Titty Biscuits Blog

John Lennon Narrowly Escapes Assassination

2006-05-20T23:37:00.000Z

Reuters, NY – John Lennon almost became the victim of a mistaken-identity assassination attempt this evening after being inadvertently saved by a passer-by.

Lennon returned to his residence, the Dakota, at around 10:50pm after a recording session with his wife, Yoko Ono. On leaving his limousine, crazed Beatles fan Mark Chapman approached Lennon and called out ‘Ringo!’. Lennon turned to see who was calling his fellow band-member’s name when Chapman fired a round from his .38 revolver.

At the same time, a Mr. Zeke Iddon was passing between the two on the sidewalk outside the Dakota as the shot was fired. “I was yawning at the time I was walking past John,” Iddon told reporters after the incident, “and heard this almighty bang. I closed my mouth pretty suddenly, y’know, out of shock, and felt this hard thingy between my teeth. I figured a filling had fallen out or something, but upon further inspection found it was a bullet.” Zeke went on to add “It’s a funny ol’ world.”

After accidentally catching the bullet between his teeth, Iddon reportedly asked Chapman ‘what the hell are you doing? You nearly took my eye out.’ Chapman instantly realised his mistake and dropped to his knees, yelling to Lennon ‘Jesus, I’m so sorry! I thought you were Ringo!’.

In an interview with police, Chapman revealed that he had originally thought Beatles member Ringo Starr had stepped out of the limousine, his intended target. “God, I don’t know why they let that phony sing some of their songs. I couldn’t hack that shit any longer. Yellow Submarine? Gimme a break!”

Iddon was also questioned by police on his chance involvement in the encounter. “I was just moseying on down the street when I saw a limousine park up. John Lennon steps out and I’m like, ‘hey, it’s John Lennon’. That’s why I started yawning, you see – I saw John Lennon and I couldn’t stop thinking about how goddamn boring and overrated the Beatles are.”

It is reported that Lennon has dropped all charges against Chapman, quoted as saying “At the end of the day, it was an honest mistake.”

Iddon, however, is planning to file compensation against Chapman, claiming “I think the guy chipped my tooth when I caught that bullet. I’m not sure. Let me check… Yghheeah, ghe deghinitely chighpped nhy ‘oof,” Zeke added, removing his finger from his mouth. “Plus, it wasn’t a very nice experience. You ever had a bullet in your mouth? No? It’s awful. It really set my teeth off. Like when you're taking a bunch of luggage out to the car and you're hands are full, and you’ve got the car keys in your mouth? It’s horrible. Yeah, it was exactly like that.”

Police investigating the case say that the most baffling aspect is Iddon’s birth year. According to investigators, it is listed on his passport as 1984, making him minus four years old at the time of the incident. When questioned on the issue, Zeke said, “Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me. I’ve got to go now, I’m in a bit of a rush to get some time crystals before the portal closes. I really don’t want to be stuck here in 1980, it feels like everyone is copying my current hairstyle."

Yoko Ono declined to comment, but was later heard by journalists cursing Iddon’s involvement and mumbling something about Lennon’s life insurance.

The Beatles are currently in discussions concerning renaming the band ‘The Zeakles’ in honour of Lennon’s saviour.

Wasp: "Hello, I'm a wasp." Every Other Species on Earth: "You're a dick."

2006-05-12T15:13:00.000Z

'Twas half past the sixth hour of the morn.

I awoke, as if from a heavy slumber. In fact, dear reader, I woke exactly as if from a heavy slumber, because I was slumbering heavily just prior to waking, as days for gentry folk and peasants alike are apt to start.

What roused me from such blissful sleep, you ask? What man or beast dare hath the impudence to disturb a fine fellow from his repose with such a hideous cacophony?

A buzzing of the loudest sort was in commence. 'Twas a sound so furious that I was such prompted to raise from my bunk, and yelled in couplet, "Satan! It must be he, for no mortal on Earth can emit such a hellish sonority! Alas, take flight from my chamber, and take thine ethereal pneumatic drill with ye!"

A brutish noise came to the Devil's accompaniment - the sound of my brother-in-law in the neighbouring room, angered and cursing at the calamity taking place mere yards away.

Mine brother's bitter pleas for quiet served to bring me to my senses. My torment was not being caused by Lucifer at all, but by that of a wasp - indeed, the next worst thing to the most loathsome of fallen angels.

It became apparent to my befuddled senses that the foul beast was 'twixt between my azure curtains and the window, one partially opened to provide the comfort of cool air to me during the night. I attempted to ignore the insane buzzing and waited for the sandman to come once again and return me to solice. I appeared to be in some fortune, as the buzzing ceased. Had the insect of eternal annoyance returned to its origins of nature, using the open window as a portal for escape?

Bleary eyed did I scan the room, too fearful to open the curtains and inspect the scene therein. However, such a task had been rendered unnecessary - to my horror, the monstrosity had broken through its material prison and was crawing down the other side of the curtain, no doubt waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill me.

The terror was too much for me. If my animal instincts had not taken a hold of my brain in that moment, I would most certainly have swooned. I fled my bed chamber clad only in the skin I was born with, being sure to seal the entrance behind me in an effort to confine the feind.

Scant minutes later I returned, fearfully, armed with a pressurised can filled with the most noxious and deadly fumes known to man. I held it to my chest, in a manner much like a club, and crossed the threshold to the chamber. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more unto the breach.

Perhaps sensing with its unholy senses my lethal intentions, the wasp had retreated back behind the curtains, buzzing madly against the pane yonder. Tentatively approach the enemy did I, extending the can threateningly. I parted the curtains a mere crack and blindly let loose with a barrage of chemicals, hoping to fell my tormentor. To my misfortune and poor skill, the attack caused naught effect save to anger the wasp. A counter attack was duly launched against mine face.

