2 Tina Turners & the Hand of God

I was at work the other day, plinking away at my keyboard and staring listlessly into my screen like a post-lobotomy MacMurphy, when a Tina Turner song came on the radio. Nothing terribly remarkable about a Tina Turner song coming on the radio, I’m sure you’ll agree, unless you happen to live in some alternate universe in which the state has declared the playing of Tina Turner’s music a crime punishable by death. I don’t know why Tina Turner’s greatest hits would be so drastically proscribed in this or any other universe, but I do know that I’ve just come up with a cracking premise for a marginally-successful straight-to-video movie, which I’ll probably call ‘Tina Turner’s Totalitarian Terror’.


Anyway, seconds after Tina Turner had growled huskily from the radio, an email notification popped up in the bottom-right corner of my screen. It was a communication from a lady in our vast group of interconnected companies whose existence, up until that point, had been unknown to me, and whose name I’ll never now forget. That’s because her name was Christina Turner. Again, nothing terribly remarkable about that on its own, but put the two Tina Turner-related sensory assaults together and you’ve got something quite remarkable, if only in the sense that I’ve just remarked upon it.


Tina Turner in the ears; Christina Turner in the eyes. My brain spasmed, temporarily overloaded and unable to cope with this Tina Turner-mageddon. I half-expected to look down to find a woman with gigantic hair vigorously fist-pumping my cock, while looking me in the eyes and shouting: ‘You’re not having a stroke. EVERYTHING’S Tina Turner now, you SON OF A BITCH!!’


The odds against these two events coinciding are precisely fifty-six squillion gazilli-jillions times infinity to one. Trust me, I’m a maths guy. That can mean only one thing: this was no coincidence. Fate was clearly sending me an important message through the medium of a frizzy-haired pensioner with a rhythmically gangrenous hip. But what was fate trying to tell me? I mulled it over. Of course! The function of the first Tina Turner was to draw attention to the second. Because the second Tina Turner was clearly in terrible danger.


I cracked my fingers, held them poised over the keyboard like some heroic concert pianist, and set about sending what would surely be the most important email of Christina Turner’s life:

‘Hello Christina Turner,


You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Now that the introductions are out of the way, I need you to listen to me very carefully, but, you know, listen to me with your eyes. Today I received a message from Tina Turner. Sounds great doesn’t it? No, Christina. It’s not great.


It’s bloody awful.


You’re in terrible danger. We’re talking ‘strange man in a wet-suit clutching a sharpened parrot skull standing at the foot of your bed when you wake up at 3am for a piss’ terrible danger. We’re talking ‘the sharpened parrot-skull opens its hellish maw and says “Christina Turner, you’re in terrible danger,”’ kind of terrible danger.


I know what you’re thinking: this guy’s crazy. How would he even be able to contact Tina Turner? I’m ready to make you swallow your doubt, Christina, because Tina Turner spoke to me through the radio. Now do you believe me, you stupid bitch?


I’ve got to ask: you don’t happen to live anywhere near a place called ‘Nutbush’ do you? Do yourself a favour and stay away from the city limits; in fact until I can fully analyse Tina’s message, you so much as see a hungry squirrel in a hedge, you run like fuck, girl.


Chin up, Christina Turner. We’ll get through this together. Always remember that you’re ‘simply the best’.


PS: Better than all the rest.

A few minutes later my phone rang. It was Christina Turner, in tears, in hysterics no less, telling me she was terrified and had phoned the police. I’d never felt more relief. But as Christina Turner sobbed and sobbed, a sudden panic seized the smile from my face and set my heart a-palpatating. Yes, one Tina Turner was there to draw attention to the other. But what if I’d got my Tina Turners mixed up? What if the Tina Turner in danger wasn’t Tina Turner, but TINA TURNER? The famous one? Of course. After all, why would fate go to all that trouble to intercede on behalf of a prole?




Dear The Tina Turner Fan Club

At this very moment you hold Tina Turner’s life in your hands. She is in grave danger. I should know, because I got an email from somebody who is essentially called Tina Turner at the same time as a Tina Turner song came on the radio. OK, so the radio station we’re tuned to plays at least nine Tina Turner songs a day, but who made you an expert at divining fate? Do you want Tina Turner to die? Well, do you? Who are you going to be a fan of then? DIANA ROSS? Fuck off.


Please just warn her. Even though she probably doesn’t have that long left, it would be a shame to see her gutted like a fish/squashed by a falling safe/succumbing to painful flatulence as a result of too much dairy in her diet.


PS: I’m making a film called ‘Tina Turner’s Totalitarian Terror’. I was thinking of casting Burt Ward as Tina, you know, to generate a bit of left-field buzz. Ask her what she thinks.

If you have ever believed yourself psychic, or in tune with fate or the heavens, if a person about whom you’ve just been thinking contacts you that very same minute, hour or day, then you’re probably just as crazy as the alternate version of Jamie Andrew who actually did send those emails to Christina and Tina Turner.


The coincidence actually happened, but my point is that coincidences always do. We’ve spun a maddeningly intricate web of connections across and around our humble little hunk of rock which spins inside a vast and infinite universe. How could they fail to? We choose to imbue coincidences with an air of relevance or destiny because a) that’s how our brains have evolved, and our travel, technologies and societies have evolved too quickly for the old grey matter to catch up, and/or b) we’re ridiculous, shart-brained narcissists.


My Tina/Christina Turner coincidence was just that. It would be ridiculous to think that there was some greater meaning or message behind it all, but for some reason hundreds of millions of people all around the world tend to interpret the world’s hundreds of millions of more conventional, non-Tina-Turner-related coincidences as evidence of God’s hand in the mix. So what do you think now? That God, or fate or who-or-what-ever you think linked those Tina Turners together in order to inspire me to write a blog post about how coincidences are just coincidences and not incidences of fate, so that…?




Oh my.


Well played, fate.


You’ve danced privately for me. You’ve unsteamed my windows.


I guess that’s a ‘fate accompli’.


Why I’d love to live under a dictatorship


I sometimes watch the news and find myself unable to process and interpret the dizzying, conflicting array of agendas, voices, wants, desires, schemes, half-truths, un-truths, exaggerations and lies. How I long for a simpler existence. Unless you’re in the 1 per cent – or one of those lizard people that David Icke’s always banging on about – nothing you say, think or do matters anyway. Free thought and moral relativism are exhausting. So I’ve been dreaming about a different world. A better world… Imagine it with me.

Instead of humming and hawing, and deliberating, and debating, and compensating, and weighing consequences, and wondering who’s telling the truth, and trying to work out whose image is being manipulated by which media outlet and why, and reading articles, and journals, and manifestos, and pamphlets by the library-load in a vain, ever-futile attempt to work out why you should care, what you should do, how you should think, who you should trust, and why, why, why, a thousand times why… wouldn’t it be refreshing just to wake up in a world where a man went on television, stood on a flag-draped podium and shouted, ‘DO WHAT I SAY OR I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU.’

Yes, of course it would be horrible. But wouldn’t it also be, you know, awesome?


The more I think about it, the more I’m certain that I would have thrived under a dictatorship. School would’ve been an absolute doddle. When you live in a totalitarian state you usually find that the most important book in the school syllabus is a book of poetry that the dictator has written to commemorate Squiggles, his dead guinea pig. I would’ve been an A+ student.

“When our dear leader wrote that he ‘loved ickle wittle Squiggles little face’, and then went on to say that ‘he missed that fuwwy, fwuffy, cuddwee wittle face’ I cried for six days. And rhyming ‘face’ with ‘face’? Such a strikingly bold choice, but then our dear leader is nothing if not strikingly bold, may he reign for another ten million years, and may his enemies drown in hot gallons of their own blood. PS: On that note, Little Jimmy Graham in class 2B said that guinea pigs are vermin and eat their own poo, so I wonder if perhaps he needs a spell of ‘mandatory re-education’ in the Airdrie gulag? PPS: I wonder if he’ll be needing his new Nike Airs in the gulag. I’d be more than happy to look after them.”

And there’s another awesome aspect of living life under the iron fist: the ability to have your rivals – or even just people who happen to blow their nose in a rather irritating way – carted off to prison or the afterlife with the minimum of effort.

“Dear State Bureau of Citizen Improvement for the Glory of Our Mighty Leader,

Last night, just after my Dad confiscated the Xbox controllers from me for giving him cheek, he went into his bedroom and said to my mum, ‘Dictator? Dick…taker more like!’ He also quite clearly and audibly insinuated that he had a bigger penis than our great leader.

PS: any chance you could ask him where he’s stashed the controllers as you lead him crying and screaming from the house? ”



School: The Merciful and Munificent Leader’s Institution for the Inculcation and Responsibilisation of Our Great Republic’s Pre-Citizens Junior High


  1. 2 + 2 = whatever our Dear Leader tells me it equals.
  2. If x + y(2) – c(a) / 245.76 X yy2(cos24), is it the fault of the Jews? = Yes.
  3. Describe Pythagoras’ theorem = No. Pythagoras was a reactionary intellectual separatist whose belief in angles is a threat to the mighty secular perfection of the Great republic. Also, almost definitely a black Jewish homosexual.


“Animal Farm, by the treacherous bastard Eric Blair, is a piece of pernicious capitalist propaganda that says more about the author’s barely concealed sexual attraction to pigs than it does about life in our glorious republic. All copies of this book should be burned, and its author’s bones disinterred and pooed upon. Besides, if it’s a good book about pigs you’re after, you can’t beat ‘Without Rhyme or Reason: The Tragic Death of Squiggles.’”


Essay: “Our Dear Leader’s fingers do not stretch over the fret of a guitar, therefore guitars are flawed, and possibly a plot by our enemies to humiliate our Dear Leader, which is why I spent a semester confiscating 7000 guitars from the local community, recording the noise of me smashing each of them to pieces with a hammer, and releasing the finished edit as the number 1 hit single, ‘Guitar Ownership is a Capital Offence by Decree of our Benevolent and Magnificent Leader, May All his Wanks be Uninterrupted and Unhurried.’”


