Sunday, 27 March 2016

Booze Bunny.

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It's the long Easter weekend so many of you will be looking to destroy some of your liver and brain cells, volleying massive amounts of booze into your face in the hope of forgetting how dreadful your life is. We at TOLAS are always ready and willing enablers so if you're tired of the usual Special Brew and cough medicine cocktails and are looking for something new to pour down your neck then here here to help with our updated list of some of our favourite tipples. Whether you're a carefree but busy professional glue sniffer, a workaholic Mexican prostitute, or a world weary traveller on a business trip to Honduras buying a teenage boys pancreas for yourself, we've got the drink that's perfect for you.
Have a fucking look if you don't believe me you fat cunt!

The Hodgepodge:
Served in: Jar.
Splash of every brand of alcohol I can name with my eyes closed in ten seconds, with ice.

The Amalgam:
Served in: Chilled highball glass.
Point to every bottle behind the bar. The first two I mispronounce the name of, go in the glass. Garnished with sprig of rosemary.

The Pisto Scour:
Served in: Soup Bowl.
That's me slurring "Pisco Sour." Just make a pisco sour.

The Knockout:
Served in: Tumbler.
One time I tried to convince two sixty year old security guards who were watching a boxing match that it was intimate and tender that the adversaries would sometimes lean on each other for support, their heads on one another's shoulders like an old couple dancing in the final hour of their child's wedding, after they had both exhausted themselves in salvos of brutality upon each other. Two fingers tequila, sambuca, grapefruit soda, splash of spit.

The Senior Thesis:
Served in: Rag.
This is more of an inhalant than a cocktail. Anytime I start talking about my undergraduate literature thesis I am implicitly ordering this. Soak a rag in ether. When I rally and say "What was I talking about" say "The middle ages."

The Middle Ages:
Served in: Ale flagon.
I've started yelling about shit. Not figuratively, actual shit: its provenance, its prevalence, and its pestilence. If I use the term "horse diarrhea" it's time to drink a flagon of water.

The Gordon Brown:
Served in: Vase.
This is what you order if The Queen shows up to the bar. I don't know what's in it.

The Weekend At Bernie's:
Served in: Margarita glass.
This is a cute one. Fill a margarita glass with Muppet pubes.

The Dublin Over:
Served in: Shot glass, Pint glass.
This is a modified Irish Car Bomb, the modification being that instead of a 60% chance of immediately vomiting the probability is 100%. Guinness, with shot of sriracha dropped in.

A Glass of Port:
Served in: Whatever port is served in.
I only ever drink port if I'm a tulip bulb merchant with gout in which case we're both already dead and we're reincarnating backwards.

Pispo Powder:
Pisco Sour again.

The Garden of Earthly Delights:
Served in: Champagne flute; Margarita glass, Champagne flute.
At this point I've either recuperated through the curative powers of vomiting and protein (Dublin Over, Pispo Powder) or I've died (Glass of Port). Either way, let's visit the garden of earthly delights.
This drink is three panels long and visually symmetrical. It deals with conceptions of heaven, purgatory, and hell. The first champagne flute is spring water, the finest that the bartender can provide. The margarita glass is elderflower liqueur, rosé, splash of wormwood, a sprig of lavender, and a drop of bitters. Served on a napkin with a titty drawn on it. The final glass is piss.

Till next month.
Big love. Mark. X

Thursday, 17 March 2016

Thoughts On Love & Smoking podcast #9. Man Power. (Correspondant/Hivern Discs)

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It was always inevitable.
As sure as night follows day and "Where's my money?" follows me entering a pub, there was always going to be a Man Power podcast round these parts. I've put it off, hoping his bubble would burst and he'd be forced to move back to Newcastle and get a job as an apprentice horse nobbler or some shit so I could mock him mercilessly for having the temerity to have a glimmer of ambition (fingers crossed there's time left!). But alas no. It all seems to be going swimmingly for young (sic) master Kirkwood aka Man Power, who now finds himself in the employ of one of Mexico's minor cartels and lives in a compound working as some sweaty drug lords personal 'beat maker' and chiropodist or sutin' like that.
Clearly anyone who knows me, or indeed Geoff, will be aware that I'm not about to spend ANY length of time blowing smoke up his arse or saying anything even remotely positive about his rapid rise to fame and fortune. Oh no. Rather I thought I'd give you all a window into the fractured psyche of the man behind Man Power. An idea of the processes which allow him to seemingly effortlessly churn out mediocre record after disappointing record with alarming pace and regularity. I thought I'd spill some of his deepest darkest secrets. The real nitty gritty. The shit that will make you hurl like a rookie medic attending an explosion at a chainsaw factory. So here goes! When he was only 15 years old he sold his whole family intHEY YOU UK GAY LORD GUYS! STAR WARS ISNT FOR KIDS. U BEEN HACKED BY DARTHVAPER69. IF U WANT UR PRESS RELEASE BACK U MAKE A MORK AND MINDY MOVIE ABOUT CRAIGS DAVID WHO DID 9/11 FALSE FLAG. DO IT OR I HACK UR VAPE PEN TO MAKE UR VAPES TASTE LIKE PUBES. ALSO PLZ FOLLOW ME ON TWITCH (NAME: minion4adick) FOR SONIC THE HEDGEHOG SPEED RUNS AND AWESOMES TITTIES PICS THANK YOU BYEut all of that however may just have been a McGuffin. Non of this tells us why he always smells of liver, why he can't walk sideways and why he always has a yarking, greet big carb face on Thursdays?! No. It in fact tell us nothing, but he knows that he'll never be able to wash the blood of those children off his hands!!

Anyway, now that that's out of the way, here's the mix that the murdering bastard sent us so you might as well dig in. You've clearly got nowt better to do!

