"Our Next Song Is Called.....

SERVANTS TO YOUR KNEES.........ROOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRR"

It is hard for me to take any band that looks like this seriously....

Swedens Finest

Just like Gangsta Rappers, I find both their looks and lyrics, when I can fuckin' understand them, hilarious. It intrigues me, is it just an act? Characters that they play for their public? Or do they really live their lives like this? I know what they want their fans to think and I know that their fans really believe, but what is reality with lads like this? I'm fucking laughing my arse off just thinking about it. I'm drunk and I crack myself up. What can I say?

Anyway, last night I had both the pleasure and misfortune to witness the above band (and their loyal fans) in person. The band, Immortal, even though I'm not keen on the genre, could play like a fuckin' riot and were alright even though the two support bands,whose names are not even worthy of me googling, were utter shite. Immortal were funny as fuck and I had to laugh as they hammed it up big time. Their idiot, shitfaced fans lapped it up.

I got caught up in the middle of two fights, one because somebody accidentally spilled somebody else's beer and another because a supposed hard man with 3 inch nails pierced through his cheeks didn't like having water thrown at him. The disputes were quickly and easily dealt with, proving once again that over-sized rings in the nose and ears are a distinct disadvantage when it comes to defending yourself. If you are going to act like a twat, take the piercings out. I also dispatched 3 drunken arseholes, one of which had pissed all over himself and forgotten to put his dick away, and another who had almost certainly shat himself, into the street. It was a fuckin' ideal way to spend a Sunday evening.

I have never encountered a smellier, sweatier, more repulsive set of human beings than I did last night. It smelled like they had each arrived with pockets full of old pimento loaf to offer up as sacrifice to the gods of metal on stage. There were some very ugly people in attendance. The usual Satanic Hispanics and acne ridden teenagers were there and hordes of big titted rock chicks who looked like they could knock seven colours of shite out of me. There were also a number of very worried looking parents who kept hanging around me, several of which asked me if we allowed moshing (concerned about the safety of their kids), to which I would reply " yes, but if I see you hitting any kids I will kick the fuck out of you." Not many of them got the joke.

It's always the 16-25 age group that amuse me the most. Testosterone, Budweiser and Meth fuelled little boys dressed to piss off mummy and daddy and strutting round the mosh pit until they get their nose broken or some teeth knocked out.

Mosh pits.......another enigma. What the fuck are these people trying to prove? First off, none of these people look like they have a job, let alone health insurance. Second, strutting around in a circle knocking over spawnier, scrawnier little twats than you does not make you hard and thirdly, losing one shoe really sucks because you have to buy TWO new ones you stupid fucks.

Anyway, I get my kicks. One idiot standing near me yelled out in a break between songs, "MOSES WILL BURN IN A COFFIN FULL OF ICE." This amused the hell out of me. I had to ask him if he had considered that the heat of the fire might melt the ice, turn it to water and thus put out the fire. He gave me a blank look before turning to the stage and yelling "I AM IMMORTAL." Once the band started playing again and the crowd started moving I taught him a lesson by putting the gum I had been chewing into his waist length hair. Hopefully the dirty fucker will wash it now. He was the first of three victims. Putting gum in peoples hair, a small victory, but then again in many ways I am a small man.......

Back To Business

As you know, part my mission statement here at Leatherette Beanbag is to keep you, my peeps, informed and abreast of the hot issues of the day. I don't always do that, very rarely in fact but now and again news items catch my eye and I think to myself "I just have to do a post on that". Invariably, I forget and due to my international jet set playboy lifestyle don't post anything at all.

It's been a week, again. My output has slowed considerably. The days of 4, 5 even 6 posts a week are long gone and due to my current schedule, won't be back anytime soon. Every now and again I think about jacking it in but then how would I amuse myself? Besides, I have never been a quitter (unless you count the time I said "fuck it" and left England for the US) and will carry on posting when I can. To those of you whose blogs I don't comment on as regularly as I would like please bear with me.

All that said, the wacky wookie impersonator of Hollywood Blvd is at it again! Some of you may recall that back in February a Chewbacca impersonator on Hollywood Blvd was arrested for harassing Japanese tourists outside Mann's Chinese Theater. The Chinese is the haunt of numerous horrible celebrity impersonators all jostling, sometimes aggressively, for the tourists' dollar. You pay them to have your picture taken with them in their ratty foul smelling costumes. I just don't get it myself but who am I to judge?

