The Dear Departed

Illegal Immigrants

Herge Smith and his special friend have left the wilds of the Scottish Highlands and headed home to the bucolic delights of Malvern, Worcs. At this moment they are probably sipping white Russians, and reminiscing about their encounters with vicious Pine Martens and sundry hairy arsed highlanders in various states of inebriation.

Herge’s pooches, Dixon and Daisy Doo, have decided to stay with me. They are, frankly, fed up with what amounts to house arrest in an English market town. They much prefer the hills and glens of bonny Scotland, and are most enamoured with the ready availability of holes down which they can chase varmints. I can understand their reasons for staying, and being a hospitable sort have agreed to give them house room.

Dalek has also decided to stay. After an initial period of infatuation during which Herge provided ample extermination opportunities, he has recently found himself confined to a dusty cupboard beneath the stairs. Such is the fickleness of the sci-fi buff. Only a heart of stone could turn away a miniature Dalek, so I have provided him with his own bedroom.

I will receive some funny looks as I wander around with two miniature Daschunds, but I rest secure in the knowledge that should I receive any grief from an oik I can summon Dalek to deal with them.

All in all, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Silly Season

The silly season is definitely underway when the quality newspapers (no Daily Mail readers, you do not read a quality newspaper) start including stories about Tasmanian Devils (lack of), Tom Cruise being of Welsh descent, and ‘Why oh why do the Scots hate the English?’.

Why it should take a newspaper article to draw attention to the fact that Cruise is a closet Welshman beats me. His obvious dwarfism can only result from a genetic inheritance provided by diminutive valley dwellers or, failing that, a throwback to a vigorous conversation between a Bronwen and an in season pit pony. Scientology obviously holds a special appeal for the short of stature, allowing them to aspire to the stars without resorting to a step ladder.

As for the Scots hate the English bollocks; I think we can all do without tosspot politicians and ignorant newspaper columnists using a few reprehensible instances of anglophobia to claim that there is a widespread dislike of the English. Five hundred thousand English people live in Scotland. If they were constantly being bashed about the head with Irn Bru bottles I imagine they would choose to live somewhere else

On a lighter note, blogging genius Herge Smith is staying with me at the moment. He is enjoying himself, drinking beer, and going on hiking expeditions into the untamed wilderness. Actually, that’s a lie. He is sticking to well sign posted paths with gentle gradients, the short legs of his miniature daschunds struggling in his wake. He does look exceptionally gay sitting in the pub with a small pooch on his lap, but he hasn’t been beaten up yet.

Tina Cakesniffer is about to venture to the blasted wilderness of British Columbia, where vicious wolverines prowl with evil in mind, and the locals call a kebab a kabob.
God help her. If the plane doesn’t crash she will be devoured by a grizzly. Salford is much safer; but some people just won’t be told. Gawd help her.

Hotel California

I hope that Herge Smith, the creative genius behind Angry Chimp, is looking forward to his impending trip to damp and drizzly Scotland. His accommodation will be provided by the Garfer International Vacation and Leisure Conglomerate; a long established and highly respected institution which has obtained many plaudits from satisfied customers over the years.

I have very generously allowed Herge a blogger discount in respect of his accommodation. Of course, given my love of smackeroonies, he will fully accept that certain small compromises have had to be made in the quality of accommodation to be provided.

I am sure that he will find the sheds perfectly acceptable. The shed on the right has been specifically designed with the needs of miniature daschunds in mind. Containing as it does several rusty old saws, a dismantled outboard motor, and several open containers of Round Up super strength weed killer, I am sure that the pooches will feel at home.

The main accommodation is provided by the central shed. This is salubriously appointed with two broken down television sets, a rusty old fridge freezer, and a mildewed king size mattress the edges of which have been energetically chewed by mice. Instead of a shower, a small hole in the roof provides a constant and refreshing supply of rain water.

