Kevin Keegan Loves It

Hello again Poo Chatters! Doesn't Monday just wiz around before you know?

Last week was rather exiting for an old footballing friend of mine, Mr Kevin Keegan. Seven days ago he was pottering about at the Soccer Circus in Glasgow, but by Wednesday he was back in the saddle at Newcastle, ready to ride the Geordies into another CERR-RAZEY adventure!

This news hit the headlines like a cold-wet football to some wind battered bollocks. What? When? King Kev! Can he do it? Isn't he an emotional wreck of a man, incapable of wiping his own bottom? Speculation was rife, but the general consensus points towards abject failure.

After all this I took it upon myself to visit the future and interview the Kevinator. The following is a transcript of the event. But remember: as you are reading this in the present it is most likely to cause a temporal disruption and therefore create an entirely different outcome (or not as the case may be).

Poo Chat: Good morning Kevin, how's life?

Kevin Keegan: Pretty good, in fact great!

PC: Glad to hear it. Now our readers back in 2008 have only just discovered your re-appointment. Can you let them know what has happened since?

KK: I'd love to [Kev's eyes widen in a crazed fashion], LOVE TO! So, it started with a draw with Bolton, people were already muttering about us messing up, but I knew best. I quickly introduced a no shorts or pants strategy. And it led to our most incredible run ever!

PC: Wow, so how did that work?

KK: Well quite simple really, it all started away to Arsenal in the FA Cup.

I was about to lead the lads out, when I had the brain wave: "Lads lets stick it up 'm today" I yelled "get your nobs, balls and bums on display and let's get stuck in!" They loved it, AND I MEAN LOVED IT! They flew out of that tunnel like shit from an irritated bowel.

Old Wenger's eyes nearly fell out of his head! "Beautiful football?" I said to him, "get a load of this you fancy French ponse!"

Twenty-four nil we won, those southern fairies had their eyes on the wrong balls for the whole 90 minutes!

PC: So you stuck with the free tackling approach?

KK: Sure did, we blitzed the rest of the season, won the league and the FA Cup! And all thanks to our uninhibited new style. The Toon Army had their first silverware since '69, and I'm not talking about Alan Shearer's silver medal in the "Considerate Lover's Roasting Olympics".

PC: That must have been the best feeling of your career so far?

KK: What? Not a chance, the best moment that season was finally getting my own back on that smug prick Alex Ferguson.

PC: How did that come about?

KK: Well, it was Saturday the 23_rd of February 2008, Man United were visiting us in the league, and the build up had been tense. Fergie was spoiling for a fight; I think he even brought up my "outburst", no one pulls that shit with me.

On top of this he'd managed to desensitise his payers to our tactics by getting Rio Ferdinand to parade around the locker-room waggling his willy (and singing "I like the way you move" by The Body Rockers) at the players until they no longer found it distracting. It was going to be a big match, so I had to pull the trump card!

There was only one thing for it: a direct anti-Alex initiative! I Had a quick word with Damian Duff. "Duffer, you're going to have to sacrifice yourself." I said. He knew what I expected.

Five minutes gone and the Mancs had the upper hand, our exposed bolocks were making no difference what so ever, in-fact Rio was still bare and humming and to make matters worse that winker Ronaldo had done the same thing, disgusting! It was time for Duffster to do his thing.

Whilst chasing the ball down the left wing, he spotted Fergie close to the edger of the dugout. Feigning a bad tackle, Damien lunged towards Sir Alex. Just before going to ground he pulled the belt from the United managers trousers. Now, as most managers know from the after match bottle of wine, Fergie is allergic to baked-beans and underpants. So, as soon as his trousers hit the floor the Milburn Stand was treated to a view of Alex's phallus and testicles!

A chant soon rang out across the stadium "YOUR BALLS ARE AS RED AS YOUR NOSE!" Then they spotted the skid mark in the back of his beige trousers (I'd managed to slip a baked-bean into his chewing gum packet): "FERGIE'S GOT A SKID MARK!"

The best day of my life, I loved it. LOVED IT!

Ray Mears and the Roundabout

Welcome back dear reader! I trust you are having a satisfying and rewarding week?

Yesterday I was spending a lazy morning perusing the channels on my lovely flat screen television. I've just installed it in the "snug" (over in the east wing). If anyone tells you that "these things will be out of date before you know", don't listen: I was recently visiting Kerry Katona, and her 20 illegitimate children, over in 2010_AD; she is still watching the same set she acquired last Christmas.

("It's all I have left of the Iceland money!" she sobbed into a futuristic, but filthy, rag. Then her new husband, a rather brutish lavatory attendant, appeared and began issuing some peculiar, garbled sounds from his mouth. I thanked Kerry for the (musty) Iceland Strawberry Gateau and skedaddled.)

But I digress, whilst viewing my lovely new television: who's broad, pudgy face popped in to view? Why none other than my old chum: survival expert Ray Mears. It was this pleasant surprise that formed the idea for this week's Poo Chat post.

