Simple Pleasures

This may be old news to those of you in the UK, but as I only just got the January edition of The Union Jack it's new to me.

Apparently some lad in Grimsby was doing some DIY in his home and found a dripping butty wrapped in newspaper behind a wall he was taking down. The newspaper it was wrapped in was dated 1904, making the butty 102 years old. He claims it was perfectly preserved but the soft bugger wouldn't take a bite and try it. Probably because he, like many others have been brainwashed by the Government and the makers of oily tasteless shite like I Can't Believe I Bought This, that beef dripping is bad for you. This is bollocks. Nowhere on earth is dripping more good for you than in Britain. The following collection of bullshit proves it:

• At the National Institute of Sports Science in Whitehaven, 8 out of 10 researchers agree that consuming dripping before swimming makes you more waterproof. Olympic gold medallist Duncan Goodhew confirmed this when interviewed by Dickie Davis in 1980. He said "...swimming fast has 'nowt to do wi' bein' a slap head.....it's all about the dripping."
• England's 1966 World Cup winning squad had dripping butty's for breakfast the day they beat the krauts.
• On June 6th, 1944 the allies didn't have an emergency cottage cheese sandwich made with 2 slices of Nimble. They had a beef dripping butty that looked like a doorstep. It was also intended as an emergency flotation device should they fall off the boat. In fact, the real reason that the invasion was put back a day from June 5th was not bad weather and high seas, it was because they ran out of dripping. Dripping donation centers were set up in church halls and the Great British Public came to the rescue. So much dripping was donated that the leftovers were used to waterproof the Cerne Abbas giant.
• During the 1984-85 miners strike, Arthur Scargill insisted on "the provision of one dripping butty per miner per day to be paid for by the National Coal Board". This proved to be the major sticking point in negotiations. Thatcher agreed to provide the bread but the union would have to buy their own dripping. Scargill refused, the tories won and all the mines closed down for ever.
• In 1981, Bobby Sands started another hunger strike in the HM Prison Maze in Northern Ireland. The strikers originally had six demands. The rights not to wear uniforms, not to do prison work, to associate freely with other prisoners, to organize their own educational and recreational activities, to receive one letter, one parcel and one visit per week(technically three demands in one, clever bastards) and finally the right to "all you can eat" dripping butty's on Thursday's. They dropped the sixth demand after the first day as the smell of dripping being piped into the cells by the guards was weakening their resolve.
• In 1983, the Aga Khan sold his shares in Amalgamated British Paraffin and Dripping to pay the IRA and Colonel Gadaffi £2 million in ransom money for the kidnapped Shergar. When the thick as fuck Irish kidnappers forgot to call back and arrange an exchange, the Aga Khan used the money to buy Blackpool's North Pier which he shortened by 50 meters to make it more pleasing to the eye.

I'm getting fed up with this now.

Soft Shite Fails To Impress - Again!

What a fuckin' nob end this fella turned out to be eh? Back in '86 he was a bit tidy and might even have been able to hold his own in a real fight, one with broken bottles and baseball bats. I never really took much notice of him until he bit that lad's ear and everyone started saying he was mental. I know that's what he wanted folks to think, trying to build himself a reputation as a hardcase so no one would fuck with him. I know he was just hungry, his keeper hadn't fed him for 3 days, just kept injecting him with lucozade.

Now look at him, soft cunt. 20 years later and he's still trying to pass himself off as a top boy, this time getting caught with a couple of 8 balls of charlie in the car. Are we now supposed to believe that you do drugs as well? I bet that fuckin' tattoo is temporary an' all.....

Help The Homeless

Every now and again I watch the news on telly and there will be a story that really reminds you how lucky you are. Today I saw a story about the homeless savages living on the streets of Downtown LA's skid row. This story, like all the others reminded me how things I take for granted, some people will never have. So I put on my coat and drove downtown to gloat and taunt the dirty fuckers with pictures of me in the bath eating a turkey leg. Soon a crowd started to gather, they didn't seem interested in hearing how they too could have the things I have if only they would clean themselves up a bit, stop smoking crack, get a job and save about 50 grand for a downpayment on a home. Maybe then they would develop a bit of self respect. But like I said, they seemed angry so I left. They were probably just moody 'cause it's forecast rain.

