Lads, what the fuck did I just watch. I remember late 80s ITV show Tugs being a happy little Thomas The Tank Engine-style show about boats, not a drug-fuelled episode of 999 with Michael Buerk, narrated by the voice of Protect and Survive.

There we were, quite happily watching old episodes of Lucky Ladders, and trying to work out which of the contestants was having sex with Lenny Bennett that week, when Tugs came up on the related videos. Why this happened remains a mystery for the ages.

“Let’s watch Tugs,” said Alex. “It’ll be great.”

Despite it looking a bit like a VT from Look Around You, I figured I owed Alex for making him watch every episode of The Shoe People ever made.

“I think this episode got banned,” he said. I ignored him, because that’s what I do, and because I’d just spilled lemonade on my tit.

Right, the general premise of Tugs is that there are a load of boats, and they all somehow have faces. This one, for example:

Lads, my second book is out soon:

“On the run from Andi Peters and QVC following a misunderstanding about cruises, Melissa begrudgingly agrees to attend the Edinburgh Fringe with her best friend Joanne, and Joanne’s 17th century throwback ‘life partner’ Fax. While leafleting for Fax’s dreadful hippy stand up show (“If doctors are so good, how come they never use rose quartz. Am I right?”) Melissa partakes in the delights and horrors of pretentious student shows, ‘street typing’, accidentally starting queues, arguments about Brian Clough, and the fact that her shop has been left in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand tins.

Perhaps she was better off in the hands of the Teleshopping Mafia…

Excerpts from Crap Comedy:

“If the phone rings again I’m going to steal a car and run myself over with it.”

“I start wandering away from the city centre, and the billions of people trying to tell me about ‘free five star comedy’ yet again. When will these fuckers learn that I hate them and wish for them all to be bummed to death by Les Dennis.”

“That’s it. That’s fucking it. Today is not going well. I’ve been rained on, and shouted at by a man in a dress, and then I had all my money stolen, and now the King of the Hipsters is sitting here typing specifically to mess with me and annoy me. I march up to him, feeling like it’s a boss fight.”

“Dear Mr Peters,

I am writing to complain about your shoddy lack of customer care. As the Prime Minister of QVC, you should have known that I didn’t really want to buy a YoNanas, and you should have sent me something I did want, such as your delicious pies.“

“I nearly crack my head open on a beam within three seconds of entering this bar. It’s a repurposed coal hole.

“What’s this place called again?”

“The Dictator’s Dick.”

Crap Comedy, coming very very soon to many places that sell books.

The first book, Crap Holiday, is here.

So, this is a thing I own:

Don’t ask me why I own this – the answer is ‘because I’m a bit stupid’.

Back in the day, this was a must for every girl who wanted to make herself beautiful, before a hard day’s running round yelling, using the trundle wheel, or nipping boys.

I can confirm that ownership of this as a fat middle-aged woman does not make me feel beautiful. Maybe I will once we’ve examined the contents.

Play tissue box, Model’s perfume

Fun fact – the girl on the ‘play tissue box’ is probably on HRT now. Or she would be if she weren’t a painting. It will surprise nobody to know that there is no perfume in that bottle. I’ll have to just imagine what models smell like. Probably Hula Hoops, TCP and old pants.

‘Model’s’

These are mysterious. Model’s what? Further thought has narrowed it down to the following:

• Model’s piss
• Model’s monosodium glutomate
• Model’s gin to make her feel radiant

Whatever they are I’d better figure it out soon if I want to be a model.

Compact, Lipstick

There’s no mirror in this compact, not even a shit one made of foil. They must have known I wouldn’t want to look at myself. As for the lipstick, if you think I’m putting that anywhere near my mouth after it’s been hanging round in that packet for two decades, you are wrong. Actually that’s a fib, but there’s no point and I’m lazy.

Necklace, Comb

To finish off, we have things to beautify your hair and neck. Considering both are about the size of a Hobnob, I’m not going to try using them. This is a blow, because it means I can’t make myself feel beautiful after all. Not that plastic lipstick and ‘model’s piss’ would necessarily have helped anyway.

Fin.

My new book’s out soon lads, click here to have a look at my first one

Hi gang, today we’re making this load of shit, from the Ladybird Book of Making a Load of Shit.

I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what a Gonk is. it seems to be one of those mythical things everyone had in the past, like Chopper bikes and scurvy. Attempts at research resulted in me getting loads of adverts like this:

So all I’ve really got to go on is that picture of a shoddy Ron Jeremy action figure.

Here is what you’ll need if you’re making one along at home. You’re not though are you. You’re sat reading this while drinking lager, and laughing at me attempting to make a shit Gonk.

Continue reading “Let’s make a Gonk (sort of)” →

You know what sucks? I can’t whinge about Leeds never winning anything now. That’s OK, because I have a long list of complaints I like to entertain people with. These include, but are not limited to:

– Itchy bum
– It’s too bastard hot
– Why are the adverts so loud
– Vernon Kay

Anyway, even though it’s now deprived me of one of my favourite pastimes, I thought I’d celebrate a successful season by taking you through the finest football box art on offer. Spoiler alert – only one of these features Kevin Keegan. Double spoiler alert – don’t worry, I didn’t forget to include Peter Beardsley.

European Football Champ

This looks fine until you study it for more that six seconds. Consider the following: None of these people are playing football, or are attempting to play football. Even the man who’s supposed to be kicking the ball is nowhere fucking near it. The rest of the players have decided to use this time to settle their differences via a series of unrelated fights. The one exception to this is the guy lying on the floor, who just wanted to play football god damn it, and now he’s crying.

And one person in the crowd has brought a hundred balloons with them, maybe as part of a tax dodge.

Continue reading “Stupid Video Game Box Art: Football Edition” →