APRIL 2009: PLAYMEAT OF THE MONTH

As we see April 2009 slip into the dustbin, I figured it was time to look back over the past month and see who qualifies to be the April 2009 Playmeat of the Month. Now, I must make it clear that I'm looking for a fine and impressive example of the female form here, not some vaccuous skin-and-bone bimbo with over-inflated breasticles and a deeply held belief in poodles saving the world. No indeed, the position of Playmeat of the Month demands not only beauty, but also some acceptable level of humanity, decency and intelligence (plus the ability to be as dirty as a gypsy's armpit does help in the selection).

At first I thought about Madonna. Say what you will, the old bird still has a frame worth polishing, but her insistence on trying to buy up the poor and needy from third world countries isn't what you really want from a Playmeat of the Month. Now, Britney has added extra tour dates, which pushes her to the fore, but she's lost the appeal she had as a shaven-headed drunken drug-fuelled car crash. The new fangled Britney just doesn't cut the mustard. Then there's Bea Arthur. The 86 year old actress passed away (she was the one in the Golden Girls with a voice like a blunt chainsaw going through a rusty steel plate), but she missed the posthumous honour as I'd no doubt be accused of promoting necrophilia (okay, if I was going to indulge in a bit of corpse-love, Bea Arthur isn't on my list, or even the substitute's bench).

I briefly considered UK Home Secretary Jacqui Smith. She's not a bad looking old bus, and she knews her way around an Expenses form, but her recent troubles have led to her screwing her face up in a stressed and rather unattractive way. That, coupled with the idea of her old chap having one off the wrist at the taxpayer's expense is enough to turn you off altogether.

I also briefly considered aging actress Joanna Lumley. Even in her later years, she still possesses something of that sparkle she exhibited when Purdey in the New Avengers. However, having witnessed her jumping up and down in celebration having secured a reprieve for the Ghurkas (whose cause she was championing), I changed my mind. Don't get me wrong, I too support the Ghurkas, but there's a time and a place for an aging woman to be jumping about with her fist in the air.

When it comes down to it, there was only ever going to be one winner; the Baroness! This year is the 50 year anniversary of her first taking a seat in Parliament, and I'm sure every red-blooded male (and a fair few lesbians too) will agree when I say what a glorious seat it was! Although the actual anniversary is in October, the Thatch has been celebrated by television and radio programmes this month as the media builds up to the celebration of  the best thing that ever happened to Britain since we discovered that yeast, hops and barley made a thing called Beer!

Back to the Thatch. Like a Stilton, she got better with age. Lucky old Denis, that's all I can say. I mean, imagine rattling those bones on a regular basis. No wonder he was permanently pissed, trying to kill the hours until he could once again be in the grasp of the Iron Lady.

Margaret Hilda Thatcher, you are still sizzling HOT!

Stupid Time Wasting Twats

Now, for many 'normal' people, it will come as no surprise that there are certain individuals out there who have nothing better to do than follow others around, nitpicking and complaining and pissing their pants over anything and everything. These people simply have such futile and empty existences that the only way they can get a hard-on is to drag someone else down and then crow like simpletons about how well they've done conquering the tyranny that surrounds them.

A prime example of such fuck-wittery comes with the news that the Advertising Standards Authority received 12 complaints (yes, there's 12 of the idiots) that an advertisement by insurance company Swiftcover featured the clown prince of rock, Ignatius Pop (aged 112), extolling the virtues of the cover he enjoyed. However, the dirty dozen complainants were enraged (they always get enraged, which is why taunting such folk can be hugely entertaining) that 197 year old Ignatius actually did not have insurance with Swiftcover. Not only that, but Swiftcover did not offer cover for musicians.

What a crime! What a sin! That's some weird sin!

So, who complained; Barry White? I know that there are people out there who waste their time and effort whinging about stupid and nonsensical things, but this takes the biscuit (okay, report me, I haven't got any fucking biscuits).

Come on; surely everyone knew it was a gimmick. I mean, who ever believed that Ignatius Pop (aged 438) even knew what insurance was?

