Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Prams and Pushchairs

I cannot understand why women always insist on pushing their whelps around in public in prams and pushchairs. Apart from the inconvenience they cause to pedestrians and shoppers, it can’t be much fun for the women, either, especially if they have to combine manoeuvring their offspring around with hauling heavy groceries, too. So why can’t they just leave the brats at home for the duration?

Some, I imagine, would argue that it’s because the little bastards might get lonely or injure themselves if left unsupervised. But that’s bollocks. I sometimes injure myself when left unsupervised (only last week, for example, I cut myself on a tin can) but no one is suggesting putting me in some sort of perambulator and wheeling me around a supermarket. How come? I’d be a lot better behaved than most of the horrible kids one sees. I wouldn’t, for instance, keep demanding sweets or ice cream and then go into a screaming, hour-long tantrum if I didn’t get what I wanted. (That said, I would like a high-definition video camera, so it’s possible, I suppose, that I might start throwing a fit if, while wheeling me around PC World, you didn’t buy me one. One never knows.)

No, the only reason I can think of as to why they push the brats around in public is because they’re somehow proud of the things. They therefore want to put them on show and announce their existence to the world. To “share the joy,” if you will. Thankfully, this problem can easily be dealt with.

Henceforth, whenever I see a toddler in a pram, I’ll say to its owner: “Fuck me! That is disgusting! If we were living in Ancient Sparta, that would have been chucked over a cliff by now. What do you think you’re fuckingwell doing inflicting that on innocent members of the public? Have you no thought for anyone but yourself?” I encourage everyone else to follow my example.

Do this enough, and prams and pushchairs will soon disappear from our streets and supermarkets.

Sunday, July 12, 2009


In 1899, Charles Pathé set up one of those new-fangled motion picture cameras on a busy London street and filmed passers-by. The resulting featurette lasted only 15 minutes (the camera was hand-cranked, so Pathé’s arm would have fallen off had it lasted much longer). Yet, despite its brevity, minimalist plot, and lack of big-name stars, Victorian audiences apparently queued round the block.

In 1972, Andy Warhole tried much the same thing when he filmed the Empire State Building. Unfortunately, popcorn sales for this one didn’t reach expectations. Probably because the whole thing lasted over 24 hours. Twenty-four hours of just the Empire State Building, without even a guest-appearance by King Kong, is perhaps overdoing it, even by “Children in Need” standards.

Which brings me to webcams. Not the ones people use to broadcast themselves shagging over the Internet, but those giving 24-hour coverage of town centres and other nondescript sights. Given that Warhole couldn’t turn the most famous New York landmark into a blockbuster, what, then, is the point of live coverage of, say, the centre of Bootle?

Nothing against Bootle you understand (apart from the fact that it's a shithole and its population mainly retards), it’s just that these things simply strike me as being another example of Internet silliness, of which we already have an abundance. Pathé had the excuse that, back then, motion pictures were truly innovative. And, besides, during those 15 minutes, there was at least the off-chance of seeing a suffragette chaining herself to something or a young Winston Churchill giving you the finger. But live pictures of Bootle, taken from a camera mounted half a mile away? You may as well be looking at a postcard (assuming they actually do postcards of Bootle).

The only webcams that strike me of being any use whatsoever, if only because they’re mounted sufficiently close to the “action” to make out people and features, are found at, and show Soho street scenes. Here, once you’ve located a suitable camera (I suggest the one opposite the Café Nero), you can successfully moon it. Then again, given the slow refresh rate of 60 seconds between pictures, this does entail standing around for at least a minute with your backside exposed. Which, given the proximity of all those gay bars on Old Compton Street, is perhaps not the best idea in the world.

Saturday, July 04, 2009


It must be terribly difficult for gorgons to get hair appointments. I'll bet whenever they phone up their local salon, they're invariably told that the stylist is fully booked up for the foreseeable future. Even if, by some miracle, they do manage to make a booking, their problems have only just started.

Someone like Michaeljohn of Albermarle Street, London, for example, is unlikely to want to deal with a gorgon personally, however much money she's got to spend. There's too much risk of being turned into stone if he inadvertently looks her in the face while inquiring after her health, her sex life, or whatever. He'd therefore let one of his lesser-qualified, expendable underlings deal with the appointment. This in itself would undoubtedly result in an inferior hairstyle. You can beat experience, after all.

Of course, gorgon hair, being composed of live snakes, is a problem area in itself. They'd probably go for you if you tried to stuff them into heated rollers. They almost certainly would if you attempted to trim them. So I'd imagine it's necessary to stun each one separately before you can start do anything creative with the hair.

But is it really practical to be that creative with gorgon hair? For instance, you might be able to give her what, initially, looks like a perfect perm. But two hours later, all the stunned snakes are going to start waking up and squirming all over the place, thus destroying all those hours of precision styling. Worse, if you've dyed the hair (some of the black mambas might be going a bit grey, and you want to disguise the fact), the snakes aren't going to recognise one another and will start fighting.

I suppose male gorgons, if there are any, have a better time of it. They can at least apply something thick and gooey to their locks, such as Extra Strength Brylcreem, which will stop the snakes wriggling so much. But bald gorgons are the most fortunate. Except during the initial stages of alopecia, when their hair loss runs all over the house and climbs up curtains.

If I were a gorgon, I wouldn't spend too much time in the countryside. If I lay down in a field for a nap, for instance, I might wake up and find a grass snake trying to fuck my head.

Friday, July 03, 2009


As everyone knows, gorgons are so hideously ugly that, if people look at them, they're instantly turned into stone. I, however, have exactly the opposite problem to a gorgon: I am so fucking good-looking that, whenever I pass by, any stones in the immediate area are turned instantly into people.

As you can imagine, this causes no end of hassle. Little pebbles, for example, become little people, about two to three inches high. But, unfortunately, they don't then adopt Irish accents and bury pots of gold at the end of rainbows which I can easily dig up to enrich myself, nor do they sit on toadstools and wear pointy hats with bells on the end. No, instead, the vast majority are usually eaten pretty quickly by cats and dogs, or else chased down rabbits holes by ferrets, and therefore, fortunately, the phenomenon goes largely unnoticed.

Not so stone cottages, though. As I walk past, they literally come apart at the seams (which can be particularly embarrassing if their occupants are having a bath or having sex when it happens), and each newly humanized block goes off and hangs around public lavatories in order to be buggered by homosexuals. Hence the term “cottaging.”

As for large masses of stone, such as boulders and mountains, those are transformed into fearsome giants which then attack major population centres. The reason why you never hear about this happening is that the Government imposes a blanket D Notice while it sends out the armed forces to destroy the creatures.

But this is nothing compared to what happens to human-sized stones. These, as you might expect, turn into pretty regular-looking humans. Sadly, however, because their only previous experience was being a stone, which isn't a particularly challenging existence, they have no knowledge or intelligence. (Indeed, they are barely sentient and are classed as plant life by some scientists.) They therefore buy The Daily Mirror and vote Labour. Consequently, every rock in my immediate area risks a return of Gordon Brown in next year's General Election.

What can I do to prevent this happening? I suppose I could endeavour to make myself less attractive. To this end, perhaps I should travel to Ireland and join aerobics and jujitsu classes. Then, pretty soon, like everyone else over there who does that sort of thing, I'll acquire a flabby, 48 inch chest and a humungous arse, and so, hopefully, will no longer be a danger to rocks.

Thursday, July 02, 2009


Turning into a werewolf is regarded by most people as an embarrassing affliction, akin to herpes or BO. Therefore those with lycanthrope tendencies tend to quickly change the subject if mention of their problem comes up in conversation. However, I believe that they're mistaken. If you think about it, turning into a wolf on a regular basis confers quite a few advantages.

