Two Minutes

Forgive the language, but I need to talk taxis.

What the fuck is it with fucking taxi companies and this two fucking minutes crap?
It doesn’t matter where the fuck you are or when you fucking order one of these licensed fucking bandits the asswipe cannot, EVER, show up on fucking time and when you phone again to politely enquire why the fucking dipshit has not fucking arrived as fucking promised you are met with the same fucking line from the fuckwit on the base time after time after fucking time.

“He’ll be there in two minutes, mate.”

Why don’t they ever say “two and a half minutes” or “one and three quarter minutes” or “three minutes 15 seconds”? How come they’re always 120 seconds away? I mean, it’s gotta be some kind of extraordinary fucking coincidence, hasn’t it, that at any given time, in any given time zone, at any place on the planet, on any day you are always going to be two fucking minutes distant from the fucking taxi you fucking ordered after you’ve fucking phoned up to say that it’s fucking late?

God forbid they should actually tell the fucking truth and say “well, bearing in mind he’s a Serbo-Albanian-Khazakstani-Georgian-Somali pirate whose only only been in the country seven hours and he’s only got one fucking map and that’s of the main road from Darlaston to fucking Mecca and he didn’t understand the fucking address we gave him in the first fucking place and he has to keep pulling over to the side of the fucking road to hide from the fucking police because he’s an illegal fucking immigrant and the 87-year-old Ford fucking Popular we gave him has only got first fucking gear and you have to keep stopping every hundred yards to let the radiator cool down and he’s gotta run some guns and cocaine for his fucking mate Abdul before he even thinks about doing the fucking job he’s actually fucking paid to do……………I should say he’ll be there just before Hell freezes over and just after Robert fucking Mugabe gets voted Humanitarian of the Year.”

Actually, that’s not fair. They’re not ALWAYS two minutes away. Often they’re “just turning into your street, mate”. Well, how fucking come I can look at the end of my fucking street and not see their Arkansas Chuggabug fucking pile of metallic crap turning fucking into it? Turning the outermost arm of the fucking Milky fucking Way, probably. Turning from a taxi driver into someone intent on fucking up my entire fucking life, maybe. Inexorably turning that last fucking screw on the lid of the fucking coffin which is my fucking life, possibly – but NOT, repeat fucking NOT, turning into my fucking street!!!!

After flogging my guts out at fucking work to earn slightly less than a seven-year-old working part-time in a fucking Bangladeshi sweatshop turning out Prada fucking handbags I really don’t need to know “We’re really busy tonight”. In that case, why tell me the fucking car will arrive at a set fucking time when you fucking know there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of Antarctica being made of fucking icing sugar?

Oh, “There’s a lot of traffic on the roads tonight” is there? You think? Fuck me!!! How fucking irresponsible of it! I mean, traffic....on the roads? Whatever fucking next? Normally it stays on the fucking pavements, doesn’t it, so that your Mickey fucking Mouse Motors organisation can get from fucking A to fucking B?

My particular favourite, and one I’ve had on more than one occasion, is “He’s outside your house, mate, waiting for you”. “Really? Oh, how silly of me. I thought I’d phoned the Blackbeard Taxi Company and not International Invisicabs ltd!!! Tell me, does one sit in the fucking front or the back of a fucking taxi which has arrived in a different time dimension and doesn't fucking exist in our particular space-time continuum? I mean, I don’t want to look silly sitting in the fucking road on the fucking Tarmac in an imaginary fucking car going ‘brrrrmmmmm, brrrrmmmmmmm’ while all the time I’m sitting in the wrong imaginary fucking seat, do I?” There’s never even the teensiest, weensiest fucking suggestion in what passes for their fucking minds that their fucking so-called fucking drivers are all fucking compulsive fucking liars. I mean, they’re obviously going to be right, aren’t they? “Of course he’s outside my fucking house, pal. How silly I feel now. Thanks for pointing it out. Here’s me, living in this fucking place for 10 years and all the fucking time I’ve been living in the wrong house! ‘Scuse me while I run round town trying to find out which fucking house your fucking dickhead IS parked outside and then I can go in and evict the residents, telling them that they’ve been living in my house and I will be taking legal fucking action.”

I have a theory that taxis only ever pick up grey-haired people with beards. Why? BECAUSE EVERYBODY HAS GOT GREY HAIR AND A FUCKING BEARD BY THE TIME THEY SHOW UP!!!!!!!!!!

If they ever do fucking show up, you’re then faced with the fatuous list of fucking excuses for why you were 18 when you ordered the fucking car but now you’re unable to walk unaided, have an incontinence bag and are expecting a fucking telegram from the fucking Queen in a week or so. “Sorry mayat. You moved house, innit? You forgot your address, innit. You didn’t order a taxi at all, innit. Just lucky is passing, innit? Don’t worry, mayat, I do it all time, innit. You finished work? What you do?”
“I’m a taxi inspector at nights and during the day I work for immigration. Now just drive this heap of shit to the pub, try to stay off the fucking pavements, put down that mobile fucking phone, stop jabbering away in Hindustani to that cunt you deal drugs with and there’s a chance, just a slim fucking chance, that I might not fucking kill you.”

The final act of plate-registered robbery is the fucking fare! These wankers only deal in pounds. They have no fucking concept of fucking pence. Either that, or their fucking religion compels them to fucking round figures up!
“Ok, mayat, chill, yeah, innit.”
“But I gave you a fiver. You’ve given me a quid back. The meter says £3.40.” “Oh, meter no working, mayat. You always pay fiver, yeah.”
“How would you fucking know? We’ve never fucking made it before. Me always pay £3 fucking 40p! That means you 60p shy, innit?”
“It’s tip, mayat, innit.”
“You wanna tip, mayat? Always put sugar in your biscuit jar. Now fuck off!!”



God, I hate taxi drivers (don’t even get me started on bus drivers). They can go to Grantham – although they’ll be 12 hours late getting there or turn up at Gillingham.

I'm Dreading a Shite Christmas.

So, to recap:

1. Mrs Pither has buggered off and shacked up with someone else.
2. I am in the financial doo-doos up to my armpits and it looks as though the house could soon be repossessed.
3. The Cow and Carrot has announced 120 redundancies and there are whispers that I am going to be on the list in the New Year.
4. I am 48, unhealthy and going fucking nowhere.
5. The tenative relationship I had with a lovely sex of the opposite gender has just gone bosoms up - albeit with the best spelled and punctuated Dear John text I have ever had.
6. Christmas will now be a distinctly canine affair with just me, five dogs, a bacon sandwich and Steve McQueen (assuming THAT film is on again).

If anyone knows of a wealthy, unfeasibly large-breasted, morally casual woman, who is blind, has no-sense of smell, has a fetish for overweight, balding men, lives over an off-licence and has a Nottingham Forest season ticket then could they please put her in touch with me.

Happy Christmas.

...And The Special Guest Star Is........

I was so moved (to the bar, anyway) by my pal The Big Green Thing and his considered opinion of a small town in the West Midlands that I have allowed him the honour of being the first special guest star to appear at Grantham New Town. Only his words do his thoughts justice so, it's over to him:

"I’m tremendously proud and honoured to have been invited by Reg to be the first person to contribute a guest spot rant-by-proxy to his esteemed blog. The following is the result of a conversation I had with Reg that started with a series of text messages and continued in the pub. Well, not THE pub, actually. Another one.

"For some time now, I’ve been carefully considering my opinion of a small town by the name of Walsall that isn’t a million miles from where Reg and I reside and is somewhere we both know fairly well. When I shared some of my more recent insights with Reg, a frank exchange of ideas ensued and we found ourselves in close agreement about the character of the place. After mutually exploring different aspects of the town from a wide range of perspectives – civic governance, aesthetic appeal, amenities, infrastructure, the nature of the local residents and so forth – we found ourselves in almost total agreement. Reg therefore thought it might be both novel and appropriate for him to offer me the use of this platform in order to share our views more widely with his readership. So this is the result: my report of our joint observations on the town of Walsall.

