Martin Amis on Malcolm Lowry:
So the years of Lowry's maturity unfold: binnings, bannings, arrests, ejections, screams in the night, expired visas and lost passports, together with a lengthening rap sheet of domestic arson, larceny and GBH. In 1938 his first wife Jan 'rationed' him to a quart of liquor a day, but he hoarded his allowance to buy 'fortified wines costing only fifty cents a gallon'. In 1947 his second wife, Margaret, noticed that Lowry, after a period of abstinence, had started enjoying a cocktail before lunch - and 'pre-dinner cocktails started as early as 3pm'. In 1949 he was averaging three litres of red wine per day topped up by two litres of rum. His varicose veins stretched from groin to ankle. One morning he collapsed and started 'vomiitng black blood'. We then duly witness the straitjacket, the padded cell, and the serious discussion, with wife and doctors present, on the pros and cons of lobotomy.
Towards the end, even Lowry's freak accidents and cluster catastrophes are assuming an air of the dankest monotony. An average hour, it seems, would include a jeraboam of Windolene or Optrex, a sanguinary mishap with a chainsaw or a cement-mixer and a routinely bungled attempt to guillotine his wife.
Thank fuck he never discovered an off licence selling el cheapo Primus Premium Belgian Beer.
(Amis Extract from a review of Pursued by Furies by Gordon Bowker in The War Against Cliche Jonathan Cape, 2001.)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Saturday, 17 June 2006
Thursday, 15 June 2006
I hold a cup of wisdom, but there is nothing within...
[droning sitar, swarmandel, dilruba etc. Tabla starts up....]
A long time ago, in the Zi Duang province of eastern country, a young merchant's son approached his father. "Father, I grow restless living this life of pampered ease and indolence. I wish to acquire wisdom so that I may one day repay you for all the many kindnesses and good fortunes your wealth has bestowed upon me. I propose to travel to Western province that I may study there at the feet of the great Zen master, returning here only when he has taught me all there is he has to teach. What say you father of my plan?" The merchant replies, "you are a fine son of whom I am duly proud. I will give you my finest steed and a manservant to assist you on your arduous journey. Tell the great Zen master that once he has taught you all he has to teach, I will gladly reward him with anything it pleases him to ask of me. Oh, lovely boy, you have made me the happiest father alive - there is nothing I have in my possession could mean more to me than this. Come, hug me my son before my heart bursts with pride." The two hug and the next day after a huge farewell banquet, the merchant's son and his manservant set off on the long and treacherous journey to Western province.
For many days, the merchant's son and his manservant travel, through cool valleys, along burning plateaux, fearfully skulking through the forest of thieves, riding in awe in the shadow of the great glass tipped mountains until finally, exhausted and relieved, they enter the great Zen master's academy in the Zi Duang province of eastern country. A huge crowd of apprentices and students gathers to help the merchant's son from his mount, carrying the clearly exhausted young man to the cool enclosure of the Zen master's tent. The Zen master gets up from his meditations and bids the merchant's son to join him for a ceremonial tea. With two servants at his sides cooling the young man's brow with broad leaf fans, the merchant's son makes his appeal to the great Zen master. "Sir, I have travelled many miles, over long, arduous terrain to sit before you and beg you to allow a dense and witless clot such as myself to humbly submit to your tutelage that I may one day acquire wisdom and thus repay my father all his kindly patronage by one day being worthy of handling his great affairs. My father's wealth is unsurpassed and he has promised to grant you whatever you may ask of him once I have been the beneficiary of your great and wise teaching."
The great Zen master, waving a hand at an underling who scurries off to the servants' quarters, replies to the merchant's son, "so, young man - you wish to learn the wisdom of the great Zen master? You know this may take many years? You must follow every instruction of mine without question and submit to my tutelage unconditionally - is that understood?" "Of course great Zen Master, whatever you ask." The servant reappears carrying a large teapot and two small cups which he places before the great Zen master. "Now, no more of this until we have had some tea - I am sure that you are very tired after your long journey, yes?" says the great Zen master as he begins to pour tea into one of the small, teal coloured cups. The merchant's son smiles and nods in reply but begins to frown as he observes that the great Zen master is still pouring tea from the pot into the small tea cup. "Excuse me, sir", the merchant's son begins, but the great Zen master continues to pour, despite having long since filled the small vessel. "Sir...", exclaims the merchant's son as he watches uncomprehendingly the tea flowing over the edges of the tray like a vast river breaking its banks, transforming the fine, white linen tablecloth into a sodden, brown flood plain. "Accchh! You silly old fool!!", exclaims the merchant's son as scolding hot tea begins to drip from the tablecloth onto his lap.
The great Zen master stops pouring, places the teapot down on the drenched table top, bends towards the young man and says, "that, pupil, is your first lesson", then, with a courteous bow, walks off...
Our serialization of 'How Green was my Rinpoche?' by Windsor Davies continues tomorrow....
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
A long time ago, in the Zi Duang province of eastern country, a young merchant's son approached his father. "Father, I grow restless living this life of pampered ease and indolence. I wish to acquire wisdom so that I may one day repay you for all the many kindnesses and good fortunes your wealth has bestowed upon me. I propose to travel to Western province that I may study there at the feet of the great Zen master, returning here only when he has taught me all there is he has to teach. What say you father of my plan?" The merchant replies, "you are a fine son of whom I am duly proud. I will give you my finest steed and a manservant to assist you on your arduous journey. Tell the great Zen master that once he has taught you all he has to teach, I will gladly reward him with anything it pleases him to ask of me. Oh, lovely boy, you have made me the happiest father alive - there is nothing I have in my possession could mean more to me than this. Come, hug me my son before my heart bursts with pride." The two hug and the next day after a huge farewell banquet, the merchant's son and his manservant set off on the long and treacherous journey to Western province.