With school finished – and aced – I’d be straight on to a long, successful career in the Ministry of Propaganda where I’d be writing school text books, newspaper reports and government missives. Like:

“Americans: do they really bathe their young in Coca Cola, and have sex with hawks? Yes. Yes they do.”

“The French speak of freedom and revolution. They also use cheese as a deodarant and play with their uncles’ dicks. Don’t listen to them.”

“Why the Spanish are almost certainly a nation of transsexuals who enjoy sex with dead whales that they dress up like giant flamenco dancers.”

“Forcing the Germans to build a wall to help us keep the Germans out of our country: the importance of sniper turrets.”

Work is often a place of stagnation, a repetitive, soul-sucking dirge that booms in your brain until you shuffle off to the grave with a carriage clock tucked under your oxster. Imagine how much more exciting it would be if your working week was a hot-bed of attempted assassinations and high-stakes mud-slinging, where Friday would quickly inherit the acronym TFISA (Thank fuck I’m still alive). Retirement wouldn’t just be a relief. It would be a real achievement. Like completing Halo on Legendary without getting shot once.

At this point, please feel free to imagine me letting out a wistful sigh. (pause for wistful sigh) Ah, those were… well, not those were the days, I suppose, because they never happened. But those should’ve been the days. Those could still be the days.

Do they advertise dictator vacancies at the Job Centre?

Where have you been all my lives?


Linlithgow: driving through its heavily congested high street makes you feel like you’re stuck behind the funeral cortege of somebody you’ve always fucking hated.

A few years ago a friend and I visited a shop in Linlithgow that specialised in religious and spiritual bric-a-brac. It was a weird little place: the sort of place where the Bible and the Koran shared space on the bookshelf alongside titles like ‘How to Exorcise Satanic Monopoly Pieces’ and ‘Making Your Cursed Monkey Foot Work For You.’

I wish you could’ve seen it. It’s not there any more. I’d like to think it just vanished in a puff of smoke one day, or that it never actually existed and my whole experience of the place was an hallucination triggered by the proximity of some ancient and evil artefact. But there’s probably a more humdrum explanation: the place was just too bat-shit mental to turn a profit. A Needful Things where none of the things were needful, and the devil running the place wasn’t a very good salesman.


When you first walked into Needless Things there was a giant Jesus on a crucifix hanging on the wall; a Native American dream-catcher bounced from the ceiling above a wooden statue of an axe-wielding Native American chief in full ceremonial head-dress; Buddha squatted on a little side-table in a corner of the room, and a stone Virgin Mary stood on the floor next to him. It made me smile. I’d seen Night at the Museum. I sincerely hoped that the religious figurines would come to life at night for a scrap and a raucous party, and the shop-keeper would open the shop the next day to find Jesus scalped, and Mary no longer a virgin.

The lady who owned the shop was a tiny, shrivelled raisin with a limp. A quick visual sweep of her wrinkle-etched face convinced me that she was at least 6000 years old. I was surprised she could still walk owing to the tonne of jewellery that bedecked her bird-like frame, the weight of which gave her the gait of a half-wrecked skinless Terminator. I’m sure she was created in a laboratory as part of some weird genetic experiment to splice Yoda with Mr T.

She was also – and I’m struggling to be charitable here – absolutely fucking mental. Pitied the fool, I did.


The old woman teetered and clinked her way across the shop-floor towards us, fixing us with a calm, predatory stare from her lifeless shark eyes. My friend was suffering from anxiety and panic attacks at the time (a condition  that could only have been exacerbated by the sight of this mystic dinky toy with a waxwork face moving in for the kill), information she shared with the old woman after they entered into a discussion about protective amulets or some such shit. The words ‘panic attack’ appeared to be one of the old woman’s triggers; she adopted a look somewhere between possession and constipation. I guess she was thinking.

‘Panic attacks,’ she said, her ancient lips hardly moving, lending her the appearance of a poorly-painted, haunted ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘Some people think that panic attacks are to do with your brain. Others think they’re to do with bad things in your childhood. But did you ever consider… [wait for it, I thought] that they might be caused by something that happened to you… in a past life?’

Em, no. No, we hadn’t considered that. Mainly because we’re not absolutely insane. I was relieved that this crazy old coot hadn’t entered the medical profession.

“I’ve checked you over, and your panic attacks appear to have been caused by that time you were chased through the garden of Eden by a T-Rex. I’m prescribing an enchanted emerald and a bag of magic frog dicks.”


The best was yet to come. She went on to claim that one of her pals – undoubtedly called Mags or Betty – had given her a past-life regression, during which she’d discovered that she’d been a black slave, transported on a galley from Africa to America. I bit my lip so hard I almost ate my face. She stared back at us. This woman was entirely serious. She believed it without question. She further claimed that this revelation finally explained why she had always felt such an affinity with black people. It’s a testament to the entrenched racism of most elderly people in Central Scotland that the only sensible explanation this woman could find for liking black people is that she used to be one two hundred years ago.

I wonder what wee Yoda is doing with herself these days, now that her business has folded. I’d like to think she’s returned to Brooklyn to be with her people. I can just see her now, limping up to a gaggle of guys on a front step somewhere, throwing her arms wide and hollering: “It’s me! It’s Acqwon! I’ve lost a bit of weight since the 18th century, and granted I’m now a tiny white Scottish pensioner, but don’t you recognise me? Come on, homeys, let’s roll up a trouser leg and shoot some hoops!”


Jesus Loves You: that’s the problem

Jesus is a jerk

Jesus comes to Stirling


Brave man risks life to warn of brick danger


Gary Fardarcarson

An Airdrie man put his life at risk to bring the hidden dangers of bricks to public attention. Gary Fardarcarson was moved to take action by the horrifying ambivalence of the people in his local community – dubbed the ‘brick-blind’ by Gary – whom he believed were long overdue their first brick-related tragedy.

“I’ve got a lot of time for bricks,” says Gary. “Don’t get me wrong about that. Ask anyone: some of the best times of my life have somehow involved bricks. I really love them. But what you’ve got to understand is that I really love guns and choking people, too, and you’re not going to stand there and tell me that those things are safe. Not if you don’t want choked and shot, you won’t.”

Gary remembers clearly his moment of revelation.

“I was watching these kids playing in this piece of derelict wasteland, and there were bricks. Bricks everywhere. These poor kids were surrounded by them. I started crying, crying so hard I couldn’t see through the telescope anymore.”

“Somebody has to do something, I thought to myself. But what?”


To hammer his message home, Gary spent the next three months eating nothing but bricks. It’s  estimated that Gary ate the equivalent of a modest semi-detached ex-council house in Rutherglen. Doctors involved in his case described him as being ’67 per cent more brick than man.’ He was almost sectioned seventeen times, but every time they sent people after him, Gary choked and shot them. Consuming such vast quantities of bricks also put a considerable strain on his health. He suffered six heart attacks. Both of his kidneys failed. He lost all seven of his teeth. And his anus was torn asunder like a horde of hedgehogs kamikaze-ing a lawnmower.

“My mates would joke with me, ‘Is that you having Weet-a-bricks for breakfast, Gary?’ Listen, I was having bricks for breakfast, a brick sandwich for lunch – which is basically just two bricks with another brick in the middle – a light brick snack, maybe some slate or something like that, hot bricks for tea, and a wee daud of clay for supper, change it up, you know, because I couldn’t just eat bricks and nothing but bricks all day; that would be fucking mental. I’d even drink pints of melted bricks.”

Gary is now confined to a wheelchair and shits out of a hole in his thigh, but he’s adamant that it was all worth it. “Noone can say that bricks are safe. And that’s down to me.”

A spokesman for the brick industry reviewed Gary’s data and told us to ‘fuck off’.


Topenga Fardarcarson

Gary’s ex-wife Topenga could offer no clue as to Gary’s unconventional behaviour. “No, nothing. No hint,” she said. “Nothing in his background could account for this. Well, his mother did used to dress up like the Rock Monster from The Never Ending Story, smash him over the head with bricks and then have sex with his Dad over his bleeding, semi-conscious body whilst they both pretended to choke and shoot each other, but I don’t think that ever affected him.”

The ghost of Freud confirmed that ‘sometimes a brick is just a brick.’

Gary later admitted to us that he wasn’t even a real person. “I’m actually a fictional character created by a man named Jamie Andrew for the purposes of a ridiculous, meandering blog. I mean, Fardarcarson? Come on. That’s not even a funny name, it’s just vaguely ridiculous. I’ve got dreams, you know. I’d eventually like to leave the confines of this blog and go on to do something else with my life, maybe in the theatre or something like that, but it’s going to be tough when this cunt has written me into a wheelchair. Let me get this straight, Jamie, you don’t have the creativity to execute this idea properly, so Gary Fardarcarson over here has to suffer a life of paralysis and shitting out his leg? Great move, you hack. Thanks for that. And I’m from AIRDRIE? SERIOUSLY! You couldn’t have cut me even a tiny break? Maybe, JUST maybe, if you’d spent a little less time googling minor character actors on IMDB and watching porn, you’d’ve given me a more satisfying character arc. And another… oh come on, really? I’ve just noticed something… What’s with that picture at the start of the article? Is that supposed to be me? That is NOT how I see myself. For starters, I’m a slim, sassy black lady with dreads and diamante-capped teeth. So fuck you, Jamie Andrew… Fuck you!”

Gary Fardarcarson slumped in his wheelchair as the last of his organs began to fail. Just to leave no doubt as to the trajectory of his hopeless predicament, at that very moment a truck filled with bricks careered off the road, mounted the pavement and splatted that ungrateful bastard into the tarmac.

“I’m still… alive…you… hack,” said Gary.

The driver exited his truck and proceeded to choke Gary’s dying body.

“Still…. alive….”

And then he shot him.

