theFUCKALLTHATpress

On the Buses, Terry & June, the Goodies and the Cannon & Ball Christmas Special

2008-12-18T05:09:00.000-08:00

Blakey is walking along the beautiful snow-covered paving stones on his way to work. The roads are icy and there is a nip in the air. He is approaching the depot when he sees the unthinkable, a picket line!

Blakey. Ehhhhh, ahhhhh, ahhhh. What's going on ere? Ehhhhh. You can't picket it's Christmas Eve, all the folks need to go to see the lights up West End, eehhhh. And the kiddies need to get to Hamleys, eeehhhhhhh.

Stan and Jack are smoking fags and drinking out of a bottle of Grouse.

Stan. We're on strike Blakey. So baked patater!

Blakey. What? Strike? On strike for what Butlaaaaaaarrrr?

Stan. No Christmas do mate, that's what for. We work all year round, every hour that the good Lord sends, and no do, not even to celebrate the big fella's birthday. I mean, what kind of a muggy cunt corporation do we work for?

Jack. Yeah, so we decided to fuck off today's rota and have it here.

Blakey. Oh pipe down you clippy cunt. Now Butler, I'm warning you, if you don't get that bus out, you're fired, eehhhh. You know there have been cut backs due to the credit crunch, now what you should really be doing, instead of larking around drinking fucking scocth is getting that fakkkiinnn bus aaahhhtt, and be glad you've got a fakkkiinnn job you two bob muggy cunt.

Stan. Well you're fucked aint ya, coz I'm pissed as. I'm so pissed I couldn't even get it up when I was trying to stick me cock in my sister Olive's trap this morning, I've been drinking myself to death mate, so go and moan to some other cunt, you fucking cunt faced cunt.

Jack. Hold up there stan. Olive, your cock, her face. What's going on there?

Stan. Oh don't get all prude on me you clippy streak of piss. We all do it don't we?

The workers in the picket line are lost for words and stare at the floor.

Blakey. We all do what? Aaahhhh.

Stan. Rape family members. We all do it don't we? Don't we?

Blakey. No we don't you fucking 'orrible cunt. I'm calling the police, you're spending Christmas in the nick, fantastic. Aaaahhhh.

Jack. Stan, you're going down mate, unless you destroy the evidence.

Stan. You're right. Help me get this bus out, we'll drive to my place and kill Olive so she can't tell anyone that I've got her up the duff 24 times and all the kids are in the cellar.

Jack. Right o mate!

The bus pulls out, Blakey stands in front of it.

Blakey. Over my dead body you fucking cuntsss. Ahhhhh. Ehhhh. Agggghhhh, agggg aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The bus hits blakey. Stops, reverses, stops, goes forward, stops, reverses etc, until Blakey is a thin crust ham and pineapple.
Jack and Stan piss themselves. (Raucous cockney laughter)...(About time too, this has to be the slowest Christmas Special in tfatp's history, I mean where's the bit when other famous 70s sitcom stars show up for no apparent reason and get brutally killed?... Oh here we go).

The bus skids across the roads on the ice. Ronnie Barker and David Jason are standing outside their shop.
Ronnie. Fuck me Granville, that bus looks pissed as a fart. Go and have a look.

David. Eh? what are you going to do whilst I'm looking at a speeding bus coming towards me? Hello, hello?

Barker has legged it inside and run upstairs and is flicking vs at his co worker from the first floor window.

Barker - Merry Christmas you fuckwit.

The bus ploughs into the shop taking the tank top wearing cunt with it.
Barker pisses himself laughing, until he realises his shop is no more. Close up of Barker...

Barker. CUNTS!!!! (Raucous cockney laughter)

End of Part One.

All duh pusts ah, mean me back tu, oohh wee, Memphis dis hut tudah

2008-12-09T08:28:00.000-08:00

Piss stink gasoline dung blah. It's muh, Memphis Mike, everyuns favurut suthern buhhh. Jus ass sluppin huppy du see da pruss in duh full swung agun, jus lukes da res uf yus.
Fuckern ayy, brudahs, sweeaaaeeeett. Saw sum shut whuch wuld prubublah indarust yus peeps yuh knuw? Sum muddah fuddah trud du swup mah side urm frumma muh jus yusturduh. Su muh ussk da muddah fuddah, 'whus dus yus tunk yu is?' tuns ut he da pulice, muddah fuddah. Trued tu explun du hum dut mu furin shuts unto duh nught wus do shuw ruspikt ti du Reg Varnuy who is da shut, ya knuw?
Well da pulicemun turn uht to buh Blakey. Su uh, pul uht uh pruvisliy whull kunceeeellleedd chunsaw und sluced da muddahh fuddahh un du. 'uuuhhhhh, ull gut yus buhdlah'!
hu hu hu. muddha fudder.

Thin Edge of the Reg

2008-12-09T07:46:00.000-08:00

On a serious note, thefuckallthatpress' hero, Reg Varney is dead meat copper.
Only the best die young eh? What a load of shit that is, he was well old.
You'll be missed by all at the press Reg, and all the millions of readers that we have here on blogspot.
Although Reg has gone, his spirit lives on in Winston's take on On The Buses. There will be a new Christmas special of the Mullins kind before the big J's birthday.
Don't forget people, Jesus' twin - Paul. He'll be celebrating the 25th with a bottle of scotch in a skip somewhere whilst you gulp down your fucking brandy butter. Yeah, spare a thought for him why don't ya, you fucking cunts. On the other hand fuck him! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

No that's not nice. Oh fuck it.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

I'll give you what for, you cunt!

2008-12-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

Well, it's fine for some, those that can hide behind drinking problems, homelesness and the like.
But for the likes of me, life and it's daily struggle goes on, me ol son.
Paul and Jim are back in London, well sometimes. They are bemoaning the fact that they have nowhere to live, yet seem to be living in London one week (for £7.00 a week rent!) and then back in Cambridgeshire the other (for free!). Oooh waht a tough old life they have.
Winston and me are still in South East London. Winston is looking to escape from London and I'm looking toe scape from him, what a cunt he is.
The Damned book (now 3 years in the making) has three parts fully finished! Only another 7 parts to go, which means it'll be ready in 7 years.
The fucking Damned have a lot to answer for mind. The parts that are completed are 1 & 2(big interview with Brian James) and 9 (big interview with Monty). 9 is a huge chapter, and is all about the 'new' line up and the making of Grave Disorder. Grave Disorder was the band's last album, until now.
The fuckers have released another album, which means we have even more work to do. Luckily it is very good. But, every time I'm in a record shop and I quickly run by the D section I have sick feeling in my stomache. Why oh why did I say yes to Paul's stupid fucking idea of writing a book about a band who have a thirty year history and are still going?
Well, I think I've worked it out. Paul saw in me, a cunt to keep around for a few years who could keep him in snouts and beer when he was out of the readies.
Three years in and it looks like a masterplan. Fucking cunt.
It is also clear that Paul and Jim don't give a toss if the book ever gets finished, never mind published as the last time they contributed anything to it was three years ago.
What do you mean I'm moaning, go fuck yourself you shower of cunts.

I Drank the Thames Dry

2008-12-09T06:48:00.000-08:00

Evening all. As we have written fuck all for over a year for The Damned book, we've thought of something new. Wahey!!
Please forward this site address to all your buddies. We are after drinking in London stories. The more lurid the better. All posts will be kept and the best ones will be published in a fuckallthatpress publication in the future.
So dig deep in those memory banks, do you remember slapping someone around the chops, sticking a kebab up your arse, pissing through a vicar's letterbox, throwing up on a bird you were trying to chirps, rubbing chilli sauce into your jap's eye for a bet?
Come on, you know you want to... Or have...
All you have to do is write out your tale and post it in the comments section for this post with the place and time it happened. We request you change the names of all concerned though so as not to offend your nearest and dearest. We don't like to offend here.
Fuck off you two bob muggy cunts!

Looking For Paulo

2008-09-22T01:03:00.000-07:00

Ok people, sorry about the long lay off of articles, but to be honest fuck all has happened. Si has been working and Paul has been in the countryside at his estate shooting game during his golden years of retirement.
But...STOP THE PRESS!!!
The news is that Paul has returned to South London, obvioulsy missing the alarm call of police sirens compared to a herd of cows, but nobody at tfatp can get hold of him.
If anyone can help drop us a line on thebunny76@hotmail.com
Cheers for now.
Cock Snot

And he's off! By literature correspondent Barry Git, taken from this morning's edition of The Penge Cock Snot

2008-05-09T04:27:00.000-07:00

Mr. Paul Brown Esq, is on the move! Now that the tfatp HQ in Penge is being reposessed, Paul has had to move out. As he is famous for his charming poetry, he is retiring to the beautiful countryside of Cambridgeshire. How a born and bred South Londoner with a penchant for self abuse will get on in rural East Anglia is anyone's guess, I'm giving him 2 months before he goes mad and takes out the postman with a double barrel shot gun.
To keep him company, Jim MacMarran has also left London and will be taking up residence, once again in Paul's mind.
Winston Mullins and Simon are both staying put in South London to work on The Damned book (like that will ever see the light of day), Paul will be helping via the odd drunken phone call at 3.30am on a work night when Simon will not answer the phone.
Winston, who was Jim's right hand man had this to say "It's the best thing for all of us, Paul is fucking mad and I'm glad to be shot of the cunt. Jim is just a total fucking wanker, so yeah, I'm chuffed to bits, I've always been the talent anyway, now I'll flourish without their chains holding me back. I'm in charge now, Rance is a fuckwit, he needs guidance to go for a shit, so I'll be writing all the good stuff, besides I am the creator of the On The Buses stuff and let's be honest that's the best fucking thing on here. The book? About The Damned? never heard about it... Which means it's going to be shit. Rance and Brown writing a book? Fuck off, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... Those two doss cunts? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I shit 'em"

Simon is mourning as Paul, his muse, leaves for the country. "I don't know, maybe I'll write another book about football that no one will read. Or maybe I'll just drink and smoke tabs. Oh fuck off, who are you? I don't want a bible, fuck off you joho!"

It's the end of an era that's for sure, how the press will cope being in two base camps is anyone's guess, is this the end of the urban scribes of the 22nd century? Let's hope so.

On The Buses Retire in Cambridgeshire featuring Jim MacMarran, Winston Mullins and Terry & June.

2008-05-02T07:03:00.000-07:00

A retirement home in Cambridgeshire. Blakey and Butler are room mates in the terminal wing.
June walks in, she is no longer a star of a (s)hit comedy show, she now cleans old men's arses for a living.

June. Wakey, wakey.

Butler. Go fuck yourself, you fucking whore cunt.

June. That's not the spirit Stan, come now.

Blakey. Yeah, aaaahhhhh, ahhhhhh, Butler, that's not the spirit, aaaahhhh. Go on, clean his areshole, he kept me up all night farting, dirty fucker, aaahhh, aahhhhh.

Butler. Listen cunt, you and your two bob snoring ways keeps the whole retirement home up, at least when I fart it makes you unhappy, which in turn cheers up everyone else...You cunt!

June. Enough boys, now come on, I've got to change you Stan.

Butler. For fuck's sake, I'd rather lay in my own shit and piss than have your cunt lapping fingers around me bummer. You fucking dirty cunt.

Blakey. Ahhh, aaahhh, aaahhh.

Butler. Can't you say anything else you stupid old cunt?

Blakey. Yeah, your a cunt, aaah aaahhh.

June takes off Stan's nappy, the stench is rank.
Terry walks in, he is now a cleaner.

Terry. Cor, fuck me, what is that.

Blakey. Asaaaah, aaaahhh.

Butler. will you fuck off please, your wife is trying to get me kit off so she can blow me, you cunt.

Terry. You fucking cunt, I'll have you killed.

Butler. You and who's army you fat cunt?

Blakey. Ahhh. aaahhhhh.

Butler. Will someone shut that cunt up please? Fucking cunts, all of ya!

Terry. You shit bag, you shit yourself again? Ha ha ha.

Butler gets up, swings a left hook onto June's noz, takes the shit filled nappy and sticks it in Terry's mush. Terry dies. June is bleeding.

June. You can't hit a woman!

Blakey. He didn't aaah aaah aaaah.

June gets up off the floor and spits blood in Blakey's face.

Blakey. Oh no, she's given me the TB, filthy cunt, aaaah aaaah.

June takes the breaks off Blakey's wheel chair and rolls him towards the window, which is on 97th floor. Blakety falls to his death.

Butler. Good work cunt head.

