John Denver - An Apology

In a post yesterday on Grantham New Town, reference was made to a Mr John Denver having been invited round to Pither Towers to enjoy nibbles and a game of Twister.
Two comments have flooded in pointing out that Mr Denver is, in fact, dead.
The article should have said that Mr John Benver was invited round. This was due to a typographical error and internal disciplinary action has been taken as a result.
Notwithstanding the fact that the entire basis of the article was the value of lies at this time of year, and without prejudice, the editor wishes to make it clear that it was no way intended to imply that Mr Denver is alive and available for bookings.
We at Grantham New Town wish to apologise unreservedly to the late Mr Denver, his family and fans for any inconvenience caused.

How Was Your Christmas?

"Oh, you know. Had a few kings and shepherds round, gave birth to the Son of God. Quiet, really."


Content though I am with my very unmerry non-Christmas, the tedium of one festive tradition was beginning to get to me but I have found a way of brightening it up - by becoming a pathological liar in the face of seasonal small talk.

By way of explanation (that's two sentences I've inverted now! Dammit, dammit, dammit!!), let me admit that I have ranted before in this tiny corner of cyberspace about my hatred of "small talk" but, more than at any other time of year, t'is the season for this folly. People can't even be bothered with the old standbys during the festive ferago. You don't seem to hear:
"How are you?" (As if you fucking care and anyway you'd be really fucked if I actually fucking told you!)
"The weather doesn't seem to know what it wants to do." (That would be because it is, in fact, a collection of meteorological parameters and not a sentient being, asswipe! Now piss off out of my bus queue!)
"Will this rain ever stop?" (No, no, no, of course it won't. We'll all be washed away in the cataclysmic flood which is to follow and die horrible, agonising deaths. Still, mustn't grumble, eh?)
"Have you come far?" (Well, considering that five million years ago we were all monocellular lifeforms in the primordial soup, I think we've all done rather well!)

No, all inventiveness goes out of the window at Christmas and there is just one line of small talk for everyone and one stock response:

"Did you have a good Christmas?"
"Not bad - quiet, you know."

You could be forgiven for thinking that the whole sodding planet had turned into the reference section of some galactic library, the amount of "quiet" Christmases that were being had!
I have had enough of these exchanges. I cans't take n'more! The trouble with small talk is that it lacks any kind of imagination. It is a series of stock questions which demand stock answers. That's hardly putting to good use the 10 per cent of the brain we actually have available for cognitive reasoning.
I am keen to get the most possible out of my tithe and so I have taken to dreaming up altogether more interesting and thought provoking replies:

Git: "Did you have a good Christmas?"
Pither: " I'm afraid not. My budgerigar had to have a leg amputated and, what with my infection and the wife doing a five stretch in Holloway, I haven't really seen anyone."

Git 2: "Did you have a good Christmas?"
Pither: "Yes, really good, thanks. We went to Mia Farrow's for our lunch on Christmas Day, as usual, but then on Boxing Day we had the St Winifred's School Choir and John Denver round to our place for nibbles and a game of Twister."

Git 3: "Did you have a good Christmas?"
Pither: "Well, as you know, I'm a senior ranking officer in the Royal Protection Squad so I had to spend the day at Sandringham but the wife and I managed to jet off to Nice on Boxing Day to hook up with Hugh Grant and Arthur Mullard."

Git 4: "Did you have a good Christmas?"
Pither: "It was all a bit hectic, I'm afraid. Our polar bear had a knee infection, my granny contracted typhoid and we had to have our youngest, Nigel, taken into care because he was crayoning on the furniture."

The possibilities are endless. Also, these "pants-on-fire" responses tend to kill the conversation stone dead, unlike the ubiquitous "quiet" response which positively invites the drone you are collared by to come back with something equally banal. Hurrah!

"Quiet" Christmases can go to Grantham.

Reginald Scratchesit

I'm reminded today of that old gag...."What do you think of Dickens?"...."I don't know, I've never been to one."
I've never been one to waste the opportunity for a cheap chortle so I could just leave it at that - but it IS relevant. You see, I think I have turned into a Dickensian character.
Like many of Chaz's (Boz's?) characters, particularly those in A Christmas Carol, my lot this festive season has been, on the face of it, not been a happy one. There was the disastrous start which was Christmas Eve. I then woke on Christmas Day with a form of cholera which has confined me to my bed for long stretches and is only now just beginning to subside.
A lack of funds, a dying dog and a looming divorce had already led Mrs Pither and I to decide Christmas would be cancelled this year. As a result, there are no decorations up at The Towers, there is no tree, no presents, no turkey, no port, no plum pudding.........fuck all!
Now, as if to proverbially put the Aids-riddled fairy well and truly atop my woodworm-ravaged Christmas tree, Mrs Pither has gone back to work and will be heading off from there to her mother's in the frozen north - for five days! That leaves me and the chaps alone in Tinselless Town, probably on New Year's Eve as well, with almost nothing. Picture us huddled around the light of just one, dim candle for warmth with just three eggs and a pack of bacon a week past its sell-by date to sustain us.

Now, all of the above would, you might think, make me akin to a character in an EastEnders Christmas special, or someone in one of Leonard Cohen's cheery ditties, but no. You see, like so many of Dickens's heroes, I am in fact quite contented.

I am not starving to death. I am not dying of thirst. In fact, I am not dying in any way, other than the way in which we are all dying as the years roll by. My home is not being bombed and I do not risk being shot if I step outside. I am not cold. I am not exhausted. I am not languishing in some hellhole jail and I am not scared, totally alone or without hope. The truth of the matter is that the things I AM pale into insignificance alongside the things I AM NOT.

Bob Cratchit was of a similar mind. The poor bastard got only one day off a year, his youngest was a cripple, he lived in a shithole, his missus had a face like a smacked arse, he earned about fourpence every six years and the biggest feast he could rustle up amounted to a bag of nuts, three brussel sprouts, an old potato and a mug of Vimto................but he was happy! His happiness was down not to clinical insanity and a complete inability to realise how crappy life was but to his ability to realise just how lucky he was in comparison to some.

This sanctimonious load of holier-than-thou, saccharin-laden cobblers is being brought to you courtesy of encounters I have had over the last few days with several people - some in the flesh, some on the wireless, some on the Devil's Lantern.

Excuse the heavy irony here, but I've had it up to just above there with people complaining. If they've not been bleating on about how unhappy they are, how no-one loves them or how alone they feel in the world, they have been twining about how life is unfair and how they wanted to kill themselves because Sainsbury's had run out of family-sized chocolate logs!! FUCK OFF!! If I'd wanted to hear something bleating in my ear continually I'd have spent Christmas on a sheep farm! GET A FUCKING GRIP AND......AND.....AND.....WELL.......JUST CHEER UP, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!

"My girlfriend has left me, Reg."
"Good! She was a mad old trout. Think positive - now you can walk about the house in just your pants as much as you like."

"I feel lonely today, Reg."
"There's a reason for that. Everyone hates you! Why not just talk to the voices in your head?"

"I hardly got any presents."
"Here's one.....THWACK!!!"

