Thursday, December 02, 2004

Sick notes

My local hospital wrote to me this morning to tell me that they will be writing to me to offer me an appointment with the specialist.

I've written back to say I will be sending them a letter to thank them.

Blog to bog

Sorry for the interruption of service in November. I only went for a piss...

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Tit for tat

Every Tourette's sufferer depicted in a book, TV drama or film always says 'Tit Fuck' at some point. I'm jealous.

I can honestly say I've never heard this fantastic phrase used in any other context, not even a tit fuck one.

This is undeniably discriminatory. Why should the mentally ill have exclusive swear words?

Tomorrow, I'm going to strike a blow for the sane profane community. The first person I meet is going to hear the first ever tit fuck mantra.

The long and short of it...

I hate long blogs.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Let's look backwards

I drove across London today. It took me three hours. A hundred years ago a horse would take about half that to get across London. People thought it too slow so they invented the car. I wonder if it's possible to re-invent the horse - and patent it.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

In the childerness

When you are young you rely on the wisdom of your elders.

When you become an elder you realise you have no wisdom.

It is a case of the old not leading the blind.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Out of my tree?

I've had what I think is a winning idea for a new business. It's a chain of country pubs called The Treehouse.

Each pub has a minimum of four large oak trees in the garden and in each there will be a treehouse, the size of Tarzan's lovenest, for adults only.

Parties rent the treehouse by the hour, or for the whole evening for £250. Each treehouse has its own bed, table etc so anything goes. And each is linked to the bar by technology so you enter your round remotely and a waitress comes to the bottom of the tree and you pull your order up on a pulley.

I can't see this failing, and it's just the kind of novelty pub that the country needs, and people would definitely invite their friends just because of the uniqueness.

The only slight flaw is that I don't have any money to invest, and even if I did, despite many years drinking, I can't recall any pubs with oak trees in the garden.

However I refuse to be bowed. I'm going to start by buying a field. Then I'll build a pub, and then I'll plant four acorns. One day I'll be a millionaire.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Keeping the Olumpic flame burning

What is the point of the Paralympics? It's a competition for people who can't run as fast, jump as high, or throw things as far as other people.

And before the PC brigade start flaming me or sending me foetuses through the post consider this:

Can you imagine having a Mastermind competition for people with an IQ of less than a 100. Questionmaster: 'What is your specialist subject?' Contestant:'Pass'.

Can you imagine the announcement: 'Tonight on Sky Sports 24 there is a head to head football encounter between Jewsons (Romford) X1 and Bigglesmith Reserves.

People who are shit at something may enjoy it but why should anyone else be interested?

Everyone wants their day in the sun and in the interest of fairness and non-discrimination I would like to suggest the Olumpics, a multi-displine event for the over 20 stoners.

Just imagine the spectacle as 12 jelly monsters, sweating profusely, struggle to complete the marathon, otherwise known as the 100 metre sprint. And the diving events would be a must for all sports fans.

If someone doesn't stop this insanity we're all going to end up watching David Beckham finding the meaning of life and Stephen Hawking winning the high jump.

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Falling off a blog...

Not blogging is not like falling off a log.

Back from hols. More to come. Equally dull.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

A man of few words

I've always been a great admirer of my work. I've also been quite of a loner. I suspect the two things may be connected.

But what I like about my work, is that there isn't much of it. I can say anything I want about anything I know about, in less than 250 words.

Lots of blogs I like have lots of words. But there is nothing on earth I want to spend more than 250 words talking about. That either makes me very shallow or other people very verbose.

The whole point of this piece was that I could wrap it up in 249 words with a very pithy and humorous ccomment. Unfortunately I don't even have that much to say.

Silence is golden

I haven't updated this blog for a week and my visitors have gone up! How depressing is that. The less I write, the more people want to read it.

The sparsity of my words has been because I decided instead of blogging every day, I would only blog when I had something interesting to say. Then I realised I had stopped blogging...

Well good to speak to you again,... of course now no-one is listening.

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Poetry in e-motion...

Had a brilliant idea today. I'm going to write a rhyming dictionary. It would make every would-be poet's life a doddle.

The only problem would be deciding who would be Poet Laureate, because we would all be able to rhyme anything with anything, well at least anything with many a thing.

Then when I thought about it a bit more I realised just how thick the rhyming dictionary would have to be. Every word, apart of course from orange, rhymes with about 2 million other words.

So, and here's the clever part, I thought I'd do it on the Internet. I'd make a website where you type in a word and it gives you everything else that rhymes with it.

A slight flaw in my strategy was discovered when I put rhyme dictionary into Google and it returned about 130,000 results.

Oh ducking spell.

I've consoled myself by coming up with with an Ian Duryesque little ditty, using these excellent tools, entitled 'Frigid hairy Mandy and my modus operandi'.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Yog that hurt...

Hope I've never eaten anything from here, even strawberry flavour...

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Cut throat razor wars

Where will the battle of the razors end?

First came the original single blade razor that you threw away when it became blunt. A revolution in its own way.

Then some bright spark thought it would be a really rather clever idea to add another blade, to make the first double bladed disposable razor.

But did the competitition rest on their laurels. Not for one moment. These boys are as sharp, as well, a razor and some genius came up with the triple blade disposable.

In ten years time we will all be using razors the size of brooms with a dozen super sharp blades. Forget a close shave; one confident stroke, and half your face will come off. That's progress.

Monday, August 02, 2004

Oo la la!

The most popular Google search in France in June last year was for 'nice people'.

Now I know the old grenouilles aren't everyone's cup of tea but it comes to something if they have to resort to using a search engine to find a countryman they like.

