Who Was That Masked Man? aka Wat's Da Big Idea?

I've always said I view this Blog as a literary equivalent of the shouting of the little boy in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes. Well, even the little boy had to stop shouting at some point - I mean, the lad had a life to lead!

Either people are going to listen or they aren't. There's nowt I can do to affect that outcome. Junior, as it happened, got a result and everyone realised that the emperor was actually stark bollock naked and everything he had been saying was bullshit. Truthfully, I never expected the Great British Blog-reading public to realise the State and those in power were proverbially in the all-together, dispensing crap with the enthusiasm of a mushroom grower, while the nation as a whole swallowed the detritus with glee and lived on, naked, raw fungi themselves, in the cold and dark. The shouting was merely for my sanity. "For evil to triumph.........." and all that.

So, it's time for this little boy to leave the crowd behind and go and find something interesting and worthwhile to do. There may be other crowds he needs to join and make his voice heard but, for now, his larynx needs a rest. Yes, it's GOODBYE AT LAST TO GRANTHAM NEW TOWN!

There have to be parting words, however. I imagine the little boy in the fairytale merely said something like "told you so" and disappeared over the horizon, scratching his balls and whistling as he went. For me to do the same would be a little too easy and ultimately render these years of ranting pointless. Conclusions are what's needed. Without them, all the words that have gone before are like the splods of shit which land on your shoulder as the seagulls above circle around, squawking madly, before heading off to the landfill site which is the future.

The first conclusion is obvious. What to do with Grantham New Town, now it's been created. The question is rhetorical. NUKE THE FUCKING PLACE!!! In one simple and mindless act of destruction, gone would be Thatcher and Thatcherism, Blair and Blairism, browsing hours at supermarkets, binmen who insist the handles face the road, Piers Morgan, "chat" and "gossip" magazines, banks and bankers, Rupert Murdoch, Jim Davidson, Timmy Mallet and the Nazi Party. George W Bush, that woman from my post office, Snickers bars, Baby-on-Board stickers and Virgin Rail would all become disassociated atoms once more, scattered to the furthest flung reaches of the universe. No more doctors' receptionists, bye-bye individually wrapped fruit pies, adios to DJs. Imagine? Wouldn't all of the above make more poignant, heartfelt and meaningful lyrics than Lennon's "no possessions", penned in the back of his Rolls Royce on the way back to his multi-million-dollar New York home?

Trouble is, sending the bastards back to the Stone Age doesn't cure the underlying problem. Research has shown that in an Einsteinian universe, given sufficient provision of heat, pressure, water and carbon atoms, a new Paul Daniels would eventually be created over the eons. Darwin himself hinted in his unpublished masterpiece I'm Warning You Madge that the venom-spitting, slime maggot of the Indus would eventually evolve into Peter Mandelson, given a few breaks in the mutation stakes. No, there is really only one way of helping to ensure another Nick Griffin does not emerge from the primeval swamp (assuming the original one managed it in the first place) and that is...............REVOLUTION.

"Fuck me, Reg! It's taken you three years to come to that conclusion? Give us a break!" No, wait, there's more to it. By "revolution", I don't mean we should be grabbing Armalites and going round executing every right-winger or person who has phoned in to The Wright Stuff to offer their views on "Gravy - Do They Make It Like They Used To?" No, I think the Army should be doing that. By "revolution" I mean "a revolution", a very specific, bloodless, organised and legal revolution.

To know what sort of revolution we need we need to know what is wrong with things as they are. Well, in short, the system of political governance in this country is fucked. It is deeply, deeply flawed but deliberately flawed so as to allow those least worthy of power and influence to achieve just that and suppress the majority. Since Thatcher, and thanks to Blair, the electorate has had two choices - vote right-wing Tory under the guise of Conservatism or vote right-wing Tory under the guise of New Labour. Anything else, we are told, would be a wasted vote. It has, indeed, been engineered through the absence of proportional representation and boundary re-jigging.

So, how do we get the far wider range of political viewpoints held by the populace represented in government? Well, the people have to be offered an alternative - not just an alternative to global capitalism but to the democratic system as it stands. Others with brains will come up with far better ideas but just a simpleton like me has a few basic ideas. They could surely go in the melting pot?

How about, for one, we start by asking the electorate if they are satisfied by and feel represented by the current system of government in this country? How do we do this? Well, how about we lobby for a national advertising campaign ahead of the General Election which proposes adding another box to all ballot papers going out for the big day. Below the boxes marked "Labour", "Conservative", "Liberal Democrat", "Green" and "British National Party" etc, a box would be available, accompanied by the words "NONE OF THE ABOVE".

If voters are truly happy with what they've got they will say so. I suspect, however, that being offered an alternative for the first time in 30 years would prompt a record turnout and an overwhelming call for a change.

What then? Well, how about we install an emergency, coalition Government with a remit to handle the affairs of the country for a set period - say three years - during which petitions of a certain size for public referenda on given issues be acceded to?

During this time, a national commission should be established in which non-party members from constituencies, backed by support from a sprinkling of academics and legal experts, examine and gauge the extent of feeling and policy differences at large in the country on key issues, such as education, social welfare, defence, healthcare, the environment, industry, finance etc. The aim of the commission should be to identify political groupings which could best encapsulate the majority views of different groupings of people - i.e. new political parties. There should be no fewer than four and an upper limit should be set, dependant on the commission's findings, of, say, six.

Public taxes (i.e the Government) should then pay to establish these parties, publicise them and outline on television and in newspapers their manifestos. Essential to the working of this would be side issues which would require legislation from the interim Government, such as "one newspaper, one owner", "one commercial television or radio station, one independent company", the outlawing of political lobbying companies etc.

A fresh General Election would be called at the end of the commission's work and rules for proportional representation in the new Government be devised. Yes, it would be a coalition Government - but it would prevent extremism.

Ok, a lot of the above is shite! I thought it up in about ten minutes. There are so many holes and problems it is probably impossible - BUT IT IS AN IDEA!!!! WE NEED MORE IDEAS, AND NOT FROM THOSE ALREADY IN POWER. THINK!!!! FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, JUST THINK!!!!!!!!!

Then again, who gives a shit? Evolution more or less dictates that we will destroy ourselves. Greed and war will turn us against ourselves. Hell, they say the dinosaurs were thick as pigshit but it took a fucking big asteroid to get rid of them. They were, at least, smart enough not to wipe themselves out!!!!

Well, that's about it, really. The end of an error. I know no-one will read this, or those that do will not have got this far, so I am talking to myself. Maybe, after all, I am metaphorically wandering away, mumbling "I told you so" and scratching my bollocks, like the little boy in the fairytale?

So it's goodbye from me, Reg, and it's goodbye from Grantham New Town. I may well pop up somewhere else, but in a different guise. Then again, I may just bugger off somewhere and raise wolves in the wild. Who knows?

Thank you for reading. Take care of yourselves. XXXXX

It Stinks!

What is it with the morons in advertising and plugging bog products?

"Muuuuuuum, I want to-do a-pooooh!"

"All right, darling, come on then."

"No, I want to-do-a-pooh in Paul's bathroom!"

Cue smiles of endearment all round and the brat with the splat is next pictured pulling his pants up in an unidentified lavatory.


What, in the holy name of fuck, is going on here? This is just wrong on so many levels.

Firstly, that's not quite how the conversation would go round at Pither Towers if my imaginary child approached me with that twining "Muuuuuuum" bullshit.

"Muuuuuum! I want to-do a-pooooh!"

"Father, Adolph, father. Mum's the one with the beard. Anyway, whaddya want?"

"I want to-do a-poooh!"

"Well, knock yourself out, kid. Just relax that sphincter, open the bomb doors and let it go."

"But I want to-do-a-pooh in Paul's bathroom!"

"You fucking what!!!!? Are you sick or something, you little bastard! Daddy didn't, if you'll excuse the pun, splash out £10,000 on a new bathroom just so you can Charlie Chaplin it round to the neighbour's to drop your load. Anyway, just how do you think Paul is going to react to you going over there just so you can shit in his house? Hmmmm?"

