No, this isn’t Russian Roulette rebranded, he implored.

It is a game, of sorts, he thought.

You choose a dead musician, he declared.

You relive a one-on-one concert with them, a crowd of you and only you, he explained.

They sing and perform as though there are 100,000 of you, he contextualised.

You feel like you’ve had sex via song with them, he exaggerated.

You only get one go at this, he clarified.

You say Sia, he hears Cilla.

Surprise, surprise, he sings.

You run for a cliff.


“Attagirl!” said the man, grabbing the lead.

The bitch looked at him, as if to say fuck you.

The man won, as he always did.

They walked.

They returned.

The bitch ate and the man drank cheap instant coffee.

Until one day.

Same “Attagirl!”

Same result.

Same walk.

Same meal.

Except this time, the man sat down before his coffee and nodded off, with the lead around his neck.

The bitch crept up to the man, took the hand strap of the lead and started to pull.

Only once the lead was taut did the man awaken.

A little too late.

The bitch left via the back door.

The police tracked her down.

The coroner corroborated the cause of death.

It went to court – the first time an animal had been tried for murder.

The case collapsed.

The bitch walked free.

The end.


Redchurch Street

Is full of twats

In Joseph Beuys hats

Stick modelly girls

Their life unfurls

Through looking the part

When, deep in the heart

They ache to doss

And not give a toss

But the aura is thick

With lookist pricks

Every pose they throw

Drives a mammoth blow

Curtailing their years

With inner tears

When they get home

They’ll be alone

Miserable fuckers

Now down-on-their-luckers

Who’d want to be

With a tool like thee?


We didn’t vote, yet we won.

We are the majority.

We took 345 seats.

33.9 % of Britain said no on the day they begged us to say yes.

They’re wondering why.

Let’s keep them thinking.

No, let’s take their disappointment and raise them ten.

Let’s start our own party.

One without a leader and without candidates.

One that doesn’t make promises, but makes do.

One that tells the truth, no matter how much it hurts.

It’s what the world needs.

Raw, brutal honesty.

This can only come from the people.

From the gut that cannot lie.

We showed the will to resist, now imagine the good we can do if we all feel this way.

We can self-govern, as they did in Belgium for 541 days.

Let policies evolve from the ground up, driven from the heart, not the head.

Let us be our own opposition.

If it is to be, it is up to us.

The ‘Won’t Vote’ manifesto, as felt by the majority of Britain, on this night, Monday 11th May, 4 days after the 2015 General ‘Anaesthetic’ Election.


“So, nobody won.’

“No, we all won.”

“Who lost then?”

“The public.”

“But they voted, they called the shots.”

“Not from the heart. They choose with at least 2 layers of hyprocrisy.’

“So, who won?”

“The system.”

“And Jeremy Vine’s hologram.”

“It’s a sad, sad, sad, sad, world.”

“Cheer up you miserable twat.”

“Sorry, thought I had to tell the truth for a second.”

“Seconds to go.”

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

JOYENCHOLY (# 74,861)

Dear OED,

Put down your DIY dictionary for a second, would you? There’s a knock at your door. Open it and invite the applicant in. Offer up a seat, don’t be rude now.

Allow me to present JOYENCHOLY – the state of being happy through one’s own personal sadness.

Yes, like schadenfreude, but without the sadistic buzz of someone else’s misfortune.

And a little like Anhedonia, the inability to experience pleasure.

Before you find fault with its validity and ask if it’s been corroborated by qualified shrinks the world over, remember 2013’s entry into the OED…’selfie’. Now, was that rubber stamped by eminent photographers? Precisely. So, ignore the author and just feel the feeling. Yes, that gentle numbness radiating through your nerve ends, telling your sensory endings to sulk. Give in to sadness and the world looks up. Really. Pessimists are the happiest people alive. Nothing exceeds their expectations, so life turns out for the better, every time you think it won’t.

In the years to come, we shall be prescribed joyencholia by doctors and sold joyencholia by politicians. Indirectly, it could crack world peace if we only wake up and smell the stale milk within the coffee.

So, unite with me, my fellow joyencholics, and spill your glass down your front. For the in and out tray, of real emotion, shall balance inside us all.


Scotland: I want a divorce.

England: You want what?

Scotland: You, me. We’re done. It’s over. I want a divorce.

England: Don’t be silly darling, we’re great together. Us. We’re made for each other.

Scotland: You’re not listening. You don’t see it do you. Let me spell it out: D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

England: On what grounds?

Scotland: Where shall I start? Adultery.

England: Hang on. A special relationship isn’t adultery.