Pearls Before Swine

Ladies and Gentlemen, we stand on the brink of disaster, we stare into the gaping jaws of death, we watch the last glimmer of light in the eyes of humanity fade; oblivion beckons as the human race prepares to shuffle off this mortal coil on account of pig sickness. Yes indeed, our trottered friends will have the last laugh as the populations of entire continents fall foul to swine flu. It's all over, the end is nigh, and I wish I hadn't spent last weekend out in the fields, licking pigs.

It's a crying shame, really; I'd always hoped that the human race would fall over due to some great technological marvel, like the atom bomb. A blinding flash, a searing wall of heat, and thirty years watching your flesh drop off your bones whilst you admired the genius that designed such a devastating weapon. Alternatively, we could have populated the Moon, or even Mars, only to discover that those planets (yes, I am aware that the Moon isn't a planet) were more fucked up than Earth. We could cough our way to the grave wondering at the dedication of those that built space buses to take us into space and to our eventual doom.

Sadly, the great technology-inspired death isn't what the human race can expect. Instead, it seems that a common cold, caught via some pork action, will be the demise we all least expected. Here we were, debating whether the polar ice caps would melt, the seas dry up, the sun go out, or any one of a million other bullshit fates that the Greenies said would assault the planet we call home. All that recycling, all that driving around in hybrid cars, all that cycling, and for what? For pig flu, my friends. So as ye sow...

Now, I don't mind about a spot of pig flu. I deserve it. I won't recycle, I won't consider alternative energy and I'm buggered if I'm walking anywhere. I'm not going to allow the works of Rudolf Diesel, the Wright Brothers, Frank Whittle, Nickolaus August Otto or J Robert Oppenheimer be pushed into the dustbin of history by a bunch of ecologically unsound lunatics. No, we'll never know if global warming is fact or fantasy, because we're all going to die of pig sickness.

I'll go and lick that sow now, once I've burned these old tyres!

Men, Porn and Waging War

It's an age-old topic of debate; why do men like pornography so much, and women can take it or leave it? No, I don't doubt for a minute that a few men will read this and shake their heads disapprovingly, reassuring themselves that they don't like pornography at all; no, not a bit! It degrades women and exploits them. There will also be a few women reading this who also shake their heads and disagree, thinking that actually they like nothing better than viewing a bit on flesh-on-flesh action with the associated explosions of bodily fluids.

Okay, I'll accept that a few men don't like porn, and a few women do like porn. Actually, that's wrong. It's not about liking porn; it's about needing it! Let me explain, and this explanation will actually underline how we get slight variances in both men and women. 

The human species has evolved from monkeys. Whilst the monkeys stayed in the trees eating bananas (a positive move given where the Labour retards have taken us), mankind adapted and changed to best suit his or her environment. Men generally grew larger than women, as they were hunter-gatherers. Woman developed in certain ways too, ensuring that they could protect their children and enjoy champagne. The traditional roles were established and we evolved to fit them. Men were programmed by Mother Nature to hunt, carry, fight, control and generally do stuff in sheds. Women evolved into being homekeepers, Mothers and designated drivers. Herein lies the reason for (most) men's need for porn.

Women's brains adapted to keeping the kind of data they required for their daily tasks. They are better than men at remembering faces and names. This is why women can see an actor or actress and tell you all the films or programmes they've seen them in before. They developed this skill so that when a sabre-toothed tiger attacked, they could quickly spot and protect their children, letting those that weren't their offspring get eaten instead.

Men's brains allowed them to develop a differing skill-set. They learned to make weapons, they learned to follow tracks and spot changes in the environment. They learned to examine behavioural patterns. They learned to throw spears, to butcher meat, to carry large dead animals and to use knives with dexterity. This meant they could get tooled up, follow the tiger, calculate when it would be at its most vulnerable, attack and kill it, save the meat for food and use the skin to make the missus a lovely pair of shoes.

You don't need to be Stephen Hawking to work out that means men's brains had ten tasks to the women's one task. Now, let's move into the modern age. Men have to use their mental capacity to build stuff, fix things, fight wars, drive fast and generally run the planet. Women have to remember where the hoover is, and that they like shoes.

