Some of the stuff God got right

I have found something to raise my spirits, after the recent bad stuff. May I point you in the direction of my old friend Anth, to try to put this blog back on course. I seem to have some work to do now, so I don't have much time for the usual careful composition that characterises these pages. Please leave a comment on Anth's page. He is very lonely, he has walked to New Zealand to try to find someone on the planet who could put up with his silliness for more than 10 minutes, and has had no success so far.

Some more of God's mistakes.

Sorry to be heavy and everything, man, and I will attempt to get back on course with the usual tripe later on today, even though I have some work to do.

1) Doddery Old Fart has decided to withdraw his on line services in quite a spectacular and theatrical fashion. If any of you other bastards think it is a good idea to die before reading my complete works, then please let me tell you it will just not do. You need to apply for permission, and it will not be given unless your name is Margaret Thatcher. Now go over to Doddery's site and leave a farewell message please.

2) This link was posted on my village website. Doddery has gone, and Bush is still alive. Shit.

A broad church

I am hoping to toss off something more interesting later, but I feel that I need to tell you about a visitor who found their way here via Theodore and Evadne Google's Bulgarian site who was searching for "young lady total denture".
I do so enjoy being of service.

Gladys Knight

I have been somewhat preoccupied these few days. Fortunately, little of consequence has happened in the world, and so you need not have bothered to read all of those newspapers.

Instead, I shall take as today’s theme, “Today in History”. Let’s start with something that you all know about, unless you forgot to do your prep yesterday. Today is the birthday of John the Fearless. Or it would have been, had he still been alive. His chances of still being alive are somewhat remote as he was born in 1371. They were made almost impossible by his living up to his name. Fearless is not a characteristic to be embraced. Had John been just a tad fearful, he might have escaped being murdered, but that is neither here nor there. You will realise, even if you are not overly familiar with European history, that he lived during the 100 years war - even less prudent to be fearless during such a turbulent era. What English boys and girls are not really taught in school is that the French eventually won the 100 years war. Despite all the nationalism and glorification of that prize tit Henry V, eventually the English, not for the last time, were kicked out of northern France. To this day they are only allowed back in order to rid the country of crap wine that any discerning Frenchman will not allow to pass his lips. The admirable thing about John the Fearless was that you knew where you stood with him. It was all in the name, you see. Similarly, his father was called Philip the Bold, and his son Philip the Good. It is not clear whether these names were on the birth certificate, or whether they were acquired during the lifetime of their owners, but at least you knew where you were with them. (I have to confess to not knowing what Philip was good at, and it is too late at night to look it up (my very good friend a Mr Trellis of North Epsom will no doubt know, but he is somewhat reticent about posting comments here), but he did have lots of children, mostly illegitimate, so perhaps that was it.) One of the French kings in this period was called Charles the Mad. Unequivocal. With good old Charlie, you knew exactly what you were getting. I am not one to pretend that things were better in those days, but at least you didn’t have to worry too much about the kind of person you were being introduced to. I can’t think of a single good reason as to why we have discontinued that habit. Of course, there are lots more of us these days, and so our names would have to be a little more precise to have meaning – I am sure that we would all like to be called “The Good” or “The Well Endowed” or “The Clever”, but eventually we would all know at least seven “Trevor the Tall”s and this would be confusing. So, let me know what you would like to be called. Something along the lines of “Kevin the Ever So Slightly Annoying”, or “Janet the Well Meaning But Hopelessly Indiscriminating”.

Today is also the birthday of Kylie Minogue. I have no interest in this person, but feel that having already attracted thousands of new readers with “Tori Amos Naked”, and still getting more than a few Beeny busty substance related visitors, that it would do no harm to include the phrase “pictures of Kylie Minogue’s arse”.

Free the Huddersfield One

It seems to be a day for silly news. A man has been charged with “possession of an axe near the queen”. Or something daft such as that.

Let’s look at the evidence shall we?

The last 3 monarchs (if you include the idiot Edward VIII) died of smoking related illnesses, although there seems to be some suggestion that George V was finished off by a cocktail of cocaine and morphine. Very trendy. Is there any suggestion that smoking tobacco is bad for you, and that it should be banned from public places, let alone near a monarch? Of course not, the very idea is preposterous.