Secondly, do I really need some little turd emphasising his status in life by twining the word "pooh" at me in my living room? I am familiar with the concept that shit stinks. I am also familiar with the existence of air freshners. I don't need some colon-stuffed kid talking me through the finer details.

This comes on the back of that other slice of advertising genius which was a previous advert for air freshner in which a kid was filmed sitting on the bog, just post-evacuation, and shouting "Pooh! It stinks!"


It's all because kiddies are cute, apparently, and so anything they do generates the exclamation "Aaaaaah!" from those around. Well, I haven't been blessed with children but even if I had been I would not find ANYTHING endearing about my spawn having a shit! Come to that, I find NOTHING endearing in ANYONE having a shit - even Bettany Hughes (all praise and peace be upon her).

There's nothing wrong or shameful about bodily functions, Pither! No, indeed there isn't. What is objectionable is sharing them with the whole fucking world, especially by using kiddies in the belief that they make them cute and not stomach-churning. To me, the imagery of a five-year-old having a shit is no more pleasant than that of Bernard Manning relieving himself of a flock of sparrows on the pan. Maybe I'm getting it all wrong? Maybe I'm just too sensitive? Maybe I should welcome equally basic adverts featuring adults?

Tissues, for instance? "Mum!! I've just jacked off and the bucket's full!!" - Thank God for Kleenex.

Toothpaste? "Oh darling, I wish you'd told me before I did that to you." Yes, Colgate dissolves even clotted blood and bits of uterus to give you fresh breath again.

Get the picture? I could go on but I think I would be defeating my own argument if I did.

Advertising, kids and methane have already gone to Grantham - I just want to make sure they stay there.

How It Works.

"'Ello, pretty lady", I dribbled, chatting up the beautiful blonde, sales-type woman during a fag break in the rain at work today.

"So, you is advertise, yes? I buy you? You come home, love me long time, five dollar?"

"Oh, hello. You're Reg, aren't you. I've been told about you," she winced, trying to back into a corner.

"Yes, me Reg. So, what is this that you do to advertise," I continued, undaunted, rubbing my crotch and staring wildly.

"I'm the advertising supervisor."

"Oh", retorted Pither, with a limited grasp of command structures. "So, you're a top sow? A boss hog? Your immediate boss is the advertising bloke in the red braces and the striped shirt?"

"Pete?" she asked, somewhat shocked. "Oh no, he's the corporate sales director."

"Oh," retorted Pither, somewhat bemused. "So, who is your.....what do they call it these days?...........line manager?"

"That's Nicole, the advertising area manager."

"That would be the skinny broad with no tits and hair like a failed electrician?"

"That's her."

"So, she answers to Pete?"

"Oh no! Her boss is Lydia, the advertising regional manager."

"The Amazonian thing with a pierced nose? This is a joke, isn't it? Is her boss Pete?"

"'Fraid not. She answers to Debbie, the group advertising manager."

"The one who was sectioned last year? Go on, I'm intrigued."

"Her boss is Amanda - you know, the one with the plastic boobs?"

"I think I had noticed her."

"Well, Amanda's the group advertising chief executive."

"...and she answers to Pete?"

"No, obviously not. Amanda answers to Sarah, the group sales director. It's Sarah who answers to Pete as he's the corporate sales director."

"How stupid of me."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, two reasons. Firstly, it's my job m'aam, being a reporting monkey and that. Secondly, I couldn't help but notice but there are just nine of you over there in Hairspray Corner. My maths isn't brilliant, you understand, but that makes seven chiefs and only two Indians?"

"Yup."

"Does the system work."

"Of course it bloody doesn't! The problem we've got is there aren't enough people to sell the ads"

"I think I've spotted a flaw in the system, if it would help?"

"Soz, babe. Gotta get back. Ciao."

"Will you have sex with me - just by way of taking pity on an old man?"

"I haven't got a window - sorry."

"I'm prepared to do it indoors!"

"Don't go changing. Miss you already."

Ooh, I Say!

Life is good - life is fine. I am, in fact, rantless. Why? Because of the USA, Switzerland, cat gut (sic) and SW19.

I am currently watching the Wimbledon tennis final and it is reminding me that not all in the world is gloom, cynicism, corruption and injustice. In a country run by corrupt, self-centred, greedy, socially and morally bankrupt little jerks, it is heart warming to see something which represents all that people and the world in general should be.

It's raining where I am, but it's glorious summer sunshine down in south west London. On court are two of the finest examples of sport and all that is good about humankind - Roger Federer (he who has not the decency to even sweat!) and Andy Roddick.

Federer is a genius. He is arguably the greatest tennis player of all time, although the magnificent Rod Laver, who was in the crowd today, can claim to have achieved more. It is awe-inspiring to watch him on a court. The man is cool, calm, precise, powerful, tactically aware and almost machine-like in his clinical stroke play.

Facing him across the net is Roddick, at 26, a man who is playing the tennis of his life. He brushed aside Andy Murray, our brave British hopeful before the semi-final, a fucking useless Scotsman by the end of it. Roddick not only took on Murray, he took on the whole of the UK in that match and beat them hollow - then he went and topped it all by being about as graceful and magnanimous in victory as it was humanly possible to be. Hell's teeth, the man even apologised to the crowd for knocking out their man!

Both men are consummate professionals. Neither of them gripe, whinge or cuss on court - compare that to footballers. Neither of them spend their time arguing with the umpire, blaming their rackets or smashing said equipment to pieces when they feel the world is against them. Neither of them, strangely enough, resort to eye-gouging in an effort to win.

I have become used to watching once great, sporting finals, particularly over here, in which I couldn't give a rat's ass who won. e.g. Manchester United v Chelsea. I have watched tournaments in which my hopes were pinned on good ole Blighty - Come on England!! The media has bombarded me with wall-to-wall coverage of entirely talentless, childish, no-marks whose lack of any ability whatsoever has somehow won them the public attention they crave and the money they simply do not deserve. e.g. Britain's Got The Ice Dancing Factor or whatever.

Today, thankfully, NONE of that was in evidence. There were just two superbly talented, hard working, professional craftsmen whose handiwork was a joy to behold. One was an American, the other Swiss. Who cares? Today they belonged to all of us. They were beyond the petty bounds of nationalism. Also, for the first time in many, many years, I didn't want either of the finalists to lose. They both deserved to win!

It is now, incredibly, 13-12 in the final set. To say they are evenly matched is an understatement. I shall no doubt have more to say come the end, if, indeed this fantastic match ever does end, but I just wanted to get this down while it is on my mind. Grantham shall NOT have Federer, Roddick or the 2009 Wimbledon final!!!

Postscript: It's over, it's now history - and history-making. Six Wimbledon titles for the man, 15 Grand Slams to beat Pistol Pete's record and a fantastic victory. Andy Roddick lost by a hair's breadth - but he will be back, and he WILL win. Now?.........back to the world of dreams.

Too Young To Die - Too Mad To Live

Well, he's dead! - that Michael Johnson (as my mother said over the phone the other day).

The world is in mourning, we're told. A memorial concert is going to be held in Americaland somewhere and just 20,000 tickets are available - fingers crossed, eh? Even in Small Town, some turd burglar calling himself "Ste" is arranging a mass pop-in to celebrate the life of Whacko Saddo BabyDanglo Whiteo NoNoseo Paedo Jacko.

"Ste" (the "v" and the "e" were obviously bridges too far for his doubtless cerebrally challenged parents at the Christening) says in a bowel-moving message to all and sundry on Facebook: "Sadly, one of the greatest entertainers ever has passed away - the King of Pop, Michael Jackson." (I am punctuating this for him and correcting his spelling as I go along, by the way).

With no feeling whatsoever for overstatement, he masturbates on: "The world has come to a standstill since the news. This is our time for all the fans, friends and loved ones to join together for Michael Jackson and share the history and memories of what we all hold in our heart." ("we" only have one "heart", apparently. Ed)

Still with me? There's more: "Let us dance and sing to those number one hits, love and smile. Enjoy this day together as our remembrance day for the King, Michael Jackson."

