Sam “speaking”. Allow me to unlatch the portal to my mind. But before I do, let's evaluate why that sentence has uncentred you somewhat. Firstly, the image of a portal on a latch lacks form. You don't quite know what to picture. Secondly, it's not "a" portal. The "the" has necessarily transcended it beyond the figurative. It's "the" portal. It, like, exists. Finally, I'll be the first to admit that commencing a "communication" with a forthright invitation into one's mind, perhaps especially mine, can be distressing. I know. I wish I too could live in blissful ignorance. Woe is me. In a culture of omni-pathologising and self-diagnosis, my Sam-assigned disorder is obsessive-compulsiveness. I'm sooo OCD. Most who would utter as much typically do so because they maintain a to-do list. These people are charlatans. To-do lists? Pfft. I alphabetise essentially everything I own, I feel a pressure to delete (potentially) inutile files as soon as humanly possible, I tap out syllables with my feet and when I clean, I clean EVERYTHING. I am also someone that yearns for a freedom from constraints. In speech, in expression, in time. It's a wacky brew. I tell you this because this puff needs content and a simple "Hi, please listen, thank you" is, alas, simple not. For me, anyway. I know it would be more than adequate for you. But I also tell you for some behind-the-scenes... sure, insight. These blurbs/descriptions/desperations are tailored to the character count of Instagram. YouTube, Facebook, iTunes and Spotify have wider boundaries. So I COULD respond accordingly and adapt to the vagaries. I say I could. But I can't. Because there must be CONSISTENCY. And so the ongoing challenge I face in fingering these tracts is the ongoing challenge I face in life. How can I be as free as possible whilst abiding my very specific limitations? It's a dolorous habitat, perching me permanently mid-seesaw, sweating to balance the balance. Well, that was a unique form of therapy. The kind where the therapist is asleep. Or just not there. They were never there. To whom am I talking? Is anybody out there? Can somebody relieve me of my burden? Help.

Funfiltered

Funfiltered Episode #053 - "Farcical Decadence"

Sam "speaking."This episode was recorded over a month ago. Therefore, it is on you to infer the acute insight and scathing commentary that would have attended such hot-button issues as the fall of Afghanistan, the failed recall of Gavin Newsom, the death of Michael K. Williams, summat inevitably Covid-y and the new Matrix trailer.Actually, it can essentially be condensed to "Well, how fucking horrible." But we would have been stalwart and summoned the backbone to admirably, impossibly, SOMEHOW laugh through it all. Have to, don't you?The image of "summoning a backbone" is rather lurid. I could cut it, I'm not actually talking to you in real-time. But then I'd lose the opportunity to fill more space and, since the Über-Clammy Sardine-Huddle on the 20:24 Train from Cardiff to Pontypridd on 23/07/2017, that's something I promised myself to never again allow.But yeah, summoning a backbone. Either one starts out as a flaccid invertebrate, into whom a bony column is forcibly wedged (simmer down) or otherwise an already-existent spine advances arduously, not to mention unbearably painfully, through one's innardy goop.So let's forget I ever said that.I honestly can't remember what Jordan and I talked about on this here episode because when you keep notes, read the notes and then start keeping notes for the next ep, memory becomes a thing of the past. Memory's a memory. Plus, Jordan edits it.Oh, we argue. I remember that. Not the specifics, but the red frenzy of rage.Do you like us? Because that's probably going to be a prerequisite for listening. I don't know why you'd listen if you didn't like us... perhaps to satiate a masochistic impulse. I'm not going to pretend that I like the idea of that but I can't honestly say that I blame you either. I mean, you might concentrate your energies elsewhere, but the contempt itself... that I can't reasonably counter. And one more listener is one more listener at the end of the day, be that listener a friend that plays the podcast in the background to humour us from a distance, a venomous detractor indulging in virtual self-flagellation, plotting, identifying our weaknesses, or... yeah. A third type.