For example, your weekly food bill can be reduced dramatically. This is because instead of having to eat expensive, gourmet meals, you can survive quite contentedly on whoever lives nextdoor. Or, failing that, on a few cans of Pedigree Chum and the occasional Bob Martin tablet. You just turn yourself into a wolf each time you feel hungry.

Actually, I'm surprised that restaurants don't employ werewolves as waiters. If they did, they could bite the customers and transform them into wolves, too. Then the management wouldn't have to serve up anything expensive - just a few helpings of dog food would suffice. As a result, profit margins could be increased dramatically.

On the social side, lycanthropy is a positive boon. Conventional, non-metamorphosising humans have to keep themselves entertained in a number of bizarre, expensive ways. Going to the cinema, attending sports events, watching television, and travelling to exotic destinations, for instance. But if you turn into a werewolf, you can keep yourself inexpensively entertained all evening simply by retrieving thrown sticks, chewing on slippers, and chasing postmen.

On the other hand, there are a few downsides to lycanthropy, I suppose. Those who remember the 1939 film, "The Wolfman" may be aware that, because of 1940s' censorship restrictions, certain scenes had to be cut. I refer, of course, to those depicting Lon Chaney pissing against lamp posts, licking his balls, shagging stray dogs in the middle of the street, and being pursued by a council-employed "pooper-scooper". Nor was there any mention of the fact that he had to wear a flea collar almost permanently. Perhaps these omissions will be rectified in the remake, starring Benicio Del Toro and Anthony Hopkins, which is due to open in November.

Whatever, all in all, being a werewolf is generally a good thing.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

The King's Head

Many of us have drunk in pubs called The King’s Head or The Queen’s Arms. But have we ever given any thought as to why they're so named? This question occurred to me this morning, so I went to Hertford Library’s local history section to do a little research. My results are, I think, quite interesting and reveal that, until just a few centuries ago, all pubs were in fact required by law to call themselves after a monarch or nobleman's bodily part.

This was all well and good for such places as The Duke's Head, The Prince's Knee, and The Queen's Arms. The yeomanry of Olde England drank ale to their hearts' content in these inns, and helped enrich their local economies as a result. Unfortunately, not all pubs were so blessed. In particular, establishments like The King's Cock and The Queen's Tits.

The main problem here was the painted sign outside. Every inn in the land had to have one in order that the illiterates, who then made up the majority of the population, could identify where they were getting pissed, so that their designated postillions would know exactly where to pick them up afterwards. But this caused the sign painters no end of grief. How were they expected to paint an accurate representation of the monarch's member or mamilla? Unless the regent in question had previously moonlighted in the area as a flasher or strippagram, obviously no-one had ever beheld the sight.

At first, therefore, they would request a private audience with the King or Queen. Once they'd been ushered into the royal presence, the monarch would say, “Arise, my good sir. Is there some way we may assist you?” At which point, the sign painter invariably answered, “Yes. Can I see you cock?” Or “Show us your tits, please.”

After the first couple of dozen executions, the remaining sign painters realised that it maybe wasn't a particularly good idea to ask such direct questions. So they settled on what they imagined was an acceptable alternative: They painted pictures of their own cocks, instead, on the assumption that these would be more or less identical to the royal organ. Unfortunately, it was rarely so.

Artists all have small cocks. It's a well-known fact. So pubs throughout the land started displaying signs that were largely blank, except for a little picture of the teensiest, most flaccid looking pink, wiggly thing in one corner. Naturally enough, when word got through to the Palace, the monarch - who usually prided himself on being well-hung - flew into a rage and ordered troops to destroy the offending inns and beat up their regulars. Vast areas of the country were subjected to reigns of terror.

After a while, pissed off landlords came up with another solution: They ordered the sign painters to use shire horses and elephants as their models. Thereupon, hostelries the length and breadth of England sprouted signs with pictures of penises the length and breadth of England. They were really humungous. They made the royalty in neighbouring countries quite jealous.

The reigning monarchs were, of course, delighted. Many a King's Cock played host to the royal family for the weekend. The village in which the pub was located benefited enormously from the royal patronage. All was sweetness and light. But disaster was not far off.

One day, Anne Boleyn was visiting England, on holiday from France. She chanced to stop off at a King's Cock near Dorset. On seeing the sign, she exclaimed, “Fuck me! King Henry's hung like a fucking wildebeest!” Thereupon she resolved to have him for herself.

Well, we all know what happened next. Anne Boleyn went to the royal court, said to Henry VIII, “I want to suck your massive, throbbing cock till it bursts, then I want you to fuck me with it”, and pleaded with him to marry her. Naturally enough, Henry was quite charmed by this and got a raging hard on. So he decided to divorce his Queen, Katharine of Aragon, and marry Anne. This caused the reformation, the dissolution of the monasteries, and the Protestant work ethic.

Sadly, things didn't go too well thereafter. On the wedding night, Henry VIII stripped off and revealed his erect member to his new Queen. She was most unimpressed. Compared to the painted sign she’d seen in Dorset, it was as nothing. “You are fucking tiny!” she exclaimed. "I have seen bigger things chewing holes in a lettuce leaf!" Consummation of the marriage was an embarrassing affair, and the King never forgot this insult. Indeed, soon after his Queen gave birth to the future Elizabeth I, Henry flew into a small cock-induced rage, complained that it had been big beforehand but, because of Anne's witchcraft, it was now much diminished, and so charged her with high treason and had her executed at the Tower of London.

So as this sort of thing could never happen again, Queen Mary decreed that all pubs called The King's Cock should henceforth rename themselves The Red Lion or The Slug and Lettuce, or something equally innocuous. Likewise all the other silly sounding places, like The Queen's Clit, The Duke's Scrotum, and The Prince's Rather Loose Bowel Movement. At a stroke, much of England's heritage disappeared.

Anyhow, after this, never let it be said that you don't learn something of value when you read this Journal.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009


Because I’m not a member of the Working Class, I don’t do prole things such as attend football matches or go to rowdy, down-market nightclubs. Consequently my opportunities for getting into a decent fight are rather limited. This seems most unfair. Where is it written that it's perfectly acceptable for me to punch a pre-match Arsenal fan or head-but a Plaistow resident in an East End dive, but I mustn't do similar at, say, Wimbledon or Le Gavroche?

What we must do is change attitudes here. Part of the problem at up-market events such as tennis matches is, I feel, that there are no clear demarcation lines drawn between the various fans. So, for example, it could be that an Andy Murray supporter actually does want to give an Andy Roddick supporter a good kicking, and vice-versa, but neither can easily identify who's who in order to do so.

To rectify matters here, individual tennis players should be made to wear special, unique colours. Likewise their supporters. And, as at football matches, rival supporters should be kept in different parts of the ground, facing one another. In this way true enmity could develop. Cliff Richards could be brought on, too. But instead of singing "Congratulations", or similar garbage, he should be encouraged to direct a barrage of "You're going home in a fucking wooden box!" at Murray’s supporters opposite. Maybe Katherine Jenkins could be booked to respond in kind with "Shit on Roddick, shit on Roddick today!" for the opposition.

As a result, after the match, the cucumber sandwich tents and the strawberries and cream tents would become scenes of unparalleled savagery, as rival supporters glassed one another with Champagne flutes and rammed strawberry pummets into each other’s faces. Police would have to be brought in with water canons to disperse the mobs. The whole thing would become so much more exciting.

There's opportunity for violent rivalry at up-market restaurants, as well. Everyone knows that vegetarians are unnatural degenerates, but no-one does anything about it. But if, say, Le Gavroche were to pen off a Vegetarians Only area, the morally-sound carnivores would then know their enemy. So, come the end of the evening, post coffee and Cognac, you'd be able to set upon the vegetarians, or wait for them to finish and beat them up outside.

