Saturday, November 16, 2002

Razer's little Brother!

What do you don't watch Robot Wars? Are you retarded or something? We're crap at football. We're crap at cricket. We're crap at every other sport under the sun. But we know how to build robots that can kick ten buckets of shit out of each other and yet the BBC keeps screwing around with the series to make way for snooker and darts!

Support your favourite Robot Wars team and stop being queer.


...because it's Saturday and I can't be arsed posting anything else.

Call Us Toll-Free: 1-866-SEE-JESU
Heavenly Images... whether it is the new name of the... er... so something breed, I don't remember.

What proof do we have that Myra Hindley is dead rather than walking free among us? I say WHEEL OUT THE CORPSE AND HAVE A PUBLIC BONFIRE!!!
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"Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers."

T.S. Eliot 1888-1965

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Non Sequitur.

Friday, November 15, 2002

Dean reveals IVF baby pain

By JOHN FERGUSON, GENEVIEVE LALLY and PATRICK O'NEIL (Fearless reporters and Rupert's message carriers.)

A HEARTBREAKING struggle to have children through IVF has emerged as a factor in the fall of former high-ranking Liberal Robert Dean.

Dr Dean, who had lived in his Berwick electorate for about a decade, crashed out of the November 30 poll race after it was found he did not live at his enrolled address in Gardiner St, Berwick, in the new seat of Gembrook.
But the dumped shadow treasurer said 15 failed attempts at IVF contributed to a decision to move to a smaller home in Hawthorn. Dr Dean, 50, said not having children meant he and his wife, Helen, did not need a large family home in Berwick.

The couple decided several years ago to buy a smaller house in the electorate and another in Hawthorn.

"Helen and I went through IVF about 15 times; we couldn't have children, it was just devastating," he said.

"So we began living in both places. It's true the more I became involved, the more time I spent in Hawthorn.

"But we always regarded us as having two houses and she needed to have a place outside the electorate as well."

(Sub Ed's note:- Hey Deano I think I might have spotted the problem. Helen is in Berwick, you are spending time in Hawthorn ... unless you have found a way of emailing or faxing the tadpoles to Helen, I think the patter of tiny little Dean feet is not a sound you are likely to hear for some time. Given you forgot to enrol to vote is it possible you have also forgotten something similarly basic in the baby making stakes? )

The specifics of this story are irrelevant, it is posted to indicate that when his preferred Party is in shit up to the top button of its Yve St. Lauren shirt our Rupert will drag out the dunny paper and wipe it all clean.
"What a Friend we have in Rupert, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to News Ltd. in prayer!

O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to Rupert in prayer."

We breathlessly await poignant stories of Dr. Dean's life and death struggle with acne as a teenager, his sponsoring of starving children in Upper Chad and his chauffeuring of little old ladies across the street in his Roller.

How dare people say that this man is a dickhead who failed, unlike 99.9% of the Victorian population, to realise that if there is an election and you want to vote it is probably a good idea to enrol. If you want to stand as a candidate this is an even better idea. If you want to be treasurer, crossing budget estimate "t"s and dotting privatisation "i"s then attention to fine detail might be part of the job description.

There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that this fine chap tried to con the electorate into believing that he was a fine upstanding member of their community who would look after their every need, albeit with high powered binoculars from a leafy street 20 suburbs away.

The secretary of the Gembrook branch of the Liberal Party, Mrs Lilian Granieri, said that earlier this year she had put it to Dr Dean that he did not live in the electorate. He had replied, "But the people don't know that".

The community spirited chap was understandably distracted by his mission to produce the next generation of electoral candidates for the seat.

Myra Hindley, child torturer and murderer, dies after thirty six years in prison.


It's Children in Need time again, the annual back-slapping event courtesy of the BBC designed to give overweight perverts free reign to dress up as babies and schoolgirls and walk the streets unashamed of their, more generally, hidden sexuality. How I loathe this so-called national institution. Every 'B' list celebrity comes out in force to show how caring and sharing they are. Bloody cock suckers! They all earn millions per annum anyway and Children in Need is nothing but a PR stunt for them. If they genuinely feel so concerned about the unfortunate kiddies then why don't they just use their influence and/or votes to get an increase in tax? Oh...but then they'd have to pay more on the millions they already own, wouldn't they? And that'd never do. Help the kiddies sure, but take a slight dip in revenue? Never!

What I really can't stand about Children in Need are the wankers who dress up like clowns or child molesters and shake buckets under my nose when I'm out trying to do my shopping. Listen up dickwads! If I want to give to charity I'll do it in my own time and in my own way, not under pressure from some drunken shit who's a member of the Round Table hassling me outside Iceland. You can take your buckets and your big jelly dummies and you can stuff them up your saggy old nappies as far as I'm concerned!

Here's my suggestion. Seeing as the BBC generally makes around £20 million a year on this venture, and seeing as an evening's 'entertainment' provided by the BBC costs roughly the same amount, why not just close the BBC down for the evening and donate the money saved to the charities instead? Better still, why not just close the BBC down altogether and abolish the licence fee? That way everyone'll be £120.00 a year better off and in a more reasonable position to donate money to worthy causes.

Having said that, I'll gladly hand over £5.00 if somebody shoots Terry Wogan through the neck live on air. It's for the kiddies you understand...

Breaking News: About one hour ago (five p.m. G.M.T.) Moira Hindley finally kicked the bucket. Looks like Children in Need has got off to a good start. Lord Longford has been reported as saying, "I suppose I'd better buy some jigsaws now then." Investigations into whether the doctor gave Hindley a friendly push in the right direction with a suspicious needle will not be undertaken because, quite frankly, in this instance nobody gives a shit.

