Welcome back to the crazy world of Triangle and Square. And when I say crazy, I mean that guy from Airplane who says “Rapunzel! Rapunzel!” crazy. IE DAMN CRAZY. The Triangle & Square Show is the thing that my mate Simon from Mediapill puts ten tons of effort into, and I get to put on my site, on the grounds that I am a script consultant or something cool like that. In any event, it means I’m spared from posting Yummy Mummy / Pokémon crossover, so everyone’s a winner. Here it is!

I hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, then I will knit a rainbow of despair from my woollen tears.

I’ve always had this problem fitting in (to small spaces = fat lol). But seriously, I’ve had an awful time in this life, because I always wanted to be accepted. Embraced. But I am now 32, no-one’s ever touched me, and my attempts to join a Premiership football club are met we increasingly unkind refusals.

 So imagine my delight when I read about Yummy Mummies. Liz Frazer says that “A Yummy Mummy is the ultimate modern woman.” That’s me, alright. Bang on the fucking button. So I’ve decided to keep a Yummy Mummy Diary, in which I’ll chronicle what it’s like being a yummy mummy. I’ll wager it’s not all shopping sprees, beauty treatments, and being an awful fucking self-obsessed cunt!

DAY ONE!
I am a Yummy Mummy. Hahahahaha! It’s great! I wear tiny jeans and I have a baby. Two in fact! You have neither of these things and I am the best. I could only be beaten if two other Yummy Mummies joined forces, and we would never do that to each other.

DAY TWO!
I just looked in the mirror and I do have to say that I look great! It’s a good job I’m a Yummy Mummy otherwise I would look like some kind of face-mangled barrow of shit! Seriously, with every day that passes, I think I grow in the dual characteristics of yumminess, and mumminess.

DAY THREE!
There was a slight imbalance today, as I became slightly more yummy than I am a mummy. One of my daughters got ripped up in a rotating door. Now I have to be ever-so-slightly less yummy until I can drop another one! WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SO DIFFICULT? To cheer myself up I looked at the word Prada in a magazine and promised myself a new thimble. Yummy Mummies love thimbles! We fill them with off milk and swing them around our heads!

DAY FOUR!
Great news! I found thirty babies in the local school, just lying around all unconscious from the poison gas I had put into their mashed potatoes! Now when I put them into my Yummy Mummy conversion machine, I’ll be the Yummiest Mummy in the Midlands! The other Yummy Mummies will be so jealous. They will hate me. And once I have won the Midlands Badge, I will have enough to compete in the London Finals!

DAY FIVE!
I had to fight another Yummy Mummy today. It is always a sad thing when Yummy Mummies must resort to combat, but there is a growing tide of evil Yummy Mummies riding in from the Western regions. I was ambushed outside an exclusive shop that I totally go to all the time. A Level 5 Dark Yummy Mummy launched two of her children at me, and starting building energy for a solar flare. Luckily I took advantage of her momentary inaction, and put my knee in her cuntbone. As is usual in these circumstances, I gave her children the opportunity to join me or die. They joined me, so I’m yummier than ever!

WEEKEND!
It’s the weekend now, and Yummy Mummies must return to the home planet for womb rinsing. See you on Monday!

YUMMY MUMMIES ASSEMBLE!

Yesterday, I developed a new way of “dealing with fucking awful pedestrians”. My previous method was to imagine the whole-walking-down-the-street business as a computer game, making “swip-swip” sounds as I strafed in bullet-time through an endless stream of ever more aggravating “sprites”. If I ducked between two fuckers with their umbrellas up (even though it stopped raining five minutes ago, you massive set of pricks) I’d make the sound of Sonic picking up a ring. And if I jumped really high when entering a shop, I’d demand 7650 points from the security guard.

“Come on, man - that was high enough,” I’d growl. “Give me the fuckin’ points.”

This hasn’t been working recently. The games I’ve been playing have largely involved a spooky little girl who’s your mum, and rolling up the creatures of all cosmos into a ball. Great games, but they don’t make great analogies for walking along Oxford Street. So, this time, I had to come up with something else.

THE SITUATION
I was walking down some steps at Baker Street station. The woman in front of me was walking incredibly slowly. I was in a bit of a funny mood, as I’d just had a vodkaless diet coke in a pub, which had made me feel slightly desolate. I just wanted to be home, and not using up excess steps in a useless sideways motion because I refused to slow my leg speed down.

WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED
I harumphed a couple of times, working myself up into that state where you beg with your eyebrows for anyone to recognise your anguish. When it got too much, I looked over her shoulder, I noticed that she was helping a medium sized girl down the stairs. In my irrational head, “girl of moderate and pleasing size” was translated into “JESUS CHRIST MOVE you fat fucking bitch”. I can stop myself saying these things, but sadly I can’t stop myself thinking them, again and again. And again.

As an aside at this stage, I don’t think disabilities is a fair word. It’s like saying “they simply cannot do what we can do”, and that’s not true. A more accurate word would be “shitabilities”, because they can do everything, just with varying degrees of shitness. It would also take into account the wide range and severity of disability.

“Doctor, is it serious?”
“I’m afraid you’re shitabled in both legs.”
“Damn. How shit is it?”
“Pretty shit, actually. Not like OMG shit, just… pretty fucking shit.”
“Shit.”
“Pretty much.”

MY NEW SOLUTION
When I got the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that Down’s Syndrome had rendered this young girl mildly shitabled, with a localised heavy shitability in bending her knees. Before I managed to summon a shred of guilt, I thought “Aha! Well, I guess they don’t call it Down’s syndrome because it helps you go down stairs faster, eheeegh, well done me.”

The sheer shitness of my involuntary comment made me slip my thumbs underneath a pair of invisible braces and sing the bit from Little Drummer Boy that goes “Then, he smiled at me pa-rum-pa-pum pum”, still inside. And I wondered what would have happened, if I’d turned around, and wryly said it to the person behind me.

“Sir, a most amusing contradiction has occurred to me,” I would have started. “This afflicted creature is labouring under a condition popularly known as Down’s Syndrome. How ironic that this does little to enhance her downward mobility!”

“Yes,” the man would have replied. “My dear mother has Parkinson’s, and her interviewing skills haven’t improved one iota. It’s the cruellest blow, really, as she had Joan Collins and Andre Previn around last week, and her lines of questioning were uninspired and led nowhere.”

“I have kinky hair syndrome,” a voice would have piped up from the back, and myself and the Parkinson’s guy would have gone “ppft” at each other, as though to say “he totally doesn’t get our sophisticated sense of humour”. Two years later, we were married and living in Newstead Abbey, and the kinky hair guy was our fuck butler, demonstrating once and for all that it’s (fucking) funny how things turn out.

“What’s for dinner, Dave? Oh cool, sex.”

CONCLUSION
After just ten seconds, I no longer felt any anger towards the mother of the Downer. I also had a semi-on that made me walk in that classic upbeat fashion, when your arms swing in full circles, full of shopping bags and hat boxes, and I’ve got a new way of dealing with shit pedestrians.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not the best human being in the world.

Today, without further ado, I’m going to start my walkthrough for the most difficult of the Fighting Fantasy books, CITADEL OF CHAOS. I found this book when I went home for Mother’s Day, which I spent mainly in the attic, because my mum only buys skimmed milk and really, what’s the point? It just makes me so cross.

While I was I up there, I found a dusty old chest, with an intricate lock. A series of images from my childhood flashed through my mind, and my hand was drawn to a silver key that I’ve worn on a necklace since puberty. Taking off the necklace, I tentatively tried it in the lock. The tiny silver key didn’t fit, so I smashed it open using Big Daddy’s signature move, the Daddy Splash. And you’ll never believe what was inside - my old collection of Fighting Fantasy books. The ground-breaking series where you quite literally chose your own adventure. And sitting on the top? The Citadel Of Chaos.
I’m not the only person with an interest in this book, but I am the best. For instance, John Stock reviewed it here, and he has this to say of the cover. “Brilliant, involving this castle on top of a rock with hordes of beasts coming out. In the foreground is a black lion in mid-roar.”

Beg pudding John, but if that’s a lion then I’m an orc with Charisma 18. You wanna come around my house and tell me what is and isn’t a lion, you spunk-sodden wank-towel? I’ll have you. I’ll bite your fucking everywheres, and you’ll take it because you know you’re wrong. It’s a Dark Sasquatch, you soggy mongoloid shitcrash.

I know I’m over-reacting, but it just gets on my fucking nerves when idiots just point at things and say “that’s a fucking amazing drawing of a lion” with this arrogant sense of authority. How many people have read John Stock’s retarded “review”, and not even questioned it? Seriously, I’m thinking about writing a letter to Steve Jackson about it.

I first wrote to Steve Jackson when I was eight years old. I photocopied it and kept it, in case the internet was ever invented. Here it is.

