Saturday, October 12, 2002

Australian officials on high alert after terror warning.

"Authorities are on high alert after the United States warned Australia of a possible threat by terrorists to blow up power stations and electrical transmission lines.

The warning, relayed by Washington to federal Attorney-General Daryl Williams, was received by several countries.

But Mr Williams said while there was no specific information (Mmmm, I seem to have heard that phrase trotted out a fair few times lately.) about a strike on Australian soil, no country could afford to be complacent."

Excellent stuff from those clever chaps in intelligence. A "possible" threat warning, received by "several countries", containing "no specific information".

Mr Williams is also taking seriously the phone call from President Cry Wolf Bush warning all Australians that the sky was about to fall in and that America was the only nation powerful enough to stop the disaster ... but only if Australians give him succour (especially of the sort that is born every minute) in his Holy War against the notorious astronomical terrorist Saddam Bin Steve Hawking who is believed to be developing string theories of mass destruction.

"War is stupid...and people are stupid."

Michael Jackson simultaneously explaining why people buy his crappy records and setting the Peace Movement back by several centuries.

"Thou shalt not Kill" and "If thine enemy strikes thee turn and offer him the other cheek."

The Bibble or something...obviously a book not digested and cogitated upon by George Born-Again Bush and Tony New-Labour-New-Christian Blair.

"I didn't bounce, I coughed," said Tigger.

"Bouncy or coffy, it's all the same at the bottom of the river."

The House at Pooh Corner...and having scoured the book from cover to cover I couldn't find anything more relevant to the current state of World Politics than that I'm afraid.

"What the f*ck is this?"

Michael Barrymore's swimming pool cleaner.


At 00:54 on Monday 23 September an earthquake measuring 4.8 on the Richter
scale hit Dudley, UK causing untold disruption and distress -
* Many were woken well before their giro arrived
* Several priceless collections of memento's from the Balearics and Spanish
Costa's were damaged
* Three areas of historic and scientifically significant litter were
* Thousands are confused and bewildered, trying to come to terms with the
fact that something interesting has happened in Dudley
One resident, Donna-Marie Dutton, a 17 year old mother-of-three said "It
was such a shock, little Chantal-Leanne came running into my bedroom
crying. My youngest two, Tyler-Morgan and Megan-Storm slept through it. I
was still shaking when I was watching Trisha the next morning."

Apparently though, looting did carry on as normal.
The British Red Cross have so far managed to ship 4000 crates of Sunny
Delight to the area to help the stricken masses.
Rescue workers are still searching through the rubble and have found large
quantities of personal belongings including benefit books and jewellery
from Elizabeth Duke at Argos.


* £2 buys chips, scraps and blue pop for a family of four
* £10 can take a family to Stourport for the day, where children can play
on an unspoiled canal bank among the national collection of stinging
* 22p buys a biro for filling in a spurious compensation claim

Simply email us by return with your credit card details and we'll do the
If you prefer to donate cash, there are collection points available at your
local branches of Argos, Iceland and Clinton Cards

Friday, October 11, 2002

"A column I wrote in the aftermath of September 11 had me attacked by the froth-mouthed phalanx of right-wing pundits, the sound of whose fingers hitting the keyboard recalls the thud of approaching jackboots.

Then I was frogmarched to the Press Council and dragged in chains to the Human Rights Commission. The accusations against me? They ranged from un-American activities (to which I proudly plead guilty) to treason.

You see, I'd tried to remind Australia that rushing to America's colours was, as demonstrated in Vietnam, a health hazard. Before we signed up for the war against terror, wherever that might lead us, I thought it important to remember that the US has been the most trigger-happy of nations. With a long history of bellicosity and a culture of violence."
Phillip Adams
More ...

Just thought I'd share my latest Spill, for those viewers who may enjoy a refreshing American political perspective about puppies being used as undergarments. Okay, I admit it's not political at all. I just don't think that way.

Speaking of absurdity in cartooning...what the hell has happened to Paul "Organ" Morgan? His website seems to have disappeared. Has anyone heard any stories about Paul losing his touch with reality and leaving his life behind to wander the Washington D.C. Area with a sniper rifle? Hope you return soon, Mr. Organ. The world needs your cartoons!

