On MILF news

On MILF news

Our favourite Philippines-based terrorist group/heroic band of freedom fighters at the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) have been at it again.

Taking a break from their usual routine of kidnappings and killing anybody who disagrees with them completely and utterly TO DEATH, this band of heavily-armed 35-45 year-old hotties who like cooking, working out, Ann Summers parties and Molotov cocktails have started an online media offensive.

According to reports - and despite the obvious difficulties in getting their organisation to rise to the top of the pile on Google in the face of determined, lightly-oiled competition - they are trying to spread their message as widely as possible using the latest web-based technologies.

And how do I know this? From the news headline:

MILF uploads videos to internet

Boy, was I ever disappointed.


Done a LOL extra: Sigg3's 150 pictures of Jebus - WARNING: May contain traces of BLASPHEMY

On wasting the Dorset Echo's time, again

On wasting the Dorset Echo's time, again

One thing led to another, and I've gone and written another idiot letter to the editors of my favourite local newspaper, Weymouth's very own Dorset Echo.

I was too busy bowking up rich brown vomit on Monday, so I may well have missed it if they were desperate enough to publish my latest work of madness. Which they probably were.

Dear the Dorset Echo

As the recession bites ever deeper, we are living in times where image is everything. Weymouth needs to at its best for the thousands of extra holidaymakers who are expected to forsake their foreign holidays, and instead plump for a summer break in the UK.

Any blemish on our reputation could see tourists giving up on Weymouth and seeking out other, lesser, resorts. Such as Bournemouth, for example. Is that what we want?

Why then, when the Borough should be seeking to cement its place as a top UK beach resort, does the Council's beach webcam - tinyurl.com/weycam - point at a bunch of shabby temporary buildings and a gaggle of sad-looking rubbish bins instead of our wonderful golden sands?

I could, of course, be completely wrong. Did I miss the launch of Weymouth's new money-spinning tourist attraction - Terrapin World incorporating Bin Land - a rollercoaster ride (rollercoaster not included) around the world of refuse collection and temporary buildings? Who needs the Eden Project when Weymouth has top-draw stuff like this?

If I was on the council, I'd slap another 10p per hour on the car park charges to cash in on the expected rush. Or simply put an end to this Premier League muppetry and point the camera at something rather less shabby.

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad

PPS My friend "Spikes" Walker says the bins and sheds are hiding Weymouth's very small and roped-off nudist beach. Is this true? If yes, I demand their removal IMMEDIATELY

On the cold, dark heart of the Ministry of Cow Counting

On the cold, dark heart of the Ministry of Cow Counting

I got talking to that nice Mr Danny Baker on the radio again.

"Food labelling? Don't talk to me about food labelling."

I somehow found myself on BBC London (again), as yer actual affable Cockney presenter asked about the Hell of having to share a fridge with people who insist that every last scrap of food has a label to denote ownership.

"Food labelling? Don't talk to me about food labelling."

But he did, anyway. And I, after all these years of pent-up anger, exposed the cold, dark heart of the Ministry of Cow Counting.

I arrived at work one Monday morning at my office at the Ministry of Cow Counting - a drab, Stalinesque block with views of the Reading inner ring road - clutching a supermarket own-brand ready meal and a pint of milk to find our entire communal fridge had gone missing.

All that was left was a patch of discoloured carpet and a small, dried-up square of cheese.

And on a shelf, a weekend's worth of milk-turned-yoghurt, and various dead foodstuffs, some of which were CLEARLY LABELLED.

After a couple of hours of frenzied violence and Sherlock Holmes-style detective work (only without all the bummery and cocaine) I learned through the in-house witness protection scheme that a colleague had experienced a sudden unexpected domestic refrigeration failure, remembered the collective staff fridge and "borrowed" it for a few days.

Borrowing, in this case, involved getting it down two flights of stairs, past the security guards, across a busy shopping centre onto a number 17 bus.

There was a short, non-fatal bout of negotiations - all held through a third party, before the travelling fridge was returned, defrosted and cleaner than it had been for several years.

So: Don't talk to me about labelling food. Our ENTIRE FRIDGE was labelled: "Ministry of Cow Counting ACCOUNTS (A) (Cereals) – GET YOUR THIEVING HANDS OFF"

Anyone want to buy a photocopier?

On the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Stuff for Excellence 2009 update

On the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Stuff for Excellence 2009 update

It's that time of year again – time to update the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Stuff for Excellence, the internet's number one celebrity-based method of rating stuff for excellence.

As the years roll by, the zeitgeist packs its bags and moves on, leaving our list as tired and dried up as Sue Barker's nadger.

Time, then, to suggest new entries in the list. Nothing is sacred (except, perhaps, TV's K. Humble), and it may well be time to give Ms Beeny the chop.

So, here's last year's list – get your filthiest thinking caps on and leave your suggestions in the comments.

The Scaryduck-Lewis Method of Rating Stuff for Excellence - Old and Busted 2008 List

0. A shaven-headed Britney Spears in a roll neck sweater
1. Lightly-oiled Ann Noreen Widdecombe experimenting in the Acts of Sappho
2. Margaret Thatcher leather whip “happy finish” massage

3. Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, a riding crop and a bucket of beef dripping
4. Judy Finnegan squatting over a glass table, squeezing out a portion of nutty slack
5. Vanessa Feltz in a negligee, selling herself to a leather-clad Pat Butcher

6. Amy Winehouse sucking on a tramp's gusset for her next fix
7. Victoria Beckham in a bikini, lapping at the very gates of skeletal Kate Moss in an OK! Magazine exclusive
8. The Princess Anne unnamed, lubricant-free, many-tentacled woe

9. A wild-eyed and frothing Heather Mills using her wooden leg to facilitate the pleasure of Myleene Klass.
10. Konnie Huq in a bath of beans, whilst Zoe Salmon scrubs her back with a french stick
11. Susie Dent in shiny black rubber mini-dress, looking up swears in the dictionary while Carol Vorderman rubs herself against a bollard for "one easy, monthly payment."

