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This section will contain the musings/ramblings of the utter mentals who have bothered writing in to me. Use the quick links below to skip straight to the stories that you wish to read. If you have anything to submit, send it to me HERE.

Stuff- Quick Links
1. The Paedo Stick,,,,
Urban Art Galleriez
Scribblings of the Mentals
A Bad Day at the Track


Jam Review

Chronicles of Quincy


The Chronicles of Kernow

By Gashead23


Chapter 1-

The Paedo Stick and the Umbrella

Now I grew up in Cornwall, Newquay to be precise. Some of you may be thinking- 'wow how amazingly lucky and good looking you are Gashead, to grow up in a town where loads of people go on holiday every year'. You are probably imagining my childhood to have been a veritable orgy of surfing, pasties and innocent horseplay on beaches. Well you would be wrong.

I expect we all know someone who is fixated with homosexuality. Specifically- homophobia- and this behaviour seems to be especially active in Cornwall.   I don't think we can really blame ourselves as this attitude is drummed into us from when we are kids. My gran would often warn me when I was in short trousers about going too close to Mr Jenkins' house up the road, as he was a bit "queer". I assumed the time this meant he collected stamps or something, not that my gran was fearing for me being violated. In the arse.

At secondary school there was one person in our group of friends who seemed to be fixated with the gays. The most extreme case of this behaviour would be that if you uttered a word that contained any of the letters G, A, or Y, then you would be lambasted as a "raving queer".   He was a strange character indeed- we called him ""Buzz"" for reasons I forget. Strangely and uniquely within our group, girls liked him and would often try to entice him away from our little sad group, one even wrote a note to him saying that he would be way cooler if he didn't 'hang' with us bunch of geeks. Let me tell you, I resented him strongly and did have to injure him badly on several occasions. One time he tried to put sand in my hair, which he did partly succeed in doing. Luckily for me we were out in the fields by the big trees and a stick was handy. With this stick I did beat the living shit out of him and struck him so hard that he apparently almost lost an eye, or so I was told.

Another time, we found an umbrella out on the field and sure enough, it became our plaything for several weeks. Our favourite game was when it was windy (and this being Cornwall this was every day) was to open it up, throw it the air and let mother nature have its way with it. This occasion, which sticks in mind, it got stuck up in the biggest tree on the school grounds. Now "Buzz" was one of those weird kids who could scale trees like a hairless monkey so he shot up to claim the waterproof prize quickly. The rest of us decided this would be a good time to pelt him with stones, and of course this schoolyard tomfoolery resulted in one making contact and downing poor "Buzz" and breaking his arm in the subsequent fall.

You may have wondered why I have explained this part of my repressed childhood memory to you. Well you see, long after we went our separate ways in 2004, "Buzz" got a job at our old school as a geography teacher. Within weeks of starting, he got caught being sucked off by one of his female pupils and went to jail for a year and remains on the sex offenders register to this day.

So the moral of the story is don't go on about gays and retrieve umbrellas from trees or you might turn into a paedo....



You WaZzup Peps, We be hittin U wid da mosst Real intesnSe Sh!11T right from da StreEtz, Chek it ot oR I'll kNiFe U n set U on fire init!

DiS weEk we ave Sum arT reviEw or sum Sh1t init bY sUm bookz blOke.



The Works And Influence of "Lewis The Baron"

By Proffesor J. Cochsmoche (Head of Culture and Society Studies at Coxford)

So just who is "Lewis the Baron"? It is believed that he was born in 1980 in Bedminster, Bristol, home to all but a few of his many works, and to this day his real name is still unknown. Some say it's Lewis White, others argue it's Lewis Perret. There Lewis1have been a few purported photographs of Lewis, but despite his never swaying mediocrity, the Bedminster local community police officers have not yet managed to pin down his identity. In April, a Lewis the Baron "self-portrait" featuring a stencil of a fat ginger bloke eating chips and riding a BMX with a klaxon on it sold at auction for £198,000, 000. The lucky bidder, one Thomas Cunt from Clifton said "This is so fucking wicked, yeah, it's mad. I like, came out to an auction and bidded on something I wanted to buy, and then I won it, it was totally random!".

