Faux parps

The only problem with the sound insulating quality of my new headphones is it's very hard to judge how loud you are talking if you have them in.

This is compounded when talking, which I often do, both metaphorically and physically, out of my arse.

Walking through the underground to work this morning, music on, and in a world of my own, I felt the familiar gentle pressure in my colon, and despite the fact that I knew someone was a few steps behind me, and another person approaching, I relaxed slightly to reduce the pressure. This is normal practice when farting in public. A slow controlled release whilst carefully listening for any tell tale signs that it's coming from you. If silent, just carry on regardless, and if it smells, just keep that poker face and look accusingly at everyone else. It was easy to get away with on an elderly care ward, and still pretty easy in most areas of the hospital.

But this morning I was in a staff only section, and had forgotten the key flaw in my usual fool proof plan. I couldn't hear my own arsehole.

And even more foolishly, in my early morning fug of confusion and low caffeine content, I got cocky. Hearing no noises myself, I started to relax my sphincter....

As a child growing up, we had several different words for farts based on the noise, or lack of noise they made.

A pleb was a small staccato fart, audible, but not overly wet.

A veep was one of my favourites. A long high pitched whine through very tight arse cheeks, and often slightly moist - as best demonstrated by Gav Hatt onto Matts head. It even gave it's name to a character in the Spanish role plays me and Nick used to have to do for GCSE. I have fond memories of the exploits of Senor Sticky Veep and Senor Eggy Guffer at the cafe Jumbo Whiffy.

A whiff was not just a smell, it was the gentle breeze of a warm, but silent fart - like the Mistral blowing through your pants.

And a quack was about as onomatopeic as it gets. Like a large duck stuffed down the back of your trousers. Expulsed at a forceful high speed to maximise the volume and pitch, it also held the inherent danger of following through, ripping your ringpiece, or even both.

So what started as a whiff this morning, transmogrified into a veep as I grew in confidence, until with a probable strained expression on my face I tightened up every muscle in my abdomen and turned it into a full blown quack.

If I was sat on a chair I'd have been rolling onto one cheek...

I can only assume from the disgusted look on the woman approaching me that she could hear what I could not. Poker faced, I walked on - avoiding eye contact.

And the woman behind me was stepping into the vapour trail so obvious that I may have well attached a Red Arrows style paint job to - I certainly wasn't about to look around and check if she was also glaring.

But I'm sure she could also hear the other thing that escaped my ears. The sound of me giggling like a child at a fart that I was more proud of than ashamed, and just wishing I'd had the pleasure of hearing it myself.

Radio Gold

I posted a slide show on Facebook yesterday from a holiday Mrsslippy and I enjoyed with friends way back in 2003, as I was feeling nostalgic.

Amongst the comments from fellow holiday goers, was one from Stoxie purporting to be nostalgic for 'Radio Squeaky Voice'.

Do I look like I do requests? If I were a DJ maybe I might. But maybe I was once a DJ, and Stoxies comment, whether a request or not, has got me reminiscing about that once great show.

Radio Squeaky Voice (RSV) was at it's heyday in the early '80s. Recorded at one of the most hi-tech bedrooms audio studios in Cringleford, it really was the cutting edge of broadcasting, with Nick owning a cassette recorder that not only had tape to tape facilities, but could also record at two different speeds!

Recording at the slow setting could double the length of a standard tape, meaning a C120 cassette could potentially hold four hours of music, or five whole albums! Take that Apple with your poxy ipods!

The only drawback was that anything recorded at that speed could only really be played back on Nicks new fangled portable stereo thing. Sticking it in a standard Sony Walkman it would play back in its uncompressed format, and would be sped up and useless.

What made RSV so groundbreaking was the way it's DJ's used this change in speed to record segueways, intros and malicious gossip news, that once played back at normal speed would disguise their voices and protect their anonymity from litigation adoring fans.

While modern DJs and wannabees (yes Moyles, I'm talking to you) use computer gadgetry and jiggery pokery to alter their voices, RSV relied on the raw skills and talents that the DJs were blessed with.

This meant taaallk-iiing.....veeerryy...slooow-llly...aaand...deeeeply....iiinn-toooo...theeeee..miiiiiike.

And then just play it back.

Because it's far, far easier to extend a vowel than a consonant, if you got the pitch right it didn't really sound sped up, it just sounded like three people with the weirdest fucking speech impediments.

