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.