Monthly Archives: August 2014

Gaz & Clivey in “Headless Thick Uns”

clivey & Gaz profile

 

“Morning Clivey! You alright son?”

Never mind all that sycophantic old toot squire, I’ve come up with a nifty little tickle that’ll see us in clover for the rest of our naturals my old son”

“Blimey! What’s occurring then bruv?”

“We’re going to become global icons Gaz. We’re going to be famous the whole world over son. In short, we’re going viral!”

“What we’re going to start infecting people with ‘orrible diseases mate?”

“Better than that matey! We’re going to make a movie short that will spread across the internet like vegemite on an Aussie Sheila’s toast my old mucker”

“A movie short eh? Lovely job boy! What are we gonna be doing in it then?”

“Beheading son”

“Beheading? Wot chopping people’s ‘eads off and that?”

“Yeah”

“Well it sounds alright I suppose but how’s that gonna make us famous mate”

“Screw yer loaf Gaz! Didn’t you read about that Jihadist geezer that cut some yank’s swede off with a sword or sumfink? The boy was all over the web in no bastard time. Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, the full fucking monty squire”

“Yeah I read about that mate. Nasty business if you ask me. So who are we gonna behead then son?”

“Inchy, Mike, Churchmouse and Lenny mate”

“Wot we’re gonna behead all the other LOMM writers mate? That seems a bit harsh”

“Listen dont worry about it me old china. No bugger will notice they’ve gone and we’ll not only be famous on the internet but we’ll have the entire gaff to ourselves son. We can do head to head skits morning, noon and bastard night!”

“Sweet as a nut bruv!” But what about if we get sussed out by Old Bill mate? We’ll get our collars felt and end up spending the rest of our lives behind bars in the old shovel and pick”

“I’ve already thought of that mate. If Lily Law comes after us we’ll go on the run to Rio mate. Just like Ronnie Biggs did when he had it on his toes from Dartmoor chokey. We’ll live like kings mate. Topless birds fanning us with their drawers, endless supplies of pukka grog. We’ll be absolutely quids in cocker”

“Yeah but Ronnie ended up back inside mate. He was in shit state when they finally let the poor bleeder out”

“Yeah it was a shame about Ronnie to be fair Gaz”

“Yeah shame”

Clivey

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Samantha Freshly-Pissed’s Highly Inappropriate Vehicle Transmission Clinic And 4 Ale Bar

drunk woman

“It’ll cost you 200 quid’s worth of Jack Daniels just to get me to look under the bonnet guvnor”

 

Dear Samantha

I have a 2002 Honda Accord with a slipping clutch and would like to have a go at replacing the assembly myself.  However I’m a bit nervous about getting the friction and pressure plates correctly aligned without using a special tool. Any help or advice you can give me on this one would be most welcome.

Toby Hampton

Manchester

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Dear Toby

YER FUCKIN’ BASHTA YERSH! ARE YOU STARIN’ AT MY AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION FLUID TANK? I’LL TEK THE FUCKIN’ LOT OF YERSH! YOU’RE ME BESHT MATE YOU ARE. GISSA FAG? G’WAN GISSA FAG. I LOVE MY FUCKIN’ KIDSH I DO! BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERGH! CHRIST!

PS. Try using an old gearbox input shaft in a place of a clutch alignment tool. You’ll find it’ll do the job just as well. Now then, if I let you have a couple of pints on the house could you give me your honest opinion on the state of my rancid old growler?

All The Very Best

Sam

Clivey

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Lil’ Kimmy: The Diary Of A Young Dictator

kimmy

 

 

Dear Diary,

One of the things North Koreans believe is true of my dead dad is that he never pooped. At one point he just started a myth about him not having bowel movements. It meant he could only use the toilet when he was home alone. He was home a lot, but almost never alone.
He even had a special toilet installed in his bedroom, which I think some people must have thought was odd for someone that supposedly didn’t need it.

