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