Fame

First of all I made a glaring omission in my first post.  The suggestion of me starting this blog was solely put forward by my rather lovely neighbours.  I won’t name them here in case you hate this blog so much you feel compelled to push roadkill through their letterbox.  I urge that you don’t do this if I upset you, mainly because it is not their fault but also because manure is much easier to get through the letterbox than a dead badger.

I have a confession to make; after starting this blog I got a bit carried away.  Whether this is a common symptom of the new blogger, and I suspect it is, I was given to quite advanced delusions of grandeur within hours of publishing myself to the world.  My ego made some quite fabulous and provocative suggestions to my imagination and the pair of them gaily linked arms and skipped off down the road chattering utter bollocks to each other. 

Essentially in several easy mental steps I went from the posting of my blog to the fanciful notion that I would be noticed by an editor and given a newspaper column. Just like that. From there it was easy for my jabbering little mental companions to surmise that this would naturally lead to the publishing of a book or two of my collective works.  Following on from there it was shamelessly easy to admit to myself that there would probably be a film, or at least a gritty, hard-hitting documentary about my life and how enormous my cock is. Then there would doubtlessly be a flurry of showbiz parties, film sequels and getting stuck into a really good, honest, down to earth self-destructive Mateus Rose and chocolate hobnob addiction.  If nothing else I plan to be original and thrifty with my downfall. I am also worried heroin would give me a headache after a while. And I really quite like rose and chocolate biscuits; there’s no sense in not enjoying your vices is there?

So it is now clearly apparent that this venture is going to lead to me becoming a celebrity.  It seems a bit rough but there it is; as obvious and logical as a Chilean miner’s new founded love of reacharounds.  But what do to with this impending burden of fame?  So many celebrities seem to fritter away their time in the spotlight on affairs, drugs, spectacularly awful fucking weddings and apocalyptically cringe worthy TV shows. Not to mention whoring themselves out to monthly magazines to conduct pre-scripted but oh so exclusive ‘interviews’ and posing with their hideous children and pets in an effort to look normal, whilst somehow managing to look like a specimen of humanity that you would dearly like to meet on a dark dockside with a sharpened spade in your hand.

And breathe.

So clearly the well trodden and conventional celeb path is not for me.  Instead I propose, nay, promise to you, that should fame drag me off kicking and screaming by the pubes I shall utilise my time wisely.  I plan to play the long game.  I will do every single distasteful and degrading celebrity task imaginable.  I will do the interviews and book signings. I will appear on the panel quiz shows. I will walk down the street with a used condom stuck to the back of my shit-stained tracksuit bottoms, just for the benefit Heat magazine. I will host the Industry Awards for Estate Agents. When I meet Jamie Oliver for the first time I won’t punch him in the throat (I know, I know, but stick with me here).  I will even talk to Nigella Lawson, stay sober and not ask her if I can pet the puppies with the little pink noses.

Then I will inevitably find myself on a chat show with Piers Morgan.  This will be the peak of my fame; the zenith of my self-creation; the highest of all my expectations will have been climatically reached. After this event everything else will pale into insignificance because Operation Twatbuster will be a go, go, go.  The plan is simple and can be broken down into eight distinct phases:

Phase 1:  Get naked (this is not strictly necessary, but it seems a shame not to be)

Phase 2:  Grab the 16” rubber dildo that I have pre-sellotaped to the bottom of my chair

Phase 3: Make sure Piers reads the stencilling on the side of the dildo. It will read: Stop Being On TV You Utter Utter Cunt

Phase 4:  Embark on a prolonged and savage attack, bludgeoning him about the head with said dildo

Phase 5:  Once he is on his hand and knees, dripping snot and blood, semi-conscious and begging for mercy I will Skiff* him

Phase 6: Pause for applause

Phase 7: Deliver the coup de grace to the back of his neck

Phase 8: Leave the studio and go and get a proper job

I offer you all this if you make me famous.  Tell your friends and tell them to tell their friends.  I can make this happen.

* Skiffing probably needs further explanation.   It is a British Army tactic that has been developed, exercised and used operationally over a number of years.   The act involves the Skiffer delving into the deepest recess of their arsecrack with one, perhaps two fingers, in order to load their digits with a good portion of bum residue, sweat and anything else that might be down there.  The hotter and sweatier the skiff mining site is, the better.  Traditionally the Skiffer will then stealthily approach the intended victim (the Skifee) from behind, in the manner of a ninja assassin, and at the decisive moment draw the skiff laden fingers in a forthright manner across the upper lip of the target whilst simultaneously shouting; 'Skkkkkiiiffffffff'. 


Similar to the techniques of the professional hitman, there is a plethora of Skiff execution methods; from the bold traditional way as just outlined, to the more un-gentlemanly and less sporting application of Skiffing the victim when they are asleep whilst tenderly whispering Skiffff in their ear.  As I am sure you can appreciate there is a depth to this art of which I can barely do justice here.  However, I must not finish up without mentioning the Passive Aggressive Skiff. This applies the same basic principles as before but the target is not directly assaulted; the actual Skiff target would be something closely associated to the victim such as the edge of their mug, left mouse button, Bluetooth headset or niece/nephew.