Saturday, November 30, 2002


Yesterday there was an election for our State Government. The Labour Party romped home with whopping increased majority. The Liberal (conservative) Party, the Party that started off the campaign in fine style by having its star candidate not being able to stand because he forgot to enrol to vote, was donkey walloped. That was a bit unfair on the part of the voters because the Labour Party stood on policies that were only marginally different from the conservatives. (Don't think Labour wanted kiddies back up the chimneys, but I'll have to double check on that.)

I spent the night of the election at the local Electoral Commission Office counting votes. I can report that Osama bin Laden received only one vote. A disappointing result considering the amount of media coverage his campaign received. One voter had written on his (I'm assuming it was a male voter, but I could be jumping to an unwarranted conclusion) ballot paper "I slept with your wife". This one had to be put in the Informal Vote pile as the voter had not specified which candidate's wife was engaged in this activity to garner votes for her husband. Another to hit the Informal Vote pile informed us that the voter had gone to the real power behind the candidate's would be throne and "had slept with his girlfriend". Again lack of specificity ... and gross lack of taste and judgment.

The ballot paper inscribed with "You are ALL fuckwits' was pored over for a long time by our team before being declared as the only legitimate and carefully considered vote cast in the seat. "No confidence" was scrawled across one paper, the Electoral Commisision has made a public appeal for this voter to come forward and identify him or herself. The Commission offers free psychological counselling for voters with low self esteem.

Our team was led by Colonel Mainwaring's 112 year old idiot brother. So when all the other teams had finished counting at 10 p.m. and were tucking into the takeaway vindaloo and knocking back cans of Fosters we were still up to our lugholes in uncounted votes. The good Mainwaring had told us that he "didn't trust those new fangled automatic counting machines, so we will be counting the votes manually." That on top of the oft repeated "Oh, no. What I meant by that was that you should do it this way." Sitting opposite this man counting and collating Everest piles of ballot papers while he was doing likewise, BUT AUDIBLY, made for much efficiency, accuracy and a crystal clear understanding of the motives of axe murderers.

At 11 p.m. we were done. Not a skerrick of vindaloo to be seen in the kitchen, just a room awash with empty cans. With any luck I will be out of the country by the time they pull up the floorboards and identify Mainwaring after reassembling his body parts.

The Season of Goodwill is finally upon us!

Fantastic festive weather we're having here, although not quite the same as portrayed on the snowy white cards around the shops. In fact it's more of a force ten gale mingled with that disgusting drizzle stuff sort of day today. And it's making the cheap Christmas lights that are strung up down Lord Street like scrappy left-over millet sprays spark and fizz. (Great fun when they explode over old biddies heads though.) Everywhere was full of male shoppers this afternoon looking lost and pathetic. Mainly standing in embarrassed looking groups in lingerie departments.

I love this time of year. Everyone's full of the Christmas spirit, (or in Fleetwood's case...just spirit, mainly rum and vodka) battering each other's shins with their wheelchairs and their baby buggies. Taking each other's eyes out with their brollies (why is that the majority of brollies are owned by sadistic midgets?). There was a queue in Littlewoods earlier that stretched out of the door and over the tram lines. I was going to hang around to see what happened when the bad tempered Welsh tram driver with a distinctly anti-Christmas attitude came hurtling down the tracks, but I couldn't be arsed because of the rain. The little red trains chugging pointlessly round the windows of numerous shops are good fun though. As are those horrible dolls with bandaged umbilical cords and down-syndrome eyes that are being sold everywhere. And the rubber snowmen with American voices that are so entertaining when you've got to wait for three quarters of an hour to buy a pound of sprouts. They're not at all repetitive and annoying and screechy and unpleasant and the one in Woolworth's that ended up wedged down a screaming child's throat had absolutely nothing to do with me.

What I particularly like are the naff presents that people are going to receive this Chrimbo if the baskets full of crap that were being carried around are anything to go off. Vile pottery ornaments of bluetits that look as though they've been eaten by a cat and then sicked up. Tartan socks and Rupert Bear scarves with barely noticeable stitches pulled in them. Bottles of cologne that are made from whale's scrotums...and you can tell. And the amounts of booze being sold! The people round here ought to just fill a trough with meths and go to sleep in it over the course of the winter.

That's what I intend to do anyhow.

Friday, November 29, 2002


"What are we to call whatever it is that George W. Bush is figure-heading? A presidency? An administration? Somehow regime seems most appropriate. Anatole Lieven of the Carnegie Endowment in Washington puts it well: "Bush wants nothing less than unilateral world domination through absolute military superiority." So regime it is."

"The regime has all its ducks in a row. The mid-term elections provided much more than a mandate. Almost without precedent, the President's men control not only the White House but the Congress and, most ominously, the Supreme Court. As well, they have a compliant media and, apart from the unmediated flow of protests on the internet, a largely acquiescent population. The regime has bullied and browbeaten the UN into submission and enjoys the unflinching, unswerving, unblinking, unthinking loyalty of two Western governments: Tony Blair's and ***John Howard's. (As in Australia, the fear of looking unpatriotic inhibited the Opposition: the Democrats made exactly the same mistakes as Labor.)"

