More monkey news. (c. 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
Alright mates,
Carl Dilkington here with some short Monkey News this week. Due to summer and
deadlines all around, seems like the newswire is runnin' a bit thin. But I got
this little nugget to keep the Monkey Pains at bay. Looks like a coupla pages
off an old shipmate's diary - looks pretty old, like, from 1970 or something. Or
1870. My mate at the dating lab's busy dating some bird, so I couldn't check it.
Anyways, this might be the last monkey news for some time, unless some obscure
demand, like a bird does me. Feeling left out, kinda. Anyways, Monkey News:
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Sept. 12th (at sea)
They've started letting me around the ship now. Oh, I know it must be bizzare
for them to have a stranger as myself aboard - a stranger from another land -
someone picked up, one may venture, in travels far away. A curiosity. That is
what I am to them. Oh, I notice - do not think that I don't. I notice when they
observe my skin, different from theirs, my darkness. The First Mate, especially,
has been most unkind. It seems he is the sort of man who enjoys the humour of
segragation in the most unkind fashion. He has taunted me with words, by false
offerings of food always pulled away at the last moment, and once, when no one
was looking, by inflicting my person with a jab to the head from his broom. The
Captain has told them to leave me be and to get about their work - and they
obey, mostly - but I can feel their muscles wriggling inside them whenever I
amble by. It must be strange to see a man such as myself, roaming free. I cannot
say I enjoy being isolated so psychologically, but I am happy they've released
me from my chains, at least.
Sept. 13th
I've been assigned to paint the decks. It was an accident, really. That fool,
the First Mate, had left a can of shellac drying in the sun. As everyone else was
occupied, and I, sunk in a deep depressive boredom (no doubt from the confines
of this horrendous ship, and being so far away from friend and family), picked
the brush up and started doodling on the mast. It was only when I was putting
some finishing strokes upon my surrealist depiction of Time and Rivers, that I
noticed the ruckus I had gathered. Of course, I have always craved attention,
and unsatisfied by the hoots and catcalls my piece of art apparently garnered
amongst these paleolithics, I started drawing some trashy cartoons on the floor.
I did one, of a character bearing striking resemblance to the First Mate, arched
baroquely over a sheep, a mangled look of joy upon the face. This brought
tremendous laughter from the crowd (and venemous stares from the First Mate).
Next, I sketched a picture of the Captain, standing proud at the helm of his
great ship. His legs heroically apart, one hand on his hip, the other set
determinedly upon the ship's steer. This brought tides of commendation from the
crew, proud as they were of their ship and Captain, braving the dangerous seas.
It brought, however, even greater tides of laughter, when I completed my cartoon
by placing the now famous First Mate directly at the Captain's posterior, his
large mouth open and tongue hanging out erect in licking splendour.
It was at this point the Captain happened to cross the deck. Parting his way
through the gathered crew, he walked directly up to me. "What's this then,
what's this?" he asked.
I was a little nervous, suddenly realizing my place, and where I was. I was not
at home - I was not amongst friend or family, who may tolerate my outrageousness
in lieu of my sheer artistic genius. I was in a foreign ship, amongst foreign
people, and, decidedly, a prisoner.
The Captain reached me and looked down. Peering over at the First Mate, I
noticed he had a very happy smile now, contrast to the pure anger and vileness
I had been receiving from him. He was gleeful. I looked up at the Captain, and
for some reason (I don't know why - perhaps to add insult to injury, as is my
way), offered him the brush, tentatively.
He burst out laughing. He held his belly and laughed out loud. He slapped me on
the back and kept laughing. I peered over at the First Mate. He was furious!
"Right then. What idiot left this shellac lyin' around in the sun?" asked the
Captain. All hands pointed at the First Mate. The Captain gave him a disgusted
look. Then he turned to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, and said "Right then,
chap. We may not be alike, we may not be the same, but you're a good man with a
brush. I want ya to paint our decks." Then he turned to the First Mate and said,
"And you. You come into my cabin for a little talk."
Sept. 16th
I don't think the First Mate is very happy with me. But I'm thriving on it. It
is not easy to live on this ship with these white people, heading into a world I
know nothing of. The crew have warmed to me, and now speak to me here and again.
This afternoon, one of them showed me to the lower deck at lunch, where they
have their meal. We all ate together. I was given my own seat, which was very
courteous of them, and my own plate, filled with every sweatmeat and savoury any
other ship man was having.
Despite this newfound camaraderie, I still ache for home and familiarity. I
suppose it is as they say, "An ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of
friendship". However, I seem to gain an enormous relief and satisfaction from
this pain by causing the First Mate some utter grief! It seems that regardless
of my intent, regardless of my ambivalence, even, everything I do causes him
grief. This morning I fixed a broken rung on a ladder. The First Mate, who was
at the top at the time, apparently, came down, expecting the broken rung, and
his foot was confused by the now fixed appendage. He had scrambled at about 12
feet above deck, and then fallen on his posterior. This brought a belly full of
laughs from the crew, but not from the First Mate.
At lunch, yesterday, the First Mate told a joke. I could tell he had thought
about it for a long time. He had prepared the joke, and had waited until just
the right moment to mention it. And then - he told the joke. It was purile. It
was extremely unfunny, and even in this company of paleolithics, not a prick of
a giggle was to be heard. Therefore, feeling somewhat sorry for the First Mate,
and hoping to make amends for the shellac humiliation prior, I started
laughing my ass off. I just laughed. I banged upon the table and laughed loud.
Slowly, the crew started laughing too. I laughed louder. I jumped onto the
table, ran up to the First Mate, hugging him tightly, and laughed. The room was
in uproar by now. Everyone was laughing. I glanced up at the First Mate, and the
look - that look - I will always remember. I looked around, and slowly, it came
upon me the horrific (yet hilarious) fact that all were not laughing with the
First Mate - they were laughing AT the First Mate.
Sept. 17th
I feel I may have gone too far. At dawn, I heard the rustle of chains I had
become so familiar with on the outbound portion of my journey and jumped up,
awake. It was the First Mate. He was sadly gathering the chains about himself.
When he noticed I was awake, he turned looked at me. I looked back, hoping he
would not afflict me with the chains again.
"What you lookin' at?" asked the First Mate.
I stared back intently. I knew what he was saying, but I didn't know what to
say, or how to say it.
"You think you're so clever? You think you're better than us?" jeered the First
Mate.
I wanted to say that I was a god damned genius. I wanted to explain to him that
my mind, alone, would bed more women that his entire ancestry. I wanted to
describe to him the trains of consciousness so beautiful in nature and science
that seemingly eluded his undeveloped brain.
"You're not all that. Fancy this. Fancy it comin' to this," weeped the First
Mate. He was tying the chains around the mast. "You think you had me, didn't ya,
eh? You think you've sussed me n' that." He was now tying the other end of the
chain to his neck.
I wanted to explain to him the beauty of continuity and depth. I wished we could
both make up and instead, together, roam the vistas of perplexity and wonder,
despite his unevolved mind. Let us cross even the boundaries of idiocy and enter
a truly native realm, where the speak of the stupid may be translated to the
brilliant, and vice-versa.
But I couldn't. There were no words for it. I stood there, mute.
"Well, bollocks to ya, tosser!" screamed the First Mate. "You're just a fucking
monkey!"
And with that, he jumped off the ship.
---
Alright then. Well that was a bit of nasty, weren't it. Till next week, mates, if I get a shag!
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
Showing posts with label monkey news. Show all posts
Showing posts with label monkey news. Show all posts
Friday, February 20, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Monkey News: Ghost
More monkey news. (c. 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
Alright,
Carl Dilkington here with some spooky Monkey News this week. Got this news with
some cassettes n' all, some recordings n' that, from a bloke I know in the
Paranormal Underground. Can't give you those recordings tho, cos of copyright.
What with the MPAA closin' thepiratebay.org down n' all. A man has to keep his
cover, even when bringin' the News to the people.
Wasn't going to release this one this week, with it being so Spooky n' all -
don't want to scare anyone, you know, especially kids n' that - but in the end
I figured the News must be let out. So ... let's get down to it, shall we?.
There's this bird, right, Rita. Likes hangin' about in the woods. She's a right
flower girl, yeah, believin' in Nature and all that. Rides her bike to college
instead of drivin' a car like everyone else. Twelve miles. Always turns up with
mud on 'er ankles and that. Doesn't kill the mice in her house - instead she
leaves a bit of cheese out for 'em. Gruyeyeyere or summat. They like that, she
goes, to blokes comin' over to stay for the night n' that, that's the best
flavor. That's the best cheese, accordin' to Rita.
So, turns out, one evenin', Rita's cyclin' back home. Arrives about 7pm, mud all
over her skirt and cakin'. She can't wait to park her bike n' get into a nice
bath with some soothin' dead sea salts, yeah, but there's no lights.
What's goin' on, she wonders. Usually the lights round the shed are turned on
about this time. She looks over to old Mrs. Miggin's house. Strange, she
wonders, ol' biddy's usually in the kitchen 'bout this time. Makin' dinner for
the children. Never mind they've all grown up and moved off, but she usually
still goes into the kitchen. She wonder's if old Mrs. Miggin's alright, but then
she looks at the biddy's shed lights, and those are still on. Strange, thinks
Rita, 'n looks at the Barries' home on the other side. Shed lights on. House
completely dark, but they're usually out at some theater or summat. They don't
come in till about 11.
What's wrong with my bloody lights, thinks Rita, walking her bike up to the
shed. This is right inconvenient - now I'll have to cycle up to the town n' get
some new lights tomorrow. She hopes it's just the shed lights. And what's wrong
with old Mrs. Miggins - why isn't she cookin' tonight? Right about now, you'd
see her silhouette in the window, hobblin' about n' all, prodding around with
her old cane n' pullin' potatoes from the shelves.
She almost up to the shed, yeah, tryin' to find her way in the darkness through
some overgrowin' branches n' that, when something touches her at the back of her
leg. She drops her bicycle and turns quickly, muddy skirts twisting in the wind.
"Who's there?" she calls out, unable to see anything in the darkness.
She hears somethin' scratchin the ground, searchin' around. It touches her leg
again, quickly, then keeps scratchin' away.
"Fuckin' 'ell, who's there?" screams Rita, backin' away from the sound. Then,
the scratchin' stops, yeah, and there's silence. Rita strains a ear in the
darkness, tryin' to peer into it - see what's happening. She takes a step back,
just to pace herself, but there's something behind her, and she trips backwards
over it. As she falls over, she hears a soft creaking sound in front of her.
Like in slow-motion, Rita falls back. She's seein' nothin' but darkness, and
the moon somewhere high above. It's full moon tonight, she thinks to herself
as she goes down. She listens for the creaking sound in front of her, but it's
gone. Then, suddenly, there's a sharp pain at the side of her belly. Crashin'
down, something tears into her left thigh, and her right elbow bangs on a hard
surface, shockin' her. There's a loud crash, like a chainsaw or summat bein'
thrown about. Dazed, Rita looks up and around, but all she can see is the moon.
So now, Rita's like, shit, pull y'self together luv, pull yerself together. She
feels around n' sits herself up by her hands. Eventually, she sighs, and gives
herself a bit of a smile. My bicycle, she says to herself. Fuckin' tripped over
the soddin' bike. In the darkness, she smiles, glad that no one else was witness
to her bein' a right daft cow. She gives herself a breather, feelin' around her
body and massaging the side of her belly. Nasty cut - the chains must've grazed
me there. There's some pieces of glass around her bleeding thigh - ah - the
bicycle light was shattered in the fall.
