It’s alright guys, he’s got a fishing rod and some chicken.

Basically, Gazza turned up at the stand off, sounding pretty drunk and gave, what you could call an interview, for Real Radio.
Apparently he knows Raoul Moat and is the only one who could talk him out of it. Noone believed him, and neither did the police so that’s where it ended.
We need to find out what Gazza thinks about this issue now that it’s all over!

Well it’s all over guys. He’s been hiding in a village for a week, and as soon as Gazza shows up, he gets caught.

Good grief my friends, has it REALLY been two months? Sixty some days since M-McGuv last put pen to page, sharing his idiosyncratic ideals and inklings with the PC community? Forgive me, dear reader, for one has been bereft of free time, thrust instead head first into the mechanical manipulation of the redundant responsibilities of the real world.

Not that I should worry of course, it’s hardly as if my sporadic blogging has instigated a revolt of any kind. The streets display a distinct lack of ‘MartyMania’ tees and my slender mug remains as anonymous as ever. Yep, my electronical musings are about as essential as my past due prophylactic during those agonising initial evenings out when I first hit that most desired of ages, seventeen. Still, my insatiable ego must be placated and as such I mark my return with an appropriately absurd homecoming. Welcome to my latest creation: MUSINGS FROM THE POETIC PEN OF MARTETH MCGOVERN!

Naturally, some bright spark in the cheap seats will be outraged by my conceited bravado, hurling obscenities at the innocent images reflected by their Packard Bell powerscreens.

“Oi, McGovern,” they’d sneer, “I thought you were hard at work on that there multi-part novelization of your (mis)adventures whilst travelling abroad?” (see my last OnlyBees entry in February, go on…please). Well, it would certainly explain the absence. Alas, I am simply cracking the glass, announcing my reintroduction much like a prizefighter participating in an exhibition bout before the big title clash. I still have lofty plans for my much promised memoirs, just give a guy a break safe in the knowledge that when I do deliver said journals they shall be all the more classic for the extra preparation.

What I’m here to discuss today is that eternally attractive attribute: Originality, or, more fittingly, the lack thereof in modern society, specifically in the current celluloid community.

While I would struggle to call oneself a Pop Culture connoisseur, I certainly consider my perceptive capabilities competent enough to sift through the thousands of feeble fakesters in today’s creative climate, selecting the true artists that apply what should be the number one priority in any inspired endeavour, originality.

Woah now fella, the Marty we all know and love is a sweet natured sensitive soul, a gentle giant who daren’t say ’shoo’ to a Goose. Where has this venomous onslaught stemmed from? Gosh, I suppose one of the main reasons for this incendiary inking is that I’m just so darned tired of callous retreads and clumsy rehashes. I will spare you all the obligatory ‘When I were a lad…’ speech, after all, I am yet to hit thirty and would bet my spleen that my opinions and views are still wholly relevant. Now more so than ever I’d wager. No, what concerns moi is the blatant plagiarism of previously well-produced and delightfully delivered motion picture marvels.

Examples?

Oh, I got ‘em. Hell son, I got a million of ‘em.

Hellywood (clever, right?) must be runnin’ on empty. What other plausible explanation could possibly exist for my television set flaunting classless trailers for a new ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ flick? This needless instalment is bolstered by a certain to be chilling performance provided by Jackie Earle Haley. A five foot five character actor whose career highlights include sterling turns in The Waltons, Murder She Wrote and, most impressively, The Love Boat. WHAT??!! Robert Englund WAS Freddie Krueger. Admittedly his career choices have been somewhat questionable since last donning the iconically menacing mitt but nobody could bring such terror, malice and indeed comedy to the boiler room beast.

And how’s about that dynamic director Steve Carr? What’s that? You aint never heard of him? You mean to say you don’t recognise this revolutionary reel rebellionists contributions to modern cinema? Why, he artistically crafted such recent silver screen staples as ‘Dr Dolittle 2′ ‘Daddy Day Care’ and that cautionary comment on a sinking society ‘Paul Blart:Mall Cop’. Not content with shoving the pitiful shallow shell of his former self that is a post-millennial Eddie Murphy down our gullets, he has now made the profound decision to helm a ‘re imagining’ of ‘Short Circuit’. I can only assume the fiercely intelligent sentient robot will still possess the enviable abilities of super fast reading, unintentional crime thwarting and cutting edge street slang that we all thought peaked with “Hey laser lips, your Mamma was a snow blower”! What’s to re imagine?

