Gravitational Anomaly

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.”

What the fuck?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Clouds

One of the prime characteristics of the Working Class is that they engage in manual labour (that's if they've actually got a job, of course). Superior people don't. They have cushy office jobs or, like me, work from home. People who engage in manual labour tend to sweat a lot - far more so than those who don't. And what happens to sweat? It evaporates, goes into the atmosphere, and eventually becomes water vapour. And, of course, water vapour is the main ingredient of clouds.

This means that clouds (or the majority of them, anyway) are FUCKING WORKING CLASS.

I personally object to having something proletarian suspended above me. I object even more if the fucker then rains on me. This means I'm not just getting wet, I'm getting Working Class, too. Something must therefore be done to distinguish Working Class clouds from those respectable ones that are caused by the perspiration from exclusive foreign resorts and expensive health clubs.


In my opinion, the Royal Air Force ought to actively seek out Working Class clouds. This they would do by flying their Harriers and Tornadoes over the sorts of areas where such clouds are most likely to develop. For example, cities like Liverpool and Birmingham, as well as areas like Brixton and Toxteth, are awash with proletarian sweat and so are more likely to have pleb nimbi above them. Having identified the clouds, the RAF should then spray them pink.

As a result, people on the ground would be able to look up into the sky with confidence. If they saw a grey or white cloud, they needn't be fearful of its raining on them. This is because it would most probably be the product of the glistening rivulets of perspiration flowing into Claudia Schiffer’s cleavage, and then on to her firm, pert breasts. However, if they saw a pink cloud, they'd know it was a common as FUCKING MUCK. They could therefore let it rain itself out, or be blown elsewhere.

Red Hot Love Machine

This morning, when I went down to the newsagent in order to collect my up-market, intellectual Sunday newspapers, I happened to catch sight of a couple of tabloids that are aimed primarily at members of the Working Class. Both carried somewhat identical special features, along the lines of "How to turn yourself into a red-hot lover."

As I already am one, there wasn't much point my buying either title, even if I felt inclined to stoop to the level of reading a tabloid. However, their subject matter did give me pause for thought. It occurred to me that both papers regularly carry these sorts of features, maybe every three months or so. The thing is, though, if, say, Gordon Ramsay were to publish "Ten tips on producing a perfect soufflé", but had to repeat himself every three months, you'd either think that the recipes themselves were fundamentally flawed, or else that the people reading them were too thick to take the information onboard in the first place.

So what is it with the Working Class? If they actually had got the message they’d all now be sizzling love machines, surely. Clearly, though, this isn't the case. If it were, respectable, frustrated women the length and breadth of the land would be commuting to council estates in places like Toxteth, Stockwell, and Croydon in order to get a decent porking.

But they don't, because they know that - notwithstanding the efforts of The News of the World and The Sunday People - the average Working Class erection lasts about three seconds, and that Working Class foreplay consists of reaching over to turn out the light. Further, they know that Working Class men (and women, for that matter) all weight at least 18 stone, thanks to their diet of lard sandwiches and Economy Lager. Even if they did possess the necessary sexual technique to give women pleasure, their physical appearance would act as an instant turn-off.

It is obviously impossible to teach the proletariat how to do it properly. And we should be thankful that it is. If they actually got to enjoy it, their already disproportionately high birth rate would go right through the roof. Does the world really need more Social Security scroungers and car radio thieves? In opinion, it's highly irresponsible of the tabloids to attempt to put ideas into their heads.

Suntan Segregation

In my opinion, the Working Class shouldn't be allowed to have suntans. Or at least, if they are, some serious restrictions should be imposed on the degree or shade of tan they're permitted to acquire. Accordingly, the beaches and open spaces where these people wallow in the sun should be patrolled by armed tan-watchers, primed to spring into action whenever a prole starts turning an unsanctioned colour.

It makes perfect sense when you think about it rationally. After all, if I buy a Canali jacket, I expect it to look better than its equivalent bought in Top Shop or C&A. Similarly, if I spend a thousand or more pounds on two weeks in, say, St Lucia or Mustique, I’d want some way of differentiating my subsequent expensive international jet-set tan from a common, hoi poloi variety acquired in somewhere dead common like Blackpool or Benidorm.

Further to this, therefore, I propose the creation of special suntan lotions, designed to react with the skin and produce a different colour depending on how much you pay for your holiday. I'd suggest that lotions supplied to people who stay in five star hotels in exotic locations should turn their users a mahogany brown. On the other hand, those who can only afford a two star hotel or, God forbid, one star, in somewhere dire should be sprayed with a formula which turns them green when exposed to sunlight. Or maybe one that makes them come out in blue stripes, similar to the markings on Tesco economy products.

As for people who go to Mykonos (or any of the Greek islands for that matter, except Santorini), they should turn pink. Which is only right and fitting, because they’re probably gay, and pink is the universally acknowledged colour of gayness. This is a bit hard on straight pigs, of course, but they usually get turned into bacon and Parma ham early on in life, long before their sexuality really becomes much of an issue.

SuperLoos

“SuperLoos” – automated, self-cleaning pay-lavatories – were first imported to the UK from the Continent in the late 1970s. Today, most towns boast at least one. The idea is that the Working Class, who probably can't afford their own lavatories (or who traditionally just piss in the street), pay a nominal sum of 20 pence to enter one of these things in order to excrete, masturbate over Page 3 of The Sun, or whatever.

I applaud this philanthropic concept, and feel that it should be extended.

In my opinion, therefore, councils should set up similar automatic cubicles, called “SuperLivingRooms”, “SuperKitchens”, “SuperBedrooms”, “SuperUtilityRooms”, “SuperStudies”, and so on. In this way, Working Class people with inadequate domestic facilities would be able to have a brief, 20 minute, Muzak-accompanied experience of the finer things in life, thus giving them something to aspire to.

For example, upon paying your 20p and opening the swing-door of an automatic “SuperStudy”, you’d enter a cubicle furnished like a plush gentleman's library. In one corner there would be an expensive walnut writing desk. In another,shelves stocked with books, including oeuvres from the Classical Greats such as Plutarch, Thucydides, and Virgil, the Complete Works of Shakespeare, together with those of the 18th Century Men of Letters, like Boswell and Johnson. So you’d be able to sit down in a plush Chesterfield armchair and imbibe wisdom. Of course, at the end of your allotted 20 minutes, the Muzak version of “The Girl from Ipamena” would go silent and the door would automatically swing open. At which point it would be necessary to make a swift exit before the automatic wash and disinfect cycle started up.

Likely as not, many people would think to themselves, “Shit! There I was, analysing the strategy of Alcibiades in the disastrous Sicilian campaign, when my fucking money ran out. I shall therefore put another 20 pence in, in order that I might do further research, and possibly learn why the demagogue, Cleon, was able to usurp the position of Pericles and set Athens on a course which, ultimately, led to its defeat by Sparta and the dissolution of its democratic system.” And so they’d insert another coin and continue, thus enhancing both their wisdom and the nation's coffers.

Of course, if you were in there too long, an impatient queue would eventually form outside. People would knock loudly on the door and say, “Haven't you fucking finished in there yet, you cunt? There are people waiting, you know.” Or if it was late at night, just after the pubs had closed, there might actually be fights. For instance, proponents of the Athenian concept of Direct Democracy might take issue with supporters of the Spartan oligarchical system. They might even knife one another if they disagreed too strongly on the significance of, for instance, the pan-Hellenic alliance during the Persian wars.

But that would be a small price to pay for bringing to little more refinement into the lives of the masses.

Not Buttered

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

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

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

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

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

The Emperor's New Clothes Redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smile

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

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

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

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

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