Saturday, December 30, 2006

Game Of The Year

Take control of either 'Arold or Albert in this riveting rag 'n' bone extravaganza from Any Old Iron Studios. Ever fancied sitting in a room full of rubbish eating pickled eggs from a jar whilst accusing your son of being a 'bleedin' nancy-boy'? Ever wanted to bring home a 'bird' only to find your father stark naked in a tin bath as you lead her into the front parlour? Ever wanted to feel what it's like to be stuck in a house with a disgusting little old man when you know in your heart you were destined for better things? Well now you can! Playing as either 'Arold or Albert you'll finally be able to experience the thrill of bickering with your own flesh and blood whenever you want!

As 'Arold you'll be able to:

Accuse your father of being a dirty old man
Have your father ruin your holiday/wedding day/current relationship
Slip on the 'orse's manure
Join a cultural society you're clearly ill-suited to
Day dream of branching out on your own
Make tea

And as Albert you'll be able to:

Pretend to be ill to prevent your son leaving you on your own
Have a bath in the living room
Accuse your son of being a bleedin poofter/nancy-boy/queer
Steal brown ale from pubs
Feel sorry for yourself
Drink tea

With its easy to control interface (see below), you'll soon be spending your free time moaning and arguing and never getting anything done other than making tea and picking at your bunions. Altogether now ... AAAAAAAAARRROOOOOOLLLD!!!!



Thursday, December 28, 2006

The Aftermath

And so the Christmas juggernaut crashes headlong towards its nemesis, New Year's Eve. Millions of innocent sprouts have been slaughtered, the turkey has been rendered extinct and grandfathers up and down the land have released giant, Christmas-sized farts of appreciation. Men stride the Earth this day adorned in new underpants, greedy children bask in their spoils, and women try to figure out why the occasion of Christmas means they have to have so much more sex than they'd usually agree to. Across this green and unpleasant land, the twisted wrecks of a thousand souped-up hatchbacks herald the start of the joyriding season as an army of under-educated children turn Britain's roads into the world's largest race-track. Too many bad films have been watched, too many bad television programmes have been consumed, and the likes of Bruce Forsyth, Ronnie Corbett, Simon Cowell and that little Irish midget off of X Factor have recieved their thirty pieces of silver. Families have renewed their vows of hatred, Black and Decker are laughing all the way to the bank, and the drink-swilling paedophilliac department store Santa is back down the Labour Exchange, where he belongs.

The only thing we can look forward to now (before we stare into the abyss that is another year's worth of work) is getting so drunk we forget our own names. Here's to New Year's Eve - that vomit-spattered celebration of the ultimate turning point in all our lives ... January the First! Huzzah!

Monday, December 25, 2006

Deck The Halls etc.

And so this is Christmas, and what have I done? Well bugger all mainly. What did you expect? Blood?

Saturday, December 23, 2006

DLT


Ding Dong

Aaaaaaah Christmas! Yesterday was the usual hell of struggling through crowds of shoplifters, single mothers and chavs to find that elusive present for 'er indoors. I visited ABSOLUTELY FUCKING EVERYWHERE looking for a particular item on my list - eventually admitting defeat and ending up in that cold, soulless nightmare that is Meadowhall (or Meadowhell as the yokels seem to call it ... see what they've done there?). These temples to feminine greed are devil-spawned filth palaces where money is worshipped above all things, and where consumerism is seen as a virtue, not a vice. That said, they did have the thing I was looking for, so it's not all doom and gloom.
And this morning I recieved my traditional Christmas package from Scott Rowley (the Ghenghis Khan of journalism, proving the pen is mightier than the sword by slamming it into your temples). Every year Scott clears his desk of all the rubbish he knows none of his other contributers would want, stuffs it all in an envelope, and sends it (second class) to my house. I then look through this pile of CDs whilst thinking, "Never heard of them ... never heard of them ... never heard of them ... oooh Donovan" etc etc. It wouldn't be Christmas without this little ritual, it really wouldn't.
A final thought ... Meadowhall's slogan is 'The Land of Shopportunity'. What the fuck has happened to this world?

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Cough Cough Splutter Splutter

The man upstairs (I've moved remember) smokes about six thousand kilograms of dope a day. As a result he has the loudest and most persistent cough I've ever heard. He rises at about 2:00 p.m. most days and after that (until about 4:00 in the fucking morning) it's just ...

WAAAAGGGHH HU-HU-HUUURRGGGHH AHEM AHEM WAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHH U-HU HUM AHEM AHEM U-HU-U-HUUUUURGH

... as you can imagine, this hinders sleep somewhat ... as does the fucking cat he owns which spends the WHOLE BLOODY DAY running backwards and forwards across what's effectively our ceiling. I'm assuming the mangy thing hasn't been outside in the fresh air since 1997 and is being slowly driven mad by the ammonia fumes from the mountains of shit I presume to be littering its owner's floor. I'm sure it won't be long before I'm lying in the bath and the whole kit and caboodle comes crashing through the roof. This, I suspect will be my fate ... drowning under a hundredweight of cat crap and reefer butts.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Banzai!

Wahey! I received this month’s edition of Classic Rock magazine this morning and I’m pleased to report an article I wrote called Rockstar Fantasyland has received a glowing review from a young chap called ‘Anon’. He gleefully gushes “The Rockstar Fantasyland piece by B P Perry was atrocious and in very bad taste … tut tut!” And you can’t say fairer than that now can you?

