The Scorching Wind

As someone who goes by the monicker of 'Doc', I'm often asked for medical advice. Now, no matter how many times I try to explain that I'm not actually a doctor medicine, there are still people who insist on telling me about their aches, pains and intimate medical problems. Worse still, there are plenty who insist on showing me their warts, verukas, rashes infections and scars. Sadly, there don't seem to be many attractive young ladies willing to take their clothes off for medical examinations, though. Anyway, getting back to the point, there is one piece of advice I can impart, based upon personal experience: if in doubt, fart. I know that might seem a tad unusual, (and somewhat at odds with the sentiments I expressed in an earlier post), but let me explain.

A couple of years ago, one cold late Autumn night, after coming home from the pub, I noticed this nagging pain in my lower back, just above my right kidney. Thinking it was the result of my sitting awkwardly in my armchair whilst watching a post-pub video, I went to bed, only to find the pain persisting. Beginning to get worried, I reluctantly determined that if it was still there in the morning, I'd see a doctor. Of course, the pain didn't wake me up, instead it woke me up in the early hours of the morning. However, as I turned over in bed in an attempt to ease the pain, I involuntarily let rip a huge fart. When I say huge, I mean that it was so ferocious that it rattled the windows, sent flocks of sleeping birds into the air as the awoke in panic and set off car alarms in a two mile radius. Miraculously, the pain vanished as this might eruption of methane left my body.

So there you have it; far from seeing breaking wind as a sometimes socially embarrassing bodily function which is best not mentioned in polite society, we should actually view at as having definite therapeutic values. Clearly, a good fart literally helps cleanse the body of ill winds. Obviously, a build up of noxious gases can't be healthy - so let 'em go! Better out than in, as they say. In fact, as the old man tells Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen at the end of The Magnificent Seven; "You are like the wind that cleanses the land and then moves on". I couldn't put it better myself. So the next time you let one rip which is so hot it scorches your cheeks and burns a hole in your under wear, just imagine the damage it would have done if you'd held it in! Let the scorching winds blow through your innards, then move swiftly on!

"It's 'Tits', Brian..."

I'm just waiting for the 'Cease and Desist' letter to arrive. No, not from the targets of any of the sparkling pieces of satire which appear over on The Sleaze, but rather in relation to my new past-time: phoning up ITV's overnight interactive quiz The Mint. To be specific, phoning up whilst Brian Dowling is presenting it and shouting four-letter words at him. I don't what they expect - they actually invite you to do it. You know the bit - where they have those four words, all with a missing letter, the four missing letters themselves forming a word you have to guess. Every so often you can get an obscenity to fit - on Saturday night it was 'Tits'. Believe me, there's nothing so exhilarating as hearing Brian Dowling asking you what your answer is and shouting "Tits, Brian!" down the phone at him. And it only costs you sixty pence a call! That's what I call a bargain!

The War on Beards

You know, I have nothing against beards per se, a neatly trimmed and modest beard can be a great asset to a man (or woman, if she wants to work as a circus freak), but I really cannot abide unkempt straggly beards. I'm sorry, they just give me the creeps. Apart from what they imply about the wearer (psychiatric patient), there's just no telling what might be lurking in that bushy growth: all manner of creepy-crawlies, not to mention nesting housemartins and possibly Lord Lucan. About the only group who can get away with wearing such beards are tramps. Indeed, they are the fashion accessory for the modern dosser - it just completes that total unkempt look, complementing the shit-stained trousers, vomit splashed sole-less trainers and four pack of Special Brew. However, what might be fine for itinerant broken down old sad bastards really won't do when it comes to more respectable members of society. I particularly dislike the combination of a straggly beard with a suit - it just makes the wearer look like some hillbilly psycho who put on his best suit to come into town for an appointment with a twenty dollar whore.

I truly believe that action needs to be taken against straggly beard wearers. There should be government legislation governing the length of beards, and banning them from crowded public places. I've always found these straggly beards most intimidating when I'm forced into close proximity with them on trains and tubes - I have this overpowering fear that they are going to lunge at me tentacle-like and try and suck my face off. In fact, I think that trains should have straggly-beard free carriages - they could have 'No-Straggly-Beard' stickers like 'No Smoking ' or 'No Mobile Phones' stickers, on the windows. I'd like to emphasise again that I have nothing against neatly trimmed beards. Indeed, I once sported one myself, when I was briefly in Manchester a few years ago - in the space of a few hours I was mistaken for one of the Gallagher brothers, bumped into the late George Best and was propositioned by a prostitute. However, that's another story entirely.

I know I'm not the only one with this view of unkempt beards - just look at the way wearers of such beards are depicted. Every Islamist terrorist these days is depicted as having a wild three foot long beard. Indeed, in London these days possession of such a beard is just about the only grounds the Metropolitan Police needs to get a warrant to raid your house and shoot you on the grounds you might have a chemical toilet (or weapon). There are times, when I see footage from Afghanistan, that the 'War on Terror' seems more like a 'War on Beards'. But it goes back to long before this present anti-terror crusade. Just look at Rasputin - heavily bearded and a religious nutter. In westerns, crazy gold prospectors usually have huge beards and no teeth, as do villainous cattle rustlers like Old Man Clanton in M y Darling Clementine and corrupt judges like Roy Bean in The Westerner (both played, coincidentally, by Walter Brennan). It is embedded deep in the human subconscious: straggly beard = nutter. So, trim those beards or we'll do it for you! Yes, if the government refuses to take action, I propose the formation of gangs of vigilante barbers armed with razors, shears and shaving foam, to roam Britain's streets, forcibly trimming any beardy weirdies they encounter!

