tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-291520122023-07-31T12:16:23.167+01:00Joe Slavko's JournalDiary of a slum landlordJoe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-28424565583009559902010-05-07T13:55:00.001+01:002010-05-07T14:16:04.318+01:00Proportional Representation<img src="http://www.cix.co.uk/~hewitt/cameron.jpg" hspace="5" vspace="5" align="RIGHT" />Given today’s election results, I find myself – somewhat surprisingly, admittedly – in favour of proportional representation. Not, however, in the crude form as advocated by the Liberals. No, in my opinion, politicians should be prepared to go all the way for their principles.<br /><br />To this end, I propose maintaining the current constituency-based “first past the post” system but with a few modifications. <br /><br />Take, for example, a seat where three candidates are standing: Conservative, Liberal, and Labour. The man (or woman – though, frankly, I maintain graves doubts over the wisdom of having given them vote in the first place) getting a majority of the votes would, of course, then be elected. However - and here’s the brilliant bit - it would be administered slightly differently. <br /><br />Instead of sending the winning candidate to the House of Commons, you’d send just a proportion of him, corresponding to the proportion of the actual vote he received. So if, say, he won with 55 per cent, that’s exactly how much of him you’d return to Westminster, having first removed the superfluous 45 per cent gained by his opponents. <br /><br />In practice, this would mean lopping his legs off. Or, if he didn’t fancy that, maybe an arm and an arse cheek. Whatever, by implanting this system, you’d guarantee a much higher calibre of politician, because only those willing to sacrifice their limbs and other bits of their body would get in. Who could fail to trust such a an obviously committed person?<br /><br />I suppose there’s a risk here that, in constituencies fielding large numbers of candidates where the vote is spread evenly, you could end up with a result where the politician in question gets so proportionalised that only his genitals are left. But there have been so many dicks in Parliament in the past, perhaps no-one would notice any qualitative difference.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-81133516639737293082010-01-21T12:59:00.001+00:002010-01-21T12:59:48.345+00:00Garage AttendantI do hope that, when Jesus eventually makes His second coming, He won’t come back as a garage attendant. If He did, I’m sure that the temptation to change water into Five Star Unleaded would be irresistible. In addition, He’d probably integrate baptism into the drive-through car washing service. Which would be fine if everyone in the car was of the same faith. But what would happen if a Muslim, a Jew, and a Christian were travelling together? Bloody religious wars might break out on garage forecourts.<br /><br />Thinking about it, Jesus’ work at a garage would lead to a whole new form of ministry. Today, if people have a shunt or accidentally scrape another car, they report the fact to an insurance company and have an assessor come along. However, with a Jesus-inspired garage, customers would take their damaged cars to a confessional staffed by a mechanic in overalls and a dog-collar. He would listen to their driving peccadilloes, all told in confidence, give them an estimate on how much absolution would cost - for example, a penance consisting of the recitation of five pages from the Highway Code - and then tell them to come back in three days. When they did come back, however, they’d be told that the penance was now actually 10 pages from the Highway Code, seeing as, in the interim, the mechanic had discovered that the front bumper was having impure thoughts re: a Toyota. <br /><br />I imagine the concept of Holy Motor Oil would come about, too. People would bring their clapped-out, MOT failures along, hoping for a miracle. They would line up, each partake of the Holy Motor Oil, and recite in turn, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you service me. Only say the Word, and my vehicle shall be healed.”<br /><br />Actually, this sort of thing would be a boon for dodgy second-hand car dealers. If, shortly after you’d bought your car, its suspension collapsed or a wheel fell off, the dealer could claim it was due to a lack of Faith on your part rather than poor maintenance or shoddy goods on his. He’d say you had it coming because you’d fucked your best friend’s wife, or coveted his ox, or something like that.<br />The sales of new cars would probably suffer, too. This is because Jesus would go around to breakers’ yards, seek out the compacted lumps of metal, and resurrect them into brand new BMWs and Volvos.<br /><br />What a cheating cunt.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-18891108061994765352010-01-17T11:15:00.000+00:002010-01-17T11:16:33.621+00:00Caffeine PerformanceWhen a couple return from a first date together, typically, the man will ask the woman, "Do you want to come up for a coffee?" This, of course, is the traditional euphemism for "Do you want to come in for a shag?" There are usually only two possible responses: either (a) "Yes, I'd like to" (ie "I'm gagging for it.") or (b) "Thanks, but it's a bit late, and I'd better be getting back." (ie "I wouldn't let your dick within 50 miles of me.") In both instances, the need to maintain propriety severely restricts the information that can be conveyed, thus leading to possible confusion and/or offence.<br /><br /><img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/cafettiere.jpg" hspace="5" vspace="5" align="RIGHT" />In my opinion, therefore, men who buy coffee should first be required by law to declare how good they are in bed. Their points-out-of-ten rating would then determine exactly which variety they'd be allowed to purchase. Eight out of 10 or higher, for example, would give them <I>carte blanche</I> to choose from anything in the shop. Six or 7 out of 10, and they'd be allowed everything but the prestige beans. A score of 5, however, would restrict them to the milder Colombian and Kenyan blends. Anything lower, and they descend into decaffeinated territory and worse. One or 2 out of ten - the premature ejaculators and their ilk - would, appropriately, only be allowed to buy instant coffee.<br /><br />When you think about it, the reasons behind this should be obvious. <br /><br />If my policy were to be implemented, the usual to-shag-or-not-to-shag exchange would take on much greater significance, while still remaining within the boundaries of good taste and manners. For instance, the question, "Do you want to come up for a Kwik Save Economy powdered coffee drink?" could be answered with a polite, "No, thank you. I only drink freshly ground Jamaica Supreme." Similarly, someone asking, "Do you want to come up for some Kenko Original? It's indistinguishable from real coffee. I swear to God. I'm begging you to believe me. Please, please, please!", could be responded to with a friendly, "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't drink that WEAK, WISHY-WASHY PISS if you paid me. One gulp, and in a second, it's gone." <br /><br />On the other hand, “Do you want to come up for a cup or two of Whittard’s Caribbean Mountain?” would undoubtedly bring forth the answer, “God, yes! Oh God! Yes, yes, yes ….. Yeesssssss!”<br /><br />As you can see, the man is able to convey, not just the fact that he wants a shag, but the exactly quality of the shag that's on offer. For her part, the woman, should she so wish, is able to decline with good grace, explaining <I>exactly</I> why she isn't interested in that shag, yet without giving offence. It's the coffee that she's turning down, not the person. <br /><br />I suppose in some circumstances, it's conceivable that the coffee could be so good as to surpass the actual sex itself. There are a couple of Jamaican and South American blends that come to mind. The only drawback here, though, would be if the woman accepted the man's invitation to go up for a coffee, drank a cup, had multiple orgasms as a result, and thereafter didn't want any sex. But this needn't be a bad thing. Indeed, a man who got a reputation for giving good coffee would soon be the envy of all others. It would probably push up the price of cafetières, though.