Bloodstocks & Communes

Sweaty le Sock ponders;

 At present blood stocks are running dangerously low in the UK because of our 'Fúck You' attitude developed over the last thirty years.  I have a solution, which could save my or your life.  The National Health Service employ attractive female nurses to take the blood from donors.  While the blood is being drained, all male donors are given a quick hand job from the nurse (topless of course).  Obviously, an alternative method will be used for female donors.

In all honesty, you have to admit, it would solve the problem.  There would be a queue a mile long outside every Donor Centre.  I'll bet they do this in Holland.

 

BBZ responds;

 I was in a commune once, it was rife with blood and handjobs, I eventually had to leave though because the woman in the next wigwam to me was very much your typical Gaia, or Mother Earth, but her armpit hair kept eating my Jaffa Cakes.

Funnily enough, on my way from the commune to Birmingham Bull Ring, I stopped off at Azads News & phonecard store to buy a carton of Cadburys Drinking Chocolate.

4 months later, I couldnt sleep, my mind kept wandering back to the commune days, making me sad. I decided to make a hot chocolate and milk to relax my mind and burn my mouth.

I opened the drinking chocolate, and to my amazement, there was a miniature wigwam inside, in fact, 4 or 5! A commune in my Cadburys! I rang up to complain but the man on the helpdesk replied "If you check the side of the carton, it clearly states 'contents may settle over time'".     

So I had a pint of Gin instead.

My Crazy Guitar

My Crazy Guitar

I picked up my guitar today
Decided to just have a play
But that crazy 6 string thing
Wont go Twang!
It goes Twing!

I phoned up Guitar Central
Told them Im plucking mental
And their advice was to play nice
Dont strum Hendrix
Play Tim Rice

The Phantom of the Opera?
versus Crosstown Trafffic?
Are your guitars stuck up your @RRRs
I enquired
Call expired

So the problem now was mine alone
I fingerpicked a Dylan tome
The twang still twinged (the blasted thing!)
Was Clueless
And Claptonless

Then in strolled the cat tail aloft
Mewing in a tone so soft
From my guitar she retrieved a mouse
A mouseleum
Rodent death house

So that was what was going on!
I thought my plectrum days were gone
A cat-astrophe avoided just
Feliciano
Eat my dust!

Jack Schitt
Was Full of It
He used to live next door
With Cats n Dogs n Little Schitts
And Lady Schitt (The whore)

He was no fool
Attended Public School
Was known As Eaton Schitt
He was famed for lighting farts
And staining his sports kit

He majored in sex
Wore dirty brown specs
And put his Schitt member about
He put a turd in the school nurses oven
And scarpered before it popped out

Arrested at Football
Chelsea v Millwall
The Schitt truly hit the fan
The fan told the law who knocked on his door
And gave him a 10 year ban

They moved out of town
To Crappingham Down
And made money selling baled hay
A farmer and wife, a sedate new life
Now its same Schitt, diff'rent day.

Happy Birthday Jesus
Ya Sandal-wearing nerd
Stop hanging round wi' lepers
And get yourself a bird

I bet ya walk on water
Has given ya cold feet
But I hear Mary Magdelines
Blowjobs are a treat

So less of all the prayers mate
Lighten up a bit
Get yourself a brandy
Ya boring hairy git

Your birthdays meant to be
A day to let it all hang out
Not going round preaching gospel
An' acting all devout

Im just trying to help mate
You seem a bit pent up
Make yourself some Merlot
With yer magic cup

Ooh, the eyes are darkening
Did I get you mad
Well bring it on pacifist boy
Or will ya run n get ya dad?

