Saturday, November 23, 2002

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Amid accusations that the CIA masterminded the coup that put him in power,
Romania's new President, George W. Ceausescu pledges his support to the fight against terrorism.

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President George W. Ceausescu waves to adoring masses before
resuming a briefing with chief advisor, Darth Vader who awaits within the Presidential office.

Another in the series "A press photo is worth a thousand words when it comes to not adding a jot to the understanding of an article".
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Al least we can all sleep easier in our beds knowing American helicopters can blow up leaves, but I won't be partaking of the sleep of the innocents until the military boffins have worked out how to blow up Iraqis.

The Best of British Bullshit!

These days the various faceless corporations across Blighty (once National Institutions now owned by the institutionalised Old Tory/New Labour voters who recognised a quick buck when they saw it and didn't give a shit about socialism) have turned the prefix 'British' (once a guarantee of dependability) into something synonymous with 'Ripping Off Bastards."

For example: 'Ripping Off Bastards Telecom' are still taking money from my bank account for a pricing error they made themselves last year. And 'Ripping Off Bastards Gas' have particularly got up my nose recently.

After moving into our cottage just over a year ago we decided to have meters fitted, never ones to run up debts. Our gas provider at the time was Norweb or somebody who fitted the meters quickly and painlessly and that was that.

Then one afternoon some bald headed git from British Gas turned up on my doorstep under the guise of 'checking meters'. He convinced me that we could save some money if we changed company because, unlike Norweb, British Gas didn't have a standing charge on their meter system.

The bastard lied.

There was, and still is, a standing charge. Not only that but last week our meter went arse over tit. It swallowed the units we had remaining on it reducing us to £0.00 credit and forcing us to refill the card at the Spar. Unfortunately the valve inside the meter was apparently jammed, the cause of the balls up in the first place, so the money we'd put on the card wasn't being accepted. Ten quid down we called out the engineer who fitted us with a new meter and took our old and all...away.

Armed with the new card and still ten pounds down we went back to the Spar...stocked up at great expense, and returned home to refill the meter...only to have it tell us that we now owed British gas umpteen quid, which it promptly removed from the card leaving us with fuck all.

Obviously by this point I was a little annoyed. The fucking thieving bastards owed us money, not the other way round. So I phoned up their help line...only to be greeted, after punching numerous buttons to reach the relevant section, with the message, "All of our assistants are busy at the moment. Your call is important to us which is why we're cutting you off."

For the last six hours I have been trying to get through to the nice people at British Gas to register my complaint. As yet nobody's bothered to answer the so called 24 hr help-line.

So here's my piece of advice for any potential British Gas consumers...




T.V.'s funny man, Les 'bad-boy' Dennis, has been nominated for eviction for breaking wind too much. (No...seriously...apparently his farts smell like old cabbage. Which might explain why he sniffs his own socks.)

Lezza this afternoon after having just let rip on Messenger's face. The results were dire...the follow through turning into one of the most distasteful scenes in the Big Brother House since Jade stuck her arse in the camera. Let's just be glad that it wasn't Diamond dropping her guts as the patio windows weren't designed to take such pressure.

Also up for nomination was Blue Peter's Goldie after he crapped on the settee and then sniffed Sue Perkin's rear. Celebrity Big Bollocks...the egos have landed.

Frightened by the prospect of being the first 'celebrity' to be slung out, Goldie takes refuge beneath Diamond's chair. The events that followed have placed the entire programme in jeopardy. However Goldie's remains have already been signed up for Channel 4's premiere edition of "Celebrity Autopsy" to be shown next week.

Friday, November 22, 2002's that time of year again (i.e. November) and already every shop in Britain is glowing with Christmas lights. Childrens' telly is awash with images of expensive but cheaply made toys and souls are being reaped for the great Christian harvest. So, here are a few tips for parents when embarking on their Christmas shopping.

1) Make sure you spend at least £400 more than you originally intended on presents this year. Sod the financial problems this might bring. Ignore the hardships that remortgaging your house will force upon your relationships. Nothing says 'I love you' more to a child than a New Year's Divorce.

2) Children are the best judge of themselves so listen carefully to what they want. Don't go buying them books or educational presents. Buy them that cheap Mattel car racing set they've been bombarded with between every programme they watch. It may only last until Boxing Day before snapping violently in half and having to be thrown in the bin, and it might cost you one of your lungs, but your children will hate you forever if you don't buy it.

3) This year buy really cheap see-through Christmas cards and save the ones with the candle and the two bawbles arranged in a phallic manner on the front for people you don't like.

4) Buy old people gloves and socks. They're cheap and cheerful presents. Your aged relatives will be dead soon anyway and are probably too gaga to know the difference.

5) You'll know that Christmas is over as soon as the holiday adverts appear on the telly. Then would be a good time to use your credit cards on the New Year's Sales before declaring yourself bankrupt and not having to pay any of the money back.

6) When stocking up with Christmas food leave everything until the last minute. That way you'll get to witness all the festive fights in Iceland, Tesco etc...and the sudden, unexpected price rises that go along with them.

7) When the big day arrives get as drunk as possible, eat too much turkey and insult your relatives. After all, you only see them once a year so who cares? And don't forget...a turkey is for Christmas, not for life.

Uncle Brian...making sure your Christmas is filled with as much joy as Kwik Save crackers.

Here is a familiar link: children, lovely logo...: Danish Pedophile Association.

BTW, here is an another link: Priest database. Big enough.

Anne becomes first Royal to have a criminal record.

Princess Royal fined £500 after her dog bites two children

The court heard from dog psychologist Dr Roger Mugford that the three–year–old dog should not be put down.

