Deadpan Conversation at a Pub, With Fascinating Insights into the Male Psyche
Scene: A pub.
Ian: Which is your favourite barmaid?
Chris: That one.
Jim: That one.
Ian: The one at the end.
Jim: Ian, that's a bloke.
Scene: A pub.
Ian: Which is your favourite barmaid?
Chris: That one.
Jim: That one.
Ian: The one at the end.
Jim: Ian, that's a bloke.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
10:30 am
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Labels: Deadpan Conversations
Well, as promised in the first part of my sleevenotes, here is the second part of my sleevenotes. Man, that was a smooth introduction. And some ugly jpg deterioration above. Oh well, it'll do for now.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
3:52 pm
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Labels: Christmas
If you've been good to me this year and I've got your address, you should be getting a copy of Jim's Arrogant Summation of the Music of the Previous Twelvemonth in the post soon, along with a card wishing you a happy Christmas, and probably something positive about the new year. In order to whet your appetite, here's the first part of the tracklisting (more to follow soon):
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
3:46 pm
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Labels: Christmas
Yep, it's three deadpan conversations for you, reader.
ONE
Scene: Outside my house. I am opening my bin shed to put my bike in. A father and child pass by.
Child: [Amazed voice] Do you live in there?
Me: Yes. Not in the bin shed though!
Father: He asks too many questions.
TWO
Scene: Outside work, I meet the postman. You could tell he is a postman without already knowing that he is, because he wears shorts in all weather.
Postman: Hi.
Me: Hi.
P: You're Catherine's boyfriend, right?
Me: No, I don't think so.
P: Oh.
Me: It's Chris you're thinking of.
P: Oh right. He's the big lad?
Me: Erm.
P: Wears a hat?
Me: That's Ian. Chris works upstairs. He's about my height. Dark hair.
P: Spiky hair? Cycles? Wears a green jumper?
Me: Yes, that's him.
P: Oh yes, the Geordie. I know him.
Me: No, that's not him.
THREE
Scene: A football stadium in Stevenage. Running late owing to cancelled trains and a lack of ticket machines at Finsbury Park, I hurry along towards the turnstiles, but hear a loud roar indicating that we've scored. Damn.
Me: 1 adult, please.
Turnstile Woman: That's £12 please.
Me: Thanks. I don't get a discount for missing a goal then?
TW: No. I ought to charge you more for not being here on time.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
12:48 pm
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Labels: Deadpan Conversations
[As this is a blog, navel-gazing self-absorption is a given, so I'm fully justified in the following bit of self-congratulatory self-promotion.]
Want to hear my convoluted sentence-construction trip up a normally silver-tongued professional broadcaster? Want to hear the word 'thrum' said on national radio? Of course you do - you're not a complete idiot. Well, in that case, fire up the internet, and point your browsers to here, and after you've listened to XTC and the Lurkers (that's 2 songs in, counting fans) and you'll be able to hear the words 'messianic' and 'grogginess' and 'dissipated' all in the same glorious email. It's about 10 minutes in, giving you time to boil some eggs if you want. But do it before the end of next Wednesday, before it disappears forever.
Also, for those of you doing today's Guardian quick crossword, the poisonous woodland fungus is 'death cap'. No, don't all thank me at once.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
10:53 am
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Scene: A phone call to a minicab firm.
Minicab Woman 1: Hello. Where do you want a cab from?
Me: Finsbury Park to London Fields please.
MCW 1: Could you hold on a sec. [To colleague, with hand over receiver] Could you take this one - I'm busting for a piss. I've been waiting for ages!
Minicab Woman 2: Hi, where do you want a cab from?
Me: I hope she makes it.
MCW2: Me too.
Sadly, we'll never know whether she made it or not. Well, unless you ring Bartley cars and ask them.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
5:40 pm
1 blabberers have blabbed about this
Two examples of the gold that drops through my letterbox each day. I like the idea of the man who finds the satelits - he's an alright guy. The sinister 'professor', however... I love his motto though. Must have been fun in the business card shop:
"OK, what can I put on there? Let's start off with bringing back the dead. Yeah, that's a good one. Oh yeah, and the rest. I've got a list here. I've got a bit more space you say, even with all of the many things that I can do, including careers advice, and undoing the work of my fellow charlatans (it'll get me in trouble with the United Guild of Scammers and Con People, but sod 'em, I say. When have they ever done anything for me)? Could you make the 'Your pain is my responsibility' a bit larger? And capitals? And italics? Cheers. I'll pick them up tomorrow. You don't know where I could find a satelit do you? I need a high signal good, you see. Oh well, worth a try."
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
9:01 pm
1 blabberers have blabbed about this
What have I been up to recently? Only participating in the most historic occasion ever to happen ever. Yes, that's right, I'm talking Stevenage Borough in the FA Trophy final at Wembley on Saturday. 53,261 other people were there too, most of them eager to see what kind of home £1bn gets you these days. The answer? Really powerful hand-driers (of which I am already a fan), the sort that make your skin ripple and sound like a jet engine revving up. Also, it's the one place on earth where men have to queue to get into toilets and women don't, such is the equality of provision. However, if they hold a massively female dominated event (I can't come up with any more precise description for fear of being arrested or beaten up, unfortunately, but it did involve a kitten-cooing convention as one of the elements), the rightful queue disparity will be restored.
