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.

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.

What a load of rubbish

A committee of MPs says that there is a link between litter and burglary. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/3932527.stm

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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...

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.'
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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.
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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.

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.

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.

GOD BLESS YOU ALL

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.