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-54793009877903506832010-01-14T22:09:00.001+00:002010-01-14T22:11:35.679+00:00Transforming TransportDuring the 18th Century, as evidenced by tales such as <I>Cinderella</I>, people without their own form of transport could, if they had access to a Fairy Godmother, prevail upon her to turn an ordinary pumpkin into a carriage. In this way, they were able to travel inexpensively, and in comfort, to their destination. How fortunate we are that this isn’t the case today.<br /><br />Why fortunate?<br /><br />Because while, ideally, a 21st century pumpkin should turn into a Rolls Royce or a Bentley, in actual fact, what with intensive farming methods and the indiscriminate use of organo-phosphate fertilisers, pumpkins aren’t of the quality they once were. So if your Fairy Godmother were to cast a spell on one today, it would probably turn into a Skoda or a Hillman Imp.<br /><br />Then there are other problems. Because pumpkins would now have the potential - if not in all cases the actual ability - to turn into cars, it would be necessary to MOT them and register each one with the DVLC. Garages wouldn’t be able to cope with the workload. Instead, greengrocers would have to set up their own pumpkin test and registration centres, thus adding enormously to the average family’s weekly shopping bill. (Of course, they could try to defray the cost by establishing second-hand pumpkin dealerships on their premises.)<br /><br />But it’s the law and order issues that concern me in particular. Having had their pumpkins transformed into performance cars, lager-lout boy racers might drive them to the pub and get horrendously pissed. But what could the police do? If they breathalysed them at, say, 11.30pm and the miscreants tested positive, by the time the officer had got them down to the police station for a verifying blood test, it would be midnight, by which time the enchanted car would probably have turned back into a pumpkin, as they usually do. Result: No evidence, therefore no prosecution.<br /><br />And what if a policeman pulls over an obviously drunk driver, intending to put the breathalyser bag on him, but that driver says, “Actually officer, this isn’t a car, it’s an enchanted pumpkin”? Yes, it <I>might</I> be a real car. On the other hand, there’s a good chance that the man could actually be telling the truth. And there is no such offence as Drunk In Charge of a Pumpkin.<br /><br />Of course, this could inspire Gordon Brown and his bunch of control freak scum to table a bill to ensure that such an offence <I>is</I> on the statute books, in order to protect us from reckless, vegetable-driving inebriates. But the next thing you know, they’ll be introducing dozens of other laws, too: Drunk in Charge of a Cucumber, Drunk in Charge of a Cabbage, et cetera, et cetera. Where would it end?<br /><br />We might end up with a situation where you'd be arrested for being pissed while eating a carrot and banned from eating vegetables for 12 months. The resultant vitamin deficiency would kill you.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-29010063219535683562010-01-13T11:54:00.001+00:002010-01-13T11:54:58.405+00:00Found in Translation<img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/translate.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />This morning, while browsing the Internet, I came across the story of <A HREF=http://www.time.com/time/2002/inventions/tra_bow.html>this</A> innovative Japanese gadget that, apparently, can translate dog barks. Judging by the examples given, it seems to perform quite well. For example, it's now very easy to differentiate between the yelps for "I want to shit" and "I want to go walkies", amongst other things. The one downside is that the device will only translate into Japanese. One therefore requires the services of an interpreter to fully understand the dog.<br /><br />This struck me as being rather impractical, though. For those of us in the US and Europe, anyway. Far better, surely, and more cost-effective, simply to buy a Japanese person. Then you can simultaneously teach him both English and the canine arts of, for instance, retrieving a stick and lying down and playing dead. Indeed, given that the Japanese are quite an adaptable, innovative people, I'd imagine that they'd also be able to quickly acquire the skills to bury bones and "heel." And they'd probably be house-trained much faster than a dog, too, and wouldn't be as inclined to attract fleas.<br /><br /><img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/bushido.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Thinking about it, a Japanese has many other advantages over a dog. Not many burglars are seriously deterred by "Beware of the Dog" warnings. However, a "Beware of the Samurai Warrior" would make them shit themselves, I'm sure. And if you had some serious issues with your neighbours in the adjoining office block, you could just pay for your Japanese to have flying lessons and then, as per his Bushido heritage, crash his aircraft into them. Whereas <I>Al-Quaida</I> had to cough up some $20 billion to achieve a similar effect, your house-trained Japanese would do it for a tin of Pedigree Chum.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-34468073341505357242010-01-12T10:13:00.000+00:002010-01-12T10:14:32.496+00:00Dentures<img src="http://www.cix.co.uk/~hewitt/dentures.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Of late, doctors have begun to refuse medical treatment to smokers on the grounds that they’re deliberately damaging their own health. I applaud this move. In fact I believe dentists should do similar. After all, other than having had one's teeth accidentally knocked out, there’s absolutely no excuse for wearing dentures. They are simply an indication that the wearer has repeatedly neglected his or her daily oral hygiene duties.<br /><br />In my opinion, therefore, false teeth should <I>not</I> be available on the National Health. The toothless amongst us should be exposed for the gummy slovens that they actually are and forced either to dine on soup for the rest of their days or pay an extortionate sum for a set of artificial teeth.<br /><br />A tooth rental scheme is also a possibility, I suppose. It makes quite a bit of sense, actually. After all, teeth are only required for eating; an activity which should take place, at most, three times in a day. Why, then, do denture wearers insist on retaining their teeth for all their waking hours, when for the most part they’re redundant? It's sheer vanity, and I don't believe the State should be expected to subsidise it.<br /><br />Far better, I think, to hire one's teeth as and when required from some sort of council-administered tooth library. Naturally, there would be a run on teeth round about midday and early evening, so denture renters would have to get used to staggering their meal times. Nevertheless, the benefits would outweigh the disadvantages. For example, it might be possible to choose a set of teeth designed specifically for a particular type of food. So no longer would it be necessary to chew away endlessly on a very tough steak. You'd simply hire a set of dedicated dentures that could cut through it in an instant.<br /><br />Because we live in an age of air travel, it would be necessary to establish international tooth rental schemes, too. I'd suggest that this be done through the existing international car rental agencies. So upon arriving at the Hertz desk in, say, Los Angeles, you'd give your American Express or Visa number and pick up both a hire car and a set of teeth. International tooth insurance might become a booming industry as a result, creating thousands of jobs in a depressed world. <br /><br />Some mornings, I really <I>do</I> think I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for my brilliance.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-80826755836635789292010-01-11T15:28:00.001+00:002010-01-11T15:28:35.167+00:00TrojanYou often hear the expression “He worked like a Trojan.” This is meant to be a good thing, implying that the person being discussed laboured greatly and accomplished much. It suggests, too, that Trojan employment agencies were very busy places and, by contrast, the dole queues in Troy very short. (With an overall DHSS bill the lowest in Antiquity, no doubt.)