If there's one plus side...

If there's one plus side...


...to this whole MPs' expenses fiasco, it's the fact that not a single politician of any colour has come to my door for the entire European election campaign.

Granted, I saw a UKIP coming up my front path, but by the time I'd retrieved my largest net, the man-trap and the length of rubber hose with the nails through the end from out of the shed, he had made a run for it.

Still, his leaflet made refreshing reading: "Vote UKIP - just a evil as all the others. Combined."

This year, I shall be mainly placing my vote - after disqualifying all the lunatics and racist BNP turds - through the proven scientific method of "Ip Dip Dog Shit". Can't be any worse than the jokers we've got now, and there's something to be said for random politics.

Ah, that's it: It's shite.

Edited two days later for grocer's apostrophe badness. Will now turn my length of rubber hose with the nails through the end on myself out of shame.

On Alfred Spezzo

On Alfred Spezzo

"Did you see that film last night?"

No. No I did not see that film last night, for I was hard at work, posting crap onto Twitter.

"Which one?" I ask of my fragrant wife.

"You know – ITV, late night. Had him in it."

Oh, HIM.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You know – nice bloke. He was in that film."

Lost me, completely.

"Which film? You're talking gibberish now."

"That scary one. Silence of the Lambs."

"Aaaaah – got you. Anto…"

"Alfred something. Alfred Spezzo."

"You are – my dear – completely wrong. I can tell you with a high degree of confidence that it is NOT Alfred Spezzo."

"Oh, right – you're SO sure with your high-fallutin' accent telling me Alfred Spezzo wasn't in Silence of the Lambs, The Mask of Zorro and that other film with Aflred Spezzo in."

"Yes. Yes I am. Also: Your mum."

"Oh yeah? Spacker."

"It's SIR Alfred Spezzo, as ane fule kno."

She looks triumphant. I like a triumphant look on a woman.

"There you are, then. It also had Anthony Hopkins in it."

"AAAAARGH!"

So, in a fit of pique I fired up my laptop and - "Ah ha! Just as I thought!" - there is NO Sir Alfred Spezzo in the IMDB database.

I stormed out to the safety of my shed and my priceless collection of wall fixings, pausing only to bowk rich brown vomit into a hedge. That'll learn her.

On trucking

On trucking

And so to Yeovil (twinned with Mos Eisley space port – never will you see such a hive of scum and villainy) to empty my garage of tat into the sausage-like grabbing hands of tattooed car boot sale goers. And that was just the women.

Before the afternoon was out, the heavens opened, and we soon found ourselves driving in Braille down the A37 back to the relative civilisation of Weymouth.

Not even out of the cousin-marrying wastelands of Somerset, we found ourselves caught behind the tail-lights of a large commercial vehicle struggling its way over the steep inclines of the local hills, bearing a load that would surely – touch wood – destroy Dorchester completely TO DEATH.

On the back of the lorry, in large reassuring letters, was the message:

"This vehicle is CO2 neutral. Are you?"

Now, I'm not one to point out the lack of irony in any company's corporate statement, but it is worth pointing out at this stage that this particular truck's cargo just happened to be 5,000 gallons of unleaded petrol.

That is – to use the correct technical term – a metric fuckload of greenhouse gases to offset. (Where one metric fuckload = 52 tonnes).

I would suggest, if the people in charge of writing touchy-feely messages on the back of BP tankers is reading this, they might want to consider a more realistic approach:

- "One pound per litre? Ch-CHING!"

- "WAAAAAAAAAARGH! No brakes!"

- "How's my driving? Yours is shit, by the way"

- "One false move and I can blow a hole in the world the size of Belgium"

- "Honk if you got it last night"

- "No dead prostitutes are kept in this lorry overnight"

Or, if they are so inclined, they might like to employ a play on words based on the company initials:

- "Buggery, please"

Next time in Marketing Weekly: The McDonalds "Fisting is Fun!" promotion – are advertising agencies above the law?

On firey nuclear destruction

On firey nuclear destruction

Once again, the world finds itself on a knife-edge as those North Korean curs insist on letting off bloody great explosions even after they've been told to stop.

One false move could see us all slip into the abyss of firey nuclear destruction, and it's going to take some careful negotiation with the world's least stable dictator to sort this one out.

So, taking a break from scraping the tips off 500,000 boxes of matches, Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il has written to the UN to explain himself, as reported by North Korean official news agency KCNA:

Dear the United Nations

Comradely greetings from the sunny DPRK!

Please pardon the recent repeated missile and nuclear tests carried out in true patriotic fervour by the hard-working scientists of the Socialist Military-First Juche Republic of North Korea.

We fully understand your concern at these tests, and realise the implications they might have for both regional and global security viz-a-viz legally-binding Non-Proliferation Agreements and the accidental burning off of the entire world's atmosphere should things go completely tits-up.

True, we have made giant leaps in science- and military-led technology as our workers throw themselves into their tasks with the fervour of a capitalist-killing human bomb shouting "Hurrah!" to the Great Leader, but you can be assured that this work – inspired by an unprecedented double halo around the summit of sacred Mount Paektu – is for the noblest of causes,

As you may be aware, Jimmy Carr is currently planning a summer end-of-the-pier tour, taking in such venues as Weymouth, Torquay, Grimsby and - somehow – Pyongyang-on-Sea.