12. Felicity Kendall wrapped in clingfilm, with Penelope Keith talking dirty in the background
13. Fiona Bruce describing exactly what she would do to you if you left your back door unlocked.
14. Kate Winslet keeping her clothes on, mostly

15. Emma Thompson on a street corner asking for "business"
16. An entirely legal Emma Watson exploring the joys of the Golden Snitch
17. Kate Humble in a wet T-shirt competition

18. Billie Piper riding a space-hopper over a cobbled street.
19. Nigella Lawson whipping up a creamy sauce with her tongue
20. Sarah Beeny wrestling Kirstie Allsopp in a paddling pool filled with baby oil

On Twenty Major

On Twenty Major

In which your humble author reviews Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Twenty Major

Ah, you know that guy Twenty Major, don't you?

More Irish than me. Better looking. And funnier. Better blog. The author of two (count 'em) novels. The whole nine yards. Not that I'm making comparisons out of jealousy, you understand.

So, when Twenty's publisher got in touch and suggested that I might want to review the follow-up to The Order of the Phoenix Park, I jumped at grabbing a freebie from Dublin's second finest blogger.

So, the puntastically titled Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder.

If you're a fan of Irish humour, drunkenness, acts of violence and lots of swearing, then this is the book for you.

Luckily, I'm a big fan of Irish humour, drunkenness, acts of violence and lots of swearing, so Twenty's novel – by complete and utter good fortune - found its way to its exact target audience.

It's hardly Salman Rushdie. But if you approach the book expecting great, mind-stretching literature (whining, humourless reviewer from the Irish Sunday Times take note) I'd recommend that you go out and read fucking Salman Rushdie.

Nor is it the greatest novel in the world. This is because I'm still writing it and you'll have to wait until it's finished. But yeah, it's up there well above your Dan Browns and all the other tat that's read by twats.

Absinthe is a crude, well-observed, sweary and frankly very funny tale of a stag weekend in Barcelona, in which tales of drinking and projectile vomiting are told in a way that suggests much first-hand research. And while you might think the ending is telegraphed from 150 pages away, you'd be very, very wrong.

"So Scary," I hear you ask. "Where do you rate this on your Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method for Rating Stuff For Excellence, the internet's number one celebrity-based method for rating stuff for excellence?"

Well, I'm certainly glad you asked me that.

On the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Stuff for Excellence (the internet's number one celebrity-based method for rating stuff for excellence), Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Twenty Major weighs in at an impressive, no-money-changing-hands-at-all:

16/20 - An entirely legal Emma Watson exploring the joys of the Golden Snitch

Available HERE

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Pied Piper

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Pied Piper

Our music teacher fancied herself as a bit of an Andrew Lloyd Webber. So she did away with that whole old-and-busted Nativity Play thing and made us do a musical she had written herself for the Christmas concert.

It was the Pied Piper of Hamelin, meaning that the 95% of pupils who couldn't sing or dance could be dressed up as a rat and flung into the river, thus ensuring the presence of every single ticket-buying parent for the big night.

I was (and still am) a rat.

The part meant running about and squeaking for the main part, but the evil old bat wasn't letting us go lightly, and gave us a song.

Stage fright? Not much. I was terrified, and demonstrated this by singing my line about cheese theft at the wrong time and being told to "Shut up, you spastic" by Judith who was playing the Baker's wife and had a voice like a foghorn. This got the second biggest laugh of the night.

Not as terrified, however, as one of the other members of the rat chorus who lost control of his bladder as we sung, and stood in an ever-growing circle of his own urine at the back of the stage.

Alas, nobody else noticed until the end of the rats' chorus song, when we were supposed to go "Eek Eek!" and run off, stage right.

The first rat slipped in the pool of piss, and everybody else, their vision restricted by their rat masks, went over like so many skittles. Tearful piss-soaked kids, juvenile swearing, and Mrs Carragher with her head in her hands as her attempt at West End stardom turned to so much dust. The biggest laugh of the night.

Sadly, this was an age before video cameras and You've Been Framed, so I reckon I'm £250 down on the whole deal.

Then I was sick inna hedge.

On songs for footballers

On songs for footballers

Songs for footballers. I repeat: Songs for footballers.

• Sympathy for the Nevilles - Rolling Stones (and for their old Dad, Bowie's Neville Neville)
  
  
• Pele all your love on me – Abba
  
  
• Kanu Feel the Force? - Real Thing
  
  
• Ashley Cole is a useless, money-grabbing, disloyal Chelsea cunt. Sorry – this isn't actually a song, I just had to get it out
  
  
• Roque Santa Cruz is coming to town – Jackson Five
  
  
• The Killing Roon – Echo and the Bunnymen
  
  
• Mama, George Weah all Crazee Now – Slade
  
  
• Bendtner out of Shape – Teardrop Explodes
  
  
• Wonderwalcott – Oasis
  
  
• I shot Paul Shirtliff (But I didn't shoot Ray Kennedy) – Bob Marley
  
  
• Living on Keown – Freddie Mercury
  
  
• I'm too Cesc-y – Right Said Fred
  
  
• Supermassive Joe Cole – Muse
  
  
• I kissed Keith Curle (and I liked it) – Katy Perry
  
  
• Life on Overmars – David Bowie
  
  
• (I don't want Brad) Friedel – Wham!
  
  
• The Man Who Sold Paul Scholes – David Bowie
  
  
• How Souness Now? – The Smiths

If you do not know any footballers (because, perhaps, you are a wet and a weed; or Welsh), I am willing to accept any sporting star. Get in!

On Newquay

On Newquay

OK.

I confess.

On a number of occasions spanning the last five years, I've visited Newquay.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah, where all the drunken Scouse stag parties go if they can't afford the plane ticket to Latvia.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah, ringing with the sound of drunken Scouse stag parties that couldn't afford the plane ticket to Latvia shouting "Dey do dough, don't dey dough" until the early hours, before getting up extra early to do it all over again.

I should have listened to my old dad.

"Son", he said, "Don't go to Newquay."

"Why?" I replied, "Why ever not?"