Well happy birthday Jesus
I really really tried
I bet ya spend your Easter the same
As if someone had died

Cowboy Ballad

{country n western gheeeetar intro music}


well, i am just cowboy
with rusted gun n spurs
i twist n turn at ev'ry noise
like doors or kitten purrs

ive been a nervy man now
for many many a year
it started when my mama
tried to strangle me with fur

my sweet old mama 'Creepy'
loved me best as she could give
but lost her mind one stormy day
when off ran my papa 'Sieve'

he took our best horse 'Francis'
coz the saddle was rigged up
and left me and ma $23 and cashew nuts
in a soiled egg-cup

the mailman brought a letter
saying pa had died at sea
he'd signed to the marine corp
coz the uniform was free

my dear ma read the note
and wept until her eyes ran dry
then she hit me with a pineapple
while crying "Why'd Sieve Die!"

that fateful attempted fur murdur
was only days away
i spent all my time with Playboy
and some tissue in the hay

well late one night i woke to find
my face all full of hair
i thought that it was miss july
and held on like a bear

the next time i awoke
i was on a bed in casualty
and mama was in a straight jacket
in loony ward 23

and from that day to this
the taste of fur makes me run cold
so i stick to eating nylon
or wool if im feeling bold

my dear old mama passed away
one gloomy autumn day
and i buried her in the back yard
beneath my magic hay

Dedicated to my Dear Old Mom, Creepy
"Gone, But Not For-Cotton"

Final Countdown

If I have to suffer 'The Final Countdown' again
Or look at those girly perms
I'll track down all the bands' mums
And fill their mouths with worms

You had one hit
(n that was sh*t)
and still today
you're milking it

so take you hair
and air guitars
and stick em up
you're whining a***

If all countdowns lasted this long
the Olympics would be really wrong
and no records would get broken
they’d probably just play urs again [:s]

So please remember those of us
Who's eardrums you've soiled
And stop the song from playing again
Or else those worms’ll be boiled!!

Comic Legends

Bill Hicks is my personal hero. He actually saved my life when he was already dead, that is testimony to the power and genius of his comedy and outlook on life. I was in a rehabilitation unit for alcohol & drugs, struggling to fight my demons, then I came across a compilation album in a grimy old book (and CD) store. ‘Philosophy’ by William Melvin Hicks, totally blew me away and sucked me in at the same time. The strength of the guys convictions gave me the confidence to believe in what I was doing, and why. Thanks Bill. He was born down a mineshaft, with coaldust in his hair, soot beneath his fingernails (but rent was cheaper there). Actually Bill was born in Georgia, USA, in 1961 and grew up in Bible-Belt Central, USA and his reaction to religious dogma, thrust upon him and many others, is evident in his stand-up act. As Bill saw it, “A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he ever wants to see a fucking cross? It's like going up to JFK’s widow, Jackie Onassis, wearing a rifle pendant. Just thinking of John, that’s all Jackie”.

As a teenager he used to sneak out to comedy venues, performing and outshining many established acts while at the tender age of fifteen. People, who saw Bill Hicks live, said it was an experience to be remembered for the rest of their lives. Those who saw him dead, just said that they were really too upset to comment. Bill’s no-holds barred style would never endear him with corporate, image-obsessed, mainstream US Television producers, or audiences for that matter. He venomously spat out the truth, the way he saw it, starkly honest and unabashed and most importantly, funny. “They celebrate Easter the exact same way we do: commemorating the death and resurrection of Jesus by telling our children a giant bunny rabbit … left chocolate eggs in the night. Now, I wonder why we're fucked up as a race. Anybody got any idea? You know, I've read the Bible. I can't find the word "bunny" or "chocolate" anywhere in the fucking book”

Once established on the comedy circuits, Bill’s alcoholic intake soared because of the ‘always touring’ lifestyle he delved into, as did his cigarette consumption, which may well have contributed to his sad, early demise. I think his hardcore, addictive personality gave him an edge which honed his insight but sometimes the booze and later drugs, led him into dark areas of incoherence, which he manfully disguised by harassing the paying audience until they left in disgust. He incorporated his excesses into his routine but always with a sardonic eye on political society’s views on narcotic substances, “Wouldn't you like to see a positive LSD story on the news? To hear what it's all about, perhaps? Wouldn't that be interesting? Just for once? ‘Today, a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration … that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There's no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we're the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather.’ “