"It’s completely fucking shit."

(Reg – will this be enough? BGT)

20 Things You Didn't Know......

So, that de Menezes inquest result in full:


1. The British public are all vicious, vindictive and compulsive liars.
2. All officers of the Metropolitan Police always tell the truth and have no track record whatsoever stretching back 40 or more years for being lying, corrupt, deceitful bastards who would sell their grannies for a bacon sandwich.
3. It is perfectly permissible for the police to shoot dead whoever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, for whatever reason they deem fit.
4. It is a complete and utter mystery how an innocent Tube train passenger met his death after being shot seven times in the head without warning by one police officer while being restrained by another so that he could not move.
5. No-one facing the prospect of a murder or manslaughter charge being brought against them would ever lie to a court to avoid such an eventuality.
6. A jury’s duty when considering evidence brought forward by a lengthy investigation involving testimony from more than 100 witnesses at a cost of around £3 million shall be to conclude whatever the coroner was told to conclude before said investigation even started.
7. Two verdicts shall be open to British juries;
a) Members of the public put on trial for a crime can be found either not guilty or guilty.
b) Police officers put on “trial” for a “crime” can be found either not guilty or not guilty.
8. Anyone carrying a rucksack, using public transport and being foreign in a built-up area shall be deemed to have committed a crime punishable by death (on-the-spot penalty).
9. The moon is made of cheese.
10. Former England football international and club manager Peter Reid has NOT got an ugly monkey’s head.
11. From the basement of Framley’s department store in Barnsley you can see 97 continents.
12.Women really aren’t bothered how big a man’s penis is.
13. Men never think after they’d had sex with a woman “Oh God, I’ve got to hold her now and the pizza place closes in half an hour”.
14. Buying a second-hand car off Jeffrey Archer is a really good idea.
15. Timmy Mallet is NOT an abject cunt.
16. David Icke was right all along.
17. Walking into work and telling your boss he is a pathetic, fat, ugly, insecure, arse-licking, talentless tosser with a face like an anally recycled curry who you would not piss on were he on fire is both dishonest and a good career move.
18. It is a good idea to always be honest when your wife asks “Does my bum look big in this?” and say “Walk 200 yards down the street and ask me again”.
19. Staines is one of the forgotten beauty spots of England.
…………………………and finally…………………………
20. Father Christmas DOESN’T exist for members of the Metropolitan Police Force’s tactical firearms unit.

Ivor the Engine or Noggin the Nog?

SCENE: “The” pub, 6pm, the end of the week.

ENTER: PITHER; suit grubby with fag burns, tea stains, newspaper print and dog excreta; top button undone, tie knot down by left nipple, shirt out at the back; hair akin to that of Mayor of Hiroshima shortly after “the incident”.

COLLECTION OF MUTANT PALS PROPPING UP BAR, HEADS SWIVELLING ROUND: “Whaddo, Piths. How’s it hangin’?”

PITHER: “Crap, but your concern is touching. A pint of Scruttocks Ole Dirigible please……and a bag of Scampi Fries – they’re the nearest I get to oral sex these days.

GENIAL HOST aka CHARLIE CAROLIE: “You been covering that Shannon Matthews thingy?”

PITHER: “Strangely, no. I work on the Cow and Carrot Cruncher, you see. Dewsbury’s not on us. Besides, my talents are limited to “bird found in tree” and “traffic lights change” these days.

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “How would you seek to transform the social under-class of which Shannon’s mother and so many other benefit-dependent, amoral, sink-estate chavs are a part?”

FATAL (so called, because his name’s Alan and he’s fat): “Are you going to finish those Scampi Fries?”

PITHER: “That’s a tricky one, Martin. I’ve got to admit, right now I couldn’t give a shit!”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “I believe we will never advance as a society until we abolish the welfare state and introduce a policy of selective, forced sterilisations.”

THE TROUBLES (he’s Irish and can start a fight in a phone box): “Do I hear the distant sound of jackboots?”

PITHER: “It’s a view, certainly. Challenging, but a view. You always were a tad right of centre for a supposed Labour voter, Martin. You have always wanted to bring back hanging.”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “Millions of people up and down the country want to bring back hanging.”

GENIAL HOST: “Not in public!”

LAMB: “What was the real name of Sid Vicious?”

ALL, AS ONE: “What??!!??”

LAMB: “Well, that Johnny Rotten cretin who’s advertising butter now was John Lydon……so who was Sid Vicious?”

FATAL: “Are you going to eat that pack of dry roast?”

PITHER: “I never really got punk. I liked the music but couldn’t get my mind round hoards of kids with purple Mohicans po-going around with bolts through their noses, all shouting ‘I want to be different!’.”

LAMB: “Did you know, there never really was a Seaman Stains in Captain Pugwash?”

THE TROUBLES: “Bollocks!”

LAMB: “S’true!! There wasn’t a Master Bates, either.”

STRANGER: “John Simon Ritchie.”

GENIAL HOST: “Pleased to meet you, John – are you going to drink or just stand there?”

STRANGER: “No, no. John Simon Ritchie – he is Sid Vicious.”

PITHER: “Not any more!”

LAMB: “You’ll never beat The Herbs. ‘I’m a very friendly lion called Parsley……..’”

Mrs LAMB: “He’s been under a lot of stress at work lately.”

PITHER: “I’m going outside for a fag.”

ASSEMBLED CAST: “Me too….and me….and me…..yeah, why not?”

MEIN HOST: “I’ll join you.”

THE TROUBLES: “Errrrr, Charlie, that’ll leave no-one behind the bar.”

MEIN HOST: “The new barmaid has started tonight. She’ll keep an eye on things. She’s thick as a yard of pig shit and got a face to match…..but she’s cheap.”

PITHER: “What’s her name?”

MEIN HOST: “Dunno.”

PITHER: “You never did get that Investors in People Award, did you?”

FATAL: “Whose are those crisps?”

LAMB: “Didn’t you used to love Airfix kits? I remember my mate and me once got all our models together in the back garden and then shot them to pieces with his brother’s air rifle.”

THE TROUBLES: “You do realise people can hear you talking?”

PITHER: “Yeah, Pete. A cracking tale……just don’t mention it when your social worker comes round.”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “Well, I’m off. I’m going to a skittles night with my wife’s choral society.”

MEIN HOST: “Shhhhiiiiiiitttttttttttt!!! Life on the edge, no net!!!! Try not to crash on the way there.”

BLOKE WHO’S ALWAYS IN THE PUB BUT NO-ONE KNOWS HIS NAME: “I’m going back inside. I’m freezing my tits off here.”

PITHER: “Thank you, Michael Fish. Yeah, it is a bit nippy. Another pint of Scruttocks, please.”

FATAL: “Be a mate, get us a bag of Bacon Fries while you’re there.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

And so the evening went. I got home at about 10.30pm, somewhat lubricated but alive. Where else can you get conversations of this calibre? Why have I recorded it? Well, because it's all true and it's typical of the intellectual exchanges which go on there every night.

I love the pub.

Psssst!! Wanna Dog?

I've taken in another dog - that brings the canine count up to five!!

I'm only fostering him until I can find him a permanent home - this I swear unto myself.
.
He and two others were left tethered in a back garden for two weeks after the scumbags in the house buggered off and left them. They were fed by neighbours throwing food over the fence until they were rescued. Two were found homes quickly. That leaves the lad who's with me. He's gorgeous, gentle, loving and clever - just starved of affection.

