Daily Column - Best Of

Hands Across The Ocean
Thursday 24 July 2003

I know it is not very politically correct to divulge in national stereotyping but then I doubt anybody will ever be irrational enough to claim I am. You see, I am a fond traveller. Me and my teddy bear Kirstin have been to many a place and met many a people, most of whom I can barely remember at all, let alone recall their names.
   It is on my international escapades that I have learned not only how much fun, but also how accurate stereotyping can be. It is always a pleasant surprise to find a Canadian with a sense of taste, a Swiss with a sense of humour or an American with a sense of direction. "Is this Belgium?" "No, Sir, Belgium is in Europe; this is Asia."
   Before I die though, I would love to meet a Tibetan who is afraid of heights. Or a Cayman tax collector. And perhaps a militant Swedish revolutionary, or a Dutch mountaineer. Just once I would love to run into a Libyan on skis, preferably with goggles in red, white and blue. If I'm really lucky, a Kuwaiti bartender.
   Though my absolute goal would be either an Estonian windsurfer or an Israeli hippie. I did meet an Israeli at a hippie campsite once (don't ask me what I was doing there), who looked and sounded the part, but then he started to tell me stories about blowing holes in Palestinian homes when they got bored in the army. Which is not a very Janis Joplin kind of thing to do really.
   But they are bound to be out there! Somewhere they are hiding with a formula one driver from Vatican City, a Tasmanian solarium entrepreneur and a Lebanese tourist guide. If you find any, let me know.

Mistaken Identity
Sunday 27 July 2003

My satanic powers are wearing off. Perhaps it is time I go back to a dark forest near Loch Ness and butcher a goat to regain my strength. Clearly something is not well. Usually people will realise I am the antichrist once they know my name and have seen my tattoos, or have spent five minutes in a small room with me, depending on which one happens first.
   At half seven in the morning then there should be no mistaking my identity as at that time Beelzebub himself looks like a character out of Sesame Street in comparison. Having 'fuck off - I'm grumpy' tattooed on my forehead would possibly even improve the chances of seeming cheerful. In other words you would have to be pretty high on drugs to approach me at this point.
   So when an enormous backpack approached me this morning and the happy-clappy Christian attached to it asked me for directions to a church it is safe to say I felt a very tiny devil's son indeed. Perhaps she thought I was just on my way there myself. Do I look like a person on my way to church? At eight o'clock in the morning? Is she suggesting I look like a fucking fundamentalist?
   Let me just make it clear I have no objection to happy-clappy Christians. A bit of a sing-song definitely beats all the Abel begot Jonathan, who became his wife and believed in berating the bereaved before becoming beset by the betraying Belial. And his son's wife's daughter's cousin slew the Barbarians who had raped the priest, who had castrated the unbelievers and begot Joseph who begot nineteen children and converted before being boiled in hot oil and eaten by the six servants of the pharaoh's lover in the sand-strewn sea known as the desert.
   A bunch of people dancing about has got to be better than sitting in a cathedral worshipping the severed mummified penis of saints hung upside down by their toenails until they died of dizziness. In fact, I believe happy-clappy Christians should branch out. I think we should get a horde of enormously fat black women from Alabama to teach all Muslims and Jews to sing 'oh happy day' and give them a balloon that says "my god loves you too". That should sort out the Middle East.
   It is just when they fail to recognise me as the son of Satan that I get upset. And when people start assuming I know not only the name but also the location of churches in Edinburgh I think something about me must be misleading. The particular happy-clappy Christian who approached me this morning, smiling a radiant smile that is more associated with copious amounts of narcotics and dental operations than with very early Sunday mornings, must have sensed something about me that I can assure you is not there.
   Being my usual helpful self I pointed to a building across the road and offered that it lived up to all the major elements churches have in my experience. High pointy roof, headstones all around and it makes a hell of a noise every Sunday. Not the one she was after, it turned out, but it would do. After all, one can worship in any place of God. Quite. I'll stick to planning the corruption of mankind over a nice cup of tea. May She bless and keep me.

Tigger Gets Hot
Wednesday 6 August 2003

Really when it comes to household chores I can best be described as lingering somewhere in between the state of Cro-Magnon and Al Bundy. That is to say I know how the Hoover works, but it makes far too much noise to use it on a regular basis.
   When it comes to washing then I am not all too sophisticated either. I generally create three piles. One white, one black and one in between. The latter one goes on the smallest pile and in the washer it goes. Turn the knob to ON, stick washing powder in, press button and then give it a good kick. Much like myself the thing rarely does any work unless you use physical force.
   This lack of interest and knowledge perhaps explains why up until now I had never realised there was a label inside my Tigger boxer shorts. It's hardly one of the most interesting places to study intently and even I can usually tell which side goes where in the morning. So it came as a bit of a surprise when I found it, though not nearly as much as when I read it: keep away from fire.
   And I'll tell you what; I'm glad they told me. As a matter of fact I was just about to warm my bollocks with a cigarette lighter, fully convinced that I was the proud owner of fire-retardant underpants. Who came up with that one? Surely that is the best one since the warning not to stick your pets in the microwave.
   Are there any items of clothing that should not be kept away from fire? Or any other items for that matter? Really in my experience the things to hold close to a naked flame are cookery pots, candles, cigarettes and the nozzle of a fire extinguisher. Other than that we should by now have figured out that fire is not good when it gets too close. I mean, come on people, get with the programme! We discovered fire, what, a million years ago? Surely by now it has managed to filter its way through evolution into the human consciousness.
   Especially people wearing Walt Disney pants. We have all seen Bambi, haven't we? We have known fire is evil for yonks now. I realise common sense is a bit pretentious for a company promoting talking rodents, but on the whole I think we would be so much better off with useful advice, like 'wash your hands after having a dump' or 'clean underpants will help you pull'. Just a wee suggestion.

Wankers Galore
Friday 15 August 2003

There is an abundance of wankers in the world. Some might even argue that there are far more wankers than there are people we do get along with. And they come in all different sizes, shapes, colours and types. There are the famous wankers, which you see on the telly and you can't help but retch or scream in agony. Jamie Oliver is a good example of that. Then there are faraway wankers, that you read about in the papers. And wankers in politics. A lot of wankers in politics.
   There are wankers you have never met and yet manage to piss you off the moment you walk into them. Or rather, when they are so bored the only thing they can think of is obstructing you as you are walking along. Wankers at sporting events are also a fairly common occurrence.
   Some of your friends can even be wankers, though generally they will stop being your mate once you have informed them of this fact, something honest and common courtesy does dictate. Really there is only one type of wanker that is excruciatingly hard to battle, and that is your mate's wanker friend.
   Usually you just tell people to get the fuck, especially if they are annoying little tossers, but because they are befriended with one of your own friends you really cannot slap them without at the same time making a statement about your friend's taste in mates. Which rubs off on you. After all, if your mate's pal is a plonker, doesn't that make you a pratt? A difficult and slightly philosophical predicament.
   What makes them the worst type of wanker is the fact that you have to endure them. Clearly wankers are wankers twenty-four hours a day but because you either run away from them or chin them after five minutes generally they only annoy you for a very brief period of time. Your mate's wanker friend however will be a prolonged suffering of an unbearable kind. You will have to experience extensive episodes of continuous agony with nothing to garrotte but an innocent table leg.
   This is the point where all your boundaries are being tested. You find yourself trying to focus on the slot machines and predicting the possible outcome of the next play. When that doesn't work instead you concentrate like you have never concentrated before on the dark-haired barmaid pulling pints. But every time your attention is drawn back to the entity that has now in your head become the mother of all wanker-ness.
   In desperation you put your fingers on the tip of your thumb and outstretching your arms you close your eyes, mumbling 'ommmmmm', yet you still cannot get away from the sound of the ultra-wanker trying to invade your head. You try harder and harder and even pray to Yogi, the god of yoga but still it won't go away and no matter how hard your try and resist you feel the urge grow stronger to leap across the table and rip off the wanker's head at the base of the neck to place at the top of your front door to remind all your mates that when they come over to watch the rugby under no circumstances should they even consider ever bringing a wanker with them.
   Or maybe that's just me.

A Narrow Escape From Death
Sunday 24 August 2003

I realise I drink a wee bit too much alcohol, my exercise level is minimal and generally my meals do not exactly cover all main food groups, but nonetheless I feel that at my age I am really too young to be dying of a heart attack. It just doesn't look right on the headstone.
   Getting killed jumping out of aeroplane I can deal with. It would be shame I wouldn't be able to do my great deed later in life, but as I haven't really thought of what deed I would like to perform I don't think it'll be on too many people's minds. Dying in a white water rafting accident I could cope with I guess. But heart attacks should not occur until I have reached the age of forty at least.
   It is therefore not funny, people, to pin a note on my door stating your ex just had a bairn. I really want to get this news sitting down, followed immediately by irrefutable proof that I had nothing to do with it. But no, never mind about the fucking details, such as which ex; just get on with it. You know how difficult it is to count backwards when it comes to months? Especially while you are preparing two electrodes to attach to your chest.
   How devious do you have to be? First my heart stopped for a few moments. Then it decided to give one big thump, only to die on me again as I am sure my face turned white as a sheet. So in future can we please refrain from such needless antics to spare my poor old heart the embarrassment of having some pathologist prodding it and concluding that indeed I should have been eating healthier.
   I am very happy to announce that it is a boy, and even happier to announce that I can state with absolute certainty that I had nothing to do with any of it. Which I imagine the world will be forever in my debt for.

A VD Adventure
Thursday 28 August 2003

I like our National Health Service. Even though I realise that the nurses are getting paid less than the average street sweeper and half of the staff is currently on holiday in the Gulf to avert the spread of nasty things, such as Arabs. But still. I also know that the staff we can hire at slightly below minimum wage are all from Malawi and other nations slowly rotting away from the inside because we keep nicking all their medical staff, but on the whole you have to say that the result is pretty damn impressive.
   I mean, you have to appreciate the fact that when a fifteen-year-old joy rider swerves off the road and knocks you straight through a butcher's shop window into the carcasses strung up by impressively sharpened hooks, the lads and lassies in green don't stand over you, shine a light in your eyes and then shout "do you have insurance, sir?" Unlike some nations I could mention.
   Even better is the scheme to check us all for venereal diseases. These kind of things should be encouraged. It's a bit back to front at the moment, with nobody explaining to us how to avoid getting them in the first place, but hospital staff more than happy to discuss how to get rid of them. Still a good idea though.
   You'd be amazed how many fucking things you can get nowadays. When I went for an annual check-up the list was so long I get worried when someone sneezes in a public lavatory now. And they come up with the most bizarre discoveries. A nurse told me it was a good thing I don't smoke, because they have found a link between smoking and genital warts. They should stick that on cigarette packets. Smoking causes big brown spots on your dick, with hair growing out of them. Now that would be effective.
   The vast majority of these diseases for some reason have been given names that mean fuck-all to anyone. Why can't call it by a name we understand? This disease is called the scratch, because it will cause you to scratch until you have no testicles left. Instead we have names that make diseases far easier to contract than they are to spell.
   I have to say that I don't think I have ever had two women so intensively being interested in my private parts, though if every time that happens one of them sticks a plastic swab in the hole of my cock I think I will pass next time the offer comes up. And you haven't pulled your trousers above your knees or a needle gets jabbed in your vein to suck out your blood. They have a different test for every disease apparently. Either that or they are sadistic bastards.
   Correct me if I am wrong, but I am fairly confident that these kind of clinics are the only place where you can still legally say things that suggest gay people are more likely to have diseases and nationality is an issue when choosing partners. That is to say I was asked where my last partner was from. Which I didn't know. Sounded Scottish to me. I'm not fussy. Sad and lonely doesn't go well together with fussy.

Religious Piety
Sunday 31 August 2003

Has anybody else noticed recently that for a man who is supposed to only have pure thoughts pope John Paul is spending an awful lot of time contemplating, debating and discussing penises? And more importantly, what you can and cannot do with it. I suspect this is a bit of a trial and error situation here. One night the pope was trying to get a Durex around his erect dick and something went wrong. We all know how painful this can be. The next morning, bruise still visible, sitting in the bath John Paul decides that all this paedophile nonsense can wait and immediately decrees that under no circumstances is anybody ever to use a condom.
   It's got to be something like that. Can't wrap your cock in rubber, can't play with it, can't have another man play with it, can't have a woman you are not married to play with it. Basically the whole religion is anti-sex, which at least offers us that slight glimmer of hope that numbers will soon be decreasing and they will have to rethink their policy to get more people in.
   Fortunately the high council of Roman Catholics is not the only one to put a smile on our faces. The main leaders of the Israeli Orthodox Jews have come up with an even better one. It is now a sin to pick your nose on the Sabbath. Sounds like a Calvinist idea to me. No matter how much it itches, just suffer it. God does not want you to pick your nose.
   They sure have their priorities straight, don't they? You will remember that it is mainly the Orthodox, along with the army nuts who simply like to kill people, who are the firmest supporters of ethnically cleansing a big pile of warm sand. In fact, the Orthodox are usually the ones explaining that, their own children excused of course, all Israeli boys and girls should stick on a flak jacket and a helmet and proceed to kill as many brown people as possible.
   So there you have it. Dress in desert fatigues, fire missiles into a street, torture people if you really want to, but don't pick your nose on Saturday, because you'll be straight off to Hell. Makes sense to me.

The New and Improved Penal System
Tuesday 2 September 2003

Last week a fire crew was shot at on their way to a fire in Glasgow. Fortunately it was a pellet gun and the two shots did not pierce the front window, but later that day youths came back to pelt them some more. The police have said they have urged the community to help them find the culprits, because this is a potentially dangerous situation.
   Not good enough. I think we need to introduce new laws on this, and I have drafted a wee bit of them for you. It should apply to those specific arseholes who block fire engines and ambulances. You'd be amazed how often cars will simply not move to let through the lads and lassies in green while some poor sod is turning blue somewhere.
   Their punishment should consist of three different stages. First, the valuable lesson being learnt. So, in case of blocking an ambulance you take the little shit to the top of an extraordinarily high staircase, and kick him all the way down. Hands tied behind his back of course. In the case of blocking a fire engine you hand him a glass of petrol, which he can use to style his hair, drink or dunk his bollocks into. And then you set fire to him. And let him burn for as long as he held up the crew.
   Part two is the mandatory incarceration. We should open a special wing in Barlinnie for this, where all inmates are housed nine to a cell, and twenty-three to a shower. They can share with child molesters, serial rapists and Labour MP's.
   And finally, upon release I suggest we allow them back into society by chucking them out of the back of an aeroplane over Belfast. Of course they are allowed a parachute, provided it is bright orange.

A Loving Relationship
Thursday 4 September 2003

What is the attraction of animals to Scottish universities? They are obsessed! For some inexplicable reason the main field of expertise in Scottish science seems to be the intensive study of the animal kingdom.
   Now we all know that for some time now the Caledonian people have had a very close relationship with sheep. Both in a culinary and a social way. Now, however, it seems we have branched out. So a project was launched, with funding from our own government, to produce a food product that would reduce cows farting. That's good for the environment you see. Not just to stop them stinking up the living room.
   Then our friends at St Andrews decided it would be a good idea to get a whole bunch of mice, and get them all stoned. I am sure that they never gave these mice any drugs but smoked it all themselves after convincing some nitwit to give them funding and supplies for the project, but you have to wonder how close they got to these rodents while in their care.
   Now they have gone one step further. Biologists at the universities of St Andrews, Edinburgh and Leeds combined have discovered that fish are manipulative, cultured and socially aware. In other words they are more fit to represent us than the Labour party.
   Fish. Fucking fish! You tell me how they can possibly justify the funding for that one. How on earth can this benefit anyone? What is the value of knowing that fish have social awareness? Somebody please explain this to me. And what's most worrying is that someone will get an award for this. Somebody is going to receive a title for figuring out fish have the ability to organise tea parties.
   I shudder to think what the next project will be. Perhaps we can investigate the nail care of piglets. Or try and discover the meaning of life according to the slug. Whether seagulls get ticklish. Or how often a squirrel gets horny. There are too many stupid questions to be asked about animals, and far too many scientists to ask them.

One Fat Bastard
Wednesday 10 September 2003

The whole country is getting overweight. Or so they keep telling us. If you ask me the country has been overweight for yonks now, but we just don't give a toss. Previously all the fat little kids were outside eating chocolate while the others were playing football and so the parents never noticed a thing. Now they are behind the Playstation 2 all day and all of a sudden it becomes blatantly obvious all these little shits are in fact not as little as we previously thought.
   The hip and trendy term now is 'obese', which is English for the Scottish equivalent 'fat bastard'. And I can announce that I have joined the ranks of the fat people, though I will be shot before I refer to myself as obese. According to the NHS a man measuring six feet and three inches tall should weigh somewhere in the proximity of between 12 and 13 stone. Now I have no idea what my exact weight is, but I can guarantee you right now that it is not even remotely in the vicinity of 13.
   And so the other day I came out of the shower with an elephant towel draped over my head and wearing just my fire-proof Tigger boxer shorts had a look at my gut comfortably bulging out of my underwear, providing a nice and cool shade for the cartoon character underneath. Turning to my flatmate and his girlfriend, who up until that point had been enjoying their breakfast, I asked them whether they thought I was slowly beginning to develop a beer belly.
   Both of them agreed that indeed there was a clear pattern of abdominal growth, but that it was probably the effect of deep-fried haggis and chips rather than beer. Which was excellent news to me, as I was planning to cut down on whatever caused the unplanned and unauthorised expansion.
   Of course the fact I have a beer-gut doesn't in the slightest bother me. It is very rarely that I wonder or worry about my physique and as long as I can both touch my toes and see my penis I really have no reason to worry. I have no girlfriend to pester me and on the rare occasion I am naked with a second person present both of us are too intoxicated and desperate to object to any such features anyway.
   It's just that I recently found myself running up three flights of stairs and arriving at the desired floor felt the urgent desire to be put on a ventilator. That can't be healthy at my age. You find yourself chatting people up on the internet because somehow your subconscious has figured out that the chances of pulling in the pub have been dramatically reduced in recent months. So for the next few weeks no deep-fried foods. Purely frozen pizza.