<br /><br />When you think about it, however, history shows us that the most successful Trojans were, in fact, the lazy ones. Take, for example, Laomedon, son of King Ilus. When instructed to build walls for his city, he said, “Suck my dick! I will not!” Instead, he employed the gods Poseidon and Apollo to do it for him. In fact, such a good job did these two deities do – far better than Laomedon himself could have managed - that the city was then able to endure several years of siege by the Greeks during the subsequent war. Then, of course, there was Paris. When ordered to go out and fight Achilles to the death, he said, instead, “Fuck that. I can’t be bothered. I'll just shoot him in the heel with an arrow and see what happens.”<br /><br />Given all of this, it really makes you wonder what would have happened if only the lazy Trojans had prevailed throughout. Had they said, for example, “Kiss my arse. I'm not dragging that fucking massive wooden horse inside. It can stay outside the fucking walls as far as I’m concerned.” How differently history might have turned out.<br /><br />I imagine Troy would have endured, and Aeneas wouldn't have gone on to help found Rome. Thus we would have been spared Heinz Spaghetti, polenta, and Fiats. Also, the best-selling condom in America would probably be called a Greek, rather than a Trojan, thus forcing prostitutes who engage in anal sex to find another term for what they’re offering.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-51361878216733926882010-01-11T11:00:00.004+00:002010-01-11T12:29:12.178+00:00Milk MaidsAccording to Wikipedia, on this day in 1878, milk was first delivered in bottles. Before this, customers were supplied on a personal basis by wandering milk maids. <br /><br /><img src="http://www.cix.co.uk/~hewitt/milkmaid.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />As you can see from the accompanying illustration, milk maids all wore yokes across their shoulders, from each end of which hung a milk churn. The <i>modus operandi</i> was relatively simple: At roughly the same time each day, customers would pour their Cornflakes into a bowl, or their tea into a cup, and then wait until the milkmaid arrived to fill them up. <br /><br />Traditionally, a milk maid’s right-hand churn contained full fat milk, while the left was filled with skimmed. Of course, this meant that if you wanted semi-skimmed or UHT, you were a bit fucked. Unless, of course, the milk maid herself was lactating and could produce to order from her left or right breast. Most couldn’t, however (the best they could manage was a sort of homgeonized goo), which is presumably why milk maids gave way to home-delivered milk bottles. <br /><br />Notwithstanding this, I imagine that January 11, 1878 must have come as quite a shock to many full-fat and skimmed aficionados. Expecting the usual comely, smiling wench to come by, many were dismayed by the arrival of a hairy-arsed milk <i>man</i>, even if he was able to offer greater choice and could diversify into butter, orange juice, and bread deliveries. This is because, back then (and even today, to some extent, if all those Internet porn sites are to be believed) men customarily fantasized about milk maids. Consequently their only alternative was to give up on milk altogether and switch to soya, or else start fantasizing about the milk man, instead. Many did. This is how come we can accurately date the advent of homosexuality to this day in 1878, too.<br /><br />Another problem with milk bottles was that they were responsible for an upsurge in burglaries. If you forgot to cancel your milk, it was obvious you were away from the accumulation of unused bottles outside your door, so robbers would know it was safe to ransack the place. And while, beforehand, it was equally obvious that you were away when half a dozen unused milk maids starting piling up outside your front door, thieves were far less likely to break in because the presence of the wenches would act as a reliable deterrent.<br /><br />Especially if they were lactating UHT.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-33317232937877912222010-01-10T12:08:00.001+00:002010-01-10T12:10:08.334+00:00Gravitational Anomaly<img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/tanita.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />My post-Christmas weight, according to my brother’s Cadmore End-based bathroom scales, was an enviable 12 stone and 3 lbs, exactly the same as my pre-Christmas weight registered here at home back on December 23. Imagine my surprise, then, when, for the first time this year, I stood again on my own hi-tech “speak your weight” Tanita bathroom scales and they declared, somewhat derisively, “Your weight is 12 stone and 10 lbs. You have increased in weight by 7lbs.”<br /><br />What the fuck?<br /><br />There can be only one logical explanation: Obviously, between December 23 and today, the force of gravity in Hertfordshire has become slightly greater than that in Buckinghamshire - specifically, by 0.024 per cent – thus skewing the results. And gravity, as we know, is a product of mass (put simply, the heavier a thing is, the more gravitational attraction it exerts) which means that, in just 10 days, some phenomenon has occurred to make Hertfordshire heavier than Buckinghamshire. But what?<br /><br />I think I have the answer. If you carry out demographic surveys of Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire you’ll find that, per square yard, the former, unfortunately, has more Working Class people in it. And what do Working Class people typically do over the Christmas period? They pig out on cheap lager and disgusting, fatty foods such as KFC Bargain Buckets and Deep Pan pizzas, that’s what. Consequently, their already burgeoning beer-guts and backsides become even flabbier than normal. The aggregate of the increase concentrated in the one county causes that county to exert more gravitational force. QED. Hence this morning’s Tanita tragedy.<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/fat.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />So what can be done? One solution, I suppose, is to herd a given percentage of the Working Class into rockets and blast them off into geostationary orbit above Hertfordshire, from where their mass will help counteract that of their Earth-based counterparts. But that’s an expensive option, which could later impact itself on my Council Tax. So a more cost-effective alternative might be simply to deport them to other counties, such as Essex and Surrey. <br /><br />Of course, this then means that Essex and Surrey will become commensurately heavier. However, that’s a small price to pay for ensuring the accuracy of my bathroom scales.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-23613865823418439592009-08-12T13:25:00.000+01:002009-08-12T13:26:21.842+01:00Prams and Pushchairs<img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/babyinpram.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />I cannot understand why women always insist on pushing their whelps around in public in prams and pushchairs. Apart from the inconvenience they cause to pedestrians and shoppers, it can’t be much fun for the women, either, especially if they have to combine manoeuvring their offspring around with hauling heavy groceries, too. So why can’t they just leave the brats at home for the duration?<br /><br />Some, I imagine, would argue that it’s because the little bastards might get lonely or injure themselves if left unsupervised. But that’s bollocks. <I>I</I> sometimes injure myself when left unsupervised (only last week, for example, I cut myself on a tin can) but no one is suggesting putting <I>me</I> in some sort of perambulator and wheeling me around a supermarket. How come? I’d be a lot better behaved than most of the horrible kids one sees. I wouldn’t, for instance, keep demanding sweets or ice cream and then go into a screaming, hour-long tantrum if I didn’t get what I wanted. (That said, I would like a high-definition video camera, so it’s possible, I suppose, that I might start throwing a fit if, while wheeling me around PC World, you <I>didn’t</I> buy me one. One never knows.)