Wednesday, 28 December 2011

A Very Exposition-y Christmas!!!


Mmm-mmm, this turkey that you've cooked for today, Christmas Day, is lovely. Simply scrumptious!


I'm so glad you're enjoying it, darling. That's why I married you, you're always so complimentary about my cooking. What do you think, kids?


I want to go and play with my new train set that I got today from Granddad, who's sat over there.


I fought in a war!


I have no strong opinion about the turkey one way or the other.


That's why you're the second-born!


It's The Queen Speech in half an hour.


On the TV, you mean, not in our living room. That'd be silly.


You and your jokes. You should've been a comedian, not an insurance salesman, which is what you are.


I want to pull a cracker, then I want dessert. I'm excited because it's Christmas!


I'll pull a cracker with you. After all, it is tradition.



That sounded like a gun. I fought in a war!


Put on your paper hat. Dad, you can take the little sewing kit and fix those trousers of yours.


Fix my trousers? Next, you'll be burning your bra.


Takes me back to my youth, when I was a hippie.


So Dad, what's the true meaning of Christmas, anyway?


Yeah, tell us, what's the true meaning of Christmas?


Well, hundreds of years ago, a baby was born.


Was it Granddad?


Hey, cheeky! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, by which I mean me?


My feet are cold. I can't remember if I fought in a war.


Oh, Dad!

Everyone laughs.


Come on, let's go and watch The Queen's Speech.

Everyone laughs.


God bless us, everyone! Except Granddad.

Everyone laughs.




He's dead.


Merry Christmas, everyone!

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A Letter To The Council...

A letter I recently sent to my local council concerning an issue very close to my heart. No, not my aorta...

Dear Council,

For literally days now, I've been requesting a zebra crossing on the road outside my block of flats. I've tried bribery, flattery, even lying (alas, there was no school for the deaf blind. How would they find it?) So it's come to this: the power of the human imagination.

Imagine, if you will, that your whole body is made of breezeblocks, except for your feet, which are made from Velcro. And now imagine the road is also made from Velcro. And imagine you're carrying 18 bags of shopping. And the bags are made from cast iron. And the cars are all being driven by Jeremy Clarkson. And you’re Piers Morgan. And all this is happening inside The Sun. And you’ve got no sun-cream. And you need the loo. And you’re late for a dental appointment. Now double all that. That’s how hard the road is to cross.

And hey, if you can’t/won’t do that, maybe you could construct two retractable walls made from solid titanium. At the touch of a button (of which, I would be the sole possessor), they pop up out of the road, creating a natural (read: manmade) path for me to cross the road safely. Of course, this would cause the flaming deaths of a bunch of selfish motorists, not to mention requiring almost round-the-clock ambulance/fire/waste disposal services on hand to attend to the resultant chaos, but in war, there’s always casualties.

I urge you to do the right thing.

Yours Sincerely,

Sam Smith.

Turns out I sent it to The Arts Council by mistake.

Saturday, 8 October 2011

My Kid's Book! (First Drafts)

Yeah, so I thought I'd try my hand at penning a new kid's book. Here are the results. Enjoy at your peril...

There are so many things that begin with an 'A',
Like this little black insect that's busy all day,
A fruit you can pick in a bushel or peck,
A sex act where you wank with a belt around your neck.

Book, ball and bag all begin with a 'B',
Along with a black and yellow bug that produces honey,
I got this floaty treat on the day of the fair,
When my mum purged her junk food I held back her hair.

'C' is a letter with which many things rhyme,
Like this useful device to help tell the time,
This purring animal will wrap itself around your legs,
While these people prefer shitting on each other's heads.

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Jabberwocky (Revised Edition)

This new version of Lewis Carroll's classic nonsense poem was commissioned because school boards thought that the original might 'exclude pupils who already find English diffcult enough'. Have a look and see what you think...

It was midnight, and the leafy trees,

Did shake and rustle in the wind,

All shivering were the shrubberies,

And the moon shines brightly.

Beware the fearsome beast, my son,

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch,

Beware the vicious bird, and mind,

The dangerous animal.

He took his pointy sword in hand,

Long time the scary foe he sought,

So rested he by a big oak tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And as in silent thought he stood,

The fearsome beast, with angry eyes,

Came running through the darkened wood,

And dribbled as it came.

One two! One two! And through, and through,

The pointy sword went stabby-stab,

He left it dead, and with its head,

He travelled slowly back.

And have you slain the fearsome beast?

Come to my arms, my brave, brave boy,

Oh awesome day! Hurrah! Hooray!

He beat boxed in his joy.

It was midnight, and the leafy trees,

Did shake and rustle in the wind,

All shivering were the shrubberies,

And the moon shines brightly.

Gotta be honest, it's missing a certain something...

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

We Didn't Start The Fire (2011)

Add in choruses/handclaps/ukelele solos as applicable.

