Saville Row

"Ollie," people say to me as a precursor to a question, utilising their lips and tongues and vocal cords in that way which we often call 'speech' unless our brains have become unhinged by some terrible event in the past in which case we call it 'Margaret'. "Ollie," they say, sometimes trying to look deep into my eyes as if they may uncover some deep secret and, boy, must they be disappointed when all they find is a little cornea crust or optical snot clinging to the edge of my otherwise perfect and beautiful ocular receptacles. "Ollie," they occasionally reiterate once they realise I'm not paying attention and I am in fact considering how rapid I will make my masturbatory exercise that particular evening; a vigorous race to the end or a slow and langorous journey. A quick sprint to the finish line or a marathonic endurance test.

"Ollie!" At this point I pay attention. Mainly because I'm aware that whatever the discussion point is, the quicker I can get it out of the way, the quicker I can start investigating whether or not it really is possible to achieve the perfect orgasm using just a pillow and a picture of Cindy Crawford. Or (and this plays on my mind more and more) wondering whether those starving African kids with the swollen stomachs and gut-wrenching look of true despair, these poor unfortunate souls who are subject to the whims of a so-called developed world which sees fit to place them in poverty simply because it's too much effort to say "Hang on, what if we just removed your debt and helped you out by giving you the millions of tonnes of crap we don't need but may just save your lives oh except for this I-Phone app of course because I bet you've never even seen a live bird let alone an angry one" ... I wonder if those starving African kids even know how to wank. If not, Lenny Henry, I hope you're listening, go out and teach them.

"OLLIE!" Yes, sorry, hello. "Why do you believe that Jimmy Saville is actually an ancient Babylonian god sent to destroy us?"

At this point I may scoff at the ridiculousness of the question. "Pshaw," I might say. "Pfaf," I could add. "Gribb, ptui, grestooki," often comes tumbling out before I can stop myself. Of course I don't believe that; no, Jimmy Saville is a mere emissary of an ancient Babylonian god. And I have proof.

PROOF THE FIRST:
The ancient Babylonian god in question is of course Dagon, described by Milton as a sea-monster. Dwelling in the ocean, controlling the tides, this fearsome creature would occasionally devour sailors whole but not before they'd drawn a quick sketch first. Please note the hat.



Before I carry on, why were all ancient pictures a bit rubbish? I mean, this is meant to be a sea-beast, right, but look at the background. That's not water. What, is it beached? Are hordes of Greenpeace workers waiting just out of shot with buckets of that suspicious white creamy stuff they rub on whales under the pretence of 'saving' them?

'Saving' them. 'Getting their perverted kicks' more like.

"Oh dear Mr Whale, you're not well are you, oh dear no, let me just rub you alllllllll over, mmmm, nice yes?"
"Actually, could you just, y'know, get me back in the water? I'll be alright after a bit."
"Oh dear Mr Whale, looks like a little got into your blow hole; well, don't you worry, I'll get it out, ohhhhhh, mmmmmm ... "
"Nnnnnnngggg - "
"Stop struggling, you wait and see where they really take you in that airlift."

Okay, anyway, so old Daggers (as he was known to his friends and close relatives) doesn't look too terrifying there, and almost totally doesn't look like Jimmy Saville. But don't be fooled by the almost friendly bushy black beard.



See the identical phallic shape of the hats? Coincidence? I think not. If only Dagon's cigar had not been photo-shopped out by some ancient Babylonian busy-body eager to conceal the truth, this alone would be all the evidence needed to encourage the citizens of the world to tear down the many shrines erected in 'Sir' Saville's honour.

But I shall press on.

PROOF THE SECOND:

According to Phoenician sources, Dagon ruled over the lands Dor and Joppa, in the Plain of Sharon.* His consort, Belatu, ruled the Mountain of Debbie, while his son Hadad had to make do with the Cornershop of Clive**, as well as all his mates taking the piss out of his name. "Oi, Hadad, havave you got a tenner you can lend me? Guffaw."***

Dor and Joppa, eh? And I bet all these years you thought 'DJ' stood for something as simple and banal as 'disc jockey'. In fact, now I come to think of it, 'Dagon' even sounds a bit like DJ. Especially if you say it with a mouthful of sand like I bet all those ancient people did. Yes. Two for the price of one there.

