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Viggo Mortenson: poet, lover, quiche eater

6 Mar

Viggo likes to be one with the natural world.

Viggo Mortenson, star of Stubbly Elf-botherer, Naked Man at the Russian Bath, Ex-Mobster Shoots Man in Diner, and more, has ‘come out’ as a writer of poetry.
“The prospect of having someone of Viggo’s profile as an ambassador for our art-form is very heartening,” said Rodney Blatchweaver‘s mum Muriel. “Now maybe more people will take Rodney seriously.”
With poems like Ennui* it seems that Viggo is set to take the arts world by storm.

Ennui*

Stare into the mirror
Who am I?
Diner Guy?
An Elf lover?
A naked wrestler?
These questions haunt me
As I stare into my beautiful eyes
And run my hands through my
Thick, lustrous hair –
Consolation.

“If there was an Oscar for poetry, Viggo should get one. Now, when I tell people I’m a poet, they no longer laugh in my face. Thank you Viggo!” said Rachel Bucktoof.

We asked Poet Laureate Inigo Yelp to comment on Viggo’s longterm influence on the form.

IY:    Who is he?
Q:    . …! A world-famous movie star.
IY:   What’s he been in?
(We explain)
IY:   Naked wrestling, eh? I’ll have to take a look at that. What was the question?
(We explain)
IY:  You should be writing about Rodney Blatchweaver. That young up-and-comer is making waves in this town. He’s going to put poetry on the map. What was the question?
Q:      ……..?!
(We explain)
IY:   Hmm that’s a tough one. What’s his work like?
Q:     Powerfully understated and tinged with a melancholic awareness of man’s fleeting mortality.
IY:  Give us one then.

Q:   (Reciting from Viggo’s book Blasphemy of the Soul🙂

Why?

Why must I lie?
I should be in nature
One with the sparrows
Instead of pretending to kick
Some guy’s ass nine ways to Sunday
Pretending to psycho-analyse beautiful women
Pretending to not be upset when I don’t get nominated.
Irony cuts deep
Like that time I went fishing.
The honest trout
Has no silver tongue
His scales help him to swim faster
Not get women to sleep with him.
He. Is. No. Liar.

(A long silence ensues)
Q:    I’m probably not putting the depth of feeling into it that Viggo does.

(The silence continues)

IY:  I’m speechless.

Olympian taken hostage

9 Aug

Caption: The Stormwanglers make themselves at home.

Lepido Rangus, the gold medal winning tri-bi-athlete (tri-bi-athlon: the event in which the athlete rides a horse through 7 feet of water, then shoots it, then uses the gun to pole vault over a trench filled with boiling oil, culminating in the final stretch which involves carrying 2 buckets of pebbles across a wavering tightrope) was surprised to find his mansion in Islington filled to capacity after his win on Saturday.

Caption: Rangus and his horse, the late Fingle Root Basket Bunny Drawers

In a bid to draw attention to their cause, The Stormwanglers, the art group responsible for the recent demonstrations against the Olympics outside the Olympic village, have set up a squat in the sporting icon’s home.

Crispin Flintbiscuit, the leader of the unruly bunch currently disporting themselves in Rangus’s living room, made free with his tea, raiding his rigidly ordered ‘carbohydrates cupboard’.

Q: So why the party atmosphere? Previous demonstrations have been violent and unruly.

CF: Oh, there’s nothing more violent than arriving uninvited in someone’s home and taking up residence. Trust me, this will hit the establishment where it hurts. An Englishman’s home is his castle and all that…

LR: Excuse me, are you…are you one of them?

CF: Ignore him. Can’t you see we’re conducting an interview here?

LR: An interview? (Brightens slightly, his look of confusion clearing a bit.) Is it about my medal? I can show it to you. Well, I’m wearing it. (Smiles shyly, pulling medal out from shirt.)

CF: Witness this disgusting display of the elitist artefact! With our country in a recession…! It’s a crime against humanity! And anyway it’s horribly gauche.

