Steven Wright. He’s odd.


I woke up one morning and all of my stuff had been stolen…and replaced by exact duplicates.

Half the people you know are below average.

42.7% of all statistics are made up on the spot.

All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand.

The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

I almost had a psychic girlfriend, but she left me before we met.

OK, so what’s the speed of dark?

How do you tell when you’re out of invisible ink?

Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.

When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.

Ambition is a poor excuse for not having enough sense to be lazy. 625x600comedyswright_cd1

Extract from Steven Wright’s “I Still Have a Pony”. Wonderful stuff.

I intend to live forever – so far, so good.

What happens if you get scared half to death twice?

My mechanic told me: “I couldn’t repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder”.

Why do psychics have to ask you for your name?

The problem with the gene pool is that there is no lifeguard.

The sooner you fall behind, the more time you’ll have to catch up.

My father was a circus clown. When he died all his friends went to the funeral in the same car.

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Unfunny for Money


A woman tried to sell me a fireplace this morning. No she didn’t: she tried to give me a free fireplace. All I had to do was to have a new central heating system installed in my house. You’ve probably met her. She stands just a little way along from the 2 MENCAP chuggers, just before you get to the “Fitness First” leaflet girl and the Childline herberts. The streets are full of weird-looking people asking for your money.

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Would you give money to this man?

Remember when the walk to work was just a matter of negotiating the occasional RNLI flag-seller or the Salvation Army? No? Well you’re younger than me, then. The Sally Army started it all, and I guess they did have a kind of dignity about them. Back in the days of black-and-white an old girl from the Sally Army used to come into my grandad’s pub selling copies of The Warcry.
Brian would put down his darts and agree to buy one, on the condition she stood on a chair and sang a song, which she always did without argument (presumably Onward Christian Soldiers, or Bringing in the Sheaves).

She was then helped down off the chair, and left the pub bereft of one copy of her newspaper, but up to the tune of a couple of farthings. Certainly a better deal than she’d get nowadays. If she walked into my pub shouting “Warcry” she’d be greeted with a drunk chorus of “Geronimo !!!”. No sheaves would be brought, and certainly no rejoicing would have been had doing it.

So as I sit here in my bathtub full of Taka Dahl, resplendent in my Madonna T-shirt and Red Nose (yes, it’s that sodding time again) I want to make it clear to you all that I’m in no-way adverse to a bit of charity work. I give to the causes I like, when and how I like. Not in mid-pint, mid-pee or mid-grouch on the way to work, just cos some spotty git waves a clipboard at me on London Bridge. WHY AREN’T YOU AT SCHOOL ANYWAY ????

Talking of charity cases, is there any hope for the England Rugby XV this year? Probably not. Martin Johnson is looking more and more like the deckchair attendant on the Titanic, as his charges dive cauliflower-ears first over the side and into the icy waters of the sin-bin. Refs are handing out cards like Japenese reps at a sales conference?
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An England fan displays both
his displeasure and his goolies.

To take our mind off the inevitable victory of a French XV over an England XI, let’s all join hands and pray for an Italian win. That’d make up for everything—even the cricket.
Oh well, that’s my weekend plan anyway: In front of the rugby on the telly with a crate of beer, on a warm sofa and the fire at full blast (cos, you see, I already own one.)

Boo Joggers!


Billy’s Desiderata by Billy Connolly

Tread gently on anyone who looks at you sideways.
Have lots of long lie-ins.
Wear sturdy socks, learn to grow out of medium underwear
and if you must lie about your age do it in the other direction:
tell people you’re 97 and they’ll think you look fucking great.

Try to catch a trout and experience the glorious feeling of letting it go
and seeing it swimming away.
Never eat food that comes in a bucket.
If you don’t know how to meditate at least try to spend some time every day just sitting.

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Boo joggers. Don’t work out, work in. Play the banjo.
Sleep with somebody you like. Eat plenty of liquorice allsorts.
Try to live in a place you like. Marry somebody you like.
Try to do a job you like.
Never turn down an opportunity to shout ‘fuck them all!’ at the top of your voice.

Avoid bigots of all descriptions.
Let your bed become to you what the Pole Star was to sailors of old… look forward to it.
Don’t wear tight underwear on aeroplanes.
Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes. After that, who cares?
He’s a mile away and you’ve got his shoes.

Clean your teeth and keep the company of people who will tell you when there’s spinach on them.
Avoid people who know the answer.
Keep the company of people who are trying to understand the question.
Don’t pat animals with sneaky eyes.
If you haven’t heard a good rumour by 11am, start one.

Learn to feel sorry for music because,
although it is the international language, it has no swearwords;
if you don’t count Wagner which in my opinion is one long one and should be avoided at all cost.
If you write a book, be sure it has exactly 74 ‘fucks’ in it.
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Send Hieronymous Bosch prints to elderly relatives for Christmas.
Avoid giving LSD to guide dogs.
Don’t be talked into wearing a uniform. Salute nobody.
Campaign against blue smarties.

Above all, go to Glasgow at least once in your life
and have a roll and square sliced sausage and a cup of tea.
When you feel the tea coursing over your spice singed tongue,
you’ll know what I mean when I say ‘It’s good to be alive!’

Go on Yerself, Big Man

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