Now, before any lady with even a tinge of feminism gets the hump, I am NOT saying that men are cleverer than women. I am saying that men stuff more things into the brains, filling them up. Like a computer, they cram so much stuff in that their memory space becomes limited, slowing down the thought process. That's why we forget so much stuff like anniversaries and picking wives up after Christmas parties. 

Women limit what they stuff into their brains, thus ensuring that their memory is never taxed. A man will forget his wife's birthday, but a wife will never forget every instance that her husband forgot something. That free space is what makes women more efficient.

It also leaves them plenty of space to think about penises. Even if they forget about them, they only need to switch off the hoover and turn on the television, and the harpies on Loose Women will remind them of penises with the incessant cock-related drivel.

Women can go shopping and think of penises at the same time. They can iron clothes and think of penises. Their free mind space can be filled with mental images of penises. Men can't do that. Our brains are filled with important shit like making weapons to kill other men, or the part numbers of every component that makes up a Cortina 1600E engine. We forget about tits and how nice they are, because our brains are too full to retain mental images of breasts. Therefore, we NEED porn, to remind us just how lovely our wives and girlfriends are.

Case closed.

Let It Rain (please)

Now, being a fan of football and motorcycle racing, with a partial interest in horse racing during the National Hunt season, I always used to think that I pretty much had enough sport to keep me amused. The interesting thing about sport is that there are shitloads of varieties, ranging from the gentle pace of bowls or golf through to the raging fury of a good boxing match. Most of us pick a couple, and then stick with them. Some people pick loads and stick with them all. Few people (if any) dislike every sort of sport.

I know a bloke who would tell you that he does hate every sport that's out there, but on any given evening or weekend he's out screaming around the countryside on a mountain bike. It shows that even those who hate sport like it.

Given that there are so many forms of sport, it always seems a bit odd when 'new' sports come along. On occasions they're simply old sports repackaged, or they're different concepts based upon other sports, such as free-running and base-jumping. In many of these 'new' sports, you find yourself scratching your head and asking why.

Last year, I was in Beijing for the Olympics, and was fortunate enough to be at the final of the Womens' Beach Volleyball. Now, when I say fortunate, I didn't think that from the start. I didn't really want to see it. I figured it would be good for about five seconds, and then be very very dull, with an additional does of dullness thrown in. Indeed, the only reason I ended up in my seat was because I spent the previous 18 hours in a bar, and was too drunk to realise where we were going on the morning of the match.

Now, you have to ask why Womens' Beach Volleyball has never taken off in the UK, and the answer would probably be because of the weather. However, I can assure you all that British weather is just what this sport needs! The day of the final saw Beijing hit with torrential rain. The stands at the arena flooded, and most people were ankle-deep in water. By the grace of Mao, I had a front row seat and so was able to rest my feet on the rail.

I genuinely thought they'd postpone the event, but no. Not a chance. Then it happened. Into the teeming rain came the warm-up act; cheerleaders in bikinis. Now, I don't know about you, but I think their look is enhanced by the rain. Anyone disagree?

So, those sports fans amongst you will want to know what the actual match was like. It was long. It was dull. Long and dull. It was so long. So very long, and so very dull. In a word, it was rubbish. Mind you, with half-time entertainment like that, who gives a toss?

Bombay Calling (from the faraway zone...)

Today, I am an angry overweight man from Hingerland, who, quite frankly, has had his fill of the cosmopolitan world that seems to be unable to function correctly. Don't get me wrong; given a choice right now I'd be on top of the Rex Hotel in Saigon sipping a 333 beer. I do appreciate all that the multi-cultural whirligig of life has to offer. However, today I want to be a Hingerlish man, in Hingerland, talking Hingerlish to other Hingerlish speakers. Why? Because I've been on the bloody phone all day, to Bombay. Did it get me anywhere? Did it fuck!

Now, I can imagine right now that several Pinkos will be marking my card. As well as being labelled a child abuser by them because this blog carries a comedy Terry Thomas-style picture on a brat being spanked (my cease and desist notice is currently winging its merry way from my wig-wearing friend), I'll no doubt be a racist and an imperialist to boot. Yes, I know it's Mumbai, but today it feels like bloody Bombay.

