Cunt of the Week (30 July 2012) by Gregor Wappler

Posted on July 31, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Jamie Andrew With Hands says: I’ve never felt moved to include a disclaimer in a ‘Cunt of the Week’ before, but here it is, folks. This week’s guest writer doesn’t so much sail close to the wind as become the wind, and wipe out a few shore-based tourist resorts. The tourist resorts being your sense of taste and decency. Yeah, I know, that analogy’s a bit muddled. But go with it. As I was reading over Gregor’s submission, I thought, ‘Should I censor this? Is it a bit rich to proclaim myself the arbiter of decency given that my current stand-up set is about a quadruple amputee? Is it wrong to censor creativity, however horrible it is?’ So, with all that in mind, I’ve decided to run with it. You have been warned. Gregor Wappler is a terrible and hideous human being.

I had a long think about what topic to cover when considering this week’s Cunt of the Week. I read some previous articles written by my contemporaries, and took inspiration from Mr. Robin Valo’s article last week about Facebook, and the fact that people think their opinion matters so much that they constantly update their statuses with pointless things.

So I thought that on the eve of the annual celebration of gratuitous self-gratification – I am of course referring to the hell that faces comedians every year, the Edinburgh Fringe – I would focus my attention on the hugely cunty aspect of modern life that is fame-seeking; i.e. people who just want to be famous for the sake of being famous, despite possessing no discernible talent. You know, glorified attention whores, a few of whom I have already passed on my way to my fringe base in Edinburgh; singers and bands already with the guitars and microphones out on street corners, singing and jiving away, desperately battling for attention from complete strangers because of some Oedipal longing in them for love and attention that was not adequately received and provided by their parents during the all important developmental years.
Well I have news for these cunts: it’s the 30th of July; the Fringe HASN’T EVEN STARTED YET! At least wait until it has begun before singing your fucking contemporary folk songs! This pathological need for undeserved adoration and attention seems to have built up to boiling point and more since the inception of shows such as X-Factor and Britain’s Got Talent.

Now every cunt and their dog (quite literally) thinks they are deserving of fame and money for singing badly, or just generally being their spastic self. Everyone thinks that their opinion means something, and that people should listen to what they have to say. Newsflash: your opinion means fuck all, and nobody else should listen to you, you fucking mongoloid spastic cunt.

The British population voted on Britain’s Got Talent this year and came to the conclusion that a dog is currently the most talented person in Britain today. A fucking dog! What a bunch of spastics. There should be a way of tracking these people down so that we can ban them from voting in important things, like the general election; or, failing that, putting them all in a big sack, filling it with cement and throwing it into the North Sea, along with the fucking prize-winning dog.

This person has just searched for attention and found it, and for how long? Well, the dog’s already about seven, so it probably only has two good years of performing left before it succumbs to broken legs and fucked joints from performing unnatural tasks every night. It should be put down, and its owner raped simply for wasting our time and getting on our collective tits.

This is what i mean: everyone thinks they can/should be famous, because they abused a dog and made it the most famous/’talented’ thing in Britain, and rapists and paedophiles get bad press! At least Ian Huntley didn’t vote for Pudsey the fucking dog! No, he just had terrible bath-time etiquette; however, he did keep a clean crime scene.

Gregor Wappler

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER: Gregor Wappler is an Aberdeen-based stand-up, who was born in Milngavnie (which for all you non-Scots out there is pronounced guh-van). He’s been a Scottish Comedian of the Year semi-finalist, and once managed to use that little key to open the corned beef tin without snapping it off. As you can probably tell, Gregor’s stint working at the Rape Crisis Centre wasn’t a long or happy one; although it did give him plenty of material for next year’s Fringe, and his collaborative comedy double-act with Daniel Tosh: ‘The Rapes of Mirth.’ Gregor Wappler is the reason the Scottish Spastics’ Society changed their name… to the Gregor Wappler Foundation for Mongoloids. You can see Gregor and fellow stand-up (and Cunt of the Week contributor) Robin Grainger at this year’s fringe: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/applause.

FOLLOW GREGOR ON TWITTER: @gwappler1

FOLLOW GREGOR AND ROBIN’S SHOW ON TWITTER: @applause2012

Remembering Gately-Gate

Posted on July 29, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Rik Carranza (@rcarranza) tweeted a link to a blog in which the Daily Mail was given a kicking for yet another example of horrible, insidious bigotry. Here it is here: http://botherer.org/2012/07/28/the-daily-mail-and-how-an-nhs-death-means-racism-is-fine/ Read it, because it’s good. I have spoken.

And then read the following piece I wrote a few years ago about another bout of Daily Mail nonsense, this one centering on ignorance of civil partnerships rather than multiculturalism. Remember Jan Moir and the Stephen Gately fiasco?

Gately-Gate

I think it’s fair to say that the only person not aware of the Jan Moir/Stephen Gately controversy is Stephen Gately himself. The debate about Daily Mail columnist Jan Moir’s spurious and offensive attempts to link civil partnerships to death, seediness, tragedy and suicide has rolled across newspapers, TV news bulletins and, of course, the blogosphere.

Stephen Fry, Charlie Brooker, and tens of thousands of complainers to Ofcom have made their voices heard. Good old Fry, speaking out via Twitter (accused by some of orchestrating a “twitch-hunt”), said:

“I gather a repulsive nobody writing in a paper no one of any decency would be seen dead with has written something loathsome and inhumane.”

Sometimes the succinct punches possible through Twitter sum up a situation better than any lengthy diatribe. Charlie Brooker, in his excellent rebuttal and rubbishing of Moir’s insidious bile, described said insidious bile with the words:

“Spiralling galaxies of ignorance roll majestically against a backdrop of what looks like dark prejudice, dotted hither and thither with winking stars of snide innuendo.”

And so the humanitarian and journalistic crisis I’d like to name ‘Gately-gate’ was born.

Moir’s response to this whirlwind of hate whooshing towards her across cyberspace was to conclude a follow-up article with this:

“In what is clearly a heavily orchestrated internet campaign I think it is mischievous in the extreme to suggest that my article has homophobic and bigoted undertones.”

What naughty little rascals we are. How on earth did we manage to get the wrong end of the stick?

Let’s look at it this way: Moir is a journalist; that’s her craft; words are her raw materials. She’s supposed to be good at taking those words and putting them together so that the people reading them – even readers of the Daily Mail – can understand the sentiment and the points she’s set out to convey. But then she does appear to be the queen of disingenuousness and misdirection.

You can’t nudge-nudge-wink-wink at a tenuous link of your own creation between gays getting married and gays killing themselves, or dying on holiday, only to claim later that no, no, no, that’s not what I meant at all, I was only trying to show that gay people, like straight people, can have unhappy unions! I think we knew that already, Jan. People are people, and whenever you put them together, whatever their race, religion, sexual orientation or personality, you’re going to get a hefty proportion who don’t gel.

It’s worth looking at what Jan Moir originally said:

“Another real sadness about Gately’s death is that it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships.

Gay activists are always calling for tolerance and understanding about same-sex relationships, arguing that they are just the same as heterosexual marriages. Not everyone, they say, is like George Michael.

Of course, in many cases this may be true. Yet the recent death of Kevin McGee, the former husband of Little Britain star Matt Lucas, and now the dubious events of Gately’s last night raise troubling questions about what happened.”

And then her re-interpretation of her own words:

“In writing that ‘it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships’ I was suggesting that civil partnerships – the introduction of which I am on the record in supporting – have proved just to be as problematic as marriages.”

Did I miss the Peter Tatchell speech where he seethed: ‘Give us our gay marriages, so that we can perfect your lousy heterosexual efforts; and become little gay beacons to the dream of eternal coupling; never to part, never to argue, never to divorce.’ And, anyway, having read Jan’s two statements, can anyone see any correlation between her original line of thought and the reworking? In reading the former, can you see the meaning replicated in the latter? There’s that word of the day again: disingenuous.

Nice work, though, to find a causal link in such disparate tragedies. Has any research been done into how many car accidents have involved men from civil partnerships? Perhaps wedded gays can’t drive properly, presumably because they’re all so busy trying to suck each other off as they hurtle down the motorway.

Jan continues:

“It is important that the truth comes out about the exact circumstances of his strange and lonely death… I am sure he would want to set an example to any impressionable young men who may want to emulate what they might see as his glamorous routine. For once again, under the carapace of glittering, hedonistic celebrity, the ooze of a very different and more dangerous lifestyle has seeped out for all to see.”

Em, only one small problem there, Jan. As much as I found his music hideous, Stephen never set himself up as some sort of gay trailblazer – despite her assertion that he was a ‘Gay rights’ champion’. He’d never claimed to be a role-model for anyone. In fact, he only came out when someone went knocking on the door of The Sun. He was just living his life. He never preached on morality, never got himself in the newspapers every week – or even, latterly, every year – never rubbed any aspect of his life in anybody else’s face.

But even if the coroner’s verdict turned out to be ‘wrong’ (which it clearly wasn’t) or, as she still slyly maintains… in fact, let me interrupt my own sentence there so that I may reproduce some of Jan’s words verbatim. It’s easier, because she does most of the work for you:

“…it seems unlikely to me that what took place in the hours immediately preceding Gately’s death – out all evening at a nightclub, taking illegal substances, bringing a stranger back to the flat, getting intimate with that stranger – did not have a bearing on his death. At the very least, it could have exacerbated an underlying medical condition.”

Yes, because the innumerable heterosexual people I’ve known, or read about in the newspapers, who do on a regular basis the things that Moir outlines in the paragraph above are forever keeling over like poisoned canaries.

But even if the coroner was ‘wrong’ what happened to Gately is still none of my business, the public’s business or Jan Moir’s business. I suspect that Jan Moir, and certainly a hefty proportion of Daily Mail readers, would have found Gately’s private life ‘more than a little sleazy’ and ‘different and dangerous’ even if it was proven he’d only ever had wholly monogamous relationships, and healed the sick and the lame in his spare time.

But, again to hammer home the point: even if in the hours preceding his death Gately had parachuted through the hotel room window, naked and erect, straight into the waiting bottom of the Bulgarian man, while his partner videotaped it, it still wouldn’t have been any of Jan Moir’s business. There’s no case to answer.

