Firstly, I wish to apologise to Kate, the person who in a previous bolog convinced me of something totally ridiculous – that there are people in Argentina who castrate sheep with their teeth. It turns out she wasn’t joking – they really do bite the bollocks off sheep. How do I know ? I’ve seen the pictures…and it made me feel very uncomfortable, and slightly nausiated. Sorry for doubting you Kate, but come on, you must admit it does sound unlikely….
Tonight BBC 1 had a new reality TV game show where you could vote for or against a asylum seekers. Sadly they couldn’t swing it so that the general population’s decision was final because that would have given it the edge it was sadly lacking. Instead the cases have already been decided and all we could do was compare our results with what the “experts” decided.
To make it more interesting there were panels of people who would also vote and either support or enrage the viewer. The panels consisted of
- Former Asylum seekers
- Legal Experts
- Middle England
- Anachronistic Gary-Bushell-style neo-nazis
So what did we learn ? Well not very much. In summary:
- The british public are very stupid
- The asylum seekers tended to support other asylum seekers
- the nationalists were even more odious than we imagined possible
One of the ex-seekers, a stunning turkish girl is now my hero for managing to put the dialetical Doc-Martin into the Gary-Busshells whilst smiling all the way. Nice one girl. The only other person to stand out was a vicar who was actually really sound…but then again he was probably a gay, paedophile, leftie so he doesn’t count. Interestingly the Littlejohns had several different arguments they could apply to just about any situation. Firstly if the story sounded unlikely then obviously it’s a rejection. But if it sounded believable, it might not be brutal enough to justify entering Britain…rejection again. Finally if it was believable and brutal, then why come all the way to England when there are plenty of other countries between Africa/Eastern Europe/South America and here. Why can’t they try all the other first ? eh ? Why come over here and nick our jobs and NHS beds ? Let Pakistan take em…rejection again. Needless to say they rejected all of the contestants.
At the end of the program I was foaming at the mouth and feeling very glad that I haven’t been given any sort of political power because I would turn into a total dictator. All asylum seekers, immigrants and anyone really would be welcomed into Vegworld. Even if they said they’d come here to leech off the state. Good on you sirs. Have our money. We’d only spend it on killing people who are threatening the financial interests of the rich otherwise. Go and buy yourself some food. You see it’s very, very simple. As Ghandi [supposedly] said “There’s enough in the world for everyone’s need, but not for everyone’s greed.”
“So you think if we stopped letting asylum seekers in, the NHS would be back working again and we’d all be happy ?” Asked my new hero to a pensioner in the Moseley group. “Don’t be ridiculous” they responded. Indeed.
There really are enough resources to end poverty and hunger, with a bit left over for a curry a week and a pint or two. The problem is that Bill Gates and Rupert Murdoch have them all.
So why don’t the lamebrains get as angry with the leeching-rich-fatcats as they do with the asylum seekers ? Well Michele answered that by quoting one of her social-policy texts. The gist of it was that it’s far harder to cope with someone seemingly getting something for nothing, than it is to cope with someone being extremely rich.
Back to work after such a nice weekend. On Saturday Brodie and I went down
to Dorking to see the pub he’s in the process of buying. Not having much experience of Surrey I was expecting the place to be like Bromley or Oprington, but it wasn’t – it was really quite rural with spectacular countryside. We met up with Charlie who took us to a little pub hidden along a tiny path half way up a steep hill. Fantastic. Badger beer, a ploughmans and a breathtaking view while we ate and drank. After lunch we walked to another pub just along the way and had another pleasant pint each. Wandering around little villages from pub to pub on a hot sunny day is one of my favourite pastimes – I wonder if there is any way to get a career doing it…hmm.. Anyway, we eventually made it to The Cricketers and spent the afternoon chatting to the present landlord. It’s a snug, friendly little pub with a nice walled garden. What a great place to come and visit that’s going to be.
The journey back was bizarre. South Central make Connex look like an efficient bunch of experts… first leg…dorking to Sutton. At the platform a bloke approached Brodie for a light which was a cue for Brodie’s joke de jour. When he’d finished and the laughing had subsided, the guy apologised and explained he had a light all the time. He took his wallet out of his pocket, opened it and it burst into flames. We were slightly shocked as you can imagine, but not as much as we were when he calmly closed the wallet, extinguishing the flame and returned it to his back pocket. We got chatting and he turned out to be in the magic circle on the way to do a stag party, and was kind enough to entertain us with some really rather excellent card tricks while we were waiting for the train.
When it arrived, he said goodbye and sat at the far end of the carriage. Don’t blame him really – it must be a right pain in the arse having to spend your entire journey doing your act. However, more entertainment was coming our way in the shape of a couple of little kids who decided that Brodie would make an excellent dad. “Will you be our daddy ?” the asked. He replied that he was already busy with daddy tasks and so couldn’t. “Will you be our daddy ?” they asked again. Again he politely refused. “Will you be our daddy ?” they persisted. The children’s mother sitting nearby explained that their dad was dead and told them to stop. They didn’t stop. They just moved along the carriage and started to ask other people. The mother really didn’t act surprised leading me to the conclusion that this was a common occurrence – you never know, one day they might get a “yes ok then” and he could turn out to be a handsome millionaire…or something.
