In Through The Out Door But Then Back In Again

2012-01-12T06:48:00.000-08:00

2011-11-17T07:40:00.001-08:00

2011-04-27T04:06:00.001-07:00

2011-04-22T03:44:00.000-07:00

2011-03-23T07:55:00.000-07:00

2010-08-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

Your Scratchcard Result Is ...

2008-07-23T02:33:00.000-07:00

If you're a winner, return to ITTODBTBIA III and claim your prize in the comments section.

I'm Moving!

2007-01-07T11:46:00.000-08:00

As you can see, I've fiddled about with this damned thing and I've broken it. So I'm moving house. You can find the new and improved ITTODBTBIA at http://ittodbtbia.wordpress.com/ ... I suggest you go there NOW!

Hair Cancer

2007-01-07T05:23:00.000-08:00

We have all, at one time or another, suffered from, or know someone who has suffered with, hair cancer. I myself have caught this debilitating illness on several occasions - usually after a night of heavy drinking, a fight with the missus, or a bout of rough sex. The strain I usually suffer from is known as Bee-geeus Follicles Foolhardinus and causes my normally tame barnet to misbehave itself in company and take on the shape of Robin Gibb's hair, circa 1975. No amount of washing, hair gel or combing helps the symptoms of the illness and I usually have to subject myself to months of intensive chemotherapy ... or a haircut, at the very least.

In his new book My Struggle With Hair Cancer (Random House, £14.99), actor Brad Pitt tells the harrowing story of how he has, for over a decade now, battled against the effects of Boneyemmus Ridiculii - a particulary nasty strain of hair cancer that causes the sufferer to wake up with the hairstyle of that prat who used to dance about and mime in Boney M videos. One chapter struck a chord with me in particular ...

"So I wakes up next to this bird, like, after being out on't sauce for't best part o' yesterday. I gives her boobs a squeeze, she wakes up, takes one look at me fuckin' 'air, and runs screaming from't fucking 'ouse. 'Ey up?' thinks I, 'What's the game?' It's only when I looks in't fucking mirror and sees I look like that wazzock from Boney M that I realises what's afoot ... I've gone and caught 'air cancer - a-fucking-gain!"

Illustration Friday

2007-01-06T11:48:00.000-08:00

This week's topic is 'Buzz'. As I seem to have had an imagination bypass recently, I've gone for the bleedin' obvious.

P.S. I'm 'aving a bit of bother making this smaller so that it'll appear fully when you click on it. I've tried so many times now, I've had enough ... use the damned scrollbar!

Drivin' In My Car

2007-01-05T03:57:00.000-08:00

Here's a short story I sent to Tim Durant at Tits And Cars International. I reproduce it here for the ages ...

So there I was, minding my own bloody business, driving the XR3i at 100 mph whilst pissed out of my face on cider when Shirley (that’s the wife) reaches over and plants her tits in my face – completely obscuring the windscreen. Alongside those gigantic boobies and the cider, sensory deprivation was heightened by the 1,000,000,000 amp speakers in the back and afore I could bellow ‘MAX POWER!’ I’d slewed The Shark (that’s the car) into a crowd of naked supermodels and Shirley’s left tit exploded in a shower of silicon. Staggering from the wreckage I stumbled straight into (and straight up) one of the supermodels. “Oi!” bellows Shirley, extricating her shattered mammary from the remains of the ‘Scort, “Get your bleedin’ ‘ands off my boyfriend’s parts, you bleedin’ slag!” (Shirley’s from the ‘lower orders’ and when she isn’t pregnant, ripped to the tits on speed or shoplifting, she’s stealing brown ale form Netto or burning down off-licences that refuse to swap cigarettes for sexual favours). “My sweet,” shouts I, “I’m badly bruised and this lady ‘ere was merely massaging life back into my trousers … ahem.” Shirley fixed me with her most withering stare ,”I want a divorce you feevin’ bleeder,” she mutters, adjusting her knickers, “And I’m keepin’ the Sat-Nav.” “Over my dead body you bloody witch!” I bellow, coming at her with the sharp-end of a fanny-hammer I’ve just found in one of the supermodels, “I’ll eat my own arse before I let you ‘ave that fucking navigation system, d’you hear?” Shirley finds a rock and throws it straight at me – inexplicably hitting me on the arse despite the fact I’m facing her. “You come anywhere near me and I’m callin’ the law!” she thunders, squirting her intact tit, spattering my battered face in hot milk (Oh Christ she’s pregnant again!), “Have at you!” she cries. “My God but I love you woman!” I shout, making a grab for her thighs. “I know Dave, I know,” she whispers. I look into her gimlet eye, “My name’s not Dave …?” says I.

It was the worst day of my life.

Humane Ways ...

2007-01-04T06:44:00.000-08:00

Throat Cancer

2007-01-04T05:32:00.000-08:00

Here's a little paranoid irrationality for you ... I've become convinced I've got (or will soon get) throat cancer. Quite a large amount of my waking hours are spent wandering about the house thinking, "I've got fucking throat cancer. Fuck! I'm going to die of throat cancer. What the hell am I going to do about this bastard throat cancer of mine? Have I got throat cancer?". Everytime I clear my throat I'm convinced I'm two months away from having my tongue removed by some bastard butcher masquerading as a surgeon. Everytime I poke about my smoking-destroyed jagged teeth I think I'm destined for the grave. Every day I sit and think "I'm fucking done for. My number's up ... and I had so very little else to give."

Christ ... what if I actually have got throat cancer?

Tits And Cars International

2007-01-04T03:17:00.000-08:00

I recieved an e-mail from Tim Durant yesterday. He's the art editor on Tits And Cars International - Future Publishing's answer to that swaggering bully-boy of the magazine world, Max Power. Tits And Cars International (or Redline, as it's sometimes mistakenly called) focuses on the world of souped-up hatchbacks turned into lethal, 200 mph stereo-systems by young men in baseball caps. Photographs of middle-of-the-road Peugeots mated with Star Destroyers fight for attention with images of dodgy-looking blondes with humungous tits that flap freely in the wind. It's all jolly good fun and proves the point that if you want to make anything attractive - even pieces of metal with tyres - simply place it next to a set of tits. Lots of tits.

Tits+Cars=£££££££££

Christ Almighty

2007-01-02T15:48:00.000-08:00

I've just read Mick Hucknall's Christmas message. He starts out by wishing his many fan a Merry Christmas but soon reverts back to his favourite topic - himself. Here's Mick's fucking message. The twat.

http://www.simplyred.com/community/viewtopic.php?t=540

Comments

2007-01-02T15:22:00.000-08:00

Am I that intimidating? Do you fear my wrath? I have watched my little counter go up and up little by little every day and yet none of you DARE leave a comment. Everything I write to you, dear readers, is met with a wall of silence. Who are you? Why have you chosen to come back here time and again like spiders yet leave only digital footprints? Avail yourself to me my co-conspiritors ... how on earth am I meant to burn down the walls of justice if all I have behind me are creatures of the night? Does my entire following consist of monsters? Should I be afraid? Show yourselves vultures! Or blast your eyes for the knaves you are! I demand you identify yourselves or I will convince myself I'm surrounded by ghosts, wraiths and paedophiles.

At Last!

2007-01-02T03:16:00.000-08:00

I've been dipping in and out of Wikipedia for a while now, waiting for someone to write a piece on the mighty Classic Rock magazine. And lo and behold they have. It's not what you could call 'comprehensive', but I reckon a bit of fiddling from the magazine's devoted fans'll sort that out. And it's about fucking time - Mojo have had an entry for donkey's years and, as any self-respecting music magazine fan knows, Mojo is a big steaming pile of shit.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classic_Rock_Magazine

Cockswallop!

2007-01-02T02:53:00.000-08:00

Well it's next year now and still the creative brick wall I slammed up against in December stands firm. As my more observent readers may have deduced, I work for a magazine (Britain's fastest selling magazine, as Herr Rowley never tires of pointing out) and magazines are notoriously finnicky about coming out once a month. This means you only have a short amount of time to come up with something ... and if you don't, you're fucked. And by fucked I mean no job, no money, fuck all. The last time this happened to me I ended up spending two years in a chair drinking cider. I'm not entirely sure I could handle that again. Arse!

Game Of The Year

2006-12-30T06:07:00.000-08:00

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!!!!

The Aftermath

2006-12-28T06:12:00.000-08:00

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!

