Eminent scholar with silly voice uses voice double

Professor Wipladle and his voice double Trannical Korset – the awkward moment after the speech.

Pluto Wipladle, an eminent scholar known for his work on the development of the outer lower medulla (but only on the right hand side) has complained of experiencing prejudicial reactions to his high, nasal voice.
Speaking through his voice double (who enjoys a rich, deep baritone) he spoke of the heartbreak he experienced when he tried to deliver his own paper at a recent conference.

PW through double:  I’ve spent 18 years studying the brain. I’ve been in line for the Nobel prize several times, and yet I was laughed off the stage.

(Hardened journalists begin to weep)

PWTD: You see? Just because this guy has an amazing range and vocal delivery you’re taking me more seriously. I can say without vanity that I’m probably the smartest guy you’ll ever have the good fortune to meet, yet I’ll always be laughed at and ridiculed the minute I speak with my own voice.

(One journalist, overcome with the pathos of moment, faints, and has to be carried out. Prof Wipladle is visibly incensed)

PWTD:  Look at him, (points at double) what has he got besides great hair and a voice like melted chocolate?

(Voice double shakes his head. A muttered argument ensues. A terrible whistling, shrieking noise issues from Prof. Wipladle’s mouth.)

PW:  I can’t believe it. What a diva! Am I right?

(All the journalists begin to lose interest and start leaving)

No wait, I’ve got so much to give! Where are you going? I just want to be loved!

(Someone hurls their notepad at him in disgust).

Journalist revolt at the sound of Wipladle’s whiny voice

Neurologist plugs new book on Dreams: The Significance of the Himalayan Griffin Vulture and other Dream Symbols

The Himalayan Griffin Vulture at rest

 

Neurologist Raymond Gentzer has spent a lifetime recording and analysing  other people’s dreams. We spoke to him about his latest book revealing his findings.

 

RG:   It’s a tough job. After all, nobody likes to listen to other people yapping away about their dreams. They always go on forever.

Q:    Then why write a book about it?

RG:    Why else? People are suckers for the whole dream symbolism malarkey.

Q:   You sound a little jaded.

RG:   Do I?

(Gives bitter laugh)

Q:    What about your own dreams?

RG:    I don’t dream. In fact, I pay copious amounts of money to my therapist so that there are no unresolved issues troubling my subconscious.

Q:    Not even that one where…

RG:    No.

Q:    You know where…

RG:    No.

(He sneezes and a cascade of bubbles fly from his lips, floating away)

Q:    Tell us about the book.

RG:    Well, over the years there have been a small percentage of dreams which were interesting.

(Twirls long pink moustache whilst juggling a diamond corn-on-the-cob) I’ve collected them here.

Q:    Can you read us one?

RG:    Very well. It might sound familiar.

‘I dreamt I was in Gerard Depardieu’s house. I was there to collect some candles for another part of the dream. His bum was younger than his face. I followed Gerard up the stairs thinking it was quite strange that he lived on my street – I’d never noticed him round the local caf getting milk or anything. He had a nice house – lots of oak panelling. I felt under-dressed for the occasion. I was nude.’

This dream clearly indicates deep-set sociopathic tendencies…

Q:    Wait a minute! You put that in the book? That’s my dream!

 

Raymond has begun to hover a foot in the air whilst tiny rabbits gnaw his body, looking for earwigs made of hard rock candy. Suddenly, he, and the rabbits, are attacked by a hungry pack of Himalayan Griffin Vultures.

“It’s only a bloody dream isn’t it?” says Raymond resignedly, as the vultures peck at his bones.

Gerard Depardieu, fully clothed, undressing you with his eyes.

Olympian taken hostage

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’

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’

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

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’…

Underground Grog Filter Beats – famous for the next 5 minutes

The latest craze for Underground Grog Filter beats has seen several bands rising above the rest like scum on day old coffee. In a good way.

Crustacean Inflation – Jeniffer Gestation takes the rabid crowds up one minute and then brings them down. Literally. The band laces free cocktails with Valium for that ‘mellow vibe’. Picking broken glass from your cheek has never been more fun.

You need to be pretty mellow to do this move.

Tits for Termites – Low voiced singer Mick Macweltenbrack shouts the lyrics to their hit ‘Brazen faced Dog People’ whilst keyboardist Frick LeRoo recites the periodic table.