"I feel really depressed, Reg."
"And by depressing me you are achieving what exactly?"

I realise some might accuse me of hypocrisy, Pither not being widely known as a little ray of sunshine. In my defence, I would say that my ire and, on occasions, my despondency, are always aimed at other people or things. I never say "pity poor me" or "I want your sympathy and love" because I am patently aware that no-one gives a shit! Primarily, however, I don't bleat about my lot because I CAN COPE! There IS always someone worse off than you (it's me!!)

So, here's to Dickens's newest creation.............Reginald Scratchesit. God bless us, each and every one!
(Self pity can go to Grantham).


(Master Scratchit may apparently have some awful spinal condition or have had a broomhandle shoved all the way up his arse but he is still happy as he shares a warming jug of Scruttocks Old Dirigible with the village child molester.)

P.S. Talking about creatures which never bemoan their lot, my Padfoot is doing remarkably well. He has, in fact, had a splendid Christmas! Friends have been bringing round the left-overs from their Christmas meals on a regular basis and so he has been tucking into turkey, beef, gammon and pork, among other things. He really is looking good, especially now the hair is growing back from his operation. Also, he is eating so well he has actually started to put weight back on!
He is so happy he has, once again, taken to play-fighting with his brother and sisters, gripping his dad's arm in his jaw when he gets excited and trundling around the house after both myself and Mrs P in case there are any more goodies to be had. Even his legs seem to have regained a lot of strength and he now hops in and out of the house with apparent ease. Hell, he can even jump onto the settee to sleep at night. He is doing very, very well.



We both know the cancer in his chest is likely to be inoperable, but it looks like he has a while left yet and, far from continuing to deteriorate, he is staging something of a fight back, however fleeting it might be. Hurrah!

Kiss Off!!!

I'm going to start a new campaign (now that my "Help The Aged - Felate an Over-40" drive seems to have run out of steam.

I want the Government health Nazis to stop masturbating themselves into a frenzy about smoking in public and turn their rabid ravings instead to calls for a string of softcore brothels to be established around the country.

These wouldn't be full-on, in-out-in-out-my-name-is-Chantelle brothels, you understand. No, jiggery pokery - and particularly pokery - would be against the rules of the house. The sole purpose of these places would not be to offer the chance of fluid exchange with someone better looking than ones spouse, and for a smaller fee, but to provide licensed premises where a user could indulge in the practice of "snogging", out of the sight of normal human beings.

Unlike existing places of ill-repute where ladies or gentlemen are provided by the management, clients of these softcore brothels would take along their own "snogee" for the occasion - a bit like having to take your own booze to an unlicensed Balti house. Said client and his or her fellow face-muncher could then pass the time trying to swap tongues and tonsils in private while sitting in front of one half of lager which would remain untouched throughout the combat.

These "facilities" would give these selfish, sicko perverts somewhere to go and so free fully evolved human beings from having to endure the sight of two abject wankers trying to chew each others fucking face off in the fucking pub!
God, I soddin' hate it when two tossers decide that every other bloody person in the boozer has got to share every purile, pathetic, physical detail of their juvenile, invariably doomed relationship. GO FUCKING HOME AND DO IT!!! SOD OFF AWAY FROM MY OXYGEN!!

I mean, there are times when my digestive system is not all it should be, right? Should I, as a result, be perfectly at liberty to drop my trousers in front of lovey-dovey couples in the pub, squat down and have a shit before their very eyes? No, I shouldn't - and I've been barred from a couple of places for having thought that I should! If my bladder reaches critical mass after about six pints, should I be able to sidle over to these people and say: "'Scuse me, hope you don't mind. Aaaah, that's a relief!" as I urinate all over them? Je ne pense pas! How about: "Soz you two but I haven't had sex for weeks and I'm feeling particularly fruity so I'm just going to knock a round off in front of you. I won't be long"? The bloody lino is sticky enough as it is!!

These public face-chewers invariably fall into one of four groups:
Firstly, there are the youngsters - often Asian and with religious parents - who are forbidden from even seeing the person they are with, let alone sitting around the house chewing their face off.
Secondly, there are the middle-aged adulterers. Like the kids, they can hardly give full vent to their passion at their respective homes and so they warm up in the pub before retiring to the car they came in and then park up near some deserted reservoir to mist up the windows and shag on the backseat.
Thirdly, there are those couples who hook up on internet sex sites. The last thing they want to do is actually talk to each other but at the same time they each want to make sure that the other is not an axe-wielding loony. As a result, they arrange to meet first in a pub. It takes about 30 seconds to weigh-up potential loonyism and so, once the all-clear has sounded, what better place to dispense with necessary juice-producing foreplay than in the pub?
Fourthly, there are people who have escaped from secure institutions or homes.

I had better make it clear here and now that I am not averse to all public shows of affection. The occasional hand on the waist of the lady you are with, a knowing and lingering smile of warmth across the room, a sly squeeze of the hand as you pass by. Those are subtle signals of AFFECTION - affection is NOT the word to describe the public antics more usually witnessed by others when wildlife programmes on the rutting season are screened on the telly!

I have to admit, however, that I am also against that seemingly harmless and mild show of affection which is "holding hands". Girlies always want to hold fucking hands. Jesus, they start doing it with each other when they are at school (I still don't understand that to this day) so by the time they start knocking around with boys their poor, hapless victims have no fucking chance!
It's not a matter of embarrassment. No, it's far more fundamental than that. It is a simple matter of practicality. Men have logical brains. Women, well those who have brains, do not have a single, logical neurone between them. They fail to see that if they hold the hand of their chosen gorilla in town, or anywhere else for that matter, they then form an impassable, rolling roadblock. No-one can get by you, you can't get by anyone else, while one of you walks on the pavement the other has to walk in the road and face certain death (guess who?), you can't pass lampposts or letterboxes and you can't enter any shops because the doors are not designed for Siamese twins. To combat these problems, men have learnt to break the hand-hold when obstacles approach but, like stubble on the chin in the mornings, the female hand returns and takes hold again. Seconds later the hold has to be broken if any progress is to be made but then the link is re-established almost immediately.

The only logical reason I have ever heard for holding hands was put forward by my mother. She and my late father always used to hold hands. Her explanation? "It keeps his hand out of my handbag!"

Phew, I think that's it! I feel better now.
People who snog in public can go to Grantham.

T'was The Night Before Christmas

Yes, I know it's Christmas Day.
I know that real people with real lives are, as I write, busy celebrating countries of the world by gathering around illuminated bits of Norway while frantically ripping off processed off-cuts of Canada from Taiwanese-designed packaging to reveal "things" made in China, powered by batteries from Japan, which are all destined, once they are fucked, to be parcelled up in rolled and pressed pieces of South American rain forest and sent to starving children in Africa. Yes, I know all of these things but......................

Christmas had already been cancelled round here at The Towers before Mrs Pither proverbially urinated on any remaining festive chips by going out yesterday evening to deliver presents to friends and their spawn.
The local deliveries I could get my mind around but when, at 6pm, she phoned to say she was driving up to the home of two friends and their 34,567 children just south of Reykjavic (actually, it's in Staffordshire) I thought she was stretching the Dickensian spirit a little too far.
She then rang at 7pm to say she had a flat tyre!!
"We're no longer in the AA," she wailed.
"Are so!"
"Not too!"
"It's now through Lloyds Bank," I said. "Just give them my account number."