As I drove home I started to think about things I could do to help them. It came to me in a flash. Every day I brush my hair, some hair comes out and gets stuck in the brush, new hair grows back. What have I lost? Nothing. What happens to the hair in the brush? I mail it to Jennifer Aniston. Does Jennifer Aniston ever write back to say "thanks"? Does she fuck. So instead of sending good hair to some stuck up ungrateful bitch of a movie star, why not use it to knit scarves for the homeless? The weather is turning a bit nippy here in Southern California and they will need something to keep the chill off their chests. When the weather turns warm, they can use it as a pillow.

The only question is, how much should I charge?

Hunting News

Arrest over swan killings
By Staff reporter
A 16-YEAR-OLD from Widnes has been arrested, questioned and bailed over the deaths of a number of birds.
It follows the discovery of a fourth dead swan on Spike Island, West Bank, in recent weeks.
If anyone has sold, given, lent or sold a gun to anyone recently or if you know anyone with a gun, contact the police.
Swans are the property of the Queen and it is illegal to kill them.

If you have any information, call Cheshire Police on 0151 4247431 or call Crimestoppers on 0800555111.

There's not a lot going on in Widnes, at least there wasn't last time I was there. A shithole of a town which owes it's existense to the chemical industry, I remember it mostly for it's smell. It's been suggested that the town has been occupied since the Stone Age. The behaviour of citizens like the young gentleman mentioned above suggest that it is still a society of hunter gatherers, although it appears the boy may have been killing for the sport of it, unlike this ungrateful cunt who at least admitted it and wasn't afraid to tell his true feelings. Hopefully the fucker has since been deported.

Can we blame the young man for shooting the swan? There is a distinct lack of opportunity in the Widnes area for enthusiastic youngsters to practice their hobby. I would suggest practicing on each other as that would also solve the problem of overpopulation in that neck of the woods, but sadly that is also illegal.

As a child, I was never allowed a gun, and instead had to satisfy my desire to kill things by mixing tiny lead fishing weights in with my brothers hamster food. We fed him hamster food as he was a picky eater and we couldn't afford bacon. Unfortunately it must take a lot of tiny lead weights to kill a human 'cause the fucker wouldn't die and my Dad was getting suspicious about the missing fishing tackle. I started throwing bricks at passing high speed trains instead, much more fun. I will tell you about that another time.

Pooping Outdoors

Have I mentioned my enjoyment of doing my business outdoors? Probably not as it's not a topic most people care to discuss. When I lived in the great North West of England, I, like many of the locals enjoyed regular nights out involving the drinking of several pints of mild followed by a healthy curry to purge the system. These nights typically ended in the small hours and as the buses stopped running at 10pm and being banned by all the local taxi firms, I was left with no choice but to walk the 3 miles home from my inn of choice. Naturally, it wasn't long before a cack was needed.
Luckily, my route home was through a rural area lush with vegetation providing me with an abundance of nature's bog roll, the doc leaf. It's size, thickness and flexibility make the doc leaf an adequate replacement in the absence of Andrex and infinately better than that scratchy medicated Izal stuff my Grandma's 90 year old cousin used to buy. Anyway, since moving stateside I have had to contain myself and learn to practice greater control, due mainly to the poor growing conditions for the doc leaf. It would seem they do not do well in such a dry climate as I have yet to see them anywhere and I am considering consulting the local garden center for advice now that Gardener's Question Time are refusing to take my calls.
I miss the oneness of it all, the closeness to mother earth, the serene feeling one achieves by giving back to the earth what you have taken and stripped of all nutrients and goodness. It's hard to explain.
I just don't trust these foreign plants, not to wipe my arse on. Some of them have sharp micro spines invisible to the human eye. Some cause unsightly skin complaints when you touch them. An uninformed layman such as I would do well to avoid using them for such a purpose as there would almost surely be an unpleasant trip to the A&E involved.
I'm not a prude, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of unknown doctors poking around my ring piece while a bunch of medical students look on trying not laugh at my big hairy white arse. I think the answer is to make such a situation as unpleasant for them as it would be for me, or at least diffuse the tension by shoving a lego man up there before going in. That way everybody gets a laugh and goes home with a good story to share over dinner. I know this tactic may shock some people and may even solicit accusations of gayness, so instead of a lego man I will use a lego woman, if there is such a thing.
I shall visit the lego store tomorrow!

