The Kevindo Menendez Birthday Memorial Tribute Night Out – 2014 Edition

What happens when your birthday is shit, like dirt dog ass shit? When it feels as though someone has taken the time to use a straw to blow shit all over you and your life and then refuse to clean it up?

Thankfully this isn’t what happened on Kev’s birthday. It was a little weak but the company was swift and then getting wrecked at his parent’s house is always a welcome change from hanging out with the twelve year olds at the Gascoigne’s. It seemed fair though that in order to restore the balance something was required to levitate his birthday out of the doldrums and back into what scientists are now calling “Acebag Territory”.

How does one do this? It’s incredibly difficult to justify a birthday night out a full sixty four days after the day of the birthday itself. Luckily I’m not someone who feels the need to justify most of anything I do. So we did. The guest list was so exclusive only two people were invited. The timing was so tight there wasn’t enough time for pre-drink drinks or post-drink drinks. It was straight into the drinks. Here are a list of things we learned:

For the first two or three bars we witnessed several common phenomena which continued to repeat itself. Whichever place we went to would eventually have most of the patrons gone by the time we left. We also ran into pairs of lesbians as well as several other people who caught the same train into Leeds as we did.
Johnny Bobbins runs the tiny ticket desk at Leeds train station. When you don’t get a chance to buy a ticket on a train you have to visit his window where he uses his ticket machine from 1975 to produce one for you so you can get through the barriers. Kev has absolutely no respect for Johnny Bobbins. I do, but only so far as where his job is concerned. When he dresses up as a sexy witch I draw the line; whatever he wants to do in his free time is nothing to do with me.
The title for the evening was not decided properly until after the evening was over.
No matter where I go, no matter what I’m doing, I still seem to be able to attract both people I know and strangers. In this instance it was a guy from Hull for giving some change to a homeless man, a woman I work with also on a night out in Leeds and then some guy advertising a strip club who insisted he could help us get in with his help. I know I’m pushing 30 but I think I could make it down the steps unaided.
Don’t snaffle a full bag of Doritos after excessive drinking; it’ll make your mouth extra furry in the morning.
The Mixing Tin does no longer exist, and hasn’t for some time. Getting a drink there was excessively hard.

It’s clear that this should therefore be a regular thing. I invite everyone reading this to sign up for next year’s entry in the hope of broadening the horizons of the Kevindo Menendez Birthday Memorial Tribute Night Out.

Broaden indeed.

Proposal: Boring Beans

Good day to you.

I am here to propose a change to this website in light of recent developments.

The Problem

Recently things around here have been too exciting. In just the last three posts there has been talk of goats, owls and handkerchiefs. We cannot go on at this breakneck pace and our readership must surely be suffering from intolerable fatigue. Something has to change.

The Proposal

I now propose that we redirect our efforts and rename this website Boring Beans. In future, all posts must be classified as either “dull”, “tedious” or “soporific”. The colour scheme would be a relaxing mix of greys and beiges. Suitable topics for new posts will include:

A discussion of the merits of different methods of preparation for potatoes
A photo gallery of close-up pictures demonstrating the texture of a number of different bricks
A list of names for different shades of brown

Please give this proposition your fullest consideration and respond with your payment in full by cheque within the next seven days.

Thank you for your time.

Dr. Christopher J. Numbers

Best Laid Plans – Update

Every man has a dream.

Unfortunately it seems as though every dream comes with a cost and a price tag. Yes, both.

Not too long ago I stole someone else’s dreams. I wanted to have coast to coast goats in order to satisfy the need for goats. The world was crying out for goats and nobody was delivering them. Who was I to deny the world their dreams whilst satisfying my own at the same time?

So it happened. I wheeled out the goats and in one long, glorious line they stretched from Blackpool in the West to Scarborough in the East. It resembled something akin to Hadrian’s Wall, except with goats. It was like the Great Wall of China, but with goats instead of walls. And so the people came together and decided to name my wonderful wall of goats. It’s just a shame that they didn’t think to put more effort into it; Goat Wall.

The Goat Wall was an immediate success, even if Joey Essex did travel up and tried to cut it with a huge pair of novelty scissors. Fanatics took to patting the heads of each and every goat in the Goat Wall. Postcard enthusiasts took pictures and start selling photos of the Goat Wall several minutes before it had even opened, much was their frenzy. Members of the mailing list were picked at random and given signed photos of the most popular goats. It was exactly the kind of support the Goat Wall needed to get up and running.

That was it though. It seemed as though I had overestimated the need for goats and no matter what I did, even selling tickets from door to door like a common bed-wetter, the bright spark that once fuelled my dreams was dabbled with mascarpone. Even if I wanted coast-to-coast goats nobody else did. So now they stand, once titans in their field, now reduced to squabbling amongst themselves for the last blade of grass. I want to keep them but I’m sending them away to the farthest parts of the globe in the hope that maybe the world will appreciate them more than Great Britain. Maybe Global Goats is the way forward, and thus my dream morphs into something else. Maybe this time next year Global Goats will be one of the eight wonders of the world…

Wisdom of the 1970s

Yes, I know, the 1970s are now the often-maligned decade that brought us dodgy celebrities and brown corduroy flares. It is hard to forgive such things. But one thing the 70s did know a thing or two about is sunstroke. How do you keep the sun off your overheating head? The 70s know. The 70s have it all figured out, and it has nothing to do with expensive sun cream or buying an overpriced straw hat from an itinerant beach salesman.

Trendsetter

You start off with a short sentence to ease them in.

