THEGAMBON's new epic short film, entitled "Gambon Break", released next week on BETAmax. Just copy this link into your browser, then click "Get Gambon With It" to view:
http://megaswf.com/view/c7c641d0668e8ad465fb4d192f9e41d2.html
Monday, 9 February 2009
Sunday, 1 February 2009
In the name of the father, the son and the holy Gambon
And TheGambon sat in his pew, and wanked. For the Gambon was still randy from his Sunday Dench-athon. Mrs Brown and Chocolat he had earlier watched, for this was like any other Gambon day. And he wanked and he wanked and he wanked. And he could almost hear the noise of her deep and wistful clunge wheezing and yielding and sopping as he enjoyed now and now and now again with his mighty CRANGER. And TheDench knew this, for she was sat in the pew in front, and could hear TheGambon singing his mournful self-penned hymn ‘Inside the Bleak and Craggy Dench’. And TheGambon lent forth and intoned ‘I will brown you tonight TheDench’.
TheDench’s once-sawdust lamb hangings were hereafter referred to as ‘wetter than an otter’s pocket’ and so they were. Moist and ripe and salty. And gashy. And deep inside here did TheGamboner plunge. On the altar, in the font, upon the organ, their cracked and ruined bodies were forced together. And TheGambon did brown TheDench. Mrs Browned her. In the arse.
TheDench’s once-sawdust lamb hangings were hereafter referred to as ‘wetter than an otter’s pocket’ and so they were. Moist and ripe and salty. And gashy. And deep inside here did TheGamboner plunge. On the altar, in the font, upon the organ, their cracked and ruined bodies were forced together. And TheGambon did brown TheDench. Mrs Browned her. In the arse.
Friday, 30 January 2009
The Gambon and the changing of the tide
The Gambon awoke (if it could be called that because he was always awake) Gambon immediately knew where he’d been, that was the issue with being the creator of the Earth and all things within it. He knew everything that was occurring at any one moment, in addition to everything that had occurred and everything yet to pass. His head did not hurt (if it could be called a head, for The Gambon had neither start nor finish, top nor tail) as he was not subject to ‘hangovers’ though if his memory served him correctly (which it did, it always did) he had consumed a distillery outside of Chiswick at one point. He extricated himself from the Boudoir, filled to capacity with nubile young bodies of both sexes and a myriad of races. The only common feature amongst this sweaty mass of sleeping bodies was that they now carried the seed. They would bear his children, inevitably, inexorably after a 14 year gestation period the next generation of Gambons would spring forth from their respective hosts’ wombs/anuses/mouths/navels and continue their march toward complete domination of the known universe.
Eons ago The Gambon had wandered aimlessly from star to start, disinterested and nonchalant till his wanderlust had subsided and he struck upon a barren rock in midst of the endless universe. We now know this rock as ‘Earth’ yet its true name cannot be revealed to a mere mortal as for The Gambon to simply state it would take a lifetime’s worth of human years, this, for The Gambon, is a mere belch. Maybe out of sheer boredom The Gambon stopped and vomited forth the world, from the deep oceans, to the highest mountains and the arid deserts. The Gambon’s disinterested flick of his arm created what we consider ‘civilisation’ pyramids, sky scrapers, cathedrals and mosques were simply erected the myths surrounding our existence in place through The Gambon’s love of the mindfuck. Maybe someday thought The Gambon he might reveal the whole truth and watch as the tiny human’s individual heads popped with the pressure and complexity of it, he had once attempted to reveal it to Stephen Hawking, yet he had only got to the second word before The Gambon realised any attempt at revealing the true meaning of life and humanities’ role within it would leave the man a shrivelled pea, he had done enough damage and left Hawking quadraspazzing on the patio.
Now thought The Gambon, these impertinent little whelps were spewing forth in ever increasing numbers. These ‘humans’ whose liberal tendencies ensured that they were now concerned with ‘climate change.’
