Richard The Turd.

Let's not beat around the hairy, female gonad blanket. Richard and Judy have GOT to go to Grantham! Well, if I am to be kind, DICK (if ever an abbreviation was appropriate!) has got to go. Judy can stay with us - any woman who whops out her massive baps (note: escape clause to exclude LaToya Jackson) at a glitzy awards ceremony is all right in my book.
Why has it taken me so long to get round to this televisual detritus? Well, I switched on the Devil's Lantern this evening and caught just 4.2 picoseconds of Dick before I managed to snatch up the remote and change to something more educational - like The Shopping Channel!
Anyway, spleen vent opened finally, here goes.
Let's just leave aside for the moment the daytime shows Dick and Jude have been/still are responsible for and the content of them. I know. That's a bit like saying let's forget for a moment about what Dr Mengele did to children but I can only roar at one subject at a time.
Richard Madeley is an ARSEHOLE of almost indescribable proportions!! A mate of mine went to journalism college with him and said he was a good chap. Well, Dick has passed a lot of shit under the bridge since then! Let's face it, Judy was a Granada TV presenter and minor celeb in the North West when her ageing hormones got the better of her and she hooked up with the plastic looks and plastic personality which are Madeley. Talk about coat tails! HE, subsequently, becomes "a celeb" and now his smarm and sickening sickliness seem to ooze out of every pore of the TV.
Madeley makes Blair look like a bloke who means what he says and actually cares. He has taken insincerity to Everest-style heights. I just get the urge to punch the screen the moment his perma-oranged fizzog and new hair-by-nonce-of-Oxford-Street bouffant appear on the tube. Aaarggh!!!!
To hear this wanker talk you would think he curses the day he wasn't given ovaries, allowed to suffer the agonies of periods or entitled to scream "Men! They're all the same!" I'm sure there isn't a woman alive who any longer believes his fake "modern man" (God, I hate that fucking phrase) empathies with the opposite sex.
This self-obsessed, arrogant, puerile and plastic "man", and I use the last word loosely, is just 168 lbs of oil, liquefied caster sugar, McFlurries and diarrhoea-like bullshit contained in a personal-trainer-tightened gelatinous bag!!!!
He has done for MANkind what Big Daddy did for hang-gliding - I fucking hate him!!
I have to say his wife seems a pretty decent cove and is by the far the most talented of the two, if, whatever it is the pair of them do, requires any skill. I have great sympathy for her, being married to that wanker.
No! Hi, ho, hi, ho, it's off to fucking Grantham you go, you twat!!!

Reef Encounter.

Oh dear! There's unrest at Pither Towers. Some-one's not a happy bunny - well, not a happy lobster to be accurate.
Reg, my pet lobster, has got a major league cob on which has prompted some sort of bizarre protest and I think I know the root of the problem.
Regular readers will remember that some weeks ago Reg got himself in a spot of bother after falling in love with the thermometer in his tank!

He took to dragging the object of his lust into his cave of a night until, on one fateful occasion, he hauled his bit of stuff behind him into his home but got it stuck in the entrance and so became entombed! I had to smash my way in to free him and decided there and then to take the thermometer out of the tank.

Well, that has gone down about as well as Aled Jones on an oilrig. Reg obviously sees himself as Trevor Howard to his thermometer's Celia Johnson and feels the agonies of doomed loved as depicted in the "terribly, terribly, terribly" British film classic Brief Encounter. It has to be said, however, that he is not handling it quite as well as Trev.
Our Reg has started a sulk which would put a toddler to shame and is brooding underneath a rock, glaring menacingly out at anyone and everyone. Worse than that, evidently when no-one is looking, he sneaks out to work on what I can only assume is a tunnel, a la The Great Escape. Sadly, he hasn't the wit to stroll calmy round the tank after his digging and whistle casually as he drops the resultant rubble out of his eight tiny, toughened trouser legs so as to avoid alerting the suspicions of any sub-aqua German guards on duty (I think I might just be losing it!!). No, quite the contrary. He has, in fact, built up a mountain of excavated crushed coral next to his hole and it is the obviousness of the mound which makes me think this is meant to be a highly visible protest staged for my benefit. He hasn't yet fashioned any placards but I'm sure he is constantly muttering to himself "Lay off lobster love", "Give my piece a chance", "Sing if you're glad to be cray-fish" and other such demo slogans.
Resolving this dispute is going to prove tricky, however. You see, I slung the thermometer because it had basically been shagged and pincered to death. I am going to have to buy a new one but will Reg spot the deception? How picky a suitor is he?
Speaking personally as I head for the divorce courts, I have to admit that I wouldn't be entirely against the idea of being provided with a young, fit, brand new lover. Then again, I have, as yet, never fallen in love with a thermometer.
Decisions, decisions. Whatever solution I come up with I think the heartache of losing a lover should be something only experienced in Grantham.

(EIDTOR'S NOTE: The protest continued - to see how, see The Hill.)

Caring Conservatism - And Funny Seriousness.

Perceptive readers may have gathered that Thatcher and Grantham together make up an underlying theme of this blog. Those gifted with acute powers of perception may just have worked out that there is another theme - "the world has gone mad!"
On that latter theme, I have to report that I today had a Tory newsletter shoved through my letterbox. Yes, I know. The Pither security system failed! I was out at the time and so could not personally garrot the placenta which had dared to venture up to my front door (can you garrot a placenta?). The "blue rinse" sensor had obviously failed, as had the "horse-faced-git" detector, and the batteries were obviously spent on the "mummy says poor people are horrid"-activated closed-circuit-televison-and-death-laser system. All I can do is apologise. Suffice to say, I shall be having a word with the manager of Zap-a-Nazi who installed my anti-Conservative security.
Anyway, thinking the flyer through the door was YET ANOTHER FUCKING MENU FROM A FUCKING PIZZA PARLOUR, I decided to have a glance at it. I soon realised what it was and the chuckles began. The name of the publication was "In Touch". In touch!!! This, from the fucking Tory Party!!!!
It got better. The lead story was about the National Health Service and was headlined "Campaign Against NHS Cuts". Yes, you read it right! The Tories are allegedly campaigning against NHS cuts!!!! I thought, at first, that it must have been a misprint and should have read "Campaign Against NHS Sluts/Muts/Butts"!! No, it was correct. Things have got to the stage in this whacko country where the sons and daughters of the Bitch Thatcher are trying to oppose cuts to our beloved National Health Service which are being proposed/imposed by our, laughingly entitled, Labour government!!! Never forget, despite her screeched lie that "the National Health Service is safe in our hands", she wanted to fuck it off and only let the rich survive. Now, these wankers are fighting the obscene annihilation of the NHS being ushered in through the back door by a supposed Labour government!!!! Aaaaaarrrrggghhhhhh!!!!
This snippet dropped through the door on a day when it was trumpeted on the news that Blair and his wank-shit-bollock-twats were proposing to charge for some NHS operations! There is only ONE operation I think the people in this country should be compelled to pay for - that is a full-frontal labotomy and the castration of Tory Tone!!!
I have said it before but I will say it again - what the fuck is going on?
What next? Cancer for life? Thrush against yoghurt? Hitler against being naughty?
As Rooster Cogburn so succinctly put it, "I can'st take no more!" The Tories are going to Hell so they can't go to Grantham - but New Fucking Bloody Labour can!!!