Dr Mugford, who has also treated some of the Queen's corgis after they bit her, said Dotty was "an utterly placid, playful dog."

"There are lots of things that could be done, whether it be retraining, neutering, muzzling. there is all sort of action that could be taken to tackle the issue."

On the other hand, many animal lovers were gratified to hear the opinion of equine psychologist, Dr. Dicky Fetlock that there was no persuasive evidence that would warrant overturning the Court order to have the Princess Royal put down.


And in news from Australia, some golf loving codger turned 100 today. To mark the occasion his local golf club awarded him life membership. Sad but true story.

Hi Paul, do you say, this bloke was in your basement?


The disheveled, bearded bastard was hiding behind the furnace in my basement.

During the time I was off line I spent many a day searching for meaning in my life. Forty two years of chugging beer and masturbating to scrambled "R-rated" films on the television had left a void in my soul. I contemplated suicide but couldn't find any sharp objects in my home. I was lost.

God intervened in early November when he extinguished the pilot light on my high efficiency furnace. I hobbled downstairs to investigate. It was then that Christ entered my life.

Jesus' words were ambiguously profound. They moved me. Though I still haven't uncovered the hidden meaning in his initial statement of "hey bud, can you spare a couple of bucks" -- nor the phrase "got a smoke" -- I'm convinced The Son of God (or "Fred", as he likes to be called) will later explain the meaning to me as we journey through life together.

Needless to say I will no longer post photographs of bare breasted women at this blog. Nor will I paste my head on the bodies of men with enormous cocks. Yes, those days are forever in my past.

I will sin no more.

Editor's Note: The Anti-Christ has returned.

Deputy Editor provides photographic evidence for Editor's claim.
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Eat your heart out Sedgers...


It's almost as entertaining educational as watching a dead man having his head sawn off.

Yes...the usual suspects are back. A small gang of desperate British ex-celebs still vibrating from the death knells of their careers back in the eighties. Les Dennis, half of Mel and Sue, Melinda (where have my tits gone) Messenger and a smattering of other un-noteworthy t.v. felons. Boring, mundane, moribund and remarkably similar to Des and Mel in the afternoon only with celebrities past their sell-by date sat on the toilet.

One question though...what the fuck has happened to Anne Diamond?

I really used to fancy her. Now she looks as though she's swallowed a bouncy castle. Poor fat old cow. I was surprised to hear Les Dennis asking Big Brother where the mattresses had gone...they didn't need any. Just drag Diamond into the middle of the bedroom floor. Problem solved.

I only hope that Diamond doesn't follow in the late, great Jade's footsteps and strip off. The Big Brother lounge will end up looking like the Spanish coast. Having said that, don't vote her off whatever you do. It's all for charity you know? And, let's face it, if ever there was a charity case it's seeing Anne Diamond's piggy little eyeballs staring sadly out of the pregnant blanchmange of her head.

I wonder where Nick is? Probably nearing her large intestine by now.

Anne back in happier times.

Anne being greeted by Les Dennis, Goldie and some twat out of West Life in the Big Brother House.

Thursday, November 21, 2002

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You've got to love the press. This photo adds SO much to our understanding of the story.
Or are they hinting that somehow the camels were "involved"?

First public "Autopsy" in Britain since 1830?! Bollocks...

Following the success of last night's controversial broadcast (it was educational honest...not just a sick attempt at entertainment by Channel 4) the phonelines have been opened so that Joe Public can now elect which corpse to dig up and mutilate for the cameras.

Here's one we made earlier...

And so the fire-fighters strike (sic...and tired of this bastardisation of our language to American New Speak) enters a new phase. The eight-day call out has sent shudders of panic through both the British government and the Military leaders. With Soldiers running round like headless chickens in an attempt to quell the rush of opportunist arsonists the troops, that were recently demanded (I'm sorry...requested) by George W. Bush to appear by his side in Iraq, will be severely depleted. least something good's come out of all this then.

I'm all in favour of the fireman's strike now. It'll give the starving Iraqi peasants more chance of survival. (Not much of one, I admit, but one or two innocent farmers might live to shake their sticks at passing Harrier Jump Jets another day.) Unfortunately it'll also give the British army less of a chance against the American air-force. With fewer peasants to carpet bomb, the highly trained Top Guns in the American forces will need somewhere else to vent their recently developed weapons...again. Perhaps if our chaps wore big red crosses on their heads this time so they could be recognised as non-arabic then we wouldn't have the same murderous farce as in the Gulf War. Big red crosses on large white helmets...oh no...on second thoughts that won't work.

Other news...and last night two middle-aged women were discovered in Pilling (Lancashire) suffering from delusions of adolescance. Both were wearing 'Alice Cooper' T-Shirts and singing 'Schools Out' at the tops of their voices. Experts have put their behaviour down to 'something hormonal' and rumours of chemical contamination from Heysham have been ruled out.

And with that I'd better make myself scarce....why do I do these things? Must be my masochistic tendencies I suspect...add two points to last night's score and advance to Super Sexual Stud status.

Oh my God...!

Twisted saw Alice last night. ORSUUUUUMMM!!!!

I've seen that picture Sedgwick and YOU ARE A DEAD MAN YOU AUSSIE BASTARD!!!!!!!!

