In whatever year it is now our culture ranks itself pretty highly above older generations. We laugh into our energy drinks at their pathetic sci-fi predictions about what the future would look like. We poo-poo their music and their milkshake bars in favour of Nicki Minaj-A-Twat and heroin dens. And thanks to the film Grease, our only depiction of tough gangsters is a teenage John Travolta with a flammable hairstyle and a squint that could crush walnuts.

These are all fair points when your only understanding of the fifties is popular culture and stories from that one crazed uncle no one wants to talk to since his ‘run in with Johnny lawman’. Historical inaccuracies aside, the fifties were hardcore times and not just because they had relaxed seatbelt laws. And once again it is literature that has opened our eyes to more enlightening viewpoints:

Prepare yourself for facial hair...

Prepare yourself for facial hair…

This book was written in 1957 by Anthony Patrick Harrington; martial art’s author and expert in all things punch-y. My girlfriend found it while we had lunch in a Wetherspoon’s yesterday. At my request we smuggled the book out after eating and spent the remainder of the day evading capture from police and – presumably – Harrington’s estate. That’s how badass this book is: it turns you into a criminal!

The title explains it all. No need for subtle ambiguity here (it wasn’t invented until the sixties anyway). And that’s exactly how they liked it. Sure, it may not have been the most progressive of eras, but thanks to Harrington everyone had the opportunity to properly break a mugger’s larynx. Anybody back then who messed with a potential victim was about to learn a lesson. On the cost of facial reconstruction…

So what advice was on offer for the conservative crooner fan? Here’s a sample of the contents:

The last chapter is simply entitled "Victory poses"...

The last chapter is simply titled “Victory poses”…

Harrington does not fuck about. When a man in a fedora can confidently dissuade an attacker (or a clerk who’s fresh out of bourbon) by applying a “strangle and scissor lock” move, without ample training from playing Tekken, that’s a generation that’s in danger of breaking space and time. How do you think modern rock music was invented? Jimmy Page was the first person to experience time travel, when he felt the end of one of Harrington’s student’s boot. The ensuing force hurled him ten years into the future where he awoke with a new zeal. Motherfucker then went on to form Led Zeppelin. Boom! Take that non-believers!

But don’t let my word do all the persuading. Text is good if you want to scratch your chin in earnest contemplation. But if you really want that beard to spring forth with the power of a thousand galaxies, you need photographic evidence of the moves being performed. Maybe on passing strangers. Maybe on the photographer’s own now dearly departed loved ones. But all – all – performed by Harrington. AKA Kill-O-Murder: The Punchatron:

"Yes, I'm aware of the Rob Brydon resemblence. Yes, I can see into the future..."

“Yes, I’m aware of the Rob Brydon resemblance. Yes, I can see into the future…”

A P Harrington is quite the elusive man. Several, vain attempts to dig up information on him that go beyond how many murder instruction manuals he’s written have yielded nothing. I sense that he went into hiding after a rigged boxing match he’d bet money on was lost. At which point his honed skills in punchology left no vertabrae un-snapped and no witnesses remaining with his “No Spines Unharmed” philosophy. So I don’t know if he’s still alive. Or if he’s stood behind me, watching me type this out and awaiting his long return to beat people up by sitting on their buttocks.

What isn’t baffling though is the calm veneer he displays while awaiting for his opponent to emit the correct snapping sound. Look at that focused brow. Look at the way his eyes pierce the distance while his adversary lies broken underneath him. It looks like he’s so used to street brawling that all he can think about is which diner he’d like to go have an Irish coffee in when he’s done reducing his enemies to a flesh puddle.

Oh, and I wasn’t kidding about the feasibility of wearing a fedora whilst in mid-defense:

Harrington plants a tree everytime he kills...

