I'm in the Mood for Dancing

My hayfever kicked off rather badly this year so I asked my GP for some anti-histamines. They were very effective, especially when combined with vodka and coke. They also had the strange side effect of giving me vivid dreams.

Vivid dreams usually involve unlikely sexual gymnastics, or morbid premonitions of impending death. I suppose its got summat to do with the sex and death nexus. Mine were no exception, and I woke with a serious case of the night sweats on a number of occasions.

I had one recurring dream (nightmare) involving group sex with the Nolan sisters and a troupe of depraved performing dwarves. God knows what suppressed traumas lurk in my past to explain such bizarre dreams. It's not as though I've ever taken LSD, or fought off kiddie fiddlers during my tender years.

I think I'll consult my mate Caitlin. She has a degree in geography and psychology, so she's a past master at finding her way around her own head.

I just hope she can help with mine.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All hangovers are vile, but those which also entail a nasty dose of the squits are particularly revolting.

After a heavy night on the tequila sunrises in Cyprus last year, I was unfortunate enough to experience the full blown pig behind the eyes/erupting intestines experience. This would have been bad enough in Blighty, but given the Greek Cypriot genius for drain construction it was hellish.

It mystifies me why these people experienced 80 odd years of good belt and braces British governance, and still can't sort out their sewerage arrangements. Their drains are so useless that they won't accept a single sheet of toilet paper without blocking and disgorging their contents all over your en suite bathroom. Consequently, you are expected to dispose of your wipings in a metal bin thoughtfully provided next to the big white telephone.

This is a distasteful practice at the best of times, but it is most emphatically not on when one is suffering a nasty attack of the squits.

This was my predicament. In my befuddled state I decided to go into a nearby hotel and avail myself of their facilities. Better some effluent on their floor than mine thought I. As I reversed my posterior onto the khazi, I happened to glance down only to see three cockroaches emerging from the toilet brim with their feelers a go- go.

These weren't any old cockroaches, these were Giant American Cockroaches and the bastards had WINGS. I was out of there quicker than an Olympic sprinter with a wasp up his arse.

They have Giant Hissing Cockroaches in Madagascar. Apparently there are sickos out there who like to keep them as pets. I think I'll give Madagascar a miss.

Of Pimps and Popes

I'm sure that everyone will be delighted to learn that the Right Hon Anthony 'pretty straight kinda guy' Blair will continue to bestride the globe like a toothy colossus when he ceases to be PM. Apparently he plans to sort out the Middle East, African poverty, female circumcision, and lots of other stuff. Phew. It'll be great when that lot's sorted.

TONY BLEUUURGH

Rumour has it that he is also to anounce his conversion to Catholicism. I'm sure that his holiness is rubbing his palms at the prospect. Good 'ole Tones well known commitment to civil partnerships, stem cell research, pre marital sex, and contraception make him the perfect advocate for the modern Church.

CHERIE BLEUUURGH

If I was his Popeness I would think twice before accepting Tony's genuflections. If he starts entertaining Catholic youth groups with his stratocaster and Jaggeresque hip gyrations in an attempt to, like, get with the kids, the consequences will be unthinkable. The prospect of a prancing tit like Blair singing 'Kumbaya My Lord' will lead to a mass exodus to join the Seventh day Adventists, or one of the rattlesnake worshipping cults that thrive in Boise, Idaho.



I'm convinced that the whole business is a set up job by the Rev Ian (sodomy emerges from the pit of hell) Paisley to discredit the one true Church.



Something will have to be done.

Must have GSOH

It is an undeniable fact that I am, sadly, less of a hit with the lovely laydeez than I used to be. This is a most unfortunate state of affairs. I don't understand it really: I dont have a beer gut, halitosis, a hare lip, or an embarassing bowel complaint. I actually look reasonably presentable; at a distance, in dim light.

Perhaps living in the boondocks means that I have just run through the available totty, or perhaps the available totty is just through with me. I wouldn't blame them.

I've been perusing the personal columns recently. The problem with these is that you have to work out the coded meanings. A mature bubbly brunette who likes long walks in the countryside translates as an elderly bloater who dresses in dungarees and wellingtons, and laughs at her own jokes. The male entries are easier to translate. A fifty something, solvent, businessman seeking uncomplicated fun with a potential soulmate is actually a married bloke looking for afternoon shags with no strings attached.

Then there are the acronyms: WLTM, GSOH, NS. In my case the definition of 'good' sense of humour would have to include the words warped and perverse. As for the no smoking, I am a committed roll up artiste and have no intention of changing my ways to satisfy the whim of a mere girly.

I think my only hope may lie in producing a pithy, to the point entry that the goddess of my dreams will find utterly irresistable.

I've decided to use the late great Jeffrey Bernard's 'blind, alcoholic amputee seeks sympathy fuck'.

Apparently it never fails.

BIFF BANG POW!

ANIMAL

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a rock star in possession of a £10 million fortune must be in want of an enema.

All rock stars are arseholes, it's just that some are more rectally challenged than others. It's probably unfair to pick on an individual, but Bono definitely deserves a mention. It's not so much that he's a sanctimonious self righteous git, it's more that he insists on wearing leather trousers. No male with stumpy legs should do this under any circumstances. The only men who wear leather trousers these days (apart from the unfunny tosser Russell Brand) are bikers, and they're all homosexualists who like to stand outside pubs drinking pints of orange juice.