Some of my guests who have stayed in the shed have enjoyed themselves so much that they haven’t been able to leave. I keep them in cages in the shed on the left, and sometimes feed them when I remember….which isn’t very often. It’s nice to know that they are there. I get lonely sometimes and it’s nice to pop up to the shed and have a chat.

Bespoke.

Watching a drama last night based on the life of George ‘Beau’ Brummel, archetypal 19th century English dandy, I was forced to look at my wardrobe in an even more aghast manner than usual. Chain store Charlie, that’s me. I aspire to the nondescript and usually succeed admirably. Any designer clothing that I have purchased in the past has just ended up being churned to shreds in the washing machine, or has ended up a strange colour with cigarette burns at strategic points.

Brummel is apparently responsible for the modern two piece business suit. He also introduced the shocking, at the time, ritual of daily ablutions. We have much to thank him for. No sartorial imagination is required of the modern male, and although we don’t spend two hours each morning at our toilette, neither do we pong like a rancid badger.

I’d never have made it as a fop. Prancing about in a perfumed wig wearing a pair of silk knee britches and a pair of ridiculously pointy shoes wouldn’t have appealed. I wouldn’t have been very good at the mincing either, although I may have just about passed muster when it came to twirling my ivory tipped cane in a Charlie Chaplin manner.

There aren’t many examples of the modern dandy. Rock stars, football players and their ilk probably imagine that they are the personification of bohemian chic. In fact, they look like utter twats. I suppose Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen is the closest to the dandy archetype. He must spend at least an hour each morning twirling his Byronic locks and arranging his over large shirt cuffs just so.

Albert Einstein had a wardrobe of seven identical sets of clothing. This meant he didn’t have to think about what he’d be wearing the next day; he just got on with being a genius. I may not be a genius, but I think I’ll follow old Albert’s example.

Worms.

In one respect, and one respect only, worms are admirable creatures. The ability to grow a new half after being severed by a sharp object is obviously useful if you happen to be a worm. In the grand scheme of things though, it just means that worms are unlikely to die out as species. This may delight the worms, but I’m sure that the thrushes are even more delighted: the profusion of wriggly things that they can wrench out of the ground more or less guaranteed.

Worms are always out and about early in the morning (as are the thrushes). Personally I have never been overly enamoured with early starts. It’s all very well and good if you have something specifically enjoyable to get up for; like a day off, or collecting a lottery win. Apart from that they are an offence against the natural order of things. Getting up at the same time as everyone else just entails swearing at the cat and sweltering in traffic jams.

As far as I am concerned the onset of daylight is a fairly shocking experience. Galvanizing my sensitive constitution to movement, let alone effort, is a process which requires time. A gentle reintroduction to the world is what I require. A good hour or so spent refuelling on a fried breakfast, a newspaper, and a nice cup of tea, is what the British Empire was founded on.

All this grabbing a large latte from Starbucks and rushing to check out the Money Markets at 7.00 am is a profoundly misconceived practise. Arriving at 10.00 am, rested and sanguine, the late riser will obviously outpace the early riser in the speed of their mental functioning. All they have to do is make a few well rested trades and then they can consider the lunch options.

I don’t suppose I’d cope very well in the City, or Wall Street. The Belgravia Mansion and Condo in the Hamptons will always remain tantalisingly out of reach. Oh well, I can always console myself playing ‘Worms’ and congratulate myself on my freedom from the tyranny of the alarm clock.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.

I was a good cross country runner as kid. This may have had something to do with my reedy frame: my ribcage exposed like an anorexic glockenspiel. I must have had large lungs though, as I left all the fat tossers gasping in my wake. The lard arses tried short cuts and everything but they still couldn’t catch me.

It’s a good thing that I was good at cross country because I was utterly shite at all other sports; particularly the team ones. I was hopeless at football. I could dribble around in circles for ages but as regards passing the ball or heading it I was decidedly sub normal. I didn’t mind cricket so much: at least I could mooch around as a fielder, crushing insects with my shoes and fantasising about Michelle Sparks in her tight running shorts.