"White emulsion paint, brushes, false noses, complimentary companion monkeys and sexually vulnerable children will be available at the door." Actually, to be fair, that bit's not in it. I made that bit up.

The message does, however, conclude (and this section is my particular fave): "Bring friends, family, yourself and your love."

Please excuse me while I phone up my 82-year-old, blind, deaf and partially disabled mother and tell her to drive up here from Devon PDQ to join in the fun - and to make sure that she brings her love with her.

Let's face it, this is WORSE than when Diana, Queen of Farts, had that fleeting dalliance with a Parisian central tunnel support after being driven home by a pissed-up, drug-addled, dwarf frog in the pay of a bent Arab (Oh, how we laughed). At least the former Princess of Wails (sic) only ever fucked people who had at least sat an 11-Plus exam (although most, if not all, did not pass it, it has to be said). Come to that, and in her defence again, she only really cavorted with members of the same fucking phylum!

Jacko, on the other hand? Well, he was a slightly different cup of nematode worms. To recap, who/what was he? Well, being positive (a little electric chair joke used by warders, I'm told) he was a formerly cute-looking kid with a good singing voice who could cut a decent rug. Talking of cutting, he also cut a few popular music discs which were generally well received, notably by the deaf and people with behavioural disorders. That's about it for the positives, really.

On t'other side of coin, well...........HE FUCKED CHILDREN!!! No, he didn't think he was Peter Pan and so wanted to share the magical world of children and give them peace and joy and love - HE WANTED TO PUT HIS PENIS IN THEIR BOTTOMS!!! Name the last fucking paedophile for which the world went into mourning?

In addition, he didn't want to be black and so apparently bathed in bleach every day in an effort to turn white. Are those the actions of a king? King of the Loonies, maybe. Add to that, he didn't like his nose - or his eyes, or his mouth, or his chin, or his cheeks, or his ears, or his neck, or.........Come on, be honest, someone who can fall out with parts of their body is the sort of person you pray won't sit next to you on the bus!

Because he had the money, however, and he lived in a land where looks are available over the counter, he was able to swap the body parts he didn't like for ones that he did - I believe there's a catalogue you can look through. Never seen it in Argos, though. Sadly, he felt the same way about noses as the rest of us feel about strawberries - once you've had one you've just got to have another...and another. The end result was the limited amount of cartilage available onto which new hooters could be nailed was gradually eroded, so much so that he was just left with a gaping hole in the middle of his face which could only be covered by something akin to an almost-flesh-coloured, thin matchbox. He did achieve his aim of getting a new face - sadly, it was the face of someone who died in 1949.

Also, his best friend was a fucking chimpanzee!..............I mean, do I really have to expand on this point? Hmmm? Ok, I have some pretty under-developed friends who eat bananas, have to shave four times-a-day, like tea parties, show their arses in public and regard a tyre suspended from a tree by a piece of rope as a leisure centre but they are at least capable of walking upright (before 11pm) and have opposable thumbs! Seeking out comfort from apes is surely only for those who like going clubbing in South Shields on a Friday night?

There were other slightly disturbing aspects to his life - like he lived in a fucking fairground, liked dangling babies out of third-floor windows, pretended to be Jesus at music awards and walked round in a mask - but to mention them would just be nit-picking, I think.

So, for whom has the world apparently come to a standstill? A bleached paedophile with a plastic nose who hangs around with monkeys! It's not exactly like the death of Nelson, be honest.

There are those who say Jacko has gone to heaven, others say he is in Hell. Well, sorry to disappoint you all - I've sent him to Grantham.

Aaaaarrgghh!!!!

Oh, lorks a lordy! It's been so long. Where to start?

How about the Tenna pads advert I've just this second witnessed? "Now I'm mature, should I let bladder weakness let me down?" Well, quite frankly love, YES!!!!! You may have the face of an angel but if the dank smell of stale piss is going to fill the air in the Bernie Inn while we're having our soup-in-the-basket then I'd rather you just stayed at home with your urinary tract complications and let me get on with my personal Hell, odour-free.

Swine flu? We're all going to die, apparently. Flee for the hills, the end of the world is nigh. Well, not having had sexual relations with chickens for more than 10 years, let alone Chinese chickens, I managed to escape "bird flu". That was going to kill us all, wasn't it? My last sexual encounter with a pig was in the early '70s when I was going through a difficult phase. I've left them alone since then. Hell, they never phone afterwards and they're basically just self-centred gits with their snouts in the trough. Am I really going to bow out with a big oik-choo? I bloody doubt it! Having read all the leaflets, you are only really at risk if you kiss a pig (I bet Vanessa Feltz's ex-husband is breathing a sigh of relief) or go out with Sally Weston - it's a long story and I don't want to go into it.

MPs expenses? Sorry, but I thought the word "expenses" meant things you had paid for to do your job and so wanted to recoup from your employer. Bath plugs? Porn? Get receipts for the stuff, you bastards!! Gunna look a bit silly in Spearmint Rhino asking Chantelle for a chit as she rubs her sweating muff in your face!

Then there's David Blunkett howling about the plight of "Labour" and that fat, abject twat Charles Clarke saying that last week's shenanigans had left him feeling "ashamed" to be a Labour MP. Number one, wankface Blunkett will do ANYTHING to get back into a position of power (even gas his labrador) and so insists on saying ANYTHING he thinks the Press will latch onto to put him in the papers again. Secondly, Clarke is "ashamed" to be a Labour MP.........NOW!!! He wasn't fucking ashamed when he was bleedin' Home Secretary with an agenda with made Pinochet "ashamed" to be a member of the same phylum!!!

Kids should be encouraged to talk? No, that's not me, that's some education expert!!! It's the conclusion of the latest report on "what's wrong with our (Thatcherite) youth" (the clue is in the adjective). Jesus, how things have changed! When I was alive, the mantra was "children should be seen and not heard". Nowadays, the little bastards are so socially introverted and desensitised to the real world that some overpaid, doubtless asexual, bearded, elbow patch-wearing cunt has concluded that we need to teach them to speak! You think!!!! Aaaaarrrrgghhh.

So, we've withdrawn from Iraq, have we? Well, that's all right then. Glad to know we've left everything so neat and tidy. Ok, under the beast Saddam, maybe they were oppressed and feared to speak out about their lives - but at least they could get home and put the kettle on, have a cuppa, cook something and not get all their reading done before 7pm when the fucking lights went out!!! Going to be fine in the future? Oh yes!! Now we've trained the bent Iraqi police how to properly torture people and extort money from them, everything is going to be all right.

And another thing..................oh, I give up. This is like not having sex for years. You go off like a pop bottle cork when the day comes. I'm going to bed.

One of Those Days.

Saturday, March 21.

PITHER: "Hello, building society crone."
CRONE: "Hello, Mr Pither."
PITHER: "Might I withdraw £300 of my earth pounds."
CRONE: "No. Your cheque doesn't clear until Monday."
PITHER: "But I paid it in last weekend!"
CRONE: "Takes six working days."
PITHER: "Tara."

Pither walks next door to the newsagent's.

PITHER: "Twenty Embassy Filter, please."
SPOTTY WORK EXPERIENCE YOUTH: "Soz, got no Filter."
PITHER: "Au revoir."

Pither returns home after his successful outing and decides to phone the man who installed his now broken fishpond pump.

AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "What model is it, Piths?"
PITHER: "Uuurm, uuurm, uuurm, oh, hang on, it says TX1900 on the side."
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: (Sharp intake of breath) "Tsh. They don't make them no more."
PITHER: "Well, can you repair it?"
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "It'll cost a shedload. Best buy another one, eh?"
PITHER: "Thanks for your back-up sales and customer service."
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "It's a living."

Pither phones electrician about cooker, bottom oven of which is bust, along with the digital clock.

