Bored!!

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, BORED!!!!!!
Saturdays used to be fun. I remember. They were. In the days when I was alive.

In the days before hair started to fall off my head or grow on my face (let alone down my nose and out of my ears) I used to wake up early on Saturdays and......well.....ummmm......do things! Things all day, mind. Not just for an hour or two.
I used to play football, mostly. I used to ride my bike out into the country. I used to get the bus into town with my best pal and "hang out", eyeing up the girls. I used to get muddy and climb trees, just for fun. I used to go to the pictures. I used to go to parties and listen to Status Quo in darkened rooms while learning how to undo a bra through a jumper with the deft use of just three fingers. I used to bellow out naughty versions of songs in the charts. I used to................well, I just USED TO.

It's just not the same anymore. Since I bust my tendon I can barely walk, let alone pretend to be Ian Porterfield and re-enact the 1973 FA Cup Final. I sold my bike when I went to college and years later I bought a car which I discovered rendered the bus obsolete. Mud no longer holds the same fascination for me that it did in my youth and they have cut down all the good trees!
All the proper cinemas have long since closed and sitting in either a broom cupboard or a converted aircraft hanger at one of the soulless, out-of-town multiplexes is not my idea of a good time.
Hanging around town eyeing up girls, meanwhile, is not only a rather unhealthy pursuit for a middle-aged man but it has also lost its magic. When I have to go to town these days I make sure I am in and out again like a buck rabbit's naughty bit in Spring and..........well, the only girls I really look forward to seeing these days are barmaids. Finally, 20 years of listening to the same three chords put me off Status Quo for the rest of my days and my expertise with, and in-depth knowledge of, brassieres doesn't seem to impress the sophisticated women in their 40s with whom I rub shoulders nowadays as much as it did girlies in the '70s. Ho hum.
As for juvenile fun, society and maturity now dictate that I am no longer allowed to entertain myself fleetingly by singing the playground versions of '70s hits! when they come on jukeboxes in pubs. God, I miss Herman's Hermits' Sunshine Girl!! These days it would probably spark a discussion among my friends about the underlying plasticity of the inner metaphor and yet all I can still hear in my head is:

Sunshine girl I'm looking down your bra,
I see two round things,
I wonder what they are,
Do you invite me,
To squeeze them tightly,
Not bloody likely!
My Sunshine Girl.

Hurrumph! I could take the dogs for an extra-long walk, I suppose, but, not only is my leg hurting more than normal today, Pad is too wobbly on his back legs at the moment to stand a rigorous outing.
I could go shopping in the village but......well, that would just smack a little too much of "life on the edge, no net!"
It's FA Cup fourth round day today as well - something I always used to love - but the money men ruined football for me years ago so that I can no longer get excited about it - and there's no rugby on nearby either.
There isn't even a Mrs Pither around to have jolly japes with. She went to a pal's in Big City yesterday and went out for a few dry sherries so will doubtless have to be medivacced back today in a bodybag.
I suppose I could always re-arrange my pants drawer. It's an option and I think I'll keep in reserve.

I am too lazy to think of anything adventurous so I think I will have to plump for option B. I will take myself to a great pub where I know I will be able to read the papers in peace, have a few fantastic pints and eat dry-roasted peanuts without someone saying "they're fattening, you know!" I think I'll take the dogs with me 'n' all. They adore peanuts - and Scampi Fries (even though they do smell somewhat embarrassing).
There! That's Saturday sorted. Now, what to do tomorrow?

Ho, hum. Boredom can go to Grantham.

P.S. Apropos absolutely bloody nothing, isn't the accent of that little kid on the Persil Small and Mighty advert brilliant?! I wish I could say "con..sun..traay..teardd" like he does.

Life's a Lottery

There was a piece on the news this morning about some schools around the country adopting a lottery system to replace their hugely oversubscribed admissions policies. Education chiefs said such an arbitrary method was the only equitable solution to the growing problem of too many youngsters scrambling for limited places at the same few schools.
I pondered this for a moment and then it hit me. WHAT A BRILLIANT IDEA! THIS, SURELY, HAS TO BE THE WAY FORWARD FOR ALL OUR BUSTING-AT-THE-SEAMS PUBLIC SERVICES!!!

Imagine the air of excitement it would generate! The National Health Service, for one, would be vastly improved. It would become a thrilling entertainment, not just a boring necessity, and the prizes on offer would be so much more valuable than a new lounge suite, a speedboat or a weekend away in Porthcawl.
Picture the scene. You come back from that holiday in the Gambia with a touch of green monkey disease and so, despite one of your legs having fallen off and your face resembling a baboon's arse, you hop along to a packed casualty department, grab a numbered ticket from the dispenser on the wall, and take your seat between the little lad with a bucket stuck on his head and that woman who is foaming at the mouth and has crimson, lizard-like skin.
The theme tune to Sale of the Century suddenly bursts forth from the speakers on the wall and then the consultant appears from behind a curtain, grinning widely and dressed not in the usual white coat but in a lurid, leopard skin-print jacket, bedecked in bling and with a revolving bow-tie.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're too kind. What a lovely audience. Welcome again to Life's a Lottery! You've got to be in it to win it!!"

"Excuse me please, this gentlemen here has just coughed up his spleen!"

"Yes, he's slick 'n' he's sick but only the tombola cures Ebola!! Now, eyes down and look in, here we go. All the sixes, number 37!!!"

On a Tuesday morning you'd run out to the front of your drive and clamber over the huge piles of rat-infested, rotting rubbish bags to line up with your neighbours and await the arrival of the binmen. You would be able to cut the atmosphere with a knife as silence fell and the banana-yellow, brightly lit bin lorry came round the corner blasting out Ride of the Valkyries as the tattooed oaf behind the wheel lent out of the cab and bellowed "Come in Numbers 4, 11, 15 and 27, you're time is up!!"

At the risk of labouring the point, wouldn't it to be so much more fun if, when knife-wielding maniacs burst into your house intent on burglary and buggery, you dialled an 0800 number instead of 999 and were either told "Congratulations! You have been chosen from literally thousands to receive the attendance of a uniformed officer" or "I'm sorry. You have not been successful on this occasion but we here at the police value your call"?

There is a serious point here (I think). I mean, you might think that a lottery for healthcare, for instance, is ludicrous but it IS, as everyone in Britain knows, already happening - the postcode lottery, as they call it. Live in area A and you can get your hip replaced in under six months or get cancer treatment with some revolutionary new drug. Live in area B and it's 12 months just to get to see the consultant and anything above aspirin is deemed too expensive by the local hospital trust. On top of that, despite pledges to the contrary and regulations outlawing it, our governments HAVE used money from the National Lottery to pay for what should be public services, not charitable causes.

A lottery for school admissions may also seem sad but it is nothing to the lengths some desperate parents are apparently prepared to go to get little Jakasta or Tarquin into the "right" school. There was a piece on the wireless a few weeks ago about how loads of mummys and daddys were allegedly converting to Catholicism in an effort to improve their chances of getting their spawn into Roman Catholic schools which are deemed to be the best!!! Fucking Hell!!!! Thank God I'm not a parent and Jewish schools are thought to be the best!!!!!!!

I don't think there is anything for Grantham from all of the above. It is just a sad state of affairs which is insoluble, barring the introduction of a cull of one in three children or the election of a government which can bring ALL our schools up to a very high standard - both are equally unlikely.
Still, looks like it's going to be a nice day!

