Neither mirth nor woe: Who dares wins

Neither mirth nor woe: Who dares wins

As I steal from the Danny Baker show, so I return. This time its a remix of an old tale of woe, thrashed into shape to satisfy two of his current themes: 'Out of control' and 'Things of Which We No Longer Speak'. So mote it be.

As a dreadful student, I went on a summer hiking trip to Wales with half-a-dozen mates, essentially as a way of getting very, very drunk whilst living in a tent.

On the second day, we climbed one of the Brecon Beacons in the pouring rain, the plan being to go over the top and spend a restful evening in a friendly pub where we were hoping to get absolutely plastered in the tradtional manner.

Two thirds of the way to the top, and completely exhausted, we abandoned it as a poor idea and sat on a rock, getting our breath back and deciding whether to return to our base camp and sleep for a week.

Bored, I started tossing small stones down the mountainside, to see how far they would go.

You can see where this is heading: After a few minutes of this activity, I selected a large (about 18 inches across), round disc of stone, and heaved it down the side of the mountain.

And down it went, completely out of control, sheep, hikers and horses all fleeing from its path as it hurtled towards them with deadly intent.

Then, coming round a bend in the path the best part of a mile away, was a squad from a certain Hereford-based elite army regiment, out on a high-powered, heavily-armed mountain training session.

I still remember the look of horror on their faces as the spinning rock o' doom hurtled towards them, the silent mouthing of expletives, and the chaotic dive for cover – like so many skittles – as they narrowly escaped with their lives.

I bet they never see that kind of woe in Helmand Province.

Eventually, the rock clattered into a dry-stone wall several miles away with a resounding explosion of rock-on-rock. I was the only member of our group who thought it funny, and I cried and cried in laughter at the misfortune and chaos I had caused.

The rest of my so-called pals were hell-bent on handing me straight to the fuming squaddies – who were now pointing weapons up the mountainside in a way that could only mean that pain was mere minutes away - and send me to an uncertain future as the regimental goat.

That night, huddled around a roaring campfire, and the Super SAS out for blood, we vowed NEVER TO SPEAK OF THIS THING AGAIN.

I have broken this vow.

On 100% of TRUTH

On 100% of TRUTH

Seeing as I can't be bothered to update The House of Lies, here's a short list of stuff - some old, some new - that are guaranteed 100% of TRUTH.

- One-eyed cyborg prime minister Gordon Brown isn't the only senior politician missing crucial parts of their anatomy. London mayor Boris Johnson lost his johnson in a bizarre dry-humping accident in 2007 and now – thanks to the miracles of modern SCIENCE – now has a championship-standard set of golf clubs grafted to his trouser parts.

- Popeye the Sailor Man is not actually a sailor, and as a result of a bizarre bathtub accident at the age of three, has never been near a boat. He only dresses in the sailor outfit because of his deep admiration of the Village People.

- A Swan can not only break a man's arm with one flap of its wing – a well-known fact that is 100% of TRUTH – but they are also adept pick-pockets and protection racketeers who fear no human except the Queen Mum, who they had bumped off in 2002.

- In an emergency session, the United Nations has voted to ban Synchronised Swimming due to its connections with totalitarian regimes, genocide, torture and being total crap. Anyone taking part in this satanic activity is now liable to death by boiling and/or 240 volts straight up the deep end.

- Despite the tragedy of Heath Ledger's early death, studio bosses responsible for Oscar-winning musical "The Dark Knight" are privately congratulating themselves on the fact that first choice for the part – TV's Barry Chuckle – ruled himself out of the role thanks to earlier panto commitments in Ipswich. The good news is that Barry has made himself available for the sequel "The Dark and Stormy Knight", which goes into production later this year.

- The latest hit game for the Nintendo Wii is Nintendo Wii Nintendo Wii Simulator, in which you control on-screen characters who are playing Nintendo Wii games, including Nintendo Wii Nintendo Wii Simulator. If you're good enough, you get to unlock a secret level where your Nintendo Wii Nintendo Wii Simulator character playing Nintendo Wii Nintendo Wii Simulator also controls a character playing Nintendo Wii Nintendo Wii Simulator. We think.

On celebrities that sound like place names

On celebrities that sound like place names

Shamelessly stolen from the thirty minutes I heard of Danny Baker's BBC London radio programme before the signal faded out just west of Basingstoke - Celebrities that sound like place names:

- Jerry Lee Lewisham
- Charlton Heston (two for the price of one)

- Hayward's Heath Ledger
- MC Hammersmith

- Harry Enfield
- Anton du Beckenham

- Alan Rickmansworth
- Arnold Schwarzen-Egham

And my absolute favourite:

- Rayleigh Otter

I've done the hard work in this horribly London-centric list. Your turn.


On A. Hitler

Story of the week must surely be the news – reported, naturally, in the Daily Heil - that Adolf Hitler spared Blackpool from the Luftwaffe during the war so that he might turn it into his own personal holiday resort.

Two fingers up to Brighton, then, who were hoping for the nod from the big man.

If there is still anybody out there still undecided on the whole 'Hitler: Good or Evil?' thing, this is all the proof you need that the mental gene ran deep in his household.

On Kate Winslet

On Kate Winslet

Oh-ho! Time to write a letter to the local rag.

