Hello! Here is my happy story about bicycles, dwarves, and Richard Archer from Hard-Fi. It’s in three chapters!

CHAPTER ONE
BICYCLES

I have bought a bicycle. Having a bicycle is brilliant, even if you can’t just put your legs in the air and go forward by yelping enthusiastically. It’s exercise, it’s saving me money, it’s all the best things in the world and I can’t shriek at a high enough pitch to express my love for my new bicycle. I’ve only got one problem with my new bicycle - it’s too small, and I hate it.

I knew it was going to be too small, from the moment the 5′6″ sales assistant looked me up and down, and said “I’ll put you down for the twenty inch frame. That’s what I ride, and we’re the same height.”

I’m six feet tall, give or take OK TAKE half an inch. I’m a full penis taller than this guy. But you can’t say to a tiny fella “excuse me, knee-high superguy, wake up and smell the congenital defect - you’re a tiddler”. I dated someone who was 5′8″ once, and he’d have a spaz attack if you prefaced any insult with the word “little”. I can only imagine how someone two inches more miniscule - and substantially deluded about his own height - would react if I rested my chin on his head and told him he was like a dinky toy version of a real man. He’d probably hop from foot to foot and shake his pea-sized fist at me.

Partly to prevent this humiliating situation, and partly because I’m convinced he’s a biter, I console myself with the idea that I can just put the seat up myself. Turns out, right, I’m so fat it goes down again while I cycle. Lol! Fat people. In retrospect, though, I think I made the right decision. Cycling with my knees bumping against my chest is a small price to pay for the dignity of a man who isn’t as tall as he thinks he is.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter One to Chapter Two is “a simmering strangeness around short people”.

CHAPTER TWO
DWARVES

A genuine dwarf came into the office, yesterday. He was promoting a Lord of the Rings game, under the pretence that he was a Hobbit.

As a professional dwarf, he’s completely aware of his position. And when I say his position, I mean his position as a man who’s as sexless to women as a disabled gay. Far from discouraging him, he realises that this means he can abuse his position as honorary child by groping the bums of ladies. No well-groomed lady will shriek in horror at the leering advances of a dwarf. Instead, they will laugh, and say “oh, you! You’ve seen what we do and you’re copying us!”

So, this sex pest mini-man is perfectly aware of, and profiting from, his shortness. It should, in theory, be perfectly acceptable for me to go up to him and say “can I have a photo of you riding me like a horse, please?” He must get cunts like me coming up to him with this kind of shit all the time.

TOP FIVE REQUESTS MADE OF PROFESSIONAL DWARF

1. Can you ride me like a horse please, like I am a big proud horse
2. Can I knock on your overhanging forehead please, I want to see whether it’s like a block of wood or an aquarium
3. Please can I stand you on the handle-end of a fork, then slam my hand on the stabbling end, and you go flying through the air
4. Can I see your teeth please, I want to see if you’re adapted for an omnivorous lifestyle
5. Get your cocktail sausage hands off my tits please, this stopped being charming some minutes ago and I can see your erection

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I got up a few times and moved backwards and forwards, but I got nowhere near actually saying “ride me” to a dwarf. Annoyingly, this is because I respect people in real life, getting my kicks instead from being a dick on the internet.

The problem is, this leaves me without a photo of me being ridden like a horse by a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit. Which I really, really, wanted. God, I can’t explain how much I want that photo.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter Two to Chapter Three is “lost opportunities, and a lingering preoccupation with being ridden like a horse”.

CHAPTER THREE
RICHARD ARCHER FROM HARD-FI

I’ve met Richard Archer from Hard-Fi before, when he was in less popular bands like Contempo, Parachute, Transitional XHTML, Richard Archer And The Randy Binmen, and the extremely unpopular Jewstabber. He’s a friend of a friend, but I’ve always been a bit too dazzled by him to ever say anything other than “OH WOW A SONG ARE YOU GAY”. This was certainly the first time I’d met him since he became an international superstar, and toast-chomping spokesperson for the underclasses, or whatever it is the NME thinks he is.

