PLAYMEAT

They Wear Skirts Because ... They're Bitches

2009-08-21T09:23:00.004+01:00

Weak pantie-wearing nonce-cases, the Scotchlanders, have shown their true colours (yellow) by sucking up to mad bomber bastard Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi and freeing him on 'compassionate' grounds. The spineless lily-livered bastarding shirt-lifters decided to let him go because he had some arse disease. By doing so, the noofters up North pissed on the remains of the victims, and hence forth deserve to be loathed by all decent people on the face of planet.

Now, whilst Libya laughs in the faces of those who lost relatives in the Lockerbie bombing, the skirt-wearing Jocks have lined up alongside them to deliver an extra kick to the bollocks.

Whilst I would wholeheartedly support military action against the Scotchlanders (and the Welsh and the French for good measure), I do see that such a move is unlikely, especially as our troops are fighting the scum that the Scotchlanders want to set free. I then thought about some sort of boycott of Scotchland goods. Mind you, all they offer the world are men's skirts (no thanks), piss-water juice (fuck right off), shortbread (I've enough gravel, thank you) and ginger hair (you fucking deserve it, you cowards).

No, apart from the lovely Lorraine Kelly, Scotchland has nothing that we want. Mind you, we do have something they don't have - backbones!

Katona Gets Her Arse Out Of Iceland

2009-08-18T13:47:00.003+01:00

Ex-Atomic Kitten walrus Kerry Katona, more famed for her transition from sexy siren to fat blob, has been sacked from her role as the advertising 'face' of piss-poor frozen food peddler, Iceland. Apparently, the oversized one had been gobbling up Class A drugs, according to scandle-mongers and all-round shit-stirrers, The News of the World. (Mind you, they do print titty pictures, so God Bless them).

Now, let me tell you this; I've eaten Iceland food, under protest, and it tasted like fucking cardboard wankstain. It was bland and pappy crap that, quite frankly, was probably the most offensive shit I've ever put into my mouth, and I've put some shit in my mouth over the years.

If catastrophic Kerry's drug taking is more offensive than Iceland's fayre, then I'm fucked if I can even start to imagine how depraved she has been. That Iceland can criticise someone for filling their body with bad chemicals is a bit like Jack the Ripper criticising a baber for nicking his neck during shaving.

Prawn circle? Fuck right off, you two-faced cunts.

That said, she is a porker, and no mistake!

Super Sexy Squeaky's Out!

2009-08-17T15:08:00.003+01:00

It's funny how sometimes things come out of the past and suddenly spring a whole bunch of memories! Whilst looking at SB's blog today, I saw news that Mansonette Squeaky Fromme has been released. Now, when it comes to mad bitches, Squeaky was a cute one. Yes indeed, flashing off a bit of leg with her holster strapped on, who could fault a boy for going at himself like a dog with ticks!

Back in the day, I dreamed of living in a shed with her, doing the odd serial killing, and generally getting into a lot of stuff that involved her getting naked.

Okay, so we know she's a mad bitch, we know she's been getting her crack licked by some butch pitbull bitch in the pen, and we know she's now older, uglier and probably slightly dull company at an evening soiree, what with her compulsion to slop out, smoke ultra-thin rollies and suck fluff in the showers, but I can't help feeling I'd like to take her home and keep her in a cage.

After all, she's so cute!

Les Paul and Lesbian Porn

2009-08-14T13:09:00.005+01:00

I like lesbians. I especially like lesbians when they are doing the sex thing to each other. Who doesn't? I was reminded of lesbians doing the sex thing to each other when I heard the news that Les Paul had died. Now, if you think that the connection is the inevitable "Les" joke, you'd be wrong. Let me explain.

Many many years ago, I helped out a fellow human being, and as a result he owed me a chunk of cash. Then I made a discovery about said person, which changed my attitude about him dramatically (he had abused his sister). I demanded my money, and when he didn't pay, I demanded it again, more strongly. I obviously didn't demand it with menaces, as such a move would be illegal. No, I simply asked for it in a loud voice.

It seemed that he genuinely didn't have any money, but offered me his guitar instead. I took it, although I didn't want it. After all, I figured it would be some piece of shit. I took it because I didn't like him, and I figured anything was better than nothing.

When I got it home, I nearly shat when I opened the case. That was how I became the owner of a fucking gorgeous Sunburst Les Paul. I played it a bit, but it spent most of the time leaning against a chair. Moira, the lesbian upstairs from me, used to pop in, but she couldn't play guitar. One day she asked if she could borrow it, just for a couple of days. It was odd as she didn't play, but I agreed, because I liked Moira.

True to her word, she returned it a couple of days later. She also said that she had a surprise for me, and I'd receive it in a couple of weeks. I forgot all about it until the postman delivered me a pornographic magazine. Inside were many photographs of naked ladies, including a number of photos and a badly written story about a lesbian rock star who seduces an innocent straight groupie into the joys of sapphic love. The model playing the lesbian pop star was Moira, and the guitar she was posing with was my Les Paul. In one shot, she was rubbing her flange on its neck. I liked that.

As I have already said, this was many years ago. When I heard Les Paul had died, my first thought was of Moira's twat. Never mind Les, you didn't die in vain!

Boxing Bitches - Common Sense Prevails

2009-08-13T14:40:00.003+01:00

Now, if you are not a sports-minded person, this news story might have passed you by, but the good news is that just today, Womens' boxing has been accepted as an Olympic sport. Whilst many do-gooders campaigned against it, stating that the public did not want to see women standing toe-to-toe and belting seven shades of shit out of each other, the IOC disagreed, and decided what we really need in a time of recession is just that, bitches beating on each other!

In life, we are all so quick to stamp upon the hopes and dreams of others, and are more than willing to put down those that shoulder public responsibility. In this case, let's stand and salute the mighty brains at the IOC, and thank them for their common sense.

Bring on the boxing bitches - that is all I have to say!

Stick Your E-Ticket Up Your Arse!

2009-08-10T09:54:00.003+01:00

Traveling! Some think it's great, but I bet the fuckers don't have to do it for their work! Now, many years ago, traveling was simple. You went to a travel agent, you bought a ticket, booked a hotel, and pissed off home. A few days later, Postie pushed an envelope through your letterbox containing a plane ticket (a thin paper booklet around 6 x 3 inches with the tickets on separate pages) and a confirmation of your hotel booking. For that, we paid them a few pounds - money well spent.

Today, it's fucking dreadful. First, you have to go on-line and spend a few hours filtering through numerous fucking web-sites to find the only one that isn't going to tear you a new arsehole. Then you have to book the fucking shit yourself. Okay, it's not hard, but if you're drunk, you are likely to fly out of one airport and return to a different one. Yes, I've done that a few times, and then spent a small fortune trying to get to my fucking car.

However, then - for ecological reasons - we have the fucking e-ticket. Now, I'm all for saving a few trees, but the e-ticket is a con. The airlines and hotels don't print them, the fucking customer does. In most cases, the cunts don't want the actual e-ticket, but on the one occasion you don't print it, you'll be fucked! The cost for this - nothing, but then they want a fucking credit card fee, which costs more than the fucking paper ticket ever did.

So, having just returned from a trip, I spent an hour this morning shredding all my unused e-ticket vouchers. Then I spent another hour printing out a fucking ream of paper for my next trip. It's not work, it's a holiday, but it feels like work. I need 17 separate items of fucking paperwork, and each one is designed to not fit onto a single sheet.

E-tickets? Stick them up your arse!

