December Done Right

It’s too late to turn back now. We’re all going to be smothered in Christmas in three weeks’ time so we may as well accept it and get on with our lives. When I say get on with our lives I mean buy as many presents as possible from the internet in the hope that they arrive in time. I know what you’re thinking though, there is something missing and you can’t quite put your finger on it. There’s the tree in the corner of the room; it looks lovely, almost perfect. It isn’t quite finished, is it?

What you need is something to seal that deal in that wigwam, you know the one I’m referring to. How do you tart that tree up in a timely manner without breaking the bank? You need Kevindo Menendez’s Pork Baubles.

‘Pork Baubles‘

Hand-crafted from the most sensuous part of the pig, the eyelids, Kevindo Menendez’s Pork Baubles are what are missing from your Christmas; a dozen mouth-watering spheres of sweaty, meaty goodness generously licked with the mystery of our seventeen individual spices. Guaranteed to lighten and brighten up the most abysmal of trees, you can hang your Pork Baubles straight out of the packet and, on the big day itself, put them in the oven to accompany your Christmas dinner.

‘Pork Baubles’

With one or two of these in his mouth, Dad won’t be tempted to interrupt with another of his terrible jokes. Grandma won’t believe the taste sensation going down her throat. Mum can use the leftovers to throw at unsuspecting cold-callers trying their luck around the festive period.

‘Pork Baubles’

Don’t bother with another tiresome turkey, keep your dull as damp donuts gammon in the freezer and don’t even turn the oven on if all you’re going to do is try to feed me parsnips again. Do us all a favour and purchase Kevindo Menendez’s Pork Baubles.

‘Pork Baubles’ ‘Pork Baubles’ ‘Pork Baubles’ ‘Pork Baubles’

Fill up your trolleys and your stomachs. It’s got the Kevindo Menendez guarantee! Available in both the freezer and Christmas decoration aisles at all good local supermarkets.

I’m flattered but…

Chris, mate, dear old friend of mine. How long have we known each other now? Something in the region of (properly) 24 years? Would that be a fair assumption? You’ve seen me in some pretty awful states. I’ve watched you try to get a refund for the worst steak pie ever cooked and served to human beings. I wrote you a song about a cheeky chaffinch whilst hammered on strong cider. We drove to the South coast of England, twice, ten years apart. We’ve recorded five number one albums together as everyone’s favourite quirky pop duo masterminds. You bought me a ticket to see the band Cake live. I once sent you a sandwich in the post, with Kev as the filling.

I could do this for a very long time.

I want you to know though, and I do mean this in the nicest possible way, I want you to be aware that I could not give two shits about your zodiac business.

Following my shining example, you decided to strike on your own in a new career. This should be commended because it’s never an easy thing to do (see all of my jobs over the last five years plus). Who would have thought you would have chosen astrology out of all the possible jobs available to you? I would have pinned you down as a dog shiner or a soup tester, maybe a road botherer. You may even have cut it as a moose wrangler, not that there are many mooses in the Royskopp area.

I want you to stop emailing me about zodiacs though. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want anything about star signs cluttering up my inbox or my junk folder. Send it to those who want to believe in bollocks that has absolutely no bearing on their lives whatever. Please feel free to indulge those gullible enough to accept that a vague explanation of their existence printed in a newspaper or a book on a daily basis is actually all about them and not beige enough to cover one twelfth of the population.

If I keep getting your emails I may have to contact the police or, worse, your dad who will ensure that you never get a proper key to use the gates at his house. Please stop.

(Photos provided courtesy of “fucking about” with my Windows phone)

Pointless Purchase of the Month

You know what? It’s been far too long since I’ve annoyed everyone with my huge stack of tat and as it is overdue, and I still have a quota to make up, let’s take a look at what I have been throwing my money away on. Take a gander at this juicy goosey:

In the top left-hand corner we have the original gameboy classic ‘The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening’. I didn’t buy purchase this recently, this is merely to amplify the ridiculousness of it all. I bought this in 1994/5, I opened it, played it and loved it like one man can love some plastic on a tiny grey and green screen.