As you are well aware, Pyongyang-on-Sea houses our priceless collection of 300-foot statues of Kylie Minogue, her wonky-faced sister Dannii and our latest edition, the 600-foot statue of the twin peaks of Holly Willoughby. Frankly, if we let Carr anywhere near, the world is FUCKED, so you'll appreciate our concern.

To save our million-man army against this horrific capitalist weapon of mass destruction – not to mention for the greater good of humanity - just as soon as we plant a Taepodong-2 missile tipped with a Glorious Kim warhead straight up his arse, we'll stop.

Your pal,

Kim Jong-Il

And the reply, hastily scrawled on the back of a napkin (slightly soiled):

Dear Kim

As you were – carry on, old chap.

Up the workers!

Boomshanka

The UN

The world is safe again – BUT FOR HOW LONG?

On famous last words

On famous last words

God bless the man in charge of fashion who decreed that very, very tight tops and very, very short skirts are de rigueur for the young ladies for the eighteenth year in a row.

However, this joyful news does not come without its own set of mortal dangers.

Firstly, I have an eagle-eyed spouse who is - quite rightly - genetically programmed to notice when her partner's eyes are wondering towards the sweet fleshy globes of other females. Under such circumstances, I find her ability to deliver a well-practiced haymaker to the back of the head to be unrivalled.

Secondly, when out of my charming wife's gaze, or hiding behind very dark glasses, my attention is wont to wander from the job in hand the second all-too-natural manly urges take over.

For example, whilst driving through central Reading – traffic-light capital of the world - on a sunny morning.

One thing led to another, and I am pleased to report that my l33t emergency stop skills are as good as ever.

However, replaying this little bit of unpleasantness on the Caversham Road in my head as I finally made it to the office car park, I realised with some shame – and not a little pleasure – that I came within a few inches of my final words on this Earth being: "Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"

I repeat, for posterity: "Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"

It is thussly resolved, when I am on my deathbed after 60 golden years as King of the World, that I shall be tended solely by comely young nurses in very, very tight tops and very, very short skirts so that – as I slip the bonds of this surly existence – my final words will be just that.

Bugger "Bugger Bognor" – this is proper famous last words.

"Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"

On Top Ten Star Trek Facts

On Top Ten Star Trek Facts

I repeat: Top Ten STAR TREK FACTS which are 100 per cent of FACT (May contain slight traces of lie)

10. The part of Spock in the 2009 movie was originally offered to A-Team star Mr T, but he objected to "flyin' about in no damn-fool spaceship".

9. TV's John Cleese is such a fan of the original series that we copied the classic "I'm terribly sorry, he's from the Planet Vulcan" running gag when he came to write Fawlty Towers. The rest, as they say, is history

8. The Japanese version of Star Trek is called "Super Happy Good Luck Space Crab: The Next Generation"

7. Big-name stars who have worn the ill-fated Star Trek 'Red Shirt' include TV's Sir Robin Day, music's Sir Ringo Starr and soaps' Dirty Den. Ringo bucked the trend by surviving for two whole episodes.

6. From the diaries of noted 17th century naval administrator Samuel Pepys: "May 14th 1663. Sea. The final frontier. These are the voyages of HMS Enterprise, on a five year mission to sail round and round the Isle of Wight until we are sick. And so to bed"

5. Original scripts from the series show Captain Kirk joined on the bridge of the Enterprise by his brother Rodney, his Uncle Albert and dim-witted Vulcan sidekick Trigger

4. 'Classic' Star Trek is still banned in three US states over its lack of a convincing ginger character. The arrival of Dr Crusher in Next Generation only fuelled accusations of "tokenism" from lawmakers

3. Producers have confirmed that the major villains in the next Star Trek movie will be Jonathan Ross's musical back-up "Four Poofs and a Piano"

2. Dr Leonard 'Bones' McCoy can trace his ancestry back to celebrity granny-killer Harold Shipman, hence the nickname

1. Filmgoers will be interested to learn that funnyman Ricky Gervais had an uncredited cameo in the recent movie. He plays a Romulan henchman on Nero's ship, and can be seen doing his trademark funny dance during the climactic battle scene

Bonus fact: In the pilot episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, French starship captain Jean-Luc Picard's opening line was "Good moaning – I was pissing by the transporter room when I heard two shats from a phoser pistol". Sadly, Arthur Bostrom quit the production to join Allo Allo

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Crow

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Crow

OK, I'll admit it. I'm a petrol-burning Earth-raping animal-killing maniac with a car.

If – and I'm using the loosest definition possible – you can call a Renault Scenic a car.

I will also admit to a certain actual KILLED TO DEATH death toll of small, fluffy animals that failed to yield to the plastic, metal and rubber of my Renault Scenic of DEATH.

Not least – and this took a bit of a run-up and a good, practised aim – the crow that was too busy pecking at roadside carrion to notice me hurtling along the M27 to despatch it into wherever crows go when they die.

There was an explosion of feathers and crow bits, and I drove on to my destination – the urban sprawl and despair that is the not-quite-city of Reading some fifty miles away.

To be perfectly honest, I don't take any great joy in running things down on the road, and have even given up pulling over to supplement my meagre diet of chocolate, biscuits and chips with a bit of fresh meat. By the time I had reached the traffic light capital of the south of England, my work as some sort of avian nemesis was well-and-truly forgotten.

Stop – start – stop – start. Reading has more sets of traffic lights than actual people, all of them set to red by the smug, bearded car-haters at the council offices, as they watch us all struggling to work on CCTV cameras, knitting their own packed lunches.

