Richard Happer

I was having a terrific dump this morning and was thinking back over last week’s post about what a schoolboy would really do if he suddenly got wizard powers, and it got me wondering, what would I do if I got magic all up my wand? So I wrote down my top 10:

1. Bum Scarlett Johansson. Not sure exactly what spell I’d need for this one, but I’m sure there’s a few you could use. ‘Husband transmogrifier’, ‘love any man’, ‘bum hypnosis’ that kind of thing.

2. ‘Bullet fingers’ – with this spell when you pointed your fingers and went ‘bang!’ real bullets would come out. And if you shot people on the telly, their heads would really explode.

3. “Jelly spine”. And don’t pretend you don’t know what this spell’s all about because you do.

4. ‘Megadump’. This spell would supercharge my hoop. Just to see how big a poo it’s possible to do.

5 Bum Scarlett Johanssen again. I’d use a different spell though.

6. Cast a “seeing spell” on Angus & Malcolm Young and Brian Johnson out of AC/DC so that they thought I was actually their drummer and I could play with them on tour.

7. Better than 6, cast a ‘back in time’ spell and go back to when John Bonham died and stick his fingers down his throat so he doesn’t die because he was a legend and COMBINE that with a ‘seeing spell’ on Robert, Jimmy and John so they thought I was him. Course, I’d have to cast a ‘hearing spell’ on them too because they’d know damn well I wasn’t the real John Bonham as soon as I started playing. AC/DC I could do, but you’d have to be fucking Gandalf to get Zeppelin buying my pish.

8. “Helium feet” Instead of bones and muscles and toes, I’d magic my feet to be full of helium so I could just float around the place and zoom over walls and stuff. Although it wouldn’t be so good if I flipped upside down. Maybe need a ‘ballast spell’ to sort that.

9. “Stomach of a Labrador”. How many times are you enjoying eating but you have to stop because you’ve had what society or good manners would judge as ‘too much’? Not with my “stomach of a labrador” spell. Cos those dogs do not give a single fuck about what society thinks. As long as there’s food, they’ll keep eating, right until they’re sick. Then they’ll probably eat the sick as well and totally fucking love that too. Which is what I want – to not give enough of a shit that I will eat my own sick and still wag my tail.

10. It’s back to Scarlett again, except this time we’re in a skiing lodge and I’ve cast a ‘James Bond’ spell on myself and I come in and she’s lying there on the rug stroking a fat ginger cat with a bottle of Belhaven 80 shilling between her thighs and, well you get the idea.

What would be your top 10? Let me know cos there’s fuck all else to do out here.

You know the worst thing about being out in Afghanistan? It’s not the heat or the food or the flies or the mad bastards trying to bomb my knackers off – it’s the crap bloody telly.

Here I am with the four-five lads ten miles up some godforsaken wadi in desperate need of a wee jolt of escapism and what do they put on the DVD? A classic like Goodfellas or Muppet Treasure Island or The Best of Boobjob LubeCannon?

Harry Potter.

Now I hadn’t seen this before so I thought I’d give it a go but fuck me what shit.

I told the lads this just ten minutes into the thing and they told me that I was wrong and should shut the hell up because lots of people – millions apparently – simply love the guy.

I don’t care. Millions of people like drinking Budweiser, but they’re fucking wrong about that as well.

The point I made is that it’s totally unrealistic.

“Don’t be such a mongo, Macrae,” said Corporal Lemon in that snidey wee voice he has. “It’s about effing wizards, course it’s unrealistic. Now shut up and let us watch.”

“No, Lemon, you cocksmoker,” I said,” it’s clearly not about wizards. It’s about a schoolboy who discovers he’s a wizard, am I right?

“Yes, Macrae, but-“

“Fine,” I go on. “So far so good, Mr Jakey Rowling, I’m with you. Then he meets a great hairy biker guy and a ginger kid and a foxy teenage chick. Yeah?”

“Macrae-“

“I’m still holding on here. But, he starts to get his powers and – that’s where I lose you. Because what’s the first thing he does? Starts using his powers to play intergalactic fucking NETBALL!”

Lemon picks up his survival knife. I glare at him. He’s a brave lad but he’s not an idiot. He drops his eyes and stabs it into the table.

“It’s pish,” I say, “and you know it. If it was about wizards just being wizards I’d give them some slack. I have no understanding of what their wizard or warlock problems might be so I will not pass judgment. But I was a schoolboy. I have known hundreds of schoolboys. And the first thing any 12-year old boy is going to do on discovering he has magic powers is wizard that foxy chick’s school uniform clean off her.

“BLAM – I got the power, WHOOSH – the dress is gone. Simple as that.

“Then he’s going to do the same to that Miss Jean Brodie teacher lady (who I’d totally do by the way) and probably invisibilise the headmaster dude’s robes as well just to laugh at his balls.