"Dubya's most effective backing has come from Osama bin Laden. It's al-Qa'ida that promoted Bush from a problematic, derided figure to the man with the mandate – and a mission."

Full article by the estimable Adams.

***Howard backs Santa

(30nov02) Prime Minister John Howard yesterday said he believed in Santa Claus.

"I do believe in Santa," he told Melbourne radio 3AW. "I'm no longer a child but I believed in Santa when I was a kid . . . so therefore I believe in Santa."

A sad but true quote. Little wonder George can get him to believe the line he is spinning.

No doubt the Prime Minister will be dressing up in the big red suit to deliver presents to the little heathen refugee children still on holidays behind the razor wire in the back blocks of Australia. Now that's a continuing disgrace that has been conveniently consigned to the cutting room floor of media outlets in the wake of Bali, inspection teams and Kenya.

The famines, floods and droughts around the world that are usually "sexy" media fare, with lots of you beaut pics of skeletal children with those cute big brown eyes, likewise seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. Maybe they all were "solved" when I wasn't looking, inattentive bastard that I am.

Thank God that a bit of sanity prevails in editorial offices around the globe and we can still get a picture and story of the latest newborn baby Dubbya chimpanzee at a major world zoo. Priority is everything in these troubled times.

My God me 'emmorhoids are givin' me gyp tonight! It's like I've bin sat on a wasp nest all day, which, ironically, I 'ave! Me Zimmer got caught up in a crack on me garden path (I'll be suing the council for that, mark my words) and me poor old arse ('scuse my Bulgarian) ended up jammed in a ruddy great bee 'ive smeared in 'oney and stingin' like Peter Mandelson's ringpiece ('scuse my homosexual). It took the firemen (I don't know why they were dressed in combat gear...must be their new unform) three 'ours to prize me out again and then me piles looked like a bunch of melons they did. I could hear 'em dragging behind me down the doorstep.

Any'ow I went to that Dr Patel for some ointment. Couldn't understand a word 'ee was saying. I don't care if 'ee was born in Preston 'ee still talked curried rubbish. "You're not touchin' me with those dirty brown fingers," I said. "I don't know where they've been. I might get aids up me posterior. You nig nogs are all the same with your arse-stabbin' ways and your crapping in the streets and THIS POSTING HAS BEEN PREMATURELY TERMINATED DUE TO THE AFOREMENTION HEMMORHOIDS EXPLODING VIOLENTLY. GREAT GRANDMA HUGHES HAS BEEN RUSHED INTO FLEETWOOD HOSPITAL WHERE, EVEN AS WE SPEAK, HER COLON IS BEING TUCKED BACK INSIDE WITH A SPECIALLY DESIGNED SHOEHORN AND THEN WRAPPED IN PLASTER-COATED-BANDAGES. WITH A BIT OF LUCK SHE SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO SPOUT ANY MORE SHIT FOR AT LEAST A FORTNIGHT.



Porn Again Research

Thursday, November 28, 2002

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Well, I'm back and I'm NOT happy. Imagine, I come out of a 2 month long coma during which I have 67 near death experiences (frigging Doris Stokes ... if I never see her face again it will be too soon) and check out what been going on at this blog and what do I find? Brenda Bulldyke!

Someone has walked on my grave. That bitch was my 34th. cousin (not far enough removed) Terry Sedgwick's first wife! I tried to warn the silly bastard. You can't marry your sister, it's not natural. For one, she doesn't come from a good family. For two, you've got a lot of lovely looking first cousins and if it's good enough for the Royals it's good enough for you. (I really should have been more specific because his second marriage to his first cousin Quentin was a total disaster. Sedgwick was always a soft touch not to say a bit hard of hearing, so when Quentin said "I want to have your Barbies" young Terry fell for it hook, line and sinker.) For three, most of the marsupials around her are better looking than her. Did the silly prick listen? Not on your Nelly, though I think my third point might have sowed a seed or two.

I thought I'd seen that last of her demented face when she boarded the British Airlines Tiger Moth in 1957. She said she needed to find her own space, Australia (and Sedgwick) was not big enough for her. You're right, another of that prune faced germ Greer's disciples! Good riddance to bad rubbish was the feeling around these parts. We'd thought she'd died. No such luck.

I have to tell you the plastic surgery she had done to bury her old identity is a vast improvement on the gurnic gargoyle that left these shores. Mind you the surgery obviously didn't do much for her intellect, the same old rambling splenetic tracts we used to cop ad nauseum at Xmas barbeques in the Farcus backyard. "Don't eat those snags, they're a symbol of male hegemony!" (Whatever that frigging means!)