Harrington plants a tree every time he kills…

That poor passerby. Just out for a morning paper and a stroll across the Death Fields. Then POW! Harrington moves in for the sweep, making light work of introducing the man’s hip bones to the ground. Perhaps his choice of paper was his undoing. Maybe Harrington favour a broadsheet and has nothing but contempt for those who choose otherwise. Or maybe his victim just chose that particular moment to walk across his turf during one of his murder patrols Public Service Announcements eventually had to start warning citizens about.

And when all is said and done, and there’s simply no more vertebrae left to destroy, an unlucky assailant may find themselves on the receiving end of one of these babies:

The cameraman is forced to watch. Lest he never see his family again...

The cameraman is forced to watch. Lest he never see his family again…

It’s impossible to know what the man on the right is thinking but I bet it’s not “Golly, I’m so glad to be helping out with this book’s research.” That leg is not allowed to stay in its socket. Harrington won’t allow it. Maybe now he will think twice before back-handing a woman for not providing the correct strength cocktail. What the hell are you doing drinking those anyway? Let’s just hope that you had enough in your system to numb the pain of what’s going on in that photo. But all evidence suggests that you feel every twist and turn. Your facial expression reveals nothing but abject pain. And Harrington knows it.

Harrington feeds off it…

He also recommends that you leave a comment


A Late Arrival…

Posted: March 16, 2013 in Misc.

There will be a post up tomorrow. Should be a good one.

Why the late upload? Your Mum, that’s why…Okay that was mean.

I have company over and this entry could take a while. Worth the wait? Your Mum thinks so. Sorry,I don’t mean to keep bringing her up what with her condition and all.

Tomorrow. I promise…

While it’s not really justifiable for me to seem overly relieved to be moving on from a night job seeing as I’ve only been doing it for around eight months, it’s still nice to be know that now the twilights can be reserved for their intended purpose – solving crimes and peeing in people’s empty milk bottles – rather than for being at work. There are people who I’ve been working with who have been doing it for well over a decade after all. While I haven’t hated it as such there has been this feeling throughout that, just maybe, human beings should not be staying up throughout the night and sleeping in the day. It doesn’t seem…I don’t know…natural.

I am not a surgeon. Nor so I have clock face. This image is not an accurate representation of myself...

I am not a surgeon. Nor do I have clock face. This image is not an accurate representation of myself…

No, the reason for my sudden elation that you’re all picking up on and hence why you’ll be shitting rainbows this evening, is because as of Monday I begin a new job. Full time. Working days. Switching back to days is going to be nice and everything but this generally wouldn’t be nearly as exciting if it wasn’t for the fact that my new job will officially label me as a ‘paid writer’…

Friends and fair maidens know that this is pretty much what I’ve been gunning after for several years now. From my job interview with GamesTM magazine to making desperate phone calls to local newspapers scoping for work it’s nice to know that finally someone has deemed me worthy enough to drop money in my bank account each month as I type-ety type-type for them.

But I fear I must pull in the reins just slightly. While I am over the oddly spherical silver thing that hangs in the sky at night (it’s been a while since I’ve seen it properly) this isn’t writing quib, witty jokes for The New York Times. Nor will I be working with a team of writers on a new up-and-coming sitcom about a horse that can drive a tractor (hang on, shut up for a second I want to write that down…) What I will be doing is a bit more shirt ‘n’ trousers. I will be an official copywriter. While it may not sound fancy and glamorous it’s not as sales-y or ‘spammy’ as you first might expect. And quite frankly if you think being a writer is glamorous in any industry allow me to present you with this bucket of sand. Consider it an acquaintance for your head…

I left the bucket of sand under this here rock...