So Mrs Fartyarse...y'r not sure if I'm a woman or not, are y'? Well judgin' from your ugly daguerreotype I'm not sure if y're a 'uman bean. I thought I was lookin' at a photograph of me own elbow for a while there. For somebody 'oo obviously 'as an amount of intelligence, as some of y'r politicalities clearly remonstrate, y' seem to 'ave no concept of family. Our Brian's a good lad even if 'is ideas are a bit too modern for me own simple tastes. 'Ee pumices me bunions good and 'elps me get the shoppin' in quite regular. It's that bastard second cousin once removed from a sheep's offspring of yours y' wanna watch out for. I don't trust that stupid-looking beard and all of them fanciful words 'ee uses. Plain speakin's what it's all about. None of this 'igh-pollutin' queer talk that 'ee keeps ejaculatin'.

Besides which, 'ee looks like a paki to me! Bloody pakis and krauts! They get everywhere. Under me fridge. In the out'ouse. Down me flu. I'll 'ave t' call the exterminators at this rate. I caught one the other day, y' know, walkin' down the street with his dirty turban on and his stinkin' sandals. All 'igh and mighty 'ee was actin' and all, as though 'ee 'ad every right t' be there. 'Ee says t' me, 'ee says, "I'm on vacation and I was wondering where the nearest tram to Lytham might be?" "Oooh...on vacation, is it?" I says. "Well, 'ark at 'you, y' stuck up wog. We calls it an 'oliday round 'ere and the only tram you need t' catch is back t' Germany!"

That put 'im in 'is place. Well...seriously! The smell was somethin' awful and if y'r not careful, y' know, they creep into y'r 'ouse at night and shit in y'r sink, 'scuse my American. I blame it on the lack o' discipline meself. Young people nowadays don't know what it's like to 'ave masters and mistresses like what we did in the olden days. They was firm but fair I always thought even if they did like t' beat us within an inch of our lives. Well, they was privileged and 'ad every right t' use their belts on our 'eads. What young people nowadays need are their bollocks choppin' off, 'scuse my Japanese, and nailin' to traitor's gate. I'm an 'under and four you know and I've still got all me own teeth tooth.

Pope calls on Italian women to have more babies .

POPE John Paul used a historic speech to the Italian parliament yesterday to urge Italians to have more babies.

Speaking in a strong voice, he urged Italians to have more children to turn around one of the world’s lowest birth rates.

He urged the government to enact pro-family policies to turn around the decline in the birth rate, calling for a "broad and responsible commitment to favour a clear-cut reversal".

Italian women have only 1.23 children on average, compared to 1.48 in the European Union overall and 1.88 in Ireland.

Italy’s population is forecast to fall by a third over the next 50 years. The decline has Italy anxiously re-examining the country’s romantic image - and whether men stay on too long at home with their mothers.


Come on you old codger, less talk more action! Practice what you preach.

Get off the Sister Narelle chatroom, drop your dacks and slip a few signorinas a length.

Apart from that suggestion might I add this in a rare moment of seriousness ... "HOW DARE YOU!!!!" Isn't the fact that the birthrate in this predominantly Catholic country is so low telling you something, you old git! Maybe it's something in the water that is lowering the fertility rate!? Couldn't possibly be the furtive use of frangers!

Low fertility in Italy ... high futility in the Vatican.

Tony Blair, has threatened to send troops over Fire Brigade picket lines in order to make use of modern fire appliances. He is also threatening to take legal action because the strike claimed three lives in its first night. Is this the firm resolve of an exemplary politician or yet another example of implacable bully-boy tactics (think Foot and Mouth crisis with millions of healthy animals illegally destroyed)?
Blair has been accused of being a control freak who spins to win; possessing bags of style but zero substance. His critics are scathing, his leadership considered controversial and inept. Is this a fair picture of the man who would be king?
Why has Bleugghh suddenly got the jitters over three people dead in three separate fires? Would those people have survived if the blazes had been tackled by regular fire fighters? The answer is…possibly. In at least one of the cases firemen broke their own picket line and went into action but sadly, all three elderly victims died of smoke inhalation.
Bleugghh and his bloated toad of a cohort, John Prescott, blame the deaths on the strikers. The firemen should not have gone ahead with the strike after a “staggering” 11% salary increase over two years had been put on the table. But they did. Why?
The Fire Brigade Union (FBU) were in the process of negotiating a favourable pay deal with their employers until the government stepped in and interfered. This is the same government who recently voted itself a massive, inflation busting pay increase and more favourable hours. The FBU believes its members are equally worthy of a decent pay increase. Are they worth it? You bet!
Bleugghh’s heavy handed tactics caused this strike. The deaths are on his conscience which is perhaps why he is squealing so loudly now. He decries the ineffectiveness of the ancient “Green Goddess” fire engines to cope in modern day Britain. They were hideously outdated in 1977. It is scandalous that they have never been scrapped and replaced with more suitable vehicles. The continued existence of the GGs is ultimately down to the government. Bleugghh is in charge of the present government!
My sympathies remain with the fire fighters. Despite the smear campaign (they only work a cushy four day, forty-two hour week doncha know, with four days off in between so they can work elsewhere), the strike is supported by the majority of civilians. So what if they spend a lot of time eating, resting and polishing their appliances? When the call comes they are there, putting their lives on the line. And occasionally dying.
Who would you call if your house was on fire? The Fire Brigade? Or some grasping, control freak who would enforce martial law at the drop of a hat when people uphold their democratic right to protest unfair treatment?
Not even Thatcher went that far.

Attention fellow ranters.
I would be a right tightarse selfish bastard wouldn't I if I didn't pass on the wonderful offer that hit my in box today. I have given Dr. Thomas details of my bank account. I am sure he will minister to the enormous debit balance with gentleness, kindness and understanding . These selfless generous offers restore one's faith in mankind.