The kids worked their way up the carriage towards the magician. “Oh yes that’s agood idea!” Brodie shouted, ” go and ask that guy to do some tricks”. For the first time in their life probably, they obeyed. The prestidigitator turned round and gave us a cold stare and then came down to where we were all sitting and went into a full on magic routine. The kids were in absolute awe. I had to take picture to capture the look of innocent amazement on their faces. The family got off at the next stop, but the magician was on a role and asked if he could do some more tricks for us.
Obviously we answered yes and he entertained us until we reached Sutton.
It was then that the journey changed tack from bizarre-entertaining to bizarre-fucking-irritating. Of course, after 6:30pm South Central don’t run any trains from Sutton to New Cross. London bridge yes. Victoria yes. But not New Cross.
My ticket was to New Cross Gate and from bitter previous experience I knew that I wasn’t permitted to go to either of these stations. So Brodie suggested we go to West Croyden, and then walk over to east Croydon. Not having a better suggestion I agreed and we waited what seemed like hours for the next train.
Up until the train arrived at West Croydon, the weather had been spectacularly good. As soon as we put our feet on the platform it started raining – not just drizzle, a full on thunderstorm. There’s no nicer place to be during a thunderstorm that walking through Croydon in shorts and a t-shirt. We eventually got to the station – of course my ticket wouldn’t go through the gate and so I had to ask the guard. He looked closely at the ticket, and as the water dripped off my nose I warned him that I wouldn’t take kindly to him questioning it because I really didn’t want to be there in the first place. He let me through, joking that in that case he would question it…very amusing young man…very amusing..
Sunday morning was another one of those classic “modern” Christian praise programs where everyone sings uplifting songs holding their hands in the the air. It was so inspiring that I did more work on my Uplifting Christian Song Generator. Later we had a splendid roast chicken dinner at my mum and dad’s, getting back in time to watch the Sunday Big Brother omnibus….ahh…perfection 🙂
Have you noticed a new type of marketing for a certain type of music. Probably not – because it’s known in the biz as “stealth marketing”. They’ve discovered that people in their late twenties upwards don’t like the teenybop marketing they suffered all the way through their childhood with Radio 1, Cheggers plays pop and No Limits. So that take a different tack. They get the target artist to guest on a few “cool” albums. They get a few serious interviews in The Guardian, Salon or the observer. They go on radio2. They get them to turn up on the right tv programmes late at night when you feel that not many other people are watching…in all the idea is to give you the impression that you’ve discovered something cool, and underground. Well the Guardian wouldn’t print an article about someone if their music wasn’t special would they ?
Then the final act – a tv ad campaign with a picture of the album cover and a low, serious voiceover that says “The new, crtically acclaimed sound of [insert pretentious bullshit band name] is now available to buy in the shops with their brilliant debut album [insert poncy album title].”
And people go out any buy it.
Listen folks, just because Terry Wogan and Jimmy Young aren’t on radio 2 anymore doesn’t mean it’s no longer the old farts station. Did you buy an album by that wobbly headed twat David Gray ? What about the Dandy Warhols or White Stripes ? HAH! You’ve been buggered by the marketing men. Your punishment is to have to listen to the bland mediocre crap you just forked out for.
The night before last, Ian, Kate and I sat in the Rosemary branch talking about this and that. Kate was relating anecdotes about the time she spent in Argentina and we listened attentively. Now this is going to sound so utterly stupid that you might start questionning my mental health – I know I did – but one story really amazed me…as it should, being total bollocks. She told us about how she stayed in this remote village where it was traditional to castrate sheep…with their teeth. Apparently she even had photos to prove it. Now look, I know it sounds stupid but you’re reading this, forwarned. We were in a pub, after consuming quite a few pints, and this story was in the middle of some legit stuff…
Anyway – I didn’t sus that it was bollocks until late yesterday when I had a moment of clarity. That morning I even asked her if she’d brought the pictures in…oh god what a wanker…
Yesterday I went over to Eltham to sort out my mum and dad’s ADSL, only to find my dad with bandaged hand after seriously burning it. He’d put some plates under the grill to “warm” them, forgotten about them, and then picked them up. Skin falling off everywhere. After a while my mum managed to bludgeon him into calling NHS direct, who after the obligatory hour-long wait to call back told him to go to hospital. What a great service that is….
Before they left they had time to tell me about the next piece of spectacularly shitty luck to be given out to a couple of my favourite relations – a malignant tumor. These particular relations are possibly the most selfless, caring, funny, lovely people on the face of the earth. They’ve spent their life just being good people and helping other people out. What is their reward ? Two dead children, chronic illness, chronic financial difficulties and insults from the mad part of the family. Now they’re both in the same hospital being treated for different problems…one of which has just been discovered to be pretty bloody serious. Isn’t it bloody fair ?
