational needs?  Google Earth are probably trying to harness the power of her face in order to get live traffic data and up to the minute travel news.

You can see she's a beautiful girl
She's a beautiful girl
And everything around her is a silver pool of light

- That silver pool sounds like leaking Mercury if you ask me.  I wouldn’t leave that unattended.

The people who surround her feel the benefit of it
It makes you calm

- That’ll be the Mercury poisoning.

She holds you captivated in her palm

- And she’s a giant?

Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
This is what I wanna be

- Yeah, because Mercury-shitting giants make fantastic role models...

Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
Why the hell it means so much to me

I feel like walking the world
Like walking the world

- When I first heard this song, I misheard this lyric as “I feel like walking to work”.  My version makes a lot more sense as it’s a much shorter distance.  I don’t know how she expects to cross the oceans on foot, but good luck to her.

You can hear she's a beautiful girl
She's a beautiful girl

- Christ, now KT reckons you can actually listen to someone’s appearance.  In fact, I have the same problem when I meet hot women.  “I’m sorry?  I can’t hear you over your radiant beauty!”

She fills up every corner like she's born in black and white

- It would appear that she hasn’t been born in glorious Technicolor like the rest of us.  Also, “fills up every corner” suggests that she has similar properties to a liquid.  Poor black and white liquid baby.

Makes you feel warmer when you're trying to remember
What you heard
She likes to leave you hanging on her word

- Words are not solid enough to cling onto.  This is ludicrous.

Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
Why the hell it means so much to me

And she's taller than most

- This supports the giant theory

And she's looking at me
I can see her eyes looking from a page in a magazine

- That’s a bit freaky.  I’m guessing that she went to the doctors to find out why she’s a giant, poison-emitting, uncoloured, liquid beast.  While she was in the waiting room, her eyes fell out and rolled into the reading material.  KT later found those peepers in a copy of Good Housekeeping.

Oh she makes me feel like I could be a tower
A big strong tower

- Yes, inspirational people make me feel like a defensive building too.  David Attenborough makes me feel like an army barracks, and Usain Bolt makes me want to be an aircraft hangar.

She got the power to be
The power to give
The power to see

- And yet, people are still waiting for Jesus to return?

Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
Why the hell it means so much to me

