A few suggestions regarding future runnings of the London Marathon

The London Marathon - the ultimate battle between man (and woman) and the mean streets of this nation's capital.

All well and good, but why do the organisers see fit to hold it on a Sunday morning? Imagine my disappointment when rising at some civilised hour on the Sabbath (for eg, lunchtime) to realise that I've missed the whole thing for the tenth year in a row.

Why not - and this is proper thinking out of the box - hold it at a more social hour? I am thinking, in this instance, at 7pm on a Friday evening.

Not only will there be more people up and about to watch London's most demanding sporting event, the later hour will not only see a larger peak-time viewing audience, but it will also encourage the so-called "fun" runners to get a bloody crack on and get off those East End streets before pub throwing-out time.

The added motivation of a sound thrashing from drink-addled Cockneys riled up by the sight of a grown man in an chicken costume will spur these people on to no end of personal bests.

In fact, I would actually pay good money to watch this happen, as long as they play the uplifting music while chicken man is chased around the Isle of Dogs.

London Marathon people: MAKE THIS HAPPEN.

On what is photoshopped and what is not photoshopped

This week, a chap what I know from the electric internets had a jolly nice photo of a rainbow over Weymouth Bay published in the local newspaper. Here it is:

As you can see, by the time it reached the paper's website, it had had the hell compressed out of it, and it looked a little worse for wear.

"Photoshop!" cried the miseries and armchair generals that inhabit the bottom half of the internet, "It's a fake!"

They are wrong. If it WERE shopped, here's what it would look like:

Pretty different, I'm sure you'll agree.

In your face, the bottom half of the internet.

Weekend Video: Gary Numan - The Fall

As (more-or-less) requested last week, a new track from God-like genius Numan. If I were him, I'd stop moping and make an official complaint. Worst painters and decorators since the Chuckle Brothers.

George Osborne: Guardian of the Nation

Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne, the man in charge of all of our money, recently said that he was shocked - SHOCKED - to discover that many of Britain's multi-millionaires are using a number of dodges to minimise the amount of tax that they are paying.

This has been met by a certain disbelief among politics-watchers, wondering how a man who is not short of a few bob himself doesn't know about the large number of legal tax dodges that keep those rich people quite stupendously rich.

However - and controversial point, this - George isn't paid to be observant, merely to steer GB PLC along the straight and narrow back to financial stability.

And because of this, there's quite a few things that George doesn't know. Quite a lot of things:

- His real name is Gideon

- He didn't actually go to school with that Tim Nice-But-Dim character from the television

- Gordon's alive!

- The Beatles have split up

- That nice Clegg chap that helps out next door isn't actually David's butler

- What bears get up to in the woods

- Free Nelson Mandela isn't a reader offer in the Daily Telegraph

- Bruce Willis died in the first reel

Keep up the good work, George!

On moving to the sex capital of the world

Many years ago, I used to walk the streets of Reading by day, trying to find these bored housewives I'd heard so much about. Unfortunately, my only source of research was the letters page in Fiesta, the gentlemen's magazine of choice, which was - in hindsight - liberally sprinkled with fiction. I got nothing except sore feet.

It also turns out that maybe people from Reading aren't really that interested in The Sexy Time. Perhaps they really do spend their days at coffee mornings, followed by a Zumba class and a couple of hours working at Airfix kits. I do not know, and I probably never will. In fact, I am pretty certain that Reading was turned down for city status by the Queen due to the abiding memory of a particularly disappointing swingers' party in the town.

But now I have moved a safe distance away from Reading to the not-bustling-at-all metrpolois that is Fleet in Hampshire. A town where half the shops are empty, the streets eerily quiet and what people you see are perennially tired and in a state of partial undress.

Why - I ask - might this be? And it was the chance spot of a story in the Fleet News and Mail weekly scandal rag: Sex shop proclaims Fleet sexiest town in UK. And I quote:

"FLEET has been named the ‘sexiest town’ in the whole of the country with randy residents spending triple the national average on bondage items.