John Major, Art Attack, Gulf War, Apple Mac,

Gameboys, Mitchell Brothers, Terminator 2,

Britpop, Jurassic Park, Tarantino, Pat Sharpe,

Bill Clinton, grunge invasion, and the films of John Woo.

Girl Power, Kim Jong-Il, The Internet, Shaquille O'Neal,

Trainspotting, PSOne, the art of Damien Hurst,

cloning Dolly, Saddam Hussein, Macarena, Sinn Fein,

CGI, Harry Potter, Opal Fruits became Starburst.

Brookside, Peter Kay, Pokemon, Subway,

The Matrix, Tony Blair, Mayan prophecies,

Bye bye China, mobile texts, Big Brother, cybersex,

Beckham's haircuts, David Brent, pirate DVDs.

Y2K fallout, Laserdisc up the spout,

American Pie, Gareth Gates, sexed up dossiers,

cancelling 3rd world debt, war on terror threat,

Myspace, Eminem, keeping online scum at bay.

Bin Laden, Steve Jobs, Cheeky girls, iPods,

Live 8, George Bush, Terminator 3,

Angus Deayton, climate change, Tom Cruise acting mighty strange,

Burkha banning, Freeview, Scientology.

Gordon Brown, BNP, Facebook, PS3,

Wayne Rooney, Spongebob, Derren Brown's mind tricks,

Youtube, Cheryl Cole, lots of people on the dole,

Heath Ledger, Higgs Bosun, gritty superhero flicks.

Barack Obama, drum'n'bass, what became of Myspace?

Sarah Palin, Jedward, Terminator 4,

Coalition, iPhone, students need a bigger loan,

Hacking scandal, Libya rebels, don't think I can say much more...

As heard on The Marmite Files 25/09/11.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 4 of 4).

He looks on with excitement as she hits the buttons in the throes of her passion. Click! The headlights flick on, illuminating a billboard for Pizza Shack, which makes Terry’s mouth water. Click! The windscreen wipers scud into action, and he speeds up to match their rubbery rhythm. Click! The wiper fluid squirts up the glass, framing their illicit fuck session with bubbles and lather, and Terry struggles to control himself.
“Are you nearly there, lover?” she sighs lustily, her curly blonde hair snaking onto the leather seat in a highly erotic fashion.
“Yeah, my balls are about to explode. I’m gunna give you a pearl necklace to go with your diamond one.”
He knows he’s past the point of no return, and he extracts his love length from the duchesses gaping canyon just in time.
“Oh, Jesus”, Terry groans, as he fires a round of creamy shells from the end of his cock cannon. The first volley lands on the steering wheel, before dripping down like a spunk stalactite slowly to the floor. The next sticky rope flies across the cab and hits the duchess on the cheek, making her flinch. The third and final helping of sex saliva lands on her black dress, and she squeals in delight.

This was the part she’s been dreading the most; the ejaculating. She didn’t mind getting it on her face; she could clean that off easily enough. She just didn’t want any on her nice clean dress. But, lady luck saw to it personally that a generous wad of fuck fondant landed right in the centre of her outfit, creating a gooey runway. She’d have to wear something else now; she could hardly show up at a dinner party with a trucker’s sperm all over her dress, could she?
“Sorry love, hope that’s machine washable.” he chuckles. She glances over at him, his wilting dick still dribbling onto the seat.
“Hope the seat’s machine washable” she counters. He looks down at the mess he’s making and shrugs his shoulders.
“Wipe clean” he remarks, grinning like a moron who’s just won a shit-eating contest.

He watches her as she slips on the dress which he’d just given a baptism to. Terry sometimes wished he could fuck himself with his own schlong. He wrenches his oily jeans back up his hairy arse and attempts to stroke the duchesses golden locks. She eases playfully out of his reach, batting his hand away as she does so. What a minx. He clicks open the glove box and removes two half melted choc-ices.
“Want one?” he enquires, pushing the slimy wrapper under Gertie’s nose. She shakes her head coyly.
“Suit yourself”, he grunts, leaning back in his seat and tearing off the wrapping with his teeth, before spitting it out onto the floor of the cab. Just then, something catches his eye. He reaches into the glove box once more and extricates a little sheathed square.
“Ah, that’s where that was. Knew I had one of these bad boys kicking about somewhere.”
Gertie turns to face him. Her face paints a picture of distress, but Terry knows when a woman looks like that, she’s really turned on.
“You don’t want to go another round, do you?” he asks, waving the condom at her.
She slowly shakes her head.
“Uhh, I need to go. I think my car’s working now.”
“What? But how can you –
She pushes open the door and leaps down from the cab.
“Thanks for everything, I’ll be sure to keep in touch.”
Gertie steps over to her own car, gets inside, and turns the key in the ignition. It starts first time. She backs out of the truck stop, pauses to look at Terry, then speeds away up the road, the smell of burning rubber lingering in the night air like fuck fog.
Terry turns to study his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, amazed that her car started up perfectly. He spends a few minutes letting it all sink in, then grins at himself as he comes to one inescapable conclusion:
“Damn, I’m good.”