PROOF THE THIRD:

Right, this is the clincher. Jimmy Saville, born in 1926.

1926, according to some weird web-site I stumbled upon at 3 in the morning while smoking a big fat doobie, marked the beginning of the Age of Aquarius (fish!), when the water-bearer shall rise (water!) alongside the influence of entertainment. Oh, yes, Insert own random rabid capitals.

1926. In January, London was FLOODED. (I thought I'd help you out this time).

1926. In February, Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon wAs DEStroyEd by waTer.

1926. A hurricane (more often than not a water-born phenomena) killed 650 people in Cuba, 11 days before 'Sir' Saville's birth. Add 6 and 5 and 0 together and you get ELEVEN.

1926. Fidel Castro was born. According to newspaper reports, he DRINKS WATER sometimes.

1926. What happened on the exact day of Dagon's emissary birth? Harry Houdini died. Yes, even then we were being sent the subtle message that there is NO ESCAPE.

1926. And what was that date of birth exactly? Ah, yes, 31st October, commonly known as Samhain, or Halloween if YOU'RE COMMON.

I must go lie down for a bit, but I want you to bear all this mind. You may feel you can mock, or even ask, "What exactly is he going to do to bring about the end of the world?" But when you feel those first moist clammy tentacles wrap around your face to pull you screaming into the ocean, just remember who tried to warn you.






* This is actual mythology.

** This isn't.

*** This could be, I'm not sure anymore.

Failed Business Opportunity

The other day I stumbled upon a leaflet from the Puritan Fellowship. I was very excited by the opening:

"How would you feel if your Thought Life was to be shown on National TV? What if a scientist told you that your every thought from the day you were born has been recorded and will be shown tonight on National TV? And not only that, but a website will flash across the screen during the program, directing all your friends and family to where they can watch all your thoughts about them."


There then followed some stuff about God or something, but I didn't muck about reading any of that. Time is so easy to waste away, so I immediately sent an e-mail to Kev Williams, apparently the genius behind Middleton Puritan Fellowship:


Thought Life‏


13/11/2010


From: Ollie Menham (olliemenham@live.co.uk)

Sent: 13 November 2010 05:02:13

To: kevwilliams@hotmail.de


Dear sir,



I read with interest the recent pamphlet concerning your group's invention of a mind-reading device that would allow a person's innermost thoughts to be broadcast on National TV. I have several close contacts who work for the BBC who would be very interested in procuring the rights to use this device. Please could you e-mail details of how much it might cost to buy out-right, and indeed any vested concerns. There is an opportunity here for you and I and selected others to make some real money from this, considering the decline of most so-called 'reality' TV into a miasma of public apathy and general ludicrissitude. I hope this e-mail does not find you late, although I understand you are a Christian organisation.



Thanking you in advance for what may be a highly profitable movement.



Oliver Menham BSC

Think Crosswise Ltd

 
 
 
 
 
I think the lack of response is a real shame, and casts doubt on just how 'Christian' this selfish fucker is.

A Brave Old World

As the government moves inexorably closer to forcing 'long-term' (long-term for who? A turtle or a daddy long-legs?) benefit claimants into voluntary work, I feel moved to make some arguments on points for and against such a wonderful/bad idea.  As with everything in this world, it's all a little Michael Jackson.

No, not a peadophillic dead person. Just neither black or white.

(Quick note to Jacko fans: Paedophile means 'lover of children'. If you disagree with this term then you are clearly stating that MJ hated children and routinely beat them with a large stick.)

So, first up, let's see why this whole 'making scum-bag layabouts earn their benefits' thing may be a good thing:

1)  It's essentially slavery.

