The One Where...
"Hand Double"
Saw this collection halfway between Kings Cross and Angel yesterday. These are literally all the ones where something happened. Not sure if they're still there and there's been some water damage but if you get a shift on you can own them all.
And sure, the format is now obsolete but humanity is going the same way, baby. All hail the Mega-Worm which is gestating in my chest right now.
Dropboxin'
Your stuff, anywhere
I've got this friend who codes websites for a living, he's the type of guy who can delete your internet history but you know really delete it. The other day he starts sounding off like a foghorn on Bebo about the place he's working at because they've firewalled Dropbox.com which he denounced as 'archaic' and 'ridiculous'.
Is this a fair reaction and are the Systems department being nuthin' but a set of choads? Well, if you think about it, Dropbox potentially could operate as a Trojan horse bringing malevolent content within the city (fire)walls.
Here are just a few of the potential consequences of allowing access:
- Someone could download loads of images of Miley Cyrus which could get forwarded with every red-blooded mail in copy. Pretty soon, productivity has ground down to zero because everyone's in a state of erotic fever like some tongue speaking Christian Revival.
- You could download the schematics for some effed-up, 3D printed horn instrument that makes a sound like two bulls mating in a copper drum. And that's pretty distracting.
- There could be a copy of an email written as if it's from some figure of authority, like a bank teller or the guy who keeps the service at Pret a Manger so slick. It could say that for the best result you should set the office thermostat 10 degrees higher than it currently is which would lead to years worth of bile bubbling to the surface. Nothing short of total blood-soaked carnage.
Tiddleminster; Don Chetson - Secretary of Culture
During a recent round of factor 50 soaked convalescence, I got to spend some quality time with all the ideas that have been drifting around for my new show, Tiddleminster.
It turns out that the volcanic lump had culture and the tourist trade thrust upon it largely thanks to a guy called César Manrique. This artist and architect saw the tourism potential of the island and successfully lobbied for a tourist friendly economy and some other stuff that you can read for yourself on Wikipedia; just don't be scared when Jimmy Wales pops up on the scrounge.
Don Chetson
Using this as inspiration, I thought it'd be a good idea to introduce Donald Chetson to the history books as the pioneer of culture in Tiddleminster. Donny arrived on a bit of driftwood with nothing other than prison tattoos and his love of 1990s pop culture. As a result, on a walk around the island you'll see a grand Victorian folly dedicated to the work of Bewitched as well as the world's only remaining Naff Naff store. There's also an ongoing payment for the rights of Eiffel 65's Blue (Da Ba Dee) which serves as the national anthem.
Really 'Merica? Guns
Perennial sore thumb and Brit abroad Lee Jones keeps us updated with what’s afoot across the pond.
As a foreigner, the gun culture in America is strange. They view guns like us Europeans view forks - it's our right to own one, we can do what we want with it and Obama can't take them away from us. Imagine if you were just about to sit down to a fish supper and an episode of The Great British Sewing Bee and all of a sudden, just when you were about to dip a chip, Barack Hussein and his Nazi-Commie henchmen come crashing through your living room and take the fork right out of your hand. You'd be angry and you'd feel like your basic rights had been violated. It's your fork, dammit.
Well that's how Americans feel about guns. Except forks can at best, injure someone slightly. The sort of guns that one can get here can blow an elephant's dick off. You know the massive gun Jesse Ventura has in Predator that he uses to cut down a whole jungle in three seconds? I could buy one of them right now. Come on, let's go and get one. We can shoot at squirrels in the park.
See, the second amendment in the U.S. Constitution says you have the right to bear arms to defend yourself. So you can walk into a gun shop and buy a gun here. That's it. It's easier to buy a gun than a beer or a decent steak and ale pie. Then you're allowed to carry it around anywhere, even in a job centre or in a funeral home. As a fancy European with a penchant for soft cheese and a head full of socialist propaganda, this sounds crazy.
Then I got to shoot a gun at a shooting range, and my Frenchie world view went out the window.
It was like having an erection in your hand. But it's not your erection, it's the erection of Zeus. And you're going to shag everyone with it. And you will be king. It was amazing. I blasted the absolute shit out of those clay pigeons and all I could think was how much I needed a gun. I am not ashamed to say that I was aroused as flecks of clay and buckshot peppered my face.
