storytimewithunclestrange-blog

[storytimewithunclestrange-blog]

Understanding Piers Morgan

With Mr Trump’s tyranny threatening to result in the now heavily anticipated nuclear holocaust, it can be easy to momentarily forget about our very own home-grown scumbags. Luckily, talent-less talent judge and murderer of mornings Piers Morgan has been doing an excellent job of holding up our side of the bigotry. Morgan has been the talk of controversy after the woman’s march, claiming that he was going to host a men’s march to prevent the emasculation of his gender. Piers Morgan doesn’t seem to realise that he himself is emasculating his gender on a daily basis, as men desperately try to rip off their own penises in order to be less physically associated with Morgan. Nevertheless his career is long standing and frustratingly unavoidable, so let’s get you up to scratch…

Piers Morgan’s career started with an editorial job at the sun, where he worked for five years before demanding to feature as a page three model. The issue entitled ‘Morgan’s Miraculous Moobs’ resulted in fifty percent of the readership attempting to gouge their eyes out with the nearest implement to hand. Morgan was immediately sacked for exposing his suicide inducing breasts, and his second photo shoot entitled ‘Piers’ Preposterous Penis’ never made it to print. Rupert Murdoch appointed Morgan editor of News of the World soon after the shoot, so long as he promised to only wear the bikini-thong combo that Murdoch had so heavily fallen in love with. Morgan agreed so long as he could remove the bra in the warm summer days, at which point Murdoch passed out from coming too hard. Piers Morgan would later found ‘First News’, a weekly paper aimed at seven to fourteen year olds. The content was so boring that one-hundred per cent of the readership forgot how to read. Luckily a picture version of ‘First News’ was also available, which had a page three collection of Piers’ third photo shoot, ‘Suck My Morgans’.

As no paper would let Morgan fulfil his dreams of being a page three model, he turned to television in the hope that the moving image would take more kindly to his misshapen form. He became a judge of talent because he had none and he thought he could give a good outsiders perspective. He quickly got to grips with the format, learning that dance troops were good, jugglers were bad, bands were ok, and humiliating emotionally and mentally fragile contestants for ratings was excellent, or at least it was for his pay cheque. One episode of ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ Saw Piers reduce a four year old child to tears after buzzing her off stage some six seconds into her performance, demonstrating that Britain does have talent, if that talent is crushing the dreams of children. It’s ok though, three years on she would be old enough to pick up her first copy of ‘First News’ where she’d soon realise why he was right and she was shit.

“Three years on you say? Come on now! Surely Piers Morgan couldn’t hold a grudge for that long!”

Guess again… Morgan had a five year long quarrel with Ian Hislop after Hislop claimed that Morgan had sent people round to his house to spy on him. Morgan responded by sending people round to his house to spy on him, saying ‘we’re about to start exposing the moon-faced midget’. All Morgan’s spies exposed was that Ian Hislop was a perfectly normal functioning human being and Morgan is a creepy bastard who spies on people. Morgan also clashed with Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson, who punched Morgan in the face three times after he made accusations about Clarkson’s personal life and newspaper columns. Morgan claims he could have fought back, had he not been in the middle of his fourth model shoot, ‘Nipple Piersings’. After the fight, Morgan boasted how Clarkson’s punch resulted in him denting his own finger. To be honest, you could probably put a dent in a brick if you hit your face off of it hard enough. Why not try that Piers? Please put a dent in a brick with your face Piers, just prove you can, for me Piers, for Britain.

Piers is a host on ‘Good Morning Britain’. Luckily no one eats breakfast anymore so you’re much less likely to vomit when he’s on television now, but that won’t stop him trying to induce it. Morgan’s co-host, whose name he forgets because no one matters but him, rarely gets a word in edgeways around the Morganator, and neither do any of his guests, all of which he seems to have invited on just to tell them as vaguely as possible that he doesn’t like them. And if they don’t show up, he’ll tell them anyway. Actor Ewan Macgregor refused to appear on Good Morning Britain after realising that Piers was a host. Piers when on to criticise Macgregor, saying that he should just stick to talking about films seeing as he is ‘just an actor’. With that in mind, if Morgan ever tries to tell a joke, sing a song or do anything other than be a dickhead for ratings, hopefully a TV executive will club him repeatedly with a baseball bat, screaming ‘JUST DO YOUR JOB!!’ until he passes out. Morgan would no doubt be boasting the following week about how his skull managed to dent the baseball bat.