Of Jogging - and Memories

Here's one!
Mrs Pither was channel hopping while I was ironing the ferrets or building the Bismark or something (I forget now) when she alighted on Crimewatch and I couldn't help but bend an ear to parts of the programme.
Kirsty Young (I'm single again Kirsty, if you're reading this) was in the chair this
week and with fitting gravitas she described a string of violent but unsolved crimes which had been perpetrated across the country.
Her husky, Scottish tones were interrupted intermittently when we were shown re-enactments of these horrors but Kirsty always reappeared to appeal as usual to us, Joe Public, for help in catching the villains.
Kirsty was at pains to point out just how many Crimewatch viewers had, over the years, come forward as witnesses having watched the programme and been responsible for scores of murders, rapes and robberies being solved.
It was at that point my mind fell to wandering and I puzzled over just how someone could remember a crime having seen it on Crimewatch but not when they were actually at the scene at the time?

"Ooh, come quick Doris, look at this on the telly!"
"What's wrong Alf? I'm lancing the cat's piles."
"Come quick! It's just like when we were in the Post Office last Tuesday and those three lads barged in front of us in the queue. Do you remember?"
"No. Which lads?"
"You remember! They were dressed in black and were all wearing ski masks. One of them hit Mrs Jackson over the head with a hammer?"
"Wasn't that in Somerfield? You know, when that girl short-changed us over the sherry?"
"Nah. I'm pretty sure it was the Post Office. I remember thinking it was unusual because Mrs Jackson normally goes to bingo on a Tuesday. I think you said to one of the lads 'Excuse me young man but some of us have been waiting here for ten minutes.'"
"Oh yes, they were students on some rag week thing, weren't they?"
"Well, I thought so. I went to give one of them 50p but he hit me in the stomach with a crowbar."
"That was so rude. I don't know, young people today."
"The Crimewatch people are appealing for witnesses. Do you remember anything about it?"
"Yes. I remember that they didn't have any brown wrapping paper in stock."
"Oh yes, that's right. And they didn't have my rough shag. Anything else?"
"No, not a thing. The big lad with the lisp, the limp and the one arm tattooed with a crucifix above the words 'My Name Is Dennis Pilkington' just blasted Mrs Dillrimple behind the counter with a sawn-off shotgun and then left."
"Why did Mr Etherington take a funny turn while we were there?"
"I don't know. He just went all moody and quiet after the other lad - you know, the 4ft 3ins one with the club foot and the Venezuelan accent? - stabbed him with that machete."
"He's always been a funny bloke, Mr Etherington."
"The Crimewatch people want to hear from anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious near the Post Office that day."
"Well we didn't! I couldn't hear a thing because the third lad - you know, the one I used to clean for?' - kept shouting 'Don't nobody come near my 'ouse at 34a Titherington Gardens, Hounslow, HO4 9SJ. I'm serious!!' as he and the others ran out with that bag marked 'swag'."
"That's right. And we couldn't see anything either because that van they all drove off in, the white Ford Transit with the dented offside, front wing, registration number D976 4EY, was blocking our view of the street."
"Wait a minute!"
"What?"
"I remember something now. We had to go to Clinton's to get a birthday card for our Nick, didn't we, on account of Mrs Dillrimple having no face left and being dead 'n' all?"
"Ooh, that's right. You are clever. Still, you always did have an eye for the out of the ordinary."

Nothing for Grantham.

Today's Chip Paper.

Look him up in the dictionary and it says "See 'c***'"


Thank God for The Sun, I say! I mean, without it, who else would be looking out for us and trying to get us the best possible help should we ever need it.

Take young Amy Winehouse, for instance. Now I'm no pharmacological expert, you understand, but I strongly suspect that Ms Winehouse has the teensiest, weensiest
drug habit. I would also hazard a further unprofessional guess that her "habit" has become something of a "problem" of late, what with her mumbling like an idiot at her gig in Birmingham, falling over a couple of times and later cancelling her nationwide tour.

Subsequently, I'm not sure when and it doesn't matter anyway, Ms Winehouse spent some time at home with a "friend", shovelling talcum powder-like substances up her nose and smoking something out of a little pipe/pot while saying that she had also taken a few valium.

Exactly what Amy was smoking I neither know nor care, as long as its prolonged use does not end up killing her, but whatever it was it apparently dulled her senses to such an extent that she did not appear to realise that her "friend" was filming her throughout the entire episode.

Her "friend" then proved his devotion and love by promptly running out and offering the film for sale to our beloved Sun - I wonder what he used his 30 pieces of silver to buy? I simply can't imagine.

The Sun, with great taste and sensitivity, then publicly posted this film for all its picture-looker-atters to tut and snigger over, once they had finished masturbating to the picture of the semi-naked, barely legal girl on Page 3.


A Sun reptile - I think it was a news editor - later belched that the paper had chosen to publish the footage to show the extent of Amy's problems and so encourage people to come forward to give her help. Hmmmm, interesting. I always thought The Sun was a lump of purulent, cancerous, cockroach excrement, written by scum-sucking bits of detritus who were only allowed to use crayons and whose parents had never married. It seems I was wrong. The Sun is, in fact, pulling for each and every one of us and trying its damnedest to look after us all.

Sadly, "editor" of the Bizarre column in the paper, Gordon Smart, appeared to have gone to a different brothel/lap dancing club for the morning's editorial conference. Smart (irony obviously lost on his parents) said: "She has a duty as a role model to thousands of impressionable kids who copy her look and attitude."

Ah! We have a slight difference of opinion. Any other other explanations, perchance?

This, from Sun editor Rebekah Wade, perhaps: "We dun it coz er's got bostin' tits n ers off em"?
Or this from The Dirty Digger himself, proprietor Rupert Murdoch, possibly: "Fuckety, fuck, wank, fuck, fuck, bollocks, tits, fuck...cobber"?
So they want the pondlife which reads The Sun to gawp at Amy Winehouse's apparent "spiral of self destruction" to both help her and at the same time bollock her for setting a bad example to kids, do they? No, not really. They did it to give millions of personality vacuums out there a cheap thrill and to make wads of cash by doing so. That's the sad, disgusting truth.
The Sun does not believe in rubbishing the world and airing EVERYONE'S dirty linen in public, however. For instance, Ms Wade's alleged attack on her husband which saw her hauled away by the filth didn't get quite so much coverage in the paper - none, in fact!

Well, they've certainly alerted some people to Ms Winehouse's apparent problems. The coppers have turned up to look at the video - not that they hadn't already seen it, 99 per cent of them being avid Sun readers. I doubt the Sun will be able to take the chuckle any further, however, as it doesn't actually PROVE anything. It is all circumstantial. Still, the whole episode will no doubt help Ms Winehouse, as The Sun originally said it intended. If she kills herself, however, it will all be our fault.

I have absolutely no idea why it has taken me this long to get round to The Sun. Why they just don't perforate it, put a hole in each square and sell it with a little bit of string is beyond me.
In conclusion, unlike The Sun, I don't want there to be any misunderstanding over my stance so here are a few musings to make things crystal clear:
1. I wouldn't piss on Rebekah Wade is she was on fire.
2. If God was going to give the world an enema he would stick the tube in the Sun's headquarters.
3. I get up earlier each day so I can hate Rupert Murdoch longer.
Clear? Good. Off it, and he, and her, go.

I Tried. God Knows I Tried!

Does anyone out there know what has happened to my little states-side drinking machine, Dynagirl? She is either:
a) Dead.
b) In an inexplicable nig with the world.
c) Trapped under something heavy.
OR
d) In an inexplicable nig with people with wooly hats.

Answers on a postcard please to:
R. Pither,
Secure Unit,
Rampton Secure Hospital,
England.

