The Brown Fountain

To ones neighbour with the unexpected fireworks display as I was just passing by I would like to add to your spontaneous and eardrum piercing surprise display with my own tribute to guy forks, the brown fountain.

So taken aback was I, so perfect was the timing of your initial launch, that I almost travelled side by side with one of your expensive “not for garden use” rockets due to the force of which my arse burst it’s audible terror at the shock of a bomb going off just a mere few feet from it. As each screaming rocket hurtled skywards, my arse in record time played out it’s own rendition of the gunpowder plot. My heart itself joined in this fabulous display by not only jumping out of my chest but bouncing off my ribcage and attempted to burst backwards out of my startled starfish before bungee bouncing back to where it was, beating out the morse code to “WHAT….THE FUCK…IS GOING…ON”

Concerned that you might have missed my own personal display, as I’m sure you were quite consumed by your own “Look at how much I’ve spent kids” and “let’s give the passing fat lad a coronary” fireworks display, I’ve thrown over the fence a record of my own explosive event in the form of my gunpowder shocked undercrackers which are now plastered to your patio window, slowly sliding down leaving behind the signature stroll of a warm trundling chocolate snail.


Gone with the wind

An apology to the residents of my estate.

I must apologise for the sight to which many of the residents of my estate were witness to this afternoon.

Today being a warm day I decided to wear a “Nice light loose shirt”, this being somewhat of an occasion as normally my shirts are put on by me standing on top of a maypole while dancers kindly wrap the material around me whilst the use of buttons has to be be cleared by the local armed forces due to the buttons posing a threat to the safety of the general public such is their incredible strain and pending ejection when they are “loaded”.

Tonight whilst bringing the food shopping in from the car (You can imagine there was fucking loads), there was an unfortunate and surprise gust of wind. Said wind was at such a direction as to lift up my shirt and inflate like a billowing sail, I did in fact lurch forward carried by the belly wind, whilst the entire estate was engulfed in a blinding and incredible light such is was the brilliant whiteness of my bulbous kite.

The shirt lifted, and the sun was reflected in all directions in the great reveal, neighbours rushed to close their curtains, ships changed direction, grass wilted and a family of vampires died, it even made a mole squint. I tried desperately to pull my shirt down but it remained pinned up revealing all, it was like that infamous Marilyn Monroe scene where her skirt lifted up, except this was more Marilyn Manson trying to pull a bed sheet over an albino space hopper.

I can only apologise and promise to wear my usual brand of airtight titan garments going forward. I’ll start by filling out this one I’m wearing, just to stop it happening again, man of the community that I am.

HD or not HD – That is the question

There are many mysteries in the world, the great pyramids of Giza, Stone henge, the Bermuda triangle, but the greatest mystery of them all has to be why do women chose to watch channels in standard definition when HD is available?

“What you watching?”

“Coronation street”

“You’re watching the normal channel, why aren’t you watching it in HD?”

“There’s no difference”

“Yes there is, it’s sharper and the sounds better”

“No there’s not, shh I’m watching it”

“Let me turn it over to HD”

“Don’t turn it over, i’m in the middle of watching it”

“It’ll only take a second, let me put it on in HD”

“But you’re not watching it, I am”

“Yes, but just knowing, just knowing it’s in standard definition, It fucks with my mind, i can’t deal with it, watch it in HD”

“Shh, I’m missing it”

“I’m turning it over to HD”

“Fuck off, don’t turn it over”

“I’m turning it over”

“Don’t turn it over”

“Dont, see, you can’t even find the HD channel, put it back, shit husband”

“Yes i can, it’s only seven pages down the menu”


“There it is see, HD”

“Turn it down, it’s loud”

“That’s because it’s HD”

“See I don’t know what’s going on now”

“You’ve missed like 17 seconds, and look, it looks awesome now, it’s HD”

“But I don’t know whats going on”

“You’ve missed 17 seconds of coronation street and you don’t know what’s going on?”


