* 200 articles. Two years. Whelk. The best of Upsideclown. Might be reprinted.

Sodomize with Pukka Pies

25 March 2002
crossed Victor's mind for twenty-four and a half days

ITEM 1: Men don't taste of jam, nor should they. Skin tastes of skin, sex of salt. I will not have Ann Summers glucosing over my hectic jarrings with her insipid ersatz raspberry flavoured Booby and Willy Drops. Surely the only people whose cocks taste bad are those who don't wash after racquet sports, or ever? And for what reason on earth would you feel it necessary to mask the taste of breasts? It's not lemon chicken - though it may as well be. I can only think that fungus is involved somewhere along the line, perhaps an accumulation of dead cells/scurf/mould in the area under the dewlap so often overlooked in the shower.

Of course, you may be the kind of earthy vegan type who refuses to wear deodorant, likes yourself all natural. As long as you can find a like-minded mate you will not only be surprisingly fortunate but also doing the rest of the world a service (NB ugly people stick together not just for themselves, but graciously to remove themselves and each other from our gaze/market). But you're surely going to have some conviction, go the whole hog, shit and piss your way through sex in one big ejaculation, a grand release of all your muscles. Aaaaaaaarrgh. And relax. What need have you of synthetic syrup? It's not a fucking ice-cream, so don't pretend it is. It's a cock; it tastes of semen, not rum'n'raisin. I think I've made my point.

ITEM 2: I have decided to offer my services to the marketing division of Pukka Pies, purveyor of 'fine' fayre to chip shops throughout the UK. On waiting for chips and curry sauce with an Irishman one drunken Friday evening I marvelled at a pristine hoarding: on the fawn leather interior of a Mercedes yuppie woman in black tube dress leans over the handbrake to bite on forked chip proffered by manly yuppie driver. Caption reads, 'Socialise with Pukka Pies'. No offence, but my idea of a good night out isn't eating chips in a car park. So, here are some alternatives, (my gimp chimps, Chris, Malc and David have been at their typewriters):

a) Randomize with Pukka Pies: Dropped from a Hercules at 20,000 feet, these babies can brain a native. But more recent projections suggest that they will be most effective as ballistic missiles, or as constituents of cluster bombs - hatch opens to release 147 specially rounded pies. I am currently in negotiations with the Ethiopian and Eritrean governments.

b) Cauterize with Pukka Pies: foil on. The hot coloured metal of the casement seals wounds in days. Could have saved Nelson.

c) Theorize with Pukka Pies: no one as yet has contemplated the essence of a pie. There's a thesis in that. I have little doubt that in the very near future a suitable candidate will be awarded funding for just such a project.

d) Synthesize with Pukka Pies. Forget the philosopher's stone. Our specially designed deluxe Chicken and Mushroom will turn base metals into gold. A nice little earner for the broad-minded entrepreneur.

e) Fantasize with Pukka Pies: see i) below. It's in my dreams. How do you eat yours?

f) Harmonize with Pukka Pies: global branding brings people together. FACT. Coca Cola taught the world to sing. Now you can make peace with a pie (having bombed the hell out of them - see a)).

g) Clench Your Thighs with Pukka Pies: possibly part of e) and likely result of i).

h) Rotarize with Pukka Pies: roll one very fast at someone. They spin round, see?

i) Sodomize with Pukka Pies: foil on (wax-covered) or off (flaky pastry)? It goes without saying that certain modifications will have to be made to the shape to make it more practical. Round things don't fit in arses - except fists and conkers. Finally, something more interesting to watch through the steamy passenger window of a Mercedes.

j) Cannibalise with Pukka Pies: Swift's Modest Proposal advocated that the Irish eat their babies to curb a drastic population increase. Let's do the same for Nuneaton, Daventry and Uttoxeter.

ITEM 3: Buy a loud hailer and stand at Speaker's Corner (Speaker's Corner: popular spot in Hyde Park for airing one's views or beliefs, getting on one's 'soapbox'). I'm sick to the back teeth of fundamentalists, extremists, whatever we're not supposed to call them, shouting truths and tenets at me. The presence of a spittle-filled tannoy glued to the muzzle of a half-wit attributes conviction and not a little intelligence to the ranter. Why not counteract this faux intensity and join me in spouting inanities and blandishments? A few suggestions:

Eat more cheese.

Smile once in a while. It doesn't do any harm.

Horses for courses. Morse for coarse horses.

They say it's going to brighten up over the weekend.

Do you fancy a pint?

Those are nice trousers. Are they new?

Watch their heads implode as they realise they have nothing to get wound up about...


This is the fucking archive

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
27 October 2003. Victor writes: Our Tune
6 October 2003. Victor writes: Sucking face (in a public place)
15 September 2003. Victor writes: You got any ID?
25 August 2003. Victor writes: Blood on the Boulevard
4 August 2003. Victor writes: In (paren)theses
10 July 2003. Victor writes: Island Fling
19 June 2003. Victor writes: Back (back) and forth (and forth)
2 June 2003. Victor writes: 300 clowns, 13 eight-year olds
12 May 2003. Victor writes: The swings and roundabouts of outrageous fortune
21 April 2003. Victor writes: ...just sitting there quietly contemplating suicide
31 March 2003. Victor writes: Victoria
6 March 2003. Victor writes: Relevant experience
17 February 2003. Victor writes: You will eat chips and go nowhere
27 January 2003. Victor writes: A bushy fish for fishy Mr Bush (after Juvenal)
6 January 2003. Victor writes: The Accidental Voyeur
16 December 2002. Victor writes: Gripper goes bang
25 November 2002. Victor writes: Bediquette
4 November 2002. Victor writes: Where have all the spastics gone?
14 October 2002. Victor writes: An Immodest Proposal
23 September 2002. Victor writes: Fastscan masterplan
2 September 2002. Victor writes: Dry Humping Social Club
12 August 2002. Victor writes: Beat the Mongol
22 July 2002. Victor writes: What life is not
1 July 2002. Victor writes: Stupor heroes
6 June 2002. Victor writes: Dry
13 May 2002. Victor writes: Muppet Suite
18 April 2002. Victor writes: gingermingeninja
25 March 2002. Victor writes: Sodomize with Pukka Pies
28 February 2002. Victor writes: Dave's problem
4 February 2002. Victor writes: King of the Aisles
10 January 2002. Victor writes: Here come the decorator gimps.
17 December 2001. Victor writes: Make war, not supper.
22 November 2001. Victor writes: Cough
29 October 2001. Victor writes:
4 October 2001. Victor writes: Green Gauges
10 September 2001. Victor writes: Blind weed
16 August 2001. Victor writes: Snout!
23 July 2001. Victor writes: You're not going to put this in a clown are you?
28 June 2001. Victor writes: What is a droll?
4 June 2001. Victor writes: Burt Pakamak
10 May 2001. Victor writes: Board to Death
12 April 2001. Victor writes: Tricolon with anaphora?
22 March 2001. Victor writes: Point of View
26 February 2001. Victor writes: Goth's Dinner
1 Feburary 2001. Victor writes: Les Miserables
4 January 2001. Victor writes: Flat-packed furniture
14 December 2000. Victor writes: Deliverance
20 November 2000. Victor writes: Bottomry: Exorcising Ghosts
26 October 2000. Victor writes: Body Art
2 October 2000. Victor writes: Disney must die
7 September 2000. Victor writes: Ice-cream in Offworld
14 August 2000. Victor writes: I like sweets that taste of medicine
26 June 2000. Victor writes: I've seen the future, and it's feathered

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