For many days, the merchant's son and his manservant travel, through cool valleys, along burning plateaux, fearfully skulking through the forest of thieves, riding in awe in the shadow of the great glass tipped mountains until finally, exhausted and relieved, they enter the great Zen master's academy in the Zi Duang province of eastern country. A huge crowd of apprentices and students gathers to help the merchant's son from his mount, carrying the clearly exhausted young man to the cool enclosure of the Zen master's tent. The Zen master gets up from his meditations and bids the merchant's son to join him for a ceremonial tea. With two servants at his sides cooling the young man's brow with broad leaf fans, the merchant's son makes his appeal to the great Zen master. "Sir, I have travelled many miles, over long, arduous terrain to sit before you and beg you to allow a dense and witless clot such as myself to humbly submit to your tutelage that I may one day acquire wisdom and thus repay my father all his kindly patronage by one day being worthy of handling his great affairs. My father's wealth is unsurpassed and he has promised to grant you whatever you may ask of him once I have been the beneficiary of your great and wise teaching."
The great Zen master, waving a hand at an underling who scurries off to the servants' quarters, replies to the merchant's son, "so, young man - you wish to learn the wisdom of the great Zen master? You know this may take many years? You must follow every instruction of mine without question and submit to my tutelage unconditionally - is that understood?" "Of course great Zen Master, whatever you ask." The servant reappears carrying a large teapot and two small cups which he places before the great Zen master. "Now, no more of this until we have had some tea - I am sure that you are very tired after your long journey, yes?" says the great Zen master as he begins to pour tea into one of the small, teal coloured cups. The merchant's son smiles and nods in reply but begins to frown as he observes that the great Zen master is still pouring tea from the pot into the small tea cup. "Excuse me, sir", the merchant's son begins, but the great Zen master continues to pour, despite having long since filled the small vessel. "Sir...", exclaims the merchant's son as he watches uncomprehendingly the tea flowing over the edges of the tray like a vast river breaking its banks, transforming the fine, white linen tablecloth into a sodden, brown flood plain. "Accchh! You silly old fool!!", exclaims the merchant's son as scolding hot tea begins to drip from the tablecloth onto his lap.
The great Zen master stops pouring, places the teapot down on the drenched table top, bends towards the young man and says, "that, pupil, is your first lesson", then, with a courteous bow, walks off...
Our serialization of 'How Green was my Rinpoche?' by Windsor Davies continues tomorrow....
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Wednesday, 14 June 2006
Thursday, 1 June 2006
So Long - And Thanks For All the 'Buie.......
Well, Swipesters,
There comes a time in the affairs of men - and no doubt in those of highly disturbed individuals with Drambuie-based body rub and stocking fetishes too - when they have to look destiny square in the jaw, run a quick mental risk assessment and come to the painful conclusion that, with tearfilled eyes and weary heart, they must bow to the inevitable and accept that the end of the road has unmistakably been reached. Such a time has now come to pass in the affairs of this man (.....or rather of this individual with a Drambuie-based body rub and stocking fetish, if you want to be pedantic about it.....) As such, I'd really like to take this opportunity to thank all my loyal readers out there in cyberspace and to tell you both what fun I've had over the last 18 months posting up the inane gibberish and pathetic gallery of lewd leg shots and lingerie catalogue outcuts that have characterised The Robert Swipe Show and made it one of the most widely reviled and happily ignored excresences to blight the face of the world wide inter web today.
As I said, I'd like to tell you what fun I've had but unfortunately, I can't do that. Actually, if I'm totally honest, it's been absolute hell - every moment has been positively hateful. In fact, if I was asked to make a comparison that would give you some idea of what I've had to endure to get this thing posted up every day, it would be this: I'd have to say it's been akin to having to endure a hugely embarrassing physical impediment - such as a pronounced hump or a degree of spasticity guaranteed to induce a smirk from even the most politicaly correct and priggish - in a playground full of bullying oiks. And that's on a good day. At its worst, when it's really bad, imagine someone undoing one of your callipers and throwing it up onto the roof of big school so you have to hobble up to the playground attendant so she can make a big song and dance about calling the caretaker and how no one's going anywhere until we find out who's responsible for hurling little Robbie Raspberry's false leg up on the chimney - "look at the poor, helpless little cripple, he's DEE-YEVA-STEE-YATED" (she's a Geordie, you see) - and you have to hop around feeling the hateful eyes of the whole school burning into the back of your polyester jumper while they drag Mrs. Trethwilliams out of the local pub so she can risk life and limb up a flimsy ladder drunkenly retrieving your calliper, three tennis balls and a sodden copy of Escort magazine Emrys Thomas threw up there moments earlier when he heard the Headmaster coming towards him round the corner. That gives you some idea, I hope, of the ignominy of it all. As a result, I have barely been able to breathe for the last 6 weeks as the pressure of posting has mounted and the abjection I have felt with every new joyless post, each one unfunnier than its predecessor, has led to the same reaction from the public at large - unenthused at best, but more usually just plain hostile.
The almost comically poor reception given them has become evidence to me that the days of this once thriving blog are now terminally numbered. And all this despite using my recently acquired fortune (...the less said about how I came to be a Turkish lire millionaire(ss) the better - suffice to say if the link between my highly flammable Cliff Thorburn face masks, Archie the Sniper Daschund and the deaths of the 17 people ahead of me in line for the Istanbul lottery hedgefund inheritance is ever discovered, then I may well be back doing this in the near future....) to hire some of the funniest script writers around. Those valiant (and, it must be said, chronically unfunny) chaps who were desperate enough to forsake conventional cash payments to work on the basis of being repaid for their efforts purely in sexual favours administered on a weekly basis by a slightly fading erotic author and occasional televison news panelist smeared in alcocohol (literally alcohol and coco) and baby oil, did their best. But sadly the quality of the blog still has not shifted an inch from its nadir of awfulness. Consequently, being too damn wealthy to give much of a hootenanny either way, it is with some small regret that I have now decided to end this pitiful sham once and for always.