What am I rabbiting on about, you might ask? Lets be honest, if you need to ask, then you haven't bought financial services, insurance, healthcare cover or any products from a major supplier and needed to discuss anything with them in the last five years. Yes indeed, I've been on to the Indian call centre.

Now, let me make one thing very very clear; I don't care if I'm talking to Indians in Bombay, Pakistanis in Islamabad, Chinese in Beijing, Jews in Jerusalem or, God forbid, French in Paris. I don't care who they are, because I don't want to bloody talk to them. Not now, not ever. I did business with an English company, in England, with English money, to form a contract recognised in English law. Is it too much to ask to talk to someone in England about my English problem?

No disrespect to the Indians; their English is much better than my Punjabi. That said, when reporting storm damage once, I underlined my plight by pointing out I had to put a bucket under a leaking roof. The response was a slightly confused: "Excuse me, what is bucket?"

Anyway, yes, their English is decent enough, but they have no concept of accountability, urgency or the Hingerlish expectation that as a customer, we demand a supplier take ownership of problems. They tell you next to nothing, do less, and then fuck off to lunch.

There is also the fact that they are employed as telephone answerers. They don't understand the inner workings of whatever they are supporting. They just look on the checklist and respond accordingly. If your query isn't on the checklist, you're royally fucked. Ask for a supervisor, and you enter the Indian version of pass-the-parcel. In a call centre manned by six men and a goat, in the middle of the night, the supervisor is often who ever else is awake.

It's not their fault; I'd love them to run a call centre for other Indians, or even for the Pinkos. It's just that I don't want to waste my life talking to them. They aren't at fault; the companies that offshore call centres are!

There is another issue here; in a recession, I want to do business with companies that give English jobs to English workers. While unemployment rises, I want to spend my money with someone who offers local jobs. I want the economy to recover. I want to help my fellow countrymen to rise from the shit that Labour has dumped us in. So what if it costs more to employ local labour? Fuck the expense, give me service at a high level, and give me Hingerlish workers, taking accountability for the job and seeing it through to end.

Zurich Insurance, today you have been found wanting. Say goodbye to my business; you, and your offshore cheap and nasty call centres.

Darling, the Pikeys thank you!

Alastair Darling yesterday handed the Pikeys a windfall payout, and also ensured that the elderly and those on low earnings become targets for car thieves. Well done mate; you've pissed the Nation's money away, and now you're shafting the public!

By introducing a 'scrap' value of £2000 on any car over 10 years old, he has not only ballsed up the market value of second hand vehicles, especially those that public sector workers can afford, but he's also made the theft of old bangers a worthwhile business. Older vehicles are less secure, easier to 'ring', and not worth the efforts of the police to investigate thefts. Car dealers are money-grabbing twats at the best of times. I can't see them doing the right thing.

Now, if - for some strange reason - you drive around in an old Cortina, that £200 vehicle suddenly has a potential value of £2,000 for someone looking to buy a new car. Whereas before, any self-respecting Pikey (an obvious oxymoron) wouldn't be seen dead pissing up the side of it, now Darling has put a great big 'Steal Me' sticker on the side of it.

Now, some might think this is a bit of a gloomy view, but let's face facts. If the Goverment can screw up the 'scrappage' system, they will. How efficient are the DVLA? Well, they currently can't seem to send out replacement licences with the proper entitlements on them, and their database is considered to be about 60 per cent accurate. How efficient is the Home Office? I won't even roll out the recent blunders they've made. Jacqui Smith is a comedic genius (and her old man likes one off the wrist).

The latest budget is a kick in the balls for everyone who works for a living. It's designed to prop up the British car industry, which is commercially inept, over-priced and poorly run. Let's face it, the industry might survive if they could smash the Unions, but the Pinkos are dragging it down with Government support. Darling's attempt to breath life into the dying beat smacks of typical left-wing stupidity. He cold have made businesses better equipped to compete; instead he opted to charge full-pelt down a political cul-de-sac.

However, all is not lost for the greyest of grey men. Darling, I'm sure at various sites across Dartford, the Pikeys thank you.

Buzz Off, You Lazy Bastards!