Phone Sex (Sort Of)

2009-07-13T23:08:00.005+01:00

So, I'm sitting letting my dinner digest, sipping on a nice glass of Barolo, and the fucking phone rings. Despite knowing that I shouldn't, I answer it (an unusual act, I usually ignore it) because Mrs SC is away and I figure she's checking I'm not dead yet. It's not Mrs SC, and I'm not dead. It is, however, some salesbod trying to sell me some shit via an unsolicited call. What's more, he doesn't have the best command of the English language. I think to myself, fuck it, there's nothing on the TV.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Who's that?"

"Is that Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Why? Who are you?"

"I can't discuss that with you unless you confirm you are Mister Santa Cruz."

"Why?"

"Data Protection." * This is a piss-poor ruse to get you to identify yourself!

"Well, if I say I am Mister Santa Cruz, what does that prove?"

"It confirms who you are."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"Well, I'm afraid Mister Santa Cruz is dead."

"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"

"Who's the homeowner?"

"Are you?"

"Give me a name and I'll tell you if he's the homeowner."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me the name of the homeowner."

"Why?"

"Data protection!"
"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"
"Which home?"
"This one."

"Which one?"

"I have a special offer if you are the homeowner."

"What is it?"

"Are you the homeowner?"

"Tell me what the offer is, and I'll tell you if I'm the homeowner."

"I can't tell you unless you confirm if you own the property."

"Which property?"
"Your property."

"I do own property, that I can confirm."
"What is the address?"

"It's the address that Mister Santa Cruz used to have."

"Are you Mister Santa Cruz?"

"No, he's still dead."

"So who are you?"

Now, if you're fucking confused, imagine how he felt. I still don't know what he was selling. I managed to keep him at it for 19 minutes before he hung up on me. My all-time record is 59 minutes. That bastard hung up just before I made the hour. I now have taken to recording the calls. It's fantastic what you can do if you put your mind to it. I had one bloke trying to sell me a phone barking like a dog.

Just remember folks; telesales people are for life, not just for Christmas.

Fuck them!

The Face of Jesus in my Soup

2009-07-10T12:02:00.004+01:00

Now, many of you will have - at some point in your pitiful lives - laughed at those who wear their faith like a badge. Personally, I love it when they get all riled up because I laughed at them, and at the peak of their offense I remind them that they'll forgive me. Funnily enough, they often don't, which is just like spitting on baby Jesus in the cow shed.

Anyhow, the other day I was about to enjoy a bowl of soup, when I saw the creator of the Universe looking back at me. Now, in the old days, several Bishops would have turned up, along with a crowd of devotees, and my house would have been converted into a shrine before I could say "Fuck off, you Christian twats", or something like that.

Now, I do think we live in a Godless age, but as my aged Mother often tells me, it seems Godless because my soul is corrupt. So, I decided to believe, and convert to Jesus of the Tomato Soup's club. The next thing was to evangelise. Luckily, the soup manufacturer (I admit I didn't make it myself) had put a telephone number on the side of the carton, telling me to contact them if I had any queries. I did.

"Hello, it's about your tomato soup."

"Yes?"

"It has something in it."

"Are you sure it didn't fall in when you were preparing it?"

The point to note here is that the woman didn't know what was in it; she didn't care. All she wanted to do was shift the blame.

"No, I certainly didn't put it there."

"What exactly is it?"

"The face of Jesus."

Click ... Brrrrr

I redialed.

"Hello, I was just talking to someone else and we got cut off. I found something in my tomato soup."

"Was it a piece of tomato?"

"No, it wasn't, and it didn't fall in while I was heating up the soup, before you ask."

"What did you find?"

"The face of Jesus."

"Pardon?"

"The face of Jesus is in my soup. The creator of the world is looking up at me from the bowl."

(After a brief pause) "Really?"

"Yes, really."

Click ... Brrrrr

For a moment I thought about taking the bowl to the local church, but instead I stuck the spoon it, gave it a stir, and ate it. We do indeed live in Godless times.

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

2009-06-26T09:01:00.005+01:00

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!

2009-06-23T14:05:00.003+01:00

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

2009-06-22T09:51:00.008+01:00

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

2009-06-18T09:46:00.004+01:00

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!

2009-06-15T10:34:00.007+01:00

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

2009-06-11T15:01:00.004+01:00

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

2009-06-08T15:16:00.006+01:00

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

2009-06-08T08:19:00.004+01:00

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?

2009-06-03T09:15:00.009+01:00

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

2009-06-01T08:32:00.013+01:00

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!

Playmeat Americano (For Sarcastic Bastard)

2009-05-29T14:03:00.017+01:00

I recently received the following comment from Sarcastic Bastard, whose blog I read. She made the following comment.

Vincent, I adore you, but sometimes you talk about things way over my dumb American noggin. Perhaps you should implement a fifth-grade level American version of your posts with caption-style notes for the intellectually challenged. I do believe watching too much reality TV has rotted my brains. Also, Americans, like Methodists (SB is both--double handicapped!), have the attention spans of fruit flies. Could you make the entries simpler and a little shorter, too? Many thanks.

Cheerio. Good day. Hip hip. All that. Best regards, SB

It was too nice of a request for me to ignore, so for all the Americans, the Methodists, and especially for the American Methodists, here's Playmeat Americano. The titles link to the full versions, just in case you're German and want to know what time the train is coming. (SB, that's a joke about how the murdering fuckers acted during the War).

Note: SB is getting divorced. If you are an American with a very large penis, can wipe your arse (that's ass to you, but you're wrong, Mr Yankee Doodle) clean enough to not leave skidmarks on her new bed sheets, and have lots of money, please email her for dirty sex. Her email is on her blog. By the way, she's just a touch mental!

A Hero for Our Times

In China, a man hit by the failure of his company decided to kill himself. He climbed up a bridge and threatened to jump. This caused a big traffic jam. A passing retired Army man offered to try and talk him down, but the police said he couldn't. The retired man then sneaked past the police and pretended to befriend the man who was threatening to jump. He made the man shake his hand, and then pushed him off the bridge. It turned out that the old man was angry at the traffic jam.

A 'bedwetter' is someone who cries because they're broke.

China is a place where everyone has a bicycle, and funny eyes (unless you are Chinese, in which case the eyes are just right).

Vincent likes the old man.

Beattie Got It Wrong

Alec Beatiie of Devolving stated in his blog that Nick Griffin was an evil man. I pointed out that at the end of the BNP election broadcast on television (a big box that holds another version of the world), there was a more evil man than Griffin.

There is a voiceover part at the end of the broadcast, and you can hear the speaker pause and slurp spittle. I pretended that it was facist cunt Griffin's semen.

Vincent doesn't like semen in the mouth.

An Open Letter to Willie Walsh

British Airways are a bunch of cunts.

Vincent doesn't like British Airways.

Put The Cat Food Back, You Bitch

Old people get arrested for shoplifting, even if they 'forget' to pay for something. Supermarkets say it's their policy to always prosecute, even if the elderly person has lost their marbles.

Politican's fiddle their expenses, but don't get arrested. Recently, one stated he 'forgot' he had paid off his mortgage. Another 'forgot' he didn't have a mortgage. If the UK had the same policy as supermarkets, the cheating bastards should be arrested.

Vincent hates supermarkets, but likes the fat girl at Checkout 3 because she does bum stuff for a bottle of cider.

Vely Tight Pissfraps

A sex theme park in China has been closed down.

Vincent is unhappy.

A Hero for Our Times

2009-05-28T13:22:00.007+01:00

If I had a fucking crown, I put it in a bag, get in my car, drive it to China, head south and upon arriving in Guangdong province, I would search out a real living hero and place the bejewelled item on his head; the noble head of a man who is undoubtedly the greatest living human being on earth. He is greater than any other sack of flesh sucking in air. Indeed, he is probably greater than many sacks of flesh that once sucked in air but don't anymore (I'm looking at you, Ghandi, you bald twat). Yes, I am referring to the one and only Lai Jiansheng!