There are some of you out there who have transcended the primeval stew of jealousy and cliquishness that makes up the world of internet weblogging, the prevalence of which has mischievously barred my way to the top of the ladder of light entertainment success. I know who you are. You know who you are. We all know who each other are?...is? So there seems little point in churning out a litany of thanks and we will cut out the backslapping and the tearfilled valedictions. But neither will there not be no recriminations either against those who have thwarted me. I can forgive the selfish, jealous hacks who have conspired against me and chosen to bathe smugly (note avoidance of split infinitive, indicative of classy non-hackness) in their own mediocrity rather than embrace and admire the true original, the la vida loca himself. Yes, they will not hear any carping from me. I can rise above the pettiness of those who prefer the safe and familiar to the bold world of comedy which we here at Swipe Towers have striven to present to the world - we may not always have reached them, but we were always aiming at the stars!!!!!!....
Fear not, such small minded pygmies will not linger long in my thoughts as I plot my next move, attempting to raise the bar still further from the dizzying elevation we have achieved here in such a small space of time. For now, all I will say is this:
I'll get you you bastards - you'll be sorry you ever crossed me. I'd rip my own daughter's throat out rather than let this despicable betrayal go unavenged. Well, if I had a daughter I would. I have a memory like an elephant, you know - and faeces to match - and I'll hunt each one of you down and by the time I've finished with you, you'll......WHY-YI-YOUGHDDA!!!!
So, here we are - at last, the end of the road. Seriously, thanks to those of you who occasionally turned up and had a mooch around before moving on to other, funnier, more original and witty sites (you bastards.....). You can now move on once and for all, safe in the knowledge that you have gleaned all there was to glean here. I know I shan't be missed and I'm sure there will be a step in the stride of all those visitors to the Grauniad Ulnitimed news blogs who will no longer have to put up with my puerile, attention seeking remarks. Have fun sorting out the problems of the world....you should be able to sort it all out the quicker for my absence, I'm sure.
Now, it's really time I should be getting away. No, really, I'll be alright - don't mind me, it's just something in my eye - no, honestly, it's nothing....I've got some Optrex in the car. Or maybe it's Windolene? It should get it out, whatever it is - probably taking half my cornea with it - but don't worry, I won't really be needing my eyesight much in the future now this is all over. What will I do next? Dunno - "what have you got?" Most likely I'll head out on the Rothergavenny bypass and see where it takes me. New friends, new thrills, new spills - you know. "Life in the old dog yet". Yeah, I'll be fine - don't spare me a thought, you go on and get on with your own lives and don't trouble your heads about an old fool like me. I'll be alright pottering along on my own....
Bye now.....
Take care....
Love on y'all,
Bob
p.s. I've got about 40 bound copies of the Best of The Swipe Show if anyone's interested.....I won't have any use for them.....let me know.....
.....they're free.......
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
There comes a time in the affairs of men - and no doubt in those of highly disturbed individuals with Drambuie-based body rub and stocking fetishes too - when they have to look destiny square in the jaw, run a quick mental risk assessment and come to the painful conclusion that, with tearfilled eyes and weary heart, they must bow to the inevitable and accept that the end of the road has unmistakably been reached. Such a time has now come to pass in the affairs of this man (.....or rather of this individual with a Drambuie-based body rub and stocking fetish, if you want to be pedantic about it.....) As such, I'd really like to take this opportunity to thank all my loyal readers out there in cyberspace and to tell you both what fun I've had over the last 18 months posting up the inane gibberish and pathetic gallery of lewd leg shots and lingerie catalogue outcuts that have characterised The Robert Swipe Show and made it one of the most widely reviled and happily ignored excresences to blight the face of the world wide inter web today.
As I said, I'd like to tell you what fun I've had but unfortunately, I can't do that. Actually, if I'm totally honest, it's been absolute hell - every moment has been positively hateful. In fact, if I was asked to make a comparison that would give you some idea of what I've had to endure to get this thing posted up every day, it would be this: I'd have to say it's been akin to having to endure a hugely embarrassing physical impediment - such as a pronounced hump or a degree of spasticity guaranteed to induce a smirk from even the most politicaly correct and priggish - in a playground full of bullying oiks. And that's on a good day. At its worst, when it's really bad, imagine someone undoing one of your callipers and throwing it up onto the roof of big school so you have to hobble up to the playground attendant so she can make a big song and dance about calling the caretaker and how no one's going anywhere until we find out who's responsible for hurling little Robbie Raspberry's false leg up on the chimney - "look at the poor, helpless little cripple, he's DEE-YEVA-STEE-YATED" (she's a Geordie, you see) - and you have to hop around feeling the hateful eyes of the whole school burning into the back of your polyester jumper while they drag Mrs. Trethwilliams out of the local pub so she can risk life and limb up a flimsy ladder drunkenly retrieving your calliper, three tennis balls and a sodden copy of Escort magazine Emrys Thomas threw up there moments earlier when he heard the Headmaster coming towards him round the corner. That gives you some idea, I hope, of the ignominy of it all. As a result, I have barely been able to breathe for the last 6 weeks as the pressure of posting has mounted and the abjection I have felt with every new joyless post, each one unfunnier than its predecessor, has led to the same reaction from the public at large - unenthused at best, but more usually just plain hostile.
