MY COMEDY TROUSERS

i have a rather nice pair of strides. they are a pair of those kind of cut-off things that end sort of mid-calf. rather boaty. the label inside says ‘next’. they are olive green. they have loads of lovely pockets; quite a few of which are zippable. they have a zip fly and a big popper thing to do them up and two sort of things that i don’t know the name of.

these things work with velcro to make the waistband smaller to fit my adonis (or adonut) like figure. the trousers cost me a mere fiver from the hospice shop in west byfleet. you get a very good sort of a cast-off in that shop. everyone (apart from yours truly) who lives around here is really loaded and there is always good stuff to buy in there.

anyhoo, i wear these trousis without a belt and sometimes feel a sense of waistband enslackerment. i usually remedy this by doing up the velcro things that i don’t know the name of. it might be ‘cinches’ or something.

but, today, these troosers saved at least one life; perhaps two.

what’s that you say? ‘how can your comedy trousers have saved lives?’

well, i’ll tell you…

yet another stolen car has been abandoned nearby the station. its wheels have been removed along with most of everything else. the battery, however, is still intact.

the peace and quiet of thirst hall was disturbed by a hooting noise. it was two little bastards hooting the horn of the abandoned stolen car. after about thirty seconds of this your correspondent donned his kicking boots, lit a fag, and ran out of the door to, ahem, ’sort things out’.

in the remnants of the car i found one big little bastard and one little little bastard. a greasy looking neighbour turned up too. we then had a pleasant conversation…

me: fuck off out of it you little bastards
greasy: you have two choices; either you leave now or i call the police
me: or i give you a good nutting and kick your fucking heads in
blb: i can’t do nuffink, he’s got adhd and he don’t listen to what i say
lb: fuck off you cunt
blb: it’s the first time i’ve ever been here
me: let’s make it the last you shit
blb: my nan lives here
lb: fuck off fuck off fuck off
greasy: we have to live here you know
me: fuck off out of here you little bastards and don’t come back

well you can imagine how the rest of the chit-chat went.

they buggered off towards the bridge.

how did my trousers save lives? well…

i was talking to greasy (a man who is not without guilt. his car alarm caused a lot of trouble when he first moved in to gay gavin’s flat) while the two little bastards shoved off. but then they started shouting and waving sticks about and banging things with them.

most sprinters are started off with a sportsmanlike ‘ready, steady, GO’ or perhaps a more official starting pistol. this particular sprinter was started off with the less traditional cry of ‘we’re going to get you back, you fucking old cunt!’

as i accelerated across the carpark like a hyperactive lurcher on whizz, trouty leaning out of the window shouting ‘no, it’s not worth it’, red mist in the down position and the intention to kill in my heart…

the lifesaving trousers came down. well, not all the way down. but down enough to save the lives of the two little bastards. it is very hard to sprint at 200mph like what i can whilst trying to keep your trousers up.

the little twats had disappeared when i got to the corner. it was such a shame. i haven’t given anyone a good smacking or kicking for ages.

the little bastards will be back. i expect dogshit and petrol through the letterbox. but you have to stand up for yourself. you know when these things happen and you think ‘oh, if only i had said this, that or the other’. i wished that i had taken my camera down there and snapped them; it would have scared them and stopped them from coming back. i also wish that i had taken a big bit of wood studded with clout-nails. ho hum.

in the pub of ultimate swearification, a tad earlier, i saw a man in a football shirt and all covered with tattoos eating his dinner. he was enjoying a mixed grill. he couldn’t have made more of a pig of himself if he had eaten it all with a coal shovel. then i saw another scummer give him the nod and they went to the bog together. when the cocaine kicked in he became the biggest arsehole in the world. what a tosser!

i’m sick of ‘people’ like this. thank god for the possibility/chance of the charlotte rose.

if i don’t get the boat i will just have to get my big gun out. on the other hand, my trousers have saved me from life imprisonment. perhaps i should buy my strides a pint of swig.

god (who does not exist) bless and goodnight.

X

THE COLD SWEAT OF FEAR

what a sweaty start to the day. the reason that i never do anything or have any ambition is the fear. call it anxiety, call it what you like; it paralyses me.

the ‘charlotte rose’ makes me fearful because she’s so good and i don’t want to lose her.

i will just have to trust and think that if it’s meant to be it will be and if not… well, i must not be disappointed.

but i’ve got a free boat to muck about with for the time being.

i hope i don’t fall in love with her too quick. the disappointment would be very hard to take.

have a great bank hol.

THE DAY WE NEARLY BOUGHT A BOAT

do you believe in fate?

i kind of do.

the ‘charlotte rose’ is a little shorter than we wanted but she is a lovely boat.

since i saw her i felt a kind of twang in my heart. so she’s scruffy; so am i. she’s all steel, no wooden superstructure. inside all neat and tidy, room for four or five to kip, on a mooring that’s close by.

we met the bloke who is selling her on behalf of a man who has ‘gone to spain’. we looked around her. i took her up the canal and back and she ran and handled just fine. we made an offer. i have the keys on the table right now. basically i can do what i want with her now.

pending survey, the ‘charlotte rose’ is ours.

i’m so happy i could squeak.

after the vendor had gone we spoke to other boaty people and got invited back to their boat for tea and a laugh. we got a lift home too.

keep your toes, fingers, eyes and legs crossed for us. if this actually happens i will be amazed but so happy.

nice things don’t happen to me but i felt the twang. so perhaps, this time, something good will come to be.

everything seems to be falling into place. god bless the charlotte rose.

i can’t be bothered to be angry.

goodnight.

NATURE NOTES PLUS BONUS RANT

coo! i must be a naturist or something.

today, trouty and i enjoyed a few swigs in the canalside gardens of the pelican pub, addlestone. and a new game was invented.

there is a pair of swans that lurk in the pub’s garden. they hang around and mug people for their lunchtime cheesy chips and crisps and things. the cob is a big, tough and menacing type. we both sustained wounds from his cruel, slashing beak. i have named him ‘gregory peck’.

