Clergy on the Catwalk

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

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

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

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

Not Buttered

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

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

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

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

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

Exporting My Good Taste

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

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

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

How can mere clothes do this? you ask.

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

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

White for Danger

This morning, while out walking by the river, I saw some rabbits. They saw me, too. When they did, they ran off. This is partly understandable, I suppose, because I sometimes cook rabbits. Then again, I usually leave it to the butcher to source them so, really, it’s him they should actually be afraid of. Whatever, they legged it, regardless, while simultaneously exposing the white, under-parts of their tails – apparently a universal rabbit “danger” signal.

This is one of the things that pisses me off about rabbits. Their alert system is too catch-all and permanently “on.” There’s no discrimination, either. For example, I have a colleague who’s a vegetarian, but he tells me that he gets this from rabbits, too, when out walking. Surely, though, he’s no threat to those rabbits at all. It’s cabbages and carrots that should be genuinely worried in his case. So why hasn’t Nature ensured that they employ a similar system and take off at speed whenever he’s in the vicinity?

Another thing: If I were to walk around all day, periodically hoisting a placard saying, “For fuck’s sake, flee for your lives!” but not specifying why or exactly what the danger is, or from whom – basically, exactly what the rabbits are doing - I suppose that, initially, many people would scream and run, as per my instructions. After a while, however, surely several would start to think, “What exactly am I supposed to be afraid of here? Life is risk, is it not? I can’t live in a state of permanent fear. Henceforth, therefore, I shall treat each day as a gift and laugh in the face of fear.”

In fact, isn’t this exactly what’s happening with all these Terror Alerts we get these days? Essentially, the Government has been telling us that we should all be living in a state of abject fear because of the unspecified potential threat of some sort of shadowy enemy. But now the more astute amongst us realize that, far from being a sign of Government concern for our wellbeing, it’s merely a ruse to subjugate and control us and keep us in situation of permanent panic.

Maybe the rabbits will eventually realize this as well, and rebel against their fascistic leadership. After all, how many instances have there ever been of, say, Islamic fundamentalist rabbits blowing themselves up down burrows? Has any rabbit burrow been targeted by airborne lepus jihadists? Where are the rabbit Al-Quaeda cells? Well, exactly.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Let us be at one with the cabbages and the carrots, therefore. And castrate all vegetarians, just to be on the safe side.

Dorian Gray's Unspeakable Sins

It's a good job Dorian Gray didn't commission Picasso or Jackson Pollock to paint his portrait, otherwise he'd have been fucked from the outset. As it was, it took several years of ongoing depravity and ageing before Basil Hallward's original painting of Gray got to look like a cubist masterpiece. At which point, of course, (understandably, because modern art is largely crap) Gray attacked it with a knife and died.

This set me thinking: The portrait in the attic was Gray's soul. While he himself remained youthful and unblemished by his moral turpitudes, the figure in the picture displayed these sins instead, becoming progressively more ugly. But surely it's equally possible that there could have been a two-way connection.

What would have happened, for example, if someone had gone into the attic with a magic marker and added a Hitler moustache or a black eye to the painting? Or suppose they'd been a tad more ambitious, and changed Gray's respectable hairstyle into a purple mohican and then painted a "Millwall FC Rules OK" tattoo on his arm?

Obviously, Gray's behaviour would have changed to reflect the alterations made to his portrait. So someone who really had it in for him - Sibyl Vane's brother, for example - could have exacted revenge quite easily with a single paintbrush, and at a safe distance. It wouldn't have done Dorian Gray's standing in polite society much good if, for example, while promenading through Grosvenor Square, he'd suddenly leapt up a nearby lamp post and starting pissing on pedestrians walking below.

Then again, Oscar Wilde never does describe what Dorian Gray's "unspeakable sins" actually were, so I suppose it's perfectly possible that this is one of the things that he did, in fact, do.

The Case Against In Vitro Fertilization

It's not just the Vatican that's against the idea of using frozen embryos in IVF therapy. I am, too. This is because there's a risk that, once transferred to the womb, they might go on to develop, come to term, and be born as frozen babies.

Women equipped with conventionally temperatured brats are annoying enough, always demanding crèches and baby-changing facilities, and all that kind of crap. However, if they had frozen babies, too, there'd be even more fuss. For example, they'd be forever having to stop their prams in the middle of the street or in the middle of busy shopping malls in order to fill them full of ice. Particularly on warm, summer days, otherwise the babies might melt and drip all over the floor, as ice lollies are wont to do (and they don't taste as nice, either, if you lick them).