The findings from online sex shop Love Honey also reveal that Fleet people lash out the most on naughty knickers and sex toys, spending double the national average.

Residents splash out six times more on spicing up their love lives than people in Sunderland, which was declared the UK’s least sexy city."

And, on closer inspection, it's all falling into place.

- Hotter-than-average librarians at Fleet library, where "Adult Fiction" is stripped bare

- The only Starbucks in the country with beds and handcuffs

- A man on a street corner, selling cucumbers by the foot

- Pubs turning a blind eye to national "No gimp suits" dress codes

- The local branch of Robert Dyas in the Guinness Book of Records having sold 10,000 AA batteries in three hours

It goes on and on. Literally.

Also, I finally understand the knowing wink from the milkman when I asked for an extra yoghurt, the filthy pervert.

I might have to go for a walk. Nowhere in particular...

NINJA EDIT: It has been pointed out to me on Twitter that Fleet is a "one horse town, with a three year waiting list for the horse". Quite.

A CHALLENGE TO THE ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE INDUSTRY

Eight months ago, in front of an audience of hundreds, I fell over and injured my ankle. Despite everything traditional medicine has thrown at it, I still wake up in the night in agony, and limp around everywhere like a creepy old man with a beard.

My NHS doctor, as much as I respect him, says that the only cure for tendonitis is rest. TWO YEARS of rest. Now, living in a have-it-all-now society, I want it all now, so I lay down this challenge:

Calling all faith healers, reiki masters, witches, witch doctors, accupuncturists, astrologers, chiropractors, naturopaths, reflexologists, crystal healers, ear candlers, magnet therapists, gua sha practitioners, rolfists, urine therapists, hypnotists, therapeutic touchers, snake-oil salesmen, so-called charlatans and random healing types who use comic sans (the font of champions) on leaflets in newsagent windows...

As they say on Ghostbusters: I AM READY TO BELIEVE YOU

If you can cure my ankle, make me throw my stick away and high-kick down the street shouting "Praise the Lord, I'm cured!", then I shall pay you one million billion pounds all the respect that would normally be reserved for members of the mainstream medical industry.

And, in this cynical world where your beliefs and practices have been sneered upon by the so-called educated elites, I am pretty sure that respect is the one thing for which you are looking. Also, one million billion pounds, and Ben Goldacre comes round your house and does the washing-up for a year.

What are you waiting for? This is a genuine offer: CURE ME!

Homeopaths: Just drop a couple of your sugar pills in my coffee and we'll call it quits, right?  

(In practical terms, there's a bunch of beardy God Botherers that hang around the side entrance of Festival Place in Basingstoke, just next to the famous Wote Street Willy, where they offer healing through the power of their invisible sky beardo. I'll be giving them first shot at disappointment)

On the use of deadly animals in crime fighting

"When someone is hiding in a building," says Twitter's Richard Wiseman, "I always wonder why the police don't throw a wasps nest through the window."

This is - all told - a brilliant idea, for the addition of angry wasps to a siege crisis would bring about a solution in next to no time (unless the crim was a heavy smoker, and the wasps are rendered drowsy by the fumes). But why stop there?

Police forces should become adept at using dangerous animals to bring potentially dangerous situations to a close. The addition of a couple of angry swans to a siege situation would be just as effective as the angry wasp scenario, with the added advantage that clouds of cigarette smoke would make them even more furious. Not even the most hardened of crims in the most desperate of straits would want to be in the same room as angry swans, who - according to SCIENCE - can break a man's arm with a single flap of their wing.

Also, some sort of gun to fire deadly snakes up exhaust pipes during car chases, the last words of the hooded chavs making away with some poor old lady's Citroen Saxo being "I've had enough of these melonfarming snakes in this melonfarming Citroen Saxo." And just as they think their day can't get any worse: Activate the wasps.

Then, it's back to the station to feed the constabulary leopard, and train it to attack only crusties and card-carrying trade union members.

I am not mad.