Honestly, where is the next wave of inspired film-makers, those few true originals aiming to make a splash seldom seen since the days of a young Scorsese or Hitchcock?

Rather depressingly, this torrid trend appears set to continue for the foreseeable future. Reboots of ‘The Karate Kid’, ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and even ‘Oldboy’(!) are all waiting in the wings, set to limp out to a largely diminished audience not to mention underwhelming box office returns. Perhaps the only beacon of hope on rehash hill is ‘Robocop’, currently being tackled by the usually untouchable Darren Aronofsky. Although his curriculum vitae boasts such terrific treasures as ‘Requiem for a Dream’ and ‘The Wrestler’, I still don’t hold out the highest of hopes for this controversial selection by arguably one of the most original directors of the past decade.

Looks like we are gonna have to ride this one out film fans. This despicable downturn aint goin’ away anytime soon. On the bright side, at least we have many a comical acceptance at The Razzies to look forward to. The ultimate in dishonourable mentions that should shame those Hollywood head honchos into, oooh, I don’t know, throwing their money at a cinematic vehicle that actually has wheels. Sadly, I can only imagine the complete opposite will occur and we shall be subject to that hideous oaf Tom Green’s return in ‘Freddy Got Fingered…again’!

Until next time my beautiful beekeepers

Yours handsomely

Marty McG

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Piles and piles of Whitechapel Road and Vine Street tokens clutter all available surfaces in your house and you clutch longingly to that Park Lane that you found. You only need Mayfair now, you’re so close!

As always, there are the common places to find, and the rare places, which are basically “win” tokens. Here (for my own reference more than anything else) are the ones you need to win each prize.

g Mayfair – To win £500,000 cash
g Bond Street – To win £300,000 towards a house
g Coventry Street – To win a Fiat 500
g Liverpool St Station – To win a £1200 Free Energy
g Strand – To win a Holiday
g Marlborough Street – To win a Home Entertainment System
g Northumberland Avenue – To win a Wii and some games
g Euston Road – To win a flip video camera
g Old Kent Road – To win a £100 prepaid Visa card

So if you guys get any of those, send them my way. You’ll get your name read out on the internet and everything!

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For example, I once emailed the Burger King customer service email address (found at the foot of their receipts) to ask what they thought would win in a fight; a BK Whopper or a Big Mac.

They didn’t reply.

People rarely do.

It’s understandable, because no company would be successful if they let their staff fuck about replying to shit like this.

However, some do. Like the van I spotted when I was walking home from work. “Midas UK – Liquids and Mechanical Seals”.

Now, I get that it’s some sort of manufacturing company, dealing with parts and mechanical shit. However, I didn’t fancy passing up the chance to ask them about their Mechanical Seals.

And lo, they replied. The outcome wasn’t the comedy extravaganza I’d hoped for, but still. I did it with this site in mind, so here it is.

——————————————————————————

from Chris  <chris@onlybees.com> to sales@midas-engineering.co.uk date 9 March 2010 18:21 subject Mechanical Seals enquiry mailed-by googlemail.com

hide details 9 Mar (13 days ago)

Hello!

I’d really like to purchase one of your ‘mechanical seals’. They sound very interesting.

How would I go about doing that?

Regards

Chris

——————————————————————————-

I thought I’d keep it subtle, and try to generate a reply if I could. Hell, It sounds sincere, if a little slow.

——————————————————————————-

from Midas Admin <mail@midas-engineering.co.uk> to Chris <chris@onlybees.com> date 10 March 2010 09:22 subject RE: Mechanical Seals enquiry

hide details 10 Mar (12 days ago)

Chris,

Thanks for showing an interest in mechanical seals.

There are many different types with many different material configurations. They generally suit specific applications, usually fitted to pumps or mixers.

So if you have an application you would like some assistance with, please send through the details.

Regards

Vince
Midas Engineering Supplies Ltd

—————————————————————————

Yes! A reply! I seemed sincere enough! Sadly, I’m not sure if my reply exactly fit with what they expected.

—————————————————————————

From: Chris <chris@onlybees.com>

Date: 11 March 2010 12:59:57 GMT

To: “mail@midas-engineering.co.uk” <mail@midas-engineering.co.uk>

Subject: Re: Mechanical Seals enquiry

Hi there,

Thanks very much for the quick response.

It’s actually for a pool in my back garden. The one I originally used was causing numerous problems with upkeep, and think a high-quality mechanical seal might alleviate these.

Do you think you might be able to match me to my ideal mechanical seal?

