The Next Action Hero (the decline of the lad’s mag)
Posted by Jacko | Filed under Jacko: Author
I wrote this short story after discovering that Men’s Health had overtaken FHM, in terms of sales. Thinking of sending it off to Men’s Health, actually. Worth a shot. They’ll probably conclude that I’m a little bit weird. Anyway, enjoy.
*
It’s Sunday, therefore, I’m hungover. I have to make it through the day for no other reason, other than to survive. It’s likely that I’ll spend the next twelve hours watching television, whilst taking breaks for biological purposes, one for pleasure, and one for discharging the toxic kebab that is currently brutalising my digestive tract. The toilet will become my living Hell, and I’m going to need a magazine for those boring, painful, bloody times…Actually, I’ll probably need a magazine for both biological “necessities.”
I walk into the newsagents. Jimmy the shop owner doesn’t acknowledge me. He knows I’m in a bad place. He witnessed the same performance last week, and the week before, and the…you get the picture.
I fill my basket with junk food: Sugars, fats, e-number things, pig, gristle, Haribo, everything I need to make my waking moments more bearable. Something to read…
I scan the shelves…
Footy magazine – Sky was invented for a reason.
Film magazine – I’m hungover! I want to see shit blown up. I don’t want to read about it, or read an in-depth analysis of foreign crap with subtitles and subplots. Films with “sub” in them mean they’ll be critically acclaimed and borrrrrring…Unless they have submarines in them, blowing shit up.
Gaming magazine – Flashing lights and spinning screens bring forth nausea and the kebab from last night. Reading about them may trigger the same responses.
Porno – I look round the store. No-one I know, and, more importantly no old grannies who’ll tell me I’m going to Hell, again. Romancing the bone does give one the respite from even the most crippling of hangovers, even if it is for five minutes, five beautiful minutes….Nah, too much dexterity required to turn the pages. Internet will bring women, and for free.
Lad’s Mag – Pictures of pretty ladies; a few funny stories and jokes; bit about sport; few film and game reviews; cool articles. A little bit of everything in a neat little package. Sold.
I pick up the magazine and go to see Jimmy. No embarrassment this time after the controversial Older-Bolder-Bitches purchase, last week.
“Hang on,” say I, as something catches my peepers. Men’s Health, I mouth, silently. What’s that? I feel the flab around my stomach and realise that I have never linked the two words together. I scan through the featured articles, displayed, as proud as Pride, on the front of a six-pack.
“Fifteen Flat-Belly Powerfoods,” Is that a sentence?
“Seduce Any Woman-No Talking Required” Free Rohypnol could be useful.
“What works better: Sauna or Steam.” Why would I give a shit about that?
“Jimmy! What’s this all about?” I ask my local provider of magazines, cancer-inducing nutrition, mobile phone top-ups, £6 Bolivian vodka and scratchcards.
“New craze, mate. It’s overtaken FHM for popularity, now.”
“Shut up,” say I, as I flick through the pages of half-naked…MEN! “This is a sausage fest, pal. There ain’t a pair of jugs in sight.”
“There’s usually a bit of tit towards the end,” Jimmy informs me.
I flick through faster than I would the Littlewood’s catalogue when I’m desperately scanning for the lingerie section. Finally, I find flesh softer than the rest of the chiselled muscle that’s on show. I realise that I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. “This is rubbish. You can’t see owt as it’s all done shitely, you know, arty, like.” I read out the featured article’s title. “’Make Any Woman Orgasm In Five Minutes.’”
I look up, unaware of the audience. Strange, a middle-aged lady smiles coyly.
“Why would I give a shit about that?” I ask Jimmy as the woman storms out of the shop.
“Watch your language! Even you don’t spend enough on fags, booze and weird porn to warrant scaring away the other customers.”
I ignore him as I read a little more. “’Put an inch on your arms in six weeks.’” Six weeks of doing these…press-ups…sounds a lot of hard work, if you ask me.”