Anyway, this time a Marilyn Monroe impersonator called the cops and accused Chewie of placing her hand over his crotch in a dispute over tips. This time Chewie was not arrested as not report was filed. Police claim not to know if this is the same impersonator (how many can there be?) as was arrested back in February. The two impersonators have a history of not getting along.

Marilyn (Manson not Monroe) Look-a-Like

If you are going to impersonate someone you really have to do it well to avoid ridicule. You have to both look the part and sound the part, one out of two won't cut it unless you are on the radio. I have never quite got the impersonator thing. They are rarely ever amusing unless they are unbelievably bad and I'm pretty sure that isn't what they are aiming for. They have to believe that they have their target so spot on that they could actually be mistaken for their idol. But they don't, do they? I mean it's not like I'm walking down the street and over the other side is a Michael Jackson impersonator who, from a distance, bears a decent resemblance, and I'm going to think "Fuck me! There's Michael Jackson!" because the real Michael Jackson doesn't walk down busy streets, alone, in the daytime does he?

Just Can't Wait To Be King

I think if someone is impersonating a dead celebrity, it's different because it's like they are re-creating something that we can no longer experience except on telly or on radio, cd, dvd, record, the internet etc. I personally would not pay to go and watch an Elvis or a Biggie Smalls impersonator perform but there are obviously many that would. Probably people who never saw the real thing, but at least they can tell their kids that they saw the next best thing one time at the LA County Fair.

"Can I Get a Whoop - Whoop?"


Will The Real Old Knudsen Please Stand Up?



"Like What You See or See What You Like?"

Fuck Me! It's a Fucking Meme

I swore I would never do this but since Foot Eater and Fat Sparrow both tagged me, and me being a polite, accommodating sort, I feel that to ignore them would be rude.

So, against all I stand for, here are eight items of biographical half truths about yours truly:

1. I have a lifetime ban from all Tesco stores worldwide. In an embarrassing case of mistaken identity I stand accused of fondling fruit and of committing simulated sexual acts with vegetables during store hours.
2. I am currently suing the National Hockey League for the patent on the modern day hockey puck which I designed on the back of a beer mat in 1998. The beer mat was subsequently stolen from the bar while I was in the bogs.
3. As far as US immigration knows, I am also known as Sancho Robles de Oaxaca, a poor cobbler from Mexico.
4. I once got kicked off "Stars in Their Eyes". My impression of Prince Charles was described by Matthew Kelly as "repulsive and sickening".
5. I have never been to Barnsley.
6. My application to join the Cheshire Constabulary was rejected when I answered "I do not recall" to the question "Have you ever taken illegal substances?"
7. My own line of designer men's underwear "Eddie's", was withdrawn from sale after unfounded allegations of the use of child labour and further bad press regarding what "Which?" magazine called 'excessive gusset shredding'.
8. I carry a forged 50m breast stroke swimming certificate with which to impress the ladies.

There you have it. Just because it seems I have to, I shall tag Ellie, Fresh Hell and Lord Milky and MJ who should be back from her lesbo holidays by now. Please accept my apologies...

Feedback Welcome

So as I alluded to in the previous post, I was subjected to some training at work this week. Two whole days to be exact, 8 - 5 both days. What made this worse was that I didn't need the training. I already knew how to use the fuckin' web based tool for analyzing sales and revenues. In fact, I am one of probably about 5 people in the entire company who did know how to use it. I suspect that everybody else is happy to keep it that way and so I was one of the lucky ones who was instructed to attend.

The training was conducted by two lads, one of them, Mike was the owner of a ridiculously sticky out belly button. To ice the cake, his choice of shirt on both days was a polyester polo shirt that seemed about a size too small, exaggerating his disgusting belly button even more than was necessary. I swear that this thing stuck out like an inch and a half from his belly and was about an inch in diameter as well. So what the fuck is this guy thinking? Is he proud of it and wants to show it off? Is he deliberately fucking with us to see who pays more attention to his belly button? Does he just not give a fuck? What's the deal?

