It’s bin a while since I posted on these here pages. Back then I gave you the lowdown on young Tony Hadley’s burnin’ desire for porcine pleezure, and our own Head Chef’s obsession with the bovine, but the whole world’s changed since then, yessir.

It’s been three years since those crazy sun’bitches dropped the big one, and I’m still steppin’ on burned folk down Washington Boulevard. I ‘aint bathed in two winters – what water there is’ll singe yer twirly hairs off faster than y’can say “Tiananmen Square” – and I hate to say it, but I reek enough to scare a skunk. An’ that’s a bitch when you’re tryin’ to catch ’em for the pot – bit ‘o skunk, maybe some gopher if it ‘aint glowin’ too much, though I don’t care about that these days, with what passes for Summer a’ dyin’ already and our boys in Hazmat Cammies throwin’ phosperous at the Chinaman every which way. Jeez, right now ‘ahm lucky if I gits’ta chew on a dead dog’s leg once a month, and the social life ‘aint what it was neither. I ‘aint jawed with folk since that fella sellin’ babies heads for booties down the strip six months back.

And how did it come to this? I’ll tell ya his name, but I’m guessin’ ya know it already. Julian Assange. That asshole. He’d been telling the Russians we hate ’em, and the Chinese too, and everybody else that we’re thinkin’ they’re a waste o’ time – boy, pissin’ everybody off. And makin’ it so we couldn’t fix it, neither. Holy shit, I hate secrets as much as the next longhair, but you gotta judge the big cheese on his final call, not on the tittle tattle proppin’ it up.

But nope, the Russkies wouldn’t buy that, no way. Like lil’ ol’ Korean Kim wouldn’t buy losin’ his country to the South with us & the boys in Beijing whoopin’ n’ a’ hollarin’ from the bleachers. He’d rather go out with bang, yessir. And when Acmedinnerjacket caught wind of the Saudis wanting us to blow his nukes up, hell, that was just the asskick he needed to roll over Iraq and park his big birds right on Jerusalem’s doorstep. And we all know how the Israeli’s react to threat right? You got it. Busto.

Anyways. Assange knew my rep. It’s hard to be the biggest beast pimp in the West for three decades without putting it out there, y’know? I was online, with free delivery, door-to-door, for everything from Aardvarks to Zonkeys, so I wasn’t hard to find, nossir.

So I get his call about a week before the big bang, And I know everything’s headin’ down the john, and I know who’s to blame. But bucks is bucks, and a million big ones for an Anteater was easy money. Maybe I’d need that cash in whatever afterlife that asswipe left us, y’know? So I took the chance to give the dick some payback, in more ways than one. 

I had me one helluva dangerous Anteater, name a’ Amy. She could lick a fella cleaner than a prairie dog’s bone, but she had a fatal flaw for a lady in her line o’ business. At the first whiff o’ man juice she’d clamp down harder than a sprung steel turtle neck.

I delivered Amy to Assange’s penthouse apartment, took the briefcase, and walked away. But not before hidin’ a little recorder in her collar. Consider this my own Wikileak, finally plucked from a city of ashes. It may be the sound of an asshole losin’ his pecker at the dawn of an Apocalypse of his own makin’, or it may not. I’ll let you decide.  

Yes, yes, yes! The Roomyverse celebrated its second birthday as a blog this month. At the end of November we’ll top 360 posts, and last month, thanks to Head Chef’s Halloween Countdown, we had an unprecedented six and a half thousand visitors (hiya!) while Johanna’s X-Factor blog is viewed by over 500 folk every week. This month we should top 5,000 visitors and, in our lifetime, we’ve clocked over 2,000,000 hits (though that isn’t saying much when the front page alone shows over 20 jpegs).

But I still haven’t finished the podcast I promised twelve months ago, and it looks like I might not this year. I’m not sweating it. The Roomyverse is neither my life’s work, nor the culmination of any creativity. It’s a hobby blog I find time for when I can and I hope you’ll all continue to enjoy it, but I’m nowhere near vain enough to believe that my life’s work – like most folk’s – isn’t actually my kids.