In fright, I ducked the flying devil and delivered a direct blow to its body with the metal cylinder. It thusly dropped to the carpet, foolishly allowing itself a few seconds on the floor to regain its composure. It was then, dear friends, that I merrily dealt the finishing blow, dosing the fallen in toxic fumes.

As it lay, flexing its many horrible limbs in agony, no doubt praying for the accepting maw of death, I took the time to affix my optical aids to my face for the first time that morn. Everything became as clear as a summer's day, and with great reluctance I studied the conquered as it entered the final stages of its death throes.

I was victorious. I had successfully and skillfully entered into a savage duel with a bluebottle, and won.

Utilizing the only aid that a Capital One credit card advert can offer, I scooped up the poor fly with the card and deposited it out of the window, allowing it the dignity of dying in the caring arms of Mother Nature.

Sighing with melancholy, I return to my bunk and laid my gentle head on the pillow. As half-sleep engulfed me, images of wasps as big as people flooded my brain and promptly wigged me out. I tried to dilute these horrors by imagining them wearing top-hats, but the powers of the subconscious were too formidable to battle. Instead, I could not help but imagine these same wasps that terrorize our lands in a tiny scale - so miniscule, in fact, that their sole purpose was to locate and burrow their way into our human urethras as we slept.

After tossing and turning for some mintues, my efforts to banish these nightmarish pictures from my mind were futile. In ill health from a mere three hour sleep, I grudgingly shambled to my computing device and supplied it the necessary power.

Updateth my blog, did I.

OMG I NEED 2 G0 H0M3 ND UPD4TE MAH BLOG

2006-04-03T14:55:00.000Z

Screw that.

To be honest, I'm really getting sick of the whole 'blogosphere' crap. People need to understand that just because you own a blog DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE A JOURNALIST.

Especially when you own a blog and think using the words 'cheese' and 'monkey' throughout reflects on how much of a 'random' person you are. You're not 'random'. You go to the same desk at the same time each and every day and do the same task over and over then go to the same pub after your shift and drink the same drink as you did the night before.

It's that kind of thing that has made me not update here for ages (three months? Record breaker, for sure). That and I've been really busy on my final dissertation for college, writing my soul out for scant pennies and returning to full time work as a chef. Okay, all that and I'm really lazy.

I wonder what a sloth would be like if you put it on sedatives. Those things have got really bizarre hands.

Anyways, here's a really random conversation I had with my little brother Grimmy on MSN the other night while drunk. I found it this morning in the history files. I do remember his screen name telling me he was in the shower and that we played a quick fire round of the insult game for a while, and that's about all.

Countdown to conversation with my brother:

3... 2.... 1... WOOOOOOSH!

Zeke: You're in the shower at midnight?

Zeke: That's fucking HARDCORE SHOWERING!

Grimmy: Yes, I rather enjoy a power shower.

Grimmy: How are you, mother trucker?

Grimmy: Hello?

Zeke: Hello?

Grimmy: Hello!

Zeke: Hi!

Zeke: How are you?

Grimmy: Can you read what I'm saying?

Zeke: There's a bunch of letters there and they kind of make sense.

Grimmy: You're a Sonic Waffle.

Zeke: Well, you're a Questionable Mantlepiece.

Grimmy: You are, by unanimous vote, a Pragmatic Souffle

Zeke: Ah, that may be true, but in contrast I think you'll find that you're an Ubiquitous Duckling.

Grimmy: Platonic Cornflake.

Zeke: Uncalmable Cheeseboard?

Grimmy: You're as gay as that kid at the school bus stop who always used to steal your fag butts from you.

Zeke: Oh, yeah, I remember him. You're as gay as the twat I work with that has not one Westham F.C tattoo, but TWO Westham F.C tattoos. AND TALKS ABOUT WESTHAM AND HIS WESTHAM TATTOOS CONSTANTLY.

Grimmy: Erm, but I think you'll find that you're overlooking the fact that I had a pie earlier, which obviously redeems me from my gayness.

Zeke: Nope, I win, because not only did I eat a pie earlier but I also cooked 12 (twelve) beef and ale pies for the restaurant this evening. WAAAAAAAHHH. Distributing the pies to the masses.

Grimmy: You're only distributing your prejudice, you're just too blind to see it.

Zeke: You distribute gay but you're too sexually insecure to see/feel it.

Grimmy: They only thing you see or feel is another man's/boy's genitals.

Zeke: Wait... wait!

Zeke: I can win this one! Just let me think...

Zeke: ... Oh yeah!

Zeke: I've got a girlfriend.

Zeke: Where's your girlfriend? Eh? I don't see her.

Zeke: Is she over here? Oh no, she's not.

Zeke: What about over here? Oh, no. Not here either.

Zeke: Should I call off the search party?

Zeke: WAAAAAAHHH

Grimmy: Should you lose your affinity with men as well as women?

Zeke: I can't answer that question really. I just have a straight forward mastery of the sexuals.

Zeke: (women).

Grimmy: lol the sexuals

Grimmy: rofl waffles

Grimmy: Lmaonade

Zeke: My face is on fire.

Grimmy: Is it burning like a single mother in hell?

Zeke: Oh, hang on...

Zeke: No, no it's not. My mistake, it's my cigarette that's on fire.

Zeke: You wouldn't believe the relief I'm feeling right now even if I could describe it!

Grimmy: I can make an estimate from the information I retrieved. The curve appears to be positive.

Zeke: Wait! I've come out with a different figure entirely. Are you sure you applied the standard misdeviation properly?

Grimmy: I used the unsigma sign to it's most pure form. And so, the hero and the princess got married.

Zeke: Fuck, it all makes sense! Pisces - you will prosper from a recent vague decision you made sometime in the last lifetime, and it will pay off when a good thing happens sometime in the next few years or so (give or take a decade).

