Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Mummy's Boy

Here I am, back from an evening's trick-or-treating. Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I decided to dress up and terrorise all those little bastards who try and do it to me. Obviously, the first issue to be addressed was who I should dress up as. Now I know that these days the kids going out trick-or-treating go at dressed as the likes of Spiderman, Teletubbies, cowboys or Amy Winehouse, even, but I'm a traditionalist. I believe that the costume should have some kind of connection with the idea of Halloween horror. So, being a fan of classic horror flicks, I plumped for the Mummy, not the sub-Raiders of the Lost Ark Steven Somers version, but the proper 1940s type bloke swaddled in bandages. So, here I am in the guise of a long-dead Egyptian - pretty good, eh?

However, once I started my Halloween campaign, I started to discover some of the drawbacks of being a mummy. Now, rather than following the conventional route of going round as part of a gang knocking on doors, I elected to go it alone, lurking in darkened alley ways, ready to jump out and terrify passing gangs of trick-or-treaters. Unfortunately, chasing those pesky kids proved difficult due to the fact that it was impossible to move faster than a shuffle in those bandages. Consequently, I found myself taking quite a pelting from the little bastards, and my nice clean bandages were soon egg and flour stained. A rethink was clearly necessary. Recalling that in some of the later 1940s mummy movies the bandaged one seemed to spend a lot of time lurking in foliage, I elected to retreat to the local park, and try lurching out of the bushes at passing trick-or-treaters. This location had the added advantage of being a good place to meet women, as you can see from the picture. I have to say, though, for any budding sex offenders out there, a mummy costume isn't a good idea - it takes forever to unwrap enough bandages to expose your penis, as I found out when I had to take a leak.

In the end I decided to change tack, and call in reinforcements. The mummy was abandoned in favour of the Wolfman, and I roped in my associate Big Sleazy, who opted for the classic Frankenstein's Monster costume. Unfortunately, we had a bit of a dispute as to our strategy - Big Sleazy wanted to hang around the park, showing off his glow-in -the dark penis, whereas I favoured going back on the streets. Eventually he saw reason (after half a bottle of vodka), and we proceeded to scare the bejasus out of several groups of trick-or-treaters. The Wolfman costume was far easier to chase people in, not to mention quite a bit scarier than the mummy. Anyway, after spending a couple of hours leaving the bastards needing a change of underwear, we retired back here to my house. Big Sleazy is currently sleeping off the other half of that bottle of vodka on the sofa, before we go out again for the night shift. This time we're going to take the fight to the trick-or-treaters. We're planning to climb up drainpipes and leer in through their bedroom windows. Just when they think they're safe in bed - aaaargh! The Wolfman and Frankenstein's Monster are tapping on your window! If some beds aren't wetted tonight, I'll be very disappointed! I sincerely hope that we severely traumatise some of the little bastards. With luck they'll still be too frightened to go trick-or-treating next year!

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Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Red for Danger

According to the latest scientific research Neanderthal man probably had red hair. So at last we know the true reason for why we Homo Sapiens wiped the poor bastards out. Even a couple of million years ago we hated gingers. To be honest, I've never really understood the supposed deep-seated hatred of people with ginger hair which we non-gingers are supposed to have. Apart from Chris Evans I can't say that I've got anything against red heads, and in Evans' case it is the fact that he is a twat which makes me hate him, not the fact that he's a ginger tosser. That's purely incidental. But getting back to the matter in hand, just why do we have this supposed aversion to ginger hair? Does it have something to do with our one time rivals, the Neanderthals? Or perhaps it is some ancestral memory of when those ginger hordes of Vikings terrorised large parts of Europe?

Personally, I suspect that it goes back much further than that, that it has to do with protecting the genetic purity of our species. The red hair is clearly the sign of Martian heritage. Think about it - Mars is called the 'Red Planet', why? Well, obviously because its denizens were literally red. Millions of years ago, with their planet dying, they tried to colonise the earth, injecting their genetic material into the primitive ape men they found here. The unaffected, genetically pure primitive men could identify the invading hybrid by their tell-tale red hair. Naturally, they reacted against these gingers, attempting to wipe them out. Of course, in order to help the hybrids establish themselves on a hostile planet, the Martians ensured that they received genes for extreme aggression. Again, the evidence is there, just look at any racial group with a high incidence of red hair: the Vikings - homicidal maniacs; the Scots - psychopathic axe-murderers; the Irish - drunken psychopaths. It all fits. When we victimise gingers, we're just trying to ensure the long-term survival of our race in the face of these vicious invaders.

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Monday, October 29, 2007

Right Royal Scandal

How the media love it; a Royal scandal involving sex, drugs and blackmail. I particularly loved the way the BBC's Nicholas Witchell succeeded in combining lip-smacking relish with obsequiousness in his reporting of the story. The thing which strikes me about it is just how lacking in ambition the alleged blackmailers are - you apparently have a video of a Royal taking cocaine and performing some unspecified sex act and you only ask for £50,000 not to publicise it? Jesus Christ! Despite what they might try to tell you, those regal parasites aren't short of a bob or two. Believe me, they can afford a lot more than fifty grand. Mind you, the low monetary demand might reflect the relative unimportance of the Royal in question. Perhaps they're afraid that even if they did release the video, nobody would recognise the protagonist.

