Gold Fingered

The world of daytime TV is a weird and wonderful place, and I'm not just talking about the Jeremy Kyle-style freak shows, the endless cheap game shows, property programmes and Australian soaps. The commercials are wonderfully shite and low-rent too. Particularly the ones on Five. Everybody, I'm sure, is familiar with all those sad ads they run for personal loans from dubious-looking finance companies, not to mention the commercials for personal injury claim lawyers, but lately my personal favourite has been the one urging you to send in your 'unwanted gold'. It's not just the fact that their office appears to be located in someone's loft conversion that I like about this ad, it's the picture of people having bars of gold lying about their houses it conjures up that I like. You can just imagine people watching it and saying 'Quick, check down the back of the sofa - there could be some gold bullion down there which has fallen out of my pockets'.

But best of all about this commercial is the presenter. Whilst you might imagine the ideal person to front such a service would be Auric Goldfinger, the makers have, sadly, not resurrected the late Gert Froebe, instead opting for wild-eyed individual who looks like a creepy middle-aged version of Robert Webb from Mitchell and Webb. His invitation to ring up for their 'gold kit' (which turns out to be a plastic bag in which to put your 'unwanted jewelery') has a suitably manic edge to it. At any moment you expect him to start rubbing his hands and cackling at the thought of all that gold heading his way. It really is quite surreal. Perhaps it is all part of a plot by some James Bond villain to corner the world's gold reserves through buying up Channel Five viewers' Ratner's jewelery. Maybe 007's foiling of all his previous schemes for global domination have left him so strapped for cash that this is the only way he can afford to put his latest nefarious scheme into motion - through the medium of low-budget daytime TV commercials. Who knows, perhaps his top secret lair really is someone's rented loft space? Stranger things have happened in the world of day time TV.

Accentuate the Positive...

Whilst we're on the subject of hings which piss me off - excessive positivity. It seems to be all the rage in the workplace these days that you aren't seen to be 'too negative'. Indeed, accusing someone of 'negativity' is seen as a worse criticism than pointing out that they're incompetent. In fact, avoiding 'negativity' currently seems to be far more important than competence when it comes to succeeding in your job. What this means,in practice, is the effective stifling of any criticism of half-arsed, ill-though out, management plans, unrealistic targets or poor managerial performance. It doesn't matter how constructive and insightful your critique, you will be immediately shouted down foe being 'too negative' - it's like an accusation of witchcraft in the 16th century. It seems that rather than trying to pint out the obvious flaws in schemes put forward by those grinning imbeciles who pass for management these days, we should be 'positive' about them, focusing on the good aspects which, inevitably we're told, outweigh the bad.

Personally, I think we should apply this same approach to the study of history - a more 'positive' reappraisal of the Third Reich is surely long overdue. I mean, everybody focuses on those last few years, when it all went wrong. Before that it was all good - let's not forget that Hitler took Germany from virtual bankruptcy in the aftermath of the Great War and Great Depression to being the most powerful nation in the world. Their economy was so strong that German industry didn't have to switch to a complete war setting until 1943. People respected Germany under Hitler. But does anybody look at these positive aspects? Oh no, they just want to concentrate on the military defeat, the concentration camps and so-called 'final solution'. For God's sake, it was only two or three years out of nearly ten! Let's look at the positives, people! Let's not forget the VW Beetle, the development of the jet engine, amazing advances in rocketry and poison gas technology! Mind you, now I come to think of it - isn't this the line neo-Nazis and revisionist 'historians' have been taking for years? Have they moved into providing management consultancy services?

How Are You...?

You know something that's been really irritating lately? People asking me how I am, particularly people at work. It is so bloody obvious that they don't actually want to know how you really are, (just watch their eyes glaze over if you say anything other than 'fine, thanks'), that I just don't know why they bother. I mean,it wouldn't be so bad if they put a bit more effort into enquiring after your health, it might just qualify as a social interaction. But no, it's all so perfunctory - the bastards just say 'how are you', as if on auto pilot before turning on their heel and walking off. Just lately, they haven't even had the courtesy to separate those two actions,instead asking the question as they turn, so that if you do try to reply, you find yourself addressing their retreating back. I ask you, if you are so contemptuous as to my well-being, they why bother asking at all? Just walk on by in silence.