I left the bucket of sand under this here rock…

This new job is definitely on the right tracks but if you were to ask me about where I want to take this I’m not sure how I would be able to answer. Because your mouth would be full of sand. While I have plans on the side too I’ve always maintained two things when it comes to settling into a job:

1) I’ve been determined to make a career out of writing in some way or another
2) I genuinely believe I would be happier in a job that pays enough but is interesting and uses my talents, rather than a job that has an enormous salary but is excruciatingly boring and soulless

This new job certainly fits the first criteria. Will it conform to the second? Let me the answer that question with the magic of time travel…give me a week or so…

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I’m going to just straight up confess right now that the title refers to nothing I say in this post other than the fact that I actually was once served by a midget when I attended the premier of the Jackass 3D movie in London a few years back. Many of you are scoffing into your poorly made Cosmopolitans right now, I realise. But I assure you this happened. Will I regale the story in full? Only time will tell…so go ask Him…

The title of this blog is yet one more vacuous attempt to garner some attention around here by exploiting the Title bar and conjuring up more enticing names. Will it work? Again, that Time bastard knows best. He’s not doing anything right now. Go bother him some…right after reading my post…

Father Time: Barely giving a crap since, like, forever...

Seriously, Father Time does not give a crap…

But what I wanted to talk about was birthdays and the people we share them with. While a solitudinous annual affair many of us are perhaps curious about the kinds of people that share this day with us. And until recently I’ve never really bothered with the whole idea of sharing my birthday with someone because, well, I already do. For I am a twin. And just to stop you in your tracks: 1) No we don’t have a secret, made up language that only we know. 2) No, we don’t feel each other’s pain and quite frankly such a question has only sadistic meanings behind it. And: 3) No, we cannot read each other’s minds for such an act would be most uncomfortable for each of us as we are different genders.

So now that we have that out the way let me go back to my original point: it has never been a major thing for me to look up possible celebrities who may share the same day of birth as me because I already share this day with someone. She may not be Liza Minnelli or one of those fabulous chaps but then again she’s not Hitler either, so you take what you get.

But one day I did decide to go snooping around them Internets and see if there was any recognisable personalities whom I shared a birthday with. It was out of mild curiosity, really, and not because I’d masturbated myself out of one working lung and needed a rest for a moment. I’m not quite sure what I expected to get out of looking for a possible celebrity who I shared my birthday with but the technology and the inclination was there and as they say in New Zealand:…actually, I don’t know what they say about this sort of thing but I bet it’s charming and amusing in equal parts.

So who is this mystery guest with whom me and my sister share our birth-iversary with? Why, it’s none other than comedian and actor Omid Djalili.

That's the pose of a man who wants to get to know me...

That’s the pose of a man who wants to get to know me…

While I may have been intoxicated at the time of finding this out I was, somewhat, comforted by this discovery. Is comforted the word I’m after here? Who knows?! The (heavily blunted) point here is that I somehow feel bound to have more in common with this man than I did when I saw him in The Mummy all those drug-free years ago. Having a celebrity share your birthday is like the Zodiac equivalent of having them re-tweet your posts or say sorry to you when they brush by you in the street that you probably sleep on.

It’s not amazing news and maybe it’s not the most intriguing of topics for a Saturday night blog post. But it beats having to hook up my new washing machine whilst under the influence of alcohol. Much better.

Tell me who you share your birthday with

…For I have a Best Man Speech to write, ladies and gentleducks. Yeah you heard me right: BEST man speech. I am the Best Man. THE GREATEST MAN IN THE WORLD! As I have come to interpret it.

Okay okay okay, enough tomfoolery. No, seriously I am writing a Best Man Speech at the moment. This entry is merely a break from that and not in the least bit because I’ve hit an empty spot in my head that should have been filled with witty and masculine best man one-liners. Apparently such a spot has been left vacant so here I am using all my word count to update my blog.