Little and Large enter with Winston and Jim, they all rape June.
The End

It Killed Yer

2008-05-02T07:02:00.000-07:00

See that time when you were 12 and fell in love with the painted girl?
And your broken heart and the social whirl that you hated when you loved that girl?And we all grew up and we pretended that we didn't care about that it ended
and we were men and we were strong and we didn't care that things go wrong,
but it wern't the cancer or the guv that billed yer,
it was the broken heart that killed yer
px

FREE MARKET prt5

2008-03-12T05:56:00.001-07:00

Vidic flicked through the book he found in his suck tube. He didn't order this. 'These Violence Machines of Death and Grace'. What kind of fucking title was that for a book?
He only had ten minutes before he had to be dressed for inspection. If they found a fucking book on him with death and violence in the title he was in deep fucking shit. He couldn't afford another day away from the factory. If they found this book, he'd be thrown in solitary for at least 36 hours and they'd force him to stick that pipe in his arse again, and that was not an option. Scaffold rape was all the rage in the factories, the guards would tie you up, lube the scaffold pipe and shove it in your anus and they'd take turns pissing down it.
These were people who, back in the civil times would have been deemed to dangerous for the Army or the Police Force.
The only good thing to come out of the scaffold rape is that he could now conceal things in his shit pipe, but it would be asking a lot to find room for this book.

FREE MARKET prt3

2008-03-12T05:29:00.000-07:00

Storley woke in the black room. He remembered it from the night before. It was Jim's room. He always came round to Jim's place to drink. They would sit for hours and drink Bud after Bud and listen to music downloads via Jim's portal. The curtains were always closed when he came round and the room was always dirty and full of smoke. Storley loved it, it was an escape from the relative calm of his every day life. Jim was his friend, he was different to everyone else, Jim knew him, I mean really knew him. There is no way that Storley wanted to spend all of his time with Jim, fuck that would be insane. Jim had a capacity for beer and scotch that nobody else had. If Storley had even wanted to (which he didn't) he wouldn't be able to survive long on Jim's diet of pills, beer and spirits.
But Jim wasn't there this morning. The music they downloaded before Storley passed out was still blaring out. It was Haircut 100. Storley heard Haircut 100 when he was a little boy, his sister played it. Then he heard it on a Dell computer commercial last night and demanded that Jim search for and download the track. It was called Fantastic Day. Last night Storley thought it was the greateset song ever written. Bud can do funny things to a man. It was on repeat, and Storley now thought it was fucking shit.
Storley went to the portal, it was a Technics download portal (rrp 850FMD), he hit various buttons, but it wouldn't turn off. His head thumping and his throat dry as a camel's cunt, Storley needed water, head ache pills and to turn this fucking noise off.
Storley searched for the plug, there wasn't one.
He screamed for Jim, there was no answer.
He tried the door, it didn't open.
He pulled the curtains back, there were no windows.
Like it or not, Storley and Haircut 100 were going to be spending a lot of time together, because this was it.
And that, as they say..Is that.

FREE MARKET prt4

2008-03-12T05:23:00.000-07:00

Burnet's truck stopped again. Of all the times he drove through the lower hub of the westway this was the worst. With the three tiers on top of him rumbling away to bending point and the gridlock behind and in front of his rig, he was going nowhere today that was for sure.
He turned off the engine and the Mack truck's (rrp 230,000FMD) head lights and sat in the relative calm of the smog darkness. He took off his mask so he could sip some coffee, he fancied something a little stronger though, he fancied a Bud damn it, a bud, a man's drink, a beer of kings. BUD BUD BUD BUD BUD.
Burnet fell alseep and dreamed the pleasant dreams that the advertsing companies had given him via his suck tube that morning. Yeah tomorrow was going to be a great, no a fantastic day, I'll take the kids to Mcdonalds to thank them for being so darn nice and then we'll all go and watch a Disney movie, yeah that new one, what was it called, oh who cares all Disney movies are FUN. Then, I'll take the kids back to the factory, maybe go to the little lady's apt next door and share a Bud.
Then I'll kill them all, with a smile on my face the size of a KFC Tower Burger.

FREE MARKET prt2

2008-03-12T05:22:00.000-07:00

Shelly Miller waited by the news portal for any sign of the TV man. She had ordered the booth rrp 250FMD, so she could finally communicate with her husband.
It had been three years since they communicated and eight years since they were married. Shelly was working as a ticket inspector on the trams when she met her husband to be. He was an average sized man, handsome and kind.
Which was great, if you liked that sort of thing.

FREE MARKET prt1

2008-03-12T05:16:00.000-07:00

WHEN I DIE I WANT TO COME BACK AS A BUD

Miller thought this a particuarly genius piece of advertising as the red ad board stared at the entrance to the last Buddhist temple in the Free Market.
Miller licked his lips and went to the Zanussi fridge rrp 500FMD, opened up the cooler and pulled out a Bud. The initial Bud taste flooded his throat and lungs with a high that only a Bud can give. Miller was happy, this was a true Bud moment. He finished the Bud afetr three large gulps, let out a satisfied, manly, Bud sigh and slammed the bottle in the flip bin, by Starck rrp 750FMD - A real bargain from the design museum.He thought to himself, 'this is the life', and then, 'this is life' and finally is this my life?

I See The Boys Of Summer In Their Ruin...

2007-12-12T05:29:00.000-08:00

Roger Kahn has long been hailed as the greatest American sports writer and after reading 'The Boys Of Summer' it is easy to see why. The book is divided into two main parts, with interludes and memoriums to fallen ball players filling the gaps.
Part one describes growing up in Brooklyn, within shouting distance of the no longer existing Ebbets Field, home of the no longer existing Brooklyn Dodgers. It starts with Kahn's family life and his early years in journalism which culminates in him being appointed to cover the Dodgers for two years, the team he has supported and obsessed about all his young life.
Starting his dream job, he follows the Dodgers from Miami, for Spring training to the World Series in both seasons making long lasting friendships with players that he knew fanatically as a regular at Ebbets Field and then as complex people each with differing philosophies, tastes, beliefs and anxieties.
The list of Dodger's in those two seasons include Jackie Robinson, the first black player to play Major League, the team slugger,'Duke' Snider, the greatest glove the game ever saw in 3rd baseman Billy Cox, Preacher Roe - the spit ball specialist, Erskine - the pitcher and master of the overhand curve, Campy - the catcher and winner of 3 straight MVPs, Black -the first black pitcher to win a World Series game and of course the short stop and captain, the late great Pee Wee Reese.
The second part of the book, sees Kahn tracking down The Boys of Summer, now retired from the game and living very different lives in different parts of the States. These stories are probably even stronger. I have read the book 3 times now and on the 3rd read I started at part 2 to soak in all the charateristics of these men and then finished with part 1, reading baout them in their sporting prime.
It has everything a great sports books needs: passion, soul and a true understanding of the game and the people both within it and outside it. Great sporting achievements are very difficult to put into words, but Kahn does it so well you end up rooting for both the team and him.
It is a story of a very diffrent time and almost a different world, but all avid sports fans who realise that the games we watch and the games we play are a passion, addiction and a love beyond the reaches of intellect and reason will love it forever.

Simon Rance, author of The FC Nantes Experiment.

Straight Goer

2007-12-06T05:52:00.000-08:00

They were just sitting talking;Winston and Jim.
Jim say's,'Why are some people troubled and some people not?'
Winston looks up. He don't wanna hear that shit.
'Fuck it Jim', he says,'Lets go get drunk!'
'Yeah.c'mon',says Jim.

P
x

The Office Christmass Party

2007-11-29T07:12:00.000-08:00

Like any other organistaion we have a Christmas party and just like any other organistation we have a boss who's a cunt.
Jim MacMarran will be hosting the Christmas party for thefuckallthatpress at our HQ in Penge (Paul's shit-pit of a family abode- ha ha ha ha).
Jim will be laying on all the treats, Winston, Simon and Paul will listen to music, smoke tabs and watch films in a bedroom covered in fag stain. Jealous?

This will probably be the last party at Paul's place, the home of the greatest underground writing revolution since... Er, oh fuck off.
Any Ol' shit, you, our biggest fans, our hardened followers, our readers, are all invited!
Meet the stars of underground journalism, see Paul the miserable poet and wonder why he is rolling around drunk on the floor laughing when you thought he'd be slitting his wrists (no such fucking luck), meet Winston and be totally confused by his African descent and wonder how come all his jokes are racist. Meet Jim and dodge his whiskey throwing spectacular. Upon meeting Simon, you'll say 'I thought you'd be taller, and what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this, I thought you were a father, go home, now!'
The contributors from over the years Matt, Nnamdi, Two sheds, Dean...Wont be there.

So how could you miss a big night like this to spend with your heroes?

How could you say no?

What do you mean, no?

Well if any of you good for nothing cunts are coming, bring booze, fags and booze and some fags and then fuck off and die, we hate you leaches, you dirty two-bob fucking dirty skirt cuntlappers. Go fuck yourself in the forehead, fucko and a very fucking merry fucking christams fucking cunt to you too.
Fuck Jesus.
Fuck the press.

The Welcome Death of Golden Balls and MacDonut

2007-11-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

It has been a shit couple of weeks. Mailer is dead, my good friend Paul and his family are up for eviction from their house and the England football team has managed to fuck up a golden gift from the old country and lose to Croatia, thus putting us out of the European championships.

I was not only angry with the England team and management, but the whole world. In the 24 hrs that followed our elimintaion I realised that the summer would be spent with the with and kid instead of down the boozer with my mates watching footy. During these thoughts I saw everything that was wrong with the F.A, the world, the country and myself.

The dissapointment one feels in defeat is meat and drink to the average football fan, but is it arrogant to expect the England national football team to qualify for one of only two major tounaments?
Am I misguided to expect us as a footballing nation to achieve a greater points total in our qualifying group than Israel?

The heart break that comes with defeat in a major tournament is an unberable feeling of total collapse. A huge mega-structure of stress and hope is suddenly made to look insignificant and minute as a gargantuan earthquake sucks it from the dreamcast down to the lowly ground level base that is reality. Tears are shed and wave after wave of depression slips over you and drags you down so you cannot function in your usual manner. In time, your only ally, hope begins to re-introduce you to the normal world. Hope helps you realise that the golden fleece is still within grasp, there is always the next tournament, you never know, this time, it could be ours... The shot at glory... You slowly put the shell toe trainers back on, because you have stopped boycotting Adidas, fuck it, they're made in Nepal any way and they're as German as your cor blimey Gran's bowels full to the brim with a full English.

But not even getting a snif, wink, feel of that chance is beyond despair. It doesn't bring depression, but rage.
Rage against the bearded baldy cunts at the F.A, who lie like cunts more than politicians, who employ mickey mouse cunts with no fucking clue to take charge of our dreams, who play fucking over paid cunts who are walking adverts for razors, aftershaves, designer suits and cuntness.
These people have pretended for far too long that they really care and that they really believe in the fans.
The England team is captained by a man who laughed, while pissed out of his brains at Americans in tears, at an airport watching the twin towers fall on t.v. the team also boasts a right little fucking herbert who left his boyhood club because they wouldn't pay him £65,000 a week, they only offered him the paltry sum of £60,000 per week (poor little love).
This nation of ours has the front to keep saying we invented the beautiful game. But there is nothing beautiful about England's national team. If Italy is Monica Belluci then England are the fucking Spice Girls in both the looks and class department.
Our nation is bored and it's getting boring. Our films are boring kitchen sink dramas, or they're fucking middle class cunty boring bollocks starring Hugh Grant. Our music industry is dying under the clouds of mediocrity, Athlete anyone, come on, roll up, they're the bollocks, just like Kaiser Chiefs, Snow Patrol and Kasabian, fuck me.
It's all so boring, boring, boring.
England is no longer dreaming, it is yawning and I blame the F.A for the fucking Jewson lot.

YES!

2007-11-20T03:57:00.000-08:00

If we understood what it all is,
What the feeling we have means,
If we could hear ourselves breathing at night,
Strong for our girls and our kids,
Knowing that one day it will be all over,
Not just for us, but for them,
Are we really that fucking clever?

Paul
x

HQ, Fuck All That

2007-11-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

Si & Paul's head office will be no more come New Year's Day. Paul's house where he lives with Jim and Winston is being 'taken over' by an unkown entity who has links with the council and a dead relative of Paul's. One thing we can confirm is that whoever is doing this to our poetry champion is a total cunt and we mean to track them down and get all On the Buses on their arses.
What a bunch of cunts.
Ok, it is/was not the most fetching of abodes, but it was Paul's home and some of the press' greatest moments have come from the bin linered window front room, whilst in the throes of drunken, coke-fuelled and poppers taking xtc (if their really is such a thing in Penge).
The press will miss the balmy evening walks down Newlands Park towards the shrine of modern journalism that is/was Paul's gaff. The tree lined avenues, the friendly people, the rubbish bags and beer bottles on the door step, the fag stained and greasy mittened door frames, walls, ceilings, light switches (well everything). But most of all we'll miss the luxury toilet and bathroom. Broken peach cement and china, chipped tiles, a mouldy piece of soap, which could well be from the jurassic age and a bog that doesn't flush properly.
In fact, if you put it like that, it sounds like Paul's getting a good deal, the streets sound safer.
Jim has already decided that they'll never take him alive (just who THEY are is very much a grey area) and he'll be fucked if he'll give his house up to coons(DISCAIMER - NOT THE WORDS OF THEFUCKALLTHATPRESS).
'I'll take them all on' Winston screamed, to nobody but the bin linered curtains, 'Where are ya, show yerself yer cunts' he added and then did what Winton does best; fell over and dwelled in his own shit, piss and sick for nine hours.
thefuckallthatpress' 'Last Night Of the Wrongs' will be held at the HQ for one last trip down shitville, date to be confirmed.

