Tommy Von Stroller Meets The Edge

Since i don't have a job, i've spent today making a silly animated series about U2...

Play them in order below

Episode one



Episode Two



Episode Three



Episode Four



Episode Five



Episode Six



Well, that kept me out of mischief for an afternoon...

Tommy Von Stroller

To Be Continued...

xtranormal

A website where you can make your own movies.

www.xtranormal.com

Here's my first attempt



And my tribute to Dead Man's Shoes




Expect more crap movies to follow

The Phenomenal Handclap Band

Are phenomenal. The spirit of The Regular Fries lives on in the form of a bunch of what appear to be kaftan wearing New York Hippie types...





The Supremes style girl live singing arrangement is long overdue in modern popular music as well. (1 min 59 into the second video)

I'm going to have to go and see these buggers live. Get lubricated on cheap e's beforehand and dance like a rubber limbed Ukranian gymnast who's listening to Voodoo Ray for the first time. Whilst pulling a mad kipper like the one i'm pulling below (left hand side) at Glasto a few years back. Acting like i'm 21 again. Oh ah!



That's the power of New York drug-funk for you

P-p-passion P-p-pit

I like their new album. Tis ace. Called 'Manners.'

For those with spotify, whack this code in your searchy bar effort

spotify:album:1ooLVHhUYstvazUoOtUPSn



Ps. I went down to the brit earlier and i saw Paul Scholes washing Djibril Cisse's car outside the club shop. True story

An ode to Gerry Francis's mullet

Gerry Francis' mullet,
Oh how i'd like to pull it,
My fingers firm my digits ensconced,
Amidst those wisps at the back of your bonce,
Oh Gerry does your talent to coach,
Lie within your Chris Waddly hairdo approach?
If i rip it from root will we still bear the fruit,
Of your power to make us so tactically astute?
You're the Samson of Stoke,
You're the meat in our lobby,
You're a wonderful bloke,
And your hair is your hobby,
It's grey and it's long and it's silky and smooth,
And it's just like the football with which we have proved,
How to shoot up the Prem like a speeding red bullet,
And it's all down to you Gerry and your magnificent mullet

I love you Gerry

Frank Wilson

Amazing song. I learnt the bloody chords earlier so i can bore everyone to death with drunken versions of it at 3am! Fuckin brilliant song. The ladies will be putty in my drunken hands

Here I am on bended knees
I lay my heart down at your feet
Now do I love you

All you have to do is ask
I'll give until there's nothing left
do I love you

As long as there is life in me
Our happiness is guaranteed
I'll fill your heart with ecstasy, forever darling

Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do Indeed I do

The very thing that I want most
Is just to have and hold you close
Do I love you?

From early morning until late at night
You fill my heart with pure delight
Do I love you?

Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me, for ever darling

Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?

Indeed I do, sweet darling, indeed I do

(instrumental break)

Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me
for ever darling

Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do, little darling, indeed I do

I don't want to go to 'the dentists'

A sadistic dentist will be ripping half my face off in precisely one and a quarter hours. I've had this Costello tune in my head all morning. Except i swap 'chelsea' for 'the dentist'. Bloody Elvis, the miserable pig. I'd bloody love to be going to Stamford Bridge to laugh in Drogba's face. But i'm not. I'm going to Tunstall to have a tooth pulled. Wicky wah wah

Super Duper Furry Animals

I'm currently thrashing their new album, Dark Days/Light Years. It's a squonky, squirky, fruity, bendy AND wooshy delight. More akin to Guerilla than their last couple of efforts. Crackin



This track's called Moped Eyes

Doosh doosh

The Geordie Nation

I got talking to a heroically pissed man on the bus after the match yesterday. The talk turned to the relegation battle that we find ourselves in and the various other teams involved. Those fun-loving salt of the earth geordies being one of them. The pissed man dismissed them with an effortless couple of sentences...

"Newcastle?!" He said. "The geordie nation? I'll tell you what happened there. When they built Hadrian's Wall, a Scotsman jumped over it and fucked a pig."



Looking at the above pictorial evidence, you'd have to agree that there may be some merit to his theory.

To quote a north-east hero.

"I would love it if Newcastle went down. LOVE IT!"

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!!!