It is as I draw up to yet another red light that I suspect something may be wrong. This is because the little old lady pushing to shopping trolley from one side of the road to the other in a pedestrian phase that lasts ten minutes has had what can only be described as "a bit of a funny turn".

In fact, she clocked my car, and a funny turn ensued.

Then it happened again at the next set of lights – a mere fifty yards away – where a Catholic priest crossed himself, had a bit of a funny turn, recovered, before threatening me and the remains of my mortal soul with a crucifix.

Jesus.

School kids fled in terror.

Disgusted looks and double-takes from a bus.

And a wino being sick inna hedge, which may or may not be unrelated.

So I got out and have a look.

"Ah-ha – just as I thought."

Just as I thought. The Renault Scenic from HELL was sporting a hideous deathly trophy of DEATH in the form of a poor dead crow – killed utterly to DEATH – spread-eagled across the radiator grille, with blood, gore and crow bits decorating the front end of my motor in a fine blood, gore and crow bit motif.

If I was a sad old goth it is EXACTLY how I'd have my car. Except it would be a clapped out Mini, obviously.

I peeled it off, fleetingly tried mouth-to-beak to mollify a gathering hate mob, and left it for the crows. Then I jumped behind the wheel of the Silver Hornet and fled.

Next week I'm trying for a Jehovah's Witness.

On MPs' expenses

On MPs' expenses

Heaven knows people are angry about MPs' second home expenses. And rightly so. Because, to be utterly frank, if you're going to try to claim for a 42" plasma TV, it is entirely proper business etiquette not to let yourself get caught.

What kind of plank – I ask – do we entrust the navigation of this proud nation if they can't even rip off the petty cash tin without getting caught?

It is no surprise to learn, then, that my two local MPs: Nu-Labour schools minister Jim Knight and Tory big cheese Oliver Letwin both claimed over twenty grand last year for their second home allowances. The fragrant, pouting Ann Widdecombe, on the other hand, claimed only 800 quid and a handful of ugly dust.

Of course, it's the foul, corrupt system to blame, and not the angelic members of parliament who – on their first day on the job - found themselves faced with a huge pile of used notes next to a sign "Please don't get caught robbing this money, LOL".

Still, it's not too late to put things right, and I've already written to my local Honourable Members with a novel solution:

Dear Mr Knight and Mr Letwin,

Obviously, you've let us all down with your tennis courts and shit.

Let's put it right, and – don't tell a soul – we can make a few thou into the bargain.

My plan is this: The pair of you jack in your expensive second homes and share a flat in a run-down part of London. Then, we film your shenanigans and sell the footage as an "odd-couple" sit-com to the highest bidder, thus paying money BACK to the taxpayer and making a bit of a profit on the side.

Hazel Blears is tentatively written in as the specialist love interest (ticks all the minority boxes for the TV execs) and I've got Dennis Waterman to do the theme tune:

"One's Nu-Lab! The other's a Toff! Dorset tractor boys in the Cit-eeee!"

Heaven knows ITV2 need something to show now that Jordan, Jordan's tits and Orange Peter have gone their seperate ways. It could be YOU.

I know what you're thinking: It's a WINNER. Let's get it on!

Your Pal,

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad

What, I ask, could possibly go wrong? I await their replies, breath duly bated.

On website design

On website design

"So," I ask, "Run that last bit past me again - how do the punters contact us?"

"Either through the 'About us' or 'Help' pages."

"Either?"

"S'right. The 'About us' links to the 'Help' page. and the 'Help' page links to 'About us'. In the end they'll get sick of going round and round in circles they'll forget what they were complaining about."

"Brilliant."

"Thanks."

"But... hang on..." I say, the wheels clanking into motion inside my head, "What if they're actual customers who want to send us actual cash money?

"No probs," says the shiny-suited web bloke, "While they've been busy on your website, they've also downloaded a sexy little app that logs into their online banking, empties their account and sells their entire family and possessions on Ebay."

"WIN!"

"I'd go as far as saying EPIC WIN. Have you seen my car?"

"Wait...wait..." I say, the seeds of doubt still germinating despite the obvious riches just around the corner, "What if they complain?"

"About us. Help."

"Yeah - but to the police?"

"Who do you think did their website?"

"Genius."

"Thanks."

On sticking your nose into the pizza business where it's not wanted

On sticking your nose into the pizza business where it's not wanted

Oh Lordy, he's back and this time he wants garlic bread with cheese. This week, Kim Jong-Il, leader of the world's number one military-first juche dictatorship sends a letter to Pizza Hut

Dear Mr Hut

Firstly, as leader of the world's number one military-first juche dictatorship, allow me to send my condolences over the death of your brother Jabba at the hands of the rebel scum. If I had my way, I'd have had them ground up and used as a range of tasty new pizza toppings!!!

Joking aside, I had the misfortune of visiting one of your restaurants on a recent visit to the capitalist lackey puppet city of Southampton (dog turd capital of the world), and I hope you accept the following criticisms in the manner they were written (for eg FUCKING ANNOYED).

- Salad cart. Thousand Island dressing is little more than the spunk of capitalists, and croutons their dried-up turds. Stop this sick filth NOW

- Main courses. I note you still persist in marketing pizzas with pineapple despite my repeated warnings. You may as well have crouched over each and every pizza and decorated them with a freshly laid turd. You BASTARDS

- Drinks. "Free refills on Coca-Cola". I'm not even going to go there except to say "the frozen piss of the exploited working classes"

Now, contrary to popular opinion, I am a forgiving kind of dictator, and I shall save you PAINFUL DEATH by DEATH RAY that is most certainly not mounted on my newly-launched Kwangmyongsong-2 satellite for the peaceful use of space.

