Now, given the choice, Chris has decided that he is Middlesbrough. Recent aerial photography can confirm this:
His cheery, cheeky face can now be seen by anyone flying over the Tyne Tees area. It is sure to bring more tourists up to this part of the world than the Sunderland Airshow and the Wetwang Scarecrow Festival combined.
Now it only remains for Kev to decide what part of the United Kingdom he will turn into.
I have to admit this ones a weird one. Usually I give some bullet points of whats going on in the episode but to do that would spoil this one, so you’ll just have to go into it blind.
Good luck.
If you are affected by any of the themes in today’s podcast,… erm… oops.
Look at the time. Now we’re late. What were you thinking?
As we have pirouetted into both a new year and a new decade we need to address a massive problem that has been in plain sight all this time and nobody has bothered to address. Luckily I have the brass cohonies to step up to the plate and plok that sucker right out of the park (what?) unlike everyone else.
Chris’ personal hero and best friend, Gary Wilmot, hasn’t been seen much recently. In fact the last time I saw him anywhere was around 2010 when he was playing the role of ‘guy in a tuxedo’ in some production of Chicago. You know, because he can sing and dance, and everyone loves him as a showman and all round entertainer? I expect his plate is full of meaty morsels however I want to bring him back to where Wilmers really shines and that’s on the television.
Here’s my idea – ‘Wilmot in the Wild’. It’s a light entertainment show, perfect for the 6:00pm to 8:00pm Saturday evening slot. Each week a series of contestants, those lucky members of the general public, are given some clues as to the whereabouts of where Gary Wilmot is hiding. They follow the clues to more clues and it’s a gigantic treasure hunt where Wilmers is the pot of gold waiting at the end. The first contestants to find him win a luxury hamper and get to perform a duet with Gary, on stage, at the local karaoke bar. We move around to a different city each week so we can really take in the sights up and down the country. The hampers can offer various local produce. I can even get some of my meat balls in there to really seal the deal in a wigwam.
Wilmers will, as a bonus, secretly stalk the contestants as they look for him with a view to offering a post-modern take on the gameshow format. He will also interview passers-by, usually dressed in a hilarious disguise, so nobody knows who he is.
This cannot fail. With the right financial backing I know that I can get this project up and running in time for the Autumn schedule. Start sending your money right now, please!
It’s been floated around for some time now and there’s been an awful lot of confusion as to what happens. You know what I’m referring to; that urban myth that has been haunting this website for as long as I or anyone else can remember. Legend says that if Chris Marshall watches a film, any movie whether short, black and white, foreign or animated, he will explode.
You may laugh at such a premise but it is true. A genuine medical condition that only affects one in twenty million, ‘Brewster Explodius’ came to light during the middle of the twentieth century. The first recorded case was a Clarice Mucklesniff, a 26 year old waitress from North Dakota. She was going to the movies with her boyfriend and less than five minutes into the opening credits she exploded. Her bits were catapulted across the theatre, landing mostly in the aisles bar her arms which landed in the lap of an elderly couple towards the front. Since then there have been multiple cases all over the world of this unfortunate illness.
So we move to our current case, Christopher “Christopheles” “Sausage and Cheese Isosceles” Jimmy Jam-Jam Marshall. Poor Chris has been living with this for most of his life. It was lucky that a friend of the family, who is au fait with these kinds of medical conditions, was able to diagnose him before the worst could happen. In order for us to understand more, we need a hypothetical situation:
A HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION:
Chris has had a hard day at work. He’s taken off his feather boa and decides to relax on the sofa before making some food. As he picks up the remote to browse some channels, the TV opens on that bit in ‘Cocoon’ where the old people get in the pool with the aliens and have a pool party.
His eyes witness the film on the screen. The retinal pools record the information and turns it into some weird shapes and colours, possibly resembling cats. This makes it easier to send it up the pipe shaft.
The information travels up the pipe shaft, past the nosal tubes, towards the front part of the brain, more commonly known as the Gluco-chaffinch. Here it is split into several nixtoglands and sent to the seven corners of the human mind.
For a normal person this would be fine; the nixtoglands would reach their destination and everyone would feel great. Several people would do backflips. For Chris though this is the beginning of the end. When the seven corners are activated it causes the multo peak in the glorbo cells to light up.
Now it is only a matter of time. The blood pumps up into his face muscles which only accelerates the process. The glorbo cells chat to the peanuke rittles causing a chain reaction between the two, meaning a complex chemical implosion that reverses around the maypole and turns back into an explosion.
It goes off. His head catapults to the ceiling. His noses fires off into the kitchen. The eyes don’t make it that far and the ears flop to the floor. The body doesn’t move from the position, it’s still enjoying the film.
I don’t need to tell you that this cannot happen, ever, mainly for my sake because then it’ll mean I’ll be down one friend and will need to hold auditions for a new one to fill the position. Do you know how long that’ll take? Far too long. Please keep my friend safe and never show him any films.
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)
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.
The podcast technically known as ‘Episodes’ is back for an epic second series. And this time it was recorded in a building with more than one floor. Exciting or what?
Episode 12 kicks us off perfectly with happy, nonsensical chat about:
