All 48 entries tagged Inane Drivel

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August 25, 2005

Seriously, guys, let's make a concerted effort to…

Do something for the good of the world today.

We are the funniest people ever

That's right. It's official.

[Please note: spending inordinate amounts of time with The Ballard may induce wearing of suspect shirts.]

August 24, 2005


"YAYYYY-UHHH!", as Metallica are wont to intone.

That's right, kids. Last Sunday marked the blackest of all sabbaths, a day of whimsy made resolutely good as myself, The Ballard and Shallmaster General ventured over to the N.I.A. in Birmingham to witness the awesome spectacle that is MONSTER JAM EUROPE.

[As you can see from this photo, these lumbersome Goliaths are simply too awesome for a regular camera to keep up with!]

Now, despite Ballard's ridiculously-oversized biceps, anyone who knows us half a damn will realise that we are in fact the feyest of the fey - they'll be no macho posturing from these three wimp-ass mo'fos right here, no no. However, sometimes you have to just let go and unleash your inner redneck - and so, here is the story of how the sight of several oversized vehicles turned us into ABSOLUTE FUCKING HOLLERING NEANDERTHALS FOR TWO HOURS. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!

After several minutes of having the rules explained to us by a baseball-hatted commentator hell-bent on twatting about the track like Charles Bronson on a suicide watch (I mean, rules? What rules?! Bring out the huge fucking trucks!), out boomed the noise we'd all been waiting for: the indomitable sound of GARBLE-VOICED ANNOUNCER BLOKEY. This sonic behemoth certainly didn't disappoint the roaring masses as he proceeded to let fly with the order of the day in his punishing mangled tones, the mealy-mouthed meanderings coming off like nothing short of the baddest of the bad from Tim Burton's remake of Planet of the Apes. YEEEEAAAAHHH!!!

And then – oh yes – in a hail of hell-thunder not heard since the raucous bowel-eruptions of a post-curry Satan, OUT CAME THE FUCKING TRUCKS. The contenders…

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EL TORO LOCO (like a bull in a fucking china shop alright…)

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ESCALADE (this built-like-a-Yorkie-esque effort has apparently been modelled on one of Venom's vehicles from the 1980s cartoon classic M.A.S.K. …)

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GRAVE DIGGER (rest assured, you won't find this fearsome fucker anywhere near a Shakespeare play…)

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MADUSA (piloted by the lone female driver in the competition, allegedly the Monster Truck Freestyle World Champion. However, I suspect that this may be a fiction, as we saw little-to-no evidence of her prowess.)

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MONSTER MUTT (don't be fooled. Although replete with crap tail and floppy tongue which render it distinctly reminiscent of the car from Dumb & Dumber, this bad-boy's all bite and a fair bit of bark…)

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SUPERMAN (faster than a speeding bullet, and quite clearly capable of deflecting the entire arsenal of the United States Army!)

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That's right. Several tons of pure titanium beastliness. And what did they do? They CRUSHED A BUNCH OF FUCKING CARS TO WITHIN AN INCH OF THEIR LIFE. Alright!

During the wanton auto carnage which followed, one particular driver emerged as the star of the show: Carl Van Horn in the mighty Grave Digger. This brutal mastodon quickly claimed the tournament as his own, strutting about like he owned the fucking place to a perpetual soundtrack of George Thorogood & The Destroyers' rifftastic swamp-boogie Bad To the Bone. Indeed, despite the resolutely stingey marks doled out by the day's designated judges (apparently a father and his two kids - though quite how these people became qualified to pass judgement on the kind of awesomeness witnessed at this event is beyond me), each of the drivers distinguished themselves with a display of dirt-pummelling virtuosity not seen since The Blues Brothers pulled one of those handbrake parking manoeuvres in the shit film of the same name. Fucking topper! (Even if we couldn't make out a word they were saying behind those incomprehsible Southern accents, eerily reminiscent of Boomhauer from King of the Hill).

After a brief intermission, the pit-techs then wheeled out the mother of all ramps for a choice bit of AWESOME FUCKING MOTOCROSS ACTION. Following the obligatory self-aggrandising intro, the bikers swiftly took to the platform, and what did they do? They LEAPED OFF THEIR BIKES IN MID-AIR AND FUCKING GOT BACK ON AGAIN BEFORE LANDING. Yessss!

By this point, the three of us were naturally on the verge of total apoplexy, delightedly beating our thighs like masturbatory monkeys and dribbling all over each other. However, nothing could have quite prepared us for what followed next. Squealing like a chainsaw in a high-pitched ruckus with Rosie Perez, out shot the incendiary ear-wrecking pipsqueak that is ARMAGEDDON. "To do what?" though, I hear you cry. To which I say - to SPEW FLAMES FROM ITS EXHAUST LIKE THE FUCKING BATMOBILE! Holy auto pyromania, Batman!

