Gorgon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transformation

If someone claims that, far from being, say, an ordinary run-of-the-mill plumber, electrician, or stockbroker, he is in fact Hitler, Napoleon, or Jesus, invariably, he will be locked up. But if you say that, though you may look like a man, you are in fact, inwardly, a woman, you're permitted to have a sex-change operation, usually on the NHS.

This is an iniquitous situation. Common sense tells us that a man who yearns to have his dick cut off, go on a course of hormone therapy, get silicon implants, wear dresses, and call himself Yvonne is equally as mentally ill as someone who wants to wear a tricorn hat and invade Russia. So why are the two treated differently?

In my opinion, this discrimination should end. And for the better. In future, anyone who believes that he is actually Jesus Christ should be given the requisite cosmetic surgery to enable him to look like our Lord. On the NHS, too. This way, when, eventually, he tries walking on water, raising the dead, or performing an ascension into Heaven, he'll soon discover that he isn't actually divine at all. Result: an instant cure. Of course, he'll still look like Jesus, but that will be his permanent punishment for acting like such a fucking arsehole in the first place. Likewise with all the rest of the self-deluding individuals.

There are a couple of downsides here, though. For instance, if two surgically transformed mental patients who believe themselves to be, respectively, Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington, manage to surround themselves with a few thousand surgically transformed mental patients who believe themselves to be, respectively, early 19th century French cuirassiers and early 19th century British infantry, inevitably, there's going to be some sort of ruck. However, as long as they can confine their dispute to somewhere that doesn't matter, such as Belgium, it needn't be too much of a problem. The Low Countries could do with being ravaged by another military campaign, anyway. Bunch of cunts.

Nice and Nasty

A well-known police interrogation technique is to have two officers, one a “Mr Nice”, the other a “Mr Nasty”, interview the suspect simultaneously. The idea is, if the prisoner knows himself to be guilty, he will eventually want to unburden himself to one of the interrogators. Exactly which one depends on his personality. A submissive type, for example, would tend to confide in Mr Nasty, while the extrovert would eventually empathise with Mr Nice.

This is a tried and trusted method of arriving at the truth, and one which I believe should be applied to other situations. And where is truth more in demand than in a clothes shop? How often, for instance, do we delude ourselves into thinking that a crap tie or suit is in fact fashionable? Who is there to point out the error of our ways? Having a spouse or partner along is no use, as they tend merely to back up our initial (and often erroneous) impressions of the clothing.

In my opinion, therefore, Mr Nice and Mr Nasty shop assistants should be employed. Having emerged from the fitting room, one would face them, and they would immediately go into their double act.

“That suit sucks DICK - like the person wearing it.”
“No, that suit is just so you. It makes you look like such a hunk.”
“Yeah, a hunk of raw meat. I’ll bet the only reason you've chosen trousers with turn-ups is so that they'll catch the dripping spunk after you've finished WANKING OFF over pictures of little boys.”
“Don’t listen. Those trousers are tailored exquisitely. They highlight your crotch perfectly”.
“It's a good job those trousers are so baggy - they conceal the fact of your DIMINUTIVE DICK.”

And so on.

Eventually, the combination of their praise and scorn would force you to plumb the depths of your psyche and come up with your true feelings re: the suit, in much the same way as a murderer's confession can be extracted from the slough of his despond by stick and carrot. Thus the purchaser would get true value for money. And as an added benefit, I'm sure such sales procedures would ensure that flared trousers were never again inflicted upon us.

Matching Pair

Men are often very remiss when it comes to planning the interior of their homes. Having taken a great deal of care selecting appropriate wallpaper, furniture, and paintwork, they sometimes spoil the whole effect by choosing a totally inappropriate woman; one that simply does not match the rest of the decor. It's like putting fluffy dice in a Rolls Royce or a sommelier in McDonalds.

In my opinion, there should be advice on paint tins and rolls of wallpaper, saying exactly what sort of woman goes best with the contents. For example, a tin of peach emulsion would say, "Best combined with a late 20s sophisticated brunette." Black matt, on the other hand, would probably advise, "Ideally matched with a teenage slapper wearing scarlet lipstick and a slit skirt."

It might actually be an idea for DIY shops to start marketing matched pairs, in much the same way that Marks & Spencer sell matched shirts and ties. So in other words you'd be able to buy a roll of wallpaper, or a set of kitchen tiles, together with a complementary woman. For those men with no style sense – and there are, unfortunately, many - it would be cheaper and safer than sourcing each separately and finding out, too late, that they clashed.