BRIGHT SPARK: "What model is it?"
PITHER: "Anticipating your query, I have the manual which came with it here. It says it is an SK400X."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Yer what?"
PITHER: "It does exist, I promise you. It's over there, against the wall, as sure as I'm sitting in this bucket of piranha sperm."
BRIGHT SPARK: "What make?"
PITHER: "Sarena."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."
PITHER: "I am truly delighted you are having such a fun day, but do I detect some sort of problem."
BRIGHT SPARK: "They'm manufactured in Prague, assembled in Madagascar and distributed by the Wops. You've got no chance. Is the clock working?"
PITHER: "No."
BRIGHT SPARK: "That'll be it. Once the clock's fucked, the whole thing is fucked."
PITHER: "How much is a new clock?"
BRIGHT SPARK: "'Bout £150. Might as well get a new cooker."
PITHER: "But I've looked them up and they cost £550."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Yeah, bummer, ain't it."

Undeterred, Pither phones a local kitchen appliance centre which sells spares.

PITHER: "Hello, I'd like a digital clock/timer for a Sarena SK400X.
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "Sorry, we're closed."
PITHER: "Forgive me pointing out this slight contradiction, but you're there. I know that because you've answered the phone and I'm speaking to you."
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "Kitchen sales, me. Parts closed at 1pm.
PITHER: "But it's only 12.55pm!"
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "S'not. One now."
PITHER: "Well it is NOW!!! That's because we've been chatting for five minutes."
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "They've all gone home."
PITHER: "Bye, take care. Oh, and please don't die in a hideous car crash on your way home."

Pither decides to walk dogs and is amazed when none of them die or contract green monkey disease or get abducted by aliens. He returns to do his washing and ironing and then watch a big of rugby. At 5pm, the phone rings.

MUTANT MATE: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Forest lost. 1-0 to Wolves. WOLVES. Ha, ha, ha, ha. You're gunna get some serious gip from everyone when you come out next."
PITHER: "Thanks for the call. I've enjoyed it."

Having no money, Pither is forced to opt out of an evening at the pub and opts in for a snooze on the settee.

9pm: Pither awakes..........and smells trouble. He discovers the alsatian has crapped in the hall and the collie-cross has peed up against his briefcase. He decides to go to bed. It must surely be safer there.

9.20pm: "Pither climbs into bed, surrounded by dogs, and switches on the bedside lamp so as to read himself to sleep.............Ping! The bulb in the bedside lamp blows. Pither drifts off into unconsciousness. Please Lord, take me now, I'm ready.

Saturday, March 21, 2009 can go to Grantham.

Bye, Bye Mal.

Vene, vidi, bevevi!.............He came, he saw, he drank.

Guess Who Just Got Back Today?

(Pither and the Pig Farmer - pictured at a Biggles Is Best reunion, prior to PF's northern exile.)

Here sooey, sooey, sooey, pig, pig, pig! The whole of Small Town is on high alert. Tongues are wagging, curtains are twitching - the Pig Farmer is coming!

Yes, my little chum Mal Baby, he of the Marge Simpson hair and the Lena Zavaroni legs, is on his way south as I write.

The boy, known to cyberworld as The Edge of Nowhere, has texted to say that he's well on his way. He set off last night with his faithful team of huskies bound for You'llnobefromround'ere, the main settlement on the Orkney island of Westray where he lives. From there it was an arduous coracle journey to the main island where he joined an Innuit caravan of canoes for the crossing to the mainland.

Sherpas then led him to the nearest village with electricity, from where it was an eight-hour mule ride to the Duke of Cumberland Memorial Iron Horse Station. He's currently on the train, passing the time during the 800-mile journey by looking weirdly at other passengers and building a whickerman out of used straws from the buffet car.

He is due at Pither Towers at around 6pm and, after disarming him, I will be taking him out for a meeting with a select team of Mutant pals - oh, what japes we shall have!

The results will no doubt be documented here, and perhaps the boy himself will get a word in. Watch this space.

Geoffrey Boycott

I'm not one to generalise, as absolutely everyone will tell you, but aren't Yorkshiremen arses! (rhetorical).

I have been listening over the last few days to Test Match Special on the wireless. It has been a delightful experience, regardless of the results on the pitch, with one notable exception - Sir(?) Geoffrey Boycott.

Like most of his Yorkshire breed I have come across, he suffers from two main delusions, namely that:

1. Anything he says is anywhere near correct, remotely relevant or justifiable by any evidence.
2. Anyone wants to hear it!



Apropos absolutely nothing, I paid off Lloyds TSB Bank today! Thirty years of banking with these loan sharks has finally come to an end! Lloyds TSB is out of my life forever. I hope, to use a bastardised Holy Grail reference, it burns down and sinks into the swamp of fiscal obscurity (once it has paid back the extortionate charges it has levied on me over the years)!

Lloyds is already there - Boycott can join it in Grantham.

Grantham Newsflash!

The Government was today breathing a collective sigh of relief after the surprise appointment of Sir Reg Pither who single handedly brought the Sir Fred Goodwin affair to an end.

Gordon Brown had been coming under increasing pressure as he continued to dither, fart about and generally shy away from facing the problem posed by Sir Fred who ran up debts of £86 krillion at the Royal Bank of Scotland by buying up loans to fairies at the bottom of his garden and then knobbing off into retirement at the age of 50 with a pension pot of £650,000-a-year - almost all paid for by the taxpayer.

Sir Reg ended the sorry affair once and for all today by taking a slightly firmer line during a 13 second meeting with the former bank boss.
Grantham News has obtained a leaked transcript of that meeting this morning and it is as follows:

Sir Fred: "You wanted to see me? Your letter said something about me being an 'abject twat' and it mentioned something to the effect 'not as long as there's a hole in my arse'."
Sir Reg: "Yes. I've got a chihuahua called Frank who has got more fiscal acumen than you! You ain't having a £650,000 pension. In fact, you ain't even getting a state fucking pension until you pay back all the money you've pissed up the wall. Now fuck off, you greedy, incompetent wanker!"
Sir Fred: "That's breach of contract! I'll sue!"
Sir Reg: "Then I'll get MI5 to kill you."
Sir Fred: "Ok, fair enough."
Sir Reg: "Close the door behind you."

This afternoon Sir Reg was reported to be in the Gaza Strip for talks with Hamas leaders and Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert having taken with him only half a dozen sets of genital clamps.

Mwa, Mwa!!

"Just shut up twining and show us yer Globes!"


What is an actor? Come on! Tell me! What is an actor? I'll tell you what an actor is. It's a person who dresses up, puts on makeup and pretends to be someone else. When five-year-old girls do this with their mum's shoes, clothes and lippy in front of the dressing table mirror it is quite rightly regarded as cute, charming and a wholly acceptable ritual on the path to maturity. How then should we regard this behaviour when it is exhibited by an adult? FUCKING DISTURBING, that's how!!

Be honest, if your other half came down to breakfast dressed as Lord Cardigan and started bellowing about cannons to the right and cannons to the left would you toss a bouquet in their direction and shout "Encore! Encore!! Magnificent, darling. A tour de force! Such a brave and inspirational performance"? No you fucking wouldn't! You'd pick up the phone pretty damn sharpish and tell the receptionist at the local loony bin that your Kevin had thrown one again and to get to blokes in white coats round asap!

What else do these retards do? Well, they learn, parrot-fashion, words written by someone talented and then, at a given cue, spew them back. For this "act" of genius they are hailed as gods! THEY don't write the words. THEY don't craft the story. THEY don't conjure up the comedy. THEY don't carve out the tragedy and melodrama - and yet THEY are the ones praised and hailed as superheroes. This is the only trade in the world where this happens. I mean, when Albert Einstein first wrote down E = MC-squared, was it the bloke who sharpened his fucking pencil who was credited with discovering the link between mass and energy, so ushering in the nuclear age? No! That bloke went on sharpening fucking pencils for the rest of his miserable, pathetic, fruitless fucking life until he died a sad, lonely and unmarked death. Quite right too!

Anyway, whatever happened to the good old days? In days of yore, when thesps and jesters were summoned to entertain the king, what happened if their performances went down like a pork pie in a synagogue? Did they get an ascerbic review in The Times? Did The Stage carry a piece criticising their commitment? No! They got fucking executed, that's what! Hang some sense into them, that's what I say!