Zeke: Y'know, I wondered what Meg was talking about until you filled in the gaps.

Grimmy: You see, meg is comparable to a flat packable cow. It makes no sense.

Zeke: Are you saying flat packaging makes no sense or cows make no sense? TREAD CAREFULLY.

Grimmy: The answer lies in the 8 ball.

Zeke: I don't have one handy. Relay it to me.

Grimmy: The result was volatile, have you read the disclaimer first?

Zeke: Was that all that shit about not being able to sue someone if they twat you about the head with an 8-ball if they can provide indesputable proof that the 8-ball told them to twat someone around the head with it?

Grimmy: The confusion of the situation has a 10x multiplier. Thus, the courts shall be too mentally decayed to care of the outcome.

Grimmy: It's a risk we have to take in these dark days.

Zeke: As long as we have love in our wallets and Van Morrison's latest album in our ears, we'll always be able to embrace the darkest days with confidence... surely you remember 'Emo/Gothic Tendancies Vs. Not Being A Dick' class back in school? That was the FIRST thing they hammered into us!

Grimmy: But it was all so subliminal! Really Z, i would have thought that you'd learned by now that the mind is a box, and if you open it you die.

Grimmy: More to the point, you just die.

Zeke: Dying sucks ass. What's all that shit about? It really sucks.

Zeke: Do you have the answers? God, I need the answers.

Grimmy: No, my name is Grimmy. You got the 'G' bit correct though. That'll all be accounted for on your day of judgement. Try the room upstairs.

Zeke: Uhhhh.... on top of the roof? I'm in the bedroom right now.

Grimmy: Stop thinking so laterally. You're just demoralizing yourself.

Zeke: I never had a moralizing to de-moralize in the first place.

Zeke: Which works out quite nicely, I think.

Grimmy: Too right, if i may say so.

Grimmy: Well too late in any case, I already have said so! Ahah, this is all too much, don't you think?

Zeke: I heartily agree. So much so, in fact, I'm going to do some bed-sleep. I've just worked a fourteen hour day, dontcha know.

Grimmy: We think alike. Try having a two day day. That's hectic!

Zeke: Oh, what, so you've done two hours a day for two days straight? Killer! Dude, that's like... four hours you've done this weekend!

Grimmy: Two days and two hours all in every action packed one.

Zeke: Do you work so hardcore that those four hours feel like a million?

Grimmy: I try, I really do.

Zeke: Hard enough?

Grimmy: Potential's there.

Zeke: That counts for a hell of a lot, no matter what anyone says.

Zeke: A potential in the hand is worth two actions in the bush, or some shit.

Grimmy: You should be among the Elite, you really should.

Zeke: Who said I wasn't already?

Grimmy: I'm going to close my eyes, count to ten and hope that your existance was just some strange dream.

Zeke: And then after those ten seconds you'll realise that it really was a strange dream and get so sad that I never existed that you'll hate yourself forever for wishing that I was a strange dream.

Zeke: Which I probably am.

Grimmy: There's two schools of thought on that, but you'll have to go into more depth at another time. Right now I'm going to bed.

Grimmy: Goodnights.

Zeke: Nightys-night.

Zeke: The

Grimmy: End.

It's just occurred to me that after all that, I still never found out if he was okay and life was running smoothly back home.

New Year's REVOLUTIONS

2005-12-31T13:47:00.000Z

This is what I have in store for 2006.

- Invent a peace plan which will totally solve all problems between the Palestinians and those other guys, then keep it to myself and not let anyone read it. Or maybe trade it for Yu-Gi-Oh memorabillia.

- Buy more milk.

- Remove Amendment 5 from the U.S Bill of Rights. It's just one massive, meaningless sentence. It's not necessary.

- Move that coffee mug. It's been there since 2004.

- Spend a good month or so trying to master time travel a little better and stop screwing up quantum timelines.

- Have a shave.

- Throw in the towel with all this stem cell research stuff. I'll leave it to the experts.
(note to self: Urgent - Secure the lab better in future, and find that half-baby-half-cockroach thing before THE GOVERNMENT DOES.)

- Stop taking my guitar to the toilet with me.

- Wash the car.

- Finish writing the prequel to Paradise Lost and send it to Random House.

- Actually, send all my writing to random houses in and around London. May increase my chances of getting published.

- Save up, get driving lessons, learn to drive, buy a car, get some insurance. Wash this car.

- Reply with 'would you like fries with that?' to every question anyone asks me in 2006.

- Reduce the amount of pseudo-rock bands who think it's cool to wear shirts and ties while performing.

- Drive over to the Norton Software headquarters and tell them no, no I do not want to renew your crappy antivirus software SO PLEASE STOP ASKING EVERY THREE SECONDS.

- Reduce the amount of bands that are The Darkness by one.

- See the doctor about having this kebab skewer removed from my spleen at some point.

Jobs. My Advice Is To Avoid Them.

2005-12-06T13:24:00.002Z

I was thirteen years old when I got my first job.

Like most kids my age, I started off by getting a Saturday job. The reason for this was not because I was penniless, which I most certainly was, but because it was high time I got my head out of the clouds, got out into the real world and learnt what a hard day's work was all about, instead of sitting there, playing on those damned computer games every hour god sends, wasting your life and if I haven't told you once I've told you a thousand times to empty the dishwasher.

At the time, I lived in a rural village named Upper Winchendon. Now, if you're an American reader, at this point you probably have fanciful images of the stereotypical English village, nestled in a sweeping green English countryside and roamed by either bearded naturists or funnily-dressed, mounted fox hunters. Also, If you described this imaginary picture to a friend, you’d probably both laugh and use the phrase ‘Oh, those Brits and their quaint eccentricities’.
At this point, I'd like to point out that you're absolutely correct on every single level.