Saturday, July 31, 2004

Life's a not done deal

When you're young you want to be older so you can do the things you haven't done. When you're old you want to be younger so you can do the things you haven't done.

Then you die. Not having done them.

Happy Saturday all.

Friday, July 30, 2004

Beware of the children...

Police have banned unaccompanied children under 16 from the West End of London after 9pm. A police spokesman said they wanted to make the area as 'safe and enjoyable for as many people as possible'.

I had no idea under 16s were so dangerous.

Would you credit it

In a bored moment I did one of those online credit checks on myself.

It told me that if I lend myself any money I have very little chance of getting it back.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

What a load of rubbish

A committee of MPs says that there is a link between litter and burglary.

Now call me a sceptic but that seems a pretty huge conclusion to draw. 

Imagine that in a moment of wild abandonment I  furtively discard my Mars bar wrapper in the street. After three sleepless night tossing and turning with worry, I realise I'm not going to get that knock on the door in the middle of the night.

The next morning I know I've got this crime thing cracked. And I hold up the Post Office.

Giving Bill the bird

Insisting he's not a twitcher Bill Oddie says: "I can't think of anything worse than joining 10,000 other bearded blokes on a Kent housing estate trying to spot a rare bird."

I can. Being on a Kent housing estate with only Bill Oddie for company.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Can anyone give me a sub?

I'm a bit short of the readies at the moment. Well am I if I am going to take up an offer that appeared in my inbox this morning.

For the first time ever a spam email captured my attention. Go on, just try and guess what I was being offered. Viagra? No. Herbal remedies? Nope. A free pass for a porn site? Sorry no.

The offer, absolutely honestly, was for cut-price submarines. Real ones.

Now as much as I hate spam, I can understand the logic behind sending everyone sex offers. Most of us have sex from time to time and therefore can loosely be regarded as a target audience. 

But how many people buy submarines as an impulse purchase? How does it work. Do you just click through on the hyperlink and pay on your credit card? Perhaps they have Paypal.

I better investigate whether they deliver or whether it's buyer collects - from the seabed 20,000 leagues down.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Toilet humour

I read a newspaper article out to the Piranha which claimed that up to 37 per cent of women wet themselves when they laugh.

'That's ridiculous', she giggled, and got up off the sofa to make a cup of tea.

I stared at the damp patch with fascination.


The same article shows that up to 7 per cent of women experience bladder weakness when they make love.

Despite my best efforts the Piranha invariably laughs when we have sex.

You will understand why I sleep in a wet suit.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Ha ha ha Hartlepool

I have a particular loathing for the people of Hartlepool. It is a hate that runs deep and can be traced back to the Napoleonic Wars when they hung one of my ancestors believing him to be a French spy.

Many people wrongly believe that it is the elephant that never forgets. It is not. It is us simians.

How we gloated a mere 200 years later when the monkey hangers got their just desserts in the hideous form of Peter Mandelson.

Now Mandy is moving on to gravy trains new, but don't for one moment think that happiness is returning into the lives of the mean-spirited burghers of Hartlepool.

Robert Kilroy-Silk has announced he is planning to stand in the town's by-election.

If only the monkey hangers knew where they had buried my great great grandfather they would disinter him, ply him with bananas, and plead with him to put his candidature forward.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Taking the Michael

Wacko Jacko has denied rumours that he paid a woman to bear him four more children. Apparently he in fact spent his money on a quad bike...

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

A trip down the aisle with God

I have received a booklet from Sainsbury's entitled 'now in store' which has changed my life, my religious beliefs, my very being.
The first few pages are the same as any other supermarket booklet, full of pictures of meat, wine, beer, quiches and other things that make you fat, or throw up, and occasionally both.
But as I idly turned the pages, I discovered the following revelation: 'Heaven is a place on earth. The freezer cabinet at Sainsbury's'.
Now my first thought was that surely this earth-shattering news could be conveyed to the world in a better way than a throwaway line in a booklet flogging groceries but then I understood Sainsbury's dilemma.
As soon as the British population realise that a trip to heaven is no further than their local supermarket, they will be running down there with all manner of dead pets and recently deceased family members, who they will happily pitch into the freezer cabinet without a second thought, content in the knowledge that their dearly departed have gone to a better place. 
Clearly Sainsbury's have realised that as God's messengers they have to spread the word, but subtly.  I have to admit my chest was bursting with self-importance when I told the Piranha I had found God and I was one of the chosen few who had been given the address for the family's celestial home. She suggested I should be looking for a psychiatrist rather than the Holy Father. I insisted on a trip to our local supermarket so she could make her peace with the angels.
As we neared the freezer cabinet I have to admit the air went cold and a shiver shimmied up and down my spine. We tiptoed over and I raised the lid so she could see for herself the place of everlasting love and happiness. Then we paid for our groceries and went home.
It is the only time I have taken the Piranha to heaven and back.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Rebel without a course

I've always fancied being a lawbreaker. A bank robber perhaps, or a suave, sophisticated conman.
The trouble is basically I lack courage and my desire to be an arch criminal is outweighed by my fear of being caught.
However, I think I have devised a solution which should give me the vicarious thrill I am seeking, without having to worry about the long arm of the law.
I plan to go into my local Indian takeaway and buy a meal fit for a Raj.
And then run away without eating it.

