Tag Archives: East London

Clivey & Gaz in: WordPress Family Values

clivey mini me

The scene is a small backstreet pub in Hoxton, East London. The lads are seated at a table in the corner, sipping their pints and puffing contentedly on their contraband e-cigarettes. Gaz appears to be in  reflective mood.

Gaz – Clivey mate…

Clivey – Yes? What is it Gaz mate? You appear to be in reflective mood son.

Gaz – Funny you should say that mate. I was just reflecting on how I’m in reflective mood at the moment. The thing is mate, I was just wondering if you’d read that last skit of mine. The one about suncream. You remember the one.

Clivey – I’ll say I do son! It was an absolute peach of a skit to be fair. Probably the finest you’ve ever written. I must have read it at least five times mate. In fact, not a day has gone by when I haven’t read it. Since you posted that skit I don’t mind telling you that it’s become a huge part of my life. I live to read it mate…absolutely live to read it!

Gaz – Thanks mate, it means a lot to me that does. I’ve read all your skits too you know? In fact, I’ve got my Irene to make voice recordings of every skit you’ve ever written, so that when I’m out on the road in the motor, or watching a good film on the telly, I can listen to your skits through my headphones and marvel at how great they are and how much I admire your skit writing and that.

Clivey – That’s nothing mate. I’ve written a play about all your skits and sent it off to a West End theatre producer in the hope that it’ll be turned into a box office smash. Then I’m going to take my old woman and the kids to watch it every night so that we can drool over your skit-writing ability as a family.

Gaz – That’s all well and good son but I’ve had all your skits set to music by Andrew Lloyd Webber and I’m going to get that Michael Buble to record a whole album that pays a fitting tribute to you, both as a man, and as a writer of top-class skits. It’s going to be called: “The Skit-Writing King & I” mate.

Clivey – Right…I’ve written to Barack Obama about your skits and he’s told me personally that he’s going to read your skits out to the American people on the telly every night until he relinquishes the presidency to Donald Trump or one of those other American political geezers. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t make himself the dictator of America just before the election and appoint you The Secretary Of Skits. That’s how highly I regard your skit-writing skills mate. I don’t mind admitting that I regularly use your skits to masturbate to son. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve bellowed: “Christ what a blindingly funny skit you dirty bastard mate!” just before I’ve blown me custard.

Gaz – Blimey cheers mate! I find it hard to believe you’ve gone to so much trouble on account of your deep admiration for my skits, or that you use them to help you cum your cocoa. Did you read that one I wrote last week by the way? The one about the policeman? I was pretty chuffed with that one to be honest. It wasn’t as funny as any of your skits mind you. No skit could ever hope to achieve that kind of greatness mate!

Clivey – About a policeman you say mate? No I can’t say I remember that one. I expect I just clicked the like button on the reader, like I do with all the others. Was it good then mate?

Gaz – !!!!!

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Filed under Humor, Humour

LOMM News!


A youthful editor and totally ripped skit writer pictured in training for The London Drinkathon last night

Fabricated and read in a posh BBC accent by Gary “Our Man in the Basement” Hoadley

Edited and copied and pasted with bits of curry sauce on by Clivey “He’s just a kid!” Dee, 19.

Earlier today, Mr Albert Cress, from Bethnal Green, in East London, was found dazed and confused wandering around Roman Road Market. Paramedics were called and quickly established that Mr Cress had spent the entire day sunbathing in Weaver Fields, a popular place for vegans and people with no homes to go to.

Paramedic, Virginia Ham OBE, said;

“Mr Cress was in an awful state, he was wilted, very brown and looked terribly limp and dried up”.

It later transpired that Mr Cress had applied salad cream instead of sun cream before going out to the park.

Speaking outside Shoreditch police station where Mr Cress was being beaten mercilessly in the cells, local beat bobby, Officer WPC Collation, advised;

” Evenin’ all! When you is sunbaving, an you uses der salard cream, first you ‘as to make sure, yur feet, are in wartar. Evenin’ all!”

Disclaimer: No gay people were married during the writing or editing of this skit…or if they were, they didn’t tell us about it, the sneaky buggers.


Filed under comedy, Humor, Humour

Justin Bieber Voted “Most Torturable Celeb” By East London Gangsters


In a survey of London’s underworld, it has emerged that Canadian pop sensation, Justine Bieber, is the celebrity that gangsters would most like to subject to torture.

