Thursday, 10 December 2009

Chris-must


MOTHER: Merry Christmas Tommy. Open up your present.

TOMMY: I've opened it. WTF?

MOTHER: It's a Go Go Hamster! Do you like it?

TOMMY: No, it is well gay. I wanted a PS3.

MOTHER: But Tommy, it is the must-have toy this year. Television sa
ys so!

TOMMY: It is cheap and shit. All th
e kids at school will call me a scrubber. You could at least have got me
some nunchuks.

MOTHER: Look at its little pink nose!


TOMMY: I hate you.


In case you've been on the moon for the last month, this is a Go Go Hamster, and you have to buy it for your child this year or you are a bad parent.

















Luckily for you it only costs a tenner, you cheap twat a great price particularly in these economically challenging times. On the downside, it might give you cancer (depending on which day of the week you read about it in the paper).
But really, "the must-have gift"? It seems that the media has a rather big say in exactly what parents should buy their kids for Christmas, so with that in mind, I'm off to befriend someone in media and see if they will help me promote the toy I've recently developed: transsexual war figure Action Tran. Click on the image below to make it bigger.















Action Tran. Marketed in America as G.I. Ho


If I don't see you before, Merry Christmas Cubefans!

PS I just want money this year.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Zombie Love

Do you know how hard it is to get a novel published? I'll tell you: WELL hard. My last three novels have been flat-out turned down by every publisher I sent them to. Some of them sent the manuscripts back unopened, others read them and offered constructive criticism ("Write more than 760 words"/"Replace your inkjet cartridge"/"Drawings unnecessary"). The advice I received was disparate and, for the most part, shit, but the one thing I have learnt from it is that if you if you want to be published you have to hit on a really good idea that people who aren't very good at reading will like with universal appeal. For JK Rowling the theme that caught the public's imagination was child wizards, for Stephenie Meyer it was sexy vampires, and for Dan Brown it was bad-style writing. Using all three as muses, I have begun work on my latest novel. It is a zombie romance called Undying Love. The story is that the main character, Elizabeth Valentine, is an eighteen (but looks sixteen)-year old virgin prom queen, who is about to marry her boyfriend, Troy Strongarm, who is the quarterback of the football team and has abs but is also really intelligent and kind and has really good hair. Anyway, before they can marry, tragedy strikes when Troy is knocked down by a bus while rescuing a cat or something. He dies in Elizabeth's arms, but vows that he will return, and they will marry, even though he is going to be dead soon. Sure enough, just days after his funeral, Troy returns...as a zombie. Determined to rekindle his romance with Elizabeth he wakes from the dead every night and, in the cover of darkness, goes round to Elizabeth's house to get off with her.











Spoiler: above image may reveal ending


Everything is going well...until Brad Darkness, Troy's old football rival, who has pecs and a good tan, gets in the way. When his attempts to persuade Elizabeth that she would be better off getting off with him, what with him not being undead, fall on deaf ears, he sets about destroying Troy, through fighting him/telling the townsfolk bad things about him. The following extract is where Elizabeth sees Troy for the first time as a zombie:


As he looked approximately twenty-five metres into the distance, he saw Elizabeth sitting on her porch, that same porch on which they had expressed their mutual love for one another on a nightly basis, just weeks before. That same porch where they had spent hours locked in kisses, kisses that tasted of hope for the future, kisses wet with romance. As he slowly got five metres closer to her, Troy saw a tear roll down Elizabeth's cheek and fall onto the floor, like a diamond rolling off a counter in a jeweller's.
Now only twelve metres away from her, a distance from which he knew his words would be audible, he said romantically, "Elizabeth, my love, I would love to pick up your every tear spilt and put it back in your eyes."
Elizabeth look up scaredly but curiously.
"Troy? Is that you? No, it can't be?" she said, cautiously.
"My love, it is me, he said, stepping beneath the glow of a streetlight, enough that Elizabeth could see the outline of his still-rippling form, but such that sixty percent of his face was still in darkness.
"But, but you're dead," she said, disbelievingly.
"No my love, I am undead. Like our love."
"It can't be..."
"But it is, you have to believe me."
Elizabeth rose from the porch like a cat standing up for the first time and began to walk towards Troy.
"No, wait, he said, before you come any closer, you should know that I don't look the same way I used to. You may not like what you see."
"My love, if that really is you then you know that my love for you is blind, and that you might look like the most gruesome ogre imaginable and I would still love you," said Elizabeth, reassuringly.
"Very well, my love."
Elizabeth and Troy each took a step forward in unison, like two old dancers performing a synchronised tango move, and now, as his face was illuminated fully by the streetlight, that revealing streetlight that left him with nowehere to hide, Troy was visible to Elizabeth.
Drawing in air sharply like an asthmatic sprinter, Elizabeth regarded Troy's visage. It was grey, like a television screen that has just been switched off, and his eyes, once blue, were now a whitey-blue. But his chiselled jaw still cut the night air like scissors, his hair still blew in the breeze like reeds on a river of love, and his cheekbones still pushed out through the darkness like hills in a 3D film. He looked more or less the same, but a zombie. She threw herself at him and they kissed, a kiss that knew no prejudice, a kiss blind to fear, a kiss that didn't mind that one of them was a zombie and one of them was not, a kiss of undying love.

