Whales

I’m glad I’m not a whale. This is because, unlike other whales, who’ve got mounds of unsightly blubber all over their bodies, I’d undoubtedly be a trim, ultra-fit he-whale, of the sort who appears on the front cover of “Whales’ Health” and advertises whatever the whale equivalent of Blue Kouros is. As a result, I wouldn’t be able to dive much deeper than about 100 feet, otherwise, without those protective layers of fat, I’d freeze. Thus, swimming permanently near the surface, I’d be left vulnerable to harpoon attack and subsequent transformation into Japanese hamburgers.

The only option left to me in order to survive, I suppose, would be to devolve back into some sort of land-based creature. But, having sprouted arms, legs, and all the other necessaries, I’d then have to launch my 60 foot plus body on to the shore in search of sustenance. I’m sure humanity wouldn’t react very well, especially as I’m a carnivore, and so would most likely want to eat their children. Consequently, once the governments of the world had launched all their armed forces against me, I’d probably be just as dead as I would have been had I simply remained a hapless sushi ingredient.

That said, would I be missing much? Not really. It can’t be fun having to shag someone who, perforce, is usually the whale equivalent of Andrea Dworkin. Not that you can see her at depths below 300 feet or so, as there’s little or no illumination. But the probability is high, nonetheless. I imagine this is why whales aren’t monogamous and apparently have so many sex partners. The scatter-gun approach to shagging means that, statistically, at least, there’s a small possibility that you’ll be poking a cetacean Claudia Schiffer. (Or you can just fantasize and imagine you are.)

Great sex is out, though. A whale can only stay under water for about two hours, maximum, so if you indulge in lengthy foreplay and then an “all nighter”, you both drown. This therefore means that the survival of the species is dependent upon nerdy, premature ejaculator, trainspotter-type whales, whose idea of highly erotic “sex talk” is to recite the registration numbers of all the Liberian oil tankers currently doing the transatlantic run.

To be quite frank, given that, I’d actually prefer to be fucking extinct.

Bin

Early this morning I saw a large, blue wheelie-bin outside the bar of The Salisbury Arms. There was a sign on it which read, “Category 3 Material: Not for human consumption.” A good idea, I thought. But this does, of course, imply the existence of separate, differently coloured wheelie-bins (red and yellow, maybe) containing Categories 1 and 2 Material, which quite obviously is for human consumption.

So where were they?

To me the answer is clear: they were put out last night by the hotel management but, by sunrise, all the contents had already been eaten, so they’d had to be taken inside again to avoid disappointing people. I’d imagine that, assuming Category 3 material is indeed as inedible as the sign suggests, then Category 2 must be Okish, if not exactly delicious, while the Category 1 bin contains the really gourmet rubbish. The connoisseurs no doubt go for this bin first. Perhaps there’s even a waiting list.

I wonder who decides which rubbish is best, though, and how to classify it. There’s probably an offshoot of Michelin and Egon Ronay that publishes “The Good Bin Guide.” They send undercover inspectors out to munch their way through kitchen scraps and then report back. It must be quite an accolade for a restaurant’s bin to receive a Category 1 status. I’ll bet there’s even a Category 1 Blue Ribbon for really superlative garbage.

The trouble with having a Category 1 Blue Ribbon, however, is that, you’re then likely to find celebrities rooting through your rubbish. This is why, even if Egon Ronay or Michelin do award my own bin a Category 1 Blue Ribbon at some future date – and it obviously deserves it - I won’t go public with the fact.

It’s currently a hard enough job keeping the foxes and rats from gnawing at my bin, so I don’t want people like George Clooney, Daniel Craig, and Madonna doing it, too, otherwise I’ll have to put poison pellets and traps down. Having George Clooney found dead in a spring-loaded trap outside my house, the remains of one of my turkey escalopes still in his mouth, is something I simply don’t need at the moment.

