Boredom Prevails...

Right ho blogfans, we've reached a difficult situation: My self imposed obligations to write these things have inexplicably outstripped all the interesting shit that I get up to so brace yourself for an archive edition. It'll be a bit like those shitty flashback editions of America Sit Coms except I'll be the only one that remembers it first time round and there won't be an awkward media documented Vicodin addiction (probably)

As keen eyed readers will know, challenging me to do anything will often result in a brief argument, punctuated with sulking and intermittent bickering that usually ends with me setting my mind to do something, usually foolhardy. You would think that after 4 years, Mrs Dickfingers would be privy to this fact, so imagine my surprise when idly mentioning the cultivation of facepubes, she declared "You can't grow a moustache, you'll look stupid..." Whether or not this was actually a challenge will forever be lost in translation but what we can all agree on is that handlebar mowsers are rad.

Caught In The Crossfire's annual Halloween shenanigans are about to kick off with all the retarded dressing up and offensiveness that you would expect. Last years saw Michael Jackson skating a mini ramp with Leatherface and Two Massive Poo's while a load of pilled up gurners took their shirts off and got sweaty watching Pendulum. And you thought that skate events were gay... It was also the night that it became clear that sleeping in a closed Tubestation at 5 in the morning will not result in a good nights sleep... My costume was rad though. Its all about the details

In other Crossfire related news: my ramblings from the UKSA Championships can be viewed and admired here expect upcoming reviews and various pimpings of other bits and pieces as they happen...

This passing weekend saw me embarking on a Mexican night round My Mate Adam's house, with Mojito's Beers, Karaoke Xbox Games (which I rule at) and Nachos. We then played Scrabble and I managed to convert "Bandit" to "Arsebandit." Photographic evidence below:

Continuing the theme of Dead things from Last Post I found a picture of a dead snake which I thought you would love to see

and also found a picture of a just as dead but slightly happier fox. Look at his startled little face. Bless him...

Thats it for now, tomorrow I'm going to drive up to Derbydos to MC an invite only game of skate featuring Craig "50% extra free" Smedley along with TomBallBag and Fraser "Im not his dad" Dougherty. Apparently Vernon "Bolton" Kay is going to be there to do a DJ set so expect a blog appearence with either a cheerful brush with stardom or a scathing put down depending on if he's a cock or not...

Expect a sporadic update in a few days. Maybe

Salty Balloons, Paddling, Brock & The Hulk...

One week on from the UK Championships and the debacle of poo-sink and gay night, I have decided to make a concerted effort to increase the frequency of posts on here in a vain attempt to keep myself occupied. Having spent a large portion of the last 7 days hustling shoes and trying to track down a Fourstar Cardigan  I decided that the best thing to do would be to go paddling at Ashwell Springs, a very very cold, very shallow, yet still very cold spring. Now, I remember going to Ashwell Springs when I were a lad, and I swear that either I've either grown more sensitive in my advancing years or its got a shit load colder. I jumped in, stood just long enough to prove to a dopey little shithawk who was manlier (have that ratchild, bet you've not even seen a girl naked have you?) then jumped back out again before the shooting numbness of the shitting cold stretched any further up my shins... 

Unfortunately the little toerag got back in again so not to be outdone by someone without pubes, I followed suit and pretended it wasn't killing me. Thankfully he left to go and get his nappy changed or something like that and I commandeered my very own island. 

After a night of soft towels, hotwater bottles and internet explanations of the onset of Hypothermia, I woke up to find a missed call from The Hulk.  This in itself is odd as The Hulk only phones me after I have called him and the useless lummox usually waits about 24 hours to call back. The Hulk wanted to go for a skate (again, its not worth getting into how odd this is, its been about a year since I last skated with him) so collecting TBone, three blokes with a combined age of about 80, went to the Grange to tit about on kids toys... 

To our delight, the council must have been up there early to celebrate the imminent arrival of "The Random Goons (and me)" so decked the place out with balloons and although they didn't blow them up for us but its still the thought that counts... Thank You Letchworth...

A Celebratory Letchworth Balloon...

This is the Hulk: 

He is apparently called the Hulk after a security guard and jobsworth manager tried to throw him and Toby out of their carpark only to piss him off in the process and find themselves simultaneously pinned to the floor by their respective necks while the Hulk shouted "Calm Down" at them or something similar... In short, don't piss him off. 

Here he is, totally shredding the gnar and definitely definitely not posing a photo, we'll have none of that illegitimate bullshit on this blog thankyouverymuch...  

Tbone can be seen next to him, blown away by all the radical that the Hulk possesses and spurned on, did a Crooked grind off the end trying to avoid what we hope was only dog (and not human) poo that we covered up with a HulaHoops bag...