Because I’m concentrating on not saying anything too obvious, my brain turns into an ale-fuelled tumble dryer. He’s not being a prick at all, like I’d expected. Like, pretty much, I demand of my reputedly-cunt celebrities.  He’s responding to questions without holding court, and being unassuming, modest and aware of the madness - but all I’m really thinking for two hours is “I wonder if he’ll let me take a photo of him riding me like a horse”.

He’s got more to lose than a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit, who - it could easily be argued - has nothing to lose but a life of punishing introspection and sex offences. Richard Archer’s enough of a celebrity, and any photo of him riding me like a horse is going to look so much like doggy-style sauciness that it might compromise his position as an available lady’s man.

Driven by the lost opportunity of the morning, where I swore to myself I’d never not ask someone to ride me like a horse ever again, I asked him if he would do this one favour for me. Did he comply? HOW, SIR, DO YOU LIKE THESE APPLES?

Richard Archer from Hard-Fi, thank you for riding me like a horse. And may I take this opportunity to reassure any of his fans that it isn’t going in. It’s just sort of sliding around the small of my back. OH SHUT UP LOG

Hi there, Jennifans!

As you all know, my life is amazing, and I have three bags full of crazy fun with every mouthful. However, that’s not to say that my daily life isn’t an agonizing catalogue of loss and regret. It’s because I love so much, and so intensely - the only equivalent I can think of, based on what I’ve been doing in the last twenty minutes - is that my love is an EMP bomb. Sure, it knocks out all the electronics and causes chaos, and sure, it’ll damage any friendly security bots you’ve hacked into; but it lets you open that door. The door to love.

The video is briefly unavailable, thanks to a bunch of humourless cunts who think more of their own legal rights than they do of my rights to dick about on the internet. In the spirit of good will, I’m going to get the video hosted elsewhere, but until I manage that, here’s an H1 fuck you to the cunts in the comments section.

FUCK YOU, CUNTS.

Rosy Rockets is a bucket of inspiration.
Raz is a pixel genius.
I had an argument with an old woman who claimed my dad was fucking my sister in law.

I never thought these things would come together, but they have.

First, read the post about Irene, because it sets up the whole story. It’s also one of those good posts that makes me wonder where my writing mojo may have fucked off to. Make sure you listen to the sound file, for optimum “getting it”.

Then, click play on what Raz and Rosy did, below. It’s fucking brilliant. Absolutely requires sound.

1. Click on the image above, which is a link to a legible version of it.

2. Print the menu out, and take it to any of the family-friendly pub food chains.

3. Demand any of the items on your menu at the bar. Remember to make a note of your table number.

4. When they say it is not on the menu, say “don’t tell me it is not on the menu, I’ve got the menu right here in my hands, and I can assure you that it is very much on it”.

5. Begin a life-changing law suit based on the disappointment of your child, and children everywhere.

FACE 9: THIS IS BETWEEN YOU AND ME
Now, you have won my trust. I’m going to give you a tiny box. I want you to take this box into a mysterious cave, and place it on a dais, or plinth. If you are there at the prescribed time, a shaft of sunlight will enter the antechamber; you should guide this light into the serpent’s ruby eye (not the emerald!). If you do this, you will unlock the final room, which contains the wretched mulligatawny of my vestigial soul. Bring it back to me, and if you come back past the corner shop, get me a can of Top Deck and some Skittles please.