That's all you're getting for now, but if you are a woman and fucking love the story so far, you should probably send me a cheque for £16.99 and I will send you a signed copy of the book when I have finished it. In the meantime I would be interested to know what emotion the story made you had. I was aiming for a mixture of sad/aroused/eager to part with £16.99. Do let me know if you felt any of these things.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Stag-gering

In a couple of weeks I'll be going to play Urban Golf which is where you twat a golf ball against a wall inside a building and a computer says "That shot would have gone 300 yards probly - get your putter out". Computers are pretty fucking clever these days, especially at golf.
The reason I'm going to do that is because one of my friends is getting married, and apparently these days it's not de rigeur to just get the groom battered, shave off his eyebrows and kill him - these days you have to go go-karting or paintballing or to Prague. What is so good about Prague - probably not much.
But if you can't beat 'em, make up your own stuff to do on a stag do. Here are some of my ideas. If you'd like to contribute your own I've had some serious words with google so you should be able to leave comments this time. If not I will fully kick the shit out of Bill Gates, even though he's not really the boss of Google, he just should probably monitor what is going on with all computers.

North Korea Weekend

Everyone piles into a plane and flies over to North Korea. Go to pub. Visit red-light district. Go to sex museum. If there are none of those things there (but there probably are) just find out military secrets or something. Go to KFC.

Cosby Show Murder Mystery Weekend

Eveyone piles into a mansion where several actors are dressed in period clothing. On the stroke of midnight there is a "murder". Mrs Ramsbottom has been found strangled to death in this parlour! Who can solve this heinous crime? Only you and your friends, who are all dressed as the Cosby family.

















Who done it? Only you and your friends dressed as the Cosbys can decide

Where's Wally Weekend


Everyone piles into London (or any other major city with a population of over one million) and gets battered. Groom puts on "Where's Wally" outfit and wanders off into the most populous part of the city. Everyone else says they will come and find him later, but they actually just stay in the pub and plays darts/Game of Life.













"Where's Wally? Seriously, it has been sixteen hours and he is autistic."

Star Wars Parkour Weekend


Everyone piles into the streets. Gets battered. Runs around trying to vault stuff and run up walls and jump off medium-sized buildings and do forward rolls. Pretty much like the guy in this video. Except you have to dress as Darth Vader to do it. Penalty for not dressing as Darth Vader: drink two fingers.



Par-cock

Er, I've run out of ideas. Why don't you think of some or something.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

Unlimited Twats

There's some dogshit advert on TV at the moment for O2 or Vodafone or something where they ask people in the street what they would do if they had unlimited free text messages FOREVER and then the people in the street compete to say the shittest thing they can think of. One of them says he'd start a revolution, another says he'd organise a massive pillow fight, and one says he'd text everyone he knows who plays an instrument and start a superband. If he had FREE TEXTS FOR LIFE. Here is a video of the man in question. He wants to start an "uber-orchestra". If you don't hate him already watch the video.



Just how many
text messages does he need to text everyone he knows who plays an instrument? My guess: about seventeen. How many of those people will want to start an unber-orchestra with him? Probably about four. So he'll probably end up in a room with four gimps: one with a recorder, one with a guitar, one with a tambourine and one with a bigger recorder, and they'll start playing and they'll realise that they can't find a tune that they all know and they'll realise that their instruments sound shit together and then they'll probably all say to him "This is shit, we hate you." That's what that guy would do with unlimited texts. Dick.

