Since yesterday's Musing something very sad and very strange has happened..

The World Famous Norfolk turkey butcher (and arch nemesis of Jamie Oliver) Bernard Matthews has died.

Bernard Matthews (and his son Gordon) in happier times.
When he was breathing.

 Now I don't care about his intensive farming policies, the 'bootiful funeral' jokes, the fact that he ironically died on Thanksgiving or speculation on whether he will be cremated with a large onion stuffed up his bottom.

No! The thing that concerns me is that I PREDICTED THIS IN THE PREVIOUS BLOG - "SNOWMAGGEDDON!!!"

I'm quite prepared to put it down to coincidence, and the fact that Mr Matthews was 80 years old and not in the very best of health... all I am saying is that IF my predictions are in any way correct then please be careful.

You should be especially vigilant and on the look out for any unusual behaviour over at Flamingo Land. Keep an eye on those restless militant Penguins before they get organised, start controlling all the other birds and start to take their first waddling steps towards a full-blown revolu...




Right, I'm off to buy a Euro Lottery ticket.



No doubt by now you have resorted to eating the feeblest member of your family or one of your pets as the country has  been BATTERED, LASHED and BROUGHT TO A STANDSTILL by


Earlier this week we were warned by The News that there would be snowdrifts a mile and a half high that would destroy our fragile economy and would cause the penguins at Flamingo Land to rise up and take control of the feeble theme park and usher in a new icy reign (or 'sleet') of terror.

Schools would collapse in on themselves, hospitals would turf patients out into the slush, dogs would have to be snapped from lamp-posts, Brass Monkeys would be crying in high-voices and stranded North Yorkshire postmen would burn Amazon packages (as usual) but this time to keep warm and also to ward-off crazed in-bred villagers who would attack their vans like feral zombies in search of something to warm eat.

(cert -15)
"Eat my Grit, you flustery bastard!"
Real ale would freeze the beards of Cambridge folk-singers to their chunky jumpers, birds would fall frozen from the icy Norfolk skies (concussing Bernard Matthews as he surveys his new turkey 'Slaughtarium'), Welshmen would have the perfect excuse for sticking their horny-hands deep in a fleecey muff, and Scouse snowmen would be found up on blocks of ice minus their carrots.

The Loch Ness Monster will be seen anxiously banging on the top of the ice yelling "Let ma back een, ya bashtard ishe!", the Cerne Abbas Giant and the Old Man of Hoy will be embarrassed explaining that "this kind of thing doesn't USUALLY happen.." to them, Big Ben will shatter on the stroke of midnight and the Angel of the North will use it's massive bi-plane wing as a scarf.

All of this WOULD happen.
For definite.
An absolute certainty.
As sure as I am stood here gesticulating in front of this virtual map of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Except it didn't.
None of it.
A few inches dropped in North Yorkshire.
The places nearest Iceland got some ice and that was fucking IT!
SNOWMAGGEDDON II: Three Inches In Osbaldwick
(cert -20) 
"I tell you what we're gonna do, Mr Washington Post...
We're gonna get those people the Grit outta there..!"

But The News had already written the headlines for today and so the weather became CHAOTIC! HAZARDOUS! and TREACHEROUS!

Had a cloud sold military secrets? Did a slight easterly breeze shag your wife while pretending to be your best mate? Did it fuck. It just snowed a little bit in extreme areas of the country (highlands, coastal areas, exposed open moorland, etc) like it does EVERY FUCKING YEAR.

Every year we see the hapless little reporters blinking in the blizzards, huddled in orange-lit grit depots, driving with grit lorries, standing precariously in slurry on an A-road telling people not to take 'unneccessary risks' next to the sign of a village that you've never even heard of before and secretly suspect has been made up by Brian Cant or interviewing small children whose antiquated Victorian heating system means they can spend the day sledging and doing snow-angels, and on it goes.

And on and on and fucking ON.

SNOWMAGGEDDON III: A Light Frost In Copton
(cert -25)
"I'm getting too old for this Grit..."
Today I watched as a reporter on TV told us that "ONE AND A HALF INCHES FELL OVERNIGHT" in Pickering and then had a bemused AA Man show him how to sweep snow off a car windscreen and apply De-Icer.


This happens every year. In fact, twice! We had it all in January with THE WORST NEW YEAR EVER!! 9copyright ALL newspapers) as London transport finally succumbed to the wear and tear of a billion drunken cockneys a year passing and pissing through its Victorian tunnels.

I remember watching an interview with the Chief Exec saying that even the buses would be locked up as it was too hazardous to go on the road and that the drivers were experiencing major problems getting to the depot - a point that was slightly undermined by two London bus drivers having a laugh and a snowball fight behind him!!

