Transforming Transport

During the 18th Century, as evidenced by tales such as Cinderella, 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.

Why fortunate?

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.

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.)

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.

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 might 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.

Of course, this could inspire Gordon Brown and his bunch of control freak scum to table a bill to ensure that such an offence is 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?

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.

Webcams

In 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.

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 just the Empire State Building, without even a guest-appearance by King Kong, is perhaps overdoing it, even by “Children in Need” standards.

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 the most famous New York landmark into a blockbuster, what, then, is the point of live coverage of, say, the centre of Bootle?

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 do postcards of Bootle).

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 does 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.

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.

Stones

As 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 The Daily Mirror and vote Labour. Consequently, every rock in my immediate area risks a return of Gordon Brown in next year's General Election.

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.

Lycanthrope

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.

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.

Actually, I'm surprised that restaurants don't employ werewolves as waiters. If they did, they could bite the customers and transform them 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.

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.

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.

Whatever, all in all, being a werewolf is generally a good thing.

Fight

Because 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?

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 does 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In this way, my life would become a tad more colourful.

Heat

I 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.

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 can 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?

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.)

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.

My Teeth (2)

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.

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.

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 too 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.

In this way, eating would once again become a refined, civilized activity.

Tourette's Syndrome

One 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:

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.

That said, what happens when a Tourette’s suffer actually is 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 we’re 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?

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.

Operations

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.

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:

Barber-surgeon: Hello again. What can I do for you today?
Customer: It's the leg. Slightly gangrenous.
Barber-surgeon: OK. Shall I trim it a bit for you at the bottom?
Customer: Yes, just up to the knee should do.
Barber-surgeon: Level with your other stump?
Customer: Please.
Barber-surgeon: No problem. Do you want it square cut or tapered?
Customer: I'm easy. Whatever you think looks best.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Bastard weather again, eh? Won’t do the turnip harvest much good.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Customer: Fucking gypsies cursing the crops, they say.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Cunts. OK, how does that look?
Customer: Yes, that's good. I like it. Can you just cauterize that artery up there?
Barber-Surgeon: There you go. Anything for the weekend, sir?
Customer: Yes, a pack of three leeches, please. I’m feeling lucky.

Of course, if the split between barbers and surgeons hadn't 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.)

Delivery

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.

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 so 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.

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.

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.

I reckon you'd still need a fucking big duvet before you could slip in a whole whale unnoticed, though.

Dirty

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 do 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.

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.

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 do 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.

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.

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.

Think Tank

I see from today’s Daily Telegraph 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.

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 have 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).

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.

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.

Rather like today’s, in fact, in the Labour Party.

Buskers

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?

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?

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.

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.

In fact, that's the one 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.

The Working Class should be neutered.

Amphibian

Women often complain about how it’s unsafe for them to go out at night or use public transport because of the risk of sexual assault. Indeed, as a result, many convert to Islam and wear an all-enveloping burqah, in the hope that any predatory men will think twice about molesting them lest they turn out to be Muslim transsexuals underneath or maybe keep a dog under there.

It seems to me, though, that they would do better by taking a leaf out of Nature’s book. With just a little help from genetic engineers.

Why don’t these worried women inject themselves with genes from frogs or toads? I suggest this because many amphibians can change sex, as and when the whim takes them. It follows that, with such a course of frog gene therapy, the women would eventually be able to do this, too. And the advantages of being such a hybrid would therefore be many for the lone female.

For example, if she had a late-night train journey ahead of her, she could simply turn herself into a well-hard Ray Winstone lookalike for its duration. No-one would dare mess with her/him. But upon arrival at the intended destination, (s)he'd simply change back again into female form.

Of course, it would be necessary for her to dress up in some sort of unisex clothing. Obviously, if you look like a bloke but are wearing a slinky black dress and mascara, you tend to attract the wrong sort of attention. On the other hand, the clothing wouldn't have to look too masculine, either. If she were spotted in female form wearing dungarees and bovver boots, likely as not she would be attacked by gangs of roving lesbians and dildo-fucked repeatedly, which would defeat the whole object of changing sex in the first place.

Another drawback that comes to mind revolves around sex. What would happen if you got one of these frog gene-spliced women pregnant? It's an unnerving thought that, as the result of just one careless fuck, you could end up having to bring up and pay for several hundred children, all gestated in the local pond. I doubt that the CSA computers could handle such a scenario.

The Face of Jesus

I see that the face of Jesus has appeared again, this time on the underside of a Marmite lid in Wales. This follows close on the heels of His appearance last month in the middle of a Kit Kat, and before then in such foodstuffs as, variously, yoghurt, pancakes, and cookie dough. Isn’t it time, then, that the confectionery manufacturers started taking advantage of this?