"It is," he said, the wisdom of ages finding its way down the generations, "full of wankers."

I can some up my entire experience of the town by quoting the sign in the window of a local seaside tat shop on my last visit:

"TURDS! Now only £5 – reduced to clear"

I went in and bought a postcard in the shape of a Cornish pasty.

Then a seagull shat in my eye.


Insult of the week

"I'm so angry, I'm going to kill you TO DEATH, clone you, then kill your clones." - The boy Scaryduck Junior, who is EXCELLENT.

On inappropriate txting

On inappropriate txting

There are times when you should consider the direction your life is taking. For example, I am in the gents' toilets at work washing my hands, hearing the unmistakeable sounds of a) one of my colleagues parking his breakfast in one of the cubicles and b) a text message being composed on a mobile phone.

Myself excluded, he is the only person using the facilities.

How, I ask, did his life reach such a point? I've written in the past about people who use the phone on the toilet, but this, I am sure you'll agree is a new low.

And more to the point, what exactly does one text about on the shitter?

"IM ON TEH BOG. NNNNNG LOLOL"

Or

"PLZ TO SEND PAPER"

Even a recent funeral, the dearly departed being carried in with great reverence in an extremely flashy coffin, was spoiled by the tell-tale twerp of a comedy ring-tone, followed by the frantic finger-and-thumb reply of the experienced TXT-er.

"LOL IM IN A FUNRAL"

"NE1 I NO?"

"LOL ITS SOME1S GRN! C U L8R"

Bloody trendy vicars.

Samuel Pepys: World Tour

Samuel Pepys: World Tour

So, you're asking yourself, what's our pal Samuel Pepys up to these days? Aside from being dead, this:

3rd April 1660: Office day. Meetings, the scourge of modern civilisation, where otherwise learn'd gentlemen sit in a room for six hours, half dozing while the other argue over concepts that none understand. My Lord Downing is rather badly inflict'd, resorting to such meaningless language as "solutioneer'ng", "low-hang'ng fruit" (despite the conversation be'ng on the subject of Naval Estimates) and "swimm'ng outside the think-tank" He has been over-work'ng of late, and I fear for his sanity, especially after he had Luellin dragg'd out and flogg'd when he stood up and shout'd "Bingo!".
Alas, woken from my post-luncheon reverie, wearing a pair of spectacles – a gift from Newton – with eyes paint'd on the lenses, by My Lord declar'ng: "So, it is agreed. Pepys shall carry out this essential, yet life-threaten'ng task. May God have mercy on his poor, doom'd soul." Glanc'ng at the official minutes after the fact, posterity records my reply as "Fuck'ng Hell." Action points: Pepys: Kill'd to DEATH, Luellin: Arrange funeral.

4th April 1660: Office day, spent mostly with Luellin playing Spot-That-Wigge from an upstairs window in White Hall, before a note came from My Lord Downing detail'ng my heroic task for HIS MAJESTY THE KING, viz: to draw some £26 s13 d11 from the Treasury to pay off some naval vessels now dock'd at Dover, with their men anxious for their gold. "Do not", sayeth My Lord, "on pain of DETH, take that wretch Newton with you, for it will be yr undoing. "With bandits and round-heads on the Dover Road, my throat is as good as cut, Luellin said. Also, sire, he asks, can I have yr desk by the window?

5th April 1660: Up betimes. After much preparation, purchas'ng of horses, hir'd goons &c, drew £26 s13 d11 from the Treasury and rode for Dover to pay off the ships. By complete and utter coincidence, ran into my olde and best friend Newton on the Old Kent Road, and he is, by complete and utter coincidence, also travelling to Dover on a Royal Mission to complete a national survey of ale-houses and brothels, a task for which he is more than adequately equip'd.
Stopp'd the night at a place in Maidstone of Newton's acquaintance, which he mark'd six-out-of-ten, for it was sadly lack'ng a milf option.

6th April 1660: Twas on the road to Dover that we stopp'd at a likely inne for lunch. There, our food (a pie which contain'd braines of some sort) was prepar'd by a man no taller than a dozen palms high (about 3 feet). Cld not help tell'ng him this was possibly the worst pie I had ever eat'n and would damn his miniature breeches if I were not the kind of person to strike those smaller than myself. He had no such qualms, assault'ng me around the gentleman's area with a skillet, before tell'ng me – at length – of his plans to open a number of similar innes staff'd by those of smaller stature, all nam'd after himself.
"What?" I finally expound, "Little Chef?"
He hit me around the gentleman's area once again – thoroughly wreck'ng any hope of enjoy'ng the company of a slattern that evening – before scream'ng "My name's McDonald! Ronald McDonald!"
We scoff'd at his idiotic dreams, and left on the Dover Road, where I did puke rich, brown pie into a hedge as we near'd Canterbury. Need'ng to settle our constitutions after such an ordeal, stopp'd the night at a place in Canterbury of Newton's acquaintance, which he mark'd six-out-of-ten, for despite hav'ng a milf option, sadly lack'd a fat girl

7th April 1660: Up betimes, and after a frustrat'ng day's travel (thanks to Newton's over-indulgences of strong liquor and stronger women that night before which render'd him barely able to mount his horse), arrive in Dover too late for the Naval Office. Luckily, stopp'd the night at a place near the Docks of Newton's acquaintance, which he mark'd ten-out-of-ten, hav'ng a milf, a fat bird and a donkey (to ride to another establishment should both the milf and the fat bird be otherwise engag'd).

8th April 1660: Lord's Day, so unable to conduct business at the Navy Office, as it would be an affront to the faith and BLASPHEMY. A messenger brings a note to my rooms at Madame Eva's Emporium of Polish and Lower Silesia. It is from my lovely French wife, for I recognise the hand-writing immediately. My darling Samuel, it reads:

First of all: Fuck you.
That's right, fuck off to Dover with all your precious Navy boys and leave nothing in the house except crumbs in the pantry and a turde the size of Whitehall in our marital bed. Don't be surprised if I run off with the footman by the time you come back.
Go fuck yourself.
Elizabeth
PS Downing called. He said that if you're in Dover with Newton, you're fucked.