I have just taken the ITV Sexually Personality Test (well...there wasn't much else on television before the autopsy) and apparently I have a Sexual Personality Rating of 92%. Translated into English this means that I'm highly educated sexually (i.e. I know where the clitoris is, what it does and how much leg-work my tongue has to do to achieve the desired results), I don't mind having custard licked off my nipples (especially vanilla flavour) and I'm (to quote the presenter) "...a true gourmet lover." (And she should know.) To be honest I didn't need some pratt in a suit to tell me that. I should have scored 100% but, unfortunately, I haven't had sex on a train. (Would you believe I dropped four points for that? Have these people ridden on British Rail recently? To be truthful I've only ever bothered to catch a train three times in my life...and unless they're expecting me to have had sex with my brother in a crowded carriage filled with squaddies, with all the other kids at my junior school on a field trip to London or with some sheep in the livestock carriage crossing the Welsh mountains then I'm hardly likely to...oh...hold that I come to think about it, I didn't drop those four points after all.)

Anyway...the autopsy! The first time such an event has taken place on television ever...or so the programme makers claim. Plenty of controversy though...Channel Four broadcasting a live autopsy straight after the Osbournes! I'm not sure which was worse.The build up to the hack, saw, slice and dribble was quite nerve-wracking I must be honest. Perhaps most unnerving was the actual goitre who was performing it. What a freaky twat he was. Especially his hat and weird accent. Unfortunately after the first three wields of the scalpel and the removal of the ribcage I lost interest and decided to visit the Blogger board instead. For another couple of points I should have gone for a wank on the railway lines...but there you go. Double Dan Sexual Blackbelt will have to do for me. Funny that they didn't mention wombats though.

Wednesday, November 20, 2002

NEWS HERE, which will allow us all to sleep so much easier in our beds in the middle of the day. (Isn't that when most civilised people take a kip?).

"In Washington, where proximity is power, one question is where the new department will be headquartered.

"I've heard Crystal City, Pentagon City, across the river, over hill, over dale, but if I were secretary I'd urge that the department be downtown," said Paul Light, senior fellow at The Brookings Institution.

"It sounds mundane but all of the little things that give you an identity in this town are important: stationery, a flag, a logo and they'd better have a Web site open pretty soon," Light said.

Another sensitive topic: Uniforms.

"Uniform decisions have not been made yet," said Johndroe. "We'd expect over time there would be some uniformity of the law enforcement officers of this department in terms of attire, but we will respect the longstanding traditions of many of these agencies."

Yes sirree, the new Department of Homeland Security in its attention to detail is leaving no stone unturned. Smart stationary, an impressive flag, a kickarse logo and all those neatly pressed uniforms are going to show those terrorist bastards that this is a Department not to be messed with.

Dare I suggest this is another example of the great American maxim, which applies to its films, TV programmes and food, that if you package and promote it well enough you can sell the population mindless, tasteless and worthless crap. Fear I'm being a bit harsh there ... shall sit back with a Quarter Pounder and a Starbucks *coffee* and reflect on that.

We have been given a plug HERE at Mandarin Design. This follows my posting a comment about an entry about a bit of scripting on their site which I totally misread and made a goose of myself. But stupidity has its rewards.

(Actually goosing oneself is not altogether an unpleasant experience. A little surprise, a little frisson, a little "I must do that more often".)


Yes, missing Welsh diplomat, Paul 'Organ' Morgan, has almost returned to our foetid fold with his unique brand of porno photos and...well...more porno photos. In a recent e-mail sent to Yours Truly, Organ expressed his deepest apologies for having been absent for some time, explaining his deplorable conduct as being due to financial pressures and lack of computer. He also added, "Please pass this message on to Terry Sedgwick...swivel on it you bearded wombat fingerer."

With a bit of luck Mr Organ will be returning to this Blogger Board shortly...although in what capacity it's difficult to determine. Stay tuned folks...

A strictly simple picture.

Wacko Spakko!

Michael Jackson has apologised for stupidly dangling his baby (Prince Albert Piercing the Third) over the balcony of a hotel somewhere in his latest publicity stunt. A horrified crowd watched as a white bundle of flesh and muslin hurtled to the pavement below. Fortunately this turned out to be just Jacko's face falling off again.

"I don't know what everyone was so upset about," Monkey loving gargoyle Jackson said. "I was only showing the baby off. It's a step up from buggering them."

As yet nobody is sure to whom the baby belongs. When asked about this, Jackson replied, "Of course he's mine. I found him under a gooseberry bush in my fairgound." Geneticists are far from convinced.

"It certainly can't be Jackon's," said Dr Scrotum of the University of Leeds. "The child is clearly white and, despite his allegedly incurable skin-whitening disease, unless Jackon's changed his genetic structure then any of his off-spring should be coffee-coloured in the palest extreme."

Following photographs released of Jacko in court the other day it's difficult to tell whether any child of his would even be human any more. However, in response to the question, "Who is 'Danger Baby's real father?" Uri Gellar, psychic tosspot and close personal friend of the moonwalking moron said, "Fuck nose," thus confirming Jackon's original statement.

Deputy editor posts late breaking news:-

Jackos' defence counsel Sir Jeffrey Dahmer O.B.E. called Dr. Steven Wonder, a perceptual pathologist, as a specialist witness for the defence. Dr. Wonder explained to the jury that Michael had significant perceptual difficulties.

"Miechal had a rare from of dicklexia which developed after an operneration during which bone that was taken from around his eyes and attatched to the hole in his face (the organ formerly known as "Nose"). This caused his eyeballs periodically fall out of thier sockettes."

"It comes as no spurrise to me that when reading Dr. Spock's bock on child rearing parctices that Micehal misinterpretated some of the advice."

Dr. Wonder gave some examples, some of which evidently impressed the jury. Jury foreperson Mrs. Elizabeth Rosemond Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner-Fortensky. was seen several time nodding and smiling knowingly to fellow juror Mr. Orenthal Simpson. One juror who can't be named, Mr. James Durante, appeared unimpressed.

