Nothing But The Dead & Dyin’
I took a tea break the other afternoon just as the Jeremy Kyle show happened to be on – What in the name of fuck is that all about?
I mean it has to be scripted doesn’t it… Or at least in part since I know three people who have been on there, so some of it isn’t fake.
Nevertheless, there were these two birds on the show I watched fighting over this tiny, skinny ugly mush who didn’t look like he had a good fuck in him… Let alone two. Worse still, he failed a lie detector test which showed that he had been cheating on the two birds!
Yet here is me, brutally handsome, a proper clever clogs, very popular, published author and no drug or alcohol problems, but I haven’t had a proper bird for nearly SIX years let alone having two fight over me.
All that I can think of for that sorry state of affairs is that all the females who know me have heard about my extra large cock and are scared of it.
Now whilst I wouldn’t want you to get the impression from that photo that I am shamelessly promoting my book: “Never Mind The Sex Pistols, Here’s The Bollocks“… I am in fact shamelessly promoting my book.
It really is great value and funny as fuck and I am sure that you will want to buy it here:
I love writing these tongue in cheek articles as it keeps the sewer-dwelling nonce trolls really busy writing extremely long comments, telling me what a cunt I am and how I ought to get a life… Honest to Gordon, they really do not have any understanding of irony whatsoever.
Funnier still, they will spend an hour or so setting up an email address and writing this long boring diatribe knowing full well that it will get binned without being read further than the first – usually badly written – fucking sentence… And all it takes to bin the bollox is a one second click on the mouse.
Who do you reckon gets more fucked off? Me and my big Cock or the tiny minded, small in stature, nonces… Who aren’t cunts and don’t have sad lives at all – least I am sure that is not how the deluded dung donuts perceive themselves?
Nevertheless, let me keep the deranged-paedo-filth really busy by telling you that the Monkey-Boyz must have bought a copy of my brilliant book which you can buy here:
I mean I have provided you with more than enough evidence in the past to prove that whatever I write about, the Chimp will write about the same thing within a couple of days… And my book is no different.
You see, back in 2004 I was a fairly well known Tattoo Artist and Body Piercer, with a bird and a few bob in my pocket… And an awful lot more free time on my hands than I have now.
Anyway, one night back then I was listening to the 1975 Art Garfunkel album “Breakaway“:
And fair to say, the album was a massive success when it was released and contains Garfunkel’s first UK number 1 single, “I Only Have Eyes For You“:
Good song, he is a brilliant singer… Not quite as good as me, but singing is just one of my many talents… I’m only winding the paedo-trolls up… Although it’s true.
Now I am a big fan of Simon & Garfunkel, and the album also contains a reunion-single called “My Little Town” which I personally feel should have done a lot better than it did when it was also released as a single in 1975:
It only made the number 9 spot over here, but a good song nevertheless… Although not in the same class as “Bridge Over Troubled Water”
No matter how many times I hear Art Garfunkel sing that last verse, it never fails to bring me out in goosebumps… And I’m not even gay or fuck all.
Moreover, he can cut the mustard doing it live. I know that for a fact because I saw them live at Wembley Stadium back in 1982.
Course, it was probably that song that put the final nail in the coffin of their partnership… Jealousy is a very nasty trait and there is no doubt that Paul Simon was jealous of Art Garfunkel’s vocal range… And height… Probably. Most little men have big chips on their shoulders.
But anyway, getting back to the story and it is fair to say that in 1975 Art Garfunkel’s career was going from strength to strength whilst Paul Simon’s was on a downward spiral. And so, there I was back in 2004, listening to “My Little Town” on the album “Breakaway” and I had this funny thought pop into my head about how the conversation must have gone when Paul Simon asked Art Garfunkel to re-unite for the song.
Now also at this time I had an idea for a book which was going to be made up of silly little things and observations that I had noticed about the world and so I wrote this imagined phone conversation down. And believe it or not, it was that imagined phone conversation that evolved into my book, “Never Mind The Sex Pistols, Here’s The Bollocks” and the two sequels still to come.