The thing is, you’d think I’d be able to conjure up hundreds of anecdotes and heavily filtered stories for the groom, seeing as he’s, you know, my brother and all. I know, I’m a crappy sibling. Like the time I accidentally broke my brother’s front tooth with a plate. Ooh, that’s good…I’m writing that one down. [ABSENCE OF WRITING SOUNDS]

See, I know there’s going to be a lot of pressure on me to be funny. And that isn’t speculation on my part either; my sister has actually said to me that “Heh, you’re funny you. It’s going to be a funny speech this. I can’t wait…Funny” Yeah, great. Funny. I can do funny. Look at me…being all funny and what-not. Oh I’ll certainly make every effort but with my audience consisting of my Nan, several small and easily corrupted children and my Nan it’s going to be a tough gig. And seeing as how the vast majority of my jokes involve penises that go into places penises don’t normally go I’m sort of up a certain watery body without the correct paddling equipment. (I’m shit at expressions too)

But it’s not all bad. It is, in fact, quite an honour to be given the task of warming the guests up. I’ll get to toast my brother and his new wife, quaff champagne the way working class people do whenever they’re presented with expensive alcohol. But until that point I am just digressing. I must get back to preparing this speech. I wonder how many vagina jokes I can get past my god-fearing Nan? I reckon twenty-six…

"Vaginas. They're good aren't they?" [MANY SOUNDS OF WRITING]

“Vaginas. They’re good aren’t they?” [MANY SOUNDS OF WRITING]

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Who knows when and how my life changed. I’d never done anything like this before and while I was almost certain that it was what I wanted at the time, as the hours passed keen optimism somehow transformed Franz Kafka-style into guilt yet somehow I was still sat there in a hotel suite slurping red wine like it was a Japanese tea drinking ritual. Only with greater speed and less inner peace.

I counted it again. It didn’t feel like money anymore. The notes were just cut-out shapes made from paper. Their value had decreased and no matter how neatly I stacked them on the bedside table they may as well have been crushed leaves ready to go in a child’s scrapbook. I inspected one of the notes between my finger and thumb, turning it and bending it like they were clean underwear fresh from the dryer. They were far from clean. Metaphorically I mean. And the money…not the underpants.

I walked around the room taking in the new sights and smells the way you do when you visit a friend’s home for the first time. You look at the photos on the mantelpiece; the bargain bin artwork on the walls. You sit down on a couch made from some material your arse is not familiar with. And you decline all offers of hot drinks and ceremonial biscuits. Because you’re just that cool. God, why did I book such a fancy room? Dark, wood panelling? Electronic blinds? Two bedside lamps? What the hell was I thinking?! Looking around it didn’t feel like a hotel room. It felt like a culmination of forty hours spent at work so I could afford this evening. That’s all.

So what was I doing there? Ask my wife. Actually, no don’t. She’s the very last person who needed to know about my reasons for being there. And her mother. Both of whom are not so much capable of murder as they are one wrong move away from creating a real life revenge film. Complete with low budget camera effects for grittiness. Ever seen Hard Candy? Good, you know where I’m coming from then. It’s that old cliché I’m afraid: you reach a crisis point in your life where you think ‘is this what it’s going to be like from now on?’ You have every control over your own destiny yet there you are contemplating life-crushing questions. So you end up sat on the edge of an expensive king size mattress, confessing your sins to a bottle of Shiraz and waiting for the escort you hired.

I reached over to the money again and counted it. Again. One hundred and fifty exact. Just paper with squiggles and patterns. Nearly half a week’s wages. And it was no longer mine. By contrast one hundred and fifty pounds was comparatively cheap for an escort. Obviously I had to pay any last remnants of my dignity as a down payment but still it could have been worse. Worse? While my wife sat at home with the foreknowledge that I was away on a colleague training scheme I was moments away from handing over enough notes to spread out into a rudimentary period drama fan. Which, given the sweat oozing from my forehead would have been a more appropriate use of the money. So how could it have gotten worse? Scratch that. How could I have been a worse person?

So what of my wife and the tragic circumstances I found myself in? I loved her, of course. I wouldn’t speak of her with such frequency – or, indeed, fear – if I didn’t love her. Our years spent together were almost boringly happy. There were no real sudden events that lead me to be sat on a feather-stuffed duvet with the only thing stopping shame from emanating out my pores being the clothes on my back. We were childless, thankfully. That somehow alleviated a small portion of the guilt. And it was a choice thing. Neither of us had knackered genitals or anything. My balls are healthy, thank you for asking. Her mother did have a tendency to call my ability to father a child into question. Sometimes during meals. Other times at less appropriate locations. Funeral processions for example. The venue didn’t really matter to her.