DIRECT PHONE:2348033016850
DIRECT FAX :23414400629

Dear Friend,

l am Dr. Adekunle Thomas a director of a parastatal of the government establishments in my country. I hereby present to you a transaction of great magnitude from which there is mutual benefit in the form of cash. The transaction requires utmost confidentiality and in this regard, I can not divulge more information via this mail. It involves the movement of a certain amount of money in United States Currency (32.5million) from my country on ourbehalf in trust. What shall be required of you is your providing an account forlodgement of the funds since it is forbidden for us government workers or peoplein public office to operate foreign bank accounts under our government policy.

You should be informed that all arrangements to make you the beneficiary of the funds shall be perfected from our office and upon our final recommedations, our bankers will move the funds directly to your account. This piece of information should however be kept to yourself alone.

With an expression of interest to participate via an immediate reply to this mail, telephone call (2348033016850) or fax (23414400629) I will further make available details relating to the project. A telephone call or fax is preferable.

Dr Adekunle Thomas.

China's new leader celebrates victory.

President Chan signals policy changes during his first visit to America. "We Chinese are going to lighten up like you wouldn't believe. "The Great Leap Forward" was cool stuff in its day but "The Great Prat Fall All Over the Place" is going to tap into the wave length of a new generation. Watch this space dudes."

After the formal address, host Comrade Letterman had President Chan rolling in the aisles with his 10 top "Confucius says" jokes.

Thursday, November 14, 2002

Why the Conservatives (ironically marching under the flag of the "Liberal Party") here in our state are no longer allowed to run chook raffles at our local pubs.

Thursday November 14, 08:54 PM

Enrolment blunder embarrasses Doyle

The Victorian Liberal Party's election hopes have been dealt an embarrassing blow with the revelation shadow treasurer Robert Dean cannot contest the poll because he is not enrolled to vote.

Dr Dean, one of the Liberals' strongest parliamentary performers, was to have stood in the outer suburban electorate of Gembrook.

But the Victorian Electoral Commission (VEC) ruled him ineligible to stand, saying he had been struck off the electoral roll when it was discovered he was not living at his nominated address in the seat.

Opposition leader Robert Doyle dropped the bombshell, saying he was bitterly disappointed by his close friend's blunder.

He sacked Dr Dean as treasury spokesman after being informed of the situation at 9pm (AEDT) on Wednesday night.

More ... but you get the picture.


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Well, grudgingly I have to admit that is the first bit of real commonsense I've ever seen displayed on this site! For a woman (I think you are a woman, your photo is a bit stewed prunishly ambiguous) of 197 years of age your mind is still kicking goals on matters social and political.

Now if only you could just get over your blind spot about that layabout great grandson of yours you could be a role model for our generation. I know blood is thicker than water but your great grandson is just frigging thick, to the order of about 9 planks. All that bolshie stuff about those pinko firemen traitors makes my frigging blood boil. Pay?! They should frigging do it for nothing, it's a civic duty. More pay isn't going to put food on the table. Go to bloody Oxfam like the rest of the frigging working classes do! Those uppity bastards are getting too big for their size 15s. During the big firemen's strike in Australia in 1947 we lost about 4000 people in just one week. They talked about rights and privileges back then like these frigging communistic bastards are now.

Rights and frigging privileges!? Back in '47 old people were living in frigging terror. They couldn't so much as nod off in a comfy lounge chair with a lit ciggie for fear that next morning the milkman would pass by next morning to find just a pile of ash and a charred filter tip where once sat old Fred Henderson the legendary 5 packs a day man. Hang the bastards I say. And that great grandson of yours for good measure. Sorry to sound so harsh, but kiddies like him are the piss in the genetic pool and the dry rot in the family tree. Prune him now love.

Your Henry sounds one hell of a man. They broke the mould when they made men like Henry and my Bruce. Our Bruce put his age up when he volunteered for the Crimean war. He was only 7 years old but conned the army into thinking he was 11 by gluing some wombat fur to his tossle and forging a note from his mum. I still miss the old bugger even though he's been gone for nearly half a century. Well not really gone. I've got his ashes on the mantlepiece in a decorative jar that one of the local kiddies made for a Kalgoorlie fete that was raising funds to support General Franco's fight against the Commos. She had decorated a 10 pound Vegemite jar with glitter, icy pole sticks and wombat fur so I couldn't resist it could I?

I like to think Bruce is just sitting up there, at home with a jar as always. I occasionally pick it up, feel the soft warm wombat fur and I feel a little fire starting down below, if you know what I mean love. I can tell you that if that firemen's strike isn't nipped in the frigging bud there won't be enough frigging mantlepieces in the whole of England to house the innocent victims of those bastard's frigging treason.

I'm ninety-six, y' know, and I was watchin' that nice Duncan Ian Smithers on the telly yesterday...'ee's such a lovely bloke, very clean and such shiny shoes...and 'ee was saying wot was wrong with the government. About them promisin' that they'd bring down crime and lock up wogs and homosapians -- 'scuse my French -- and cat burglars wot burgle cats and stuff. 'Ee said, "The government promised us that crime would go down but now there's a crime committed 'ere every five seconds." I knew the 'Ouses of Parliament was gettin' dangerous but I didn't realise 'ow bad.

I blame it all on those emaciated women wot hang around the telephone boxes and flash their ankles at unsuspecting youths. I read about it in the Sun an' it's enough t' turn any man's 'ead, so 'elp me God. What we need is a decent, 'onest conservative goverment like we 'ad durin' the war. That'd put a stop to all this liberalisation and lewd be'aviour. That and a short stint in the forces. These prosthetics what wander the curbs at night sellin' their fannies ('scuse my Greek) to New Labour politicians, along with the gays who wasn't brought up in the church properly, fifteen years national service would soon sort 'em out. My 'Enry (God rest 'im) served 'is time in Tripoly and 'ee wasn't queer. He caught gondolas from the local whores but at least 'ee knew the difference between a man's arse and a woman's. The army taught 'im that.