“Well you can figure it out, in HD”

“Oh just leave it, I’ll watch it on +1 later, I’ve missed too much”

“But you can’t get +1 on HD, just watch this”

“No, I’ll watch it later”

‘But it won’t be in HD”

“Doesn’t matter, there’s no difference.

“yes there is……”

Continue until death…

Hernia – Part 2

So a month has passed since the dreaded Hernia operation, and what’s been a fairly horrid few weeks it looks like I’m well on the road to recovery and can reflect on what was one of my least favourite chapters in my life.

I awoke on that dreaded Thursday morning full of nerves and full of the stuff that often goes with nerves, I managed to get rid of some of the latter, the nerves however stayed.

I was fortunate enough to have an early morning appointment so I didn’t have to wait around too long before we’d be setting off for the hospital. In the car I turned the radio on and Gary Barlow sang to me “Today this could be, the greatest day of our lives”. No Gary, I suspect it won’t, and if it is then I’ve not got much to look forward to, I’m going to get knocked out and cut up which is exactly what would happen to you if I could see your singing cheese filled fucksmug of a face right now. I changed the station, Adele came on, more fitting as in many ways she reminded me of my hernia, a painful lump that needed removing.

Upon arriving at the hospital I was sent to a waiting area where there were already a few other people ahead of me. My details were taken and I was told someone would call on me shortly. It was very much like the deli at Tesco, except instead of getting a nice bit of edam cheese I was going to get cut open and have my intestines pushed back inside of me, so actually, exactly like Tesco.

I was one of the first to be called, I told myself it was because the nurses thought I was best looking and couldn’t wait to get my top off and their hands on me. More likely was that they had to give time to construct the scaffolding around my belly and retrieve the flag from the surface of the moon which they would later use to plant on my kite upon reaching its summit to mark this momentous occasion.

I was taken into another waiting room. The first waiting room was just the waiting room for the waiting room. Having waited in that waiting room I was now expected to wait in this waiting room where I would later be taken down to the surgery waiting room to wait for my operation. I waited.

I was soon designated a bed area in the “day ward”, this made sense, it being day.

Soon a nurse came around and took all of my details. She would also require some swabs from me which were part of the routine checks for MRSA. I would be required to take a swab of my groin area and also one up my nostril. Fortunately I was given two separate swabs I didn’t much fancy having to wipe my ball sack then stick it up my nose, the swab that is not my ball sack, not that I’ve tried but I don’t think my scrotum consists of enough elasticity to reach my face, might be worth a try one day though, I decided here was not the right time to try.

The nurse took away the forms I filled in and my lovely swabs. She left behind a gown and some “Surgical stockings” that I would have to wear for the operation. So, not only was I expected to stick a large cotton bud down by my meat swingers, then one up my nose, I now had to put on a skin thin frock and white knee high socks.

My lovely new wife (and first, just in case it sounds like I collect them) sat in the corner. A month into marriage as she watched me wiping the side of my nads with a swab and handing it over to a stranger, the swab that is, not my nads, I needed them, and as she sat watching me strip down to my George boxers displaying my less than toned form with my new accompanying belly testicle and then watched me slipping into my hospital frock and daz white skin tight tights I couldn’t help feel that she was probably thinking that this wasn’t how she envisaged the honey moon period and the words “could have done better” were probably doing laps in her mind.

The stockings proved to be an absolute nightmare to get on, tight doesn’t come close. I sat on the bed in my frock and wrestled with them, forcing my pasty legs into the tiny socks, I could barely get them over my feet let alone roll them up my legs. I felt like an elephant raised on Viagra trying to put on condom. What seemed like about half an hour later I finally got them on, I sank back in the bed exhausted from my fight with the tights.

The anaesthetist came around and told me what would be involved to put my mind at rest, it didn’t I was now terrified and whiter than my new lady socks. If shitting bricks is a measurement of regular nerves, I was now curling out replacement blocks for the great Pyramid of Giza.

