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You know why this green movement is nonsense don’t you? All this economically friendly, prevent global warming shizzle is a futile waste of everyone’s time, not because it’s based on questionable science and manipulated statistics created from only 140 years of data and weather records even though the planet has been in existence for a trillion cabillion cazillion years, which should be reason enough to kick this issue into touch, but because Sir Isaac Newton said so, that’s why. Sir Isaac Newton's third law states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Which, in the context of the environmental debate, means that for every tree hugger, there’s a tree chop-downer.

For a moment, let’s adopt all the common sense and intelligence of a hairdresser from Ilford who’s taken full advantage of happy hour on a Friday night and pretend for a moment that all the data is correct and the planet is in danger if we don’t start cleaning our bottoms with less toilet paper and recycling our rubbish. The bottom line (if you’ll excuse the pun) is that, on the micro-individual level, for every Sheryl Crowe who chooses to wipe using only one square of two ply Charmin, there will be someone like me, who chooses to use a hand-full of four ply Andrex even when I’ve had one of those poos that leave no dregs between the lips of my choccy whiz-whaz.

On the macro-international level, for every Sweden there’s a China or a USofA. In fact, the US and China counter-act the rest of the globes good intentions put together. The reason is because, (and there is a touch of irony here given he USA’s stance on this issue) people don’t like to be told what to do. The eco-friendly lobby have got too preachy. They’re nagging now. They’re not encouraging us to think about our futures, they’re nagging us about it. They’re a housewife who once asked politely if we would take out the rubbish, but are now demanding we get off our fat arses and do it.

No one likes to be dictated to. Even if your cause is a laudable one, mans free will is a much stronger dictation. Again, on the micro-individual level, this is why a parent can’t force kids to eat vegetables, even though it’s good for them. This is why a parent can’t force a kid to dress sensibly even though it’s good for them. On the macro-international level, this is why democracy cannot be forced upon a nation and why Dictators eventually end up being tied up with piano wire and shot by the very people who helped bring them to power in the first place.

One can only encourage, but people, unfortunately for those encouragers, don’t like sacrifice. I think by now it’s OK to say that Jesus’ gesture was misguided if it ever actually happened and he was flattering his cause a little by allowing himself to be nailed to some wood. If people in this day and age are to make sacrifices they’re going to need a damn good reason to make them; some storms and some melting ice-caps which may or may not sink Peckham in five hundred years, I’m afraid don’t come close to a good cause. I’m talking about a very real danger, one which WILL take me out by the end of the week.

During the second world war the ministry of labour approached some Duke somewhere, possibly the Duke of Devonshire with the intention of purging his staff for the war effort. They appreciated his need for 46 gardeners, 13 under-gardeners,7 grooms, 3 chauffeurs, the upstairs maids, downstairs maids, parlour maids and kitchen maids, the chefs, the cooks, the butlers, the footmen and the bee-keeper, but wondered whether his Lordship might be able to manage without two pastry chefs, to which he replied, “damn it all, can’t a man have a biscuit?”

What I'm trying to say is if you are concerned that our species may not survive throughout all of eternity (gasp!!), instead of lobbying me vis-à-vis the number of plastic bottles of pop in my wheelie bin, how about lobbying the various Governments around the world with regard to the proliferation of nuclear weapons? I don't have my calculator to hand, but I think atomic armageddon posses a great threat to our futures than a Mitsubishi Shogun. If you don't have the stomach for that kind of fight, I understand, but don't pick on me instead just so you can feel like some sort of half arsed woolly jumper wearing crusader and because you have nothing else to do on a Sunday. Go to bingo.

Just a thought.

You can say what you want about John Major, but it's worth remembering two things about him; first of all he won his Iraq war, and secondly, when we were all taking the piss out of him for being boring and obsessed with peas, he was shagging Edwina Currie in the arse every night.

I love the Discovery Channel, I was never quite sure if the whole channel isn't just one big hoax, but a "documentary" tonight entitled “Sleep sex” has confirmed my feeling that it is. If it isn't, and you ever held a degree of scepticism over the legitimacy of some members of the medical professions claims to the title of “Doctor” then this will confirm your doubts. These people are no more Doctors than I am an Olympic standard athlete.

I recommend you watch it, for it’s comedy value if not it’s authenticity.

Case 1 – “George” and “Anne”.

George and Anne have been together for two years; George is 38 and a successful labourer. Anne is 36 and I imagine, works at Woolies. Their relationship and life together has been an Island Paradise yet over the past four months a dark cloud has appeared over their island, a cloud in the shape of a succession of unsolicited thunderous rattlings George has given Anne apparently in his sleep. Essentially George has been sleep raping; according to the medical profession he has anyway.