All this brings me to last night's ferago - The Oscars. Film makers, directors and technical bods were rewarded for their efforts. Ok, at least they have a modicum of talent. I might not insist on them being tethered to posts in the middle of a field as the firing squad takes aim come the glorious revolution.......but the actors? To hear Kate fucking Winslet accept her textured golden dildo you'd think she'd discovered bastard penicillin!! Jesus H Christ!! Get a fucking grip, woman!! Someone's given you a tacky, fucking ornament for pretending to be someone else!! Get this in perspective, girl!

Acting is a trade, nothing more, nothing less, and not a particularly skilled one at that, so why, oh why, is so much fucking fuss made over the insecure, self-obsessed congealed masses of sputum who practise it? Look at it another way. If we're going to make this much fuss over the annual trade awards to thesps, then why don't we have similarly elaborate spectaculars for other trades?........................

MC: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Adelphi Baths, Maccelesfield, for the 2008 Gas Fitting and Plumbing Supplies Awards!!
"Yes, this is the one you've all been waiting for - who will take away one of those famous and coveted pewter Plunger awards tonight....................?
"And the winner of the Intermediate Apprentice-Level S-Joint and Extruded Pipe Extension Mold Installation Award is............Kevin Sidebotham!!!!"

TV Commentary: "And here he comes, wearing a stunning boiler suit and rubber boot-combo, making his way up the famous red lino to the trestle table in front of the stage, pausing only for a quick snap in front of the photographer from the East Cheshire and District Pipe Benders Gazette."

Kevin: "Oh God! Well....oh dear, what can I say? I just SO wasn't expecting this. Oh no! I can't believe it. Thank you SOOOO much!! To think, when I was a little boy, dreaming of getting a start in the world of domestic plumbing supplies, I would stare into the bathroom mirror and rehearse this acceptance speech, using a shampoo bottle in place of a pewter Plunger. Well, it's not a shampoo bottle anymore! This is it!!!"

MC: "Fuck off, Kev. The buffet's open." etc, etc, etc, etc.

Actors? Scum of the earth. They can all fuck off to Grantham.

Pigs In Space!!!!!!!

Beware the one that calls itself Harman - it is not a Labour Party loyalist at all but a Krinod from the Planet Fuck!

As a Fuckoid, the beast Harman is intent on "Fucking Up" everything on Planet Earth and particularly in that already crumbling outpost known as the UK.

Remember when her fellow Fuckoid Blair first materialised? Obviously, prior to his
teleportation across the universe, no-one had ever heard of him here on Earth. Moments after his particulate reassembly, however, he was leader of the Labour Party - or the New Fucking Labour Party, as he restyled it.

The warning signs were there for all to see. When the former Labour Leader John Smith went and rolled a seven - something this nation has lived to regret ever since - his fellow party members went into mourning, but not Fuckoid Blair. No, he started secretly manoeuvring and doing deals behind the scenes while everyone else was attending memorial services and giving heartfelt tributes to Smith to the media. Hey presto! When the black veils were lifted, there he was, a virtual shoe-in for the leadership.

Beware those warning signs again, I say! Blair's half-wit, half-brother Brown - he who struck a deal with the alien Devil and enabled the complete Fucking Up of the country - is now in his death throws. More than that, he is a dead man walking. While fellow Labourites rally round to keep him on life support, the Fuckoid Harman has begun a pathetically ill-disguised campaign behind the scenes to take over.

She has already arranged a Fucking Women's Conference to coincide with the next G20 economic summit so as to grab headlines. She has also been speaking out against bonuses paid out to the Krinadian Fuckoid hardcore who run our banking system. Laughably, the media brand her a Left-winger for this. Ha! Left-winger? She's so Fucking Left-wing she's gone round the bend and met herself coming back!

This creature has only one thing on her agenda - herself! Her shady husband found that out to his cost. The moment her career was threatened with a dent, out the window he had to go!

I'm sure her policies of putting a tax on penises, outlawing the Y chromosome in built up areas and instigating compulsory sperm bank donations with a view to phasing out men by 2015 will prove popular among some comfortably-shoed members of society but beware!! Harman will Fuck Up this country more than Blair and Brown ever managed. She is the Queen of Fuck Up!!

She has already been sent to Grantham. I now propose building a 30ft-high wall around Grantham specifically to ensure she does not get out.

Home From Home

Our MPs - their dedication, honesty and tireless work for the country is already well documented, but I ask you to spare a special thought for the massive sacrifices made by our Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith.

Imagine what she has given up to serve the nation. Before Mrs Smith became an MP, their she and her family were, living quite happily in the back bedroom of Mrs Smith's sister's house in Nunhead, south east London. Mrs Smith had the bottom bunk, Mr Smith took the top. Their four children - Vlad, Lucretia, Adolph and Saddam - each had their own draw in the chest in the corner in which to snuggle down at night while Mrs Smith's mother slept standing up in the wardrobe - she had a back condition and lying down proved painful so the orthopaedic wardrobe was a Godsend.

The family's four golden retrievers had the run of the 6ft by 8ft room so they were happy and Lucretia's pet pony, Hermann, was stabled on top of the dressing table and had a vase of tasty daffodils to munch on during the day.

Then Mrs Smith was catapulted into the House of Commons and, owing to an outbreak of bubonic plague among New Labour's ranks, she was appointed Home Secretary. The family's home in London was obviously no longer convenient for her getting to and from work. She was forced to seek a second home closer to Parliament where she could lay her head during the week before returning at weekends to the bosom of her family. All the taxpayers would give her to get this second home was a measly £116,000 and so, having studied her Acme school map of Britain and tightened her belt for all our sakes, she plumped for a £400,000, nine-bedroom, six-bathroom, detached home with a billiard room, function suite, gatehouse and lodge set in 200 acres of land 150 miles from London - in Redditch, Worcestershire. Such was the pokiness of this squalid pied de terre that it was bursting at the seams with her meagre collection of worldly goods. There was so little space that her cellar of champagne had to go in the centrally heated stable block, there was just one outdoor swimming pool for her bathing costume and her collection of tropical plants had to go in the indoor poolroom and jacuzzi with effect-waterfall and hydro pool.

What happened then? Not content with Mrs Smith having put herself out to this massive extent just so she could serve us all, the scum, gutter press had a go at her, claiming that her house in Redditch might actually be her first home while her sister's boxroom was in fact her second home, and not the other way around as she obviously said to get the extra accommodation allowance. In addition, the hacks also had the nerve to make the ludicrous allegation that not only was the London base her second home, £116,000 was rather steep rent for a one-room residence during weekdays.

There is a real danger here that if we continue to snipe at and criticise over things like this we will lose leaders of the dedication and calibre of Mrs Smith and they will go elsewhere to serve - you know, like we almost lost to America those genius bankers and financiers who spent billions of pounds of our money buying up loans to vagrants before they all had to be written off.

..............................................................................

Back in the real world, bear in mind this is not some grubby little backbencher we are talking about. This is the FUCKING HOME SECRETARY - the third most important and lofty office in the land behind the PM and Chancellor. If she's pulling this stunt, just think what the other fuckers are doing, given the fact that their chances of discovery are so much less likely as they are not in the limelight. As my pal BGT pointed out - THIS IS JUST TAKING THE FUCKING PISS!!!!!

And what is Mrs Smith's defence? I'll tell you what her fucking defence is. It's the same defence offered up by all these fuckers when they're caught out. It's the same defence used by those bankers and financiers mentioned earlier who creamed off millions to line their own pockets as a reward for bringing about the near collapse of the financial system - "it's in the rules"!

Listen, pal-o-mine, hanging in public used to be "in the rules". So did bear-bating, witch-ducking and the burning of Catholics. Hitler dictated that the annihilation of six million Jews was "in the rules". IT'S THE FUCKING RULES WHICH ARE WRONG - AND WHO MAKES THE RULES? THE FUCKING MPs!!!!!