Dr. Wonder explained that the advice to "dandle your child" was misread by Mihceal as "dangle", likewise the instruction to "constantly amuse your child" was understandably seen as "abuse" The artist formerly known as "a right bleeding cot case" was so seriously affected by this condition that he almost always mistook the phrase "common decent human behavior" as meaning "Hello little boy, do you want to meet my special friend "Mr. Twinkynob" who lives in my underpants?".

The jury is still out. They are due back from their all expenses paid trip to "Never Never Land" later this evening.

"The wife tells me you're a wog."

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

More distressing news in the letterbox today.

Dear Mr. Sedgwick,

It is with regret that we have to inform you that Ms. Peggy Farcus, after a short recovery, has slipped back into her previous comatose state.

As you are aware Ms. Farcus had regained limited use of her communication faculties as a result of the laying on of hands by the Very Reverend Steven Gilallen. Ms. Farcus woke from the coma shouting "You take your grubby frigging hands off my naughty parts you dog collared little shit, I know what your game is you filthy prevert of the cloth. Don't think you're going spill your sermon on my mound. This here temple of beauty is not for the likes of you to enter and turn over me tables."

The Very Reverend was conveyed to the Intensive Care Unit in a serious but unstable condition. His P.A. Sister Robyn de Riche is maintaining a constant bedside vigil, tending his swollen groin with 40DD hot poultices.

Ms. Farcus' condition continued to improve in the following days. The return of her prodigious appetite saw her wolfing down bucket after bucket of tripe and onions.

Sadly her appetite was to be her undoing. A parcel arrived at the hospital from England, but unfortunately Nurse Lawson who vets deliveries upon arrival was apparently giving the new intern a hand in the broom cupboard. The parcel was taken directly to Ms. Farcus who despatched the contents to her digestive juices in a trice.

It is strict policy not to allow patients access to food which has not been prepared by the hospital kitchen. Our canteen staff are fully trained in the preparation of genetically modified offal and stringently adhere to the standards of N.E.I.G.E.N.Q.W.B.P.B.W.G.A.S. (Near Enough Is Good Enough, Not Quite World Best Practice But Who Gives A Shit?). There is an embargo on all foodstuffs of British origin since the outbreak of that country's virulent "TV Chef's disease".

Ms. Farcus' stomach was pumped and she was put on an antidotal intravenous Vegemite drip, however I have to say the prognosis is not good.

Dr. Bruce Crippen, our pathologist reports that examination of the contents of Ms. Farcus' stomach reveals that she had ingested a potentially fatal cocktail of grapes, haemorrhoid cream, hair dye, anthrax spores and minute traces of KY jelly.

The report has been forwarded to both Interpol and the Department of Homeland Security. Whilst it is believed that this is an isolated and personal attack, the Australian Federal Police have already conducted dawn raids on Mosques right across Australia. Omar Papa and 342,328 other persons of Middle Eastern appearance are assisting the police and their sadly under utilised batons with their investigation.

The attending specialists have requested that I impress upon you the gravity of Ms. Farcus' present condition and that the presence of yourself and your cheque book (noting that your previous cheque drawn on the Bank of Ghana still awaits clearance) would be of inestimable value.

Yours sincerely
Mildred Ratched.
CEO, Kalgoorlie General Hospital.

"Here, John...hand this pie over to that Gilchrist bloke and don't tell him there's a bogie on it!"

Bowt time too! Thought I was never goin' t' get on the wireless tonight! Bloomin' internet poxy servers an' error 101's...why's everythin' that's supposed t' make life easier these days actually make it 'arder? Thank Gawd (crosses bosoms) my 'Enry isn't still alive. 'Ee'd turn in 'is grave if 'ee was.

Any'ow...I just wanted t' say that I've sent Mrs Fartdust some grapes what I 'ad left over owin' to the fact that Mrs Merryfield from number eighty-nine passed away last night followin' a 'uge bout of flatulence. It's traditional t' send those oo' is ill in 'ospital grapes. I 'opes the daft old Austrian bessom chokes on 'em. Bloomin' Austrians! Where were they in the war, eh? Hidin' behind the French, that's where, waving their 'ankerchiefs an' goin' "Ooh la la" and pocketing other people's money in their nuetered banks.

Speakin' of Mrs Fatpuss, our Darren went into a coma once. Great big place it was what sold hi-fi's and puters and stuff. Bought me a radio 'ee did, with a picture on the front. Very impressive if y' like that sort o' thing. But, try as I might, I couldn't pick up the Archers, so I threw it in the bin along with the fish 'eads and tripe I 'ad f'r me supper that night.

Any' 'ot water bottle needs attendin' and me 'emmeroids need a pumice. 'Opefully those grapes should reach the Maldives all right and not go sour on the boat across. I would have sent Mrs Faustus a card and all but I couldn't arsed, 'scuse my Lesbian. I'm two 'undred and nine y' know? I can't get round the shops like what I used to. And they've pulled the Co-op down. So 'ave your grapes and be grateful for 'em y' sour faced old kraut!

This might find a piquant resonance with many in Britain ... but probably not the salary bloated executives of British Telecom. Currently the only hurdle facing the Australian Government which desperately wants to flog "the people's" remaining stake in our phone company is the lobbying from "the bush" which is the constituency of the National Party, the Liberal Party's coalition partner in government. The promise is (for what it's worth!) that the remaining government owned part of Telstra will not be flogged off to the corporate vultures until Telstra is up to scratch with its services to rural areas. (About 90% of the country.)