<br /><br />No, the only reason I can think of as to why they push the brats around in public is because they’re somehow proud of the things. They therefore want to put them on show and announce their existence to the world. To “share the joy,” if you will. Thankfully, this problem can easily be dealt with.<br /><br />Henceforth, whenever I see a toddler in a pram, I’ll say to its owner: “Fuck me! That is disgusting! If we were living in Ancient Sparta, that would have been chucked over a cliff by now. What do you think you’re fuckingwell doing inflicting that on innocent members of the public? Have you no thought for anyone but yourself?” I encourage everyone else to follow my example.<br /><br />Do this enough, and prams and pushchairs will soon disappear from our streets and supermarkets.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-44506289313192742752009-07-12T15:03:00.000+01:002009-07-12T15:04:41.135+01:00WebcamsIn 1899, Charles Pathé set up one of those new-fangled motion picture cameras on a busy London street and filmed passers-by. The resulting featurette lasted only 15 minutes (the camera was hand-cranked, so Pathé’s arm would have fallen off had it lasted much longer). Yet, despite its brevity, minimalist plot, and lack of big-name stars, Victorian audiences apparently queued round the block. <br /><br />In 1972, Andy Warhole tried much the same thing when he filmed the Empire State Building. Unfortunately, popcorn sales for this one didn’t reach expectations. Probably because the whole thing lasted over 24 hours. Twenty-four hours of <i>just</i> the Empire State Building, without even a guest-appearance by King Kong, is perhaps overdoing it, even by “Children in Need” standards.<br /><br />Which brings me to webcams. Not the ones people use to broadcast themselves shagging over the Internet, but those giving 24-hour coverage of town centres and other nondescript sights. Given that Warhole couldn’t turn <i>the</i> most famous New York landmark into a blockbuster, what, then, is the point of live coverage of, say, the centre of Bootle?<br /><br />Nothing against Bootle you understand (apart from the fact that it's a shithole and its population mainly retards), it’s just that these things simply strike me as being another example of Internet silliness, of which we already have an abundance. Pathé had the excuse that, back then, motion pictures were truly innovative. And, besides, during those 15 minutes, there was at least the off-chance of seeing a suffragette chaining herself to something or a young Winston Churchill giving you the finger. But live pictures of Bootle, taken from a camera mounted half a mile away? You may as well be looking at a postcard (assuming they actually <i>do</i> postcards of Bootle).<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/webcam.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />The only webcams that strike me of being any use whatsoever, if only because they’re mounted sufficiently close to the “action” to make out people and features, are found at www.thisislondon.co.uk, and show Soho street scenes. Here, once you’ve located a suitable camera (I suggest the one opposite the Café Nero), you can successfully moon it. Then again, given the slow refresh rate of 60 seconds between pictures, this <i>does</i> entail standing around for at least a minute with your backside exposed. Which, given the proximity of all those gay bars on Old Compton Street, is perhaps not the best idea in the world.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-39008873512808526952009-07-04T07:18:00.000+01:002009-07-04T07:19:24.169+01:00Gorgon<img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/gorgon.jpg" ALIGN=LEFT HSPACE =15 VSPACE=15/><br />It must be terribly difficult for gorgons to get hair appointments. I'll bet whenever they phone up their local salon, they're invariably told that the stylist is fully booked up for the foreseeable future. Even if, by some miracle, they do manage to make a booking, their problems have only just started.<br /><br />Someone like Michaeljohn of Albermarle Street, London, for example, is unlikely to want to deal with a gorgon personally, however much money she's got to spend. There's too much risk of being turned into stone if he inadvertently looks her in the face while inquiring after her health, her sex life, or whatever. He'd therefore let one of his lesser-qualified, expendable underlings deal with the appointment. This in itself would undoubtedly result in an inferior hairstyle. You can beat experience, after all.<br /><br />Of course, gorgon hair, being composed of live snakes, is a problem area in itself. They'd probably go for you if you tried to stuff them into heated rollers. They almost certainly would if you attempted to trim them. So I'd imagine it's necessary to stun each one separately before you can start do anything creative with the hair.<br /><br />But is it really practical to be <I>that</I> creative with gorgon hair? For instance, you might be able to give her what, initially, looks like a perfect perm. But two hours later, all the stunned snakes are going to start waking up and squirming all over the place, thus destroying all those hours of precision styling. Worse, if you've dyed the hair (some of the black mambas might be going a bit grey, and you want to disguise the fact), the snakes aren't going to recognise one another and will start fighting. <br /><br />I suppose male gorgons, if there are any, have a better time of it. They can at least apply something thick and gooey to their locks, such as Extra Strength Brylcreem, which will stop the snakes wriggling so much. But bald gorgons are the most fortunate. Except during the initial stages of alopecia, when their hair loss runs all over the house and climbs up curtains.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/snake.jpg" ALIGN=RIGHT />If I were a gorgon, I wouldn't spend too much time in the countryside. If I lay down in a field for a nap, for instance, I might wake up and find a grass snake trying to fuck my head.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-81399274569854861482009-07-03T10:53:00.004+01:002009-07-03T11:04:32.856+01:00StonesAs everyone knows, gorgons are so hideously ugly that, if people look at them, they're instantly turned into stone. I, however, have exactly the opposite problem to a gorgon: I am so fucking good-looking that, whenever I pass by, any stones in the immediate area are turned instantly into people.<br /><br />As you can imagine, this causes no end of hassle. Little pebbles, for example, become little people, about two to three inches high. But, unfortunately, they don't then adopt Irish accents and bury pots of gold at the end of rainbows which I can easily dig up to enrich myself, nor do they sit on toadstools and wear pointy hats with bells on the end. No, instead, the vast majority are usually eaten pretty quickly by cats and dogs, or else chased down rabbits holes by ferrets, and therefore, fortunately, the phenomenon goes largely unnoticed. <br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/stones.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />Not so stone cottages, though. As I walk past, they literally come apart at the seams (which can be particularly embarrassing if their occupants are having a bath or having sex when it happens), and each newly humanized block goes off and hangs around public lavatories in order to be buggered by homosexuals. Hence the term “cottaging.” <br /><br />As for large masses of stone, such as boulders and mountains, those are transformed into fearsome giants which then attack major population centres. The reason why you never hear about this happening is that the Government imposes a blanket D Notice while it sends out the armed forces to destroy the creatures.