Def Con 2 - Confidence Is Low, I Repeat, Confidence IS Low

THIS RANT COMES TO YOU IN THREE PARTS.
PART "A" MIGHT BE CONSIDERED READABLE. PART "B" CONTAINS THE SAD RAMBLINGS OF AN ANGRY, MIDDLE-AGED MAN WHO NEVER HAD A JOHNNY SEVEN, NEVER GOT TO SCORE A GOAL IN THE CUP FINAL AT WEMBLEY AND NEVER GOT TO GO OUT WITH MARILYN MONROE. PART "C" IS ONLY OF VALUE TO A CRIMINAL PROFILER OR MY PSYCHIATRIST. IF YOU WANT TO SLEEP EASY - OR SLEEP AT ALL FOR THAT MATTER - PLEASE READ ONLY PART "A".

A.
Well, it's that time again. Yes, it's "Flee For The Hills Tuesday".

Traditionally, it's time to start stockpiling bones and bits of moss for food, to start running up imaginative outfits from pieces of carpet and curtain in your lounge and to leave the front door open for the bailiffs.

For the uninitiated, Flee For The Hills Tuesday follows Black Monday in the capitalists' fiscal calendar.
The last BM was in 1987. That led to red braces and filofaxes being piled high in the streets while Sterling fell to just below the value of the Wakoko Indian Naughty Nut and building societies suddenly decided that they wanted everyone's home back.
Before that we had the biggy - BM 1929. The corporate lizards who caused it did the decent thing by leaping from the top of skyscrapers but unfortunately the rest of us were left to endure four years of abject poverty, joblessness and despair. We were only saved when that nice Mr Hitler came up with a challenging way of getting everyone back to "work"!

Well, "they" decided it was time we had another Black Monday and yesterday was it. (Bush wanted to have it on Wednesday as he was due to have played golf yesterday but then Osama pulled out of the four-ball so he had a "window" in his diary).
By the time the final credits rolled on Countdown, Britain's top 100 companies found themselves £75 billion poorer than they had been during Songs of Praise. That's not £7,500, you notice. No, not even £75 million - but £75 BILLION!!

Now how, exactly, do you lose £75 billion? I mean, I've fallen asleep on the settee a few times and woken to find that the £3.28p which had been in my pocket was no longer there. Then again, I've always found it eventually, usually months later, stuffed down the back of one or more of the cushions. Is it possible, then, that BP or Tesco's nodded off during Sharpe on Sunday night and woke up yesterday a little light in the metaphorical trouser department?
Alternatively, there have been occasions when I've stuffed a few notes in the same pocket as my keys and, unbeknown to me, a fiver has tumbled out into the street when I've gone to unlock the car. Do you think British Telecom nipped out to the off-license during the ad break in The Street omnibus and there's a few million quid in a large wad currently lying outside KFC in the High Street?

To save you agonising over those two questions for hours I will give you the answers. They are "no" and "like fuck!" respectively. Shall I tell you how 100 British companies came to lose £75 billion overnight?...(Go on Reg, tell us, tell us, tell us do!!)...ok then, I will.

What actually happened was we were all pootling along quite nicely thank you, recessionless and watching Songs of Praise, Sharpe and The Street, when some shiny-suited, lounge lizards in London decided that we were all heading for a recession. We weren't but they had made their minds up that we were and they are never wrong**.
So, what did they do? Well, they reasoned that if there was a recession - which there wasn't - they would lose loads of dosh so they decided to "sell, sell, sell!" when their turn came round in that rich boys' board game which is the stocks and shares market.
Other corporate greed merchants saw what the lizards were doing and so thought there must be a recession coming, even though there wasn't, and so they too decided to cash in their chips.
The remaining capitalist crapmongers saw what both the lizards and the merchants were doing and so followed suit by dumping all their stocks and shares, even though they didn't know why because they had never had an original thought in their lives and just followed what the others did so that they wouldn't be alone if the shit hit the fan.
Guess what happened then? BINGO! We had a recession!!

** See, I told you they were always right!!

B.
Now comes the very boring bit, as forewarned.
Do you know what underpins this whole, lousy, disgusting, obscene, amoral capitalist system? It's "confidence". It's all about "confidence" - nothing else.
The reasoning behind this assertion is a little complicated but I'll try to explain it as simply as I can.

Right, the underlying nonsense of capitalism is that it is not only based on money but on the principle that money itself can and must earn money. Now, there are two ways in which money has been made to make money.
The first is interest. The more charitable might say that the interest charged on loaned money is much like a hire charge put on a piece of borrowed equipment. There are systems in existence, however, which regard the charging of interest on loans as immoral (ref. Islam) and I have to say I favour that view.
The other way in which money can be made to make money is when it is speculated upon on the financial markets. This is the purest form of "money making money" and is, of course, undeniable bollocks - I mean, consider Jack the lumberjack (I am not using his real name to save his embarrassment). He is capable of both earning and losing money. Why? Because if Jack wakes up one day with two broken arms then it is safe to assume that he is not going to earn a great deal, if anything. If, on the other hand, he wakes in the best of health, having had a good meal the night before and a good sleep, his chances of earning a good living are greatly increased.
Likewise a field of corn. If there is a monsoon, followed by an attack of blight, followed by a drought, the efforts of the corn to grow and be harvested to earn money will most likely be thwarted. Given sunshine, adequate water and no disease, however, the corn will grow and produce money at harvest.
Money, on the other hand, is not a living entity. You can't break the arms of a £1 coin. It's not affected by blight. You can get it wet but, then again, in a drought it will simply dry out again. A good night's sleep or a decent meal have no effect on it. The fact is, when a new day greets a £1 coin that coin is, in the real world, worth....well....the £1 it was the night before.
How then can it be made to make money on the financial markets, as Capitalism decrees? Well, seeing as your £1 coin is basically a lazy little bastard (owing to its lack of life 'n' all) and won't actually DO anything to earn anything, a nonsense has to be dreamed up whereby it CAN and DOES. That nonsense is "confidence".
What happens is, for example, that someone, somewhere, decides one day that they are no longer confident in the ability of your one pound to be worth one pound. The result is that it is re-valued at, say, 99p. The day after that, however, someone, somewhere is full of confidence about your one pound and so decides to revalue it at, say, £1.02p. Da daaaaaaaa!!!! There you have it. By the simple application of a purely subjective and groundless state of mind, namely confidence, your pound can earn and lose money by doing nothing. All you have to do is decide on which day to sell and on which to buy. Think I'm being cynical? What do you think the Stock Exchange and Wall Street are for? They're there because if they weren't then all those otherwise indolent, greedy bastards who trade on unseen people's lives would get wet when it rains!
This reliance on "confidence" of course infects more than just currencies. It has spread to businesses themselves, products, commodities etc.

So, what exactly happened yesterday? In short, and truth be told, NOTHING fucking happened. General Motors' cars did not suddenly cease to work. Fields of wheat across the mid-West were not wiped out by locusts. Virgin Trains' trains did not all break down (only the usual 34 per cent of them broke down!). No, what happened was someone, somewhere just stopped being confident. Who is this mystery "someone"? He is called "the market", he is Thatcher, Blair and Bush's best mate, and he leads the mindless moneymen in one huge boardgame which decides how appalling everyone else's life is going to be.

If this latest jitter in the confidence stakes persists (remember, NOTHING else has changed) then millions of us around the world will have to suffer to varying degrees, from not having a holiday this year, losing our job or having our house reposessed to being denied access to any medical treatment or starving to death!!

C.
Isn't global capitalism wonderful? "Well, it's not perfect Reg, but it's the only one which works?" Is it? Is it really? Which other systems have we tried? Outside the likes of Sweden and Cuba (The Cubans are still surviving despite the attempts of the West to strangle them to death with embargoes for the last 60 years), no-one has really tried any form of Socialism. Why not? Because the only people who would lose out would be those currently deciding how confident they feel each day and they control the media and every other fucking thing and so are intent on rubbishing Socialism at every opportunity and physically stamping it out wherever it dares to rear its head in the world. Fuck 'em, I say!

