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.