All of these people seem to want to sit next to me on the train. I must be terribly popular, or the trains terribly crowded.
1. The criminally flatulent.
2. The interminably chatty. Seriously. 70 minutes, non-stop. Discussing the various disorders, misdemeanours and psychoses of their nearest and dearest at full and painfully audible volume. For the record, apparently:
A: Dad's colostemy bag has, of late, taken on a troubling burgundy hue. Presumably because of his bumper beetroot crop. Or is could be bum cancer. The amateur medical profession is divided.
B: Leslie has a crush on her physics teacher.
C: The dress in the attic belongs to Gavin.
3. The diseased. I had not realised that the train doors shutting was a universal prompt to the suited and posh-frocked alike to choke, hack, sneeze and generally evacuate their passages of, collectively, several gallons of phlegm, mucus, and assorted other fluids. A quantity of this, as a rule, ends up on or about my person by dint of proximity. Delightful.
4. The fat.
5. The mal-coordinated. While you're taking a seat, why not take the opportunity to batter 7 shades out of your co-sardines with your bike helmet, brief case, shoes and other such toughened sundries. Why not, indeed?
6. The young. Students. On their way home, at 7 in the morning. Talking about how much "fun" they've had. "Fun". Poor souls. Spare a thought for these people who are going to have to grow a second stomach for all the crack they'll have to smuggle to pay off their loans.
7. The dozers. Apparently, crammed into a seat and surrounded by filth, snot and bum-smells it is possible to grab forty winks. Oh, and dribble copiously. On my shoulder. Soggy now.
8. The incoherent. Giving the "announcements" obviously. These typess are usually half way through some form of gender reassignment therapy, leading to adolescent croakiness, and often blighted with a cold or similar (see 3) and missing one or more teeth (see 5 and, or 10). All of this aids pronunciation no end.
9. The criminally depressed. (See, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and, ultimately, 10).
10. The drunk. Well, I have to take the edge of somehow, haven't I?
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Friday 9 October 2009
Why-don't-they-already-exist festivals
1. SwingerFest
10,000 middle-aged ugly people fucking in self
catering chalets in a leisure-park on the outskirts of Doncaster, while
an Eagles covers band play Hotel California 24 hours a day for the
entire event.
2. Blubber-Fest
A Bacchanalian orgy taking place in an Olympic-sized swimming pool
filled with recently harvested seal blubber. In the absence of newly
butchered seals, any amount of liposuction wastage or corpulent
octogenarians will suffice.
3. The annual Mudcraft Gathering
A weekend of mudcrafts, herbal tea and new age bullshit. People come to share their joy of crafting stuff with and in mud, whilst being able to unwind in an atmosphere of nauseating incense, questionable folk music and spiritual enlightenment. The event will culminate in the crowning of Mudcrafter of the Year, a prestigious competition only rivaled by the Crafted in
Mud Excellence awards, now sadly defunct.
4. Testival
Taking place every other Thursday, except in months containing letters, 400 proficient leotard wearers convene in a disused sports hall in East Cheam to examine the contents of one another's knicker arrangements. Prizes are given for size, resonance and texture of pustules.
Once every thousand years, a small tin cup is awarded to the "prettiest scrotum". Since the dawn of time, this has been presented to a disgruntled meerkat named Susan who thought she was queuing for tickets to see a cast of pharoah ants perform Waiting for Godot at Milton Keynes leisure centre.
5. Drunken Landmark Forum
A retreat where people get ploughed with booze and are made to apologise for passing out. Its character building and only £275.
6. Extremely unhelpful self help festival
Basically a two week self help endurance course. After paying £300 quid the festival goers are locked in a portaloo with a photocopied picture of Alistair Darling, a pair of broken pliers and green tea, with the inspirational instruction "You can do it" handwritten on every sheet of toilet paper.
7. Non-Event
Nothing happens anywhere. As normal. What's the point? I mean, honestly?
