More Nonsense From _Paul_And_Land_

Month: August, 2013

Time Warp

We’re angry. We’re listening to 1980s hardcore punk of the genres ears bleed, feckin’ ‘ell and anger. Why are we angry here in _Paul_And_Land_? And why 1980s?

If our political “leaders” are going to drag us back to flag wavy “hoorah for us” and kill everyone who isn’t us and who have the temerity to question what they are doing then why shouldn’t we, in the kiddie like fashion that they treat us, kick our heels in and shout loudly. What they forget is that we’re not little kiddies, that we have the power to think and the ability to analyse problems that ain’t that complex really.

So when Shiny Dave and his screaming mates holler “these people are bad, let’s kill ’em”, we question their motives. And we actually don’t need St Julian of Asshat, Edward Snowball (cop for the Animal Farm reference, right there), George Galloping-away-on-his-ego or any other latter day pseudo super-hero to tell us because we’ve been here before. Argentina, Don’t Cry For, allegedly, unless you recall Thatch’s cover-ups.

But now we have Shiny Dave, who will at some juncture appear in a nice picture astride a tank, screaming in unison with Super General Obama “Kill the Commie/Pinko/Fascist/Inhuman/God Damned Foreign* Bastards” to rouse us . But Dave, we ask, we’re in a situation where people are reduced to begging on the streets again because we, as a nation are so poor that we are forced to eat our own limbs. How can we afford to bomb people in another country where people are so poor that they are forced to eat their own limbs? But we have money for weapons.

So take your poxy special relationship, your poxy war-mongering bullshit, your poxy corporations and banks that lobby your poxy government for war and stuff them. We are suss, we know of your motives and theirs. And you know what, some of us didn’t inherit the hate for you from books. Or our Mums and Dads. Or some of the other old boys who’ve been here previously. No, we’ve, as in WE, US, the plural of I, been here before.

*Delete as required


Remember when you were little and you used to play in the park? That’s a good start and as a beginning it’s not too bad either especially if you thought “yes, I do”. If you thought “no” then it’s rubbish but hey-ho and away we go, donkey riding, donkey riding.

We had a ball, a cheap ball. It was made in Taiwan. But it was still a ball. Other kids also played with the ball. It was the greatest ball ever. Indeed, it was so great that other young ‘uns used to gather round and watch us playing with our ball. Probably because they didn’t have a ball. They tried to fashion a ball using old bus tickets, copies of the Woman’s Weekly and straw but they weren’t classy like our Taiwanese ball.

Then a Taiwanese kid turned up at the park. He had a ball. It was the same as ours. But no-one really liked the Taiwanese kid, even though he had a ball. We carried on playing with our Taiwanese ball but the other kids didn’t watch us any more. So we kicked the ball into the hedge in a fit of mardy. The other kids saw what we’d done and went to get the ball but we weren’t having that. Nah. Those fuckers could play with their pile of bus tickets. And then the Taiwanese kid said “play with my ball”. We didn’t like that. So we had a big fight. And it rained so we were all fucked.

Isn’t it a good thing our politicians aren’t like us kids? Especially now we’ve all got Playstations and don’t talk. We’re playing war now.

“Out of this Business”

What a sterling pair of chaps Hannibal Hayes and Kid Curry were. Robbing trains and banks, and in all the trains and banks they robbed they never shot anyone. This made our two latter-day Robin Hoods very popular with everyone except the trains and banks they robbed. Then they changed their names and made a telly programme starring Pete Duel (in the black hat) and Ben Murphy (in the brown hat), drank loads of whiskey, always got the bad guys, generally carousing around the joint having a hoot and riding horses.

You don’t remember them? Err, ask a grown-up. And while you’re at it see if there’s an enpty squeezy bottle, some brown sticky backed plastic and a bucket of feathers because we’re going to make a fabulous inedible chicken dinner for a family of Jamie Olivers. But it will only be shown in black and white and will only be available on televisions built before 1970 because that’s all we desewve. Arse.