Ironically, of course, we're bound to eventually find out exactly who and what is on that tape as a result of this story breaking. Sooner or later the case will go to court and all the details will inevitably come out. Either that or someone in the police will make an illegal copy and put it on YouTube. In the meantime, of course, it's evidence in a criminal case and can't be made public. Or, it is in the hands of the Director of Public Prosecutions who is examining it with a view to bringing charges of bestiality against the participants. Actually, the whole thing could be a misunderstanding. Those two guys were just presenting their bill of £50,000 for the supply of the cocaine and the Shetland ponies...

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In a Spin

An associate of mine was doing me a favour by posting some stories from The Sleaze on the social news site, Propeller. They were mainly old stuff from the archives, but it generated a fair bit of traffic. Interestingly, the readers there showed some good taste - whilst the stories which got the biggest number of hits were the smutty sounding titles, the ones which were most highly rated tended to be the most satirical. To cut a long story short, imagine my friend's surprise when they tried to log into their Propeller account on Saturday, only to find that it had been removed because they had allegedly 'violated the terms of service'! No further explanation was given and every story they had ever posted has also been removed from the site! No warning was given, no request was made to remove any specific story they had posted. Even worse, in an act of incredible pettiness, they've also locked my associate out of their My.Netscape pages. I really do find this quite extraordinary behaviour on Propeller's part. If something they had posted broke the rules, just remove that and send them a warning. Sure, if people persist in violating the rules ban them altogether, but to do this over an alleged first offence - what a bunch of twats!

Neither of us can figure out what this 'violation' was. The last story posted on Propeller was Scared Stiff, hardly grounds for a banning (although the story description did include the phrase 'whacks off in the face of fear' - perhaps that offended their delicate sensibilities). Maybe they just don't like grown-up humour which dares to satirise every aspect of life I can think of. In which case - grow up. I wouldn't mind, but there's so much really offensive shit posted there which goes unchallenged by their 'Anchors' (stick a 'W' in front of that word and you'll have a pretty good idea of what I think of them). At the end of the day, I suppose we shouldn't really expect anything better from the once-mighty AOL empire. The aspect of this business which most disturbs me is the attempt to remove all trace of my friend from Propeller. This is like the bad old days of the Soviet Union, for God's sake! However, they're so bloody inefficient over there that my friend has set up a new account under a different identity and recreated their MyNetscape page. I've got an ID there too, so they'd better watch out. Maybe we'll be posting some more stuff from The Sleaze. Then again, perhaps we'll just boycott the bloody place. It's no more than they deserve.


Saturday, October 27, 2007

End of the Affair

Sometimes someone you've loved and cherished for years does something so unforgivable that you are left wondering if your relationship can possibly be repaired. This week, I've been left feeling this way about Tottenham Hotspur. The way the football club I've followed since I was a boy treated its head coach Martin Jol wasn't merely shabby, it was shameful. This is the man who turned around our fortunes, steering us to two consecutive fifth place finishes in the Premiership, fabulous cup runs both in Europe and domestically, and had the team playing some great football into the bargain. Yet this wasn't good enough for our grasping and materialistic board of directors, apparently. No, they wanted to pursue their fantasy of top four finishes and Champions League football. Jol wasn't ambitious enough for them. The disastrous start to this season didn't help. Mind you, the board had done its best to ensure that this would be the case. Not only did they spend £40 million in the Summer buying players Jol didn't need, ignoring his requests for a left-sided midfielder and an experienced central defender, but the season had barely started when they were caught red-handed offering his job to Sevilla's Juande Ramos. Going behind your manager's back like that, coupled with a crippling injury list which the expensive new signings couldn't cover, were hardly conducive to success on the pitch.

The whole affair, with Jol being summarily dismissed (by text, according to some reports) during the Getafe match, just left a bad taste in my mouth. Frankly, I'm ashamed to be a Spurs fan. For his part, Jol has conducted himself with the quiet dignity we've all come to respect and admire. The board have demonstrated that they don't have a fucking clue as to what the average Spurs fan actually wants. We don't give a toss about the top four and the Champions League. As long as we finish high enough to qualify for Europe, we don't care. What we want are exciting cup runs - Spurs reputation is built on winning cup competitions, not the league - and entertaining football. That's why I've always loved Spurs - they're about an idea, a concept; that playing good football is more important than anything else, even winning. Hell, we'd rather lose than play the long-ball game! But this current shower on the board are only interested in maximising profits. They know cock-all about football. Well, they've got their way - Jol is gone and Ramos has been appointed in his place with indecent haste. I remain unconvinced that he's the right man for Spurs. Part of me will always resent him for the manner of his appointment, no matter how successful he might turn out to be.