Deck The Halls etc.

2006-12-25T10:18:00.000-08:00

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

DLT

2006-12-23T17:31:00.000-08:00

Ding Dong

2006-12-23T02:51:00.000-08:00

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?

Cough Cough Splutter Splutter

2006-12-20T10:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Banzai!

2006-12-19T04:31:00.000-08:00

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.

BANG!

2006-12-15T06:15:00.000-08:00

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

A Brief Guide To Lincolnshire

2006-12-07T04:10:00.000-08:00

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.

Gnash gnash gnash ...

2006-12-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

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!

You Buy! It Good Shit!

2006-11-30T03:38:00.000-08:00

This is a little something from my website - www.bpperry.com -I reproduce it here because I'm hoping to win an award for satire. And if I don't you'll ALL be fucking sorry.

Christmas Deadlines

2006-11-30T02:35:00.000-08:00

Gah! The reason I've not posted on this 'ere site for a few days is because Sian Llewellyn (Classic Rock commander Scott Rowley's Boba Fett, as it were) contacted me on Monday to tell me I have to get all my work for next month done NOW. The reason for this slave-drivery? Why Christmas of course! Future Publishing (owner of CR and publisher of titles such as Amstrad Action and ST Format) shuts down over Christmas so the staff of its magazines can spend two weeks on full pay, lying on their backs gorging themselves on mince pies, eggnog, and Noel Edmonds. We, the humble contributers get no such luxuries. Our festive season consists of toil and our reward is unemployment in the new year. Salaried staff (anyone over the rank of Untersturmfurher) are given gold shoes and diamond toilets as a reward for their 'hard work' - contributers (or 'drones' as we are often referred to by our disdainful overlords) are sent 'punishment rewards' and a 40% cut in pay. God alone knows what awaits me this year. If last year's wasp's nest in a box is anything to go by, I can look forward to yet another miserable bloody Christmas.

Funny Man

2006-11-27T05:06:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck for ideas. As readers of Classic Rock magazine know (unless you skip the back section for some weird reason), I write and draw a comic strip called 'Flock Of Numbskulls' (not my title I hasten to point out) which concentrates on a different band or rocker each month. The one I've just finished has a Christmas theme and was a piece of piss to write, as was the John Lennon one which appears in the current issue (I've always had a bee in my bonnet about that bloody Imagine song of his and it's nice to have a platform to vent my frustrations). Now I face the challenge of thinking up another one and I've hit a wall. My initial thoughts were to do something on Macca's marriage woes (c'mon Paul - you've got the money ... have her killed), but then the thing I wrote would have landed the mag with a lawsuit (and although this wouldn't have worried me, it might well have troubled Scott Rowley, the evil robber baron at the top of the Classic Rock tree). My next thought was a two-parter concentrating on the life of Lemmy - Motorhead's bewhiskered warthog of shoutiness. I had him wanting to be a chartered accountant when he grew up but then couldn't think where to take it or make it funny ... so that was that idea down the swanny. Next I thought about doing a Scissor Sisters thing where they're bumped off for stealing album sales away from established gay icons such as Barbara Streisand, The Village People and Kylie Minogue. Sadly, I couldn't think of a punchline for this so I gave up on it.

And that's as far as I've got. The problem with doing funny shit is thinking the funny shit up. If you're not in a particularly funny mood, you're not likely to come up with comedy gold - no matter how fucking long you stare at a blank computer screen. Any suggestions, dear readers? It's about time you all got up off your arses and did my work for me.

As a footnote to this (and to emphasise that point I've put it in smaller writing y'see?) the one I actually want to do was turned down flat by Uncle Joe Rowley because his mailbag would have been bulging with complaints from irate John Lennon fans. So here it is in all its magnificent, offensive glory ...

A Day In The Life Of Mark Chapman

1. Woke up ...
2. ... got outta bed ...
3. ... dragged a comb across my head ...
4. ... then shot John Lennon three times in the back.

Complain away ... I can take it.

A Thing

2006-11-25T10:15:00.000-08:00

For some reason or other I made this the other week when I should have been doing something more productive with my time. If any readers would like to suggest reasons why, feel free to send in your letters to...

Abu 'Abu' M'Hamza

Prison

England

Thankyou very much!

Illustration Friday

2006-11-25T06:08:00.000-08:00

There's a site called Illustration Friday I look at from time to time. It sets a weekly image challenge where illustrators from around the world come up with images to illustrate a word or phrase. This week's word (they're usually a bit insipid to be honest - like 'wind' or 'flower' ... I suggested 'Being Attacked By A Bengal Tiger' but have heard nothing back) is 'Invention' ... so I've drawn this trumpet wot I invented, like. Knowwhatimean?

http://www.illustrationfriday.com/

How A Magazine Is Made

2006-11-22T05:08:00.000-08:00

This month's edition of Classic Rock magazine (the periodical for those that find the resurgence of Take That nothing short of the end of civilisation as we know it) sees the venerable organ reach the grand old age of 100. "No great achievement", I hear you say, "why that ratty old French bird reached 124 on a diet of boiled eggs and cigarettes. Away with your pitiful centenary, whippersnapper!" But wait! Before you reach for the letter-bombs, it's worth noting just what a staggering achievement this actually is. Getting a magazine together is a trial of Herculean proportions and many readers don't fully understand the complexities involved (because it's hard to think straight with sixteen copies of Empire stuffed up your jumper and a security guard nearby). Let's see how popular music magazine Rocktacular goes from concept to news-stand ...

First Editorial Meeting

After spending all night getting drunk, Rocktacular's Editor rolls in at 11:47 in the morning and calls an emergency editorial meeting. It's dawned on him that, as last month's publishing deadlines were not met due largely to fucking about, this month's edition has only three weeks to publication. The editor demands his 'team' come up with a theme for this month's edition quickly or they're all fucked. The Deputy Editor suggests one she's stolen from a five year old copy of Q magazine - late for his lunch, the editor agrees and storms from the office.

Front Cover

Recovering from a severe hangover after a night on the tiles with another man's wife, the Art Editor drags himself in front of his computer monitor and tries to think of something to put on the front cover. Determined that this will be the month he does something blisteringly original that will win him awards, he is thwarted by severe diarrhea, handing the Deputy Art Editor a badly drawn sketch as he rushes for the toilet. The Deputy Art Editor takes one look at the sketch and interprets it as 'an old picture of Queen with writing over the top of it'. There will be no awards handed out to Rocktacular this month.

Features

Following a furious row with her boyfriend, the Deputy Editor commissions an article on David Bowie from a contributing writer in Wales. She knows this will really get up her boyfriend's nose because he hates David Bowie with a passion. The writer commissioned to do the piece is delighted to be sent the commission and rushes to the hospital to have his stomach pumped of the 54 paracetamol tablets he's just swallowed. He knows in his heart, however, that the £280 he's to be paid for the piece won't make a dent in the £30,000 debt he's got himself into since becoming a freelance journalist, and promises to commit suicide again once the article is finished.

Meanwhile, the Editor sends Rocktacular's most dangerous and exciting writer (an American who, unbeknownst to the staff back in the UK, has previous convictions for child molestation) to go 'on the road' with America's most dangerous and exciting band. He throws himself into the task with gusto - so much so that his rotting corpse is found floating face-down in the Hudson river six weeks later. The editor cobbles together an article based on a drunken phone call from the writer which he publishes posthumously in his name, along with an accompanying tribute with a photo supposedly of the author that turns out to be Ringo Starr in his 'beard period'.

Breaking News

Whilst having sex with an elderly prostitute, the Editor hears the sad news of the death of a bass player who was thrown out of his band after their second studio album. Despite knowing the bassist was a contemptible little shit with the habit of rifling through people's drawers, he runs the obligatory obituary that calls the dead man a 'genius' who will 'be sorely missed in the music industry' ... this despite him having nothing to do with the recording business since 1974.

Album Reviews

Thanks to a postal error, all albums that need reviewing that month are sent to one man - a writer of a nervous disposition who's used to reviewing just six a month. Unfortunately for him, it's a depressing month with both Coldplay and Radiohead releasing new albums, as well as Best Ofs from Joy Division, The Jesus And Mary Chain and Depeche Mode. After dutifully listening to all these and filing his reports, he puts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger.