Where were we? Robbing banks and trains. We do believe that is called irony.

Once in a Lifetime

We are brimming over with excited excitement ‘ere in the white hot nerve centre of _Paul_And_Land_ at the possible experience and chance of a lifetime offered by Jeff’s Bar and Grill (in association Barry Sludge Motor Coaches “Being small doesn’t mean being rubbish”) with their 1947 tour. Our tour will whisk us southward on an exclusive Barry Sludge Motor Coaches vehicle with all modern conveniences included including, seats, a driver and seats which are all inclusive.

Following our exclusive journey through Stoke and Nuneaton utilising inclusive seats, we will alight in the centre of London, yes London, where we will have barely moments to catch our breath before boarding our exclusive but not inclusive 1947 train.

Departing from the city-centre and exclusive Victoria Station, our 1947 train will offer many chances to gawp at Battersea Park, Clapham Junction, Wandsworth Common, Balham, Mitcham Eastfields, Mitcham Junction, Hackbridge, Carshalton, Sutton, Cheam, Ewell East prior to our arrival at internationally reknowned Epsom.

Our return journey will be the same only the other way round. During our journey, Barry Sludge’s exclusive and all inclusive service will have been subsumed into the First Arriva Keolis Stagecoach Group and any excitement will be crushed by mediocrity and a tie-adorned driver.

Booking may or may not be essential. Provide your own clean undergarments.

War II

Hurrah for the World Police and Super Barak on his dashing charger heartily backed up by Donkey Dave on his Burro. What flavour of Democracy do y’awl want? You can have Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, Texaco or Fox News. We’ll even deliver. But not on a moped. Maybe we’ll wear a nice corporate uniform. You’ll get used to the uniforms.

They’ll bring your super sized, family friendly, big fat bucket of Democracy to go with an order of fries and misery to your door. They’ll even take your door, your family, your moped and you. Because they can, because this is a War on Terror, because it has no meaning, no enemy, no focus. Just terror.

We’re scared of spiders and clowns, come on down Barak, bomb the hell out of them.

Have a Nice Day.

There are times when a bag of chips is just the job. And when accompanied by the mandatory scraps, peas, salt and malt vinegar there is nothing finer in our humble opinion. You know where you are with chips: some sweaty, fat bloke invariably called Dave, chucking chipped potatoes into hot oil. Job done. No farting about. Then some 15 year old sallow young girl with an uninterested look heaving them into a polystyrene tray. Mesmerising stuff.

But it’s not good enough for all these modern types. No. They want some bollocksy old American burger with Thousand Islands Dressing, pickles, lollo-rosso lettuce, rabbit’s spleen and a splash of our very own, extra-cheesy, cheese by-product. Or a half chicken with our own chemically based, horse-flesh marinade in a whopping, flame grilled bun manufactured in Tunisia to our own ten day old recipe. Or a baguette with a million different choices of urine enhanced splodge of something similar to salad with water filled plastic substitute pig. Or Chinese cardboard strips of shoe leather in globules of reheated sputum with Agent Orange additives and deep fried mechanically rendered beef strippings.

But the cloned servers say “have a nice day” so it’s lovely. Allegedly.


There they all were, on the train: Wellington booted, beered-up, beshorted and bevested.

Just don’t get us started on the bevested: Top Shop Pop Culture. What is it with band names on bevested one’s vests: The Ramones, Motorhead and now, please, The Clash. Ask any of the bevested ones what these names mean and typically it’s “well it’s cool, innit”. Well, no, quite frankly it’s not cool, these were bands with a message, some meaning to their contemporaries and now they’re just logos for the beshorted. Sort your heads. Where were we? Trains.