Throughout his short career, he rallied against the wrongs of the world, corrupt governments, war, ignorance, religion, the evils of huge corporations and mind manipulating marketing, he wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself, and speak the truth at he saw it. Various companies tried and failed to have Bill endorse their products, “Anybody in marketing, kill yourselves rid the world of your evil machinations, please” but he believed that he had a message, to open peoples eyes, and minds and I think he was probably right. In his last few months after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1994, he did a select last few shows, then went home to die in the company of his family and loved ones. He was, and is a genius, wickedly funny, and with a philosophical outlook that is to be admired His work will live on for many years, Bill Hicks, a one-off, sadly taken from us all too early.

I’ll leave the last word to Bill “The world is like a ride at an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and its fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they begin to question: Is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey – don't worry, don't be afraid ever, because this is just a ride." And we … kill those people. "Shut him up. We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real." It's just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter, because – it's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one. Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride. Take all that money we spend on weapons and defenses each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would pay for many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace.”
Brendan O’Sullivan

Cheeky Royal Monkees

Words by Mahavishnu
Music by Queen

Here we come,
Ridin' down the Mall.
We get the envious looks,
From ev'ry guy 'n' gal.

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy
Some people say we shouldn't exist.
But we're too busy Ruling
An' generally takin' the p1ss.

We go wherever we want to,
At the taxpayers expense
And we'll do it forever
Cos the public are so dense.

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy
And people say we're inbred snobs.
But we're too busy laughing
At all you moronic knóbs.

We're exploiting the nation,
And they still turn up and wave flags,
We've done it for generations,
To the peasants in hand-me-down rags.

(break)

Any time, Or anywhere,
Just look at the notes in your wallet
Guess who's face'll be there

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy
And people think we killed Diana.
But we can't be tried in the law courts.
So Na-Na Na-Na-Na-Na Naaaa

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy
We're German ugly boring stiffs.
We send your sons off to Gulf wars
While our King-to-be smokes spliffs.

We're just laughin' our títs off,
At all of the mugs in Eng-er-land,
Who still sing our song at football,
Cos your heads are full of sand.

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy,
We've never worked a day in our life,
We're more corrupt than the Mafia,
And our inbreeding is rife.

We'll be here forever,
Unless the population sees sense,
But that will never happen,
Cos the English are too dense.

Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy
Hey, hey, we're the Monarchy

[repeat and fade]

The Punjab Parrot Sketch

Nestled uncomfortably between Kashmir takeaway, Khan Insurance Services and Bhatti Fabrics and Excessive Gold Clothing sits ‘Dave Pets’. Owned and run by Dave Taxiderm, and trading in what we call pets but the neighbouring businesses call lunch, it is an emporium of unbelievable noise, stench and overpriced hutches (not a starsky to be seen either.) Recently, the following exchange took place;