“After that I’d go round to the biker’s gaff and threaten to vaporise his stash with my wand unless he rolled me a fat one immediately.

Then I’d magic it so that the ginger kid had the BIGGEST FUCKING KNOB so that all the guys would get off the poor cunt’s case for once.

But – and I have to stress this – AT NO POINT AT ALL would I start playing netball.

Anyway, at this point Lemon got some of other lads behind him and they threw me out of the movie tent and told me to have a wank and calm down.

Which I did and I felt a bit mellower. But I was still right. You know I am too.

The whole Harry Potter thing is just a seven book pile of shite.

on your face, a girly beard
up your arse, bobbly and weird
wherever it grows
nobody knows
the point.
yes, we all find it tough
to love bum-fluff

At times like this

At times like this
You may hear me say
Thank God my father
Wasn’t gay.

Friday moves snail-like
Crawling slowly in my brain –
Malt and Hops I think.

Please send me your Friday haikus, maybe we can make this a regular feature.

Oh lovely mermaid…

Oh lovely mermaid with the golden hair
Approach her sailors, if you dare
I tell you now you should take care
for she has crabs in her underwear.

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

How to judge, assess or gauge what a man is worth?
The height of him, the breadth of him, the depth, the length, the girth?
Do you count up all his money, his stocks and shares, his land?
Perhaps the carats in the ring upon his lady’s hand?

To which degree does this man rise? A third, 2:2, a first?
Mere numbers cannot separate the best man from the worst.
The richest man knows nothing, but knows he is a fool,
He knows that life’s best lessons are never taught in school.

So judge me not on what I know, but on what I want to learn
And on the love I give you, with no measure of return.

Right we need to sort this out. Just because I told you all about my balls on my blog doesn’t mean I want to see PICTURES of YOUR balls. I had a problem with my balls. My jism smelled of bananas. I thought a medical man might be reading. That’s why I did it. End of bollocking story.

Now it turns out that some of you have problems with your own balls. Bigger problems than mere banana aromas by the looks of things. And I feel for you guys really I do. But this is not the place to get help.

Believe me I tried and all it got me was a KB from a total babe.

As for you jokers who sent in pictures boasting about the SIZE of your balls. Man if all you want to do is show your balls off get your own damn website.

Please note I am not a homophobe not at all. This world is a fucking remarkable place and there are so many ways for creatures to bang each other that I can barely get my head round it. I’m not kidding, you should see what fucking SLUGS get up to. So, no worries on the gay front.

I just don’t want to see your knackers is all.

But those weird girls who emailed me pictures of their tits – you can continue.

AN OBSERVATION:

It never ceases to astound me that the people who collect for charity often appear to be those who are most in need of either pecuniary or emotional assistance themselves.

Furthermore, though their behaviour may be termed by most to be altruistic, I must disagree with this analysis; to me their actions appear essentially egotistic (albeit this is an image of conceit that has been filtered through a lens of self-delusion).

It is simply attention-seeking by proxy.

“Help the unfortunate!” is the message they would have the rhythmic rattle of their money cans beat out. What is not immediately clear to the smart-casual observer and what is wholly opaque to the actual practitioners of this dark art is the subtext of this appeal: “Help me!” is what they are really saying – “Look, here I am collecting for the poor, when I can’t even afford a decent pair of brogues.”

This is not charity; it is advertising. An affliction is being promoted, with payment demanded in solid-gold guilt: it’s not the money that goes in the jar that they seek, it’s the sad drop of the eyes of the giver. Just as a champion salesman gets his kick when the beaten buyer finally tires and nods and reaches for the pen, so it is the awkward, averted glance and consequent fumble in the pocket of the passerby that causes the charity collector’s heart to heave with feeble pleasure; a masochistic thrill at another patent recognition of their plight.
This, for example, must be the only motivation behind the three nominal specimens of womanhood that presented themselves to us on Milngavie High Street.

One was dwarfish, with a nose so aquiline and a chin so pointed that these extremities not only touched, but actually overlapped. Consequently her lips were pressed so thinly and meanly together that no teeth could possibly have found room to live within. This immediately begged the question of how she ate; however, an inspection of her frame showed that this was clearly not an activity she gave much credence to. Her spidery limbs led me to suppose that if she did not actually live in a web and suck the meagre juices from insects, then she must surely eke out her survival by hanging from her toes beneath railway bridges and inhaling such creatures through her nostrils.

The second was unafflicted facially beyond a light moustache and a muscular squint. Bodily, however, it appeared that a mischievous and/or inebriated plastic surgeon, while in the course of a procedure to expand her mammary glands by inserting therein a pair of silicone implants, had inserted in their stead a pair of ten-pin bowling balls. And that, following this operation, the woman had been too confused, embarrassed or, indeed, tired, to return to the surgery and demand damages or at the very least a refund, to be negotiated ex aequo et bono.