 Bieber, 11, just pipped  smarmy pop entrepreneur Simon Cowell, and  aggravating, oily fuck, Piers Morgan, in the poll, which took in over 300 pubs and illegal gambling dens in the heart of London’s notorious East End.

One of the hoodlums polled, “Maltese Billy” Drago, told us: “It was a pretty tough choice to be perfectly honest with you. I mean to say, there’s just so many irritating arseoles to choose from. I was pretty torn between the prospect of giving Simon Cowell a good striping with a butcher’s knife, or the opportunity of crucifying Piers Morgan on a snooker table. In the end though, I just had to go with Bieber. The boy’s absolutely crying out to have his Niagras crushed in a vice while his teeth are being yanked out of his mouth with a pair of mole grips”

 A spokesperson for Bieber’s record company said last night: “Justin’s understandably a bit upset to discover that he’s the celeb that London’s underworld most want to hospitalise, but at the same time he fully accepts that it’s the price that sometimes has to be paid for being such an irritating, talentless, little turd”

To discover the identity of the annoying, female pop sensation the Mafia would most like to garotte in a seedy New York bar why not visit?


WARNING: May contain piano wire, bum notes, and severed jugular veins.

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Filed under Satire, showbiz

Clivey & Gaz Shamefacedly Present: “Telly”

clivey mini me
Smudge by The Artful Dodger.
Scene One: The public bar in The Jolly Cripple, a rundown, backstreet public house in Wapping, East London. The lads are sipping pints of Banana Daquiri and seem in pensive mood.

“I was watching that David Attenborough last night Gaz”
“Woz you mate? Lovely job son”.
“Yeah, did you see it?”
“Nah, I didn’t as it goes Clivey”
“Why’s that then mate? Was the old woman watching The Quantum Physics Review again?”
“No mate. That’s Wednesday night. No, the bloke turned the telly over Clive”
“What bloke Gaz?”
“Geezer that owns the electrical shop in Mile End Road”.
“Mile End Road Gaz?”
“Yeah. He’s a right bastard he is and no error Clivey”.
“I don’t get it Gaz, what was you doing in the Mile End Road at eight o’clock of the night me old china plate?”
“I was waiting for that David Attenborough to start Clivey”.
“Your telly was in the Mile End Road Gaz?”
“Nah, I had a bull and cow with the old woman and she turfed me out. So I took me chair down to the electric shop. He’s got tellys in the window so I dived in for a butcher’s hook. They’re on all night see”
“Blimey Gaz. Why didn’t you shoot round to my drum? I’d have let you have a gander at the little telly in the downstairs ben ghazi
“Didn’t want to miss the beginning did I Clivey”.
“What happened at the shop then Gaz? Everything go alright did it son?”
“Well, I put me chair down, poured a scotch and coke, put me plates of meat up on the window sill, opened me box of bacon sandwiches, put the umbrella up, and then he goes and changes the poxy channel”
“Changes the channel Gaz!? What a diabolical liberty mate. You should have given him a few swipes across the jaw son”
“Tell me about it chief. I very nearly cleaned the fucker’s clock right then and there. The bastard  knew I’d come to watch the Attenborough bloke!”.
“So, what did you do then Gaz?”
“I said to him, I said; “Oi you pilchard, I was fucking watching that!”
“What did he say to that Gaz? I bet the geezer was bricking it after that piece of dialogue”
“Said he wasn’t running a cinema for vagrants Clivey”.
“Cheeky toe rag! I would have definitely straightened the mug for that”
“I couldn’t Clivey”
“Why’s that then Gaz?”
“Had nowhere to put me bacon sarny Clive”.
“Shame Gaz”
“Yeah,Shame Clivey”

This little vignette, and insight into life in the East End of London, was conceived by Sir Garfield Hoadley Of Spitalfields and co-written in conjunction with The Right Fucking Reverend Clivey Dee, the three times Arsebishop Of Camdenbury. No pets were harmed during the writing of this piece…apart from Gaz’s Staffordshire Bull Terrier who got booted up the arse for farting while we were watching Strictly Come Dancing.