However, if
I had unlimited texts for life, these would be my top things to do:

1) Text all the ninjas in the world pretty much five times a day, every day, to ask for ninja tips
eg best kicks to do.


















Ninja: "Head kicks are best, probly"


2) Text everyone in China and tell them America had called them gay and then see if that thing worked where they all jump off a chair and make a tidal wave.
3) Text everyone in America and say "Sorry, but pretty sweet wave, eh?"
4) Text everyone in the world with a beard an ask then what their favourite thing about having a beard was, to test my theory that the top answer would be "warmth/manliness". Complete work on my book: "Beards and Things to do with Beards"
5) Text a picture of my face to everyone in the world and say "do you like my face?" then all the people who said yes I would ask to see their face and if they were really pretty I might go out with them.

That is what I would do. What would you do though readers? I would dearly like to know. Perhaps if I get enough good replies we can make a rival advert. Just don't say you would form an uber-orchestra, though, or I will use my newly acquired tips to ninja the shit out of you.

Monday, 12 October 2009

Patience is a virtue

I just looked at my watch and it turns out it's October. It doesn't seem like two minutes since my last post, but in fact it has been more like three months. Sorry to leave you with no fun in your lives for such a length of time, but I have not been lazy during that period, for I have spent many of the hours betwixt the last post and this inventing this game for the computer. It is called Gary Barlow's Patience.
















It's quite a lot like the game Patience, or Solitaire as you will know it if you are American or a retard. But Patience with a twist, for in this version you are offered helpful hints by Patience singer Gary Barlow of Brit Award-winning pop group Take That. Gary, whose hits include "Sure", "Relight my Fires" and "Backs are Good" will guide you along the way as you sit for hours in the library preventing a student from gaining access to a PC to print off his dissertation.
Among the gems of advice offered by side-partinged Gary, 42, are:

"Black two on red three: BLACK TWO ON RED THREE!"
"Put that two on the Ace"
"RED SEVEN ON BLACK EIGHT" I'M NOT SHOUTING! I'm just saying!"

If at any point Gary suspects you are becoming annoyed by his advice (your annoyance will be measured by a Wii controller) he will break into his chart-topping song "Have a little Patience". And you will get an electric shock through your Wii-controller, if technology has come that far by the time I send the idea to the software house.
Gary, 37, whose hits include "How deep is love", "Angels" and "Let me Entertain You" said, of the game, "You'd best 'have a little patience' whan you play me, Gary Barlow's, Patience." Then he went to Greggs the bakers. I think he was getting scones.

If anybody out there is good at computer programming and can help make Gary's mouth talk please go ahead and do so and I will share some of the money with you.

I leave you with father-of-children Gary, along with his Boyzone bandmates, singing "Patience" at the launch party of the game, live from the future:

Thursday, 30 July 2009

Deadly Fist


Steven Seagal is on TV right now. Have you any idea how lethal that guy looks on a 40-inch TV screen? I'll tell you: pretty fucking lethal. The film that's on right now is called "Attack Force", and from what I've seen of it so far you would not want to get in the way of that attack force, or you would probably get twatted quite badly. Anyway, armed with the knowledge of the names of some of Segal's masterpieces ("Out for Justice", "Exit Wounds", "Half Past Dead" and "Urban Justice", to name but a few, I sometimes like to play a game called "Make up names of films that Steven Seagal could be in".
Here are a few:


Justice by Death
Knock Knock, You're Dead
Fists of Justice
Hammer Kick III: Death Foot
Killed to Death
Hey Mom - Dad's a ninja! (New direction - family comedy to be released at Christmas)



















Steven Seagal: "I will teach you a lesson...of violence."


Why don't you play my game, dear reader. Go on, post your own Seagal film ideas in the comments field. But, be warned, if you come up with any ideas that are better than mine I will do the hardest karate chop ever in your face.

To motivate the hell out of you to play my game, here is the man himself being a badass but also totally profound. We can all learn from this beautiful spiritual ninja.