A Moral Crusade
Monday 15 September 2003

Last year a total of 5,695 people were either partially or completely ripped apart by landmines in Chechnya, the ICBL has reported. A quick breakdown of that number gives you 13 adults every day and the average for kids is 18 per week.
   Now that's impressive. Who needs tanks with that casualty rate? Imagine being a suicide bomber in that country! First, you strap yourself with grenades, plastic explosives, nuts, bolts, screws and other implements the IRA uses to spread happiness and joy across railway stations and BBC studios. That's the easy part. Now you have to make it to the Russian soldiers, without stepping on a landmine first.
   Because that would just be embarrassing. Turning up at the hereafter to claim your forty-eight virgins only to be told by a bloke with a clipboard that even though your intention was to kill the bastard infidel, triggering a landmine on a dirt path, killing a sheep and two goldfish doesn't quite qualify as martyr material.
   Of course the UK doesn't use landmines anymore. We have moved up. Now we use cluster bombs. Cluster bombs are better because you chuck them out by the hundred, you don't have to bury them and the colour scheme is such that it brings the kids to the bombs all voluntarily! They are currently experimenting with Winnie the Pooh and the Little Mermaid bomblets to drop when the US tells us to invade Iran.
   Incidentally, we buy our cluster bombs from Israel. Don't you think it is slightly ironic that we bought weapons of mass destruction from a country run by a mass murderer, in violation of countless UN resolutions and torturing children on a daily basis to invade a country run by a mass murderer, in violation of countless UN resolutions and torturing children on a daily basis on the assumption they are making weapons of mass destruction? You have to appreciate and respect the morality involved in making that decision. Not only will this thing kill brown children here, but the proceeds will be used to kill other brown kids over there as well! Aren't we clever little sods.
   Which brings us to Iraq. Have we figured out yet why we went to war? It's getting a bit hazy at the moment. Every day in the paper it says Tony Blair misled us on the reason for going to war. I can't even bloody remember the reason we went in! The UN had something to do with it, and weapons that Donald Rumsfeld had sold them and were still not paid for. And regime change as well. And oil, plus supporting our troops. A debt to America. The twin towers came up, and Al Qaida along with Kuwait and Barney the Dinosaur. Which did we go for in the end? I seem to remember they could never make their minds up. Come to think of it, I don't think they ever told us why we declared war. If we declared war that is. Apparently we forgot in Afghanistan. Saves a lot of paperwork.

A Politician At Heart
Tuesday 16 September 2003

According to the Guardian, the only left-wing tabloid available to Britain, and yet not covering any domestic issue outside the fourth Tube zone of England's capital, a beggar has decided to start camping outside the Queen's home. In protest. As you do. He's pissed off because Manchester has banned him from begging and annoying people in the city centre and having been arrested 97 times.
   Imagine that. He has been arrested ninety-seven times and he is pissed off. Shouldn't the Queen be pissed off at him? How many times do you have to be arrested before a judge will say 'fuck it; throw away the key'? Three strikes and you're out is a bit excessive, I agree, but by the time somebody is approaching thirty surely we can just stick him on an atoll somewhere north of the Hebrides and leave him to form his own system of justice with the crabs and the seagulls.
   Monsieur Hockey, as this particular vagrant is known, clearly attempting to get a moral point across in obstructing the view of Buckingham Palace, also has a 22,000 quid heroin addiction. Now correct me if I am wrong, because I am willing to learn, but isn't the possession of heroin still illegal in England and Wales? I know it is up here in Scotland...
   How the fuck does a bum acquire £22,000? I work sixty hours a week and I don't even dream of ever coming close to making that amount of cash, even before Brown deducts half to reduce the number of Arabs in the world. And that's just for the drugs! Add to that food, occasional clothing and now a ticket to London. The fucker gets twice as much money as I do, and he doesn't contribute one penny to the NHS! Labour at work, I feel.
   Mr Bum's solicitor, Ben Taylor, has already lodged a complaint about his being kicked out of Manchester city centre. Pardon me? His what? His solicitor? His fucking solicitor? I can barely afford to pay the council tax and this scrounger has the money to get a lawyer! How much cash does this leech accumulate of the working population during the course of a day? A lazy smack-head on the streets makes more money than I do working and he has the audacity to complain to our Queen when somebody tells him to fuck off and get a job!
   You would say that after ninety-seven warnings even the judiciary in Manchester would hazard a guess that perhaps Mr Hockey had no intention of giving up his addiction and was going to be a professional nuisance to the general public until he finally died.
   So why wasn't he sentenced to be tied down to a prison bunk with leather straps until he was clean? They could have ankle-cuffed a smack dealer to the bed with a wet cloth and a bucket with the job of seeing him through the whole process. That would constitute as rehabilitation for all parties concerned, wouldn't it?
   Now that he has escaped Manchester I have a suggestion. Maybe we can send a bloke up to him, pretending to be a dealer. Instead of giving him heroin however, he could stuff him full of acid. Then we could get someone else to exploit his paranoia and convince him his mission is to kill our monarch. In his attempt the Royal Guard can then pump half a dozen rounds into his junky skull and put him out of our collective misery.
   And they say I'd be no good in politics...

Where There Is Smoke…
Thursday 25 September and Thursday 2 October 2003

In Scotland we have parliaments coming out of our ears. We must be the most democratic country in the world. On a national level we get to vote for two MSP's, one MP and an MEP. The Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh deals with the Scottish law, such as murder, house breaking and battering someone to death with a hardened deep fried mars bar. Westminster Parliament , down in London, decides on issues such as nationality, immigration and anything to do with the army. And then there is the European Parliament in Brussels, which is supposed to deal with gross violations of human rights and unification of all the European states still in existence, but seems awfully preoccupied with the size and shape of bananas.
   And we are obliged to obey them all. Confusing, don't you think? Now they are even drawing up a European constitution. Fucking hell, maybe it's time we start looking for the pages we lost from the UK one. And I'm not even sure if we even have one in Scotland and if so, what century it was written in.
   But European law is definitely the funniest one. It only goes to show that if you cram enough nutters in a room in Belgium, eventually they will come up with some crazy shit. The newest thing is smoking. EU officials are saying that we have to start banning smoking from public places. All public places that is. Including pubs. Across Europe. Soon.
   Fuck. Off. Leave our pubs alone. What are they going to ban next? Showing the rugby? Singing perhaps. Or playing music. Here's an idea: let's ban drinking. What is all this nonsense? Since when did smoking become a crime against humanity?
   Of course smoking kills you. Good. The world is overpopulated anyway. Those wishing to leave early are encouraged to do so. Second hand smoke is also bad for you, and smoking leads to many deaths every year. So, the argument is that smoking is bad for the smoker and the people around them, and it kills people. Well, if those are the criteria, I have a few suggestions of my own.
Driving. Besides pollution, driving kills thousands each year, and not just the fuckwits behind the wheel. As smoking is mostly done in the pub driving should be banned from motorways first.
Marriage. One in four people suffer from spousal abuse and in some cases marriage leads to violence ending in death. A record number of marriages also end in divorce so what's the point of them anyway? Ban them from churches and city halls.
Fucking. Venereal diseases, crimes of passion and gangland shootings involving prostitutes are all due to sex. Also hurts partners who are cheated by their spouse. To be banned from bedrooms, club toilets and Calton Hill first.
Stairs. Every time a scientist plays down a major epidemic he will point out more people die from falling down the stairs. More lethal than sars. Not only can falling down stairs cause horrific injuries and death, but also puts in great danger those on lower steps. To be banned from high-rise buildings immediately.
Glasgow. Highly polluted, and rife of stabbings, glassings, football violence, shootings, rape, group beatings and too much fatty food. Wearing Glasgow teams' shirts will also get you killed in other parts of the country, along with any poor sod who may be accompanying you. The most sensible thing to do would be to ban it from Scotland first.
   Just to clarify I would like to point out that I have nothing against smoke-free pubs. In fact, I am in complete favour of them. We need a few dozen scattered across Edinburgh. Probably best to stick them next to Starbucks.
   Inside they can create an entire non-smoking zone. Perhaps they can also start serving vitamin-enriched fruit juices. Sounds great to me. For all I care they can continuously play homoerotic jazz music composed for the ballet by a Czechoslovakian-born composer in the fifteenth century. And perhaps introduce health lectures. All in a safe and child loving environment. Anybody wants to sit in there, be my guest. It used to be a free country, so why not?
   Personally I don't want to sit in a healthy place on Saturday night. If I would, I'd join the fucking gym. We don't go to the pub to be safe and clean. We go to relax and have a good time. Possibly to pull and spend the rest of the night having filthy sex without a helmet and with total disregard for our own personal safety. I want to sit in a pub with tattooed bikers and heavily pierced gothic rock-chicks, in a place where we can drink whisky and beer and smoke unfiltered cigarettes if we so please. I want Motorhead and Led Zeppelin blasting from the speakers, lead troughs to piss in and under no possible circumstances do I want my pub to be a family place.
   Fucking hell, I live in a city of half a million people, a port and two football clubs; do you really think I'm going to die from my flatmate lighting up next to me? If I live to forty without being shot, stabbed, blown up, run over, battered with a cricket bat, set on fire or accidentally injected with the wrong drugs in hospital, fuck it; cancer can have me. I'm willing to take that chance.

Two Sugars, Please
Thursday 9 October 2003

Among life's great challenges we surely have to count stumbling through the streets early in the morning without any contacts in. It's enough to drive anyone insane. Especially when you are trying to get on the right bus. Though just walking downhill in Edinburgh city centre can be quite a tough challenge, even for those claiming to be able to find their way with their eyes closed.
   In fact, with my eyes closed I wouldn't nearly have had as many difficulties. If only someone would have provided me with a pair of sunglasses and a red and white stick I am sure I would have had no trouble in finding my way home. With severely impaired visual abilities however you find yourself constantly wondering whether people are looking at you because they know you or because your fly is undone. Waving helps in the first instance, however in the second you will probably be arrested.
   And why are dog leads invisible to the lens-free eye? These things are bloody dangerous enough as it is; no need to make them disappear from sight. Every time I see a dog coming towards me within seconds I will have to determine who the dog is with, where that person is and whether anywhere in between is a cord I can trip over or get strangled by. Depending on the size of the dog and owner of course.
   Actually the main reason I was so tempted to kick a poodle in the snout the other day was not just because it was very early and I had lost all ability to see, but because I hadn't had a cup of tea. I am sure that in the great handbook of one-night stands it says you are supposed to have a cup of tea in the morning. Or coffee if you are so inclined. It is on the List. Right under having sex; one above using a condom. It's the law. And if it's not, then it fucking well should be.
   You can't go from the blissful warmth of waking up with your arms wrapped around someone and sharing the same pillow to the cold reality of the city streets without a hot cup of tea to ease you through the transition. The human mind and body can't deal with that kind of sudden alteration in reality.
   There aren't many things written in stone when it comes to one-night stands. You don't even have to be pleasant to one another. Or remember names. And much as it is civilised, there are no rules regarding any obligation to help locate a missing sock. Nor is it completely uncommon to chuck someone out of the house shortly after waking up. Well, it's not uncommon for me to be chucked out anyway. You don't even have to go through the whole exchanging phone numbers routine. In fact, exchanging phone number can be seen by some as to suggest it was not a one-night stand at all. It could be viewed as a promise to keep in touch. Make it a two-night stand. Possibly even a brief affair. A relationship. Holidays abroad. Kids. Marriage! A pact to commit suicide together!
   Sorry, got carried away there. The point is that a cup of tea is an indispensable part of a one-night stand. No meaningless drunken shag with no strings attached is complete without it. And it is universal. No matter what language they speak, nation they derive from, culture they adhere to or colour they might have been born with, nobody could possibly be offended by a cup of tea. It is the cornerstone of society as we know it and having to walk home alone without it is just plain barbaric.

The Blood Is The Life
Wednesday 15 October 2003

I hate it when people on television start playing on my conscience. And I especially get grouchy when it works. I don't like people reminding me I am a selfish bastard with no heart or compassion, no matter how much right or reason they may have.
   The Scottish NHS yesterday launched an appeal to all of us in Scotland, urging us to get off our fat haggis-filled arses and drag our beer guzzling corpses to the nearest hospital to donate a mere pint of our blood so that little five-year-olds can be supplied with a new liver, lung or whichever other organ may have been crushed in the car crash they were involved in.
   Not very subtle you will understand, though at least at the six o'clock news they spared us the images of emergency rooms and amputations, and stuck to a few pictures of a cancer patient after extensive chemotherapy. Actually I was feeling pretty damn good about myself when I heard what a disgracefully low percentage of Scots turn up for donations. After all, I am a blood donor, so definitely part of the good guys. Then of course they pointed out that existing donors don't turn up often enough, reminding me I haven't been in over a year either. Bastards.
   So by now I am thinking of having a look on the website to see when countess Dracula and her mobile blood bank are next in the neighbourhood, but of course the reporter once again stresses us insensitive little shits may very well be endangering the lives of our fellow citizens because the patriotic spirit has vanished from this country. Okay then, I'll go next week.
   Not good enough. Unless the NHS gets another few dozen donors a day in the next week or so in a fortnight they will be forced to cancel operations, which will lead to severe heartbreak and the anguish of small children with nasty things living in their spines. Very well! I'll go on Thursday! Jesus Christ, these guys should be working in the advertising industry. Or recruiting for the army. Not working for the BBC.
   Actually I am quite a big fan of the whole donor plan. I really don't like sick people and detest children so as long as the nurses will plug them into an IV and clear up the sick afterwards I am quite happy for my part to be contributing two pints of blood every year. Besides, everybody there is always really nice and they even give you tea and a biscuit when you are there! Just like visiting your nan really.

Today's Forecast: Warm And Sunny
Wednesday 22 October 2003

Last night the BBC six o'clock news reported that unless it starts raining down in quantities similar to those experienced by Noah Britain may soon be facing a serious water shortage, which may lead to crops being destroyed and a whole lot of other unpleasant events. Apparently the drought is reaching devastating proportions and in some areas is the worst ever recorded. Trying not to sound like a doomsday prophet the newsreaders and reporters pointed out that this lack of water is a significant problem for our country.
   Which is strange, because while I was watching this report I was hugging the radiator in a desperate attempt to dry myself and my clothes after having to struggle through a rain and sleet storm the likes of which I haven't seen in a long time. The streets are so filled with water that passing cars throw up water as far as my navel and if it weren't for the fact my boots reach above my ankles they would have been absolutely filled with murky fluids constantly pouring down from the skies and accumulating on the streets.
   Without the slightest hint of sarcasm a reporter is stating quite matter of factly that the east of Scotland this year has only had about sixty percent of its normal levels of rain. Meanwhile, outside small furry animals are ripped down from trees by relentless hail pounding down on them and washing them into the vast rivers streaming along the sides of the roads.
   As if sixty percent of the average is anything to worry about. If we get twenty percent of normal rain we would still have enough to irrigate our fields, replenish our lochs, bathe our kids and supply half of Libya with swimming pools and fishing ponds. I'm not worried about drought. Drowning perhaps.

Spam, Spam, Spam
Sunday 26 October 2003

The latest crime spreading around on the world wide web is spamming, apparently. If e-mail is the modern equivalent of a letter, then spam is junk mail. It advertises anything from garden hoses to fertility medication and is attracted to your inbox like flies to shit. And people are going absolutely mental about this. In California, the bastion of common sense, they have even passed laws to ban it.
   I really don't have a problem with spam. Quite how people need to be tranquillised after receiving too many pointless e-mails I can't figure out. It is very seldom I see an e-mail from Hot Helen, entitled 'want a larger penis?' and actually bother opening it. And hitting the delete button I realise is a bit of a challenge when you are illiterate, blind or otherwise socially disabled but for a reasonably well adjusted individual like myself, with ten digits in working order, I think the inconvenience can safely be described as minor.
   What pisses me off is the e-mails not covered by the spam definition, but are a far more serious electronic plague festering through our modems. People you know sending you useless crap you neither want nor have any possible need for. I'm not prepared for this junk. If I know the sender and the title claims I need to read this immediately I am expecting a warning on a chemical spill, news of a lottery win or the discreet advice to see a doctor regarding a certain strain of VD that has recently sprung up amongst close friends.
   What I do not expect is a poem written by an autistic nine-year-old in Angola about the love that is kindling within each of our spirits and when allowed to run rampant will surely deliver us world peace and eternal enlightenment. Followed by the threat that if I do not immediately send this on to twenty-seven unfortunate souls who need to be reminded of long-forgotten messages of love and hope I will not only be denied a place in Heaven, but will also be subjected to a humiliating episode in which people in the pub will make fun of my willy.
   If I am extremely lucky it will also include a message at the bottom, claiming that to prove my undying love and affection for the sender of this message I will also have to send it right back to them. Presumably so they can read the same message again. And guess what, when I get an e-mail like this I do not feel like sending someone hugs and kisses. I feel like slowly garrotting them while stamping on their bare knuckles.
   Unless an impersonal e-mail is so funny I will fall off my chair laughing while clutching my chest due to inability to breathe I really don't want to get it from someone I know. Anonymous arseholes I can ignore. Acquaintances I have to shout at. Possibly hurt them. And I am not talking about their feelings. I mean seriously do damage to their health. That, however, there are laws against.