Funfiltered Episode #052 - "Islamophobic Couch Potatoes"

Sam "speaking." Since the inception of Funfiltered in 2019, writing these blurbs has required me to don the figurative duds of Jeremy Kettle, to step through the stargate into a dimension of stratified ironies and byzantine prose. These little descriptions, neglected as they were and will continue to be, were only the tip of the iceberg. The world of Jeremy Kettle (or J.K.U. to me and nobody else) demanded strict maintenance. Each throwaway reference, be it his killing a gibbon in a Jeep in Indonesia or picketing outside McVitie's HQ in Stockport, needed to be plotted onto a timeline stretching from 1959 to the present day. "Needed" is probably an exaggeration, given that I alone... well, cared. But I harbour the withering hope that somebody somewhere will someday find some modest pleasure in perusing the mosaicked narrative. None of this is merely to point out the labour I laboured, the sweat I sweated, the ignorance I had to ignore to be able to get up in the morning. No, the point is... there is no longer a roadmap. No safety net. From here on out, I have to be... me. And that's a haunting prospect. I am bereft. Here is an opportunity to communicate, to wax deep, to WRITE. But how does one balance the haughty, basically biological compulsion to pen summat worthwhile and the reality of the indifference of all other life-forms, sentient or otherwise (there's a blue bottle buzzing around me as I type this and I almost want to weep with gratitude)? It's a new topography. A hostile climate. A new dominion to... Conquer? YES, let's turn this into a positive! No no no, I'm not aimlessly traipsing through the jungle without agua! I'm... Pizarro in Peru! Minus the Incan genocide! Look, the point is, there's kind of a new thing to do, find, be, whatever, I don't know. Welcome to the slightly, essentially imperceptibly modified Funfiltered podcast. As such, to remain faithful to our sloppiness, Mr. Criddle proclaimed that we were to discuss the 37th Emmy nominations. Alas, we did not quibble over the merits of The Cosby Show versus Family Ties. In 1985. No, 'tis the forthcoming 73rd on which we set our sights... You're Pizarro, Sam. Pizarro.

Funfiltered Episode #051 - "Provisional Gay"

FADE IN.Saturday last marked the wedding of Dexter Chisp and Pfidze latterly-Chisp, the "Lanka" having been relegated to the obscurities of née - tradition aside, why one would readily assent to "Chisp" is the chef d'oeuvre of confusion. In attendance were several (Baltic) leaves of the Lanka family tree. All behaved in my presence with a queer salmagundi of scowl and supplication, thus affording me a first-hand pageant of Pfidze-context. Strange people.Notably AWOL was Arturas "Papa" Lanka, still doing porridge in a Kaunas nick. Perhaps inevitably, the clan begged me to step in and give the gal away. And so I walked her down the aisle. Unhurriedly, of course… her ankles are shot, the poor moo.I won't be alone, of course. There's Panley. A grandson marinating. Vern's only next door. Avi. Ignatius Pusk. Yeah, I’ll be okay.Pfidze Chisp… When all is said and done, at the end of the day, if my arm is being twisted... I certainly don't wish upon them UNhappiness. What must follow, I'm sure you can infer. Need I spell out everything, you numskulls?!One of my self-borne and Pfidze-typed axioms for Funlimited Entertainment was: "Comedy plus time equals tragedy." I hereby risk diluting its raw rhetorical power. But I’ll specify that the maxim (in addition to wittily inverting the well-known alternative) was originally conceived as an exhortation to operate on the cutting-edge, to break ground, to break barriers, to break even if possible. It was a rejection of outdated modes - we're all expected to worship at the altar of Lenny Bruce, but I dare you to suggest that any laughter escaping your lips isn't a lie. Have you watched Abbott and Costello? Woeful.I'm mindful that the adage could be newly construed as pertaining to my exit from this company that I built - and yes, I now know how felt Pa. Such an interpretation would be odiously cynical. And cynicism is too easy. Increasingly too easy.Here's a final reading, which I certainly hope is OFF the money. Free from portent. Honestly, I really hope otherwise. Feverishly otherwise. I really hope it DOESN'T mean that Sam and Jordan are now at the helm of their very own Hindenburg, the conflagration ever impending. Let us forgive that which they have done and overlook that which they haven't, just temporarily enough to wish upon them no-less-than-possible success. The zeppelin is yours, boys. Bon voyage. Oh, the humanity!As I and unlikely you reach the end of my hindmost blurb, I ask you to play "My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue)" - only if you can open another window on the browser, don't be scarpering at this climactic omega - by the lamentably a-bit-whiny Neil Young. Do the maths in your head to replace "rock and roll" with "podcast", etc., extract the sentiment and weep. WEEP.Much of my life has been brandished and codified across the Funlimited apparatus. Unless the boys belly-flop inexorably into the glop of controversy and get this whole cruise “cancelled”, this biographical mosaic will forever be conditionally indelible. In a sense, I will always be here, ready for your acquaintance. In a much realer sense, just pop the lads a message and I’m sure they’ll pass on any words of adulation.Take it away, Neil…"My my, hey heyRock and roll is here to stayIt's better to burn out than to fade awayMy my, hey hey..."FADE OUT.Does this fade-out contradict the import of the lyrics? No. Ironies, people. You'll never fully understand the sheer depth and quality of that which you here lose… Although it is slightly frustrating that this after-thought will actually be the last thing you'll read from me, rather than the poetic fade-out itself. But I suppose it's just about right. It's in the details my brilliance has always lurked.Jeremy Kettle,A King Unforgotten