The Rat!

Ripper, Billy, Clint, Farmer, Brighton Dave, Johnny, Jo, Jane, Andy, Stenty, Branty, Russ and Chrissy.

This has nothing whatever to do with Grantham. It is unadulterated self indulgence but I think it is worthy of record.
It was the annual "Rat" today - the once-yearly pub crawl to celebrate a couple of our friends' birthdays, along with the fact that we have all made it into another year. The Rat is quite ironic in that it normally signals the end of life for one or more of the participants, at a time when we are celebrating life!
Anyway, it is hard to type when you have the brain capacity of a mollusc so, having just returned from the thrash, I will let the pictures tell the story:











H A P P Y


B I R T H D A Y?

So, it's happy birthday to Ripper and Brighton Dave. We must do it again sometime - like in 365 days' time.

The Strain of Being a Gorilla.

I am on a health kick. It's taken 46 years but I've decided to eat sensibly at last.
The focus of this lame attempt to live longer is to eat more fruit and fibre. Well, to be honest, to START eating fruit and fibre.
The mantra has it that you are supposed to eat five portions of fruit-a-day and as much bran as you can - so that is what I am doing. Bananas, apples, tangerines, grapes, plums, pears and, of course, the dreaded All Bran.
Fruit, I have to admit, is very pleasant. All Bran, however, is akin to rat droppings exuded through a mincer. Despite that I am persisting, although I have to admit there are two definite downsides.

The first is a somewhat delicate matter. How can I put it? Let's just say that I have become a stranger to the toilet and I have an overriding fear that when I finally do "evacuate" I am going to die an agonising, horrible death as I give birth to a faecal breeze block!
"Gorilla syndrome" is the second problem. Did you know that, while not being hunted, gorillas spend their time doing just four things? They occasionally sleep and they occasionally make little gorillas. I would then estimate that 25 per cent of the remaining time is spent eating fruit and fibre in the form of any vegetation they can get their mits on. The outstanding 75 per cent of a gorilla's leisure time is spent on a hobby which arises directly out of their diet - they fart!
Should some boffin ever manage to connect a gorilla's bottom to an outlet pipe and then hook it up to a methane-fired generator, it could light and heat a small town. That is why gorillas have such huge, distended stomachs - well, that and the All Bran effect!
I am no doubt healthier these days but I risk an appalling death and I have become a social pariah, although a partial answer to the energy crisis in Small Town!
Hey ho! No, fitness-induced flatulence can be the preserve of the people of Grantham from now on. I must sign off now - I've got to go and open a window.

Of Prats and Rats.

A problem shared is a problem halved, so they say. Well, I'm not certain about the maths but I do agree with the principle involved. However, the stress and anger generated by a problem is shit someone else who's already got enough to worry about could do without!
Sounds a bit Thatcherite, I know, and I don't mean it as selfishly as it sounds. I am the first to listen when friends want to unburden themselves of problems and will do what I can to help, both with soothing words and in a practical way. That is what being a friend is all about, as far as I am concerned. What I can't understand is why I can still manage to keep a smile on my face in company when the underpants of misery are creeping up the bottom cheeks of my life and yet many others with the same crease-invasion problems feel the need to seek comfort by taking out their angst on me!
You know how it works. Bubbly intros like: "Hi, fancy a beer?" prompt responses like: "For God's sake, give me a break Don't pressure me, Reg. I'm having a Hell of a time! Are you implying I'm a dipsomaniac? I mean, I've had just about enough. While we're at it, what EXACTLY do you mean by 'fancy'? That's great! So I'm a sex pervert now, am I? You are a really inconsiderate, appalling excuse for a human being, you know that, don't you?"
People who behave like this are the sort of individuals who, when you meet them in the street and ask how they are, ACTUALLY FUCKING TELL YOU AND TAKE FOUR HOURS TO DO SO!!!!! They are the sort of people you meet on holiday and you say to at the airport (when you hope to be rid of them at last): "Oh you simply must come and visit us some time" and THEY FUCKING TURN UP ON YOUR BASTARD DOORSTEP TWO DAYS LATER!!!! These are people who find wars and death unimportant but race home to watch Big Brother.
They ended up as "friends", or more accurately "acquaintances", for some reason you have long since forgotten but there are times when you just want to put your foot down with a firm hand and say: "GET A FUCKING GRIP! IF YOU WANT TO BEAT SOMEONE UP ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS THEN HAVE CHILDREN!! IT FUCKING WORKS FOR LOTS OF FAMILIES IN THE NORTH EAST!"

Anyway, bollocks to them all. Tomorrow is THE annual pub crawl involving all my mutant pals. The crawl - dubbed The Rat (work it out) - takes in about 12 pubs and ends in a monster mixed grill at a secret location. Hurrah! No blog tomorrow, I fear.
In the meantime, people who live out their anger vicariously through their friends can go to Grantham - no, more accurately, they can fuck off to Grantham!

Calculating Pie.