Animal Hospital
Wednesday 29 October 2003

Do animals ever have heart attacks? They have hearts, and they are prone to diseases, so in my mind surely they are subject to heart failure? Yet you never see a squirrel sitting in a tree, pull a strange face, grab his chest and tumble out of a tree. Well, maybe if you shoot it. But I don't want to shoot squirrels. I want them to die of natural causes. Preferably at the very top of a tremendously high tree, hitting every single branch on the way down and if at all possible also ripping into other squirrels minding their own business.
   Or take the example of the common pigeon. You sneak up on a pigeon and stamp your feet right behind it and they will always fly away. How the fuck do they do that? Somebody does that to me I can barely manage to breathe, let alone move any of my limbs. But, like squirrels, you never see the one elderly pigeon just freeze and then drop down dead face-first.
   Dogs are the strangest ones. A dog can be staring out into the distance and when you out of the clear blue give a good tug at its tail while it is trying to wag it all the stupid creature will do is look back at you and blink its eyes before turning back to what it was doing in the first place. Unless you throw a stick. Dogs can run up and down, up and down until your arm is knackered from the exercise and still the pooch is thundering after the thing. That's not normal. Occasionally one of these dogs must stop dead in his tracks and after a pathetic yelp just croak it on the middle of the field.
   And if animals don't suffer from heart attacks, why do we? We feed them our crappy and fatty foods, don't we? How come the bastards aren't dying like we are? I feel that this is a particularly bad joke that God is playing on us. One day She got all the animals together and they made a pact. And you know they are laughing at us behind our backs. The fuckers. Maybe shooting them isn't such a bad idea after all. Bring on the hunt!

I Am Not A Pervert
Saturday 8 November 2003

On my way to work I regularly pass a lassie in a red jumper, who happens to work right in between my home and my job. Pretty lassie. Insomuch as it's possible on my way to work she usually brightens the day a little. Don't know if she has any kind of character, or whether she can actually speak, but I am perfectly happy to remain a voyeuristic pervert the few seconds it takes me to walk past her.
   Which is exactly what is worrying me. She works in a day-care centre, and those kind of places do not mix with voyeuristic perverts. Having an erection while walking past a building full of playing kids I think we all agree is not a good thing. Somehow for some years now we have all come to the conclusion that when little children are about there should be no fantasising of a sexual nature.
   I am petrified one of these days I will be walking past, casually staring in to catch a glimpse of her, mumble something indecent and be noticed by one of the mums. Dads I'll be able to deal with. I would just point at the lassie, grunt something you hear in rugby locker rooms on a regular basis and we would all have a good laugh about the misunderstanding.
   With mums you won't even get so far as to turn around. Those female radar beams will have spread to every woman in the immediate area and while pre-pubescent girls cling on to your ankles the adult women will repeatedly hit you with prams, suffocate you with sanitary towels and tear you to tiny little shreds right in front of all the little kiddies.
   Now I am all up for adventure, but really have no intention of ending up in a Sainsbury plastic bag, weighted down and slowly sinking to the bottom of the Water of Leith. So I think it is very dangerous and utterly unacceptable to have lassies that pretty working with our young ones. It is simply irresponsible to put us innocent pedestrians in that position.

A Sex Change For The Almighty
Saturday 15 November 2003

I have found a wee loophole in the bible, that seems to suggest I may all this while have been right about the gender of the Supreme Being. All my life people have been going on about His, Him and the other, but it is perfectly obvious to me that God is of course a woman. Hence earthquakes, floods and the like when you least expect it and for no apparent reason whatsoever.
   So, have a look at what the Christians call the Old Testament and the Jews call Tanah. Moses climbs up an enormous hill. That's the first bit. A man climbing up the mountain while the women sit on their arses gossiping about him while he is doing all the hard work. No election or quick vote amongst equals, just a divine woman sending this poor bloke she expects to dedicate his life to Her all the way up there, in a time when there was no mountaineering equipment, only to drag back down with him not just one but two fucking stone tablets. Imagine how much that must have weighed.
   And then the tablets themselves. Ten commandments. Well, quite a few more, but under ten headings. Personally I think I have probably broken most of them. But that is beside the point. One of them says you cannot covet your neighbour's wife, house, field, manservant, maidservant, ox or ass. The latter in the agricultural context of course.
   Notice anything strange? You can't covet your neighbour's manservant or maidservant. Nor his wife. Doesn't say anything about husband... Little omission there. An accidental slip by the all-powerful being? Not very likely. She did that on purpose. Leave the door open for women to shag their neighbour's husband. You mean to tell me you never wondered why She has to be worshipped? You don't think this is just a very early version of 'tell me I'm beautiful'? And what about this graven images crap? Oh, don't take any pictures of me. My hair is all messed up.
   It would also explain why there is so much confusion amongst religious leaders. After all, most of them are men, and we all know men can never work out what it is a woman means. We also know men like to impress women and will go to extreme lengths. So when the female god said 'let there be light' she probably meant a little candle by the bed so that children can learn how to read. Male religious leaders set fire to people. When the female god said Israel was the Promised Land she probably meant the weather was decent and plenty of room for everyone. Male religious leaders ethnically cleansed the place.
   I think that if we all come to our senses and realise God is a woman we would soon come to the conclusion that the last thing we should do is take any notice of what She has to say, open up a beer instead and turn up the volume on the television. The world would be a better place.

Pitmedden By Night
Sunday 16 November 2003

Flipping through a brochure encouraging foreigners of all countries allowing their natives to travel to visit the wonderfully bonnie Scotland I came across an interesting claim. One I wasn't previously aware of. It turns out that Pitmedden Garden has a very rare moon dial as a centrepiece.
   Now I will be the first to put my hand up and admit I haven't the faintest idea where Pitmedden Garden could possibly be located. I'm sure it is one of our greatest gardens, but quite frankly I don't think I had ever heard of it before. Nor, barring flooding or fire, do I think it will at one point in my life become a place of any significance to me. You never know, but the chances as of yet remain fairly slim to say the least.
   The thing that caught my interest was the very rare moon dial. It has a certain ring to it. An absurd one. The fact that it is a very rare moon dial seems to suggest that other moon dials are commonplace. I have been on this planet for well over two decades now, and have spent most of it in civilised parts of the globe. Yet I can't recall having ever come across a moon dial. Sun dials aye. I even know how they work. You can tell the time or date by the shade. Ever seen shade in the middle of the night?
   Where are all those not-very-rare moon dials? Did any of you ever do a science project on these things? Is Homebase selling them at discount prices? And what could possibly have been the use for these things? Imagine this: we have had watches for well over a century now. Do you honestly think before that anyone could be bothered what time it was in the dead of night? That is if you can see the moon through the clouds, which in most parts of Northern Europe is a feat pretty rare in itself.
   I would love to see a herd of Japanese tourists flocking into Pitmedden Garden and pointing at this thing, saying (in Japanese of course) "wow. Look at that one! Much nicer than all the common ones we have seen lying around." Of course it's very rare. Every moon dial is fucking rare. Oh, and by the way, is this garden even open at night? I think not.

All You Need Is Love
Sunday 23 November 2003

Hostility is an interesting thing. It seems to be the driving force in my life. I wonder if this is genetically determined or whether somewhere in my life I sniffed something in chemistry class I shouldn't have and it altered my sense of normality. Somehow warm and cuddly things are very scarce in my life, whereas of course all things horrible, unpleasant and plain disgraceful seem to be a recurring factor.
   It shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise then that I found myself in the company of a very lovely young lassie, who seemed pretty warm and cuddly, and within a matter of minutes of having been introduced we found ourselves discussing our common hatred of squirrels. And people wonder why I have trouble maintaining relationships. Any normal human being would have been searching for that annoying gypsy-type with the bucket of flowers and showering the girl with compliments. I was discussing the annihilation of airborne rodents.
   There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I am sure. Maybe there is a self-help book out there, detailing how not to share your hostility with the world. It will probably tell you to write things down you like and try to focus on them. But then you would just be dull. Except for football fans nobody gets passionate about the things they like. Just the things they hate. Or maybe that is just me.
   Tell you what. If she will see me again I will assume either I am normal or she is just as messed up as I am. If not I will be open to suggestions on how to confront, preferably aggressively, all this anger towards rats with bushy tails and other things that deserve to die. Personally I am kind of hoping for the first possibility, but don't tell anyone, because it'll ruin my reputation of being a miserable git.

Caledonian Street Parties
Monday 24 November 2003

It's always a surprise when you walk out of your front door and realise that the streets are frozen over. Not one of the most pleasant ones I might add, and it usually involves either landing on your arse or twisting some part of your back you up until that point never imagined would be capable of bending. Nothing quite like yawning and breaking your neck at the same time.
   I really don't mind winter. I don't even mind snow. In fact, snow can be quite cool and in winter you have all sorts of legitimate reasons to head for the pub, drink a whisky or set fire to things. It's a fun part of the year. Just the slippery bit is a bit off. Frozen ponds and lakes I can deal with. Because things like that you can just avoid. I mean, walking on water. That's not right. As far as I am aware only one bloke tried that successfully and we all know how he ended up.
   So lakes and ponds I can avoid. Largely because we don't have too many of them in Edinburgh. Streets we have tonnes of. Streets fucking everywhere you look. Can't throw a dead seagull without hitting a street. So when they freeze over it is slightly more complicated to steer clear of the dangers icy conditions present.
   And it's not like you are paying attention when you are walking. Over the years a human being becomes to accustomed to putting one foot in front of the other that in time you barely notice you are doing it at all. So it comes as more than a little of a shock when all of a sudden your feet go in a direction you didn't move them.
   At least the first signs of icy roads came on Sunday, so as I struggled along the road I could imagine all the famously uptight ultra-religious Christians slipping up and sliding into the church door face-first. That gave me a little satisfaction.

Dinner For Two
Thursday 11 December 2003

Just to prove that not all Germans are boring and without a sense of adventure a man is currently on trial for stabbing to death another man, and then eating him. That's to say, he is on trial for stabbing him. Cannibalism is not against the law in Germany. This sounds slightly worrying to me. Speeding is illegal. Smoking pot is illegal. Even peeing in public is illegal. But eating another human being is fine.
   This sounds to me as if perhaps there should be an introduction of new legislation. Surely if banning the consumption of human flesh were to be announced in the German equivalent of the Queen's speech there shouldn't be too much opposition. I hope not, anyway.
   I wonder how many animals eat their own kind. I know rats do, and I imagine vultures, coyotes and ravens probably do as well. But normally don't creatures stick to eating other species instead? Personally I wouldn't at all be comfortable chewing away on something I can point out on my own body. Maybe I am just unimaginative.
   In this particular instance the victim actually volunteered to be eaten, and before he was stabbed to death he agreed to have his penis cut off so the two of them could eat that together. If I ever get tendencies like these, please do me a favour; drug me until I am drooling all over myself, and just shoot me in the head. Point-blank.
   I'm not sure if euthanasia was such a bad option here. The eating him bit is a bit disturbing, but who are we to argue with German law? The only illegal thing he seems to have done is to kill a man who both wanted to die and eat his own penis. He clearly didn't object to being killed, and in all fairness I don't think too many mothers would want this man anywhere near their children. Glad I'm not in that jury.

Urban Fox Hunting
Tuesday 30 December 2003

I thought politicians were supposed to be good at making compromises. Isn't that what it says in their job description? To adjust principles until they are no longer offensive to anyone? Guess not. In an impressive feat of resolution the Scottish Executive a few years ago decided to ban most forms of hunting.
   Personally I don't give a toss about hunting. People want to dress up and chase a fox with a couple of dogs then the best of luck to them. I can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. I can also think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, but then perhaps that's just because I am a city boy.
   Apparently that is the problem with anti-hunt activists. They're too urban. Townies will never understand the thrill of the hunt. The joy of wearing white trousers in such a muddy environment. Living right on the edge. And they're right. I don't understand it. Nor do I have any intention of ever becoming one of the countryside crew. I like electricity, warm showers and the knowledge an ambulance only takes eight minutes to reach me.
   But, I have come up with a solution to this conflict. If the townies don't understand the thrill of the hunt, and the countryside folk want to control the pest of foxes, why not move the hunt into the city? Problem solved if you ask me. Best of both worlds. Instead of horses of course you'll need to use scooters. But foxes aplenty. In fact, I wouldn't at all be surprised if there are more urban foxes than there are feral ones.
   And the thrill would be even bigger. Because obviously we are not going to be stopping traffic, so as the hunters chase the animal through the streets they will have to be ducking and diving oncoming traffic at the same time. Extra fun! I'm sure even the anti-hunt lobby would secretly be glad to see one of these peasants in a red coat pinned under a Volkswagen Beetle.

The Ten Commandments

Thursday 1 January 2004

A new year once again. Many disasters ahead I am sure. As religion seems to have taken over as the main set of rules to live, kill and die by I have decided to make a few things clear to you. If we all take a quick look at the following I am sure you will all agree it makes sense.
As Judaism, Islam and Christianity all have to abide by ten commandments I thought for once I'd fall in line and suggest the same. So, here you go. The commandments of common sense.

1) You shall not worship God. She is far too busy for grovelling people down here on earth. If you want to get on Her good side, obey the commandments and offer Her some chocolate.
2) You shall not burn or otherwise destroy books, images and other forms of art because they misrepresent God or any other concept. Read them. They won't bite. It's only paper.
3) You shall celebrate religious festivals and the day of rest. These are joyous occasions. Stop starving yourself, flogging yourself and torturing your children. Sleep late. Pick up a decent book. Read up on traditions and bring flowers.
4) There are no human representatives of God. Anyone claiming to speak for Her is lying. They speak only for themselves. If you want to put your faith and life in someone's hands, try a lover or a doctor.
5) Reproduce, but in moderation. Try and maintain the population, not inflate it. We all need to eat, drink and breathe.
6) You shall not inflict your religion upon others. Remember the Sabbath so your designated place of religious gathering will not need to remind you of services in the form of loud noises and annoy your neighbours in the process.
7) You shall not have sex with children, live animals, dead animals, animal products or people resembling animals. Some things are just plain wrong.
8) Do as is right, not as you are told. You shall not follow leaders you do not agree with. Look into the idea of having principles.
9) If you are starving, eat and drink what you can. If you are not, eat and drink what you like. God is not interested in what you eat, as long as you do.
10) You shall not masturbate in public. Do it at home.

A Feeble State of Being

Tuesday 6 January 2004

As if being sick isn't bad enough. Lying in bed feeling like you would rather be dead than spend another minute feeling the way you do, and then realising you have to get up and go to work is an awful enough situation as it is. The last thing you want is for God to make things even worse for you. Or Darwin. Depending on your philosophy, obviously.
   For example, why is it that a seriously sore throat needs a lot of fluids? The only time the last thing you want is to drink you need to pour enormous quantities of liquids down your throat. That's just plain cruel. A sore arse should need drinking water. That I can deal with. Not the exact same part that is testing your mental barrier to deal with viruses.
   That's if you can find any fluids. Usually when you have a sore throat this is combined with other symptoms of a severe cold, such as watering eyes. So as you can barely breathe you move into the kitchen, trying to think what your nan used to prepare in the days you were even more incapacitated by these things, and you can't find a damn thing because you keep crying.
   And forget reading any of the labels. As soon as you focus you will be sneezing all over the place. When you turn to ask your flatmate to help you out immediately you will be overcome by a severe fit of coughing. By that time you will be considering snorting the aspirin to get a decent result, but of course your nose is blocked.
   There's no point, is there? The whole idea of being sick seems to be you need to get even sicker. That's how nature us intended us to be. Perhaps it's telling us it's about time we all vanish. Colds may very well be a timing device telling us time is up. You never know. Worth a philosophy paper, surely.