As ever, I’m forgetting why I’m here, which is to start my exclusive Citadel of Chaos walkthrough, that I’m going to ask to be added to the Bible when it’s finished. Fighting Fantasy books are ten times better than the Bible, because you are the adventurer, not Jesus. Seriously, the Bible is like the least interactive book ever.
LEVEL 1 : APE-DOG AND DOG-APE

Before you get into the Citadel of Chaos, where that sod-minded sorcerer Balthus Dire is sporting a genuine boner for destruction, you have to get through a door that’s manned by these two chaps.

Jill Parslow, the Ape-Dog, and Ted Babcock, the Dog-Ape. Steve Jackson’s imagination was running amok here! When Steve looks at this opening illustration today, he must wonder what demons he was channelling, to come up with such… I normally hesitate to use the word genius… but I feel that here, I must.

I showed this picture to my best friend, and he said it was “rubbish”. I responded by hurling myself from my chair to the floor, where I made hissing grab for his calves. He stepped away from me with a sickened look on his face, and we haven’t spoken since. I have written to Steve Jackson to tell him what my friend said. I don’t like to be a snitch, but I don’t see what alternative I had.

The fastest way to get through the book is this.

1. Pose as herbalist. Turn to 261.
2. Say the person of the name you are going to treat is Kylltrog. (You can also say Blag, but I don’t approve of puns in the fantasy environment) Turn to 81.
3. They laugh, and say that Kylltrog is a silly billy, but let you through. Turn to 251.

You’ve made it to the Courtyard. Here’s a map I made using my new pens. I missed out an arrow at the bottom, but I don’t see you paying me any consultancy fees, so FUCK YOU DOWN THE PISS-SLIT.

Now we’re in the Courtyard! To get through here, you’ll need to be EXTRA CUNNING. The courtyard is the first place you can properly die, so the heat, pressure, and… electrical resistance… are ON! But that’s all for next time, as I really have to run to the free vending machine and coax out a mocha.

Until next time, Fighting Fantasy Fans!

I’m a huge fan of nostalgia. I honestly don’t think there’s anything more satisfying than saying that everything’s really shit these days, and if you don’t think so, that’s just because you’re an idiot who hasn’t lived long enough to know how brilliant it was in the 1980s. To prove my point, here’s a graph that charts levels of ironic enjoyment attached to Gary Coleman, with amount of enjoyment linked to size, age, and opacity of head.

——————————-> time

By 2006, enjoyment of Gary Coleman is almost 100% ironic. Is that nice? Are you being kind? THE POOR GUY IS A FREAK, LEAVE THE AWFUL FREAK ALONE TO DIE A MISERABLE DEATH IN PEACE.

Note also that the utopian vision of a Christian paradise switches into a scene from the death of General Montgomery in the year 1996. This is the very same year that crack cocaine started tearing up communities, and when Ben Elton admitted that he was only doing the “alternative stuff” because “that’s where the money was in those days”.

So join me, in a time before irony, when you were allowed to enjoy yourself without everyone going “eur, you’re showing emotions, that’s not acceptable in the future”. And let’s relive the first episodes of DENVER, THE LAST DINOSAUR!

EPISODE 1 : WOW, A DINOSAUR

In the first episode of Denver, our intrepid gang of “kids” were enyoying a game of hangman. When it was Gadget’s turn, he went into a trance, and started playing Hangman in a really creepy way, running his fingers slowly across the paper. When they finally solved the puzzle it read “DISCO IS DEAD”.

When Gadget came out of his trance, everyone was very worried, because Gadget loved disco music and episodes like that might hint at a form of personality disorder. But then Denver The Last Dinosaur parachuted in, and pointed at an eerie pale-skinned musician, who was shaking the Barundi Wand from Supergirl, and trying to sell a weird form of genderless electronic music to the local church.

“Oh no,” cried Daisy. “He’s attempting to blur the God-made distinction between men and women. Let’s solve this crime!”

“I bet he was born funny in the downbelows,” said Sir Hugsalot. “He must blame Jesus, and hate everyone with a fully-functioning pa-pa-pa-paaaa-pa.” (Thanks to a strict parents and a nervous tic, Sig Hugsalot would sing the Pearl & Dean theme instead of saying dirty words.) So they got into a junkyard truck and brought the hook crashing into the side of his head, killing him instantly.

They all turned to Denver. “Who are you, anyway?” asked Jazz, and Denver pulled this funny face and said “meep meep”, so they decided to keep him in the local quarry.