We will never end this obscene, unequitable state of affairs until economies are much more mixed and there are more nationalised industries doing business alongside and in competition with the private sector - and governments should not just be left with those loss-making businesses while the privateers cherry-pick the rest. While we're at it, let's also scrap this Blair-inspired public-private sector partnership bollocks, shall we? I mean, I'm no business genius as you might know, but I think the taxpayers are getting a pretty raw deal by pumping billions into the rail network in subsidies and grants to keep the whole fucking thing going while the miriad privatised bits of it cream off all the profits.

If we have more public ownership then voters and not just private shareholders will get a say in how things are run (shareholders in reality being the corporate big-players). The fucking stocks and shares market should not govern our lives. The well-being of the consumers (i.e the vast majority of people and certainly not the most wealthy) should be of much more importance in decision making than it is now. I personally don't give a flying fuck if the Ftse has dropped three points but the Nasdaq has risen by an apple and a banana, or that sterling has gained half a point on the dollar coming up to the water jump, or whether confidence is fucking high, low or living in a cottage on the A624 just outside Glossop! (I've Googled it so don't bother fucking checking!) It's people who fucking count, not money or fucking numbers! We should be worried about making sure people's jobs are secure, that they are paid fair wages and that corporations are neither abusing their staff, nor their Third World suppliers, nor their customers in their efforts to make money.

"But Reg, the wealth makers provide us with jobs. If they don't make so much money there won't be so many jobs!" Believe that and you'll believe anything. Who do you think puts that fucking load of old cobblers about? That is the classic scare put about by the corporate tyrants who will throw thousands of jobs on the scrapheap in the blink of an eye just to notch profits up another percentage point (Isn't it an obscenity that a profitable company can sack thousands of workers merely to make even more profit, however small?). Remember the introduction of the minimum wage? It was going to spell the end for businesses in this country and we were all going to lose our jobs. What happened? Fuck all! - only exploited people became legally entitled at last to something approaching a living wage.

If you don't know what I'm sending to Grantham, I have no confidence in your ability to recognise a good rant when you read one!

P.S. To anyone who mistakes the USSR after the war, various African banana republics or modern China as anything other than Fascist dictatorships bearing no resemblance to Socialism whatsover - see me afterwards!

This Fule Kno.

Our Elizabeth over on Betty's Utility Room - yes, she of the fly-away hair and love of cookery and Conservatives (Sic) - has reminded me, inadvertently or not, of a big influence on my childhood.

Do you remember Nigel Molesworth? Have you ever heard of him? I thought The Eye and I were alone in the universe in hero worshipping Molesworth but I may have been living in ignorance (or just outside it, anyway). Well, he's a few years older than me and by now is a man but he must still be very much after my own heart.

I have nothing else to say on the subject, really. You have to read the musings of Molesworth to understand his genius - as any fule kno.


According to Wikipedia, Molesworth is "big" in some quarters but I know of only one other bloke who has any knowledge of him. Wikipedia has this marvellously pompous and therefore funny description of the boy:

"Nigel is a schoolboy at St Custard's, a fictional (and terrible) prep school located in a carefully unspecified part of England. Nigel's spelling is extremely uneven, a feature found endearing by fans. While in this article all proper nouns have been capitalised, purists might argue that 'Molesworth' should in fact be written as 'molesworth', and 'St Custard's' as 'st custards', as they are in the books. The phrase "as any fule kno"[2] (spelt as such), appended to many of Nigel's pronouncements, has achieved fame beyond its author, and can sometimes be seen in the mainstream British press (usually in a satirical context; the phrase often appears in Private Eye).

The books in the series are, in order of publication:

Down with Skool! A Guide to School Life for Tiny Pupils and their Parents (1953)
How to be Topp: A Guide to Sukcess for Tiny Pupils, Including All There is to Kno about Space (1954)
Whizz for Atomms: A Guide to Survival in the 20th Century for Fellow Pupils, their Doting Maters, Pompous Paters and Any Others who are Interested (1956)
Published in the U.S. as Molesworth's Guide to the Atommic Age
Back in the Jug Agane (1959)
The Compleet Molesworth (1958)
Molesworth (2000 Penguin reprint), ISBN 0-14-118600-3"


Grantham shall definitely NOT have Molesworth.

Spanish Fry

I had tapas last night.
Now call me unsophisticated if you like (and that's Mr Unsophisticated to you!), but I'd never had tapas before and, wanna know something? The next time I have it there will no longer be a hole in my arse!

Pither's latest rejection of Britain's entry into Europe followed a day out yesterday in Big City. I had gone with a bunch of pals to celebrate the birthdays of no fewer than four of our number and, before they read this and drum me out of the Fat, Forelorn and Forty-Something Club, I have to say a jolly good time was had by all.

The birthday boys.


The afternoon was spent touring half a dozen or so pubs in and around Big City's Jewellery Quarter, all bar one of which (The Villa Rose, pictured) turned out to be spectacularly unspectacular and served beer to match. Still, it's the company which makes a grand day out and with a dozen mutants with whom to chew the fat it was always going to be better than sitting at home cutting my toenails and watching Curtain Call at Cactus Creek.

Beer drunk, we made our way to an ultra-trendy quarter in the heart of Big City and an ultra-trendy tapas restaurant where we had booked a table for 7pm. You could almost hear the Egon Ronay stars falling off the outside of the building as we shambled inside. I think if they'd known what to expect the staff would have put straw down and laid on a couple of troughs for us!
Anyway, we declined the offer of complimentary goatee beards (to match those worn by seemingly all the beautiful young things already in the restaurant) and took our tubular
steel and sculpted softwood seats to await the comida. To save faffing around, we each ordered a set offering-for-one and as the dishes began to appear so did my knowledge of Spanish.

Firstly, I was led to believe that "tapa" literally meant "lid". Well, that's not true. Tapas more accurately translates as either "fuck all!" or "twiglets". Ok, ok, ok, I know tapas are traditionally appetisers but if that's the case then who in the holy name of fuck decided that it would be a good idea to make them into an entire cuisine? I mean, if Johnny Spaniard came over here and was given a meal consisting of one hundredth of a bowl of soup, followed by a twenty seventh of a prawn cocktail, followed by one millionth of a melon with one thousandth of a spoonful of pate to finish I think he'd be demanding his pesetas back quicker than he could say "We're not all Fascists any more, honest!"

I am a 16-stone bloke. I had entered the restaurant having consumed just one cheese cob and my entire bodyweight in beer since 7am. Under normal circumstances, had a middle-aged cow been tethered to my table at that stage of the evening I would have had my fork into it and been down to the hooves before the waiter had brought the wine list! Imagine my slight disappointment then when "a fillet of anchove" was slid in front of me. Not a shoal of anchove, you notice. Not even A WHOLE fucking anchove, oh dear me no. No, a fucking FILLET OF ANCHOVE!!!!. Who the fuck had they got working in the kitchen? A microsurgeon? How the buggery bollocks do you fillet an anchove? The fucking thing is only two angstroms thick to start with!! I was shitting it each time someone came in the restaurant because the inrush of air could have blown it off the plate and seen it dissipate in the atmosphere!

One thing I did know, however, was how my anchove had died - it had been drowned in olive oil!! Death by olive oil seemed to be a recurrant theme in tapas cuisine, as it turned out. Next up were a couple of asparagus. Not ordinary aspaparaus, mind you. No, "white" asparagus. Do you know the difference between normal asparagus and white asparagus? Yup, one's green, one's white, one's not poncey, the other is. Apart from that, they taste exactly the fucking same.