How awkward it is to find that the CEO of Telstra who lives in the heart of Melbourne in Toorak, the Oz equivalent of Mayfair, has to attach an old wire coat hanger to his back fence so the poor bugger can get decent mobile (cell) phone reception so as to order his stockbroker to "Sell, sell, sell! And when you've done that, sell a shit load more."

Ha! Hoist on his own pet 'ard on.

Poor mobile reception?

Ziggy knows exactly how you feel.

Ziggy advises the minister for flogging off the phone company ...
"you can always move to Toorak."

FROM THE GALLERY by Mike Seccombe. November 19 2002.

Some people have to move house, it seems, to get decent service from Telstra. Telstra CEO Ziggy Switkowski for one.

So Richard Alston told the Senate yesterday - and he should know. Ziggy and Dick used to be neighbours in Kew, Melbourne.

But Ziggy, Alston said, had "moved away from Kew because of poor mobile reception".

Now, it might strike some people as funny that the CEO of Telstra - who's been trying desperately to convince a sceptical public that Telstra services are up to scratch - should have major service trouble himself.

But it gets funnier. After Ziggy moved out of Kew because of the poor mobile service, he bought a $3 million mansion in Toorak which had it all - pool, tennis court, the lot. Everything - except decent mobile service from Telstra.

"It looks," Alston told the Senate, "as though he has found somewhere even worse."

Alston was answering (very badly) a question from Labor's Robert Ray, which in turn was based on the Herald's report on Saturday that Ziggy had Telstra install a special "microcell" transmitter in his backyard to fix his problem. Ray wanted to know the cost of installing the microcell, and who paid.

Of, course, Alston did not answer. Instead he defended the right of Ziggy and, by extension, other rich folks to special treatment. "I do not see anything particularly wrong with a company wanting to ensure that its CEO is able to get good reception," he said.

"If there is any one person in Telstra who might be entitled to have good quality coverage, it is the CEO."

Ray then asked what message this sent to other Telstra customers with the same problem but lacking the resources and clout of Ziggy.

Well, said Dick, who is not at all elitist, "you cannot pretend that somehow Dr Switkowski, as CEO of pretty much the largest company in Australia, is just an ordinary citizen".

And he repeated it: "I do not accept the proposition that he is just another citizen."

Anyway, he pointed out, the cell, which has a range of about 200 metres, did not just benefit Ziggy. Why, ordinary citizens in nearby mansions would also get improved services.

"That microcell is obviously something that Telstra can install in other places ..." said Dick, causing an eruption of interjections from the Opposition. "Why haven't they?" and "What about the bush?" And so on.

Alston ignored them, except to invite them to move to Toorak to live among the telephonically privileged.

"All you have to do is buy a little piece of dirt, and we might be able to make some special arrangements for you."
Another gratuitous quote nicked from somewhere:- "I got a sweater for Christmas...I really wanted a screamer or a moaner. "

Monday, November 18, 2002


AFP [ MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2002 11:02:56 PM ]

LONDON: A former president of the French cricket federation has revived claims that his country invented a sport widely regarded as the embodiment of Englishness.

Didier Marchois, who plays for Chauny, Northern France, told Britain's 'Sunday Express' newspaper that medieval documents referred to matches near the battlefields of Crecy and Agincourt during the Hundred Years War.

"They leave no room for doubt," Marchois said. "Cricket was born in the North of France and taken across the Channel by English soldiers who picked it up from us during truce periods in the Hundred Years War."

Lying batardes! We all know it was invented by Rolf Harris' great great grandfather, Jake the Peg at extra leg. Is there NO end to gallic arrogance?!

Mind you, the current team of deaf, dumb, blind and crippled dimwits that purport to be the English test team and who are being pasted within an inch of their googlies by the invincible Australian Cricket team might be improved by the injection of some gallic arrogance. (or monkey glands might do the trick) Normally I am a supporter of disabled sporting teams but really the English test team should be taken to Rolf's Animal Hospital and humanely (though I'm not fussed in this instance) put down.

(Twisted Sister ... I rest my case about your lad's flirtation with the frog language. Cast him from your bosom now! A viper nestles there.)

Come you lazy heathen bastards, you aren't praying hard enough ... the old harridan has rallied. The hospital says that she is now semi-consciously and deleriously muttering incomprehensible stuff. In my book that's a full bloody recovery, but I am clinging to the vain hope that for once in my life I am wrong about something.

Re. Education (Take off your glasses and let your hair down) Secretary Chuck Clarke.

Twisted Sister, I do think you are being just the tiniest bit harsh. The poor hard working chap is only trying to do a spot of benign social engineering with the fortunes of the next generation of kiddies and of the Labour Party at the next 10 elections in mind. Deep in your heart you know it is all for your own good. It is ungrateful people like you who lack community spirit and who won't lay down their lives and their children's lives for a greater good and would as a consequence of their selfishness, have Britain shackled with a Conservative government for generations immemorial. And you know in your heart of hearts if that were to happen you would be so much worse off.

"he proved to be very, very bright. He was “diagnosed” as an exceptional visual spatial learner. People with his ability make exceptional pilots, surgeons, cosmologists etc."

That's all very well and good, but there's a limited market for these people. In Australia we have managed to address this problem by making the rewards and support for these occupations minimal so that people who have slipped through the education filter and been allowed to develop their natural talents catch the first tram to America or Europe. They tend to be exceptionally successful in their new environment and the Australian government can sit back and say to the World, "See, told you. Australia is a very clever country". Chimney sweeps, nightsoil collectors, bus conductors, spin doctors, Labour voters and faithful family retainers, that's where the growth market is. Well it is over here ... and of course there is a never ending demand for highly educated guards at refugee detention centers.