It was a plant officer

I was chatting to my friend Janie and she reminded me of the last time I stayed at her house and we got horridly drunk.
I was sleeping downstairs in her lounge but had to get up early for work. 
At 6.00am the next morning in that alcohol-induced euphoria you experience before the hangover kicks in, I thought it would be a good idea to fill her front room with foliage. 
I spent about an hour going around the estate she lives on picking up every potted plant I could find in her neighbours' gardens.
By the time I left, there were approximately 250 plants on her lounge floor, including a couple of small trees.
She still hasn't managed to find rightful owners for all of them.
I reminded her she hadn't invited me round since. 'Hmmm', she said. 

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Fuck, fuck, fuck

Well that's the headline sorted. Got absolutely nothing else to say though.
There was a light drizzle this morning but it was sunnier in the afternoon.
Went to Reading to exchange all the Piranha's birthday presents. I can't believe she didn't want the wok, the strimmer, or the cocktail shaker. A lot of thought went into those selections.
Some people are never grateful.
I'm glad she only has one birthday a year.

Friday, July 16, 2004

Good luck in your new job

It was our secretary Marianne's last day at work so we went to the pub at lunchtime to say our goodbyes. 
She was in the middle of telling us how excited she was about the new position, which involved more responsibility and a good extra dollop of cash, when her mobile rang.
Marianne answered it and then burst into floods of tears. It was the MD of her new company ringing up to say that they were in financial trouble so not to bother turning up next week or any other week.
It was a rather subdued lunch.
Our new secretary starts on Monday...unless we ring her over the weekend.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Beat the burglars

I was talking to a guy in the pub the other day who had just returned from court.

He was up on a motoring charge and his case had taken all day. While waiting he got talking to one of the other defendants, who revealed himself to be a serial burglar.

The burglar told this guy that he had been breaking into houses for years but it wasn't the money or the other things he stole that he enjoyed, it was the kick of being in someone else's home, rooting through their possessions.

The biggest thrill he gets apparently is when he is caught red-handed by the home-owner and has to make a bolt for the door.

But nothing like the thrill this scumbag's victims would have if they had a baseball bat in their hands when they found him in their lounge in the middle of the night.

What drives my girlfriends crazy...

My friend is a bit depressed because his girlfriend has just been admitted into a psychiatric ward.

That's a downer for anyone but in this friend's case it is the fourth girlfriend in a row who has had mental problems.

My friend is beginning to worry that he is is subconsciously attracted to, well to put it delicately, loonies.

As he says, how can he tell when he first meets a girl, that in a few weeks time she is going to start calling him Daddy, eating uncooked rabbit foetuses and wearing underwear stolen off her neighbours' washing lines.

He's considering asking all future prospective girlfriends to take a test to prove they're not mentally unbalanced.

But I pointed out that the sane ones will think he's the one playing hopscotch with the fairies.

Monday, July 12, 2004

An Englishman's home is his castle

Stuart Rose the new head honcho of Marks and Spencer has revalued the company's property portfolio. Yesterday it was worth £2.2bn now it is worth £3.3bn, according to Mr Rose.

I have decided to follow his lead and revalue my own property portfolio.

My two-bedroomed semi in the suburbs is now revalued as a five-bedroomed townhouse mansion.

My garden and fishpond are now revalued as a 1,000 acre estate of rolling parkland complete with a well-stocked trout lake, and my shed is now revalued as a luxury single storey, Scandinavian-style timber dwelling in the grounds.

With my new found wealth I'm off for La Derniere Gourmandise de Louis XVI, Confit Fillet and Belly of Lincolnshire Pork, Parsleyed Flageolet Beans and Spring Cabbage or I will just as soon as the bar menu is revalued at my local.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

One, toe, three!

I had a startling thought while eating my lunch. In all my life I have never counted my toes. From nursery school upwards we count on our fingers but our foot digits are sadly neglected.

The moment the thought struck me I pulled off my shoes and socks, which upset the staff in Pizza Hut, and I counted them one by one.

You will be pleased to hear I have ten.

On each foot.

Friday, July 09, 2004

Losing your bottle

I bought an Oasis fruit drink today. For 15 minutes I considered what sort of specialist equipment I should hire in order to open it: a chainsaw, an oxyacetylene torch, nitroglycerine or maybe an industrial wrench.

Then I decided I would clamp the bottle into a vice and tie a chain around the bottle top and attach it to my car. Driving away at high speed would inevitably open the bottle although admittedly some of the contents might be lost.

It was only then that I noticed the words on the top: 'opens by hand'. How unusual I thought, so I unscrewed the top and drank it.

It was foul.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Time to call it a day

We've put a man on the moon; we can transplant hearts; we can sit in our front rooms and on a piece of glass watch something that is happening thousands of miles away; we can drop bombs that kill hordes of innocent people and yet don't damage property; but nobody knows what the first day of the week is.

So you think it's Monday right? Wrong, it's Sunday and if you don't believe me look it up in Google. So you think it's Sunday right? Wrong, it's Monday and if you don't believe me look it up in Google. When is the Sabbath? Well everyone agrees that's on Sunday, except of course for those that say it's on Saturday.

If after millions of years we still can't establish when the week begins how the fuck have we ever got anything done?

A public convenience

British pubs are given the stupidest of names like The Fat Lady's Arms, The Rat and Parrot and The Aardvark and Cucumber.

In sympathy I have started a petition to get my local's name changed to 'The Toilet' and the movement is growing.

I can't think of anything that would amuse me more than asking the Piranha if she fancied popping into the toilet for a quick drink and a bite to eat.

And I would promise to go regularly.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

Haven't we met before?

An entry today in the excellent blog 'why was daddy kissing that man in the park?' refers to those embarrassing moments when you can't get past someone in the street because you keep stepping to the same side.