The whole village officially lived under the rule of Lord Rothschild. How English can you get? If the weather was clear enough, I could squint across from my garden and see Lara Croft’s mansion while I had my afternoon tea. Although it was rarely clear enough. It’s always foggy in England.

The only inaccuracy in the tale so far is that I don't think it was quite a village. To meet the criteria for such a thing, I think one of the prerequisites include the clause 'must contain at least five inhabitants or more'. Sure, we had over five residents in Upper Winchendon, but one-hundred-and-eighty year old pensioners who either talk to themselves or smell funny or both don't count as people.

So I guess it was what you'd call a hamlet.

Anyway, when I decided to look for a job in the area (bearing in mind that the only things for thirty miles in any direction was a farm, a post box and a cattle grid) my options for working were limited. They involved at least one, or a combination of all, of the following:

1) working outdoors
2) working outdoors
3) working with animals. Animals which were outdoors.

This didn't really work in my favour, as my rather meagre resume only notes general interests in place of my lack of experience:

1) playing indoors
2) playing indoors
3) playing with computer games. Indoors.

I opened the front door of my house for the first time that weekend. The daylight only burnt my skin and eyes lightly, much to my surprise. I peered across the road at the post box, which was where the villagers went for hoots on a Saturday night. From where I could see, there was a white sign adorning its side. Thinking I might be in luck, I scurried across and looked closer at the sign.

Damnit! Where I'd hoped it had said 'Video Game Testers Please Apply Inside', it gave me some nonsense about last collection times.

I couldn't imagine the cattle grid giving me any more hope.

I had no other option but to go inside, change every instance of the word 'playing' to 'working', 'indoors' to 'outdoors' and 'computer games' to 'animals' on my C.V before returning to the infernal letter box and posting it to the farm.

The next weekend, I found myself standing in the local farmer's front room. He was reading my eleven-word-resume. I think he was trying to humour me by taking a whole five minutes to read it, all the while holding his bearded chin and nodding periodically. Eventually, he spoke.
"So... you like playing computer games?"
"Eh?"
He looked up at me before carrying on. "It says here you like playing computer games... outdoors? How does that work?"
"Oh, no! No, no, no," I said, joining his side and leaning over the scrap of paper in his hand. "That's supposed to say indoors."
"So you spend a lot of time playing computer games at home?"
Arrgh. "No! Heavens no, I can't stand people who sit inside, wasting every hour god sends on their computers," I said, scanning, panicked, over the mess in my never-to-be-at-this-rate-employer's hand. Then I spotted the vital error. "Oh, I didn't mean to type 'computer games'!" I said, and slapped my forehead in a 'whoops, stupid me' manner. "I meant, animals!"
My rapidly-disintegrating-job-giver looked at me, nonplussed. "So... you play with animals indoors?"
"No!"
"You play with them outdoors? I'm confused."
"Arrgh."
"Sorry?"
"I mean, no! No, I don't play with animals anywhere. I don't even like..." ... animals, I very sensibly finished off in the privacy of my own head, before having to try and resume my previous statement as smoothly as possible, "...uh, people who mistreat animals. Which obviously follows, naturally."
He gives me a side-long glance, and said, "We've had four people apply for work at the farm, and only one position to fill."
I was just about to turn around and bend over so he could kick my ass out of the door, when the unexpected happened.
“Well, congratulations. You’ve got the job.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, dead serious. You’re the most impressive applicant we’ve had so far. The others didn’t even bother to bring a C.V.” He then scrunched up his face and squinted closer at the scrap of paper in his hand. “Although it’s worth noting that ‘stick-to-it-iveness’ isn’t a word. A minor detail, though.”
I exhaled in relief, but forgot to open my mouth. The result was a fart-like sound which I hoped he didn’t hear.
“Sorry?” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t say anything. I just did that thing where you blow out, but your lips…”
He seemed non-plussed.
“It doesn’t matter. So, what’s the job?”
“Ah, glad you asked. You’re to be a pheasant beater. Do you know what that is?”
“No, and it sounds terrifying.”
He chuckled in an unnerving way, his massive shoulders shaking ever so slightly. “Nah, you’ll be fine! Basically, it couldn’t be simpler. Every Saturday we got out onto the grounds and shoot game. All you’ve got to do is walk around the outskirts and flush them out of the bushes.”
I nodded reflectively. “Hmmm. That does sound pretty simple.” I was expecting to have to shovel horse crap and muck out stables, so that was a relief.

I was standing in knee-high, soggy grass. My whole body was freezing and my wellies were full of water. This sucked in itself, but I didn’t devote much attention to this as there was a gang of men at the other end of the field firing shotguns in my general direction. Buckshot whizzed past me, and although that high-pitched ‘multitude of bullets flying past and ricocheting’ sound always seems fantastic in the movies, it really isn’t an enjoyable experience in real life. With the gloomy winter sky oppressively bearing down overhead, the whole situation was reminiscent of Vietnam.

My main job responsibility was not getting killed, followed closely by using a tarpaulin flag to make cracking sounds which would subsequently scare pheasants out of the bushes and into the firing line. You might think it stupid of the pheasants to fall for the simple ruse, but on the contrary I think they had some smarts about them: they knew what was going on, otherwise they wouldn’t have flown towards me. Any normal mammal or whatever the hell pheasants are, when trying to flee an attacker, will generally accelerate their forward motion in the opposite direction. However, these things realised that they had no chance whatsoever and figured they'd might as well get as close to me as possible; I think we both knew that shotgun fire tends to spread, thus taking out the intended target (see: bird) as well as anything in the vicinity (see: me.)

Clever buggers.

