Saturday, January 31, 2009

Clergy on the Catwalk

I came across this disturbing report in yesterday's Daily Telegraph which describes how clergy in Devon are taking part in ecclesiastical fashion shows in order to model the latest in cassocks, wimples, and the like. This worries me, as I fear it could ultimately lead to the downfall of religion and the triumph of Evil. How so?

At the moment, admittedly, there appear to be few problems. Most of the clerics on show look fit and of average physique. How long will it be, though, before the vestment designers start clamouring for ever thinner, more sylph-like clergy to model their wares? Soon, we could start to see near-anorexic vicars parading up and down, who maintain their impossibly lean frames by constant dieting, over-exercising, and chain smoking.

Critics will quite reasonably argue that younger, more impressionable priests might look upon these people as role models and attempt to emulate them. They will do almost anything to lose weight. The weekly Mass, for example, could be subject to constant interruptions as, immediately after the Transubstantiation, the priest retreats behind the altar, puts two fingers down his throat, and pukes up the Blessed Host.

I imagine the Vatican would attempt to allay the fears of bulimic priests by introducing Lo-cal Communion wafers. But at what cost? If a conventional water is turned into a conventional Body of Christ, it follows that a Lo-cal wafer will become a Christ who looks like one of those “before” pictures in a Charles Atlas ad. He’ll be a pathetic, weedy runt of a Saviour who’s forever having sand kicked in his face by the Devil. He’ll have an extremely hard time persuading anyone at all that He’s the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Consequently, come Armageddon, it will be the forces of Darkness, not Light, that will triumph.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Not Buttered

Apparently, most members of the Working Class are enthusiastic consumers of a spread called "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" According to the rubric on the back of the carton, the stuff contains buttermilk and a range of chemicals and various noxious additives. The ensemble is evidently supposed to approximate the taste of the genuine article so closely that, at some stage or other, one, or several, of the beta-testers obviously uttered the sentence that gave the product its name.

How fortunate it is, then, that they didn't exclaim, "Well fuck me if this doesn't taste exactly like butter!" or "You can call me a TOTAL CUNT if this stuff is anything other than genuine butter!" Then again, maybe a few people actually did. The trouble with calling a product by either of those names, though, is that you might then have problems persuading the ITC to approve your television commercials.

One solution would probably be to screen your commercials sufficiently late in the evening that the majority of those likely to be offended would have gone to bed. As, for example, they do with those adverts for chat lines for homosexuals. Unfortunately, virtually the only people then watching them would be homosexuals, thus severely limiting your market demographics. As a result, the supermarket dairy sections - especially anywhere associated with low-fat spreads - would soon turn into gay pick-up areas, and you'd risk being buggered every time you went to get a carton of milk. The only safe option would be to switch to UHT, stored in a different aisle, which isn't something I'd relish.

A safer idea, then, would be not to advertise per se, but to get your margarine featured in appropriately certified films as part of a product placement. "Last Tango in Paris" is one that comes immediately to mind. It’s just a shame that Marlon Brando is dead. They could have remade the film and had him reprise that famous scene where he smears his hand with margarine and sticks it up the girl's arse.

This is a potentially risky strategy, of course, inasmuch as your competitors might then claim that's all it's actually good for. However, I feel that someone of Brando's acting talents should be able to convey something of the product's taste and easy spreadability aspects, too. Compared to a block of butter straight from the fridge, anyway, which must be a bugger to get up anyone's arse.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Exporting My Good Taste

“For the apparel oft proclaims the man,” says Polonius in Hamlet. Or, as the Working Class, comprehensive school dullards are more likely to misquote it: “Clothes maketh the man.” Whichever, yes, I agree. More than this, however. I also believe that clothes can make civilization itself. What’s more, next week, I intend to prove it.

You see, today, I received a flyer through the door requesting donations of cast-off, old clothing. It was printed with pictures of native people wearing nothing but loin cloths, torn robes, and dirty rags. Certainly not the sort of stuff that GQ or FHM would ever feature. The unfortunates depicted in the photographs didn’t look particularly trendy, anyway, and compounded this by sitting in shit. So what this charity organization intends to do is export proper clothes to these Third World individuals, presumably so that they’ll start looking more fashionable and won’t sit in shit.

As it happens, I have a number of items that I no longer wear on a regular basis. Either they’re getting a little worn, or they just aren’t “me” any more. Whatever, next week I’ll go through my extensive wardrobes, collect up these unwanted garments, and deposit them in the plastic bag provided. Then they’ll be exported and help transform the Third World economies into thrusting First World ones.

How can mere clothes do this? you ask.

Think about it. At the moment, someone like, say, a Bornean headhunter thinks nothing of dashing through the jungle, near naked, brandishing a spear and killing members of neighbouring tribes. But what if he were wearing one of my Mr Harry or Aquascutum overcoats? Obviously, he would instantly realize that his spear accessory was a major fashion faux pas in combination. He would therefore seek something that complemented his new clothing better, such a Purdey shotgun. This would lead to the development of a proper armaments industry, together with all the other required ancillary industries, such as metal smelting and engraving. And similarly, he would then realize that wearing the shrunken heads of his enemies about his neck simply would not do, particularly when they clashed with the Thomas Pink shirt that I’d donated. Far better to take the head, render it down, and use the skull as a tasteful table-top electric lamp. This in turn would encourage the development of hydro electric generation with the all the benefits that this would bring. And finally, what or running over rough terrain? Not if he were wearing the Barker brogues that I’d given him, lest they get scuffed. So this would encourage road building and the development of proper communications between settlements, thus unifying the country as a whole.

I confidently predict that, within just 12 months of my donations, the whole world will have joined the 21st century.

White for Danger

This morning, while out walking by the river, I saw some rabbits. They saw me, too. When they did, they ran off. This is partly understandable, I suppose, because I sometimes cook rabbits. Then again, I usually leave it to the butcher to source them so, really, it’s him they should actually be afraid of. Whatever, they legged it, regardless, while simultaneously exposing the white, under-parts of their tails – apparently a universal rabbit “danger” signal.

This is one of the things that pisses me off about rabbits. Their alert system is too catch-all and permanently “on.” There’s no discrimination, either. For example, I have a colleague who’s a vegetarian, but he tells me that he gets this from rabbits, too, when out walking. Surely, though, he’s no threat to those rabbits at all. It’s cabbages and carrots that should be genuinely worried in his case. So why hasn’t Nature ensured that they employ a similar system and take off at speed whenever he’s in the vicinity?

Another thing: If I were to walk around all day, periodically hoisting a placard saying, “For fuck’s sake, flee for your lives!” but not specifying why or exactly what the danger is, or from whom – basically, exactly what the rabbits are doing - I suppose that, initially, many people would scream and run, as per my instructions. After a while, however, surely several would start to think, “What exactly am I supposed to be afraid of here? Life is risk, is it not? I can’t live in a state of permanent fear. Henceforth, therefore, I shall treat each day as a gift and laugh in the face of fear.”