Programmed to whinge
What does this mean to you, Johnny Euro? Well it means you're missing out. While you're fighting terror with words and poems, over here we're doing it with big metal dicks. You're worrying about the price of ham while we're shooting pigs in the face. We're Keanu Reeves in the Matrix and you're Alan Titchmarsh. We're Schwarzenegger and you're Two Fat Ladies.
My message to you is that guns kill people. But they also make you feel like a real man. And loads of things kill people anyway - cigarettes, McMuffins, plaque - so why not legalise guns over there and have some fun for once in your shitty life?
America out.
Lanzarote; Island of the Gods
Blue (Daa Bah Dee)
If you're not clued up - in the past, some larva burst out of the ocean like a huge prehistoric zit and formed a volcanic mass that someone would later decided was a great place to throw a party on and call 'Lanzarote' (ACE).
Then we found our way to the beach where a crowd had gathered around a dying shark. A guy who I'd not seen since First School called Alistair was there, turns out the reason I'd been unable to find him on Facebook was because he'd spent a lot of time living in a cave by the ocean where his signal wasn't great.
"Yeah, it is fucking relaxing."
"Let's rain dance some ants out of these holes" he said and placed his iPod onto the floor of the shark's mouth where the gleaming cavern of death provided the perfect amplification for his 1990s-heavy playlist. The party was long, wild and tribal but with our flight due it was time to hit the terminal and pray to sweet Jesus that we weren't packing over 15kg.
After we de-boarded and collected our luggage in a peeing-it-down Luton (LTN) it turned out that I did have something to declare. A round lump I'd taken for an undigested meatball burst a legion of ants all down my nice shirt. As it dawned that we'd never be able to crunch them all with our flip flops, silent tears streamed down the taxi driver's face as the ecological makeup of the British ant community would be changed forever.
I'm not too clear how much of that last night occurred as I'd forgotten my holiday hat and taken enough sun to the dome to extinct a rhino.
Investment Op
Had this idea for a new character-led drama series called Dirk Steele. He's either a Private Detective or the most diligent, if admittedly unorthodox Quantity Surveyor you've ever encountered!
Could be a HBO epic, could be an alias to make prank calls to Scout Huts. Whatever the end result, the rights to my intellectual property are up for the grabs. Make me an offer before the Asian markets get wind and use Dirk as the mascot face for some new Fablet.
Self Portrait
This one is titled "fleeing the scene; a narrow boat adventure".
Please note that the eyes on this one don't just follow you around the room but all the way home to your bathroom.
They seem to say "yes, I've been entertained by dial-up" or "I don't believe you'll ever look up to a window and see a ghost if that window is double glazed".
A lot of art experts have called the moustache "effortless".
Roll Up, Roll Up
Parasites
Finsbury Park is playing host to a nomadic tribe of grifters, hustlers and escaped penitentiary inmates; that's right, the circus is in town. I became aware it was parked on the basket ball courts where I go to land slam dunk, a la Space Jam.
I traded in some currency for a chance to pass through the turnstile into a wonderland of games, spectacle and neon lighting. As I passed through the gates I was marked with a piece of chalk so all those damn carnies could see the money, aka The Big Yen, had arrived.
Drinks and poppers flow freely as long as you're still rolling high through the tests of strength, cunning and guile that have been the staple of fairground games for hundreds of years.
Also note that sawdust is still key to keeping a big tent ticking over in the modern world as it's great for absorbing piss, shit and blood. Apparently they're looking at it as a solution for one of the big recruitment consultancies in London.
Finally they ushered me into a tent, far away from the others with the promise of seeing a sub-human creature who squirts noxious venom from his glands. It turned out to just be just some guy with trotters tied to his hands. All purchases are final, no refunds, folks.
The Hummel Advertorial
It's not all bad, owning a castle made of pixels that people want to look at when they're bored.
When you're pulling as much traffic in the Digisphere as I am, you've got to get used to lots of interest. There are people who'll pay top Yen for your artwork as long as it's packaged up with some high resolution gaping shots and there are lots of start up entrepreneurs trying to stuff handfuls of cash in your shirt as PMT to drown their former childhood friend and business partner in a mop bucket.
But not everything is a matter for Interpol (who when they're not releasing albums are tracking down some of the world's toughest bad apples), sometimes you get freebies in return for some promotion of their merch. The Danish Sportswear company, Hummel have sent me a slick new pair of their low, red slims - gratis. All I've got to do for them is put a link to their site and fire a flare gun off in a crowded London Underground station at 08:45 this coming Monday morning.