Of course, a major problem here is that women can often deteriorate faster than furniture or paintwork, and are somewhat more difficult to refurbish when they do. Unless you want to go to the expense and effort of replacing the lot, the only sensible solution is to keep the old one in the shed during the day, and only bring her out at night when the light's too dim for anyone to really notice.

I shall approach the MDs of all the major DIY chains with my idea and, hopefully, make a fortune.

Licensed to Drool

This morning I had another of my regular appointments with Alessandro, my hair artiste. As well as having my hair cut and styled, I enjoyed a facial massage, collagen treatment, and electronic muscle toning. Needless to say, I emerged looking as gorgeous as ever, and elicited many an admiring glance from passing women.

It occurred to me, though: my body is honed to perfection thanks to daily exercise on my Nordic Track machine and the use of weights at the gym. My well-balanced diet, together with Vitamin C, A, and E supplements, and additional nutrients, means that I radiate glowing health and masculinity. And I am, courtesy of Nature itself, AMAZINGLY HANDSOME.

But all of this perfection and maintenance thereof costs, both in time and money.

Yet women are allowed to enjoy looking at me for free. This is an iniquitous situation. It’s akin, surely, to Remrandt or Leonardo da Vinci spending years producing a masterpiece and then just giving it away. I feel some recompense is in order. In my opinion, therefore, all women in the UK should have to pay a Slavko Licence, costing around £140 per annum. This would allow them to look at me legally. Of course, some women (mostly lesbians, naturally) would claim that they had no intention of looking at me and therefore shouldn’t have to pay for a Slavko Licence at all. But this is a spurious argument, akin to refusing to pay for a television licence on the grounds that you only watch ITV and Channel 4.

Detector vans should roam the land, seeking out Slavko Licence evaders. Any woman catch looking at me without a licence should be subject to a £1,000 fine and/or six months imprisonment.

With the revenue from the licences and the fines, I will be able to subsidise my exercise sessions, my vitamin supplements, and my healthy lifestyle. In this way I will carry on looking good forever, thus benefiting all women.

Mad Cocaine Drug Fiend Sex Rampage

Last week, in common with fellow members of the intelligentsia, I decided to acquire an expensive cocaine habit. Accordingly, I made the appropriate inquiries as regards source of supply and cost.

For the neophyte, purchasing cocaine (or "scoring", to use the correct parlance) can be a bit problematic. Few of the retailers tend to advertise their services in any meaningful way, so, if one isn't "in the know", one is either dependent upon word of mouth, or one has to put up a "Wanted" ad in a newsagent's window or local free-sheet. Fortunately for me, though, certain colleagues were able to put me in touch directly with a reputable sales outlet, thus bypassing any such difficulties.

In keeping with EU strictures, cocaine is sold in metric measures. One buys by the gram, or multiples thereof. The local wholesaler currently charges £35 per gram, which basically amounts to around half a teaspoon's worth. This looks a paltry quantity, but the salesman nevertheless assured me that, for those of normal nasal capacity, it's sufficient to last a whole evening. Anyhow, yesterday, having acquired the necessary, I shut myself away and prepared to become thoroughly depraved.

First gripe. I had assumed that cocaine would be a fine, free-flowing white powder, as in "Scarface." Unfortunately, it's actually rather lumpy. One would have thought that, following Homepride's success in persuading its bowler-hatted flour graders to physically enter bags of flour and knock out any lumps, cocaine manufacturers would, by now, be operating a similar practise with their product. Especially given the price. (After all, Bolivian peasants can't cost that much to employ and, from what I've seen, lots of them have their own bowler hats, too, or, at least, hats that look bowlerish.) But no. It comes as is, and you have to squash out the lumps yourself. This is done with a razor blade or, if you're feeling flash, a black American Express card. Anyhow, having de-lumped it, one then arranges it on a mirrored surface in lines of approximately two and a half inches in length. Then, inserting a straw into one's nostril (those supplied by McDonalds are recommended, as they have the required diameter), one sucks up, or "snorts", the lines of cocaine, first with the right nostril, then with the left.