EPISODE 2 : LET’S SOLVE CRIMES EVERY WEEK!

High on that “doin’-good buzz”, the children wrote a theme song. It went

Denver, The Last Dinosaur
He’s Our Friend And A Whole Lot More!

The children spent a long time wondering whether that implied there was a romantic interest between themselves and Denver, but the idea seemed so unlikely (not to mention offensive to nature!) that they didn’t worry about it, even when neighbourhood parents said “look, those are the kids that sing about fucking that goofy dinosaur”.

The second episode took place in a disused chapel. Once the children had taken it in turns to deliver their favourite sermon, Denver went up to the dais and said “meep meep”, and they all laughed. “Hang on,” said Tekno. “How many people laughed, then?” So they counted the laughs, one by one, and sure enough, the last laugh was full of malevolent scorn - and when they looked to see who was making it… it was Satan!

So they put Denver on roller-skates, and he spent three minutes standing on the spot, waving his arms around and going “diddle-iddle-oing!” Hank said “this isn’t working, I’m going to get my father’s gun”, but when they looked at Satan, his eyes were rolling around from looking at Denver’s legs, and he fell into the font.

He stayed there for three seconds until his bottom started smoking in the Holy Water, then he flew out of the chimney! The children learned that they had summoned Satan through their well-meaning but unlicenced preaching, and they had to say sorry to God (Denver in a beard).

EPISODE 3 : GROOBALOO

The second episode of Denver wasn’t as well-received as the first, so a panicked studio stripped the show of its religious overtones and decided to sex it up with a real-action sidekick, Tony Danza from “Taxi”. Action would cut away to Tony looking terrified or laughing, depending on the situation. When a vocal response was required, Tony would say “Groobaloo!”

Throughout the whole episode, Buzz and Kan-do played Hopscotch in the background, declining any active role in the plot, which mostly entailed Pinky’s birthday, and Pinky got all sulky because Widget had listened to the CD he’d bought her before giving it to her.

“Fuck, I didn’t have to buy you anything, bitch,” he replied, prompting a shocked “Groobaloo!” from Tony Danza. Before long, there were a series of unspeakable crimes in the area, but the gang had lost interest and Denver didn’t even appear, apart from in a clumsy slapstick dance routine with Tony Danza over the end credits.

The episode attracted two billion viewers, and was cancelled. Tony Danza today works as a human resources consultant for a leading ISP. (I made that bit up)

I received a text this week, from a number that my phone didn’t recognise. It was a joke, and the joke was so excellent that I’ve decided to rewrite it here, as an equally excellent sketch.

INT. AFTERNOON. GARY AND TOM’S BEDROOM.

Gary : Well, that rounds off a weekend of nothing but hot fucking. I’m just going to get some Lucozade from the shops.
Tom : Yes. All this frantic, mindless fucking has pushed us both to the brink of exhaustion and death, rather.
Gary : I’ll be back in five minutes. And don’t you go and have a wank - I want all that spunk of yours in my ever-hungry mouth.

GARY LEAVES. PAN TO CLOCK. IT MOVES FORWARD FIVE MINUTES. PAN BACK TO THE ROOM. THE WALLS AND CEILING ARE UTTERLY COVERED IN SEMEN. A JUG, HALF TIPPED OVER, HAS BEEN FROZED MID-TEETER BY THE QUICK-DRYING JISM. SPUNKY STALACTITES ARE BEGINNING TO FORM FROM THE STANDARD LAMP. IT IS LIKE A WONDEROUS ICE CAVERN OF WASTED FERTILITY. GARY RE-ENTERS WITH LUCOZADE.

Gary : Oh Tom! You had a wank!
Tom : No Gary! That’s not the case at all! I farted!
Gary : LOL OK lets wipe toast against the wall and eat it.
Tom : ROFL4EVA

[actual text joke here]

I hadn’t heard a gay joke in ages, so when two came along in the same week, I made a nauseating gurgle of pleasure. The text - well, that was only 160 characters. The second amazing gay joke? Well, it’s basically exactly the same joke as that text, but spread over two pages of a women’s magazine. New Woman have decided to run their staff homo as a public GBF (gay best friend!) who doles out sass-laden sex tips to women who wouldn’t know their cunts from a bag of Monster Munch.

Here’s the photo that went with the article. For those of you in wheeled chairs, I must ask you to place a sturdy bulldog clip over your bell-end. Otherwise, the backwards force from your ejaculation could propel you through a car-wash, or something. To the straight gentleman who read this, this is the man who’s telling your girlfriend to put a finger up your anus and nibble your perineum (and, following magazine etiquette, I am legally obliged to follow perineum with “the bit between your balls and bum”).