So let’s examine these episodes. Apparently the first time this happened Anne had gone to bed before George, as is her usual routine. Later that night after George had joined her, he rolled over, started groping her breasts and made attempts to pries open her legs. Anne resisted. “No you mustn’t, I’m not in the mood”, she cried. “Give over”, replied George and he proceeded to have his way with her. Anne resisted initially, but, “he was just too strong” explained Anne, “his heaving buttocks powered his man tool into me and I was at his mercy, I wanted to fight but he would have used his bulging muscles to force me back, so I had to let him take what he wanted. The brute.” I'm paraphrasing here, I forget what she actually said.

In the morning Anne discussed the events with George as she was really rather cross. George claimed to have no memory of such an event. How is it possible to have sex and not know about it claimed George. Anne was about to suggest he ask almost every married woman in the country, but thought better of it.

Anyhoo, these episodes continued over the following weeks and got more and more violent; Anne obviously becoming more and more scared. In fact, evidently she was so scared that over the course of these FOUR FUCKING MONTHS!!, she didn’t think to just sleep in a different bed. Probably in case he followed her and was extra angry at having to do so that he might subject her to an even more degrading and distressing ordeal.

So, it turns out that this is a legitimate medical condition. This is a very serious sleep disorder called sexomnia and can cause all manner of shenanigans in the bedroom and in this case the sexomnia was triggered by something called Sleep Apnoea. George has an obstruction in his throat, which causes him to stop breathing while he’s asleep; this lack of oxygen to his brain causes the disruption to his brain waves and makes him continuously rape his wife.

It’s absolutely not the case that George just got randy one night, tried to have sex with his woman who resisted, but he thought fuck it I’ll do it anyway and say I was pissed; and it’s not the case that while he was going at it Anne realised she was quite fond of a bit of rough so let him continue, but would claim to be very very cross indeed the next morning so he wouldn’t think she was a trollop.

It’s also not the case that any lack of oxygen to his brain was merely caused by him being from Burnley, just in case you were thinking that. And the idea of simply sleeping in separate rooms was not an option because they have a pool table in the spare room and getting rid of it and putting a bed in there was obviously far more inconvenient than being raped every night indefinitely.

Case 2 – “Ben”

Ben was a 28 year old man from somewhere in America I think. He was charged with rape after “Georging” his girlfriend. He was acquitted in court after a sleep specialist defended him stating that Ben suffered from a legitimate sleep disorder, he had a history of sleep walking and had previous "sleep sex” episodes with two other women, and was not aware of his actions. The judge ruled that as Ben was not aware of his actions he was therefore not responsible for them. The victim turned white and passed out.

The Judge seemed to feel that it wasn’t relevant that Ben had chosen not to inform his new girlfriend vis-à-vis his history of forcing himself on women while he slept. Although some commentators have suggested that if you about to enter into a relationship with a woman and you knew you were a sleep rapist, you might want to give the poor girl a heads-up before she consented to sleep in the same bed as you and by not doing so was tantamount to rape.

Meanwhile poor Ben is rebuilding his life. His victim, I mean, his ex-girlfriend, well they didn’t say what happened to her. I guess they’re not together anymore though.

Case 3 – Carly

This was my favourite. Carly was a 35 year old woman who had a habit of masturbating herself ALL night EVERY night (YEAH BABY!). While this was causing her no physical pain or discomfort and was not in fact detrimental to her health in any way, it was preventing her husband from sleeping properly. HAHAHA no shit!!!!

If I was really really late for a meeting in which I was about to be given £10 million pounds, but would get nothing if I was late, there’s two sights that could make me halt my journey. One is a hideous car crash. The other is a woman masturbating.

Again, let’s assume that in the billion to one chance her husband really didn’t appreciate her pleasuring herself, surely he could have just slept in a different room. What is this obsession couples have with sleeping in the same bed? Why can’t you have sex, have a chat if you must and then troop off to separate beds? Surely you get a better nights sleep, no one steals the covers, you don't wake each other up when you go to the toilet, you don’t have to watch the other one wanking continuously and there’s no danger of accidentally getting the shit raped out of you. But, no…best to just tolerate it. Bite on a book, think of England, take some sleeping pills, put a pillow over your head and so on, all seem preferable than parting from each other at a time when you’re both unconscious anyway.

