Brilliant Ideas of the 21st Century - Number 2,358.

I just love market economics - don't you? No? Oh! Well go and watch the Italians kicking lumps out of the French in Euro 2008, then.

Those of you left - Pity little Mervyn King, Governor of the Bank of England. He's been forced to write a naughtiness note to Chancellor Alistair Darling explaining why inflation is up to 3.3 per cent.

When it was at 2 per cent old Merv didn't have to put pen to paper because that was the Government's target. Even when it rose to 3 per cent The Swervester left the Basildon Bond alone. No, only when it rose that extra 0.3 of a percent did he have to get scribbling.

The rules dictate that if inflation rises by MORE than a single percentage point above Number 11's target then Merv has to put the Naughty Hat on and explain what the fuck is going on.

Now, Merv is paid about two hundred squillion quid to monitor the economy and come up with Baldrickesque cunning plans to keep everything in check. So, what does he do? Well, he sits in detention in BoE Towers and writes to Alistair (yes, he who appears as a negative on film) and says that inflation has gone up too much because the cost of things is rising a lot. What, is it anticipated, will be his solution to this jolly poor state of affairs? He's going to put up interest rates, that's what. Yes, he's going make the cost of things rise a lot to stop the cost of things rising a lot. It's a belter!!

Hearing this on Radio Old Folks this morning Pither, of course, began screaming at his wireless, saying such things as "If petrol is going up so much, why don't you thieving bastards cut the fuel duty a bit to take the sting out of the economy?" No-one replied. My "If the cost of meat has gone up, why don't those greedy, grasping wankers in charge of supermarkets take the rise on the chin and turn in profits of £4 hundred million instead of £ 4 billion each year?" Strangely, that fell on deaf ears as well (Merv had apparently gone for a lie down after his strokes of the pen and his stroke of genius).

Meanwhile, at the House of Fun, the Government showed an astonishing degree of connection with the mood in the real world by proposing that MPs not only do not take a pay rise this year but also no longer vote their own into being in subsequent years! You think???? Well, howdy fucking doody!! You'd think that to fuck things up as royally as they have done they would actually be paying us, but no. These cunts actually get PAID for what they do. Not only that, they have, until now, decided how much they should be paid. Jesus, I wish I had that deal with my employers.

Still, shed no tears for our hard-pressed members (look that fucking word up in the dictionary and there is ONE definition which fits exactly), they still have their exes to rely on. You know, the exes which pay to put their kids through university, pay to employ nannies to look after their spawn, pay those niggling lap-dancing bills, cover that heroin addiction, pay to keep them in hot and cold running rent boys while the rest of us flog our bollocks off keeping them in a style to which they should never have become accustomed.

Oh, happy days.

Merv, although educated in my home town's grammar school, can fuck off to Grantham, along with every MP, excepting of course the 3.3 per cent of them who actually do what they are paid for without trying to rip the rest of us off.

What a Relief!

The pressure of work and a teensy domestic upheaval have kept me away from the keyboard for a while but, having worked a succession of night jobs, along with the days, and done a couple of weekends, I have actually got a day off today. Coupled with the fact that I am now on my own and have no running about to do for others, I have time to write.

There has been so much happening news-wise over the last few weeks that it would take too much time to recap and so I shall pick out THE one item which I believe to have been the most interesting.

Ever tried to get a plumber out to your place? Course you have! It's the same rigmarole every time and the same exorbitant bill - "...and there's a £70 call-out fee, don't forget", "Strewth, who fitted this? It's a right mess", "Naah, you just can't get the parts", "I'd get a re-con but they're like gold dust, mate", "Well, I've got a job to do at Number 56 so I'll nip there and call back tomorrow", "Sorry mate, I'm just snowed under and the parts still haven't arrived", "Is two weeks on Thursday any good to you?"

Well, spare a thought for Sergev Volkov, Oleg Kononenko and Greg Chamitoff. The lads, who live together (no, none of them make their own dresses), found themselves in a spot of bother when their bog bust.

Number 2s were still all systems go but, due to the complexity of their lavvy, Number 1s just wouldn't flush and things were getting pretty damp round at Chateau Chaps. The problem was exacerbated by the fact that they couldn't all just nip out to stay at a mate's house for the duration. You see, they are the occupants of the International Space Station!

Cue a phone call to the American-based plumber. "It'll be two weeks at the earliest, ladski. You just can't get the parts. Oh, and did I mention, there's a call-out fee - it's £987,569,300.27, not including VAT."

Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go, so the boys had a bit of a whip round and sat, no doubt with legs crossed, waiting for the plumber.

Said tradesperson did indeed take 14 days to call round and the lads, being starved of female company, were delighted to find it was a girly - one Mary Kelly.

"Strewth, who fitted this?" she asked. "They've made a right botch of it. You see, what you've got here is the Gravvyfree Shitnwee 670X. Cost £38 million to design, you know. You see, the solid waste system is operating properly but the liquid system, which uses air flow to direct urine and store it in a receptacle, is malfunctioning. You need a new pump. Lucky, but I've got one on the van. It'll cost, mind. They're £2.2 million each!"

"Fuckin' 'ell!" opined the lads. "Ain't there anything cheaper that'd do the job - or jobbies?"

At this point, Mary put her boss on the blower - Kirk Shireman, head of the station programme. He said, and I quote: "The alternate methods of waste disposal, including plastic bags with adhesive and bactericide - known as “Apollo bags” because they were used by early astronauts - are not particularly pleasant.

"They are, however, tried and true devices for their intended purposes.”

Well, would you? Hmm? Be honest. Does the idea of crapping and pissing into sticky food bags and then putting them in a cupboard for the next 18 years appeal? No, thought not.

The upshot was the boys opted for the replacement pump, emptied the little money jar they had been keeping for a rainy day (no-one had bothered to explain the likelihood of precipitation in space to our trio) and paid off Ms Kelly and Florida Pangalactic Plumbing Repairs.

They are now totally skint, 230,000 miles away from the nearest pub, with nothing to do all day but evacuate their bowels and bladders. I think I know how they feel.

Plumbers can go to Grantham but the chaps aboard the space station must stay with us.

Live! From Norwich!!

By way of a response to BGT and Fiwa who fear I might have died, here is a Blog post.

Yes, it's the quiz of the week.

What/who/which do you prefer?:

Aids or cancer?
Hitler or Stalin?
Drowning or burning?
Paedophilia or rape?
Jeffrey Archer or President Mugabe?
Martin McGuinness or Vlad the Impaler?
Liver failure or heart failure?
Jim Davidson or Pol Pot?
Kilroy-Silk or Peter Sutcliffe?
..................................................
And finally...............................
Gordon Brown or David Cameron?

Answers on a postcard please.