8. The Fifth Annual Mass Suicide Event 5 (V)
Several Guatemalan gentlemen claim to have attended each of the previous four "Events", giving the impression that they had rather missed the point. They refute this entirely. But they would. Because they can. Because they are not yet dead.
9. The Biannual Smelling a Dead Pigeon Weekend Extravaganza
Enthusiasts flock to Norwich for this much loved biannual affair, in which people go around smelling dead pigeons in various stages of decomposition. There's a choice of Asian or Italian food and entertainment is usually provided by some guy's mate's band called Gynocops. Festival goers, or pidgesniffers as they jovially refer themselves to, are responsible for their own accommodation, although this year the arranger has promised to open up his back garden for campers.
10. Pirate-week festival
Every six months or so Blackburn hold their weekly Pirate festival, or Yaaaaarrrrrz!!, in which the arts of the pirate are celebrated. Deceased pirate legends give free spitting and swashbuckling lessons, there's the try-the-parrot experience and free rum for all sea-worthy
males. Sherry for the women, or brandy, if they're frisky lasses. Yaaaaarrrrrz!! competes with Burnley's Ninja week festival, or NinjaFest, on deserted moors once a year with live weapons to the death.
(Thanks to AB and KK for #s 5 and 6)
10,000 middle-aged ugly people fucking in self
catering chalets in a leisure-park on the outskirts of Doncaster, while
an Eagles covers band play Hotel California 24 hours a day for the
entire event.
2. Blubber-Fest
A Bacchanalian orgy taking place in an Olympic-sized swimming pool
filled with recently harvested seal blubber. In the absence of newly
butchered seals, any amount of liposuction wastage or corpulent
octogenarians will suffice.
3. The annual Mudcraft Gathering
A weekend of mudcrafts, herbal tea and new age bullshit. People come to share their joy of crafting stuff with and in mud, whilst being able to unwind in an atmosphere of nauseating incense, questionable folk music and spiritual enlightenment. The event will culminate in the crowning of Mudcrafter of the Year, a prestigious competition only rivaled by the Crafted in
Mud Excellence awards, now sadly defunct.
4. Testival
Taking place every other Thursday, except in months containing letters, 400 proficient leotard wearers convene in a disused sports hall in East Cheam to examine the contents of one another's knicker arrangements. Prizes are given for size, resonance and texture of pustules.
Once every thousand years, a small tin cup is awarded to the "prettiest scrotum". Since the dawn of time, this has been presented to a disgruntled meerkat named Susan who thought she was queuing for tickets to see a cast of pharoah ants perform Waiting for Godot at Milton Keynes leisure centre.
5. Drunken Landmark Forum
A retreat where people get ploughed with booze and are made to apologise for passing out. Its character building and only £275.
6. Extremely unhelpful self help festival
Basically a two week self help endurance course. After paying £300 quid the festival goers are locked in a portaloo with a photocopied picture of Alistair Darling, a pair of broken pliers and green tea, with the inspirational instruction "You can do it" handwritten on every sheet of toilet paper.
7. Non-Event
Nothing happens anywhere. As normal. What's the point? I mean, honestly?
8. The Fifth Annual Mass Suicide Event 5 (V)
Several Guatemalan gentlemen claim to have attended each of the previous four "Events", giving the impression that they had rather missed the point. They refute this entirely. But they would. Because they can. Because they are not yet dead.
9. The Biannual Smelling a Dead Pigeon Weekend Extravaganza
Enthusiasts flock to Norwich for this much loved biannual affair, in which people go around smelling dead pigeons in various stages of decomposition. There's a choice of Asian or Italian food and entertainment is usually provided by some guy's mate's band called Gynocops. Festival goers, or pidgesniffers as they jovially refer themselves to, are responsible for their own accommodation, although this year the arranger has promised to open up his back garden for campers.
10. Pirate-week festival
Every six months or so Blackburn hold their weekly Pirate festival, or Yaaaaarrrrrz!!, in which the arts of the pirate are celebrated. Deceased pirate legends give free spitting and swashbuckling lessons, there's the try-the-parrot experience and free rum for all sea-worthy
males. Sherry for the women, or brandy, if they're frisky lasses. Yaaaaarrrrrz!! competes with Burnley's Ninja week festival, or NinjaFest, on deserted moors once a year with live weapons to the death.