Do You Spend Thousands on Prostitutes?

I've mentioned before the kind of e-mails I get every so often from supposed TV researchers, trying to get in contact with the various characters featured in The Sleaze. It has been quite a while since I received any such requests, and was beginning to hope that the message had finally got through that the site is satire and that all the stories are (pretty obviously, in my opinion) completely fictional. However, as if on cue, I get another 'press request'. This time I thought I'd share it with you all, so that the world (OK, the four people who read this) can marvel at how 'journalists' in the UK spend their time (to avoid embarrassment, I've withheld the name of the sender and their employer- I've also retained the original sender's spelling and grammar):

Hi,

I'm a journalist and am looking for men who spend thousands on prostitutes. I was hoping you might ber able to help me?

Do you know anyone who spends £10,000 a year on prostitutes? I understand the need for privacy but I'm trying to lift the veil on men who spend money on prostitutes.I have two men on board who are professional, in their 40's work high powered jobs and are happy to reveal that they visit prostitutes.

The piece won't be judgemental, I'm aiming at talking to three very normal sexy guys who visit prostitutes and don't see any problem with it

I can work with them on copy approval to make sure they're completely happy with their side of the story.
Many thanks in advance for your help.

What I really like about this one is the way that it doesn't actually relate to anything published in The Sleaze. It merely makes an assumption that because I run a site called The Sleaze I must be pretty sleazy myself and therefore either know prostitutes or men who use them (and by implication , I must use them myself). I have no doubt whatsoever that the author of this missive has never even read The Sleaze! But hell, why let the facts get in the way of a good story, eh?

Mind you, if you are a man who spends thousands on prostitutes and want to talk to a journalist rather than a psychiatrist about it, get in touch with me via The Sleaze and I'll happily pass your details along...

It's a Sin!

I see that Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor, Catholic Archbishop of Westminster and Primate of England and Wales (a term which always, for me at least, conjures up mental images of a monkey in mitre and robes swinging through the trees), has 'reignited the abortion debate', by urging a review of the abortion laws and the current 24 week limit for terminations. Apparently the Cardinal has detected a shift in public opinion in Britain. A shift in the opinion of right wing male-dominated rags like the Daily Mail perhaps. However, thankfully the newspaper which once voted Hitler its 'Man of the Year', is not representative of wider opinion in the UK.

Now, if I was a cynic, I might suspect that the only reason that the Catholic Church might be interested in cutting the number of abortions, would to be ensure a rise in the number of potential kiddie victims for its peadophile priests. I mean, the falling birth rates in industrialised countries like Britain and the consequent reduction in the number of available children must be a real bummer for them. Up and down the country priests are probably suffering severe withdrawal symptoms due to the shortage of choir boys. The beauty of restricting abortion, of course, is that women would be forced to go full-term with unwanted pregnancies and have the babies adopted or, even better, whisked off to one of those catholic orphanages run by crazy nuns who beat their charges on a daily basis! See, it all makes sense! Another bloody catholic conspiracy.

Getting back to the original point - why is this sort of thing considered news? Who cares what some celibate Catholic priest (apparently they don't even masturbate) thinks about any issue relating to sex? The last time I looked, this was a nominally Protestant country - we thankfully severed official ties with the Vatican back in the Sixteenth Century. Perhaps if Catholic priests did wank more to relieve their sexual tensions, they'd bugger fewer little boys in the vestry. Indeed, if they're only going to endorse sexual intercourse within marriage, they really should be encouraging wanking for us hordes of sinful singletons. OK, I know, all that sperm represents potential babies, so whacking off is actually considered a form of abortion - but surely a quick one off the wrist behind the lectern is preferable to giving the choir boys one up the jacksie behind the stalls? It's simply a question of which is the lesser evil.

Dishonoured - Again

So here we are, another Queen's Birthday Honour List and still nothing for me! Not even a bloody MBE, for God's sake! Year in, year out I anxiously scan the lists as soon as they are published, and every year the same - my name is conspicuous by its absence. What do I have to do for recognition? Am I any less worthy than the has-been sportsmen, past-it luvvies and super-annuated politicians who get given honours every year? Am I any less worthy than those other public service functionaries, dinner ladies and lollipop persons who get given the scraps, honour-wise, every year? Why does her Majesty so consistently ignore me? (Actually, to digress, this isn't mere paranoia - many years ago I was walking down Whitehall one lunchtime when the Queen's motorcade came past, she completely ignored me, whilst her guest, Nelson Mandela, had the good grace to wave to me. I was well pissed off - a loyal servant to the crown for many years, and she literally turns and looks the other way!)