It worries me that the lad is good at french ... NO good can come of that at all at all. Take a word from the wise and have his cedillas and agraves surgically removed immediately.

Education Secretary, Charles Clarke, would have us believe that “top-up” university fees would be no harder to come by than a family holiday or a car. The message here is that a university education is now a luxury rather than a hard earned right.
I don’t know how Mr. Clarke is fixed but my family car is an aging Rover Metro and family holidays come along once in a blue moon. This is what happens when you live within your means rather than going into eternal hock. My family and I live in a modest semi-detached bungalow in a rural area because the same type of property in a town is out of our price range. Our previous four bedroom semi was increasingly difficult for me to look after following an industrial accident that left me permanently disabled and it took everything we had to move somewhere I could cope with. My husband is paid far less than a fireman and I receive a pittance in benefits, the loss of my higher rate DLA made things worse thanks to some power-crazed clerk believing s/he knew better than my doctors so didn’t get any decent medical evidence to back up my claim and the officious git(s) ignored the specialists reports I sent them (an appeal is pending). And this was after they snatched tens of thousands of pounds of my compensation thanks to some parting legislation from Margaret Thatcher. Don’t you think it’s strange that when now I no longer fund my own benefits (the money will have run out since my last claim in 1999) my DLA mysteriously gets cancelled?
The shambolic state of our education system is a scandal. Both my husband and I received a good Grammar school education before the rot set in during the late seventies. In contrast, our son’s primary education was a complete disaster even though he was beginning to read before he started school.
His first six years consisted of bullying (which quickly ceased when I threatened to go public) and incompetence. To cut a long story short, by year five he could barely string a sentence together, his handwriting, despite all my efforts, was poor but at least he could read well. One teacher complained that my son, during maths lessons, only wrote down the answers (usually correct) but refused to do the workings out. He never asked why, only whined about it. I discovered that my son was short sighted and couldn’t see the blackboard. All those lessons that were taught with the board, save maths, his favourite subject, went completely over his head. I finally got my son to admit his problem and had his eyes tested the next day. He told me that he thought he problem was because he was “thick”. He was made to believe he was stupid by his stupid teachers!
A week after his eye test he was assessed by an educational psychologist (EP) at my own request. This was a result of his peculiar behaviour in school being seen as “disturbed” although he was just a normal kid at home. I knew my son was bright from a very early age but several teachers told me I was deluding myself. One teacher thought my son was suffering from Aspergers Syndrome, a type of autism. I researched this condition and satisfied myself that none of his so called “symptoms” where remotely symptomatic of Aspergers. What I did discover was a website dedicated to the problems gifted children suffer at school. I clicked on “Visual Spatial Learning” because at the time I hadn’t a clue what that meant. It listed various types of “odd” behaviour and special abilities that I instantly recognised. It could have been written about my boy.
I printed off the information and gave a copy to the headmaster and my son’s teacher. A few days later the EP assessed my son. I was invited to come along and discuss the results with the EP when he had finished his assessment. I was kept waiting for almost an hour. Why? Because the EP ran out of tests before my son ran out of ability to answer them! He scored the 99th percentile in all the tests placing him in the top 5% of able learners. He wasn’t another Stephen Hawking but he proved to be very, very bright. He was “diagnosed” as an exceptional visual spatial learner. People with his ability make exceptional pilots, surgeons, cosmologists etc. He had underachieved, not because he was incapable or autistic but because he couldn’t see the bloody board. Not one single teacher had ever asked him why and when I asked him he wouldn’t say because he thought I would believe him to be stupid too.
My son made up for six years of primary school neglect in three months when he attended weekly, one-to-one sessions with a private English tutor.
Another reason why the family moved to this area was because of the schools. The previous education authority wanted to compound their crime by dumping him in a no-hoper school despite the EP’s report. I wasn’t having any of that. Ideally he should be in a grammar school but there wasn’t one. We can’t afford a private education so he now attends a science and technology “college”.
My son excels at maths, science, IT, art and music. He is also very good at French and geography. His dream is to be a physicist or chemist and research alternative energy sources because he is horrified at the way the world is being polluted. If Bleugghh and Clarke get their way then my son, and children like him, are going to have a hard time attaining their goals. Despite being highly intelligent he is already handicapped as far as winning a place at a top university is concerned because he attends an ordinary school. In order to receive the education he desires either he or his father and I are going to have to beggar ourselves.
This country should be investing in the future, not short-changing it. Anyone would think that Bleugghh didn’t want an educated electorate!!! The sad fact is, if he had been born in Europe or America rather than "progressive" Britain, his education would have been of prime concern to the state

I always enjoy seeing bearded Australian deity Rolf Harris' face filling my television screen. That simple laugh, those national health spectacles, his Sedgwickian chin. Even if he does classify the putting to sleep of animals as great television and family entertainment, his soul-sucking treatment of music and his lack of comprehension concerning cartoons is a sheer delight. Pure entertainment, unmatched for banality since his Jake the Peg routine went arse over tit following an incident with an unnoticed hole in the stage!

So, imagine how excited I was to accidentally stumble across "Rolf On Art" last week whilst channel hopping. Rolf's reproduction of La Trek, his modern-day version of the Moulin Rouge, was totally stunning. Exactly where the similarities between Harris and La Trek began and ended it was impossible to determine, La Trek's original posters bearing the simple graphic work of inspired genius and Harris' finished product bearing more resemblance to a school leaver's portfolio just before getting turned down for art college. But still...the mindless optimism and constant giggling at his own ineptness, all delivered with the firm conviction that he'd managed to encapsulate the essence of great art despite the obviousness, even to a layman, that he'd been closer when the canvas was blank, was a joy to behold.