Look at that! He’s not even taking the glasses from his mouth with his hand, in an attempt to look thoughtful! He’s just letting them swing from his mouth! Stephen, for your reference, I’ve made a quick chart which I call “The Dangerous Blackjack Of Trying To Look Clever With Glasses“.

17 : You are wearing glasses.
This is an excellent start to “looking clever”.
18 : You tilt your head down and look over your glasses.
Wonderful. You now look questioning, and perhaps a little superior.
19 : You hold your glasses, and manoeuvre them to the end of your nose.
This is librarianesque, and really knocks up the sense of academic can-do.
20 : You actually take off your glasses to look at someone.
This is what lawyers do, when they’re about to win the case for their client. It’s devastatingly intelligent, and you will require three weeks on charge before you can effectively repeat the move.
21 : Removing your glasses, you gently hook one arm of the glasses into your mouth, whilst holding onto the frame between your forefinger and thumb.
This is pretty much as intelligent as you can be, without maths and the capitals of countries squirting out of your pores like narrow worms of Primula.
22 : You let go with your hand, and allow your glasses to swing freely from your mouth. Disaster! You’ve just overstepped the mark, and now you look like a complete fucking idiot. You might as well go around asking people “HAVE OO SEEN MY GLATHES? I’VE LOOKED EVVYWHERE. DOOOOO.” Also, you’re not kidding any cunt with those photoshopped eyes, dollface.

I loved the tips so much that I’ve flouted copyright laws and put scans of them at the bottom of the page. Also, I’ve read the first one out in a funny voice. But now, what I’m here for. I’m going to give my OWN AMAZING SET OF SEX TIPS FOR STRAIGHT WOMEN. Horroay!

1. FART INTO EACH OTHER’S BIG SEXY ASSES

Quit looking at me like some kinda frumpy cunt with no face - unless you gonna give him what he wants, you gonna die stupid and lonely, sucking at that sensible cardigan you wore to your prom. Honey - nothing is more erotic than locking your bum-pussies together. That feeling as they click into place, and your bodies become one gorgeous bundle of ass-bloom, it’s as priceless as a baby’s smile. And once you’ve got them locked, don’t be getting shy. Fart back and forth, like you’re cutting up a log with a two-man saw.

And don’t get prissy if you feel a turd slipping out - what could be more romantic than mixing up your shits in an airtight ass-tunnel? I actually can’t think of anything. And if he’s too shy to do it, get rid. You don’t need a wilting pansy cluttering up your fuck-windows. Life’s too short to not spend every second of it fucking like a robot.

2. IF YOU CAN FIT HIS DICK IN IT, STICK HIS DICK IN IT

If you declare any part of your body a no-go area, then you deserve all the domestic abuse you get. Last night I was out with my best girlfriend, and while she was at the bar I took over seven fat dicks in my tear duct. It was agonising, and I’ve still got a blinding case of lens smear, but I didn’t complain. I moaned like I was getting my balls licked by God himself. Sex isn’t all about you, so stop being such a selfish bitch.

Be inventive! If you get a paper cut, why not pull back the little sliver of skin and let him dress up as a doctor and fuck it? You’ll be thanking me when he’s buying you a new Renault Megane. I got so many Renault Meganes I’ve started driving them into lakes, and why? Because I’m a million fuckable holes, and men love that.

3. BE SO DIRTY HE ACTUALLY YELPS IN DISGUST

Speaking as a gay man, I like nothing more than finding a scotch egg up a fella’s toot-chute when I’m rimming him. Everyone loves a surprise, and it shows that he’s thinking of me. So why not put some advance planning into the love act? Break into a pensioner’s house, and get grimy in the airing cupboard. Or you could stick both hands up his ass on Rita - Queen of Speed at Alton Towers. Or just go back to basics, take handfuls of uppers and hallucinogens, and spend the evening counting your penny collections or going through the beats on an electric piano.

HAPPY FUCKING, YOU BUNCH OF STUPID STRAIGHT CUNTS!

As promised, here’s that article for you to look read. It’s exactly this kind of thing that led me, as a fear-bloated 17-year-old, to invent a new sexuality called “Me And Bruce McCulloch From Kids In The Hall Living In A House And Watching Telly Together”. Read. Read them. Read the sex tips. Oh God, won’t you just read them.