The 66 year old retired army man doesn't fuck about. He knows how to deal with modern life's bedwetters. He just goes in, does the fucking job, and pisses off home on his bicycle for a portion of dog with special flied lice. Top man!

When bedwetting stress-merchant Chen Fuchao realised his construction business had failed and he was in debt, he climbed to the top of a bridge and threatened to throw himself off. The police arrived, and tried to get him to come down.

Police: Come down, you sirry cunt.

Fuchao: Cannot. I am poor and am wollied about foocha.

Police: Come down now, or you go to plison, you prank.

Fuchao: I am too wollied to come down.

Now, this utter fucking charade carried on somewhat, and the traffic that had been stopped from crossing the bridge caused a major snarl up. People were left high and dry in the Guangdong province. Now, I have been to the Guangdong province, and to be honest chucking yourself to your death might be a bit of a wheeze there, but traffic delays are one thing the Chinese hate. And Americans, obviously. Traffic and Americans ... and the Vietnamese, naturally. And pasta.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

Lai Jiansheng approached the police and, having put his shopping bags down, offered to go and talk the bedwetter down.

I suppose it went like this.

Lai Jiansheng: Herro. You want me to tawk the bedwetter down?

Police: Piss off home, and take your shopping too, you plickhead.

Lai Jiansheng: Fuck you then.

However, Lai Jiansheng is a man of action. Did he just get on his bike? Did he fuck as like. He used his Chinese inscrutability and evaded the police, slipped through the cordon and scaled the bridge. Once up there he approached Chen Fuchao, sat next to him and they talked.

Lai Jiansheng: What are you doing. The fucking tlaffic is borrocksed.

Chen Fuchao: I am wollied about financial lisks. I am leady to jump.

Lai Jiansheng: Don't be a platt. Come home with me and I give you money.

Chen Fuchao: Okay, thank you my fliend.

Lai Jiansheng: It's a deal. Shake?

Lai Jiansheng offered his hand to seal the deal. Chen Fuchao accepted it. At this point, our hero, Lai Jiansheng, took control and chucked the bedwetting bastard off the bridge!

His reason? The man's "selfish activity" had caused five hours of gridlock.

Lai Jiansheng, I fucking salute you.

Beattie Got It Wrong

2009-05-28T10:24:00.004+01:00

Now, in life, there are times when you sit back and observe, times when you ignore wrongdoing, and times when you speak out and say, 'No, you Tartan ponce, you went and done it all wrong'. That's what I'm saying, today, to Mr Alec Beattie of Clydebank. Now, normally Mr Beattie makes me chuckle, so much so that his blog has a link on these pages. However, the other evening, having been to the other end of a vodka bottle, I figured I'd check out his blog.

Actually, that's untrue. I wanted to watch the Rook sketch by the Two Ronnies, and after seeing that and looking at some dwarf porn, I checked out his blog. What I saw was a post entitled Spot The Evil Bastard, where the challenge was to pick an evil bastard from Mother Theresa, Bob Geldof, Martin Luther King, Claire Grogan, Jesus and Nick Griffin.

Now, we all know that Mother Theresa was a scamster running a lottery swindle, Bob Geldof is a self-serving smug twat, and Martin Luther King apparently went to more schools in the US than anyone ever born of human kind. The lovely Claire Grogan wouldn't let me finger her box, so she's obviously mentally unstable, and Jesus was a lying communist parasite who was invented solely to repress the masses and make them get up early on Sundays. That leaves Nick Griffin, who apparently is the devil incarnate says Beattie (aged 97).

Now, this blog entry reminded me that I had forgotten to watch the BNP's televised election broadcast, so I departed the blog and visited YouTube. This is when I realised that my esteemed but haggis-gobbling colleague (no, I don't know him, it's like a creative ruse to give this yarn some legs) was utterly wrong. Griffin is odious, maybe a snake oil vendor, probably fetid with canker sores on his arse, but evil?

Then I discovered the face (well, voice) of true evil.

Think on this. Griffin pointed out he wasn't racist, but that he wanted to defend us from pig politicians. He pointed out that by dying in wars, the British had earned that right. He reminded us that we were all in this together, the English (hurrah), the Scottish (eh?), the Welsh (no, no no) and the Irish (how the fuck did those ginger-haired craicmeisters get in there?). We (it's that fucking 'we' again) were against the pigs.

He reminded us that our country used to be a good place, a safe and clean place, a place where trains ran on time and doctors cured cancer and ladies had tight chuffs. Then the immigrants came.

Okay, I liked that vision of Britain, although I cannot see that the immigrants destroyed it. I thought it was self-serving British politicians and their tendency to suck-off the EEC that screwed it up, but old Nick seemed so enthusiastic, and then they played some music and showed a battlefield, and the music got louder and I thought that maybe he meant to say, 'fuck the EEC' instead of being a racist fuckwit, so I let it go.

Then he got passionate, the music peaked, and I thought that maybe, just maybe...

Then the broadcast ended, and as the voice-over man reminded us to vote for freedom and the BNP, I heard the dirty cunt sucking spit. I was stunned. I replayed the clip, and listened more intently. It was there again. trust me, try it out yourself. At one point the dirty fucker pauses and you can clearly hear the horrible dirty Nazi bastard sucking the piss-stench saliva out of his dirty fucking arrogant facist mouth.

Now, that's evil.

So, Mr Beattie, when the crown of pure evil is placed upon a head, it must be placed on the head of the BNP voice-over man rather than Griffin. After all, it could have been Griffin's jizz!

An Open Letter to Willie Walsh

2009-05-23T09:50:00.006+01:00

Dear Willie Walsh,

I was reading this morning about the losses experienced by British Airways, and was interested in your comment - in your role as BA Chief Executive - that you saw "no signs of recovery anywhere", and your claim that much of the blame for the losses could be laid at the door of the economic climate.

Okay, your stance might take a few people in, but I think you and I know something a little different, don't we?

Let's face it, BA is a fucking travesty, a badly run arrogant business in a time when customers are considering very carefully where to spend their money. A company that is untrustworthy, incompetent, ignorant, unbending in its delusions that it is 'special' and blatantly under-performing is never going to succeed when it charges a premium over other airlines for a service that is, quite frankly, as pleasant as month-old flange gunge.

I have long since given up trying to book any flights with BA. There are so many hidden extras it's harder than dealing with a Nigerian money laundering scam. When you do finally get a ticket, it means fuck all, because the last five times I used British Airways, you tried to bump me from an over-booked flight. The level of over-booking from BA is legendary. I once watched while two of your bitches (and I use the word advisedly) bullied a Chinese girl (who spoke little English) into accepting a few fucking Euros to give up her seat on a flight to Hong Kong. Despite her tears and pleading to be put on the flight, your staff told her she had NO option. That's a customer, and you're telling them they have no choice but to accept they can't have a fucking seat they paid for. That, my old Son, is fucking nothing short of robbery.

Your staff are fucking arrogant, and any enquiry is dismissed because their attitude is BA first, customers last. It's typical behaviour across the board. Your company has become a beacon for piss-poor bad service, dishonesty and utter ignorance when dealing with customer service issues.

Now, maybe ... and you'll no doubt disagree ... if BA looked after its customers, more people might fly with you. However, until those responsible (and I'm looking at you Willie, I really am) accept that they're incompetent and resign, and someone with a fucking clue about customer service takes over, I feel that your company might be somewhat shafted up the behind.