Illustrator

The Editor decides a piece on The Byrds needs an illustration to distract readers from just how badly written the article is. The Art Editor contacts Rocktacular's regular Illustrator asking for a caricature montage of the band. The Illustrator (who is a hopeless drunk) agrees readily, despite having never done a caricature before in his life. The Art Editor gives the Illustrator a two week deadline - time which the illustrator uses to go on holiday. After returning, he draws the caricature the night before the deadline using a 200 pixel jpg image he's found on a website as his only point of reference. The resulting piece looks nothing like The Byrds, but by then it's too late to do anything about it so the Illustrator is paid his money by a furious Editor who vows never to use his services again. This doesn't worry the Illustrator as the following week he's due in prison after being found guilty of massive tax-evasion (or self-employment as it's sometimes known).

Second Editorial Meeting

A crisis has emerged when reports filter into Rocktacular's office that the lead singer of the band the magazine's main feature focuses on has been charged with serious sexual assault. Deciding he can't get away with running the feature, the Editor pulls it in favour of 'some fucking Led Zeppelin thing again'. Jimmy Page is woken in the middle of the night by a journalist and asked for his thoughts on the band's foot hygeine issues. The subsequent feature is advertised on the front cover as 'World Exclusive! Me, Led Zeppelin, and Bad Feet ... by Jimmy Page!'

Crossword

The Crossword Act (1947) states that 'All publications, no matter how low-brow, must contain at least one crossword. Failure to comply with this law will result in a £30,000 fine and sixteen years imprisonment'. The Compiler of the Crossword (a shadowy figure - the stuff of nightmares) sends this month's puzzle into the magazine with the attached note:

Dear Bastard

I don't need to explain myself to you.

The Compiler of the Crossword

Furious, the Editor contacts his Publisher (the boss) and demands they sack the Compiler of the Crossword on the grounds of insubordination. The Publisher points out that the last Editor to try this was found hanging from a railway bridge, minus his hands.

Jack Daniels

A crate containing sixteen bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey arrives at the magazine's offices. Overnight, a two-page 'tribute to rock's rocket fuel' replaces that month's news in the 'In The Front' section of the magazine. Delighted Jack Daniels executives invite the editorial team (which has suddenly swelled to 220 people, amongst them the Editor's wife and father) over to America to tour their bottling plant. A meeting is called where it is decided the trip will go under the catagory of 'fact-finding' (as opposed to the more usual term 'bung').

Photographer

Rocktacular's photographer has spent the month following Guns n' Roses around on tour. The Editor needs the photographs but can't get through to the Photographer due to his being in hospital. He's being treated for gonnorhea, syphilis, chlamydia, genital warts, herpes and AIDS. His wife, a supermodel, promises she'll get the Photographer to get in touch with the Editor just as soon as she can drag him off the staff nurse he's currently having sex with.

Advertising

The magazine's nearly ready. The Chief Advertising Executive and his team pull out all the stops to sell their allotted spaces and hence turn a profit for the magazine. London runs dry of cocaine in six hours flat.

Deadline

It's all hands to the pumps as 'Deadline Day' arrives. Rocktacular is ready to be sent to the printer's despite being full of factual errors and 'typos'. There's no time to change these mistakes, however, as that night the editorial team are due to don black tie for their annual awards ceremony. Promising the Publisher he will 'do better next time', the Editor presses SEND on his computer then rushes from the building whooping like an excited child. The magazine has been 'put to bed' ... it will be many days before the complaints start flooding in.

Macca's Mailbox

2006-11-22T03:50:00.000-08:00

The Dangers Of Dangermouse

2006-11-22T03:35:00.000-08:00

Christ almighty my fucking hand hurts. I've spent the last two days working virtually non-stop to meet a Classic Rock deadline I only found out about on Monday morning (the deadline, that is). I was up until four thirty this morning, then had three hours sleep, walked the dog and was back on the job by seven fifty ... beat that you lazy, coal-mining sons o' bitches. Anyway, I'm finished now (unless the slave-driver Brad Merrett contacts me to say he needs the whole thing re-done by midday) and feel only 80% shitty (the other 20% being kept at bay by cigarettes).

So what, I know you're dying to ask, have I been up to since last Friday? Well apart from busting my ass for fuck-all money in the employ of swindling bastards, I've aquired a new book and wallowed in nostalgia. Allow me to elaborate ...

Aquiring New Book

It's called The Devil's Disciples and chronicles the careers of the egotistical, brown-nosing fuck-faces who made up Hitler's inner circle. So far I've learnt that Goring was rather too fond of Morphine (aren't we all), Goebbels was an excellent pianist with a club foot (just like Dudley Moore), Himmler was a sucker for gardening, Ernst Rohm (unpleasant chief bully-boy of SS forerunner the SA) had the top of his nose and part of his cheek shot off in World War I, and Adolf Hitler was a lazy fucker who never turned up for anything. It's all very entertaining and I'm looking forward to the bit where Adolf and the boys get their arses kicked by the Allies and have to commit suicide rather than face up to the bother they've caused the world.

Wallowing In Nostalgia

On Sunday I spent seven hours (that's right motherfuckers) watching Michael Palin's Around The World In Eighty Days back-to-back. Not realising at the time I had a deadline in two days, I allowed myself the luxury of wallowing in nostalgia as Michael went hell-for-leather round the planet on his 1988 quest (and much to the annoyance of 'er indoors who wanted to watch Smallville). Thanks to the magic of Cable TV and DVD, it's become rather too easy to waste vast amounts of your life watching old stuff you remember from the good ol' days. I once watched all 20-odd episodes of Willow The Wisp in a row and had the fucking theme tune running around in my head for weeks. My friend buys anything from her childhood she spots on DVD and as a consequence her house is filled to bursting with Ivor The Engine, Captain Pugwash, Doctor Snuggles and all that jazz. And you know what? It's almost all universally SHIT. After spending hours being forced to watch every tu'penny-ha'penny bit of rubbish I saw in the late 70s/early 80s, I've reached the conclusion that all children's television you saw as a youth should remain safely locked away in your memory. If you allow yourself to watch this stuff as a fully-grown adult you will be bitterly disappointed to discover that Bagpuss, Jamie And His Magic Torch, The Flumps and Dangermouse are all a load of badly-made crap. Around The World In Eighty Days, on the other hand, is a different story altogether. It had to be made with adults in mind, not children, and children, as we all know, are gullible, tasteless little fucks who'll swallow any old piece of shit as long as it's in cartoon form.

NOW LEAVE ME ALONE GOD DAMN YOU!

A Modern Problem

2006-11-17T03:04:00.000-08:00

G'morning! I'm in a reasonably cheerful mood considering my monitor stopped working today and I had to trudge to Comet in the pissing rain to buy a new one. It's all set up now, so I can get back to the serious business of drawing dinosaurs for Classic Rock (don't ask).

I had to pick my mate's kid up yesterday because she was off to Nottingham to watch comedy (my mate, that is, not the kid ... she's a bit young for alternative comedians and their liberal attitude to the word 'motherfucker'). This involved hanging around outside Alice's school waiting for her to come out and not trying to look like a paedophile. It didn't help that it was the kid's teacher's last day on the job, so we left the school (which I've never picked her up from before, you'll note) with her bawling her head off and me thinking any minute now I'm going to be lynched for trying to kidnap a child that was clearly not my own. God I hate it. Last week I was hoodwinked into buying her a balloon animal and the man said "Thanks dad!" when I handed him the money. Alice darling turns round and shouts "He's not my dad!" and you could see it in balloon animal guy's eyes that the moment my back was turned he'd be on to the News of the Screws.

I'm one of those people who just comes across as 'being up to no good' I'm afraid. I used to live in a shared house a few years ago, and it turned out one of the tennants was a convicted burglar and crack-cocaine addict. He was hauled in by the fuzz when I was out on the razzle, and the first I knew about it was when two Detective Sergeants turned up the next morning to arrest me on suspicion of handling stolen goods (and Christ-alive was my fucking hangover a stinker that morning). They'd decided (on the evidence that the little bastard had stashed that night's ill-gotten gains under my bed) that Lee (and I have no fear of naming him, be'damned!) was out nicking the gear before passing it on to me to dispose of. So it was off to the Police Station for me for hours of intense questioning before they were finally convinced they'd got the wrong man. The sergeant told me he'd needed some convincing of my innocence because I came across as a 'bit shifty'.