Until we reintroduce public floggings - only for MPs - there will never be any progress. Up the revolution!!

Banking - A Fairytale?

Once upon a time there was a beautiful garden tended by a devoted and caring gardener.

In the middle of the garden stood a huge oak tree which had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The tall oak was the life of the garden and it attracted many red squirrels who made their homes in its leafy branches.

Each Spring the oak tree would soak up the sun and, nourished by the warm rain and rich soil in the garden, it would grow and then by the summer time produce a bountiful crop of acorns.

The squirrels fed on the acorns and, each autumn when the tree shed all its acorns as it preprared to shed its leaves
and shut down for the winter, the squirrels worked feverishly to gather up all the nuts which fell to the ground to make sure they had enough to tide them over the barren months to come.


One day a gang of fat cats got into the garden and they quickly climbed the tree to take a look round at what was going on. They saw all the squirrels working tirelessly to gather nuts and they sniggered at their antics. The cats were far too fat and lazy to work but came up with a wizard plan to ensure they could eat well throughout the year.

They called all the squirrels to a meeting and told them: "Listen, if you give us some of your nuts to look after we will put them into a magic nut machine we have and it will make them grow bigger. The magic machine will make every nut you give us grow three per cent larger."

"Goody!" shrieked the squirrels, and they agreed. What they didn't know was that there was no magic nut machine. What the fat cats did instead was to take all the nuts they had been given down to the furthest corner of the garden where there was a compost heap crawling with mice. Here they challenged the mice to games of hide and seek, using the nuts they had brought to bet on the results. Now the cats, being cats, almost always caught the mice and so they almost always came away with large winnings which they insisted were paid in freshly caught salmon and gallons of double cream.

The squirrels continued to work away every day, oblivious to what the fat cats were doing. Even if they had known, they wouldn't have been able to join in because they didn't have enough nuts left to gamble with - they had handed over all their surplus to the fat cats.

The fat cats' scheme worked so well for them that they soon amassed stockpiles of salmon and cream and still had some of the nuts given to them by the squirrels left over. That gave them another idea and so they called another meeting with the squirrells and said to them: "Listen, instead of just getting by over winter, why don't we lend you some nuts so you can eat a little better? For every nut we lend you, however, we will want a seven per cent bigger nut back."

Now the squirrels liked the idea of having a comfier Christmas and thought they would just have to work harder to come up with the bigger nuts demanded. It never occurred to them that all they would be doing would be borrowing their own nuts from the fat cats and paying for the privilege! Finally worn down by persistent pressure from the fat cats they agreed to the idea and started borrowing.

Now all the frantic exchanging of nuts and the gambling down at the compost heap attracted the attention of some rats in the neighbouring garden. They saw what a good scam the fat cats were running and wanted to join in but the gardener knew they were trouble and he determined to keep them out. He put poison down for the rats and chased them off whenever they appeared. But sadly, one dark and rainy day, the gardener died.

It was indeed tragic for the beautiful garden because, with the gardener dead, only his pets were left to look after it. Chief among these was the gardener's evil
cat, Moggie, and it was she who decided to take charge. Now Moggie was an arrogant, stupid and selfish cat who believed that the garden could look after itself. She would not listen to anyone, believing that only she could be right, and so, when the birds who lived in the garden tried to patrol it themselves and keep it safe, she chased them away.

Sure enough, soon after Moggie took over, the rats invaded the garden and she did nothing to stop them - "market garden forces!" she would bellow from the comfort of the gardener's palatial house. Once in the garden, the rats began copying the fat cats, lending nuts to the squirrels, gambling and generaly getting fat themselves on the profits. Meanwhile, Moggie spent her days looking down on the rapidly deteriorating garden, all the while smiling a self-satisfied smile and thinking that she was right and the garden could look after itself.

Eventually, Moggie grew so old and so senile that the birds and the squirrels were able to chase her away and she went to live in a bigger house down the road. Of the other pets left behind, a devious young rabbit who no-one had ever taken notice of before started jumping up and down all of a sudden and saying that he would do all that the birds and the squirrels wanted if he were to take charge, for he claimed to be one of them. He said he was on their side and so he was allowed the tend the garden - he was Blair Rabbit.


Sadly, what the birds and the squirrels didn't know was that Blair Rabbit was a liar. All he wanted was to be in charge and he didn't care two hoots about the birds and the squirrels. In fact, not only was he not one of them he was, in reality, a great admirer of Moggie and so, once at the helm, not only did he not stop the lending and the gambling he said there should be much more of it. He told the squirrels: "Why just get by over winter? Why just get by at any time? Why not have as much as you want, if not more, all the time? Borrow more nuts and then you can gorge yourself all year round!" Then he told the fat cats that not only could they play hide and seek with the mice, they could gamble on any games they wanted to.

And so the squirrels began borrowing more and more nuts from the fat cats, guzzling them all year round. "This is the life," they thought. "Why didn't we think of this before? We can have as much as we want and more, just by borrowing from the fat cats. Prudence and financial management are for the birds!!" The fat cats, meanwhile, started challenging the mice to swimming and shouting competitions, as well as to their usual games of hide and seek, and, as before, they bet on the outcomes.

Then, one day, a pack of dogs moved into the garden and they made their home down by the compost heap. They chased away all the mice and when the fat cats and the rats came calling to play they were waiting. The dogs said they would also gamble with them on the games but as they were bigger, faster and more ferocious than the fat cats and rats they would agree to pay out much, much more to them if they lost. The fat cats and the rats began drooling at the thought of how much more salmon and cream and other goodeis they could get and, even though they already had more food than they could ever eat in a lifetime, they accepted the wagers - and for the first time they bagan to lose!

The dogs were far too quick and cunning and could easily win swimming and shouting contests, let alone games of hide and seek - something which should have been obvious from the start - but still the fat cats and rats kept on betting........and losing.

They lost so much that eventually they only had enough food left to tide them through the coming winter. Admittedly, it was enough to ensure each of them enjoyed a banquet every day, but that was not enough for the fat cats and rats who were by now used to the high life so they decided to ask all the squirrels for the nuts back they had lent them. Of course, many of the squirrels had borrowed so much that they couldn't repay the fat cats and the rats. Many of them had to give the fat cats and the rats their homes in lieu of payment while others just starved to death once they had given back all they had.

Soon the garden was littered with the bodies of dead squirrels and empty dreys which no-one could afford to buy. Eventually, things became so bad that even the fat cats and the rats ate through their stockpiles and they too were faced with starvation.

Now just before all this happenend Blair Rabbit had left the garden and been put in charge of looking after all the carrots in a neighbouring farmer's fields. The fat cats passed food over the fence to him and at nights they let him sleep in their luxurious beds in return for the help he had given them.
In his place, his brother had taken over - Brown Bunny. Now Brown Bunny had a huge job ahead of him, trying to stop the rot and bring life back into the garden. The birds told him he had to stop the fat cats and rats gambling with the dogs. They told him he had to make the fat cats and the rats live more frugally and not stockpile salmon and cream. Some even told him that the starving fat cats and rats should be left to die as they had caused the famine in the first place. There were even those who said that the fat cats and rats should be punished, or at least banished from the garden.

Brown Bunny, however, like Blair Rabbit and Moggie before him, believed that the garden could not survive without fat cats. He thought that if they went, all the squirrels would die. Besides, he thought, he had to stay well in with the fat cats or else there would be no-one to feed him and offer him a bed for the night once he retired?

So Brown Bunny came up with his plan to save the garden. He decided to bring all the fat cats and rats into the gardener's house. He also ordered that the squirrels should all donate a proportion of the nuts they planned to eat each day to the fat cats so that they could be well fed. That way, he thought, the fat cats and the rats could go out and gamble in the garden and loan money to the squirrels but if anything ever went wrong again and they lost they could always come back to the house and be looked after.

And they all lived happily ever after...........well, the fat cats and the rats did!



The moral of this story is clear:


BE BLOODY CAREFUL WHEN FAT CATS GET THEIR PAWS ON YOUR FUCKING NUTS!!!

P.S. The first person to say cats don't eat nuts gets it!!