Instead, to save you all from PAINFUL DEATH by DEATH RAY that is most certainly not mounted on my newly-launched Kwangmyongsong-2 satellite for the peaceful use of space, you might want to try a few of my suggestions. You will be pleased to hear they centre round the extensive use of dog, of which we have a plentiful supply.

- Dog salad (mostly brown), very popular with military-first juche idealist workers, their bodies puffed up with patriotic desires to explode like a human bomb, shouting hurrahs that shake both heaven and earth

- Dog Super Supreme Pizza, with stuffed crusts (Stuffed crusts mostly brown), fills the hearts of the revolutionary workers, who sick it all up like a rainbow over sacred Mount Paektu, such is their desire to eat it all over again with increased patriotic fervour

- Dog Cola (a by-product of my newly-launched Kwangmyongsong-2 satellite for the peaceful use of space), spurs the workers to ever greater zeal in pursuit of glorifying our nation's honourable revolutionary tradition. May contain traces of amphetamine sulphate

- 300-foot floodlit statue of Kylie Minogue and her wonky-eyed sister Dannii, standing athwart the entrance to each and every Kim Hut restaurant, naked and soapy (Dog joke here, LOL)

If you can't get Kylie and Dannii, how about Holly Willoughby? If I had my way, I'd invite her to Pyongyang, kidnap her and force her to star in my own science fiction blockbuster.

Yes. Holly. Both of her.

On that note, I have to go and lie down for a bit.

I look forward to your reply agreeing with my proposals, and avoiding PAINFUL DEATH by DEATH RAY that is most certainly not mounted on my newly-launched Kwangmyongsong-2 satellite for the peaceful use of space.

Your pal

Kim Jong-Il

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Murder on the Dance Floor

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Murder on the Dance Floor

Ah, student night. An excuse for our local shambles of a nightclub to rip off a new set of customers, this time to a jangly indie soundtrack in what could only be described as a bomb shelter under a multi-storey car park.

In Bracknell.

Consider the scene as two scruffy oiks wangle their way past the penguin-suited bouncers at the door:

"Two pints of bitter, please"

"We don't do bitter"

"Right, two pints of lager, please"

"We don't do pints"

"Oooookay... two bottles of pils, then"

"Ten quid"

Disgusted at the prices behind the bar, we decided to throw some shapes on the dance floor to see if we could impress any passing young ladies.

Sadly, the only lady of any description was the local fat goth, in a black leather dress made out of at least half a dozen cows. She'd do.

A request for The Smiths got me dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory to This Charming Man (a song that invites dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory) in my ...err... rather unique style that resembles the moving parts at a wind farm.

It was this exact moment that the captain of the college rugby club (a huge rugger-bugger with a double-barrelled surname) took out a small mortgage for a round of drinks, and carried the entire tray across the dance floor to the rest of his equally beefy chums.

Despite the music being around 150 decibels, you should still hear the "SPA-A-A-N-G-G-G!" as my windmilling arms swiped the tray out of his arms and showered him with the most expensive lager known to man.

Time stood still.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then, by way of variety, he kneed me in the groin, before punching me in the face again.

Mozza sang on about not having a stitch to wear, and the fat goth laughed.

Condensed Movies: Star Trek

Condensed Movies: Star Trek

Last night to the flicks, to see the latest offering from the Star Trek franchise. Being an odd-numbered Trek movie, it is doomed to be full of FAIL, but confounded expectations by being actually rather good.

So good, that I have immediately fed it into my patent Condens-o-matic and reproduce the film in its entirety, translated into the easy-to-understand language of today's youth. Innit. Contains spoilers throughout, FTW.

In this version, the role of Spock will be played by Top Gear's James May. That is all.


Star Trek (2009)

Captain Krk: Hello. I am Captain Krk and I am EXCELLENT. Today, I shall be mostly getting killed TO DETH by crashing into this fck-off massive Romulan ship. Ouch.

Mrs Krk: Luckily, I have just had a baby. I shall call him Captain. Captain Krk. Innit.

Captain Krk: Hello. I am Captain Krk, and like my old dad, I too am EXCELLENT. Today, I shall be mostly stealing cars, listening to loud music, getting into fights and hitting on Lt Uhura a hub a hub hub hub. And not necessarily in that order

Spk: Hello. I am Spk and I am a nerd. I shall not be hitting on any hot chicks because my mum cuts my hair with a bowl. FAIL

Captain Krk: Oh spoons, I appear to have joined Starfleet by mistake. Hey WOW! Green girls! A hub a hub a hub hub hub

Uhura: You make me sick Captain Krk. I'll never EVER snog you and will get it on with the first pointy-eared geek that I get my hands on

Spk: Hello

Uhura: A hub a hub hub hub

Spk: Fascinating. Also, I hate you Captain Krk for cheating on your Captaining test.