How did Ray climb the slippery pole (to success)? What is his motivation? Where did it all start? The following is a short piece that the 15 year old Ray Mears produced for me in 1979. During the meeting I found him to be charming, determined and just a little wild-eyed. Enjoy.

Today I have set up my camp in the deep foliage of the Epson Rd Roundabout, just east of Guildford, Surrey.

A couple of days ago I had a bit of a falling out with my Dad. It was over my latest attempt to survive under the sofa, foraging for crumbs and any other sustenance I could find. Not a problem in itself, but, Dad's mates were over to watch the football. When one of them knocked over my water refinery (a cunning device that filtered condensation from the window, through a sofa cushion and into my favourite Worzel Gummidge mug) into the back of the television; "it all kicked off", and I'm not talking about the footy!

So, now I've finally been allowed out into the wild "for the good of the household". My roundabout camp consists of:

• A shelter, made from a woman's dress that I found hanging from the big tree in the middle of the roundabout. It's rather badly stained, but this acts as waterproofing and it is holding up pretty well.


• My toilet is a discarded Pringles packet with the bottom cut out. This acts as a spillway into the grid by the side of the road. Refinements are needed: firstly, it is rather difficult to aim solids. Secondly, there is very little bush cover on the grid side of the roundabout, so I am subjected to horn honking and rude shouting from passing cars. Just this morning I was moving my bowels when I was greeted with a loud "Oy! Mate! I can see your fucking arse hole!"
  Very unpleasant.

It's a modest camp I know, but we all have to start somewhere. I wish there was a television program that could instruct young adventurers, like myself, in the practice I think I will name… Hmmm, well I'm in a bush, so, Bush-craft. I tried cubs once, but it seemed to involve diving into the newspaper recycling to retrieve porno mags. I find self-teaching is much better; and there is still a lot of pornography to be found in these bushes (why do people wank in the car?), bonus!

Anyway, I think I'll head home tonight. It has been a great adventure – excluding the run in with the randy tramp last Wednesday (the bugger got my shorts off, but I managed to throw him onto the traffic). My biggest problem has been food; I've been living off kebab remnants and drinking the dew that collects on my dress/shelter. It's a real shame there is nothing to catch and eat. A waste of the knife and fork I've been whittling from the heels of a pair of abandoned lady's shoes. I guess I should fatten up in case this type of thing happens again.

Well I'm off now, Dad's just pulled up. Hope to talk to you again.

Ray.

A Big Poo Chat Hello!

My name is Bertram Bum-Roberts, I'm 76 years old, I have 3 wives and 35 children - however, I'm not a bigamist! I will explain all in due course.

I live, for most of the year, in my country home Bum-Roberts Manor and spend the rest of the year travelling the world and history chatting to my many friends and acquaintances, the majority of whom I hope you might have more than a passing interest in.

In this "blog" I intend to pass on some of the more interesting and exciting anecdotes, interviews and stories I have collected during my travels. Some I will write myself others will be in the form of correspondents from "special guest" contributors, and I can assure you that these will be the jewels in the Poo Chat crown.

So, I hear you cry, how does Bertram travel so widely? So historically? Well, you silly sods, the answer is surprisingly simple... I have a magical chair! My chair may not be exiting or extravagant in appearance (for it is my old, seemingly ordinary, school chair and desk), but its extra-ordinary powers more than make up for this. I discovered the remarkable furniture on my very first day at school in 1891.
"But you're only 76" you cry! You forget, dear reader, that I have a magical chair. Where have you been for the last 244 words?

Are you beginning to fathom how it is possible for one having multiple-simultaneous wives? That's correct. My chair is my saviour, and I believe over the coming weeks, months and years you will glean some benefit from it too. In fact I would be positively envious of the amazing writing you will be able to devour from these pages, were I not already one step ahead. Believe me, an old man with 3 wives will pale in comparison with the stories you will be told.

Just to whet your appetite, here is an extract from a journal contribution made by a teenaged David Cameron:

It had been one hell of an afternoon! My school robes were in tatters, the palms of my hands raw from all the rubbing, the strange smell still lingered, I could barely catch my breath, but I couldn't have been happier! I rolled over the wet grass (my legs were still trembling so badly that walking was impossible), over and over I went, and then, suddenly, I found him... Jasper!

And that's just the tip of the ice berg! The forming queue of contributors is quite flabbergasting: Tony Robinson, Ray Mears, Winston Churchill, Ray Charles (and his son Craig), Jensen Button, Ben Fogle, Queen Boudicca, Nigella Lawson, Trevor McDonald and Sandy Toksvig, to name but a few!

Unbelievable isn't it? Subscribe any way you like (bookmark, RSS/Atom or via email) see the links below and to the right.

See you soon

Bertram

First Post

Well, we all have to start somewhere, expect some exiting posts very soon!