You may have recently noticed the extra little logo-icon-thingamajig in the corner of the menu up there. No, no, up there, to the right. Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, to pointlessly repeat the headline – What’s this BLAMMO! about, then?
Well, Blammo (which is how it’s normally spelt, if you’d be so kind) is a new website that I’ve been working on for the last few months. It’s mainly about the once-mighty medium of television, only with a British slant, and jokes where possible.
You and I can share the silence Finding comfort together The way old friends do And after fights and words of violence We make up with each other The way old friends do
Times of joy and times of sorrow We will always see it through Oh, I don’t care what comes tomorrow We can face it together The way old friends do
You and I can share the silence Finding comfort together The way old friends do And after fights and words of violence We make up with each other The way old friends do
Times of joy and times of sorrow We will always see it through Oh, I don’t care what comes tomorrow We can face it together The way old friends do
It used to go like this – first week they’d come in, meet Thatcher or Reagan for “talks”, and then announce they were an empire.
Second week, whenever he wasn’t on screen everyone would ask: Where’s the new Soviet premier?
And then the third week, a load of swans would be let loose from a box, and the newsreaders would say slowly I turned step by step inch by inch…
Just between 1980 and 1985, there was an astonishing turnover of those people at the top of those weird pointy bulbous things that they’d show on telly in a tiny square above someone’s shoulder. First of all you had Breznhev, Leznev, Bell Biv Devoe Bev, Andropov, Bumbledov, Big Bummy Bumpov, Cherchenko, Chencherko, A-Ko, Pompoko… and then came all the ones that didn’t rhyme in a vaguely Two Ronnies manner.
So we then saw the following, in order – Lord Beaverbrook, an actual beaver, the dam that the beaver built before it died, a homeless guy they found living in the dam after it was buried, the grave in which the dam was and that they had just also buried the other guy in, Rowan Atkinson, and someone who looked at a picture of Stalin funny.
And after that, in no particular order – “Jonno” (surname withheld), a cardboard cut out of Ian Levine, spinning light-up novelty lamp, general areas, low gas, bottle novelty pixel, and St-St-St-Studio Line from L’Oréal.
So after all that, they got that fella with the stain on his head because he would remain alive. Suddenly Tetris happened, and then Ronald Regan said “What about that fuckin’ wall, then?” and everyone said yeah alright.
For this is how the world turns, and the day ends, and we didn’t start the fire, it was always burning since it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane, Lenny Bruce is not afraid, eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn, world serves its own needs, don’t misserve your own needs,speed it up a notch, speak, grunt, no, strength, the ladder starts to clatter with fear fight, down, height, wire in a fire, representing seven games and a government for hire and a combat site, left her and wasn’t coming in a hurry with the Furies breathing down your neck, team by team, reporters baffled, trumped, tethered, cropped, look at that low plane, fine, then uh-oh, overflow, population, common group but it’ll do, save yourself, serve yourself, world serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed, tell me with the rapture and the reverent in the right, right, you vitriolic, patriotic, slam fight, bright light feeling pretty psyched, six o’clock, TV hour, don’t get caught in foreign tower, slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn lock him in uniform, book burning, blood letting every motive escalate, automotive incinerate, light a candle, light a votive, step down, step down, watch your heel crush, crushed, uh-oh, this means no fear, cavalier renegade steer clear a tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies, offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline, the other night I drifted nice, continental drift divide, mountains sit in a line, Leonard Bernstein, Leonid Brezhnev, Leznev, Bell Biv Devoe Bev, Andropov, Bumbledov, Big Bummy Bumpov, Cherchenko, Chencherko, A-Ko, Pompoko, Lord Beaverbrook, an actual beaver, the dam that the beaver built before it died, a homeless guy they found living in the dam after it was buried, the grave in which the dam was and that they had just also buried the other guy in, Rowan Atkinson, someone who looked at a picture of Stalin funny, “Jonno” (surname withheld), a cardboard cut out of Ian Levine, spinning light-up novelty lamp, general areas, low gas, bottle novelty pixel, St-St-St-Studio Line from L’Oréal, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs’ birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom, you symbiotic, patriotic, slam butt neck, right?
Stop shitting in my bins. I’ve told you before, you do not use people’s bins as toilets. I do not accept your claim that “it is where all the waste goes, and so, and therefore, hmmmmm yes”. I don’t care how many times you repeat that exact sentence to me, fucked up syntax and all, as I chase you down the road yet again. Stop shitting in my bins.
I have informed the local council about this, and they are looking into the matter. I am meeting my local MP in the New Year to see if she can do anything to stop you shitting in my fucking bins. And also if she can see to it that you are always clothed in public.
Let me make it clear that I don’t know what this trans rights thing is about, or what this stuff about puberty blockers is. I just want you to stop shitting in my fucking bins.
My bins are for a) household waste, b) garden waste, and c) selected recycable materials as decided by the local council. They are not for an American man to drop his American man’s turds in. The binmen are refusing to take my bins because you keep shitting in the fucking things, and I can’t blame them. I cannot emphasise enough that I really, really want you to STOP SHITTING IN MY BINS.
I do not condone violence, but if this goes carries on I am prepared to get my grandad’s harpoon, sit inside the main bin and lie in wait. You know what would happen next.
But of course, we don’t have to go through this. We do not have to go through the rigmarole of you receiving a harpoon right up the anus just as you start shitting, and you lying unintentionally prostrate on the ground screaming while I scream different things at you, and the subsquent trip to the hospital, and me getting arrested, and the months-long trial and media circus where Julie pissing Bindel talks to some bellend about how you had every right to shit in my bin.
STOP. SHITTING. IN. MY. BINS.
Yours, giving you ample warning, Dave
P.S. And let me tell you, your shit certainly does stink. I keep thinking a fox has died.
The only reason this hasn’t happened until now was because I wasn’t aware this was actually allowed.
Anyway, you can stream stuff directly from my Bandcamp without having to buy anything, thanks to me realising I could untick a little box right at the very bottom of my Bandcamp profile page.
And it’s best if you do it from there rather than from bloody Spotify, which is annoyingly restrictive in many ways. (Only a fraction of my stuff is uploadable there, and I get no royalties whatsoever…)
