Dentures

Of late, doctors have begun to refuse medical treatment to smokers on the grounds that they’re deliberately damaging their own health. I applaud this move. In fact I believe dentists should do similar. After all, other than having had one's teeth accidentally knocked out, there’s absolutely no excuse for wearing dentures. They are simply an indication that the wearer has repeatedly neglected his or her daily oral hygiene duties.

In my opinion, therefore, false teeth should not be available on the National Health. The toothless amongst us should be exposed for the gummy slovens that they actually are and forced either to dine on soup for the rest of their days or pay an extortionate sum for a set of artificial teeth.

A tooth rental scheme is also a possibility, I suppose. It makes quite a bit of sense, actually. After all, teeth are only required for eating; an activity which should take place, at most, three times in a day. Why, then, do denture wearers insist on retaining their teeth for all their waking hours, when for the most part they’re redundant? It's sheer vanity, and I don't believe the State should be expected to subsidise it.

Far better, I think, to hire one's teeth as and when required from some sort of council-administered tooth library. Naturally, there would be a run on teeth round about midday and early evening, so denture renters would have to get used to staggering their meal times. Nevertheless, the benefits would outweigh the disadvantages. For example, it might be possible to choose a set of teeth designed specifically for a particular type of food. So no longer would it be necessary to chew away endlessly on a very tough steak. You'd simply hire a set of dedicated dentures that could cut through it in an instant.

Because we live in an age of air travel, it would be necessary to establish international tooth rental schemes, too. I'd suggest that this be done through the existing international car rental agencies. So upon arriving at the Hertz desk in, say, Los Angeles, you'd give your American Express or Visa number and pick up both a hire car and a set of teeth. International tooth insurance might become a booming industry as a result, creating thousands of jobs in a depressed world.

Some mornings, I really do think I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for my brilliance.

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.

Vegetable Vengeance

You often hear of people suffering brain damage and then going into what’s termed a “persistent vegetative state.” Or, as some would more crudely say, these unfortunates become “a dumb vegetable”. Totally unresponsive to outside stimuli, they can only be kept alive (albeit in a purely mechanical sense) via a life-support machine. Pull the plug and the body dies.

This, of course, can lead to all sorts of ethical dilemmas. If no brain function is recorded, should the hospital staff call it a day, turn the machine off, and then harvest the internal organs for use in transplants? Or should we abide by Catholic doctrine which maintains that it would be a sin to do this as “where there’s life, there’s hope”? The controversial Terri Schiavo case in the United States a couple of years ago exemplifies the entrenched positions.

The “don’t pull the plug” brigade usually point to instances (albeit a mere handful) where a patient who’s been proclaimed brain-dead by specialists subsequently awakes and goes on to make a full recovery. Interestingly, the use of music is often a common factor in these cases. That’s to say, friends or members of the family play a recording of some tune or song that was especially significant to the currently-comatose patient, at which point his eyelids flicker and he recovers consciousness.

I’m, of course, delighted when this happens. But is it worth the associated risks, I wonder? If a human whose in an accidental persistent vegetative state can be restored in this way, what would happen if something that’s in a natural persistent vegetative state is exposed to the same music? Suppose there’s a carrot or a cucumber in the room with him, for example? Obviously, there’s a danger that this vegetable could go into a persistent sentient state.

But, as anyone whose ever walked down a city high-street on a Friday evening will know, there’s sentience and then there’s sentience.

If a previously brain-dead “hoodie”, for instance, is restored to (for want of a better word) sentience by playing, say, Eminem, 50 Cent, or James Blunt, or whatever his favourite brand of down-market screeching is, then no-one’s going to notice much difference between the vegetative state and the wakeful one, anyway. So, similarly, a carrot made newly sentient by the same music will have an equal IQ, and can still therefore be peeled , diced, and boiled with relative impunity. But, conversely, if you play it the sort of music that a supremely intelligent, cultured person enjoys - Man of La Mancha and My Fair Lady are two examples I pluck from thin air – then it follows that the carrot, too, will acquire a corresponding level of sentience.

And if the carrot is suddenly made aware that humans have previously puréed its brothers and sisters or mashed them up with turnips, what is its reaction likely to be?

