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See that? That's a maximum that is. I threw that today and there's no need to tell me how awesome I am, cause I already know. I haven't played darts regularly since I was about 13, but clearly the magic is still there. I can still polish off a leg of 301 in less than half an hour.

I officially like darts again now and not in an ironic sense either. It's too late for me to turn professional though and my fingers are too skinny to sport those sovereign rings anyway, but there's nothing to stop me shouting out random darts scores to people in the street. Try it yourself, I guarantee you'll never have felt so alive.

January soon then. One of the advantages of ignoring Christmas and not spending all my money on other people is that I am able to take full advantage of all the shopping opportunities.

Online opportunites of course. It'll be a sunny day in Hull before I go near a shop in January. I was trampled once by some sheep at a farm on a school trip when was 7 and I'm still not over it.

Now I don't mean to sound like a housewife, but I do so enjoy a bargain. If there's one thing I like more than having a whore tickle my anus with a peacock feather, it's a bargain. I think it's important we call them bargains rather than sales.

All this 50% off bollocks is, well it's bollocks. If these people are charging 50% less now than they did in December it's because they were charging you far more than the thing was actually worth before Christmas. I'll be in the market for some new pans and a nice new kettle and I won't stop until they're mine. MIIIIIIIIINE.

It goes without saying (but i'll say it anyway), that the one thing January is most unsuitable for is making resolutions. January is the bleakest, darkest, longest most depressing month of the year. Janus may have been the God of the Doorway, but the door must have been prison gates. These are entirely the wrong conditions to be setting yourself unattainable goals.

Anyone who resolves to lose 5 stone by the spring is wasting her time. January ought to be spent in hibernation. I personally log more pajamas hours a day in January than all the other months put together. I then emerge in February with a new hope, just like in Star Wars and then and THEN, start to figure out what I want to fail to achieve in the coming year.

If you've ever seen those websites where you can nominate at the beginning of the year someone famous you think will be the first to die you'll know how much fun they can be. I've chosen Fidel Castro. Coooba's Queen Mother really the way he's clung to live. Illness, assassination attempts, Cuban food; it's incredible how he's still alive, but I think this is the year.

He was quoted as saying he feels he shouldn't "obstruct the path of younger people" any longer, which to me is a clear sign he feels he's not long for this world. I find it amusing incidentally that he's referring to his brother Raul Castro when he talks of not obstructing younger people. His brother is 76 for fucks sake.

So anyway, it's Castro for me. I'll miss him if he does die. I used to play in his monthly Scrabble tournaments when I was living in the US. I used to helicopter in in the dead of the night. He's great company if you don't talk about his politics.

We had a little falling out during one of the finals though. Fidel laid down GALLETA on a triple word score for about 160, but the rules stated English words only and the referee made him remove it. I was able to win by 23 in the end, ironically, with the word CAKE, but he never spoke to me again and he had the referee tied up with piano wire and shot., but that was Fidel, oh happy days.

The Pigeons freeze-out tonight ended in a win for me. My first victory since some time in June I think. But I ran as smoothly through the game as Kippers Vindaloo through my small intestines.

That's as much as I can tell you about the evening however as the hand analysis hasn't come back from the lab yet. So baffling were the exchanges throughout the game I've enlisted the help of the worlds greatest minds to figure out what the f*ck was going on cause I'm buggered if I know.

Fortunately using my Button-Cam, I was able to record the proceedings, which I initially emailed to Professor Steven Hawkins. Unfortunately his conclusions were that he had - "not a c*nts chance in hell of working out the strategies involved.

"Give me a space question instead," he pleaded.

Peter Falk aka TV detective Columbo took one look at the footage and hit the bottle immediately, sending him into a wild rage. Consequently Mrs Columbo was on the receiving end of a roasting which he filmed on his mobile phone. He then ran off and was found hours later in a bush with a cigar inserted in his back passage.

The footage is now with NASA who have already made serious noises about involving the Chinese. Captain Colonel Rock Bronco sent me a brief text message; "My God man, what in the wide wide world of sports is going on here? This is too big for us, we may need the chinks."

I fear however, even with the aid of the Chinese, we may never fully understand Pigeons Poker and the propositions and theory that lay behind it shall remain an enigma wrapped in a puzzle surrounded by a mystery, dripping in a rich riddle sauce, as impossible to digest, without a poker rosetta stone, as Kippers Vindaloo.

