A Parcel of Rogues

You can't go, Scotland. David Bowie will cry!

I admit, I don't spend a huge amount of time writing about things outside the realm of pop culture ephemera or my own mundane goings on. This is not because I don't have an opinion, but because those opinions are basically the equivalent of a fart in a hurricane, nobody notices them and nobody cares. Still there are big things afoot in the grown up world of current events insomuch as the state that I was born and raised in - the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - may - depending on how the people of Scotland vote on the 18th - soon cease to exist. In its place will be an independent Scotland and whatever we decide to call the rest of the country (Rump UK / Betty and Phil's place / The Anglo-Celt Experience feat. Cornwall). Given that this is potentially the biggest constitutional shake-up this country will go through in my lifetime, I though I may at least comment on it.

Work in Progress

I've had a bit fiddle on with the blog. The eagle eyed among you will notice that there's now a button labelled Dave Stuff at the top of the page, which leads to a page from which you can navigate to various writings and drawings without trawling through endless blog archives. You may not necessarily want to, but the option now exists. There's a few bits and pieces of additional content there, which I'll be adding to over time. This addition, which I imagine most people would find ridiculously easy, has taken me a silly amount of time, proving once again that I have the same aptitude for computers as lungfish do for major league baseball. Still, God loves a trier. It's very much a work in progress, so apologies if it's all a bit scrappy looking at the minute. I'll get there in the end, even if I take the scenic route.

Reader, He Married Her

Those of you who subscribe to Vanity Fair or Tattler will of course be aware that it was the Parsons-Sewell wedding on Friday. I am lucky enough to have a long standing friendship with the groom, dating back to an incident involving some yoghurt, a hedgehog and a hilarious series of misunderstandings with the worlds angriest Yorkshireman. As such I found myself invited to the wedding of the year, which sounds  like me being snidey and facetious, but is absolutely true when framed within the context of the small monkey sphere of people I actually care about. The event also necessitated the return of one Robert. W. T. Walker from the antipodes in order to perform best man duties for the groom, who we shall call Andrew, as that is his name. This flurry of social activity is also the reason for no post last week for which I apologise.

Rag and Bone

what a cloaca

Just a quick image dump as I used up all my big words earlier in the week with the Split review thingy. Above is a joke taken from the back of a lollipop stick and below is latest strip doo-dah, now with the provisional working title of Rag and Bone (Whaddya mean 'that's awful'. You're awful). At some point I'll set up a separate page so that pages can be viewed in sequence without pissing about scrolling through blog archives.

Should be away on a stag do next weekend. Don't know what's happening yet. Maybe's a few pints down the town, maybes hunting the most dangerous game of all (Man. Or crocogators). Either way, the groom's getting something rude felt tipped on his face

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

Make Like a Banana

Apparently the Saturday leg of the Split Festival was a huge success. Dizzee Rascal killed it and the weather was glorious. Naturally, thanks to Hurrican Bertha, when me and wor lass showed up for the Sunday leg, it was pissing down. However, because we are not only culturally voracious young things about town, but also well 'ard, we were never going to let such a small thing as a little precipitation deter us. Review below.

Backpack Wankers

There are certain types of film that have a tendency towards shitness; video-game adaptations, films centered around sports that aren't boxing and anything that's ever been described as 'like x but on acid'. Another is spin off of British TV comedy. The Harry Hill Movie, Kevin and Perry Go Large, Keith Lemon; these films aren't just bad, but offensively bad. One surprising exception to this was The Inbetweeners movie from a few years back, which was not only a success, but its apparently the most successful British comedy film of all time. Granted, it wasn't earth shakingly brilliant, or even on par with the best episodes from the series that spawned it, but it was a laugh and given the numbers involved there was always going to be a sequel, which has now arrived. Hence review.

We All Scream

I like to think I have many talents. Today I learnt that eating an ice cream cone with anything approaching dignity is not amongst them. It started well. Me and the better half were enjoying a preamble along Seaburn beach and decided to round off a pleasant morning with the ingestion of frozen treats. The problem started when I became aware of the tell tale drip--drip-drip of melting on my hand. I tried to ignore it, but the trickle soon became a sticky torrent, coating my hand and making the cone soggy. There then followed a very real  moment of terror when I realised that the structural integrity of the cone was fatally compromised and urgent action was required - not shortly, not in a moment - but right this fucking second. Dutifuly I rammed the thing into my mouth, managing to get ice cream and monkey blood over my chin, cheeks and nose in the process. I was no longer deriving any actual pleasure from the thing and attacked the rapidly disintegrating mess with a frantic mechanical motion, a look of grim determination that I suspect was completely inappropriate for the task in hand. Luckily me and the missus (who incidentally encountered  no such problems) were in a place where no one else could see me make a spectacle of myself, otherwise I suspect I would be single right now.