“Climate Change, FUCKING Climate Change!” thought The Gambon as he lay on the seabed (he was sometimes wont to do this).
“These little monkeys know nothing of Climate Change, I’ve lived through the Ice Ages, the melding and tearing apart of the continents, I fucking presided over it, and now they have the cheek to complain about this, THE FUCKING AUDACITY.”
In the process of becoming worked up The Gambon became aroused (if it could be called that because he was permanently aroused) and, as he lay on the sea floor his Leviathan rose to meet the sun and a hot stream of Gambon Magma spewed forth from the cracked and ancient lips of the beast. Mere days later The Gambon’s serpent relaxed and as The Gambon watched the ripples (if they could be called that, for the displacement was far greater) spread slowly at first across the water, gaining speed later, Gambon lay back and trivially thought (if it could be called a trivial thought, for The Gambon does not deal in trivialities):
“That ought to teach those FUCKERS about climate change.”
Eons ago The Gambon had wandered aimlessly from star to start, disinterested and nonchalant till his wanderlust had subsided and he struck upon a barren rock in midst of the endless universe. We now know this rock as ‘Earth’ yet its true name cannot be revealed to a mere mortal as for The Gambon to simply state it would take a lifetime’s worth of human years, this, for The Gambon, is a mere belch. Maybe out of sheer boredom The Gambon stopped and vomited forth the world, from the deep oceans, to the highest mountains and the arid deserts. The Gambon’s disinterested flick of his arm created what we consider ‘civilisation’ pyramids, sky scrapers, cathedrals and mosques were simply erected the myths surrounding our existence in place through The Gambon’s love of the mindfuck. Maybe someday thought The Gambon he might reveal the whole truth and watch as the tiny human’s individual heads popped with the pressure and complexity of it, he had once attempted to reveal it to Stephen Hawking, yet he had only got to the second word before The Gambon realised any attempt at revealing the true meaning of life and humanities’ role within it would leave the man a shrivelled pea, he had done enough damage and left Hawking quadraspazzing on the patio.
Now thought The Gambon, these impertinent little whelps were spewing forth in ever increasing numbers. These ‘humans’ whose liberal tendencies ensured that they were now concerned with ‘climate change.’
“Climate Change, FUCKING Climate Change!” thought The Gambon as he lay on the seabed (he was sometimes wont to do this).
“These little monkeys know nothing of Climate Change, I’ve lived through the Ice Ages, the melding and tearing apart of the continents, I fucking presided over it, and now they have the cheek to complain about this, THE FUCKING AUDACITY.”
In the process of becoming worked up The Gambon became aroused (if it could be called that because he was permanently aroused) and, as he lay on the sea floor his Leviathan rose to meet the sun and a hot stream of Gambon Magma spewed forth from the cracked and ancient lips of the beast. Mere days later The Gambon’s serpent relaxed and as The Gambon watched the ripples (if they could be called that, for the displacement was far greater) spread slowly at first across the water, gaining speed later, Gambon lay back and trivially thought (if it could be called a trivial thought, for The Gambon does not deal in trivialities):
“That ought to teach those FUCKERS about climate change.”
Gambonus balls
Following the recent media frenzy surrounding Michael Gambon's elevation to demi-god status amonst a committed - and enlightened - group of Gambonites, the National Lottery sought to cash in on the so-called Gambmania.
On Wednesday night The Gambon took up the BBC's invitation to guest on the National lottery on alongside that orange leathery shit-sack Dale Winton. Close aides warned the BBC of The Gambon's intolerance for overpaid, talentless celebrity succubuses but the BBC's greed outweighed its wisdom once more.
Before the show The Gambon was performing his timeless pre-match ritual of a long wank, a short cigarillo and a miniature bottle of Moet (fucking good year an' all). Winton's first mistake was to interrupt this ritual. As brazen as he is foolish the dame-voiced dunce marched into The Gambon's dressing room. 'Coo-ey Michael,' he hates being called Michael. Any co-host of a BBC primetime crap-fest knows The Gambon changed his first name to 'The' long before living memory. 'Ready for the show, eh? I'm super-excited. Just try to not giggle when I say release those big money balls. Ha ha ha.' The Gambon remained silent. His gazed tightened and he knew what had to be done. But not here. Wait for the cameras he told himself. Patience.
