» Voyeurism

Recently
I saw a fat, hairy, odd-looking man wanking whilst watching me when I was naked in the bathroom.
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Oh, it was a mirror.
(Thu 11th Oct 2007, 20:43, More)

» Mobile phone disasters

Apologies if it's ever been you.
When we were kids, me and some chums used to pick a random number out of the phone book and call it. When answered we would begin a casual yet rather silly conversation pretending we had mis-dialled a friend. Our most popular character, pre-dating Bruno by 20 or so years, would be to adopt a thick, camp Austrian/German accent...

*ringing*

Voice of randomly chosen number: "Hello"

One of us: "Hello Franz, eet ees Gunther. Mary said vu vould like to meet up to admire my weighty poppenschniel" (Or some other appropriately cheeky sounding word)

"Er... I think you have the wrong num..."

"Oh Franz, don't be a silly. Ve both know where this ees heading. My vieselcleft is hungry for vue"

*click*

This became even more entertaining when we discovered booze.


Two decades later, in our mid thirties, me an one mate in particualr still do this, but instead of calling people, it's texting. We normally take an existing contact and swap two or three numbers around. More likely to be a real number that way.
What we've found best is to just send a text that is mildly surreal yet almost plausible.

Recent examples include:

'I missed the ferry! Will the porcupines escape without guidance on the boat?"

'It was like a corned beef fritter dropped on a barbers shop floor!!!'

'Your experiments go against the laws of man and God! Stop it. Now!'

'Penguin! Penguin! Penguin!'

'Lionel has tits now'


And so on. You get the idea.


Give it a go, it's great fun when you get a reply. Most are just 'U got wrng numbr. lol', but some are almost as funny to recieve. Our best one, in reply to the the above 'Penguins!..' was:

'Piss off, Terry.'

Off topic? Probably. If it helps, I've also dropped my phone down the shitter.

Ta.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 14:26, More)

» Blood

But I can explain, honest.
I've never grown out of my childhood love of horror films, and while excessive gore for gore's sake without decent plot behind it is boring, a bit of the ol' claret is kinda inherent to the genre.

I made my first zero budget effort at nine years old. 'Wolf Streak'. A classic of the werewolf sub-genre which blended the mundane realism of early Shane Meadows work with a powerful methaphorical statement on pre-pubescent angst and alienation. The special effects bought to mind Tom Savini's finest work.

Actually, it was me with cotton wool on my face unconvincingly killing two chums. The severed arms were my mum's neon-pink marigold gloves stuffed with newspaper and the transformation scene, a classic piece of stop motion photography, which was only slightly spoiled by the sound of the cameraman, my dad, laughing at his moomin of a son.

Real Son Of Rambow stuff.

24 years later, the films haven't improved much. A couple of 'em are on YouTube if you can be arsed to look.

Skip joyously forward to 2006. A chum of mine was in a pretty good heavy metal band and wanted to make a video to one of their songs. Being a fellow horror nut, he wanted something of a Hostel *sigh* vibe to it. Scenes of grim, graphic torture spliced with images of them performing live. Fair enough, that's what he wanted and I'm willing to film any old cock for a laugh.

My flat was the location. I knocked up a quick set using whatever I could. I played the victim, him the torturer. The benefit was that it was the start, Saturday, of my week off where I had to do a lot of work on the place for it to go on the market to be sold. Repainting, new carpet and a few other things.

We filmed it, using the hallway and my bedroom. To make the place suitably grim looking I hang a few chains on the wall, splashed lots of fake blood and drawings on the wall which were a combination of weird, made up runic script and pub toilet like obscenities, genetalia, swears etc.

The filming went well, in the sense of one fat guy pretending to torture and kill another.

As everything, decoration wise, was being strpped out and replaced/painted I didn't really bother with much of a clean up.

So, Monday came around and I was woken up early by the entry buzzer. It was the guy from the carpet shop come round to measure up for Wednesday's fitting. Bleary eyed, I let him in and confirmed a few details. He was a pleasant chap. One of those fellas in their late fiftys, doing the easy carpet job until the pension plans kick in properly. Thick of sideburn and a cheery face that suggested an appreciation of cricket and real ale. Like your dad's best mate who you always enjoyed visiting. I almost expected him to pull a pound coin from behind my ear.

Anyway, I left him to it as I went for a piss, clean my teeth and whatnot. I could hear him whistling happily in the front room, then into the spare bedroom, still whistling, then into my room.

The whistling stopped.

I noticed this and thought "Why has he gone silent?.."



Oh

Fuck



The bedroom was still covered in fake blood, ripped, 'bloodstained' sheets and clothing, chains, hacksaws, irons, crowbars. Walls with pictures of odd occult symbols, tits, cocks and fannys and things like 'die c***!' written on the wall.