The hunters themselves were an alright bunch. Other than blindly firing their guns at pheasants flying past my face, they looked out for me pretty well, sharing coffee and sandwiches with me and stuff. We generally took a break around midday, having already worked for six hours, and we’d sit in one of the barns and share hunting stories.
“… and then the farmer came out and told us all to stop scaring the crows!”
Raucous laughter ensued over something which rates about the same on the funny scales as one of those 'I hate Mondays!' posters you generally find on every single office cubicle wall in the world.
“Ahhh, that’s a good ‘un. Those were good days. Would you like a sandwich?” a hunter would say, nudging me.
“Why, thank you Bill,” I’d invariably say, because most people who have any link or interest in agriculture and farming are called Bill. “Say, does anyone remember that time… mmm, tuna… does anyone remember that time, say a few hours ago, when we were all in that field and you nearly blew my goddamn head off? Eh? Does anyone remember that?"

There was this one guy called Crazy Will. Seriously, that was what everyone called him (though a few people just called him Bill. Naturally.) He was a walking caricature. He was about 600 years old, had Einstein-esque hair cascading from his flat cap, wore a monocle and was, in fact, crazy. He was deaf to boot, and I always expected him to produce an ear trumpet from somewhere inside his ill-fitting tweed overcoat.

One day, the head huntsman (I think that’s what you’d call him, although that kinda sounds like a pygmy war leader) decided that it’d be best to proceed into a small wood. He took some fellow pheasant beaters and most of the hunters in from the East, and told me and Crazy Will to go in from the other side and mop up any game that got pushed back. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, because compared to open fields, woodlands are generally confined spaces. Crazy Will and combined spaces was a daunting combination.
“Come on then, Crazy Will,” I said, wanting to get the shoot over with as quickly as possible. He jolted, as if he’d just been woken up with a bucket of water, and swung his shotgun around wildly.
“Eh? What’s that you say, young man?”
“I said come on, let’s see how we do,” I replied, slightly louder this time.
“What? Do what?”
“Pardon?”
“Speak up, young man! My hearing’s not as good as it used to be!”
“I said: what?”
“What what?”
At this point I was aware that he was leaning towards me in an effort to hear better, and his gun was pointing directly at my crotch. I gently pushed it to one side, using my other hand to direct his gaze towards the wood.
“In there! Let’s go kill things!” I screamed at the top of my voice. This seemed to register.
“Good show!” he replied. I wasn’t sure what show he was referring to, but we’d finally reached some level of coherence and set off on our mission.

For the life of me I couldn’t get Kenneth Branagh’s ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends’ speech out of my head.

Once we crossed into the undergrowth, I thought I’d take a moment to try and explain the plan to Crazy Will, although I imagined it was going to be a futile exercise. Whaddaya know? It totally was.
“Right, the others are shooting the other end of the wood, so there should be some birds moving in our direction. You wait here, I’m going to scout up ahead and see if…”
“THERE!” he suddenly screamed at the sight of a pheasant. Before I knew what the hell, he had rested the barrel of his gun on my shoulder and pulled the trigger.

In Saving Private Ryan, when a large explosion occurs on-screen there’s a second or two where the soundtrack goes completely silent. When I saw the movie, I thought it was a really cool way to signify how deafeningly loud these explosions were. I can also say, with a certain degree of authority, that this scenario is incredibly realistic.

My hearing returned with an added, high-pitched ringing after a second or two.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You’ll have to speak up, young man! My hearing’s not as good as it used to be!”
“What?” I yelled, not being able to hear him over my sudden bout of tinnitus.
“I said, what did you say?” he shouted.
“I said, what the hell do you…”
“THERE!” he screamed, and pointed the gun past my head and pulled the trigger, the end of the barrel about three inches from my cheek. My hands almost made it to my ears, but not quite quick enough.

Everything went silent again.

I didn’t wait until it returned before screeching, “Will, for the love of God just put the bloody gun down!”
When I got my hearing back, all I heard was Crazy Will shout, “Bun? That’s very kind, but I’ve just had my sandwiches.”
“What?” I called back, very aware that I was heading for the ‘what’ circle.
“I’m not hungry, but thanks for the… there! Another one!”
“JESUS!”

All in all, the job wasn’t what I would describe as amazing/altogether safe. I admit, there was a certain level of excitement to be had from the whole Vietnam experience of bloodshed and gunfire (kids at my age were paying shed-loads of money to simulate the experience on their "computer gaming consoles" or whatever - I was living it firsthand and getting paid for it!) But the novelty of the job wore off very quickly, and the effects from being soaked through on a freezing winter’s day at six in the morning took over. All the beaters would finish at about four o’clock, and we’d collect our pay at the end of the day. For our ten-hour day of sludging around muddy fields and being shot at, we got £15. That’s… what? £1.50 an hour? Fantastipants.

I can’t say it was the best job I’ve ever had, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. I may well bore you with that at another time. Right now though, it’s rapidly approaching five o’ clock, which means its time for all of us Brits to stop what we’re doing and have tea and scones on the lawn of Buckingham Palace.

Until next time… toodlepippins!

Zeke
speak_english_or_die_03@hotmail.com

The Dictionary: It's Pants

2005-11-05T17:12:00.000Z

A little while ago I wrote a review of the Concise Oxford Dictionary, but as if it was a work of fiction. I then went on to review the 10 o' Clock News as if it was a drama series. Y'know, just generally being silly. I even e-mailed the dictionary review to Oxford Press, and asked if I could interview the editor of that particular edition. The response was hilarious - they got really self important, told me that the editor put a lot of work into that edition and they take their products very seriously, and even went as far as telling me to piss off.

It was awesome.

Anyway, here's the review.

The Concise Oxford Dictionary
Ninth Edition
Oxford University Press
Editor: Della Thompson

(Warning: If you haven’t read The Ninth Edition and plan to, the following review contains a plot spoiler)

Unlike the hugely successful fiction novel we have come to know and love, the original dictionary was quite a different story.

