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.









  

Recycling

Selfish, that's what I call it. Utterly selfish.

No, not recycling ... I'm all for that. I don't do it (except when I run out of toilet roll and there's a newspaper nearby), but just because I don't personally fling myself in the path of a harpoon aimed at a whale or spoon-feed starving children doesn't mean I'm against the concepts involved. On the other hand, I am against feeding whales harpooned children. If ever I read an article about such a horrific practice going on I may even hesitate before wiping my bottom with it.

What I think is selfish is the generally accepted norm that once someone dies, they should be cremated or buried or, worse still, left to medical science. If a load of medical students need to learn about the human body, can't we just give them a living human body? A criminal, or a banker or one of those annoying, clipboard carrying fucks who come up to you in the street and say "Can I just take two minutes of your time?" when what they should actually say is "Can I just drain away any of the money that my charity may earn by pestering you with imbecillic questions in the hope that maybe you will give me some bank account details? Which charity am I working for? Erm ... give me a sec ... What day is it?"

What is it with this weird urge to give out sweets and badges when someone makes a charitable donation?

"I made 20 pounds in that last pub. I had to give out around sixty quids worth of stickers and Chewits but at least it raised awareness."

Bollocks! Everybody is already aware of the difficulties and tragedies occuring in the world, they can't help it if apathy infects them more than an out-of-date sweet. Charitable donations do not lead to street cred.

"Wow, cool badge, dude. Where did you get it from?"
"Some bald guy was selling them. He didn't have any hair."
"Awesome. I want one. Where is he now?"
"Last I saw, he was getting the shit kicked out of him down that alley."
"If I helped out, do you think he would give me a badge for free?"

Save the badges and sweets for the people who really need them, guys!

Actually, don't. That's an awful lot of paedophiles you would be supplying.

Digression, digression, digression. Must stop doing these.

But dead people ... oops, sorry ... corpses ... Oh, come on. Brain function has gone, body is no longer reacting to any outside stimuli ... That lifeless flesh is no longer the person you loved/hated/accidently slept with and murdered one drunken night. It's meat. And what do we do with meat?

Well, we eat it, wear it, stuff it, use it as fertilizer and art ...

I choose to be selfless. Here is my wish.

When I die, I wish for my mourners to partake of a little of my flesh, pan-fried or oven baked. Gratin is optional, but permitted. To those uncomfortable with this idea, I should remind you that you are what you eat, in which case I am a pizza. To ethical vegetarians I say, your body consumes itself, you daily ingest the meat and soul of long dead things, you can not but help destroy life due to your very nature as a living being, you are - in fact - suffering the worst kind of self-delusion since Hitler figured he could make the world a better place. So eat me. EAT ME!

To vegans I say, "what the fuck are you doing here? Get back to the masochistic Hell you belong to! Ooo, look, here's an unfertilized chicken egg ... Scary isn't it, the utter lack of potential this fucking thing had RIGHT FROM THE START! Let me wave this celery in front of you and point out that it has more chance of developing into sentient life than a pot of mayonaise."

Those who partake of my flesh should donate some of the food they would have consumed that day to their nearest tramp.

Then I wish to be skinned, and my skin given to some amazing taxidermist who will put me in an amusing position somewhere. Perhaps I could forever ride the London Underground, artists moving me from tube to tube, always with a different book in my hands and a slightly different grin on my face. That would screw up the persistent commuters and tourists. This thought pleases me. Make it so.

What remains remain put in the ground. Let me do as nature insists, and grow the world. Coffins were invented to keep the outside getting in. An all-too typical act of human arrogance.

If nothing else, at least use my arse cheeks as a bike rack or something.

The Barbershop Conspiracy

A little background:

I live in a small town with the approximate population of 43, 000. In the streets of this small town, where the corporate logos are gathering in a menacing fashion as if they had seen The Birds and really liked that bit with the climbing frame, we have an astonishing/horrifying total of 38 hairdressers. One of them is mobile, which is a concept I'm still struggling with: If you are incapable of walking, hopping or rolling to your nearest barbers, who's going to give a flying crap what your hair looks like? Observers are more likely to be questioning the poo all over your trousers than whether or not you should have gone for that bob-cut.