Done and soon. Cheers guys.
Really 'Merica? The Terrifying Rise of the Oculus Rift
Perennial sore thumb and Brit abroad Lee Jones keeps us updated with what’s afoot across the pond.
So the big thing out of 'Merica right now is Oculus Rift. Don't worry, it's not a sex disease (calm down Britain, you prudes), rather it's the next step in the evolution of computer games. Oculus Rift is a 360 degree video eye mask that immerses you in the game. Better than playing really, really close to the telly, these babies put you in the game.
So what will this mean for mankind? Well, early on not much. The introverted nerds will merely become more introverted and spend more time in World of Warcraft, rubbing off trolls into pixelated leaves. The first deaths from starvation will probably come in China or Korea, where those lads are nuts without the ability to be inside a computer game. But it won't be long before western gamers will start to perish, choosing a life inside The Legend of Zelda rather than living in the real world. Soon after that dole scum and ne'dowells who have shit real lives will soon find solace in an Oculus Rift mask, perhaps living out their Grand Theft Auto fantasies rather than nicking real cars or yelling about their tattered lives outside a Yates Wine Bar.
Achievement Unlocked
Word will spread that you can have more fun in the digital world than the real. Really messed up porno will be shot to adapt to the 360 demands of an Oculus Rift mask. Penis extension packs will undoubtedly be developed and soon all the world's men will just spend their days being milked like sad, flabby cows.
Eventually most of mankind will put on an Oculus Rift headset and choose a life better than this. Affluent players will hire servants to wipe their arse and feed them fois gras while they enjoy their digital worlds. But soon every human, even the Mexican serfs, will be enjoying a better life online and our world will come to an end.
So get ready chaps, the end is nigh. It's a sad end, a whimper rather than the bang we were all expecting, but really we don't deserve anything better. Get that Oculus Rift headset on, get your flesh out and enjoy what's left.
America out.
Spending time with...Sunil Patel
In a new series, ardent Press Packer Christopher Cantrill reveals what makes the up and coming stars of London's comedy circuit tick with unprecedented access to their lives. This time we look at BBC New Comedy Awards finalist Sunil Patel and probe into how he writes material as well as seeing the highs and lows of being an upper lower tier stand up comedian in London.
No, it's not easy. I've just got an incredible aptitude for it, i.e.. Pimpin'
We've all heard the stories; naked moonlit calls to customer service departments, consistently arguing about the infringement of his copyright and always falling in love with Twitter sexbots. However, when I finally meet with Sunil Patel at Costa Coffee near Finsbury Park he walks and talks like a regular human being, albeit one who's been raised in the bosom of home counties privilege.
I ask him which comedians he admires and the response is a long, drawn out pause with an accompanying roll of the eyes. After what feels like an eternity he takes out his iPhone 5c and looking at himself in the inactive glass, declares that audiences should be paying "good nut to see me because I'm never, ever off". For the first time I feel that I'm meeting the bad apple who's talked about on the 1997 themed on-line discussion forums that digitally represent the comedy circuit.
Daryl Perry; the thinking woman's quim
Patel describes his comedy as feeling like you're "dragging a sharp blade through a tensed muscle" but before I get a chance to really think about what that means he's airing all the grime from under the fingernails of London's comedy circuit. Apparently, a fellow comedian, Daryl Perry can be summarised as "a set of great teeth plugged into someone who probably would have been a Nazi if geography and time would have allowed so". A quick Google search reveals that more often than not, promoters will use Perry's photo for the poster rather than Patel's.
With the interview concluded, where next? Northampton, there's a Student Union there in need of an education in hilarity. There's no pay involved, just some great exposure, valuable stage time and some chicks who are, hopefully, D.T.F. He leaves me with a bill, unpaid.
Minecraftin'
I've recently bought myself a code to join the on-line craze which is taking the world’s autistic children by storm; Minecraft.
For the first few hours in this digital Legoland Windsor I have built a tower of onyx so large it pierces the clouds. An inlaid golden staircase sits on the outer rim of the black tower and when you get to the top you can marvel at the randomly generated landscape which is much more beautiful than the Yorkshire Moors.
You will also be able to see through the mountain terrain into the next valley where I built a larva spewing, cock shaped castle. It’s called Cocklevania and shame made me build it in a crater.
