Amphibian

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.

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.

Doctors

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.

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.

Shroud

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

Frogs

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.

Whales

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.

Bin

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.

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.

Box

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.

Foam

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.

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.

My Teeth

My teeth are pearly white and my smile is dazzling. So dazzling, in fact, that anyone standing within smiling range must wear a pair of those special, ultra-thick goggles as used by nuclear test scientists, lest his or her retinas be burnt out.

Unfortunately, these days, the only people with access to such goggles are nuclear test scientists. For safety’s sake, therefore, I have to restrict any grins and smirks to atomic weapons testing ranges. So, in practice, if you want to tell me a joke or otherwise make me happy, you’ve got to do it in Iran or North Korea. Which is a great pity because Iranian “How many Zionist imperialist lackeys of the Great Satan does it take to change a lightbulb?” and Korean “My dog’s got no nose – That’s because you ate it” gags aren’t particularly funny. Especially if, at the time they’re being told, I happen to be within fallout range of a 20 Megaton blast.

Then again, I suppose I have it very easy compared to Ancient Romans. My magnificently astounding teeth are courtesy of Eucryl “Whitening” Tooth Powder. If Catullus and others are to be believed, Ancient Romans’ sparkling teeth were down to urine. That’s right: They brushed their teeth with piss in order to get the true, “Ultrabrite Smile” effect.

I should imagine in the same way that, today, competing brands of toothpaste each claim to give you the whitest, brightest teeth, back in the 1st century AD, rival urine producers would make equivalent boasts. They’d claim that their piss, and theirs alone, was the most efficacious at removing stains, preventing plaque build-up and cavities, and giving you that “winning, confident smile.” Patrician piss was undoubtedly better than the plebeian variety, but I wonder how the average dental hygiene-conscious Roman citizen would decide on exactly which patrician he’d have piss in his mouth?

Ultimately, I suppose, one would go by one’s dentist’s recommendation. However, if 90 per cent of dentists agreed that, for example, Gaius Calpurnius Piso’s piss was the sine qua non of tooth-enhancing urine, then Gaius Calpurnius Piso would have his work cut out to produce a sufficient amount to satisfy demand. By the time he’d fulfilled the requirements of the imperial family, the Senate, and the two Consuls, there wouldn’t be much more than a thimble-full left for the rest of the Empire, even if the man was on a 24-hour asparagus diet. They therefore probably had to equip him with the equivalent of an olive press in order to enable a “pump action” which extracted the very last drop.

Actually, this explains why so few statues of Ancient Romans ever depict them smiling: There simply wasn’t sufficient “extreme whitening” piss to go round. Particularly if some inconsiderate cunt was in the habit of squeezing a piss purveyor down his middle.

Archaeologists

You often hear archaeologists enthusing over having discovered a Roman villa. Indeed, so proud are they of their spadework, that, once the soil has been cleared, they usually put the thing on show. What I'd like to know, though, is why no archaeologist has ever admitted to having found a Roman maisonette or a Roman semi. Surely they must have existed. Actually, it's my opinion that such things are dug up all the time, but the archaeologists get so embarrassed when they find one, that they try to keep quiet about it.

Why should this be so?

It's obvious, really. Archaeologists are desperately trying to project a Middle Class, pipe-smoking, intellectual image. The reality of the situation, however, is that archaeology, far from being a cerebral, academic activity, is in fact more akin to road-digging or navvying. It's borderline Working Class. Archaeologists realise this. That's why they always make a fuss about having found something royal or some objet d'art associated with nobility. They think the kudos will rub off on them. And by the same token, that's why they shut up when they dig up an antiquarian equivalent of an item from the Argos catalogue. They fear guilt by association.

Take Heinrich Schliemann, for example. Yes, he did discover the site of Troy. Eventually. What people don't realise, however - and that's because he kept well quiet about it - is that, beforehand, he dug up the Anatolian equivalents of Milton Keynes, Croydon, and Catford. There, he unearthed thousands of objects from the Bronze Age Franklin Mint collection, including "limited edition" mugs with King Priam's face on them, plates commemorating the tenth anniversary of the Iliad ("which you will treasure forever"), and little thimbles with mugshots of Hector and Achilles painted round the periphery. The man almost topped himself from the embarrassment.