Or better still, different restaurants could have gangs affiliated to them. Then the Le Gavroche Stanley Knife Gang could arrange to have fights with L'Escargot Cut Throat Razor Firm. Better yet, both could forget their differences for the evening, team up, and go and kick the shit out of everyone eating at Quo Vadis.

In this way, my life would become a tad more colourful.

Monday, June 29, 2009


I do not like excessive heat, such at today's. It displeases me. Out of context, anyway. In context, however, it's fine. When I was at the Victoria Falls, for example, the temperature was much as it is here, now, in Bumble's Green. But that's what you expect in that part of the world. Just as you expect crocodiles, too, and so don't grumble overly if one emerges from a river and eats your children. Whereas, if a crocodile were to emerge from the River Lee and and started eating people's children, I'm sure everyone would start bitching about it. Context again. So what I'm saying, basically, is that, just as man-eating crocodiles are fine for Rhodesia, but not for here, temperatures in the 90s should confine themselves to Rhodesia, as well.

Given the extremes I'm currently experiencing, therefore, I'm having to sit in the garden, dressed only in shorts. Fortunately, I am possessed of the sort of body that can be displayed without embarrassment. Still, I don't like the idea of giving the women of the area a “free show”, as it were. But what can be done?

I suppose someone could invent the counterpart of one of those Calor gas-powered patio heaters that pubs use outside in winter. Except it would have a refrigeration mechanism inside, instead, and therefore be a patio cooler, effective over a radius of about six feet. Then again, the disadvantage of having one of these is that it might encourage smokers to come into my garden and congregate underneath in a huddled mass, exhaling their pollutants, getting pissed on cheap lager, and shagging themselves silly. Or worse, it might encourage immigrant crocodiles to emerge from the River Lee in order to more efficiently cool themselves. (Or, if they were male and female, they might shag themselves silly as well.)

I'm sure the crocodiles would eat all the lager lout smokers but, still, they're not something I'd want in my garden. Slugs and snails are fucking bad enough. At least they can be dealt with by pouring salt on them. A crocodile probably wouldn't react in the same way, though. Which is why, when you see one of those Tarzan films where he's fighting with a crocodile in a river, he always uses a knife to kill it, and never bothers trying a bag of Saxa.

Monday, June 15, 2009

My Teeth (2)

I spent much of this morning counting my pearly-white teeth. It appears that I have 29 of them, with no significant gaps. The left hand side of my mouth has more teeth than the right hand side, however. Hitherto, I had tended to chew using this right hand set but, on reflection, have decided that this is obviously a very inefficient use of my mouth. I therefore now intend to start chewing primarily on the left hand side, as the greater of number of teeth will obviously make eating a lot faster and more satisfying.

In my opinion, food packaging should be labelled with an indication of how long the contents will take to eat for any given number of teeth. This would work in a similar way to microwave cooking instructions. For instance, just as a 750 Watt oven might be described as taking three minutes to cook a particular dish and a 650 Watt oven four minutes, so 15 teeth (assuming you eat using just one side of your mouth) might take, in total, two minutes to chew the food as opposed to two and a half if you only have 12.

Indeed, further to this, I feel we should redefine the concept of “fast” food. Rather than being a description of the speed of its cooking, it should refer, instead, to the speed of eating. Some sort of legal upper limit should be imposed, too, for safety reasons, constantly monitored by kitchen and restaurant-mounted closed circuit television cameras and GATSOs. This is because, if you ate too fast while consuming something slippery or irregularly shaped, you could slide off it and accidentally chew off the arm of someone sitting next to you. Accordingly, if people exceeded these speed limits, Food Police should be empowered to hand out on-the-spot penalties. Those miscreants who accrued more than 12 penalty points during any given period would be banned from eating for a period not exceeding 6 months. Persistent offendors should be banned from having teeth altogether.

In this way, eating would once again become a refined, civilized activity.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Tourette's Syndrome

One of the more disturbing aspects of Tourette's Syndrome, at least as far as onlookers are concerned, is that, for no apparent reason and out of nowhere, the sufferer can come out with a string of obscenities and swearwords, aimed at no-one in particular. So, for example, he'll be sitting next to you on the train or bus and then, all of a sudden, will loudly shout "Fuck! Cunt! Shit", and so forth. Naturally enough, this can be most off-putting for many people. I am able, however, to offer a simple, low-cost solution:

Everyone who suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome should have a mobile phone permanently affixed to his or her ear when out in public. Then, people will simply assume that all their obscenities are directed at the person on the other end of the line and therefore think no more of it. Indeed, they might even join in.

That said, what happens when a Tourette’s suffer actually is talking to a total cunt over the phone? Does he suddenly moderate his language and change his “fucks” and “wankers” into “fiddle-de-dees” and “twits”? And, for that matter, what of those of us of normal mental balance who just happen to be having a telephone conversation with a complete arsehole and are therefore compelled to use the requisite swear words? Witnessing this, some people might jump to the wrong conclusion and assume we’re suffering from Tourette's. (This is especially a risk if you have one of those poofy hands-free mobiles which are concealed in the pocket.) What to do?

I'd say that, if, like me, you routinely have to talk to lots of total cunts and wankers, you should cut your losses. In other words, before every telephone call, you should sit on park bench or a seat in a railway station, down a can of Tennent's Super or similar, and shout, "I'm going to fuck you sister, you cunt bastard!" at everyone who passes by. Then, your subsequent expletive-filled telephone conversation will go unremarked. Indeed, some people may even feel sorry for you and, if you've got a polystyrene cup and a dog to hand, donate a couple of quid, which would help defray the cost of both the call and the line rental.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009


Until the late 15th Century, barbers and surgeons were the same profession. So whether you wanted an appendectomy or just a shave, the one establishment handled both. Dropping in for a haircut must therefore have been a fairly unnerving experience, because you'd be sitting, waiting in the barber's shop alongside, not just people with bad hairdoes, but lepers, amputees, and the bubo-afflicted, too. Accordingly, "Anything for the weekend, sir?" could well have been a dose of the plague.

Then again, I'm sure that, in those days, customers were fairly blasé about the whole thing, regarding something like major brain surgery and organ transplants as being on a par with a short back and sides or a perm. A typical scenario must therefore have been as follows:

Barber-surgeon: Hello again. What can I do for you today?
Customer: It's the leg. Slightly gangrenous.
Barber-surgeon: OK. Shall I trim it a bit for you at the bottom?
Customer: Yes, just up to the knee should do.
Barber-surgeon: Level with your other stump?
Customer: Please.
Barber-surgeon: No problem. Do you want it square cut or tapered?
Customer: I'm easy. Whatever you think looks best.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Bastard weather again, eh? Won’t do the turnip harvest much good.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Customer: Fucking gypsies cursing the crops, they say.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Cunts. OK, how does that look?
Customer: Yes, that's good. I like it. Can you just cauterize that artery up there?
Barber-Surgeon: There you go. Anything for the weekend, sir?
Customer: Yes, a pack of three leeches, please. I’m feeling lucky.

Of course, if the split between barbers and surgeons hadn't occurred, Harley Street would now be full of Toni & Guy and Vidal Sassoon franchises, all manned by scalpel-wielding homosexuals sporting blonde bouffants and mincing around in tight, black trousers. And if you didn’t have BUPA cover, you’d probably be on a three-year waiting list for root treatment and hair extensions. So all in all, it’s a good thing that it did happen. (Unless, of course, you’re one of those who actually relishes the risk of being buggered while under general anaesthetic.)