Rita laughs to herself, n' tries to pull herself up, but then falls down again,
exhausted. She laughs some more, and decides she'll just have a good lie down
for a bit. Bit of a bad fall there, but that's ok. She closes her eyes n'
listens to the crickets. There's a nice, warm buzz accompanying their chirpin',
the sort of sound of - like - summer. In the distance, she hears a soothing owl.
She perks her ears to listen for the sound of the road, wonderin' if she may
be able to hear the children playin' far away in the other houses down the
street.
Hmmph, smiles Rita - strange. No kids playin' about tonight. Just crickets, n'
flyin' insects. And everythin' else about the summer that's so lovely, if you
closed your eyes - and just listened. And soft footsteps in the grass. Wot? Rita
sits up, straining on her hands, straining her ears. There they are
again. Footsteps! In the darkness in front of her - coming at her!
"Who's there?" she calls, into the night. There's no answer. The footsteps get
closer. "Who's there?" screams Rita again, yeah, and there's no answer - just the
steppin' getting closer. She tries to get herself up, but, the wound on the
side of her belly won't let her. She collapses back upon her bike. "Help!"
screams Rita into the darkness. "Help! God, someone, please help me!"
There's no reply. Then, there's a loud bangin' from somewhere on her right. Like
hands bangin' on wood - like drums, even. Rita, turns, squinting, and realizes
the banging is comin' from old Mrs. Miggins' house. Like, from her basement.
Like some angry, desperate fiend wailing to be let out. Like something deeply
wronged and tortured, that wants break out and seek sweet revenge on someone -
anyone! She turns from the bangin' and looks ahead of her. The footsteps are
louder now - gettin' louder as they come. "Someone please help me!" screams
Rita, lost, and unable to see a thing in the darkness of the shed.
"Alright?" says a voice.
"Help me!" screams Rita again, pleadin' to God one of the neighbors was around.
"Rita?" says the voice.
Rita tries to get a hold of her breath. "Charles?" she gasps.
"What's wrong?" says the voice. "I just parked my bike here, and you started
screamin'". A hand comes out of the darkness and picks Rita up.
"Oh, Charles!" says Rita, grabbin' a hold of him, "Oh, Charles, I thought..."
"Yeah?"
"I thought ... " Then she pulls herself together. "My God Charles, I have been
such a buffoon!". Rita laughs out, hysterically.
"Alright luv, calm down, calm down," says Charles. "What's goin' on?"
"The darkness - the - the - I fell - and - the - f-footsteps - Charles - oh,
Charles - I have been so stupid! I thought you were a ghost!"
"A ghost?" asks Charles.
"I - I heard a creaking - a scratchin' - like - like old Mrs. Miggins -"
"Yeah, I was tryin' to get me motorcycle's stand down" says Charles.
Rita bursts out laughing. "Your motorcycle's stand? Oh my god, Charles - and
here I - haaa haa - I thought Mrs. Miggins was dead, and was come to haunt me!"
"Mrs. Miggins?" asks Charles, incredulously, enjoying the feeling of Rita's
breasts against him. "Now there, Rita - a little too much cyclin' perhaps, eh?"
"Sod off," laughs Rita, pushing him affectionately. "You tellin' me it took you
that long to catch up?"
"I was ridin' really, really slow. So's to let you bike happily," goes Charles.
"I love you, Charles," says Rita.
"You love a lot of blokes, Rita," replies Charles, laughin'. "Ah well. Let's
pick your bike up, 'n get in, shall we? You won't guess what I have in my
pocket here..."
"Dead Sea Salts?" says Rita, eyes brightenin' up like clovers.
"No less, no less."
"Right. Let's do it." They pick the bike up together and go up to the shed.
"Let's just dump it here, shall we?" says Rita. "I'll fix it up in the mornin'".
"Sounds good to me luv," says Charles, moving her out of the way and slamming
the shed door down.
Immediately, loud banging erupts again. "Wot's that?" asks Charles.
"That wasn't you?" asks Rita. "I thought that was something to do with you!"
"Why would I be bangin' around like that?" asks Charles. He listens to the
sound again. "And gruntin' like that?"
Rita turns towards the sound. "Charles," she goes, "Mrs. Miggin's light - it's
not on tonight!"
"And?"
"Her light is always on, Charles." She creeps closer to to him, and they both
look at Mrs. Miggin's dark house. "I'm worried about her Charles. We need to
find out if she's okay..."
"Rita - let's just head in n' call the Bill. They'll know how to handle it..."
"Charles - no. Mrs. Miggins was always wonderful to me - we must go check on
her."
"Blast this" says Charles, but Rita's already pulling him along toward Mrs.
Miggin's back door.
.
"No lights," says Charles, flicking the switch as they walk in. "There's no more
bangin' either. Maybe she was just angry, Rita - cos of our noise n' that,
maybe she's well into bed by now."
"Don't be daft Charles," goes Rita, as they inch into the dark house, "she's
always up around this time, cookin' for her kids."
"Kids?"
Rita rolls her eyes. "Yea - they're all up n' gone off now, but she still likes
to pretend."
Charles like, squints his eyes, yeah, seein' summat on the fridge door in the
kitchen. "There's a n-" he goes, and suddenly falls, yelling "Bloody 'ell!"
"Charles, Charles," yells Rita, runnin' after him. Half-blind, she trips over
Charles and crashes onto the kitchen floor in front on him. A fruit bowl on the
counter by her comes crashin' down and breaks upon her head.
"Rita! Rita!" she hears Charles call.
"Hmmphsh" says Rita, rubbin' her head n' that.
"Rita"
"Wot?" asks Rita, gettin' up, woozily. Everythin's a blur now - she can't see
nuffink. She squints, n' sees what looks like Charles pointin' down at the
floor and then pointin' up at the fridge. Then, the loud banging starts again.
Between the bangs, Rita hears a desperate, animal like grunting. She turns and
sees it's comin' from the basement.
"Poor Mrs. Miggins!" she yells. "She's trapped in there!" Dazed, and vision
still blurred, she ambles to the basement door. Suddenly, Charles' arms come
around her.
"Stop, Rita, stop! It's not what you think!"
"Mrs. Miggins!" yells Rita, and the bangin' downstairs gets louder. "We must
save her"
"Rita, look!" says Charles. "Look!"
She follows his hands pointing up and down. "Mrs. Miggins is dead, Rita!"
"No!" screams Rita. "Wot?"
"She's dead, look!" Rita looks where Charles is pointin'. In her blurry vision,
she sees a shabby, furry lookin' figure, sprawled over the kitchen floor.
"You wot?" cries Rita, confused. "Mrs. Miggins? She's a - she's monkey???"
"No, luv," says Charles, running over and taking her in his arms. "No, she's
just wearin' 'er angora ... but look", he says, pointing.
As the banging below gets louder and louder, Rita drunkenly follows Charles'
finger, to the fridge door - to a little note stuck on with a magnet.
"Dear sir or madam," it says.
"In the event of my unexpected demise, please be shore to come here, to this
place, every night..."
"Wot? Wot?" cries Rita, readin' on.
"... and prepare some dinner for my dear Koko wot I keep down in the basement,
and wot has kept me company well into my old years."
---
Alright. That's this week's news. Spoo-ooo-key! Hope that didn't shake you up
too much. Cheers and have a great weekend, and let me know if you see little
dark shadows messin' about in yer room through the corners of your eyes..
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent.
---
Alright,
Carl Dilkington here with some spooky Monkey News this week. Got this news with
some cassettes n' all, some recordings n' that, from a bloke I know in the
Paranormal Underground. Can't give you those recordings tho, cos of copyright.
What with the MPAA closin' thepiratebay.org down n' all. A man has to keep his
cover, even when bringin' the News to the people.
Wasn't going to release this one this week, with it being so Spooky n' all -
don't want to scare anyone, you know, especially kids n' that - but in the end
I figured the News must be let out. So ... let's get down to it, shall we?.
There's this bird, right, Rita. Likes hangin' about in the woods. She's a right
flower girl, yeah, believin' in Nature and all that. Rides her bike to college
instead of drivin' a car like everyone else. Twelve miles. Always turns up with
mud on 'er ankles and that. Doesn't kill the mice in her house - instead she
leaves a bit of cheese out for 'em. Gruyeyeyere or summat. They like that, she
goes, to blokes comin' over to stay for the night n' that, that's the best
flavor. That's the best cheese, accordin' to Rita.
So, turns out, one evenin', Rita's cyclin' back home. Arrives about 7pm, mud all
over her skirt and cakin'. She can't wait to park her bike n' get into a nice
bath with some soothin' dead sea salts, yeah, but there's no lights.
What's goin' on, she wonders. Usually the lights round the shed are turned on
about this time. She looks over to old Mrs. Miggin's house. Strange, she
wonders, ol' biddy's usually in the kitchen 'bout this time. Makin' dinner for
the children. Never mind they've all grown up and moved off, but she usually
still goes into the kitchen. She wonder's if old Mrs. Miggin's alright, but then
she looks at the biddy's shed lights, and those are still on. Strange, thinks
Rita, 'n looks at the Barries' home on the other side. Shed lights on. House
completely dark, but they're usually out at some theater or summat. They don't
come in till about 11.
What's wrong with my bloody lights, thinks Rita, walking her bike up to the
shed. This is right inconvenient - now I'll have to cycle up to the town n' get
some new lights tomorrow. She hopes it's just the shed lights. And what's wrong
with old Mrs. Miggins - why isn't she cookin' tonight? Right about now, you'd
see her silhouette in the window, hobblin' about n' all, prodding around with
her old cane n' pullin' potatoes from the shelves.
She almost up to the shed, yeah, tryin' to find her way in the darkness through
some overgrowin' branches n' that, when something touches her at the back of her
leg. She drops her bicycle and turns quickly, muddy skirts twisting in the wind.
"Who's there?" she calls out, unable to see anything in the darkness.
She hears somethin' scratchin the ground, searchin' around. It touches her leg
again, quickly, then keeps scratchin' away.
"Fuckin' 'ell, who's there?" screams Rita, backin' away from the sound. Then,
the scratchin' stops, yeah, and there's silence. Rita strains a ear in the
darkness, tryin' to peer into it - see what's happening. She takes a step back,
just to pace herself, but there's something behind her, and she trips backwards
over it. As she falls over, she hears a soft creaking sound in front of her.
Like in slow-motion, Rita falls back. She's seein' nothin' but darkness, and
the moon somewhere high above. It's full moon tonight, she thinks to herself
as she goes down. She listens for the creaking sound in front of her, but it's
gone. Then, suddenly, there's a sharp pain at the side of her belly. Crashin'
down, something tears into her left thigh, and her right elbow bangs on a hard
surface, shockin' her. There's a loud crash, like a chainsaw or summat bein'
thrown about. Dazed, Rita looks up and around, but all she can see is the moon.