The news nowadays can often be dull and predictable. For example, the recent earth-shattering news that Stephen Hawking is unwell was about as shocking as waking up in the morning and finding out that you still have a head. Here's a bloke who sits motionless in a wheelchair-come-trolley and talks through a machine. He's not well? No shit, Sherlock!

What  about Susan Boyle? We get some old bint who sings on a talent show, and the world's media goes into a tailspin as to whether she should shave off her beard. Now, for me, the woman can sing, but it's not like she's found a cure for cancer. She didn't earn that voice; she was born with it. Her singing is a bit like her beard; fate delivered it to her. She should learn from Zhao Liang, a Chinese bloke measuring over 8 feet in height. When asked if he was excited at being the world's tallest man, he seemed puzzled, explaining that you can't control how tall you grow.

However, the story that we should be looking at is the plight of the bumble bee. Well, the honey bee really, but the joke's crap if you don't say bumble. The British Government has spent £10 million to investigate the honey bee's status, and has found that their population is 15 per cent down. Now a further £2 million is to be spent finding out why. Maybe it's because environments that support honey bees are 15 per cent down down, due to pathetic planning regulation?

Now, you might laugh at this, until you realise that 90 per cent of flowering crops we rely on for food are pollenated by honey bees. If these creatures are extinct in a decade, as experts predict, what then? I'll tell you what ... we can turn to the unemployed.

The world is in crisis, we're facing meltdown. Unemployment is set to rise, and honey bees are set to become extinct. We need to pollenate flowering crops. Here's what we do. We'll drive the lazy poncing unemployed from their beds, give them a small paintbrush, and send them to the fields. Job done, and after a hard day's work, they won't have the energy to stay up all night drinking Special Brew and making ugly babies.

Thank you, honey bees; you died for our needs! 

Open All Hours

There was a time that the local corner shop was a pivotal part of British society. Every area had two or three shops, central areas had a High Street boasting all manner of traders, and business was good. In the 1970s, the corner shop underwent a transformation, and immigrant owners reinvented opening hours. There didn't seem to be a time of day that you couldn't pick up the elusive box of stock cubes or a bottle of chilli sauce.

Today, the retail scene is slightly different. Supermarkets reign supreme, the High Street is dying, and the corner shop has become a beacon for those seeking out-of-hours necessities. Over-priced poor quality goods and shoddy service has become the hallmark of the convenience store, and many High Streets boast a number of coffee shops and mobile phone outlets, as well as other empty properties.

I for one see this an the inevitable passage of time. Retailers in general sat back with their heads up their arses and let supermarkets destroy them. The average retailer deserves his fate, because he lost touch with the customer. He stopped delivering what we wanted, so we had to go elsewhere.

Let me just make on thing clear here; I hate supermarkets! I find them soulless, empty, despicable places. The staff are generally dullards with no interest in what they're doing, stock levels are random, and the shopping experience is akin to a 1970s Cambodian re-education centre.

That said, I use them almost exclusively. I do buy things at Farmers Markets and the occasional specialist retailer, but as for the High Street, it can burn for all I care. Here's why.

The other day I decided that my memory isn't what it used to be. I keep missing newspapers or magazines I want because it simply goes out of my head to buy them. I made a list of everything I wanted and decided to get them delivered. I visited four newsagents, three of whom refused to deliver, and the final one would only deliver if I also took  daily newspaper. So, that's nearly £50 each month that won't be going through their tills.

I needed some herbs. I visited three greengrocers and four convenience stores. None had fresh herbs. Two greengrocers said they only got them on a Saturday (why I don't know), the other said I had to order them specially, 48 hours in advance! Thanks for that! The convenience stores fared almost as badly. No, no, no and dried parsley or sage. Those where the responses.

Shallots? Don't mind if I do! Did anyone have any? Yes, one of the greengrocers did. I squeezed one to see how hard it was, and my thumb went right through it. It was rotten. I put it back and left the shop. A mere week later I popped in again to see if they had any shallots. They did. They were slightly more rotten, and the one with my thumb imprint was still there. I asked the owner when he would get so more, and he replied he'd stock up when they were all gone. He added they didn't sell well. When I pointed out that they might not sell because they were fetid and unsuitable for human consumption, the stupid arrogant bastard shrugged.