So, I'm seriously thinking of breaking off with Spurs. Mind you, I can't see myself supporting any other Premiership side. It just wouldn't be the same. Maybe I should try going back to basics and support my local non-league side. Of course, ending the affair does have its advantages. Its like when you break up with a girl - you can finally stop pretending to like Razorlight and go back to playing your Whitesnake CDs in the car. Suddenly you life seems your own again. So it is with Spurs. My Saturday afternoons are my own again. No anxious waits for the results, no feverish checking of teletext every two minutes to see what the score is. No sitting through all those bloody Arsenal and Man Utd games on Match of the Day to catch the Spurs highlights. Yes indeed, my life will be a lot less fraught from now on, I'm sure. It's sad that it had to end this way. But we've had some good times and some great memories. But I'm afraid that it just doesn't feel like the Tottenham I knew and loved so much anymore.


Thursday, October 25, 2007

Punch a Z-Lister Today (Part Three)

It occurred to me the other day that perhaps I was wrong about the reason for Nick Knowles' appearance on my street the other week. Perhaps he wasn't the buyer of one those houses on my terrace, maybe he was looking for me. Is it possible that he'd read what I'd written about him in Going Ape? Could he have followed the example of the heroes of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and obtained the IP addresses of everyone who has ever insulted him online? If so, what frightened him off? Could it be that, seeing me in the flesh, he realised that there was no way he could take a finely tuned fighting slob like myself? Actually, that seems unlikely, as he wouldn't know what I look like, I've ensured that there are no photos of me online. Alain Delon stands in for me usually. Come to think of it, I did hear somewhere that someone had tried to give him a kicking in Paris the other day...

Getting back to Fucking Nick Knowles (not many people realise that's his full name), he could, of course, have been responding to a DIY SOS on my street. Although, if this was the case, I would have expected to see TV cameras, lights, vans and the rest of the DIY SOS team. Then again, maybe when the series isn't on, he just wanders the streets of Britain at random, knocking on doors and offering to put up shelves. Indeed, the weekend after my Knowles sighting there was a lot of banging and thumping coming from next door. Could he have forced his way in and proceeded to knock holes in their walls and take up the floor boards, whilst they fought to throw him out? Then again, my neighbours might just have been having sex in a wardrobe. That sort of thing happens quite a lot, so I'm told. Furniture fetishism is big business, just put 'Welsh dresser' and 'sex' into Google and you'll find yourself faced with several pictures of naked blokes whacking off into the drawers of their kitchen fittings. But I've digressed again. Whatever was going on, the fact remains that there have been no further sightings of Knowles, thank God.


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Traitor or Tosser?

Some people are like bad pennies, they just keep turning up. Take David Shayler, for instance, the one-time fat bastard of the intelligence world, missing in inaction for a couple of years, has recently re-emerged as a full-fledged conspiracy nut and self-proclaimed Messiah. Now, I'm sure you all remember Shayler, the former Security Service filing clerk who, after some kind of falling out with his employers (over their refusal to provide chocolate biscuits at tea breaks), decided to start 'leaking' all kinds of made-up secrets about the UK's intelligence services to the newspapers. Well, a now somewhat slimmer Shayler has turned up telling the Daily Mail about his recent 'enlightenment'. Somehow I missed this, but luckily crackpot nut rag Fortean Times has reprinted this gem. Apparently it has all become clear to him that 9/11 was part of some plot or other - the Twin Towers were hit by missiles using holograms to disguise them as airliners. Yeah. He's also come to realise that he's the reincarnation of Attila the Hun, Pope Joan, Wang the Pervert, Mad King Ludwig and Laurel and Hardy. Oh yes, and Jesus. Which is why he now dresses in white and goes on about the 'Rod of Aaron' (which is surely some kind of euphemism, at lest it was in that film I saw, The Strong Right Hand of God, a docudrama about the religious benefits of masturbation).

"Do I look mentally ill? Do I sound mentally ill?" he asks readers. Well, yes. And yes. The only other person I know who dresses all in white is a bloke who wanders around my local town centre playing 1980s music from a stereo cassette player and laughing maniacally. That's when he isn't thumbing through the porn mags in the local newsagent. This poor fellow suffers from schizophrenia and only indulges in such behaviour when he forgets to take his medication. Shayler has no such excuse for behaviour which I find far more bizarre. As for sounding mentally ill, well every sane person knows that those were airliners which hit the Twin Towers. They were being radio controlled by giant shape shifting lizards disguised as the Queen and Prince Philip. But seriously, I find it deeply disturbing that such a person was ever given security clearances to work in the Security Service. Many years ago The Sleaze ran a poll - 'David Shayler: Traitor or Tosser?' (the consensus of the one person who voted was 'tosser'). Perhaps we should run another one - 'David Shayler: Tosser or Totally Tonto?'

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Monday, October 22, 2007

Now You See It...