But no, on with the fearmongering. There'll be calls to fill up the News websites with digital photos of snowmen and women, snow sculptures, snowball fights and the inevitable cheery prick walking to work on skis, and then after a week of winter will come the bitter disappointments.

The mumblers and grumblers will start in with the usual complaints such as "enough is enough now", as if Michael Fish has a big switch he's got stuck on BLIZZARD and him and Ian MacCaskill can't get it switch back to MILDLY AUTUMNAL. God's sake people, it's just some snow!!

And if you're feeling stranded because you live in the countryside - tough shit! You CHOSE to be stranded. No-one is stranded in the cities, are they? That's because we have the good sense to live in civilisation and not where animals all shit and rut and where the buses run once a fucking day.

SNOWMAGGEDDON IV: When Hull Freezes Over
(cert -30)
"Don't gimme no Grit, motherfucker!"
Anyway, why is this even News? It is the end of NOVEMBER! The clocks went back 3 weeks ago. They're already taking bets at William Hill on a White Christmas - IT IS SUPPOSED TO SNOW, YOU SIMPERING NIMRODS.

This is all the fault of the Meterological Office. They promised snowstorms of Biblical proportions. (That is if there are any snowstorms in the Bible. I don't remember. You'd think there would be some because a lot of it is set around Christmas time).

I wouldn't trust a word these people say. I work with some of them and I find them nice and pleasant enough when they aren't trying to convince me they know what they are doing. When they start talking about work I get annoyed. Weather people are wrong MOST of the time but have perfected a language every bit as annoying and pointless as you'd find in a Management seminar or Neuro Linguistic Programming meeting.

They cover their arse so much that you don't even realise - "patchy mist" (if it's not near you, it's somewhere else), "variable cloud" (as opposed to the uniform variety we all get allocated), "scattered showers" (see "patchy mist") and my favourite "bright spells" (we're near a Sun, it might peak through the clouds). You could put these words in any random order on fridge magnets and be as accurate as that little fucker who flipped the bird during a live news broadcast.

In fact, we could go further and replace every Weather Presenter with a pine cone and a piece of seaweed and save the BBC, ITV and Sky a fucking fortune every year instead of paying these guessing twonks who are essentially Mystic Meg with an A' Level in geography. There's a reason they're on at the end of the News with the FTSE Index and the skateboarding cats. Because everything that comes out of their pie-hole is all guesswork and bullshit.

There will be some snow. That's my prediction. It will cause some transport delays, certain services will be affected, some schools will be closed and some roads will be icy. The thing is IT JUST HASN'T HAPPENED YET.
And why?
Because, according to the weather man tonight - "it was blown out overnight into the North Sea.."

"Where's your homework, Timmy?"
"It's been blown out into the North Sea, Miss.."
"Have you ever considered a career as a meterologist, Timmy?"


If it DOES snow just stick a jumper on, some thick socks, gloves and a scarf, have a brew, it'll all be fine.
In the words of the comedian and philospher Lord Billy Connolly - "There's no such thing as bad weather. Just the wrong clothes.."

Alternatively, do as I do and brush your teeth with this...

I'm toasty warm now and have forgotten why I was so annoyed in the first place!




I think it was the poet, philosopher and all-round miserable, moany, old fat bastard Van Morrisons who said 'Precious time is slipping away..' and do you know what? With the exception of the time you'd spend listening to his fucking awful records, where that time then seems to halt, crawl backwards, then shriek painfully into your ears 'Why are you doing this to me?? Please make it stop!!', Van 'The Cant' is absolutely right.

Precious time IS slipping away, although all that shit about being Queen for a Day is mumbly old toss - unless he's had a premonition about Kate Middleton, in which case he should be put in the Tower of London until at least TWO days after the upcoming Royal Wedding Commemorative Royal Wedding (TM).

In fact, just to be on the safe-side I'm going to start a petition.

"Can The Van The Man" - click here to add your name.

(shit. that didn't work. do it again....)

On Saturday I wasn't looking after my girlfriend's fabulous and funny five year old daughter as I normally do and so had a lot of spare time on my hands. Time I wasted, initially, downloading the abysmal 1996 Doctor Who TV movie from You Tube. Time I then spent pondering why no-one in Vancouver could act or how Paul McGann went from the heights of "Withnail & I" to that lamentable end of term production, complete with unconvincing Bugsy Malone-style gangsters. I then lamented about how much time I had wasted when I realised there had been a comicbook convention on at Leeds University at the precise time I was watching Sylvester McCoy being unrealistically shot in the aforementioned piss-poor TV movie.
I then spent another hour metaphorically kicking my own arse.