Filed under Humor, Humour

Utter Codswallop!: An Everyday Story Of Fish-Wielding Folk

The Soz Satire Crime Files nervously presents:

The Strange Case Of The Cod Walloper Of Olde London Towne

Dastardly script by Gary Hoadley

Murderous editing by Clivey Dee

Merciless graphic by The Artful Dodger


A cold winter night. October 1888. London. Mr Fred Bunge is walking along the
Whitechapel road in Shadwell. East End. From nowhere, Fred is struck with a huge Cod across the back of the head. The blow sent him reeling. It also stung a bit.
Fred Bunge was the tenth victim of the Cod Walloper. Police questioned Fred.
They asked if the fish had been left at the crime scene. Fred said he had taken it
home and that his wife, Maud, “Did it wiv a bit of bread an butter an some left over liquour from the pie an mash shop”.

The police needed to act fast, victim’s of the Walloper were eating the evidence.

October 17th 1888

Inspector Ball and his deputy, DS Chalk, made their way to Smithfield Market.
They began to question members of staff. One of the porters immediately became a suspect, it was clear he had something to hide. Inspector Ball pressed him further.

“So, how much do you know about cod Mr Pickle?” Asked Inspector Ball.
“Nuffin at all mate” replied Pickles.
“I see, so you deny having any knowledge of things piscatorial” said Ball.
“Yers, me old china”. stated Pickles.
“And why would that be?” asked DS Chalk.
“Cos I works in a meat market”. replied Pickles.
“Ah ha! So, you work in a meat market eh? And where would that be” pressed Ball.
“The one you is standin in mate”. offered Pickles.
“Right, well, don’t do it again” warned DS Chalk.

The Star public house in Bethnal Green, has a good reputation for a knees up,
punch ups, and a Saturday night lock in. On 25th of October, 1888. Alf Mullet and his best friend, Ted Lemon, stood outside The Star. They rolled up their sleeves in anticipation of thudding each other up the throat. Suddenly, from nowhere, both men were felled by a huge cod. The two friends hit the ground.

“Earr, yu bugger, you gawn an done me wiv a fish yu cheating tyke!” shouted Alf.
“Wot!…Yu jus done me rand the canister wiv the very same!” Ted retorted.

The two men then realised, they had been attacked by the Cod Walloper, of Old London town.
Inspector Ball arrived at the scene. On the pavement lay two large cod.
Inside the mouth of one cod, a note protruded. DS Chalk removed the paper
and read aloud. “If you is not catching me soon, I is going to start using Mullet”.

“This is serious Chalk”, said Inspector Ball. “If this madman gets his hands on a
Mullet, the consequences will be dire, we have to catch him”.

Mrs Eider Down, landlady of the Sea View bed and breakfast hotel in Argyle Square, began to have some suspicions about one of her residents.
Mr John West, had arrived some months ago, he told Mrs Down that he was employed as a Clerk for a law firm in the Caledonian Road.
The problem was, he smelled of fish. His clothes, his hair, even his room. Why did a clerk at a law firm smell of fish? Mrs Down decided to contact the police.

2nd of November 1888. 2pm.

Inspector Ball and DS Chalk arrived at the Sea View hotel. They were shown into
the parlour where they met Mrs Eider Down, the proprietor.

“Hello Mrs Down, I’m Inspector Ball, and this is DS Chalk, we understand you have some worries about one of your residents”.

“Yers, he ain’t right, comes ome from work, smelling of fish, an he didn’t want
the cruet, I mean to say, how do yu eat mutton wivart salt an pepper?” Said Mrs Down.

“Quite. May we have a look in his room?” Enquired DS Chalk.

“Oooh, I don’t know, it’s the privy you see, he might not of emptied it”.

“The privy Mrs Down?” said Inspector Ball.

“She means the Edgar Allen guv”. offered DS Chalk.

“Oh, right, that’s not a problem for men like us Mrs Down” answered Inspector Ball.

“You aven’t seen his privy dear”. replied Mrs Down.

The detectives made their way up the stairs . With trepidation and
a growing sense of foreboding, they opened the door to room 101. At first all seemed normal.
The bed, the chair, the row of freshly gutted Cod…it looked like any run down
bed and breakfast hotel room. Inspector Ball was not fooled however.
“Lets have a good look round Chalk, there has got to be something here.
After several minutes of searching, Chalk found a clue.

“Guv, look at this”…

Inside a chest of draws, lay several unwashed handkerchiefs.

“The dirty bastard!” exclaimed Ball.