Anyhow you're welcome to the trollop, I've got bigger fish to fry. I strongly suspect that frigging Very Reverend Steven Gilallen took advantage of my comatose state to have his wickered way. I am waiting for the DNA tests to come back from the lab to see if he's the bastard responsible for getting me up the duff. Jesus! I'm too old to start changing frigging nappies all over again. Gave that on my 75th. birthday after an unexpected arrival. I'm still chasing that frigging John Howard for child support for my young Timmy.

As much as it against my principles I might have to have a termination. One Steven Gilallen is one Steven Gilallen too many and I don't have child bearing hips any more. More like ball bearing hips after the op. Must go, due for a grease and oil change on the new joints.

My words come to an end...

This is my first posting here and, to be blunt, I don't take any bullshit! Let me put this fact to you straight and with conviction! All men are bastards! Every single one of them! Dirty perverted gits that they are. (Apart from homosexuals, of course, who understand the need to go shopping for shoes and are never ever violent.)

Don't take my word for the disgraceful behaviour of our male counterparts! According to government figures 100% of men in Britain and America (and even more in Australia) beat their wives and stab their children on a regular basis! Off with their balls, the big sweaty, muscle-bound, machismo bastards! I've seen them, you know? Hanging round the building sites and leering at me through their office windows. Undressing me mentally! Running their invisible hairy hands up and down my body! Probing my love mound with their hard erect members! Gently bringing me to the boil by flicking their tongues against my...

I'll tell you what! If women ran the world it'd be a damned site safer place to live than it is now! Look at what Maggie Thatch did! She didn't put up with all this testoterone induced bullshit. She kicked those ignorant men where it hurt. Filthy male shits! They wouldn't understand love and peace if we kicked them repeatedly in the bollocks to ram the point home. Which I very often do. If women ran the planet there wouldn't be any men. We'd have them all strung up by their thick, pulsating knobs and smeared in baby oil until it dribbled down their armpits and into my twitching mouth where...

Ahem! Sisters! Let us unite against the common enemy! Let us link dildos round the globe in a gesture of defiance! Let us rid ourselves of these pea brained rapists, these penis driven descecrators of women's organs, these lust filled, heaving, writhing bronzed studs with the early morning sunlight winking from their buttocks!


Actually I think I'd better work out what to say in advance before I post my next article hadn't I?

It's the newest bizarre adventure of mine. I live in an eleven flat building wich have an inner yard and my postbox is in the yard. A Hungarian daily paper (Magyar Hirlap) started to send me their news. Silly Marketing. I didn't care about it, but I got a call for the postoffice, that they have a problem: the news delivery man don't want to come into our house, because he afraid of that somebody steal his dropped bicycle. They instruct me to mount a postbox to the street. I called the editorial office of the paper and said to them not to send me the daily. I got a promise... but it was false. Therefore I called the postoffice and said I didn't need this daily, they can safely wipe out theirs butt with this paper. 'Right, but I had to write this in front of witnesses' said they.
Well, I did it. We lived in peace but this didn't take long. Today I have got a mail from the postoffice: I've a not standard postbox (the definition of the standard postbox is in the bloody nobody-knowed 133/1993/XI.29 edict) and they didn't be able to deliver anything. Of course, I have a totally normal postbox, I bought it in the OBI.
So, this is the fact presently: when I get any weekly paper, the delivery man will come into the house and drop me a mail into my nonstandard postbox from the postoffice. They write in this mail, that I've got some paper and I can receive this in the post office.
And the funniest thing: the window is directly at the newsstand.


A jet bound for Tel Aviv and an Israeli owned hotel in Kenya were both targets of terrorist attacks today. The jet, mainly filled with Israeli passengers, was fired upon with a ground-to-air missile launched from a handheld weapon. The little known 'Army of Palestine' have owned up to both occurances.

And that's where you'd expect the story to end.

However, despite the so called 'Army of Palestine' being the most obvious link (especially since they claim without reservation to have committed both acts) the British and US governments, along with their respective medias, reckon their claims are bollocks and that both attacks were carried out by the Al Queada network.

Why in God's name? Well...and I have to admit that I might be being a bit cynical here...probably because it would cost too much to produce another twelve months of spin establishing Iraq with the Army of Palestine thus giving America and Britain an excuse to bomb the crap out of it. Osama bin Laden, the World Trade Centre disaster, Iraq...they're all now permanently grouped under the same heading in the average dickwit's brain thanks to many long hours of media brainwashing. Then these upstart little farts from Palestine muscle in on the act! I wonder how pissed off they are that not only did their missiles fall wide of the mark but now Al Queada, without even trying, are getting the credit for all their hard work.

Other news, and Charlotte Church, the seventeen year old chubby Welsh diva, has thrown a tantrum at the airport because her mother, apparently, doesn't like her new boyfriend. Exactly how this constitutes news is as much a mystery to me as it probably is to you. Poor little rich girl, famous and rolling in lolly by the age of twelve, having boyfriend troubles...excuse me while I wipe away a tear and light a candle for her troubles.