Monday, 27 July 2009

Two-pics Cube

What up blogfans. Regular visitors to The Cube will notice I've been pretty quiet of late. Long story short: I went up on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square to do an hour of pretty much being cool, but while I was at it some Cockney tinker made off with the ladder, so I was stuck up there for a month waiting for a new plinth ladder to be delivered (they have to ship them in from America; I don't even know why). While I was up there without food or water, I started to realise what it must be like to be David Blaine, ie fucking shit, so I won't be doing that again.
Anyway, I'm back now and, what's more, I've brought you some more poetry about dogs. The last time I laid some canine rhyme on you the reaction was pretty incredible. I'm not kidding: I had TWO comments! My computer almost melted under the strain and I had to call someone from PC World to advise ("Stop chucking water on your PC, Mr Cube. Switch it off and don't switch it back on until it's dried out.").

So here you are: two more poems, and two more images lifted from google images which will lead hundreds of people unwittingly to this page when really all they wanted was a picture of a Labrador with which to make their nan a birthday card. Enjoy.



Vision of the Future
With progression in eye surgery
And the blind no more
What further use, the poor Labrador?


















Labrador: No toilet roll. No blind guy. Lazy.


Glittering Prize

Cocker spaniel

Thought he was handsome

thought he was tough

just cos he won a medal at Crufts

Cocky Spaniel



















Cocker Spaniel: miserable.

Hope you enjoyed the latest doggy verse. Again, feel free to send in your own poems. I will probably buy a filet-o-fish for the writer of the best one, unless I find out you have copied it out of a book. You cheater.

Sunday, 26 July 2009

No need for a Sou'wester in Chester










If you've been affected by any of the issues in this week's show, please call 0898 111 222. In next week's Brollyoaks, Racist gay incest domestic-violence vicar Simon burns down the nightclub (again) and there are stirrings at the Dog and Duck when new character Transsexual Tony, who has Tourrettes, gets in a fight with Gary, the wheelchair-bound neo-nazi. Who's also deaf. It's a late-night "Brollyoaks: after dark" special, so you should Sky-Plus it because one of the girls might show their boobs, or Tony might say "fuck".

Monday, 8 June 2009

Cheering up Tracyanne Campbell

If you're hip enough to have heard of Glaswegian indie-pop combo Camera Obscura, you'll know that lead singer Tracyanne Campbell has the voice of an angel but the facial expression of a woman who has gone to the fridge for a lovely slice of cake only to remember, too late, that she didn't in fact buy cake that morning; she went to B&Q and bought a monkey wrench instead.
But she does smile sometimes. I saw her do it once, in one of her pop videos, and it was a sight so beautiful that it etched itself on my retinas like a really good firework or something. But with that memory fading of late, I thought I would try to make Tracyanne Campbell smile once again, by taking her on a sexy date and using all my "tricks of the trade" to make her have a good emotion.

Here's how it went.

Trick of the Trade 1: Andrew
Lincoln impression.
Having taken our seats in the moderately priced restaurant of my choice, and done three minutes of smalltalk ("I write a blog, what is it you do?"/"I am the singer of Camera Obscura"/"Oh yeah, I knew that. Do you like beef best or pork?"), I moved on to my opening gambit: my Andrew Lincoln impression. This involves narrowing my eyes, inhaling sharply as though dragging on a cigarette, and saying the words "Andrew Lincoln" in the voice of Andrew Lincoln. Critics of this impression have said "Why would Andrew Lincoln say his own name?" to which I have replied "If someone had just asked him his name", to which they have replied, "Oh yeah, I am so stupid LOLZ"; fucking critics. Needless to say, my execution of this impression on the date was perfect and I felt sure that at the very least the corners of Tracyanne Campbell's mouth would twitch with the threat of a cheeky smile.

Tracyanne Campbell's reaction
While not appearing any unhappier, Tracyanne Campbell certainly did not look look like a woman who had just seen a brilliant impression of Andrew Lincoln. I put it down to the fact that she may not have seen This Life or Teachers and therefore may not know who Andrew Lincoln is. For a minute I re-evaluated my whole impressions policy, thinking maybe I should so more mainstream impressions. Then I thought fuck it, I won't compromise my artistic integrity by selling out (at impressions). Tracyanne Campbell, meanwhile, asked for the wine list.


Trick of the Trade 2: Breadsticks in nose
While not everyone may have heard of Andrew Lincoln, there is no knowledge barrier that can in any way impede the hilarity of the old breadsticks-up-the-nose schtick. So that's what I di
d: I put breadsticks up my nose and was all like "What? What's up? What, I've got breadsticks up my nose?! God, I'm mad, me, etc." I felt sure the unquestionable mirth of this situation would see Tracyanne Campbell bypass the smile stage and proceed straight to a laugh, which, in Tracyanne Campbell's case, I expected would sound like beautiful fairies playing flutes made of honey.