I know for a fact my dad did poop. Quite a lot, actually. I remember this one time he came down with a case of food poisoning. He had eaten some bad sushi. The diarrhea that followed inspired him to import a Japanese chef and to promote his previous chef to senior advisor for our country’s nuclear program. It’s also the event that directly led to the construction of his bedroom toilet.

Although I consider myself supreme enough to be able to poop, it does make me feel awkward and self conscious. I always get philosophical when I’m on the toilet. Whenever I take a dump I can’t help but think: So here I am, Supreme Leader of 24 million people, sitting with my pants down on a toilet seat, imagining what the smell must be like to others. I’ve always wondered what other world leaders think of when they go to the wash room.
Whenever I have to go I have at least two generals waiting outside for my protection. They know what I’m in the wash room for on account of the time I spend there. I wonder if Barack ever thinks about these things. Does Barack light a match after he’s done so his security people can’t know what the leader of the free world smells like? If that’s true, then it’s certainly not a free world he’s leading.

I gained some weight lately. It’s become difficult to reach my behind when I want to wipe it with toilet paper. Sometimes I barely touch it and just take a quick shower after using the washroom. My wife has noticed I shower more than I used to. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she knows. She even knows I know she knows, but she knows better than to confront me with it.
I’ve been meaning to discuss it with my dietician, but I’m afraid he’ll just tell me to eat less. I don’t like it when people tell me that.

It seems obvious why my dead dad eventually started the myth about him never pooping. The more supreme you are, the more difficult it becomes to ‘go’ when you need to. My dad probably wished he never had to go and seeing as most wishes come true in my family, he probably based his policy on his wishes, expecting them to align at one point or the other.

Oddly enough I find it reassuring to know my dad used the washroom like anyone else. It makes me less afraid of him. People that crap their pants over some bad sushi don’t scare me, even when they are my dead dad, who either did or did not shoot five hole-in-ones in a game of golf once. I’m still not sure. I saw him use the washroom a lot, especially when he got older, but I never joined him in a game of golf.
He never wanted me to come along.

Your one and unly,

Kimmy

P.S.
I just saw the movie Grown Ups. I think Adam Sandler and Rob Schneider are the greatest comedians of all time. They do fart jokes, but you never know where the fart is coming from. I think that’s smart.

 

This un-called for attack on a thoroughly decent human being comes courtesy of Lennard Van Ree of Satire Nation. Personally I think he should be ashamed don’t you?

Clivey

 

 

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The Siege Of Fort Mugnog: Day One

milkman
A milkman with overly long trousers pictured looking a bit shifty in the olden days

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8am. Inside Fort Mugnog. Captain Bloop calls his men onto the parade ground.

“Men, we are in a serious situation…”
“I’m not”. Said a voice.
“Who said that!?” Demanded Captain Bloop.
“It was him” Pointed a soldier.
“Stand forward that man”. Shouted the Captain.
A tall cadaverous person, wearing a large cowboy hat steps forward.
“What makes you so different from your fellow soldiers man?” Asked the Captain.
“I’m not a soldier guvnor”.
“Not a soldier? But you are wearing a hat!”.
“Yes I am”.
“Then what are you?”
“The milkman”.
“Milkman?”
“Yes, the milkman, and you owe me ten bob”.
“Oh, do we? I settle all accounts at the end of the month” Said Bloop.
“You wont be here, from what I’ve heard”.
“What have you heard?” Asked Bloop.
“The Trunkits are going to give you a good hiding”.
“Really? I thought it was an April fools joke”.
“Have you looked over the wall today”.
“No…” Said a slightly concerned Bloop.
“Sir” Said a soldier, what was the parade about then?”
“We’ve run out of Corn flakes man” Answered Bloop.
There was a murmuring in the ranks.
“Stop that!” Shouted Sergeant Major Snuff.
“I’ve got the milk”. offered the milkman.
“Well it’s no bloody good now, is it? We have no cereal” Answered an agitated Snuff.
“Right” Said Captain Bloop; “One of you have a look over the wall”
“Sar!” Shouted the Sergeant Major, and off he went.
After a short while, the Sergeant Major reappeared.
“Well Snuff, what’s the sp?”
“There is farsands of em Sar”.
“Are they armed?” Asked Bloop.
“Yes Sar”.
“Annoyed?”
“Looks like it Sar”.
“Right, man the battlements!” Ordered Bloop.
“What about my fuckin money?!” Shouted the Milkman.
“I will leave it out with the empties tomorrow”. Answered Bloop.
Private Rooms looked over the battlement.
“Ere, they’ve got guns Tom”.
“It must be serious Paul”.
“Do you think they will attack?”
“Yeah”.
“When?”
“About now”.
With that, the first mortar fell in the middle of the fort.
“Oo fuckin did that?!” Demanded Seargent Major Snuff.
“It was the enemy Sir”. Replied Private Land.
“Put them on a charge!”
“Charge them with what Sir?”
“A stick of fuckin dynamite!”
Private Land lit a stick of dynamite and threw it over the wall.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the fort gates.