Some said Charlie Brooker was being a typical reactionist, muddled leftie in calling for people to complain to Ofcom in their droves: ‘He’s always banging on about free speech and the Big Brother society, isn’t he?’ you can hear them say, ‘Why is he now trying to silence this woman just because she’s coming out with stuff he doesn’t like? He’s a hypocrite, isn’t he?’ Not quite. Look at what Charlie actually said:

“Jan’s paper, the Daily Mail, absolutely adores it when people flock to Ofcom to complain about something offensive, especially when it’s something they’ve only learned about second-hand via an inflammatory article in a newspaper. So it would undoubtedly be delighted if, having read this, you paid a visit to the Press Complaints Commission website (www.pcc.org.uk) to lodge a complaint about Moir’s article on the basis that it breaches sections 1, 5 and 12 of its code of practice.”

This is clearly more about just desserts than censorship. The Daily Mail, hoisted by its own petard. What’s good for the goose…

Cunt of the Week (23 July 2012) by Robin Grainger

Posted on July 23, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

It’s not tricky being annoyed at something. It is tricky, however, finding just ONE cunt or symbol representing said cuntitude, upon which to base one’s annoyance. (I just used the antiquated term “one” there to describe myself. You must already think I am a cunt.)

I had many thoughts about whom or what my victim would be. I scanned the competition. Richard Hunter told the council to fuck off; Fraser Edwards used his wit to banish real ale drinkers (I’m informed he was tucking into a Bishop’s Finger at the time…) and the lovely John McGoldrick did away with an absolute knob of a customer. My contemporary cunt caller-outers seem tough to beat.

I thought perhaps to target my rage on racists. Nah, racists are too easy. It would be much more fun, hypocritical and overall cunty of me to focus my rage on an area of modern life. An area which spills in on us like a randy priest, not just on Sundays, but daily: social networks.

How ironic to hate social networks when this display of vitriol will be shown on social networks. I realise I am as much a slave to social networking as anyone is, and this annoys me. I’d much rather have posted the blog by carrier pigeon.

Social networking is helpful if you want to promote something, share music and engage in shoot-shittery,but some people want everyone to know fucking EVERYTHING. Who gives a fuck where you are eating? Who gives a fuck that you got a new job? All that does is remind me that I have eaten tear-sodden rice for 11 consecutive days while wanking over the fact that I might not get the woman with the glass eye at the job centre.

Social networks also take the fun out of life. If you are with mates drinking and have a laugh, why do you have to return home to find yourself tagged in a status that reads ‘Drinking and having a laugh’? You know! You were there! None of the world’s important events would have happened the way they did had social networking been around. The Last Supper would have simply been: ‘Jesus is in Nandos tagged with 12 others. The waiter totes knows we didn’t order the wine. LOL.’

At this juncture I’d like to express hatred for social networks simply because they have become a breeding ground for fucking abbreviations. Use the whole sentence you dicks. We didn’t learn speech just to piss it all up the cyber-toilet wall did we? The fact that this generation is progressively more retarded than the last isn’t a coincidence; it’s because morons are saying ‘LOL’ as opposed to actually laughing.

On the other hand, at least the JFK mystery wouldn’t have been a mystery: the killer would have ‘checked in’ at the book depository.

Social media is just too time consuming. It takes over everything. Remember the thrill of meeting anyone new and learning that they are interesting? Facebook timeline punched that joy right in the gooch. Now, if you are single and like someone, you can stalk them backwards to find out they had an eating disorder, own a Sex And The City boxset and have a fondness for Jedward. In the good old days it would take a long-term relationship to build up that kind of hatred for a person.

Social media also makes people – mostly retards – believe that their opinion is as valid as everyone else’s, when it is actually formed from ignorance and fucking stupidity; Before this, you wouldn’t have to see these people spew their polyp-heavy, tabloid-flavoured diarrhoea all over your life and laptop screen. More people care about what lip balm Katie Price wears with which to boredly glaze a monosyllabic moron’s cock, than they do about actually having a conversation with a real person in real life. Celebrities for the most part are cunts; they are worshipped on social networks by cunts, therefore social networks are cunts for keeping the whole cuntcycle in motion. Kill them all.

I suppose it all boils down to me really. I need social networks, but I fucking loathe them. Perhaps if I dedicate the rest of my life to tabloids and The Only Way Is Essex, with a full volume backing track by Bieber on repeat, I may find myself joining the masses of mindless, joyless fucks out there. Let’s hope I’m not converted. Or cuntverted.

PS: The original draft of the blog wasn’t about social networks, it was about onions. I fucking hate onions. I don’t trust them. No vegetable should have the power to make a person cry. Unless that vegetable is a terminally ill loved one.

Robin Grainger

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER Robin Valo Grainger is a 23-year-old stand-up originally from Mordor (Cornhill, Banffshire), but now living in Edinburgh, because he thinks he’s better than you. Especially YOU. He’s been on the laugh circuit since September 2010, and in that time has made it as a semi-finalist in the Laughing Horse New Act Of The Year competition, and semi-ed it again for the Scottish Comedian Of The Year competition in both 2010 and 2011. Some cunts from The Skinny have said that he’s like ‘David Bowie going through an emo phase,’ and credited him with ‘swagger, energy and some great ideas.’ The Daily Record called him, ‘The most diabolic sex criminal since Glitter.’ Grainger alleged that he was abused by a ghost in 1998, and since then has never been able to watch an episode of Scooby Doo without screaming in primal terror and masturbating himself into a bloody, crying mess. Puzzlingly, any TV show featuring John Craven has exactly the same effect on him. Robin Grainger is really looking forward to being dead.

FOLLOW ROBIN ON TWITTER: @robinvalo
READ ROBIN’S BLOG: aboynamedrobin.wordpress.com
SEE HIS FRINGE SHOW: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/applause

Protected: File not Found

Posted on July 16, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

‘You’ll find that one in the ‘Vaginal Fantasy’ section, Sir.’

Posted on July 15, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

What’s happened to book genres recently? We knew where we were with Western, Sci-fi, Fantasy, Romance, Adventure, and the like, but now the branches of the Genre Tree bear the fruit of some strange and confounding sub-genres. One that caught my eye recently was Vaginal Fantasy.

What’s that then? Any book written by Derek Acorah? It got me wondering, and I imagined a few possible explanations for the phrase. At first I thought Vaginal Fantasy might be a whole sub-genre written for women who spend their lives dreaming of possessing increasingly absurd and far-fetched vaginas.

‘And so, as the sun set behind the hills of Dakota, I squatted in the half-dark, wishing with all of my heart that my fanny could be a leopard. In the morning, my wish had come true, and Tiddles, my pet cat, had paid the ultimate price.’

Perhaps it is the vaginas themselves that are fantasising:

‘Oh what a tortured cunt am I! How I dream of art, of culture, of music! What music I could play as a pianist, were I not condemned to be rammed by one… if only the world could hear me perform I know it would show its appreciation. Oh, how I long for that clap!’

(This next bit hinges on you pronouncing the word ‘vaginal’ in your head so that it rhymes with ‘Lionel’. Potato, pota-toe.) Or is Vaginal Fantasy the latest instalment of the weird Japanese video game series, but with a mingey twist? If so, it’s begging for a Pokemon cross-over.

But, no, unsurprisingly, it’s none of these things. A book qualifies as Vaginal Fantasy if its intended readership comprises the sort of women who want a dash of porn with their schmaltzy romance. I suppose it’s just a snazzier way of saying ‘erotic fiction’. Thrills and Boom, if you like. Or Thrills and Broom, if you’re feeling really, really adventurous: JK Rowling take note.

‘I just made up the Titticus Outticus spell for a laugh. Who knew it would actually work, Hermione?’

Incidentally, JK, if you’re reading this, sweetheart, I’ve come up with a few ideas you can use if you want to do a Vaginal Fantasy version of Harry Potter – squeeze a few millions more out of the franchise before everyone gets swept away by the next big thing in young adult publishing, which will probably be a fantasy romance about a time-travelling, sex-mad college kid who just happens to be a flesh-eating zombie. Anyway, here are my suggestions for new, sexy Harry Potter titles:

Mary Squirter and the Thrill Officer’s Bone

Hairy Botter and the Chained Bear Secretes

Old Harry Scatter and the Pensioners of Ass-Kablam!

Hell, JK, why be so subtle? Why not just go the full hog and call it:

Harry Potter Goes Absolutely Fucking Bongo Mental and Pumps Everything That Moves, Even Dumbledore, And I’m Talking About the One That Died AFTER He Died