Jimmy sighs, “That’s why you look like you do, and that bloke in the mag looks like he does.”
“Yeah, but he spends all his time looking at himself in the mirror and sweating with other like-minded freaks. I’d prefer to watch action movies with heroes beating up bad-guys, bagging the birds and engaging in the blowing up of shit.”
“You ever thought that ’cos he looks like that, he isn’t watching it on his TV, he’s actually doing it.”
I once was blind but now I see.
“I can get biceps like these?” say I, as I hold up the magazine to show Jimmy a hunk brandishing an impressive set of guns.”
“Why not?”
“I can get these girls?” I ask, with hope in my heart, as I point at Jimmy’s stock of top-shelf publications.
“I guess so, especially the ones in Swinging Weekly.”
“With a mighty, manly physique, can I crush all my enemies with mighty, manly headlocks and then make love to their women, impressed with my manliness and my ability to make them orgasm within five minutes?”
“…erm…sure, why not?”
“How much for this knowledge? How much does it cost to learn the secrets of six-packs, biceps and the female reproductive system?”
“£4.”
“Shit the bed! Give us a copy of Razzle, instead.”
“Come on, now. You look terrible, you haven’t had a girlfriend in years and chances are high that you ain’t going to get another one.”
Jimmy’s right. I’ve been spiralling out of control since she left me. Booze, fags and fast food had taken its toll, and I had destroyed a body that once was…well, better than it is now.
“You’re right, Jimmy. You’re bloody right. But I ain’t doing this for me,” I throw over four pound coins. “I’m doing this for the women…you know, so I can do ’em.”
*
Yes! A picture of Thora Hird, two blogs running.
Tags: action hero, author, e numbers, FHM, Flex, Jacko, kebab, loaded, mark jackman, Men's Health, Muscle and Fitness, newsagent, older bolder bitches, Razzle, rohypnol, short, story, swinging weekly, Thora Hird, top shelf
If I Were A Rich Man
Posted by Jacko | Filed under ManChat
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
What a song, ey?
Fiddler on the roof, “If I Were A Rich Man.” If I were a rich man, I’d be singing “Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum”, pretty much 24/7.
What I would not be singing is:
I’d fill my yard with chicks and turkeys and geese and ducks
For the town to see and hear.
(Insert)Squawking just as noisily as they can. (End Insert)
With each loud “cheep” “swaqwk” “honk” “quack”
Would land like a trumpet on the ear,
As if to say “Here lives a wealthy man.”
What?
The last thing I would be doing after winning the lottery is buying poultry. What a shit, shit verse. I don’t care if it is sung by a poor milkman in early 20th century Russia, there must have been something better he could have wished for such as a prostitute made out of solid gold, or even a prostitute holding a big bag of gold, or even a prostitute who knew where some gold was, or even a prostitute who wasn’t ridded with STIs, or even a prostitute who was riddled with STIs (Jacko says: “Rubber Up”).
But no. He wished for a loud bloody duck whilst singing “Here lives a wealthy man.” You’re not wealthy, you’re an idiot. What would his neighbours have thought? “Why didn’t he spend the money on prostitutes made of solid gold?”
I didn’t mean to get into that. What I want to talk about is how great it would be if I was rich. This came up, because I was browsing through the shopping website, Play looking at some film memorabilia saw this little piece.
Giger’s Alien.
I love Alien and Aliens, and I even like Alien 3 (won’t mention the fourth one). I’d love to have Giger’s Alien on my desk, but I couldn’t do that with the one above as it is life-sized! 7′8” it is, and a wallet busting £5799.99 to boot! Check it out: Alien I can’t see why anyone would buy this unless they were either really rich or really stupid. There’s a customer review which states “Would look good in any horror fans collection of memorabilia.” I should bloody hope so. For six grand I’d expect it to hunt down and destroy my enemies (of which there are many) and then seek out prostitutes made of solid gold and rid them of their STIs. If you weren’t minted you really would have to be stupid to buy it. I was hoping for a review which said. “After losing all my money in the Farepack Christmas Hamper Scheme, I decided to push the boat out this Christmas and invest in the “Lifesize Scale Alien Xenomorph Statue” to impress the kids. I am now selling my “Lifesize Scale Alien Xenomorph Statue” as my three loan sharks have the audacity to charge interest on the monies owed to them. Still, this would look good in any horror fans collection of memorabilia.”