Captain Krk: I hate you too, Spk. Because… because… you're a GIT

Nro: Hello. I am Nero and I am EXCELLENT and EVIL. You may remember me from such EVIL acts as killing Captain Krk's dad Captain Krk completely TO DETH. Now stand back as I do some more EVIL, for eg: completely blowing up the Planet Vulcan TO DETH for the LULZ

Captain Pike: Not if Starfleet's got anything to do with it, FFS. Oh shite. Look at the state of my crew – never have I seen such a wretched hive of scum and villainy

Captain Krk, Spk, Bones, Chekov, Sulu, Uhura, some bloke in a red shirt: O hai!

Captain Pike: By the power of Ip Dip Dog Shit, I'm leaving Spk in charge if anything happens to me, for eg: I get kidnapped by evil Romulans hell bent on planting black holes in the core of Federation planets to kill everybody TO DETH

Spk: w00t!

Captain Krk: WTF?!

Uhura: A hub a hub a hub hub shexxxxy Captain Spk a hub hub

Spk: May I be so bold as to point out Klin... Romulans on the starboard bow, Captain

Nro: Greetings captain of the USS Enterprise. Vot is your name?

Spk: Don't tell him, Pike

Captain Pike: *facepalm*

Spk: What-a mistake-a to make-a!

Nro: I am completely kidnapping you, tying you to a comfy chair and prodding you with soft, soft cushions until you reveal the secret defence codes for Planet Earth

Captain Pike: Dirty job lads, I'm off. Spk's in charge

Spk: Now for some real POWER. LOLOLOLOL

Nro: Also, I am blowing up Spk's home planet for teh LULZ, as previously discussed

Spk: ARSE

Red shirt bloke: Not if I've got anything to do with it.

[five seconds later]

Red shirt bloke: Ouch, bad career move. I am TEH DED.

Nro: I have blown up teh Planet Vulcan and killed everybody TO DETH. EPIC WIN

Chekov: Don't worry Keptin Spk, I have saved your mum and dad because I am EXCELLENT with the transporter

Spk: WIN!

Chekov: Nope. Killed your old lady TO DETH by mistake.

Spk: ARSE! You killed Winona Ryder TO DETH. WINONA RYDER!

Chekov: Still, she was better in E. Scissorhands

Captain Krk: U R full of FAIL, Spk. My turn to be Captain

Spk: Yeah? I'm putting you off at the next bus stop, for the WIN

Captain Krk: ARSE

Uhura: Poor, poor Spk. Let me sit on ur face to cheer you up a bit.

Captain Krk: Double ARSE. Just set me down on this ice planet, see if I care

Spk: Mmmf mmmf mmmf (Translation: "Welcome to Planet FAIL. Population: You.")

Old Spk: Hello. I am Old Spk and I am EXCELLENT.

Captain Krk: Wait... WHAT?

Old Spk: Yeah, look. Bit embarrassing, this. I was supposed to save the Planet Romulus from blowing up, but I stopped for a quick one off the wrist on the way at the memory of Uhura sitting on my face, got there too late, accidentally travelled in time with a huge cargo of black hole guff which got stolen by a mental Romulan who is using it as part of his deranged revenge plans to destroy the entire Federation.

Captain Krk: Riiight...

Old Spk: Unfortunately, when we asked "What could possibly go wrong?" nobody thought of "stopping for a quick one off the wrist on the way at the memory of Uhura sitting on my face, getting there too late, accidentally travelling in time with a huge cargo of black hole guff which gets stolen by a mental Romulan to use as part of his deranged revenge plans to destroy the entire Federation"

Captain Krk: Spk from TEH FUTUR is even worse than evil power-mad Spk

Old Spk: Soz. I am full of FAIL. If it's any consolation, there's a mad Scotch person living nearby

Scotchy: Hoots mon och! Help ma boab!

Captain Krk: What did he say? I don't speak Scotch

Old Spk: He says he can get us out of here.

Scotchy: Crivens! It's a braw bricht moonlicht nicht, the noo.

Old Spk: He has – by complete and utter coincidence – contrived a means of transporting matter unlimited distances to a target that is moving in excess of the speed of light, for eg to the engineering deck of the USS Enterprise. Never mind this was never mentioned in forty years of Star Trek, eh readers?

Scotchy: Jings! Buckie!

Captain Krk: Hello! We are back! Can I be captain now?

Spk: BUMCAKES. We will decide this disagreement in the usual, approved manner

Captain Krk: Agreed. Spock, paper, scissors. Three – two – one – GO!

Spk: I am, quite naturally, Spk

Captain Krk: LOL! Paper – WIN!

Spk: Argh! Outspan and ARGH!

Captain Krk: Hello. I am Captain Captain Krk, and I am EXCELLENT. Today I am mostly going to kill Nro TO DETH, before he blows up Uranus, or something

Teh Federation: HALP! Nro is drilling a huge hole in San Francisco. Even though – as a city – we're well used to having huge holes drilled, this could be A Bad Thing

Captain Krk: I have a cunning plan, for eg: Kill Nro TO DETH, rescue Captain Pike, save teh world and then have teh sex with loads of green girls because I am EXCELLENT

Spk: Good luck with that, jerk.

Captain Krk: You're coming too.

Spk: ARSE

[Ten minutes of spectacular special effects later]

Captain Krk: There. I have killed Nro TO DETH, rescued Captain Pike and saved the world. Now for loads of EXCELLENT sex with green girls

Spk: Wait... what? I did all the work...

Captain Pike: You really are completely EXCELLENT, Krk

Spk: Who saved the entire mission by killing all the Romulan goons TO DETH? Eh? EH?

