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.