Dear The Reading Chronicle

May I use the pages of your fine journal to congratulate Reading's very own Kate Winslet over her well-deserved success in this year's Academy Awards?

Of course, we – as a city - should strike while the iron is hot and afford Miss Winslet the honour her triumph deserves. She is, after all, the first famous person Reading has had that we haven't thrown into prison, a fact that even the most cold-hearted citizen would admit is well worth celebrating.

I intend no disrespect to the residents of Winslet Place at the far end of the Oxford Road, but a mere block of flats opposite a retail park really doesn't cut the mustard as far as I am concerned when it comes to honouring our talented celebrities. If I had my way, I'd throw these people onto the streets and raze this insult to the Sainted Kate to the ground, hoping that she may spare us her wrath.

Reading needs to think big, and we need some sort of worthless gesture that both celebrates Kate The Woman and shows the rest of the world that the capital of the Thames Valley will not be cowed by the global credit crisis.

I would suggest, therefore, a 300-foot floodlit statue of a Titanic-era Kate standing naked yet tastefully posed, athwart Brunel's Great Western Railway line as it crosses the Caversham Road, as a permanent symbol of all that is great about this fine city.

Although I envisage the gold-plating will push the costs well into seven figures, I am confident that the bill will be met from a mix of public subscription (at gunpoint if need be), and local patron of the arts Sir John Madejski (also at gunpoint if need be). Additionally, people would pay to visit the viewing gallery in Kate's voluminous chest, from which they would – on a clear day – be able to see as far as the historic birthplace of Ricky Gervais.

What visitor would not be inspired by the sight of Reading's most famous daughter as they pass between her fine, perfectly formed Made-in-Berkshire legs on their way to work? I know I would.

I am not mad.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam

Emmer Green


Dear Scary

We, your loyal band of readers were expecting a repeat of the infamous 'I poked Kate Winslet in the tit with a scud magazine' story. Where is the 'I poked Kate Winslet in the tit with a scud magazine' story? We demand the 'I poked Kate Winslet in the tit with a scud magazine' story RIGHT NOW.

Your pals,

Loyal Band of Readers (Mrs)

The 'I poked Kate Winslet in the tit with a scud magazine' story: It is HERE.

On tasty potato-and-grease-based snacks, again

On tasty potato-and-grease-based snacks, again

A couple of weeks ago, I asked for your suggestions for new flavours of potato crisps which might be used to kill Tottenham-playing jug-eared snack food shill Gary Lineker TO DEATH.

I am pleased to tell you that our mission has been a complete 100% success, and the orange-faced wing-nut won't be fouling up our TV screens any time in the near future.

WIN!*

To celebrate this fact – and in the name of SCIENCE – I took a shiny pound down to my local Tesco mega-mart and purchased a stack of the new Walkers flavours to give them a good, hard test.

So, over the space of several days, my tongue like a piece of sandpaper doused in motor oil, I tested all six flavours.

And as you know, I'm not one for taking the name of some people's Lord and Saviour in vain, but - JESUS! – what evil has Lineker wrought upon this once-proud nation?

The DEATH TO G. LINEKER Taste Test Results:

-Onion Bhaji – "Brown"

-Builder's Breakfast – "Builder's buttocks. Sweaty builder's buttocks."

-Chilli and Chocolate – "Blasphemy in crisp form"

-Crispy Duck and Hoisin – "Like drinking the fat from the Sunday roast"

-Fish and Chips – "The great taste of minge, still lingering on my fingers three hours later"

-Cajun Squirrel – "Could be Cajun deep-fried pensioner for all I can tell. And probably is."

So. Only the Onion Bhaji is truly inoffensive, while the others may soon find themselves banned under the Geneva Convention.

As corporate publicity stunts go: 9/10
Tasty potato-based snacks: 2/10
Sick inna hedge quota: 17/10

Next week, I shall be asking the question: Which is better: Lard or Brillo Pads?

* May contain traces of EPIC FAIL

On saving Weymouth FC

On saving Weymouth FC

My local football club - you might have noticed from yesterday's 9-0 reverse at the hands of Rushden & Diamonds - has gone completely tits-up.

Unable to pay their players - thanks in no small part to certain dipshits and asshats who I won't name for legal reasons - the team's starting eleven has been reduced to anybody who turns up on a Saturday afternoon with a pair of boots and at least one functioning leg.

To be fair - the youth team did their best against Rushden, but it was literally men against boys, and they did well to keep it in single figures.

But: At least somebody's trying to save something from the wreckage. It may be a futile gesture, but the Fans' Trust have gone out and started an online appeal.

WEYMOUTH FC: SAVE OUR CLUB

Yeah, I know, I know. I don't expect you to donate a bean, just put the word around. But cold, hard cash would be nice if you've got it.

Ask yourself this question: If Weymouth FC fold - what am I going to do of a Saturday? Start paying through the arse to be a miserable bastard up the Arsenal, that's what.

Welcome Arseblog readers. The rest of the site - including a rather excellent post on Kate Winslet's chest = HERE

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Meldrew

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Meldrew

Actor Richard Wilson was in the Radio Times last week, saying how much he detests people coming up to him in the street shouting his I-thought-I-got-rid-of-this-shit-ten-years-ago catchphrase "I don't believe it!" morning, noon and night.