Editor's note: Oddly enough Kevin old chap I've just sent Paul an e-mail asking him where he's gone. Of course, the chances are, he won't be around to respond to said e-mail. Anyway while I'm here, rather than having to start a new post, apparently (and this is unconfirmed because I haven't read the article and I'm far too lazy to be bothered tracking it down) Jim Bowen, the cultural mastermind responsible for the 70's combined darts and quiz show 'Bullseye', was recently sacked from his local radio station for calling one of his guests a 'Nig Nog'. This is disgraceful and shocking behaviour in the twenty-first century. Jim Bowen having his own radio show! I ask you...what's the world coming to?

I’m too tired to rant tonight. It’s been a long week. However, for the benefit of any HEO’s at the Civil Service in Thornton who happen to be passing I’d just like to say, “Cheer up you miserable b*stards!”

Putting your subordinates on report for sending each other silly e-mails and printing off jokes on the office equipment is not conducive to improving the work output. Your staff would respond better to a cheerful environment instead of having to kow-tow to tyrannical little Hitlers like yourselves. Grow up or drop dead. Or alternatively develop a sense of humour and downsize your arrogance. Tossers!’s this week’s Scrag End cartoon for those who can’t be arsed etc:

Sedgwick is back after a short funereal interlude.

Highly Personal Rant of the Week.

Insurance companies ... you've got to love them.

RACV, a large insurance company to which I pay large amounts of money prides itself on its "paperless claims process".

I had cause to impose on their benevolence and make such a claim. Jason who took details of my claim told me that Carol would be my "case manager" and he would transfer me immediately to the said Carol to process said claim.

"Hello I'm Kathy, can I help you?"

"You aren't Carol then?"

"No Carol isn't in at the moment."

I related details of my claim to the ersatz Carol. I had the feeling that Kathy didn't quite know what I was talking about. Fancy not having confidence in a 15 year old work experience lass press ganged into a call centre! Later in the day I rang back to prosecute my case and to allay my mounting trepidation.

"Hello, I'm Narelle can I help you?"

"So you aren't Carol either?"

"No, Carol is on leave."

"How long has she been on leave?"

"Over a week."

Jason had placed my claim in the hands of someone who had already been on leave for a week and was not due to return for another fortnight. A titanically sinking feeling was filling my gumboots.

Foolishly I soldiered on, repeating the details. Then having lighted the blue touch claim I retired to the neutral corner, reached for the smelling salts.

Some days elapsed. I hoped Carol was enjoying her holidays and was having her knickers pleasurably removed on a regular basis.

As no communication had transpired for 4 days I rang back.

"Hello, this is Janine can I help you?"

"So this is still not my personally appointed case manager Carol?"

"No, Carol is still on holidays, and will be for a few weeks more."

"O.K. then, at what stage is my claim at?"

"Has "Acme Insurance Assessors" contacted you yet?"


"Oh, they should have, I will transfer you across to them right now"

"Hello this is Acme Insurance Assessors how can we help you?"

Conversation ensued during which Acme informed me that they had not received anything from the insurance company.

Bloody hell! If Carol wasn't swanning about the Bahamas half pissed, being bonked within an inch of her life I'm sure none of this would have happened!

Time passes. The assessors arrive, do what they do and depart. Some days later the assessors ring. All is hunkydory, their report has been forwarded to the insurance company and I could expect payment within 5-10 working days.

10 working days pass. Payment is less than palpable.

Ah, Carol should be back at the helm, incandescant with wall to wall post coital glow. All will be well with the World.

"Hello, this is Brianna."


I give my case number to the delightful Brianna, who then told me that they have yet to receive any paperwork from Acme Insurance Assessors.

Hang up, ring Mr. Acme. Mr Acme tells me that details had been forwarded 3 weeks ago, but will fax them across again tout suite.

That is where it presently stands. I may post further details later, but right now I have to go out to purchase a semi automatic and a pack of tarot cards and take up position outside the RACV insurance offices.

Shame on the Daily Mail for passing off the trash of Category “D” fantasist and convicted perjurer, Jeffrey “Arsehole” Archer, as the basis of a campaign for prison reform.
The Mail’s “exposure” of the prison system is hardly news. Let us examine a few of the things that are seriously meant to make our hair stand on end and our cheeks blanche in horror.