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 3 of 4).

Gertie tries not to gag as his rancid breath is forced down her throat, and instead attempts to fight back his over eager tongue, pounding against hers like a slimy sumo wrestler. All the while, her elegant hands explore the alien terrain of Terry’s Y-fronts, searching for a way to release his swelling joystick from its cotton prison. Finally, she wrenches them halfway down his caber-like thighs, where they become drenched in treacle-like sweat. Glancing down at her prize, she feels distinctly like a runner-up in the sex lottery. Her eyes not so much feast as snack on his stubby little member, resembling as it does an angry gherkin motorcyclist. She curls two fingers around it and proceeds to tug, ignoring Terry’s groaning and writhing and general carrying on. Taking the time to acquaint herself with his comedy genitalia, she notes that his testicles resemble tiny desiccated gooseberries, and pray he doesn’t ask her to suck them or something equally repulsive. After a few minutes of this charade, Terry manages to bring himself out of his ecstatic stupor and speaks.
“How about we take that silver spoon out of your mouth and replace it with a pork sword?”
More like a pork cork, she thinks, but says, “Oh yeah baby, fuck my face arse!”

Terry starts fencing away like a dirty dentist, and wonders how he came upon such a find. It’s not every day you stumble across royalty, and now here’s one, kneeling on the floor of my cab and taste-testing my todger! Still, he ponders, as he repeatedly impales her face on his veiny rapier, how could she not resist? Even without my boundless charm and dashing good looks, there’s still the Terryminator to contend with.
After a while, he instructs her to lay flat across the seats and, with his pale arse cheeks pressed against the unforgiving metal of the door, plunges straight into her inviting gulch. He enjoys watching the Terryminator’s head disappear squelchily between thrusts, and leans forward to mine her more deeply for twat gold. At the same time, he grabs at her jiggling breasts like a hyper-active child trying to pop two balloons by squeezing them.

Oh great, now he’s found them, he won’t leave them alone. She watches with apathy as he paws at her chest with his gorilla hands, then begins gobbling at the nipples greedily. After a while, he starts to mumble sweet nothings into her ear. Well, they may as well be nothing.
“I’m gunna fuck you for an hour.”
“Your pussy is like fucking a watermelon.”
“I’m gunna come in your face.”
“I like your thumb up my arse.”
And so on. She looks around the cab for some mental stimulation; lord knows she’s given up finding any from him. Spying the dashboard, she begins fingering the many puckered buttons thereon, then one by one presses them out of sheer boredom.

Thursday, 15 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 2 of 4).

Gertie studies the ape-man for a long time before replying.
“Well, my car seems to be having some engine trouble, and I don’t know the first thing about how to fix it. I don’t suppose you know anything about car maintenance, do you?”
As she expects, the ape-man shakes his head sadly.
“Sorry miss, I just drive the things, don’t know shit about the way they work, pardon my French.”
“That’s quite alright, I’m used to it.” Gertie takes out another cigarillo, and attempts to light it with an expensive Zippo. Click, click, click. Nothing. How dreadfully embarrassing. Just then, the ape-man steps forward, proffering a cheap plastic lighter and wearing a grin as though he’d just discovered fire. Holding his hand to steady the flame, she gets a strong whiff of chips. She loves chips. She always used to have them before…sex.

She sure is looking at him oddly, Terry thought. Maybe he has something stuck in his teeth. He glides a tongue over them, which the woman raises an eyebrow at.
“So, where are you headed to, anyway?” Terry says, slipping the lighter back into his pocket.
“To a dinner party hosted by the Earl of Margate.”
Terry rocks back on his heels, whistling appreciatively. “Didn’t realise Margate had an Earl.”
“Better that you don’t, the man’s a fuckwit –
Terry glances up.
- pardon my French”, she adds, walking over to where his truck stands like a slumbering giant, ready to be awakened at the slightest touch.
She runs her manicured finger along the gleaming paintwork and flashes him a saucy little grin. It’s a lovely smile, the kind that works like emotional Viagra. She certainly reminded Terry of his mother.
“Is this your truck?” she breathes.
Terry puffs out his chest with pride.
“Certainly is. Do you like it?”
“Mmm. It’s awfully…big, isn’t it?”
He steps up behind her and whispers in her ear.
“I can handle it.”
She turns and their faces are mere inches apart. The threat of sex hangs in the air like a sticky mist, and they can both sense it.
“Can I see inside?” she says, looking up at the cab with wide eyes.
“Of course, let me help you.”
As she clambers up, Terry gets a sneak preview when she momentarily opens her legs. Wasting no time, he reaches forward and slips a workmanlike finger up the leaky valley, then whips it out and sniffs it guiltily. She squeals like a naughty schoolgirl and scrambles behind the wheel, pretending to drive the truck. Terry climbs in and, no sooner has he shut the door than their faces instantly seek one another out, like mouth-to-mouth missiles.