It reminded me of an occasion in a London nightclub.

I went off in search of the toilets. My mind was elsewhere and as I walked along with my head down I nearly barged into a guy coming towards me. I moved to the left, and he went the same way, I moved to the right, and he went the same way.

So I stood rock still, and said 'You go first'. He didn't move. I looked up to see my own steely gaze reflected in the mirror I had so nearly collided into.

Above the music I could hear only the sound of laughter.

We're getting there

Hats off to BT for their honesty. Their latest ad features lots of people in a field overlooking London in the snow, and in essence says: 'If you make an appointment with us, we'll try to keep it. But no promises though.'

A friend of mine regularly has to take his daughter to Great Ormond Street hospital in London. Because he drives into the congestion zone he has to pay his £5 at the local newsagent. He gives the receipt to the hospital and they give him the £5 back. The hospital then goes to Ken Livingstone and he returns the £5 to them.

Multiply this by the number of hospitals in London, and the number of people who drive to the hospitals in London, and you realise that thousands and thousands of needless and costly transactions are taking place.

If all of that money was given instead to the NHS it wouldn't be in the parlous state it is in.

This morning I squirted toothpaste all over my hands and then wondered why it wouldn't lather. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have washed my mouth out with soap.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

King of the roadent

I used to have a rat living in my car.

His tenancy began when I took some rubbish to the tip. As I was removing the bags, the rat jumped out from one of them, and disappeared back into the car.

When I got home I left all the car doors open allowing him to escape but the rat had other ideas. Clearly enjoying the prospect of being chauffered around he decided to take up residence.

Food was no problem, as every day he ate a little bit more of the car. First of all great chunks disappeared out of the seats. Then he ate the rubber housing around the gearstick. Next he attacked the seatbelts.

Passengers seemed surprisingly alarmed to be sharing a lift with a rat. I thought it added an extra frisson of excitement to the journey. They rode around with their legs in the air.

In a bid to stop the rat completing devouring my sole form of transport, I began leaving him food overnight. He ate it all voraciously, and still chewed various bits of the vehicle.

Alarmed that eventually I would be left with only a steering wheel, I decided to take action. I put the cat in the car.

I think he got on well with the rat and for days I was driving around accompanied by the cat and the rat but surprisingly no passengers. I began to see myself romantically as some latter day Noah, and wondered whether I would have room for a rabbit or maybe a small sheep.

But then one morning the rat was gone.

I kind of miss him.

Friday, July 02, 2004

God's found me...

Type Kumbya into Google and Spluttermonkey will be the fourth site listed.

That's fucking excellent.

On reflection, it's shit.

I've got to cater for a Christian audience.


Thursday, July 01, 2004

Sik, sic, sick

When I was about 12 years old my parents said I could have a puppy. Despite weeks of agonising I couldn't decide what to call him.

Then on his first night in my loving care he was sick. Violently. I named him Vomit.

Strangely, my mother would never call him when we took him for a walk.

Takeaway torture

I've invented a brilliant new game which I've called Chinky Lotto.

On a Wednesday or Saturday night, or even both for those of gluttonous dispositions, write down the Lotto numbers and then go down the local Chinese takeaway and order the corresponding dishes.

Yesterday, for example, I walked confidently into my local takeaway and ordered numbers 11,12,15,29,37 and 43 without any idea of what I would be getting.

It's even more fun if you play the game with your partner but without letting them in on the secret.

I will remember for a long time the look on the Piranha's face when I returned home last night with three different sorts of rice, a Kung Po chicken, a portion of mushrooms, a chilli dish that neither of us like, but absolutely nothing she had asked for.

On Saturday it's the Piranha's birthday so I think I'll treat her to an Indian.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Blind leading the blind

A friend of mine read my blog yesterday about guide dogs and replied: 'Did you know they now have talking dogs for the deaf?'

I pointed out that even if they could teach labradors to hold intelligent conversations it wouldn't be much good giving them to deaf people.

Perhaps they can shout, she said.

ROAST DUCK - click to enlarge

Monday, June 28, 2004

Animal farm with the AA

The AA has just brought out its 2004 'Days Out Guide'. All in all a fairly unremarkable tome apart from the entry for Cotswold Farm Park in Gloucestershire.

Ignoring the fact that the accompanying picture is of a leopard, which sounds an unlikely thing to find on a farm, the description suggests that this particular venue is worth a visit if you are an animal lover.

Apparently it offers 'the perfect opportunity to get to know a Bagot goat, cuddle a Cotswold lamb and stroke a mighty Longhorn ox'. Brings a new meaning to tourist attraction.


While on the subject of animals, how do blind dogs cross the road? They couldn't have their own guide dogs because it would only end in a fight or a particularly public bout of canine sex.

Maybe other animals are trained to help them, like guide otters. I've never seen one. But then again neither has a blind dog.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

A germ of an idea

I'm sick of politicians banging on about healthcare and choice.

We don't want choice. We just want to come out of hospital feeling slightly less ill than when we went in.

Unlike Lesley Ash.

Friday, June 25, 2004

You are the weakest link. Goodbye.

Can there by anything more annoying than the dysfunctional wankers who insist on peppering every conversation with witless catchphrases coined by someone else?

'Where are you going on Saturday?' 'I'm not sure, as it is only Monday'. 'Do you want to phone a friend?' No, fuck off, I do not.

Oh and how we laugh at the office wit who prefaces every demand for PG Tips by saying: 'Give us a T Bob'. No, but you can have a pound of semtex up your arse if you like.

People who snap their fingers and say 'Respec' should have the offending digits chopped off and thrust down their throats.