SUPERMAN COMES TO THE SUPERMARKET (Prt 2)

2007-09-27T05:21:00.000-07:00

The offices of The Paris Review, New York City.
George Plimpton, editor at large, moves around his desk throwing his Wilson football to wide receivers disguised as tired furniture.

Plimpton: (interior monologue) Nothing new, nothing fresh…What’s wrong with me? What is new and fresh? Come on Plimpton, sort it fellow! Well… Football, check, in ‘Paper Lion’ , a personal favourite and also a critical and commercial success no less, I covered football better than any New Journalist in the genre. Plus there was my follow up a few years later ‘Mad Ducks and Bears’ a cult classic, oh yes more football thus more success, but what of football now, nothing to write about, just stats, steroids and sticky business!
Baseball, nailed that beast too, oh yes, ‘The Curious Case of Sid Finch’ turned the genre on it’s head once again, ‘was it journalism as a novel or a novel as journalism’ they cried, whatever it was it was certainly novel, oh yes!
But what of the here and what of the now? Lordy, what to do? I’ve got nothing new to offer the literary world I have served so well, surely my ink well has not completely dried up, surely not.
Only one thing for it, beg, steal and borrow from a dear friend, a major rival and above all else a lesser genius than my good self. Must call Mailer!

A house in the Hamptons, New York.
Norman Mailer sits alone, staring out of a window and the rolling coast line.

Mailer: (interior monologue) Here he sits, upon his literary throne, solitary, held prisoner by his genius as the social commentator of American life for the past 50 years. The co-founder of the controversial Village Voice, scribe of such works as ‘The Armies Of The Night’, ‘The Naked & The Dead’ and ‘The Fight’. Oh, he’s seen, done and written about it all;
Mailer, the man, the myth, the…

Mailer’s phone rings

Motherfucker!
Hello, who is it now?

Splitscreen

Plimpton: Mailer, it’s me, Plimpton.

Mailer: I should have known it was you, how are you ol’ motherfucker you?

Plimpton: Well, if you could refrain from swearing Mailer that would help. But to answer your question, not good old sport, not good at all.

Mailer: Not surprised to hear it George. You realise the phone I am talking to you on is defunct?

Plimpton: Whatever do you mean Mailer?
Mailer: I tore it out of the wall two years back and threw it at my wife, it hasn’t worked since?

Plimpton: Which one?

Mailer: Which wall or which wife?

Plimpton: I don’t suppose it really matters does it?

Mailer: Well not to you buddy, you’re dead.

Plimpton: But…

Mailer: All you dead guys, you keep ringing on the phone that don’t work no more. You, Heller, Vonnegut, Thompson and then once you’ve called and we’ve had a chat you forget you were talking to me. Wolfe has had the same problem. Supposedly Hunter keeps calling him and screaming abuse at him. I don’t know which magazine you are working on there, but it sure as hell has low circulation. Maybe it’s ‘the New Yorker’ their writers are like the living dead recently.

Plimpton: What about Breslin?

Mailer: Well, I wish he was dead, but he’s still writing the same bull about who the tough guys are in Queens and all that horse.
Hey George, it comes to us all. I’m waiting and I dare say Wolfe, even with his clean living ways will not be too far behind.

Plimpton: How bizarre, the deadlines, they feel real enough.

Mailer: It must be something to do with the big G or the big D. That last great American writers death package, deluxe edition, that sort of thing.

Plimpton: Interesting. Well it’s a success, I was utterly convinced!

Mailer: What are you working on?

Plimpton: I haven’t even come up with an idea. The juice it’s all gone.

Mailer: There you go, you’re finished old timer, I’ll see you when I get there. Give Hunter a call, he may have some wider eyed vision of what you are going through. I’m sure it wont help in the slightest, but it may act as some kind of comfort blanket.

Plimpton: I’d rather not disturb him, it’s after 9.00 in the morning, he would have started drinking by now.

Mailer: Call Heller or Vonnegut then.

Time Magazine office, New York City.
The Editor slams a huge manuscript down in front of Joseph Heller.

Editor: I wanted a piece, not War & Peace for crisakes!

Heller: It’s all I’ve got chief, I can’t think of anything.

Editor: This shit here, is an age old Heller. It’s the old shit dressed up in a new shitty suit. Bombadiers, serial affairs, lack of emotion in lead characters, German classical music with a bit of Coney Island and Oy Vey thrown in for good measure.

Heller: Give me 12 hrs and I’ll give you a masterpiece!

Editor: Oh really, what is this one gonna be? Catch Heller’s career it’s plummeting from a b52?

Heller: You cannot talk to me like that. I outsold the Bible!

Editor: Ancient history Joe. Your stuff stinks. Catch 22, that’s all I goddamn hear. Give me something new, something fresh or your already tarnished reputation is out on the sidewalks with all those other bums, you hear me?

The Editor exits.

Heller’s phone rings, he picks up, split screen with Plimpton.

Plimpton: Heller, it’s Plimpton.

Heller: Good to hear from you George, a friendly voice at last.

Plimpton: How are you?

Heller: Well everything is a little on the weird side. I’m back at Time Magazine, where I used to write advertising copy back in the day, after the war. But I don’t understand why I’m here again. And the editor is a total motherfucker.

Plimpton: Ah yes, well if you could you just refrain from swearing Heller, I’ll try to explain something to you that Mailer told me?

Heller: That old goat? Isn’t he senile?

Plimpton: That may be, but he is in a gargantuan better state than you or I.

Heller: Oh yeah? Like how?

Plimpton: Well, he’s not dead for starters and he’s just written another bestseller.

Heller: Motherfucker!

Plimpton: Please Joe, the swearing!

Heller: Yeah, yeah, I hear ya Plimpton.

Plimpton: How did you get to the office today?

Heller: I don’t even remember turning up, I’m just here.

Plimpton: You’re dead Joseph and Mailer seems to think the big G or the big D has put together a death package for the last great witers if America, the New Journalists and the like.

Heller: Christ, Wolfe is gonna love this. His stupid little name for irrational journalism has made it to the afterlife!

Plimpton: Well at the moment, he’s still alive.

Heller: Well the best die first right George? How did his last book do, not that I’m remotely interested.

Plimpton: I’m not entirely sure, but like Mailer’s work I’m guessing it ran off the shelves.

Heller: Motherfucker!

Plimpton: Bye Joe.

Heller puts the receiver down and the editor re-enters.

Editor: Got anything Heller?

Heller: Well yeah, it’s about how Joe Heller, fucked the editor of Time Magazine in the ass and then murdered all his family.

Editor: Brilliant, what’s it called?

The Rocky Mountains, Colorado.
Hunter S. Thompson is riding a BSA 650 at a crazy-assed speed on dirt tracks, with a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand.

HST (Interior Monologue): Something new, something fresh. Jesus Thompson, how hard can it be? Got to call somebody, need help, need a mind bending and life enhancing arsenal of chemicals. Great God! Kill the body and head will die!

HST’s BSA 650 hits a tree and explodes. HST lies on his back, checking his body for any damage.

HST (Interior Monologue): Where’s the kit bag, mescaline, need it now!

HST finds some Mescaline in his underwear and gobbles it down.

HST (Interior Monologue): Remember there is no such thing as paranoia???? When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Got to get those juices flowing again. Plimpton, only he can save me now, or that whacked out, straight edge, square pusher Wolfe.

HST walks into a hotel lobby. A lobster stares at him from behind the reception.

HST: A lobster phone, it’ll have to do.

HST reaches over and tears the lobsters head off and starts to scream into it.
Split screen with Tom Wolfe sitting in his office in New York City dressed in his ice cream suit and matching honbo hat.

Wolfe: Hello?

HST: Wolfe, it’s Dr. Thompson, and as you know there is no way in Nixon’s hell that I would ask you for help unless it was absolutely necessary. So you listen good Wolfe man.

Wolfe: All ears Thompson, which is more than I can say for you dear boy. You would found dead in the Rockies with half your face blown off by a gun, it looks like you did it yourself.

HST: Go to hell Wolfe, you’re a motherfucker. I’m calling Plimpton, he’ll make some fucking sense out of this, well a little.

Wolfe: I shouldn’t bother old chap, he’ll see your name come up and wont answer you know how he abhors your drunken little swear sprees. Oh and he’s dead too.

HST: Plimpton, dead. Shit no! Who else?

Wolfe: Vonnegut, Heller most of us really.

HST: Don’t tell me you, Breslin and Mailer are still stealing oxygen from the masses?

Wolfe: The very same. Mailer called earlier, he told me a few of you were calling again. This isn’t the first time we’ve gone through this with you lot you know? You all have writers block, am I correct?

HST: Shit, this is the worst trip known to man. What’s Mailer writing abaout?

Wolfe: His last book was about Hitler, Satan and all of that kind of stuff.

HST: Still playing the ol’ Jew card eh? The cheek of it, that man is Satan! Wife stabber motherfucker! And you? What are you doing you silly suited freakzoid?

Wolfe: Don’t knock it, it’s a cultural reference point for a lot of people, a symbol if you will, like Huey’s beret or Springsteen’s headband…

HST: Or Hitler’s moustache! Go fuck yourself you legion on literature and may you burn!

Wolfe hangs up.

HST: Shit, Jesus, fuck, crap. Turmoil of the lowest order, what to do in a giant lake of Satan’s jizz. Wait a minute, where did all those bats come from, Steadman you freak!

Kurt Vonnegut.Jr is sitting on a deck chair on Cape Cod, he sees Joseph Heller approaching, gets another chair and pours two whiskeys. Heller sits down, downs his drink in one. Vonnegut pours him another. Heller holds his head in his hands.

Heller: So, how’s it with you?

Vonnegut: Well, it is what it is. I figured it out a while back. And so.

Heller (with tears in his eyes): Kurt, when did it end?

Vonnegut: No idea. So it goes.

Heller: Has Plimpton or HST called?

Vonnegut: No, I figured it out when I couldn’t write anymore. Don’t cry Heller, what happened to the steely son of a bitch who wrote Something Happened?

Heller: He died?

Vonnegut: Well played.

Heller: You were always the wisest of all us guys. I used to hold that against you, but I always admired you, almost loved you.

Heller: It’s natural as a writer to feel animosity towards other writers, especially when they’re better.

Heller smiles and wipes his eyes.

Heller: Well, I’ve got a great gig going on back at Time magazine. The editor loves my new piece, he thinks I’ll be up for an award.

Vonnegut: What’s it called?

Heller: If I tell you, you’ll call me an idiot.

Vonnegut: I’d never kick a dead man when he’s down.

Heller: Ok. It’s called Catch 22….2!

Vonnegut: You’re an idiot.

The End.

By Simon Rance.

Explosions In The Sky,

2007-08-28T04:28:00.000-07:00

Yeah, we know, we've done fuck all for a month or so.
Simon's been busy working on The Damned book and putting together interviews and Paul has been tracking down interviews with Alan Lee Shaw, Brynn Merrick and Kris Dollimore for the book, so we've had no time to fuck around with this shit, but Matt's article will help you get by for a couple of days.

Explosions In The Sky,
All of A Sudden I Miss Everyone, Bella Union

Every so often, in fact quite a lot, songs come into your life and they just take over…You can usually tell before they are finished that your life is never going to be the same afterwards…I have a half finished theory that it is all to do with the frequencies in the music resonating with the electrical charges in your body, but that’s one for discussion a few Cobras down the line…and I do mean the lager before anyone calls the Squamata Helpline.
Such a song was First Breath After Coma by this mob of Texans…it lifted me off my feet, cleaned out the back of my brain and then gently settled me back into a comfy chair to soothe me with offers of warm tea and biscuits, before the track that followed it did exactly the same thing but without the biscuits and for longer.
Well, it has been a long time since they released that album, and have scrapped loads of material to get to All of A Sudden, and suffice to say the first track on here does all the same things to me as First Breath did…It starts of with a squall of guitars and what sounds like a bagpipe effects pedal…(no need to mention Big Country here though, just put it out of your mind), before the drums start mimicking heartbeats and the melodies start getting picked out, and the one thing that has remained constant amid all the talk of post-rock dissonance and the like is that these boys always return to a melody no matter where else they take you…this is why I think Mogwai comparisons are like red herrings to a bull, just plain wrong and mixed up.
You get 4 minutes to acclimatise yourself before things pick up and we are off on some sort of glorious romp to the finish line…martial style drums as per usual and what I can only describe as call and response shimmying from the three (count ‘em) guitars.
The biggest change that they appear to have made is that while they have found more space to spread out musically, they have also learnt to keep things concise when needed. Why three tracks even come in at under 6 minutes, with one of them being under 4…positively unheard of in post rock circles. However this is all counterbalanced by the albums centrepiece, It’s Natural To Be Afraid…clocking in at a weighty 13 minutes…It all begins eerie and like a musical expression of what I imagine cold sweat to sound like (but in a good way), but with eight minutes to go the good guys turn up to reassure you that everything is going to be ok, and with about 4 minutes to go it feels like they have taken you away from your cold sweat and you’re running at the speed old Clarke Kent did when he outraced the train at the beginning of Superman.
The highlight of this album, for me, has to be the Catastrophe And The Cure…You enter what can only be described as choppy waters, with guitars and drums like a storm lashing your little rowing boat on the high seas…but panic not…once again EITS to the rescue as calm descends? and you think you are washing up on a beautiful island or just floating in the calm with dolphins jumping around you…But wait, you’ve not had the Cure, and this is where things start to get choppy again, but you’re ready for it…and it’s not choppy really, it’s more like the wind has got up and you are gaining speed to get to the beautiful island….
With previous albums this sprint to the finish would have been the end of it, but this album comes with what feels like a reprise in the form of So Long, Lonesome….a beautiful bit of piano tinkling that never feels like an anti-climax…it’s almost like the waves lapping at your feet as you ignore another rescue boat going by.
Not a bad way to spend 43 minutes, with or without Cobras, biscuits or tea."