<br /><br />But this is nothing compared to what happens to human-sized stones. These, as you might expect, turn into pretty regular-looking humans. Sadly, however, because their only previous experience was being a stone, which isn't a particularly challenging existence, they have no knowledge or intelligence. (Indeed, they are barely sentient and are classed as plant life by some scientists.) They therefore buy <i>The Daily Mirror</i> and vote Labour. Consequently, every rock in my immediate area risks a return of Gordon Brown in next year's General Election.<br /><br />What can I do to prevent this happening? I suppose I could endeavour to make myself less attractive. To this end, perhaps I should travel to Ireland and join aerobics and jujitsu classes. Then, pretty soon, like everyone else over there who does that sort of thing, I'll acquire a flabby, 48 inch chest and a humungous arse, and so, hopefully, will no longer be a danger to rocks.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-42280727450763578012009-07-02T14:07:00.003+01:002009-07-02T14:11:51.182+01:00Lycanthrope<img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/wolfman.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Turning into a werewolf is regarded by most people as an embarrassing affliction, akin to herpes or BO. Therefore those with lycanthrope tendencies tend to quickly change the subject if mention of their problem comes up in conversation. However, I believe that they're mistaken. If you think about it, turning into a wolf on a regular basis confers quite a few advantages.<br /><br />For example, your weekly food bill can be reduced dramatically. This is because instead of having to eat expensive, gourmet meals, you can survive quite contentedly on whoever lives nextdoor. Or, failing that, on a few cans of Pedigree Chum and the occasional Bob Martin tablet. You just turn yourself into a wolf each time you feel hungry. <br /><br />Actually, I'm surprised that restaurants don't employ werewolves as waiters. If they did, they could bite the customers and transform <I>them</I> into wolves, too. Then the management wouldn't have to serve up anything expensive - just a few helpings of dog food would suffice. As a result, profit margins could be increased dramatically.<br /><br />On the social side, lycanthropy is a positive boon. Conventional, non-metamorphosising humans have to keep themselves entertained in a number of bizarre, expensive ways. Going to the cinema, attending sports events, watching television, and travelling to exotic destinations, for instance. But if you turn into a werewolf, you can keep yourself inexpensively entertained all evening simply by retrieving thrown sticks, chewing on slippers, and chasing postmen.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/poop.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />On the other hand, there are a few downsides to lycanthropy, I suppose. Those who remember the 1939 film, "The Wolfman" may be aware that, because of 1940s' censorship restrictions, certain scenes had to be cut. I refer, of course, to those depicting Lon Chaney pissing against lamp posts, licking his balls, shagging stray dogs in the middle of the street, and being pursued by a council-employed "pooper-scooper". Nor was there any mention of the fact that he had to wear a flea collar almost permanently. Perhaps these omissions will be rectified in the remake, starring Benicio Del Toro and Anthony Hopkins, which is due to open in November.<br /><br />Whatever, all in all, being a werewolf is generally a good thing.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-50635853998297030952009-07-01T12:12:00.001+01:002009-07-01T12:13:50.621+01:00The King's Head<img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/head.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />Many of us have drunk in pubs called The King’s Head or The Queen’s Arms. But have we ever given any thought as to why they're so named? This question occurred to me this morning, so I went to Hertford Library’s local history section to do a little research. My results are, I think, quite interesting and reveal that, until just a few centuries ago, <I>all</I> pubs were in fact required by law to call themselves after a monarch or nobleman's bodily part. <br /><br />This was all well and good for such places as The Duke's Head, The Prince's Knee, and The Queen's Arms. The yeomanry of Olde England drank ale to their hearts' content in these inns, and helped enrich their local economies as a result. Unfortunately, not all pubs were so blessed. In particular, establishments like The King's Cock and The Queen's Tits.<br /><br />The main problem here was the painted sign outside. Every inn in the land had to have one in order that the illiterates, who then made up the majority of the population, could identify where they were getting pissed, so that their designated postillions would know exactly where to pick them up afterwards. But this caused the sign painters no end of grief. How were they expected to paint an accurate representation of the monarch's member or mamilla? Unless the regent in question had previously moonlighted in the area as a flasher or strippagram, obviously no-one had ever beheld the sight.<br /><br />At first, therefore, they would request a private audience with the King or Queen. Once they'd been ushered into the royal presence, the monarch would say, “Arise, my good sir. Is there some way we may assist you?” At which point, the sign painter invariably answered, “Yes. Can I see you cock?” Or “Show us your tits, please.”<br /><br />After the first couple of dozen executions, the remaining sign painters realised that it maybe wasn't a particularly good idea to ask such direct questions. So they settled on what they <I>imagined</I> was an acceptable alternative: They painted pictures of their own cocks, instead, on the assumption that these would be more or less identical to the royal organ. Unfortunately, it was rarely so.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/small.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Artists all have small cocks. It's a well-known fact. So pubs throughout the land started displaying signs that were largely blank, except for a little picture of the teensiest, most flaccid looking pink, wiggly thing in one corner. Naturally enough, when word got through to the Palace, the monarch - who usually prided himself on being well-hung - flew into a rage and ordered troops to destroy the offending inns and beat up their regulars. Vast areas of the country were subjected to reigns of terror.<br /><br />After a while, pissed off landlords came up with another solution: They ordered the sign painters to use shire horses and elephants as their models. Thereupon, hostelries the length and breadth of England sprouted signs with pictures of penises the length and breadth of England. They were really humungous. They made the royalty in neighbouring countries quite jealous.<br /><br />The reigning monarchs were, of course, delighted. Many a King's Cock played host to the royal family for the weekend. The village in which the pub was located benefited enormously from the royal patronage. All was sweetness and light. But disaster was not far off.<br /><br />One day, Anne Boleyn was visiting England, on holiday from France. She chanced to stop off at a King's Cock near Dorset. On seeing the sign, she exclaimed, “Fuck me! King Henry's hung like a fucking wildebeest!” Thereupon she resolved to have him for herself.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/boleyn.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />Well, we all know what happened next. Anne Boleyn went to the royal court, said to Henry VIII, “I want to suck your massive, throbbing cock till it bursts, then I want you to fuck me with it”, and pleaded with him to marry her. Naturally enough, Henry was quite charmed by this and got a raging hard on. So he decided to divorce his Queen, Katharine of Aragon, and marry Anne. This caused the reformation, the dissolution of the monasteries, and the Protestant work ethic.