Category Archives: Conversations

Robbie Williams Confessional


Me: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It’s been 36 years since my last Confession.

Father: Better late dan never, moi choild.

What would you loike to confess?

Me: Lots of stuff, really, but the worst of it has to do with Robbie Williams.

Father: Dat your fella?

Me: Jesus, no. Sorry, Father…

It’s more that I crave his suffering.

Father: Good gracious, don’t be sayin’ a ting loike dat.

Me: I know, that’s why I’m here.

He’s a popstar, sort of. Out of action for a while but back off his break.

Way too back.

Father: Singin’ and stoff?

Me: I suppose so. It’s hard to tell.

These urges I have, Father. I find them hard to control.

Father: Don’t we all, my choild.

Oi mean, yes, the body is a powerful force.

Me: Not the body, Father, the mind; I want him dead. Here’s how:

He’s stomping around on stage like an overgrown kid marching to the Tweenies theme-tune when I come up behind him with a microphone wire and tighten it enough to stifle his vocal chords.

Only it doesn’t make any difference because he’s holding the mic out for the audience to join in his desperate ditty so I pinch the top of his nose instead so he can’t breathe.

Father: Dis is fearfully voilent, moi choild.

Me: Do you think? Should I give him a Chinese burn too? Don’t answer now. Have a think about it.

Anyway, next I come round the front to reveal myself and he’s shocked because I’m a girl and he thought we all fancied him and I say, ‘Sorry, not me- especially when you start speaking’, and then I pummel him in the chest and floor him with a Kung Fu move.

Finally, I stand over him with my stiletto pressing down on his black shirt and sing ‘Angels’ really softly so he looks quite peaceful as he passes away, even though the audience are on their feet cheering.

And that’s it, Father. I don’t feel good about myself.

I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?

Father: You may well be, moi choild. Oi’ll pray for you.

Me: No worries, Father, as long as you pray for Robbie and make sure he goes to Heaven.


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Conjoined twins Justin Timberlake dilemma

Twin 1: I fancy Justin Timberlake.

Twin 2: I don’t.

Twin 1: I like his sexy in-your-face dancing.

Twin 2: I think he looks like his bones are made from rubber bands.

Twin 1: I think he’d be hot.

Twin 2: I think he’s one wrong turn away from being beaten up.

Twin 1: He’s in touch with his feminine side.

Twin 2: He’s a girl in an over-grown adolescent boy’s body, who still goes to bed in his Mickey Mouse Club pyjamas.

Twin 1: You don’t want to sleep with him then?

Twin 2: No, thank you.

Twin 1: Oh. I’m disappointed.

Do you think you could…

Twin 2: …pretend to be asleep?

No, I could not.

Twin 1: Who do you fancy then?

Twin 2: Dominic West.

Twin 1: Who’s he?

Twin 2: You know, McNulty, from The Wire.

Twin 1: Oh, yes, yes! I fancy him too! I’d be awake for that!

Twin 2: Great. We’ll have our hair done first.

Twin 1: Don’t finish my sentences. It’s annoying.

Twin 2: Fine. Don’t talk about turtles.

Twin 1: Where shall we find him?

Twin 2: Hammersmith Grove. He cycles along there a lot. We’ll stake it out.

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Swan Couples Counselling


Therapist: So you’ve been having some problems.

Norma says you don’t talk to her.

Cyril: That’s because I’m a mute swan.

Norma: Mute, my arse. You’ve got plenty to say in mating season.

Cyril: Just as well, Dear, if you care to keep breeding like a rabbit.

Norma: Oh, you’ve noticed we’ve got cygnets, have you?

Didn’t think there were just a bunch of ugly ducklings hanging around?

Cyril: Let me see…

I defend our patch from intruders.

I don’t bugger off to avoid my tail-feather freezing in the crappy weather.

I incubate our eggs, like a blithering stay-at-home Dad.

But I’m still not sticking my beak in enough?

Therapist: You seem to be feeling under a lot of pressure, Cyril.

Cyril: Damn straight. I’m up to my neck in domesticity. And that’s a lot of domesticity, if you can see what I’m saying?

One minute I’m cruising the lake, ruffling a few feathers, checking out the birds.

Next thing, I’m perpetually building nests, like a riverside property developer.

Then, day in day out, during tourist season, that’s all you ever hear: ‘Aren’t they beautiful? They mate for life, you know?…’

Flaming well feels like it too.

Norma: Why don’t you just sod off, if that’s how you feel?

Go and shack up with a mallard- see if I care.

Cyril: Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Leave you to the Russian?

Norma: What Russian?

Cyril: That effeminate goose you were after during migrating season.

Norma: Pinkfoot was Icelandic.

I liked his high-pitched honking call, that’s all.

Cyril: Yeah? Well, wrap yourself around a 747 and pay him a visit.