Things Can Only Get Better - This Time?

I wasn’t going to make mention of it but I suppose it IS an historic day and so should not go by without comment.

America swore in its first black president today and I honestly believe that the world will now be a happier place, at least for the next few years - and NOT because of the colour of the new man's skin!

I am a realist, some say a cynic, and I don’t get swept up by mass hysteria.

When the Princess of Wales died I did not cry or travel to London to lay flowers and hug total strangers. I did not believe England had lost its “Rose”. I did not think a poor, innocent, saintly standard bearer for the ordinary men and women of this country had been cruelly taken from us. She was as manipulative as the firm she married into. She was as cunning as the media who followed her – and whom she courted. It was not the worst thing that had ever happened to this country. What was sad was that two young children had been left without their mother, a mother who died aged just 36. Nothing more.

When Blair was elected, contrary to the carefully spun hysteria among so-called Labour supporters, I was convinced we were in for a rabid continuation of the Thatcher years, that the man was a liar, a fraud and a dangerous individual as far as Britain’s future was concerned. I could see “New Labour” was an invention designed to cater for Daily Mail readers who wanted to say at their dinner parties that they had a social conscience. There was no “third way”. If there was, would it really have been likely that an obnoxious, grasping, greedy, insincere wannbe with a messianic complex would have been the first person in the last two hundred years to have discovered it? For the first time in my voting life I had not put my cross in the Labour box. I obviously couldn’t vote for the Tories or Lib Dems and so I spoiled my ballot paper. I have done that ever since – it IS a vote! And lo, it came to pass……………………..

Hype now surrounds Barak Obama. The media has gone absolutely barking mad over his election. To hear some of the reports, those with a religious bent could be forgiven for thinking he is The Second Coming. No, he’s just a man. He’s done nothing yet. He hasn’t made history. The colour of his skin does not and will not ever make him a better or worse president. It's the people of America who have made history. For the first time, a majority of voters have shouted down the WASPS and the ignorant. That majority has voted in a non-white, knowing, as they do, that skin has nothing to do with a person's character and ability.

Why, then, do I think things will be different? Well, firstly, all my instincts and what I have gathered so far lead me to believe Obama is an honest, sincere, honourable and very intelligent man. Compare all those character traits with those of his predecessor! I think he does want to change things, and change them for the better. As someone obviously interested in the USA's foreign policy, I think he does realise there is a world out there and it is not his nation's divine mission to subjugate those with different beliefs and impose its values on everyone else.

Secondly, things HAVE to get better now – logic dictates it. Why? Because the neo-Nazi, corrupt, war mongering, morally bankrupt, insane, radical Christian fanatics and members of the Texas Brotherhood have gone! ANYTHING has to be an improvement on that sinister and highly dangerous regime, headed by an illiterate idiot who was foisted on the American public by elections rigged by the multi-millionaires pulling his strings behind the scenes.

For once, that bloody awful song which Blair chose to herald his own arrival – a song which could not have been more inappropriate – is at last pertinent………Things Can Only Get Better.

Hell, who knows, maybe they USA will now even abolish the death penalty and quit the tiny list of backward, uncivilised countries which believe Lex Talionis should underpin their judicial systems?

Here endeth the lesson.

Black Power

Simply Irresistible!


Advertising is a corrupt and morally bankrupt industry. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Often, it’s not so much what they say that is sickening, it’s what’s left unsaid that deceives.

Take for instance the new Just For Men advert on telly. So sweet, you’re supposed to think. So heart-warming.

TWINING KID 1: “Dad, it’s time.”
TWINING KID 2: “Yeah, you’d be a really good catch for someone.”

Cut to the day after and dad decides to act on his precocious spawns’ advice. He buffs up his luxuriant barnet, paints out his grey hairs with Just For Men and instantly pulls some bleedin’ supermodel who just happened to be hanging about with no queue of men behind her desperate to get into her knickers. A wand is waved and, Hey Presto! Instant happy family again. All thanks to hair colourant.

Not quite how it was, I think. What about all that film on the cutting room floor? What film? This film?

TK1: “Dad, it’s time.”
DAD: “Oh shit, are they open?”
TK2: “No, not the pub. You’d be a really good catch for someone.”
DAD: “Yerwhat?”
TK1: “Yeah, if you had jet black hair instead of hair with bits of grey in it you’d be able to pull some deep, intelligent, discerning bird who was in no way superficial.”
DAD: “Fuck off, will you, and pass me that can.”
TK2: “Go on dad, it IS time. I mean, you’ve been lying on that settee, masturbating and watching Trisha ever since mummy fucked off.”
DAD: “Callous bitch! And she still hasn’t told me who your real fathers are.”
TK1: “You were boning that woman from the florist’s, be honest. Anyway, mummy didn’t like anal sex and you knew that. Still, she’s out of hospital now.”
DAD: “Frigid cow!"
TK2: “Well, it’s time. You’re probation is up. That ban on making contact with any women aged between 17 and 105 within a 200 mile radius of home is lifted now.
TK1: “Yeah, get out there, shagmonster! You’ve got a knob like a babby’s arm holding an orange!! You’d make a really good catch for someone.”
TK2: “We’ve got the number of a high class prostitute in Chelsea – we found it in grandad’s wallet.”
TK1: “If you remortgage the house and sell us for medical experimentation you could have a hell of a night out with her.”
DAD: “Go on then. Pass me my hat – and my pants.”
TK2: “Don’t forget to colour you hair first, though. I mean, I think women will find your history of wife battering, chronic flatulence, alcoholism, bankruptcy, animal abuse and indecent exposure in public places really endearing – but grey hair? Get real.”

I think Just For Men had better go.

The Slippery Slope

The Imminently Ex-Mrs Pither is expected round at The Towers this weekend having just returned from holiday. She’s been skiing in France.

I wasn’t allowed to know the exact location in case I phoned up where she was staying, pretended to be from “the clinic” and left a message to say that her vaginal wart cream was ready for collection. She didn’t laugh the last time I did it. No, the location was kept a secret from me – but I surmised that it was somewhere hilly, maybe even mountainous, and probably cold.

Pither can’t afford skiing holidays. Besides, Pither is allergic to mittens, reflective sunglasses and people with toothpaste advert smiles. To tell the truth, skiing strikes him as a bit…..a bit…..well…..well……..wanky. All those wannabes and trendies talking about their shoes, their handbags or how they’ve adjusted the overhead torque on their new baby so that she’s now purring like a kitten. “Mwa, mwa!! Miss you already!”

Quite what the appeal is of sliding down a hill on two sawn-off floorboards while freezing your tits off only to be dragged back up to the top so you can slide down again remains a mystery to me. It’s sort of the Alpine equivalent of a dog chasing its tail.

I can’t really see that IEMP would have slid seamlessly into that set either, let alone down a frozen incline which does not lead directly to a bar. It’s just not her – or at least it wasn’t. She went, however, with her new man. Perhaps that was the attraction? Skiing certainly fits with what I know of him. He works in computers, you see, and so the concept of sliding must seem mind-blowingly exciting to him. This is the man, dear readers, who, when asked by Pither, some years ago now, who his comedy heroes were, replied “I don’t like old comedy”. If it’s trendy, it’s for him.

"If you’ve never been skiing then how can you comment?" I hear you ask. Well, smartarses, I did go once! It was the obligatory, cut-price, school skiing trip. I was 17 and saved up out of my holiday job, pumping gas at a petrol station, to split the cost with my mother.

In all the years previously kids from my school had gone to Italy, France, Switzerland or Austria. They returned will tales of girls, illicit booze and snogs in the snow. I wanted a bit of that. I thought the slopes needed Pither. I thought the continent in general needed him. I needed to know if bras could be unfastened with one hand in foreign climes, just as they could be in England. Did Eurobirds kiss like English girls? Were a Snoopy doll and a poster of David Cassidy a universal currency which would grant access to “third base”? Had Britain’s entry into Europe really cemented a trading alliance to rival the USA? All these questions needed to be answered.