Funfiltered Episode #050 - "Assume That the Best Is Over"

Pfidze Lanka and Dexter Chisp are set to pledge their troughs on July 3rd. Under the sentinel of approx. 70 witnesses, they shall conjugate. In the eyes of the Lord and the state, that is. If the yecchy hoots and jibbers emanating nightly nether my chamber affirm anything, it's that those two are biblically conversant in what one imagines to be a uniformly unlovely interlock. And one can't HELP but imagine lest you impute depravity. Hear an oink, picture a pig. I am not a puritan. God knows. He knows... But ofttimes, the old fashions are the best. I do not insist on abstinence (she is an autonomous dame - if not a citizen - and carnal considerations were unhappily overlooked in her contract). I DO insist on basic decorum. It is displayed clearly on the Sub-Zero Luxury Refrigerator* in magnetic letters: "NO RUTTING UNDER THIS ROOF OR IN THE SHELTERED PADIO [sic]"†. Of course, it won't be a problem for much longer. Pfidze and Chisp are prepping their new flat for occupancy. Soon, I shan't have to eat muesli with that horrible sleeping bag, with its lardaceous stench and doubtless iridescence under blacklight, in my eyeline. She must know wherever she next goes will be a dip. I don't even want to LOOK at pictures of her stupid, accursed rental. Visit "when it's all done up", is it? Degrade myself to be hosted by a DESERTER?! Maybe I'll get a dog. On Tuesday, as I left M&S with an exquisite new set of cotton Argyle socks, I clocked a poster affixed to the window of a charity shop: an advertisement for a one-year-old St. Bernard. I have always found their goofy majesty unusually compelling. An embodiment of the sacred and the profane. They were bred to rescue people from lofty heights, to return them to solid ground. I am MAN enough to admit I cannot continue this commentary without tears. *If the algorithms don't bone me and an employee of said company sees this, it'd be nice to augment the rainy day fund as I move from Funlimited to the next (and, let's face it, final) phase of my life where the weather is, at best, uncertain. Come on, just a few quid. †I ran out of T's. GREAT SCOTT, DID THEY EXPLOIT THAT LOOPHOLE?!

Funfiltered Episode #049 - "Nascence of the Fourth Reich"

I seize this moment to speak a little about Israel-Palestine. Oh, how I JAPE. ‘T’would appear that my sixty-two years on this marble and the enlightenment accrued therein count for goose-egg. That said, can enlightenment be ACCRUED? Or is it something at which one ARRIVES? There you go. Prima facie attestation to my sagacity. You may argue that raising a multitude of questions without attempting investigation is hardly exhibitive of brilliance. But I quip, brilliantly - do we venerate Dylan’s seminal protest song for its exegetical virtues? ‘It’s all just blowin’ in the wind, is it, Bob? Wanna elaborate?’ To be, or not to be, that is the question. ‘Come on then, Billy Shakes, which is it?’ I think not. As in, I don’t think such an inquiry is legitimate, I’m not just surmising an answer. Would you rather compile a stat-laden, diagram-pregnant tome or pose the query what spawned it? Don’t lie. You don’t even read, do you? As it happens, I did write a book - separate that fact from the preceding segment. Mine is an autobiography, I’m not being a hypocrite. If thou’ve been truly following Funlimited Entertainment (by which I mean actually perusing my prose - I refer you to Paragraph 4 for my inference re: this prospect), you’ll know or have known that Still Sings He has been in development for some time. Well, it’s been rejected. The publisher has quite viciously alleged that I come across as a “more pretentious and less self-aware Alan Partridge”, and that the proposed dust jacket design - stellated and equation-bedecked - “conveys a false impression of scientific substance or, at minimum, a sliver of wisdom.” My solicitor, Ignatius Pusk, has discouraged me from filing for slander - “less than baseless”, apparently. Look, I’ve a grandson on the way. Such commercial concerns are rendered comparatively frivolous. Besides, there’s always self-publishing. If I am to sacrifice cachet for anything, it’s unedited, untempered, untampered with RADIANCE. That is, if I have the energy to convert longhand to digital. I fear Pfidze’s looming wedlock will snatch her from my usance... I suppose I could always recruit another hapless vassal. Any takers?