Rugby was perdition. Our games master was a perverted little sadist who delighted in making us play rugby when there was a good two inches of permafrost. He also enjoyed whipping our bare arses with a wet towel when we emerged from the showers. He liked to play gospel songs on his acoustic guitar and was a big cheese in the local Pentecostal church. These days he’d be arrested by the paedo police and incarcerated for a good ten years, but no one had heard of that sort of thing in those days.

Thankfully I grew up. The consumption of beer and burgers bulked out my frame somewhat and I discovered the joys of hanging around snooker halls all afternoon.

If I tried cross country running these days I’d need to carry an inhaler and an oxygen tank.

The Princess of Poo.

Everyone has to have an interest in life. Serial killing, bird watching, naked sky diving, stamp collecting, sushi preparation, and cat torturing all have their individual merits, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who takes conspicuous pleasure in poking about in other peoples poo.

Dr Gillian McKeith, midget nutritionist, is convinced that the source of all dietary maladies may be determined by poking about in faeces with a spatula. I’m not an expert in the field of nutrition, but this approach strikes me as having about as much scientific merit as water divination using a two pronged stick.

I was listening to Dr Gillian on the radio this morning. She was asked if she enjoyed her poo poking activities. She replied that it all depended whose poo she was examining (ha, ha). This left me mystified. I bow to no man in my admiration of the lovely Uma Thurman and the exquisitely lipped Angelina Jolie, but I would have to politely decline if offered the chance to stir their rectal excretions with a spoon. Even the offer of £100K to make a TV series about my discoveries would leave me unmoved.

Dr Gillian has a PhD from Penn State University (or so she claims), so there can be no question about her educational bona fides. Maybe poo stirring is the way to go, and I’m sure that there will be many learned articles in the Scientific American concerning the subject.

There can be no suggestion that she is not utterly genuine. The fact that she is an attention seeking peroxide blonde dwarf with the most irritating trans Atlantic accent this side of Lloyd Grossman is completely beside the point.

As the Joan Rivers (without the wit) of Poo, Gillian deserves full respect. As such, I intend to send her some of my post chicken madras poo in a Jiffy bag. I bet she’ll be dead chuffed.

Bang 'em up.

The liberal middle classes have reacted with consternation to the news that the British prison population now stands at 80,000. Surely, they cry, more should be done by way of rehabilitation: after all, the poor miscreants have merely reacted to severe social deprivation by knifing passers by and stealing stuff.

Frankly, I’m amazed that the figure is as low as this; 80,000 is the population of a large town like Gloucester. Given the number of semi house trained retards and bling ridden pychos wandering the streets off their faces, I’d have expected the figure to be nearer 250,000.

Rather than squander billions on NHS Trusts that would have trouble ensuring the efficient removal of a pensioners bunion, we should be investing the money in some shiny new prisons. As for rehabilitation, I imagine a prison officer’s charter that encouraged the screws to give the inmates a good kicking on a regular basis would do much to discourage recidivism.

I find the prevalence of knife carrying youths disturbing. Glasgow has had a problem with this since the 1920’s, but the problem seems to have spread to the rest of the country in recent years. The usual bollocks about education being the solution, and a pathetic knife amnesty, have been tried in Glasgow and failed miserably. You won’t find me on Sauchiehall Street at 2 am on a Saturday morning. I have no desire to find my innards dangling on the pavement after being stabbed by a pissed numptie in a Kappa jacket.

Carrying knives is culturally ingrained. The only way to stop it is to make the offence of carrying an offensive weapon in public subject to a mandatory five year jail sentence. It’ll cost a bit banging up the little tossers, but I don’t imagine it’ll cost much more than doling out their weekly state benefits.

An interesting educational resource on Glasgow’s knife culture can be found here. I particularly recommend the ‘Gallery of the Neds’.

