Autoerotic Asphyxiation Part 2

This leads me on nicely to a recent story involving autoerotic asphyxiation. Or at least, police suspect it may be so. I’m not sure you’ll have heard it and if you haven’t then I’ll quickly outline it for you. Put simply a person who worked for MI6 was found dead in his flat. But not only that, they pondered that the deceased may well have died as a result of a sexual act known as autoerotic asphyxiation because he wasn’t just found dead. He was found dead in his flat. Within his flat he was within the bathroom. Within the bathroom he was in the bath. Within the bath he was in a sports bag. Now the reason, the police believe it may have been a sexual thing for this man, Gareth Williams, was because in this Russian doll-like mystery, he was actually naked within that sports bag. And that is what stops a murder investigation from perhaps being a murder investigation, because let’s face it, we have all fancied a cheeky wank within a sports bag when the moment arises. And by ‘moment’ I of course mean ‘penis.’

But I digress. The problem I have with this particular theory is that even if you were into being asphyxiated in what one might call an autoerotic way, I very much doubt you’d get fully naked, think the old orange and tie method is a bit too strange for you, and opt for your sports bag. Would you? In the defence of this belief though, maybe Mr. Williams didn’t have an orange or a tie to hand. He may have had the tie and when he then realised he was lacking the orange, opted to follow through with his pleasuring procedure as he couldn’t be bothered to go through with the whole rigmarole of putting his clothes back on, heading out to buy an orange and returning to the flat, only to undress once more. The want of that masturbation may have passed by then. And Gareth needed that orgasm now. Hence the sports bag.

But again, another query rears its ugly head from the recesses of my brain. Why would you clamber into the damn thing? Where’s the logic in that? Surely the whole idea of autoerotic asphyxiation is to starve yourself of air to the brain. So why not put your head in, zip around the neck and then commence? There’s just no logic to the idea of clambering in. This bloke worked for MI6 and he essentially thought that this was the best method of getting himself off? Really?

Let’s say for the sake of argument, Gareth Williams did think this. The zipping round the neck thing didn’t work for him because it reminded him too much of the feeling of a tie around his neck and he hadn’t yet go over his lack of an orange. That or he enjoyed a good ogle at himself as he did the deed. I don’t know. So let’s say for the sake of argument he does jump in the bag and zip it all the way up to maximise his chance of being asphyxiated. Fantastic. But then the question arises as to what exactly he plans to do once he reaches the point of climax. Where will it go? Williams is in a foetal position, in a sports bag and then what? He just covers himself in jizz? That’s got to ruin the mood hasn’t it? The brilliance of the orgasm marred by the complete disgust of what he has just done to himself. He’d have then had to find the zip to the bag, pull himself out and wash himself down; mentally reminding himself to was the bag before his next visit to the gym.

The problem with this whole autoerotic asphyxiation theory is the fact that the investigating police suggested this whole idea in the first place. It makes me wonder how good a detective might be lurking within me. For I have omitted a key detail which may help to better understand why Mr Williams may indeed have been murderer after all. The body was padlocked inside the bag.

Now, either this is a case of murder or Gareth Williams was a bit of a masturbation maverick. He saw himself as top of the game. So what he did was he entered the flat, about to fulfil his craftiest deed yet. He has worked himself down from suitcases to a single sports bag. This was it. He would undress himself and get inside the bag, zipping it up in the process. Perfect. He’d then reach through a torn panel of the bag and place a padlock around the zip. Great. He’d then carefully sew up the bag from the inside, swallow the needle and string in case he failed in his yet-to-be-explained-to-you-the-reader mission and didn’t want to be found in this most embarrassing way because anyone who is anyone would have jumped to the conclusion of autoerotic asphyxiation. I put it to you now, that in this position, the majestic Gareth Williams would then wank himself silly, ejaculate, attempt to undo the lock from the inside like a modern-day Houdini and once on the outside see if he had beaten his personal best for the speed of completion in this task.

So it’s either my theory or murder. The way that the British police seem to be working, I reckon my theory has the edge.

Shakespeare

The following passage is something I wrote in an email the other day. I quite like the idea...