Carly is concerned that this may cause the break-up of her marriage. I assume she has a pool table in her spare room too. To be fair though Carly, if you’re married to someone who doesn’t want to watch you frig yourself off every night and is too dumb to just sleep somewhere else anyway, then you’re better off with a divorce aren't you? Yes that's what I thought. If you do get a divorce, there's this guy called Ben I could introduce you to.

As we speak 60,000 Liverpool fans are enhancing Anglo-Greek relations in Athens prior to the Champions League final tonight. Yet Liverpool, a city of 500,000 people, has not experienced any disruption in public services or commerce while over 10% of it's population goes missing. This suggests to me that the answer to how all these people managed to get time of work to go and watch a football match is that they didn't have jobs in the first place.

They're stereotypes for a reason they are.

Looky here now, if you were the fella who set fire to that ship last night, what exactly was the point? Are you some sort of fundamentalist coffee drinker who refuses to accept tea as the nations favourite cuppa? Don't give me that nonsense about being drunk and it seemed like the thing to do at the time. I've been drunk many times and done silly things many times, but I've never thought of fire bombing a national treasure.

Oh no!! The Cutty Sark has been devastated by a fire. Whatever shall we do? I know, instead of the £23m that's already been allocated to renovating a ship which didn't really do anything except bring shit loads of Typhoo from China to our shores in the 19th century, why don't we tack on another £30m to repair the damage done today? That's if there's any money left in the country that hasn't been allocated to funding the McCann family retirement...erm...finding poor Madeline I mean.

In 200 years will there be a Boeing 747 in Greenwich? Will Japanese tourists flock to it so they can learn how back in the 21st century we actually used these things to bring tea from the far east? Or will no one give a hoot as it's just a plane? My feeling is, if it didn't in some way contribute to the slaughter of the Jocks, French, Spanish or Germans, then it need not be preserved.

I've just missed out on a 14/1 shot because I couldn't be arsed to get out of bed at 4.15 in the afternoon!! What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not a f**king Koala, I ought to be able to roll out of bed and negotiate the three feet to my Mac to type out a bet. But no, my alarm went off warning me the race was approaching, I looked at my Mac and once again at the clock and decided it was too much of a physical imposition to get up. I concluded I was far too comfortable and as it was 14/1 it probably wouldn't win anyway. That's £300 I would have won.

I'd like to think if I saw £300 on the pavement outside my bedroom window and I was enjoying similar comfort, I'd be able to get up and go and get it. But to be honest, I'm not sure. I'm only awake now cause some Indian bloke from BT calling himself Colin (Colin!? are you sure?) rang me asking me if I fancied something called fusion or something.

If you've never had one of these bad boys get yo fast ass to the stow (go to the shops quickly) and get one. I've had at least one of these things a day for the past two years and OK I haven't managed to fully digest any of them and my farts have given some of the local kids leukemia, but man they tastes gooood.

If they put cocaine in the sauce it wouldn't surprise me. If I don't get one of these beauties on a particular day I have to have two the next day. The cauldron of fury I feel boiling away beneath my surface when I go to the Spar and see an empty shelf where these sammiches should be is incredibly powerful and I am gonna erupt one day; god help whoever is stood next to me at the time. It'll probably be the fat dude who always wears shorts who's always in there. Wherever I stand I'm next to him, that's how fat he is. Anyway.

Try one and you too can be like me.

Prince Harry will after all not be going to Iraq. Too much of a security risk they're saying. The chaps under his command would face an unacceptable level of risk and even in war there is such a thing as unacceptable risk. Quite right...but I could have told you that. There was no need to perform a series of PR disasters in order to come to that conclusion.

The threat though does not come from the insurgency. It doesn't come from Alan Qaeda. It comes from Harry himself. The kid is a total fuck up. If I was one of the soldiers under his command I'd be breathing a sigh of relief that he's been left on the subs bench.

I'm no Armysmith, but I'm pretty sure to lead a bunch of chaps into war you need good judgment. Didn't Prince Harry cheat on his exams and turn up at a fancy dress party dressed as Nazi?? Is that good judgment? If it is god help us. I wouldn't feel comfortable being around that guy in a kitchen, what with all those sharp knives and boiling water and what not, let alone have him lead me into battle in the most violent piece of real estate on the planet.

I'd rather follow Lord Cardigan into battle than Prince Harry. Cardigan might have miscalculated the effectiveness of a horse against heavy artillery but I bet he would have passed his GCSE's had they had then.