The one next to it with the nifty black cover is the deluxe edition released some years later. I acquired one of these because I needed it to help finish my collection. It’s pretty much the same game but with some extra bits thrown in and parts of it in (very limited) colour. I haven’t played this one yet. I should also mention that I have a digital copy of the game downloaded to one of my 3DS consoles, which I have played through.

In the same month I bought the deluxe edition I also bought the two below it, which are the remastered, re-imagined, re-done whatever you will for the Nintendo Switch. It is exactly the same game albeit with fancy graphics and souped up music. I finished it in under five hours because I have the game committed to memory. So you can really feel the punch I bought the standard edition and the limited edition version, the latter of which I haven’t opened yet and probably won’t do. You know, because that’s me through and through. I bought them on the date they were released at full price.

So now I own (including the digital one) five copies of the same game, one of which may stay in its house forever and one which I won’t bother using because I have it downloaded ready to play whenever I want.

Oh and look, I got a free cleaning cloth for buying the limited edition boxed copy. That was well worth the money. I’m also keeping the cleaning cloth sealed.

A Punishment of Sorts

I watched the sky with a tear in my eye, the kitty hawk in full flight. A gorgeous view, my legs askew, she soared across the night. I followed her close, my words verbose, a beacon of fur and claws. She deftly swooped and almost scooped the mouse king in her jaws. He pushed away, in fits of dismay, desperate to escape. There was no luck, as all it took was a tiny tear in his cape. The king he fell and I heard the bell, it was all over now. Applause, commotion, fierce devotion; a curtsy and a bow.

An Apology of Sorts

Dear Everyone,

(And when I say “everyone” I mainly mean Chris.)

I have let you all down. Look at me and feel disappointed right down to your very core. For the last eleven months I have managed to crack out a steady rate of four posts per month in line with the rules decided by the Beans Board. I am not permitted to go past four posts for fear of what may come forth from my subconscious; we all remember that December where I posted something new every day and almost lost my mind in the process. That can never happen again.

At the end of October I was three posts in with only one left to go. I was on the verge of slipping one in on the last day to earn that mighty, mighty bean and keep the count going. In fact it started a few days prior, I watched the calendar move from 29th to 30th October and then the last day was on the horizon. Each evening I was poised to finish what I had started and for some reason I couldn’t. It wasn’t as though I was stuck for ideas; I have several brewing for this month, not great ones but enough to reach the quota. In the words of that Papples album title that never was, “Ticking the Boxes”. So why not?

It was two reasons. The first is simple: I was tired, I was still getting rid of my sinusitis and I couldn’t find the energy to do anything let alone type words and stare at a screen. My face stung like a blunt wasp’s nail file (it’s fine now). The second is also simple: I was struck by the quality of Chris’ posts that I didn’t believe I could come up with anything that was as good. After laughing for several days upon seeing my book covers not stacked in a pile, ready to be thrown on the bonfire, but displayed for the world to see my brain took a leap and gave up. It decided that three was enough for this month and the streak was over.

The time for giving up is over though. I am back on the horse and ready to take flight yet again. I am honking all the geese at the same crossroads. It’s going to be nothing BUT quality from hereon in. November and December are going to be BELTERS.

Before that though I am going to have to be punished for my transgressions. It is only fair for letting everyone (?) down. I am going to ask Kevin to administer this for my failure to do my job properly.

All the fun of the fair

Ian McIver

The Hall’s Wall Mince Movement

Look at you!

You need to be part of something. You need to be part of the Hall’s Wall Mince Movement.

If you join the Hall’s Wall Mince Movement (or HWMM as it is known amongst its members) then you will be given great rewards, sometimes of meat.

I cannot promise you excitement, I cannot promise you fame and glory. I cannot even promise you a refund on the extortionate subscription fees but I can promise you a couple of bowls of spaghetti bolognese every now and then.

Follow my shiny glitter twinkles and I will lead the way!

Newsboost – It Was Actually Raining Men

Shock and confusion in the North West of England earlier on today when the most unusual of weather conditions hit a small town on the coast. Locals of Workington were treated to a freak downpour of men for half an hour around midday.