“Who is it?” Asked Corpral Carp.
“It’s the enemy, we have a complaint”.
“Hold on”. Carp opens the gate.
“Someone threw a stick of dynamite over your wall” said the enemy.
“Are you sure?”. Replied Carp.
“Yes, it landed in the latrine”.
“Did it go off?” Enquired Carp
“Yes, and so did the occupants of the latrine”. Answered the enemy.
“Will they require medical assistance?” Asked Carp
“No, a good laundry and clean underwear”. Replied Enemy.
Meanwhile. Captain Bloop is walking the ramparts checking his troops.
“That soldier, why are you hiding behind Matron?” Enquired Bloop.
“She’s bigger than me Sir”.
“Oh, yes, well, don’t take liberties”.
“I wont”. Answered Matron.
On the other side of the fort, an argument ensued.
“You been slagging my missus off?” Asked Trooper Scooper.
“No” Answered Trooper Cooper.
“You said she had buck teeth!” Shouted Scooper.
“I didn’t” Answered Cooper. “I said she was fucking Goofy”.
“That dirty bastard!” Hollered Scooper. “Wait till I get me hands on him!”.
Outside the fort, the Trunkits were having problems.
“Capteen, der fing, is not workeded” Said Grunt.
“Oh, is it deaded?” Asked Captain Fong.
“Yers, it wented ping!”.
“Erm…Erm…”
“Shall I fetched him Sird?”
“Who?”
“Engineer Erm”.
“Is he of der deafness?”
“Yers Sird, his hat, fellded over his ears…A lot”.
A small while later, Engineer Erm arrives on the scene.

“Ello, I am here.” Said a bemused Erm.
“Look, is it brokeded?” Asked a concerned Grunt.
“Oooh, yes, it is brokeded”, Answered a concerned Erm.
“Erm, can you fixes it den?” Enquired Captain Fong.
“No”.
“No?”
“No” Said Erm.
“Why?”
“Cos I didn’t knowed what is”. Answered Engineer Erm.
“Its der ting dat goes BANG!”. Shouted Grunt.

A barrage of gun fire rains down from the fort.
Mrs Quip drops her husbands dinner.

And so ends, the first day of the siege.

Cannon Loaded by Gary Hoadley
Negligent Discharge by Clivey Dee

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Letters To LOMM

josef

Dear League Of Mental Men

I should like to add my voice to those of the people expressing shock and disbelief with regard to the recent rumours surrounding Sir Cliff Richard’s penchant for young boys.

I quite simply do not believe them, and indeed, can furnish you with a short anecdote which will add weight to my conviction.