<br /><br />Sadly, things didn't go too well thereafter. On the wedding night, Henry VIII stripped off and revealed his erect member to his new Queen. She was most unimpressed. Compared to the painted sign she’d seen in Dorset, it was as nothing. “You are fucking tiny!” she exclaimed. "I have seen bigger things chewing holes in a lettuce leaf!" Consummation of the marriage was an embarrassing affair, and the King never forgot this insult. Indeed, soon after his Queen gave birth to the future Elizabeth I, Henry flew into a small cock-induced rage, complained that it <i>had</i> been big beforehand but, because of Anne's witchcraft, it was now much diminished, and so charged her with high treason and had her executed at the Tower of London. <br /><br />So as this sort of thing could never happen again, Queen Mary decreed that all pubs called The King's Cock should henceforth rename themselves The Red Lion or The Slug and Lettuce, or something equally innocuous. Likewise all the other silly sounding places, like The Queen's Clit, The Duke's Scrotum, and The Prince's Rather Loose Bowel Movement. At a stroke, much of England's heritage disappeared.<br /><br />Anyhow, after this, never let it be said that you don't learn something of value when you read this Journal.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-9119258358753759782009-06-30T08:36:00.002+01:002009-06-30T08:40:05.219+01:00FightBecause I’m not a member of the Working Class, I don’t do prole things such as attend football matches or go to rowdy, down-market nightclubs. Consequently my opportunities for getting into a decent fight are rather limited. This seems most unfair. Where is it written that it's perfectly acceptable for me to punch a pre-match Arsenal fan or head-but a Plaistow resident in an East End dive, but I mustn't do similar at, say, Wimbledon or Le Gavroche? <br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/tennis.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />What we must do is change attitudes here. Part of the problem at up-market events such as tennis matches is, I feel, that there are no clear demarcation lines drawn between the various fans. So, for example, it could be that an Andy Murray supporter actually <I>does</I> want to give an Andy Roddick supporter a good kicking, and vice-versa, but neither can easily identify who's who in order to do so.<br /><br />To rectify matters here, individual tennis players should be made to wear special, unique colours. Likewise their supporters. And, as at football matches, rival supporters should be kept in different parts of the ground, facing one another. In this way true enmity could develop. Cliff Richards could be brought on, too. But instead of singing "Congratulations", or similar garbage, he should be encouraged to direct a barrage of "You're going home in a fucking wooden box!" at Murray’s supporters opposite. Maybe Katherine Jenkins could be booked to respond in kind with "Shit on Roddick, shit on Roddick today!" for the opposition.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/strawberries2.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />As a result, after the match, the cucumber sandwich tents and the strawberries and cream tents would become scenes of unparalleled savagery, as rival supporters glassed one another with Champagne flutes and rammed strawberry pummets into each other’s faces. Police would have to be brought in with water canons to disperse the mobs. The whole thing would become so much more exciting.<br /><br />There's opportunity for violent rivalry at up-market restaurants, as well. Everyone knows that vegetarians are unnatural degenerates, but no-one does anything about it. But if, say, Le Gavroche were to pen off a Vegetarians Only area, the morally-sound carnivores would then know their enemy. So, come the end of the evening, post coffee and Cognac, you'd be able to set upon the vegetarians, or wait for them to finish and beat them up outside.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/razor.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Or better still, different restaurants could have gangs affiliated to them. Then the Le Gavroche Stanley Knife Gang could arrange to have fights with L'Escargot Cut Throat Razor Firm. Better yet, both could forget their differences for the evening, team up, and go and kick the shit out of everyone eating at Quo Vadis.<br /><br />In this way, my life would become a tad more colourful.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-26683358897930591102009-06-29T11:39:00.003+01:002009-06-29T11:42:39.069+01:00HeatI do not like excessive heat, such at today's. It displeases me. Out of context, anyway. In context, however, it's fine. When I was at the Victoria Falls, for example, the temperature was much as it is here, now, in Bumble's Green. But that's what you expect in that part of the world. Just as you expect crocodiles, too, and so don't grumble overly if one emerges from a river and eats your children. Whereas, if a crocodile were to emerge from the River Lee and and started eating people's children, I'm sure everyone would start bitching about it. Context again. So what I'm saying, basically, is that, just as man-eating crocodiles are fine for Rhodesia, but not for here, temperatures in the 90s should confine themselves to Rhodesia, as well.<br /><br />Given the extremes I'm currently experiencing, therefore, I'm having to sit in the garden, dressed only in shorts. Fortunately, I am possessed of the sort of body that <i>can</i> be displayed without embarrassment. Still, I don't like the idea of giving the women of the area a “free show”, as it were. But what can be done?<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/patio-heater.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />I suppose someone could invent the counterpart of one of those Calor gas-powered patio heaters that pubs use outside in winter. Except it would have a refrigeration mechanism inside, instead, and therefore be a patio cooler, effective over a radius of about six feet. Then again, the disadvantage of having one of these is that it might encourage smokers to come into my garden and congregate underneath in a huddled mass, exhaling their pollutants, getting pissed on cheap lager, and shagging themselves silly. Or worse, it might encourage immigrant crocodiles to emerge from the River Lee in order to more efficiently cool themselves. (Or, if they were male and female, they might shag themselves silly as well.)<br /><br />I'm sure the crocodiles would eat all the lager lout smokers but, still, they're not something I'd want in my garden. Slugs and snails are fucking bad enough. At least they can be dealt with by pouring salt on them. A crocodile probably wouldn't react in the same way, though. Which is why, when you see one of those Tarzan films where he's fighting with a crocodile in a river, he always uses a knife to kill it, and never bothers trying a bag of Saxa.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-67954576729854094022009-06-15T13:08:00.000+01:002009-06-15T13:09:10.067+01:00My Teeth (2)<img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/teeth.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />I spent much of this morning counting my pearly-white teeth. It appears that I have 29 of them, with no significant gaps. The left hand side of my mouth has more teeth than the right hand side, however. Hitherto, I had tended to chew using this right hand set but, on reflection, have decided that this is obviously a very inefficient use of my mouth. I therefore now intend to start chewing primarily on the left hand side, as the greater of number of teeth will obviously make eating a lot faster and more satisfying.<br /><br />In my opinion, food packaging should be labelled with an indication of how long the contents will take to eat for any given number of teeth. This would work in a similar way to microwave cooking instructions. For instance, just as a 750 Watt oven might be described as taking three minutes to cook a particular dish and a 650 Watt oven four minutes, so 15 teeth (assuming you eat using just one side of your mouth) might take, in total, two minutes to chew the food as opposed to two and a half if you only have 12.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/gatso.