Man vs Insects

insect1Forget any of the erudite arguments put forward against the existence of God by Dawkins or Hitchens. You want to disprove God? Just take one long look at the ocean floor, and behold some of the horrendous and upsetting abominations down there: things with see-through condom heads and eight hundred legs that drag themselves over the pitch-black seabed like luminous tumours; swarms of sentient, electrified cucumbers with neon afros; things that look like eyes perched on dismembered heels.

Allow me to crystalise my thoughts through the medium of song: and a one, and a two… and a one, two, three, four… “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small…” Really? Really God? You made them all? Were you drunk, God? Did you have a fucking mental breakdown? Also, if these creatures are so crucial to your Jesus-related master-plan, then why did you hide them underneath 20,000 feet of crushing blackness?

Anyway, I’m not too concerned about the nightmares of the ocean. I don’t live there. When I visit, I just sort of trust that people are going to skim or fly me over it as quickly as possible. What I’m more concerned about is the land, specifically my little portion of it. I’m talking insects people. Hellish, hideous insects. God, I’m talking to you again: what possible reason, except for a laugh, could you have had for creating a slug, a woodlouse or a tic? Seriously, you’re mentally ill, mate.


Summer is upon us, which means that even as I write this hordes of insects are amassing at the peripheries of our suburban castles, just waiting for the right moment to breach the defences and invade. Spiders, flies, wasps, ants, beetles: the whole bug-ugly battalion of multi-legged motherfuckers; hideous creatures that look like they were brought into existence by the collective imaginations of Clive Barker and HR Geiger after a night of particularly heavy drinking.

Insects disgust and agitate me in ways that no other creature on earth has yet managed, with the possible exception of Katy Hopkins. I hate them because they’re travesties, abominations, and harbingers of filth and disease. I hate them because they make a mockery of my mission to protect the homestead from foreign invaders. I hate them because my primal programming compels me to avoid or destroy them. I hate them because they remind me of my own pointless and arbitrary existence on this planet. I’m a mere sack of meat, a host, a vessel, vulnerable, venal and killable: trapped in the ageless, endless cycle of shagging, spawning, shitting, eating and dying in which every species on earth is ensnared and engaged. And all of that comes into sharp focus whenever I see a spider stringing and spitting its arse-glue around my living room lampshade. I think I think too much. I think I need to get out more. (But in a fully-sealed bio-suit, of course) I wish I was a spider sometimes, if only so I wouldn’t have to worry about spiders all the time. (Note to God: if you do happen to exist, and the Buddhists were right, then please don’t be an asshole and read the previous sentence as a direct and literal appeal to you to reincarnate me as a spider. I was using your name conversationally, and you know it, you big rotter. FYI, I want to come back as myself again, only thinner and richer)


Summer’s influx of insects turns me into Howard Hughes, driving me to bouts of irrationality and insanity. I’ll gladly sit in the house suffocating myself half-to-death in the baking, dog-killing heat – the windows and doors clamped shut, gaffer tape stretched over every gap and crack – if my oxygen-sacrifice will prevent the entry of even one housefly. YOU… SHALL NOT PASS! As a child, I couldn’t eat my breakfast in the kitchen, or enjoy a simple shit in the bathroom, until every fly in the room had been snuffed out. I’d waddle around the bathroom snapping at flies with a hand-towel, always on the cusp of crapping myself, but despite the agony unable to sit, squat or shit until every last one was vanquished. The thought of those verminous swines lowering themselves onto my exposed buttocks mid-shit like some team of anal astronauts (Buzz Aldrin indeed) was too much to bear.

My fly fury wasn’t confined to the bathroom and kitchen. I had venetian blinds in my bedroom, which came in handy for my part-time career as a heroic fly exterminator. Each slat was perpetually splattered with the blood and pus of dead flies. I’d stun them, perch their break-dancing bodies on a slat, and then pull the cord to concertina them to death. My mum had to keep taking the blinds outside to scrub them down, doubtless wondering if her son was manifesting the behaviour of a nascent serial killer.


In our household, we kicked off summer with a war against ant-kind. Now, ants are great if they happen to be animated and voiced by Woody Allen. They’re not so great when they’re festooning your tiles and participating in a cheeky conga-line across your counter-tops. Their invasion was slow, insidious. I’d find a handful of them peppered over the tiles next to the kitchen window every morning. I’d snuff them out, squishing their little bodies like bubble-wrap beneath my fingers. They’d return, they’d die, they’d return, they’d die. Then, nothing. No ants. Not a single one. Days would pass. A week, maybe. I’d cautiously declare the republic of my kitchen an ant-free zone, rejoice in my victory over those mangy, mandibled monstrosities. Alas, the first ants were merely the scouts for a full-out invasion force. The ants returned, they always returned, but each time in greater number, swelling their ranks until my fingers were black with the blood of a hundred tiny soldiers. They made my bin-cupboard into a fortress. One day I opened the metal sugar tin – sealed so tightly that nary a microbe could squeeze between lid and box – to find them swimming through the sweet white sugar like kids larking in a summer lake. Naturally, I killed them all. Over endless weeks I watched them slip and scurry beneath and between tiles and cupboards like something out of the X-Files. I watched as they sent forth their scouts and raised an anty flag above our fridge. I raged, I ranted, I splatted and thumped. Killed, cleaned, shifted and scrubbed. I genuinely debated slicing off their tiny heads and spearing them on Blu-Tac-mounted toothpicks as a warning to the survivors. Nothing worked. Nothing could stop them. With a small, reasonably mobile child in the house, I was reluctant to opt for the nuclear option: chemical sprays and bait traps.

I discussed the problem with a lady at work. She appeared to have the answer. “I will tell you something that is guaranteed to work. Something that will send those ants packing, never to return. It’s simple, costless and effective, and it has always worked for me. What you must do is…”

…Just ask them to leave.”

I bought chemical bait traps. They fucked off. Yay genocide!


Flies and ants may be bad, but wasps are the worst. They’re psychotic. I once had one in my living room that buzzed and dive-bombed at me with the ferocity of an airborne tiger. I attempted to swat it with a phone book, which I assumed would at least subdue the unruly fucker. It didn’t. The wasp came at me madder, faster and harder. I retreated from the room and slammed the door behind me. I may even have whimpered. One thing was clear: I needed to regroup and formulate a strategy. First item on the agenda: how the hell do I regroup when there’s only one of me?

Let’s examine the enemy’s mindset by putting ourselves in its place for just a second. Imagine yourself hovering a hundred feet in the air with a jet-pack strapped to your back. Now imagine that a giant is swiping at you with a block of flats. What would you do? You’d probably whoosh off to safety, in the process splattering yourself with a good few litres of your own fear-scented shit. What you probably wouldn’t do is whip out a fork from your pocket and zoom towards the giant shouting, ‘LET’S FUCKING DO THIS, YOU BIG NONCE!’ I know that wasps are miniscule-brained, biological automatons, but credit where credit’s due, I know a hard bastard when I see one. Wasps are fucking mental cases.

Thankfully, insects have been less visible and less of a problem over the last few years – wasps especially – owing to our cold summers and even colder winters. This is why, despite how much I may whinge about the scattershot nature of the Scottish weather, I wouldn’t change its dire character for the world. Australia, South Africa, FL USA, everywhere else in the world where it’s hot and humid: enjoy your beautiful sunshine. But also enjoy your endless, nefarious hordes of slimy, creepy, crawly, stingy, bitey little bugs and beasts. I’ll be here watching the rain drum against my windows, snapping the occasional fly and snubbing the odd ant, happy that at least my unwelcome visitors don’t have fangs or venom.

Weighing it all up


If you’ve just welcomed a baby into your life, prepare to have the following question asked of you at least eight-thousand nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine thousand million billion times:

“What weight were they?”

So you tell them, they nod and they smile a dreamy little far-off smile, and you think to yourself: ‘What the fuck significance does that particular measurement hold for you, my inquisitive friend?’

Why has this question become de rigueur in discussions about babies? Seriously, I want to know. The information is neither important nor interesting; furthermore, the question could be insensitive if the baby being asked about is either over or under weight. I guess what people really want to know when they ask that question is whether or not the baby is healthy. Here’s a little pointer: if you’re having a calm and pleasant conversation with a mother about her new baby, then it’s probably safe to assume that the baby is healthy. Otherwise the mother would be a depressed husk weeping at your feet.

If you’re an asker of that particular question, I’d like to interrogate your motivation: are you compiling statistics for the ONS? Do you have a giant ever-expanding graph on your bedroom wall showing the comparative weights of all babies within a 40-mile radius, which you pore over like some drooling serial killer in the dead of night? Are you planning on cooking these fucking babies?

“8 pounds? Cool, that’ll be gas mark five for forty minutes.”

Is it a boasting thing, like when men get together to compare battle scars? Or is there a maternal hierarchy based upon birth-weight-related agony?

“So what was your wee one’s weight? Six pounds? Huh, that’s not giving birth, sweetheart, that’s shitting out a Malteser. My son was 11 pounds, hen. Wee bastard’s noggin ripped my vag apart like a mace smashing through a paper bag. You don’t know your kid’s born.”

I’m going to start asking for evermore obscure measurements from new parents: “What was the diameter of your daughter’s ankle? How mathematically spherical was her head? Can you give me her hand-span? I’m writing a book about children’s hands.” That’ll put a stop to this nonsense.

The Maths of Mort

Staying loosely on the topic of maths and measurements, I’m reminded of an expression my mum was fond of using in relation to a big body of water near her home-town of Drumchapel in Glasgow. It was a canal, or a reservoir, or a flooded quarry pit, or something, I can’t remember exactly (I could phone her to clarify, but that feels too much like proper journalism to me, and that clearly isn’t part of this blog’s mission statement). But she used to say to me, ‘Oh Jamie. So many kids died in that water…’

Wait for it…

‘… that it wisnae even funny anymore.’