If we ignore the noble heads of state who died of natural causes, we are left with the following candidates:

• George IV died of obesity. I feel a strange fellowship with him. Do we hear of a woman being arrested for being in possession of a lemon meringue pie outside Windsor Castle? No, of course not. Neither is it a criminal offence to own a bag of chips and mushy peas in Balmoral.
• George III died deaf, blind and insane. It could be argued that at over 80 he had had a good innings, and that the insanity was not directly linked to his watching daytime TV. But even if a causal link could be established, then does that mean that there is justification for imprisoning Jeremy Kyle? Actually, it probably does, so let’s skip that one and blame the demise of George on old age.
• George II died on the toilet. It is well known that the current head of the commonwealth does not use the lavatory, but there never seem to be any security measures taken to prevent her being in the vicinity of one.
• William II fell from a horse, broke his collarbone and died of resulting pneumonia. Horses. I shall be writing to Inspector Knacker and asking him to round up and incarcerate the Household Cavalry prior to this year’s Trooping the Colour.

Which takes us back to the only known victim of an axe, good old Charles I. I know that we live in uncertain times, but it seems a little overzealous of the security services to focus on some poor chap, innocently going about his axe-wielding business, particularly as it has been over 350 years since the last little hiccup.

A Doctor Writes

There has been a lot of stuff and nonsense in the media today about drinking and pregnancy, the view from the medical profession is that it is not a good thing.

I would take this further. I would ask people to refrain from imbibing alcoholic beverages for up to two years before giving birth. This will result in the conception of fewer unwanted babies.

Some culture for you

Lowering the tone

I am obliged to my friends at the Telegraph online who have reported that the compound which is the main constituent in Viagra is also useful in countering the effects of jet lag – specifically jet lag that results from flying east by six hours or more.

I am therefore asking for like-minded (is that hyphen alright for you, Dave?) entrepreneurs among you to contribute to my fund (currently £3.74) for building brothels in the arrivals area at terminals 3 and 4 at Heathrow, to greet the hordes of horny and invigorated Americans pouring out of the skies. If this experiment goes well, then there will be branches of the enterprise at all international airports, alongside the ubiquitous hotel chains, car rental companies and fast food outlets. I would welcome your suggestions as to a name, tasteful please. I hope to be able to advertise on television within two to three months. “Howhard Johnsons”? “Breast Western”? for the alternative market “Gays Inn”?

Those wishing to apply for employment, please let me know, in a discrete and polite way, your qualifications.

Extant trilithons and cutting sarcasm

First of all, may I, as a public service point out in traditional style: “He’s back, he’s back, it’s the same one!” Good old Dr Marx has resurfaced. I admit that his latest addition to the journal is a somewhat uninteresting essay about why he has started blogging again, but I am looking forward to resuming our friendship and it would be nice if you all went over there to welcome him back. You don’t have to make an appointment, his receptionist is only marginally irritable rather than aggressive, and the magazines in the waiting room are less than five years old.

Secondly, I read that some nice young lady from the USA has been inspired to find pleasure while doing the vacuuming. What a splendid example she is. All we need now is for Mr Hoover to devise a machine that switches into silent mode when there is sport on the television.

I have been listening to the wireless this morning, and am astounded by the waffle being regurgitated because some old boat has been set on fire. For bollocks sake. I can understand that if you were one of those involved in the current restoration of said ferry you would be a little annoyed, but in my view the restoration of the catamaran in question is in the same general category as home make over programmes on the television – the most useless and dull occupation of the Golgafrincham third of the population. I have heard the wails of grief of those who claimed to have had their most meaningful moments on board this vessel, how their lives will never be the same again, and how it caught fire while being chased by the paparazzi at well over the speed limit and so on. Now listen very carefully, I shall say this several times, but not necessarily in the same way. It is just a load of old wood. Countless thousands of schoolchildren have had their trips to London ruined by being dragged around this most dull of ‘attractions’. Had the owners wished to make it more realistic and interesting they would have populated it with disease ridden, lice infested, inebriated and vulgar Victorian sailors, who hadn’t washed for 3 months. That would have been a history lesson. Not looking at some old stuff. They are already talking about restoring it. Let’s hope they put sentiment aside and rebuild it with central heating, a home entertainment lounge with internet access, and proper plumbing.

And don’t get me started on Stone bollocky Henge. It is just a load of old rocks. And if those fucking rocks were dragged from Wales or even Argentina by a bunch of sweaty stone age labourers, it is just further proof that our ancestors were as bored as we are, and had to invent stupid stuff to do with their free time, much in the same way that sweaty modern labourers queue at B & Q of a weekend to pick up the latest fashion in brick and wood and dog’s arse green paint. The bricks on Salisbury plain do not even have the fancy bits of carving that excite poor old Dave so much. The sooner that some bastard knocks them down and builds a much-needed Tesco on the site, the better.

