Friday, 30 August 2013

Extra time

Do you have problems fitting your busy schedule into 24 hours? Do you sometimes wish that there were more hours in the day?

Hi, I'm Addman, pioneer of the Extra Time system, and I'm here to sell you a whole additional hour per day of your waking life. That's an astonishing return of 25 hours per day. Here's how it works.

Basically, when you sign up to our program, our specially trained team of Timenicians will break into your home and begin the process. They will destroy your clocks, burn your calendar that your children made at school, and put a piece of tape over the monitor where your PC displays the time. We also require that you hand over any expensive rolex watches.

Once this phase has been completed, you're ready to start living like a time lord. We supply you with all the equipment you'll need to get started. Our specially engineered clocks go up to 13 o'clock. Our calendars are as big as zebra crossings. We'll even program the timer on your oven for you. Once done, you'll find that having that extra hour will be very useful.

If you're not convinced, just ask one of our many satisfied customers, such as Ned Sanders here:

"Hullo my name is Ned and I've been on the Extra Time system for about 2 years now. It's cool because I get to watch all my friends aging faster than me. They'll all be dead by the time I'm 55, which suits me because I hate them all. Plus, I use the extra hour to sleep, meaning I have many more sexy dreams than before. My boss sacked me for being an hour late everyday, but that's because she's an idiot who doesn't subscribe to Extra Time."

If that hasn't convinced you, how about all the extra life you're going to get?  With our program, you will recieve a guarenteed extra 15 days a year, which works out at around 3 brand new, never before used years over the course of a lifetime.  Can you imagine being 3 years younger than everyone in your class?  That's priceless, although we did put a reasonable price of £55.95 a month on it.

So, what will you do with all this free time? Will you spend time cherishing your loved ones? Will you start that project that you've never got round to? Will you start a second life in Barbados and run off with all your client's money? I know I would! Call today!

Monday, 26 August 2013


Have you ever wondered how difficult it would be to breathe with a bag over your head?  Neither had I, but there I was, sucking fresh wisps of air through the hessian like someone was slowly pouring honey on me through a sieve.

I couldn’t remember why I was here.  I couldn’t see anything, which was just as well because I think I was naked and tied to a chair.  Perhaps it was best not see the person or persons who were holding me captive.  I struggled slightly against my bonds as I tried to unstick my clammy buttocks from the chair underneath, failing spectacularly and instead sitting on my own left nut.
Before I could correct this terrible wrong, an alarming wave of ice water was thrown all over me, making the hairs on my arms and legs ping off in state of shock.  I began to gasp as my mouth filled with unwelcome, freezing liquid.  My senses had barely recovered when I heard a guy shout “wake up!”

“I’m already awake, you fucking bastard!” I calmly replied.

With that, the bag was ripped off my head and my world was filled with light once more.  Well, as much light as you can get in a leaky basement.  At first I thought I’d been tricked into parlour with Uncle Peter again, but I didn’t recognise the two burly guys in suits and shades.  I doubted that these two would hang out with a chronic stool collector and general shut in like my uncle.

“Oh sorry about that” mumbled the first, tallest suit.

“Don’t apologise to him!” the second chastised, picking up another bucket and throwing it towards me.  My hopes of a bucket full of confetti were dashed as I received another drenching.  My unmentionables would need ironing to undo all this shrivelling.

As the water drained from me like a freshly-birthed hippo, the second man (who I had decided was the nastier of the two.  I had already given him the nickname “Horrid Henry” before I realised this was already copyrighted and I received an imaginary court summons for merely thinking of it) grabbed the back of my chair and dragged me across the room.  He positioned my chair underneath a dripping pipe.  I could feel the soft pat of each drop on my scalp, although I was already too wet to care at this point.  When I enquired as to the purpose of this exercise, the nice one explained that I was being subjected to Chinese water torture.  I wasn’t sure what was so Chinese about it.  Perhaps the leaky pipework had been sourced from the World’s fastest growing economy.  I daren’t ask in case it was considered racist.

After a few minutes they decided that their torture methods weren’t working.  The only things they’d forced me to talk about were the plotlines of my favourite soap operas.  They didn’t seem interested in Ken Barlow’s latest sexscapades and resolved to use other, more dreadful forms of torture.