I was told that when I awoke I would have a mask on my face and would probably have a sore throat as the surgeon would need to put a pipe in my mouth and down my throat. I was starting to worry as to just what sort of hospital this was. So far I’d had my balls wiped, been dressed up like an old woman and now I was going to be knocked out while a “surgeon” sticks his pipe down my neck and then gets me to wear a mask. I’m sure I’d seen a documentary on this sort of thing on Channel 4, and I’m pretty sure you had to pay for it.

The surgeon then came to talk through the operation with me. After he finished the discussion he asked to see the hernia, I lifted my frock up and showed him my belly testicle. He gave it a prod and then produced a pencil and drew a target around it. I was too nervous to ask what the point system was and hopefully it would be a game I would be partaking in.

It was time. The porter came to collect me. I turned and said goodbye to my wife, I was a soldier going to war, and they wheeled me away. In my head REM’s “Everybody hurts” played. I was in slow motion, and I half expected Paul O’Grady to start narrating, informing me that there was no hope for this fat old dog and that I might need to be put down.

The porter was talking to me, doing his best to make light of the situation, I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and let me shit myself in peace. I was driven down what seemed like the longest corridor in history, people stepped aside and gave that knowing smile that said “wonder what he’s having done, bet it’s going to hurt like fuck”.

We eventually arrived in what seemed like an alien autopsy room from the x-files. Once again to add to the shame a pretty student nurse came and took some more details, she was followed by who I assumed was her mentor who instructed her in what she needed to do. They asked to have a quick look at my Hernia. Again I lifted my frock up, doing my best to suck in my gut but given the level of my nerves I was scared to suck in too hard in case I released a projectile bottom bullet and put someone’s eye out.  As they eyed up their target I half expected a short fat man to appear informing them to “keep out of the black, and in the red, there’s nothing in this game for two in a bed” though for this game it was more a case of, “take a good look but don’t press down, push it to hard and you’ll be covered in brown”.

Another young nurse then joined me, again a student nurse.  She would be responsible for putting in the needle adapter thing for my drip. She was shaking like a leaf and was having trouble “Finding a vein”. She slapped my hand. (Could she tell what I was thinking?). She slapped it again, but apparently still couldn’t find a vein. Again she slapped it, as if beating it into surrender. She lifted my arm and asked me to flex my hand as if I was squeezing something. My hand was level with her chest and I was tempted to make a comedy horn sound as I mimed squeezing repeatedly. Still no vein. They tied some sort of band around my arm and proceeded to slap my hand.  Christ, cracking start this, I thought, as I was tied up and slapped around repeatedly. Soon I thought I would break and tell my capturers where the secret plans were hidden. They had ways of making me talk.

Eventually a good vein appeared and the nurse went for her target, and missed, tried again, and missed. She was shaking so much I was tempted to grab it off her and put it in myself. Something told me she wasn’t on the university darts team, if she was, she’d clearly spent all her winnings on smack, and today was her first day of going cold turkey.

The plug was in, “does this mean I can shoot webs out of my hand” I said, pleased with myself  that I still had my wit about me, nothing, not even a smile, difficult audience, not funny apparently, just fat, and veinless.

One of the assistants asked what I did for a living, clearly not a comedian, she thought. I began to tell her and no sooner had I started I felt pins and needles running up my arm, I assumed Nurse blind smackhead was attempting to put another needle in me and was turning my arm into a sea sponge. The pins and needles continued up my chest.

Sneaky fuckers, I thought, they had already given me my anaesthetic, I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to my tummy testical, within seconds I was out.  Saying goodbye to my pesky belly ball should have been the least of my worries though, for the worse was by far yet to come.

Hernia – Part 1

So this Thursday will see me under the knife for a Hernia operation. To say I’m not really looking forward to it would be an understatement. It’s not something I ever really considered I would ever have.