anyway, back to the game…
we were the only two people in the garden and we watched as some magpies started being naughty. there were two pairs nesting up in some big leylandii type things and we watched them as they started causing trouble in the neighbourhood. there was a chaffinch singing his head off on top of the pub’s tv aerial. he got chased off p.d.q. by the most evil of the magpie gang. then a pair of doves on the other side of the canal got a right bashing up. and then the mischief started…

the magpies did the wastepaper bin over. they got all the crisp packets out and chucked them about a bit and scavenged for leftovers in the bin. magpies aren’t very nice. they eat other birds’ eggs and chicks out of the nest. but they are very clever. what do you mean ‘game’? oh yes, the game…

i bought a packet of cheese and onion and put some out on the table tops of those wooden bench arrangements so that gregory peck couldn’t get at them. gregory peck is one bird that the magpies wouldn’t give any stick to. he is just too big and hard for them. ‘game’? oh yes…

king magpie came down after he had watched me putting out the crisps and retiring to my vantage point. down he came and got himself a big gobful of crisps - but he didn’t eat them all up straight away. oh no; he went and hid them. i saw him do it. he hid them in a little clump of plants. but then a bloke came out and sat in the garden quite nearby and he had a packet of crisps to go with his pint. this was good news for gregory peck who immediately donned his mugging hat. strong words of admonishment were heard from bloke and a fair amount of hissing from greg.

so i relocated the crisps to tabletops at the other end of the garden and all the while the magpies were watching. the chaffinch was evicted from the bouncing aerial time and time again. then in they came. some wood pigeons got told where to go and then king magpie took command of the crisp table. he had a poo (apologies to cleaning staff at the pelican) on the table and then, after eating some of the crisp shrapnel there and then, got himself a right beakful of the big crisps and made off to the gutter of the pub conservatory. he plonked the crisps in and then went back to command of the table where he scared off three other magpies. he did the same again and plonked another load of crisps into the gutter. and then he got some load of stuff, a sheet of moss and leaves i think, out of the gutter and dragged them along and covered up his booty. i SAW him do it. i felt like david attenborough.

later i had a good look at the feet of a coot. they are, surprisingly, not fully webbed. they are a weird bluey-grey and look rather like ‘dead mens’ fingers’; the gills of a crab.

SO

that was today but, ahem, last night i made a bit of a blunder and posted a comment on someone else’s blog that i should never have done. it was a rant and, almost as soon as i had done it, i sent an e-mail saying what i had done. it has been deleted from there but it was suggested that i should publish it on my own blog. so i will. hold on to your hats…

“your civilian deaths count posting gave me pause for thought.
i’m really not involving scott in this. i’m not at all.
scott is a decent man and i’m not blaming him or disparaging his thoughts about the terrible events in new york one bit.
but to the snivelling whiners of amerikaland i do say this…
we have had to put up with this for YEARS and you lot funded it. the world has had to put up with YOUR terrorism and thievery and murder for years and years and years.
and now you know what it’s like and you don’t like it. well, boo hoo.
at least when i die i will lie in my grave knowing that i never napalmed children, that i was not a war criminal, that i did not bomb hospitals and orphanages, that i never murdered my allies with ‘friendly fire’ through rank incompetence, that i did not break the geneva conventions, that i did not tear up UN articles of war, that i did not slay hundreds of thousands of people in a relentless pursuit of money and power.
i’m proud to be me. i’m proud to speak out loud about this wickedness.
if i had an amerikan flag i would burn it and then piss on the ashes.
so, come on amerika; if you’re so great and good, stop making me want to puke my guts up.
sorry to monopolise your blog.
that wasn’t right of me but in the scale of these war crimes it’s but a small offence.”

always nice to end on a happy note, isn’t it?
i think i might play magpie/crisp game again tomorrow.
sleep tight. X

ONCE UPON A TIME, WHEN I WAS LITTLE

today i noticed, when i was mooching about in the bijou palace that is thirst hall in a state of undress, that when i opened the living room door i turned up my bare toes in the manner of a turkish slipper.

when i was a teeny chap, oooh, let’s say age of five, i used to have a bedroom that i shared with my younger brother. this was in the olden days and in the olden days we had a lino kind of a floor with a smaller carpet in the middle. there was no central heating. we had a fireplace downstairs with a gas poker. in the winter we had frost ferns on the inside of the single-glazed bedroom windows. perhaps i was younger, because i think the hard winter came in 1962/3 and i was so little that i could walk on the crust of the deep snow without falling through.
i had a little bed with a white-glossed headboard thing and there was a chest of drawers with brass escutcheons on the keyholes into which i poked one of my pyjama buttons.

i remember a lot about being little, which is funny considering that i can’t even remember what i did yesterday. that was the house where i had my first flying dream, swimming down the staircase through weeds, just like our goldfish in their tank. i can remember being born, through dreams. i really can, although i don’t think people believe me when i say that.

and one day i pulled open the bedroom door, which opened inwards, and the big toe on my right foot was in the way. the door caught my big toe-nail and flipped it back like the lid of a sardine can.

so now, forty years later, i raise my toes like a turkish slipper when opening doors towards me.

SPECIAL EXTRA BONUS POST*
(*terms and conditions apply)

i went to meet trouty off of the train. i opened the front door. well, what a surprise. it was raining.

the train was late. i got soaked and i wanted to get some fags to smoke.

trouty was installed at thirst hall and off i trudged to the nearest faggery, namely messrs jet petrol station.

‘20 marlboro, red ones please’
‘unintelligible mutter’
*proffers crisp fiver*
‘five pound seven please’
*suffers coronary* ‘HOW MUCH?’
‘five pound seven please’
*incredulous face*
‘they’ve gone up’

it was raining. i gave the robdog his money and walked away muttering.

stats: have gone on holiday

i don’t like flying, dear reader, but i do like flying dreams. if you like flying dreams then i hope that you have one tonight. but if you don’t then i hope you don’t.

you can’t say fairer than that.

THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY THERE

i am grateful to the most excellent jonathan gornall for pointing out something rather delightful to me in his ‘microwave man’ column in the times.

he was trawling for information about vasectomies because he’s thinking of having one. amongst other things, he googled up a rather charming article from the website of colorado’s windsor tribune.

headline: “WOMAN CELEBRATES 90TH WITH SPUNK”
“more than 50 people came to celebrate her birthday".

as jonathan gornall points out, that’s an unusual tradition.

this rather quaint read can be found at:
http://www.windsortribune.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1784

i feel rather chilly so i put a jumper on. is it really chilly or is it me?

cheerio, gentle reader.

SPEND SOME TIME IN THIS

http://www.sixthseal.com/

nighty night.