Dogs, the by-products thereof, and how they saved my life

I am not a violent man. I am tolerant of a great many things which would drive others to despair. In fact, I have been known to turn the other cheek on the sort of behaviour that would turn Gandhi into an axe-wielding homicidal maniac, or make Jesus run amok with his best carpenters' cordless drill.

However, for one group of people, a good old-fashioned "I got so cross I nearly said something" just won't do. Nor will a frustrated roll of the eyes, or - God forbid - a faux-polite passive aggressive note stapled to their forehead in the traditional manner.

No, for these people, it's the Full Monty: Round them up and fire them bodily out of a cannon straight through a sieve, turn them to soup, feed the soup to baboons, and fire the baboons in a rocket into the cold depths of space. And even then, I don't think the punishment is severe enough, but I'm worried baboon lovers might send me a sarcastic note if I take things any further.

You see, it's like this (dissolve to idyllic rural scene, with butterflies, bunnies and cute-looking owls)...

Behind my house is a wood.

In that wood is a large, beautiful tree.

A large, beautiful tree which stands out from all the others, as winter becomes spring and our countryside comes to life.

In that tree are a multitude of decorations, swaying in the breeze in any number of jaunty colours, like Buddhist prayer flags on the slopes of a Himalayan peak, like a comely all-year-round Christmas tree. From a distance, it is a thing of extraordinary beauty.

When you get up close, you realise that these comely, jaunty decorations are - in fact - bags of dog poo, slowly festering in the bright morning sun.

Which beggars the question: What kind of person clears up the mess left after their dog, only to throw it up a tree? Judging by the sheer variety and number of bags, the answer is this: Most people.

Talk about leaving the job half done - you've picked up after your dog, only to leave it in the worst place imaginable. It's like - and let's pluck an example from history entirely at random - invading Iraq without having a plan what to do next.

This comes from a world were we are so used to convenience that when we are faced with doing something unpleasant for ourselves, we bung it up the metaphorical tree. For example, and while we're on the subject: We pay companies to take the water from our toilets, clean it, and return it to our taps as drinking water. Can you imagine what would happen if we had to do that for ourselves, even for a single day? I'd imagine a lot of bags up a lot of trees, and everybody dying of dysentery.

A society accustomed to convenience and having the nasty things done for us leads to laziness, and is why you should never look at what's stuck under the table in any fast food outlet. Just trust me. Don't.

The correct thing to do would be to pocket your dog's hot bag, take it home and put it in the rubbish, like a good socially-aware citizen. It is because I clear up after the hound that I was once saved from a right old beating, because in this world danger lurks behind every corner.

Not terribly long ago, I was mugged by a couple of young men (and if you'd excuse a term which some members of the outragederati are convinced is racist) of the chavular persuasion, and I count my escape as the greatest achievement in my life.

After threatening to "cut me with my flicky, innit" - an object which was clearly a broken twig - I convinced the gruesome twosome that the 'Elizabeth Duke from Argos' bag was a Christmas present, and let them run back to their lair with the loot. It was only when they got there, and I was safely at home enjoying the smuggest cup of tea of my life, that they found that their ill-gotten gains amounted to one freshly-laid dog egg, courtesy of a small canine by the name of Lucy Minogue.

Good dog.

Clear up after yourself, it could save your life.

A tree that looks like Adolf Hitler

All the proof that was ever needed that the leader of the Third Reich is alive, well and living as a tree at the bottom of my garden in Fleet.

It's nearly as bad as the time that my finger became a Nazi...

Let's hear it for Adolf Hitler everybody! BOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Weekend Video: Ultravox - Brilliant

Second go at posting this: Firstly to fix the dreadful typo in the title field, and second to restore the entire content after Blogger decided to update their interface to one that doesn't work on the iPad. If it wasn't a free service, I'd almost nearly say something.

Any road up, here's the first output for twenty-something years from the 80s synth pioneers. I say: Squeee.

That is all.

On the power of prayer, or lack thereof

"The Lord's Prayer," say the Archbishop of Canterbury, concerned that not enough children are getting churched up there days, "should be taught in schools".And he's right, of course. It's a fine, compact piece of poetry that should be taught in English lessons, instilling values that have since been boiled down by the Holy Prophets Bill and Ted of the Church of Wyld Stallyns.

