It's hard to find

Talking Cak. The definitive study.

There it is, hidden in the more overgrown parts of the Telegraph online, an article about whether men talk more than women.

Before you all dash over there, chatting as you go, I should point out that the article is by some called “Science Editor”. This of course, completely discredits any of the arguments that he is putting forward.

Some bright spark, this time from the University of Arizona, (my wonderful nephew is a student there*, how proud I am), has worked out that on average we all use 16,000 words per day. Women use slightly more than men.

Most of the words used, according to the study, are of the form “Will you stop trying to count the number of words I use, and listen to what I am saying, you odious little tit, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE AND IF YOU TELEPHONE AGAIN I WILL COME OVER THERE AND RAM YOUR PHONE SO FAR UP YOUR ARSE THAT IT WILL DISLOCATE YOUR VOCAL CHORDS, YOU TOTAL TWAT” or “Right, that’s it, I’m on my way over with my scrotum slicer”.

More importantly Dr Mehl (for it is he), overlooks the issue of quality as opposed to quantity. Step forward the Brit version of time wasting tossers, Dr Robin Dunbar of Liverpool University.
“What we do seem to find is a difference in the way men and women use conversation: women’s conversations seem mainly to be about networking, whereas men’s tend to be more advertising.”
Networking, my arse. Anyone who uses that word forfeits the right to be taken notice of.

No, both men and women talk complete bollocks 98% of the time. This is done in order to try to ignore our plight. Lost and confused, spinning around a dying sun, no idea why we are here and completely unable to come to terms with the ephemeral nature of our existence. Still, mustn’t grumble.

*This may no longer be true. He was planning to move to the University of Northern Arizona next academic year. “Where’s that” I asked. “Northern Arizona”, came the reply. I really love him.

I don't know what's going off out there

Yes, yes, I know. And I don’t much care, quite frankly. If only one of you had asked nicely instead of nagging me then I might have written something a little more substantial than this. And the only reason I am writing this here is because I can’t find a suitable place to post it on the Sky Sports site.

Open message to the Sky Sports Cricket Production team.

I have relabelled the mute button on my remote control device “Croft”. Because every time, (and I really don’t want to call him a Welsh Windbag, even though it is very apposite and alliterative, because I don’t like racism) that the annoying little git opens his mouth I feel a reflex reaction causing me to press said button. I do not want to spend my evenings having my entertainment spoiled by some arsewit loudly haranguing me with facile and trite remarks. I would remind you that in his professional career he occasional managed to achieve mediocrity, and was one in a long line of totally talentless slow bowlers to have played for England who had neither style nor charm. In his new job he has only ever achieved the standard best described as “crap”. I think I would rather listen to Trevor Bailey.

Laugh? I nearly read Dostoevsky.

I had an email today (I sure know how to grab your attention with a dynamic opening statement, don’t I?), which reported that the sender was “LOL”. I get nearly as many of these as I see people “Lolling” when they see me in the street. Amusing as I undoubtedly am, I am suspicious of the literal veracity of the statement. It is probably nearer the truth that in this case and many others, the sender had just been mildly amused by something that I had written, and wanted to convey the information that they had at least noted the attempt at humour, if not actually found it funny.

“Lol” aside from being ubiquitous and therefore annoying, is hardly the best description of the activity, in particular, “out loud” seems a tad redundant. I cannot recall laughing in any other way. Maybe if Margaret Thatcher were to be publicly beheaded, I would laugh so much that my vocal chords would cease functioning, but that is only speculation. There seem to be two other variants of abbreviations to convey finding amusement – roffling and lmaoing. I have, in the past, roffled, albeit on not many occasions. I now, on medical advice, try to avoid it, indeed, very little gets me out of my chair. I find it a very comfortable place to loll and lol (geddit?). I have never lmaoed, and do not believe that this has ever been done by anyone else. I am not sure whether lmaoing is higher on the scale of hilarity than roffling. I suspect that the amusement induced by lmaoing would be very short-lived, and quickly transmute into an expression of incredulity and distress.

I think that we need new expressions to describe degrees of amusement. Perhaps some of you would like to come up with suitable abbreviations to replace lolling and lmaoing, leaving roffling to be pretty much the ultimate accolade, short of dropping dead of laughter, or excreting all of your internal organs in merriment.