Desperate to get a second opinion, I say to the woman sitting next to me " You could hang yer jacket on that". She looks at me blankly and says "What?" I say "the belly button", she says "I hadn't noticed......ugh! You're right, thats nasty."

Hadn't noticed???? This thing was more noticeable than a deformed limb. You couldn't take your eyes off it if you tried. He may as well have been walking round the room with his dick out.

The feedback forms they passed out at the end of the second day were anonymous so I made sure to note that he should consider wearing looser fitting shirts if he was to command full attention from the trainees. I also rated the course way too long and gave him a poor for his knowledge of the course materials.

His assistant, an Indian( 7-11, not Native American) lad who claimed to be from Chicago but had far too thick an accent was equally useless. He said his name was Jonathan but there is no fuckin' way. It's like when you call your internet company for help and somebody who sounds like they rode into work on an ox or on a bus full of chickens answers the phone and says their name is Robbie or Nicole when it obviously is nothing of the sort. Yes they speak English but they don't UNDERSTAND English and say things like "You can be very welcome to be a loyal customer" and "I can be helping you with that" after every other sentence. 'Jonathan' was a vegetarian but had failed to mention it (probably on purpose) and so didn't get any of the lasagna that the company had provided for lunch. On the second day they provided cold cuts which included sliced cheese but he couldn't even have any of that because the caterer had alternated a slice of cheese then a slice of roast beef around the platter so that every piece of cheese touched a piece of roast beef.

On Jonathan's feedback form I put "Bring a packed lunch" and checked the box for zero when asked how many new skills I had learned as a result of the course. I had to amuse myself somehow...

Weak Excuse

It's been a bugger of a week and I'm fuckin' tired. In addition to all the usual, everyday drama of life, love, work and the general nitty gritty of my incredibly spicy lifestyle the computer caught a virus on Friday night while I was at work and I although I managed to recover all the files, nudey pictures and secret surveillance dossiers I keep on the neighbours, I am still in the process of reinstalling everything and getting it working right again. I won't point fingers or assign blame here other than to say that Mrs. Waring is now well aware that we did not need that update to Windows Media Player that she was offered by that very official looking pop up.

I have stories from the week such as the IT trainer at the day job with the outrageous and very noticeable "outy" belly button and his Indian sidekick with the fake name, I also have a couple of very poor "Do you know who I am?" examples from the club but they will have to wait. I just don't have the time or energy to tell right now. I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer and have set the evening aside for it's consumption.

The 1976 FA Cup Final between Man Utd and Southampton is being shown on TV right now, it's funny how times have changed, not a foreigner on the pitch don't you know?

A Toast to.....Toast

Where the fuck would we be without toast?

Toast is fuckin' ace and no, I'm not toasted and suffering from the munchies. I just thought that I should take a moment to celebrate toast and all it's toasty goodness.

It's one of the most reliable and pleasing foods around if you ask me. Who doesn't like it? What can't you do with it? Cheese on toast, beans on toast, toast with jam on it, bacon on toast, the list is endless. There is no shortage of things that you can do with toast, and like the potato, it's pretty much universal.

Toast is always a welcome treat. Just hearing the word toast makes me feel all warm and funny inside. So does the word "pie". There is never a time when I can't handle a piece of toast. Even in the midst of the worst hangover imaginable you can still manage some toast if nothing else. If you have depressed or suicidal tendencies, just have some toast and it will cheer you right up.

If I wasn't already married, I would marry a piece of toast. For our honeymoon we would go to Barbados where I would eat the toast and report it missing to the the authorities. After a couple of years we could assume the toast is gone for ever and I would remarry, this time to a muffin, although I would be thinking about toast when we did it and would probably cheat on the muffin with all kinds of toast. Wheat, white, sourdough I love them all.

What the fuck am I doing......

100 Not Out

Local man Elbert Dickyleg turns 100 on June 25^th. His family in the hope of cashing in on the old geezer, is planning a secret celebration in his honour at the nursing home where he has lived for the past 40 years. Well, it was a secret. Hopefully he won’t be reading this until after the event. His eyesight isn’t so good so maybe if they just hide his glasses until the 26^th he will be none the wiser. They have ordered a Dora The Explorer bouncy castle and an up and coming young mc/rapper/comedian by the name of F. YoMomma from the local art collective to be the compere. The day promises to full of surprises for Elbert and his friends in the Chateau Requiem Home for Unwanted Relatives and the day will end with a mud wrestling competition between the male care nurses who work there.