Sort it out, Wille!

Yours sincerely,

Vincent Santa Cruz

Put the Cat Food Back, You Bitch!

2009-05-21T11:11:00.006+01:00

What do we know about the elderly, apart from the fact that they drive very slowly, they faff around when at the front of very long queues, they smell of piss and they're up for a gang bang at the merest sniff of a Werther's Original? Well, we know that they're a bunch of fucking thieves ... or are they? Now, my old Nan is dead and rotten by now, but her idea of a 'buy one, get one free' was to put one bottle of gin in her trolley and another in her coat pocket. She was a thieving bitch, no mistake about that, but all too often the elderly are accused merely because their memory is on the wane.

It's not uncommon for elderly tossers to be arrested for shoplifting because they forget to pay for a tin of cat food or a packet of biscuits. They're old, and they've paid taxes all their lives. Would it hurt to let it go once in a while? Certainly not, say the supermarkets, who have a policy of always prosecuting. The Police agree, as does the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). Many Magistrates agree too.

As an aside, I was recently charged the incorrect price for an item in Morrisons. When I pointed it out, they wanted me to fill in a form with my details to process my 'refund'. I refused, explaining that it wasn't a refund, but was the return of money illegally taken from me. The spotty till-jockey called the manager. He explained it was a mistake and offered me the money back without giving my details. I asked what would happen if my old Nan had 'mistakenly' taken a tin of cat food without paying? He didn't know she was long dead, so said it was the store's policy to prosecute. I asked what would happen if she offered to give the cat food back? He reiterated that it was store policy to always prosecute. I informed him that was my policy too, and I took out a private prosecution against the supermarket for theft. Mind you, that's another story.

So, what we see here is that the British police and CPS will use taxpayers' money to prosecute little old ladies with bad memories. That, surely, sets a precedent, does it not? Now, let's look at the case of Member of Parliament Elliot Morely, who claimed expenses to cover a mortgage on a second home. He 'forgot' that he had already paid it off. Now, I might be in the minority, but if I'd paid off the biggest debt in my life, I'd fucking know about it. Elliot, aged 56, apparently forgot. Then there's Bill Wiggin, who 'mistakenly' claimed for a mortgage that didn't exist. Bill, aged 42, apparently 'forgot' whether he had a mortgage on his second home.

There are countless other cases currently sloshing around the British Government. They all 'forget'. Many say it was an innocent mistake. Many have offered to pay the money back. Bollocks to them; the UK should always prosecute! It's our fucking policy!

Let's face it; if we can put the elderly through the justice system for forgetting to pay for a tin of cat food, then these parasites need to be prosecuted. After all, a 'mistake' is still a 'mistake', whether it be an OAP or an MP; yes or no?

Let's have an amnesty for theiving scumbag pensioners and nail these politicans' arses to the fucking floor. They claim it's all 'mistakes' and 'forgetfulness'; I think it's all bullshit, and they've been caught drinking from the toilet bowl of disgrace. Let's slam the lids on their very indecent and ugly pumpkin-sized heads!

The circle of life is evident; lock up the poncing MPs and feed them on the cat food that the pensioners' have stolen. Suck it up, you fucking freeloaders.

Vely Tight Pissfraps

2009-05-20T14:12:00.006+01:00

Now, we might consider the Chinese to be a short-arsed race of inscrutible bicycle riders with a taste for dog/cat/human babies, but apart from their funny eyes, they're actually a lot like you and me. Indeed, they're a fuck of a lot like you if you happen to be a Chinaman (or a Chinawoman - apparently, I should say that, because women have feeling too)!

There are a million statistics about how many Chinese there are on earth, but I can't be arsed to Goggle it, so if you really want to know, go look it up yourself. However, for my purposes, it is sufficient to say that there are a lot of them; quite a lot of them.

Now, you might wonder why there are so many Chinese, and the answer is that they fuck a lot. That's it, in a nutshell. I suppose when all you have to look forward to between bouts of marching and listening to propaganda is a bowl and rice and bicycle salesmen banging down the door, having a fuck must be ranked as a fairly high pastime. I'm not Chinese, but I can see the attraction in spending every spare hour up to the bristles in one of their lovely female kind.

It is therefore of little surprise that China has built the world's first sex theme park. Now, you might argue that Pussy Angel in Bangkok gives it a good go, and Phnom Penh's Sharkey's Bar comes close, but this is a fully fledged sex theme park with giant snatches you can get inside and big rubber cocks that you can ride around on and the Clitoris Rollercoaster. It also has some naked dancers, a dozen sucking booths and plenty of bearded ladies seeking back-door action. Just for good measure, you can also get advice on family planning and safe sex.

If, like me, this news has you reaching for your passport, calm down for a moment. You can't visit it. Why? Because having built it, the Government has ordered it to be bulldozed. The silly communist cunts say that: 'the owners were interested only in profiting from sensationalism'.

Yeah, and the point is what exactly? Love Land, for that was it's intended name, was actually going to be an educational experience. Instead, the Chinese will continue to multiply, often with their siblings, as they fumble through the sex maze that is teenage angst under the Red Flag.

On a more serious note, I do hope the Chinese authorities think again. There are serious issues in China with teenage pregnancy, STDs and ignorance about sexual matter. Plus, I for one would happily pay the equivalent of 17 pence to see a Chinese lass take on a donkey in a sombrero!

Ja, Ja, Wunderbar! The BNP and Me Get Jiggy

2009-05-19T08:45:00.007+01:00

Many years ago, when the National Front were the headlining act in British Facism, I was on the underground (for our overseas chums, that's a train that goes underground in London, not a bunch of French twats trying to dispel the stigma of shitting bricks when they saw a Mercedes), and opposite me sat a skinhead. He wore a t-shirt that bore the slogan 'Ain't no black in the Union Jack'. As I rose to get off at Camden Town, so did he. We stood at the door together, waiting for the train to stop.

I nodded at his t-shirt and said, 'Nice shirt'.

He grunted.

I then added, 'Shame it's factually incorrect.'

He looked puzzled until I clarified things. 'Unless you actually forget the black bits ... in the Union Jack, that is'.

As I walked away I was amazed that he simply stood silently, mouth open, with a look on his face that was reminiscent of a puppy caught pooping on the rug. He was confused, and I often laughed thinking about how long it might have taken for him to realise the truth.

The thing that reminded me of this was the amount of shit post I received the other day, including a number of flyers for the forthcoming Local and EU elections. Again, for those from overseas and the stupid amongst us, let me explain. In the UK we have a general election that votes for the Government. They lie, steal our votes and then blow all our money on home furnishings, before blaming previous Governments for the mess. In Local elections, the councillors lie, steal our votes and then blow all our money on a leisure centre with the swimming pool fitted upside down, before blaming previous councils for not writing 'This Way Up' at the top of the plans. In the EU elections, they lie, steal our votes, and then give all our money to a man named Heinrick.

To cut a long story short, amongst the junk mail was a flyer from the BNP. This intrigued me, because nowhere did it state 'We are a bunch of ignorant fuckwits'. Indeed, it actually painted a fairly innocuous picture of their racist homophobic facist cunthookery.

It bore the image of a Spitfire (for Americans, it's the plane that won WW2 before you lot strolled in and claimed a hollow and unsubstantiated victory), and stated that the party was about putting British people first. They obviously missed the trick of excluding the Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish; perhaps if they were a different colour, eh? They also point out that 'it's not racist to oppose mass immigration and political correctness - it's common sense'.

