keep an eye out for the great pumpkin, headless horsemen, drunken irish carrying lit turnips and kids begging for candy eat an apple, put out your old fire start a new one say a prayer and have a stiff drink
happy halloween, samhain and all saints day TMO
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Today Sidney and I saw a great example of what happens if you take all the flesh out of a pumpkin and then try to make it into a lantern. You end up with a gurning pensioner pumpkin! I believe Sidney has a picture of this phenomenon on her modern camera phone. Perhaps if we all think about it really hard she will be able to make it come onto the internet!
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Well, I dressed up as a black cat and El dressed up as devil with spiders painted on her face for some reason and we took our pumpkin lantern and walked down to a friends house to have a slice of pumpkin pie. I don't agree with trick or treating meself. BUT! we had a really fun evening.
The downside of it was that our cat, Dave, followed us down the road and then we saw her again on the way home, but now I think she is lost as she didn't come home all night, which is most unlike her and this has made me
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I spent the evening moping and smoking, alone in the flat because my current squeeze was supposed to be coming over but then couldn't make it. I was doing this face for most of the evening, and forgot it was Hallowe'en until I went out to buy some cheese and saw some kids dressed as skeletons. It wasn't really a big day for me.
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I enjoyed an Oxford full of what FHM would refer to as "posh totty", all dressed up in hallow-ean slut-wear. I celebrated the fesitval with one black fingernail - not a deliberate effort, but rather a result of some nasty over-spray when putting the finishing touches to my latest guitar project.
I also had the dubious pleasure of carting an amp, speaker cab and guitar case through the halloweened halls of Wadham College for a band rehearsal. The imposing buildings really added to the mood of the night, until a reveller removed his Screme mask and asked me for a light.
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quote:Originally posted by Uber Trick: Today Sidney and I saw a great example of what happens if you take all the flesh out of a pumpkin and then try to make it into a lantern. You end up with a gurning pensioner pumpkin! I believe Sidney has a picture of this phenomenon on her modern camera phone. Perhaps if we all think about it really hard she will be able to make it come onto the internet!
I'm afraid that I was far too drunk to tackle such technacolligococal things when I got home, Oobs. I will try to make the geriatric pumpkin come onto the internet when I get home tonight instead. If I have got rid of my hangover, that is.
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I went to see Saw (ho ho) before going to a friend's house to watch lame Hollywood horror. Can't remember exactly which film of the Halloween franchise I saw, but it featured Busta Rhymes pulling some wicked mental kung-fu stunts on Michael Myers' sorry white-faced ass. Indeed, I was so impressed that I began to think about a string of further franchises featuring the jive-talkin' Busta going head-to-head with more Hollywood evils. Just imagine: Alien Vs Predator Vs Busta; Freddy Vs Jason Vs Busta. Heh. You know it.
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They should combing the ...vs Busta franchise with the Black Dicks On White Chicks franchise. They could have Busta Rhymes laying the pipe on the stars of White Chicks, Shawn and Marlon Wayans while they wear their 'White Chick' disguises and hilariously parody the sort of things middle class white girls might say if they were being fucked up the ass by Busta Rhymes.
quote:Originally posted by herbs: i've spent a morning in a portakabin with Rio from Gladiators. Possibly the lamest celeb encounter ever.
But made famous on the Gladiatorzone website.
Before joining the Gladiators team Rio was an ambulance driver and has a certificate in advanced first aid. Her special moves include tearing an opponent's hair from their body using industrial strength elastoplast and lactating a poisonous blend of Detol and Germaline, which she fires into opponents eyes rendering them temporarily blind. Rio has modeled bridal gowns for Geddes-Muir Designs and performed savage felatio on Gladiator Vulcan while presenter John Fash casually masturbated a femal audience member to the tune of Hungry Like the Wolf. She won the title of Miss Wessex and was entered into the Miss UK final. Although she didn't win the title she says the girl who did is now now married to a mechanic from Billericay, has a Saturday job in the Body Shop and has really let herself go. In 1996 Rio was in the top 211 of the Babe of '96 competition thanks, primarily, to a lack of imagination in 13 year old boys and a picture spread in FHM depicting her as a slave girl with a wide mouth.
At over 27 hands high, Rio is the tallest of all the female Gladiators and a platanium account holder at High and Mighty. She is excellent on Suspension Brige, thrashing around like a drunken giraffe in an earthquake and repeatedly burning her head on the studio lights. She is also undefeated in Duel, despite having a fear of Steven Spielberg. Rio says it is the terror of looking like Robin Williams in Hook that drives her obsessive gym work and periodic bulimia.