He then got all arty and Myspace and did a backtail just before I got a call from the copywrite people confirming that I do now own the rights to all "Longshot-Portrait-Moodysky-Skatephotos" 

We then went to the pub and walked past a man who let off the wettest sounding fart I have ever heard a human produce, only to wander off as if nothing had happened. Come to Letchworth, not only is it the worlds first Garden City and home to the first roundabout it also lays claim to flatulent Pensioners and is quite close to my house. What a place... 

Defying Toby's claims that I am the slowest Masticator in the World (steady) I also managed to eat a burger in a record 14 and a half minutes... Personal Best followers, personal best... 

After finishing my burger I went to my Mum & Dads house to check their post and burgle their freezer while they're on holiday only to find a dead rat outside. It reminded me of a dead pigeon I saw a little while ago so I thought I'd include them. 

If I find any more dead animals you can bet your arse that they'll be posted up here quick smart...

Next time: Kite flying (weather depending) and What Free Things Have I Managed To Hussle?

How Do You Even Get A Skid Mark On A Sink?

There are some signs that a day is going to be a good one and nothing could be better than starting our journey to the spiritual home of the trouser press, than seeing Jade Goody, two months early for Hallowe'en, sitting in a Ford Fiesta in the car behind us, sorting out her hair. Never one to let a mild case of death or baldness stop her, Jade appears to be back on form, taking it all in her stride. Good for you, Jade, keep chasing that rainbow... 

Arriving at Corby (for all those people who missed the Trouser Press reference) I tracked down Chalk kneed Porsche worrier, Powley, who was in charge for the weekend's proceedings and informed me that I had a very important and wicked cool job to do...

Here I can be seen, in my important (some might say vital) role for a large portion of the day: Chief Vans Waffle Maker Guy. By my reckoning, I must have churned out about 100 tepid, half-set doughy waffles to fat kids and pro skaters alike using a variety of different sales pitches including "Have a waffle, you know you're hungry" to an overweight 12 year old and "Eat one, you cunt" to pretty much everyone else.

Here you can see Powley holding £40 of my takings and pondering the depths one man will stoop to at the very hint of "free shoes"...

 

After a short spell, word must have gotten round that I was straight up killing it at the Waffle stall, and, inevitably, we ran out. This couldn't have happened at a better time as frankly, its fucking boring making waffles, especially when the collected UK Skating Scene is kicking just out of view behind a sea of helmet-wearing fat kids eager for doughy treats, so, having served my time behind a waffle iron, I fucked it off and went to check out the Gnarshredding...

Stu, the inky fingered genius behind the Lovenskate brand and fellow tea enthusiast, made the journey from the big city to stand in front of a Vert ramp so big I'd disgrace myself just peering over the coping. Here he is, looking concerned while Sam Beckett floats a BS Air in the background like its the most natural thing in the world to be dangling 8ft above the coping and 22ft above the floor. A short while later, Beckett pulled a 720 in a run (bearing in mind that he is the first Englishman to do 'em and is still unable to legally drink) 

For non skating lurkers: this is a big deal. Hence Stu's concern. Bless him. To cheer him up, we had a bit of a skate: I won my very own "Longest Slappy Noseslide" Competition as everyone else was too scared to enter (that and I didn't tell them) then we went to play in the foam pit. These things are fucking amazing and despite Grosa trying to put me off with stories of Skateparks finding enough used johnnies to refill a bath in the bottom of one, I still couldn't get enough of the foamy bastard and tried, with some degree of sucess to learn Judo Airs before managing to throw some serious shapes with some kind of Airwalk type thing. Either way, it were pretty rad. 

 

With all the skating for the day taken care of, it was time to relocate all 150 odd sweaty arsed skaters (not me, I had a wash) from the skatepark, to the Rugby Club. For those of you unfamiliar with Skateboarding events, I should point out that it would be a lie to say these things were overpopulated with women. By our very nature, the type of place that we would need to hold these events in in order to attract women, wouldn't let us into the carpark, let alone the bar, which is why we end up in Rugby clubs that look like they were used for the interior shots of Phoenix Nights... and skating being a 98% male passtime, these shitty rugby clubs end up with more blokes in them than Steven Gately...

Powley decided that it would be a good idea to get some music and hired a wedding disco, then deciding to do away with any pretence that it was going to be in any way "straight" and requested "the gayest songs you've got" then pointed at me and said "play what you'd play if it was our wedding." The DJ exceeded himself and managed to step it up to 11 gaying the night away with YMCA, the Spice Girls and the Pet Shop Boys whilst watching the Great & The Good of the UK Skate Scene Conga Line Bum each other and dry hump the shit out of anything with testicles... Good times...