In fact, isn’t this exactly what’s happening with all these Terror Alerts we get these days? Essentially, the Government has been telling us that we should all be living in a state of abject fear because of the unspecified potential threat of some sort of shadowy enemy. But now the more astute amongst us realize that, far from being a sign of Government concern for our wellbeing, it’s merely a ruse to subjugate and control us and keep us in situation of permanent panic.

Maybe the rabbits will eventually realize this as well, and rebel against their fascistic leadership. After all, how many instances have there ever been of, say, Islamic fundamentalist rabbits blowing themselves up down burrows? Has any rabbit burrow been targeted by airborne lepus jihadists? Where are the rabbit Al-Quaeda cells? Well, exactly.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Let us be at one with the cabbages and the carrots, therefore. And castrate all vegetarians, just to be on the safe side.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Dorian Gray's Unspeakable Sins

It's a good job Dorian Gray didn't commission Picasso or Jackson Pollock to paint his portrait, otherwise he'd have been fucked from the outset. As it was, it took several years of ongoing depravity and ageing before Basil Hallward's original painting of Gray got to look like a cubist masterpiece. At which point, of course, (understandably, because modern art is largely crap) Gray attacked it with a knife and died.

This set me thinking: The portrait in the attic was Gray's soul. While he himself remained youthful and unblemished by his moral turpitudes, the figure in the picture displayed these sins instead, becoming progressively more ugly. But surely it's equally possible that there could have been a two-way connection.

What would have happened, for example, if someone had gone into the attic with a magic marker and added a Hitler moustache or a black eye to the painting? Or suppose they'd been a tad more ambitious, and changed Gray's respectable hairstyle into a purple mohican and then painted a "Millwall FC Rules OK" tattoo on his arm?

Obviously, Gray's behaviour would have changed to reflect the alterations made to his portrait. So someone who really had it in for him - Sibyl Vane's brother, for example - could have exacted revenge quite easily with a single paintbrush, and at a safe distance. It wouldn't have done Dorian Gray's standing in polite society much good if, for example, while promenading through Grosvenor Square, he'd suddenly leapt up a nearby lamp post and starting pissing on pedestrians walking below.

Then again, Oscar Wilde never does describe what Dorian Gray's "unspeakable sins" actually were, so I suppose it's perfectly possible that this is one of the things that he did, in fact, do.

Monday, January 26, 2009

The Case Against In Vitro Fertilization

It's not just the Vatican that's against the idea of using frozen embryos in IVF therapy. I am, too. This is because there's a risk that, once transferred to the womb, they might go on to develop, come to term, and be born as frozen babies.

Women equipped with conventionally temperatured brats are annoying enough, always demanding crèches and baby-changing facilities, and all that kind of crap. However, if they had frozen babies, too, there'd be even more fuss. For example, they'd be forever having to stop their prams in the middle of the street or in the middle of busy shopping malls in order to fill them full of ice. Particularly on warm, summer days, otherwise the babies might melt and drip all over the floor, as ice lollies are wont to do (and they don't taste as nice, either, if you lick them).

I suppose supermarkets could offer a service whereby you could put your baby in the chiller cabinet along with other frozen produce while you went away and did your shopping. But you'd have to be careful to label him properly, otherwise some poor soul in search of frozen chicken might inadvertently pick him up and serve him up with Paxo for Sunday lunch. Then again, it could prove the birth of a new culinary sensation. And, if so, there'd be a ready supply of ingredients from council estates and inner city slums.

Eskimos don't have this sort of problem, of course. This is because their environment is always sub-zero. However, the downside of this is that Eskimo sperm and Eskimo eggs are frozen solid, even in their natural state. Which makes the sperm's job of fertilizing the egg somewhat difficult. A single, frozen sperm simply couldn't penetrate through to its nucleus. It would be forever heat-butting the frozen exterior.

Fortunately, though, Evolution has provided the solution: Eskimo ejaculate comes out of the penis in one, big frozen icicle of cum. It effectively "ram raids" the ovum, smashing its way in. This is why Eskimos always have flattish looking faces. It's caused by the impact of fertilization.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Erectile Dysfunction

According to a newspaper article I’ve been reading this morning, 77 per cent of men suffer from some sort of sexual dysfunction at some time during their lives. Usually it's short term. However, eight per cent of men, sadly, are permanently afflicted.

Given the widespread popularity of this malady, and its history, I was wondering why there are no recorded instances of Jesus ever curing it. It must, after all, have occurred in First Century Palestine. But try as I might, nowhere in the New Testament do I find anything along the lines of "Lord, I cannot get it up. If thou wilt, make me erect", or "Master, I habitually splurge just two seconds after I stick it in. Say the word, that I might acquire a respectable length of time."

After much thought, though, I realise that the explanation is in fact quite straightforward: Jesus Himself simply didn't understand the concept of impotence. This is because He'd received a somewhat imperfect account of the facts of life from His parents. When, during His early teens, He'd asked, "Mummy, how are babies made?", the Virgin Mary came out with some story about being fucked through the ear by an archangel and impregnated with the Holy Spirit (which is why, in medieval times, women kept their ears covered – they were regarded as erogenous zones). Obviously, anyone who's told this sort of thing at an impressionable age is bound to get an odd perspective on life.

So thereafter, whenever anyone approached Him with his limp dick in his hand, Jesus would pay it no heed. He thought that the only function of a penis was for pissing. Indeed, I'll bet if He ever did see anyone with a stiffy, He assumed it was some sort of disease or inflammation and tried to cure it by laying on of hands.

Perhaps he did this with Caiaphas or other members of the Sanhedrin, which might explain the real reason behind His crucifixion.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

A Decent Cup of Coffee

I have just had a cup of freshly ground Medellin Excelso coffee, whose beans were purchased at H. R. Higgins Ltd of Mayfair, W1. Very refreshing it was, too.

The reason for its quality, apparently, is the soil in which the beans were grown: Colombian soil. Colombian soil also accounts for the quality of that country’s other main export, cocaine. Indeed, experts tell me that anywhere that’s good for cocaine is also good for coffee. Fortunately, however, coffee is somewhat more straightforward to purchase, as it doesn’t involve furtive transactions down seedy back alleys with all the associated risks of being solicited by prostitutes, stabbed by muggers, or detained in a police “sting” operation. And, when you buy a pound of coffee, unlike cocaine, you can be reasonably sure that it hasn’t been adulterated with other substances. So you are actually getting 100 per cent coffee, and not a coffee/acorn or coffee/cat-litter mix (at least, I hope that’s the case).

I suppose there are other reasons why we should be grateful that coffee doesn’t share cocaine’s unsavoury reputation. It if did, stores such as Marks & Spencer and Sainsburys would probably have all-out turf wars over its distribution. Then, if a low cost retailer such as Aldi tried to muscle in and undercut them, there would be bloodshed on the streets. I, personally, wouldn’t be keen on having a bomb lobbed through my window simply because I’d bought a jar of Economy Instant blend.