Scotland: Refusing to pay for housekeeping – classified under ‘unreasonable behaviour’ I think you’ll find.

England: But what about the kids?

Scotland: We’re childless, that’s half the issue.

England: Gretna, Coldstream, Lamberton and Hadrian?

Scotland: You call those kids. Ok, I get the towns, you get the wall.

England: Land-grabber.

Scotland: Amputee.

England: I’ll freeze your purse.

Scotland: I’ll burn your oil.

England: Oh sweetheart, can’t we give it one last go?

Scotland: Yes. GO!


Thanks for slide-tackling God a couple of centuries ago and proving we like to eat each other’s ear wax. It also explains why I walked around with my right arm slung over my head during adolescence. Ah, so I’m not the only one? And I thought it was due to a disruptive growth spurt.

Sadly, we need you again. Or your ghost. The sceptre of faith is bedevilling half of earth as you read this from Mt Limbo. For all their promises of heaven, not one extremist spokesperson can guarantee a second life in nirvana. Instead, they slaughter each other for hanging out the washing on the wrong day.

It’s not right, is it?

What I’m saying Charlie is this: we need another theory. A big one. One so huge that it turns the scientists giddy. Base it on maths, meteorology or the moon – it doesn’t really matter what it’s grounded in as long as it comes with your pawprint. If you’re busy and you’d like me to ‘ghost-write’ it, just give us a sign. An extinct species brought back to life, or a useless one wiped out (no, not us, we’re doing fine all by ourselves).

I’ve got one lined up. Wanna hear it?

Ok, here we go.

We are closer to trees than we are to our fellow animals. Yes, we are the product of seed and we’re deciduous, reeling with the seasons. Plus our skin gnarls up into bark. But this isn’t just a ‘we die and decompose’ statement of the bleeding obvious. There is a deeper resonance and it lies in our skulls. In the way we think. In the way we create ideas. When we have original thoughts, our brain produces buds. As we act upon these buds turning them into behaviours, the buds blossom and a neocortex honey is released in the form of a state we call ‘happiness’. This flowering reiterates why happiness is a creeping intuitive sensation that reaches a peak, then suddenly dies, leaving a chasm of confusion as to how to recreate it. But man do we try. Pills, shrinks, money, kids, sun, friends, ambition, and a billion other catalysts prove to be placebo. And if you don’t believe me ask Dannyboy.

So, there you have it. Man: descended from, and ascendant to, trees. We’re vegetable, and proud of it. Now, if you could just elaborate on that, with a few illustrations, we should be able to get mankind to sign it off…as long as we can convince him it was his idea in the first place.


Dear Tyrrells ®

Your Apple Crisps are ‘delicately cooked’ – no disputing that.

They’re ‘smashingly cinnamony’. Yep. They are.

Can’t say if they’re ‘an enormous hit with the smart set’ as I’m a scruffy bastard.

I can just about stomach every overwritten word on the packet. Just about.

No, the only bona fide moan I’ve got is your portion control. It’s gone OCD. I had 12 crisps in my packet (£1.60 on a First Great Western train). Each crisp was the size of a £2 coin and the weight of 3 Pringles (sorry to slur your good name alongside potato bile). So, ask yourselves this: is 13p a crisp fair? Apples, unlike potatoes, do grow on trees, but at 13p a slice? C’mon, either talk to the train folk to ease up on the mark up, or just pop a few more in the packet.

Yours disappointedly

A train traveller


The air is awash with implausibility.

£100m after the Leveson Inquiry opened its first page, a jury decrees the Titian goddess innocent while her boss-cum-lover is convicted. Hair to the rescue.

Across the ocean and equator, Senor Suarez swears he fell on Chiellini with his teeth. Yes, he has a fair set of gnashers. No, they don’t quite exceed the length of his arms. So, hardly a way to break a fall, unless you’re on set with Johnny Knoxville.

This led me to offer up some advice to FIFA in alternative ways to punish/educate/rehabilitate Suarez.

  1. Place him under general anaesthetic, remove his incisors and force him to play in styrofoam dentures.
  2. Community Service on a dam construction and irrigation site in Sudan, dressed as a beaver.
  3. Hired out by as a mass teething ring for childrens’ 1st birthday parties.
  4. Force him to sit for Gunther Von Hagen to be plastinated, teeth first, before the next World Cup.
  5. Commercialize him as ‘Captain Batshit Crazy’ in time for Halloween with all the proceeds going to Oxfam.
  6. A stint at the coalface of Crossrail’s tunnel burrowing team when ‘Sophia’ needs her cutter head sharpening.
  7. Rehouse him in a kennel outside Anfield.

Please send further suggestions to:

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