That tart Jane Austen has a house just down the road from me. I have not been there. Why should I? It is just a house, and a very old one at that. If the silly moo had spent less time fantasising about being rogered by the English gentry and slapped a bit of woodchip on the walls and added a nice conservatory, then she might have had more interesting subject matter about which to write.

Going out like a raspberry ripple

I am very grateful to my recent friend I, Like the View for providing the inspiration (although that hardly seems to be the appropriate word), for this little bit of wisdom.

First of all, she reminded me that I had referred to Leon Brittan in the standard reply to signers of my guest book. This reminded me, in turn, of an early skirmish in the world of blogging, when I used said gentleman’s name in vain. Try typing “Leon Brittan” and, for example “pendulous” into google, and see where you go. Here is a clue.

Secondly, my recently acquired friend mentioned Italy. I have been troubled of late by the preponderance of silly “make over” programmes on the television. I know that I do not have to watch them, and I do not have to watch the busty substances of the presenters in these programmes, as they bounce from side to side, demolishing walls and concussing passing plasterers, but I have decided that enough is enough. My solution? Simple, send them to Rome, which is overbrimming with useless old buildings, well in need of touching up a bit, and old Romans, similarly needful. That should keep them all busy for a damned long time. Well past my life expectancy any way. (And no, thank you very much, I don’t want any “Rome wasn’t built in a day” comments.) They can start with the Colosseum, which would make a very nice apartment block, with ample underground parking and so on.

I am also growing weary of the trend to fill the shitillion hours of broadcasting time with sending all and sundry round the world to give us the benefit of their opinion. Bollocks. Palin was all very well, but once he had been round the world, then north to south, there wasn’t much left was there? I wrote him a nice letter some years ago with a suggestion about a follow up series, and all I got was a letter from some minion about how busy he was blah blah blah. Last week it was Victoria Wood going some place or other, now Paul Merton is going to China. Piss off. I don’t care about their opinions about places. If I wanted to find out what these places were like I would go there myself. What the programme makers could do is to send people to places and NOT make programmes. I could provide a list of people and matching places that would keep them busy for many a long year.

The bloody film makers are as bad. Some creative genius has decided that it would be a good idea to remake “The Long Good Friday”. In the USA, obviously. I don’t blame them, it was such a deeply flawed film, lacking character development, plot lines, stunning dialogue, the definitive portrayal of a London gangster and blindingly good music. Which first rate thespian do you suggest should play the Harold Shand character? Arnie? Sly? Chuck? Richard Simmons?

Film producers? I’ve shit ‘em.

Tori Amos Fully Clothed, sod off perverts.

I am not best pleased with Graham Norton. I did not expect, although it would have been polite, him to telephone me to apologise in response to my letter of complaint, but there was no mention of me on his latest programme, even though he did attempt to cover Liz’s recent holiday. I could have helped him so much.

He compounded the issue by excreting on about the bloody song contest, but as with Mike, I expect he has some contractual obligation to do so. The rest of you should know better. His guests were Gerard Depardieu and a young lady called “Tori Amos”, who seems to have plucked her sobriquet (have you ever plucked your sobriquet, missus?) from the ethers and combined the world’s most anachronistic political organisation with one of the Old Testament’s leading bores, about whom I have written elsewhere. Well, he has had his chance. I shall not be appearing on next week’s instalment with him, and may go to talk to Oprah instead.

I may give him the benefit of the doubt. Gerry was once in a film with my lookalike, Andie McDowell, and my turning up may have confused the poor old chap, so I will not be too harsh on the BBC when they coming begging me in the week.

On the subject of television, I was sorry to see the end of the current series of “The Wire”. I still miss much of the dialect, but it is so good. Almost up to NYPD Blue standards, but so much darker. I think that Bunk may well finish up being my favourite tv detective. There is only going to be one more series, because the writers have run out of ideas. Not very professional in my view. Not having anything to write about has never stood in the way of my churning out this drivel.

The Blair Years: The Critical Moments

Tone and Ali look concerned. They would be even more peeved when they found out that Gordon had tipped the pilot £25 to fly them to Buenos Aires.

