Hello. It is May. Behold, the fifth instalment of Interesting Skull, a monthly newsletter by me, Mike Rampton — tennish so-so gags, some almost-thoughts and a bit of self-promotion.
1
What does sexy garlic do?
Takes its cloves off.
2
“I recently had some Dijon mustard delivered.”
“Maille?”
“No, by Tesco.”
3
I used to worry that if I went outside I’d be attacked by a very fluffy rabbit. I was angoraphobic.
A joke about mustard, there. Feel free to take that as a condiment.
My wife became a British citizen the other week and had to swear allegiance to the king. Today my daughter went to school in red, white and blue for the coronation. I am sharpening my guillotine. Like, I’ll watch it on telly (in the pub), as it’s a piece of history taking place, but I also totally, totally hate it. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and would refuse an MBE or OBE. I would 100% accept a knighthood though, and attend the ceremony in a full suit of armour on a BMX.
About ninety minutes ago I accepted an offer to write a book. It’s taken a really, really long time to get to this point, from original idea to proposal to re-jigged proposal to “let’s do it, expect an offer letter soon” to offer letter to “I don’t know what any of these numbers mean, and can any of them be a bit higher please?” to “yes”. And it’s for, realistically, 8% of what I could do with making every year. So all I need to do is all that again but hendecupled (thanks, Wikipedia’s list of tuples), every year, forever, and I’m laughing. I think if I do have a future as an author, it’s the type that writes 700 books in twenty years and barely remembers most of them. Finish a book after breakfast, have a coffee, start another. I’m quite into that. Industrial literature.
4
“I’m writing a joke about my favourite part of the eye that will be even better than my usual jokes!”
“Cornea?”
“How absolutely dare you, my jokes are excellent.”
5
“This cool punk record about being downtrodden has sold so many that it's being manufactured again.”
“Re-pressed?”
“Yes, this cool punk record about being repressed has sold so many that it's being manufactured again.”
6
“I recently got attacked by one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
“Flea?”
“No, I stood my ground and let John Frusciante strike me.”
My actual favourite part of the eye is the retina, which gets its name from its location: retina backaya eye. And the Chili Peppers joke is cheap — doing a pun based on someone’s made-up name is a bit rubbish, I am fully aware. I was discussing that the other day, actually, over a Chinese meal with the guy from the Offspring. (“Noodles?” “No, lead singer Dexter Holland.”)
I sometimes used to wonder why my jokes didn’t get more traction, but the centre of the Venn diagram of Tim Vine devotees and people who read Kerrang! a lot between 2001 and 2006 is fairly slender.
I walked past a famous person the other day, which was the first time that has happened since moving to Cambridge. I used to be a big fan, when I worked in London and saw mildly famous people a lot, of getting stupid selfies with them, flicking the V sign. I called the project I Swear You’re Famous, which is a really good name. I’d link to it, but (a) the site is slightly broken and only gives you a few later entries; and (b) about 30% of the famous people I met have since been disgraced.
But in a post-Covid world, approaching someone you don’t know and putting your arm around their shoulder is much less acceptable. So I let hunkily asymmetrical newsreader Andrew Marr proceed uninterrupted.
(Unrelated but feels related: I was running the other day and passed a driving instructor named A Karr. Really pleasing. “Who taught you to drive?” “A Karr.” “I… how?” etc.)
I’ve done more writing, which is good, because that’s what my job is and I don’t have any money!!! I’m enjoying doing first-person pieces for the i paper, which generally come with a request for photographs. Sometimes this is easy — if you’re writing about learning to drive you sit in a car and look perplexed — and sometimes it’s anything but. I had to try to personify the concept of ‘attempting to be optimistic’ the other day, which I did by looking thoughtfully at a half-full (or half-empty) glass of water. All the glasses in my house have brewery logos or animals on apart from a my daughter’s small ones, which are tinted, so the whole thing was daft. I did, however, find my face on the front page, and didn’t even have to be murdered for it.
I’ve done some more interesting historical pieces for Cracked. An elephantine tragedy. A chess robot that was just a man in a box. Tycho Brahe and how he was brought down by not having a wee-wee. One figure that cropped up in an article was called Philip Thicknesse, a name which for some reason makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.
There were only eight school days in April. I am very behind.
7
My neighbours are livid after I accidentally plastered the wooden panels between our gardens with pictures of Sharon, Jim, Andrea and Caroline. I didn't mean to Corrs a fence.
8
“I listened to my favourite song from the musical Little Shop of Horrors while having laser eye surgery.”
“Suddenly Seymour?”
“I certainly can, yes.”
9
“What do you think of my short essay about HeLa cells?”
“Lacks substance”
“Yes, that’s the stuff, what did you think of my short essay about it?”
If a movie was made of the situation in joke number eight, starring Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas (as seen on the front page of the newspaper with me), it could be called LASIK Instinct. When I think of these jokes I write them into WhatsApp in a thread only I am in. Sometimes it’s the full joke, sometimes just a note. One note in there this month: “Chimneys in the house”. I have absolutely no idea what that means. Thanks for reading, if you did. Please tell people about this. Tell them I’m good, then tell me I’m good! Tell me I’m good! Tell me I’m good! HAVE A LOVELY MONTH
10
WHAT I AM CURRENTLY READING
Jeeves, You Dickhead! by 12A Wodehouse
An Intimate Paper Cut by Nick Danus
You’ve Finished Your Poo by Jean Zup
It Was A Bit Like The X-Factor by Faye McAdemy
How William Gets His Can Of Lager To Froth Up by William Shakespeare