LR: (Looking sad) I suppose so. Can I offer you some er…tea? I’m afraid I only keep skim milk.

CF: Get out of my sight you scion of the lumpen troglodytes!

LR retreats to his room.

Q: Why did you pick on him? Surely Chris Hoy or Victoria Pendleton…

CF: Have you seen Hoy’s house? It’s a disgrace. Barely room to swing a cat, never mind 17 people. Besides, he had security. Here, I have room to spread myself. Rangus keeps Egyptian linen.

(There is a pause as he considers the pleasures of LR’s luxury bed sheets.)

Q: (Clears throat suggestively)

CF: Oh yes, and also about the er…barbaric nature of sport, of course…

Q: His sport is controversial; after all, the shooting of the horse is a terrible…

CF: No, any sport. It’s a barbaric waste of human resources and endeavour. If we could plough all that effort into art, which benefits everyone in so many ways, especially our latest project which only needs a tiny infusion of cash…a mere £50000 to get it off the ground…

Q: You’re protesting that there isn’t enough money going into the arts?

CF: No, I’m protesting that there isn’t enough to go into MY art.

At this, the party gets even more raucous with Lepido Rangus, weakly protesting, being carried along by a swarm of demonstrators into another room.

CF: You should leave. There’s some bacchanalian shit about to go down.

And with that he slams the door on the media. Shortly afterwards the weekly paper News Curl received a ransom note of £50000 for the beleaguered athlete. However, as Rangus himself was spotted in the local Sainsbury’s shopping for supplies, it is said to be doubtful that anything will come of it.

If you’d like to support The Stormwanglers in their demonstration against the Olympics, go to www.olympicssuckabigonegiveussomemoney.com

Bang My Buttocks win bid to re-brand ‘Boring old Olympic Games’

29 Jul

Vin Diesal does the honours in gold dust

 

Esteemed theatre production company Bang My Buttocks have begun preparations for an ambitious project to take place during the Olympic Games. Actor/producer Dave Straddleface spoke at a recent soiree given by socialite Talulah Funnybuns.

“The idea is to train the actors in various Olympic sports and have them actually compete alongside the athletes. In fact, we’re looking into the possibility of replacing all the athletes with actors and really going to town on the musical numbers. Imagine the 100m dash as an extended monologue with high kicks and jazz hands. The Mayor really wants the Olympics to deliver entertainment-wise. Frankly I’m surprised the event has survived as long as it has. I mean, have you seen the costumes from previous years? Rank amateurism.”

Q: What about the pure satisfaction some people are said to derive from enjoying sports for sports sake?

(Both enjoy a hearty laugh)

DS: Very good. But seriously, it’s high time a professional company took this outdated event in hand. I mean, who really cares if someone can run really fast or jump really high? What’s the point of swimming a half second faster than someone from a war torn Eastern European country? But when you add meaningful lyrics, an operatic score and 50 performers juggling fireballs you have something that’ll really knock the world’s socks off. Most people I know only ever watch the opening ceremony, after that it just goes downhill fast…and then someone gets a medal!

Q: Speaking of medals, how do you foresee your company taking that on?

DS: Everyone likes a bit of bling. We’re planning on having a major celebrity ritualistically immolating themselves in the flames of the Olympic Torch…and then rising again from the ashes covered in gold dust. The competitors will then lick the gold off the celebrity, thus ‘ingesting’ their awards.

Q: Won’t the celebrity be harmed in the process?

DS: Apart from having baby soft skin, not at all. It’s all an illusion. We’re powering through the fourth wall and into the future of sport, and it’s a future with baby skinned celebrities and gold dust.

 

The All Singing All Dancing Olympic Games will be hosted by the city of London, 2012.

Playwright slams own work as ‘derivative drivel’

26 Jun

Artie Gimlet prepares for a night of light entertainment

Playwright Artie Gimlet’s new play, ‘Pretension’ has had fans flocking to the theatres.

