A 42-minute radio play featuring Tony Boaks and The Admiral.
Two penniless freelancers, one a hapless loser and the other a brilliant but misguided computer geek, devote much of their time to trying to find a genius idea that will ensure their early retirement. They face various setbacks and are continually side-tracked by 'vigorous dark ale' in their quest, but remain optimistic.
Play the audio file below:
A full radio script in pdf format is available on request.
‘The Unbearable Stupidity Of Being’ is a 78,000 word comic fantasy novel which satirises, amongst other targets, unscrupulous bankers and the Tea Party movement. It's the first book in Greg's 'Stupid Trilogy', with 'Six Degree of Stupidity' the second and 'Stupid Animals' the in-progress third.
Written in the form of a journal by under-employed graphic designer Tony Boaks, the book introduces failed banker turned criminal mastermind Sir Fred Godalming to the world.
Through Sir Fred, Tony becomes involved with a group of financial services fraudsters including Bernard Madolph and Allen Stanthorpe who all belong to ‘The Order Of The Infinite Self,’ a secret brotherhood of supremely selfish individuals. The Infinite Self form an arm’s-length political organisation and install Tony and the unrequited love of his life LaFlamme as the figureheads, duping Tony into believing their thoroughly dubious ideology would be beneficial for all.
Says Greg:
“At times, the story parallels both the Da Vinci Code and Nausea, but as I’ve never read either book, this makes for some pretty interesting parallels.”
CURRENT STATUS: UNPUBLISHED
‘Six Degrees of Stupidity’ is a completed 78,000 word satirical comic fantasy novel which parodies Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, exchanging the Belgian Congo for the canals of fictional English county, Wester. Following on from 'The Unbearable Stupidity of Being', it's the second in Greg's 'Stupid Trilogy'.
Synopsis:
Under-employed graphic designer Tony Boaks reluctantly accepts a commission from Guy LeSnide QC, an advocate (‘like a lawyer, but even more so’) with monumental delusions of grandeur. Before settling his bill however, the advocate’s delusions turn to madness and he retreats to the fictional English region of Wester - a dense and murky area only accessible by canal - where he commandeers a tribe of indigenous people and junior lawyers.
Unwilling to let madness be an excuse for non-payment, Tony sets out on an epic quest to track him down, narrowboating into Wester’s heart of darkness and taking the spikey unrequited love of his life, LaFlamme, along for the ride.
Together they discover that Wester is a wild and dangerous place, alive with magical phenomena and overrun with pedantic boaters and rogue solicitors. After encounters with a psychotic ventriloquist dummy, a deviant gastrophile on his own quest to find a cure for the common hangover, a professional beard-reader, and a man who may or may not have been Victorian stage magician The Great LaFlambé, Tony is no nearer his goal.
But he has more pressing problems. Wanted for a spate of murders he didn’t commit and increasingly caught up in his own personal heart of darkness, it is only by finding the elusive advocate that he can clear his name and win over LaFlamme. And get paid of course.
CURRENT STATUS: WORK BEGUN BUT GENERALLY STALLED DUE TO INDEPENDENCE-RELATED MATTERS.
'Stupid Animals' will be the third in the Stupid Trilogy once I stop faffing about on Twitter and finish the damn thing. I'm really just posting this here to remind myself to get on with it.
Expect more later. Much more.
The Admiral had found a particularly fascinating episode of ‘Extreme Trams’ on Youtube and was glued to his monitor. It wasn’t such an unusual state for The Admiral and it was best not to interfere, as this was preferable to his frequent bouts of boisterousness.
“Don’t you have any milk?” I said, trying to find things to combine that might result in a refreshment.
“On the fridge,” he said.
“On the fridge? You know milk ought to be stored in the fridge in order to keep it cold.”
“Ordinarily, yes,” he replied. “But I was experimenting and it’s now behaving like a reverse hotplate.” I ran a finger over the fridge’s surface and sure enough a layer of frost had developed. The milk was practically stuck to it.
I heard a scratching at the front door followed by a thin high-pitched voice, as if a ten-year-old had been compressed within a shoebox. I thought it might be Cyndi Lauper.
“Could you put a little milk in that saucer?” said The Admiral, rising and, without removing his gaze from the monitor, stepping to the front door. For a shoebox, it was large and had very long hair. And whilst its skulking demeanour was typical of its species, it had a most unusual cry.
“Noooo,” said the cat, in a plaintive monotone.
“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.
“Noooo,” said the cat.
“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.
“Excuse me,” I said. It’s not that I wasn’t bemused by an apparently talking cat, but I felt if this was the level of debate we were going to have, I might as well watch Scottish Questions. “Since when do you have a cat?”
