When I was a kid they made me pray. There was a war on at the time,
so the main bargaining point in any prayer-deal was that if I was goo...
not as bad... God must let our side win. Which, fair doos to the bloke,
he did. However, another part of the deal fell down badly, because I
asked him to, “Bless all our soldiers, sailors and airmen and keep them
safe.” This last bit didn’t come off. I knew that because, every day, our
local rag sported a list of the latest hometown war-dead. So, for me,
God fell at the first post and I matured into a potential agnostic.
As time went by I developed a cynicism for the very idea of prayer.
“It’s ridiculous,” I thought, “for me, a grown man, to expect another
grown man, i.e. – God, to sit there, up in the sky, and hear and
understand every prayer, in every language, that comes bellowing out
of his loudspeaker from every quarter of the globe. “Even madder,” I
thought, “is to expect this guy to attempt to fix everyones’ problems
at the same time.” With those words, I closed the book and became a
But hang about. Here’s me, today, wandering around my personal neck
of the woods, and asking my satnav, in my language, to, “Guide me,” to
some obscure alleyway in some one-horse town that even my neighbours
haven’t heard of – and it does. And, I presume that, at the same time,
millions of other people are, in their own language, asking similar
questions about their space in their part of the world, and getting...
Now, as an agnostic, my argument has always been, “I’ll believe it if you
prove it.” So, true to my beliefs, I think God’s a satellite.
Sitting here on the patio in the cool of an evening, sipping whisky.
Lone birds, wending home across the heavens; fleecy cirrus, pink-tinted
by the setting sun, drifting in from the sou’west, like exotic fish in my
vast aquarium of deepening blue sky. Bedtime rooks shout from the copse
beyond the roofs, last of the birds chirping in the trees; flowers closing for
the night, cool air drifting in with a damp night-smell of nearby fields where a
crow coughs and scours for supper, cat slinks by with wicked eyes, on the prowl
for a vole or mouse... I open a beer and thank God that my love is by my side.
Daily Mail quote: “gay Stephen Twigg snatched the seat from Portillo in the
1997 Blair landslide.” If the earth moves. – grab what’s there.
Wife of Bank of England guv says teabags waste paper and wreck the planet.
Maybe Basildon Bond eats a bit of rain forest, but Brooke Bond?
Green Windfarms? We’re gonna lay a £500M cable to buy French nuclear energy
when the breeze don’t blow. “Whistle for a wind, Jim lad!”
Advert in todays post:
ARE YOU FEEDING YOUR PROSTRATE AND STARVING YOUR PENIS?
Hmm I thought the crumbs I put in my Y-fronts fed both.
Girl Guides, run by PC madwomen, now serve “self” and insular “community”
instead of God and country. Another step in splintering the UK.
Like I say... I’m the fall guy.
I said I would like a splash of colour outside the French windows,
so Liz brought home these exotic plants from the garden centre.
They were beautiful, red patterns on a bright yellow background,
“Hand-painted by God,” I thought.
The label said they were “Gazanias.”
“Dodgy,” I thought, “Gazania’s a country. Went there on safari once.
Full of lions and mambas and things that give you the squits.
So what do the flowers get up to?”
Anyway, nothing ventured nothing gained.
I put them in the ground and rewarded myself with a whisky-beer chaser,
like you do. The next time I squinted out of the window,
all these Gazania things were slouching, shoulders hunched,
petals over their heads, sulking like Friday night girls
when it rains on the queue at the Club Kids.
Now I read the label. It says, “Must be in full sun.”
Full sun...? We live in Cardiff, the wettest place outside Dogger Bank.
We don’t do full sun. So that’s another thirty quid down the plughole.
Like I say... I’m the fall guy.
Just went away
You didn’t say – just went away
and killed the dream that filled my day.
I really thought I knew you well;
but, deep inside, you planned to flee
and didn’t tell. You gave no hint
about the end, like, ''I don’t need
you for a friend.'' Neither said we
didn’t care, but suddenly you
were not there…
I can’t dismiss you
with a sigh. It matters that you
So smile, and blow a
kiss before you go. Never run
away and leave your friend to grieve.
Work for the Wicked
I’ve got this black and white cat that’s got no fur on his nose or tips of his ears.
The sun makes him a cancer risk, but he doesn’t care and sunbathes for a hobby.
That makes my hobby... trying to catch him and paint sun-block on his bare bits.
But he’s always one up on me. When it’s sunny he doesn’t come in at all,
even for bed or food. He’ll go to any length to avoid the sun-block.
I keep telling him, “You’ll die, you silly sod,”
but he just smiles down from the roof of the garage,
yawns, stretches, and goes back to sleep. I wouldn’t mind, but he never
gets a tan or anything; just stays black and white with a scarlet nose and ears.
I moved a stone in the garden today and there was a party of woodlice
having a picnic in the cool underneath. Then, when the blaze hit them,
they panicked and dashed for the shade of another stone,
like those Chinese women who think the sun turns people into coolies.
Woodlice obviously know a bit about skin cancer and don’t take risks.
This all raises a profound question:
Are woodlice more intelligent than black and white cats?
I don’t pretend to know the answer to that one.
But I do think that I’ve got enough evidence here to keep our tormentors,
The Researchers, fully occupied and off our backs for the next two years.
Says here, “Dutch researchers find that kinky sex makes people happier...”
Show offs! Just ‘cos double Dutch is a threesome.
Woman here moaning that Bodyshop said, “No job!” ‘Cos she can’t speak Chinese.
So who does she think should serve a Chinese customer?
When future Time Travellers meet the Rev John Newton,
should they revere the composer of Amazing Grace,
or prosecute the seafaring slaver?
A Researcher is a man who rises from his bed, scratches his arse,
looks in the mirror and says, “What shall we worry them with today?”
I always fall for the sucker punch. We buy a new shed. The door’s too low
and scalps me. My wife puts up a new hanging basket. I walk into it twice a day.