This goes some way, then, to explain my paranoia when turning up at a school where no-one's ever seen me before and walking off with a kid who's screaming her fucking head off.

Football

2006-11-16T01:19:00.000-08:00

With the news that Motorhead are sponsoring a Lincolnshire under-10's football team ...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lincolnshire/6149606.stm

... I decided to take a look at other forthcoming rock star tie-ins of a slightly dubious nature.

Ozzy to appeal on behalf of the RSPCA

Animal lover Ozzy Osbourne is to appear in a series of television advertisments highlighting the plight of the UK's bird and bat population. "I love birds and bats," mumbles Ozzy, "especially raw on stage or in front of a horrified record executive."

Megadeth to sponsor Metallica

"We're delighted to have Dave Mustaine and his excellent band Megadeth sponsor our latest world tour," said James Hetfield at a recent press conference, "and the fact that my wife and children are missing at the moment has nothing to do with this," he continued, tears in his eyes.

Cliffknot

After an administrative error that saw lead vocalist Corey Taylor executed, Slipknot have finally announced his replacement - Sir Cliff Richard. "It's a bit of a coup for the band," quips drummer Joey Jordison, "We were looking for a new singer and Cliff was looking to take his music in a different direction, so it's a marriage made in heaven. Cliff's mask of fanged vaginas and seeping cocks is already on order."

Roger Waters becomes children's author

"It's something I've always wanted to do," says Roger, "My first story concerns the adventures of a boy who disappears up a giant screaming anus and finds himself in the trenches of the First World War. And it's got a dog in it."

The Beatles missile defence system

"We worked out the Star Wars missile defence system would cost seventy billion dollars, and it's money we simply do not have," said General Horshank Sponagger of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff, "so we've got together with The Beatles to find a cheaper solution. We propose a series of giant stereo systems that will orbit the Earth above the United States. Any incoming ICBMs will automatically trigger the stereos to start playing All You Need Is Love at a trillion decibels. Paul McCartney assures me the missiles will see the error of their ways and decide to settle down and live the quiet life on a farm in Scotland ... probably."

Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young and Savile

In a move many see as 'bewildering', seventies super-group Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young have re-formed - adding new member Jimmy Savile to their line-up. "I think our close vocal-harmonies can only be improved by having them interrupted by a suspicious old man going 'Urrrggggh urrrrggghhh urrrrggggh' and ''Ow's about that then' at random intervals." Dave Crosby has said, "Our first single will be an updated version of Our House with the words 'Jewl'ry Jewl'ry' and 'Guys 'n' Gals' cropping up when you least expect it."

Iconic

2006-11-14T02:12:00.000-08:00

This month's Classic Rock magazine (the bible for anyone who has a furious attack of the collywobbles when they hear the words 'Scissor' and 'Sisters') has devoted a large part of its good self to the 100 greatest rock icons of all time. I assume some administrative error has occurred as I cannot find David Essex, Leo Sayer or Bonnie Tyler anywhere - bloody printers, they should all be shot. Anyway, for no good reason I can think of, the top brass at the magazine (or junta, if you prefer) has neglected to ask me what my rock icon is. Livid, foaming at the mouth, and swearing vengeance on these devils, I rang my solicitor to see if I could sue them into the last century - but apparently no, no I can't. Not wanting to let this lie (don't worry - my capacity for revenge can easily be described as 'long term'), I here present my choice for the No.1 rock icon of all time. I think you'll find it a wiser choice than Brian May's (whoever the hell he is) ...

Daniel O'Donnell - Irish Singing Superstar and Thoroughly Lovely Man

I first saw Daniel perform in 1999 on my grandparent's VCR. Drunk and incapable of escape, I watched in horror as Daniel (dressed from head-to-toe in white) rose Christ-like from a hole in the stage to the thunderous applause of his elderly audience of widowed old women. To the sounds of cracking hips and exploding colostomy bags, Daniel (who's teeth can be seen from space) belted out such middle-of-the-road classics as When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, Oh Danny Boy and The Old Rugged Cross.

"Who in the name of my sainted aunt is this monstrous servant of Hades?" I bellowed (I had to bellow as my grandfather is somewhat deaf and listens to TV at volumes that would put a Motorhead concert to shame).

"It's Daniel O'Donnell," says my grandmother, eating figs, "He's a thoroughly lovely man and much better than that modern rubbish you listen to."

"What modern rubbish woman? I'm stuck so far in the past people swear they met me in the Sixties!"

"All that Beatles rubbish you listen to," replies the old bag, as Daniel launches into a medley of When I'm Sixty-Four, With A Little Help From My Friends and Fool On The Hill.

"But this is the fucking Beatles you mad old sow!" I cry, displaying a disgraceful lack of respect for my elders.

"No it's not, it's Daniel O'Donnell," she replies, popping open the Quality Street.

Well how do you counter that?? If this fucking grinning idiot can convince people who lived through the Sixties that three songs written by the biggest band in the world were actually written by him, there must be something to him. I nominate him as my No.1 rock icon of all time because I dread to think what a man with the ability to meld the minds of the elderly could do to me (I'm pretty impressionable). And if I don't nominate him, there's a good chance that, twenty years from now, I'll be saying stuff like,

"Have you heard Kashmir? That Daniel O'Donnell's one hell of a songwriter, you've got to admit."

Bloody Hell

2006-11-14T02:02:00.000-08:00

This site just goes to show the lengths some people will go to to tell a single joke ...

http://infants-blood.info/

Beware! May contain irony.

Gremlins

2006-11-14T01:26:00.000-08:00

Aha! Apologies to my reader for the lack of posts yesterday - gremlins were at work doing their business in the machine and my internet connection was down. This was pretty infuriating as I was meant to get some work off to Scott Rowley (the Idi Amin of the publishing industry) and my failure to do so probably sounded like just another in a long long long line of excuses. I could have sent it from our local internet cafe but I'm not going in there since the owner accused me of looking at pornography when I fucking well wasn't. The library's also a no-no because the computers are always hogged by Poles desperately trying to contact family back home (Mama - Do what you have to do. Sell the Trabant and my collection of Bananarama cassettes, whatever. You must raise 700 Zloty for my passage home. I am a surgeon yet all these English pigs want me to do is pick cabbages in a field). The only option other than this is to go to Newark, and if you've ever been to Newark, you'll know why I was reluctant to get my ass on that train.

Thankfully, I turned on el machine this morning and, hey presto, it's up and working again. This is good because Brad Merret (who readers of this blog will remember is dead) has sent me work and an old friend of mine called Allan (a man of science, seriousness, and too much free fucking travel for my liking) has questioned my motives for moving to the fair city of Sheffield (he believes I'm going there to be a stripper - one look at my grotesque, hairy belly would disabuse him of this notion I suspect). I've also received a missive from someone called nbpvakcv@yahoo.com with a message labelled 'sZdmoRNztOPcDGyRdnSEXUALY+EQPLICIT: our news' - no doubt a serious political essay I shall have to check out later when I'm alone and the arthritis pills have kicked in. Please feel free to e-mail nbpvakcv, by the way - I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear from you.

My Pink Half Of The Drainpipe

2006-11-11T07:29:00.000-08:00

Our next door neighbour's a wheeze. Up at five every morning on the dot, he is. We know this because the son of a bitch puts his fucking radio on so loud it wakes everyone in the house. Every day I'm woken from my (mostly) pornographic dreams to the sound of The Pet Shop Boys or Elton fucking John blasting through the wall. After this, he gets down to the serious business of shouting at his mother - a lovely, 80 year old woman who has told me in no uncertain terms that she wants to die to get away from her son. I have offered to poison the bastard, but there's some sort of bond between them apparently and she's having none of it.

And he's obsessed with washing. His machine runs 24 hours a day and there are clothes on the line come rain or shine. I've tried telling him that underpants can be worn backwards, forwards and inside out for up to six weeks before requiring washing, but does he listen? Does he arse. He's also one of those people that washes brand new clothes before wearing them. This sort of activity bewilders me - surely they make the Chinese children wash their hands before they start their day in the sweatshop?

He also insists Emma (the lady who's house we're dossing in) goes round every night and does his eyedrops. Apparently he doesn't trust his mother's carers to do it because, and I quote, 'they steal my bloody milk'. So every night 'Emily' (as he calls her, despite being told it's 'Emma' about 37, 000, 000, 000 times) has to traipse next door to do what she calls 'her duty'. I've suggested stabbing his eyes out, but she's a kinder soul than I and won't do it. I can't see the problem because having no eyes means you don't need eyedrops doesn't it? That's logic, that is.