Customer: I wish to register a complaint.
Dave T: Oh baubles, Im hearing voices again!
Customer: It was me speaking, missus.
Dave T: What do you mean "missus"?
Customer: I'm sorry, I’ve been eating Prawn Quavers. I wish to make a complaint!
Dave T: We're closing' for lunch.
Customer: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this parrot what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very boutique.
Dave T: Oh yes, the, uh, Israeli Jeweller Gold Breed...What's,uh...What's wrong with it?
Customer: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's got a Punjabi accent, that's what's wrong with it!
Dave T: No, no, 'e's uh,...he's got impersonatoritis.
Customer: Look, matey, I know a Asian parrot when I hear one, and I'm listening to one right now.
Parrot: Who is pretty boy then, isnt’ it?
Dave T: No no he's not Punjabi, he's, he's a great mimic'! Remarkable bird, the Israeli Jeweller isn't it, ay? Beautiful plumage!
Customer: The plumage don’t enter into it. It sounds like a High Street Banks call centre.
Dave T: Nononono, no, no! 'E's just er got this rare affliction; you haven’t been letting him watch Rory Bremner have you?
Customer: Rory Bremner Get with the times mate, its Jon Culshaw!
Dave T: Err, is Mike Yarwood still alive? (to himself; what about Alistair McGowan?)
Customer; All right then, if he's not Punjabi, I'll get some decent English conversation out of him! (shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Polly Parrot! Would you like a cup of tea? Did you see Eastenders last night? Did you enjoy that scrap with those City fans last week?
Dave T: (mutters without moving lips) I’d love a brew, 2 sugars. I missed it, did Dot Cotton get away with that bank job? Yeah, I hate the blue mancunian scum. There you go, he’s as English as a wet August bank holiday!
Customer: I believe, asshole, that was you trying to impersonate a Punjabi parrot impersonating an English accent!
Dave T: I never
Customer: Yes, you did!
Dave T: I never, I never did anything...
Customer: (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly) 'ELLO POLLY!!!!! Any Englishness in there? Do you enjoy queueing whilst grumbling, are you bullied in miserable silence at your detested workplace? Is there a xenophobic, racist Francophobe feather on that body of yours!
(Takes parrot out of the cage and thumps its head on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
Customer: Now that's what I call a dead Punjabi parrot.
Parrot: Oh deary, deary me, this is a pretty spicy pickle I am in.
Dave T: You’ve oppressed him, he’s just misplaced & confused!
Customer: OPPRESSED?!?
DaveT: Yeah! You pigeonholed him, just as he was wakin' up to his Englishness! Israeli Gold Jewellers get oppressed easily, major defect in their gentic lineage.
Customer: Pigeonholed a Parrot. Shouldn’t that be Parrotholed?
Dave T: Parrotholing is still illegal in this country may I remind you.
Customer: Um...now look...now look, mate, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That parrot is definitely Punjabi, and when I purchased it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of Englishness was due to it bein' tired and shagged out following a prolonged Air Pakistan flight that was rerouted through Lahore via Las Vegas, Canberra, Volgograd and Tierra del Fuego .
Dave T: Well, he's...he's, ah...probably pining for Bradford.
Customer: PININ' for BRADFORD?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he start asking about the family business and what caste I am when I got 'im home?
Dave T: The Israeli Gold likes to keep a keen eye on the business pages, Look even his cage is lined with todays Financial Times! Remarkable bird, id'nit, squire? Lovely plumage!
Customer: Look, I took the liberty of examining that parrot when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been speaking English in the shop in the first place was because you had been brainwashing him with episodes of ‘Goodness Gracious Me’ especially the Kupars/Coopers sketches!
Dave T: Well, o'course I played it British comedy shows! If I hadn't, it would have attacked those cage bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and ZOOM! Wheeeeeeeee, freedom!
Customer: "ZOOM"?!? Mate, this bird wouldn't "zoom" if you put it on a diet of curried figs and spicy lentils! 'E's bleedin' Punjabi!
Dave T: No no! 'E's merely a bit oppressed is all And depressed too, how more English can he be!
Customer: 'E's not Depressed'! 'E's Punjabi! This parrot is no English Rose! He has a way with spices! 'E's opened a phone stall on the local market! 'E's a Hindi! Bereft of Britishness, 'e drives a private hire taxi! If you hadn't played him the Kumars at no. 42 he’d be doing a Bollywood dance number right now! 'Is grasp of English tenses and verb structure are 'istory! 'E's off the boat and on the benefits! 'E's kicked the back door out of his cousin, 'e's got a bigger family than a Sicilian grandfather, run down the M6 and joined the bleedin' Abu Hamza invisibiles!! THIS IS A PUNJABI PARROT!!!
Dave T: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter) Sorry squire, I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and, err, we're right out of parrots.
Customer: I see. I see, I get the picture.
Dave T: I’ve got a cockroach?.
Customer: Erm, ok. But, well, does it talk?
Dave: Nnnnot really. But it does a fine line in hissing.
Customer: WELL IT'S HARDLY A BLOODY REPLACEMENT, IS IT?!!???!!?
Dave T: N-no, I guess not. (gets ashamed, looks at his feet)
Customer: Well.