Now I think I’ve got concussion. I decide to feed the roses and go into the house
so the stuff won’t blow in the wind. I Pour fertilizer into a plastic container;
pick the container up and find there’s no bottom in it.
I don’t know why there’s no bottom in it, but now there are pellets all over the kitchen.
I hate roses anyway, more claws than a feral cat.
The bastards can starve from now on.
Cameron asks, “What’s gone wrong with British society?”
John Bull says, “Only what we Brits have been telling MPs for 20 years –
Dial the NHS
Get the Crematorium
I had to phone the local surgery this morning to speak to a doctor.
I wasn’t ill or anything. It was more to do with a bit of bureaucracy.
However, it gave me a fascinating glimpse of the NHS at grassroots level.
Incredibly, I was dialling for nearly half an hour and getting nothing
but the engaged tone. When I say dialling, I mean rapid dialling...
engaged tone... hit shutdown, hit redial... engaged tone. Nobody who was ill,
really ill, could have kept it up. From what I gather, it’s like that
every morning from “on your marks” at 0830 until the last punter keels over.
When I did eventually beat one the local invalids to the draw,
I found myself in a one-way conversation with a computer that comforted me
with a monologue that went, “You are in a queue.
Your call is important to us. If you are suffering from the following
symptoms of a stroke, hang-up and redial 999...”
You couldn’t make it up.
Another Tale from the Welsh Valleys
When LLew-the-squint died, his nephew, Danny-the-Sheep,
found his glass eye festering in the jar with his dentures beside the bed.
Naughty by nature, Danny-the-Sheep prowled round the pubs at the
top end of the Rhondda, plopping the eye into the beer of unsuspecting drinkers.
Then he skulked at the far end of the bar, revelling in their horror as they
drained their glass and saw this eye peering back at them from the dregs.
As the victim sprinted, yelling, for the toilet, to vomit and bang his head
on the wall, Danny-the-Sheep took advantage of the commotion,
pocketed the eye, evaporated, and reappeared in the next pub.
It so happened that Danny-the-Sheep’s target in a pub called The Dead Canary
was a man by the name of Morgan-the-Alcy who only drank whisky –
by the tumbler-full, with a bit of ice to keep things mellow.
On this particular day, Morgan-the-Alcy drained his glass and gulped
as the eye slid down his gullet. But, oblivious to reality, he took it to be
another lump of ice. However, during the following week, Morgan-the-Alcy
became more and more constipated. And no matter what Doc-the-Grope
gave him, he couldn’t put a road through him. So in the end,
with Morgan-the-Alcy doubled over in agony, Doc-the-Grope said,
“I’ve no option boyo, but to look up your bum to see what’s holding things back.”
“Not bloody likely,” shouts Morgan-the-Alcy. “No man touches my backside.
I learned my lesson with Freddy-the-Finger on Rhigos Mountain.”
“Don’t be a damn fool, man!” yells Doc-the-Grope.
“I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”
“All right then,” says Morgan-the-Alcy. “But one wrong move
and I’ll have you struck off.” With that, he bends over,
and Doc-the-Grope kneels down behind him.
But when Doc-the-Grope pushes Morgan-the-Alcy’s buttocks apart
and peers up his orifice, he sees an eye staring back at him.
“Dammit Man! I’m a doctor,” he yells. “You’ve got to trust me!”
Says here that 9 out of 10 parents want pornography
removed from the internet: Stand up number ten!
Pentecost: Acts 2 1-11: Jerusalem – birthplace of multiculturalism.
And look what it did to them.
In the cafe today, there was a bloke with a massive moustache;
the image of a walrus peering over a stone slab.
“There must be a ton of food debris festering among those roots,”
I thought. “Is he a health hazard?” I wondered.
“Should I phone Health and Safety?” I asked myself.
“No,” I decided. “He’s protected by the Human Rights Charter.”
Then, adding to my myriad of other worries, I thought,
“What happens when he gets a cold and his nose
starts runn- contd on P42.
Weirder than fiction! A madwoman in Somerset got her sad mates
on the council to ban the English flag in a nauseating crawl to Muslims.
I hear she wants to fly a pair of her old knickers from the pole instead...
And here’s me, thinking I’d left them all up north.
Oxymoron? Scots zealots heckling Nigel Farage with shouts of,
“Racist scum – get back to England!”
Item On Scottish Socialist Blog.
“Smoke a cigarette and breathe out towards your protest victim.”
…Yeah – But first, inhale deeply.
Found a sky lantern in the garden.
There was a swastika on the canopy.
That’s worrying. Do the Germans know I joined UKIP?
Arguably, Mary was only 14 when she conceived Jesus.
Should we always allow for an era’s culture before condemning sex-abuse, or never?
I know that many people think they have to talk to God in a different kind of voice.
And I guess the guy can put up with the odd thee and thou.
But I just came across this on the internet...
“I dreamt I saw Jesus and. I said, ‘Lord I love u & I want 2 know u.’
That’s OK in a dream. But I know God or, at least,
I did until I decided he wasn’t there.
But when he was there he would have told this person to,
“Shut the fuck up until you can communicate
in proper English you bloody lame brain.”
If a man is not a socialist at 18, he has no heart.
If he is still a socialist at 30, he has no head (sic)...
UK Logic. Prosecute geriatric celebrates for gropes they had 50 years ago.
Tolerate aristocrats who inherit titles from robber-killer barons.
Evolution – the downside
Evolution has many negative aspects. People are getting fatter,
children rowdier, wildlife is doomed and the universe is running
out of steam. San fairy-ann. The big worry is that the British pie
and chips are following in the footsteps of the dinosaurs.
A traditional chip was one this world’s gems, finger thick,
golden brown, firm outside and fluffy within, deep-fried in
beef dripping, yet not a hint of fat. Where have they gone?