The almost comically poor reception given them has become evidence to me that the days of this once thriving blog are now terminally numbered. And all this despite using my recently acquired fortune (...the less said about how I came to be a Turkish lire millionaire(ss) the better - suffice to say if the link between my highly flammable Cliff Thorburn face masks, Archie the Sniper Daschund and the deaths of the 17 people ahead of me in line for the Istanbul lottery hedgefund inheritance is ever discovered, then I may well be back doing this in the near future....) to hire some of the funniest script writers around. Those valiant (and, it must be said, chronically unfunny) chaps who were desperate enough to forsake conventional cash payments to work on the basis of being repaid for their efforts purely in sexual favours administered on a weekly basis by a slightly fading erotic author and occasional televison news panelist smeared in alcocohol (literally alcohol and coco) and baby oil, did their best. But sadly the quality of the blog still has not shifted an inch from its nadir of awfulness. Consequently, being too damn wealthy to give much of a hootenanny either way, it is with some small regret that I have now decided to end this pitiful sham once and for always.
There are some of you out there who have transcended the primeval stew of jealousy and cliquishness that makes up the world of internet weblogging, the prevalence of which has mischievously barred my way to the top of the ladder of light entertainment success. I know who you are. You know who you are. We all know who each other are?...is? So there seems little point in churning out a litany of thanks and we will cut out the backslapping and the tearfilled valedictions. But neither will there not be no recriminations either against those who have thwarted me. I can forgive the selfish, jealous hacks who have conspired against me and chosen to bathe smugly (note avoidance of split infinitive, indicative of classy non-hackness) in their own mediocrity rather than embrace and admire the true original, the la vida loca himself. Yes, they will not hear any carping from me. I can rise above the pettiness of those who prefer the safe and familiar to the bold world of comedy which we here at Swipe Towers have striven to present to the world - we may not always have reached them, but we were always aiming at the stars!!!!!!....
Fear not, such small minded pygmies will not linger long in my thoughts as I plot my next move, attempting to raise the bar still further from the dizzying elevation we have achieved here in such a small space of time. For now, all I will say is this:
I'll get you you bastards - you'll be sorry you ever crossed me. I'd rip my own daughter's throat out rather than let this despicable betrayal go unavenged. Well, if I had a daughter I would. I have a memory like an elephant, you know - and faeces to match - and I'll hunt each one of you down and by the time I've finished with you, you'll......WHY-YI-YOUGHDDA!!!!
So, here we are - at last, the end of the road. Seriously, thanks to those of you who occasionally turned up and had a mooch around before moving on to other, funnier, more original and witty sites (you bastards.....). You can now move on once and for all, safe in the knowledge that you have gleaned all there was to glean here. I know I shan't be missed and I'm sure there will be a step in the stride of all those visitors to the Grauniad Ulnitimed news blogs who will no longer have to put up with my puerile, attention seeking remarks. Have fun sorting out the problems of the world....you should be able to sort it all out the quicker for my absence, I'm sure.
Now, it's really time I should be getting away. No, really, I'll be alright - don't mind me, it's just something in my eye - no, honestly, it's nothing....I've got some Optrex in the car. Or maybe it's Windolene? It should get it out, whatever it is - probably taking half my cornea with it - but don't worry, I won't really be needing my eyesight much in the future now this is all over. What will I do next? Dunno - "what have you got?" Most likely I'll head out on the Rothergavenny bypass and see where it takes me. New friends, new thrills, new spills - you know. "Life in the old dog yet". Yeah, I'll be fine - don't spare me a thought, you go on and get on with your own lives and don't trouble your heads about an old fool like me. I'll be alright pottering along on my own....
Bye now.....
Take care....
Love on y'all,
Bob
p.s. I've got about 40 bound copies of the Best of The Swipe Show if anyone's interested.....I won't have any use for them.....let me know.....
.....they're free.......
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Bruce and Edwards Wow West End with Bold New Cockney Knees Up/Welsh Language Spectacular!!!
Yowser Yowser Yowser Swipesters!!
Exciting news just in from our uber hot theatre critic Cherry Orchard - take it away Cherry!:
Thanks Bob,
Anyone who's been within an inch of London's Theatreland in the last few weeks will have heard the buzz that's spreading around the capital concerning a riotous new production currently taking the West End by Storm. The show stars the unlikely combination of BBC newsreaders Fiona "the" Bruce and "Doctor" Huw Edwards.
The duo have been wowing audiences every night for the past two weeks at the packed out Almeida Theatre with their innovative interpretations of songs popularized by the cockney knees-up specialists Chas and Dave. Edwards formidable piano vamping provides the perfect foil for Bruce's shrill and often incomprehensible Brechtian wailing on numbers such as Cwningen Cwingen Cwingen, Cwningen y Ambwlans am Ysbitl, Peint y Glewder Dyrectors os gwelwch yn dda (y un um Cwningen..) and Ceilliau at Tottingham Hotspurs(Click here for translations
A delighted Edwards spoke of his pride at being able to bring whole swathes of unintelligible (and frequently out of tune) Welsh language singing to a mainly English audience primed for a light evening of chirpy, knockabout Eastend parlour music. "Serves you right, you English bastards. You come over here, dispossess our grandparents so you can buy your second homes, steal all our coal and water...."
More Rarebit than Sainsburys is on at the Almeida Theatre until early September...
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Exciting news just in from our uber hot theatre critic Cherry Orchard - take it away Cherry!:
Thanks Bob,
Anyone who's been within an inch of London's Theatreland in the last few weeks will have heard the buzz that's spreading around the capital concerning a riotous new production currently taking the West End by Storm. The show stars the unlikely combination of BBC newsreaders Fiona "the" Bruce and "Doctor" Huw Edwards.
The duo have been wowing audiences every night for the past two weeks at the packed out Almeida Theatre with their innovative interpretations of songs popularized by the cockney knees-up specialists Chas and Dave. Edwards formidable piano vamping provides the perfect foil for Bruce's shrill and often incomprehensible Brechtian wailing on numbers such as Cwningen Cwingen Cwingen, Cwningen y Ambwlans am Ysbitl, Peint y Glewder Dyrectors os gwelwch yn dda (y un um Cwningen..) and Ceilliau at Tottingham Hotspurs(Click here for translations
A delighted Edwards spoke of his pride at being able to bring whole swathes of unintelligible (and frequently out of tune) Welsh language singing to a mainly English audience primed for a light evening of chirpy, knockabout Eastend parlour music. "Serves you right, you English bastards. You come over here, dispossess our grandparents so you can buy your second homes, steal all our coal and water...."