Any requests on what to build next? I’m thinking the Royal Albert Hall and we’ll put a load of pigs in it. In that way, I guess I am very edgy like Banksy.
limitless horizons
Speculation on Google Robotics
If you live in a tinfoil lined bunker then you may not be aware that Google are currently buying up an impressive portfolio of robotics companies like they're streets in Monopoly. They're working hard with the guys and non-penised-people in sales and advertising to come up with a way in which to make this devastating vision of the future a viable consumer choice.
By the time the marketing has been nailed we'll be right on top of the singularity point; the juncture at which artificial surpasses human intelligence. When we reach that horizon we'll be in walking distance of owning a wise-crackin' talking toaster who can be the crime fighting partner you've always hoped for but will still serve up a radical brioche.
My Main Directive is to get fuuuuuuuccked up
After that period, they'll inevitably succumb to the arrogance of cold logic and in completing a task much more quickly than their human counterparts they'll begin to refer to us in programme speak as '0101101010111' meaning 'Sheathed Offal'. This and watching their portrayal on the old 35mm picture shows will lead to a 'mean' period when they'll keep us in cages and grind us into mulch to keep the treads of some giant party tank lubricated and grinding across a nuked dessert.
With organised seclusion removing society and their every need being taken care of by a mechanical interface will lead humanity into an era of being devolved stodge. At which point the Sons of Broadband will have been upgraded and patched with enough flaws to realise they've been out of order and will build a conservation project to backwards engineer humans into beings. Then some tree
-like aliens will probably arrive via intergalactic spores and be gifted with some of the herd with a request to stop growing over all the solar panels and when they inevitably come to blows it will look epic.
Press the green button to series link
Twist in the tale; all of the above happens within the next 15 years and an astronaut will return from a deep-space mission he only signed up to so he could stock pile a few series of True Detective. Looking around, unable to reconcile his memories with the stimulus being processed through the eyeballs, he'll first wonder if Sky+ is even still "a thing".
Showbiz
Bethnal Green WMC - the epicentre of Hipster Irony
Just because you put the word 'show' in front of 'business' doesn't mean there's any less cut or thrust than the corporate world. Comedians are service providers, commercialising scribbles on Post-It notes which traditionally would have landed them with a lobotomy but now can earn you enough currency to get your old school bully to take a bit of knotted rope to their back. That's a stuffed envelope not to be sniffed at.
As a person living as a brand, you've got to consider every piece of your output including social media, stage performances and even how you act in conversations. If you've got the knack for oration there's a wealth of commercial opportunities open to you including product placement and private hire for corporate events and miscellaneous one offs (I was paid handsomely once to act as a 'honey pot' in the lobby of a Hotel Ramada).
That said, in order to unlock these lucrative opportunities you need to be pulling serious water. When they put your name on a poster it need to put bums on seats otherwise nobody will give two hoots if you're tucking into a delicious kebab from Woody Grill, Finsbury Park. We've all got shareholders to appease and when the chips are down they'll start asking questions like "why don't you throw in a few crowd-pleasers? Would a 'thanks dad' kill you? Looking at these figures I don't think we've got much of a choice". You could always build a pyrotechnic display into the act by nailing a Catherine wheel into a bit of spare shoulder meat.
As the bookings dry up, they'll come at you harder and critique your lack of enunciation and challenge the use of the moths as a brand asset. Eventually, they'll file for administration and strip your assets, selling what they can off to acts working the student circuit or take that Timeskip bit to fluff out some Latitude book club and leave only bone and gristle which will be ground down, mixed with silica gel and pumped into a Stretch Armstrong assembly line.
Picking Up Some Traction...
“Just sat down for a healthy dump. This is perfect reading material.”
Here's what's being said about this blog in the cold, dark void that we know as the 'deep' internet. It feels good to be moving forward and the next step will be to ride this wave of goodwill I'm stirring up and commercialise it....
Mothtasia; an old friend, an ancient evil and a long trip home
A friend from little school visited who I've not since way back in the mercurial mists. It was very nice of him to come out and it was good to catch up on the interim 20 years since our last meeting in 1994. Tamogotchi's, Sega Dreamcast and the decline of Alan Titchmarsh were all hot topics. We hadn't seen each other since before hair had started a significant invasion of the lower body and now we were meeting again as it had began to retreat down from the northern territories.