Nowadays, what passes for a chip is a long pale slither of hot
soggy spud... Even worse, is that bag of scabs, boiled in grease, that
they shovel up in burger bars and call, fries! On several occasions,
I’ve had “fries” plonked before me in the guise of “traditional fish
and chips” What?!
Chip-extinction is spreading like dry rot. Even British pubs no longer
serve real chips. OK. I grant you that some of their attempts are not
bad. Some are even quite nice. But, at best, they are frozen cuttings,
shaken out of a packet and given a quick fry-up. There’s no tender
loving care involved. Check it out.
The proof of a real genuine chip is that it does not come alone.
It comes with misshapes. In a real British chippy all the potatoes
are sliced on the spot. And no oval potato can give a set of identical pieces.
Think about it. Real chips come with scratchings – those crispy little bits
of imperfection that we fought over as kids.
This evolutionary mutation has taken place in British pies too.
The definition of a pie is “a filling, cooked in a pastry-lined dish with
a pastry lid.” But what you get in a pub these days is little more than
a plateful of stew with a bit of puff pastry floating on top, like a raft
in a sewage farm. It’s not even a dumpling or doughboy.
I reckon that anyone who charges for a pie and fobs you off with a bit
of leftover pastry should be taken up under the trade description act
and cast away with the forgers and counterfeiters. The same goes for
anyone who charges for chips and slips you a bag of scabs.
So what’s to blame for this downward spiral? Well, as far as chips are
concerned, it’s globalisation, innit? As usual, the French are at the heart
of the problem. They invented the fry, which they exported to the USA.
The Americans grabbed it because it fits in with their “get fat quick”
approach to food. The Yank multinationals then flooded the world with
grease-burger and fries. So, now, British kids think that a fat infested
splinter is a chip.
Then along came the Chinese, masters of industrial plagarism,
swarming over the planet like ants over a carcass. In the UK, the obvious
blueprint for a quick buck was the chip. So Chinese chippies mushroomed
over the land, like duck stalls in Beijing. That was the final nail in the
chip’s coffin. The Chinese can fry rice and boil noodles. But the potato
But I can’t blame immigrants for wrecking the pie. The skids went under
the pie when they assassinated cooks. Not many years ago this country
was infested with cooks. They were everywhere, hospitals, schools, pubs...
they even had cooks on ships and other weird places. Maybe that’s why they
had the “cook-cull.” There were too many of them. The plus side about cooks
was – they made damn good pies. They made meat pies, potato pies, jam pies
and apple pies. They could produce a pie out of a lump of green cheese –
and often did. Pies were the main function of a cook... pie and chips.
Then, overnight, cooks went the way of the dodos... and up popped chefs.
In evolutionary terms, it was inevitable. The same thing is happening in the
woods right now. British Red squirrels are disappearing and alien brown squirrels
are multiplying like... er... Chinese. It’s evolution, innit?
So now, like brown squirrels, we have chefs everywhere. Every pub, club and
burger bar has its own chef. But, unlike the chef’s of old, who couldn’t speak
English, smelled of garlic and specialised in microscopic unpronounceable bits of
artwork, modern chefs can’t cook. They can do little more than empty a freezer bag
and switch on a microwave.
That’s evolution for you; red squirrels and cooks, confined, like dinosaurs,
to the history books. Flick over the page for pie and chips.
“To Fight Climate Change, Sheffield Council has bannned ice-cream vans.”
During the Cold War some nutty councils declared they were “Nuclear Free Zones.”
I don’t know if the Russian bomb-aimers knew that.
But head-cases never go away.
Does prison work? The prison population has gone up 30%.
Crime has dropped 25%.
Pass the calculator.
Let’s face it: wind farms are not really farms.
You can’t milk a turbine. It milks you.
Being in the EU means that foreigners run Britain.
In the name of Human Rights our laws are overruled in Brussels
by people we did not elect. As a result the country becomes
a safe haven for foreign terrorists. At the same time,
opening our borders to all comers leads to a housing crises,
schools and hospitals stretched to breaking point and
tarmacking over England’s green and pleasant land.
This in turn leads to anger and resentment. Put another way,
if the bus is full, piling more people aboard causes discomfort,
anger and resentment and even danger for those already aboard.
In the case of a bus, the answer is, “get on the next bus.”
In the case of a country it has to be, ”go where there is more room.”
Let us have some common sense.
Nigel Farage... Cometh the moment, cometh the man!
Q: Why do the Brits like Nigel Farage?
Ans: After all the political tossers and bankers,
they think “OMG there’s another human out there.”
UKIP Followers? The sneerers call us “clowns.”
We are actually, “the great British unbrainwashed!”
When I was on my bike the other day, a ray of sunshine
revealed a forest of wind turbines covering one of our
beautiful wild hills; grotesque, like the stubble
on an old man’s chin. When the sun went in, the
turbines disappeared and I had my hill back.
That gave me another brainwave. I get lots of them.
They’re all as good as this. If they painted the turbines purple,
they would blend in with the heather and we wouldn’t
see them anymore. In the army they call it camouflage.
All we need is a few volunteers with tins of
purple paint and oilcans. They could start at the bottom,
paint their way up to the top, oil the wheels, then come
down and start all over again – forever.
Then, in one fell swoop, bingo! No more windmills,
free electricity for all – and a booming Purple Paint Industry.
I can’t join in myself. I’m too busy thinking up ideas.
But the best of British luck to the public spirited.
So all these people want to come and live in Britain.
Fine. But wouldn’t it make sense to check what contribution
each of them is capable of making,
and then only admitting those who can be of use.
Yes, I know Brussels would object to that.
But seeing that Brussels doesn’t make any contribution
at all, why don’t we tell them to get stuffed.
If Human Rights Laws support Abu Qatada,
and the Lib Dems support Human Rights Laws,
what does that make the Lib Dems?