I went to the fishmongers to look at some tiger prawns. I say to look at them because I'm not stupid. He wanted £35 per kilo. I asked why his prices were so high compared to those of the supermarkets. He said it had to do with quality and freshness. I pressed him on the matter and asked to see the bag they came in. What bag? He seemed so innocent, almost shocked. I explained in a nice calm fashion that his prawns had been frozen, and he could either show me the bag so I could check the quality (I do actually know my imported fish) or I could talk to trading standards about his 'Fresh Prawns' sign. To cut a long story short, I could have bought the prawns he had - as a normal walk-in-off-the-street customer, for less than £6 per kilo.

Now, I accept that the demise of the High Street is a negative, but I won't use dried herbs, nor will I eat rotting vegetables, nor will I pay £35 a kilo for £5.80 a kilo produce. A frozen Asian prawn is a frozen Asian prawn. Is a man who lies about its origin really entitled to £29.20 mark up over someone who sells them as frozen Asian prawns?

I bought a loaf of bread from a local shop once. I took it back because it was mouldy. The shopkeeper laughed and said: "You should have seen the cakes I had the other day!"

Mr Sainsburys, Mr Tesco and Mr Waitrose, you can gave my money all day long.

Smacking - Another Route?

Having thought over my earlier comments on smacking, I realised that there are other forms of discipline that can be just as effective. My Father was a firm but fair man, although slightly predicatable when it came to beatings. However, on one occasion he found another way to get his point across.

I remember one Saturday, turning off the horse racing to watch some cartoon, because my Dad had fallen asleep. He woke up, saw what I had done, and me and my brother cowered, expecting the obligatory beating. However, he left the room and went to the garage. After much banging he called us out, and had built a miniature court house. He had killed our pet hamsters and tied them together to make a wig, and with that placed upon his head he held a trial. We were charged with showing a lack of respect to authority; a crime against the state (well, against the house).

We were found guilty and sentenced to serve seven years in a "re-education centre". During the day we built bridges, and at night we read books he had written or watched films he had made that taught us respect for our elders. On occasions we were tortured a bit, and had to wear uniforms that looked like pyjamas with his face stencilled on them. It may seem slightly insane, but he told us in lectures that it was all a part of eliminating our disgraceful past, and being reborn into the new life of respectfulness.

After seven years, we were released, and I never switched the television over again when the racing was on, even if he was snoring his head off.

Smack My Brat Up

If there's one thing that gets right up the nose of today's Pinko do-gooder know-it-alls, it's smacking children. The reason why the streets are rife with crime, why children are stabbing each other to death, why ten year old kids are raping each is other, is because the vast majority of modern parents are ineffectual.

Any parent who favours concepts such as 'the naughty step' over a short sharp slap should be dragged into the street by their neighbours and beaten around the genitals with a rubber hose. The reason is simple; their poor parenting is ruining the lives of those that have to share public space with their miscreant children.

Now, I've always countered the Pinkos with the simple argument of it did me - and others of my generation - no harm. There's no real answer to that, but fed up of looking foolish the Pinkos have invented one. Apparently, it's a lazy excuse!

Many years ago, generations of children were beaten. I use this word wisely, because we - and those before us - weren't smacked, we were beaten. Mothers chided and occasionally took the back of a hair brush, a wooden spoon or a coat hanger to your legs. This was always a build up to the main event, because you'd also get a beating off your father. That was they way it was; Fathers also got involved, and used all their strength to teach children a good lesson.

Now, people from that age say: "It did me no harm", and I'll tell you why. It's because it did them no harm. In fact, it did them the power of good. They went off with a sound beating, and won two world wars. These weren't the children of 'naughty steps' or 'no X-Box after supper'; these where the children of the belt, the cane and the birch!