You can offer yourself to Bjork as a party frock, while you’re there.

Therapist: Let’s take a deep breath, for a moment.

Cyril, can you tell me how life would look in an ideal world?

Cyril: I’d like to go all the way on, ‘Who Wants To Win A Lifetime’s Supply Of Aquatic Plants?’, that’s what I’d like.

Or maybe do some work in films or the opera.

Norma: They’re ballerinas in costumes, you pillock.

Therapist: Norma, these are valid comments.

How would you like your life to look?

Norma: Much like it is, really.

More ‘me’ time. A trip to Teddington Lock.

I’d like to lose some weight.

Therapist: Tell me more about that.

Norma: Well, we moved to Windsor last year for a change of scene.

Cyril got a taste for the glamour and I got a taste for the bread.

I’m eating like a foie gras. If the Queen has a state banquet I’ll be first picked.

Cyril: Don’t say that, Norm. You’re still got what you had when we first met.

Therapist: And what was that?

Cyril: She was just different from the others even though she looked exactly the same.

She had this lovely long neck, for instance.

And feathers white as snow.

Therapist: And Cyril?

Norma: He was clumsy as hell. And rubbish at swimming. And he looked a bit dirty- I thought he was gorgeous.

I still do.

Therapist: That’s a great note to end on today.

Before you go, can you think of anything you would you like to say to each other?

Cyril: It may look to you like I’m floating, Love, but my feet are going like the clappers underneath.

Norma: I know, Ducky.

And I may look ready to sink but I’ve still got my head above water.


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Me: Knock knock.

Death: Who’s there?

Me: Me.

Death: Me who?

Me: Me with flu.

Death: I don’t really think you’re knocking on my door, do you?

Be an optimist. Help yourself.


Me: Knock knock?

God: Who’s there?

Me: Me.

God: Me who?

Me: I thought you knew everything.

God: Me who?

Me: Me with flu and good intentions and a gift basket of beard-grooming essentials.

God: OK. Come in and lie on the sofa. I’ll see what I can do.


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Stoner Athlete

Being an athlete totally suits my speed.

It’s about self-expression and the great outdoors- just me and my body in harmony with nature.

It’s also about sharing. Yeah, we compete but there’s a lot of love in the air after a race.

Every day I throw on a pair of shorts and a tee and go see my trainer.

He’s one serious dude. We hang out a lot. He suggests some sets and if I’m feeling it I do them. If I’m not we take a stroll and talk.

We get along great. We’ve been known to collapse together laughing in the park.

Grass is what I dig the most. Tarmac’s hard on the souls of the foot and that’s hard on my other soul too. Hey, I’ll head where you point me but I prefer to take it nice and easy and follow the marshmallow road.

Hurdling chose me. It’s far out, like being yanked up on a giant yo-yo every few strides: run a bit, wheeee!, run a bit, wheeee!, run a bit, wheeee!

Crashing is so totally not cool in the baby department. Makes me want to roll one up just thinking about it.

It’s kinda funny but my dog, Trippy, comes to the meets to watch and it gives me a real buzz. The track must look like a giant worm crawling with flies, to him.

To prepare I take a deep breath into my heart and become one with my shoes. I shake out my hair and loosen up my fingers. I search out the vibe and tune in. I never get the fear.

I concentrate hard when I’m competing but once in a while I’ll zone out. That’s generally when I’m getting lapped.

After a race I need to eat like a maniac: 2 steaks, fried eggs. And some special cakes, if I’m treating myself.

Then I like to chill out and lie on my back, looking at the stars, scoping out my place in the solar system.

Winning is a state of mind.

Sure, another guy may cross the line first but that doesn’t make you a loser.

Playing air guitar in the locker room makes you a loser. Or so they tell me.

Last year I was accused of taking drugs to inform my perharmance, perform my improvement… make me run quicker.

It was chronic. Which is to say, it was an involved time.

My trainer stayed solid, I weathered the storm and now I’m in a better place.

I’ve got an eye on the Olympics in London, I can’t lie.

But I’m not gonna let it stress me out.

I’m going to think of it as a journey and if it doesn’t work out I’ll take in some sights.

Me and Trippy looking out of the pupil of The London Eye.


Yeah, that’s right.

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MasterChef: The Other Final


John: Gregg, this Final has taken the premium Waitrose biscuit.

Quite the most extraordinary moments of erotic gastronomy ever to have been jiggled in a MasterChef climax.

Gregg: I couldn’t agree more. The whole series has been a money shot. I’m toe-curlingly sated. I could even do some cuddling right now.

John: But this isn’t for sissies- let’s be clear about that, Gregg.

Cooking Doesn’t Get Tougher Than This. Have I mentioned that already?

Gregg: It’s not actually possible to repeat that often enough. This show could be called ‘Hardcore Fascist Food’.

