Avatar Newsboost – It Was Actually Raining Men

Shock and confusion in the North West of England earlier on today when the most unusual of weather conditions hit a small town on the coast. Locals of Workington were treated to a freak downpour of men for half an hour around midday.

It initially brought to mind the 1982 hit by Australian music duo The Weather Girls, now fully realised and in 3D, except rather than the fun and bouncy pop song it actually resembled something from the mind of the late Iain Banks or possibly Clive Barker.

The first wave of men arrived around 12:11pm; they hit the ground pretty hard and died instantly. The high street was full of meaty chunks of what used to be men and young children with their parents watched as a long stream of blood drained past the local shops and down into the sewers. This was one instance where it was in your best interests not to get absolutely soaking wet. A few managed to cling to the sides of buildings and one was lucky enough to land on a church roof, waving frantically at nobody and scratching his crotch.

The second wave came a few short minutes afterwards. They were a bit more prepared and used the first wave as a cushion. There were still several injuries, sprains and lacerations but most of the men managed to hobble away mostly intact, muttering about hammers and how they miss the old car tax discs.

There was a pause of about five minutes before the third wave hit somewhere around 12:22. This sudden influx of middle-aged men was enough to send the townsfolk screaming back into their homes. Both receding and balding, overweight, unwashed and showing far too much flesh, they tried to buy a bag of apples using a fifty pound note only to be told by the fruit and veg stall owner that he didn’t have that much change on him. They all simultaneously tutted and wandered off, arguing over whose personalised licence plate was the best.

The last wave took everyone by surprise. It was believed that the third wave was the final one so when the pensioners arrived at 12:45pm people didn’t quite know what to think. If you’ve ever stared down a sky of wrinkly, sagging flesh, all spectacles and cod liver oil, the faint stench of dank filtering up your nostrils, then you’re a braver man than me. Half of them didn’t make it because the first wave had been cleared away by the Council so there was nothing left to soften the fall. The other half forgot what they were doing halfway through, turned around and flew back up into the sky.

“I have never seen anything like it before,” said Mavis Goggins, landlord of local tavern ‘The Shinty Knees’. “I have lived here for thirty five years and this is the first time we’ve ever had tourists.”

Scientists are yet to explain the bizarre meteorological phenomena. When asked for a comment about it they simply replied, “weasels.”

Science cannot make sense of everything, at least not yet.

Avatar Creamtober

As we casually slide into the middle of October, I expect it’s fair to say that everyone is too busy off enjoying ‘Creamtober’ to read this post. I will, however, carry on as it will give them something to read once all the cream-based fun has ceased in the dark and dingy recesses of November.

Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Creamtober’? Keep your voice down, you don’t want to alert others to the fact that you are not right on the fashions. Let me run you through the basics.

‘Creamtober’ was started back in 1981 by Baron Von Creamschteiner. He decided that there were not enough occasions where the joy of cream was celebrated so he invented an entire month of it. Everything in and around ‘Creamtober’ was about his unhealthy obsession with the silkiest of dairy products. It had to be clotted, sour, whipped, poured or squirty. There were so many options that people went absolutely crazy for it. The entire milk industry went very quiet for the next few weeks as cream sold out in practically every shop in the surrounding area. At first the word was out around his home land of Bavaria before spreading into the outer reaches of Europe, Australia and eventually the USA. Now each year three billion people spread the word and life the live of the Creamtobians.

How does one join in? That’s easy; grab some cream and you’re halfway there. Grab three hundred more tubs of cream and fill your fridge to the brim. Each and every time you open the fridge pour as much cream down your trash hole as you can. Do it until you feel violently sick and then leave it for an hour before repeating the same process. You need to cram as much cream into your body as you can each day for thirty one days. You will know the others who are taking part because you will see them in the street, clothes struggling to fit around their obese bodies, unusual lines underneath their eyes and little lines of white liquid dribbling from the corners of their mouths.

At the end of Creamtober you add up how much you have managed to consume over the month and send the results to the grand high emperor of Creamtober (see the address on his website, he lives in Blackburn, Lancashire) who will publish his results. If you have managed to top the charts with your cream-based exploits then you win a year’s supply of cream.

