The Password Was Gandalf

What follows is an exercise in what happens when someone says “write something for this site, it will be great”. What I will do is sit there stewing for two weeks, then write something like this in a sweat. This was written for Weebl’s Stuff, on the basis that they’d link to my book and say what a wonderful Christmas present it would make. Less than a week later, my book had dropped to 10,000th place on the Amazon bestseller charts. Were people so crestfallen that they returned the book? Or are sales figures like drawing yourself back on a massive catapult, and we’re about to get fired into the horizon?
I know the people who’re reading this probably bought the book for everyone they knew last Christmas – but for fuck’s sake, you must have met new people since THEN. What are you, a bunch of fucking hermits?
Anyway, here’s what I wrote for that Jonti and m’mate Lee at Sumo Dojo / Weebl’s Stuff.
THERE ARE ONLY SIX QUESTIONS, AND I HAVE ANSWERED THEM ALL
Questions can be boiled down into six categories; WHICH, WHAT, WHEN, HOW, WHO and WHY. If you’ve come out of a coma with different music taste and amnesia, you might also say things like “I like Starsailor?” This is also a question, but I don’t know how that works, so let’s forget about it.
Once all these questions are answered, we can get back to the proper stuff, like inventing massive sandwiches and handing out flyers for nightclubs that don’t exist, like Big Jeff’s Dynamite Caddyshack. So, here I go.
WHAT WERE EALING COUNCIL THINKING BUILDING A MASSIVE COCK OUT OF ROADS NEAR MY HOUSE?
I’ve just moved house to the Ealing Broadway area. It is a nice house, and my flatmates are two delightful young men. There is an exquisite collection of fast food outlets at the end of my road – I’m within desperate-dialling-OMG-so-hungry distance from two – TWO – clay ovens. I can buy a pizza from one clay oven and pop it into the other on the way home, to keep it clay-fresh.
So what could ruin this idyll? Well, I was using Google Local, and planning where I would open my first Neoporium. I’m not sure what Neoporiums sell yet, but they sound pretty futuristic so it’s probably memories, dreams, or bits of Jupiter. Cross that bridge when I come to it. I’d got as far as about five hundred metres from my house, when I noticed this atrocity.

You see it, right? It’s a road cock being wanked off by the road arms of another road. The attention to detail is such that one of the arms goes behind the cock, and the other in front. What galls me most is that I’ve probably walked along that road. I could may have possibly almost brushed against the helmet of that road. As I walked away from that road, a man in a helicopter could have mistaken me for a sperm. Call me a prude, but I don’t want flying men thinking I’m a sperm.
Thanks, Ealing County Council. Thanks for ruining my life.
HOW MANY PIXELS ARE THERE IN AN ANUS?
This is a philosophical question, that begs a million other questions. How many megapixels does life have? How close are you to the anus? Are you using digital or optical zoom? All these questions have plagued anus scientists since a fat woman sat in some sand and left a little bum-dent.
My answer finally came, playing Nintedogs. I chose the Siberian Husky, and he’s turned out to be a bit of a saucepot. He belongs to a spirited breed – he doesn’t take orders well, he pulls at the lead, and he whimpers when I try to stuff his tails in his fucking mouth. Worst of all, when I’m sat with my Nintendog on my lap, watching The Vicar of Dibley with my great-aunts, sometimes I look away from the screen to accept a biscuit, or laugh at the fat and/or stupid people on the television. And when I look back to my pet, I find that he has positioned himself so that my loving stroke is poking at his little anus.
This wouldn’t be so bad, but I have lost my touch-screen stylus, and am making do with a small screwdriver. What would my dear aunt say if she knew that I was poking at a tiny dog’s bot-plop with a mini-screwdriver? I honestly don’t know what she’d say. I’ve made a few guesses, though.
1. I say Jonathan, that’s hardly cricket! Cricket is entirely different to what you’re doing.
2. When I said “would like like another cup of tea”, did you think that was a modern euphemism for sticking a screwdriver into a dog’s arsehole?
3. In my day we used knitting needles, but still – excellent technique.
I’m straying away from the point, which is that I know know exactly how many pixels there are in an anus – and there are two.