Mrs P phoned again two hours later:
"The AA have been and put on the spare."
"Oh, deep joy. So you're coming home now?"
"No, I'll carry on to their house. I won't be long."

Mrs P phoned again at 11pm:
"Right, I've dropped off all the presents so I'm about to set off for home."
"I am moist in anticipation."

Mrs P phoned again at midnight (you won't believe this, but I swear it is true):
"I'm stuck in mud."
"What?!!?! Where the 'eck are you?"
"In a farm track."
"Any particular reason why the urge overtook you to go down a farm track?"
"I took a wrong turning. Don't worry, I'm not far from N and J's house and so J's coming out to tow me out."

Mrs P phoned again at 1am:
"He can't pull me out so I've phoned the AA again. They're sending a truck from a local garage."
"Has Brian Rix appeared yet? Turn away when the vicar drops his trousers!"
"What?"
"Ne'er mind. Ring me to let me know when the man arrives."

Mrs P phoned at 2.30am:
"The guy from the garage has been and his truck is too wide to get down the path."
"Spiffing!"
"Also, he hasn't got a towbar or towrope long enough to reach me."
"Mentally, I know how he feels."
"He says he will have to come back on Thursday but it will cost a couple of hundred pounds to get the car out."
"Well done. And that would take the spending on the Christmas we're NOT having to what, exactly?"
"J says he will drive me home."

The phone rang again at 3am. It was "N", my wife's neurotic, poisonous, baby-dropping friend who was clearly inebriated.
"You pig!!"
"Mr Pig, please."
"Why didn't you come to collect her?"
"As I've already explained to my darling wife, I have had three-quarters of a bottle of wine and so am over the limit to drive."
"You could have come in a taxi!"
"So, let me get this straight. I should have chartered a taxi to take me the 345 miles to where YOU are so that she could get in it to come the 345 miles back with me instead of her simply getting in a taxi where YOU are and coming back by herself?"
"We couldn't get a taxi!! It's Christmas Eve, you know!!"
"You mean it WAS. Look, if she can't get a taxi there, what makes you think I could get one here?"
"You pig!!"
"We've covered that."

Anyway, Mrs P arrived home in the extremely tiny-wee small hours and woke me up on her return hence I began today, like a four-year-old should do on Christmas Day, at 4am!
I have since tried to explain to Mrs P why we will now have to report to Reykjavic police that the car has been temporarily abandoned if we are not to get an unexpected, 2ft-square present weighing 3cwts from the constabulary.
Happy days. Christmas Eve 2007 can go to Grantham.

The King of the Juice

I was up 'til late last night, doing a spot of home electronics.
I have disconnected the wires in the plug of Mrs Pither's favourite toy. I will pause briefly now to allow the playground titters and lewd comments to die away............it's not THAT toy. That can only be deactivated by an accredited representative of the National Grid, an Ann Summers engineer and two big lads with a wheelbarrow.
No, although it sounds very much as if it is THAT toy, the new love of Mrs Pither's life is in fact a "juicer". Far from being something akin to a nuclear submarine with a naughty bit underneath, the juicer resembles an old wireless with a funnel-affair on the top.
The primary purpose of this piece of consumerist tat is to produce fruit juice. One stuffs cut-up bits of fruit in the top and the juice is collected in a tub at the bottom. Isn't it amazing what they can do these days? There was me thinking that all you had to do was slice an orange or a lemon in half and then squeeze it in your hand and all the time you actually needed a £25.99 hunk of plugged-in plastic which is destined to end up on the gadget scrapheap in the attic within a month.

I have two objections to this device. Firstly, when it's started up the fucking house shakes! It's about as quiet as Ruby Wax in a mangle! The only thing I can accurately liken it to is a road drill in a bucket of blancmange. The racket goes right through you.

My second objection is what Mrs Pither chooses to make with it. You see, she's gone and bought a book! She's not normally allowed out without her probation officer but she must have slipped her lead at some stage and she now lives by "Super Juice - Juicing for Health and Healing".

I have tried hard to convince my pea-brained partner that the principal attribute of fruit juice is that it contains Vitamin C. Vitamin C is quite handy if you want to
fend off the onset of scurvy but, in the absence of plans to sail to the New World in a galleon with a gang of like-minded Elizabethan sailors, it is not all it is cracked up to be. I have consulted the Pithers' holiday planner and no long, ocean voyages in wooden-hulled, historic vessels with people who have been dead for more than 500 years have been pencilled in so I fail to see why we need the juicer. The
author of Mrs P's new Bible, one Michael Van Straten (wasn't he in Dollar or Bucks Fizz or something) is convinced, however, that it is a panacea.

To read this book, you could be mistaken for thinking that medicine and the conventional practice of healthcare to date are now redundant. There are recipes for "power" juices, "cleansing" juices, "detox" juices, "vitality" juices and even "aphrodisiac" juices! I always know where this book is in the house - you can smell the bullshit a mile off.

The underlying principal behind the recipes is that you have to mush up a load of different fruits in different combinations. Now I seem to recall learning from Miss Potter in art class when I was about seven that there is only one colour you get if you mix yellow with orange with green with red. It is the same colour you get if you swirl together pink and purple and lime and black........it's called BROWN!!

Every single one of these supposed miracle cures resembles the contents of ones toilet bowl after 12 pints and a curry! Strangely enough, and of course I can only guess, I suspect that they also all taste roughly the same.

Anyway, Mrs P and I have had full and frank discussions over the last week about the future of the juicer but we have been unable to reach agreement. Mrs P is all for us abandoning all other forms of nutritional intake and living off the output of this device for ever. I am for taking a hammer to the juicer and carrying out some serious percussive maintenance on it - either that or buying some Vaseline, tracking down Mr Van Straten and seeing just how juiced up he gets when it is inserted into him.
The war of wills finally came to a head late last night when Mrs P decided to once again attack some hapless bits of fruit. I was watching Mrs Brown on the Devil's lantern at the time - if anyone knows how it ends, or at least has a text of the dialogue for the last 20 minutes, I would love to hear from them.
I decided that I couldn't take any more and so after my very-soon-to-be ex-wife had swilled her diarrhoea delight and gone to bed I went into action and unwired the plug. Childish, I know. Petty, I know. Obstinate, I know......but effective.
As I write, Mrs P has been fiddling with the juicer in a desperate attempt to find out what is wrong. I have, of course, been accused of sabotage but I have lied convincingly and merely pointed out that it is the will of God. Mrs P is not electro-whizzkid in manner of Pither and so I think it will take her a while to work out why her juices have dried up (insert menopausal gag here). So, as Mrs P continues to hammer and clunk and rattle in the kitchen, I am left feeling that it will be a happy Christmas after all - even though we should be celebrating the birth of the King of the Juice (fnaar, fnaar).
Juicers can go to Grantham.