UK democracy: If one political party concentrates on
35% of the electorate & ignores 65%,
it can gain a majority and form a government.
Does, having more children than you can reasonably
afford, contribute to child poverty?
In every communist country I’ve been to, everyone has a job.
But no one has any money.
I wander in the wild-wood
where Leap, my dog, would play;
rest upon some grassy bank
where I with Jenny lay.
Time you thief who stole my life,
the years go like a day.
Leap lies beneath the laurel,
my Jenny went away.
A lot of people grow designer stubble to hide warts and things.
Our neighbour has designer stubble.
Wonder if she’s got warts?
Irony: Will the doolally financial policies advocated by the Left
give rise to another Thatcher?
Is, “look like an evil baby-frightener,”
a part of an Islamic terrorist’s job description?
The Brits are down. Divide and rule. Wheel in the “Communities,”
Dogging, Travelling, Asian, Afro, Homo, Trans whatever –
all well persecuted… sniffs and dabs his eye.
Keep Britain happy. Mummify Savile and Thatcher.
Put him on trial at the Bailey
and her on a ducking stool in the Serpentine.
Poor Nanny State. Lead in rice, horse in beef, mercury in mussels,
sewage in prawns. Her taste buds must be ratted by now.
How does she spot the difference?
Went to church once. Suddenly they all turn and shake hands
with each other. What’s the gimmick –
being friendly with strangers? Weird.
Don’t trust anyone. My mother said,
“eat your bread crusts and you’ll have curly hair.”
I went bald.
When I doze I get these lovely poems going through my head.
But when I wake, they don’t rhyme. What’s that about?
I’ve got flu or something.
When I just spat out I got this slither of phlegm that went all
the way from the back of my throat to the toilet water.
I was kneeling down and it was lashing about like a halyard
in a gale. But it wouldn’t snap; kept stretching like elastic.
The funny thing is, that I was too squeamish to break it
off with my fingers, even though it was spewing out of my mouth
like Giuseppe’s spaghetti.
I find that strange.
The KGB Building had the best view in Russia.
You could see Siberia from the cellar.
The UK’s heading the same way.
Quick! Get Scargill to rally the mob and march on Downing Street.
“We’ll have the Red Flag flying here...”
These sheep,rejoicing at Maggie’s death,
never lived with the threat of annihilation.
In 11 short years she forced Russia to back down.
Thatcher inherited 27% inflation, rubbish on the streets,
bodies not buried, power cuts, union bullying – and a Cold War.
Do the party people remember those days...? Doubt it.
Uncle Sid’s dead!
He stepped out to see if the number 7 bus was coming
– it was.
Ok. Life is sacred. But these Jains are a bit over the top.
Why don’t they sell padded trousers
for men with bony arses?
I’m no Christian. I’m agnostic.
But I hate bullies!
Leave the believers alone,
Kitchen Roll. The best invention since the wheel.
Coldest spring ever.
I think these buds are just appearing out of habit.
A hospital in the USA says fiddling with the clocks
in spring triggers heart attacks...
Thank God it’s not the burgers and fries, eh.
Uckfield, Sussex, Easter Parade.
Guy acting as Christ is walking to Calvary
wearing high viz jacket for “Health and Safety.”
Maybe if Jesus had worn one...
Unemployment? Rubbish! The church needs priests;
cushy job; short week; salary and house.
They can’t prove that you don’t believe.
I switched my PC on.
It’s configuring 44031 updates.
I’m online every day.
Liz switches her PC on. No update.
Someone’s having a laugh.
Overheard: Visitor: “Why is There no plug in my
hand-basin drain-hole?” Russian hotelier:
“We don’t wash our faces in dirty water!”
Nigel Farage is the last of the true Brits.
When his generation goes, Britannia will have gone too.
You heard it here first.
Today’s wimpy young Brits
can’t face the blue mould in Stilton Cheese.
Wait till the varicose veins kick in...
A Researcher in Cardiff says that,
“If everyone in the country spoke English,
we’d save a fortune on translators.”
Research shows that 98% of the people
who criticise the Daily Mail
have seldom read the paper
Visitor: Why don’t you teach religion in Russian schools?
Russian teacher: “Which religion would we teach?”
VIP Quotes -
T Blair: “Duck! WMD are coming!”
G Brown: “British jobs for Brits!”
D Cameron: “I’ll fix the Romanian scams!”
We took the grand children to see Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night at the open-air theatre the other day.
On the way home, I asked Isobel, age 8, what she thought of it.
“It was really cool,” she replied.
Me, surprised, “Did you understand it?”
Isobel, with a shake of the head. “Not a word.”
So the Exchequer Secretary, Gauke, reckons that an old lady paying
an odd job man a few quid in cash is as immoral as the rich
playing tax avoidance with £-zillions…
Oh Yeah? He wants her to pay her share towards the expense
fiddles of MP’s and Civil Servants, does he?
It’s a Rip Off
I get some weird thoughts when I’m sat on the lavatory.
Just now I thought, “Life is quite an interesting experience.
But death is a hell of a price to pay for it.”
The Government stipulates that the NHS should perform operations
within 6 months of the consultation.
I’ve been waiting 7 months for a minor operation,
so I go to the doc to see if she can find out when my number’s coming up.
Doc... Phones the hospital and says. “What is your waiting time for this operation?”
Hospital Person says. “Six months.”
Doc says, “So how long will it be before my patient is called in?”
HP says, “Six weeks.”
Doc says, “But he’s been waiting 7 months already.”
HP says, “We’re running behind schedule.”
So there we have it.
The waiting time is not 8½ months, as it appears to ijits like me,
but 6 months, running 2½ behind schedule.
Well within the Government Guidelines.