You see, I imagined that Paul Simon was so wound up and pissed off having made the call, that he wanted Art Garfunkel dead. Course, by the time the book went to print Simon & Garfunkel had evolved into the brothers, Paul & Simon Angerfunkell… And in a shameless promotion of my book, what follows is that phone conversation and I should also point out for those who don’t know; Art Garfunkel is also known for his love of long walks:
The line then went silent except for a series of clicks as the call was transferred to Simon Angerfunkell’s phone .
In the back of the F.B.I dodge van, Agent Orange made a small adjustment to the receiver. As he did his hand shook, not through fear, but through the excitement of not only hearing his Hero Simon speak – which was already more than he could have hoped for – but also in anticipation at hearing Paul Angerfunkell’s voice too.
He finished his minor re-tune just in time to hear Paul Angerfunkell’s voice come on the line.
“Hello darkness my old friend” Paul began, sounding more upbeat than he felt.
“Yeah… Hi.” Simon replied, sounding more uptight than he felt.
Paul Angerfunkell: “Congratulations”.
Simon Angerfunkell: “Sorry? Speak up Paul I can’t hear you.”
PA: “I said congratulations” .
SA: “Nope, still can’t hear you. Speak up big nose.”
PA: “CONGRATULATIONS OK, CONGRATULATIONS! I KNOW YOU HEARD ME THE FIRST TIME MOTHER FUCKER. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR GOD-DAMN RECORD MAKING NUMBER ONE IN ENGLAND. THERE YOU GO, HAPPY NOW?”
SA: “Hey, hey take it easy there little legs. There’s no need to shout Paul, I’m not deaf you know… So anyway, how goes it bro? You never did quite make it to number one over there, did you? The nearest you got was number five wasn’t it?”
PA: “I must say sasquatch, I’m surprised you’ve had the time to keep up with my career, what with all that walking…Say, it must have been real lonesome, all that walking?”
SA: “I made out ok”.
Simon’s gloating tone had now turned to one of suspicion. Seizing upon this, Paul continued to goad his brother.
PA: “Yeah yeah, I know you did Simon, but… God-damn, phew, all that walking, jeez, I don’t know man. You know what twinkle toes? Someone ought to invent a portable little radio just for walkers. Yeah that’s a good idea. And you could listen to it through a set of ear plugs. I think I’m on to something here Si.”
Doing his best not to bite, Simon tried to sound bored.
SA: “Well a career change may be just what you need shortbread. After all bro, your music career is dead in the water.”
PA: “No c’mon, I’m serious man, a small radio for walkers. It’s a fucking GREAT idea! It could be called…The walk-man, YES, the Walkman for people who like to walk…What do you reckon you old foot dill flattypus?”
By now, Simon was in fact really getting bored
SA: “Great idea Pauly, you ought to patent it.”
PA: “Don’t have the time bro. Far too busy writing songs. Err…You did know I write my own songs, didn’t you? I believe it’s called, err…talent, yes talent. That’s what it’s called. Hey ‘Marathon Man’ a thought has just occurred to me. Wouldn’t someone who wrote their own song, which say for the sake of argument got to number five in the English charts, make a lot more money than say someone who made the top spot singing somebody else’s song?”
SA: “I wouldn’t know about that, but…”
PA: “No you wouldn’t, would you. Listen Si, you’ll laugh at this. You remember that tall English guy, funny haircut, turned up at mom and dad’s New Year Eve’s party?”
SA: “No I don’t to be honest, look Paul I’m bu…”
PA: “Sure you remember him”, Paul persisted. “Lousy singer; under the impression synfff…sinkther…sinforsins…electronic keyboards are going to be the next big thing in music.”
Simon ventured his reply cautiously. He wasn’t sure where Paul was heading.