A tiger escapes from a Zoo, kills a few visitors so they shoot it dead. I'm sorry zoo people and dead visitors, but no, if you manage a zoo or visit a zoo then I feel you ought to accept the inherent risks that maybe just maybe one or two of the animals may escape once in a while and maul a few people to death and should that happen, well tough.

You chose to keep the animal, you choose to gawp at it so I don't think you can feel aggrieved if it eats you. You can't shoot it cause you feel it's a danger to the public, it's a fucking wild animal, or course it's a danger to the public. The real danger to the public is the f*cking toss piece who left the gate open, or the dude who owns the zoo, they're the one who ought to be shot, if that's not man slaughter you can call me Rachel.

This poor tiger is not an escaped lifer from a maximum security prison. It's got every right to attack people and rip their throats to pieces and feast on their yummy flesh. It's a wild animal, it doesn't have morals, only an appetite. If you're going to take these chaps out of their natural environment and plonk them in a cage forever so they don't become extinct, you can't then shoot the poor things when staff negligence allows one of them to escape and it starts feasting on what it sees as proper food for a change.

How is this helping to preserve the species? You airlift it out of the jungle in India where it was quite happy feasting on Hindu's and lounging about in trees, all because you're worried a poacher might shoot it, and then you shoot it, just cause it got sick of fat kids throwing ice lollies at it and ate a few of them. Bullshit.

It's this kind of thing that stopped me feeling any kind of sympathy for that Steve Irwin twat. Crocodiles, tigers, snakes, just leave the bloody things alone.

When will people learn. It's not up to us to preserve animals. Let Mummy nature take care of all that stuff. If we must study animals, then let's either do it in their natural habitat, or not at all. And if they happen to get a bit miffed and eat us, tough. That's what I always say.

As the year draws to a close it's a natural time for reflection and contemplation. OK done. Anyone fancy a game of Scrabble?

Obviously as it's nearly Christmas, the Great Escape was on today and it occurred to me that this very movie may be responsible for most of the England teams' gallant failures. I don't know why the England fans ever adopted the theme tune to the Great Escape as their own anthem, but they couldn't have chosen a more inappropriate tune.

Perhaps it was chosen as it provokes inspiring images of the English giving Fritzy a bloody nose, but the Great Escape was a failure. It's about a bunch of Officers who courageously attempted to escape en masse from a German POW camp, acheiving great initial success with 76 escapees, but ultimately failed as every one of them was recaptured or shot. It's England's recent attempts at winning a trophy to a tee. A couple of semi-final defeats, quarter final defeats etc. Initial success followed by eventual failure.

The fans really ought to have thought this through a bit more. If we must sing and chant War tunes, we should have chosen the theme to the Dambusters or the Battle of Britain.

The End.

I hate cats. The last thing I want to see is one staring at me in the morning when I've just woken up and I'm putting the kettle on. This little fucker is looking away from me in this picture, but when I first stared out there it was looking me right in the eye. Scared the cock off me. Like having the Grim Reaper hand you a towel when you get out of the shower or sommat. Eeeesh.

How can you just decide to convert to another religion? How how how? Surely, by definition, a faith cannot be abandoned, otherwise it's not a faith. And if you accept that your initial faith was in fact delusional nonsense, you can't then adopt some other religious doctrine as your guiding light because in order to have faith it has to be unyielding, but by abandoning your first religion you have already proven to yourself that you are a mincing yielder. Oui?

You can't after 40 years, wake up on a Sunday morning, turn to your horrible wife with her hideous clowns mouth and say, Oooh shit, I've seen the light, my religion is bollocks, I better pick another one quick. You can't have faith twice. Religious fruit cakes only argument for living their lives according to a series of Chinese whispers and myths, is faith: I don't need real life scientific proof because I have a faith; I believe. So what will Tony Blair's justification be now for converting to Catholicism? It can't be faith, cause he had that before and decided it was bollocks.

It can only be cause he felt a few Hail Mary's will make amends for his Iraq errors. But no, there's surely not enough years left in the mans life to complete the requisite number of Hail Mary's to atone for starting a war with men in sandals. It must be because he's bored and wants a bit of publicity. If this is the case, he ought to have converted to Islam, this would have been an interesting move and confused that Alan Qaeda fella with the added bonus that he'd have the authority to install some discipline in that woman of his and insist she wear a nice thick burka so the rest of us don't have to look at her. That's what I always say.