Bono's diminutive pins encased in cowhide are the principal reason why I would rather place my head in the toilet and flush repeatedly than listen to U2.

When I say rock star, I'm really referring to vocalists and lead guitarists. Bass players are usually OK, they just stand there contentedly plucking their four strings. They aren't what you'd call heroic, but they aren't actively offensive either.

All drummers are acceptable. They're either borderline certifiable (Keith Moon, John Bonham), or all round top geezers (Ringo Star, Roger Taylor, Danny Goffey)

The best of the lot is Dave Grohl (OK, he's a multi-instrumentalist). Whenever he tours with the Foo Fighters he always takes his mother with him.

Now that's what I call rock 'n' roll.

The Unrelenting Cheerful

I'm sure that everyone has encountered the unrelenting cheerful, there's a lot of them about. Frankly they scare me to death. I'm concerned that one of these days they will suffer an existential crisis, realise the true hideousness and futility of existence, and run amok with a chainsaw.

You have to admit it's a worry.

This is why I don't go outside very often.

A Pain in the Arras

It's annoying when people try to make you like things. It usually has the effect of making you despise them even more.

My Uncle Raymond is convinced that BMW's are the acme of automotive cool. I have always regarded them as prickmobiles, and his ill advised advocacy has only served to confirm the rightness of my view.

I used to feel the same way about Shakespeare and Charles friggin' Dickens. Teachers trying to shove those two down my craw produced what I fully expected to be a life long antipathy.

"Falstaff is one of the finest comic creations in literature."

Discuss.

"Falstaff is a fat, unfunny, drunken bloater."

'Hamlet' was the worst. People hiding behind curtains so they could jump out and stab people didn't strike me as very frightening. The play within a play was shite. Ophelia was a whinging cow. Rozencrantz and Guildernstern had stupid names and, being dead, weren't even in the play.

I still remember the groans and muffled "oh for fuck's sake" elicited by the announcement that an amateur dramatic troupe would be visiting to treat us to a performance of 'the Tempest'.
It wasn't so bad actually, as the longueurs were mitigated by Miranda's tit popping out half way through the second act. Rather a fine tit it was to, as I recall.

I appreciate Shakespeare these days and, to be honest, I prefer Charles Dickens to a lot of the post modern garbage that masquerades as the modern literary novel.

Funny how things change.

Let's Invade Canada

Professor James Lovelock, author of the Gaia theory, has claimed that within fifty years global warming will have rendered most of the northern hemisphere uninhabitable. The only areas suitable for human habitation will be the British Isles, Canada, and Siberia.

We'll be all right. We can arm our hoards of disability benefit scroungers with catapults and deploy them at strategic points around the coast to beat off the beastly foreigners.

The Russians will cope as well. They have had plenty of experience labouring in Soviet penal camps in the frozen tundra.

It's the Canadians I feel sorry for. Everyone knows that the Yankees have been itching to invade for the last three hundred years. I don't know how the gorgeous April will cope when the 101st Airborne Division land on her front lawn and demand pancakes with maple syrup.

Name 'em and Shame 'em

Ginger (apparently)

Much to my chagrin I have yet again not been included in the Time magazine list of 'The 100 Most Influential People in The World'. This is annoying to say the least, and it's not the first time its happened. I write letters of remonstration to the editorial board every year and not once have they deigned to reply.

I wouldn't mind so much, but that little thicko from Croydon, Kate Moss, is included every year.

Tsk.

I couldn't help noticing that a good two thirds of the great and the good hale from the US. This is also annoying as all right thinking people know that we were much better at running the world than they are.

I've been ruminating on the reasons for American success. I suppose a vibrant immigrant culture, technological innovation, and a 'can do' attitude have all played their part. More than this, however, I suspect it may have something do with their propensity to call each other stupid names.

Newt Gingrich anyone? Gore Vidal? The latter conjures up a mental image of a hairdresser being charged by a randy bull.

Having sod all to do today, I've been trying to think up some suitable names for the Americans. So far I've come up with Henderson Baines III, Taylor D Franklin, and Demetrious K Breedlove Jr. Somewhere in that great nation I am sure there must be individuals who glory in such monikers.

We Britons have sensible names like John Smith, John Thomas (har har), and James Proudfoot. There may even be someone out there who glories in the appellation Ginger Minge.

I'm so excited by the prospect that I'm off to check the UK telephone directory.

Happy Days Toytown

My peripatetic urges having been somewhat assuaged, I decided to venture a bit closer to home last week.

Perth (Scotland, not Australia), is a strange sort of place. It's one of those odd prosperous British towns that has a population composed of 50% skinny latte ladies who lunch and 50% working class oiks clad in track suits.

Being away from home for a protracted length of time has the advantage of allowing you to appreciate the strangeness of your native environment with fresh eyes. I've reached the conclusion that I live in the oddest country on the face of the planet. Not only does everyone talk funny, they are also fundamentally mad.

Still, it's good to be back amongst me ain folk. The menfolk are still suited and booted, play instruments in Salvation Army brass bands, drink far more than is good for them, and beat up their womenfolk. The womenfolk are thankfully still displaying far too much naked flesh and wobbling around with mobile phones glued to their ears.

Where could possibly be nicer?