Well, about bloody time. What, exactly, is wrong with slavery? Slavery built nations and pyramids, paved patois and patios, gave us such amusing turns of phrase as "cotton-pickin'", "Burn down their village", and "Well, someone shoot the goddamn useless nigger then." Anytime an empire has turned its back on the noble art of enslaving humanity, that empire has turned to dust within months or years, overthrown by a few ungrateful yobs who were slightly peeved at being forced to eat their entire families to survive.

I think. My history is a little hazy, to be honest.

Instead of being up in arms about forcing a handful to do the menial tasks that no one else can be arsed to get paid to do, let's encourage it and put up big banners saying "Slavery Works", or "I Used To Think Being Unemployed Was Bad, Now I Have To Clean Up Big Piles Of Shit."

Slavery means you and I don't have to do it. This is good.

2. No More Daytime TV.

Thank fuck. Yes, I know a lot of new-mums, pensioners, and mentally disabled people watch it, but frankly it is a plague upon the land. With the jobless forced into work and viewing figures astronomically down, we'll no longer have to put up with:

"And next, we'll explain how I became so unbearably smug while Judy will be sitting down to breakfast with some poor people. I believe they have some amusing stories to tell us about how their dog can now make perfect ashtray roll-ups."
"That's right Jonathan. And then Dr Mandrake will be explaining how infidelity can help your marriage, especially if it results in a lethal STD."

Or worse still

"I knew my wife had been unfaithful, Jeremy, when she gave birth to the AntiChrist."
"I think it's time we brought your boy into the studio so the audience can judge for themselves. And here he ... Holy Fuck, what is that thing!?"
"Mortals, the Apocalypse is nigh. Gaze upon me. Understand your world is at an end. And by the way, my first album will be released later this month, entitled 'I Couldn't Give A Holy Shit If I Tried.'"

3.  People Will Stop Making Children

They'll have less time and inclination. I'll have more peace and quiet in various coffee shops.

4.  The Alternative Is The Alternative Lottery

I can't be the only one who wonders why every time I go to buy a packet of cigarettes with my hard-earned cash I have to stand behind at least three smelly jobless people buying forty tickets each for a prize they are about as likely to win as I am likely to sprout tulips from my arse. 

Short of enforced voluntary work, the alternative is the Alternative Lottery that requires no money to enter, only a monthly claim for benefits. For further details, please read  Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. Alternatively, look up the plot summary on wikipedia so you can at least pretend to have read it.


So, that's the For arguments done. Now, why shouldn't the 'hard-done by, struggling to succeed and survive, spat upon by Lady Luck' benefit earners be forced into voluntary work? What are the down sides?

1.  It's essentially slavery.

Within a few years we'll be shipping them all off to other countries in order to make a tidy profit, which is of course against their human rights. Other countries in the EU may take a dim view and before you know it, we'll be back to the bad old days of black market slave trading, where hundreds were pushed overboard in order to avoid trouble with the authorities. Imagine:

National Express coachloads of the jobless, chained together across seat and aisle, with no air conditioning or chance of leg room or even a decent window seat, singing footballing anthems as they pass through the Channel Tunnel, the driver trying not to be spotted. Shit! Too late. The French border control is waiting for them. Quick, get rid of the evidence. Shove one through the door and the rest follow, chains clinking, all to be brutally murderlised under the tyres of a passing convoy of trucks.

"What? Slaves? No sir, this is just an empty coach. Nope, don't know anything about all those dead people chained together in the road behind us, honest."

2.  People Will Be Forced Into Doing Work That Is Beneath Them

Which is terrible, and not something that 99.9% of the population feel like they're doing 99.9% of the time anyway.

3.  They'll Just Do A Bad Job

This could be particularly bad news if they end up working for charities.

"Yep. Samaritans. What's up? Make it quick, my coffee's already half cold."
"I just feel really low at the moment, like there's no point and - "
"Bored. Look, I've got twelve more people to speak to in order to make my quota. Be specific."
"I was raped by my father."
"Well ... hang on. Is that you, Sally?"
"Dad?"

4. I May Be On Benefits Someday

This is a staunch reason for opposition to these plans.




Clearly, this is a post designed to encourage intelligent debate. Please get in touch if you totally agree with me.