Music Notes

Doo-Wop. The sound that defined a generation. Not yours or mine but the old folks, some of them.
Doo-Wop originated in the ghetto's in the late 1940's and in the early day's was orientated towards jazz and rhythm & blues. A simple beat, vocal harmonies and light instrumentation were it's signature. It was known by many names, depending where you lived until the Royal Society of Arborists intervened in 1954 and decreed that it known only as Doo-Wop. Among the names used across America and the UK were "Diddle-Pop", "Poop-Diddly", "Widdle-Plop", "Frottle-Bop" and the highly unlikely "Swedish Swing".
The groups that became popular were mostly made up of black teenagers, high on drugs, full of adolescent angst and supressed homosexual thoughts. All this pent up emotion needed an outlet and instead of robbing houses and gang raping stray dogs they all decided to form groups and become famous. But what of their white counterparts?
In the parts of the country that black folks weren't allowed to go, unless they were owned by the people who lived there, white teenage boys were suffering the same angst and gay tendencies. Although not addicted to drugs, they pretended that they were. They too were looking for a release and word was spreading of this new music thanks to the wonder of radio and DJ's like "Uncle" Barney Felchman. Many started their own groups, many didn't make it, few did.
Unfortunately the "cracker" doo-wop groups were ridiculed and ostracized by their black counterparts and forced underground never to be heard of again except by those "in the know". Secret "hops" were arranged in farmers fields and deserted barns or factories where the groups sang their close harmony classics in the dark, sadly these events were poorly attended and the potential for making money from refreshments and t-shirt sales was limited. Even given the challenges, some groups soldiered on, dedicated to their art, refusing to give in to an industry dominated by darkies. Here, today, we remember some of those heroes of those early days.

Johnny & The Skidmarks - Formed in Cow Breeze, Wisconsin in 1950. 3 high school chums who shared the love of drag racing and malted milk. Continued performing until 1954 when Johnny (real name Moses Greenberg) was killed by a escaped dancing bear at the county fair.

Frankie Spunk & The Towelettes - From Dettol, Idaho. Performed in public for 4 years until 1954, refusing to go underground. The Towelettes quit to become an olympic relay team, leaving Frankie to sell bibles door to door. He was salesman of the year in 1956 and was promoted to vacuum cleaners but fired six months later for "inappropriate use of the sample vacuum cleaner". Unable to pay his rent, he was evicted and became a wandering drunk.

Rockin' Ronnie Retard - One of the only true "novelty" acts of the genre, Ronnie sadly drank himself to death with a lethal cocktail of Dr.Pepper and "Zingo!", a new laxative drink for which Ronnie's parents had signed him up for medical trials. As a result Zingo! never made it to the supermarket shelves and Ronnie never made it into 8th grade.

The Balloon Knots - Also from Dettol, Idaho they only had one song, "Rim Me Before Pa' Get's Home" which they would perform 10 times over every time they appeared. That is until they were sued in 1957 by a destitute Frankie Spunk who claimed that he had written the song in 1948 on the wall while having a shit in lead singer Ralphy DeMarco's outside bog. Frankie was awarded the rights to the song but was banned from performing it in the Western Hemisphere.

"Little" Doreen & The Muff's - A rare female quartet albeit of questionable sexuality. "Little" Doreen wasn't little at all, in fact she weighed over 30 stone and couldn't even wipe her arse without a yard stick with a sponge tied to the end. Their short spell in the spotlight ended when Doreen got stuck in a phone booth after a show while calling her parents to tell them that she and fellow Muff Georgie Winchell were lovers and were running away to Canada. While stuck in the booth awaiting the arrival of help, a coach full of black doo-wop bands on their way home from a gig in Memphis ran off the road destroying the phone booth and Doreen's dreams of Canada and lesbianism. Needless to say her untimely death saved Doreen's parents no end of pain and embarrassment and money usually spent on vast amounts of food.

Meanwhile, over in England where the race problem didn't exist, doo-wop groups were free to express themselves in public. Unfortunately, the Great British Public were having none of it and slogans like "Banish Yank Shite" and "Doo-Wop Us A Favour, Fuck Off!" started to appear painted on the side of public libraries and catholic churches. Only a handful of groups made the big time:

Vinny Turpentine & The Plungers - Formed in Rotherham in 1958, they waited until all the fuss had died down before releasing their first single "Ooh You Make Me Say Ooh". The single made it to number 163 on the chart, the following week Vinny was arrested for impersonating a Doctor and wearing a bra in the womens ward at Rotherham General and sentenced to 2 weeks in jail after admitting he had wanked himself off while looking at women as they pee'd in bed pans . The Plungers disowned him and went their own way.