Getting away from the toilets, what you really want to know is how did Boro do? Well, in keeping with the frustrating way they've been all season, they played like drunk clowns for periods in the first half, giving away two goals while the defenders all tried to get into a car but the doors kept falling off whilst throwing buckets of glitter over each other (I had a good view, and I'm pretty sure that's why they didn't put tackles in on the goalscorer). So Boro entered half-time two goals down, and woe was me. Oh woe. But, following a half-time talk by, I can only assume, Boro Bear (who can be seen on the above picture at the far left of the line of players) spurred the team on to score three second-half goals and win a big pot of hunny. Very exciting. Best thing to happen to Stevenage since I left, reported the local paper on Monday, somewhat vindictively.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
4:13 pm
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Labels: sorry football, Stevenage
Apologies for not posting anything for ages, but I've been living in fear. Every tiny noise in the flat fills me full of dread anticipation. Any creak, bang, jangle or flapping of the wings of a pigeon in the jaws of a cat makes me start in terror. Oh, I think I may have given the game away. Damn.
Yes, the first victim of the Mog Summer of Horror has been taken. A young pigeon by the name of Flappy was bought to an untimely demise by the rampant cat-jaws of our cat earlier in the week, but I've known it was coming. There's something about the demeanour of a cat - perhaps a devillish twinkle in her eye, perhaps the extra vim she puts into chasing the toy panda - that lets you know that SHE WILL KILL AGAIN.
It's the bin-men I feel sorry for. They're the poor buggers who have to take it away.
(NB - cat-kill photo above not done by me or my cat - it's from here. Thanks, Flickr).
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
12:16 am
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Labels: nuns, Pigeons, postmen, sorry football
It's a nice day today, everyone's smiling, the beer gardens are open, and it seems like summer's here. Well, it's not. It's not here. It's still winter. How do I know this? Well, seeing the popularity of meteorologists - they have their own programmes on the telly and everything - I decided that I'd cash in, and use hard facts to prove that it's not summer.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
4:48 pm
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Hope you've been watching Life on Mars recently. If you haven't been, then you won't know how skilled John Simms is at acting drugs. Unless you've seen Human Traffic, which I understand also features him acting drugs. He's really good at it though. He does sweaty, confused, hyper and chewy so well.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
1:42 pm
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The pigeons have struck back in the ongoing battle for supremacy between featherless, hygienic me and the fearful filthwings. I arrived at work. I picked up a parcel addressed to Nicola Kirkham, c/o me. I wandered into my room thinking, not unfairly, "Who the bloody hell is Nicol Kirkham?" What I wasn't thinking was, "Hello pigeons, how have you enjoyed your time flapping round the office, you disgusting evil beasts?" That's what I should have been thinking, because there were two sickeningly fat and barely able to fly pigeons crashing about. I had to get someone with a stick to help me guide them out of the window. I'm not used to helping pigeons without using the Swift Hammer of Merciful Death, so it was a slightly strange experience for me.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
1:30 pm
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Labels: Evening Standard, Pigeons, Work
Yes, but who did they attack?
(Cheers, Evening Standard headline poster)
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
12:12 pm
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Labels: Evening Standard
Hey there, little reader, you. In lieu of actually writing anything, I've instead been tinkering with the new Blogger templates (hence the shiny newness on which you read these words). In one fell swoop, they've made it both much easier and also impenetrably difficult to edit the template. Fact was, the old one was looking like a dog, and I had to take it out round the back of the internet and cave its head in with a big spade made of code. Also, I just tweaked one of the default templates slightly. Anyway, enough of that.
Actually, one more thing on the topic - you won't be able to see the comments on the main page any more. The Man can't cope with such free speech, man. You'll have to click on the comments bit at the end of each post, or you could subscribe to the comments feed (see side panel for more on this). Stupid new things that aren't as good as the old things.
Outside there's a conference centre,
A luxury hotel,
An indoor training complex.
But I think what most of us appreciate,
(Those old enough to drive, anyway - heh!)
Is the location of the Madejski,
Just a mazy dribble
By Christiano Ronaldo
Over a couple of roundabouts
Would take him onto Junction 11
Of the M4,
As that westbound motorway
Roars out of London
Through the Thames Valley
And onwards to Bristol
And Cardiff,
Where the Millenuim Stadium is still on standby
Just in case the new Wembley
Is not ready to stage
The final
From which
These two
Teams tonight
Are just
Three matches
Away.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
9:32 am
2
blabberers have blabbed about this
Labels: music, sorry football
Yeah, so it's been over a month since I last posted. My excuse is: I had a cold. One of those cold that affects your typing and mouse skills. Such a debilitating kind of cold, that. On behalf of the Guild of Internet Artisans, I offer my most humble and profuse apologies, and lay myself at your mercy.
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
10:44 am
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Hi, happy new year and all that. Last year I was limping and being grumpy about having to wish everyone happy new year. This year, I'm giving up on trying to keep track of who I've wished a happy new year so far, so I'm just going to be saying happy new year to everyone at every occasion, regardless of how may times I've wished them it so far, until about mid-February. That solves that problem. Who says you don't get more cleverer when you get old?
Posted by
Bill Murray's Moustache
at
2:47 pm
4
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