"Be excellent to each other. And, party on dudes!"

It is worth, in these circumstances, going through the Lord's Prayer, as it is currently spoken week in, week out in churches up and down this country, to find out what it really means. Speaking as a deity-curious atheist, it's good to know these thingsas knowledge of Theism is just as powerful as knowledge of Atheism. Let's start at the beginning:

Our Father, Who art in Heaven

And not "Devon" as you might expect. Thanks to a sponsorship deal, Our Father now resides in "Heaven", the well-known London nightclub frequented by the LGBT community. Interesting to note that while the C of E favours regular Heaven performer Kylie Minogue; that Catholic faith has swung its weight behind wonky-faced sister Dannii.

Harold be thy name

Harold, of course, being TV's Harold Bishop from the Neighbours, who died and came back to life, as per the prophecy in TV Quick magazine. He walks amongst us, people!

Give us this day, our daily bread

Of course, there was no way the early writers of the Bible could have foreseen the emergence of the Pot Noodle.

Forgive us our trespasses,as we forgive those who trespass against us

Which, when translated into everyday English, comes out as "Forgive us our pss pss pss as we forgive those who pss pss pss a pss pss pss", and when spoken in any school assembly sounds like an invasion of snakes. In fact, since the release of the film "Snakes on a Plane", this line has been omitted from many school prayers, in case of a panic.

And lead us not into temptation

Your memory is playing you false. This line was only added in 1983 after Heaven 17 reached number two in the charts with Temptation. A prime example of the Church getting down with The Kids.

And deliver us from evil

Another pop reference: Originally "And deliver us from Devo" after church officials became weird-ed out by the US art-rockers, but dropped when they realised a new threat was emerging. Expect a change to "And deliver us from Bieber" at any time.

The power, and the glory, for ever and ever

and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever that's enough now ever and ever and ever no really stop ever and ever.

So. The power of prayer revealed, and it's up there with homeopathy. Your mileage may vary, but just don't rely on it to fix your car, that's all.

The Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Things for Avian Excellence

You know what? - I've had enough of the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Things for Excellence, the internet's premier method of rating things for excellence. It is sexist, demeaning and fails to address my current obsession for squeezing owls until an egg comes out.

From now on, I'm going to rate things out of five in terms of birds. Birds are the way ahead, unless you are a tit. Then they're the way atit.

 The Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method of Rating Things for Avian Excellence, in full:

1. Gannet
2. Angry Goose
3. Goose
4. Duck
5. Owl 

A proper hierarchy, I think you will agree , with owls in their rightful position as king of all birds, over and above those smug eagle bastards.

What bird - we ask - would even have their own Dalek army? OWLS, that's what.

The Lonely Authority of the Office Fridge Monitor

On 10 March of this year, I reached a milestone in my life - the day marking the fact that I had spent exactly half of my time on this Earth working for the same Corporation. And, coincidentally, I was also handed my first bit of real power in the job, rising to the post of Fridge Monitor for Refrigerator Number One in the staff kitchen.

I vowed to my colleagues on that day I would not let the power go to my head.

After several weeks of consideration, I have since decided that I will let the power go to my head.

To this end, I have devised a series of penalties for the various Office Refrigerator crimes which plague facilities of this type. You will note that most of these penalties involve violent death, but this is only to be expected in a fluid jobs market where only the harshest of punishments will suffice.

