Category: Sagging/drooping

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 Tenniversary

It’s been ten years since one of the most important cultural events of our, or anyone else’s, lifetimes. The Papples’ debut album, Wasting my Life, was released in May 2009 to a largely indifferent public.

To celebrate this milestone, Ian and myself made a pilgrimage to a number of sites on the south coast where the photos for the album sleeve were taken. We then recreated as many as we could find to mark this seminal tenniversary event. Join us, now, as we take you through all of the photos we recreated, slowly, one by one, whether you want to see them or not, like a distant relative showing you some old holiday photos.

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Avatar A life in furniture

Living above a bed shop, you’d think that the item of furniture most at risk of overwhelming my life would be beds. But no: here in the London Borough of Royksopp, it’s sofas we’re drowning in.

As you probably already know, my domestic co-habitant, Steve “Stevey” Stevingtons, is immensely and sickeningly rich: certainly a millionaire, possibly close to Jeff Bezos levels of financial liquidity. So it was that, a month ago, he splashed out on a new sofa to replace his old one. It was a real beast of a thing, a mo-fo so-fa to seat five, with a cornery bit and a separate footstool thing. Absolutely glorious. But as soon as it arrived we both saw the problem: as spacious as our living room is, it’s not big enough for two sofas to be practical.

The old sofa was moved to the balcony for a while, which is also vast, but that was short lived once it got rained on. Steve was forced to dispose of it and for a time we were back to a one-sofa arrangement, until it became clear that the new sofa – hand-stitched in a small village in the Alps and delivered by helicopter at a cost well into six figures – had a saggy ass in one of the seats.

The Stevingtons dynasty are not known for tolerating shoddy workmanship, least of all drooping upholstery, so the new sofa was broken up and this week a third, identical sofa arrived in its place.

I am pleased to report that seating arrangements in the penthouse are now entirely buoyant and without any saggage in the ass or any other region, and I am hopeful that this sofa-saturated period has finally drawn to a close. Thank you for your time.