The poor bloke thought he'd left that role behind when Victor Meldrew met his untimely demise back in 2000, but endless repeats mean that the grumpy old bastard is never off our screens.

Top marks to him for trying to beat the type-casting, having accepted the roles of a long-haired sage in Merlin and a long-haired zombie sage in the terrible Demons, but I suspect that as soon as he stepped outside for a pint of milk and twenty Rothmans a mocking "I don't believe it!" would follow him down the street.

He even tried to laugh it off in an episode of Father Ted, but no. He really is quite a misery about it.

And – sorry everybody – I blame myself.

It is early 2002, and the Duck family has gone on holiday to Florida.

We stood, sweating, in a crowded immigration hall at Orlando Airport, all the cattle class mixed in with the toffs from the executive lounge.

And there, nearing the front of the queue, is a familiar figure in a long coat, flat cap, carrying his possessions in a string bag.

It is. It is TV's Victor Meldrew.

Of course, even under the steely-eyed glare of heavily-armed US Immigration officials, you cannot help yourself.

"Iiiiii... DON'T BELIEVE IT!"

The fragrant Mrs Duck elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late. Others had taken up the call as Meldrew tried – fruitlessly – to pull his cap right down over his face.

"I don't believe it!"

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT!"

Before long, several hundred people were chanting the words "I DON'T BELIEVE IT" like a football crowd until Meldrew eventually made it to the desk, answered (in the positive) whether he intended to harm the president, and fled, giving all and sundry the most withering glance possible.

A week later, we were in the Penguin House at Orlando Sea World. You step on a moving belt at one end, and are transported – very slowly – along the front of the glassed-in penguin colony and dumped out the other end, where you buy a toy penguin from the gift shop.

About half-way along (for the third time) there is the sound of a disturbance at the entrance.

"I don't BELIEVE it!"

The strained sound of a tired, tired old man saying "Oh God, no!" before the chorus began once more:

"I don't BELIEEEEVE it!"

The following year, he went on a tour of monasteries on the far side of the Himalayas, where he beat three monks to death.

That – people – is how I broke one of our nation's top acting talents.

Sorry.

If only he had chosen some other catchphrase - "Suck my plums" springs to mind. No bugger would have shouted THAT to him in the street.


Greetings Holy Moly readers. I'll shut up now.

On the vexed Irish question

On the vexed Irish question

There are times when I sit back and ask: Who'd win an all-out brawl to find Ireland's best blogger? The mighty Arseblog, or the equally mighty Twenty Major?

Who knows how these things start. A jovial meeting in a Dublin bar, a couple of drinks, a bit of gentle ribbing before:

"My blog's better than your blog."

"An' yer mam's a lezzer"

"I understand your great-uncle showed less than favourable support for the Free State"

"Is that right? I heard you munched off Ian Paisley..."

Then they'd fly together in a shower of fists and boots – not one shot connecting – while Enya frots herself against a traffic bollard to a lilting Celtic-themed soundtrack.

Of course, being a Plastic Paddy who can "Hondootedly Mosses Thotcher" with the best of them if need be, I'd wait for them both to punch each other out, and wade in to claim the glory for myself, which is the way of the coward and therefore excellent.

I ask this question because my old pal Twenty buttered me up with a few compliments before asking whether I'd mind giving his novel a plug. His second novel. I still can't get my first one published and ...mumbles... bastard ...mumbles...

So: Buy Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, because

a) Like its predecessor Order of the Phoenix Park, it is almost certainly excellent

b) He's got the goods on that buggered watermelons thing, which I totally deny

c) I said so, even if my three current book projects are all going to be the best thing since Harry Potter got killed TO DEATH

Did you hear that, Uncaring Literary World? THREE Books. THREE. Mumble mumble ...bunch of bastards...

To summarise: Twenty = Excellent. Arseblog = Just as excellent, but not plugging a book.

As you were.

On begging like a shameless git in the name of SCIENCE

On begging like a shameless git in the name of SCIENCE

As you know, there's a recession on. Having studied economics and social mobility for an Open University course, this concept essentially boils down to the fact that we - the general population - have no money at all, while a small percentage (who he shall call 'very, very rich people') are very, very rich people.

If – by lucky chance - you happen to fall into this latter category, you may think it your earthly duty to consider redistributing the wealth by buying me something from my Amazon Wish List.

Better still, a large briefcase of used fivers sent to my home address by a reputable firm of couriers would be equally valid.

You – being one of this remarkably small percentage of very, very rich people - can probably afford a decent accountant, so I dare say you can claim this against tax.

"Go on - be your best friend. It's my birthday this week. Expensive electronic goods especially welcome."

Fun with money: See that bloke of the back of the five pound note? They guy in the glasses? You know – the one behind the lady with the American Football helmet saying "LOL". Him. Thomas Buxton, 1st Baronet.

"See that bloke?" I say to the owner of the convenience store on Buxton Road which we are currently boycotting.

"Thomas Buxton. Buxton Road is named after him."

"Bloody hell, that's good."

Then I put it back in my wallet and bugger off home.

Very, very rich people: Send more money so I can do this in stereo. It will be EXCELLENT.