Badd news for me bad news for paul bad news for bonzo too.

2007-06-22T05:52:00.000-07:00

The Damned book is back on... No, really.
Monty has just sent me 21 sides of an interview (with more to come) and I'll be interviewing Roman Jugg next week.

Memphis Mike prt3 I'm ut da hare

2007-06-22T05:47:00.000-07:00

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeel. Me be cumin back da lind af di livin boyzzzzzzzz.
Day fynily led me out da pen, jus las weeeeeek. Day got me packin bigs in sum grocaree sture in Memphus. I aint too darn hippy boud dat, but wad da fud am i gunna du about did?
Peples keep un suyin du me,'cum on mike, urry up wid dat shuppin, i got to go down an git me nails dun or sumat' I be sayin 'dunt tork da me like u uwn da place u mudder fudders, or i'll be sticking me big gun where du sun dun sheen, ya here?'.
Weeel i leave u beee fur nuw. stiy oot uf trubles u cruzy kuds.
Puce
MM

Fanzine? FuckallthaT.

2007-05-29T01:20:00.001-07:00

The front cover to issue 1 is now complete. By the end of today the editorial and an a4 inside advert should be finished too.
Bollocks

FUCKALLTHAT

2007-05-25T03:01:00.000-07:00

I'm cutting myself in pieces for my friends
so I've saved an eye for you!
Put it in a jar so it can stare at you
and make you feel uncomfortable when your happy!

P

F.C.N.A. F.U.C.K.E.D.

2007-05-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

Football Club Nantes Atlantique have been relegated. Simon's book will no doubt take a kicking in the sales dept, as before it was fucking well flying out of the shop(s).
Plus, further book fuck ups involve our Damned project. After 18 months and only being a third through the book, the boys have decided enough is enough. Major contributors have pulled out, too much time and money have been spent with nothing concrete in return, gigs have been cancelled left and right and Paul has done fuck all work.
So we are fucking it off before Simon has another one of his flip outs about taking on the world and everyone apart from him being fucking shit and how he should just spend more time with his wife and kid because they're the only people who really believe....etc etc.
We will be going ahead with the fanzine and we are looking for cover deigners (for free). The first issue, will be a Damned special (funnily enough).
The material we had would have made a fucking shit book, but it will make a great fanzine.
Cheers for now
W. Mullins

Make Everything Melt

2007-05-09T02:30:00.000-07:00

Coz I really hate life and people and animals and everything that breathes and lives This is not irony I genuinely fucking hate it! I wish it would all stop.
Life buzzes like that, throbs and hurts like that, not to progress to anything other than more pain more intense pain we dull to it only coz a mind is like a battery that gets tired and worn out.
God loves you but he dosn't love your kids.
You have to sort them out.
Ask your fucking government.See how far you get!
Big enough to take the world and all its grot?
Cunt fuck, that's what we are... CUNT FUCK

Paul.

Harriet Hurts

2007-05-09T02:27:00.000-07:00

God made Harri
God made me,
in a bin beneath a tree.
And we grew older, worked and fucked.
Held hands, believed, and it just sucked.
But God made kids and we did too.
We looked to God ,God said FUCK YOU!

Jimmy

2007-05-09T02:26:00.000-07:00

No sniff,
just an ongoing thing,
destroy thing,
aint made it work up too now,
Luv yer
Always

Jim

Quite & Alone

2007-05-09T02:23:00.000-07:00

Wet summer sunday no phone calls, no phone,
Just how I wanted it.Quiet and alone.

Winston Mullins

2007-04-16T05:21:00.000-07:00

I loved him when my liver died and he was there, nobody cried,
cause we all knew that if it died i'd go on living til i died,
but he was there when my kidneys died and yet again nobody cried,
and bless this house where some bread was fried, but Winston Mullins never lied,
and onward through the seventies sucking, fucked on sucked up sleeze, in cunt fucked alley's; just one guide - Winston Mullins never lied!

Paul.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvmmOYce-FA

2007-04-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvmmOYce-FA

Kurt Vonnegut Jr

2007-04-12T05:27:00.000-07:00

Shock and horror as lifelong defender of freedom of speech and anti-war writer KVJr dies.
Along with Plimpton, Mailer, Heller, Wolf, Baldwin and Thompson - Vonnegut was the voice of a generation.
He will be missed...Forever.

By CRISTIAN SALAZAR, Associated Press Writer

NEW YORK - Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "Cat's Cradle," died Wednesday. He was 84.

ADVERTISEMENT

Vonnegut, who often marveled that he had lived so long despite his lifelong smoking habit, had suffered brain injuries after a fall at his Manhattan home weeks ago, said his wife, photographer Jill Krementz.

The author of at least 19 novels, many of them best-sellers, as well as dozens of short stories, essays and plays, Vonnegut relished the role of a social critic. Indianapolis, his hometown, declared 2007 as "The Year of Vonnegut" — an announcement he said left him "thunderstruck."

He lectured regularly, exhorting audiences to think for themselves and delighting in barbed commentary against the institutions he felt were dehumanizing people.

"I will say anything to be funny, often in the most horrible situations," Vonnegut, whose watery, heavy-lidded eyes and unruly hair made him seem to be in existential pain, once told a gathering of psychiatrists.

A self-described religious skeptic and freethinking humanist, Vonnegut used protagonists such as Billy Pilgrim and Eliot Rosewater as transparent vehicles for his points of view. He also filled his novels with satirical commentary and even drawings that were only loosely connected to the plot. In "Slaughterhouse-Five," he drew a headstone with the epitaph: "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."

But much in his life was traumatic, and left him in pain.

Despite his commercial success, Vonnegut battled depression throughout his life, and in 1984, he attempted suicide with pills and alcohol, joking later about how he botched the job.

"I think he was a man who combined a wicked sense of humor and sort of steady moral compass, who was always sort of looking at the big picture of the things that were most important," said Joel Bleifuss, editor of In These Times, a liberal magazine based in Chicago that featured Vonnegut articles.

His mother killed herself just before he left for Germany during World War II, where he was quickly taken prisoner during the Battle of the Bulge. He was being held in Dresden when Allied bombs created a firestorm that killed an estimated tens of thousands of people.

"The firebombing of Dresden explains absolutely nothing about why I write what I write and am what I am," Vonnegut wrote in "Fates Worse Than Death," his 1991 autobiography of sorts.

But he spent 23 years struggling to write about the ordeal, which he survived by huddling with other POW's inside an underground meat locker labeled slaughterhouse-five.

The novel, in which Pvt. Pilgrim is transported from Dresden by time-traveling aliens from the planet Tralfamadore, was published at the height of the Vietnam War, and solidified his reputation as an iconoclast.

"He was sort of like nobody else," said Gore Vidal, who noted that he, Vonnegut and Norman Mailer were among the last writers around who served in World War II.

"He was imaginative; our generation of writers didn't go in for imagination very much. Literary realism was the general style. Those of us who came out of the war in the 1940s made it sort of the official American prose, and it was often a bit on the dull side. Kurt was never dull."

Vonnegut was born on Nov. 11, 1922, in Indianapolis, a "fourth-generation German-American religious skeptic Freethinker," and studied chemistry at Cornell University before joining the Army.

When he returned, he reported for Chicago's City News Bureau, then did public relations for General Electric, a job he loathed. He wrote his first novel, "Player Piano," in 1951, followed by "The Sirens of Titan," "Canary in a Cat House" and "Mother Night," making ends meet by selling Saabs on Cape Cod.

Critics ignored him at first, then denigrated his deliberately bizarre stories and disjointed plots as haphazardly written science fiction. But his novels became cult classics, especially "Cat's Cradle" in 1963, in which scientists create "ice-nine," a crystal that turns water solid and destroys the earth.

Many of his novels were best-sellers. Some also were banned and burned for suspected obscenity. Vonnegut took on censorship as an active member of the PEN writers' aid group and the American Civil Liberties Union. The American Humanist Association, which promotes individual freedom, rational thought and scientific skepticism, made him its honorary president.

His characters tended to be miserable anti-heros with little control over their fate. Vonnegut said the villains in his books were never individuals, but culture, society and history, which he said were making a mess of the planet.

"We probably could have saved ourselves, but we were too damned lazy to try very hard... and too damn cheap," he once suggested carving into a wall on the Grand Canyon, as a message for flying-saucer creatures.

He retired from novel writing in his later years, but continued to publish short articles. He had a best-seller in 2005 with "A Man Without a Country," a collection of his nonfiction work, including jabs at the Bush administration ("upper-crust C-students who know no history or geography") and the uncertain future of the planet.

He called the book's success "a nice glass of champagne at the end of a life."

In recent years, Vonnegut worked as a senior editor and columnist at In These Times. Bleifuss said he had been trying to get Vonnegut to write something more for the magazine, but was unsuccessful.

"He would just say he's too old and that he had nothing more to say. He realized, I think, he was at the end of his life," Bleifuss said.

Vonnegut, who had homes in Manhattan and the Hamptons in New York, adopted his sister's three young children after she died. He also had three children of his own with his first wife, Ann Cox, and later adopted a daughter, Lily, with his second wife, the noted photographer Jill Krementz.

Vonnegut once said that of all the ways to die, he'd prefer to go out in an airplane crash on the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. He often joked about the difficulties of old age.

"When Hemingway killed himself he put a period at the end of his life; old age is more like a semicolon," Vonnegut told The Associated Press in 2005.

"My father, like Hemingway, was a gun nut and was very unhappy late in life. But he was proud of not committing suicide. And I'll do the same, so as not to set a bad example for my children."

Little & Large

2007-04-05T02:00:00.000-07:00

Winston Mullins' take on the dynamic duo of 80's suburban-hell comedy Little & Large.

Filmed in front of a live studio audience.

Large.
I'm fucking ace me, I'm the king of the fucking swingers, I've got it all in this bitch. I'm the top boy and I'll fucking give it to any cunt. You (to Little) are a two-bob cunt flap from fucking nowhere, you fucking dried up scrotum cunt!

Little
Fuck off Large, I'm having a rough day.

Large
I'll give you rough you pee-wee cunt. Did you look in the mirror you fucking twat arsed cunt eyed cunt?

Little
Who you calling pee-wee, at least I've seem my cock in the last 40 years you whale cunt.

Large
Says who? Your missus hasn't that's for sure you maggot pricked cunt.

Little
Right that's it large, your going to pay. (Little gets his cock out and it is indeed a small one).

Large
That's fucking nothing you cunt. You call that a dick, did you borrow it from a mini sausage roll?

Little
Yeah, it's small now but watch this.
(Little opens up his jap eye and almighty noise blares accross the studio floor, it appears his cock has super powers and is in fact a man hoover)

Little
By hoovering up all the men in the studio audience, I get there jizz and cock size automatically transplated to mine!
(indeed he does as his plonker grows and grows so does his sack, filling up with almost all the jizz in the world).

Large
Fucking fair play little fella, your right, that is a lot of jizz, but just what are you going to do with it?

(Little turns his python onto Large and starts to have a wank, eventually he comes all over Large in a tsunami of spunk and Large drowns)

Little
Take that you cunt.

(All the women in the studio aiudience, suddenly forget about the loss of their husbands up Little's cock and start sucking him off, and all the children find the corpse of Large and start eating him.)

The End.

Nanmdi the Nedlander

2007-04-03T04:39:00.000-07:00

Thank you for that introduction! JB (Jew Boy) and me have been long term acquaintances since college where I taught him to read and try and string together at words in a coherent way. I'm glad to see he has come on leaps and bounds since then, sadly the write how you talk motto may have been perverted over time, but simple folk can only acts simple folk!
Anyway as JB mentioned before I am indeed happy to be the new "Internationalist" correspondence for TFAT press, I am on continues assignment to Netherlands and hope to bring you more info on the enlighten Europe that is around me, stay tuned as I retell stories of exciting prose and culture, or you can fuck all that and read how I spent my weekend sniffing lines of charley off the well oiled rump of a 80 year prossie while her daughter and grand daughter plays where's the coconuts with a Shetland pony and a Poodle (that strangely enough looks like JB!), you choose!
By the way Liverpool 4 - Bunch of (French) Arse - 1, ahhh that's better

SHOT!