“It’s not mine,” said The Admiral. “I believe he belongs to that chap around the corner.”
“What kind of person teaches their cat to speak?”
“I think you’ll find,” said The Admiral, “that the results of most experiments with verbal communication in cats have tended to be negative. This is not so much a talking cat as one with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’”
“But when you said ‘yes’, he said ‘no.’”
“That’s not really a conversation though, is it? More like a Beatles song. Were I to ask him about Boyle’s Law, he’s unlikely to explain that, assuming temperature remains unchanged, the absolute pressure and volume of a confined gas are inversely proportional.”
“Isn’t that just because he didn’t study thermodynamics?” I said.
“Hmm,” said The Admiral. “Admittedly, he may have spent more time on Kinetic Theory. Why don’t you try talking to him?”
“Ok. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” said The Admiral. “Let’s call him Boyle.”
I crouched down to welcome the visitor. “Hello, Boyle,” I said, and immediately felt ridiculous.
“Noooo,” said the cat.
“Would you like some milk?” I poured a little into the saucer.
“Noooo,” said the cat, rushing towards it and eagerly lapping it up.
“You see?” said The Admiral. “His response is not necessarily negative. In fact, we don’t even know if he is speaking English. Were he a native Pole, this would actually mean ‘yes’. Or were he Japanese it would mean ‘of.’
“He’s multilingual?” I said.
“I don’t think you’re quite grasping this,” said The Admiral, doing his best to hear an explanation of electrical conduits whilst continuing our discussion. “He’s just an eccentric verbaliser, a bit like yourself.”
“But he must have been trained to talk like that.”
“Actually,” said The Admiral, “I believe it may be the other way round. The chap around the corner is quite the curmudgeon and I suspect the cat has trained him to take a negative view of life. He may have become so accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’ that it now plays a huge part in his daily discourse. In which case, Boyle has a lot to answer for, don’t you, Boyle?”
“Noooo,” said the cat.
It was a very intelligent cat who could not only speak several languages but had trained his master to behave in such a manner. I began to have some sympathy for the man who had simply been conditioned, and it made me wonder about those whose only notion of positivity is to continually repeat that we are positively screwed.
Dear Johann,
I’m concerned about the No campaign’s chosen moniker, 'Better Together.' It’s pleasant enough sounding but surely the word ‘better’ is a relative term which begs the question ‘better than what?’ Certainly the status quo is better than having your scrotum twisted in a vice or having to swing weights from your nipples but is that a strong enough vision for the future?
A. Darling
Johann says:
Ah agree son, the campaign slogan is mince. Ah’ve gave this some considerable thought and Ah’ve came up wi’ a few ideas...
‘Gauny no go’
‘Say Naw tae Aye’
‘Dinna puush SLAB aff the gravy-train’
Ma ane favourite is:
‘Weer better aff no apart so we ur’
Remember, Darlin'.... if the NATS hiv their way, ye’ll hiv tae walk tae the border tae get yer train back tae London..... FACT! Ah hope this helps.
Dear Johann,
As a member of the Free Church I believe Man’s main duties in life are to know, love and glorify God, and to talk utter balls about Scottish independence. I long for simpler times when advocates of separation could be burnt at the stake. Can you give me any comfort in my hour of need?
Martin L.
Johann says:
Ah think Christianity as ah whole is like a library: It’s a good idea bit it’s fu’ o’ weirdos and people bein’ inappropriate in the weans section. Enjoy it while ye can though, because if the NATS go INDY aw yer bibles wull hiv tae be translated intae Gaelic...FACT!..... Laters Marty.
Dear Johann,
As we now know, Jimmy Carr is to blame for the UK recession and not years of economic mismanagement by Tories wearing Labour Party hats. Given your inevitable rise to First Minister at the next Scottish election, how do you and Jimmy plan to stimulate growth?
B. Taylor
Johann says:
We aw like tae put a bit aside fur a rainy day but Jimmy Carr’s better prepared than Noah. Hings are lookin’ up noo though as the Tories hiv put Harry Redknapp in cherge o’ the HMRC. As for stimulatin’ growth, me and wee Gordy have hud apprenticeship programmes fur years and aw those wee boys are learnin’ tae play the flute. IF ye’s go INDY, wee Gordy wull take ees ane life!.......FACT!
Dear Johann,
I agree with Ed Miliband. Whilst acknowledging the economic, social and cultural benefits of immigration I too would prefer it didn't involve foreigners. Wouldn’t we be better off if the jobs taken by migrant workers were returned to the British who rejected them in the first place?
