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.
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.
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?
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.
England midfielder Steven Gerrard stunned the world yesterday by announcing that, “England must deliver.”
“We need to score some goals, ideally more goals than we let the other team score,” said Gerrard to gasps from the attending media. “We need to do this by using the things at the end of our legs to bash that round thing towards the net with a big Russian standing in it, and then past the big Russian.”
The Liverpool star went on to explain how a game is made up of two parts, known as “halves”, and that a win against Russia would be “a win”.
“The lads have been learning really really hard how to play football,” he said, “and now I think we all realise that the aim is to win the game rather than to let the other team win it.”
Winning Is On The Whole Preferable To Not Winning: The Wisdom Of Steven Gerrard is available from Penguin, priced £8.99.
They’re those little orange flashy-type lights on the corners of your car. There’s usually a stick for them somewhere behind the steering wheel. Try to think back: I’m sure it was covered in your driving lessons.
Celebrity arsehole Gordon Ramsay has not, it transpires, been burning his meatballs. The greens have not been overcooked in his meat and two veg. He remains a novice in the preparation of Grilled Cod Surprise.