Indeed, I never bother asking people how they are. I really don't care. No, really, I don't. Well, perhaps not caring is a bit extreme - the truth is that I'm utterly indifferent to the lives of most of the rest of the human race. Over the years I've realised that their opinions mean nothing to me, that the details of their lives really don't interest me and that I'm not interested in any form of social interaction with them. Just lately my misanthropy has been getting worse - I barely bother speaking to people at work at all these days. We have nothing in common and nobody bloody listens anyway - that's why they keep making the same sodding mistakes, over and over, with monotonous regularity. Luckily, I spend most of my time out of the office, working on my own. Getting back to the original point - can't we just dispense with all these so-called pleasantries we're supposed to go through on a daily basis? They've become nothing more than empty rituals - everyone is too self-absorbed these days to really care about anybody else, so why bother?

Lily Allen's Guide to Swearing Part Two

This time Lily offers a relatively mild expletive which can be used as a slightly more offensive alternative to 'Fiddle sticks'. Potentially child-friendly, this one could even be used in front of your mother, as it sounds quirky and amusing, rather than down right filthy. A good starter swear word for novices! More sweariness from Lilly soon!

Is Your Neighbour a Witch?

This month, in order to show our wholehearted support for the Government’s new anti-witchcraft legislation (see Blair Witch Finder Project), we ask the vital question - “Is your neighbour a witch?”. As the Home Secretary has rightly pointed out, anyone could be a witch - you can’t detect them just by looking for the obvious. Whilst witches may traditionally have been easily identifiable by such traits as straddling broomsticks, getting familiar with black cats and having facial warts, the modern black magic user is far subtler - being able to pass for an ordinary middle-class citizen. However, certain behavioural traits can still give them away and, in anticipation of the publication of official witch-recognition guidelines, we present our own handy guide to witch and warlock spotting.

Does your neighbour:

Appear to be a sweet old lady with a spinning wheel who cackles maniacally?

Live in a gingerbread house?

Regularly invite Satan around for tea?

Have sex with succubi?

Hold wild pagan rites around the barbecue in the back garden?

Appear nostalgic for the 1960s?

Espouse dangerously liberal views - including the legalisation of cannabis and/or republicanism?

Read The Guardian?

Drive a car that does less than 30 mpg?

Smoke?

Of course, these are not the only indicators of witchcraft - speaking in strange tongues is another suspicious trait. What might sound like Polish to you could in fact be the ancient Wiccan language used for invoking devils! In fact, beware of foreigners generally. BNP leader Nick Griffin has suggested that the current witchcraft spate has been the result of a large influx of Eastern European witches posing as asylum seekers, and has suggested stricter immigration controls.

If the answer to any of the above is “yes”, then you could be living next door to a witches coven! If the answer to at least three is “yes” then you and your family could be in immediate danger - call our hotline immediately! A team of trained witch-hunters will attend your address immediately and subject your neighbours to trial by ducking - if they live, clearly you were right to call! They will be burned at the stake forthwith! We're offering fabulous prizes, including a brand new Rover 75, to any readers whose tips result in a successful witch burning! So, start watching those skies for broomsticks!

Another Crazy Week...

So there you have it, another crazy week in the world of Brown's Britain. First of all they reduce the terror threat level from 'Shit Scared' to 'Oh Fuck', then we get another wave of swine flu panic. Surely it's about time they scrapped the terror alert system in favour of a 'plague of the week' threat status indicator? The most bizarre thing about the reduction in the terror threat level is the fact that the authorities seem to think that anybody is paying any attention to it. Perhaps they think terrorists are and are hoping that they'll abandon any plans for for large-scale attacks if the threat level is reduced - "Damn those infidels! They've reduced it to a level where blowing up buses would be inappropriate! We'll just have to go back to the drawing board and come up with something more modest which will match the current threat level instead!" As for swine flu, well, the government are doing a great job of countering the scaremongering with their advice - apparently women shouldn't even think about conceiving during the pandemic. Are we sure that swine flu hasn't been invented by the Catholic church as a more effective alternative to the rhythm method of contraception?