Funfiltered Episode #048 - "Family-Friendly Nympho"

On this ep, the "lads" revisit the Harry Potter franchise - a REUNION, of sorts. Ergo, this segue is the antithesis of ham-fisted. It's veg-open-palmed or some such zinger*. With the easing of lockdown (apparently - who's still keeping tabs? - it's chuffin' whimsical), the extended Kettle clan clustered for a REUNION. The complexity of each kinsperson and a social media character limit preclude me from performing a deep dive vis-à-vis biographies. Instead, may we paddle with the noteworthies. FAELYNN "MA" KETTLE - divorced from Sidney "Pa" Kettle in '67. Pa dead, Ma circling; JARVIS KETTLE - brother, homosexualist; MORITZ - thirty-year-plus brother-lover, naturally† homosexualist; MABEL VUNDT - First Her, first divorce; ROSÉ ROCHE, Second and Fourth Her, ditto re: divorces; SHASSI DELMOCK - Third Her, you know the drill; EGYPT KETTLE - daughter of Mabel and yours truly, one smart cookie as evidenced by her apprehension of the cachet of the Kettle name; YGGDRASIL "YGGY" DELMOCK - daughter of Shassi and yours truly, less so. Contexts. After a childhood akin to the lot of a transient/squatter, Ma and I were on nodding terms. My exes were there because they maintain friendships with each other bound by common enmity. I married Rosé twice because French actually had a frisson back in the day, I report with hindsightly disgust. Egypt was conceived in a Luxor en suite, that's why. As for Yggy, Nature is feminine, Shassi is la-di-da and her sweet love made me care little about much. Contents. Oh dear... character count approaching terra... Yggy is pregnant with my first grandchild! A boy! Finally, a fellow Y amongst the Xes (not to malign Jarv and Mor but, well...) Hope! Ma and I buried the hatchet over some cocktail sausages as our youngers rollicked to just dreadful music. Impossibly, it would seem there is a future. *The strongest alternative was "…antithesis of laboured. It's Toried..." Palpable millilitres of sweat are decanted here; sometimes the cutting-room floor is a boneyard too dismal to regard, a crammed necropolis of slain darlings. †As in "obviously", just in case you're deeply religious. As if. Tee-hee. Chortle.

Funfiltered Episode #047 - "All Dogs Are Magical"

Three hours and fifty-six minutes… &#%!?!@ ME! Yes, that is the correct number of symbols. And yes, you will croak it ignorant of that which they substitute. Pluck mirth from ambiguity for once in your damned lives. For the select many of you who scarcely acknowledge the existence of Lithuania, let alone scan its deci-county crime news, let alone peruse the lawless specifics of each municipality, let alone keep abreast of the felonious minutiae of each elderate (or seniūnija) - a little Googling goes a long way, you think I care? - Arturas Lanka has recidivised himself into the pen. This time, for compromising the constitutional integrity of some precious garden gnomes in a permanent fashion by means of mallet. I don’t know whose, what, why, I can only feign focus for so long. Point is, Pfidze was in a right state. Faced with the prospect of an evening with an unbearably weepy blimp weeping over international calls (on my penny) to weepy foreign relations AND basking in the renewal of the beer garden, I made haste. Lamentably, fiancé Dexter Chisp was encircling (as ever) and he cunningly cloaked appendage in the guise of “getting-to-know-each-other”. I was forced to yield. Consequently, reinforcement was required. No way was I prepared to pre-celebrate my retirement in the wake of Chisp’s punishing benevolence and girly laugh. And so summoned were Ignatius Pusk and Avraham Rechels, the former my nominal solicitor and the latter an Israeli bouncer with whom, yes, I can be friends, thank you very much. Eventually, we were admitted to MY local, The Wattle. Avi and Ignatius bickered over stem-cell therapy as per. Dexter launched into a saccharine interrogation, which I was mostly able to parry. And then I saw her. Mabel Vundt, my 2020 honey. Sipping wine opposite some twatty-moustached boob. The past is the past, of course, and I couldn’t possibly have cared less and somebody must have slipped something into my Samuel Adams and a foggy whirlwind of crazed jigging and savage epithets and blue pirouetting lights and hiding behind a bin? and being shoulder-shlepped and lamb shish and home and a knuckle fracture? All told, he’s an alright bloke, that Dexter.