Before I knew it, we were jet skiing in the nearby harbour.  Apparently, they were going to water board me, but they didn’t do waterboarding at this particular establishment, so jet skis it was!  We had such a wonderful day splashing each other, racing around buoys, and trying to mercilessly kill seagulls.

I still didn’t have information for them and, after ice cream and short sunset stroll across the promenade, the pair were starting to get desperate.  I told them I wished I could help them since they’d treated me to such a lovely afternoon, but I soon found myself back in their torture basement listening to Dan Brown audiobooks.

After twenty minutes I started to crack.  I was cracking like Humpty Dumpty at a comedy roast.  I started shouting out things that I thought they want to hear.

“I’m the gunman behind the grassy knoll!”

“I orchestrated every plot on Scooby Doo!”

“I am the Elephant Man!”

None of these appeased them, although they were adamant that it would be kept on file for future torturings.  No, they wanted a confession for something, but I had no idea what.  If it wasn’t for the severe case of Stockholme Syndrome I was feeling for the first guy, I’d have told them that they got the wrong person.

“We have reason to believe that you’ve been involved in espionage” said Hideous Henry, which was news to me.  The nearest I’ve ever got to spying was looking at ants through a magnifying glass.  Funnily enough, the ants were never too happy that I was looking at them and always spontaneously burst into flames.  I imaged that this was a protest akin to Buddhist Monks who immolate themselves in the name of their beliefs, meaning that ants must really dislike being looked at.  But I digress.

When I informed them that I had no idea what they were talking about, they said that I had been caught whistleblowing.  Funnily enough, my last memory before waking up here was that of booking a player as I refereed my local junior football game.  I explained that I was only blowing the whistle to stop the flow of play, but apparently whistleblowing is a serious offence and cannot be tolerated under any circumstances.

They class it as “aiding the enemy”, although I don’t see what’s so bad about a sports game for under 11’s.

And that’s the end of my story.  They locked me in this concentration camp, which is ironic because I can’t concentrate on anything through the starvation and occasional gunfire.  It’s all terribly distracting.  Apparently, I’m here until the end of my days, which means my Sudoku puzzle book will go unfinished.  But worst of all, I’ll never see that charmingly tall grunt again.  They may break my bones, but my broken heart hurts most of all.

Friday, 23 August 2013

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Garrotting?

Being a judge for the Crown Prosecution Service, you would think that the only contact I’d have with the criminal underclass would be when I’m sentencing them to death.  Alas, my plight is that I have become victim to their devilish machinations.

The streets of London in these modern times are rife with criminality.  Grave robbery is abundant, pickpockets rifle through our undergarments willy-nilly, and drunkards urinate openly onto orphans.  I declare this, the year of 1851, to be the most dangerous in all of our capital’s history.  And yet, there is a deeper threat to the civilised gent; one which today’s crook has a positive fetish for.  That, my dear chums, is garrotting.

As a morally respected fellow and upstanding pillar of the community, I find it abhorrent that I cannot merely walk down the street from my opium den to the local whore house without being garrotted.   Just last week one of these scumsocks garrotted me and stole 17 of my 20 handkerchiefs.  Those were irreplaceable hankies that only had several crusted bogeys on them.  Since this incident I dare not sneeze in decent company, lest I infect them with lurgi or other ailments.

An anti-garrotting device I am considering.

This is not a standalone incident.  Little less than a year ago I was accosted by a gentleman asking for the time.  Flipping out my pocket watch, I informed him that it was 11:39 PM and, if he didn’t hurry up, Red’s brothel would be fully depleted of stock.  It was then that I felt a leather strap tightening around my throat.  An unseen ruffian behind me had begun his garrotte, squeezing my Adam’s Apple and rendering me ineffectual.  Those scallywags took that pocketwatch, my purse, my top hat, and my moustache.  I was deeply upset by this incident.  That moustache took several months to cultivate.