CRIME: "Just borrowing a splash of milk"
PUNISHMENT: Locked in a room with an angry goose and no milk

CRIME: Stinking Fridge No.1 out with smelly foods not stored in an airtight cabinet
PUNISHMENT: Fired out of a cannon straight into a swimming pool filled with piranha curry

CRIME: Not clearing up fridge spillages with the official Fridge No.1 clearing-up spillages cloth, and writing a report in the Fridge No.1 spillages book
PUNISHMENT: Ground up for porridge oats, fed to a Scotsman and bowked up into a Scotch bush somewhere, the Scotsman then filling out a full spillage report

CRIME: Leaving food in Fridge No.1 past its sell-by date
PUNISHMENT: Buried alive in the grounds until past sell-by date, then used as a handy flesh-based mulch by the gardeners

CRIME: Storing food from other teams in Fridge No.1 because Fridge No.2 is full
PUNISHMENT: Global Thermonuclear Warfare

CRIME: Using Fridge No.1 as a meeting place for selling massive drugs
PUNISHMENT: 25 per cent cut of the proceeds

I think you will find that I am a merciful yet firm dictator, as evidenced by the passive-aggressive note I have taped to the door, declaring - in Comic Sans (The Font of Champions) and jaunty clip-art: "Please look after our fridge - TRANSGRESSORS WILL BE KILLED!!!!!"

Who knew there was "Man getting his head cut off with a chainsaw" clip-art?

Lunchtime meetings, twinned with Gomorrah

There should be one rule - one one rule only - for the kind of unspeakable cur who schedules workplace meetings between the hours of 12.00 and 2.00pm.

* The organiser of said meeting (henceforth known as 'the unspeakable cur') should pay for lunch for each and every attendee. Plus drinks, sent over from the social club as necessary.

Failure to comply with this single, simple rule should be punished by The Death of a Thousand Rabid Baboons.

Or, by sitting quietly and grudgingly at the back and not asking any questions when they ask "Any questions?" even if you've thought of a question.

That is all.

More Comic Sans Criminals Exposed

"Second floor. Going down. Door closing," droned the Mogadon-voiced lift in our local shopping centre as I made my way to Waitrose. But already, my attention had been grabbed by something else.

The lift walls are plastered with advertisements for local services, and one of these claims to be from (and I quote), "the local leaders in computer tuition". They will, the advert claims, turn the most frightened beginner into a confident (and I expect, silver) surfer "within a matter of weeks".

If that is the case, why is your advert ENTIRELY IN COMIC SANS (The Font of Champions)?

I note their name (which I will not divulge here, for I am not in the business of wrecking businesses), for I wish to make further investigations. And damn good thing I did. For not only is their entire website also in Comic Sans, The Font of Champions, but their search engine metadata reads something along the lines of "Add some text here which will show up on search engine results".

As a result, Googling [Name of Champion Company] returns the confident business-winning phrase "Add some text here which will show up on search engine results".

I have a mind to send them a bucket of killer wasps in the post. No court in the land would convict.

Weekend Owl

Once again I ask: Where's Doctor 'Hoot' when you need him?

Weekend Video: Orbital feat Zola Jesus - New France

Interesting to see how Nookie Bear's getting on since he and Roger de Courcey split.

A Scaryduck Guide: How to score yourself free food

With food prices going through the roof - including the heinous slapping of VAT onto pasties and sausage rolls that has bloaters the breadth of the country crying into their slimmers' shakes - it will not be long before our society is plunged into a free-for-all of survival of the fittest. Also, fattest.

This being the case, it is of the first importance that you make the pound in your pocket go just that little bit further. Which means looking at ways of getting food down your neck for as little as possible. We're not huge fans of fishing through bins behind supermarkets and restaurants, simply because it is a pastime that has become so popular these days you've got a three hour queue before your allotted thirty seconds of bin-diving. No thanks.

Why not go direct to source, and get fed by people giving you food, more-or-less willingly?

Dress up as a duck and stand at the back at the duck pond. Presto! All the bread you can eat!
Degree of difficulty: Make the effort to actually look like a duck. A Derek Zoolander duck face does not a convincing duck make

Dress up as a tiger and stand at the back at zoo feeding time. Presto! All the free meat you'd ever want!
Degree of difficulty: Do this at you own risk, your getting away with this stunt is entirely dependent on a) the zoo keepers forgetting how many tigers they've got b) the other tigers not realising that you are made of tasty, tasty meat. You might also wish to develop a taste for raw antelope bum

Dress up as Hamburglar and run amok through your local McDonalds restaurant in some kind of demented trolley dash
Degree of difficulty: You might also wish to develop a taste for raw antelope bum and/or burgers
Other degree of diffculty: You might also wish to develop a taste for prison food and surprise bum sex

Alternatively, there's loads of pretty red mushrooms in the woods behind our house. What could possibly go wrong?

