Mummy, Mummy, There's a Man at the Door with a Bill!

"Don't be silly Darling; it must be a duck with a hat on!"

Another Great Book, Mr Gum

Just read Andy Stanton's "Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire" , the follow up to You're a Bad Man Mr Gum.

Both a work of genius.

"Summer was almost at an end and the day stretched out long and lazy like a huge glossy panther made of time. The birds chirped in the trees, the rabbits chirped in their burrows, and a fox walked along the railway tracks whistling "Greensleeves" and thinking of a vixen he had once loved".

Lush

Obviously there's loads of really heavy stuff going on around the world, and I'm sure you're not interested in the minutiae of my life, BUT: I walked into the kitchen last night and witnessed my partner reopening the previous evening's red wine with her teeth! She spat the cork into the sink!

And she's supposed to be the posh one.

PC Springer: The Public's Friend

A slow week, so I thought I'd dig out something that I wrote a couple of years ago, pre-blog, that is still relevant in these days of terror.

August 2005:

In his stand up days, writer John Dowie commented that he preferred cats to dogs because you'd never get a cat joining the police force.
This is amusing, but unfair on our canine companions as they don't have too much say in it, as they, like their feline adversaries are just ANYONE'S for tinned food.

The British Police favour two breeds of dog:
The German Shepherd, an all purpose assault dog.
The Springer Spaniel, sniffer dog.

The German Shepherd is the perfect animal for the police mindset, it's ferociously, even  pyschopathically loyal to its handler, and views everyone out of uniform as a target. It doesn't do polite, and sees itself as just getting the job done. Sometimes people get hurt.
All in a days work.

The Springer Spaniel on the other hand seems to be off-message when it comes to its role as Police Dog.
Firstly, the average Springer is permanently in a state of tongue-lolling tail-spinning over-excitement that would give a Sunny Delight imbibed three-year old a run for its money.
Secondly, it loves everybody unconditionally, like a born-again Christian on E.
Discipline? What's that when it's at home?

I make this observation, as there is a considerable visible presence of these furry law-enforcers at the entrances of tube stations across the capital at the moment, as the olfactory arm of the war on terror. They are strategically, yet unsubtly, led by their handlers across the concourse towards all-too-suspecting commuters, to whiff the air on the off-chance that someone may be carrying a compound of the loud stuff.

Actually, like the rest of the police presence, the dogs are there chiefly as a visibility exercise, a warning to those that MAY try it on that they could get caught.
Which brings me to my point regarding the Springer Spaniel as Police Dog.
Last evening, at around 21.00 hrs, I was entering Holborn Underground Station, when my progress was blocked by a fat woman, who was crouching over in order to SMOOTH a highly animated Springer who was standing on his hind legs, tail whirling, with his front paws on her arm; LICKING HER FACE!  And the handler (equally overweight) just stood there making amused small talk!

What sort of message does that throw out to the forces of evil?

(Unless, of course, it is assumed that a real baddie would rebuff the dog's advance with a cruel blow from a leather clad hand, thus identifying him as a wrong 'un.
Hmmm, maybe I've been mistaken, maybe the subtle approach WILL work.)

However, I do not forget the time in 1989, on arrival at Bournemouth v. Manchester Utd, (FA Cup 4th Round) and the huge police presence, typical at football in Thatcher's Eighties. There were a lot of German Shepherds, restlessly lining the streets around the ground. One young lad, clearly impressed at the sight left his father's side and approached a dog, hand-first. There was one of those collective intake of breath moments as the dog leaped viciously at the child, with handler in tow, and there was a palpable CHOP! of the dog's fangs as his jaw closed inches short of the youngsters little outstretched fingers.
As the father bundled the boy away, and fans shouted belated warnings to the frightened kid, the handler merely reigned the frothing animal in to heel, once more standing to attention.
He said nothing, neither apology, nor explanation ("never apologise, never explain" W. Churchill), he just resumed his duties.
Now THAT would give radical islam something to think about. Would it be possible to enter paradise with a domestic wolf attached to your balls?

Gor Blimey!

Today, at work, a colleague of mine remarked:

"I ain't never got no paper!"

(She was actually surrounded by the stuff.)

Such is my life.

From The Halls of Montezuma....

It is a rare moment that one finds oneself frightened by a Shoe website, but take a look at THIS!

Stamping on the faces of the third world for two centuries!

Dog Judo

Not much to report: go to Dog Judo instead.

They're Back: Only This Time Their Thirsty!

It appears that Australia is about to be consumed by snakes.

GULP!

No Flush, No Town Hall

Well, due to an unprecedented Third World style power outage, we all sat around in the dark today waiting for the electricity to return.

Obviously, the Town Hall should have swung into it's full contigency procedure, and at least the registrars TRIED to deliver a service, considering that Births, Deaths & Marriages don't really need electricity.