I’m afraid to say that the situation is only getting worse.  On the streets of London, many a working class man has resorted to this particular style of criminality.  Garrotting is becoming more fashionable by the day, like hobnail boots.  Dandies are being pulled from their carriages and garrotted in the street, and yet nothing is taken.  Garrotting gangs are forming in the same manner that a man might watch the steam train at Paddington pull into the platform.  It is a fad that will hopefully fade away, but in the meantime we are to be left short of breath in the street by these naughty scoundrels.

Try and garrotte me now, bitches!

The question is what is to be done with the garrotter?  As a man at the apex of the law, I understand that this garrotting mania is only getting worse.  I see men enter my dock as thieves and come out as convicts daily.  A jail spell only allows the garrotter to hone his craft even further by practising on other convicts.  I hear they have contests in some prisons.

So, here’s my proposal.  Upon a convict’s first strike, garrotte them around the throat with a taught rope, suspended in the air.  Yes, hang them on their first conviction.  Then we’ll see how many reoffenders we get.

((Inspired by this wonderful page here:

Monday, 19 August 2013

The Day I Met Steven (300th Post Results)

For those that don't know, last week I promised to write a story including the sentences that people suggested to me.  I've got to say, this was an absolute blast to write.  It's kind of like mad libs, but there are huge blanks that you've got to fill in.  Thank you to everyone for your amazing suggestions.  Please note that anything highlighted in yellow is a suggested sentence, just so you can easily pick yours out.  Enjoy!


The first time I met Steven, he was teaching sex education to the St Lucian's Girls School.  I wasn't sure if he was a member of the faculty, but there he was, lecturing them, or perhaps more accurately, putting them off the idea.

"...and that, ladies, is why men are born with foreskins."

I can't say I fully agreed with his theory, that it was "nature's condom", but nonetheless, that concluded the assembly.  The girls looked suitably relieved and left the hall as quickly as possible.  During the commotion, I approached Steven and introduced myself.

"Hey, I'm Larry.  Jimmy The Rat sent me to pick you up."

Steven didn't seem too interested in being escorted, looking around at all the school photos as though I didn't exist.  As the loosest cannon of their particular Mafia family, I'd heard plenty of stories surrounding Steven Auditore.  I wasn't sure which were true and which were just fabricated urban legends.  Either way, I hoped that he would just get in the car and the job would go smoothly.

"Sure Larry, let's go.  But first, I gotta pick up something to eat!" Steven declared, rubbing his stomach to add more emphasis to this.  It seemed like a reasonable enough request, so I agreed and we headed outside to the car.

As we drove downtown, Steven kept fiddling with the radio, trying to tune it into "pirate broadcasts" or other such nonsense.  I kept asking him where he wanted to eat, to which he gave me rudimentary directions while concentrating on twiddling the tuner.  We were driving through an unfamiliar neighbourhood and I was almost certain that we were going in circles.  I saw an elderly gentlemen with dreadlocks sitting on his porch at least three times.  Either we'd already passed him several times, or this whole area was a commune for aging rastafarians.

"Woah woah woah!" Steven screamed without provocation.  I slammed my foot on the brake, coming to a halt in the middle of the road.

"What's wrong?"

"Sharknado won the Oscar for Best Picture; a sequel is in the works!" He squealed, waving his smartphone at me as though I could read and digest the information while it bobbed in front of me like a space hopper in an earthquake.

"Shit!  I thought there was an emergency going on.  Where is this place?"

"Right here." gestured Steven.  I turned to see we were right outside a pet shop.  As I turned back to Steven I realised he'd already stepped out of the car and was heading inside.  I got out myself and followed him inside.

"Hey Johnny Boy!  Get me my usual bro!" said Steven, patting the proprietor on the shoulder.  The shop keeper did as he was asked and headed into the back.  Frankly, I thought Steven would want to get a burger or something, but I didn't mind sharing a burrito with one of his friends or something.

As I looked around, I noticed there were several animals running around free.  Some kind of constrictor hung from a ceiling fan, flailing around on each slow rotation.  A particularly friendly ferret was trying to find a way up my trouser leg.  This was an odd place.  Little did I know that it was about to get a whole lot stranger.

The shop keeper came back with a small plastic bag with several goldfish in it.  He handed the bag to Steven, who opened it up and began to slide the fish straight down his throat like a seagull.  Water was leaking everywhere as those live fish slid down into his digestive system.  If he wanted to go to a sushi bar, he could've just asked.