It also means that you can then move onto the next festive month: ‘Novemb-cheese’! Whadda ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘Novemb-cheese’? Okay, sit down and let me give you the rundown on the basics…

Avatar Film Reviews – Mr. Majestyk

Imagine Jason Statham, buff almost A but still a little B-Movie action hero, working in the 1970’s. Imagine he is given the script of film where he still gets to be a buff action hero movie star but it’s in such a bizarre setting that everything about the film makes your eyes pop out in astonishment.

Such is the case for ‘Mr. Majestyk’, an utterly bewildering idea for entertainment, that when Big Dave started chuntering on about it, as some kind of brief aside at a family gathering, we all thought he had finally lost his marbles. “Do you remember that film about Charles Bronson who looks after the mangoes?” he said.

Blank looks on everyone’s, and I do mean everyone’s, faces.

“You mean you’ve never seen it? It was amazing. He was a mango farmer and these guys come after him.”

Cue an outbreak of laughing and worried looks until my brother Googles it and finds that it’s a real thing.

That is, a real thing where my dad has got some of the details wrong. Charles Bronson plays a melon farmer, a farmer who also straddles the typical types of war veteran and ex-con. All he cares about is successfully getting his melon crop to the supplier so he can get paid and think about next year. Interwoven throughout the narrative is various references to how much Bronson needs to get back to his crop of melons, how much he has to get back to harvest his melons. In fact a reference to this crops up about every twenty minutes and each time it made me laugh out loud. Here’s a precis of the story:

‘Bronson hires a bus of people to help bring his crop in. Some punk tries to muscle in on the action with his own bus. Bronson steals his rifle, strikes the punk in the balls and sends him on his way. The punk gets the cops involved and Bronson is arrested. In the clink he meets this other-worldly grim reaper of a man called Frank, who’s a mafia hitman. As they are being transported somewhere his mafia friends try to break him free, only for Bronson and Frank to go on the run but not for very long. Why? Because Bronson has to get back to his melons. Frank offers him $25,000.00 to not hand him back to the cops, Bronson refuses and almost dies when the mafia’s girlfriend turns up, narrowly escaping by jumping through the rear window of a car. Frank becomes obsessed, refusing to leave until he gets his revenge over this simple melon farmer. He chases away the hired help and then, hilariously, orders his middle-aged henchmen to fire multiple rounds in his melon harvest. If you’ve ever wanted to see several minutes of people shooting at fruit then this is definitely the film for you.

Now at the end of his tether, Bronson goes on the offence, killing all the henchmen (including another laugh out loud moment when his truck gently nudges a car full of henchies off the edge of a hill and it explodes as though it’s packed full of dynamite). The final confrontation is such a letdown too: the girlfriend gives up and leaves, the punk decides that Frank is a nutter and runs away, leaving only Frank in his hideout. Bronson jumps through the window, shoots Frank and that’s it. It’s the biggest anti-climax I have witnessed in a long while. Bronson goes home, despite the fact that almost all of his melons are messed up and his best-friend had both his legs broken in the ensuing chaos.’

I mean, where to start? Charles Bronson does a good job of playing the part only at the time the film was released he was 53 years old. The love interest, not tacked on in the slightest, who is one of the migrant workers helping to harvest the melons, is about 20 years younger than him (this is a full decade before Roger Moore starred in ‘A View To A Kill’ romancing a then 30 year old Tanya Roberts at the ripe age of 58). She is inexplicably drawn to him because he does the gruff man thing of ‘sending her away so she doesn’t get hurt’ despite the fact she tells him, in no uncertain terms, that where she grew up she was repeatedly subjected to violence or albeit the threat thereof. The henchmen were the least threatening cronies I have ever seen. One looked as though he was in his sixties, definitely older than Bronson, yet still seemed to swagger around with the same menace as Genghis Khan.

The back of the DVD box is also a riot. It reads as follows:

“Bronson stars as Majestyk, an ex-con and Vietnam vet whose efforts to run a farm are thwarted by narrow-minded locals and corrupt cop.s But hwne a Mafia hitman destroys Majestyk’s crop, the farmer’s fuse is finally blown. With his rifle in hand and his girlfriend (a bit of an overstatement, because they’re refusing to the love interest; they throw some words at each other, go for a beer and that makes them a couple?) at the wheel, he goes after the syndicate assassin. And from high-speed back-road chases (I must have missed those) to an explosive backwoods confrontation (the aforementioned anti-climax), mobster and maverick stalk each other: two of a kind, antagonists to the death.”