There was a picture of a racist-fuck doctor and a racist-fuck old couple, all thinking racist thoughts, with quotes that explained that they weren't racist (or black, Asian or Jewish). Apparently, the leaflet concludes, we (who the fuck are 'we', are they including me in their shit-heap?) have earned the right. How have we earned it? Simple; Trafalgar, the Somme, Dunkirk, D-Day, the Falklands. There you go, suck on that, Johnny Immigrant!

I then discovered that the BNP would be canvassing in the High Street, so I took a walk to see what they were selling. It had to be good; I expected Panzer tanks, leather uniforms, death's heads and swastikas; it was going to be a rally and a half. Sadly, I couldn't find the rally; it was obviously blocked from my view by the two fat cunts in BNP t-shirts (I'm sure one had curry stains on it, that tikka red and tumeric yellow) and a snide fucker in the Pringle jumper.

Now, the Nazis might have been bad neighbours, but they had style. This lot looked like the scum left over when you torch a sub-standard housing estate. I asked about the curry stain. It was denied. I asked whether he liked a good Indian, especially when it left his arse tingling. He ignored me.

So I approached the Pringle man.

'Excuse me, are you racists?'

'No, we simply support the rights of the British people.'

'Even black ones?'

'We're not a racist party; we're about common sense.'

'So you're not racist ... more funambulist?'

He nodded, and then I saw it; that puppy shitting on the rug look I'd seen all those years ago.

BNP - go to fuck, you tight rope walking cunts!

Oh, You Silly Moo!

2009-05-18T09:33:00.009+01:00

Ever seen someone with marginally less intelligence than a carrot? You know the type; furiously pushing a door marked PULL in letters as big as their pumpkin-sized head? Your first instinct is to offer assistance, but as they slip into a deep pool of utter stupidity, you decide to sit back and watch the show. Fuck them, if they spent a second applying some thought to the situation, they'd see the solution for themselves. In the end, you want them to never see the solution; it's a just reward for their fucking stupidity.

So, who am I am talking about today? Aung San Suu Kyi, that's who! Now, I do appreciate that alongside Tibet, Burma has become a must-have cause in the toolbox of the common or garden Pinko activist. I've been there more than a few times, and have long since given up arguing the toss with people who rely solely on one-sided reporting and political rhetoric to understand what is a very complex country.

That said, there is little no doubt that Aung San Suu Kyi is a bit of a dolt. Here's the rub. She was elected as the country's leader, as head of the NLD. The military Government refused to accept the situation, and she was then jailed. Apart from a few spells of freedom, she spent the majority of the years since 1990 either in jail or under house arrest. Okay, it's not good, but back in 1990 Burma was off the map. Today, they realise their future lies in tourism. It does. It's a fantastic country and is exceedingly easy to travel in, legally or illegally (it's your choice).

So, with a Burmese Government wanting to appear slightly more friendly to the West, the next step following the PR travesty that was the monk protests (by the by, the monks are NOT all peaceful and caring people; they have an agenda) was an election. Scheduled for 2010, the powers that be were making plans to involve the international community. It was to be their 'coming out' ball!

You must remember that Burma has an extremely complex history, and each side tells only it's own story. It is also probably more afraid of the outside world than the outside world is afraid of it. Against this backdrop, Aung San Suu Kyi was due to be released on May 27 2009. That was it, job done. She'd be out, the run up to the elections would allow the true face of Burma emerge, and the elections heralded a return to democracy and a run on tourism never before experienced in Asia. It was ideal; the pro-democracy forces got their day, and military got to bow out by allowing the people their say. Faces would be saved, and profit would be the new messiah. What could go wrong?

A fucking stupid American, that's what. John Yettaw decided to pop in to see Aung San Suu Kyi. Now, anyone who understands Burma realises that this is an act more frowned upon than fucking the first-born of a high ranking Government official up the back passage on National TV during the Lottery. Fuck me, she'll be out in a few weeks, have some patience!

John Yettaw gained entry by making home made flippers (why didn't he just buy some; they do have shops in Rangoon) and swimming across a lake to reach her home. Why he performed such a display of twatishness is anyone's guess. Being an American, he probably thought that Burma was a bit like Disneyland, and he'd be rewarded with a cup of green tea and an 'I Beat the Junta' t-shirt. Right now, he's wearing a 'Bum Me Senseless' t-shirt in Insein jail.

Anyhow, John-boy arrives unannounced (allegedly) and Aung San Suu Kyi tells him to fuck off. He stands there in his speedos and home made flippers, and whines: 'I've got cramp, can I stay the night and rest?'

She agrees, and they spend the night together. Did he get some Humpty Dumpty? We don't know. Did he blow his load up her nose. We don't know. Did he finger her snorkel. I've told you twice, and now for the last time, we don't fucking know. Then the sun rises, and idiot John gets caught trying to swim back. For what? It's not like she's a looker or anything.

Now Aung San Suu Kyi is on trial for breaking her house arrest conditions. She's blown it. She'll be jailed for the elections, and all bets are off with regard to the international involvement. Paranoia is running deep in the Burmese Government, and John Yettaw is as thick as a pile of pig shit. That said, Aung San Suu Kyi knew the risk, and blew it all for a moment with a bloke who would rather make his own flippers than buy a pair.

For me, that makes her infinitely dumber.

Pretty Girls, Hairy Dogs and Cannibalism

2009-05-15T09:30:00.007+01:00

When I was younger, I wanted to work for the Forestry Commission. I could think of nothing better than being off on my own in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I'd occasionally appear from the woods to win the heavyweight boxing title, to ride the winner in the Grand National, and to drive a train a few days each year. Other kids dreamed of being rock stars, actors or spacemen. Maybe my first choice of occupation was a little unusual, but the other parts of the dream were – and still are – common fare.

However, there was one dream that many small boys (and a few small girls, mostly those that went on to become lesbians) held dear back then, which does not feature so heavily in the modern age; to be an explorer. Okay, it doesn't help that most of the earth's surface has already been trampled on by previous generations, but the real issue, the real problem, is that the essence of exploring has been destroyed by an over-pampered breed of phonies. That's right; modern explorers are crap!

Back in the good old days of exploring, three men with old fashioned nicknames - Skipper, Ginger and Bender - would decide to walk to the North Pole whilst carrying anvils. They would set off with an extra jumper, wooly socks and a packet of oatmeal ... and never been seen again. Then another three would go, followed by another trio, and so it would go on until eventually three would get there and get back to tell the tale. They were heroes, as were all the others that died trying.

These men would spend months achieving their goal, predominantly because by day four, the huskies would have been their lovers, and by day six their lovers became their lunch. After that, they'd eat their own feet, or whatever bits of their bodies fell off. A good day at the office involved finding the frozen bodies of those that went before. It was like discovering an abandoned freezer filled with meat.

By day ten they'd hit Bender on the head with an ice pick and decide to say he fell into a ravine. Soon Skipper and Ginger would be watching each other out of the corners of their eyes. Who would make the first move? These men were such heroes that if Ginger knew he was weaker than Skipper, he'd spend the next few days rubbing his body with salt and pepper to give Skipper a head-start when it came to cooking time.

Explorers went where no man (or lesbian) had been before, and very few of them returned to tell the tale. When they did return, they were acclaimed as heroes, they were rewarded handsomely, and all the pretty girls wanted them to stick their penises up their growlers. The explorers that survived were even more sought after by the fairer sex than dentists. However, most explorers died slow and horrible deaths, alone and unsupported. Their loved ones gazed into the mist of uncertainty, hoping, waiting, wondering whether or not to cash in the life policy.