Tracyanne Campbell's reaction
Tracyanne Campbell asked the waiter which wine had the highest ABV. Which seemed like an unusual way of displaying amusement. And then it occured to me that she could be the one person in the world who doesn't find breadsticks-in-the-nose hilarious. Which was even more surprising when I saw the photo later and realised that with the breadsticks in my nose I actually looked like I was sporting a ludicrous, long, pointy moustache, making the whole jape twice as funny as I had even expected it to be.


Trick of the Trade 3: Les Miserables Medley
















When I tell people I have a really beautiful voice, they're generally like "Fuck off, how can someone with a drawn cube for a head be good at singing?", at which point I make them totally reavaluate their opinion/views on life in general, by bursting into a medley of songs from Les Miserables. So when tricks of the trade 1 and 2 both failed, that's exactly what I did. And, luckily, as I burst into song, Amanda Holden, who had been at the next table having chicken nuggets, came over and wept warm, wet, tears of sincerity.

Tracyanne Campbell's reaction
Tracyanne Campbell was not moved to tears. Or to any sort of emotion for that matter. In fact, halfway through Bring Him Home, she went for a wee. Then, when I was finished, she asked how long it usually took them to cook the burgers in this place and said they better not have put any bastard gherkins on.


Conclusion
In the song
Happy New Year, Tracyanne Campbell sings "I'm softer than my face would suggest". Well I bloody hope so. Perhaps I need to develop more than three tricks of the trade; I've just never had to use them all in one date before. I won't give up, though, I will make Tracyanne Campbell smile if it's the last thing I do (next Thursday). I'm in the Priory right now, because I was fucking exhausted after singing that Les Miserables medley, but as soon as I get out I think I'll send Tracyanne Campbell a cake. A dead nice one.

I leave you with Camera Obscura's latest single, French Navy. If you like it you should probably send Tracyanne Campbell an email saying thankyou for the music or something. She might just like that. But don't bank on it.




Monday, 1 June 2009

Poo-etry


Since that last post I've been going crazy over poetry. I've been eating, drinking, sleeping, but mostly
thinking poetry 24/7. It would probably drive me insane I didn't love the arts so much. It's got to the point where I won't let myself think of oranges, because I am reliably informed that nothing rhymes with the word 'orange'. I have mostly got around this by thinking instead of orange juice (rhymes: goose, moose, loose, noose, spruce, Thomas Turgoose).

Although I feel quite blessed to be so good at the poetry, my life is still not without its worry. And it is through poetry that I share with you something that's been troubling me lately. You see, I sometimes go for lunch in a pub that smells of chip fat. And after just half an hour in said pub, all my clothes smell of chip fat too, making me an easy target for cruel jibes ("Ha, ha, you big chippy twat!"; "Urgh, what are you, a chip or something?"; "Get away from me, you chippy dickhead!" to name but a few). Believe me, I've written poems about this, but these were purely for my own therapeutic use: they got me through some dark days, I can tell you. But, having recovered from my most recent chip-stink trauma, my thoughts turned to an altogether more putrid hypothetical. And that is what my poem is about:

A Genuine Concern by Cube

When a public toilet smells so bad
You have to hold your nose,
How long before that wretched stink
Attaches to your clothes?






















Although I love scientific research, I have neither a stopwatch nor the bravery to face the kind of slurs that the man who finally answers the poem's question will be subjected to. If you are that man (or woman (do women do poos?)) then please let me know, in verse or otherwise. Let us ALL know, so that we may use unpleasant-smelling public toilets safe in the knowledge that we can get out smelling as fresh as we did when we went in, as long as we follow X's Law (where X is your name, brave researcher). If having a poo-smell-clothes-attachment-safety formula named after you isn't incentive enough, then let me offer a bottle Febreze to the lucky winner. A really BIG bottle of Febreze.

Friday, 22 May 2009

Pug, fug, dug, jug...

Inspired by funny poetry man John Hegley, My friend Lisa K Whalley and I decided to write some poems about dogs.

Here is one Lisa wrote:

Struck Off
Now that fox hunting is illegal
What will happen to the poor old Beagle?