‘Raisin prick’ I believe was the expression; somehow implying that as the years went on and I ceased to rear a child my genitals would somehow give up and shrivel inwards like a piece of dried fruit. Bless that woman.

No, my shame sprung from a sudden realisation I think a lot of couples feel eventually: detachment. With ever increasing demand to work more hours from both participants the evening couch cuddles became less of a way to unwind after work and more of a liaison that required prior booking and the crossing out of important dates in our planners. We both swanned off with barely a text message to warn the other. The irony being that I began to suspect she may have been seeing other people behind my back. Who marks important meetings in their diaries by dotting their i’s with cute little hearts? I ask you.

I heard a knock at my door. It was gentle but purposeful, like a loud whisper that’s meant to be discreet but public. I looked over at the money that I had unwittingly fanned out on the table. With a new tremble in my limbs I tipped the rest of the wine into my mouth not bothering to savour anything but the sour taste of this moment. I was glad I’d bought two more bottles. Expensive ones too. Again I ask: why?

As I approached the door I had images of seeing my wife in a boob-tube stood on the other side, her diary in her hand and a list of male names crossed off with me on the bottom like the last pick for a school football team. My hands now clammy I reached for the handle and released the door from its frame. There, out on the hotel hallway, with fishnet attire a-plenty and a mini skirt so vinyl-looking it could have sported a white label, stood my 54-year old mother-in-law.

The space between us didn’t seem real. It was as though a two-way mirror had been placed between us and neither of us were aware that the other was looking at them with an empty expression. We had seconds to come to terms with this new scenario and I had neither the wit and cunning to be able to scramble for an innocent excuse, nor the vocal skills to be able to express it. Her dangling jaw suggested she felt the same. All we could muster was the shaky exchange of each other’s name.

“Jennifer?” I said.


The exchange was pointless. We both knew exactly who was staring who in the face. Jennifer looked up and down the corridor. Not a soul in sight. Not even our own which had, by now, already been condemned to a new circle of Hell.

“I…didn’t…” Jennifer began. “I mean. Is this…?”

“I don’t…was it you who…?” I continued. “Well…fuck…”

The word pierced Jennifer’s face and she recoiled. I’d never sworn in front of her before but given the circumstance we’d found ourself in I may as well have written it on a piece of paper and stuffed it into her cleavage.

“Language!” She said.

This may have sounded like an odd response. But in fact it made sense in retrospect. We both knew what was going on. She knew why I was in the hotel room and I knew why she was knocking on my door. To deny it now would be so delusional unicorns would start dancing around us is we even entertained the idea.

“Well, shall I come in or not?” She asked, not smiling.

“Are…you sure that’s a good idea?”

Her shoulders dropped and she glared, librarian-style, at me.

“Clyde,” she said, “I’m a middle-aged women in a mini skirt standing outside a hotel room at ten o’clock at night. Yes, it’s a good idea.”

“Good point.” I said. “I have wine if you want some.”

“God yes!”

She walked over the threshold and I discreetly closed the door. For some reason I put the chain across. Who was I protecting? Also: I have wine? Why the hell did I say that?! Was I actually going to go through with this?

Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed, still warm from my furiously pressed cheeks. She took her shawl off revealing more shoulder than I’d ever thought I’d see on her. Seeing a woman in low cut tops and high rise skirts is a tremendous image. To see it on the mother of your wife is curious and confusing in equal measures. By all accounts this should have been the ultimate male fantasy; possibly even the beginnings of a good porno. But arousal was nowhere to be seen so embarrassment took the wheel working triple shifts.

“Bottle’s empty.” She said, nodding at the wine that was no more.

“I bought plenty.” I said.