"Can you see what it is yet?"

Yes's a big pile of shit.


I have just received this telegram from the Kalgoorlie General Hospital.

Dear Mr. Sedgwick,

It is with regret that we have to inform you that Ms. Peggy Farcus slipped into a deep coma whilst undergoing a standard ectopic bi-plasial agricultural hip replacement with double pike and twist. This is normally a simple procedure with positive outcomes for both the patient and the financial well being of the attending specialists.

Whilst not wishing to alarm you unnecessarily I believe it would be wise for you to attend the Kalgoorlie General Hospital at your earliest convenience. The specialists have indicated to me that in your haste to attend Ms. Farcus you might overlook packing your cheque book and have requested that I should remind you not to forget this important palliative tool. (For your convenience an American Express Card is an acceptable therapeutic option.)

Be assured that everything that can be done for Ms. Farcus is being done. Sir Wilfred Kent-Hughes from Guys is flying to Kalgoorlie at this very moment. Two structural engineers from the Massey-Ferguson Tractor Company are already in attendance, whilst arrangements are in place to locate the Very Reverend Steven Gilallen, Head Mullah of the Church of the Latter Day Cartoonists so as her spiritual needs might be attended to in these trying times.

Yours sincerely

Mildred Ratched.

CEO Kalgoorlie General Hospital.

I don't like to impose upon my fellow ranters to forward a deeply felt and highly personal agenda, but might I ask you all to join me in a prayer vigil. If we all joined our metaphorical hands across the world and called upon the power of our respective deities then I think we could make sure that the miserable, bilious old thunderguts dies a quick but painful death.

"According to Wallbank, Crowe's battered face bore the hallmarks of a Watson special."

Hah! You can beat us at cricket Australia but you're still in nappies when it comes to the clubbing scene!

Read the full article here...

As loathsome as what I am to admit it, I'm declined to agree with Mrs Fatarse. My great grandson and his young upstart friends 'oo write f'r this web-site just don't understand the problem with Wogs. 'Ee keeps tellin' me I'm being racialist an' ignorant. But 'ee doesn't know 'ow bad it's got round these parts since the war. Three weeks ago one of them darkie nig-nog types was walking about at night an' I couldn't see 'im. I was telling Mrs Prattley from number forty-three..."I was walking out of the Spa," I says. "An' the first thing I know was this 'uge set of teeth and 'orrible eyes bearin' down on me."

I nearly 'ad an 'eart attack, I did! 'Ee was goin' t' rape and pillage me I'm absolutely certain and I said as much t' Sergeant Wellington down at the police station when 'ee was makin' out the report. "'Ee was goin' t' ravish me, Sergeant," I says. "I could tell by look toying with his ugly gollywog face!" "That still don't give you the right t' belt 'im with your bolly," says Sergeant Wellington, writing everythin' down in 'is big blue book. "The poor bugger's in 'ospital 'aving his scrotum surgically stitched." "Good," says I, hoistin' me bosoms all witty like. "At least while 'ee's in there 'ee won't be doin' us decent, god-fearin' folk no more bloody 'arm, 'scuse my Italian. I only 'opes 'ee isn't gettin' 'is treatment on the NHS!"

That shut the sergeant up good and proper. Well...'ee couldn't argue against that now could 'ee? 'Ee's a nice enough man. Bit fat and bald but 'is shoes are clean. But I'm an 'undred and five so I knows more about the world than 'ee does. The ignorant shit.

Sunday, November 17, 2002

This is going to be a bit short, to quote my late hubby Bruce. I'm stuck here in the Kalgoorlie General Hospital and I've just nicked down to Reception and slipped the Lawson girlie a couple of bottles of my homemade eucalyptus wine so as I can use the pedal computer. I'm in here for a frigging double hip replacement. Have been on the waiting list for 5 frigging years, but luckily Smoothie Jackson's tractor eventually gave up the ghost down in the far paddock. Kevin Rudd the local mechanic was able to salvage a couple of pistons which he popped onto the lathe and turned into shiny ball and socket joints for my op.

Can't say enough for the Kalgoorlie Farm Machinery Parts Donation Programme. All the farmers around here are right behind it, bless their sunburnt, melanoma riddled hearts. They all have little medallions fixed to each bit of their machinery that says "In the event of this piece of equipment going to met its maker (the prick whose warranty isn't worth the dunny paper it's written on), I wish to donate all usable parts to the Kalgoorlie General Hospital for life saving, restorative and enhancement purposes."

Old Aggie Jackson was the very first recipient. Her "water works" were on the blink something shocking until Dr. Mengele and Kevin fixed her up with the water pump from Jack Henderson's combine harvester. She's as good as new now, though I shouldn't go into details about her pretty strange method of picking beans and peas from her vegie patch nowadays. Let's just say my old mum used to tell us kiddies, "Don't touch that, you don't know where its been"

There are a lot of people who wouldn't walking the High street of Kalgoorlie if it weren't for this programme. Old Jack Shevlin who had his head half blown off by the frigging Hun during WW1 has a Massey-Ferguson tractor clutch plate in his skull and he hasn't looked back. Des Fothergill has a couple of prosthestical knackers courtesy of a donation of stainless steel ball bearings from Jack Griffin's seized up front end loader. Won't go into really personal details, but Michelle Clancy is known around these parts as "Metal Mickey".

(Ah, ripper! Nurse Lawson has already downed my couple of bottles and has just dragged one of the interns into the broom cupboard, so I've got a bit more time on the hospital's computer. Not sure how much longer, I just looked at the fuel gauge and it's getting a bit low on kero. That's another spin off of the Kalgoorlie Farm Machinery Parts Donation Programme. The chip gadget they have in these computer things went all doolally and they just replaced it with the fuel tank from Alf Sanderson's rotary hoe. Frigging wonders of modern science!)