Anyway, after two courses and with 0.0043 grammes of food inside me with a slightly lower nutrific value than the table at which I was sitting, I was seriously beginning to worry that I might not make it through alive. I think even Karen Carpenter would have been getting peckish by that stage! Admittedly, we were getting peppered with olives which kept coming from the kitchen like buckshot from a blunderbuss but trying to stay alive on something you normally just fish out of a vodka martini is no easy task.

Joy of joys then when I was told that the exotic sounding "patatas bravas" were on their way. Sadly, the translation turned out to be "chips the size and shape of dice in ketchup". To save time, let me give you some other translations gleaned on the night:

Sardinas al ajillo - anorexic sardine poisoned with lemon and garlic.

Embutiidos - Spanish cured meats the size of a watch face and cut so thin you can see the name of who made your plate through them.

Primientos rojos con anchoas - three slices of red pepper softened to the consistency of snot....with another fucking anchove.

Almendras - half a handful of fucking nuts.

Gambas al ajiilo - a prawn the size of a hamster's penis which, when de-shelled, is the size of a premature baby hamster's penis.

That, I think, was about it. There were a worrying few moments at the end of the meal when the waiters came out en-masse to our table. I seriously thought that they were going to demand that we build a railway but they only wanted to make sure we paid up and didn't do a runner. Chance would have been a fine thing. We barely had the energy to stand, let alone run!

So, in a nutshell (as, indeed, the entire meal could have fitted), I am not a big fan of tapas. As the Spanish equivalent of twiglets they are fine - something to nibble on while you're having a beer. As a meal for any creature which is larger than a gerbil and is not chained to a radiator in Baghdad, they are inadequate.
Tapas can go to Grantham.

Padfoot - The Bad News

Padfoot is back from hospital in Liverpool and once again recovering from the cutting, prodding and probing of the medical fraternity.
The upshot of his extended stay at the university's Small Animal Hospital is the vets have confirmed that he DOES have cancer and he has been given about six months to live.

A CT scan, X-rays and blood tests revealed all organs were working fine, there were no obvious tumours and at one point it looked as if he might even be given the all clear. However, the wall of one lung was slightly thickened and they found a mass of fluid in his chest cavity so took samples.
The biopsies had to be sent down to Cambridge for analysis and the results returned on Thursday evening and revealed that he has a virulent cancer in his lungs. Anyway, they drained the fluid in his chest and removed about a pint! They told me, however, that is not unusual for a dog of his size as they can often find about four pints!


I went to collect Pad on Friday afternoon - enduring an horrendous storm, torrential rain, a five-hour round trip, one of the worst drives I can ever recall and two near-accidents. I took Henry (the three-leggged leader of the pack) with me for company and he and the boy seemed indifferent about being reunited - dogs are funny creatures.

Pad is now home again and slowly reacclimatising to The Towers. The procedures have knocked him about a bit, obviously, and he is drinking voraciously again, has a throaty cough and is very sluggish and out of sorts. However, having witnessed his recovery from his operation about a month ago, I put this all down to what he underwent at the hospital. The cough and thirst are, I'm sure, caused by the tubes shoved down his throat and his demeanour and lack of energy are down to the trauma. I am certain he will be back to his old self in about a week as he has already begun to get his appetite back.

Looking on the bright side, he no longer has that awful muck in his chest and so can breathe easier. Also, he has been given an anti-inflammatory which is easing the degeneration in his back legs. Combined, these two things mean that he is in a better state than before I took him to hospital and so, apart from definitively revealing what is wrong with him, it was well worth his five days away - and the bill of £3,700!!

One thing which is depressing him a tad is that, once again, they shaved his fur to carry out the procedures. They cut a big circle in each of his flanks and the result is that he looks like a bloody poodle!! - pretty embarrassing for a street-wise alsatian with credibility to maintain. Still, like before, his fur will grow back soon.








Today he is going to have a huge shoulder of beef all to himself as a treat. He also has two new beds (one in the lounge and one in the kitchen), a new, soft toy to play with and boxes and boxes of chews and treats.
I am determined that his remaining time with me is going to be as happy and comfortable as possible and no expense will be spared.
He's where he wants to be and he's not in any pain.

I'm sure you can imagine that this is pretty tough to write about and so I am not going to post about him for quite a while - his ups and downs will be between me, Mrs P and him. I will, however, document the very end for those who have been so kind as to ask about him. Rest assured, he is currently one of the happiest, safest, most comfortable and loved creatures on the planet.

Dropping A Bollock (Or Two)?

What did you do yesterday?
Work, more than likely? A bit of shopping for the weekend? Went for a POETS Day pint, perhaps? Well, spare a thought for an acquaintance of mine.......he went and got his bollocks cut off!
The whole concept baffles me! I mean, for a start, had he written it in his diary? Is it the sort of appointment you are likely to forget?

"FRIDAY, JANUARY 11 (Spring Tide in Barcelona. Theodora crowned Empress of the Byzantine Empire in 1055)........10.30am. MUST! MUST!! MUST!!! Get testicles removed!"

Do you think he found himself chatting to someone in the morning when he suddenly exclaimed: "Shit!! Sorry mate, I've gotta dash! I've just remembered, I'm supposed to be having me nadgers lopped off. Catch yer later."?

Before this rambling expression of incredulity goes any further I suppose I had better explain. You see, this guy wasn't just bored. It wasn't something to do to liven up an otherwise dull day. No, the operation (or was it a "procedure"?) was a metaphorical milestone at the end of a long road for him. Simultaneously, it was the ribbon-cutting ceremony on a brand new highway he will be travelling down from now on - only it wasn't ribbon which got cut!
You see, this chap, for a long time now, has felt like a woman. Well, haven't we all? I, for a start, could do with one right now! The trouble is, he not only felt like a woman - he wanted to BE one!
Standing 6ft 4ins tall and having a hairy chest, not tits and facial stubble does not really mark you out from the start as being would-be Miss World material (although I remember being very dubious about Miss Venezuela in 1972!). There are, however, ways around some of that. I gather he's been undergoing years of hormone treatment to grow gazongas. Now that bit I can get my mind around. God! I'd love to have my own - cut out the middle woman! The rest of it I am not so certain about. I think they pumped him full of oestrogen (or did they suck out testosterone, a bit like bleeding the brakes on your car?). Whatever they did, it banished his bodily hair and gradually gave him the complete inability to read a map or walk past shoe shops. There was, however, not much they could do about his height, short of amputating his legs below the knee, but I suppose Jerry Hall gets away with basketball player-stature and so it CAN work.
So far so good. He had been wearing women's clothes in the company of close friends for quite a while but, so confident was he of his chest furniture and new, streamlined look that he ventured out in his new persona to a party I attended. He had an eye-catching, knee-length frock and was made up to the nines. I was sorely tempted to ask "So, what's it really like having tits?" but I was on my best behaviour all night and chatted instead to him about life, the universe and everything, while telling him intermittently that he looked really good. I was, of course, lying. Sadly, he looked, as do almost all blokes outside Bangkok who dress up as women, like.................well...........like............like a bloke in a dress!

Anyway, that was last September. It had obviously been explained to him at the time that only two things then stood between him and full access to the ladies toilets in pubs - and they'd gotta go!"
So, yesterday, off he went - and off they went! I'm not sure what they've done about his "appendage". It wasn't mentioned to me. Someone suggested that "they" sort of turn it in on itself and make a rudimentary front bottom, a bit like making a pot out of a lump of clay. Someone else said "they" just cut it off and stick up a "No Entry" sign in its place. I really don't know but would be fascinated to hear from the more informed.

More importantly, what do they do with "them"? I don't know about you but I'd fucking want them back! I mean, if people can buy horrid little dolls in traditional Welsh costume to remind them of when they went to Llanduddno then you'd think that deciding whether or not to keep your bollocks in a jar to remind you of when you were a man would be a no-brainer!......and they'd make a fantastic conversation piece on top of the telly!

