Non-working Monkey is an unemployed simian from south London. Despite lack of job opportunities, apparently the monkey has enough money to buy crisps. Lets hope they are Salt and Vinegar Discos.
Name eight (fictional or non-fictional, alive or dead) people you would never, under any circumstances, invite to a dinner party, and why.
Cliff Richard. Rubbish. Weird mouth. Reckons hes Heathcliff. Would talk about God and Una Stubbs and whatnot.
Sarah Brightman. Voice like a child. Shagged Lloyd Webber. Would scare me with her rolling eyes. Wouldnt know where to look.
Catherine The Great. Did not die shagging a horse, therefore no point having her round; wouldnt have much to say.
Cecilia Aherne. Cannot write, yet sells millions of books across the world. Would talk a lot, as publishers have told her she is Important. However, has nothing to say and as can barely string two sentences together on paper despite the services of a team of twelve editors, am not sure how interesting her dinner party chit-chat would be.
Luther. Dry stick. Lived on Diet of Worms, which I would not cook. Would try and nail theses to my door. Went on holiday to places like Warburg, where I have not been, so no light-hearted holiday banter either.
Jamie Oliver. Would say bish bash bosh a lot. Lolling tongue would be offputting. Would chastise me for chopping my basil with a mezzaluna rather than tearing it. Jules would be on the mobile giving it ring ring Jamie where are you I am at home again with the children. Annoying.
King Lear. Old, confused, would bring Fool (probably wearing hat with bells, and stick with pigs bladder on the end). Would be giving it Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! before pudding and banging on lack of familial gratitude. Boring and probably incontinent.
Thomas Hardy. Bore. Shut up, Thomas Hardy. Shut up. Idiot.
Tony Parsons would try and gatecrash but I wouldnt let the fucker in. Hed then go and meet Jon Ronson and Paul Morley in the pub and theyd whine a lot about how they were really important cultural commentators, but no-one really understood them. Then theyd go home (on different night busses) and each write an article about being a cultural commentator, only to meet the following morning at the studios of Five, where they would record a programme called Top 100 Cultural Commentators introduced by Janet Street-Porter, commenting on each other and themselves until everyones heads exploded. No-one would watch the programme, not even Miranda Sawyer and that bird out of Heat magazine.
Whats the funniest word in the world? Apart from biscuit?
Also very strong: when crossed, call someone an espèce de maniaque sexuel.
Have you ever grown a moustache? If so, where?
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