Here I am dancing to Copacabana. Look at my little face, I fucking love it...

Rob "Wob" Smith, Gay Night MVP, decided that stage diving would be a good idea so jumped off the balcony...

...right into YMCA... aka "Too Many Dicks On The Dance Floor"

No caption necessary... just look how scared Fraser looks...

A sausage party cocktail...

Mr Nicholson and I keep it civilised...

...while Powley looks like a sexcrime waiting to happen... 

This marked the end of our night. I went to bed feeling surprisingly upbeat only to be woken a few hours later by a stoned, inebriated youth, who promptly informed me that he was "going to be sick now" and proceeded to cough up his tiny little stomach all over the bedroom floor of our hotel room. I then went back to sleep, as best as anyone can in a room full of someone else's sick, only to be woken by the same youth kneeling next to my bed trying to put his trousers back on. The reasons for him taking his trousers off in the first place were not entirely clear until the morning when I found a mystifying inch long skidmark on the sink and one of the bathtowels inexplicably smeared with the remnants of a brown sitdown. I did take a photo but shame and desparation forced him to delete them for fear of turning up here... Dear oh dear...

Struggling to come to terms with the atrocities of room 4, I had a quiet sit down and read a magazine from Cockleg's car...

...then went inside and pissed off Cates by not opening up the waffle stall for round 2...

Then loads of stinging skateboarding maneuvers went down and I kind of got distracted watching them... Sorry. Although, to make it up to you, I did find a Scoody Doo outfit. So I put it on...

That was pretty much it. I also got a Mini Vans Keyring of an Authentic which I was pretty stoked on. Then I went home and slept for about 12 hours. 

Same time next year... 

Next post: I haven't decided yet...

Crabs, Cream Teas, Poodles & Pasties...

Welcome back blog fans... (Theres 7 of you now, Im thinking about waiting until I get another 5 then renaming you disciples, stay tuned and someone remind me in case I get sidetracked...) 

As you will no doubt be aware, the past 3 postless weeks that you have been forced to endure have been because I have have been fannying around with the long suffering Mrs Dickfingers to some of the furthest and most exotic corners of the Earth... or to be more specific, France and Cornwall. 

To make up for the no-doubt intolerable absence of my fascinating (educational AND entertaining) posts behold a special superduper extra special Holiday Edition length post:

The first week was spent in the charming Medoc region of France, (its near Bordeaux, don't worry, I had to check too)

Arriving in France, I did exactly what any Globetrotting International Cultural Chameleon would do to integrate seamlessly into French life: I hired the smallest gayest car they had, bought a baguette, peed in the open without being drunk, then found a vinyard. Right after these photos were taken, a confused couple asked me for directions as apparently I looked so French they figured I must know my way around (only don't ask anyone as they'll only deny it...) 

The only thing that slightly undermines my otherwise immaculate Gallic Assimilation and betrayed my Brits-Abroad roots, can be seen in the following picture: I went to the beach...

Unfortunately and unbeknownst to me, there appears to be a newly registered French law that dictates any adult male within 50 metres of a large public body of water, should remove all clothing and parade around nonchalantly flopping their hangdowns at everyone, trying to maintain eye contact for as long as possible to make all repressed uptight Englishmen in the area (me) feel as uncomfortable as possible... In one week in France I believe that I saw more leathery European winkies than any man ever should... In short blogfans, don't go to a French beach unless you have a deep-seated desire to see more balls than Elton John's chin...

All this was quickly forgotten when I found a sign to Brest (which bizarrely they don't find funny)

...and shortly afterwards, saw a poodle with a ribbon tied round it... Apparently I just missed the old man with a Beret, bicycle and a Stripy Jumper as he had an urgent appointment at Stereotype HQ but I may have better luck next time

France was amazing, however, for all the things that they do have over England, force fed animals with amazingly delicious fat livers and cavalier attitudes to public nudity being some of them, after a while you realise what you are missing and have to go home. In my case to spend a week in a deserted field in Cornwall and eat more Pies, Scones and Tea than is probably wise...

 

Here is Dickfingers Base Camp: 6 hours and a lot of petrol away from HQ and fucking cold when it rains. Which it did. Often. 

As if being the home of Cream Teas and Pies wasn't enough, Cornwall proved to be a veritible...thing of stuff to do. In between "sleeping in a carrier bag" and "avoiding rain" we managed to get crabs (snigger)

and found the (apparently) famous Jamaica Inn (the site of another Cream Tea) where I proved that no matter what monumental historical site you take me to I will somehow work out a way of posing next to it to imply its my widger...