So impressed was I by LKW's lovely little rhyme that I came up with one of my own, with the specific aim of reassuring LKW about the future employability of the Beagle, because I know she worries about it a lot, and I don't want it to affect her own work (in the field of laser-Science) in some sad cross-species employment-specific irony. Here is my poem:

Jobs for Beagles
Don't worry poor Beagle,
'bout the work situation,
You've always a job
in animal experimentation
















Beagle: Between jobs/lazy?

I don't really advocate the use of Beagles in animal experimentation, but astronaut didn't rhyme with "situation" and I couldn't think of any other jobs at the time and my tea was nearly ready and it was fish fingers so I didn't want them to go cold. Also, before ruling out vivisection, one has to ask how hard has that Beagle been looking for other jobs in the last six months.

Job Centre Employee: So, Mr Beagle - can I call you Jeremy? - what sort of work have you actually been looking for?

Beagle: -

Job Centre Employee: It says on your form you had an interview at WH Smiths. How did that go?

Beagle: -

Job Centre Employee: Okay, well since you haven't actually found a job on your own in the last six months you're going to have to do one of the ones I offer you or face losing your benefits...

Beagle: -

Job Centre Employee: Okay, we've got vivisection or...let's see...can you operate a fork lift truck?


Why don't you go ahead and write a poem about a dog now? Have you anything better to do? If you do a really good one I might even publish it on this page: imagine the pride.
Tip: not much rhymes with Giant Schnauzer.



Thursday, 14 May 2009

Embarrassing Cube


In case you haven't seen it, Embarrassing Bodies is a programme on Channel 4 where people who have an embarrassing body part, too embarrassing, in fact, for them to face the humiliation of showing to their local GP, instead go and show it to muckle-mouthed beefcake Dr Christian Jessen, who has the whole thing filmed for a primetime audience of 14-year-old boys who are hoping that this week's episode will feature a woman whose problem is massive boobs. Usually it is not, though, Usually it is someone with a blemish on his penis, which, it turns out, is just a harmless spot, but he did the right thing coming to have it checked out.

Anyway, at the risk of sounding hypocritical, I went to see Dr Christian with my own problem. Here's what happened.

CUBE: Hello Dr Christian

DR CHRISTIAN: Hello there. What seems to be the problem? Why are you embarrassed by your body?

CUBE: Well, Dr Christian, it is very kind of you to pretend not to notice, but it's my head that I am embarrassed about.

DR CHRISTIAN: And what exactly is the problem with your head?

CUBE: Well, as you can see, it is a perfect cube shape. And a drawing.
















Christian Jessen; "Trust me, I'm a Doctor. On telly."


DR CHRISTIAN: Okay, if you just bend forward so I can have a feel of your head. Hmm, yeah, I think I see...

CUBE: Is it bad?

DR CHRISTIAN: No not at all. It's just a case of Drawncubehead Syndrome, which is a lot more common than you would think. Does anyone else in your family have a cube-shaped head?

CUBE: Well, my mother is a normal human woman, but I don't know my father. He left before I was born.

DR CHRISTIAN: Well, this being a hereditary condition, I would guess that your father was probably a drawing of a box. The good news is that this condition is completely harmless. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.

CUBE: But it is embarrassing, Dr Christian. Mean people say things to me like "Hey, cubehead" and "Oi, your head is a perfect cube", and "what have you even got a cube-shaped head for?". It is very hurtful sometimes, although I don’t cry.

DR CHRISTIAN: What you need to do is realise that your condition is something that should be celebrated, and that a lot of the people making those taunts are probably jealous of your head being a cube. And a drawing.

CUBE: Oh, alright. I suppose I'd never thought of it that way. Thank you Dr Christian, that is a huge weight off my mind. I wish I'd come to see you before.

DR CHRISTIAN: Glad to be of help. Would you like me to look at your penis before you go?

CUBE: No thanks: I am alright

DR CHRISTIAN: Would you like to feel my bicep?

CUBE: Goodbye



So I'm glad I went to see Dr Christian. I enjoyed watching his mouth go off in lots of directions as he spoke and his manner was only a bit patronising and mostly soothing/life-affirming. I recommend going to see him if you have got a manky toe or a wonky nipple or something.

Without the self-esteem I regained in my session with Dr Christian, I probably wouldn't have had the courage to write this blog. I've thanked him already. Maybe you should too.