Winton bounded onto the stage with a typical childlike energy and naivety that betrayed the miles of arse he's ploughed. 'An amazing show we're got for you tonight' - as ever - 'with a celebrity guest Michael Gambon. The Gambon entered stage right, eyes fastened on the streetlight of Winton's orange visage. Let the Interview happen, real cool like. Yeah, that's it. He doesn't suspect a thing.
Whether the questions were Winton's or the vacuum-headed BBC writers' is still, at this early satge, unclear. What is unmistakable from the footage was that Winton failed to behold The Gambon with the respect that a 4-time Bafta winner demands. 'So Michael, what's your favourite sweet? Gambon-bons?' - pause for laughter - 'And how do you like to smoke weed? Using a Gambong?' - each pinprick of laugher enetered The Gambon's head like a child playing Ker-plunk in reverse. His rage swelled. 'And Michael, what is your favourite poetic device? Gambonomaopeia?' The audience revelled: The Gambon, reppelled.
'It's that time Michael, release those big money balls.' The time had come, the moment where maximum impact could be achieved. The Gambon steadied his nerve and with the experience of the ages slowly lowered his fly. In one swift D'Artagnonian movement The Gambon exposed his two swollen potato-sacks and beat down hard and sure upon his cervical crusader. It looked like The Gambon was cattle-prodding the heads of two fully grown gorillas between his legs. The Gambon held his breath. Within seconds his staff spewed forth a torrent of jizzum upon the hapless Winton. He expired instantly. 'Welcome to the layer cake, son.'
Thursday's papers were quick to rally to The Gambon's cause and even legendary donut-puncher Elton John admitted 'I don't think I'd have had the strength to do that on air. My God - he's got balls. I think we can all look up to The Gambon.' Gambon fans claim the reference to 'My God' should be interpreted as My God [The Gambon], he has large balls.
And so it came to pass: The Gambon more firmly etched in the consciousness of our society. He cuts the the chaff with a wand of truth.
The Gambon we thank you.
On Wednesday night The Gambon took up the BBC's invitation to guest on the National lottery on alongside that orange leathery shit-sack Dale Winton. Close aides warned the BBC of The Gambon's intolerance for overpaid, talentless celebrity succubuses but the BBC's greed outweighed its wisdom once more.
Before the show The Gambon was performing his timeless pre-match ritual of a long wank, a short cigarillo and a miniature bottle of Moet (fucking good year an' all). Winton's first mistake was to interrupt this ritual. As brazen as he is foolish the dame-voiced dunce marched into The Gambon's dressing room. 'Coo-ey Michael,' he hates being called Michael. Any co-host of a BBC primetime crap-fest knows The Gambon changed his first name to 'The' long before living memory. 'Ready for the show, eh? I'm super-excited. Just try to not giggle when I say release those big money balls. Ha ha ha.' The Gambon remained silent. His gazed tightened and he knew what had to be done. But not here. Wait for the cameras he told himself. Patience.
Winton bounded onto the stage with a typical childlike energy and naivety that betrayed the miles of arse he's ploughed. 'An amazing show we're got for you tonight' - as ever - 'with a celebrity guest Michael Gambon. The Gambon entered stage right, eyes fastened on the streetlight of Winton's orange visage. Let the Interview happen, real cool like. Yeah, that's it. He doesn't suspect a thing.
Whether the questions were Winton's or the vacuum-headed BBC writers' is still, at this early satge, unclear. What is unmistakable from the footage was that Winton failed to behold The Gambon with the respect that a 4-time Bafta winner demands. 'So Michael, what's your favourite sweet? Gambon-bons?' - pause for laughter - 'And how do you like to smoke weed? Using a Gambong?' - each pinprick of laugher enetered The Gambon's head like a child playing Ker-plunk in reverse. His rage swelled. 'And Michael, what is your favourite poetic device? Gambonomaopeia?' The audience revelled: The Gambon, reppelled.