Of course, what everyone is worried about now is the threat posed to children by swine flu. So naturally, the government decided to increase their security by insisting that everyone visiting schools had to undergo a criminal records check before they could even look at the children - even eminent authors of children's literature. Apparently the likes of Philip Pullman could pose a major threat to our children if we allow him to speak to them without checking whether or not he has any criminal convictions. Whether he is considered to pose a threat because he might be a nonce, he's an atheist, an intellectual, or because he might spread swine flu by traipsing around schools talking to pupils about his books, isn't entirely clear. Particularly not to the government. Whilst it is entirely reasonable to expect full-time staff at schools to be criminally checked, as they have constant contact with pupils, quite what the point of vetting invited visitors - who are also public figures - who will only spend a couple of hours, at best, with the students, is beyond me. I should imagine that there are easier ways for paedophiles to get close to their potential victims than spending years having manuscripts rejected by publishers, before finally, if they're lucky, becoming a best selling author of children's fiction. Like hanging around outside the school gates with a false moustache and a bag of sweets...

The Doctor Holds His Own

Even as Matt Smith starts filming as the new series of Dr Who, there is already speculation that his predecessor, David Tennant, isn't yet finished with the character, with mounting rumours that he is to feature in a Dr Who film. Aficionados of the cult series will be well aware that this isn't the first time that a movie version has been mooted. In the years following the cancellation of the original TV series in 1991, there was much press speculation as to a revival of the series in this form. Indeed, at one point surreal writer/director David Lynch was linked with a Dr Who film project, and rumours abounded that the Doctor was to regenerate into a wardrobe, or even a Welsh dresser, with a talking fish as his companion. However, less well remembered is the fact that once before there was the threat of two rival Doctors fighting for the fans' affections, a situation which led to the unseemly sight of two Time Lords brawling in a Soho bar.

In a surprise move, unknown actor David Burton announced in 1993 that he was to be the new Doctor. Indeed, for several weeks he drove around in a car with sandwich boards proclaiming this fact attached to the roof rack, and even claimed that he had shot a new pilot film for the series. These pronouncements provoked the wrath of 'forgotten Doctor' Ron Feague, who had been attempting to get various Who - related projects off the ground for several years. As chronicled The Sleaze, Feague had briefly been cast in the role in 1974, as a replacement for Jon Pertwee (see Dr Who). However, a series of sensational sex scandals led to his being dropped before his initial story was completed, and the part being re-cast with Tom Baker. A furious war of words erupted between the two men, with Burton calling Feague a has-been and Feague responding by challenging Burton to show his unseen pilot film to the public or, failing that, a nude wrestling match.

Consequently, in October 1993 Burton stormed into “Madam Kitty’s” massage parlour in Soho, where Feague was enjoying the £30 hand-relief special with his favourite masseuse, “Handy Mary” Timpkins. There remains some confusion as to the purpose of Burton’s visit, some witnesses claim that he was clutching a videotape and was going to show Feague his pilot, others believe that he intended to take up Feague’s challenge of a nude wrestling match. In the event, neither happened. “According to eyewitnesses, as Burton stormed in, Feague leapt up off of the massage table, letting his towel drop to the floor”, recalls Jake Tifter of the Alternative Dr Who Appreciation Society (ADWAS). “Burton suddenly stopped, a look of awe and fear spreading across his face as he saw the size of Feague’s whang - apparently his eyes were bulging out of his head. Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and rushed out of the building!” Needless to say, Feague crowed about his victory, casting aspirations upon the supposed size of Burton’s manhood. Burton’s response was swift, two weeks after the massage parlour incident, he burst into the saloon bar of 'The Miller’s Reel' - a notorious Soho drinking den - where Feague was entertaining potential backers for his film project, including noted dominatrix 'Naughty' Sarah Spankbottom, Westminster Madam Joan 'Hand Warmers' Hardy and local pimp Frankie 'Linen-Lifter' Proudly.

Burton knocked Feague to the ground and proceeded to administer several Venusian karate kicks before being hauled off by Proudly. Feague managed to crawl to his feet, and attempted to put a Sontaran death grip on his opponent before resorting to trying to loosen his nuts with his sonic screwdriver. Feague was only stopped from doing more damage when Hardy pulled him off - for which she charged him £20. The brawl was eventually ended by the arrival of the police. Whilst Burton escaped through the toilet window, Feague ended up spending several hours in police cells. Nevertheless,it was Burton who abandoned his claim to the role of Dr Who , with no more being heard of his supposed pilot film. Ironically, of course, Feague’s film was never made. “Its a pity really”, muses Tifter. “Rumour has it that he was aiming for a new hard-edged, more adult approach. The script was supposedly written by Ted Lewis, the author of Get Carter, and featured the Doctor returning to Gallifrey - which looked like a Northern steel town - seeking his brother’s killer, and uncovering a holographic porno-film ring run by The Master. Johnny Quean, who produced his abortive TV episodes was to be creative consultant”. Following his failure to secure backing for this project, Feague has been forced to work on a series of adult-orientated straight-to-video releases. Several, including Re-erection of the Phallics, Attack of the Cyberwhores, The Horn of Nimon and The Seed of Doom, have been Dr Who themed - and the subject of legal action by the BBC. Feague’s former producer, Quean, has been less fortunate. He was last heard of selling himself to Ukrainian sailors in Harwich for £5 a time, claiming that his backside was like the Tardis - “much bigger on the inside than the outside”.