Competition: Viagra Spam

When I get to work on a morning, nothing eases me into the day like opening my email and discovering the new and inventive ways that Japanese spammers are trying to sell me Viagra. I have been collecting these emails for a month or so and here are my top three broken English sales pitches:

1. Support your sweet bed event
2. Hoist your belove sexual times

3. The nervous thrill will leave forever during all your bed scenes


There are many others in my inbox, but, sadly, some of these bear enough of a resemblance to correct English as to not be funny. But there must be more humorous ones out there...













Viagra: "Make your big love bed show". For example.

So I turn to you, dear reader, and offer you the chance to win ONE WHOLE ENGLISH POUND, by entering the Viagra Spam Subject Heading Competition. All you need to do is submit your own Viagra spam subject heading, be it one you've actually received, or one that you've used the power of your imagination to make up. You've got till the end of the month to leave your efforts in the comments field of this post, and on June 1 I will announce the lucky winner. Just think: one pound. In these financially tumultuous times, who among us would say no to a cash prize like that? I know I wouldn't.

One entry per contestant. Prize money must be collected by winner. Prize money may be reduced according to economic climate on June 1.

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Pixel Pervert

So I called up software house OCEAN to pitch my idea for Super Fire Marshall Man on the Commodore 64. The guy who answered sounded moderately interested but I could tell he was watching Cash in the Attic while he was speaking to me and I don't think I had his full attention. Anyway, he said something about it taking more than one new game to resurrect the fortunes a computer that has not been produced since 1994. He also said "sixty quid for a fucking candlestick?" but I think that was aimed at the television he was still watching.
So I decided I would devise a second game, and, taking inspiration from Cash in the Attic's very own ethos of
making money from old stuff, I thought I'd take a classic game, give it a 21st-century twist, and then make shitloads of money off of it.

So later that afternoon, after five hours and twenty-six minutes of intense programming, I came up with DoggerTM. In the screenshot below, you can see the main character, Dogger, waiting patiently by the side of the road for a sufficient lull in traffic for him to be able to cross over to the car park on the other side of the road, where some people from council estates are having sex in their cars.














Dogger: Stop, look, listen, peep


Once in the car park, Dogger scores a hundred points for every second he sucessfully peeps at the couple having sex without them noticing. For super high point scoring, Dogger can attempt to join in, by pressing the keys A to G to utter the following phrases.

A - "Hello, you have very nice hair. Can I touch it a little bit?
S - "Do you like my Mac? It's from Burton menswear."
D - "Who do you think was best on Countdown out of Richard Whitely and Des Lynam? I liked Richard best."
F - "Nice out tonight. They reckon it might rain later, though."
G - "I hope you don't mind but I have got my willy out."

I don't want to give the game away, but not all of those phrases will work, and if Dogger chooses the wrong phrase he may get a slap, and the resultant commotion may attract the attention of a passing police car. Dogger loses all his points in the event of his arrest.

If this game does not successfully resuscitate the Commodore 64 I will be very surprised indeed. The popularity of this video game, however, will inevitably see it blamed by the Daily Mail for copycat behaviour, so please, people, if my game fuels your desire to go dogging, be safe and use a condom. And probably take some Wet Wipes too: council estate people are dirty.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

Russ Abbott saves lives

A lot of people used to come up to me and say "Isn't it a shame that Nick Drake killed himself", and I won't lie to you, it became a bit tiresome, especially since I didn't know who Nick Drake was (or who the people coming up to me were). But after borrowing Pink Moon and listening to him effortlessly guide his mellifluous vocals over flute-rich melodies like some beautiful sonic ninja, I now have to admit that it would be okay if Nick Drake were not dead (although there is the possibility that the standard of his future work may slip markedly and I would feel slightly aggrieved for having wished him alive again.)










Nick Drake: Deader Layter


I'll level with you, I can't bring Nick Drake back from the dead: I just don't have that sort of power.

But what I can and have done is combined good music technology with great British comedy to create an invention that may well make acoustic singer-songwriter suicides a thing of the past. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Russ Abbot MadcapOTM.












Capo: Functional, not fun

Above you see a standard capo, which is used to alter the pitch of a guitar, in case you didn't know that already. In the picture below you can see the Russ Abbot MadcapOTM, the result of over 1,000 man hours, reams of blueprint, countless meetings with people of science, endless vats of coffee drunk, and too many "eureka - oh no, wait, that doesn't work at all" moments to count.