Monday, 12 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 1 of 4).

Terry’s eyelids sag dangerously. He’d been at the wheel for the last 13 hours straight, and was getting tired. If he doesn’t find somewhere to stop soon, he’ll have to make do with a lay-by. Just then, something catches his eye. A flickering neon sign advertising ‘Foo N F el’ was beckoning to him just as surely as if it had been the ‘come hither’ gesture of a toothless prostitute. Terry flicks on the truck’s indicator and guides all 18 wheels of his vehicle into the muddy parking lot. He pulls up next to some fancy foreign-looking jalopy and aborts the engine’s lustful yet soothing voice. Sitting back in his seat, he imagines the burger he’s about to order. The supple buns, the yielding lettuce, the tender cheese, the moist meat, the huge breasted tomatoes. He rubs at the crotch of his leatherette driving breeches, which are becoming tighter by the second. God, he was lonely. He needed the love of a good woman sure as he needed oxygen, but commitment was like carbon dioxide to him. It sent him to sleep. He shakes his head and swings the door of his rig open. The instant he steps down from the cab, the cold night air descends on his exposed flesh like an army of sadistic schoolchildren wielding compasses.

Gertie watches from behind tinted glass at this ape lowering himself out of his truck. She takes a drag on her cigarillo and observes as he removes his filthy cap, scratches the thinning hair on his head, replaces the cap, scratches his crotch, yawns, scratches his rear end, and finally ambles off in the direction of the twinkling lights, obviously drawn by the prospect of food. It’s like being at a zoo, she notes with perverse delight, but a zoo where you can climb into the cages and fuck the animals. Even though she’d only eaten an hour ago, she was hungry. Hungry for his cock. And what Gertie wanted, Gertie generally got. One final puff and she ejects the flaccid dog-end out of the window, where it joins all the other flotsam and jetsam. Then she waits…

Terry saunters awkwardly back to his truck, his belt loosened and dangling limply, his stomach bloated with all manner of greasy meat products. He stops when he spies the door of the sports car wide open and a statuesque leg planted with caution on the grimy earth. A haze of smoke surrounding both vehicles completes the effect. As he approaches the open door, the leg is joined by another, and a figure eases itself out of the vehicle. As the owner of the legs turns her head to look at Terry, time stands still. He soaks in every detail of this magnificent beauty. Her golden hair flows in shimmering locks down her face, swaying sensually with every movement she makes. Her eyes smoulder with untapped sexual potential, and her mouth breathes out a seductive sigh on which you could hang the stars. But it's her cleavage to which Terry’s roving eye is immediately drawn. If he lived another 100 years, he’d be lucky to see a rack half as good. Christ, he muses, you could lose an army down there. He’d fallen arse over tit in love.

“Can I help you?” Gertie asks politely. The ape-man seems to be in a sort of trance, transfixed by her breasts. Great, he’s a monkey and a pervert. Still, it turns her on like a tap, this greasy slab of cholesterol and blubber. She always had had a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.

“Sorry miss”, he manages, “I was just wondering why someone like you would be in a place like this?”

Monday, 5 September 2011

Bad Poetry, Vol. 1

The View From My Window

What do I see when I look out of my window?
A car, another car, and another,
3 cars, 3 cars! And a van,
A branch swaying in the breeze,
As if to say, 'Alright?'

A bus stop, cold and empty,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
A man shaking his fist at the sky,
As though cursing the gods themselves,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
We've just been over this.

A cloud shaped like a human heart,
Could it be a metaphor? I don't know,
I was away when we did that in English,
Another cloud shaped like a bear,
That's not a metaphor, I just really like bears.

And then, a face looking back at me,
A familiar face, a friendly face,
I smile and he smiles,
Then I pick up the phone and call the police,
Because it's a peeping tom, and he's not wearing any trousers.

Untitled 1

She broke my heart into so many pieces,
That even now I'm finding bits months later,
Stuck in the soles of my feet,
I must've hoovered about 10 times since,
It's really irritating,
And has cost me at least 3 pairs of socks.

Untitled 2

I remember his funeral as though it were yesterday,
It seems like a lifetime ago,
Ironic really, the one time he wears a suit,
And he's not alive to enjoy it.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

I think his first sentence went to my head...

A genuine email I recieved not too long ago, and my sincere and heartfelt reply...


Pardon me for not having the pleasure of knowing your mindset before making you this offer and it is utterly
confidential and genuine by virtue of its nature.

I write to solicit your assistance in a funds transfer deal involving US$3.5M.This fund has been stashed out of the
excess profit made last 2years by my branch office of the International Commercial Bank of Ghana which I am the manager.

I have already submitted an approved end-of-the-year report for the year 2007 to my head office here in Accra-Ghana and they will never know of this excess.

