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.