Second gripe. Very little of note happened when I did snort my lines. I was unable to produce any "My Cocaine Hell" or "Mad Cocaine Drug Fiend Sex Rampage" style headlines. I certainly didn't make like Al Pacino. Indeed, all that did happen was that my mouth went numb, as if I'd been injected with Novocain at the dentist, and my nose started to bleed very slightly. Having a numb mouth and a nosebleed seems a pretty poor return for £35. I'm sure there are cheaper ways of achieving the same effect. A punch in the face, for example (indeed, a few people might even be prepared to supply this to me gratis). Whatever, it must appeal to some market demographic, otherwise no-one would bother trying to become a "cocaine baron" or go to the trouble of wiping out the opposition in order to control the cocaine market.

On the other hand, I suppose, if you have expended all that effort, blowing up your rivals with car bombs, killing their wives and children, subverting democratic governments in order to preserve your monopolies and supply lines, and so forth, and all you actually do end up controlling at the end of the day is the market for a product that makes people's teeth go numb and noses bleed, you'd tend to feel a bit fucking stupid about the whole business and more than a little embarrassed. So I imagine you'd want to talk the product up. Say how marvellous it is, how it boosts the creative juices, makes women fancy you, and so forth. And if you say it loud enough and often enough, people will start to believe you. (A bit like they did with Sunny Delight in the days before it started turning children orange.) And that's probably what's happened with cocaine.

Anyway, my cocaine habit lasted for six, fattish lines. Next week, I'll spend my money at Rules, instead, confident in the knowledge that their steak and kidney pies aren't responsible for that many crime waves.

Clergy on the Catwalk

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

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

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

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

Exporting My Good Taste

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

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

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

How can mere clothes do this? you ask.

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

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

Non-Conformist

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

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

Why safer?

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

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

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

Like Rabbits

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

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

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

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

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

Out-of-Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gorgeous

Cadmore End, Buckinghamshire.

Yesterday evening I visited Alessandro, my hair artiste, and bade him work his usual wonders. On this occasion he surpassed himself. In fact, so good did the hairstyle look that I felt a need to buy some new clothes to complement it. Accordingly, I purchased a new Crombie jacket in Jermyn Street, together with an assortment of shirts and ties from Thomas Pink. And, damn, I look marvellous in them. Indeed, I am become the Beau Brummell of the 21st century.

There is, however, one problem. So astounding do I look that mirrors are now loath to give up my image. Whereas other people just see a real-time reflection of themselves that moves as they move, when I look in a mirror, I see a series of still pictures. It's as if a cinema film has been slowed down from 24 frames a second to one frame every five or more seconds. This is obviously because the mirror wants to savour each and every moment of me and my adornments. Naturally, there are disadvantages to this.

Take clothes shopping, for example. The purchasing process involves standing in front of a mirror and examining how the clothes hang. This in itself isn't a problem. I can, for instance, turn my back to the mirror and then look round and see how the jacket looks from behind. However, when I'm done and the next person comes along and looks in the mirror, my image is often still in it. He sometimes has to wait for up to half an hour before it clears.

Shaving, too, has become more of a hassle. It can take forever, because I must wait several seconds to see the results of each stroke of the blade. Now I'm forced to put on a disguise in order to fool the mirror into thinking I'm someone else. Sometimes, though, I overdo it. This morning, by skilful application of Leichner waxes, I made myself up to look exactly like Johnny Vegas. Unfortunately, when I then went to shave, the mirror refused to reflect my face and went black. It still hasn't quite recovered.

The people I feel most sorry for, though, are those who visit public washrooms immediately after me. This is because my image is still in the mirror when they wash their hands (assuming they do). Seeing it, most believe themselves to have undergone a sudden, extremely beneficial transformation, and so say, "Fuck me! I'm gorgeous! I shall go out on the pull and have the pick of all the most delectable women on the planet!"

Sadly, it's only when the police arrest them for harrassment that they realize the sad, awful truth about themselves. But that's a small price to pay for me being a sex god.

Water Bed

I've just been to a bed sale in Punta Gorda, with a view to replacing my existing, though worn-out king size. Nothing appealed. One concept in particular which didn't appeal, despite the persistent efforts of the saleswoman to change my mind, was a water bed.

Water beds, I told her, are a fucking stupid idea. Mostly, they're owned by people who have never had a shag in their lives, but would like to fool their friends into thinking that they're "at it" all the time. The reasons why a water bed is no good - if not downright dangerous - for sex should be obvious to all but the most stupid.

