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Happy Valentines Day everyone. Hope everyone is feeling loved. #valentines #love #heart #fallout4 #vaultboy #vaulttec #iloveyou

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The Commando Elite then and now! Vote Kipp Killigan for President 2016 #USA #president #vote #funny #republican #trump #bush #small #soldiers #Commando #elite #beforeandafter #feelings #farce #rightwing #hawks

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Captain Jack Sparrow. / Model/Makeup/Costume: Alyson Tabbitha / Photographer: Stephie Joy Photography

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My pumpkin this year. #Halloween #pumpkin #carveitup

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Panhandler

I need to clear something up before I begin (no not that. I haven’t had one of them yet, dirty boy). Anyone who thought that there was a drop in form during my last entry will be pleased and appalled to hear that it was not me writing it. “Why would you abandon us, leaving helpless in the hands of a halfwit?” I hear you ask. Well, in order for the story about the ward who got eaten by Dunkers to sound authentic and first person (like 50 Shades of Pay) I hired a ghost writer. Yes, an honest to goodness ghost that was actually eaten by Dunkers. Apparently everything was smaller back then and such occurrences were commonplace.

Now that the only joke in the scrip has been read I can continue with this intellectual piece on Panhandlers. I hope you learn something. If you do, there is a certificate at the end for you. If you don’t, go back to the start and read it through again. It will sink in eventually (like a virus contracted through the skin).

PAN stands for Personal Area Network (no lies. I didn’t make this bit up…yet). A Personal Area Network is a computer network centred around a single person. I am currently sitting in my room and I have a PAN. There is the computer that I’m currently writing on, the PlayStation that is connected to all of its files, my TV which shares files with the PlayStation and at its centre is me, the Operator. I am my own Panhandler. Everything within my Personal Area Network is controlled by me. It doesn’t do anything without my permission (usually. The PlayStation does occasionally turn its self on but fuck you, that’s what). But this is multimedia and technology. These days everything is connected whether it’s  wired or wireless or both, like your radio (granddad!).  Technology, however, is not the only thing that connects to create networks. People also have networks and it’s these networks and their inner connective systems that I am going to talk about today (like a TED talk…I wish).

If we look at human beings as individuals firstly. Each person is in possession of a PAN. This would be family members or other close relative/guardians. They have an immediate network of people within their personal area. The personal area may not be their home, as they could live alone, but rather the place where this particular network congregates. Within this network, they may not have much control or say. They can leave it, add to it through relationships and reproduction or even destroy it through lies and deception (like a computer virus, spreading from one person to the next) or through an act of mass murder (preferable). The Panhandler in this situation is usually the matriarch of the family, having the most sway over the entire network. Sure, some components might not do as they are told but the majority will obey.

Now, most (not all) of these people will be a part of one or more other PANs. Within each one their roles will change depending on the Panhandler and what they expect of each component. This is most easily seen in school groups or gangs. A gang always has a leader. The one person that keeps the group together (mostly). This isn’t always achieved through amiable means but rather through fear or sex (wait, what?). This person is the Panhandler. Do not, however, misuse the term PAN to mean the entire gang. The person area only allows for one degree of separation. The Panhandler will have handpicked his or her PAN. Those people may in turn bring other people to be a part of the group. They may not know or like the Panhandler particularly well but are there because of their friend. This makes them a part of the Local Area Network (in keeping with the computing analogies). But they may be a part of someone else’s PAN. Picture a page full of overlapping circles where the edge of one touches the centre of another. The centre of each circle is the Panhandler and the edge is where its PAN would stand.

What I am trying to say is that some people are Panhandlers of one group but merely part of the PAN in another. Some people never become a Panhandler but are possibly in more PANs than their peers. Some people never make the PAN of anyone other than their own immediate relations. Where PANs overlap LANs are formed and then Global Networks. Here are some examples to further simplify my overcomplicated analogy about human herding behaviour.

An ordinary classroom of children with one teacher is a PAN. The teacher is the handler and the children are the PAN. The school is then a LAN, where the Head is the Lanhandler and all staff and pupils the LAN. The country is then a GN, with the Prime Minister or whatever runs your country as the Gnhandler (silent G) and all the population of that country the network.

Understand? It’s getting late now anyway so don’t worry if you don’t. Have a certificate anyway. I was just trying to justify using Panhandler as many times as I could without knowing what it meant. Now neither do you. Congratulations.

I, ________________,  have completed the very difficult course ‘Panhandling for Dummies’ with a distinction. I can now do jobs in the cinema, bowling plex and arcade.

Luke “Panhandler x 8” Sampson, PAN

Course Director

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A Mouldy Bag of Sandwiches at the Back of the Wardrobe

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day.

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

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Jon Snow - by Danielle Storey

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My dear Americans.

Some of you may be thinking of not voting Obama because he went back on his word a few times from his last campaign. That’s a fair point.