The final two events were the inimitable 'Donut' and 'Freestyle' rounds. The latter was simply a display of how much destruction the beasts could wreak within the space of a minute. But the former? A magnificent excuse to make them all SPIN IN FUCKING CIRCLES, kicking up DUST LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. Have it!

[Note: genuine photo not piked off the internet]

By this point, we were worked up into such a frenzy that when Grave Digger was pronounced the day's victor we were able to utter only gruff monosyllables which translated into something resembling a gorilla's orgasm. Having been whipped into a sufficiently incoherent motorsport-induced frenzy, we then capped off the day in the only way that seemed appropriate: we got ourselves MONSTER JAM FUCKING T-SHIRTS. That's right!

As can be evidenced from this historic pictoral document, we are quite clearly THE MOST AWESOME PEOPLE WHO HAVE EVER LIVED. Respect!

July 28, 2005

Apparently this is genuine…

Many thanks to the delicious Shallmeister for alerting me to the presence of this humdinger in Notting Hill tube station recently…

July 21, 2005


…and now you too (yes, that's you, motherhubbard!) can take part by CLICKING RIGHT HERE.

According to this marvellous piece of hi-tech gadgetry (presumably constructed from a twinkie wrapper, a blow-torch and a few elastic bands), the member of The A-Team I am most like is the smart-mouthed quipmeister, part-time Aquamaniac and full-time on-the-jazz renegade wiley-cat this is Lt. Col. John 'Hannibal' Smith. Well pass the cigar, pal – I fucking LOVE IT when a plan comes together.


June 03, 2005

Mr. Agreeable's World of Violence presents… BATTLE OF THE SPINDLES

Yes indeed, people. For years, the world of professional pugilism has been dominated by the kind of braindead ubermensch you regularly see hollering words like "WOOORARGH!" every Wednesday night in the Union, dribbling pints of Purple down their club-approved pastel shirt & crap tie combo. However, no longer will this be the case. For now, rising up from the ground like willowy flowers comes the immortal clash of the titans that is... BATTLE OF THE SPINDLES.

[Dramatic drum-pound]



In the blue corner, a scrawny wretch masquerading as the saviour of Top Banana and prone to waxing lyrical about the work of R.E.M. to anyone desperate enough to listen. In the red corner, a petite Asian bombshell known for her astonishing ability to wangle tickets to any gig in the West Midlands at only ten minutes notice. At the last count, Singh's wrists were, amazingly actually almost thinner than Carter's – a fact which he's not happy with and is determined to rectify by snapping her like the proverbial twig.

Unlike the delectable Shall, it's not going to be pretty. In fact, it's probably going to be one of the most pathetic sights ever witnessed by a television audience. Seconds out – Round 1. LET'S GET IT ONNNNN!!!

As soon as the bell rings, Singh and Carter go at it tooth and nail, elbows flailing and generally just flapping like two Belle & Sebastien fans scrapping over Stuart Murdoch's snotted-up handkerchief on eBay. Singh deals the first blow with a mean slap across the face which brings a pitiful tear to Carter's eye. But then…

Carter floors Singh with a piece of cutting sarcasm culled from his pop-culture anthology of mindless film quotes. Unfortunately what he hasn't reckoned with is Singh's unassuming dry wit, and she promptly parries the blow with a wry dig at his numerous failed sexual exploits. Withered by the put-down (and, tragically, unable to deny a single one of her charges), he staggers backwards and collapses in a sorry heap. He's on the floor!

But wait…

Carter cunningly assumes a foetal position as if to suggest a mortal wounding, which Singh mistakenly takes as affirmation of her inherent superiority. High on the adrenaline rush of taking down this mouthy gobshite in a mere matter of seconds, she scampers over and places one elfin foot upon the supposedly broken frame of Carter, cupping her hands either side of her head in the internationally-recognised gesture for "champ". But no – trickery!

Biting and clawing like a neutered alley cat, Carter whips out one spindley leg and takes Singh down a few pegs with a devastating swipe to whatever muscle it is that sits at the back of your shins. Dazed and confused by this awesome display of treachery, Singh stares blankly around for several seconds before Carter plunges in for the kill and they writhe around on the floor in what can only be described as a frankly dismal display of scrappy violence. However, the ever-wily Singh's got the upper hand – she's gone for the hair!