Monday, June 08, 2009


You may recall a scene in the film, "The Godfather", where the clothes of Luca Brasi, one of the Corleones' top hitmen, are delivered to the family home wrapped around a fish. The meaning of this, it's explained, is symbolic: "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes." He's dead, in other words, his body presumably dumped in the sea or in a river.

This Mafia-specific courier service - a sort of DHL with knobs on - while obviously quite efficient, is, however, not really commercially viable. This is because, while you of course do need to execute hitmen every now and then and inform people of the fact, it's not something that happens so regularly that, for example, Hallmark could turn a profit by producing a dedicated card to celebrate the occasion, or Parcel Force offer a special “fish and frock coat” 24/7 delivery service. Besides, even if they did, they’d still be left with the serious logistical problem of, on each occasion, having to source a whole, fresh fish to stick into the deceased’s clothing. If, thanks to time constraints (half day closing at the fishmonger, for instance), crap fishermen, or whatever, they couldn’t readily get hold of the genuine article, I shouldn’t imagine a kipper or a packet of cod in parsley sauce would be regarded as an acceptable substitute.

With this in mind, I suppose it’s also fortunate that the Mafia doesn’t have a Newfoundland or Spitsbergen branch. If they did, and they were contractually obliged to dump dead hitmen in the sea over there, too, then, given the marine demographics, the resultant message would perforce be more along the lines of “Luca Brasi sleeps with the sperm whales.” Wrapping any sort of cetecean in a standard-sized man’s suit could be something of a challenge. As indeed could delivering the combination to its intended recipient without drawing lots of unwanted attention to yourself.

Then again, we're talking here about people who can routinely hack a horse's head off, transport it unnoticed to someone's luxury mansion, then, in total darkness, locate the owner's room out of the dozens, if not hundreds of other rooms in the house, and finally slip it under his bedclothes without waking him. So perhaps it’s doable after all.

I reckon you'd still need a fucking big duvet before you could slip in a whole whale unnoticed, though.

Sunday, June 07, 2009


Whenever you finish your meal in a restaurant, the staff generally take the used plates and cutlery away and then wash them. This is because, even in places like the Aberdeen Angus Steak House or Café Uno, where you’d imagine that the clientele are too dumb to give a toss one way or the other, people actually do get pissed off it you try to serve them food on plates that have still got eggy bits and steak detritus on them from the last service. It’s not enough to tell them that the previous diners have licked the plates clean, either. Most people who go to restaurants demand that they’ve been sterilized, too, before they’ll eat off them.

All well and good. But why isn’t this same concern for proper hygiene applied to clothes shops, as well? I refer specifically to the mirrors in their changing rooms, of course.

I, personally, object to the idea of looking into a “used” mirror that’s possibly reflected the images of several dozen other people that same day, particularly if a lot of them were fat, ugly cunts. For me to look into such a mirror would be exactly the same as eating a magnificent gourmet meal off an unwashed plate that had previously had chicken nuggets and chips on it. It’s totally unacceptable as there's danger of cross-contamination. Consequently, when I do go into a clothes shop, I always insist that a member of staff spray the mirror with Windolene, or similar, beforehand. And, if it’s at all practical, I ask that the mirror be sterilized, as well.

I suppose one possible down-side here is if the shop owns one of those magic mirrors you're always hearing about that can tell you whether or not you’re the fairest of them all. If you spray and sterilize one of those, I’d imagine that, each time you do, it resets to its factory defaults and loses the memory of anyone else who might have looked into it. Consequently, because it no longer has any other point of reference, it now risks giving you a highly inaccurate assessment of exactly how good looking you are in relation to everyone else. Which means that if, for example, you’re a wicked, ageing stepmother with a cute, adopted teenage daughter, it will tell you that, notwithstanding your flabby arse and crow's feet, you’re nevertheless more attractive than her.

So, whereas, out of sheer pique, you’d normally send a wood-cutter out to kill the little bitch, now, because of the disinformation, you don’t. As a result, she eventually ends up living with a bunch of dubious dwarfs in some shack in the middle of a forest. If the Sunday tabloids pick up this, that’s your reputation as a responsible parent totally fucked.

Friday, June 05, 2009

Think Tank

I see from today’s Daily Telegraph that architect, Mark Hacket, is setting up a think tank in Belfast. About time, too. What with all these Gay Pride marches and flabby-arsed powerlifters running all over the place, Belfast fucking needs it. Then again, I suppose many other cities could benefit from their own think tanks, as well.

How often, for example, when asked difficult questions or posed near insuperable problems, do people simply shrug their shoulders, say, “I’ll have a think”, and then just go away and do nothing? Most of the time, I’d say. This is because while they might indeed like to have a think, they usually can’t actually obtain one. Not a fresh one, anyway. This is where a dedicated, heated and oxygenated think tank comes in (with a deep-sea diver and model sunken galleon for the deluxe versions).

So next time anyone says “I’ll have a think”, he can then be directed to wherever the appropriate tank for his think is kept and there make his choice from the free-swimming selection. So, for instance, if Stephen Hawking is asked “What, exactly, is the `God Particle’?”, he can request that the exact, corresponding think be fished out of the tank for him by its proprietor, just like with a lobster in a Chinese restaurant. Thus will the mystery of the universe finally be solved.

I suppose where this system breaks down (aside from the pump getting blocked with floating think turds) is with the so-called “political think tank.” I can’t imagine, say, a BNP think and a Christian Democrat think swimming happily together in the same tank. It would be a bit like putting a goldfish in with a piranha. An Anarchist think might even do serious damage to the tank. But at least watching the ensuing "life or death" struggles would be entertaining.

Rather like today’s, in fact, in the Labour Party.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009


Street “musicians” really piss me off. I encountered several this morning. Basically, they’re beggars with musical instruments. All they want is money. But instead of being honest about it and saying “Can you spare us a couple of pence for mug of tea, guv?”, they maintain this pretence of offering so-called entertainment, as if a syncopated beg were more likely to elicit my sympathy and coin than the conventional variety. Why the fuck should it?

If I were trying to negotiate a loan, for example, would it help my case if I gave the bank manager a sudden rendition from “Oklahoma”? If I wanted to buy a washing machine from John Lewis on extended credit, would I get a better rate if I sang “Ave Maria” while I filled in my bank details?

It's not even as if these people were any good. If they were, they wouldn't be singing on the street; they'd be doing it professionally and getting paid for it. They're therefore imposing their mediocrity upon me, unbidden. It's the equivalent of pissing in my direction or farting at me.

Furthermore, their dress sense is usually non-existent. I saw some specimen “performing” in Tottenham Court Road Tube Station. If he'd tried to donate his clothes to Oxfam or Sue Ryder they would have been thrown out as a health hazard. Furthermore, his “singing” was more akin to the cries of someone being castrated.

In fact, that's the one thing that would have induced me to donate money. If his testicles were being torn off on the Underground, I might have put a few coppers in the tin for the entertainment value derived from the spectacle.

The Working Class should be neutered.

Sunday, May 31, 2009


Women often complain about how it’s unsafe for them to go out at night or use public transport because of the risk of sexual assault. Indeed, as a result, many convert to Islam and wear an all-enveloping burqah, in the hope that any predatory men will think twice about molesting them lest they turn out to be Muslim transsexuals underneath or maybe keep a dog under there.

It seems to me, though, that they would do better by taking a leaf out of Nature’s book. With just a little help from genetic engineers.

Why don’t these worried women inject themselves with genes from frogs or toads? I suggest this because many amphibians can change sex, as and when the whim takes them. It follows that, with such a course of frog gene therapy, the women would eventually be able to do this, too. And the advantages of being such a hybrid would therefore be many for the lone female.