2007-04-03T04:36:00.000-07:00

Shot! Not a hit, just a kid,
Not a club or a pub,Lidl's .
Rush hour, I was buying some blackcurrent fruit drink,cheaper there.
Some nutty guy was freaking out with some ugly bitch,
then a kid came in and pulled out a gun.Got to be no more than ten.
Shot the guy in the head.I hit the floor.You are who you are!
Kid ran aweay. He'll get caught when he's eighteen or twenty!
I felt sorry for myself before that,thinking I may never kiss a girl again.
Breathing is a nice thing though!

Love Paul

NNAMDI

2007-03-30T07:18:00.000-07:00

Everyone, please arise and clap as Mr Nnamdi Nwosu joins the league of gents that is the fuckallthatpress.

Nnamdi lives in Amsterdam and I think that shows you just what a bunch of internationalists we are here at thepress. We now cover Holland and South London.

Just one word of warning Nnamdi, this is a place for highly trained writers, so don't try and get all cocky with your new found orange ways, you two bob cunt.

Not that it matters, because we are all so internationalist here, but Nnamdi is black.

As I previously stated this does not matter because we are all new men and the world has come a long way in a short time and if you met Nnamdi he wouldn't try to mug you, kiss his teeth or boil you in a cannibal broth.
That's not our Nnamdi's style, in fact he is what would have been known, back in the day as a bounty bar, but we should not really dwell on the fact that he is black, because after all black is just a clour is it not?
Well it isn't actualy, the negative shade that is black was given to Africans for some reason, and it must be because they had a negative appeal. But NO LONGER!!
Some of my best friends are black, gay, spastic, oaps and I love them all, but that is probably because i am an internationalist. Note not a nationalist, an internationalist, which means I love everyone, even the wogs.

Love
Winston

Terry & June

2007-03-29T05:58:00.000-07:00

So impressed with Winston Mullins' take on On The Buses, the 'campaign to bring back proper comedy' have employed WM to work on the classic series Terry & June.
Take it away Winston...

Terry is sitting in his comfy armchair in front of the box. June walks into the lounge.

June
Hello Terry dear.

Terry
Fuck off you bucket cunt.

Terry gets out of his armchair and kicks June in the fanny, she falls to the floor clutching her self in pain and Terry gobs on her.
The End

Tune in next week when Terry sticks his cock in a small child and June eats her own shit!

drink 'til we are dead

2007-03-09T07:59:00.000-08:00

Drink til we are dead.
Not what i did,What I said!
Back in Dublin, back in bed,
Sweethearts letters ,left unread.
Drink til we are dead!

Les, rest in peace.

2007-01-30T04:16:00.000-08:00

Last night Les Chatfield passed away and we would like to pass on our love to his family and friends.
Les, the father of one of our bezzie mates, will never be forgotten.
It is safe to say he would have thought this site a little on the daft and childish side, but he was a bit of a hero to us and a Gooner through and through and always will be.

Simon.

SUPER BOWL

2007-01-30T04:07:00.000-08:00

This sunday pits the eighties fave team (of the Fidge no less) against the offensive capabilities of QB Peyton Manning.
The Indy Colts take on the Chi Bears at Dolphin Stadium, Miami for the biggest prize in pro football.
Some may be yawning just thinking about the endless commercial bereaks, the fact that you have to stay up all night on a sunday etc, but not me. I be a fuckin' luvin' it.
Memphis Mike has already picthed in with who he thinks will win...
"Weaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllll, looooks like we'd be 'avin us a guuud tima dis sunday nite! Me heartt be sayin da bears, but me brainio be saying the colts. Dat boy manning he sum hot sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettt. Plus day kicked out de Patriots one di way to de big bowl, so u is torkin' bout de best team in de NFL if youd be a tinking bout did."
Well thanks Memphis, and to be honest the smart money will be on the Colts who have one of the best off records in the AFC, but the bears have one of the best def records. The bears qb Grossman, may have had a shaky start to the season but the way he despatched the win against the New Orlean's Saints at Soldier Field last week shows that Lovie Smith was right to stick by him at the tail end of the post season. It promises to be one of the more excting showcases of the game for a while. I'll be going for the Bears, which means they will lose, but it wont matter because I'll be drunk on budweiser and asleep before it finishes.

2007-01-29T04:09:00.000-08:00

2007-01-29T04:08:00.001-08:00

2007-01-29T04:07:00.001-08:00

2007-01-29T04:06:00.001-08:00

2007-01-29T04:05:00.001-08:00

There's no fucking CO here...

2007-01-24T12:52:00.000-08:00

Sleep and dream, wake up to Big Brother if you like it,
wake to Jade wanker,
or that geordie cunt on Xfm if you stil wanna feel you are in touch when you know you are really old and fucked.
Remember what life was like before the lie of racism, before you were taught to love everyone and then suddenly aloud to hate!
But not hate everyone!
You are the west and you have FREEDOM!
There's no Fucking CO Here!

xPaulx

Angels

2007-01-24T04:53:00.000-08:00

If you could sleep and dream of angels, knowing that they're watching.
When we come out of Tesco's; lotto fags and whiskey,
and back at home with sweety,
you and me and druggie; our lives all set out nicely!
They think we all are punk rock but we are reading Prufrock,
and you know my wife wiil suck cock, and we are drunk already, but we are not allowed love wer'e allowed just trauma and death and screaming babies that cannot have a future,
they believed in 'love the people' all before me
the people I respected, the dummies that are dead, I've seen the cunts that were there who reinventented history and stole away a country and made us cry for ...........

xPx

OSM's 50 Biggest heart breaking moments in sport.

2007-01-12T06:38:00.000-08:00

Please find below Simon's reply on Guardian Unlimited's blog regarding Mr Hussey's night of pain and turmoil (including trademark spelling mistakes)...

Mr Hussey's oh so biased comments on the heartbreak felt by Scousers that night at Anfield in 1989 has left a bad taste in this Gooner's mouth.
Stating that we chanted 'Murderers' at Liverpool fans at Highbury is tainting all Arsenal fans the way all Liverpool fans were tainted as hooligans by the disgraceful tabloid press in this country after Heysel and also Hillsborough.
Surely someone like Mr Hussey believes in protecting the game from 'the few' that have made travelling fans and the like much maligned over the years?
I've always found that Liverpool and Arsenal get on pretty well compared to most other 'big' sides and we especially enjoy the trip to Anfield.
Very sorry that we broke so many hearts that night, but we hadn't won any major honours in donkeys years until that benchmark win, unlike Liverpool who had dominated the domestic game for so many years.
Also Mr Hussey states that we are wide boy cockneys???? Does he even know where Highbury is?
Maybe AFC could be blamed for Derek Hatton too while we're at it?
Oh well, after the two recent results at Anfield you've now got something else to moan about, in fact maybe Arsenal should be charged for bringing the game into disrepute by beating such a wonderful old club like Liverpool so often in one season.

Amsterdam

2007-01-09T06:49:00.000-08:00

Went to Amsterdam with a girl called Laura!
We got on ok I guess!
My drinking was fucking me up then!
It's always fucking me up!
I don't mind that, if I ain't carrying no one! Or they ain't carrying me! She was!
Anyway We looked around and I got pissed and Laura screwed herself with a dildo!
We came home and it was all gone as usual!
I wasn't surprised!
I liked Amsterdam and I liked Laura!

LOL

2007-01-09T06:47:00.000-08:00

I'm in my room and I can be here and listen and remeber what made me sick and ill!
And I know about love and I know about people and what cunts they all are and I can live with watching the ash burning away without watching it burn away earlier for smaller people I'm still 15 and I don't give a fuck so fuck off!
LUV YER!
Paul

On the Buses Christmas Special prt 4

2006-12-19T08:29:00.000-08:00

Butler's House Int. The Butlers are sitting down to Christmas dinner...and the like!

Stan. Lovely bit of bird you got 'ere Mum.

Raucous cockney laughter

Olive. Yeah Stan's right, it's the tastiest bit of meat I've had my chops around all year.

Stan. Not much of a surprise when you have to rely on wobbly bits ere for a seeing to.

Close up of Arthur's grumpy face. Raucous cockney laughter.

Arthur. I think we can do without your sordid little comments on this of all days thanks.

Mum. Yes Arthur's right Stan, it's a big day this is.

Stan. Yeah I know, and he's a big cunt!

Raucous cockney laughter.

Olive. Shhh don't swear on the baby Jesus' birthday Stan!

Stan. Oh fuck off you ugly moose and pass me the Aristotle of wine.

Olive passes the bottle and Stan twats her around the head with it, her jaw is broken...Raucous cockney laughter.

Olive. (mumbling) Arthur, are you going to do something?

Arthur. You are joking aint ya? You look far better with a bit of claret covering up that fakin boat of yours.

Raucous cockney laughter.

Mum. Stop it all of yous, no violence at the aunt. Or I'll fakin do you right in, you shower of cunts.

Stan. You can't say that Mum!

Mum. Drop dead you cunt! I'll take you all on you dirty fucking shits.

Mum pulls out a carving knife and goes for Stan. Stan jumps out of the way as Mum swings, she cuts Arthur's head in half and his brains pour onto the turkey.

Stan. Lovely spread!

Raucous cockney laughter.

Olive. Oh Arthur, what have they done to you?

Stan. You stupid fat bitch, he's fucking lost half his head, meaning he don't hear no more, meaning he's fucking snuffed it woman.

Olive. Oh, well I'll have his tea then.

Mum. Good girl, lovely appetite.

Stan (to camera) This is one fucked up situation.

Jacko enters.

Jack. Merry Christmas you fuckers!

Mum. What the fuck would you know about Christmas, you fucking 4 by 2!

Jack. What the fuck are you talking about you stupid ol' cunt?

Stan. Don't talk to mum like that I'll have you killed you cunt.

Mum. The size of that I suppose, you look more Jewish than Fagin, he he he.

Jack. Your ol Mum's lost the plot.

Stan. What are you doin' ere any ol' how, I thought you were down the rub?

Jack. I was but it's full of dustbins and they were all about to kick off with a read and write so I fucked off here, I thought I'd pop into wish you all the best. Wish I aint fakin bothered you dirty skirt mum cunt.

Stan. My mum is not a dirty skirt!

Jack. Oh fuck off loser, what's happened to Arthur?

Olive. Mum cut his head off.

Jack. Good, he was a cunt.

Stan. Your not wrong.

Enter Blakey.

Stan. What the fuck is going on ere! I thought you were inside for raping those strippers at the busman's do.

Blakey. I was, but this pedo who I was sharing a cell with broke me out eeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I've come for you Butler, I 'ate you Butler eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Butler. Yeah I know you do you doss cunt, I fakin ate you too you fucking shit and I've got a Christmas present for ya too ya kant!

Butler pulls out a previously well concealed bazooka and fires it at Blakey, he ducks and it flies out the door along with Stan's mum.

Olive. Oh Stan, you've gone and bazooka'd Mum.

Stan. Fuck off you fucking four eyed cunt.

Stan pulls out a previously well concealed cattle prod and shoves it in Olive's vagina. He lifts her up in the air and takes her upstairs where he fills the bath up and dumps her in it watching as she frazzles to death.

Jack. That's a bit harsh innit Stan?

Stan. Right that's it you clippy cunt.

Stan pulls out a previously well concealed road drill and sticks it into Jacko's head. Jack spins around like, well a spinning top I guess, until his lifeless torso comes to a halt.

Stan. Your fucking next Blakey, Blakey? Blakey?

Butler walks around the house looking for Blakey. He looks up and Blakey is stuck to the ceiling like a vampire.

Blakey. I've got you Butler, eehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Blakey pulls out a previously well concealed chainsaw and cuts off Stan's arms and legs. Once Stan can fight back no longer, Blakey takes it upon himself to rape Butler in the mouth and then all the lights go out and the transmission goes down and everyone gets the sack.

Merry Christmas.

A note on Simon

2006-12-12T23:43:00.000-08:00

Hi there, Winston Mullins here. As some of you may know Simon has become a father recently, and although we are happy for him, we have had to let him go until January as he is not the man he used to be. The sabatical was voluntary and to be honest the way the cunt has been acting we had no choice but to oblige.
Since becoming a father Simon has started talking a lot about babies and how they 'change your life, man'. He now thinks we should be curbing the swearing and violence of some of our writing and wants me to put an end to the On The Buses Christmas specials.
Just the other night Simon was watching a film he has much derided in recent times and cried. The film which wil be known only as Cunts Actualy, to save face is a tub of fucking shit and the third in a series from a bunch of middle class twats who gave us the masterpieces Four Weddings & a Cunt and Notting Cunt.
So we look forward to having Simon back when he has realised that life is not a fucking box of chocalates, it is a place where we here at thefuckallthatpress live in a cocoon of self loathing and new journalism of which we will use to save the world when we are good and ready. Get well soon Simon.