If he'd been belting her round the face and neck with a shovel that might have been interesting.

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Errrr ... um ...


Bored with the smell of garlic in France? Fed up with the concrete hotels in Costa del Packet? Still not forgiven the Germans for what they did in the War?

Then why not visit...


...the luxury U.S. detention center in gloriously sunny downtown Afghanistan!

Yes...Camp Delta is so easy to reach. Just make sure that you're in the wrong place at the wrong time and you'll be detained at George Bush's leisure for the rest of your life...or until the War on Terrorism ends...which is much the same thing.

Watch those excess pounds of flab just fall away with our fabulous lack of cuisine and our unique torture regime.

Witness the Geneva Convention being torn apart before your eyes.

Get yourself a tan that'll be the envy of your long lost friends from the comfort of your spacious five foot by three foot mesh holding pen.

It's so relaxing here, so far from the hectic bustle of normal civilisation! No lawyers to annoy you! No human rights campaigners to steal the deckchairs! And best of all, once you've arrived you'll never, ever leave!

So make sure that you choose CAMP DELTA for the holiday of a lifetime!

As recommended by Donald Rumsfeld for anyone with brown skin.

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

Simpsons upsets Hungary.

"Mr Kaltenbach acted after receiving a complaint from a Hungarian citizen after the episode was shown in the country."

Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of the thin skinned Petrenyi one! Come on Joe it's a cartoon! It's not real life like "The Bold and The Beautiful" ... it doesn't have real people like Ridge, Amber, Macy, Thorne, Deacon and Taylor.

The BBC, due to its unique 'license' funding, is not allowed to advertise and/or use product placement in its programmes. On the face of it this seems reasonable enough until you realise that an average half hour programme on the commercial channels lasts twenty-five minutes due to the inclusion of adverts, whereas the average half hour programme on the BBC lasts even less due to adverts for BBC videos, books, programmes, auto-biographies, Radio Times etc in the breaks. This is annoying in itself...but today I noticed that, sandwiched between the endless American cartoons on Children's ITV (and they wonder why kids are growing up thick these days), were even more adverts for BBC videos with the Christmas market in their sights. Where exactly do the BBC get off with this shit? That's our license money being spent on ITV adverts for such mindless crap as the Fimbles and Bob the Fucking Builder! I wouldn't mind so much if it the license wasn't obligatory! But to see our hard earned cash being frittered away on this sort of crud when the programmes the BBC actually produce are so dire is very frustrating!

On the upside, British Gas have finally made some attempts at restoration. The £49.00 mis-debt appears to have vanished from my meter and the amount on my Gas card swelled this afternoon by an extra £4.00. I have sat and calculated the whys and wherefors of all this and realised that I'm still at least five pounds worse off. But, ever the benefactor, I have decided to let British Gas keep it. They're going to need it a lot more than I will by the time I've finished posting my warnings against their theiving, ignorant behaviour all across the internet. In case you've missed it so far: BRITISH GAS ARE SHIT! THEY WILL LIE, SCHEME AND BULLSHIT THEIR WAY INTO YOUR HOMES AND THEN TAKE YOU FOR EVERY PENNY! STICK WITH WHATEVER UTILITY YOU CURRENTLY USE, FOLKS...UNLESS IT'S BRITISH GAS IN WHICH CASE GET RID OF THEM QUICK!

Other news...and Anne Diamond, much to my regret, was booted out of the Celebrity B List House last night. Well...when I say 'booted out', it took three fork lift trucks and a work crew not seen since the building of the pyramids to set her free.

Meanwhile several deadly black widow spiders have turned up in bunches of grapes bought from Tesco. Apparently the spiders were introduced to keep down other pests, but lacksadaisical quality control has failed to filter them out of the finished parcels. In a statement Thomas Ringpiece Sr (Head of Tesco Thornton-Cleveley's Branch) said, "Thank God they weren't bits of glass otherwise we'd have had to take the product off the shelves. As it is we can keep on selling them in the certain knowledge that at some point in the near future one of our customers will die. We've got plenty more customers though and some of them are quite old anyway."

And in the Commons today, Gordon Brown admitted in his pre-budget speech that the government would have to borrow an extra 9 billion pounds on top of the predicted 12 billion (makes my paltry fiver seem insignificant somehow doesn't it?) to get through next year. Most of this will be spent on pies and chips for John Prescott. Predictably the Shadow Chancellor, whose name eludes me for the moment being the instantly forgettable little Tory shit that he is, ridiculed Brown's handling of public finances. In a statement he said, "Gordon Brown, big fat trout! Couldn't work the budget out! What a silly man is Gordon Brown! We'll have to pull his undies down!"

And finally, the fireman's strike continues...John Prescott's offer of "a realistic one-and-a-half per cent so long as the fire brigade send him one of their calendars for Christmas", being rejected by Guy Andy Gilchrist as facitious. As yet the government's forty-per cent annual pay rise (it's easy to rearrange public coffers despite massive borrowing when you're voting for your own pay increase it seems) has gone unmentioned by the television news.