Hasta La Vista Gravy – Singing from a bathtub full of gravy, the band wave porkchops and legs of mutton at the increasingly ravenous crowd before inciting them to feast orgiastically off their bodies. With no recognisable band leader it was left to promoter Denby Whatserwaller to yell, “But wait, there is no gravy” over and over again, while recording and looping the baying of the crowd. Expect to come back from the gig in someone else’s clothes.

Hasta La Vista Gravy: He's right there is no gravy. Oh wait, there is.

Donde Endometrium – Ex-microbiologist Flange Breathsaver knits tightly woven computer based blips and bleeps with the cooing of a whip-poor-wil and the noises of a cicada. Walking amongst the audience, he offers to tickle you. Don’t accept.

Flange Breathsaver: Seriously, don't let him tickle you.

Ventriloquist sticks hand up own bum

Bertie and his dummy, in happier times

Bertie Nosewhistler succumbed to the grim financial climate by having to pawn his trusty dummy a few weeks ago.

“Actually he was a foul mouthed little git so I wasn’t too sorry to be rid of him. My psychiatrist told me he was a grim expression of my matricidal tendencies. So he tended to be a bit of a downer.”

With necessity being the mother of invention Bertie has cut out the middle man (or dummy) in an unusual way.

“The audiences love the new show. They’re always surprised the first time they see it.”

Critics have been unstinting in their praise, describing Nosewhistler’s performance as ‘mindboggling’, ‘both terrifying and strangely satisfying,’ and ‘like a car crash you just can’t look away from.’

Agent Tommy Schnitzel says, “I think this show has legs. We’re thinking of taking it to Vegas next year.”
Dr. Abel Enabler (DIPdap, BMad), his Psychiatrist says, “Although this success can’t fail to bolster Bertie’s low self esteem, he has to watch that his negative manifestation ‘the dummy’ doesn’t become a part of him, effectively turning inward.”

“Because otherwise I might become a raging maniac,” Bertie giggled.

Q: How did you come up with the idea?

BN: I was loitering listlessly around the old bedsit looking for something else to pawn when I remembered my years as a contortionist at Rigley’s Circus. I thought to myself, Dang it! That’s the answer! And never looked back. Well, except of course to…

Q: Quite.

Bertie’s Bum and his Magical Hand, is playing at the Barking theatre. Children welcome.

 

"Horror? Or lust? It's such a thin line," says Bertie.

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

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.

Art world brought to it’s knees by painting no one has ever seen

What’s behind door 1?

“In that room is one of the most beautiful works of art you will never see.” Thus spoke recently deceased artist Denzel Breesely, earlier this week. “It’s taken me twenty-five years to complete. My wife left me because I worked in strict seclusion for long periods – she was the love of my life and even she hasn’t seen it.”

His new work, ‘Behind Door number 1,’ sparked a media frenzy because of the closely guarded nature of the installation. At the recent event at the Folderol Gallery in Bank, Breesely failed to reveal the alleged masterpiece, which he has concealed behind an unbreachable locked door.

Wearing a brassy shirt and a loud gold key on a chain, Breesely said,“It rivals the Mona Lisa or any number of fabled pieces in its intricacy of design and flawlessness of its conception.” As art critics and journalists muttered into their hors de oeuvres, the artist took questions regarding the mysterious art work.

Q: Why can’t you let us see it then?

DB: The point of this piece is to test the human endurance for inaccessibility. Your curiosity will imbue the work with all the qualities I’ve just named, merely by imagining it.

Q: A bit like the Emperor’s new clothes?

DB: No, nothing like that. In the story to which you refer, the emperor actually wore no clothes. He was naked and deluded. Behind that door is a work of staggering beauty…

Q: Which no-one is allowed to see?

DB: Precisely. The piece has already been bought sight unseen by Gemini Craterback of the Craterback Cracker industry. And before you ask, not even the new owner of the piece will get the key to the door.

Q: Nothing we can say will convince you to give us a little peek?

DB: (Smiles enigmatically) You’d have to pry the key from my cold, dead hands…

It appeared that the artist’s flippant comment was prescient. Breesely’s death yesterday, involving a freak accident in which he was buried beneath an avalanche of Craterback Crackers (a gift from the new owner), has led to speculation that the mystery will never be resolved. Meanwhile, the projected value of the piece has gone up a thousandfold as critics and pundits speculate as to its content.

“Its already being referred to as one of the iconic pieces of our time,” said Hooch Prize board member, Gullabill Wheat. “None of the other artists have bothered entering this year, so we’ve awarded the prize to Breesely posthumously.”

The artists wake will be held at the Little Church of Generic Omnipotence. All are welcome, snacks will be provided by Craterback industries.