There's a Padded Cell Free in LA, If Anyone Needs One...

So, Jacko's dead, eh? Heart attack, or was he 'disposed' of by those standing to benefit from his estate? Maybe there were a few more kids lined up, their parents out for revenge on the eve of his comeback tour. Maybe the idea of losing the lot made them slip him the back capsule? Who knows?

Maybe he was spirited away by aliens, a lookalike body left behind to confuse and confound. The doctors, knowing not to bite the hand that feeds, quickly signed off the death. Now Jacko is being held hostage by some three-headed green being from the planet Pissflaps.

Maybe this is the biggest publicity stunt in history. maybe on the third day he'll rise again, like some other showman did a few thousand years ago. Maybe we are standing on the brink of the Church of Jacko, where all the ladies hand over their children to Neverregions 'carers', and no one has a normal nose.

One thing is certain; the conspiracy theorists will already be hard at work, and this fucking charade will run and run, a bit like when Fatty Elvis shuffled off to the shitter with a burger in his hand. I couldn't even watch Iranian protestors getting beaten by Republican Guard this morning as the BBC dedicated an hour or two to Uri Geller talking about his friendship with Michael Jackson.

Yes indeed, a human has died and it's all very sad. However, while the vultures pick over the bones (aparently Madonna issued a press statement to say she can't stop crying - bet she's got her eye on his children, though), no one has asked the real question; what the fuck happened to that monkey?

Sexy Food? Probably Not!

For those few feeble-minded idiots that actually bother to read this toss, they might have noticed a slow down in my posting rate recently. Apart from having to do some work, I also spent some time with an old friend who has recently been released ... I mean who has recently returned to the country following a short sabbatical.

Now, like myself, Mr Cabanas has a love of fine food, and sometimes when we get together in the kitchen, we realise that we are denying so many people a glimpse into what real food should be. The only "Bargain Bucket" in our kitchen is the black plastic one we piss into when we're too drunk to find the stairs.

Now we have decided that it's about time we taught the world to cook in a right and proper fashion. Where corners can be cut, we'll cut them. Where there's a quick way, we'll take it. If we can fool those eating our food, we will! If there's an option to add alcohol, we're already there. And pornography? Yes, we have that too! You could become a kitchen god or goddess without any effort!

Don't fuck about; have a look at NOSH JOB today!

Setanta Sucks Arse

Today is probably the day that Setanta, the Irish broadcaster, goes into administration. Now, whilst no one likes to see people put out of work (although a fair few of the so-called "customer facing" staff will be getting what they deserve), the reality is that the Setanta operation sucks arse, and was always doomed to fail.

I won't waste valuable drinking time explaining why they suck arse; if you want to know more, just Google "Setanta suck arse scam fucking robbing cunts shit signal poor selection crap customer service load of fucking tinkers bollocks to you all money grabbing wankers" or something similar, and you'll stumble across their fan base.

I had a short spell as a Setanta customer. I voted with my feet when the first two football matches I tried to watch were unwatchable because it was raining in Mongolia. The signal was so poor that even if someone mentioned rain, the satellite link was lost. It sucked arse, so I stopped my Direct Debit. They then contacted me to say I had to give 30 days notice, and I should set up a Standing Order for one single final payment. I told them to fuck off. A Standing Order basically is giving them a blank cheque. They replied that I was in breach of my contract, so I told them I'd happily see them in court, because I was a lawyer. I never heard from the scabby fuckers again.

Problems with poor quality transmissions, shabby customer service and questionable practices when people cancel subscriptions are very well documented. One classic trick is that the address for written notice of cancellations is not in the contract. Many viewers have sent cancellations to the address in the contract, only to be told a second address must be used when they query payments taken by the company after the contract has been terminated. The ones I feel very sorry for are those who set up accounts via credit card payments. 

Basically, Setanta was a one trick pony, and that trick was taking the piss out of customers. Talking to others reveals that one shit telephone call equates to getting off lightly. The company will disappear from our screens, and might I add it's not a minute too soon. Now, if we can see BA collapse, BT go to the wall and Zurich Insurance fall over, it will be a good day for customer service.

Reggae Reggae Shit

If you've never heard the name Levi Roots, then you're a very lucky person. Levi is a reggae singer, and despite reggae being one of the dullest sounds in town, we won't hold that small fact against him. However, Mister Roots has another string to his bow.

A few years ago he appeared on a television show called Dragon's Den. Now, if you've never heard of it, you very very lucky. In a nutshell, it is a show where five very rich people view presentations by wanna-be entrepreneurs. They then either ridicule the person's idea, ridicule the person, or attempt to buy into the idea by seizing control of the company for a paltry sum.