More Rarebit than Sainsburys is on at the Almeida Theatre until early September...
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Wednesday, 31 May 2006
Deeley....
........or.........
.........
........NO Deeley???
The choice is yours.....
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Scott Walker's Indispensable Guide to FIFA World Cup 2006!!
Yo Swipesters,
That's right - what a scoop! We've lined up former 60s pop idol Scott Walker, currently enjoying a fresh spell in the hit parade with his groovy new LP The Drift, to bring you all the news, action and analysis in the run up to and during this summer's footballfest in Deutschland. Scott will bring his unique insights to bear on all the main talking points of England's World Cup campaign. Should Sven persist with the 4-1-4-1 system? Is Rooney going to play a part in the proceedings at any point? Can England win the World Cup with a Spurs player in goal? Tune in over the next few weeks and Scott will be here with all the answers and much, much more...
To start our series, Scott will be analysing the statistics from last night's friendly against Hungary. Take it away Scott!
Hi, I'm Scott Walker and this is my view of last night's England v. Hungary world cup warm up game played at Old Trafford.
England seemed to take a while to settle into their new 4-1-4-1 formation with Michael Owen looking off the pace and Steven Gerrard seeming particularly uncomfortable in his new role as a split striker playing 'in the hole'. However, a stern teamtalk from England's wily Swedish coach saw a second half transformation with Gerrard scoring with a well-placed header from a well worked set-piece routine delivered by captain David Beckham. A similarly well executed delivery saw centre back John Terry double the advantage with a bravely taken header, his first goal for his country. However, slack defending by substitute Owen Hargreaves, on for the impressive Jamie Carragher saw Hungary pull one back with a well taken snap shot from this is how you disappear, foot knee shaggy belly famous hind legs shutting down here, shutting down here...Copenhagen you're the end, gone and made me a child again....In the Port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who drinks...
Scott's tactics board:
England's set piece routines proved to be the difference between the two sides:
Scott says: "Hungary fail to marshall their defence as Gerrard, coming from deep, gets on the end of a cross from Plastic Palace Alice - she steals her cards tomorrow deals with deafening despair. ONE-NIL!"
Come on England!!
Scott
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Tuesday, 30 May 2006
Larkin Around!!!
Another fun-filled half hour with Britain's finest madcap Poet.
Raining again.....
Shitty weather. Not fit for bloody animals. More strikes. Don't know why we bother. And I ripped my trouser leg with a bicycle clip in that stupid bloody churchyard. Bloody pissflaps to it all.
Came home to find that bloody Tara Fitzgerald sprawled out on the bed in her naughty knickers again.
After a shag, as per. Bloody women. Oh, it's alright at the time. But then there's the bit after it - that's what I can't stand. The humiliation. The sense of shame. The tawdriness. The vague feeling that one has been slightly soiled as hopeful expectations are dashed on the cruel rocks of bitter experience. Still, if she will force me to wear her bloody negligee while I'm on the job, what does she expect?
Finally got rid of her with a promise to dedicate my next slender volume to her. "To Tara - thanks for the good pokeing. You went like the clapers - P.L.", she dictates. She might be a wizard in the sack but she can't spell for bloody toffee. Eventually I get to sit down with a nice cup of Rosie only for the bloody racket to start up next door. San-bloody-tana - 'Samba pa ti'! Bloody foreigners. Why can't they play a nice bit of trad. for a change??
Sod the lot of yer!
Phil.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Friday, 26 May 2006
Tanya Beckett and Sophie Raworth Are STILL Waiting for Godot..........
TB: .....here, Soph. Seriously, do you think England can win the World Cup this time?
SR: Nah.
TB: What makes you say that?
SR: ...Too many centre halves, too many midfielders and not enough strikers, Tans.
TB: What about Michael Owen?
SR: Well, a fit Michael Owen and I might give them a prayer, but he's hardly kicked a ball in anger this year. There's no Rooney and with Sven preferring the impossibly young Theo Walcott to Jermaine Defoe and lolloping clothes horse of a striker Peter Crouch expected to partner the diminutive star of France '98 up front....it doesn't exactly inspire confidence now, does it?
TB: .....but look at the players who ARE fit - Lamps, Becks, Stevie G., Ash, Tezzer, Rio - it's a formidable squad you have to admit Soph....
SR: Look Tans, you can have the best players in the world, but if the manager's about as adventurous as a timid librarian on a crash course in dithering, then they might as well book the first plane home. And McLaren's just as bad.
TB: ....OK, OK, I know they didn't get a kick even against 10 man Brazil when they went out last time and he's not exactly Malcolm Alison in the sartorial stakes, but you have to admit he's been bold enough to play Rooney from the start and he's prepared to take a gamble on Walcott. Maybe this time things'll be different....
SR: Yes, and maybe Huw Edwards will pay off my Barclaycard,whisk me off to Bermuda, lick champagne off my quivering limbs before delivering me to heaven in a 12 hour marathon of oral dexterity...
TB: Well, miracles do happen Soph....Desiree, surely you've got something positive to say about our boys' chances in Germany this summer...
Desiree: No way, Hosannah. I'm with Blondie. The manager's not up to it and they'll fold as soon as they come up against a good side in the knockouts. Quarters at best...
TB: Thanks for nothing, D.
SR: Now, let's have no more of this football nonsense Tans - look, you've even pinged your 'lastic again. Those hold-ups'll be round your ankles in no time..
TB: Oh Pee!
SR: Come on young ladies - let's get back to our flower arranging and leave the lads to worry about that silly game.