Once finished, Steven told me to pay the shop keeper.  As I rooted through my pockets had been rifled by that ferret from earlier.  There is nothing more annoying than a ferret eating your mobile phone while you are trying to buy goldfish in the pet shop.  That's the last time I try anything impetuous, like take a job with Auditore family.

It was at that point that Steven suddenly started to feel woozy.  He staggered around for a few moments before collapsing and hitting his head on the counter.  Up until this moment, I never would have thought that my knack for impersonating a violently hormonal Rosie O'Donnell would come in handy, but I figured that some of her sass might rouse him.

"Boy, you better come to right about now.  You better learn your ass some responsibility!"  I shrieked as the shop keeper looked at me quizzically.  It was then that I felt a sharp stinging sensation in the back of my leg.  I looked round to see that I had bitten by one of the many free roaming snakes this place owned.  Feeling woozy, I too fell forward and smacked my head on the counter, losing conciousness.

Steven was the first of us both regain consciousness.  When he woke up he saw that even though he was in a tub of ice, and his kidneys were gone, another set of kidneys were left next to the tub.  It was clear that the shop keeper has seized his opportunity to harvest our organs.  The back room was filled with exotic creatures, boxes of human organs, but no shop keeper.  As I too regained consciousness, we began to look around, trying to find this guy and kill him for what he had done.  We could hear someone talking in another room, but the conversation was muffled until we got a little closer.

"When I say Atch, you say Choo, Atch, Choo, Atch, Choo!"

As we opened the door, we saw the shop keeper trying to teach a manatee to speak.  Feeling the rage for which he was famous, Steven grabbed the guy and wrestled him into the manatee tank.  There was a lot of fighting, screaming and splashing, then the water began to turn red.  But the victor was neither of the two homo sapiens who entered the tank.  It was in fact the most badass manatee I had ever seen.  I watched as it snorted a line of crystal meth from the rim of the tank, then start wailing on the pair of them like a manatee possessed.  It was then, after spoon feeding Steven his own half-digested testicles, that the manatee knew it had a meth problem, and it needed to get its life together.

A manatee, snaffling some human remains

"What the fuck?!"  I shouted as I watched the scene unfold.  The manatee turned to face me and spoke softly.

"Well, these guys were invading my personal space."

" can talk?!"

"Of course.  In fact, it was manatees that taught humans to speak thousands of years ago.  We have shaped the course of your civilisation for generations, but now the time has come!"

"What for?" I whimpered.  I was as frightened as a guy who'd had his organs removed, then watched two grown men get brutally slaughtered by a talking sea cow.  Which is exactly what I was.

"We manatees have been farming human kind.  You know the lettuce they feed us at Sea World?  That was just an appetiser.  Now we're hungry for some meat, so we're gonna harvest our product now that it's ripe, and juicy!"

I knew he intended to start with me.  Noticing a gas pipe next me I swiftly kicked it, then lit a match.  The explosion blew that pet shop sky high, killing all the occupants in the process.  The shop keeper was decimated.  The manatee was flung several streets away and crashed through a restaurant roof, landing directly in a fast food fryer.  Steven soared higher than he ever had before until he got caught in the jet wash of a passing Boeing 777 causing him to crash down violently onto the island of misfit cats.  The island of the misfit cats being a special area of the store for deformed kittens that no one loves.  As for me, I can't really remember, what with all the dying and all.

When I died and approached the Pearly Gates I was shocked to see that St. Peter looked like a mosquito, and I started counting all the bugs I'd killed in my lifetime.  Considering I'd just destroyed a pet shop full of them, I figured I was going to end up purgatory for a rather long stretch.

Friday, 16 August 2013

Employment Tribunal

Dear Wolverine,

I am writing to you regarding your on-going employment tribunal.  It is with regret that I have to inform you that your employment with Paper Supplies Ltd has been terminated.  This is due to a number of incidents which you have been party to, including:

1. Slashing paper deliveries with your adamantium claws whilst trying to open the boxes.  This has led to a loss in profits due to the sheer amounts of damaged stock.