So those who tune into soi disant intellectual television, such as “The Time Team”, should realise this: What they’re actually doing is the exact equivalent of watching "The Big Match Live" or “Celebrity Big Brother”, while simultaneously guzzling a four-pack of Tennent's Super and chewing on a Big Mac.

Wankers.

Fishing Harbour

I used to live in a house overlooking the picturesque fishing harbour of Newlyn. Every year, tourists flocked there from all over the world to take photographs of the village and its environs. There was (probably still is) much to see pleasing to the eye: The dozens of colourful fishing boats, the busy fishermen, and, of course, the many varieties of fish being unloaded. The sights also attracted artists. One often saw painters standing at their easels, attempting to immortalise the scenery in oils or watercolours.

All of this has set me thinking, though. Basically, the function of a fishing harbour is to land fish, process them, and then send them on elsewhere to be sold and eaten. In many respects, it mirrors the functions of an abattoir. So why is that abattoirs don't attract tourists, photographers, and artists, whereas fishing harbours do?

I think the problem is that abattoirs and their personnel lack aesthetic appeal. The abattoir buildings tend to be unimposing brick edifices, while the people who work there are dowdy cunts dressed in featureless white. But this would be so easy to change.

In my opinion, abattoir lorries should be painted in bright colours, and be given individual names like, "Beef Buggy", "Bloody Entrail", and "The Skewered Gizzard." They should all be encouraged to "land" their cargoes of cattle, sheep, and pigs simultaneously. This would ensure that the whole abattoir area became a sudden mass of colour. People from all over would bring their families to watch the animals being killed.

Abattoir employees themselves should be encouraged to dress in woolly pullovers, wear earrings, acquire tattoos, and talk total gibberish. Special pubs should be set up alongside the abattoirs, with names like "The Aberdeen Angus", "The Slaughterman's Arms," and "The Bull Castrator's Rest." There, the slaughtermen and drivers could get properly pissed after a hard day's butchering, and tell each other tall tales of the heifer that got away and of run-ins with quota-busting Spanish slaughtermen out in the treacherous reaches of the A37. It would also be a good idea to liberally scatter entrails all over the place. This would encourage vultures to gather. Vultures look far more impressive than seagulls, and so would attract lots of tourists.

If my ideas were to be implemented, town and villages with abattoirs would become "in" holiday destinations, thus boosting their economies. There could be a few problems, however. For example, if there was a storm on the M40, it's conceivable that one of the more unlucky abattoir lorries could be lost in it with all hands. But that's a small price to pay for enhanced aesthetic appeal.

Penguins

Penguins tend only to be born during periods of climatic disaster. They spend their infancy eating putrid, year-old vomit. Fish vomit. At some point even this meagre nourishment runs out, and, because they can’t fly, they must then embark on an absurd trek of hundreds of miles over impassable terrain, usually with predators, high winds, and blazing fireballs picking them off in their hundreds. When they reach their destination, usually the shore of some half-frozen sea, they have to clamber down sheer-sided cliffs and run a gauntlet of psychotic seals, before finally plunging gratefully into the frigid waters - whereupon they are promptly devoured by passing killer whales.

A better idea, therefore, might be to take penguin eggs from their nests and submerge them in the sea. Then, when the baby penguins hatch, they will believe themselves to be fish. Consequently, flightlessness will no longer be a problem. They will be able to flit about the oceans to their hearts' content, no longer having to worry about waddling around in a ridiculous-looking, predator-enticing manner.

Of course, the sudden penguin influx might provoke some of the fish population into retaliating by laying their eggs in penguin nests. On hatching, the fry will believe themselves to be penguins, and walk upright on their tails. While this might not be a problem with smaller fish, such as sticklebacks or kippers, it could get quite dangerous once land-based species of, say, hammerhead shark and great white come of age. They will bounce all over the place, eating people, and generally looking decidedly non-cute As a result, no-one will want to name chocolate biscuits or book publishers after them.

Which is just as well, I suppose, because "P-p-pick up a porbeagle" sounds fucking stupid. As, indeed, does the concept of a Grey Mullet edition of "Lady Chatterley's Lover."

Perhaps, then, it's best to leave the status quo as is.