Funfiltered Episode #046 - "Inflammatory Waters"

It is with a featherweight heart that I teletype this abstract. Yesterweek, I took it upon myself to go a-perambulatin'. The compelled monasticism we have all been practicing to greater, lesser, even lesser and not-at-all extents has sired its unfair share of plumpage. Afooting is now mandatory lest I go the way of Pfidze... FATZE... I am made queasy by my heretofore neglect of this ripe wordplay...Anyhow, in my local park, I spied an elderly chap accompanied by whom I inferred and hope was his granddaughter. The tot was eager to engage with one of the many playground thingamabobs on offer (the geodesic climber it would transpire). The only snag impeding recreation was an insufficiency of Jaffa Cakes. Nimble deduction surmised that the two were on their way home from the nearby Tesco Express, as evidenced by the laden Bag for Life at Pops' brogues. The child wanted Jaffa Cakes and who could blame it? Jaffa Cakes are ambrosial*.After much hectoring, the old'un yielded. Do not judge this man. For one, he is a grandfather and the questionable indulgence of his progeny² is his right. For two, if you've tasted the sweet orange of JC, you know its denial is a fool's venture. For three, if you haven't, you are not entitled to an opinion anyway, stop reading this, go away and acquire a life.The sole condition for capitulation was that the child share with the other juveniles in orbit. The patriarch had milked the transaction for a lesson in benevolence. The subtle anguish of life's transience was swallowed by admiration. I was wowed.The child verbally consented. But then, from atop the wobbly dome, the little fucker reneged and scoffed every last cake in that wrapper - which is now clear instead of orange, but that's a furious editorial for another day. The grandfather propounded impotent disapproval 'cross the rubber 'rena. The damage was done.But this hero did not sink into despair. He did not desperately scale the apparatus, force his fingers down his descendant's throat to stimulate regurgitation and pathetically grovel to distribute the bolus to the other kiddywinks. No. Instead, he let the ordeal float away on the crisp spring air. He sat back and retrieved a crossword book from the Bag for Life. He "did him".It brought to mind OUR relationship. I endlessly curate content. If you deign to accept the offering, it is without gratitude. Nor does it occur to you that others might derive pleasure therefrom. No more. I take my cue from Park Man. As I enter my there-is-yet-hope twilight, I'm going to "do me". No longer will I claw cloyingly for the consideration of lower people. For YOU.There is a certain gratification in making it to Episode 50 of this podcast-shaped albatross. But after that half-hundred bench-/skid-mark, inclination-dependent...I AM OUT. I retire.Until then, tune in. Or don't. WHATEVER. Its classification as "my problem" ain't long for this world, baby.*Earlier blurbs have scratched the surface of the complexity of my unironic love for this confection. Forgive me for taking it as a given that you haven't read them. Then again, why ask forgiveness when this too shall go unregarded? If a tree falls in a forest...

Funfiltered Episode #045 - "I Am Amongst the House"

An hour(ish) shorter than the lousily new norm is this week’s episode. Lest I be accused of hypocrisy (forget the “lest”, Pfidze actually dared vaunt such impudence - I delight in language, SHOOT ME!), I shall display my dexterity in pith and restrict this blurb to a mere 100 words. Not only will ye be plentifully apprised of one’s biography, the bulletin will be blazoned with one’s trademark lexemic panache. Vernon Lesburrell in fine fettle; conspiracy indulgent once again and chairobics adept. Lanka-Chisp wedding set for July. Easing of lockdown begets rumblings of plans for Kettle family reunion. Alarm! Fin.