If more Scottish writers get in on the act then we could have our own sub-sub genre, simply called ‘Fanny-tasy.’ Anyway, 50 Shades of Grey is a good example of Vaginal Fantasy, although, having endured some of its chapters, I’ve decided that if a woman wants the book to have a sexy effect on her vagina then she should probably just roll it up and fud herself daft with it.

~~~~~

I stumbled across another sub-genre a few years ago as I was wandering zombie-like around 24-hour Asda. When passing through the book aisle my eyes chanced upon a ticket on a shelf that read: ‘Misery 3-Pack.’ Misery 3-Pack? Who the Hell thinks to themselves, ‘Ooh, I’ve got a wee night to myself here. Get the fire on, put my feet up, get a book out, all cosy. And do you know what I’m hankering after? A nice bit misery, that’s the ticket.’

And not just one chunk of misery: but a three pack! Human history is a long, bitter struggle for survival, throughout which we’ve made it our mission to remove as much misery as possible from our existence, largely through advances in sanitation, medicine and technology. And now, as most of us in the West are privileged to live in an era of comparative safety and luxury, we’re turning to misery as entertainment? What a peculiar little species we are.

Books in this genre are usually autobiographical, and always harrowing; tales of abuse endured and survived; stories that would make even Hitler reach for a box of hankies (although he probably did reach for a box of hankies when his lieutenants reported mass Jew deaths to him; using them to mop up something other than tears, I’d imagine). Typically, Misery Lit books contain sentences like this:

‘It was then I realised, as granny tethered me to a rat in the dungeon and prepared the greased javelin for my helpless starfish, that we probably weren’t going to Disneyland after all.’

As with sex, there’s big money in misery. I wish I could write some Misery Lit. The trouble is, before you can do that you need to have suffered quite a horrific childhood, so that you can draw from those experiences. And my childhood was quite decent. Not perfect – whose is? – but broadly speaking I had quite a comfortable, lower-middle-class upbringing, during which I never feared for my life, or wondered where the next meal was coming from. And the point is this: if my mum had taken the time to beat and shag me, I could’ve been a fucking millionaire by now. Selfish bitch.

50 Shades of Jew – Part 1

Posted on July 10, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

My tribute to the work of EL James, written in the same style… but set in 1940s Germany. General Grey had asked to see me at Nazi HQ and I was so nervous. That morning I’d made myself some toast, spread the butter and then put it in my mouth. I then chewed the toast until it became wet and spongy between my lips and then what else could I do but swallow that toast? I get so nervous when I’m eating toast because I’m so awkward. The toast usually makes me so nervous when I’m eating it that I become like a young deer and drop it, awkwardly. Why is everybody else better at eating toast than me? No, no. I mustn’t think like that. My friend Gertie was with me. ‘Do you want some toast, Gertie?’ I asked her. She is beautiful and sleepy and tall and likes to wear green trousers and a nice white blouse with cuffs that look that way that cuffs do when people wear them. ‘Yes,’ said Gertie. ‘I would like some toast.’ So I made her some toast.

The General’s office was in a big glass, steel and sandstone building, with lots of steel, glass and sandstone. I was intimidated and nervous and was also feeling a little awkward and intimidated. Why are you so stupid, Anastasia Frank? There’s no need to feel so awkward, nervous and intimidated, the voice in my head told me. But it was too late. I was already feeling very, very nervous, intimidated and awkward.

I walked into the building and found that it was full of beautiful, blonde women with blue eyes, and also lots of beautiful, blonde men with blue eyes. Was there some kind of rule at Nazi HQ that they could only employ beautiful, blonde people with blue eyes, I wondered? They made me feel awkward, nervous and intimidated and my heart was beating so fast that it was like a bat out of hell reaching terminal velocity on its way up towards the stars on the back of a rollercoaster. God, why did I have to look so frumpy and Jewish?

‘Sit down,’ said one of the blonde women.

‘So you want me to sit down here?’ I asked nervously, playing with my long, brown hair.

‘Yes. That would be prudent at this time.’

‘And where would you like me to sit?’ I asked humbly.

‘In the chair,’ she replied, making it clear that she thought she was above me.

‘You would like me to sit in this chair?’ I asked awkwardly.

‘Yes.’

‘This one?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘You’d like me just to sit here on this chair?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘OK. I will,’ I said, playing with a piece of my long, brown hair. Nervously.

‘Are you enjoying our long, protracted conversation, Ana Frank?’

‘Yes, I guess. What I like most about it is that not a single part of it seems superfluous in any way.’

‘I am glad that we are in agreement on this.’

‘I would be glad, too, if it wasn’t for how nervous I’m feeling right now.’

‘Would you like some toast?’ she asked.

‘Do you have any soup?’ I replied, regretting the words that had sprinted from my mouth the second they had started running through the air like some runner running a race, and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me whole like a great big throat.

‘We don’t have any soup,’ she replied, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

~~~

God, what will General Grey look like, I thought to myself, as I nervously fiddled with my hair. To be at such a high rank in the German army he must be quite old. Possibly about 60, but still sexy enough, I was sure, to make it feel hot in my down below bits, out of which I pee but from which I sometimes get a hot, sudden gush of lady feelings. Holy crap, I was nervous. Why are you so nervous, Ana? You’re wearing your best maroon skirt and peach cardigan that suits you so well, after all.

‘General Grey will see you now,’ said a beautiful, blonde woman. I just about crapped myself. Holy gosh!

I was just about to rise from my seat like Icarus when an attractive young black man stepped from General Grey’s office, being manhandled by three sexy German officers. They had him in a vice-like grip, and were shouting something about ‘triggers’ to him. I didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded sexy. I wondered if I’d ever see that handsome African man again. I hoped so, but I wasn’t sure why. Something was happening beneath the satin of my undergarments, like a fish struggling to breathe in a small puddle of water. Holy crap, I was nervous.

‘Send the fucking Jew in!’ shouted the General, so coldly and sexily. I had not laid eyes on him yet, but I was sure that I could detect the ghost of a smile on his lips. Those beautiful, sculpted lips, I could see them now in the cinema of my mind, and they were having an effect on me that I couldn’t describe… or something.

I was so nervous that I did a forward roll into General Grey’s office, barrelling through a Nazi flag that was draped from the ceiling. Gee whiz, I was nervous. He stormed over sexily and ripped it from my body, casting it aside like a Honeymoon bedsheet. I felt so naked, even though I still had all of my clothes on. I looked up at him and into those eyes – god, those beautiful, attractive, cold, horrible, sexy, disgusting, vile, wonderful, multi-coloured, award-winning, tortoise-shaped, amazing, lickable, deserted, massive, steely, hungry, gorgeous, yukky, arrogant, indescribable, grey eyes – and found myself blushing, turning the same colour as a paperback copy of Animal Farm.

His office had a big wooden desk in the middle of it, and a window, and some walls, and on those walls were some pictures and that. And the floor was made of floor tiles, and they were black, and he also had a chair that I guessed was handy for him when he wanted to sit down at his desk. I found myself burningly curious to see him sit down, and I didn’t know why. You know why, Ana, said the voice in my head. No I don’t, I replied, blushing and angry at my own thoughts. I don’t know what you’re talking about! You want to see those calves, and to become his leg farmer, Ana… or something. I was angry that the voice might be right.

‘Are you gay?’ I asked him.

‘Are you a Jew?’ he replied angrily, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

He was beautiful. Imagine the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, and that was him. For some inexplicable reason I just knew that one day I’d like him to go at my womb with a Black and Decker drill and a set of Allen keys.

‘Take this, you vile, mongrel bitch,’ he said romantically, pinning a beautiful yellow star to my cardigan. ‘I’ll be coming for you in the next few days.’

So he wanted to see me again. I had never felt so happy. But did he really mean it? Oh, my world was upside down.

‘I really mean it,’ he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as he sexily punched out my front teeth.

50 Shades of Shite

Posted on July 10, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

It’s like something out of Doctor Who. All of our women have gone into a hypnotic half-coma, precipitated by the arrival of a strange and mysterious alien artefact. It came as if from nowhere, but within days had enslaved the fairer sex the world over, giving their eyes a zombified glaze and turning their brains to mulch. The artefact is a tome containing ancient and magical words which, when read, transport their readers’ minds to the 19^th century, back to a time where being smacked around and hate-fucked by a rich psychopath was considered romantic.

I’m talking, of course, about 50 Shades of Grey, the first instalment in a trilogy of erotic fiction by English author EL James. The word ubiquitous was invented with this book’s arrival in mind. It’s become a full-blown fad, just like Nazism in the 30s.

Women are convincing themselves it’s the most romantic piece of pussy-twitching genius they’ve ever read. It was bad enough when all of the adult women I knew were creaming themselves over children’s author JK Rowling, but this time it’s gone too far. At least Harry Potter never tied Hermione to a piano and shoved a wand up her twat.

My girlfriend’s been ensnared. I’ve never seen a book devoured so quickly. Three books, actually, because she’s on the last one now. She’s reading EL James in bed, on the couch, on the toilet, in the car. She even read it during an argument, I shit you not. Up came the book, covering her face like a printed-and-bound middle finger. The worst thing is, she freely admits that she thinks the book is poorly written and shit (a bit like this website), but claims to be hopelessly addicted to it nonetheless. She might as well sook EL James’s words up with a syringe and then inject them into her arm.

‘Oh, but I need to know what happens next,’ she says. This isn’t a book: it’s the printed equivalent of a salacious conversation taking place between two nosy gossips over a tenement garden’s fence.

‘Ooooh, did you hear about our Anastasia?’

‘Ooooh, I know, shacking up with that rich guy.’

‘He ties her up, you know.’

‘Oooooh, that’s the least of it, I heard. Hits her with a paddle and shoves things up her muff, our Jeannie said.’

‘Oooooh, I’m lucky if my Frank even takes his socks off in bed, never mind shoving things up my muff!’

Apparently, this book is sexy, despite the opinion of one Amazon.co.uk reviewer, who wrote: ‘The fact that the book is pornographic wouldn’t bother me, if it weren’t for the fact that is sounds like sexual encounters as described by an 11-year old.’

All of the women I’ve spoken to who are reading this book claim that it gives them hot flushes of arousal, sometimes striking them in the most public of places. So, guys, if you see a red-faced woman squirming in her seat as she reads this book on the bus, get in there and try your luck. But don’t bother with any cheesy chat-up lines. Just look deep into her eyes, and then punch her hard in the tits. Honestly, this book makes me think that if they rewrite the Koran to feature spanking paddles and dildos, we’ll all be muslim this time next week. Where’s Germaine Greer when you need her?

Ladies, ladies, ladies. Have you seen a picture of the book’s author? Here it is, here. Take a good, long look at her. She’s the one who’s been giving you vaginal palpitations. Her. The sort of sexually malfunctioning wet-fannied fatty you’d find manning the jizz-fest on 0898 sex-chat lines. Do you really want to be rubbing yourself raw at night because of the fantasy world this menopausal momma has created? You might as well get your grannie to read you ‘The Tropic of Cancer’ as you do squat-thrusts on a love-egg.

But how can I say so much about the book when I haven’t even read it? True, I’m an ignorant bastard. But not for long. 50 Shades of Grey is sitting next to me on the couch, begging me to read it like the dirty slut it is. And I’m going to. Either I’ll have my hypothesis confirmed, or be completely shocked at how wrong I was, and possibly send EL James a bunch of flowers and a golden dildo. Whatever happens, I can use the book itself to spank my girlfriend raw.

Stay tuned for my fair, balanced and reasonable reaction to this fucking heap of illiterate shite.

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In the meantime, click on the link below to read ’50 Shades of Jew’, written in tribute to EL James and in an exaggerated version of her style.

Cunt of the Week (09 Jul 2012) by Jordan RA Mills

Posted on July 9, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Jump on board Jordan’s Fun Bus. Final, and only, destination: Hell.