He came with the God-awful name of "Taz". That HAS to go.

In the meantime, anyone want a lovely dog? Don't worry, no harm will come to him if no-one steps forward. Pither Towers will just become that little bit more crowded!

Another Whitewash at The Oval

The familiar dank smell of whitewash is seeping out of The Oval today. Usually it’s the Australians who are responsible for the odour, accustomed as they are to drubbing our hapless cricketers five-nil in The Ashes. This time the stench is emanating from the mouth of Sir Michael Wright QC.

Sir Michael is the coroner sitting on the jury inquest in the John Major Room at the Oval into the death of Jean Charles de Menezes, the innocent Brazilian shot seven times in the head in July 2005 on the London Underground by armed police who believed he was a suicide bomber.





The coroner ruled yesterday that the jury could not decide 27-year-old Mr de Menezes was illegally killed. He would only permit them to bring in either an open verdict or one of lawful killing.

This stinks so much I hardly know where to start! Firstly, I am not entirely sure of the legality of Wright’s ruling. I know that coroner’s can, and do, guide juries on occasions and they have been known to offer them a choice of verdicts – but not when the whole spirit of the hearing is to establish in public whether or not a person was legally or illegally killed.

An inquest IS a court hearing but the rules governing it are somewhat more lax than in the criminal courts. Nevertheless, the coroner’s role is ostensibly that of a judge. He "records" a verdict in normal instances but in particular circumstances a jury is empanelled to "return" a verdict. Like a judge, the coroner is there to decide or rule on matters of law, that’s why a coroner is invariably a qualified lawyer. The role of the jury is the same as it is in criminal cases – to decide on matters of fact. It is the jury which decides guilt or innocence in a criminal court, it should be the jury which decides on the verdicts available to them at an inquest.

Unlawful killing is an obvious verdict which the jury at the de Menezes inquest should have considered, given the circumstances, but Wright said “no”. His justification was that, to his mind, the evidence did not justify such a verdict. S’CUSE ME, YOUR QC-SHIP, SHURELY SHUM MISHTAKE?? You’re there to decide on the law, it’s the jury which decides whether there is or is not evidence to justify a particular verdict. That’s the whole fucking point of having a jury in the first place!!!

This inquest has lasted 11 weeks, heard evidence from 100 witnesses and cost around £3 million. What, pray, was the bloody point of wasting all that money, all that time and the testimony of all those people if the coroner was going to decide what the fucking verdict should be at the end of it??

No evidence to justify a verdict of unlawful killing, eh? Well, what about every single independent eyewitness at the scene disputing the testimony of the police gunmen that they gave a warning to Mr Menezes? What did those witnesses have to gain by saying he was shot without any warning? What did the police officers have to gain by claiming they did give a warning? You do the maths, as they say.

What about the confusion among officers about whether Mr de Menezes had or had not been positively identified as the terrorist target they had been on the lookout for? What about the shooting seven times to the head? One would do it, I would have thought. Two would be a belt-and-braces exercise. Three is the sign of a man intent on doing a thorough job…….but seven??!!?? I think you’re into the realms of a gun-toting, unprofessional, inadequately trained nutter on the loose in public with a loaded weapon there!

No wonder Mr de Menezes’ family walked out in both grief and disgust when Wright made his ruling. Firstly, our out-of-control coppers kill their son for absolutely no justifiable reason. Then, either they or fellow passengers on that ill-fated Tube train lie about what actually happened. Finally, a senior judicial figure overrides the principal of “twelve good men/women and true” and rules that HE will decide what happened, not unbiased fellow citizens.

It is not the role of an inquest to apportion blame to specific individuals, I know. That, however, should not mean that a verdict of unlawful killing cannot be brought in a case where the chief suspect/s are known?

Once again, The Met will get off scott free. I just hope Mr de Menezes’ family brings a civil case against the officers and their commanders and then there is a chance they might actually get some closure. However, if the jury now brings in a lawful killing verdict then the current slim chance of any criminal prosecution will disappear altogether.

Sir Michael Wright QC can go to Grantham - Pither's ruling!

Shitty Chitty No Show.

Theatrical bus queue?


Thanks to The Farmer for spotting this gem in our local newspaper, the Distress & Stir.
I’m not sure if it says more about the paucity of good theatrical productions or the lack of any brains or news sense among kids on papers these days.
The article reads:

“Big-name musical Chitty Chitty Bang Bang will be flying into Wolverhampton next summer, it was announced today.
“The stage version of the classic tale will take to the Grand Theatre stage between July 29 and August 15 with a 100-strong cast, including 10 dogs and extravagant sets.
"It is not yet known whether it will feature the famous flying car."

What does the autumn schedule at the Grand hold, I wonder? Four Brides for Three Brothers? Jack and the Small Legume? Lawrence of Altringham? The Sound of Humming?

All billing suggestions welcomed.

The Which Blair Project?

To me, fashion is a dirty word. Something to be despised. Something for the brainless.

It is ephemeral, superficial and a tool the empty and inadequate believe gives them substance. Because of these things, it attracts the empty and inadequate into herds for supposed protection from the crushing reality that its members have nothing to offer as individuals.

Fashion, like the Devil, comes in many forms – “my name is legion, for we are many”. Talking of names, they are as much subject to the fleeting whims of fashion as are sideboards, the length of skirts, flares and tattoos. I was reminded of this the other day chatting to a good friend who is a swimming instructor at our local swimming baths (N.B. Our principal aquatic leisure facility is, thank God, still officially called “Small Town Baths”, and not “Crystal Glade Leisure Centre” or “Blue Lagoon Heaven”). Anyway, said pal told me about a little lad of seven or eight who impressed her and made her laugh, his personality shining through during a learn-to-swim session. His name? He was called Albert. What a great name! Particularly for a little lad.

How refreshing to come across a kid not called Brad, River, Drew or Angelina. Fashion waxes and wanes like the moon. Sometimes, some names are in, sometimes, some names are out. I mean, when was the last time you came across a little lad called Adolph? It’s just not as popular as it used to be about 70 years ago. Likewise, Hermann, Heinrich, Jack The, Vlad The and Marquis de – all gone.

Christian names are not the only ones subject to the tides of fashion. Thanks, I’m sure, to deed pole, surnames seem to go in cycles. For instance, there seems to have been a rise in the number of Blairs about these days, and they seem to have one thing in common.
Can you guess what it is? Firstly, there was the Middle East war-starting Middle East peace envoy Tony Blair. He was the man who oversaw the “miracle economy” built on debt which the whole of Britain is paying for now. He was the illegitimate heir to Thatcher who ushered in raving right policies not even that mad, old bitch dared to.


Last week we said goodbye (fingers crossed!) to the grinning oilbag’s namesake, Sir Ian Blair, the former Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Yes, the top bitch, the boss hog, the big cheese in our nation’s police forces. This was the man who, when his underlings shot a Brazilian seven times in the head as a way of finding out whether or not he was a Moslem terrorist, then bullshitted out a defence and was somewhat unclear about what he did and did not know about the incident. He was also the driving force behind making Britain what it is today – a police state.

It is not widely known, but before Blair was shown the door, he had drawn up proposals to increase the strength of the police force in the country to 42 million. That would have paved the way for his masterplan which was to have every man, woman and child in Britain permanently surrounded by three cops, wherever they went.

He was also a big proponent of locking people up for 18 years without charge to give our thick coppers time to forge documents, intimidate witnesses and practice lying in court so that a case could be brought against them and so boost the conviction figures.

His plan for lavatory bowl spy cams to be compulsory in every home were only narrowly defeated and his eviction from office has seen his “Hang Some Sense Into Them” amendment to the Criminal Justice Bill put on the back burner.

