Radio Slimes.

I’m not a fan of radio. Anyone will tell yer! They’ll say….”Phyllis, he doesn’t like the radio”, pointing in my direction and jabbing to make the point stick.
I’ll nod, pull up a chair, and sit on it backwards, telling them why. I don’t like people talking over music. I don’t like most music. And I don’t like the stinking public, who phone in to talk about their boring lives and trying to win a day off with Plan B.

I don’t know what that means really.
I’d like radio more if it was presented in a style I liked and appreciated. As in, deranged, cruel, dark, horrifying.
“That was the barking dogs hour – 60 minutes of the best barking dog noises, all hour. Uninterrupted mate, uninterrupted. That particular hour contained doberman, daschunds, German Sheperds, all of ’em. All of ’em.
I’m Benny Chipotle, and you’re listening to Chungus FM. (Named after Jim’s classic word, of course)
Coming up! Your shit phonecalls, wasted time and effort for nothing. Call in and tell me what you’re doing and I’ll pretend to care, which I don’t. Here’s a new one; it’s four minutes of a dot matrix printer printing out a nude picture of a woman. Fuck off.

Sort of like that. Imagine more of it….
“Yep, a fine recording there. Vegetable Garden, with Limpet Limp Dick you Prick. Tons of fun. They’ll be in the studio next week, bringing some of their cum for you cunts to win, and drink, if you fucking want.
Paul from Deal phoned us. The fucking wank has nailed his head to his knee. Bellend. For you, Paul, here is Screaming Screamers with The sound of screaming.”
*Four minutes plays of just hysterical screaming. The dj can be heard throughout, wanking to orgasm*

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My Olympic Ideas

Also got some Olympic event ideas, since you’re asking. YOU WERE ASKING.

1. Dog-Head 100m.

Contestants have to run 100m while wearing incredibly heavy, wet clothes. The piece of the resistance is the addition of a full sized German Shepard, gaffa-taped to the head. Also the dog has been given a lot to drink, so the danger of pissage is incredible. Also, a man is employed to poke the slower runners with a fucking stick to “Encourage” them.

2. Milk Chug Glugalug. Contestants have to down massive bottles of milk, then when they are inevitably sick, they have to do it through the hole in a massage table, directly onto a coin fifteen feet below.

3. Nicholas Lyndhurst Goodnight Sweetheart Shagathon. Contestants have to dress up as Nicholas Lyndhurst from the terrible sitcom, including wearing a mask of his face. They’re totally blind because there are no eye-holes. They then have to wander a facsimile of 1940s London, complete with cardboard cut-outs and fake buildings, having sex with the very first object they touch. And there would be many, many objects. Some living, some not living, some dangerous, some not. The most points are awarded for jizzing into a gigantic mouth based on…yes….Nicholas Lyndhurst’s.

4. Rolling Marathon.

Contestants take part in this grueling marathon, sorting out the wheat from the chaff. 26 miles, as usual, but they have to do it by rolling the distance. While wearing nothing. Nothing at all. Across incredibly unforgiving surfaces.

Now fuck off.

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Titanic: Jack’s Drawings.

“Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”


“Alright. ”


“This alright?”

“What the fuck is this?”



“It’s a man wanking on a top hat.”



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Zoomeister’s Retro games Review.

It’s hard to believe now, but in 1978, there weren’t many skydiver games on the market. Today, of course, it’s the most popular genre; up there with snake freezing, bus missing, stranger strangling, pushing against crushing walls simulators, the Legend of Artichoke games, and the obvious market leader; Sock or Hat?

All of this lying about video game history leads us to another of my childhood games. It’s Mr Wong’s Loopy Laun….oh, no, it’s Skydiver. We’ll be doing that nonsense another time.

Sometime in the eighties, my father hurled a bright blue Atari box onto the table.

“Here is a video game. Play it. Learn it. Use the knowledge you gain. Become the skydiver. Be the skydiver. One day it will be your job. To jump from a plane in a two-dimensional world and endure painful accidents as you perfect the art, of opening a  parachute from a ridiculously low height.”



Of course, the game was Skydiver, an incredibly realistic depiction of the er….art of jumping from a plane. Sometimes onto platforms. Sometimes onto moving platforms. Sometimes just to die.

There isn’t much to say about it, really. It says five games in one, but it’s just five variations, like most Atari games. Lies. But it is fun. The sort of fun that ends with crying and lying faced down, screaming into the floor. But the blue, the eternal blue, the bright blue box.

That was all that mattered.



God, the eighties were fucking depressing.

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Games of My Life. No 1. Pac-Man.