I have since then, placed this amount on a Non-Investment Account without a beneficiary. Upon your response, I will
configure your name on our database as holder of the Non-Investment Account. I will then guide you on how to
apply to my head office for the Account Closure/bank-to-bank remittance of the funds to your designated bank

If you concur with this proposal, I intend for you to retain 30% of the funds while 70% shall be for me. Kindly forward
your response to me immediately

With Regards,
George Nduka
+233 24 888 6531

Dear George,

Your foremost apology is inherently appreciated and understood as such. By the merit of your kindness and the generosity of your heart, I can tell you are a beneficiary of the greatest endeavour.

However, further to my previous bestowing of candour on your part, it pains me deep within my soul to bear truth to your words and honesty before your remittance. I do not, as of this time, possess a bank account with which to incur such monetary forbearances.

However, in light of these economical revelations, I have since given birth to a notion of the highest order. I will come to you and collect these funds, at no greater a cost to you yourself of, say, £1500. Being an individual of the most sought after integrity and virtue, I of course would require a first class aeroplane ticket, away from the scurrilous vices and masturbatory pestilence of the diseased vermin that infests 'economy class'.

Once in the blessed and bountiful land of Ghana, I would then require accommodation of the fittest possible standard for someone of my bearing and loyal kinship. 5 stars, no less. And throw in a safari, too. Uh, a safari that conveys all the majesty and nobility of the animal lineage which thereupon plays such a transcendent role.

Oh, and make it 60/40 in my favour. My...benevolent and valorous favour. Is valorous even a word? There's no red squiggly line underneath it, so I guess it's a word. Uhh, salutations and fare-thee-wells, my resplendent brother and egregious friend. Do I mean egregious? Whatever...

Yours sincerely,

Sam Smith.

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 5 (of 5).

The continuing continuation comes to a conclusion. Conclusively.

"Come on then, let's see what you've got" Haversham chuckled, feinting to his left, and attempting to land a blow to Holmes' face. Holmes dodged this easily, manoeuvred himself behind Haversham and connected with a right hook to his kidneys. Haversham whirled around unsteadily, and tried an uppercut. Holmes ducked with the grace of a ballerina, causing his hat to dislodge itself, leant forward on one foot and punched Haversham squarely on the nose. He stumbled backwards, slipped on the chrysalis that had somehow found its way onto the floor, and tumbled over, his head cracking audibly against the hardwood floor as he went. I stepped over to his prone form and quickly checked his vitals, expecting the worst. Fortunately he was merely unconscious. I glanced over to see Holmes dusting off his deerstalker and replacing it atop his head. He then walked over to where Mrs Haversham lay, and, ever the gentleman, sat her up gently as she came to, explaining what had just happened.
“Oh Mr Holmes, I simply must apologise for my husband’s beastly behaviour. I just hope he won’t bear any grudge towards you.”
Holmes laughed at this. “Madam, if he so wishes, he may challenge me to a rematch, although I would attempt to dissuade him from this particular course of action!”
Finally, he bent down and kissed her outstretched hand, then shook it and stood up to face me. We left the building without a word between us, and it wasn’t until we were journeying homewards in a cab that Holmes turned to me and spoke.
"Watson, my friend, what I told that man was a lie. He wasn't the victim of a dastardly plot dreamt up by a vengeful tailor. He was the victim of something far worse."
I gasped, and swivelled to face Watson. In all my years of knowing him, I'd never been witness to him lying.
"It turns out, Watson, that there is a foe sweeping this city which even my quite brilliant powers of observation will be unable to stop. Sexual awakening. I read about it in a book or other many years ago, but thought it to be myth until just a few weeks previously. But now it seems more and more people are succumbing to this psychological succubus."
I reeled at the information Holmes was laying out before me, struggling to take it all in.
"People are slowly realising that they can have sexual intercourse for pleasure", he whispered, hissing the last word between gritted teeth. "And we're looking at a full blown sexual revolution on our hands. Still, there'll always be you and me, eh Watson? Watson?"
I heard not a word more of Holmes' diatribe, for at that very moment I leapt from the moving carriage and had it away on my legs up Baker Street. The reason, you ask? Why, to engage in the wanton act of consensual procreation with my wife, of course. I am a red-blooded male, at the end of the day...

I actually sent this story in its entirety to a Manchester-based writing collective who shall remain nameless. Apparently, it wasn't what they were looking for...

Monday, 1 August 2011

The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 4 (of 5).

The continuation of the continuing saga continues continuing...