Dido - This land is mine

I’m not sure what got me listening to Dido today, but this song got me curious. I said to myself, what does it mean Rich? Is it the power struggle in a relationship? Is she talking about an ultimately futile attempt to tame a domineering partner?

No..clearly this is a song about a couple of women who work in a call centre. Probably for Sky or maybe British Gas. The reference to walls is literal and refers to those cubicles they have to sit in and poor Dido is being bullied.

This is the story of a fat bitchy woman, who has seven cats at home and lots of pictures of children dotted about her workstation. They’re not her kids obviously cause no one would be sick enough to impregnate such a ghastly woman, rather, they’re her sisters kids or something,

Her life revolves around her working day. This is her domain, the only place where she feels she has any sense of control over her destiny, it is her domain and bitch, you better understand that.

She’ll pretend to be nice, she’ll pretend to respect her co-workers, but poor Dido has found out that this pretence is masking nothing but contempt for her and the source of this contempt in her case is because she has a nice bottom and the male employees are constantly seeking her attention; Miss Dido would you like a coffee? Translation: would you like a fuck? Miss Dido, I’ll do that filing for you (and I’ll fuck you too if you want) and so on.

In the final verse though our fat bitch is wrestling with her conscience. She wants to change. She wants to lose weight and be pretty and receive the same attention from the chaps as young Dido. She has realised before others can love her, she must learn to love herself. She does step aerobics on Tuesdays and Pilates on Thursday evenings and has lost nearly 4 lbs and her previous self loathing and loneliness was the price she had to pay for her enlightenment.

That’s what I think it’s about anyway. I’d have added a final verse though where she realises that losing 4lbs means jack shit when you weigh 300lbs and her desire to be beautiful again will always remain subordinate to her insatiable appetite for cake and if there was time I’d have added something about her developing a rare fatal case of Toxoplasmosis.

There was a time not too long ago when this little guy had nothing to worry about except finding a good quality stick to chew on and making sure those bits of stick were not stuck between his teeth afterwards when he was to lie down and give his balls and good lick before dinner.

Now he’s got a job, he’s stuck in a loveless marriage with a nagging cocker-spaniel, it’s pissing down with rain, he’s in a traffic jam wondering where his tax dollars went and he hasn’t licked his balls for months let alone had his wife lick them.

Is this democracy? Is this liberty? Is this what the founding fathers of America had in mind when they sat around with their pipes wondering what to do with the place? I thought it was bad enough to treat African Americans like dogs…now they’re treating dogs like African Americans. That’s it, they’ve hit the deck. America can sink no lower.

Don’t try and tell me this isn’t a real photograph. Don’t try and tell me it’s just one of those comedy Athena posters people have in their bathrooms. This is real man. OK, it isn’t, but it soon will be; unless….

VOTE OBAMA 2008

I bought sugar lumps today for the first time in my life. I've always been a granules kinda guy up until now. You probably think I've changed. You probably think I've gone all snooty; full of airs and graces. You probably think I won't come over anymore for partnership whist; rather that i'll be off lardy-dahing it with my new sugar lump buying snooty chums. Fear not, I just, ..I just fancied a change, you know? I'm still the same guy. I'm still the same guy who hates the general public, life and everything in it, don't worry, i'll never change. Anyone know how many lumps in a teaspoon?

Incidentally, I know it's only 9:15am. I don't want to be making a habit of buying sugar at this time of the day. I don't want to be making a habit of being awake at this time of the day. But I had no choice today as I'm so delirious with fatigue I just sort of wandered off without any real cognizance of what I was doing. I guess I was drawn towards the Spar by the smell of freshly baked bread and petrol. Try it yourself.

What the fuck was Camberwick Green all about? What year was it supposed to be set in? You've got cars from the 1920's, soldiers sporting uniforms from colonial war days and a miller who appears to be some sort of weird Pagan/Amish hybrid; I mean I'm assuming Amish cause of the hat and because instead of embracing modern machinery he's persevering with a working windmill not seen in this country since the mid 18th century. The twat.

Also, why does a town need a mill and bakery and a fish mongers when none of the frookin population have mouths? And why don't they have mouths? I'm speculating it's cause Mrs Honeyman, the town gossip (who I assume is the only one with a mouth) is actually a witch and placed a curse of the towns population because they were uncomfortable with this woman carrying around a dead baby all the time.

As if this wasn't enough there's also a clown involved. Clowns being evil to the core. This dude is so evil he doesn't even attempt to mask his fearsome evilness by sporting a fake smile. He's also mouthless. Any clown who doesn't care if you know he's evil is not to be messed with.