(Thanks to AB and KK for #s 5 and 6)
Monday 30 March 2009
10 tasteless euphemisms for... you know... downstairs lady parts
1. Lady garden
2. Hoo-Ha
3. Crotch taco
4. Tinkleflower
5. Front bottom
6. Afro clam
7. Pink chimney
8. Tangy beef pocket
9. Wizard's sleeve
10. Velvet TARDIS
2. Hoo-Ha
3. Crotch taco
4. Tinkleflower
5. Front bottom
6. Afro clam
7. Pink chimney
8. Tangy beef pocket
9. Wizard's sleeve
10. Velvet TARDIS
Friday 20 March 2009
Carlsson can't truly enjoy himself unless he's:
1. Offending someone, preferably the recently deceased;
2. Stocked up on White Ace;
3. More successful than his opponents in Jeopardy, by some margin;
4. Unable to catch a lit cigarette whilst someone is filming whilst exclaiming "how cool am I?" with a futile timbre;
5. Within an arm's length of his private parts at all times;
6. Able to make Steve feel guilty;
7. Knee-deep in a four-day drug-induced stupor, somewhere between Norwich and Lewes;
8. Constantly aware of the direction of north;
9. In a state in which he can enjoy himself (see points 1-8, but especially 2, 5 and 7. And 3);
10. Able to discuss, with no particular reference to fact, the phenomenon of the quail.
2. Stocked up on White Ace;
3. More successful than his opponents in Jeopardy, by some margin;
4. Unable to catch a lit cigarette whilst someone is filming whilst exclaiming "how cool am I?" with a futile timbre;
5. Within an arm's length of his private parts at all times;
6. Able to make Steve feel guilty;
7. Knee-deep in a four-day drug-induced stupor, somewhere between Norwich and Lewes;
8. Constantly aware of the direction of north;
9. In a state in which he can enjoy himself (see points 1-8, but especially 2, 5 and 7. And 3);
10. Able to discuss, with no particular reference to fact, the phenomenon of the quail.
Thursday 19 March 2009
Ten facts concerning the death of Natasha Richardson
We have all heard the devastating news by now. Natasha Richardson, actor, has tragically died whilst putting on her skies on a beginner's slope in Canada. Here follows a list of ten facts concerning her death that may or may not turn out to be true. We here at Gasmpire will spend the rest of the day in solemn mourning, in between working and going to the rest room to skive off. Despite repeated attempts we have been unable to contact Nigel Havers (pictured below, with moustache) for comment.
It is such a tremendous loss.. she was an actor, you know.
1. Her death will make little or no difference to her acting style. She'll still be a stiff in front of the audience (note: her demise may have a slight negative effect on the long-term prospects of her acting career)
2. She is only the second person to die whilst on a beginner's slope. The first was Jurgen Kassler-Schmidt, an Austrian poultry farmer who accidentally shot himself in front of with a group of deaf data-entry clerks from Walsall with an ageing harpoon whilst demonstrating its inherent safety when used in conjunction with beginner's ski classes. It was a tremendous loss. An onlooker later commented that Jurgen died gracefully, despite having a rusty 60cm pike lodged in his abdomen. He took it like a man.
3. She was merely 300 words away from finishing her double-spaced, 300 word essay entitled "World peace, hunger, clean fuel and all those other pesky problems solved" that would have, many believe, revolutionised the world. Now we will never know her secret. It is a tremendous loss.
4. She is currently alive and well, living under the name Gertrude van der Leeuven in a cupola-shaped shed made from ostrich bones, deep in the remote parts of Wisconsin. She intends to use her new-found anonymity to write books and poems about krill.
5. Conspiracy theories suggesting that her left ski was an undercover agent working for Al-Qaeida have flooded the internet, causing severe delays in some corners of cyberspace. Apparently a ski rental shop mix-up ensured the survival of Jeb Bush.
