Animal steals this one. “Mama?”
This is the latest in a series of original Muppets virals, sorry, virmups, beng posted to the web. Hard to see how they’ll top this one though.
Answer me this – how is calling somebody a muppet supposed to be an insult? I’ll be pleased and proud next time someone points at me and says “you f*ckin’ muppet!”*
*which happens all the time, usually when I’m doing blags with some tasty geezers and I’m norsing fings up good and proper.
Without a doubt the most cruelly overlooked comedy of this century so far, Sean Lock’s 15 Storeys High is an absolute gem. I’ll write more about it later. For now just enjoy this wee clip of Vince and Errol and ask yourself: Rantzen or Quirke?
I’ve been reading Simpsons Confidential by John Ortved. Delving behind the scenes of the making of The Simpsons, it’s absolutely fascinating, particularly when it concentrates on the writers who made the show as funny as it was. Two names stand out: John Schwartzwelder and George Meyer, both of whom stamped their personality and humour on the series.
The book mentions that Meyer produced, and Schwartzwelder wrote for, three issues of a self-published comedy magazine called Army Man.
Sam [Simon] got quite a bit of his writing staff from the list of writing credits in Army Man… In a sense, that little magazine was the father of the show.
– Simpsons Confidential
Quite a claim for what was basically a few photocopied pages of jokes and cartoons.
The only rule was that the stuff had to be funny and pretty short.
– George Meyer
After reading about it, I really wanted to get my hands on a copy. Oh! Thank you internet! You can download the whole thing here: Army Man.
It’s rough, and funny, and weird and well worth a read.
And it’s sparked the idea to do something similar. Well… similarly photocopied anyway. So Mr Gus Hughes and I have started work on our own little magazine, with words and pictures and all that good stuff. It’s looking fine in our heads, but we understand that this isn’t good enough and that we need to get some of it on paper. Wish us luck!
Between brainbursts of agony, as the branches pushed his head apart from the inside, one thought, repeating: Mum was right about not swallowing apple pips.
(Another really short one this week, written for Laura Degnan’s 25 word short story challenge. I misread the brief, it was supposed to be for kids. But, y’know, there’s a vital lesson for the youngsters here: DON’T SWALLOW PIPS! I can’t stress that enough…)
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Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This by Harris
more tiny tales
I love songs in the key of S. Might have to get a Harrington.
Robert Popper and Peter Serafinowicz’s Look Around You was an absolute treat. Made with tremendous attention detail, it looked and sounded like a genuine schools science programme from the 70’s and 80’s, only the facts were slightly less believable and the haircuts slightly more believable. Or is that the other way around? I dunno, I didn’t pay much attention in school. Anyway, it’s all up on youtube. Hoorah for the murky grey area of copyright infringement!
This isn’t the best episode, but I like the mouse song so this is the one you’re getting today.
Do you ever find yourself meeting somebody, and they totally remind you of somebody else, but you can’t quite work out who? You’ll be chatting all casual but in the background your brain is whirring away, going through hundreds of faces and trying to match them with the one in front of you, like one of those unrealistic police computers you see on the telly, or a really long and irritating game of Guess Who.
It happened to me the other day. Everything about this person’s face was annoying me just because it really reminded me of somebody else and I couldn’t for the life of me work out who. I felt such a surge of joy and relief when, an hour in, I finally twigged who it was. In fact I was so happy it was all I could do to stop myself from clapping, pointing and shouting “TIM ROTH!”. I’m glad I didn’t. I mean, it was a triumph for me personally but I don’t think she would have appreciated it. She really bloody looked like him, though.
Mind, she probably had to stop herself from pointing and shouting “ELVIS COSTELLO!” halfway through the afternoon so it all evens out.
Bacon, yesterday
Thank you, Scali Delpeyrat! I can officially be played in Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Awesome!
This good news is tempered a little by the discovery that on IMDB I am James Harris (XXIX). XXIX? XXIX?
I am not impressed.
One more Harris in that list and I could have been James Harris (XXX) and how cool would that have been? Quite cool, that’s how cool.
It’s a monthly short story competition, with a top prize of £100 and a runner’s up prize of £25 every month.
The downside: £5 entry fee.
Still, it’s local (Darlington), it has the backing of Bill Bryson, and it gets entries from around the world. Worth a punt. I just uploaded Them Bloody Kids, which is well below the 2000 word limit. Maybe I’ll get a prize for brevity.
Anyway, if you’re interested: The Global Short Story Competition.