(pause)

Dave T: (quietly) D'you.... d'you want to come back to my place?
Customer: (looks around) Yeah, all right, sure. As long as you bring that black sheep.
Dave T: NOW you’re talking my language!

You Are The Assassin
The phone rings. You leave it for that extra few seconds, you are cool. You put down your Marlboro cigarette (told you you were cool!) and rest it on your Mickey Mouse ashtray.
Voice: “Is that the Assassin?”
You: “Yes”
Voice: “I have a job for you”
You: “Good”
Voice: “Usual arrangement?”
You: “Yes”
Voice: “I’ll email the details now. You don’t talk much do you?”
You: “No”
Click. Called ended. (Bet you didn’t know you were THIS cool!)

You open your laptop computer, your Jules from Pulp Fiction screen saver glares back at you, cool, calm, stereotypical. You hit the enter key, the mail icon flashes, cold, generic, functional. You open the mailbox. 24 messages. 12 of them strongly urging you to have your penis savaged by a Hungarian butcher in a back alley of your choice, ‘to increase your girth and enhance her pleasure’. There is no ‘her’. You press delete.
10 of them either offer you Viagra, porn for $2.95 a month, free Spam for life, or a combination of all three. You hit delete. The next mail is a notification that your spam filter is functioning perfectly, would you like to fill in a survey? You hit delete, hard. The last mail is the one. You scan the information, open the attachment, acknowledge the picture, commit all detail to memory. You delete the file. The system immediately scrubs all trace of any mail. No connections.

You are driving North. Your black sleek 4x4 reflects your persona. Dark, stealthy, unforgiving, mysterious, 20% fibreglass. Your CD player massages you with Beethoven, Chopin, Debussy, Bob The Builder. You regret buying Classical CDs from car boot sales in Slough on a wet Sunday in November. You are still cool, ‘Can we fix it?’ Yes. You can. You are the man. The SatNav asks nervously if you wouldn’t mind turning off at the next junction. You throw the device a grimace. That was a tough expression of Eastwoodesque proportions. You make a mental note to see the GP about these worsening facial ticks. The wind howls through the dark, complemented in its gloomy totality by raindrops the size of babies eyeballs, spattering your windshield. You put the wipers on ‘High Annoying Squeak’ setting. You are nearing your targets location, his final destination, the place where you will apply his life cessation. You are still cool. And wet. You reach down and press the button to close the sunroof.

Your target, he wanders aimlessly around the overlit lounge, alternating his fury between a cordless phone conversation and an unfortunate cigarette. He is too animated. Margin of error. You need to be closer. You set your boots to anti-squelching mode and proceed to advance on the house via the muddy flowerbeds, sheltered from sight by overhanging willows. The tree weeps rain and sap down your collar. You don’t flinch, you are used to weather. You have experienced weather all of your life. You are at the gable end of the building, the isolated farmhouse, no neighbours, no witnesses, no calls to the emergency services (with the additional dilemma of asking ‘could I have police AND ambulance please, or do I need to call back again?’) You try the back door handle. It opens easily, smoothly, silently, like a wet fart in a vacuum. The kitchen, bathed in blue moonlight, the lounge beyond. A crack of light beneath the door. A raised voice. An asthmatic cough. Element of surprise. You wrench open the door, in the same movement raising the silenced pistol, ‘whap!whap!whap!whap!’ 4 shots, 2 head, 2 heart. Mission accomplished. You scan the room, the bloodied dead victim on the floor, face of eternal recognition, your photograph on the mantelpiece. You never did like your father.

Copyright – Brendan O Sullivan - 2007