Hail To The King, Baby!
Posted by Jacko | Filed under Chewing of Fat
I don’t feel very good, right now. There are no illnesses, that I know of, coursing through my body. I am not hungover. I am not depressed. So, how come I am feeling rough, you ask. The answer is cheeseburgers.
I ate five cheeseburgers in a twenty-four hour period, from Friday night to Saturday night. Now I’m a healthy guy; I really am. I go to the gym four times a week and eat well. Yeah, I like a few beers. Who doesn’t? I haven’t got to justify myself to you. Shut up. However, I was celebrating the birthday of a friend and we had a couple of nights on the ale. I had a great time, but I didn’t eat anything through the day and we survived the night’s drinking by grabbing a quick McDonalds on each of the nights.
Not wanting to piss about, I always order what I can see is ready, and it was cheeseburgers on both nights. Cheeseburgers are lovely, but their effects on the human body are physiologically similar to that of heroin (well, they are both bad for you).
Two days on, and these cheeseburgers are still in my system. How far they have descended is something that I do not know. I feel discomfort from the top of my stomach all the way through to daylight. Those five intestine wreckers are on their way south and are moving like a continental plate, slow, steady and with the momentum that will break things in two, resulting in an eruption of magma.
Now, the reason for this blog is to pay homage to a great man: Elvis Aaron Presley.
Now, most people who know me, know I love the King and I mention him as a hero on my website. The King had the greatest voice of his generation, and, arguably, of all time. I am not here to discuss that. What I am here to say is that there is no-one, other than the great man himself, who could perform, to that standard, with that many cheeseburgers inside him.
The King, in his twenties, could eat eight cheeseburgers in a sitting, so I hate to think what he could have done in his later years. EIGHT! The guy must have felt terrible all the time, yet he still managed to pull off some of the most amazing performances in music history. Even before his death, he still had his voice. Yes, he was a large shadow of his former self, but the voice was still there.
What could he have achieved if he hadn’t ate cheeseburgers. How great could he have become? Elvis was a Karate master, can you imagine if the King had challenged the fitness DVD franchise of Billy Blanks’ Tae-Bo series. Elvis singing a track, whilst busting out moves at the speed of lightning would be number one, every January, after we indulge at Xmas.
Would he have become the President of the United States? Would he have evaded Iraq? Would he have needed to?
“Hey, Saddam, have you got any of them big mamma weapons, man?”
“Well, yes, we have, King.”
“You get rid of them, man, or I am going to come over and take care of business. You understand me? You get rid of them, and I’ll come over and play to your troops, as a thank-you. Heck, I’ll even throw in one of my “Karate with the King” fitness DVDs.”
“OK, King, I’ll tell the boys down the plant to get rid of them. Sorry about that. You know I get a little adventurous around my birthday. My Mrs loves them DVDs!”
Cheeseburgers: The devil’s work. If they can do what they did to the King, what are they going to do to a mere mortal like you or I?
Stay healthy, people.
Jacko
Tags: ale, Cheesburgers, drinking, Elvis, health
Knock Knock Knockin’ On Jacko’s Door
Posted by Jacko | Filed under ManChat
First thing’s first. I am not big into observational humour, and although I use it here, it ain’t my thing. Capiche? Secondly, I don’t like to reminisce about how wonderful things were in ‘my day.’ My old man is convinced that the finest time in civilisation coincidentally coincided with the prime of his life. No-one had any money, and an angry man from Germany had just committed genocide, but you could leave your door open and no-one stabbed grannies because they had sniffed a Pritt-Stick. And there were certainly none of “them lot.”
However, from a recent comment on my blog: Blog 2: Blog Harder I realised that there is something that has changed today, and for the worse. What is that? The answer is: the people who knock on my door. Back in the eighties, there were a plethora of ladies and gentlemen knocking on our doors for our time, money and custom. Here are a few I can remember.
The Video-man: What a man! He came armed to the teeth with Betamax and VHS videos and you would give him a few quid and he’d come and pick them up again, the very next week! You didn’t have to go to Blockbuster, pay the best part of a tenner and have to speak to some spotty little twat behind the counter, to rent a film for three hours. The video-man cared. Your business mattered, and he knew what you wanted, and also what your Dad wanted. Ey? Ey? You know what I’m talking about! Ey?
The Milkman: Yeah, I know they are still going, but they are a dying race (not literally). I remember our first milkman. He had something wrong with his lips and he spoke funny, but it didn’t matter that you couldn’t understand what the fuck he was saying. You knew what he was there for: To deliver milk.
The Insurance-man: What a weird concept, thinking about it now. We used to have a guy from the Prudential come round and you’d pay him money, every fortnight, for various insurance schemes. You probably didn’t get the best rate, but you didn’t have to go trawling through websites. How I hate it so.
Jehova Witnesses: They gave up, didn’t they? I haven’t seen one in years. There were definitely more back in Great Yarmouth than there are in Loughborough. Not sure if that is statistically true, but it feels like it. I used to love ‘em. They really used to put up a good fight. Not physically, well, it depended on how many beers the old man had sunk, after work.