“What sort of depraved fiend leaves stuff like this in their dresser?” asked Chalk.

“Only a madman, and the sort of person that should be in an institution”. replied Ball.

“We need to set a trap for this person and have him off the streets within the day”.

“You’re right Guv, let’s inform Mrs Down” replied Chalk.

Downstairs in the parlour, the detectives informed Mrs Down of their find.
She was overcome with shame and fear. They gave her succour, and a few slaps around the head.
The plan now, was to catch the Cod Walloper, without raising suspicion.

3rd of November 1888 6pm. The Sea View Hotel. Argyle Square. Kings Cross.

Inspector Ball hid in the wardrobe of room 101 while DS Chalk concealed himslef under the bed.
After a while, the door opened and in walked Mr West. He did indeed smell of fish.
Both detectives leapt from their concealment.

“Mr John West, I arrest you in the name of the law!” shouted Ball.
Startled, Mr West fell back onto his bed. “What! What have I done?”
“You are the Cod Walloper of Olde London Towne!” shouted DS Chalk in Olde English

Without a struggle, West was led to Whitechapel police station.
In the interview room, Inspector Ball began his questioning.

“Now then West, what made you become such a beast?”
“It all started a few years ago”. replied West.
“What started?” enquired DS Chalk.
“My dad was a fisherman. He supplied all the shops in the east of London.
One day, he got into trouble and fell overboard from his boat. I can remember
his last words to this day”….
“What were the they West?” whispered Inspector Ball.
“Fuck me! It’s a Shark!”…shouted Mr West.
“So your dad was killed by a shark?” asked DS Chalk.
“Yes, unless it was an irate Dolphin”. replied West.
“Why did you start the attacks?” Asked Ball.
“The fish shops owed my dad money, when they found out he was brown
bread, they refused to pay, so I hatched a plan of revenge” explained West.

“That’s all well and good Mr West, but what about the dirty handkerchiefs?”
“No comment guv”.

Mr John West was sentenced to five years hard labour. On his release he moved
to Burnham on Crouch and became a drag artist at the Nell Gwyn tea rooms.

Disclaimer: No Inchcocks or Mike Steedens were harmed during the constructing of the graphic that accompanies this skit…much.


Filed under Humor, Humour, Spoof

Clivey & Gaz In: Pumping Irons

clivey weight training   gaz weight training

Gettin’ strong nowwwwww

Written by Clivey Dee

Harsh & hilarious smudges by The Artful Dodger

Scene One: The public bar of The Blind Beggar public house in Whitechapel East London. The lads are seated at a corner table. Clivey seems troubled and appears to be in pensive mood.

You alright Clivey mate? You seem troubled and appear to be in pensive mood son.

No I’m not alright as it goes Gaz. I’m troubled and in pensive mood for a very good reason squire.

I knew it mate! I knew you were troubled and in pensive mood! What is it bruv? What’s making you so troubled and pensive me old china plate?

It’s us mate. Have you seen the state of us lately? We’re slap bang out of shape moosh. Our bodies are a complete shambles. If it wasn’t for our knives and shooters we wouldn’t be able to knock the skin off a rice pudden. We need to whip our cockney arses into shape a bit lively or people will start liberty taking. We’ll end up getting mugged off left, right and bastard centre son.

I hear you bruv but what’s to be done chief? How can we turn around our shameful, physical reversal?

Weights son. Weights and Steradent. Anabolic Steradent! We need to hit the gym and start shifting the iron furniture my son. Coupled with the Steradent we’ll be in superb nick in just a few days, trust me.

I thought Steradent was for false teeth Clivey. I thought it was for cleaning the old false Hampsteads.

It is Gaz but it’s also for building up the physique son. You inject Steradent into your arse cheeks and within days you end up looking like that Arnold Swarthyknickers out of Conan The Librarian.

Arnold? That’s a foreign name aint it mate? Is he a foreign geezer then?

Yeah. He comes from Lambeth son. He’s got a little one-bedroom drum in The Palace Road.


Exactly mate, but if we want to shape up and start looking like ‘im, we need to take drastic action. No pain no grain squire. Listen son, if we knuckle down and get this little job squared away, before you know it we’ll have shedloads of naked blart flocking round us like good uns. They’ll be absolutely begging us to cop a feel of their threepenny bits mate. They’ll be showing us their Alan Whickers before you can say Janet Reger!