And this was a kids show. I used to watch this every day at lunch time when I came home from school for lunch. How the hell did I manage to remain so emotionally stable throughout my life? I better go before ...the people in the walls come soon.

I've spent the last few weeks at home in my jammies for one reason or another and going mental has been a very real possibility as one can only tolerate a certain degree of seclusion without going slightly Spanish. I turn to literature to hold back the crazies during periods such as this one; books and my friends who live between the walls. Anyhoo, I'd like to share my selections with you. Why not I always say.

Quite unintentionally most of these books are about war, the aftermath of war or quasi-war scenarios. I have adopted a kind of me against the world paranoia recently too. Which came first? I'm not sure. I blame the 24 hour news channels, oh and Tony Blair obviously.

Tony Blair announced today he is resigning….on the 27th of June. Another 49 days from now, which makes it over 1000 days since he announced he was not going to serve a full term. He’s been in office for ten years and three of those were spent resigning.

My mind harks back to the birth of little Leo Blair in May of 2000. Poor bastard. A couple of days after he was released from Cheries’ wizards sleeve of a snatch I really started to loath Tony Blair. Appearing on the steps of 10 Downing street in a denim shirt and sipping probably nothing from a mug with a picture of his family printed on it for all the worlds media to see, “I’m a family man me”, said the mug. “You can trust me”.

What a c**t. Those were my exact words. What a total c**t. Who does he think he’s fooling? I turned to myself and felt a deep sense of foreboding. How right I was. “Rich”, says I to myself, “this man is trouble, I don’t know much, but I know that”

A few years later and we’re in Iraq and the rest is history. For the next 49 days his legacy will be debated. You don’t need 49 days for that, you don’t even need 49 words. He’s a war criminal. But let’s look at the evidence anyway; a word not in Tony Blairs vocabulary.

ECONOMY
We have a robust and thriving economy. For the sake of argument, let’s say that actually matters; this is down to Gordon Brown not Tony Blair no? Which is to say it has been Gordon Brown who was creative enough with the figures to have us all believing we’re living in some sort of economic Shangri-la. I think in real terms it amounts to an extra 40p a week in hard currency. Awesome.

Real wealth of course has very little to do with actual hard currency. There are people knocking about the place with more money than they could spend in their lifetime, but they’re miserable bastards. They are also people who are completely at one with the world, but are flat broke all the time, that’s not real wealth either. You need to combine the two to be genuinely wealthy. Wealth in terms of annual growth and percentages and GDP and the what such is a façade. It’s a means of tricking us into believing we’re better off.

We may have an extra 40p a week in a pockets, but I’m pretty sure we’re at least 50p more miserable. The last time I saw someone smile it was because he’d just seen a cat get run over. I don’t like cats OK.

PUBLIC SERVICES
Education: Education, education, education. I done thought about this for a while and I can’t accept that children today are better educated than ten years ago. In fact, I’d say we have the thickest kids in the developed world and if we don’t God help the country that does. None of them can spell, read or write and they all do drugs and shag when they’re 12 and stab pensioners. When I was 12 I did my homework and then went out to play, which is how it should be, The only thing you’ll learn in a state school is how to make a weapon out of a setsquare.

Public Transportation: Is he taking the piss here? I haven’t been on a train for about ten years because I can’t afford it and train carriages are the only place in Britain still infected with the Black Death. I won’t go on a bus because of my aversion to sitting in someone else’s piss and I live in the country anyway where buses are as rare as livestock who haven’t been violated by a man in wellies. If I didn’t have a car I would have perished years ago. FACT.

Fire service: Are these guys still on strike? I never agreed with the fire services contention that they ought to receive the same rates of pay as the rozzers. I don’t know anyone who has ever needed a fireman, I’m sure their work is dangerous, but I’m also sure they spend most of their working days shouting phwoooar at page three of the Sun and drinking tea. However, we should never have a situation where an emergency service goes on strike. That is the very definition of bullshit. What if I had had a pet caught in a tree during that period? What then??

Healthcare: Oooooooh jesus. Healthcare…now there’s a contradiction in terms. I don’t even know where to begin on this one. The NHS is vanquished chaotic and soul destroying. See a previous blog (here) for my assessment of his handling of the NHS. Suffice is to say the NHS will not form part of his legacy.