There's too much crime nowadays. Time was when we could all leave our front doors open and nobody would break in. Mind you, we didn't 'ave owt worth nickin' back then. And most of 'ouses 'ad been bombed to rubble. And the young men were either killin' for their country or dead. But, still, things was much safer. We need t' reintroduce capital punishment. That'd teach 'em. The other night some little sod comes knockin' on me door and when I opens it, 'ee says, "Trick or treat?" I knew 'is game alright. So I stabbed 'im with 'Enry's old bayonet which I always keep under me pillow in case I get ravaged in the small 'ours. I'm an 'undred and eighty-four y' know, and I don't need this bullshit.

Fanning the Flames of Aggression!

As the Fire Brigade strike enters its second night the media is experiencing its usual feeding frenzy, reporting the shocking news that three people in Britain have died in house fires since the strike first started yesterday evening. Oddly enough, on average, two people die every night due to fires in Britain anyhow. Some nights none will die. Other nights five might die. Three dying, whilst tragic, isn't unusual and doesn't reflect badly on the soldiers having to deal with the fallout. Perhaps more interestingly, one of those who died was actually attended by firemen who broke their picket to help. In the event they couldn't save the woman anyway.

Speaking on behalf of the government however, Jabba-the-Prescott has come out fighting, using the 'disgraceful' statistics as leverage against the fire fighters (sic). (Shades of Maggie bin Thatch's dispute with the miners back in the 80s spring to mind here.) In an aggressive statement to the commons the Deputy Prime Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man ordered the fire men to 'grow up' and accept the pay increase because 'lives were more important than petty disputes!'

Regardless of the rights and wrongs of the strike, I always start to worry when a big, wobbly bastard the size of Prescott starts to spin so violently because the collateral damage from his whirling tendrils of fat is bound to be great.

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Wednesday, November 13, 2002


As of six o'clock this evening firemen across Britain have gone on strike for better pay. This is the first time such a strike has taken place for twenty-five years.

Now might be a good opportunity for Guy Fawkes to make his comeback.


There's too much traffic on Britain's roads. (Except for Fleetwood of course, where, fortunately, because of the peninsula people just reach the clock outside the market, turn round and bugger off back where they came. Exactly why they come down here in the first place if that's they're only objective, I've no idea...but there you go.) In order to combat this problem John 'Two-Jags-one-for-each-buttock' Prescott continues to increase the number of roads across Blighty, uprooting ancient monuments, historical woodlands and nature reserves in the process. Unfortunately the plan isn't working as within two years these roads are also congested and more have to be added to the increasingly scarred landscape.

The answer is simple. Shut the roads down. If there aren't any roads, you won't get any traffic. People will soon get sick of queuing up for days at a time only to discover that there's nowhere for them to go when they reach the front of the traffic jam.

Unfortunately road designers fall into the same category as Town Planners in that they're systematically destroying the stuff they're supposed to be preserving. For example, a small town decides it's getting a bit squalid and needs to bring in more visitors/money. So it pulls out all the stops, builds Olympic stadiums, health spas, hypermarkets etc. and soon the traffic is flooding in. The next thing you know the place is totally knackered. High-rise buildings, huge car parks, congestion. And all the original occupants hate the place because the characters been overtaken by grey monoliths and exhaust fumes. So they bugger off to another town/village that isn't completely shagged by 'investment' where the whole process starts all over again.

It seems to me that civic dignitaries, politicians...even your average British residents...don't have any sense of moderation. And frankly, if you're ambitious and you live in Birmingham or some other such shit-hole, then it serves you right. Just don't come to Fleetwood. There's nothing for you here except a few old fish heads and the odd diseased pensioner.

Nicked from World Domination Discussion > green fairy dot com


According to the world health organization, 100 million acts of sexual intercourse occur every day.

Sexologists estimate that at any given second in the US, approximately 800 men are experiencing orgasm.

The average American male will have 6500 orgasms during his lifetime.

10% of erect cocks lay against the stomach, 20% are erect at a 45 degree angle from the stomach, and nearly 70% erect cocks are 90 degrees from the stomach.

The average ejaculation contains 1 teaspoon (4 cu cm) of semen (containing 100 to 550 million sperm), men age 26 to 30 having the largest volume and men 46 _ 50 having the least volume.

Semen travels at 28 mph during ejaculation.

The average testicle size is 2.5" long by 1.25" wide. The blue whale has the largest in the world. They are 2.5' and 100 lb. each.

60% of all men get erect nipples during sex.

75% of men have their penis hanging to the left in their pants. 17% have their penis hanging to the right and 8% let it hang either way.

The United Nations report that 1,270,960,430 men in world between 15 and 64. If each has at least one orgasm a week, the total semen ejaculated in the world per week would be 4.96 million gallons or enough to fill 13 Olympic size swimming pools every 7 days.

Man has the largest penis of all primates. Kinsey reported the average penis size is 4 to 4.5 inches. The smallest is 1.5 inches and the largest is 6.5 inches.

A male in a high degree of sexual excitement is capable of ejaculating his semen 24' or greater.

The degree of sexual arousal often determines the trajectory and distance of ejaculation.

Semen has only 5 calories per teaspoon.

A man sleeps an average of 2 to 3 hours a night in full erection.

The average male averages 4-5 nocturnal erections during sleep every night. Each erection generally occurs about 90 minutes apart.

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Kinsey sex researchers found from their sex research that 3 of 4 men reached orgasm within 2 minutes of starting intercourse.

Approximately 1 in 100 males is capable of inserting his penis in his own rectum. 1 in 300 men are able to fellate themselves.

The left testicle hangs lower in right handed man. The opposite seems to be true for left-handed men. This keeps the two balls from squeezing against each other when the man sits down.