TB: Ah Soph, you're so right. I really don't know why I let it get to me so much. I mean, it's not as if I particularly LIKE football. It's just so boring sitting here all day, filled with existential ennui waiting for Godot......who never bloody well comes. I suppose you're right - let's practice on these.
SR: Oh Tans, they're lovely! Where did you get them?
TB: Sally Army again. They never learn - just whipped 'em while I was pretending to solicit the Sergeant Major! He's probably still lying in that alleyway where I left him, blindfolded and waiting for someone to take the Cornetto out...
SR: Thanks Tans - I'll go stick them in some water. Honestly, this Godot - what's he like??? Oh well, suppose I'd better stick the kettle on......minty choc drinks all round girls??
ALL: Mmmm hmmmm!!
Love on ya'll,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Wednesday, 24 May 2006
The Ever-popular "Bands Made up of People With the Same Name as the Real Band Members But Who Would Never Really Be in a Band" Game.....
This week:
THE RAMONES.....
Johnny......
....Tommy.....
....Joey.....
....Dee.....
....Dee.
...and as a special treat for all you Human League fans out there.....
.....Norman!! (For all you young whippersnappers out there, Norm's the one on the left in the sailor suit....)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
THE RAMONES.....
Johnny......
....Tommy.....
....Joey.....
....Dee.....
....Dee.
...and as a special treat for all you Human League fans out there.....
.....Norman!! (For all you young whippersnappers out there, Norm's the one on the left in the sailor suit....)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
The Surrealist Country Music Hall of Fame...
Kenny Rogers!!!!!!....
....and Dolly Parton!!!!!!!!!!...
....sing!!!!!!!....
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS!
"....Combine harvester Ivanhoe rectum Gandolph pyjamarama lip suede coriander velcro spin Jedediah lymph gland septuagesema resus chair bland watermelon wrist strap concubine flea market don't believe the hype Rumpole genocide Freeman Hardy & Willis spoon Garribaldi pancake cypher ammonia Beijing State Circus contrapuntal nemesis Bjorn Borg nipple clamp artificial insemination haemoglobin tintinabulation left bank save it for later cornflake Rameses III Ikea artichoke dolphin plectrum face-pack gibbon Rin Tin Tin if I ruled the world bloater fish sandwich Harry Worth menstrual Fontainebleu Carrie doesn't live here anymore plinth....."
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
....and Dolly Parton!!!!!!!!!!...
....sing!!!!!!!....
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS!
"....Combine harvester Ivanhoe rectum Gandolph pyjamarama lip suede coriander velcro spin Jedediah lymph gland septuagesema resus chair bland watermelon wrist strap concubine flea market don't believe the hype Rumpole genocide Freeman Hardy & Willis spoon Garribaldi pancake cypher ammonia Beijing State Circus contrapuntal nemesis Bjorn Borg nipple clamp artificial insemination haemoglobin tintinabulation left bank save it for later cornflake Rameses III Ikea artichoke dolphin plectrum face-pack gibbon Rin Tin Tin if I ruled the world bloater fish sandwich Harry Worth menstrual Fontainebleu Carrie doesn't live here anymore plinth....."
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Tuesday, 23 May 2006
The Ever-popular "Bands Made up of People With the Same Surname as the Real Band Members But Who Would Never Really Be in a Band" Game.....
This week.....
THE SMITHS:
Morrissey - voice....
Marr - guitars, pianos, harmonica....
Rourke - the bass guitar....
Joyce - the drums.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
THE SMITHS:
Morrissey - voice....
Marr - guitars, pianos, harmonica....
Rourke - the bass guitar....
Joyce - the drums.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Doctors Agree to Talk to Patients as War Against Complementary Medicine Hots Up...
Wooooaaah Swipesters!!!
Hot news is filtering in from our Health correspondent that Doctors are getting serious in the battle against 'cranky' new-age therapies as the surgical gloves come off in the war against New Age Medicine. Speaking from a urine soaked trolley in a crumbling brand new PFI funded hospital, our undercover reporter Condoleeza Salinedrip
filed this shocking expose:
It's a sad and depressing sight. Doris Hinkelman has lived with an arthritic hip for the last 15 years. The plucky 78 year old from Billericay is stoical as her GP, suave in his black roll neck sweater and medallion under a sharp Gucci suit puts her under. It will only be 5 minutes before she emerges, at the click of his fingers, from the deep trance Dr. McKenna has lulled her into. During this submersion, Mckenna will murmur his primeval incantations such as, "there's nothing wrong with your hip, you daft old biddy" and "just be thankful you don't live in Lesotho - you'd have been ground down to cattle feed by now. Now stop moaning and get on with your life or I'll have your pension book off you and report you to the Social Services for being a senile old racist." And with that, Doris puts her clothes back on and hobbles through the crowd that has formed around her in the reception area, reassured, if not completely cured. Paul Mckenna retires to his surgery, a quarter of a million pounds to the good. These are the winners and losers in the New Labour health lottery.
This is just one example of the alarming ways in which 'complementary' medicine has been draining the coffers cash-strapped void at the heart of the NHS. Things have got so bad that proper Doctors are being given emergency training in talking to their parents as if they were actually human beings in attempt to cling on to their 'clients', for fear of losing valuable customers for their expensive array of prescription drugs. Some have even enrolled in calligraphy courses. The drift away from conventional multi-national drug corporation-sponsored medicine is most alarming in the poorest communities. Here shiny new hospitals built from the flimsiest materials by companies with profits built into their contract are leased back to the community once completed in the hope of preventing the tide of disillusioned patients from visiting the local Holland & Barrett in pursuit of a quicker and more efficacious treatment. But these extreme measures still appear not to be enough. Some patients have even taken to giving up their routine of binge drinking and chainsmoking. Some have even gone so far as to occasionally consume fruit or vegetables in their attempts to avoid the clutches of qualified Healthcare Professionals.