I suppose supermarkets could offer a service whereby you could put your baby in the chiller cabinet along with other frozen produce while you went away and did your shopping. But you'd have to be careful to label him properly, otherwise some poor soul in search of frozen chicken might inadvertently pick him up and serve him up with Paxo for Sunday lunch. Then again, it could prove the birth of a new culinary sensation. And, if so, there'd be a ready supply of ingredients from council estates and inner city slums.

Eskimos don't have this sort of problem, of course. This is because their environment is always sub-zero. However, the downside of this is that Eskimo sperm and Eskimo eggs are frozen solid, even in their natural state. Which makes the sperm's job of fertilizing the egg somewhat difficult. A single, frozen sperm simply couldn't penetrate through to its nucleus. It would be forever heat-butting the frozen exterior.

Fortunately, though, Evolution has provided the solution: Eskimo ejaculate comes out of the penis in one, big frozen icicle of cum. It effectively "ram raids" the ovum, smashing its way in. This is why Eskimos always have flattish looking faces. It's caused by the impact of fertilization.

Erectile Dysfunction

According to a newspaper article I’ve been reading this morning, 77 per cent of men suffer from some sort of sexual dysfunction at some time during their lives. Usually it's short term. However, eight per cent of men, sadly, are permanently afflicted.

Given the widespread popularity of this malady, and its history, I was wondering why there are no recorded instances of Jesus ever curing it. It must, after all, have occurred in First Century Palestine. But try as I might, nowhere in the New Testament do I find anything along the lines of "Lord, I cannot get it up. If thou wilt, make me erect", or "Master, I habitually splurge just two seconds after I stick it in. Say the word, that I might acquire a respectable length of time."

After much thought, though, I realise that the explanation is in fact quite straightforward: Jesus Himself simply didn't understand the concept of impotence. This is because He'd received a somewhat imperfect account of the facts of life from His parents. When, during His early teens, He'd asked, "Mummy, how are babies made?", the Virgin Mary came out with some story about being fucked through the ear by an archangel and impregnated with the Holy Spirit (which is why, in medieval times, women kept their ears covered – they were regarded as erogenous zones). Obviously, anyone who's told this sort of thing at an impressionable age is bound to get an odd perspective on life.

So thereafter, whenever anyone approached Him with his limp dick in his hand, Jesus would pay it no heed. He thought that the only function of a penis was for pissing. Indeed, I'll bet if He ever did see anyone with a stiffy, He assumed it was some sort of disease or inflammation and tried to cure it by laying on of hands.

Perhaps he did this with Caiaphas or other members of the Sanhedrin, which might explain the real reason behind His crucifixion.

A Decent Cup of Coffee

I have just had a cup of freshly ground Medellin Excelso coffee, whose beans were purchased at H. R. Higgins Ltd of Mayfair, W1. Very refreshing it was, too.

The reason for its quality, apparently, is the soil in which the beans were grown: Colombian soil. Colombian soil also accounts for the quality of that country’s other main export, cocaine. Indeed, experts tell me that anywhere that’s good for cocaine is also good for coffee. Fortunately, however, coffee is somewhat more straightforward to purchase, as it doesn’t involve furtive transactions down seedy back alleys with all the associated risks of being solicited by prostitutes, stabbed by muggers, or detained in a police “sting” operation. And, when you buy a pound of coffee, unlike cocaine, you can be reasonably sure that it hasn’t been adulterated with other substances. So you are actually getting 100 per cent coffee, and not a coffee/acorn or coffee/cat-litter mix (at least, I hope that’s the case).

I suppose there are other reasons why we should be grateful that coffee doesn’t share cocaine’s unsavoury reputation. It if did, stores such as Marks & Spencer and Sainsburys would probably have all-out turf wars over its distribution. Then, if a low cost retailer such as Aldi tried to muscle in and undercut them, there would be bloodshed on the streets. I, personally, wouldn’t be keen on having a bomb lobbed through my window simply because I’d bought a jar of Economy Instant blend.

If this sort of thing did happen over control of the coffee market, it’s probable that many retail establishments would then switch to selling safer alternatives, such as crystal meth and heroin ("Psychostimulant desoxyephedrine with that all-important cascading release of norepinephrine, dopamine, and seretonin: This isn't just crystal meth, this is Marks & Spencer's crystal meth."). Which, in turn, could lead to a blanket clampdown by the authorities on all retail goods, not just drugs. As a result, an illegal black market trade might arise. The street value of cord trousers would go through the roof. Sock pushers would approach you in back alleys and try to sell you nylon socks by the gram. If such deals went wrong - the would-be purchaser discovered that his socks had got holes in them, for example, or they were a mismatched pair, or a nylon/wool blend - it could lead to street-corner shoot-outs. And burglary rates would sky-rocket as those with with an expensive slipper habit went on crime sprees to finance their illegal purchases.