Over his lifetime, the average male will produce about 18 quarts of semen.

Approximately 1 in 100,000 males is born with a double penis. Cuban Jean Baptisto dos Santos was born with two large, fully-functional penises. It is written that he "was possessed of extraordinary animal passion... He used both penises, after finishing with one, continuing with the other".

An orgasm lasts 3 - 10 seconds and the contractions occur about 0.8 seconds apart. The heart beats up to 140 beats per minute.

A "micro-penis" is one that measures less than 4" in the erect state. Approximately 5% of the adult male population suffers from this condition.

After urination, half of all surveyed males shake the penis while half milk the shaft.

The longest maintained erection for male humans without help from an aid or device averages one hour in late teens to approximately 5 minutes at age 70.

Micropenis: Less than 2.75”
Small penis: Less than 3.93”
Medium penis: Between 4.72” and 6.69”
Large penis: More than 7.08”

3% of men have a penis of +- 2.75”
4% of men have a penis of +- 4.72”
75% of men have a penis of +- 5.9”
15% of men have a penis of +- 7.08”
3% of men have a penis of +- 7.87”

Tuesday, November 12, 2002

Yeah, here is a pearl...

I'm 89 years old y' know? Are y' taking this down? It doesn't look like y' are. Any' great grandson Brian...'ee's such a bonny boy isn't 'ee? A real looker...'ee's turned many an 'ead of the local flappers...don't they grow up fast these days? It 'ardly seems like yesterday when I was emptyin' 'is potty an' wipin' his bottom for 'im. Pity 'ee can't keep his 'air tidy...I keep tellin' 'im, "Brian", I say, "Do something with your 'air or the girls won't give you a 'by-their-leave'. And polish y'r boots as well! There's nowt young ladies like more than a nice man with oiled 'air in a smartly pressed suit an' well-polished clogs!" Oh, me 'eart! Where's me pills?

Any'ow, my great grandson tells me there's some sour-faced Australian old wind bag wanderin' around on 'is web-site, whatever that is, talkin' out of 'er rump, 'scuse my French.

I'm 98 years old y' know!? It comes t' something when the great off-spring of my loins 'ave to ask me to use this new-fangled digital radio rubbish because some priggish, bullying old madam won't leave 'im alone. If my 'Enry was 'ere, God rest his soul, 'ee'd 'ave your tits for garters, so 'elp me God! My 'Enry fought the Germans, you know? That was w'en you Australians were still locked up in irons an' stealing our bread. 'Ee lost an eye, 'ee did! It fell out on the number forty-two from Manchester Picadilly. And for what? Not so we could open our country up t' kangaroo-shagging foreigners, that's for certain.

So Mrs 'Igh-an'-mighty Farky-arse you can just bog off back t' y'r workhouse with all y'r sheep an' y'r abor-blooming-riginees and y'r Castlegate Triple Ecs and y'r stupid hats wi' beer bottle tops fastened to 'em. An' I'll kindly ask y' t' keep y'r stupid, stuck-up opinions to y'rself in future afore I 'ave t' come over there to Kangaroo Goolies and kick your fanny in!

I'm an 'undred and eight y' know? I don't need this rubbish w'at wi' my vestibules an' everything!

Euro Trash!

In my opinion one of the main reasons why so many people in Britain detest the idea of a single European currency is not because of the numerous pros and cons that can be argued on its behalf but simply because of its name. Having a coin in your pocket called a 'Euro' sounds, to put it bluntly, shit. The word itself has become synonymous with extremely expensive but third rate crap, such as 'Euro Disney', 'Euro Vision' or 'Euro Fighter', a prefix nowadays that's almost a euphemism for 'The-Third-Rate-Version-Of-Something-American'.

Besides which it's totally gay. There are too many vowels...especially at the beginning and end. For some bizarre reason those who decide such matters keep making this mistake as the various 'instalments' demonstrate: EMU, ECU, EURO etc. Whatever bland little tit is responsible for the coin's title (how hard can it be?) is probably a transsexual as they seem to be good at vowel-riddled pretentious names.

Call it a Florin, or a Doubloon, or a Shilling, or a Sovereign...something altogether solid and historical sounding, and I've no doubt the vast majority of people would say, "Yeah...whatever. Just don't put Jacques Chirac's head on it, that's all I ask." But instead we keep getting the fiscal equivalent of Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen's living room...cheesy, uninspired and plastic. Although, in all fairness, since Mr Bowen appeared in the League of Gentleman with a fag in one hand and a comb-over wig on his head, he's gone up in my estimation. He now shares rank with fellow cottager George Michael, the word 'rank' being the operative word in that statement.


Calling all gossip voyeurs everywhere!

Latest on the Paul Burrell Palace rapist scandal!

Italian newspaper La Repubblica yesterday named the man alleged to be the gay rapist of George Smith. Although the tabloids have made it obvious who the alleged rapist is you can confirm your suspicions by following the link below. Being able to speak Italian is helpful but not essential.

There will be no knighthoods for the tattle-tale who fingers the royal caught canoodling with this creep but my money is on....Prince Arrggle (sound of legal gag being enforced)

And the name of the alleged bum-bruiser is...

Editor of the Kalgoorlie Kronicle, Peggy Farcus.

O.K. it's time to hose down all this anti Royal rubbish that is being spewed all over this site.

I suppose you crypto-pinko-lesbian-poofy set on this blog think it's clever and funny to chuck shit at all the time honoured institutions that have served us well. You've obviously got nothing better to do than sit around staring at their filthy lint filled poisonous navels and slagging off at your olders and betters. Shame on me if I suggest you get off your hairy cellulitic arses and get a frigging job!