But what can be done? I asked one GP if he could see a day when his surgery would be emptied completely, his patients lured away by the charms of the scantily-clad reflexologist or the Traditional Chinese Herbalist and his exotic Tiger's penis broth Lumbago cure. "Fuckin' hope so. I hate the smelly bastards", was his bitter reply.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Hot news is filtering in from our Health correspondent that Doctors are getting serious in the battle against 'cranky' new-age therapies as the surgical gloves come off in the war against New Age Medicine. Speaking from a urine soaked trolley in a crumbling brand new PFI funded hospital, our undercover reporter Condoleeza Salinedrip
filed this shocking expose:
It's a sad and depressing sight. Doris Hinkelman has lived with an arthritic hip for the last 15 years. The plucky 78 year old from Billericay is stoical as her GP, suave in his black roll neck sweater and medallion under a sharp Gucci suit puts her under. It will only be 5 minutes before she emerges, at the click of his fingers, from the deep trance Dr. McKenna has lulled her into. During this submersion, Mckenna will murmur his primeval incantations such as, "there's nothing wrong with your hip, you daft old biddy" and "just be thankful you don't live in Lesotho - you'd have been ground down to cattle feed by now. Now stop moaning and get on with your life or I'll have your pension book off you and report you to the Social Services for being a senile old racist." And with that, Doris puts her clothes back on and hobbles through the crowd that has formed around her in the reception area, reassured, if not completely cured. Paul Mckenna retires to his surgery, a quarter of a million pounds to the good. These are the winners and losers in the New Labour health lottery.
This is just one example of the alarming ways in which 'complementary' medicine has been draining the coffers cash-strapped void at the heart of the NHS. Things have got so bad that proper Doctors are being given emergency training in talking to their parents as if they were actually human beings in attempt to cling on to their 'clients', for fear of losing valuable customers for their expensive array of prescription drugs. Some have even enrolled in calligraphy courses. The drift away from conventional multi-national drug corporation-sponsored medicine is most alarming in the poorest communities. Here shiny new hospitals built from the flimsiest materials by companies with profits built into their contract are leased back to the community once completed in the hope of preventing the tide of disillusioned patients from visiting the local Holland & Barrett in pursuit of a quicker and more efficacious treatment. But these extreme measures still appear not to be enough. Some patients have even taken to giving up their routine of binge drinking and chainsmoking. Some have even gone so far as to occasionally consume fruit or vegetables in their attempts to avoid the clutches of qualified Healthcare Professionals.
But what can be done? I asked one GP if he could see a day when his surgery would be emptied completely, his patients lured away by the charms of the scantily-clad reflexologist or the Traditional Chinese Herbalist and his exotic Tiger's penis broth Lumbago cure. "Fuckin' hope so. I hate the smelly bastards", was his bitter reply.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Monday, 22 May 2006
Bono Pledges Own Arse to Aid Famine Relief.
Yo Swipesters!!
Great news for the poor and unremittingly tearful children of Africa!
Bono with African tribesman during the infamous Zoo TV tour.
Pop legend and renowned Irish ironist,
"Thou shalt not kill is a command, not a request....ain't that right George?....)
Bono, distraught at his failure to persuade the House of Representatives not to cut President Bush's projected $3 billion increase to HIV/AIDS aid in Africa (they voted for a $2.5 billion cut in the budget), the highly credible and influential (well, Keane have obviously listened to him) singer has come up with his own plan for the ill-starred country. Stung by critics who suggest that his cosying up to greed-driven billionaires in the hope of achieving a slight amelioration of Africa's woes, Bono has offered to put his own backside on the table in future aid budget negotiations. The hope is that it will feed a significant portion of the vast country's starving population and thus enable existing food aid budgets to make up the shortfall in retro-virus drug expenditure. "If they can have a good tuck into the old gluteous maximus for a few weeks, then hopefully we'll be able to flog a few million bags of the surplus corn back to the yanks and maybe scrape up a few bob to trade with the multinational drug corporations and really get something done about HIV/AIDS in Africa. Obviously, the old mud flaps are a fairly bountiful supply and should keep several thousand villages alive for three to four weeks in the hope that by that time we can get Stephen Fry over. But they won't last forever and the sooner we can get these people to be self-reliant, the better."
The singer has also criticised local superstitions and the failure of education to stop the spread of the disease. "Some of these witch doctor fellas are a bit barmy, wouldn't you say? They think that by putting a lion's paw on someone's exposed liver they can get the evil HIV demons to go away and all sorts of nonsense like that. It's hard enough for us without having to contend with all these medieval old wives tales. I mean, Jesus, Joseph and Mary and all the blessed saints - why can't they just shove a muffler on the old boner and save us all a heap of trouble..."
The ambitious plan has been criticised from some quarters - most notably the Vegetarian Society. Stephen Fry was unavailable for comment.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Great news for the poor and unremittingly tearful children of Africa!
Bono with African tribesman during the infamous Zoo TV tour.
Pop legend and renowned Irish ironist,
"Thou shalt not kill is a command, not a request....ain't that right George?....)
Bono, distraught at his failure to persuade the House of Representatives not to cut President Bush's projected $3 billion increase to HIV/AIDS aid in Africa (they voted for a $2.5 billion cut in the budget), the highly credible and influential (well, Keane have obviously listened to him) singer has come up with his own plan for the ill-starred country. Stung by critics who suggest that his cosying up to greed-driven billionaires in the hope of achieving a slight amelioration of Africa's woes, Bono has offered to put his own backside on the table in future aid budget negotiations. The hope is that it will feed a significant portion of the vast country's starving population and thus enable existing food aid budgets to make up the shortfall in retro-virus drug expenditure. "If they can have a good tuck into the old gluteous maximus for a few weeks, then hopefully we'll be able to flog a few million bags of the surplus corn back to the yanks and maybe scrape up a few bob to trade with the multinational drug corporations and really get something done about HIV/AIDS in Africa. Obviously, the old mud flaps are a fairly bountiful supply and should keep several thousand villages alive for three to four weeks in the hope that by that time we can get Stephen Fry over. But they won't last forever and the sooner we can get these people to be self-reliant, the better."