I take great pains in everything I write because I’ve always loved writing and always will, so by all means keep on coming back to us, and please, feel free to comment on anything you read. Who knows? This time next year I might even have a podcast for you.

Thanks again for supporting us, and here’s to a glorious 2011 for you all!


Well, she does, obviously, and so do loads of you. Everyone, perhaps, in the entire world. Last night Facebook was awash with friends updating from their beds, being kept from their sleep by the need to see the last of them – Luis Urzua, the foreman – rise up in The Phoenix. Why? After the first one emerged was there any need to see the last? Did anyone genuinely think the shaft would crumble? That ‘The Phoenix’ would shatter under the strain? I’ll go further: why follow this story at all after the admittedly horrific first 17 days? Once they knew they’d been discovered, wasn’t their rescue somehow inevitable? They had natural ventilation to breathe, myriad tunnels to stretch out, and enough supplies, from the 18th day, to survive. They played games, watched television, shot videos, and received dozens of ‘palomas’ full of essentials and personal letters every day. When they emerged they were all well fed and clean shaven, with only “horrific dental injuries” to justify their swift dispatch to the hospital.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m as impressed by their pioneering rescue as anyone. They were trapped underground longer than any soul in history yet survived to walk this earth again. That’s a great story; a heartcockle-brazing tale of bravery & endurance with the upside of almost zero peril. It was pure drama without tears, with only the prospect of joy, and those kind of songs are rarely sung more than once in a generation. But for 52 days these weren’t men in dire straits. They were international celebrities in waiting, albeit unknown to them. Average Joe’s in their carbon chrysalis poised to emerge into the 24/7 newsphere as heroic butterflies, with appalling oral hygeine.

And that’s a problem isn’t it? These men are now national heroes who need never pay for a drink again. Who, even now, have gathered under one lawyer to negotiate the media rights to their story. How long before we read the book, see the movie (starring Javier Bardem, probably) and turn the other cheek to the countless homoerotic masterpieces featuring moustachiod, shiny-torso’ed latinos jigging in dark tunnels for what seems like an eternity, perhaps giving birth to a new genre of smut: mine porn. These men now have that power. Ultimately, will it be good for them? I doubt it.

It will give their families financial security, and probably ensure such a disaster never happens again, but I can’t help thinking that the global media’s obsession with this story – however understandable – and the miners’ subsequent elevation to the league of legends, significantly shortens the odds of the negatives outweighing the positives. It’s already revealed a mistress to a wife, how long before a miner spurns his weeping lover’s advances on the grounds that he’s tasted the heady brew of coal dust & sweaty man juice?

It doesn’t bear thinking about, so let’s stop thinking about it, and them, right now. Please.

I’ve watched this video a few times now and still can’t decide who was the bigger prick. See what you think:


Was it Corden for shoving his chins into an old man’s face, or Stewart for believing he could beat Corden at his own game? Was it wrong for Corden to so relish slagging our gallant Knight, or was Sir Jean-Luc pitifully deluded in thinking the audience were loving his lame gags? It’s all of the above isn’t it? So it’s a draw. Except it isn’t, because it’s lowered my estimation of the great thespian. Maybe Patrick thought Extras gave him a comedy pass, but I thought he had too much class to go toe-to-toe in such a tawdry scrap with the likes of Corden, whose sudden World Cup ubiquity is as likely to enforce a spell out of the spotlight as propel him into the top flight. Even his Official World Cup Song with Dizzee Rascal is, at one point, an incitement to violence that harks back to a Hooligan age:

“Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough”? Really? You’re going to sing that? On the streets of Soweto? Where the people have suffered slightly greater hardships than being unable to buy a Yorkie from an all-night garage? Please, Mr Corden, I’m afraid the most likely response would be “you’re going to get your f*cking head kicked in” and I hope it happens sooner rather than later to teach you humility enough to lay off gloating over old men with far greater talent than you’ll ever possess. Start showing a bit of class, or I’m going to have to come round your house and insert a vuvuzela into you.

Now if only I could stop cringeing at that video. Oh Picard, please don’t make it so. Eeeuuurgh.