I reached down the side of the bed into a Waitrose shopping bag and pulled a bottle of red out. The body was wrapped in a gold thread and was nicely chilled to room temperature. Expensive wine. For the last woman on Earth I expected to see in my hotel suite. I uncorked the wine and poured two glasses carefully balancing the measurement between being a good host and not wanting to inundate her with a memory erasing amount of alcohol. I handed her the glass and simply stood opposite her.

She finally broke the ice:

“So, how long has this been going on?”

“This is the first time, I swear.”

I gulped some wine wanting oblivion as fast as possible. Was it good tasting wine? I couldn’t tell you. It could have been pony dung for all I knew. The details were lost on me.

“What about you? I asked.

“Eight years.”

I held my glass still, half tipped and centimetres from my lips.

“Eight years?! You’ve been doing this since before me and Claire were married?”

“Yes.” She replied.

Her tone was neither apologetic nor scornful. It was a hard fact.

“But why?”

Jennifer twirled her glass and contemplated the colours in the liquid. I knew she was a keen wine enthusiast. Somehow wine and fishnet stockings don’t gel so good.

“Money,” She said,

Again, a simple fact.

I began to relax into it a bit. Suddenly I was feeling less guilty. This was my first escort call and I hadn’t even done anything yet. While the intent was obviously there I hadn’t actually gone through with it. But here was my mother-in-law: part-time call girl for eight sodding years. If we were going to Hell I would surely get put in a nice, up-market neighbourhood simply by proxy.

It wasn’t what she did or her reasons. It was how completely out-of-character this was for her. When you think you know a person after so many years you never see that person as anything other than the memories you hold onto. This wasn’t Jennifer the Escort. This was Jennifer the 54-year old estate agent. She read Phillipa Gregory novels and grew tomatoes in her greenhouse. Jennifer the Call Girl was her superhero alias; saving men everywhere from a backlog of semen. Morals aside it just didn’t make sense for a woman with a career and money to be doing this.

“Why do you need more money?”

“You can never have too much money.” She said.

She finally took a sip of wine, using that gesture instead of punctuation to make her point.

“Does Paul know?” I asked.

Paul was her husband. AKA my father-in-law. AKA the most oblivious man on the planet.

“It was his idea.”

“What? Why?”

“He fancied a summer home. Maybe in Spain, he says. Personally I’d like something in Florida but he’s always had his eye on somewhere a bit more Latin. And you know how much he loves mainland Europe anyway. He’s even considering taking Spanish lessons in the ev-”

“-Wait, wait wait. He knows you’re having sex with other men for money and he’s okay with this? All because he wants a summer home?”

“I’m not a prostitute, Clyde.”

“What the hell do you call this then?!”

I don’t know why I gestured to the whole room around us. By all accounts she was well within her right to answer with ‘I dunno, king size with en-suite?’

“I’m an escort. Which is different.”


“You pay for my company. Not for my body. I meet people and we have an evening together. If the two of us decide to have sex afterwards that’s between two consenting adults. Nothing illegal about that.”

She sipped some more and stood up to meet my gaze better.

“Now I have to ask you why you hired an escort in the first place. Something tells me you don’t have a spare cinema ticket going or a reservation at a posh restaurant. Does Claire know?”

Claire. AKA my wife. AKA her daughter. AKA the woman with the most justifiable reason for murder in the world

Somehow everything had been turned. Now I was the guilty party. This was a woman with years of experience in confronting men like me. She could smell the shame on me. Big, wet patches of shame soaking the underarms of my shirt. Also flatulence. I couldn’t afford to be anything other than calm about this.

“Please don’t tell Claire about this!” I said from my new position on both knees. “Please! Please! I love her and I don’t know why I’m doing this!”

I got up again and strode over to the bedside table. I took the fanned out money and swung it around until it wafted Jennifer in the face.

“Here.” I said. “Just take this and you can go. We don’t need to do anything. Just please promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to her.”

My echoes died. Had I been shouting? I wasn’t aware. Jennifer coolly took the money from my hands and counted out each note.