Only at the very end of his career did he actually start behaving as we would have wanted him to. His newly introduced policy of arresting and locking up Tory frontbench politicians was, I think, a real vote-winner but no doubt it will be revoked now he has gone.

Like his lying namesake, he also had a less than firm handle on the concept of irony. In his valedictory address, he hinted that he had been a victim of politics. Hah! That’s a laugh. He was the most political cop we’ve ever seen!

I hope they have a leaving do for him – and I hope it involves him and all the other boys and girls at the Met having to run through a tube station carrying a backpack.

Sir Ian Blair can follow the fashion by following Tony Blair to Grantham.

Oh Darling, What Have You Done?

Once again, we’re all wrong and they’re right!

New Labour’s fiscal fuckwit Captain Darling got up on his cloven hooves in The House today to announce a wizard wheeze he said would get us all out of the clart. I haven’t consulted Hansard yet, but I understand his speech went something like this:

Darling: “Ok, chums, me and the chaps at old Treasury Towers have had a little think and the way we see it is like this. All the proles out there are up to their tits in debt. Am I right or am I right?”

The House, as one: “You’re not wrong, Darling!”

Darling: “Well, if we borrow loads of the jingly and folding stuff to loan to them, they’ll have the necessary to go out and start buying enamel toastracks, Z Boxes, Cliff Richard LPs and all the sort of tat those guttersnipes love and that will get Johnny economy bim-bang-buzzing again.”

The House, somewhat slurred now, but still as one: “Hurrah!”

Darling: “Then everybody who sells things will have oodles of moolah again.”

The House, most of whom are by now swinging from the chandeliers and throwing cans at each other: “Double hurrah!! And who are they who sell things, Darling?”

Darling: “Well……uurrmmmm…..well, all our mates.”

Last member standing: “And thrice hurrah!!!”

Darling: “We’re also going to bring back mortgage tax relief so the proles will start buying houses again.”

Last member kneeling: “You’re a genius, Al. What will happen when loads of them have bought houses?”

Darling: “Well, we’ll scrap the relief again so they'll all be in the clart again. And we’ll also get them to pay back all that money we borrowed for them.”

Last member’s last words: “Won’t that put them even deeper in the clart?"

Darling: “Of course it will, numbskull, but who cares? We probably won’t be around then. If we’re not, the boys and girls in blue over there will have to deal with it. If by some miracle we are still here, we’ll just tell ‘em what we told ‘em when we closed the Post Offices and sold everything off and all that kind of doings.”

Mr Speaker: “What was that? Remind me.”

Darling: “Tough titty fishfaces. We’re in power now so what ya gunna do about it?”


Away from Lalaland, two of the principal problems as I see it are that businesses are having to pull in their horns because the banks won’t lend to them, despite having been given billions by taxpayers to oil the wheels of commerce.

Also, everyone is being crippled by ridiculous and exorbitant energy bills and fuel bills, despite the fact that the price of oil has just fallen to an all-time low. Jesus, a bunch of Somali blokes managed to get a whole tanker-full of the stuff for nothing the other week! Businesses have to pay the rip-off energy charges and so, to survive, they have to pass them onto their customers who are already paying for them at home.

Here’s an idea. Why doesn’t this pathetic regime FORCE the banks to lend? Hell, in most cases it’s OUR money they will be lending to US!!!. Also, why doesn’t it cap energy costs and FORCE the greedy energy companies to reimburse customers for the money they creamed off between the peak in oil prices and its current nadir?

It wouldn't be the answer to everything but, Hell, it would be a start.

I Hate You Butler! (No, Really, I Do!!)

Next stop the crematorium?


I have just learnt that a truly great Briton died today. He was reported to have passed away peacefully in his sleep at his home in Budleigh Salterton in Devon at the age of 92. His name?..............Reg Varney.

So just why was Varney such a giant?
Well, believe it or not, it was not because he opened the world’s first ATM cash dispenser at Barclay’s Bank in Church Street, Enfield, north London, on June 27, 1969 – strange, but true.

No, Reg’s fame stems from the fact that he achieved a feat no-one else in the world of dramatic art ever did or is likely to do. You see, he starred in and was largely responsible for THE THREE MOST MEMORABLE FILMS EVER MADE!!

Orson Welles came close with Citizen Kane but his follow-ups never quite cut the mustard – sorry Orson, close but no cigar this time. Olivier’s celluloid version of Henry V and Rebecca got rave reviews, but he never managed the illusive trio. David Lean’s fantastic Lawrence of Arabia was brilliant but he just couldn’t turn his hand to a worthy number two and three. No, our Reg was the only person in the history of cinematography to capture the top three spots and hold onto them.

The run-up to Varney’s leap into the record books began in 1969 when he started honing his real skills in a television series which was billed as “comedy”, although to all people of any sensitivity whatsoever it was up there alongside anything Stephen King ever produced. It was called On the Buses and, ostensibly, followed the hilarious (sic) antics of London Transport bus driver Stan Butler, his workmates and family.

One recurring feature in the series was for the audience to be informed that a naked baby sitting on the kitchen table or draining board at Stan’s home had either farted, pissed all over the place or shat itself. Indeed, bodily functions played a big part in the show’s format.

Another tool for the creation of side-splitting situations was the projection of Stan as some sort of international babe magnet whom women would willingly date. To further this image, the producers gave Stan a partner in crime who was, if anything, even more irresistible to the gentler sex. He was Jack Harper, played by Bob Grant. Now the suspension of disbelief is central to many programmes but with Stan and Jack it was simply not possible.
Stan was a 5ft 2ins part-time dwarf with a Brylcreemed ‘50s barnet and the face of a parrot looking through a glass-bottomed tankard. Repellent though he was, his genetic misfortune paled into insignificance alongside that of Jack.
Jack had the teeth of a Grand National winner, the hair of Catweazle, a nose which could open beer bottles, the pallor of an anaemic Eskimo, the body of Charles Hawtry and the personality of the bastard child of Peter Stringfellow and Eva Braun. These two were not only the sort of men women tend not to throw themselves at, they were the sort of men women emigrate to avoid.

Alongside these central characters there was Stan’s sister, Olive (Anna Karen), who was quite simply the most revolting lump of lard which has ever squeezed itself into a floral print tent-dress, her curmudgeonly husband “Arfur” (Michael Robbins) and then the inspector at the bus garage, Blakey.
Blakey, played by Stephen Lewis, ostensibly had two lines during all seven series. They were “Get that bus outta ‘ere” and the nerve-janglingly, guffaw-inducing “I ‘ate yooo Batler!” which became the show’s catchline.

It was bad – it was very, very, very bad, but then, in 1971, Reginald stepped up a number of gears and undertook a project which was to catapult him to the very top of the hall of film fame.
He starred in the movie version of On the Buses!! Oh, dear God in heaven, it was terrible – simply unendurable. TW – THE worst - or so we thought. Quite definitely the most appalling film ever made….EVER.

I had only just crawled out from behind the settee when, a year later, Reg showed the world that it had been premature in its ranking of On the Buses and he starred in Mutiny on the Buses.
This was even worse! It seemed impossible but someone had managed to produce a new world-beater. It was the Medusa of the cinema – to look at it turned one to stone. People would rather gnaw off their own feet than watch it.

No one person had been responsible for THE two worst films ever made and so Varney was already a legend……………………..but then he only went and did it again.

1973 was a landmark year. I was just 13 and tiptoeing my way through puberty, Britain was busy entering the then EEC, Nixon announced a ceasefire in North Vietnam, councillors in Clay Cross, Derbyshire, were surcharged in an unprecedented move, George Foreman beat Joe Frazier to take the heavyweight championship of the world and Pink Floyd released Dark Side of the Moon. All of these events paled into insignificance, however, alongside something that happened in cinemas across the land. Yes, the stomach-churning Holiday on the Buses was released.