About 30 years ago, as a teenager, I got terribly drunk at a party and stumbled out onto nearby Hampstead Heath. I then collapsed and lost conciousness. Upon waking in the early hours of the morning I found none other than the Peter Pan of Pop himself hastily pulling my trousers up, in an effort no doubt, to preserve my modesty and to prevent me from catching a chill. He then gave me £5.00 and told me the location of the nearest chemist in case I had a sore bottom. Were those the actions of a slavering paedophile?

Thanks Sir Cliff!

Neddy Prolapse

Hampstead Heath

Clivey

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Dr Hindley’s Bookcase. “An Everyday Story Of Unhinged Folk” Part II

churchy

Memoirs of a consultant psychologist as recounted to Gary Moore (Churchmouse) With added commas and correct usage of the elipsis and possessive apostrophe by Clivey Dee

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The vast majority of people referred to me, generally spend at least six months in my care, but I remember a time during the summer of 96 when two of my patients were admitted and cured within the space of a week.

The first of these was a gentleman who had been knocked off his bicycle in the Strand by a bus and was rendered momentarily unconscious. When he was revived by a passer-by he became extremely agitated and began speaking in tongues. Having no physical injuries other than a few scratches and a lump on his forehead the doctor who first treated him in the local hospital had him transferred to me for assessment.

Speaking in tongues is actually quite a rare affliction which normally only lasts for a few minutes, but when he was brought in he was still gibbering away and waving his arms about in a most alarming manner.  I  therefore decided to sedate the poor wretch and re-assess his condition the following day. No sooner had this been arranged when my phone rang and I was informed by the staff on the reception desk that I was required there as soon as possible.

On arriving I was struck by the sight of a young woman in her early twenties who was mutely standing just inside the door – stark naked save for a straw hat and a pair of sandals. I immediately had her shown to my consulting room for a full and through examination.

Now events of taking one’s clothes off in public due to an imbalance of the mind have been recorded for hundreds of years, and that symptom of mental disturbance can be caused by one or a number of different mental conditions. I sat observing my patient for some time, mulling over what I could do for her. After a while I concluded that her condition was partly physical as well as physiological (And she was quite a well developed physical specimen I must say). My theory was that she had impaired feeling on the surface of her skin which meant that she didn’t realise whether she was clothed or not. In order to re-introduce feeling within all of the nerve-ends of her body it would be necessary to vigorously massage her… All over… Twice a day…At least!

I resolved to start the treatment straight away.

And I must say that it worked very well. She very quickly showed a desire to cover herself up and would borrow clothes from whoever she could. By the end of the week she would be shown in to me for treatment wearing a huge number of layers of clothing which she was most reluctant to take off and I would routinely have a real struggle to get her knickers off.

I would have liked to have continued the treatment for a few more weeks but a number of the staff, including the senior area manager, insisted that as my patient had been cured she had to be discharged.  And so with a mixture of pride in a job well done, and disappointment for not being able to make a full and detailed study of Julie – for that was her name, I turned wearily back to my other patients, which included the gentleman who had been brought in at the start of the week.

I must admit that I hadn’t really taken the time to assess his condition as I’d been so immersed in my breakthrough ‘full body massage treatment’. (I did consider writing an article for the Lancet on the proceedure but was talked out of it by Masterson, the trust solicitor). And as I hadn’t seen my patient all week the nursing staff had simply been giving him the old liquid cosh every time he woke up and started gibbering.

“Well now” I said in a hearty fashion as I entered his room “What’s the matter with you then”? – It’s surprising how many times this opening gambit works and the patient will actually tell you what’s wrong with them, which saves an awful lot of time having to do assessments and the like. Anyway, as soon as I’d spoken, off he went, ranting and raving like the lunatic he undoubtedly was.

I was just about to call for the drugs trolley, when Morris, the chap who mopped the floors and tended to the garden, and who happened to be deploying his mop bucket in the room at the time, pointed out that the patient, rather than speaking in tongues was actually talking Italian.