Another factor that Rio had to overcome was hitting people. She admits she hates hitting people but, thanks to a strenuous aggression programme with presenter John Fashanu and former footballer Stan Collymore, a diet of illegal steroids and a hip flask, she is now happy to pummel the few remaining brain cells from characterless, perma tanned fitness instructors from Bolton and moody kickboxing lesbians from Northampton every weekend in the name of entertainment.
Rio appeared in the Ridley Scott blockbuster film Gladiator as an Amazonian warrior on a mission to kill. Unfortunately she died on her arse during her first day's shooting and some of her sequences had to be re-edited using a double on stilts, photographed in the shadows with a CGI mask of Rio's face. The film is dedicated to the memory of her performance, according to her agent.
Since Gladiators failed to be recomissioned in 1997, she has been living in a portakabin in up-and-coming De Beauvoir, East London, where Rio accepts visitors from all walks of life.
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Props for the Jonesy 'Gladiators - Where Are They Now?' post!
I want to know what has happened to Wolf (aka The Wolfman) and the ridiculously permed Hunter....
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Hello. I met Gladiator Wolf once. Yes yes, thank you. In a worked with him sort of a way. It was after my stint in London with Mentorn (on Wardour Street darlings, o you simply must know it, you must. No? O well, I fear her glory days are long past). I was a grip, you see. On Monday and Tuesday. And then on Wednesday I became a runner. It was terribly London and exciting. This was in the early 1990s and London was the place to be. Unless you were in Manchester. Emma Ridley was the current scene queen and I very nearly met her but didn’t. I did meet her sister, who had one erect nipple. It was on my side of the room – of course. These were the days before I learned to control my rough provincial heat.
Does anybody remember Kids from Fame? You do? Wonderful. Well, do you remember the series before Janet Jackson joined? When Doris was all that. Uh-huh. You know it. I think the series ended with the kids singing Desdemona. Leroy (sign of the cross) was Othello and Lori Singer – who went on to achieve unparallelled levels of Fame in Footloose and was in no way whatsover a cheap Daryl Hannah uh-uh no way you lying fucking cow Hannah – was Desdemona (Des de fuckn moaner if I ever get a hold of that. You know what I’m saying. Des the moaner. Moaning like in sex. Because I would be putting my back into that. Oboy. And Janet would be watching and squealing and I’d get her to dress up like Michael and she’d get it in the dirtbox then. Fuck yeah).
Anyway, Doris sang Hi-Fidelity. Which Nick Hornby turned into a novel of such little insight (man keeps records in order) I swept my urethra with a pipe cleaner JUST TO FEEL SOMETHING. Doris was the star of one episode of The Kids from Fame: an episode about truth. She starred in it with Bruno. Jewish. Afro. Keyboards. Hooversodomite. May not have been called Bruno. And Doris swore to only tell the truth and it was the shit. Well, today I’m motherfucking Doris.
I met Wolf on a corporate thing that my Dad was doing and I offered to help (because I owed him for a french window I broke playing Jedi with the dog). It wasn’t all shit like Wolf. I met Tony Hawk and the Bones Brigade also. And yes, you can touch me – but this sort of cool does not rub off. All I remember about Wolf is he was not very big and he kept saying, “Shall I do me Wolf-face?” and the director kept saying “no”. And then Wolf would say, “but that’s what the kids like. They like me Wolf-face.” And: “I see no point in hiring Wolf if you don’t use me Wolf-face. It’s what they know.”
Toward the end of the interview, Wolf got to use his Wolf-face. It was brilliant. He was in Panto. That was it. He was going to be in Panto and we were doing this thing for the local news (Meridian, Newbury fans). In fact his Wolf-face was so incredibly crazysexycool that I immediately stuffed his wolf cub into my mouth. And Dad brought him off by whipping Wolf’s walnut. Those were good days. Me and my old man. Tag team reaming.
I don’t know what Wolf’s doing these days. But I do know that Hunter is a fitness coach at Wigan RFC.
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quote:Originally posted by 69 Comeback Elvis: He was going to be in Panto and we were doing this thing for the local news (Meridian, Newbury fans).
Did you get to meet the legend that is *TV's Andy Craig?
During my school years, local newscaster Andy Craig became somewhat of an ironic god to us. His witty quips and ad-libs drove him to a station much further up the line of greatness than Madely Central, for example.
It came to my attention that Meridian's studios were a mere bike ride away from home. One fine afternoon, myself and a chum did take said bikes and did ride them, in a merry way, to Meridia. Waiting in the carpark in this most industrial of estates, the excitement gathered. We gazed at the few cars scattered playfully across the tarmac. Which could be Craig's? The maroon Astra? No. He's gotta be a couple of rungs up from a D-reg Astra. The four by four perhaps? Yes. That's a man's car for sure. A silver Vauxhall Frontera.
We waited.