I’ve wanted to write a Cunt Of The Week piece since Jamie introduced this section of his blog, but didn’t quite get round to it. Partly this was because it would require deciding on the precise cunt I wished to afford the title, and that meant narrowing down a myriad of options. There are many cunts I have encountered, some anatomical, some abusive terms of hate, and some abstract applications of the word.

I have a couple of past bosses who are cunts, but I don’t like to write about them because it would take too long to illustrate their inherent cuntishness with innumerable examples; Edinburgh is a cunt, but I risk alienating much of the readership (and my potential comedy audience) if I pursue that. I think smokers, and the smoking ban, and cyclists, are all cunts. These are predictable, run-of-the-mill targets for the label, though. As is That Cunt Cameron, the man busily fucking up life for everybody in the UK, and I feel I would have to do some proper research to condemn him eloquently. Instead, I wrote FUCK THE TORIES across the back of a shirt, and wear it everywhere. It’s heartfelt, and something we can all agree on. Fuck them.

One American solution to the Megabus problem.

Having told you some of my considerations for the title, all of them dismissed, it is left to announce my present Cunt Of The Week. And what an utter fucking cunt I have lined up for the (dis)honour. Despite not having a TV, or even the internet (beyond the capabilities of my phone), it didn’t escape my attention that there was an incident on a Megabus the other day.

I’ve made many trips around the country in the past twelve years – up and down to London, Dundee, Edinburgh, Manchester, Nottingham, Buxton, Birmingham, for work, holidays, or for gigs. Some of these were spent in the company of friends, many more were conducted solo. Bus and coach travel on this island is a fucking nightmare at the best of times, regardless of the operator. My first ever trip down to London took eleven hours instead of (an equally unpalatable) nine; another trip down was marred by the driver blasting music all through the night, preventing us from sleeping; this was the same trip where they started to leave the service station before the scheduled time, leaving people behind.

An overnight bus trip from London to Glasgow took an hour to board, and then the double-decker broke down as we passed the Thames. And so we sat there, the engine turning over and over, before the driver eventually announced that a second bus would be joining us and we would have to transfer over to it. Twenty minutes’ later, he finally managed to get the engine going again.

On the way up the road, with no further problems, the secondary driver came up the stairs to admonish somebody for some minor misdemeanour – drinking, I think. Despite the wayward passenger apologising, the primary driver pulled onto the hard shoulder shortly afterwards, marched up the stairs to reiterate his mate’s threats (adding one about abandoning the guy at the next services), and then returned downstairs, whereupon he singularly failed to restart the bus. So it was, therefore, that a cramped and packed double-decker sat on the side of the motorway for two hours at 3a.m., again adding hours to an already unpleasant experience.

There are further personal examples too, but my complaints have always fallen on deaf ears and I long ago decided that it was always – ALWAYS – worth the extra cash to take the train or to fly instead. I cannot remember ever taking a coach trip to any part of the UK and disembarking thinking, ‘What a wonderful journey, I enjoyed that.’ Naw. It just doesn’t happen.

The new Hamlet ad, perhaps?

This week’s cunt, then, is whoever took it upon themselves to prolong the misery of an entire coachload of passengers by seeing something ‘suspicious’ (in the form of an electronic cigarette: witchcraft, I suspect, to some of the cretins who populate this sorry excuse for a nation). Instead of challenging the person, or quietly alerting the driver, they managed to get the bus pulled over, caused the motorway to be closed in both directions, and get responded to by – at the BBC’s estimate – 24 armed response officers, 18 fire appliances, 25 police vehicles, 4 ambulances, 2 bomb disposal units, and 2 sniffer dogs. That’s cuntery that you can quantify right there.

Is THIS how it happened? Full, second-by-second reconstruction to follow.

Whoever you are, well done for being such a spineless cunt that you couldn’t simply ask, ‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’ and instead grassed an innocent person up to a fucking bomb squad. Everyone on the coach was made to leave it with guns trained on them, and as someone who grudges the slightest delay caused by a fuck-witted backward passenger, I can only begin to imagine the sheer hatred I would have for you had I been on that bus.

I hope you are suitably embarrassed, you time-wasting cunt.

SOURCES:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-18738402
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-stoke-staffordshire-18728246
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-stoke-staffordshire-18728303

Jordan RA Mills

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER Jordan R.A. Mills writes lots, some would say too much, but he is mostly a good cunt and so people tolerate his wordy indulgence. He keeps a blog about his stand-up comedy adventures – http://jramills.wordpress.com/author/jramills/ – and recently wrote an acclaimed short satire of the medium, which was filmed and can be watched here: http://vimeo.com/41548848

Jordan is perhaps best known for devising and producing the Children’s ITV series ‘Gangsta Troll’, which featured the aforementioned troll and his two best mates: an owl who wore gold medallions, and chain-smoked with the help of a terrified sparrow; and a labrador called ‘Big Dave’, who could scratch hip hop records. Everyone’s favourite episode was the one where Gangsta Troll had a rap battle in the street against a wise-cracking pigeon. The series was cancelled when Jordan produced the episode ‘ABC, Open Wide For Me’, in which Gangsta Troll took lots of magical meth that caused him to shit letters of the alphabet into a policeman’s mouth.

Jordan died in 1987.

FOLLOW JORDAN ON TWITTER: @JRA_Mills

Cunt of the Week (02 July 2012) by Euan Meikle

Posted on July 2, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Greetings fellow citizens. When Jamie asked me to nominate a Cunt Of The Week, I had to think long and hard (two words not normally found in the same sentence as Jamie Andrew). This world has a plethora of ‘see you hen teas’ to choose from, names such as Jeremy Clarkson, George Osbourne and Pastor Fred Phelps all came to mind as being worthy of weekly cunthood. However, I decided not to waste time venting bile on such small fry and so have opted to line up her Majesty the Queen in my crosshairs (metaphorically speaking, of course, as no doubt MI5 are taking notes).

Firstly, I want to state that I don’t believe Elizabeth Windsor, an 84 year old granny, who no doubt loves her friends, family and corgis, is a particularly bad person. She’s certainly not up there with Hitler, Freddy Krueger or whoever came up with the Go Compare adverts. My beef is with this imaginary entity that centuries of tradition and ritual, pomp and circumstance have created: The Queen.

It gets my goat that in the 21st century a perfectly ordinary woman, with the standard number of heads, legs and genitals, is somehow perceived as superior to the rest of us purely because some of her very distant ancestors won a few battles. Since Tharg hit Zog over the head with a club in order to steal his woolly mammoth burger, humans have always tended towards hierarchies of some sort. However, in this day and age, surely our leaders ought to have to earn the power, respect and fancy hats that come with the position.

The weirdness of the whole concept is best summed up by taking a look at ‘God Save the Queen’ (the original, not the Sex Pistols’ song). I’m not even going to go into the offensive verses about ‘rebellious Scots to crush’, and ‘beating up Welshmen who look at you a bit funny.’

This song is essentially a request that God, who made the whole universe and all of time and space and reality, take time out from his busy schedule to take a personal interest in the health and well-being of this one, wee old lady. Later verses get even more surreal, imploring the almighty to rescue her from any potential assassins, and even interfere in the politics of rival nations. One can imagine God sitting on a cloud somewhere, thinking: ‘Well, I really ought to do something about cancer, and the whole Syria situation is getting a bit sketchy, but my top priority has to be showering my choicest gifts on Lizzy and confounding the knavish tricks of the French.’

Unfortunately it seems we’re going to be stuck with the royals for some time yet, barring them being outed as giant lizards from another planet. Just remember, as Johnny Rotten once sang: ‘those tourists are money.’

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER: Euan Meikle was the first man in western Europe to successfully have full sexual intercourse with a musk ox. Ironically, given his hatred for the title, The Queen wanted to recognise this feat and give Euan a Knighthood for ‘Services to Extraordinary Acts of Beastiality.’ Euan now lives in Stirling, Scotland, with the musk ox, and their three children. He spends his time making the kind of music they play in Guantanamo Bay to get the terrorists to confess, and you can listen to it in all of its electronic glory, here: http://soundcloud.com/yuan-mekong.

FOLLOW EUAN ON TWITTER: You can’t: he isn’t on Twitter, the technophobic slag.

Cunts of the Month – CoTW Retrospective

Posted on July 1, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Welcome to our first monthly Cunt of the Week retrospective. Below the ugly mugs of last month’s guest writers are their names and their nominated Cunt. Click on the picture you want, and prepare to be transported to their rants.

Tam Wotherspoon – NORTH CAROLINA

Rik Carranza – MATTEL

Fraser Edwards – REAL ALE DRINKERS

Richard Hunter – ARGYLL AND BUTE COUNCIL

Skinflats and the Magic Torch

Posted on June 18, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

The bonnie village of Skinflats.

Skinflats is actually quite a nice wee village, and I’m not just saying that incase some of its residents read this article. Well, OK, there’s a little of that. Have you seen some of the people who live there? Big leg-o’-lamb arms, match-strike chins and shotgun licences. (hack punchline alert) And that’s just the women! Do you know what Salmand Rushdie’s agent said to him when he was writing ‘The Satanic Verses’?

‘Say what you like about Mohammed, mate, but for fuck’s sake don’t slag off Skinflats.’

‘You aint from around here, are ya, boy?’

The village is surrounded by acres of fields (or, to give them their local name: the burial grounds). Those fields are to the people of Skinflats what the empty desert is to the mobsters of Las Vegas. Many a fingerless hand and a brutally disembodied boaby sleeps with the bushes up them thar fields. So, if it’s all the same with you, I’ll just say nice things. I want to be Robert de Niro in this movie; let some other daft cunt be Joe Pesci.

What I will say is this: I had the pleasure of working in Skinflat’s local shop many, many years ago, and found the village to be a lot like Brookside Close. But with slightly more laughs. And a lot more hidden corpses.

Skinflats, though, eh? What a name. It sounds like the sort of place lost hillwalkers stumble across in the dead of night, tragically unaware that its inhabitants are all horrifically disfigured mutant cannibal serial killers who live in tents made from human flesh. The sort of place whose name you’d never expect to utter without the accompaniment of terrifying, Castle-Dracula-style thunder claps. The sort of place that would make an estate agent say: ‘Well, congratulations on your land purchase. I hope Skinflats proves to be a lucrative location for your new motel, Mr Bates.’

