Thursday, 24 January 2008

Flowers for Beadle

Good Evening,

Now, I have posted three blogs so far, all on different days with the hope that you can get an idea of how things are going in my world, on an on-going (don't care whether that is hyphenated or not) basis. BUT (again, lovely use of capitalisation) for some reason, not only are the times of each blog coming up as if I'm writing in the same time zone as that of The Emerald City or bloody Kansas but as if they are all written on the same day. Well, I'm not complaining; just explaining. Ignore the date and time. Each blog is from a different day.

Anyway, as I said, I'm not complaining about this little '' blemish since I have been so sweetly advised in a totally unsarcastic tone by one of my eight PA's in the New York office, Mishka (Polish for "dirty kitten" in muddy paws/mischievous NOT as in 'kitten that likes to have his back-door cat flap kicked in.) who responded to my question (of how to overcome this time/date issue,) with, and I quote: "So then why don't you write and complain to '' because after all, this great facility of being able to publish your writings to the whole world within seconds, is after all for FREE!"

So, you must have read about the passing away of poor Jeremy Beadle. I felt quite guilty this morning when I read the headlines, about all the times when he hosted that absolute classic, "You've been Framed" and my Sisters and I would point and laugh hysterically at....................
his hand.

In all sincerity; RIP Jeremy.

So the shed days are nearly done and from Jericho I flee and to pastures new I do migrate. So to the new abode I cometh. Central heating, internet and a 37 second walk away from the Iffley Road bus route to Sains. I will be able to catch the 4a, 4b, OR 4c OR 4d (small bra sizes but great buses) Bingo! With this choice of buses to catch everyday, everyday will start as a fun the shelves.

Anyhow I'm going out for a cigarette now but if you happen to read this tonight and before 8pm (04:58 Kansas time) then come along to the Corner Club (ex-Qi Club), 16 Turl St, (Broad St end) because there are three comedians on. £5 entry (that's not a euphinism) and by the sounds of it these guys are good.

On a final note, I was recorded at the Wheatsheaf Comedy Club by Richard Butchins (access his blogs through his previously posted comments; "angels...) and the quality of the recording is fairly sexual so I shall pop a link through to You Tube once it's been cut-up and edited etc. Keep posted for that bad boy.

Going to sign off today with a short little ditty in the form of a Haiku. 'Tis one about real love and is entitled:


They say my poems
aren't flowery...but I'd like
to fuck a florist.

How did I start the second day's posting? Something along the lines of "Second day - second blog - that's dedication; that's me". Then I think I followed that statement by boasting my intention to do this 'blog thing' daily and so here we are, five days on and with entry three. But I did explain about shed habitat/no internet bla. Where is this going? Nowhere.

"Nobodys interested in your lame excuses, George. Stop repeating yourself. Just get on with it!"
"Then I'll digress. Undress? Could I borrow your dictionary please?"


"Then fuck it, they'll know what I mean...Or will soon come to learn the language, iliterate phraseology and mispellings of George. Two "l's" in iliterate? Ironically, I'm not even trying to be ironic! What has happened to my ability to be able to spell? Is it two "l's"? I used to be one of the best spellers in the class. My dictionary is too heavy, I'm not carrying it all the way from Jericho to Xander's. My donkey has got irritable bowel syndrome and so is bed ridden and sipping peppermint tea in the shed.

But obviously fate has finally caught up with me and decided that when one only reads three books between the ages of 5 and 27, than one will inevitably lose one's diction (that's "diction" not "dick shone"). And inevitably one's ability will dissipate into a hazey world of spelling words funetikley and however they actually sound in the Kings Arms.

I think I might have to ask Xander to edit this one.

So, performed at the comedy night on Sunday at the Wheatsheaf in Oxford. It went well. Thanks to all who came and supported. Mr Papadopoulos and his good lady came all the way from Buckinghamshire to support so thanks to them, espescially. Also, people flew in from as far as Los Angeles and even Brisbane, Australia to see me perform. Then flew back later that night. That was some effort. So, thank you.
"Really George. L.A; Brisbane?"