Whoever wrote that either deserves an award for the biggest stack of lies since Boris Johnson opened his mouth or was looking at the wrong film. It wasn’t bad in the sense that it’s an awful film only that there is very little to recommend about it bar Bronson’s and Frank, the mafia guy, Al Lettieri’s. performances. FYI, Lettieri looks as though he would knock you out for checking your back pocket for change and remains one of the few convincing things in the entire production.

I’d give it a “Lesley Pipes” – watchable but average.

Avatar Middlesex – The Myth

I spend a lot of time pondering things. Not the important questions such as ‘where are we going?’ and ‘why haven’t you got a proper job yet, you ape?’ more of a sort of middle ground, the kinds of dregs that search engines have where they sigh when someone asks ‘how many cakes are in a baker’s dozen?’ or ‘where did I leave my keys?’. I don’t believe that anyone is currently wondering where Middlesex went, other than me that is.

What was once a huge, bustling place is now a nothing. It’s a pimple. It’s a memory. There was once a time when everything came from Middlesex. It sat at the top of the hill and rolled blocks of cheese down at all the other counties, because it could. It was a bit of a back-handed compliment due to the fact that they were handing out cheese for free yet sending it at such high speeds that it was causing accidents and injuries; if you got hit by a huge wheel of Edam then you were not going to work for the rest of the week, that’s for sure.

So where did it go? Did it disappear in the mists like ‘Brigadoon’ and it only reappears one day every year? That would be incredible. Imagine walking around the shops munching on a bacon sandwich only for Middlesex to magically appear right in front of you. Wouldn’t that be special?

I think it’s only fair that the people get to know what happened. It is a story that will take all of my psychic powers to deduce, for only a tale like this can be told through the sketchy paranormal scientific field of psychokinesis. In my book I will shuffle through the wheat fields of the mind, dredging up the where, the why and the who. Maybe even the odd what. Possibly even a few wag-pasties. Yes, that is a real word because the internet said so.

Also this book has more sex than the entirety of the ‘Fifty Shades…’ trilogy. Not the kind that you want but it’s still sex, right?

You’re welcome, by the way.

Avatar An Admission of Sorts

As I pulled into the car park, locked the car and headed into Asda I knew I was in a rush. I grabbed the beer I was looking for, paid and made my way back to the car. Asda Radio has a habit of playing a bizarre mix of music no matter what time of day you are there. Running late to a friend’s house the unmistakable tune of ‘Ooh Aah… Just a Little Bit’ by Gina G was audible over the hubbub of other patrons of the supermarket. It took me back to 1996 when this was our entry in the Eurovision Song Contest…

Now we’ve all seen how much of a shambles Eurovision is, perhaps some more than others. As a young impressionable 13 year old I had a lot of free time on my hands. I do remember watching the whole thing because I was convinced that this song, this catchy piece of fluff, created in someone’s studio by faceless music executives and sung by an Australian, not even a native Brit, was going to win. I had a lot of faith at 13; I wonder where it went? I expect it also had a lot to do with the fact that I found Gina G insanely attractive (I was going through a red-head phase, something that has continued to this day). Still, it wasn’t enough for me to actually go out and buy the damn single when it was released, not that it mattered because it went straight to #1 anyway.

Does anyone remember what position the UK got in the 1996 Eurovision song contest? Nope, me neither. I had to look it up but I did know that we didn’t win. The lovely Ireland claimed the crown that year. In my confused teenage rage I drew a picture of a person, possibly me (?), kicking an Irish elephant in the groin. Now this does raise a few questions, the main ones for me are:

  1. Why didn’t I draw an animal that was native to Ireland in the first place?
  2. Was I convinced that elephants came from Ireland or was it the first animal that came to mind?
  3. I can’t draw elephants now; how on earth did I manage to draw one from memory without the aid of Google?

I can still see that elephant now, hands clutching where it’s penis should be, in extreme pain because of my kick to the cohonies. It is as if it’s been etched to the back of my mind, ready to haunt me when the time is right. Yes, I believe the elephant also had hands. Perhaps this is a rare instance of British pride where I wanted to believe that we were good at something and to share that with the rest of Europe.

By the way, have you ever read the lyrics to ‘Ooh Aah… Just a Little Bit’? My favourite line is:

“I’ll give you love you can’t ignore.”