Of course, I haven't won any sporting honours, staged Shakespeare revivals or even donated huge wads of cash to either of the major political parties. Nonetheless, I really think that I deserve some recognition for my services to British sleaze. After all, if the press are to believed, sleaze is the fastest growing area of Britain's economy. I also seem to remember there being claims at the time of Labour's first landslide victory, that it was sleaze which had won it for them! Surely my contribution deserves at least an OBE in light of this? It has a certain ring, Doc Sleaze OBE, doesn't it? Ah well, I suppose I'll just have to wait for the New Year's Honours list. Look, if anybody involved in nominating people for honours is reading this, if you find yourself stuck for a name around December time, just use mine. OK?

Good Parenting, Bad Government?

Much has been made in the press about the government's 'Good Parenting Guide', with all the expected snide comments about the quality of advice given in it, such as 'don't have an affair whilst your partner is pregnant'. Such attitudes simply confirm the grip that the middle classes have on the media. Yes, it might well seem obvious to you or I, sat in our nice suburban semis, that cheating on your wife is not considered acceptable behaviour within in the context of a normal relationship, but this guide isn't aimed at us. It is clearly aimed at the growing underclass who mainly inhabit our urban housing estates, existing in a twilight world of casual employment, state benefits, debt and constant poverty. This is a world fuelled by drugs and alcohol, where aspirations are defined by the crude materialism of our modern society: only ownership of the latest consumer goods can make you happy - if you can't afford to buy them, steal 'em instead! Ownership of a widescreen TV is considered of greater importance than paying the rent.

This is a world where 'normal' social rules and morality have broken down. Personal relationships don't fall into the cozy middle class 'two point four children' and Mum and Dad convention. For many women in this underworld, having children is virtually a career - let's face it, with minimum wage casual work becoming the norm for the unskilled or semi-skilled, they are never likely to be able to follow any conventional kind of career. The men don't even have this option - for them it is an aimless drift between mind-numbing dead-end casual work, the dole queue, petty crime and occasionally prison - with a cocoon of alcohol and drugs to try and get them through each pointless day. Just like the work, the relationships become casual. Respect for law and order and, indeed, society generally is also eroded over time. And they whole thing is self-perpetuating. Kids grow up in this environment thinking that it is the norm that you and your siblings all have different fathers, that it is normal for your Mother to sleep with her partner's mates for money on a casual basis, as a means to make ends meet. They grow up thinking that everyone has bailiffs and debt collectors knocking on the door, that everybody has been evicted from their home at least once. They think it normal to have the latest mobile phone, yet still be living in poverty. And they don't learn any better. From an early age they're brought up up by the TV - plonked in front of that flickering screen for hours on end whilst their mother either works shifts, is too off her face to cope, or incapacitated by domestic violence. Not only does this constant exposure to TV help to reinforce the materialistic values espoused by commercials, it severely stunts the development of their verbal communication skills. The knock on effect of this is under-achievement and rapid disenchantment with education when they finally attend school.

So yes, these people do need to be told the basics of what we consider normal morality. I don't know whether thgis is the right way, but right now, nobody else seems to be trying. My assessment of Britain's estate dwellers may seem harsh, but don't misunderstand me - I don't blame them for their predicament. The fact is that they've been let down by everyone: the education system, employers, social institutions, government social policy, in fact the the whole of bloody society. But the worst thing is that cozy middle Britain still just wants to ignore them - only acknowledging their existence to ridicule and caricature them as 'chavs' , layabouts and dole scroungers. For God's sake shake of this bloody complacency! This widening social divide is a disgrace (especially when it is happening under a Labour government)! If nothing else, you should take notice and do something in order to protect yourselves! Just remember H G Wells' dire warnings: before you know it those Morlocks will coming off of their estates and eating you effete middle class Eloi bastards!

The Stench of Summer

Yes, it is the sure sign that the good weather is upon us - the acrid stench of charring flesh as the bloody barbecues come out up and down the country. Why, in God's name, do the British have such an obsession with the barbecue? Who in their right mind actually wants to sit outside eating meat that has either been burnt to a crisp or is still so raw it tries to run away from you, whilst flies, wasps and other assorted insects buzz around? Now, as you've probably gathered, I don't indulge in this particular summer pastime. However, rather like secondary smoking, I find myself subjected to its side-effects. For several days running last week I had my evenings ruined by the foul smell of my neighbour's barbecue wafting into my house, forcing me to close the windows at the rear of the house during one of the hottest spells of the year so far. The bloody awful smell lingers as well, meaning that even when I went to bed, several hours later, it was still clinging to my bedroom! I kept having nightmares about being burned at the stake!