Politics

I’ve never been a political animal. In my experience people’s political opinions count for zilch: after all, everyone thinks that their own farts smell sweet. I do make an exception where rabid Nazis (BNP) or unreconstructed fucktard Trots (Scottish Socialist Party, George Galloway) are concerned, but apart from that I say each to their own. They may be imbeciles with the intellectual capacity of an anorexic gnat, but I am pleased that they are allowed to voice their opinions in a loud and vociferous fashion.

I’ve met committed socialists who haven’t bought anyone a drink in their lives, and bampot torys who would shelter a homeless vagrant and lend them their last pound coin. A cunt is a cunt, whatever their political persuasion.

Britain used to be littered with MP’s who enjoyed a personal vote. This was generally because they raised hell on behalf of their constituents and didn’t give a monkeys fuck about personal political advancement. Unfortunately this rare and estimable breed has been driven to near extinction by the glossy ex Polytechnic educated Joe 90’s.

I’ve decided to stand for Parliament. I’m not attracted to the idea of standing as an independent as this suggests, to my mind, vague undertones of a cross between Norman Wisdom and David Bellamy.

I shall form the ‘Normal Party’. The only criteria for membership will be that normal people shall not apply for membership. I’ve already started to design the constituency office: it will have a full size snooker table, smoking booths, and a large lectern for my own personal use.

The world needs to hear what I have to say. If there were more people like me prepared to address the vital interests of the common man in a robust and forthright manner (not that I’m common) this world would be a happier and more inebriated place.

I can almost feel the ermine draping my shoulder blades.

Firebomb the Scottish Parliament

The latest wizard wheeze to emanate from the toy town Scottish Parliament had me gagging on my Weetabix.

The political numpties are not satisfied with their ban on smoking in pubs, they have decided to interfere with the God given right of all Scots to purchase multi packs of super strength lager and litre bottles of vodka while picking up their weekly supply of meat pies and lard at the local supermarket.

The useless ex toon cooncilors (stuffed to the oxters with tax payers cash) essentially have nothing to do. This is why they feel obliged to stick their snouts (usually snuffling in expense claims for free flats in central Edinburgh) into matters which are none of their business.

Do they seriously think that such a measure will reduce alcohol abuse? Having separate aisles and checkouts for booze will just result in everyone buying food, traipsing out to the car, and then going back in again to load up with the fruits of the grain. This is just a waste of everybody’s time and will not have the slightest effect on the average alcohol consumption per head of population.

Of course, that’s not important; what really matters is that these parasites are seen to be doing something to justify their ludicrously large salaries.

Hopefully the head honchos of the supermarkets will tell them to fuck off and die. If they don’t, I’m seriously considering emigration.

Salad Sarnies

I take little delight in the culinary abominations afforded by the vile coterie of perverse vegetablists and lentil torturers, but I am prepared to make an exception for the proper belt and braces British salad sandwich.

The ingredients for the salad sandwich are simple; it is the method (nay, the skill) of assembly that makes the difference between a pale facsimile and the genuine caboodle.

The essential ingredients are: white processed sliced loaf bread, butter, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and Heinz Salad Cream. Sounds simple enough, and indeed it is, as long as the sandwich is assembled in strict accordance with the method that I describe below:

Each slice of bread, all traces of crust removed, must be copiously spread with butter (margarine or other low fat substitutes are not acceptable).

The lettuce must be English or iceberg (foul tasting leaves like rocket, radicchio, or the truly disgusting lollo rosso, are a strict no no).

The salad mixture must be anointed with a thick smear of Heinz salad cream (use of mayonnaise will result in a swift kick in the balls).

Once assembled, the sandwich must be squashed flat, wrapped tightly in cling film or foil, and stored in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.

The resultant sandwich is a masterpiece. The combination of slightly soggy bread with the crisp tangy crunch of lettuce and Heinz Salad Cream is not to be sniffed at.

If trapped in a hippy commune I could happily subsist on salad sandwiches for a couple of days. Only then would my desire for meat force me to disembowel a crusty long hair or three.