Written in 1604 by a Robert Cawdrey, it is odd to think that the book was essentially no more than a tool in order to help people better their language, or as Cawdrey himself put it, “for the benefit & helpe of Ladies, Gentlewomen, or any other vnskilfull persons”. However, before Oxford University Press polished it up, the workmanship was rather shoddy; aside from Cawdrey’s awful spelling (‘wordes’), which simultaneously makes it laughable that he should have felt able for the project (and reminds writers worldwide the importance of a spell check), he also doesn’t seem to be aware of any words beginning with J, K, U, W, X and Y.

As we all know, when Oxford University Press saw the potential in Cawdrey’s work and decided to take it along a fiction route it was one of the smartest business moves in the history of literature (if we momentarily disregard God’s 'The Bible', which was bound to be a global bestseller when you consider the author's talents). However, is the press’ insistence of rehashing what is essentially the same novel worthwhile to us as readers?

Sadly, the answer is a resounding ‘no’. Currently speaking we are up to the twelfth edition, but it is widely accepted that the Ninth Edition, edited by Della Thompson, is the worst in the Concise Dictionary series. Despite the fact that its cover screams out ‘major new edition!’ and fans will be hard-pushed to find much different to the prequels, the main problem lies in Thompson’s story telling. The old adage ‘show, not tell’ has been broken on many levels here, and the reader is rarely left to figure things out for themselves.

Whilst the ‘journal entry’ format has been done many a time in the fiction world, it is admittedly done well within these pages and suits the style of the prose amicably. Unfortunately, Thompson seems to find it difficult to get to grips with this format, repeatedly writing journal entries about the letter ‘A’ at the very beginning of the novel. Why these superfluous entries, which pretty much state the same thing over and over, were not removed before being sent to the press is left a mystery (especially considering that Thompson is herself an editor by trade). After these false starts we are finally introduced to our first character, Aardvark. It’s unfortunate to report that the potential of opening a novel with such a surreal character was lost, as we are quickly given an information dump about this rather shallow character (this occurs frequently throughout the book).

On a positive note, the rather outlandish storyline and provocative descriptions (to quote a line from the unforgettable vomit entry: ‘Eject violently, belch forth.’) encompasses a wide range of ideas and sub-plots with effortless ease, if a little hard to follow at times. And while the beginning is somewhat lacking, to her credit Thompson has crafted a marvellous and unpredictable ending; who can put their hands up after reading the book and honestly say they saw ‘Zymurgy’ coming?

Regardless of the fact that it is easy to dip in and out of the novel at random, the book as a whole is a bit of a disappointment and ultimately seems that Oxford Press need to take heed of the oft quoted phrase ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. And on a final note to those of you who still plan to find out what all the fuss is about, be warned that some of the language can get quite complex. As a result, it might be worth keeping a copy of Cawdrey’s Table Alphabeticall to hand.

Review: Zeke Iddon

Zeke Has A Haircut, Everyone In The World Faints 23/10/2005

2005-10-23T15:33:00.000Z

My mobile used to ring in the early hours of the morning, around 3 or 4 am, nearly every day. I'd awaken, bleary eyed, and check the caller ID. It was always the same. Always Withheld. So I'd accept the call, put the phone to my ear and get it over with.

"Get a haircut, you goddamn hippy!" my dad would yell, then hang up. I'd sigh, and go back to sleep without giving him a second thought.

However, about a month ago (I think I mentioned this in editor's intro to Issue 4 of the Unholy Biscuit) I decided that enuff was enuff, and went up to the bathroom armed with a bunch of photos of attractive people with not-too-crap hair, a mirror, a hacksaw and a grim determination. The hacksaw broke halfway through doing my bangs, so it was replaced with a hedgetrimmer. Fifteen minutes later and with only a few, very minor injuries, I had had a haircut for the first time in about four years.

It's still long enough to piss my dad off, but short enough to prevent builders from whistling at me as I mince down the street. And who knows? Maybe now that I look presentable, I'll take my dad's advice and, y'know, get one of those 'real job' thingies.

Oi, mate! Get a haircut!

Consider it done!

Me, doing some work for Litvision. I am now the sexiest editor since Marissa Ranello! She can edit my poetry any day of the week.

Um, whatever that means.

That's it for my exciting update about hair. Join me next time as we talk about the pros and cons of pipe cleaners. Feel free to leave comments below, and if you are looking for some older material, set sail towards here.

L8terz! Lol rofl omg.

Who Scams The Scam Artists Themselves? - 08/10/05

2005-10-23T14:49:00.000Z

As we all know, if you take the word 'Nigeria', add the letters S, C and M, then rearrange the letters and take a good few out, you're left with the word "SCAM". It's a scary coincidence, sure, but some experts even go as far as to call it proof that any e-mails sent to you from Nigeria are a hoax.

Do not trust them. The most common scam e-mails follow the format of "Hi, I'm Troy McClure, president of some bank in Lagos, Nigeria. Dude, some rich guy just died and left three trillion Nigerian lira or whatever money we use over here. We can't track.down any relatives, so we're going to give you the money. We just need a small deposit of $1m in order to release the money."

Bizarrely, people actually fall for this kind of stuff all the time. But not I. This one time, my mum went on holiday to Kenya. "She" sent me some e-mail saying that something along the lines of: "Hi son, I tried to call you but we can't get through to you. This is really important. The plane got stuck in a storm on the way to Kenya and we had to stop in Nigeria for to refuel. I went into a nearby town to get some coffee and when I came back the plane had left. All of my money was onboard. I need you to go online and order me some extra tickets - I'm stranded out here!". Now, whoever sent me that e-mail went to great lengths to trick me- not only was it sent from my mum's actual hotmail account, but they called me by name and somehow knew that my mother was on holiday in Africa. But they made one fatal error: the second I saw the word 'Nigeria', I knew they were trying it on.