'It's that time Michael, release those big money balls.' The time had come, the moment where maximum impact could be achieved. The Gambon steadied his nerve and with the experience of the ages slowly lowered his fly. In one swift D'Artagnonian movement The Gambon exposed his two swollen potato-sacks and beat down hard and sure upon his cervical crusader. It looked like The Gambon was cattle-prodding the heads of two fully grown gorillas between his legs. The Gambon held his breath. Within seconds his staff spewed forth a torrent of jizzum upon the hapless Winton. He expired instantly. 'Welcome to the layer cake, son.'
Thursday's papers were quick to rally to The Gambon's cause and even legendary donut-puncher Elton John admitted 'I don't think I'd have had the strength to do that on air. My God - he's got balls. I think we can all look up to The Gambon.' Gambon fans claim the reference to 'My God' should be interpreted as My God [The Gambon], he has large balls.
And so it came to pass: The Gambon more firmly etched in the consciousness of our society. He cuts the the chaff with a wand of truth.
The Gambon we thank you.
If Gambon
IF you can keep your Gambon when all about you people
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust Gambon when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can Gambon and not be tired by Gamboning,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your Gambon;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Gambon and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the Gambon you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your Gambon
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your Gambon long after they are gone,
And so Gambon when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Gamb-on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your Gambon,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt Gambon,
If all men count with Gambon, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of Gambon run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's Gambon,
And - which is more - you'll be a Gambon, my son!
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust Gambon when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can Gambon and not be tired by Gamboning,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your Gambon;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Gambon and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the Gambon you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your Gambon
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your Gambon long after they are gone,
And so Gambon when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Gamb-on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your Gambon,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt Gambon,
If all men count with Gambon, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of Gambon run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's Gambon,
And - which is more - you'll be a Gambon, my son!
Gambon The Road
A Cat-Alyst For Trouble
[extract from The Times 21/01/09]
[extract from The Times 21/01/09]
Gambon, Hollywood legend of the films Layer Cake and Dumbledore and the Specky Bastard, has come strongly out in denial of recent accusations of cruelty to animals which have been filling the internet’s inbox today. A week ago after a video on a file sharing website, believed to be http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=tdPMhy0ulzU, was widely circulated between cat-lovers and self-abusers last week in apparent hilarity at the feline’s insubordination, there was outrage in the film industry and beyond.
Gambon released an initial press statement shortly after the video became front page news, announcing, “I couldn’t give a shaven monkey’s balls what that shitty cat skittles is up to. And don’t capitalise its name, it’s a bloody cat.”, a response which drew worldwide praise for its geniality and wit. Gambon friends came out in defence too; an irate President Obama told Fox News that he was discussing military support with his advisors; even the pope, long berated by the G-Dogg for his refusal to sell him the Popemobile, stated on his myspace that Gambon had always been an “honourable man” and he had long been a member of the Gambon appreciation society on Facebook. This statement, supported by Desmond Tutu and everyone else who mattered in the church of Jesus, was another clear sign that the church is increasingly willing to discuss a terms with the Gambon Gospelites, after their recent sale of the Vatican City to their new religious rivals. It is believed at this stage skittles openly refused to retract its video from youtube and the battle lines were drawn.