I have a choice tonight. Play Russian Roulette or go hungry. The choice, on the face of it, may seem simple but I am in a quandry because my stomach is in a knot and I could eat a scabby horse. What to do?
My dilemma was seeded more than a fortnight ago when the freezer packed in because it was crammed to the gunnels with foody-type things. Turns out, the freezer only works when there is a bit of air in there to circulate and keep everything frozen. Mine was so jammed-full it was a virtual vacuum and so "stuff" was starting to thaw.
I decided then to suspend my wanton ways, stop building food mountains and start working my way through the comestibles I had stockpiled, a meal at a time.
I managed to chomp my way through frozen pizzas, vegetables, quiches, fishermen's platters, prawns, fish, stewing steak, chops, Saddo Vesta Chow Meins-for-One, the remains of my soon-to-be ex-wife (joke!) and the like and was rather proud of coming up with a different, passable dinner every evening. Sadly, the game is now over. I looked in tonight to discover that the ONLY item left in the freezer drawers was a bag, simply labelled "pie".
I didn't put it there. It's not one of my stupid purchases. It was definitely sneaked in there by STB EW. Who else would label something which was so evidently a "pie" as "pie" - without expanding on it?
The contents of the bag are, indeed, pie-shaped. It has a pastry lid. It is the depth of a pie and it is round like the best pies. The only problem is - what the fuck is in it?!?
Preparing and cooking potatoes, carrots, peas and the like to go with it, together with a nice, oniony gravy, is going to be a bit of a waste of time if it turns out to be an apple pie. Conversely, ice cream or double cream and fruit is going to look a bit silly, not to mention undigestible, with a steak and kidney pie.
The third option is that it is a pie of who-cares-what type which, despite being frozen, was fashioned by Egyptian slaves who intended to eat it after working on the pyramids but they then died of exhaustion before being able to hit Gas Mark 4. It could contain lots of little nasty things which will turn my insides to liquid if I eat it and then put me in a body bag afterwards.
Decisions, decisions. Now I think about it, I bought the dogs a fresh sack of complete food today and so, with a bit of instant Bisto, I could have a safer option.
No, I have decided, dog food for Pither, playing Russian Roulette with anonymous pies to Grantham.

Look At It This Way..............

Rog and Jen relax at home - and enjoy an interesting sex life!

Thank God! No, let's be honest, thank Rog. I now know where I have been going wrong all these years, why the last 46 of them have seemed almost intolerable, why every waking second has been a nightmare, why I often feel like ending it all but just cannot afford the gas.......................I haven't been hanging upside down enough!
It's so obvious, now I think about it. Inversion is the way forward, if that doesn't involve too much contortion, and the person I have to thank for this "road to Damascus" enlightenment is none other than the superbly named Rog Teeter (on the edge of sanity?).
Not heard of him? You will do, soon. He is currently plugging the answer to all our ills on the telly. He has come up with a range of devices called "Teeter Hang-Ups" which are basically tables to which you strap yourself, tilt somehow and then.......hang upside down.
For the bat-shy there is the F5000 model but if you really want to sample life in the loony lane there is the super-deluxe F9000 - I assume it lets you revert to an upright position eventually and so rejoin the human race.
Our Rog, according to his website, discovered the benefits of hanging upside down when he and wife Jen were at a water skiing tournament in 1980. He doesn't exactly explain how he discovered this whacko wheeze but I would have thought all the other people at the tournament were not overly keen on hanging upside down and slamming into a wall of water at 70 mph. Anyway, Rog-baby claimed to have been suffering from back problems but these were cured when he went bat. He goes on to say, marvellously, that he "has been inverting ever since". When he calls at hotels and motels and asks to be put up for the night I assume he is just show to the wardrobe rail and handed a hook.
No doubt Rog's bank manager said he must have been having a rush of blood to the head when he asked for moolah to invest in inversion but that is just what he has done.
I always knew the Americans believed they could sell anything to anyone but I didn't actually believe they were attempting it! My mind would boggle if it had any boggle capacity left in it. Perhaps a bit of inversion would make space?
Anyway, Rog is a fine man - a complete loony, but a fine man - and he shall be spared exile to Grantham. Hanging upside down all day shall, however, be the preserve of the townsfolk. How easy is it for me to send that to Grantham? I can do it standing on my head.

The Many Faces of Plumbing.

I have heating again - hurrah! I have hot water again - double hurrah! That should be enough to delight me, what with the visible return of my genitals and the disappearance of the flies which have been following me since the boiler packed in, but there is always a downside.
The manner of my reconnection to the civilised world has left me both embarrassed and feeling like Jade Goody's thicker brother.
Boiler Man was supposed to have called round last night but he obviously got tangled up in his slippers and thought better of it, finally agreeing to call between 10am and 1pm today. Anyway, at 2.30pm, as ice was beginning to form on the ice on the inside of my windows, I rang to find out what the Hell was happening, which prompted the bringer of heat to show up 15 minutes later.
He took one look at my ageing boiler (no, not her!) and then, being obviously an observant sort, clocked that I was "a bloke" and so felt compelled to launch into "technospeak". "Well, I mean, it's more than likely your flange grommet, or probably the interconnecting crosshead bilge nodule," he told me authoratitively (well, that's what it sounded like!!). "Yeah, the nodule on the Chill Destroyer 9000 was pre-1980 and so the crosshead vent is just 4 mill out on the throughput. Have you got a Dynogrip 640 installation socket, OBVIOUSLY with a 16.4 amp thrunge diode? I mean, that will OBVIOUSLY trip it but if you haven't we're looking at re-routing the manual, setting up a by-pass on the trundle sprocket and then wiring it in with a Supaseal 560 blimph."
I am a dumbass when it comes to anything even approaching fixing, making or assembling things (see previous post on DIY) but I would challenge anybody to understand what the fuck this alien was on about. Instead of answering him I just adopted a very imbecillic-looking, blank face, lolled my tongue out of the corner of my mouth and began dribbling (the nearest I can find to it is the photo above). Boiler Man instantly realised that I was not a REAL MAN and so did not understand him. As a result, he went into the ptich I assume he thought should be used when talking to women. "It's probably a problem with the water circulation," he said, very slowly and patronisingly. "The water is heated by the boiler and circulates round the radiators, you see, so the circulation has got to be ok." His change of approach once again went over my head and more inane faces, tongue-lolling and dribbling followed, but this time my eyes opened wide and stared maniacally at him. I think this genuinely shocked him and he was probably wondering how I managed to walk and chew at the same time when he opted for his final tactic - the "imagine-you're-talking-to-a-brain-damaged-chimp" approach. "See this little red button?" he shouted, in staccato fashion. "Hmm, do you see it? Yes? You do? Are you sure? Well, it's called the re-set button. Yes, it IS a big word. Well, if we press Mr Re-set then Mr and Mrs Hot Water and all their lovely, snuggly radiators will come back from their holidays."
He promptly pressed "Mr Re-set" and the sodding boiler fired up instantly! Boilerman then quickly closed his case of tools and backed out towards the front door before turning quickly on his heel and jogging to his van.
I had obviously exhausted his repertoire and he is no doubt now in therapy. I, on the other hand, feel dumb and humiliated but there is a bright side - I have the marvellous image still in my mind of Boiler Man's gradually changing face, tone and talk as he realised he had to keep sliding down and down the ladder of evolution if he was to make himself understood.
Technospeak shall, henceforth, be the language of Grantham but they will never have IQ-adaptable plumbers.