I also found time to paddle thereby completing all necessary holiday rituals

 

As if that wasn't enough, using my Mr Miyagi-like skills I managed to snatch a fly out of the air using nothing but my shitting hands... find another blog with fly snatching, go on, I dare you. 

Next time: Something else.

Team Dickfingers and The Greatest Boards Ever...

This Saturday, while Mrs Dickfingers left to go galavanting around the Emerald Isle leaving me to fend for myself and get my own tea for a few days, (thanks to all the blog fans that offered to cook me my tea you ungrateful shits, after all I give to you...) I went to Mad Mad Monks Team Game Of Skate... a wonderful collection of sweating blokes in a field orchestrated by the chief Homo: Mr Monk, who should be your first port of call for thinly veiled threats of homosexual rape and other general hilarious unpleasantries...

He was ably assisted on the day by Mr Mark Nicholson, long time Death Skateboards Professional and thoroughly nice bloke, who incidentally looks like a right bad man in this here shot...

 

Before I go on, I should take time out to explain to our non skating readers (Sonia & Fran, who I work with and have been forced into reading this blog by peer pressure and the threat of doing more filing) that "Skate" is basically the same as "Horse" in basketball: One person sets a trick and the other person has to repeat the same trick or get a letter (and in this case a loud question about their sexual preferences broadcast over a cheap shitty megaphone.)

Here I am, looking like a portly bearded windowlicker, shortly before organising Team Dickfingers: an eclectic slice of Skateboarding talent with varying styles and attributes on the board... We had Mr John Seaman and Jerome, who largely comprised the raw natural talent and would be heavily relied on for actually doing tricks, we had the "Artist Formerly Known As Cockleg" who provided Pressure flips and other obscure maneuvers, we also had another guy called John, who I met about 5 minutes before our game and didn't have any other team to go on. And there was me. Who provided the team name. Which was pretty vital to be fair. I would naturally consider myself as having a "Player/Manager" type role in the whole episode which consisted of everyone else doing tricks I suggested, inbetween my occasional Frontside Shove It and Bigspin.

This is a picture of our first match up against Team Cundall, or Haircut 100 as it was quickly redubbed. Team Dickfingers are perched on the left, awaiting to deliver a swift and violent arsekicking to Cundall's team of Vestwearing Bumworriers on the right. Cundall can be seen, hands on hips, in the Blue shirt, with Acid-wash skin tight jeans and a hair cut, the likes of which hasn't been seen since Ultravox. He was seen leaving almost immediately after his swift and violent defeat, having also been told that he couldn't join another team unless he played stark bollock naked...

Anyway, we managed to progress through the game reaching the Finals where we were narrowly beaten by Radman's team, who in our defence, had a professional skater and Radman, who like his name suggests, is rad and capable of doing just about any trick ever set. Ever. He managed to knock us out with a 360flip-Body-Varial which I have never seen anyone else do one. I dont think that anyone with the possible exception of Craig "50% extra free" Smedley could beat him. In short, we were buggered but did the best we could... 

Shortly afterwards there was a best trick format thing in the bowl which allowed me to roll out My One Trick, which earnt me a new hat (keen eyed readers will know my feelings on hats)...

...and allowed Death Flow Rider Mikey Patrick to fly shitting miles above the coping and embarrass fat older skaters like me....

It then started raining and I got a bit cold so we went home and had a sit down and I put my new cardigan on and watched the telly and it was pretty good to be honest. 

In preparation for THE BIRTHDAY OF THE YEAR which is arriving in 4 short days (and I swear to God that if you shits don't at least write a comment on here then you'll be subjected to the biggest internet sulk known to man) I decided to get myself an early Birthday Present and treated myself to these amazing pieces of kit right here:

Roger Skateboards are just about the greatest (and by greatest, I mean funniest) thing to ever happen to skateboarding and thats not just because I have some of their boards and am a bit pissed whilst sitting here writing this... any company that calls themselves "Roger" and has a board emblazoned with "Ghost with a Boner", a "Me So Horny Unicorn",  a "Trouser Snake" and who claim their company is based on 37% Skateboarding, 63% Weed & Tigers is alright in my book... Any Birthday presents can be purchased from there...

Keep your eyes peeled for an upcoming review on Caught In The Crossfire soon...

Toby has recently informed me that as amazing as this blog is, and I think we can all agree on that, I should attempt to tackle some issues of the day "like Gays, Aids & Abortions" so here goes... Gays are alright as long as you don't bum a dirty one and get Aids which isnt alright, but even if you do you won't need an abortion which are kind of alright as long as you arent too religious... Glad we cleared that one up... If you need any other deep searching questions answered please contact me as soon as: I'm here to help

More Updates Soon.... (maybe)