"I am not sure I could stand up for a Shakespeare play. They are rather long. I admire them, yes but I'm not captivated by him. I don't think I understand half of the words used. Or I do, he just has a very slow way of getting to the point. Probably because he had to write the dictionary to get his point across as he has apparently provided the English language with more words than anyone else. If he had to write the dictionary as he wrote a play, how did any of the audience ever know what was going on too? Or the cast. Nobody knew what was going on. I bet early performances came with a glossary. And even that came with a second glossary as he used fake words in the first glossary. And it carried on ad infinitum."

So there we go. Adios for now...

The Australians

Here is a sketch about stereotypes...

Steve: All right Bruce?

Bruce: Ah, g’day Steve. How’s it going?

Steve: Not great. I just read an article about how people stereotype Australia.

Bruce: Oh i hate that. They have these ideas about us and...hey can I get you a beer?

Steve: Ah cheers man. Fosters?

Bruce: Or 4X.

Steve: Nah, Fosters for me.

Bruce: There ya go.

Steve: Ta.

Bruce: So stereotyping?

Steve: Yeah...oh I’ve just noticed your hat.

Bruce: Ah check out those corks. Quality, eh?

Steve: It’s great! So how’s Sheila?

Bruce: She’s good, yeah...oh hang on that reminds me. Sheila! Could you put some more shrimp on the barbie?

Steve: And the kids?

Bruce: They’re great. Out every day with our kangaroo, Skippy. Solving crimes, that sort of thing.

Steve: Oh that’s cool.

Bruce: So what about you?

Steve: I'm going to watch Crocodile Dundee later.

Bruce: Nice! I love Crocodile Dundee. Great documentary.

Steve: I’ve also got my trip to Uluru tomorrow with the family. Meet the old Aborigines.

Bruce: Yeah! Nice. I love Ayers Rock. And how’s Sheila?

Steve: She’s fantastic. Absolute ripper. She’s swimming with Flipper at the moment and then tomorrow when I’m at Uluru, she’s going to be singing at the Opera House.

Bruce: Oh that’s cool!

Steve: With our old mate Rolf Harris!

Bruce: Awesome!

Steve: Yeah, not before we see the little one play the Dame Edna 7th Annual Beach Volleyball tournament though. Should be cool.

Bruce: Excellent. So anyway have you been watching the cricket? Or the rugby?

Steve: No, Sheila’s been addicted to bloody Neighbours and Home & Away the past few days. Plus the koala’s keeping us up. It’s just not getting on with the platypus at all.

Bruce: Ah that’s a shame.

American: G’day boys!

Steve: See this is what I mean!

Bruce: Stereotyping! We never say that. I suppose you think we have knives like these on us all the time too.

American: Ha! That’s not a knife! This is a knife!

Steve: What? Jesus! That’s a gun! Get your podgy finger away from it!

American: Huh?

BANG

Coins

I am sorry for deserting you for so long my dear faithful blog readers, of which there are perhaps five? Maybe less. Maybe more. How vague.

I have been very busy performing in a play, writing up a film idea (very excited and pleased with that) and planning to take a sketch show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. in fact you can follow that particular blog at:

http://performanceterrorists.blogspot.com

I know, I know. It just kind of trips off the tongue doesn't it?

Anyway we shall see how that goes in due course.

For now though, I'd like to speak to you about coins. That's right. Coins. And why oh why can we not get them from the cash machine? the amount of times I have gone to the cash machine to get money out for a friend I owe...only to then have to figure out how exactly we will change the ten pounds into six pounds fifty because he has no change.

My solution is basically having coins available to fall out the machine at your request. It's genius. It's not particularly funny in any way, I just thought I'd bring it up.

I may even have mentioned it before but I'm not sure. So here it is again. It's the future!

Maybe.

Possibly.

Probably not.

Oh.

I wonder...

Here's a query.

Do Kate and Gerry McCann still play Cluedo?

Better Looking Than God

No matter who you are, this is something that has been weighing on my mind. People often talk about the fact they have put on some weight or they think they are ugly but at the end of the day, if you want me to make you feel better, I can.

I shall do this by simply pointing out that you, all of you (well maybe not you...) are better looking than God. It's true. And I'm not just saying that because God is thousands of years old and that's bound to take its toll, I am saying it in the sense that you are all better looking than God when God was in his prime.

And this is why.

God made man in his own image. He did. We all know that. Now I don't know how many of you have seen any of those caveman documentaries but they are pretty ugly beings. And I by pretty ugly, I mean horrendous. An this is what God looked like if he made man in his own image. There's a reason the phrase 'God awful' exists and this is why.