6. When she died, a thousand penguins burst into tears, inadvertently creating several million cubic kilometers of new icebergs.
7. Following her departure, Jeremy Irons has vowed to never shave until she treads the boards again.
8. Following her departure, Jeremy Irons has been forcefully admitted to a psychiatric ward in downtown Kiev with excellent male grooming facilities.
9. Natasha has bequethed her entire estate to the preservation of Yorkshire.
10. Seconds before dying, Natasha made the solemn promise to never go skiing again.
It is such a tremendous loss.. she was an actor, you know.
1. Her death will make little or no difference to her acting style. She'll still be a stiff in front of the audience (note: her demise may have a slight negative effect on the long-term prospects of her acting career)
2. She is only the second person to die whilst on a beginner's slope. The first was Jurgen Kassler-Schmidt, an Austrian poultry farmer who accidentally shot himself in front of with a group of deaf data-entry clerks from Walsall with an ageing harpoon whilst demonstrating its inherent safety when used in conjunction with beginner's ski classes. It was a tremendous loss. An onlooker later commented that Jurgen died gracefully, despite having a rusty 60cm pike lodged in his abdomen. He took it like a man.
3. She was merely 300 words away from finishing her double-spaced, 300 word essay entitled "World peace, hunger, clean fuel and all those other pesky problems solved" that would have, many believe, revolutionised the world. Now we will never know her secret. It is a tremendous loss.
4. She is currently alive and well, living under the name Gertrude van der Leeuven in a cupola-shaped shed made from ostrich bones, deep in the remote parts of Wisconsin. She intends to use her new-found anonymity to write books and poems about krill.
5. Conspiracy theories suggesting that her left ski was an undercover agent working for Al-Qaeida have flooded the internet, causing severe delays in some corners of cyberspace. Apparently a ski rental shop mix-up ensured the survival of Jeb Bush.
6. When she died, a thousand penguins burst into tears, inadvertently creating several million cubic kilometers of new icebergs.
7. Following her departure, Jeremy Irons has vowed to never shave until she treads the boards again.
8. Following her departure, Jeremy Irons has been forcefully admitted to a psychiatric ward in downtown Kiev with excellent male grooming facilities.
9. Natasha has bequethed her entire estate to the preservation of Yorkshire.
10. Seconds before dying, Natasha made the solemn promise to never go skiing again.
Saturday 28 February 2009
10 idle threats
1. I shall put a cat poo in my phone, and, in time, it will emerge in your ear.
2. I will start a low level leafleting campaign, informing your neighbours and local wildlife that you have a tiny tinkle, and that your botty is infected with icky poos.
3. I'll have you gently aroused with tinned salmon until you admit that you fancy your grandmother's catgut tennis racket.
4. I will put your keys into a different pocket, confusing you for several seconds - perhaps leading to a nagging doubt that will last for up to a minute.
5. I shall insist on calling you "Claudia" every time we meet on a Thursday.
6. I will write your mobile telephone number on the wall in the chaps' lavvy in the pub under the motto "Call this number for raging hot bot-bot".
7. I'll telephone your mother and inform her that you are pregnant by another man, and that you are yet to resolve the embarrassing situation involving a pound note. The shame will only be partially bearable.
8. I will steal one of your socks. But you won't know which one. Yeah.
9.I'll sneeze, not wipe the snot off my hands and then pat you maliciously on the back. Maybe twice.
10. I will photoshop a baby blue beret onto your favourite picture.
You have been warned.
2. I will start a low level leafleting campaign, informing your neighbours and local wildlife that you have a tiny tinkle, and that your botty is infected with icky poos.
3. I'll have you gently aroused with tinned salmon until you admit that you fancy your grandmother's catgut tennis racket.
4. I will put your keys into a different pocket, confusing you for several seconds - perhaps leading to a nagging doubt that will last for up to a minute.
5. I shall insist on calling you "Claudia" every time we meet on a Thursday.
6. I will write your mobile telephone number on the wall in the chaps' lavvy in the pub under the motto "Call this number for raging hot bot-bot".