Because I’m a damned, dirty hippie, that’s why. I was a big fan of World Party back when paisley shirts and Lennonspecs were not only acceptable but positively encouraged. I’ve not heard this for years. The guitar is slinky dirty, innit? The vocal is saying “save the planet” and the guitar is saying “mm mm let’s get frisk-ay” (cos that’s how guitars talk. They’re weird). Well hey. We can do both. Friends of the Earth, with benefits…*
*terrible, terrible, terrible. 🙂
“I’m here,” says Albert. “Here I am.”
Albert looks old. His grey skin sags off his bones like old dishcloths off a drying rack. You can see a lot of his skin, because he is naked. The fact he is naked is probably the third thing you noticed about him, after you registered that he is glowing and acknowleged that he is floating in the corner of this darkened living room.
“Here I am,” he says, impatiently, but nobody seems to hear.
In the middle of the room an old lady and a younger woman sit on either side of a small table which has three candles, two bone china cups and a lot of Rich Tea crumbs on it.
“Are you there?” asks the old lady in a booming voice.
“Yes,” says Albert.
“Can you hear me, O spirits from beyond the veil?” asks the old lady.
“Yes,” says Albert.
“Please answer me,” says the old lady, “One knock for yes, two for no.”
“What? What do you want?” says Albert. “Carrie, Carrie, is that you?” he says, looking at the younger of the two women.
“One knock for yes, two for no,” the old lady repeats, and she reaches out to squeeze Carrie’s hand in a gesture of reassurance.
“I’m here. Carrie, I’m here,” says Albert. “Who is this dopey bint and why does she want me to knock?”
“Are you there, Albert?” the old lady intones.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” says Albert, and he balls his fist and tries rapping his knuckles against the wall. His hand passes noiselessly through flock wallpaper, damp plaster and brick.
There is a knocking sound in the room.
“It’s him. Is it him? Are you there, Dad?” says Carrie. The old lady nods, with a gently triumphant look on her face.
“Yes, yes, Carrie, it’s me,” he says, “But I didn’t-“
There are two knocks.
“Do you have a question for the dear departed my love?” asks the old lady.
“Is… is he happy?” asks Carrie.
“Happy?” Albert practically shrieks. “Happy? I’m not fucking happy! Do you know what I was saying just this morning, do you? Aaaaaagh! Aaaaagh, I was saying, aaaaagh get your hands out of there, it hurts, I was saying. Does that sound like something a happy man would say?”
Two knocks.
“He’s happy,” confirms the old lady.
“Stop that!” cries Albert, “Stop it you cheating cow! Every morning a burly, red man-beast with antlers pushes a big stick up my jacksie.”
“That’s… a relief,” says Carrie. “He was a complicated man, our relationship was, um, you know, and I’m just glad he’s at peace.”
“I’ve got a bumhole the size of a dinner plate,” says Albert.
“He wants you to know he is happy, and with all his friends now,” says the old lady.
“Friends?” says Carrie, looking surprised.
“He’s made lots of new friends,” says the old lady hurriedly. “Dead friends” she adds, lamely.
“I had friends, you stuck-up bitch,” says Albert. “Look at you, still judging me even after I’m dead. I was right about you, wasn’t I, you starchy twat.”
“He says he still loves you, and is watching over you.”
“You dessicated, hairy-faced charlatan!” Albert shouts, “You fraudulent, brittle-boned walnut! Watching over her? I’m in hell! How can I watch over anyone? All I can watch over is my own fucking ankles as Satan himself rummages around elbow deep in my chutney locker. He’s got big hands! Biiiiig hands!”
“It’s a comfort to know he’s found some kind of peace in death,” says Carrie.
“His hands really are huge,” says Albert.
The old lady pats Carrie’s hand. “Did you bring your credit card? I don’t take cheques,” she says, soothingly.
The grey, glowing form of Albert begins to grow transparent. “No!” he cries, “I don’t want to go back! Sweet Jesus, I’m sorry for everything, whatever it was, whatever I did, I’m sorry!”
The old lady munches thoughtfully on a Rich Tea as Carrie reaches into her handbag.
“It was such a shock to us, we thought the belligerent old bastard was going to live forever,” says Carrie.
“Was it sudden?” asks the old lady.
“It was. He was run over just outside his house. Joyriders. He was living in Middlesbrough.”
“Ah,” says the old lady. “Middlesbrough. Well, he’s in a better place now.”
They share a smile.
And, as Albert is dragged through limbo and purgatory, back to the fiery charnel pit of degradation and violation that will be his home until the end of forever, he thinks: Can’t argue with that, like. You’ve got to count your blessings.
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A Better Place by Harris
more tiny tales
Ramshackle Charm 