But at least I’ll still be guaranteed a decent cup of coffee, which, at the end of the day, is all that really matters to me.

My Bananas

I eat bananas. I do so because they’re packed full of life-enhancing vitamins and potassium. Indeed, it could plausibly be argued that it’s a banana a day, not an apple, that keeps the doctor away. All of which compounds my present dilemma.

Yesterday, you see, I purchased, in good faith, a bunch of eight bananas from the local greengrocer, a man who, hitherto, I’ve regarded as being a reputable supplier. And why not? The boxes in which his bananas arrive from the wholesaler are, after all, emblazoned with a Fyffe’s logo, the universally acknowledged banana “gold standard.” But this morning, upon examining my goods more thoroughly, I made a disturbing discovery:

Of the eight bananas in that bunch, only four are actually affixed with a Fyffe’s label.

My first thought, of course, was that the bastard greengrocer had adulterated the original bunch by gluing on four additional, inferior bananas, in much the same way that cocaine retailers are wont to mix Ajax or talcum powder in with their product in order to con their customer-base. Which, if true, would mean that he probably debases his other fruit and vegetables in a similar manner. Can I now trust his fresh peas, for example? Or could it be that he takes a razor blade to the pods, extracts a good percentage of the genuine peas, and then replaces those with processed peas from a can, before resealing the pod with Superglue? And if he does this, what does this say about his 20something daughter, a girl whom I’ve always admired as being wholesome and likeable and well worth a shag. Is she, in fact, a crack whore who gives blow-jobs for 50 pence a time in order to support her disgusting habit?

Maybe. On examining the bunch further, though, I discovered no evidence of glue having been used. Apparently, the Fyffe’s bananas and their sub-standard counterparts originate from the same plant. But this has even more disturbing implications: Obviously, this is some sort of GM product – a hybrid of Fyffe’s bananas and some other variety. I wouldn’t have minded so much if these others had been labelled, say, Del Monte or Chiquita, but they weren’t. I just do not know their provenance.

The way I see it, there is only one way to assure myself. On Tuesday, I’ll go round to the greengrocer and wave a five pound note in front of his daughter. I’ll say, “Take your clothes off, bitch, this money says you’re mine for two hours. I want to do you right now, in every position, against that sack of Maris Piper potatoes. Or are they really Maris Piper?” If she acquiesces and strips off in front of me, I’ll know the terrible truth.

In the meantime, I must e-mail Fyffe’s and insist that they start breeding a new strain of banana where the label is actually grown into the flesh of the fruit and goes all the way up, as in a stick of rock. Only in this way can quality be assured.

Vlad the Impaler

This morning, after a strenuous workout in the gym, I took a piss in the establishment's lavatory. Nothing unusual in this, as I tend to drink a lot of bladder-distending water while exercising. But there was one thing of note today: In the urinal, I saw a piss-drenched five pence piece. This set me thinking: How did it get there?

I suppose it’s conceivable that someone urinated it out of his system, as, apparently, you can with gallstones. Had I been that person, however, I wouldn’t have been content with just the one coin. I’d have hung around awhile and taken a few more pisses, in the hope that I might pass £1 or £2, or maybe even a Krugerrand. Then again, it’s possible that that’s exactly what did happen. Painful, probably (especially if you’re still possessed of a foreskin), but, given the rising price of gold these days, well worth doing, nonetheless. Afterwards, perhaps, the individual who’d produced the coins fished the higher value ones out of the urine, but left those of lesser worth behind.

Another possibility, of course, is that someone chucked the coin in there merely in order to see if anyone would indeed pick it up. As I recall, Vlad Ţepeş, aka Vlad the Impaler, used a not dissimilar ploy in 15th century Wallachia. Except, in his case, it wasn't a 5p piece, but a gold chalice, left, apparently unguarded, in the middle of a courtyard. I don’t think he pissed on it, but he did impale to death anyone who picked up the chalice and went off with the thing. Or, if it was a woman with children, he'd boil the children to death and make her eat them. (This must have been before the days of “honesty boxes.”)

Anyhow, I didn’t reckon it was worth being impaled on a stake for just 5p (even £1 would be pushing it), so I left it there. One never knows, though. Given the current economic climate, some people might actually think it worth risking their lives for. After all, 5ps do add up if you can collect enough of them. It’s only to be hoped, therefore, that the person doing the impaling is of the same calibre as Vlad, and able to offer a bulwark against Muslim expansionism in Europe.