Kicking it off, is a little song by Ian Nesbit. Well, sort of. It’s actually ‘The Seahorses – Love Is The Law’, which Ian has rewritten to make it more Martyriffic.

Marty’s the Law

We met in a big fake sandcastle
It was August 05
He was a scarf  wearing poet
and though he didn’t know it
we’d become friends for life.
Out on the piss with our good friend Chris
that was the life!

Marty and me had adventures
on some crazy drunken nights
there were bad Yank impressions to ward-off
livin’ depressions and kegs kicked about in spite.
We’d had too much to drink so we didn’t think
and we got told off!

Where would we be without Marty’s friendship?
He excites and he opens our mind.
Tales of his shite and his spastical dancing
Marty McGovern you’re one of a kind.

Kunte Kinte chased us with a sprinte
We feared for our behinds
We saw plop on Marty in the shop
It nearly made us blind
his sphincter went slack so he shat in the Jac’
Let’s take him  home

Where would we be without Marty’s friendship?
He excites and he opens our mind.
Tales of his shite and his spastical dancing
Marty McGovern you’re one of a kind

We’ve run through the streets of town in the pouring rain
screaming out for all to hear
we’ve seen tramps eat beans straight from the can
these memories I hold so dear

Where would we be without Marty’s friendship?
He excites and he opens our mind.
Tales of his shite and his spastical dancing
Marty McGovern you’re one of a kind

————————————————————————————————————————-

Here is the video of the actual song, if you’d like to sing the above lyrics loudly over it. Your choice.

…and now, a few words from me. Featuring some of my favourite stories about Marty. His/Our good friend Mel was going to write something too, but she’s too fucking lazy.

Marty:

The Enigma

Marty appeared in an office, some years back, and proceeded to affect the lives of many with his jovial presence. That office, of course, belonged to Royal and Sun Alliance, and the many lives he affected was actually more like 3 lives. But from those three lives, hundreds of little (metaphorical) branches grew, as Marty’s influence spread and affected more and more people. Also he once received a blowjob at a cash machine.

It’s the man’s birthday, he’s 28 years old, leaving him closer to death than many of his crowd. So we’ve decided a short re-cap of our lives with Marty would be good. Although it will ruin most of my favourite stories about the man by putting them out in the public eye, I’m happy to spill them and boost his fucking huge ego even further. It’s sort of like a ‘This Is Your Life’ round-up, but full of comedically shameful stories and for the benefit of other people.

My first memory of the awkward, thin man in the tight pants is obviously from the place where we first worked together. Like most of the other people there, I don’t think he spoke to me much- but then the drinking started, with co-collaborator Ian Nesbit and that one who now lives ‘darn sarf’, Mel Keen (as well as a few others who aren’t really important). Things spiralled out of control quickly, and (despite him leaving the country for a few months) things have gone from strength to strength and he now lives with me. In a totally non-gay way.

The Legend

Marty is famous for three things: Dancing, Poop and the aforementioned Cash Machine shenanigans, but I won’t judge him based on these things alone. Instead, I’ll just talk about them in great detail so every one knows all about them. Ha Ha Ha, Marty. Take that.

His cursed history with human waste has two main peaks. The first took place in the Jacaranda pub in town, where (he claims) a mis-judged trouser-drop in the toilets resulted in his pants being covered in the stuff. It was (he claims), an errant turd that was already in place on the floor, and not actually his own that ended up smeared all over him. He claims (he claims) that his own business was taken care of a very efficient, clean manner and the renegade jeans-ruiner wasn’t actually noticed until he’d left the toilet and indeed was on the way out of the pub. It was Ian who first pointed it out, with a loud ‘IS THAT POO?!” in the middle of a city centre street. Luckily, we were near a tesco, so Marty was able to hurry in and buy some tissues with which to eradicate the mess and clean himself off. Of course, this wasn’t the definitive solution, so he ended up borrowing a pair of my (quite short) jeans for the rest of the night.

BUT! To believe this story is to accept quite a few leaps of the imagination. The toilets in the Jacaranda, as they were at the time, were very cramped. It would take more effort to desicrate the floor than it would to simply use the toilet as intended. The floor-plop would have had to have been put there on purpose, by someone else, in order for Marty to cover himself with it. Do you believe that? Really? Or do you believe that, actually, he did it himself and wiped it on his pants as a misplaced attack on authority? Maybe he’d done the deed into his hand, planning on throwing it at a passing car, only to be usurped by a particularly sloppy specimin, leaving him with no other option than to wipe it on his jeans.

We may never know.

The other ‘high’ point in his terrible pooing career came about during a household drinking session in my old gaff, where Marty was once again the victim of his own polite nature. Suddenly feeling the pinch after a night of tequila and various other drinks, Marty lifted himself carefully off the living room couch and made his way to the stairs to ascend to the bathroom, before being stopped in his tracks by a fresh faced young man named Chunk, who promptly started a conversation. Too polite to walk away, and too enamoured by alcohol to make the appropriate excuses to leave, Marty clung on for dear life before finally being allowed to rush off to finish what, sadly, had already started. Every second step on the stairs was blemished by a suspicious brown stain, and the underpants that suffered the outburst were disposed of via the medium of ‘throwing them over the garden wall’. Given the area we lived in at the time, this was probably more commonplace than you would think.

Nowadays, every time Marty spends more than 30 seconds away from the group, it’s presumed he’s had another mishap. We’re waiting for it to happen, and we’re long overdue some shit-based shenanigans.

The Shape-Thrower

He’s also famous for his dancing. Not wanting to offend the guy, who protects and covets his dancing ability, I’ll simply let the following pictures and videos do the talking:

It’s a unique dance, that crashes through cultural barriers and isn’t afraid of leaving casualties in it’s wake. (By that I mean there have been a fair few injuries caused to unsuspecting passers-by, struck by flailing limbs as they foolishly made their way across the dance floor).

Marty dancing in what was then called Roadkill, in Liverpool. This next one is one of the best videos I’ve ever seen. Excuse the poor sound, it was shot on an ancient mobile phone.

The Rogue

The cash machine incident may or may not be 100% true. From what I recall, he told us when he was drunk and has since been cagey on the details. Still, it’s become a running joke with him, so it’s worth a mention here as part of the ‘Marty Lore’. Rumour has it, that on a late-night/early-morning trip to a cash machine, Marty received a bl*wjob whilst with drawing cash. It was (he claims) from a lady he knew previously rather than say, a hooker…but that doesn’t stop us from speculating. Was it a stranger? Was it for money? Is he proud of himself for this? Was it a drunken outburst, tweaked by alcohol into something more than it was? Maybe, just maybe, it was auto-fellatio. (Feel free to continue the speculation in the comments).

We love Marty, despite all of this, but not quite as much as the man loves himself. I’ll leave you with this:

Yep.