Memphis Mike Prt 2. The Voices

2006-11-23T08:32:00.000-08:00

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeel, yer didn't thunk I'd be goin awiy dat quick dud yer?
Strange thung be happenin du me. Me counsillor advisin me to not rape my inmate who be sharin da same room as mer. Weeeeeeeel, I tuld dat mudder fudder dat I already showed the liddle purdy mouthed mudder fudder who de boss when it come to anal bunj munjy (whatever da fud dat mean). But counsillor cum around to ma cell de odder day and he tull me, dare aint no mudder fudder sharin my mudder fuddin cell wit me. Sheeeeeeeeeet, I only been in Pen 4 cotton pickin damnin days and I already got da voices in me head. Turns out the clicky sound dat mudder fudder were makin were some kind of ticket reel from an old London bus kinda ding. His name is Jacko and he a bus conductor, but now I know he don't really exist, I jus tryin to ignore him. But he keep shouting weird kinda stuff like 'Anymore fares guv? Phwooor look at that crumpet. And Durty Skurt'. He doin' my fuddin brain in. Jeez. I wish he stop talkin' wid dat cockney laughin accent. It be too raucous for a southern boy like me, ya hear? Here he go again, na na na , I can't hear you Jacko, no I don't want to look at the durty skurt Jacko, you be leavin me a lone I tell thee! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet, the voices in me head. Mudder fudder!

On The Buses Christmas Special 3

2006-11-22T05:21:00.000-08:00

Please find below part 3 of our tribute to On The Buses by Winston Mullins.

The depot.

Blakey. EEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. So has everyone bought their raffle tickets then Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?

Butler. Yeah got 'em right here and the like.

Blakey. Right well, bring 'em to the do tonight at the cemetery Gates pub and we'll pull the draw then.

Jack. Pull. Drawers. Ha ha ha (raucous cockney laughter).

Butler rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

INT The cemetery Gates pub, evening. The Bus lads Xmas do is in full swing.

Butler. Here ya go Blakey, get your laughing gear around that and the like!

Jack. What are you doin' buying Blakey drinks for Stan?

Butler (whispering). I pissed in it! (Raucous cockney laughter). And then I dropped some sniff in their too! Ha ha.

Jack. You saucy bugger, it could kill him with that ticker of his.

Butler. Fuckin' hope so, the cunt! (Raucous Cockney Laughter).

Blakey swigs down the drink, and walks to the toilet.

Jack. Fuckin' hell that kicked in quick. Soft cunt! (Raucous cockney laughter).

Butler. Right where's the fucking strippers you fucking cunts?

Barman. I didn't book any strippers, I wasn't told to.

Butler. Well I'm fuckin' tellin' ya now...And the like. so Find us some strippers or your fucking dead you two bob cunt.

Jack. Woah, calm down there Stan, you'll get us barred.

Butler. Fuck off you cunt. They can't bar me, I am On the Buses. You lot are just the help, now lick my fuckin' shoes.

Blakey comes out of the shit house, with sick all over him.

Blakey. I fucking heard that Butler. EEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Depends who you talk to if you ask me, a lot of viewers would see me as the mainstay of On The Buses. (Big cheer and raucous cockney laughter). Agreed Jack's just furniture, useless hippy cunt.

Jack. You fuckin' cunts, I work my arse off here, and I get all the fucking laughs. Fuckin' homos! (raucous cockney laughter)

Butler (to barman) Get me some fucking strippers or you all die!

Blakey. Changing the subject are we? Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Oi turn this up, I'm in the mood for dancing.

Some gabba is playing and Blakey starts to dance around like a nutter.
Strippers are rushed in, and they look like it too.

Butler. Fuck me look at the boat on that. Oi barman, got any bags for their boats?

Jack and Butler put plastic bags over the strippers faces and then start spit roasting them. Raucous cockney laughter. Then Blakey joins in as he is well in the mood.

Blakey. Take it you fucking bitch, I'm gonna drown you in jizz. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, suck that cum out!!!

Butler and Jack stare in disbelief at Blakey.

Butler. You can't talk to richards like that, it's not on.

Jack. Only we can talk to the dirty skirts like that Blakey.

Blakey. Fuck off and die eeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Suck it bitch, eeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I'm the king of the jizzers.

The police enter.

Jack. Fuck me it's the fuzz. Blakey stop or they'll nick ya.

Bill. hello, hello...

Blakey. Fuck off you bill cunt!

Bill. Right that's it Blakey you speech impediment cunt, your nicked.

Blakey pulls out a previously well concealed flame thrower and burns all the flesh off the copper. (Big cheer, raucous cockney laughter)

Jack. You just killed a pig Blakey, your gonna spend Christmas in the nick.

Blakey. Who fuckin' cares as long as I get me bitches I don't give a fuck.

At this point one of the plastic bags suffocates a stripper and the writer is instantly fired.

Memphis Mike

2006-11-17T05:28:00.000-08:00

Well howdy all, Memphis Mike here. The kind peoples of thefuckallthatpress have given me some air time to git me opinions across to you hoo boys in da ukay!
I don't know about yoo hoo boys but i'm sick and tired of all the sheeyaaat that is going down in the land of the freeee.
Jus de other day I was out down the mini mart to git me a quart of milk and the dude behind the counter asked me 'if there was anything else I wanted', wot de fuck! Mudder fudder!
I bin going down the same mini mart for 250 yeerrrrrrrrrrrss and no mudder fudder dare talk to a good ol' boy like that before. So I did wot cum natural to us southern boys and I pull out his dick and bit eeeeeeettttttttttt off!
Now I'm doing me a stretch in pen, I don't know whats wrong wid di here world we be livin eeeeeen.
I remeber when a day wouldn't be seen as bein normal without a itty bitty of dick bitin' off. Mudder fudders got me on a sex charge of all things. A sex charge I don't even like Koreeeeeens for pete's sake. Mudder fudders.
Any ol how I'm passin' the time until I get me court date with this lawyer who got me on the fence or summit. He says he can get me out in 20 weeks. 20 weeks! Mudder fudder.
My room mate don't tork too much, but he be okay i guess. Seems to make a lot of farm animal noiseys, but that ok wit me, it bein a freeeee cuntry n'all. But if he keep doooin that strange clicky sound like he did last night, well, I'm going to have to make that mudder fudder pay like a hungry buzzard on a slave's corpse. Guddamit, he be doin' dis weird kinda clicky sound all fuddin' night long. Yep das it, I here decided i'm gonna give him agood Memphis Mike rape tonight. Besdies me scrote is full to the brim with cock snot and it is going to pop if i don't do summit proper wid it. So clicky boy gona get a New Jersey turnpike full of Memphis moss. Cotton pickin varmit. he sure do have purdy mouth that sexy liddle mudder fudder.

NODDY & MATT

2006-11-14T09:10:00.000-08:00

Why does Noddy when a big hat with a bell on it?

Coz he's a cunt!!

Why does Matt where a big hat with a bell on it?

Coz he's a cunt!!

Why do Cunts where Matts on them?

Coz there big hats!!

Why do big hats ask Noddy what Matt does for a living?

Coz there bells!!!!

(it gets funnier as it goes on)

Why do bells living in Matt ask Noddy for skin favours?

Coz he's a hat!!

Matt where big bell it on?

Cunt a he's coz!! Noddy!!!

I'm lonely...

On The Buses Christmas Special episode 2

2006-10-26T04:40:00.000-07:00

ON THE BUSES & THE WAR ON TERROR
Please note that this episode was written by Winston Mullins as Mr Rance & Mr Brown are away in the nick. If you are slightly confused why we have jumped to episode 2 you needn't be. The first episode contained pedophilia, racism and anal rape and thefuckallthatpress decided to axe it. This episode only contains light violence against children so we have given it the thumbs up. We must stress though that if you feel a complaint coming on do not tell your local MP, email us here at thefuckallthatpress and we will print it off and throw it in the bin.

Stan & Jack are on the bus, happily driving around Marble Arch, when Stan notices a plastic explosive device taped to the accelerator pedal.

Stan: Jack, get up here quick...and the like!
Jack: What is it Stan, ooh eck...and the like! Don't take your foot off the pedal there Stan me ol' mate or we'll blow. This is like that picture flick 'Speed' with Sandra Bollocks...and the like!

(Raucous cockney laughter)

Stan: Yeah, dirty skirt she was and the like!

(Raucous cockney laughter)

Jack: Yeah, I've got a semi just thinking about her filthy tampon...and the like.

(Raucous cockney laughter)

Stan: Well, I better call into Blakey with this here panic.
(On the radio)
Stan: Blakey, come in. Got a problem here and the like. Bomb on bus, if I slow down we all die Blakey.

Blakey: UUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, I've got you Butler!

Stan: Blakey? Did you hear me right. There's a bomb on the bus.

Blakey: And? UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Jack: Is that cunt laughing?

Blakey: Fuck off Jack you cunt. UUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Who's the cunt now? UUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! And the like. Best news I've ever had. How much diesel you got left Butler?

Stan: I reckon we can keep going for three or four minutes more then it's kaboom!

Blakey: UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Get that bomb out! Ha ha ha you fucking cunts. UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Jack: Blakey's put the bomb on the bus Stan, he's trying to kill us!

Stan: You fucking cunt Blakey, what about all the innocent people I've got on board?

Blakey: Fuck 'em! UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Stan: Jack, what the fuck are we going to do and the like?

Jack: See the traffic lights just there, slightly slow down on that bend and...

Stan: Yeah right o Jack, ok and now what?..Jack? Jack?

(Stan spots Jack jump off the back of the bus and leg it)

Stan: You fucking cunt Jack, I'll cut your fucking head off when I catch you! And the like!

(Raucous cockney laughter)
(Stan switches on the tannoy for the passengers)

Stan: Ladies and gents, in this time of heightened security please run for your fucking lives as there is a bomb on the bus. Have yourselves a merry Christmas and a happy new year, and the like.

(Various passengers jump off the back of the bus, but a child with a santa suit on who is clearly deaf taps Stan on the shoulder)

Kid: Why is every one jumping off the bus?
Stan: Eh, oh your deaf are you?

Kid: (reading Stan's lips) Yeah, and the like.

Stan. Have you ever wanted to drive a bus?

Kid: My whole life!

Stan:Well here's your chance kiddo, put your foot down on the pedal, that's it now steer the bus with the wheel. Stop looking at me lips, you'll crash the fucking thing!

Kid: Thanks! This is the best Christmas ever!

Stan: Well, it's your last one so make the most of it. Laters!

(Butler jumps off the bus to raucous cockney laughter and grabs Jack).

Jack: I was just getting help.

Stan: Your a fucking dead man you are you two bob cunt.

(Stan pulls out a previously well concealed Samurai sword and hacks off Jack's head, as the bus ploughs into a capacity crammed KFC and explodes).
(Raucous cockney laughter)

Stan: A merry Christmas to one n' all!

(For some reason known only to the script writer of this filth, Stan Butler is naked at this point and wanking on a granny's corpse).

Tune in next week for prt 3, if we still have a website.

AMAZING

2006-10-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=1270788269

Santa Vs On The Buses

2006-10-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

Well not much more to say is there. The title says it all, it's gonna make us millions, so fuck off you kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnntttttttttttttttttttttttttttssssssssssssssssssssssss!

Loaf

2006-10-16T23:52:00.000-07:00

Today started like any other monday really!I got up,pissed in a milk bottle,had a black tea and some corn flakes and emptied the rubbish over next doors fence!After 20 fags and a pint of unleaded I was ready to face the world!Sydenham,not Penge! I left the house and headed for the super market!I needed a loaf of bread but I could'nt decide which one to buy!It played on my mind as I walked.I took a detour through the park and saw a tramp having a dump in the bushes!I said goodmorning to him and he told me to fuck off!I thought nothing of it!It was the loaf that was important.I walked on through the alley and round towards the high street,still anxious about the type of bread I'd end up with.It would'nt be just for sandwiches I might want to have toast or just have some marmalade on it!I got to the high street and a junkie looking fella with a skin disease asked me for a pound!'I would love to give You a pound' I said 'But it's all I have and if I give it to You I won't be able to buy some bread and I really need some'He spat on the ground and said 'Fuck Yer then'I walked on,still focused on getting a satisfactory loaf!As I approached the supermarket I noticed a girl I knew walking towards me!'Hi' She said'Hav'nt seen You for years'! It was an ex girlfriend,must of been 10 years since I'd seen her.She went on about her life and what the last decade had done too it,but I did'nt get the details cauase over her shoulder I could see the automatic doors of the supermarket opening and closing and with them a fleeting glimpse of the bread shelf!After about 10 minutes I interuppted the girls mind numbing monologue with a big hug a kiss and a'Take care' And a 'Boring Cunt' under my breath!Onward,finally,through the automatic doors too the good stuff!Anyway,after about 20 minutes I decided on a medium sliced wholemeal! Large! Cheers!

Paul.

We're Saved!