Drugged, Dying and Depressed

Tuesday 13 January 2004

How long can a human being possibly be sick? Surely there is a limit to the length of time a disease has a grip on us. Especially a cold. It's a fucking cold! A wee bit of a snivel and cough and off you go to carry on with your life!
   Not my cold. I hadn't even recovered from the one my girlfriend kindly passed on to me or I managed to catch another one! What have I done to deserve this? I have been so good this year. Haven't done a single horrible thing to anyone. This is not fair.
   In between my two colds I have now had hot spells, cold spells and a headache, plus blocked sinuses and a blocked, runny and itchy nose. I have been coughing until my lungs feel like coming up. Sneezing was part of the first one, and my muscles aching all over my upper body came with the second. My resistance has been reduced to nothing at all. Even my teeth hurt!
   Obviously I am doing my best to get rid of all this nonsense by drugging myself half to death and snorting, swallowing and inserting anything they tell me to. Lemon juice, grapefruit juice, orange juice; I have tried it. Paracetemol, aspirin and Lemsip have all been duly absorbed. And I have been pouring so much Australian eucalyptus honey down my throat a small Tasmanian colony of koalas is on the brink of starvation.
   Computer screens are really annoying to stare at when you feel like this. Which doesn't really help when you are attempting to keep deadlines. In fact, it is very bloody inconvenient indeed. It is just the extra kick in the bollocks from the god in charge of annoying me this week.
   I'm in one of those moods. The ones where you don't feel like doing anything or seeing anyone. I mean, people being nice to me is greatly appreciated when I am sick, but really all I want is either my girlfriend or my teddy bear next to me when I am asleep, and the rest of the time, I want my grandmother. I don't care she lives on another island. I need my nan! Everybody else can fuck right off.

The Menace of Islam

Tuesday 20 January 2004

There is some seriously disturbing stuff on telly these days. Especially on channel 4. They seem to be making a bid on the monopoly of all things that'll make your skin crawl, and yet can still be passed off as journalism. Perhaps they are trying to redeem themselves after Big Brother, but don't want to make the jump to serious just yet. Whatever their reasoning, I am freaked out.
   This week I was watching a documentary about women in Islam. Fucking scary stuff! Absolutely and utterly disgraceful. No wonder Muslims have such a bad name over here. Did you know that it actually says in the Koran that, as a man, when you are having sex with a woman and you come, you can't just lie back and go to sleep? According to the book of all books in the Islamic faith you have to make damn sure she has an orgasm as well before you can stop.
   I'm serious! It's put slightly more eloquently of course, but not a lot. That's just cruel. But it also explains the whole anti-alcohol stance they have in Islam. As we are well aware, once you have a few pints and you climax, you are asleep before you reach the last syllable of your post-ejaculation groan. The idea of not drinking any alcoholic consumptions is bound to be somehow related to the impossible demand you satisfy your girlfriend time and time again.
   And don't think you can get out of this by just faking a headache and going to sleep. Oh, no; it gets better! If you refuse to have sex for four weeks, she can divorce you. On the grounds you don't shag her! Can you even begin to imagine a bloke using this as an argument in any court on this island? You don't stand a chance in hell. But women have this as a divine right. Even more proof God is a woman, if you ask me.
   No wonder those religious nutcases in Iran are stoning women. Fucking a hell of a lot easier than making a woman come several times a week. If you can tell in the first place. When we come, we let you know. No missing that. Women like to be discreet about the whole thing, to make damn sure you keep going until you drop after the ninth orgasm, and gasping for air politely enquire whether she has managed to climax yet.
   In other words, unless we want feminists to get even more demanding than they already are, the number one priority for us men should be to stop the Muslim faith from spreading. It is discriminatory against the male population, and therefore part of an evil plot by those breasted creatures. Stand up and fight, my brothers. They must be stopped!

In Memory of the Bard

Monday 26 January 2004

Burns Night is quite a challenge every year for those of us living in the cities. It is a great tradition to kill and skin the haggis yourself, and they have long been driven out of the urban areas. Which means every January we all squeeze into my flatmate's tin on wheels and head up to the Highlands. I look a bit silly in Wellies and a green overcoat, but tradition is tradition.
   The wee bastards are amazingly quick, considering the fact their legs are uneven. And it doesn't help that shooting them ruins the taste. So generally any unsuspecting passer-by will witness three or four of us running through a field with fishnets, clubs and a spear, zigzagging up and down hills, tripping, falling and rolling, swearing like there's no tomorrow.
   We got a mother one and a baby one this year. If you manage to catch them alive, the trick is to throw them in just before the water boils. In our case only the wee one lived, but boy did he paddle circles around his mum as the bubbles started appearing at the bottom of the pot. And he tasted lovely indeed.
   Of course I am not involved in the cooking process. Haggises are prone to exploding when not properly handled, and considering my lack of any skills in the kitchen once the haggis is captured the rest of my duties consist of finding some deep and meaningful poetry by the Bard.
   It takes a while to sift through all of them of course. His collected works are like a flood of odes, songs and epistles. My personal favourite is of course his ode to anal sex, but obviously that particular one is not quite suitable at the dinner table. Or at least not while there is food on it.

The Wisdom of Queen Liz

Monday 2 February 2004

I find myself in great company. It would seem our very own esteemed monarch and I are in perfect agreement on the new parliament building that supposedly and allegedly will one day in a distant future serve to seat our elected representatives. Presumably the Queen will use slightly more modified language when referring to the monstrosity of a structure, but it really is a fucking abomination.
   For those of you residing outside of Scotland, I'll fill you in on this project. Our new parliament building was ordered to be built in 1999 by the then First Minister, Donald Dewar, and was designed by one Enric Miralles. Both of them have since been struck dead by God for this atrocity, but that hasn't stopped the rest of the maniacs happily building away. The original cost was to be forty million pounds, but has since mysteriously risen to four hundred million. Nobody seems quite sure how this is possible, but everybody is fairly certain it involves a serious amount of fucking up. Which they have had plenty of time for, as it was supposed to be finished three years ago, and during the latest inspection it became perfectly obvious our MSP's can't move in until they have at least been provided with a roof.
   And, as an added bonus, it sits right in the Old Town. Next to the Palace. This would make sense if it had had a nice medieval or at least pre-electrical look to it. Unfortunately it looks more like the result of a speedboat shagging the Sydney opera house. Unsurprisingly, being a neighbour, the Queen is not amused. Nor, it has to be said, am I. It has about as much in common with the rest of the neighbourhood as Vermeer with pre-historic cave art. Both have their charm, but not in the same place. In this case the rest of the buildings look beautiful in Holyrood, in the shadow of Arthur's Seat, whereas the new parliament building would look a lot better on the third moon of Neptune.
   According to the Sunday Times , Her Royal Highness is so abhorred by the eyesore on her doorstep she has ordered her footmen to plant an enormous Norwegian tree right in between the two buildings, so she won't have to wake up to that sight.
   I believe this clearly is a brilliant and innovative, natural, organic and highly effective solution to the problem. Therefore, as a loyal subject I would like to hereby formally request the royal family to immediately demand a few hundred more trees be ordered and strategically placed all around the structure, hiding it from the public view entirely. It would not only be an act of ultimate humanity on the part of our royals, but their funding and supporting the scheme would undoubtedly buoy their popularity in these desperate times.

Dutch Logic

Sunday 8 February 2004

Read this in the paper the other day: the Dutch government has decided to no longer prosecute any person smuggling less than three kilograms of cocaine. Any mule or smuggler arriving at Schiphol airport will now simply be relieved of the cargo, slapped on the wrist, and then asked to fuck off. Similar measurements may soon be put in place for other hard drugs.
   Are these people absolutely fucking insane? I realise the country is a bit overcrowded, but surely there are more satisfactory solutions than killing off the population. This is not the kind of stuff that is lethal in large quantities. This is crap killing adults with less than a mouthful. Are they going to tolerate heroin next? Why not just move right on to crack?
   At least custom's officers won't have to put on any rubber gloves anymore. People will start taking it on board as hand luggage. Should you get caught with five pounds of white powder in your rucksack, you just grab the first plane back to Colombia and try again. If you listen closely you will hear alcohol-free champagne corks popping in Afghanistan. This must be the best news the Northern Alliance has had since the announcement mass-murder was not an issue when applying for a government post.
   According to Ivo Hommes of the Justice Ministry locking up thousands of smugglers doesn't solve the problem. There will always be more of them. Dutch logic for you. I think Mr Hommes himself may have been spending one too many Saturday nights with a rolled up Euro-bill up his nostril, popping opium pills rectally. There will always be more? Great argument! Why not legalise rape while you are at it? Assault, manslaughter, murder and child molestation. Hey, no point in locking them up; there will always be more!
   I agree prison doesn't work for heroin and crack dealers. Prison colonies will. Not like in the Australian days, but local islands devoid of human existence. You simply chuck the fucks overboard somewhere near the coast, and let them take care of themselves from there on. Of course we'd have no intention of regulating these places. If they feel like sitting around a campfire till late at night, that's fine. If they feel like spit roasting some of their colleagues alive that too will be of no concern to us.
   Holland has islands. Not quite as many as Scotland, but I am sure one or two are uninhabited and suitable. The water is a wee bit warmer there, so they may have to have a boat floating about with a sharpshooter on top, in case one of them decided to make a break. Bet Mr Hommes and his fellow nitwit politician friends didn't consider that plan.

The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways

Thursday 12 February 2004

Stranger things have happened. But not many. On a scale of uncommon occurrences, this one rates pretty much as high as a speaking walrus. Or a comet striking Earth. Law of average kind of makes these things inevitable, but it shouldn't prevent us from recognising the unique circumstances we find ourselves in.
   In this case, I have been invited to a wedding. That's strange enough. I don't look like a wedding-attending person. I don't feel like a wedding-attending person. In general I really don't belong at weddings. I am more the type to arrive at divorce hearings, with an armed police escort.
   Despite all of this, one of my friends from an ancient past has invited me to her wedding. One of those people you have known for so long you can't remember any of the other people around at the time. And, in this specific case, a friend harbouring, aiding and abetting me while I was being hunted across two continents.
   But it gets weirder… It is a Christian wedding. In a fucking church! In fucking England! An English Christian church wedding! You know; I once pictured myself being lowered into an abandoned diamond quarry filled with vampire bats, covered in some kind of sticky stuff attracting the bloodsucking bastards, by my ankles, stripped naked, with a purple ribbon tied around my penis; I have never pictured myself at an English Christian church wedding.
   How cool is that? After this, who knows what'll happen next!

The Class Struggle

Monday 16 February 2004

Anybody claiming social class is a thing of the past is sadly deluding himself. The class system is still very much in place, and rightly so. Its pillars have supported British society through the ages, and will continue to carry us well into a bright and happy future.
   And let's not pretend you feel any different about this. If your barrister or heart surgeon would come up to you and start talking with the thickest working class Geordie accent you can imagine you would automatically think: note to self: you're fucked. Similarly I want brickies to sound Glaswegian. Or some other accent that suggests a poor and urban upbringing. Anybody sounding as though he has attended Oxford should be living in a country-house, not build it. For that I want a bloke playing with sand and Lego all through his childhood, not learning how to play the piano with the help of his nanny.
   So, I want upper class diplomats, middle class magistrates and sheriffs, and all paramedics should be either lower middle or upper working class. Sophisticated enough to have studied anatomy but not sounding as though they should have been doctors but miserably failed med-school.
   I also firmly believe in class difference. We shouldn't mix unless there is some form of ceremony involved. For example, I wouldn't even begin to imagine hanging around with people of such importance they wear a wig at work. The only time our paths should cross is when I am either being sentenced or knighted. I don't belong there. And for that exact same reason I don't want posh people hanging around in my pub.
   Find your own damn place. You don't see me hanging around in restaurants with stars on the outside, so why don't you steer clear of pubs that have bloodstains on the doorframe? It's fairly simple: if the bar staff do not have a model haircut do have a stubble, your aftershave will very severely fuck up the delicate balance of odours that exists in the place, and your tie will be an affront to everybody's sense of decency. Slowly turn your arse 180 degrees to the left, and take a couple of steps forward. That should take you back out on the street and on your way to a place you will be more appreciated.

A Direct Line to Heaven

Sunday 22 February 2004

Well, you can't deny their ability to spot a market. According to the Times the Israeli state telecom company, Bezeq, is starting a service for the religious who would like to get in touch in the Almighty. By e-mail. You have to admit that in these days of remote controls and drive-through restaurants electronically communicating with God was the logical next step.
   Of course She Herself hasn't signed up with Bezeq yet, though after this initiative She might just consider it, so they have come up with a cunning plan the likes of which hasn't been seen for quite some time. You write whatever you want to tell God in your e-mail, click send, and somebody in Jerusalem will print it off and hand it to a footman, who will run up to the Wailing Wall like greased lightning and stuff it in between the rocks, where God can read it at Her divine leisure.
   Pretty ambitious you have to admit. And very good customer service. I can't get my provider to answer the phone, or indeed provide me with an internet connection for more than seven minutes at a time, let alone send its employees up a hill to deliver my personal prayers to the Deity.
   We are looking at possible heart attacks though. For example, what happens if one of these things comes back with re: in the subject line? Surely that would be a wee bit of a shock to the recipient. And do these things get read? I want to know who decides which prayers make it up there. After all, it must occasionally happen that people ask God to relieve their prostate cancer, or for their husbands to be less sloppy in the bedroom. You don't want some spotty trainee at Bezeq rummaging through your personal correspondence with the Almighty. That stuff is private. I think it is about time God opens up a hotline for these poor sods.

The Trouble with Being Quiet

Saturday 6 March 2004

Quite often I write my columns in the pub. You will find me in the Jekyll and Hyde or Bannermans, hiding in a corner, scribbling away in the company of a nice cold pint of 80 shillings. Occasionally people give me strange looks because of it, but generally after a bit of growling, throwing an empty glass at them and telling them in no uncertain terms to fuck off before they find a chair broken over their heads and the splintering leg rammed diagonally up their arse they leave me alone.
   Some people can't write at all when there is too much noise around them. Especially when people are talking to each other at great volume. I don't have that at all. People can shout at each other all they please, and I have no trouble ignoring them. If they really want to, they can even talk to me. Years of practice may not have taught me to feign interest, but I am certainly more than capable to block out anything that happens to pass their lips.
   I have a problem with people whispering. It's just annoying. It's bad enough I don't want to know what people are talking about, now they don't want me to know either. Surely there are simpler solutions to this. Just fuck off somewhere else. Or learn how to speak Japanese. But don't start shishing and shushing at a volume high enough for me to hear when I pay attention, but not low enough for me to ignore when I do not.
   It's the noise it makes. This irritating noise commonly associated with people breathing heavily down a phone line to impress or intimidate members of the female sex with large bosoms and weak dispositions. And it carries for miles. There is nothing more blood-boiling than a couple in the cinema bothering the whole room by trying to be quiet. Whispering should be reserved for private moments in the bedroom, and limited to requests for rough-and-ready activities of a highly sexual nature. Apart from that, write it down or something.

The Pope on Drugs

Monday 15 March 2004

As records go, being the third longest serving pope is pretty damn impressive. Pre-dating most modern monarchies and ranking pretty high up on the list of potential targets for nutcases, terrorists and attention seekers, the papal post is certainly not one to be ignored. And as one of the two longer-serving pontiffs used to hang out with Jesus himself, obviously John Paul finds himself in good company.
   You may have noticed that over the last quarter of a century the pope, who really should have demanded they also add the names George and Ringo to his name had he wanted to acquire a couple of million followers overnight, is getting a wee bit less agile than he was before. I haven't seen the man walk for years to start with. And I realise my Latin is a bit rusty, but when he speaks I can't make out a word of what he is saying.
   Always at hand to inform us of the most blatantly obvious is the BBC religious affairs correspondent, who reminds us that people are getting worried about the good man. And not just about the fact he is ancient and suffering from Parkinson's, but about the side effects of his medication as well. Apparently people in his state are prone to hallucinations, and this worries fellow Catholics.
   This is a man whose entire purpose in life is to talk to an invisible creature in the sky and declare holy anyone who may have been involved in things that are seemingly not physically possible, while at the same time investigating bleeding and crying stone statues. How much more does this man need to fucking hallucinate for people to get worried? Is a pink elephant playing cricket in the sky more worrying than a winged angel with a harp? Seems pretty much at par if you ask me. In fact, I know a lot more people that claim to have seen flying elephants than I do people who claim to have heard the voice of God. So who do worry about here?

Safety and Comfort

Wednesday 31 March 2004

Apparently, to get the most out of my keyboard, I should read the Safety and Comfort Guide. Unfortunately I do not own a copy of this magnificent-sounding document, though it has certainly provoked a hell of a lot of curiosity. What is this booklet going to tell me about using a keyboard? Up until this moment I had always found the object a rather self-explanatory tool. Now however, I am deeply intrigued.
   It seems unlikely that of all the components of my computer it is the keyboard that requires extensive safety instructions. Short of not dropping it in a bucket of water and realising there is electrical currant running through the grey piece of string sticking out of the back there can't be too many ways the inexperienced user could accidentally kill or injure himself. One would hope not, anyway.
   The comfort aspect worries me even more. I have always been a strong believer comfort is entirely a matter of taste. The fact most people find being bent in awkward positions is highly painful doesn't mean it can't be very pleasant for those people practicing yoga. So who is to tell me which way of typing is most comfortable? I'll be the judge of that. It is after all my keyboard, and I shall bloody well do with it as I please.
   I realise that whacking someone over the head with a keyboard is fairly uncomfortable, but as the majority of keyboards have only a limited amount of lead someone would have to be very willing to be hit in the first place, and stand pretty close. And people apparently not realising getting your foreskin caught between the J and K is potentially rather painful shouldn't be allowed to operate a computer full stop. So they can take their Safety and Comfort Guide, fold it a few times, and stick it in an uncomfortable orifice of their choice.