SHOCK HORROR!!! Arsehole forced to share atmosphere with drug pushers and murderers. He hardly comes over as a man in fear of his life or his sphincter. He’s been rubbing along with City crooks and shysters for years (some of whom no doubt take drugs) and his initial discomfort seems to focus mostly on the vulgar prison decor and his distaste of Belmarsh chic. Poor thing!

SHOCK HORROR!!! Arsehole fan offers to rub out the faithless cow who put her boss behind bars. By printing this nasty piece of shit the Daily Mail is guilty of complicity to intimidate Arsehole’s former secretary whose evidence finally nailed the bastard. Why? If the incident is true (Yeah, right!) then I’m sure Arsehole’s new friend will thrill to see himself conspiring to commit murder in the national press.

SHOCK HORROR!!! Official: Jail junkies drink water. Arsehole’s predilection for mineral water can apparently be interpreted as an indication of drug abuse. Either the lag who allegedly told him that is taking the piss or Arsehole is indulging in what he does best – invention. Does he seriously expect us to believe that an addict would squander precious drug money on bottled water when he can flush out his system with ordinary tap water?

SHOCK HORROR!!! Arsehole Autograph strong against the Snout and the Bag of Dope. Belmarsh has a new currency and it isn’t toothpaste. It seems that the murderers, rapists and pushers are so in awe of the disgraced Tory peer in their midst that the poor deluded buggers are queuing up to get their empty fag packets signed by him. How many ounces of snout you get for an “Arsehole” is unknown. What is certain is that Arsehole is a lying tosser.

SHOCK HORROR!!! Prison food not fit to eat. What the f*ck does he expect in an establishment whose idea of culinary seasoning is gobbing in the stew? Maybe he should write to the Home Office and enquire about the possibility of the Ritz entering into a public private finance initiative with the prison service. Personally I think he deserves to be put on a permanent diet of curry and laxatives. That way he’ll be so busy shitting through the eye of a needle he won’t have time to produce the shit that the Mail is passing off as serious social comment.

The Mail has stated that it is not paying Arsehole a cent for serialising his prison diaries. Rather they are paying an undisclosed sum to charity. Whether the donation is on the tabloid’s behalf or Arsehole’s is unknown. What is known is that Arsehole is being bunged a £300,000 advance by Macmillan for the privilege of publishing the unabridged version of this drivel. Who says that crime doesn’t pay!
So hats off to the Mail for publishing more bollocks per column inch this week than all of the red tops combined. Having scoured the edited “diaries” for signs of a serious attempt to reform the conditions in our prisons I find only one worth a mention. Teenagers should not be locked up in a category “A” prison whilst on remand. This was thrown at the reader like a crumb of social conscience. If you blinked you would miss it. Arsehole’s diaries are nothing short of a cynical opportunity to line the Lying Lord’s pockets. If his experience of his first twenty one days banged up in Belmarsh are his idea of hell then all I can say is that the bastard doesn’t even know he’s been born.

Editor's note:
Hello Lynne...welcome to the board. If you click on the 'edit' button below your posting in the postoing area you'll see some of the HTML code that I've added to jolly the blog up. Have fun.

Courtesy of the Scrag Ends website

Thursday, October 10, 2002

I must apologise for my outburst yesterday at the awfulness of American sit-coms. Not because of the aggressive (and somewhat illiterate) e-mails I received from Christina Applegate fans (personally I prefer women to be more than just a collection of terrible jokes, tits and teeth) but because this afternoon I took a late lunch in order to avoid kicking in my television screen, and happened instead upon "Today with Des and Mel".

Quite possibly this is the worst, most archaic, repugnant and fossilised pile of old crap the television has ever served up to accompany my crackers and coffee.

Des O'Conner is a sad, irritating old letch with weird orange skin. And the only outstanding points that Melanie Sykes has to offer are stuffed up her sweater. The whole thing reminded me of some bizarre incest web-site televised in front of a whoop of arthritic baboons. Mix in a smattering of dried-up celebrities and a couple of undiscovered pop groups desperately trying to gain some air-time -- any airtime, even if it means selling their souls to Saga -- and you're confronted with the sort of vacuous television that used to wrap itself around tuxedoed-announcers, adverts with stars separating them and Royal Occasions broadcast in glorious black and white for a brain-dead British public.