THE NOISE LEAGUE - BARCLAYS PREMIER LEAGUE

Team Decibels

STOKE 101.8
Tottenham 97.58
Liverpool 95.4
Portsmouth 94.3
Newcastle 94.06
Aston Villa 92.2
Chelsea 92.06
Middlesbrough 91.30
Arsenal 90.8
West Brom 90.26
Everton 89.98
Blackburn 89.3
Bolton 88
Man City 87.25
Fulham 87
Man United 86.5
West Ham 86.15
Wigan 86.06
Hull 84.6
Sunderland 84.05

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




101.8 Decibels is the same as a commercial aircraft


RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just A Bit Of Armless Fun?

In 1960, Terry Nutkins had an unfortunate encounter with a brutally violent African otter which resulted in him losing a couple of fingers. Despite this horrific and frightening injury, he managed to forge a successful career as a children’s TV presenter without scarring for life scores of impressionable kids. Which, in the wake of the recent Cerrie Burnell saga, begs the question… Is a missing forearm too much for our children to take? Clearly not. I think the vast majority of us are perfectly comfortable with people of different shapes/creeds/cultures and perceived disabilities. The question is, how do the dissatisfied minority manage to be so well heard?

The BBC received nine complaints about the one-armed C Beebies presenter Burnell, claiming that her missing limb was frightening their kids. Concerned parents resisted explaining to their children that some people are simply different to others and took the only other sensible course of action. They flooded onto the internet and gossiped anonymously.

One comment on the CBeebies parent’s forum stated: “Why does she have to have the sleeve pulled up so high? She didn’t have to hide the arm, but I think she should pull her sleeve down a bit more.” Part of me wishes that I’d written this nugget of genius in a macabre fit of cyber bad taste. But I’m pretty certain that ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’ is being deadly serious. This, I think, is the key to the whole internet deal. Who’s being serious? Who’s on a wind-up? It’s impossible to tell. The anonymity that the medium provides, allows all manner of trolls to write all manner of nonsense. And if it’s on the internet, why then,it must be true.



This is why Terry Nutkins got away with presenting on Children’s TV for so long. It wasn’t because viewers were so mesmerized by his spectacularly breathtaking hippy-monk hairdo that none of them noticed his missing digits. It’s because people had better things to do in those days than spend endless hours debating endless drivel on the internet. Granted, the internet wasn’t around in those days and that’s exactly the point. It’s presence in society now means that conversations once confined to pubs and supermarket queues are now conducted in the virtual ether with an audience of billions. An audience ready to gasp in horror. An audience ready to nod in agreement. An audience ready to be abusive. And, importantly, an audience more than ready to fan the flames of self-righteous indignation from the relative safety of their computer.

Take the Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand incident. The majority of complaints were received AFTER the infamous phone call had been broadcast. Meaning that thousands of cyber-ghouls made the effort to listen to a recording of the show just so they could start a web-based witch hunt. It doesn’t take much to start an online stampede. It’s incredibly easy to forward emails and links. And wherever these links take you, you’ll find the dissatisfied minority on their high-horse; the sort of people who used to have the complaints department on their speed-dial. They don’t need that anymore though, they’ve got it saved to their internet favourites.

Chances of a Nutkins comeback in the digital age? Absolutely none; the forums would be positively teeming. “Look at his hair,” they’d type. “Why does he have to have the back so long? He doesn’t have to hide it completely, but I do think he should wear a hat.” I tend to agree. It's a ridiculous barnet.

My big prediction for 2009 - Hockey

I think this is their new single, Too Fake - I reckon it's ace. Like Rod Stewart fronting LCD Soundsystem...



3AM Spanish - Live in NY

His lumberjack shirt looks a bit wank mind you. And they're apparently all vegans. Good tunes though. Funky monkeys

Horrific Blag - Thick Manc Cunt

I'm fond of a wind-up myself, but never anything on this epic scale! I must up my game...

Fuckin Pisser!

Southern Shandy Swigging Scaredy Cat Snow Saps

If I see any more footage of frightened southerners staring quizzically at snow I shall scream and emigrate. To somewhere with nice weather, like Siberia. The hysteria surrounding ‘the worst snow in 20 years’ has reached fever pitch and if the media is to be believed, then we’d all be better off staying indoors to avoid attacks from hungry polar bears and being beaten to death with clubs by murderous Inuits.