Young lads didn't lay in bed playing with themselves, nor did they shirk their responsibilities; the volunteered to go to war at the age of 12 and 13, pretending to be men so they could sign up and protect their elders and betters. It was called respect - not some bad-ass hip-hop respect, but proper respect that burned in their hearts and protected those who could not protect themselves. Robbing the elderly was limited to America, Africa, Asia and France. The worst crime in Hingerland was scrumping apples, and diseases were non-existant. Smoking was good for you, as was drinking and eating fat. Children were taking a beating at sunrise, and by sunset they were facing the Nazi hordes. It did them no harm, because it gave them backbones of steel!

After the wars, children still took beatings. It did them no harm, because it made them stronger. We won the world cup with a team of blokes that got beaten as kids. Women that got beaten as kids rose up and seized their rights. Those kids created art and music and culture, despite getting beaten. Why? Because it did them no harm. What's more, they had respect for others and respect for themselves.

Britain grew strong, and the infrastructure that many of today's unruly brats take for granted was forged by men and ladies and boys and girls who took beatings off their parents. The technology they use wasn't always there; the kids who took beatings did that for them. The variety of options people have from around the world are here because the who kids took beatings put them there. Nowadays, there is hardly an inch of the planet that hasn't been visited, explored, climbed, walked or lived on. That was us, the kids that took beatings, who got there first. That's why today's youth sit at home playing a video game about something we'd already done.

But how could this be? Simple, it's because those beatings didn't do us any harm.When I was a kid we got beatings, and guess what? So did everyone else. We all got beatings. It was no big deal; it was how life was. We didn't care because it DID US NO HARM AT ALL!

Today kids grow up in a society where beatings are frowned upon. It's an age where old people are terrorised, there's no community spirit and fat kids lie in puddles of their own semen watching other fat kids on the internet, all just waiting to die. Obesity is rife, as is disease and new-fangled illnesses like stress. Today's kids need a beating, they really do.

So, a message to the Pinko Parents and all the others who don't like it when people say "it did me no harm"; maybe ... just maybe ... you should swallow that bile you're filled with and accept that they might have a valid point, you pansies!

Dogs and the African Famine Scandal

One trend that has come about - predominantly due to the plethora of bad channels on Sky, and the subsequently low cost advertising these channels offer - is the 'Charity Advertisement' or Charad as those in the TV sector laughingly call these 30 second low-cost low-budget fillers. For the avid consumer of 1970s sitcom reruns it does mean a few minutes of begging every 15 minutes, but that's the ultimate price of poor quality programming.

The other day, whilst awaiting the second half of Never the Twain (or some such other twaddle), I had what alcoholics refer to as a moment of clarity. The first advert was for the National Canine Defence League, and featured a dog called Charlie, who told me about his friend Benjie, who had been shoved in a bin. Now, I'm not a dog person, apart from when in Viet Nam (I do love a bit of Thit Cay), so I wasn't really that bothered. Maybe that's why I saw right through it; because I wasn't washed away on a tide of empathy. Anyway, Charlie wanted me to adopt one of his mates, and donate £3 each month to look after him.

First off, my reaction was, 'Bugger me, a talking dog'. I figured that a talking dog was certainly a prize asset, and as such could be a good money earner. Why did he need my cash? Still, what then happened amazed me. He told me that in exchange for my £3 per month, the dog I adopted would write me a letter. 

Hang on there; put a talking dog together with a dog that writes letters, and what do you have? That's right - a business! These dogs certainly didn't need my cash. If anything, I thought about tapping them up for a loan.

As I pondered their bare-faced cheek (well, hairy-faced, but you get the drift), the next advert started; yet another Charad. This one urged me to adopt a small child from Africa. If I paid the agreed sum, he too would write me a letter. Okay, there's nothing stunning about a child that can talk and write letters, but the deal was very similar to Charlie's proposition.

The cost? £2 a month. So, the child was £2 per month, and the dog was £3 per month. Then it hit me!

I'd bet a significant chunk of cash that the dogs take my £3, then give the African kid £2 and tell him to sign the letters 'Charlie'. They then pocket the spare £1 and do sweet FA but rake it in.

Now, imagine the shock if your adopted dog arranges a visit, and when you answer the door there's a small black child with a typewriter!

Maybe that's why Benjie ended up in the bloody bin!