How many kids had to drown, before the people of Glasgow stopped laughing? What a wonderfully unfortunate turn of phrase. I never knew there was an acceptable level of dead-kid titterage, or such strict rules and limits. This is a minefield, people. We need to quantify and clarify. Luckily, I got together with Stephen Hawking and Carol Vorderman and put together a handy little graph.


First of all, let’s address the deficiencies. Unfortunately, the graph can’t tell us the weight of the children. Thankfully, the graph can tell us that nine is the cut-off before laughing at drowned kids ‘isnae even funny any more’. You now know, extrapolating from the data, that if you happen to find yourself in the East End of Glasgow regaling the occupants of a rowdy pub with hilarious stories of oxygen-starved, water-clogged kids, that big Shug and his pals will laugh along with you, slapping your back and even buying you pints, only up until the mention of the tenth drowned child, after which point you’ll probably have your teeth knocked out. Presumably then a gang of hairy welders will attempt to rape you with a succession of upturned bar stools. And, worst of all, you won’t get any Ferrero Rochers.

I’m here to help.

Links to other parenting/kids articles:

A Celebration of Public Breastfeeding 

On Being a Father

What a baby should expect on his/her first workplace visit

It’s My Funeral

Clown-funeralWhat song would you like to have played at your funeral? It’s got to be something uplifting, right? Something that’s going to keep the tears from falling from your mourners’ eyes by reminding them of the good times. And if tears do come then at least, thanks to you, they’ll be happiness flavoured tears. OK, the mourners won’t be doing Dick Van Dyke-style up-in-the-air heel clicks or cartwheeling over pews (unless you’re Thatcher); after all, there’s only so much happiness that can be wrung from a cold room where people have gathered to wear black and contemplate the bleak inevitability of death. But with a few simple pre-expiration choices you can help them come to terms with your passing, and that’s an incredibly noble thing to do. We, the dead, owe it to the living to keep their spirits up in their time of grief, right?


Fuck that. If you’re coming to my funeral, you’re a convulsing, snottering wreck, or you can get your dry face the fuck out of my swansong. I’m literally going to have doormen punting people out for not being upset enough. “Sorry, missus, today’s funeral is a two-wail minimum, and you’ve barely scrounged up a sob. You can leave quietly, or big Davie over there will really give you something to cry about.” I want ‘Everybody Hurts’ by REM played on a constant loop, and I want people to complain because it’s not sad enough, and then to suit the mood somebody has to put on a tape of dogs being murdered instead. I want people banging on the coffin lid pleading to be buried or burned along with me, because a world without me is simply too nightmarish to contemplate. I want a queue of people lining up to grief-fuck my dead body. I want people openly killing themselves in the aisles. I want my funeral to look like a peasant revolt and sound like a field full of raped cats in a hurricane.

I’m really looking forward to my funeral, actually. I’ve got a few ideas of things I’d like to put in place for it, if I can get a few volunteers to help.

  • About half-way through the service, an actor pretending to be a detective bursts in and says, “Jamie was murdered. And someone in this room is the murderer. And we’re not leaving until we find out who.”
  • Pass around song-sheets and make everyone sing organ-accompanied versions of ‘Killing in the Name’ and ‘Straight Outta Compton’.
  • I want a big, fancy funeral, worthy of a president or a pope, so I’m going to secure an obscene amount of funding by allowing Coca Cola to sponsor it. This means that all of the speakers will have to endorse the product, but that’s a small price to pay for a platinum gravestone. “I think… the only thing that’s going to… (sniff) get me through this difficult time is the… (sob) sweet, sweet, full-sugar taste of delicious Coca Cola.” My coffin’s going to be shaped like a vending machine. No, scrap that, my gravestone will be a vending machine, so people can enjoy a nice Fanta when they come to cry over my rotting corpse. Plus, everyone’s going to have to wear red and white at the funeral or they’ll be in breach of contract and Coca Cola will sue them. As a consequence of this legally-binding colour scheme, my funeral’s going to look like a Santa-themed funeral.
  • My face is beamed on to a large screen at the front of the congregation. I put on by most mental, mad-eyed glare and yell down at them: “I’M GOING TO HELL. AND YOU’RE ALL FUCKING COMING WITH ME!” At this point, my paid henchmen will lock all the exits, and a smoke machine will start pumping smoke into the room. You’ll just be able to hear my maniacal laughter over the screams.
  • If I’m being cremated, just as the coffin slides out of sight along the conveyor belt and the curtain drops, a stunt-man will run out screaming and covered in flames.
  • Either that or I’ll have speakers in my coffin blasting out the panicked yelps of a trapped cat.
  • I’m going to hire a stand-up comedian for the wake, but they won’t know it’s a wake. They’ll be told it’s a seminar for morticians, and thus will be encouraged to use their sickest material, especially jokes about dead bodies and funerals. I won’t be the only one dead that day.

Please help me accomplish all this. It’s what I will have wanted.

The Tail of the Christmas Canine

A very lovely lady at work gave me a her-dog-themed Christmas card, which was sweet and thoughtful. Here it is:


Isn’t it nice? Isn’t the wee dog really cute?

This is how I repaid her:


If any of you out there with too much time on your hands are up for creating pictures that whisk this adorable little quadruped into other places in time and space, then whip them up and drop me an email with the blighters attached. Let’s make Brody the most famous dog in the universe after Lassie, the Littlest Hobo and Hitler’s dog.

I’ll collate the pictures and we’ll give them their own hashtag on Twitter or something, because that’s modern as fuck and I’ve very much got my finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist, whatever that is.

(I already know I won’t receive a single picture of this fucking dog, not even a shit one where he’s at the pyramids, but please let me have my little deluded Yule-fuelled moment. I’m crying now. But my tears are for the dog. He could’ve been somebody. He could’ve been a contender. Goodbye.)


USA Declares War on Scotland

Megrahi: Guilty of a terrible crime - those glasses are fucking horrendous.

al-Megrahi: Guilty of a terrible crime – wearing those fucking horrendous specs.

CIA files leaked earlier this week reveal the extent of the hostility felt by the US towards Scotland in the wake of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi’s (but buddy, you can call me Al) release from a Scottish prison in 2009. US officials were so incensed by the decision to release on compassionate grounds the Libyan man convicted of bombing Pan Am Flight 103 in 1988 that a plan was set in motion to destabilise Scotland by sabotaging its national cultural identity and legacy.

"I WANNA SPEND MY LIFE WITH YOU!" Nah, you're alright, pal...

“I WANNA SPEND MY LIFE WITH YOU!” Nah, you’re alright, pal…

The first victim of this diabolical plan – codenamed Operation Bomby Scorch land – was Scottish ‘musical’ act The Proclaimers (it’s a fallacy that The Proclaimers consists of two brothers; in reality, The Proclaimers is a single entity, believed to have been created in a laboratory). Scottish Justice Secretary Kenny McAskill, the man ultimately responsible for releasing al-Megrahi, received a ‘Letter from America’ informing him that the Proclaimers had been brutally murdered. A mysterious phone-call followed:

‘The Proclaimers are dead,’ said the anonymous caller.
‘What have you done with their bodies?’ demanded MacAskill.
‘You’ll find them if you take a look up the rail-tracks, from Miami to Canada.’
‘That’s quite a long route,’ said MacAskill, ‘could you be a bit more specific?’
‘Oh, all right, then, their corpses are just outside Miami Central Station.’

The US army: ready to kick Scotland right in the bad teeth.

The US army: ready to kick Scotland right in the bad teeth.

Thankfully, it was a false alarm. The Proclaimers were alive and well. Government spooks had accidentally murdered two very, very ugly guys wearing shit glasses who had travelled to Florida from Glasgow on holiday. Their families were informed, and they just laughed. ‘Aye, they do look a wee bit like The Proclaimers, right enough,’ said one mother.

‘Daft cunts,’ she added.

Despite The Proclaimers setback, the CIA pressed on with their mission, and successfully  managed to:

  • Go through every episode of the original Star Trek series and change Scotty’s name to ‘Englishy.’
  • Spread a rumour that the Loch Ness monster is a homosexual communist with ties to Yemen.
  • Convince every American celebrity to refer to Annie Lennox as ‘Tranny Lennox’, and always make the gesture of possessing a massive cock whenever she walked past. The joke was on the US, though, as Annie Lennox later hung herself. No, I’m sorry, I read that wrong… what I meant to say was, it turns out Annie Lennox WAS hung after all.
  • Fund a tourism campaign, with the slogan: ‘Don’t go to Scotland, it’s shit and they don’t brush their teeth.’
  • Destroy every existing copy of Braveheart, and then reshoot the movie with an uzi-toting Arnold Swarzennegger as King Edward, and the guy who played McLuvin as William Wallace. They also changed William Wallace’s name to ‘Full-Blown-AIDS McCunty’.
X-rated Krankies: a black helmet pushing through a big purple cunt.

X-rated Krankies: a black helmet pushing through a big purple cunt-hole.

The US only backed down from its onslaught when McAskill threatened to deploy The Krankies on US soil. A US government spokesman said: ‘OK, we’ll back off. But know this: if you assholes ever again even think about sending The Krankies to America, we’ll melt your disgusting little country into hot mush like it’s a fucking petrol-laced welly boot in a microwave.’

Use of any Krankie as an instrument of warfare, either singularly or in conjunction with another Krankie, is prohibited under International Law, and is in direct contravention of the Motherwell Convention of the United Nations. The Krankies are currently the only weapons of mass destruction to regularly appear in panto.

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A Stroke of Luck

"I didn't say 'bomb Argentina.' I said Ballymena!"

“I didn’t say ‘bomb Argentina.’ I said Ballymena!”

UK chancellor George Osborne revealed today that the coalition has been slashing the welfare budget these past few months so that ‘there would be enough money in the national coffers to give Maggie one almighty whore of a fucking funeral.’

‘We’ve known for some time that The Unspeakable One’s time was drawing near, thanks to an ancient Mayan prophecy that was discovered a few decades ago scrawled in a Guatemalan cave,’ said Osborne. ‘That, and the fact that she’s been shitting herself to death for the past month.’