Unconventional Weapon to be Used on Saddam

Tony Bleugghh today unveiled his latest secret weapon in the War Against Terrorism and Iraq. Killer granny, Mary “Death on a Zimmer Frame” Urry, is famous for putting her enemies into therapy with a mere squint of her rheumy little eyes.
“Forget those useless old bags, Hughes and Farcus! I’ll have that rag-headed wog dictator, you mark my words,” she wheezed around her ill fitting dentures. “When I've finished with him he’ll stink of Vick and soiled incontinence pads for months.”
Mary declined to comment on exactly how she intended to solve the problem of Saddam but she hasn’t ruled out calling him nasty names, pelting him with Fisherman’s Friends and gurning through his palace windows at night.

France Most Amorous Nation In The World.

The most lovestruck are the French who have sex 167 times a year, followed by the Dutch, (158) , the Danes (152) and Canadians (150). Americans are more reserved than the British (149) when it comes to sex, with the average adult claiming to make love 138 times a year, followed by New Zealanders (135) and the Spanish (121).

Just under three-quarters of Britons fantasise about having sex with a celebrity, with Brad Pitt topping the list for women at 33% and Kylie Minogue the number one celebrity for men with 18% of the votes.

"the French who have sex 167 times a year" Well that keeps the male frog fully occupied for about 3 hours each year.

Must cast the shadow of doubt over the reliability of this survey. "The Global Sex Survey was compiled by using questionnaire answers from 50,000 people - 3,500 in the UK - through its websites worldwide." Surveying people on the Net. We know what lots of people look at on the Net, and I note that nowhere in the article is there mention of whether a partner was present during this sexual activity.

So, some gay people think the term “homosexual” is offensive, out dated and therefore no longer politically correct enough for them. Instead they prefer the term “orientation towards people of the same sex”.
Well, it’s a bit of a mouthful but a queer by any other name I suppose so here’s a few unPC counterbalances I made up earlier.
For the girls: cherry picker, bud buster, snatch snogger, tuning the tuna.
For the boys: gerbil jiggler, riding the tube, shit shunter, Percy Reversi.

What next I wonder? Should we replace the word “terrorist” with the term “impending and forceful orientation towards people who refuse to capitulate immediately and who do not share our religious and social beliefs”? Not as incisive as “murdering bastard” in anyone’s language.

Two-faced Tone should remember that, come the next election, there won’t be enough thought police and politically motivated gays around to save his scaly arse! And even if he does like dressing up in a bright blue twin set and pearls and going around “handbagging” unions, stamping his feet crossly at the French and Germans and making war on Iraq with his bum-buddy, Bush (You mean bosom pal don’t you? Ed.), Thatch (the bitch demon from Hell) will always be renowned for having the bigger pair of balls.

Note: Unc B, this is an anti-PC rant, not anti-gay!!!

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

It's very easy to get confused between one arab dictator and the next...after all, they all have big moustaches/bushy beards, brown skin and manic eyes. But does anyone out there remember who actually blew up the World Trade Centre? Or has it all just become a bit blurred?'s a reminder from just over a year ago before the emphasis changed to 'any old twat will do'...

American predictions...almost as transigent as New Labour's original election manifesto.

US busts huge identity theft ring.

Federal authorities have broken up what they called the biggest identity theft case in US history and charged three men with stealing credit information, draining victims' bank accounts and ruining their credit.

US Attorney James Comey said the losses were calculated so far at $US2.7 million ($A4.8 million) but would balloon worldwide to many more millions. One customer alone lost over $USI.3 million when his identity was assumed by a complete stranger posing as a British Gas meter installer.

Mr.Brian Hughes of Pixie Dell, (Lancs) said, "I thought something was up when the $US1 million I deposited in the meter disappeared overnight. With a bit of careful planning that amount usually gets me through the week. My suspicions deepened when I started getting postcards from myself postmarked Monte Carlo, telling me I was having a wonderful time and expressing the wish that I was there. That's where this imposter really gave the game away, I know for certain I would never wish myself to be in Monte Carlo, I'm a Las Vegas kinda guy thru and thru."

"Throughout this whole trying ordeal British Gas was wonderfully helpful. They said they would immediately restore supply to my villa in Monte Carlo. I await a postcard from myself to confirm this. I cannot say enough for the lady who pushes and pulls the plugs on the British Gas ouija board and who managed to put me in contact with the Customer Relations Staff. Doris Stokes you are a living legend. The manner in which Reggie and Ronny, the twin bailiffs from B.G. went about their work was both courteous and efficient. The specialist assures me that I will suffer no permanent disfigurement, and the limp will disappear over time."

A few more Bushisms courtesy of Bush Cartoons Com.