To have finally actually done a few (fairly low key) comedy nights. ACTUAL COMEDY nights, has ACTUALLY given me a sense of achievement. (just like when I'm kneeling at the shelves and being asked by customers whether we still sell mulled fucking wine). I feel like I've finally Reached a goal that I had set from when, after my seventh arrest back in 2001, I decided I didn't want to be a Policeman, but to stand on stages and make people laugh.

MP: "George, thank you very much for coming on the show tonight."
GC: "It's an absolute pleasure, Mr Parkinson. To come on and have the opportunity to chat to you is something that most people only ever dream of!"
MP: "Wahaha (Michael laughs). Please, call me 'Michael'."
GC: "What about Parky? Or, Mikey Baby?"
MP: "hurhh hmm!" [Michael puts his right hand (palm away and semi-clenched) to his mouth and half laughs, embarrassed by interviewee's alternative name suggestions for MP]
So, tell us about how you started out in Torquay, as a poet? You went to school in Devon didn't you?
GC: Is this tap or proper Volvic, Mike?


Anyway, I'm just being silly now. I want to get out of the habit of rushing my blog entries but must write them in the shed and then just come and copy them up because I shouldn't really be spending too much time in Xander and Miranda's office. It is lovely of them to let me use the internet but I must try not to extract the urinal. By the way, you must listen to radio 4's "Musuem of Curiosity" programme with John lloyd, Bill Bailey and others. It will be first broadcasted in March, I think. I'll keep you posted. Xander was one of the researchers!

So before I scoot off, here is this post's poem. I wrote this outside a pub, overlooking the River Dart in Totnes. It's entitled:

Glass Eye

Sat outside the Steam Packet
having a pint whilst waiting
for the traffic to die down.
Watching a mad old lady
who was sat watching me watch her.

She kept looking away
whilst taking comfort in sipping
at the frothy dregs
of her once was cappucino.

She threw some crumbs from her
hotel sized packet of Digestives
into the path of swooping Gulls.

She looked back at me looking at her
but me, pretending not to be,
quickly looked away and towards the tilted remnants
of my pint glass.

She chucked another
small handful of crumbs
into the air above the water.
Three Gulls swept down.
The last one went straight for the head,
sinking his hooked beak into her right eye
and gouging it out.

She looked back at me
looking at her, but with her left eye only,
the glass one.

"Damn birds" (she shrugged).



You're Beautiful Like Bill

Second day, second posting;- that's commitment, that's dedication. That's me.

This house, within which my computer sits is actually not much warmer than the shed within which I reside during the times that I'm not in a pub or in the supermarket. Sorry, SUPERmarket. Again, fine use of the capitals I feel. But I'm not complaining, (about the warmth thing anyhow) because Miranda has just popped the heating on. Miranda (by the way) is Xander's girl friend. Xander is the tenant of the house and friend who took me in when I fled from Torquay last November. So, Miranda has just moved over from the US. She is a fine woman, well read, tolerant of my presence and enjoy's writing also. In fact, she had a short story published not that long ago in an American journal. You could read this by going onto her blog but I'm not sure what her address is yet but if she posts a comment then I'd imagine you'll be linked through to her writings that way. Hopefully/possibly. What I also like about Miranda is that her name rhymes with Xander. One day, if I get a girlfriend, I'd quite like her name to rhyme with mine. So that when we get invited to birthday's, dinners, weddings etc the invitors would smile when they write on the line, "Dear George and (rhyming girlfriend's name"). Because inevitably she would have to be called something like Lorg or Borg or Forge. Even if the invite was to a funeral they may still smile at that one? Or they may just think to themselves, "Jesus, why after all this time of him not getting a girlfriend does he finally start dating a girl with a really freaky name! Anyway, moving on.

Second day of blog posting, second day sober and it's 17:11. A bit warmer in the house but already dark outside. I'm going to go to Tesco on my way back to the shed and buy one of each root vegetable, chop 'em up and roast the fuckers. Roasted vegetables - brilliant. And whilst we're on the subject of food may I suggest that you (for those of you who find yourself susceptible to SADS or even, all year round misery and discontentment or just plain shelf-filling fever) purchase and consume vacuum-packed peppered Mackerel fillets. Very reasonably priced, certainly cheaper than swallowing tubs of Omega 3 tablets and far tastier than spreading Prozac on toast. Plus, you don't need a prescription for Mackerel.