PA: “That’s the fella, I knew you’d remember him. Well it seems his wife is close to patenting a machine that will be ideal for people like you. You know… People who aren’t real musicians. Anyway, it seems this machine of hers plays popular songs without the singer’s voice. Then as far as I can gather, you sing along into a microphone. Apparently the machines have treble, bass, and echo control. Seems all she needs is a name for it. Nice lady, don’t know why she married silly Philly. What was her goddamn name?”
Simon spoke quietly. He could feel his brother slowly chipping away at him.
PA: “That’s her… Carrie Oakey. Who knows, it could take off. Anyway, enough of other people’s endeavours, this song of yours, write it yourself did you?”
SA: “No, Dublin and Warren wrote it, if you must know. Look Paul, can we get down to why you really rang. I mean knowing how tight, oops sorry, I meant to say knowing how careful you are with money, I’m sure you didn’t just call to shoot the breeze.”
PA: “Don’t be like that Simple Simon, but…now you mention it, there is another little matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Simon nodded smugly. ‘Finally, we get down to the brass tacks’ he thought to himself.
SA:“Well, there’s a surprise. OK Paul, I’m all ears… you’re all nose obviously.”
PA:“Huh? What j’say…Never mind. Anyway, while you’ve been walking here there and everywhere as well as singing other peoples songs, I’ve been busy doing a bit of composing. One of the songs I’ve written would probably be more suited to both of us singing it, so I thought what better time than now for a one off, Paul and Simon Angerfunkell reunion record. It’s a good song, should do well and make us a tidy packet in the bargain. I’ve provisionally called it ‘Death in a small town’. What do you think Si?”
SA:“It would have to be small if you wrote it dwarf boy…I don’t know Paul, this wouldn’t have anything to do with me being in demand and you being, err…shall we say, out of the spotlight, would it?”
PA:“Same old Simon I see. I ring up, offering the olive branch, and you go snatch it off me and beat me around the head with it. Where do you get off man? Well fuck you curly, poke it… Just though I’d give you first offer, that’s all.”
SA: “Just thought you’d cash in on my success more like. You never gave anyone anything, y’tight wad…I don’t know Paul, I’d like to give your career a much needed kick start, but I’m so goddamn busy. I’m just flipping through my diary here, so bear with me…Ah, tell you what Tom Thumb, I’m travelling to England in November for a series of concerts in Leeds, Manchester, Birmingham and London. I got a window the week prior to that. At a pinch I could fit you in then…Otherwise you’re looking at…Mid ’77.”
PA: “Leeds, Manchester, Birmingham, and London, very impressive. Walking from venue to venue no doubt?”
SA: “You’re not funny midget man,”
PA: Oh c’mon, I am a little bit funny. Listen big guy, I’ll send you a demo of the track…That is unless you’ve learnt to read music since I last saw you, I’ll take it you haven’t since you don’t write your own songs. Then I’ll lay down my vocal, in my large, well equipped, private recording studio, mail it to you, and then you can take it down your local record store or wherever it is you do your thing these days, and add your bit. That way, we aint got to meet each other half way. I’ll save on air fare, you’ll save on hiking boots, and hey presto, everybody’s happy.”
SA: “Okey dokey stunted cunthead, get it sorted. Listen man, I really gotta go, I got some fella called Adams coming over in a minute. Apparently he wants to pay me a cool million Dollars to record the theme tune to a movie his book is being made into. Weird song title though, it’s called ‘Shite Cries’…no that’s not it, erm…’White Lies’…wait, that’s not it either. Fuck me what’s it called?”
PA: “How should I know, bright eyes?”
SA: “I wasn’t talking to you, just thinking aloud… ‘TIGHT THIGHS’, that’s it. I knew it would come to me in the end. Listen to this though stumpy, best thing about it is it’s for some dumb ass animal charity, so even if the film bombs, I’ll still look like a celebrity who gives a fuck. If on the other hand, it’s a success, well…I’ll be more popular than ever. It’s a win, win situation.”
With that the two brothers said their farewells, and replaced their respective handsets.