If this sort of thing did happen over control of the coffee market, it’s probable that many retail establishments would then switch to selling safer alternatives, such as crystal meth and heroin ("Psychostimulant desoxyephedrine with that all-important cascading release of norepinephrine, dopamine, and seretonin: This isn't just crystal meth, this is Marks & Spencer's crystal meth."). Which, in turn, could lead to a blanket clampdown by the authorities on all retail goods, not just drugs. As a result, an illegal black market trade might arise. The street value of cord trousers would go through the roof. Sock pushers would approach you in back alleys and try to sell you nylon socks by the gram. If such deals went wrong - the would-be purchaser discovered that his socks had got holes in them, for example, or they were a mismatched pair, or a nylon/wool blend - it could lead to street-corner shoot-outs. And burglary rates would sky-rocket as those with with an expensive slipper habit went on crime sprees to finance their illegal purchases.

But at least I’ll still be guaranteed a decent cup of coffee, which, at the end of the day, is all that really matters to me.

Friday, January 23, 2009

My Bananas

I eat bananas. I do so because they’re packed full of life-enhancing vitamins and potassium. Indeed, it could plausibly be argued that it’s a banana a day, not an apple, that keeps the doctor away. All of which compounds my present dilemma.

Yesterday, you see, I purchased, in good faith, a bunch of eight bananas from the local greengrocer, a man who, hitherto, I’ve regarded as being a reputable supplier. And why not? The boxes in which his bananas arrive from the wholesaler are, after all, emblazoned with a Fyffe’s logo, the universally acknowledged banana “gold standard.” But this morning, upon examining my goods more thoroughly, I made a disturbing discovery:

Of the eight bananas in that bunch, only four are actually affixed with a Fyffe’s label.

My first thought, of course, was that the bastard greengrocer had adulterated the original bunch by gluing on four additional, inferior bananas, in much the same way that cocaine retailers are wont to mix Ajax or talcum powder in with their product in order to con their customer-base. Which, if true, would mean that he probably debases his other fruit and vegetables in a similar manner. Can I now trust his fresh peas, for example? Or could it be that he takes a razor blade to the pods, extracts a good percentage of the genuine peas, and then replaces those with processed peas from a can, before resealing the pod with Superglue? And if he does this, what does this say about his 20something daughter, a girl whom I’ve always admired as being wholesome and likeable and well worth a shag. Is she, in fact, a crack whore who gives blow-jobs for 50 pence a time in order to support her disgusting habit?

Maybe. On examining the bunch further, though, I discovered no evidence of glue having been used. Apparently, the Fyffe’s bananas and their sub-standard counterparts originate from the same plant. But this has even more disturbing implications: Obviously, this is some sort of GM product – a hybrid of Fyffe’s bananas and some other variety. I wouldn’t have minded so much if these others had been labelled, say, Del Monte or Chiquita, but they weren’t. I just do not know their provenance.

The way I see it, there is only one way to assure myself. On Tuesday, I’ll go round to the greengrocer and wave a five pound note in front of his daughter. I’ll say, “Take your clothes off, bitch, this money says you’re mine for two hours. I want to do you right now, in every position, against that sack of Maris Piper potatoes. Or are they really Maris Piper?” If she acquiesces and strips off in front of me, I’ll know the terrible truth.

In the meantime, I must e-mail Fyffe’s and insist that they start breeding a new strain of banana where the label is actually grown into the flesh of the fruit and goes all the way up, as in a stick of rock. Only in this way can quality be assured.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Vlad the Impaler

This morning, after a strenuous workout in the gym, I took a piss in the establishment's lavatory. Nothing unusual in this, as I tend to drink a lot of bladder-distending water while exercising. But there was one thing of note today: In the urinal, I saw a piss-drenched five pence piece. This set me thinking: How did it get there?

I suppose it’s conceivable that someone urinated it out of his system, as, apparently, you can with gallstones. Had I been that person, however, I wouldn’t have been content with just the one coin. I’d have hung around awhile and taken a few more pisses, in the hope that I might pass £1 or £2, or maybe even a Krugerrand. Then again, it’s possible that that’s exactly what did happen. Painful, probably (especially if you’re still possessed of a foreskin), but, given the rising price of gold these days, well worth doing, nonetheless. Afterwards, perhaps, the individual who’d produced the coins fished the higher value ones out of the urine, but left those of lesser worth behind.

Another possibility, of course, is that someone chucked the coin in there merely in order to see if anyone would indeed pick it up. As I recall, Vlad Ţepeş, aka Vlad the Impaler, used a not dissimilar ploy in 15th century Wallachia. Except, in his case, it wasn't a 5p piece, but a gold chalice, left, apparently unguarded, in the middle of a courtyard. I don’t think he pissed on it, but he did impale to death anyone who picked up the chalice and went off with the thing. Or, if it was a woman with children, he'd boil the children to death and make her eat them. (This must have been before the days of “honesty boxes.”)

Anyhow, I didn’t reckon it was worth being impaled on a stake for just 5p (even £1 would be pushing it), so I left it there. One never knows, though. Given the current economic climate, some people might actually think it worth risking their lives for. After all, 5ps do add up if you can collect enough of them. It’s only to be hoped, therefore, that the person doing the impaling is of the same calibre as Vlad, and able to offer a bulwark against Muslim expansionism in Europe.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Semi-Skimmed Milk

Anyone who drinks semi-skimmed milk should be castrated. Basically, people who consume this stuff are taking an indecisive "middle of the road" position. They are the Liberal Democrats of the nutritional world, lacking the moral courage to ultimately decide whether to go down the health and fitness route, as epitomized by proper, God-fearing skimmed milk, or the way of full-fat, artery-clogging perdition. They therefore don't deserve to have a choice at all.

In my opinion, cartons of semi-skimmed milk should be stored in specially segregated areas of the supermarket, available only on request. And when the pinko filth do put in such a request, they should be hauled to one side by a large member of staff.

"So, we want some semi-skimmed milk, do we, then?" he'd ask, mockingly. "Well, you look like a queer to me. I suppose you want a coloured straw to go with it, too? Or are you the type that pours it over Sugar Puffs?"

At this point, the semi-skimmed milk purchaser would utter some feeble, ineffectual protest. He might even bleat about his rights. They normally do. So the staff member would taunt him all the more, while at the same time summoning up a crowd to watch:

"Tell you what," he'd say, chin jutting forward, "you take your best shot. Go on - land one on me. Prove to me that you're a man, then I might give you a carton of semi-skimmed milk. Or are you too fucking gutless?"

People who drink semi-skimmed milk are gutless, as I've said, so he'd back off, probably muttering something about his being a pacifist and opposed to all forms of violence. Whatever, he wouldn't get his milk, so he'd retire from the supermarket, publicly humiliated.