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Indeed, further to this, I feel we should redefine the concept of “fast” food. Rather than being a description of the speed of its cooking, it should refer, instead, to the speed of eating. Some sort of legal upper limit should be imposed, too, for safety reasons, constantly monitored by kitchen and restaurant-mounted closed circuit television cameras and GATSOs. This is because, if you ate <i>too</i> fast while consuming something slippery or irregularly shaped, you could slide off it and accidentally chew off the arm of someone sitting next to you. Accordingly, if people exceeded these speed limits, Food Police should be empowered to hand out on-the-spot penalties. Those miscreants who accrued more than 12 penalty points during any given period would be banned from eating for a period not exceeding 6 months. Persistent offendors should be banned from having teeth altogether.<br /><br />In this way, eating would once again become a refined, civilized activity.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-32132486546394782972009-06-10T10:23:00.002+01:002009-06-10T10:57:49.748+01:00Tourette's SyndromeOne of the more disturbing aspects of Tourette's Syndrome, at least as far as onlookers are concerned, is that, for no apparent reason and out of nowhere, the sufferer can come out with a string of obscenities and swearwords, aimed at no-one in particular. So, for example, he'll be sitting next to you on the train or bus and then, all of a sudden, will loudly shout "Fuck! Cunt! Shit", and so forth. Naturally enough, this can be most off-putting for many people. I am able, however, to offer a simple, low-cost solution:<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/tourette.gif" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Everyone who suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome should have a mobile phone permanently affixed to his or her ear when out in public. Then, people will simply assume that all their obscenities are directed at the person on the other end of the line and therefore think no more of it. Indeed, they might even join in.<br /><br />That said, what happens when a Tourette’s suffer actually <i>is</i> talking to a total cunt over the phone? Does he suddenly moderate his language and change his “fucks” and “wankers” into “fiddle-de-dees” and “twits”? And, for that matter, what of those of us of normal mental balance who just happen to be having a telephone conversation with a complete arsehole and are therefore compelled to use the requisite swear words? Witnessing this, some people might jump to the wrong conclusion and assume <i>we’re</i> suffering from Tourette's. (This is especially a risk if you have one of those poofy hands-free mobiles which are concealed in the pocket.) What to do?<br /><br />I'd say that, if, like me, you routinely have to talk to lots of total cunts and wankers, you should cut your losses. In other words, before every telephone call, you should sit on park bench or a seat in a railway station, down a can of Tennent's Super or similar, and shout, "I'm going to fuck you sister, you cunt bastard!" at everyone who passes by. Then, your subsequent expletive-filled telephone conversation will go unremarked. Indeed, some people may even feel sorry for you and, if you've got a polystyrene cup and a dog to hand, donate a couple of quid, which would help defray the cost of both the call and the line rental.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-46842456257701285622009-06-09T12:02:00.000+01:002009-06-09T12:03:32.856+01:00Operations<img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/barber-surgeon1.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=RIGHT />Until the late 15th Century, barbers and surgeons were the same profession. So whether you wanted an appendectomy or just a shave, the one establishment handled both. Dropping in for a haircut must therefore have been a fairly unnerving experience, because you'd be sitting, waiting in the barber's shop alongside, not just people with bad hairdoes, but lepers, amputees, and the bubo-afflicted, too. Accordingly, "Anything for the weekend, sir?" could well have been a dose of the plague.<br /><br />Then again, I'm sure that, in those days, customers were fairly blasé about the whole thing, regarding something like major brain surgery and organ transplants as being on a par with a short back and sides or a perm. A typical scenario must therefore have been as follows:<br /><br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> Hello again. What can I do for you today?<br /><b>Customer:</b> It's the leg. Slightly gangrenous.<br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> OK. Shall I trim it a bit for you at the bottom?<br /><b>Customer:</b> Yes, just up to the knee should do.<br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> Level with your other stump?<br /><b>Customer:</b> Please.<br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> No problem. Do you want it square cut or tapered?<br /><b>Customer:</b> I'm easy. Whatever you think looks best.<br />((FX: Saw, saw, saw))<br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> Bastard weather again, eh? Won’t do the turnip harvest much good.<br />((FX: Saw, saw, saw))<br /><b>Customer:</b> Fucking gypsies cursing the crops, they say.<br />((FX: Saw, saw, saw))<br /><b>Barber-surgeon:</b> Cunts. OK, how does that look?<br /><b>Customer:</b> Yes, that's good. I like it. Can you just cauterize that artery up there?<br /><b>Barber-Surgeon:</b> There you go. Anything for the weekend, sir?<br /><b>Customer:</b> Yes, a pack of three leeches, please. I’m feeling lucky.<br /><br /><img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/barber-surgeon2.jpg" HSPACE=5 VSPACE=5 ALIGN=LEFT />Of course, if the split between barbers and surgeons <I>hadn't</I> occurred, Harley Street would now be full of Toni & Guy and Vidal Sassoon franchises, all manned by scalpel-wielding homosexuals sporting blonde bouffants and mincing around in tight, black trousers. And if you didn’t have BUPA cover, you’d probably be on a three-year waiting list for root treatment and hair extensions. So all in all, it’s a good thing that it did happen. (Unless, of course, you’re one of those who actually relishes the risk of being buggered while under general anaesthetic.)Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-4273425267893121332009-06-08T12:18:00.016+01:002009-06-09T12:13:55.761+01:00Delivery<img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/lucabrassi.jpg" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5" />You may recall a scene in the film, "The Godfather", where the clothes of Luca Brasi, one of the Corleones' top hitmen, are delivered to the family home wrapped around a fish. The meaning of this, it's explained, is symbolic: "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes." He's dead, in other words, his body presumably dumped in the sea or in a river. <br /><br />This Mafia-specific courier service - a sort of DHL with knobs on - while obviously quite efficient, is, however, not really commercially viable. This is because, while you of course do need to execute hitmen every now and then and inform people of the fact, it's not something that happens <i>so</i> regularly that, for example, Hallmark could turn a profit by producing a dedicated card to celebrate the occasion, or Parcel Force offer a special “fish and frock coat” 24/7 delivery service. Besides, even if they did, they’d still be left with the serious logistical problem of, on each occasion, having to source a whole, fresh fish to stick into the deceased’s clothing. If, thanks to time constraints (half day closing at the fishmonger, for instance), crap fishermen, or whatever, they couldn’t readily get hold of the genuine article, I shouldn’t imagine a kipper or a packet of cod in parsley sauce would be regarded as an acceptable substitute.<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/spermwhale.jpg" align="right" vspace="5" hspace="5" />With this in mind, I suppose it’s also fortunate that the Mafia doesn’t have a Newfoundland or Spitsbergen branch. If they did, and they were contractually obliged to dump dead hitmen in the sea over there, too, then, given the marine demographics, the resultant message would perforce be more along the lines of “Luca Brasi sleeps with the sperm whales.” Wrapping any sort of cetecean in a standard-sized man’s suit could be something of a challenge. As indeed could delivering the combination to its intended recipient without drawing lots of unwanted attention to yourself.