'I've started so I'll finish' No. You've started and therefore you won't live until the end of the sentence.

'Don't mention the war' Don't mention anything, ever again.

But if it wasn't for these mindless morons without an original thought in their bodies, then there wouldn't have been anyone to buy those hilariously comic red noses to fix to the front of their cars.

'Ave it.' As David Beckham would say.


I am delighted to announce that if you type 'sue barker tennis naked' into Google, this site will be the 19th listed. Today is a proud one.


ELECTRO-CUTE - click to enlarge

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

A nice little Werner...

I read lots of books, lots of bad books, and occasionally the odd good one. Even more occasionally I read a great book. Not a book that is great because it's going to win a Booker Prize, or because it will be read by our great great grandchildren in 100 years time, but because you can't put it down.

Today I read a great book, the Big Blind by Louise Werner. Not a classic, but a bloody good read. I laughed, I winced and I, er, nearly cried. OK I did. Read it.

Then I realised that the author Louise Werner is not only an author. She is the Louise Werner who was the lead singer of Sleeper, the band that had top ten everythings in the late 90s.

She looks great, sings like a skylark, and writes like an angel. How bloody annoying. What the hell will she do next?

Perhaps Roman Abramovich will buy her.

Bring on the striking firemen...

The government is spending millions of pounds on a 'fire kills' campaign to prevent us from reducing ourselves to ashes.

At the same time a Kent fireman Gary Mann has been convicted by a Portuguese court of being the ringleader behind the fighting on the streets at Euro 2004. He is currently back home in England having escaped jail on a technicality.

Can no-one else see the opportunity here? What the government should do is put their cheque book back into their pocket and use Gary Mann to spearhead their campaign.

The strategy is simple. Once the fire brigade have rescued those caught in a house fire, they should beat the holy crap out of them.

This will reduce house fires at a stroke, save millions of pounds, and put the fight back into firefighting.

I suggest renaming the campaign 'fire really fucking hurts'.

DUCK SOUP - click to enlarge

Friday, June 18, 2004

It's murder getting away with murder

I would hate to be a real murderer. Not least because of all the blood and choking noises but because I would be bound to be caught.

Just trying to get away with the audacious kidnap and ultimate murder of Dan the duck, my daughter Zoe's favourite toy, has put me under a great deal of stress.

Accusations have already been flowing thick and fast. The Piranha says I must have lost the duck when I took Zoe to the park. Firstly this isn't true. We didn't go the park, we went to the pub garden, well it's got a swing and a climbing frame thinggy. Secondly I didn't lose Dan, I kidnapped him while Zoe was asleep.

Then I have been accused of selling the Piranha's bread board. I mean who buys second hand bread boards?

But the hardest thing has been covering up my tracks, removing tell tale pics from the digital camera, clearing up the fake blood stains, hiding Dan in between atrocities, and trying not to feel too guilty when Zoe sobs herself to sleep.

And I'm sure I've left DNA absolutely everywhere.

DUCK A L'ORANGE ROVER - click to enlarge

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Kumbya, mallard, Kumbya

I thought my kidnap, torture and ultimate murder of Dan the duck would outrage the world, lead to uprisings in the streets, and of course see a modest uplift in traffic to my blog.

Oh, my naivety. After an initial muttering of discontent about Dan's impending doom, the protestors have scuttled back to the far more interesting blogs from whence they came.

I am left consoling a daughter mourning a duck, and avoiding a piranha sharpening her incisors. My only other audience appears to be the DLF (Duck Liberation Front) who seem hell bent on attaching some form of exploding device to my car.

But things get even worse. It appears I have carried out a copyduck crime.

I have two courses of action: 1. Stop perpetrating this despicable act. 2. Plunge to new depths of dastardly duck evilness.

After careful consideration, I have decided to cut off one of his toes.

Prepare to be web disabled...

Stoic in the face of extreme pain. Dan's expression hasn't changed...

That hurts...

Unlucky for some...

I'm sad to report that after the highs of Monday with hundreds of visitors and new inbound links, your interest in Dan's welfare waned dramatically.

Yesterday, just 13 visitors, unlucky for Dan.

Today he will be a victim of gratuitous and undeserved violence. Watch this space.

Monday, June 14, 2004

On a roll

I just can't leave this story alone:

If, when the Rolling Baba finally departs this mortal coil, he discovers that god doesn't exist, do you think he'll turn in his grave?

Lucky duck

This kidnapping business isn't as easy as it sounds. Not only have I got a daughter distraught that her favourite toy has gone missing but the Piranha is snapping about her disappearing bread board.

And if the Piranha discovers what I'm doing I'll be stripped to the bone for lunch. I've told her I'm no longer posting as Spluttermonkey and have had to set up a separate blog so she thinks she's keeping tabs on me.

Anyway Dan is safe, for now. More than 100 readers of the blog today and several inbound links. I should be happy but I feel strangely cheated.

You won't all be back tomorrow though and then Dan gets it. To whet my appetite I have secured him to the bread board so he's ready for the fun.

I thought about giving him a hood but I didn't want anyone thinking the photos were fake.

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Dan's destiny is in your hands

Like all bloggers I am an attention seeker at heart. Unfortunately I am not a patient attention seeker. After three weeks of writing a blog, I haven't received nearly as much attention as I would like and that is where Dan comes in.

Dan, as you can see is a duck. He is a duck who belongs to my four year old daughter Zoe and he is her favourite toy.

Right now, Zoe thinks she has lost Dan. She hasn't. I have kidnapped him and he is going to to die the death of a thousand cuts.