FACE 10: OH SHIT, NOW YOU DONE IT
Mother of piss! That’s the emerald eye! Did my expression in Face 9 not convey the full gravity of my instructions? I’m afraid you have activated the ancient defence mechanisms of this Peruvian tomb, and a terror more deadly than the world has known is about to erupt from the long-dormant volcano. Can you feel it, Jeremy? Can you feel the evil? It’s delicious, isn’t it? So naughty. It makes me want to put on some new socks and paddle in sick. That’s how naughty it makes me feel. Oh, Jeremy, your face is a picture. Can you see what it is, yet?
FACE 11: NOW YOU MUST FACE ME IN COMBAT
That’s right, it’s me! I’m Jimmy Carr. The worldly body that has entertained you ridiculous humans with jokes such as “if we’re all God’s children, what’s so special about Jesus” was, in fact, just a projection of my eternal, malevolent soul. My weakened spirit form was cursed to tell only the truth, so I was forced to search long and hard for a red-green colour-blind fan of my comedy who might venture into the forbidden chamber and accidentally unlock my soul by shining the sunlight into the emerald, not the ruby! Yes, it is a little involved, but that’s the idle games of the immortals for you. The laughter ends now, sweet Jeremy, for I am reborn! Put ‘em up, shitbag. I’ll bite you a new cunt.

FACE 12: YOUR FLAILING ATTEMPTS AT KARATE BEMUSE ME
What… what are you doing? You think that by hopping from leg to leg, and making small circles with your fists, you are fighting me? I am a million cubits of air, solid with hate! You think that I will show you mercy, because of your tenacious attitude and unflappable spirit of can-do? You underestimate me; I am Jimmy Carr. I invented cigarettes, and drippy willies. I am the man who stands, hands on hips, over the fallen bodies of geriatric women whose shopping carts picked up a bit too much speed on a hill. I’m financially astute. I’m a billion bee-stings on a million bell-ends. That said, you do look adorable like that. Come on, hop into my top pocket, and we’ll go to Halfords. I need a new D-lock for my Chopper. Do you remember Choppers?

Whatever next? Will the final four faces of Jimmy Carr carry on this story, or the one in the last episode? Or will it unify the two strands in a shocking twist that’ll have you gasping for respite? Find out in Part Three of… The Sixteen Faces Of Jimmy Carr.

Pictures taken from jimmycarr.net - probably the most unfinished fansite ever to write itself into the wikipedia entry for Jimmy Carr.

Russell sits in his chair. He looks around, whistling, and takes a sip out of his coffee. He smacks his lips a couple of times, and looks confused. He points his finger into the air, before flying it around like an aeroplane, and bringing it down on his intercom button.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Yes, sir?

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Oh, thank you Jenny. I don’t mean to be a bother, but this coffee… is it gay? It’s just that I asked for gay coffee. And this coffee… well, I can’t tell what it is, to be honest.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
It’s the gayest I could find. The problem is that coffee doesn’t really have a sexuality, sir.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Doesn’t it? How tedious. In that case, just pop it into an anus and I’ll drink it from a straw.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Right away, Mr Davies.

Russell whistles happily to himself. A flicker of concern shows on his face, and he presses the intercom button again, this time a little more urgently.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Jenny?

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Yes, Mr Davies?

RUSSELL T DAVIES
You will make sure that’s a male anus, won’t you?

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Of course, sir.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Lovely, thanks.

Russell T Davies pats his head and rubs his tummy at the same time, laughing to himself. He is the happiest man in the world.

Can anyone beat my black, homeless dwarf for a minority super-niche? I found him outside Elephant & Castle station, and because I’m such an amazing minority myself - it ain’t easy bein’ this pretty, you jealous bitches - I knew we’d get along. We talked about how much money the council threw at us, the arts funding we’d applied for, and the dozens of other brazen and limitless demands we make on the average hard-working taxpayer.

Then we laughed, and laughed, and laughed. A stupid member of the silent majority stopped, and asked us what was so funny. We just looked at each other and started laughing again!

MINORITY WATCH
Hi. I’m Richard Littlejohn. I’m not racist, but I do think there should be stricter controls on the foreign things I’m forced to see. Have you found a multiple-minority who might be making your house less desirable to a heroic WW2 veteran? Perhaps an Indian family actually tried to buy your house, in an attempt to disgust you into leaving Britain once and for all, like I did.

Tell me your shocking stories of minorities just walking around like they own the place, and I’ll GO FUCKING MENTAL AND LEAVE THE COUNTRY AGAIN. Where will I end up? That depends on YOU!