So now, Rita's like, shit, pull y'self together luv, pull yerself together. She
feels around n' sits herself up by her hands. Eventually, she sighs, and gives
herself a bit of a smile. My bicycle, she says to herself. Fuckin' tripped over
the soddin' bike. In the darkness, she smiles, glad that no one else was witness
to her bein' a right daft cow. She gives herself a breather, feelin' around her
body and massaging the side of her belly. Nasty cut - the chains must've grazed
me there. There's some pieces of glass around her bleeding thigh - ah - the
bicycle light was shattered in the fall.
Rita laughs to herself, n' tries to pull herself up, but then falls down again,
exhausted. She laughs some more, and decides she'll just have a good lie down
for a bit. Bit of a bad fall there, but that's ok. She closes her eyes n'
listens to the crickets. There's a nice, warm buzz accompanying their chirpin',
the sort of sound of - like - summer. In the distance, she hears a soothing owl.
She perks her ears to listen for the sound of the road, wonderin' if she may
be able to hear the children playin' far away in the other houses down the
street.
Hmmph, smiles Rita - strange. No kids playin' about tonight. Just crickets, n'
flyin' insects. And everythin' else about the summer that's so lovely, if you
closed your eyes - and just listened. And soft footsteps in the grass. Wot? Rita
sits up, straining on her hands, straining her ears. There they are
again. Footsteps! In the darkness in front of her - coming at her!
"Who's there?" she calls, into the night. There's no answer. The footsteps get
closer. "Who's there?" screams Rita again, yeah, and there's no answer - just the
steppin' getting closer. She tries to get herself up, but, the wound on the
side of her belly won't let her. She collapses back upon her bike. "Help!"
screams Rita into the darkness. "Help! God, someone, please help me!"
There's no reply. Then, there's a loud bangin' from somewhere on her right. Like
hands bangin' on wood - like drums, even. Rita, turns, squinting, and realizes
the banging is comin' from old Mrs. Miggins' house. Like, from her basement.
Like some angry, desperate fiend wailing to be let out. Like something deeply
wronged and tortured, that wants break out and seek sweet revenge on someone -
anyone! She turns from the bangin' and looks ahead of her. The footsteps are
louder now - gettin' louder as they come. "Someone please help me!" screams
Rita, lost, and unable to see a thing in the darkness of the shed.
"Alright?" says a voice.
"Help me!" screams Rita again, pleadin' to God one of the neighbors was around.
"Rita?" says the voice.
Rita tries to get a hold of her breath. "Charles?" she gasps.
"What's wrong?" says the voice. "I just parked my bike here, and you started
screamin'". A hand comes out of the darkness and picks Rita up.
"Oh, Charles!" says Rita, grabbin' a hold of him, "Oh, Charles, I thought..."
"Yeah?"
"I thought ... " Then she pulls herself together. "My God Charles, I have been
such a buffoon!". Rita laughs out, hysterically.
"Alright luv, calm down, calm down," says Charles. "What's goin' on?"
"The darkness - the - the - I fell - and - the - f-footsteps - Charles - oh,
Charles - I have been so stupid! I thought you were a ghost!"
"A ghost?" asks Charles.
"I - I heard a creaking - a scratchin' - like - like old Mrs. Miggins -"
"Yeah, I was tryin' to get me motorcycle's stand down" says Charles.
Rita bursts out laughing. "Your motorcycle's stand? Oh my god, Charles - and
here I - haaa haa - I thought Mrs. Miggins was dead, and was come to haunt me!"
"Mrs. Miggins?" asks Charles, incredulously, enjoying the feeling of Rita's
breasts against him. "Now there, Rita - a little too much cyclin' perhaps, eh?"
"Sod off," laughs Rita, pushing him affectionately. "You tellin' me it took you
that long to catch up?"
"I was ridin' really, really slow. So's to let you bike happily," goes Charles.
"I love you, Charles," says Rita.
"You love a lot of blokes, Rita," replies Charles, laughin'. "Ah well. Let's
pick your bike up, 'n get in, shall we? You won't guess what I have in my
pocket here..."
"Dead Sea Salts?" says Rita, eyes brightenin' up like clovers.
"No less, no less."
"Right. Let's do it." They pick the bike up together and go up to the shed.
"Let's just dump it here, shall we?" says Rita. "I'll fix it up in the mornin'".
"Sounds good to me luv," says Charles, moving her out of the way and slamming
the shed door down.
Immediately, loud banging erupts again. "Wot's that?" asks Charles.
"That wasn't you?" asks Rita. "I thought that was something to do with you!"
"Why would I be bangin' around like that?" asks Charles. He listens to the
sound again. "And gruntin' like that?"
Rita turns towards the sound. "Charles," she goes, "Mrs. Miggin's light - it's
not on tonight!"
"And?"
"Her light is always on, Charles." She creeps closer to to him, and they both
look at Mrs. Miggin's dark house. "I'm worried about her Charles. We need to
find out if she's okay..."
"Rita - let's just head in n' call the Bill. They'll know how to handle it..."
"Charles - no. Mrs. Miggins was always wonderful to me - we must go check on
her."
"Blast this" says Charles, but Rita's already pulling him along toward Mrs.
Miggin's back door.
.
"No lights," says Charles, flicking the switch as they walk in. "There's no more
bangin' either. Maybe she was just angry, Rita - cos of our noise n' that,
maybe she's well into bed by now."
"Don't be daft Charles," goes Rita, as they inch into the dark house, "she's
always up around this time, cookin' for her kids."
"Kids?"
Rita rolls her eyes. "Yea - they're all up n' gone off now, but she still likes
to pretend."
Charles like, squints his eyes, yeah, seein' summat on the fridge door in the
kitchen. "There's a n-" he goes, and suddenly falls, yelling "Bloody 'ell!"
"Charles, Charles," yells Rita, runnin' after him. Half-blind, she trips over
Charles and crashes onto the kitchen floor in front on him. A fruit bowl on the
counter by her comes crashin' down and breaks upon her head.
"Rita! Rita!" she hears Charles call.
"Hmmphsh" says Rita, rubbin' her head n' that.
"Rita"
"Wot?" asks Rita, gettin' up, woozily. Everythin's a blur now - she can't see
nuffink. She squints, n' sees what looks like Charles pointin' down at the
floor and then pointin' up at the fridge. Then, the loud banging starts again.
Between the bangs, Rita hears a desperate, animal like grunting. She turns and
sees it's comin' from the basement.
"Poor Mrs. Miggins!" she yells. "She's trapped in there!" Dazed, and vision
still blurred, she ambles to the basement door. Suddenly, Charles' arms come
around her.
"Stop, Rita, stop! It's not what you think!"
"Mrs. Miggins!" yells Rita, and the bangin' downstairs gets louder. "We must
save her"
"Rita, look!" says Charles. "Look!"
She follows his hands pointing up and down. "Mrs. Miggins is dead, Rita!"
"No!" screams Rita. "Wot?"
"She's dead, look!" Rita looks where Charles is pointin'. In her blurry vision,
she sees a shabby, furry lookin' figure, sprawled over the kitchen floor.
"You wot?" cries Rita, confused. "Mrs. Miggins? She's a - she's monkey???"
"No, luv," says Charles, running over and taking her in his arms. "No, she's
just wearin' 'er angora ... but look", he says, pointing.
As the banging below gets louder and louder, Rita drunkenly follows Charles'
finger, to the fridge door - to a little note stuck on with a magnet.
"Dear sir or madam," it says.
"In the event of my unexpected demise, please be shore to come here, to this
place, every night..."
"Wot? Wot?" cries Rita, readin' on.
"... and prepare some dinner for my dear Koko wot I keep down in the basement,
and wot has kept me company well into my old years."
---
Alright. That's this week's news. Spoo-ooo-key! Hope that didn't shake you up
too much. Cheers and have a great weekend, and let me know if you see little
dark shadows messin' about in yer room through the corners of your eyes..
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Monkey News: Cheating Monkey
More monkey news. (c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
Alright,
Hope the weekend is going alright for everyone. Got some new monkey news. Sorry about the wait, but some servers crashed somewhere and I had to go Administer them.
This week's News comes from the social Scene. Got a mate who has another mate who's girlfriend's step-mother told him about this one. S'about this bloke, right, Dan. Dan works in the technical writing industry. You know, when you buy your iPod and get the manual an' all that, that's Dan there. Talking to you through the iPod manual. Those of you sad enough to open your Star Wars DVD and browse the menus to the actor biographies - that's Dan there. Faffin' to ya about some other bloke's life via his own personal soul.
So, Dan somehow lands himself a bird. He's all happy as larry, running around buying flowers and Cadbury chocolates every now and again. This is it, he says to to himself. She's the one.
This goes on for a couple of months. One night, when he gets a chance, he goes over to his mate Henry's house and they're sitting down, right, playing on Henry's Wii.
"I'll betcha she's seein' someone else" says Henry.
"Wot are you talking about, mate?" says Dan, waving Henry's Wii around.
"Just sayin', you know what I mean. They always do that."
"Bollocks. Stop it. I'm not letting this one go down the drain wiff that kind of paranoia nonsense" says Dan, throwing Henry's Wii on the floor. "I've had enough of you", he says, and walks out of Henry's apartment.
.
So, a couple of weeks later, Dan wakes up in bed. He turns, and Suzanne isn't there. "Hmm," he says to himself. "Must of gone down to get some breakfast." He puts his pants on, and walks down, and sure enough, there she is, eating some cereal.
"Alright luv" says Dan.
"Hey there," says Suzanne. "You got any fruit, Dan?"
"Fruit? Nah. Why?" He walks over and starts playing with her hair from behind.
"Just thought it'd be nice to eat these cocoa puffs with some banana" she says.
"Bananas?" says Dan, bringing his hands down upon her shoulders. He loves giving her a good massage. It feels good the way her body squirms under his hands. Even better when she moans softly in pleasure. "Give us a little moan" says Dan.
"Wot?" asks Suzanne, turning around.
"Nothing! Nothing!" says Dan, startled from his own trance wot he'd just induced his self into. "Just talking to myself, luv".
Suzanne shrugs his hands away and gets up. "I'm off. Going to Sainsbury's to buy some bananas."
"Why? What is this about bananas?" asks Dan.
"Fancy a man who's got cocoa puffs for cereal and no fucking bananas!" she yells back, and stomps out of the house.
So there's Dan, standing around. What the fuck, he wonders to himself. Bananas? He tries to tell himself to let it go, for a bit. But he can't. He loves this woman too much. "If she must have bananas", Dan says to himself, "I need to know why". He puts his anorak on and walks out.
.
Doesn't take long to find Suzanne, but Dan decides to keep a good distance - fifty paces. That way if, say, a bird shat on her head, and she turned around wondering what the hell happened, she wouldn't see him. So he follows her at fifty paces - she goes over the hill and into town. She walks past the W.H. Smiths and the chippy, and then - then, she walks right past Sainsbury's!
What's this, wonders Dan. He follows her on, and she goes right past the town center and onto the other side of town. "Never been in this area much" says Dan to himself, looking at all the houses there, right. He looks back at Suzanne - and she's gone! Cursing under his breath, Dan runs up, fifty paces and stands looking around. Then he catches eye of Suzanne. She's standing at the one of the houses and ringing on the doorbell.
Dan hides behind a hedge one house over and watches. Sure enough, the door opens, and Suzanne walks in.