The Prison-Man: Do these exist any more? Ex-cons going straight and selling wares. I remember the fear in my mother’s voice telling some of the hardest men in the country that she didn’t want to buy an ironing cover, or seven-hundred pegs.
I could go on and on, and I usually do, but it was always an experience opening the door. It was a magnificent lottery that you just don’t get these days.
What do you get now? A firework in the face at Halloween and … fucking N-Power!
Fucking N-Power.
Jacko
Tags: comedy, Fucking N-Power, humour, rant
Blog 2: Blog Harder
Posted by Jacko | Filed under ManChat
Blog-Thing 2, Baby!
This is my second ever proper blog! All sequels are better than the originals. In fact, I can’t think of a single poor sequel in the history of film or fiction. Bearing in my mind that I have nothing to really talk about, as I wrote my first blog yesterday, and I am trying to get some content on this thing, I am going to bloody well talk about sequels.
Now, sequels are always shite. Yeah, yeah, I know I said that crap at the beginning, but I can’t be arsed to delete it now. There are a few exceptions including, in my opinion, Terminator 2, Evil Dead 2, all of the Roger Moore James Bond films (Connery wouldn’t have dressed up as a crocodile, the uninventive twat) and Lolita 2 (not as thought-provoking as the first, but everything was above board, as things should be).
Why is it that sequels, generally, suck? I am new to this writing lark, but as I write the follow-up to The Great Right Hope with an air of trepidation (YES! I knew I could use that word in one of them sentence things). I really, really do not want to write a stinker. I really, really don’t. Even if someone offered me a wad of cash, I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Not that that is going to happen, but it’s just pride. Everyone hates shit sequels, and it isn’t like it is a surprise at the end, is it?
You know when you have produced something shite. After England’s innings defeat against the Windies, the other day, the captain, Andrew Strauss, knew he had done bad. He didn’t try to put a positve spin on things. How could he? Gents, you know when you have put in a sub-standard performance in the bedroom. Only northern husbands can impose sufficient physical dominance to convince a housewife that their thirty second run-through was the work of a Lothario.
From this, I refuse to believe that Russell Malcahy, director of Highlander II, The Quickening, sat through the premiere and, at the end, in all honesty, said: “Lads, that was fucking brilliant.”
Perhaps it is naivety on my part. Perhaps the big bucks change people. I don’t know, perhaps my ambition of owning a Ford Capri and punching a shark keep my feet firmly on the ground. But that means that I will always try and write something bloody good, and if I don’t achieve it, the only reason will be my gross incompetence, and you can’t say fairer than that.
Jacko
Tags: bloke, cricket, highlander, ManChat, north, sequel
Here Be Dragons
Posted by Jacko | Filed under Chewing of Fat
Welcome to my Blog!
This is all uncharted territory for me, and there is an air of trepidation as I tap away at my keyboard. I think it’s trepidation; it could well be the curry I had last night. Hang on… Yeah, I just looked up what trepidation means and it is definitely the curry. Good word is trepidation. I’ll add it to my list of words that I want to use. Best start this thing again.
This is all uncharted territory for me, and there is an air of pungency as I tap away at my keyboard. Blogging. Like trepidation, that’s a new word for me, too, and something that I have no idea about. The whole world of books is new, but at least I know what a book is, and I even read one, once. But Blogs? I have never read one in my life! I don’t even know if it is a big B or a little b. So I have done a little research, here and there, and have discovered that Blogs are either written by people telling you about their days or by people who have a message to send out to the world.
Which one am I? Bit of both, I guess.
I am not the sort of guy to keep a diary. I don’t keep photos, or anything like that, either. I may want to talk ManChat (one of the categories). ManChat is a place where only testosterone fuelled conversation is allowed. It usually takes place after a botched DIY attempt, sexual failure, bad driving or sporting defeats. Women go on and on about guys not being in touch with their emotions and that is a pile of crap, in my opinion. I displayed hate, rage and anger when I smashed through my kitchen wall with a lump hammer and a barrage of expletives, after completely fucking up the installation of a simple plug . When England completely fucked up their 2006 World Cup campaign and I drunk fifteen pints of beer and vomitted in public, I displayed sadness, a bit of hate, rage, anger, and then about a three pint mix of beer/stomach acid and carrots, and no, I hadn’t eaten any. So yeah, womenfolk, we can display emotions and ManChat is where they will be.
I’m trying to get into this writing lark, too. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I am already well into the actual writing, but now it is time for me to blossom as an author. I need to “grow the brand.” I need to “reach the customer.” I need to stop “talking like a twat.” But it’s true, I need to make a name for myself in the big wide world, and it starts here. The first book is out there (as an e-book), the second one is coming along nicely, too. Each day, and each word written will bring me ever closer to reaching my goal of making it on to Celebrity Big Brother. Nah, not really. I will consider myself to have made it once the three books of The Sid Tillsley Chronicles are printed, I own a Ford Capri which works, and I have punched a shark.
So, my pretties, there you have it, my first proper Blog thing. If you like the cut of my jib, then subsribe and prepare for a wonderful year of entertainment, rage and anger. Have a look round my website, too. There are a lot of things to make you chuckle on there, and you can also have a look at what my book is all about. www.mark-jackman.com
Jacko