“Go to hell you son of a fuckin’ bitch” Simon growled as he lay back in his chair.
At the same time, thousands of miles away, his brother Paul glared at the phone. “Cunt, cunt, CUNT” he screamed, picking the phone up and getting ready to launch it. However, instead of slinging it across the room he carefully set it back down on his desk. “Don’t get angry Paul, get even”, he told himself as he began dialing a number he’d dialed many times over the years. This time however, it wasn’t a social call..
And the story just grew and grew from that.
But what in the name of fuck has that got to do with the Chimp consistently putting out articles that are seemingly in reply to the ones that I put out, I don’t hear you ask. Nevertheless, I will tell you anyway.
You see, yesterday (21/4/18) the Monkey-Boyz put out the following article:
Simon and Garfunkel ‘were ready to stab each other’ according to explosive new book on their ‘vicious and bitter rift’
- One of Simon and Garfunkel’s mangers had to ‘stand guard’ to prevent fighting
- He believed that they were capable of stabbing each other, says a new book
- The backstage clash happened in 1993 when the stars reunited for a show
The bitter rift between pop stars Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel was so vicious that one of their managers had to stand guard to prevent them fighting – and he even believed they were capable of stabbing each other, according to an explosive new book.
In an authorised biography of Simon by Robert Hilburn – serialised in The Mail on Sunday’s Event magazine today – the songwriter’s business manager Joseph Rascoff reveals: ‘I genuinely believed that if there had been a knife on the table one of them would have used it.’
The backstage clash happened in 1993 when the stars, who had split up in 1970, reunited for a lucrative comeback tour.
Although the pair achieved huge success with hits such as Sound Of Silence and Bridge Over Troubled Water, their feud dated from the 1950s when they performed as an unknown duo called Tom & Jerry.
Garfunkel resented the extent to which he relied on Simon’s songwriting abilities, while Simon was jealous of the attention showered on Garfunkel as the singer. Their success only served to sour relations even more.
The final straw came in 2010 when Simon accused his partner of not giving warning of problems with his voice, which led to the cancellation of a number of shows.
Simon said: ‘He let us all down. I was tired of all the drama. I didn’t feel I could trust him any more.’
And that was the article in full – possibly the shortest that the Monkey-Kuntz have ever written. I mean fuck me, it doesn’t even give the name of the book that the article is about!
Yet neither does it make any sense. I mean the shite states that they had been at loggerheads since the 1950’s which I doubt very fucking much and then goes on to [rightly] say that the duo split in 1970.
It then says that they wanted to KILL each other in 1993 and the final straw came in 2010 when Art Garfunkel said his voice was playing up… What fucking final straw? They can’t of done many more than half a dozen concerts since 1970 to date for fucks sake… Six concerts in nearly 50 years.
Yet tellingly this nameless “new book” is being serialized in the Chimp TWELVE DAYS after the release of my book.
Buy it at the following links:
And the last time that the Chimp wrote an article about the pair was on February 6th 2018 in regard to Paul Simon’s farewell tour and prior to that was on September the 28th 2017, promoting Art Garfunkel’s new book… Mind you, no doubt the nonce-trolls will maintain this latest article of the Chimps to just be another one of those coincidence things again.
And I will bet Art Garfunkel wished that he still looked like he did in those photos above.
However, it suddenly struck me just prior to writing this article that The Chimp might not be writing about the same topics that I write about a couple of days after me for reasons of damage limitation or to make me aware that the spooks are watching.
You see, as I have been telling you for this long time, everything has to connect with everything in the world of Satan. Therefore, does it not make sense that the Satanists who run the Chimp are Satanically connecting their articles to mine in order to keep their vibe – or whatever it is – going?
That theory will add an extra 10 minutes typing time to the Noncey-Nonces pointless comment submissions.
Mind you, If the Chimps Monster Masters really want me to shut up they will have to arrange to buy a lot more than just the one book… Just statin’.