I digress. Anyway, what has got my mind in a spin is the complete and utter, 100 per cent, bona fide, unshakable, almost God-inspired confidence behind a decision like this. I mean, it's not as if you can go back next week and say "I've changed me mind. Can you sew these back on for me?" Even if you could, there is no way they could wire them up again properly!

We all have decisions to make in life. Let's face it, we take minor decisions almost every minute of every day but I'm not on about toss-ups over whether to have tea or coffee or whether to tell Jenkinson from accounts that he's a twat or just let it ride? I'm talking about BIG DECISIONS. You know, whether to get married, whether to have kids, whether to buy or rent, where to live, which property, when to stand up and be counted, where you stand on issues etc, etc.
I can honestly say that I have never taken a major decision in my life which I was totally and immovably convinced was completely the right one to take. I've been 99 per cent certain. I've even been 99.9 per cent certain - but the full 100 per cent? No.

To my mind, deciding whether or not to kiss goodbye to your balls is something you just GOTTA be certain about. There IS no way back after they've gone. As Ali MacGraw almost said to Ryan O'Neal in Love Story, "Plucking your plums means never having to say you're sorry."

I think castration can go to Grantham.

SPOT THE TYPO - "Tony Blair is a Banker"

With that at home, wouldn't you go out and get a job?



Phew!! Don't know about you but I'm really relieved - Tony Blair has got another job at last!
He's joined investment bank J P Morgan at a salary of £500,000-a-year for about one afternoon's work every six months as a......as a.......a.......well, as a former Prime Minister. Funny, I didn't see that one advertised in the Guardian - "Wanted - Rabid, Self-Serving, Insincere, Judas-Admiring, Greedy Capitalist Former British Prime Minister With Absolutely No Morals or Sense of Shame to Do Fuck All for Neo-Nazi Financial Institution Other Than Agree To Have His Name Put Alongside Those of the Other Fat Cat Directors on Letterheads and on the Office Nameplate." It must have been in the "personals".
Anyway, I had been getting really worried about Tone. I mean, apart from that holiday job going around the Middle East telling everyone to play nicely and forget that he and his illiterate, drunken, unicellular, Texan twat chum fucked the place up beyond recognition by bombing the shit out of Iraq and leaving the region on the verge of anarchy, the boy's been out of work for a while.
I pictured him lounging around all day, eating delivery pizzas and drinking blue pop while watching Trisha and then playing snooker in the evenings before hanging around his local shopping precinct, sniffing Evostick and taunting Asian shopkeepers.
You've gotta admit, he's done well. It just shows that if you get up off your arse and get on your bike to go to look for work, it's out there! Ok, it's only a part-time job, but it's a start.
Well done Tony! You've done everything the state demands of you - except die horribly in a car crash!!

In Which Pither Blathers on About His Bloody Dog Again and Fans of Satire and Comedy Get Pissed Off and Very Bored.

If you don't love animals then please, do me a favour - sod off now! I don't want anything to do with cretins who don't love animals!

For those of you left...............My Padfoot is currently at Liverpool University's Veterinary Training College Small Animal Hospital. Mrs P and I dropped him off there yesterday and I blubbed like a five-year-old when we had to say goodbye.
Pad was kept in overnight while lots of tests were carried out. He is being kept in again tonight while he recovers from an anaesthetic and he is likely to be kept in tomorrow night as well.
It is all very complicated and the preliminary results have shown up weird things but I don't want to talk about it until I know more about what is happening.
I took some photos of him on his Grand Day Out and the place which is looking after him, just in case anyone is interested. Scary days!


Interesting photo Number 2,347 - Proof that we had arrived!


Explaining what is about to happen, and why we are where we are. Tricky!


The famous Small Animal Hospital - if anywhere can help him, this place can!


Well, time to go for it - what does the future hold?

God For Sale! - Get Him While He's Hot!!

Today's lesson is taken from the Gospel according to Nicky Campbell, BBC 1, The Big Question, 10am.
And verily, the smug, self-important, if-it's-going-to-be-on-telly-pick-me-pick-me Scotsman did say unto his studio audience: "Is the Church of England a failing business? It's got top heavy management and attendances are down all round. Is it time for the Church to be more proactive to get bums on seats?"

Bums on seats? I failed to see how putting chairs outside Sainsbury's on Saturday afternoons for the Tenants Extra-swilling gentleman who normally gathered there would help "the one true faith" but I think I got Nasty Nicky's point...............and what a brilliant idea!!

Yeah, let's get Saatchi and Saatchi in and let's push that mother! Let's make the Church sexy! Those loonies standing around town centres on orange boxes, Bible in hand, shouting at passers-by that Jesus died for THEM just ain't reaching the core demographic! We gotta brand this baby, conga with the congregations and sell, sell, sell!! It's time for a marketing meeting! "Fiona, Rupert, Darren, Craig - call the bishop!"

Rupert: "So, Bish, give me the this God stuff in a nutshell. What's our product?"
Bishop: "Uuurrmmm......."
Craig: "Ok, ok. Let's buy a platform ticket before we catch the rocket express to Big Time Central. Give me a focus for the campaign."
Bishop: "Well, there's Jesus, I suppose."
Rupert: "Now we're cooking! Fiona, get this Jesus dude on the horn. I want a photoshoot tomorrow. See if Janet Jackson's free...and we'll need a couple of Harley Davidsons."
Bishop: "Jesus is dead, I'm afraid. He died to save us all."
Fiona: "Bumsville Arizona!!"
Darren: "Wait just a doggone minute. It's coming to me. Let me run this up the flagpole and see who salutes? How about 'Jesus - he's dead good!'?"
Fiona: "Like it, like it, like it! Dazza, you're the man! Now, Bish, give me more about this J cat."
Bishop: "Well, he was a carpenter and he died on The Cross."
Darren: "Great! Now we gotta theme!! Wood!!"
Craig: "Yeah! 'Get God - Get Wood! We could have a cross as our logo!"
Rupert: "The British National Party has already got that one."
Fiona: "Who cares? We've got a heady brew here. Who else we got in the mix?"
Bishop: "Jesus had 12 disciples - followers."
Craig: "Too many. They'll never make a wide shot on Top of the Pops. We need to downsize."
Bishop: "But......"
Rupert: "Craigy, get Simon Cowell's people to talk to our people. We'll run four series of False Idol and get a band together - Jesus and the Jesuits? All Saints? Let's rock!"
Fiona: "Anything else, Bish?"
Bishop: "Well, Jesus performed miracles. For instance, he turned water into wine."
Darren: "It just gets better! 'Holy Water - It's a Fucking Miracle!' We could undercut Evian!"

And so it goes on. How, exactly, does one "sell" faith? Mr Campbell's ridiculous proposition at the beginning of this post is just a symptom of the times. Viewing figures for religion? If ever we needed saving by the Son of God, it's now!
Nothing can just be. It has to make a profit. It has to be marketed and sold. The mantra has become so ingrained over the last 30 years that people take it for granted and never stop to think what they are saying or doing (Campbell being a classic case in point).
Christ (pardon the irony), if society says electricity, gas and even Wales can be "sold" then of course they're going to try to flog religion.
Heck, the Moslem fundamentalists are making a pretty good job of selling Islam to inner city kids (the offer of free virgins for eternity IS a winner, you've got to admit) and Bush and his ultra-Conservative Christian fanatics have done pretty well flogging the concept of "terror" and "the evil empires" to the West.

What to send to Grantham? Well, I sent myself there yesterday - which reminds me, Jim Davidson, Thatcher, Jeremy Clarkson and I are going to a themed, Harvester pub this lunchtime to have a Brake Bros, pre-packed meal next to the children's ballpond play area and then we're going to a New Labour meeting before spending the evening watching Pop Idol re-runs!