Over a period of time, and with repeated humiliations, the would-be semi-skimmed milk purchaser would eventually have to ask himself: "Am I a man, or just a nothing? Can I justify my existence upon this earth as a lowly worm?" This crossroads would be decisive. If he concluded that his life was indeed worthless, then he'd start buying full-fat milk in order to speed its end. On the other hand, he might decide that he was a real man, after all. However, in order to assert his masculinity, he'd realise that it would be necessary to vanquish his nemesis in the supermarket. To this end, he'd have to embark on a strenuous workout routine at the gym to build up his body. This would entail eschewing fatty foods. He'd therefore have to drink skimmed milk.

Anyhow, come the decisive day, he'd enter the semi-skimmed milk area of the supermarket once more and confront the staff member.

"I want a litre of semi-skimmed milk," he'd say, assertively, in best "Shane" tradition.

"Prove that you've got the guts to drink it," the staff member would reply, a Jack Palance sneer on his face.

At this point, the customer would land a couple of punches. One in the stomach, one on the chin, sending his tormentor flying. "Now give me a litre of semi-skimmed milk," he'd say. And, of course, the staff member, having picked himself up, would comply. Thereupon, the customer would crumple the carton in his hands, sending semi-skimmed milk squirting everywhere. But his point would have been made.

"I don't need this stuff any more," he'd say. "I am a man. I drink skimmed milk."

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Splitting Up

Impotent amoebas must be the most pitiful of creatures. A normal, sexually active amoeba just gets on with it and splits in two, of course. Then the two halves say to each other, "Was it good for you, too?" before having a cigarette and subdividing yet again. And again. A sexually dysfunctional amoeba, on the other hand, can't manage even an initial split. Instead, he stretches and stretches, but at the critical moment, just snaps back into his original shape again in a trice, like a distended rubber band. This is tragic.

Another unfortunate thing is that amoebas can't wank to assuage their frustrations. This is because for an amoeba, as with Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand, a wank is sex. But amoebas don’t even have the mild consolation of a box of Kleenex.

All of this means that amoeba impotence clinics are very sorry places indeed. I expect that in an attempt to effect some sort of cure, amoeba sex therapists show their patients pornographic amoeba videos, containing images of Christmas crackers being pulled and train carriages being divided and shunted. It rarely ever works. But if it does, the happiest thing the therapist can hear the amoeba say are the words, "We're splitting up." Unlike in a human relationship, this is indicative of a successful outcome.

It's a good job that amoebas aren't sexually rampant, though. This is because an amoeba "gang bang" would be the equivalent of a fission bomb going off. Anyone who was suffering from amoebic dysentery would explode.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Currying Disfavour

My favourite Indian restaurant was a place just outside Buckhurst Hill Station called The Coriander. Note, however, that I say “was”. I learned recently that it had changed management so, when I went for my usual chicken jalfrezi the other night, I feared the worst. And you know what? The worst was exactly what I got.

The food is now FUCKING SHITE.

This is the trouble with curry houses. The standards can vary enormously, and from management to management. One thing I've noticed, though: whatever the quality of the Indian meal - vomit-inducing, indifferent, or delicious - the complimentary mint you get at the end with the bill is always of a consistently high standard. Indeed, where the meal has been especially bad, in many cases, the mint can actually go some way towards redeeming the evening. Which says to me that the quality-control aspects are all arse-about-tit.

Surely, therefore, it would be a much better idea to open a nationwide chain of mint restaurants. So, after having had a night on the town, people would roll down to their local mint house and order, say, an extra-strong Trebor Mint or a super-strength Tic-Tac, washed down with a few lagers. Then it wouldn't matter if you got a shit mint, because at the end, you could look forward to a free curry with your bill. And, naturally, that curry would be consistently delicious.

Another good thing about mint restaurants would be that if you overdid it on the mints, a puked-up Glacier Mint or Polo Mint wouldn't make a fraction of the mess on the pavement as a puked-up curry does. Indeed, its minty freshness might actually be welcomed in some of the scruffier areas of town, as it would probably counteract the smells of dog shit and piss that usually prevail.

Perhaps people would even start paying others to puke in their doorways, which has got to be better than the current situation where it’s usually done gratis and unbidden.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

My Sunday Lunch

Today I had a haggis for lunch, served up with neeps and tatties. It was a genuine, mutton-based haggis, too, enclosed in a sheep's stomach. None of that Sainsburys/M&S, plastic-wrapped, pork-based crap for me, thank you very much. Furthermore, I poured a wee dram of Scotch over the top to ensure authenticity. And now I shall spend the rest of the afternoon drinking the rest of the bottle.

Anyway, the point is, if I had eaten two of the things, some people might have said that I'd consumed two “haggises”. Well fuck them. I have decided that haggis is a fifth form declension Latin noun, therefore the nominative plural is “hagges”. Then again, given that the word is clearly a triliteral and, as a result, quite possibly Arabic in origin, another possible plural is haggisaan (حجسان)- the dual nominative. (Except, of course, when the dual is the direct object of the verb, that dual then takes the accusative, giving us haggisayn (حجسين).)

Be warned.


Someone was saying the other day that 30 is the new 20. Maybe. And, according to Oprah Winfrey, who obviously knows these things because she's on television, 50 is the new 40. Extrapolating downwards in this way, therefore, we can readily deduce that birth must be the new conception. All of which clearly makes sex redundant as a means of species renewal and confirms what many have believed all along:

We are all the products either of the stork or the interior of the midwife’s bag. (Except, of course, for those fucking deviants who gestate under gooseberry bushes.)

This should be good news for Catholics, as it means that mechanical and oral contraceptive devices are now factored out of the reproductive equation entirely and can be used with impunity. If, indeed, you actually want to use them at all. After all, what’s the point of sticking a condom over your nob or popping an oestrogen/progestogen pill if the only end-result is a decrease in sensitivity and a tendency to sprout a moustache?

On the other hand, it does allow the Vatican to introduce whole new categories of sins. Fitting a lock to a midwife’s bag, for example, could easily be construed as a means of birth control. Likewise attaching a cowl to your chimney, as this will prevent the stork dropping the baby down it. In fact, I’ll bet some Godless degenerates will start bringing out ranges of fruit-flavoured and ribbed chimney cowls, just to piss off the Pope. Some may even glow in the dark.

But at least these will prevent people from catching VD when stoking their fires. And I imagine they will now pay a Hell of a lot more attention to their mantelpiece when they’re doing so.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Laughably Small

Back in the days when I had a proper job, the chief account executive of the company where I worked (or, at least, where I went through the motions of doing so) owned a very expensive, very powerful foreign sports car. It was his penis substitute; so called because, just 30 seconds after he turned on the ignition, its suspension collapsed and all the tyres went flat. These disadvantages aside, however, he probably still regarded the thing as compensation of sorts for having a very small dick.