Tomorrow I will be returning to Jesse...or Nicke or whatever it was called.

That is, I will be returning to Jesse as soon as the hole in my television with the smoke pouring out of it is mended.

Other news: And the suburbs of Washington today continue to be besieged by a mysterious sniper. The gunman's identity remains a mystery as the bodies mount up and, so far, the only clues that the police have to go on are a tarot card featuring 'Death' and the words 'Dear policemen...I am God' and one camera shy witness. According to the witness' statement the sniper was, "Very ugly with piggy little eyeballs that almost met in the middle of his face. And he looked kind of arrogant and stupid with an annoying sneer. When I approached him he shouted, "I'm just getting some practise in for when we go to Iraq," before lolling away towards his limousine with the gait of an arthritic chimpanzee whistling the Star-Spangled Banner."

The Chunt continues.

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

Every dinnertime, while attempting to digest my "gallbladder-friendly" crackers with "low-fat salad cream" and "inedible-Iceland-cheese-slices", I watch the American sit-coms on Channel 4. Today, however, it wasn't until the advert break that I realised that "Jesse" had been replaced by something called "Nicke". Fifteen minutes I'd watched this drivel without even noticing it was a different programme. Same characters, same plots, same jokes (if you can call them that), same premise...same bollocks to be perfectly frank

I realise that America is a violent society full of homeless people, of commercial tyrants, of sh*t-stirring evangelists, of guns and drugs, repression and capital punishment. And I also realise that these bland, meaningless middle-class sh*t-coms make for escapism under such circumstances.

But the truth is they're just not funny.

I read an article some time ago about how serial killers don't have the same emotions as normal people. Because they're incapable of feeling guilt, sadness, happiness etc. they learn to mimic other people's physical responses so as not to alienate themselves. As I struggled through the second half of "Nicke" today...or "Nike" or "Niblick" or whatever it was called...I realised that, despite it being so trite, the studio audience were howling with laughter. Every pathetic little snarl of sarcasm, every puerile retort or vague expression of stupidity had them screaming rabidly.

My point is this...this programme, like all the other American sit-coms, isn't funny. Neither was "Jesse" but that's hardly surprising seeing as there's the same degree of difference between them as there is between New Labour and Old Tory. But the audience were in stitches.

A whole studio full of potential serial killers?

That might explain why vast swathes of the American public are backing George Bush in the slaughter of millions of innocent people.

Then again they might just be ignorant twats.

"Are you wondering what more you can do to help the planet? ..... You can be a bomb in bed without nuking the planet."
Eh-eh... bloody green love.
Oops, I have found a big heap of realy rants. Enjoy them.

Tuesday, October 08, 2002

In a desperate attempt to win back voters the Tory Party have used their conference this week to promote a shiny, new and caring image of themselves to the British public. From now on the once self-centred and greedy conservatives will be sticking up for the underdogs, giving financial aid to those forgotten by society and creating opportunities for the socially worthless.

So, they're still thinking only about themselves then.

Duncan Smith surveying his murky future in a crystal ball at a recent meeting of Bald Pillocks Anonymous (Folically challenged men getting together to make complete arses of themselves!)

There is something sad about watching Iain Duncan Smith and his fascist cohorts spitting bile at New Labour over the dais at the Tory Party Conference. Especially when you stop to consider that the policies implemented over the last few years by Tony Spin Blair -- policies that have brought about the downfall of the NHS, the destruction of the educational system and the annihilation of Public Services --were originally concocted by the Conservatives themselves. As my grandmother used to say, "It's the pot calling the kettle black is that,"although to be honest I'm not sure if there are racist overtones in that particular cliché.

One of the many reasons for the Tory Party's decline is the fact that New Labour (stronger, meaner and tumble-dried) are Old Tory revamped, making the Conservatives themselves nothing more than stale imitations of Tony's Cronies with the shadow of Thatcher still clouding any fresh image they might care to put forward. It might help, of course, if the new dynamic Tory Party held their conference anywhere other than Bournemouth. Not a very wise decision by the executives there, seeing as Bournemouth is synonymous with dotage and clapped out donkeys.