SCIENCE: Can an angry duck break a small child's arm with one flap of its wing?

"Excuse me, madam - can we borrow that small boy? It's for SCIENCE."

As you may already know, I'm a man of SCIENCE, and I see it as my duty to ensure that the BIG questions do not go unanswered.

And the question that vexes us this week is this one:

If a swan can break a man's arm with one flap of its wing, could an angry duck do the same to a small child?

Of course, we're not just lashing in the wind here - there may be all kinds of hidden dangers surrounding an otherwise innocent trip to feed the ducks. All it takes is one moment's lack of attention, one toddler pushing his luck, and a duck that's got out of its nest on the wrong side of a morning and we're well down the road to tragedy.

All we need is a small child, borrowed from a well-pleased parent who is now twenty notes the richer, and an angry duck.

The problem here being that ducks are not generally pre-disposed to anger. Swans, yes. Geese are the very dictionary definition of fury. But it takes a lot to rile a duck, and for this, I must be prepared.

Start simple: "Hey Quackers - I saw your wife pulling off a coot."

Or: "Oi, Beak-face. Loving your Justin Bieber hair cut"

And if that doesn't work, a series of photographs depicting a paedo duck touching up an egg is certain to drive even the most mild-mannered of canards into a blur of flappy fury.

I can almost taste that Nobel Prize buffet lunch.

Condensed Movies: The Hunger Games

I made a vow that I would never do another condensed movie on this site. So, here it is.

The Hunger Games

Catpiss Littertray: Hello. I am Catpiss Littertray, and I am excellent. Today, I shall be mostly hoping that my little sister doesn't get chosen for the Hunger Games becuase she is a wet and a weed and say hello sky hello clouds etc etc chiz chiz

E. Trinket: And the representatives from District 12 are... Catpoo Littertray. Oh, and Peter Dreary

Catpiss: Oh, BUM HAMMERS. In which case: I volunteer for certain death, FFS.

E. Trinket: LOL

President Kiefer Sutherland's Dad: Welcome to TEH HUNGER GAMES. The winner shall receive this ENORMOUS PIE

Catpiss: Mmmm... pie

President Kiefer Sutherland's Dad: Mmmm... pie

Catpiss: When come back, bring pie

Simon Cowell: Heh heh heh. Little do they know that I have a secret plan to keep ALL TEH PIE to myself

Craig Charles: LET THE ROBOT WARS ...er... HUNGER GAMES BEGIN!

Catpiss: Ish. Ash. Oosh. Kill Kill Kill. LOLOLOLOL

Peter Dreary: I love you, Catpiss

Catpiss: I love you too, Peter Dreary

Cato from The Pink Panther films (I think): DIE! DIE! DIE! Oh, I have been eaten by dogs LOL

Catpiss: We have won, LIKE A BOSS

Simon Cowell: Oh ho ho, that's what you think, because I have changed the rules, LIKE A BOSS

President Kiefer Sutherland's Dad: Congratulations on your victory, Simon Cowell. Here is your POISON PIE, LIKE A FUCKING BOSS

Simon Cowell: Oh, BUM HAMMERS

Peter Dreary: Now we are famous, and have qualified for the Hunger Games World Cup. I wonder who we've got in the first round?

Freaky Blue Haired Bloke: And welcome to the first round of the Hunger Games World Cup, where our very own District 12 winners take on South Africa's District 9.

Catpiss: Oh, BUM HAMMERS

THE END (or is it?) YES.

Like this? Then download my whole freakin' book of Condensed Movies for a bargain price. You'll laugh, you'll cry. No refunds.

Cheddars, the Snack Food of Champions

Driven insane by illness recently, I took myself to the kitchen cupboard and opened my emergency packet of Cheddars, The Cracker Biscuit of Champions.