MAYBE I WILL POST AFTER ALL.
BECAUSE AFTER ALL I’M SICK OF THE EVIL WAR.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge,
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick boys!–An ecstacy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime,–
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning,

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

wilfred owen wrote that. he died a week before the end of the first world war. this disgusting war in iraq sickens me. how dare we call ourselves human when this evil continues or even started in the first place? the wicked war-criminals, büsh and bliar, should be held to account but they never will be. and while we try to sleep soundly in our beds there are people being blown to bits in our name. poor, frightened people who never harmed anyone are being exploded and torn to pieces in a land far away because that nazi wants to steal their oil. i can’t even begin to tell you how much i hate them. HOW FUCKING DARE THEY? one day there will be an uprising in this country and the sooner it comes the better.

one day, bliar, you will get your comeuppance and be swinging from a lamppost.

on behalf of myself i apologise to the people of iraq. i don’t know how this has happened but we live under the lash of a wicked dictator.

this sick and disgusting mess had better come to a conclusion soon or i’m going to go round bliar’s house and punch his fucking lights out. how dare he? how dare he kill people in my name?

the man’s a lunatic and a cunt.

children are being killed in your name. think about it. what are YOU going to do?

rant over.

stats:
rantasticness - extreme
hatred of bliarness - extreme
wanting to smash everything upness - extreme
wishing bliar got cancerness - total
fancying a riotness - oh yes

dear reader, what would you do if george büsh knocked on your door? would you make him a cup of tea or would you smack him a good one with a club hammer. right in the teeth. so they all broke. and then keep hitting him with it until all his soft stuff inside his head came out and went on the carpet?

i know what i’d do and it won’t be PG bastard tips either.

dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori?
like fuck it is.

sweet dreams.

NOTHING
TRANSMISSION ENDS

AT HOME WITH MR JOHN THE BOSH

john the bosh came round. he didn’t bring megan the lurcher which was a shame.

john the bosh was amazed to see a compluter working (so was i. usually the bastard can’t be arsed). we had lamb casserole and loads of swig. trouty took a picture of me and john. i uploaded it to the compluter and john’s jaw dropped about four feet to see it on the screen pretty darn quick. i told him that i could send the picture to the other side of the world in two seconds and he was just gobsmacked.

then we went on friendsreunited.

john left school in 1966. his face nearly fell off when he saw the names of people he had been to school with. i think he thought it was a kind of black magic trick.

we spoke of boxer who is kipping on his floor and agreed that mr boxer is in a sorry state. we chatted long into the night until trouty thought she would die of boredom. and then he went home. i do hope he doesn’t get run over.

i explained to john the bosh that i can steal whatever music i want off the net. then i showed him how i do it. he was pretty impressed i must say. he was too scared of the microwave typewriter to touch it but i think he liked it pretty much. free things are nice after all.

then i listened to tom petty and the heartbreakers doing ‘free falling’. i smashed a few fag ends into the ashtray and tried to listen to the weird echo on it that i can only hear when i’m drunk.

john the bosh is one of the nicest people that i have ever met.

‘free falling’ made me think about that poor boy who fell 13000 feet to his smudgy death. did he kill himself? i wonder. now it looks like he cut the straps himself. i wish he had spoken to me first. when i got looked into on scutari ward at st tommy’s and they asked me if i had ever thought of killing myself (this was twenty years ago) and i replied ‘doesn’t everyone?’ i really meant it. if it was a suicide i wish that i could have just spoken to him for a minute. just a minute to say…

and then ‘born slippy’ by underworld came on.

stats:
oh, what’s the bloody point (© kenneth williams)

goodnight, sweet reader.

WELL, WHAT IS IT?

i have a problem.

i just don’t know which way round it is.

i know someone (for the sake of anonymity, let’s just call her mrs a young of saffron walden) who calls a dustpan and brush a brush and dustpan.

getting things the wrong way round is an offence against the getting things the wrong way round act of 1829. section one. *ahem* those who go round calling fish and chips ‘chips and fish’ should be hanged by the neck until they are dead.

so that’s obvious.

you don’t go round calling things ’squeak and bubble’ or ‘butter and bread’ or ‘mash and bangers’. you don’t do that because it’s against the law and you can’t even make yourself say it.

until you come up against ‘bacon and eggs’. or is it ‘eggs and bacon’?

i have a powerful brain about the size of jupiter and although i know it is against the law to get things the wrong way round i just can’t decide which way round it should be.

my crisp fiver is on ‘bacon and eggs’ but i’m not at all sure. i don’t want to be hanged by the neck until i am dead. in mitigation i would point out to the hanging judge that i don’t go round saying ’spade and bucket’ or ‘fork and knife’.

i would be grateful for learned opinion on this one.

stats:
swig - i went and had a snooze and when i woke up i thought it was tomorrow which it wasn’t. so, ha ha, i won 12 hours of time.
fags - yes. real fags are more real than my pretend one.
terror - fading.
music - the usual load of old rubbish.
amazingness - the tern i saw over coxes lock. it was beautiful.

so, sweet reader, have a great kip and a good weekend. and hey, mysterious person, thank you ever so much and for ‘fessing up. one day i shall thank you in person. i’ll cook you a big plate of bacon and eggs, or is it eggs and bacon?

I’M STOPPING THE INTERVIEW

there can be no doubt that i was bricking it over this medical malarkey. these things fill me with fear, as if i didn’t have enough fear in me already.

wimbledon is a vile place. very scary for me now, but i had to go there or else i would have been chopped off.

enlivened with essence of swig i turned up early and waited in the waiting room of misery. no, i could not have my rail fare reimbursed for another week or so.

i waited and banged my head against the wall.

then i got called in.

good job that trouty came with me because it would all have gone a bit wrong otherwise.

when i started going into one the doctor said he would stop the interview. i apologised. and i apologised again. then, after some more questioning, he said he had to go and see a more senior doctor person. and then he came back.

‘i’m stopping the interview’ he said.

the long and short of it is that he has written me off for a year and he said that the next time i get seen i should certainly bring a friend, like what i did today.

perhaps i should jump into a binbag and chuck myself in a skip. i’m broken and i don’t work anymore.

stats:
mysterious benefactor - 1
swig - lots, due to nervous things
fags - another packet of ten
fear - extreme

dear reader, these are troubled times, but i suppose i got the best possible result. i truly hope that for you life treats you well.

as for the purple powder gang - you made my year! let me buy you a swig, shake your hand, and let’s all go rioting.

OPEN LETTER

dear mysterious person,
how i wonder who you are.

things like this don’t happen to me; for example, i have never ever been sent a valentine’s card by anyone mysterious. and now this!

how utterly useless are the post office? their franking machine didn’t bother to provide me with any usable evidence whatsoever.

from your handwriting i guess you are female, but that’s just a guess. and you know what my real name is too. hmmmm, i am completely baffled. i wonder if you will ever tell me who you are in order that i may say to you, personally, what i can only say through here…

thank you.