He waits for a couple of minutes. Probably just chatting with a friend, he says to himself. But after a while, he can't stand it anymore. Fuck this, says Dan, and walks up to the house. He thinks of ringing the doorbell, but then he's like, hold on a minute. He walks up to a window, and peers in. There nowt there - no one in the living room. No one in the kitchen. That's kinda strange, thinks Dan. Why would they have gone upstairs? He waits another five minutes.
"Right" he says, finally. "What would they possibly be doing upstairs for five fucking minutes!" He looks around and sees a ladder lying in front of the garage. He picks it up, props it next to the window on the upstairs floor, and climbs up.
.
"She wasn't worth it, mate" said Henry, taking his Wii from Dan's hands. "Forget about it."
"Oii" said Dan, "I wasn't done with that. Give it back!"
"It's my turn" said Henry, "let off!"
"Give it!"
"No," said Henry, holding fast to his Wii, "Let off! I'm going to take this to another level!"
"Alright then" said Dan. "Have it your way. I'm off. Gonna go talk to her."
"She isn't worth it mate" said Henry.
"You're not worth it" said Dan, walking out.
"Mate, come back man! Alright, alright, here you can have it. Here, take it!" said Henry, holding his Wii up in the air - but Dan was gone.
.
"Alright."
"Hello Dan" said Suzanne. He could see she'd been crying.
"Just wanted to say hi, and that."
"Hi" said Suzanne. "Um, do you want to come in?"
Dan peered into the house. "Is he - is he in there?" he asked, kind of curiously.
"Upstairs" said Suzanne. "Here, come in. I'll put some tea on."
.
A little later, they're both sitting in the living room, right. Dan hasn't said anything, Suzanne hasn't said anything. She's like, looking at him, kind of anxious an' that. He's lookin' back at her, thinking.
"I've been thinking" says Dan, looking away out of the window.
"Yeah?" says Suzanne.
"I think it's alright," he says, looking back at her.
"Wot?"
"I'm alright wiff it. I still want you."
"Really?" she says.
"Yeah," says Dan, "Come to think of it, it could be kinda charming doing a threesome together with a monkey."
---
Alright mates. That was it. Shocking news, for sure. Until next week then!
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
---
Alright,
Hope the weekend is going alright for everyone. Got some new monkey news. Sorry about the wait, but some servers crashed somewhere and I had to go Administer them.
This week's News comes from the social Scene. Got a mate who has another mate who's girlfriend's step-mother told him about this one. S'about this bloke, right, Dan. Dan works in the technical writing industry. You know, when you buy your iPod and get the manual an' all that, that's Dan there. Talking to you through the iPod manual. Those of you sad enough to open your Star Wars DVD and browse the menus to the actor biographies - that's Dan there. Faffin' to ya about some other bloke's life via his own personal soul.
So, Dan somehow lands himself a bird. He's all happy as larry, running around buying flowers and Cadbury chocolates every now and again. This is it, he says to to himself. She's the one.
This goes on for a couple of months. One night, when he gets a chance, he goes over to his mate Henry's house and they're sitting down, right, playing on Henry's Wii.
"I'll betcha she's seein' someone else" says Henry.
"Wot are you talking about, mate?" says Dan, waving Henry's Wii around.
"Just sayin', you know what I mean. They always do that."
"Bollocks. Stop it. I'm not letting this one go down the drain wiff that kind of paranoia nonsense" says Dan, throwing Henry's Wii on the floor. "I've had enough of you", he says, and walks out of Henry's apartment.
.
So, a couple of weeks later, Dan wakes up in bed. He turns, and Suzanne isn't there. "Hmm," he says to himself. "Must of gone down to get some breakfast." He puts his pants on, and walks down, and sure enough, there she is, eating some cereal.
"Alright luv" says Dan.
"Hey there," says Suzanne. "You got any fruit, Dan?"
"Fruit? Nah. Why?" He walks over and starts playing with her hair from behind.
"Just thought it'd be nice to eat these cocoa puffs with some banana" she says.
"Bananas?" says Dan, bringing his hands down upon her shoulders. He loves giving her a good massage. It feels good the way her body squirms under his hands. Even better when she moans softly in pleasure. "Give us a little moan" says Dan.
"Wot?" asks Suzanne, turning around.
"Nothing! Nothing!" says Dan, startled from his own trance wot he'd just induced his self into. "Just talking to myself, luv".
Suzanne shrugs his hands away and gets up. "I'm off. Going to Sainsbury's to buy some bananas."
"Why? What is this about bananas?" asks Dan.
"Fancy a man who's got cocoa puffs for cereal and no fucking bananas!" she yells back, and stomps out of the house.
So there's Dan, standing around. What the fuck, he wonders to himself. Bananas? He tries to tell himself to let it go, for a bit. But he can't. He loves this woman too much. "If she must have bananas", Dan says to himself, "I need to know why". He puts his anorak on and walks out.
.
Doesn't take long to find Suzanne, but Dan decides to keep a good distance - fifty paces. That way if, say, a bird shat on her head, and she turned around wondering what the hell happened, she wouldn't see him. So he follows her at fifty paces - she goes over the hill and into town. She walks past the W.H. Smiths and the chippy, and then - then, she walks right past Sainsbury's!
What's this, wonders Dan. He follows her on, and she goes right past the town center and onto the other side of town. "Never been in this area much" says Dan to himself, looking at all the houses there, right. He looks back at Suzanne - and she's gone! Cursing under his breath, Dan runs up, fifty paces and stands looking around. Then he catches eye of Suzanne. She's standing at the one of the houses and ringing on the doorbell.
Dan hides behind a hedge one house over and watches. Sure enough, the door opens, and Suzanne walks in.
He waits for a couple of minutes. Probably just chatting with a friend, he says to himself. But after a while, he can't stand it anymore. Fuck this, says Dan, and walks up to the house. He thinks of ringing the doorbell, but then he's like, hold on a minute. He walks up to a window, and peers in. There nowt there - no one in the living room. No one in the kitchen. That's kinda strange, thinks Dan. Why would they have gone upstairs? He waits another five minutes.
"Right" he says, finally. "What would they possibly be doing upstairs for five fucking minutes!" He looks around and sees a ladder lying in front of the garage. He picks it up, props it next to the window on the upstairs floor, and climbs up.
.
"She wasn't worth it, mate" said Henry, taking his Wii from Dan's hands. "Forget about it."
"Oii" said Dan, "I wasn't done with that. Give it back!"
"It's my turn" said Henry, "let off!"
"Give it!"
"No," said Henry, holding fast to his Wii, "Let off! I'm going to take this to another level!"
"Alright then" said Dan. "Have it your way. I'm off. Gonna go talk to her."
"She isn't worth it mate" said Henry.
"You're not worth it" said Dan, walking out.
"Mate, come back man! Alright, alright, here you can have it. Here, take it!" said Henry, holding his Wii up in the air - but Dan was gone.
.
"Alright."
"Hello Dan" said Suzanne. He could see she'd been crying.
"Just wanted to say hi, and that."
"Hi" said Suzanne. "Um, do you want to come in?"
Dan peered into the house. "Is he - is he in there?" he asked, kind of curiously.
"Upstairs" said Suzanne. "Here, come in. I'll put some tea on."
.
A little later, they're both sitting in the living room, right. Dan hasn't said anything, Suzanne hasn't said anything. She's like, looking at him, kind of anxious an' that. He's lookin' back at her, thinking.
"I've been thinking" says Dan, looking away out of the window.
"Yeah?" says Suzanne.
"I think it's alright," he says, looking back at her.
"Wot?"
"I'm alright wiff it. I still want you."
"Really?" she says.
"Yeah," says Dan, "Come to think of it, it could be kinda charming doing a threesome together with a monkey."
---
Alright mates. That was it. Shocking news, for sure. Until next week then!
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monkey News: Monkey Who?
More monkey news. (c. Jan 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
--
Alright,
Carl Dilkington here with some News this week that will leave you unseated - especially if you're a sci-fi fan and that. Got this from crossin' together a few pieces comin' to me from my friends in the Entertainment Industry. So secret is this news, there is no one Source - prolly on account of the hot, angry tirade and the big-name, uh wossnames, Executive Producers, involved. Anyway, on with the News.
There's this bloke, right, Shafiq, who's been thrown a gig as Assistant Producer in what may be the biggest of television productions ever undertaken by the BBC, yeah - the latest, greatest brand-spankin' newest series of Dr. Who. So, he's right chuffed. Assistant Producer on Dr. Who - that's the bollocks mate. He can't wait to get started.
So they get him runnin' around, gettin' everything ready for the show and that. He's walkin' from studio to set, to studio. Calls from Paris, callin' Brazil, London, New York, and all that. Talkin' to the crew, writers, directors. Makin' sure all the execs are seein' eye to eye. Getting all the shit together, basically. That's his job. Keep the Shit Together.
He's doin' it as well. He's got it all. He's got the writers sittin' in their rooms, writin'. Stories' are comin' along fine. He's got the Special Effects gang all fired up with their tricks and gags. Everyone's always happy to see him. He meets up with the director in chief, and they're both gettin' on alright.
Finally, about a week before shooting starts, yeah, he meets up with this bird, Angela, who's playin' the new sidekick in the show. She's right hot, and charming to boot - they're havin' a few drinks at this bar, yeah, and everythings' going swimmingly.
"I really like your taste in clothes," says Angela, touching one of his sleeves.
"Yeah?" says Shafiq, kinda sheepish, "Well, I kinda have to choose the right stuff to wear, y'know. What with having to move around so much, gettin' things done."
"Very admirable," says Angela, yeah, and she's like, givin' him this demure grin. "It felt so good for you to actually call me up and ask to meet me."
"Yeah, yeah" grins Shafiq, "just part of the job, luv. Got to make sure all the Shit is Together."
"Yes," replies Angela. "So ... who's playing the new Doctor, then? Have you met him?"
Shafiq is about to nod, yeah, but then he stops short. "New Doctor?"
"Well, there's always a new Doctor, innit? Like, first there was that bloke, William Hartnell, yeah, in the 60s. Then there was Pertwee, I think, in the 70s. Tom Baker, Sly McCoy ... Eccleston, David Tenant ... ooer. There's been so many," she smiled, "can't wrap me little head around all of 'em."
Shafiq's, like, put his drink down and trying hard to breathe.
"Is there summat wrong?" asks Angela.
"Bloody hell!" yells Shafiq, losing all his cool. "I've only forgotten the bloody Doctor!" He runs out, yeah, forgettin' to pay for the drinks, not even sayin' goodbye.
"Hmm," says Angela to herself. "Who forgets 'bout the Doctor in a production of Doctor Who?"
So Shafiq's running out, running down the street yeah. He pulls his cellphone out and calls Kevin, one of the Exec. Producers. "Kevin? Kevin! I forgot thebloody Doctor, mate. Shite, I just clean forgot him! What are we going to do?" There's no reply at first - he looks into his phone - then there's a quiet little snicker on the other end. "Kevin?" yells Shafiq again.
"You're not seein' the Doctor," replies Kevin quietly.
"What? What do you mean, man? I'm the bloody Assistant Producer! I've got to meet him! I've got to set things up! I've got to Keep the Shit Together, man, fer cryin' out loud!"
"You tell Joey to let me see the mid-season finale, and I'll give you the Doctor," says Kevin.
"Wot?" yells Shafiq, dodging a car on the street. Amidst its blaring horn, he goes on, "Kevin - this ain't no laughin' matter mate. What's this got to do with Joey?" Joey was the other Executive Producer.
