Ben Fogle, Part One

To Ben Fogle's agent, I wrote-

Dear Hilary

My Fiancee and I are both great fans of Ben Fogle's, and would be delighted and honoured if he'd consider being a guest at our wedding, which is to be held in Oxfordshire this coming August.

We look forward to hearing from you

Best wishes

Mark Lewis and Laura Cox

From Ben Fogle's agent, I recieved-

Thanks so much for the invite.

Ben will have to decline, but wishes you well.



Hm. This isn't over.



I'm opening up my blog again for one post only, because the greatest and best band in the history of music has emerged from nowhere and you NEED TO HEAR THEM NOW. Tell your mother, tell all your friends, tell them to tell ALL THEIR FRIENDS- 2008 and the future forever belongs to these guys.

The clip is a bit long, but please stick with it- you'll thank me afterwards. In fact, leave your thanks in the comments section below, please.

"There is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come".


Barry Twotter and the Deaf Tree Sparrows.

Being a sour, joyless old cunt I have no intention of reading the new Harry Potter book. It's about a school for young wizards, ergo it's for kids. If there was no latent adult embarrassment to be found in reading it then it wouldn't come with the "adult" cover option- the cover could feature a nekkid Hustler model with a magic wand up her fanny, it'd still be a Harry Potter novel and you'd still be an emotional retard for reading one over the age of twelve.

SO. Here's the final novel's epilogue, a week or so before release date. Go on, treat yourself:

One. Two. Three. Four.

While we're at it, all the spoilers you'd need to not have to read the rest of it are here- get yourself a nice bit of adult fiction instead (cough- cough). You'll sleep easier, and there's no hassle with choosing the right cover.


Creepy Eeriness.

Can't believe I haven't posted this yet- the dearth of new material here can be blamed squarely on Facebook, the funnest and most excellent social utility around. Go on, join if you haven't already. It knocks MyTwats into a cocked hat, let me tell you.

Anyway, what it is right is that last Thursday I received a letter all the way from Pasadena, California. A hand-mailed, stamped envelope with a yank postcode, with my full name and address hand-written on the front.

And I have no fucking clue who it's from.

Obviously I've scanned it for your perusal. Check out the lunacy:

Envelope (front). Envelope (back). And, the main event- The Document. I've 'shopped out my name from the top-left corner of the letter, and my address from the front of the envelope, obviously.

It uses the same sort of language as a sham psychic trying to cold-read a punter; vague references to my job, to Christmas, to my love-life and so on, but the back-story... this letter has a plot- the bit about Rick "assisting some of us with the letter writing"... what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I feel like I've been sent the jumping-off point to some weird-ass ARG which I didn't sign up for. Maybe it's some viral marketing campaign, but I never give my real address (or my real name, for that matter) to anyone asking for it, so what the fuck? The return address on the envelope is a PO box, which struck me as weird but I'm told that plenty of Americans use PO boxes for their mail. I don't know what to think... other than that I must reply. I feel like Bill Pullman in Lost Highway, being sent clips of my life by an unknown observer. If I'm honest I'm quite enjoying it, which is another reason why I have to reply- it's fun getting letters from fuck-knows-who and I want another one.

Any ideas, anyone? What might this mean?



Over the weekend the massively talented and well-respected WWE performer Chris Benoit apparently murdered his wife and child of seven years of age, then killed himself on the Monday. Details such as motive or murder weapon haven't been released as yet, but according to Fayette County District Attorney Scott Ballard...
"The details when they come out are going to prove a little bizarre."


Obese Racist Dies.

Expect to see a lot of "Racist? Naaah mate! 'Ee was the salt o' the Earth, loved 'his old muvvah 'e did" bullshit over the next day or so. Don't buy a bit of it. You don't spend fifty years of your life making racist jokes on stage and screen unless you're a total, dyed-in-the-wool cunt. Let's have a look at him being made a twat of- among others- on Brass Eye.

"One young kiddie on Cake... cried all the water out of his body. Just imagine how 'is mother felt. It's a fookin' disgrace".


Last Bit of Sham-Dram Nonsense For a While...

... I promise. The following are from the Gwent Gazette dated 12/06/2007- apologies for the rubbish quality, newsprint doesn't scan too well (click for full-size):