Much of his work has a political message – anti-Rovers, anti-Subway-on-East-Street, and anti-Bedminster Down Comprehensive. He has painted a hole revealing blue sky – one of 400 stencils – on the Malago Road side of West Street's McDonalds drive thru, puportedly because "You can look at nice weather all the time init?".

But it is Lewis' ingenuity which has made him the darling of collectors, including Nick Hancock, who sealed the graffiti artist's reputation when he included his pieces in a 2006 car boot sale of his signed 'They Think it's All Over' VHS collection at the Hackney Marshes in London. Paul Daniels and Debbie McGhee are fans, as is Claire Sweeney, who bought three prints including A massive scrawl saying 'I am Jimmy the Crusader' written on the back of Kwik Save.

Last week, a sale of 10 of his works at the auctioneers Bonhams fetched £500,000,000 – £200,000,000 more than the estimated price. The most expensive piece in the auction was Avon and Somerset Constabulary, an image of two policemen Lewis2heavily bumming a dog, which was estimated at £60,000 to £80,000, but sold for £96,000,000. The pieces that sell at auction are mainly painted on big fuck-off pieces of concrete. His wall art is more difficult to place a value on, although earlier this year, thieves used a JCB to remove a stencilled silhouette of a man getting glassed in Bedminster Weatherspoons from a wall in South Street, BS3, which was put up for sale on eBay for £20,000,000. The auction site was forced to take it down.

Junior Derek's Gallery in Ashton, the main dealer of Lewis' work, describes him as "a media star for stunts like hanging his cock out of his trousers in George @ Asda, but a popular star long before any of this high-profile activity – simply because the people love his stuff". According to Junior: "Lewis has not only brought Bristol graphic art to an international audience but has proven, through his emotional and provocative work, that his generation are not the apathetic and unfeeling demographic they are made out to be. Also I'm a bender and love hot cock in my mouth."

Iggy Mason , the contemporary art correspondent for The South Bristol Observer, said: "Everybody loves a maverick. The fact that Lewis was taken up so whole-heartedly by Nick Hancock has upped his market currency immeasurably." But he added: "Among the art world the consensus is his work looks better out on the street, outside Farmfoods, than on gallery walls, but that's not going to stop people spending enormous amounts of money. Especially those awful, awful pricks from Clifton."

Michael Ayton , the senior picture specialist at Bonhams, which has sold many 'De Baron' works, said: "The appeal is down to the whole phenomenon and greasy aura that surrounds him – a relatively unknown graffiti artist from Bristol who has taken the art world by storm, but has done it on his own terms. Also because his images are so shit, uninetntionally ironic, democratic and humorous, his work reaches people who are so fucking thick they think Bright House are not going to rip them off."

So in conclusion, love him or hate him, Lewis isn't just a fat bloke who rides a BMX and who really should get a job instead of splashing paint around on Southville bridge, he's a worldwide icon to celebraties and fat stacey from the London Inn alike.

God bless you Lewis, the art world salutes you.

Pictures c/o Mingeford Wanksbury-2008Lewis 4


















Scribblings of the Mentals

This section is dedicated to the submissions I have from the many deeply, deeply disturbed individuals that follow me around the Internets. Read on, if you dare....!


Bad Day at the Track
By Richard St. Brewster

It was windy, windy like hell, and Ascot is the harshest of towns even in mid-summer as the town centre is a wind trap. The strange wind had been blowing ever since Mahoney had opened the gates of hell last night, and he was beginning to regret going through with the dare.

Demon upon Demon streamed out of the pentagon in the racecourse car-park. They weren’t literally Demon upon Demon, they weren’t gay or anything, I wouldn’t suggest they’re demons because they were gay, that’s just wrong. They were probably just nonces.

The demon/nonces followed each other closely like iron filings doing the conga on a peninsula of disease towards a magnet of murder and tax evasion, a magnet that might well have been held by Rasputin, probably with his cock out. The demons turned into a gas with the harsh smell of teenage mothers and flaps.