AMONGST OTHER THINGS, A LOVELY SONG

*ahem. hacks and clears throat*

‘i like a nice load of swig in the morning
for to start the day you see
and at half-past eleven
well, my idea of heaven
is a nice glug of swiiiiiig
i like a nice pint of swig with my dinner
and a nice swig of swig with my tea
and when it’s time for bed
there’s a lot to be said
for a nice
swig
of SWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG’

so, that was really good. i bet you’re all happy now.

i don’t understand transvestism.
why do blokes want to dress up all horrible?

cigarette stats: packet of ten
swig stats: more than i should
fear of this medical stats: extreme

night, sweet reader.
wuvv ooo.

don’t go on. i made no promises.

CHEW’S A SUBJECT

one of my pet hates is chewing gum.

this is what i was going to go on about but i really have to return to more important matters.

bliar is stuffed. no doubt about it. 777 amerikans dead means that büsh is stuffed too. those amerikalanders love that sweet, sweet stolen free oil but that don’t like it up ‘em, captain mainwaring, sir. they don’t like the cold steel right up ‘em, sir.

them amerikalanders don’t want to see the boys come home in a box, just like vietnam. they just love to turn a blind eye to their moronic troops blowing orphanages and hospitals and british troops to kingdom come but they don’t like it up ‘em. so büsh is in the sh1t.

and he really is in the old ‘ess aitch one tee’ now that michael moore’s film, ‘fahrenheit 911′ is being shown. apparently this is the film that will bring down the amerikan goverment. oh, i really do hope so.

chewing gum? i think it should be banned. it is worthless. in acton they are having a new plan so that scummers can stick their old gum on photos of dirty den or someone or other. gummer scummers will just gob it out anyway. where’s my big gun? just ban it. that’s what i say.

last point:
i like tesco. what i don’t like is the withdrawal of sick pay. if you work for tesco or asda you won’t get paid for being off sick for the first three days.

how shit is that?

either human resources managers (i still prefer ‘personnel’) are moronic or ’sickies’ have been built into the pay structure. they know that an average skive will be 12 days a year so it’s built into pay. now they want to rob it back from us. bastards!

so management turn up for two days a week and spend the rest of their time on the golf course, ‘networking’ with all the other little pringle wearing wankers. but the bloke in the warehouse who skives once every month or two with alcohol poisoning gets his pay stopped.

hoorah! for michael moore, the death of bliar, the death of büsh, the end to the ghastly, pointless war.

ridicule! for when the commissioner of the metropolitan police went on a freebie to paris and ‘examined’ a revolving door. how fucking much did that cost for the examination of the door (pointless anyway) about seven years too late?

i was going to start spitting venom about something else as well but i forgot what it was when i went to the bog.

fag stats: sweet zero as opposed to sweet afton
swig stats: under control
fear of thursday appointment stats: increasing
great crested grebe family with chicks stats: yes

goodnight, sweet reader, goodnight!

(dear gchq, please pass this message on to bliar *ahem*…
‘dear mr bliar, you are a c[snip]t. please resign as soon as possible but as we all know you are a coward you are allowed to pretend to have had a heart attack. ha ha. i am really enjoying your misery you awful man. give my best regards to letter-box-gob and all your criminal friends.
i am really enjoying your misfortune. what a shame that so many people had to die for your attempt to be vice-president of the world)

HOW NOT AMAZING. I’M RIGHT YET AGAIN

well well well well well. it was quite some five years ago that i first started writing to the monster, bliar.

i told the evil pixie how awful he is and also that dreadful piece of rubbish mr jack (and this is how i put it; ‘useful as a bit of’) straw. i offered the weasel a golden opportunity; i offered to (in exchange for cold, hard cash of course) tell him the truth about what people thought of him. but what a 24 carat fool the man is! he missed the golden opportunity five whole years ago. and now it’s coming home to roost for him.

every now and then, during the intervening years i have sent him cheery little cards. typically these would have encouraging messages written on them, like: ‘i wish you were dead’, ‘you are worse than a stormtrooper kicking a baby’s face in’, ‘you are the ultimate traitor’…. that sort of thing. i thought it was rather nice of me to provide my services for free after he had spurned my golden opportunity offer.

the next thing i did was start writing messages on banknotes. yes, i do know that it is illegal. i used to write ‘bliar’s vietnam’ and stuff like that on them.

now i wear several ‘bliar’ t-shirts (but not all at the same time, obviously).

my hatred of bliar and his evil gang has never diminished. but hark, what’s this? do i hear the thundering of hooves just there over the ridge? well, yes! apparently i bollocking well do!

ages ago i said to trouty that while bliar was sending young men to their deaths in the time-honoured fashion (lions led by donkeys(!) etc), in order to steal oil from a third-world country on behalf of his idiot mate, the world’s most evil man, büsh, that people wouldn’t stand for this forever. i said that they would turn on him. there’s an election coming.

well, how unamazing! i’m right yet again. everyone hates the stupid, self-interested little pixie now. i read that he is expected to stay until next year. i read that he is expected to stay until iraq has been sorted out and that he will not back down (why not? he has on everything else).

henry’s amazing oracle box foretells a recurrence of ‘heart trouble’ soon, due to the stress and strain of all the hard work he has put in having children murdered in a land far, far away. the knives are out for the poor little pixie and when the mutterings get this public he is frankly…

fucked.

fag stats: not a one
swig stats: diminished amount
gosling observation stats: loads and loads. they were fun to feed
anti-smoking remedy invention stats: 1

ah, sweet reader, i do wish you well (unless you are bliar, in which case i hope you get c[snip]r).

BRAND NEW CARR

don’t say i didn’t warn you that i would put finger to keyboard about the subject of the despised maxine carr, because i did.

‘ooh’, you ask, ‘will he go raving mad again?’

oddly enough, i shall not, for i believe that maxine carr is guilty of little more than of being rather stupid, a bit odd looking and altogether rather ordinary. so what to do about all this now?

because of the paediatrician-stoning morons that live in this country that take their ketchup-stained children to throw eggs and to scream at prison vans outside courts, maxine carr will never be safe in this country. not only that, but the security operations will cost a small fortune. she will have to cut a rather unconvincing figure, wearing a flak jacket covered by a burkha while armed police follow her to the corner shop for jaffa cakes and thunderbird and ten ‘red band’.

if i had committed benefit fraud i would get chopped off without a penny and be homeless. i would not get ’safe houses’ and, doubtless, benefits reinstated. so why should maxine carr?

obviously she must go abroad. but, from what i have read, she has trouble enough communicating in english let alone french or swedish. so she must go to amerikaland. my idea is plan B. the worthless poodle, bliar, should telephone his master, the odious bush, and ask him for a green card for carr. then she can be given 10,000 bucks in cash, put on a plane to amerikaland and told not to come back.

then she can do what she likes, we will save loads of money and everyone will be happy and silly maxine will be safe(ish).

what do you think?

fag stats: not a single one
cygnet stats: six little beauties
swig stats: 66% of normal dosage again
health stats: i feel a lot better, but i’ve puffed on a few biros tonight

gentle reader, have a great weekend and may the weather stay good for you.