How I love her and her shining wit! And so to bed, Madame Eva and the donkey provid'ng stimulat'ng company

9th April 1660: Up betimes and finally to the Naval Office to pay off the ships. Word hav'ng got around that we are in town with the gold, quite a queue has already form'd, compris'ng swarthy matelots of all descriptions, temper and sobriety. Report'ng to the Port Admiral, there was a short ceremony, the read'ng of the new articles of war, and the passing round of the grog ration which made the whole affair even more raucous than it should have been.
Then, I had two of my hir'd goons bring up the great chest contain'ng £26 s13 d11, and with the words "My boys! Here is what your great country thinks of you!" Before fling'ng the lid open for all to see. Arse.

10th April 1660: At sea. The chest contain'd naught but a note reading "IOU £26 s13 d11 LOL S. Newton, Esq" and a number of woodcuts depict'ng sexual acts too deprav'd for this diary. Of Newton, and My Lord Downing's £26 s13 d11 there was no sign, but until they are seen again, I am assur'd that I shall be act'ng out the woodcuts all the way to the Indies and back again. Still, the sea air will do me good, one hopes.

On things I did on my holidays

On things I did on my holidays

No.1: Send messages to alien civilisations

On nice/nasty

On nice/nasty

I am in Morrisons, buying cake.

I have a song in my head, and being an annoying bastard, there is only one way to get it out.

"Mummy?" said the cherubic little girl as I strode past, mega-value pack of Belgian Buns in my basket, "What's that man doing?"

"That's whistling," replied yummy mummy, hiding her disappointment that the last of the Belgian Buns were disappearing down the aisle and – eventually – into me.

"That's nice," said Cherub.

"I hope the short-arse bastard chokes on 'em," and our little vignette is complete.

Today's soundtrack: Public Image Limited – This is Not a Love Song

Oh Lordy! It's the Office Suggestions Box again

Oh Lordy! It's the Office Suggestions Box again

The great thing about running your own company is that you have a) exclusive access to the office suggestions box and b) power of life and death over anyone who dares to use the office suggestions box.

Let's take a look at what the minimum wage drones want my children's inheritance to pay for now:

Suggestion: Please ban the use of the words 'solutioneering', 'metadata', 'helicopter view' and 'six-hour meeting' by all middle management grades
Reply: Bang on. Going forward, all buzzword bingo is punishable by DEATH by low-hanging fruit

Suggestion: Can the company repeat the very excellent "Knife-Throwing Tuesday"? Some of my original targets have since recovered
Reply: I heartily endorse my own EXCELLENT suggestion. £10,000 bonus for that man

Suggestion: Can we help save the Earth by switching the lights off at night?
Reply: Approved. Note to facilities - Please continue with purchase of old tyres and fuel oil for night-time illumination

Suggestion: Please provide beds, eye-masks for victims of long meetings
Reply: I hereby appoint you head of Bed and Eye-Mask Focus Group. Do not report back until you have held detailed meetings with all stakeholders and suppliers

Suggestion: Can the canteen have a veggie option?
Reply: I refer herbivores to the patch of grass next to the car park. You might need to move the old tyres and barrels of fuel oil first

Suggestion: Our department desperately needs an awayday to address urgent morale and workflow issues. Can you arrange this?
Reply: The management board's two-week policy conference in Dubai has decided that these events are unproductive. We will, however, review this decision at the forthcoming management board policy conference in Las Vegas

Suggestion: How about a pay rise?
Reply: How about trying to drive to work with two broken legs

Suggestion: How about a charity swear box?
Reply: Fuck off. And fucking fuck off, you fucking fucker

Hang on a minute - that's not my suggestion box. I appear to have received Sir Alan Sugar's in error. Easy mistake to make.

On 15th April 1989

On 15th April 1989

Today's post is rather lacking in teh funnay, and for good reason. Normal service resumed tomorrow.

Oh, I remember where I was at 3.06pm on Saturday 15th April 1989.

I was at the Arsenal, standing about a third of the way up the old North Bank, just to the right of the goal.

I had a couple of pints in the Tavern, sold a few copies of The Gooner fanzine, paid the ridiculously small entrance fee at the turnstile, bought a programme and settled down in a group of half-a-dozen regulars to watch the boys take on Newcastle United.

Arsenal were coughing and spluttering their way to their first title in 18 years, Newcastle - as usual - were fighting relegation.

We won 1-0, second-half goal from magic winger Brian Marwood, having the season of his life.

But, by then, it hardly mattered at all.

By then, we were hearing news of something dreadful happening in Yorkshire.

Liverpool were playing Nottingham Forest in an FA Cup semi-final. The crush of fans arriving late for the game was too much for the Leppings Lane terrace, the police froze, and ninety-six football fans perished in the awful scenes that followed.

We'd all stood, at some time or another, on a dodgy terrace, swaying to and fro with the crowd until jammed behind a barrier. We'd all had one or two near misses, had a few pints after the match to laugh it off.

This time, those Liverpool fans didn't get away. Ninety-six. That's an awful lot of young lives to snuff out in one day.

On the way home from Highbury, already shaken to the core, I was (innocently) involved in a motor accident. It was all I could do to pull over to the side of the road and cry my eyes out. Twenty-three years old, like a baby in a layby just outside Reading.

Twenty years later, Hillsborough is a scar that still runs deep in Merseyside, not least for the botched policing, the unspoken establishment view that "they probably deserved it" and the lies that emerged in The Sun newspaper in subsequent days.

Nobody deserves to die like that, not at a football match, not anywhere. I've seen violent death first-hand, and, frankly, it ain't pretty and I don't plan on seeing it again.

As you can see, Hillsborough still makes me angry, even to this day.

Angry, but proud to be a football fan. We pulled together. We bought a (dreadful) charity single. The minutes' silence at the first post-Hillsborough match (a 5-0 demolition of Albania in the World Cup) was perfect. We remembered, always.

The Ninety-Six: Never Forget.