The singer has also criticised local superstitions and the failure of education to stop the spread of the disease. "Some of these witch doctor fellas are a bit barmy, wouldn't you say? They think that by putting a lion's paw on someone's exposed liver they can get the evil HIV demons to go away and all sorts of nonsense like that. It's hard enough for us without having to contend with all these medieval old wives tales. I mean, Jesus, Joseph and Mary and all the blessed saints - why can't they just shove a muffler on the old boner and save us all a heap of trouble..."
The ambitious plan has been criticised from some quarters - most notably the Vegetarian Society. Stephen Fry was unavailable for comment.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
The BBC Presents......
The one to watch....
An ordinary high street in Cardiff....
...Quiet, insular, populated by Welsh people. Just another average day in the principality....but wait....what's this???
....and this????
...and this and this and this...??????
Only one man can save Wales from the the evil, twisted mastermind
bent on securing world domination for his heartless breed....
A strange whooshing noise ushers in a familiar sight......
Yes, this is a job for.....
Doctor Huw!!!!!
.......and his lovable dog of a companion.........
K9!!!
Love on y'all,
Bob
(p.s. grateful thanks to Ma Swipe for the inspiration. She's the funny one!!)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
An ordinary high street in Cardiff....
...Quiet, insular, populated by Welsh people. Just another average day in the principality....but wait....what's this???
....and this????
...and this and this and this...??????
Only one man can save Wales from the the evil, twisted mastermind
bent on securing world domination for his heartless breed....
A strange whooshing noise ushers in a familiar sight......
Yes, this is a job for.....
Doctor Huw!!!!!
.......and his lovable dog of a companion.........
K9!!!
Love on y'all,
Bob
(p.s. grateful thanks to Ma Swipe for the inspiration. She's the funny one!!)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Friday, 19 May 2006
The Professor.
Every week, Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger OBE deconstructs a famous text or philosophical treatise. This week, Samuel Beckett's play, Endgame....
Widely regarded as Samuel Beckett's finest and funniest play, Endgame was famously produced on the stage here in London starring Michael Gambon, Lee Evans, Liz Smith and Geoffrey Hutchings.
The world is coming to an end. Beckett's 1957 dark comedy finds the blind, bullying Hamm (Gambon) and his shambling, idiotic servant Clov (Evans) trapped in a strange room. Along with Nagg (Hutchings) and Nell (Smith) - Hamm's parents who live in a pair of dustbins - the 'Servant' and his 'Master' pass the time toying with the hopelessness of the situation, all along sensing the inevitability of their end. I felt we started brightly, although with the pressure of the big game, I feel perhaps Nagg and Nell were a little bit cagey, offensively and the sending off changed the game completely. We seemed to tire a little bit in the final third, the extra man began to tell - but that is football. Obviously, we showed tremendous character after the sending off and, I would say, if Nell had not been hampered by the dustbin, she may have been a little bit harder to beat at the near post. We go back to Colney and we will work at it - I feel the quality is there to do well in this team. And if we can get Henry out of the dustbin, next year? Who knows....
Love on ya Gooners everywhere,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Monday, 8 May 2006
Billie Piper at the Gates of Dawn....
".....I friggin' hate these early starts....."
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Wednesday, 3 May 2006
The Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page Page!!!
That's right Swipesters!!
After the overwhelming success of the Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page,
we were so inundated with comments that we just HAD to give our besotted readers a Betty Page Page Page of their own!
Here's what our readers of the Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page have been saying:
"Wow, like, the broad has , like some good tits. I wouldn't throw her out of the saddle for all the barley in Nantucket" Steeple Randersthorn, Wyoming.
"Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck...dang it, ma sta-presstz!" Wilbur Curmudgeon, Utah.
"Hey dollface, you using them legs or can I practice on 'em for a while. You will KNOT forget me in a hurry!!" Pleebus Condoleezacunt IV, World & European Knot Champion, level III, 1973-1986.
"Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck....WILMA!!!!!!!!!!" Spittoonald Cankerrabbitmittenwalader, North Carolina.
That's just a small sample of some of the incomprehensible obcsenity we've received from you over the last 24 hours.
Keep 'em comin'!!!!!
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
After the overwhelming success of the Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page,
we were so inundated with comments that we just HAD to give our besotted readers a Betty Page Page Page of their own!
Here's what our readers of the Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page have been saying:
"Wow, like, the broad has , like some good tits. I wouldn't throw her out of the saddle for all the barley in Nantucket" Steeple Randersthorn, Wyoming.
"Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck...dang it, ma sta-presstz!" Wilbur Curmudgeon, Utah.
"Hey dollface, you using them legs or can I practice on 'em for a while. You will KNOT forget me in a hurry!!" Pleebus Condoleezacunt IV, World & European Knot Champion, level III, 1973-1986.
"Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck....WILMA!!!!!!!!!!" Spittoonald Cankerrabbitmittenwalader, North Carolina.
That's just a small sample of some of the incomprehensible obcsenity we've received from you over the last 24 hours.
Keep 'em comin'!!!!!
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
The Brand Spanking New Betty Page Page!!
That's right Swipesters!!
A whole page given over to the adorable Grand Mistress of all Pin-up Models - Miss Betty Page!!
Isn't she a belter?!?!?!
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
A whole page given over to the adorable Grand Mistress of all Pin-up Models - Miss Betty Page!!
Isn't she a belter?!?!?!
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
Prunella Frock's World of Fashion
Hi, I'm Pru Frock.
And you may find yourself
Living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself
In another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may ask yourself...
....How in Dang Nation am I gonna get my ass out of this Dang tyre without the whole God dang world spying my flaps????? (I knew I should've worn jeans...)
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
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