But just think, what if you vote Mitt Romney … and he doesn’t go back on ANYTHING HE’S SAID!

What would be worse???

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Video Game Logic

These are pretty funny and massively accurate haha

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“Would You Kindly Keep Calm and Carry On”

Created by GhostGlide

Available on RedBubble

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Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy with Will Ferrell & John C. Reilly from Will Ferrell

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How Beer Saved My Life

Welcome back to the only blog on the internet. Well the only blog I’ve written. Well the only blog I’ve written this year (if I read as often as I wrote I would never have finished a book, which I totally have). Now before we begin with the main body of text that will make up the funny story relating to the heading, there is some admin I must address. It seems that a lot of you were interested in the pasty pen that was mentioned in the last entry. This interested me too as I have no recollection of ever owning or using a pasty pen. Fortunately for you, I am a master genius and have invented a new one. Here is how it is made. First, walk in to your local bakery, or a Greggs if you live in Britain, and ask for a pasty. It has to be one that is big enough to fit a pen (I’ll tell you why in a minute). Say thank you and finish your transaction courteously. Next, go to your local stationary store, or WHSmiths if you live the UK, and ask for a pen. It can be a marker or a ballpoint or even a gel glide but it has to be small enough to fit in a pasty (wait, for fuck sake). Lastly, stick the pen in your pasty so that only the tip is poking out. This way you can do your work and eat your dinner at the same time. Just don’t eat the pen. (Patent Pending 2012). Next week I will explain how you can get your hands on a steak bake iPad.

When it comes to alcohol I’ve never really had a very good relationship. As a teenager I flirted a little with the devils tipple. As a student I came on heavy to Satan’s bevvy. And as an adult I have no taste for it (what rhyming?). But I can say with the greatest respect and gratitude that without alcohol I don’t think I would be alive right now. The story begins back in High School, or Cymer if you are me (which you are not, but I am). I was never very popular outside of my extensive group of friends. Within my group of friends however, I would say that I was the leader, the Boss. They would come to me with problems, presents and prostitutes (ignore the last one). It was a position of power that required my attention around the clock. I had people hanging on the bell all day and never giving me a moments peace. I felt like a hundred and eleven year old hobbit trying to arrange a birthday party. So, on occasion I would allow myself a small alcoholic drink (of immense strength) to relieve some stress. Stress of course being the number one killer of high school kingpins. Or so I thought. As it happens, jealous second-in-commands are the number one killer of high school kingpins and I was about to find that out the hard way (not all the way though or I wouldn’t be writing this, so don’t worry).

I was, as it was customary, taking my Friday morning movements (jogging or shitting, I can’t remember) when the door to the cubicle burst open and in came my best friend. I would have shook his hand all polite but mine were busy with other things. Oh, and he had a knife in his. I sprung up and gave him a clout with the only thing at hand (yes, I was wiping my arse or jogging). Now covered in shit he chased me back to the common room where, due to my awesome speed, I already was. I throw my glass of high octane spirits at the tissue on his face then set the bastard on fire (teach him to interrupt a jog). That was the first time alcohol saved my life (although not beer). There were more attempts on my life in the months that were left in school and somehow they all ended in a similar way. I don’t know if this was a skill I became proficient in or whether the writer was too lazy to think of any more incidents (fourth wall, never!). Shortly after that I left the safety net of private education (or public in American) and became an university student.

Having lost my celebrity status in Uni, I decided to take up golf. Pub golf. This seemed to be a popular way of making friends and having people idolize you. All I needed was an inert ability to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol in as little ‘sips’ as possible. I would have to practice. So I drank and drank and drank each night until I could take down a whole bottle of beer in a single ‘sip’. I worked at it and eventually practice paid off.  I entered the local PGA Tour (Pub Golf Arseholes) and I was all ready to take my place, back in the upper echelons of society when disaster struck. A lighting rig, high above my head, had been wired wrong (some years ago by some cowboy builders but the student union didn’t have the money to put it right) and burst in to flames. The flames subsequently set fire to my drink, just as I was slamming it back. Soon my mouth was ablaze and no one knew what to do. Everyone was apanic (too right it’s a word). I, however, remained calm. Having set many a person’s visage on fire I also knew how much liquid it would take to put it out. Exactly one beer. This was the moment I had been waiting for (in a situation I wouldn’t have imagined). Grabbing a bottle from the bar I chugged the golden nectar back in one almighty swig. The fire subsided and everyone was cheering. The only injury I sustained was a very burned tongue and a retarded mustache growth. That was the time that alcohol, beer specifically, really saved my life.

I am now an adult and as I said earlier I have no taste for alcohol. Well, actually, I have no taste for anything because of the burned tongue thing. I can’t even taste the pasties that I have on my pens (that’s why I forget them, duh!). So until next time, don’t forget to be aware of your drinking (spirits are flammable and beer isn’t).

