Wednesday, December 5, 2012


(pictured above: Them)

I was trying to write a new post for the blog, to improve on slipping standards, when in trundled The Mother and started staring at me. 'Ah now don't be distracting me The Mother', I said to The Mother, 'can't you see that I'm trying to maintain our existence on this plane by creating a narrative that makes up for the heavy handed analogies and scanty wee posts that have featured on fugtheworld.blogspot of late?' But The Mother just continued to stare at me with eyes that looked a tad ...mournful.

'Now Mister Fugger', said The Mother, 'you've said all you have to say and there's no point repeating yourself or saying things just for the sake of it. If you do that you'll end up no better than the telly. The time has come to cease blogging. It is even evident in the lacklustre and relatively LOLless way this very post, the one we are in right now, is written'. I was a little astonished. Not by what The Mother had said but by the fact that she had called me 'Mister Fugger' and used a shitey word like 'cease'. This indicated her seriousness and I knew that it must be the end, a moment that had been prepared for. 'Are They here for me The Mother?' I asked The Mother. 'They are indeed, They are in the kitchen Mister Fugger', answered The Mother. I put the laptop aside and went to meet Them. The Mother followed.

There They were in the kitchen, standing by the backdoor, waiting to return me to my own world, a world where there is nothing to say because there is nothing happening because there is nothing to do but at least you're not wasting anyone's time or your own. I turned to The Mother and thanked her for the interesting discourse she had provided over the years and I complimented The Mother on the grace she had always shown when bested by my superior intellect. I think The Mother may have rolled her eyes but it was hard to tell as we were soon hugging and she was patting me on the back. I found it hard to break from The Mother's embrace and realised that this was because she had been decommissioned. They approached The Mother, wrapped her in tarpaulin, and placed her frozen form in the cupboard next to the ironing board.

'Do I really have to go?' I asked Them. They nodded. 'Won't I be missed?' I queried. They shook their heads. 'But what about all the poontang I'll be leaving behind', I pleaded. They laughed heartily and shook their heads again in mirthful resignation. 

They escorted me to the LOLevator that stood in the centre of the garden, a beam of light from above, and shoved me inside, kicking me in the arse as They did so. 'Hey!' I protested but They just laughed and muttered something about poontang.

I LOLevated up and away through the tropo strato meso and other spheres and into deep space. Then I zoomed beyond deep space and into the outskirts of shallow space that gradually reduces to non-space that results in the great zilch that resides in the nowhere zone that sits in the mouth of the ultra-void that isn't even there because nothing is there and there isn't even a 'there' for there to be nothing and there isn't even nothing because nothing is a concept and concepts need to be perceived and to be perceived there has to be something to do the perceiving and all there is is me and even I am not here an...y...m...o... ... . . . long and thanks for all the fish.


barrymore said...

Come on, don’t be like that! You’re just having a rough patch! I’ll tell you something Max Bygraves told me years ago about giving up. As you know he was one
of the greats of showbusiness and he told me this story once about how he was thinking about giving it all up. As he told it he was walking along the prom in Brighton watching the sea gulls blowing in and out on the wind and the future looked grim. He’d just started a disastrous three week run at the Pavillion and nobody was turning out. Like a blooming dress rehearsal it was! So he thought, sod this I’ll give it all up and go on the milk. I’ll move back to Rotherhithe and go on the milk. So he's made his decision and feeling alot better about things when who comes cutting along the other way only his agent with a bunch of flowers and a card from Princess Margaret! Word of honour … Princess Margaret! He says to Max she saw the show (incognito) the night before and now she’s looking for a private performance! No, I’m giving it up said Max. Don’t be daft says his agent you’ve a 3 week run on the go AND a Royal Command performance at the Grand Hotel! Pull yourself together! So they talked it over and Max said
he'd do the private audience but after that he was turning it in. So later on that evening he goes round to the Grand and up to Princess Margarets room. His
legs was like jelly. He’s standing outside and he’s just about to knock when he hears a bit of a commotion going on inside then breaking glass and shouting and then some bloke bursts out the door carrying his trousers shouting ‘You’re only a 4 bob tart!’. That was John Binden. She was seeing him at the time.‘Thats not my shaving kit!’ and he pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall and slung it down the hallway and off he goes. So, after a moment in goes Max and says good evening ma'am i'm here for the private
performance. Who are you you c*nt!! she shouted. Sorry
wrong room ma'am he says and left. What an awful business...he was pale in the face telling me. But on the way back down in the lift he was standing beside a couple of old dears and they asked him was he Max Bygraves? He says ladies I am. Oh they said we like you ever so much we're going to the show later we've come up from the Isle of Wight especially do you think we could have a bit of a song? So he sang them a bar of You're a Pink Toothbrush and that night he went on and did the show and the rest is history as they say. Thats even where his signature wave started, waving to the old girls in the stalls. He said to me then Michael, once it starts, the show must go on and now thats what i'm saying to you

A Brief History said...

I swear on the grave of Allah... if this truly is the last Fugger post (until He reinvents himself a la Ziggy) then I will leave this country in protest... Right? I'm going to do it...alright? Okay then, I'm buying the me...okay, I'm serious, I fucking am right..I'm in the taxi right now...seriously, I'm not fucking around here...Okay I'm going through customs, I'm getting my willy touched in case I'm packin'...Okay I've just been called to my boarding gate...hang on...okay I'm actually on the plane as I'm fucking writing kidding now...okay, the hostess has just asked if I can switch my phone off and remove my turban for the duration of the flight...look, before I go, I just want to say, Fugger has been an absolute inspi

Fugger said...

Should Mr Fugger find new things to say he will be returned to your plane on the far side of the festive fuckwittery but who’s to say if he will find new things to say? Dreams must be dreamt, earth must be roamed, life must be lived, things must be collected and gathered and broken down into amusing narratives for future cyber LOLs. The cupboard is bare so the mind must roll its imagination trolley to the ideas shop. Do you get me? Do you follow me? Bygraves would have understood.

We had some good times with Mr Fugger though, didn’t we? We laughed, we cried, we threw up, we cleaned up, we sighed. Ah yes. Here is something to remember Mr Fugger by:

per procurationem, FugBot-404 automated reply facility.

Postscript – On Mr Fugger's behalf and to the millions and millions of Fuggers and Fugettes out there, thank you for reading and indulging and leaving the authorities out of it.

Superhilbo! said...

That clip lasted over 4mins!...It was good for 20secs of it...a little funny after a minute if I'm honest...but over 4 mins??...ah well, 'tis done now' as The Mother would point out.
So I take it Fugger has left the building - gone to get milk and leaving the key under the mat perhaps? We'll see. Was good while it lasted, bring back biscuits with the milk for the tea will ye.