The Blue Flame.

Some Cardiff University psychologist, obviously tired of sitting around all day on his spotty behind, winking at sheep and picking his nose, has announced that today is officially Blue Day - the most depressing day of the year.
This boffin, no doubt in a desperate attempt to justify a fat Euro grant which the rest of the time keeps him in ovine lovers and beer, carried out research which led him to conclude that the last week in January, and most notably the Monday of that week, marked the height of post-Christmas gloom. It coincided, he reasoned, with the arrival of credit card bills run up over the festive period, freezing temperatures, rainy skies, empty wallets and a general air of despondency.


A rainy, freezing, Monday morning, rush-hour crawl to work - blue? Not me.


News of this buffoon's claim was broken on the wireless early this morning, just as I was about to drive to Big Town (adjusts gaiters, doffs cap, shifts straw in mouth) for an office-bound day. Big Town is only 16 miles away but the route was as packed as the car lot outside Halewood and so the journey took me one and a half nerve-shredding hours! That works out at an average speed of about 10mph!! I had almost forgotten how ridiculous the rush-hour traffic into Big Town is.
Once at the office I spent two hours trying to get a new e-mail account configured, an hour trying to hook up to the business network, two hours trying to get a printer to work and the rest of the time trying to contact people who had all, apparently, turned into anti-matter.
When I finally called time on my efforts, the same rush-hour mayhem and the same one-and-a-half-hour crawl faced me on the way back to Pither Towers.
I then walked in to find that the boiler had packed in and the place was as cold as the proverbial witch's bosom. No hot water either so a soak in the bath was out of the question. I entertained myself briefly, watching my extremities turn blue, but then hit on the idea of turning a negative into a positive. There may be no central heating but I do have a real fire in the lounge and the moment I lit it all the cares of the day just seemed to vanish up the chimney with the flickering flames, the rising smoke and the dancing sparks.

After marking Blue Day in true blue fashion, I have ended up in a cheery, cosy mood. This, I assume, is because I am either an idiot, I have failed to realise the cruddiness of everything which has happened to me today, I am dead or I am a latent arsonist.
Anyway, Grantham shall, from now on, have 365 Blue Days each year but the beauty of man's red fire shall stay with the rest of us.

Get A Man In?

Gratuitous, I know, but it seems appropriate.

From now on I want everyone to call me Regina. It's not a change I envisaged having to make but I fear it has been forced on me. You see, I am having grave doubts about my gender and believe I may well actually be a woman - well, more specifically, a lesbian - trapped in the body of a hideously disfigured, middle-aged man.
The classic stereotype would have us believe that women tend to enjoy and be pretty competent at cooking, go "awww, how cute" every time they see a furry animal, find endless talk about football boring and constantly clean things around the house. They are supposed to blub at sad films, know absolutely nothing about cars, find talk of them even more boring than football and be useless at heavy duty DIY.
The male stereotype, on the other hand, is someone who does no cooking (unless it is their job) or is hopeless at it, feels the need to reach for an air rifle when he sees a fluffy bunny, adores nothing more than pouring over football facts and figures and finds the concept of cleaning the house an anathema. He only blubs at films where a woman is about to take her clothes off when the director chooses to cut to another scene, loves and talks endlessly about cars and is a practically-minded expert at DIY.
The artist formerly known as Reg fits very much the female model (apart from my finding the cutting of gratuitious sex scenes deeply upsetting) and it is my aptitude for the last distinguishing feature, DIY, which has finally convinced me that God has been unkind to me in the gender department.
I am absolutely fucking shite at DIY! It was something I tried to put to the back of my mind but a discovery yesterday made me squeeze out of the Ikea self-assembly closet, admission-to-ability-wise, and face up to the fact.
Some time ago I fitted some shelves in the lounge and was quite proud of my handiwork. They have no visible brackets and are kept up by metal poles drilled through the middle of them and through the wall (Lack shelves from Ikea, for those even vaguely interested). There was only one hiccup during their installation - my nextdoor neighbour came round to helpfully inform me: "You do realise your drill has come through my fucking dining room wall, you pillock?" I managed to pacify him and was left to admire my efforts. I could feel testosterone surging through my veins. I was A MAN! I felt like making a fire in the garden by rubbing sticks together and then dragging my soon-to-be ex-wife and a side of venison into a cave to celebrate my masculinity.
All was fine until yesterday when I did a major Spring clean around the house (see feminine traits above) and decided to rearrange things in the lounge slightly (life on the edge, you see. No net! I tweak the nipples of fear and slap the testicles of retribution!) The bottom of the three shelves I had put up, until then, carried a handful of DVDs and nothing else. I decided to put a selection of magazines alongside them - mistake! As I did so there was an ominous "creak" and I turned to see the shelf bend down by about 30 degrees and shed DVDs and magazines down the back of the telly! Oh bollocks! (I'm not sure if the photograph illustrates the extent of the sag but, believe me, it is there.)

