‘Well, we live 100 miles apart so it’s e-see more than see,’ I answer. ‘But yeah. We’re always in touch.’
‘They crack me up, them two,’ he says. ‘The lot of you are bloody funny together.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You don’t see the half of it.’
And then Dad always recommends the same thing: ‘You know what?’ he says. ‘You three should have a TV show.’
I suspect it’s instances in which photos like this are taken that prompt my old man to suggest such things for my mates and I. That, and an inexplicably daft in-language painstakingly crafted over 12 years of bad-taste jokes, shit-talk, relentless put-downs and magnificently made-up expletives. Kind of like Simlish, but with more fart jokes.
The TV-series suggestion is, of course, made through Dad-tinted glasses (besides, it’d never happen – no channel in its right mind would commission that much toilet humour… except maybe Five). But, from the moment The WardJonzeMac Entity was born on our university’s student mag (work has never been as much fun as it was back then), the instances on which the three of us have got together – whether in person or virtually – have, I think, had something of a ‘showlike’ quality about them. Though not, I hasten to add, in a jazz-hands way. Oh no. Glee boys these are not.
In fact, if there’s an opposite of Glee, Ward and Jonze own it. As anyone who’s smart enough to follow them on Twitter will know, they’re an endlessly entertaining pair of cynical, angry, sweary, flatulent, cantankerous, offensive, profanity-laden gits. But, by ’eck, a lovelier pair endlessly entertaining, cynical, angry, sweary, flatulent, cantankerous, offensive, profanity-laden gits you could never hope to meet.
They’ll have me in Chinese-burn-administering headlocks for telling you this, but despite cynical, angry, sweary etc appearances, there’s an undeniable sweetness to Ward and Jonze. Hell, I’m beyond being coy – they’re the friends you always wished you’d have. They’re the light relief in darker times. They’re the mates who never miss a big occasion. They send ludicrously shaped packages in the Christmas post (watch this space for the big reveal) and travel hundreds of miles to have you drunkenly sign a book. They’ll shower you with insults so hilarious that it’s utterly impossible to develop a complex, then build you up with such incredible, mind-bending encouragement that you actually believe you can rule the world (which, by the way, the three of us very much plan to do). They’re the only people I’d want to co-write a book or launch a magazine with. (And I WILL.) They’re the mates your parents should warn you off hanging out with, but actively encourage it instead. They’re the two big brothers who work overtime to ensure that your first word is ‘twat’. They’re the Kenny and Cartman to my Wendy Testaburger; the Harry and Ron to my Hermione; the Snap and Crackle to my Pop; the Peter and Paul to my Mary. And, for one week only (unless this goes as well as I suspect it will, in which case expect them to take ownership of Alright Tit very soon), they’re yours for the taking.
And so, in lieu of the norovirus-infected me being able to come up with a suitably inventive festive post, I’m using said illness as an excuse to give you the best Christmas present I can think to offer: this blog’s first-ever guest posts, from two of my all-time favourite people. First are Ward’s words because, well, he wrote his first. And tomorrow you can look forward to Jonze’s journal, so keep a close eye on this URL (or your email, if you’ve been smart enough to subscribe). Be good to them, eh? Make them welcome, leave them comments, tell ’em a good fart joke if you fancy. Season of goodwill and all that.
Thus all that’s left for me to do is wish you all the very best of the season and introduce you to part one of the spirit of Christmas, WardJonze style...
I Wish It Could Be Christmas... Every Day
There is not a day that goes by whereby I do not imagine beating Roy Wood to death with his own shoes.
There: I have said it. Such thoughts cross my mind from time to time. I am an angry, angry man, often drunk and lacking trousers. But nowadays my imaginary Wizzardicide is almost constant.
I am of course referring to the stalking horse of all sweating, palpating shoppers at this time of year – Christmas music. Even at the best of times, dodging the hordes of shambling undead in Marks and Spencer is enough to boil the blood of more limber, time-constrained shoppers such as myself. But this isn’t the best of times, is it? No, it’s bloody Christmas. Thus the God of Shops ordains that I must also contend with a never-ending rotation of holly-jolly inanity; sleigh bells, choirs singing... and Roy Wood wishing that it could be Christmas EVERY FUCKING DAY.
If I were made Grand Ruler (and if my plans come to fruition, I soon will be), to ease traversing this assault course of postmenopausal spouses clutching greeting card multi-packs, and rack upon rack upon rack of slippers, Christmas muzak would be banned outright.
Thus unshackled, shoppers would be free to listen to their iPods in peace. Personally I would select the Rocky soundtrack, the Theme from Shaft, or my personal favourite, Hitler’s speeches at the Nuremberg Rallies. And not a single choirboy or jingly bloody bell within earshot.
“Bah, what a humbug you are,” people say to me, often whilst gripping me by the shoulders and shaking violently. “What’s wrong with Christmas?”
Let me be clear: I DO NOT HATE CHRISTMAS. After all, what’s not to like? A day of family, food and fun? (Okay, the drinking is good. And I get days off to do it in, rather than nipping gin under my office desk, as per the norm.)
But like Pavlov’s dog, I merely react to external stimuli. It is not Roy Wood I hate, not his bearded face, nor his glassy eyes as he fingers his organ whilst surrounded by a throng of small children in THAT video. In reality I am sure he is lovely. Really LOVELY.
No, I hate Roy Wood because his song has come to signify “Christmas Creep”, whereby every shop wheels out the tinsel and the bloody Christmas music ever further in advance of December 25th. Under this barrage, by the time Christmas Day arrives I am so wearied by the enforced bonhomie, the only present I actually want is 24 hours in a dark, quiet room. Be thankful for Halloween, I say, otherwise in the world of retail, Christmas would begin immediately after Easter.
Still, there are always the January sales to look forward to, eh? And that’s the nub of it. Not to get all Michael Moore on your ass (what a thought), but this nightmare is of our own creation. The time is nigh that we the people take Christmas back for ourselves. No more wishing it would be Christmas every day... for multinational corporations milking us of every penny, at least. And maybe on the 25th of December we can say “Jesus Christ” – without adding the word “fucking” in the middle.
Until that day comes, or until I become Beloved Leader of the Huddled Masses, a vision of Roy Wood pushed into an imaginary wheat thresher will forever dance before my eyes. Or of Noddy Holder, his head cleaved from his shoulders by a blunt snow shovel. Or of Cliff Richard kicked up the arse so he falls down a lofty flight of stairs. [stares into distance]