Air Travel. Or, I Can't Be Arsed To Come Up With A Clever Title

So, two days before the half-term elections in America and, surprise!, a crisis is averted via the security services stopping bomb-laden (a pun I am going to do my best to ignore) cargo planes from exploding over the Greatest Nation In The World If You Like Lard. Pesky terrorists get everywhere these days it seems.

Yesterday I was reminded at the last minute that taking fluids onto a plane was now frowned upon. The fact that paranoia is so rife that a man can be held at gunpoint and intensely questioned over a 48 day period for attempting to smuggle a 125ml bottle of foot de-odouriser through airport security is very sad. It's sad for our mental states, it's sad for humanity and, most of all, it's sad for my socks.

But paranoia is a pernicious thing. There was a young Asian man in front of me in the queue for the metal detector, who kept looking around nervously, fiddling with his jacket, sweating, and mumbling under his breath. I really had no choice. I followed him to the toilets after he somehow passed into the departure lounge with no one stopping him (I presume he used some kind of Islamic witchcraft to blind the personnel to his obvious threat) and stabbed him to death with the free DVD that came with the Mail On Sunday. I'd like to think another flight took off and landed safely thanks to my doings. Of course, there is the chance that he was totally innocent, but that seems unlikely.

I estimate that in ten year's time the only people getting on and off planes will be terrorists because they're the only ones with the patience for air travel and the ridiculously over-the-top (yet strangely ineffective) security measures.

This might make things a bit tricky during a hijack.

"This is a hijack. Remain in your seats and no one will get hurt."
"No, this is a hijack. Get back in your seat so that everyone can get hurt."
"Actually, this is a hijack. A proper one like. Sit or stand, we're all going down!"
"As the head stewardess, I would like to point out that I am hijacking this plane along with my elite team of ninjas I smuggled on-board. Your bombs have all been defused and we're heading for Zanzibar."
"Squark - this is your Captain speaking. We are cruising at 500 feet and I am about to crash us into the Houses of Parliament. Long live Christ!"
"This is - oh fuck it. My ears just popped."
"Does anyone have any foot de-odouriser? The bomb in my shoe is really making my toes sweat."

Warning: Continents May Contain Faults

In the land of the compensation culture, the man who states the bloody obvious is king. Or at least is the least-sued.

'Please Mind Your Head' the sign on the low beam reads, usually hanging lower than the beam itself and creating a very nasty edge to split open your cranium on. Well, thank the Lord of Eggs and Bunnies for that sign. We all need this kind of helpful reminder on the odd occasion. Every so often the temptation to believe that I can adjust the molecular density of my body by sheer will alone becomes so overwhelming I can spend an entire day flinging myself at a brick wall in the hope I will pass through it. Only as I lie, broken and bloodied, in the back of the ambulance does it occur to me that the problem may not be that I am simply allergic to brick. If only someone had put up a sign saying "Please Mind The Wall. It Is Solid And So Are You."

In the local rag last week there was a very irate letter from a pensioner who stepped off the pavement in the town cente only to discover that a curb had been sneakily introduced by the council at some point. Into the road they sprawled, injuring their ankle, raising worry and concern from a few do-gooders and probably sniggers of derision from everyone else. Of course, they are now seeking compensation. (The pensioner, not the sniggerers. Although that would have been something of a coup: " ... so thanks to that curb I was unable to get any work done all day due to uncontrollable bouts of laughter .. " )

 I'm not sure how one goes about introducing curbs where hitherto there had been none (do you raise the pavement or lower the road?), but I'm pretty sure it takes a while and is not done with the aim of tripping up biddies. I'm also pretty sure it's fucking obvious once it's been done. If you're too old or stupid to watch your step and are going to be surprised by a two inch drop that wasn't there last week then the only reason you should be leaving your house is to pay a visit to the Euthanasia Clinic.

However, no doubt by next week there will be signs all over the place reading "Warning: Road" or "Beware the Curb" or, more likely still, "Pavement Ends Soon So Please Mind Your Step As It's Quite A Drop And If A Truck Happens To Come By While You Are Lying On The Tarmac It Will Probably Explode Your Head, Yes Even If It Runs Over Your Stomach Because Of The Pressure".