2006-10-13T06:12:00.000-07:00

After months of searching for a decent new publication we can now relax because the earth is about to move. There are many literary giants that have shook the earth before from Shakespeare to Dickens, Hardy to James. Then the modern classics of Heller, Vonnegut, Mailer, HST, Wolf and Rance picked up the baton and ran with artistic, life affirming fury through the bookshelves of our Foyles, Waterstones etc (apart from Rance).
But now, hold you hard boy becasue that genius of slow, drippy cunting pop tunes has decided to become a scribe.
GARY FUCKIN' BARLOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Oh yes, Gary, tell me about your life. You've already fucked it up by bringing together a bunch of two bob cunts called Take It Up The Shitter and pissing through our ear drums for a decade. You cunt. You fucking cunt. You fucking shithead cunt. What a cunt. Cunt....
Cunt...
Cunt..
Cunt.
cun
cu
c

shelly

2006-10-12T03:05:00.000-07:00

theFUCKALLTHATpress

2006-10-12T01:44:00.000-07:00

Or as some like to call it thefuckallthatpriss

Have gun, will travel. Have 3 lions, will fuck up.

2006-10-12T01:42:00.000-07:00

What the fuck was that?
Just goes to show....hjgbvuyhfui4ye98u890tu8902v5m409-0qe3909490fo-23.0vo,pt]r-0im4ov]
qW1????????????????????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!... THAT YOU CANNOT PATRNISE...jhufhjuhwefhcrntnehaieiopwj5u9vj9ekdxw93mf4de1O,2PDP5RLewq???????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...iT IS ONLY A TEAM AFTER ALL AND YOU CAN'T BLAME THE...urhinrtqehwnnowqemorwprmgeo;wqpo,plewklcfw'lkxl;qlskfwqmlfeomw!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????????????????????????????????????????jhgbrheuwbuvgb98t3...i MEAN AT THIS LEVEL, THAT'S A CHANCE...uefbuqsenwdfijerw'o mie jcwoqKOWEJQCWqmoc?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...NEVER UNDERSTIMATE THE ...jheejfbvqjrhewnfeqwimicrifjnrwhnoewquirwxenujmdf4reuewhiwjqmasejmwiq!!!!!????????????????????...I'M NOT MAKING EXCUSES BUT...hfjbvuqewnfdcwaein;migjcimwqimwzsoK,OOAMDFIRAEIIMEIDUMEIAWUIMCUIRUEIRHNCXHEWWUNHURHNWUJKHEJCEHJ???????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS COUNTRY IS FUCKING SHIT

FUCK ALL THAT the movie

2006-09-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

Plans for the backing of a TFATP movie have sadly been shelved this week! The original idea was to scrape the cash together to send Paul and Jim Macmarran on a script finding mission in London during the summer months,in the hope of unearthing some truly original writers for the project!
They received the cash in mid July and occasionally phoned into the HQ in sunny Penge with some very positive news!This, however, turned out to be the bollocks you'd expect from two complete bastards, who'd nick their grannies teeth if it would get 'em a free drink!
Surprisingly, they did turn up on Friday claiming to have found a writer with two ideas for screen plays! The first turned out out to be a comic book story of a man who spends his life dreaming of being a super hero, only to be bitten by a radio active dosser!
The second, a story of a vigilante cop with irritable bowel syndrome was also put forward!
Paul and Jim swear they paid the mystery man good money for this nonsense and we have failed to prove otherwise The Fuck all That Press Wish to make it clear that they accept no responsibility whatsoever for the screenplays for Super Tramp or Dirty 'Arriss and have decided to put ideas for a film aside for the foreseeable future!

Looking for Sam prt 3

2006-09-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

I have been on various sites looking for the date of death of Sam Browne. I have found a Sam Browne appreaction societywhich is up in Yorkshire, although I cannot be sure these guys should know a little more about him (than his own family).
On one site showing births and deaths of all big band and jazz singers it shows that Sam was born March 26th 1898 and died March 2nd 1972. We are still not entirely sure where, but the general census points at Archway Hospitalk as some family members only remember it looking like a workhouse and it was in north London and this describes the Archway perfectly because I've had to quote the bleedin' windows. Some point this weekend I'll go to Sadlers Wells and to the Births, Deaths and Marriages with the afore mentioned dates.

Looking for Sam prt 2

2006-09-27T02:03:00.000-07:00

Sam Browne's first wife died and he re-married the woman's niece if the rumour is correct. The niece was my Grandmother... This is getting weirder. They had two children, Myrna and Carol. Myrna ran away from home with a gangster, as you do, and was not seen for years...UNTIL!!!
My Grandmother's family were Russian Jews, and about 10 years ago, the US will and testament service finally tracked down my Mother and her sister regarding something they had been chasing for over 15 years. Two sisters (spinsters) had died on the same day in New York and they were related to our family in some way. All the lawyer could tell my Mother is that her Grandfather was a bigamist and there was a whole other side to our family in New York, but they were dead and that our side were the next in line regarding all this inheritance gubbins. Needless to say the money/property is yet to appear as I am still writing books with Paul Brown. What it did do though was re-unite my Mother and her sister for the first time since she ran away when she was a teenager as the lawyer passed on my Mother's wishes to find her sister, after all this time she was down the road in Brighton. It was at this point that I started to try to track Sam Browne's grave. Apologies for terrible spelling, but no proof reading is going down and it is late, lots of love...RANCINI FROM THE BRONX

Looking for Sam prt 1

2006-09-26T16:48:00.000-07:00

After recieving the news that my best friened had become a proud father of a beautiful baby girl, I got a little mushy and as I am soon to become a father too I am becoming a nesting/family kind of guy... I know this piece has no right to be on this website, but...
My Grandfather died before I was born, he was remarkable chap, so I'm told. Born from Georgian Jewish parents he came to London and lived in the Jewish ghettos around Brick Lane and Commercial Street. He had a great voice and read music perfectly; became a singer...
He was picked up by big bands such as Lew Stone and Ambrose's orchestra in the 30's after coming back to London from where he stowed away on a ship and went to Brooklyn. It wasn't long before he recorded songs with the afore named orchestras for Decca and HMV and by the end of the forties had recorded over 1000 songs. He was a householod name, I'm told (I've never met too many fans I must admit) and a reputable chap, who liked a bet. He liked a bet so much he went bankrupt and ended up doing time in Scrubbs. His brothers and sisters (of which there were ten)led a very diffrent life from Sam, and although he spoke Yiddish and sometimes went to Temple that was as far as he took being Jewish. After his death, he siblings buried him, we don't know where or when. I'm guessing it was in a Jewish cemetary which means it would have been within 24 -48 hours of his death. I can't find a record of his death in the London Jewish cemtaries, which is strange as he died in Archway. It has been one of life's littlemysteries for me and a few years back after my Mother met her estranged Sister for the first time since their Father's death I decided to go on the grave hunt. I fpound nothing. If anyone has any interest in Jewish Londoners they will understand that the generation of my grandfather and theirs before them had so many name changes that I may never find him. He could be buried under the name Sigii, Sigi, Siguefriud, Sam, Samaual, Shamuale, and on and on. There is no record in the hospital, so this seems to me that even the place of death could now be incorrect. My Mother and her sister were not invited to the funeral which was taken over by his religious family...
After watching James Ellroy's Arena docmentary I have decided to give it another shot. After all it has always felt like I knew the man, he seems to have been with me either in photographs or his music through my entire life. I owe it to him and my Mother, my wife and my child to be to find hi/her great grandad so they can can lay a stone on his tomb for closure of some kind.
After the Arena show I went onto a search engine and typed in his name yet again, there is a site which is dedicated to big band music, singers and players. He has his own page and the writer Jon Wright very politely skirts over his 'tricky' private life. I have emailed Jon, here is me hoping that Sam is listening and wanting to be found.

Ari Up

2006-09-08T05:59:00.000-07:00

The Slits' front lady and first lady of Punk Ari Up has agreed to write the foreword to 'Grave Diggers & Bog Cleaners: A book on The Damned'.
This is a major breakthrough, and will feature alongside interviews with Dead Kennedys, the Adverts, Damned band members, Vibrators, Glen Matlock, Angelic Upstarts, Legs McNeil and Topper Headon.
Total result this is, and no mistake.

All of a sudden I'm not very popular

2006-08-16T03:28:00.000-07:00

Please find listed below my first bad review for the FC Nantes Experiment. In fact bad is not really the word, scathing hate mail would be better. One thing's for sure, this lad is not going to be purchasing my memoirs.

'I love football and love France and so this book seemed like a sure-fire winner. Shows how wrong you can be.

The book was a must-buy for me, because, despite being English, I have followed Sochaux (the villains at the end of the book) for five years. An account of the League Cup final and our first trophy win since the 1930s, written by someone who was there and supporting the opposition. It has to be great, right?

There are also factual errors. The Sochaux goal came from a free-kick, not a corner. The Da Rocha shot for Nantes at the end of extra time was saved and it was Fae who put the follow-up over the bar, Flachez put his penalty over the bar - it wasn't saved.

The whole thing is just lazy - and the laziness continues throughout the book. Marie-Jeanne becomes Marie-Jan and then Marie-Jane. The station at Lyon becomes Parreche instead of Perrache. I could go on...

It doesn't take much to get a proof-reader to cut out spelling mistakes and actual factual errors. But Simon Rance does neither. The result is frustrating.

My other major gripe is about his writing. The idea of supporting a French team is great and his account should be just as great. It isn't.

Instead he comes across as arrogant and tedious. No opportunity is lost to tell us just how drunk he got after the game and how brutal his hangover is the next day - these sort of stories were amusing when you were a teenager, but should really be avoided when you are a guy in your late twenties.

His prose style is almost infantile. If you can put up with phrases such as 'result', 'top geezer' and 'dude' on a regular basis, you're a more patient man than I. He then decides to spice things up by effing and blinding throughout his narrative. It's childish and not very funny.

This is such a shame. The premise of the book was fantastic, but is let down by sloppy (or non-existent) proof-reading and an author who decides to let his own drinking exploits take precedence over actual match reports. If you don't believe me, try chapter 15, where two matches get half a page.

Or even worse, Nantes' French cup semi-final that year against PSG... the result of which isn't even mentioned!!! It only appears in the results section of the appendices.

If you want a book about supporting a foreign team, read Tim Parks' excellent 'A Season With Verona', which is everything 'The FC Nantes Experiment' is not - funny, well-written and accurate.

Avoid this book!'

Cheers mate, but I still got your pennies didn't I, ya doss cunt.
Oh well you can't please everyone, the whole point of the book was to write a fan's view, not a journo's view of a season (A season with Verona), the reports were taken in the now from inside the stadium, not the day after from newspaper reports so there was always going to be mistakes of some kind. The reasopn the PSG result is only mentioned at the end in the results section is because I didn't make it to the match, what am I supposed to do lie? And I did get a proof reader so there!
Oh well fuck him in the neck.
Arrogant, lazy, moi?

The Damned Video

2006-08-14T04:23:00.000-07:00

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

The Damned in a shit hole

2006-08-04T04:01:00.000-07:00

Saw The Damned play in Peterborough on Wednesday night. They were great, Peterborough was not. What a mud hut. Peterborough has a tingling air of teenage violence all wrapped up in a truffle of nylon trackie bottoms...A hellish blemish on the normally beautiful structural lip of East Anglia.
Still the band were fantastic and even played 'Generals' off 'Strawberries' which was a surprise. Got to meet them after the gig, DV was a very chirpy bloke and the Captain kept asking me to try sandwiches in case there was meat in them. Yep punk still lives.

The return of Jim Macmarran...

2006-08-02T03:34:00.000-07:00

I got people sitting in my room right now that I know don't really exist,I want YOU to stop ME!I dunno what I'm gonna do if You don't. Is it a joke, Is it Manina or is it REALITY? Don't ask me I'm in the Golden Girl Club In Soho!12th of feb 1981 DO ONE!LUV YER! JIM!XXX

My first poem, or is it Wham! or is it Nirvana? Oh fuck off you cunt.

2006-07-20T05:43:00.000-07:00

I'm up to here with wankers Brown and Riches with their wordy ways so here is the first poem from Rancini...

Playing chess with cunts,
What a laugh,
I've never played it before,
But I'm wearing a velvet waist coat so I'm well in,
you two bob nob wrot,
you want strategy? I'll give you hell!
fucking dick wad cunt,
10 A levels, 3 degrees and a masters, well done.
Isn't it about time you learnt to clean your teeth then my son?
You dirty stinking cunt.

I thank you.

40 Proof Naples

2006-07-13T03:18:00.000-07:00

No one seems pissed up in Naples,
not nearly as pissed up as me,
they think you're a lout when you stagger about,
and you spew up and fall in the sea!

OI!!

2006-07-04T06:44:00.000-07:00

Get me far from this manic aggro!
Mother fuckin' talking dogs!
Pills takin' Angel with her two girls sleeping!
We are already shoveled and dead!
Bye Bye!X

Paul

They wont if you don't

2006-07-04T06:42:00.001-07:00

Street people, they're same as You and Me!
They'll give it if you know they've got it,
if you're Family!
DO YOU WANT TO DIE SOBER!