As well as this, he spends great amounts of his time describing his many ailments to anyone unfortunate to catch his attention. His illnesses are fucking bizarre, ranging as they do from 'asthma in me back' to the extraordinary 'hayfever in me testes'. I did point out that hayfever is an affliction more commonly associated with the nose, but he's having none of it. I often think of him, up there in his bedroom, eyes weeping from 'the bit o' grit' he's been unable to shift for 30 years, underpants so clean you could eat your dinner off 'em, and balls sneezing like a bastard.

Neighbours eh? Who'd 'ave 'em?

Fun!

2006-11-11T07:15:00.000-08:00

Whilst nursing this morning's traditional hangover and black eye, I came across this site on't th'internet. I've always had a soft-spot for Britain's quiet army of spoof letter-writers, and this chap has it down to a fine art ...

http://customerservice.blog.co.uk/

Absolutely Fucking Furious

2006-11-10T01:28:00.000-08:00

The little kid that lives in our house had her ill-mannered little shit of a friend round yesterday. Ripped to the tits on Cheese Strings, Dairylea Lunchables and Coke, the fucker couldn't sit still for more than six seconds and kept dropping stuff on my head from his position on the stairs. Even bellowing at him had no effect other than surprise and curiosity because the little darling has, I suspect, never had a harsh word spoken to him in his life. His mother, a fat waste of space, allows her precious charge to do whatever he sees fit - on the condition he can be used as a teddy bear/boyfriend substitute/shoulder to cry on/loneliness filler when crying over a bottle of Chardonnay whilst listening to The Carpenters just won't fill that gaping fucking hole where a man is supposed to be.

Anyway, that annoyed me.

Later, I watched Question Time and it wasn't long before I found myself shouting at the TV when that oily heap of shit Geoff Hoon started banging on about things in Iraq not being that bad. Is this the same Iraq I see on the telly then? Because the one I keep catching on the news strikes me as a fucking nightmare. I don't know about you, but when I go to the shops I don't expect some mad fucker to start shooting at me because we're from different tribes (they still have tribes??). I don't expect, when visiting Manchester, for example, to be bundled into a car, thrown in a dungeon, then have my head sawn off with a rusty knife just because I had the brass-kneck to go there for a visit. What sort of deluded fantasyland does Geoff Hoon live in when he can describe a country that's tearing itself apart in front of our very eyes, where bombs go off on an almost hourly basis, where headless, tortured corpses are dumped in the streets daily, as 'not that bad'? God alone knows what he thinks is bad ... the very lowest level of Hades perhaps? Extraordinary.

Transcript of an interview between Eric Clapton and Detective Inspector Terry Reeves of Essex Police

2006-11-09T02:52:00.000-08:00

“So, Mr. Clapton … it must be good to be back in the UK yes?”
“Of course. This is where it all began for me, back in the 60’s”
“Living abroad in a big house in America and not paying a fucking penny in tax doesn’t make you feel bad then?”
“Er … no … no … I wouldn’t say that, no”
“You wouldn’t describe yourself as a ‘Traitor to the Crown’ then?”
“A …? Come again?”
“You heard”
“You think I’m a traitor?”
“Don’t you? I’d think reneging on your oath of loyalty to this country to go and live in America counts as treason, wouldn’t you?”
“Well no … I …”
“No it wouldn’t would it?”
“Wha?”
“Now turning to your confession, if I may …?”
“My …?”
“Clear something up for me, will you? Who, in your opinion, shot the sheriff?”
“Who shot …? Oh, right! Yes! Well if you listen to the song, you’ll see that I shot the sheriff … a-ha-ha.”
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?”
“Answer the question Mr. Clapton.”
“I thought I already …”
“ANSWER THE QUESTION MR. CLAPTON!”
“But I …”
“So you’re not prepared to answer the question … I see. Well perhaps you’ll oblige me with an answer to this then – did you shoot the deputy?”
“Did I shoot …? Well no, I didn’t … it’s in the song officer.”
“Is it? I don’t recall hearing you say it.”
“’I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy’ …it’s all there.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm … you’re not doing yourself any favours here Mr. Clapton, you realise this?”
“But I …”
“It’s a very simple question …”
“What is?”
“Did … you … shoot … the … deputy?”
“Look I haven’t shot anyone – it’s a song for fuck’s sake!”
“So you’re denying the murder ever took place now, is that right?”
“Wha …? There was no murder! It’s a song!”
“You’re denying you gunned down two men in cold blood, am I clear on this point?”
“Eh? I didn’t gun down two men! I shot the sheriff …”
“AHA! Now we’re getting somewhere …”
“Hold on! That’s not what I meant at all!”
“But you admit to killing at least one individual, yes?”
“No no no no no! It’s a song! A SONG!”
“Whether you choose to confess in a song, on a sheet of paper, or scrawled on a toilet wall is neither here nor there Mr. Clapton. It doesn’t change the fact that two men lie dead. Now … who shot the deputy?”
“I don’t know who shot the deputy!”
“Come on Eric … who was there with you? We’ve got you for one murder – there’s no point going down for two just to protect your accomplice.”
“Accom …? But I didn’t have a fucking …”
“The games we play eh Eric? Do you think your mate wouldn’t be singing like a fucking canary if he was here in your shoes? I think I’ll leave you to ponder on that for a while. P’raps you’ll come to your senses after a bit of sleep eh son?”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Bob, get this murdering piece o’ shit out of my sight and lock him in his cell. Interview terminated eight forty two p.m.”

Suspect Parcel

2006-11-09T01:08:00.000-08:00

A man with a moustache came to the house the other day with a parcel for the bloke at No.10. I've left notes and taken it round, but still there it sits, on the stairs - unloved and unwanted. I'm beginning to suspect it contains pornography. Of course I have no evidence for this, only the 'facts' I've garnered about the man at No.10 ...

His Garden's A Shitheap

...because he's probably too fucking busy wanking away to do a bit of weeding, y'see? There's always something suspicious about an unkempt garden. The owners are usually either paedophiles or murderers.

He Lives On His Own

I read a statistic once that stated that 98% of men who live on their own do very little else other than sit in the dark watching women take it up the arse. They are also 30% more likely to keep a woman's head in their fridge as some sort of ghoulish trophy.

He Never Opens His Curtains

And why doesn't he eh? Because he's paranoid the world out there might be staring through his dirty windows watching him have one off the wrist. The filthy bastard.

He Works Nights

Sex shops are usually open between 8 in the morning and 8 at night. By working nights, he has a full twelve hours of browsing time at his local perversity emporium (and plenty of time to hang around schools taking photographs, to boot).

He's Gone Bald And Wears Glasses

Perhaps the most damning evidence of all! Every picture I've seen of a rapist (or catholic priest) shows a bald man wearing thick-lensed spectacles. Is this a coincidence? I think NOT!

So what to do? I could take this suspect package to the police if I thought it'd do any good. Sadly, all that would happen to him is a slap on the wrist and a period of 'rehabilitation' at Her Majesty's Pleasure (or 'Barbados', as it's known nowadays). I can't allow this to happen, so this is my plan:

1. Start up a whispering campaign against him amongst local mothers

2. Tip off the News of the World that a predatory beast lives amongt us
3. Spray-paint 'NONCE' on his door when he's out

4. Drag him out of his house and beat him to death with a brick

5. Dance around his bloodied corpse and laugh and laugh and laugh

And it'll serve him right for not being in when his package of filthy literature turned up on my doorstep, I say.

B P Perry works for Classic Rock Magazine, The Daily Mail and The British National Party

Humane Ways To Dispose Of A BeeGee No. 2

2006-11-08T01:57:00.000-08:00

Lazy Bastard

2006-11-08T01:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I watched the same documentary about Stalingrad on the Hitler Channel I've seen five times before. Despite having a remote control in my hand, I couldn't be arsed to change the channel. History tells us that, when the apple fell on his head, Isaac Newton got up off his arse and invented gravity. Watching soap in a bath, surrounded by nude boys, Archimedes jumped to his feet, yelled "Eureka!" and lo, the triangle was born (I could be wrong here). Einstein, whilst working as a lowly clerk didn't, when he got home, flop down in a chair and spend the next four hours watching EuroSport. No, he proved lots of things about time, space, the Universe and all that jazz.
I, on the other hand, couldn't even be bothered to press a small rubber button to save myself listening to Russians merrily explaining how they raped their way across eastern Germany back in the '40s.
Indulge me while I put forward the theory that I am what is wrong with this fucking country.