As Not Featured on 'NewsNow'

Let's start the week with a bit of a moan. For those of you who pay attention to such things, you may have noticed that the links to NewsNow have vanished from The Sleaze. I've finally lost patience with this aggregator 'service' and its continued attempts to censor material. I've now had two stories in a row blocked by them so, as far I'm concerned, the site is no longer 'featured on NewsNow'. The last time I had a number of stories blocked, their 'explanation' was that they had a new 'policy' of not running stories which included 'swearing' in their content (apparently parents had been complaining that their little darlings were being exposed o filth - bullshit!). Unfortunately, the only supposed 'swearing' they could point to was the word 'cock' and the phrase 'whacked off' (presumably they don't allow stories about poultry or cricket). Now, I don't know about you, but what I classify as swear words are things like 'fuck', which I try to avoid using in stories over at The Sleaze in order to avoid being blocked by corporate firewalls.

Interestingly, as I pointed out to NewsNow, they were allowing another satire site to post stories including not just 'cock' and variations, but also 'fuck', 'wank', 'shit', 'bollocks' and 'prick', amongst others. Their response was to claim that some contributing sites only had the titles they submitted vetted, not the whole text! Quite why some contributors were placed in such a privileged position wasn't explained. Unfortunately for NewsNow, the offending site regularly ran headlines including the word 'fuck', but these were happily carried by the aggregator! Although NewsNow promised to start cracking down on the site in question, it has continued to be allowed to run stories including 'offensive' language. In the face of such hypocrisy, and the fact that neither of the two stories I've recently had blocked included anything worse than 'arse', I've decided to sever all ties with NewsNow and to boycott their site. I would urge you to do the same. The fact is that they simply don't generate sufficient traffic for me to waste time engaging in further discourse with them over this issue. So, as far as I'm concerned, they can fuck off.

Bottoms Up!

Arses - philistines will argue that they have only two uses - either you sit on ‘em or shit out of ‘em. However, the more sophisticated amongst us know that the bottom is something truly special. Which of us, both male and female, hasn’t admired a shapely backside in motion? And who of us hasn’t secretly harboured fantasies about giving those lovely cheeks a damn good thrashing? Even manly Clint Eastwood is susceptible to these urges, as witnessed in a scene cut from the final print of US Marine drama Heartbreak Ridge (but restored in the recent DVD release), where his tough training sergeant gives a talk to his young recruits. “Marine’s bottoms”, he rasps as he prowls up and down their ranks. “We all know where they are and what they’re for. There’s nothing like taking those two rosy cheeks and squeezing them into one.....”

Of course, there is much debate amongst bottom aficionados as to exactly what the perfectly spankable bottom looks like. Is it the petite yet well-rounded type sported by the likes of Kylie Minogue, or perhaps the firmer, more muscular type seen on athletes - tennis player Maria Sharapova springs to mind - is the perfect type? There is also a strong case to be made for the broader, yet well-shaped, bottom. The one thing all aficionados agree on , however, is that there is no place for the skinny flat-arse (of either gender), in this debate. Personally, I can only speak from a male perspective when I say that I favour the broader beam. I feel that the greater surface area gives far more scope for imaginative spanking. That’s not to say that I like fat, lardy arses. I’m afraid that these are totally unsuitable for spanking. A degree of firmness is required for best effect. Yes indeed, there’s nothing like putting a broad-yet-firm-bottomed lady across your knee and beating those cheeks like bongo drums.