The last woman simply looked like a baby whale that had been stuffed into a stout cotton bag and then dynamited from within. Flesh pressed against the material of her charity T-shirt in terrifyingly random rolls and mounds that bore no direct relationship to any previously encountered feminine, or indeed human, physiology.

At first, their language was utterly incomprehensible, consisting of squawks, guttural guffaws and alarming hand movements, and it was at this stage in our encounter that I began to seriously contemplate the possibility that these were creatures from a planetary system entirely separate to our own.

After a few moments, however, in amongst the barrage of noises and the rolling of eyes, I did manage to ascertain the words, “sponsored walk”, “breast cancer” and “West Highland Way.”

That was when I realised their true nature and, like any man of the outdoors who senses great danger, decided to act. Just as frontier stockaders would corral their steers to protect them from bandits, and the Ettrick shepherd might lead his flock away from the wolves to a hidden glen, so in my instinct I reached a hand around to my rucksack and pressed it protectively over the bulk of our Waitrose honey roast ham.

Regular readers will be aware of the problem I have recently had with my nuts. (My cum has been smelling like bananas, basically.) Some tool called Mark Steward (tossface) suggested countering this by deliberately eating things that smell of bananas to build up a ‘like-for-like’ homeopathy style resistance. Well, I shouldn’t have listened to you bastards.

I had this date last Friday so after I picked up this ‘advice’ I spent all afternoon eating banana flumps and drinking banana Nesquik. I felt pretty ropey after a few hours of this and then I got really worried because I cracked one off before I went out as per dating protocol and it HUMMED of bananas. I’m not kidding it was like a bulimic monkey had vommed on my cock.

But what can I do at this point? I have to just mop the fruity spoff off my keyboard and get the bus into town.

So I go to the restaurant which is a dead posh place on George street and I meet the lass and it is all going well at first.

Now I was out in Afghanistan so long that any lass who doesn’t have camel shite in her hair is going to be looking good to me but this Susannah was a classy bird good and proper. Clean clothes all her teeth and a smashing pair of tits. I’m not kidding they were all smooth and light brown and shoogly like a pair of caramel puddings.

She was so classy in fact that I reckon she must secretly be a bit of a mongo because really what the hell’s she doing on a date with me.

Anyway, she orders a glass of wine and the waiter turns to me and I’m figuring I’ll get a bottle as well when I see they have this drink called a Banana Daiquiri. I remember the homoepathy/banana/spunk plan and I order a few of them. Got to stick with your strategy.

Then I take a gander at the menu. There’s nothing with bananas for starters but I figure bananas are yellow so maybe if I only eat YELLOW food this will still work. I order corn on the cob with butter and for main I go for whole chicken and chips only I ask them to stick a banana up the chicken’s bum.

The waiter looks at me a bit weird but I give him a mad stare and he scurries off and fair play they do it. Damn chicken looks pretty weird I can tell you and tastes weirder but they did as they were asked.

For desert I have banoffee pie.

So it’s all gone lovely and we’re getting on great and we’re sitting back after eating and Susannah’s eyes are shining with the wine and my boy is twitching a bit and I’m just about to get the bill and suggest we go back to my gaff when she says:

“I have to ask, Alan-”
“Call me Macrae,” I say.
“Okay,” she laughs, “I have to ask, Macrae, why are you eating such weird food tonight?”
And then I don’t know if it’s the banana vibes flooding my system or the fact that she smiles so nice and her tits are so caramelly but I have a strange urge to tell her straight.
“Courtesy,” I say.
“Really?” she smiles. “How so?”

That’s just the way she talks. Bit poncy but her tits are so amazing you totally overlook that.

“Well Susannah,” I say, taking her hand in mine, “this is the most romantic night I’ve had in years. I really like you. Think you’re special. And I didn’t want to presume anything. But maybe, you know, should the moonlight get the better of us…”

“Yes!?” she says, looking all dopey like.

“Well, should we get close, I’ve been having a bit of trouble with a little aroma recently and I didn’t want to inflict that on you.”

“Oh,” she laughs, “you get onion breath! You should have said, I had onions at lunch,” she smiles, and now the bananas have total control of my brain because I only go and keep being honest.

“It’s not my breath, sweetheart,” I say. “It’s my jizz. Damn stuff’s been humming of bananas all week. And the last thing I wanted to do was leave you smelling like a damn oran-utan’s undercrackers. Specially with you having such smashing tits.”

So I learned two things this week. 1 homeopathy is total shite. 2 honesty is NOT the best policy, particularly when your cum smells of bananas.