That Was The Week That Was

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?
Well, it's been a funny old week. It started off on Tuesday (I hate it when that happens!) when I told my current deputy boss to go and screw himself with a large, knobbly cactus-like implement - anything, so long as it hurt!
My crime? I went upstairs to the canteen to get the breakfast order for the office. "That is not a suitable use of your time," said the tortoise-headed press manager. "For why?" inquired Pither. "Your contract here is to write press releases and deal with the press," it replied. "You were gone 20 minutes! The office secretaries should get the breakfast order."
"Ah, I see," I replied. "I forgot. Are we also still entitled to have sex with their first-born and demand a tithe from them at the end of the day?"
"What?"
"I also caught one of them not calling me Massa Bwana this morning. Can I shoot her?"
"I am going to report you to the communications manager."
"Dear Lord! Not the communications manager!! I fear I have soiled me drawers!!!"

Cut to a meeting with the communications manager.
CM: "Why have you called this meeting, Tortoise Head?"
TH: "He won't do as he's told!"
CM: "I've logged Reg's hours. He started here last Tuesday and since then we have asked for him to cover a total of six days. In that time he has worked over his contracted time by six hours and 20 minutes. That's almost one complete flexi-day - built up over just six days. Perhaps you're being a tad over zealous about the breakfast thing?"
TH: "He also said I was a twat."
CM: "Well, you are."
Reg: "Nice one, CM."
TH: "I can't work with him. Either he goes or I do."
CM: "Goodbye!"
TH: "What!"
CM: "I'm serious, TH. I suggest you get along with Reg, and get along with him now! I'm in charge of a budget of £549 krillion, I've got a meeting with the Government Office for the region in an hour, I have to draw up a report which is going to go before Gordon Brown...........and you've got me in here debating who should and who shouldn't go to collect fucking bacon sandwiches!!!!"
Reg: "Way to go, CM. Can I kick him?"
CM: "Shut up, Reg!"

Little victories. It's what life's all about. The end of that little exchange prompted the start of a British, Commonwealth and Empire record-breaking sulk by dipshit - and that made it all the sweeter.
Then, in true Mr Benn style, as if by magic my mobile phone rang and it was one of the agencies to which I am signed up.
"You know that interview you went to on Monday? The one with the Government department? The one with an obscenely large salary? Well, you've got it! Not only that, I even managed to screw an extra £5,000 out of them for you. You start on January 21."
"Hurrah!!"

I nipped out to the nearby shops, bought the cactus mentioned earlier and presented it to Tortoise Head, with detailed instructions as to its use (by way of a leaving present). I have, however, agreed to stay on until the 21st to help out CM (for he is a good egg) find a replacement.

To celebrate my new job I brought the week to an end with a little outing last night. I had one or two dry sherries and..................well, I woke up on Padfoot's bed at 5am feeling a little unwell. The boy was similarly unimpressed as he looked down at me from the comfort of the settee.
Anyway, I've now broken up for Christmas and am looking forward to a few relaxing days at home. There are no decorations up at the Towers, there's no tree and the fridge is almost empty - what with Pad's condition and impending divorce, the Very-Soon-To-Be Ex-Mrs Pither and I decided that Christmas should be cancelled this year.
Still, you don't need a turkey and tinsel to have fun. Fun shall be had.
People with heads like tortoises - excluding tortoises themselves - can go to Grantham.

P.S. Pad is fine and eating well. In fact, he's perkier and more alert than he's been for months! He's even started playing chase in the garden again with his little sisters. He too shall have fun this Christmas.



Happy Christmas from the gang.

The Cold and the Beautiful

At my feet, fighting the chill, as he has been for a large part of the night.



I'm exhausted - AGAIN!!!
We've had another rough night round here at the Towers and Padfoot and I have hardly slept a wink.
I have been downstairs in the lounge with the boy all the time and sleep does not come easily to him these days, hence not to me either.
The latest problem is the biting winter cold. Pad has lost so much weight and his system is so weak having to battle the cancer in his chest all the time that he feels the chills terribly. Don't get me wrong, the Towers are as warm as toast - too warm for my liking. I was brought up by a clinically insane woman who insisted on having the windows in the house open all year round and she refused to put on the central heating because, and I quote, "it runs up the bills"!
By contrast, the heating is on full blast here all the time - God knows what the winter quarter bill is going to be - but Pad has to go out from time to time to chat to the birds and do what has to be done. The result is that when he comes back inside his teeth chatter uncontrollably and he shivers incessantly. It has been taking him a good hour to warm up and so I have taken to throwing a bedspread around him the moment he steps in from the cold. It warms him up a bit quicker but he then finds it difficult to get back to the Land of Nod. Invariably, no sooner has he started pushing out the Zs than the call of nature wakes him up again and he wants to go back outside and off we go again.
The latest on his condition is that the final biopsy results came through last Thursday and they confirmed that his spleen, stomach and liver are clear but the mass in his chest is malignant. It is making him cough quite a lot and he is still losing weight, although not as dramatically as before.

Pad is never alone - nurse Tilly in particular pops in to check on him constantly.


Sleep at last!!

He is still not in any pain (I CAN tell) although his quality of life is not brilliant - but it is more than bearable - and he is eating well. Sadly, he is also drinking a lot and that leads to the problems outlined above (when I return from work in the week, the first job is the hour-long clean up!!)
There is little that can be done for him but, as a last resort, the vet, the lovely Sally, has referred him up to the specialist veterinary hospital at Liverpool University and so he and I will take a trip up there on January 7. As Sally so quite rightly said, "they probably won't be able to do anything for him but you've got nothing to lose".
Anyway, in the meantime, the sleepless nights will no doubt continue and while I long for my bed I will be staying by his side from now on.
Nothing for Grantham - except, perhaps, the cold.

A Rare Snap

Someone, somewhere, wanted photographic proof that Mal The Pig Farmer and I had ever actually been in the same room together so, here it is.
Yes, The Biggles Brothers on tour! Which one is which? You decide.

(Pictured shortly before their arrest........)


P.S. Just gotta share this one. I was told this last night by the great Lamby (he from whom I was separated at birth). He said he went into his local boozer a while ago and was served by the regular barmaid whom he described as bosomatically advantaged but not overly bright.
He spied some cobs on a plate at the back of the bar and so, turning to said barmaid, the following exchange occured:
Lamby: "'Scuse me, love. What's on the cobs?"
Barmaid, turning to examine said comestibles: "It's clingfilm."
Laugh, I nearly passed me fags round!

An Apology

The more observant among you have noted that I posted last night's fascinating article about Mal Baby twice. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.
There is a simple explanation for this crass error. It is that by the time I came to Blog I had downed a considerable amount of Chateau Chunder/de-icer and been to two pubs with the trainee pig farmer where many dry sherries and quarts of creme de menthe were downed.
On my return to the Towers I was not really in a fit state to operate the Blog machine and trying to feed instructions into a computer when you've got fingers like a cow's tits is difficult at the best of times.
I was, however, up for work at 6.30am today and left the remnants of MB snoring, breaking wind and belching on my settee.
He had brought his own little jarmies set, bless him, although it failed to hide the fact that he has the upper body of Brian Blessed but the legs of Kylie Minogue.
He has gone now, anyway, but very thoughtfully he left all the lights on in the house, the toilet blocked and the front door open. Some things never change.