I imagine that it will try to exact vengeance. It will communicate with other examples of edible plant life and go into alliance with them against us. Consequently, bunches of coconuts, previously mere fairground targets for humans, will transform themselves into deadly projectiles, heaving their hairy, now unlovely forms through our windows. Fruit trees will uproot themselves and go hunting in packs, plucking sleeping men and women from their beds and ingesting them as they sleep. And can it be long before currants and raisins emerge from our muesli and consume us at our breakfast tables, like marauding armies of soldier ants?

To guard against this, we should ensure that all vegetables are henceforth blind and deaf, as well as dumb. Let us start by brutally gouging the eyes out of potatoes and hacking off ears of corn. Only then will we sleep soundly in our beds.

Naked in the Changing Room

The changing room at my gym is open plan. People, whatever the condition of their bodies (and some, believe me, are truly pathetic), tend to take their clothes on and off and go into the shower in front of one another. Such public nudity doesn’t bother them. Or me. However, I have noticed that there are private cubicles in which you can dress and undress. Some individuals actually make use of these.

Why?

I suppose it’s possible that they’re mindful of the fact that the French playwright, Jean Cocteau, used to drill holes in changing room walls, peep through, and masturbate as he watched men changing and showering. But this doesn’t worry me unduly. Indeed, I often stand on a chair, drop the towel from around my waist, and shout, “Oi, Jean! Cop a look at this!” But not everyone is as comfortable with being “objectified” by gay French surrealist playwrights as I am, which might explain their hiding away as they dress and undress.

Thinking about it, one way to dissuade Jean Cocteau from wanking off over the sight of you would be to wear a swastika armband. This is because Cocteau was severely criticised for his collaboration with the Nazis during the 1940s (even though he only claimed to be doing it to protect Picasso from the Gestapo), so, if he were to be seen having “one off the wrist” over the sight of (apparent) members of the German National Socialist Party in the buff, his critics could plausibly argue that, far from being a Communist, as he claimed, he was, in fact, a fully-blown collaborationist fascist, and therefore deserving of a good dose of guillotine.

Then again, another potential problem with wearing a swastika armband in a gym changing room is that someone like Ernst Roehm, the gay head of the Brownshirts, could drill holes through the walls, instead, and start peeping at you.

Even I might decide to change in a private cubicle if this were to happen, as I don’t like the idea of the sight of my dick inspiring a One Thousand Year Reich, even if it does make for good motorways and ensures the trains run on time.

Grave Walking

I have often observed people suddenly shivering for no apparent reason, even on the warmest of days. Their usual explanation is, “Someone has just walked over my grave.”

All well and good. But if we analyze this expression logically, it can mean one of only two things: either the person in question has already reserved a plot in a cemetery or churchyard for future use, or, he is, in fact, one of the undead, temporarily risen from his tomb. In both cases, these people obviously exhibit a heightened proprietorial instinct, allowing them to sense trespass onto their property from afar (presumably, if someone walks over their Porche or country pied-à-terre they get similar shivers). So how are we to tell the two shivering groups apart? And, perhaps more to the point, why does it matter that we should?

Because, while most of the people who've reserved plots in advance are generally OK, the other group, the undead (if George A. Romero films and those Hammer horrors from the late 1950s and early 60s are to be believed, anyway), tend at some point to want to chew your arm off, or eat your brains, or suck all your blood out, which is never particularly pleasant. The usual remedy for this is a stake through the heart or destruction of the cranium. However, before you start impaling people or bashing their heads in, it is vitally important that you first try to tell the two groups apart. It would be horribly unfortunate, for example, if the person whose chest you impaled on a tent peg or whose head you skewered with an ice pick subsequently turned out simply to be someone who, like June Whitfield or Michael Parkinson in those AXA Sun Life “Guaranteed Over 50 Plan” television advertisements, had simply been fiscally prudent and paid in advance for his funeral arrangements.

Unfortunately, zombies and vampires rarely tell you beforehand that they’re going to eat you or drain you dry of blood, so it’s often difficult to tell the walking cadavers from the financially responsible. Indeed, if I were a member of the undead, intent on making a meal out of you and your relatives, I would probably point out the fiscal benefits of paying a fixed monthly sum, with the policy redeemable upon death, just in order to lull you into a false sense of security. I might even offer a free radio alarm clock, Parker pen, or DVD player, too. So, basically, what this means is that we can’t know. Indeed, it is quite possible that both June Whitfield and Michael Parkinson are zombies, and the television ads are merely a smokescreen.

