Bacon is a lie.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not denying the existence of bacon.  It’s there, running around on the backs of pigs before they run into a magic machine which captapultes  it into plastic and then on to our supermarket shelves.

It’s the whole bacon thing.  If you asked 10 people right now whats more important; a solar-centric universe, oxygen or bacon – bacon would win.  Bacon, a meat product that can be awesome, but if its not crispy enough, terrible.  Don’t get me wrong, every now and again for breakfast that stuff is frankly sexual.  I’ve had it every day for five days though at festivals, and on day four you want to beg the baconeer (thats the term right) to exchange it for an apple.

But whenever someone posts about bacon everyone jumps and goes ‘bacon for live, bacon for president, bacon is good and important’.  I literally just did this.  Let me ask you this, all you can ever eat again is bacon – does this really appeal to you?  You’ll say yes of course because that’s the bacon law but deep in your soul, really? Really?

Bacon is a lie, in moderation a tasty lie, but a lie.

Dave Horn

Surely a text would have done?

And as we come down the escalator look viewers.  Look at the state of this station.  Now I might just be your average middle aged man but this is not acceptable.  Back to you Anne.

Atrocious scenes there in our special report.  Join us next week for an up-date.  I’ve been Anne Robinson, thanks for watching.

What the fuck, fucking weird ass dream. Ah man what time is it? Steve cracked open his eyes.  The cold light of dawn was drifting through the room.  It showed a few things.  The first relvation was that it was only 6am.  The second (and probably the worse) was that the room was a wreck.  I mean there’s ‘got home drunk messy’ but the place had been turned over by the best.  It took a few seconds for Steve’s brain to register.

Mother Fuckers!!

He yelled like an 80 pound gorila that had stubbed its toe.  Throwing the covers like they were made of live spiders Steve jumped out of bed.  The whole house, every single room, was a scene in a 1970s punk video.  Draws were pulled out, dvds and cutlery (weirdly stored in the same room) were all over the floor; the place had been devastated.  The biggest insult was the living room.  The TV was kicked in, the speakers were trashed.  Everything was broken except the painfully vivid and wonky pot the crazy lady down the street had made.

Why?  This word crossed Steve’s mind more than the urge to breathe.  Nothing was gone, whats more he thought; why didn’t I wake up?  He caught his reflection in the mirror.  His 5ft 9 skinny frame filled the narrow surface, and then he saw it.  Hiding between feral stuble and scruffy brown hair was writing.  WRITING?! Steve’s mind screamed.  Between the drawing of penises (a pretty boring word for an amount of penises .. penisi, herd?) was a message.  Look outside the front door his left cheek told him.

Apprehensively opening the door he saw his car on blocks.  Cursing his neighbors hiding in their terraced houses he realised what was going on.  It was a challenge, his time in hiding had come to an end.  A card caught his eyes among the debris.  Just a winking face, it was the international dickhead Juan Juan.  Steve went to the  kitchen and walked on to the opposite wall.  Kicking in the wall a tiny room revealed itself.  As the clouds of dust subsided  racks of guns grinned at him as well has his best lazy clothes.  Baggy jeans and a Che Guerra t-shirt were soon on his body.  He holstered a magnum (like a boss) and went back out the front door.  He’d always liked next door’s Lotus Elise.  Yoink is the only word that describes his next action as he silently picked the lock  with a carrot stick.  Pretty to look at it proved even nicer to drive, always nice.

Steve was annoyed, he had enjoyed the quiet life.  He tore down the motorway to a military base.  Cutting the wire and and busting moves like an Olympic gymnast  he slipped across the run way to a plane.  Again with the yoinking.  He was in the air as the fighter jet was scrambled and loomed.

Stop or you will be taken down!

Jimi? How are you doing man, I haven’t seen you since school!

Steve?!  Why did you nick a plane you crazy bastard.  I’ll say I lost you, now fuck of dude – love you mate.

Steve continued to the Alps.  Landing in a sleepy town he realised he should have dressed better for the snow.  He went down the hill and ended up in The Hawley Arms, a tribute to London’s finest.  At the end of the bar was a short angry man wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt that probably cost more than the third world debt.  Steve caught his eye.

Don’t you think all of that was a bit intense for a tree surgeon job?

This job is huge man!  Trash your house and call you Doris huge .. Doris.

D. Horn

 

Interested in music? Read this!

Yep, if music – especially local music – does nice things to your insides come check out this spin off blog I’ve created dedicated to music and nothing but! Much love

The End of The World

“There must have been something we could do, I mean we’ve been seeing it coming now for ages”

“The end of the world -  the amount of shit I didn’t get around to doing!”

