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.
The controversial “Yorkshire Ripper” is still at large, continuing to elude police. The murderer, considered controversial by some for his slayings of innocent prostitutes, is believed to come from the controversial area of Sunderland.
The killer, whose controversial antics have caused outrage from both sides of the political divide, has recently sent West Yorkshire Police another of his controversial audio letters.
The latest controversial cassette from the chillingly controversial maniac states: “…I have the greatest of controversial respect for you, Controversial George. But god!… your controversial boys are letting you down, controversially.”
West Yorkshire Police are requesting that anyone from the controversial general public has any controversial leads, then to controversially phone them on their Controversy Line at 0113 496 8088.
Make sure to ask for the most controversial officer to controversially talk to controversoesdf to them controveriall to t you to oooo uououu ctctctc theree’s a nodooodlo in my legg cont cont the’res a nooolodo in my skull l cococicoc win dmill s
Things began awkwardly with Oscar The Grouch making a sharp retort early on to Stephen Fry. The famed bin-dwelling muppet stated that “once you’re said to be a National Treasure, that’s it… you’re finished. You’re fucked!” A startled Fry responded angrily, but soon left his chair weeping when Oscar mentioned something about Belgium.
An already unsettled audience looked on as Mr. Snuffleupagus put a question to Jordan Peterson: “How can we trust the judgement of a prick like you, who did nothing but eat chunks of beef for months and then fell over and woke up in Russia, having become twice as mental as you already were?” Instead of a reply, Peterson closed his eyes and started to pray, and members of the audience broke into giggles.
Jacob Rees-Mogg started to say something about the debate but was sharply interrupted by Elmo: “Elmo think there no debate. There no debate at all! Elmo realises that the right not interested in debate, or discussion of any kind! The right just want to divide and conquer.”
A confused Rees-Mogg then withdrew from the conversation, sucking his thumb and calling for “Nanny”, who had passed on sometime ago.
At this point Big Bird turned his huge, sorrowful eyes to the crowd, and declared: “Yes, this is not a debate. What we are taking part in is a pathetic reflection of the deranged impulses and irrational behaviour of the ruling classes, in never-ending conflict with the world as it is today.”
Writers for The Spectator ducked and covered as the following song played:
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.
GRAND MOFF TARKIN: Greetings, Lord Vader. My name is Grand Muff Tarkin VADER: That’s not your name GRAND MOFF TARKIN:[scampering away] Ah-hee-hee-hee-hee-heeeee! Hoo!