That is unless a DJ got a bit over excited. Stoxie was prone to such things, and as his section went on, his voice got higher and faster, making the playback copy almost unintelligible (appropriately). Accompanied by the now also sped up giggling of the co-hosts, it was raw, radical and outrageous.

We called it a radio show, but unfortunately we lacked any transmission equipment, so I guess you'd call it a pre internet podcast. If released today, I'm sure it would put Ricky Gervais, or Adam and Joes feeble attempts at 'comedy' to shame.

Sadly I don't think anyone will get the chance to hear it. I believe Norwich Library were holding copies in their archives, but they were destroyed in the fire of 1994.

The British Library, or the BBC might still have copies, but don't hold your breath. I fear they are lost to the annals of time.

We will never hear their likes again....unless you guys are up for a 25th Anniversary comeback tour?

What's in a name?

Chillaxing in front of the TV tonight while Mrsslippy works to keep me in Bombay Sapphire gin and organic limes, I was alerted by the power of Facebook, and the good taste of Mrs Bellus, to a potentially shit a.k.a GREAT horror film on Sky 3.

Black Swarm, starring Robert 'Freddie Kruger' Englund is proper made for TV bile, and therefore great. So far the killer wasps have only been normal sized, but I'm holding out for a huge CGI motherfucker, on really a ropey greenscreen background.

And whilst watching, I'm reminded of another great creature feature from my youth that has left it's imprint on my life.

My blogging name is Slippymark, but nobody really calls me that. I am known to many friends in Cambridge as Slippy, but when creating usernames and logins for other websites (such as my photo pages), my real name was always taken, and Slippy was always too short, so I started using Slippymark for stuff, and found it was always available, so it has become my avatar. Go Google it, apart from the odd Underworld remix by Mark Mendes, it's me all the way down.

Don't search for Mrs Slippy - or at least not from a work computer. That Mr & Mrs Slippy are definitely not us...

But my friends from my formative years in Norwich do not know me as Slippy, and regular readers, or Facebook friends may have noticed, to them I am Rauc, or Homer.

First guess might be that it's something to do with the overweight, imbecilic man-child of the same name, but you'd be wrong. It pre-dates The Simpsons.

Nor is it short for homosexual. I may be a sensitive soul, but I'm too lazy, too poorly groomed, and too attracted to women to bat for that team. Sorry boys.

No, Homer stems from a film from my youth.....

Back in the late 80's, the formidable Cringleford lads were wrenched apart as key player Nick was relocated to Writtle, near Chelmsford.

To support him in his exile, Stoxie and I would go down on occasional weekends, and spend our days farting on his brothers head, playing tunnelball, and watching films on VHS.

In the days before 2 million channels of fuck all, and the endless possibilities of the internet, the only way to amuse 3 teenage boys of an evening would be for Nicks mum to drive us to the nearest video store, and us to get out absolutely anything that we hadn't seen before involving sport (American Flyer's anyone?), ninjas, or horror - usually one of each.

Let's not forget that this was before Blockbuster and other such mega chains. Video stores were the size of a walk in wardrobe, and stocked a copy of everything. And when I say everything, I don't mean they had a copy of every film, I mean no matter how new or popular a film was, they only ever had one of it - and the good ones were always out.

So by this process (which also held true at home), it was highly likely that if there was a bad sport/ninja/horror film made in the 80's, I've seen it (and since bought my own copy).

One fateful night, we returned to Nick's Elba with a copy of The Nest. A genre staple of island town plagued by mutated insects - in this case roaches. If you ever wondered what a cat/cockroach hybrid would look like, then this is the film for you.

Suffice to say, at the end of the film, man triumphs over beast, largely due to the larger than life local exterminator, and happy and entertained we retired to Nicks bedroom. All was going well - we were going through the usual 'Name your World XI football team' type stuff, then Stoxie got up for a piss, only to return a few seconds later, white as Plums hair, and crying like a girl.

"In...the ...bathroom...." he stammered.

"Massive.......flying ....creature."

"Not...safe........Can't ....go...in."

We bundled down the corridor/tunnelball pitch together, and with Stoxie binging up the rear, and peered round the bathroom door.

He was right.

There it was. Fluttering round the lightbulb was the biggest moth I had ever, and probably still have ever seen.

We needed an exterminator par exellence. We needed the guy from the film we had just seen.

We needed Homer.

But he wasn't there. Left with the alternative option of Stoxie pissing in Nicks room, I stood up to the plate.

With the boys chanting 'Homer, Homer, Homer', I launched myself at the flying abomination, and with both hands, somehow managed to wrestle the vile beast out of the window.