Ernie Briggs & The Woodbines - Changed their name almost weekly as Ernie was convinced he was being spied upon by his primary school headmistress. Wracked with guilt over an incident with the school hamster, he commited suicide in 1957 by throwing himself under a horse drawn tram on the Isle of Man after a gig at the Lido Room.

Bert Cack & The Misogynists - Still performing to this very day although Bert is the only surviving member of the group. He can regularly be found propping up the bar at the Parr Stocks Labour Club in St.Helens and will belt out his old tunes for anyone who will buy him a pint and listen to him lie about shagging Diana Dors up the shitter while on tour in Rhyl in '59.

So there you have it, my longest post to date. Was it worth the effort? Was it fuck!

Snack Time

As is the tradition in this house, the 2nd Wednesday of every month is a time to honour the most revered of bovid mammals. Ovis aries, the domesticated sheep. Those amongst you with one track minds will no doubt assume that by "honour" I mean "put my dick inside". I assure all opponents of bestiality that is far from the case. I tried it once and it was shite, the fucker also gave me a troublesome rash that took several months to cure. No, by "honour" I mean just that. A day of thanks and appreciation, culminating in the eating of a delicacy once consumed by the Kings and Queens of certain barbaric middle eastern countries. Considered by many to have aphrodisiac qualities as well as a cure for parrot fever and the lesser known kinkajou disease, the pituitary gland of the sheep was much sought after in the early years of the 19th century. However, several deaths from overdose and a widely publicized article by pre-eminent Dutch agony uncle Pieter Van Der Hiert in which he rejected it's use as an aphrodisiac, claiming that he "ate a dozen sauteed in ginger and it was still like putting toothpaste back into the tube", convinced the public that the pituitary gland's health benefits were limited and not worth the nausea and projectile vomiting that invariably follow ingestion. The craze petered out and trading in the gland was suspended.

Now, thanks to an understanding and perverted local butcher, the pituitary gland is once again available and although passed unfit for human consumption by the US Department of Agriculture, is developing a small but loyal following, despite the fact that you have to remove it yourself from the severed heads of sheep smuggled in from Mexico. This is a messy and unpleasant business which I find more tolerable by playing something light hearted and happy like The Bee Song by Arthur Askey.

So, this month I plan eating the fruit of my labour served on toast with a nice apricot and stilton sauce and steamed broccoflower. I have selected a rather cheeky little Boones Farm pineapple wine cooler to compliment the main dish and a packet of chocolate Hob Nobs for desert.

Tonight I'm gonna get me some lovin'!

Accounting is Fun

As a requirement in my quest for a degree before I reach pensionable age, I started a financial accounting class last night at the local "community" "college". The lecturer informed us right off the bat that it was a 16 week course crammed into 5 weeks, and that due to the intensity of the subject matter she was not going to be taking any shit. From anyone. She also stated that if anybody had a doubt about their ability to achieve a "B" or higher, they should pretty much fuck off right there and then. Nobody left. I guarantee that tonight's class size will be considerably smaller. It's 4 nights a week, 6 'til 9.15 and it's gonna kill me. I took the week off work to lighten the load a bit. It just took me over 2 hours to do the 1st nights homework.
The class is made up of the usual suspects. Me and 1 or 2 other sad bastards who should have done it years ago, a bunch of giggling girls who failed the course once and will likely fail again, a few serious students with aspirations of high paying careers as financial planners and analysts (best of luck to 'em), the odd macho mofo in an armani tracksuit who only attends these thing to try and pick up giggling girls with which to make macho babies, and a couple of weird fuckers who disappear into the bogs every breaktime (perhaps to have a sneaky wank over the giggling girls?). Anyway, all of them interest me in some way and I endeavor to observe their habits over the next few weeks and will report back occasionally on my findings.
Now I'm going to go and watch the "John Lennon Jewelry Collection" that I just HAD to Tivo off QVC last night. I don't watch QVC ever but this just caught my eye and I have to see what the fuck it's all about. I'm either going to laugh my arse off or be mad as hell. Probably the latter as I'm pretty sure the last thing that Lennon had on his "To Do" list was design and sell jewelry on TV. Yoko on the other hand.....