So if you are having a bad hair day or whatever, just console yourself with the feeling that you are better looking than God and you also never wasted your time inventing the panda.

The Dentist and My First Dead Tooth

Today I visited the dentist for...about the eighth time in 4 months. To be fair it was the first time in 3 months but the month previous to that was a hectic one. Nobody should be able to banter with their dentist and remember last time you met. This is because most dentist's advise a 6 month check-up. Well, my dentist knows me now. To the extent where he looked pleased to see me when I walked in and asked how I was since a couple of months ago. He never used to remember me and that's the way it should be. But now I swear we are only a few more meetings away from going out for a drink.

This, I think, is how cancer patients must begin to feel when they keep having to go and see the same doctor. I doubt it's the cancer that actually kills them but the depression from being such friendly mates with someone who they shouldn't know that well. Or maybe I'm just cynical. Well, I am cynical but I still think I'm onto something here.

Anyway, I was there to get the low down on my front tooth. The incisor if anyone remembers learning the actual name from old science lessons at school. This tooth has been a complete nuisance since the last dentist, who I won't name...because I don't know his name, screwed up the first filling. Now my friend Dr Deivis from Sweden has had to fix things. Only it hasn't gone according to plan with the next filling he put in falling out (those damned 20p sweet drumstick things), realising putting in a replacement could screw over an important nerve and so then going for a root canal instead. So far so good. What I didn't know is that even though you put in a filling as part of a root canal, the damned tooth can still die.

Which is what I learned today. Humbling news. My new best friend Deivis told me that my front right incisor is dead. The first part of me to die is my front right incisor. It never even reached 20. He told me that sometimes this can happen but the decay normally occurs over many months whereas this has been rather quick. I took that to mean that when I completely die in hopefully a lot of decades time, you'll only need to wait about six months or so before burying someone on top of me, such is my body's speed at decaying.

So now I am currently lugging around a dead piece of me forever more. Apparently it will need to be whitened from the inside and this should last 7 or so years before I need it redone. Knowing my recent dental problems I'll be going back every year. This costs £120 by the way, yet the whole mouth can be done for £500. I don't really get this as if you get the whole mouth done, that's one hell of a discount. I contemplated it for a few moments before realising I wasn't yet ready to look like Simon Cowell or Richard Hammond when his had just been done on Top Gear.

So I am now booked in to have my tooth whitened and it apparently takes two, three or four sessions. The only problem is it's a dead tooth so why even bother? Why not just yank the fucker out and give me a new one? That'd be kind of funky. A great ice breaker at parties. "I have a false tooth" sounds a lot better than "I have a dead tooth." Better still, I should probably just avoid mentioning it entirely.

Anyway this is being written in memory of my dead tooth. We had some good times; discovering it really could hurt biting into an apple, that time when I got a brain freeze after chomping into an ice cream with you at the forefront of that discovery. Ahh...you shall not be forgotten. Not least because I'll be lugging you about the whole rest of my life anyway and you'll be having more money spent on you than the rest of my mouth combined most likely. Even though you're dead. Ludicrous.

Henry Fosdike's Top Right Incisor. R.I.P 1990-2009/2010? (Can't really be too sure when it died)

The Future

So, anyone else find the future exciting? Who knows what is just around the corner? But thinking even further ahead, we get to, hopefully, experience marriage and of course becoming a parent.

Now this is something I am really looking forward to, and after a discussion with a friend the other day, I think I may need a really loving wife to allow me to do all the things with my children that I want to do. If you suddenly have Josef Fritzl images in your mind then you are on the wrong track entirely.

What I mean is just general things which you can only get away with if you are the parent of said child. When my child is only a few days old I want him or her to sleep in a shoebox. Just for a laugh. Take a photo and hide it away for use in future years.

When the wife goes out, leaving me with the baby fast asleep, I want to play a quick game of human buckaroo, chucking al sorts of rubbish over my first born. Pens, receipts, condoms...I may even buy a pack of cigarettes just to play the game with them. I put 4 between the fingers. And light them. When my child gets their first graze, I'll administer a plaster in the form of an apple sticker. Just because I can and they don't stay small forever.

Photos will be taken when they are naked of course. And if it's a bloke, the penis size will undoubtedly be taken the piss out of. I might put on an upset expression and the international sign for 'tiny cock' behind my newborn. Ah what delights we can look forward to.