Everyone’s done the joke. Pac Man is some cunt in a nightclub gobbling pills to repetitive music. Depending on who you believe, that joke was coined either by comedian Marcus Brigstocke, or Garfield.



Anyway, during the early eighties, while I was developing in the gigantic tank buried deep in a fucking science lab, the cold war raged. Fridges were thrown. Ice cream was stuffed into gaping mouths. Icicles stabbed into enemy hearts. Polar bears! Polar bears running through the streets, tearing off limbs, carrying nuclear warheads into Argos.

Erm…I forgot where I was in this. Setting the scene nicely, I was in the first fledgling decade of my chubby youth. Running from that nightmare bear. Teetering on tiny legs. I was small for the only time in my life. I’d never be a child again. Stupid inexorable march of time.

Going off point for the second time there. Pac-Man was the world’s most famous yellow round man with a mouth that was half his size. Due to a heart condition, he was spherical and had just a mouth and an eye. The world was absorbed in his plight, and Pac-Man was roaring through the arcades like a racing wind of fun.


The game came to the Atari 2600 in 1982. The 2600 was a fine console. A clunky system of chunky pixels and sparse beeps, but to a young mind, a completely fascinating device. In among the realms of black stood towering character; incredible adventures. It was not so much that you used your imagination to fill in the blanks. You had to use your imagination. And still, there was something entirely unique about this strange, half-wood slab, and its satisfyingly blocky components.

The Atari Pac-Man was not well received. In fact, the bloody thing was partly blamed for the video game crash. Big trouble for everyone, but most of all for Pac-Man, buried in shit and beaten like a bruised apple, his yellowing bulk soiled with the feces and cum of thousands of the grudged.


Well, I fucking loved this version. For a start, it’s a functional, playable version. It lacks the detail and colour of the arcade, but so what? What the fuck did anyone expect from the Atari 2600 anyway? It could not render the sort of graphics to faithfully remake the game, but considering its limitation, the conversion is absolutely fine. I spent many days playing it, and happily went out munching paracetamols and punching ghosts like any other cunting kid.


Actually, they may have not been ghosts.


Oh, and it’s still better than Pixels. But then, so is kicking yourself in the fucking face for fourteen years in a row.

Next time! We’ll be jumping out of planes into a sea of utter piss. In Skydiver!

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Bad Sex

“Your sexual skills are workmanlike. By that I mean you’re like a complete tool, using your tool, like a fucking tool. You move like a bus on a trampoline. Your tongue feels like damp sandpaper on my clitoris. You may as well be tossing buttons into a pot you fucking useless cunt. Get out of my vagina.

Your hands are everywhere, but they’re slimy as fuck. You’re like a dead octopus draped over a hedge. Honestly, I’ve had better orgasms sitting in a bus stop with a corpse.”

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The Adult

It’s fair to say I don’t know how to be an adult. Not in the usual way, that sort of knowing wink to camera shit. Ho ho! I’m so ditzy I shouldn’t be old because I haven’t grown up yet! Tee hee! Aren’t we all the same!

No. I am not. In my case, I’m still actually living the life of a child. Because I don’t think they should get all the glory. The berks. Ever since a wakeful nightmare in about er….1988…where I lay awake, staring blankly into a murky, cold ceiling, I mused upon how terrifying it would be growing up. How would I deal with the change? How would I talk to people and do a jobs? Find a woman?

I never worked that out. I’ve not moved on. I shambled from the school gates, uniform crammed full of the hasty scrawls of felt-tips, signatures of the schoolmates that I would no longer inhabit a space with, learning stuff.

Thing is…I never changed those clothes. I’m walking around in a child’s clothing. I’ve got that uniform on. It’s several sizes too small, and it stinks. Twenty-two years later, I’m walking around in a school uniform, collar tight and choking, stained and rancid shirt. Stuffed in, sores and all, like a pineapple in a sock. I look ridiculous.

Not really. I did have to change clothes. When I finally lost my virginity. I had to hack myself out with a tin opener. Hardened, brittle shells fell off that day, clattering to the floor in a sickening lump of cloth.

It’s fair to say, she was impressed. “Have you been wearing that uniform since you left school?”, to which I replied, yes, as I picked shards of shirt from my grey, mottled scrotum.

I walked the streets, not knowing how to eat, or to take fluids. I ate Spectrum tapes. I drank Marmite. Not after dilution. Just as it was. I didn’t know the difference between liquid and solids. Often, I would simply throw it into my mouth, choking and retching into the noon sun.

I wore trousers on my head for a year. I thought that was the look. Head poking out of one end. Arms, uneasily stuffed through the other leg. It was a disaster at job interviews.

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