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A Pigeon's Religion

Hello and welcome to the new format blog entry from ACRE member Luke ‘Handsome Boy Aint He’ Sampson, wherein I actually try to write a fucking blog and not leave it months and months before writing one (even if the one I write is in fact funnier than the other threes combined efforts for the entire year). So apparently some arsehole decided that the first entry would be titled ‘a pigeon’s religion’. I have no idea what that even means because I don’t know two of those words already and I’ve eaten the other one so there. Anyway, I thought I would give it a go and see where it goes (hopefully a tunnel to the bottom of a tub of meatballs in Subway…mmm).

Let me first try to make sense of the word that I do know, Pigeon. This is not to be mistaken with the flying rodent that congregate around Ponty square and plot about shitting on poor, defenceless OAP’s and passing avian flu on to sickly, pale children. They are to my knowledge called Pijuns, which is a homophone of Pigeon but sadly that is where the similarities end (and no I don’t mean a Blackberry Curve or a Samsung Galaxy, a homophone is when two words sound the same, fucking idiot). No, a Pigeon is of course a measurement of time. This is plain to see if we look closer at the word. Segment the word into two and we have: Pig, a farm yard animal usually kept for meat and recreation and Eon, a long time. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Ye, stupid, we can all see that it is two words and we know what both of them mean but what does the word mean put together, div?”

Well, it is clearly the largest amount of time imaginable by a pig (or a billion years whether the pig likes it or not, whichever comes first). But to really fathom just how large we need to look at how a pig perceives the other three dimensions in his life (because time is the forth dimension, not fucking wind or snow or cold seats like Ice Age will try and have you believe, smug cunts). To do this I put 100 pairs of 3D glasses on 100 pigs then made them watch The Avengers. The results were very surprising. After only an hour of the film half the pigs had fallen asleep (or comma, I’m not a doctor of animals), about five per cent had started screwing and the rest were rooting for Loki to win. When I put this through my fancy computer programme it told me that the reason for this was that pigs see 3D in super slow motion which was making the film very boring (except for the Loki bits). With this in mind I was able to come up with an hypothesis on the Pigeon. It is as follows:

A Pigeon is a very long time. Too long in the opinion of the pig. It’s like watching Titanic or the new King Kong when you’re already tired. It transcends time as a linear factor and takes into account  the emotional state of the pig. As a term to be used by humans it would be the expression of something taking longer to do than you have the energy for at that particular time. Like sex before breakfast.

So, being pleased with my understanding of the word Pigeon I have pondered as to its relevance in the title. But having still no idea what the other two words mean I decided to do some research. And wouldn’t you bloody know it, I found the word religion. Apparently it refers to a group or organization that all follow a set of rules that were laid out by someone called God. They do the same things all the time except for a Sunday (or a Friday if they are the curly haired ones) when they have a rest and pat themselves on the back for getting tickets to see God in concert. From what I can see the title cannot be referring to the Muslim ones because they think pigs are filthy (which they are, that’s a fact rather than a religious pillar). If I didn’t know any better (which I do) I would say the title makes more sense with Pijuns since they are organized and terrorists. But, alas, it is not so I’ve taken my research along a different path. I asked some famous people from ‘religion’ what was the longest thing imaginable to judge which of them had feelings most closely resembling a pig.

First up was Big Bad Ratigan from the Vatican, Pope Benedict 16th. His idea of a pigeon was absolution. He felt that it would take more time than he had energy to forgive all the sinners in the world (which is fair enough since it would take several days just to cover the wanks I’ve had writing this entry). Next to be put on the hot seat was Dai Lama, King of the Buddhi. He said it was a pigeon to eat solid food after midday. I understood what he meant straight away because I remembered Napoleon Dynamite trying to feed him in that film he was in and he was having none of it (although he looked a lot better after a shave I must say). Lastly I spoke with a strange magician on the street called Henry Christopher. He had an haircut like Tung Po from Kick Boxer and wore a shit pair of jeans under his costume. Also he said that he wasn’t greedy which was a lie because we was eyeing up my pasty pen (details to be revealed at a later date) the whole time I was eating it/writing with it. Anyway, he said that he always had energy to do all the tasks that needed to be done (possible ADHD) but that people he stopped in the street often said that it was a pigeon to even contemplate stopping for him (I would agree with this).

So the religion that was most pigeon was the Henry Christophers because if nobody is willing to stop for them, they have no flying hope of following them (especially on one of their stupid conga lines through town). All that was left to get to the bottom of the title was the word ‘A’. Now, unfortunately, I checked the dictionary and discovered that the word ‘A’ does not exist. It’s just not in there. Therefore, after all that research, I have had to discontinue the investigation so I guess we will never know what was meant by ‘A Pigeon’s Religion’.

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Cliiiime on my baaaaack!

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On the PS3!

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Bioshock Character Fan Art by Lenka Simeckova 

Deviant Art | Blogspot