Author Archive


April 7, 2010

Hi there readers, its your favourite Nordic MC, Spice to the Egg to the Nog to the pwee!

As I live precisely six months back in the past and my celebrity recognition software is in dire need of a reboot, the magic of the silver screen is often lost upon me. But this is not surprising – kinos are dark, wicked sinful places and whatever fi-lum is being squirted out the projector’s peep-hole is mere background chatter; I’m only there for the dark wicked sin.

Being a rugby man you’d think I would have made an effort to see a film which combines my favourite sport with the struggle of my Zulu brothers  but I haven’t so sit your honkey asses down and listen to how it might go:

Once upon a time there was a peaceful sun-kissed paradise where man lived in harmony in nature, game and snoodle toasties were plentiful and chicks went round bare breasted. Then the white man came with his fire water, bang sticks, snot rags and sense of shame and inflicted great misery on the tribes of the south and forced eaters of snoodles to bow down to their rule. So far many years this cruel bond was held.

Fast forward to the early 1990s, and the land emerges from the dark age of racial oppression. Bill Cosby is elected as President following a million year imprisonment for selling snoodle toasties at the wrong place at the wrong time. None thought he would see the light of day again but a covert supply of snoodles and blue literature kept his will strong like an iron rod. Then one day he used his rod to beat the guards to death in an opportune moment and escaped to lead his people to freedom. However as president he faces a new challenge of unifying a diverse range of peoples with varying culinary tastes into one nation.

Meanwhile the Milky Bar Kid, born into a long line of snoodle oppressors, was leading the national egg chasing team to victory in the world cup. Cosby saw his chance to promote his carb-rich snack to the masses and ordered Kid to win the tournament. Kid and his crew were so good at the sport because they grew up rearing ostriches on the surface of the sun. The eggs they popped out were a billion degrees Farenheit and nimble rearers had to be masters in hot potato.  They reached the final to play the dreaded giant Kiaora Kiwi birds who could peck a man’s eye out in an instant and show it back to him so he could see himself.

But have no fear! Kid pisses in their half-time oranges, causing them to be sick and shit themselves like roman candles on the pitch. Groo!! In the midst of the avian vomit covered battle field, Fat Albert, the tubby little weirdo no-one liked at school, scores the winning try. His pudgy ham fist punches the sky and the team hold him aloft like a Nubian Caesar. But then they all give themselves hernias and die.  But Kid, with his last dying efforts, stands together with Cosby, and takes a bite out of a snoodle toastie  before expiring.  Cosby holds Kid’s pallid body and whispers tenderly into his ear “Goodnight Sweet Prince”.

As Barry Norman would say “Thumbs up!” before shortly being arrested by a midget policeman for inserting it into his starfish on Britian’s Got Talent. Peace out and do one you meffs.