<br /><br />Then again, we're talking here about people who can routinely hack a horse's head off, transport it unnoticed to someone's luxury mansion, then, in total darkness, locate the owner's room out of the dozens, if not hundreds of other rooms in the house, and finally slip it under his bedclothes without waking him. So perhaps it’s doable after all. <br /><br />I reckon you'd still need a fucking <i>big</i> duvet before you could slip in a whole whale unnoticed, though.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-12365744915149008822009-06-07T12:45:00.004+01:002009-06-07T13:01:13.148+01:00Dirty<img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/dirtyplate.jpg" align="right" vspace="5" hspace="5" />Whenever you finish your meal in a restaurant, the staff generally take the used plates and cutlery away and then wash them. This is because, even in places like the Aberdeen Angus Steak House or Café Uno, where you’d imagine that the clientele are too dumb to give a toss one way or the other, people actually <i>do</i> get pissed off it you try to serve them food on plates that have still got eggy bits and steak detritus on them from the last service. It’s not enough to tell them that the previous diners have licked the plates clean, either. Most people who go to restaurants demand that they’ve been sterilized, too, before they’ll eat off them.<br /><br />All well and good. But why isn’t this same concern for proper hygiene applied to clothes shops, as well? I refer specifically to the mirrors in their changing rooms, of course.<br /><br />I, personally, object to the idea of looking into a “used” mirror that’s possibly reflected the images of several dozen other people that same day, particularly if a lot of them were fat, ugly cunts. For me to look into such a mirror would be exactly the same as eating a magnificent gourmet meal off an unwashed plate that had previously had chicken nuggets and chips on it. It’s totally unacceptable as there's danger of cross-contamination. Consequently, when I <i>do</i> go into a clothes shop, I always insist that a member of staff spray the mirror with Windolene, or similar, beforehand. And, if it’s at all practical, I ask that the mirror be sterilized, as well.<br /><br /><img src="http://hewittmjh.googlepages.com/wickedqueen.jpg" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5" />I suppose one possible down-side here is if the shop owns one of those magic mirrors you're always hearing about that can tell you whether or not you’re the fairest of them all. If you spray and sterilize one of those, I’d imagine that, each time you do, it resets to its factory defaults and loses the memory of anyone else who might have looked into it. Consequently, because it no longer has any other point of reference, it now risks giving you a highly inaccurate assessment of exactly how good looking you are in relation to everyone else. Which means that if, for example, you’re a wicked, ageing stepmother with a cute, adopted teenage daughter, it will tell you that, notwithstanding your flabby arse and crow's feet, you’re nevertheless more attractive than her. <br /><br />So, whereas, out of sheer pique, you’d normally send a wood-cutter out to kill the little bitch, now, because of the disinformation, you don’t. As a result, she eventually ends up living with a bunch of dubious dwarfs in some shack in the middle of a forest. If the Sunday tabloids pick up this, that’s your reputation as a responsible parent totally fucked.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-85971850806486819452009-06-05T11:24:00.007+01:002009-06-05T11:44:58.401+01:00Think TankI see from today’s <i>Daily Telegraph</i> that architect, Mark Hacket, is setting up a think tank in Belfast. About time, too. What with all these Gay Pride marches and flabby-arsed powerlifters running all over the place, Belfast fucking needs it. Then again, I suppose many other cities could benefit from their own think tanks, as well.<br /><br />How often, for example, when asked difficult questions or posed near insuperable problems, do people simply shrug their shoulders, say, “I’ll have a think”, and then just go away and do nothing? Most of the time, I’d say. This is because while they might indeed like to <i>have</i> a think, they usually can’t actually obtain one. Not a fresh one, anyway. This is where a dedicated, heated and oxygenated think tank comes in (with a deep-sea diver and model sunken galleon for the deluxe versions).<br /><br />So next time anyone says “I’ll have a think”, he can then be directed to wherever the appropriate tank for his think is kept and there make his choice from the free-swimming selection. So, for instance, if Stephen Hawking is asked “What, exactly, is the `God Particle’?”, he can request that the exact, corresponding think be fished out of the tank for him by its proprietor, just like with a lobster in a Chinese restaurant. Thus will the mystery of the universe finally be solved.<br /><br /><img src="http://joeslavko.googlepages.com/gordonbrown.jpg" align="right" vspace="5" hspace="5" />I suppose where this system breaks down (aside from the pump getting blocked with floating think turds) is with the so-called “political think tank.” I can’t imagine, say, a BNP think and a Christian Democrat think swimming happily together in the same tank. It would be a bit like putting a goldfish in with a piranha. An Anarchist think might even do serious damage to the tank. But at least watching the ensuing "life or death" struggles would be entertaining. <br /><br />Rather like today’s, in fact, in the Labour Party.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-69321107831209348312009-06-03T10:35:00.001+01:002009-06-03T10:37:53.400+01:00Buskers<img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/busker.jpg" HSPACE=10 ALIGN=LEFT />Street “musicians” really piss me off. I encountered several this morning. Basically, they’re beggars with musical instruments. All they want is money. But instead of being honest about it and saying “Can you spare us a couple of pence for mug of tea, guv?”, they maintain this pretence of offering so-called entertainment, as if a syncopated beg were more likely to elicit my sympathy and coin than the conventional variety. Why the fuck should it?<br /><br />If I were trying to negotiate a loan, for example, would it help my case if I gave the bank manager a sudden rendition from “Oklahoma”? If I wanted to buy a washing machine from John Lewis on extended credit, would I get a better rate if I sang “Ave Maria” while I filled in my bank details?<br /><br />It's not even as if these people were any good. If they were, they wouldn't be singing on the street; they'd be doing it professionally and getting paid for it. They're therefore imposing their mediocrity upon me, unbidden. It's the equivalent of pissing in my direction or farting at me.<br /><br />Furthermore, their dress sense is usually non-existent. I saw some specimen “performing” in Tottenham Court Road Tube Station. If he'd tried to donate his clothes to Oxfam or Sue Ryder they would have been thrown out as a health hazard. Furthermore, his “singing” was more akin to the cries of someone being castrated.<br /><br />In fact, that's the <I>one</I> thing that would have induced me to donate money. If his testicles were being torn off on the Underground, I might have put a few coppers in the tin for the entertainment value derived from the spectacle.<br /><br />The Working Class should be neutered.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29152012.post-81362035034486068292009-05-31T09:15:00.001+01:002009-05-31T09:16:31.722+01:00AmphibianWomen 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 <i>burqah</i>, 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img src="http://uk.geocities.com/joe.slavko@btinternet.com/winstone.jpg" hspace="10" align="RIGHT" />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Joe Slavkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05093880782605351432noreply@blogger.com3