On breaking the local supermarket

On breaking the local supermarket

I was in Budgens the other afternoon, fighting off pensioners as I tried to cobble together my evening meal from the 'Reduced to Clear' shelf.

Clutching my two litre bottle of Yop, value potato salad and Linda McCartney 'I can't believe it's not venison', I elbowed by way to the front of the queue at cigarette counter.

The woman behind the counter looked me in the eye, grabbed the microphone for the in-store tannoy and shouted in a voice that could be heard in Ecuador without amplification:

"Code 20 at the kiosk please"

Aaargh! Doom! Code 20!

I had to ask: "What's a code 20, then?"

"I can't tell you. It's a secret."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Now, do you want to buy those zero-nutrition calories, or not?"

It was at that point when the school-leaver-with-the-big-teeth strode up to the counter with a hitherto unknown air of urgency.

"Code 20? How much change d'you need then?"

That went down well.

"You DO realise we're going to have to change the secret codes AGAIN."

"What? Even Code 18?"

"Especially Code 18: Leopard loose in the store."

"And Code 19?"

"Leper loose in the store. It's a wonder we're still open with you and your big mouth."

I made my excuses and left. Busting, as I was, for a Code 2.

On offensive television

On offensive television

You know something? We haven't done offensive TV and film listings for positively AGES.

Today's mission is to provide the foulest, most offensive television shows and movie titles known to humanity, and whack them without mercy into my comments box.

To show that I am – as usual – an equal opportunities bigot, no subject is declared off-limits. Unless, of course, I decide otherwise, using my Patent Daily-Mail-Outrage-o-Tron.

If anything, this will probably see off all the new readers I've picked up in the last month or so. Here we go:

Movies
- Belmer and Louise
- The Empire Strikes Spack

- Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Flid
- Paedos of the Carribean: Dead Flat Chest

TV
Jack-me-off-a-nory
Friday Night with Jonathan Ross (oh-ho!)

Iced Toad Fuckers
The South Bank Show (Rhyming slang)

CSI: Creamy Slut Intruder
Terry Pratchett: Living with Alzheim... no... sorry... tip of me tongue... gone

Get in there!

On it are being my birthday

On it are being my birthday

Once again, no sign of the phased-plasma rifle I asked for.

On killing off Bergerac

On killing off Bergerac

We're sad* to hear that John Nettles has decided to quit the gentle Sunday night gore-fest that is ITV's Midsomer Murders.

Every week, this bastion of crime-fighting solves mysterious killings in and around a group of villages that have a higher death-rate than Coronation Street and Albert Square combined. Heaven help you if you show an interest in bell-ringing, morris dancing or the local cricket XI, for this is little more than a death sentence from one of the area's dozens of unlikely sociopathic killers.

The general consensus is rather than hand over the mantle to a new cop Taggart-style and let the series gently fizzle out, Inspector Barnaby should leave with a bang, allowing ITV to draw a line under those whole series.

Even mediocre things have to come to an end, and that time – for Midsomer Murders - is now.

But how to end it? Simple.

For twelve years, our hero has thrashed around the county of Midsomer solving any number of hideous murders. All this time there has been one consistent factor: Barnaby's dull wife, standing at the back, cooking dull cakes for dull summer fayres.

She is – clearly – up to something.

All will be revealed in the final episode, where she is revealed as a mass murderer of Harold Shipman proportions, bludgeoning hapless victims to death with rock cakes simply to keep her husband out of the house while she has a wild affair with a detective from Jersey.

Shattered by this revelation, Baranby joins The Bill, where he is eaten TO DEATH by a gang of chavs within a week.

THE END.

*lie

On putting your foot in it, as usual

On putting your foot in it, as usual

With Valentine's Day just round the corner, a heart-warming tale for you on this Friday the 13th.

My old mate Baz had a bit of a problem with quality control. While I was picky about the young ladies (and rarely got a date as a result), Baz was only interested in dipping his wick, and would shag a barbershop floor given half the chance.

So, it was hardly a surprise that he turned up at a party with an older woman on his arm. Older? He was 19. She was 48, which - coincidentally - was also her bust size. Oh, mama!

"Good grief, Baz," I remonstrated, cornering him in the kitchen later that evening, "Where did you get her?"

"Grab-a-granny night", he replied, with the telling rejoinder: "Gives me something to practice on."

And practice on her he did, for they became the annoying-couple-at-the-party-having-sex-in-the-bedroom-on-top-of-the-pile-of-coats-while-you're-not-getting-any.

It was a couple of years before I ran into Baz again, this time at a wild student party in which ale and vomit flowed freely.

"Hey Baz!" I slurred, "Wha'happened to that fat old moose you were boffin' a couple o' years ago?"

"We're married."

*boilk*

And: "Oh, congratulations!"

And: *BOILK*

As far as I know, they're still together. Bless.

On trying to kill G. Lineker TO DEATH

On trying to kill G. Lineker TO DEATH

I note that jug-eared former (spit) Tottenham footballer Gary Lineker is shilling for a well-known brand of anti-health food in their quest to find a new chemically-derived flavour for their range of otherwise tasty potato crisps.

While I might encourage readers to head directly to the Walkers website and vote for Crispy Hoisin Duck, it has come to my attention that they have not used a single one of my EXCELLENT suggestions.