What kind of love is that? The one where you send bits of yourself through the post? The one where you set yourself on fire and jump off a building? It seems a bit full on for what is essentially a song about having a shag with someone.

Avatar Dear Zara

Dear Zara,

It’s been a while since we last spoke. How are you? What have you been up to? Did you manage to achieve all your hopes and dreams or are you still pissing your life up the wall like the rest of us? Well, whatever it is you are doing to pass the time I hope it is as sweet as a kitten’s smile.

Anyway, the real reason I wanted to get in touch was this:

So what do you think you’re playing at, hmmm? You put your cup on the ground and walked away. There were several bins within the vicinity, well within a five minute walk. In fact whichever direction you chose you would have been close to somewhere you could have disposed of it in the correct way. Hell, you could have left it at my office and I would have sorted it out. By leaving it on the street like an arse you have effectively made yourself an arse forever.

The next time I have spaghetti hoops I will be sure to leave the tin in your garden. When I choose to have a bottle of Jack Daniels to myself I will be throwing it through your living room window. You may think this is too much a punishment for one such tit as yourself however I don’t think it is. I would sooner push you out of a plane thirty thousand feet in the air rather than let people like you walk the same streets as me.

All the best

Ian xxx

Avatar Ian’s Otter Answers – Alternative Version

Drink is poison. Alcohol turns you into a demented version of yourself that can’t cope with real life and has a strong craving for chips. I am like that most days so quite how anyone tells when I am pissed is anyone’s guess.

Not too long ago, Chris, that there him, asked some questions about otters (see http://pouringbeans.com/ians-otter-answers/). I posted my answers back like a proper old person using a stamp and everything. There was a second envelope though, one which was posted to his old address like some people were doing up until recently *cough cough* Kev *cough cough*. What was in this magical envelope you might ask? What treasures were kept within this paper power pack of puzzles? It was sent away to an address that nobody has access to anymore so surely it is now lost to the mists of time and space?

You would be wrong. You are wrong. Stop considering how wrong you are and listen to my story!

I kept a visual record of what was in that envelope. It was too good and I am glad I did. Whilst off my face on whatever expensive plonk I had been throwing down my neck that night, I wrote down some rather silly answers to the otter questions. It’s only fair that I share the answers with… well currently there will only be Chris reading this so I’m sharing it with you, mate. Here’s a little present for you, mate.

Happy reading!

Avatar The Award for Effort – August

You know, we don’t give ourselves enough credit. Here we are, each month, slaving away over a hot laptop in the hope of raising a chuckle here and there. We are creating nostalgia. This is a body of work that most people can only dream of. What a load of THINGS we carry on doing. How many humans do you know that can boast about a website, a series of podcasts, half a dozen award-winning albums, a web comic, two children’s book series and more booklets of nonsense than a weekend with Vic Reeves’ eyebrows?

Take a break from all that work. Let’s commend someone who needs commending. Let us chuck out a couple of accolades every now and then to really salute the best of the best. There are award ceremonies for practically everything these days so pull up a chair and we can take a look. This month it is quite clear who the award should go to and that person is…

KEVIN!

Congratulations Kevin, you win the ‘There was an Attempt’ award for effort. Having been nosin’ around the website in the back, I could see that a post was started and there was some interesting content. I only wish that you had the time in order to complete it as it would have made a fascinating read. As it happens, I am sure that eventually it will join the ranks of other fully-fledged posts and take it’s place amongst the greatest. Let’s gaze upon this marvel:

“How they find us: 2019

gghgdfghdfghdfghdfgh ddfgd ;lfkdgjh ;dflgkjh ;fdglkhj ldfkjgh df;lkj; lskfgj;hdflgkhjfd; ghlkjd f;glhkj d;lkfgj h;lkdjs;ldfkjg l;kj s;lkdfj goaijkfgdfn; gjklh;slkj ;slfkdgj ;sldfkjg ;slkdfjg ;slkfdjg ;slkjfd g

hdfgh

dfgh

dfg

hdfg

hdfg

hdfghdfgh”

Verbatim. Wonderful. It’s a thing of beauty. It needs its own stunning vista and inspirational poster. Although it may sound like the noises you hear in the toilet cubicle next you in the gents, it’s sheer poetry.

Well done Kev and keep up the good work, all of you! Next month you could be in line for something special.