We had a few problems with the Italian consulate after we had released him, but dear old Masterson managed to throw them off track by pointing out that I had certified our captive Italian as clinically insane upon arrival, so he must have been speaking in tongues at the time and was now, in effect, cured, so any action through the courts for imprisonment or assault suffered by our errant bicyclist would fail.

And of course I had cured another one of my charges which enhanced my status even further. Not only that but we didn’t even need to kill anyone.

Gary Moore

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Clivey & Gaz in “No Comments Please We’re Cockneys”

clivey & Gaz profile

Written by Clivey Dee

Fullstops, commas, elipses and unaceptable smutty behaviour by Gary Hoadley

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“Alright Clivey?”

“Never mind all that son. I’ve decided to mend my objectionable ways and become a fully committed and popular member of the WordPress community”

“You’re joking chief! How you gonna do that then mate?”

“Commenting son”

“Commenting?”

“That’s right bruv. I’m gonna put myself about it a bit and start commenting on every fucker’s blog right left and bastard centre. It won’t matter how piss poor and boring it is. If I see an unattended blog I’m gonna be steaming in with the comments like a good un!”

“But you already do mate! I’ve seen yers. Every bastard blog I ever look at has your League Of Mental Men dabs all over it. Don’t fucking deny it son. I’ve seen it with me own peepers squire!”

“That’s not me son”

“Not you?? Well who the hell is it then?”

“Mike mate”

“Mike? What you mean all those thousands and thousands of comments are down to him and that you’ve never even done one of ’em?”

“Spot on son. You see the thing is with Mike, he’s not a real person Gaz. He’s clockwork. He was made in a toy factory in Spitalfields and I paid a monkey for him from a stall in Roman Road market. “Mike The Commentator” was the name on the box “For All Your WordPress Commenting Needs” I just took the fucker home and set him to work. By the time I woke up next morning he’d made over 20,000 comments and we had 800 more followers on the manor. He’d even made a 3000 word comment on a deep sea diving suit fetishist’s blog! Sweet as a nut or what son?”

“Clockwork?? Who winds ‘im up then mate?”

“His old woman mostly Gaz”

“Shame”

“Yeah shame”

This skit was brought to you courtesy of The Mature Mamas In Deep Sea Diving Boots Confederation

Clivey

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As Clivey Always Says On A Satdee Morning…

minder

Smudge by “Inchcock”

 

Good evening.

I’d like to wish you all a very good afternoon in the inimitable stylee of disgraced ex-United States president, Richard Milhous Nixon, as he gives strict instructions that all the ceilings in his grace and favour Washington residence are to be given a decent coat of good quality emulsion paint and that an inferior, water-based product is not to be used, while simultaneously watching West Ham United Football Club narrowly missing a goalscoring opportunity against Tottenham Hotspur FC.

“There can be no whitewash at The White House! – OH NO! HE’S HIT THE FUCKING POST!!!!”

Clivey

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Clivey And Gaz in “Trainspotting”: An everyday story of inadequate folk

clivey & Gaz profile
Copy by Gary Hoadley
Plagiarism & Glory-Hogging by Clivey Dee, without whose searingly erotic and sympathetic editing none of this would have been possible.
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“I don’t like trains Gaz”.
“Me neither Clivey”.
“The pen and ink in the carriages gets right up my bugle”.
“All those sweaty bodies”
“Disgusting”.
“Disgusting Clivey”.
“And, the noise!”
“Clackity bleedin clack“.
“Some people go train spotting Gaz”.
“Are you having a laugh son?”
“Straight up Gaz, they stand and clock trains going by all day long”.
“What for?”
“The numbers”.
“Numbers?”
“Yeah, write them in little books they do”.
“Why?”
“To compare”.
“Compare with what?”
“The numbers tally gathered by other trainspotters mate”.
“Do they get a prize?”
“Don’t think so”
“Well they should”.
“Yeah, you’re not wrong there Gaz”.
“I got a prize once Clivey”.
“For what”.
“Don’t know”.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Well it was after I nicked a silver cup out of a cabinet”.
“Whose cabinet Gaz?”
“A tennis club in south London”.
“Ok mate, but how was it a prize?”
“It had ”The Lawn Tennis Association Wimbledon Champion 1979″ engraved on it”
“We have to get off at the next stop Gaz”

