News arrived this week that convicted murderer, sporter of oversized “old person” glasses and noted speed racer Mark Lundy would be launching an appeal against his conviction for brutally murdering his wife and daughter in 2000.
This comes hard on the heels of North & South magazine’s intriguing expose into the double-murder, which points to a number of interesting titbits of evidence that may in fact be indicative of Lundy’s innocence.
It’s a point of view hardly shrouded in the fog of quiet intrigue, as a number of different sources have noted the relative “impossibility” of Lundy being capable of travelling from Welly to Palmy to slice-n-dice his wife and daughter, before scootin’ back 2Fast2Furious styles to get his dick serviced by a professional sexual mechanic.
It is perhaps best left to the courts – should the appeal gain traction – to toil through the screeds and screeds of G-rated evidence . Some will suggest that this traverse down justice lane is a waste of time and that the police case against Speedy Mark was watertight. Others, more sympathetic to Lundy’s cause, will hold the crown’s inconsistencies to heart while steadfastly maintaining that the former Gang Show superstar is innocent.
But in the cooling winds of a coming shitstorm ready to saturate the better minds of all involved, there is one thing both sides of the Lundy coin can agree on without delusions: Mark Lundy is incredibly fucking fat.
I mean, for the love all god, this man is fat. Christ on a cracker, this man… this cattlebeast of a homosapien… this Hindenburg for the Jester’s Pie generation… this emphatic tour de force of flesh is unbelievably fucking fat.
I doubt that many people can comprehend the severity of this man’s personal presence. The man may or may not be a double axe-wielding murderer, but there can be no doubt in anyone’s mind, tainted as it might be by the scourge of subjective opinion and loungechair jurisprudence, that Mark Lundy, convicted murderer, is fucking fat.
Lemme tell you about my favourite Blur lyric of all time. It comes from the titular track of their album “Park Life”, and goes a ‘lil something like this:
“WHO’S THAT GUTLORD MARCHIN’? YOU SHOULD TRY CUT DOWN ON YOUR PORK LIFE, MATE! GET SOME EXERCISE!”
So tickled was I by the noun “gutlord” that I decided to conjugate it into the verb “to gutlord”, meaning, naturally, to move in a state of fat-like existence upon this earth.
In light of Massive ML’s rolly-polly return to the headlines, I’m overcome by the need to scratch my Britpop inspired verbage and replace it with the locally lovable “to Lundy”. When used in a sentence, it may look like this:
“So, I was hanging outside Kirk building, right, when I saw this goddamn man mountain just Lundy all over the place.”
(past progressive)
“OMIGOD, so, like Stacey and I were dancing around in a little circle where our purses were, like, and then this fat fuck was all Lundying it up next to us, like, trying to krump. And we were like ‘Stop Lundying, you fucking fatso, fuck!”
“So-ah, you joined mah gym to werk out, mmm? I command vous to stop this Lundy vight now! Hans Strongman will remove ‘dees breasts with the MIGHT of his powerful solaaar plexes. Watch them can-can, puny human.”
Etcetera, etcetera.
So, irrespective of what happens when the Court of Appeal adjourns to consider flubber-dubber pot roast’s innocence (should things progress that far), I move that Mark Lundy’s notoriety – namely his protruding brisket – transcends the realms of guilt and innocence, prison and freedom, justice and injustice.
Forever may the verb “to Lundy” be scorched upon the fields of our everyday lexicon – a tasteful droplet of Kiwiana for a thirsty country eager to twist the English language for its own bastardly means.
Try it and see how many friends you make.