Elsewhere in the magazine Geoff Barton (if you imagine Scott Rowley as a power-hungry medieval king, Geoff would be his over-ambitious brother, one eye on the throne as he toys with his dagger) has wangled a holiday to Japan under the guise of following Iron Maiden about. Geoff had a great time trawling the karaoke bars and brothels of Tokyo and has come back to Blighty fully refreshed and raring to go as he embarks on his three week Christmas vacation.

Meanwhile Marc Eliot (a fiery tempered Welshmen with a series of upsetting facial ticks) tells the story of The Eagles’ Hotel ‘Bloody’ California. This perennial housewives’ favourite has inexplicably enjoyed a special place in the great unwashed's hearts for thirty years now – despite being rubbish. It’s an incredible achievement when one considers The Eagles were dead at the time of writing Hotel California, all sadly suffocated by their giant moustaches.

There’s also an article on The Moody Blues that’s (possibly) worth reading. As anyone who knows anything about music can tell you, The Moody Blues were the world’s fourth most pretentious wanky band – denied a place in the top three by the overbearing up-their-own-arseness of Yes, Genesis and Pink Floyd. The Moody Blues gave the world Justin Hayward who went on to record that willowy Autumn thingy on Jeff Wayne’s bonkers War Of The Worlds album. You always hear Hayward’s song at Christmas for some reason, despite the fact it has fuck-all to do with the festive season.

Finally the mad fools have published a Christmas story wot I wrote. It’s absolutely bloody filthy and I’ve already had complaints about it from some woman with nothing better to do with her time. Enjoy!

Oh yes … and I drew the CD cover.

Friday, December 15, 2006

BANG!


Hello there! Apologies to my loyal reader - since I last posted I've moved and my computer exploded. I'm still trying to get the shrapnel out of my legs at the moment so I'll fill you in with the mundane details of my life tomorrow (probably). For now I'll leave you with this filthy Christmas poem I've just made up ...


Santa's coming

Oh yes he fucking is

All over your face

Santa's coming all over your face

Oh yes he fucking is

Thursday, December 07, 2006

A Brief Guide To Lincolnshire

The People
Lincolnshire natives are inbred. Children are born without eyes, men develop inverted faces, women often give birth to seal pups, chainsaw-wielding madmen wearing other people's skin roam the countryside, dogs usually have ten legs, and spider-babies and girls with testicles instead of tits are a common site. Most speak a form of English known as Manglish where sentences are half-mumbled before being followed by a ferocious physical attack. Lincolnshire people traditionally work in agriculture, often tilling the fields naked even in the harshest winters - both males and females are covered in coats of thick, matted hair and can withstand temperatures of -30o.
The Potato
Lincolnshire's flat, featureless landscape is home to the potato, both vegetable and human, and all life revolves around this most humble of tubers. The potato is not only the main source of food (native Lincolnshire types are frightened by more complicated vegetables, such as carrots or cress), but also the county's official currency and its only major religion. Festivals such as Woman's Woe (where an unsuspecting woman has a large potato shoved up her arse before being gang-raped by the men of the village) keep the potato at the forefront of Lincolnshire culture, as does PoofterFest (where homosexuals are pelted unconscious with potatoes, then burned at the stake).
Culture
When not eating, marrying or making love to potatoes, the natives of Lincolnshire relax by beating unsuspecting 'outsiders' to death. An 'outsider' is a stranger from beyond the boundaries of the county and can be easily identified by the yellow stars sewn onto their coats. Each year several thousand 'outsiders' are rounded up and gassed.
Sport
Lincolnshire's most popular sport is Beetball. Played in a field of recently harvested barley, two teams take it in turns to pelt cats tied to posts with either sugar beet or beetroot. When all the cats are dead, the teams traditionally turn on each other and the game only ends when one side or the other have lost all their ears (some village teams have an advantage here, fielding teams of farmers who have been earless from birth). Another sport gaining popularity is the relatively new game of Polski-Spatter where Polish farm workers are driven into the countryside and shot by aristocrats.
Media
As Lincolnshire natives cannot read, the county's newspaper (Der Angrieff) is published entirely in pictorial form. As well as the usual sections on news, sport and upcoming events, the paper regularly publishes photographs of farmers having intercourse with sprouts, negro hunts, lynchings, witch-burnings and line-dancing competitions. The paper also publishes a weekly Reader's Wives section which features distasteful images of naked overweight housewives shoving sausages up their fundaments. The county also has its own radio station, Potato FM, which is infamous for only ever playing Phil Collins' Another Day In Paradise.
Hobbies and Leisure
Lincolnshire's most popular hobby is fishing. However, unlike elsewhere in the country, the rod and line has been replaced with the bazooka and rocket-propelled grenade, and the fish has been superceded by the partially-submerged asylum seeker. Another popular pastime is darts (though the board is usually replaced with a human head).
Sights
Lincolnshire's fields are its most popular tourist attractions. Hundreds of tourists are rounded up monthly, driven in cattle trucks to the fields, lined up in front of shallow pits, then shot in the back of the head by farmers. Also of note is the old gaol at Lincoln Castle - here visitors can marvel at a dining table and full dinner service made entirely from human bones.
How To Get There
Don't.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Gnash gnash gnash ...

Alright alright! To my legions of fans I can only apologise for my disappearance. Blame Classic Rock for making me actually work for my money. Or blame the taxi driver who effectively kidnapped me and 'er indoors on Saturday night and dumped us in Rotherham. Blame the liars (Ibis) who describe a hotel that's actually in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside as being in 'South Sheffield', thus making us catch a fucking bus to Chesterfield just so we could get back to where we needed to be hours late. Blame the army of bastards who booked up every fucking hotel in the city because they needed to have sex with their secretaries rather than face the bleak prospect of Saturday night at home with the wife 'n' kids ... oh fuck this!