So we move to today. Explorers have web cams, motorised skidoos, suits designed in laboratories, vitamin supplements, mobile phones, satellite tracking devices and back-up helicopters. The weather turns bad, and they get airlifted out, at the fucking tax-payers expense. Then, having fucked up at their job, they write a book and go on breakfast television and get paid to open supermarkets. They end up marrying some airhead weather girl and complaining that they don't get enough recognition for being failures.

Ponces, all of them. Smug piss-poor lazy poncing bastards. Modern day explorers; fuck yourselves!

Hit Me, Baby, One More Time

2009-05-09T15:46:00.006+01:00

There's a television advert here in the UK, which British people will immediately recognise if I say it's the one with the "hit me at 40 miles per hour" girl. For those without access to UK television, or without eyes (presuming that your lack of eyes means you can't watch TV but have a friend intelligent enough to read this to you), let me explain.

The advert starts with the image of a small girl laying at the base of a tree. She's pale, almost white with blue-tinged lips and a smudge of blood on her face. She's unmoving, seemingly dead. No, she's not a Goth, so what gives? Well, a ghostly voice (for fuck's sake, calm down; it's not a ghost, it's a voice-over) whinges "Hit me at 40 miles per hour, and there's an 80 per cent chance I'll die. Hit me at 30 miles per hour, and there's an 80 per cent chance I'll live."

Now, here's the rub! Does this advert target people driving above the speed limit? No! Does this advert target people driving whilst under the influence? No! Does this advert target people driving while masturbating, using the phone or playing pool? No! Does this advert target people driving badly, illegally or like a fucking mentalist? No! It's just there to remind all us law-abiding drivers (who get fucked up the backside with ever increasing taxes that pay for drop-in centres for the lazy and ineffectual rather than fixing the shitty roads) that we might like to take the blame for some seriously rotten parenting.

Here's a clue (I'm talking to the dead-looking girl now); show care when crossing the fucking road, and guess what? That's right, you'll fucking live to tell the tale! Of course, the wannabe Goth isn't to blame, but her fucking parents sure are!

Basically, law-abiding motorists are being guilt-tripped because some parents neither care enough nor are intelligent enough to teach their children to cross the road. They won'twaste their valuable Bingo/gin drinking/dope taking time to introduce and implement the basic discipline that keeps their children alive. When their child gets run down because they've dashed into the road, and these excuses for parents need to accept how they've failed, they simply look for someone else to blame for their shortcomings.

Now, I'm not talking about situations where circumstances conspire to create a dangerous but unavoidable situation, or where the driver is drunk or mad or so stupid as to drive dangerously. This advert targets the everyday driver who is driving normally. Guess what; we're not to blame. It's the parents who need to be educated.

I have friends who teach their children to respect danger. The kids aren't afraid of it. They respect it. They don't seem to get run over. My kids don't get run over. My neighbours' kids don't get run over. That's because they've been taught. It means that the parents couldn't sit in front of the TV all night, or just get fucked off their faces and hope for the best. The parents put in the effort to teach the children.

Here's a fucking thought (I'm talking to the piss-poor parents out there now, the ones who whinge when their kids get run over and the driver isn't to blame), maybe - just maybe - if you got off your arses and taught your children respect, discipline and common sense, then maybe you wouldn't be watching them go into the ground in a box. That's YOUR fault, not the drivers who try and dodge your offspring as they hurtle into the on-coming traffic.

Such parents should suck up their bile and face the facts, but more importantly, the adverts should target parents who send their kids out to play in the streets while they lie on the sofa watching TV and sucking down a few drinks. Guess what people; you failed your kids, and you should be fucking strung up for it.

Separated By A Common Language

2009-05-08T16:39:00.008+01:00

Recently, on another web-site, I wrote a short piece about spending New Year's Eve in Bangkok, and made a reference to a show I enjoyed. At one point in my review of the event, I stated: "She was no Acker Bilk, but she had a fair stab at playing the trumpet with her clacker." This prompted a reader from Australia to comment that he'd never seen anyone play a trumpet by farting. Realising that he'd obviously mistaken the term for a lady's front bottom with her rear one, I corrected him by stating: "Clacker refers to the lady in question's fanny." An American reader then commented: "I thought you were referring to her Mary, not her butt." At this point, I gave up.

Someone (I can't be bothered to find out who, as it really doesn't matter) once commented that the British and Americans were separated by a common language, which isn't quite true. We speak English, the Americans speak a bastardised form of nonsense based loosely on English, and Australians don't bath often enough. Add to this the fact that Australian ladies are a little too keen to let you fist them for a cheap bottle of wine, and you see the problem.

Anyway, that said, this isn't a post about how shoddy the Aussies are; it's about language, and most importantly, it's about the one thing I believe has more slang terms applied to it than anything else; the vagina!

Now, I'm not sure where the plethora of terms for the front bottom come from. It's not like the vagina is rare. We've all got one; most men leave theirs at home eating chocolates when they go to work or go out drinking. Most women carry theirs around with them, just in case they need their car repairing or want a discount on some shoes. It matters not. What does matter is that these terms are cataloged. I'm sure I've missed many out, but here goes my best shot.

Vagina Slang

Cunt

Twat

Fanny

Minge

Muff

Slit

Gash

Snatch

Pussy

Beaver

Lady garden

Fleshmouth

Stench trench

Pissflaps

Beef curtains

Front bottom

Axe wound

Butcher's window

Box

Mary (one for the girls)

Mouse's ear (I went out with a girl who referred to it as her mouse's ear, which was odd because I could get my whole fucking head in --- with a crash helmet on)

Punani

Chuff

Growler

Clacker

Bearded clam

Reginald (or is that just my Mother?)

Flange

Pink taco

Tuna station (as in "when the pigskin express pulls into...")

Love tunnel

Crack

Fur burger

The furry cup (as in "she drinks from the furry cup")

Jackie (rhyming slang, Jackie Danny)

Vadge (courtesy of SB)

Cooze (courtesy of SB, but currently the subject of a Steward's Enquiry)

Now, there are always going to be a whole range of descriptive terms like 'flyposter's bucket' and 'sun dried cod', but these would need qualification by the way they were used. So, what's the point of all this? Fucked if I know! I thought of it last night while resting an injured ankle, through a haze of prescription painkillers and vodka.

That's right; now I remember. I was going to write something about cripples and their role in modern society.

Oh well, too late now!

Don't Undersell Your Dreams

2009-05-07T07:43:00.005+01:00

When it comes to advertising, all too often we see claims that simply can't be substantiated. A revolution in washing-up liquid? Really? Does it wear a sombrero and have a fuck-off handle-bar moustache? Does it set the people free and fight oppression? Does it take to the hills and wait its time, until pouncing on the imperialists and lifting the yoke of tyranny? Does it fuck; it's just got some new-fangled unpronounceable herb added to it that doesn't make your plates cleaner. It's no more a revolution than Gary Glitter is a good choice of baby-sitter.

That said, some manufacturers undersell their developments. One such case is Andrex, the manufacturer of fine toilet tissue. I should know, because I treat my arse to it on a regular basis. Once I diversified into Kitten Soft, but quite frankly, it was garbage.

Anyway, back to Andrex. For many years, their symbol has been a labrador puppy, although apart from the obvious schoolboy joke, I still fail to see why. Their latest thing is to have the shape of a puppy (it looks a bit like a seated baby elephant with no trunk, but they tell us it's a puppy) embossed on the paper. How do they sell this? Simple; they write "Puppies on a roll" on the bag.