Given this, then, I suppose, on consideration, the only safe option is to treat zombies, June Whitfield, and Michael Parkinson equally. And to flush them out, as many of us as possible should walk over as many graves as possible. Thereafter, whoever senses the fact must be decerebrated and eviscerated, his body burnt, and the ashes scattered to the four winds. Particularly if the DVD player he’s offering you is one of those crappy, own-brand Matsui models from Curry’s.

Semi-Skimmed Milk

Anyone who drinks semi-skimmed milk should be castrated. Basically, people who consume this stuff are taking an indecisive "middle of the road" position. They are the Liberal Democrats of the nutritional world, lacking the moral courage to ultimately decide whether to go down the health and fitness route, as epitomized by proper, God-fearing skimmed milk, or the way of full-fat, artery-clogging perdition. They therefore don't deserve to have a choice at all.

In my opinion, cartons of semi-skimmed milk should be stored in specially segregated areas of the supermarket, available only on request. And when the pinko filth do put in such a request, they should be hauled to one side by a large member of staff.

"So, we want some semi-skimmed milk, do we, then?" he'd ask, mockingly. "Well, you look like a queer to me. I suppose you want a coloured straw to go with it, too? Or are you the type that pours it over Sugar Puffs?"

At this point, the semi-skimmed milk purchaser would utter some feeble, ineffectual protest. He might even bleat about his rights. They normally do. So the staff member would taunt him all the more, while at the same time summoning up a crowd to watch:

"Tell you what," he'd say, chin jutting forward, "you take your best shot. Go on - land one on me. Prove to me that you're a man, then I might give you a carton of semi-skimmed milk. Or are you too fucking gutless?"

People who drink semi-skimmed milk are gutless, as I've said, so he'd back off, probably muttering something about his being a pacifist and opposed to all forms of violence. Whatever, he wouldn't get his milk, so he'd retire from the supermarket, publicly humiliated.

Over a period of time, and with repeated humiliations, the would-be semi-skimmed milk purchaser would eventually have to ask himself: "Am I a man, or just a nothing? Can I justify my existence upon this earth as a lowly worm?" This crossroads would be decisive. If he concluded that his life was indeed worthless, then he'd start buying full-fat milk in order to speed its end. On the other hand, he might decide that he was a real man, after all. However, in order to assert his masculinity, he'd realise that it would be necessary to vanquish his nemesis in the supermarket. To this end, he'd have to embark on a strenuous workout routine at the gym to build up his body. This would entail eschewing fatty foods. He'd therefore have to drink skimmed milk.

Anyhow, come the decisive day, he'd enter the semi-skimmed milk area of the supermarket once more and confront the staff member.

"I want a litre of semi-skimmed milk," he'd say, assertively, in best "Shane" tradition.

"Prove that you've got the guts to drink it," the staff member would reply, a Jack Palance sneer on his face.

At this point, the customer would land a couple of punches. One in the stomach, one on the chin, sending his tormentor flying. "Now give me a litre of semi-skimmed milk," he'd say. And, of course, the staff member, having picked himself up, would comply. Thereupon, the customer would crumple the carton in his hands, sending semi-skimmed milk squirting everywhere. But his point would have been made.

"I don't need this stuff any more," he'd say. "I am a man. I drink skimmed milk."

Flabby Bastards (3)

Earlier today I went to the gym for the first time this year. Unfortunately, my workout routine was impeded by the presence of large numbers of lardy-gut bastards who were obviously newcomers, both to the gym itself and to the concepts of exercise and proper nutrition. Because they had no idea how to use either the weights or the equipment, staff members had to put all these disgusting, porky twats through “induction” routines in an attempt to ensure they didn’t kill themselves through over-exertion or incorrect use of the machines (some of them would no doubt have attempted to eat the leather-covered lat pulldown bar, believing it to be a giant liquorice stick). As a result, I had to wait forever to finish. Indeed, some exercises – on the Smith machine and the shoulder press, for example – I had to give up on altogether.

This is an iniquitous situation.

In Formula One racing, does Lewis Hamilton have to slow down to 10mph because there’s a line of learner drivers in front of him? Are novice skiers allowed to go down black runs? Is Olympic Gold Medallist swimmer, Michael Phelps, obliged to tread water because the lanes of the pool have all been roped off to accommodate people wearing water wings who can’t even manage a respectable breast stroke? No, of course not. So, by the same token, why should grossly unfit individuals be allowed to clog my exercise facilities and imperil the maintenance of my body? The potential consequences could be horrendous.