However, as the hours past, and we all waited on standby, it became all too apparent that the adoption of the fully automated toilets would bring an early halt to the proceedings. (We have an old fashioned sink in our place, so at least it was possible to wash one's hands: a luxury denied that rest of the staff and visitors).

I only hope that they'll be sending in a crack troop of cleaning corps over-night to at least go round and wave a hand across all the auto-flush sensors.

Cat Or Borat: You Decide

OK, you'll all complain, and I know that no-one wants to see another Photos Of Amusing Cats Blog, and I promise that it'll be just this once, but this cat looks like Sacha Baron Cohen.
From Cats that look like Hitler (Although this one looks like Sacha Baron Cohen, but there is yet to be a Cats That Look Like Sacha Baron Cohen website).

Would It Be An Aardvark?

Not one for crap TV, and reluctant to applaud appalling behaviour, I have to admit a sneaking admiration for the question compilers on Quizmaster, the late night ITV phone-in for people too stupid, or too desperate, to turn the TV off and go to bed.

It appears that Ofcom, the broadcasting regulator, has ruled against Quizmaster's choice of answers to the question "what would you find in a woman's handbag?".

Dupes had to phone in at premium rates to suggest what they believed to be the hidden items, hoping to win cash prizes.

However, the answers set by Quizmaster not only included the dubious "rubber bands", "dog biscuits" and " false teeth", but the inspired "balaclava" and "Rawlplugs"!

Now I would have LOVED to have sat on the panel that conjured up those, it must have been a hoot! How do you get these jobs?

Mind you, if ever met a woman with Rawlplugs in her handbag, I wouldn't hestitate to ask her around MY shed!*

(*Only kidding; I would NEVER allow a woman in my shed, what sort of man do you take me for? Mind you, I did know a woman once who carried a small hammer in her bag, but she was Glaswegian and borderline criminally insane.)

I Need A Valet

Don't look at me: I'm hideous!

Having arrived at work, breakfasted and abluted, I was finally ready for the day when, looking down, I realised that: I AM WEARING THE WRONG SHOES FOR MY ENSEMBLE!

Wearing dark brown trousers with a prussian blue polo shirt was just about right. They shouldn't work, but to the discerning eye they do! But why oh why oh why did I put on my LIGHT TAN SHOES? You know, the Italian hand-made pair I bought in the store opposite MOMA in New York? Well, they look ORANGE against this outfit, it's just WRONG, and I'm stuck at work for a whole DAY for people to snigger at me behind their hands.

Frankly, I look like I'm attending an interview at the Circus.

I shouldn't be in this position, I certainly should not be allowed to make such important decisions before 10.00am. Christ, even Churchill stayed in bed 'til midday.
I need a valet. I need someone to lay my clothes out for me in the morning whilst I shuffle around the house trying to remember where the bathroom is.
In fact, when I finally get my act together and get that blockbuster in the bookstores, the first thing I'll get is a valet! (Where does one get a valet? Ask a homosexual I suppose,)

Meanwhile, back at work, the obvious thing to do is to stay behind my desk all day with my offending feet out of sight. But I can't! My desk faces the wall! When people come to see me I do a rather fetching swish around on my swivel chair, and address them with my desk at my back. I suppose I could pretend that I was really busy with something really important all day, keeping my back to visitors, but that would be so uncharacteristically RUDE!

Taking the shoes off is out of the question. I'm not an ALBANIAN PEASANT for god's sake. And no-one's going to by the rustic look in January anyway.

I could sneak out and buy some more suitable shoes, but apart from the fact that I can't afford it, and that my partner has threatened to leave if I ever buy any more shoes ("who needs that many shoes? Who are you? Imelda Marcos?), I couldn't bear the expression on the shop assistant's face when they observe that I have committed a grave error of judgement. And we all know that they're the type of person who uses that kind of thing against you.

I had thought of sacrificing my otherwise exquisite tan shoes with the aid of the enormous felt-tip pen we use for the flip charts, but I just can't bring myself to such cruelty.

There's no choice but to forgo lunch, cancel my appointments and close the door to my office with the "Meeting In Progress" sign up.

Sometimes I wonder if people realise who the REAL victims are these days.

Darwin & The T-Shirt of Doom

As the onset of climate change manifests itself this January with the budding of plants and the decline of "the Labour Party are killing pensioners by not providing sufficient heating subsidies" headlines in the Daily Mail, I believe a dilemma has also arisen for a minority amongst us who may feel their whole raison d'etre to be challenged.

They are, of course, the young men who would strut the sub-zero streets of our provincial cities in t-shirts, emphasising their tattooed biceps however low the temperature*. It may be minus 5 in Newcastle, with the North Sea wind-chill dragging it down further, but the lads will be out in nothing less than a football shirt, regardless of the unremitting misery they may be enduring to demonstrate that they are MEN. Every year, in testament to the fact, the north-east produces a series of "drunk man found dead in t-shirt with hypothermia" stories, as the inebriated stalwarts attempt vainly to stagger the last mile home in the snow storm.