Regards

Chris

————————————————————————————–

Was I too obvious? I should have played it cooler. It was too clear that we were talking about different things. He was shilling spare parts, I was hankering after a robot fish-eater. I didn’t get another reply.

Still, that didn’t stop me from chasing it up. Which, sadly, they’ve also not replied to.

————————————————————————————–

From: Chris <chris@onlybees.com>

Date: 15 March 2010 08:49:27 GMT

To: “mail@midas-engineering.co.uk” <mail@midas-engineering.co.uk>

Subject: Re: Mechanical Seals enquiry

Hi!

I’m sorry to chase this up so soon after sending the original. Vince is the name a very busy man might have, so I can fully appreciate how you might be a very busy man. My uncle was called Vince, and he was always terribly busy.

Anyway, I was wondering if you could possibly advise me on my last email? Since we last corresponded, I foolishly obtained another regular seal and tried to ingratiate that into my set up. Sadly, it was a little volatile and it ended up attacking my girlfriend. She’s covered in flipper-shaped bruises.

I trust your Mechanical Seals suffer no such problems?

Anyway, I have The Queen visiting the week after next, and I’d really love a Mechanical Seal to really set my collection off. The closest available alternative I’ve found is a Robot Puffin, but the price quoted was fairly ridiculous considering no one really gives a shit about Puffins.

I eagerly await your swift response! Fast, like a Cheetah with email access!

Regards

Chris

——————————————————————————–

I’ll be honest, I’m not really expecting a response. A polite ‘Fuck Off’ would have been nice though.

If I don’t hear anything, I might set up a new email address and enquire about a bionic Seal.

Bionic Seal

One day, I might grow up.

Chris

Yay, the third one is upon us. This one might be a little TOO offensive for sensitive ears, as Viz is a filthy racist. However, both me and Marc try to save his shredded dignity by giving excuses and caveats to his slanderous little words. The bigot.

Then a cat shits in a sink.

Anyway, without further ado, and because we forgot to take a photo at the time, here is the ‘Podcast Number 3 Promotional Photo What I Made’, followed by the actual podcast. Also, we’re on iTunes now, so please subscribe and rate us highly or we (Marc) will kill (Rape) you in your sleep (Walk home from work).

Thanks!

And the podcast;

Kind Retards,

Chris.

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This happened the other day. It was recorded.

What do you think it is?

(click it to play, or something).

herrrrggggg

Kind retards,

Chris.

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http://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=361968449

Bam.

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It’s disgusting.

The type of ‘joke’ that’s borne from a single, stupid misunderstanding or minor non-event that the wheelie-chair jockeys latch on to and repeat, ad nauseum – all day – until your eyes bleed and your brain begins to starve itself of oxygen, screaming for a way out. It might be a slight trip or a stumble whilst carrying a cup of tea, that magically transforms into OH MY DAYS, DID YOU HEAR WHAT ALF DID EARLIER? HE FELL! FELL! THERE WAS TEA EVERYWHERE! IT WAS A TEA-MAGEDDON! AHAHAHA!. This piss-poor excuse for conversation is then usually repeated to the people who were present, and already know full well the banality of the situation, but still join in the guffawing like retarded hyena’s choking on speedballs. Then some other poor fucker, usually someone like me, will wander past minding their own business, carrying various bits of paper and trying to look busy enough to divert the attention of anyone in charge. And they’ll be stopped, perhaps physically, and the entire bloated saga will be retold, acquiring various bells and whistles along the way. A shitty re-imagining of something that barely happened. It’d be like re-making ‘The Happening’ or something. The hapless office-worker in question will then mutter a polite ‘lol’ or some other appeasing utterance and try to be on their way. Except they won’t be allowed to go.

Oh, no.

They didn’t find it funny enough, did they. So more ‘AHAHA’S will be barked, and the story will be told again at a higher decibel. “YOU WILL FIND THIS FUNNY!” they scream, blind to the fucking obvious fact that THEIR AUDIENCE WILL NOT.

This epic retelling will happen every time someone new happens to walk past, regardless of how many other poor bastards are sat in the vicinity, hearing the same tepid story for the sixteenth time within the hour. Often, the same people will be collared, again, and have it rammed down their throat, again. Occasionally the jabbering twat-tards will recruit another comedy leech, who’ll hook on to the main group and throw in their own AHAHA’s, and repeat it again to the same unfortunate folk who the first lot have already grabbed. It’s like a violently depressing mobious strip. You can’t see where it ends or why the fuck it’s so interesting.

