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

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

You see, I'd tried to remind Australia that rushing to America's colours was, as demonstrated in Vietnam, a health hazard. Before we signed up for the war against terror, wherever that might lead us, I thought it important to remember that the US has been the most trigger-happy of nations. With a long history of bellicosity and a culture of violence."
Phillip Adams
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Just thought I'd share my latest Spill, for those viewers who may enjoy a refreshing American political perspective about puppies being used as undergarments. Okay, I admit it's not political at all. I just don't think that way.

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

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

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

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

Enough...here’s this week’s Scrag End cartoon for those who can’t be arsed etc:

Sedgwick is back after a short funereal interlude.

Highly Personal Rant of the Week.

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

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

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

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

"You aren't Carol then?"

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

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

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

"So you aren't Carol either?"

"No, Carol is on leave."

"How long has she been on leave?"

"Over a week."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

10 working days pass. Payment is less than palpable.

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

"Hello, this is Brianna."

OH SHIT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Courtesy of the Scrag Ends website

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chunt continues.

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

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

But the truth is they're just not funny.

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

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

A whole studio full of potential serial killers?

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

Then again they might just be ignorant twats.