For a start, there are the risks from tidal activity. Couples who are engaged in foreplay during the bed's ebb tide state might lose all track of time. Then suddenly, an unexpected rip tide could come in. The result is that they would be squashed against the ceiling by the rapidly rising waters.

Then there are those dangers posed by external factors. For instance, enthusiastic surfers might come in through the window, anxious to "catch a wave." They would pay no heed to the lovemaking couple, writhing in passion on the bed. Instead, in their rush to "pull into the pipe", they might actually surf too far "in front of the curl" and suffer "wipeout." If their surfboard had one of those sharp fins on the bottom, it could cut everyone in two, and do untold damage to the bed itself.

And of course there's the water itself. Left for too long, it would become an independent eco-system, full of living organisms. Over time, these would give out carbon dioxide, which would naturally carbonate the water in the bed, making it fizzy. As a consequence, continual bouncing up and down on the bed would have the same effect as shaking up a bottle of fizzy drink. At the point of orgasm, the bed would explode, blasting the couple out of the window, and no doubt destroying their house at the same time.

Whatever, now I look back on it, I suppose it's quite possible that the saleswoman wasn't, in fact, trying to sell me a bed at all. It was merely her coded way of soliciting a shag. How could I have ignored all the obvious signals?

Flabby Bastards (2)

Lots of Americans really are as fat as people claim. Yesterday, for example, I was forced to endure the sight of a woman weighing around 20 stone, at least, waddling into my local restaurant, her flabby arse following on about 20 minutes later. This is disgusting. This should be stamped out as it offends my finer feelings.

The thing is, if I go into a bar, swerving, slurring my speech, and obviously drunk, the barman - quite rightly - will refuse to serve me. This is because I'd be suffering from an excess of alcohol and could damage both myself and others were I to continue imbibing. By the same token, therefore, restaurants and supermarkets should refuse to serve customers who are quite obviously overweight. Indeed, in my opinion, the full force of the Law should be brought to bear on these disgusting fat cunts.

For example, the local Sheriff's officers should be given powers to randomly pull over drivers whom they suspect of being flabby. Having done so, they should ask "When did you last eat, sir?" If the answer is some time in the last three hours, then the driver should be required to step outside the vehicle and submit himself to a fat calliper test, where measurements are taken from the waist and tricep areas. Should he give a positive reading - ie body fat composition of 17% plus - then he should be taken down to the Station and booked. The charge would be driving while overweight. I think a 12 month ban and a heavy fine would be in order.

Indeed, food in general needs to be more regulated. The food should be served and priced in individual measures of 160 calories. If you ask for a double - ie two fish fingers (or "fish sticks", as they call them here) - the Waiter ought to look at you contemptuously, as if to say "You don't really want to do that, sir". Food shops and restaurants should be licensed and only allowed to open between the hours of 11.30 am and 11.00 pm, with Last Orders at 10.50 pm and a ten minute statutory Eating Up Time. Thereupon the Head Waiter should ring a bell and shout "Can you eat up, ladies and gentlemen, please. Empty you plates, please. Haven't you people got any homes to go to?"

If my idea were to be implemented, the obesity epidemic could be banished within 12 months.

Blow-Up

I wonder if people ever ask for their money back after buying a blow-up woman? If what's on offer in a Sarasota sex shop called Harmony Center (sic) is anything to go by, I certainly would. I just happened to be passing by this morning, and so took the opportunity to browse some of the wares.

The thing is, the picture on the front of the box generally bears little or no resemblance whatsoever to the contents. For example, a doll marketed as Sweet Experience Shari ($14.99 plus Florida sales tax) is illustrated with a photograph of a woman looking not unlike Demi Moore. However, if you take it out and inflate it, what you actually get is more akin to Betty Boop, albeit with "three realistic orifices" (which, according to ex, Bruce Willis, is three more than Demi ever had). Luscious Leona similarly disappoints. Depicted on the box as a stunning Bo Derek type, the resulting doll puts me in mind of a space hopper with tits.


I suppose, in their defence, the manufacturers of the dolls would argue that, if you go into, say, a McDonalds or Burger King, the illustrations of the food bear little resemblance to the reality of the eating experience, either, what with wilted lettuce, crushed buns, and permanently detumescent gherkins. So why should the depictions of their sex products be any more realistic? But I would counter this by pointing out that McDonalds and Burger King aren't claiming that their products will bring you to orgasm (which is just as well, really, as you wouldn't want people spontaneously ejaculating upon opening their Whopper or McNugget boxes), whereas, with Sweet Experience Shari and Luscious Leona, this actually appears to be the raison d'être behind the dolls' manufacture.