Love Log

Now that the weather has become somewhat sunnier, clothes are inevitably becoming skimpier and, as a result, ever larger areas of flesh are being exposed to the light of day (mostly by people who really ought to keep it covered). One inevitable consequence of such disclothesure is that people who’ve invested in tattoos are finally able to show off their artwork to the general public.

In the majority of cases, the illustrations are quite banal stuff – roses, eagles, snakes, and so on – but in a few, declarations of undying affection are displayed. “Dave Loves Diana” is one such I saw yesterday on someone’s upper arm, for example. Another was a heart symbol, pierced by an arrow, with the names Kaz and Jenna on each side. This, presumably, was for the benefit of the semi-literate public.

But why do people do this? From personal experience, I know that this relationship business is a little too impermanent to commemorate with something as permanent as an indelible tattoo. It's rather like immortalizing "Big Brother" contestants on the Hollywood Walk of Fame or taking out a long-term mortgage on an equatorial igloo.

So what happens if and (inevitably) when you split up? You can either try to laser the tattoo off, I suppose, or have it amended in some way, both of which are fairly expensive, uncomfortable options.

I have therefore come up with a far better idea: Rather than attempt to obliterate the original tattoo, why not simply leave it there? Then you can list any subsequent relationships sequentially down one arm, together with their beginning and end dates. It would work like a car's log book. In this way, you’d be able to see, at a glance, whom your prospective partner had been with in the past and for exactly how long. This would give you and all others a pretty accurate idea about his or her general fidelity, views on commitment, quality of shag, and so forth.

Unless, of course, they ran out of arm space. Then they might have to start on a leg, or begin listing the names down their chest or back, and thence to other parts of their anatomy. But then, at least, the request “show us your tits” or “let’s see your cock” would no longer be regarded as a sexist, insulting term, but quite simply a polite inquiry into the quality and duration of one’s past intimate liaisons.

Box

This morning I decided to give the women of Hertford a treat. Accordingly, I sat at a table outside Le Café Rouge, where they could all watch me, and had breakfast. The meal (and very nice it was, too) consisted of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, toast and marmalade, and a large pot of Colombian coffee. Anyway, as I was eating, a vehicle stopped outside. It was emblazoned with the legend “Horse Box”. Once I'd finished breakfast, I got up, walked over, and peeked inside. There was indeed one single horse within.

How wasteful of packaging and resources, I thought. If properly stacked and surrounded by those polystyrene blobs, there was room there for at least six horses. The situation was therefore akin to Kelloggs selling you a Cornflakes box containing just the one cornflake, and fitting it with a motor to allow it to drive itself from the supermarket to your home. Overkill in every way.

In my opinion, if you want to package a single horse, you should use a horse bag or a horse sachet. Or better (because few people are going to manage a whole horse at a single sitting), you should put it in a tube as horse purée. Then you can squeeze out as much or as little as you require, and keep it in the fridge for subsequent usage.

In fact, on reflection, perhaps someone could develop Pot Horse, where you just open the container, add boiling water, and enjoy. However, just as you have to beware of small bones when eating fish, I imagine you’d have to look out for the occasional horseshoe and stirrup when eating the rehydrated article.

Foam

A few years ago, lots of pub-goers were bitching about the fact that their beers were basically all head and very little, if any, beer. I heard reports, for example, of one aggrieved punter saying to the barmaid, “You can give me head, darling, but not my fucking pint.” As a result, no doubt, Government legislation was introduced, compelling publicans (and barmaids) to serve the full measure. Now, if you do want additional spume on top, that’s up to you, but it mustn’t be included in the advertised price of the drink.

This morning, therefore, it was with profound satisfaction that I learned that people are starting to complain about the excess foam atop their coffees, too, particularly those served in Working Class establishments. About time. I, also, would be pissed off if, whenever I went into a café, I had to equip myself with a sonar depth finder in order to determine exactly where, relative to its froth, the actual coffee bit of the cappuccino was located.