David Beckham was so distressed when Seb Cole told him he had to go to Skinflats, that he started to morph into Bruce Forsyth.

So what was I doing there? Taking a walk down memory lane? Admiring the scenery? Scoring drugs? No, it was Olympic Torch day. The flame had been to Stirling and Falkirk that morning, and was about to be carried through Skinflats on its way to Fife and Edinburgh. The people of Skinflats were overjoyed to be having their ten minutes of fame.

‘This’ll put Skinflats on the map,’ I heard someone say. No. No it won’t. An air strike would put Skinflats on the map. Tomorrow, they won’t even be talking about this in Bo’ness, much less London. Even in fifty years time when some plucky lad who got the day off school to see the flame pass through the village tries to remember the splendour of the day, he won’t be able to differentiate this real memory from the sixteen-thousand acid flashbacks also housed in his brain. ‘I’m sure it was a zombie Colonel Gaddafi running down the street with that flame. Just as the air strike hit.’

Anyway, maybe he can just re-read this blog and it’ll all come flooding back to him. The day was nice and bright and sunny, and the whole village was bustling with people waving flags, cracking jokes, and smiling and laughing, and generally having an awesome time. I dunno; maybe they were just drunk.

Normally if you saw a guy carrying a flaming torch through Skinflats, you’d expect the rest of the villagers to be right behind him with pitchforks shouting, ‘Burn the monster!’ Or, at the very least: ‘The Sun says there’s a paedo living somewhere within a fifty-mile radius. Let’s burn the fucker who moved into number 27 last week, just incase! Anyway, he said ‘hello’ to my daughter this morning, and that’s how it starts!’

But this day was different. Even the convoy of police bikes was greeted with warm, uproarious cheers. This struck me as odd. Like George Bush being carried through Baghdad by way of a jovial mass crowd-surf. Usually the arrival of police vehicles in Skinflats causes a mass exodus, or at the very least turns the village into a fortress: with every snib on every door clicking shut, and those behind the doors jamming them up with tables and wardrobes, and blacking out the windows, like they’re preparing to survive to the end of a zombie film.

The bike cops clearly thought they were the star attraction, as they gunned it down the street giving a series of wacky waves and salutes. One cop even gave a rolling five slap down a line of children’s hands. You might be cheering now, kids, but that’s the cunt who’ll be arresting you for cocaine possession in eight to ten years – which, coincidentally, will also be your sentence.

The best thing about the torch coming through Skinflats was the traffic chaos that preceded its arrival. A long jam of angry, self-conscious people all trapped in their cars, whilst a whole village peered at them. They must have felt like they’d gone for a day out at the safari park, and broken down in the lion enclosure. I tried to stare at as many of them as possible.

The Cunta-Cola truck.

It wasn’t long before a procession of yellow Olympic vehicles came trundling through the village. Lots of cars that looked like New York taxis. And the Coca Cola truck, of course, with a gang of reps walking beside it handing out free bottles of cola. Principles be damned: it was a hot day and I was thirsty. That freebie was gubbed. I know McDonalds sponsor the Olympics, too, and was a little annoyed that they hadn’t sent a truck laden with free beefburgers. Bank of Scotland had a truck in the procession, too, with some English cunt on its open top-deck dancing like a dick to shitty pop music. No free money getting handed out, I noticed.

Nice choice of sponsors for an international sporting event: Coca Cola, McDonalds, and Bank of Scotland. ‘Hey, kids. You’re all going to be fat bastards with diabetes and no pensions. LET’S FUCKING CELEBRATE!’

Eventually the guy with the flaming torch got off of his little yellow bus, jogged for about 100 metres, everybody cheered, and then he got back on his bus again, the lazy bastard. And I’m glad I was there to see it. One day I’ll be telling my grandkids about this. Telling them how shit it was. The free Cola was good, though.

This is the best picture I could manage!

* sincere apologies to the people of Skinflats. I love you all, you know I was only having a laugh (ie, please don’t kill me – I’m trying to put you on the map!).

** Note to foreign readers of the site, especially Americans. Skinflats genuinely is a lovely village, and also the birthplace of William Wallace, so do come visit if you’re flying in to Edinburgh. Thanks, Jamie.

Cunt of the Week (18 Jun 2012) by Richard Hunter

Posted on June 18, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Guest writer: Richard Hunter.

Hello. As your guest writer this week, I’ve been racking my brains for which subject to choose. Obviously, Jamie Andrew was first choice, but given that this will still be true when he next begs me to write a piece – as no-one else has submitted one yet – I’m sure we can wait for that.

So, my CUNT OF THE WEEK goes to Argyll and Bute council.

Yeah, that’s right: those cunts.

I should point out it’s for a specific reason, and if you’re on Twitter (@Tricky308, by the way) then you will probably already know why. If you live in the Argyll and Bute area then I’m guessing you have a few hundred reasons. To be specific, it’s the banning of the blog ‘Neverseconds’, which is written by an 8-year-old girl called Martha Payne.

In truth, the council only placed a ban on the taking of images. I suppose at this point I should explain.

Martha writes a daily blog, under the name Veg, at http://neverseconds.blogspot.co.uk/ which details what she had for lunch that day; this includes a health rating, mouthful count and a picture of the food on offer. She will also collate pictures sent from other lunchtime diners around the world, and will rate their lunch, too. Our food does not stand up well by comparison!

Richard’s stage direction for this picture: {JAMIE INCLUDE PICTURE ONE HERE} {and remember to delete all theses little edit notes before you publish it you thick cunt}

The council saw fit to ban the pictures being taken because they felt Martha was taking pictures of the wrong type of food. Here’s the quote:

“The photographic images uploaded appear to only represent a fraction of the choices available to pupils, so a decision has been made by the council to stop photos being taken in the school canteen.”

So are they saying that Martha’s only option if she wants to keep taking photos is to upload to her blog every possible combination of dinner that day and then rate them all individually? I would think childhood obesity is enough of a problem in Scotland without forcing a little girl to eat 20 different portions for lunch, just so she can write a factually accurate blog that night. I suppose if she did take this option the council would no longer need to worry, as by day 5 her hands would be too fat to type without hitting several keys at once, and within 2 months the inevitable heart attack would cease the blog altogether.

Argyll and Bute council have also claimed that the ‘school catering staff had been left “in tears” by press coverage’ and they ‘feared for their jobs’.

Anybody else smell shite? That may well be the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve seen in type since Jamie sent me that text about how his gig ‘went well’. Does anyone with a child actually blame the dinner ladies (or catering staff, if that term offends anyone) for the dross meals that are served up? NO, of course we fucking don’t: the dinner ladies work their arses off to provide this food. And, yes, OK, it’s not to a great standard, but when they’re working with ‘Big Bob’s Chicken’ (almost 19% chicken inside) or ‘Sandy’s Sausage Meat’ (made from only the healthiest of hamsters), then how the fuck could they manage to serve perfection? If they could get the backing from the councils, who in turn decided to spend more on a child’s lunch than a prisoner’s breakfast, then perhaps the council wouldn’t be so ashamed of the blog that is clearly just showing up the horrendous shit our ( and by ‘our’ I mean ‘your’, as I have no kids) kids are being fed.

Check out these two pictures:

It’s even more embarrassing when you look at the pictures! I’m sure it wont take much guessing from you readers to figure out which of the above pictures is being served in Argyll and Bute, and which came from Spain.

The silver lining in this whole debacle is that since Friday the 15^th of June the blog has had over 100,000 hits* (I’m imagining right now that Jamie is trying to work out if he can get Falkirk council to ban his site so that he can aspire to similar figures) and has raised over £30,000 for the charity this website was all about. Oh, that’s right, I never mentioned that. This blog that the C.O.T.W is taking down – and, yes, I know they were technically just banning the pictures, but as it’s a blog based around pictures of Martha’s food, it wouldn’t work terribly well without the pictures, would it? – was set up to raise money for Mary’s Meals: a small charity that serves up life-saving meals to people who have been greatly affected by the East African food crisis.

It costs around £7,000 to fund the start-up for a kitchen to help provide these life saving rations. As of Thursday morning, young Martha’s website had helped to raise £2000, with her over-all target being the seven thousand to see a kitchen opened. But by Friday night the pledge stood at a little over £30,000. Infact, if anything, the people at Argyll and Bute council have helped…

Nah, they’re still total Cunts!

‘SCOTLAND OR NOT?’ A fun new lunchtime game. HINT: if there is Irn Bru visible, it’s probably Scotland.

OK, this is the REAL picture of Richard Hunter. But he does look a little like that Mexican cunt from season 3 of ‘The Shield’.

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER Richard Hunter is well aware that his name shortens down to DICK Hunter, and so are any audiences who have seen him perform stand up. His first gig took place in 2007, and that went so fucking well for him that he chose not to gig again in Scotland for another 4 years. He did fuck off to Australia and gig there for a while, where he realised that they think the name ‘Dick Hunter’ is just as funny as all the cunts in high school did as well.

Just yesterday Richard found out that he doesn’t live in Denny, Falkirk, but in Dunipace, Falkirk. A fact that has made not one solitary difference to his already quite pathetic life.

He would like me to point out that since he started to take stand up seriously, last JULY, he has taken part in 87 gigs, whilst my current gig count is 94, and I have been taking this seriously for nearly 2 years (closer to 18 months, if we’re being picky). I think what Richard’s trying to say is that i’m a lazy cunt.

If you want to know more about Richard, or find out how horrendous he can be with a movie-based pun, then by all means follow him on Twitter. But don’t bother adding him on Facebook. You may follow him, but you’re not his fucking friend (don’t feel sad about this: your name will be added to the list of everybody Richard has ever met)!

Richard regularly appears on-stage naked, ending his set by thrumming himself off with a little glove-puppet he calls ‘Grahamie Mandrew.’ As he ejaculates over the front row, he’s been known to shout: ‘BROLLY UP, YOU FUCKING WHORES! IT’S RAINING DICK JUICE!’ Please bring a sou’wester if you come to see him perform.