Consider Unilever’s current “You either love it or hate it” campaign for Marmite, for example. To me, this is rather weak and indecisive, particularly in view of the fact that their product clearly now has divine endorsement, too. It’s therefore not dissimilar to God declaring to Constantine at the Milvian Bridge, “Christianity: Take it or leave it - I couldn’t give a fuck” rather than more assertive and marketable “In hoc signo vinces: In this sign you will conquer.” If it had been the former slogan, we might all still be worshipping Jupiter and the Roman pantheon of pagan deities (unless, of course, Muhammad’s face had appeared in the middle of a pot of humous, in which case Britain might well now be an Islamic republic).

So, with this in mind, I would suggest “Eat Marmite or you’ll burn in Hell.” And rather than “Have a break, have a Kit Kat”, it should be “Have a Kit Kat or your next break will be for a fucking Eternity in the Fiery Pit.”

This, of course, assumes that God is consistent with his choice of foodstuffs. If he were to appear in, for instance, both Marmite and Bovril, it could lay the seeds for bloody religious war. And anyone who ate a Kit Kat and then started nibbling on a Twix might well have to be stoned to death for apostasy. But this is a small price to pay for Divine Truth.

Unleashing the Beast

This morning I had my usual monthly appointment with Alessandro, my hair artiste. Yet again, he excelled himself. When, afterwards, I exhibited the aftermath through Piccadilly, the coiffeurred perfection of my glinting locks put all other men’s hair to shame. I suppose it was the equivalent of Charles Atlas stripping off on a crowded beach, flaunting his rippling muscles and finely-honed torso, and kicking sand in the faces of the seven-stone weaklings.

However, now, as I relax over a pre-lunch scotch and Canada Dry in Rules, a worrying thought suddenly occurs: What will happen to all that hair of mine that got cut off? I’d like to think it will be used to line the floors of up-market hamster cages or maybe help re-thatch Burt Reynolds. But there is another, more sinister possibility.

Suppose the management at Taylor’s attempt to extract genetic material from the clippings in order to clone me and thereby guarantee their future income? Worse, what happens if they succeed? I imagine that, if they do, they’ll probably have clones to spare. They'll therefore transport several of the surplus to an island just off Costa Rica, call it Slavko Park, and charge people extortionate sums to visit. This needn't be a bad idea in itself, of course. I'm sure I could claim in a court of law that, because the clippings were originally mine, I should be legally entitled to a share of the gate profits. No, the problem comes if any of the Slavkos escape and return to the UK.

Let's say, for example, that 500 Slavkos made it back here. Most likely, their natural instinct would be to head for their biologically programmed places of sustenance and recreation. So, for instance, I might phone up Rules to make a reservation, only to find that the whole place had already been totally booked up by me(s) for the foreseeable future. Or, if I went down to The Salisbury Arms for a quiet pint or two, I could find the whole pub totally packed out with boisterous Slavkos. And my attempts at creating gourmet meals could be thwarted by the fact of the Slavkos getting to the supermarket before me and buying up all the decent ingredients. I'd have to subsist on Pot Noodles and Big Macs, instead, which might turn me Working Class.

There is, though, a Worst Case Scenario. Instead of creating 500 Slavkos, the barber might create just one. But not just any Slavko - a giant sized, horribly hirsute Slavkong, possessed of 500 times my intellect, my taste, and my fecundity. Within hours, it would become the dominant species on earth, and would therefore have first call on all the best hairdressers and their haircare products. And, after its hairdressing appointment, it would probably seize some screeching, blonde-haired bint from Michaeljohn, on Albermarle Street, and rampage through London with her while simultaneously biting people's heads off, before finally climbing up to the top of Canary Wharf and getting shot off by biplanes.

Then some smart-arse will inevitably say, “No – it wasn’t the planes that got him. It was a combination of Taylor’s Mint and Jojoba Conditioner and Pierre Augé Styling Wax that killed the beast.” Which, all things considered, is a fuck of a price to pay just for a decent haircut.

Shroud

The National Health Service costs too much money. An alternative method for curing people must be found. I therefore propose that scientists extract DNA from the Turin Shroud and clone Jesus.

In this way, every postal district could have its own Jesus. So if you had a full-blown terminal disease (or, indeed, were just feeling a little under the weather), you'd simply pop round, say, "Lord, I am afflicted, lay your hands upon me," and, a blessing or too later, you'd be cured. Or, if you wanted to go on the piss, but didn't have enough money to buy booze, you could take a bottle of tap water round and have Him do the business on it.

The other big advantage of having lots of live Jesuses is that, every Easter, you could crucify them. It's a well-known fact that, by dying on the cross, Jesus effectively negated the sins of all Mankind. It therefore follows that if a few hundred thousand die simultaneously, every year, humanity would effectively be in credit vis-à-vis grace, and could therefore sin with impunity for all time.