His silence was matched by my stillness. I kept thinking, if you didn't know I make really shite horror films for the amusement of myself and my friends, you could probably wander into that room and think something odd had happened.

I came out of the bathroom ready to make my excuses, he came out of the bedroom, still silent, at opposite end of the hallway our gaze met.

The whistling resumed and he cheerily wrote me out the quote for fourty square yards of carpet and said that the chaps would be round on Wednesday to fit it.

He might not of seen anything?

He left and I decided it was a good time to start painting.

I spent the reast of that week a little worried my door would be kicked down at any moment by the murder police.

The vid's online somewhere.

Length and stuff.

Ta.
Spicious.
(Tue 12th Aug 2008, 18:31, More)

» Airport Stories

Many times...
...I have got the sack for being late.
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Bugger.
(Sun 5th Mar 2006, 2:01, More)

» Join us... come join the cult

Bunch of deluded 'cults'. (Bet that one hasn't been used yet!)
Some years ago, a friend of mine worked as a broadcast engineer for a firm that hired equipment to TV shows, corporate events etc. As I was not working many hours at the time, he'd often ask me along to various places to pick up equipment after shows and confrences. Company for him, and an excuse to raid the hospitality areas for me. Lot's of free beer and bacon rolls.

Anyway, one Saturday, he phones me and tells me he has to make a pick up from the UK headquarters of the Scientology movement. Did I wanna go?

Bear+Shit+Woods.

The heavy weekend traffic alowed me a couple of hours to fill him in, L. Ron Hubbard, Sci Fi books, Founder dying a mentalist recluse, Cruise/Travolta, I even made up some shit about abduction and ritualistic murder in the 70's.

Hook, line, and their weighty chum, sinker.

As we approached the HQ, I was expecting some kind of converted semi, with an ill-kept path. Something befitting the status of this joke 'religion'.
How wrong I was.

We pulled up at the tank proof gates of a HUGE estate. After some serious faced verification of our reason to be there, we was allowed in. The place was amazing. It appeard to be the size of Richmond Park, but a lot better maintained. many, many acres of very expensive S.E. UK land. The buildings all resembled mansions of royalty, or garish castles of Dracula.

I believe Hubbard once said something along the lines of "The easiest way to become a rich man is to invent a religion". He certainly appeard to be right.

More distracting than the vulgar display of wealth that appeard to be reaching the horizon in every direction was, the presence of heavy (in both senses) security. Real menace with a smile type stuff. They were all wearing unseasonally heavy, long coats. We were a little confused about the gun carrying laws on private property, but they all certainly appeard tooled up in some fashion. This was the south of England, yet was starting to feel like 'Escape From New York' with better lawns and tuxedoed gangs. Actually, I promise you it was quite sinister.

We parked up, checking for potential escape routes as we did, and found our way into an area behind the scenes. The staff/volunteers/robots were milling around us, all busy with menial tasks and empty stares. I was recently reminded of this when playing 'Resident Evil 4', for anyone whose played it, just think of the villagers at the start of the game.

After a while, one of them sensed we was lost and approached us asking if we were "Joiners", to which I replied with grossly mis-calculated wit "No, mate, I work in mental health, so I'll probably be seeing you soon."

Not even a flicker. The po faced android. My friend explained why we was really there, and we was taken through some tunnelly areas into a main confrence hall, the centre piece of which was an enormous portrait of Hubbard.

We made our way up into the speakers area, on a raised, Godly platform. My chum found his company's equipment and started to disconect it. I amused myself by spying down on the various AGM attendees still milling about in the hall wondering how I could mess with 'em.

To my left, the P.A. system, including, from what I could tell, the still wired in microphone. I couldn't could I?

Fuggit. Why not.

I saw that I could duck out of site and speak to them all without them seeing who, or where the voice was coming from.

I started mentally composing what I was going to say, in a deep Orson Welles voice: "THIS IS THE VOICE OF L. RON HUBBARD. I'M WATCHING YOU ALL FROM MY ASCENDED PLAIN. MY CHILDREN, I WANT YOU ALL TO DISROBE. THE DISCO BEGINS IN FIVE MINUTES."

One hand holding the mic stem, the fingers hovering over the 'transmit' button...

"Are you ready to leave?"

My scrotum jumped a good eight inches into my stomach as the voice of the glassy eyed freak who had lead us here came very unexpectedly from stage left. He'd been watching and obviously still had enough unregulated thought to realise what I was about to do, as did my friend who made a wide-eyed, silent and panicked "NO!" motion with his mouth.

Probably time to leave.

You've never seen and underpowered broadcast engineers van make such an A-teamesque dash as what we decided would probably be useful at that point.

Well, I can assure you it was exciting and funny at the time.

Thanks for reading, apologies for length.
(Sat 28th Jan 2006, 10:00, More)