I thought my subconscious had returned to normal but clearly it hasn’t. Luckily this was a lot shorter than the previous ones.
I’m in my old bedroom, as in the one back at my mum’s house and I must be something like twelve or thirteen. As I sit on my bed covering the wall directly in front of me is a large collection of plastic drawers and in each drawer are things like pens and stationary items. I look through each one diligently and to my surprise all the ones on the far right have hamsters in.
I shut the drawers quickly to make sure they don’t escape however I’m not quick enough. Hamsters seem to pour out of nowhere and go underneath my bed. I’m worried I’ll squish them so I move out of the way towards the window. It’s get a little too much and I weep openly and I’m pretty sure I ask for someone’s help but whoever is in the room with me offers some useless words of advice and carries on reading their magazine.
So I stand there not knowing what to do, feeling as though I’ve let my hamsters down.
What does it mean?!?
September 1st, 2010
Ian
And on that day, everyone bought
The brioche, never an afterthought
The brioche, never an afterthought
August 26th, 2010
Ian
Following the global smash that was the debut album ‘Wasting My Life’ the Papples have leapt forward in front of the musical crowd to deliver what can only be described as the biggest twenty-five minutes you ever heard. Check out the multitude of FIVE star reviews:
“The second album is better than the first… I loved the first one but this one is a quantum leap musically” - J McIver
***** – Smoochies Inc
“Masterpiece is brilliant! Ass Pumping Gas (Pumping Ass) remains my favourite” – S McIver
“Immense” – N Simpson
How can they improve on perfection? How will the third album sound? Only time will tell.
August 19th, 2010
Ian
If I saw this sign I would try to eat this sign. FACT.
August 18th, 2010
Ian
Germany is not known for its love of cider. In fact, you are more likely to come across a dog with three legs rather than a pub or bar selling cider inside. Of course the country is known for beer and wine, so why would you go out of your way to try and find a drink that hasn’t been embraced? When you drink it most nights, that’s when.
Bruno prefers cider to most other drinks. We did our very best to try and find some. We checked online at the nearby bars to see if they had it listed as a beveridge. We looked in supermarkets. It would appear that despite having a word for cider, ‘viez’, it doesn’t get used often. We went into a restaurant half a mile away and asked for a viez only to be greeted by confused looks by the staff. Bruno then using the international sign language for ‘apples’, ‘fermenting’ and ‘the internet’ tried to explain our endeavours. One of the bar staff went away and came back with a very dusty bottle which looked as though it had languished on some shelf for a couple of years. This was apfelwine, a sort of apple liquor / wine that was as popular as a slap across the chops. We made our excuses and left quickly.
In the end, with some of Siobhan’s family travelling across Europe by car, they opted to asking them to stop off at a Tesco before leaving the UK to pick up a crate of Strongbow. Ironically by the time they arrived Bruno had gotten so drunk on vodka the previous night that he couldn’t even bear to eat let alone crack open a couple of cans. They remained practically untouched until I left.
Germany 2, Bruno 0
August 10th, 2010
Ian
Our plane got into Frankfurt Hahn at 2pm on Wednesday morning. We picked up some shopping, including some very cheap Jagermeister (bad spelling) from a supermarket called Toom, and headed back. I then proceeded to drink a third of the bottle and woke up on Thursday feeling the burn.
Later on after a day of physical activites which I mostly sat out for we went for a drink in one of the bars down the road. Where we were staying was in the bottom of this valley surrounded by many stunning views. We were dropped off at this grand-looking place over the river and went inside. Germany unfortunately has not really heard of cider much so Siobhan’s brother Bruno found it very hard trying to locate any with no concept of the language and their unwillingness to understand what “fermenting apples” really means. That’s another story.
We sit down with some drinks and Bruno heads to the toilet. He returns a few minutes later.
“I tell you what, they have some weird things here. I couldn’t find the toilets but eventually I came across them.”
“Did you know which ones to go in?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” says Bruno.
“Well, did you know which was male and which was female?” asks Siobhan.
“I think so.”
“Did they have any urinals in the toilets?”
“Erm… no. Look I went in the one that had ‘Damon’ on the door.”
“Damon means women you idiot!” laughs Siobhan.
“I went in that one because it was a guy’s name, I thought it would have to be the gents!”
Germany 1, Bruno 0
August 9th, 2010
Ian
So it began around the turn of the century when that hidden, underground factory in Doncaster started churning out fabricated women that looked real but really they weren’t. They were pretty much all identical as well. You must have seen them for they were many: Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, Jessica Simpson etc, collectively known as “zombie blondes”. They played their part well and made millions for the South Yorkshire region. But what next for women?