Which raises the question, has anyone successfully sued a company for placing a distracting warning sign?

"Well, the punctuation was so bad I went momentarily blind and before I knew it I'd lost a leg."

It seems a cruel twist of fate that the kind of people who have these accidents and then sue are never just killed outright. If that seems harsh, then just think how much of a saner world we would live in if the makers of nuts weren't compelled to write "May contain nuts" on the packaging for nuts. Or if we could get a take-away coffee without being warned about its potential temperature and the dangerous consequences of spillage. Basically, if people took a little responsibility for their own actions.

"On a recent trip to France on Bastille Day I purchased one of your company's Baby Guillotines. Imagine my shock when I was informed that 'baby' referred to the size and that guillotining babies was in fact illegal. I am now serving life and am therefore passing this matter of misleading advertising to my solicitors."

I would not, however, object to a few signs for those dangers that are less obvious. For instance, I think we should all be reminded that the fluoride in toothpaste leads to a weakening of irony.

This is actually true.

I also believe that the title of this blog post should be placed anywhere that tectonic plates have a habit of shifting dangerously and then maybe all those bloody poor people will stop being ambushed by earthquakes.




  





 

Woe Bee Tide

I like bees. I think it's a tragic shame they are vanishing from our world. I also think it's amusing how people point and say "See how they fly? That's aerodynamically impossible that is," then sit back with a smug grin, safe in the knowledge that no matter how incredibly wrong they are, there isn't much chance of someone pointing out "Actually, it's perfectly possible, here's the equation, and by the way that's exactly the kind of comment I expect to come from a half-wit cunt like yourself."

Which is a shame, because if more people displayed such open honesty the world would be a much better place. There would probably be less polite talking in the UN meetings, more translators whispering into their leaders ears "You won't believe what the wanker's saying this time!" and more war, but at least we would be open about it.

But bees are still dangerous. My friend Andrew was allergic to bee stings. He's dead now. Bees killed him. In a fashion.

I remember when he was stung on the lip and his face swelled up like a down's syndrome kid sucking on a helium pump. We kept asking the school doctor if it would be alright to stick a pin in him, maybe he would deflate in an amusing, whizzing-around-the-room manner; and I still remember how Mr Vassel, our history teacher, was the first person to try to suck the sting out. It didn't work, but Mr Vassel really did give it his best shot.

I was so happy when I discovered, years later, that Mr Vassel was married with two young boys. I was slightly less happy when I discovered that there had been a printing error and Mr Vassel was in fact married to two young boys.

Anyway, that wasn't what killed Andrew. He recovered from all that and lived to see fifteen.

So strange to think about now. See, it started with a van driver. There he was, driving down the road and smoking a cigarette, when he realised there was a bee in his cab. Being a kind-to-animals kind of man, he realised there was a good chance he could set light to the bee with his glowing fag-end, and so opted to do the right thing. He flung his cigarette out of his window. Unfortunately, his cigarette uncannily went from his window and through the window of the cab of a passing lorry. Landing in the driver's crotch as it did and causing much terrified cursing and writhing, the lorry went from his control and began to jack-knife across the road.

Myself, Andrew and the only other boy who could stand our presence, a big dumb lad called Ross, were walking along that same road, discussing how we were going to look for toads and experiment with how many things we could insert into their anuses before they exploded. Ross saw that lorry first and pushed Andrew to safety into a convenient ditch before tackling me to the ground.

It was quickly obvious that the lorry-trailer would have missed us anyway, but I still remember how in slow motion I saw it slide round, the logo "Mayson's Honey" a brief glimpse, before the back-end slammed against a pillar, blowing the thing in half, and spilling gallons upon gallons of sickly sweet stuff into the same convenient ditch that Andrew lay in, groaning.

Before we'd even picked ourselves off the ground, Andrew was struggling to keep his head above honey-level. We ran forward, our minds full of the useful advice we'd seen from adventure films when a character was submerged in quicksand. "Don't struggle! Swim through it as if it's water!"