Then you lean back with a slightly longer one just to prove that you’re capable of doing more than stringing together a couple of flashy, sticky dib-dabs.

So, after what can only be described as the complete runaway success of my expertly put-together phrase, “Sweet Petunia!” it has unfortunately become far too popular. Everywhere I go these days it is being ushered on street corners, shouted on fruit stalls, giggled in dog-grooming parlours and whispered down sewer grates. It takes a brave man to take a step back and even though I still hold her dear to my heart I think it is time to retire, “Sweet Petunia!” and look to pastures new.

I was in recent discussion with Senor Menendez and Master Reuben about my plight and they too were sad to see her go so soon but understood my reasons for doing so. Getting rid of her was the easiest part; finding a suitable and equally genius replacement would be where the toil began. Luckily being around academics such as these, it was finger wiggle time within a matter of minutes.

Can you replace “Sweet Petunia”? Of course you can. You need something catchy, something clever but also something people can identify with. You don’t want to push that sweet, sweet candy away. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the worthy replacement:

“Penny Vincenzi!”

I would have had, “Barry Norman!” but Master Reuben came up with it first and told me I would have to pay him royalties whenever I mentioned it. You have to be quick off the mark in this game.

Best Laid Plans

Every man has a dream.

The great thing about dreams is that they can be as big or a small as you would like them to be. As long as they are relatively realistic then achieving them is just about putting your mind to it.

A man came to me at the weekend and told me his dream. He said that what he wanted most of all was a small herd of goats to keep at the coast so that they could enjoy the sights, sounds and marvels that the English coast do so well, and that when he feels like a jaunt to Scarborough or Filey he can share the experience with those very goats. I told him that such a dream was easily obtained and that he should immediately set about putting his affairs in order.

When a man has a dream though sometimes it just doesn’t go far enough.

Having set about the events so that the man could have his coast goats I then pondered the idea myself and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t enough. It would be nice to have some goats hanging about in Whitby, waiting for me to take them through the whale bones and then across the bridge for fish and chips, but how about a little bit more? What if I had goats not only at the coast but across the whole country? What if I could stop in for a cup of coffee at Costa and high five a goat on the way out? What if a goat would tell me when the bus was running late, or pass me a small pot of porridge when I’m running late for work? It would cost a lot but what about coast-to-coast goats?

Of course I did not reveal my plans to the man because he might steal them as I had stolen his idea. As well as this, his original idea would be besmirched by my much better plans and I am not prepared to besmirch my fellow man. He will eventually learn of my objectives and he will have to come to terms with them as the rest of you mortals.

Box Memories

The human memory is an unreliable tool. Things that you think you remember can be twisted and exploited because people are unreliable and easily influenced. If, like me, you know how superbly atrocious your mind is you learn to record everything or at least as much as you can in the written form. This is starting to feel like a lecture…

And it’s not. The boxes in the corner of my room have bore witness to many a stimulating conversation over the years and sadly the pen and pencil work is starting to fade. Before all these “ideas” are lost to time I thought it best to record them for posterity here, of all places, so we can revel in their warm fuzziness. You may also be able to help remind me just what the fuck they mean. In no particular order I present ‘Box Memories’:

1. Women’s werewolf rights
2. No HAT, no HOLMES!
3. Jam flaps
4. Flip reverse my sandwich
5. Chris = Biggy Bam
6. Adjacent apples on the shelf of life
7. It’s not what we do, it’s the way we do it
8. Epic nonny
9. Steam hot prayers (that was Tom’s stag do, I remember that)
10. I say it, but I don’t mean it
11. I had big boots that day for sure
12. NEW PAPPLES ALBUM = 15% and rising
13. Anvil hands
14. I’m gonna hit you with the fist of gratitude. SLAP!
15. It was too lonny gone ago…
16. RED WINE = MAN WINE. ROSE = GIRL WINE
17. My moustache is off the scale!
18. Apples for thought
19. MAN LIKES HIS DRINK
20. I’d like a BIG FAT January
21. Gourmet = small and shafted
22. “Sock Lions”
23. … it will make your face bleed with smiles
24. Get your warranty out of my chude!
25. I dream of having a database of moods
26. I need a rocket
27. HAIRY ON THE GO!
28. Total toilet
29. 30 = dead (how nice)
30. Banh-kuok (rolled bread, french bread, bread)
31. Big nay
32. Plentingtons = plenty of things

There’s also a faded flame that appears to say ‘Uncle Now’ and of course the now infamous Michael Jackson test.

Question: Am I dead?

If your answer is yes, you are Michael Jackson
If your answer is no, you are someone else

Neil Armstrong gets a Time Machine (using a Time Machine)

Here at da beans we do like to consider everything before we make our minds up. There is absolutely no point in rushing in with an idea or an opinion unless it has been thought through with a considerable degree of certainty.

Still, this kind of logic is nothing when faced with the abstract mind of a child. Who’s child? My child.

This child does not obey the laws of anything other than what I tell him, and quite possibly his teacher. That said there is still a realm of “eh?”, a dark corner of his mind that does not allow anything in that refuses to conform to that happy rainbow of “surely not”. I bore witness to such a thing recently which was documented in my notebook, which was as follows:

“Neil Armstrong… gets a time machine (which he can only use once) to travel into the future to get a better time machine to make him famous. Then the world blows up.

Note: if you get a time machine go back in time and destroy him!”

I have looked at this page in my notebook on many occasions, and indeed I was there when he was talking about this, and still I am baffled as to what it actually means. Any help that anyone can throw my way would be very gratefully received.

Pouring
Beans

Category: Ideas