Iain Duncan Cunt added: ‘We’ve done a whip round of JSA, DLA, pensions and housing benefit, and used the mandatory generosity of the plebs to put together a fitting send-off for the Iron Fuhrer. In a special twist, and just for a laugh, we used some poll tax money as well.’

Tributes were led by David Cameron, who told BBC reporters: ‘I’d’ve done her. And I’m talking up the arse and everything.’ Cameron also praised the ‘hard work of George and Iain’ in securing funds for the funeral, a move he fully supports. ‘The old, the vulnerable and the poor have been plunged deeper into their misery, all in the name of financing Margaret Thatcher’s state funeral,’ continued Cameron. ‘It’s what she would have wanted.’

A massive, gaping hole. Which is just one example of what people are saying about Margaret Thatcher.

A massive, gaping hole. Which is just one of many lovely things that people are saying about Margaret Thatcher.

The funeral itself will take place on the site of one of the coal mines that Thatcher closed down in the 80s. These past few months, MPs have been busy rounding up benefits’ claimants, OAPS and the chronically disabled, who will all be tossed into the mine shaft to form a pyre.

‘We would’ve used coal miners, too,’ smirked Cameron, ‘but we couldn’t seem to find any.’

Once the pyre is in place the corpse of the ex-PM will be lowered into the shaft by telekinesis, powered by Thatcher’s own residual evil. David Cameron will then take his place above the shaft, don a top hat, and spend the next ten minutes using a giant pipe to pump a volatile mixture of petrol and stolen milk into the hole. Boris Johnson will help him toss in the ceremonial Molotov cocktails, as they both piss themselves laughing and give each other high fives. The colossal fire will be used as a backdrop for a night of Tory merriment and ritual slaughter, during which it is expected that at least 50 Guardian readers will be sacrificed. So that’s all of them.

Margaret Thatcher was the United Kingdom’s first female Prime Minister. Now that she’s dead she joins history’s other esteemed female trailblazers, like Elizabeth Bathory, Myra Hindley and Bevery Allitt.

Thatcher’s vengeful return in the guise of an ancient Babylonian demon is expected early next week.



A Rather Childish Tongue Twister

Try this. It’s both impossible AND amusing.

You know the wee tune that goes, ‘Ole, ole ole ole. Ole. Ole!’ You know the one. But instead of saying ‘ole’ say ‘cockbag’, but really fast. And no cheating and slowing it down to achieve perfect diction.

Or just forget the tune and say ‘cockbag’ again and again, over and over, as fast as you possibly can. Unless your tongue’s from The Matrix you won’t be able to do it.

Because my girlfriend and I are very childish, and very possibly mentally retarded into the bargain (and because it’s better than actually talking to each other) we’ve been doing this for a good thirty minutes. Do try it. You’ll sound like the guy who records Donald Duck’s voice when its dubbed into Albanian. Or Popeye after a massive head injury.

Please feel free to email recordings of your attempts to theotherjamie@hotmail.co.uk, if you’re really that much of a fuckwitt.

MSN Picture Editor’s Last Day of Employment

Somebody at MSN news is going to get their balls footed for this moderately amusing mix-up.

If these mis-matched pictures are to be believed then Obama’s got involved in the Jimmy Savile sex case, Clive Dunn was an impersonatory paedophile and David Cameron is a schoolgirl.

Being an Open Spot – The Falkirk Herald

It must have been a slow news week at The Falkirk Herald back in June. Here’s a wee piece they did about me being an open spot, complete with entirely unnecessary moody picture. And, hey: I AM the news, motherfuckers.

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For…

My behind-the-scenes webhost program tells me which browser search terms have led people directly or indirectly to Jamie Andrew With Hands. Granted, for some of the entries my website will have been on page 633 of 120,000 of the search engine’s results, but never-the-less: here are some of the more amusing search terms. Type these in and sooner or later you’ll find this site, although you’ve got to wonder what some of these people were actually looking for in the first place. I’ve sorted the searches under appropriate headings.


what a cunt: Hardly surprising that this search should lead to me.

sheep shagging cunt: My grandfather may have been from Aberdeen, but I find this insulting.

cunt beauty contest: It may relate to the piece on this site about the ‘Miss Falkirk 2012’ competition, but I’m holding out hope that there exists somewhere in the world a vaginal beauty pageant. Miss Piss Flaps or something. ‘And now that the swimwear section is over, we move on to the talent contest. Bring on the ping pong balls, the American football and the cans of Irn Bru.’

why are bus passengers all cunts: Probably keyed in by a pre-postal bus driver, seconds before he recreated the movie Speed on the First 60 service to Alloa.

photos being taken of cunts: This is either the Scottish vernacular for ‘photos being taken of people’ – and why would you search for something so banal? – or the user was searching for photos of photos being taken of female genitals. Indescribably weird.

fat mexican cunt: The nationality is unambiguous – the person being searched for MUST be Mexican – but must the owner be fat or the cunt itself? I guess we’ll never know. And for that we should be thankful.

see our cunts all lined up: But why?

cunts lined up for fucking: Ah, I see. Guiness World Record attempt?

smoking fucking cunts: New McDonalds meal? Or violent banter from Glasgow’s new top gangster, Marsbarface?

hairy man cunts: Oh dear. Is this what the future holds for the Ladyboys of Bangkok once they get a bit older? ‘Ladies and gents, please welcome to the stage the Hairy Man Cunts of Motherwell!’

very nice cunts very nice cunts: So good they searched for it twice. If they were so concerned about cunt quality, perhaps they should have searched for ‘exceedingly good cunts.’

turkish people are cunts: Ah, must be a bit of Googling from the German minister for Immigration.

Which brings us to the next category of searches:


on holiday in marmaris the turks shagged her later she told her hubby: Oh, you romantic fool, searching for such a tear-jerker! Could you not spell Romeo and Juliet? Or maybe the searcher was a horny cuckold reliving the story of his wife’s infidelity, a tub of wallpaper paste and an empty toilet roll tube at his side.

scottish fat fucked in marmaris: Dunfermline man leaves tub of dripping in his hotel room; Turkish cleaner fucks it. That’s my guess, anyway.

do turkish men pay for blonde girls: No, you racist. Just because blonde women don’t want to sleep with you for free on holiday doesn’t mean that the Turks you see with little British floozies draped over them have paid for it. For greater success, my friend, try the Turkish technique out for yourself. You’ll only need two things: lies and alcohol.

cockmail persian: Sounds like some dodgy Iranian cartoon character to me.

greenland piss: Is this some sort of delicacy? I’ve heard it goes really well with…

reindeer shit: …yeah, that’s right. Think I saw it on Gordon Ramsay. Greenland piss and reindeer shit. Or is it Icelandic goat spunk with reindeer shit? I can never remember.

greenland wanking: Well, what the fuck else is there to do in Greenland, except gut seals and go sledging? For added fun why not add a splash of wanking? Little tip, though. Don’t leave your willy unsheathed for too long in those sub-zero temperatures or your little tip will break off in your hand like a false nail.

And with that we segue into the next category of searches:

Famous Folk

richard and judy wank: Is this a declaration (if so I don’t want to see the evidence), or a wish to see it happen? Merciful Jesus. Or maybe ‘The Richard and Judy wank’ is a new sexual sensation, similar to ‘You Say, We Pay.’ I’ve got it! A guy’s girlfriend/wife turns her back as he goes through her female contacts on Facebook, describing them to her as he beats off. If she gets twenty of them right, her prize is his promise not to be looking at her sister’s tits at the point of ejaculation. We’ll call it ‘You Guess, I’ll Mess.’

has louis walsh ever gotten a blowjob: Why would Louis Walsh disseminate this information? And why would anyone want to know this? Unless they wanted to be his first…

eagles cheerleader jamie fingering herself: I typed this one in, as it sounded… interesting? Incredibly disappointing. I ended up watching Thora Hird fingering herself instead. Save.

And now a less fluid segue…

Shagging and that

quad amputee model fucking: And you thought my comedy set was amoral.

postman fucking village housewife: As long as his black and white cat wasn’t involved.

fucked by a snake: Mounty Python? I don’t know why anyone would want to watch that. Just watch normal shagging, you degenerate. Willies are a bit like snakes anyway, aren’t they? Well, mine is. Foul and leathery.

dog fuck: Oh dear. Jamie Andrew With Hands would never condone that… unless you mean:

dundee sluts shagging: (see above)

ya.fucking.fat.orange.shag.bag.road.airdrie.scotland: The internet is so inclusive even the mentally ill can enjoy it. Well seeing they’re from Airdrie, though.

www pussy s in hands.com: I just checked. This website doesn’t exist! Which is a shame because I thought this was my chance finally to see Jamie the Eagles’ cheerleader fingering herself. Fuck it. I’ll just watch Thora Hird again… Get those thick grey tights off you, you old whore, and spelunk those liver spots up your parched dust box!

jackface sexe: I looked into what Jackface was. A lot of intriguing answers. The last one made me laugh. http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=jackface No mention of it being a masturbatory cum face, though. Would have placed that at number one.

buckie women raped: Some sick puppies out there. Inaccurate anyway. I’ve seen women who drink Buckie. You don’t rape them. THEY rape YOU.

posh pussy: The singer or the class? The cunt or that cat? Questions, questions.

prostitutes in grangemouth: The standard is low, but there aren’t many towns out there where you can get a syphilis-themed blowjob for the price of a bottle of Buckfast.

she was rubbing my cock: A search engine is a strange place to boast this. Perhaps he thinks the computer is his pal, like HAL 9000, and he’s just keeping him in the loop. ‘Hey, computer, this 14 year-old girl had sex with me today, what do you think about that?’ ‘ERROR: ILLEGAL ENTRY.’

what is a twat wand: I’ll get back to you on that one. Sounds like a Harry Potter-themed dildo to me, though. I typed this into google and found a porn-site with a video called NAUGHTY MILF JAMS MAGIC WAND DOWN MOUTH AND TWAT. I thought, ‘Hmmm, intriguing. I haven’t encountered this niche depravity before. Women sticking magic wands inside themselves.’ But it wasn’t a wand. It was a fat old man’s cock. Which wasn’t very magical to be honest. There’s another video advertised on the same page of the site, which is called DIRTY GIRL BOINKS HUNG STIFFY. Who named this porn video? A 12-year-old boy who’d just watched an episode of Scooby Doo?