The following Cunning Plan, devised by the Government, has been hacked by our unnamed hacker
Classification – Top Secret
A Cunning Plan
People may be concerned to learn that the Government is cutting back on
defence spending and is about to make thousands of service personnel
redundant. On the face of it, this is indeed worrying. However, an
unnamed source within the Government has revealed that this is all a part
of a Cunning Plan involving collusion between the Ministry of Defence,
MoD, and the Department of Energy and Climate Change – DECC.
While travelling round the country or visiting the coast, one is aware of
the ever-increasing number of windfarms that are springing up over the
countryside and out to sea. The Government continues to sanction the
erection of these eyesores on an ever-increasing scale, in spite of the
objections raised by influential environmental groups, and the anger of
Why would any set of politicians, in their right mind, sanction the
destruction of their green and pleasant land to throw up these inefficient
monstrosities in the name of producing electricity, when power stations
would produce the same commodity 99% more efficiently? At best,
windfarms are only in action for 20% of their life. They use wind-power to
produce electricity. So, obviously, when there is no wind they produce
nothing. Then, ridiculously, if the wind blows at a useful speed, DECC has
to switch them off before they go on fire. Furthermore, in winter, when
they are loaded with ice, individual blades become gigantic catapults. So
why are they there at all? This brings us to the Cunning Plan, which
involves defending the realm more efficiently with a greatly reduced
number of armed forces.
Treat the information that we are about to divulge with the utmost
discretion. For if it fell into the hands of a potential enemy, we fear that it
would jeopardise the safety and wellbeing of the country. That said, and
without giving too much away, our unnamed hacker states in his leaked
memorandum, “The windfarms that DECC has sanctioned to be built out
to sea will, in the near future, surround the whole island of Great Britain.
Then, when the encirclement is complete, the MoD will transform them
into an offshore Siegfried Line. This defensive shield will prove a
nightmare for any enemy landing craft that tries to penetrate it.
Without revealing the tactics, the strategy is this: in the event of an
attempted invasion, the Admiralty would allow the enemy to get the bulk
of its craft in among the towers – and then the SBS/SAS would set the
whole area on fire with an inflammable concoction of North Sea Gas and
Oil that lies in abundance beneath the seabed. As one Admiral
commented to a certain General, “That should teach the buggers a lesson.”
In the meantime, as any observer will have realised, there are plans to
cover every available piece of ground on the mainland with these
seemingly useless monstrosities. Further to this, we have evidence, in the
leaked document, that the towers are equipped with powerful engines.
Thus, in the event of an invasion, they will be set to rev at full speed.
The ensuing draft will scatter any incoming paratroopers among the blades,
which then will swat them like flies. This will reduce the
invading force to a heap of minced meat in a matter of minutes.
Interestingly, in true British style, this whole defence idea was born
accidentally when a boffin from the MoD was on holiday “up-north” and
saw a flock of starlings wiped out in a matter of seconds by a couple of
wind-turbines, “A magnificent sight,” which thrilled and inspired him.
So there you have it, another Cunning Plan that, one day, will rank in the
annals of history alongside Agincourt, Trafalgar. Waterloo, the So...
D-day and the Falklands.
So, in the near future, if you become enraged by the sight of a forest of these
noisy ugly worthless lumps of metal – that do nothing but bat birds into oblivion
and channel money into the hands of foreign industrialists –
suddenly obliterating your favourite beauty spot... rejoice!
For these sentinels are there to guard our green... Hmmm.
The following Government Pink Paper was hacked by an unnamed hacker
Quango for Urgent Ethnic & Environmental Re-adjustment
Never fear, QUEER is near
Hello, and welcome to QUEER, the quango with your wellbeing at heart.
You may not have heard of us before. That’s because we didn’t exist. But
we are here now, so relax in the passenger seat while we take over the
steering wheel and transport you on a cosseted journey through an ever
increasing and inviolable life span.
Our aim is to take you all – ethnic community by ethnic community – and
design and implement safeguards and comfort zones specifically designed
for you protection and wellbeing. So, whoever you are, and wherever you
may be... Never Fear, QUEER is Near.
First, though not necessarily foremost, we will deal with the ethnic
Tippling Community. Because it is here, with the ethnic Tippling
Community, that our researchers in Oxford have just made a significant
breakthrough. For it has been found – miraculously, you might think –
that by placing the Tipplers on a strict allowance of 3 glasses of wine per
week, we will be able to save 4,500 of their miserable lives every year.
This is a 50% increase on the 3,000 lives per anum which we can already
save by increasing the price of alcohol by 40 pence per imaginary unit.
Already, our people in Cardiff are carrying out research to see if, by
combining these two significant discoveries, we can save 7,500 lives a
year. This is by no means an impossible target, bearing in mind that the
figures involved need not be based on anything approaching fact.
The main task, as we see it, is to make sure that all ethnic Tipplers
imbibe the statutory 3 glasses of wine per week – over and above the
required number of beer and spirit units, at the increased 40 pence rate,
that are deemed to improve their quality of life. This is no mean task
when dealing with an ethnic group of guzzlers who are infamous for either
denying that they belong to the Tippling Community at all, or exaggerate
their intake incoherently. But our Cardiff researchers have devised a
The Scheme will involve issuing shots of wine at the usual ethnic Tippling
Community watering holes, such as pubs and hotel bars etc. In a nutshell,
each day of the week, from Sunday through to Saturday, will be allocated
a colour of the rainbow, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo or violet.
And every watering hole will be allocated a number. Our friends of the
ethnic Tippling Community will then have coloured numerals stamped on
their foreheads with a permanent dye. The colour and value of the digits
will inform the ethnic Publican Community which Tippler is entitled to
what – and where. Thus, Tom, with a red figure 1 on his brow, will be
issued with his wine allowance at the King’s Head on Sunday. Dick, with a
yellow 1, will be helped into the same pub on Tuesday. While Harry, with
his violet 9, will shuffle into the Slug and Lettuce on a Saturday. The
stamp on the forehead will be refurbished at the time that the wine issue
So there we have it. The wine can be doled out fair and square, without
detracting in any way from the alcohol already required to be consumed
by the enhanced 40 pence scheme. This should go a long way towards
boosting the life-quality and expectancy of our ethnic Tippling people. At
the same time, the dye on the forehead will render them indistinguishable
from the ethnic Spotted Hindu Community, so it will also be a big step
forward on the race relations front.