But my best plan, well I like to think so, is to place a marmite lid on their tiny head and take a picture. Just because it looks funny. you may have noticed I am a white guy so it may not look as good as if I had a black baby. some people have called that joke racist, so to even it out, I may put a marmite lid on a friend's black baby and a mayonnaise lid on mine.

Is this cruel? I don't think so. I mean they will be costing me a fortune over the next two decades so I think I deserve some laughter now. The only problem I have is if my wife doesn't find any of these things funny. But when the cat's away...

Thinking about it now, I don't think I'm fit to be a parent.

A True Story For Once

Okay, I have just decided to write this up as it happened to me and a group of friends on Monday and frankly, it was hilarious at the time and I am sure it will be hilarious when I have written it up. It is also one of the only things I have chucked on here that actually happened to me.

My friends and I had all just left the Banksy exhibition in Bristol. A really good day out and highly recommended, if you are wondering. The queue wasn't too bad, either.

Now, we had dinner and then headed off to the car park. This is where the fun begins. the fee came to £6. We paid the ticket after a few of us didn't have enough coins to pay their share. Anyway, it was paid, we'd had a good day now let's head home.

One of my friends, let's call him friend 1, grabs the ticket. Note, this is not the driver of the car. The driver of the car wants the ticket. He doesn't really need it at that stage as we are nowhere near the car at that time. but he wants it. He tells this to friend 1. Friend 2 and I meanwhile, just watch the ensuing rubbish jokey argument between them.

This is where it gets ridiculous. The driver gives up on asking for the ticket so presses the button for the lift. Friend 1, bored of holding the ticket since the driver now doesn't care for it, decides to throw the card at his back. He throws the card in the classic way of throwing cards so it flies seamlessly through the air. At just this moment the lift doors open for us to step in. The ticket misses the driver's back and land right on the edge of the gap between floor and lift.

It then flips over and plummets down this gap. Never to be seen again.

We all stare at each other. this wasn't in the plan. So we get the thrower of the ticket, Friend 1, to go to the machine and ask for help. He says we have lost our ticket and we are all told to walk down to the ticket office on Floor A. So we trudge downstairs, in a state of shock at the events we have just witnessed. At the same time laughing at such a ridiculous turn of events.

We reach the ticket office. Myself and friend 2 stand back from the discussion between driver, friend 1 and the two ticket officers. We are then called over by friend 1. We have been given ulitmatum. the ticket man tells us that we can either pay the £18 fine as is normal, or sing jingle bells as a quartet to get out. It's a no brainer.

The four of us quickly run through the lyrics of jingle bells together as we await our impromptu first and most likely, last, performance as a quartet. Meanwhile, one ticket man is moving the CCTV cameras onto us and calling up to his mate on another floor to watch the screen. We are motioned by the other ticket man to sing the song. We sing.

The two ticket men, evil people that they are, record this display and have the cheek to laugh as we sing our hearts out for our escape. After the one verse that everybody knows, we are told that we are free to go and he'll let us out as we drive down. Embarrassed we return to the car, located on floor K.

As we approach the barrier, we blast out a Sufjan Stevens version of Jingle Bells from my iPod, much to the delight of one of the ticket men, who lets us out.

I'll sum this up in a sentence. My friends and I had to sing jingle bells to two ticket men at the ticket office, to get out of a car park in Bristol, in order to get home, after one of our number threw the ticket down the lift shaft.

What a day.

Rebound/Luck

Okay, this is a routine I have been working on recently in my head. I have probably forgotten parts as I came up with it about a week ago, even before the fillings one in fact. It may get pretty long...so bear with me. It's an intro piece by the way...hence the beginning.

'Hello, and yes, it really is me and yes, I really am this good looking. Of course, that last bit I don't really believe, only a wanker could think that highly of themselves. If you are sitting there now thinking, "But I'm good looking and I'm not a wanker..." Then think of this as a free newsflash for you.

Of course it's a shame that so many good looking people are pricks, because let's be honest, most of us have lost out to them when chasing after a person who we really rather like. It's a plus in the end though, as you always know that person will be back on the dating scene soon enough once she realises what everyone else already knows. Now, many people's response to you going after someone is that, 'They'll be on the rebound." They say this like it's a bad thing. I know the rules of football and even if you scored on the rebound, it does count.