Can you suggest shorthand for the following:

• “I read your email and detect that you were attempting to be humorous. While not finding anything note-worthily funny, I acknowledge that you did your best, and will not, on this occasion, report you to the laughter police for underachievement”.
• (This one is really for use when meeting someone in the world outside of the internet). “I am making a noise, which I would be embarrassed to hear if it were played back to me, that may cause you to think that I found your comment to be funny, but is actually an attempt to discourage you from further communication because I find you crass and boring, please go away.”
• “Yes, that was funny and caused me to smile. It did not cause me to “l”, or “lol”, but please do not be discouraged by this.”
• “I am laughing, but at you, not with you.”
• “That was so funny that I have excreted all of my internal organs. Do you have a bag that I can use to keep them in, please?”

He's back! He's back! It's the same one!

Today marks a special day in the UK blogging calendar - the annual posting by Watski. One day each year, the stars align, electricity is restored to Nottinghamshire, flowers bloom, young maidens strip off their clothes and skip happily through the streets of Sutton-in-Ashfield, in Mansfield houses are decked with bunting spelling out the traditional message of "Sod off you southern poofs" and Watski dusts off the paper tape punch and composes a message to be fed into the Normantebbit 8700 supercomputer in his wardrobe which then updates the internet with all the latest news from Mansfield, usually bugger all.

Go over there and greet him, drape yourselves round his muscular body and festoon him with kisses (no tongues) and with joy in your heart, tell him "keep your fucking blog up to date, you idle twat".

Dearly departed

Just a quick note to report that I have been catching up with my television viewing, and have only just seen the programme where Trevor McDonald said he did not view Bernard Manning as a racist, just a "fat white bastard".
Yes, it was uncaring and racist, but on the other hand bollock numbingly funny.
I have disabled comments on this thread because I don't want to get into arguments.
love and peace.

Muntjacs

What a strange few days it has been. I was mindful of the advice to be wary of those that one had only met on the internet, but am delighted to report that the 3 fellow bloggers I have met this week lived up to all of my expectations and were exactly as I had imagined them.

Has it really been a week? It seems like only a couple of days ago that I was with Tom in his Torquay penthouse. We didn’t get to spend much time chatting, as he was negotiating deals to expand his mining interests in Ecuador, and to reunite the Joe Loss Band for a world tour – you will be sad to note that he failed to do this in time for Glastonbury. I found the high powered business environment a little speedy for my taste – always some lackey or another dashing in with questions or documents to sign, but Tom, despite the frenetic pace at which he lives his life remains cool, without a crease out of place, and always wearing the trademark Armani gold tie.

Mark’s lifestyle is equally bewildering to me – we called in during one of his exotic dance routines at the “Pole to Pole” nightspot in Cambridge. I have to say that he is exceptionally supple for an octogenarian, and he gets away with those costumes in a way strangely reminiscent of Peter Stringfellow. We made our excuses and left before the finale – I don’t mind what people do, but don’t always want to watch it.

Then this afternoon Dave fell over my threshold, kicking a passing cat, pausing to vomit on the godetias, and complementing one of my neighbours on “her rack”. The street was then entertained by his pointing out a young lady who was, apparently, only a roadbuilder’s daughter, but she liked her asphalt. I was not aware that it was possible to obtain alcoholic beverages in North East Hampshire of a Sunday, but Dave obviously has a nose for that sort of thing. This is not a personal comment – his gigantic crimson proboscis is due, he assured me, although in a slurred manner, to hereditary factors.

Glastonbury? I have pissed better.

Scurra productions is proud to launch the exciting supergroup "The Chair". Described as a fusion of rock and blues, and combining the best of the Grateful Dead, Zappa, Janis Joplin and Des O'Connor, a UK tour will be announced shortly.

Iraq and other warzones

It would be the height of ingratitude to turn upon my hosts for last weekend and in any way criticise them on this public forum, so please understand that the following is written with my usual care and compassion.

Many of you have been concerned about the absence of dear Tom from the blogging community these few weeks. I am happy to report that following my visit he is on the mend and may appear here again one day. I cannot divulge the methods and techniques that I used upon him, but suffice it to say that when I left, I think I detected the return of the smile to his wizened face, and we can all pray that he will soon be able to return to sophisticated society.