The question also arises as to whether you favour bare-arsed or clothed spankings, or whether you use the naked palm or advocate the employment of instruments such as canes, straps, paddles or hair-brushes. All of which brings us, finally, to this Issue’s competition - who do you think has the most spankable bottom? Guys, is it pert-bottomed Kylie Minogue you’d like to bend across your knee, or would you rather beat out a rhythm on Drew Barrymore’s broader posterior? Maybe Gwyneth Paltrow’s behind does it for you. Or is it the sublime wiggling buttocks of sultry Latino beauty Jennifer Lopez? Not wishing to be sexist, we’d also like to hear from the ladies - do you favour Mel Gibson’s notoriously hairy arse or do you prefer the smooth buttocks of Matt Damon? Does age make a difference? Would you prefer to thrash Sean Connery’s leathery old buttocks red raw, or prefer the soft, creamy and virginal cheeks of Ben Affleck? So, just send us your top three spankable bottoms - your choices match those of our panel of experts you could win a fabulous monkey picture!

In Good Humour

I've been thinking a lot about humour lately. Now, I know what you are thinking - so you should be, it's about time you injected some into your bloody site - but my current musings have been focused on the nature of humour, and how what we perceive as being funny changes over time. I was sent on this mental journey after spending some time on the relaunched Some of the Corpses are Amusing (SOTCAA) site, where they discuss and dissect various aspects of contemporary British TV and radio comedy. As with all such things, the articles occasionally teeter on the edge of vanishing up their own arses as they over-analyse some comedy, but,on the whole, it's a worthwhile read. Particularly impressive is the site's willingness to to beg to differ with much of the received wisdom about various comedy 'classics'. Once again, I wouldn't always agree with their opinions, but it is refreshing to find somewhere that isn't content to simply regurgitate all the usual gushing fan-boy adulation which all too often passes for reviews when it comes to well-known comedians and TV series.

All of which, eventually, brings me to my point - the way our perceptions of comedy change. SOTCAA seems to have a bit of a downer on I'm Alan Partridge, challenging the widely accepted view that this series represented a high-water mark in the development of the British sitcom. What I found interesting was that when the series was first shown, I pretty much shared their reservations about it (if you want to know what these are in detail, go visit the SOTCAA site), but over the years I've mellowed toward it, and when I recently caught some repeats, actually laughed at it. Part of the SOTCAA reviewers view on Alan Partridge seem to be influenced by the fact that they also have a bit of a downer on Armando Iannucci who produced it, and all his works. Interestingly, Iannucci is another subject where, over the years, I've done a comedy U-turn. There was a time when I didn't find him, or anything he was involved with remotely amusing. Whilst I still think his Friday Night Armistice is irredeemable shit, I've found some of his more recent efforts pretty good. Most notably, The Thick of It and its film spin-off In The Loop. Mind you, as I've mentioned before, it did take me quite a while to warm to The Thick of It, which seems to be the case with much new-fangled TV comedy - it took me a long time to get into the Mighty Boosh (another of SOTCAA's pet hates), for instance, and it was series four (or maybe five, I'm not sure) before I understood Peep Show. The same thing goes for comedians - I used to think David Baddiel a complete knob, but in recent years have come to like him, for example.

Whilst I've learned to love (or at least tolerate) some comedy series and comedians, others I used to like have fallen from grace. Now, whilst many of these are things I laughed at when I was eight years old - On The Buses, Ken Dodd and his Diddy Men or Are You Being Served? - others are of more recent vintage: for some reason I now find Sean Lock extremely irritating and it is getting to the stage where I'd cross the street to avoid Have I Got News For You. So clearly,it isn't simply a case of developing a more 'sophisticated' taste in humour as I row older. Indeed, I recently saw a 1972 vintage episode of Doctor in Charge I hadn't seen since I was a child, and it still made me laugh. Perhaps by focusing on something or someone I feel I'm in imminent danger of disliking, we might gain some insight into what the underlying cause of these apparent shifts in comedic taste. Charlie Brooker, the writer and broadcaster - for a long time I've enjoyed his acerbic columns and his take on TV in programmes like Screen Wipe. But just lately, I've begun to find him less amusing, and slightly irritating. In large part, I'm sure, this is due to his recent relative over-exposure on TV - he seems to be bloody everywhere (actually, it's only Channel Four and BBC4, but that's more than enough). But more than that, I find that the discovery of who some of his other fans are that is putting me off of Brooker. Basically, he's been drawing praise from the kind of pseudo-intellectual middle-class media-wannabe knob heads who lurk in various political and tech blogs and forums, that I detest. I find the idea that I might have anything with these dicks highly distressing. If that's his fan base, I want no part of it. Unfair? Perhaps, but it is often the way that we often end up disowning something or someone we 'discovered' when they were just a 'cult', the moment they seem to be becoming 'mainstream'. So, sadly, maybe I'm just as shallow as all those other tossers out there who like to feel special and clever because they are part of some privileged 'underground movement'! How disappointing!