FACE 1: YES, I’M JIMMY CARR
You’ve got me, governor - I’m the Jimmy Carr you’re looking for. How did you find me on top of this vibrating neon podium? Sorry I couldn’t bring myself to reduce the word “governor” to “guv’nor”, by the way. The thing is, I’m not a moronic commoner who drops ecstacy and syllables like I’ve got nothing to live for. Lest the world forgets, I’m award-winning. You don’t get put up for the Loaded Lafta Award in 2004 unless you’re on the top of your fucking game, OK?

FACE 2: DO SHUT UP
As I made clear with my previous face, I am Jimmy Carr. With Jimmy Carr - me - certain things are implied. Firstly, I require Egyptian linens - this is not relevant to you, as the closest you’ve probably got to Egypt is watching Carry On Cleopatra and scoffing a Choc Ice with your feet on a pouffe. Keep paying attention, however, because my point will be made soon enough. The second thing Jimmy Carr expects is for obscene strumpets like yourself to remain silent while he presses him palms flat against her bosom. Now, do you see why I’m upset by your vile, uneducated caterwauling?

FACE 3: THE APOLOGY
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, take my handkerchief. Never let it be said that Jimmy Carr - the very same Jimmy Carr that is me - is anything other than a gentleman. Yes, it’s silk. It glides over the skin, like nothing you’ve felt before. I’m sorry if it appears that I’m staring at your bust, it’s an optical illusion that you really must learn to ignore. Please sit still, ssh, don’t move - I wouldn’t want to be forced so early to sever the so-brittle pipe that is your spine.

FACE 4: IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME
Give us a kiss. Just a little one. A little peck on the cheek. Go on, just give us a brisk tickle on me chops with yer mucky gob, and I’ll be on me way. This is how you talk, isn’t it? I’ll not make a mess - when me dick goes bang all ‘at comes out is a lit’l bit o’ chimney soot, and I’ll keep that in me pants as a memento of this auspicious day. You see, I’m all things to all people - an affliction, a blessing, a lover, a god - I have a different name in every country, and the stories of my adventures differ only in the details. There are countries where my comedy must be spoken in hushed tones, because to laugh is a crime - and where you hear the oppressed peoples of these countries whispering, you can be assured that they are whispering - “Jimmy Carr”.

FACE 5: I’M VERY CLOSE NOW
Hello. I’m the same Jimmy Carr as before, but I’m closer to you, now. If you look closely - and I’ve heard that at times of extreme danger, the human brain is capable of picking out fine, irrelevant details just like this one - you might notice that my tear ducts are loose. You have just joined an exclusive group of people who know this about my tear ducts; soon you’ll be just as dead as they are. Please, don’t appeal to my sense of humanity - asking me to consider your feelings is like asking a rainbow to land on a turd.

FACE 6: CONCERN
Someone’s at the door. You stay there. I’ll be back in a minute. And don’t change the channel, I’m watching that. I know I haven’t been actually looking at it, but I like it being on. My favourite telly program is the one where people talk about what is in the boxes. I often disagree with them about what is in the boxes, and when it turns out we were both wrong, I’m never sure if I’ve won the argument. Sometimes life just fails to have a satisfactory sense of resolution. That’s pretty much why I, Jimmy Carr, love killing people, and need to be stopped by an angry mob.

FACE 7: UH-OH!
Oh, nuts! It’s my mother. If she finds me with a woman, she’ll go mental! OK - let’s get our stories straight. You’re Deborah, you work in a high street travel agent. You feel your life exists solely to give other people the experiences you so sorely desire, and you’re thankful to me for giving you an insight into how wonderful life can be. Your favourite joke of mine is “throwing acid is wrong, in some peoples’ eyes”, even though you weren’t aware of it being a common form of revenge attack amongst spurned lovers in India, like I was when I wrote the joke. This is just one of the reasons I’m better than you, but there’s no time to go into all the others right now.