Where was I? This blog is a bit like Ronnie Corbett’s stories when he sits on the chair, tells a long winded tale and then hits you with a terrible punchline and you yearn for Ronnie Barker to come back on.
“Sorry” was shit .
There’s no Ronnie Barker here, folks. Sorry, just more of me rambling about prostitutes made of gold.
I haven’t blogged in ages, actually, as I have been busy writing the sequel to The Great Right Hope. I’ve now finished the first draft of the second book of The Sid Tillsley Chronicles, ”A Fistful of Rubbers,” and that’s why my imagination is running riot. Back to reality. Being rich. Wouldn’t it be great. I was chatting to a friend today about what I’d do if I was truly rich. I mean rich, not all that “oh, I’m rich because of my loved ones,” bollocks. No, I mean prostitutes made of solid gold, rich.
If I were rich…
I’d hire Face (aka Dirk Benedict) from the A-Team to sit in my front room, and then when I had friends over, I’d pay a dude dressed as Cylon to walk through my front room so that Face could recreate his famous point at the start of the A-Team intro. I love that shit.
I’d buy Manchester United, sack Alex Ferguson and then put my old man in charge and watch the club implode. I remember being a young goal keeper and being told. “Don’t close the angle. it’s easier to dive forwards, than backwards, so stay on the back post and then the striker can only kick it in one place.” My football career didn’t last long. He doesn’t believe in any defensive walls for free kicks. Being Norfolk born and bred, I can’t imagine Evra would get a game, either.
I’d pay a man to watch all forty-two episodes of Sorry, back-to-back, non-stop, for a year just to see what happened to him.
I’d pay a scientist (a real one) to invent and breed Ewoks, and then I’d test cosmetics on them as a punishment for ruining “Return of the Jedi.”
I’d shut every plastic and chrome bar in the country and reinvest in Great British pubs.
I’d remake Highlander 2.
I’d organise a Battle Royale, the likes of which, the world has never seen. I’d offer a billion pounds and a penis enlargement to the winner of this fight to the death, man versus man, epic bout of brutality, extravaganza. I’d send invites to Hulk Hogan, Crocodile Dundee, Steven Segal, Chuck Norris, Grant from Eastenders, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Mike Tyson, Dolph Lundgren, Carl Weathers and Gary Busey. And then, I’d send armed guards to collect Andy Murray, Jeremy Kyle and the prick down my gym who doesn’t put the weights back and then I’d let battle commence. I’d pay that bloke who shouts”LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEE” to come along and shout “LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEE” There isn’t a red-blooded man alive who wouldn’t want to watch that.
I’d remake “Fiddler on the Roof,” and make it real freaky with… you know!
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m not a very materialistic person and for me to live the life of my dreams, I’d need billions and billions. Who cares about owning a Ferrari, when you can fuck up an Ewok, real bad. And, in conclusion, isn’t that what being rich is all about?
So, if you were infinitely rich, what would you do?
Tags: A fiddler on the roof, A Fistful of Rubbers, a-team, alien, alien 3, aliens, Battle Royale, billionaire, Carl Weathers, cosmetics, cylon, dirk benedict, ewoks, face, Farepack, Gary Busey, giger, Hulk Hogan, If I were a rich man, loaded, mark jackman, play, prostitutes, Return of the Jedi, rich, Ronnie Barker, Ronnie Corbett, solid gold prostitutes, Sorry, spacedocking, starbuck, Steven Segal, The Great Right Hope, The Sid Tillsley Chronicles, Van-damme