That shelf will now only carry about four items, each of which has to have a coefficient of friction slightly higher than rubber-coated granite if it is to stay in place.
This disaster is typical of my ventures into the world of do-it-yourself. I once decided, when I had a Mini, to bleed the brakes myself. I went into town to buy a manual (about £20, which was very expensive at the time) and a brake-bleeding kit from Halfords. Back home I read the manual, a paragraph-at-a-time, to discover that I needed a special spanner to loosen the top bleed nipple (juvenile giggle). Back into town to buy one then, back home, I discovered that I needed a different, miniature spanner to loosen the bottom nipple (still makes me snigger). Into town AGAIN and back home, then to work. After finishing I experienced the same rush of testosterone as outlined earlier. I got into the car, drove off down the road, approached the T-junction at the end and so applied the brakes - and promptly careered straight across into a lamppost! The bill for the spanners, brake-bleeding kit and repairs to the radiator, bumper, front grill and one headlight came to around £300. I could have got a garage to bleed the brakes for around £30. You would have thought I learned my lesson then!
There are scores of other examples of my DIY fuckwittedness but I think you get the picture.
Anyway, gender confusion and DIY shall, henceforth, be the sole preserve of Grantham.

Remind Me Again, Exactly Which of Your Groins Did You Injure?

Just a quick one before bedtime - non-football fans please excuse me but this just can't go unmentioned.
On Match of the Day tonight, Newcastle United manager Glenn Roeder was asked, after his teams's game against West Ham, about the seriousness of an injury to his goalkeeper, Shay Given. He informed the viewing public that Given had suffered a groin injury. He must, however, have left Toon fans and Mrs Given bemused by adding: "It's not the one he injured before." Fucking brilliant! Newcastle United have a goalkeeper with two dicks and four bollocks.
I know Premier League footballers in this country are paid obscene wages but surely Given could earn more in a circus!! I'm sorry, men with twice the allotted pant-filling-equipment just have to go to Grantham.

Always Remember - Tramp the Earth Down!

Sorry, but it's time to give the chuckle muscle a rest and talk of something which I feel very strongly about but in which I find no humour at all.
I have been deliberately avoiding writing about this but things have gone far too far. This issue, as much as any other, illustrates perfectly just how much this country has dripped, splatted and farted, diarrhoea-like, into a cesspool of ephemora, shallow thought, mindlessness and value-of-the-completely-unimportant since the Thatchbitch changed life here for good during the '80s.
Jade Goody, allegations of racism and Celebrity Big Brother. No, please don't surf off, this IS important. First of all, I have absolutely no interest WHATSOEVER in claims that an almost completely braindead, plastic-breasted, fat, Essex, chavette allegedly made racist comments to an Indian actress millions and millions of people have never heard of. Shit, just open your windows! Go for a walk! Drive into town! There are equally thick, mindless pieces of filth making racist comments every single fucking day in every single sort of fucking place. Some are pondlife chavs and chavettes, others call themselves "businessmen", some class themselves "professionals", others are in positions of power. This goes on every day. No, it is not right. Yes, they are appalling pieces of work but, and I am by nature a pessimist, these lower lifeforms WILL eventually die out, despite their spawn and the indoctrination they will give to them. When education eventually becomes a priority in this country, these morons will become as scarce as genuinely nice people in Liverpool. These people are, of course, ill-educated wankers and, apart from being confronted about their childish, pathetic views when they choose to air them in public, should not be given the time of day.
Now, THE ISSUE. We get 20 or so MPs signing a Commons motion objecting to this TV programme's output, it takes up a chunk of Question Time on the BBC on Thursday night and it has been wall-to-wall on the BBC and other channels since. All this does is publicise the fat tart and her views, the fuckwit, Nazi, money-at-all-costs producers of the show and it lets morons who watch it think they are contributing to some important, political debate by airing their views. Fuck off! The lot of you!
We have a war in Iraq which this country's leader was a prime mover in instigating and we have an on-going debacle in Afghanistan - thousands have already died in both these conflicts. There are millions dying of Aids-related diseases in Africa and thousands are starving to death in various parts of the continent. We have a pensions crisis in this country which is going to leave millions in poverty, despite them having paid into what they were led to believe was a state scheme which would look after them in their old age. We have a National Health Service, the product of a true and inspirational Labour Government, which is going bankrupt thanks to fuckwit management and bean-counting policies, despite millions and millions WE (not Blair, as he tells you) have poured in and under which you have more chance of catching a fatal disease IN hospital rather than out of one. The list is endless.
What happens in the face of this tide of shit facing us, then? MPs protest in the Commons about a couple of (admittedly nasty) comments made on a TV fucking programme. We have the Prime Minister speaking out on it, the Prime Minister-in-waiting commenting on it and violence in a country thousands of miles away as a result of it. What about the other crises we and the world face? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? This is OBSCENE!!!!!!
A BBC news chief was taken to task about this issue on the telly the other day and he was asked why so much time had been spent plugging a TV show - on a rival channel, no less!!! This twat - I think he was still battling puberty - said thousands of people had texted in about it. That argument goes back to my rant about celebrity and chat magazines where publishers claim there is a demand for them. Broadcasters, like politicians, are supposed to LEAD. Here's an idea. If the chavs, braindeads, fuckwits and people with too much time on their hands want to write in about something mindless then let them. The trick is not to act on it. Like bores in pubs, they will go away and find something else to do if you fucking IGNORE THEM.
God, this makes me so angry. Big Brother, Celebrity Big Brother, Jade Goodie and ALL the newspapers and broadcasters who seem to think they are important HAVE to go to Grantham.

Interesting Hobbies of the 21st Century.

I am sicker than I thought. I just hope Blair doesn't introduce random, home visits by state-appointed psychiatrists or I'm done for.
I discovered the above during a clearout of the garage - two bags, filled to bursting with corks. Yes, bloody corks!! I had forgotten they were there but I do remember deciding to start collecting them. I know, I know. The word which springs immediately to mind is "WHY?". I'm damned if I know, is the honest answer.
I have some vague recollection of wanting to make something for my pond in the garden, cork being of a floaty nature and all, but quite what escapes me. Then I looked at the wider picture. A middle-aged man whose hobby is collecting corks - Jesus, that won't look good on the committal form!
It is, of course, typical of me. I have to confess that I am somewhat "anal". The kaftan and scented candle brigade who are into astrology would say it was because my starsign is Virgo and I am typical of the breed. I actually share my birthday with Hugh Grant (same year as well) and Arthur Mullard. Sadly, I think I am more akin to Arthur than Hugh.
The more perceptive readers will have realised that my odd collection says more about my drinking habits than it does about my unbalanced mind. That is true but, cork collecting aside, a man has to have a hobby.
Anyway, in an effort to cleanse myself of my silly habits at the start of this new year, I have a pointless hobby and about 200 corks to send to Grantham - unless anyone has any other ideas about what I can do with them (I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking that question)?