2. Daring the warehouse drivers to run you over.  Several forklift trucks have been rendered out of action because of this reckless behaviour.  Even after the drivers refused to do this anymore, you took it upon yourself to leap in front of them as a practical joke.

3. Taking the magnets off of the fridge and sticking them to your hands.  This is theft of company property and shall not be tolerated.

4. Clearing toilet blockages and not washing your claws afterwards.

Better learn some responsibilities Wolverine!

5. Tearing off your flesh through “extreme boredom” in corporate meetings and in front of potential clients.  I understand that this is a painless act for you as your skin rapidly grows back, but it is distressing for anyone who is unfamiliar with your regenerative abilities.

6. Filleting fish at your desk for your part time venture as a fishmonger.  Using company time for self-employed interests is against policy, plus it stinks up the break room something nasty.

7. Stabbing a supervisor during a company fun day because you didn’t want to get off the bouncy castle and let the children have a go.  He will not be able to “walk it off” as you’ve severed one of his tendons and he will never stand again.  The thousands he has raised as a fun runner so far can never be added to, thanks to you.

8. Cutting your trousers into shorts is highly inappropriate, even on hot days, and destroys your company uniform.  This is considered damage to company property and you are liable for the costs.

9.  Refusing to wear your overalls and instead wearing a sweat-stained vest at all times.  Plus, your grossly unkempt sideburns received several complaints from other employees and cause a colony of fleas to move into the office.

Due to this impressive rap sheet, I’m sure you can understand our decision to terminate your employment with us.  Despite your glowing reference from Mr Xavier, I’m afraid to say that you have proven to be unsuitable for the position during your two week tenure, and it is at this point that we have to part ways.  We wish you all the very best in the future.

P.S. please pick up your motorbike from the lobby.  It’s leaking oil all over the place.

**Please note that submissions for the 300th Post Spectacular have now closed.  If you've no idea what I'm talking about, please see here.

Monday, 12 August 2013

300th Post Spectacular

Well, this one crept up on me.  It turns out that this is the 300th Muppets For Justice post!  I can hardly believe we’ve made it this far, from scratching out fart jokes on the Internet to, well, bum jokes and willy jokes.  We’ve really come a long way.

When I first started Muppets For Justice I thought I would soon get bored of it.  The first post was back in 2007, and I subsequently did get bored of it because I can’t stick with anything.  I call those the wilderness years because I can hardly say I ran the Blog during this time.  After drifting on the breeze for a couple of years, I picked it up again in the summer of 2011.  This time, I took it a lot more seriously and set myself 3 simple goals.  I still try and adhere to these goals today which influence a lot of the content I produce.  These are:

1. Stick to a regular posting schedule of twice a week (Monday to Friday).
2. Build a community (I try to respond to everyone who leaves a comment).
3. Don’t be nasty.

That third point is actually rather difficult to adhere to without limiting yourself slightly.  A lot of the topics I tend to cover can easily offend some people, and I’m sure many people have been turned off by posts such as this.  However, what I mean by “Don’t be nasty” is that I try not to pick on a specific target and offend them.

For those observant readers out there, yes, there are several examples on this Blog where I’ve had a pop at a celebrity.  A few years ago I made the mistake of writing a piece called Ewan McGregor Is A Bag Of Wank.  While I make no apologies for what I wrote, it did come across as quite bitter and subsequently, not funny.  It’s still available because I want it to serve as an example of what not to do.  Since this, I have tried to steer clear of what could be construed as a personal attack.  Sarcastic commentaries are much better in this regard

This is what came up when googling Muppets For Justice

Other than that, this Blog is a place where creativity can run rampant, a place where the only limit is your imagination. Well that, and a self-enforced character limit of 500-1000 words.  During the last two years we’ve covered some utterly bizarre concepts.  We’ve set up a cuddling business, had a date with a sexy psychic, and learned some important life lessons.  We’ve also given out countless nuggests of advice for pet owners, let a pigeon give out sex tips, and hit a whole bunch of kids.

But it’s not only me who has all the fun.  Sometimes I let other Bloggers loose to cause whatever mayhem they desire.  Chiz came over to tell us how to churn out Will Smith styled clones, and Pickleope taught us about the paranormal.  Myself and Chiz lampooned some horrible movie lines, and countless people contributed to the Podcast.