Frankly, I'm amazed that in this health and safety obsessed era we live in, that garden barbecues are still allowed. Shouldn't the Food Agency (or whatever they're called these days) be raiding people's back gardens every weekend and testing their barbecued meat to check that it has been cooked properly? I live in hope that a wave of food poisoning brought on by under-cooked sausages will sweep away the weekend barbecuers. Mind you, if that doesn't kill them, surely they'll all be burned to death as they pour several gallons of petrol on their bloody barbecues to get them started. Indeed, the thick clouds of smoke I saw pouring across my garden fence a couple of Saturdays ago got my hopes up for a while - I fully expected to see my neighbour and his entire family stagger into my garden ablaze! As they screamed for help, I would politely point out that there was a hosepipe ban in force, so they'd just have to make do with rolling ineffectively on the ground. Sadly, this scenario proved to be no more than a pipe dream: it was only the steaks that had been incinerated. But why aren't there more serious accidents involving these death traps? Perhaps there are, but the barbecue industry has paid off the media to keep it quiet... Actually, there was a report the other weekend of two kids being seriously burned by a back garden barbecue. Apparently witnesses spoke of a 'mushroom cloud' of flame rising from the barbecue as petrol was poured on - they were bloody lucky they didn't look or sound foreign, or the Anti-Terror Squad would have been kicking their doors in accusing them of having Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Anyway, this barbecue business has got so bad that when, on Saturday, I passed my neighbour in the street as he returned from town clutching g a fresh bag of charcoal, I nearly broke down and begged him not to use it! Luckily, the weather changed - barbecues don't seem to work when it is overcast. However, this cooler weather can't last forever - we non-barbecuers have to act quickly! It is about time we organised an anti-barbecue campaign. Take this opportunity to break into next door's shed and sabotage their barbecue - saw through the legs so that it falls over and spreads red hot charcoal all over their feet! Pack them full of gunpowder so that they explode when the first steak is added! Even better, tip off any gangs of animal rights activists you know that your neighbours are going to be having a barbecue - if a bunch of militant vegetarians standing in their back garden waving placards and shouting 'meat is murder' doesn't put them off, nothing will! I know all this sounds a bit extreme, but don't we have the right to enjoy our Summer weekends without being driven from our gardens and houses by the rank odours and gaseous emissions emanating from our bloody neighbours?

House Proud?

Do you know what's really bugging me at the moment? Those bloody ads for plug-in air-fresheners. Especially that one with the cartoon raccoon who goes on about how much she worries about her house smelling in case someone drops by for a coffee. "Imagine if they couldn't wait to get away because of the odour?" she asks, before thanking goodness for this latest variable strength air freshener thing you plug into a spare electric socket. Do the settings go all the way up to raccoon? I've seen the little bastards in zoos - they stink. Jesus, do they stink! Frankly, learning not to shit or piss just wherever you please and greater attention to personal hygiene would probably do more to solve Mrs Raccoon's odour problems than some plug in.

But to get to the point (yes, there is one), the thing I find most offensive about these ads is the idea that you would actually want people randomly dropping around to your house without warning on the pretext of 'having a coffee'. Who are these people who apparently roam Britain's streets in search of a caffeine fix? Why does anybody let them in? They're probably just coming round to check if your house smells and, if not, to create foul odours of their own to embarrass you when the next lot of roving coffee drinkers come by. I can't remember the last time I 'just dropped in' on someone without warning - why the hell would you do that? Is it just me? I admit that I'm an incredibly private person (says a man running two public web sites), but I really don't think this sort of thing is normal! I absolutely detest people turning up at my house out of the blue - it makes me feel incredibly self-conscious of the fact that the place is a mess (which it usually is). I resent the idea that I should always keep the place I live in pristine just because of the fear of people 'dropping round'!

Consequently, I do everything in my power to discourage such visits. Apart from the most obvious measures of slamming the door in caller's faces and shouting at them to 'fuck off' through the letter box, or simply not answering the door at all and pretending to be out, those ads have inspired me to try a new strategy. I'm going to ensure that my house is always filled with foul odours to greet uninvited callers. I'm currently devising my own plug in, designed to exude the most disgusting smells known to man. The idea is to switch it on as soon as the bastards turn up, starting with a mild setting like 'stale piss' and working up through 'mild fart' to 'curry fart', 'brewer's fart' and finally 'rancid dog shit', if they don't get the message. The great thing is that as it makes no sound and the smells appear gradually, you can really make them squirm by keep shooting them accusing looks! I can guarantee that you'd only have to deploy this device two or three times for word to get around the 'house visiting' community, and you'll soon find yourself left in peace!

Sherlock Holmes and The Whips of Fear (Episode Three)

The Story So Far: Top Victorian Sex Crime Investigators Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson's investigations into the bizarre attacks on the genitalia of nude statues adorning houses of ill-repute lead them to a supplier of sexual accoutrements in London's docklands. Upon entering the warehouse, the pair find themselves confronted by a masked figure wielding a huge phallic club!

I brought up my arm to try and protect myself from the gigantic penis swinging toward my head. However, before it could connect the bizarrely masked figure cried out in pain, dropping the phallus. I looked round to see that Holmes, back on his feet, had hurled a set of heavy iron manacles at my assailant. Before I could grab him, the figure had fled through the warehouses open door.

"An African ceremonial leather dildo," observed Holmes, picking up the weapon with which I had so nearly been bludgeoned. "Stuffed with Water Bison testicles, it can be a deadly weapon in the right hands!"

"What about that poor fellow?" I asked, gesturing toward the prone figure of the man assaulted by the masked attacker. "Were we too late?"