If it makes you feel any better, Piers Morgan gets called a C@%T pretty much on an hourly basis. Regarding those who shower him with online hate, Morgan said that he ‘enjoys being a ray of sunshine in their shallow little lives’. I would strongly encourage the general masses to continue to spam Morgan with hate, except to do so in the form of a letter rather than a tweet, each envelope containing a small amount of faecal matter which when gathered together will amount to a small percentage of how much of a shit Morgan is. The large turd will be Morgan’s Dorian Gray; becoming more grotesque and sinister as his evil evolves, until Morgan can’t take the emotional strain and tries to destroy it. It’ll be at the exact point where he tries to destroy the giant dump that I will inform psychiatrists and news outlets everywhere that he has finally went insane.

 So now you know a little bit more about a man I wish we all knew nothing about. Please don’t support anything he does, and always have a heavy object handy in case a wild Morgan shows up so he can dent it with his face.

[storytimewithunclestrange-blog]

Doomsday

If you and I were the last people on earth, quite frankly, we’d be fucked.

 In the complete and utter ridiculous coincidence that somehow how you and I, two of several million upon billions of people that occupy this floating rock to no known point or purpose, survived the unimaginable, presumably nuclear induced holocaust, would be to suggest that perhaps some higher life form, maybe god, had a clichéd ‘greater plan’ for us both, that would utilise our previously untapped potential as we rebuilt the human race to far greater democratic and emotional wealth. At which point, when the earth is aflame and only four feet stand upon its crusty shell, I’m sure the almighty would rapidly discover he’d hastily selected the wrong pair, when we fail to construct anything larger than a twig, achieve anything more than intercourse, and cry desperately into the soil, when we realise it’ll be a much longer wait than forty minutes on that Chinese we ordered.

 Our continued inhaling and exhaling after everything was gone would be to spit on the existence of every scientist, mathematician, psychologist, doctor, fireman, police officer, ambulance driver, athlete, teacher, children’s charity worker, social worker, life guard, paramedic, pharmacist, pharmacists assistant, van driver, butcher, baker, and McDonald’s burger creator that donated so much of their time to fuelling our reality.

 What will we eat? My dog eats grass, he’s dead now… My mum made pasta. She’s dead now… Armando’s was the greatest chippy of all time and it was just around the corner. But there are no corners, there’s just never ending cornerlessness, taking on an almost circle like form. A complete and utter lack of corners. Corner shops will die here, and that makes me sick…

 What did we even do? We laughed a lot… Ha ha ha. Less to laugh about now, except we don’t have to get up for work in the morning, and that prick that told us what to do for two and a half years probably got burned to a singe and his skin melted into his skeleton like hot cheese. God I love cheese… We can’t even make cheese!! Nuclear cow cheese?? I imagine it’s not as good… I don’t know if a world without cheese is a world worth living to be honest. They say you can add cheese to anything. You can’t add it to damnation…

 We’d be on our knees hopeless and lost and bored, nothing but each other to occupy our time. I could try sending you nudes but I don’t think we’d get signal, and even if I did, I’ll literally never match with anyone on tinder again, so what’s even the point in my naked body!? Who will read my facebook updates? How can I possibly capture the severe emotional torment of complete destruction in one singular tweet? How will I go on without pirating new game of thrones!?!? Hell, I’ll even pay for it if there’s more out there!!! But currency is bankrupt in this radioactive wasteland. Two pounds will literally buy me nothing here, no figure drawn on a note is worth any more than the air I breathe now… I wish I could have paid with breath in the real world. I’m not asthmatic or anything. I’d have been loaded…

 The reality of it all starts to kick in… No internet for sure... no television, no books, not that I read, but I always said I’d start if there was literally nothing else to do. There’s probably no food… not any nice food any way. I can’t cook, why can’t I cook?? I should have always learnt to hunt. I knew I’d need hunting at some point. But instead I just lay in bed, for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours on end. Just lying there. Thinking, not even thinking, just, uugh… And I look over at you, at lovely reliable you, and I panic more than I’ve panicked ever until now, more than when the bombs went off themselves, or when BBC3 was rumoured to get cancelled. I can’t look after you… My beautiful little cherub who I wanted to be with from now until the end of time. Well we’re at the end of time and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do from here. There are no benefit systems, there’s no one to wipe my arse from waa waa to dead. I can’t do anything, I’m a useless bag of meat that has literally no skills and now I’m the only man alive to look after you. Christ you must be shitting yourself…

