put this in your ears

We are proud (sic) to present our first ever podcast. The sound quality is low, but the talking shit quality is high, long, and it floats. It appears in two parts due to its length and my technological savvylessness.

You can itunes it here.

You can download part one here, part two here.

Or just go here to listen to it.

Here is a bunch of links to shit we talk about.

My toe.

Shark in Venice.

Stingray Sam (fredward).

Mega Shark Vs Giant Octopus.

Jedward.

I haven’t seen one vampire since I started masturbating with my right hand

Have you?

marmalade is what artists strive for

It’s bitter and sweet, right? What you got here is contraction and expansion. Absolute and relative. Don’t get me jam! No fucking jam. See, I don’t like raspberry jam, because it’s too tart. I do like strawberry jam, but it’s a bit too sweet. What you got with marmalade is fucking bitter and sweet.

This is an excerpt from Guy Ritchie explaining how he goes about his films.

I should say that I don’t hate Guy Ritchie, far from it, I really enjoyed Lock Stock and Snatch, and even went into Revolver with a positive frame of mind, which was wasted on the film itself.

The whole Kabballa, Madonna faux Cockney thing is a bit shit, but I don’t hate Polankski films just because he ass rapes young girls (that reminds me, is that old bastard in jail yet?).

Artists do get up their own ass some times. I’m up mine now.

We try and explain things in a way that makes them sound way more intelligent than we are.

But Ritchie, you can’t pretend you are making the equivalent of Marmalade films when the last film I saw of yours was Rock’n'rolla, and it was cockney action film by numbers.

It wasn’t a steaming pile of shit, like say Revolver, but it was just a film.

Not Marmalade.

It didn’t provoke me, it wasn’t bitter and sweet, it was just a action film, far from the best or worst of the genre.

That is ok though, film making is the hardest art, because you have to convince other people to give you money, and that means compromise.

Some dude with a canvas can do an illustration of a vulva’s inner turmoil, but convincing a film financier to do the same might be tougher.

Ritchie’s films, when he is at his best, are fun.

That is a good thing, no he isn’t Aronofsky looking for the deeper meaning of life in the cum tree, or Jim Jarmusch redefining the very idiom of no plot, but people like his films just the same.

They don’t like them because they contract and expand.

They like them cause cool shit happens, people swear, the good guys keep digging themselves in shit and then they end with a satisfactory end.

Everytime Ritchie has strayed from that premise film audiences have said “meh”, or real words.

That is not to say he shouldn’t experiment, but the thing with experiments is they often don’t work.

And most people fucken hate Marmalade.

How Samantha Fox turned me on

When I was a boy, Samantha Fox sexually awakened me. I didn’t know much about it then, but before her I never noticed breasts, and since her I have rarely failed to notice breasts. I wouldn’t say she was a sexual object to me, but she turned me from girls stink, to girls mmmm.

Then she disappeared off the celebrity radar. I forgot about her. She was replaced by Pamela Anderson, then Uma Thurman, and then finally by Natalie Portman. But these days celebrities never truly disappear, they just sell records in Paraguay and then their careers are briefly saved by a scandal or by celebrity reality shows.

Recently Fox has been in the show that rejuvenates the career of many an English star, “I’m a starved of attention ex-celebrity and I’m willing to eat wombat faeces to get famous again”. Or something like that.

This means that she is now back in the media spotlight, however briefly. Because of this I have found out many new facts about Sam, like she was the first westerner to play in some place I have forgotten, and she also makes the amazing claim that she is a lesbian. She backs this up by a potential marriage to a lady.

Apparently this whole thing happened in the last few years, I assume before the world showed any renewed interest in Fox. But I still find it weird that I never knew, how is it possible that Samantha Fox, who started my smut filled life, could be a lesbian and I wouldn’t know about it? How quickly we forget our first lust.

For the average boy the timeline goes; boobs, lesbians, then you get your kink on. Something like feeding a girl your semen on a family heirloom spoon, or only trying to sleep with chicks with a lazy eye. So had Fox come out as a lesbian when I was being awakened (and after someone in the schoolyard had clued me into inner workings of Sapphic love), the outing could have been a huge deal for me back in the day. It may have changed my entire life.

Instead of the natural progression from glamour model to semi porn star to cool actresses to Natalie Portman, I may have just stayed on Samantha Fox, like some obsessed manchild running her fan site and searching the Internet to abuse anyone who dares to make a joke at her expense.

I’d probably still live at home too, with pictures of her blue tacked on the wall, and some crappy signed publicity shot in a cheap frame just above my bed. Not to forget the secret cum towel I’d have for when I gazed up at these poorly composed shots of her from the 80s. I may even like her music, and duel with trolls on old Videos of Fox on youtube.

Luckily none of that has happened. And the news of Samantha Fox’s sexuality, while a surprise, has had no impact on my life outside of this post. Perhaps because there have been other women since then, perhaps because the thought of lesbians was ruined when my mum kissed another woman in a play, or just perhaps because the sexuality of a woman I haven’t thought of in 20 years is not that important to me. Even if her breasts started it all.

In all the emotion of this, I may have lost my point, but Sam says it best:

Pixel sex gets me hot

Recently I put my ten confusing porn things into a dynamic new medium, offline blogs.

An English company is running something called the blog paper, and was asking for bloggers to put their work in.

I thought why not give them some porn, and bugger me if they didn’t print it in their paper.

Unfortunately, they didn’t put a link to this blog, but to another one I write on that people actually read.

Regardless it was a triumph for this blog and its sexual deviancy.

The blog paper is also available online (thinking about that will do your head in) and you can see my article on page 14.

The picture they have used for my story is a digitalised sex image.

They probably did it due to some moral decency thing.

But little do they know that I regularly masturbate to pixilated porn.

I win.