Or is the concept of the mobile hairdresser that they don't start moving until after you've sat down? At which point the cackling hairdresser nods to the driver, some grinning devil with blinding teeth, who puts pedal to metal and hurtles down swerving roads, your swivel chair swivelling accordingly, and all you can do is scream as your locks are lopped off and the silver scissors flash into view in the corner of your eye. Possibly,  into the corner of your eye. There may be people out there who live for this kind of thrill, I don't know.

But I digress.

38 hairdressers. 43, 000 people. Now, I'm going to take you through some maths here, but bear with me.

Of those 43, 000 people, around 5% will be too young to be going to get a haircut. We're talking babies. I'm probably being generous with the figure here, but I can't seem to go out for a simple coffee without tripping over a pram and spilling scalding hot liquid on their horrid little lobster-faces.

Old people who have forgotten they have hair accounts for another 5%.

Male pattern baldness affects at least 14% of the population of this fine town. Female pattern baldness is strangely arousing so I'm going to give it 16%.

Vagrants and lunatics easily account for another 10%. Of course, the vagrants may occasionally get their beards cut so they can find that lost lettuce leaf from the MacDonalds they scavanged out of a bin three weeks ago, but I'm not going to let that count. Oh, and the lunatics may take their lettuce to get cut but they would go to a MacDonalds to do it after a lengthy argument with a bin. Again, that doesn't count.

7% of people get their friends to cut their hair or do it themselves, which is always amusing  especially when they fuck it up, persevere, and end up looking like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

I'm going to suggest that 9.9% of people go to London to get their head-gardens tended to. This is mainly because everybody around here seems to be a commuter now. At least, I presume that's why they look so miserable.

4% will be hairdressers who clearly live in some kind of dimension where time does not affect the length of their hair until they feel like a change of style, at which point it will either sprout in Hydra-fashion or get sucked back into their heads to take up all the space left by their absent brain.

3% simply refuse to get our hair cut, for fear it would reduce our souls.

And 8% are too cool to go to the hairdressers and so just get a monthly treatment of chemo-therapy.

That's 81.9% of people who don't get their hair cut at a hairdressers in this town. 81.9! I know, I was shocked too. Out of 43, 000, that leaves 7783. This means each salon has only 204.8 customers! Of these customers, let's say 20% get their hair cut every month, 50% every two months, 18% every three, and the final 12% once a year. Let's also say that the average price of a haircut is, ooo, £25.

This means, per annum, each hairdressing establishment in this town only earns ... Oh. That's still quite a lot  of money actually.

Damn it, I was going to make a point about how they must be in league with Satan but it appears it's a legitimate, profitable business which profoundly rips us all off. I appear to have wasted your time again, sorry.

I'm still not getting in a mobile one though.







 

A Swift Re-Balancing of the Scales

It has been drawn to my attention that I seem to be slagging off Christianity quite a bit, and I've only written a few posts. This is sadly true: I was brought up in and live in a predominately Western Christian culture and therefore feel it is my right to ridicule it at any given opportunity. However, my feelings about the absolutely farcical nature of Christian doctrine extends to all organised religion.

As a quick example, take a look at Islam (to draw a random faith out of the burka). This is entirely based on the concept that the Koran is, literally, 'the word of God'. God took time out of his busy lifestyle to write what is essentially a self-repeating, error-ridden, self-repeating novel that even Dan Brown would think twice about publishing? I doubt it. I would have thought that if God/Allah/Zeus/Baphomet/Snap/Crackle/Pop ever did sit down to write a book, He'd at least make it a good read, and probably throw in quite a few anachronisms, just to prove He really knew His shit from His shinola.

