» Claims to Fame

Michaela Strachan: Nude Teenage Fantasy
When I was 19, I had the worst job in the world at Skegness Butlin's.

Think about that: Skegness. Butlin's.

Right, so anyway, one of my duties was standing by the side of the stage, pretending to enjoy the performance of whichever aging C-List celebrity was replaying their tired old act on stage, and hawking their wares: t-shirts, CDs, and so on.

After I had worked my way through the pulsating queue of punters fighting for the last Brotherhood of Man CD, I would take the money backstage and share it out with the talent: 75% to them, 15% to the house, and 10% to the light-fingered salesman. A simple, effective, and easily abused system.

In the heady late summer of '95, Michaela Strachan had secured the Wednesday night slot at the Broadway Showbar. To those of you who are either teenagers or Americans or, well, not me, I'd better explain that Michaela Strachan was a kids' TV presenter in the mid-eighties: the period of time in my life where I started to become a man and discover the wonders of self-love.

I'll be honest with you: she was shite. She sang a couple of songs and danced around, a bit of perfunctory audience participation and she was off. I wasn't run off my feet with the CD sales.

However, my disappointment at the lack of embezzlement opportunities was offset by the fact that I was ABOUT TO MEET MICHAELA STRACHAN!!!!

So I made my way backstage and, with my trademark tact, I barged into the dressing room.

Michaela Strachan was standing before me, naked and wet, fresh out of the shower, and, for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, she was perfect.

Of course, less than a second later, she was wrapped in a towel dressing gown and swearing at me but it was worth it.

I gave her my 10%. Slut.
(Thu 24th Feb 2005, 16:16, More)

» Foot in Mouth Syndrome

Renee Zellwegger
A couple of years ago, a firend of mine who was a drama student managed to blag the two of us onto the set of the first Bridget Jones film as extras. It was the big Public Schoolboy bitchfight scene between Firth and Grant and we were background diners in the Greek restaurant.

What had originally seemed like a world class blag became pretty boring after about four and half hours of watching two fops fumble at each other.

In a long break between takes, my mate and I got round to the inevitable conversation of whether or not we considered the divine Ms Zellwegger to be up to our lofty standards of procreation.

Bored and ratty, I responded just a tad too loudly, "Zellweger? No way mate - I'd rather shag your mother than that tubby cunt."

We were removed from the set very quickly to a stunned silence including a puce leading lady.

Apparently they had to reshoot some scenes because we'd fucked up their continuity. Good.
(Fri 23rd Apr 2004, 7:16, More)

» Shoddy Presents

Get Well Soon
A couple of years ago, I had a motorbike accident and broke a leg and an arm. I spent a couple of weeks in the local hospital in pot and looking like something out of a bad british sitcom.

Sick of miscelleneous rewarmed meat from the hospital trolley, I asked my Dad to bring me in a bit of fruit - traditional grapes would be fine but whatever you can get.

Fucker brought me a coconut. And stood and pissed himself whilst I banged it against my cast with my one good hand to try and open the cunt.
(Sun 26th Sep 2004, 17:40, More)

» Scars with history

Embarassing Scar
I once carved the name of a whorebitch who spurned my advances into my chest with a rusty razor blade.

How my wife and I laugh now. Laugh. Ha ha. ha. HA!

Bitches.
(Fri 4th Feb 2005, 17:52, More)

» Posh

La Gavroche
Several points about me:
1. I am from Barnsley.
2. I married wwwwwwwwwwway above my station.
3. My mother-in-law is so posh that when we put the bitch in a home, she bought the place chandeliers for the sitting rooms because the old lampshades were "terribly post-war."
4. For Christmas last year, my mum bought me a Sopranos DVD box-set. My mother-in-law bought me a nineteenth century wooden triptych, "to accentuate the fireplace."
5. I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING FIREPLACE

Mad as a teaspoonful of Muhammed Ali's wrists, but as posh as Princess Anne's sunday best.
(Fri 16th Sep 2005, 22:24, More)