Carter's squealing like a little girl and batting at Singh's decrepit wrists, but there's just no stopping the West Midlands Tiger. Unfortunately, at the moment of her impending triumph, Singh's phone rings. Holding up a wiry finger to momentarily halt the bloodshed, Singh takes the call. But oh no, disaster strikes – she's late for an interview with an up-and-coming band at Birmingham Academy!

Carter seizes upon the opportunity by administering a wimpy shove which threatens to break Singh's delicate shoulder. But it's too late – she's already hotfooted it out of the ring clutching a MiniDisc recorder and shouting "Onward, quest for new music!" Carter looks around in flummoxed bewilderment as the final bell rings. It's a victory by default. And the crowd goes wild!

Sadly, Carter is then rushed to hospital after collapsing face-first onto the canvas under the weight of the title belt. However, much like a certain T-100, he'll be back…


May 30, 2005

A little–known fact…

…I was a member of The Offspring for three months back in 1995 and am still awaiting my royalty cheque from my half of Ixnay On the Hombre.

It's true.

No, you're right, it's complete bollocks. Special thanks to Millicent and the House of Funk for providing this temporary respite from my boring and inconsequential existence…

May 15, 2005

BLOG HIJACK: XX can you hear me?

[nb. A word to the wise - never leave yourself signed into Warwick Blogs at a friend's house. This is what happens!]

Good women folk of Warwick

Have you seen this man?

Well have you?

Is often to be found cruising through the Union, incisive wit in one hand and R.E.M. DVD box set in the other – yes it does exist

Don’t be put off by the forlorn face that stares at you from the Advance desk, this is merely a disguise for the hopeless romantic he really is.

Although sometimes invisible sideways, this loveable tyke makes his presence known in other ways.
Loved by some, tolerant of others, Chris’ bread-winning work in both The Grid and The Union gets him a reverend response from all those in his nest. See what we did there?

Give him a chance he’s fiercely loyal and let’s face it, there’s no better way to get your requests played at Top B.

Oh and: you want to catch him before the AIDS does.

May 12, 2005


[nb. This post was written prior to the hijacking of this site by the gruesome twosome, a.k.a. Shall 'und' Milly (as the Germans say). However, just to clear up a rather bizarre rumour that's floating about, my excessive thinness is not a result of me having AIDS, or indeed any kind of eating disorder. For the record, I am perfectly, er, "healthy" and quite comfortable with my ridiculously scrawny frame. And now, onward!]

Dear ladies,

It is with deep regret and a certain sense of liberation that I announce my decision to impose an indefinite hiatus on attempting to connect with you on any level other than that of simple friendship. "Huzzah!", I hear you cry, "And not a moment too soon!". Out with the bunting, let's crack open the bubbly and have us a par-tay!

Well, I'm not disagreeing with you. To be honest, I'm a fucking disreputable rogue and you're really well shot of my sorry ilk. However, I want you to understand that this is not a decision which arises from either a deep-seated misogyny or some latent homosexual streak seething beneath the surface. Au contraire my dears, 'tis quite the opposite: the problem lies in the fact that I absolutely love womankind. I worship femininity in all its incarnations and seem to find perfection in even the most imperfect of female forms. This, though, is probably the main source of the conflict: not a single one of you has ever reached the ridiculously lofty standards that I have set for you. Those among you who I find so fascinating are either simply my good friends or else already taken, destined to forever spurn my doltish advances with a hearty sneer of disdain. To be perfectly frank though, despite the relentless onslaught of hotties wandering about campus (stop wearing those black thick-framed glasses some of you, for god's sake it drives me wild!), I've been finding it very difficult recently to encounter many of you outside of the friendship category who even interest me in the slightest. What a motherfucker, eh?

I have done everything for you that the stereotypes laid out by our culture demand: I have written you numerous songs, declared myself the provider of everything you could want and have committed acts of grandiose romantic stupidity so ludicrous that even The Grinch once sent me a Christmas card saying he dug my style. I have laid myself open time and again, naked in all but physical form. I have offered myself to you repeatedly in heart, mind and soul but still you deny me. In short, I hereby pledge that I simply no longer care about that which will potentially endear me to you: about how I look, about the bizarre eczema blotches which periodically decorate my face, about disguising my own hang-ups, about what you think of me when I get more animated at the thought of a conversation about Elliott Smith's back catalogue than I do at the prospect of sex.