“Everyone is hungry for irony these days. They’ll do anything to get a fix. Pretension is the perfect high for our generation of sneery scenesters who speak in dead sentences.”

Gimlet’s over-elaborate dialogue is delivered in a purposefully deadpan and uninterested tone, as the actors try on an endless series of Urban Outfitters clothing. Gimlet himself heckles them relentlessly from the orchestra pit, screaming, “Where is the music?!”

Actor Todd Winklebun spoke to us about developing the play.

TW:     At first it was pretty disconcerting. Especially when my mom joined Artie in ‘the pit of shame.’ Artie was pleased that she so deeply understood the concept but there’s a part of me that thinks she was still pissed about that time I trashed her car.

Q:        Do you think our generation has, and will, spawn a society of heartless automatons who are only as real as their latest Twizler update?

TW:    Um, I’m not sure how to respond to that. There are light hearted moments in the play. When my character tries on his seventh pair of low crotch skinny jeans he says, “I’ve seen things.” I like to think that whatever they were they were, they were nice things.

Notorious anti-capitalist artist takes big bucks from Oligarch

22 May

Early examples of the artist’s work, discarded for being ‘too tame’.

Enfant terrible Tony Macaroni has got himself a patron. He is known for his incendiary pieces of corruscating social commentary such as ‘Burnt Toast-taste the lies!’ (the faces of world leaders seared onto slices of Warburton’s), ‘Remind me to hate you’ (video in which he melts discarded Madame Tussaud busts) as well as anti-war protest piece ‘Colon Dreamscape’ which has been banned on the grounds of indecency.  He is also widely recognisable on the arts scene for his abrasive posturing and loathing for politicians, so Macaroni’s decision to accept financial support from a notorious billionaire has struck many as strange, with critics branding him a sell-out.

Q:  Rumour has it that you’ve been adopted by Russian Oligarch Steppan Izzinovavikovnavich as his personal artist.

TM:  (Nervously) Yes, so?

Q:  Doesn’t it go against your anti-capitalism, anti-establishment mores?
(Shifts uncomfortably)

TM:  Sure, some may say that it goes against every fibre of my being to accept the blood-rinsed cash of one of the world’s biggest parasites. I certainly wouldn’t, but some might.

Q:  Is it true that he keeps you under house arrest, forcing you to paint recreations of Whistler’s grandmother with his ex-wife as a model?

TM:  Those rumours are (largely) untrue. I could choose between Whistler’s Grandmother and Van Gogh’s ear. (furtively rubs ears) I would’ve had to be the model for that.

Q:  How do you respond to statements to (now deceased) housemaid Schvetlana Meerlubna’s claims that you begged her to get you to a government safe house when she found you cowering in the 18th ballroom at his estate?

TM: That’s errant nonsense. I love that ballroom. I hang out there all the time.

Q: Wearing a caviar-stained jester’s outfit?

TM: Steppan likes to get involved in my installation pieces. That one involves him hurling beluga at me while I flaggelate myself with a badminton racket. (Swallows) It’s fun.

Q:  About Steppan’s famous pack of dogs…

TM: (Starts to shiver uncontrollably) I don’t talk about the dobermans.

Q:  Are you working on anything now?

TM:  I’m working with Steppan on… (breaks down, weeps) listen, I just want to say that I take back everything I ever said about British politicians and capitalism. I was wrong, I see that now. If you could just tell the police…

Immediately two burly security guards rush in.
Guard 1: You upset Minion 502?

Q:  Er…

Guard 2:  No more talky talky!

As they drag the recumbent Macaroni out, he looks back at me silently mouthing, ‘SAVE YOURSELF’…

At home with the Poffcock’s: Artist opens parent’s house to public

30 Mar

Poffcock and parents at home

Artist Stephen Poffcock has opened his parent’s house to the public, part of an ongoing installation piece he’s creating based on ‘the meaninglessness of the middle classes’. As thousands troop through the Poffcock household, the artist is always present, presiding at times horizontally, at others vertically, in a soiled bathrobe.

