The Merry Adventures of Jasper and His Moustache. #1

I wrote and doodled this in the course of one English Literature lecture. I think it is time well spent. Original hand drawn art work will be auctioned off tomorrow morning out of a bucket.


There once was a man named Jasper. He was old and had the most remarkable moustache. It stuck out the side of his face for up to four feet! Here is a picture.


jasper 1


He’d often use it to fend off would be predators, like the common urban hawk. Here is a picture.


jasper 2


The moustache was occasionally a hindrance. For example, he had once had a wife. One day she had decided for some reason to slide down the banister, here is a picture.

jasper 3


Unfortunately she was brutally impaled on Jasper’s moustache and she died in terrible agony. To show a picture of this traumatic event would simply be insensitive…

Here is a picture.

Jasper 4


With his wife’s blood on his moustache, both literally and metaphorically… though not really metaphorically, Jasper fell into deep despair. He took to drink, class A drugs and regularly frequented prostitutes.

Here is a picture.


jasper 5


Following a night of particularly erotic excess Jasper found himself set upon by an adversary far worse than the common urban hawk. No not your garden variety jaguar, nor your savage city mole. He was attacked by the most fearsome of enemies: A vicious gang of poverty stricken, politically disenfranchised youths. Jasper had read about them in the Daily Mail and knew there was no reasoning with such brutes. His only choice was to beat them to the point of near death. Here is a picture.

jasper 6


He found the violence quite invigorating. So in order to forget about his dead wife who was still lying somewhere at the bottom of the stairs, he decided to become a masked vigilante. He would clean the streets of crime, he’d spit in the face of corruption, he’d give a stern warning to litterers and also keep an eye on anyone who loitered for suspicious lengths of time outside the post office.

From that day forward… he would become.


Erm… The…

The Man (or woman) With An Excessively Large Moustache!


jasper 8



There Is A Potato In My Bed.

I got into a really dark place last night. Dark and psychotic, I think I may have killed someone, but that’s neither here nor there. In my excursion into madness I saw the world for the cruel, twisted mistress that she is. Then my phone battery died and I knew then that I was truly alone…  I wrote a poem of my terrible experience, it is as follows.
Be warned, it is not for the faint of heart.

There’s a Potato in my bed…

Oh my God there’s a potato in my bed!

Who Put it there? Which one of you sick bastards put a potato in my bed?
Was it you Eric? Huh? Don’t look at him, look at me.
I’m asking you a question damn it!



The Joke World.

I haven’t posted in a while. I would like to say that it is because I have been doing important or exciting things. Generally living life to it’s full. I cannot. What I have in fact been doing is spending a lot of time in bed trying to come up with a suitable reason for getting out of said bed. I was eventually coerced to join the ranks of the living once again by a madman that said he’d hoover my face off if I didn’t. I don’t like hoovers, they are loud and intrusive. Anyway, in my lethargy I wrote a joke of sorts. Like all things, it swiftly got out of hand. I hope future generations will see it as the most longwinded joke ever.

It is entitled.

The Joke World: Three Blokes.

Three blokes walk into a bar.

They were of various nationalities if that’s funnier.

One orders a beer, another a glass of wine, the third orders a Spanish Galleon filled with Prosecco.  On the way to find a seat they pass a horse with a long face, he looks pissed off, so they decide not to engage in banter, he was clearly there to drink in quiet solitude.

They eventually find a place in a corner, nearby there was an elderly man nursing a pint of Bitter, underneath his chair sat an extremely shaggy dog that looked prone to bouts of excessive narration. The three nameless blokes sat at their table in silence, save for the occasional slurp of a drink or the dramatic warbling of a nearby fruit machine, being played by an intellectually incompetent blonde.

They all exchanged awkward glances that were in parts exasperated, angry and altogether dejected. There was a sense of comradeship between them, despite the fact that they were, all three of them, entirely aware that their relationship was based on some form of elusive punchline. They often found themselves in the same pub, surrounded by the same familiar faces, occasionally having to bypass an elephant.

They listened to the conversations occurring around them. “what do you call a… How many… joke joke joke joke.”  It was all rather false sounding, and the smiles of the speakers appeared to be strained and were not reflected in the eyes.

It was strange that not one of them had started speaking yet; usually words would start tumbling out of one of their mouths, with a strange musical sort of rhythm. Often they’d set up a scenario, allowing someone else to leap in with an oh so hilarious response. It seemed tonight just wasn’t a particularly funny night. The jokes were old, there had been perhaps too much laughter throughout the ages.

‘If I had a name it’d be something like Dave.’ Said one with a painful sort of wince.

‘Dave… that’s boring.’ Responded the other, who had bright ginger hair.

‘I know,’ said the Man That Would Be Dave, ‘I’ve never even been to Scotland.’ He said rubbing at his over large forehead.

Their spontaneous conversation was beginning to draw the attention of others, who looked at them with angry, judgmental sort of eyes.  Even the surrealists in the corner, playing their game of giant snap, only they had snakes for arms, were slowing in their inane babble turning their attention to the dull conversation occurring nearby.

‘I think I wanted to be a lawyer when I was younger… but it’s difficult to remember that far back.’ Said the one drinking a Galleon of Prosecco, he was clearly more inebriated than his companions.

‘That’s not particularly funny.’ Said the ginger haired one. There was  some angry muttering from the other patrons, apart from the horse, who looked at them with a nod of support.  His horsey face seemed to say ‘go on… it’s not funny but it’s real.’  The poor fellow hadn’t been the same since discovering most of his friends had been turned into lasagnes or cheap burgers.

‘Didn’t really lend itself to one liners,’ the Prosecco drinker sniffed, ‘I was then pushed towards being a doctor… except… except I didn’t have the patience.’ At this he broke down into tears, silent shuddering sobs shaking his body.

‘Excuse me lads.’ They all turned to see the barman, his white apron, his rotund body and his balding head. ‘I’m afraid that unless this is the build-up to something amazing I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

They all knew what leave meant. The Gallows awaited all that were forced to leave, they would have to move into the realms of  the dark and the sick, filled with the corpses of babies flung to paint houses, men carved into slices of various thicknesses for bathroom tiles or long dead celebrities. They had to think fast, they did this several times a week, they should be able to pull something out of the bag. Why not claim to be metahumour? Or an anti-joke? Surely they could claim they were being so unfunny that it was funny, subverting the entire situation.  They exchanged desperate glances, each one too aware that they had nothing. They had no energy left, no spark… nothing.

‘Isn’t life the ultimate joke?’ said the Man That Would Be Dave.

‘No.’ said the Barman, and the three men were instantly decapitated.

Humour continued as normal.