Job done, my talent for insect extermination was carved into stone, and the name stuck. I'm not sure if my other friends in Norwich know the real reason I'm called Homer. It's not for a cartoon caricature, or a sexual slur.

It's because that fateful night in Chelmsford, I damn well saved Nick and Stoxies lives.


One day I might tell you all why I'm called Slippy in Cambridge. My close friends here all know.

All I'll say for now, is it's got very little to do with Underworld, and alot more to do with undercarriage....




Slippymark/Rauc/Homer/Mark

The Filth & The Fury, and football & farmyard animals

Following on from yesterdays bloggage, and comments on my Facebook page from Stoxie, it is probably time to come clean and say

I was once a terrible football hooligan.

I'm not proud of the fact -not because I used to hack at complete strangers with a Stanley Knife, or chuck bricks through windows in random shopping centres in strange and alien towns.

Oh no, not me.

I didn't do that.

This is not a 'Once upon a time I was a very bad man' story.

This is a 'Once, just once I was a hooligan at the football.'

And not terrible as in 'I maimed and assaulted', terrible as in, 'I made a really shit job at it.'

I've already established the pre match ritual for a discerning Cringleford lad. After legging it from McDonalds we would make the happy pilgrimage to Carrow Road in order to be at the turnstiles when they opened at 1pm, ready for the 3pm kick off.

To sustain our growing bodies during this 2 hour wait (as if the cockles & mussels, McDonalds sans gherkins wasn't enough), we'd call into the newsagents close to the ground for a few packets of Soccer Shields.

Soccer Shields were the boys equivalent of Love Hearts in the 8o's. Made by Swizzles, they had a football teams name, and their nickname on each sweet, and had a club sticker on the inner packaging. I can't find any pictures online, but as I finished the wallchart that the stickers went on, I reckon it would be worth a few bob these days. And a great way to learn all those club nicknames, particularly the obscure Scottish ones.

The appearance of Norwich (The Canaries! -oh yes - he's still got it - even the little clubs), would be lucky, and herald the imminence of a goal if produced mid game.

But on the 21st March 1987, the red mist came down, and it all went wrong....

I don't remember the exact date, but I think Norwich were at home to Luton, I'm pretty sure I was in the 3rd Year at High School, and positive it was around my little sisters birthday, so that's the date that seems to fit the bill. I'd been shopping before the game, that's how I can be sure of the date. I'd bought something I needed for school for a class I dropped in 4th year, and a birthday present for Bec....

So there we were, with 2 hours to kill, standing behind the goal in the River End, taking it in turns to squash whoever it was that was closest to the side rail in the little penned in area behind the advertising hording.

Starting to have a bit of a sugar rush from all the Root Beer and Soccer Shields, I thought I might see if I could hit the helmets of the two passing policeman with said sweets as they circled (or is that squared?) the ground.

I was getting pretty good at it, but unbeknownst to me, the rozzers were well aware of my bit of fun, and were about to put a stop to it.

After a clean shot to one of the Bills helmets, the Soccer Shield bounced off his shoulder, and was neatly caught in his black, leather gloved hand.

Turning quickly on one heel, he just raised a solitary finger and pointed at me. If he'd squealed like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I don't think I could have been more scared.

Except I didn't show it. I just stood there grinning like a loon, high on sugar.

He asked me if I'd thrown it, to which I naturally shook my head, still grinning.

I don't think he was convinced, as his response was 'Yes it was, and you've been doing it every time we walk past.'

Next thing I know, I was being dragged over the hoarding, and frog marched towards the exit.

I think I was lucky that they didn't clock me for the hardened criminal that I was, and just ejected me out of the ground. Lucky they didn't check my carrier bag and find what I was packing.

Because these are the objects that not only date the event, but have caused me grief from friends over the years whenever this story crops up, and would have caused me so much more had the police revealed them in front of the terraces.

It was my 3rd year at school, because we were still doing Home Economics, and that meant needle work, and as part of a 'project' I'd bought a length of shiny pink material.

And Becs birthday, because I'd bought her (not Farmyard Animals Matt!) a set of 'Sylvanian Families.'

Little mice dressed to look like people.

If those items had been produced in front of the Norwich massive, I'd have never lived it down, and barely do in some circles to this day.

The record shows that the score was 0-0, so I didn't really miss much.


Yes dear reader, I was once a terrible football hooligan. Just once, and a really terrible one at that.

Deep Heat and Root Beer

I went to bed slathered in Deep Heat last night, to try to ease the discomfort in my lower back.