“My dear Mrs Haversham”, Holmes said coolly, “any creature is easy to obtain in London if one knows where to look and who to ask. Why, I could secure for you an Indian elephant by the end of the week if you so desired.”
"But what about me?" Mr Haversham spluttered. "You say I've been poisoned, is there any cure?" He gesticulated wildly as he spoke. Holmes regarded him patiently, waiting for him to finish.
"Mr Haversham, worry not. The poison is but a very mild one. Its effects should wear off presently."
"Pendleforth really had thought of everything" I observed.
"Almost" Holmes exclaimed. "Should Mr Haversham had paid what he owed, Pendleforth could simply have called over on some pretence and removed the erstwhile intruder without issue. He even went so far as to ensure the window was left open, allowing the butterfly to escape. Quite ingenious. But what he hadn't thought of was London's greatest sleuth and his languor of an assistant! Now, onwards, to Pendleforth's abode!"
Holmes trotted towards the door, but Mr Haversham leapt in his way, a foolish act if ever there was one.
"Now see here, Holmes! You think you can just waltz in here, tie a fancy bow around things, then bugger orf without so much as a by your leave? Well, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken sir!"
Holmes stepped back, clearly impressed by this man's audacity, although he didn't show it.
"What would you have me do, Mr Haversham?" he asked.
At this, Haversham blew up like a great balloon, red with anger. His moustaches bristled, and he clenched his teeth so hard I feared they might shatter.
"What would I have you do?" he almost screamed. "I'd have you arrest that Pendleforth villain for attempted murder, as well as forcing him to pay out generous reparations into the bargain."
Holmes smiled thinly and shook his head. This set Haversham off once more, and he began moving about the room like an agitated clockwork toy.
"Firstly, the poison he gave you was only a mild one at most, as I've already tried explaining to you. Hardly attempted murder. Secondly, as for reparations, you're the one who owes him money, and I'd pay up if I were you. In all honesty, my hat is well and truly off to such a cunning individual."
At this revelation, Haversham almost collapsed in abject fury, but just about managed to regain some sort of composure.
"I knew it, you're in league with this treacherous scoundrel" he howled, pointing at Holmes with a trembling finger. "Well, you picked the wrong fellow to try and con, let me tell you. I used to be boxing champion at Cambridge back in the day, and I dare say I've still got a few moves left in me. Come on now, put up your dukes."
Mrs Haversham, who had up until now been watching the tense scene unfold before her with some distress, finally fainted with a sigh onto the ornate divan behind her. Haversham meanwhile, threw off his jacket, and began bobbing and weaving about the room, punching the air. Holmes simply stood still in the centre of the room, watching this ridiculous figure dance a fool's jig around him.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 3 (of 5).

The continuing saga continues to continue...

Holmes beamed and nodded.
“Indeed I do, his flair for creativity is unmatched by anyone this side of Bakerloo. Who do you suppose fashioned this frock jacket?”
Suddenly, Arthur roused from his slumber, his swollen organ swaying as he stretched his arms and yawned. His eyes opened wide and he looked with horror from his exposed member to Holmes and I. Then he leapt up, returning himself to his breeches. The protrusion was still all too visible, even through two layers of cloth.
“What in the blue blazes is going on here?” he demanded of us impatiently. He glanced from his wife to me and finally to Holmes, who stood upon a chair, his back to us once more, running a hand along the top of the magnificent oak armoire which was the centrepiece of the room.
“I’d sit back down if I were you, Mr Haversham” Holmes explained calmly. “You’re suffering the effects of a mild venom, hence the swelling.”
“Now, hold on a minute. Just what gives you the right to go barging into people’s homes like a thundering great clot and spouting orf all this half-baked gibberish?”
Holmes didn’t reply. Instead, he continued to feel his way along the top of the armoire. Haversham gestured wildly at Holmes’ back.
“I’m talking to you, man! And would you get orf that chair, for the love of -
“Aha!” Holmes cried suddenly, silencing Haversham as he leapt off the chair, holding something aloft.
“Just as I suspected” he said cryptically, as he threw the shrivelled artefact onto a side table. We all gathered around it, inspecting the foreign object with uncomprehending eyes. Haversham elbowed me aside to get a better view.
“Well, what is it, man?” Haversham spat.
“This”, announced Holmes rather grandly, “is the discarded chrysalis of a butterfly.”
“A butterfly?” Mrs Haversham replied, looking about the room frantically.
“Fear not, Mrs Haversham, for the Purple Empress that emerged from this is long gone.”
He stared out of the window then, and I fancied I saw a wistful expression adorning his narrow features.
“It’s probably already dead” he said quietly, “crushed ‘neath the wheels of a vendor’s cart, or else swatted like a common bluebottle, mayhaps.”
Mr Haversham stamped his foot irritably.
“Would someone please explain to me what the deuce is going on?” Holmes finally turned around to face the twitchy little man.
“It was Pendleforth the tailor who brought this upon you. The letters on this table refer to the failure upon your part to pay for a new suit which Pendleforth had cut for not you two weeks ago. You continued not to pay, even after repeated missives urging you to do so.”
At this point, Holmes grabbed a handful of the letters he’d been perusing earlier, then let them fall to the floor, one by one.
“Pendleforth grew increasingly displeased with your cavalier attitude regarding payment, so he came to see you in person, the motive for which was two-fold. One, obviously, to attempt to extract from you the money you rightfully owed him, and two, so that he could plant both the chrysalis and the natural foodstuff of the butterfly!”
“Turmeric!” Mrs Haversham ejaculated. “But how the dickens did he get his hands on such an exotic creature?”