Captain Pike: Here, Krk. Have a medal

Spk: And who – might I ask - was the one willing to sacrifice his own life by ramming Nro with a ship full of Black Hole guff?

Captain Krk: And I've put 50,000 credits behind the bar at Madame Vert's Green Girl Fun House. You deserve it. What a guy

Uhura: What a dreamboat ...sigh...

Old Spk: And another thing

Spk: What?

Old Spk: Sort your hair out. You'll never get laid looking like that

Scotchy: Jings!

On dealing with unwanted phone calls

On dealing with unwanted phone calls

Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

The caller display reads 'withheld', and it being six of the evening, it can only mean one thing.

"Ye-llo"

"Good evening," says a distant voice, "Is Mr Duck available?"

Yup, it's Sanjay again.

"It's Sanjay from Debt Advice Direct and..."

"I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid he's dead."

"Oh..."

"...very tragic..."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"...bizarre spacehopper accident..."

"Our utmost condolences ...what?"

"...complete rectal prolapse..."

>> CLICK <<

WIN


The next day:

Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

"Alright Sanj, didn't I tell you I was already dead?"

"You are?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that..."

"Very sad. Bizarre spacehopper accident."

"Oh GOD! Not you again!"

"This call is being recorded for your convenience and training purposes."

>> CLICK <<

EPIC WIN

Who needs those Telephone Preference Service curs when you have sarcasm and WIN on your side?

On government incompetence

On government incompetence

I don't post much about politics these days – simply because there is hardly a rich seam of TEH FUNNAY to be had from our betters these days. But something's got to be said about Wacky Jacqui Smith.

She scares me.

Home Secretary. One of the great offices of state. Previous post holders include such great statesmen and leaders as The Duke of Wellington, Palmerston, Churchill and Lloyd George.

Now they give the job to any drooling imbecile they can entice in from the street with a roll of fivers tied to a length of fishing line.

Jacqui Smith, whose qualifications for the job seem to be that she can write her name without spelling mistakes four times out of five.

Living in Gordon Clown's ZaNu LieBore "Will The Last Person To Leave Turn Out The Lights" Britain (© Richard Littlejohn, Daily Mail), we've come to expect a certain blazing incompetence, but Jacqui has taken the bar and raised it far, far higher than any of her predecessors.

I could rattle off a list of indiscretions, but I shall mention only one: Claiming for porn movies on expenses.

Yes. We've all done it. And some of us have even blamed spouses when caught.

But the whole episode beggars the question - and therefore the whole fitness for office of Ms Smith: What in the name of blue fuckery are you doing PAYING for pornography?

And now she's gone and over-compensated. Realising there's an entire internet full of free-to-air filth, she's tasked her pals at GCHQ to go and find it all for her, under the spooky name "Mastering The Internet".

Oh yes. Seen through that one already. Master-bating The Internet, more like.

Caught again, Jacqui. Caught like a Treen in a disabled space cruiser.

You'll be pleased to hear that the entire situation is the result of a bet by the Shapeshifting Lizard Freemason Illuminati Elite to get a Home Secretary that is worse than the one before, all done entire for the LULZ.

Take a look at the recent list of incumbents if you don't believe me:

Kenneth Baker (slimy)
Ken Clarke (shambolic)
Michael Howard (living dead)
Jack Straw (demon headmaster)
David Blunkett (arse-groping lunatic)
Charles Clarke (previous job: circus ringmaster)
John Reid (previous job: Royal Torturer-in-chief, French cabaret chantoose)
Jacqui Smith (previous job: Jade Goody stunt double)

Next in line for the job is a Hostess Trolley from the John Lewis list.

Alternatively, turn up at any Cabinet meeting and utter the key word "Wibble" and the job's yours.

On the Scaryduckworth-Lewis method for rating things for excellence

On the Scaryduckworth-Lewis method for rating things for excellence

After much deliberating, I finally present the 2009/2010 version of the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Things for Excellence, your handy at-a-glance table for rating things for excellence.

This year's list sees all change at the top, with Allsopp and Beeny finally falling from grace, their stars falling just as the York sisters are on the rise.

Our top three is completed by the more earthy coupling of Bradbury and Humble, whilst the bargain basement that marks zero out of twenty is perhaps the worst thing in the whole world, ever. And I apologise for even thinking it up.

This, and previous lists, have been criticised for featuring nothing but a wishlist (and an anti-wishlist) of various celebrities in various states of undress. I counter these complaints with the simple explanation that this is EXACTLY what the Scaryduckworth-Lewis is all about.

If a movie poster said – for example – "Moira Stewart / Kate Moss", you'd know it was a stinker and worth giving a very wide berth, unless you have extremely unusual tastes.

To scotch any talk of sexism, there is nothing to stop my female readership starting their own male-dominated list. But frankly – 50 per cent of the world's population aside – who'd be interested?

The Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Things for Excellence, 2009/2010

0. Hazel Blears and Tessa Jowell spit-roasting Jacqui Smith with strap-ons purchased on parliamentary expenses, whilst Gordon Brown films everything for the Number Ten YouTube channel
1. Jordan
2. Clare Balding, strip-searched. By Sandi Toksvig.

3. Susan Boyle asking if you can reach her top notes, at a Royal Variety Performance for a lightly-oiled Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall
4. Moira Stewart in a see-through negligee, lapping at the gates of Kate Moss
5. A vomit-caked Amy Winehouse fiddling with herself outside HMV on Oxford Street, shouting "Blake! Blaaaake!" At the top of her voice

6. Sharon Osbourne offering to show you what she can do with her teeth out.
7. Germaine Greer in leather with a whip demanding satisfaction from Polly Toynbee
8. The lovely Debbie McGee performing arcane rituals on Paul Daniel's magic wand whilst he shouts "Now that's magic!"

