Submitted for your consideration is this undeniably 9th entry of the Funfiltered podcast. Revere its persistence. Heed its tenacity.

Unless you're a sadist - though if the 'net has implied anything these past few days, it's epidemic masochism - you'll be happy to hear that the Funfiltered boys and I have finally reached a mutual acquiescence. Contracts have been clarified. Expectations have been established. And it's unfortunate that I don't have a third alliterative declarative but I am not your slave and I ain't in the biz of contriving triplets. I just won't do it.

At any rate, a wise man (OR WOMAN, etc.) secure enough in himself (OR HERSELF, etc.) to forgo hedge-betting should expect nothing but plain sailing from here on out. The Funlimited Man-O'-War slices through the choppy waves and I'm too mentally drained to resolve the metaphor so here's a quick glossary if you want to do the maths*.

Pirate Captain = Yours Truly

Pirates/Crew = My Workforce

Landlubbers = The Humourless

Cargo/Booty/Doubloons = Comedy

High Seas = Any Form of Adversity

Walking the Plank = The Resolution of Internal Dispute

*I know I'm fusing the spheres of English and Mathematics here in an uncannily frustrating fashion, but I refer you to the preceding language if you want to pause before spelling out "CHARLATAN" in (human?) faeces on my Ford Fiesta again. It's nine letters long, it was definitely a sourer experience for you than it was for me! Never heard of "PHONY", you trogs?!

Please don't write that either.

Please just leave me alone.

Behold Episode 8 of the Funfiltered podcast and bask in the collected whiff of its contributors' enduring rejection of public uninterest.

This week, the spotlight is shone chiefly on Doctor Who, that most British of televisual institutions. I remember sitting on Pa's lap of a Saturday eve, ingesting the futuristic delights of Hartnell through Baker (Tom), providing if nothing else (but hot diggity was there else) an opportunity for Pa and I to examine the intimacy of our relationship and the wavering propriety of lap-settlement through adolescence.

With any time-travel offering, paradoxes will abound, e.g., the BBC shepherding one of the most beloved shows for children of all time whilst systematically precipitating their abuse behind closed doors.

Life has SHADES.

It ain't all black and white. And even if it was, it wouldn't matter either way, as feasible monster Michael Jackson once reminded us (see podcast).

My PO Box would have me believe otherwise, but just in case any of you were frozen, chops agape, in confusion, at the absence of a podcast last week, the blame falls squarely on the shoulders of the generation gap and the differing attitudes to work on either side of the chasm. I know the imagery is compromised but I've been burning the candle at both ends for what would feel like forever if time still had any meaning to me and Pfidze has failed to replenish the Red Bull reservoir. Gaps don't have shoulders. Unless "Gap" is a Vietnamese name or something.

Here's Episode 7. Expect exchanges concerning music, love and religion, but without the authority or insight that would make the whole endeavour fundamentally worthwhile.

My favourite musician is Hobie Winkel, a ragtime pioneer from the turn of the century. The 20TH CENTURY, that is. You probably haven't heard of him.

PFIDZE, BRING ME MY WINGS!

I apologise for this brief lapse in landlordiness, but the lady of the moment has yet to respond to any of my postings.

MAN SEEKING WOMAN, 35-40, EYES THAT IMPLIED CONFIDENCE WITHOUT BEING OBNOXIOUS:

I was sitting in the upstairs waiting area of the doctors' surgery last Tuesday. I was the chap holding a sample of his urine in a vial. As my name was called over the automated system, your infant repeated it in an infantile (as would follow) mimic. You gasped in amazement, turned and informed me that "Jeremy" and "Kettle" were the fifth and sixth words, respectively, that your child had articulated, albeit sloppily. I was in a rush but am I clinically bananas to think there was a connection there? I'd like to capitalise on this momentum we've generated and make hay while the Sun shines - forgive the mixed metaphors. I'm not getting younger nor is your menopause a million miles away. I must stress, your child honours me with its serenade, but I am not its father and my wallet will reflect that.

But yes, this insipid podcast.

One hopes you harbour a fragment of interest in Sonic the Hedgehog (he of the eponymous franchise) or otherwise enjoy artistic snobbery and resentment of success posing as concern for the state of cinema. Professional jealousy makes for an ugly mug, especially when the mug in question belongs to an amateur whom I personally find unattractive regardless.

It ultimately doesn't matter how visually unappealing he is. I'm not saying he should be judged solely on that basis. It's just a happy accident that his ugliness of character is expressed aesthetically. Either way, I'm not gay. It's almost 2020* and far be it from me to suggest that beauty has any value. Nor am I bi.

*The Year for Hindsight. Has anyone stumbled across this yet? Pfidze, can we patent this?

Despite insistence, this episode of the podcast gets all sombre as the boys desperately reach for integrity. Frankly, I feel that I've lost control of them. At every turn, they cut corners, disregard my direction and scrounge for loopholes in their contracts by interpreting it literally. They are as dirty Geordie TRAMPS, combing madly for pennies on a pissy Saturday cobblestone.

So please allow me to redress the balance with some observational comedy.