FOLLOW RICHARD ON TWITTER: @Tricky308

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Write for next week’s Cunt of the Week (CoTW): http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/01/cunt-of-the-week/

Remember the Spectrum, Grandpa?

Posted on June 14, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

I wrote something about growing old earlier this week, which this piece complements. It’s an oldie, if you’ll excuse the very shite and very unintended pun. As I was scouring through files on my laptop I came across this little age-related-rant that I whipped up seven years ago, inspired by Terry Christian… – Jamie

Good for you, being all hip and that, grandma. Unfortunately, your old fucking fingers are now stuck like that.

I heard an advert on the radio the other night. Naturally, because I’m so old, I had to turn up the volume to hear it. That was only after a little clenching and unclenching of my arthritic fingers, just to warm them up. It’s impossible to twiddle the controls these days with the springy, cavalier ease which I recall I exhibited in my youth. Well, I can just about recall it; senile dementia is no laughing matter, you know.

I’m 25, by the way. Sure, I’m nearer thirty than twenty, and most of my friends are prepared or preparing to enter the 2.4 children phase of their lives; but am I past it? I’m still just a kid.

Not according to Terry Christian; nor to the cosmetics giant that employs him to advertise their products. The product being hocked was some sort of anti-aging face-cream for guys, and the company was Oil of Ulay, or Nivea, or something. Never matter. It was their pitch – not their product – that irked me.

Here’s the gist of it.

Probably best not to take lifestyle advice from this prick.

Terry asked whether or not I remembered the Sinclair ZX Spectrum. I do. I had one. When I was five. And I loved it. Apparently, so Terry claims, fond memories of and familiarity with the Sinclair ZX Spectrum places me in the category of men who should really start to worry about the effects of ageing on their peeling, wrinkled old faces. I repeat, for the record: I am 25. 25 years old.

Don’t the executives at whatever company this is have enough of a customer-base in people who are, oh, let’s say, significantly older than me? Not to be ageist, of course; but I know a lot of people who are the same age as me and never have I regarded them as old sows and warlocks a mere fifteen minutes from the morgue.

This tactic, which seems to me like a profit-boosting pre-emptive strike, makes me fear for the future. I can just hear the greedy little buffoons in the boardroom now: ‘Let’s generate a mass hysteria about ageing and convince perfectly young, smooth-skinned people that the modern world has destroyed, or will destroy imminently, their youthful looks, and so their only hope of facial salvation lies in our safe, money-grabbing hands.’ Maybe these people – these ingenious arseholes – believe, or hope, that the wrinkled masses will begin using their product through their late teens into their dotage, and finally become so terrified to stop using it – lest they age forty years overnight and then die – that perhaps even the mortician will be persuaded to trowel some on to them as they lie rigid in their coffins.

“SO YOU’RE DEAD? IT DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN’T STILL TURN HEADS.”

Just how far down the age spectrum are these bastards willing to boldly go? I’m willing to bet a split infinitive that their pound-lust knows no limits.

‘So, how old are you?’

‘I’m six.’

‘Huh… but you look ten.’

Batty – definitely worth a hot splodge over your new 50inch HD. Look at the way the old whore handles that broom. She’s asking for it.

Can it be that the same society telling us that young people effectively run the world is also telling us that the price we pay for ruling the world is to look fifty when we’re thirty? Media and marketing cunts have spent many years convincing us on television, satellite and radio that the days of the wise old elder are over; that the old are decrepit fools who can’t keep up with the pace of channel-changing, green-hair-dyeing, sex-in-the-city-watching, metro-sexual modern life. Long live the adolescent seems to be the credo. Are we to infer that the stress of sustaining this reversal of status is burning us out?

We’re all having our mid-life crises in our twenties; we’re all on Prozac; checking in to Betty Ford clinics; going to stress counsellors; buying anti-ageing products by the bucket-load.

Has our Picture of Dorian Gray syndrome caught up with us so early?

Anyway, that’s a snack for thought. I’m off to sort out my funeral plan and jet up to the bathroom in my Stenna Stairlift. Is Last of the Summer Wine on tonight? Maybe I’ll be able to sustain my ancient erection just long enough to crack one off over Nora Batty.

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In case you missed it, here’s the piece I wrote last week about turning 32: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/13/happy-birthday/

Happy Birthday?

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Me, and how I stay youthful.

I just turned 32.

This is a strange age. It’s the age where people start dying; or at least the age where it starts to become less of a surprise when your friends and acquaintances keel over like pit canaries.

‘They were so… young,’ we say, not quite believing the words as they stagger uncertainly from our lips. It’s almost framed as a question. ‘They were so… young?’

I’ve always been certain that a heart attack will serve as the final sentence in the book of my life. I’m not psychic: just Scottish. At death, most pasty-skinned Celts will find the Grim Reaper holding their engorged heart in his bony hand, bouncing it like a blood-filled happy-sack as he points to the fat-smeared hole in their chest and says: ‘Looking for this, you fat bastard?’ Yes, there’s no doubt in my mind. Jamie Andrew’s heart is destined to burst like a rotten peach under the treads of a tank.

Fuck you, Murphy. You're shite at living.

I become filled with anxiety when I hear of a celebrity dying in their early 30s. As if their premature death somehow makes my own more likely. Brittany Murphy, Heath Ledger: they both gave me palpitations. When a celebrity dies young I always chant inside my head ‘Please be drugs, please be drugs, please be drugs, please be drugs,’ and when it’s drugs I fist the air and shout ‘YES!!’ Which is pretty horrible of me, but then I never claimed to be anything other than a deeply, deeply horrible human being. They die of drugs, I don’t die of a heart attack. Yet. That’s the deal.

I guess I am still young, though. I look young, so I’m told, despite the rainforests of hair that seem to sprout from every available orifice. What’s with that? So much hair grows from my ears that I could pleat it and join Aswad. No joke. Bed bugs could abseil from my ear lobe down to my shoulder. This shouldn’t happen until I’m in my sixties or something, right? I don’t want to look like my grandfather just yet. Well, he’s dead, so of course I don’t want to look like him. I meant I don’t want to look like he did during his twilight years. Not at 32, anyway. His ears looked like they had boom mikes coming out of them. And the ears themselves were all waxy and gnarly, making him look like the head Ferengi from Star Trek.

My nose is no different, over-abundance-of-hair-wise. I always notice the hairs in the mirror when I’m driving, and then spend about five minutes yanking what look like wires from my nostrils. So if you’re on the roads in Falkirk, look out for a big tall guy clawing at his face and screaming in horror at his reflection: that’ll be me. So much hair dangles from my nose that it looks like a tarantula is trying to escape from my face. Honestly, it’s like steel wool. I could headbutt a pot and scour it at the same time.

It's the Argos Nose Hair remover I've got, if you're interested.

Which is why my mother gave me an electric nose-and-ear-hair remover for my birthday. No shit. She did. And do you know what the worst thing is? I was grateful. It’s something I need. At 32? Next year it’ll be a Noel Edmonds’ sweater and a brochure for a SAGA holiday. And bring on the socks and pants. I love getting socks and pants now. I wish I’d been more grateful to my grandparents when I was younger, and hadn’t just sneered when I ripped open the wrapping paper to find yet another 5-pack of Asda’s-own boxer shorts. I didn’t realise what a valuable commodity they were back then. Thank you, grandma and grandpa (X2). I sometimes think they were trying to tell me, in some hush-hush yet none-too-subtle grandparent code, that growing old is pants. I think they were on to something.

Anyway, here’s to the next 32. Well… maybe.

Cunt of the Week (11 Jun 2012) by Rik Carranza

Posted on June 11, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

The head cunt, presiding over his cunt empire.

My Cunt of the Week is not a single person; it’s an organisation. That’s right, Mattel, I’m looking at you.

You see, a number of years ago – when I was much younger, smaller and more naive – I saw a movie which, at the time, blew me away. That movie was Back to the Future, Part II. If you haven’t seen it then, quite frankly, you need to re-assess your priorities in life. However, for the sake of clarification it is the second part of a trilogy of movies wherein a teenager, Marty McFly, goes on a series of adventures through time, almost shags his mother and claims to be Clint Eastwood. On a side note, if I had a time machine I would use it to punch someone at every major moment in history, or I would go back 2000 years or so to Jerusalem and claim I was Jesus. Probably the second thing. Yeah, I’d do that.

Look closely to see Rik Carranza's supporting role in BTTF2.

Anyway, in Back to the Future Part II, Marty McFly goes to the year 2015 and after a series of misadventures ends up in possession of A FUCKING HOVERBOARD! That’s right: a hoverboard. A skateboard with no fucking wheels! The first time I saw this I was too young to blow my load, but, trust me, it gave me the same feelings.

According to the movie, the hoverboard in question was made by Mattel. Given that the movie originally came out in 1989 and was partially set in 2015, it is safe to assume that Mattel didn’t have the product back then. However, as we are coming up for 2015, by my reckoning hoverboards should be coming out within the next couple of years; you know, so we’ve got time to become familiar with how they work. With this in mind, I contacted Mattel to ask whether or not their hoverboards would be hitting the market soon. This was their reply:-

——————————————————————————————————————

Hello

Thank you for your email. The Hoverboards are not part of the UK range, but we do value your feedback and this will be passed to the relevant departments for their future reference.

Kind Regards

Karen Allen

Consumer Response, Mattel UK

——————————————————————————————————————-

I felt disappointment until I saw the phrase: ‘NOT PART OF THE UK RANGE’. So it does exist then? Awesome! Getting a little bit excited I did some research and found this: http://www.slashgear.com/mattel-hover-board-prepped-for-2012-holiday-release-13213241/

It’s a fucking replica! It doesn’t hover, it just makes some shitty little whooshing noises. Fuck you, Mattel. I want a real hoverboard; not some replica. Adding further insult to injury, it’s only available in the US. By releasing this, Mattel aren’t satisfying fans. They are fucking with us. Acting like strippers by showing us the goods, but not letting us touch. There are self-lacing shoes (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_Efr2TaEPo), holograms (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0TpDxLfjHc&feature=player_embedded), video calling (http://www.skype.com/intl/en-gb/home), and video googles (http://www.geeksugar.com/CES-2008-Awe-eMagins-OLED-Microdisplay-Headset-943210), but still no hoverboard. So get your ass in gear, Mattel, and give me my hoverboard.