Unfortunately, there are rumours of muttering among the other ethnic
communities who complain that too much attention is being paid to the
ethnic Tipplers at the expense of others. Here and now, we state loud and
clear that, “This is not so!” Several ethnic communities have already
benefitted from QUEER Schemes that were initiated long before our
quango was officially named. For example, the ethnic Smoking
Community currently enjoys the healthiest lifestyle in the country. You
have only to glance out of any office window to see them gathered in
social groups that stand for hours in the lashing rain, breathing God’s
fresh air – all thanks to a QUEER Scheme. And only a fool would deny
that, on the wildlife and environmental front, animals of the ethnic Fox
Community now enjoy a life expectancy 100% longer than it was before
another of our QUEER Schemes, the ban on foxhunting, was introduced.
So what is planned for the future? Well, already, a Scheme is afoot to
issue the ethnic Bearded Community with half-price hairball-pills, which
will be doled out after a 40 minute wait in the local veterinary surgery.
And the ethnic Burka Community will benefit from the plans to fit their
rigouts with lightweight snorkels which will provide a constant flow of
fresh air for the inmates.
So don’t worry, you too will be targeted in the near future. No matter
which ethnic group you belong to... whether it be the Fat, Bald, Cross-
eyed or Thick Community, you are in our sights. Never Fear, QUEER is near.
Disclaimer: Due to unforeseeable circumstances, we cannot give a 100% guarantee
that some of the 7,500 tipplers whose lives will be saved by our Schemes each year,
may suffer death from accident or old age. But members of our ever expanding ethnic
Health and Safety Community are working with this in mind... Never Fear, QUEER is Near.
Headline in today’s paper
Forced Marriage to be Outlawed
Eh?! As far as this country is concerned,
I thought that was outlawed with slavery.
Any parent who forces their kid to marry against their will
should be horsewhipped.
“To motivate and inspire the youth of the world...”
We went to see the Olympic Flame this morning. I should have smelt a rat when I found out that the venue for the handover was in Tesco’s car park. It’s all about money innit?
(Don’t get cynical – Ed.)
Streets lined with coppers... police cars and ambulances parked all over the place. Then in roars a squad of ten police motorcyclists. I was getting jumpy now, half expecting a resuscitated Arthur Scargill to come marching down from the valleys with last of his miners. But no, up comes a convoy of buses, packed to the gunnels with hangers-on. Now a Coca Cola float rolls up, loaded with a jazz band and a gang of Cola addicts, all swirling like Dervishes. This is as near to Disneyland as it gets without crossing water.
By now, I’m expecting to see the Olympic Flame arrive on scene, held aloft by Mickey Mouse or that dancing dog that won Britain’s Got Talent the other week. But no... it’s just a remarkably un-sweaty woman jogging behind a van. I scratch my head and wonder how she looks so fresh after galloping from Athens. But say no more. This girl has just decked out of the back of that van at the traffic lights, and has only staggered a hundred yards or so. I could do that myself and I’ve got a bad knee.
Crikes! Now there’s another squad of ten police motorcycles, bringing up the rear. Talk about overkill...
(Don’t criticise security. The country’s riddled with nutters – Ed.)
Yeah. I know. But, come on, all you need in the way of security, to guard someone jogging a few yards with a Davy Lamp, is a couple of marksmen, armed with tranquilizer darts – riding shotgun on one of the floats...
(Keep it PC – Ed.)
Yeah. I know. But it works in Africa with lions and things.
(That’s animalist! I said keep it PC – Ed.)
It gets worse. One of these floats is advertising Lloyds TSB – for God’s sake! The bloody bankers lost me ten-thousand quid a couple of years back!
(No personal vendettas – ED)
Now the whole circus is on the move again, on the next leg of a Round Britain jobs-for-the-boys romp. This time Marathon Man is a bloke. Is he the one who’s going to sprint up to Inverness? No! He cadges a lift at the traffic lights and disappears into the blue, followed by a squad of motorcycle outriders...
(That’s enough. Bring it to a close – Ed.)
We move off too, and head for Marks and Spencer for a cup of coffee. A girl, superfluous to requirements, stands on the door, whistling at the wind. She thrusts a freebie into Liz’s hand – a plastic Union Flag to wave at the Jubilee. There’s something different about it. Ah – I get it. The flag is upside down on the jack. Is this some coded way of playing the Scottish Independence card both ways?
I reckon that, over there across the pond, if they hung the Stars and Stripes upside down on the pole, the head of Walmart would face a 30 year str...
(We need the rest of the space for an urgent bulletin – Ed)
Eurovision Song Contest
I told you that Humperdinck hadn’t got a cat in hell’s...
(Not Humperdinck – Ed.)
Navy hack – just received
Overheard in the Officer’s Mess
Sub Lieutenant... “When I was on leave I went up in a hot air balloon and got lost.”
Lieutenant... “So what did you do?”
Sub Lieutenant... “Reduced altitude. Then I spotted this chap below. So I went down a bit more and shouted, ‘Excuse me, sir. Can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago but I don't know where I am.’
Then this chap said, ‘You're in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You're between 40 and 41 degrees North latitude, and between 59 and 60 degrees West longitude.’
‘You must be a rating in the Royal Navy,’ I said.
‘I am,’ he said, ‘how did you know?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘everything you have told me is probably technically correct. But I’ve no idea what to make of your information. And the fact is, I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help at all. If anything, you've delayed my trip by your unhelpful jargon.’