A Day In The Life Of A Jobbing Songwriter

2006-11-07T11:03:00.000-08:00

“I get up at 5:30 most days. I don’t actually want to, it’s just by then I’m so cold lying in last night’s puddle of piss that I have very little option. I stumble to the toilet and shit blood into the bowl, coughing like a tramp while rubbing life back into my shaking legs.

Breakfast is usually Vodka. Or Bacardi. And some fags, can’t forget those – I’d be next to useless without my fags. I smoke near to 300 a day.

I watch early-morning TV in a depressed stupor, dribbling booze onto my pyjama bottoms. I decide there and then that I will not get dressed today – what’s the fucking point?

By the time BBC Breakfast is over, the postman’s been and I see there’s a letter from my agent, Sonny Silverman. A shiver creeps down my spine as I read,

Dear Mr Phillips

Ronan Keating requires a new song by Monday. Get it done.

Yours,

Sonny Silverman
Agent to the stars

My feet feel like lead. I vomit all over the kitchen wall, then go for a lie-down on the living-room sofa. Later, when the headache’s not so bad, I’ll write the fucker his song.

Two hours later I have this:

We’re two hearts
Livin’ in just one mind

I realise I’m writing down an old Phil Collins song. Shit.

What are the elements of a Ronan Keating song? I make this list:

Love
Roller-coasters
Love and Roller-coasters
Coasters

I try to write the Ronan Keating song again, using this list as my reference. It takes a while, but finally I have this:

My love is like a coaster
It protects your table of love
From heat stains caused by mugs
And saucers of biscuits
And stuff

I want to cover your table
With a wicker-work roundel of joy
Please let me protect your wood surface
I’m your heat-resistant boy

Spills are easily transferred
When making tea in a hurry
My protective shield of love for you
Means you need never worry

About ruining your shiny veneer
And going down in price
So please let me sit on your surface
It would probably be quite nice

I decide this piece of shit will do. I fax it over to Sonny, who tells me he’ll pass it on to Ronan’s ‘people’ (whatever the fuck that means). I don’t give the slightest of shits – all I want to do is go to bed and drink myself to sleep watching porno films.

There must be more to life than this?”

My Day With Mick Hucknall

2006-11-07T08:55:00.000-08:00

"I AM MICK HUCKNALL AND YOU WILL LISTEN TO MY MUSIC OR FACE A TERRIBLE, TERRIFYING FATE!" cries Mick Hucknall from the battlements of Casa de Hucknall - the palatial country estate the overweight singer was able to buy with the sales of his rubbish Simply Red albums.
"But Mick," shouts I from behind a rock (so he can't get me), "I don't want to listen to your music! It stinks to high heaven and I don't want to be tortured simply because I refuse to listen to it!"
"WHERE ARE YOU BASTARD?!!" thunders Mick, clearly riled. A hail of stones and human faeces rains down on my position ... but I stand firm.
"I'm not telling you Hucknall!" I retort, breaking cover for a split-second to hurl mud at his windows, "Come down here and find me you fat, talentless bastard!"
"I'LL FUCKING SHOW YOU!" says Mick, reaching for his blunderbuss and firing off a triumphant rally of nails, bolts and old socks. Luckily my buttocks take most of the punishment.
"YOU GODLESS SON OF A FUCKING BITCH! Why do so many good-looking women want to sleep with you? ANSWER ME! I don't understand!"
Mick disappears from view. I start to get worried that he's winched himself down the stairs. Then he reappears with his band, Simply Red.
"Oh holy mother of God!" I screech, planting my helmet on my head and fearing the fucking worst, "Not Simply Red! Anything but THAT for crying out loud! ABBA! Wham! Grease the fucking musical! Anything! Anything but Simply fucking Red!!"
"HO! A-MONEY'S TOO TIGHT TO MENTION!" replies Simply Red before I can get the anti-aircraft gun fired up, "I CAAAN'T GET AN UNEMPLOYMENT EXTENSION!"
"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHH!" it's more than a man can stand. Bleeding from the ears, I stagger blindly from my position, dangerously exposed to the inexplicably successful 80's band.
"I surrender!" I splutter, "Please! I'll do as you wish Hucknall, you fuck!"
But my pleas fall on deaf ears.
"A-HOLDIN' BACK THE YEARS!" they bellow. My vision clouds, I am weak.
"Why?" I mumble, "I had so much more to give ... so ... much ... more."
I slip mercifully into a coma. The last words my fevered and damaged mind manages to filter are ...
"I-I-I WANNA FALL FROM THE STAAAAAAARS ..."
Motherfuckers, I am done for.

Le Weekend

2006-11-07T03:05:00.000-08:00

Woke up, got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head ... then took my friend's kid to watch Barnyard at the cinema. It was alright as far as computer animated animal buddy movies go, though I did spend the entire time wondering who took the executive decision to draw all the male cows with udders. I'm no zoologist, but I'm pretty sure bulls don't 'ave udders. In fact, I know they don't because I looked it up on't th'internet and they haven't. So if there's a Barnyard II can we get it right and have the male cows with big fat swinging cow cocks instead ... y'know, for the kids?
Anyway. Later me and the missus went to see Borat which was excellent, especially the revolting nude wrestling scene which has just about put 'er indoors off testicles for life (not, I should perhaps point out, that she had any particular fondness for 'em in the first place).
Then we went and got drunk in a pub which was fun. Ken, the landlord, told the following joke:
"I used to be a Shakespearean actor, but I got the sack ..."
"Why was that then Ken?"
"I misinterpreted the stage direction 'Enter Juliet from behind!"
A joke I believe was in circulation when the Great Bard was alive, well and treading the boards in Elizabethan London.
Later in the evening a big fat South African man who spends his entire time complaining about England called a man who looked like Father Christmas a 'cunt'. Father Christmas then 'lamped' the big fat South African man, who stormed out of the door saying how 'fucking typical' it was of 'this fucking country'. Serves him right really. Anyone who's been a child knows not to fuck with old Saint Nick - if he's willing to destroy a child's Christmas with his vicious naughty/nice policy, he's hardly going to tolerate a red-faced fat South African man calling him a 'cunt'.
The following day (and armed with a hangover you could have sold to science) I was forced to go shopping with 'er indoors. Then we went to a fireworks display at the feeblest bonfire I think I've ever encountered (a pace table and some sticks doused in kerosene). Then we got drunk (again) and I witnessed the singular phenomenon of a bouncer letting girls so hammered they could hardly stand into the pub, but turning away mildly drunk men. This is an interesting, if somewhat unfair, policy. It seems it pays, if you want to be a late-night alcoholic, to have a really big set of tits in this town.

How To Get Your Work Published Part 2: Writing

2006-11-03T08:36:00.000-08:00

As has been demonstrated, getting illustrations published is a matter of intimidation, blackmail, physical violence and bribery. Getting writing published is a different matter altogether. Thanks to this government's idiotic policy of teaching its citizens to write, you'll find there's a hell of a lot of writers out there. You'll be up against stiff competition, such as this almighty piece of Shakespearean prose I read on Leicester City Council's website recently...

"The Development Plans Group is responsible for the preparation of all statutory land use plans. It has exclusive responsibility for the City of Leicester Local Plan, and has responsibility for the Structure Plan and Waste Local Plan in co-operation with Leicestershire County Council and Rutland County Council. The group is currently preparing the City's Local Development Scheme"

Now I know what you're thinking - how in the name of suffering fuck am I supposed to compete against that? Well don't worry, follow this easy guide and your specious thoughts and adolescent ramblings might soon appear in magazines of such historical importance as Heat, Now and The People's Friend...

Distinguish Yourself From The Crowd

There's no point regurgitating the same old rubbish any old Tom, Dick or 'Arry can produce. To get noticed, your work must be distinguished enough to stand out from the crowd. Editors are far too busy stealing underwear from washing-lines to read the vast tonnage of shit that comes their way every day, so your work must jump out at them straight away. One easy way to do this is to steal the work of a better writer than yourself and give it a 'contemporary twist'. Let's use celebrated wild-child Lester Bangs as an example...