And now to our final category

Grannies and Trannies

pictures of single grannies in grangemouth: It’s not as off-putting as it first sounds. Most grannies in Grangemouth are 23 anyway.

porn granny jk: Jakey? JK (as in Rowling)?

grannie fucking: Oh my.

granny sex queen: I googled it. No crowned geriatrics, although there was a link to MY MATURE GRANNY: FACIALS. Feel free to have a butcher’s, my filthy little readers, but I’m giving that click a miss. Unless one of you gets in touch to say it was Thora Hird again, in which case it’s showtime.

granny stiflin vagin: I’m lost for words.

tranny with the last name andrew: OI!

Countdown to Destruction

spy{A news story, written in 2006, that was suppressed for security reasons, now declassified and safe to disseminate}

The aftershocks from a government inquiry into the sinister world of light-entertainment quiz shows will be felt around the world for some years to come, intelligence analysts have predicted. The scandal – dubbed ‘Points Make Spy-sies’ in some circles – has prompted ministers to ask questions in parliament, and forced MI5 and MI6 to question all aspects of national security.

Initially, the inquiry’s remit was narrow, investigating only the Channel 4 mid-afternoon words-and-numbers show, Countdown, after credible intelligence from MI6 suggested that the quiz had been compromised by foreign agitators.

Their fears proved justified. The late Richard Whitely was revealed to have been a Soviet sympathiser who used his TV platform to send coded messages to the KGB.

‘Whitely’s shit gags were actually signals to undercover Russian operatives, ordering them to attack British and American industrial and military targets,’ said an MI6 contact. ‘On one edition of Countdown, a contestant managed to get the word GARDENER. Whitely then quipped, “Oh, gardener. Gardener. Yes… em… well, we… eh… are certainly seeing the … ha ha … green shoots of recovery in this game. Really … ha ha… pruning out the weeds from the roses, aren’t we?” This terrible series of puns was actually the green light for a Russian-built car bomb to detonate outside of an American embassy in Bombay, which resulted in the deaths of forty men.’

She used ‘Mathema-tits’ to lure her prey.

Carol Vorderman – real name Kremlin Vordenovich – was also implicated. Her ‘numbers game’ was rigged so that the board would reveal the IP addresses of MI6 officials. A Kremlin listening station would then note them down and use them to hack into sensitive data files held on British agents operating within Russia. Vorderman is believed to have been indirectly responsible for the deaths of 63 British agents, and to have committed one cold-blooded murder: that of a British agent who had been posing as a studio boom operator, whose neck Vorderman snapped with her thighs at that bit just before the ad break when the audience was suitably distracted by a dreary anecdote given by a D-list has-been stage actor who clearly thinks he’s as hilarious as he is charming.

Susie Dent was cleared of all connection to the conspiracy when it was revealed that many of the men on the panel had had ‘their first wank’ over her in the 80’s.

When the investigation was widened to include other light-entertainment quiz shows it was discovered that Deal or No Deal has less to do with Noel Edmonds’ infamous Cosmic Ordering and more to do with all of the contestants – and Edmonds – being on the payroll of the North Korean government. Actually, they’re not too sure about this one, but Edmonds was shot ‘just to be safe’, said a top brass contact.

In a separate investigation, the concept of ITV’s Goldenballs was said to be so complex that each episode ‘punched holes through time, conceivably allowing German dinosaurs to rampage through the portals and eat our WWII soldiers’.

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Jackson’s Brain on Insane Child Sex Rampage

jackoDozens of LA police strike teams were mobilised yesterday in a bid to neutralise Michael Jackson’s reanimated brain, which had escaped captivity and gone on a horrifying 12-hour child sex-attack marathon.

Police were first alerted to the atrocity by kindergarten teacher Jizzia Johnston, 36, who was teaching her class when Jackson’s brain struck.

‘I heard thumps on the class window, and all of the kids screamed,’ said Johnston. ‘I looked round, and saw why they were screaming. There was a chimp banging a brain on the pane. And the brain was going crazy, sucking on the glass like one of those facehuggers from the Alien films. The chimp was whacking off. ‘

Scientists had been conducting tests on Jackson’s brain at a secure facility in the north of LA, in a two-prong bid to ‘resurrect’ the drug-addled child-abuser and to isolate and remove those parts of his brain responsible for his deeply naughty behaviour, before finding him a new host body and sending him back through time in order to stop himself from abusing.

Big-shot scientist that thinks he’s better than the rest of us, Tony Cawziecowolski, explained: ‘Re-animation of a dead junky’s brain?: easy. Engineering his brain so that it had the power of independent movement?: piece of piss. The hard part was stopping Jackson from shagging DVD box-sets of Home Alone.’

Cawziecowolski believes that Jackson called on Bubbles the Chimp to help rescue him from captivity.

‘I wish I’d recognised the signs,’ he continued. ‘Jackson would sit on my desk and pulsate manically for hours on end. I just assumed he was engaging in some sort of ingenious ‘brain wank’. In reality he was harnessing his evil in order to telepathically summon his pet monkey to break him out of jail. But hindsight’s 20/20.’

Bubbles breached lab security at approximately 0645, and incapacitated 17 members of staff during the mission to liberate his former master. ‘It was like something out of Rise of the Planet of the Apes, but obviously with a heavier plot emphasis on the theft of a famous paedophile’s brain.’

Bubbles’ last stand.

There was a stand-off with armed police in the playground of the kindergarten school, which culminated in Bubbles being gunned down by rapid assault fire just as he was at the point of masturbatory climax. One of the armed officers who participated in the take-down, Gerry Mazterphucker, was visibly shaken by events.

‘I dunno, man,’ he said, tears snaking down his face. ‘What can I say, I just shot a monkey. Every time I think about that glistening monkey jizz, like morning dew, hardening to crust on its dead little paw, I start to cry. Game over, man. Game over.’

Another officer, ‘Crazy’ Charlie Ramirez, said: ‘Holy shit, son, last month I was on traffic, and this month I get to shoot motherfucking monkeys? This is the kind of shit I signed up for. Fuck you, monkeys, fuck you! Next time I want to beat a tapir to death! WOOHOO! America rules ass, son!’

During the gun-fight, Jackson managed to squidge off into the undergrowth. All that was left of his horrifying attack were the words ‘MMM CHIDREN’ scrawled on the windowpane with brain goo. Pretty good spelling for a disembodied brain.

Over the course of the afternoon Jackson’s brain was spotted moonwalking provocatively past a child’s picnic, gazing menacingly at a school bus, and in one terrifying instance was caught on CCTV palpating the face of a sleeping child. But, for horror, nothing tops the moment at 1615 when Jackson leapt past a line of kids at a road crossing and slapped each and every one of them in the face with his throbbing cerebellum.

Police strategists managed to lure Jackson to Macaulay Culkin’s house, within which Culkin had set up a series of ingenious traps, like swinging paint cans and doorbells with makeshift flame throwers in them and that. Jackson was only – and finally – apprehended after he was startled by the sounds of what he believed to be machine gun fire coming from the living room, and slipped on a pile of bouncy balls. Jackson’s brain was returned to the scientists.

“It’s the kids, Marty. Something has got to be done about the kids.”

‘Actually, we kind of fucked up,’ admitted Cawziec… Caws… Cocacol… the scientist, ‘As soon as we got Jackson back, we were so keen to make lemonade from these lemons that we maybe acted a bit hastily. We immediately fitted his brain into a new host body and sent him back to his own past. The trouble was, we sent him back a bit too far. And, unfortunately, instead of acting to alter the course of his tragic life for the better, Jackson decided to sexually molest his own boyhood self. thereby causing all of this shit in the first place. Still, Beat It‘s a great song, right?’

‘Whoops,’ he added.

Undeterred, the same team will be sending Rolf Harris into space in 2015: dead or alive.

‘There’s no scientific benefit this time,’ the scientist admits. ‘It’ll just be for a laugh.’

CLICK HERE FOR THE ‘ICKE DON’T BELIEVE IT’ MAIN MENU, and more bizarre news stories.

The Fresh Prince of Jihad

I came up with this odd, rather disturbing version of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air‘s theme tune a good few years ago now, but I was never wholly satisfied with the ending, so I shoved it away in a drawer beneath a mountain of old pants. I’ve unearthed said song, and tweaked it a little, because, quite frankly, I’m a sad, sad little man with no ambition. Never-the-less, it’s finished now. Who would have thought that the tune could have lended itself so well to the theme of Palestinian jihad? Uncle Phil would be livid!

I dedicate this re-worked song to two people. Firstly, to Speggy (aka Craig Evenden), who performed a rough-cut of this song at a drunken party years ago. He did this to see if the words worked with the tune – he also did it because he was pissed and I handed him the piece of paper. Secondly, I dedicate this to the very first Vivienne of Fresh Prince, the one who was dropped from the show for being ‘a bit too African’.

The Fresh Prince of Jihad

Now this is my story all about how,
My life got flipped turned upside down,
And I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there,
I’ll tell you how I became some mince that got mauled in mid-air.

It was Palestinia,
Born and raised.
In the compound, that’s where I spent most of my days.
Killin’, anthraxin’, and eatin’ my mule,
And shootin’ some people outside a’ the school.
When a couple of Jews,
They were up to no good:
Started rolling tanks through my neighbourhood.

I shot one little kyke, and Allah was there,
He said, ‘You’re joining with your aunt and uncle up here in my lair.”