Then this fellow says, ‘I take it that you are an Officer in the Royal Navy?’
‘I am,’ I replied. ‘how did you know?’
‘Well,’ said the chap on the ground. ‘You don't know where you are or where you're going. You have risen to where you are, due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise, which you've no idea how to keep. Now you expect people beneath you to solve your problems. The fact is, you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it's my fucking fault.’”
Lieutenant... “I’m afraid the matelots are not the same calibre as they used to be.”
(Watch the language – Ed)
Libby: “I dream of a world full of coffee coloured people.”
Connie: “All worshipping the same God.”
Libby: “God?! Er… coffee?”
Trick of the Light
Way back in the 17th century, Descartes, the French philosopher argued that our senses continually deceive us. From this, he concluded that everything that we see and think is as likely to be false as it is to be true. He even questioned his own existence. However, finally, he came to the conclusion, “I think, therefore I am.” In other words, “The fact that I can think enough to doubt my own existence, means that I do indeed exist.”
I am a dreamer, not a scientist or philosopher. Nevertheless, the world is forever pumping technical and scientific information and jargon into my head. This being the case, I have to try to make sense of it. In return, the deeper I delve, the more I become convinced that nothing is what it seems.
I do not doubt my existence. At the same time, I am convinced that I exist as a minute part of an infinite illusion. I am not what I seem to be, neither is anybody or anything else. Because, matter, the stuff of the Universe – everything we are aware of – appears in our minds eye in the form of an illusion.
Yes, I know that there is something there, and it appears to do what it says on the packet. Rain falls and flowers grow. Yet the rain and flowers are not what they appear to be, nor is anything else. Therefore, by my reckoning, it must all be an optical illusion: a mirage.
Why do I think this?
Well, by definition, all physical things, stars, seas, mountains, you, me and the gatepost, are composed of this substance called matter. The laws of physics tell us that matter is composed of atoms. In this day and age, every schoolchild knows that atoms consist of a central nucleus, the proton, surrounded by electrons. A bit vaguer maybe, is the fact that the proton is really a group of things called quarks, while electrons come under the heading of leptons.
In other words, physics tells us that the building blocks of matter, atoms, are themselves built of these quarks and leptons, plus a few vaguer bits and pieces. This means that quarks and leptons constitute every physical thing that we can ever know. For good measure, scientists tell us that a strong force of gluons binds the quarks together, while an electromagnetic force measured in photons holds the electrons in place.
This where the illusion kicks in. Because when we look at an object, say a house or a tree, we are really looking at nothing more than a mass of atoms. And each of those individual atoms is, in turn, composed of quarks and the requisite number of leptons. There are no exceptions. So why do we think that we are looking at a house or a tree and not just a quivering mass of energy?
Enter the Wizard of Light.
Light is electromagnetic radiation. Its primary source is the sun and stars, but we also produce it with lamps etc. Light radiates faster than anything in the Universe. It travels in the form of electromagnetic waves called photons, which are like the force that holds the electrons in place. These photons come streaming from their source like water from billions of trillions of hosepipes. Light waves, photons, fill the day like water fills a bath.
These light waves forever have high-speed collisions with the atoms of whatever piece of matter lies in their path, be it vapour or solid. In the collisions, the atoms of these objects absorb energy from the photons and alter their wavelength and frequency.
The collision modifies the light waves, which are then scattered and detected by our eyes. Our eyes transmit the modified light to our brains. Our brains assemble these light patterns into pictures and present them to our minds.
In the end, the picture presented to us, the thing we see, is not the actual object that we are looking at. It is a mass of modified light waves that the object is deflecting at us. Our brains then interpret this light-code and present us with the picture.
It is as if we have wondered onto a film set. We think we are walking down a street lined with houses. Yet nothing is real, it is all a facade. We see only what the film makers want us to see. On the film set, it comes as a shock when we find that, behind that magnificent frontage, there is nothing but scaffolding. Yet, in reality, real life is the same. Those mountains and stars, that pretty girl and the dog, are nothing but masses of atoms. Everything we see is a trick of the light, a facade.
This is where we come to that old philosophical question; “When a wave breaks in the middle of the ocean, does it make a noise?” Well, surely, the answer must be... Only if there is an eardrum in the vicinity. For the breaking wave will produce sound waves, but if there is no eardrum to vibrate, and no brain to translate the vibrations, there can be no sound. In the same way, if there is no eye to perceive it, then nothing exists, save a mass of energy and modified light waves.
There is nothing anywhere, except energy; it is all a mass of pulsating electromagnetic pulses. Everything we see out there is a trick of the light. Even the light itself is a mass of electromagnetic pulses. It is all very beautiful – yes; but a beautiful illusion.
As for Descartes and his conclusion, “I think, therefore I am.” Well yes, he was there all right – as an illusion. But, in truth, it was his own quarks that asked the question, “Do I exist?” Likewise, his own leptons that gave the answer, “Yes.”
Mind How You Go
I see that the government is going to allow residents to set up kangaroo courts to punish local yobs. A lot of people might get a kick out of that... if you’ll pardon the pun. But they’ll have to “mind how they go.” With all these minority groups around, you only have to knee cap the wrong fellah and you’ve got a riot on your hands. The authorities will have to issue detailed guidelines about what you can and can’t do to whom. Which reminds me of that poem by Shakespeare – or someone. (Breaks into song...)
There was a young man from Khartoum
who went with a gay to his room.
As he turned out the light,
he said, “Let’s get this right;
who does what? And with what? To whom?
Friday 13th: April sunshine, we take a trip on the bus to Porthcawl. Meadows carpeted with spring flowers, hedges and woods are a green mist of wakening buds, fish and chips for lunch, a walk along the prom with my wife; tonight there will be Real Ale in a country pub. Rule Britannia!