For example, if she had a late-night train journey ahead of her, she could simply turn herself into a well-hard Ray Winstone lookalike for its duration. No-one would dare mess with her/him. But upon arrival at the intended destination, (s)he'd simply change back again into female form.

Of course, it would be necessary for her to dress up in some sort of unisex clothing. Obviously, if you look like a bloke but are wearing a slinky black dress and mascara, you tend to attract the wrong sort of attention. On the other hand, the clothing wouldn't have to look too masculine, either. If she were spotted in female form wearing dungarees and bovver boots, likely as not she would be attacked by gangs of roving lesbians and dildo-fucked repeatedly, which would defeat the whole object of changing sex in the first place.

Another drawback that comes to mind revolves around sex. What would happen if you got one of these frog gene-spliced women pregnant? It's an unnerving thought that, as the result of just one careless fuck, you could end up having to bring up and pay for several hundred children, all gestated in the local pond. I doubt that the CSA computers could handle such a scenario.

Friday, May 29, 2009

The Face of Jesus

I see that the face of Jesus has appeared again, this time on the underside of a Marmite lid in Wales. This follows close on the heels of His appearance last month in the middle of a Kit Kat, and before then in such foodstuffs as, variously, yoghurt, pancakes, and cookie dough. Isn’t it time, then, that the confectionery manufacturers started taking advantage of this?

Consider Unilever’s current “You either love it or hate it” campaign for Marmite, for example. To me, this is rather weak and indecisive, particularly in view of the fact that their product clearly now has divine endorsement, too. It’s therefore not dissimilar to God declaring to Constantine at the Milvian Bridge, “Christianity: Take it or leave it - I couldn’t give a fuck” rather than more assertive and marketable “In hoc signo vinces: In this sign you will conquer.” If it had been the former slogan, we might all still be worshipping Jupiter and the Roman pantheon of pagan deities (unless, of course, Muhammad’s face had appeared in the middle of a pot of humous, in which case Britain might well now be an Islamic republic).

So, with this in mind, I would suggest “Eat Marmite or you’ll burn in Hell.” And rather than “Have a break, have a Kit Kat”, it should be “Have a Kit Kat or your next break will be for a fucking Eternity in the Fiery Pit.”

This, of course, assumes that God is consistent with his choice of foodstuffs. If he were to appear in, for instance, both Marmite and Bovril, it could lay the seeds for bloody religious war. And anyone who ate a Kit Kat and then started nibbling on a Twix might well have to be stoned to death for apostasy. But this is a small price to pay for Divine Truth.

Thursday, May 28, 2009


In my opinion, the medical profession should be stripped of its mystique. Doctors ought to be accorded the same status as other manual workers, with similar obligations.

For example, if the ball-cock on my lavatory functions incorrectly, I expect simply to call up a plumber and have him turn up at a time to suit me. (Granted, I’ll pay a premium for this, but as long as efficiency is guaranteed, so what?) When he does turn up, I expect him to diagnose the problem at once and fix it within minutes. When he's finished the job to my satisfaction, I pay him. If he doesn't, I don't. It's as simple as that.

What I wouldn't tolerate is phoning a plumber only to be put through to a fucking moronic receptionist who tells me to bring my lavatory along to some out-of-the-way machine shop in three days time at some ungodly hour in the morning. Nor would I tolerate the plumber taking the top off the cistern, prodding the pipework with cold hands, umming and ahing, and then saying, "It looks as if there could be a blockage somewhere along the line - try some Viacal, and if it isn't unblocked in a week, make another appointment and bring your lavatory back again, and we'll see what we can do." Nor would I put up with a situation where, having followed the plumber's advice, I find the ball-cock has fallen to pieces nonetheless, only to have him tell me, "I'm sorry, we did all we could, but we just didn't catch it in time - here's the bill, by the way."

No. Doctors' pay should be performance related. By this, I mean that if they turn up at your home within 15 minutes of being called out, correctly diagnose your affliction, cure it within a reasonable time (30 minutes, maximum, should be enough to deal with all diseases and injuries - any more is just tardiness), then they'd get there money. But if not, or if the patient died, they wouldn't get a fucking penny.

Furthermore, doctors should be forced to wear blue overalls and flat caps, and eat lard sandwiches. This is because, if truth be told, they are FUCKING WORKING CLASS.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Unleashing the Beast

This morning I had my usual monthly appointment with Alessandro, my hair artiste. Yet again, he excelled himself. When, afterwards, I exhibited the aftermath through Piccadilly, the coiffeurred perfection of my glinting locks put all other men’s hair to shame. I suppose it was the equivalent of Charles Atlas stripping off on a crowded beach, flaunting his rippling muscles and finely-honed torso, and kicking sand in the faces of the seven-stone weaklings.

However, now, as I relax over a pre-lunch scotch and Canada Dry in Rules, a worrying thought suddenly occurs: What will happen to all that hair of mine that got cut off? I’d like to think it will be used to line the floors of up-market hamster cages or maybe help re-thatch Burt Reynolds. But there is another, more sinister possibility.

Suppose the management at Taylor’s attempt to extract genetic material from the clippings in order to clone me and thereby guarantee their future income? Worse, what happens if they succeed? I imagine that, if they do, they’ll probably have clones to spare. They'll therefore transport several of the surplus to an island just off Costa Rica, call it Slavko Park, and charge people extortionate sums to visit. This needn't be a bad idea in itself, of course. I'm sure I could claim in a court of law that, because the clippings were originally mine, I should be legally entitled to a share of the gate profits. No, the problem comes if any of the Slavkos escape and return to the UK.

Let's say, for example, that 500 Slavkos made it back here. Most likely, their natural instinct would be to head for their biologically programmed places of sustenance and recreation. So, for instance, I might phone up Rules to make a reservation, only to find that the whole place had already been totally booked up by me(s) for the foreseeable future. Or, if I went down to The Salisbury Arms for a quiet pint or two, I could find the whole pub totally packed out with boisterous Slavkos. And my attempts at creating gourmet meals could be thwarted by the fact of the Slavkos getting to the supermarket before me and buying up all the decent ingredients. I'd have to subsist on Pot Noodles and Big Macs, instead, which might turn me Working Class.

There is, though, a Worst Case Scenario. Instead of creating 500 Slavkos, the barber might create just one. But not just any Slavko - a giant sized, horribly hirsute Slavkong, possessed of 500 times my intellect, my taste, and my fecundity. Within hours, it would become the dominant species on earth, and would therefore have first call on all the best hairdressers and their haircare products. And, after its hairdressing appointment, it would probably seize some screeching, blonde-haired bint from Michaeljohn, on Albermarle Street, and rampage through London with her while simultaneously biting people's heads off, before finally climbing up to the top of Canary Wharf and getting shot off by biplanes.

Then some smart-arse will inevitably say, “No – it wasn’t the planes that got him. It was a combination of Taylor’s Mint and Jojoba Conditioner and Pierre Augé Styling Wax that killed the beast.” Which, all things considered, is a fuck of a price to pay just for a decent haircut.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009


The National Health Service costs too much money. An alternative method for curing people must be found. I therefore propose that scientists extract DNA from the Turin Shroud and clone Jesus.

In this way, every postal district could have its own Jesus. So if you had a full-blown terminal disease (or, indeed, were just feeling a little under the weather), you'd simply pop round, say, "Lord, I am afflicted, lay your hands upon me," and, a blessing or too later, you'd be cured. Or, if you wanted to go on the piss, but didn't have enough money to buy booze, you could take a bottle of tap water round and have Him do the business on it.

The other big advantage of having lots of live Jesuses is that, every Easter, you could crucify them. It's a well-known fact that, by dying on the cross, Jesus effectively negated the sins of all Mankind. It therefore follows that if a few hundred thousand die simultaneously, every year, humanity would effectively be in credit vis-à-vis grace, and could therefore sin with impunity for all time.