CALL ME THICK BUT I DON’T GET IT

having not smoked a fag for nearly 24 hours i have only experienced a few cravings. to sort these i puff a couple of times on a (not lighted) biro. but this concentration of my thoughts upon the subject of smoking leads me back onto an old topic of mine. i’m sorry if i have bored anyone with this before, but…

what i don’t get is why the government wants people to stop smoking. it is a well known and true fact that this country is kept afloat by motorists, swiggers and smokers. rich people successfully avoid paying tax and nobody else has any money. bliar and his greedy cronies need to keep the money coming in so that they can continue to live in luxury while everybody else starves.

so there we have the paradox. they want smokers to pay for everything in crippling rates of duty yet we are told to stop smoking at every opportunity and, in some cases, actually banned from doing so.

so what’s that about? smokers pay for everything, including the entire NHS, and then they die nice ‘n’ early and pretty quickly too. imagine if everyone gave up smoking tomorrow. the economy would implode. the entire NHS would close down. people would live for longer. they would want another 20 years pension each instead of quietly snuffing it a few weeks after retirement. they would drag out their extra years in nursing homes having their arses wiped with a J-cloth and that’s if they’re lucky.

am i the only person in this rubbish country that has got a proper handle on the economy?

now we live in a mad world where a huge amount of the tobacco products bought in this country were bought in belgium or france and the duty paid there.

so that’s good. isn’t it?

swig stats: 66% of normal amount
fag stats: zero at all

night, dear reader. tune in tomorrow for my opinions on the maxine carr problem.

AN ALARMING DECISION HAS BEEN REACHED

one of the delightful features of having type 1 diabetes is the medical treat known to us doctorly types as ‘diabetic neuropathy’.

this has recently manifested itself in my feet and lower legs. i expect that i will have to have my legs chopped off at some stage, if i live long enough to reach the chopping off stage, but, until that happy day, let me tell you how it feels…

it feels like your feet are actually wellington boots full of hot blood. a not altogether pleasant sensation. elevation of the legs does nothing to help and my most excellent physician has told me that it never will either. the nerve endings are getting knackered. it’s rather a shame.

now, what better way could there be to spend all day, every day, than having some soothing swigs and a contemplative fag or twenty upon which to puff? the obvious answer is ‘no better way at all’. unless…

unless you get what i have got and whenever you light up your feet feel like they might explode. like when i drink white cider and feel it killing me, the same thing is happening with the fags now. usually a smoker can forget about the damage that the fag smoking is inevitably doing them but this foot thing is a nagging reminder. so…

i don’t even like smoking but as soon as i’ve had a couple of pints i want to light up a fag. this means that i will have to shun swig.

the good doctor told me not to stop drinking all in one go in case i have a nasty case of the alcoholic fitting. so i will follow his wise counsel and cut down and down and down. i’m not saying that i will stop forever because i know i’ll always drink again and i don’t want to set myself, or anyone else, up for disappointment.

but i’ll give it a go for a bit and see what happens.

future lack of swig stat: mortal dread
voodoo doll stat: head squashed flat and whole lot chucked in bin
fag stat: just four to go

dear reader, wish me luck.

MR THE THIRST SENDS HIS APOLOGIES (YET AGAIN)

regular readers of the world’s most fabbest blog (ie. this one) may have noticed that, very occasionally, mr the thirst may have had a mite too much swig before he starts to write his most fabulous reflections upon his tawdry day.

mr the thirst deeply regrets any offence caused when he quoted sid singing ‘my way’ and thereby included a very rude swear. (until he woke up a bit sober and edited it in a technermological way)

anyway,

this morning i had an appointment with the phlebotomist (stop sniggering) and made my weary way to see her. she was kind. when i had a panic attack she got me a nice cup of water. the water was nice ‘n’ chilly. i had another before i left the building.

i went to the bank to see how much money i don’t have. amazingly i don’t have loads of money. direct debits are all very well but let me tell you this… what they do is say it’s all painless and easy but what they do is they actually take money out of your account. how fair is that? i only mildly resent taking money out of the bank to spend on reasonable things, like fags and swig, but when robbers from aol and bt and the gasboard start nicking all your hard scrounged pees it’s really a bit much.

i needed to know how poor i am because of a THREATENING LETTER from the water nazis. four hundred quids is a lot of money for water seeing as how i don’t drink it anyway and never clean my teeth or have a bath. i’m being ripped-off! this also includes something called ’sewerage’, whatever that is, but, if it’s what i think it is it would be cheaper for me to go out and go in a storm drain and just buy a 2 litre bottle of evian a year for my watery requirements. what a con!

so, i phoned the water nazis. i was in a state of fear. i gave them 200 and something quids over the phone using the technermological power of my switch card. so now i have no money left at all. but at least they won’t be sending the bayleaves round to steal my compluter for the time being.

NOTICE TO BAYLEAVES: anything of value in thirst hall does not, in fact, belong to mr the thirst because he has already sold it all to trouty.
(manoeuvre copied from j aitken and many other twats)

to rewind a tad; these panic attacks. they are getting worse and worse. because i was in a right old two and eight over the blood test thing i thought i was going to keel over this morning. i know i drink too much and it does me no good and today i thought i might stop again. i just can’t carry on feeling so awful. but i know i’ll only start again, so i don’t want to waste the time of professional people.

but i feel like i’m dying and i’m dreading this ludicrous interview with the dss doctor bastards later this month.

iraq stats: well, it’s all coming on top now, isn’t it?
i’m so proud of my son, that he led the march through brighton in protest at the war. it was obviously going to go all bent and pear-shaped from from the very beginning. i feel so sick about it that i can’t write any more. the revulsion i feel for bliar and bush….. heeeurgh.

voodoo doll stats: i got so cross that i stamped on it.

my dear readers, i really do apologise for the way i am sometimes. but, hey, if you got cross about these things, i wouldn’t mind at all.

take care.

MOVE ALONG PLEASE, THERE’S NOTHING TO SEE HERE

no blog because i don’t feel very well.