O. Mosley
Johann says:
Aye son. If ye go INDY the NATS ur gauny let everybody intae Scotland that kin work oot how many o' therr bawbees ye get tae a pound..... FACT! Except the Greeks, cos therr aw gonnae be butlers for the Germans.
Dear Johann,
Rather than invest £100bn in something useful, I believe this money should be spent on nuclear weapons. When it was announced that an independent Scotland would not benefit from these, I messed my trousers. What exactly would happen to our beloved missiles in the event of so-called separation?
George F.
Johann says:
When a first herd aboot the new missiles ah jumped aff the cherr and yelped ‘GO TRIDENT’ throwing ma wee erms in the err. This didny go doon too well wi wee Eck as it wis durin’ FMQ’s. But ah hear whit yer sayin’ Georgy boy. The Nats hiv a plan tae put them oan Ebay if they get Independence as naebody else wants thum. Bit ah reckon the people o’ Scotland ur no daft. They know we need thum tae tackle back-packers wi’ bombs.
Dear Johann,
I live in the Scottish Borders and unfortunately my bathroom happens to be in England. I imagine there will be dire consequences if, in an independent Scotland, I get caught short. Am I worrying without cause?
D. Mundell
Johann says:
If the NATS go INDY, a big wire fence is tae be built through yer hoose wi a wee gate...FACT! Yer lavvie wull hiv a watter meter as it’s across the border. Ye might hiv tae move the bog intae yer livin’ room and make yer toilet a cupboard.
Dear Johann,
I’m a big fan of your column. When I was captured and taken hostage by terrorists on the fringes of Fallujah I paid one of my captors in Irn Bru to have a letter to you smuggled out. I was distraught and feared for my safety. You were able to reassure me that terrorism is thirsty work and that as long as the Irn Bru didn’t run out I was probably in no danger. I have since converted to Islam and have become a poster child for Stockholm Syndrome, although I have no idea what that is. Thanks again.
Abdul Ali McGraw
Johann says:
Abdul, ah'm delighted tae have been o' service. I mind showin' yer story tae Tony Blair but he jist laughed and sed ‘did ye see Terry Waite oan celebrity mastermind? He sed ees specialist subject wis Lebanese radiators.’ .....anyhoo.....IF Ye's go INDY the NATS wulny fight anybody again....nae merr wars… NIGHTMERR!
Following reports last weekend that the UK’s replacement nuclear submarine fleet had severe problems which effectively made it unfit for purpose, I thought somebody should do the only sensible thing and offer it for sale on Ebay. As the fleet was not really mine to sell, I did it on behalf of UK defence minister, Philip Hammond, who should really have thanked me for showing such initiative.
Item 271106131104 was listed under Collectables > Transportation > Nautical > Military as:
Nuclear submarine fleet. One previous owner. Reason for sale: riddled with construction and design flaws. Some corrosion. Painfully slow. A few holes. Faulty periscopes so you won’t be able to see the surface without making an appointment. Nuclear monitoring instruments are the wrong type so possible exposure to radiation. Has been known to cause psychological problems in crew members. HMS Astute has a couple of dents because we grounded it off the Isle Of Skye. Hey ho.
Bought it from a guy called Boaks for £9.75bn a few years back but it’s just not quite what I had in mind. Will settle for a couple of grand o.n.o.
Delivery: collection or alternatively can send second class post.
Eagle-eyed viewer Doug Daniel, currently in the market for a fleet, immediately spotted the item location was listed as ‘London.’ This was due to Ebay’s assumption that the item resided with its vendor, ‘ministryofdefence’, at Main Building, Whitehall, London SW1A 2HB. Had they asked for the location of the actual item, I’d have said ‘currently festering somewhere around HM Naval Base Clyde, Faslane, Helensburgh G84 8HL.’ Clearly it’s absurd to think that a nuclear submarine fleet could be stored in Whitehall. That’s what Scotland’s for.
Bidding, beginning at 99p, was robust, but sadly the seven-day auction was cut short by around five days and twelve hours when another eagle-eyed viewer, this time Ebay, decided my fleet wasn’t really ‘Collectable’ at all and pulled the plug. But not before the page racked up several thousand views and I had the chance to answer a raft of questions from eager bidders desperate for a hunk of useless metal. For a change, I did not make these up.
Q: How do we know you’re actually the Ministry Of Defence?
A: I have a badge and I’m not very bright.
Q: Can I see your badge?
A: No.
Q: I presume these items are boats of some description. Will they fit in my swimming pool? I have a very large swimming pool and would like to expand it.