As I’ve said before if there is a god, he’s a bastard. Perhaps this is some sort of biblical test of faith ? Have they passed I wonder ? Sorry, but you just didn’t pray enough – take the down escalator. What a nasty egomaniac shitbag. He’s like the school-bully on a universal scale.
Even people who live good lives still can’t escape his shitty sense of humour. You grow, and develop, and learn, and become wiser. All the time your body is decaying, slowly but surely taking you closer to death. All the things you learn slowly vanish as your brain cells disappear. If you survive all of the common health obsticles such as heart-disease and cancer then you can enjoy old age and all of the pant-shitting, senile, confused, dignity that goes with it. Thanks god.
Here’s a story as amusing as it is probably apocryphal, that also nicely illustrates the dangers of tattoos.
This guy, heavily into the gay scene, decides to get a tat. He opts for some type of oriental pictograph and carefully researches what symbol would adequately describe him. Being a hedonist he asks the tattooist for the symbol for “pleasure”. The tattooist obliges and once the blood and scabs clear up he proudly displays it while wandering around soho.
We have discovered, from someone who knows, that the symbol actually means “pleasuring the clitoris”. Let’s hope he’s not into oriental men because his pulling power will suddenly tail-off…
Now if he’d mistakenly bought a t-shirt with that design on, he’d feel a bit of a fool and would probably give it away. But this is a tatoo. When he’s being helped out of the bed by the nurse so she can clean up his shit when he’s 83, that symbol will still be there.
Would you ever make a fashion decision for an item of clothing that you had to wear for the rest of your life ? What if you were asked in the 80s ? You’d still be wearing those Farrahs, that Gabbicci jumper and that waffle tie today….how much of a prat would you feel ?
And as for Chinese or Japanese symbols…what sort of lame cheese-brain opts for that ? OK – if you’re chinese or Japanese then ok – you know what you’re doing. But the sort of nob-ends that go for this are usually westerners with absolutely no clue, to whom the idea of tattooing “love”, “hate”, “mum”, “pleasure” or “ACAB” would be abhorrent….if it was written in English. But in Japanese or Chinese it looks exotic dunnit. Yes well guess what – to the Chinese and Japanese, it just looks like words, and you look like a right tit. You’ve made a decision about a longer proportion of your life than you’ve lived for already…and none of this “I want to die young” bullshit either. What sort of person wants to live to 80 ? Ask someone who’s 79.
Today we are due for some thunderstorms to end the period of intense heat and humidity that Britain has been sweating under for the past week. Everything looks beautiful in this weather, but personally I can’t enjoy it because even the lightest physical movement, such as shifting a buttock, or raising a glass to my lips results in a waterfall of sweat down my spine. How lovely it looks in a light coloured t-shirt. So I wear black t-shirts. That works well until the end of the day when instead of sweat patches I’m left with an attractive salt diagram of my underlying gut.
So instead of going out and “enjoying the weather” I spent the weekend lying still at home.
In fact so strong was my reluctance to move further than the front room that I even ended up blowing out a party. Tony was over from France for a long weekend and I’d promised him a party on saturday night – but when it came down to it we ended up just sittiong around the flat, very still. Getting mashed in front of the telly.
Tony pointed out how different our attitudes had become over the last ten years with respect to parties. Ten years ago, he and a few mates were so desperate to go to a party that they drove from Bristol to Portsmouth – only to find the party consisted of a few early-teens, their parents and a few aunts and uncles sitting around the front room watching telly.
Compare that to this saturday where we knew of a party full of people we like and things we like to do, that’s in the same town…and we didn’t go….because it’s quite hot and it’s a long way to Streatham. How crap is that ?
So sorry for a crap weekend Tone.
“Hello, this is a message from BT. In response to cutomer feedback, you may now record your own outgoing message with BT call-minder for only a pound a month.”
For a pound a month BT can lick my balls.
What’s all this ? Justice ? That’s not very British is it ? Whatever happened to “it’s the rich wot gets the pleasure, and the poor wot gets the blame” ? That’s what made Britain great.
Suddenly a bunch of upright,respectable businessmen have been prosecuted for corporate manslaughter and could face imprisonment! Good lord, just because their cynical profiteering led to mass murder really shouldn’t mean they get punished – business is business after all. In the good old days we’d just give them a hefty back-hander and send them on to another directorship.
You see I have no problem with these people who hold high-power, responsible jobs getting obscene salaries….providing they are prepared to take responsibility. In other words, if as a director of a company you do well, for example by making the service you provide better whilst increasing profits without killing anyone, then a masive bonus could be worth it. However if you make a right bollocks-up of the whole rigmarole: decrease profits, kill hundreds of your customers, that sort of thing, then you should be prepared to take responsibility and be punished accordingly. In fact this is the only justifyable reason for a death penalty in my opinion.
So let’s start a campaign to bring back capital punishment for corporate manslaughter. Can you imagine the beauty of Gerald Corbett’s purple nose exploding as he burns to death in the electric chair ?