This is a weird one. I mean really, who’s next? Norman Tebbit and Kate Thornton? Paddy McGuiness and Sister Wendy Beckett? But then maybe it’s only weird if you’re totally sold on Brooker’s onscreen/in-print persona. The very definition of ‘mercilessly caustic bastard’ Brooker has cornered the market in ego-ripping bullshit-stripping criticism that penetrates the brain like a tickly laser of misanthropy. There’s no-one better at kicking away the stupid conceptual crutches that support most British telly. As a picture editor for BBC News, I found this analysis of a typical bulletin package both hilarious and shamefully accurate:


He even appeared to have a go at his new fiancé when she appeared on his ‘Screenwipe’ series spoofing mission documentaries. In this case, Charlie’s made-up mission was trying to get men to feel comfy urinating al fresco. The mock programme was called ‘Konnie Huq’s Great British Wee’ and was, in her own words, a valiant attempt to “get Britain pissing.” Here’s an edited extract with a few black holes to avoid YouTube pulling it for indecency.

Now I may be wrong, but didn’t that suggest Konnie Huq would do anything for money? Far be it from me to suggest that Charlie was branding his own fiancé a whore, but…..wasn’t he? And he called her a ‘primadonna’. But “Aaaaah Konnie,” Charlie would say, “that’s not really me. That’s what my public expect me to say. They expect me to have zero tolerance for your gone-to-seed Blue Peter fluffiness and desperate need to attend the opening of an envelope to keep yourself in outrageous lattes and exotic vegetables. They expect me to burn you alive because you are the very antithesis of every ‘real’ fibre in my body – you are a ‘celebrity’ who exists solely because of, and for, television and consequently you have no spiritual or intellectual foundation worthy of the name. For the sake of my reputation as the hypercritical champion of all things rational & humane I must give you an exceptional kicking. But that’s not me Konnie. It’s not the real Charlton Brooker. Look beyond my bitter public persona to the human being beneath – a human being who needs a job as much as you, who needs to belong maybe even more – and love me for the man I truly am.”

To which Konnie would gaze into those piggy eyes beneath the silvering quiff and say “OK, and I’m over 30 and want babies so let’s crack on.”

I suppose Ms. Huq kinda gave it away earlier this year when she ‘fessed up to being in a relationship with a TV screenwriter called Charlie and that “he is definitely a keeper”. Obviously if this was the 1960’s she would have been referring to diminutive slapstick king & Mick Hucknall doppleganger Charlie Drake. As it is, the choices are between ‘Being John Malkovich’ wierdo Charlie Kaufman, perennially popeyed auto-obsessed arsehole Charley Boorman (who wouldn’t shy away from gifting himself a scripting credit for the laddish platitudes and statements of the sodding obvious he shared with true star mate Ewan Mcgregor) or Charlie Dimmock, whose love of dirt and physical exercise at least makes her more classically masculine than Mr Brooker.

Realistically, though, there was only one sensible Charlie of choice, and it’s Love, has to be. Love between two people perfectly matched in private, but living totally different public lives. This act of union has revealed the sweet truth behind their media fronts more effectively & gently than any Screenwipe pisstake, so good luck to them.

Ladies & Gentlemen, a toast: to Ms. Konnie Huq, Mr Charlie Brooker, and the daddy of all daddy blogs.

Oh yes, it was only two months ago that I was pleading with everyone not to vote Tory but you crazed muthas did it anyway, and you couldn’t even do that right. No doubt fighting your own anti-Tory DNA you couldn’t quite manage to vote in sufficient numbers to give the buggers a clear majority and so what have we got? A Liberal Conservative government, that’s what; a stable majority government of white public school-boys who’ve probably been dreaming of power since their first fag-fondlings beneath the Eton sheets. You wanted something different? Unbelievably, you’ve got it.