Many under-endowed men seem to think similarly: that the purchase of a high-priced, impressive looking car somehow makes up for their physical deficiencies. So many in fact, that, in my opinion, EC or UK legislation should now be introduced to ensure that there is indeed a direct, standardized correlation between penis size and make and model of car. After all, if they can legislate on such things as the size and shape of bananas and cucumbers, why not here, too?

Of course, these new rules would transform car dealerships totally. No longer could you just walk into a showroom, wave your cheque book, and say “I’ll have that.” Instead, you’d first be required to drop your trousers, whereupon the receptionist would whip out a ruler (or, if necessary, a micrometer) and check out what was on offer. In this way, if you’d gone in there with your heart set on owning, say, a Ferrari Maranello, she could gently point out, with reference to the measurements she’d just taken that, though your dick might be small, it wasn’t actually that small and that, consequently, a Ferrari Testarossa would probably suit better. Or conversely, if you’d gone in for a Porsche Boxter, she’d have to tell you that you were a bit too small to buy that specific model, and so, as a result, would need to stump up the extra cash for a Carrera. Whatever, at the end of the day, you’d be given a list of cars that corresponded exactly to your personal proportions and from which (and only from which) you’d be allowed to make your choice.

Naturally, some would no doubt argue that it’s not how big it is, it’s what you do with it that counts. Fine. Those who claim this should be restricted to Dinky Toys and be legally mandated to take them, still boxed up, to the nearest singles’ bar or night club to try their luck, a photographer from the national newspapers in tow to record their subsequent humiliation. And what of people of respectable dimensions who can’t actually get it up? No problem: sell them the correspondingly-featured car, but make it illegal for them to buy petrol for it.

In this way, the price, make, and performance of the car would tell you precisely, and without fear of contradiction, what you needed to know about the man.

Friday, January 16, 2009

The Emperor's New Clothes Redux

I have now thought further on my posting of last November. In my opinion, Hans Christian Andersen's tale of "The Emperor's New Clothes" in fact has a highly unsatisfactory, less-than-credible ending.

Why should an emperor - a man blessed with a noble upbringing and, no doubt, an expensive education - suddenly come to believe that he's walking around naked, simply on the say-so of some filthy street urchin? Surely the "man in the street", whom this urchin embodies, is, typically, a Sun reader, a player of the National Lottery, a member of the Working Class, and, basically, a fucking thick cunt. Exactly the sort of person, in other words, who, by his very nature, wouldn't be able to see a magic suit of clothes. Indeed, if I were the emperor, I'd be more worried if hoi poloi actually could see my clothes, because this would mean that the lumpen proletariat were at, or even above, my own intellectual level, instead of way, way below me, as God intended.

Notwithstanding this Ultimate Truth, however, the visibility aspects of one's wardrobe could be potentially troublesome for other reasons. Take, for example, the weekly wash. The people who normally go to the launderette on an emperor's behalf are invariably dimbulb menials. But if the emperor entrusted his magic clothes to such as these, they, of course, wouldn't be able to see them, so they'd be forever losing his socks, putting coloureds in with whites, and sometimes - because the "Do not tumble-dry" and "No bleach" signs would be invisible to them, too - even ruining complete outfits.

To avoid this distressing scenario, the emperor would be obliged, instead, to hire top academics and scientists to do his washing and ironing, as they'd be the only ones with the intellectual capacity to see what they were doing. The downside of this, though, is that people like Richard Dawkins and Stephen Hawking probably wouldn't feel fulfilled in their new jobs, and so would flee abroad, causing a brain-drain. Their places in academia would then be taken by people teaching crappy courses like Media Studies, Sociology, and Coronation Street Appreciation, thus dumbing down the nation's universities (even more so than they currently are, I mean, if that’s at all feasible).

Another problem with magic, royalty-related clothes is that, eventually, their designs would be copied, much as, for instance, the Emmanuels' designs for the Princess of Wales' clothes were copied. Consequently, the top fashion magazines would be full of photographs of models wearing these magic creations. This could lead to a situation where thick-as-pigshit newsagents, to whom the garments would be invisible, would mistakenly put publications such as Harpers & Queen and Vogue up with the top-shelf wank mags. Or worse, in their manifest error, they might believe that top-shelf wank mags such as Knave, BigJugs, and Farm Fun were, in fact, legitimate fashion magazines (albeit with their models in some pretty imaginative poses). Then someone such as Donatella Versace might end up being asked why she's allowing someone modelling her latest spring fashions to be photographed sucking a horse's cock or getting it anally from a man with a 14 inch dick.

I suppose the answer to all of this is quite simple: Pay the tailors who produce the magic clothes with "magic money" and see how they react. (Then again, I suppose it could be argued that anyone who’s been paying with Visa and MasterCard over recent years has been doing exactly that, hence the present Credit Crunch.)

Thursday, January 15, 2009


Early this morning, I looked in my sock drawer to find that it contained just two socks: one blue, the other black. But you know what? I put them on, anyway. Why? Because that’s the kind of man I am. I spit in the face of society’s so-called conventions. I am a dangerous free-thinker, responsible only to myself. The opinions of others mean nothing to me. If a rule is to be flouted, I will flout it. I live on the edge, exuding a palpable air of menace that puts other men in awe and quickens the heartbeat of women.

Next, I turned to my shoes. Why, I asked myself, should I be bound by the accepted wisdom that says one should wear a matching pair? Accordingly, I put a Barker brogue on my left foot and a Church “Classic” on my right. Unfortunately, this combination proved somewhat less successful. I soon discovered that the heel on the Church is about half an inch longer than that on the Barker. Consequently, the ensemble caused me to start limping around like a land-mine victim with an artificial limb. As there are few land-mines in Hertfordshire, I might have been mistaken for some sort of spastic, so gave up on this. The socks were enough, anyway. And a lot safer.

Why safer?

Because in the same way that it’s regarded as an unacceptable faux pas for two women to turn up to a social event wearing an identical dress, I get equally irritated when I find out that a man is wearing the same socks as me. More often than not I’ll simply leave in a huff. Sometimes, however, I get so fucked off that I take him outside and kick the shit out him. I suppose, therefore, that the fact that I’m now wearing odd socks makes it safer for other men in that, dull conformists that most of them are, they’re highly unlikely to be wearing a pair that clashes with mine.

In fact, with this in mind, perhaps sock manufacturers should start to sell only odd socks. This will then make getting dressed a more intellectually rigorous experience, of course, as, henceforth, you’ll have to remember exactly which mismatched sock goes with the other to make up the pair.

On the down-side, there’s always the lurking danger that, having taken them to the launderette to be washed, you might return to find that you’ve now got a dozen matching pairs.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

My Evening Meal

Behold this evening’s creation: Slavko’s Bacon and Leek Potato Gratin.