Lily Allen's Guide to Swearing

In the first of an occasional series diminutive pop singer and saucy minx Lily Allen joins us as our new swearing expert. Lily is widely acknowledged as one of Britain's sweariest performers and is renowned for highly inventive use of expletives (particularly where the press are involved). Indeed, Britain's top swearmeister, Damien Ffook, whose world famous 'School for Swearing' was attended by a young Miss Allen, considers her one of his star students. "I'm very proud of Lily, she took to swearing like a duck to water - nowadays she could easily put many dockers to shame."

For her part, Lily has welcomed the chance to help guide Britain's youth in the arcane art of swearing. "It's really important that young people learn how to eff and blind properly," she told us. "Bad swearing technique can really hold people back, especially in the media, where effective swearing is considered essential."

For her inaugural swear, Lily demonstrates the effectiveness of both making an everyday word offensive - 'fucktastic' - through the simple expedient of simply replacing one syllable with a common swear word, and randomly combining expletives to form an offensive-sounding, yet ultimately meaningless, new phrase: 'shit wank'. The brilliance of this latter term is the way in which it draws its offensive power from combining two bodily functions in such a way as to conjure up truly foul visions in the mind of anyone hearing it.

Look out for further swearing guidance from Lily in the near future, (if she doesn't sue me, beat me up or, worse, send her dad round to beat me up).

Only Once a Year...

I've just endured a highly traumatic weekend, besieged in my own home by barbarians. Actually, it wasn't as exciting as that description makes it sound. Perhaps I should explain; I have the misfortune to live just across the road from a town-centre park. Now, it isn't the park itself which is the problem - it's actually quite a nice park, surprisingly large and well kept. Its main downside is that, despite its proximity to the local police station, it seems to be the favoured locale for local muggers. But crime, in the conventional sense, isn't the problem here. No, the park also gets used for all manner of events, from funfairs and circuses to hot air balloon festivals. Most of these cause me no problems. However, just recently they've been using it to stage an annual 'music' festival. Before you get the wrong idea, we're not talking Glastonbury or T in the Park here. No. Definitely not. This is essentially an ego-stroking session for local 'bands' whose usual venue is some pub, where they ruin people's evenings out. Granted, there are usually a few has-been bands who were once famous for two minutes in 1983 on the bill as well, but by and large, it's mainly a platform for local shite.

I don't have a problem with these shite bands playing their shite music to their moronic fans. What I do have a problem with is the fact that it is played so fucking loud that my windows literally shake and I can't hear myself think in my own home. If it was just during the day, it wouldn't be so bad. But on Saturday it went on until past 11 o'clock at night. Luckily, my next door neighbours had, for the second year running, been driven out of their house by the intolerable racket, so I was able to turn the volume of my TV up to max in a bid to drown out the noise from the park. To no avail, as it turned out, I could still hear the shit. Indeed, all I could hear all day was the steady thump of the bass line, with someone shouting over the top. Nothing melodic or anything which could be called a tune. Now, whenever I've had the temerity to voice any kind of complaint about this, I've inevitably been met with the response 'don't be a kill-joy, it's only once a year, mate'. Fine, so if I was to break into the house of any of the idiots championing this event every 12 July, say, brutalise and bum-rape them, that would be OK because it was 'only once a year', would it? Because, trust me, those of us who have had to endure this torture for three years running feel just as violated!

That's the funny thing about this whole issue, though,the way in which this event is always portrayed by the local press and council as an unqualified success which the whole town enjoyed. Any dissenters to this version of events are dismissed as a minority of out-of-touch kill-joys. In fact, it is damn near impossible to get any kind of criticism of this event published in the local press. Clearly, the promoters have the local paper and councillors in their pocket. A fact underlined by the fact that at least one local pub lost its live music licence after a single complaint about noise levels which were far lower than those I had to endure this weekend. However, I don't think that I am being unreasonable in thinking that I should have a choice as to whether or not I have to listen to somebody else's idea of music. I also know that I'm not the only one who feels this way. The fact is that the park is a completely inappropriate venue for this event - the houses closest to it are occupied by OAPs - yet we local residents have never been consulted over its use for this purpose. I'm not saying they shouldn't hold such an event in the town, just that it should be in a more appropriate venue - a field outside of town, like most music festivals, perhaps? Anyway, now I've got all that off my chest, normal service will be resumed tomorrow!