Against all odds we appear to have two dynamic, comparatively young men leading the country with an apparently genuine wish to put people before politics. Vince Cable is in the Cabinet (although he’s already locked horns with arch-arse Osbourne over his role in banking reform) and we have a promised referendum on evolving the electoral system. We may still be updating Trident and expanding nuclear power but hey, we’ve scrapped ID cards and dumped plans for extra runways at all London airports. Plus, Chris Huhne is Energy & Climate Change Secretary, and all indications are that the Liberals could kerb some of the Tories’ more natural Nazi excesses, so haven’t we got the best of both worlds? A decisive government with a genuinely progressive edge?

Personally, I’m not going to pooh-pooh this coalition just yet. God knows how long it will last, but, for the first time since ’97, I’m actually feeling excited about who’s in the saddle as this country rides the razor’s edge of economic annihilation.

The only wart on this otherwise magnificently tumescent Clegmoron member is the new Home Secretary, Theresa May. Previously best known for her leopard-print loafers, she doubles as Minister for Women and Equalities. Yes, Theresa May, who has consistently voted against gay rights. Theresa May, who, immediately after her marriage, insisted on being addressed as “Mrs Philip May”. Theresa May, anti-equal age of consent, anti-civil partnerships, anti-gay adoption & lesbian fertility rights, now Minister for Women and Equalities??

Sweet God this can be one heckuva twisted world.

Yessir, I remember when lil’ Chef came to me back in ’78. He’d seen some Eyetalian movie with a couple a’ spidey-legged continental types doin’ the big jiggy and wanted to get a bit of the action for his birthday – poppin’ his cherry for the big 1-0. I had to set him straight. I said “nossir, I ‘aint no whoremonger” and gave him a clip for his trouble but he said “no, no, Old Man Roomy, I don’t wanna do it with a lady. I wanna do it with Godzilla.”

Indeedy, young Chef had got it into his mind to mate with a block-bustin’, moth-wrestlin’ alien T-Rex and no mistake. I told him I didn’t have access to no fire-breathin’ demon, but he told me to rustle up a rubber suit and stick it on any ol’ female and that’d do. So long as her fins lit up when he poked her in the mimsy. 

 So I found me a woman – Madge, her name was, from down the Bingo – and I gave her the suit to live with for a few days, just to get the feel of it, y’know. I gave her ten bucks too, with another fifty on a promise if she showed lil’ Chef a fine time. Anyhow, turns out she died that night testing the suit on her husband. He poked her in the mimsy and she was fried by her own fins. Fire guys put it down to loose wires, and the fact that she was 72 with a dicky ticker. The husband didn’t notice she’d died, though, for a day or two. Said he thought she was just having a long lie down. Jesus, when I got that suit back it stank so much of Madge’s ripe butt I had to throw the whole enchilada in the garbage.

Lil’ Chef was mighty disappointed, but I had me a back-up plan. I knew he was obsessed with that animal TV show All Creatures Great and Small, starring Doctor Who Jim Davidson – ‘specially the scenes where the guy’s got his arm up a cow’s steamy ass. So I got him a cute lil’ Fresian by the name o’ Daisy. Daisy n’ Daley. It was Kismet.

So the next Sunday’s ‘lil Chef’s birthday and I go round his house with David Essex. Dave’s a top guy, and owed me a thousand bucks for a horny badger, so he’d agreed to distract the oldies with an acappella rendition of  ‘Silver Dream Machine’ in Head Chef’s kitchen. Meanwhile I was pushin’ Daisy into the lounge where the birthday boy was waitin’. I tell ya, when their eyes met it was like a Kentucky lightnin’ storm. Turns out I’d timed it to perfection, ’cause just then All Creatures Great and Small came on the TV and lil’ Chef leapt on Daisy like a mongoose on a cobra, bitin’, scratchin’, wormin’ his way round her back end like a devil possessed by some insatiable bovine lust.

The whole thing might have lasted only a minute, but it was a beautiful spectacle I’ll hold in my mind’s eye till the day I die. Heck, I even taped it so I could let it’s wonder revive me whenever this crazy world laid me low, so go ahead, knock yourself out, sit back and listen with respect & awe to the precious moment our lil’ Head Chef became a man.


Happy Birthday big fella, and be speakin’ to y’all again soon. Crooooon.