So off they go, cheap cider and lager alongside the carefully thought out sarnies that Mummy knocked up, to “The Festival” – “well it’s cool innit”. Well, you want the truth, in our opinion, err, no. Let’s explore: you’re going to stay in a churned up field reminiscent of the Somme for a long weekend, eat food that normally would not pass for use as a building product, share a khazi with several thousand people who all, curiously, want to use it at the same time and be forced to listen to stuff that the Americans didn’t think was suitable for assaulting General Noriega. And then there’s a mosh-pit and crowd-surfers. What larks!

But you’re having a good time, yes? Risking trenchfoot, industrial strength diarrhoea, tinnitus and being crushed by a 24 stone Slayer fan from Workington. And meanwhile, sitting in some plush office in the city with the old Dr Who and some quick Jamaican, the organisers are wetting themselves over the amount of your readily gifted folding that is headed to their account. You’ve probably even travelled on their train to get there and if, God forbid, you get trenchfoot next year you’ll be visiting one of their hospitals.

Just take of The Clash tee-shirt, you don’t understand what it means and, quite frankly, you probably never will.

Competitive Edge

It is far from often that the cold-hearted beggars who scribble these ‘ere words are almost brought to tears but thanks to the readership of _Paul_And_Land_ and the followers of @_Paul_And_ it almost happened. As many of you will be all to aware, our exclusively exclusive competition went live to an excited audience with prize as the prize and the possibility of fame beyond one’s wildest comprehension all wheeled out as the competitive competiteveness heightened. Even champagne, the tempting temptress with a beckoning finger err beckoning in a somewhat seductive manner, was thrown into the mix as competitively competitors competed for the competition prize.

But you did not let us down and we, ‘ere in the uppermost tower blocks of _Paul_And_Land_, are well made up because this most exciting competition has a worthy winner who is no-one. We are also happy to report that no-one actually entered. That is the level of our competitive edge; we do not have one. Perhaps if gravy or cheese or mucky beer had been amongst the prize then perhaps the result would have been similar because, if truth be known, all you beautiful people do not crave fame or personal reward.

The utter, utter failure of our exclusively exclusive competition is a testament to you, it shows how much you care about the more important matters of life: feeding someone else’s cat, enjoying the good weather, sharing some small pleasure with the world. That is good, that is very good, that is laudable and above all that is what _Paul_And_Land_ is about. Thank you everyone. And don’t for one moment think this is sarcasm, for it isn’t. This is our real and heart-felt thanks for showing utter disdain of that which our political masters would have us believe is an inherent quality in the population. Competitive edge? Not in our world thankfully.

An Exclusively Exclusive Competition

Here it is, an exclusively exclusive competition for readers of _Paul_And_Land_ and those beautiful people at VisitScunthorpe. If you give us the answer to the following question and your name is pulled from a hat by VisitScunthorpe’s Office Dog, you could win an exclusively exclusive special prize (subject to availability and bail conditions).

To possibly win this exclusively exclusive prize which may or may not be exclusive all you have to do is tweet @_Paul_And_ your answer to the following question:

How do you create a chuffing link to http://www.visitscunthorpe.com on the mobile version of WordPress?

Be quick, this competition may end soon! All the usual stuff about T&Cs applies so don’t try and bribe us with mucky beer or pie.

Good Luck!

Exclusively Exclusive

We, here at _Paul_And_Land_, are big fans of Harry Gration and his choice of attractive neckwear. We also rather like Natasha Kaplank, Keplan, Keplaksk, Sophie Rayworth and Huw Edwards. Y’see, like all of these purveyors of news*, we’re big on Newsnight-esque straight talking*. And that’s why we steer well clear of the mainstream news (even though we are big fans of Harry Gration and his choice of attractive neckwear, that other person who did some dancing with Spruce Forsyth, Sophie Rayworth and Huw Edwards) and head on over to VisitScunthorpe**.

*This may be stretching the truth
**At this point we recognise that the high budget of _Paul_And_Land_ has it’s failings. How the chuffing teacakes does one put in a link using a high powered mobile device? This may be a competition with an actual prize, indeed what an ace idea.