Malc

I've got to write this before I forget. Oh, life just keeps giving you lines to make everything bearable.

I have been entertaining Malc tonight (he of 'The Edge of Nowhere' fame). Some of you might know him. He's my long-time chum who jacked in journalism to go and raise pigs on the Orkneys.
I love him like the bro I never had - actually, I have a brother but.......
Anyway, Mal Baby (for that is what he is known as to everyone he ever worked with) and I chewed the fat at Pither Towers for a while and then we adjourned to my nearest pub to continue our dissection of life's bitter ironies.
This was when, after the fifth pint, we fell to reminiscing. I coughed to the first lady to have enjoyed the pleasures of Pither's passion but then Malc followed that up with this memorable line:

"I first did IT with XXXXXX.
"She later went off to study zoology at Manchester University!

I had visions of her first day. "So, this is a hamster's penis and this is a man's penis? Are you sure? Only I know this bloke who........"

Bless him. He is my chum. He is a mad pig farmer but he IS the little brother I should always have had. Grantham shall not have him.

Malc

I've got to write this before I forget. Oh, life just keeps giving you lines to make everything bearable.

I have been entertaining Malc tonight (he of 'The Edge of Nowhere' fame). Some of you might know him. He's my long-time chum who jacked in journalism to go and raise pigs on the Orkneys.
I love him like the bro I never had - actually, I have a brother but.......
Anyway, Mal Baby (for that is what he is known as to everyone he ever worked with) and I chewed the fat at Pither Towers for a while and then we adjourned to my nearest pub to continue our dissection of life's bitter ironies.
This was when, after the fifth pint, we fell to reminiscing. I coughed to the first lady to have enjoyed the pleasures of Pither's passion but then Malc followed that up with this memorable line:

"I first did IT with XXXXXX.
"She later went off to study zoology at Manchester University!

I had visions of her first day. "So, this is a hamster's penis and this is a man's penis. Are you sure? Only I know this bloke who........"

Bless him. He is my chum. He is a mad pig farmer but he IS the little brother I should always have had. Grantham shall not have him.

Dear John

Ah!! Now I remember. That's when I was just right for promotion!


I was reminded yesterday of a great line from that blackly-funny but seemingly forgotten sit-com "Dear John".
When asked for his thoughts on promotion, the late Ralph Bates - who played the hang-
dog hero - said: "I remember the days when I was told I was too young for promotion. I also seem to recall the days when I was told I was too old for promotion. I'm not sure when I was just right for promotion.........I think I must have been on holiday."
I have always empathised with that experience and something akin to it reared its head again yesterday.
Among the myriad jobs I have applied for was one as a Grand Wizard in the press office at a county council. I was asked along for an interview there on Monday and they all seemed a jolly decent bunch of coves, I have to say.
I had, it turned out, made it onto a shortlist of three and when I saw the other two candidates I thought I was probably in with a good chance. One was a spotty Herbert in his 30s who, when I asked him if he had come far, said: "No, not really. I live just down the road with my mum." Hardly the fiercesome sort to strike terror into the press and rule a communications empire with a rod of iron, I reasoned.
The other was one of those sorts of women - well, I think she had negotiated puberty, albeit not too successfully - who seem to be all the rage in journalistic circles these days. Clutching a bottle of mineral water, she had a Henry V haircut and a face like a camel sucking a biscuit. To enhance the look she wore Harry Potteresque bins, a woolly, polo-neck sweater-affair, flame-retardant, black, four-million-denier tights, a plaid ra-ra skirt and Doc Martin boots. She was, in truth, a walking contraceptive. The only words she spoke came when I asked if there were any good pubs in the vicinity. "I don't drink!" she said curtly. Good God, I thought! A completely dessicated person!! "Try Our New Instant Journo - Just Add Water and Serve!"

Anyway, to cut an already tedious story a tad shorter, I did my "thang" in the interview with three council bods - I was, naturally, brilliant - and then, despite producing a portfolio of press clippings, sample releases, project reports and testimonials, I was asked to write a press release from some notes they shoved in front of me. Now that may seem a logical thing to ask, from an outsider's point of view, but I have been a hack for close on 25 years. I find the request not only somewhat redundant but also insulting. I mean, do you think that if Dr Christian Barnard had turned up for an interview at Deathtown Health Trust he would have been asked to perform open-heart surgery on Wilkinson from accounts who just happened to be standing in the corner? Would Karl Marx have been asked to go and form a Communist state? How about Oppenheimer? Do you think he was asked to knock up an atom bomb while a bunch of "suits" at the interview checked over his O-Level certificates? You get my drift, I think.

Well, yesterday I rang up to see how I had fared and I received the kind of news life has taught me to expect - bad news. The council supremo was a lovely lass and she was genuinely embarrassed and clearly felt awkward at having to "Dear John" me and say that I had not been successful. C'est la vie. No worries. Every penny don't fit the slot, I thought. No doubt the closet paedophile/serial killer and Anhydrous Annie had hidden depths and talents which put me in the shade.
Before wishing the lovely supremo a fond farewell and asking her to bear me in mind for any future jobs, I asked, as is my custom after failed interviews, for some pointers on where I had fallen down and in which areas I was deemed to have been weak.
"None," she replied.
"None! There must have been some, surely, otherwise I would have got the job?"
"No," she stuttered, "We just felt....we felt....well..... that perhaps you were too experienced."
"Sorry?"
"I mean, you have such a wide ranging background we thought the job would have bored you. We wanted someone who would be with us for the long-term."

Now maybe I am being naiive. Maybe that was a euphemism for "old". Ageism is supposedly against the law these days but how do you prove it? The job spec did not mention anything about having to have hair and all your own teeth. There didn't appear to have been a bar on anyone who could remember Pickety Witch, "Make Your Mind Up Time" or Atom Ant. I didn't see anything about "physically repulsive individuals will not be considered" - if there had been something to that effect then the Christie look-alike and Little Miss Drypants would also have been barred.

So, in a non-cynical spirit I will accept the words at face value - I am, apparently, "too experienced". I remember when I used to be told that I hadn't got enough experience. I wonder where I was on holiday when I had just the right amount?

Nothing for Grantham today apart, I suppose, from job-hunting and interviews.

A Dish Served Cold

Oh, the fun we shall have!

Yes, it looks as if the police could be about to go on strike, despite that having been outlawed in 1919.

Consider then the possibilities. Who will police the police when they walk out, man/woman their barricades and demand that no-one crosses their picket lines? Well, it can't be the police, can it! No, it will have to be a bunch of people who aren't already in jobs. I know!! Let me run this up the flagpole and see who salutes. Why don't we recruit all those miners who were tossed on the employment scrapheap by Thatcher?
They could be equipped with tear gas and riot gear and, as the filth would be breaking the law by walking out in the first place, the miners could be empowered to charge at them on horseback and attack them with batons while waving £5 notes in their faces, taunting them that they have no money.
There should, of course, also be an elite squad of particularly thick and violent miners who all wear white shirts and come from South Yorkshire. They could be drafted into the Metropolitan Police Force area from up north to attack the striking officers there while the sympathetic and intelligent miners in the Home Counties could be left to deal with the dispute on their patch in a harmonious and professional way. Arthur Scargill could be made chief constable and we should be allowed to see footage on the 10 o'clock news of Sir Ian Blair being led away from the picket line in handcuffs.