Then Gordon spiked the drinks at Labour Party HQ. Despite Cherie holding his right arm firmly, Tone still manages to give the nazi salute in Downing Street.

"Listen, you smelly provincial twat, I won't tell you how to play the fucking guitar, and you keep your nose out of my policies on primary school education, unless you want to see my latest karate moves, OK?"


During the night, Gordon slashed the tyres on the PM's Citroen, so Tone had to cycle to the state opening of parliament, trying very hard to maintain a cheery disposition.

"Well I was born stupid, what's your excuse?"

"Hey, mister, guess what I just did in my pants."

Tone wondered whether it would be worse to let her carry on singing, or to slap her round the face.

While the Blairs were taking a stroll by the Serpentine, Gordon had the locks changed. While they were waiting for Brian from "Easy Keysy", they were disturbed to hear the sounds of furniture being moved, and Kenneth McKellar on the gramophone.

Well, you make me want to Hail Mary

I note that my friends at BBC news have reported the Pope's visit to Brazil, where Lulu is still president. Either their photography skills have deserted them, or Lulu has really let herself go. I suppose the burden of running a large country has taken its toll, but if the new pictures are anything like representative, then I no longer fancy her.
The reason for Ratty's visit is to record a duet with Lulu. Someone told him at his recent party that he should capitalise on his talent. I thought that he sounded like Neil Young. Yes, as bad as that, and with a German accent. Rumour has it that they are going to do a hip-hop (whatever that is) version of "Macarthur Park".
This is all in retaliation for the publicity about the Eurovision song contest that is prevalent on some blogs at the moment. I am not surprised, someone had to do something before more innocent people are drawn to watch and write about the rubbish. Mike catches the other bus, so has some sort of contractual obligation to watch, but Mark and Betty, you really should know better.

Hands across the sea - part 3

Liz was rather surprised to be asked to open the "Old Hasbeen Silk Fetishists" home.

Meanwhile, Philip had great fun judging the Silly Hat Contest, even when the runner-up fondled him intimately.

While the queen distracted the security staff by taking an inordinate amount of time to finish her meal of grits, stewed possum and dirty rice, the Monmouthshire Militia began the campaign to reclaim the lost colonies.

"You are dumber than a bin full of turds, even my lanky streak of piss of a husband is smarter than you. They got rid of king George, then less than 250 years later their stupid descendants voted for you. You don't even understand what I'm saying, do you, you total and utter fuckwit?"

"Here's the bald motherfucker again, staring at my tits. Where are all the sodding assassins when you need them?"

Sarah Beeny's I HAVE enormous, MODIFIED THIS swinging, HEADING pendulous TO GET RID OF THE PERVERTS ti-ts

There follows an open letter to Mr Graham Norton at the BBC.
You will understand if I am not my normal cheery self at this distressing time.



Mr Norton

I am a struggling, but talented, young artist, whose aspirations have been cruelly dashed by you.

I wonder whether you ever consider the power that you wield, and the dramatic impact it can have on those of us who only dream of having our talents recognised.

Over the past few years I have, in the manner of my near neighbour Jane Austen, fostered ambitions of becoming a writer of note. Unlike Ms Austen, I do not advertise my house on tatty signs at the side of the road, but instead have sought to promote my work through the medium of the internet. I have built up a small but enthusiastic following of devoted readers, who look to me for advice and counsel about the difficulties associated with living in these times. I allow them to contribute by comment on my writings.

These last few days I have been surprised by the increased numbers of visitors. "Scurra," I exclaimed to myself, "Your time is coming, your ability is about to receive the recognition that is its due". Then, this evening I watched my recording of your latest program, featuring Ms Dawn French and Ms Sarah Beeny. Regrettably, the content of your program soon deteriorated, and the matter of Ms Beeny's chest became the focus of your conversation. "Google me", she advised, "and you will see that people are interested in my chest".

Due to the naughtiness of my friend Tom, who suggested in one of his comments that should I watch one of Sarah's programs, my attention would be drawn to her 'tits', I am high on the Google list of links to "Sarah Beeny's tits". It was this, not my wisdom, my style so redolent of Anthony Trollope or the serious topics upon which I discourse, that drew my visitors.

I suppose that I should thank you for disabusing me of the idea that I had anything worthwhile to offer.