FACE 8: OH GOD SHE’S FALLEN OVER
You don’t know first aid, do you? She caught a whiff of you and fainted dead away. Not from that angle, she’s got a colostomy bag. No, it’s not hers, she found it on the pavement. She’s got it into her head that one day she’ll meet the owner, and it’ll be the beginning of this incredible romance. I’ve tried telling her he’d have got a new one by now, and that the last thing he’ll want is to have the faeces of yesteryear sloshed into his lap by a randy widow. But you honestly can’t tell her. I’m sorry, I can’t keep calling you Bitch, not in front of mother. What’s your name?

What will happen next? There’s eight more pictures of Jimmy Carr to go - will he find love, or just add another luckless lady to the massive pile of murder victims in the scullery?

Pictures taken from jimmycarr.net - probably the finest Jimmy Carr Serial Murderer Fansite on the internet.

Although this conversation isn’t a true Tale of the Smear, it’s amazing how an accusation levelled at my work colleague and superior, Will Porter, that his “bum smelled of bum” and that he “pisses on bums” could lead, eventually, to a small story about his dad walking in on him while he did a shit near a nurse, while talking to someone on the phone. If it truly is the case that these stories are this easy to stumble upon, then I’m going to start taking my Dictaphone out with me more often…

Log says:
HEY WILL YOUR BUM SMELL OF BUM
YOU PISS ON BUMS
STOP TYPING

Will says:
I have only ever pissed on one bum.

Log says:
Was it a special bum

Will says:
And that was after a misunderstanding.

Log says:
Were you in love with the bum you pissed on Will

Will says:
No.

Log says:
:(

Will says:
It’s a long story.

Log says:
Let’s talk about it for three hours

Will says:
Well…

Log says:
You’ve piqued my interest something rotten
I can’t conceive how a simple misunderstanding could end up with you pissing on a bum

Will says:
What if I told you I’d never pissed on a bum, and was just trying to sound rough and edgy?

Log says:
Crestfallen isn’t the word.

Will says:
I’ve got piss on MY bum before.
Does that count?

Log says:
Emphatically, yes.

Will says:
Even if it was mere splash damage?

Log says:
Depends on the bareness of the bum, and the temperature of the piss.

Will says:
Or, indeed a drippy public toilet loo seat?

Log says:
You sat on a pissy seat?
Is that what I am to glean?
Is this a story worth telling?

Will says:
I was drunk. It was dark. I was young.

Log says:
I’m not judging you. I’m just rehearsing for a new Tales of the Smear

Will says:
My piss/smear cupboard of stories is bare.

Will says:
Although I once had a nurse stick her fingers up my bum with a bum-pill, and I proceeded to shit all into a cardboard bowl.

Log says:
Mine too. Apart from pissing in my mates sink only to realise it was blocked, then having to scoop it all out with my hands.
Hang on, you just said something about shitting into a cardboard bowl! Cardboard isn’t usual.

Will says:
And then my phone rang and it was a wrong number, and I spoke to them while shitting.
And then my Dad walked in and I shouted at him to go away.
All the while, trumping and farting.

Log says:
You fought a nurse’s fingers using only the forces of your bowels?

Will says:
They were powerless to resist.

Log says:
THIS, IF TRUE, IS A LUCKY SMEAR STUMBLE

I got so excited at this stage that I transferred to a real life talking conversation, in which Will told me that the nurse said “there are some hard ones up here, Mr Porter”. Sorry about that, I’ll try to keep my composure for the real Tales of the Smear.

Hi everyone! If there’s anything that I hate about dogs (and there isn’t, because I love everything about dogs) - it’s the fact that they can’t talk. I hate that about dogs so much. I know George isn’t keeping secrets from me - I mean, what secrets could he have? I keep him drugged in the airing cupboard, so it’s not like he has any experiences he’s not sharing with me.

It’s just that.. I can’t be sure he loves me as much as I love him, and that makes me hate him. It’s like someone’s cannibalised my soul and turned me into a paradox machine. If you’re not reading this just after I wrote it, then they just did that to the Tardis on Doctor Who. When I saw it, I just rolled my eyes and said “I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL”. That’s in capitals because I realised after I’d said it that I was screaming.

So this is my cartoon strip! I showed it to George and he tried to put all four of his paws in my face.