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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Falling off a blog...

Not blogging is not like falling off a log.

Back from hols. More to come. Equally dull.

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.

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'.

Yog that hurt...

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

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.

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.

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.