Marketing genius? Not at all; they've massively underrated this important development in toilet tissue design. What the "Puppies on a roll" slogan fails to mention is that by embossing the design, there are no inks or chemicals being rubbed up your crack. Also, embossing involves the Puppy shape being compressed onto the tissue. Because of the loose fibrous construction of tissue, this actually increases the tensile strength. In other words, you are far less likely to get a finger-nail of shit because there's little chance of your digit going through the paper and up your poop-tube.

Finally, and this bit is fucking genius, the embossing causes differing textures in the paper, as well as a bevelled edge effect on the surface. This allows it to get a good purchase on your shit, preventing you from spreading fecal matter up your lower back area if you overshoot due to excessive sludginess.

When you read "Puppies on a roll", simply think "A cleaner hole, an end to stink-finger and the total elimination of an embarrassing stripe of shit on your lower back".

As summer approaches, this is vital for the ladies who like to dress in low-cut hipster trousers and cropped tops. While we all enjoy a flash of midriff, looking back to see a smear of shit up the spine can be off-putting.

Andrex, we salute you!

Keep the Red Fag Flying High

2009-05-06T11:27:00.007+01:00

Now, just in case one of our cousins from across the pond is reading this; no, the title isn't a typo, and no, it's not about homosexuality. It's about cigarettes. I do appreciate the difference in the meaning of the term 'fag', but I can assure readers that this post isn't about bum love. That's not to say I have anything against bum love or homosexuals. Indeed no, they can futter each other as often as they wish. Homo bum love isn't something I go in for. I've never tried it, and alas even if I desired to sample its delights, it's too late for me. A lifetime of consuming too much beer and stilton cheese has left me with an arse like a blood orange. It's in fucking tatters, and I'm afraid that even the most depraved gayer would think twice before entering.

Anyhow, the state of my arse aside, I want to talk about cigarettes. Not smoking, no sir; you're all big enough and ugly enough to decide if you want to smoke or not. However, in certain parts of the world, the cigarette is currency. It can be used to smooth over transactions, as an alternative for a tip, or even to get a pretty girl to go a little further. The cigarette is an accepted form of payment, and never is this more evident than when dealing with small bribes, or sweeteners as we like to call them.

Now, when you end up in a Cambodian jail for smashing up a gogo bar while high on bleach, don't think a packet of gaspers will get you out and back on the road to the Heart of Darkness. However, they might get you a plate of food that's free of rat shit. If you run down a small child in Saigon while driving drunk, don't expect to get off free for a few smokes. However, a $10 minor traffic violation fixed penalty might become a $5 one if you spark up with the police.

The real trick is to know which smokes take you further up the tree, and like a black Amex card gets you the tightest whore, Marlboro open more doors for the man handing out the fags. This is certainly true of Viet Nam, Laos, Cambodia, Burma, China, Egypt, Morocco and all of South America. However, the place where Marlboro speaks loudest has to be Russia.

Many years ago, before the country had embraced Glasnost, I travelled to Russia to write an article on how the people felt about the change in Governmental stance towards Capitalism. I was told I had no chance of getting a visa if I was honest, so posing as a tourist I went through what was then a very painful process to get the paperwork sorted. A friend of a friend recommended a 'Mister Fixit' in Moscow. I was all set.

A letter from my Russian contact (email but was a future dream back then) advised me that there were restrictions on traveling. I could travel to the outer limits of Moscow during the day, but had to stay in the central part of the city after dark. I was also advised to bring chewing gum and cigarettes. There was no mention of brand, but as a Marlboro smoker, I didn't realise how well equipped I was.

My Mister Fixit was called Vlad, a 60 year old Anglophile. I was 22. He was a man mountain, his six foot six inch frame dwarfing my 5 foot 10 inches. He looked as if he had chewed his way out of salt mine, and I looked like I'd never done a day's work in my life. He always wore a black suit that looked as if it was made out of lino, and carried a briefcase. I wore jeans and a jumper. His English was very good; he had learned it from films and records, and subsequently had a fine line in catchphrases. "See you later, alligator" was one of his favourites.

We spent a few days in Moscow, visiting people and drinking vodka. We drank a lot of vodka, morning, noon and night. We drank too much vodka. I like a drink, but after a few days I feared I'd die. I didn't! One night while drunk I found out what was in his briefcase. It was an old English-Russian dictionary. That was it, nothing else.

By the end of the night we had a new catchphrase. When we met anyone I would say "Twins", and he'd roar "Separated at birth!" The next morning I wanted a lie-in, but he said we had an adventure to go on. I hoped he'd read the wrong word in his dictionary.

The Volga we set off in leaked exhaust fumes into the vehicle, so despite the cold we had to drive with the windows partly open. Vlad introduced me to our driver and an ex Red Army colonel called Anatoli who seemingly had come along for the ride. We left Moscow and headed through the suburbs and into the countryside. We passed several unmanned checkpoints, and despite breaching the conditions of my visa, no one seemed bothered.

We drove for hours. We smoked a lot too. I noticed that my cigarettes were in demand, very much in demand. As I finished one pack, I went to crush the box, but Anatoli stopped me. He wanted the pack, and gave me his metal cigarette case in exchange for it. As Vlad was the only English speaker I explained that Anatoli could have the empty box, I didn't care. Vlad inisited I would upset him if I refused the case. The transaction was done, and Anatoli put his Russian fags into the Marlboro box. He thought he was Johnny Big Bollocks!

We went to look at some tanks in a snowy field. They were nice. Then we set off into the woods and arriving at a frozen lake, we met a few friends of theirs who were fishing through holes in the ice. They prepared a fish stew while we kept warm with a bottle of chilli pepper vodka.

The day turned to evening, and eventually we set off back towards Moscow. The driver was well oiled, as were we all, but before we left one of the hosts had an animated conversation with Vlad. Later he told me his friend was worried that I had no papers. Apparently, the check points were likely to be manned after dark.

After an hour we came upon the first checkpoint. The lights were on, but the guards were inside huddled around a fire. We drove through. The vodka stopped me from worrying. The next few checkpoints were empty, and then we came upon a manned one that was stopping cars. The mood inside the Volga changed. We crept up to the barrier. The guard peering into the vehicle, and then waved us through. Although the mood lightened, it was still strained. We were about an hour from Moscow.

We were nearly back when it happened. The checkpoint seemed unmanned and the traffic flowed through freely. When the guard appeared, he seemed disinterested and the cars just filed through. Then he moved; he didn't look up, he just thrust out an arm and our driver pulled over to the side of the road.

The driver listened intently to the guard, then went through the glove box and handed over a fistful of grubby documents. The guard went off to the blockhouse and disappeared inside. No one in the car spoke. It seemed like hours, but a few minutes later he returned and handed the papers back. Was that it? Then he walked around to he passenger side. Anatoli chatted with him and handed over his papers. It seemed amicable; maybe his Red Army past was worth something.

When the second guard knocked on the rear window with his rifle barrel, I nearly shat myself. I hadn't seem him approaching. He didn't look friendly. Through the open gap in the window he snapped something in Russian. I replied: "Do you speak English?"

His outburst told me he didn't. I looked at Vlad, who calmly said: "Give him cigarette."

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro. It was unopened, the cellophane glistening in the torch light. As I offered it towards the window gap, a gloved hand snatched it away. I heard Vlad whisper urgently: "No, no!"

What had I done? Were we all about to shipped off to some far-flung Gulag? Had I dragged these fine Russian men down with me, due to my stupidity? I was sure I had heard Vlad right, but I'd obviously done something wrong. Then it dawned on me; the guard was gone, and the car was moving. We were on our way, into the darkness and heading for Moscow.

I looked at Vlad. He was shaking his head as if I was a complete and utter numpty. He was disillusioned; I was supposed to be smarter than a kipper, but I had fucked up. He looked ashamed of me, and then he said: "No, just one cigarette."