In addition to this great weight being lifted, I also don't need to worry anymore about whether or not you feel disgusted by the experience of having us interact in some intimate physical way, no matter how consensual or even self-induced the experience may be; likewise, I am equally free of the irrational feeling of disgust and loathing which washes over me as soon as our admittedly sporadic and generally unfulfilling encounters conclude in a haze of sticky fingers and used tissues. Summer is on its way again and I'm not wild about the thought of my undersexed brain going ballistic at every sighting of exposed female flesh; in fact, since arriving at this juncture, for the first time in years everything seems perversely calm inside – Zen, almost…

It's a decision grounded purely in self-loathing I'm sure, and consequently it will most probably come of great relief to a good many of you. Hell, I don't blame you – though I've got a few moves here and there, I'm a shocking wreck physically and am at best a pretty average lay (although the experience can be brightened considerably by running a thumbnail up my ribcage, thus creating a xylophone effect which plays the theme tune from Beverly Hills Cop). Plus, and be honest now, how many of you have ever had the misfortune of going home with someone who'd rather watch R.E.M.'s Parallel DVD than make with the lurve? Those among you who are wincing in embarrassment right now - yep, chances are you've had The Carter Sexperience ™...

And so to my Polish Princess, my exotic temptress, my one and only, wherever she may be: I lay down now and wait for you. I will wait forever in countless teeming bars, watching the lights spin on the ceiling as the alcohol bubbles drowsily beneath my slovenly eyelids. I will wait on abandoned railway lines, under frozen lakes and in wrecking lots, listening to the metallic howl of machinery screaming in carnal bliss. I will stumble along desert highways, delirious with thirst and burning beneath the sun in the hope that one day you will find me. We shall be one before long and I hereby renounce all temptation until this day comes. No fear. No pain. We'll go dreaming.

And to the rest of you, I say this: it's been emotional, but it's time for the fool to get out. I hope you understand.

Yours faithfully,
Mr Agreeable.

April 22, 2005

Leave me alone, you sweaty man!

Well hello, Sailor!

Following a demoralising few weeks of realising that the female race has resolutely amassed and united themselves in opposition to me and my fellow housemates, last night we decided that if you can't beat ’em (and let's face it, that's laid down quite specifically in law), you might as well join ’em. And so, off we trotted to the pumping paradise that is the delectable Rainbow's somewhere deep in the shady outskirts of Coventry.

Now, I consider myself a cosmopolitan kind of guy, I really do. I'm a lefty, liberal, hippy-type sunnovabitch. Without even thinking about it I’d imagine that probably half my friends bat for the other team and, truth be told, I’m not entirely closed off to the idea that the person I end up schlepping my life away with may not be of the opposite gender to me. However, I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. And that somewhere is getting hit on by a sweaty 40-year-old slaphead with a face like a prune.

I was reliably informed while leaving the house last night in the patented ‘red T-shirt/ black long-sleeved shirt over wirey torso’ combo that I would quite probably make some strapping some lad’s night in a ripe-for-the-picking, just-turned-16 Queer As Folk sort of way. Unfortunately, having never braved the wonders of this sort of environment before, I was blissfully unaware of the apparently commonplace incident which was to occur when I innocently wandered into the shitter to take a casual whiz.

While evacuating my bladder (paying special attention to the patented ‘more than three shakes is a wank’ maxim), I became distinctly aware of a lascivious gaze being thrown in my direction by a member of this so-called ‘gay community’. Upon draining the weasel and zipping up, I was then accosted by a man who can only be described as oily at best and kill-yourself greasy at worst.

Shirt unbuttoned to his no doubt heavily scuzz-filled navel to reveal a ludicrously fake-tanned chest, he motioned to my red attire and blustered, “Ooh! Are you Daredevil?!”. Not quite getting the logic but feeling the warm glow that occasionally arises from connecting spontaneously with a complete stranger, I chirpily (and mistakenly) replied “Yes, that’s me. I’m Daredevil”. EH-ERRRRR!, as the buzzer says on Family Fortunes. “Well then”, he countered, gripping my wrist and drawing me towards him, his scaly tongue snaking back and forth between his slimy lips; “Let’s see you be daring then!”

“Not fucking likely!” I replied, viciously assaulting him with my brutal 200-pound frame (actually, I politely turned down his advances and shook off the physical imposition before hotfooting it out of there quicker than you could say “Wake-up call from God”). Frankly, the only way to shake the distinctly uncomfortable feeling somewhere in the depths of my colon was to get hideously trashed, compliment Jon from Pride on his rather fetching skirt and start pounding the floor to the sound of a ridiculously speeded-up version of tATu’s All the Things She Said.

Mind you, it could've been worse. Eim ended up going home with some frumplike loony tune who started screaming “No! No! – I love it!” while hitting her repeatedly during sex. Guh.

A great night, all things considered, and I'd certainly go back again. See you at the Glitter Ball, kids!

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