HOLIDAY ON THE BUSES IS, UNARGUABLY, THE MOST APPALLINGLY REVOLTING AND ATROCIOUS FILM OF ALL TIME!!!!! I’m sorry, but I find mere words inadequate to describe just how truly bad that film is. I believe the original version was set in concrete and buried somewhere in the Marianas trench, almost seven miles down in the north Pacific. It is shown to convicted serial killers as a substitute for the gas chamber. It………..Oh God, I can’t go on.

As I said, to clock up the two worst films of all time is a monumental achievement. To top that and produce a film which gives you the top three is unheard of.

God bless you, Reg. You have left us a legacy which shall never be forgotten. On top of that, you helped launch the career of one of my comedy heroes. You were the comedian in a double act in your early days and your partner, the straight man, was –the fabulous Benny Hill.

Grantham shall not have you, although the undertakers will.

Taking The Wii-Wii

I know I’m old. I know I’m trapped in the 1960s and ‘70s. I know I’m a bit of a technophobe………………………..but what the buggery banana plants is this Wii business about?

The boffins can make carbon copies of mice and sheep, they found a way of travelling under the English Channel without getting wet, they’ve put men on the moon, they can beam information around the world in a millisecond, they even found a way of making George W Bush electable! With this kind of genius at humankind’s disposal, what has been its next giant leap

Well, a series of ads is currently running on TV which plugs this technological marvel.
It’s called Wii. Turns out that is not pronounced the same as a Geordie greeting but as “wee” – as in piss (as in piss-poor).

My favourite of these adverts has a group of four trendy, beautiful, metrosexual types in a lounge somewhere illustrating one particular use for this pisstoric invention. Yes, all those krillions of pounds, dollars and yen, all those years of development, all those brains, all those tears, all that heartache, all those discoveries, all that hard work has resulted in…………………a machine that lets you play air-guitar!

Gee, thanks! Forgive me while I marvel at what they can do these days. Fuck me! Air-bloody-guitar? For £40!! And £40 for a remote!! “

Ok, so you can play air-piano and air-drums and air-saxophone and probably air-comb-and-tissue but………..well……….so what!!?? The advert brilliantly illustrates the exact scale of the so-whattishness of the idea as it shows these four alleged adults standing in total silence, occasionally grinning inanely at each other while they watch a group of cheap, Jappo cartoon characters on the box playing a stylophone version of.....wait for it.......Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!!! How fucking appropriate is that? If these dickheads invited me round for a party and I found it involved standing around in silence, pretending to play musical instruments, they’d definitely have to wake me up before I went home home in a taxi because I would have drunk myself unconscious unconscious on the settee.

I’ve said it before, and I have always thought I should have chosen it as the title of this Blog, but it’s the Emperor’s New Clothes all over again. Once again, I’m that little boy in the crowd shouting “this is all bollocks, you know?” while the masses rave about something they just shouldn’t rave about.

Wii can piss off to Grantham.

Remember

I came across two firms today which would not let all their staff join the two minutes' silence in memory of the war dead because it would have meant either a loss of money or their poxy computer systems would have taken a few hours to re-boot...........I shall remember them! The sacrifice of a few hours of corporate greed is too much for some, way too much for the sake of remembering the insane slaughterhouse which was World War One.

Here's to Harry Patch and the millions of men who didn't make it. The grandsons and grand-daughters of those deranged, mad bastards who sent you out to die are still with us.

Andy Donkersley

I lost an old friend last week.

Andy Donkersley was found dead at his home last Wednesday. He was only about 54 – I never knew his real age because he would never tell me!

Andy – aka "Donkersley", “skinny” or “hippy” (see photo) - was born in Huddersfield and took to journalism on leaving school, doing stints on both the Huddersfield Daily Examiner and later the Blackpool Gazette to my knowledge. There may have been more ports of call up north, I don’t know. Andy’s past is somewhat shrouded in mystery.

We first came across each other when he headed south and started work on the Express & Star newspaper in Wolverhampton at around the same time as I did back in 1985. Initially, he wouldn’t talk to me. You see, I had been to college and got a degree. That was bar humbug to Andy. “Bloody college kids! They know nowt. Come over ‘ere with their poncey ways and la de bloody da pieces of paper! School of life, me! That’s the only bloody qualification tha’ needs, ‘appen.”

I drink alcohol, however – and so did Andy. It was the medium destined to bring us together. He began to warm to me when he discovered that I didn’t walk around with a college scarf, my name wasn’t Tarquin or Gerald, that I would always be there at closing time with him, that I loved Monty Python and football, that I mistrusted authority, that I hated brown nosers and that I thought friends were important and work was not.

After that, the only way I can think of describing Andy is that he was akin to a spaniel – totally loyal, defensive of me in public, willing to do anything for me and always up for my company. I grew to feel much the same about him. Andy was a special individual. Special for a number of reasons.

Firstly, Andy was quite simply the best damn journalist I have ever met! He was bloody brilliant and yet completely modest about his abilities. To him it was just what he did. He was regarded as the best by everyone I knew whose opinion was worth listening to.

Secondly, Andy had a fantastic sense of humour! We found the same things funny and both loved to laugh over more than a few beers after work. That was important – careers were not. We would sum it all up by quoting Mr Dainty, the fantastic, if a little perverted, coach of Barnstoneworth United at every available opportunity: “Shorts don’t matter!”

Thirdly, once Andy had your approval, he was an incredibly warm person and he cared about his friends.

Fourthly, and I am going to curtail this list to avoid devaluing any of the above, he was an intelligent bloke who had rock solid values and beliefs, all of them greatly relished by me and those who knew him.

Andy left the Express & Star in 2006 after a sustained campaign of abuse and bullying by mini-managers who knew and still know absolutely nothing about either journalism or people and he became more ill, spending the last two years of his life in a self-imposed isolation. Myself and many others lost contact with him, despite repeated attempts to look after him – Andy had just had enough. We, I am not ashamed to say, gave up because, when someone just wants to be left alone, they should be. You can't do anything about it anyway, no matter how hard you try.

I make no denials that I was angry about Andy's surrender. It was such a waste and was hurtful to those who loved him. Then, when the inevitable happened, all the anger drained away and I just wanted to remember the guy I knew.

It was such a sad end for such a truly lovely man. We will all be gathering in the coming weeks for his funeral and we are going to remember all those good times, all the times he made us laugh, the times he astounded people with his work, the anecdotes, the scrapes, the fun.

Goodbye, Andy old mate. I am so glad I knew you. We will all miss the real Andy Donkersley very much.

Easy Come, Easy Go.....Whatever.

.....And this is the morning after. Is he worried? Is he scared? Is he ashamed? Is he Hell! Good old Adam. What a man!

If anyone deserves a job in journalism - or anywhere - and to be a roaring success, it's him. Steve Dyson is a wanker - Adam Smith is a star!!!!

Good for you, mate.

This Is The Best Thing.........EVER!!!!!

I have given up trying to load this soddin' video so here is the link. Just click to look at it - I promise, it's well worth it.

Adam is our hero, Adam is our hero!!!

I still laugh long and hard at this, every time I see it! I used to work with young Adam and, although our stays on the Bimringham Mial only overlapped by about six months, I quickly sussed him out as a kindred spirit and a top bloke. Like me, he just couldn't give a rat's ass about office politics, he couldn't stand arse-lickers and, like me, he thought that authority and respect had to be earnt and were not just granted automatically to anyone given a hat with "In Charge" written on it. We had a mutual loathing for the fat, talentless, brown-nosing, cunt of an editor and Adam was always too good to stay at that sad little paper. Here is his own fantastic resignation video. God bless Adam - my hero. He did exactly what I would have done - only I wouldn't have volunteered to write something for those idiots back in Brum while on my holidays!