Not that it matters. Nobody wants the b*stards back in power anyhow. Some of us have long memories. We can still remember those dreadful years when the unions were crushed for failing to submit to government pressure, when socialism died beneath the oppressive boots of totalitarianism, when the utilities were lifted from the public sector and handed to quangos, the fat cats and the members of the aristocracy.

Hold on a minute...that was last week, wasn't it?


Normal variegated politics will be resumed as soon Uncle Tony has finished auditing the rest of the world.

Monday, October 07, 2002

Coming Soon!

Exclusive to Scrag End Books!

The Greyminster Chronicles, re-released as individual, beautiful handbound volumes, each signed personally by the author and guaranteed to thrill your friends and relatives this Christmas! Yes, the Greyminster Chronicles will soon be available as individual books, each volume to be released at a rate of one Chronicle per month, starting with the excellent Patternoster Row and concluding with the never-before-in-print Miss Duvall's Advocate! Place your orders now!


Why are you looking at me like that?

I'm only trying to make a living! It's not as though I make a fortune out of these things you know...I'm just trying to introduce some of you ignorant b*stards to a bit of proper literature, that's all.

Look, if you didn't all rush out and buy sh*t like Jeffrey Archer's prison memoirs and actually spent a bit of money on some of my books instead then I could keep this board exclusive to politics and social opinion! I mean, seriously...the man's a Tory tosspot for Christ's sake. He gets done for corruption, gets sent down, finds Mr Big sticking his todger up his bottom and then writes a load of old crap about it and sells it for millions! Me?! I work hard all my life perfecting my art and I make sod all! Where's the justice in that?

So don't go criticising me for selling out! I'm not the criminal here! I'm not the idiot buying Archer's pathetic crap! It's amazing...everyone wants something for nothing nowadays...especially when it comes to me...but you're all prepared to spend out a fortune on a twatty little Tory git's book! Well sod you then...I don't want you to buy Patternoster Row. In fact, I won't let you have a copy if you order one. I'm going to keep them all myself. Hah! Let's see how you like that, fools!

Sunday, October 06, 2002

... and while I'm sitting here with a lap full of God's gift to the culinary world, let me bring your attention to this.

"2 years ago, I invented the foot braces. Between the invention of pinky rings and the foot braces, I tried nearly everything I can think of: Tesla coil, inducing wiring my body using high voltage, low amps. Electro-magnetic coils. Nothing worked as good as a pair of rings on the pinkies except the foot braces. The foot braces worked, and they worked better than the pinky rings."

"Please believe me. Everything you read is true and is important. Now people do not have to age anymore. People are believed to be able to stay physically young forever by using his new inventions "The Eternal Life Rings" and "The Eternal Life Foot Braces". The Eternal Life Rings are to be worn on both small fingers of a user during sleep."

What the Hell was going on when evolution developed internal pain?! Particularly that of a diseased gallbladder variety! Last night I spent six or seven hours doubled-up in agony because I stupidly ate a sandwich containing butter instead of margerine. And whilst doubled-up I got to thinking, "Why? Why do we need pain on the inside at all?"

Pain on the outside I can understand. We need to feel's one of our senses. But pain on the inside. That's just bloody irresponsible of nature! And there's no point in saying, "It's to let us know there's something wrong so that we can take the appropriate steps," because it's only in the last century or so that hospitals have become widespread. For the countless billions of years before that we couldn't do bugger all about sorting the problem out if we'd wanted to.

Did we evolve, not from chimps as George Bush tends to indicate, but from gallbladders where pain was originally a necessity? No...I strongly suspect that evolution is wrong and that this is God's work. And God, to all intents and purposes, is a petty, vindictive little sadist. The only problem with that argument is that God quite obviously doesn't exist at all...a fact proven by the very existence of Christians themselves.

Do you have a view on religion? Do you believe that Baby Jesus prefers arse-lickers to free-thinkers? Is abortion wrong? Or, as George Bush proves, should it be exercised with greater frequency? If you have an opinion on any of these subjects then please keep it to yourself. I'm off to stab my gallbladder with the potato peeler.