Fighting Fire

Thursday 15 April 2004

Strangely enough it came as a little bit of a surprise to me when I woke up to the sound of a bloke I had never met in my life drilling a hole in my bedroom wall with equipment I think is normally used to make holes for oil pipes. These things tend to not only make me wonder where the hell I am, but also put me in a mood not unlike that of psychopathic serial killers low on drugs. In which case leaving sharp electrical tools lying around is really not the smartest course of action for people in my immediate surroundings.
   Didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. In his mind, fire prevention was an important issue we all have to deal with, and if I have a heart attack in the process, then so be it. At least he had the decency to screw the fire extinguisher to the outside of my wall. Next to the front door, on my way out. Somehow that makes very little sense. This means that if there is a fire into my house he suggests I run away from it, to the safety of outside, stop, pick up the tiny bottle he thinks will make a difference, and then run straight back at the fire.
   Now I may not be the cleverest of cats, and some might even suggest I am only that tiny bit crazy, but suicidal I am not. Either I tackle a fire to get to safety, or I run the fuck out of my house and dial 999. When the extinguisher is next to the exit that leaves me with the far more enticing option of the street instead of a flaming inferno.
   Besides, if he really thinks I am going to stand in the middle of my burning hallway with a red canister roughly the same size as my sister's shoe, he is seriously mistaken. To start with, I shall be busy chucking my record collection out on the street. And then I am going to be taking a clean pair of underpants with me. If by then the fire brigade has not yet arrived, I will be writing a letter of complaint. There is a whole list of things I can think of that are more productive than making an arse out of myself with a tool slightly less effective than a water pistol. If some dickhead is going to wake me up at some ungodly hour, at least let it be for a decent reason.

Prayer in Schools

Thursday 22 April 2004

What kind of an example are schools setting nowadays? These institutions are supposed to be teaching the nation's young to lead a good, clean and legal life. Not encourage them to break the law. Yet three quarters of schools are doing exactly that, usually because they claim they don't have time to abide it. A valuable lesson to be learnt for all the poor kiddies paying close attention to the actions of their elders.
   And it is not like we are talking petty offences here; these people are failing to offer worship to the Almighty, which they are obliged to do every single school day. I never knew this. And with the BBC you are never sure whether they are talking about England or the whole of the UK, so I am not entirely sure if it applies to Scotland. Either way it seems the law clearly states all kids should have religious worship several times a week as part of their quest for knowledge and wisdom.
   I think this is a brilliant idea. As long as we do not subject these children to boring Christian prayers and lectures. And fuck Islamic, Hindu and Jewish sessions as well. If we want to involve kids in religious rituals, we should make it more interesting for them. I want to see an hour of Satanic worship every Tuesday. And on Thursdays we should bring in a Maori to teach them all that really cool dance they do. Or a quick lesson in Rastafarian dope smoking.
   The remaining three days of the week we should do guest appearances. Philosophy teachers could be used as human sacrifices to Wodan. That'll teach them to question the existence of a supreme being. And plenty of virgins about in schools, so that could make for some very interesting rituals involving ancient Asian gods and goddesses. Every fortnight the whole student body could chant magic incantations to worship the deities of the Mayans or Aborigines.
   I want to see blood flowing, people. Ritual and senseless slaughter of the innocents by the dozen. At least that will prepare the youngsters for the harsh reality that awaits them after they will leave these centres of education. Sex education could be combined with spiritual orgies in the name of the ancient Persian goddess of multiple orgasms. There is so much we could teach them that they would be able to use in their adult lives. Thanking God for our daily bread just doesn't help.

A Suitable Pastime

Saturday 24 April 2004

It feels as though there is something missing from my life. Somewhere in between having a crappy job with a moody boss, hanging around in pubs and flirting with complete strangers after trying to sort out my taxes, keeping deadlines and remembering to water the plants I am lacking a very basic yet important aspect of my life. I need a hobby.
   Everybody has hobbies. It keeps the mentally normal sane, and it keeps the lunatics off the street. It is the glue that keeps society together, and I think it is about time I join in. The problem is, I have no idea what kind of hobby I should commit myself to. I am having trouble imagining myself collecting stamps or piecing together ancient Spanish battleships inside a clear empty wine bottle. Chances are not only the ships will never be finished, but I will end up removing shards of glass from the ceiling after losing patience with the whole project.
   Does stalking count as a hobby? Maybe I could start stalking someone. Though of course this does require a level of commitment I do not believe myself capable of. I suppose I could start developing a mild obsession from a safe distance and on a part-time basis, but that would hardly qualify as a proper hobby. I'm technically challenged, so I guess anything in that area is doomed automatically.
   I'm starting to get frustrated with my hobby already, and I haven't even started yet. Just thinking about it gives me a headache. I'm not feeling relaxed in the slightest. Imagine how stressed I would get from actually having a hobby… This is clearly a very bad idea indeed. Hobbies suck.

The Master Race

Tuesday 27 April 2004

Imagine this, if you will. You are the only elected Nazi party in the country. You believe that all non-white inhabitants of Britain should be encouraged to go 'back home', except of course those with a dark skin colour and born inside the UK. Those should just 'go away'. You have a host of theories regarding foreigners, their lack of speaking English and the amount of crime they are responsible for. And your first and foremost aim is British independence from everyone else, most of all the European Union.
   So, what do you do when you prepare for a European election? Well, for starters you come up with a good reason to stand for a seat you think you should be abolished in the first place. When that fails you invite a foreigner who doesn't speak any English, but has half a dozen criminal convictions, to encourage people to kick out non-English speaking foreigners who supposedly commit crimes.
   What good is Le Pen going to do for the BNP? I mean, I am not trying to put the man down in any shape of form of course, I am sure he is a very decent chap, but he doesn't exactly look like the Master Race, does he? None of them ever do. I can't even remember the last time I saw a neo-Nazi with blond hair and blue eyes. Let alone a tall one with broad shoulders. They're all tiny little scary people, their eyes extremely close together under a low forehead and walking as though they very desperately need a shit, but can't get their overly tight trendy jeans off.
   As one writer in the thirties pointed out, a decent Nazi is as blond as Hitler, slim like Goring and as tall as Goebbels. My theory is they are merely very frustrated bisexuals who never manage to pull tall, attractive blondes. Well, we are highly desirable you know. That's where this whole Aryan idea comes from. A bunch of self-depreciating little nitwits projecting their sexual fantasies. That's why they want to stick people with traditional Germanic looks on a pedestal, obviously still not understanding even from up there most of us wouldn't bother pissing on them if they were on fire.
   They can fantasise all they want. We are never going to be impressed. And if they can't even convince so-called Aryans of their own supremacy, what possible chance do they stand of convincing the rest of the population? These people need to seriously consider a hobby involving interior decorating, or flowers in the back garden. What with their obsession with colour, they'd fit right in.

God v Samantha

Tuesday 4 May 2004

I wonder at what point people will consider you to be insane. There must be guidelines for these things, especially now that people have to be mentally competent to stand trial. Is there a handbook on this? Twenty-three ways to spot a lunatic. Presumably you can't just let psychologists make up their own mind… They're all human, and most of the ones I have met I have to say personally I wouldn't allow to pick my wallpaper; much less decide whether or not I am sane.
   For example, if I talk to myself all the time. Does that make me a bit crazy? I do talk to myself a lot. Usually I think of what I am going to write, so I don't end up chewing a pen for hours on end when I sit down to actually transfer my ideas onto paper. But try and explain that to people in the supermarket. They all think I am stark raving mad.
   I suppose I could always argue I was talking to God. That's a legitimate excuse. There are laws against people discriminating against me because I talk to an invisible deity. Generally talking to God is more socially acceptable than talking to yourself. Which is rather bizarre when you consider the fact I have a birth certificate, and, well, exist. Something God has so far still not convinced everyone of. So talking to imaginary figures somehow is better than talking to one that is here.
   Yet if I start talking to Samantha, people get even more suspicious. Any criminal psychologist will accept your talking to thin air if you explain you are talking to God. Provided of course you do not claim She actually talks back to you. If your answer is a firm 'Samantha' that is immediately two ticks towards the asylum. Whether she responds or not, talking to Samantha is not considered very sane.
   This all sounds awfully confusing. What does God have that Samantha doesn't? At least Samantha can decide what her name is. I think I should be allowed to talk to whoever I damn well please, without being judged for it. Least of all by a bunch of psychologists.

Genesis Revisited

Tuesday 25 May 2004

As I shall soon be in the company of some of England's most ferocious Darwin-bashers, I have been looking in to this whole creationism thing. I have to say, it doesn't sound bad, provided of course you also believe in the Tooth Fairy, and are absolutely convinced Frodo Baggins lives in Salisbury under an assumed name.
   As far as I can tell, the whole thing took seven days. That's a plus point over Darwin, who took a hell of a lot longer to get from primordial soup to Janis Joplin. God gave her a guitar on day four. But I'll get back to that. In seven days we went from fuck-all to a happy horde of incestuous creatures smashing each other's skulls in, and have remained in this state ever since, though apparently at one point God did decide to give us men our missing rib back.
   The Jews came up with the whole thing, so we'll start the week with Sunday. On Sunday God created Herself. Tricky one to explain, but as is the case with most stories, stuff doesn't get interesting until the end anyway, so who'll notice? As we started with nothing, and She made the whole shebang, the first creation must have been Her. Duly noted. No woman can live without a mirror, so She created water to have a look at Herself, which took up the rest of Her day.
   On Monday I think She woke up with a cold, having just spent the night in a big puddle of water. She sneezed, and spread Her tiny droplets of snot into the dark sky above, creating the stars. Then She made the sun to dry Herself off, and made some land to dig a pool in for the water. This was the earth. Sunglasses and white wine came next, and once again She was entertained all day.
   Tuesday was a far better morning. It was nice and warm, and Her cold had cleared completely. The sun however had been shining down on her all night, and She noticed She was sunburnt. In annoyance She grabbed hold of the sun, and tried to kick it to the opposite end of the globe. It is of course a well-known fact that women cannot play ball sports, and the Almighty is no exception. She kicked it far too hard, and the sun has been spinning around the earth ever since. From this you will understand I am going by a more traditional version of the story, rather than by some of the crap people in Darwin's day have added. She sat down to mope, and poured herself another glass of white wine.
   On Wednesday God had a hangover. She poured another glass of wine, and sat by the pool. Once She was feeling slightly less nauseous, She decided She needed a companion and entertainment. That's when She created Janis and her guitar. Together they created chocolate ice cream, and I imagine most of the animal kingdom was done as well. Let's face it; the caterpillar. That must have been one of Janis's.
   Thursday was the time to invent some human beings. Gods and demi-gods are all nice company, but without some little white creatures killing little brown, red and yellow creatures, Janis would have nothing to sing about, and there would be nobody around to remind God just how omnipotent She really is. So She created people, and pitch forks, and war. And the teapot.
   By now the whole world was pretty much finished. There were beings scurrying around all over the shop, and they had started creating all sorts of things for themselves. Including something called work. They did it all over the place. This was not to the liking of the deity. It reminded her too much of doing things. On Friday she invented labour laws, and unions.
   It is well known that since that Saturday God has been on strike.

Identifying the Electorate

Friday 28 May 2004

Just two weeks till the elections. Undoubtedly these will be the worst attended in recorded history, as it is largely to elect people whose main job it seems to be to pile mountains of red tape on us all, and need twenty-three translators each to try and make sense out of one another. Still, these are also the fuckwits who try to ban smoking in pubs, want everybody to wear body armour on a bicycle and think all bananas should be shaped in the right way, so if we can get rid of them that would be an excellent idea. I, therefore, shall certainly be voting.
   The problem is that I am now obsessed with what everybody else is going to vote. Whenever I walk into a house or watch someone on telly I try to figure out which box they will be ticking. And I have found in many cases it is quite easy to spot. For example, if you see a bloke with an incredibly low forehead and a Union Jack in his bedroom, guaranteed his illiterate vote will go straight to the BNP. You'll find the Daily Sport on the coffee table, and books on the SAS with lots of pictures and diagrams.
   Conservative voters however only hang out the flag on national holidays. But you might very well find a picture of the Queen. Usually The Times will be neatly folded up on the breakfast table, or already deposited in the gentleman's suitcase, with his packed lunch. This in stark contrast to people voting for the Liberal Democrats, who insist on reading The Independent, especially on Saturday. Undoubtedly you will find a 'save the whales' poster in the lavatory, and very intellectual literature attempting to explain how drug-addicted rapists are merely the product of a loveless society and need a hug every twenty minutes until they either feel better or stab their social worker, which is a very productive means of expressing your frustration. Some will even have a European Union flag lying around somewhere.
   And then there are the most worrying people of all. At first it is very difficult to spot a Labour voter. They seem to have disappeared underground quite a bit. But if you look closely, at the bottom of their bookcase you will find a big scrapbook. When you open it, you will find a whole range of newspaper pictures featuring dead Palestinian boys and little Iraqi girls ripped apart by cluster bombs. Some of the pages are stuck together because the respected Labour-voting gentleman of the house has been masturbating over the pictures profusely, when everyone has gone to bed and the curtains have been drawn.
   What a colourful society we have in Britain.

Extremely Damien

Saturday 29 May 2004

According to my TV guide, the final episode of Friends is a big deal. It is not. It merely means six actors with no ability to put on any kind theatrical performance will have to start making money by doing crap films and awful commercials. Most are well on their way already. It also means that pre-menstrual girls will have to find a new abomination to collect everything from. But it most certainly is not a big deal. Especially not if you remember repeats and highlights will continue to haunt our screens for years, if not decades, to come.
   I have never liked Friends. Mainly because it is not good, though that certainly doesn't stop me from watching crap like The Bill. The few episodes I have forced myself to watch, or have been shoved down my throat by extraordinarily frustrated female acquaintances of mine, irritated the hell out of me, and let's face it; weren't funny.
   The moment I really came to realise how big a plague this sack of dung is, was long before I had actually watched it. It was at a party a few years ago, during which I found a complete stranger in my kitchen, wiping down the counter. Pointing out this was fairly futile during a party that consisted largely of college students still living with their parents, I was told by said individual she was, like, so Monica. In my mind this bore no relevance to the matter at hand, nor did it seem a very common way of introducing oneself. I have never felt the need to introduce myself as 'very Damien'.
   As it turned out, she wasn't Monica to any degree of adverbial expression. In fact, she was Julie. Being, 'like, so Monica', apparently referred to a fictional character of very attractive appearance in a New York-based American sitcom. I failed entirely to see the resemblance. And I continued to stare at her blankly when she tried to explain wiping my kitchen counter somehow related to this aforementioned, and fictional, character. It did not ring any bells.
   Have you ever seen the face of a five-year-old after you have just confessed to not knowing who Tinky Winky is? Or perhaps a thirteen-year-old when you explain you cannot name all members of the Backstreet Boys? Well, that was roughly the look I got from this lass in my kitchen that night. It was a combination of stunned disbelief, combined with an utmost sense of pity. In her mind the fact I didn't religiously follow the exploits of an imaginary group of thirty-something losers for years on end, somehow meant I needed to get a life. Anything responsible for destroying the minds of people to such a degree should have been banned long ago.

Birth Control and State Planning

Saturday 5 June 2004

Being one of Scotland's greatest supporters of safe sex amongst people up to the age of seventy-six I never cease to be astonished by the amount of children likeminded individuals are sprouting. It's hard to believe condoms fail that often, which means either they are lying about their commitment to the cause, or I am infertile. I'm hoping on the latter, because I'd hate to think my friends are being dishonest with me.
   As I am not very good with faces anyway, it is awfully difficult to try and remember whose kids look like what, and as the little monsters have a tendency to continuously change shape you might as well give up immediately. Of course even if you do by pure chance happen to vaguely remember one of them, it is still considered common courtesy to also remember its name. I can't even remember my own age. What chance do I stand with kids' names?
   At least in America people still have the decency to have babies by appointment, so you can pencil them in on the wall calendar. It's one of the great advantages of living in a country where everything is controlled, planned and approved in triplicates. Quite a bit of German influence in that country you know.
   One of my friends recently gave birth in the Thunderbird Hospital, which to everyone here was extremely hilarious, but the humour of which is apparently completely wasted on Yanks. They have no culture, nor a sense of humour. I think I mentioned before there were a lot of German immigrants. This didn't give them a sense of language of course, because when I phoned the hospital the following day the assistant answering the phone seemed to have considerable difficulty understanding what I was on about, as I speak English with an accent formed by centuries of cultivation and she obviously could only manage the infantile dribble New World inhabitants tend to babble.
   Still, we won't hold it against them. Nor to the little fellow known as the twelve o'clock delivery, whom we shall in future try to call by his slightly more unique Christian name of Erik. If only he will agree to spend the rest of his life walking around with a big Viking helmet on his head I am sure I will remember this one.