Think, for instance, of the film Casino Royale. When Bond emerges from the Caribbean, dripping sea water and oozing masculinity, drop-dead-gorgeous Solange gives him the once over and is obviously smitten at first sight. As a result, Bond can get to her husband, Alex Dimitrios, through her, thus preventing the prototype Super Jumbo from being blown up at Miami Airport, and so thwarting Le Chiffre’s plans to finance world terrorism. However, had Bond not been able to exercise for a few days because some lardy-gut wanker had been hogging the gym equipment, Solange might have looked at him and thought, “He’s OK, I suppose, but the abs are a little undefined and I really do think those pecs needs some more work.” So she’d have spurned Bond’s advances, the plane would have been blown up, and Le Chiffre would have been able to donate his millions to Al-Quaeda, who’d then have probably bought off-the-shelf nuclear weapons, detonated them in both Washington and London, and killed millions.

And all because some FAT, FUCKING CUNT doesn’t know how to use a reverse bench-press machine.

In my opinion, if you're unfit, you should first have to go to a dedicated Fat Cunts' Gym in order to work off some of the flab. Then you should be allowed to progress to a Moderately Porky Gym. But only when you have acquired my enviable physique and musculature (43 inch chest, 32 inch waist, six-pack abs) should you be allowed to use Ultra-Fit He-Man equipment.

Hungover

Many types of food packaging carry warnings about mishandling the contents. Pop Tarts, for example, alert people to the fact that the things contain boiling hot jam and could burn the hands. Cooking Oil bottles warn you not to put hot oil back into the bottle, lest there be an explosion. Bags of nuts advise people that there are nuts in the bag and that, consequently, people who are likely to go into anaphylactic shock through eating them shouldn’t.

Why, then, is there no similar warning with whisky bottles?

In my opinion, whisky bottles ought to be calibrated with a hangover index, explaining what sort of after-effects one might expect from consuming a given percentage of the contents. So the first calibration, just below the neck, would say “Slightly muzzy feeling first thing in the morning - soon wears off.” The second would say, “Quite dry throat and mild headache”. These would go all the way to the bottom of the bottle, increasing in severity, until you reached “Completely fucks up, not just your day, but the following one, too”.

But because whisky bottles aren't calibrated in this way, one ought to be able to sue the manufacturers if one acquires a hangover from consuming the contents.

Cunts.

Lady Luck

Cadmore End, Buckinghamshire.

Whenever a person wants to suggest that the likelihood of something happening is nil, or thereabouts, he’ll generally say that there’s “a fat chance” of its occurrence. In other words, the chance is so bloated and so disgustingly overweight that, because of its obscene physical condition, it cannot possibly come to fruition.

This causes me some concern.

You see, if a “fat chance” is basically no chance at all, then, conversely, whenever a chance's BMI becomes progressively reduced, its likelihood of happening should be correspondingly greater. Logical, yes?

You'd think so, but no.

Going way down the scale, a “slim chance” is, in fact, actually regarded as being little better than a fat one. Indeed, in many cases it’s synonymous and only used because of the demands of etiquette. For example, if you ask a doctor “Will I survive this triple-whammy of AIDS, Lhassa fever, and an anally inserted jack-handle?”, rather than replying, “Are you fucking joking? There’s a fat chance of that!” he’ll normally try to let you down gently by saying something along the lines of , “The chances are only slim, I’m afraid.” Whichever, they both mean the same.

So what, in weight terms, does constitute an acceptable likelihood? Worryingly, extrapolating from the above, we can only conclude that it’s a chance that carries even less weight than a slim chance. We're talking a “Size 00 Chance” or a “Sickeningly Emaciated Chance.” The sort of chance, in other words, that puts its fingers down its throat after every meal and throws up. The sort of chance that, if it were on a beach, would repeatedly get sand kicked its face by bullies but wouldn’t ever have the option of rectifying the condition by buying a Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension course.

Henceforth, therefore, when we hear the term “Lady Luck”, we should picture, not some voluptuous maiden, but an anorexic Karen Carpenter or Lena Zavaroni lookalike who, if invited to blow on your dice in order to enhance your chances and bring you luck, would in all likelihood follow through by puking all over them (and you), too. Little wonder, then, that “the house always wins” when it comes to gambling.

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.