Shocking news from across the pond - the FBI have raided magician David Copperfield's warehouse and seized 'certain items'. According to some reports it all has to do with a complaint from an unidentified woman that the illusionist had 'forced himself upon her'. Quite obviously disinformation put out by the establishment to try put the media onto the wrong scent. As if someone as obviously talented and handsome, not to mention modest and unbecoming, as Mr Copperfield would need to do such a thing - he could surely pull any bird he wanted using his natural charm and oiliness. No, the truth is undoubtedly terror-related. Could it be that the FBI have finally realised what everybody in the conspiracy community has known for ages - 9/11 was a huge illusion and Copperfield was the mastermind behind it! Let's not forget that this was the man who once made the Statue of Liberty vanish live on TV - making people think that the Twin Towers had been destroyed would surely be child's play for him. Mark my words, it was all mass hypnosis. Nothing at all happened that day. No airliners flew into anything, no buildings were destroyed. In fact, nobody was killed - all those grieving 'relatives' were actually hypnotised into believing that they had lost someone. In reality, all those 'victims' never existed.

The reasons as to why he would want to do this still aren't clear. One body of opinion claims that it was all part of Copperfield's rivalry with David Blaine, whose response to the 9/11 fakery was to convince the US and UK governments that Saddam Hussain possessed weapons of mass destruction. However, others have claimed that Copperfield was in the pay of Al Qaieda and the whole bizarre affair was designed to spread panic amongst the US public. Clearly, such an explanation is far too obvious to be true. It seems far more likely that Copperfield was working for an ultra top secret US government black ops unit. The plan was to fake a terror attack so as to justify the invasion of Iraq and the seizure of its oil fields, the invasion of Afghanistan and the seizure of its opium fields (so as to obtain control of the lucrative global drugs trade), and the introduction of repressive 'security' measures domestically. Best of all, no US citizens were really killed in the 'terror attack'. The Twin Trade towers (which are still standing - we've just been hypnotised into seeing 'Ground Zero' there instead) are now the secret, undetectable, headquarters of this secret organisation. All of which raises the question of why, if Copperfield was working for the secret government, the FBI are now harassing him? Well, he's obviously become a security risk, perhaps threatening to reveal the 'truth' about 9/11 via his magic act. See, it all makes sense!


Saturday, October 20, 2007

Punch a Z-Lister Today (Part Two)

It looks as if I can put the shotgun back under the floor boards. One of the two houses which had recently been sold on my terrace has gone back on the market. Clearly, the combination of a funeral procession and my glare have frightened off Nick Knowles. It's a real relief, I can tell you. A few years ago a friend of mine had a minor celebrity move in a few doors down from them. As if having them wandering around trying to pretend that they're not really famous, just a regular person like everybody else, but at the same time so obviously wanting to be recognised, my friend and his neighbours also had to suffer the z-lister's 'celebrity' friends turning up and being patronising about everybody's gardens. Before they knew it, their street had become 'trendy' and they found themselves suffering a minor celebrity infestation.

Pretty soon they couldn't move without bumping into some twat trying to look inconspicuous by wearing sun glasses in the rain. If it wasn't Vanessa Feltz hanging around the local burger van, it would be a drunken Dave Lee Travis pissing in the litter bin at the bus stop. Perhaps worst of all, my friend found Richard Stilgoe lurking under his floor boards. Luckily, Stilgoe had only managed to get an upright piano under the house, not a full grand piano, but his songs and playing were still awful, often keeping my friend awake all night. He tried putting poison down, even setting traps, but all to no avail. Eventually, he no choice; he had to call in the exterminators. The other residents all chipped in, and a celebrity cull was carried out. Apparently it was bloody, but swift - the exterminators try and make it quick, putting a pillowcase over the z-lister's head before letting them have it with both barrels. Frankly, I'm glad it never had to come to that in my street. Thankfully some quick action at the initial sighting means that we can all sleep safe in our beds.


Thursday, October 18, 2007

The Master Boy Racers?

Ban the sale of German cars here in the UK now. It would be a major contribution to road safety. Once this scourge has been swept off of our roads we'll no longer have to put up with vehicles carrying out manoeuvres without indicating (apparently BMWs, Audis and the like have indicators fitted, but their driver's manuals presumably advise against using them), idiots driving through thick fog at 70mph without lights (they apparently have radar fitted, either that or their drivers are reckless morons) and the complete disregard for lane discipline and general good manners. Of course, the big question is whether people who have no consideration for other road users and an over-inflated opinion of their own driving skills already are attracted to German cars, or whether it is owning the car which makes them this way. If the former is true, then it could be argued that banning German cars would have no effect, they'd just drive badly in other makes of vehicle. Well, I don't care. Maybe they would behave the same way if they were behind the wheel of a Nissan Micra, but they wouldn't look so clever or so 'cool'. It's difficult to be arrogant when you are behind the wheel of a Nissan.