Police: The police were replaced some time ago by speed cameras, community officers and CCTV. No doubt speed cameras are an effective means of traffic control although to date not a single drink-driver has been arrested by one. I’m all for them though. It means I can drive home when I’m three sheets to the wind (cause there aren’t any buses) safe in the knowledge that as long as I remain under the speed limit and vaguely on the road I will return home safely. Community officers have proven an effective deterrent against street crime. OK, so they can’t actually arrest you, or touch you, but if you chose to stop when they ask you to, they can write your name down in a book and make an appointment for you to see a real policeman. I don’t know about you, but it’s the straight and narrow for me while these fellas are about. CCTV is always an effective means of fighting crime, or they would be if criminals didn’t cover their faces, cunning rotters.

NORN IRON
So, Northern Ireland then? NO! Absolutely f*cking not. No way. Apart from the fact that all Tony Blair did was make the tea, I’m not having that as an achievement. What exactly has been achieved? Peace? Is peace an achievement? Peace is a prerequisite for any country. You can’t say yay we have peace now and expect the wider world to clap and give you a cookie.

If you actually have to work towards peace then all that says is your country was fucked up in the first place. Americans celebrating the Presidential candidacy of Barrack Obamarama is another example of mistaking achievement for just being less fucked up.

That’s not something to celebrate. Hoorah look at us, look at the progress we’ve made; it’s only taken us two centuries, but we now have a nig..I mean, we now have an African American running for President. He hasn’t got a sweetcorns chance in shit to win, but he’s running.

NO. That is not an achievement. All that says is it’s the 21st century and we’re such a bigoted racist nation that we’re only just getting around to treating Africans like people. It’s not progress it’s just what you should have been doing from the genesis of your supposedly great nation.

Parents don’t want praise cause they managed to feed their children. Parents shouldn’t be offered up for an award for finding the money to clothe their kids, that’s just something you’re supposed to do.

So NO! I’m sorry but peace in Northern Ireland is no great moment in history. Especially when they were blowing each other up because of something that happened over 300 years ago, which essentially was engineered on the basis of something written a few thousand years ago in a book of Chinese whispers.

If you want to blow yourselves to pieces because of religion fair enough…let’s build a wall (always with the walls!) around your battle-ground and we’ll leave you to it. They don’t deserve any help and they don’t deserve any praise now they appear to have finally realised it’s all bollocks. Peace in Northern Ireland amounts to; from now on let’s not throw bricks and petrol bombs at each other’s children anymore on their way to school. If this is a great moment in human history I’m switching species.

IRAQ
Tony knows he’s dropped a bollock on this one. He’s hoping though that thirty years from now that Iraq will have become a shining example of democracy and he’ll be able to say ha, you hated me then, but see, I was right.

I don’t know how wrong someone can be, I mean I don’t know how wrong it’s humanly possible to be, but this assumption has to be close to maximum wronging.

This is a civilization that was doing long division before Britain was even Britain. They were literate before the Greeks they, invented weaving without which we wouldn’t have chicken and chips in a basket and yet Mr Blair seems, astonishingly, to actually believe that we and the Americans can install western style democracy inside of three decades.

Iraq is a collection of tribes who have hated each other since a time that predates the f*cking Bible and he seriously believes he can have the place licked into shape in his lifetime.

It beggars belief. You know how the universe is so enormous and all the twinkly stars are so far away you just can’t get your head around the distances and all sense of perspective is futile cause the numbers are too big and the maths are too complex; this is how I feel about the Tony Blair game plan for Iraq.

If you rolled out a toilet roll to represent Iraq’s history, Tony Blair’s little episode wouldn’t even cover the last square of the toilet roll. It wouldn’t even cover the tiny little zig-zaggy perforated edge of the last square; it would be a dot of the peak of one of those edges. Yet he quite sincerely believes he can essentially do something in three decades that wasn’t possible in the previous seven millennia.


Famously Tony Blair once said I only know what I believe. Today he said he apologised if some people thought he had made errors, but he sincerely did what he believed was best at the time. He did really say that cause I’ve watched it a few times to make sure.

This is an argument Hitler could have used. Hitler obviously was not quite as deluded as Blair, which is quite a statement really, but he wasn’t because if he was, he wouldn’t have killed himself. He’d have stood trial at Nuremberg and given speeches with plenty of pregnant pauses, hand gestures and eye brow raises, and said I only did what I felt was right for my country at the time m’lud and I apologise to those of you who feel I made the wrong decisions, but a decision had to made and I made it.


See, now this is the problem with beliefs. Beliefs are fine if they have facts to go along with them. Otherwise they can cause issues. It’s fine for a kid to believe in Santa (as long as when the facts are in they no longer believe in Santa). But it’s not fine for one of the most powerful men on the planet to make his decisions based purely on what he believes. I’d prefer it if he chose to make his decisions based on what he knew and could prove with real world evidence rather than a, trust me I’m Tony, it’ll be OK, kinda justification.