Where was I? Oh, yes, Grantham. I think the idea that EVERYTHING is a business and so EVERYTHING is marketable has to go - don't you?

Lust!

"Drop you panties Sir Roger, I can't wait until lunchtime!"



I watched Essex Boys the other night.

For those who haven't seen it, it's a violent British gangster flick based around the murders of vicious drug barons Pat Tate, Tony Tucker and Craig Rolfe who died in a hail of point-blank shotgun blasts as they sat in a Range Rover in an isolated farm track near the village of Rettendon, Essex, in December 1995.

The star of the film is the improbably cast Sean Bean (pronounced Scene Been). Mr "I'm Sheffield United 'Til I Die" stands about 5ft 10ins tall, weighs around 12 stones and when away from film sets talks like an extra from Emmerdale. He was, therefore, an obvious first choice to play the psychotic Mr "Do-What?-As-It-'Appens-Apples-'n'-Pears-You're-'Avin-A-Giraffe" Tate who was 6ft 8ins tall (seriously!) and tipped the scales at about 20 stones.

Any road up - or is it farmtrack down? - I am a big fan of British gangster films and so found Essex Boys an enjoyable romp down the picturesque back roads of mindless violence, drugs, psychosis and estuarine bad taste (even though it did skirt somewhat clumsily around the nightclub death of 18-year-old Leah Betts after she took some dodgy ecstasy which had passed through the hands of our eponymous anti-heroes).

Where is all this leading, I hear someone cry in Ward 4? Well, the film made me realise that I am in lust. Not with "the other" Mr Bean, you understand, but with one of his co-stars - Alex Kingston.
Now this is where I have to apologise to women readers because what I'm about to put down in words might just come over as ever-so-slightly crude, chauvinistic and possibly juvenile. Then again, it might just prove to be worthwhile by giving a tiny insight into how men's brains work (they do work, honest!)

Why am I in sweaty, pumping, naughty, ride-me-into-the-sunset-Lavinia lust with Ms Kingston? Well, it's because she falls into the rarest yet most lusted after category of women on earth, AS DEFINED PURELY BY PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS ALONE (so don't bother writing in to complain, whatever your sex!).
For those of a XX chromosome persuasion, let me outline the principal categories of women as agreed by the International Brotherhood Of Humans With Dangly Bits at the dawn of time (feel free to correct me chaps if I get any of this wrong).

As my memory is not what it used to be and by way of providing an occasional reference for SOME of the examples given, I have used the following site - The 100 Most Beautiful Faces In The World.
In no particular order, for all have their plus points and pitfalls, there are:

1. BEAUTIFUL women (eg. Elizabeth Taylor in her youth, Grace Kelly before she got mangled, Jean Simmons in her youth, Heather Graham, Charlize Theron, Julianne Moore etc). These women appear statuesque and, in the eyes of men, unapproachable. They have classic features and invariably slim lines. Very much like a great painting, they inspire awe but can only ever be looked at, not engaged with.

2. PRETTY women (eg. Julia Roberts - mad though she may be (Oops, sorry, I DID say physical appearance only) - Marion Cotillard, Jessica Alba, Krista Allen, Kylie Minogue etc). These women appear to be girly-girlies, fluffy, sweet, cute and words like that. They could be girlfriends/partners and would be giggly and fun but one suspects would have bedrooms packed from floor to ceiling with fluffy Teddy bears and Snoopy dolls.

3. GOOD LOOKING women (eg. Gerry Hall, Lauren Bacall, Kirsty Young, Hilary Clinton (yes, I know!), Kirsty Walk, Benazir Bhutto - before she was shot! - Jean Simmons these days, Dolly Parton, Juliette Binoche etc). These women are, WITHOUT FAIL, over at least 35 and are what society disparagingly refers to as "mature". They appear very strong, not in a weight-lifting sense and not in a shouting-and-carping-and-interrupting-everyone-because-they're-always-right-radical-feminist-lesbian kind of way. Their strength invariably comes across in a calm, worldlywise and intelligent demeanour. These women are as rare as rocking horse shit but I, for one, am a big, big fan.

4. "TOMBOYISH" women (eg. Dawn French, Charlie Dimmock, Gabby Yorath - borderline "pretty" - Nell McAndrew - borderline "good looking" - Kim Wilde - borderline beautiful - etc). These women spell "fun" and have the added advantage that they are ostensibly men with tits. The drawbacks are that they may leave socks lying around which smell worse than your own and when you get home each evening you have to race them to the booze fridge.

5. ATTRACTIVE women. Ah! Now we have come to the most indefinable category of all. They are purely a matter of personal taste and they can also fall into any one of the other categories listed here but there is just SOMETHING about them which you find irresistible and mesmerising. They are the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle of women. Me, I particularly like Class Two Occlusions (ever so, ever so slightly goofy teeth) and jet black hair but that doesn't preclude other women. These are THE women for long term relationships/love. (eg. In my book; Mrs Pither - obviously - Judy Lowe, Rachel Weisz, Nigella Lawson, Dolly Parton - I know, but she IS indefinable - Alex Kingston, Kristin Scott Thomas and so on and so on.)

6. SEXY women. (eg. Sophia Loren, Joanna Lumley, Heidi Klum, Bridget Moynahan etc). These women ooze sexuality, usually with looks described popularly as "smouldering" and "sultry". Nights with these ladies would involve soft music, satin sheets, champagne, slowness and gentleness. Ultimately, these women have a certain class - unlike........

7. "TARTY" women. (eg. Jordan, Jodie Marsh, anything falling out of China Whites on the arm of a footballer). These "women" have so little going for them that they have to wear as little as humanly possible in a desperate attempt to draw the eye to them. Despite the image they try to portray, they are invariably about as much use in bed as a lawnmower. Nights with these "ladies" would involve penicillin and a do-it-yourself job in the bathroom!

8. OTHER women. Basically, these are the women who do not fit into any of the other categories when judged purely physically. They do, however, fall into one such category when judged on their personality which is only discovered by talking to them. Sadly, men, whose primary stimulus is the visual, often don't bother to find out what their personality is like and so invariably miss out on the best chance of happiness they will ever have!

And finally, we come to the category into which Alex Kingston fits (remember her? At the beginning of this marathon Blog?). Ms Kingston is one of the world's...................
9. FILTHY women!!! Dear God, these women are fantastic but are also rare. They combine "sexy" and "attractive" with a sort of more covert wordlywise, moral casualness. These women, you just know, could kill you - but what a way to go! These women are also always "mature" and know EXACTLY what to do! I have, for some years, had my own subdivision of this category - the Treble Fs (Fit, Filthy and Forty/Fifty-Something). Unlike "Tarty" women, they do no put everything on a plate - rather, by

a smouldering look, they let you know that a silver platter is just beneath the low-cut, high-heeled surface and it is piled high with things you haven't even tasted before but wouldn't mind nibbling! A night with one of these women would involve a rubber badger costume, baby oil, various chocolate sauces, handcuffs, a bath, a shower, a set of parallel bars, things powered by batteries, the modified outfits of various female public servants, time spent pretending to be a headmaster, very little time spent looking at her face, more sexual positions than there are are spermatozoa in an elephant's testicles and a trip to casualty!

Phew! There, I think that's it. Of course, there are some men (Heaven forfend that I should be one of them) who believe that, physically, there are only two categories of women:

WOMEN WITH BIG TITS AND WOMEN WITHOUT!

Ok, ok, ok, it's been coming for a while - I'll send myself to Grantham!

Jewellery Foolery

Swill before swine? (and there are two fucking "l"s in jewellery!!)



I've just discovered the genius which is..............Diamonique!!!
Oh my dear God!! The years I've wasted! How could I have been such a fool? When will I ever learn? Is there yet time to asbsorb that on which I have missed out?