Bring it on! BRING IT ON!!!!!

Who'll be contributing to their strike fund I wonder? No-fucking-one, that's who! It'll soon be your turn to run, you porcine bastards!!

....And Finally - Bizspeak

To bring my less than fascinating series on modern languages to a blessed conclusion I have to make mention of the king of crap, the Czar of shite, the Buddha of bollocks - Bizspeak.

I will make this brief as I have to go to work in about 3.4 picoseconds but I was so disturbed by what I heard on one of those ubiquitous business slots on the wireless an hour ago that I had to document it before I forgot the bullshit being spouted.
An "expert business analyst" was on and he was one of Thatcher's prodigies - you know, a pig-thick, cockney do-what!-apple-and-pears-maybe-it's-because-I'm-a-Londoner former barrow boy-type whose only interest in life is money.
In the space of just one minute he used the following two totally meaningless phrases:

CLIMBING A WALL OF FEAR.
UP-MOVING FOOTFALL.

Not content with showing what a twat he was, he backed that up by demonstrating succinctly how ridiculous yet obscene was the trade in which he was involved. He made mention of something like "strippers" or "headers" or "gappers" - it was not along ago now but it was such amazing nonsense that I have forgotten it already.
"What are they?", the show host inquired (somewhat surprisingly, considering he had let "climbing a wall of fear" and "up-moving footfall" go by without even attempting to stab said barrow boy.
The explanation? Wait for this............"Oh, that is where you sell shares before you have bought them."
HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT WORK?????!!!
"Good morning, kindly greengrocer."
"Good morning."
"I would like to sell you all the stock in your shop, please."
"You're not from that 'home' around the corner, are you? You're not supposed to be out alone."
"No, stout yeoman. I shall sell you your produce and then I shall buy it back at a reduced price."
"Madge!! Keep him talking, I'll make the phonecall."

Yes, Bizspeak and all the other degenerative, post-Thatcher mutations of our great language, along with the stupid, talentless and money-driven tossers who created them, can go to Grantham.

Govspeak 2007

Following my discourse on Politicospeak, I would like to introduce the next in my fascinating series on modern languages - Govspeak 2007.

I was introduced to Basic Govspeak when I first joined the Fourth Estate and took up scribing way back in 4BC - political tales and coverage of local council meetings being mainstays of newspaper journalism.
What is Govspeak, I don't hear you ask? Well, in essence, it is the language used by local council officers, Whitehall mandarins and, consequently, their political masters.
Why was Govspeak invented? That, I'm afraid, is slightly harder to answer. The simplest way I can think of explaining it is to have you follow the chain of logical statements below to their inevitable conclusion.
1. The basic function of all public bodies is to collect money off everyone and then give it back, usually in the form of services.
2. To perform this function, public bodies such as councils need to employee two people - one to gather in the cash and the other to give it to people who actually DO something for a living.
3. The average local council in Britain employs around 12,895,863 people (the payroll in central government is obviously much larger).
4. Ordinarily, this would leave 12,895,861 employees in each council with "fuck all" to do all day.
5. Doing "fuck all" and getting paid for it is illegal (see the Fiscal Reimbursement For Doing Jackshite Prohibition Act of 1456), unless of course you are a member of the Royal Family.
6. The existence of 5 above leaves 12,895,861 town hall staff in each council with a dilemma.
(a) It is against the law and it is not a good career move to tell one's bosses and the general public which pays one "One has absolutely 'fuck all' to do again today so one thinks one will just arse about all morning, picking one's nose, scratching one's arse and making paper planes, before going to the pub for three hours and then returning to do a little more 'fuck all' until the bell goes for home-time".
(b) It IS, however, lawful and a good career move to give one's bosses and the general public which pays one the IMPRESSION that "One is working harder than a Japanese prisoner of war on things which are far too complex for you ordinary people to understand".
7. If the law is not to be openly flouted and the sack is to be avoided, a tool needs to be created capable of bridging the yawning chasm between these two opposites. That tool must convert the sentence in quotes in 6(a) into something which, while still meaning the same thing, leaves the desired impression expressed in 6(b). Are you still with me? If so...
8. Govspeak IS that tool. Hence, the sentence in quotes in 6(a) can be converted into sentences which still mean the same but leave the impression given by the one in 6(b), such as:
(a) "One is involved in a blue sky, decision making protocol on a think tank-led basis with a view to the roll-out of a corporate strategy for designated flagship golden arrows on a partnership pathway to regeneration."
OR (b) "One's perception of the core challenges is undergoing a root and branch re-evaluation with a view to the block-base construction of prioritised engagements aimed at positive input."
Etc, etc.

I am currently working for a local authority on a temporary contract. Why, given the state of affairs outlined above, have I joined these buffoons, I once again don't hear you ask? The simplest way I can think of explaining it is to have you follow the chain of logical statements below to their inevitable conclusion.
1. I have a mortgage.
2. The building society wants paying every month.
3. Said council reimburses me for attendance at its offices.

I was, as I said earlier, introduced to Basic Govspeak many years ago but I have learnt that it has moved on in the interim and the latest version is, predictably enough, Govspeak 2007.
The finer points of the updated language were highlighted in an e-mail I received today from the Local Government Association which was desperately trying to outlaw Govspeak 2007 - if only for tomorrow because that is Plain English Day.
As if to support the assertions made earlier in this post, the LGA highlighted some of the most obscene and yet most frequently used words and phrases in local and central government circles. I kid you not, they include:

CAPACITY BUILDING
COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT
CONDITIONALITY
COTERMINOSITY
DISTORTS SPENDING PRIORITIES
EXTERNAL CHALLENGE
HOLISTIC GOVERNANCE
IMPROVEMENT LEVERS
INCENTIVISING
PARTICIPATORY
PLACE SHAPING
PROCESS DRIVEN
QUICK HIT/WIN
SCOPING
SEEDBED (non-horticultural variety)
SIGNPOST (non-pole variety)
SOCIAL CONTRACTS
STEP CHANGE
SUSTAINABLE COMMUNITIES
SYNERGIES
TESTED FOR SOUNDNESS
THIRD SECTOR
TRANSFORMATIONAL
VALUE-ADDED

I have, however, saved the best for last. Get your mind round this. One phrase used excessively in government circles is..........

PREDICTORS OF BEACONICITY!!!

I swear to God that is on the list. If ANYONE, ANYWHERE has ANY fucking idea what the fuck that fucking means then I would love to hear from them.
In the meantime, Govspeak - in all its forms - can go to Grantham.

The Politicospeak 750X (Batteries Not Included)

Get 'em while they're 'ot!!