I first met Elbert on Monday when I stopped by the home with a donation of old Hustler magazines that I no longer needed. I had torn out many of the better pictures and at some point, probably while very drunk, had drawn crude images of genitalia and written disjointed sentences like "Cunt fuck ice cream...." in felt tip pen over many of the pages that remained. As I’m always thinking of those less fortunate than myself, I had decided to give them to people who needed them more than I.

As I passed a high backed wing chair in the TV lounge (which strangely did not appear to have a TV in it) my arm was grabbed by gnarled bony fingers and I was pulled down into the chair opposite. It was Elbert and he immediately began to regale me with tales of his youth. I didn't want to appear rude and the old lad seemed like he needed someone to talk to so I listened. I was amazed by the story he told and I feel it only deserving of a man of his years that someone should document his story for posterity, after all, if I don’t do it, who will?

Here it is, to the best of my recollection. I may have added some bits here and there to spice it up a bit because he was quite hard to understand at times and would whisper softly to himself now and again. Hopefully it is an accurate account of days gone by.

“We used to ride the box cars on the trains into Dodge City, me and my brother Sarah. He would be in one box car with the cows and I would be in the next with the horses and the elephants, big buggers they were, shat turds like big, giant round things. It used to get real lonely on those box cars and I used to watch my brother Emily having his way with the dairy cows through the cracks in the side of the car. The hours used to fly by and before we knew it we would be in Alasky digging for clams in the frozen dirt. People said we were crazy to be digging for clams in Alasky as everybody and their three legged mule knew that all the best clam digging was to be had in South Dakota but we had been there and never saw a clam not never. Sometimes we would get off the train in the outskirts of a big city like Chicagy and find us a hobo jungle where we could have a good time and my brother Sissy would sell his mouth for a few cents so’s we could by us some vittles. I never did it cause I didn’t care for the taste of other men’s manfat, just my own or my brother Hannah’s if I was hungry enough. Sometimes we couldn’t afford any food so we would have to steal a turnip from the onion vendor outside the moving picture house. A rare treat was a raw parsnip and if we made it back to the hobo jungle without eating it we would throw it into the big pot of hobo soup that the other hobo’s would be cooking up. If we didn’t have a cabbage we would throw in a boot for flavour or one of the elephant turds we had been saving for a rainy day, the worst thing about them was the bits of grass that would get stuck ‘twixt my wooden teeth. I had to have wooden teeth cause all my real ‘uns were stolen by Injuns when the box car was hijacked one time by the suckacoq tribe outside of Dreadlock City. Anyways I took good care of my wooden teeth I did, I would polish them twice a day, sometimes three or four times if I got tired of watching my brother Zsa Zsa having coyeetus with them darn dairy cows. I can still hear his screams of pleasure, mostly at night when the lights go out, he has the room next door to me see y’see. I bang on the wall to tell him to stop but he’s deafer than a deaf matchstick salesman so he is. I’m going to outlive him, we joke about it sometimes. We laugh and laugh until the big nurse comes and punches us and then we stop, or I do, my brother Agnes just keeps laughing. He’s madder than a toasted banana he is. Anyways after the war, we joined the navy as a ships female impersonators cause women weren’t allowed on ships in them days. Bad luck y’see. So they would take hobo’s off the street, men of little morals they called us and would use for the cooking and all the womanly duties like cleaning and sexual acts. We were sailing round the Cape of Halibut one time when we passed the wreckage of a ship and in the wreckage was a young lad with a violin that had no strings. We rescued him and learned from his sign language that he had been raised by sea otters and couldn’t talk although he could play air violin like a riot. When we got back to shore we sold him to a circus man for $20 which was a kings ransom back then. Soon after we deserted and went back to a life of riding the box cars and having our way with animals. It was a different time back then sonny, but we were…….”

Elbert had drifted off and I spied my chance to escape, leaving the box of Hustlers at his feet. I can think of no one more deserving. Happy 100^th Birthday Elbert, you old roisterdoister you. Keep on rockin’ my man!

Elbert "Weather Ear" Dickyleg
Man of The World