Apologies if that last post sounded a bit bleak. Southendcockneyboy has just cheered me up immensely with this piercing bit of what the BBC is calling “debate”:
Get in there! United, United!
Seasoned commentators including Christopher Hitchens, George Monbiot and all those smart-arses with their blogs have so far been unforthcoming with a counterpoint, so compelling is Southendcockneyboy’s argument.
Nothing cheers me up like a good bit of debate.
Word reaches me that the Tory armies, fresh from their capture of Lundun, are on the march northwards and have now laid siege to Crewe. Dark days indeed. They say that the fool Brown sits sulking in his bunker, blind to the inevitable, while Darling has been seen eating his own young. This afternoon I climbed to the top of a nearby hill and heard cannon fire coming from the Cheshire hinterland. Later I helped my wife and children to pack their things and waved as they set off for the safety of Scotland, where they will stay until this horror is over.
I promised them that I would be joining them soon, but I could not look them in the eye. It’s the end, my friends. We’re doomed.
Can you smell it? It’s just like a really nasty smell. Can’t you smell it?
Can you smell it? I can smell it.
Is there a window open somewhere? Smells like it’s coming in from outside. Poo, it’s horrible.
Do you mean to tell me nobody can smell a smell?? What’s wrong with you people??
Update:
Sorry, it looks like there’s a tuna sandwich under my desk.
Be honest: isn’t this something every man’s done from time to time?
When officers had turned up to investigate they found Batchelor still partially dressed and with his flimsy thong on the wrong way round.
It’s so easily done, and after a few cans of Special Brew I’m told the chafing just doesn’t reach the brain. There are hospitals in Glasgow that specialise in reattaching testicles after just such incidents.
To the untrained eye, just two ordinary guys. Can you spot which one has his thong on back-to-front?
“Are bloggers blogging themselves to death?” asks the Guardian.
I’m pretty sure I’m not.
A blogger blogging himself to death, yesterday
You know that bloke who killed all those people 20 years ago, yeah?
You know his wife, right?
You know her guinea pig?
It’s dead.
This, according to the Sun, is the biggest story in Britain today.
I mean, seriously. What about the canoe guy? What about Diana and Dodi? What about that nice bachelor man who gave all that money to that nice Mr Brown? About these pressing issues the Sun cares not one jot.
The country has truly gone to hell in a hand-cart, and to be honest it wasn’t even much of a hand-cart. The country has gone to hell in a wheelbarrow.
OK, I admit it, I didn’t die back in September. That whole canoe thing was just a ruse. I’ve been hiding out in Central America and I would have gotten away with it too if I hadn’t foolishly put a photo of myself holding my passport and driving licence on the website Look, It’s Me! I’m Here! In Panama!.com. It’s always the little things you overlook.
Turns out that in September I offended a group of Icelandic fundamentalists with my cheap fisting gag. Icelandic fundamentalists are a lot like Islamic fundamentalists but with warmer coats and a fanatical hatred of Kerry Katona. They did some digging and found that I’d recently named my pet cat Björk and after that it was just non-stop hate mail, effigy burning, flaxen-haired trawlermen outside the house demanding my death - you know the sort of thing.
In a last-ditch attempt to placate them I renamed the cat Atomic Kitten and that’s when the shit really hit the fan. Should I have known about the Kerry Katona thing? In retrospect, yeah, perhaps I should. Call me naive if you like - I just thought it was a nice name for a cat. In the end I felt I had no option but to stage my own death, cash in on the life insurance, go to Panama and buy a couple of yachts. Honestly, it’s been a living nightmare.
But now I find myself back in the UK and I’ll say one thing for British prisons: they know how to keep a man safe from Icelandic fundamentalism. I could get used to it in here.
Just one final note for my next-door neighbour (whose identity is obviously best not revealed for her own sake): please tell Atomic Kitten I forgive her for all the trouble she’s caused and I’m not dead after all. And make sure you do it that way round: get her feeling guilty first and then hopefully you can slip the not dead thing in “under the radar” as it were. I know one day she’ll understand.
There was some fellow from Iceland on Radio 4 tonight going on about fisting quotas. Apparently there’s been too much fisting in the North Sea which has led to concerns that within as little as 10 years there will be no more fisting at all. It will just be impossible to fist.
Took me a while to realise he was talking about fishing. Honestly, they should teach them to speak properly before they let them on the radio. I’m having trouble sleeping now.
Of all the acres of newsprint marking the death of Pavarotti I can’t find a single one that mentions the great man’s passion for elephants.
Let me be the first to rectify that situation.
A top UK judge made this astonishing pronouncement today, as pictured here by the BBC. He claims Q-Tips are a valuable source of protein and should be “force-fed to every man, woman and child in Britain”, along with beef brains and lead paint from China which apparently are “good for the backbone”.
See, this is how it goes with judges. One day they’re telling you you can’t do 90 in a built-up area, then it’s no murdering on week days, and before you know it’s all gone to their heads and they’re meddling in areas they know nothing about. These things should be left to experts such as Jamie Oliver and Ainsley Harriott.
The country’s gone to the dogs. I no more want an overpaid drag queen in a bad wig to tell me what to eat than I would seek legal advice from Gillian McKeith.
I’ve decided not to go to the Diana thing today. The official line is that it “could divert attention from the purpose of the occasion”. The truth is that I couldn’t stand the woman and her kids keep staring at me every time I go for their dad’s crotch. It’s so humiliating.
I know one day the world will accept me, but until then I feel I’m best off stopping home, drinking gin and watching Cash In The Attic.
“If I come to power, then we can really fuck things up over there,” warns Cameron.
I didn’t actually read the whole article, but I’m sure that’s the gist of it.
The cricket crisis continues to roll on.
The Orange team continue to deny that they purposefully littered the crease with England cricketers. Captain Michael Orange said, “Yeah, y’know, the lads like England players, so I suppose they might have had one or two in their pockets which could have fallen out near the wicket, but deliberately? Come off it!” This despite the footage above which clearly shows fielder Kevin Orange about to drop a Michael Vaughn, a knowing wink on his face.
Yellow captain Zaheer Yellow has now taken his complaint to the sport’s international governing body. A spokesman today told blogrot: “The rules of cricket make it quite clear that distraction of the batting team by means of shouting, waving or laughing are not allowed. Unfortunately the rules are less clear regarding the dropping of England players on the crease.”
I just think it’s bloody childish. The umpire appears to agree.
Farewell then,
Ingmar Bergman.
Suppose that’s
Checkmate to Death
Then.
A scene from Bergman’s iconic The Seventh Seal. I say iconic, but I could never get into it myself. Even with all those seals it was never a patch on Happy Feet.
Farewell then,
Frank Butcher.
So now you really have
“Gone to Manchester”
(To use the old
EastEnders euphemism).
We’ll all say nice things
About you now
And pretend you never
Set fire to that tramp.
At this difficult time, please take a moment to listen to Eminem vs. Frank Butcher.