Well that was a rabbit hole big enough to fit a whole asylum in.  As you can see, this is clear evidence that KT Tunstall should be sectioned, or at least restrained in some manner when appearing in public.  I hope this has been illuminating.

~~~Editors Note~~~

Hi.  I know I don’t often talk to you candidly on here, but I’d really appreciate your feedback on this.  I really enjoyed writing this post and I’d like to make this song dissection theme a semi-regular feature.  If you could spare a couple of minutes to let me know what you thought of it, I would be eternally grateful.  Remember, you don’t need a Blogger account to comment, so feel free to comment anonymously.  Alternatively, email me at  Thanks.

Monday, 6 August 2012

I'm Gonna Win

Since the nation is in the grip of sport’s fever at the moment (which is a lot healthier than swine flu, as I understand it), the right honourable, venerable, wonderbum Chairman Sebastian Coe is rallying the government for sports funding.  He wants to see more young people taking up sport in a push for British glory, and to eliminate obesity in all its misshapen, blobby forms.

Inspired by the Olympic splendour happening around me, I decided to get in on the act myself.  I may not be the most athletic person in the world.  In fact, I’m so out of shape I look like a Rorschach drawing imagined by Jackson Pollock.  Regardless, I’m young and impressionable so I reckon I can just pick it up.  The gold medal is assured!

But what sport is right for me?  I didn’t really know which discipline I would excel at so I decided to try a few different ones.  Here are the results:


Inspired by watching the men’s 100m finals and seeing the fastest men in the world compete, I decided that I’d try my hand (or foot) at sprinting.  I wasn’t sure what kind of distance I needed to run though.  I assumed the “m” in “100m” stood for 100 miles.  I wasn’t sure how Usain Bolt managed to run that kind of distance in 9.64 seconds.  It took me 3 days, 7 hours and 49 minutes.  With enough training, I hope to whittle down this time to something more respectable.

Hammer Throw

Since I didn’t have my own hammer, I went to the nearest building site to borrow one.  Unfortunately, a man on a ladder got in the way of my throw and now I’m being sued due to his incompetence.  It’s a shame because I reckon I was on for a world record too.

That's not a hammer.  That's a shot put on a lead.


I heard somewhere that male swimmers shave their legs to help them move through the water more smoothly.  This sounded like a great idea.  The lifeguard didn’t seem too pleased when I sat at the side of the pool and started shaving my legs into the water, especially when a kid coughed up a hairball in the shallow end.  Apparently it’s “creepy” and I was banned for life.  I bet Michael Phelps never had to deal with this nonsense.

Synchronised Swimming

By my own count, I managed to achieve a perfect score in this sport on my first try.  The trick is to do it solo, so you can guarantee that you’ll always be in sync with yourself.  I’ve applied for the regional championships, but they rejected my application when I put “Me, Myself and I” down as team competitors.  It’s discrimination!

Water Polo

I threw a packet of Polos into a duck pond.  The ducks ate them all and had minty-fresh beaks all day.  I assumed that was a loss for me, and decided that this sport is too difficult to continue with.


Since all my attempts to procure a horse ended up with me being chased away by farmers, I had to come up with a plan B.  I persuaded my brother to be the back end of a pantomime horse with me.  Although we faltered at the first jump and fell down like a bag of spanners, I heard the announcer say that we’d bought the event into “disrepute”, which I assume is a good thing.


I had to try this out in the park since I was banned from the Velodrome for sliding around it in my socks.  Regardless, I figured I’d be able to get a decent time just by pedalling hard.  Unfortunately, my basket kept falling off whenever I hit a pothole at speed, which took valuable seconds off my time.  I also think the pink streamers were slowing me down.  Perhaps if I replace them with a go faster red, I might stand a chance.


My rowing attempts were once again destroyed by those ducks!  They seem to have developed a taste for Polos and they attacked me on sight.  I’ve been pecked in places that I hoped no beast would ever explore with a sharp beak.

Long Jump

Now this might be something I could excel at.  I jumped right over my little sister’s sandpit in one massive leap.  I’ve never seen a long jumper completely clear the pit before, so I awarded myself the gold in an official ceremony held in my back garden.  No one can take that away from me.  No one!

Friday, 3 August 2012

Ethical Pimping

Since the time of the ancient Greeks and their elite, sordid ways, it has long been established that pimpin’ ain’t easy.  I believe it was Plato himself who once said “bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks”.

While this catchy quotation caught on and gave pimping the reputation that it has today, some might say that the game has always been marred with a sexist slant.  That’s why, as a certified pimp daddy and chair member of the Board Of Pimps, I have decided to give pimping a modern makeover and force it to comply with political correctness.

For starters, the term pimp needs to go.  From now on, pimps will be known as “Sexual Liaison Coordinators”.  These coordinators will be solely responsible for the well being of their ho’s.  Stringent checks are to be carried to ensure that all staff are complying with the new regulations.  Pimping inspectors shall be hired to perform annual inspections on crack dens.  Any ho found with more than 5 bruises and too little crack in her veins will incur a financial penalty upon the coordinator.

Also, women in the industry will no longer be referred to as ho’s.  Instead, they are to be known as “Relief Technicians”.  This new title will hopefully start to address the sexism imbalance that is inherent in this line of work.  I believe that, due to the dangers of this job, the women who give their time and bodies for this profession need to be rewarded accordingly.  As such, a new minimum wage is to be introduced.  3 hits of smack a day should make these ladies feel more appreciated in an industry that has taken them for granted over the years.

Our old mascot (above) will be replaced by Prince William

My intention is that the industry will start to become more customer friendly over the next few years.  Clients who don’t pay up front will not be met with initial violence.  Instead, they should be strongly encouraged into one of our offices, in which we will start to negotiate the terms of a repayment plan.  If the payment is not given there and then, penalty charges will occur at the current rate of inflation.  We will offer clients the opportunity to pay monthly, by direct debit if needs be.  We will also start to take credit cards in order to modernise our service and to give the customer more choice when it comes to payment.

Baseball bats will not applied to the shins of rival Sexual Liaison Coordinators.  Instead, we shall explain politely if they have intruded on our turf, and that any further incursions will result in a major leaflet campaign against them.  Turf wars can ruin neighbourhoods and bring down property values, which will be detrimental for our own business in the long run.

It is my hope that these changes will start to improve the reputation we get.  I believe that the public will be more sympathetic to our front line workers as well, which will improve our profit margins exponentially.  I hope you will take this overhaul in the spirit it is intended, and that we can give this industry the facelift it desperately needs and deserves.