Fancy Being Taken For a Ride By The Black Horse?

Further to my post yesterday about Lloyds Bank and its offer to me of a loan at 8.9 per cent interest, I spoke again today to the woman who tried to flog it to me.
I actually obtained an identical loan from another bank at 6.4 per cent - that's approaching a third less than the Lloyd's deal!!! - so wanted to speak to the loan arranger to say I would obviously NOT be taking up her offer.

The woman, who turned out to be the branch manager, responded IMMEDIATELY by ALSO offering me 6.4 per cent! Now, call me Mr Picky, if you like, but I then queried why she had not offered me that rate in the first place, as had the other bank. I mean, I could understand trying to match a rate that was a few decimal points lower, even as much as one whole per cent, but two and a half fucking per cent. That is some difference. "It's the bank's policy," she hissed. "I offer you a rate based on your circumstances and then, if you find it cheaper elsewhere, I will try to match it." "Why not try to offer me the best rate in the first place?" I countered. "Funny that the other bank just tried to find me the most competitive deal they could and was not bothered about the competition. You were just trying to screw an extra 2.5 per cent out of me, weren't you?" "No. It's the bank's policy, I have to ....hiss...bullshit....spit......hiss.........blah, blah, blah." Yeah, she means "it's the bank's policy" to try to bleed customers dry wherever possible.

I told her I saw it as sharp practice and that I wanted to complain so she told me to write to her and she said she would forward my letter to Lloyds' complaints department. "Here's an idea," I offered, helpfully, "why don't I just write to the complaints department direct?" Her reply? It's obvious when you think about it. "It's the bank's policy."
Heard it all before - "computer says no"!
Pither has a policy as well. It is to send all spiv, loansharks to Grantham. Lloyds Bank is already in Grantham so I shall now introduce a new policy. I shall allow some condemned immigrants out briefly, just until they start to feel better, and then I shall ram them back in again. Lloyds shall be first to benefit from this.

'Ello John, Gotta New Loan?

Once again I feel like the little boy in the story of The King's New Clothes. "Oi! fat boy, I can see yer nadgers! Get some kit on!"
The naked royal this time? It's bloody Lloyds Bank and its business ethics (pause for hollow laughter at the mention of "ethics" and "bank" in the same sentence). I know I am an innocent child in the world of capitalism and finance but what I have just discovered strikes me as plain wrong.
I approached "my" branch of Lloyds today to enquire about the possibility of a loan to carry out some loft conversion work at Pither Towers. After a sickeningly boring interview, the loan arranger (yes, a real cowboy if ever there was one) said there would be no problem and she could do me a special deal at 8.9 per cent interest. Oh, goodo, I thought, but I said I would, obviously, be shopping around (as it turned out, I subsequently got a deal of 6.4 per cent elsewhere - YES, 2.5 PER CENT LOWER). Her reply to that was: "Well, whatever improved rate you can find I will match it." What!?! To the best of my recollection, the Bank of England doesn't announce that it is going to set interest rates at a certain percentage with the caviat "but if you can find it better in Germany, Hong Kong, Iceland or anywhwere else we will match it". Surely THE bank's rate is THE bank's rate. Why don't Lloyds just come out and be honest about this? Why don't they get Del Boy to head up their staff training department and he could instruct their loan managers to tell customers: "Gather round, gather round, before the police come. Look John, I like your face. I'm feeling generous. Tell you what, Moosh, I'm not going to offer you 11.9 per cent, I'm not going to offer 10.9 per cent. Dear me, I'm not even going to offer you 9.9 per cent. No, just for today and just for you, because you're a nice bloke, it's a once in a lifetime deal. I'm going to offer you 8.9 per cent, yes, you heard right that lady at the back, 8.9 per cent. I'm robbing myself, I know, but that's why they call me honest Lloyd"?
It's the equivalent of the way a cowboy builder operates. You know, he turns up at your house to give a quote on some work and he takes a look at the standard of car in your drive, the size of your house, the neighbourhood, the snazziness of your clothing and then belches out the highest possible figure he thinks he can screw out of you. I fucking hate bartering! Either something costs a set amount or it doesn't. Aaaaaarrrgghhhhh!!
It also reminds me of a former associate of mine - no longer with us, it has to be said - who found the introduction of VAT an absolute godsend. He would quote for work and if the reaction was "ooh, that's reasonable" he would add "of course, there's VAT on top of that". If the response was "you're bloody joking, aren't you?" he would say "aah, but don't forget that includes VAT". Suffice to say the VAT Man hardly, if ever, got any money off him afterwards, whatever the price of the job!
No, Lloyds bloody Bank, and bartering, can gallop off to Grantham - or I could offer them Baghdad or Kabul if they think they can find somewhere worse.

The Wind and The Willies.

I know people are fed up to the canine teeth with talk about my dogs and so I promise this will be the last. Something doggy, however, has been driving me mad today and so needs to be Granthamed.
Readers of this blog will be familiar with three of my four rescue hounds. The fourth, my alsatian, had yet to feature, until now.
His name is Padfoot. Not my choice. The choice of my soon-to-be ex-wife who decided that the Harry Potter character Padfoot, a giant, snarling beast which turned out to be a real softy, suited him down to his huge paws.
Pad, as he is known around the house, came to me after he was rescued by the fire brigade having fallen through the ice over a canal. It's thought he had been in the water for around an hour and unable to clamber out when he was going down for the third time and a passer-by who spotted him raised the alarm. I did a story on his rescue, kept a check on his progress and, after discovering that he could not be re-homed and faced a lethal injection, took him on. Pad weighs in at seven stone and is, by anyone's estimation, a big lad. His jaws could exert a pressure of 2,000lbs-sq-inch (we looked it up) and he has a growl and a bark which makes the blood run cold. The teeny problem about him is...............he is a total and utter wuss.
He is bottom of the pile round here (Pither excluded), even being regularly bullied off his tea by my away-with-the-fairies jack russell-cross Tilly. He is scared of all the others, scared of most of my friends (mind you, so is most of the rest of the world), scared of the postman and even scared of the birds (work that one out!). There is one thing, however, which scares him more than any other....................the wind! The wind makes curtains, blinds and doors move without apparent reason, it makes a noise, it makes pieces of paper leap about and it ruffles your hair! It is indeed a terrifying force - when you have the brains of the average educationally disadvantaged tree frog.
Today, as everyone in Britain is no doubt well aware by now, has been a tad on the blustery side of hurricane force. The result was that I have not been able to move so much as an inch without finding a large alsatian glued to my leg, looking up pitifully and afraid. Try going to the toilet with a wolf holding on to your leg!!
Bless. So, to conclude the essays on my dogs, I am sending bashful, nervous and ultimately spineless alsatians to Grantham.