3 rashers of dry cure, smoked back bacon
1 leek, finely sliced
1 clove of garlic, crushed
½ Bramley cooking apple, peeled, cored, and sliced
1 tsp lemon juice
1 largish potato, peeled and thinly sliced
3 tbsp crème fraîche
1 tbsp wholegrain mustard
2 oz Cheddar cheese, grated
3 tbsp milk
Salt and pepper, to taste


First, par-boil the potatoes for around five minutes (or else microwave them for a minute or so – you don’t want them to be too hard, which they will be if they’re not heated in some way before they go into the oven). While you’re doing so, dry fry the bacon and remove from the pan once done. Then, add the butter and gently sauté the leeks for about five minutes. Stir in the garlic and apple and cook for a further two minutes. Next, add the lemon juice and black pepper. Return the bacon to the mix, and transfer the ensemble to a deep, buttered, oven-proof ramekin dish. Arrange the potato slices on top, mix the crème fraîche, milk and mustard together, season, and pour over the potatoes. Cover with foil and cook in a preheated oven at Gas Mark 6 for about 45 minutes. Remove the foil, sprinkle over the cheese, and return to the oven for about 20 minutes more. Finally, serve with a green salad. (Or even a blue salad, if you can find one)


If sex were ever made illegal, this would be an equally pleasurable substitute.

Piranha Peril

You often hear tales of explorers in the Amazon walking into the middle of a stream or river and suddenly getting eaten alive by a shoal of piranha fish. Evidently, they can reduce a man (and, presumably, a woman) to virtually nothing in under three minutes.

The way the explorers tell it, this is supposed to impress people or fill them with dread, or something, implying that the job of exploring is somehow hazardous or glamorous, instead of the glorified country hike that it actually is.

Well I, personally, couldn’t give a fuck. The thing is, a shoal of piranha must comprise at least a couple of hundred individual fish, so it’s hardly surprising that it takes them so little time, is it? What the explorers don’t tell you, of course, because it doesn’t sound nearly so dramatic, is that one fish can do the job just as well. It simply takes a bit longer. What happens is that it attaches itself to some extremity – your finger or toe, for example – and then gradually works its way up. By the end of the week you’re equally as eaten as if a whole shoal had done it.

Nevertheless, thanks to the explorers’ tall stories, being eaten by piranha still retains a certain social cachet. Far more so than, say, being chewed up by dogs or gnawed to death by rats, anyway.

It occurs to me therefore, that people who want to commit suicide with a degree of finesse and who aren’t particularly bothered by time constraints might consider using a piranha. You wouldn’t have to go all the way to South America, either. You could simply buy one in a pet shop, put it in a goldfish bowl, and attach the ensemble to your arse. An advantage of this exit method is that, at any stage, you can always phone up the Samaritans and tell them what you’ve done, and then they’ve got plenty of time to talk you out of it.

Then again, if you are the sort of person who's going to walk around all day with a fish chewing on his arse, even the Samaritans would probably advise you just to get on with it and stop wasting their time. Some people don't deserve a second chance.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Flabby Bastards (3)

Earlier today I went to the gym for the first time this year. Unfortunately, my workout routine was impeded by the presence of large numbers of lardy-gut bastards who were obviously newcomers, both to the gym itself and to the concepts of exercise and proper nutrition. Because they had no idea how to use either the weights or the equipment, staff members had to put all these disgusting, porky twats through “induction” routines in an attempt to ensure they didn’t kill themselves through over-exertion or incorrect use of the machines (some of them would no doubt have attempted to eat the leather-covered lat pulldown bar, believing it to be a giant liquorice stick). As a result, I had to wait forever to finish. Indeed, some exercises – on the Smith machine and the shoulder press, for example – I had to give up on altogether.

This is an iniquitous situation.

In Formula One racing, does Lewis Hamilton have to slow down to 10mph because there’s a line of learner drivers in front of him? Are novice skiers allowed to go down black runs? Is Olympic Gold Medallist swimmer, Michael Phelps, obliged to tread water because the lanes of the pool have all been roped off to accommodate people wearing water wings who can’t even manage a respectable breast stroke? No, of course not. So, by the same token, why should grossly unfit individuals be allowed to clog my exercise facilities and imperil the maintenance of my body? The potential consequences could be horrendous.

Think, for instance, of the film Casino Royale. When Bond emerges from the Caribbean, dripping sea water and oozing masculinity, drop-dead-gorgeous Solange gives him the once over and is obviously smitten at first sight. As a result, Bond can get to her husband, Alex Dimitrios, through her, thus preventing the prototype Super Jumbo from being blown up at Miami Airport, and so thwarting Le Chiffre’s plans to finance world terrorism. However, had Bond not been able to exercise for a few days because some lardy-gut wanker had been hogging the gym equipment, Solange might have looked at him and thought, “He’s OK, I suppose, but the abs are a little undefined and I really do think those pecs needs some more work.” So she’d have spurned Bond’s advances, the plane would have been blown up, and Le Chiffre would have been able to donate his millions to Al-Quaeda, who’d then have probably bought off-the-shelf nuclear weapons, detonated them in both Washington and London, and killed millions.

And all because some FAT, FUCKING CUNT doesn’t know how to use a reverse bench-press machine.

In my opinion, if you're unfit, you should first have to go to a dedicated Fat Cunts' Gym in order to work off some of the flab. Then you should be allowed to progress to a Moderately Porky Gym. But only when you have acquired my enviable physique and musculature (43 inch chest, 32 inch waist, six-pack abs) should you be allowed to use Ultra-Fit He-Man equipment.

Monday, January 12, 2009


Yesterday evening I was informed by a woman that, rather than frown - my de facto facial expression - I should smile more often because, "You have a lovely smile." (Along with the lovely all the rest of me, of course.)

The quality of my smile is no doubt enhanced by the fact that my teeth are individually protected by DenPlan, the dental equivalent of PPP and BUPA. For a monthly fee, DenPlan gives me the confidence to eat the stickiest, sugary foodstuffs, sure in the knowledge that, should decay ever occur, I can visit my up-market private dentist at any time, day or night, and be treated without having to pay an extra penny. Likewise, every tooth is individually polished to a pearly gleam by the expert private hygienist, such that the ensemble of canines and incisors dazzle with their collective radiance. Consequently, my teeth are in great demand in all the up-market eateries.

This has set me to thinking, though: You're not allowed into a top restaurant if you're shabbily dressed, so why should you be allowed in if you've got teeth that can't - literally and figuratively speaking - cut the mustard? The answer is that you shouldn't. People who are treated by NHS dentists and who, as a result, have NHS teeth, should only be permitted to dine in places like McDonald's and Pizza Hut, where the down-market food perfectly complements their down-market mouth equipment.

Policing this would be easy. Restaurants would simply station a bouncer at their entrance whose job it would be to open the mouth and examine the teeth of those wishing to eat within. Naturally, those sporting prominent over-bites and amalgam of mercury fillings would be turned away, much as people wearing jeans or baseball caps would be turned away. At the same time, the bouncer could assess the age and general health of the would-be diners, allowing him to seat potential breeding material at adjacent tables.