Below is the story from Times Online to accompany the video - could I load the page and video? Could I bollards!

"Sometimes, you wake up following a drunken night out and realise you have sent an inappropriate text to an ex-girlfriend or your boss.

And sometimes you realise you have drunkenly admitted to plagiarism to camera, and spectacularly resigned from your job, shouting "F**k you' to your boss.

This is what happened to Birmingham Mail reporter Adam Smith on Wednesday morning, as footage appeared on YouTube of him writing a report on the US election, slumped on a Miami pavement, and barely able to speak.

Mr Smith, who also calls himself Steve Zacharanda in the hit video which was viewed almost 20,000 times in 48 hours, had taken a week's holiday to go to Miami to volunteer for the Barack Obama election campaign.

Related Links
Bush's dog launches parting shot at press
Obama computers 'hacked during campaign'
Obama prepares to spike euphoria
After the victory, and very much the worse for wear and drink, Smith was caught flopped against a set of railings, a laptop on his lap, filing an article about Mr Obama's victory for the Mail.

The maker of the video, a Dutch amateur journalist from Couscous Global, had stumbled across Smith by the roadside, and asked him what he was doing.

"I jumped on a plane on Friday to volunteer for the Barack Obama campaign," Mr Smith explained in a strong, if rather slurred, Brummie accent. "As an ill-advised promise, I've decided to say to my paper back home that I'd write about the American election.

"I wanted to be here because I'm here for history. The trouble is, the readers of the Birmingham Mail are going to get my version of history. And I'm just a little bit pissed..."

With a laugh and a clap of the hands, he added: "And thank god for the BBC, because I'm cutting and pasting, oh, baby!"

Not wanting to seem too unprofessional, he added: "I'm a proper news journalist."

To pile further misery on his ignominy, Mr Smith ended the video by announcing: "My name is Adam Smith, also known as Steve Zacharanda, who has just resigned from the Birmingham Mail, the Birmingham Post and the Birmingham Sunday Mercury, to set up my own magazine…F**k you, I'm doing what I want."

Mr Smith's employment status remains unclear today within a company which is undergoing significant restructuring.

Steve Dyson, editor of the Birmingham Mail, said: "This is an internal matter, so we cannot discuss it."

Asked about the company's attitude towards plagarism, he added: "Whilst we cannot discuss internal matters, plagarism will not be tolerated in any form by BTM Media Limited - although we do not believe that any has been taking place."

In a further comment left the next morning by Mr Smith on the YouTube page, he appeared to have sobered up significantly.

"Right, the thing is, right I've just woke up. And seen this video, which I don't really remember. I've been told to phone the Birmingham Mail because I am in trouble.

"I was off duty, I am on official holiday working at the South Beach Miami Barack Obama campaign where I had just done a 18-hour shift trying to make the world a better place. Please check every BBC News outlet and see if I have cut and pasted anything. I have not, it was a joke and should be taken in the spirit it was said."

In a follow-up video, filmed in the Obama campaign office, a more sober Mr Smith said he did not have a job anymore, and was "scared to speak to work" after phrases like "outrageous" and "bringing the company into disrepute" had been banded about.

He said: "The Birmingham Mail is a fantastic organisation, staffed by people who really care."

That Was Then and This is Now

Further to my shamelessly self-centred dog-blog earlier, I thought I would continue the canine theme having obtained a special photograph.

Dave, pictured previously, is, like his pals, a rescue dog. I have had him about three months. Prior to that he had been plucked from the streets of a provincial town where he had collapsed because he was near death, weighing as he did just 19 kg (half his proper weight) and being so infested with mange that he had chewed off large parts of his coat.

His rescue warranted a story in the Carrot and Cow and, as no-one else was in a rush to take him on, Pither took him into The Towers to join the pack.

Below is the photo used in the story about his rescue and one of those photos I told you about which were taken a few days ago. Quite a difference, eh?
(Incidentally, and for Ginni, that's not Pither with him - it's a lad from the rescue centre)

Dogs on the Catwalk

There’s an exhibition of pet portraits taking place soon at a somewhat infamous place not too far away from Pither Towers and so the Very-Soon-To-Be Ex-Mrs-Pither decided that the pack should feature.

As a result, a good friend of ours who is an extremely good photographer came round today and took a series of pics of said hounds. They are pretty damned good!

Anyway, I have chosen one of each pooch. What do you think?


Henry (the boss).


Tilly.


Dave.


Caty.

Sad, really, what makes me happy and what makes me proud these days!

In Which Pither Prepares For Yet Another Slingshot or Arrow To Land.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention. How remiss of me. Looks like I’m going to be made redundant again!

The Carrot and Cow Herder announced major cutbacks yesterday which, we were assured, will spread right across the board. The C&CH is one of two evening papers in the group and the directors on each will have to downsize their cars from Bentleys to Mercedes. Their expense accounts will be limited to £5,000-a-week each, their golf leave is to be reduced to 34 weeks per year and they will, in future, only be allowed to lean out of the windows of the board room on the fourth floor and urinate on the workers below twice a week.

When this news was broken to us work drones I wondered how it was going to achieve the necessary savings we were told had to be made. The announcer, after droning on and on about “guaranteed journalistic integrity”, “leaner and tighter operations”, “efficiency for the 21st Century” and “belt tightening all round”, let slip right at the end the area where the money would be found……………………………….”Oh, and there will have to be 126 redundancies,” he said.

Yes, we are, indeed, all in it together – although some of us are in it more than others.

Having only been with the company for around six months I am not entitled to redundancy. I am, however, one of the most experienced hacks and so am paid more than most. Put those two facts together and what do you think the bean counters are going to conclude when they look at the payroll? If it’s not “Hmmm, if he goes we cut a decent wedge off the wage bill and don’t have to pay anything out in compensation” then I’ll eat my cat.

Is this all down to the credit crunch, I don’t hear anyone ask? No, is the simple answer. It’s down to the simple fact that people don’t read papers anymore. “Why is that, Reg?” the non-present questioners don’t persist. Well, there are basically four reasons:

1. Thanks to Blair’s dogged pursuit of “ejukashin, edgycageon, et tu Casian?", 90 per cent of the UK population can’t read.

2. The invention of cat litter.

3. A dramatic fall in the sale of budgies.

4. The widespread use of purpose-manufactured toilet paper.

Ho hum. That’s life. You win a few, you lose a couple of million. Still, life goes on and the sun will still come up tomorrow. Readers may find this hard to believe but age HAS definitely mellowed me. In the grand scheme of things, it don’t amount to a whole hill of beans!

Hurrah for life, laughter, dogs, the countryside and women with big breasts! Grantham shall not have them.

The Time Machines.

If ever I was reminded of just what a pathetic, grasping materialist I am it was last night, when I put the clocks back an hour for winter time.

Ok, strictly speaking the clocks weren't due to change until something like 4am today but I am an anally retentive Virgoan and I alter them earlier and earlier each year – it’s a disease with me.

I pout and pour scorn on the age of materialism regularly on this Blog and decry the consumer society and those who adhere to it. Then, when I come to alter the clocks, I realise just what a hypocrite I am.

Gone are the days when father used to ceremoniously open the glass face on the grandfather clock in the hall and then move the minute hand clockwise or anti-clockwise a full rotation before closing the case and climbing the stairs, candle in hand, nightcap on head, ready for six months in a new time zone.

