The Appliance of Science

The Appliance of Science

My quest to cash a cheque for the sum of fifty-two pounds interrupted today by workmen outside the local branch of Nationwide. The flow of tea disrupted by a leaking main pipe, Thames Water sent a man out to find where, exactly the fault lay.

Did he use such technological marvels as ground-penetrating radar, or even some series of probes that detect moisture or changes in density? Not a bit of it. From the back of his van he produced two pieces of bent wire mounted on a couple of Bic biro cases. Ladies and gentlemen, your water rates pay for a dowser. He had better be good.

Assuming the position, our man walked around a bit until the streams crossed, and he marked an area on the pavement with blue paint. It was not for me to say that the fact that he was standing right next to a skip filled with scrap metal might have given him a false reading, because he’s qualified in witchcraft and I am not. But still, on the say-so of a couple of muscle spasms, a bunch of hairy-arsed navvies are going to dig up a pavement in the middle of Reading in the hope of finding a leaky pipe.

And best of luck to ‘em, I say. If it works, I’m fully prepared to be called a git and a skeptic, and if not, I will point and laugh until I get arrested.

What next? The laying-on of hands at the Doctor’s surgery? Intelligent design taught in schools? Ah.


Vote? Oh!

Following yesterday's woe in which Mrs Duck rumbled my plans to recruit an all-female crew for the HMSS Jenson Buttocks, I've promised to be on my best behaviour today. In which case, I have dropped my plan of getting a troupe of pole-dancers to act out the choices for tomorrow's tale of mirth and woe, and present, to you, instead, the bowlderised version for your selection.

I'm so very, very sorry.

* First Aid: "****", she said, "***** your **** up my **** in the 2.30 at Lingfield Park."

* Food Fight: He ran as fast as he could. And you would too, if **** ** **** **** Dante's Inferno.

* Seance 'o' Doom: The shame of it. Not only was he flat broke but he suddenly realised he had ******** Watford Football Club.

* Coming to my Census: "*****? **** *** ***** ****!" That was no way for a peer of the realm to talk.

* The Drugs Don't Work: "I'm not sexist, but **** ****** Victoria Beckham's dry shrivelled *********** **** inside out."

****-me-do!