'Mohammed threw himself off the mule, just as the missile exploded the animal into donkey-nuggets. He knew he had no time to mourn or even say a few words for the poor beast, only roll to his feet and keep moving before those bastards loaded another rocket into the hand-held launcher. "No way you're taking me, guys, no way!" he yelled as he ran for cover, his ears still ringing, his fingers desperately trying to ram the fresh magazine into his trusty AK-47, while his detonated mount's fleshy parts rained down around him. He skidded to safety behind a blind beggar. "Now it's my turn, bitches," he muttered, before unleashing a volley of lethal lead in the general direction of the pill-box. And yea, My hand was in there, guiding those bullets straight into their heathen heads and splattering their brains upon the wall.'

All I'm saying is, if God (in all Its forms) is so good, why is It incapable of winning the Booker?

Am I gonna get my hands cut off for this?   

Sex Education Phase 2 Part I

To recap: My kebab from a couple of nights ago has sparked an analogy that I may not be able to tie up. It might turn out to be the renegade niece in my Austrian sex cellar. But I shall continue, by moving on from the pitta bread of wanton lawlessness, to the suspicious but tasty meat of civilization. Or

Phase 2) Somewhere along the lines we learnt something. We learnt it really wasn't the done thing to kill our neighbour or shag our sister.

There are those who believe that we discovered this through trial and error, that reasoning took hold and said "Wait; everytime I have a child with my sibling, it has two heads. Meanwhile I just stabbed Simon from up the road for laying down a really shit roof, when he was such an excellent pig herder. Maybe I should stop creating kids with sis, and refrain from murdering people who have tried to do me a favour."

The concept that we learnt from reasoning is laughable. A much more plausible explanation follows:

Obviously the reason why rape, incest and murder became forbidden is that some loving Deity sent us all a ten-point memo, passed on by some git who proudly claimed he had just massacred thousands of innocents because his girlfriend had thrush or something (oh, come on, 'burning bush'?) and who had also led thousands of people across the continent, without ever having to worry that they might be copulating or murdering one anothers' faces off.

Moses: Oh, now you give me the Commandments. That might have helped earlier, you know. They were fucking and killing like mad when I parted the Red Sea. And I saw one who was really eyeing up his neighbour's ox.
God: Stop bothering me, I'm making a dinosaur fossil ... Don't ask.

Far more plausible isn't it? The idea that morality came about because of a selfish desire to see the human race survive versus the notion that morality was forced upon us by a despot deity who probably also made sure that ALIENS BUILT THE FUCKING PYRAMIDS.

Anyway, I'm in danger of going off-topic.

With the outlaw and criminalisation of rape (quite rightly) came prostitution. The world's oldest profession, as some may say. There are those who can not get laid, and there are those who are adept at the art of lying to their sexual partner. Why shouldn't they come together? If I can't fix my plumbing, I call a plumber. Plumbing should be illegal!

Police: Sorry sir, I'm arresting you on suspicion of soliciting a plumber.
Me: He told me he had a licence!
Plumber: Me show licence! Me clean plumber!
Police: Filthy scum!
Plumber: Argh ... oog ...
Me: Stop hitting him!
Police: Oh, a plumber-lover is it?
Me: No, I just had a backed up drain but  - Argh .. oog ..
Plumber: Me surrender!
Police: Right, which one of you wants to make yourself look Asian so I reach my targets?

To those offended by the idea that I may be defending prostitution, who grumble that it reduces sex to a an animal, selfish act, then may I point out that Shakespeare may well have written his best sonnets about a rent boy. That's fucking art, people.

And yes, I had a prostitute once. I say "had". I was drunk in Amsterdam, and decided that one of the girls in the windows was quite hot. I went in, she offered "suck, fuck or touch" in that curiously arousing accent, and I promptly passed out on the bed. When I woke, ten minutes later, she was massaging my member as though it was Morph and she were Tony Hart. Anyway, I drunkenly decided that the best use of my eighty pounds would be to engage her in conversation.