The Queen has done more for Britain in her lifetime than you pack of lice infected mangy pinko dingoes could do in ten lifetimes. (Or the lifetime of the Queen Mother, which ever is the longest.) Not only has she bestowed her kindness on the British people but she's gone out of her way to extend a helping hand to Australians from all walks of life. She didn't have to do that, but such is the greatness of this lady that she finds time in her onerous duties to include in her considerations a humble race of people thousands of miles away from her.

Her task is not been made easy by the appalling behavior of some of the staff of the Royal Hicehold. It is an index of her compassion that they have not been transported to Tower Bridge for a bloody good flogging or at the very least a hangin' and a drawin' and a quarterin'.

That frigging Paul Burrell! Well, why Prince Phillip didn't arrange another of his one way ticket to the tunnels of Paris for the snake in the grass I'll never frigging know. Gratitude?! Her Ma'amship snatches him from the jaws of looking down the barrel of the abyss of sharing 20 years of porridge with Jeffrey Archer after she had managed to save up her guineas for a consultation with the Palace's repressed memory syndrome advisor and what thanks does she get for it? Sweet frigging Fanny Adams! Oh no! Mr. frigging Burrell, not satisfied with merely selling his arsehole to the devil, pockets a squillion from the gnomes of Fleet Street in return for spilling the Royal legumes. I sincerely hope he is stripped of his Order of the Garter. How appropriate the motto "Honi soit qui mal y pense". For the benefit of you pinkoes who thought that the education system was a bourgeois conspiracy (give me a frigging break!) it translates as "Any swine who merely ponces". (Eat you heart out Mr. Byron "Puns-R-Frigging-Me" Hughes!)

Well at least one of our Australian poofs is making short frigging work of his credibility. Not that it excuses that pansy's preverted lifestyle one iota. Let me tell you right now, if that shirtlifter shows his poxy face within a 100 miles of Kalgoorlie he won't know what's frigging struck him. He's in for the mother of all poofter bashings. We'd frigging tar and feather the bastard but he's just as likely go straight (no, you smug little smartarses, that wasn't a frigging "no pun intended", which again reminds me, that frigging Byron Hughes ought to take a good hard look at himself!) to the Sydney Poofter Mardi Gras and win "The Most Novel Costume" prize.

I don't suppose you lot have one jot of sympathy in your bilious hearts for the plight foisted upon Her Ma'amship. How would you feel if you had to do your own butling, wipe your own arses and first thing in the afternoon face a breakfast of toast and Vegemite that hadn't been given the all clear by a trusty food taster? Pretty bloody pissed off if I'm not mistaken.

I honestly can't say that I agree with her policy about employing all those nancy boys but I grudgingly admit that she is a kinder and slightly more tolerant person than me, but in moments of silent contemplation even she might have to admit that she is now reaping the whirlwind. To give her her due she did keep them off the street where we didn't have to see them poncing about like paisley and leather clad Barbie dolls and they were at least stopped from carrying out predatory nocturnal missions that entrapped passing members of the Tory shadow cabinet who were innocently popping out at 3 a.m. to borrow half a cup of fishnet stockings from young Jeremy at No. 54.

I don't know where she is now going to find trusted servants. People who know their place in the pecking order. Footmen who know that their nightly thrashing from Phillip is character building. Butlers who appreciate that the scars they bear from their near death mauling experiences at the paws of the Fifth Light Corgis are badges of honour. Scullery maids who don't turn a hair when Charles pops into the kitchen to chew the fat with the courgettes and the broccoli.

Let me tell you Peggy Farcus is not sitting back wringing her hands in despair. I won't have the Royal family left floundering, royalfully soldiering on, down to their last couple of faithful retainers. I have submitted a list of Kalgoorlie kiddies whose parents are willing to transport them to the Mother country to be trained as obedient and loyal servants. As I put it to the "Kalgoorlie Save the Queen" committee, "it is only fair that as a country that was founded by transportees from Britain we should return the favour in Her Ma'amship's hour of direst need". There was unanimous frigging patriotic support, which of course you pinko pricks wouldn't understand if it got up and chewed your cods off.

Take note of this too you smartarse layabouts, not that you lot would know a positive role model from an amoeba's pizzle. Even before the vote was taken (and to make sure the ballot was kosher we has members of the Iraqi Electoral Commission overseeing the process, that should even satisfy you pack of Bush-hating Saddam-loving shit-for-brains) some of the kiddies from the Kalgoorlie under 12 swimming team, Kylie-Narelle Stropp, Tarkwin Smith, Bruce Bogon, Skye Blumfield, Sheree Nordstrum and Chookie Fowler were going at it frangerlessly hammer and tong around the back of the Mechanics Institute Library breeding up a storm of future Royal food tasters and spitoon polishers.

Anyhow I reckon I'm wasting my breath by pissing into the wind with you lot. In the immoral words of Setev Lellgain, the cartoonist at the "Kalgoorlie Kronicle", when he was faced with a similar mob of smartarses, "You lot giev me the shits. I'm friggin' out of hear!"

My favorite ranter's year in a nutshell.

The Year 2002

Last year a parking office maliciously gave me a ticket, and then squealed like a pig when I, on this very show, exposed her for being a man-hating lascivious dyke who takes pleasure in interrupting the business of successful people, and stated that we would be a better country if we didn’t have to put up with her kind.

Little did I know that there was an underground of slag sympathisers and lovers, who have spent the last year pissing your hard-earned taxes against the wall in what has been nothing less than a witch-hunt. So what if she was a Salvo and I’d been in the spot for five hours, it happened a year ago and it’s an old story. She’s just jealous I was re-elected to the board of the Melbourne Club while she spends her day sticking bits of paper under windscreen wipers.

And is it just me, or have the Salvos gone to pot? It seems just like a few years ago we all loved the quaint gay, grog and grunge music abhorring god botherers that spent their time helping the homeless and the pitiful. Nowadays they seem to want to run public agenda. Employment agencies, heading up the drug advisory council … I’m no crack cocaine free-baser, but having a prohibitionist running drug policy is like having an alcoholic determining opening hours.