*

what’s that you say? asterisk is a stupid title?

well, if you ask me, there is far too much asteriskerisation going on round here.

before i got annoyed about asterisks i was going to call the world’s best blog (ahem, THIS one) ’small issue’.

for years i have been thinking about publishing ‘the small issue’ and flogging it on the streets. a quid a copy. who wants one?

the only trouble is i will now have to write it.

trill and warble “who will buy my sweet small issue?” (modern street cry)

i have been listening to some modernish music. usually i feel glum and don’t bother about things. but then i hear stuff like poor little sid singing ‘my way’ and i realise that actually i could do stuff. i was trying to tell trouty about how important the shift in music was in the late seventies. it meant that you could make records, write fanzines, make films. that there was hope just for a few glittering seconds. although it was all a con, like it always will be, there was a brief whiff of hope and the prospect of a future.

but the pistols told me there was ‘no future’. i didn’t know how to listen.

sorry to bang on about joe strummer screaming out ‘anarchy in the usa’ in spanish. but it’s important. it makes me actually want to do something.
so, who will buy my sweet ’small issue'’?

hatpin stat: through the solar plexus
swig stat: like you care
self publishing stat: i’m typing

dear reader, i wish you well.

and i still can’t believe that sid sang ‘you [snip. perhaps i should have said doorbell instead]er’
but he did. so i had better get typing and believe in myself. life’s too short. the ’small issue’ will be great if it ever happens.

g’night.

UPON DOGS AND FORMS

when you see a brown envelope has come through the door you know you are in for a miserable day.

here was today’s lovely surprise: form bf224.

amongst other highlights we had these little gems:

have i ever worked in france as a miner?
have i ever worked in greece but not as an agricultural worker?

it got worse (and this is really true), i quote:
‘have you claimed or do you intend to claim Invalidity Benefit from Finland?’

well, the obvious answer to these ridiclious questions is f(doorbell).

what i want to do is send a few forms out myself. i want answers and i want them now.
*ahem*
form number thirsty/1/fed/up/1
dear mr bliar,
we understand that you are in receipt of public funds that you may not be entitled to.
if you have ever been a miner in france please tick box 1
if you have ever got great britain involved in a pointless war and sent young men to their deaths in order to satisfy the arsehole who seems to be running amerika but can’t actually talk, let alone think, please tick box 2
if you are a c(doorbell) please tick box 3 (it’s already ticked)
have you claimed or do you intend to claim invalidity benefit from malta?
as you are pretending to run this country, do you think it is a good idea and a wise financial move to have these forms printed and filled out? please tick yourself off.
don’t you think it would be a good idea if you killed yourself on telly so we could all have a really good laugh? please tick box 4

we notice that you haven’t paid a fucking penny in rent for your house in downing street for years and years. here is a stupid little credit paying in thing like what we send to all poor people and the like. you can pay it off in easy installments of 250,000 quids a week for the next million years or we can send the boys round. choice is yours.

well, that’s the kind of form i want to send.

now i’ve got that off my chest i shall move on to the subject of dogs.
i saw a great one today. a terrier cross by the name of diesel.
he was a lovely brindle thing with a lot of staffy in him and a fair bit of whippet too. i’m no longer scared of dogs.
then we saw a man with three greyhounds. they were all lovely.
i might get a dog. i might get one like diesel. but then again i won’t because it wouldn’t be fair on the poor little thing.

but, one day…

good night, fair reader. i wonder what is your favourite soup or dog or method of death for bliar?

apology for yesterday’s rant stat: yes
needle stat: into the left goolie

gather ye rosebuds while you may. see ya!

I HATE PEOPLE WHO MAKE MONEY OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE

artist who makes something out of a pickled pilchard and a few matchsticks and flogs it to an idiot for a million = good

landlords and middlemen = bad

nick van highstreet and loan sharks are just plain evil.

i see loads of them round round here. they drive around in their 4wds and jags and fuck off up the golf course. ‘ooh, i’ve got a good idea about how to make a load more money without doing a fucking stroke’ they say. ‘oh yes?’ ‘yes, just give me twenty grand cash in a brown envelope for the planning permission. i’ve got my eye on a bit of land about the size of a postage stamp and i’ll put 17 houses on it’.

it all went wrong in the 80’s when little arseholes realised they could make loads of money out of everyone else. unfortunately they were right. do you remember the golden chain letter? it cost twenty quids. i never bought into this because i have a brain but a lot of people did. (if anyone stupid would like to see a golden chain letter thing, i can knock one up. and i’ll only charge a measly fifteen quids)

our beloved PM, the ogre, bliar is a ‘buy to let’ merchant. what scum. as if he doesn’t steal enough money off the population already, he wants to bleed a hard-working worker or two a bit more by using his inflated income, via his dreadful letter-box-gob missus and her criminal friends, to buy flats in bristol to let out at massive rents.

this country is coming apart at the seams and all the stuffing is coming out. people trying to make a fortune out of others is at the root of it. bliar should stop flying around trying to be vice-president of the world and do something about it. but he won’t because he’s a c(doorbell)t.

it was very handy of the times to print a list of all the arses in the world that went to the queen’s stupid little party at buck house the other day. i read the menu. i read the names. i won’t forget.

just remember, sweet reader, that money doesn’t come from nowhere. it comes from sweat and toil. that is where it comes from. so when they are all up the golf club going ‘oh, he’s so clever with stocks and shares’ they are really talking about a piece of shit that is no better than mr highstreet. a thief who steals from workers and who should be spat on.

hatpin stat: through the right hand and into the right thigh.
grrrr stat: verging upon max
scottJ stat: hoorah!

love and luck!

MEDICAL MATTERS

i know a lot about medicine. well, i know a lot about everything, but knowing about medical matters can be a bit of a curse.

there can be no doubt that tonight’s blog will not get the commentification of yesterday’s record-breaking 11 comments, because the health of another is not really that interesting.
old bags at bus stops are supposed to talk about health issues, à la les dawson. but i wonder if they really do.

today i had to see my GP. he is a lovely man and, even better, a great doctor.
there was something that i had to mention. something that i knew what it was all about. it was my feet.
i’m an insulin dependant diabetic. this means that i will lose my legs. my feet feel like wellington boots full of blood. i know what this means. it’s diabetic neuropathy. but i admitted this to the good doctor along with the panic attacks, anxiety and incipient agoraphobia.

because i am a ponced-up snob, i like them medical men to hear me use the proper words for things. i can say ‘phlebotomist’ and ’sphygmometer’ and even ‘adhesive capsulitis’. and it’s because of fear.

my health is failing and i’m a frightened little boy. that’s why i do it.

fasting blood tests will be conducted next week and a letter has been sent to a trick-cyclist.

i scuttled back home and had some lovely, soothing, swig.

and then my phone rang.

oh my fucking giddy aunt. it was someone from the department of work and pensions.
i was offered an appointment. ‘appointment for what?’. ‘for a medical’. ‘where is this?’. ‘wimbledon’. ‘wimbledon?’. ‘yes, wimbledon’.