Determined to set right this obvious error, I have taken it upon myself to knock out a six-pack of my flavours – which are, as you'd imagine, a veritable gangbang of taste delights – and courier them directly to the lad Lineker, c/o Match of the Day, London, with the specific instructions that NO-ONE else is to touch them. Except, perhaps, Garth Crooks.

Of course, as anyone who has tried adding vinegar to their Ready Salted to get a soggy pack of S&Vs will tell you, it's not that simple knocking out your own potato crisps. But by using SCIENCE, 100 per cent natural ingredients that you can find anywhere in your average bathroom and the finest CO2 fire extinguishers known to man, I think I might have succeeded.

All that I need now is for the Tottenham wing-nut wonder to sample my EXCELLENT wares, and this time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires.

So, here we go, Lineker – how d'you like THESE apples (may not actually contain apples)

- Spunk and Vinegar
- Sweat and Onion
- Bar-B-Q Turds
- Pickled Jamrag
- Rat's Cock 'n'Tail
- Pork Sword Scratchings (and Chicken Itchings, whatever they are)

And from my legion of Twitter followers:

- Old Lady and Chive (pureroon)
- Toe Cheese and Bunion
- Smoky Smegma
- Gusset Cocktail (all Lukabazooka)
- Incontinent Stoat & Pub Carpet (David Hadley)

I am not mad (Statement of fact, not a flavour).

On the never-ending battle to provide

On the never-ending battle to provide

All the winter weather we've been experiencing lately has left me a little edgy. It is probably all to do with the short, cold days and the white stuff falling from the heavens awakening my primal hunter-gatherer instincts, forcing me to go out and scavenge for my family.

Of course, it's not proper winter weather, as it's hard to feel particularly hard done by when your entire town grinds to a halt under two inches of snow, most of which has melted by tea-time.

However, a strategically-placed snowflake on Friday morning completely blocked off all road access to Weymouth, to the point that no forty-ton trucks were able to get through in order to feed the starving masses for one whole day.

I discovered this on Saturday when I found myself wrestling a pensioner for the last organic carrot our branch of Morrisons had to offer, while an entrepreneur stood by the tills offering a pint of semi-skimmed for twenty of The Queen's Pounds.

As I pummelled away at the old boy's frankly redundant family jewels with my free arm, I asked myself the important question:

What the bloody hell does a pensioner want with organic carrots?

And why is he still vainly clinging on to the bag of loose shallots that I will most certainly need for the fine pensioner stew I have planned for later?

"Get to the tinned veg aisle where you belong", I told him, "before I poke you in the eye with the blunt part of your walking-frame and nick your Oxo cubes".

But no. He wouldn't listen, and now there's another suspicious mound of earth round the back of the industrial estate, and another invoice for a hundredweight of quicklime that's going to be tough to explain away.

Said too much.

Stupid weather.

On starting your own religion

On starting your own religion

Over the last few weeks, I've been watching the BBC's Around the World in 80 Faiths programme, in which a member of the clergy - who looks uncannily like the internet's Neil Gaiman - travels the planet exploring the world's religions.

Last week, the anti-Gaiman was in India, where I was intrigued by the system of Gurus, where the Hindu faith can be re-interpreted and re-packaged by Holy Men based on their own teachings. If a Guru says nirvana can only be attained through fire-walking, you’d better go out and collect kindling, wearing the regulation twenty pounds of cow crap on your head.

Some bearded chap might hop into a village after spending far too much time out in the sun and convince the locals of his new-found method of achieving one-ness with God: “Hey chaps - boing - I’ve been - boing - thinking about thing and - boing - the only way we’re - boing - going to attain - boing- nirvana - boing boing - is if we all - boing - stand on one leg.”

Pretty soon shoe sales plummet by exactly 50% and society schisms into left-hopper and right-hopper cults, resulting in the deaths of thousands. Tragic, and organised religion’s totally effective solution to the world over-population crisis.

If it’s good enough for them, I propose that the entire world follow my little scheme, based on our new religion, which is, naturally, Stuff I’ve Seen On The Telly.

For did not the Prophet Indiana Jones tell us that ’the penitent man kneels before God’ unless he wants his head cut off with a bloody great rotating blade?

This (ie painful death) is as good a place as any to start any religion, and the Holy DVD Collection of Guru S. Duck points to the example of Our Lord Inspector Clouseau*, who was shuffling about on his knees in his Holy Toulouse Lautrec disguise, clutching the Holy Beumb of Human Frailty long before Prophet Indy revealed The True Path to Righteousness.

And if it appears that the Holy Grail is in [DA VINCI CODE SPOILER ALERT], it is therefore completely logical that all church business is conducted in outrrrrrageous French accents as a result. For it is written.

So: The Prophets have spoken. On your knees. Now. Or face certain smiting as a BLASPHEMER.

Also - and here is the number one advantage of The Church of Lautrecism - if we’re all on our knees, it’ll save a lot of unnecessary slaying when General Zod turns up and has us kneeling before him anyway.

The number two advantage is that leggy blondes are exempted from the kneeling business, and must instead wear skimpy nurses’ outfits according to the writings of His Holiness Archbishop Benny Hill.

And it being my religion: No ugly birds.