I am going now, to resume my career in the business world. Heaven knows how many Keats or Dostoevskys have been treated in a similar cruel manner by those, who like yourself, think nothing of the lives of ordinary folk.

yours sadly

Vicus Scurra


I have to say that this is the first time I have ever seen Sarah Beeny. At the risk of being described as a pervert, my preference would be to engage with her in conversation rather than see her tits. She seemed a jolly nice young lady, and blessed with a pleasant and witty conversational style. I understand that she is involved in one of these home improvement programmes that are everywhere on television these days, so she must be a bit thick.

Hands across the sea part 2

Wait 'til I get you home, you lanky streak of piss, I told you explicitly not to ask where you could buy slaves.

"And when does your family hope to get indoor plumbing?"

Liz had only just touched down when she strengthened her position as world finger wrestling champion, by dislocating the ring finger of Mrs Audrey-Bob Skunkchewer of Kentucky.

Under American criminal law, the accused has the right to choose their place in an identity parade. Police were looking for someone in connection with the possession of an offensive former daughter-in-law.
Liz is again embarrassed by Phil's mistaking people for Raquel Welch.

"Yo! Grandma! Wanna come to Boston for a tea party?"

Hands across the sea

"I've travelled 4000 bloody miles to get here, and you give me one bloody flower, you tightfisted, diaper-headed bastard? See that uptight bitch behind me, dressed like a constipated peppermint? Well do me a favour a stick this right up her arse".

"No, I don't want another fucking cup of tea, you bald motherfucker, and keep your fucking hands to yourself, unless you want to find out what an orb and sceptre are really used for."

Liz was less than impressed with her accommodation. "And if you think that I am going to change my mind if that twat Ty Pennington turns up tomorrow morning with his fucking megaphone, you can piss off", she stated.

A minion commits a serious breach of protocol by highlighting the fact that he can see the royal nipple. Meanwhile, Philip spits on some poor people.

"Sup?"
"These pants are squashing my balls, man".
"Do you know who these dudes are?"
"Yeah, they are, like, the most famous married British couple, like, ever".
"I thought David Beckham was, like, younger than that".

Her majesty enjoys the traditional greeting by Barbara Bush and her tickling stick.

"You can keep Cleveland, Baltimore, Montana and Florida, but I am claiming the rest back."

The crowds go wild as Her Majesty declares the playschool open, by shifting her buttocks and releasing the royal fart.

"More poxy flowers? Save them for Helen fucking Mirren. Or give them to Philip - he's got hay fever."

Fixin' to die, part 2

I have completed the viewing of the horizon sci-fi programme. It was a jolly good laugh. The second part was slightly more enjoyable, and perhaps I should have waited until I had seen it all until I made my observations. Here they are, again in no particular order.

The programme was narrated by Sam West, who as most of you will know is the offspring of Bradley Hardacre and Sybil Fawlty. Some of you may think that this is not germane to the subject matter, but I think that it gives it an interesting perspective.

There were some pleasant chaps in the second part, some of them admitting that they didn’t have a clue about anything - I admire that. I was particularly taken with Leon Lederman, who not only dropped his Nobel medal on the floor, but kept it in a display cabinet along with other trophies, including his 6^th grade attendance medal. Leon won his Nobel prize for "for the neutrino beam method and the demonstration of the doublet structure of the leptons through the discovery of the muon neutrino". He won his attendance certificate by failing to climb the fence at his school. He seemed like a decent fellow, and proof that the study of physics is a handicap that need not interfere with the leading of a normal life, as far as I can tell.

Now, I appear to have misled you yesterday. The machine in question is not called a “Big Hadron Collider”, but a “Large Hadron Collider”. Go to your print outs of yesterday’s article, tippex out the word “Big”, and pencil in “Large”. Thank you. I was obviously not paying attention. Blame Mr Sutton, my first physics teacher. I learned to drift off very early in my physics career, when I came to the conclusion that what was being proposed was either blatantly obvious or blatantly absurd. I have never recovered. I am fairly certain that LHC stands for Large Hadron Collider. It does not, I can say with a modicum of assurance, stand for “long hairy cock” or anything else those on the back row have come up with.

Here’s the thing. If you take as a premise that stuff is composed of atoms, and that atoms contain particles, then the problem that physicists have is to understand why particles, which are energy (yes, I know this is simplistic, but bear with me), stick together to become matter. They have identified lots of different particles, but none that have the quality of binding together, if you will, that would be necessary for matter to be formed out of energy. In order to make their theories work they have hypothesised that something called the Higgs Boson Particle exists. This particle acts to stick the other particles together. No one has ever produced any evidence of the Higgs particle, let alone got one in a cupboard at home (I, as I said in an early article have a complete set in my garden shed, and one day will reveal to the world the real purpose of these bosons). They are hoping that when someone puts the first quarter in the slot and fires up the LHC, then Higgs Bosons Particles will pop out from behind the door and reveal themselves. Or summat.