Van Morrison's Astral Weeks was released ten years, almost to the day, before this was written. It was particularly important to me because the fall of 1968 was such a terrible time: I was a physical and mental wreck, nerves shredded and ghosts and spiders looming and squatting across the mind. My social contacts had dwindled to almost none; the presence of other people made me nervous and paranoid. I spent endless days and nights sunk in an armchair in my bedroom, reading magazines, watching TV, listening to records, staring into space. I had no idea how to improve the situation and probably wouldn't have done anything about it if I had.

Now let's give it a contemporary twist...

Coldplay's Parachutes was released seven years, almost to the fucking day, before this was fucking written. It was particularly important to me because the autumn of 1999 was such a fucking terrible time: I was a fucking physical and fucking mental fucking wreck, nerves fucking shredded and fucking ghosts and fucking spiders looming and fucking squatting across the mind. My social fucking contacts had fucking dwindled to almost fucking none; the fucking presence of other fucking people made me fucking nervous and fucking paranoid. I spent endless fucking days and fucking nights fucking sunk in an armchair in my fucking bedroom, reading fucking magazines, fucking watching fucking TV, listening to fucking records, staring into fucking space. I had no fucking idea how to fucking improve the fucking situation and probably wouldn't have done any fucking thing about it if I fucking had.

See how I've subtley changed the article? By randomly dropping the word 'fucking' into the piece and changing the name of the band at the beginning, I've given it an 'edge'. Editors who like this sort of thing will see you as their most 'dangerous' and 'challenging' contemporary wordsmith. With any luck, he'll send you off to America to tour with Motley Crue, at which point you can get down to the real bones of what being a writer's all about - sleeping with whores and overdosing on cocaine.

Get The 'Scoop' - Even If You've Actually Made It Up

I'm constantly too drunk to do what I've been asked to do. "Go to Leeds!" they cry, "Get me an exclusive interview with Pete Townshend or Mick Jagger or somebody!" But then the bottle of scotch I've been 'saving for a special occasion' (i.e. tomorrow) starts calling to me and before you know it I've missed my train because I'm too busy pissing in my trousers and swearing at random strangers. But what to do when the editor rings you up and demands to know where his interview is, by God! Well don't panic. Whether you've been published or not, you can simply make up a load of shit and hope to God you're never found out. Make sure you start out with the stock phrase "I'm sitting in the exclusive lounge-bar of the Leeds Metropolitan Hotel. Mr. Townshend is late, but that's only to be expected of one of Britain's most in-demand song-writers ..." (replace Mr. Townshend with Mr. Osbourne, Mr. Daltry etc). After your opening scrawl make up any old clap-trap but make sure you reveal at least three previously unheard of 'facts' about your subject - to whit...

You've found a cure for cancer? Seriously?

Yeah. It was while I was cleaning out the shed...

So you can exclusively reveal that you were the fifth Beatle?

That's right - I was the fifth Beatle...

You invented fire, that's right isn't it?

Yes, yes I did invent fire...

Once you've made up a load of rubbish, send it off to your favourite editor and see what happens. If it's published, chances are you'll land yourself and your magazine in a whole heap of shit. If this happens, don't worry about it - you'll just get fired and likely have to spend the rest of your life stealing food from bakeries. Freelance writers are fired all the time and the feeling of dread and uncertainty about the future is a central part of a freelancer's precarious existence. If the piece is published and nothing happens, you can pat yourself on the back for a job well done and get down to the serious job of fiddling your expenses.

It is not recommended that you do this all the time. Famous people tend to be extremely rich with access to high-powered legal teams. Only make stuff up if you're not that bothered about keeping your job.

Become A 'Personality' Writer

(Or completely ignore what you were supposed to be doing and go off on a three-day bender instead. Then write about it.)

This is a great way to go if you have absolutely no truck with what the magazine you hope to write for is actually all about. For instance, if you wished to write for Q magazine, you would think some form of music-related article would be the way to go, but no. As a 'personality' writer you can set off to write that music-related article, but then side-step into a world of drunken mayhem that may or may not lead to charges of sexual assault or wounding with intent. Then you write about it.

For the purposes of this exercise, I set off to Manchester with the hope of catching up with The Stones on the latest leg of their tour. However, because I see drinking, smoking, fighting, taking drugs and having sex as much more fun than interviewing a bunch of wizened old millionaires, I never got anywhere near The Stones. Instead I got hopelessly drunk, slept with a prostitute, tried to lie my way into the Labour Party Conference, slept with another prostitute, took some sort of 'experimental' drug which paralysed the left-hand side of my penis, shot a dog, woke up in a car show-room surrounded by broken glass, slept with a further eight prostitutes, and broke three fingers in my left hand. When I got home, I wrote all this down and sent it to a magazine that will remain nameless (Kerrang) along with an expenses bill that ran into the tens of thousands. Not once, throughout the entire piece, did I mention The Rolling Stones. As a consequence, Universal Studios are making a film of my life and I'm up for a Pulitzer Prize.

Of course, being a 'personality' writer has its pitfalls. Because everyone expects you to go off the rails every time they send you off to do something you never had any intention of doing, if you ever briefly surface into the heady daylight of sobriety and write what you'd been paid to do, no-one's interested. In fact, they may smell a rat and sack you on the spot ... and if that happens, it's off to the streets for you to spend the rest of your life licking shit off walls - the fate of many a writer. Beware!

Get A Job Doing Something Else And Just Pretend You're A Writer

This is perhaps the easiest way of being a successful writer. You'll be financially secure (99% of writers are bankrupt, the other 1% keep the wolves from the door by theft or credit card deception) and best of all you won't have to actually hang around with famous people. All you need to be an imaginary successful writer is:

An out-of-control drug habit
An addiction to whisky
The manners of a degenerate half-wit
A dependency on nicotine
Really smelly clothes
Bad breath

All of the above can be achieved by drinking vast quantities of booze at any given opportunity. In fact, you'll find it'll take no time at all to resemble the real thing. Very soon friends and family alike will marvel at your effortless ability to shamble back from the bookies with a fag hanging from your mouth, stinking of piss and drink with shit halfway up your back. Salut!

So there we have it. As you can see, being a writer can be a complicated, life-threatening, suicidal, depressing hell of uncertainty, disease and creeping, paranoid horror. If you're up for a bit of that, and you've followed at least some of this guide, you'll be drinking your way to an early grave on the pittance a writer earns before you can say 'acute liver failure'. Good luck!

Art Editor...

2006-11-03T06:52:00.000-08:00

My art editor is called Brad Merret (for those unfamiliar with the term, an art editor is the British equivalent of a low-level Nazi concentration camp guard). He's a lovely man with a winning smile (though I wouldn't look him directly in the eyes, if you get my meaning) and is nice to children and animals and such. He's overcome many obstacles in his colourful life, not least of which was being born with a full set of teeth growing from the top of his head. I caught up with Brad (see above) at his local betting shop where he's to be found most days merrily gambling away the family allowance and adding weight to his already bulging sack of shattered dreams and broken promises ...

Brad! Hi! I didn't know you were here (though I might have guessed, what with you being hopelessly addicted to horse racing and everything).

What do you want?

Oh not much. Though I suppose the lend of a tenner's out of the question is it?

What do you think?

Thought not ... so how've you been? It must be, like, never since I saw you last.

Not good to be honest. I've still six tonne o' shit to shift into Mrs. Wilkes' back garden before her husband gets back from the foundary ... and me 'eart's playing me up again.

I'd heard you'd had heart troubles.

Who told you that? (Brad grabs me by the lapels and throws me up against the wall) What fucker's been speaking about me behind my back then eh?

Why Scott Rowley, erstwhile editor and fascist overlord of the banana republic we call Classic Rock magazine, that's who old chum.

Oh well that's alright then. If it was anyone else, I'd 'ave 'em, but I aint touching him ... not with the levels of security he's set up around him.

So how's it going over at the office?

Well it's settled down since the gun-battle. Sian's walking again now they've got the shrapnel out of her leg ... and Geoff can almost eat a whole bowl of liquidised potato thanks to the feeding straw attached to his wheelchair.

And Scott? Is he coping well with the Zimmer frame and spinal supports?

His mood changes from bad to violent most days. We cope by hiding behind concrete riot barriers.

Still, it must be tough - working with the constant threat of serious injury hanging over your head?