"I can't hear you because I can't see." - G.W. Bush from Journeys With George by Alexandra Pelosi, debuted on HBO Nov. 5, 2002

"There's an old saying in Tennessee -- I know it's in Texas, it's probably in Tennessee --that says, fool me once, shame on ... shame on you. Fool me ... You can't get fooled again." - G.W. Bush quoted by the Baltimore Sun - Oct 6, 2002

"Do you have blacks too?" - Bush ignorantly asked Brazil's President Fernando Henrique Cardoso. Reported by the reputable German publication Der Spiegel. Rumor has it, Condoleza Rice interupted the president and explained in brief the African history in Brazil.

"And so, in my State of the -- my State of the Union -- or state -- my speech to the nation, whatever you want to call it, speech to the nation -- I asked Americans to give 4,000 years --4,000 hours over the next -- the rest of your life -- of service to America."" - G.W. Bush. April 9th, 2002. Reported by the San Francisco Gate (among others)

"There's nothing more deep than recognizing Israel's right to exist. That's the most deep thought of all. ... I can't think of anything more deep than that right."-March 13th, 2000, Washington, D.C.

"{waves hello}"- G.W. Bush waves to the blind musician, Stevie Wonder, as reported by the Washington Post, March 6th, 2002

"It's my honor to speak to you as the leader of your country. And the great thing about America is you don't have to listen unless you want to." — Speaking to recently sworn in immigrants on Ellis Island, July 10, 2001

"Well, it's an unimaginable honor to be the president during the Fourth of July of this country. It means what these words say, for starters. The great inalienable rights of our country. We're blessed with such values in America. And I--it's--I'm a proud man to be the nation based upon such wonderful values."—Visiting the Jefferson Memorial, Washington, D.C., July 2, 2001

"For every fatal shooting, there were roughly three non-fatal shootings. And, folks, this is unacceptable in America. It's just unacceptable. And we're going to do something about it."—Philadelphia, May 14, 2001

"First, we would not accept a treaty that would not have been ratified, nor a treaty that I thought made sense for the country." —George W. Bush, on the Kyoto accord, April 24, 2001

"They misunderestimated me."—Bentonville, Ark., Nov. 6, 2000

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family."—Greater Nashua, N.H., Chamber of Commerce, Jan. 27, 2000

"I understand small business growth. I was one."-New York Daily News, Feb. 19, 2000

"The most important job is not to be governor, or first lady in my case."-Pella, Iowa, as quoted by the San Antonio Express-News, Jan. 30, 2000

"It's important for us to explain to our nation that life is important. It's not only life of babies, but it's life of children living in, you know, the dark dungeons of the Internet."—Arlington Heights, Ill., Oct. 24, 2000

"I think if you know what you believe, it makes it a lot easier to answer questions. I can't answer your question."—Reynoldsburg, Ohio, Oct. 4, 2000

Finally, after four days of hard graft, isolation from the real world, and self-induced comas, I have managed to make contact with the other side.

Yes, this morning British Gas actually picked up their bloody phone. It came as a great shock to my system to hear a human voice on the other end of the line as opposed to a computerised woman telling me to hang up and try again later. After some complicated button pressing down on my hands and knees in the meter cupboard with a torch, under the guidance of James-How-Can-I-Help-You, a procedure similar in practice to being told how to land a Boeing 707 by the control tower, I eventually found the enigmatic screen 27 where I was informed that I owed British Gas the grand total of £49.70.

"Why exactly?" I asked James-How-Can-I-Help-You. "I'm on a pre-paid meter. I can't possibly get into debt."

"It seems we've made a billing error, Mr Hughes."

You're not fucking kidding there are you, James? It's a good job I noticed the money being nibbled away isn't it? Because screen 27 (press and hold button 'A' for five minutes, then advance to screen 24 before inserting card for ten seconds and proceding to screen 27) wasn't exactly declaring itself openly. Who knows how many millions I could have lost by now if it wasn't for my vigilance.

Apparently it's going to take a week before they sort things out. In the meantime the meter will continue to eat my money without question because of British Gas' so-called computer error. I call that theft.

I have decided that if this problem isn't sorted out within seven days (repaid in full and working as agreed in the original contract) I shall start charging British Gas interest on the money they've already stolen from me. It seems only fair. I shall charge £1.00 per day for every £1.00 they've nicked off my Gas card until they can be arsed paying me back. And I'm holding James personally responsible. Four days to answer the bloody phone! I don't smell Gas...I smell the stench of corruption. Remember folks...BRITISH GAS...THEY STINK!

The team of highly trained weapons inspectors hand picked by President George W. Bush, Tony Blair and a bloke they know who really loves detective yarns.


Within minutes of their arrival Inspector Morse and his trusty offsider uncover a paring knife of mass destruction.

THE BITCH IS BACK! (well almost)

Was Saddam the Man Behind McVeigh?

Follow the link if you like unreadable "journalism", but the headline is enough to give you the drift.

There is enough anecdotal evidence to warrant a serious re-examination of the Warren Report to find out just how much dirty Saddam money ended up in the pockets of Lee Harvey Griswald.