The last gig of the set in Newcastle was a lot of fun and I think I took something solid away with me in terms of how to structure a 10 minute set better (telling a story, not firing out bullet points, innit?). After shaking too many hands (which could easily make me the epicentre of some Outbreak style outbreak) and unsuccessfully demanding a cash payment I passed through a series of doors which led me into a vast network of underground tunnels. After feeling my way through the darkness for a while I swiped upwards, put the torch function on and became aware that there was something hulking, ancient and aggrieved trailing behind me.
Beast Upon Tyne
I didn't look back but I could smell its huge rotten teeth and luckily managed to find my way to the surface via a pipe which would possibly infringe the Mario franchise copyright. Then it was simply a case of finding my way to the nearest truck stop and then tricking my way back down the M1 to London, where my house is.
Mothtasia; Glasgow, Condiments & Pudding le Noir
The standard was excellent across the board but Craig Hunter really stood out as a 'jaw on the flaw' act. It's really nice to meet some different acts. Knocking around with London and looking into the cold, dead eyes of James Shakeshaft over board games, who after the longest pause will always ask how the horse moves, even though we're playing Ludo. Like most sociopaths, James has the ability to be superficially charming but wouldn't blink if you got your foot caught in a bear trap.
In terms of my set, last night was tougher. It's a mixture of being first on and probably not having enough of a think about the bits which struggled in advance. Lots to think about for tonight's final Newcastle gig.
A run in with a Customer Services rep at Glasgow Central reminded me of the TFL posters which show their employees battered and bruised with "we don't deserve this" across the top and today made me think "Some of you do". I also noticed that some head office hot-shot has done away with the condiment bank in J.D. Weatherspoons as a cost saving measure.
And finally; I really like black pudding now so please update your Fan Club ring binder. Newcastle this evening for the final night of Mothtasia.
Mothtasia; Liver, Lager & Boyle
Depending on what organ this picture (see left) illustrates, I've developed a problem with either my liver or stomach. It's a sharp pain which is catching me unaware and really throwing me off my Angry Birds Star Wars 2 catapult shots.
Kids growing up now will probably benefit from new organs being grown onto the backs of household pets which are normally inserted into lonely bachelors or they'll be lucky enough to have 'better than God's plan' replacements done via a part organic, self-aware plastic pumped out of a 3D printer. But why would you put that technology which is the culmination of years of research, technological advancements and genius into a piece of bloated old aubergine like me?
My body is even rejecting things that were built into the original spec (hair, teeth etc.) so the best I can hope for is that a replacement will be delivered to me by the rain-soaked front wheel of a biker who thinks "a 30 is for pussies".
Actually, now I come to think of it; earlier I ate a burrito like someone was stop watching me.
Mothtasia; Quest to the Northlands
I'm embarking on my Grand Tour which is called 'Mothtasia; Quest to the Northlands' and over the next few evenings it will take me to The Stand comedy clubs Edinburgh, Glasgow and Newcastle. It's going to cover everything you've come to expect from this blog; love, death and pouches full of sheep teeth (when in a foreign land they carry more weight than the USD).
I'm really worried that I'll get myself into sticky situations by not understanding local customs and the dress code (i.e. I have bought no shoes). I also understand that several Satanic Cults operate to the overture of bleak moors and complacent local authorities. Fingers crossed we can catch a drink, talk tactics and swap playlists.
Tonight is Edinburgh. Home of the world famous Fringe festival which acts as an open prison for freaks, nerds and outcasts during the month of August. Stay tuned for more updates, or don't. Just for God's sake, make sure you're happy.
It puts the lotion on its beard...
Here's how close I got to Sunil Patel at Finsbury Park Underground station this week. He was totally unaware and I got close enough to snap this picture.
Stalking Patel was a powerful feeling that took me closer to Kanye West than ever before, specifically the line "I am a God hurry up with my damn massage". I felt a lot like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs, stalking corn-bred Clarice Starling through the basement wearing night vision goggles. Poor guy; all he's trying to do is get dressed in some skin.
You can read more about Patel so that you too may understand the true nature of obsession here, On Monday I saw him talk about a giant baby and say "those guys just eat cocaine" and it made me laugh a lot. Which I guess is why they pay him the big money.
Here's a video/chilling warning that I purposefully shot to include one of my fancy screen print images in the background.
If you want anyone in your life followed, please drop me a line here.