“One fifty.” I said.

“I can count.”

She folded the notes up and held them in her grasp. Her other hand came up and touched me on the cheek. It was surprisingly cold.

“I’m not going to tell Claire.” She said.


“Look I know you love her. But I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been distant with each other recently. You want female company and I get that. Who am I to judge someone when this is what I do for a living? I can’t say this is your proudest moment though.

“I know.”

I watched as she counted fifty pounds from the bundle and put it down her top. She handed the rest to me. One hundred pounds exact.

“What’s this for?” I asked.


“I don’t get you.”

“Look, I want money. And you want to keep this a secret.” She smiled at me.

I looked over at the door. The chain across it had taken on a more sinister look. There’s a fine line between privacy and prison.

“Your choice.”

Figures, I thought. And I swallowed the rest of my wine.

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I’m secretly Mussolini. That business about me being executed? Nope. I’m fine. Old as balls but fine…

No, okay I lied. I mustn’t make a habit of doing that. The little children depend on me to be altruistic. What I meant to say was that I’m a big fan of Youtube “Let’s Play” videos. I’ve been watching them on a frequent basis for some two or three years now and if you don’t know what they entail let me fill you in somewhat.

Shame about that really. I would have made a great bald Italian fascist...

Shame about that really. I would have made a great bald Italian fascist…

Let’s Play videos are game-related playthroghs with commentary done by the person doing the recording. Most of the time they’re prerecorded with editing and cuts implemented for brevity but some are live recordings. As dull as this may sound I have been following a number by people who I deem to be rather entertaining. It could be their reactions to what’s happening on screen (many have webcam inserts of their face showing them playing the game). It could be their nonsensical diatribes when things go wrong. They could just be funny fuckers. Either way it’s these multitude of video game commentaries that give me yet more reason to not bother with a TV license (the scam that it is).

Seriously, I genuinely think this shit is more entertaining than the vast majority of what television has to offer. Don’t believe me? Try watching a whole evening’s worth of Saturday night programming without succumbing to the arbitrary desire to punch a vole or scream at buses.

So I’d like to share with you some of my favourites. Now, these aren’t people who are scrambling for subscribers. Most have thousands (if not millions!) already. So this is not some cheap plug towards my friends’ Youtube channels. I don’t know these people but if I did I would buy them a cake. Any cake. Not cheesecake. That shit’s for weirdos.

And no I’m not posting a link to Pewdiepie here…Get out of it you…

ChaoticMonki (AKA Cry)
For a guy who’s never once shown his face on camera there is definitely something about him that has men and women alike simply encapsulated by him. Many say it’s his soothing voice. I would have to agree with them. Just thinking about it makes me grow ovaries. Also: never, ever ask him to show his face. Death awaits those who do.

BlueXephos (AKA The Yogscast…AKA Lewis & Simon)
Some of you may already be familiar with these two. They do (or did) podcasts before getting involved with Let’s Play videos. While fans like both of them equally I think it’s generally accepted that Simon is the funny one of the two. Is it because he’s portly? Only time will tell. I actually haven’t watched their videos for a while but I did enjoy the ‘Shadow of Israphel’ series.

I actually became aware of this player via Cry but I’ve been enjoying his stuff ever since. I particularly love how professional his videos look. I don’t know how he’s managed to superimpose his webcam image on the screen the way he has. Seriously guys…this is about as nerdy as I get…

Me and my girlfriend happened upon this guy while looking for amusing videos of the horror indie game Slender so he’s a new addition to my subscription list. While amusing to watch he also gets a lot of respect from me as he uses his video channel to help raise money for charity. But he does scream a lot. Yeah, there is that.

Maybe I’ve give a little back to the community by posting these links. Maybe a few of you reading this now have a better understanding of what I do in my spare time and why important shit in my life never gets accomplished. Maybe I should start doing some Lets Play videos and put an end to this unnecessarily cruel act of depriving people of my glorious face and voice.

Leave a comment. On my face.