On Composite Bands

On Composite Bands

After the roaring success that was the composite movies, I've found myself in the same position with my favourite music acts.

There's too many out there. Far, far too much music. Mt MP3 player is bulging, and frankly, I'm find it hard to keep up.

What the world of entertainment needs, then, is the hacking out of the deadwood and the formation of a number of supergroups that may – or not – be EXCELLENT.

Superstar DJ, here we go:

• Radiohead + Kings of Leon = The Kings Head pub band
  
  
• The Beat + Meat Puppets = Beat the Meat
  
  
• Muse + Punjabi MC + The Singing Nun + The Brakes = Muse Sikh Nun Stop
  
  
• Martha and the Muffins + Right Said Fred = Echo and the Bummymen
  
  
• They Might Be Giants + Tool = Yul Brynner in a roll-neck sweater
  
  
• 4 Skins + Aqualung = How do you circumcise a whale?
  
  
• Take That + Girls Aloud + Westlife + Boyzone = A load of annoying shite
  
  
• Roxy Music + Gerry and the Pacemakers = Bryan Ferry Cross the Mersey
  
  
• Magazine + Johnny Hates Jazz + The Animals = Publications of interest to the Vice Squad

Now for the easy bit: Your turn

On things that are generally frowned upon by right-thinking people

On things that are generally frowned upon by right-thinking people

A list of things that are generally frowned upon by right-thinking people and tabloid newspaper editors, even if done for shits and giggles.

"You couldn't make it up!" – R. Littlejohn (Twat)

"I just did" – S. Duck (Genius)

* Firing golf balls from the first tee straight into the rotten, cinder-tracked heart of Weymouth Speedway.

* Asking for the 'meat option' at a vegetarian restaurant

* Driving up slowly to 'Yummy Mummies' on the school run, and asking them if they're 'looking for business'

* Walking into a newsagent and swapping all the top shelf titles for those on the bottom shelf

* Adding the secret ingredient to any unattended bread-making machine: Polyfilla

* Playing hide-and-seek whilst on a tourist visit to the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam

Come to think of it, that last one could actually be an excellent idea which the Frank people should take up if visitor numbers start to flag. For added realism, the 'seeker' is allowed to dress like Herr Flick, and one in every ten thousand kiddiewinks is dragged out, shot and flung into the canal.

Too far?

Mirth and Woe: Levitation

Mirth and Woe: Levitation

"Did you know," asked Geoff, who was a bit of a did-you-know kind of person, "Did you know that you can move things by the power of your mind?"

No. No, I did not. But I was young, and willing to believe anything Geoff told me.

"It's called levitation, an' I read a book about it in the library. Everyone used to be able to do it, but it's been evolved out of us down the years."

"Jimmy Hill, it is."

"No really. Book said it's a latent talent that's within us all. All you've got to do is train your mind an' you'll be able to move stuff about no problem."

"I repeat: Jimmy Hill. Itchy chin. And while we're at it: Chinny reck-on."

He looked at me stroking my chin in the accepted manner and shook his head at my lack of belief in what he firmly believed to be scientific fact.

"You're doing it wrong, Duck. The power's behind the ears. Get the lads, I'll show you how it's done."

I dragged Gibbon and Steve away from their game of One Touch, and Geoff took us to a corner of the playground far away from the mocking of our peers.

To a chorus of Jimmy Hills he explained how he had spent the last weeks honing his mental powers ("You're mental alright") and had – only yesterday - actually managed to make a small sewing needle rise a millimetre off the ground.

Only one thing for it: "Prove it, then. Levimatate my front door keys."

And he took that bet.

Imagine if you will, dear reader, a group of twelve-year-old boys sitting in a circle, eyes fixed on a set of door keys, all waggling their ears as one urged the others on with the words "Power! Use the power!"

There would, in fact, be a strongly-worded lecture in the following day's school assembly about dabbling in witchcraft and that-which-we-do-not-understand.

But back to the present, and inside the circle, things were happening.

"Harder!" Geoff urged us, "Concentrate harder!"

And we did.

"Nnnnnnnnng!"

How hard did he want us to concentrate?

"Harder! I think it's moving!"

"Nnnnnnnnng!"

"Nnnnnnnnng! Harder!"

"Nnnnnnnnng!"

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Aaaaaaaargh?"

"Aaaaaaaargh!" said Gibbon sheepishly, "I've shat meself."

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

That broke up the circle pretty sharpish, I can tell you for nothing.

"See?" said Geoff, as Gibbon fled to the lost property basket, "Proved positive. That's 10p you owe me."

I shall never doubt the power of SCIENCE, ever again.

On sticking your nose into Association Football where it's not wanted, again

On sticking your nose into Association Football where it's not wanted, again

The City of Liverpool is good for a great many things. Not least Derek Acorah, reality TV star Ray Quinn and people who say "Ken Dodd's dad's dog's dead" ALL THE TIME. It is also well-known for its top-class football team. But enough of Everton, it's the boys in red that need a bit of on-the-spot guidance:

Dear Liverpool Football Club

Congratulations on your successful season!

It's great to see an insignificant city such as yours punching well above its weight in the field of competitive sports. As Dear Leader of the world's foremost military-first Juche-oriented one-party state, I know how tough it is to keep the common people under control, and admire your club's shoot-first-ask-later policy against slackers and saboteurs.

I couldn't help but notice the unseemly dispute between your organisation's two capitalist running dog owners who are running your otherwise fine club as some sort of Yankee puppet regime designed to enslave the people of your fine city.

To this end, I send you this letter as an offer to take the whole organisation off your hands and run it as part of the Korean Workers Party, with all your players and staff given posts in the Korean People's Army and their own AK-47. Luckily, as both our organisations play in the same colour, the transition won't prove too difficult.