There’s absolutely nothing gay about it.

John: Tell me, what did you think of Diane?

Gregg: I think I’d give her one. She’s tasty. I like her cleavage.

John: But what about that dish?

When I saw her seducing the pureed Aboriginal broccoli onto a bed of sun-kissed celeriac effluvium I thought Mamma Mia was staging an impromptu matinee in my boxer shorts.

Gregg: I’m with you, John.

As soon as the spoon made contact with the back of my mouth the only thing I could think of was the Mother Superior singing ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’ in The Sound of Music.

Then there was a smooth sweetness kick-boxing my pleasure receptors, followed by the all-over body sensation of Cheryl Cole giving me a round-the-world wearing a pair of Dalmatian puppy gloves.

Suddenly, I was Rick Astley.

John: But you can’t ignore Brian. He’s ugly, I know, but the man lives food.

Gregg: His denim butter hair-pin pasties made me want to talk about nipple cream with Debbie McGee in a sage-green Bristol car.

John: What a morris-dancing, supercilious combination.

Christ, I’m almost angry.

Gregg: And the bergamot thumbprints? Was he having a laugh?

Did he want an ejaculation to thin out the sauce?

John: Right, I’ll be conjuring that one up in bed for at least a fortnight.

Gregg: Now, we need a moment’s silence for Luigi.

John: Struth, is he the Messiah?

Gregg: Or just a very naughty boy- he’s ruined food for me forever.

John: Unless he moves into my bedroom and re-creates nightly the pan-stroked carpet of marsupial cheese giblets I’m going to moon Smithfields and become a software engineer.

Gregg: What, I mean what, can you say about it?

John: Nothing. I’ve run out of adjectives.

I’d need to start touching you to communicate what that did to my taste buds.

Gregg: So Luigi’s the winner, right?

John: He’s been on a journey, for sure. The first day he was here he asked me what the oven was for.

Plus he’s got that rarest of ingredients.

Gregg: A goose’s golden egg?

John: No: he’ll give good press.


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Honest estate agent

Nice to meet you, to meet you nice.

So this is number 84.

We call this one a Katie Derham: clean-looking on the outside, filthy on the inside. Only joking, folks. I bet she’s a lovely girl.

The street is practically safe during the day: car jacking, heckling, minor door-step cons- nothing Jill Dando.

Parking’s all a bit musical chairs but give it a few years- if you’re disabled you’re laughing.

Council tenants to the left- arrrgghhh, scary!- old couple to the right. She’s in hospital a lot now so the noise complaints are negligible and…no, the smell’s gone.

The owners have just duffed it up- all surface work but it makes a good impression. That window box has whopped on about 10 grand all by itself. Pansies- who knew?

And in we go. Quite a tight squeeze- lift and tuck!- but you’re not founder members of the Tall Club so no worries there.

Right, this is the living/dining room.

It’s ‘dual aspect’. In agent speak that means you can escape either end, not unlike a dose of salmonella.

The space is more bowling alley than ballroom but they’ve made the best of it with the strategically-placed furniture.

It’s unlikely to look this good with your stuff in it but no need to dwell on that. Imagination isn’t always your best friend in the property market, despite what that saucy Allsopp fox dishes up.

So through to the characterful kitchen.

Whoa!! I’m sorry, I thought I was going to throw up on your Scholls then.

But let’s not be Negative Neil about it: it’s very much like being in a funky… tropical… diving suit, I daresay.

Ah, bless. That’s the outside space. I had a guinea pig once.

So through to the hallway.

It’s had a lick of paint to conceal structural issues you’ll discover once you’ve bought the house. Hey, it’s no big deal. It’s just like the emotional baggage of a new partner and you get over it, eh?

You have the look of people who would have liked what was there before. Trouble is, cork’s porous.

Up the stairs then, one at a time. No, you- not the steps. Say, have you got a cat that likes swinging around at all?

God, I have a laugh in this job.

O.K., so take a peek around the bedrooms.

In fact, if you stand just about here on the landing you can pretty much take in the whole of the upstairs without moving your head.

I’ll stand next door- you can shout when you hear me changing my mind.

The bathroom does what it says on the tin: it’s a room with a bath in.

Why the long face? No need to do the can-can when you’re doing a poo-poo.

Take a look at that cistern. Tell you what, they don’t make them like that any more. Actually, they just don’t make them any more but you could get a few bob for it on eBay, no doubt about it.

Now you want rid of me for a natter, you two, I can read the signs.

Why don’t you have a huddle? It’s four and a half minutes before the freight train passes so go ahead and enjoy a whisper.

Ooh, one potential deal-breaker with this cracker. There’s only 20 years left on the lease.

Hold on, what am I saying? That’s science fiction talk for you guys! You’ll be well within the limits.

You be sure and take your time. I’m all wrapped-up with the hard sell.

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