 But you’re not… you’re still looking at me, still smiling, still giving me that look that you give after I’ve had a bad day, that comforting smile and those shiny eyes that tell me that everything is going to be ok. Holy hell woman can you not see the fire!?!? The death!?!? The lack of Nando’s!?!? We are so fucked and you just smile… how!?!? And for the first time since we were officially the only couple on earth, she opens her lips, and in a soft silky tone she says confidently… ‘But we have each other…’

 And I’m awake. In my normal bedroom, in my normal house in my not-completely-fucked world, with my baby girl lying beside me. The last thing she said to me before I drifted off to sleep, the last words that left her lips and tumbled down my ear before I nodded off…

 ‘Sometimes I wish it were just you and me on this Earth babe…’

 Me too babe, but I hope that everyone just leaves, rather than blowing this whole planet to bits...

[storytimewithunclestrange-blog]

eighteen hours sleep and counting...

I'm too tired to go to work today, and I'm too tired to think of a reason for not being there...I'm too tired to make dinner, and I'm too tired to call a takeaway to deliver food to me... I'm far too tired to pay my electricity bill, and far too tired to even attempt to pay my rent... I'm too tired to reply to these emails threatening to repossess my stuff, and I'm much too tired to tell Spotify that I'm not a student any more and am not therefore entitled to their discounts... I'm much too tired to answer the constant thumping at my door, and I'm certainly too tired to stop the bath from running, not that I'm getting into it any time soon. I'm just too tired for that...

I'm too tired now even to go to sleep, and I'm positively too tired to drink water to cure my thumping headache, which I assume is a direct effect of my tiredness.. I’m too tired to Google it though, and I’m too tired to care...

[storytimewithunclestrange-blog]

How to Survive in the Grown Up World

There is a knock on my front door at ten o'clock at night; 

I call the police.

The wind blows against my window causing it to rattle; 

I call the police.

My neighbour arrives at his house three hours earlier than usual without his wife;

I call the police.

No one has come to visit me in four days regardless of my persistent texts and calls;

I call the police.

The police tell my that if I continue to call them unnecessarily I will be fined and my emergencies will no longer be treated seriously;

I call the police.

A group of neds irritatingly hurl stones and eggs at my house;

I call the police...No one answers...

A bearded man emerges from within one of the neds wielding a large sharpened machete and cuts me where I stand;

I am dead...

Life lesson: Trust no one but yourself. Especially not the police.

[storytimewithunclestrange-blog]

Big John

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Dexter McPantherington, who had no friends because his lips were purple and people decided that that was bad. Dexter spent most of his days catching pheasants and asking people for spare change so he could get a bus to Stirling, but soon enough, Dexter’s life was about to change forever and ever and ever until he died.

 One day, Dexter was having lunch by himself (because of the no friends thing) when in the corner of his eye, he noticed a really cool looking magnet that was stuck to the wall beside him. The magnet was big, which was weird for a magnet, it also flapped it wings every so often, which was also weird for a magnet. Then Dexter started to think, and he thought ‘Wait a minute! Magnets don’t have wings!’ and he realised that the magnet wasn’t a magnet, but some kind of giant grotesque space moth from Mars. Dexter stared at the Marshin moth magnet for some time, and decided to get a closer look, so that they could be friends. He crept up close with his empty Magners glass and captured the mysterious insect, but told it not to be scared because he had only had a pint of orange juice. Dexter looked close at the big little moth and realised that he’d never seen a moth like this moth before. This was a special moth, and Dexter was a special person so things were probably going to be great. People started to stare at the moth, and suddenly everyone in the village became a wildlife expert, and each one had a different name for the flappy bug man. Some called it a ‘superious flapponor’, some called it a’ winged-floater rhino’ and others called it a ‘moth’. One man said it was the Japanese, but no one listened to him because he was a racist. But Dexter didn’t care what it was called, or what its ethnic origins were, because he had already named it, and its name was ‘Big John’.