It did in fact take me some time to realize that something was not quite right with my pastey kite, “Aww, he’s grown a cute little nose” I thought to myself, however over time his cute little nose would grow somewhat and my concern with it.  I came to the obvious conclusion that my belly was either: A: getting a hard on over the tasty Greggs banquet it would be treat to that day. B: I’d watched Alien so much I was in fact turning into John hurt and pretty soon I’d have an angry looking prawn friend running across my work desk. Or C: I had a hernia, it turned out to be C.

So I visited the doctor. I wore the baggiest shirt I owned, as to make the diagnosis a bit of a challenge. Wearing a tight shirt would only give the game away too soon and would give my belly the striking resemblance of a fat clown blowing gum.

Upon walking into the Doctors room I was greeted by two females. The first was a Doctor I’d had before, the second a young pretty lady who neither I, or Quatto my bulging belly friend were expecting.

I was informed that the  young lady was in fact a student nurse and was asked if I minded her being present while the doctor inspected me (By inspect I mean interrogate, undress, and made to feel fat, white, old and unhealthy). “Not at all” I said, as if I had a stern six pack awaiting to be unleashed, when in fact I was sucking my belly in so hard my hernia threatened to burst out of my arse giving me the ability to space hopper my way home.

After the usual questions I found myself lying on the doctors bed (They’d covered it in blue kitchen roll, I must have had “shits himself while lying down” written all over me) whilst the pair gazed into my belly button with such intent I thought they would throw a coin down it for good luck or shout their name through cupped hands only to hear the amusing echo answer them back.

It didn’t take them long to establish that i was a fat cunt and had probably torn the wall of my untoned kite by lifting one too many a heavy a sandwich, and I was referred to the hospital so that other people could strip me and point and laugh at my funny belly testicle.

Several similar appointments later I find myself counting down to my first experience of being under general anesthetic. It’s actually this part that makes me rather nervous. Not since my early days clubbing at Bedlingtons “The Palace” night club have I had the risk of being injected with something that would make me go to sleep whilst a masked stranger poke around inside of me.

I will be undergoing “keyhole” surgery. Again as if to add to my already insurmountable embarrassment my disgusting plight is obviously so severe that even an experienced nurse has to perform the operation behind and through a closed door such is their disgust at my ripped man moon of a tummy. They would be using “camera’s” to see what they are doing, great, let’s get a whole crew in on the scene, IMAX will probably be a suitable technology to fit in the whole picture that wouldn’t look out of place of Jabba’s swimwear catalogue.

Being sensible, I made my anxiety a little worse by looking up what was entailed and what caused a hernia on the internet. This of course was a huge mistake, as everyone knows that if you so much as have a spot on your nose the internet will tell you that you are about to die and should probably save what you were doing so that your work isn’t lost during you carking it. What struck me most were the causes of a hernia.

One of the more frequent causes it would seem could be (and i quote) “Straining whilst on the toilet“…Seriously?… All of those years of reading my stars in OK magazine and giving a gentle push to help out the already eager and poking tortoise head has caused my innards to tear and open my kite to the world? I don’t think so. I mean what sort of man baby must you have to be ejecting to cause your guts to rupture and your inner organs flee for freedom? Surely such an event would be worthy of some sort of NASA Cape Canaveral coverage and launch ceremony with an accompanying countdown?.  German U boats were surely sunk with torpedoes with less force than a dump propelled with such gusto that it causes one to practically turn inside out.

I prefer to stick by my own story, that I gave myself a hernia through the many sit ups I do before setting off for work in the morning, or that I stretched too hard during my over exuberant Yoga sessions on the beach at sunrise or perhaps I swung too hard to fend off the swarm of female adoration that I am forced to deal with on a daily basis.

So, as I sit here, on the toilet, typing this, I look forward to when my belly is restored to its former glory, after Thursday’s reconstruction. When my seven pack becomes once again six and I can again pursue my dream career as a Calvin Klein underwear model.

Yours bulging.