Every day Dan is going to receive a horrible wound or disfigurement, unless I have had more than 100 visitors to my blog that day, or a new inbound link. I will return Dan, or what is left of him, to Zoe at the end of August.

The highest number of visitors I have received in a day so far is 84 and the lowest number is 0, so I reckon Dan has a slow and painful death in store.

Only you can save him.

Burning it up

I wanted some toast for breakfast this morning. There wasn't any bread in the breadbin so I got a loaf out of the freezer.

As the bread was frozen, I turned the dial on the toaster up to 2 and the toast was perfectly cooked.

So why does my toaster, like just about every other toaster in the world, have a dial which goes up to 6?

Who eats cremated toast?

It's like the car manufacturers who turn out models capable of 150mph plus.

Try travelling on the M4 at 150mph and you will be fined a million quid and spend three months being sodomised in the prison shower by a shaven-headed heavily-tattooed bloke called Gripper.

Perhaps the same thing happens when you turn the toaster up to 6.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

It's all Greek to me

Yesterday being the eve of Euro 2004 I decided to blog about football. And given that the tournament is in Portugal I thought, having written my piece, I would translate it into Portuguese using the clever tools at Google.

This morning it occurred to me that nobody would have a clue what I was talking about, apart from the odd Portuguese blog-surfer.

So back to Google with yesterday's Portuguese post to translate it back into English.

Simple. Except this is what I got:

"Hurrah, footie starts tomorrow. A time that we classify for is of the monkeys of the surrender cheese-to eat, we is going to make jellyfishes is of its men Portuguese de Guerra. Eusebio, Rui Coast, Fig, Vasco de Gama, Carmen Miranda, Pope John XXI, its boys we are going to make examination of a hell of a stroke. ih! the ' o aue ai ' '"

I'm not sure that's what I wrote word for word but let's not split hairs.

Anyway I've been wrestling with a bigger problem today. I MIGHT BE PREGNANT.

There are a number of reasons this worries me, not least because I'm not a woman.

So why the concern? The bacon sandwiches. At about 11.00 today I craved a bacon sandwich. I don't mean wanted, I don't mean fancied, I don't mean desired, I don't mean needed. I mean craved.

I would have done anything for a bacon sandwich. Murder, robbery, a video re-run of 'Who wants to be a millionaire?', absolutely anything. Fortunately all I had to do was cook it.

It was lovely and my craving was satisfied.

Just to make sure, 30 seconds ago I used one of the Pirahna's 'Clear Blue Easy One Minute Pregnancy Tests':

30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..............

... you will pleased to hear, I'm not expecting.

Friday, June 11, 2004

A message for all Portuguese readers

Hurrah, o footie começa amanhã. Uma vez que nós classificamos para fora dos macacos da rendição queijo-comer, nós estamos indo fazer medusas fora de seus homens Portuguese de Guerra. Eusebio, Rui Costa, Figo, Vasco de Gama, Carmen Miranda, Pope John XXI, seus meninos estamos indo fazer exame de um inferno de uma batida. ih! o' o aue ai' o'

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Today's topics are...

Cars, sex, alcohol, elections, cake, incest, wardrobes, rainbows, bicycles, jealousy, amphetamines, football, fraud, kiwi fruit, daffodils, postmen, grass cutting, wheelbarrows, rheumatism, hepatitis, universities, goats, books, kazaa, a dog called vomit, fishfingers, roof-racks, traffic lights, doughnuts, cat hair, my nan's friend Flo, videos, sheepskin rugs, paedophiles, microwaves, the RSPCA, monkey nuts, girls with really large bottoms, my neighbour's hairy nose, Rembrandt, sausage suckers, asylum seekers, sitcoms, litmus paper, Robert the Bruce, Ian Dury, addictions, tissues, things lost down the back of sofas, Pingu, strawberries, barbed wire, gnu, knob cheese, papier mache, your first kiss, blindness, gasometers, X-rays, swingbins, St Tropez, XML, digital cameras, Apollo 13, Ritalin, Trans-sexuals, morse code, Pulp Fiction, paddling pool, polished turds, Montreal.

Nope, nothing inspires me today. I'm off down the pub.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Whine of the month

The pirahna isn't happy. That isn't unusual but this time she really, really isn't happy.

Several months ago I set up a wine plan with Laithwaites It's absolutely bloody brilliant.

Every three months a box of 12 bottles is delivered to my house. I never know what day they are going to arrive or what selection will be in the box, except that there will be six reds and six whites, and that they will all be immensely gluggable.

Each time I get home from work and that familiar box is there waiting, it's like a unexpected birthday, and each time I celebrate it by getting royally pissed for a week.

So why is the Piranha so snapping mad? It appears the wine is being inadvertently charged to her credit card. Cheers.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Roll out the barrel

We are all turning into slugs, and it's because we don't climb trees anymore.

When I was a kid, everyone climbed trees. At any point of the day if you scrambled up a tree in your garden you could look across at trees in all the neighbouring gardens for miles and they would all be full of children swinging happily from branch to branch. And no game of hide and seek was complete without someone secreting themselves away in the upper foliage of an oak tree.

But we are evolving so fast that not only have we lost our tails, we have lost our ability to climb trees.

The average 12 year old now weighs about 15 stone and has difficulty climbing into his chair at McDonalds.

The future is here:

The Rolling Baba may be rolling across India for his faith but he understands what the future holds. Rapid evolution will see our childen's children born without arms or legs, and these large skittle shaped beings will barrel slowly from place to place.