After several more death threats were received by the feckless feline, the police stepped in and skittles was placed in the Witness Protection System and it was thought that this would be the end of the matter. However, two days ago skittles and one of its guard cats were found with a big fat tyre mark across their balls in a horrific and tragic hit and run case. Tributes such as this one http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=sJl2eKlFQJk&NR=1 appeared online accusing Gambon of the deaths, and the surviving guardcat picked Gambon as the driver out of a lineup of himself, Ian McKellen, Peter O'Toole and the rotting corpse of Richard Harris. Without any evidence to support the accusation however there was no prosecution and anti-animal hurting groups rushed to denounce Gambon as a result. Yesterday Gambon once again made a brief statement to the press outside his fuck-off mansion, stating,
“I have never, nor will I ever kill anything in the world, except in the medium of film. All I can say is that if I had run that bastard skittles down in my shiny hundred-grand Bentley I would have also left one survivor to spread the word that no-one messes with fucking Gambon. Now if you don’t mind I have to get this shiny hundred-grand Bentley to the garage, the front bumper is fucked.”
There was no comment from the internet, who could not be contacted at the time of press.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
THE ORIGIN OF THE GAMBON
Timeless, Ageless, Like a wine permanently at the peak of its vintage much speculation has arisen concerning the origin of the Gambon. While some consider even a discussion of his earlier years (if they can be called that for the Gambon has no concept of time and exists outside of its laws) crass in the extreme, in our capacity as Gambonists we feel it imperative to at least delve into the great tomes of Gambon and seek to eek out some truth (if it can be called that for there these are subjective terms and Gambon is the only being able to determine truth from falsehood), some explanation as to why we exist and our role as followers of the Great Gambon. Let us proceed with the Gambon:
Our Gambon, which art in Gambon,
hallowed be thy Gambon;
thy Gambon come;
thy Gambon be done,
in earth as it is in Gambon.
Give us this day our daily Gambon.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive them that trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from evil.
[For thine is the Gambon,
the Gambon, and the Gambon,
For Gambon and Gambon.
AGambon.]
On the first day there was Gambon and he created the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees, for Gambon was a benevolent creature, and though he was one of infinite power he was well aware of that. Thus in spite of his vocal chords having the power to destroy whom, or whatever he so chose he used them to soothe the lesser creatures with his rich, melifluous and booming voice.
Once, Twice, Thrice had he sought to find a world worthy of him and his talents. He had travelled endlesslessly in search of a place in which is almost unfathomable acting talent could be appreciated, then an idea, smaller than the Gambon's chances of never winning great critical appreciation, came floating into his super computer-like brain.
"Why not create a world in which your talents can be appreciated"
With this Gambon closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, and when he opened them, with a pause so perfectly timed even the most wizened and cynical critic would weep with joy the earth and everything on it was created.
There endeth the Gambon
I will not linger long on the meaning of this lesson for it is so clear as to be Gambon, but thou cannot deny the significance of this; the earth and everything in it owes its existence to the Gambon and our place is simply to spend every waking hour reciting Gambon and deciphering the true meaning of the Gambon's messages.
Our Gambon, which art in Gambon,
hallowed be thy Gambon;
thy Gambon come;
thy Gambon be done,
in earth as it is in Gambon.
Give us this day our daily Gambon.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive them that trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from evil.
[For thine is the Gambon,
the Gambon, and the Gambon,
For Gambon and Gambon.
AGambon.]
On the first day there was Gambon and he created the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees, for Gambon was a benevolent creature, and though he was one of infinite power he was well aware of that. Thus in spite of his vocal chords having the power to destroy whom, or whatever he so chose he used them to soothe the lesser creatures with his rich, melifluous and booming voice.
Once, Twice, Thrice had he sought to find a world worthy of him and his talents. He had travelled endlesslessly in search of a place in which is almost unfathomable acting talent could be appreciated, then an idea, smaller than the Gambon's chances of never winning great critical appreciation, came floating into his super computer-like brain.
"Why not create a world in which your talents can be appreciated"
With this Gambon closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, and when he opened them, with a pause so perfectly timed even the most wizened and cynical critic would weep with joy the earth and everything on it was created.
There endeth the Gambon
I will not linger long on the meaning of this lesson for it is so clear as to be Gambon, but thou cannot deny the significance of this; the earth and everything in it owes its existence to the Gambon and our place is simply to spend every waking hour reciting Gambon and deciphering the true meaning of the Gambon's messages.
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