Rik Carranza

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER The end result of multiculturalism gone wrong (at least according to the Daily Mail), Rik embraces both cultures the same way John Terry embraces racial harmony. When he’s not trying to make people laugh he likes sports from the comfort of his couch, movies from the comfort of his couch and pet ownership from the comfort of his own couch. In fact on the few occasion that he leaves his couch he has had some success in stand up comedy, which he started in 2009 and still can’t be bothered to quit.

Rik was arrested in 2007 for having sex with a snowman in a school playground. The terms of Carranza’s release state that he must spend the winter months sedated to prevent any further sexual outrage, so unfortunately you won’t be able to book him for your Christmas party.

FOLLOW RIK ON TWITTER: @rcarranza

READ RIK’S BLOG: http://rikcarranza.blogspot.co.uk/

—————————————————————————————————————-

Write for next week’s Cunt of the Week (CoTW) : http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/01/cunt-of-the-week/

Letter to Loaded (2005)

Posted on June 10, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

I was going through all of the old documents stored on my laptop looking for more content to cannibalise – because my brain isn’t in the zone for creating original content today – and found this. The following is a letter I sent to Loaded in 2005, pleading with them for a job. I know it’s jokey in tone, but it wasn’t a piss-take. I rather naively and pathetically assumed that if I could make the powers-that-be at Loaded laugh then they’d think to themselves, ‘I know this guy’s had no experience of writing whatsoever, but I snorted air out of my left nostril at one of his jokes, so I think we should put him straight onto the staff of our national magazine.’ Needless to say, it didn’t work. Oh, and I genuinely sent them a bag of plant cuttings.

————————————————————————————————————————————

Jamie Andrew

(address edited out to reduce chances of an horrific murder happening)

Ms Lisa Wallis

Loaded, IPC Media Ltd

London, SE1 9LS

22^nd of September 2005

Dear Lisa

Application for the position of Staff Writer

Allow me to introduce you to some Glasgow vernacular: Go on, hen, geez a joab.

I have always wanted to write for a living. I penned my first major work whilst still ensconced in my mother’s womb. Perhaps ‘penned’ is a slightly inaccurate description. I actually scrawled my first novel in the placenta with my finger. Sold for a paltry £1 to publishing giant ‘FANTASTIC FOETALS’, it was simply entitled: ‘Gargumphaaagag.’ Certainly it was far ahead of its time.

A handsome young child, I was described by many as ‘a young Brad Pitt’. This was long before I knew what the phrase ‘Cockney rhyming slang’ meant.

Unperturbed by the taunts of others I embraced my calling as a writer. My first journalistic scoop came when I exposed my uncle’s infidelity in the May 1985 edition of ‘The Local Church Gazette.’ Even then I was aware of sinister and powerful forces at work. There was a cover-up of the scandal and in the dead of one night two masked intruders broke into my room and destroyed all of my crayons and wrote ‘Bastard’ across every sheet of paper they could find. Apparently my uncle was at it with the entire congregation, the organist (we always wondered why she played James Brown’s “Sex Machine” of a Sunday service), the cleaners, the caterers and even the minister and his dog.

My new career looked set to end before it had even began; but the call of the truth was too loud for me to ignore.

Since the age of twelve I have published no less than eighty-seven novels, ten-thousand short stories (some of them only a sentence long), brought down communist regimes across the globe armed only with my sharp tongue and acid pen (and acid-proof paper), won the Pulitzer prize (well, I stole it) and dressed as a sexy woman every night for the last ten years (which has nothing to do with writing, but I’m especially proud of it all the same).

So, I repeat: geez a joab.

Especially since I assume that I am the only applicant for this position eagle-eyed enough to have spotted the loopholes in your Guardian advertisement. You state that I need to have two years’ experience. Well, I do. I have two years’ experience of having experienced the passing of two years. And as for the cuttings: in absence of more clarification my assumptions have led me to enclose the best bag of cuttings I could find at this time of the year. I do hope they blossom well for you. Please consider these my gift to you in hope of a permanent position; or even just the kind of hot, steamy sex I enjoyed viewing (so many times) in Monsters’ Ball.

I enclose for your entertainment and delight my five feature ideas.

I love you.

Yours sincerely

Jamie Andrew

Cunt of the Week (05 Jun 2012) by Thomas Wotherspoon

Posted on June 5, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Cunt of the Week

My nomination for Cunt of the Week this week is… the entire population of North Carolina. They recently made law in their state constitution that marriage between a man and a woman would be the only legally binding agreement of its kind. This backwards and hateful step was taken by the scum of a redneck society gone mad; thumping out inspiring lines like, ‘It’s in the bible,’ and ‘god made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.’ I mean, congradu-fucking-lations for making something rhyme, you cock-eyed, slack-jawed, sister-fucking idiot. We’ll get back to why it’s not a good idea to base a modern society on a piece of political propaganda written thousands of years ago in a minute. For now, we’ll let them think that the bible should be law, and have a little look at how that might work:

Leviticus 11:9-10: ‘Of all the creatures living in the water of the seas and the streams, you may eat any that have fins and scales. But all creatures in the seas or streams that do not have fins and scales–whether among all the swarming things or among all the other living creatures in the water–you are to detest.’

–

No eating shellfish.

–

Ephesians 6:5: ‘Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear, and with sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ.’

–

Keep slaves

–

Deuteronomy 22:28–29: ‘If a man happens to meet a virgin who is not pledged to be married and rapes her and they are discovered, he shall pay the girl’s father fifty shekels of silver. He must marry the girl, for he has violated her. He can never divorce her as long as he lives.’

–

A rape victim must be punished and marry her attacker.

–

I could do this all day, really I could. Come on, you cherry-pickin’ motherfuckers. If you can turn a blind eye to some of the rules in your holy fucking book, then surely you can let two people who care about each other – and want to sample the suffering fucking hell that is marriage – to at least get the nightmare that they desire. Also, those knuckle-dragging morons messed up the language in their writing of this law and null and voided every civil partnership, including those between men and women.

–

Homosexuality was around long before the bible was written; the Greeks and the Romans had much documentation of it, as did the Persians. Hell, there’s even the Isle of Lesbos, for fuck sake.

–

The times they are a’ changing, as a wise man once said. The people of the world need to move past their fears and problems together and embrace the future. Or be labelled cunts forever!

–

Yours Honestly – Tam

—

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER His name is Thomas, but you can call him Tam. He’s normally an easy-going person, but can turn into a Hulk-like, angry, and shouty bastard when he sees idiots about to open their mouths: as he lives in Central Scotland, Tam spends most of his time green. An uber liberal, Tam thinks you’re entitled to your own opinions… unless they’re wrong.

–

He’s a bit fat, but not serious fat… they aren’t going to be taking a wall out of his house to get him out or anything. He loves games – online, board and card, and can be super competitive. He is currently undefeated in Monopoly.

–

Tam lives in Skinflats with his imaginary pet hawk and thirteen dead bodies he hopes will remain undiscovered.

–

Write for next week’s Cunt of the Week (CoTW): http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/01/cunt-of-the-week/

—

Greggs – A Tale of Pork Pies and Racism

Posted on June 4, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

I entered into this email back-and-forth with Greggs’ customer service a few years ago after I visited one of their Falkirk stores and discovered that all of their in-store pictures featured only white people. My original email to them included phrases like ‘I don’t want to think of the Third Reich each time I bite into a Yum Yum’. I wish, with every fibre of my being, that I still had a copy of it somewhere, but I don’t. It was submitted through the Greggs’ website. Never matter. Every other part of the exchange is here, from 2010 onwards.

Enjoy. This is real. Emails written by Greggs are signposted by an appropriate Greggs-related picture. Emails written by me are signposted by a picture of me eating a crab whole.

Greggs

From: GreggsplcCustomerServices@greggs.co.uk
To: jmascot@hotmail.co.uk
Date: Wed, 18 Aug 2010 07:00:09 +0100
Subject: Thank you for getting in touch with Greggs

It’s always great to get feedback from our customers and we do appreciate it. We wanted you to know that we’ve got your mail and will reply within the next 3 working days.

Kind regards

Greggs Customer Care Team
________________________________________________________________________
Please visit our website www.greggs.co.uk ________________________________________________________________________

Hello there.

I recently submitted a query/complaint to your feedback forum through your website. As you can see from the below message you did indeed receive this, and then assured me that your reply would be forthcoming within three working days. I have not yet received said reply.

Although you may have found the phrasing of my initial message a touch facetious, I can assure you that this is only due to the passion I feel for the subject matter.

Affirmative action is an important concept to embrace in any forward-thinking, civilised society, and I find it abhorrent that Greggs does not subscribe to this philosophy. To recap, there are several images on display in the Larbert (Scotland) branch of Greggs, all of which depict white caucasian people enjoying Greggs’ products. Not one of them is from a different ethnic group. How do you imagine this makes people of other ethnic groups feel when they come in to buy a chicken sandwich or similar?

Offering brown bread is not enough of a compromise towards multiculturalism.What would Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King have made of your devil-may-care stand?

Please assure me that you will take steps to be more inclusive in the images you use in your stores, so as to minimise hurt to your paying customers. I expect an immediate response.

Kind regards
J Andrew

Greggs

Subject: Greggs – Call Reference F0770901

From: GreggsplcCustomerServices@greggs.co.uk
To: jmascot@hotmail.co.uk
Date: Tue, 24 Aug 2010 09:12:00 +0100

Dear Mr Andrew,

Thank you for your comments. I would like to reassure you that Greggs is a company that respects and supports diversity in modern day Britain, Our shop imagery is in no way intended to exclude any groups on the grounds of gender or ethnicity nor to cause harm or offence to any of our valued customers.”

We would like to thank you Mr Andrews for your feedback and we have taken your points on board.

—Remember to quote your call reference number F0770901 in any correspondence, as this will assist us in providing you with a quick response.