So, in walks the aforementioned Mister Roots. He sings a song about rubbing sauce on a horse (or something like that), and then announces he makes a food product called Reggae Reggae Sauce. It's a jerk seasoning sauce which he makes and sells at Notting Hill Carnival. He also calmly informs the Dragons that he has an order for 60 billion gallons of the sauce, which he currently makes in his kitchen. That's why he needs the investment.

They check through the order, which he brought with him, and discover he's shit at maths. The order is actually for two jars of the stuff, or some such amount. Obviously, all the Dragons bale, bar one who invests.

Fast forward to today, a few years later. Nearly every supermarket in the UK stocks the aforementioned sauce. White people buy a bottle and immediately talk in a Jim Davidson not funny black voice. Fat men wear fake dreadlocks and burn chicken on BBQs, splash Reggae Reggae Sauce all over it, and then talk about it being "Typically Tropical".

Now, I do like a bit of jerk chicken, and make my own sauce. I was somewhat surprised when Mrs SC returned home with a bottle of Levi Roots' jungle juice, but I gave it a go anyway.

Now, here's some advice for all you white folks with a bottle of Reggae Reggae Sauce at the back of your cupboard that you haven't got around to using yet. Go fetch it now, and chuck the fucker out of the window. It's fucking rank. The only use I found for it was to stop cats shitting in my garden.

I'm a realist; I don't believe this is Mister Roots' own recipe. I think some sauce jockey has 'tweaked' it to make it more appealing to mass market tastes. However, I can't believe he's stood by and let it happen.

Reggae Reggae Sauce? Shove it up your arse!

Nuclear Power? Yes Please!

So, the earth is facing an energy crisis, and we're all supposed to spend what few pennies we have left after the taxman has raped us putting up our own windmills, solar panels and other shit systems to try and create enough energy to power a really dim light bulb for about ten seconds. For me, that's a worthwhile way of wasting a few thousand pounds (that's about a million dollars, for those from over the pond).

Now, forgive me if I dip into the past here, but I seem to remember when our tax money went into the research and development of nuclear power. That's right; we've already found a solution and paid for it. Let's get using it. It's low cost because all the R&D has already been done, it's clean, effective and accessible immediately. We'd create a host of jobs building new power stations, and the only downside is that we'd see a few camps spring up manned by unwashed hippy twats with no consideration for the bigger picture.

So, what's holding us back? Well, every time someone mentions the obvious, a Pinko appears mouthing the word 'Chernobyl'. For fuck's sake, that was one incident, and it was down to dodgy Polish builders shipped in to the Ukraine to do the job on the cheap.

Planes crash regularly, but we don't stop flying. People died in the Moorgate Tube Disaster but we don't ban underground railways. Millions died in WW2 but we don't ban right wing thickos or left win Pinkos. Canvey Island and Buncefield didn't make us stop using gas and petrol.

Let's not be cry-babies! Fuck the hippies, hit the switch and turn on to a nuclear future.

Shoot the Bitch

So, 72 year old Kathryn Winkfein is driving home from the shops in Austin, Texas, and the police pull her battered pick-up truck over for speeding. Was she speeding? Of course she was! Did she accept it with good grace, collect her ticket and get on her way? Of course she didn't. Why? Because she's a mentalist, that's why.

Firstly, the great grandmother (I'm not sure why the reports all include the fact that both she and her kin are into breeding) refuses to accept the ticket. Then she tries to push her 4 foot high wrinkled body passed that of a fat fuck of a cop.

He pushes her away, probably because she smells of piss.

She screams like a fucking banshee.

He points at his Taser stun-gun.

Now, you would presume that even the dumbest of dumb hicks might give up at this point, but no, Wankfiend dares him to shoot her with it. She jeers and screams and dares the fat fuck to shoot her. So he does. As she drops to the fall screaming, you can't help but feel that justice has been done.

It's a shame the fat fucker didn't have a shotgun.

Having a Wank

Now, we've all has a wank at some time or other. Some of you will have had one today, or maybe you've had two today. Maybe you don't wank on Mondays, having gone at yourself like a dog with ticks over the weekend. The point here is that wanking is a pretty common trait amongst humans (and monkeys).

David Carradine, best known for his role as Grasshopper in Kung Fu, didn't wank. Obviously, David Carradine did wank (quite a lot), but Grasshopper - being a paragon of self discipline - didn't wank.

David Carradine was found dead a few days ago, in the closet of his hotel room. He had removed the cord used to close the curtains, and had tied one end around his neck, looped it through the hanging rail, and tied the other end to his testicles. He was attempting auto-erotic asphyxiation whilst jollying himself off. He died as a result of that wank.

Like Michael Hutchence, David Carradine died alone, having a wank. When the news was released, we all sniggered at his dirty last few moments on earth.

