Oh, You Silly Moo!

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

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

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

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Don't Undersell Your Dreams

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

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?

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.