As you'd imagine, this immediate and irreversible transfer of power, backed up by our million-man armed forces showing their undying love to the Dear Leader (me) does not come without one or two little conditions:

* An immediate ban on the song "You'll Never Walk Alone", associated as it is with Yankee Imperialist Hegemony and Naked Capitalist Aggression. Instead, I suggest a rousing chorus of "Oh, Dear Leader, You Rise Like the Sun over Sacred Mount Paekdu", to the tune of "Sgt Pepper", which I wrote when I was in the Beatles

* Get rid of fucking Steven Gerrard. He is an agent of British Imperialist Sabotage. Keep his bird though - she's bloody tasty

* The immediate signing of the new star striker, a rising force in Asian football: Kim Jong-Il of Pyongyang United. I'm bloody brilliant and available most Saturdays except when we've got the nuclear inspectors in. They'll never find anything though: It's all in the Everton trophy room – LOL!

* The immediate renaming of Anfield to The Peoples' Revolutionary Juche Military-First Kim Il-Sung Memorial Sports Ground and Social Club, Quiz Night Thursdays

And before I forget: 300 foot, floodlit statues of Kylie Minogue in each corner of the ground. A fitting tribute to the brave Aussie songstress at the world's foremost sporting venue, don't you think? Give me the name of one Scouser who wouldn't be proud to gaze up at her mini-skirt-clad thighs and shout "Dey do dough dough don't dey dough?" with true revolutionary zeal, and I shall send him to the People's Re-Education Camp in New Brighton immediately.

I trust you find the terms of this offer (for eg We won't kill you TO DEATH with rabid dogs) satisfactory and that we can find common ground to do business. I enclose an SAE.

RED ARMY!

Your pal,

Kim Jong-Il

PS My agents are already working to have those Russian Imperialist dogs at Chelsea liquidated at the first instance.

On dreams

On dreams


There's nothing so dull as reading about other people's dreams.

In which case, you'd most certainly not want to hear about my night tossing (heh) and turning while the darkest sewer of my brain served up the worst nightmare ever.

It was a nightmare that had me running the crèche at poor, dead Jade Goody's funeral, Charlton Heston reading the eulogy, whilst the England football team wrestled with the cast of Emmerdale in a paddling pool full of baby oil.

You're right, you won't.

And I have found out that it is perfectly possible to vomit in your sleep.

Then I woke up and my pillow was gone.

Having heard all that, you probably would not be interested to hear of the dream that haunted me the following night.

Quite horrifically, I found myself a TV repairman called to a large house in central London. I ring the doorbell and find myself in the company of scantily-clad, arse-faced Home Secretary Jacqui Smith.

"It's my Sky system," she says, "I can't seem to get the 'Naughty Over 40' channel, and my film's on tonight."

"......!"

"They let you keep the whip when you stop being Chief Whip, you know."

"......!"

"Is it me, or is it getting hot in here?"

"......!"

"And Tessa Jowell's here. We're both moist."

It was at that exact point that I realised it is STILL perfectly possible to vomit in your sleep.

Then I woke up and my pillow was gone.

On composite films

On composite films

I did one of those "Name your top five movies" lists on that there Facebook recently. The work of two minutes, it was – in the words of TV's favourite meerkat – "Simples".

The problem was that there are FAR TOO MANY movies to create a sensible top five list, a state of affairs that Hollywood should address forthwith.

This can easily be achieved by taking a couple of movies, splice them together, and turn them into a new film that is at least 200% better, and top five lists far easier to compile.

It also opens up whole new vistas in DVD marketing, George Lucas take note.

Let's see:

• Electric Dreams + Blues Brothers = Electric Blue
  
  
• Blown Away + Michael Caine = The Italian Blow Job
  
  
• Roger Moore + Sean Connery = The Spy Who Fingered My Pussy Galore
  
  
• Rio Bravo + Ghostbusters = Bra-busters
  
  
• Star Wars I + Fanny by Gaslight + Gone With The Wind = The Phantom Fanny Fart
  
  
• Confessions of a Shopaholic + Stephen King's It = ShIt
  
  
• Ben Hur + Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee + Hamburger Hill + Showgirls = The Ben Knee Hill Show
  
  
• Danny de Vito + The Crying Game = Throw Momma From The Tranny
  
  
• A Bug's Life + The Wrong Trousers = Ants In My Pants
  
  
• Deep Impact + Rear Window + The Rough Riders = Pain In The Arse
  
  
• Oceans 11 + Oceans 12 + Oceans 13 + Dead Man's Chest = 36-DD
  
  
• Nick Hornby + Lady and the Tramp = About a Ladyboy
  
  
• James Bond + Curse Of The Were-Rabbit = Quantum of Wallace
  
  
• (20, 000 Leagues Under The Sea / 8 Mile) – 2001: A Space Odyssey + Anne of One Hundred Days + It Happened One Night x Fantastic 4 – Nineteen Eighty-Four – 102 Dalmations – (Se7en x Star Trek II) = 300

Here's a few from my Twittering hordes:

• From Nosemonkey: Huphrey Bogart + Hugh Grant + Lauren Bacall + Julia Roberts = To Have And To Have Notting Hill
  
  
• From infoholicuk: Pulp Fiction + Daniel Craig = Casino Royale with Cheese

Get in there!

Condensed History: The Six Wives of Henry VIII

Condensed History: The Six Wives of Henry VIII

Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived. But which one was which? Either sit through several series of The Tudors, watching His Majesty slipping into ever larger fat suits, or you can get the whole story here, guaranteed up to 100 per cent historically accurate, reduced down to the easy-to-understand language of today's disaffected youth, innit?

The Six Wives of Henry VIII

Henry VIII: Hello. I'm Henry Vee-eye-eye-eye, I am, I am and I am EXCELLENT. Today I shall be mostly getting married to the lovely Miss Catherine O'Aragon, who is from Spain. Holiday romances, eh? LOL

C. O'Aragon: Ay ay ay! El mundo es loco! Also: Here is a baby daughter for you.

Mary Tudor: I hate you dad, and everything you stand for. FAIL

Henry VIII: Fuck me, what a minger. And Jebus, up close you're no oil painting either. Holiday romances, eh?