It's the guests I feel sorry for. Eddie Van Halen came in for an interview last week and no-one had told him what was likely to happen if he didn't keep his head down ... still, third-degree burns and a week on a life-support machine are a small price to pay to promote your album, I say.

Indeed. I once read Huey Lewis had to fight the editor of Rolling Stone with a nail-studded club just so he'd mention his Sports album.

You think that's bad? Meatloaf had to undergo trial by torture before Metal Hammer would agree to review Bat Out Of Hell III. The magazine industry's changed, man.

So do you see yourself staying at Classic Rock?

(Brad grabs me again - there is pleading in his eyes) THEY HAVE MY CHILDREN! My lovely, golden-haired boys! Anything else ... but not the boys ... not the boys.

Still, nice to be out the house...

Why? Why did they take my boys? WHHHHHYYYY?

With that, Brad stumbles from the bookies and runs screaming into the path of a London bus. The good, they say, die young. For poor Brad Merret it's a statement that's at least 50% true.

Look out for more exclusive interviews with Classic Rock staff - coming as soon as I get round to making them up.

How To Get Your Work Published Part 1 : Illustration

2006-11-03T03:49:00.000-08:00

Lots of people (and by that I mean virtually nobody) ask me how I've managed to get so much work published despite mounting evidence of being a bit rubbish. Usually I flash these people a patronising smile, adjust my monacle and shoo them away with a swish of my cane. However, I feel the time is now right to reveal the hidden secrets behind this mysterious subject as an illustrator of my acquaintence has just broken into my house and is holding a gun to my head. Here then are some of the ways I get my 'work' in print...

Blackmail

I have in my posession certain photographs of an 'exotic' nature featuring my good friend and mortal enemy Scott Rowley (or 'Stalin' as we affectionately call him). Mr. Rowley edits Classic Rock magazine and knows my exclusion from its pages will bring down a shitstorm of accusations he'll not be able to lie his way out of. That the photographs are clearly fakes is neither here nor there as both he and I know the deadly truth behind the saying 'there's no smoke without fire'.

Kidnapping

A note scrawled in blood arrived at the offices of .net magazine. It read 'If you ever want to see your family again, send 1 commission to BPPerry now. This is not a joke, your son's head is already in the vice. Do it, do it now.' Enclosed were several photographs showing me and the editor's wife 'having a good time'. My commission duly arrived and the family were released practically unharmed - just some light welts and a couple of missing fingers.

Brute Force

Several years ago I pretended to be really really concerned about the plight of the homeless. In fact, I was just trying to get a job on The Big Issue. They wouldn't give me one so I stormed their offices and beat the assistant editor to death with a hammer. The offer of work arrived the following morning - first class.

Deception

Picking up a copy of Total Guitar one week, I noticed my singular absence from it. I rang up their editor (one 'Uncle Joe' Rowley) and pretended to be world-famous illustrator Ralph Steadman. "Hi," says I, "I'm Ralph Steadman and I think I'll do you some illustrations at a vastly reduced price ... send me a commission now, my good man." "Oh begorra and bejaysus," says a clearly impressed Mr. Rowley, "T'would be a singular honour to have your work grace the pages of our humble magazine sorr. Oi will fax you a story straight away, so Oi will, so Oi will." Only later, when he received the third-rate piece of rubbish I'd drawn in a hurry and signed 'BPPerry' did he realise his mistake. And by then it was too late ... one to me, I fancy!

Lying

"My mother's at Death's Door," says I down the phone to Scott Rowley (Mussolini-like edictator of Classic Rock magazine), "She'll die unless I can come up with £375 for a vital heart operation!" "We can't have that," answers Rowley, "Do us a comic strip. Your last one was a spectacular failure, but everyone deserves a second chance - just don't put Burt Reynolds in it this time." "Thankyou your Majesty. You've saved my mother's life!" I replied. When the cheque arrived, I spent it on drink.

So there you have it. It's not about 'who you know' or 'talent' or any of that other rubbish. It's all about theiving, swindling and cheating your way to the top. Illustrators must demonstrate that 'killer instinct' to achieve success lest they be condemned to a life of scrabbling around in bins looking for spiders to eat. Either that or have potentially damaging photographic evidence that your editor sleeps with animals. I, as I have proved, have both.

Humane Ways To Dispose Of A BeeGee No.1

2006-11-02T06:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Meat

2006-11-02T04:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Meat
Thanks very much for the birthday card and the photos. The cartoon devil on the front made me wonder if we should do another Bat Out Of Hell album. It’s been a few years since our last one and I’ve had some great ideas if you’re up for it?
Jim

Dear Jim
Thanks for your last letter. I’m glad you liked the photos and the card. The one of me with the flamingos was funny, I thought. I’d definitely be up for a new Bat album as work’s been a bit thin on the ground of late. I seem to spend most of my life appearing on stupid chat shows in England nowadays, so getting back into the studio would be great.
Meat

Dear Meat
Yes, the flamingos were funny. I’m pleased you like the idea of a new Bat album. I’ve written a song called Helluva Lotta Woman which I think would be a perfect opening to side one – I’ll fax you over the lyrics. Keep on truckin’ old friend!
Jim

Dear Jim
I received the fax with the lyrics to Helluva Lotta Woman this morning. I liked the first two verses, but I’m not sure about the chorus. And are you sure we don’t need something a little ‘meatier’ for our opening number? Tell me what you think mate.
Meat

Dear Meat
With all due respect, I think I know a little bit more about song-writing than YOU having written two very successful Bat Out Of Hell albums already. Helluva Lotta Woman is a great opener for the album and must stay. I’ll ignore your idea to change the chorus because I know you’re only trying to help. Keep to the singing and leave the song-writing to me.
Jim

Jim
Oh that’s your fucking attitude is it eh? Because of course YOU know everything and I’m just the hired help aren’t I? May I remind you that when the general public hears the words ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ it’s my face they see, not Jim fucking Steinman’s. You might want to think about THAT for a couple of minutes smartass.
M

Meat
They only see your face because it’s so bloody fat you big fat bastard. Perhaps they’d know who's bloody music it was if it wasn’t sung by an overbearing fucking loudmouth with attention deficit disorder. Jesus fucking Christ it's the same old shit everytime with YOU isn't it? You fat sod.
Jim

Mr. Steinman
Perhaps you'd care to take your fucking comments OUTSIDE chum? And who are you calling fat anyway, you're not exactly Twiggy yourself are you doughnut-boy?
M

Mr. Loaf
'Doughnut-boy' is it? That's fucking grown up you big fat bollock. Get FUCKED!
Mr.Steinman

Dear Mr. Steinman
On behalf of our client, Mr Meatius Loafus, we demand you cease and desist from sending him insulting and demeaning e-mails. Any further correspondance of this kind will result in a court summons.
Yours,
Spellman and Sheigel
Solicitors

(Several months later...)

Dear Jim
Thanks for the Christmas card with the dog on it. I was thinking we should maybe get together and do another Bat Out Of Hell album? It's been a while!
Your great mate Meat

Etc etc etc...

A Brief (ish) Introduction...

2006-11-02T02:26:00.000-08:00

There are plenty of things I have written over the years that are unsuitable for publication in a national magazine. The reasons for this are as follows:
1. They're shit.
2. They're not all that shit, just a little bit shit.
3. They're not shit at all, just unsuitable for the frankly 'narrow' tastes of the nazis that control our media. These are trail-blazing pieces of work that should, if there were any justice in the world, be printed IMMEDIATELY. It is only the blinkered and backwards attitude of the feckless dregs that sit in their ivory towers (London) pontificating on what should and should not be published that holds this work back.
4. Or they might, as I say, just be shit.

So I've decided (this is a lie, by the way - see below) to start up this 'ere diary/rant/political polemic/good-time gal so you, the great unwashed, can bask in the glory of my imagination. I have no particular axe to grind, no great wisdom to impart. I'm just a man who happens to be able to swindle publishing companies out of large sums of money by dressing up fart-gags as art. Hopefully, by reading and looking at the things I intend to publish here, you too will one day gain the skills necessary to 'wing it' in an industry full of charlatans, layabouts and traitors. Or at the very least, have a half-arsed chuckle at a nob joke before getting back to your daily business of trawling for porn.

Au revoir!

*This wasn't actually my idea. Scott Rowley (erstwhile uber-editor of Classic Rock magazine and professional slave-driver) suggested I do this as a cynical way to sell t-shirts.