So, there I was, lying in bed last night, tossing and turning - well, turning at any rate - when I realised I had hit the "admit it dumbass, you ain't never gunna get to sleep" wall and so I waddled downstairs in the pitch dark to make a cup of tea.
Brew in hand, I groped my way through into the lounge (sorry Doris, sitting room) and plonked myself down to watch a bit of mindless Devil's Lantern in the hope of lulling myself back off to sleep.

In the inky blackness, I reached out and seized one of the 28 remote controls by the side of the armchair, only to find that my chosen zapper switched on the stereophonic gramophone device in the corner. The next one sparked the System 2000 videorama box into life, the third opened the CD drawer while pressing the fourth one appeared to make the dogs snarl at me! It was beginning to resemble a scene from Chaplin's Modern Times and I was seriously concerned that one more blind guess would lead to Mrs Pither being awoken upstairs by her nightie mysteriously sliding up and down so I took the plunge and switched on the lights..............Oouch!!!

Squinting madly like a mole in a solarium, I found the remote upon which Mrs P had helpfully scrawled the letters "TV" in marker pen and finally managed to turn on the box...................and there it was!!!!! The Diamonique Sale!

What a find!!! This belter of a show is a feature of the shopping channel QVC which I believe exclusively markets Diamonique. What is Diamonique, exactly. Well, in brief, it's a synthetic substance which resembles the stuff found on the pavement after someone has lobbed a brick through the window of a shop in a smash and grab raid.
How did someone come up with the idea of marketing smashed glass, you might ask? Well, it appears that someone at QVC realised the following facts:
F1. People like diamonds.
F2. Diamonds are very sparkly.
F3. Diamonds are very, very expensive.
F4. Smashed glass found on pavements after smash and grab raids is a little bit sparkly.
F5. Smashed glass found on pavements after smash and grab raids is not in the least bit expensive.

So far so good, eh? The trouble is, QVC then took things a step further. They took the five facts above and came up with the following conclusions:
C1. If people like diamonds they must like them because they are sparkly.
C2. People can't normally afford diamonds.
C3. People can afford smashed glass found on pavements after smash and grab raids.
C4. People will buy smashed glass found on pavements after smash and grab raids instead of diamonds.

Now comes the really scary bit...........it appears that QVC was right!!! The very fact that this crap is being shovelled out on the channel indicates that someone, somewhere, is buying it!!
The way I see it is, why on earth would someone want to buy an imitation which looks as much like diamond as does a dog turd? Do the desperados who snap up this shite seriously think that when they swan around, flashing their Diamonique at anyone within eyeline people aren't thinking "poor cow - she's wearing smashed glass found on pavements after smash and grab raids and wants us to think they're diamonds".

Diamonds are special because they're beautiful - intrinsically beautiful - they are very rare and they are miracles of nature. There are two kinds of things in this world - things which are diamonds and things which are not! Why buy one thing and pretend it is something else? Well, the answer to that lies in the sort of people who buy this tat.
Diamonique buyers are doubtless the same people who buy designer labels or who have their tits lifted or who spend their lives clothes shopping or who think shoes are really "cool" and what is actually happening in the world is "really gash and boring". It's all about impressing people, as they see it. They have nothing to offer and so they try to buy themselves some sort of value to society (a Thatcherite inspired piece of thinking). Instead of living their lives so as to become what they want to or can be, they buy some materialist crap in the vain belief that it will hoodwink everyone else and make them appear to be something they are not.

I've gone off the point a bit now. I had meant to bang on about the banality of a show which consists of some moron holding up bits of broken glass for hours and fucking hours of tubetime but I've gone and got myself all steamed up over the futility of modern society - not a bad leap off the tracks for the train of thought, even by my standards.

Anyway, back to the real point - if there ever was one. Diamonique can go to Grantham.

Dyson - With Death!

Life sucks - you don't! Goodbye.


We've had a death in the family.
Yup, Pither has ridden the crest of the New Year effortlessly and set sail into 2008 exactly as he navigated 2007 - leaking below the waterline and in danger of going down with all hands!
The vacuum cleaner is irrevocably fucked! I use the words "irrevocably fucked" because those were the ones used today by the technical geniuses in my local vacuum cleaner repair shop.

It is true to say that the vacuum - a Dyson (but that's the last plug he's getting!) - and I have endured a rocky relationship during our six years together but, like an Essex girl and herpes, we have got used to one another's company.
She (a man could never suck with such power or expertise) was initially
pronounced "fucked" by Martin Bormann "I Can Fix It" Comedy Repairs Ltd back in 2003 when her drivebelt snapped. During a search for her guarantee, however, I discovered replacement drivebelts in the box in which she came, fitted one with ease, and so all was well with the world again.

Her belts subsequently snapped as regularly as does the elastic on Jodie Marsh's knickers but because of my new-found mechanical prowess I was always able to get her back on the road - well, the carpet, at any rate. Then, three years ago, just as her extended guarantee became as valid as Benazir Bhutto's bus pass, her main hose tore free from her body (the vacuum cleaner's - not Mrs Bhutto's). The cranial vacuum in a fawn overall at THE shop promptly declared her "really fucked" and so, in desperation, I rang the manufacturer. It turned out that, once again, all was not lost and at a cost of a mere 80 of our earth pounds she was sent for a full MoT, which included the fitting of a new hose. Hurrah!

We were never in luck for long, however, and tragedy struck again last year when one of her wheels fell off. In the business, according to Messrs Bormann and associates at least, that is known as being "completely fucked". Another call to the maker's, however, led to her being sent away for an undercarriage replacement which, at a cost of another £80, pulled her back from the brink and enabled her to trundle on again happily.

Mrs Pither did point out on the last occasion that, while the cleaner was again fully functional, it warranted an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's most costly domestic device! I am, however, a fierce opponent of the throw-away society and will not give up on anything until I can actually see it weeping blood and hear its screams for eternal rest (ref. Pither's marriage, Chapter 28).
That moment came for my beloved vacuum at about 11am today. With four dogs, Pither Towers needs only one day without vacuuming to resemble the contents of an Italian woman's pants in the 1970s and, after a suspension of domestic chores over the festive holiday, the old place was looking distinctly hirsute.
I fired up old faithful in the dining room and had only managed about two sweeps across the carpet when there was a loud "FIZZ, CRACKLE, CRACKLE, SHHHHH, VOOOSHH, CRACKLE!" The power died and then there was an awful, acrid, burning oil smell and I looked down to see thick, black smoke pouring from the back of the machine. I instantly knew what it meant. I even envisaged tiny little people running up to the brushes end, screaming, and diving off into the shag pile as an equally tiny band of musicians sat stoically in deckchairs at the other end playing Abide With Me.
I waddled round to Bormann Brothers at lunchtime to be given the technical diagnosis and then, by way of my need for a second opinion, I rang the manufacturer. Both pronouncements were the same:
"Yeah, that's irrevocably fucked, mate!"

So, I have finally admitted defeat and THE vacuum cleaner is no more. Unfortunately, these paltry words are the only room for sentiment in a house which is in dire need of a comb-over, let alone vacuuming, and so, as soon as the smoke had cleared, Mrs Pither went forthwith to The Big Shop Which Sells Everything this afternoon to buy a new model.
Mrs P had set her heart on a particular model, the selling point of which was that it was apparently specially designed to cope with pet hairs! Hmmm, we shall see. Anyway, there were none in stock when she went so she has ordered one and it is due on Monday. I am looking forward immensely to the arrival of this latest sucker to inhabit The Towers - in fact, it will be the 126th most exciting thing which has ever happened to me.
Anyway, here's to absent friends. Defiance of the throw-away society shall not go to Grantham.