"The bastard won't let me read the mid-season finale! He's keepin' me up at nights just wonderin' what happens. You get Joey to send me that finale, and I'll let you see the Doctor."
"Kevin, mate - Kevin, come on mate. We're all in this together! I'm sure Joey's got a good reason for keepin' the finale. Come on man, this is a team - we're supposed to be a team here!"
"Fuck you bastard, I'm bloody losin' my sleep here! Fuckin' hell, I got to write episodes 12 and 18, here, n' I'm completely wrung out of my creative juices 'cos of that tosser. Get me the finale!" The line goes dead.
"Blast!" yells Shafiq. "What's Joey's number?" Just then, he crashes into an old woman in a wheelchair, toppling her over. The old bird lets out a yell and writhes in pain on the cobblestones.
"Oh crap," says Shafiq, picking himself up. "Joey! He's flyin' off to Honduras on vacation tonight! Crap, crap!" He looks at his watch. Quarter to seven - Joey's flyin' off at eight. "I can make it!" yells Shafiq, running off toward the Tube station, ignoring the old woman's pleas for assistance.
As he runs, Shafiq keeps trying Joey's number, but to no avail. When he reaches the station, he hears the train pull in below. "Bollocks," says Shafiq, "I can make this one." He runs faster.
Then, right in mid-stair, the train doors opening below, Joey calls him up.
"Alright mate?" says Joey.
"Joey! Yes! Just the man I needed to see. Joey - I need to get the mid-season finale scr-" All of a sudden, Shafiq realizes he's running, but not moving. He turns slightly, and realizes someone's holding on to his collar.
"Right there lad - what's the hurry?" comes a deep voice from behind.
"Blast, a copper!" says Shafiq. "Sir - please, I'm -"
"There's no runnin' on the stairs, lad - could topple someone over. Not pretty, that."
"Sir - I wasnt - Joey? Joey, hang on, one minute - please - " wails Shafiq desperately.
"Mate - gotta split - headin' into customs" goes Joey. "I'll see ya in June."
"Joey - nooo!" But the line goes dead. Shafiq bows his head down in tears,and turns to the copper. "Sir - I - I have to get to the airport. I have to catch that train!" he pleads, pointing at the train below.
"Hang on, hang on," says the copper. "I've got to fine you first," he says, pulling a ticket book from his pocket.
"You wot? For runnin'?" says Shafiq.
The copper points to a sign high up on the stairwell wall. "No Runnin'. £500," reads the sign.
"Five hundred pounds?" yells Shafiq. "For bleedin' running?"
"Right lad. May as well pay up now, if ya like, eh. Make things shorter," grins the copper, nudgin' at him. Below, the train pulls away.
"Bloody hell," shrugs Shafiq. He pulls £500 from his wallet and pays the man. Then he skulks down to wait for the next train.
"How? How could I forget about the bloody Doctor? In a Doctor Who production no less!" Sitting on a bench, Shafiq tries calling Kevin again.
"Do you have the finale?" says Kevin.
"Kevin, no mate. But come now Kevin. Be reasonable." There's no reply, and Kevin slams his phone down.
The train arrives and Shafiq gets in. "Don't think I'll make it," he says to himself, looking at his watch. It's half past seven.
Finally, the train arrives at Heathrow. Shafiq jumps off. There's ten minutes to go. He runs up the escalator, runs down to the departure gates. There, he's stopped by security.
"Got to wave you in mate," says the woman.
"Bloody hell," thinks Shafiq, but he lets her wave him in. By now, they're prolly all in the plane anyway. Having been waved in, he runs up to the gate. But there's no one there. The gate is empty. He looks desperately at the Information monitors. Flight 873 to Honduras - Departed Early.
"Departed *Early*? When does that happen?" He slumps into a seat. "Why can't I ever get a break? Why doesn't it ever go right for me?" he cries, holding his head. "The one time, the one time I get to be Assistant Producer, get to Hold the Shit Together, the one time, and -"
His cellphone rings. "Joey!" screams Shafiq, standing up.
"Alright. Sorry got cut off there before. They made me turn me phone off."
"Joey. Where are ya?"
"I'm on the plane," says Joey. "Usin' one of them 'airphones'. Anyway, just wanted to tell you summat about that bird, Angela-"
"No, Joey - no - bugger that. Joey - I need you to send me the mid-season finale! Please, send it to me. I need it."
He hears a curious laughing from the phone. "Joey?" he asks, getting a little angry.
More laughter. Then, "Alright, alright. You can have it. Here, hold on. I'll open up my laptop 'n send it to ya."
"Wot you laughin' at?" asks Shafiq angrily, but all he gets is more laughter.
"Check your files on yer mobile - I just sent it." says Joey. There's a little more quiet laughter, and he hangs up.
"What's that about?" says Shafiq, decidedly irked. He checks his files, and sure enough, the finale is there. He emails it to Kevin, then calls him up.
"Do you have the-" says Kevin.
"Yeah, you bastard. I just sent you yer soddin' file. Now fuckin' tell me who this bloody Doctor is."
There's more of this sneaky, quiet laughter, gettin' Shafiq all hot and that. "He's waitin' for you. Upstairs, at the private phone booths. Number 32. It's shaped like one of them old police boxes, ya can't miss it."
"You wot?" demands Shafiq.
"Just arrived, ten minutes ago. You can meet him there." Again, the laughter. "Got to tell you a little about our new Doctor, though..." Shafiq runs up the escalator.
"Wot are you laughin' at mate, eh? You think that was fuckin' funny. I've got shit to do, y'know. I got to have all the info. I'm runnin' the Production. I got to Keep the Shit Together mate. I'm the only one who's Keepin' the effin' Shit Together!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," giggles Kevin. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
"That really sucked, you bastard," says Shafiq, approaching the phone booths. "I lost five 'undred quid in that!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," laughs Kevin. "You there yet? I've got to tell you-"
"I'm approachin' booth 32 now."
"Right. Well, before you meet him, you got to know, this new Doctor. He's a bit of an unusual fella-"
"Yeah, yeah," says Shafiq, grabbing the handle to 32. "Aren't they all though, the Doctors, I mean? All a tad strange. Not a problem, mate - I can deal with the eccentrics. Just not bastards like you - and that Joey. Executive nobs, and all that."
"Right, well, just wanted to let you know."
Shafiq opens the door to booth 32 and peers in. There's a monkey sittin' on that chair next to a suitcase.
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
--
Alright,
Carl Dilkington here with some News this week that will leave you unseated - especially if you're a sci-fi fan and that. Got this from crossin' together a few pieces comin' to me from my friends in the Entertainment Industry. So secret is this news, there is no one Source - prolly on account of the hot, angry tirade and the big-name, uh wossnames, Executive Producers, involved. Anyway, on with the News.
There's this bloke, right, Shafiq, who's been thrown a gig as Assistant Producer in what may be the biggest of television productions ever undertaken by the BBC, yeah - the latest, greatest brand-spankin' newest series of Dr. Who. So, he's right chuffed. Assistant Producer on Dr. Who - that's the bollocks mate. He can't wait to get started.
So they get him runnin' around, gettin' everything ready for the show and that. He's walkin' from studio to set, to studio. Calls from Paris, callin' Brazil, London, New York, and all that. Talkin' to the crew, writers, directors. Makin' sure all the execs are seein' eye to eye. Getting all the shit together, basically. That's his job. Keep the Shit Together.
He's doin' it as well. He's got it all. He's got the writers sittin' in their rooms, writin'. Stories' are comin' along fine. He's got the Special Effects gang all fired up with their tricks and gags. Everyone's always happy to see him. He meets up with the director in chief, and they're both gettin' on alright.
Finally, about a week before shooting starts, yeah, he meets up with this bird, Angela, who's playin' the new sidekick in the show. She's right hot, and charming to boot - they're havin' a few drinks at this bar, yeah, and everythings' going swimmingly.
"I really like your taste in clothes," says Angela, touching one of his sleeves.
"Yeah?" says Shafiq, kinda sheepish, "Well, I kinda have to choose the right stuff to wear, y'know. What with having to move around so much, gettin' things done."
"Very admirable," says Angela, yeah, and she's like, givin' him this demure grin. "It felt so good for you to actually call me up and ask to meet me."
"Yeah, yeah" grins Shafiq, "just part of the job, luv. Got to make sure all the Shit is Together."
"Yes," replies Angela. "So ... who's playing the new Doctor, then? Have you met him?"
Shafiq is about to nod, yeah, but then he stops short. "New Doctor?"
"Well, there's always a new Doctor, innit? Like, first there was that bloke, William Hartnell, yeah, in the 60s. Then there was Pertwee, I think, in the 70s. Tom Baker, Sly McCoy ... Eccleston, David Tenant ... ooer. There's been so many," she smiled, "can't wrap me little head around all of 'em."
Shafiq's, like, put his drink down and trying hard to breathe.
"Is there summat wrong?" asks Angela.
"Bloody hell!" yells Shafiq, losing all his cool. "I've only forgotten the bloody Doctor!" He runs out, yeah, forgettin' to pay for the drinks, not even sayin' goodbye.
"Hmm," says Angela to herself. "Who forgets 'bout the Doctor in a production of Doctor Who?"
So Shafiq's running out, running down the street yeah. He pulls his cellphone out and calls Kevin, one of the Exec. Producers. "Kevin? Kevin! I forgot thebloody Doctor, mate. Shite, I just clean forgot him! What are we going to do?" There's no reply at first - he looks into his phone - then there's a quiet little snicker on the other end. "Kevin?" yells Shafiq again.
"You're not seein' the Doctor," replies Kevin quietly.
"What? What do you mean, man? I'm the bloody Assistant Producer! I've got to meet him! I've got to set things up! I've got to Keep the Shit Together, man, fer cryin' out loud!"
"You tell Joey to let me see the mid-season finale, and I'll give you the Doctor," says Kevin.
"Wot?" yells Shafiq, dodging a car on the street. Amidst its blaring horn, he goes on, "Kevin - this ain't no laughin' matter mate. What's this got to do with Joey?" Joey was the other Executive Producer.
"The bastard won't let me read the mid-season finale! He's keepin' me up at nights just wonderin' what happens. You get Joey to send me that finale, and I'll let you see the Doctor."
"Kevin, mate - Kevin, come on mate. We're all in this together! I'm sure Joey's got a good reason for keepin' the finale. Come on man, this is a team - we're supposed to be a team here!"
"Fuck you bastard, I'm bloody losin' my sleep here! Fuckin' hell, I got to write episodes 12 and 18, here, n' I'm completely wrung out of my creative juices 'cos of that tosser. Get me the finale!" The line goes dead.
"Blast!" yells Shafiq. "What's Joey's number?" Just then, he crashes into an old woman in a wheelchair, toppling her over. The old bird lets out a yell and writhes in pain on the cobblestones.
"Oh crap," says Shafiq, picking himself up. "Joey! He's flyin' off to Honduras on vacation tonight! Crap, crap!" He looks at his watch. Quarter to seven - Joey's flyin' off at eight. "I can make it!" yells Shafiq, running off toward the Tube station, ignoring the old woman's pleas for assistance.
As he runs, Shafiq keeps trying Joey's number, but to no avail. When he reaches the station, he hears the train pull in below. "Bollocks," says Shafiq, "I can make this one." He runs faster.