Thursday, 21 July 2011

The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 2 (of 5).

The continuing saga continues...

The three of us rode post haste to where the Havershams resided, 229 Brick Lane, and no sooner had we pulled up outside the building than Holmes leapt out of the cab without a moment’s notice and bounded up the stairs three at a time. Mrs Haversham and I followed as quickly as we could, and arrived in the living room to find Holmes pacing about the room, evidently lost in thought, while Mr Haversham’s body lay slumped in an armchair near the fireplace. It was a grim scene indeed, and as though to agree with me, Mrs Haversham pierced the air with a shrill scream. This seemed to rouse Holmes from his ponderings.
“Is my husband - dead?” she stammered.
“No madam, however, I fear we must act quickly and quietly if we are to save him.”
I knelt beside Haversham’s prone form and checked for a pulse. After a few seconds, my efforts were rewarded with a slow throb. Holmes had once again been proved correct.
“I say Holmes, how the deuce did you know this fellow was alive?”
He waved a bony hand dismissively.
“Watson my dear simian, there’ll be plenty of time for explanations later. Right now, we must attend to this small matter.”
With no further warning, Holmes grabbed the comatose man’s breeches and silken undergarments and whipped them down past his knees, revealing a monstrous aberration. A small matter it most certainly was not, for the vessel one would normally expel urine from had swollen to a colossal size, and acquired a sickly purplish hue around the tip. I estimated the girth to be approximately 2 3/4 inches, and the length to be at least 9 1/2.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” Holmes enquired, standing beside me and resting his protuberant chin on one clenched fist.
“Absolutely incredible, Holmes” I replied. “In all my years as a medical practitioner, I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”
Holmes grunted and resumed his astute pacing of the room, stopping at a side-table to briefly peruse some documents, before stepping over to the open window and peering out into the street.
"Mrs Haversham, did you notice anything unusual about the room when you discovered your husband like this?" he asked, his back to us.
The young lady mused for a few seconds before replying.
"Well, now that you mention it, I did notice a rather strong smell of turmeric about the room, especially on Arthur himself."
"Turmeric, madam?" I asked.
Holmes sighed heavily.
"A herbaceous perennial plant of the ginger family, used as a main ingredient of many Indian, Persian and Thai dishes. Do try and keep up Watson, you cretinous gibbon."
He paced the room a few more times, evidently still deep in thought. He was often irritable and prone to sudden outbursts at these times. It was best to simply let him be.
“And who was the last person to see your husband in this room?”
Mrs Haversham wrinkled her button nose in recollection.
“Well, let me see now. My husband doesn’t receive that many visitors, but I do believe Mr Pendleforth the tailor had stopped by earlier in the day. Do you know of him?”

Monday, 18 July 2011

The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 1 (of 5).

A previously unpublished Sherlock Holmes short story, this marks a real change in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's attitude towards his creation. Written shortly before the sleuth's infamous death at Reichenbach Falls.

It was a rather humid evening in spring, the 24th of May if memory serves, that Holmes and I happened upon one of our more unusual cases. We had not long retired to the drawing room after a dinner of gammon and roasted parsnips and were each of us absorbed in our own pursuits. I was poring over a book of ornithology, studying the mating habits of the common tern, and Holmes was attempting to build a house of cards, his face a mere haze due to the smoke billowing from the tip of the opium pipe he'd been intermittently puffing on all evening. All of a sudden there was a flurry of commotion downstairs, one which by now I had come to recognise as the beginnings of a case, and I rose swiftly from my seat, ready to greet our visitor. Unfortunately, the draught caused by my sudden upheaval was enough to fell Holmes's card castle, and he glanced up at me sharply, a card still pinched betwixt thumb and forefinger.
"Watson, I'd been working on this for the better part of an hour. You realise your oafishness is matched only by your slow-wittedness? In other words, you are a primate."
He rose from his seat, keeping a stern eye on my hunched figure, and flung open the double doors which led onto the hallway. There stood the silent form of a young lady, keen of eye, and ample of breast. Doubtless Holmes observed this as well, for I observed his gaze drop down to the woman’s cleavage, before returning to her face. His lecherous side was almost as commonly displayed as his brilliant deductive reasoning. It was one of his few flaws, I hasten to add.
“Good evening, Mrs -
“Haversham” she replied in a voice as delicate as it was lyrical.
Holmes showed her to the seat he’d been occupying a moment before, brushing a few cards off it as she perched on the edge.
“Now, what appears to be the problem?” Holmes asked kindly.
At this, she threw her hands up and gave a wail of such desperation as to make my eyes water.
“Oh, it’s simply frightful! It’s my husband, you see, he’s been blighted by a most ghastly affliction. I came to you in particular because” - Here, she lowered her voice - “I suspect foul play at work.”
Holmes gave a small nod of understanding.
“Whereabouts is your house, Mrs Haversham?”
“Only a few minutes walk, but I ran all the way here, I was so frightened.”
Holmes rubbed her shoulder affectionately, raising his eyebrows at me as he did so.
“Well, I suppose you’d best take us to your other half if we’re to have any hope of unravelling this mystery at all. Watson, seeing as you’re a medical man, you should prove invaluable in this case.”
He helped Mrs Haversham to her feet, and she seemed to notice me for the first time. She gave an appreciative nod, and I returned a smile.
“Don’t worry, my dear, he may have the grubby appearance and boorish mannerisms of an ape in a suit, but his experience has proved indispensable in the past.”
Without further ado, we hastened from the building, Holmes throwing on his frock coat and deerstalker as is his wont, and I deftly flicking my bowler hat onto my head, before closing the double doors behind us.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Why not wash it down with a pint of Zulu blood?