9. A wild-eyed and frothing Heather Mills using her wooden leg to facilitate the pleasure of Myleene Klass.
10. Susie Dent in a rubber dress, undergoing an act of floccinaucinihilipilification as she discovers the new girl is nowhere near as good as poor, dead Carol Vorderman
11. Liza Tarbuck on a molten chocolate slippy-slide, inviting the ginger one from Girls Aloud to lick her clean

12. Lisa Snowdon all over body massage, including the Wednesday rub-n-tug special with a helping hand from Arlene Philips
13. Sarah Beeny wrestling Kirstie Allsopp in a paddling pool filled with baby oil, realising that they have sold far fewer tickets than last year
14. Felicity Kendall practicing the arts of self-sufficiency with a home-grown cucumber, while Penelope Keith talks dirty in the background

15. Emma Thompson on a street corner asking for "business", Emma Watson and her golden snitch only too happy to oblige
16. Billie Piper showing you - exactly - how she got that lisp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand
17. Nigella Lawson whipping up a creamy sauce on Kate Winslet's Titanic décolletage

18. Julia Bradbury soaked and windswept after a long wet walk up a mountain
19. Kate Humble, naked and enveloped in clingfilm, whispering "unwrap me and eat me"
20. An entirely legal Princess Eugenie of York answering in the positive to the question "Have you got a sister?"

One that didn't quite make it onto the list:

-1. Max Clifford gorging on the decaying genitals of poor, dead Jade Goody.

Too soon?

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Night of the Zombies

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Night of the Zombies

One summer evening, after a pint or so with my beloved at the Old Bell, we both decided that we might like to celebrate our blossoming relationship through the medium of a good, hard porking.

Still living with parents, we knew they frowned on the sound of creaking bedsprings and cries of "Stick it up me gowl, you enormous fucker!", so we resorted to Plan B: The car park up at the woods.

So, I drove her to what I thought was a quiet spot for a bit of late-night sexy in the middle of nowhere as part of what she euphemistically and charmingly referred to as "courting".

After several minutes of rampant courting on the back seat of my Austin Allegro, I looked up to see at least six people standing nearby, peering in through the car window, all with cocks in hand, all beating the bishop to varying degrees of completion.

I'll be honest here - it fair put me off my stroke and somewhat killed off my desire to finish the job.

Somehow making it into the driver's seat, trousers still half-mast, I gunned the engine on the race-tuned Allegro Equipe and sped from the car park, bouncing across exposed roots and wide-eyed perverts as we went.

In the dim light, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to take in a sight that would haunt me forever.

And it was this: Imagine if you will, half-a-dozen middle-aged men shuffling after us like so many zombies on the rampage for fresh, young spicy brains.

Zombies with rapidly deflating cocks still in hand, trying to squeeze out any vestiges of gentlemen's relish they could over the scene they had just witnessed.

"Come back! We haven't finished!" one cried as we raced back toward civilisation.

My own Johnson already the size and shape of the nozzle on an airbed, I certainly had.

On sorting out the EVIL in our midst

On sorting out the EVIL in our midst

If I was King of the World, I'd soon put a few things straight.

I'm not generally an angry kind of man who'd resort to ruthless blood-letting for shits and giggles (the coroner ruled that whole pick-axe handle / tin bath full of quicklime thing was entirely justified, after all) but there is a cancer in this world that needs to be cut out and destroyed right now.

And, as spring turns into summer, I think you know what I'm talking about.

So, if I was King of the World, I would decree a general amnesty on all Al Qaeda members and enact complete ban on membership of the Caravan Club.

All pardoned former members of Al Qaeda will be able to roam the countryside – without let or hindrance – pursuing anybody who utters the lines "We just hitch up and go" and "Let's park up in this lay-by and brew up a pot, eh Margaret?" and killing them completely TO DEATH.

Harsh but fair, and I'm sure you'll agree it is an entirely brilliant re-focusing the energies of these idealistic, murderous bastards in just the right direction.

I ask you now: What else would you have me – your future King of the World – do for the greater good of society?

I am not mad.

On party conversations

On party conversations

"So, what do you do?" I ask, because party conversation isn't all 'me, me, me'.

"Oh, I'm in the music industry," said the stranger, relieved to be able to talk about himself at last.

I am intrigued.

"I'm intrigued. What do you do?"

"I'm the drummer in a tribute band."

I am no longer intrigued.

"Oh. Right. Anyone I've heard of?"

"Yeah. You've heard of The Bootleg Beatles?"

Too right I've heard of The Bootleg Beatles. The acme of tribute bands – the post-Fab Foursome that started the whole massive tribute show avalanche.

"Bloody. Hell's. Teeth. You're in the Bootleg Beatles? You're the Bootleg Ringo?"

"Leave it out, mate. I'm in The Bootleg Bootleg Beatles. We're a Bootleg Beatles tribute act. Wango Carr, as it happens. Pubs. Working men's clubs. Church hall discos."

"Riiiight…"

"And see my Mrs over there?"

He points to a dumpy woman with a moustache holding a pint glass in each hand, holding forth on the qualities of various brands of cask conditioned ale.