Funfiltered Episode #044 - "Church Fodder"

Under the Janus moon of this very annum, I renounced my allegiance to the Conservative party. Erroneously, I logicked ‘t’was the caprices of the Tories that contrived the unique circumstantial architecture what engendered my senescent mate being hospitalised. I allowed petty animus and a sense of private betrayal to cloud my reasoning. Now allow me to concisely explain why and how receipt of my first jab is not the exclusive engine of rotation. My blinders are roundly doffed. It would be abusive of you and fair game for me to point out that I have been somewhat “cruising” of late. I have delegated podcast administration to those what it doth feature, contenting myself as a “blurbist.” No more. This episode of the Funfiltered podcast dodders at 207 minutes. Most nauseatingly, this is hardly a galling aberration. Indulgence hath become… I want to say Stan and Gordon’s… defining trope. What’s more, they have perpetrated yet further technical bunglage. Always has it been that liberals formulate ideas and conservatives realise them. I am perhaps certainly one of the few who can perambulate ‘bout both hemispheres. Nevertheless, it is imperative that I reaffirm and re-exemplify my natural conservatism, that I uniquely occupy the RIGHT. For the FF podcast has become Exhibit A of what can happen when the liberal mindset manoeuvres unmonitored. Well, Exhibit B after Bristol. I have rested on my notional laurels. A firmer hand is needed. And that hand will be MINE. I am not, contrary to household suggestion, re-dedicating myself to prove something to Pfidze. Keep planning your accursed nuptials, you parazitas!

Funfiltered Episode #043 - "Idiots and Ideologues"

I’m given to understand that this episode of the Funfiltered podcast is especially topical, with my oral labourers covering an array of diverse, hot-button issues. Even if that array is regarded through the unidimensional lens of disappointment. Superficial glances* at social media expose ever more cess being flung into the pit. I don’t how much more cess the pit can take, assuming that the pit is finite. The pit is encumbered with cess. Tenably fortunately, my personal domestics have precluded me from indulging in the zeitgeist. No time have I had for the howlings over the Oprah-atic Meg(h)xit† debrief, the Gramophone Awards or the re-appraisal of Winston Churchill (although, to nippily put all matters to rest… Rule, Britannia!, it’s “the” Stallion and Rule, Britannia!, respectively.) No, no, tyrannising my sentience has been the development what I’m about to now disclose. Pfidze is engaged(!) I’ve told her and I’ll tell you, I use exclamation marks staggeringly selectively. But I’m content-ish to sandwich the odd ecphoneme ‘tween brackets if it’s an occasion about which I’m expected to care. So yes, she’s engaged to paramedic Dexter Chisp. One might reasonably think his job would fill his hands, impeding them from pilfering my Balt. Alas. They are set to be wed later this annum. Good! Frankly. My house to myself again, finally. Just me, myself and I. Just the three of me. The woman has obligations, I hope she understands that. She may be nuptially otherwise, but things are not going to do themselves. “Hear-hear” and hear this: remember who granted you bi-weekly access to his sheltered patio when life wasn’t so bridal magazine. Pfidze! *Yes, I know that this is a redundant tautology. I know goddamn tautologies when I see them. †On the page, this vogual is an aesthetic assault.

Funfiltered Episode #042 - "This Dross Which Is Retrograde"

Episode 41, eh? 40-ruddy-1. Who’d’ve thought (66.666?% of) the boys would make it this far? For one, I. The podcast is free to produce, not to mention simplified by a robust rejection of rigour. Funlimited Entertainment, parent company of the Funfiltered podcast (what’s so damned confusing about that, by the way?), was to be a monolith of amusements. Motion pictures, podcasts, musicks. Et al. For an agglomeration of disappointments, lethargies and personal betrayals, this pleasure column has yet to be erected. Onward I trudge. All to say that our/their (when the buck stops, my) listenership is scantier than the cladding of a nudist colony. For those of you that DO lend an ear, I wish to clarify something… A curious little cabal of sceptical dolts has been making murmurings on the ‘Netblogs. I cannot let their grotesque agnosticism (at worst, atheism) pullulate by going unanswered. I AM REAL. I am sixty-one going on sixty-two years old (such public disclosures are indecorous but you intellectually uncouth bastards have forced my hand). I was born in Lichfield. I was rich and then I was not. I am not. I have been married four times to three different women. I live in Bracknell. I drive a Ford Fiesta. I suffer with kidney stones. Jaffa Cakes are my favourite confection. I enjoy Radio 4. I am a patriot, a capoeira practitioner and the CEO of Funlimited Entertainment. I am a poet and a dreamer. I’m Jeremy Kettle, motheryuckers. Putting my invective aside for only the moment, let me thank you on behalf of Messrs Riddle and Crease for cloistering yourselves from the ranks of the rank apathetic. You listeners are truly pathetic. We/they (when the buck stops, I) do it for you. Give yourself a standing ovation*. *”Ovation” sounds like a lady process, doesn’t it?