I could have used my time productively reading Spiderman comics like I did when I was eight. Dammit. Precious time, slipping away.

Thankfully, the whole weekend wasn't to be wasted. I had a long bath, put on my finest drinking brogues and headed out to an Old Man's Pub, where I then spent a brilliant evening laughing and joking with some of my oldest friends. Friends I have known for over twenty years. Good friends. Trusted friends. Funny friends.

Oh. And Bryan.  
(Bryan read my previous blog.
Bryan didn't think it was 'sophisticated' or 'very funny' and that it was often 'quite cheap'.
That's what Bryan thought.
Fuck you Bryan! It's not even your real name.
How'd you like THAT, Bryan?
Sophisticated enough for ya?)

I love spending time with my friends, but now we are all grown-older we often cannot find the time to spend with each other. Birthdays, Christmas and the Annual Celebration of Tunnock's Teacakes are all we tend to get together for. This time it was Pete's birthday... but in a bid to stop the ageing process he had insisted that no-one bring cards or presents out. It was just an evening in the pub.

We sat in at the pub, like many times before, but this time without wives, girlfriends or Russian hookers, and it was odd to see just how mature we'd all become. Odd because we simply hadn't matured a single fucking day. Not a solitary hour of maturity had gone on in 20 years. Between five blokes, the majority of whom are over the hump of being 40, we were all still the foul-mouthed, surreal-humoured, drunken, argumentative, clumsy idiotholes we always were. Only now our conversations were peppered with tales about babies, the funny things that kid's say, how all football is utter shit and how those people that like it are furtive knucklefuckers... and where we got our clothes. Our subject matter these days (apart from the football one) is more intelligent, nurturing.... feminine.

In parts it was like an episode of Sex In The City.
Only watchable.

Then we talked about all the various parties we'd had, the hundreds of gigs we'd been to, the different cities we'd celebrated New Year's Eve, the time a complete stranger came back with us and slept on the sofa only to get up in the night and have a piss in the mail pile of the front room, the time Thom broke a chandelier passing someone a bottle of beer, the time Thom put a bowl of fruit in someone's washing machine and switched it on, the time we threw Thom in a Bottle Skip on his birthday, the time we accidentally set Thom's head on fire on his birthday, the time Thom put an orange in a microwave then tried to eat it, how Thom had nearly drowned  then froze to death after falling in a fountain in his long woollen overcoat on NYE....

.....the time that murderer ('Eugene') who'd just got out of Wakey Prison came and sat with us in the Tut N Shive....

...the time we gatecrashed the backstage area of the Euro 96 to meet the Ukranian National Dancers...

.. the time I had to wear a Laura Ashley dress decorated with pictures of Clint Eastwood on a night out in Leeds....

....the time those coppers in Nottingham headlocked Pete for a laugh and then gave us a piggy back-race....

.....and the time Thom and Pete broke into my house and left 200 cups of water between the door and my bed.

Lovely times.

Would all the good nights be in the past now?
Now we have commitments?
Now that we are older and wiser?

Thom and I then stand outside a pub and at one point a drunk comes up to us.
Of course he does. We're almost expecting it...

"You make a nice couple, " he says, "How long you been together?"
I look at Thom, he looks at me. We COULD tell this guy to fuck off. We COULD tell him he's mistaken. We COULD just ignore him. We don't do any of those things.
"About twenty years.." I say. Thom's eyes widen. I know he's thinking What The Fuck?
"So why aren't you married? Y'know Civil Partnership?"
"I don't know, Thom. Why won't you marry me?"
PAUSE. Angry stare.
"He's a nice lad, why aren't you married??" asks the drunken Fairy Godmother.
Thom is staying silent. He uncomfortably goes back inside.
"See. This is what I get every time I ask.." I say, and follow Thom into the pub, mock teary-eyed and fanning myself with my hand, leaving the drunk gobsmacked.

Later in the evening I will find that Thom has 'accidentally' tipped a full glass of Stella Artois into my coat's left  pocket simply by sitting down, he then sprayed my right leg with Heineken and glass by 'accidentally' shattering the bottle on a table top as he walked back towards the table.

We've also lost Ian three pubs back.
He had his arm around a swaying Rastafarian.

No. Those days will never be that far behind us...

We talked and drank for almost 8 hours on Saturday and I got home at 4.30am.
Sweet Zombie Jesus!!
I haven't been out like that in ages - in fact 4.30am is the time my alarm goes off most mornings for the early shift.
Deary Lordy-Pops!!