Anyhow what I wanted to say was, I've too have noticed what Great Grandma Hughes is rabbiting on about. Our firemen also came over all bolshie like a few years back. Lucky the founders of Kalgoorlie were people of great foresight. People laughed at them at the time. "Why the living Harry do we need that bloody white elephant?!" "It's a bloody foreigner's game, we're never gonna play it!" Anyhow our forefathers were frigging vindicated in spades. As soon as those firemen were frogmarched down the race of the Kalgoorlie Soccer Stadium they knew the game was up.

Show your red ragging firemen ('spose they're firepersons these days ... frigging feminists have a lot to answer for!) the inside of Wembley at the pointy end of a 303 and they'll be sliding down poles quicker than you can say "Business men's lunchtime entertainment".

"Pakis in the fire brigade"!! Bloody hell how desperate can you get?! And I reckon the rot set in back a ways. I used to watch that pommy documentary series that is on the ABC over here. All about the Sun Hill police station. I've stopped watching it nowadays. Once it was full of young white kiddies in helmets strolling about the street, sometimes on wheels depending on whose turn it was to have the station's bike and there was hardly any serious crime. Mrs. Jamieson sometimes had her false teeth nicked, but it was usually just a prank by the lads from the Jasmine Allen estate or occasionally it got a bit grittier and some drug dealers blew in from London with the express purpose of knocking Reg Hollis' cap off. But it used to be nice.

Today?! Sun Hill is up to its law enforcement eyeballs in frigging Paki coppers! Yeah, and guess what, the crime rate went up something chronic. Murders, rape, drugs and even frigging terrorism. Don't tell me it isn't related. In the olden days Reg would simply take aside one of those would be axe murdering teddy boys, make him a cup of tea, tell him go home and read a "Why Crime is Really Naughty" pamphlet, cool off, get his hair cut and go out and join a youth group or Blue Peter.

How can you expect the average racist soccer hooligan (who we all know really has a heart of gold underneath those swastika tats on his chest, but his Mum is doing it tough on her own since his dad got framed by Sergeant Ewen Naidu and Constable Doubledeck Abbas) to respect what these colored people have to say to them. Frigging people who couldn't in a month of Sundays or rostered days off, trace their roots right back to Edward the Serial Confessor like real Brits can. (Well apart from the Windsors whose mob made for old Jack Shevlin needing the clutch plate in his head.)

And they're not going pinch their own lot for crimes are they. Thick as bloody thieves those nig-nogs (as you would say Great Grandma Hughes, "pardon my Swahili") and they're, so far as I can see on the documentary which I am not watching anymore, responsible for all for the crime over there. Line ups are a bloody joke. I couldn't tell one of them from the other or a frigging lamp post, except a lamp post is one hell of lot frigging brighter! So do DNA tests the smarties say. Crap I say. I'm no forensic scientologist but I can tell you if they did, then every frigging innocent monkey from here to Whipsnade would be banged up for the rest of their naturals.

Frig it, I've got to go, Nurse Lawson (and hasn't she got a smile all over her half mast knickers?!) needs the computer back. Another donor has just logged in. Bruce Carter's bulldozer has turned up its toes and they reckon they can salvage a few gallons of sump oil for Chenille Lasserter's boob job.

See you all after the op.

Bloomin' fire brigade! Asking f'r a forty pound increase in their salary! What the 'ell do they take us tax payers for? Bloody idiots, that's what, 'scuse my Welsh. When we was young there were fires everywhere what with the bombs and the 'igh tar cigarettes. And did you ever 'ear the firemen complain about it? Not on your Nelly, they didn't! They just got on with their jobs for three and sixpence a year and a tin of Bully Beef f'r Christmas. They knew 'ow to behave back then! None of this union rubbish! Scourge of the country unions is! Mrs Thatch knew 'ow t' deal with these union upstarts. Kick 'em where it 'urts and make 'em respect their betters!

Nowadays fire brigading's much easier than it used to be, and all. They just all 'ang around in the nuddy these days posin' for calendars and shavin' their chests (must be a fire risk in their job, 'aving lots of 'air and bein' all 'irksoot, I s'pect). What d' they need £400 an hour for to dangle their privates in front of a camera, 'scuse my Austrian? Bone idle, good f'r nothin' layabouts! What the government need t' do is reintroduce National Service. That'd sort those queers out! Y' don't see the soldiers 'oo 'ave taken over the fire engines complainin' any, do y'?! And they aren't shaggin' one another's bottoms neither! I'm ninety-eight years old and it just isn't good enough! The next thing y' know they'll be 'aving pakis in the fire brigade! And then where will we be?

Man Slashed In Fight Over Who Has Hairiest Buttocks

Victim Cut In Head During Argument
Posted: 9:11 a.m. EST November 15, 2002
Updated: 9:20 a.m. EST November 15, 2002

MANSFIELD TOWNSHIP, N.J. -- A fight between friends over who had the hairiest buttocks landed one of them in the hospital and the other in jail, according to police.
Police in Mansfield Township, N.J., said Emmanuel Nieves and Erik Saporito were talking with friends Wednesday about their buttocks when the conversation became heated.

Nieves got so upset, he allegedly pulled a knife and slashed Saporito on the head. Saporito is in good condition after being treated at a Hackettstown hospital.

Nieves is being held on $25,000 bond.

Charges include aggravated assault, terroristic threats, weapons offenses and criminal mischief.

No wonder women love us blokes. The irresistable mix of suave and cute will get them every time.