Then, right in mid-stair, the train doors opening below, Joey calls him up.
"Alright mate?" says Joey.
"Joey! Yes! Just the man I needed to see. Joey - I need to get the mid-season finale scr-" All of a sudden, Shafiq realizes he's running, but not moving. He turns slightly, and realizes someone's holding on to his collar.
"Right there lad - what's the hurry?" comes a deep voice from behind.
"Blast, a copper!" says Shafiq. "Sir - please, I'm -"
"There's no runnin' on the stairs, lad - could topple someone over. Not pretty, that."
"Sir - I wasnt - Joey? Joey, hang on, one minute - please - " wails Shafiq desperately.
"Mate - gotta split - headin' into customs" goes Joey. "I'll see ya in June."
"Joey - nooo!" But the line goes dead. Shafiq bows his head down in tears,and turns to the copper. "Sir - I - I have to get to the airport. I have to catch that train!" he pleads, pointing at the train below.
"Hang on, hang on," says the copper. "I've got to fine you first," he says, pulling a ticket book from his pocket.
"You wot? For runnin'?" says Shafiq.
The copper points to a sign high up on the stairwell wall. "No Runnin'. £500," reads the sign.
"Five hundred pounds?" yells Shafiq. "For bleedin' running?"
"Right lad. May as well pay up now, if ya like, eh. Make things shorter," grins the copper, nudgin' at him. Below, the train pulls away.
"Bloody hell," shrugs Shafiq. He pulls £500 from his wallet and pays the man. Then he skulks down to wait for the next train.
"How? How could I forget about the bloody Doctor? In a Doctor Who production no less!" Sitting on a bench, Shafiq tries calling Kevin again.
"Do you have the finale?" says Kevin.
"Kevin, no mate. But come now Kevin. Be reasonable." There's no reply, and Kevin slams his phone down.
The train arrives and Shafiq gets in. "Don't think I'll make it," he says to himself, looking at his watch. It's half past seven.
Finally, the train arrives at Heathrow. Shafiq jumps off. There's ten minutes to go. He runs up the escalator, runs down to the departure gates. There, he's stopped by security.
"Got to wave you in mate," says the woman.
"Bloody hell," thinks Shafiq, but he lets her wave him in. By now, they're prolly all in the plane anyway. Having been waved in, he runs up to the gate. But there's no one there. The gate is empty. He looks desperately at the Information monitors. Flight 873 to Honduras - Departed Early.
"Departed *Early*? When does that happen?" He slumps into a seat. "Why can't I ever get a break? Why doesn't it ever go right for me?" he cries, holding his head. "The one time, the one time I get to be Assistant Producer, get to Hold the Shit Together, the one time, and -"
His cellphone rings. "Joey!" screams Shafiq, standing up.
"Alright. Sorry got cut off there before. They made me turn me phone off."
"Joey. Where are ya?"
"I'm on the plane," says Joey. "Usin' one of them 'airphones'. Anyway, just wanted to tell you summat about that bird, Angela-"
"No, Joey - no - bugger that. Joey - I need you to send me the mid-season finale! Please, send it to me. I need it."
He hears a curious laughing from the phone. "Joey?" he asks, getting a little angry.
More laughter. Then, "Alright, alright. You can have it. Here, hold on. I'll open up my laptop 'n send it to ya."
"Wot you laughin' at?" asks Shafiq angrily, but all he gets is more laughter.
"Check your files on yer mobile - I just sent it." says Joey. There's a little more quiet laughter, and he hangs up.
"What's that about?" says Shafiq, decidedly irked. He checks his files, and sure enough, the finale is there. He emails it to Kevin, then calls him up.
"Do you have the-" says Kevin.
"Yeah, you bastard. I just sent you yer soddin' file. Now fuckin' tell me who this bloody Doctor is."
There's more of this sneaky, quiet laughter, gettin' Shafiq all hot and that. "He's waitin' for you. Upstairs, at the private phone booths. Number 32. It's shaped like one of them old police boxes, ya can't miss it."
"You wot?" demands Shafiq.
"Just arrived, ten minutes ago. You can meet him there." Again, the laughter. "Got to tell you a little about our new Doctor, though..." Shafiq runs up the escalator.
"Wot are you laughin' at mate, eh? You think that was fuckin' funny. I've got shit to do, y'know. I got to have all the info. I'm runnin' the Production. I got to Keep the Shit Together mate. I'm the only one who's Keepin' the effin' Shit Together!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," giggles Kevin. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
"That really sucked, you bastard," says Shafiq, approaching the phone booths. "I lost five 'undred quid in that!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," laughs Kevin. "You there yet? I've got to tell you-"
"I'm approachin' booth 32 now."
"Right. Well, before you meet him, you got to know, this new Doctor. He's a bit of an unusual fella-"
"Yeah, yeah," says Shafiq, grabbing the handle to 32. "Aren't they all though, the Doctors, I mean? All a tad strange. Not a problem, mate - I can deal with the eccentrics. Just not bastards like you - and that Joey. Executive nobs, and all that."
"Right, well, just wanted to let you know."
Shafiq opens the door to booth 32 and peers in. There's a monkey sittin' on that chair next to a suitcase.
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Monkey News: What's Really Happening
Alright mates. Just received another important update from Carl Dilkington. So, without further ado, let it rip, Carl.
(c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
Alright,
Got some new monkey news for you. I received this News through underground channels in the corporate world. A mate of mine works for a company that does projects with IBM, and he was charged with cleaning up the hard drive on one of the company's employees, Andy, who was fired recently. This disturbing news proves that there is something deeply wrong at the very core of our world's most important institutions.
So, there's this bloke, Andy, right? Got fired recently, no one is sure as to why. At least, none of the other employees what worked there didn't. But we may have some clues. My underground mate has sent me this file that he found while trying to clear out Andy's hard drive. It looks like an IRC log file. Here it is:
connection request received by irc.piraha.ibm.com
ident andy_tps@london.supercable.com (ident found)
verifying rsa identity
irc_over_ssh connection approved.
Welcome to piraha.ibm.com. Conversations on this server are CLASSIFIED. Please ensure that any logging functionality on your client is turned OFF. Keeping logs of conversations on this server is a violation of your Identity Services Agreement and will be prosecuted by Law.
andy_tps: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.
andy_tps: i need to get in touch with palmisano.
@staciep: hi andy_tps. please don't use names on this channel.
andy_tps: sorry - where is mr_palm
@staciep: one sec. just deleting your comment from the server log.
andy_tps: hey there blueberry
andy_tps: you around?
blueberry: sorry andy, i was making myself some dinner
andy_tps: that's cool. just waiting to get in touch with mr_palm. what you
having?
blueberry: ramen lol
andy_tps: lol. you're going to make yourself sick with that. you should come
over visit london - i'd make a delicious, scrumptous dinner for ya.
blueberry: rotfl. what would my husband say?
andy_tps: well, he can go stuff himself if he's leaving you eating ramen! ;)
blueberry: someday :/
@staciep: andy_tps - please join #mr_palm_haven. i've updated your privellages.
andy_tps: thanks staciep. blueberry - i'll catcha later
blueberry: l8r.
andy_tps: /join #mr_palm_haven
mr_palm: You got the report?
andy_tps: just wanted to give you an update on that
andy_tps: we don't have all of the info yet
andy_tps: but we should get it by wed.
mr_palm: This is bullshit.
andy_tps: i'm sorry, sir. the thai government is obfucsating our access to the
farmers
mr_palm: I need that information, Proctor.
andy_tps: sir
mr_palm: what
andy_tps: we're not supposed to use names on this server
mr_palm: FUKVC YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! This is MY FUCKING SERVER. I can
do whatever the fuck I want. Like this
* mr_palm changes andy_tps's nickname to shitfest
shitfest: i'm very sorry sir
mr_palm: Shut up. I want to know about those thai plantain farms. NOW! Don't
fucking contact me again until you have the logistics.
shitfest: yes sir. i'm staying in over the weekend to get the info as soon as
i can.
mr_palm: Proctor, I have your house under surveillance. The plaintain farm
report is critical - my name is riding on it. If you don't have it in by
tomorrow morning, Proctor, I will have Mr. Cleese pay a little visit to your
wife and daughter.
shitfest: sir. yeesir. i will do everything i can.
mr_palm: See that you do
* mr_palm quit mr_palm_haven (kill)
* shitfest has left mr_palm_haven
shitfest: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.
shitfest: blueberry?
blueberry: ? who the hell are you?
shitfest: it's me, andy
blueberry: lol. shitfest?
shitfest: palmisano changed my name
blueberry: ooo
@staciep: please don't use names on this server, shitfest. this is your second
warning.
shitfest: sorry. blueberry - i need a special favor - msg me
* blueberry: 'sup?
* shitfest: i'm scared. mr_palm said he's going to send Mr. Cleese to my home
if i don't get this report thing done by tomorrow. and i can't do it - there's
no way.
* blueberry: ooo. i'm so sorry baby. what do ya need?
* shitfest: i need something. some dirt. something on mr_palm. something i can
use at him when he threatens me again.
* blueberry: well...
* shitfest: do me a favor. you're right there. go up to his office will ya?
maybe try to find something for me?
* blueberry: ooo. i don't know about that... could be trouble.
* shitfest: i know, i know. but i'm dying here.
* shitfest: hello?
* shitfest: you still there?
* blueberry: well ... ok. i'll try.
* shitfest: thank you so much! omg, if you can do this, i'll totally divorce
that bitch and come over and take you away.
* blueberry: hmmph ;) promises promises lol. ok. wait tho - let me finish my
ramen.
* shitfest: phew. thanks.
* blueberry: back omg
* shitfest: what? you find anything.
* blueberry: omg omg omg
* shitfest: what!!!
* blueberry: what were those reports he wanted again?
* shitfest: uh - some stuff about thai plaintain farms... and?
* blueberry: omg omg. so - i sneaked into the Enclave right...
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i casually walk over to mr_palm's office
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i looked around, making sure no one is around. then i peeked in
through the little letterbox window.
* shitfest: and?
* blueberry: it was monkey in that executive chair!!!
(c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
Alright,
Got some new monkey news for you. I received this News through underground channels in the corporate world. A mate of mine works for a company that does projects with IBM, and he was charged with cleaning up the hard drive on one of the company's employees, Andy, who was fired recently. This disturbing news proves that there is something deeply wrong at the very core of our world's most important institutions.
So, there's this bloke, Andy, right? Got fired recently, no one is sure as to why. At least, none of the other employees what worked there didn't. But we may have some clues. My underground mate has sent me this file that he found while trying to clear out Andy's hard drive. It looks like an IRC log file. Here it is:
connection request received by irc.piraha.ibm.com
ident andy_tps@london.supercable.com (ident found)
verifying rsa identity
irc_over_ssh connection approved.
Welcome to piraha.ibm.com. Conversations on this server are CLASSIFIED. Please ensure that any logging functionality on your client is turned OFF. Keeping logs of conversations on this server is a violation of your Identity Services Agreement and will be prosecuted by Law.
andy_tps: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.
andy_tps: i need to get in touch with palmisano.
