Sniffin' Glue

Sniffin' Glue

The kid down the road from me used to sniff glue. I'd pop round his house to have a go on his VIC-20, and find him up in his room singing songs with the pixies* with yet another empty tin of Bostik stuck to the ceiling. I had no truck with that kind of substance abuse, and had no desire to be found by grieving parents with my genitals cemented to the bay windows.

Instead, going up the woods and smoking PG Tips was good enough for me. Legend said that if you smoke enough of them, the chimps come for you and haunt your dreams for months. We got through a Scout Hut Jumble Sale-sized box of them in a weekend, and I got nothing except bad breath and a craving for Rich Tea biscuits.

The drugs: don't work.

*No you damn fools, not those Pixies.


A Thursday vote-o Celebrity Special

Hello. My name is Pauline Prescott, currently the wife of the Deputy PM (for the time being!), and when I catch up with "Two Shags" he's dead meat, I can tell you for nothing.

I ask you, what's wrong with me that had John the Hut running off with that painted floozie (otherwise known as 'The Orifice of the Deputy Prime Minister')? Is my hair not big enough for him? Is it? I have cultivated this hair for the last twenty-seven years, and it is now the biggest, toughest hair in Western Europe and the backbone of Britain's defensive nuclear shield.

And where's that slattern Tracey "Oh Johnny do your sea lion impression, it's so funny" Temple's hair? Nowhere, that's where! I've got the biggest hair in which I have hidden an army of midget killer ninjas, ready for the next time my future ex-husband shows his face round here.

Men, eh? Can't live with them, can't bludgeon them to death with a tin of Extra-extra-extra-extra concrete hold hairspray and burn the corpse in the garden.

So, while Mr Blair is busy cleaning up all those terrible, terrible entrails from the Cabinet Office, perhaps you'd like to choose from the following Friday Scary Stories, even if they were WRITTEN BY A MAN.

* Bad Dog III: The Kitchen Massacre: Involves a mysterious head injury, which could have been prevented with big hair, the fools

* The Joust: More men doing stupid things with their long, thin protuberances. As per bloody usual

* The Phantom Turd: I'm married to him. End of story.

* First Aid: Will be far too late for my soon-to-be ex-husband. DIE!DIE!DIE!!!

Vote, but I'm telling you, it's a complete fix. That's politics, eh?


Also: Natural selection for beginners.