"We Won't Bury Him Without His Brain!"

Micheal Jackson really is the gift that keeps on giving, isn't he? Even after his death he has continued to amuse us with bizarre headlines and strange behaviour. Take that 'memorial service' for him - what the fuck was that all about? Is it just me, or is it just little bit weird to have a gold-plated coffin as guest of honour at a concert? To be quite honest, I was expecting that, at any minute, the lid would fly open and Wacko Jacko would leap out in full 'Thriller' mode. It's the sort of publicity stunt I wouldn't put past the bastard. The whole thing was so over blow that I was slightly disappointed that it didn't culminate in the coffin being interred in a pyramid, accompanied by various artifacts Jacko might need in the afterlife: a gold plated Cadillac, stuffed chimp, face mask or child pornography, perhaps? Maybe his High Priests could have ceremonially sacrificed several children and interred their bodies with the King of Pop, to act as slaves in the hereafter - it's what he would have wanted.

Best of all in all posthumous Jacko bullshit are the latest revelations that 'They Saved Jacko's Brain'. Now, we all know that all this stuff about removing it for tests is utter bollocks. Like you, I've seen enough B-movies to know that, even as we speak, some cackling crazy scientist is keeping said brain alive in a glass tank full of bubbling nutrients, whilst planning to transplant it - with the aid of his hunchbacked assistant - into a new body. Trust me, in few months time, a new singing sensation will be unveiled to the press, and when the curtain rises, we'll be treated to the sight of some stitched-together hulk, or even a chimp, which, just as everyone is getting ready to jeer and ridicule it, bursts into song in Jacko's voice, and starts to moonwalk. Mind you, it could all be even more sinister. Jacko could have staged his own death in order to have his brain transplanted into a new body, so as to start a new life. Maybe he's going to have it put into the body of a nine-year old child, so that he can get close to his victims, unsuspected...

Jacko's Last Judgement

Yes folks, I finally remembered that I had a Stripgenerator account and came up with another of my crappy comic strips. I know, I know, but I was too lazy to actually write anything tonight, (and yes, I know Jacko didn't actually die at Neverland, but it looks better than 'At a rented Bel Air mansion').

The Naked Vatican

Concerns over the mental state of 82 year old Pope Benedict XVI were again raised when, in an apparent state of confusion, he publicly greeted US President Barack Obama and his family stark naked, save for his mitre and crook. President Obama, assuming this was normal Papal protocol, began to take his own clothes off until stopped by the First Lady. Vatican officials rushed to the Pope and tried to cover his nakedness with a tapestry hastily pulled from the wall. However, the Pope angrily beat them off with his crook, reportedly cursing at them in German. He was eventually restrained by six members of the Swiss Guard and dragged off to his private quarters. Mrs Obama later remarked that His Holiness’ crook was remarkably long and stiff for a man of his age. Officials moved quickly to try and blame the incident on medication the Pope was taking for a cold, although a later statement claimed that the Pontiff was actually celebrating the red letter day of St Onan of Chichi, Patron Saint of Naturists.

Only twenty four hours earlier, the Pope had been involved in another embarrassing incident - worshippers in St Peter’s Square, awaiting his regular Sunday address, were amazed to see the Pope stroll out onto his balcony, unzip his flies, and urinate over the balustrade. He then zipped up his flies and broke wind loudly, before strolling back inside, apparently oblivious to the stunned crowd below. Some eyewitnesses to the two events have claimed that the Pope appeared to be circumcised - a fact vehemently denied by the Vatican. Nevertheless, leading theological scholar Tommy Dodd believes that the Pope might have been secretly circumcised as part of his moves toward Catholic-Jewish reconciliation. Alternatively, Dodd believes, he could be a secret Rabbi. "It's not unusual for priests of other faiths to dress up in Catholic vestments," he reveals. "They're just so much more colourful and extravagant than those worn by just about any other faith. It's a form of ecclesiastical transvestism." For its part, the Vatican has dismissed fears that the pressures of the Papacy are becoming too much for the elderly Pontiff, resulting in his increasingly bizarre behaviour and pronouncements. "Look, these are all minor incidents," declared a spokesman. "It's not as if he's done anything really dangerous or controversial. Like invading Poland."