7. I'll telephone your mother and inform her that you are pregnant by another man, and that you are yet to resolve the embarrassing situation involving a pound note. The shame will only be partially bearable.
8. I will steal one of your socks. But you won't know which one. Yeah.
9.I'll sneeze, not wipe the snot off my hands and then pat you maliciously on the back. Maybe twice.
10. I will photoshop a baby blue beret onto your favourite picture.
You have been warned.
Thursday 26 February 2009
Ten alternate uses for Belgium
Belgium symbolizes for many people (and certain breeds of otter) the ultimate waste of geographical space. Sure, it is funny, and sometimes even endearing, but ultimately Belgium serves no real function. Given this, it is understandable that most people (and the Dutch) would like to see the country diminish to the point of non-existence, both in terms of landmass and culture, despite not having any culture and very little landmass. We here at the Gasmpire feel this perception (and the strong desire on part of the Dutch to rid the world of the Belgique) is a bit unfair. Not to the Belgians, as they are stupidly called, but to the rest of Europe as a whole. Here we have suggested ten alternate uses for the territory and absurd cultural identity currently known as Belgium. We hope they will be taken to heart by politicians and the Dutch alike, to ensure there will be a Belgium for the future, and perhaps most importantly, that it be wholly distinct from the Belgium at present.
1. Give it to the Dutch. As a nation they're only marginally less superfluous than the Belgians, but at least they can play football.
2. Excavate the entire country and the use the soil to create a massive mountain somewhere. It could be called 'Flemish Peak' and could serve as a reminder of the people who sacrificed their country for a giant mound somewhere. School kids would be made to remember (under duress, if at all plausible / legal), the noble act espoused by the once frankly ludicrous and highly unnecessary people of Belgium and their selfless act aimed at expunging the world of their kind whilst creating a huge peak somewhere.
3. Rebrand Belgium in a Europe-wide competition among the continent's unemployed. The winner will be allowed to decide the fate of the Belgians (as long as it involves gentle annihilation and historical revisionism) and will be asked to place a plaque with the branding of the new look Belgium where the country once stood. Not really much of an alternate use as such, but food for thought nevertheless. (Is it really? Who edits this shit? - Ed.)
4. Turn Belgium into the world's only (and premier) Stella Artois themed pleasure park. People would trek to Stella Park in their droves to engage in such Stella related, time-honoured activities as wife-beating, beer belly cultivating, petty but violent crime and public defecation. One-way chartered flights and buses would leave Rotherham every ten minutes, destined for this great new family destination.
5. Ahh shit... we can't think of any more alternate uses for Belgium. Sorry.
1. Give it to the Dutch. As a nation they're only marginally less superfluous than the Belgians, but at least they can play football.
2. Excavate the entire country and the use the soil to create a massive mountain somewhere. It could be called 'Flemish Peak' and could serve as a reminder of the people who sacrificed their country for a giant mound somewhere. School kids would be made to remember (under duress, if at all plausible / legal), the noble act espoused by the once frankly ludicrous and highly unnecessary people of Belgium and their selfless act aimed at expunging the world of their kind whilst creating a huge peak somewhere.
3. Rebrand Belgium in a Europe-wide competition among the continent's unemployed. The winner will be allowed to decide the fate of the Belgians (as long as it involves gentle annihilation and historical revisionism) and will be asked to place a plaque with the branding of the new look Belgium where the country once stood. Not really much of an alternate use as such, but food for thought nevertheless. (Is it really? Who edits this shit? - Ed.)
4. Turn Belgium into the world's only (and premier) Stella Artois themed pleasure park. People would trek to Stella Park in their droves to engage in such Stella related, time-honoured activities as wife-beating, beer belly cultivating, petty but violent crime and public defecation. One-way chartered flights and buses would leave Rotherham every ten minutes, destined for this great new family destination.
5. Ahh shit... we can't think of any more alternate uses for Belgium. Sorry.
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