Prisoner: Cell Block Homely

Friday 11 June 2004

It's always good to see a humane side to the government. Like when they are building a prison especially for women. While men in Scotland still make do with crapping in a bucket, for the ladies in England and Wales we were thinking slightly more classy. You know, day-care, changing facilities, exercise equipment and the like, not forgetting of course all will be fitted with pleasant materials and an overall pastel colouring. All part of an effort to make their stay more enjoyable.
   I must have misunderstood the use of prisons. I thought it was where we lock up criminals. It's not supposed to be pleasant. The whole point of going to prison is to be punished, not nurtured and loved by your fellow man. Fuck that. And as if things aren't bad enough, all of this nonsense only applies to women. What have they done to deserve this kind of treatment? So far they seem to be getting off with a lot more than men do anyway, so imagine how hard they must have tried to land themselves in custody in the first place.
   But what is really worrying is the realisation all this madness did not come from women. Women are now perfectly at ease with the feminist principles. They want everything, except for those few little things, and anything they may think of at a later date. Their stance, ideals and demands have long been discovered as egotistical, unequal and downright ridiculous, and true feminists have given up ages ago, leaving only the insanely fanatic to carry on and make fools out of themselves.
   No, these ideas have sprung from the minds of fake feminist males, who have been pussywhipped into a state where they believe all women want is to be listened to, which in their dictionary means 'obeyed'. It is these soft sad men, who have had all their testosterone surgically removed and replaced with the latest and greatest invention in the field of styling gel, that we can thank for a system in which women can demand all they like, and not bear any of the consequences. They ask people to design a prison with a female population in mind.
   If they can vote, do the jobs they please, get the same pay and still have the gall march down the street demanding more immediate equal rights, they can damn well learn how to shit in a bucket.

A Clash of Standards

Monday 28 June 2004

Sometimes, usually when it is dark and I am all alone with nothing to do, I wonder what exactly is the difference between a healthy sexual appetite and perversion. I mean, there must be a border somewhere. We all realise that staring at an underwear advert and realising the woman on it is highly attractive is perfectly normal, whereas staring up a schoolgirl's skirt is unacceptable. But where do the two meet?
   Maybe it has something to do with whether what you are staring at is intended to be on public display. For example, looking at a porn film is not perverted because the people in it both are intentionally shagging for you to watch. So if the university students next door intentionally cram their tits in a top not nearly big enough to hold all of them, can you freely stare? After all, if they do not want them to be seen, why put them on display?
   I get confused about these things. What is perversion anyway? As far as I can tell it is perfectly acceptable in modern western society to admit openly you get turned on by big breasts. Yet not when you get off on feet. In the meanwhile you will probably be slapped across the face when you stare at someone's breasts, but you can quite easily get away with answering you are staring at their feet when they ask you. Provided of course you don't answer with both hands in your pockets, making very suspicious movements.
   Similarly I wonder whether two people leaving the curtains wide open as they cavort half-naked are the perverts, or the people walking past and not quite able to avert their gaze. This is awfully confusing stuff. Some lass walking around in a skirt shorter than her knickers is obviously trying to parade the interesting pattern on her underwear, but can I look at it? And if so, only if she is my age? I wish they would come up with some guidelines on this subject. Maybe some magazine could devise a test. Are you a pervert? Answer these twenty questions and find out! I think I can safely predict the outcome in my case though.

Invasion of the Virgins

Tuesday 29 June 2004

Blair is giving Americans entirely the wrong idea about us Britons. Just because he is an insane religious fundamentalist who honestly believes he can talk to God doesn't mean that any of the sane inhabitants over here feel the same. And we all know you have to be very clear with Yanks, or they'll completely miss the point.
   It's too late now. They're here. The scary Christian cult known as the Silver Ring Thing have arrived to save our teenagers from themselves and from the Satanic carnal lusts they may be battling in their lives. They are here to explain condoms don't work, three quarters of all girls get infected the first time they have sex, and that everybody should wait until their wedding night before performing any act you wouldn't feel comfortable doing with your parents in the room. Their words, not mine.
   I have long been intrigued by these obviously very well-meaning but awfully disturbed creatures, who make their members sign an abstinence vow and make them all wear a ring to show that they are waiting for their true love, and with it true shag. Sailing over to these isles certainly promises to be exciting on their website. Apparently all over the UK a silver ring will set you back 10 quid, except in Dublin, where it will cost 15 Euros. As Dublin has not been part of the UK for roughly a century now I cannot help but wonder if their medical research is as up-to-date as their geography.
   This vow they have to take seems to be a closely guarded secret. I can't find the damn thing anywhere, and as of yet no concerned confident conservative Christian has taken the time to reply to the e-mail I sent them a while ago. This makes me very suspicious. What is in this vow that I am not supposed to find out about? There must be some kind of secret clause in it that refers to the end of life as we have grown accustomed to, or some other bizarre passage that the rest of the world cannot find out about. If this is not a true sign of a cult, I don't know what is.

Raising Kids

Thursday 8 July 2004

I wonder where all these politicians live, and who on earth brought them up. Their obsession with children is getting worrying. Perhaps they are all petrified this Operation Ore will lead to them sooner or later, and before SO19 kick down the doors at the houses of parliament to confiscate all the images of small children being molested by peers they want to bolster their defence by doing some nice things for the kids. So from now on parents won't be allowed to smack their kids. Or at least, not very hard.
   Pretty difficult to draw the line you will understand. But between reddening of the skin, causing bruising and outlawing grabbing a kid by the ear I think every single person involved in my upbringing would be in deep shit. I don't think grabbing someone by the ear should be made illegal. From what I can remember my grandmother had a very effective way of holding on to it that was horribly painful if you resisted, but not all that bad when you cooperated fully.
   Banning smacking is a dumb idea. I think parents should be encouraged to smack their children. Not beating them on the shins with a broom handle because they won't finish their broccoli of course, but when kids are chucking clumps of mud at senior citizens doing their shopping really the only viable chastisement is smacking them across the back of the head so hard they tilt forward to the point where they almost tip over.
   In fact, not only do I think parents have the right to hit their kids, I strongly believe the rest of us should be allowed to do so as well. If you find some neighbourhood scallywags torturing your cat in the street as far as I am concerned you are fully entitled to grab the little bastards by the throat and slap their faces until it goes purple. And then you are perfectly within your rights to kick them in the bollocks to boot.
   The idea kids will be better behaved if you stop them from watching telly is both unproven and complete cobblers. You have pre-teens hanging out of windows with air rifles, shooting at police constables and the disabled, and somehow threatening they will not be allowed to watch Hollyoaks is supposed to put an end to this. Nonsense. Public flogging is what we need. Most old cities across the UK will still have their old places of execution, so we could easily start twice-weekly floggings at these sites. In Edinburgh the Grassmarket would be ideal. You can easily fit large crowds, and there are plenty of pubs. And I guarantee that if you start whipping a dozen kids twice a week, the whole of the constabulary will soon be able to dedicate time to more serious issues.

The Human Immune System

Monday 12 July 2004

You may have heard that the ultimately wise gurus of American science have found that stress actually boosts our immune systems. This will come as great relief to those developing cardio-vascular diseases over the years. After all, it is great to know that those dying of a heart attack at the age of thirty-nine will not have to spend any days off work to lie in bed due to a minor viral infection. In other words, stress will not only shorten their lives, it will also prevent them from enjoying the time they do have left.
   Of course not only people with crappy jobs are affected. According to The Times other things that cause considerable stress are occasions such as sitting an exam, parachuting from a plane or delivering a best man speech. Well, I have done all three, and I take issue with this. First of all, sitting an exam is not stressful. I was perfectly at ease when I sat my A-levels and as of yet I have not heard any argument suggesting this would have been any different had I not spent the entire previous evening in the pub.
   Delivering a best man speech is not very difficult either. I have been able to read from a very young age, and could speak even before that. Reading from a piece of paper must be very complicated for the mentally challenged, but for those of us with moderate to extraordinary capabilities when it comes to day-to-day activities it is hardly something to break into a sweat over. Writing one is stressful. Even for writers these things are awfully tricky. Normally I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks when I write, but all of a sudden you have to start thinking about other people. That's stressful. Reading out loud is primary school stuff.
   Parachuting isn't very stressful either. Discomforting definitely. Terrifying perhaps. Don't think at any time I felt stressed. At no time during the proceedings did I feel like I needed to have a time-out and someone to rub my back. Though I do remember I lost all ability to be polite. When my instructor, who was strapped to me so tightly I don't think I had ever before or have ever since been so close to another male human being, ordered me to stick my left leg out of the moving plane I shouted back at him to both go fuck himself and to put his left leg out of the plane.
   That's not stress though. That's common sense kicking in at the last moment. I simply couldn't feel stressed while I was connected by twenty-seven hooks to a man in sandals, shorts and a Wallace and Grommit T-shirt. It has a very soothing effect on a human being, regardless of whether he orders you to leap out of a perfectly good aeroplane at ten thousand feet. So I think we can safely say my immune system is pretty well fucked.

It's The American Way

Thursday 15 July 2004

I am sure animal wealth inspectors and those of you who are unhealthily attached to your relationship with the animal kingdom will disagree with me, but I think bullfighting is a great sport. It is man's duty to do battle with nature. And I am not one of those sadistic bastards who kicks kittens over a clothesline, or some macho arsehole who likes to use hedgehogs as a football. I pet dogs when I come across them, am nice to people's pets and always try to kill insects with a single blow rather than make them suffer a slow and agonising death. I just think a guy in spandex fighting it out with half a tonne of solid meat is both stimulating and entertaining.
In addition to this, the annual bull running in Pamplona manages every time to rid us of those nasty creatures that have taken to swarming Europe over the last few decades. I am talking of course about Americans. Guaranteed when you see a picture in the newspaper of some bloke with a horn entering his left arse-cheek and emerging again from between his third and fourth rib, the shish kebab in question will be a Yank. They can't help themselves. They see something stupid they are not qualified for, they have to join in. It's somehow stamped into their DNA.
Just imagine how much better off the world would be if every city in Europe would stage a yearly running of the bulls. We'd be American-free within a matter of years. Entire hordes of dimwitted Yanks (often considered a pleonasm) would flock to these events, and even the ones who are clever enough not to participate we could always push in front of the rampaging stampede. In addition we could offer all those who outrun the beasts a free lesson in bullfighting. Using a real bull of course. And just to please the animal lovers, any bull that kills the matador gets released. Sounds fair to me.

Kissing College

Monday 19 July 2004

I didn't know this, and as I have only read about it I am still not entirely sure whether somebody is taking the piss, but it has been claimed that in North America there are now colleges where people can learn how to snog. You wouldn't think this is a subject easily lending itself to educational investigation, but apparently people are willing to pay money to have an expert teach them on how to kiss their lovers.
   From what I have managed to gather I myself am quite a good kisser. There are two completely alternate yet equally credible theories as to why this is. The first is that I simply possess great skill and instinct when it comes to sticking my tongue down someone's throat. The other is that snogging seriously impairs my ability to speak, and therefore prevents me from saying something stupid. Either explanation will do me fine.
   It does make you wonder what these people are being taught. After all, isn't every individual different? Slobbering all over the other person is probably not very acceptable in most instances, but with a wide range of sexual appetites you may very well bump into someone who likes a large amount of saliva dripping from your chins. Similarly some people are quite turned on when teeth are involved, even though in polite and good Christian relationships these kinds of practises are not only highly irregular, but also seriously frowned upon.
   According to an article I read about the subject, one should practise on a peach. You should not bolt it down, but let your tongue linger, lick the skin and nibble before biting down. To begin with, you can be arrested for lurid behaviour if you do this in public. I will guarantee you right now that if you sit down in a public park and start tonguing a juicy fruit while staring at the general public two gentleman in black uniforms and a hat will come and ask you politely to fuck off. On the other hand of course if you bite down at the end of what started off as a romantic snog, you may very well do serious injury to the other person involved. So whatever you do, do not practise on a peach.

Cross-dressing In East Anglia

Friday 23 July 2004

If the good people of East Anglia had seen a bloke in a kilt before they certainly managed to hide it well. It started with the hotel receptionist, who politely managed to slip in an inquiry about the veracity of the rumour regarding undergarments worn by men in Scotland while I was hunched over a local map trying to figure out where the hell I was going. She was not alone. Soon a little boy hanging from a car window was gazing at me intently, dividing his efforts between staring at me and poking his index finger up his nose as far as he could manage. A well-mannered lad if ever I did see one.
   After which one of the locals apparently felt it was his duty as a full-time wanker to inform not only his friends but also everybody else in a two-mile radius there was a bloke in a skirt walking down the road. Initially I did consider retorting it was a great pleasure to be sharing this road with such a fine example of a sad and lonely man, but I soon realised he and his friends, none of whom had any dress sense and all of whom were in dire need of dietary advice, would only come running across the street to make up for their lack of a functioning penis and as I was walking around with a dagger in my sock I would end up stabbing one in the throat and being arrested.
   You will understand I have no fear of being arrested by the Lincolnshire constabulary for severing the cerotic artery of an overweight and annoying Englishman and spilling blood all over his football top, but the prospect of having to explain to the mother of the bride why I did not make it back to the wedding reception terrified me to a degree I don't think I will ever be able to transcribe. So instead I decided to do the same smile I cannot help but smiling when faced with retarded infants and took my skirt back to the party, where it was more appreciated.
   Not least by the Iberian girlfriend of the bride's brother, who, during a rather acrobatic performance on my part, happened to be staring right up it and proceeded to inform every last person present, up to and including the bar staff, that she had just seen my willie. She declined to mention whether this view impressed, aroused, shocked, disappointed or disgusted her though, which I imagine is probably a good thing. We'll let the people down south get used to our dress first, and then move on to our genitalia.

Preparing For Emergencies

Wednesday 4 August 2004

As you know, we are all about to die. It's inevitable. Our sense of freedom and prosperity is seriously pissing off those who don't have it in the first place, and so they are going to come and kill us in some spectacular fashion or another. Which is why our benevolent government and all affiliated organisations (the Sun, Sky and so on) are dishing out useful hints on how to combat terrorism, and what to do when an actual terrorist strikes.
   Unfortunately all this is in Labourspeak, so very difficult to actually absorb. Therefore I will try and explain exactly what it is Labour wants you to do when you are caught in a terrorist attack. First, panic. It is absolutely vital you panic. It is when you are at your most vulnerable and we will be able to shove anything down your throat. You will let us get away with anything provided you panic hard enough, so practice this at home. Second, do not listen to the Red Cross. This is an evil and antiquated organisation that still doesn't understand Muslims are not people. Remember that while we were protecting you by dropping uranium on schoolchildren in Iraq it was the Red Cross that tried to save their lives. They are the enemy. Listen to David Blunkett. He knows what he is talking about.
   Help us identify terrorist sympathisers. This witch-hunt is no fun without informers. Let us know about Islamic charities, Islamic aid agencies and any other thing that starts with 'Islamic'. In the case of a suspected chemical attack for god's sake do not start running around infecting everybody else. Sit down, do as Blunkett tells you, and be decontaminated. Unless of course you are a member of parliament. When the Labour government has been infected there is no reason for the remainder of the sixty million inhabitants to carry on living, so when you suspect you are infected run outside immediately. Normally the people gathered outside the houses of parliament are mainly students and the media, and they aren't too keen on us anyway. Infect as many people as possible.
   Do not oppose emergency legislation. Just because other governments have used terrorist attacks to put their countries in strangleholds, imprison, torture and murder thousands of people and abolish everything democratic doesn't mean we cannot trust Labour with it. And last but not least, for the love of the saints try your very best not to be an Arab. This is just a bloody nuisance. Over the last few years we have tried our very best to make life as impossible for you as we could manage, and it is simply inconsiderate to still be alive by now. Besides, we can't have paramedics trying to treat people with Arabs walking around, because we have made our emergency services so paranoid about people from the Middle East they may not be able to focus properly on treating their human patients. And don't forget to vote Labour the next election!

Toilet Training

Monday 9 August 2004

There are great advantages to having homosexuals hanging around. You are never short of a hairdresser. Not quite a professional I consult on a regular basis, the last time was when I was twelve, but you never do know when you will be in a situation where a stylist is absolutely vital and you can grab the nearest bloke who is fashionably gay and well in touch with the trends. They also seriously cut the number of blokes you have to compete with when desperate for a shag, and in most cases eliminate the most eligible ones. I am therefore a fond supporter of homosexuality.
   However, nothing good lasts forever. Much as I appreciate equal opportunities, there is the small matter of toilet facilities open to the public. When I stand over a metal trough, attempting with all my might to make a dent in it while grunting in a relieved manner, I like to savour the moment in relative peace and solitude. One of the unwritten but certainly well observed laws of behaviour at the urinal is that everybody minds his own business. It's what separates us from animals and women. We are capable of both co-existing and ignoring one another. It's a small step towards world peace, but you have to start somewhere.
   It is awfully disconcerting then when the bloke next to you starts taking an interest all of a sudden. It is completely opposite to all behavioural instincts and traits we have managed to build up over the years. And I'm not even bothered when a complete stranger starts staring at my privates. Especially if it's a guy. You can be absolutely sure it really is nothing he hasn't seen before. As long as they keep it to themselves. The moment an attempt is made to relay his thoughts and feelings on the matter, social and biological alarm bells start ringing.
   When I enter a lavatory all my defence systems shut off. My skills of communicating and thinking at the same time vanish without a trace. That's what loos are for. They are a place where everybody can be completely alone together. So when London homosexuals start hinting towards possible acts of an indecent kind I am not prepared. It worries and it scares me. And it may result in a black eye for the other person. I am sure psychologists will put it down to repressed homophobia. Personally however I think it all the more likely I would react the same way to a bloke trying to sell me tickets to a show.