Paul

They wont if you don't

2006-07-04T06:42:00.000-07:00

Street people, they're same as You and Me!
They'll give it if you know they've got it,
if you're Family!
DO YOU WANT TO DIE SOBER!

Paul

Little Drug Nightmares

2006-07-04T06:40:00.000-07:00

Schoolgirls dancing to pop shite .On the floor,trying to sleep,the drink and the drugs flying out of my blood!
There's a creepy,classical tune,like on an eighties cassio,playing through the wall on a mobile!
Believe!Believe or you will DIE!
So we do that and we're still back here!
So FUCK THAT!FUCK WAR AND COUNTRIES AND CULTURE!DON't EVER FUCK FAMILY!OR DO!LIKE I GIVE A FUCK!
GIVE ME A FUCKING DRINK!

Paul

Death

2006-07-04T06:38:00.000-07:00

A place where you lose all your friends and family(FUCK THEM ANYWAY)Or a place where you don't have to work or get married or have kids and perpetuate this ridiculous rubbish!
Only Joking!Or am I?

Paul

Poofs and Grasses

2006-07-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Knees in bollocks, tongues up arses,
skag ead' nurses, student brasses,
scabby cunts with empty glasses,
poofs and grasses
wear moustaches!

Paul

Vicky Got Sick

2006-07-04T06:36:00.000-07:00

We had a kid. It started to kick,little one made on a newspaper bed and I drank all day and Vicky got sick,
Not sick in the body,sick in the head. She was an 'ard cunt,fantastic tits,the idea of a kid just left 'er in bits and when you're 23 and yer out on the nick you'd thank christ to fuck that Vicky got sick!

Paul

Bird Flu

2006-07-04T06:33:00.000-07:00

Give em' Eastenders give em' posh and becks,let em' start teaching us CUNTSPEAK! Corrie and the news of the world!Cunts!Useless rubbish!We will be divided with tackyness and FEAR!

Paul

Safety

2006-07-04T06:31:00.000-07:00

Never been round dead people much,
a couple of funerals and a job where I worked next door to a mortury when I was about 21 or 22,
whenever I saw them though,they made me feel safe,like there was no more fear for them and it was like they knew that,even though they couldn't talk anymore!
They suddenly got peace, from their horrible lives!

Team England

2006-06-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

More setbacks for England yesterday when Simon Rance was sent off ten minutes into the first half,for overuse of the word 'CUNT'!

Paul

Top Rank Mecca Bingo Shag Fest

2006-06-19T08:17:00.000-07:00

Si's book 'The FC Nantes Experiment' has just been reviewed by Football Derbies.
Given 8 out of 10, Simon's not complaining, but is slightly miffed that the only book that got a higher grade was Alex Bellos' Futebol:The Brazilian Way Of Life. The reason for this is simple, Alex Bellos' book is a shite load better than Simon's, although I would never tell this too his face because he can be very stroppy, and I once bumped into him on a night bus and he was with this really tall shouty type called Paul. I hate Simon Rance and I hope his book gets deleted and I hate Paul Brown too, every time I check out this site it is full of that git's poetry. Couple of right twats and no mistake. I've been known for turning the other cheek, but never agin to these two cunts.
Love and kisses
Jesus

Bottles

2006-06-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

BOTTLES

Bottles all green, bottles all clear
The bottles all brown were the bottles of beer
The clear ones were whiskey, the green ones were gin
You won't find a bottle that I ain't been in

A bottle of Ouzo, a bottle of rum
A bottle of aggro, a bottle of scum
A bottle of plastic, a bottle of glass
A bottle of fuck that I stuck up her arse

A bottle of coke and a bottle of skag
A bottle of hate from a bitter old slag
A bottle of calm and a bottle of madness
A bottle-topped happy that ended in sadness

A bottle of sex and a bottle of pain
A bottle of tears in a bottle of rain
A bottle uncorked full of words left unspoken
A bottle of love that fell down and got broken

Paul

BOTTLES

2006-06-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

The Peculiar Case of Alfred Cader

2006-06-17T00:39:00.000-07:00

This little number was written by Jon Harman and I've stolen it from his blog because it is funny as fuck. Check out Jon's site by clicking on the kaotic oddchild link on the right hand side of this page.

So there was this guy Alfred Cader, a really ordinary guy who went about his business and tried to keep a low profile. He was friendly enough, truly amiable, that song by Paul Simon “You can call me Al” could have been written about him.

But in September 2001, his world collapsed. At 8:46am on Tuesday 11th, Alfred’s life changed forever, the events that were to unfold would be irreversible.

Alfred had arisen for work on this fateful day, full of exuberance and ready to take the world by both fists, he had seldom felt so invigorated, but today he felt a special purpose. A drive. Today was the day that the world would sit up and listen to Al Cader.

He switched on the radio as he started his car at 8:47 am to go to work, the news was unbelievable, traffic jams left right and centre throughout his journey, he knew his morning was going to be terrible, who else in the world could have this kind of bad luck, 4 traffic routes ruined and no way to know how to get to work.

Al worked for the Office of Special Administrative Management Aid, a small government aid agency that dealt with the administration and management of aid to war torn and under developed countries. Charities raised the funds and Al’s department would manage the funds and set up specialist training for the administration and communication of the aid. Al was a processor.

Knowing he was going to be late today, Al tried to phone work from his mobile whilst stuck in the traffic jam. All he got was a hiss, no dialling tone, nothing. Just interference. His day really was turning out bad, could it get any worse?

At 8:49a.m he decided to turn off the motorway and deviate from his normal route, this was to have major ramifications in the days to follow.

His onboard navigation tool started to go on the fritz, damn he was relying on the computerised tones to direct him to work. He was going to have to work this one out on his own.

Before he knew it, he was downtown driving through skid row. He had never seen this part of town, as he passed numerous down and outs, he felt a strong sense of patriotism and need to stand up and fight for the little guy. This was just plain wrong.

The traffic lights turned red, and before he knew it a man was squeegying his windscreen. Al decided to give him 10 bucks, make his day. He rolled down the window and the Albanian refugee approached.

As Al extended his arm to hand over the tenner, the Albanian suddenly produced a small craft knife or box cutter as they were now known.

Within ten seconds Al was standing on the pavement and seeing the Albanian drive off with his hijacked car. This day was really turning into a shit storm. There was no way Al was ever going to forget September 11th.

Al finally got a signal and managed to phone O.S.A.M.A (work), government agencies just loved acronyms. Anyway, he explained the situation, but they weren’t too concerned with his problems. They told him to get to a radio or TV as soon as possible, the world was under attack.

Panicked, Al managed to find a radio that a bum was listening to. Something about a terrorist attack, then he heard the details that would make him run for cover.

The government believed the attacks were the work of Al Qaeda, or as Al heard it, Al Cader.

Al soon disappeared into hiding and nobody has been able to find him since.

BLOOD FRAME

2006-06-17T00:33:00.000-07:00

I watched him laying there, a blood frame in the snow.
A red icicle hanging on his nose!He was my friend and now I gotta' go.
I hate to leave him, but we aint no good to each other now!
I'm walking away,hooched up,watching crows call in the cold, bitter bastard winter,a tear freezes from a mans eye!

The fuck all that press interview Christ

2006-05-24T07:08:00.000-07:00

Below's interview took place on a night bus from Trafalgar Square going to thefuckallthatpress' HQ in Penge. Si & Paul couldn't believe their luck when Jesus and Gabriel (who didn't say a word as he was acting as Jesus' silent attorney)stood up to give them their seats.

Si & Paul. So Christ what brings you on the nigh bus to Penge?
Jesus. There are some souls I must save.

Paul takes out a bottle os scotch from his damp and sick stained coat.

P. Si, Jesus fancy a drop?

Si takes a swig and offers the bottle to JC. Who shakes his head.

J. You know you shouldn't drink?
S & P. Bollocks.
P. Question 2. The bible, why?
J. Are you serious?
S. Oi we're asking the fucking questions here, now get on with it.
J. I can't answer that question. And is it nescessary to be so onfensive?
P. Shut the fuck up sandals and get on with it.
S. When you finally get back in the sack with Mary Magdalen for round two of your secret hanky panky do you shout 'Second Coming'?
J. (Clearly unimpressed). No.

At this point is fair to say Si & Paul are in hysterics.

P. I bet you do, you dirty fucking rotter, right before you do her in the gary.
J. Really, this is not on, I'm the son of God you know.

Si pulls out a bag of Minstrels.

S. Have a sweet JC and forget all about it.

Si pours some sweets into Jesus' hands and they rolls through his palms onto the floor where his nail wounds are.
Si & Paul fall of their chairs pissing themselves.

P. (with prespotrous Irish accent. Murphy's nails!
S. You wouldn't place abet on him in the front crawl would yer?
J. I've never been so offended.
P. You're joking, that Judas proper coated you off. So being king of the jews, what's the pay like, good holidays?
J. I've had enough of this.
S. OOhh hark at her. Not so forgiving in the flesh are ya?
J. You are both beyond redemtion.
P. I know, we passed that via New Cross.

Paul pours whiskey at the foot of JC.

P. Walk on that you cunt.
S. So, the Red Sea. What's the fishing like?
P. Si stop he's getting cross.
S. What again, you can't keep this cunt away from them.
P. Your Dad was Joseph right, he was a carpenter, prope job that. So what's with being the saviour of all mankind bit of graft a bit much for you is it? Yer poof!
J. I will not tollerate descrimintaion of any sort.
S. Shut up yer bollix no one's listening.
J. You really should...

Si & paul have their hands over their ears

S&P. La la la la, we can't hear you Jesus.

The driver comes through and asks Jeus if Si & Paul are bothering him, he nods his head and the driver throws them off the bus. Paul pisses up the side of it.

P. What have we done, he started it and he called you a cunt too! He did Jesus said 'this cunt couldn't drive a milk float'.

The doors close and the bus pulls away. Jesus knocks on the window and gives Si & Paul the wanker sign.

Before anyone gets too upset, this never happened.

Future Plans

2006-05-24T06:23:00.000-07:00

The Damned book is finally taking some sort of shape with more interviews being lined up over the next few weeks.
Simon's next football project 'Jeventino' is also under way with the majority of the first draft of the introduction in full swing.
Paul's poetry book 'Black Tea & Whiskey' will be compiled in the winter and be sent to prospective publishers, if Paul doesn't mind. He's fucking crazy and Simon has decided he will put together a book of Paul's poetry otherwise he'll just wind up dead from drink and punk in his room.

The Back Page

2006-05-24T06:19:00.000-07:00

The UK's last living/standing sports only book shop will be stocking Simon's The FC Nantes Experiment from next week.
Initially the book was to be stocked by Sports Pages on Charing Cross Rd, but as the fuck all that press' luck goes it closed down a month before the book came out. Great!
Still at least it is with an affiliate of sorts, even if it is about 500 miles away.

Being Awake

2006-05-15T22:53:00.000-07:00

Ive' bin' chasin' this motherfucker fer nearly seven years.finally I shoot the bastard,blew his kidney right out of him!So I say to that cock sucker 'Does that hurt,you motherfucker?,And he says to me 'Yeah,it fucking hurts,you cunt,but not as much as work....Or being awake sober!
Paul

Some Kind of Beetle

2006-04-29T07:09:00.000-07:00

Laying on the floor in this piss hole;
looking up there's a bug crawling down towards me.I feel like he knows.like he's coming to get me for all
the bad tings I done.
It's a beetle!Some kind of bug anyway.Don't matter.The beetle don't know or care I've got a hole in me where we all think our kidneys are.I'am not sure if I've lost a kidney or I'm jutst dying. Bleeding to death. You can be sure the beetle don;t care,nor the cunt that shot me.But they're both going the right way for them!
Paul.X

Lick The Pin

2006-04-29T07:04:00.000-07:00

Every drop is precious
pumping out and pumping in
pretty little crimson tube
every drop is precious
pumping out and pumping in
pretty little crimson tube
press it back and lick the pin.

Gay Paris

2006-04-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

Who will join the mighty/lucky Arsenal in the European Cup Final on May 17th in gay Paris.
If you are unaware, Arsenal Football Club have broken with tradition (being pony in Europe)and have decided to show the world their true colours (that they are fucking ace).
Every play a hero, every fan a mountain, every tea lady a bucket slag, every ref a cunt, every Villareal player a cheating shite arse, every pizza; lucky, every burberry pant wearer a genius, every moody piece of clothing a brick, every unshaven Cantona lookalike a master, every man nicknamed 'the shat' a legend.
For Harry, St George, France, Spain and the Ivory Coast on St Crispin's day!

Some Italian dude

2006-04-07T03:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a lovin' it a Gino Ginelli ice creamo!!
Avanti I'ma gayer Juveyer fannyo.

I like a cocky in me moutheyo. Avanti, grazie cummy tricklyo downy me a choppyo.

Forza cuntyo, me lovea italia so mucha I live in a jar of Dolmio.