Yes, she didn't mind what she did, except when the men were particularly offensive to eyes or nose, she earnt a lot of money, the other girls kept an eye on her, and her boyfriend was pacified by the heaps of cash she made. At the end of the day, it was her body, to do with as she pleased and her job was no worse than changing an engine or selling a corporate ideal. When I had gone into a brief description of my life and explained the exact reasons why I'd like to suck her tits, she pushed me back and said "No, that's something you should do to your girlfriend." Which is a very humane thing to do.

Bitch.

Anyway, next up so I can get back onto the topic of sex education : Temple Prostitution. Or possibly not, it really depends on how I feel next time I sit in front of this compter.





 

Sex Education Phase 1

As the stench of last night's kebab slowly seeps into the humble four walls of what I call 'my cell', it reminds me of a topic that has been troubling my mind; the increase in sex education in Britain over the last two decades and the seemingly correspondent rise in teenage pregnancies and STDs.

On the surface, this may not seem linked to last night's kebab, but trust me, it is.

'Sex education', as a global phenomenon, has gone through several phases over the millenia. I wish to look at these over the course of a few posts, which sadly may take the best part of a year to write as I'm bound to get distracted by insignif -

Ooo, look at that weird beetle scuttling across the skirting. Wonder if it crunches when you step on it.

Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, well, let us begin with the dawn of mankind, our neanderthal, pre-history days ... 

Phase 1) A sexually active male would force themselves upon whatever young and fertile thing happened to be standing around, no matter how interested, willing or related they were. The gathered crowd would look on,  applaud, hoot, and wonder how they were going to take notes as writing was yet to be invented. Perhaps somebody sneezed and it sounded like 'bukkaki', and so the first word was uttered. We'll never know. Suffice to say, family members would copulate with each other in what we would now term "rampant incestuous orgies" and the resultant off-spring would be vomited upon the Earth.

This type of behaviour still happens, of course, but now we call it "being from Biggleswade". Which is possibly unfair on the people of Biggleswade, but actually it's not.

In their defence, they have an excellent swimming team and can easily use Base Fourteen.

Of course, the phase 1 described is entirely based on the discoveries of science, archeology, anthropology and people who think. If you happen to take the Biblical Old Testament view, then the first sex education went like this:

 Eve:  "Wait, I've got to suffer the pain of childbirth and you .. you do what exactly?"
Adam: "I have to learn agriculture. Oh, come one, God gave us a fair deal."
Eve: "But giving birth really hurts, and look, I really don't think our first kids are getting on so well."
Adam: "It's probably just sibling rivalry."
Eve: "How would you know?! You were made out of dust! I tell you this, Seth is the last, you're not having sex with me again."
Adam: "Fine by me. Have you seen Cain's daughter? Fucking hot ... Actually, come to think of it, where did she come from?"
Eve: " ... Haven't you some gardening to do?"

This is the pitta.















   

I just read some shit about fish, where's the porn?

If this post's heading was your thought but a moment ago, you fall into one of two categories.

1) You somehow stumbled upon this blog, saw the words 'damned site', and immediately believed your eyes would be beset by images of an orgy of naked nymphs, writhing in delicious agony while the flames of hell licked at their behinds and a PVC-garbed homunculous beat them with a whip made out of cats' tongues. As you have now realised this imagery is not available to your external organs, I predict you left this site seventy-six words ago.

Or

2) You have just read 'The River Cottage Fish Book' and become sexually aroused like never before. You somehow stumbled upon this blog, after several countless hours looking for any pornography involving fish. I applaud your dilligence. And also recommend you look up "mermaid/man shag-fest", even though it will only take you 50% of the way there. But, ah, imagine that salty tail slapping upon your buttocks ...

This is a blog which I fully intend to be intelligent, insightful, totally lacking in any crude fish-fucking puns whatsoever, and will avoid being deleted by blogger for being against their terms of practice. This intention is bound to fail, but - as the old saying goes - "I'd rather topple off my perch after giving a carp it's due, than get buggered up the arse by a backed-up sperm whale."

And this is why I shouldn't write a blog.