Yours sincerely

Christine Robertson

Dear Christine

Thank you for taking the time to reply to me. I know some might think I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but I see these exclusions, subliminal or otherwise, as the thin end of the wedge in a society that is already struggling to accomodate peoples of all different creeds and ethnicities. Your words were comforting, but words aren’t always enough. You may have ‘taken my points on board’, but how does this equate to action? Are you going to update the images in your Larbert store to reflect a more inclusive image of the kinds of people who enjoy pastry products in modern Britain, and if not, why not?

Kind regards
J Andrew

Greggs

Subject: Greggs – Call Reference F0770901

From: GreggsplcCustomerServices@greggs.co.uk
To: jmascot@hotmail.co.uk
Date: Thu, 26 Aug 2010 11:40:51 +0100

Dear Mr Andrew,

Just to assure you we have taken your comments seriously following your initial e-mail, we have taken the following actions:
– we have discussed the concerns you raised with our People Director and Customer & Marketing Director to make sure that future imagery in the shop captures these points on diversity and inclusion.
– In regard to the Larbert shop, the imagery was our previous in-shop design as part of the refit done in 2006 Our latest design shop imagery that is currently being rolled out around the business shows our products and doesn’t in fact show any people. Based on our capital program, the Larbert shop would not be due for a refit for a couple of years yet. Any future imagery that we roll out will take into account visual representation of the diversity of our staff and our customers. We would like to send you examples of our internal communications that demonstrates we do take this issue very seriously if you would be willing to provide a postal address.

Regards

Dear Christine,

Thank you so much for taking the time to address this serious issue. I’m glad that you and your company have afforded this matter the gravity it deserves.

It would be a highly responsible move to replace the images of people with those of your products, so as not to offend any customer or visitor to your stores. However, I am a little dismayed that people living in Larbert who come from different ethnic groups than those represented on the walls of their local Greggs will come to remember the years 2006 – 2013 as the ‘pastry apartheid years’.

I had a long look at your corporate website to see if the theme was repeated on a national scale. I’m heartened to see that the pictures and photographs on your website truly do reflect the diversity of your staff and customers, although I’m not so sure about the video uploads of your TV advertising campaigns. There are only two black people featured, both in the February 2010 ad. Bravo, on the face of it, but I feel this would have sent a more positive message to the country had the black staff members in question not been glimpsed mirage-like in the background, and hidden like a guilty secret behind a squad of merrily dancing caucasian people.

I don’t want to appear too critical since you have taken this matter seriously and provided me with reassurance. This is a very important step, to my mind. I’m still a little dismayed that you are content to promote social exlusion in Larbert for a further, indeterminate number of years.

I would prefer it if you could send me .pdf or .jpg attachments of your internal communications. It may not surprise you too greatly to learn that I am also a keen and ardent environmentalist, and abhor the unnecessary wastage of paper. Besides, I am quite a peripatetic individual and prefer to receive electronic communications owing to how infrequently I’m based at home.

Regards
J Andrew

(the following, concluding emails were sent in the past week)

Dear Christine

(if indeed Christine is still functioning in her old role – if not, please identify yourself so as not to besmirch her memory)

It’s almost 2013. Several years ago you promised to look at the issues raised by my complaint, namely that there were plenty images of white people enjoying sandwiches on the wall of your Greggs in Larbert, but none featuring any other ethnic group. Not an African, an Indian, or even an Eskimo. Just the white man. Highly unacceptable in this day and age. Your solution was to suggest replacing pictures of people with pictures of sandwiches, so as not to offend anyone. Has this now been done, or are your Larbert customers still buying their bakery products from a BNP paradise; as if Nick Griffin had invented a time-machine and used it to catapult Larbert back to 1947?

I do hope you took my points on board and didn’t dismiss them as unimportant. Remember Mandela!

Kind regards

J Andrew

Greggs

Subject: Greggs – Call Reference F0770901

From: GreggsplcCustomerServices@greggs.co.uk

To: jmascot@hotmail.co.uk

Date: Fri, 1 Jun 2012 10:42:39 +0100
Dear Mr Andrew

Nice to hear from you.

I’m still here and still working hard with our customers. The Larbert Shop has not had a re-fit since we last corresponded but we’ve removed some of the old point of sale and replaced it with our new stuff.

Your feedback was sent through to the Marketing Team but I believe we changed our way of thinking and haven’t used this type of material since.
I think the shop is due for a re-fit shortly as we’re trying to update all of our estate.

Thanks again for getting in touch and I hope this has answered your query.

Remember to quote your call reference number F0770901 in any
correspondence, as this will assist us in providing you with a
quick response.

Yours sincerely

Christine Robertson
Customer Care Team Leader

Hello Christine

(You called me Mr Andrew in your previous message, but I feel we’ve graduated beyond such formalities after our long history together, Chris)

–

I was very happy to receive your e-mail. Prompt and efficient. I’m heartened to hear of the changes you’ve implemented in response to my misgivings, and am proud to ally myself with Greggs in its new battle to eradicate racism in all its forms. Other companies with which I’ve entered into correspondence on these issues have not been as forthcoming as Greggs. Mathiesons the baker, a hated Scottish rival of yours, should be singled out for its arrogant and blatant disregard of my complaints. Which is rich considering how much offensive imagery they have in their stores and on their promotional materials! You were a minor offender compared to these guys. Can you believe this? One of their stores in Grangemouth boasts a picture of what appears to be a minstrel tucking into a scone! What next? Putting Jews in their ovens??? This is going to be a long fight, Chris, but one I’m ready for. Attitudes MUST change.

–

Anyway, to business. I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time. I would like to ask if I could talk about Greggs in a local newsletter I co-edit. I’m going to relay the tale of your humanity and corporate responsibility, and give Greggs some richly deserved publicity, free of charge. I’m going to end the newsletter with the line:

–

‘Greggs: Hot pastry products you’ll all adore; a queue of facists at Mathiesons’ door.’ And then end with a picture of Hitler enjoying a Mathiesons’ chicken bridie or something. Maybe you could suggest a more apt snack for the Fuhrer, else I’ll just stick with that, I think.

–

Thanks again for your excellent customer service, and for actioning my requests with grace and patience.

–

I await your response

–

Many thanks and kind regards

Jamie Andrew

————————————————————————————————————————–

Greggs

Subject: Greggs – Call Reference F0770901

From: GreggsplcCustomerServices@greggs.co.uk
To: jmascot@hotmail.co.uk
Date: Thu, 7 Jun 2012 15:21:21 +0100

Dear Mr Andrew

Thanks for your further email to Christine. As she’s not in the office currently, I’ve replied on her behalf.

It would be inappropriate for us to be associated in any way with your dissatisfaction with any other baker. In fact, we are really concerned that by referring to Greggs you will bring our good name into disrepute. Therefore we ask you not to refer to us in the way that you suggest.

Best wishes for the future.

Remember to quote your call reference number F0770901 in any correspondence, as this will assist us in providing you with a quick response.

Yours sincerely

Lynsey Kelly
Customer Care Team

Hello Lynsey Kelly

It’s exciting to be corresponding with a new team member. You seem a lot more prim and formal than Christine. If you were a teacher I could well imagine you administering the belt to my wrist, whereas Christine would probably just smile, throw her hair back over her shoulder and call me a scamp.

This will be my last message, as I do not wish to swallow up any more of your time. Anyway, I’m sorry if I have contravened guidelines on what is deemed acceptable in terms of Greggs’ association with other companies. I was only trying to help out, as I felt I owed it to you after the superb way you handled my concerns. This worries me a little, though, as I have already published a newsletter in which Greggs is mentioned. I decided against the text mentioned in the previous mail, but I took some liberties with the new idea. I didn’t think you would mind, and I was only trying to promote your company. Here is the copy that is printed and ready to be distributed to a few hundred people in my local community:

“I would like to encourage all in the local area to visit your local branch of Greggs in Larbert. There you will find not just bakery products, but an admirable humanitarian stance on brotherhood. As Christine from the Customer Care Team said herself, ‘Unlike Mathiesons, Greggs cares about ethnic minorities. In Second World War terms, Mathiesons are like Norway, maybe at a pinch Vichy France, whereas we at Greggs pride ourselves on our Churchillian spirit. All are welcome to enjoy our products, not just white people. We would strongly urge an immediate boycott of Mathiesons’ products to send a stern message that your community will not tolerate such behaviour.'”

I don’t deal with distribution, that’s handled by a gentleman called Duncan Semple, who’s also the treasurer of our community group. I’ll get on to him straight away and hopefully stop him from handing out any copies. If any have slipped out, I’ll make sure they’re gathered up and burned.

Many apologies and kind regards

Jamie Andrew

———————————————————————————————————————–THE END

Or is it? I highly doubt – this time – there will be further correspondence from Greggs, but if there is, I’ll post it.

Cunt of the Week

Posted on June 1, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Is Teresa a cunt?

Who’s yours?

You can pick anyone – with the exception of me, as my cuntiness is a matter of public record – to be your Cunt of the Week (COtW – or, tell you what, let’s shorten it to COW so we don’t have to be all vile and C-wordy every time we mention the feature): a politician; a celebrity; the guy who keeps blocking your driveway every morning; an historical figure; a cartoon character; hell, your own grandmother if she’s cunty enough!

So it needn’t be topical. Although the feature is called COW, your See You Next Tuesday doesn’t have to be someone we’ve seen in the news that week. It’s just that every week we’ll have a different person, or a rotation of persons, telling us about their particular **** (I’ve not gone all sensitive on you, I’m just bored of writing ‘cunt’).

Be angry, be passionate! Convince us in 300 – 500 words why your man, woman or character deserves to be crowned the CUNT OF THE WEEK and send your mad, depraved rantings to theotherjamie@hotmail.co.uk. Send them by a Friday and I’ll post them on a Monday.

I’ll put the best few (or indeed the only few, or most probably the ones I’ve made up and published under a false name because not a single fucker out there has bothered to submit anything) up every week, and we can all have a good, old-fashioned weekly hate-a-thon. And the great thing is: we’ll never run out of cunts. There’s too many of them!

Happy cunting.

Culture Jamming Gallery – Pt 2

Posted on May 31, 2012 by Jamie Andrew

Part 2 of the gallery. Here’s part 1 if you missed it, complete with introductory rant.

http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/05/23/cj1/

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Application for the position of Staff Writer

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