It is widely known that John Wilkes Booth had taken a holiday in Iraq less than a month before his killer performance at Ford's Theater.

Chauffeur Henri Paul was seen knocking back "Saddam Wallbangers" like there was no tomorrow in the hours before the crash that killed Diana.

I personally believe that there are enough clues in the Bard's subtext to indicate that Brutus was certainly not acting alone when he shivved Julius.

Tom Ridge, we want answers!

Peter Mandelson (or Tom Ridge as he's known by his American alter-ego) is signed in as head of the new Homeland Security (or the Ministry of Truth as it's known by its Orwellian alter-ego.)

Tom Ridge has become the new dick head of American Homeland Security (in association with Texas Homeland Stores) and is raring to rise to the challenges ahead. In an exclusive interview with Rant of the Week reporter Gavin Nonofvich, Ridge stated, "It's simply a case of selective management. We select individuals, such as pinko commie bastards, abortion loving none-Christian layabouts, pot smoking lefties, gay liberal wishy washy pacifists, black minorities, basically anybody we don't like the look of, and we manage them off the face of the earth."

When asked if any human rights would be affected Ridge replied, "Not at all. These bastards aren't human. Especially the Muslims. As far as we're concerned they don't have any rights to start off with. The only things that'll be affected will be the continued growth of the corporate sector which should soon spiral out of all recognition when the Jews are safely managed into freight trains and specially designed vacation camps."

Dropped in at the deep end Ridge already faces his first major crisis...defending America from the threat of the starving peasants in Iraq. "The president is correct," said Ridge. "Those turban wearing bastards look really evil. Imagine what would happen if they managed to get hold of a three-hundred and fifty-foot disintegrater gun! There'd be chaos. We don't care if the weapons inspectors don't find anything. We need to teach these foreigners a good lesson. We're equipping our troops with lynching ropes and white hoods as we speak."

I have just been watching Mark Commode's review on Channel 4 of Ken Russell's film "The Devils". The programme explained how Commode has helped in the restoration of previously missing scenes from the film and his ten year search for the 'Knob and Balls of Christ' footage that turned up in an Anglican bishop's attic. Apparently these scenes should never have been removed in the first place as they were clearly intended to contrast the political manipulation of the nuns in the story to ever more blasphemous and sexual deviation against the juxtaposed cut-away scenes of the cardinal's increasing virtuosity...and Commode called in some American (why are they always American?) Chief Catholic Priest bloke to substantiate this argument.

The film is, as I type, being shown in its entirity, the 'Rape of Christ' scenes (bushy fannies and the Jesus face squatting sequence etc) back where it belongs.

"This is a work of cinematic magnificence," said one of Russell's friends during the review, building himself up to an orgasmic climax. "Stunning visuals choreographed with incredible music that chew the viewer up and spit them back out again."


This is one of Channel 4's perenial 'art' films with an extra few minutes of naked nuns included this time around. Not that I'm complaining. I happen to enjoy young naked nuns cavorting with each other...not that you get a lot of them around's a bit chilly at this time of year I suspect. But like all of Russell's movies this one continues the trend of taking a basic story and turning it into a cheesy pantomime. It's excessive, it's mainly boring (except for the naked nuns bit) and it falls nicely into the Channel 4 category of 'Artistic merit" working in the full knowledge that the sex scenes aren't quite long enough for a proper wank...unless you record them and keep the remote handy of course.

Calling 'The Devils' a work of genius is like calling the Carry On Films works of classic comedy. Yes...the nun's tits are fun. But let's keep this in context eh?

Next week I shall be reviewing Debbie Does Dallas, an interesting film in the 'exploitation' genre that attempts to subvert the misogny of 70's America through its visual impact. A box of tissues recommended.

Monday, November 25, 2002

It's good t' see that Winston Church'ill ended up bein' voted Greatest Briton of all time ever. I must admit though I 'ad t' do a lot of telephonin' the BBC and castin' votes to ensure 'is victory. But Winnie wouldn't 'ave done no less for us. And it's quite right that 'ee won too! 'Ee did more for keepin' the pakis and nig nogs at bay than anyone else in the 'ole of 'istory. And 'ee was a gentleman! 'Ee might 'ave looked like an old turnip dipped in sour-crout but 'ee always let y' get your drawers off proper before givin' you a stiff one round the back o' the bike sheds! Or was that somebody else I'm thinkin' of?

Whatever, times was different back in Winnie's day. There was none of these queers roamin' the streets in their leather jockstraps back then. And people knew their place! Down in the gutter mainly with all the other turds, 'scuse my Arabic. Winnie was a lord y' know? Not one o' these uppity, by your leave working class bastards, 'scuse my Portugese, wot was getting above 'is station. And by gum 'ee knew 'ow t' fight. And 'ee smoked 'is cigars! 'Ee didn't stuff 'em up Lady Astor's fanny or nothing like wot polticians do these days with their plastic bags and tangerines and cottagin' and wot not. Filthy buggers, 'scuse my Yorkshire, the lot of 'em!