Of course, some people with NHS teeth might object to being turned away and protest, loudly. There would, however, be a solution to their dilemma. In the same way that badly-dressed diners are sometimes offered the loan of a jacket or tie by the restaurant, badly-toothed diners should be offered the loan of a set of up-market dentures. But only if they agreed to allow the bouncer to punch out their offending teeth beforehand.

Harmonized Humping

I once had an occasional girlfriend who, as she approached orgasm, was wont to howl like a cat. (And quite often a cat would howl back – or maybe it was some other woman in the same street similarly in extremis, or a combination of both. Who knows? ) However, over time, I also became aware of another concurrent background sound: The Cuckoo Waltz. Albeit a very Muzak-like rendition of it.

You often hear the expression “Music played for us” when sex is discussed. Notwithstanding, in these circumstances one usually expects something rousing like a Mozart number or the finalé of the 1812, certainly not a cheap, tinny tune. So at first I persuaded myself that what I was hearing reflected my own personal degree of satisfaction. This is because, to be quite honest, while she was obviously enjoying herself, I wasn’t much. But that’s by the bye.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, subsequent investigation on my part revealed that there was actually nothing otherworldly about the music at all. In fact, it was the woman’s key-ring fob: one of those designed to respond to sound so you don’t lose it in the dark or under a pile of clothes. When she produced a specific pitch, it would automatically activate and play. For a time, therefore, it proved a useful gauge of exactly how well I was performing. But all things come to an end. As the battery died, so, too, did the relationship.

Looking back on this, though, I sometimes wonder: if the musical accompaniment had been any better, would I have felt more satisfied? Had it played, for example, the entire score of Man of La Mancha or Oklahoma, might I have been so engrossed by that that I’d have overlooked the mediocre nature of the shag, such that our brief union not only endured but went to fruition, with marriage, children, and all the rest? Quite possibly.

In my opinion, therefore, producers of i-Pods and MP3 players should offer an additional service to couples whereby a salesman or saleswoman goes to bed with one or both of you and gives an assessment of exactly how good the subsequent sex is. Then they’d sell you a package corresponding to its quality, or lack thereof. So, for instance, a really lousy lay would entail the purchase of an advanced i-Pod with the ability to store 50 or more of your favourite albums to take your mind off it, while something truly superlative in the sex department would require only a cheap MP3 device playing Ave Maria on a continuous loop.

Of course, if you couldn’t get it up at all, you’d probably need the entire London Philharmonic Orchestra on a daily basis, which would be quite costly. On the other hand, I suppose you could recoup some of the money by selling the broadcast rights to the BBC. Watching some couple attempting and failing to have sex, set to Land of Hope and Glory or Jerusalem, would make for far more entertaining television than The Last Night of the Proms. And, on the up-side, at least the “party poppers” would go with a bang.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Fimus Sanctus

You know, something’s troubling me about the Catholic Mass that I attended last Sunday.

After the congregation eat the Communion wafer, the corporeal essence of Jesus is then treated by the human digestive system like any other foodstuff, and eventually gets transformed into shit. Which means that the Holy Shit goes through the sewage system and gets mixed in with everyone else's shit. So, effectively, Jesus gets combined with the faeces of Godless unbelievers, thereby diluting the Shit's holiness.

To avert such a tragedy, in my opinion, the homes of Catholics should be plumbed separately from the homes of the heathen, and their waste outlets all directed to a special Catholic-only sewage works. This would ensure the accumulation of a holier grade of excrement. Indeed, so holy would it be that such sewage works would probably be able to serve the same function as shrines such as Lourdes and Fatima. Those afflicted in mind and body could come along, sniff of the Holy Shit, and be miraculously cured of their ailments.

Alternatively, if the Catholic Church didn't like this idea, they might arrange to bypass the digestive system entirely. This they could do by directing their Priests to offer Communicants, not an orally ingested Host, but a Body of Christ Suppository that would gradually release its pure Jesusness over a 24 hour period. Given that He's going to be in the arse region at some time, anyway, He may as well start his journey there. In order to partake of the Holy Suppository, Communicants would have to bare their arses to the Priest and, as best they could, fart an "Amen" in response to his "The body of Christ" (or corpus Christi if it’s a Latin mass).

Or perhaps a Jesus patch, like one of those nicotine patches, would be better. You'd probably have to take special care not to inadvertently swallow a Host while you're wearing one of these patches, though, or you might overdose on holiness and suddenly turn into a Pope. This isn't something that I, personally, would want to do. Not unless I urgently needed my ceiling painted, anyway.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Ass Ablution

Every morning I have a shower. It takes just two minutes. In that time I’m able to shampoo my hair and soap and rinse my body. Then, thoroughly cleansed and invigorated, I climb out, dry myself, shave, and face the day (remembering to dress first, of course). I reckon I use, maximum, a gallon of water.

What a contrast to the energy and resource-wasting filthy slovens who sit in a bath. A bath takes several minutes to fill and uses several gallons more water than a shower. Consequently, commensurately more energy is needed to heat that water. And the worst part is, when you have a bath, you’re basically wallowing in your own filth. It’s therefore the exact equivalent of taking a piss or a crap, jumping into the lavatory pan afterwards, and then forgetting to flush.

People who take baths make me want to fucking puke.

To discourage people from taking baths, tiny, carnivorous fish should be introduced into the water supply. A shower head, naturally, would filter them all out (and they could then be collected up and later grilled on toast to make a nourishing snack). But a bath tap would let them all through, to happily munch on unprotected bits of body and swim up orifices. As a result, a “nice, relaxing Radox bath” could well reduce you to a skeleton in under two minutes.

Good riddance, say I.

I suppose, if you insisted on emulating a sponge but still wanted to save energy and resources, you could always do what Cleopatra did and bathe in asses’ milk. But then you’d need a separate hot and cold ass plus a mixer unit linked to their teats so as to get the temperature of your bath absolutely right. Too cold and you’d risk turning into some sort of human-flavoured yoghurt. Too hot and a skin might form on the surface of your bath, making it difficult, if not impossible, to get out afterwards. If you couldn’t, you’d be trapped and eventually go sour.

Another problem with asses is that people like Samson often come along, nick their jaw-bones, and use them for smiting Philistines. This means that, mid-bath, a Philistine war party might try to pre-empt him by stealing your asses before he can get to them. Which in turn could so piss off Samson that he’d place his hands on each of your bathroom walls, push them apart, and cause the whole house to fall on you and kill you.

All in all it seems far better just to take a shower, then you don’t have to deal with these inconveniences.

Friday, January 09, 2009

Like Rabbits

Further to my leporine observations of yesterday, it occurs to me that you often hear the expression "at it like rabbits" to describe people's sexual behaviour. This implies that they're having sex all the time, suggesting a wanton profligacy, with no regard for the consequences or for social norms and mores.