“Italy this year,” said the geography teacher leading the trip. That’ll do for me, I thought. I bought an Italian phrase book and desperately tried to piece together sentences such as “You have big tits for a vegetarian” and “Bet I can guess the colour of the pants you’re wearing just by licking them while blindfolded?”

I paid my deposit and then began counting the days. I couldn’t wait. I should have known, however. Nothing runs smoothly in Pither’s life. Four weeks before we were due to go there was a change of plan. “We’re not going to Italy after all,” said the geography teacher. “No, we’ve decided to have a complete change this time. We’re going instead to………………………Bulgaria!”

"Bul-Fucking-Garia?!” I enquired, with barely disguised incredulity. "Bul-Fucking-Garia?!!! You’re ‘aving a laarf, aren’t you? If God wanted to give the world an enema he'd stick the tube in Bulgaria!”

“Now, now Pither,” said the teacher. “We’re going there because it’s unspoilt.”

“There are reasons for that,” I said. “Firstly, it’s impossible to spoil it anymore than it's already been spoilt! Secondly, it’s unspoilt because no-one wants to go there on account of the fact they know it’s a shithole! Thirdly, those who do go aren’t allowed out again anyway and, finally and on a purely personal note, have you ever seen a photograph of a Bulgarian woman? They’re all like Geoff Capes with tits!”

My comments were duly noted – and ignored – and so Bulgaria was where we went.

This was 1977, bear in mind. Not only was the Berlin Wall still up, it was being re-rendered every month! The Soviet Union was still very much a massive power, the Iron Curtain showed not one iota of rust and the Eastern Bloc was about as geared up for tourism as Saturn is for a miniature golf tournament. Holland would have been a better destination for a skiing holiday.

If you were fascinated by potatoes and beetroot then Bulgaria was the get-away destination of a lifetime! Outside of root vegetables and apart from snow there was…….there was…….well, fuck all! Seemingly endless days of sliding down state-owned mountains, being dragged back up to the top and the obligatory statue of Lenin, then back down again. Hour in, hour out, day in, day out. On top of it all, I couldn’t even ski! I was shite!! I was also too logical for skiing.

“Hope you don’t mind me asking this, Sir, but why, having slid and fallen hundreds of feet down this freezing fucking mountain, would I want to get dragged back up to the top and do it again? I mean, if I was run over by a bus, would you expect me to ask the driver to hang on a sec while I got up, walked down the road and lay down so he could do it again?”

The only bright moment arrived one night, just before the end of this trip from Hell, when a woman from the kitchens at the prison camp where we were staying let herself into my room using a pass key. She then took off all her clothes and got into bed with me! Sounds like a teenage fantasy, I know, but I swear it is true. I’ve no doubt she looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp but, Hell, it was dark, any Comunist port in a snow storm and at 17 you don't look at the mantlepiece when you're poking the fire, I thought. She didn't speak a word of English either but, then again, I wasn't in the mood to discuss the merits of Dostoyevsky or CSKA Sofia's decision to switch to a conventional 4-4-2 for European games. What happened? What fucking happened?!! Just as she was about play the pink oboe there was a fucking fire drill! Honest. I know this sounds made up but it DID happen. We all had to get dressed and go outside. She disappeared into the crowd and I was left standing there, pantless and in my tracksuit bottoms, looking like an organic T-square! Not even the biting cold eased the situation. Those of you who know my real surname will no doubt be able to imagine the laughter which followed when my name was read out in the roll call and I had to answer.

She never wrote, never phoned......

No, skiing’s not for Pither. I shall still, however, listen with feigned interest to IEMP’s tales of her holiday on the piste – safe in the knowledge that I have sent Alpine sports to Grantham.

Go Out? Me? 'Ow?

That’s it! I’m never going outside again. It’s safe here, it’s warm and only Pither’s rules apply. What a supreme irony, bearing in mind what has finally convinced me that either the world has gone mad and it’s brain-sappingly dangerous out there or it is in fact me who has gone mad and I’m not safe to be let loose on the public.

Go-Cat! Go-Fucking-Cat!! – that’s what has at last tipped me over the edge. I just don’t know where to begin on this one. I really don’t. Is it about the awesome stupidity and mind-numbing irrelevance of marketing? Perhaps it’s the terrifying depths to which the intelligence of the consumerists have sunk? Then again, perhaps it’s just the cats of today? I don’t know.

I almost dropped me chips when I heard it…………….“Go-Cat Indoors,” the advert purred.

“………………….for cats that don’t get out much.”

WHAAAAAAAT?!?!!? CATS THAT DON’T GET OUT MUCH???? AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


I know this country has chased the United States of America down the standards toilet, I know everything now has a price and not a value and I know nothing is allowed to just “be” anymore – it has to be “sold”, BUT SELLING A PRODUCT AIMED AT AGORAPHOBIC CATS IS FUCKING LUNACY!!!

What next?
Pedigree Chum Personality Disorder – For Dogs Who Think They are Napoleon?
Friskies Tentik Fodo – For Dyslexic Kittens?
Nazi Nibbles – For Hamsters Who Want To Annexe the Sudetenland?

They’ll come one day, you watch! I mean, if the ad men can sell Shreddies by telling the great unwashed that they are knitted by a bunch of piss-stained, crumbly old grannies crammed into a basement somewhere then everything is possible.

Go-Cat Indoors can go – outdoors……to Grantham.

The Black Dog Years

I wish I was Kevin Arnold.

Kev? You know? The dumpy, goofy little kid in The Wonder Years?

Not only did/does Kevin not live in this shithole of a country, he’s apparently got one of those special paintings in the loft, like that Dorian Gray cove.

Due to an unexpected and, believe it or not, unwanted absence from work for a while, I have found myself filling the dark and deepening void by sitting in front of the Devil’s Lantern more than is healthy. Just as it’s inevitable that if you stand still long enough in any town or city centre some twat will come along and ask if you are interested in changing your god or gas supplier, so too it’s inevitable that if you watch the box long enough an episode of The Wonder Years will come along.

So it was this morning when I reached for the button of distraction. The last time I can recall watching the seemingly never ending saga of Kevin Arnold he had a car and was at high school. Today, thanks no doubt to that attic artwork, he was 13 again!

Schadenfreude had got me looking forward to him hitting his late teens, the show by then having been retitled The Blunder Years. You know, all those 18th birthday parties and that discovering girls stuff? The beginning of that long, painful and drip-drip-drip lesson which would have taught him, too late, that females were not only made of sugar and spice, but also oestrogen and a burning desire for shoes and strife.

What happened to the episodes when Kev hit his 20s? – The Chunder Years. When he burst on an unsuspecting world, full of hope and ambition, only to be trampled down by mile-long dole queues and the dawning realisation that, without an atom bomb, he could not change the world after all. When his diary was full of 21st birthday parties where friends got the key of the door, only to learn that it granted them admission to a world of conformity and drudge.

Then there would have been The Goes-Under Years charting the rolling by of his 30s. The struggling to find a little semi-detached castle where he imagined he could pull up the drawbridge at nights and tell the world to go away. The finding of a partner who, with fingers crossed behind her back, promised to love and honour him for the rest of his days. The “Happy Divorce” presents to buy for his pals. The aching banality of business, bills, Barmouth and badminton.

Then we would at last have come bang up to date and found Kev in his 40s. His hair gone, his teeth as complete as a row of houses in Lockerbie. He would have at last learnt how to spectacularly please a woman in bed, only to find that, like a juggler in an airing cupboard, there was no-one to whom he could show off his skills. He would have become very good at his line of work but found that experience and expertise were no longer wanted – cheapness and blind obedience were all that mattered. He would have become accustomed to regularly dressing smartly and hearing good things said about old friends before attending lavish booze-ups where reminiscences flowed as thick and fast as the beer and the wine. Shame those old friends would not be there – because he had just seen them buried.

Back to The Wonder Years? – wonder where it all went so wrong?

Still, our Kev can just press a button, or perhaps sneak up into the attic, and, hey presto! He’s back to being 13 again.

I wish I was Kevin Arnold.