We all know the suffix "logue", right? We've all seen it. It means, "a combining form used in the names of kinds of discourse, spoken or written". Unmistakably. So take the noun "analogue", right. CRUCIALLY NOT THE ADJECTIVE. Well, if you look a little closer, that could mean "discourse concerning the anus", couldn't it? "Talking out one's arse" takes on a whole new meaning! Or, more accurately, I've assigned a pre-existing word to a separate, pre-existing concept!

Lexicographical horseplay will forever be an elixir to remedy the ills of fucking opportunists.

If you laughed at my joke, almost laughed or considered laughing, please express your gratitude by "sharing" Funlimited with your friends. Winter impends and boilers don't repair themselves.

❄️🥶💀💰😎

Welcome to this nominally Halloween edition of the podcast. Within/upon(?) this episode, the boys begin by adhering conservatively to my brief, before abandoning all commitment to theme and quarrelling over the frivolous.

As per their contract, however, which stipulates that 50% of all oratory intercourse must comply with my "theme assignments", I am obligated to retain their services. 'What is the Lesson here?' I reflexively ask.

Context of Lesson: a man keels over and drops a bag of potatoes in an Asda car park. You offer assistance. He tells you he suffers from sciatica and that he's a solicitor, the latter datum striking you as a non-sequitur, but okay. You stash the spuds in the boot. He tells you should you require any judicial aid in future, he will provide it gratis in what begins to resemble Freemasonry. You take his card. "Ignatius Pusk, Practicer at Law" is printed upon it in sanguine calligraphy, the lettering covering the colour spectrum in a design so unappealing it can only suggest total confidence in legal ability. When the time comes to draw up contracts for your burgeoning humour enterprise, you recall Ignatius Pusk.

Point of Lesson: Don't.

I listened to half of this episode in the waiting room of the doctors' surgery. The episode is an hour and twenty-three minutes long. Half of that is forty minutes (thereabouts). Standards have dropped in healthcare. The receptionist had psoriasis on her elbow and that hardly instils confidence.

What's more (or less), the screens cycling through the same slides on repeat vacillate zealously between belittling your (one's) malady, e.g., "Is it just a sore stomach you have? Fuck off." - I'm paraphrasing - and advising you (one) that your (one's) cough is probably indicative of malignancy. Strike a tone, quacks!

I dutifully joined the queue in the pharmacy. Suddenly, a pair of hopheads "cut in line" to exchange some needles. My opinions on drug enforcement/rehabilitation are too nuanced to find justice here, so I shan't plunge. I will, however, point out that the male druggard boasted a "hat" of tattoos, "hat" being the functional equivalent of the "sleeve". His head was shaved but clumsily, his hair protruding and retreating as a bar chart. Re: casting judgment on this man's essential nature, my lips art sealed. But can someone explain to me the correlation between heroin addiction and aesthetic... not merely inattention... aesthetic profanity?

Incidentally, I'm healthy in any relative sense. I presumed your concern because decency needn't be a relic gathering dust in the attic alongside the DVD player and the nuclear family.

This episode is mostly filth and I condone it wholly ironically.

Feast your consciousness on this blessedly abbreviated sonic ejaculation*.

The concision of the episode, in tandem with the cancellation of my capoeira evening class due to ringworm, meant that I had the time to listen. And, on reflection, my retort would be, 'Maybe so, but at least they're consistent.'

*So many words have erroneously fallen into disrepute or otherwise atrophied with misuse. "Ejaculate" used to mean "to utter suddenly and vehemently". Now you can't say "Daddy" sincerely. Not that one is particularly inclined. I employ "ejaculation" quite intelligently and you snigger, don't you? And yet you're all happy to call anyone who can knock out a harmony a genius. Ever read Wuthering Heights? Emily Brontë puts "ejaculation" to good use. So, if you criticise me, you're slagging her off so just think about that for a damn second.

Bibliography:

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ejaculate, (accessed 17 October 2019).

Feast your consciousness on this blessedly abbreviated sonic ejaculation*.

The concision of the episode, in tandem with the cancellation of my capoeira evening class due to ringworm, meant that I had the time to listen. And, on reflection, my retort would be, "Maybe so, but at least they're consistent."

*So many words have erroneously fallen into disrepute or otherwise atrophied with misuse. "Ejaculate" used to mean "to utter suddenly and vehemently". Now you can't say "Daddy" sincerely. Not that one is particularly inclined. I employ "ejaculation" quite intelligently and you snigger, don't you? And yet you're all happy to call anyone who can knock out a harmony a genius. Ever read Wuthering Heights? Emily Brontë puts "ejaculation" to good use. So, if you criticise me, you're slagging her off so just think about that for a damn second.

Bibliography:

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ejaculate, (accessed 17 October 2019).

Recline and apprehend the indulgence of three adult males*.

I told the boys to bar no holds, take no prisoners and conceptually frolic. And, if at all possible, to make no enemies. This is what they delivered...‡

Expect "spoilers" for everything discussed.

If "spoilers" upset you or if anything else in the podcast upsets you, take stock. Elsewhere, there's poverty.

*Future episodes will be shorter if I have anything to say about it. And I do. Not only have I things to say, I've a goddamn ship to steer, in addition to final cut.

‡FYI, the ellipsis isn't mean to convey portent or suspense. I simply haven't listened. There are only so many hours in a day and I'm well within my rights to outsource quality control to lings and undergrunts.