Mind you, it was a pity that that nice Princess Diana wot died after savin' the world for the Sambos didn't win. She was angel she was. The most beautiful woman in the universe ever and so kind and considerate. The world's been full of misery since she went. Back in 'er time there wasn't no poverty or terrorism and you could leave your front door open and a ladder up to the bedroom window and no-one would bother you. And dogs didn't crap on the pavements neither, 'scuse my Latin. And Derek 'Atton, the evil bastard 'scuse my Hindu, wasn't even born which was a good thing. She'd 'ave put a stop to this bloomin' fireman's strike if she was alive so 'elp 'er God. She was like that. All very considerate and carin' and clever. Not like these fuckers in the Royal Family these days 'oo all stink of dog shit an' shag camels, 'scuse my Sudanese. I'm an 'undred and six y' know and my colostomy needs attendin'.

Sunday, November 24, 2002

Everyone knows the lovely orange pussycat. And someone would like to kill it.
The garfield project: die, garfield, die.

Editor's note: He's not the only one who would rather see Garfield dead...

Deputy Editor notes disturbing evidence of a Faustian contract.

If this image isn't showing up right click and click SHOW PICTURE.

If this image isn't showing up right click and click SHOW PICTURE.
Click to see what G******d is doing over Xmas, and why the Editor
hocked his immoral soul to get a slice of the Surprise Show action.

The news delivery boy's note: stop this cat, before it overruns the world.


Could applicants for the position of Deputy Editor please send their resumes as expeditiously as possible. The former Deputy Editor commenced his new position last Wednesday as Deputy to the Director of Customer Relations at the Lancashire Virtual Office of British Gas, Mr. Ken Russell. Before the Editor attempts to change the security settings on this blog denying me my inalienable, indivisible and indisputable posting rights, might I advise him that in my new role I have been afforded unlimited discretionary powers by Mr. Russell in regards to the functionality (or otherwise, if one chooses to catch my drift) of meter No. 314-438/21a.

As a wily statesman once said (I think it was Bruce Talleyrand) ... "A meter is a long time in office politics" or as our wonderfully talented Director/God Mr. Russell is oft wont to say in his inimitably succinct manner, "Better The Devils you know and love as wonderful cinema than the ones with whom you ought sup with a long spoon which never did run away with the dish full of nuns so blind as those who will not see the forest for the trees who always listen to me, but if there's no one there, they themselves make no noise. The lion will lie down with silence of the lamb."

Editor's note: Would the deputy editor please take note that his demands are unreasonable and would cause grievous harm to the public sector of this blog if met? Holding my meter to ransome in this disgraceful manner is senseless and immature, putting the shelf life of my gas fire (and numerous others) at considerable risk. At present the British Army is coping with the pressure of Gas Meter Fittings, but would be better suited to serving the public in their true capacity of killing Iraqi peasants. If the deputy editor is serious about negotiations then he should join us at the negotiating table instead of using these dangerous and pre-Thatcherite tactics.

"Join you at the negotiating table?" Ha! Fat chance! As Allende said to Pinochet ... "Over my dead body!!"
(Or was that what the Bishop said to the actress playing a choirboy?)

Wanna have sum fun? Try out this site - it's slow but worth the effort. Enjoy!

The Continuing Story of the Great British Gas Monster...

The financial tale so far:

Last week...meter buggers up swallowing £1.00 worth of credit and resetting to nought. Total so far...£1.00 down.

Same day...£3.00 paid to fill card and, subsequently, meter. Card fails. Total so far...£4.00 down.

Still the same day following lengthy discussion with British Gas...bloke arrives to fit new meter. Gives me £4.00 emergency credit. Total so far...evens.

Next day...£3.00 on new card. Meter eats £1.90. Total so far...£1.90 down presumed dead.

Following day...another £3.00 on card. Meter eats another £1.90 withour explanation. British Gas refuse to answer the phone yet again. Total so far...£2.80 down.

Today....£5.00 on card. Meter eats £2.69 (for a debt we don't actually owe) plus another £1.00 for reasons as yet unexplained. British Gas continue to ignore calls for assistance. Total so far...£5.49 down. Meter reading tells us we're still on emergency credit meaning that we're another £2.50 down. Total so far...just under £8.00 down.

Might not seem a lot but when you're down to your last ten quid for the month and it's a toss up between being warm or having food and the bastards at British Gas couldn't give enough of a shit to offer an explanation or even answer the phone it starts to annoy.

A lot!

I pity the poor bitch at British Gas who picks up the phone at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow morning. I shall be stumbling out of bed with my usual grumpy, bitterness and without any cereal inside me due to the fact that £8.00 has vanished into the meter without any trace so I can't afford to buy any breakfast. And believe me, my shouts are going to drown out my rumbling stomach no matter how hard it tries.