Actually, atoms are made in a factory in Kidderminster, where teams of highly skilled workers assemble them from the particle pile, and using a very secret process, cover them with a substance not unlike cassava. Atoms are therefore very similar to miniature tapioca. Now that you know this, your understanding of the nature of the Universe will take on new perspectives. The workers in Kidderminster work very hard, as there a quite a lot of atoms in the universe, apparently.

So, these physics chaps are hoping to see evidence of things in their new toy that will lead to the first “Theory of Everything”. They will understand the nature of everything, and be able to answer all questions. If you like, I will prepare a list of questions and forward them for you. The three that I want answered the most are:

• How can anyone see any merit in the work of the Poet Keats?
• Who in the name of holy crap ever voted for Jeffrey Archer? (apart from those on the jury who found the bastard guilty).
• Who was responsible for John Emburey playing test cricket?

They failed to convince me that there is no risk of this experiment destroying the galaxy. If I were you, come November, I would have my running shoes on at all times, and be prepared to run in the direction away from Geneva very fast indeed.

Welcome, Welcome, Welcome. The important thing is your arrival, not the route you followed to get here.

I will return to the important topic of nuclear physics shortly. In the meantime, here is a brief foray into that old favourite of those of us with nothing to say – the referrals section of our site counters.

98% of search engine queries come to me looking for the busty substances of a television presenter of whom I had never heard. Bastards. I am number 4 on Theodore and Evadne’s list for that particular topic. I did manage to get poor Surly Girl in at number 2 by leaving a comment on her blog, and I am just going over to that bugger Tom who started all this and leaving a comment on his blog, to see if that will attract some attention away from here. And why, in the name of buggery, is there such a fixation for these particular two. There are literally dozens of other tits in the world, and several of them, so I have been told, can be seen on the internet. Big ones, small ones, ones with nipples akimbo. White ones, brown ones, black ones, yellow ones and polkadot ones. More boobs than you can shake a stick at (geddit?).

I am also the number one authority (thanks again Tom) for “insects in mange tout peas from Kenya”. I have never been to Kenya, do not care much for insects, and despite being a proud vegetarian, am not fond of Mange Tout. Mange tout is the slogan of the omnivore, surely. If God had intended us to eat pea pods, he would not have created the Bird’s Eye factory.

To the person who asked about “protocol for ladies day at Ascot”. Shit in your handbag, and be sure to show the evidence to everyone you meet. Should you be introduced to royalty (and this only applies on Ladies day at Ascot) be sure to use the phrase “you pox ridden bastard” at least twice in the conversation.

Also in the charts this week, I am at number 35 at Dogpile for “Removed his testicles”. This is probably the protocol for men who attend ladies day at Ascot. Please remember to remove your testicles and leave them with the cloakroom attendant. Although if you are so whipped that you have to go to bollocky racemeetings attended by single digit IQ throwbacks, your testicles are probably approaching non-existent anyway.

I am indebted to dear Adam (where is the sweet boy these days, I miss him so?) for the occasional visitor enquiring about the insertion of fingers into recta.

“Chekhov, footballer’s name”. No, you must be thinking of Pushkin who played on the left wing for Brighton and Hove Albion.

The next one is again the fault of Tom. He wrote a comment about having hand’s on experience of the aforementioned organs of the lovely Lulu. This was most uncalled for, and has resulted in all sorts of perverts hanging around here.

Some poor soul wants to know about the after effects of Kaliyuga. Kaliyuga is defined in the Shastras as the time when a great soul writes about matters of importance for the world on the internet, and gets bombarded by weirdos looking for specialised porn. The after effects, although I would not phrase it quite that way, are that things get so bad that God incarnates and heralds the arrival of the golden age. Don’t get too excited about the golden age – it is all purity and peace. I doubt whether the bureaucrats in charge will allow us to watch “Have I Got News for You” or listen to Jefferson Airplane.

Inverkeithing. Not some bizarre pictish sexual practice, but a town in Scotland where Amazon store stuff in order to ensure that next day delivery is virtually impossible.