READERS OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION SHOULD NOW AVERT THEIR GAZE

now, i didn’t actually say this but the following thought ran through my mind:
‘how the buggering fuckery bollocks am i supposed to get to fucking wimbledon? it’s fucking miles away and i haven’t got a car with a tankful of free petrol and i haven’t got any free money either.

after i had politely explained my financial position i was told that my transport costs to go and have the piss taken out of me would be reimbursed. but not on the day. so that’s good. i don’t eat for three days and then i might get my money back. why don’t they just believe my doctor?

sorry to go on. i’m really down today with all this stress-up.
i was going to tell you about…

YET ANOTHER CRIME IN THE BYFLEET AREA

a razor maniac is at large.

once again the premises of mr the bosh is the scene of crime.

this time the burglar had taken out a tin lid from the bin and left it on the bedroom carpet. it was very sharp. mr the bosh discovered how sharp it was when he got out of bed and stood on it.
the razor maniac had opened the sliding mirror door on the bathroom cabinet, removed a pack of disposable bic razors, chewed them all to buggery and then disappeared.

when this ghastly crime was discovered, the usual and predictable events occurred…

the property-holder searched the premises and one suspect was discovered.
the suspect ran away and hid.
mr the bosh then shook his fist and said loudly: “you little bastard!!”

the suspect then sought legal advice whilst mr the bosh applied germolene and elastoplast.

ho hum, dear reader. i’m a bit mizz tonight. i hope you’re not.

skewer stat: right up his jacksie

g’night.

SOUP TALK

i like soup.

i like home-made soup; that goes without saying.

but i like tinned soup too. on a chilly and rainy day there is nothing like a nice bit of soup. i can’t think of a tin of soup that i won’t, or don’t, like. they are all wonderful (except there is a bit too much tomato and carrot action going on in domestic ones).

heinz cream of tomato is a funny one. i never used to like that at all until i got served some on a miserable day in a little chef on the A25. it arrived with a swirl of cream going on in the middle (serving suggestion) and i was hooked. now i love it and it really is the only tinned soup that i’m brand loyal to.

there is a brand of soup made in germany that goes by the name of stockmeyer. it seems to be better than domestic tinned soups but that might be because it comes in a funny, almost barrel-shaped, tin. and it’s not 90% carrot and tomato.

a nice tin of soup sustains the inner man. it costs very little, even the baxter’s stuff, and brings variety to a dull diet. a nice old hunk of bread and a tin of soup is so easy to fix and the comfort to effort ratio is remarkable. you can muck about with the ingredients if you want but really it’s just quick and easy. and yum. served in a bowl or just a mug, cooked on the hob or in the microwave, it provides comfort on a day of drizzle.

sometimes i like a thin, clear soup with vegetables and stuff in and sometimes i like a thicker, chunkier kind. domestic soups do tend to be of the latter variety so the tinned soup lover in me has to reach out a hand to the section of shelving where the campbell’s soups are to be found. in amerikaland they seem to have about half a million varieties of campbell’s soups if what i have read and the paintings of andy warhol are to be believed. and the absolute belter about campbell’s soups is that you can use them, undiluted, for cooking as a dead easy sauce. see www.campbellsoup.co.uk for further details and recipe ideas.

my love affair with tinned soup started with a fancy for baxter’s royal game soup and has not waned right up until now at any rate. if you are feeling a bit rough, as i have felt on more than one occasion, or you have lost your appetite or can’t really be arsed but know that you should have something really or the weather is vile and you can’t be bothered to go to the shop or if you are skint…

what you want is a nice tin of soup.

night, sweet reader. what’s your favourite soupal variety by the way?

(this blog would like to thank its sponsor, messrs campbell grocery products limited, king’s lynn, norfolk, PE30 4HS)

oh, i nearly forgot the stats…
erm,
swig: not much because i have to go to the doctor’s in the morning.
hatpin: right through his neck and out the other side.

STAT:

i heard a most interesting statistic on the wireless today. it was something like this:

‘what do you think is the primary cause of death of the female population of the world between the ages of 15 and 45?’

ooh, is it malaria?
no, it isn’t.
is it aids then?
nope.
is it car crashes?
it is not.
ah hah! it’s cancer, isn’t it?
no, it is not cancer.
ummmm, don’t tell me, i’ll get this in a minute….
bet you don’t.
bet i do! i bet it’s drugs. overdoses and the like.
it is not drugs, overdoses or the like.
well, is it suicide then?
no. it isn’t.

anyway, i saw a lovely rainbow today, even if it meant being more involved with the rain itself than i would normally enjoy. i had some lovely dinner. i failed to see the lunar eclipse. i wrote some blog. i had a row with my compluter when it jammed solid and i had to reboot it and my blog thing went on the missing list.

and then i wrote this out.

hypochondria stats: today’s illness is throat cancer
voodoo doll stats: today’s needle goes right through bliar’s left thigh

so, goodnight, gentle reader, sleep w….
eh, what’s that you say?
what is the major cause of blah blah blah?
did i not say?
the answer is ‘DOMESTIC VIOLENCE’
makes you think, doesn’t it?

CLASH

i’ve been up all night, drinking.

now then, we all know that this is neither big nor clever but it’s what i do so everyone had just bloody well shut up moaning. what i do is my life and i don’t ask for sympathy or anything. i just get on with what i have to do.

as i type this it is 07:24 and i am being kept alive by swig, anger and music. i pinch a fair bit of music off of the net. most of it i have already paid for because i had loads of this stuff on vinyl so the musos got their copyright fees and then all my records got stolen when ‘everything went wrong’ so i don’t care really. i have downloaded stuff that i haven’t paid for but i don’t think that chumbawumba are going to come round thirst hall with their hands out. they are anarchists, as is reasonable, so i don’t think they would get the knock and if they did i would just quote a bit of proudhon at them and then climb out the kitchen window while chumbawumba weren’t looking.

but the reason that i blog so early, the reason that i’m fired up as i am, apart from swig, is just a few tunes that i have been listening to. as i type i’m listening to ‘born slippy’ by underworld. this tune is great; it is so well made and when the drumming starts and they start going ‘lager, lager, lager’ you know you are in for a good time. if you really listen to how it is all put together you have to admit it is a work of genius.

so why am i writing this out when i should be in bed asnoozing? i’ll tell you why, it’s because of a track that i must just play again and that is ‘anarchy in the usa’ by the clash and the sex pistols which is sung in spanish by joe strummer.

i don’t think that joe strummer will be sueing me for stealing this, largely on account of him being dead, but i don’t think that he would have had me done anyway. i only had the priv of seeing the clash twice; once at viccy park and once at brockwell park. but what a fantastic band they were. the photo of paul simenon smashing a bass guitar on the cover of ‘london calling’ is one of the best photos ever taken in the history of rock photography. it’s nearly as good as the picture of ian curtis with his head in his hands.

i love these records that spit venom and anger and i really can’t tell you, if you weren’t there at the time, how important these things were to me. right now i have ‘god save the queen’ by the pistols on and it’s great. now it clicked into ‘i fought the law’ with the cleverly upgraded lyrics.

i know i’m typing rubbish but i just can’t stop. these records kick off a deep black echo inside of me. ‘pretty vacant’ is on now and it just does something inside my head that i can’t really explain.