A Family Event

Thursday 19 August 2004

I'm glad Scotland is catching up with our southern neighbours when it comes to staging some seriously riot-prone events. Clearly the Orange Order parades and Old Firm matches are not enough for the good people up here. Fortunately the National Front is coming over to help us out with this rather deplorable lack of hatred and popular uprisings. Unfortunately they have decided to stage it in Aberdeen. Fucking Aberdeen! They are planning a family event to celebrate St Andrew's day, according to the local Metro.
   So not only are they staging it in a city miles away from any form of urban society, they are inviting kids along. What kind of a riot is this supposed to cause? Are we going to be flinging water balloons and have cake at the end? If there are fascists marching down the road I expect some boarded-up shops, coppers on horseback and guys with mohicans lobbing petrol bombs over the army cordon. I want to see wooden clubs with nails driven through them, not lollypops and fizzy drinks.
   Obviously the minority community leaders are up in arms. Or at least they should be. Instead they are lodging complaints and bemoaning the fact these bastards will be parading down the road. It has already been estimated the entire parade will comprise of roughly 100 demonstrators. How difficult can it be to round up 700 volunteers before the end of November to stage a counter demonstration? Forget about lodging complaints. Organise your own event, demanding every white person unable to name the capital of Wales (at least three quarters of the national front) be castrated with a rusty pair of hedge cutters, in public. And hand out a couple of these things to the people at the front of the demo.
   Or we can make it really interesting. In addition to the National Front, invite a few hundred Yardies to parade in the name of black power, gather up all radical Asians you can find to demand the execution of any man having served in India, get some extremist Jews to demand an immediate annexation of Lebanon and that Muslim group who want to turn Britain into an Islamic state. Tell them all to bring some fireworks. Especially that last group. And then stick them all in opposite corners of a central square, remove the fencing and stand well back. Now that would be a family event!

Safety First

Thursday 26 August 2004

In the good old days the poor kids used to leave school and get a job. The rich ones used to leave school and go to university, and then get a job. Nowadays, with the Olympic Committee considering to cut baseball but add lazing around to the list of events, the single most hip thing to do is to take a 'gap year'. This is supposed to be the year between school and uni, during which bored teenagers who want to feel adventurous go out and be a waitress in Sydney. Really it is an expression of being different with several thousand people around you doing the same thing.
   Of course this does involve a lot of risks. With natural disasters, corrupt police officers, war, terrorism and insane stalkers on the increase, travelling around the world can be a dangerous affair, and god forbid some of these spoilt brats gets killed or castrated during his travels. Having spotted a market, Planet Wise are now offering courses in how to deal with the various difficulties you might run into. Obviously I am not going to spend several hundred pounds for the full three-day course, but I quite happily browsed through some of their complimentary hints. If this is not the most useful set of rules you have ever laid eyes upon, I don't know what is.
   Tip number one: always remember to bring emergency toilet paper. This one had been thinking for a long time. What on earth is emergency toilet paper? I have heard of stretchy, extra-soft, bouncy and quilted toilet roll, but emergency? I have no idea what this stuff is supposed to look like. Besides, where are you going to be keeping this emergency stash of bog roll? In your backpack. And what is the first thing you leave behind when there is an emergency? Exactly. Not to mention the fact that when you are caught up in a serious emergency, guaranteed you will be busy crapping your trousers long before you have dug through all your possessions.
   Tip number two: before you travel, bear in mind the political situation of the country. If anybody needs to be reminded of this, perhaps dying is merely an accurate demonstration of Darwinism at work. Nobody would be stupid enough to read Playboy on an Iranian train. Or wear a T-shirt with a big swastika and the words 'white power' in Tel Aviv. It makes you wonder how much time they spend on these matters.
   Last but certainly not least, tip number three: if necessary, scream and run away. This is an absolutely vital part of the course, because normally when you are surrounded by a group of locals, seemingly angered by your presence and waving big sticks around, your first natural inclination would be to slowly approach and smile at them. I do not need to be told to run away if necessary. In fact, I will be running away long before it becomes necessary. Just to make sure I have a decent head start.
   Why don't they teach these kids some useful stuff? For example, when setting off on your travels it is absolutely vital you do not send every single person you have met since the age of fourteen weekly updates about things you have done and people nobody gives a flying fuck about. Unless you have been involved in a plane crash or have been the victim of armed cannibalistic kidnappers people are not interested in what you have been eating. Leaving was a great start, if only these people could shut up while they were gone as well.

Women and Alcohol

Friday 27 August 2004

You see, when you say a woman should do her best to look good before heading out in the morning, you are a sexist. We don't have that attitude anymore, you will be informed, mysteriously incorporating you, the addressed, in that first person pronoun, even though you have just done quite an impressive job of countering that assessment. Women are no longer objects to be desired in their beauty and preoccupied entirely with their looks. Anyone claiming anything remotely to the contrary will be castrated forthwith. Unless of course you are a health organisation.
    The Portman Group, promoting the more boring things in life, are launching a national campaign to advise women drinking is not good for your skin and may make you less attractive. This is a rather interesting approach. Despite the fact we live in the twenty-first century and no longer 'do' sexism, that would never get off the ground if it were directed at men. Yet apparently it is perfectly okay to aim it at the female population. We should sue. We too need to be informed alcohol makes our peachy skin feel rugged and brittle. Clearly the Portman Group don't give a shit about us men, the bastards.
   To drink responsibly women should not consume more than 3 units of alcohol a day. This is typical of such organisations. Who the hell counts in units? That confuses the shit out of people. It basically means scientists, who never set foot in a bar, are talking about units, while the people actually drinking them talk about pints. So, for the benefit of the more social of you, a unit is half a pint of beer or a small glass of wine. And women should drink only three of them. That would take, roughly, an hour. At most. The pub would be empty.
   If women decide to drink in excess of three glasses of wine this may lead to (turn away now if you are easily disgusted) bloodshot eyes, dehydrated skin, broken veins around the nose and cheek and, indirectly, weight gain and bruising and scarring, though I am fairly confident the latter is largely due to the fact women insist on wearing high heels rather than the amount of alcohol they consume. How awful! But the absolute cream has got to be the fact ten percent of alcohol you consume is not processed by the liver, but directly excreted in the form of sweat, giving off an unpleasant odour. As if that stands a snowball's chance in hell against the perfume, skin cream, make-up, hair products and god knows what else is sprayed onto the female body to make it smell more appealing. Thinking anyone will notice the smell of alcohol is comparable to belching during a nuclear blast and thinking it will impress people.
   Besides, what is all this nonsense about dry skin? Considering all the good-looking people are invariably taken, you need a good few drinks to pull a bloke you fancy on a Saturday night, and it is a well-documented fact of life that sperm is extremely effective skin cream. Surely the two would cancel each other out? And in the bargain you can get pissed and laid in the same night. Sounds like a great deal to me. Yet these bastards at the Portman Group have the sheer gall to make it sound like a bad thing. Who employs these people; Satan?
   Or perhaps the government. Naturally when something terribly important such as this comes up David Blunkett can't keep his big fat fucking nose out of it. He was quoted as saying While there was little evidence that women are causing pub violence…, where we can comfortably cut him off at the pass. I realise he has a rather limited social life, prefers to wreck happy homes rather than find single people in a pub and is, well, blind, but surely he has creatures besides his dog informing him of the world around him? Women are one of the largest causes of pub violence in the history of mankind. Perhaps not as big as football, but still.
   Take a closer look at the next pub brawl you see. Provided the people involved are not wearing football tops there will be at least one woman standing around looking on. She started it. Perhaps not intentionally, but she will be at the very heart of all this punching and kicking. So really if these cretins were seriously concerned about our welfare they would have to suggest that in addition to kids and animals we start banning women from pubs as well.

Personal Ads

Friday 10 September 2004

Being single isn't easy you know. Okay, that is a big fat lie; being single is an absolute piece of piss. Life is at its least complicated when you are single. It's just very frustrating. You find yourself eating chicken and not having anyone to pull the wishbone. That can seriously get you down. And there is the lack of sex of course. So perhaps these lonely heart columns are actually quite a good thing. Everyone knows they are for sad and lonely people, but the last time I did a headcount the vast majority of people around me are showing all the symptoms of being sad and lonely, myself included.
   So it is not that I think writing in to these people in any way diminishes my self-esteem. It's just that I don't understand what they are talking about. Take this for example: Professional female, 60 years old, enjoys dining in/out. Doesn't that mean she likes eating? Or are there any other forms of dining that I am not yet aware of? And if that doesn't confuse you, what the hell is a genuine female, 40? As opposed to what, I can't help but wonder. And more worryingly, why would she need to contrast herself to it?
   Some just go overboard. stylish, intelligent professional female, 53, non-smoker, into swimming, the gym, shoes, pampering and the arts seeks similar male. Similar. Mmm. I hate to be stereotypical, but I am going to be anyway. Any man you find that is stylish, into swimming, the gym, the arts and shoes is going to be gay. Which is cool with me, because they definitely have the best ads. Bisexual male, 45, would like to meet cross-dresser, transvestite or transsexual, 50+. Just let your mind wander on that subject for a while. A man, over the age of fifty, who either dresses as a lady, or has had his willie cut off. That's enough to make me feel conservative.
   Back in the world of F seeks M, a warm and curvy 31-year-old from Dundee would like to meet a tall, generous, honest male, good sense of humour. That word 'generous' sounds awfully suspicious to me. I think perhaps it would be more traditional to wait until at least the second date before you start demanding things.
   One thing you do realise when you are flicking through the ads: none of them describe you. Okay, I am tall, which seems rather popular, but I am not in the slightest bit interested in cooking, gardening, animals, walks, the countryside, sailing and loving caring conversation. Which means even the saddest most pathetic people in Scotland, who are so desperate they start placing ads in newspapers, think I am not worth dating. Now that really is a depressing thought.

Stalkers v Boyfriends

Thursday 16 September 2004

If I had normal friends we would end up talking about Scotland's chances of making it to the football World Cup (none), or perhaps the latest developments in the Middle East peace process (also none). But because I hang out with people who are equally strange and misguided as I am we end up talking about quantum physics (of which my knowledge is none), the amount of points we would score on an imaginary list of qualities in men (none) or stalking.
   Now stalking gets a bad press. The people engaged in it are generally called obsessive, relentless and loners. This is just a matter of opinion if you ask me. Obsessive and relentless might just as well be described as loving and loyal, and I am absolutely convinced that lonely people are very rarely a problem. When is the last time you had an argument in the pub with a lonely person? It's always the loud obnoxious people that are the trouble, and they are never lonely.
   I would be stalker if I had the stamina. Getting out of bed to do work I get paid for is hard enough, the last thing I want to do is start setting my alarm clock to crawl around in nettles and running after moving cars. Unless technology allows me to start staling people properly and still be able to do it while having a cup of tea I may change my mind, but until that day I will stick to downloading pornography.
   It turns out most women have had stalkers. Or so they claim. Women scare easily, so it may just be that they are making it up. But I have to say I was intrigued by the actions of their stalkers. It would seem to be elevated to stalker status one needs to send text messages all the time, turn up when it is least expected, keep phoning to see how one's stalkee is doing, send flowers and take an unhealthy amount of interest in the subject's affairs. Which is why I can't do it. I am too lazy, hate flowers and don't have a mobile phone. Funnily enough it is also why I don't have a girlfriend.
   That's what my ex kept telling me. Buy flowers, take an interest, phone up, turn up unexpectedly. It turns out being a stalker is exactly the same as being a good boyfriend, only in one case you are a sweet creature of which there aren't enough in the world, and in the other a complete nutter. That's reassuring.

Not Suitable For Deep Freezing

Tuesday 28 September 2004

As if there weren't already enough reasons to start drawing up your last will and testament. The news keeps informing us all we are about to die, pesticides keep making it into our food, there are people out there who seriously dislike me and I am probably going to a war zone soon, so I guess if I want to stop my friends and relatives from clawing each other's eyes out over my record collection I should really get writing stuff down. And now it seems there is even more cause, just to stop them from coming up with some bizarre ritual to dispose of my corpse.
   It turns out someone believing himself to have a good sense of humour this year fired rockets into the sky over Edinburgh, loaded with the ashes of one of his friends. So just as I am walking around the Old Town munching on my sausage roll, small bits of charred intestine are softly raining down upon me. What kind of sick fuck came up with this? Other comedians have been turning their loved ones into diamonds that they can wear on their rings. That's all you need; your granny on your finger.
   So let me make it perfectly clear my corpse is to be left in one piece and stuck into a nice box, which is then to be placed into a grave in a lovely and quiet Edinburgh cemetery. Got it? Good. Don't you bastards go and cremate me or something. I mean, you wouldn't do such a thing to your pets would you? Your funeral is basically a more elaborate version of the ceremony you would treat your pet to. Instead of a shoebox you use pinewood, and instead of a pebble you have a headstone made. You don't throw your hamster into the fireplace, so there will be no burning my remains either.
   And there will most definitely not be any dipping me in liquid nitrogen. This is coming to a funeral parlour near you in the not-too-distant future. The Home Office has given it its blessing, which makes me suspicious immediately. It involves a corpse being lowered into the liquid, and then reduced to powder by vibration. In other words they freeze-dry your corpse and then shake it until it breaks into little pieces. Fuck that. We used to do this with roses in physics class. If we had suspended so much as a dead bird in the stuff we would have been clipped around the ear whether corporal punishment had been abolished or not. But human beings is fine and trendy.
   So there will be no setting fire to me, and no sticking me in the deep freezer. I do not want to become a coral reef, and my DNA is not to be mixed with that of a tree. No medical experiments, donating parts to musea or mummification. Anyone even considering these kinds of options can rest assured I will be haunting their grandchildren.

An Encouraging Trend

Friday 1 October 2004

Has anyone ever heard of a new sport known as train-surfing? All the craze in America they say. It involves waiting for a train to come hurtling by and then jumping on top of it. And holding on presumably. It comes as news to me. It had never occurred to me that this was a viable form of entertaining yourself. How unimaginative on my part. And the only reason I heard about it recently was that some kid in England had seven points deducted from his overall score after his legs were sheared off by the train he was surfing.
And here I was thinking kids are getting lazy nowadays. After all, no self-respecting teenager in this day and age would even consider living on without a stereo, computer hooked up to porn websites, Playstation and the latest mobile phone. So why would they bother setting foot outside? Fuck knows I wouldn't if I could afford all that stuff. Though I guess I would want to get laid every once in a while.
Maybe that's why these kids are going out as well. Not sure how standing on top of a train is going to get you laid though. Killed yes, but even if you are successful in your attempt, wouldn't you just be a blur to the members of the opposite sex watching you? So it stands to reason these kids are doing it purely to amuse themselves. I think this is highly encouraging. If they sit around playing Lara Croft all day they'll just get fat. Actually going out and defying death will keep them on their toes. Unless their feet get cut off of course, in which case it would keep them on their stumps.

Tasteful Advertising

Friday 8 October 2004

As most people in my surroundings are well aware, I am hardly an opponent of capitalism, marketing and free trade, but there are limits to what I can understand. I can understand people taking money from drug dealers to turn a blind eye. I don't agree with it, but I can understand the logic behind it. Yet on the plane I found myself confronted with the exact opposite. I didn't object to it, it just baffled me.
Can anyone think of a single reason why anyone would want to advertise on a standard issue mass-produced paper airline vomit bag? I'm not sure if I would want my company associated with people spewing at take-off. And who is this aimed at? Are we now expected to read the vessel we are depositing our regurgitating bodily fluids into? At what point in the proceedings would this happen? Am I supposed to try and hold my breakfast behind my teeth while I inspect the advertisement, or am I supposed to take this in afterwards, when I am inspecting the thing for leaks?
And if it is not for the unfortunate soul actually barfing up a perfectly nutritious meal, how sick do you have to be to be staring at someone puking his guts out and still take an interest in the writing on the side? What's next? Perhaps soon we will find toilet paper with adverts on it. Wipe your arse with your favourite brand!

The Beautiful Game

Thursday 14 October 2004

I am so glad I am not a football fan. It would just be too depressing for me. Life is complicated enough as it stands, and having to bear the trauma our national football team is inflicting on its followers is a task I do not think I would be up to. So it is a great comfort I really only give a damn about rugby and baseball. I can safely wear my national rugby shirt when having a family photograph taken, itself an activity that could do with a referee and a few stewards, as we're not playing at the moment, and therefore not losing. And my baseball team aren't doing all that bad.
In the meanwhile our football team is drawing with Moldova. Moldova! Not to be mistaken for Moldavia, which in all probability would have beaten us. I can't get over this. Moldova. That's not even a country! I mean, without cheating by looking it up, can anyone point out Moldova on a map? I sure as hell can't. In addition I do not know their system of government, head of state, currency, language or average beer consumption per annum. And therefore it doesn't exist.
After all, what is the point of existing if nobody knows about you? You would only be laughed at when you try and get through passport control. Where are you from? Bresvaklia? Fuck off. Come back when you have acquired a nationality people have actually heard of. As far as I am aware these qualifying matches are regional, which suggests this Moldova must be somewhere in the vicinity of Europe. When did this happen? What side were they on during the war? And most importantly, why can't they be bribed into losing a football match?