“One for you, one pansy drink for you, and one and a shot for me”

“You took your time getting these”

“Yeah well I didn’t want to face the end of the world on a full bladder – whats with him?”

“He’s taking it harder than most, not at the acceptance stage yet”

“I can’t believe you’re not, its the end! Finality!”

“Cheerful as ever aren’t ya, quit your whining and drink”

“There’s nothing we can do mate, that’s why we’re here remember – making the most of the time left”

“A toast to the world, best pub in Wickam-under-Seige”

“Cheers”

“Cheers”

The case of Arnold T. Newt vs Camden Drug Dealers

Arnold the Newt awoke , rubbing his sleepy eyes to the chorus of sea gulls.  Not unusual in itself, but what was unusual was the sound of the sea crashing against the shore. An uncommon sound in an inland city alley way I think you’ll agree. Feet getting wet Arnold took the plunge and despite fearing the worst opened his eyes.  Dressed in his best indie tatty suit he was indeed laying on a pebble beach on a grey winters day, the tide lapping his shoe less feet and damp trouser legs.  Bleary eyed he looked around and saw a scribbled note poking out his trouser pocket.

Dude,

That really escalated didn’t it – sorry man.  Don’t head to any pub or club south of Birmingham  for a bit.  They’ve pub watched yo’ ass good.  Hilarious.

Anyway sorry again dude,

Laters,

Carlos

Alone, hung over and shoeless Arnold fished in vain for an undeniably moist phone from his pocket as he walked off the beach toward the seaside town of … (do you know?  It would help him greatly).  The nearest paper showed that yesterday had been a Saturday, and so  by awesome powers of deduction Arnold was almost 100% sure today was Sunday.  Walking through the quiet high street of …. (honestly, any ideas?) the locals eyed him with a curious mix of fear and anger (fanger?).  Luckily he still had a wallet and money and used finely tuned pub senses to find a fine establishment serving breakfast.

Sir leave now or I’ll call the police, you’re pub watched!

Ordinarily Arnold would use his powers of reason to get around this small obstacle to deliciousness but this bar lady was holding a baseball bat.  Staggering away in shock and sadness he literally fell onto the train station and saw a train back to Wickham-under-Seige, mostly intrigued how he’d ended up starting the night in said town and was now in Dover but also slightly worried it might end like ‘In Bruge’ with someone stopping the train and arresting him for hitting a Canadian.  Pulling himself sleepily from his seat as the train rolled into  Wickam-under-Seige Arnold headed home.  Wading through a sea of incredulous and curious glances he went home, got shoes and headed straight for Carlos, the little abandoning nob-end, with the determination of a sugar starved fat kid.

Armed with new shoes Arnold stormed the whole 30 seconds to Carlos’s flat.  The scene that confronted him upon arrival was frankly horrifying.  A made bed and a clean floor; who had the gag reflex control to do this – a monster!  Sitting on the bed in the midst of this chaos was a note helpfully labelled ‘RANSOM NOTE please read’.

To whom it may concern,

Carlos and a newt accomplice have burnt down our Dover drug den worth in excess of £50.  We’re not really arsed about the place, but you know it’s the principle of the thing.  You want to see Carlos alive?  Come to Camden Market with something awesome and we’ll talk!

Clyde the henchman

Angry at Carlos for leaving him still, Arnold returned home for a nap, disturbed  that he vaguely missed the feel of pebbles and sea water.  Several hours later he was up, after a shower and breakfast which he stretched out for three hours (impressive right?!) finally had nothing better to do than go after Carlos.  Arnold clambered onto the first train to London and sat deep in thought at what ‘something awesome’ might be.  Traversing London Bridge station and the Northern Line Arnold was soon facing the rabbit warren that is Camden Market.  He wandered aimlessly, being offered Chinese food and Indian food samples at every corner – and weed which was on his ‘impress a drug dealer shopping list’:

Arnold’s shopping list:

A fajita the size of a head

A pint of Round Boy’s Ruin cider

A Bob Marley throw

Eventually with these in hand Arnold set about tracking down the dealers.  Given the illegal nature of their trade and the unhelpful lack of directions you’d think it would be a challenge.  But no, luckily for Arnold there were posters advertising them everywhere, complete with an elaborate and well crafted map.  Following the map to a seedy looking night club complete with boarded up windows and a bouncer the size of a house. Arnold was thinking they might as well have a neon sign above the place (they did, it was broken) when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the huge bouncer grabbing him and dragging him through a side door practically invisible under the night sky.  Bundled up stairs through a cloud of big beats and dark synths Arnold ended up in an imposing office.  Framed by floor to ceiling book cases a grimy  fox sat behind an  ornate wooden desk.