Or maybe it isn't.

When I interrogated the Harmony Center salesman, he claimed that most of these blow-up dolls are, in fact, bought as joke items for bachelor parties and the like and therefore aren't intended for serious use in penetrative sex. Which may or may not be true. But even if it is, it still means that some do get fucked. One wonders by whom. And one especially wonders what sort of sicko would want to shag the blow-up figure which I later encountered in the Venice area, depicted below. (And one also wonders what the fuck the picture on the front of the box was if that is the end-result following use of the foot-pump. Daniel Craig in Lycra trunks, I'd be willing to bet.)

I fear for the future of the world. I really do.

Flabby Bastards

Today I went to Selfridges on Oxford Street and bought, amongst other things, a pair of Canali trousers. I noted something quite disturbing while selecting them. For any one specific brand and style, all the prices are identical, regardless of the size. So in other words, I pay the same for my 32 inch waist trousers as does some fat bastard with a 46 inch waist. Although his trousers obviously require more material, more stitching, and of course more work, he is in no way penalised. Such is the case, too, for jackets, shoes, coats, and indeed every other type of garment. Designers have obviously calculated the likely size of the fattest bastard imaginable and used him as their benchmark when pricing labour costs and material. Accordingly, even if someone weighing 40 stone buys a garment, the retailers will still turn a profit. However, because their costs are pitched to cope with the LAZY, FLABBY SHITE, they will make an even greater profit from anyone who buys a smaller garment. This means that I and others of a sensible weight and size are effectively subsidising obesity. We are legitimising flab.

But if our legislators are content with this situation, why let it end there? Why not apply those same principles to the sale of food and other items? In other words, if you can prove that you're physically capable of eating an entire 14lb chicken at a single sitting, it should be sold to you for the same price that someone else, of lesser appetite, pays for a chicken breast. Likewise in a pub. If you are obviously able to handle ten pints of beer without difficulty, you should pay the same for them as someone who buys only two and then collapses. Condoms, sweets, double-glazing - the list of possibilities is fucking endless.

Yes, ridiculous when you think about it, isn't it? In my opinion, therefore, the pricing benchline for clothes should be set to cope with a person whose waist is 32 inches, chest 43 inches, and shoe size 10. These sorts of people (who, co-incidentally, count me amongst their number) should pay just a nominal fee for their clothing. Anyone over those dimensions, however, should accrue proportionately higher charges until it eventually becomes uneconomic for them to go clothes shopping. After all, if you do have a 46 inch waist, what the fuck point is there in wearing stylish clothes in the first place? These people make me want to puke.

Sock Catastrophe

One of my fucking socks has a got a hole in it. This means that, although its fellow sock remains in pristine condition, I'm nevertheless going to have to bin both of them. What a tragic waste - the exact equivalent of the Indian custom of suttee, where an otherwise perfectly serviceable widow is chucked on to the funeral pyre along with her husband's corpse. The only other alternative is to saw off one of my feet, which I'm not prepared to do, because it would then render all my left-shoes redundant.

If both socks were designed to wear out concurrently, this situation would never have arisen, of course. But the fact of the matter is, one of them always goes first. Perhaps, then, rather than selling socks in pairs, stores should sell them in threes, the extra acting as a backup sock, able to be turned inside out, as required, so as to fit either the right or left foot. An additional benefit is that three-legged people, of whom there are a few in the world (and who, because of their scarcity, aren't usually catered for by the international sock conglomerates) would be able to buy matching socks without embarrassment.

Then again, the three-legged people are probably going to start bitching even more than the rest of us when one of their socks develops a hole, because they're now going to have to throw away three socks instead of two. So perhaps a better solution would be to sell socks singly. In any case, when you think about it, the concept of a "pair" of socks is deeply flawed, discriminating as it does against people such as Heather Mills-McCartney, Long John Silver, and, for that matter, anyone who's trodden on a land mine.

All of which makes me wonder about the legitimacy of that chain of stores called "The Sock Shop." If you go into one and try to buy a single sock, they'll often tell you to fuck off. Well fuck them, too. Unless they're prepared to rename themselves "The Socks Shop", they should be forced by Trading Standards only to sell single socks. Otherwise give these arseholes an inch and they'll take a mile.