C. O'Aragon: Ay ay ay! No me gusta!

Henry VIII: Tell you what, let's find a legal loophole, put this one down to experience and say nothing about it. Meanwhile, I shall find solace in this tasty pie om nom nom

A.Boleyn: Hello. I am A. Boleyn, and I am excellent. While Henry Vee-eye-eye-eye has been scoffing his tasty pie, he has also been giving me pork, FTW

Henry VIII: And a right tasty bit of stuff she is too, a hub a hub a hub hub. I am sure she will give me the son and heir I crave.

A.Boleyn: Err... it is a boy, but his ...err... digeridoo's inside out

Henry VIII: Mwaargh! Not only is that a girl, but it is GINGER. EPIC FAIL!

Elizabeth Tudor: Just wait until I am Queen. All your heads will fall RIGHT OFF

Henry VIII: Now that's an idea... if only I had some sort of cause to get rid of this ginger baby-producing WITCH

A.Boleyn: Such as adultery, incest and treason?

Henry VIII: Yeah, that'll do LOLOL

A.Bolyen: Oh, spoons. Now I am TEH DED

Henry VIII: I shall chalk this one up to experience and find solace in this tasty pie om nom nom nom

J.Seymour: Hello. I am Jane Seymour, and I am EXCELLENT. You may remember me from such films as 'Live and Let Die' and 'Battlestar Galactica'. Today I shall mostly be playing the part of Woman who plays Henry Vee-eye-eye-eye's pink oboe before dying in childbirth

Henry VIII: Ello darlin' Here's a rare example of the pink oboe. Know any decent tunes? LOL

J. Seymour: I can do 'Hey Nonny Nonny There's a Snake in my Codpiece', if it pleases sire. Also, here is a baby boy as your son and heir

Henry VIII: Best. Wife. Ever.

J. Seymour: "......"

Henry VIII: ARSE. She is TEH DED. And the boy's a bit of a wet and a weed

Edward Tudor: Hullo sky! Hullo trees! Hullo flowers!

Henry VIII: One day, lad, all this will be yours

Edward Tudor: What? The curtains?

Henry VIII: Never mind, I shall chalk that one up to experience and find solace in this tasty pie om nom nom

A.O'Cleves: Guten Tag. Ich bin Anne O'Cleves, und ich bin ausgeseichnet. Heute, I vill mostly be marrying Heinrich Vee-eins-eins-eins

Henry VIII: Looking forward to this one. I've seen the pictures an' everyth... JEBUS! What a munter!

A.O'Cleves: Plz to play Hide ze Bratwurst a hub a hub a hub hub

Henry VIII: If it's all the same to you, I'll skip straight to the tasty pie om nom nom

A.O'Cleves: Fair enough. I'll err... be off then... bye...

Henry VIII: Om nom nom nom what? Nom nom nom burp nom nom. Oooh, pretty girl LOL

C. Howard: Ey up! I'm C. Howard and I am excellent and from oop north. Why aye, oop tha Toon Ant and Dec Henry Why-Aye-Aye-Aye

Henry VIII: A hub a hub - and if you don't mind me saying – a hub a hub hub LOL

C. Howard: Why aye, I had a reet good neet oot on the toon, sick inna hedge Ant and Dec Kevin Keegan fook the Boro

Henry VIII: I have no idea what you're talking about, and frankly, you're the only minge I'm going to get this side of Doomsday. This one's a keeper, eh folks? LOL

C. Howard: As a matter of fact, even though I am repulsed by your obesity and festering ulcers, I find the idea of becoming Queen of England quite appealing for some reason. Now excuse, me while I screw my way round half the Royal Court. Oh cock, I've been thinking out loud, haven't I?

Henry VIII: Experience. Pie. Nom

C. Howard: Also, my head appears to have fallen off.

Henry VIII: Now that I am free and single again, who shall I turn to for my marital bed?

A.O'Cleves: Guten Tag, big boy

Henry VIII: Mwaaaaaaaargh!

C. Parr: Hello, I am the rich widow C. Parr and I am EXCELLENT. And rich. And certainly not considering marriage to Henry Vee-eye-eye-eye

Henry VIII: Yeah, you'll do

C. Parr: But... but... I'm promised to Thomas, 1st Baron Seymour of Sudeley, and you are hideously fat and need some sort of crane to get your reeking, sore-ridden body from one room to the next. *boilk*

Henry VIII: And?

C. Parr: You've got a point you *boilk* sexy *boilk* devil, you. A hub a *boilk* hub hub hub. *boilk*

Henry VIII: This could be the one, eh readers? In fact, I've never been so happy in my life and I will eat this EXCELLENT king-sized pie to celebrate om nom nooooo... I am TEH DED

C. Parr: WIN! God save TEH KING

Edward Tudor: Hullo sky! Hullo trees! Hullo flowers! I think... I think... I'm going to... to... SING!

C. Parr: Oh. Never mind

On Cookery Week: Part V

On Cookery Week: Part V

Another day, another doomed attempt to turn this site into a popular, award-winning food blog. And what better way than to tell you a tale of real live, actual cooking in which hardly anybody got killed TO DEATH. From The Archives of DOOM, re-written for extra LOLz and WIN:

Classic Mirth and Woe: Cake

"So, Scary," said Ms Orton, our lesbian Home Economics teacher, “Would you rather do cooking in my class, or metalwork with Mr Callaghan?”

Mr Callaghan only had one foot, was nicknamed “The Penguin” and was known for his cruel and unusual punishments, mostly involving tools found in the school workshops. Ms Orton was into the Arts of Saphho. And there would be girls. No contest. A knot of us jumped ship from Penguin's class and headed for the easy life in the kitchens.

Pretty soon, the message got about that Scary and Tim were having a great time stuffing their faces with girls and lesbians while Mr Callaghan was crushing their bollocks in a vice, and within weeks there were further defections from the metalwork class.

"Class," said Ms Orton one morning, "Aside from being a lesbian, I am also a tremendous arse-licker."

Eyebrows: raised.

"It being the head's 60th birthday, wouldn’t it be nice if we were to make him a cake?"

Too bloody right it would, that man made our lives hell with petty rules, meaningless punishments and a habit of lecturing us all to sleep in morning assemblies about his good friend God.