Now, if you’ve finished signing all your worldly goods over to me, let us pray:

Good Moaning
Who art in heaven
Clouseau be thy name
Do you ‘ave a licence for this minkey?

And as we sing the first hymn 'All Things Short and Beautiful', church bretheren will be shuffling amongst you with the collection plate. Large notes only please, those bipedal BLASPHEMERS at the Vatican have a bit of a head start on us cash-wise, and we've got some catching up to do.

* Poor, martyred Peter Sellers Clouseau, and not poor, still alive Steve Martin Clouseau, who shall be slain as a BLASPHEMER

On the rules of the internet

On the rules of the internet

You may not realise this, but the internet has rules. Rules that you have probably broken (For example: by talking about Fight Club) at some stage or another.

We thought it best, then, by way of a public service to go through some of these rules just so you know where you stand in the great scheme of things.

Luckily, I've managed to try this out on an online pal, and if his reaction is anything to go by ("AAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!") this little exercise should be more than worth it.

So. Let us start with the infamous Rule 34 of the Internet.

Rule 34 of the internet clearly states: If it exists, there is porn of it. No exceptions

Take, for example, the reams of filth on the web on just about any subject under the sun.

I know what you're thinking, and this is neatly tidied up with Rule 35.

Rule 35: If no porn exists, it will be made

*cough* Last of the Summer Wine slash fiction *cough*

"Hey Scary!" my old pal Peter Pervert asks, "Can you give us a 'For Example'?"

Oh, if I must, but first let me warn you of Rule 35a

Rule 35a: What has been seen, cannot be unseen.

For example --- Excerpt from the Radio Times, Sunday 14th November 1993:

BBC1, 5.20pm
Last of the Summer Wine
Gentle comedy featuring a trio of misfit pensioners in their twilight years.
Episode six: "The Great Beaver Hunt". Nora 'Up the' Batty gets it in the wrong'un from Compo, Foggy and Clegg whilst going downhill in a bathtub. Meanwhile Frank Thornton helps Thora Hird with her septic butt plug with hilarious results. (Colour) (Ceefax subtitles)

Rule 36: If it exists, somebody will have a fetish of it.

"Frank Thornton porn? Fwapfwapfwapfwapfwap"

Sadly, thanks to a strike by technicians at BBC Television Centre – angered at management plans to slash staff bongo allowances - this episode was never aired. It sits in a vault somewhere below Broadcasting House, along with a dozen or so reels of unfortunate footage featuring Una Stubbs that are best not talked about.

Many thought this famous 'lost episode' would see the light of day following the death of Dame Thora Hird in 2003. However, the circumstances of her demise – the words "Scream if you want to go faster" being misunderstood during the filming of a Churchill stair-lift commercial - mean that "The Great Beaver Hunt" may now be lost forever.

Perfectly clear? You may now apply the mind bleach.

Mirth and Woe: Party o' DOOM

Mirth and Woe: Party o' DOOM

A request! One of my loyal readers wants to see this story again. So, here it is, re-written with exactly 135% more LOLZ and 12% more WIN. I'm open to requests for any further *spit* Duck Gold, so have at it.

Martin the Hippy never actually made a conscious life choice to become a hippy. He just drifted into it through a lax attitude to life, alcohol (ab)use and occasional college attendance. He would, if out of bed at a reasonable hour in the afternoon, be the first to admit he was a layabout, and made it his life's mission to get away with doing as little as possible for as long as he could.

He got away with this for years, mainly because his dad – a lock-keeper on the Thames – was far too busy with sluice gates and idiot boaters to notice his son was a slob; while I spent far too much time doing his covering his back at college so he might actually get a job if and when he sobered up.

With his old dad away on lock-keeping business one weekend, there was only one thing to do in the circumstances – wake Martin from his hippy coma and organise a party.

All the best people would be there. Actually, absolutely every would be there. Martin made sure of this by telling a bunch of hairy-arsed bikers there would be a no-holds-barred party at his house on Saturday night. Just turn up. And hey, bring a mate.

"A stranger is a friend you haven’t met."

"And there better be fookin’ booze."

By Saturday evening the word was out. Every biker in the South of England would be descending on Martin’s place. A small house on an island in the middle of the River Thames.

It started off quietly enough for the unfashionable early arrivals. A few relatively quiet drinks and a chance to letch at Iron Drawers Debbie, a girl I fancied like buggery, but knowing deep, deep down that the chances of seeing anything more than a flash of her ankle were remote in the extreme.

She was "nice", from a "nice" household, had a "nice" job in a nasty bank and did "nice" things with her time, such as knitting and playing the hits of Stevie Wonder on a Bontempi organ. I don’t know why I bothered, but I did for far too long, getting precisely nowhere and falling out with an equally besotted Balders over which one of us should be first in line for her lack of attention.

And then, the bikers came. Dozens of them, cruising up the towpath in the dark like a long, evil snake of bearded, warty, foul-smelling, Hawkwind-loving DOOM.

Martin was entirely cool about the idea of his house getting totally trashed. This was mainly because he was unconscious in his bedroom, lying in a pool of his own rich, brown vomit which seeped over his best Afghan and his priceless signed copy of Thick as a Brick, while bikers smashed the vinyl over some poor student's head and ripped the arm off the record player.