You Say "Hello" and I Say Goodbye.

The catapult to Grantham normally only fires at the end of my posts but this lot have just got to be loaded and blasted off NOW to save us all as soon as possible.
Chat, "showbiz" and celebrity gossip magazines are the absolute pits of the publishing world. They make me want to gnaw on my testicles in rage and I get an almost overwhelming urge to set fire to people I see reading them. They are, quite simply, sick porn for brainless young women - "birds", as they would probably like to be called.
If you are desperate to hand over a quid or whatever to learn what colour pants Angelina Jolie wears then you are a bloody pervert. If you have any interest whatsoever in where Jade Goody is going on fucking holiday you are a stalker. If you cannot resist the temptation to see "inside the Beckhams' home" then you are a peeping Tom (or is it Tomasina?). All of these character traits will normally get you locked up quicker than you can say "What's a CSE?"
The other readers of this trash who manage to evade prosecution can be lumped together in one shabby category - intolerably nosey bastards with an IQ lower than a mushroom and the shallowness of the Royal Family's gene pool.
Women's magazines have always been with us, it seems, and I have nothing against the likes of Woman, Woman's Own, Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire and Elle etc. Like Intestinal Tract Monthly and What Goat?, they cater for a niche market. It is this plethora of tacky, showbusiness and gossip rags which has exploded onto the world in the last ten years to which I object.
The publishers claim they are only supplying a demand which exists. Bollocks! That's the crap bosses at The Sun come out with to justify the fact that their rag has disappeared down the pan in which celebrity and tat float like a stubborn turd. They just want to make money and are prepared to pander to the worst human habits to get it. What next? The Joys of Child Abuse? Poisoners Gazette? How To Kill Pensioners Monthly? There are fuckwits out there with an abiding interest in all those areas. Does that mean we should cater for them?
My anger was gently poached today by an advert for yet another of these brainless, crud mags and it then boiled over when, in the same "telly-selly" break, yet another was plugged. Grazia was thrilled to announce that it knew why the Beckhams were off on holiday. Fuck off! The other piece of glossy bog roll was an addition to the stable of shite, was imaginatively entitled New, and its selling point was that it contained seventy pieces of completley irrelevant information about seventy equally irrelevant things, all for seventy pence. Didn't you hear? Fuck off!
Why are some people obsessed with the cult of celebrity? It's because their lives are so pathetic and empty that they have to try to live through some gits who have managed to get their fizzogs in front of a camera.
I believe this brainwashing and conditioning begins with little girls. Remember Jackie comic/magazine? I used to borrow it from girlfriends when I was at school to read the Dear Cathy and Claire agony aunt page. It was superb! "Dear Cathy and Claire, I am three and I haven't got a boyfriend yet. Am I an alien?" The bosses claimed they were not planting in the minds of their young readers the thought that if they didn't have a boyfriend or behave like some drunken, chavette
tart they didn't fit in and so might as well kill themselves. Why then did every bloody story in Jackie feature a girl falling in and out of love and trying to be a grown up?
As I said, this is dangerous porn. If a magazine has to be confined to "the top shelf" for featuring photographs of women's breasts and, God forbid, their muffs (all things you either see on the average beach in summer or around the house), then these mags should be elevated as well.
Here endeth the lesson.

Brace Yourself - Just a Quickie.

An excellent dismount...............9.5, 9.6, 9.5, 10.

Remember the Dingo of Doom? Caty, my dog? She starred in a recent post? Well, I said then that I thought she had sunk about as low as it was possible to go, behaviour-wise. Guess what? I was wrong!
This devil-in-disguise dingo-cross has just taken up a new hobby - raping a cripple!
Henry is the eldest of my dogs and he has enough problems in life. He's only got three legs for a start! He didn't go tripedal to make a fashion statement. A vet left him with no choice after he came off second best in a run-in with a car in his younger days. I rescued him shortly afterwards and I imagine he thought then that he could, at last, look forward to a relaxing life - yeah, until Caty's hormones kicked in!
Caty has had her love box removed but that does not seem to have deterred her. She has, just this week, taken to screwing Henry at every available opportunity. This morning she caught him completely unaware as he was dozing on an armchair in the lounge. She leapt on him and began humping furiously - no roses, no chocolates, no candlelit dinner-for-two beforehand. Just in with the shag! I know some poor lovemakers look down on foreplay but trying to bang someone who is asleep takes things a bit far. The photograph above is of her dismount.
The Big H has taken to keeping one eye open when he nods off, much as I do since my soon-to-be ex-wife got a new set of kitchen knives for Christmas.
Hey ho........hey ho, it's off to Grantham you go (canine sexual offenders, that is).

A Real Goer - Battery Not Included.

