Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Flan

People often say: 'We've read your blog. We know your shtick. We're familiar with your so-called 'jokes'. We've seen you making unpleasant stuff up about people - people who aren't able to defend themselves due to their being dead or you blog not being famous enough to garner any notoriety newsworthy enough for them to hear about your tawdry lies. We know all about that. But,' they say, 'what about you? What about the real Richard Vivmeister, or whatever the hell your name is?'

Well, folks, in response I say this: 'Pipe that stupid racket down, because I now present to you some snapshots of my life. These pictures come to you, treasured reader, exclusively from the central photographic section of my forthcoming autobiography - "I Thought I Told You To Wait In The Car Of My Life" - in the hope that it might shed some light onto the fascinating, unyielding tangle of enigma that is... ME.'

My grandfather, Ebeneezer Vivmeister, made his fortune during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as many others did, in the world of street urchins. At its peak, his factory employed three thousand urchins. He hit on the novel idea that the bodies of those urchins in his keep who died - either of typhoid, overexhaustion or one of the dozens of severe thrashings they received daily - could be used as a source of nourishment for those urchins who had the reserves of strength and stoicism to remain alive. Thus his factory system - a staff of urchins whose sole occupation was using giant pieces of machinery to churn up their recently deceased brothers and sisters into a servicably nutritious paté on which they would later feed - was a unique, self-fuelling empire. That was until 1904, when an epidemic of 'mad urchin disease' broke out. Within a year urchins were extinct.


I was small as a boy. So small, in fact, that I was regularly goaded into having my photograph taken whilst holding everyday items for scale comparison. Here I am holding a button and a daisy.


The Vivmeister family. That's me on the right. Alongside me are my three brothers: (l-r) Gimpflake, Dotor Spunkfluffer and Pooing Goose. Also, in the centre, is my sister Diane. Or, as was known before she had her name legally changed, Tits Tits Tits Tits Tits Tits Tits. Some say our unusual names were down to the off-kilter sense of humour of our father, also in this picture. But look at his face! He was nothing more than a twisted, sadistic midget whose idea of entertainment was to staple dogs and cats together and fling them over the walls of a nearby nunnery - just to hear their screams!


Ah, here's Sylvie, my first wife. We really did love one another, but the fact that she was conjoined at the arm to a small dog was too much for us to get used to. Seriously, all that yapping and scratching; the endless weeing; and have you ever tried to make love to a beautiful woman whilst a confused, writhing dog pants his meaty Winalot breath into your face and constantly soils himself? Probably not. Well I have - it's no picnic, let me tell you.


Here's me with my second wife, Anita. This marriage was even more short-lived than its predecessor. - in fact we broke up immediately after this photograph was taken. As it perhaps indicates, her obsession with all things Victoriana was simply too much for me to handle. After three marital months of avoiding eye-contact, singing evangelical anti-masturbation anthems every sundown and pretending that the concept of God was entirely feasible, the act of sitting completely still for six hours in a starched wool suit waiting for the Daguerreotype camera to burn this image into its development plate was the final proverbial straw. Reader, I booted her down the stairs! Proverbially speaking, of course.


This is Whazzo, my estranged elder brother. Despite excelling at calculus, Latin and brain-surgery at school, his bizarre facial lesions meant a glamorous career in the circus awaited. Ironically, he's now dead.


This is one of the few surviving publicity shots from 'The Popefuherphile', a short-lived sitcom which dared to imagine a world in which the endemic culture of pederastic sexual-abuse in the Roman Catholic Church is coquettishly sent up when none other than Adolf Hitler, played by myself, is accidentally appointed Pope. Of all the episodes we shot, my own personal favourite was 'A Visit From Adolf's Identical Twin Brother'. In this episode the Popefuhrerphile's brother comes to visit. But wait - there's more! The brother is Hitler's identical twin, and a hilariously hopeless human-wreckage of a drunk to boot! The twin brother was also played by me, a feat which required both the full range of my dramatic acumen and some fiendishly clever camera trickery when it came to the shower-room spit-roasting scenes. Inexplicably, the show was never given a second series.


During my middle to later years I suffered numerous intense religious visions, mostly of Christ. Despite being initially thrilled to get to meet one of the most iconoclastic celebrities in the world, my excitement swiftly dissipated when I discovered that, as you can probably see from this picture, Jesus turned out to be a bit boring a bit creepy. Rather than telling my what God's like or what kind of drinks they serve heaven or even if Hitler really did have one knacker, he just banged on and on: 'don't do this'; 'do do this'; 'people are sort of like lilies in a way, aren't they?'; 'the world will be engulfed by Satan's tormenting hellscapes at some date or other'. What a gas-sack! And his breath - yeesh! I eventually convinced him to leave me alone.


Here I am meeting the Queen. She was lovely. The more keen-eyed amongst you will no doubt have noticed that I'm disguised as a nice-looking young lady. A hilarious jape! Or so I thought - those with eyes which are keener still will note that the Her Majesty herself also looks like a bit of a wrong 'un. Is she in disguise too? No she is not! She sent a lookalike. That's some capital japery, ma'am! She continued to do the same for three dozen subsequent re-scheduled meetings. As did I. In fact, although we never did meet, our two lookalikes eventually found love with one another. A romantic ending to a tale which was given a somewhat sinister epilogue some months late when it emerged they were mother and daughter.

Shortly after meeting the lovely Queen, I died. This is where I'm currently buried. There was a gravestone - a massive, impressive-looking one, carved to look like an inconsolable angel - but, due to a paperwork mix-up, it got cremated and scattered at sea. I've no idea where this field is, but it's fine: I like it here.