"I'm afraid so, old friend," said Holmes, sadly shaking his head as we looked down at the blood-stained body. "It seems that someone wanted to ensure that we couldn't speak to Mr Ephraim Winkler, the proprietor of this emporium !"

"Then you think that we're on the right trail?" I asked.

"Indeed, Watson," Holmes replied, turning his attention to an office at the far end of the warehouse. "However, it might be that we managed to disturb this fiend before he had a chance to destroy Winkler's sales records - we might yet be able to find out where the statues originated from!"

The office was a shambles, furniture overturned, drawers and filing cabinets ransacked and, most ominously, the fireplace was full of ashes.

"They're still warm - it seems we were too late," declared a crestfallen Holmes, poking the still smouldering hearth with his stick. "I'll venture that all of Winkler's purchase records are destroyed!"

"Perhaps all is not lost, Holmes," I said, as I rummaged through Winkler's drawers. "The purchase records and his supplier lists may be gone, but it seems the attacker missed the sales ledger - if nothing else, we should be able to find out just how many of those infernal statues he supplied, and to whom!"

"Excellent work Watson! But what's this?" enquired Holmes, his attention drawn to something on the floor. "It appears to be a piece of dog crap - and it is still warm!"

"I thought I felt something brush past me as we entered the warehouse," I recalled. "He must have had a dog with him - good God man, what are you doing, have you gone completely insane?"

"My dear fellow, this could prove to be a vital clue," responded Holmes, as he picked up the lump of feaces, rolling it under his nose like a cigar, before wrapping it in his handkerchief and placing it in his jacket pocket. "You will, no doubt, recall my treatise on the subject of canine excrement, in which I showed that it was possible to identify no less than seventy breeds of dog merely from the smell, texture and taste of their droppings! If the animal which left this turns out to be of a unique breed, it may be possible to trace the owner through the records of the Kennel Club! Now, Watson, we must return to Baker Street so that I may thoroughly analyse this evidence!"

Back at Baker Street, Holmes busied himself with his scientific apparatus, subjecting the dog feaces to a series of tests, whilst I sent a telegram to Scotland Yard, informing Lestrade of the latest developments. Within the hour, the Inspector was back in our rooms, which were now filled with an acrid odour and clouds of brown vapour, as Holmes continued his experiments.

"What is that peculiar odour, Dr Watson?" he asked, sniffing the air as he entered.

"Crap, Inspector," I explained.

"No, really, there is a distinct smell in here, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Have you made any progress in your investigations, Inspector?" enquired Holmes, his face lit by a strange putrid glow as he hunched over a bunsen burner, heating up a test-tube full of bubbling liquid.

"I'm afraid not, Mr Holmes. We've still not identified the origin of the statues, but your description of the mask worn by Winkler's murderer tallies with those of the mask worn in the statue maimings! The two crimes are obviously linked!"

"Of course they are Lestrade! The sales ledger we recovered from the warehouse shows that what Winkler described as 'homoerotic sculptures', were sold to two houses of ill-repute other than those already targeted. I propose that you and your men keep the 'Little Olde Shoppe of Titillations' under surveillance, whilst Watson and I do the same at the second establishment. Logically, the fiend will strike at one or other of these next, affording us an opportunity to catch him in the act!" Holmes broke off, inhaling deeply from thte test tube he had been heating, coughing violently before gasping: "Incredible! I've been wrong all along! This excrement - it isn't canine at all! It is most definitely human!"

To Be Continued...

Nose Rage!

It's amazing what you can find in the local press, this from the Leatherhead Weekly Free Advertiser of 8 June 2006:

Surrey police are warning men with larger than average noses to be on their guard and, where possible, avoid the streets altogether after dark, following a vicious and apparently unprovoked 'Nose Rage' attack on a 44 year old Guildford man. Frank Gudgeon, a local carpet fitter, was struck down from behind by an unseen assailant shortly after he left the Old Holborn Arms public house in the town centre last Tuesday night. His attacker was apparently enraged at the abnormally large size of Mr Gudgeon's nose. "He kept shouting 'You think you are so clever, don't you, you big-nosed bastard, eh? Think you are so much better than the rest of us with your king size conk, eh? I bet your wife hires you out as an anteater!', as he repeatedly kicked me," recalls Gudgeon. "He seemed to be deliberately targeting my nose. I know its big - even as a kid I was teased by the other children. They used to call me 'trunky' and 'King Conk' - but there is really no need for this sort of thing. What have I ever done to him? The bloke must be a nutter!"

"Clearly this man feels very threatened by large noses - perhaps his is abnormally small, or he had a nose job that went horribly wrong - in any event, he is highly dangerous and should not be approached," a Surrey police spokesperson has told the press. He also revealed that this is not the first such attack. The Metropolitan police say that a retired Army Sergeant was severly bludgeoned and his nose broken in a similar incident in April. In this instance the assailant reportedly shouted "Who do you think you are, Cyrano de-frigging-Bergerac?" and taunted his victim by saying "I bet you have heavy lorries driving in and out of your nostrils all day as they mistake 'em for the Blackwall Tunnel!" and "I hear the makers of Concorde are going to sue you for breach of copyright!"