“and we don’t care”

ah, well played john. it was a shame that you got cheated, but you did, and really that was all it was about anyway.

and the clash were fantastic. come round my house and i’ll play you my stolen recording of joe singing ‘anarchy in the usa’. it sounds like something tearing and there is a smashing and crashing feel to it. it makes you want to go out and kick something to bits.

now, that’s what i call music.

i think i’d better go to bed.
g’night.

FAMILY FUN

today i went round to mama’s house to have some lovely grub. i think she really wanted me to remove some of my ’stuff’ which has been in her garage for two years and she is getting fed up with it all.

i asked her if she had heard from my dad recently. she had not heard from him but she said that my brother had seen him when he was down in dorset scouting out venues for the wedding and that my dad had looked quite well.

there was an interval of about three seconds while my brainal cogs went round a bit. i then decided to open my eyes really wide and do a rather comedy aerosol/cup of tea manoevre. WEDDING?!?!?!?! what is this WEDDING?

my mum never gives me any swig because she does not approve of my enswiggificatory activities. that’s why i had to aerosol boring old cup of tea. but i rather fancied a bit of proper mouthwash at that point. my brother is getting married again and this was the first i had heard of it.

i made predictable remarks about ‘triumph of optimism over experience’ and harrumphed a bit. but i wondered why i had not been told the, ahem, ‘good’ news before. i expect i am considered to be a killjoy ogre. mama fixed me with a gimlet eye and warned me against ’saying things like that’.

hmmmmmmmmmm.

we had roasted turkey leg for lunch with loads of veggies. it was a mite chewy but there you go. i could not finish my pudding. my appetite seems to have gone west of late. then we went and sat in the burning sun in the garden. we fed the coots and ducks and a swan on the lake (mama doesn’t actually own the lake but she does have boating and fishing rights for it). we saw some cowslips. we had a mooch around mum’s garden and looked at all the different plants and stuff.

we did the crosswords in the paper and chewed the fat a bit and looked at the parakeets that live wild around there. we saw what i’m sure was a buzzard, soaring about a mile up in the air but by the time i had got my binocs it had gone away somewhere.

but then i felt tired. it was so hot and i just started to implode a bit. i wanted to be at home where i feel safe so we loaded some of my rubbish out of the garage and were about to set off when i thought i had better see whether i wanted to go to the loo or not.

i’m getting paranoid about getting caught short. it is one of the reasons why i don’t like going out anywhere where there are no public loos or no trees for me to nip behind. on the way home i talked to my ma about my incipient agoraphobia. she says i should ‘nip it in the bud’.

if only it were that easy. and why wasn’t i told about this wedding thing? am i really that awful? i think that the answer might well be ‘yes’.

listening stats: a fantastic three hour programme on bbc7 in celebration of the works of kenneth horne. you might want to ‘listen again’ to it on saturday’s schedule. it’s called ‘horne of plenty’.
swig stats: not much (’yet’, he added darkly)
fag stats: 6
puzzlement stats: maximum. why was i not told about this wedding?

goodnight, gentle reader, sweet dreams. i had a good day today and i hope that you did too.

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN RIOTING

there are a few little notes in my blog book. some i can read. some i can’t. for heaven’s sake, i wrote them myself, today! ok, so the pen was a bit wonkey but i really should be able to make sense of them all. ah! i just deciphered the last one so ignore all that.

last night, when some enswiggification had taken place, i was so annoyed with the war criminal, bliar, that when i realised it was may day i thought that i should hop on the train to london and do some rioting. needless to say i didn’t bother and it was a good job too. there was no rioting whatsoever. no one got arrested or anything. what a waste of time and money that would have been. what’s the point in going all the way to london to hear some vegetarian with a megaphone going ‘what do we want? blah blah, we want it now! blah blah, when do we want it, blah bastarding blah’?

well, what i want is to see war criminals hanged from lampposts with tar, feathers and spit all over their manky corpses.

anyway, i have a few notes for my blog so here we go:
in tesco i saw an elderly gent with some rather rubbish shopping in his trolley. i always have to look at other peoples’ shopping. if i see a big old fat cow with a load of cakes i can smile, smugly, to myself. no doubt when other people see me buying swig they raise their eyes to heaven when they think i’m not looking. but when i saw his shopping choices i saw that he had a bottle, just one, of white lightning cider.
this stuff is also called ‘trampagne’, for obvious reasons. i am an expert on white cider, so much so that i invented a fictional swig called ’shrieking witch’ which (geddit?) was supposed to be a white cider. i know all about it and when i used to drink it i did so because it was cheap. you can feel it killing you. it is not a good thing. it is evil and nasty. but the little old man was buying it. the poor little old man was buying it because he was poor and wanted to depart this mouldy old world for a bit.
if i was rich i would have bought him a bottle of whisky, given him a wink and said ‘here you go’ but i’m not, so i didn’t. it was such a sad sight.

as i have aged i have noticed that i just don’t get good spots anymore. what i like is a nice blackhead thing that you can squeeze and derive great pleasure from. i don’t like the spots that you see the explosive effects evidence of on school mirrors, i like the ones where you get like a candle coming out of your body. the ultimate best ones are the ones where all the gukk comes out like silly string. i remember two particularly good ones.

today i saw some lily of the valley and heard some lovely birdsong. i saw a lesbian in a canoe (or ‘kayak’ rather, as i now know). i saw a duckling that was really tiny and wee but who loved his bread crusts. i saw what i think was fairy ring champignons or honey fungus and i saw the candles of flowers on white horse chestnut trees. i saw some smashing flowers on a laburnum tree and i saw two roe deer in a field.

so that ain’t too bad, even if my country is being ‘run’ by a war criminal who should be executed.

i also saw the boat i was planning on choosing for the boating trip. it’s a bit rubbish and has got moss growing out of its rear fender. but i’ve had a good day, put a boat through pyrford lock, had boaty chat, maintained a cache and planted a TB.

dear reader, remember what we did at basra road. remember what is being done in our name right now this minute.

why wasn’t there any rioting?