“OHMIGODDIDYOUHEARWHATALFDID?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Off at least six people. I also got the circulated email and the stack of post-it notes you left me.”

“WELLLETMETELLYOUAGAINBECAUSEITISBRILLIANTOHMYGODYOUWILLLAUGH”

And out of mis-guided politeness and an over-all desire to not be fired for lashing out and scraping a co-worker’s tongue out with a biro, before punching holes in it with one of those little machines (forget what they’re called), you sit, and you smile, and you listen again. Acutely aware that you’re stabbing yourself in the thigh with a compass; you can feel the blood dripping down into your socks and you fantasise about being anywhere – anywhere – other than where you are right now. Your brain flits happily to a dream-land, where you’re stuck in a Beirut prison, sucking cocks to avoid a shivving. It’s happier there.

But, I digress. As with most of these shoddily written tirades of abuse, my thinly-veiled anger is actually centred around a real-life incident that has happened, and managed to catch the attention of my ire. Office Humour. I hate it.

An example:

Yesterday, an elastic band was being idly played with by a bored co-worker; thumbed and stretched and twisted around fat, useless fingers when it suddenly decided it’d had enough and it darted off, up into the air and landed innocuously on the ground a few feet away.

That doesn’t sound like award-winning comedy, does it? But that’s where you’d be WRONG. Clearly. You fucking moron. This is Graham Linehan territory, this. It’s destined to go down in history as the single funniest occurrence since Jade Goody kicked the bucket. It’s absolute fucking GOLD. Duh. How did you not realise? Are you stupid or something? Maybe you didn’t hear the exact details, so I’ll repeat it again, louder and a little too close to your face for comfort.

Yesterday! An elastic band was being HILARIOUSLY played with! Thumbed and stretched and twisted around glorious, comedy-imbued fingers! When it suddenly decided it’d had enough! And it darted off, up into the air and landed INCREDIBLY FUNNILY on the ground a few feet away! AHAHAHA.

Ahaha inDEED.

I got back to my depressing little desk and was greeted by the shining, happily spastic faces of all of my co-workers (I am genuinely fucked if any of them ever find this site). They were eager to tell me the news; some literally bursting at the seams.

And they told me the story, each of them.

“Oh” I said, sitting down and flicking my monitor back on. Wrong answer. Incorrect reaction. Error 404: Humour Not Found. I didn’t say “AHAHA!” and run off to tell the cleaner, like they expected any normal person to do.

So they told me again, highlighting each point and bookending it with more hysterical laughter.

Strangely, I didn’t double over in fits of torrential laughter this time either.

The worst part of it is, one co-worker wasn’t in work yesterday. They are in today; so it took less than ten minutes of the working day before I heard the entire story yet again, this time with the added bonus that it almost hit someone. So yesterday’s piece of nothing suddenly becomes the hottest topic today. I’ll be surprised if it isn’t on the company homepage by lunchtime.

The strength of this particular brand of innocuous humour lives and dies on the strength, or weakness, of your imagination. If you can hear the above story and stop your brain immediately leaping to something more interesting (say, a blue pen) then you have a chance of finding it funny. If, however, you prefer your comedy to have any sort of substance or funny bits, you’re destined to remain outcast from their inbred society, living off scraps of genuine humour. Or reading Twitter all day.

For example, something half-funny happened regarding the elastic band incident. During one particularly hellish retelling late yesterday afternoon, one of the less intelligent specimins cried out “HA! THEY SHOULD CALL YOU THE……….”.

Then they stopped, and fear flashed across their eyes as they realised they had absolutely nothing else to say. No ending to the sentence they’d birthed without thinking. A horrid botched-abortion of a line that had no right to exist in the first place.

Five seconds passed and “…..band…..” dripped from their mouth, desperately fighting against itself, not wanting to be heard.

Another lengthy gap of vapid nothingness passed as her audience waited with baited breath. Or, in my case, lurching awkwardness smothered in cringeworthy comedy. Then “…..snapper…..” came out, rounding off the full sentence. Was it an attempt at a nickname? Was she about to say something offensive and had to do a mental u-turn at the last second? Is she just a bit thick? We may never know.

“That was pathetic!” I said, smashing the silence with a hammer. “Why did you even bother talking?”. Mean, maybe, but I’m all about negative reenforcement.

It was priceless, watching her slowly die inside as the words refused to come, culminating in the most pointless line of the whole escapade.

Anyway, rant over. You band-snapper.

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