Alas, falling victim to some sort of heinous marketing campaign, my Cheddars weren't Original Cheddars, The Cracker Biscuit of Champions, but Onion flavoured Cheddars, The Cracker Biscuit of People Who Use Comic Sans, The Font of Champions. For eg: Full of BUM and TURDS.

Now, I love Cheddars, but only in CHEESE flavour as the GOOD LORD intended. Onion flavour Cheddars are an ABOMINATION unto all living things, and must be destroyed. Which I did, by eating them. But I did not enjoy them one iota.

But my outrage at accidentally buying Onion flavoured Cheddar biscuits, The Cracker Biscuit of People Who Use Comic Sans, The Font of Champions will not die. I might start some sort of online petition. Or have a cup of tea, possibly.

Cheddar biscuits should be in one flavour, and one flavour only: tasty, cheddar cheese only.

Also: Barbecue.

Also: Marmite

Also: Branston pickle

Already, I see we are losing sight of the real enemy: Onion flavoured Cheddar biscuits, The Cracker Biscuit of People Who Use Comic Sans, The Font of Champions. So, let us read from the scripture, and see why our quest is righteous and good:

John 6:26 "And as THE LORD fasted in the desert, Satan appeared unto Him in human form, and tempted Him with Onion Cheddars. And Jesus told him to bugger off, and was ministered to by the angels, which is not sexy slang."

I am not the kind of man who routinely screams out "BAN THIS SICK FILTH" from the roof-tops, but I am already checking the batteries on my megaphone. Also, I will strike down WITH RIGHTEOUS FURY any man who claims to like Onion Cheddars, and I have right and the WRATH of the LORD on my side.

We've also got a bit of a downer on Crinkly Cheddars. Cheddars should be FLAT, like the WORLD.

I am not mad

Easter Bank Holiday Monday Video Splurge

Ultravox! - Young Savage


John Foxx Ultravox! with an exclamation mark is the best Ultravox

Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime


Mis-heard lyrics department: "You may find yourself under the wheels of a large automobile"

The Cure - In Between Days


Feeling sick from too much Easter chocolate? WATCH THIS VIDEO.

HAPPY EASTER

Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ enjoys a nice breakfast - all paid for by his new best mate Judas Iscariot. What a guy!

Yeah, I know: First class ticket to Hell, please.

And while we're here, you might as well have this lot:



I shall now celebrate the day through the medium of chocolate egg, and - later - sick inna hedge.

Weekend Video: Extras - Magic Pen sketch

The first ten seconds with Barry from EastEnders is comedy genius. May contain traces of hand shandy

Massages: A User's Guide

A short list of things not to say while giving somebody a massage:

- I could kill you with a touch

- Relax, while I put my finger in

- Is it supposed to flake off like this?

- Hey! It's like a big, huge blancmange!

- Happy finish?*

- Mmm, nicely marinated for the church barbecue

A rather shorter list of things not to say while receiving a massage:

- Tits or face?

Let's hear it for massage!

* Perfectly acceptable under certain circumstances

A short list of acts for which no jury in the land will ever convict

I'm a big fan of law and order, and respect the difficult position held by the police and the judiciary holding together an increasingly complex society in the face of meddling politicians andcitizens we can best describe as nobbers.

If you commit a crime you can rightfully expect to be punished for it, to the fullest extent allowed by the law. However, I can see an increasing number of grey areas, that being things that appear to be crimes at first glance, but are - in fact - acts that can only enhance society as a whole.

Sometimes the law should overlook a few harmless acts of murder, and let the perpetrator go free with a nod, a wink, and a pat on the back for a job well done.

That being the case, I present:

A short list of acts for which no jury in the land will ever convict

- Peeling the gitty student kids from the BT Infinity adverts and dunking them head first into a swimming pool filled with napalm

Err.... That's about it, really. No, hang on...