Talking about the separation of the state and the church, this year it was reinforced when it became clear it was okay to accuse a gay judge of pedophilia but not a conservative catholic bishop.

But I digress, what a year. Twelve months ago we were just another palm-tree-rimmed sun-blessed island on the furthest edge of the pacific. Now we're, with the US and England, the preferred target of terrorists. Well done you.

As a nation we were the first to recognise that wasting time at the negotiation table was last millennia’s model and that questions should only be asked after the first strike.

Softcock economists have been bleating on about the wisdom about being belligerent when you lack the resources or infrastructure to back it up, or even to protect your own shores and citizens, but what they’ve conveniently forgotten is that we’re lodged so far up George Dubya’s lower intestine that he’s ready to bomb wherever Little Johnny points.

Saddam Hussein has a 100 per cent approval rating, only eighteen percent more than John Howard. I’m not sure what that means but it was just another fact in this remarkable year.

It was the year the billionaire son of a media mogul flew in on his private Leer jet to warn us that capitalism is the only guarantor of democracy and that the greatest threat to freedom are elites.

And it was the elites that complained when we had to kick in doors and hold guns to children's heads because their daddies had attended a religious lecture, and jeopardised a multi-billion dollar deal with the architect of the Tiannamen Massacre by demanding that the PM should have tea with the Dalai Lama.

2002 was the year we came to the simple fact that university students who burn flags should be jailed for doing so. In the history of everywhere no protest has lead to positive change.

We realised that foreigners are up to no good.

In 2002 we found the enemy, lifted their burkha and looked them in the eye.

We learnt that women can think about four things at once. Four things. Now if just one of those things was useful it'd be a miracle.

It's not that impressive to be able to time the cooking so the vegies are ready at the same time as the chops and mash when you can't solve the Palestinian Crisis, remember to carry the mobile phone that your husband spends an inordinate amount of his wage or even have the ability to urinate standing up.

Don't get me wrong, I like women. I get many letters a week offering sexual favours and unquestioning servitude, but obviously they're dazzled by the ties rather than the ideas.

When you hear whingers banging on about research and development funding being cut, you must realise that the problem is with the scientists not concentrating on things that will pay for themselves.

It's all good and well trying to find a cure for arthritis, but you’re hardly going to pay the mortgage curing rickety old people who are dependent on government handouts.

Find a solution to traffic jams, democrat voters and crap fast food and you can justify the wages.

Invent a baby that comes out of the womb fully toilet trained and you'll make a mint.

Then you can waste as much time and money as you want trying to prove the improbable theory that women have a worth beyond propagating the species and making sure they've set the table before serving the risotto.

It’s obvious, if women could think of multiple things simultaneously, they wouldn’t waste their and everyone else’s time, handing out parking tickets.

You know it makes sense.

I’m Sam Kekovich.

Monday, November 11, 2002


Yes...the long awaited release of Patternoster Row (exclusive to Scrag End Books) has finally long as you don't mind it having a buckled spine. After spending all day adding the finishing touches to these otherwise perfect volumes (which is why, I should add, I haven't had chance to write out one of my usual rants) I then took them to a place with a big guillotine to have them trimmed. At which point the guillotine proved so industrious that it squashed all the spines and they came out of the other side resembling Thora Hird on a damp morning. So...production has gone back by another month. Please bear with me. Not that anybody's actually waiting for them to arrive or anything. Harry Potter because everybody else has bought it. Buy Ulrika Johnson's biography because she's a talentless slapper and there might be something about the size of John Leslie's knob in it. Buy Paul Burrell's boring tale of life in the palace if you makes you feel richer for the experience...but try and get anyone to buy my books and it's like trying to get Quentin Crisp interested in women. Mind you...even if you do want a copy, you're going to have to wait now for the reasons mentioned above. So tough shit. In the meantime, however, quite a few people will be getting copies of Patternoster Row with buckled spines for Christmas this year.

While Dubya has his sights set on freeing the innocent oilfields of Iraq, other vested interests are poised to make a killing by removing certain herbal and folk remedies from the public domain.

A major target is Echinacea (Purple Coneflower), a North American plant whose root extract helps to overcome microbial and viral infections. It is also taken to maintain a healthy immune system. Its cheapness and availability is harmful to the wealth of pharmaceutical industry profits and therefore must not be available, over the counter, to people who believe standard cold remedies are outrageously over priced and completely useless.

These bastards put wealth before health but most people are too busy pickling their brains in aspartame to notice! Maybe if I put it about that Princess Diana’s fragile mental stability could be linked to her addiction to Diet Coke, people might finally realise that they are being poisoned for profit.

As Christmas approaches the hard working contributors ROTW will be publishing a wish list that our thousands of faithful, loyal and generous visitors might like to take on board. Of course donations of money are always welcome and can be forwarded to the ROTW Swiss bank account (#214-549-3041).

Twisted Sister has been throwing hints around the office about how much she would like a set of these.


While Bush and Blair prepare for a pre-emptive strike upon a country that does not have the capability of waging war on either Britain or America, let alone both together, the wonderful Brit media have sunk to new levels.

Gone are the longed for days of navel gazing, where the TV and newspapers pried apart the belly fluff of celebrity gossip and regaled us with snippets of inconsequential crap disguised a news. They have now de-evolved into a lower form of life, namely scum-sucking bottom feeders that are frenziedly tongue washing the colons of the Queen’s faggots.

The leading news story today is not about Bleughh preparing twenty thousand British troops for war, it is about the Queen’s faggots handbagging each other via the tabloids (Surely you mean servants of the Royal Household revealing more shocking disclosures about Palace life? – Ed. ) (No. – TS). Also of the deepest national concern is whether or not Sven the Svede is going to quit as England’s manager (For fuck’s sake make it quick you prick!).