I missiled up a lab and when the flames cleared, the
Science rate was threshed, and I had mice in my ear.
If anything I could say that these Abs were rare,
But I thought, nah, forget it, pre-pare for war-fare!

I got to the guardhouse about seven or eight,
And yelled to the Abbies, ‘No homes! Hell is greater!’
Looked at my kingdom, I was finally dead,
I sat on a bomb, that’s the price of Jihad.

@ Jamie Andrew 2012

(Unless you’re a lawyer, in which case it was Speggy. I can tell you his address and everything.)

50 Shades of Jew – Part 1

My tribute to the work of EL James, written in the same style… but set in 1940s Germany. General Grey had asked to see me at Nazi HQ and I was so nervous. That morning I’d made myself some toast, spread the butter and then put it in my mouth. I then chewed the toast until it became wet and spongy between my lips and then what else could I do but swallow that toast? I get so nervous when I’m eating toast because I’m so awkward. The toast usually makes me so nervous when I’m eating it that I become like a young deer and drop it, awkwardly. Why is everybody else better at eating toast than me? No, no. I mustn’t think like that. My friend Gertie was with me. ‘Do you want some toast, Gertie?’ I asked her. She is beautiful and sleepy and tall and likes to wear green trousers and a nice white blouse with cuffs that look that way that cuffs do when people wear them. ‘Yes,’ said Gertie. ‘I would like some toast.’ So I made her some toast.

The General’s office was in a big glass, steel and sandstone building, with lots of steel, glass and sandstone. I was intimidated and nervous and was also feeling a little awkward and intimidated. Why are you so stupid, Anastasia Frank? There’s no need to feel so awkward, nervous and intimidated, the voice in my head told me. But it was too late. I was already feeling very, very nervous, intimidated and awkward.

I walked into the building and found that it was full of beautiful, blonde women with blue eyes, and also lots of beautiful, blonde men with blue eyes. Was there some kind of rule at Nazi HQ that they could only employ beautiful, blonde people with blue eyes, I wondered? They made me feel awkward, nervous and intimidated and my heart was beating so fast that it was like a bat out of hell reaching terminal velocity on its way up towards the stars on the back of a rollercoaster. God, why did I have to look so frumpy and Jewish?

‘Sit down,’ said one of the blonde women.

‘So you want me to sit down here?’ I asked nervously, playing with my long, brown hair.

‘Yes. That would be prudent at this time.’

‘And where would you like me to sit?’ I asked humbly.

‘In the chair,’ she replied, making it clear that she thought she was above me.

‘You would like me to sit in this chair?’ I asked awkwardly.


‘This one?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘You’d like me just to sit here on this chair?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘OK. I will,’ I said, playing with a piece of my long, brown hair. Nervously.

‘Are you enjoying our long, protracted conversation, Ana Frank?’

‘Yes, I guess. What I like most about it is that not a single part of it seems superfluous in any way.’

‘I am glad that we are in agreement on this.’

‘I would be glad, too, if it wasn’t for how nervous I’m feeling right now.’

‘Would you like some toast?’ she asked.

‘Do you have any soup?’ I replied, regretting the words that had sprinted from my mouth the second they had started running through the air like some runner running a race, and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me whole like a great big throat.

‘We don’t have any soup,’ she replied, raising a suspicious eyebrow.


God, what will General Grey look like, I thought to myself, as I nervously fiddled with my hair. To be at such a high rank in the German army he must be quite old. Possibly about 60, but still sexy enough, I was sure, to make it feel hot in my down below bits, out of which I pee but from which I sometimes get a hot, sudden gush of lady feelings. Holy crap, I was nervous. Why are you so nervous, Ana? You’re wearing your best maroon skirt and peach cardigan that suits you so well, after all.

‘General Grey will see you now,’ said a beautiful, blonde woman. I just about crapped myself. Holy gosh!

I was just about to rise from my seat like Icarus when an attractive young black man stepped from General Grey’s office, being manhandled by three sexy German officers. They had him in a vice-like grip, and were shouting something about ‘triggers’ to him. I didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded sexy. I wondered if I’d ever see that handsome African man again. I hoped so, but I wasn’t sure why. Something was happening beneath the satin of my undergarments, like a fish struggling to breathe in a small puddle of water. Holy crap, I was nervous.

‘Send the fucking Jew in!’ shouted the General, so coldly and sexily. I had not laid eyes on him yet, but I was sure that I could detect the ghost of a smile on his lips. Those beautiful, sculpted lips, I could see them now in the cinema of my mind, and they were having an effect on me that I couldn’t describe… or something.

I was so nervous that I did a forward roll into General Grey’s office, barrelling through a Nazi flag that was draped from the ceiling. Gee whiz, I was nervous. He stormed over sexily and ripped it from my body, casting it aside like a Honeymoon bedsheet. I felt so naked, even though I still had all of my clothes on. I looked up at him and into those eyes – god, those beautiful, attractive, cold, horrible, sexy, disgusting, vile, wonderful, multi-coloured, award-winning, tortoise-shaped, amazing, lickable, deserted, massive, steely, hungry, gorgeous, yukky, arrogant, indescribable, grey eyes – and found myself blushing, turning the same colour as a paperback copy of Animal Farm.

His office had a big wooden desk in the middle of it, and a window, and some walls, and on those walls were some pictures and that. And the floor was made of floor tiles, and they were black, and he also had a chair that I guessed was handy for him when he wanted to sit down at his desk. I found myself burningly curious to see him sit down, and I didn’t know why. You know why, Ana, said the voice in my head. No I don’t, I replied, blushing and angry at my own thoughts. I don’t know what you’re talking about! You want to see those calves, and to become his leg farmer, Ana… or something. I was angry that the voice might be right.

‘Are you gay?’ I asked him.

‘Are you a Jew?’ he replied angrily, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

He was beautiful. Imagine the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, and that was him. For some inexplicable reason I just knew that one day I’d like him to go at my womb with a Black and Decker drill and a set of Allen keys.

‘Take this, you vile, mongrel bitch,’ he said romantically, pinning a beautiful yellow star to my cardigan. ‘I’ll be coming for you in the next few days.’

So he wanted to see me again. I had never felt so happy. But did he really mean it? Oh, my world was upside down.

‘I really mean it,’ he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as he sexily punched out my  front teeth.

Blakey the Jakey: A Modern Scottish Fairytale – The Conclusion

The story so far: as we prepare for the concluding chapter of the Blakey saga, we find our hero in his grandma’s house. He’s lost his money, his family, his self-respect (what little he possessed) and now grandma is the only one who can help him turn things around. In a nutshell: he’s fucked. Or is he? (yes, yes he is)

Catch up with Part 1 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/10/btjp1/

Catch up with Part 2 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/14/btjp2/

Catch up with Part 3 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/22/btjp3/

Catch up with Part 4 –  http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/28/btjp4/


As Grandma listened, with a mounting sense of boredom, to Blake’s tale of business acumen gone wrong, she occupied herself by burning a chunk off of the armchair and crumbling it into a large cigarette paper.

This was because all of Grandma’s furniture, from the armchair to the sideboard to the footrest to the mantle-piece, was made out of massive, sculpted blocks of cannabis resin. Her footrest alone had a street value of thousands.

‘So, ye sold yer maw’s car tae some jakey at the market, eh? Ye daft wee bastard,’ laughed Grandma, rolling the rest of her fancy cigarette into a perfect cone shape.

‘Aye,’ sighed Blake. ‘and ah cannae go hame till I’ve goat the cash back. She’ll kill me, gran.’

‘Take yin ae ma shelves,’ she said, pointing behind her, ‘Ye’ll make gid profit.’

‘Thanks, gran, that’s magic,’ smiled Blake, clapping his hands with delight.

Grandma indulged herself in a moment of thoughtful inhalation. ‘Aye, son,’ she began, exhaling a jet of sweet-scented smoke in his face, ‘But if ye dinnae pay me back in a week yell get yer knees broken.’

Blake nodded.

‘Ah mean it. Business, family or no. Ye’ll be on crutches.’

Blake actually rose and kissed his grandma. On the forehead, though. And quickly.

The blaring wail of police sirens assaulted his ears before the sound slowed and died, like the batteries had failed. A high-pitched squeal then made way for an echoed-clicking as a policeman’s voice bellowed through a loudspeaker.

‘We know you’re in there, Grandma, the game’s up.’

‘Fuck,’ she lamented.

‘Ho, you, ah didnae lament,’ said an irritated grandma to Jamie Andrew as he wrote her words on this screen, ‘and ah’m no irritated, ah’m fuckin’ furious. Efter ah escape from the police ah’m gonnae come efter you and knock fuck out of you.’

Jamie was certain that Grandma wouldn’t survive her encounter with the police.

‘Third wall?’ laughed Grandma, ‘Jamie Andrew, ah’ll pit you through the fourth, fifth, sixth and fuckin’ seventh wall, ya cunt!’

Anyway, Grandma leapt from her seat and wrenched a shelf from the sideboard, handing it to Blake. Blake accepted it and tucked it firmly into his jacket. The boy looked like he was half a turtle’s head away from destroying his boxer shorts.

‘Get oot the back door and run, Blakey,’ she implored, ‘and take this tae.’

She handed him the cone from her mouth, slapped him on the back and swiftly ushered him towards the kitchen.

As Blake threw open the back door and began his rush into Grandma’s garden, and the hedgerow and park beyond, he could hear her loading her pump-action shotgun and striking up a dialogue with the officers out front.

‘Right, little pigs, come get it!’

‘Grandma, if you don’t let us in we’ll be rough, we’ll be tough and we’ll blow your door down.’

‘No by the hairs oan ma sticky big baws!’


And so Blake merrily zig-zagged his way through the streets, selling chunks of his shelf along the way until a long line of pink-eyed, crisp-munching pot-heads were shadowing him like a dragon’s tail. The only sounds that could be heard were a hundred or more people crunching Monster Munches, snapping off segments of Dairy Milk bars and frantically trying to re-arrange their JSA appointments on their mobile phones.