"What’s this hippy bollocks?"

and

"Give us all the booze and music we want or we trash the place!"

and

"But, Badger, you’ve just broke the record player."

and

"Ah, tits. Just give us the fookin’ booze!"

As anarchy, death and destruction spread around us, and priceless family heirlooms shattered windows, I did what any sensible man would do in the circumstance. I grabbed Debbie and hid her in the shed, where she ripped her clothes off and seduced me in a frenzied whirlwind of lust, rimming, golden showers and something filthy with the hover mower. Or perhaps she just sat there and told me how much she admired Lionel Ritchie – the man and his music. Go on, guess which one I got.

Eventually coming to his drink-addled senses Martin decided the only way to get them out was to open both lock gates, sweeping away the bikers and their infernal machines on a wall of white water, destroying every living thing downstream into the bargain.

In the end, with one gate open, and several saner party-goers physically restraining the hippy in his attempts to open the other, the bikers got the message, and drifted away, taking all the booze and vol-au-vents with them. The party was dead in the rapidly-flowing waters of the Thames. With nothing to drink, it would only be a matter of time before some long-haired bastard got a guitar out and started singing out-of-tune folk.

Then - in a sudden moment of rare clarity - the Hippy suddenly realised the one thing he was supposed to be doing that very day.

"Shit!" he cried, suddenly and frighteningly animated. "House-sitting!"

He fled from the house, the rest of the party crowd in tow, over the weir into the rather plush grounds of a very large house.

"Mr Geller will go mental if I don’t check his house," he puffed, stopping only to roll up an anaemic-looking cigarette.

"Mr Geller?"

"Mr Geller."

Oh joy.

"Where’s the kitchen?"

"Don’t you dare touch the bloody spoons."

Too late.

On old boilers

Readers with long memories or the burning urge to read through my archives while no doubt remember the one thing that I have got out of seven years' writing this guff: The Guardian Memorial Combination Boiler, modelled here by my very good friend, Fletcher T. Brezhnev.

It was with a certain amount of surprise that I learned – one evening in 2002 – that I had accidentally won that national newspaper's competition, naming this site the Best Weblog in Britain, and by extension, the World.

Alas, my plans for the thousand pound prize (top class slattern, slap-up meal at a Berni, finally paying off certain people over that whole 'Buggered Watermelons' thing) varied slightly from those of the level-headed and fragrant Mrs Duck, who immediately pissed the entire grand up the wall on a new boilers, so our household could enjoy such luxuries as "hot water" and "central heating".

Alas, and knowing full well that this site celebrates its seventh birthday tomorrow, The Guardian Memorial Combination Boiler has chosen this exact time to pack up and demand two hundred quid through its criminal lackeys at Br*t*sh G*s before it will function again.

Having got more right-wing as I got old, this is the kind of thing I've come to expect from a combination boiler provided by a bearded, sandal-wearing socialist newspaper such as The Guardian. A good, stout BRITISH Daily Mail boiler would still be fully functional, powered by the burning corpses of Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand.

So, instead of lying back and wondering where my next slattern is coming from (despite having one clearly marked in my Amazon Wish List), I am forced to go out and cut down the only tree on the Isle of Portland in order to heat my house.

It's all a bit of an inconvenience, as they're still using it as the island's official gibbet and it's fairly packed with dangling things of all shapes and species, providing carrion for passing seagulls and feral kids. Only last week they strung up a horse as a BLASPHEMER after a passing local heard it neighing the words "I love Satan" followed by the theme to (s)hit ITV Saturday drama 'Demons'.

Can't say I blame them, to be honest.

So. Today's lessons are these: 'Fame is not all it is cracked up to be', and ...err...'Please send cash'.

Oh, and: 'There's still plenty of good eating to be had on a week-dead horse'.

On Sunday night television

On Sunday night television

Two words: Holly Willoughby.

I know what you're thinking. He's going to bang on for five hundred words on the wonders of those peachy bazongas that can only be fully appreciated with the advent of 3-D television, any old excuse to reproduce THAT photograph.

And you'd be KING of WRONG.

For here is my confession: I watch Dancing on Ice and – following strict instructions from above – I like it.

To be sure, certain of the female contestants are not without their charms (A hub a hub a Coleen Nolan a hub I am not mad a hub hub); Todd Carty can probably keep his Buster Keaton tribute act going for another week or two before the joke wears thin; and Philip Schofield continues his quest to be the loudest, orangest man on television – but there are two things which fascinate me.

No, two other things.

H. Willoughby's buttocks.

I know that Miss Willoughby is with child, and – by God – she is every inch the blooming, radiant mother-to-be. But how, we ask on a weekly basis, HOW is it that she only appears to be pregnant in her arse?

She appears – without fail – every Sunday evening, looking all the world that somebody has put a bike pump where the sun don't shine and inflated to 60 psi.

The only other woman I saw like that had a job for the council as a bicycle park.

I am hypnotised. Hypnotised to the point that I have to be threatened with Wild At Heart if I do not shut up about the Arse of Willoughby (which is rapidly becoming The New Arse of Lopez).

Yeah. Wild At Heart.