Never mind, that was time very well spent, time with my good old friends (and Bryan), it was time we will all look back on and laugh. Another tale in our vast Compendium of Pointless Bullshit.
Still, 4.30am... Ha!
Never mind, I can always have a lie-in and....


Yes, my fabulous little twin nephews had their 3rd birthday, which meant getting up after only six hours burpy slurpy cheap sleep, making myself look presentable and then getting over to a pub with a Soft Play Area without having access to a car (because back in the 80s I was a long-haired green hippy twat who thought taking Driving Lessons would add to global pollution  and 'poison future generations'. Prick. Now those future generations were over in Bradford waiting for their Tom & Jerry DVD and Dr Seuss books. If I had a TARDIS I'd go back and slap his stupid goatee-bearded face. Only I don't have a TARDIS licence. Not even a Provisional one. Stupid Green Git).

Oh, and then I had to wrap the presents up.

Have you ever tried wrapping presents up when you are sleep-deprived and hungover? It's lovely. That little buzzing mayfly of a headache behind your creaking bloodshot eyes suddenly gets an industrial strength Reading Festival amplifier as you try desperately to solve a moving 3D puzzle of sellotape and shiney garish-patterned origami.

I managed the task, with time to spare, ordered a cab from the same firm that I use for going to and from my anti-social shift patterns, and who ALWAYS seem baffled that I may actually want to go somewhere other than work when I ring them. I spend two or three minutes explaining that Yes I do have a life, a social life, it's not all work, work work, y'know. Now can I PLEASE have a taxi to take me to Fuzzy Ed's Soft Play Area in Apperly Bridge?? Can I?? Would that be possible?? Hmm?? Thank you.
I then take a deep breath. Calm down. And realise I sound like an angry paedo.
Not again....

At the party it's great to see all the little ones enjoying themselves, not just the twins and my other nephew, but my old mate from Uni and his family and all the children that belong to the friend's of my brother whose names were once told to me at a house party in 1994 but then I had a Jagermeister and forgot them and can't be arsed to find out who they all are any more... Y'know. Nice.

But after 4 minutes it's even nicer to stand outside the pub, well out of earshot of the hyper, screaming toddlers who are all trying to find the mythical 'Spider Ball' in a foot-deep pool of similarly decorated balls that guarantees them a prize of a plastic Olympic medal, with the cool misty drizzle of the afternoon gently mopping my sweaty throbbing forehead.

Time is passing quickly. My nephews are growing into fine little men, all three of them. My family seem to grow closer as they grow older, we no longer feel the need to run away from home but would rather huddle together inside it as the raging storm of time tries to battle its way in.

My friends, I have realised, are not the fleeting acquaintances they once were and now I'm fucking lumbered with them forever or until we are placed in the earth (which is one of the few birthday tortures we haven't yet inflicted upon Thom...I must remember that one).
Many of my friends are parents and if Pete's lad is owt like him then Pete's likely to be a grandfather in the next 18 months... and I am in my own small way trying to be a good role model for the young ones.

I look at their tiny faces, look into their big eyes, realise why it is that we grow old. So that we can pass on the things we have learnt, the mistakes we've made, so that they do not make those mistakes and can learn from us and take us forward.

I then realise they aren't my kids and I quite fancy a pint.

Fuck it.

Where's Thom's number?






Because my girlfriend complained about my last entry being too long, here is a quickie....

I understand that there is a rugby football league star called Joel Monaghan who has had to quit Australia -hounded, for want of a better word - after pictures of him in a compromising position with a dog surfaced on the internet...

(Reported here on the bizarre and fabulous NMA TV).

He's now moved to England where he is considering playing for the local side Castleford Tigers.


Well, it's certainly one place where having sex with a dog isn't frowned upon.

In fact, anyone taking a look around Castleford would come to the conclusion that there are precious few alternatives...



Those of you that read these ramblings may recall that back in October (Je voudrais un Revolution) I was indignantly outraged at the distinct lack of indignant outrage. I was annoyed that the everyone in the country has been told to tighten their belt, by a gaggle of multi-millionaires who chose to have their agenda broadcast in a Palace by an elderly woman in a solid gold hat, despite the fact that the last people that told us to tighten our belts had secretly sold our trousers for the promise of some magic beans.

One of the many galling things about the current, and ongoing, situation is that we are being dictated on the importance of working much harder for much less by a group of people who have a much more flexible definition of the word 'work' and seem to do very little of it themselves for what looks like quite a significant return.

Back in October I wondered where were the protesters?
Where was our righteous anger?
Then last week came the answer in the form of an NUS demonstration.

Who would have guessed that it would be THIS simple blog entry that would be the call to arms for so many of the Nation's feckless, lazy, students?
Hello students.
By the way, stop reading.
I don't really like you.

As someone who lives in a heavily-populated student area I was very surprised to see that the gormless twats managed to get it together to organise a coach-trip without dressing up like fucking Smurfs. They really are, for the most part, complete twats. (For example, just today I saw a self-absorbed student walking along, head-down, texting away, headphones on.... straight into a blind man! He must have sensed her cos he gave her legs a right fucking whack with his white stick!)

But for all their disgusting domestic habits, braying in comedy clubs and pissing on war memorials after vodka parties, Britain's students have finally taken it upon themselves to be actually angry about something that will have massive repercussions for others. There's been a lot of mock-outrage from our political leaders and the NUS President (who seems to be played by Spoilt Bastard from Viz as an undergraduate) about how the protest went from your bog-standard walk with a placard to some actual property damage but I say NOT BEFORE TIME!!

"But Mr Williams," I hear you politely say "But Mr Williams, they kicked in some windows and broke some chairs. There was glass everywhere. And bits of chairs. And they went to the wrong place. They say they are angry about the Liberal Democrats reneging on their pre-Election promises but they actually caused damage to the Conservative HQ, Mr Williams. Not the Liberal HQ. The Conservative HQ. How can you condone such mindless thuggery?"

Ah! say I, You have answered your own question. They were Tory windows and chairs. Steeped with the bile and hatred that has seeped from many, many Tory bottoms. Imagine if those very chairs had been sold to an office suppliers and your company bought one, and you then found yourself sat on one? Or what if you had looked through one of those windows? Those windows that a thousand soulless Tories had looked through with their horrible, evil little piggy eyes? The students did you a favour, because if they hadn't smashed 'em all up an' that you'd be out robbing single parents and bumming rent-boys in secret within a month. Probably.

Back in the Old Century, when I was a student, I went on many a demonstration ranging from the Nelson Mandela Freedom At 70, various Anti Nazi League marches, Green demos, Miner's Strike rallies and even Anti War demos - and with the exception of the Nelson Mandela one it would appear that for the most part that I was pissing in the wind. Even then, I very much doubt that it was the sight of my scraggy, pony-tailed, student-arse in an "Acieed!" T-shirt with a leather Africa pendant hanging off a piece of twine around my neck singing "Ain't Gonna Play Sun City" that had much to do with the Long Walk To Freedom.

I even went to the massive Anti-War Demonstrations in Hyde Park in 2003 as a non-student, along with hundreds of thousands of other people from all walks of life, all races, all political backgrounds. We challenged the then Labour government's eagerness to march into Iraq on the flimsiest of non-evidence, almost a million people wanting their elected representatives to KNOW that what they were doing, IN OUR NAME, was totally unjustified and absolutely wrong.

The peaceful protests I went on achieved approximately Fuck All.

By comparison I didn't go on the Anti-Poll Tax demos because they looked a bit violent, frightening and militant - and guess what?
They fucking well worked.

If nothing else the flash point violence of a few Tarquins and Jocastas (because we all know Universities are the preserve of the rich and middle-classes) has upset the pontificating pricks at The Daily Mail.

Note the massive numbers of journalists doing fuck all to stop the windowkicker.
In fact, HE'S the only fucking student in attendance.
A cynical person would think he'd been goaded into it?

So in that respect it was worth it.

Yes, The Daily Mail decided that EVERYONE on the march was a middle-class student and that the event was probably hijacked by the lower orders. They have wilfully misrepresented the truth so often that now when basic facts don't fit their pre-determined narrative those facts are bent to fit. The whole point of the march, as I understand it, was as a direct opposition to middle-class politicians who have imposed a Long Term Education Levy (or whatever they have chosen to call it) on any and all students who dare to go to University, meaning anyone wishing to go now has to pay up to three times the amount of massive debt they are experiencing now. This will undoubtedly affect some middle-class students, but it is much more likely to affect working class students who will come to see University as something as an exclusively upper-class pursuit like grouse shooting, the Henley Regatta and being silently buggered in a dormitory.

I'm not REALLY condoning their mindless property damage and lack of geographical knowledge, I'm heavy-handedly pointing out that if it wasn't for these window-kickers then the whole demonstration would have got very little air-time and probably made page four of the Mail and other newspapers.

The whole point of a protest is to create some kind of outrage, to get press attention, media exposure, a shot on the telly. If your protest doesn't cause the powers that be a little discomfort then you're not really protesting. You're politely disagreeing. OK, so maybe I'm being obtuse and flippant about the damage done, but now the students have let the coalition government know exactly how extremely unhappy they are abput the decisions made on education policy.

But some protestors can't sem to get their message across..
For example, NHS workers in Leeds chose to dress up like skeletons to protest against hospital cuts. So far so good. Nice symbolism. 'Cut To The Bone'. 'Skeleton Staff'. Very striking.
Unfortunately, they didn't hold their protest near a hospital.
No, they held their protests in Headingley in Leeds.
On Halloween.

Oddly their protest made very little impact. No matter how worthy it was it just wasn't NEWS-worthy.

As opposed to another group that decided to protest this week, a bunch of absolute dicks who burned poppies during the Armistice Day silence. The group Muslims Against Crusades, a tiny minority of fervent idiots, made their protest against the war known during one of the most significant moments of the year. While I'm in ABSOLUTELY NOW WAY condoning their actions, the fact that they CAN do that in this country says more about the freedoms we enjoy than those in other countries. We have democratic right to freedom of speech which means that sometimes we have to put up with absolute cock-ends opinions, as well as those that we cn politely agree or disagree with.

As has been pointed out by many pundits, the irony that the Two Minute Silence honours the dead of all the major conflicts, fallen soldiers of all faiths including millions of British Muslim soldiers, was wasted upon these people.
(Another irony is the fact that British troops are constantly burning poppies over in Afghanistan, but that's an attempt to slow down heroin production in that troubled region).

Now whatever your view on how Muslims Against Crusades chose to represent their message there can be absolutely no doubt that they got that message on the news and you now know who they are. They have a right to protest, a right enshrined in law and defended to the death by the people whose memory they are trying to destroy, but you always wish they just wouldn't.

The same can be said of the English Defence League, a group of peckers from the other side of the political spectrum who seem to just turn up to fight at any demonstration. Fuck knows what those fucking idiots are supposed to believe in, but it usually ends in a ruck.

Over in China, where they deal with their student demonstrations a tad more 'Tank-y' than in the UK, the wearing of a poppy caused a bit of a scene for the Prime Minister as it was seen as a symbol of the Opium Wars! And ironically, given his bashing of Red Ed Milliband, the Rt Hon Mr Smoothface was sucking up to Communist China. He did it in the name of British industry while simultaneously (and very meekly) protesting about their history Human Rights abuses.
Hey! What could go wrong?
That man really doesn't know how to work a room, does he?

I got into a bit of debate with some plank the other day after he said that during these important talks Britain should put 'human rights on the back-burner and concentrate on the economy'. As I pointed out at the time, I think this is an awful and soulless sentiment. The plank responded by telling me to 'think outside the box on this one', and I felt I had to point out that in China they quite often like to put their thinkers inside the box - and then drive tanks at them.

He went quiet.
Victory was mine.

But it was an online-argument so no-one was around to witness how devastatingly witty I had been.


Over in the States, where the nation has seemingly had a massive mood swing from Hope to outright rabid fury in the blink of an eye, the fabulous satirical TV programme The Daily Show held a Rally to Restore Sanity. The point was to satirise the often furious and misguided political protests, such as the ridiculous Tea Party movement, a disporate rag-taggle of  mainly right-wing Republican groups, Bible-thumpers and gun-weilding nutjobs who insist 'they are taking America back'.
I'm sorry but unless you're a Navaho, Sioux or belong to another native American tribe then you can just shut the fuck up about having America taken from you and stop acting like a whining bitch.
If anyone should take America back it should be them.
Them or the British.

Anyway, the Rally To Restore Sanity was a gathering for the majority of moderate, intelligent people who disagree with mass-media mass-hysteria and who don't wish to be portrayed as a baying mob.

Enjoy these very funny protest placards from that day, they're great:


As this is November, the month most associated with remembering many things from the patron saint of political protest and terrorism Guy Fawkes to the many people who have died in the name of freedom and democracy - however you wish to define that, it's important to also remember that you have a voice.

You don't have to set fire to things or smash things up and you don't have to provoke anger or hatred. Those things will get you on the News, but you may end up doing yourself more harm than good.

In short, it's good to protest and it's good to let your voice be heard.

And if you disagree with anything I've said here, you can protest.

That is your right.
Just leave my fucking windows alone.

*********STOP PRESS************

If you still don't believe in the power of protest then take a look here.

For over TWENTY YEARS protesters have petitioned for the release of the Burmese pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi.

Today she is released.




Politics is showbusiness for ugly AND unfunny people

I'm a fairly sarcastic individual, I tend to see the humour in most things and therefore make daft and ridiculous statements without really engaging my brain before speaking. I've lost count of the amount of really stupid and facile things that have spilled from my pie-hole or fingertips, or how many times my friends, relatives and loved ones have rolled their eyes and groaned at the heavy-handed, laboured and outright unfunny things that spew from the fetid acorn that resides in the place where other peoples brainboxes are located.

So I'm seriously considering running for public office.

Politicians are generally not very funny. Well, not intentionally funny anyway. They are on the whole pretty-soulless, serious-minded, admin-obsessed, rule-checking, box-ticking bores and nerds.
Yet these obviously-bullied-at-school dullards and wimps are not content with taking the reins of political office and exacting their cold, hard, revenge upon those very people who pushed their heads in the toilets, picked them last for football, and refused to dance the 'TimeWarp' with them at the End Of Term Disco by driving our society off the edge of the nearest cliff, they now insist on trying to make us LIKE them while they fucking do it. And it is to that end that these social-retards try to crowbar what they mistakenly think is humour into their speeches.
And it never, ever, EVER works.

This week we've had the useless Harriet Harman, whose only other foray into the world of comedy has been her defence of a large number of Labour MP's and their creative interpretations of Parliamentary expenses guidelines, going onto a conference stage and calling the Conservative twonk Danny Alexander a 'ginger rodent'.

A conference stage in Scotland.

Scotland, which has more than it's fair-share of copper-tops, ginger nuts, duracells, strawberry-blondes, 'Tuscan Sunrises' and gin-gin-ginner-ginnocks.

(For the Record, I don't there is anything remotely funny about being a rusty-pubes. 
As a slaphead I just consider them to be abusing the privilege of having any hair at all.)


Not only was the 'joke' massively unfunny, comparing the charmless and native Alexander (a man who looks like he is constantly trying to surpress what he hopes is just a big fart) to the charming and native Tufty the red squirrel, but it was delivered with unwarranted enthusiasm like it was the world's funniest gag. But you can't blame Harriet Harman for thinking it was hilarious when it patently wasn't, she'd had this script written for her, and conference audiences laugh uproariously at any old guff anyway.

Remember the pant-wettingly frantic response they gave to Thatcher's 'The Ladies Not For Turning' pun? Conference loved that one, which is odd because it's absolutely false as a statement, The Lady IS For Turning as Thatcher herself will soon find out when revolving on Satan's very own spit-roast in the not too distant future...

It's always nice to watch when a politician tries to play his or her new 'set' to an audience of real people, many of whom can actually tell or recognise a joke, rather than an audience of brown-nosing specifically invited sycophants, such as when David Cameron told his great gag about his new breadmaker not working...  to some actual, living, breathing bread-makers at the Warburtons factory in Bolton.
Maybe he was drawing ironic parallels because they soon won't be working either?

Way to work the room, Dave.

The response to the Danny Alexander/Ginger Rodent gag was poured over and over by the news media, themselves a safe-haven for the nebbish, bookish and serious. They tended to report this story as anti-carrot-top and a direct attack on Peppermint Patties and Tizer-Tops, which it wasn't.
It was anti-Danny Alexander, a stance the Con-Dem's would find hard to defend themselves given that only a week or so before they were caught on TV passing a note to old Beaker-From-The-Muppets-chops telling him to move out of camera-shot because he's not as telegenically-gifted as Nick Clegg.


Poor old Rusty Bollocks. Even his own mates think he's too Ginga for telly!!

It's difficult to say why the likes of speccy slaphead Nick Robinson and the terminally-unfunny, early morning deflated-doughboy Bill Turnbull decided to pursue the non-existent 'bullying' aspect of the story rather than defending Harman's desire to detonate a dour public-perception of her with a below par variety act. Which is odd, as they themselves cannot wait to leap in the spotlight and dress-up in gayboy S&M latex-chaps to belt out dreadful karaoke-Duran Duran in the name of Children In Need.

(By the way, I don't care how much the Children Are In Need, they're never in THAT much fucking need...)

Newsreaders, like politicians, don't just want to be in charge of the information they impart to us, they want us to love them for doing it.

In retrospect, it was a very dark day when this happened...

Rather than take this as a hint that MPs cannot tell jokes, Labour's policy-wonks have decided that what they actually need to get the public onside are MORE jokes.
In a memo leaked to the Times last week it was reported that Labour aides have suggested that during Prime Minster's Question Time the marginally-elected leader of the Labour Party and spokesman for Vicks Nasal Spray Ed Milliband should use 'snappy phrases' and employ 'mocking humour' to defeat Lord Voldermort at the Dispatch Box and thus ensure he gets his droopy, bunged-up face on telly for a bit longer.