‘Follow that wee laddie,’ they shouted.

Blake happily puffed and sucked on his cone: the more it burned, the slower he and his vast procession of stoners became. With stacks of tens, twenties and fifties poking out of his jacket pockets, the happiness overwhelmed him and he began humming, shouting and singing pro-IRA songs, all the while mimicking the playing of a flute.

Children saw the procession and hollered with glee: ‘It’s the pie-eyed Piper of Hampden!’ And they followed.

‘Wait a minute,’ said a confused bystander. ‘Isn’t it more the other side that’s traditionally associated with flute-playing? This muddled sectarian reference doesn’t make any sense!’

‘It’s called creative license, you picky prick,’ said another bystander.

‘It’s called thon Jamie Andrew bein’ a daft cunt,’ giggled grandma as she thundered down the road with her shotgun. ‘And ah’m no gigglin’, ya fuckin’ smart arse!’


Blake arrived back at his family home with more than enough money for a new car and a nice holiday. He was eager to make his mother proud and happy. And having a roof over his head and not getting his throat slit was a bonus, too.

‘Hello,’ he shouted, fingers prising open the letterbox. ‘Maw?’ he shouted through it again. ‘Aw, YUK!’ Blake wiped away his piss from earlier with disgust.

Eventually, just as Blake had started kicking the door with all of his might, it opened to reveal his mother, half-naked and with a large half-naked bear of a man by her side.

‘Aw, it’s you,’ she snarled. ‘Thought I told ye no tae come back.’

‘But maw,’ beamed Blake, holding up the money, ‘I goat aw the cash back. Double. Triple even! In fact, ah widnae be surprised if it wiz qua… kawrd… kwardroo… fuckin’ four times as much!’

His mother snatched the money from his hands and stuffed it in her blouse. ‘Gid,’ she smiled, ‘But ye can still piss oaf, because ah met a new man, we’re gettin’ mayried and we’re movin’ tae a different toon.’

‘Bit…’ Blake was aghast. He stared up at the big fellow bear-hugging his mother. ‘You’re the…you’re that bouncer fae the nightclub,’ said Blake.

‘Aye,’ the big man replied, ‘Yer maw was oot dancin’ last week an she loast yin aye er orthy-pedic shoes, fir er corns and that. I kinna thought it wiz hers so ah brought it roond the day, she tried it oan, it fitted and then…well…’

He winked.

‘Then he telt me he had a few boab and pumped us on your bed, ye wee dick,’ beamed his mother, before slamming the door in Blake’s face.


Blake found himself sitting back on the grass where all of this had started. He passed the time throwing stones at the neighbours’ cars and listening to his mother’s shrieks of delight from the house.

Before long he felt a large hand on his shoulder.

‘BAD DAY, LITTLE MAN?’ asked the genie.

‘Aye, somethin’ like that.’


‘Aye?’ replied Blake, not really interested; too busy staring at some teenage temptress teetering across the road, all tits and legs. ‘How wiz London, ye ken, wi they seven wee guys in the car?’


‘Dunno whit ah’m gonnae do either, like. Nae hoose, nae family, nae money.’


Blake stared on as the girl’s tight buttocks swayed out of view. He looked up at the genie with a relieved smile and then back down at the ground. He was thinking hard.


Blake stood up, full of hope and excitement, finding it hard to restrain the impulse to grab and kiss the genie.

‘It’s goat to be money,’ laughed Blake, jumping with delight, ‘I wish I wiz the richest person in the whole world.’

Blake stopped and stood deathly still, screwed his eyes up expectantly and tensed his shoulders. He expected to open his eyes to see a fortress of gold surrounding him, a throne at his rear and all the women of the world lying like a naked, writhing carpet at his feet. He opened them and all he saw was a giant middle finger pressed into his face.


Pouf. And he was gone.

Blake went off in search of some more Buckfast. Not to rub this time. Just to drink.        


The Rain in June Falls Mostly on the Toon: Grangemouth Gala Day 2012

We just don’t do carnivals, fairs or fetes with as much aplomb or on the same grand scale as the Americans. Maybe it would help if we smiled occasionally, but we’re genetically incapable of such a facial contortion. We Scots would only smile if God proved his existence once and for all by a) reaching a thumb from Dover to Berwick and squashing the English like woodlice, and then b) rounding off the miracle by replacing the North Sea with heroin.

Or, at a pinch, we’d smile if there was a special episode of ‘You’ve Been Framed’ in which each and every video featured David Cameron being stabbed in the balls by a different angry dwarf in a kilt.

Yes, the Americans like a good smile. If the Grangemouth Gala Day was held in California, USA, (which would be rather unlikely, I’m forced to admit) it would be a non-stop, 24-hour, noisy orgasm of vim, streamers, colour, mariachi bands and pomp, featuring half-naked back-flipping pom-pom girls – with smiles so blinding they could down aircraft – jiggling their breasts with the enthusiasm of a force 4 earthquake. There would be a 50ft-tall animatronic Mickey Mouse shooting fireworks out of its bell-end into the hungry, gaping mouth of a robot Pluto, as sixteen million children wept with joy. And somewhere, somehow, there would be guys in red bell-boy jackets playing trumpets on the backs of motorbikes – upside down and through their arses.

This year, in Grangemouth, Scotland, the Grangemouth Gala Day looked like… well, it looked like exactly what it was: a procession of miserable cunts in anoraks shuffling through the rain in search of the most suitable cliff for an act of mass suicide. It looked like there’d been a delivery of crepe paper and face-paints to a funeral march. If you haven’t visited Grangemouth before and find yourself wondering what it looks like, have a gander at the drug-riddled communities in HBO’s ‘The Wire’, but imagine that everybody’s white.

So What is the Gala Day?

Well, it’s technically a Children’s Day, which makes me a bit of a cock for slating it. It’s not really meant to be enjoyed by the likes of me, childless interloper that I am. What’ll I be doing next? Telling you how shit I found the latest episode of Sesame Street because it wasn’t nearly as good as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?

The galas themselves started off as annual celebrations for miners and mining communities, but the focus of the celebrations was shifted for the following wonderful reason:

In the late Nineteenth century, some Miners’ Gala Days were given over to children in order to reduce drunkenness.

Resources for Learning in Scotland website

And we all know how successful a strategy that turned out to be. Here’s the zinger:

Gun Terror of Oilman 

A teenage thug pointed a gun at the head of a man who told him off for breaking bottles in a kids’ play area.

Gary Martin told 45-year-old oil rig worker Jim Kelly: ‘You’re dead.’

But Mr Kelly grappled Martin to the ground and got the air pistol off him, Falkirk Sheriff Court heard yesterday.

The terror attack happened on Grangemouth Gala Day in June.

Lawyer Andy Bryson said Martin was ‘exceedingly drunk’ at the gala day.

Ah, yes. The only flaw in that plan was that by 2012 all of the children would be alcoholics, too. Alcohol does indeed still play a huge part in the Grangemouth Gala Day. Like they say of the 1960s: if you can remember what happened, then you weren’t actually there. Grangemouth has other things in common with the 1960s, in that it’s full of incredibly racist people with shite haircuts taking drugs and having unfussy sex with strangers.

(actually, a joke I used to tell on-stage about Grangemouth is that it’s a lot like Amsterdam: in that it’s completely flat, and filled with drugs and whores.)

So What Happens ‘an That?

No smart alec remarks: this arch is pretty fucking cool. And The Muppets was the only TV show that made me shut up as a child.

What happens is this: each year a ‘royal family’ is assembled from one of the local primary schools, a different school having the honour of doing this each year until it’s back to the start of the cycle again. Kids at the year’s chosen school are then asked if they’d like to volunteer themselves to be one of the gala’s persons of special significance. Those who do are then whittled down by their schoolmates by means of a popularity contest, until each of the main roles are filled: Queen, Ladies in Waiting, Paiges, a Flower Queen etc.

The girl elected Queen (Republicans take note) then has the arduous task of selecting just one of her classmates to be sealed inside a BMW and slammed into a wall by a drunk driver. OK, I made that bit up.

There’s no King of the Gala Day, but one lucky boy does get to be the Prince, whose role it is to follow the Queen around muttering increasingly unhelpful racist remarks. OK, I made that bit up, too. But they should introduce that role. It’d be so easy to find viable candidates amongst the people of Grangemouth.

Dustbin Beaver is actually slang for a Grangemouth girl.

The parents of ‘the royals’ then have to spend £80 million trillion pounds building an arch display over their homes. If they’re poor, they simply steal the necessary materials, or just selotape bits of A4 paper that read: ‘ALL HAYL THE QUEAN’ to their windows. Some of the displays are incredible. You know, fairy-tale castles, enchanted forests, 1940s cinemas. And some of them are shit.

On the day itself – where it’s usually raining despite the event taking place towards the end of June – trucks filled with children (that makes it sound like a pogrom: no concentration camps are involved), and floats prepared by other schools and local businesses, and pipe bands, and brass bands, and veterans, and such like, all form a long procession through the streets, before arriving in the central park for the crowning ceremony. And, as we’ve already established, lots of people get drunk.

Oh, and there are lots of flags everywhere. Or bunting, as they call it. Which sounds to me a little too much like a sex act. And a jolly good one at that.

In closing, as I’ve already stated, it’s actually a grand day out for the folks of Grangemouth, especially for those with relatives taking part in the procession. And some of the arches have been super-awesome in this and previous years, as you’ll see from the pictures below. (OK, part of this, like with the Skinflats article, is life-insurance, but I mean it, too, honest!) Actually, my niece was in the procession this year, and she was awesome, so get that roond ye.


Graceland in Grangemouth, circa 2008.


And, of course, this happens at the Grangemouth Gala Day shows every year, and must be shared with the world:

BEHOLD… COBO! Urban dance legend of Grangemouth! Enjoy the video…