“Are we at Kings Cross now then Clivey?”
“No mate, the ticket collector’s in the next carriage son.”
“Shame”.
“Yeah shame”

This skit was bought to you courtesy of The WordPress Irritating & Time Consuming Comments Confederation

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Dr Hindley’s Bookcase: An Everyday Story Of Brain-Damaged Folk

psychologist

A consultant psychologist pictured enjoying a well-earned break in Sierra Leone last night.

The Memoirs Of A Consultant Psychologist 

I well remember an unusual case that we had in the late 90’s. There was a young man, – aged about 30 if memory serves me correctly, who after being struck on the head with a frozen haddock as he was walking past Billingsgate market, became convinced that he was a 17th century pirate.
This delusion would only show itself at certain times and for most of the day he would appear to be quite unremarkable. He didn’t change his appearance and was quite lucid and rational, indeed one would not suspect that he had an affliction of any sort.

His occupation was that of a ‘Team member’ at one of the McDonalds restaurants in central London, and his duties included the serving of customers with their orders, which normally wasn’t a problem, except when someone ordered a ‘Filit-o-fish’.
This request would trigger in him the delusion that he was a pirate on the high seas and quite often he would launch into a frenzied diatribe.
“FILIT-O-FISH! he would scream at the customer. “WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT FISH, YER SCURVY CUR. WHY I’LL TEAR YER GUTS FROM YER BELLY AND STRING THEM FROM THE MIZZEN-MAST YER COWERING DOG.”

This would then inevitably be followed by him spitting into the customer’s palm and informing them that they would be sailing at high tide.

This of course was of some concern to his employer, and although in most cases where an employee is useless at his job he would be promoted to management, (worked for me) McDonalds resisted this course of action and he was removed from the company pay-roll.

He was referred to me for treatment and I tried a number of different types of medication on him, all alas to no avail. One of the problems was the need to observe whether the drugs were working or not and this could only be measured by provoking an attack and hoping that the current medication would produce no response to it. In order to do this, my assistant Miss Bloombridge would attract his attention by waving a mackerel from one end of the ward while I observed from the other end; – Poor Miss Bloombbridge stank of fish for 2 months and would often be followed on the Underground by stray cats and tramps, all the while with the patient’s cries of “AAARRRGH, YER LILLY-LIVERED LAND-LUBBER” and the like, ringing in her ears.

Quite by accident a partial cure presented itself to us one day. Within the grounds of the hospital was a fish pond, and although the fish within were clearly visible, the sight of them had no adverse effect on the patient. It was realized that the trigger effect of fish could be drastically reduced if said fish were in water, or possibly it was the calming effect of the water being within the patient’s field of vision. In order to test this theory I managed to get the hospital trust to fork out for a weekend in Torquay for the patient, along with myself and my assistant. – If you are ever down that way I can recommend Taylor’s Hotel & Restaurant – excellent steak, reasonable champagne and very creative billing that will pass the bean-counters when you submit your expense account.

It all went swimmingly, if you will excuse the aquatic terminology. The sight of water kept our charge calm and rational no matter how many fish were waved at him. As a result I was able to recommend that the patient be released into the community with the proviso that any employment be either water-borne or within sight of a large body of water, and after pulling a few strings at the Lodge, I managed to get our charge taken on by one of the dredgers on the Thames.
And that was that, another successful treatment carried out, or so I thought.

However, after only two days into his new job, my patient was returned to my care after leaping onto a sight-seeing river boat as it passed under Vauxhall Bridge and forcing an elderly American woman tourist to walk the plank.

We had to kill him in the end of course.

Gary Moore ‘Churchmouse’

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