"When you've got a sweet tooth that a less imperialistic snack just can't satisfy, try new Rorke's! Hundreds of dark chocolate pieces and a few white chocolate pieces 'drift' together for an irresistible and indulgent colonial treat! Celebrate the rise of the Empire with Rorke's! Why settle for a more primitive choice? With Rorke's, it's always a fair fight! You snooze, you Zu-lose!"

Advertising campaign for Rorke's Chocolate Balls from 1880 - 1914.

And you thought the ads for Cadbury's Flake were controversial...

Monday, 11 July 2011

Bagsy the movie rights...

Historians have recently uncovered what appears to be extracts from a young Hitler's diary, pre-dating Mein kampf. I managed to get my hands on one particular extract, which seems to shed some light on the young Fuhrer-in-waiting.

Dear Diary,
                   I hate this foster home! Everyone here is against me! All I said was that skullcaps look kind of stupid, and they sent me to my room without any bratwurst. Olga has no sense of humour, and Gustav isn't much better. They used to be such a laugh until they started fostering that kid with the jerry curls. Now I have to careful what I say the whole time. It's political correctness gone mad! Oh well...
 I measured myself today. 5'4", tall for my age. Gustav said if I continue eating well and getting plenty of exercise, I'll grow up to be big and strong. Then the other kids will stop laughing at me.
 I also counted another hair on my lip, that makes 17 now. One day, they will grow into a full, thick moustache and the little frauleins will be mine!
 Actually, that's another thing. All the other boys are starting to talk about girls, but I'm not really interested in them. I mean, some of my best friends are girls, but I don't feel that way about them. There is someone I like, but I haven't told anyone, not even Eva. Here goes...
 There's a new boy here, called Herman and I like him a lot. He has these hypnotising blue eyes and this messy blond hair. Anyway, I think I have feelings for him. I just want to be with him all the time. Does that mean there's something wrong with me? I just don't know what to do.
 Anyway, I have to go now. Olga's taking me to see a play by some guy called Wagner tomorrow. Sounds bo-ring!
                         Speak to you soon, your pal, Adolf (13 3/4).

Apparently, they're recording an audio book version as we speak. Piers Morgan's playing the lead role.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Old hat, I know, but...

I managed to dig out an old review I wrote after seeing 2 girls, 1 cup. I recall rushing to the computer the moment it finished, the words gushing out of me in what was almost a literary interpretation of the events portrayed in the film. Anyway, here you go:

2 girls, 1 cup (18, 2 mins) tells the well-worn tale of 2 people who, through a shared passion, overcome adversity. Nothing new there. But it's the way in which the drama is invoked which makes this film so truly unique.

The performances by the lead actresses are stunningly nuanced, giving depth and range to what otherwise could have been very run-of-the-mill characters. The direction feels fresh and engaging, never being afraid to explore areas which lesser film-makers would dare to tread. I'd go so far as to say it evokes shades of true visionaries such as Eisenberg or Dziga Vertov, while always conveying an original voice.

Overall, the film left me wanting more, clocking in at a svelte 2 minutes. The short duration only made me all the more wary of 3 hour plus epics, which could learn a thing or two from this movie. Despite this, the characters really grew as people, and I with them. I suspect the director has grown, too. I await his next project with baited breath...

Rating: *****(Outstanding)

Friday, 8 July 2011

First official post!

I had so many things in my head for my first blog, and now they've all gone, scurried off into the corners of my mind like so many frightened weasels.

Now Marmite Junction has been well and truly dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, there's no excuse for you not to do the same. Unless of course, you're a technophobe. In which case, the chances of you reading this are phenomenally low.

You can follow this blog and/or the 'official' Marmite Junction one (hereafter referred to as MJ for brevity's sake) if that's your bag. You can also follow us via Twitter, or Facebook, or just track us down and follow us in person. We don't endorse that last one, though. Might lead to court hearings and the like, and we don't want our relationship to get off on the wrong foot.

Anyhoo, that's just about enough from me by way of introduction to the sort of gubbins you can expect from this semi-regular, semi-coherent series of blogs. Hope you enjoy!