At the time, there was a strict one-way system operating in the school corridors, punishable by instant death. This was one of Bull’s big ideas to, and I quote "prepare us for our entry into a structured and ordered society". You had to walk halfway round the school just to get to the class next door, and transgressors were taken away and shot.

We would make that cake. Oh yes.

It was a beautiful cake. We spent a wonderful Tuesday morning doing our bit to give Bull the happiest of birthdays.

Sugar. Margarine. Flour. Eggs. Vim. Icing Sugar. Some mouldy cheese somebody found at the bottom of the fridge. It all went in, and more.

Despite our giggling protests that he was taking it too far, Seany dropped a huge green, pulsating bogey right into the mix. Seany had been on the end of Bull’s wrath far too often, and today it was payback.

The coup de grace was “Happy 60th Birthday Mr Bull” piped out expertly in green icing by Tim, a skill he is undoubtedly putting to use now in his chosen career as a museum curator. We didn’t have any green food colouring. So we used washing-up liquid.

At the end of the lesson, as we all packed up for lunch, the secret door to the forbidden zone opened, and in walked our leader, Mr Bull for a royal visit. Miss Orton grovelled and fawned round him, and it was all we could do to stop her from spreading rose petals on the very ground he walked upon. Eventually, she lead him over to where we stood with The Cake. The Cake of DOOM.

Suddenly, we all felt rather guilty. He was bound to find out, and if he actually survived, we would never hear the last of it. Detention. Expulsion. Pound-me-in-the-ass prison. The whole nine yards.

But the deed was done, we had to live with whatever we had wrought.

There was a brief, sycophantic ceremony. He complimented us on our cooking skills, expressed his deep joy that his students had thought of him on his most special of days. We sung “Happy Birthday”, and he blew out the one oversized candle planted in the middle of our masterpiece.

Seany nudged me in the ribs.

"See that candle?"

I nodded in the affirmative.

"It's been up my arse."

"Won’t you boys join me in a slice?" the head asked.

Not on your bloody life, mate, we know what’s in it.

He tucked in. We held our collective breath, waiting for the eruption. It never came. He demolished the slice in about two mouthfuls, swallowed, and said, “This is actually rather good. You won’t mind if I take the rest home for Mrs Bull?”

Of course we didn’t mind. Fair play to him, he showed up for work the next day showing no ill effects. Hardly surprising, the amount of washing up liquid we used to get the icing the right shade of green probably left him with the cleanest insides in the known universe.

A victory for the kids, for the first time ever. The cycle of crime and punishment is yet to be fulfilled.

On Cookery Week: Part IV

On Cookery Week: Part IV

My latest attempt to convert these pages into a popular, award-winning food blog sees us pay tribute to one of the finest chefs ever to have graced this planet.

We refer, of course, to poor, dead Keith Floyd, author of the classic volume “Floyd Gets Off His Tits”, the tale of one man's travels to the world's cookery hotspots, and the heroic drinking this entailed.

Widely travelled, Floyd noted at a very early stage in his tours of the planet's gastronomic delights that a) you can't get a decent cup of tea ANYWHERE outside the British Isles, and b) the food's shite.

In the true British Blitz spirit, he quickly found that the only way to make up for the shocking quality of the scran was to speak to the locals in an incredibly posh accent, whilst getting totally blatted on the local fire-water. An example that many of his fellow countrymen have followed.

From his 1987 book "Floyd in Spain" we bring you the following recipe:

Getting Shit-faced in Magaluf

Ingredients: Posh accent, nice hat, expense account, hedge

Method: Start the evening at a place called "Lennys", lining your stomach for the ordeal ahead with double egg and chips and three pints of cider

Drink heavily in a number of bars, whilst telling a number of increasingly lengthy and increasingly baudy anecdotes about getting shit-faced in many, many of the world's finest gastronomic regions.

Start with the most expensive wines, before – as the evening progresses – lowering your sights a little and finishing with the local brain-rot, and if things take a turn for the worse – your own urine

Have a dodgy burger served by some overweight orange woman from Tilbury who thought she was moving to Spain to live the dream, but ended up cooking burgers for drunk people at four in the morning. Sick inna hedge.

Repeat.

Sick onna man being sick inna hedge – the truly legendary "double chunder"

What a guy.

The sommelier recommends: Si si si si SAN MIGUEL! Then sick inna hedge

On Cookery Week: Part III

On Cookery Week: Part III

Another visit to the world of Delia Smith, only without the 'Sausage Sandwich' win bonuses that might explain Norwich City's slump over recent seasons.

Today, in our attempt to join the elite world of popular, award-winning food blogs, we venture deep into Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall territory, across that line that separates the rest of the world from the West Country, where men are men, their sheep wear wedding rings, and death by mangle-wurzel awaits at every turn. Whenever we're in Cornwall, we like to try this little number, which we call:

Roadkill Surprise

Ingredients: A fucking great Land Rover

Method: Drive around country roads in a fucking great Land Rover. You may pass the same wizened old yokel leaning on a five-bar gate on several occasions, as Cornish roads were laid out by Helen Keller having a game of Twister.

Wait until you hear the satisfying thump of tyre against badger.

Get out of the car, remembering your Highway Code: Mirror – Signal – Manoeuvre, and bag your still-twitching prey.

Beat off any local type who is trying to snaffle your WIN from under your nose.

Err... that's "Beat off with a stick", not "Beat off enthusiastically with your sleeves rolled up like a slattern on Falmouth Harbourside". You disgust me. This is a clean-minded, entirely serious, popular, soon-to-be award-winning food blog, I'll have you know.

Fuck it, kill it, cook it*, eat it. Remember to cut out any trace of rabies, as this is – by and large – a bad thing

Leave the washing-up for somebody else

As the name implies, this dish goes down particularly well at church-organised "surprise" roasts. There's nothing the faithful like more than the sight of God's creation depicted in a freshly steamed roadkill buffet.

I still remember the screams of delight.

And the projectile vomiting.

The sommelier recommends: Freshly-squeezed hedgehog juice

* This part optional