April 1999
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Spring is here, spring is here,

life is skittles, life is beer

Jesus! Another month, another column. Life is shite, then you die and THEN you get all wormy and stinky. Ho, and indeed hum. But, hey, letís not get all grumpy-arsed and hopeless. SPRING IS HERE!


Pythagorus and his movements

Spring, as you know, is the greatest season of the year. And perhaps it is also the best. When Pythagorus nimbly divided the year up into five seasons, he got all flappy and carried away with SPRING. Making it the time of year when flowers erupt and vital hormonal secretions rise to the surface life polystyrene through molasses.

"Five seasons, Summy?" You ask.

"Cutbacks, children, cutbacks."

But who are we to argue with the great PI in the sky? No-one, that's who. Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn, as timeless as Emerson Lake and Palmer. Only with a smaller tourbus. If you are American, and chances are if you're reading this, you are, you will not understand the word Autumn. In 1704, President Lincoln outlawed the use of the word, preferring THE FALL, in anticipation of one of the worlds greatest angular, Mancunian agit pop bands. A fine decision, especially when one stops to consider that he hadn't even been born.



Now is the winter of our discotheque

Compare it with WINTER. Winter is shit. With itís facile, hypocritical, Christian festivals and maudlin, minimalist pretensions; all of which peak in a hopeless fury of darkness and cold. No, kids, Winter is our enemy. Winter will come home one night before you and wait for you with a house brick in a sock, kill you, fuck you and eat you.

"This year," we tell ourselves in January, "it will all be different." But thatís January, which is in WINTER. The most Satanic, callous, conceited season of the year. And yet strangely, in January, life IS different. Only not in the way you had hoped. The difference is youíre older. And running for the number 29 to Trafalgar Square is not the carefree prance it once was. More of a slow and painful scrape along the pavement, and a juddering flump into the spiny bus seat.



But let us relax and take comfort in the fact that it is March, and the time has come for us to enjoy Springís idiot mincing.

"Ooh-lala!" you simper as the bus smiles up the street at you, winking cheekily as you leap into its flabby arms. "Letís go to Trafalgar!" you scream. "Huzzah" say the all passengers.

Because Spring is a time for fresh beginnings. Those scrawny weeds you ripped from your garden with undue haste in the Autumn would have been fancy great flowers right about now; probing the crisp air above the ground like a curious, yet carefree lethargy.

But most important of all Spring is the time for all us animals to walk around with dirty-great big hard-ons. Coorrrrrrrrr! Blimey. Let's all stop to consider the prospect of summery clothing and carefree flirting with members of the opposite sex who just two weeks ago were UGLY.

Make the most of it spunk-monkeys, the heat of summer will sap your strength like kryptonite.



  • All American Presidents enjoy the work of Manchester's THE FALL
  • Horny toads are at their worst at this time of year
  • The Number 29 is on time in Winter and late in Spring, only £1.20 from Yasar Halim to Liecester Square though.


Until next time

To, ze zwierze jest duze, nie oznacza, ze nie potrzebuje czulosci.

Jakkolwiek duzy Tygrys sie wydaje, potrzebuje tyle czulosci, ile


Uncle Summy


Read the fake April Fool's column by John Hansen

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