‘You! You burnt down the Dover branch of my drug empire’ snarled the little fox

‘You said it was a hole worth £50.  Why do you even care? Where’s Carlos the little bastard?’

‘Yeah that place was a dive – my people say you were pretty drunk so you probably don’t remember.  I don’t care about that, it’s the complaints! “Where are my drugs?” “Give me drugs!” “I’m switching supplier”.  I can’t take it anymore and its all your fault!’ The fox’s desperate rant was cut off as the phone rang.

‘You’ll them when you get them, and what has a platypus got to do with anything?! Jabba dabba do one son!!’ the exasperated fox slammed the antique phone down, making that chime sound they make in old movies as it hit the table.

‘You see?!’ continued the fox ‘Anyway what did you bring me? It had better be awesome!  That cat is pain in the ass!’

Arnold  handed over the miraculously still warm fajita and the throw and watched the fox’s face soften.

‘These are…these are’ his face swelled with emotion ‘shit.  But just take that cat away and never come near me or my stuff ever again.  That cat is doing my nut in!  That’s your “awesome gift”.

Jabbering and continuous talking made their way up the corridor.  The door opened and there was Carlos accompanied by two weary looking guards.

‘Jabbering.  Continuous talking.  You’re free to go now, this dumb ass is taking him.’  the fox drug lord told the relieved looking lackies.

Carlos and Arnold were thrown out a first floor window and headed towards the tube station.  Before Carlos could say a word Arnold punched him in the face and dragged him the rest of the way home, resisting the urge to say ‘my friend is dead tired’ several times.

David Horn

Common sense fail.

Never before have the con-dem Government lived up to their title so well.  Publicly they’ve raided the pension pots and a created a fund that is ‘game changing’ to sort out the latest recession blues – great except for two things. 70% of people who use the term ‘game changing’ are nob-ends but also when people get older and want their pension they be mildly disappointed … you know what that means.  Tere’ll be war on the streets: cyclones of complaint letters with their sharp corners hunting out victims, hordes of roving gangs armed with walking sticks and a strong sense of indignation (have you seen the tele?!  Some of them know martial arts now) and given our aging population they’ll be loads of ‘em.  But I’m no economist and if the money helps sort things out fair play give the man a high five and a kit-kat.

The bit that is aggravating to a point past stupidity has happened behind closed doors.  Defying common sense, love for your fellow human and mostly respect from nature – they want to dig for oil in Canada’s tar sands.  It doesn’t sound that bad until you learn why this is an astoundingly terrible idea.

• The energy to get these resources is a lot more than standard drilling
• The oil is hidden away under whole forests
• Removing this oil will result in air and water pollution.

One scientist has gone as far to say that if the use of the tar sands went ahead it would be ‘game over for the climate’, and they’re American.  All-in-all this would be fucking stupid on so many levels  you’ll need an elevator.  Good hippy values aside its scientifically flawed, a lot of the earths forest is in the Arctic Circle.  Trees make oxygen, humans like oxygen, less tress – less oxygen and fewer places to absorb CO2.  That’s just one of many reasons – you know even the Government think it’s inherently bad when they do it in secret.

Making this a true festival of moral vomiting this probably wouldn’t have even come to light  if it were not for the Freedom of Information Act. We should try living our planet not living off it – else we’ll have an amazing economy on a big bald rock of a planet with weather so dangerous going to the shop to buy freeze-dried food substitute could easily result in death.

Scary Adverts

Forget Jedward, The Human Centipede and the iPod, adverts really are the most horrifying thing we’re exposed to today.  The latest advert by Nokia for the ABCD 500,000 (insert blatantly random characters here) show what scary beasts adverts can be.  The sinister whispered delivery by a child is the least scary part of this audio assault.  The advert accuses parents who don’t by the latest mobile cancer factory of actually ruining Christmas and doing their child harm (under 12 if the advert is anything to go by) in their clearly very busy social life where a judgement based on phone apparently means a life of loneliness.

The 30 second terroriser along with classic brands that have audacity to update their adverts and in turn pollute social networking sites present a clear need  to reform advertising through the awesome power of common sense.  It’ll be genius,using the Nokia IOAP ear assault a new voice would enter the advert and give the kid a slap; telling the kid to be less materialistic and that the true meaning of Christmas is family and fun.  People still believe that right?  Anyway this injection of common sense would be genius across the board.  Technology  – leave the house and go enjoy nature for real rather than watching it HD 3D uber screen and  using its inbuilt link to your brain to natter about whos voted where.

Dave Horn