Sunday, June 06, 2004

Monkey business

Bugger, it appears the Piranha has found my blog. I had all sort of personal stuff lined up, about relationship misery, er harmony, sex and gratification.

Now the Piranha has found this blog I have put all that embarrassing, washing your linen in public stuff, on ?????????, if you get my drift.

Tomorrow on Spluttermonkey, why people don't climb trees any more.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Big stones and pork swords

I spent the morning moving half a ton of stones from a nearby quarry to my back garden to fill in a flowerbed.

Quite why we are doing it I'm not sure but it seems to have made the Piranha happy.

As a reward she has allowed me to go to the pub for the rest of the day to watch the football with my mate Geoff.

He wanks pigs for a living. I hope he's washed his hands.

Friday, June 04, 2004

"Mummy, I don't like Auntie May". "Then push her to the side of your plate"

I've lost my appetite today and it's all due to a gruesome press advertisement for Marks & Spencer.

If features a disturbing photograph of what appears to be a badly charred body part recovered from a house fire, and asks, 'are the beers ready yet?'.

Now call me sentimental if you like, but my first thought on reclaiming a freshly cooked limb belonging to a close friend or family member, would not be 'where's the Stella?'.

A closer examination of the advertisement reveals a dubious claim that the charred flesh is in fact a 'butterfield half leg of lamb with rosemary, garlic and Greek yoghurt'. Quite how that came to be caught up in a house fire isn't explained.

The ad featured the url for the M&S site so I thought I'd take a quick look to see if perhaps a new 'burns victim' menu range is part of Marks' summer sales drive.

Strangely the website makes no mention of singed limbs or even a 'butterfield half leg of lamb with rosemary, garlic and Greek yoghurt'.

Another quick look at the advertisement and I notice the small print says 'subject to availability'. I can only hope it was a small fire.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Climbing the tree to anonymity

I was reading an article today in the Times about Sue Barker, the gist of which I can't remember, but it got me thinking. What I was trying to think of specifically was the name of the current British women's number one tennis player. I failed spectacularly.

There obviously is a British number one female tennis player, most of us have no idea who she is, and yet she is famous in her home town, her local pub, and her local tennis club.

There probably is a number two and a number three as well, maybe the lady behind the counter at my local corner shop is up there in the rankings. Who knows?

Someone, somewhere, is getting a great sense of satisfaction by saying "I am the tenth best female tennis player in Britain." That's quite an achievement when you consider that it is out of a population of about 60 million, albeit half of them are ineligible.

Whoever and wherever our British number one is, she has no doubt worked hard to get there, but she must be the tiniest bit pissed off about being so anonymous.

It could be worse. According to recent research (ie I made it up) there are only three people in the UK who can name a Euro MP - and we voted for them.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Vrgn yr ad is crp

When Virgin Mobile asked the clever creative types at their ad agency to come up with a new campaign to promote cheap text messaging, some bright spark obviously said: " I know, let's use Christina Aguilera naked and no-one will notice if the rest of it is a load of old cack."

For any Martians out there, and those living deep in the Amazon Rainforest, the plot is as follows:

Christina is seen through a window apparently having sex in an office chair. Of course, she isn't really, but instead is immensely entertained by the chair which er, goes up and down. Two guys outside see her, and one pulls out his mobile and contacts his mates, who all turn up, presumably in the hope of sloppy seconds.

Then we get the pay off line: 'The devil makes work for idle thumbs, text another Virgin mobile for 3p'

All fine and good, except for one small detail, the guy who uses his phone doesn't text anyone, he phones them.

Is this a tacit admission by Virgin that by the time he texted: "Me and Barry are watching Christina Aguilera having sex in a chair in the office across the street. Get your arse down here quick," Christina would have had an orgasm or two, got dressed, left the building, put out another ten hit records or so, and retired to Miami.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Mirror, mirror on the war...

The faked Iraqi prisoner photos would suggest that the Daily Mirror and military history go together like ice cream and gravy, but a report in today's edition is worth reflecting on.

The Mirror asked 1,000 under 25s across the country what they knew about D-Day and the results were astonishing. Seventy three per cent did not know what it was, when it happened, or who was involved.

The collective knowledge of those interviewed would indicate that D-Day was in Japan in 1962 when Germany had a king. And as one 16-year old put it: "It's not important though, is it. It's past so there is no need to keep remembering it."

If you added together the IQs of those surveyed, all obviously Mirror readers, you wouldn't have enough intelligence to make a half-wit, but I still find the results depressing.

We are talking about a war that ended less than sixty years ago. A war in which an estimated 48 million civilians and military personnel lost their lives. And yet this decisive battle on the beaches of Normandy, which heralded the end of Hitler's dream, is already being forgotten.

The Allies suffered more than 4,000 D-Day casualties, most of whom were younger than those surveyed by the Daily Mirror.

I suggest we point all the country's under 25s in the direction of Google and tell them to enter 'D-Day'. This should return approximately 1,810,000 results which might help them fill in the gaps in their knowledge. Leave them unsupervised, of course, and they are more likely to enter 'Britney Spears' which will return around 4,340,000 results, which perhaps explains everything.

Monday, May 31, 2004

The death of Reality TV

There was a debate on the radio today, the gist of which was that we are all bored to tears with Big Brother, and that Reality TV has had its day.

I can't agree. The problem with Reality TV is that it is not real. Each version of Big Brother, for instance, is a completely contrived exercise, ergo we find the whole thing as dull as a dead dog.

If any TV producers are reading this then take note: what we want is real excitement, and if I can be modest, I have devised the ultimate reality TV show.