You see that's the amazing thing about me finally getting into this blogging lark because not only do I give nutritional advice but also a FREE piece of George poetry with every posting.
This poem is from my first book, Derailed and is entitled:

You're Beautiful like Bill

You must have been a model?
That's where I've seen you.
Esquire, no?
Then Cosmopolitan.
Not that I'd read a birds' mag.
Not saying that you're a bird.
Bill Oddie likes birds
and I like Bill, but not as much
as you.

I tried growing a beard to be like Bill
when I was bored and unemployed.
My parents would be at work and my beard would be growing.
I'd get bored again when Countdown finished
and would slowly peruse through the lingerie section in the
Christmas Argos catalogue.
Perhaps that was you?
My favourite of them all.
But, then I wouldn't have done that
if that was you.
I respect you too much.
She can't have been my favourite.
You are.
Carol Vorderman - what a minger!
And I bet she cheats with a calculator.
You're just beautiful and intelligent.

I want to take you home to my mum and dad.
My mum will cook you a roast.
Amazing Yorkshire puddings, my mum,
just for you.
My brothers will want you roasted,
my sisters will baste you in the finest Goose fat
and my Dad will want to have you stuffed with root vegetables.
My brothers will turn you on a spit
-because my grandpa likes the crackling
and then my gran will carve you up into slices.
But you'll be far too good to eat.

So, it's probably best you don't come.


Off to Tesco, now.
Back to work tomorrow.
If I don't see you on Sunday at the Wheatsheaf Comedy night, (8pm - £3) I'll see you another day. For those of you who don't work Sat/Sun - have a pleasant weekend and I hope to write before my next day off, Wednes.


I Wish I Was A Cat

So, at last, here it is then, my blog: of words, commas, colons, oblique slashes and many other forms of inappropriately used punctuation; poems, updates of forthcoming performances and other 'George tit-bits' (but not like that).

I really should have set my own blog up donks' ago but unlike spiders, (because I eat them) I'm still a bit scared of computers, or rather doing things on them because (like spiders) I find that one (when "one" is me) tries to do the simplest of manoeuvres, with a rather precarious sweep of the cursor and then a left "click" and (not unlike spiders) this spider-stamping like left "click" will cause my lap-top to explode and simultaneously my right kidney to fly out of my arse. Anyway, thankfully that hasn't happened yet. So, I think we've covered that and so here is the blog of George Chopping. Please, read at your leisure and not whilst running, for example. Unless you run in your leisure time.

I will endeavour to post regularly although currently with very limited access to the internet whilst I reside, (temporarily) in a shed (that oddly doesn't have Broadband) I keep my computer at a good friend's house and use it there (when convenient, I hope?) rather than paying £40 for five minutes of internet time at Coffee Rip-off Republic where there Charles Babbagesk machines require tent peg mallet to depress the fucking keys. They might as well have the old BBC Acorns with fully functional keyboards and just charge £39 for five minutes instead. "AND AS FOR YOUR DAMN MARSHMALLOWS AND WHIPPED CREAM AND YOUR BLOODY million pound MOCHAS. I'd rather drink Agatha Christie's breast milk for free, thanks."

Lovely use of capital letters I thought. Anyhow, I 've calmed down now and as I mentioned spiders earlier I'd like to share with you, a poem about Cats (who also like to eat spiders). This poem is from my second book, Shelf-Life and is entitled:

I wish I was a Cat

Can't say fairer than that.
Sleeping most of the day,
winding up dogs,
pissing in litter trays.
Shitting in the soil,
-no stress,
flipping up dead mice
on my back legs,
like ping pong balls, perhaps?
Jumping from heights
and breaking the fall.
Being stroked by girls and sitting in their laps.
I just want to be a cat
-can't say fairer than that.

I wish I was a dog.
Being taken for walks when I say,
having the house to myself
when they're at work all day.
Pissing up lamp-posts,
shitting in the park,
-no stress,
flipping up dead cats on my back legs
like basket balls perhaps?
Being stroked by girls that I don't know,
sniffing at their crotches
and getting away with it.


I've got to go now and hand the keys back but I'm performing in a Comedy night upstairs at The Wheatsheaf on the High Street, (opposite the Covered Market) Oxford this Sunday night. £3.
Might see you there?