However, my point is this. Why die alone in a closet of a hotel room trying to wank yourself silly, when that hotel is located in Bangkok? For fuck's sake, he could have got anyone to toss him off, and still had enough spare change for a curry and few cold beers.

As the wise old master used to say: "When in Thailand, get someone else to knock the top off it!"

Still Life

The other day, I was approached by an elderly gentleman selling water purifiers. The purifier, he explained, had numerous benefits, and was an essential part of modern life. It was as simple to use as a kettle, it was freestanding, and albeit a fairly bulky item, it was portable. Best of all, it cost a mere £200. Naturally, I told him to fuck off.

He didn't. Instead, he explained how the purifier worked. He added that I could also use the purifier to 'process' essential oils. He talked about 'processing' essential oils, 'processing' water, and even 'processing' biofuels. Now, I'm no scientist, but I thought the best was of processing biofuels was via distillation. I suggested this, and he agreed. He hadn't added that the process the purifier used was distillation.

Essentially, the purified water was distilled water, which would remove impurities. The old was right. Also, by distilling water with lavender flowers, I could indeed create a rich and deeply scented oil. As the man left with my £200, he reminded me to read the declaration enclosed in the box. He added if I felt I could not comply with the declaration, I should return the purifier and he'd give me a full refund.

Now, having read the declaration, I found I could comply with it. However, I also figured that many people out there need some advice when it comes to water purifiers. Here's my guide.

1: When you buy the water purifier, don't spend five days adding potato skins, sugar yeast and water to a five gallon container.

2: After five days, don't place 4 litres of the resultant fluid in the purifier.

3: If you do accidentally complete stages 1 and 2, both of which are perfectly legal, don't switch the purifier on, or you will be breaking the law.

You see, some people might find the idea of making 50 proof alcochol at around 50 pence a bottle funny, but it's not. Play the game, and spend £12 on a bottle, allowing the Government to take 90 per cent tax.

Instead, drink purified water and sniff lavender oil. It's well worth the investment.

War; What Is It Good For?

Say it again! Okay, let's face facts. The UK is in recession, we have rising unemployment, industry is grinding to a halt and all politicans are thieving cunts. What do we a need? A bloody good war, that's what. So, who do we fight?

First off, we need a country that can't respond with long range tactical nuclear weapons, so that rules out Russia. Yes, I know other countries claim to have the capability, but only one has the cash to ensure that they are properly maintained, so forget the rest of the sabre-rattlers.

Next, the country should have resources that we can plunder. That rules out Scotchland, Wales and the USA.

Next, the locals should be well known as a bunch of lily-livered cowards that couldn't put up a fight if they were all alone. Obviously, that rules out any of the South Americans.

We also need a country that doesn't have many ex-pats living as UK residents, because we don't want terror on the streets. That rules out the Middle East and Africa.

Also, we want to enjoy noodles through the war, so that eliminates Asia.

Let's face it folks, we all know who we need to fight. The snail-eating poncey Jean-Paul dance-master 'j'taime' fops across the channel.

Let's make Britain Great again.

Let's have a war with the French!

MAY 2009: PLAYMEAT OF THE MONTH

This month, it looked as if the title of Playmeat of the Month was only going one way, to Susan Boyle. The woman has the voice of an angel, the body of a fat lad, and the face of a haemorrhoid-ridden pig's arse. Then she went mental, blew it, cracked up, fucked up and lost the final of Britain's Got Freaks.

Her fragile mental state was only eclipsed by Scottish First Minister Alex Salmond, who declared, "In my eyes and in Scotland's eyes, she's a winner". That's good coming from the representative of a country that's never won fuck all worth talking about. So she won ... by losing. Right, and remind me again, that's not a skirt you blokes wear, is it?

Back to the point. Next up on the shortlist was Jordan with her over-inflated funbags. Now Peter has wiped up and fucked off, there's a spare furrow that needs a good ploughing. (Sorry, I've been watching reruns of Heartbeat). Mind you, the idea of looking up from her valley of hidden pleasures to see Harvey grinning back at you is enough to dampen any chap's ardor.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, I considered the face of Burmese democracy, Aung San Suu Kyi, but let's face it; she's fucked herself! For a few moments, I thought I was going to have to delve into the sack of elusive dreams, but no! Thankfully, along came a brace of vixens to lighten up a pretty dark month!

Tory MP Julie Kirkbride and Labour MP Margaret Moran have both decided to call it day after their expenses claims were put under scrutiny in the British Press. Now, as individuals, the two ladies might not seem like worthy winners, but together, in a pit filled with cold custard, wearing nothing but the skimpiest of bikinis, you have what we call a Carnival of Flesh! Let's face it, they both need new careers, so why not something serving the public good?

Let's face, if they did end up wrestling, Alex Salmond could declare them both winners, and for once, the ugly skirt-wearing retard would be right!