Let's face it, the reason these aresholes buy German cars is because of their association with Nazism. For them, a BMW or an Audi conjures up images of Panzers rolling across Europe, pushing aside anything in their path, or of Stuka dive bombers screaming out of the sky to strafe and bomb columns of fleeing soldiers. When that dick head in a 5-series cuts you up at a junction and proceeds to drive through a red light at a pedestrian crossing, they're imagining themselves at the controls of a Messerschmidt fighter, or a Panther tank. To them, your Ford Mondeo is just a lowly Sherman tank, which they're determined to 'take out' with their high velocity 75mm gun. In their minds, the very act of driving a BMW makes them more important than non-BMW drivers. They are the Master Race and you are just sub-human scum to be trampled under foot. How on earth could you possibly imagine that you, in your Astra, could have right-of-way? Just get out of the way of these blonde Aryan gods and goddesses and think yourself lucky that they don't exterminate you there and then. Obviously, I'm not engaging in sweeping generalisations here, but there's no doubt that German cars and the people who drive them are evil.

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Tuesday, October 16, 2007

A New TV Hell

Having dispensed with the hell that was cable TV in favour of Freeview, I've now discovered a little pocket of purgatory on this platform. Nestling amongst the various shopping channels (does anybody actually watch these?), is the horror that is Nuts TV. Moronic would be too mild a word to describe this heap of shite which, mercifully, only broadcasts for four hours a day. In fact, it seems to have difficulty in filling even this meagre amount of broadcast time. As far as I can see, it doesn't actually transmit anything which could be described as a 'programme'. Instead it just seems to consist of hour upon hour of two idiots trying desperately to appear 'hip' sitting on a sofa babbling away in a desperate attempt to fill up the hours. Every so often they are joined by a 'guest' who clearly hasn't a clue where they are, as inane questions are fired at them. Occasionally, this mess is punctuated by a 'feature', which usually involves several dim-witted girls in their underwear being forced to participate in some idiotic contest by a leering and apparently mentally retarded male presenter.

The closest thing to a 'name' presenter they have is 'Comedy' Dave Vitty, serial sidekick from Radio One. He co-presents a sports strand with some idiot who appears to have stumbled in off of the street. I know he's recently become a father, and all that, but really, if he's that desperate for cash he'd be better off selling his arse to sailors in Soho. Not only would he retain his integrity, but he'd probably feel a lot cleaner, too. Watching more than two minutes of this farrago is profoundly depressing. It feels as if you've stumbled across some kind of pirate TV broadcast from somebody's front room whilst their parents are away. Anyone who complains about the licence fee, or the number of adverts on ITV, should be forced to watch this shit - this is what we'll be condemned to if the TV licence is abolished, or ITV's ad revenues fall drastically. Wall-to-wall shit. This really is TV for idiots.

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Monday, October 15, 2007

Last Action Tory?

What do you think of when you see David Cameron? A pile of steaming shit? A smug public school tosser? Some city twat acting as a front man for his asset-stripping stock broker chums? Well 'Dave' (as he likes us to think of him), has said that when people look at him, he wants them to think of Arnold Schwarzenneger. Now, that sort of thing might work with his wife, but believe me, the rest of us won't start swooning and saying 'grip with your big muscular arms as you give me one up the jackisie Arnie, sorry, Dave'. I suppose that there is a passing resemblance between the two - both seen as a bit of a joke novelty politicians, who seem to have wandered into the political arena because their previous careers had stalled. Of course 'Dave' wants us to identify him with Governor Schwarzenneger, the conservative, yet progressive political leader who cares about the environment, likes homosexuals, takes steroids, gropes women and is the son of a Nazi. Well, maybe not the last three. After a rocky period when he was getting creamed in the polls, the nonsense surrounding the election-that-never-was has seen Cameron's ratings climb. So, naturally, his ego has sprung back into action and he's back strutting around the Commons and jetting around the world trying to tell us he's a world statesman. It won't last. We were here a few years ago when those wankers decided to blockade oil refineries because the price of petrol had gone up - the Tories soared in the polls, only to collapse and lose another general election. They just can't keep it up. Trust me, 'Dave' will be no different.

Mind you, I often think that perhaps the electorate need a dose of Tory government, just to remind them of how bloody awful they are. I lived through those grim Thatcher/Major years. It wasn't pretty. People always conveniently forget that those tempting tax cuts can only be achieved through a wholesale slashing of public services, from refuse collection to health care. Sure, some people did well out of those years, but believe me, the prosperity wasn't evenly distributed. Whilst those city-types like Cameron and his ilk were raking it in, many, many more poor bastards at the bottom got pushed even further down into the shit. We're still reaping the terrible consequences of the Tories' policies on housing - inadequate stocks of social housing and hundreds of thousands of mis-sold mortgages and their recipients being forced into arrears and repossession. If that buffoon Boris Johnson, (a testament to how effective the 'old boy network' and having gone to the right schools still is in allowing complete idiots to rise to the top in contemporary Britain), becomes London Mayor, we'll have a living reminder of Tory mismanagement. However, he's bound to succeed in insulting some section of the capital's electorate during his campaign - probably commenting on the marvellous contribution West Indians have made to London's culture by supplying all those colourful pimps and drug dealers. What a card, eh?