A: As you know, submarines are designed to operate under water. However, these will be under water before you even switch them on, as they leak. If you’re going to expand your swimming pool, expand downwards.
Q: Can I do a test launch before I bid? Thx
A: If you have a month to spare. Last time we tried it, after a week I could still see all the crusties at the protest camp. Then we ran aground. Good times.
Q: You send to Nigeria? I am very honest man, honestly. My uncle has just died, he was Prince Nadjer al Grabbem. He left me lot’s of money, all I need are your bank account details and your 4 digit pin and I will transfer to you all the money.
A: I read about your uncle. He should have known that hair-tongs were never intended for such a purpose, god rest his soul. Bank account details on their way.
Q: Will you dispatch immediately or will you wait till 2014 when you will be forced to get shot of them?
A: As I said, they’re not much use to us here, so reckon you could have them for Christmas. Happy Holidays!
Q: I feel that by purchasing this item & at the same time demanding foreigners in the middle east & Asia be forced to stop their nuclear programs I may feel a little bit hypocritical after purchase. Can I return this item if suddenly develop some morals towards humanity?
A: What am I, your mother? Do you want to nuke or not?
Q: As you have zero possitive feedback – does this suggest that you are not to be trusted? Do you have a holding company? Who is the boss? I would be reluctant to part with 99p with any confidence.
A: Is your mistrust based on the grounding of HMS Astute? If so, it really wasn’t such a big deal. We covered up far worse.
Q: We might be interested up here in Shetland. Once Scotland gets Independence, we’ll need nuclear capability to keep them away from our oil and money. Can you chip the missiles to lock onto Holyrood? Could be interested in a few Eurofighters, too.
A: I like the way you think. Shetland, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
This post was originally to be called ‘3 Things More Useful Than Trident’ but when I found out Trident had no point I changed it to ‘100 Things More Useful Than Trident.’ That was going well until I had to go and buy milk.
This week, when the Westminster government announced an initial £350 million spend on a new generation of nuclear weapons whilst simultaneously telling us we were broke, I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about them. It wasn’t so much the price tag that bothered me, even when I discovered £350m was a fraction of the overall £100bn required. It was more to do with being a stickler for symmetry in the exchange of goods – usually when I’m going to spend £100bn on something, I want to know I’m going to get £100bn of useful stuff back.
However, having conducted some research, I can confirm that the following objects are each in their own way more useful than Trident.
1. A Bucket With A Hole In It
Depending on the cargo you mean to transport, a bucket with a hole in it can be put to far greater use than a submarine-launched ballistic missile system. Stones for example, if chosen correctly, can be carried from one end of the garden to another. Bread rolls too can be stacked in such a manner so as to negate the effects of any hole. Once transported, the stones and bread rolls can be employed as missiles in the event of an invasion by ground troops, something that could never be said of Trident. And remember, a bucket with a hole in it can be made even more effective with the addition of a newspaper to line it. I recommend The Scotsman.
2. A Cardboard Sink
New advances in production mean that cardboard sinks can be quite robust. They can withstand several litres of soapy water and, given sufficient interim drying time, can be used many times before becoming ineffective. This is something that could never be said of Trident as just a single use would devastate half the planet, leaving a dusty crater where only the Mars rover might feel at home. Cardboard is also recyclable, unlike Trident which is currently festering on our doorstep without any means of disposal. Additional notes: Trident’s green credentials are negative and are effectively purple; a cardboard sink is unlikely to be deployed accidentally.
3. My Old Socks
They’ve turned a strange charcoal grey, have been breeched in both heels and are quite threadbare. But they’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember and I’ve grown quite fond of them. I think of them as my comfort socks as the elastic has wilted and therefore won’t contribute to any future varicose veins. Trident is similar in that it too has been in my life for as long as I can remember. The idea of it deteriorating so close to home however, does not inspire a similar affection. It’s also more expensive to replace. I plan to get another winter out of my comfort socks and when I buy a new pair I’m hoping they will come in under £100bn.
4. A Betamax Video Recorder
Betamax is much maligned but was actually far superior technologically to VHS. If you happen to have inherited a working Betamax, you’re likely to also have a library of movies taped sometime in the 1980’s, as well as some video store cast-offs such as ‘Microwave Massacre.’ This is a huge source of entertainment and is unlikely to give you leukaemia. A Betamax in good condition can still be used to record your favourite TV moments. Providing you have the strength to press its huge buttons you can watch Michael Gove behaving like a knob whenever you please. Highlights from Philip Hammond’s thrill-packed term as defence secretary alas do not make good television.