Indeed, when you think it through fully, froth on liquids is almost always regarded as a bad thing. If, for instance, you see foam on the surface of a river, the sea, or a lake, it’s usually indicative of there being something horribly iffy in the water, particularly if there are dead fish floating on the top, as well. More often than not, it’s caused by noxious chemicals, of the sort that make men grow breasts and acquire other generally unwanted feminine characteristics. Thus it must be with coffee. (And I’ll bet they have to use a sieve to get the dead fish out before they serve it to you.)

The major downside to all this, of course, is that it could encourage would-be Thai lady boys to come over here and drink our coffee in order to transform themselves, physically, so they can then earn a living sucking men off in Bangkok bi-bars. Whatever your views on the morality, or otherwise, of this, I’m sure everyone would agree that if you do want a job sucking men off in Bangkok bi-bars, you should have to pay a private physician for the requisite hormones, and not expect Costa or Starbucks to give them to you prescription-free for just £1.80 (or however much a cappuccino costs).

And besides, there will be lots of men who don’t want to go into this line or work but who, nonetheless, may feel compelled to do so, simply because of the after-effects of their latte. What other option will be open to them? Realistically, are they going to be able to satisfactorily hold down a job as, say, a quantity surveyor or stockbroker if, when they get back to the office following their coffee break, they’ve suddenly sprouted DD tits and long, black hair, and keep screeching “Suckee, suckee, fuckee fuckee!” every ten seconds or so? I think not.

Coffee, therefore, should be be priced and served without foam. If you do want a job in a gay Far Eastern flop house, that, of course, is your affair. But coffee vendors shouldn’t automatically assume that everyone does.

Classical Eggs

There are few, if any, egg recipes in the Classical texts, either Roman or Greek. This is quite simply because people generally didn't bother trying to cook them as there was no reliable way of timing the things. A few, faltering attempts were made, though. Take boiling, for example. Here, the cook would call a slave couple into the kitchen and order them to get down on the floor and fuck whenever the egg went in the pan. Upon ejaculation, the egg was deemed ready. Depending on the slaves’ sexual proficiency, you could end up with anything between a three minute egg and a rather hard boiled two hour one. If you were lucky.

Where this method fell down severely, of course, was when you got a male slave who was predisposed to premature ejaculation, or worse. In this case, the egg would be so under-cooked that you'd risk salmonella poisoning. (That's assuming there was anything to time in the first place.)

You'd have thought they'd have been on surer ground with scrambled or poached eggs on toast, but sadly, no. Here, the main problem lay with pop-up toaster technology, which, then, was still in its infancy. The toast eject mechanism was based on the principle of the ballista, or elementary catapult. Here, the bread slices, which were cooked on each side by a slave holding a flaming torch, rested on a bent-back tree branch. This was kept taut by a rope positioned over a burning candle. Once the rope had burnt through, the branch sprang back and the toast was ejected. Sadly, the force was such that the slaves were often propelled out with the toast, and could be deposited several miles away. So by the time the egg was eventually reunited with its toast (and with the slave), all three were usually cold.

Basically, all Classical age cooking was a bit of a hit and miss affair. The only generally available timepiece was a sun dial. This meant that cooking had to be restricted to sunny, daylight hours when there wasn't any likelihood of an eclipse. Late dinner was therefore totally impossible. Furthermore, as the smallest unit of time on a sun dial was an hour, all but the largest roasts tended to be pretty well done. Sometimes inedibly so. This is why no Ancient Roman or Greek restaurants ever got a Michelin Star.

My Teeth

My teeth are pearly white and my smile is dazzling. So dazzling, in fact, that anyone standing within smiling range must wear a pair of those special, ultra-thick goggles as used by nuclear test scientists, lest his or her retinas be burnt out.