It’s Tuesday morning and the BBC weather woman Carol Kirkwood has just destroyed a snow teapot in the Blue Peter garden. I’d like to say she’d kicked the fuck out of it before turning wild-eyed to the camera with a pendulum of snot dangling from her nose and shouting ‘Ave a bit o’ that Jack Frost, you big icy bastard!’ But she didn’t. She just leant on the handle and it fell off. Alongside willful acts of ice-sculpture vandalism, the breakfast programme has featured a debate about whether all cars should be fitted with metal-grip tyres and a short instructional report about the correct usage of ice-scrapers. The reporter watching the scraping demonstration looked not dissimilar to a caveman witnessing fire for the first time. Needless to say he was southern.

Sky - bastions of the understatement that they are - have sent a crack-team to a snowbound Silverstone to demonstrate correct braking procedures, using a high performance rally car with massive tyres and ABS brakes. The sort of car you see driving round London in the snow all the time. Hmmm… I don’t remember them wheeling Ray Mears out to give rudimentary kayaking lessons when the people of Sheffield were being forced to swim to the shops for some teabags and a pound of mince. Such footage will do nothing for north/south relations, omnipresent and tense at the best of times.

The Scots must be pissing themselves at the whole thing, surveying the English jessies from atop their mountains in their winter get up of flip-flops and polo-shirts. They have REALLY bad weather. The sort of weather that makes your toes fall off in June and icicles grow in the womens beards. The Londoncentric media coverage really is ridiculous. A state of national-crisis is declared because a few ponytailed cockney spivs can’t get to their office for 24 hours to gamble the rest of our money down the shitter. Have a day off and build a snowman like normal people.



Fast forward to Thursday morning and the crisis still hasn’t abated. They’ve run out of grit in Watford and thousands of people are meeting with horrific, frictionless deaths. Their vehicles pirouetting across dual-carriageways like an RTA version of Swan Lake. No such problems up north. When we run out of salt and grit, our northern highways are protected by big burly men in donkey jackets shoveling on leftover gravy and whippet shit. It’s called preparation. Mind you, you don’t see any coverage of such ingenious enterprise on the TV, although I daresay you would if it was being done anywhere south of Birmingham.

I’ve often wondered whether it would be possible to dig a deep trench from west coast to east coast, dissecting a point somewhere just below Brum, and then push the bottom island in the general direction of France. We’d be rid of them forever, they wouldn’t have to deal with snow anymore, and it would take me less than an hour to reach the south coast for my summer holiday on the Wolverhampton Riviera. Everyone’s a winner. It makes perfect sense.

But until I have the financial/political/technological clout to make this happen, I’ll have to make do with that trip to Siberia. My Bermuda shorts are packed, I’ve got a bag full of abrasive dog-shit and I’m off to show them how to use an ice-scraper. Properly.

Iggy Pop - Swiftcover car insurance

First we had Johnny Rotten buttering our crumpets, and now we’ve got Sir Iggy Pop keeping us safe on the roads. What next? Topper Headon extolling the virtues of BUPA healthcare? Pete Shelley selling Fruit Pastilles? It may sound far-fetched, but the floodgates have been opened. Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton was found dead of a suspected heart attack in his house this week. No doubt induced by the sight of his muscled frontman calling for diligence amongst the nation’s motorists. It’s a terrible ad - the first time I saw it I caught AIDS. Asheton was not as fortunate though. But enough about death and pestilence. The point is, Iggy shouldn’t have car insurance and we all know why



A)He should have a chauffer. B) He should be too off his face to drive. And C) Should he attempt to drive in an intoxicated state and end up crashing, then he should just do the decent thing and leap from his car, stride greasy and topless towards his victim with a wild look in his eyes, like a drug-fuelled version of the metal-man from Terminator 2 and shout in their face: “I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb.” Before thrusting a wad of dollar bills in their face and telling them to ‘buy a new effin’ car’ and furthermore to ‘watch where they’re effin’ going.’ Then screeching away from the scene with No Fun blaring out at an industrial level. But we now know that’s what he WOULDN’T do in the event of an RTA. He’d swap details like a good citizen, and as he did so, there’d be no hope left in the world for anyone anywhere. Least of all the customers of Swiftcover.