I bought a hi-tech transducer this weekend and it has revolutionised my life. It has finally helped me understand why we're all in the shit.
The K-Tel "Politicospeak 750X" is truly amazing. Without it, the only sounds audible to humans when British politicians speak are "blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, here, here! blah, blah, resign! blah, blah, blah, blah, before I answer that question, blah, blah, blah."
However, if you stick the USB on the end of the 750X into your television - or up the arse of a politician, should you be unfortunate enough to meet one face to face - two fantastic functions are available to you - "Anglification" and "Clarification".
A flick of the switch onto Anglification instantly translates the bullshit being spouted by any politician into English. The second function is, however, the truly unique one. Flick onto Clarification and the recorded bullshit is cleverly decoded again and read back in "Truth" mode by a REAL person who lives on Earth and not the Planet Thwarg.
I tried this out for the first time while watching Andrew Marr interview Ed Balls (never was a man more aptly named), Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families, on the Devil's Lantern this morning.





"So, Ed," inquired Marr,
"we've slipped from seventh to 17th in the international education league table. Isn't that a disaster?"
The "blah, blah, blahs" started so I switched on the transducer. Low and behold, I heard: "Look, part of the reason is that lots of new countries have been added to the table in the interim. We have actually improved massively but we're still not quite yet world class."
Later on, Marr suggested that the whole business surrounding the near collapse of Northern Rock Bank had been a fiasco. At the first hint of the "blah, blahs", on went Anglification again and I heard: "I think the whole situation has been extremely well managed."

Marr, who has such massive ears because they each contain their own transducer, pressed on with the questioning. "Aren't we just reaping what was sewn by Margaret Thatcher in the '80s?" "Blah, blah, blah"....flick!..."Although I didn't agree with all of Mrs Thatcher's policies, you cannot deny that she was a fantastic role model for women in this country. She inspired people like the Spice Girls who showed girls what they were capable of."

Mr Balls' comments soothed me. Things were pretty rosy. I began to think what a fantastic Government we had and I was on the verge of making a donation to New Labour in the name of Prince Leopold IX of Bratislava when I played back in Clarification. Oh dear!
"So, Ed," inquired Marr, "we've slipped from seventh to 17th in the international education league table. Isn't that a disaster?"
"Of course it's a fucking disaster, you dipshit!! We thought we'd go up a few places when those other countries joined the table but, guess what? Turns out our kids are even more illiterate and pig-thick than the street urchins and child beggars of Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Moldova!! You wanna see the standard of education in this country? Look outta the fucking window, arsehole!! We've got kids who think the London Underground is a political movement! The only countries we're ahead of in the table aren't really countries anyway - they're villages in the middle of the bastard Amazon!! What do you fucking expect when teachers are told to spend all their fucking time writing lists detailing precisely how shit their kids are by comparison with those at other schools instead of actually fucking teaching them anything!!! We've got about as much chance of becoming world class as Vanessa Feltz has of dying of anorexia!"

I listened on to hear the truth about Northern Rock. "Fiasco doesn't even come close to covering it, arsewipe!! A bunch of greedy, brain dead, capitalist wankers decide to invest everyone else's fucking money in exploiting poor people who can't afford to pay the exorbitant interest charges and fees piled on them by equally greedy, unprincipled American lenders and then they are surprised when it all goes tits up! The fucking Bank Of You and Me then stumps up £30 billion - yes, fucking £30 billion, or about £900-a-head - to bale the bastards out!! Did they ask you or me if they could have our money to prop up these tossers? Did they arse!! I don't remember £30 billion being taken out of our accounts to save the miners or the steel workers. Do you?"

I have to admit that by this stage my faith in the apparent genius of our Government was beginning to falter. Then Marr's final query was raised. "Aren't we just reaping what was sewn by Margaret Thatcher in the '80s?"
"You think??!!??? Yuh, huh!!! What did you expect, cuntybollocks? That mad bitch tapped a rich vein of greed in the country and the thick and ignorant rose to the surface, just as scum always rises to the surface. Money became the new currency for EVERYTHING - not only for barter but also for a class system, for real worth or value, for importance, for aspirations, for life itself. Educational achievement actually became frowned upon. 'I leff skule at 16 with nuffink and look at me now. I'm a bleedin' miwionaire!' She wasn't actually a woman, anyway. She was a cross between a rat and a coiffured snake but she did for women what Vlad the Impaler did for the fucking Blood Transfusion Service. As for the buggery-bollocks Spice Girls, oh yeah, they gave youngsters something to aim for, all right. Now all our trainee tarts want is to be talentless clotheshorses with IQs lower than their shoe sizes and with the morality of a cross between a rabbit in spring and Stalin! All they want to fucking do is 'be famous'. At least fucking Stalin DID something to become famous!!"

I'm not sure if I'm going to use the 750X again. It might make me start thinking that the country is in an almost irretrievable, disgusting state of moral and educational collapse. I mean, that can't be right, can it?

Politicians can go to Grantham.

More Padfoot (Sorry)

The news I was expecting about my beautiful boy Padfoot came yesterday.
The vet phoned to say that the preliminary biopsy results had come through and they showed he had a virulent cancer in his chest cavity. The cancer is advanced and, having re-examined the scans and consulted the senior surgeon, the vet said the tumour was too close to his heart and lungs to be operable - the risk of severing a major blood vessel was just too great and it would be almost impossible to tie off others after the knife had done its work.
Sally, for she is the vet, is now awaiting the detailed biopsy results so that we can decide how to proceed. Basically, there are two options. He can start chemotherapy or we can just leave nature to take its course. Again, I think I know what the decision will be. I have witnessed chemotherapy first hand - not only does it hardly ever work in advanced cases, it makes the poor patient so incredibly sick and unhappy during the treatment.
So, there we are. Pad and I are back to where we were a couple of months ago.

It never rains, only pours, so they say, and true to form there was another mini crisis just hours after Sally phoned through with the news. It was tipping it down outside and it was dark when I let the dogs out into the garden to do the things they have to do and brave Pad, bless him, managed to haul himself to his feet and follow them. I left them all to their business and 15 minutes later called them back inside. I had counted them out but when I counted them in again there was no Pad. I called and I called and I called and I suspected he must have been at the far end of the garden, behind the trees, so I went out in search of him with a torch. It was then that I heard a whimper and the sound of splashing in water. I turned and shone the torch on the pond to find Pad had fallen in the deep end - more than 3ft - and was struggling to keep his head above the water.
I ran to him and managed to haul him out, over wires around the edge designed to keep the heron at bay, and carried him inside absolutely drenched to the skin. He immediately went into shock and, coupled with his soaking, began to shiver violently and his teeth wouldn't stop chattering.
The very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither and I then began a frantic rescue operation, towelling him down as quickly as we could while blasting him with her hair dryer. We put the central heating on full and carried him into the lounge to put him on his temporary bed there but still he couldn't get warm. So, despite the house being like a furnace, I lit the fire in the grate. Eventually, the shivering and the teeth chattering subsided, the shock faded and he dried out and began to get warm. Just then, the next door neighbour came round to say that there must be a crack in our grate or chimney flue as smoke from our fire was billowing into his lounge next door!!!! What a great night!


Drying out in front of the fire - ever had one of those days?


