Latest News as seen on British Television: The Queen is in hospital tonight recovering from an operation on her hip. Apparently she twisted her leg during a fall at the horse races over Christmas. She is said to be '...doing fine...' and is expected to back home by tomorrow at the latest.

Yeah? So what? Exactly how is this trivial bit of frippery news?

Here's some real news for all those celebrity-worshippers working in television...the rest of us don't give a flying fuck. If she'd have broken her neck then at least it might have been an amusing anecdote to close on. If, by this experience, she'd had an epiphany and divided her estates amongst the down-trodden tax-payers of the so-called Commonwealth then that might have been somewhat more interesting. The story, such as it is, however, doesn't even constitute a side-line in Private Eye. (And that's saying something!)

Grow up you arse-kissing, sycophantic bastards and earn your licence fee for once.

I want to add me own tuppence worth t' that young Peter Cooper's postin' 'bout guns an' stuff. An' no chopping me off in full flow this time like w'at y' did last time neither otherwise I'll get me blunderbus out an' riddle y'r 'eads wi' salt penis. Bloody editors...think they're Gods so they do ('scuse my Felatio)!

That Mr Cooper shows sense f'r a young 'un, most of 'oom are as thick as two short stumps! Afterall, where would I be now if it wasn't for My 'Enry's trusted old revolver w'at I keep under me pillow (God rest 'is nadgers)? Knowing I've got a 'uge big weapon pressed against me cheek at night let's me get t' sleep feelin' all safe an' 'appy like. Fortunately, as yet, I've 'ad no excuse t' use it, w'at with the population of the area all bein' law-abiding octopusarians. But believe you me if one o' those nig-nogs from down the market broke into me 'ouse in the small 'ours an' started fiddlin' with w'at don't belong to 'im under me nightclothes me only recourse would be t' blow his big black goggle-eyed 'ead off! An' no jury in the land would say I wasn't within my rights!

W'en I shot the postie by mistake last month it wasn't my fault. 'Ee was wearin' black gloves on account of it snowin' an' 'ee shoved his stupid fingers through me letterbox. I thought 'ee was one of those gang-wogs breakin' in. The blast took out 'alf me front door an' ruined me box it did! But did the courts convict me? Not on your Nellie, they didn't! They never found the body f'r a start, 'cos I 'id it under the bath. It's gone a bit smelly an' rotten now, but I ain't gettin' int' bother for somethin' w'at I didn't mean t' do.

What people need 'ere is proper masturbation. They need t' learn the difference between wog 'ands and furry black gloves! Teach 'em that an' there won't be any 'assle! An' as f'r me air-rifle! I've got to 'ave something t' shoot the squirrels in me rafters with! An' the ducks, o' course. An' the kiddies w'at ride their scooters past me front room window w'en I'm trying t' sleep.

I'm an 'undred and thirty seven, y' know? An' I've bin through three world wars! An' f'r w'at? Not so's the government can tell me to 'and in My 'Enry's (God rest 'is tonsils) sub-machine gun w'en there's Africans walkin' the streets, that's f'r certain!

In all this blairing around the bush pre-premature ejaculatory militarism, would it be churlish and unpatriotic to bring this up? Errrr, ummm what ever happened to the posse that was hot on the trail of that Osama bloke? (Anyone still remember him?)

And in local news. Inevitable at this time of the year in Melbourne. Woke up this morning to the smell and sight of this city blanketed in smoke from countless bushfires in the country and semi-rural suburbs. Suspect this is merely a pipe-opener.

Undaunted Mrs Feral and I donned our firefighting backpack tanks and went to an exhibition of this sheila's cartoons at the Victorian State Library. (I suspect Twisted would have enjoyed it.)



These guys tell us that Australia is currently on a heightened level of alert. Those Australians that aren't alert, xenophobic, paranoid, jingoistic and willing to swallow anything the government spoonfeeds them obviously have to be terrorists or fellow travellers.