Ken Dodd joke. I told you all the one about cat’s eyes. Another favourite was the three legged chicken, which he tells very well. If you haven’t heard it, I will add it to the comments section.

Someone from Russia asked “what you do what you say divorce royal”. Well, comrade, I think what you do is save on the lawyer’s fees by shooting the lot of them. It is a position not without merit, in my view, although I am opposed to violence.

You will all be pleased to hear that:

a) I am in the top ten already for “Horizon Six Billion Dollar Experiment”

b) (That’s enough links. Ed.)

And it's one, two, three what are we experimenting for?

TCM.

I love them. They are barmy beyond the bounds of belief.

Here are a few unordered observations about the Horizon programme called “The Six Billion Dollar Experiment”.

I note that some roads in Geneva are named after scientists. They call these roads, for example, “A. Einstein” and “I. Newton”. This is because they do not want to confuse us, and lead us to believe that they have named streets after Kevin Einstein or Britney Newton. They need not have bothered, Einstein and Newton have a lot to answer for, and I would prefer that they go unrecognised.

For those of you who do not know about the “BHC”, I will explain a little. They have built a circular 27 kilometre tunnel, 100 metres below the surface near the French/Swiss border. They are filling it with the stuff of scientific experiments – Bunsen burners, pipettes, magnets and the intestines of frogs – at least that was the sort of stuff we used when I last studied science. Things cannot have changed that much. BHC stands for “Big Hadron Collider”. The Big refers to the collider rather than the hadron. Hadrons are very small indeed. Call me a cynic, but why do they need to bother to describe this monstrosity as “Big”. What are they going to do if this experiment fails? Build a “Huge Hadron Collider”, a “Fucking Enormous Hadron Collider”? A “So Pigging Gigantic Hadron Collider That Even Thinking About How Colossal It Is Will Make Your Ears Bleed”?

Now, here’s the thing: they are attempting to create conditions that might have existed in the very early stages of the universe. This all assumes, of course, that their silly theories about the Big Bang are anything like correct. Daft sods. They are attempting to get protons to collide with each other, something that doesn’t happen much, apparently. Protons are very polite, and move out of the way when they see another one approaching. Should they be successful they may even produce black holes. Reassuringly, they tell us that these black holes will disappear as soon as they are created, and that the creation of a black hole capable of sucking in the experiment, France, Switzerland, the Earth and our galaxy is “almost impossible”. That’s alright then. What a bloody relief. The destruction of the earth in November, when Phil Tufnell cuts the ribbon to open the BHC and protons start rushing at each other, would drastically interfere with the project that I am employed to complete, and may even lead to its cancellation.

The questions that may be answered include:

• What happened in the first second of the universe?
• Which twat decided that it would be a good idea to give these buffoons 6 billion dollars (that is nearly 10 quid at current exchange rates) to build a toy capable of destroying the earth?

My theory is that if the Big Bang theory is anything like accurate, then our universe was created by a bunch of scientists in Zimbabwe or Milton Keynes, who managed to build a machine capable of destroying their own universe and spilling all of the matter and energy in it into a new one. This happens every 14 billion years or so – the time it takes for matter to evolve into sentient beings capable of fucking everything up in a very big way.

This is all because Orson Welles pissed off the Swiss with his cuckoo clock line. They never could take a fucking joke.

One way or another, I will be sadly missed

I am going out again tomorrow. If you see me in the street, please do not impede my progress, I shall not be signing autographs nor engaging in idle chit-chat. I am a little concerned with the latest British pastime – shooting people. I don’t know why people require more excitement than can be obtained by a few games of cribbage, but I suppose I will just be called old-fashioned.

I have not yet had the opportunity to view tonight’s Horizon programme on the preposterous machine that the Swiss are building, and so you may never get to hear my views on it. In the event of my not being sniped tomorrow, then I shall endeavour to produce a full and unbiased report.

I have already made some arrangements for my funeral. An old friend has promised to travel from Brisbane to tell everyone that I was a complete cunt. I would hate that contribution to be omitted for future generations. I want to be buried in a paper sack under a newly planted tree. Please sort out among yourselves who is bringing the tree. Mark seems to have disappeared, so if the funeral is in the short term, Richard, you can be in charge of the music. Betty, please tell people where to sit or stand, and don’t put up with any nonsense. Zoe, please keep your clothes on. I am sorry there are not enough little jobs to go round, and am sorry to disappoint people, but please join in with the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Let yourselves go, people of my calibre do not pass this way often.