In the spirit of the community that has built up around this Blog, on my 200th post celebration I wrote a collaborative story.  Basically, everyone contributed a sentence that I had to weave into a story, which proved to be such fun that I’ve decided to do it again.  That’s right, I want you to submit some more sentences for me to use in a new story.  Don’t be afraid to hold back.  Some of the submissions were utterly ludicrous last time, which is exactly what I’m after.

So, all I need from you is come up with the most ridiculous sentence you can muster and leave it in the comments.  Please write your submission between hash tags like so:

#Jonny picked up the hurdy-gurdy and gave the finest rendition of ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ that the folks at the retirement village had ever heard.#

I look forward to seeing what you come up with.

**Please note that submissions close 16/08/13.  Any entries after this point will not be considered.

Friday, 9 August 2013

Uncles Are Destroying Social Mobility

It has recently come to my attention that there is a sinister force at work in the employment sector.  Have you ever wondered why, when you absolutely aced that interview and gave the entire interview panel a metaphorical blowjob (or a real one if it would help your chances), they went with some spotty, uneducated and over-nourished prick whose only life skill is an offhand knowledge of saving throws in Dungeons and Dragons?  Well, I have figured out the sinister truth behing this phenomenon.  I can confirm that the entire corporate world is run by a cartel of uncles.

That’s right.  Every job that should have been yours but went to some unenthusiastic work experience kid is all the despicable work of uncles.  They infiltrate interview panels and put their nephews and nieces in positions that can’t possibly cope with.

They do this to ensure their own hereditary rule.  Their own kids are probably off having a gap year in Morocco “finding themselves” amid a vast stockpile of credit card bills.  Ergo, these uncles offer their vaguely related offspring the chance of employment instead.  They stack the cards in their favour, pull the strings behind the scenes, laugh at your CV like it is a script for a new series of Blackadder, and throw it out in favour of their own brood’s CV.  Even if their application reads like Vogon poetry, it will rocket to the top of the pile.

Don't you mean "Uncles rock the foundations of the world of business"?  No, that's a bit of a stretch.

South Park predicted this.  At least, I assume that’s what the Uncle Fucker song was all about, those pesky fucking uncles.  Or maybe they thought it was a humorous replacement for the word motherfucker.  Either way, I support their ongoing campaign against the uncle menance.

If you don’t think this consortium of uncles is an issue, just you wait until you become an uncle yourself.  I’m actually an uncle four times over.  I’m a powerful level four uncle, and I can feel my employment-stifling powers coming into blossom.  That’s right; I’m effectively campaigning against myself.  I’m doing this because I understand how dangerous I am becoming.  Once my uncleoscity is in full swing I will be unstoppable, ruining everybody’s employment opportunities and installing them in positions of authority.

Some of you probably think it’s high time that I started a protest against myself, although you didn’t think it would be for this reason.  Anyway, regardless of your reasoning for wanting me gone, I invite you all to a protest against myself next Thursday.  My aim is to be more successful than the Kony campaign in the regard that we can actually put an end to this evil right away.  There will be effigy burning, toasting marshmallows over the effigies, and perhaps even a giant Addman wicker man.  Basically, there will be lots and lots of fire everywhere, so bring shorts.  If enough people gather we can finally end this Addman threat once and for all.  Oh, and uncles.

Monday, 5 August 2013

Job Application

Dear Sir/Madam/Otherkin,

I am writing to you today, as you can plainly see by the words that you are reading in front of you.  The reason for my writing is that I am interested in the job you’re offering.  I have always dreamed of becoming an “Operations Operative”, and in no way do I believe that this is a fancy term for a general dogsbody.

I have plenty of experience as an “Operations Operative” in that I regularly undertake operations.  I am skilled at removing a client’s gall bladder in a back alley in exchange for cash.  I am adept at moving these organs around on the white market, the completely legitimate counterpart legal market upon which many legal items are bought and sold legally.