Hah. You've got to wake up reasonably early in the afternoon to get one past ol' Zeke. In other news, my mum must be having a really good time in Kenya 'cause I haven't heard from her in months. She was only supposed to be gone a week! Crazy woman, never know what she's gonna do next.

But if you're still not convinced about how sketchy Nigeria is, here's some terrifying facts that I either found on the Internet or overheard someone saying at the bus-stop:

- Nigeria's scam trade generates a third of the country's national income!
- Nigeria is bigger than Portugal, but nowhere near as big as Russia!

That's about all I can think of right now, but I think you'll find that the figures speak for themselves. However, there is no need to lay awake at night living in constant fear of Nigerian e-mails. Seriously. In fact, they can be quite fun. Even profitable. Let me share with you my 12-step method on how to turn the tables on these scam artists, or at least make them look unwittingly silly (most of these people can't speak English) on your own personal weblog.

All of the following e-mails are completely real and not made up by me. If you don't believe me, e-mail me and I'll give you the password to my hotmail account and you can check for yourse.... hey, hang about, you scammer! I see what you're trying to do... you can't trick me that easily. All of my e-mails below are in blue, just to clear things up. For reference, this paragraph is red (blue is considered by some to be the opposite).

From: James Dale
Private Email: jamesdale333@mail.ru
Subject: Inheritance Fund

Dear Sir/Madam I apologize if the contents hereunder are contrary to your moral ethics, But please treat it with absolute secrecy and personal courtesy. I am James Dale an Auditor of a commercial Bank here in the United Kingdom, in the the process of auditing our bank accounts I and one of my colleagues discovered that there is a dormant account valued at the sum $10,000,000.00 (Ten million united states Dollars) and after due verification of this account we discovered that the account owner is late and that is why the account has been dormant and as such a $10,000,000.00 has been lying in the bank unclaimed. The idea of presenting somebody who is not related to our deceased customer to act as his next of kin came into our mind, that is how and why we have contacted you to present you as his next of kin , so that the $10,000.000.00 will be paid to you and we can both disburse the fund according to the percentage we will agree on. In view of this, I am seeking for your co-operation and understanding to stand as the next of kin to our deceased customer, to enable us claim the fund from my bank. Hence, If this proposal is OK by you and you do not wish to take undue advantage of my trust, then I hope to bestow on you. Please kindly get back to me immediately, strictly via my private email address only: jamesdale333@mail.ru to enable me enlighten you on how we are to proceed. On getting your response, we shall agree on the percentage of disbursing the $10,000,000.00 between us, as we intend to invest part of our own share in real estate business in your country, and we would appreciate if you can put us in the right part investing in your country. I will not contact any person or company until I hear from you, so as to enable me decide on what to do next. Be rest assured that this business is 100% risk free. We await for your prompt response.
Regards, James Dale

Ten million United States Dollars??? Jeezus! I don't know how much that is in UK sterling, but it's probably enough to buy a couple of packs of cigarettes and maybe even a new hat. But as I mentioned earlier, I'm not one to be easily fooled. For interest's sake, let's see how gullible James Dale thinks I am:

From: Zeke Iddon
RE: Inheritance Fund

James,

w0w!!!!1!!!1!

this soundz 2 good 2 B tru! 10 trillion dollorz? i dont mind how much u keep of it az long az i get a few thousand. this iz a dreem cum true as ive been speking 2 banks and stuff 2 try and raise money for my animal sacntuary. its liek a home for blind animalz and the great thing is dat we have developd a cost affective wa y of turning them into cheap fuel 4 motocycles, but da bankz and building soxieties are reluctent 2 put up the cash we need. weve got a few thousand saved up but need more.

if u acn help me get sum of this dead blokes monies it wud be a dreem cum true and u wud help me CHANGE THE WORLD wiv my new (enviromently freindly) fuel. Teel me wot 2 do next plz

very trustingly,
Zeke

And yes, no matter how stupid I decided to act, he still sent out the standard issue "If you want the money, send us $100000" e-mail. I carried on acting like a dickhead for a while before realising he probably wasn't even reading my replies, so quickly got bored of that. This next chump, however, got everything that came to him (again, my e-mails are in blue for clarity. Fun fact: there aren't many naturally blue foods.)

From: Steve Shesol

Hello,
I am a representative of a firm namedsuzzybreekstore.inc based in canada in which we have astore branch located in Lagos,Nigeria. We are based on the importation your item and wehave thereby seen your products facinating and we will beintrested in making good enquiries of them. We will like all order to be shipped directly toour store branch in Lagos,Nigeria.Our mode of payment willbe by CREDIT CARD.The courier service that will be preferedwill be either UPS or DHL courier services. We will want you to get back to us if you will beintrested in dealing with us so that we can send in ourorders asap.
Best Regards.
steve.

From: Zeke Iddon

What?

Sincerely,
Zeke

From: Steve Shesol

Hello,
Thanks for your response i will want you to send me your website so that i can choose the items i need in mystore.
Regards.

From: Zeke Iddon

Uh, I think you want the site address. It's www.tittybiscuits.net . There are a few products here that you may find of interest, but please let me know if you are interested in some 'special' products that aren't made available to everyone (if you know what I mean).

I look forward to doing business with you.
Zeke Iddon

From: Steve Shesol

Hello,
I want you to mail me the products you have in yourstore so that i can choose the ones that are best and goodto me.Get back to me asap.