One problem here, though, is that crucified Jesuses tend to rise from the dead after about three days. You couldn't allow this to happen, otherwise Heaven would get full of the things, forcing its existing inhabitants out on to the streets. Consequently, saints and archangels would start squatting in boxes outside Waterloo Station, drinking Tennent's Super, and trying to cadge money off you.

So to ensure the Jesuses didn't rise from the dead, it would be necessary to grind them up. Then you could serve them to the Faithful as the genuine body and blood of Our Lord, and not some tacky, flour-based substitute. I expect He'd make a good lasagne or ragu. You could even serve Him up in a bun at McDonald's. It would, however, be necessary to mix Him in with other meat, too. Otherwise, come Ascension Day, your semi-digested MacJesus would have a tendency to become airborne, taking you with it.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Glow in the Dark

“Glow in the dark” condoms are a fucking stupid idea. I daresay there are men who actually need their cocks to be visible under low-light conditions (perhaps so the woman doesn’t have to ask “Is it in yet?”) but, even so, surely it would be far more cost-effective for them simply to use indelible luminous paint and a conventional, see-through prophylactic. That said, there are still risks.

For example, if either the man or the woman (or both) suffers from photo-sensitive epilepsy, then the in-out motion during sex would cause a strobing effect, quite possibly exacerbating the condition. Or, seen from a distance, it might look as if you’re trying to signal someone using an Aldis Lamp. You might succeed, and inadvertently transmit something really stupid or obscene. As a result, an offended Aldis Lamp operator would no doubt send the authorities round. Worse, he might be a gay Aldis Lamp operator. So in response to your accidental transmission of “I desperately need ten inches of cock up my backside”, he’d come round himself and oblige, anally. Then there’s the danger of provoking Sith warriors. A really big, stiff, glowing dick would look not unlike a drawn light-sabre. Consequently, while you were both mid-coitus, large men dressed in black capes and wearing black helmets and masks would crash, wheezing, through your bedroom window and attempt to win you over to the Dark Side. If this is the sort of thing that does it for you, fine. If not, however, if could easily put a dampener on the proceedings.

But there is one, far more deadly potential consequence. The pigment used in luminous condoms is, of course, slightly radioactive. With continued, long-term use, some will inevitably come off inside the woman and very gradually build up until it reaches a critical mass. So much so that, after a year or so, having sex will become like suddenly plunging a fuel rod into Reactor Four at Chernobyl. The two of you will go into meltdown, rendering the whole area around your bed uninhabitable for thousands of years.

All in all, then, it’s probably wisest to stick to the “French tickler” or “ribbed” variety.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Ascension Day

Two thousand years ago, what with flying angels, celestial doves, winged chariots, thunderbolts, and the like, the skies over the Holy Land must have been heavily congested. Jesus was therefore quite lucky to get away with ascending, vertically, from a mountain top like that, without getting clearance first of all. In fact, it’s probably only through sheer luck that, today, we’re not celebrating Mid-air Collision Day.

Then again, I suppose if Jesus were attempting the same thing in this day and age, He’d have even more serious problems to contend with.

For example, during His Ascension, Jesus would have to take special care to steer clear of duck hunters. Seen from a distance, an ascending Saviour looks not unlike a mallard, especially if He's wearing one of those homespun robes as featured on the statues, and He's got His arms outstretched. Consequently, members of the hunting fraternity, out to bag a brace or two, might mistakenly open up with 12-bore shotguns. And while Jesus would probably possess the necessary speed and manoeuvrability to take evasive action, there's nevertheless always the risk, however minimal, that He might get brought down.

If I, myself, were a hunter and managed to bag a Son of God instead of a duck, most likely I'd be well pleased with myself. In fact, I'd have Him stuffed and mounted alongside my moose-head. Or I’d try to flog Him to St Vincent de Paul Church, maybe. However, some people - proprietors of Chinese restaurants out to stock up their kitchens, for example - would no doubt be heavily pissed off. Somehow, the appearance of Szechuan Crispy Jesus on the menu lacks the culinary appeal of its quacking counterpart. And I can’t see Him combining too well with pancakes and hoi sin sauce, even as an experiment in so-called “fusion food.”

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Storm in a Tea Cup

You often hear people refer to something as being “a storm in a tea cup.” By this, they usually mean that the matter in question has been blow up out of all proportion and is, in fact, quite trivial. Consequently, the inference is that it needn’t be taken seriously. When you think about it, however, this is quite wrong: A genuine storm in a tea cup actually has the potential to become very serious indeed.

For a start, the storm itself would normally be initiated by a low-pressure area, formed directly above the surface of the tea. At the very least, therefore, an unwary tea drinker might find himself buffeted by winds as he put his lips to the rim of the cup. Showers of boiling tea droplets might even rain into his face. But these are mere inconveniences compared to what could develop.

If the storm were really severe, for example, the tea drinker might well be electrocuted by lightning, conducted up the length of his metal teaspoon (this would, of course, be "spooned" lightning as opposed to the more common "forked" variety). In a worst case scenario, the combination of the low pressure area combined with any subsequent stirring of sugar cubes or Sweetex into the tea could result in an extreme vortex which would have the potential to suck the unwary drinker (and, for that matter, anyone standing nearby) into the cup and thence the boiling liquid.

So what can we do to guard against this and minimize risk?

In my opinion, tea cups should be mounted with flags. A green flag would mean that there was no storm in the tea cup and therefore its contents would be safe to drink. A yellow flag would indicate severe ripples on the surface of the beverage, such that only really experienced tea drinkers should risk it. A red flag, on the other hand, would indicate a full-blown typhoon tea. In this instance, one would be well advised to stay clear of the cup until conditions improved.

Naturally, human nature being what it is, some foolhardy types would probably try to drink their tea regardless of the flag colour. To save these idiots from themselves, I think it might be necessary to station lifeguards in people’s kitchens and living rooms, ready to dive into the tea cup at a moment’s notice and extract the stupid dumb fucks from the tannin maelstrom before they become over-stewed. I suppose the cost of having such lifeguards on duty, 24/7, would add to the overall cost of the tea, but this is a small price to pay for public safety.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

It's Raining

I have often heard it said that cows are able to predict when rain is due. Apparently, pre-pissing-it-down, they start to lie down in their fields and cease eating grass. Country bumpkin hokum, or what?

Early this morning, I had occasion to walk through country lanes abutted by fields full of cows. It was a fairly sunny day. In fact, according to the BBC weather forecast on the Internet, the chances of rain today were as slight as those of Speaker Martin holding on to his job. Accordingly, I had set off coatless.

Anyway, half a mile or so into my walk, I noted that certain of the cows in the area were starting to lie down. A mile later, all of them were recumbent. Why? I asked myself, given the decent nature of the weather. I therefore scoffed, openly. Unfortunately, less than half an hour after, I could scoff no more. This is because clouds suddenly gathered and I got drenched by a fucking downpour which persists even now. So were the cows right?

No. After a certain amount of thought, I realized that the truth of the matter is this: Cows don't in fact predict rain by lying down, they actually cause it.

It's obvious when you think about it. Does it rain in the Sahara Desert? No. And how many recumbent cows are there in the Sahara Desert? Well exactly. Does it rain at the South Pole? No. Granted, it snows and it hails, but it never rains. And how many recumbent cows does one generally see on Antarctic expeditions? None. Then there are the Krubera Caves in Georgia. At nearly 7,000 feet below the surface, they are the deepest in the world. But does it rain in them? No. And how many cows do they contain? QED, or what?

What's actually here happening here is that, by lying down, the cows are absorbing the heat that rises naturally from the earth, cooling the air immediately above. This causes a low pressure area, which in turn produces rain. And, obviously, there's a direct correlation between the number of cows, their size, and the extent and severity of the rain.

This being so, we should export sleeping cows to arid areas in order to encourage rain. In this way, the Sahara might become a forest once more. Also, there are smaller applications. We could, for example, breed dwarf cows and have them lie down in our gardens. Then sprinklers would become obsolete. Hamster-sized cows could be produced and placed in washing machines and dishwashers, thus obviating the need to connect such appliances to the water mains (though you'd have to make sure your cat didn't eat them). The possibilities are limitless.

The only downside here, of course, is that midget cows would inevitably attract midget bulls. This could result in someone getting badly gored while he tried to extract his underpants from his Hotpoint Automatic. Or it could even attract midget matadors, who’d attempt to hold an entire corrida and sing "Votre toast, je peux vous le render" during the rinse cycle. But this is a small price to pay for finally achieving mastery of the elements.

Monday, May 18, 2009


I have eaten and enjoyed frogs' legs on a number of occasions. Their taste is vaguely akin to that of chicken. However, at the back of my mind has always been the thought that I might inadvertently be eating the limbs of an enchanted prince.

One often hears of witches and wizards putting spells on minor European royals, turning them into amphibians. Usually, the transmogrified nobles simply hop off and eventually settle, grudgingly, into their new existence. I would imagine this involves meeting intellectually compatible female frogs, forming relationships, and thereafter raising tadpoles together. The possibility of being caught and having one's legs cut off and served up in a London bistro is therefore part and parcel of this existence; like the risk a human runs of being knocked over by a lorry or having Ant and Dec move in nextdoor.

At this point let me get one thing clear. I personally am not concerned about the provenance of the frog. If, for example, during the course of the meal the waiter informs me that I am in fact tucking into the hindquarters of a member of the House of Hapsburg, my only reaction is to order a superior bottle of wine to wash them down. But the likelihood of this happening is so remote that I can usually stick to the house red with confidence.

Usually. I am becoming increasingly concerned, though, by reports of deviant princesses touring lily ponds and making unwelcome sexual advances towards their frog inhabitants. Under normal circumstances I suppose this is pretty harmless, even if both parties do go “all the way”. Unfortunately, there always exists the risk - however slight - that one of these princesses will eventually meet and “get off with” a metamorphosized prince. I am informed that the mere act of kissing one has the effect of converting him back into his human form, which could have potentially disastrous consequences.

Let me explain. To create the dish known as frog's legs, one simply hacks the hind legs from a frog and then tosses his body into a bucket. Thereafter he usually dies. Nevertheless, there remains the possibility that he will somehow manage to crawl out and escape. If so, his amphibian metabolism is such that the amputated legs will eventually grow back, allowing his to resume his career in the pond. Which would be no problem with a conventional frog. But what if this happened to an enchanted prince who at some point in the future was kissed by a princess?

My guess is that as well as the prince himself changing back into human form, so too would his lopped-off extremities, wherever they happened to be. Thus a diner might suffer the acute embarrassment of a pair of human legs suddenly appearing on his dinner plate, covered in a puff-pastry parcel or in sauce. More embarrassing still if he had already eaten them when the reconversion occurred, especially if the transmogrified prince had been a rugby player with really muscular limbs. The poor diner would probably explode in a scene reminiscent of the film “Alien”, showering the restaurant clientele with giblets.

And what if, during his frog days, the prince had indeed met a female frog, fallen in love, and produced children? The ponds would suddenly be full of hybrid royal-amphibians, all of them claiming kinship with the House of Windsor, and all, no doubt, demanding a payout from the Civil List. As frogs breed at an exponential rate, the country would soon be bankrupted. Democracy would collapse, too, as bunches of aggrieved tadpoles tried to dissolve parliament, claiming that their marshes had been drained to make way for the Channel Tunnel rail link or the new runway at Heathrow.

In my opinion, in order to forestall such an occurrence, top London restaurants should start to employ princesses to kiss the frogs as and when they are delivered. This would allow many of the country's sponging royals to actually pay their way, as well as guaranteeing the future of our constitutional democracy.

Sunday, May 17, 2009


I’m glad I’m not a whale. This is because, unlike other whales, who’ve got mounds of unsightly blubber all over their bodies, I’d undoubtedly be a trim, ultra-fit he-whale, of the sort who appears on the front cover of “Whales’ Health” and advertises whatever the whale equivalent of Blue Kouros is. As a result, I wouldn’t be able to dive much deeper than about 100 feet, otherwise, without those protective layers of fat, I’d freeze. Thus, swimming permanently near the surface, I’d be left vulnerable to harpoon attack and subsequent transformation into Japanese hamburgers.

The only option left to me in order to survive, I suppose, would be to devolve back into some sort of land-based creature. But, having sprouted arms, legs, and all the other necessaries, I’d then have to launch my 60 foot plus body on to the shore in search of sustenance. I’m sure humanity wouldn’t react very well, especially as I’m a carnivore, and so would most likely want to eat their children. Consequently, once the governments of the world had launched all their armed forces against me, I’d probably be just as dead as I would have been had I simply remained a hapless sushi ingredient.

That said, would I be missing much? Not really. It can’t be fun having to shag someone who, perforce, is usually the whale equivalent of Andrea Dworkin. Not that you can see her at depths below 300 feet or so, as there’s little or no illumination. But the probability is high, nonetheless. I imagine this is why whales aren’t monogamous and apparently have so many sex partners. The scatter-gun approach to shagging means that, statistically, at least, there’s a small possibility that you’ll be poking a cetacean Claudia Schiffer. (Or you can just fantasize and imagine you are.)

Great sex is out, though. A whale can only stay under water for about two hours, maximum, so if you indulge in lengthy foreplay and then an “all nighter”, you both drown. This therefore means that the survival of the species is dependent upon nerdy, premature ejaculator, trainspotter-type whales, whose idea of highly erotic “sex talk” is to recite the registration numbers of all the Liberian oil tankers currently doing the transatlantic run.

To be quite frank, given that, I’d actually prefer to be fucking extinct.

Saturday, May 16, 2009


Early this morning I saw a large, blue wheelie-bin outside the bar of The Salisbury Arms. There was a sign on it which read, “Category 3 Material: Not for human consumption.” A good idea, I thought. But this does, of course, imply the existence of separate, differently coloured wheelie-bins (red and yellow, maybe) containing Categories 1 and 2 Material, which quite obviously is for human consumption.

So where were they?

To me the answer is clear: they were put out last night by the hotel management but, by sunrise, all the contents had already been eaten, so they’d had to be taken inside again to avoid disappointing people. I’d imagine that, assuming Category 3 material is indeed as inedible as the sign suggests, then Category 2 must be Okish, if not exactly delicious, while the Category 1 bin contains the really gourmet rubbish. The connoisseurs no doubt go for this bin first. Perhaps there’s even a waiting list.

I wonder who decides which rubbish is best, though, and how to classify it. There’s probably an offshoot of Michelin and Egon Ronay that publishes “The Good Bin Guide.” They send undercover inspectors out to munch their way through kitchen scraps and then report back. It must be quite an accolade for a restaurant’s bin to receive a Category 1 status. I’ll bet there’s even a Category 1 Blue Ribbon for really superlative garbage.

The trouble with having a Category 1 Blue Ribbon, however, is that, you’re then likely to find celebrities rooting through your rubbish. This is why, even if Egon Ronay or Michelin do award my own bin a Category 1 Blue Ribbon at some future date – and it obviously deserves it - I won’t go public with the fact.

It’s currently a hard enough job keeping the foxes and rats from gnawing at my bin, so I don’t want people like George Clooney, Daniel Craig, and Madonna doing it, too, otherwise I’ll have to put poison pellets and traps down. Having George Clooney found dead in a spring-loaded trap outside my house, the remains of one of my turkey escalopes still in his mouth, is something I simply don’t need at the moment.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Love Log

Now that the weather has become somewhat sunnier, clothes are inevitably becoming skimpier and, as a result, ever larger areas of flesh are being exposed to the light of day (mostly by people who really ought to keep it covered). One inevitable consequence of such disclothesure is that people who’ve invested in tattoos are finally able to show off their artwork to the general public.

In the majority of cases, the illustrations are quite banal stuff – roses, eagles, snakes, and so on – but in a few, declarations of undying affection are displayed. “Dave Loves Diana” is one such I saw yesterday on someone’s upper arm, for example. Another was a heart symbol, pierced by an arrow, with the names Kaz and Jenna on each side. This, presumably, was for the benefit of the semi-literate public.

But why do people do this? From personal experience, I know that this relationship business is a little too impermanent to commemorate with something as permanent as an indelible tattoo. It's rather like immortalizing "Big Brother" contestants on the Hollywood Walk of Fame or taking out a long-term mortgage on an equatorial igloo.

So what happens if and (inevitably) when you split up? You can either try to laser the tattoo off, I suppose, or have it amended in some way, both of which are fairly expensive, uncomfortable options.

I have therefore come up with a far better idea: Rather than attempt to obliterate the original tattoo, why not simply leave it there? Then you can list any subsequent relationships sequentially down one arm, together with their beginning and end dates. It would work like a car's log book. In this way, you’d be able to see, at a glance, whom your prospective partner had been with in the past and for exactly how long. This would give you and all others a pretty accurate idea about his or her general fidelity, views on commitment, quality of shag, and so forth.

Unless, of course, they ran out of arm space. Then they might have to start on a leg, or begin listing the names down their chest or back, and thence to other parts of their anatomy. But then, at least, the request “show us your tits” or “let’s see your cock” would no longer be regarded as a sexist, insulting term, but quite simply a polite inquiry into the quality and duration of one’s past intimate liaisons.

Saturday, May 09, 2009


This morning I decided to give the women of Hertford a treat. Accordingly, I sat at a table outside Le Café Rouge, where they could all watch me, and had breakfast. The meal (and very nice it was, too) consisted of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, toast and marmalade, and a large pot of Colombian coffee. Anyway, as I was eating, a vehicle stopped outside. It was emblazoned with the legend “Horse Box”. Once I'd finished breakfast, I got up, walked over, and peeked inside. There was indeed one single horse within.

How wasteful of packaging and resources, I thought. If properly stacked and surrounded by those polystyrene blobs, there was room there for at least six horses. The situation was therefore akin to Kelloggs selling you a Cornflakes box containing just the one cornflake, and fitting it with a motor to allow it to drive itself from the supermarket to your home. Overkill in every way.

In my opinion, if you want to package a single horse, you should use a horse bag or a horse sachet. Or better (because few people are going to manage a whole horse at a single sitting), you should put it in a tube as horse purée. Then you can squeeze out as much or as little as you require, and keep it in the fridge for subsequent usage.

In fact, on reflection, perhaps someone could develop Pot Horse, where you just open the container, add boiling water, and enjoy. However, just as you have to beware of small bones when eating fish, I imagine you’d have to look out for the occasional horseshoe and stirrup when eating the rehydrated article.

Friday, May 08, 2009


A few years ago, lots of pub-goers were bitching about the fact that their beers were basically all head and very little, if any, beer. I heard reports, for example, of one aggrieved punter saying to the barmaid, “You can give me head, darling, but not my fucking pint.” As a result, no doubt, Government legislation was introduced, compelling publicans (and barmaids) to serve the full measure. Now, if you do want additional spume on top, that’s up to you, but it mustn’t be included in the advertised price of the drink.

This morning, therefore, it was with profound satisfaction that I learned that people are starting to complain about the excess foam atop their coffees, too, particularly those served in Working Class establishments. About time. I, also, would be pissed off if, whenever I went into a café, I had to equip myself with a sonar depth finder in order to determine exactly where, relative to its froth, the actual coffee bit of the cappuccino was located.

Indeed, when you think it through fully, froth on liquids is almost always regarded as a bad thing. If, for instance, you see foam on the surface of a river, the sea, or a lake, it’s usually indicative of there being something horribly iffy in the water, particularly if there are dead fish floating on the top, as well. More often than not, it’s caused by noxious chemicals, of the sort that make men grow breasts and acquire other generally unwanted feminine characteristics. Thus it must be with coffee. (And I’ll bet they have to use a sieve to get the dead fish out before they serve it to you.)

The major downside to all this, of course, is that it could encourage would-be Thai lady boys to come over here and drink our coffee in order to transform themselves, physically, so they can then earn a living sucking men off in Bangkok bi-bars. Whatever your views on the morality, or otherwise, of this, I’m sure everyone would agree that if you do want a job sucking men off in Bangkok bi-bars, you should have to pay a private physician for the requisite hormones, and not expect Costa or Starbucks to give them to you prescription-free for just £1.80 (or however much a cappuccino costs).

And besides, there will be lots of men who don’t want to go into this line or work but who, nonetheless, may feel compelled to do so, simply because of the after-effects of their latte. What other option will be open to them? Realistically, are they going to be able to satisfactorily hold down a job as, say, a quantity surveyor or stockbroker if, when they get back to the office following their coffee break, they’ve suddenly sprouted DD tits and long, black hair, and keep screeching “Suckee, suckee, fuckee fuckee!” every ten seconds or so? I think not.

Coffee, therefore, should be be priced and served without foam. If you do want a job in a gay Far Eastern flop house, that, of course, is your affair. But coffee vendors shouldn’t automatically assume that everyone does.

Thursday, May 07, 2009

Classical Eggs

There are few, if any, egg recipes in the Classical texts, either Roman or Greek. This is quite simply because people generally didn't bother trying to cook them as there was no reliable way of timing the things. A few, faltering attempts were made, though. Take boiling, for example. Here, the cook would call a slave couple into the kitchen and order them to get down on the floor and fuck whenever the egg went in the pan. Upon ejaculation, the egg was deemed ready. Depending on the slaves’ sexual proficiency, you could end up with anything between a three minute egg and a rather hard boiled two hour one. If you were lucky.

Where this method fell down severely, of course, was when you got a male slave who was predisposed to premature ejaculation, or worse. In this case, the egg would be so under-cooked that you'd risk salmonella poisoning. (That's assuming there was anything to time in the first place.)

You'd have thought they'd have been on surer ground with scrambled or poached eggs on toast, but sadly, no. Here, the main problem lay with pop-up toaster technology, which, then, was still in its infancy. The toast eject mechanism was based on the principle of the ballista, or elementary catapult. Here, the bread slices, which were cooked on each side by a slave holding a flaming torch, rested on a bent-back tree branch. This was kept taut by a rope positioned over a burning candle. Once the rope had burnt through, the branch sprang back and the toast was ejected. Sadly, the force was such that the slaves were often propelled out with the toast, and could be deposited several miles away. So by the time the egg was eventually reunited with its toast (and with the slave), all three were usually cold.

Basically, all Classical age cooking was a bit of a hit and miss affair. The only generally available timepiece was a sun dial. This meant that cooking had to be restricted to sunny, daylight hours when there wasn't any likelihood of an eclipse. Late dinner was therefore totally impossible. Furthermore, as the smallest unit of time on a sun dial was an hour, all but the largest roasts tended to be pretty well done. Sometimes inedibly so. This is why no Ancient Roman or Greek restaurants ever got a Michelin Star.