5. A Stick
Sticks are incredibly useful. I keep a collection in the garden in case of unforeseen circumstances. Once I had to use a stick to get my keys off the roof. You might wonder what my keys were doing on the roof. I put them there with a stick. Another time, LaFlamme brought me a pot plant. It started to grow and I used a stick to support it. Soon I needed a bigger stick and then a bigger one. I asked LaFlamme what kind of a plant it was and she said ‘oak.’ Soon it took over the flat and began producing little sticks of its own for future generations to get their keys off the roof. This is all in stark contrast to Trident, which is likely to only ever produce universal death.
6. Garbage
One of the main reasons cited for keeping Trident is that it’s a major employer. Aside from the fact that it’s a twisted individual who thinks weapons of mass destruction would make a fine job creation scheme, it turns out only two jobs would be at stake – one guy regularly taps it with a screwdriver and another checks if we’re all still alive. Garbage on the other hand is a major employer. It takes many thousands of people up and down the country to administer and physically deal with the collection and disposal of garbage, as well as to sort through the recycling and figure out what you’re meant to do with Tetrapaks. If we didn’t have garbage, unemployment would soar. Once Trident is dismantled it too will become garbage, creating even more employment opportunities.
Let’s face it, even soldiers don’t have any use for Trident.
There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as LaFlamme kept her shades on and held a glass with a sherry-like substance in it throughout. The results, however devastating, were short-lived because as everyone knows, a haircut is just for Christmas and not for life.
The squawking continued as I stepped tentatively into the kitchen-office. On the ex-boardroom table where The Admiral conducted his greatest bodges sat a large multi-coloured vertebrate. Initially I mistook this for a bouquet of flowers but as the incongruity of a vase of flowers in The Admiral’s office sunk in I realised something was afoot. This was clinched when the vase of flowers spoke.
“Who are you?” said the bird.
“Tony.”
“Hello Tony.”
I was somewhat taken aback by this, as it was already more conversation than I would normally expect at The Admiral’s.
“I appear to be stuck,” said The Admiral, from the other side of the room. He had most of his upper body crammed into a large wire enclosure on the kitchen worktop and for a moment I wondered if there had been a body-swap incident, as he is usually the one perched on the table. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to get in or out, but I held the back of the cage and let him decide.
“Thank you,” he said, removing himself and dusting off the flakes of wood-shavings from his sleeves. “I’m looking after the little chap and it was time to clean his cage.”
“Who does he belong to?” I asked.
“My friend Muriel,” said The Admiral. “You know. Journalist. Lots of opinions.” He said this in a way which suggested she might be dangerous. “He’s not generally any trouble, but he’s most particular about the materials with which I furnish his lodgings.”
“Correct gauge of shavings, or what?” I asked.
“Underneath the shavings,” he replied, “is a lining of four or five layers of newspaper and I’ve been told on no account to use the Daily Record.”
The parrot piped up. “Utter pish,” he said. The animal’s use of the Scottish vernacular was striking.
“Why on earth,” I asked, “would a parrot object to the Daily Record?”
“Utter pish,” repeated the parrot.
“Well, parrots are among the most intelligent of birds,” said The Admiral. “I can only assume that the quality of journalism within its pages is simply not up to his high standards.”
“But he’s only going to crap on it,” I said.
“Nevertheless,” replied The Admiral. “He does not deem it worthy. Apparently it was only a matter of days with said paper before he insisted on crapping on The Scotsman instead.”
“Bollocks,” said the parrot.
“But soon he also became dissatisfied with The Scotsman.”
“Bollocks,” repeated the parrot.
“Then there was only one paper good enough for the little prince.”
“Which was?” I asked.
“The Herald,” said The Admiral.
“It’ll have to do,” said the parrot.
“The Herald?” I said.
“It’ll have to do,” repeated the parrot.
It probably said something for the quality of Scottish journalism that this most discerning of readers could only find one quality newspaper and even then it was to defecate on. I can only imagine the foul language had he been raised in Dundee.
I asked The Admiral what could have sparked such disdain for the papers in question.
“Perhaps he used to write for them,” said The Admiral, without a hint of sarcasm. I concluded that it was a possibility. “In any event, you’re perfectly welcome to ask him directly.”
I turned towards the parrot. “So, um.. the Daily Record and The Scotsman..”
“Utter pish bollocks,” said the parrot.
It wasn’t the most eloquent of arguments but then I wasn’t the most eloquent of guests and didn’t particularly fancy debating the merits of Scottish print journalism much further. Besides, he was starting to win me over with his passionate and forthright take on the subject.
“I think I remember your friend Muriel,” I said to The Admiral. “Better get him back in his cage before he starts boffing on about Munros.”
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