@staciep: hi andy_tps. please don't use names on this channel.
andy_tps: sorry - where is mr_palm
@staciep: one sec. just deleting your comment from the server log.
andy_tps: hey there blueberry
andy_tps: you around?
blueberry: sorry andy, i was making myself some dinner
andy_tps: that's cool. just waiting to get in touch with mr_palm. what you
having?
blueberry: ramen lol
andy_tps: lol. you're going to make yourself sick with that. you should come
over visit london - i'd make a delicious, scrumptous dinner for ya.
blueberry: rotfl. what would my husband say?
andy_tps: well, he can go stuff himself if he's leaving you eating ramen! ;)
blueberry: someday :/
@staciep: andy_tps - please join #mr_palm_haven. i've updated your privellages.
andy_tps: thanks staciep. blueberry - i'll catcha later
blueberry: l8r.
andy_tps: /join #mr_palm_haven
mr_palm: You got the report?
andy_tps: just wanted to give you an update on that
andy_tps: we don't have all of the info yet
andy_tps: but we should get it by wed.
mr_palm: This is bullshit.
andy_tps: i'm sorry, sir. the thai government is obfucsating our access to the
farmers
mr_palm: I need that information, Proctor.
andy_tps: sir
mr_palm: what
andy_tps: we're not supposed to use names on this server
mr_palm: FUKVC YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! This is MY FUCKING SERVER. I can
do whatever the fuck I want. Like this
* mr_palm changes andy_tps's nickname to shitfest
shitfest: i'm very sorry sir
mr_palm: Shut up. I want to know about those thai plantain farms. NOW! Don't
fucking contact me again until you have the logistics.
shitfest: yes sir. i'm staying in over the weekend to get the info as soon as
i can.
mr_palm: Proctor, I have your house under surveillance. The plaintain farm
report is critical - my name is riding on it. If you don't have it in by
tomorrow morning, Proctor, I will have Mr. Cleese pay a little visit to your
wife and daughter.
shitfest: sir. yeesir. i will do everything i can.
mr_palm: See that you do
* mr_palm quit mr_palm_haven (kill)
* shitfest has left mr_palm_haven
shitfest: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.
shitfest: blueberry?
blueberry: ? who the hell are you?
shitfest: it's me, andy
blueberry: lol. shitfest?
shitfest: palmisano changed my name
blueberry: ooo
@staciep: please don't use names on this server, shitfest. this is your second
warning.
shitfest: sorry. blueberry - i need a special favor - msg me
* blueberry: 'sup?
* shitfest: i'm scared. mr_palm said he's going to send Mr. Cleese to my home
if i don't get this report thing done by tomorrow. and i can't do it - there's
no way.
* blueberry: ooo. i'm so sorry baby. what do ya need?
* shitfest: i need something. some dirt. something on mr_palm. something i can
use at him when he threatens me again.
* blueberry: well...
* shitfest: do me a favor. you're right there. go up to his office will ya?
maybe try to find something for me?
* blueberry: ooo. i don't know about that... could be trouble.
* shitfest: i know, i know. but i'm dying here.
* shitfest: hello?
* shitfest: you still there?
* blueberry: well ... ok. i'll try.
* shitfest: thank you so much! omg, if you can do this, i'll totally divorce
that bitch and come over and take you away.
* blueberry: hmmph ;) promises promises lol. ok. wait tho - let me finish my
ramen.
* shitfest: phew. thanks.
* blueberry: back omg
* shitfest: what? you find anything.
* blueberry: omg omg omg
* shitfest: what!!!
* blueberry: what were those reports he wanted again?
* shitfest: uh - some stuff about thai plaintain farms... and?
* blueberry: omg omg. so - i sneaked into the Enclave right...
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i casually walk over to mr_palm's office
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i looked around, making sure no one is around. then i peeked in
through the little letterbox window.
* shitfest: and?
* blueberry: it was monkey in that executive chair!!!
Friday, January 23, 2009
Monkey News: Shut In
---
More simian news from Carl Dilkington (c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
There's this bloke right, been living in this estate for years. Never went out of the compound. His mum would call in and be like "Yea when you comin' over to see us" and he's always like "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." He never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".
So this dude, he's livin' a total shut in. What does he do? I mean, what does he do to let it all out, right? Turns out, he's a bit of an old tagger. Not a graffiti artist, mind you, he doesn't walk around with a can of spray paint and draw the dogs bollocks on walls. Nah, all he uses, right, is this marker he bought from W.H. Smith's, like, ten years ago. 'An artist's pen' he calls it to himself.
And he goes taggin'. Well, at first it was just signin' his names on walls and shit. He'd run around the apartment building, squeezin' into corners, like in the elevator, and then when he was sure there was no one around (cos the elevator was going to the next floor right now), he'd slip his name upon the wall. Very quick. Just like that. Then he'd smoothly hide his pen and stand at the door, cool as apples, and walk out. Not his real name, of course. Nah, he was too cool for that. He'd sign it 'BoxerBoy'.
So time passes on. He's taggin' away, right, but he's seeing - other people are noticing his coolness. Like, he'd be walking up the stairs, and all of a sudden, the dude from 2E - the one who went snowboardin' and that - he walks out. Says 'Keep it up killamonsta'.
And the girls. 3I and 5T, and their girlfriends on a friday night. He's just chillin' on his way to the 4th floor. You know, from the 3rd. And they just happen to come in. "Look", they say, "it's BoxerBoy! Right on, tagger!" He just keeps his cool, right and walks out into the 4th floor calmly, trying to find the keys in his pocket.
As he walks to his apartment, he sees this massive sign drawn in brownish-yellow paint on his own door! It's just two initials - D.K. Now he's all pissed. That just ruined the evenin' that. Yeah, he was a bad man, yeah he went around slappin' his name all over the place, but he'd never done it on someone else's door. Even in thieves and murderers there are ethics, he thought to himself.
But just then, who comes a'tinkling down the stairs but 6P. Dana Kelsington, beauty queen of the apartment complex. Dana drops her purse, and it lands by his door. She's like 'Oh, sorry, sorry".
But he's not havin' it. "Dana Kelsington, eh?" he said, nodding at his door. Dana gets up again and smiles at him. "Yeah. You're the tagger, aren't ya?" she asks. "BoxerBoy".
He doesn't know what to say. "Yeah. Kinda" he replies, his teeth straining against his lips.
"So funny" said Dana, walking down the stairs again.
BoxerBoy can't sleep. He gets up at seven to wash his face and that. It's her, innit. It must be her, he thought. Why else would she drop that purse right there? D.K. Dana Kelsington. She fancies me, he said to himself.
Next day, he wakes up early. "Let's make Dana some breakfast" he thinks to himself. "I'll leave it out there with a tag, saying "BoxerBoy. She'll have a right old time that," he think to himself. He looks in his pantry, yeah, and there's nothing. No eggs. No bread.
He looks in his fridge. There's some milk there. "Alright, good start" he says to himself. He takes the milk out, then, sees, on top of the fridge, he's got a box of Cocoa Puffs.
"Excellent" he says to himself. He washes a bowl, and puts the Cocoa Puffs in. Then he pours a load of the milk in there. "Right. Breakfast" he says to himself. He takes the bowl of cereal, and goes out and to the elevator. "6P. Right" he says to himself. On the sixth floor, he wanders around for a bit. Is it 'P' before 'Q'. Or 'S' before 'P'. Darn alphabet, he thinks to himself. Why should there be all this 'order'?
Anyway, he finally finds 6P, tucked away in a little corner in there. He walks up, and put the bowl on the doormat. As he straightens up, he smiles. "She'll like this," he thinks to himself.
So, like, two days go by right. And not a word from Dana Kelsington. BoxerBoy's gettin' all frustated and that. The blokes on his favorite internet chat site aren't turnin' up. Finally, he's like, FUCK IT. Pulls out his pen from W.H. Smith, and walks out to do some taggin'.
He walks into the elevator and waits for the doors to close. Once they're shut, and the elevator is moving up, he turns around, ready to put his name on the wall. But he stops in his tracks. There, painted at the back of the elevator in yellow paint, in massive letters, is a message - "Thank U".
"Cripes", he thinks to himself. "That was pretty fucking big." The elevator opens at the 6th floor and he walks out. And now, who does he see, but Dana Kelsington, walking out of 6P, with her little pet chihuahua.
"BoxerBoy!" she says. "Keep it up, mate!"
He rushes back home. He doesn't know what to do, really. Alright, obviously she fancies him. Obviously she wants to get together. But why all the faffin'? Why the games? What should a bloke do, really? He thinks about it, and he finally figures, 'whatever'.
Whatever, yeah? If she won't say she fancies him to his face, then what can you, then, really?
Fuck it, he thinks to himself. Just let it be. It's not going anywhere, obviously. So he just goes on with his life. His mum calls in and asks "Yea when you comin' over to see us", and he just goes "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." Never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".
Things go on, just as normal. But suddenly, one day, someone slippes a little message thru the bottom of his door. He's lying down, but he hears it - cos the snowboarder and the girls in 3I and 5T are gone away on vacation, aren't they? Everything is very quiet now. Just him and 6P in the building. He runs over, opens the note up.
"Cheers for the Cocoa Puffs, mate" said the note, "but I think it's high time we get together.
"Yes!" he says, raising his fist in the air. About time the daft bird got her shit together.
"Let's meet in the elevator, 10pm" said the note.
He looks at his watch - it's 9.44. Hurriedly, he runs about. Washes his face. Showers. Rubs his cologne on. Then, packing up his pen from W.H. Smiths, he buttons up his coat and walks out of his apartment. He waits there, in front of the elevator, till it's 10. Then he, very casually, right, opens the door, and steps in, backwards, to get some charm in. "Let's not look her straight in the face," he says to himself. "Let's just, very slowly, turn around."
He turns around ... and there's a monkey there, staring back at him.
He lands on his arse at first. Then, picking himself up, he tries to straighten himself up. "What's going on," he asks. "Where's Dana?"
The orangutan looks back at him, kind of confused. Then it taps him on the pocket. He doesn't know what it wants at first, but then realizes it want's his pen from W.H. Smith. He gives it, figuring, whatever. He wants some answers. So, the orangutan takes the pen, and writes on the wall.
"Those were some bloody stale Cocoa Puffs, mate. Got something new?"
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
More simian news from Carl Dilkington (c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
---
There's this bloke right, been living in this estate for years. Never went out of the compound. His mum would call in and be like "Yea when you comin' over to see us" and he's always like "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." He never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".
So this dude, he's livin' a total shut in. What does he do? I mean, what does he do to let it all out, right? Turns out, he's a bit of an old tagger. Not a graffiti artist, mind you, he doesn't walk around with a can of spray paint and draw the dogs bollocks on walls. Nah, all he uses, right, is this marker he bought from W.H. Smith's, like, ten years ago. 'An artist's pen' he calls it to himself.
And he goes taggin'. Well, at first it was just signin' his names on walls and shit. He'd run around the apartment building, squeezin' into corners, like in the elevator, and then when he was sure there was no one around (cos the elevator was going to the next floor right now), he'd slip his name upon the wall. Very quick. Just like that. Then he'd smoothly hide his pen and stand at the door, cool as apples, and walk out. Not his real name, of course. Nah, he was too cool for that. He'd sign it 'BoxerBoy'.
So time passes on. He's taggin' away, right, but he's seeing - other people are noticing his coolness. Like, he'd be walking up the stairs, and all of a sudden, the dude from 2E - the one who went snowboardin' and that - he walks out. Says 'Keep it up killamonsta'.