Unfortunately, these days, the only people with access to such goggles are nuclear test scientists. For safety’s sake, therefore, I have to restrict any grins and smirks to atomic weapons testing ranges. So, in practice, if you want to tell me a joke or otherwise make me happy, you’ve got to do it in Iran or North Korea. Which is a great pity because Iranian “How many Zionist imperialist lackeys of the Great Satan does it take to change a lightbulb?” and Korean “My dog’s got no nose – That’s because you ate it” gags aren’t particularly funny. Especially if, at the time they’re being told, I happen to be within fallout range of a 20 Megaton blast.

Then again, I suppose I have it very easy compared to Ancient Romans. My magnificently astounding teeth are courtesy of Eucryl “Whitening” Tooth Powder. If Catullus and others are to be believed, Ancient Romans’ sparkling teeth were down to urine. That’s right: They brushed their teeth with piss in order to get the true, “Ultrabrite Smile” effect.

I should imagine in the same way that, today, competing brands of toothpaste each claim to give you the whitest, brightest teeth, back in the 1st century AD, rival urine producers would make equivalent boasts. They’d claim that their piss, and theirs alone, was the most efficacious at removing stains, preventing plaque build-up and cavities, and giving you that “winning, confident smile.” Patrician piss was undoubtedly better than the plebeian variety, but I wonder how the average dental hygiene-conscious Roman citizen would decide on exactly which patrician he’d have piss in his mouth?

Ultimately, I suppose, one would go by one’s dentist’s recommendation. However, if 90 per cent of dentists agreed that, for example, Gaius Calpurnius Piso’s piss was the sine qua non of tooth-enhancing urine, then Gaius Calpurnius Piso would have his work cut out to produce a sufficient amount to satisfy demand. By the time he’d fulfilled the requirements of the imperial family, the Senate, and the two Consuls, there wouldn’t be much more than a thimble-full left for the rest of the Empire, even if the man was on a 24-hour asparagus diet. They therefore probably had to equip him with the equivalent of an olive press in order to enable a “pump action” which extracted the very last drop.

Actually, this explains why so few statues of Ancient Romans ever depict them smiling: There simply wasn’t sufficient “extreme whitening” piss to go round. Particularly if some inconsiderate cunt was in the habit of squeezing a piss purveyor down his middle.

Archaeologists

You often hear archaeologists enthusing over having discovered a Roman villa. Indeed, so proud are they of their spadework, that, once the soil has been cleared, they usually put the thing on show. What I'd like to know, though, is why no archaeologist has ever admitted to having found a Roman maisonette or a Roman semi. Surely they must have existed. Actually, it's my opinion that such things are dug up all the time, but the archaeologists get so embarrassed when they find one, that they try to keep quiet about it.

Why should this be so?

It's obvious, really. Archaeologists are desperately trying to project a Middle Class, pipe-smoking, intellectual image. The reality of the situation, however, is that archaeology, far from being a cerebral, academic activity, is in fact more akin to road-digging or navvying. It's borderline Working Class. Archaeologists realise this. That's why they always make a fuss about having found something royal or some objet d'art associated with nobility. They think the kudos will rub off on them. And by the same token, that's why they shut up when they dig up an antiquarian equivalent of an item from the Argos catalogue. They fear guilt by association.

Take Heinrich Schliemann, for example. Yes, he did discover the site of Troy. Eventually. What people don't realise, however - and that's because he kept well quiet about it - is that, beforehand, he dug up the Anatolian equivalents of Milton Keynes, Croydon, and Catford. There, he unearthed thousands of objects from the Bronze Age Franklin Mint collection, including "limited edition" mugs with King Priam's face on them, plates commemorating the tenth anniversary of the Iliad ("which you will treasure forever"), and little thimbles with mugshots of Hector and Achilles painted round the periphery. The man almost topped himself from the embarrassment.

So those who tune into soi disant intellectual television, such as “The Time Team”, should realise this: What they’re actually doing is the exact equivalent of watching "The Big Match Live" or “Celebrity Big Brother”, while simultaneously guzzling a four-pack of Tennent's Super and chewing on a Big Mac.