One problem here, though, is that crucified Jesuses tend to rise from the dead after about three days. You couldn't allow this to happen, otherwise Heaven would get full of the things, forcing its existing inhabitants out on to the streets. Consequently, saints and archangels would start squatting in boxes outside Waterloo Station, drinking Tennent's Super, and trying to cadge money off you.

So to ensure the Jesuses didn't rise from the dead, it would be necessary to grind them up. Then you could serve them to the Faithful as the genuine body and blood of Our Lord, and not some tacky, flour-based substitute. I expect He'd make a good lasagne or ragu. You could even serve Him up in a bun at McDonald's. It would, however, be necessary to mix Him in with other meat, too. Otherwise, come Ascension Day, your semi-digested MacJesus would have a tendency to become airborne, taking you with it.

Glow in the Dark

“Glow in the dark” condoms are a fucking stupid idea. I daresay there are men who actually need their cocks to be visible under low-light conditions (perhaps so the woman doesn’t have to ask “Is it in yet?”) but, even so, surely it would be far more cost-effective for them simply to use indelible luminous paint and a conventional, see-through prophylactic. That said, there are still risks.

For example, if either the man or the woman (or both) suffers from photo-sensitive epilepsy, then the in-out motion during sex would cause a strobing effect, quite possibly exacerbating the condition. Or, seen from a distance, it might look as if you’re trying to signal someone using an Aldis Lamp. You might succeed, and inadvertently transmit something really stupid or obscene. As a result, an offended Aldis Lamp operator would no doubt send the authorities round. Worse, he might be a gay Aldis Lamp operator. So in response to your accidental transmission of “I desperately need ten inches of cock up my backside”, he’d come round himself and oblige, anally. Then there’s the danger of provoking Sith warriors. A really big, stiff, glowing dick would look not unlike a drawn light-sabre. Consequently, while you were both mid-coitus, large men dressed in black capes and wearing black helmets and masks would crash, wheezing, through your bedroom window and attempt to win you over to the Dark Side. If this is the sort of thing that does it for you, fine. If not, however, if could easily put a dampener on the proceedings.

But there is one, far more deadly potential consequence. The pigment used in luminous condoms is, of course, slightly radioactive. With continued, long-term use, some will inevitably come off inside the woman and very gradually build up until it reaches a critical mass. So much so that, after a year or so, having sex will become like suddenly plunging a fuel rod into Reactor Four at Chernobyl. The two of you will go into meltdown, rendering the whole area around your bed uninhabitable for thousands of years.

All in all, then, it’s probably wisest to stick to the “French tickler” or “ribbed” variety.

Storm in a Tea Cup

You often hear people refer to something as being “a storm in a tea cup.” By this, they usually mean that the matter in question has been blow up out of all proportion and is, in fact, quite trivial. Consequently, the inference is that it needn’t be taken seriously. When you think about it, however, this is quite wrong: A genuine storm in a tea cup actually has the potential to become very serious indeed.

For a start, the storm itself would normally be initiated by a low-pressure area, formed directly above the surface of the tea. At the very least, therefore, an unwary tea drinker might find himself buffeted by winds as he put his lips to the rim of the cup. Showers of boiling tea droplets might even rain into his face. But these are mere inconveniences compared to what could develop.

If the storm were really severe, for example, the tea drinker might well be electrocuted by lightning, conducted up the length of his metal teaspoon (this would, of course, be "spooned" lightning as opposed to the more common "forked" variety). In a worst case scenario, the combination of the low pressure area combined with any subsequent stirring of sugar cubes or Sweetex into the tea could result in an extreme vortex which would have the potential to suck the unwary drinker (and, for that matter, anyone standing nearby) into the cup and thence the boiling liquid.

So what can we do to guard against this and minimize risk?

In my opinion, tea cups should be mounted with flags. A green flag would mean that there was no storm in the tea cup and therefore its contents would be safe to drink. A yellow flag would indicate severe ripples on the surface of the beverage, such that only really experienced tea drinkers should risk it. A red flag, on the other hand, would indicate a full-blown typhoon tea. In this instance, one would be well advised to stay clear of the cup until conditions improved.

Naturally, human nature being what it is, some foolhardy types would probably try to drink their tea regardless of the flag colour. To save these idiots from themselves, I think it might be necessary to station lifeguards in people’s kitchens and living rooms, ready to dive into the tea cup at a moment’s notice and extract the stupid dumb fucks from the tannin maelstrom before they become over-stewed. I suppose the cost of having such lifeguards on duty, 24/7, would add to the overall cost of the tea, but this is a small price to pay for public safety.