Consequently, it doesn’t actually matter what he’s achieved. I don’t think he’s achieved anything anyway, I think it’s been ten years of hollow promises, grandiose speeches and ridiculous crass insidious posturing. But, even if he had achieved something, even if the economy was booming and our hospitals were like palaces and our school the envy of the academic world and teachers and nurses and doctors were enjoying six figure salaries; it all pale’s into insignificance when you manufacture a means to go to war.

There’s nothing worse a Prime Minister can do. Nothing more vulgar and reprehensible, not even getting that woman pregnant time after time. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs to take themselves off somewhere quiet and answer some searching questions about what’s really important in this world.

Tony Blair is a war criminal and should be in jail, but he will never be held accountable for what he has done. He’s not accountable because the power that our politicians have is so absolute that he is above the law and change is impossible and any attempts to change things are futile.

Also, people are now so desensitised to suffering and war and killing and death, that they don’t care. And this is how some people are still able to look at their lives and think how great it is to be alive. Only when you can block out what is happening around you and cocoon yourself in your own world not three inches from the end of your nose can you continue to think that the world is a great place and life is worth living. I’m not that narcissistic. Tony Blair has made me not care about my future and he’s made me lose my sense of humour and that was my favourite thing about me.

All of these things are tragedies, they are not beliefs they are facts. I don’t know much, but I know that.

Now let's get one thing straight. I go to a barbers to have my hair cut because it's a no nonsense experience where the guy will arrange my barnet how I instruct him and under no circumstances will he bother me with mindless small talk unless I preempt the conversation.

What them fangled suffragettes and PC global warming, tree hugging equal rights for all leg warmer wearing leftie lentil eaters have gone and done is make it compulsory for a gents barbers to employ female hairdressers. NO! You hear me NO! NO MORE!

A barbers and a hairdressers are two very different worlds and never the twain shall meet is what I always say. Apart from the clear danger of accidentally elbowing a female hairsmith in the clitoris the danger of being tangled up in a web of nonsensical small talk and baffling guff is unavoidable and a cause of emotional distress amongst the male population who simply want shorter hair and to be left alone.

I was lucky today, but I vicariously felt the pain of my fellow customers as the god awful scissorist to my right bombarded them with wave upon wave of small talk which seemed to me every bit as incendiary and devastating as the fire bombing of Dresden in the second world war. A women who, incidentally, didn't seem to care that the cut off top she was wearing doesn't suit fat women: "Bah", she appeared to be saying, "yeah I'm fat but there's some good pussy under this gut", or sentiments to that effect.

Look up 'small' in the dictionary and it'll give you 'insignificant; unimportant' amongst it's various definitions. Unimportant therefore, unnecessary. Have these creatures never heard the expression silence is golden? I've never advocated a chap sporting long hair, I feel I now understand why so many do.

So this week should usher in the Premiership of Gordon Brown. Oh, yay! This however, will not be the highlight of my week, which is an astonishing state of affairs when you consider we're talking about historic affairs of state.

For me, the highlight of the week will be on Tuesday when I plan to have my hair cut or perhaps Wednesday when I might put the kettle on. In France of course it's a different story. They get to actually elect the Prime Minister of their country and it's a real choice too. You have a scrummy menu of raw Nazi evil for starters, a socialist who wouldn't look out of place in one of my specialist mens magazines and a proper right wing fella who for all intents and purposes is just as Nazi as the Le Penn fella only slightly better looking in a orange tint game show host kinda way.

Of course, the French being the French, their election will impact on us more than Gordon Browns coronation because whoever wins France is in for some changes and when France is in for changes, lorry drivers park their lorries in motorways, farmers block ferry ports and Western Europe grinds to a halt because they don't likes them changes.

In the meantime Gordon Brown will set about distancing himself from Tony Blair without moving an inch in either direction and David Cameron will continue to talk without saying anything but will wear his parting at different angles to give the papers something to talk about.

What's important to remember is it is all nonsense now. Let's have none of this talk from the old folks about how they fought for our right to vote and what not. To be fair as things stand I can't see that Europe and the rest of the planet would be in any worse shape had Hitler hit the winning six instead of Churchill. I'm sorry Israel, but it's true.

At least we'd have won more than one world cup if we were all annexed into Germany. Anyhoo, I digress. The reason I'm saying all this is because I have a few hours to kill until the 1000 guineas and I'm too tired to sleep. I reckon Simply Perfect has a good each way chance by the way in case you want to put a bet on.