Anyway, when the fire turned slightly more smokeless the alarm next door eased and Pad and I were left to cuddle on his bed - where I awoke at 5am, just in time to go to work! To say it has been a tough week is an understatement. Still, WE'RE still here! Pad is comfortable, he still does not appear to be in any pain, although his cough is troubling him and he is drinking excessively, and he is eating well. Life goes on and, as I have had said before, Pad is going to be warm, cosy, well fed and loved a great deal in whatever time we have left.

Thanks to everyone for the kinds words and inquiries about my boy - and I'm sorry to bang on about him all the time but it is important to me and is all I can think about these days. I am less than active replying to all your comments, I know, but rest assured I read and appreciate everything said. X

Goldilocks and the Moslem Fundamentalist Bear.

Fanatical Christian, Moslem, Jew........take your pic and insert where appropriate.


It's story time and nothing quite beats a good fairytale so here are two for you.

The first goes like this.

The next story is as follows. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Goldilocks was lost. She was cold, tired, hungry and alone in the forbidding forest and, as dusk fell, thoughts of the ravenous wolves and evil goblins which make the night their own began to creep into her mind.

Just as she despaired of ever reaching safety, Goldilocks spied through the darkness a light from a little cottage in a clearing and her spirits soared.
She ran to the door just as fast as her feet would carry her and, finding it unlocked, she gingerly let herself inside to be greeted by an enchanting scene. The cottage was filled with soft, flickering shades of orange and yellow from a roaring fire in the hearth, three bowls of delicious porridge were set out on a table, there were three comfy chairs by the fireside and at the far end of the room were three beds, each with a thick, soft eiderdown and big, fluffy pillows. All was warm and cosy.

Goldilocks was so hungry from her long journey through the forest that she made straight for the bowls of porridge and, sampling each one in turn, settled on the middle one and lapped it all up as it was neither too hot nor too cold.
Next she tried out the chairs and, finding two of them too big, settled down into the smallest one to contemplate her adventure. Goldilocks thought of what danger she had been in but how safe she was in the cottage and soon she began to grow sleepy so headed off for bed. The first bed was too hard, the second was too soft but the third was just right and so she soon fell fast asleep.

While Goldilocks slept, the three bears who owned the little cottage came home and immediately knew that someone had paid them a visit while they were out.
"Who's been eating my porridge?" squealed Baby Bear.
"Who's been eating my porridge?" asked Mummy Bear.
"Which infidel has dared to fend off starvation by stealing the bounty provided for me by The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him?" roared Mohammed, the Moslem fundamentalist bear. "Their hands shall be severed from the wrist as is written in the holy book and in the name of The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, I shall issue a fatwa against all of their kind!!"
The bears then spied the chairs by the fireside and Baby Bear straight away yelped: "Who's been sitting in my chair?" Mummy Bear was equally puzzled and enquired: "Who's been sitting in my chair?" Mohammed was a tad more alarmed by the discovery.
"Which spawn of the Devil has dared to take refuge against the night and place their non-Islamic seat of worship on the chair cushion which The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, has blessed only for Islam? They shall be taken into the clearing and lashed before the creatures of the forest until their infidel blood runs like a river through this land!!!!"
No sooner had Mohammed ceased foaming at the mouth, slapping his head and chest with his hands and putting a match to a Stars and Stripes he always carried with him for just such an occasion than the other bears spotted Goldilocks sound asleep.
"Who's been sleeping in my bed?" chirruped Baby Bear.
"Who's been sleeping in my bed?" asked Mummy Bear.
"Which whore of Babylon dares to take respite from exhaustion and defile a bed which Allah himself has given only unto Islam? Which filthy harlot flouts the holy scripture and lies where a man other than her owner lies? Which chattel dares to bare her face and ankles anywhere but inside the home of the follower who lays claim to her? She shall be taken into the clearing and stoned to death!!! The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, demands it!!!!!"
The rabid screaming accompanied by a shower of spit from Mohammed awoke young Goldilocks who was somewhat bemused as to what all the fuss was about.
"Sorry I didn't ask," she said, "but the door was unlocked and I was starving, exhausted and cold. I didn't think you or your prophet or your God would mind, them being caring, loving and good 'n' all?"
"She's got a point, Mo," said Mummy and Baby Bear. "Islam, like other faiths, is based around the underlying principle of loving thy neighbour. Go girl!"
These voices of sanity however failed to pacify Mohammed who was always up for a fight and could start one in a phone box so long as it was in the name of Allah whom he saw as the justification for murder, mutilation, torture and all the other things you're not allowed to do unless you're religious.
"The bitch disrespects and defiles the holy name of The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him!!!" he bellowed. "She is a blasphemer whom the scriptures declare must die a thousand deaths!!!! Her evil is tantamount to naming a Teddy Bear 'Mohammed'!!!!"
"Stroll on, Mo. Calm down lad," said Mummy Bear. "I've got the Koran here and I can't see anything about all that in it - well, not anything that's meant to be taken literally."
"Yeah," piped up Goldilocks. "Anyway, you're called Mohammed, aren't you? That's blasphemy in your version of the Good Book. Why don't you go out and stone yourself to death? Also, you had better kill everyone else in the world named Mohammed, although I doubt there are many of them. I mean, it's not like it's a popular name, is it?"
"Blasphemer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"And while you're about it, you might as well lash your mum and dad to death along with the parents of the other Mohammeds because they were the ones who decided on the name. They could have plumped for Frank or Harry or Lionel but they chose Mohammed."
"Spawn of Satan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Worse than that, you're a bear, right? Well, according to your version of Islam that is a big insult because bears are ferocious, savage beasts. You know, as opposed to 'Teddy' bears which are soft, fluffy, cuddly, lovable, non-living creatures whose sole aim in life is to make children happy. You see, they are called 'Teddy Bears' and not just 'bears' so that people with more than 0.0078 per cent of the average human brain can distinguish them from wild animals and so avoid being eaten alive in bed."
"Fuck off!!"
"Charming."
"He's not here as well, is he?"

I don't know which story you prefer but, to my mind, they are both about as believable as each other. Sadly, I have to report that the first one is not in fact a fairytale at all...............it is TRUE!
As a result, I have a message for the uneducated, illiterate, violent, stupid masses in the pathetic, backward, filthy shithole which is Sudan. It is the same message which today goes out from Pither to George Bush and his ultra-right-wing Christian backers, to the Zionist fanatics in Palestine and to religious fundamentalists of every race and colour.............GO FUCK YOURSELVES (WITH "YOUR" GOD'S DICK!!!).

Go on then, issue a fatwa against me, you ignorant fucking wankers! You'll look pretty silly trying to pick your teeth up with a broken arm.
Religious fanatics and fundamentalists - I shit 'em. They can fuck off to Grantham.

P.S. Once again, many thanks for your kind words and your enquiries about my Padfoot. He is recovering well from his op, eating properly again and looking a bit brighter. We get the biopsy results on/around Wednesday and he could be in for another op after that. It is all touch and go - but he's still alive, he's still with me, he's happy, he's comfy, he's warm and he's well fed. One day at a time. X