I love the smell of the stuff - it reminds me of Root Beer, which left me in nostalgic mood as I drifted off, thinking about my childhood Saturday routine of food and football with good friends.

Start by meeting Mumbage, Soxie, Hunty and Plum to catch the Number 1 bus into Norwich. Straight to the market to purchase cockles & mussels alive-alive-o (well cooked actually). In a pre-curser to the Yo-Sushi style so favoured by young trendies today, you just ate tiny plate after tiny plate of salty mollusc's, then just paid for the number of plates consumed.

Next JJB Sports to peruse the sporting regalia. Careful with that snooker cue display Stoxie!

Onwards to Jarrolds, this time to tit about on the latest fitness/sporting sensation, the Trimball!


Anyone remember this baby? The idea was to bounce in an orderly fashion, and get fit in the process, unless you were a Cringleford lad. Jarrolds had a demo model, and the idea of the game was to do the best 'Platini'. That is, whilst completed un-impinged by friends or other shoppers, fling your arms in the air, shout 'PLATINI!!!', and dive headlong into the display in the style of cheating UEFA boss Michel Platini.

Stoxie was by far the best at this, and in recognition of this fact it was added into his already massive full title.

Richard Stoxie striker Nery Alberto Pumpido on the Trimball

Which was more than often shortened to simply 'Baller', or 'ohh laa laa le balon'

Legging it out the shop, it would then be time for a pre match McDonalds.

Huntys favourite game here would be to ask for a Coke with his meal, to which the sales assistant would have to say 'It's McDonalds cola, is that ok?', to which the stock response would always be 'No, it's not. I'll have a Root Beer'

Every week.

Standard food was a Big Mac, complete with mucky gherkins. None of us ate the gherkins, but we never asked for one without them, because they were required for the next 'lucky routine', which was to fling than at the ceiling in Mucky D's and see if you could get them to stick. We thought we were so funny, but if I saw kids doing that today, I'd probably get the urge to smack them upside the head.

If you were lucky, there was a kids party on with yellow and green balloons that you could nick to take to the football with you.

If you were unlucky, they were attached so firmly to the light fitting that the whole thing came out the wall, and you would be legging it out of another Norwich establishment.....

Happy days and highjinks...

It's a shame you don't see Root Beer at McDonalds any more, or even McDonalds cola - they've gone all official Coke.

And don't try eating the stuff to see if it tastes the same, because it doesn't, although it does leave a pleasant tingling taste on the tongue.

How do you eat yours?

Creme egg fans have only got a fortnight left to stock up before they disappear off the shelves for another year, and I for one will be glad to see the back of them.

I've not got the sweetest tooth in the world, as regular readers will attest, I much prefer crisps. I'll eat chocolate if it's put in front of me, unless of course, it is one of those ovoid goo fests.

Far too sickly.

Hot cross buns are a seasonal delight that I'd quite happily eat all year round, but if someone brings a box of Creme Eggs into work, then thanks, but no thanks.

I used to, and my earliest memory of one is also a bit of a confession.

When I was 7 or 8, I shared a room with my older brother, and one year we must have been given a Creme Egg each by someone.

Not wanting to eat my own yet, but curious as to what that yolky stuff in the middle actually tasted like, I decided the easiest way to find out was to poke a hole in big brothers, and drink out the yolk like some sugar crazed mongoose.

I peeled away a tiny corner of foil, and tried to pierce that chocolate chunklet with a paper straw.

No good.

Needed something firmer.

Pencil - too thick. Safety pin - too narrow.

Then I spotted it. On the floor, our recently finished game of Cluedo. There was a little metal dagger...

Only this looked a little weedy too...but the... what's that? The lead piping! Perfect diameter, and if I held the tip against the radiator for a couple of minutes I could heat it up enough to melt a hole in the chocolate, snaffle the innards, then melt the hole back up again.

Hole successfully made, I was back with the straw, but that gunk was just to thick to suck out. I'd have to use my poisonous board game accessory as a soldier.

So there I was. Dipping a piece of real lead (this was pre Health & Safety Law), into a Creme Egg and sucking off the goo like a chimp poking a stick in an ants nest.

So do you want to know why you once had an almost empty Creme Egg Simon?

You want to know who killed it before it had a chance at life?

It was your little brother, in the bedroom, with the lead piping.

Maybe that's why I don't like them now. Not the fact that the first one I remember probably gave me lead poisoning, but that not since have matched up in taste department without that heavy metal tang.