Man Power on Facebook.
Man Power on Soundcloud.
Man Power's vacuous exercise in online vanity.

As always, you can download the podcast over at out page below. X

Till next time.
Big love Mark. X

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

Neil Dawson: Agony Uncle/Bastard/Fat Bloke.

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Fat Neil Dawson has a severe allergy to grass pollen and Intel Pentium Processor's. He once fell down a ravine as a child and as a result of this is now a lifelong Conservative. He likes nothing better than putting people in boxes and judging people. He's off his tits on Tia Maria most days and is a life long hoarder. However, he's been given this column as a favour, so will give your problems his absolute best shot.

Dear Neil,
I suspect my son is gay. This isn’t a problem – I would just like to know. How can I get him to confide in me?

Dear Judy,
Some of my favourite people are as bent as a hoop, so try to look on the bright side; he could help you with your decorating instead of getting killed in a war zone. Have you tried coaxing him out of his closet with a Shirley Bassey LP? He might not be gay. He might just suit pastel colours. Why does it matter so much to you? Maybe he is still undecided or likes both men and women – did you think about that? Did you? Well did you?!!! Have you seen him dance? It’s not a watertight theory but generally speaking straight men are unable to rotate their hips. Your letter suggests you may have too much time on your hands, Judy. Why not acquire some hobbies? Tropical fish are relaxing to watch and their deaths will not cause too much sadness.
Remember: you are from a generation where gayness was a sackable offence. Nowadays it is not even interesting. The worst that will happen is he gets his own show on Saturday night TV.
Take care you shithouse,
Neil. X

Dear Neil,
I find it hard to make friends and now I am in my late 30's it seems even more difficult, as everyone seems to be pairing off. What can I do? Please help.
HMP Wandsworth.

Well Jackie,
Judging by the stationery you used to send me your letter, I think I can pinpoint where you’re going wrong. As soon as your letter landed on my desk I could smell dog. Do you own a dog? Or are you just looking after one? Because I can smell dog. If this smell has permeated your stationery Jackie, just think what its done to your clothing! I hope this reply doesn’t upset you. I try to employ diplomacy and a kind word at all times. However, if you want any kind of a life Jackie, you need to have your dog destroyed.
Maybe you are just looking after one whilst its owner is away? Is this another of your ploys to make friends Jackie? If so, there are other methods. Have you tried falling in the street? This is a failsafe method for meeting new people. And only the kind ones will approach you, so you are already separating the wheat from the chaff. Once you have your ‘good samaritan’, tell them you think you may have fractured something and get them to call an ambulance. If they are any kind of potential friend they will follow up on your injury to see how you are doing. Then. Do. Not. Let. Them. Go.
Joining leisure centres and asking people to hold your ankles down whilst you do sit-ups can break the ice. Don’t bother with book clubs. Readers are very insular creatures and therefore a waste of your time. Why not take a course? Or learn a language? Anywhere where there is forced interaction can lead to friendship.
I’m assuming you’re single Jackie? The bitterness in your letter came through when you mentioned people ‘pairing off’. Have you thought of ‘pairing off’ yourself? Dating sites can offer potential love and friendship, and they are not all full of desperate loser weirdos.
Try to learn to enjoy your own company. I know it must be hard. Especially when others are ‘pairing off’ and you’re all alone, reeking of dog.
Remember the positives. Friendships involve a lot of man-hours. So why not make use of this free time by making sandwiches for the week ahead or simply sleeping, because when you’re sleeping there are no lonely times.
Take care you utter flap.
Neil. X

Dear Neil,
I’ve been dating my boyfriend for three years now. Last year he moved to Hong Kong for work. I’m worried. Can a long distance relationship survive?
River Thames. X

Dear Lyndsay,
A long distance relationship cannot survive. Oh you can Skype till you’re blue in the face but there’s a lot of truth in the old adage ‘out of sight, out of mind’. He’s probably already met someone nicer than you, like.
How long is he due to stay out there? If it’s longer than three months, I’d say forget him. Cut your losses and move on. Plenty more fish in the sea. Next time make sure your ‘fish’ has no ambition or drive. He’ll be less attractive but at least you’ll know where he is at night.
Also, are you absolutely sure he’s in Hong Kong? I knew a friend who told her boyfriend she was in San Francisco when in fact she was in Newport Pagnell all along; she just couldn’t stand the sight of him.
Keep your pecker up, pissface!
Neil. X

Dear Neil,
I am in so much debt. I’ve run up almost £9000 on credit cards and cant see a way out. What can I do?
Metroland. Metroland.

Wake up Justine you doyle!
You are not Liberace! Reign in your spending and think before you buy. Do you really need a white baby grand piano encrusted with rhinestones? Keep a notebook of your purchases to see where you are haemorrhaging money. You could try leaving town but the odds are high that they will hunt you down like a dog. My advice is to cut up your cards and live like a monk for five or six years. Eventually you will break even and be able to allow yourself little treats – like Brie or a set of leather-bound encyclopedias.
Remember: the best things in life are free. Like air and the sea.
Do you live near, or over the top of an Aldi, Justine? My friend Barbara shops there and makes quite a saving on her food shop. Then again, Barbara’s tastebuds are fucking shot to shit (overuse of a tongue scraper during the 90's, innit). Still, if taste isn’t a big priority for you, you might want to give it a try.
Christ. What a mess! I feel really sorry for you. No I absolutely do not.
Get fucked.
Neil. X

NB: We would like to remind our readers that Neil Dawson is maladjusted. Why anyone would write in and ask his advice is beyond us. However, if you insist on knowing what a small-minded, 40-something xenophobe has to say about your problems then good luck to you.

Till next time.
Big love. X