I’ve looked at this picture long and especially hard, and I’ve decided that only two pixels are actually bum. The others are merely a bit bummy, and we’re not to hold that against them – but to give them full bum status would be rash. So, it’s two. Armed with this new arsenal of bum-knowledge, I can now name my own anus-pixels, and they are called Tony and Darren.
WHO LEFT A SLICE OF BREAD BEHIND THE RADIATOR?
Seriously, who did that? I mean it’s not easy to get a slice of bread behind the radiator, is it? Especially in the lounge. How often do you have untoasted, unbuttered, bread in the lounge? Perhaps if you’d bought a slice in to show your friend, to say “look how malted this bread is – that’s some malty bread, my friend”. But following that, you’d rarely say “Well, you know what we do with bread this malty. We put it behind the radiator. Don’t we kids!”
“Yay! Put it behind the radiator, Uncle Log!” This never happens.
Really, I’ve stood there with a full loaf, trying my hardest to accidentally drop a slice of bread behind the damn radiator. It doesn’t go. I’ve tried slinging it like a yeasty frisbee, I’ve tried throwing the whole bollocking loaf at the radiator, thinking one might go down. It didn’t.
Loaf after loaf I have thrown at my radiator, and not a single slice has fallen down the back.
Which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that someone PUT the slice of bread there. Why? It can’t be a prank. Pranks smell worse than that. This is just a bit of bread that been slightly toasted by the central heating.
I picture the scene. In the kitchen, the perpetrator sees a loaf of bread, and thinks “mm, I quite fancy a bit of that bread”. He takes six slices into the lounge, and turns on Friends. Slices one and two are gobbled cheerfully, and he notes from Joey’s weight that this is probably season eight, maybe nine. He doesn’t enjoy slice numbers three or four so much. In fact, after slice four, he’s gone off bread altogether. Silce five is a trial – but he heroically ploughs through it. Slice six, however, becomes the enemy. He can no longer stand the sight of this bread. He thinks – and I’m going to come clean here, and admit that it was me – that if I put any more bread in my mouth I would puke. I should take it back to the kitchen. But it is Friends on the telly, so I can’t leave the sofa in case Chandler done a trump and I missed it. So I tucked the bread gently behind the radiator, and thought to myself that I’d move it when Friends finished.
But I never moved the bread, because I forgot all about it. Until someone said “why is there bread behind the radiator?”, and I laughed and said “how absurd – I don’t even like Friends, let alone five slices of delicious bread”.
I’ve never confessed in real life. I PUT BREAD BEHIND RADIATORS. God, that feels good.
WHICH LITTLE BRITAIN MERCHANDISE SHOULD YOU BUY FOR YOUR FRIENDS?
It’s approaching Christmas, so you really need to be considering which Little Britain doll or key-ring you’re going to be buying your friends. Use this table to quickly assess the pros and cons of the more popular choices.

WHY DID ELLA FITZGERALD CROSS THE ROAD?
I have come up with five reasons why Ella Fitzgerald might have crossed the road. If it’s not one of these, then I’m sure I haven’t a clue.
1. She felt the first tingling of a cold sore developing, and someone had left a bucket of old Zovirax outside Tesco. Unfortunately for Ella, the Tesco was on the opposite side of the road.
2. Ella and her lover were walking her dog, and eating chicken from the bucket. Her lover paused to gesture at a diamond ball gown in a shop window, and the greasy chicken bone flew from his hand. Ella’s pet schnauser chased it, dragging her after him.
3. Ella’s diet of iron filings and ball bearings means that she has to phone in advance if she plans to walk past the local magnet shop on the other side of the road. Her mischeivous butler sometimes only pretends to make the call!
4. She is obsessive compulsive and has been crossing roads constantly for twenty five years. There is no real reason why Ella Fitzgerald is crossing the road, it is the symptom of mental disorder.
5. She lives opposite her old mate Toni Braxton, and regularly visits. Besides, people cross roads all the time. No big.
WHEN IS THE WORLD GOING TO END?
On January 4th, 2050, at 4:22pm, the last human will succumb to the zombie plague. The woman, who is pregnant, was mankind’s last hope, after her lover was torn apart in a lift shaft. Despite her religious upbringing, she had accepted the fact that for mankind to survive, she would eventually have to bear the children of her unborn son; what she didn’ t know was that it was a girl, and that no amount of lezzing up – however energetic and muddy – will get anyone pregnant, although the male zombies would probably have loved it. Anyway, she gets her head slammed in a massive door and that’s the end of us all.