The evening sun cast long shadows of doubt in our cliché-ridden minds. When was the evening edition broadcast? Was it even live? Yes. It must've been. They'd edit all of Craig's comedy from the show if they had the chance. Dusk fell, leaving us feeling sorely disappointed. We considered going back to our homes, but this mission had gone too far to give up now.
Behold! A ray of golden light emanating from the centre of the classy Meridian logo on the door. The sun's face split in two and from the bright innards of the TV studio, spilt a man. Build looks about right. Hair's spot-on. Suit? Yep.
"Is that him?" "Yeah!" "Cool. Let's go home." "Yeah..."
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I was Diesel. That was me, Gladiator Diesel. Remember? Of course you don't. Sure, I throw the names Wolf or Nazi poster boy Hunter into the arena and, Ulrika! You know exactly who I'm talking about. Like, in the bath man.
And why? Some of the Bertrands – that's what we called ourselves (my idea): Glad rhyming slang, 'muscles' (new wave called themselves 'Hartys'. Twats) – some of the Berts would argue that it's all in the package (the marketing, not Hunter's lycra asp). They'd maintain it was all about the Sun and the ITV editing, banging a Scandi or beating a barman. But it wasn't like that for me. It isn't my low LWT count, my minimal exposure or my lack of a celebrity hump that's blotted Diesel from your collective memories. No, it's more beautiful than that; it's classic. You know?
Diesel is a highly combustible fuel. Crushed to gas by those pumping pistons, diesel explodes like Shadow in a steroid trip. Boom! You know when you've been Dieseled. That big bang powers through turbos with a zip, tugs tractors with a rock solid dependability. The naming of Glads is a difficult matter, it isn't just one of your everyday games, like Atlasphere or Pursuit Zone. Diesel. Power. It's got it in spades, as Hunter might put it with a wink and an ugly smile.
But for me there was something else in that name. I'm a thinker. You don't remember me but, if you could, imagine old Diesel made of marble or bronze, one shovel hand resting on a hog-sized thigh, the other formidable fist tucked under that unbreakable chin, back hunched like a giant harp, you'd see me as I truly am. That's the real Diesel. Cerebral. That's why the name hit the spot for me. Diesel isn't a fucking fuel, man, he's a late 19th Century German engineer who devised and patented an internal-combustion engine. A 'smart', you know? I'm fucking Rodan with a kick.
There's science in the Glad game: pumping up with chemistry, body slamming with physics, clothes-lining with mechanics. Breaking those P.E. tutors in the arena with our fucking brains. I was an engine of destruction, the only truly self-aware machine: a Diesel engine that understood how it worked. A smart car, but like a truck. Although, I wasn't just about science. Old Diesel, he's an artist, always was. And any artist needs his muse.
As much as I run on anabolic steroids and shakes, I can't even start the engine without ROAR emotion. And my fuel was always Bertrand favourite, Warrior. OK, so one weekend he looked like Donnie Osmond being pumped full of walnuts and another like some crazy anaconda who'd eaten Vanilla Ice without swallowing but I loved that. I loved him. His smile, his style, his soft touch with the pugel. With Warrior by his side, old Diesel could fly. I could have been up there, walking on air in the final Gauntlet, jawing with Flash Fash, as quick with a comeback as a killer body slam. Prime time. Could have had a theme tune, been on lunchboxes, Wogan. With Warrior fuel in my tank I could have towed the Glad experience through the tough times and into the wonderland of recommission. Diesel was the big engine that could. Make no mistake, I could have carried every single Bert, even that tubby panto villain Woof (oh yes I could), and we'd still be in the money today. Instead of working the Pink Panther on Blackpool Pleasure Beach like some oily fucking freak show.
I don't want to sound like a dead, fat method man but, I could have been a contender, and then some. If only they'd let us stay together.
We worked the Pyramid. You know the game: dumb dietician from Dagenham climbs a few padded levels and we toss him off with a smirk and a high five. My Warrior took the top tier and I ran interference. The grunts rarely made it past me but sometimes, very occasionally, I'd let them reach the top just to watch W spread his wings. He was beautiful. A golden eagle. No, a Pharoah. He was my Pharaoh, my lord. Classics. My muse. Science and art, together. Classics. But the hieroglyphs were on the wall for us. Series Three they tore me from my pyramid and left me to rot, like a broken hearted bat, on Skytrack. My world was turned upside down in more ways than one. Warrior worked a different shift, a different zone. It was like West Side story, or even Romeo and Juliet (What? You think I'm just a lug with biceps for brains? Classics). We were worlds apart, man, worlds apart. It couldn't work, and I couldn't work. The Diesel engine was finished - snapped conrod, dropped valve, big end gone; I don't know. Diesel engines don't normally require a spark to fire. I was the exception. And they took my spark away.
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