Sunday, October 14, 2007

Punch a Z-Lister Today

I had a pretty traumatic Friday. First off, it was the day of the funeral of one of my neighbours, who died unexpectedly the previous week. Being one of the few neighbours I either knew or got on with, as a mark of respect I made sure that I was on hand to see the funeral cortege depart from the house. Now, as if that wasn't upsetting enough, as I was walking back to my car, I saw a vaguely familiar figure coming towards me down the street. Wearing a stupid wide-brimmed hat, I recognised none other than minor TV 'personality' Nick Knowles. The trouble was that I wasn't 100% sure it was that twat from the telly, or I'd have smacked him in the face. At the very least I would have shouted at him to show some respect and take his fucking hat off for the funeral procession. Mind you, I'm pretty sure it was him - he gave me that look that all z-listers give you when they think that you should recognise them. Trust me, I'm an expert on such looks, I've had the likes of Robson Green and some bloke from Emmerdale give them to me.

Sadly, I didn't think to check where he was going after he passed me. I later had this nasty thought that maybe it was him who'd bought one of the two houses recently sold on my terrace. For fuck's sake, that's the last thing I want, Nick fucking Knowles and his DIY SOS nonsense on my street! Once one of the bastards moves in, you can guarantee that others will follow. Z-list celebrity infestations have to be resisted at all costs. It might start harmlessly enough with home improvement show presenters turning up, but next thing you know, you'll have Amy Winehouse puking up on your doorstep and Pete Doherty shooting up in your spare room. So, take my advice, in order to avoid such a nightmare in your neighbourhood, next time you see a Z-lister wandering down your street, punch the bastard in the face.

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Thursday, October 11, 2007

Punch a Priest Today (Part Two)

Further to my previous post on this subject, I feel that my motivation for exhorting my readers to go around physically assaulting members of the clergy required a little more elaboration. Just look at it as payback - remember all those wars waged in the name of religion, all those atrocities committed in the name of God/Allah/Yahweh etc. In view of all those centuries of repression - denying women the option of abortion, condemning people for their sexuality, denying education to the masses and monopolising knowledge - I think that a smack in the face would be a small price to pay. Personally, if it was left entirely to me, we'd be burning all the bastard priests, Imams and the like at the stake and firebombing every place of religious worship, regardless of denomination. It really is about time we stamped out this irrational claptrap.

The bottom line is that I have nothing against people having individual faith, it is organised religion and its bloody priests that I have a real problem with. Like all large organisations, it simply becomes self-serving with a hierarchy determined to exercise total control over its followers. Its priests inevitably seem to end up abusing their positions of trust - only today I heard of another case of an ex-priest being accused of child molestation. Apparently the charges relate to 'historic abuse' of young people. What the hell does that mean? Did he dress up as Henry VIII as he buggered little boys? Who knows - but whatever it means, surely it deserves a punch in the kisser, at the very least?


Tuesday, October 09, 2007

A Visit to The Strip Club

I've spent the last week or so on a trip down memory lane, to my misspent youth. Inspired by BBC4's excellent Comics Britannia series, I've been scouring the web in search of the comic strips which enthralled me back in the 1970s. When I was a kid I was never really into the American DC and Marvel titles, I preferred the less glamorous, but no less weird and wonderful, British weeklies, printed on cheap paper in glorious black and white. What I loved most about them was the variety of stories you got in a single issue - the average title would typically include an historical yarn, a crime story, a war story a weird/science fiction strip and at least one humour strip. In addition to the on-going characters, there would often be one-off strips and various 'factual' features. Whilst the art work could sometimes seem crude, more often than not it was of a remarkably high standard. TV21 was my first 'proper' comic - I 'inherited' it from my older brothers who had originally subscribed to it. This was a surprisingly high-quality comic running strips based on TV shows like Thunderbirds and Star Trek, I could be mistaken, but I seem to recall that it was in colour (although I could be confusing the weekly comic with the annual). However, my relationship with TV21 didn't last long - in 1971 it was amalgamated with another long-running title: Valiant.

It was in the pages of Valiant that I was introduced to such great strips as Kelly's Eye (ancient crystal makes the eponymous hero virtually indestructible - he then spends his days involved in time-travelling adventures when not starting revolutions in South American banana republics), House of Dollman (puppeteer uses puppets to fight crime), a strip whose title I don't recall about a gypsy footballer who didn't wear boots ,(and unlike those wimps Beckham and Rooney, he never suffered any broken bones in his feet), and Captain Hurricane. This latter character helped warp my view of WWII - I believed that it was won by powerfully muscled Royal Marines so strong that they didn't need guns and were apparently impervious to bullets. When the Captain went into one of his 'ragin' furies', he'd take out entire SS panzer divisions with his bare hands. I grew up thinking that all Germans had shaven heads and shouted things like 'Gott in Himmel' and 'Donner und Blitzen' when surprised, whilst the Japanese all had buck teeth, wore glasses and said 'By Shinto!'. Actually, it was an interesting feature of British comics that, for them, it seemed like WWII had never ended. The Cold War was completely ignored - the Axis, not the Communists, were still the enemies of choice.