The highlight, at least from Tom’s point of view, of my visit to Dartmoor, was the visit to "the chair". I will return to that shortly, but for those folk from foreign climes who read this stuff, if you substitute the word “Alabama” for “Devon” or “Dartmoor”, you may get some sense of how those parts differ from the rest of the country.

It is very nice that the people of the moors are able to show their progress into the modern world in such quaint ways. Many of us would feel that we were vacationing on Craggy Island should we be offered a trip to “the chair”, but I recognise the importance of fostering positive self image in those less fortunate. I did not even mention that I have several chairs in my house, and some of them have been there for quite a long time. I am not one given to promoting my own achievements.

I can confirm that someone in their attempt to improve upon what God has created has put a chair in a field in Dartmoor. I refer you to the title of this journal.

*******

Many of you will be familiar with the kind of spam illustrated below:

Good day to you,
I am Mrs. Silifat Al-Fayadh , wife of Late Sheikh Dhari Ali Al-Fayadh (Prominent Member, Iraqi House of Assembly ).
I have a business obsure for you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Silifat Al-Fayadh

I, however, am tempted to reply. The lady should be told about the cruel trick her parents played upon her. She must have avoided the playground and probably found no solace until her marriage. Then her husband dies. I am not sure what obsure means. I hope she does not mean obese.

Tripping with Colours

"You can put your hand down, you great useless ponce, I told you last year that there is no part of the ceremony called 'Grabbing the royal tit'."

William is fearful for his eyesight. Either he will find his retina impaled on the barbed hat, or he might accidently get a glimpse of stepmother.

The shadows cast by the household cavalry endorse their awesome reputation, and explain the reasons for the rejection of so many applications.

Inspector Knacker and his men are as vigilant as ever. "Have any of you fuckers seen a tall geezer in a silly hat?"

"I'll give you a legacy, you dull twat. This is the third time this year you have insisted that it was fancy dress and left me looking like a tit. I just hope you didn't expect to get laid any time soon. "

Provide your own fart caption here.

Standing up in court

Back at home briefly on my world tour of deserving causes, I have to report on my sadness on the ending of the recent indecent exposure trial in London.
Every day a double entendre.
For example, on Monday they reported that they "hoped to wrap it up tomorrow". This is the BBC, mostly Radio 5. I hope they do all of this deliberately. At least the defendant, who was found not guilty did not have the bad grace to say that "it had been hanging over my head".
Another victory for justice. I cannot understand these laws. What kind of a democracy are we living in when a chap can't balance an aubergine on the end of his knob on the Hammersmith and City Line without someone taking offence?

Thank you for your continued support here at these times of sparse output. I will be back refreshed and verbose in due course.

A few things to gladden your heart.

Firstly, my old pal Ken Livingstone, Mayor of London, does not take kindly to people who do not pay their taxes, in this case a gentleman who thinks that he is exempt from the traffic congestion charge in London. According to the Grauniad, Ken has demonstrated his CSE grade 4 diplomacy by describing the American ambassador to the court of St James’s thus:
"What is sickening in this world is people who are venal little crooks like Tuttle, who gets treated with respect just because George Bush has rewarded him with an ambassadorship as a big kickback for contributions to his campaign."
I would not necessarily agree with this. I have difficulty with the word “little”.

Whole Foods Market has opened the first UK branch. You can read about it here. It is not without its critics, but is pretty high up on my list of acceptable faces of capitalism. I’ve been to the Austin branch, and I liked it. We should all pray that they overtake Tesco and Sainsburys as the leading supermarket within 5 years, and give us a sensible alternative to Hollocks and Bollocks as a place to buy good stuff.

And finally, here is the next prime minister.Isn’t he lovely. Proof, were it needed, that in a true democracy anyone can succeed. I do not wish to be accused of judging people by their appearance. It may be that there are pictures of me out there that do not present me as the charismatic Adonis with which you all associate me. And it may be true that unlike our colonial transatlantic cousins we do not go to the greatest lengths to find the biggest bloody idiot to be our leader, we do, at least, make some effort.

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.