Police cannot say if the incidents are linked, whether the same attacker was involved in both, or whether they are merely the first incidences in a major outbreak of 'Nose Rage' - something experts have been warning of for several years now. "As Britain's streets become more crowded, it is inevitable that there will be a backlash against air-guzzling large nose that take up more than twice as much valuable road space as normal ones," says top daytime TV psychologist Dr Martin O' Nads.

Naked Justice

So, the government doesn't really want us to become vigilantes in the fight against Britain's so-called yob culture. They just want us to be curtain-twitching busybodies reporting any young person we see with an offensive haircut or suspect fashion style, to the police, instead. In some ways I'm quite relieved - I wouldn't recommend becoming a crime-fighting street vigilante. Last time I tried it, I was the one who ended up being arrested. Mind you, I suppose I asked for it, approaching a group of teenagers whilst wearing a skin tight latex suit and rubber mask is just asking for trouble, really, isn't it? I was lucky not to be put on the sex offenders register - you wouldn't believe how long it took to convince the police that I was just trying to recruit a juvenile superhero sidekick. However, I'm also slightly disappointed - we just don't have enough costumed vigilantes in this country. Believe me, if our streets were being patrolled by masked men and women in bizarre costumes with whacky names, prepared to solve every problem they encounter with extreme violence, Britain would be a far safer place. But when was the last time we had a decent masked crime fighter in this country, eh? OK I know that after he was sacked as Home Secretary David Blunkett briefly pulled on the tights and tried to continue his crusade against crime in the guise of Blindman, but that all came to an abrupt end after he tried to leap through that skylight with his guide dog...

I remember when costumed vigilantism was something of a cottage industry. Back in the Nineties a friend of mine would regularly slip into South London phoneboxes, strip naked and emerge as Nude Man, Lewisham's most popular superhero. Tales of his exploits - chasing terrified muggers through parks and leaping out at gay bashers from the cubicles of gents' toilets - became the stuff of legend, discussed in hushed tones in pubs and bars from Blackheath to Greenwich. For several years the very sight of his mighty 'super-tackle' flying up and down as he leapt from tall buildings would strike fear into the hearts of villains across South London. However, he found his stature slightly diminished that very cold winter in '95, when he found his powers sapped by frost bite. He never really recovered. Mind you, he wasn't the only one. Many good citizens of Ealing vividly remember the crime fighting escapades of The Blow Fly during the Summer of 1997. According to local rumour, this superhero had his genesis when a small boy accidentally swallowed a bluebottle which subsequently laid eggs in his stomach. Twenty years later, he was able to put this misfortune to good use when, clad in his distinctive fly costume, he patrolled the streets of Ealing, blowing a swarm of flies into the faces of miscreants! He famously foiled the Gladstone Street bank robbery when he covered the windscreen of the robbers' getaway car with flies, causing it to crash into a bus queue. Sadly, The Blowfly was eventually felled by an eleven year old shoplifter armed with a can of Vapona. There were many others back in those heady days - who could forget the Golden Shower, who washed away his opponents with a powerful stream of super-urine? - but, one-by-one, they all vanished, in the case of the Golden Shower, as a result of tougher public health measures .

I fear the day of the costumed vigilante is gone for good. I mean, they'd never allow it now under health and safety rules, if nothing else. Bastards!

Low Intelligence

It is good to see that the authorities in Britain have learned the lessons of the Iraq invasion. I mean, they wouldn't authorise an armed incursion by hundreds of officers into someone else's territory in search of chemical weapons on the basis of a single intelligence report again, now would they? I find it fascinating the way in which this recent alleged anti-terrorist operation in Forest Gate has unfolded into a microcosm of the Iraq business, even down to the Prime Minister using the same justification: "We had to act on this intelligence because if we hadn't and there had been a subsequent terror attack, imagine the public reaction". Heck, that was pretty much what I told the magistrates the other week! "Honestly your Honour, I was acting in the best interests of the local community when I burned down my eighty five year old neighbour's garden shed. I had very reliable information from a bloke down the pub that he was actually running a drug factory from there. Ok, so we now know that the only thing that he was storing there were the gas cylinders for his barbecue, and I know that the resulting explosion destroyed half the street, but it would have been highly irresponsible of me just to dismiss my intelligence as mere drunken ramblings. What if I'd done nothing and it had been a drug factory? Kiddies could have been ODing in the street! Besides, he was a miserable old git and probably a kiddie fiddler on the side anyway, so that fatal heart attack he suffered was really a service to society!" It worked a treat - I got off with a fifty quid fine, a suspended sentence and community service!

To be serious, my septuagenarian mother recently had a terrifying anti-terrorist experience, when armed policemen kicked in her front door and shot the cat, claiming that they had intelligence suggesting that Saddam's missing WMD were hidden in a cupboard in her garage. It turned out that when I'd taken her down to 'Homebase' the other Sunday, some bloke had overheard me telling her that she didn't need to buy any 'Three-in-One' oil for that creaky door, as there was still some of dad's old WD40 in the garage. Hell, I suppose it is an easy mistake to make - WD40, WMD - but obviously the police didn't want to lose face, so they took the can away for 'further tests'. They also arrested the cat, who they claimed had been shot as he lunged at an armed officer, either that or he'd shot himself accidentally whilst going for a pistol he had concealed under his fur. I suppose it's possible - he's always been a bit shifty and used to hang out with that Persian cat from round the corner who was arrested for explosives offences last year. Like Blair said, they can't not act on intelligence from reliable sources...