The power of Marlboro is such that just one fag can set you free; who cares if they fucking kill you?

Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner?

2009-05-05T08:37:00.006+01:00

Now, I'm not the biggest fan of dinner parties; I tend to find them invariably stuffy and stilted affairs, rife with snobbery and just a little too stiff for my liking. Therefore, when I decided to head off for a few days over the Bank Holiday weekend, the last thing on my mind was sitting down with people I hardly knew and being force-fed poorly prepared food. It was with a very heavy heart, about as heavy as a fucking anvil actually, that I agreed to have a quick drink with some old friends of Mrs SC who lived in the area we were visiting.

As inevitable as old people pissing themselves, the drink turned into an invite to dinner. Before I could point out that I'd rather saw off my legs and waddle over broken glass and fiery coals on my still bleeding stumps, the other half agreed and I was royally shafted.

Now, as I sat at the table with the crowd of strangers, I understood the desperation deep within the typical Tourettes sufferer. All I could think was "Don't call them cunts, don't call them cunts", as they talked about lawn fertiliser and swine flu and the need for more sanitation workers on the European mainland.

Then, as if by magic, the subject came up of who would be the worst person to have at a Dinner party.

"You lot, you bunch of cunts!" screamed my brain, but I managed to stiffle the words. The first suggestion, made by a man – with a face like an old pork pie – whose name and occupation escaped me (due to me not listening), was the unannounced vegetarian. This was further qualified by his ugly wife, who spluttered "Or a vegetarian who lectures you."

As the conversation grew, I switched off. In my mind I had travelled back in time, to the day I met Penny, a photographer with the body of a model. Now, I must say that it's unlike me to go for traditionally 'beautiful' women. I seem to be drawn towards real women, sometimes quirky-looking women. Other men might call them dogs, boilers or freaks, but I like to think of them as ladies with character. Now, the only thing about Penny was she was knocking on over six feet tall. Apart from that, she was what most men would call perfect.

She bought me a drink and we talked bollocks for a while. Then she told me she was a vegan. I nodded sagely and told her I was a vegan too. What a coincidence. We could be vegans together. We agreed to meet later. She went to buy some shoes, and I went to library and brushed up on being a vegan.

The sex was unbelievable. It was raw, passionate, animalistic. It was utterly fantastic. I could go without meat for the sex, I decided. She lived in South London and I lived in North London. She had a job, and I was writing, so I could pretty much fit around anything. I spent most of my nights at her flat. About 8 o'clock in the morning saw her dash off to work. I'd get up a few hours later, head for the train, picking up a burger on the way, go home, write, have a light lunch of steak or chicken, then I'd write for a bit more, clean my teeth and head back to South London. We'd fuck like animals, eat some tofu and bulgar, go to the pub, get pissed, go back to her flat, fuck like maniacs, sleep, wake up, fuck again and she'd go off to work.

I should have seen the ending coming when I started to get up and leave when she went to work. I'd chat to her until her bus came, then I'd be off to the station and into the café next door for double sausage, double bacon, black pudding, egg, chips and toast.

On the fateful night I headed to her flat. We fucked like animals, ate some tofu and bulgar, went to the pub and got pissed. As we walked back she clung to arm, telling me how horny she was. I just nodded. We walked past the late-night crowd at the kebab shop. The smell of charred greasy fatty meat was unbelievable. We turned the corner and passed a burger van. Never had pulped crap fried in old oil smelled so good. Even a discarded box of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones smelled good. When we got in I looked in the fridge. There was some tofu and some fucking bulgar. I went into the bathroom and urinated. When I came out, Penny was lying on the bed, a chunk of pure sex wrapped in fine black lingerie.

"I've, umm, got to go. I've got an early start."

She looked shocked, upset, confused. I walked out into the night air, my erect penis chastising me for walking away from some utterly fantastic sex. My stomach, however, cheered me on. It was a Thursday. On Fridays we didn't see each other. I went out with my friends and after the pub we played cards, usually all night. I did try to ring her at her work, but she was out on a colleagues birthday lunch. I didn't ring back.

On the Saturday morning, a few of the lads were sat in my kitchen while I made bacon and sausage sandwiches. Jim from down the road nipped out to buy some cigarettes. There was a knock on the front window. I went to let him in, still munching on my sandwich, and opened the door. There stood Penny. She didn't speak. There was a tear in her eye. Was it because I had lied to her, or was it for the mortal soul of the pig I was eating?

I never found out. She walked away, taking with her the most fantastic sex I'd ever had. Was it worth it? Well, I look at it this way; you can fake good sex, but you can't fake a fucking good sausage.

Case closed.

Duck and Cover

2009-05-01T13:58:00.008+01:00

Today, I am in a slight state of shock. Yes, I am aware that there is a recession, and I am aware that money is tight for most people, but I hadn't quite realised how bad things are for some folks. I have a friend in the music industry; he travels a lot and subsequently we don't get to meet up all that often. Then the other day he rang me and invited Mrs SC and I around for a spot of dinner. I accepted, because anything that keeps Mrs SC out of the kitchen has to be a godsend.

So, we sat down around the table and broke bread. He told us that the label he works for was winding down several divisions, and numerous contracts with some fairly big names won't be renewed when they end. He uncorked some wine, and we chatted on about the state of the economy and the general pessimistic mood of the nation, and before long it was time for the first course.

He walked in and placed the plates in front of us. I was slightly taken aback, and asked: "What the fuck is this?"

"Foie Gras" he replied.

I was outraged, shocked and - if the truth be told - angry too. It was a moral issue; eat it or stand up for my deeply held beliefs. I could either swallow it down and save a friendship, or I could confront him with the barbarity of what he had placed before me. Fuck it, I thought, I've plenty of other friends, so I let rip.

"Foie Gras? What's the meaning of this monstrosity? How do you expect me to stoop so low as to place this vile item in my mouth. Such a move would not only justify, but would endorse the manufacture of it."

"What's up?" he enquired. "Is it raw?"

"No," I screamed, "it's fucking foie gras ... de canard!"

"It's entier."

"That's no excuse. We are your guests, but you're treating us like ... tramps! It's like making us eat dog shit. I demand foie gras d'oie!"

He shrugged and said those words that shocked me so much. "There's a recession, you know!"

Then it dawned on me. Across the globe, in council estates and trailer parks and slum dwellings, the workers are having to switch to foie gras de canard, probably only being able to afford foie gras d'oie at weekends. Imagine the horror of the children; their childhoods will be marred by the slightly coarser texture and bitterer taste of second rate foie gras. Whatever next? Some of the might even have to settle for parfait during the week, only having foie gras de cannard entier on a Friday and Saturday, with foie gras d'oie reserved for a Sunday night.

I'd weep for this tragedy, if I gave a shit.

APRIL 2009: PLAYMEAT OF THE MONTH

2009-04-30T11:43:00.007+01:00

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

2009-04-29T16:27:00.005+01:00

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

2009-04-28T15:18:00.006+01:00

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

2009-04-27T07:22:00.005+01:00

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)

2009-04-25T14:06:00.008+01:00

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...)

2009-04-24T17:35:00.006+01:00

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!

2009-04-23T08:04:00.009+01:00

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!

2009-04-22T07:14:00.006+01:00

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

2009-04-20T08:42:00.005+01:00

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?

2009-04-18T12:43:00.005+01:00

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

2009-04-18T11:44:00.010+01:00

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

2009-04-17T09:45:00.006+01:00

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

2009-04-16T15:17:00.006+01:00

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!