Blart you say son? Blimey!

Naked blart Gaz. Naked blart.

Righto Clivey, we’ll get stuck in to the old weights a bit lively then. When are we going to start geezer?

The New Year Gaz. There’s no point in rushing these things chief. We’ll tuck into the grog and the fish suppers for a few more months to get our strength up, and then on the 1st of January, we’ll take some Steradent and steam into the heavy poundages son. After a few days of that we’ll be like two brick shithouses. We wont need to carry our tools anymore either. We’ll be so massive we’ll be able to give our sworn enemies a top drawer clumping using just our hands mate.

No tools? What about my spiked, electrified cosh mate? I bloody love that one!

Yeah I see what you mean mate. It’s become a real part of you down the years has your spiked, electrified cosh. It’s a bit like me and me poison-tipped Stanley Blade in that respect. Tell you what Gaz, we’ll keep em, but we’ll only use em on special occasions. Birthdays, anniversaries, an away win for West Ham, that sort of thing son.

Sweet as a nut Clivey! Fancy another livener sheriff?

Yeah fuck it, go on then son, and while you’re up there get us a steak and onion pie and a pickled egg.

Gaz goes to the bar and returns looking troubled and in pensive mood.

What is it Gaz? You seem troubled and in pensive mood squire

They’ve run out of pickled eggs Clivey


Yeah shame.

For the sake of any filthy colonials, rebellious Scots or non-cockney rhyming slang speakers who may be reading this. “Irons” is London slang for gentlemen of a homosexual persuasion or “Iron Hoofs” as we fondly call them. 


Filed under Humor, Humour

East London Kebab Shop Destroyed Following Israeli Attack On Hummus


A dish of hummus shelters behind some peppers as Israeli jets scream overhead.

There were fresh calls for an immediate ceasefire in the war torn Middle East last night after an Israeli F16 jet fighter targeted and destroyed a kebab shop in Upton Park, East London, leaving the proprietor and 12 customers dead.

It is believed the tragic mix up occurred when the pilot was told to “Get me some hummus” by his flight commander, who merely wanted him to bring him over a snack from the canteen after he’d completed his sortie over Gaza.

A witness to the carnage was Tony Summers, the owner of a greengrocers just across the road from the stricken fast food shop.

“It was absolutely diabolical to be honest” said Mr Summers, 57 “I was just arranging a few oranges in the display outside the shop when this fighter jet came screaming in and launched a missile which absolutely flattened the kebab place. The poor bastards inside never stood a chance. It’s an absolute tragedy for the whole community”

” Tariq, the fella who owned it, was an absolute diamond and did the best doner kebab with chilli sauce and hummus for miles around. Gawd knows what I’m going to do at lunchtimes now. I’ll probably have to get the old woman to make me a packed lunch or something. Absolutely bloody terrible!”

The Israeli air force issued a brief statement last night:

“While we deeply regret this terrible tragedy and send our condolences to the families of all those affected, we’d like to point out that hummus and Hamas sound very similar, even though one is a murderous, terrorist organisation and the other is a kind of dip. We’d also like to reiterate that we only target military installations, schools or  UN shelters which may or may not have the odd Palestinian terrorist living there. Regrettably there will always be a degree of collateral damage, whether it be residential buildings, mosques, or even as we saw on this occasion, the odd snack bar thousands of miles from the theatre of war, so we’re sorry about that”

A memorial service for the dead is to be held on Thursday at the East London Church Of Christ, Spitalfields, East London, with a free fish and chips supper thrown in afterwards.



Filed under Satire

Great London Sporting Events #234: Cobbling



It was a little known sport played in the slums
of London around the late 19th century.
Men line up facing each other and at a given signal.
they take it in turns to kick each other in the bollocks.
The last man standing is the champion.

My Granddad was champion of West London.
Clive’s Granddad was champion of East London.
They met for a showdown late one afternoon
in Mile End Road. As we can see from the picture.
Clive’s Granddad lines up to deliver his kick to
my Granddad’s bollocks. Unfortunately, the
competition was declared null and void after
an out of control horse kicked them both in the bollocks.


From the best selling bargain bucket novel “Great Sporting Moments Involving Genitalia” by Gary Hoadley

Disclaimer: No granddads ended up unable to have children as a direct result of this skit.



Filed under Humor, Humour