In Cinemas Now

Elliott Bullard: A Life In Seven Chips

Gambling: the dizzying high of being ‘on a role’; the success-drawn floozies; the booze; the soul-harrowing misery that is crawling about on your hands and knees for 2ps to put into one of the 2p pusher-machines; the booze; the feeling that this time you really will 'turn over a new leaf' as you leave yet another dead hooker in a bin round the back of a motel. It’s undoubtedly a world of glamour.

And now is your chance to own a part of that glamour. Among historians of financial ruin, the name 'Elliott Bullard' is legendary. He is nothing less than Orson Welles of scraping together cash. Among his myriad anti-achievements he:

- Once sold a job-lot of ‘invisible bedsheets’ to a local orphanage.
- Once disguised himself as a ball in a roulette wheel and attempted to land on the number he’d placed a bet on.
- Once disguised himself as a racehorse, entered a race after betting on himself (slowed by chronic asthma and arteriosclerosis brought on by diabetes, he came in last).
- Twice succeeded in convincing provincial mobster One-Eyed Tony that a bucket filled with pebbles was a collection of ancient, priceless glass-eyes that once belonged to Atlantis's emperor One-Eye Caesar.
- Invented Scientology.
- cut off his own hand and sold it as a novelty ‘enchanted paw’ remote-control holder.
- Stole a packet of cocktail sausages and sold them to schoolchildren as ‘enchanted monkey thumbs’.
- Sold his own poo at a ‘celebrity poo auction’ as the poo of Jayne Mansfield
- Pretended to be an accomplished street-caricaturist whilst covertly taking a sneaky Polaroid of his subject which he’d then sell as a sketch.
- Had his name legally changed by deed pole to Peter Sutcliffe and his facial features altered to look like the 1970s strangulation-fan, so he could sue various national newspapers (all court proceedings were thrown out, one judge famously labelling Bullard 'the most pathetic being imaginable').
- Spent a full year travelling door to door claiming to be Roger Lloyd Pack - AKA ‘Trigger’ from the popular sitcom Only Fools and Horses - thrusting old receipts and bus-tickets with 'autographs' on them into the hands of whoever opened the door and demanding payment.
- Spent a full year hiring himself out as a ‘professional ghostbuster’ for Catholic exorcisms, which involved little more than dressing in a mismatched tracksuit, with a leaf blower strapped to his back and crying whilst begging for pennies.
- Tried to sell a tub of candy bracelets on eBay as ‘the Crown Jewels jr.’
- Attempted to pass off a tape recording of a malfunctioning fax machine with himself sneezing over the top as a bootlegged copy of an unreleased Karlheinz Stockhausen recording.
- Shaved a bear’s face and tried to pass it off to the British Zoological Council as a rare new breed of monkey.
- Took an Ikea wardrobe apart and attempted to sell it to the British Museum as original wooden fixtures salvaged from the Titanic, along with a pair of large cracked plant pots which he marketed as the 'the Titanic's cannons'.
- Did many, many more things.

We now present you with a unique opportunity to own a small part of this rich, miserable tale: seven betting chips, paid for by one of Bullard's unique, wretched moneymaking brainwaves and lost to a number of Las Vegas's casinos, each lovingly mounted onto a board of commemorative felt to pay tribute to one of the great innovators of failing at existence.

Don't miss out! Phone 0800 55 333 55 with your credit card details now!

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You might want to click on this to see it better. Or you might not.

Proceeds go towards the Elliott Bullard Foundation whose main aim is to provide the remains of the late Mr Bullard with a servicable gravestone, although the Foundation's chairman is a strict Catholic so most of the money actually goes towards convincing Africans that condoms give them AIDS. Still, buy one. Go on. Please.

Appendix: Further Lies About George Crumb

Hello, blog. In a previous post, I drew attention to 'Stop The Drabblington-On-Sea Flyover', a blog maintained by David Jessop in an attempt, as its name suggests, to prevent a flyover from being constructed in his home town but which had sadly degenerated into a series of brief and patently untrue allegations directed at Gordon Crumb, the Councillor overseeing the construction project. Since that post, I have noticed that Mr Jessop has signed up for an account on the microblogging site Twitter, which he plans to use as, in his own words: 'a platform to tell the world THE TRUTH about George Crumb, the pen-pushing pederast.'

Here are some of those 'TRUTHS':

George Crumb rounds up orphans, crucifies them in his back garden and then pelts them with crisps and pick ‘n’ mix.

George Crumb has a series of ties he wears on a rotational basis to show what objects he’s concealing in his anus for his erotic amusement: yellow means he carries a carrot; red means a small, silenced mobile phone he occasionally sends obscene, nonsensical text messages to; and blue means a beloved, rusting pizza cutter from his childhood.

George Crumb has built himself a hollowed-out snowman near St Arnold’s Primary School. This is so he can watch the children playing and tinker with himself whilst safely concealed within.

George Crumb’s garden also contains a large military cannon and a series of large mousetraps. He uses the traps to capture woodland creatures which he then loads into the cannon and fires point blank into a wall of his house.

At Christmas, instead of giving gifts George Crumb goes on a spree of stealing presents, food and clothing from local children.

At Christmas, instead of decorating a tree, George Crumb decorates a giant steel phallus.

At Christmas, instead of singing festive carols George Crumb wanks to dog-snuff.

A video clip for George Crumb’s local election campaign on YouTube shows him laughing as he vomits into a baby’s mouth.

George Crumb sleeps in a large, mattress-less bed alongside the stolen remains of Buster Merryfield.

George Crumb recently held a Council tea-party to raise funds for Barnardos at which he was photographed there offering round a selection of biscuits on a plate to those gathered. Look closely at the picture however, and it becomes clear he was, in fact, secretly dipping his cock into their scorching-hot tea.

Also, whilst relaxing at home, George Crumb wears a turd-monocle. Yes! A turd-monocle!

The lying paedophile Gordon Crumb