Don't know whether her omnipresent ads for Weight Watchers are confined to Oz but if I see that barracuda faced Duchess of Porkflap one more time I shall be forced to shoot the TV set. Maybe I'll wait until she, Jamie the spitting cook and Setev Irwin appear on Parkinson together and do a job lot.
THIS WAS

Editor's note: If by the Duchess of Porkchops you're refering to Turgid Fergy and her feckled jowels then, to the best of my knowledge, she hasn't appeared in any weight watchers ads here in Blighty. It's probably in her 'civil list' contract.

A plumber sells books.

Record of the Week:

Or not, as the case might be...

Maurice Robin Gibb R.I.P. Shows how much attention I pay to celebrity gossip.)

Why?! I accept that I like the bizarre things, I admit that I am a bizarre one a little bit, but I have a very normal cartoon magazine. Pig war... farting cartoons... why?!

Your horoscope for 2003...derived at using the exact science, a very thick ephemeris and compasses and everything! Not just made up during breakfast like most astrologers are prone to do.

Aries: Early in the year you will discover something exciting to your advantage. It might be a £100 note. It might be the famous missing 'Amber Room' secretly buried in your back garden. By June, however, your luck will have changed and seventeen gnomes will dig up your flowerbeds to bury a small elephant amongst the petunias. Unless of course you live in a flat in which case your mother-in-law will swell up like a Zeppelin and develop mysterious yellow spots on her buttocks.

Taurus: Sometime between April and May you will celebrate the birthday of somebody close to you...possibly even your own. By September however, your life will become abnormally busy as various minor celebrities decide to adopt you as their mascot. The Krankies might even try to attach you to their hood ornament with lengths of knicker elastic, so avoid contact with all wrinkled transvestite dwarves around this period. In October you will have a lesbian affair with the Agricultural Minister and accidentally bite her tongue.

Gemini: You will smell bad for the first half of the year and develop an incurable disease for the latter. Don't expect to see Christmas. The festive shopping spree should be very economical for you.

Leo: Violent bouts of flatulence will disrupt your romantic encounters through February, in one instance blowing your partner's wig off and setting fire to their eyebrows. This will not be a good year for any Leos that collect weasels as a hobby. Watch out for the waning moon in November when three flying saucers will descend into your chimney and play havoc with your shire-horse ornaments. Expect to find small mounds of sick on the living room carpet in October.

Virgo: Relationships will be particularly unpleasant this year as your grumpy mood continues to decline. By March your entire family will have divorced you and will have gone to live in Wolverhampton where an unexpected house-fire will claim their lives along with those of thirteen guineapigs holed up in the bookcase. Financial problems will spiral out of control when you foolishly decide to buy the Taj Mahal after Easter, despite being well into your overdraft already.

Libra: Your refined beauty and intellectual genius will ensure that the year to come is every bit as successful as the last, the only downside being that the rest of the human race is ignorant, artistically retarded and smell of old socks.

Scorpio: You will die on January the 20th.

Sagittarius: With Virgo rising in Saturn and the moon trined against the cusp of Libra in mid-August you will spontaneously combust during a recital of Handle's Messiah at Thornton Lecture Hall, one of your kidneys surviving the inferno by being blasted onto a nearby rafter. The organ will go on to become Professor of Applied Economics at Christchurch by December.

Capricorn: Too much jelly and Ribena will turn you blue for several months. In August a large snail with make your life a misery when it sprays the names of all your secret gay lovers across the front wall of your house in indelible green paint.

Aquarius: This will be a year of mixed blessings. None more so than in July when the Pope will unexpectedly visit and, during a mass in your honour, choke on an apricot pip and die in your front room. Following several weeks of investigation Detective Smallbone will turn out to be the Baby Jesus in disguise and, consequently, threaten you with a pointed stick that has a small, detachable skull fastened by surgical bandage to one end.

Pisces: Absolutely nothing will happen to you this year so don't bother getting out of bed.

Uncle Brian: Astrologer Extraordinaire to those with enough sense to believe.