The irony that today is Armistice Day is not lost upon me. Today of all days we have a timely reminder about what war means – death, deprivation and unconscionable waste. Thatcher went to war to protect the British sovereignty of the Falkland Islands and gave Argentina a bloody nose. Major went to war to protect the West’s interests in Kuwait much to Saddam’s amusement. Today we have Bleughh selling out the sovereignty of the Gibraltar against 99% of the Gibraltarians wishes and mobilising against Iraq whose yet to be proved “threat” interferes with Bush’s plans to take control of the world’s second largest oil field.

So, here we are being bombarded with Royal revelations that are hardly a surprise to anyone while the northern hemisphere begins to slide into the abyss.

Isn’t freedom of the press wonderful?

Q: How wrong can you be?
A: The last reported words of Union Army general John Sedgwick (1813-1864) before being shot by a sniper were "They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist---".

Sunday, November 10, 2002

I was today in the temple and in consequence of the sermon I decided, that I won't be selfish and I'll share the secret of the success of my cartoon webpage:
- I use only strict secure web servers, so I always get warranted availability.
- I solved the problem of the low number of visitors caused by weak content. Of course, the people don't care, who visits this page; the substance is, how many people take interest in this site.
So... I hope, if the visitors of this blog are in possession of this skill, the popularity of theirs web page will never-ending increase.


Sunday November 10, 05:53 PM

Australian Defence Minister Robert Hill said he had put costings to fund the war on terror to the federal government.

He declined to reveal his costings and would not speculate on a war tax but said Australia's increasing involvement would have to be paid for.

Speculation has been mounting whether the current three per cent annual defence spending increase would be anywhere near enough to cover defence projections.

"You can estimate on the basis of what's been our cost to date of operations, and how much that will cost," Senator Hill told Channel 10.

"But in terms of increasing capability that's necessary to meet this much, much more complex strategic environment, I've put some figures to the government but it would be obviously inappropriate for me to repeat them."

Asked about the potential for $1 billion having to be raised quickly, Senator Hill said it was not his place to speculate on taxes.

"But we will need to fund the ongoing operations," he said.

Mmmmm, I think it was the very same great and powerful Dubbya for whom we are going in to bat, who put increased tariffs on Australian wheat, beef and steel. If we humble, ever so humble, ever so ingratiating Australians were able to sell our exports into the USA at a half decent price then our beloved government would be awash with the readies to underpin this noble high principled crusade. The Minister might then find the appropriateness to inform the Australian people about the magnitude of the inevitable war tax.

"He declined to reveal his costings and would not speculate on a war tax but said Australia's increasing involvement would have to be paid for."

Well he can't say I'm not doing my bit. So far I've run 3 chook raffles down at our local, the missus has been knitting socks for our boys at the Front like Madame de Farge up to her yeux balls on speed and I've been putting out at $20 a pop (plus tips) at the public dunny in Strathmore Park. I can tell you that the word has gotten about pretty damn quickly. Our local member was first in the queue, and I was gobsmacked at how many of the Government ministers were so generous with their tips. On the other hand, and you can't have too many of them in this line of work duty, I discovered that George Michael is dead stingy.

Rememberance Sunday

And during her usual commemoration service at the Cenotaph the Queen held two minutes silence for those fallen in the various wars waged in her name.

Let's face it...that's all they're ever going to get from her.

Other stories: According to the News of the World, Michael Barrymore had sex with Paul Burrell whilst Diana's body was lying in state. Makes a change from him have sex with someone whilst there's a dead body lying face down in his swimming pool, I suppose.


Paul Burrell's tedious 'confessions column' continues unabated in the Daily Mirror, more and more of the general public falling asleep in front of the headlines whilst the tabloids who failed to secure the publishing rights continue to call him a liar and a hypocrite. (Hah! What exactly does that make such luminary publications as the Sun then?) regular viewers to this board know...I'm not one for conspiracy theories or cynical notions. But to say that Mr Burrell's story is moribund is rather like saying that a sparrow sneezing is some sort of earth shattering event. "Prince Charles was kind of a nice bloke really." "The Spencers would often argue with each other." "Diana's brother was full of shit." "The Duke of Edinburgh once patted a corgi on the head." All shocking stuff!

And then it dawns on you that in all the disappointing none-revelations the original question...i.e. "Why did the Queen call a halt to the trial just before Burrell was due to testify?" has been forgotten.

This is brilliant P.R. on the part of the palace. The rift between HRH and the British public since Diana's death is slowly being stitched back together, 'so-called-revelation' by 'so-called-revelation'. The Spencers, those once untouchable martyrs to the monarchy, are going down faster that a prostitute outside the Houses of Parliament. And the royal family are cheerfully waving at them through the window of the lift as they climb back up to dizzying new heights.

But we still don't know what the Queen was trying to hide. It certainly wasn't the fact that Diana's mother hadn't spoken to her for several months before her death. It wasn't the fact that Charles and Diana's marriage wasn't as dreadful as the papers made out. In fact, it wasn't anything to do with Paul Burrell's bland, carefully edited bullshit at all. Bullshit that has, to put it bluntly, turned out to be the greatest whitewash since the reformation.

What Paul Burrell conveniently forgot to mention was the fact that the Duke of Edinburgh arranged Princess Diana's death...probably...or something equally as large and damning. It definitely wasn't that the Queen Mum enjoyed the odd tipple or that one of the royal servants was a tad gay.

Keep watching Paul Burrell's flower shop folks. I have a suspicion his coffers are about to swell well beyond the £300,000 or whatever it is the Mirror is paying him to clear his debts.

And another truth for the history books and/or potential turning point in sociological advancement is put to rest by careful spin doctoring.

The traditional start to the cricket season in Australia.