In the mid-1970s Valiant began to change (I now know that this was due to the editorship of John Wagner, later to create Judge Dredd, who had been brought in to try and modernise the title). Stories like One-Eyed Jack (tough Dirty Harry-style New York cop who doesn't play by the rules) Death Wish (British soldier loses entire squad in WWII, blames himself and consequently wanders the battlefield trying to get himself killed whilst taking lots of Germans with him), and Stryker (a bit like High Plains Drifter, but set against the backdrop of a lower-league football club) began to appear alongside old favourites like Captain Hurricane. On the whole, these stories were pretty good, but it was too little, too late. With circulation falling, in 1976 Valiant was merged with Battle Picture Weekly. I couldn't take to the relentless emphasis on war stories to the exclusion of all other types of strip in the new comic and parted company with it after a few issues. I switched my allegiance to Action (the revived, less violent version), where I found that secret agent Dredger was quite a bit like One Eyed Jack and there was a reassuring variety of strips. Sadly, it only lasted a year before being swallowed up by Battle. I jumped ship to 2000AD, where I felt much more at home.

Looking back at various strips and comics-related sites I've found on the web has reminded me of just how much I loved those old comics. God, how I wish I'd kept some of them! The story-telling on the likes of Kid Pharaoh (revived Ancient Egyptian becomes a boxer (or was it a wrestler?), but falls into catatonic state when the lights go out), might not have been as sophisticated as Spiderman, but his adventures moved much more briskly (he only had 2-3 pages a week to get through his latest escapade). I really do miss those much simpler days!

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Monday, October 08, 2007

Punch a Priest Today

I see that clergymen are being advised to take off their dog-collars when 'off duty', so as not to make themselves targets. Well, I'm glad to see that my campaign of encouraging people to beat up vicars whenever they see them is finally having an effect. The bloody Holier-than-thou bastards deserve a damn good kicking, going around peddling all their sodding moralistic schtick - Harry Potter is a satanist, wanking leads to eternal damnation, looking at pornography is a mortal sin, homosexuality is the root of all evil. What a bunch of bloody kill joys. Is it any wonder church attendances are falling? As if all that preaching isn't enough, when they're not in the pulpit they're apparently busy buggering choir boys. Perhaps if they did a little less condemning and a bit more of that neighbour-loving that Jesus went on about (providing the neighbour is above the age of consent), people wouldn't be targeting them.

Of course, these new guidelines for the clergy do raise the question of when exactly they are 'off duty'? Do they 'clock off' at the end of each service, light up a fag, swig whisky straight from the bottle, thumb through a porn mag and wank off in front of a mirror? Do they stop spreading the word of God as soon as they leave church premises? Do they use their time off to grope women, steal cigarettes and get involved in barroom brawls? If someone rushed into the pub and asked a priest propping up the bar there to come and give his dying mother the Last Rites, would the priest reply: "Fuck off, can't you see I'm off duty?" and punch the parishioner in the face? Also, joking aside, who is it that's supposedly attacking clergymen? Militant atheist boot boys? Somehow I can't see Richard Dawkins shaving his head, getting tattoos on his neck and donning a sleeveless t-shirt and Doc Martens just to harass passing priests. Maybe it is down to holidaying Burmese policemen, disappointed that they're missing out on beating up monks back home, perhaps they're targeting the nearest equivalent they can find? Good luck to them. Take my advice - punch a priest today. You'll feel much better for doing it plus, you'll be striking a blow for reason in the war against superstition. That's my excuse, anyway.


Saturday, October 06, 2007

Making News

So, Gordon Brown isn't going to call a General Election. Apparently this represents an 'embarrassing U-turn' for the Prime Minister. According to the news programmes he's lost face and damaged his standing with the public. Hmmm. The funny thing about this is that speculation over a possible October/November election was fuelled entirely by the press. They were the ones who started talking it up when Labour started moving ahead in the polls. I don't recall Brown or any of his Ministers ever floating the idea of an early election. It was the press that started telling us that the Labour party was going on 'an election footing', employing extra staff and so on. Did they? I don't know. Even if they did, it still doesn't mean that an election announcement was imminent. Again, it was the press that kept telling us that various policy announcements and Brown's visit to Iraq were all sure signs that the government was contemplating an election. Obviously, government's never simply try and steal the limelight from the opposition's annual conference by announcing new policies and the like, do they?