It initially brought to mind the 1982 hit by Australian music duo The Weather Girls, now fully realised and in 3D, except rather than the fun and bouncy pop song it actually resembled something from the mind of the late Iain Banks or possibly Clive Barker.

The first wave of men arrived around 12:11pm; they hit the ground pretty hard and died instantly. The high street was full of meaty chunks of what used to be men and young children with their parents watched as a long stream of blood drained past the local shops and down into the sewers. This was one instance where it was in your best interests not to get absolutely soaking wet. A few managed to cling to the sides of buildings and one was lucky enough to land on a church roof, waving frantically at nobody and scratching his crotch.

The second wave came a few short minutes afterwards. They were a bit more prepared and used the first wave as a cushion. There were still several injuries, sprains and lacerations but most of the men managed to hobble away mostly intact, muttering about hammers and how they miss the old car tax discs.

There was a pause of about five minutes before the third wave hit somewhere around 12:22. This sudden influx of middle-aged men was enough to send the townsfolk screaming back into their homes. Both receding and balding, overweight, unwashed and showing far too much flesh, they tried to buy a bag of apples using a fifty pound note only to be told by the fruit and veg stall owner that he didn’t have that much change on him. They all simultaneously tutted and wandered off, arguing over whose personalised licence plate was the best.

The last wave took everyone by surprise. It was believed that the third wave was the final one so when the pensioners arrived at 12:45pm people didn’t quite know what to think. If you’ve ever stared down a sky of wrinkly, sagging flesh, all spectacles and cod liver oil, the faint stench of dank filtering up your nostrils, then you’re a braver man than me. Half of them didn’t make it because the first wave had been cleared away by the Council so there was nothing left to soften the fall. The other half forgot what they were doing halfway through, turned around and flew back up into the sky.

“I have never seen anything like it before,” said Mavis Goggins, landlord of local tavern ‘The Shinty Knees’. “I have lived here for thirty five years and this is the first time we’ve ever had tourists.”

Scientists are yet to explain the bizarre meteorological phenomena. When asked for a comment about it they simply replied, “weasels.”

Science cannot make sense of everything, at least not yet.

Creamtober

As we casually slide into the middle of October, I expect it’s fair to say that everyone is too busy off enjoying ‘Creamtober’ to read this post. I will, however, carry on as it will give them something to read once all the cream-based fun has ceased in the dark and dingy recesses of November.

Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Creamtober’? Keep your voice down, you don’t want to alert others to the fact that you are not right on the fashions. Let me run you through the basics.

‘Creamtober’ was started back in 1981 by Baron Von Creamschteiner. He decided that there were not enough occasions where the joy of cream was celebrated so he invented an entire month of it. Everything in and around ‘Creamtober’ was about his unhealthy obsession with the silkiest of dairy products. It had to be clotted, sour, whipped, poured or squirty. There were so many options that people went absolutely crazy for it. The entire milk industry went very quiet for the next few weeks as cream sold out in practically every shop in the surrounding area. At first the word was out around his home land of Bavaria before spreading into the outer reaches of Europe, Australia and eventually the USA. Now each year three billion people spread the word and life the live of the Creamtobians.

How does one join in? That’s easy; grab some cream and you’re halfway there. Grab three hundred more tubs of cream and fill your fridge to the brim. Each and every time you open the fridge pour as much cream down your trash hole as you can. Do it until you feel violently sick and then leave it for an hour before repeating the same process. You need to cram as much cream into your body as you can each day for thirty one days. You will know the others who are taking part because you will see them in the street, clothes struggling to fit around their obese bodies, unusual lines underneath their eyes and little lines of white liquid dribbling from the corners of their mouths.

At the end of Creamtober you add up how much you have managed to consume over the month and send the results to the grand high emperor of Creamtober (see the address on his website, he lives in Blackburn, Lancashire) who will publish his results. If you have managed to top the charts with your cream-based exploits then you win a year’s supply of cream.

It also means that you can then move onto the next festive month: ‘Novemb-cheese’! Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Novemb-cheese’? Okay, sit down and let me give you the rundown on the basics…

Pouring
Beans

Author: Ian “Air Travel Regulations” McIver