Or: Man meets girl. Man falls in love with girl despite knowing she is Amanda Holden and ergo mental. Man marries girl. Man and girl move to Africa. Girl is killed TO DEATH in comedy bush fire. Man has brief fling with leopard. Man falls in love with two other girls, all the time thinking about H. Willoughby's buttocks. Other girls have cat-fight while man sells tickets. Man realises his true love is for the hairy, drunken Afrikaner. Man hides his shame with sordid threesome involving Hayley Mills and her sister, which might have been acceptable thirty years ago and... oh... am I thinking out loud again? THE END.

How many times have we seen the same old, old story?

Thank [deity or non-belief system of your choice] that Emmerdale hasn't gone to toilet yet.

Oh.

On New Ways Of Working

On New Ways Of Working

We have recently moved to an EXCELLENT new office.

The EXCELLENT new office is very, very excellent, and comes with New Ways Of Working.

In the usual circumstances, New Ways Of Working would be an easy target for quick laughs, if they weren't EXCELLENT as well.

For example, the EXCELLENT office comes with a large hole in the floor in which we can see our newsroom colleagues labouring below.

To stop us from falling through the hole, disturbing the work of our newsroom colleagues, thoughtful architects have provided a set of railings, which are constantly charged with 50,000 volts of electricity.

As yet, nobody has fallen through the hole, but we've had relatively few fatalities, which, in these days of tightening budgets, is no bad thing.

"What we need," said my excellent colleague 'Spikes' Walker, "is some sort of excellent method of attracting the attention of our colleagues downstairs."

I ventured to suggest the telephone, as we have been provided with one of these devices on each of our desks, such is the march of modern technology.

"How about a pea-shooter?" he asks, pointing out that a well-aimed dried pea to the back of the head would be sufficient to attract anybody's attention.

What little he knows. Back in the day, literally minutes of practice meant I was deadly with a pea-shooter.

On one memorable occasion, I knocked my brother off his bike from a distance of twenty yards, a crime that got me sent to my room ("And there'll think about what you've done" "EXCELLENT!") for a whole five minutes. I stretched it out to ten, just for dramatic effect.

Experiments involving pins pushed through the peas resulted in epic FAIL thanks to a tendency to suck instead of blow, and efforts to do the same with a lit banger were thwarted by a lack of volunteers.

Nevertheless, the well aimed, well-timed pea remains an asset that has stood the test of time. My father – Professor Scary – was a dab hand at the Old School Tie (now, sadly, converted to a Media Arts College), where absolute silence in the dining hall would be broken by the satisfying 'DING!' as a dried pea hit the trophy shelf. A skill that has been passed on from father to son to grandson – now using Captain Birdseye's best straight from the freezer.

Alas, this falls foul of the new rule that forbids bringing in foodstuffs that may annoy your colleagues, so golf balls and catapults it is, then.

FORE!

On killing off Heartbeat

On killing off Heartbeat

This site notes with a certain amount of smug satisfaction that ITV is to "shelve" its once-popular, heart-warming Sunday night drama Heartbeat.

Trapped in 1969 for the last eight years, the viewers have started to notice the cracks (such as Tricia Penrose playing the world's oldest teenager behind the bar at the age of 38) and audiences are now less than half than in the programme's Nick Berry-fronted heyday.

Its attraction – one supposes – is the predictability of the plots. Something bad happens in village, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass (or his uninspiring replacement) gets the blame, doctor's wife makes coincidental connection and village copper arrests outside, 60s standard plays in background. The end. Repeat. For eighteen years.

How then, we ask, are ITV's writers going to kill off this long-runner?

Logically, they should just merge the show with its Sunday night replacement, rename it Wild at Heartbeat, and have the entire cast fed to the leopards - a plot device last seen when they killed off London's Burning.

So, to save the ITV suits the bother, I've given this literally five minutes of thought and come up with:


HEARTBEAT - The final scene

AIDENSFIELD ARMS – INTERIOR – NIGHT. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ARE UP AND A PARTY IS IN FULL SWING

Music under: Something by Gerry and the Pacemakers

Wrinkle-faced former copper: Hold up everyone – it's nearly midnight

World's oldest teenager: 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... HAPPY NEW YEAR! Welcome to 1970!

Music stops with the sound of a needle scratching across a vinyl record – SILENCE

Lord Ashfordleigh: I say. Didn't the new police johnny say he was going to show his face tonight? Poor show all round

Comedy undertaker bloke: I saw him parking up his Cortina a little earlier, your Lordship. Didn't seem in the best of moods if you're asking me

HAMMERING ON PUB DOOR

World's oldest teenager: (Peers out of window) This could be him now...

DOOR IS KICKED OFF ITS HINGES, GENERAL PANIC, GREENGRASS HIDES A FERRET DOWN HIS TROUSERS

Music (Loud): Guitar intro to 20th Century Boy – T-Rex

PC Gene Hunt: OPEN UP! ARMED BASTARDS! YOU'RE ALL NICKED!

TITLES: HEARTBEAT ON MARS


That'll do it. No, no need to thank me.

(I've just realised this is nowhere near as manky as my EastEnders - The Final Scene I wrote a couple of years ago, for which I apologise. I must be getting soft in my old age.)


From the Not-too-proud-to-beg Department

Last chance to vote for me, me, ME in the 2009 Bloggie Awards.

That is all.