Now I went for this approach, simply after a rebound result so to speak, yes I coined that, and before I could tell her how I felt she said to me, "You know what, any girl would be so lucky to have you as their boyfriend." At that point my heart wasn't beating, it was jumping about ona little trampoline doing somersaults. I was leaping over the bloody moon. I thought that this would be a dead cert. So, I told her how I felt and she let me down lightly..."It's just...I think we should remain friends."

Woah! Woah, woah, woah. Let's just backtrack a few minutes. "Any girl would be so lucky." You said that! 'ANY' GIRL. YOU CAN BE THAT GIRL! BE LUCKY! I'M LETTING YOU BE LUCKY!" She wasn't budging. So I stepped it up a bit. "There are 3 billion women on this planet, and out of all these girls, who could be so lucky, I have chosen you. So how does that make you feel?"

She took a step back at this point, and said, "Like I'm giving somebody else a chance." I thought fair enough, she is being kind to the legions of other women out there. But later that night I realised she wasn't talking about me as I realised she gave my mate Dave a chance. And he took it. So I re-evaluated as I watched them making out. Any girl...any of the girls out there."

Now at this point of the thought-process I have two possible punchlines. They are:

"So I took it upon myself and raped her mum."

AND

"So I became a paedophile...and let me be honest it was bit tight for a while but I'm easing into it."

But I don;t know if I want to be offensive. I can't think of any other way to end that joke. Except for maybe something simple like, "So I left them to it, downed my drink and went and punched a good looking bloke, which made me feel a heck of a lot better." But who knows...

Fillings

I have some news. My filling has fallen out. Yes, it has. This is kind of annoying as the tooth in question now has a gaping hole I can feel with my tongue. That hole was definitely not there before the dentist got his hands on my mouth. Fillings seem like a good idea until they fail miserably and then you're left with this kind of problem which, frankly, the dentist has just added to by being trigger happy with the drill.

Why do they need to drill away part of the tooth to put the filling in? Before all this started, my teeth all felt normal. Okay, so one apparently needed a filling but it wasn't bothering me. I couldn't tell. But now, it's so bloody obvious to me because my not-too-bad tooth has been drilled away quite casually. It is now like a shell of a tooth than an actual tooth. And another visit to the dentist tomorrow. I guarantee the dentist drills a bit more as well, for no bloody reason. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Joke - Opening Line

Here is an opening line I think might work in order to get the audience on your side instantly.

"Hello, I just want to start by saying that you are all very good looking people. You are probably sitting there thinking that i say this to every audience and , well, you would be right. But I want to go on to say that I actually think you are better looking than God. Some think this is a controversial thing for me to say but we all know that God made man in his own image and all I am going to say is evolution happens for a reason."

Not sure if my last line though should be:

"God made man in his own image and we all know what our ancestors looked like." (Optional "Horrendous" after a long pause.)

So that is that.

A short routine

Okay, I have never tried stand up in my life. However I often write things that I would use were I to have the nerve to try out stand up. Without further ado, this is the first and also, extremely short routine I will share. It is written exactly how I'd say it, minus pausing. I haven't edited it or anything, so this is a first draft. Excitement. I call it McVodka. You can call it something else, it's not like it'll ever be seen on a DVD.

McVodka

I was out the other day, when I walked past a McDonald's and a thought struck me. This is a restaurant. It bills as such on the outside, but wouldn't be great if it was licensed? A licensed McDonald's where you can just go to after a hard morning and ask for a slightly heavier drink to go with your Big Mac.

"Yeah, hi there Dane, i'd lik the err...Big Mac meal please."

There's always an 'err...' before you order, has anyone else noticed that? Like you are reconsidering buying this food. Like you know it will fill you up for five minutes but after that five minutes is over you will regret spending money and your stomach won't even know you have been eating. Anyway...

"Sure thing, what drink would you like with that?"

"Err..."

There it is again. "Err..." You know exactly what drink, you know exactly what food. It's like there's still time to reconsider but no, you leap right in and order the same drink as every other time you order from a fast food chain. But wait. What's this? A licensed McDonald's?

"Err...you know what today I think I'll have the err... McVodka."

And that'd be it. Maybe the McVodka with orange rather than drinking it straight. Wouldn't it be great? But the best thing here is cost.

"Sure thing sir, would you like that supersized for 30p more?"

"You know what Dane? I think I will!"