Q: Is the bathrobe part of the exhibit?

SP: Yes, it’s an indication of what a man of intelligence and sensitivity will be driven to when forced to rely on people tainted by the stench of their own bourgeois background.

Q: Isn’t this just an excuse not to move out?

SP: Of course not. My parents perfectly represent a generation trapped between embracing technology and only dimly understanding it. They’re future relics. My installation is a future time capsule.

Mrs P: More tea? A macaroon?

P: (In a bitter aside) For her, macaroons are a way of locating herself in her brittle societal bubble…

Q: Like a sort of cakey lifeboat bobbing along on an ocean of tea?

P: Just so. (Turning suddenly to his mother) For God’s sake mum, you know I don’t take sugar!

Mrs P: Sorry dear, only there are so many people…

Q: I’ll take another macaroon.

P: (Leaning close, in a menacing whisper) that’s a piece of her soul you’re devouring, I hope you know that.

Mr. P: (looking strained) Oh, all still here? I’ll er…I’ll just pop some Barry Manilow on the stereo then.

SP: It’s not a stereo Dad. It’s a CD PLAYER. You see what he’s been reduced to? A husk of a human being…

Q: Isn’t this all a bit of an imposition?

SP: That’s the point! They’re incapable of expressing their rage! Whereas you or I would tweet or blog about how angry we are, they have no outlet…
(Barry Manilow’s ‘Can’t smile without you’ begins to play in the background) Inside they’re seething with rage…aren’t you mother?

Mrs. P: (With a vacant smile) Yes, dear.

;

The Poffcock’s will be at home indefinitely. All contributions welcome, see Stephen Poffcock. Tea will be provided if Mr. Poffcock has had time to get to the shops.

Formaldehyde Fake revealed: Herring keeps twin in basement

14 Mar
Twin incarcerated in basement

The trapdoor leading to Herring's basement prison.

Dermot Herring, whose groundbreaking pieces involved placing a chartered accountant in formaldehyde, has today been found to be a fake.
The true author of his work was revealed this week to be none other than his twin Colin Herring, whom Dermot apparently, ‘kept chained in a basement for the past 15 years’, the same period over which Herring’s star first began to rise in the arts world.

Pale and traumatised from the experience, Colin stated to police and assembled press that, “Dermot threatened to put me in a formaldehyde bath if I didn’t work for him like a slave.”

Dermot’s (or rather, Colin’s) work with people who donated their bodies to the Herring Trust, has become legendary, reputedly earning Dermot a fortune.

“Sometimes he would torture me by forcing me to watch him writhing naked on a bed of gold bullion,” said Colin, speaking from a police safe house.

“When I first suggested the idea of placing different things in formaldehyde, he scoffed in my face, but we did it for a laugh. Next thing I knew, I was locked in the basement…it wasn’t all bad, he let me have satellite TV.”

Dermot has issued the following statement through his lawyer, Jacob Twist (of Bend, Twist and Pullem):

“While my client does not deny incarcerating his twin, he emphatically denies using threats to get him to work. As far as the gold bullion is concerned, that was a present from Sheik Ali Yuksak (for placing his 3rd wife in formaldehyde) and it has no bearing on this matter.”

It is feared that the Herring ‘masterpieces’ will now seriously decrease in value.
“Who is this Colin?” spat Sheik Ali Yuksak. “Dermot I trusted, and now I hear that this Colin, this nobody, handled my 3rd wife’s delicate parts?! Dermot partied with me and JZ on my yacht, he’s like brother to me. A brother who took my gold bullion and did unspeakable things with it.”

While the case continues, buyers of Herring art are reportedly trying to offload their pieces as fast as possible. An insider at Sotheby’s told us, “People are finding it difficult to sell these pieces. ‘A minor civic servant,’ once valued at £3 million, sold yesterday for £2.50, and the owner was grateful to get that price. After all, it’s hardly as if the local council will take it away with the recycling.”