That's the trouble these days, the media isn't content to just report the news, they now want to make it as well. All this election speculation wasn't helped by the plethora of so-called experts employed by the papers and TV to 'interpret' the activities of politicians for us. Straightforward reporting isn't enough, it seems. 'In depth analysis' is also required. Frankly, I'd like to hear and see a lot less of these 'experts'. Like most people, I'm quite capable of drawing my own conclusions about the news. Indeed, when I hear the likes of John Humphrys wittering on about how it essential that the Today programme isn't affected by proposed BBC spending cuts - they should axe BBC3 instead, apparently - I feel nothing but despair. We need less of these preening prima donnas, stoking their own egos by 'grilling' elected representatives and interpreting their every fart for us poor dumb mortals. Like Joe Friday used to say "We just want the facts". That's all we need, really. Just report the facts to us and we'll do our own analysis thank you. Then maybe we won't have to endure another day like today, with various reporters pouring scorn on the Prime Minister to cover up their own misinterpretation of events.

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Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Joy of Text?

I switched on my rarely used mobile phone the other day and was surprised by the text alert tone chiming at me. I actually got quite excited, not because nobody ever texts me, but because I have a friend who always used to text me, but has fallen silent of late. Naturally, I thought it might be a communication from her. However, I was somewhat disappointed to find that the text was actually from Tesco, whose mobile network I use, telling me about some offer or other to do with reward points. Now, my first reaction was: 'You're a supermarket, I don't want a bloody relationship with you, I just want to take advantage of your low call rates'. But then I thought 'What the hell, nobody else is texting me at the moment', so I texted back and asked them out for a drink.

To be fair, we had quite a good time but I did find them a little, well, cheap. Not to mention a trifle garish. I think in future I might stick to the more refined and upmarket Sainsbury's, despite their friendship with that twat Jamie Oliver. Mind you Sainsbury's does tend to prefer those poncey wine bars. If it's fun down the pub you want, then cheap and cheerful Asda can always be relied upon for a raucous night out. Asda may be somewhat brash, and a bit downmarket in their tastes, but they do know how to have a good time. Anyway, the upshot is that I think I might have to block Tesco's number, or something. They're just a bit too eager, if you know what I mean. That always makes me wary - they could turn out to be a crazy stalker, or something.

As an addendum, I should note that my non-texting friend did in fact reply to a text I sent her immediately. So hopefully, she hasn't entirely abandoned this medium of communication!

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Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Halloween 2007 at The Sleaze

October again, and, despite last year vowing never to do it again, I'm busy putting together a series of loosely themed stories for Halloween. The first of them, Psychic Sex Pest?, is already up on The Sleaze. This one started life as a rewrite and expansion of an Off The Wrist post here on Sleaze Diary, but quickly went off on a tangent, so much so that only a couple of lines from the original remain. During the course of the month it should (if everything goes according to plan) be joined by Hijab Halloween (again based on a post and comic strip from here), and I Married a Poltergeist, a sequel of sorts to last Halloween's Scared Stiff. However, things could change if I suddenly experience a burst of creative inspiration and come up with something better.

On the subject of Halloween, I find the way in which it has become so commercialised in this country in the space of only a few years quite fascinating. Not so long ago the only Halloween-related merchandising you'd find in your local supermarket would be a special offer on pumpkins, a couple of tatty rubber masks and (if you were lucky) a set of plastic vampire fangs. Nowadays there are aisles chock full of costumes, masks, fake blood, the full works. It's clear that businesses would like to turn it into another lucrative 'shopping festival', like Christmas. There was a time when all this Halloween merchandising provided a welcome bulwark against the onset of its Christmas counterparts - shops had to wait until November before they could 'start' the festive season on their shelves. This year, however, they don't seem to care and, before September was even over, you could find Christmas cakes rubbing shoulders with plastic devil horns and pitchforks in the supermarkets. It's all very confusing and will only end in tears.

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Monday, October 01, 2007

Did Modern Medicine Wreck My Arsehole?

Just lately I've noticed that my farting isn't what it used to be. Time was that I could enjoy letting go the full range of anal announcements, from those little one cheek lifts to those long low farts which seem to go on forever. Bum rattlers, silent-but-deadlies, loud trumpets, rasping exhales - my arsehole could handle them all. But of late all I've been able to produce are single blarts. Very frustrating. Could this really be the same arse which once - quite literarlly - blew off a letter box in Bristol? I miss the music of the more complex farts. Besides, it's boring - variety is, after all, the spice of life.

I strongly suspect that the course of antibiotics I had to take a few months ago when I had an infected tooth might be behind this sorry state of affairs. Whilst clearing up the infection, they also turned my stomach inside out. My bumhole was regularly blazing and definitely over worked. It could well be that, as a result, it has lost some of its flexibility and become 'loose lipped', so to speak. I'm currently engaging in a series of bum-clenching exercises, in the hope of strengthening by arsehole and regaining some of its flexibility. I sincerely hope that it can be restored to its former glory. I really miss lying in the bath after the water has drained out and letting go a long purring fart against the enamel. The bath acts as an echo chamber, magnifying the sound and making the walls vibrate. The last time I was able to do it, months ago, plaster fell off of the ceiling. Ah, happy days!