- Feeding people who mow their lawns at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning into the rotating, flashing blades of their own machine

- Locking Samantha Brick and Liz Jones under the stairs until one eventually eats the other. And not in a sexy way

- Wheedle your way into a position of power in your local council (through bribery and selected assassinations if need be), and insist on mandatory bondage gear for any English Defence League marches through your town

- Wheedle your way into a position of power in your National Health Service Trust (through bribery and selected assassinations if need be), invite Health Secretary Andrew Lansley to visit and lock him in a cupboard under the stairs with all the ebola patients. Import some ebola patients from overseas if you do not think you have a critical mass

- Wheedle your way into a position of power in a large banking organisation (through bribery and selected assassinations if need be), lose billions of pounds through poorly-judged speculative deals, before getting bailed out by the taxpayer and awarding yourself and all your pals a huge bonus. Pay large quantities of this money to ensure no jury in the land will ever convict

Little bit of politics, there.

THE WAR ON CLOWNS, AND ALSO THE WAR ON PEOPLE WHO PROVIDE ENCOURAGEMENT TO CLOWNS

A recent drive home from work resulted in the following ABOMINATION UNTO THE LORD, seen in a hedge at the side of the A33 Swallowfield Bypass south of Reading the other evening:

- A clown outfit complete with ridiculous pom-pom buttons and even more ridiculous wig

- A gold sequined jacket

- A gold sequined top hat

I have absolutely no idea how these items got there, but it is now one of the biggest regrets of my life that I missed out on that particular tar-and-feathering and running-out-of-town-on-a-rail.

The following night, both items had gone, and all that remained were the shattered remains of a "Police incident: Can you help?" sign.

Tough on clowns. Tough on the causes of clowns. Tough on the kind of person whose job involves gold sequined jackets and the phrase "Ladies, gentlemen and children."

Trying not to think bike, think biker

They've started putting these illuminated electronic signs at the side of motorways. All well and good for if there is a hazard ahead, but more often or not it's just some sort of "Remember not to drive like a dick" message that you see from miles away, distracting you from your grim task of remembering not to drive like a dick.

The one that really winds me up is:

"Think bike,
Think biker"

...because I do, and immediately think of the kids' TV programme Byker Grove, in which TV's Ant and Dec play TV and music's PJ and Duncan.

This thought makes me immediately forget about not driving like a dick, and put my car into a hedge out of sheer disgust, whilst singing "Byker Grove! Ooooh Byker Groooove!"

I doubt this is the outcome they were expecting when thinking up this clever little slogan.

Well played, the Highways Agency. Bloody well played.

An announcement from Buckingham Palace

And the big news coming out of Buckingham Palace is not the pregnancy of Duchess Kate, but the announcement of the Monarchy's first ever corporate sponsorship deal.

From now on, they House of Windsor will be known as The Royal Family by Findus.

Of course, Captain Birdseye is fucking livid at the whole royal deal. Mountbatten promised him first dibs back during Suez in 1956, but the deal was quietly shelved some years later by a government nervous that the public wouldn't swallow the idea of vital institutions being run or supported by corporate entities.

But now, with an "anything goes" attitude surrounding a cash-strapped Monarchy, there is a geniune - oh-ho! - battle royal for the naming rights for Buckingham Palace.

The smart money is on the Queen's official London residence becoming known simply as "Stringfellow's", with Windsor Castle to follow a short time later as "Spearmint Rhino".

It's not all one-way traffic, though. The Royals will be made to work for their sponsorship money. And the first of the family to go out and earn their crust will be young Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, who have been sitting up every night for a week learning their lines: "Would you like to go large on that?"

Satire, people. Your actual satire at work (brought to you by the wonderful Dog's Doodah's)

Weekend Music: Doris Cellar - Honey Bee

Doris Cellar is a member of New York-based band Freelance Whales, who I've featured on this site before.

Honey Bee is from her lo-fi solo album Up on the Roof, recorded - literally - on her roof with ukelele, voice, and whatever the weather blew in. It's really rather good, and well worth the five of your US Dollars for the download.



Never Gave Up: What happens when Ms Cellar comes down off the roof and into a studio. YES to this kind of thing.