Dial N For Nonce

According to the BBC, a significant number of callers to a Radio One help line set up to help victims of sexual abuse are themselves abusers. Is the Beeb really surprised? They probably think that it is actually there to give them tips on how best to sexually abuse kiddies - you know, what type of sweets are best to tempt the under eights with, or how best to affix your false moustache when lurking in the bushes. Not that I blame them really - I mean, it can't be easy getting into that kind of thing can it? Where do you start? It isn't as if you can go to your local careers advice office and ask them exactly what qualifications you need to become a nonce. Colleges aren't much help either, as I don't recall ever seeing any diploma courses in paedophilia featured in their prospectuses. But supposing you do make a choice to pursue a career in sexual deviance - how do you know for sure which one is for you? Are there aptitude tests? After all, if you plumped for voyeurism, say, invested in lots of expensive cameras and surveillance equipment, only to find it didn't give you the horn, you'd be well pissed off.

Clearly, they need a proper career structure. There's no point trying to leap straight into the complex stuff like stalking if you haven't already mastered the basics of simple indecent exposure, bicycle saddle sniffing and surreptitious groping on crowded tube trains. Perhaps they could serve apprenticeships with established sex offenders? Or even just a mentoring scheme whereby registered sex offenders give guidance to the novices as part of the conditions of their probation? Make them give something back! There's no doubt in my mind, putative sex offenders need far more guidance than they're currently receiving. How can we possibly expect them to excel at their chosen profession when we refuse to discuss it, or, most of the time, even acknowledge the extent to which it goes on, eh? Without the right encouragement, most of them will never reach the giddy heights of being a registered sex offender (by Appointment to HM The Queen), remaining, instead, just anonymous little men practicing their vices unheralded, behind closed doors.

Doin' the 'Spaz'

As 'Spazmania' sweeps the UK, England and Liverpool striker Peter 'Spazman' Crouch has found his bizarre goal celebrations - interpreted by some as a 'robotic' dance - the centre of controversy. The charity Scope has condemned what it perceives as the footballer's crude parody of a disabled person.

"He is quite clearly performing a playground impression of a cerebral palsy sufferer," said a spokesperson. "We really thought that we'd banished this kind of cruel stereotype when we stopped using the term 'spastic', but it seems some people just can't let the old 'spaz' label die! We're appalled that someone seen as a role model for children is indulging in such tasteless antics - it is bound to lead to imitation!" Indeed, the charity's fears seem well-founded as, in school playgrounds up and down England, children as young as six and seven can be seen jerking their limbs spasmodically, whilst pulling grotesque facial expressions.

"It's well wicked, the 'Spaz'," declares eight year old Neville Wart of Sutton Coldfield, throwing his limbs akimbo and gurning. "Anyone can do it - you don't have to be co-ordinated or good at sports! Its the best dance ever!" However, Wart and his friends don't seem to associate the dance or the term 'Spaz' with cerebral palsy sufferers: "A 'Spaz' is just some gormless, gangly twat who can't play football, isn't it?"

It isn't just schoolchildren who have embraced the 'Spaz' - clubs and discos throughout the UK have reported huge influxes of completely unco-ordinated, often middle-aged, men, all performing variations on the dance.

"It's given hope to all those sad tossers who can't dance," muses Simon Prodd, a DJ at the Throbbing Cock nightclub in Bury. "The 'Spaz' has legitimised wildly flailing your limbs about and kicking everyone in a three metre radius as an actual dance style."

With the increasing popularity of the dance, many have rallied to Crouch's defence, claiming that the footballer is not cruelly parodying cerebral palsy sufferers.

"It's quite obviously a homage to veteran British comic Jack Douglas, whose hilarious punch drunk tourette's sufferer routine graced several 'Carry On' films in the late 1960s and early 1970s," opines cultural commentator and regular Radio Four pundit Hedley Granville. "It's a well-known fact that Peter Crouch is a past president of the Jack Douglas Appreciation Society, and has taken a complete set of the classic 'Carry On' movies the comic genius appears in, with him to Germany!"

Throughout the whole debate, the 'Spazman' himself, has remained silent. However, an acquaintance of the former Southampton player has been willing to speak to us about the amazing phenomena of the 'Spaz'.

"Frankly, I think it is bloody disgusting," says Dirk Grunt, a former boot boy at the South Coast club. "All those thousands of bastards taking the piss out of Peter like that - he can't help being an epileptic! All it takes is for the ball to hit his head at the wrong angle and he's off, twitching his arms and legs! It is bad enough having fits in public on the pitch, without every bastard in the country imitating it!"

The Monsters Are Coming!