A Second Coming

Tuesday 19 October 2004

It must be great to think you are someone else. There are a whole host of people I think I would rather be than myself. Being me isn't interesting in the slightest. But imagine if you could be Julius Caesar for a day! That would surely be a thrilling and enlightening experience, provided of course it is not the day he was stabbed a couple dozen times by his best friends. I will take my boring and lonely life over having a blade thrust between my ribs any day.
   Still, it makes you wonder how many people are out there who are absolutely convinced they are Napoleon Bonaparte, Mary Queen of Scots or Jesus Christ. Most of them will have been safely incarcerated in loony bins and medicated so heavily it doesn't really matter who or what they think they are anymore, though some of them must still be walking around. And it makes walking the streets so much more exciting. Imagine bumping into Attila down the pub. That would liven things up a little.
   What I don't understand though, is why people always think they are people that are dead. Why don't people believe they are David Beckham? That would at least give you the opportunity to give them a hefty kick in the bollocks. Of course it would mean there would be two of the same people, which is unlikely, but on the other hand dead people don't tend to walk around either and besides, if you are that insane logic doesn't really enter into anything, does it?
   I especially love the ones who think they are the reincarnation of Jesus. Mainly because Jesus didn't believe in reincarnation. This seems like an obstacle even the most fervent schizophrenic won't be able to avoid. It's a bit like an English Joan of Arc, or a Jewish Hitler. I think these people shouldn't be locked up; they should be allowed to run amok. They would make life on this planet so much more interesting.

Heavenly Tunes

Friday 29 October 2004

That's it. I am converting. From now on I am going to be a Christian. A charitable one even. I believe it to be my calling in life. How hard can it be? You cross yourself before dinner and twice a year you go to one of those tall buildings where children get molested. Piece of piss really. Not quite sure which branch of Christianity I shall be affiliating myself with yet, but frankly, I don't care.
   The thing is, I am getting into the whole religion thing to get a shag out of it. I have noticed the lassies working in the Christian charity shops are extraordinarily pretty, and I will need a good excuse to get talking them. I suppose I could pick out an old Judas Priest LP and ask them whether they have played it backwards recently, but I doubt this will have the desired effect.
   I have legitimate business in these shops, I will have you know. It's not like I stalk these people. I don't stand in a corner of the shop, hands in my pockets, rubbing myself, tempting as it may be. It's one of these things you have to do in your life. Shag in a graveyard, vomit on a police officer, piss on a church, pour a pint over a politician, masturbate in public. The essential achievements. But no, I buy audio equipment from my Christian brethren. I know. It usually comes as quite a shock to them as well.
   Sounds great though. I have blessed speakers. It is great to know that poor people will be fed holy soup because I want to play Black Sabbath through a dozen speakers, some installed under my bed so it vibrates in tune with the song. If only I could get one of the assistants to join me there. Now that would truly be a religious experience. Well worth converting for.

Morals and Values

Tuesday 2 November 2004

It is a universal fact of life that values change. You may very well be lumbered with a social stigma that won't exist anymore in twenty years time. Or didn't exist in the past. They seem to come in waves. Americans talking about spreading democracy around the globe are also openly anti-gay, even though democracy was invented by a group of people who practiced homosexuality freely and proudly. And here in Britain the same old-fashioned conservatives complaining about men with long hair like to wear a wig when they are in court.
So let's do away with all this nonsense. From now on no more stigmas. Hair grows naturally, men shagging other men seems to work with very little complications and while we are at it I think cannibalism should also be considered normal. It would make sense. We are called omnivores for a good reason. We should eat everything. First-year biology stuff here. Hardly university science involved.
After all, a few nasty diseases aside, what harm can it do? We are running out of burial plots at an alarming rate, so why burn a body to a cinder when instead you could just bake for a few hours and serve as a healthy and nutritious meal for the whole family? Add a few veggies and some herbs et voila! We could even feed unclaimed corpses to the homeless. I think it would do our society a lot of good.

Testiculating

Monday 8 November 2004

Flicking through my scrapbook of newspaper cuttings I came across a letter sent into the Times regarding the making up of new words. As we are all aware if you fail to pay full attention for a couple of weeks you will miss at least three terms our youngsters, corporate team leaders or the armed forces have introduced into our wonderful language. It is now entirely possible to 'offshore' your contracts, 'gitmo things up' and be 'wicked' in a good way. And if you managed to follow all of those you will undoubtedly also be aware of the tremendously popular noun-turned-verb to text, which in its relatively short existence has already proved to be so versatile it has two versions of its past tense: text or texted.
   I am proud to be more of a traditionalist. I refuse to abbreviate using numbers, do not use singular verbs with plural pronouns and do not employ accusatives when I should use nominatives. Most importantly, if I do not know how to spell or pronounce a word, I do not use it. This means of course I am incapable of having a conversation with anyone born after 1985, but rarely have I been tempted anyway.
   The good thing about the aforementioned letter was that it contained a new word not based on abbreviations or modern technology, but a firm Latin root. The word in question is the verb to testiculate. To wave your arms about and talk a load of bollocks. Conjugated as a regular verb. I testiculate, you testiculate, Donald Rumsfeld testiculates.
   To combat the rise of adolescent-speak and the decline of words with a classical background I feel it is my duty to try and introduce this word into our daily vocabulary. It would greatly help if everyone could start using it to describe speeches by elderly relatives and I am greatly looking forward to hearing it mentioned on the six o'clock news.

Praying For Disaster

Friday 12 November 2004

When I was hitch hiking in the United States a few years ago one of the people kind enough to give me a ride spent a good ten minutes following along the motorway an armoured van transporting cash. He realised damn well it wasn't very likely, but he had a point when he said every once in a while you did read one of these things burst open and two weeks later red-faced police officers stand around at a press conference pleading with the good citizens to please return the five hundred thousand bank notes still missing and needed to prevent the local economy from collapsing.
I thought it rather amusing. But I find myself doing the same thing. As I was casually strolling through Tollcross, having forgot entirely why it was I had gone there in the first place, I noticed one of those enormous Reliance prison transport trucks rolling past. Now I know these things have all been tested rigorously since the last person managed to climb through a hole somewhere, but I couldn't help myself from stopping and watching the thing in the hope a hatch would fly off and one lucky convict would emerge on the roof before making off like greased lightning down Morrison Street. Or into the pub.
Isn't it typical we all expect some fuck-up? We don't follow money-vans in the hope it safely reaches its destination, do we? And I was awfully disappointed when all the dangerous characters inside that truck were safely tucked away in their cells that night. A few years ago I actually watched the opening ceremony of the World Series when Bush threw the ceremonial first pitch, just in case somebody shot him. When nobody did it ruined the rest of the game for me. Somehow when everything goes according to plan things aren't interesting. Maybe that is why the A-Team is no longer on the telly.

Hands-on Science

Friday 26 November 2004

It seems some time ago scientists have found that masturbation is actually quite good for you. It was in the papers a while ago. Did anyone really need to be reminded of this? Was anyone in doubt masturbation is one of the greatest gifts that has been bestowed upon mankind? These research projects are pointless. It is just a case of doctors wanting to bring their work home with them. Let them go and cure cancer. Testicular cancer if they prefer, but don't come telling me things I know already.
I can think of very few things that are better than masturbation, actually. It relieves tension, does not require expensive working-out equipment and can be done anywhere, any time. Or at least it should be. If breastfeeding in public is considered trendy nowadays I do not see why people can't get away with a quick wank. Provided it is done tastefully and discreetly of course. Perfectly natural act, isn't it? A beautiful part of nature. That's what I am always told when some complete stranger gets her tits out to shut up her troublesome offspring. Well, so is masturbation.
Some very scary, normally strictly Christian, people allege that it may lead people to want to have sex so desperately they may go and rape someone. These people do not know what they are talking about. After a wank most people can't be bothered to make a cup of tea, let alone go and jump some poor student in the park. And I imagine the more often you do it, the lazier you get about finding someone else to worry about. So it is perfectly clear masturbation is good for you. The thing is though, nobody really cares whether it is.

A Trip to Hell

Monday 29 November 2004

That is the last time I am going shopping on a Friday night. The place is like a madhouse. These people should be hanging around in pubs, working late in the office or coming home to good lady wife and/or husband, not blocking up the isles when I am trying to buy a few pints of beer and a pizza. That should take ten minutes in the absolute worst case, when I am too drunk to remember where in the store frozen pizzas are kept. The last thing I need is to find myself knee-deep in screaming toddlers and trying to duck and dive spotty adolescents in T-shirt proclaiming 'I am here to help', when it is perfectly evident they are there to scare the kids and put you off your dinner.
Maybe it's just me. I can balance a whole tower of pint glasses and wriggle my way through a dense pub crowd when I am drunk nae bother, but supermarkets are not my regular surroundings. It's an entirely alien environment, and I lose all sense of direction. I bump into elderly gentlemen and accidentally ram expectant teenage mothers with my basket. It's one of the reasons I do not use a trolley. The result would be devastating. There would be staff being knocked onto shelves with the Rice Crispies. Limbs would be scattered amongst the fruit and veg.
It doesn't help when I am confused enough as it is, trying to find food products that I can barely recognise, let alone classify into any of the groups proclaimed on the signs dangling over the isles. I keep promising people to cook for them, and to my astonishment people sometimes agree, though more often than not the people who accept my offer are first-time invitees. As a result I am stumbling along a supermarket on a Friday night in anticipation of a night of cooking. I just hope my efforts will be appreciated.

Death in the Supermarket

Friday 10 December 2004

This world is very slowly to Hell, I think. The other day I was casually strolling through Sainsbury's, having completely forgotten what I came in there for of course, when I passed the section with personal hygiene products. I notice strange things in there. For example, pregnancy kits are next to the condoms. Could be me, but I do not feel inclined to purchase contraceptives which are shelved next to a product required when they fail. There is just something odd about that.
   As I do not require such items at this particular time in my life anyway I calmly wandered on, trying to remember what I was doing there in the first place. A few yards further I found a sign stating that razors, razor blades and pain killers are now available only from the kiosk. At first this sounded fair enough to me. But then I realised what an usual combination of products this was.
   I would imagine razors go with foam, and pain killers with cough syrup. Am I a seriously morbid individual when I think the only thing these products have in common is that they are popular methods of suicide? With all the positive energy and imagination in the world I cannot think of any other link between razor blades and pain killers.
   This makes me wonder. Why will they not sell them from the shelf? I can imagine you would keep pain killers in a glass case so you can check how many are being bought, but unless you are planning a cult-like mass suicide generally one razor blade should do the trick. It seems to me there are only two logical conclusions. Either people have started topping themselves in the toilet paper section of Sainsbury's recently, or suicidals are now considered a high risk when it comes to shoplifting. Though why anyone would want to save money on a razor when they are going to die anyway is a mystery to me.

Sex on the Golf Course

Thursday 16 December 2004

I sometimes feel I am not quite as repulsed about golf as I should be. People like myself are supposed to be abhorred by such an activity, even if it was a Scottish invention. Yet I can't bring myself to hate it. There is something strangely attractive about a bunch of multi-millionaire industrialists playing a fortune every year to maintain a large piece of grassland. Beats building a nuclear plant if you ask me. But then what do I know?
   When it comes to golf, I know very little. Rest assured if you find me wandering around a golf club it will not be voluntarily. You will certainly not find me swinging a stick about. I refuse to play sports I can't even be bothered to watch on television. If you can classify golf as a sport of course. It seems more like a pointless outdoor activity to me. At least in baseball when you whack a ball someone else has to go and find it, if it comes back at all. Hitting it away first and then tracing after it yourself seems like an awfully moronic way of spending an afternoon.
   Now it turns out, or at least this is what has been established by Golf Pages, that in addition to it being boring and pointless, it is also a single-sex activity. Where's the fun in that? If I am going to be waving my equipment about there should at least be some lassies to witness it. Or is that just me? Perhaps it's just because I am not easily embarrassed.
   It seems men do not like to play golf with women, and vice versa. Men feel playing with female company stops them from swearing. What kind of men are these? Not swear in front of women. Bloody hell, my mother taught me how to swear. In addition men are afraid of losing. This I can imagine, but presumably the chances of losing are just as great, if not greater, when you are playing another man. I just don't see what the problem is. Losing to a girl at arm wrestling is embarrassing. Losing to one when it comes to knocking a ball into a hole is just, well, nothing. Well done. First round is on you.
   Women have even dumber excuses. They do not like to play with men because they worry about their wives. If their wives could give a crap I am sure they would be there themselves, wouldn't they? In addition, men are bad losers. Granted. Never met a woman who didn't enjoy a bloke throwing a good tantrum after losing though. And to top it off men cheat and walk too fast.
   How do you cheat at golf? Find ball, hit ball, count how many times you hit it. Not a lot of margin for dishonesty there. And walking too fast. Well. One thing I do know about golf is that women get a head start anyway. If you still cannot keep up then perhaps it is time women just learn how to drive properly, so they can use these buggies. They may not have a make-up mirror, but it would allow you to keep up with the boys.

A Debt-free Christmas

Friday 17 December 2004

Ah, Christmas time. The season of festivities, gluhwein and suicide. When grandparents are taken out of nursing homes and rosy-cheeked children are locked in the back garden to play and annoy the neighbours. The time of giving, being nice to one another and dressing up. Not to mention lying to your kids. Very stressful, I have been led to believe. And very expensive as well. All sorts of the experts have been informing us all how to celebrate Christmas without being in debt for the next seven months. Always one to follow trends, I too have come up with a few ways.
   One. Don't have kids. They are always the most expensive. They keep bothering you for toys they don't need and are relentless in their torturing you. In addition there are too many people on the planet anyway, and they smell.
   Two. Don't be nice to people. The fewer friends you accumulate over the year, the fewer presents you will have to buy at the end of it. Stop saying please and thank you, don't cover your face when you sneeze and yawn whenever somebody is telling you something.
   Three. Steal all your presents from a Bethany shop. This way you will not have to pay anything and because of the nature of these particular shops they will have to forgive you for robbing them and not report you, especially as it is the time of year we remember the birth of their Lord Jesus.
   Four. Pretend you have a very painful and extremely contagious disease. This is guaranteed to keep people well away from you, and they will be forced to ask you how you are feeling when you see them next, which means they cannot demand their presents.
   Five. Convert. There are plenty of religions out there that do not celebrate Christmas, and most of them are looking for people just like you to come and join them. You may want to read up on other customs they have though, because some religions demand unnecessary and highly painful medical procedures be carried out on you before you get to join.
   Six. Save yourself all the hassle of worry and depression over the holidays, and instead kill yourself on December 23rd. There's really no need to hang about when you think about it. You might get the odd snog under the mistletoe and a pair of socks to cheer you up, but suicide notes are not very expensive and you will beat the post-Christmas rush at the funeral home.
   Seven. Become obsessed with Cromwell. Famously devoid of a sense of humour he hated Christmas and immediately cancelled it when he had chopped off his King's head. In memory of the puritans decide that this year you too will not be getting festive, and instead sit around and plot a coup.

The Spirit of Christmas

Tuesday 21 December 2004

I thought this was the season to be jolly. You know, fa-la-la-letcetera. Time off work, drugging the kids with alcohol, lighting the fireplace. Or Christmas tree if you are so inclined. Candles are nice of course, but certainly do not compare to an entire tree ablaze in the front room. Plenty of light, heat and it saves you dragging the thing out on the street after New Year's. It's the season to be singing songs and wear stupid hats. Surely that should involve a good piss-up.
   Not if the police have anything to say about it. Binge drinking is now officially a crime, and you can be fined 80 quid on the spot. Well, you can if you get caught in England and Wales. I can already picture piss-heads stealing a car and running for the Scottish border to escape the Old Bill chasing them with wailing sirens and flashing blue lights. Perfect place to blend in. Nobody would notice another alcoholic up here.
   On-the-spot fines will now be dished out to anyone fighting, urinating or throwing up in the street. Here was me thinking fighting normally involves assaulting someone. If 80 pounds is now the standard penalty for assault I think the anti-social behaviour bill needs to be re-examined. And what is this about peeing in the street? It rains every day on this island. It's going to washed away long before anyone could possibly be offended by it.
   But puking takes the cake. Giving someone a ticket for being sick is just cruel. The poor bloke is feeling bad enough as it is. Most people will testify puking in public is one of the worst things that can happen to you, and certainly taught me not to mix my drinks. Just because every time you think back to the night you will remember lying in a gutter trying with both hands to sweep the vomit away from your jacket as it is slowly sliding towards you. If some copper would come up to you after that it would put the whole thing in perspective and make it seem less bad. I think the police should encourage people throwing up in the street. It would smarten people up.