"She's Agnetha in a Bjorn Again tribute act."

"Don’t tell me..."

He told me.

"Re-Bjorn Again Again. They've got a Teletubbies angle going. Very hot on the pre-school scene."

Christ, swinging parties have gone right downhill these days.


Life imitates LOLs: It has been brought to my attention that besides the original, Australia-based Bjorn Again act, there are also four officially licensed Bjorn Agains touring the world.

Which makes, I suppose, the last of them Bjorn Again Again Again Again.

On my new favourite singer/songwriter/chanteuse

On my new favourite singer/songwriter/chanteuse

Yeah, Megan Washington.

An up-and-coming chanteuse living in that there Australia of whom I knew diddly until about a month ago until I chanced across a Twitter post by (I think) the highly esteemed Father Ted writer Graham Linehan praising the Keith Loutit Bathtub IV video, which I subsequently posted here.

Eschewing my usual approach to people of a certain celebrity (pick-axe handle, tin bath, sack of quicklime), I approached the charming Ms Washington via MySpace and learned of her plans for a mini-album next month.

Obsessed, me?

More for my benefit rather than anybody else (My blog, nyer), I've collected all the videos of My New Favourite Singer/Songwriter/Chanteuse in one place.

Joyless Kings of Leon obsessives may wish to express their outrage at the King of the Rodeo cover elsewhere, because it is full of WIN.

The Bamboos & Megan Washington – King of the Rodeo


Clementine: Official video

Ishmael: Live, may include traces of piano

Lightwell: In a darkened room

80 Miles: In the middle of a darkened Sydney

Underground:

Washington: Underground from shoottheplayer.com on Vimeo

Quite finished? Yes, finished.


On unexpected anniversaries

My mother died, aged 61, in May 2000. Today would have been her 70th birthday.

Happy birthday, Mum.

Not crying. Just got something in my eye. Both eyes.

On THAT old chestnut, again

On THAT old chestnut, again

We read from the words of the Prophet Rowan Atkinson in the sacred texts of Not The Nine O'Clock News: "So, if there IS a God, why, I ask you, does he let you get hurt when you're doing someone a good turn?"

Yes, that old chestnut again.

Take, for example, a weekend spent helping our neighbours move house. In fact, they're emigrating and there's a middle-to-high chance that we might never see them again.

And while they're committed Christians, there was nothing remotely godly about my motives for helping out – it's just the kind of thing good neighbours do for their friends when they've got to get all the mattresses in the world out of the house, sharpish.

One expects and receives no reward but for the small box of Salvation Army hymn books of uncertain vintage and a Winnie the Pooh pedal bin.

So, if anyone's deserving of a good, hard smiting, it's them for the clear and present sin that is the fingering of the 'Blood and Thunder' literature.

Monday morning dawns, then, to find your humble author propped against on the toilet, struck down with a vomiting bug, bowking rich, brown vomit into any receptacle I can find. Including, but not limited to: toilet, buckets, shoes, wheelie bins, the dog.

In fact, the gush of illness is so intense that I somehow contrive to smash my hand and forearm into a patchwork of bruises in what can only be described on the insurance forms as a "bizarre vomiting injury".

So, I ask again, if there IS a God, why is it that he lets you get hurt when you're doing somebody a good turn?

Thanks for NOTHING invisible sky zombie.

On a train ticket-sized hole in the space/time continuum

On a train ticket-sized hole in the space/time continuum

16th April 2009: A visit to the Eden Project

"This is RUBBISH. I've been here two hours already, and I still haven't got my cheese."

"If you murder that Edam Project joke again, I shall seriously divorce you."

"Still", I say, "They really need to sort out their litter-picking. I can see a train ticket over there."

"Well," sighs The Fragrant Mrs Duck, "Pick it up and put it in the bin"

So I get up, walk across the sward, and pick up the stray litter sticking out of the otherwise neatly-trimmed hedge.

"It's not a ticket," I say, managing not to vomit into the thoughtfully provided hedgerow, "It's a seat reservation."

Seat Reservation. Not a Travel Ticket.

From: Edinburgh

To: Bournemouth

Time: 0905

Date: 31st May 2006

Seat: Carriage C Seat D28

"Well, bugger me down dead. That certainly explains a lot".

Dissolve to...

31st May 2006: Edinburgh Waverley station, the 0905 train from Edinburgh to Bournemouth.

Having rubbed shoulders at a conference with royalty, top politicos and the DG of the esteemed organisation which pays my salary, I am more than ready to return to the loving bosom of my family.

Fleeing my hotel – Edinburgh's Grab-a-Granny central, I take the short walk to the railway station and find the train south already waiting at the platform.

"Excuse me madam, you appear to be sitting in my seat"

"Och, sorry, did you have a reservation?"

"Yes. Yes I do. I have it in my wallet, here."

After several minutes of fumbling: "Oh, I can't find it. I had it just this morning. Carriage C, Seat D28, I remember clearly."

"Well, I'm here now. If you haven't got your reservation, you'll just have to sit elsewhere."

Like, for example, the only other free seat in the carriage. Being, in this case, in the company of a tired and emotional woman clutching a half-finished bottle of Buckie, in charge with two pre-school kids, already bored out of their skulls and also clutching half-finished bottles of Buckie.

"Keep it down, you pair," she slurs as I take my seat, "It's only ten hours to Bournemouth."

Inside I die and ponder where – exactly – my seat reservation might be.