So politics. It's a game isn't it. It's a game played by a select few and it's no longer anything to do with anyone else. There's not a cigarette paper between the reds and the blues in this country or the US and even in France where there is a choice it won't matter cause the population are too bloody fictionalised (is that a word?) for any progress to be made.

I think we need a really brutal fascist dictator in this country and I think we're due one. I reckon if the Queen could do the decent thing and pass away (God speed and bless you ma'am) and someone somewhere with money and a head for business could somehow organise a coup we could be in business.

Fidel Castro is the sort of chap we're looking for. Now ok, the people of Cuba live in abject poverty and it's not unknown for Government spies to be found hiding in peoples cereal, but at least they know they live in a hell on Earth. We do too, but we're blind to it. We think we're free. WE'RE NOT FREE! Democracy is just a word used to con people into accepting a lifestyle that's actually shit. Liberty; that's another nonsense. Liberty is the souls right to breath apparently. To be fair, liberty it's not. Not anyone. Liberty is just what fat women in Sussex call their daughters.

Show me where liberty exists in this country. It's doesn't. We think it does, but it doesn't. We're as oppressed and restricted as those poor plastic shoe wearing, octopus eating Cubans, only they know it and have nicer weather.

I'd rather live under a Dictatorship. If I can't live my own life why shouldn't someone else make my decisions for me? Most people don't have the capacity for independent thought anyway. Most adults are borderline retarded and I'd feel safer if someone else were making their important decisions. I like the idea that deliquant teenagers can be snatched off the street and sold to the Arabs too or where ever they end up. I also like it that you can have someone tortured and win fabulous prizes by shopping them in for their treacherous thought crimes and what such.

Things have to come full circle. That's the definition of a revolution yes? Someone gets a bit uppety so you have them done over and a more democractic process is installed, then human nature being human nature, those folks go getting uppety too and need to be replaced by another someone and so on and so on, so let's get started. My choice would be a female nutcase like whatshername in the Hand that Rocks the cradle; Rebecca De Mornay I think. Sexy yet consumed with mentalism. Awesome.

And we need more repeats of the Goodlife. I'm going to the toilet now. I suggest you do the same.

I've got sixteen minutes until my roast dinner for one is ready, so let's not hang around. I'm having beef, a yorkshire pudding, some roast potatoes and little compartment of carrots and I've never felt so alive.

Now then. They say blondes have more fun. If you looked like the "blondes" I was knocking about with last weekend you'd need a sense a humour. I'm very weary of intraweb message boards and communities as a rule. They're essentially cults aren't they. Cults for people who don't really want to get dressed and go out and find a real one. Cliques, cults, communities, communes; they're all the same, nothing good comes from them except for occasional mass suicide.

Anyhoo, I joined one a while ago. It was called Blonde Poker. I joined it cause they gave lots of info about poker (of all things) although I never joined in with their message board speak. So anyhoo, in order to join one of these things you need a new identity,..of course you do. That's the whole purpose of the intrawebs for most poeople. A new identity, a fresh start built on self loathing lies and denial, the cornerstone of any healthy psychosis.

I chose the screename Warbwastard. I felt it had a nice ring to it. I stole it from somewhere as it happens. I forget where. A comedy that involved a robot-wars competition. War Bastard was the name of the robot and anyway...

So..Blonde Poker held a poker festival in Luton last week and as part of this coming together of this poker playing community it was thought to be a good idea if we all wore badges of our screen names so we could put faces to screen names. I've never posted any messages so I felt I shouldn't have to do this. I also didn't want to walk about all day with War Bwastard written on chest.

I did it though. Look.




























I finished 20th in the tournament by the way. I was unlucky too not to progress. Norman Pace of Hale and Pace fame looked on sympathetically. Who'd have thunked it when I was 12 years old, sat at home watching Hale and Pace and thinking how shit it was, that twenty years later I'd be stood next time him in a poker room thinking how shit it was.

I'm off to Ireland in June to play those funny little elves in one of their poker tournaments. I've done some research and apparently Ireland was the land C.S. Lewis based all his Narnia books on. I plan to get there by walking through my Mum and Dads wardrobe.

My roast dinner for one is ready. I'm not ashamed either.

This was on CNN's website earlier today. I've never been a fan of interactive facilities on TV or the intrawebs, I think it's nonsense, but I suppose people must have their say. I think even the nerdiest of interactive viewer/reader will agree that this is just taking it too far.