I am also very used to having operations done on me, and I have a remarkable recovery rate from some of the most ridiculous injuries in human history.  In fact, I hold the record for most number of appearances on The Planet’s Funniest Penguin Maulings. Just last month I was injured whilst trying to fence a swordfish.  To be fair though, his brother, a hammerhead shark named Graham, did a terrible job on my nanna’s loft conversion and I was merely exacting revenge.  He had a distinct advantage though because those flimsy fencing swords don’t slice through the water very easily.

Anyway, I have a unique skillset that would make me an ideal candidate for this position.  I can hold my breath for over 40 seconds, I can blink faster than anyone I know, and my fingers are double-jointed which makes them incredibly pliable.  This is not a result of inbreeding, as was suggested to me by my childhood friends, but is a result of being superhuman.  I am the next stage in human evolution, which is something you can use to bolster your Equal Opportunities portfolio.

This is a picture of me doing an interview.

If you are still in doubt, please find attached a list of references.  The first one is from my old boss who described me as “(un)forgettable”, and the second is a quote from my own mother (who knows me better than that?) who described me as “Not a thoroughly awful person”.  That happens to be the nicest thing she’s ever said about anyone.  Previously she had described our postman as “crustier than a wank sock”, so you can see how complimentary she can be.

If you do hire me for the position, please bear in mind that I will require early access to the office in order to practice my yoga stretches.  My mother doesn’t let me do them at home because it offends her, so I will need a key to the office and the alarm code.  My favourite position, the “Bare Hamster”, involves squatting nude over a working photocopier, so you might want to give a heads up to the cleaner or something.  I also find it difficult to start the day without having a daily office party.  Flat lager and sweat-stained clothes is the perfect pick-me-up, much better than a greasy fry up.

As you can tell from my application I am overly qualified for this position.  In fact, I’d wager that I could quite easily slot into the role of a rocket surgeon or a brain scientist, but I thought I’d slum it with you guys.  You should feel privileged to have someone like me on board.  I await your response and paycheques.

Friday, 2 August 2013

Throngar's Mighty Personal Brand

Greetings, puny subjects.  I am Throngar, son of Grongar, high prince of the Gammon Kingdom.   When I’m not leading my vast armies into glory on the battlefield, I’m usually perfecting my personal brand.  That’s what I’m here to talk to you about today.

You see, brand awareness is an important aspect of any genocidal warlord’s life.  They say that half the battle is won in the mind, so it is always a great idea to promote yourself as a guy who shouldn’t be trifled with.  Opponents will always feel the weariness of war before you take out their intestines and wear them as trendy scarves.  But how do you build up a personal brand, I hear you ask?  Well, there’s several methods through which you can achieve this.

A terrified man reacts to my overwhelming personal brand

Always be memorable.  That’s my main philosophy.  When I enter the battlefield, I don’t just tiptoe up to first guy whispering “shussssh” and try to chloroform him with a particularly sweaty pig.  No, I stride into view like a man who belongs there, shouting about my huge bollocks and how I can swing them around to slay bears.  Sometimes I like to arrive on the battlefield whilst riding a wave of enemy skulls.  I’ve pinned an extra five legs onto my horse to make it look more demonic.  You really need to work on your showmanship if you are going to be a successful warlord.

Fire is always a good framing tool for your military campaigns.  Leave a long, snaking trail of fire through the paths of destruction you cause.  This looks especially impressive at night and serves as free advertising.  This works even better if you can spell your name in ten foot high flames on any monument or civic structure you come across.

Also, chisel yourself a large collection of business stones.  These should include your name, a means of contact, and a short slogan such as “Pillaging You Everyday”.  Give these out to survivors and tell them how much you value their custom, or else you’ll eat their first born.  Thank them for being passive in crowning you their high king.  I tell you, a village in which you’ve already canvassed for support is far easier to rape.

There’s also a pioneering technique that I like to use called “social networking”.  What this means is that you scratch messages into carrier pigeons (no more than 140 characters.  Keep it simple, stupid!) that people can like.  It helps your followers keep abreast of the latest gossip and mass murders you’ve committed and really helps to spread the word.

With these handy hints you’ll have constructed a positive personal brand to wow your friends with in no time.  Just remember where to send those loyalty gold pieces to, or else you’ll be receiving a rather stern business card from me shortly.  Fare thee well, hombres!