 For ages and ages and ages and ages, Dexter McPantherington and Big John were the best of friends. They done all sorts of friend things together like eating burritos and brushing their teeth. One time they played football, but Big John wasn’t very good, so they stopped doing that and played draughts instead. One day though, Dexter noticed that Big John had never actually ate his burrito, and that he’d been awfully poorly for some time. At first, Dexter thought that Big John just didn’t like mince, but several burritos later, Dexter realised that Big John also didn’t like beans, or chicken, or pork, or roasted vegetables, or any of the deliciously overpriced burrito fillings that Chiqouito’s had to offer. Dexter realised that he didn’t know what moths liked to eat or do in their spare time, and that Big John had actually been suffering from severe depression since their encounter, which had led to him self-harming and sniffing glue. So after hours and hours and hours of crying, Dexter decided to set Big John free, so that he could go back to his wife and kids. But all of a sudden, something magical happened. Big John got bigger! Seconds after he left the McPantherington house, he doubled in size! Dexter was so amazed by Big John that he quickly ran back outside and captured him again. He held him in his hands and said ‘Big John, what made you get big?’ But big John was a moth and couldn’t speak, so Dexter got angry and hit him with a hammer and he died (alternative ending) and Big John said ‘you let me go free, so my happy inside person was so happy that it made myself big! Its science!’. The two laughed for a very long time, and realised that they were still the best of friends, and decided to get an apartment together in Los Angeles.

 Whilst living together, Dexter had released Big John some more and he was now people size. Big John didn’t mind much because it meant that he could express himself and that the NHS would put him on a list for stronger anti-depressants, regardless of his recent move to the United States. But Big John was so big that he could now open doors and could be free whenever he wanted, like when he needed milk from Lidl, or if there was a really good film on in the Cineworld. Big John got so big that people started to think he was too big and that he should probably be dead. One man ran up to him with a magazine and tried squish him, but they man’s depth perception was all wrong and he ended up just hitting his foot a few times. Big John tried to flap him away, but his wings were so big that he caused loads of Hurricanes that were in the news and somehow hurt a lot of polar bears. But stuff got really bad when Big John accidentally blew a small boy into a 20 story building and he had to go to the doctors to get medicine. Once the boy got his paracetamol, everyone calmed down a bit, but they were all really disappointed in Big John. Dexter came up to Big John and said ‘Big John, you’re just too big. Go away and eat mustard.’ Big John didn’t like mustard, so he just went away.

Big John flew over the sea to find a spare island that no one was using, but this meant he accidentally caused loads of tsunamis which destroyed many third world countries, and didn’t help his depression much. Finally, Big John found some land where nuclear bombs used to be tested, and decided to sit there forever, until he died of radiation exposure, or testicular cancer. The people of Los Angeles were so happy that big John was gone that they decided to have a party, and they invited everyone from all over the world! The party was going to be great, Los Angeles had bought cocktail sausages and paper plates and plastic bowls with different flavours of walkers crisps in them. But everybody decided to drive to the party all at ones, and the fumes from the cars whipped up into the sky and destroyed the ozone layer. Suddenly it was really warm, and factor 50 sun cream wasn’t helping. One man burst into flames, and then another started saying strange things because his brain had stopped working, and then everybody started to cry because they were doomed.

 Meanwhile, Big John was making a cheese and ham toasty, when he heard crying from far far away. He looked over the sea and saw that all his old friends in Los Angeles were all on fire or very badly sun burnt. At first Big John laughed for ages and ages because he felt they deserved it, but then he remembered that Dexter was his super special friend, and super special friends should stay together forever, no matter how big they are, or how much of them has been burned by the sun. With one big mighty flap of his wings, Big John freed himself for the Island, and became bigger than he’d ever been before. He was so big that several music critiques compared him to Jesus, which caused controversy in the NME the following week. Big John flew high into the sky, way past the mountains and the clouds and the bit where oxygen stops happening. He flew so high until his shadow covered the earth, and then he stood still. Big John was so big that he could shade the earth from the sun, and so special that he couldn’t die, which sadly didn’t work for Dexter who was crushed by a large burning vehicle some three hours earlier. The people of Los Angeles and the rest of the world all looked up and thanked Big John and asked how they could ever repay him. Big John only asked that they make the world’s biggest burrito and no one ever eats it, so he could remember the happiest time of his life.

The End

This short story was based on the adventures of Big John, who still guards us all in his day to day life. Having been living in space for so long, he made good friends with the sun who then gave him super powers, and now as well as protecting us from skin cancer, he also kills terrorists by shooting balls of fire at them from a distance. Although Big John still hasn’t paid his taxes so I guess nobody’s perfect.

Dexter’s funeral was held three and a half months after his death. Nobody came because he had a purple lip and Big John had moved on to better things.