Russ Abbott MadcapOTM: Potential lifesaver



By simply attaching the Russ Abbot MadcapOTM to a normal acoustic guitar, not only is the key of the instrument changed, but also the mood of the player. To put it another way, the fretboard is immediately transformed into a don't fretboard. Had the late Nick Drake looked down to see the cheeky face of comedian Russ Abbott, all thoughts of suicide would surely have dissipated in an instant to be replaced by the giddy excitement that comes with wondering what zany antics Russ Abbott is going to get up to next (on your guitar).

If you'd like to order a Russ Abott MadcapOTM, please send me £10.99 + £4.99 p&p. I take PayPal and envelopes of cash.

Advantages: Zany, madcap, a good laugh, will reduce suicide rate of singer-songwriters, probably to zero.


Disadvantages: Quite difficult to play A minor, E minor and several other chords while attached

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

I'm the Fire Marshal, twisted Fire Marshal

As well as being the most prolific employee in my office of work I am also entrusted with the deadly serious position of Fire Marshal. I hope my use of capitals has instilled in your mind exactly how important this position is. In the event of the fire alarm sounding, my duties are:

1) Wear yellow hi-viz tabard
2) Tell people to go out of the door at the back of the room, not the front
3) Find the Chief Fire Marshal in the car park and tell them everyone is out of our room

I'm pretty brilliant at all these tasks, except I usually forget to do the third one and one time some people went out of the wrong door too.

My position as Fire Marshal is hard/rewarding but also very exciting. So exciting, in fact, that I think it should be the subject of a Commodore 64 game in the 1980s. Come to think of it I think I will call up OCEAN and pitch them my idea for Super Fire Marshal Man.











In the screenshot above, Super Fire Marshal Man is pointing his panicked colleagues in the direction of the correct fire exit. To point right the player must press the P key. To point left the player must press O, although on the level depicted, this would be a move with fatal consequences. Pressing the Y key makes Super Fire Marshal Man instruct his colleagues to walk, not run, and the R key makes him warn them to not even think of picking up any valuables and not even put their coat on or anything. The keys X through to N instruct Super Fire Marshal Man to use one of a number of different fire extinguishers according to the different types of fire, if, after assessing the situation, Super Fire Marshal Man believes the blaze to be at an early enough stage for him to tackle himself. Unfortunately, due to the number of advanced commands used, Super Fire Marshal Man may not be played with a joystick.


Although when released Super Fire Marshal Man will doubtless be the most fun game ever invented and will resurrect the fortunes of the ignored-of-late Commodore 64, I can only hope that the serious message of fire safety is not lost amongst all the excitement. I will probably have a warning sticker but on the box saying "Remember, in the real world you don't get three lives. And don't throw water on chip pans."

Monday, 4 May 2009

Two Pints of Lager and a packet of Space

About ten years ago I wrote a script for the BBC that was pretty shit hot. Okay it wasn’t, it was just pretty shit, but I was bound by the stringent rules of the BBC Talent write-a-sitcom competition, which said that unless you wrote a sitcom about a bunch of twenty-somethings living together they’d not only refuse to read your script but they’d also do a shit on a kitten. So I wrote a pilot called Phil's Palace (which you can read here if you really want to) and it was rubbish and I missed the deadline and the competition was won by what ended up being Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps. If you’ve ever been beaten at conkers by someone with Parkinson's, you’ll probably know how that felt.










"What have I done? I was Jambo!"


A decade later, Two Pints has gone interactive. Fans this week have been presented with a dilemma. To quote the BBC website, “Donna and Gaz have divorced, so he can now be with Janet. But he still has feelings for Donna. So what should he do?” Those who care need only put down their Aldi crisps for long enough to click “Donna”, or “Janet”, with the most popular answer actually informing the actual ending shown on the actual television in your actual house! I know, never have comedy and technology fused in such an incredible way. Sadly, you can’t vote on how many jokes about wanking, shitting and eating kebabs there are, so one can only hope that standards are maintained without viewer input both in this series finale and in the many many series to come.

I have made a video of what Two Pints might look like a thousand years from now, when the talented cast have long since died and the humour has been obliged to live on through future people in space.


video