And the girls. 3I and 5T, and their girlfriends on a friday night. He's just chillin' on his way to the 4th floor. You know, from the 3rd. And they just happen to come in. "Look", they say, "it's BoxerBoy! Right on, tagger!" He just keeps his cool, right and walks out into the 4th floor calmly, trying to find the keys in his pocket.
As he walks to his apartment, he sees this massive sign drawn in brownish-yellow paint on his own door! It's just two initials - D.K. Now he's all pissed. That just ruined the evenin' that. Yeah, he was a bad man, yeah he went around slappin' his name all over the place, but he'd never done it on someone else's door. Even in thieves and murderers there are ethics, he thought to himself.
But just then, who comes a'tinkling down the stairs but 6P. Dana Kelsington, beauty queen of the apartment complex. Dana drops her purse, and it lands by his door. She's like 'Oh, sorry, sorry".
But he's not havin' it. "Dana Kelsington, eh?" he said, nodding at his door. Dana gets up again and smiles at him. "Yeah. You're the tagger, aren't ya?" she asks. "BoxerBoy".
He doesn't know what to say. "Yeah. Kinda" he replies, his teeth straining against his lips.
"So funny" said Dana, walking down the stairs again.
BoxerBoy can't sleep. He gets up at seven to wash his face and that. It's her, innit. It must be her, he thought. Why else would she drop that purse right there? D.K. Dana Kelsington. She fancies me, he said to himself.
Next day, he wakes up early. "Let's make Dana some breakfast" he thinks to himself. "I'll leave it out there with a tag, saying "BoxerBoy. She'll have a right old time that," he think to himself. He looks in his pantry, yeah, and there's nothing. No eggs. No bread.
He looks in his fridge. There's some milk there. "Alright, good start" he says to himself. He takes the milk out, then, sees, on top of the fridge, he's got a box of Cocoa Puffs.
"Excellent" he says to himself. He washes a bowl, and puts the Cocoa Puffs in. Then he pours a load of the milk in there. "Right. Breakfast" he says to himself. He takes the bowl of cereal, and goes out and to the elevator. "6P. Right" he says to himself. On the sixth floor, he wanders around for a bit. Is it 'P' before 'Q'. Or 'S' before 'P'. Darn alphabet, he thinks to himself. Why should there be all this 'order'?
Anyway, he finally finds 6P, tucked away in a little corner in there. He walks up, and put the bowl on the doormat. As he straightens up, he smiles. "She'll like this," he thinks to himself.
So, like, two days go by right. And not a word from Dana Kelsington. BoxerBoy's gettin' all frustated and that. The blokes on his favorite internet chat site aren't turnin' up. Finally, he's like, FUCK IT. Pulls out his pen from W.H. Smith, and walks out to do some taggin'.
He walks into the elevator and waits for the doors to close. Once they're shut, and the elevator is moving up, he turns around, ready to put his name on the wall. But he stops in his tracks. There, painted at the back of the elevator in yellow paint, in massive letters, is a message - "Thank U".
"Cripes", he thinks to himself. "That was pretty fucking big." The elevator opens at the 6th floor and he walks out. And now, who does he see, but Dana Kelsington, walking out of 6P, with her little pet chihuahua.
"BoxerBoy!" she says. "Keep it up, mate!"
He rushes back home. He doesn't know what to do, really. Alright, obviously she fancies him. Obviously she wants to get together. But why all the faffin'? Why the games? What should a bloke do, really? He thinks about it, and he finally figures, 'whatever'.
Whatever, yeah? If she won't say she fancies him to his face, then what can you, then, really?
Fuck it, he thinks to himself. Just let it be. It's not going anywhere, obviously. So he just goes on with his life. His mum calls in and asks "Yea when you comin' over to see us", and he just goes "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." Never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".
Things go on, just as normal. But suddenly, one day, someone slippes a little message thru the bottom of his door. He's lying down, but he hears it - cos the snowboarder and the girls in 3I and 5T are gone away on vacation, aren't they? Everything is very quiet now. Just him and 6P in the building. He runs over, opens the note up.
"Cheers for the Cocoa Puffs, mate" said the note, "but I think it's high time we get together.
"Yes!" he says, raising his fist in the air. About time the daft bird got her shit together.
"Let's meet in the elevator, 10pm" said the note.
He looks at his watch - it's 9.44. Hurriedly, he runs about. Washes his face. Showers. Rubs his cologne on. Then, packing up his pen from W.H. Smiths, he buttons up his coat and walks out of his apartment. He waits there, in front of the elevator, till it's 10. Then he, very casually, right, opens the door, and steps in, backwards, to get some charm in. "Let's not look her straight in the face," he says to himself. "Let's just, very slowly, turn around."
He turns around ... and there's a monkey there, staring back at him.
He lands on his arse at first. Then, picking himself up, he tries to straighten himself up. "What's going on," he asks. "Where's Dana?"
The orangutan looks back at him, kind of confused. Then it taps him on the pocket. He doesn't know what it wants at first, but then realizes it want's his pen from W.H. Smith. He gives it, figuring, whatever. He wants some answers. So, the orangutan takes the pen, and writes on the wall.
"Those were some bloody stale Cocoa Puffs, mate. Got something new?"
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
Friday, January 16, 2009
Monkey News: La Princesse à Paris
---
Obliviously inspired by Carl Pilkington's 'Monkey News' segments on the Ricky Gervais podcasts, a dysfunctional nearby (in so many ways) to Pilkington, Carl Dilkington, began sending missives to me. Here is his first attempt to 'flesh out' (on) the genre. (c. May 2006)
---
Alright mates,
Got some monkey news that you may not have heard yet. There's nothing new going on right now, as you well know, but this is news from the past sort of thing. You can't really air it on any shows, because it may be sort of controversial and that, and it hasn't really been let out into the open much cos of that. But that's why not everyone knows it. More like some underground monkey news, if you get my drift. So anyway, without further ado:
This goes way back to 1997, in Paris. There was this photo journalist who had a bit of a gig there and needed some wheels to get him around town. He's got a few notches 'gainst his license, so he goes to a private car service, trying to get a car to take him around for his gig, but it already being pretty late in the evening, the woman there was like, "No, we haven't any drivers left tonight, they're all gone home by now" and that.
He tries to talk her into it, asking if there might not be someone she could call up or summat. He says it's kind of an emergency, and he's got some important work to do. So at first, she's not having it, but he keeps going on an on, so finally she gives in. "Well," she says, "there's one bloke might do it." The photographer is all like, yeah yeah, I'll have him, and she goes on, "But there's only one problem".
The photographer's pretty antsy by now, "Alright, whatever. I'll take him, what's the problem?"
"Well," she says, "he doesn't drive a car."
The photographer is rightly puzzled. He asks her what he does drive, and she says a motorcycle. It's got a sidecar on it, she says, you can go along for the ride and still take your pictures. The photographer isn't too happy with that, but there was nowt else to do at that point, so he tells her to sign him up.
They sort it out, right, and half an hour later, the photographer is speeding along on his way down the Paris streets. He finds he rather likes this arrangement, cos all he has to do to get the driver in the right direction is tug at either corner of the driver's biking vest, and he would turn that way. Soon enough, he sees a limo driving past them and he gets the driver to follow it. While they're catching up, he rummages in his photo bag, pulling out his cameras and flashes and batteries and whatnot.
Finally the bike pulls up alongside the limo, and the photographer tells the driver to maintain speed. He points his camera at the tinted window at the back seats of the limo ... but all of a sudden the window comes down. He's a little shocked, cos he didn't expect them in the limo to respond, right? So he lowers his camera, just to get a second take and that. It's Princess Diana, sitting right there, staring back at him! He knew who it was going be. No surprises there. But he didn't expect her to pull her window down to take a good look at him and all.
So Diana takes a good look at him, right, at then she pulls the window up again. Just before her face disappears behind the tinted screen, she turns to her driver and mumbles summat. Diana's driver turns around to look at the motorcycle. He sees the photographer, who by this time is looking right bamboozled. Her driver then looks along the sidecar and to the front of the motorcycle.
Last thing Princess Di's driver sees - it's a monkey driving that bike.
Alright then, that's the coverage of the fact as best I know it. I know there's tons of people out there who prolly won't believe it, and may even be offended. But that's how the News works, innit?
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
Obliviously inspired by Carl Pilkington's 'Monkey News' segments on the Ricky Gervais podcasts, a dysfunctional nearby (in so many ways) to Pilkington, Carl Dilkington, began sending missives to me. Here is his first attempt to 'flesh out' (on) the genre. (c. May 2006)
---
Alright mates,
Got some monkey news that you may not have heard yet. There's nothing new going on right now, as you well know, but this is news from the past sort of thing. You can't really air it on any shows, because it may be sort of controversial and that, and it hasn't really been let out into the open much cos of that. But that's why not everyone knows it. More like some underground monkey news, if you get my drift. So anyway, without further ado:
This goes way back to 1997, in Paris. There was this photo journalist who had a bit of a gig there and needed some wheels to get him around town. He's got a few notches 'gainst his license, so he goes to a private car service, trying to get a car to take him around for his gig, but it already being pretty late in the evening, the woman there was like, "No, we haven't any drivers left tonight, they're all gone home by now" and that.
He tries to talk her into it, asking if there might not be someone she could call up or summat. He says it's kind of an emergency, and he's got some important work to do. So at first, she's not having it, but he keeps going on an on, so finally she gives in. "Well," she says, "there's one bloke might do it." The photographer is all like, yeah yeah, I'll have him, and she goes on, "But there's only one problem".
The photographer's pretty antsy by now, "Alright, whatever. I'll take him, what's the problem?"
"Well," she says, "he doesn't drive a car."
The photographer is rightly puzzled. He asks her what he does drive, and she says a motorcycle. It's got a sidecar on it, she says, you can go along for the ride and still take your pictures. The photographer isn't too happy with that, but there was nowt else to do at that point, so he tells her to sign him up.
They sort it out, right, and half an hour later, the photographer is speeding along on his way down the Paris streets. He finds he rather likes this arrangement, cos all he has to do to get the driver in the right direction is tug at either corner of the driver's biking vest, and he would turn that way. Soon enough, he sees a limo driving past them and he gets the driver to follow it. While they're catching up, he rummages in his photo bag, pulling out his cameras and flashes and batteries and whatnot.
Finally the bike pulls up alongside the limo, and the photographer tells the driver to maintain speed. He points his camera at the tinted window at the back seats of the limo ... but all of a sudden the window comes down. He's a little shocked, cos he didn't expect them in the limo to respond, right? So he lowers his camera, just to get a second take and that. It's Princess Diana, sitting right there, staring back at him! He knew who it was going be. No surprises there. But he didn't expect her to pull her window down to take a good look at him and all.
So Diana takes a good look at him, right, at then she pulls the window up again. Just before her face disappears behind the tinted screen, she turns to her driver and mumbles summat. Diana's driver turns around to look at the motorcycle. He sees the photographer, who by this time is looking right bamboozled. Her driver then looks along the sidecar and to the front of the motorcycle.
Last thing Princess Di's driver sees - it's a monkey driving that bike.
Alright then, that's the coverage of the fact as best I know it. I know there's tons of people out there who prolly won't believe it, and may even be offended. But that's how the News works, innit?
Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent
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