Pither, the shallow hoarder of meaningless consumer trinkets, yesterday evening had to alter:



….His watch.
The clock in the kitchen.
The oven clock.
The clock on the microwave oven.
The clock on the TV in the kitchen.
The central heating timer.
The timer on the hall light.
The time on the phone/answermachine.
The timer in the garage on the fish pond lights.
The timer in the garage on the back security light.
The clock in the car.
The clock in the study.
The alarm clock in my bedroom.
The back-up alarm clock in my bedroom.
The TV in my bedroom.
The TV in the spare bedroom.
The timer on the fish tank in the spare bedroom.
The alarm clock in the spare bedroom.
The video recorder in the lounge.
The DVD/video tape converter in the lounge.
The timer on the fish tank in the lounge.
The time on my mobile phone.
This computer’s clock.



The irony of the whole situation is that, doing a job which involves me keeping my eye on the time every second of every minute of every hour in order to meet recurring deadlines, the last thing I want to be reminded of away from the office is the time!! My hatred of “knowing the time” has led me in the last few years to abandon my watch the moment I get home and not put it back on until I have to go back to work. If I’m on holiday that can be two weeks without a watch and without any care of what time it is. I find the sun and the moon give me sufficient information.

How many of these non-biodegradable pieces of soon-to-be landfill cluttering up my home and charting my inexorable march towards the grave do I actually need, I ask myself?

Like every dumb clutz across the nation, however, I still work up this morning, looked at the clock and thought……..”Ah! I’ve got another hour in bed.”

They're The Wrong Questions, Gromit!

The extent to which I am veering further and further away from supposed mainstream thought (or it is veering away from me) has been well illustrated in the last few days.

1. A huge row has erupted over whether or not Shadow Chancellor George Osborne solicited a donation to the Tory Party from Russian billionaire Oleg Deripaska while the guest of supertoff Nathaniel Rothschild in Corfu.

I take the point to be that, had the approach been made and had Loadsamoneyski agreed to it, Russia would have had some say in the conduct of politics in this country.

Ok, that would not be ideal, I grant you, but would it be unprecedented? Considering the French Government already owns and controls our power supplies, Indian companies control our steel industry, Japanese companies control information technology in our local government, Germans run our automotive industry, American companies run our education system and New Labour is, and has been for some time now, desperate to flog the Post Office off abroad (the Krauts being first in the queue of potential buyers)…I think not.

Even football, that cornerstone of British society, is owned by other nations. An Aussie/Yank megalomaniac dictates how it is played, where and when, while the clubs themselves are owned by everyone from dodgy Russians and incompetent Yanks to criminal Malaysians. When England fans chant “It’s coming home, it’s coming home, it’s coming, football’s coming home” where exactly do they suppose “home” is these days?

No, Thatcher started it and New Labour speeded everything up. UK Ltd was sold off fucking years ago. The only things left on the metaphorical national sideboard are the recently acquired banks and they still do exactly as they want and not what we want them to.

The question journalists should be asking over the Osborne affair is “Isn’t it just a teensy bit of a coincidence that this nasty, gossipy, nah-nah-na-nah-naah bit of dirt was dredged up just after that consummate New Labour arsehole Mandelson came back into the Government fold?”

It’s just the sort of spinning for which he is infamous but the now completely untrained, useless and largely illiterate media take the bait and run with it without ever delving deeper – “Ooh, someone might have said it, everyone else is carrying it, let’s talk about it.”

Fucking Mandelson has also enjoyed the hospitality of Rothschild. You telling me he hasn’t tried to sponge cash for the cause off either him or any other millionaires he comes into contact with? He gets nowhere and so feeds titbits to the media and they run with it and are too thick and too immoral to avoid being used.

2. Next, Mohamed Taranissi, who runs London's Assisted Reproduction and Gynaecology Centre, is free to carry on in practice despite having faced charges relating to his treatment of two women.

I quote from the BBC: “He had denied the accusations of failing to keep proper medical records, carrying out inappropriate tests and acting in an insensitive manner.
“The General Medical Council decided after several weeks of sitting there was insufficient evidence to continue.”

The news was full of this today, almost pillorying the women who had made the complaints and upholding Mr Taranissi as some kind of saint.

The question that was not asked was: “Isn’t it about time the GMC was abolished and doctors were policed by a truly independent body? That way, no-one could argue that doctors, like coppers, just look after their own.” Fuck me, it took the GMC 10 day – yes, 10 DAYS – to suspend – yes, SUSPEND – Dr Harold Shipman after he was convicted of murdering 15 or his patients and suspected of topping hundreds more. Technically, he was free to practice when he was sent to prison. It took a further day for them to decide that slaughtering your patients constituted “gross professional misconduct”.

3. The media is obsessed with asking the same question over and over again: “Would Cameron and the Tories govern Britain better than Brown and New Labour?” Surely the question which should be asked is: “If you chopped up Brown and Cameron and put them each in separate microwave ovens, which one would explode in a gelatinous mass of blood and partly cooked tissue first? Then, to settle the argument once and for all, we could put it to the test on Ready, Steady Cook or something similar. It's just an idea, no more.

In Which Reg Just Talks To Himself - Again!

So, we’re all Socialists now, are we? Well, not exactly.

You see, there has indeed been a revolution – but it was a silent one. It sneaked in through the side door. It slithered in on its belly while our attentions were elsewhere. Who would make it through to the next round of Wannabe Chavsing Cryalot On Ice? Would the DNA test show that professional statistic Dwayne was indeed the father of teenage, mother-of-nine Michellesuit’s latest vaginal extrusion? These were the only things of importance, surely? What time was there for anything else?

To the amoral, uneducated, grasping and instant gratification-obsessed legions of Thatcher’s children the slight matter of a radical change in the way our whole economy operated was not only incomprehensible but also of absolutely no importance. Hell, if Jordan didn’t have anything to say about it in Chat Magazine then how could it be of any value to anyone?

The trouble with Jordan is that she sometimes takes her eye off the ball, politically speaking. When you dedicate your life to having your tits either blown up or deflated you can’t be expected to follow every slight socio-economic policy shift.

The revolution which sadly bypassed ole’ rubberknockers was the acceptance by government’s around the Western world that pure, unadulterated capitalism and the market system did not work! The huge lurch to the right and the ensuing idolisation of “the market” began in this country 30 years ago (under guess who?). America had always been that way inclined but Thatcher, by tapping a rich vein of greed in the middle classes, allied Britain to Wall Street and espoused GLOBAL Capitalism. Similarly blinded and greedy administrations around the world followed suit and eventually we had one, worldwide economy, heavily interlinked and heavily dependent on what happened in the home of rabid Capitalism, the USA. If anything goes wrong in the good 'ole U S of A then EVERYONE suffers.

This wunder system was not only amoral, it had obvious, fatal flaws. It involved the super-rich playing a glorified board game, initially with stocks and shares, creaming off billions for themselves in good times and making millions redundant to ensure the continuation of their massive payouts in bad times. It was a win-win game for the players. Once they realised they could get away with it, they expanded the game and took it well and truly into the realms of virtual reality. They began betting on imaginary scenarios and “won” unimaginably huge amounts of dosh on imaginary outcomes. They bet on what would happen in the future and sold their bets on to one another to cream off yet more money, well before, and invariably always, before those futures had materialised.

The game became gradually more and more complicated, with more ways of betting introduced, all of them based on imaginary scenarios. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of market playing – I don’t think anyone does – but a classic example was the sub-prime loans game of which we are now only too well aware. Basically, you get ANYONE to sign up to a loan, completely regardless of any assets they have or of their ability to pay. When you have got thousands of these obviously bad debts you sell them on, packaged as “good loans”. You take a massive profit from the sale and you take it now – well before it becomes evident that the loans cannot be repaid. The person you sold them to, in turn, sells them on, and so on and so on. It’s basically a game of economic pass-the-parcel. All the players took their turn with the parcel and none of them thought that the music would ever stop. Well it did – it has.