What does any of this mean in the new era of the Meditteranean winter? Well not much. In such mild weather, the choice to step out in a t-shirt just looks like you may have left your jacket in the car whilst nipping in the corner shop for a packet of fags. The whole point is lost; it's like karate expert forgoing the breeze blocks and opting to chop through ice cream.
No woman is going to think: "wow, look at that alpha male, he's exhibiting the very virility that I need to ensure that my offspring will not only survive, but thrive in just a t-shirt in the most rugged winter, I will display to him to encourage him to copulate with me!"

Indeed, under the new conditions, and the concomittant semiotic confusion that would arise from the vague new dress codes, such women may well begin to be distracted by other, less rugged, modes, like the duffel coat, or the cardigan. This could have serious consequences for the drinking classes, as the gene would become weakened as their women begin to forego the "knee-trembler" 'round the back of Harry Ramsden's, and elect for the more comfortable wooing of a night at Yate's Wine Lodge followed by some passionate slap & tickle in front of the fire somewhere in the suburbs.

Thus, an entire species of spotty, translucent-skinned herberts, raised on chips and brown ale will wither (not unlike their frozen penises) and die, whilst a less robust "continental" style of youth will emerge, with a penchant for coffee and conversation, in preferrence to the earlier traditions of ram-raiding and tribal street-brawling.

Oh yes, global warming is going to have a wider impact than you may think.

*(Note: these are not to be confused with their distant relation, the inner-city young black male in the woolly hat, worn throughout the extremes of the oppressive heat of the summer. I've no idea what's going on there.)

Thankyou California

If you're looking for a source of entertainment and conversation look no further.

With thanks to Monk.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Those who may have wished for the New Year to herald a time when all religions would settle their differences and come to together in common cause, may be feeling a little uneasy tonight.

As I write, protesters representing Christians, Jews & Muslims are gathered outside parliament, where they are united in demonstrating for their right to discriminate against homosexuality in opposition to the government's proposed Sexual Orientation Regulations, a bill to outlaw the refusal of goods & services to gays.

Quite a dilemma for the right-on touchy feely bleeding hearts who recently wished upon us an inclusive "Happy Festival". For these, there can be no doubt these protesters are merely a front for some right-wing imperialist bourgeois hegemony.

Wait a minute? That's the government!

Lebensraum Revisited

In our enlightened times, and in enjoying Europe's longest ever period of peace—thanks to the EU—it is considered inappropriate for any of us to fall back on the old cliches of portraying the Germans as domineering and land-grabbing, (an image still beloved of British tabloids), and instilled within the younger generations by our parents, who were forced to sacrifice their youth to stopping the Bosch back in 39/45.
It was common to hear phrases like "Let's face it, give 'em a tin of grey paint and a couple of helmets, and they'd be back at it all over again".
Such fears should have been allayed long ago, as Germany became the engine of the EU, not to mention its liberal conscience.
Unfortunately, no-one has told the Prussian Claims Society, a pressure group that are claiming reparations from Poland for the expulsion of Germans at the end of the last war. Yes, they want compensation for the possessions they lost!
A little insensitive, but Tories won't let a little bit of stereotyping stand in the way of them and their property.

The Future Arrived Too Soon

I don't know what's more disturbing, whether living long enough to witness climate change, as London's gardens burst into life with roses during this balmy January, or the fact that David Bowie is 60 years old tomorrow.
Either way, I am unprepared for any of this. Where did the rest of the time go?

Pants Off, It's Pravda!

If you're wondering what happened to Pravda, the Soviet's leading newspaper, it's alive and well, and has the mindset of a fourteen year old boy.

When not marvelling about Japanese innovations (like a car that detects drunkeness: I think it turns itself off and orders a taxi), Pravda is preoccupied with the size of penises, breasts and arses, and things people have done with them. Check out the "funny stories", they're full of it.

Nice to know that Britain has the longest measured penises, (although allegedly it also has the shortest, but what do they know).

George Galloway: Still "Right On"

A year after his elevation to Celebrity Big Brother, attention-seeking MP George Galloway has turned to ripping off the Shoebox by condemning the Saddam's kangaroo court by comparing the lynch mob to Ulster terrorists.

However, whilst delivering his soundbyte to the BBC, George has shown his true colours, and can't bring himself to indict the fun-loving freedom fighters of the IRA, and has instead chosen equate his favourite dictator's hangmen to the protestant, pro-British imperialist lackeys of the UVF.

Keep the red flag flying Mr Galloway!

Madonna's Science is Flawed: Claim

I've never really heard of "Celebrity Science" before, but the good people at Sense About Science are out to do something about it by correcting the mumbo jumbo spawned by our tabloid favourites.
Apparently, according to The Guardian the professional entertainer Madonna has been researching into "neutralising radiation".
Now, I expect that those science types may know a thing or two about atoms and things, but their scepticism marks them out as somewhat unworldly. Surely everybody knows that when Madonna wants something, SHE GETS IT.