According to The Times the 3-page report stated:
"It is important to have a cheer line that goes down well in the chamber and can be clipped easily by the broadcasters. Mocking humour is particularly useful here, especially if it strikes a chord with Tory backbenchers to silence them."

Or, and I'm by no means a student of political history here, you could blow your nose, stop sounding like you want 'Doo Dickeds Du Doddingham', pick away their appalling destruction of every single aspect of British Society and start to act like you're actually there to defend the millions of people who rely upon you, rather than waiting for a smattering of their applause for what will inevitably be a 'joke' as forced and unnatural as your predecessors smile.

In short -

Besides, you'd think Ed Milliband would be a natural comedian given that he seems to have come from the  Aardman Animation workshop.

The general rule is this, whilst ever you are still in politics DO NOT TRY TO BE FUNNY OR ENTERTAINING IN ANY WAY. This applies to appearing on reality shows (George Galloway), pop videos (Neil Kinnock) and especially not stand-up comedy (Lembit Opik). Remember, you are the BUTT of jokes not entertainers. There are some MPs who are naturally witty and wise (such as the absolutely mental but always endearingly entertaining Giles Brandreth and the scathingly witty Charles Kennedy) but they only really shine when they are NOT in office hold any official position.

Which goes some way to explaining why the fuck on God's green and bountiful fucking earth it is possible that the hideous former MP Anne Widdicombe has become a National Treasure. The former Prisons Minister (and a walking Picture Of Dorian Grey) who once advocated the handcuffing of pregnant women to their hospital beds has now been successfully rebranded as a clod-hoppingly loveable gargoyle, like a kind of Shrek with peroxide and a salsa CD.

The legendary Billy Connolly once said of MPs "Don't Vote it encourages them.."
That applies to evil witches on reality shows too. 

Another reason that this has got my goat is that the absolute fucking walking disaster that is David Blunkett took up valuable time in the Commons last week to propose a motion. Not to recoup the millions of pounds that were wasted when he proposed his stupid fucking unworkable ID scheme but to set-up an Independent Yorkshire Parliament. Blunkett, who was one of the worst offenders in the last Labour Government and should be working in a fucking tin mine or something for the forseeable future as penance for his utter betrayal of his Socialist principles in the pursuit of a rock star lifestyle of paternity-suits and champagne truffles, decided that now, RIGHT NOW, is the time for a bit of levity and mischief in the Palace of Westminster.
Ooh, the wag!

"Hmm, should I use my vast political knowledge, contacts and experience to help the Coalition Government to steer the Nation out of the dire financial straits I'm partially responsible for... No. I'll propose a pointless governmental body and claim it's enabling people who like to say 'ecky thump', 'sithee' and we'll have a minister for whippets and a huge crying Dickie Bird fountain. Because I am a massive stupid twat.."

I'm paraphrasing, obviously, but you can read the whole thing here...

The idea of an Independent Yorkshire Parliament is one of those monumentally fucked-up and moronic ideas that crops up every couple of years and is proposed by the type of Professional Yorkshiremen like Geoff Boycott, Michael Parkinson, Alan Titchmarsh and Twatty Blunkett from the comfort of their Berkshire mansions. It's an extension of the hideous pantomime of servitude and stupidity that is Yorkshire Day, which is August 1st for those of you lucky enough not to know anything about it.

Yorkshire Day is an annual day of cringe-inducing naffness where the famous and worthy of the largest county in England get together and immediately have about 20-30 points knocked of their IQ as they pander to the forelock-tugging stereotype of the 'blunt-talking, thrifty, salt-of-the-earth-type', Last Of The Summer Wine worshipping, South-bashing, flatcap-wearing, bitter-drinking Tyke who cannot pronounce the simplest of sentences without sounding like a millworking throwback. It culminates in an awrds ceremony in which someone like Mel B from the Spice Girls is celebrated as a credit to the region rather than the absolute money-hungry emotional car-crash that she is. It's astonishingly crass and makes all concerned look like idiots.

Oh, and by the way - Yes, the Dales are lovely, but you can't take credit for them being a Yorkshire achievement. You just happen to be born near them, you didn't fucking make them.

But I digress...

So, Politicians, stop trying to win us over by being our mates.

Stop detracting from what you are supposed to be doing.

Don't try to make us laugh.

Leave the piss-poor jokes to the unfunny fuckers like me who will never be elected.
(Look how many followers this blog has after 3 months for fuck's sake!)

and finally...