Another massive explosion, another official cover up. As if the Buncefield oil depot explosion before Christmas wasn't bad enough, now we have a massive explosion and fire at a chemical works in Billingham on Teesside. When are the authorities going to start telling us the truth about these incidents? Despite The Sleaze revealing that the Buncefield explosion had actually been caused by a giant ape (which proceeded to use the resulting cloud of thick smoke as cover for a rampage around Southern England), the official report makes no mention of any monster involvement, instead blaming 'human error'! No doubt they'll do the same thing with this Billingham business, despite the fact that I have it on very good authority that this incident too, was monster-related. Although the earliest reports claimed that the explosion was the result of a fire-breathing Godzilla-type monster emerging from the nearby River Tees, as a seasoned Monster Hunter, I immediately dismissed these claims as pure nonsense. Japanese monsters of the reptilian variety never venture further North than the Scilly Isles (except on rare occasions when they are under alien control - as there had been no recent local UFO sightings I also ruled this out as a possibility). Of course, it could have been a sea monster indigenous to British shores, such as a Behemoth or a Gorgo, but these have both been believed extinct since the 1950s. Whilst a mutation caused by radioactive releases from Sellafield can never be completely ruled out, the last recorded such creature was the giant cod which terrorised much of the coastline of North West England and Western Scotland a few years ago. The government successfully used the so-called 'foot and mouth' outbreak to cover up its terrible attacks, in which it would crawl out of the sea, rear up onto its tail and collapse onto buildings, completely flattening them.

After much research, I satisfied myself that the Billingham explosion was actually caused by human hand, in a desperate attempt to destroy the alien monsters being bred in the supposed 'chemical plant'. Apparently top government scientist Professor Ned Quatermass (grandson of the celebrated Professor Bernard Quatermass), pumped pure oxygen into alleged pressurised storage tanks to kill the creatures, which were being acclimatised to the earth's atmosphere. Unfortunately, the poisoning proved ineffective as the creatures were already too well acclimatised and the Professor was forced to blow up the domes with explosives, igniting the oxygen in the process! My research has been backed up by witness testimony of locals who saw the rain of miniature meteorites in which the creatures first came to earth and the blank-eyed, zombie like alien-possessed workers at the plant. However, I can guarantee that you'll read none of this in the press! Oh no! Once again the government doesn't want to panic the public by revealing its complete unpreparedness for a monster attack! For years now I've been campaigning for the establishment of a proper task force integrating scientists, police, intelligence experts and the military, to meet these threats! Instead, they insist on wasting millions fighting the so-called terrorist threat! For God's sake, what do you think is more of an immediate threat: some guy on a dialysis machine in an Afghan cave, or a fifty foot tall moth? And God help us all if Al Qaida ever find a way to control Godzilla or Rodan!

Teenage Kicks

I see the media is bleating on about the amount of time kids are spending in front of the TV or at their computers, yet again! I like the way that at one time it was just television which was seen as an evil corrupting influence on our children, now home computers - once heralded by the self same press as an indispensable educational tool which would broaden children's minds - is now lumped in with it. The gist of these stories is that thanks to the amount of time they're spending in front of video screens, children aren't getting outside enough. This, in turn, means that they don't get enough exercise (so childhood obesity is just down to much TV watching apparently, fast food has nothing to do with it) and they don't develop social skills. Of course, this is the same great outdoors which the media assures us is populated by paedophiles, knife-wielding gangs of thugs and crack dealers. Indeed, whenever a child is attacked or killed whilst playing outside, we get screaming headlines as to how any responsible parent could allow their child out unaccompanied in a such an obviously dangerous environment.

What I really like about this thesis that kids aren't getting outside enough, is the inherent assumption that getting out of the house - away from any form of adult supervision - is somehow good for them. I hate to dispel the myth but when I was a kid, back in the seventies, I spent most of my free time outside involved in various acts of minor vandalism. To be precise, I was something of a teenage arsonist. Oh, nothing big, I assure you - and no lives (other than those of me and my friends ) were ever put at risk - but piles of old tyres on dumps, waste bins and the like, were all just aching to be burned as far as I was concerned! I later graduated to fireworks and dangerous homemade explosives, but that's another story. But heck, at least we were out in the fresh air - that had to be healthier than being cooped up in the house watching TV, surely? Well, it probably was, except for the toxic fumes from the burning rubber. I suppose we did get more exercise - mainly when running away from security guards and policemen. Still, the optimists will say, it was all just harmless childhood pranks, and still better than having our morals corrupted by looking at porn on the internet. Well actually, when we weren't setting fire to things, we were often searching for popn magazines abandoned in hedgerows and the like. When we weren't being corrupted that way, we were often to be found round the back of someone's dad's shed experimenting with alcohol and/or smoking. At least we didn't have the perverts and knife gangs stalking the streets in those days...

So there you have it - what would you rather your children were doing? Surfing the net and/or watching TV (from which they might actually learn something useful, and will probably develop better social skills from instant messaging than they would in the local crack house) in the safety of your own home, or out on those mean, mean streets with all their other drunken teenage friends (who have been told to 'go out and play' by their parents), puking, brawling and making 'Happy Slapping' videos?