Wankers.

Fishing Harbour

I used to live in a house overlooking the picturesque fishing harbour of Newlyn. Every year, tourists flocked there from all over the world to take photographs of the village and its environs. There was (probably still is) much to see pleasing to the eye: The dozens of colourful fishing boats, the busy fishermen, and, of course, the many varieties of fish being unloaded. The sights also attracted artists. One often saw painters standing at their easels, attempting to immortalise the scenery in oils or watercolours.

All of this has set me thinking, though. Basically, the function of a fishing harbour is to land fish, process them, and then send them on elsewhere to be sold and eaten. In many respects, it mirrors the functions of an abattoir. So why is that abattoirs don't attract tourists, photographers, and artists, whereas fishing harbours do?

I think the problem is that abattoirs and their personnel lack aesthetic appeal. The abattoir buildings tend to be unimposing brick edifices, while the people who work there are dowdy cunts dressed in featureless white. But this would be so easy to change.

In my opinion, abattoir lorries should be painted in bright colours, and be given individual names like, "Beef Buggy", "Bloody Entrail", and "The Skewered Gizzard." They should all be encouraged to "land" their cargoes of cattle, sheep, and pigs simultaneously. This would ensure that the whole abattoir area became a sudden mass of colour. People from all over would bring their families to watch the animals being killed.

Abattoir employees themselves should be encouraged to dress in woolly pullovers, wear earrings, acquire tattoos, and talk total gibberish. Special pubs should be set up alongside the abattoirs, with names like "The Aberdeen Angus", "The Slaughterman's Arms," and "The Bull Castrator's Rest." There, the slaughtermen and drivers could get properly pissed after a hard day's butchering, and tell each other tall tales of the heifer that got away and of run-ins with quota-busting Spanish slaughtermen out in the treacherous reaches of the A37. It would also be a good idea to liberally scatter entrails all over the place. This would encourage vultures to gather. Vultures look far more impressive than seagulls, and so would attract lots of tourists.

If my ideas were to be implemented, town and villages with abattoirs would become "in" holiday destinations, thus boosting their economies. There could be a few problems, however. For example, if there was a storm on the M40, it's conceivable that one of the more unlucky abattoir lorries could be lost in it with all hands. But that's a small price to pay for enhanced aesthetic appeal.

Penguins

Penguins tend only to be born during periods of climatic disaster. They spend their infancy eating putrid, year-old vomit. Fish vomit. At some point even this meagre nourishment runs out, and, because they can’t fly, they must then embark on an absurd trek of hundreds of miles over impassable terrain, usually with predators, high winds, and blazing fireballs picking them off in their hundreds. When they reach their destination, usually the shore of some half-frozen sea, they have to clamber down sheer-sided cliffs and run a gauntlet of psychotic seals, before finally plunging gratefully into the frigid waters - whereupon they are promptly devoured by passing killer whales.

A better idea, therefore, might be to take penguin eggs from their nests and submerge them in the sea. Then, when the baby penguins hatch, they will believe themselves to be fish. Consequently, flightlessness will no longer be a problem. They will be able to flit about the oceans to their hearts' content, no longer having to worry about waddling around in a ridiculous-looking, predator-enticing manner.

Of course, the sudden penguin influx might provoke some of the fish population into retaliating by laying their eggs in penguin nests. On hatching, the fry will believe themselves to be penguins, and walk upright on their tails. While this might not be a problem with smaller fish, such as sticklebacks or kippers, it could get quite dangerous once land-based species of, say, hammerhead shark and great white come of age. They will bounce all over the place, eating people, and generally looking decidedly non-cute As a result, no-one will want to name chocolate biscuits or book publishers after them.

Which is just as well, I suppose, because "P-p-pick up a porbeagle" sounds fucking stupid. As, indeed, does the concept of a Grey Mullet edition of "Lady Chatterley's Lover."

Perhaps, then, it's best to leave the status quo as is.