Have You Ever Been Shagged by a Celebrity?

That’s the question we here at Sleaze Diary want answered - have you been shagged by a celebrity? We’ve all seen those dubious kiss and tell stories in the tabloids, but can you really believe them? After all, these so called ordinary punters spilling the beans have been handsomely remunerated for their stories. So, just to ensure that any stories we print here at Sleaze Diary are authentic, we’re offering no cash whatsoever for any stories submitted in connection with this competition. There will, however, be a fabulous (non-monetary) prize awarded for the best! Whilst I cannot claim to have been shagged by a celebrity (to the best of my knowledge), I did once know someone who was shagged by someone else who was famous for five minutes. When I was a student one of the girls in my history tutorial group spent the night with Andrew Ridgeley (the one out of Wham! who didn’t give Ronaldo a rub down in his local public toilets). She sold the story to a newspaper for a few quid (a handy supplement to her student grant - those were the days when we actually had grants, not loans).

However, we don’t want to hear about any shabby liaisons with has-been micro-celebs. Oh no. We want the full details of your sordid assignations with real, major league, household name celebrities. We want to know if you’ve ever been in the passionate embrace of Brad Pitt or Sandra Bullock. Maybe you’ve spent the night polishing Captain Picard’s dome in a plush hotel room or taken it up the council gritter from Michael Barrymore in some seedy backstreet public toilet in Lambeth. Has George Clooney ever propositioned you in the men’s toilets at Waterloo station? Has Harvey Keitel ever offered to show you the head on his handy shandy and then invited you back to his place for an S&M session? Have you been chained to Sharon Stone’s radiator whilst she whipped your naked bottom with a cat o’nine tails? Maybe you’ve yodelled in Britney Spears’ canyon or yaffled the yoghurt cannon of top gay icon Leonardo Di Caprio. What about group sex? Have you ever had a gang bang with the Backstreet Boys? Perhaps you’ve been rogered by all four Baldwin brothers in alphabetical order (Alec, Daniel, Stephen and William). Why stop at the human celebrities? Ever had a tryst with Lassie? How about that grizzly from “Gentle Ben”? Champion the Wonder Horse - just what made him so wonderful?

So, if you’ve had any of those experiences, or anything similar - we want to know. However, be warned, fantasies are not acceptable - we want some kind of proof that it actually happened. Maybe you took photos or video taped it all (purely for blackmail purposes of course). Maybe you kept a memento (Christine Aguilera’s knickers or a cast of James Garner’s penis, perhaps). We want to see them! The best celebrity shag stories received will probably not be published here (for fear of libel action), but will receive an e-mail of one of our fine collection of monkey pictures - it doesn’t get any better than that!

The Glastonbury Experience

You've probably noticed that so far this year I haven't moaned about the Glastonbury Festival. There are several reasons for this: firstly, the BBC didn't run those bloody patronising adverts implying that everyone who lives outside of the M25 is a yokel; secondly, I didn't have the horrible experience of seeing (and hearing) my trumpet-playing twat of a neighbour in the audience during the TV coverage; thirdly, I decided that this year I'd get into the spirit of it all and try and enjoy the 'Glastonbury Experience'. Obviously, I wasn't actually going to attend Glastonbury in person - I don't like tents, I don't like drunken hippies of their faces on coke and I didn't have a ticket. Instead, I decided to recreate the whole thing in my living room.

This was actually easier that you might think. I just stuck a bucket of shit in the corner of the room, lit up a barbecue in front of the TV and didn't wash for three days. Combined with crapping out of the window (the bucket was full), this provided me with all the authentic smells and inconvenience of the actual festival, as I settled down to watch the BBC's extensive coverage. Thus, I was able to watch the ever-lovely Lily Allen threatening to fall out of her outfit, the ever-weird Lady Gaga shooting flames from her breasts amongst other highlights, without having to leave the relative comfort of my armchair. OK, it took four days to get the stench out of the house and the environmental health people are threatening to prosecute me over that pile of shit outside my living room window, but overall, I feel it was a big success. So much so that I'm going to do it again next year - but better! Maybe I'll replace the living room carpet with thick mud...