Funfiltered Episode #041 - "Oppressive Ambience"

The government put my friend in the hospital.I have been a devoted Tory my whole life and, now having renounced that allegiance, I feel “safe” admitting to it. The infobahn is not the natural habitat of the Conservative. So I trust that your embrace will be warm as I turn coats. Though the evidence is somewhat contrary.This past year, we have been inundated with a novel lexicon - one whose terms are familiar to our ears but shrill with the pitch of catastrophising re-contextualisation. Lockdown. Tiers. Isolation. What once principally applied to sci-fi/horror flicks, wedding cakes and insufferable wallflowers, respectively, is now a-washing through our minds with doomy din.To be ever vigilant of the capricious dictates of our beleaguered overlords is to drive oneself insane. It has produced a virulent monomania that rivals even Covid itself in its danger - not actually, but for the sake of a nice bit of writing… It is this shitty idée fixe that plonked my pal in A & E.Vernon Lesburrell is my best friend and neighbour. He is an octogenarian widower and works in Dog Maintenance. I insisted that Vern spend Christmas with me and Pfidze. Paranoia chained him. I urged him to see in the New Year with us. Alas. What began as caution begat worry begat terror begat Vern refusing to leave the house.Through the accident, we discovered that Vern had not only closed himself off from the outside world but from every other room in his abode. His world infinitely nautilus-shelling inwards, he had stationed himself on a blow-up mattress in the lounge, surrounded by cigs, tea bags and David Icke books. An ardent acolyte of the idiot box and notoriously the opposite for craning his neck, he had, through a system of hooks, ropes and extension leads, suspended his television from the ceiling to achieve profoundly total immobility.Need I precisely outline the nature of the mishap?Yes, the TV fell on his head.The wistful harmony of “Auld Lang Syne” trickling through the wall was cut short by the cry of bending hook-metal, fraying rope and the phlegmy clamour of an eightysomething conspiracy theorist, all due love. One must do a lot of work not to interpret the timing as a sign.Medically, he’s now roughly okay. But he hath become confined in an NHS Petri dish, the set of every nightmare of the now. This is a parable about consequences but do your own bloody literary analysis. I can’t even extract a penny from you, I’m not going to extract my own themes.If Vern’s trauma weren’t traumatic enough, Pfidze hit it off with one of the paramedics, a middle-aged chap named Dexter. In her words, ‘he has eyes that have seen much.’ Incisive as always. Even as I type this, they’re Zoom-ing. Giggling like a goddamn schoolgirl. Don't even get me started on Pfidze.Ba dum tish.It’s 2021 and still I sweat gold for you, pay me!

Funfiltered Episode #040 - "Astoundingly Evitable"

It’s Christmas. Whoopee. What do you want from me? Seriously. What do you want? If you deigned to communicate, I might have a target at which to aim. As it is, I discharge my arrows blindly into the murky yonder, awaiting the Word. A yelp to announce a misfire. Co-ordinates for adjustment. A “hip hip hooray” for a bullseye. Be there even souls proximate? This Archer knows not. All He can say for certain is that He is here, with quiver, projectiles and a website in development. So throw Him a bone. Last night, in the midst of imbibing a pint of petrol-station sherry, I tendered Pfidze a festive lark (my pile of board games has, over the course of lockdown, come to represent the limitations of human endurance, a mocking monolith of infernal ennui, and so it has been decreed that all ludal constructs must now spring neurally): I would feature any two words of her choosing in this blurb and derive humour therefrom. Given Pfidze’s cake-philia, it is perhaps unsurprising that her donation was “congress tart”. That said, given the relative obscurity of the term and her abject grappling with fluency, the unsurprise is somewhat neutralised. We uncomfortably end up in a place that is neither surprising nor unsurprising and, if nothing else, that is something. All of this simply is, which I did not see coming. Anyway, congress tart… Something something something Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. I don’t know. I am so very hungover. If it was unclear, I’m the Archer.Happy (insert fashionable nomenclature).

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Funfiltered

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