Then came the phenomena that was known as the “piano bints” wherein another rival factory, wanting a cut of the profits, decided to try and muscle in on Doncaster’s territory. They chose the perfect time to strike as the zombie blondes were failing in the charts; nobody wanted them anymore expect for fake nudie shots on the internet. So strode forth the “piano bints”: Delta Goodrem, Lucie Silvas and Vanessa Carlton. Unfortunately they didn’t have the staying power of the zombie blondes. Sure they could play their own instruments but it didn’t matter, they couldn’t keep up. The “piano bints” died out shortly afterwards.
So strode forth another generation of musical women, but what ho, where could they go now? They needed a gimmick, another reason to stand out in-between where Katherine Jenkins belted out the tat and Dolly Parton hollered the classics. Bring forth the kooky women: Florence and the Machine, Marina and the Diamonds, Paloma Faith. They swoosh. They swirl. They sing in high voices and then don’t. It doesn’t matter that Kate Bush did it better and thirty years previous because look at the record sales!
The whereabouts of the factory that produced the kookies is still unknown but let it be known that once we do locate it, well, that would be telling…
August 3rd, 2010
Ian
Good Morning and welcome to the Nonny Market.
The Nonny Market is a brand new and exclusive business only available in selected parts of the country which gives only CERTAIN people the chance to experience the whimsy and wonder. Do you want to be one of those people? Can you sing all the words to ‘China Girl’ by David Bowie? Fill in a ten page document with all your personal details and maybe, just maybe you might be one of the lucky few who get to enter the Nonny Market. Before it goes on general release and any old codger with a codpiece can get in.
There are rules for entering the Nonny Market though. Whilst it does have everything you could ever want ranging from simple items such as bread and milk to luminous uncertainties such as howling guinea pigs, sweaty cheese plants and face magnets you must ensure that you do not touch nor buy any of these. Nothing, nothing at all. They are not for you.
So good luck with the draw. We hope to see you “shopping” at the Nonny Market very soon.
August 2nd, 2010
Ian
Ladies and gentlemen (mainly gentlemen) of the Beans,
I am sure you are as saddened and horrified as I am about the state of things and how stuff is generally very bad in various ways at the moment. It is high time we stopped talking about whatever is not quite right and turned our words into action. That time is now.
I have started by launching a new CAMPAIGN to deal with the many pressing issues facing us all in this modern world in which we live in. The campaign is called STOP, which stands for Sort This Out Please.
You can help by donating all your money, taking all your posessions to a STOP charity shop, resigning from your job in order to spend your every waking moment volunteering in STOP’s many projects and having your friends and family culled so that when you die there is nothing to prevent STOP from taking all your remaining money and worldly possessions.
You can also display the new bumper sticker on your car, train, helicopter or face:
I’m sure you will agree that STOP represents the first vitally important step in fixing whatever problem it is that we’re obviously very worked up about. So it’s time to make your pledge. What will you do to get STOP started?
July 21st, 2010
Chris
I am getting very worried about my present state of mind…
It’s mid-afternoon and I’m going to a party with a friend (no idea who it was). This wasn’t just any party though it was a party being held by tiny guitar genius Prince. It is being held in a huge hall however on the inside it’s not very grandiose; instead it retains the look of a simple working men’s club with aisles of seats, various rooms and a bar on the side. I pull up to the bar for a drink and for some reason there is a rumour spread that you can’t stay at the party unless Prince’s personal physician has checked you out to make sure you’re not ill and won’t pass any illnesses onto him. This seems very strange but my reasoning is that, “this is Prince, not just anyone. I’ll take a quick once over from a quack for an all night drinking sesh.” Something along those loins, lines, lions, lines.
People keep going into a room at the back with a nurse and coming out smiling. I get the impression I’m missing out on something. The strange thing is that we’ve hardly seen Prince at all other than a man, who could have been Prince, standing at the far end of the room on his mobile dressed in a purple suit. Everyone seems to go in before I do and I’m getting pretty nervous as people are starting to leave. I get tapped on the shoulder by a nurse who leads me into a tiny room filled with stacks of chairs and a man in a white coat.
I lie down, he checks me over and does a few initial inspections; no problems. Then he puts some sort of machine over me and examines my inside, which are relatively fine, except for some gunk here and there. The doctor uses a gauze and what looks like a cloth to clean my ribs at the back. It tickles a little. I get no attention whatsoever from any of the nurses, as a few more have appeared since I arrived.
The doctor pats me on the back and tells me everything is fine. I leave the room too with a smile on my face but something doesn’t feel right. Looking down underneath my t-shirt there is a line of huge, awful, bloody vertical stitches stretching from my chest down to my pelvis. Then I wake up.
July 20th, 2010
Ian
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