Letter to the Editor
The Wrong Poem
I see Baa Baa Black Sheep is under attack again. Teachers at a school in Kingston upon Thames, Surrey, have amended the words to Baa Baa Little Sheep. Hmmm... It doesn’t scan the same. Don’t present day teachers know anything about poetry?
The school spokesperson says that their aim is to teach children the correct meaning of words. Nonsense! The correct term for a little sheep is lamb; in which case the rhyme would read Baa Baa Black Lamb. That doesn’t scan at all. With teachers like that, the little blighters have no chance.
We know what it’s all about, of course. It’s the PC clique up to their tricks again. They’ve attacked Black Sheep before, with green and rainbow monstrosities. They say it’s to avoid offence or some such nonsense. They’ve gone off half cock and ended up on the on the wrong tack as usual. Sheep are a species not an ethnic minority. If it weren’t for the risk of these people branding me, animalist, I would say that sheep are too thick to know what colour they are.
If these PC people want to do something useful with their wretched lives, let them start by tackling the scourge of ageism. If it has to be in the field of poetry, focus on something that is offensive to human ethnic groups, not animals. There can be no better place to start than with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by T. S. Coleridge. As a senior citizen, and ex-seafarer, my blood boils every time I hear that damn poem. Don’t people realise how insulting and patronizing it is to call dignified elderly gentlemen, “ancient mariners?”
So, without further ado, let the PC warriors swing into action and get the name of the offending poem changed to The Rhyme of the Senior Seaman. This both scans and corrects Coleridge’s spelling error of Rime instead of Rhyme.
From what I can see, with spelling like that, Coleridge would be a teacher these days.
The economy on its knees. War in Afghanistan. Argentina threatening to kick off again.
The Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition in a Pasty Eating Competition in Cornwall.
Come on. They’ve just got to make the film.
“That was a lovely evening.”
“Yes Liz, my cariad, and we’ve been married 49 years today.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And never a cross word!”
“What?! You forgetful FG!+@!!!”
Prime Minister Cameron is threatening to fiddle the price of alcohol up to a minimum of 40p a unit. His medical advisers tell him that this will save 3,000 lives a year. What!? How can they possibly know how many lives it will save – or ruin? Three thousand is another figure they have pulled out of the air. It is one of these eat five a day, walk 3 miles, drink 2 litres of water and do not exceed 28 units of mother’s ruin, sort of things. Pull the other one.
What is a unit of alcohol anyway? Where I live they sell beer in pints and everything else in litres. Even in far off France, beer comes in litres. Units are just another con. If you challenge one of these experts they’ll tell you that a unit is half a pint of beer. Oh aye? Which beer? Beers come in a myriad of strengths, some are like maiden’s water, others are sudden death.
Anyway, just for fun, let us give these people the benefit of the doubt. Let’s suppose they save 3,000 lives a year. Hmmm. That poses the question: which lives are they going to save? Is it a fresh 3,000 every year, or do they just keep resuscitating the original 3,000 for an indefinite period? If you are in this year’s batch, do they include you in, or excluded you from, next year’s lifeboat? We need to know these things.
We need to know other things too. Are they going to save Benefit Scroungers, people who could work but will not work? I do not like the idea of scroungers taking up places that we could allocate to hard drinking workers. No, I reckon that people who refuse to work should get 40p vouchers so that they can drink themselves into an early grave. You could give the vouchers as a kind of bonus. They would like that. People who do not work tend to lose out on bonuses.
That raises another problem, because the government is not going to raise this 40p as tax. It will simply be an edict that the supermarkets must not sell cheap booze. That means that the extra 40p will go to the supermarkets as profit. So they should be the people who organise the bonus system.
What about the rest of us? Well... I am all right because I am deep into my dotage. But it is the worry about you younger ones that keeps me reaching for the whisky bottle. You see, while Cameron is saving 3,000 lives a year, Osborne, in the Treasury, is fiddling about with the retirement age. He is already going to push it up to 67. But, better still, he says that, from now on, it is not set in stone. As life expectancy rises, he, or one of his successors will keep edging retirement further away... I can feel another con coming on. It has already happened to the Atlantic salmon and eels. Continental drift makes them swim an extra inch every year. It makes one wonder what they have in mind for our 3,000 sober refugees, trapped on a treadmill of work.
All that is bad enough, but my crystal ball tells me that there is worse to come. Every year there will be 3,000 new, or recycled, people growing forever older but yet unable to grasp their retirement. Their jobs are menial and boring because the Chinese have collared all the interesting stuff. They cannot afford to smoke. They cannot afford to drink. So they are chronically depressed. They need pills. But the NHS is broke because nobody can afford to smoke or drink – so the tax has dried up.
So what is the answer? Well you could brew your own beer. Or sip meths like the dear old lady across the road. Or, better still, punch the boss on the nose and join my 40p bonus scheme.
Sign on an Irish Ferry
In case you thought you’d gone dyslexic
They had this one at the other end of the deck
There was a young man from Dundee,
whose wife got a pain in the knee.
He said, “It’s a sod,
but let us thank God
it happened to you and not me.”
Humperdinck to represent the UK. The final two fingers to the Eurovision Song Contest.
A mate of mine has just told me he's shagging his girlfriend and her twin. I said, “how can you tell them apart?” He said "her brother's got a moustache!"
Serves You Right
They’ve declared war on foxhunters. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on smokers. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on conker players. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on motorists. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on marriage. “Serves it right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on the freedom of worshipers. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on Christians. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on God. “Serves it right,” you say.
They’ve declared on snowmen. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve declared war on alcohol drinkers. “Serves them right,” you say.
They’ve really declared war on your freedom. “Serves you right,” I say.
A Conolly Quote
'If women are so bloody good at multitasking, how come they can't have a headache and sex at the same time?'
A Conolly Quote
They reckon that Beer contains female hormones and I think they are right. After 8 pints I talk shit and can't drive!