Obviously I have no idea what products he's talking about, and neither does he by the looks of things. When I mentioned 'special' products in my last e-mail, I had the idea of sending him to a secure page on this site which listed illegal sentry guns available for mail order, complete with pictures of the automated machine guns featured in the film 'Aliens' and the Ed 209 robot from 'Robocop', just to see if he'd be silly enough to take the bait. The more I thought about it, the more I realised it was a lame idea and probably wouldn't have amounted to much fun. However, on doing some research into Nigerian scams, another, more masterful plan was hatched.
Let me explain the scam in order to set the scene:

this one is often used particularly on semi-pro artists, so for sake of argument let's we're a commercial artist. Somebody, let's call him Reggie (because I like that name), e-mails you and says "Hey, I like your artwork and want to buy shed loads of it for my Nigerian mansion. I will pay by cheque or credit card upfront". Of course, being a struggling artist, you're going to be flattered and (hopefully not) suckered into the deal. You ask Reggie what he wants, he tells you and sends you a cheque or credit card details… generally for the sum of tens of thousands. You say "Yep, I'm fed-exing them to your (fake) address. Cheers for the money." However, the second you do that, Reggie will tell you that he's found a cheaper shipping option of his own and would like to use that service, and the top-and-bottom of it is that he's overpaid you on shipping by a couple of grand. Of course, he'd like a refund. You're all like, "cool, Reg has paid up-front, seems like a trustworthy chap, so I'll just wire him the money."

Big mistake. You're left with a fake cheque or stolen credit card details, and apparently it takes the bank a stupidly long time to figure that out. Reggie? He's long gone. You've either given him lots of your own dough, or money out of the cheque that has 'cleared', but will eventually bounce. Sounds like a very hard scam to pull off, but like I said, things like this earn Nigeria a third of it's gross national profit. Plus, Nigeria is much bigger than Portugal, which makes sense when you think about it.

So anyway, enough waffling. Now that I was privvy to the above information, it was time to put my plan into action.

From: Zeke Iddon

Mr. Shesol,
It's Zeke here from www.tittybiscuits.net. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but we have had some technical difficulties with one of our factories.

We have finally produced the products you requested, if you are still interested. If so, please e-mail me your postal address and the amount of products needed (at a price of £10 per product, maximum order 1000 products).

I'm afraid I won't be able to ship the products until I have recieved your mailing address and payment, either by credit card or cheque, for the product. However, I will not authorize the payment at my end until I know you safely have the products you requested.
Hope to hear from you soon. Sorry for the delay and thanks for your business.

Zeke Iddon

From: Steve Shesol

Hi,
I would be interest in ordering the maximum amount of product and have sent a cheque for $10000 dollars with another amount of $6000 for the shipment of your item. Please let my know immediately on receiving the payment.
Thanks

Things were going swimmingly and all according to my master plan. About a week passed, and I kinda forgot about the check, but sure enough the money came through. I wish I had a scanner handy at the time so I could show you the cheques – they truly were bad fakes and I can’t imagine anyone falling for this dirty trick. After promptly feeding them through the shredder, I got back to my e-mails and let him know I’d received his money and that I was awaiting instructions for payment. Within minutes (literally) I had an e-mail from my mate Steve.

From: Steve Shesol

Urgent,
Thank kindly for letting myself know of your confirmed payment. We are having problems how ever as our manager has found a cheaper more reliable courrier for shipment. It is very important that you send us the $6000 dollars back to us as we have arranging our own shipping costs. Please keep our payment for the product but return the shipment cost. If you can do this by credit card please email me or I will send a address for sending a check.
With great urgency

Being an editor by trade, I was itching to rip apart his grammar and spelling. I also wanted to point out that if you’re going to pretend to be a successful businessman representing a recognised company, punters may find it suspicious that they cannot find any mention of either you or said company anywhere on the net. But hey, things were going exactly as per plan. I would like to mention once more that everything written up here actually happened… so what plan, you cry? Watch closely:

From: Zeke Iddon

Steve,

I’m glad you found a less expensive shipping company. I mean, jeez, $6000 was steep, although admittedly 10,000 of the globally acclaimed titty-biscuits products is worth it. I think they will do well in your store.

I will happily refund the $6000. However, as your cheques are international, my bank is demanding £20 UK pounds in order to present them to the cashier. If you could send this amount in cash to the following address then I will e-mail you with my credit card details so you can deduct the $6000 from your order. I hope e-mailing of my credit card details is okay? I’d prefer not to send a cheque, I don’t find them trustworthy enough.

Thanks for your help, and sorry for the inconvenience. I very much appreciate your interest and look forward to hearing from you.
Zeke Iddon

Alas, this is were the story pretty much ends. I never heard from Steve Shesol again. Well, at least not via e-mail. Yep, about five days after sending the previous e-mail, I received an envelope from Scamgeria. There was no letter inside or anything, just two printed notes. One was a five pound note, the other was a ten pound note. Smashing! It wasn’t the twenty I’d asked for… either ‘Steve’ messed up his currency conversion or decided that fifteen was enough to convince me he was legitimate. Either way, to my total (and hopefully shared) disbelief, I’d managed to scam someone that was trying to scam me. It was only £15, sure, but it felt like a massive victory on my part. Knowing, at this point, that this escapade was going to end up here, I thought I’d write a satisfying conclusion to this blog entry and subsequently e-mail it to my benefactor.

From: Zeke Iddon

Mr. Shesol,
Just to confirm that I have received your payment and everything has gone ahead, as planned.
Your imaginary products were shipped onto an EasyCruise ferry this morning, and are currently on their way to the moon.

As for the £15 you kindly sent, cheers sucker!

Yours very sincerely,
Mr. Zee

Next time, I’m very much thinking about hitting for a higher amount. This guy didn’t even hesitate sending me cash, purely because he though I was the sucker and he was going to get thousands in return for his ‘investment’. I urge everyone who is lucky enough to get this sort of opportunity that lands in their inbox to try the same. Hey, what have you got to lose?

Well, I guess there’s the “giving your home address to experienced criminals who would most likely come around to your house and kill you for your half-finished tube of toothpaste” factor. But in my mind, that’s a chance worth taking for fifteen smackers.

Lucrative times, lucrative times.