In my opinion, this stereotype could well be offensive to rabbits. In particular to celibate, impotent, and neutered rabbits. Worse, it might cause even hitherto sexually active male rabbits to start suffering from performance anxiety as they try to live up to the impossibly high expectations implied by the aforementioned expression, leading, ultimately, to a complete inability to achieve an erection. As a result, in order to assuage their frustration, the female rabbits will have no other option but to dig burrows all day and mug people for their carrots as they emerge from Sainsburys.

Of course, some would argue that "at it like rabbits", far from being a stereotype, is, in fact, a true depiction of their behaviour. To justify this, they point to what happens in a rabbit hutch. There, if a newly introduced male and female are placed together next to food, the first thing they'll do is shag rather than eat. But is this surprising? If, for example, Claudia Schiffer were to suddenly come up to me and say, "Do you want to tear off my diaphanous night dress, cup my pert breasts in your hand, and kiss me, hard and passionately on the lips, or would you rather have this carrot?", I'm certain I'd go for the former. As, I'm sure would most normal people.

Then there are those who criticise rabbits for their apparent lack of discrimination, in that they appear to shag anything that's vaguely of the opposite sex, regardless. The thing is, though, rabbit burrows have no artificial lighting, so you wouldn't know what you were shagging, anyway. Especially if she suddenly breaks through from an adjoining burrow in the middle of the night and expresses an immediate desire for sex. Homosexual coal miners must get this sort of thing all the time when their shafts suddenly cross, mid-seam, so they'd sympathize. Yes, he might in reality look like Johnny Vegas or Arthur Mullard, but in their mind's eye, in the dark, he's always Antonio Banderas.

Thinking about it, no-one ever says of people that "they're at it like homosexual rabbits" which suggests that the gay rabbit community are a lot more conservative than their heterosexual peers. It's just as well really. If it were especially common for thousands of gay rabbits to emerge from the ground and bugger anything that moved, Playboy would probably have to drastically rethink their logo. Or else they'd have to start promoting a dramatically different lifestyle.

Thursday, January 08, 2009


I see most of today’s newspapers are trying to outdo themselves over the fact that French Justice Minister, Rachida Dati, is now back at work five days after giving birth to a baby girl. “Looking astonishingly glamorous, she appeared at the Elysée Palace yesterday for a weekly Cabinet meeting,” gushes The Daily Mail.

So fucking what? I say.

The thing is, when I was a child, I kept rabbits. As is their nature, they reproduced rather rapidly, and I often watched them giving birth. They didn't roll around in histrionics, screaming for an epidural, as they did so. I didn't have to dial 999 and call for an animal ambulance to whisk them away to a special bunny maternity unit to be waited on, expensively, by half a dozen ante-natal vets. No: they just got on with it. Producing not just one, mind you, like Rachida Dati, but sometimes five or six at a time. Then, five minutes later – not five days, five minutes - they were back to munching rabbit food, business as usual. Reuters and AP didn’t bother sending a photographer round, either.

This proves conclusively that giving birth is just a normal bodily function, no more profound or complicated than eating, drinking, or sleeping. What is amazing about Rachida Dati, therefore, isn’t that she’s returned to work so soon, but that it took her so fucking long to get off her lazy arse and back to her job. What was the Hell was she doing in the meantime?

Then again, perhaps I’m being a little unfair to her. It's possible that Dati's domestic and dietary arrangements weren't as they should have been. Had she been kept in an outdoors hutch and fed a proper diet of carrots and crushed vegetable pellets, like my rabbits, maybe she’d also have been a lot more efficient in the reproduction department, reducing her gestation period to just 28 days and her post-natal recovery period to mere minutes, too. I suppose the disadvantage with this is that male cabinet members would all then feel a primordial urge to jump her, simultaneously, and impregnate her with their seed whenever she was in heat.

If this situation were to repeat itself exponentially, the staff of the Elysée Palace might increase to about 10,000 in just 12 months, no doubt provoking governments of other nations into similar acts of fecundity. I can’t imagine, for example, Putin or Obama being satisfied with only three offspring apiece if Sarkozy, alone, were able to produce 300+ over a single weekend. Thus we’d see the advent, not of an arms race, but of an arms, legs, head, and all the rest of the body race. Condom machines would be regarded in the same vein as Ronald Reagan’s “Star Wars” anti-ballistic missile initiative, factored into international treaties, and subject to inspection by (probably) Vatican observers. Regional wars would be fought by proxy armies to secure Viagra supply lines.

Whatever, at least Dati hasn’t demanded maternity leave. What is that crap all about, anyway? My rabbits didn’t demand a three year paid holiday after they’d given birth (which is probably just as well, given that domestic rabbits only have a four to five year lifespan). If women are allowed maternity leave, I think men should be allowed conception leave. In other words, if we ever get a hard-on while we're in the office, we should alert our manager to the fact, and then take a three year paid sabbatical to go out and get our end away.

Wednesday, January 07, 2009


There is nothing so ridiculous as the sight of someone wearing out-of-date, unfashionable clothes. For example, these days, anyone dressed in flared trousers or a "kipper" tie invites universal derision (though I have to say that back in the 1970s when these things were “in”, I had the good style sense to realize that they looked ridiculous even then, and so refused to wear them). Likewise multi-colour kaftans.

The problem is, there's nothing on the clothing itself to indicate that it actually is out of date. In my opinion, therefore, clothing manufacturers ought to follow the example of the food industry and stamp "Best Before" or “Wear By” dates on all of their produce. Thus buyers would be able to peruse the fashion shops and choose only the freshest garments, rejecting those approaching their expiration.

Indeed, the food analogy should be taken further. Instead of storing clothing in wardrobes, it would probably be better to keep shirts, jackets, and trousers in the fridge. In this way their style would keep longer and not go off so readily. If a pair of Dayglo platform shoes manufactured in 1971 had been kept in the deep freeze and only taken out as and when required, I believe there's every likelihood they could still be worn today without embarrassment.

After all, take the example of Eskimos who live in a sub-zero, hostile environment. Their clothing and igloos haven't changed style in thousands of years, yet they never look unfashionable. This is because the cold has preserved their fashion. In fact, it's for this reason that no-one bothers to produce Eskimo versions of style magazines like GQ or Arena. There simply isn't the demand as the style hardly varies from season to season (Though global warming might change things a little.).

Relationships might benefit from the cold, too. In my experience, the average human relationship lasts about three years. After that, you begin to get bored with the woman and want to trade her in for another. However, if women were stored in the fridge during the day and taken out and used only at night, they would last a lot longer. Thus marriages and other nominally long-term partnerships could endure for decades quite happily.

But you would have to ensure that you removed the woman from the fridge at least an hour before use. Otherwise she might give you “the cold shoulder”.