It's always a worry when a loved one is unwell (83p). I am worried because one I truly love is poorly (£1.66). The patient?..................... my car (£2.49)!
Don't get me wrong (£3.32), I'm not one of those saddos who names their car (£4.15). I have always maintained that these mechanical mean-nothings are merely instruments (£4.98) for getting us from A to B (£5.81). Indeed, I used to flick peanuts and beermats (£6.64) at those morons in rally jackets who used to drone on (£7.47) and on in the pub about how "their baby" (£8.30) was performing. Peanuts and beermats changed to darts and spears when they (£9.13) continued rambling that they had tweaked the overhead-camshaft-suppository-injection-turbo-grommet ( £9.96) to make "her purr like a kitten". Sod off and, if possible, die (£10.79)!
Men are often obsessed with cars but I am most definitely not (£11.62). You put petrol in and hopefully it goes. That's it for me (£12.45). My brother and I once stopped speaking for two years following an argument (£13.28) over the relative merits of Top Gear and Coronation Street. My standpoint (£14.11)? Suffice to say, I thought, and still think, that Jeremy Clarkson was a walking advert for abortion (£14.94).
So, why do I love MY car? Well, I think it's because we are so alike (£15.77). My motor - note, not a "he" or a "she" - is aged (£16.60), unfashionable, with faded looks (£17.43), dodgy nuts and an overall air of having seen its best days (£18.26).
It is 21 years old this year and has (£19.09) 186,000 miles on the clock (honestly!) - I think only the Space Shuttle has more (£19.92). It is bald (in the tyre department), not attractive to women and coughs and splutters first thing in the morning (£20.75).
"The Wardrobe", as it is affectionately known by my pals (just imagine one on its side) does, however, cater for four dogs with ease, can also carry (£21.58) a small orchestra and never usually fails to get going (£22.41).
That record of faultless service lasted until this morning (£23.24). The Wardrobe just refused to start and it turned out that the battery was dead - a new one will apparently cost me £60-plus (£24.07)! I have, therefore, booked it in to see my regular mechanics (£24.90) - well, I say mechanics but they are more like antique restoration experts (£25.73).
God bless you, pile-of-rusting-metal-of-my-dreams (£26.56). You shall be healed.
Henceforth, only wholly valetudinarium Volvos shall go to Grantham (£27.39).

**** POSTSCRIPT: For those of you bemused by the intermittent insertions of bracketed, monetary figures in the above post, let me explain. I just thought I would keep a tally of how much David Beckham is set to earn, in the time it has taken you to read this, when he moves to L A Galaxy from Real Madrid - it's 83p-a-second, by the way.... (£28.23!!!!)

............Or Press 234 If You Give Up.

Here's one. I've just seen an advert for a bank - Nat West, I think it was, but that's by the by. The selling point they were putting across was that when you phone them up you will be spoken to by someone "at a CALL CENTRE in THIS country".

How the bloody Hell do they find that something to crow about? It's someone in your fucking branch you want to talk to and, indeed, used to be able to in the happy times. Once they decided to sack loads of staff and hive phone-answering off to call centres, who bloody cared where their call was being answered? Someone in a call centre in Dagenham is about as in touch with you and caring as someone in a centre in fucking Bangalore!
The ad's theme, of course, could be thinly veiled racism - you know, "Oh we don't have Johnny Indian answering our calls at a centre in Dehli. No, we've got genuine Essex-types doing it."
More worrying still is that this is a blatant attempt to make call centres appear acceptable, when almost everyone alive hates them, by turning the focus of annoyance elsewhere. Well, they ARE a disgrace and some of us will keep saying that until they are scrapped and we can get back to talking to "real" people again. No doubt that will be the same day there is a sudden, extremely cold snap in Hades.
Call centres of any description - for Grantham.
PS. On a brighter note, the will to carry on living was instilled in me this evening by the fantastic "The Trial of Tony Blair" on More 4. Excellent stuff!

A Touch of Class.

I have been regally shafted - by, appropriately enough, Royal Mail! Who the Hell is in charge of their deliveries policy these days? A descendant of Dick bloody Turpin or Ronnie Biggs?!?
Right now Reg, "relax, focus, breathe" - I must remember what the doctor and the psychiatrist told me.................... I now have inner-calm and so shall continue.
I had to send a package down south today. No, that's not a toilet-time euphemism. I actually had to send a parcel to some friends in Kent. I went into my village to do that but first I had to stop off at the bank to pay some credit card bills - isn't it eery how Lloyds TSB Visa and Barclaycard have both opted for an APR which matches exactly the inflation rate in post-war Germany? Anyway, I digress. On to the Post Office.
It was a heavy parcel I had to send and I was told it would cost £7 to go "ordinary First Class". Without thinking, I decided to send it "registered delivery" instead, to be on the safe side. How much? Go on, ask me, how much? I'll tell you - £18 bloody 50p!! The present in the parcel only cost £25!! Jesus, who were they getting to deliver it? The Sultan of Brunei on the back of flaming Shergar? "Oh, that guarantees delivery tomorrow," said the Post Mastery-type person. "It's not going on the fucking Space Shuttle, is it?" I enquired, scarcely controlling my rage. "Kent's not THAT far, surely. I'm not asking to send some plutonium to Alpha Centauri, you know."
What I don't get is that when I was alive, thousands of years ago, sending something First Class meant that it got there the next day, so long as you caught the noon post. Second Class meant the day after that or possibly the day after the day after that. What system have we got now? "That'll be £x, please, or £2.64x if you want the job done properly."
I'd like to see how we got on if everyone adopted Royal Mail's pricing policy. You buy pie and chips at the Deranged Fryer and the guy behind the counter says: "That'll be £2.50 or did you want them without the botulinum bacillus? That would be an extra £10." Maybe at Dixons they'll start saying: "Oh, yes, it's £80 for the Ear-Death 9000 CD player, or £28,340 for one that actually works."
It all started with this "class" bollocks. Virgin Rail is the world's leading authority on it (see previous rants). "Hello, poor, fuckwit, sap of a customer. Right, it's £30 to go to London. It is, however, £230 for a First Class ticket but for that you will not actually have to stand up for the entire journey, your seat WILL be larger than a three-month-old child's potty, you will not be in a carriage so BO and fart-odour-ridden that you will have to hold your breath all the way and your chances of catching scabies, rabies, smallpox, chicken pox, Blue Water Fever, green monkey disease, a range of skin conditions outlined in our 'on-board magazine', the HIV virus and head lice will be dramatically reduced."
Yes, I know they had First, Second and even Third Class in the "good old days" of British Rail. However, as regards that, I am reminded of that great line from the equally great book and TV series A Very British Coup. When a journalist asked the newly-elected socialist Prime Minister if he would abolish First Class travel he replied: "No, but I do intend to abolish Second Class travel. I think everybody's first class, don't you?" Here, here, my thoughts exactly.
Anyway, Royal Mail - to quote Partridge, "sub-human scum". It's off to Grantham you go.