Now the whole rotten system has come crashing down, as it always had to. Governments around the world were then faced with two choices. One, they could let all the greedy banks go bust. Sadly, that was the mistake made in 1929 and we are all well aware of the consequences. So, to avoid that happening again, the governments are taking the only other option open to them – to nationalise the banks and guarantee a pool of money – liquidity – to them so they can carry on loaning money.

The nationalisation of banks is a cornerstone of Socialism – and I am a big believer in it. Banks, like public utilities, SHOULD be nationalised. The problem we have now is that the Capitalists have decided to have their cake and eat it. In short, true nationalisation of banks would see taxpayers provide the banks with money to loan out and then one of two outcomes is possible:

1. If the banks incur bad debts then the taxpayers will make good the losses to keep the banks in business.

2. If the banks make profits then those profits are shared out among its backers, namely the taxpayers.

Guess which scenario will hold true under the brave new world into which we are entering? Guess which one will not apply?

Also, if you are the major investor in a bank then you would expect to have a major say in how it is run, wouldn’t you. Is that going to happen from now on? In short, no.

Will there be strong regulation of the banks? The politicians say there will be – but the politicians lie. Of course there won’t be. If there had been ANY regulation, if the Financial Services Authority had actually done what it was supposed to do, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are in now.

So, by bailing out the banks we have bowed to the inevitable. But are economists and sociologists saying that Capitalism is dead, just as they said Socialism was dead when the USSR dissolved? Nope!

By bailing out the banks we have adopted a fundamental principle of Socialism. So, are we now Socialist? Nope!

The Capitalists have got round this tricky conundrum by finally abandoning all attempts at pretence. Whereas before they ripped off everyone, playing their stupid boardgame, and told us Capitalism was not perfect but it was the only way, now that have been forced to admit it doesn’t work – but they don’t care. It is good for them and so they will carry on with it, thanks to “Socialism for Capitalists”. Fuck the rest of us. For the first time in more than a hundred years we are being screwed and those doing the screwing openly admit what they are doing. “Whatcha gunna do about it, little man?” We pay, they take.

What has happened in the last few months marks a new low in life in this country. We have at last proved Capitalism only benefits a few – but those few will continue with it because they have the power and the rest of us can go fuck.

Rule Britannia.

Payback time

I got a letter from the bank yesterday. Apparently, I owe them some money and they want me to owe them less money. Hah! That’s a laugh!! I’ve just lent them £55 billion but do I keep sending them letters – at £10-a-throw???!!!!

Pay me back what YOU owe ME, dipshit, then we’ll see about my poxy overdraft!!!!!

Finland, Finland, Finland.........!

I’ve just seen Finland’s ambassador to the UK on the TV news. He was wobbling on about his countryman Marti Ahtisaari who was today awarded the 2008 Nobel Peace Prize.

I’m ashamed to say that my eyes glazed over because, excellent though Mr Ahtisaari’s efforts have been over the years in resolving international conflicts, the ins and outs of professional diplomacy do not really get my pulse racing. Also, bearing in mind the mindless dickhead who is Al Gore won the same honour last year, I think the Nobel Peace Prize ain't what it used to be.

No, as my eyelids fell heavy and my mind began to wander, my thoughts turned to the ambassador – one Pekka Lintu. Finland’s ambassador to the UK, eh? How cushy a number is that? I mean, what dealings do we have with Finland, exactly? I’m sure Fins flee the perpetual dark of their homeland in their thousands each year and wash up in Blighty on their hols but I don’t recall any of them hitting the headlines or sparking international incidents. Doubtless there must have been the odd cove who lost his Tube ticket and there must have been a couple who moaned about the absence of smoked herring in Basingstoke but apart from that? What exactly did the ambassador have to do?

All the visa applications are dealt with by a team of work drones. Someone in the embassy has been appointed to tell callers the opening times of Madame Tussaud’s. There is also a dedicated enquiries desk to explain why all the trains are late or cancelled and the supermarket staff are surly and on drugs. What is left for old Pekka to do? Well, there are a lot of gala luncheons, state dinners and dates at the Palace to attend and then there’s all that being driven around in a large car and looking important.

Anyway, what if there was a major incident which threatened Britain’s relationships with Finland? Oh no!! Diplomatic relations would be severed and then……oh God, no!.....trade would cease. Where the Hell would we get all our pickled herring from? Who else could supply us with……with……with…...Finnish tourists! I can't imagine any scenario which would keep Pekka up (at night, that is). I imagine his response to even the most serious diplomatic incident would be: "Yeah, well, whatcha gunna do?"

Such is Pekka’s high profile in the world of international diplomacy that I have been unable to find a clear photo of him ANYWHERE!

Anyway, here’s to Pekka and all the other people out there with brilliant jobs. Can I have one, please?

Petitions

I'd like to dedicate the following to BGT, for it was he who inspired me to put my thoughts on the subject down in writing.

The Big Green Thing was asked to sign a petition calling for the closure-threatened Walsall to Wolverhampton rail link to be kept open. He replied, somewhat ardently, that he was not a fan of petitions and forwarded his views to me.

I replied thus:

Dearest BGT,

I have to admit to being much on your side in this debate. Historically, petitions have proved ineffectual, to say the least (witness the ill-fated Stop Being a Naughty Adolph protest handed to the German embassy in London in 1939).

One flaw in petitions lies in their invariably insipid preambles. Words or phrases such as “we the under-signed”, “consider”, “sincerely” and “possibility” ensure that the documents never make it past even the most inattentive and unskilled correspondence secretaries to evil despots. Should they, by chance, overcome these hurdles they are unlikely to strike fear into the hearts of the recipients – no-one ever went into hiding and sought the skills of a plastic surgeon having been “urged” to do something.

The overriding drawback to petitions, however, is that they are gathered by people for whom the targets of their ire have no respect. The wrong-doers reason that if someone is so fair minded and reasonable as to favour this form of protest and also has the time and patience to go around getting others to sign their names on a piece of paper then they will be fair minded and reasonable enough to understand that no-one gives a fuck what they think and they will also have the time and patience to sit around being crapped on by them until Hell freezes over.

If one has no alternative but to write to express angst then I have found that, in dealings with Eon, Lloyds TSB Bank and Nottingham Forest Football Club, “testicles”, “clamp” and “urethral scrape” carry more gravitas and invariably at least result in a response from someone in authority, even if it’s only a police officer, which it has been for me on four occasions thus far.

No, the only path to direct action lies in…..well……direct action. Mr A. Hun did not expand his holiday timeshare business across Asia and Europe by penning a strongly worded letter to The Times. Mr N. Bonaparte did not increase the sales of garlic and sautéed amphibian propulsion systems in Prussia, Spain, Italy and the Austro-Hungarian empire by writing to the chairmen of various policy and resources committees.

To this end, might I suggest that a determined and sustained bombing campaign to cultivate terror and widespread panic be instigated across the wider Midlands region until those evil, baby-eating, devil-worshipping monsters in charge of regional integrated transport strategic planning are brought to their bloodied and broken knees and forced to maintain the Wolverhampton to Walsall light rail commuter link.

While I’m on the subject, if anyone has any old Semtex or unused pipe bombs lying in their attic or garage or knows of around a dozen people willing to blow themselves up for charity then I have a few ideas as to how we might get the litter bin reinstated outside the Somerfield supermarket in my village and also fund an Al Qaeda training cell on the village green into the bargain.

Yours in a tight jacket with straps at the back,

Reg.

A Dog's Life.

I look forward to Sundays and the chance of a long, luxurious lie-in.


Some of us like to lie in longer than others, however.


The chance of a bracing walk to work off breakfast is always welcomed enthusiastically.


..for a short while.


Grantham shall not have them.