G20 and the Pointless People

The start of the month was hyped up to buggery with focus on the G20 summit, and more importantly about the potential disruption that the protestors were expected to cause. Companies in the City of London told staff to dress down, to stay away, and to remain in the buildings if they did venture in to work. Quite frankly, any City worker that stayed at home, dressed down or remained behind closed doors should be ashamed of themselves. They let the rabble win, and a very ignorant two-faced bunch of rabble at that.

Now, I don't work in the City, nor have I any intention of doing so. However, I wasn't going to stand by and let a bunch of whinging so-called Anarchists and Pinko Lunatics take over the streets of London. Plus, I wanted to find out just what these dullards thought they could achieve.

The first people I ran into were from the West Country. They had travelled up to vent their collective displeasure at the 'Capitalismisation' (some fat bloke with bad breath a beard - the children of the revolution, eh - used the word several times, despite being informed it was a nonsense). The country, they told me, had been sold down the river of globalisation by the corporations, and they were prepared to fight very hard to defend their right to opt out of the system. I asked how hard they would fight, and the fat bloke said 'very very hard'. It had gone from 'very hard' to 'very very hard' in a few sentences. These carrot-munchers were hard-core indeed.

I asked if they'd fight to the death. They shook their heads. No, that was a bit too hard. I asked the fat one if he'd fight me, there and then, for whatever cash we had on us. If I won, I'd spend his on porn; if he won, my hard-earned could go to charity. He declined.

I said I was a capitalist. I wanted to provoke him. It wasn't a lie. He still declined. I said his girlfriend was ugly. Again, not a lie. An even uglier blonde girl took offense, and asked why I was in London if I was a capitalist. Everyone knew it was an anti-capitalism protest. I explained that some people did actually live in the place. I don't think she believed me.

I asked Fatty to explain his alternative life style. He said he rejected the corporates, he rejected the Government's right to spend taxes without a common consensus, he rejected the entire capitalist infrastructure. I asked if he had a bank account; he confirmed he did. I asked him if his credit rating was good. It was. When asked if he was proud of that, he smiled and said he was. I laughed, alone.

I asked what they thought about the privatisation of services. They said it was bad. How bad? Very bad, apparently. Bad enough to fight for? Fatty wasn't falling for that, and said it wasn't that bad. However, on a point of principle - let me repeat that - on a point of principle, he boycotted all previously nationalised services that were now privatised. I asked how they got to London. He told me they used the train.

After pointing out the error of is ways, another very ugly woman - who I initially thought was a man - spoke. She had a voice like an angle grinder. She demanded that I explain how they get from the West Country to London without using a train. Should they walk? I offered the opinion that if they rejected the system, and wanted a different way of life, perhaps walking would have been less hypocritical. Ugly jumped in and pointed out that she didn't pay for the trip, as she had an annual train pass. Did Che have one of those? She wasn't sure.

Next, I met a young lady from the International Prostitutes Collective. She wore a badge that read: 'No bad women, just bad laws'. In passing, I mentioned that maybe, just maybe, prostitutes might be better off with the financial industry going forwards. She agreed; it seemed that Lucy had only come because her boyfriend - a banker - had the day off! They'd just come to watch the trouble unfold. Seizing the moment, I asked what was the average cost of bum love in the City's square mile compared to the rest of London. She said she just added a zero to the price. Nice girl.

Next I met a middle aged man who, at first glance, seemed quite sensible. A child of the punk generation, he said he still has 'anarchy in his water'. We had something in common. I too was a child of the punk generation. However, I had passed my anarchy water a long while ago. I asked how he was going to display that anarchy in his water, and he admitted that he wasn't. He'd only come to have a look.

Finally, I spoke to a sincere but very spotty lad who decried the state of the world and blamed everything on the bankers. Banks, he declared, should be abolished, and the barter system should return. The peasant workers would be the true power in the land, not the money-counters. It would be a nation of workers, run by the workers, for the workers. I asked what he did for a living. He was on benefits. Apparently, he'd have to work at least four whole days a week to makes as much as he got on benefits, and he was 'too mashed up on puff' to do that.

'Bankers, eh?' He agreed; they'd screwed it up for all of us!