Honey, however, is not like quicksand, and Andrew began to sink fast, mainly because his attempts to swim and lack of struggling were dragging him deeper and deeper. Also, we were enthusiastically poking him with twigs and branches, shouting "Grab hold, grab hold!" which was only serving to push him further down.

Suffice to say, by the time the ambulance arrived and he was hurried to hospital, he was half-dead. Apparently, one of our more enthusiastic feints with a branch had cut open his femoral artery. And this is where the story gets more tragic.

We heard at the following inquest how the doctor on duty was extremely tired, not fully concentrating. The excuse given was that he had had an argument the evening before with his wife - about how he would never be allowed to keep bee-hives in the backyard - and wound up spending the night watching films on the sofa whilst crying into a glass of whisky. Apparently, one of those films that had kept him awake was the Michael Caine classic, The Swarm, a film which would have been so much better if it had included the line "You're only supposed to blow the bloody wings off."

Anyway, tired as he was, when it came to giving Andrew his much-needed blood transfusion, the doctor completely mis-read his charts and that was where the mistake lay.

Andrew was blood type O. The doctor gave him AB.

Accident Prone Children

I'm not a parent. At least, not that I'm aware of and if you know any different I'd be frankly grateful if you could not trouble me with unwelcome knowledge.

If I have impregnated you at some point, I can only apologise to you and your no-doubt confused offspring, but at the end of the day, get over it. A new, surrogate father is always waiting around the corner, even if it happens to be the corner of a primary school and they're dressed in some sort of see-through rain-coat. I don't see why I should be troubled by the fact that some (or one) of my wayward sperm happened to slip through the net. Admittedly, I shouldn't have worn a net but opted for a condom or a plastic bag or perhaps a small penis-hat made from melted wax, or whatever it is one should do to prevent these unfortunate occurances, but I haven't the time for such nonsense.

Inspired by a pub urinal prank I saw once, I realised that ladies could save a lot of bother by just layering their vaginas with clingfilm. Yes, this also takes up time, but I bet even Emily Pankhurst would have laughed her bollocks off when the spunk came splashing back.

Sadly, as a sexually promiscious male to whom contraception means 'opposite views', I will have to deal with the fact that one day my spawn will come knocking at my door, enquiring after my history, well-being and money. But I shall be prepared, when I'm rich and un-sueable.

To start with, I know they won't be knocking, but pressing the door bell. Now, I'm sure it would be a simple system to ensure that my DNA is recognised by said door bell. I'm also sure, it would be a simple thing for the button to work two ways and, if their DNA is recognised as being too much like my own, send a small electrical charge into the presser's body that makes them uncontrollably defecate.

I can not believe that any self-respecting child of my loins would wish to meet me, their father, for the first time, with pants full of excrement. Result: they run away before I can even conceive of getting off the sofa. Of course, there is the slight issue of how this buzzer technology would affect my family if they came to visit, or even those who accidently share some of my genes and just came looking to borrow a cup of sugar but ... Well, my family I would warn off ever visiting me, and nobody in the 21st century borrows a cup of sugar from a neighbour unless they happen to be a very large ant.

Persistence is a family trait, so within a week I expect my accidental offspring may arrive back at the door, only actuallly knocking this time. This is when a security camera would come in handy, something I could point to so when their opening line was "I'm your son/daughter," I would be able to reply:
"Didn't you cack yourself on my doorstep a few days ago?"
Result: hopefully the same shame-faced scuttle away from my living space.

Ah, but yes, they may come back. And yes, I'm prepared.

"Can I come in?"
"Yes, mayhap you should."

I would then insist that they removed their shoes before coming in to talk, and then also insist that they slip their feet into the two dead hedgehogs I keep for such emergencies. If asked why, I'll point out "I know where my feet have been."

If this doesn't put them off, and they slouch around my home with intestines squirting out of my favourite animal's mouths with every step, I may give them cash and love.

God, I hope I get rich.