Called simply REAL, it would feature eight contestants living their normal lives over seven weeks but on camera. Each week, a terrible fate would befall one of them.

The format needs some fine tuning but for the working draft I am suggesting that week one would see a contestant violently mugged, week two would see a contestant run down by a car or light van, week three a contestant's house would be burned down, week four a contestant would be raped (male or female because I don't want a sexist charge to be levelled at me) week five would see a member of a contestant's family kidnapped, week six would see a contestant being wrongly imprisoned for child sex crimes, and then with just two contestants left, week seven would involve one of them being bloodily murdered in their own home.

I envisage some legal problems but just think of the viewing figures, especially in the final week with both contestants knowing that one of them would be dead by the end of the show.

Another small detail to be finalised is the prize, because I just can't make up my mind, and would like your help. Originally, I thought £1million for going through such an ordeal, and then I thought bugger it they should get nothing, their prize is to be the only one not to be traumatised or dead. All suggestions welcome.

Copyright Spluttermonkey Productions May 2004.

Sunday, May 30, 2004

Legal action will follow

I demand a recount.

The day I scooped the jackpot

There were extenuating circumstances for the non-appearance of this blog yesterday. The main one being that I drank wine all day and couldn't be arsed.

I was drinking wine to celebrate winning the triple rollover lottery. I felt lucky when I woke up. I always feel lucky when I wake up. One day I won't wake up and I can only see things going downhill after that.

A quick cup of coffee later and I was down the newsagents with 200 or so other deluded souls, who didn't realise they were in the presence of the winner, and who were needlessly lining mine and Camelot's coffers with their hard-earned.

The excitement of being a multi-millionaire overtook me and eventually so did the wine. The result being that I haven't yet checked my numbers but I see that as purely a formality.

I'm very busy next week so not sure when I will be able to pick up my cheque. I could try to squeeze it in on thursday afternoon I suppose.

Friday, May 28, 2004

Blogs and logs

When a tree falls in the forest and there is no-one around does it make a sound?

When a blog is written and no-one reads it has it been published?

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Earliest memory

Someone asked me at work today what my earliest memory was. A good question. I couldn't remember where I parked my car two hours earlier, what I had for breakfast, or what day it was yesterday, but I clearly remember my mother changing my nappy.

And before you ask I wasn't 26 at the time but about 1 or 2.

We came home from a shopping trip and she layed me on the floor while she lit the fire. This she did by putting on paper, kindling, coal, and then after she applied the match, a big handful of sugar, which made the flames leap upwards.

She then changed my nappy. Can't remember whether I had done a No1 or a No2 though.

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Road rage

We all have something to say about road rage: in my case, after today, it is sorry, sorry, sorry!

I am sorry for all the shouting, I am sorry for all the swearing, and I am sorry for all the rude gesticulations at the incompetent, infirm and inhibited motorists who have remained stationary in front of me over the years at traffic lights despite blindingly green filter arrows lighting up the sky.

Today, while hopelessly lost in Cambridge I not only remained stationary while presented with one of the aforementioned green filter arrows, but I remained impervious to the beeping of fellow motorists and the remonstrations of my passenger.

I only became aware of my incompetence when an irate cyclist finally began banging repeatedly on the back window of my car in frustration.

My shame was such I drove at 30mph all the way home on the M11.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Why is nothing too good for you?

Alcohol, caffeine, cars, chips, chocolate, cigarettes, computers, drugs, milk, microwaves, pies, pizza, speed, sunshine, television. Why is it that all the good things in life are bad for you? Even sex can have nasty side effects like gonorrhea and babies.

In fact I can't think of many bad things which are bad for you once you take violence and sex crimes out of the mix. There are no bad things, there are just good things, lots of tempting, life-threatening things that you aren't supposed to eat/commit/watch or put into yours or anyone else's orifices.

What good things are good for me? Sport is ok but I'd rather have a pie dinner and both seem equally responsible for heart attacks. Going for regular walks is recommended by the government but all walks end at the pub or the off-licence, both strictly off-limits.

I want some research body to tell me to stop doing something because otherwise I will be in a permanent state of euphoria, and will never grow old or get sick. There must be something that is too good for me apart from the Piranha, and that's only according to her mother. She doesn't have any conclusive scientific proof, although I suspect she might be right.

My quest to find something I can do safely to excess starts now. Right after I finish this fag and cup of coffee. Oh bugger.

Monday, May 24, 2004

Nothing to say

Finally taken the decision to start/launch/float/inaugurate my blog. I've chosen the name, chosen the template, and all I need now are the words. Ah, yes, the words, and not just one lot of words but a new lot of words every day...every day until I die. Only three sentences into my new blog and the first dilemma: I want to write as few words as possible but without condemning myself to an early death. Tough stuff this blogging.

Actually writing very little should be easy, as there is a dawning realisation that I have absolutely nothing to say of any interest whatsoever.

As spluttermonkey I thought I had created a slightly cheeky personality that would allow me to fulminate about everything that annoys me. Unfortunately nothing does. Well actually that's not true; I hate the Iraq war, I hate council tax, I hate people dropping 'Save the children with Aids' collecting envelopes through my letterbox and then coming around to collect them, and grimacing when I return them empty. The trouble is everyone else writes blogs about that kind of stuff.

So today I will splutter about this: absolutely talentless wankers who write blogs in the mistaken belief that their sad meaningful lives hold even the smallest nugget of interest for anyone else. They don't so here's mine.



big brother
cheap flights
2 fast 2 furious
justin timberlake
harry potter
david beckham
matrix reloaded
avril lavigne
10. wimbledon