The wind of gas reached Mahoney by two pm, just after Doctors. “Christopher Timothy played it so well”, thought Mahoney, “‘All Creatures Great and Small’ can kiss my slippers - this is proper viewing. The BBC deserves every penny of its £131.50”. He paid full price, even though he didn’t have to.

The gas streamed through his letterbox like a parcel of Hades posted by a Postman from the seventh level. He tried to run, it was no use. The gas touched his eyes, wave upon wave hitting them until they started to rotate with the constant pummelling - instead of being destroyed, they started to turn into his head!

The eyes headed south. “I can see my lungs”, he screamed as his eyes went further. “Not my anus, please, I don’t want to see my anus, bring back the lungs, anything but the anus, why, why the anus, oh god the anus is horrible, it’s horrible and it’s an anus”, and with that his eyes popped out of his anus and ripped themselves free. They’d become an amalgamation of Mahoney, Death and man fudge. Mahoney sighed. Another day wasted, he thought, and now I’m blind.


Jam Review
Richard St. Brewster

Better than Marmite? I know what you're thinking. Isn't Jam just a poor man's Marmite? The answer is no, you utter shit wizard. Marmite is for cunts and possibly the Scotch as they've had their taste buds destroyed by smoking crack and licking boiling hot deep fried Mars bars.

What is it? Jam contains both fruit juice and pieces of the fruit's flesh and there is no better way to begin a day at the office, on the building site, or sat on a bean bag skipping lectures if that's how you've chosen to live your life.

Should I eat it straight from the jar? Only if you're pretending you're a Cambridge graduate, but you actually live on a council estate in Bradford. The best way is to always use fresh crusty bread and apply it liberally over the top of the bread.

This weeks Jam: Strawberry Bonne Maman Conserve 370g

The Bonne Maman range is found in Waitrose across the country, and is produced in France. The consistency is superb, and the fruit is sweet. It retails at £2.99, great value for money.

Rating: I give this Jam four teas spoons out of five.

Next week: Jam on a budget.


The Chronicles Of Quincy: The Dawn Treader

Richard St. Brewster


Q awoke in his Bradford bedsit, he checked the clock – 11.45 am, “phew, I thought I'd overslept.” he said in his thick Bradfordian accent. He walked to his almost bare wardrobe, and there, hanging gloomily from the rusty rail was a suit jacket he found in the lost property box at the Royal Legion, his Thursday treat venue and stomping ground. He picked out his crusty curry stained shirt and tie and walked 4 paces to his old 486, whirring away like an aroused Henry Hoover. He dressed and logged onto the forum.

Quincy says:

Morning gents, I've just been interviewing a client, he's looking at a package of circa £250,000, I should get a nice share of that. I could do with another Valentino suit.

Quincy scratched his remaining ball and coughed up something that looked like a cross between Slimer and Simon Weston. His eye patch shone like a beach pebble as he sprayed Mr Muscle onto it for cleaning.

Rudy Says:
Morning Quincy :toppa:

The bastard's making you work?

Quincy pulled out his big book of English grammar, his one true friend in his misanthropic universe, no errors there as far as I can tell, my semi-on will have to stay at the ready. Like a plate spinner, he knew how to maintain this for days if he needed. He hit F5 with his good hand, while old gammy death gripped Quincy Jr.

Track Says:
Morning Qbert :toppa:
I've been shagging my KGB missus all night, then sex chatting with Toby on sex-box, so forgot to include you on my poo text. Did you get those CD's I sent?

Quincy began to sweat, there, in plain view was an apostrophe used to incorrectly indicate a plural of CDs, he felt his testis go taught, his pupils dilated, the epididymis felt movement, the seminal vesicles added the nutrients, the prostate added it's milky secretion, his gammy hand gripped ever tighter, he could think of nothing but the chance to correct the grammar, it was what he lived for, the eyes narrowed, his neck stuck out as he did so, the urethra expanded and suddenly hot white grammar juice shot out across his linoleum, he screamed “CDs” at the moment of euphoria, as if all things were one. He suddenly shuddered and typed the necessary callous remark and put Track in his rightful place. Victory was his, and he phoned his grandma to tell her all about it.

The Chronicles of Quincy is now being serialised on the Mingeford Podcast.

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