This is what I do at 3.30am under the influence of Argentine wine when there's only cricket and Star Trek on TV. Ball spinning to jazz. It's one of the many qualities I have which make me such a favourite with the ladies. Try it yourself. Oh, and aren't those Romulans nasty? Get the hell out of the damn neutral zone you big sillies.

Stefan Kuntz: Striker for German side knocking England out of Euro 1996 Semi-final

Robbie Savage: Wettest pussy pig fucker in professional sports.

Peter Manley: Technically not a sport, but nice blouse ducky.

Peter Crouch: Seven foot 2 inch freak.

Chris Eubank: Declared bankrupt in 2005.

Dennis Wise: Possibly even thicker than Joe Cole

Some Doctor dude reckons humour comes from high levels of testosterone. Wrong! His tenuous as fuck conclusions were based on comments aimed at him by both genders while he pranced about a town centre on a unicycle.

If you're as funny as me, well you're not obviously, but if you have a genuine sense of humour, you'll have already identified the flaw in his research. Professor Shuster himself obviously has no clear appreciation of what is and what is not, funny. He mistakenly assumes unicycling is funny and will provoke amusing comments form passers-by. NO!

Everyone knows it's only funny when the unicyclist is a bear. Whenever I've seen a human unicyclist my initial reaction has always been, "French twat!" I always assume they're French. As I do when I happen upon jugglers and mime artists. The point is, I don't think, "hahaha look there is a man cycling, but he only has one wheel, hilarious."

The Doctor in question received aggressive comments from males and encouraging responses from women. Men he claimed aimed aggressive jokes at him; "Men would drive past, roll down their windows and shout things such as 'lost your wheel mate?' - the comments were intended to ridicule and were aggressive humour."

Yes, they were aggressive, but it wasn't aggressive humour Mr Doctor man. Some chavvy bricklayer shouting "have you lost a wheel" is not humour; it's an attempt at humour maybe, but it's not actually humorous. It's far more likely they were just actually being abusive.

Testosterone might fuel attempts at put-downs but it's not responsible for actually being humorous. Put-downs are just a prelude to a fist-fight. The funniest men ever I would wager had very low testosterone levels. Les Dawson was funny and he wore dresses. Eric Morecambe was a comedy genius and he danced about and slept in the same bed as Ernie Wise. Peter Sellers was funny and he had a tash.

I think if anything, all this mans research has proven, is that testosterone causes abusive behaviour and it might not have even proven that as unicycling really ought to provoke abusive responses from the most mild mannered members of society. A vicar for example could be excused for pushing you off your mincing unicycle and calling you a posing cunt. And ironically, that really would be funny.

I don't know what you're doing Christmas Day but I'll be wearing my cool cowboy hat and my warmest nightwear and I'll be watching all my Cowboy films and I think if I'm honest, as cowboy films go, I have more than most.

While most kids are hanging up their stockings on Christmas Eve i'll be hanging up my gun belt which I bought from Argos today for £4.99.

I shall also being trying to document just how much Chili Con Carne and Whiskey a man my size can consume over a twelve hours period. Gold! It's the perfect Christmas. Sod your "It's a Wonderful Life," which when you think about it, is a movie about a man consumed by debt who wants to kill himself (more appropriate for January, that film), give me a cowboy movie with cool Mexican music any day of the week and several times on Christmas Day.

Many things strike me funny this time of year and when I say funny I mean ludicrous rather than hilarious. The most obvious one is the buying of presents for people that aren't children. I mean reeeeeeeeally, if you're buying gifts for fully grown adult people, why wait until December? Why spread yourself so thin financially?

As soon as you cotton on the fact that gifts don't appear in your living room because of some incredibly generous fat German, then you're free to buy gifts for people at any time of the year aren't you? If you haven't bought anything this year for any of your friends or family, barring birthdays, then you're gifts at Christmas are insincere, so why bother?

You don't have to save up all year so you can then tear around the claustrophobically crowded shops buying stuff people don't want. You can spread this gift giving out over the year. If someone wants to buy me socks at Christmas cause they consider me a friend then that's very sweet, but I'll probably consider it more of an insult if the truth be told.

Socks are shit and there's no thought or sincerity accompanying this gift. However, if you pop over in April with a pair of socks that have my name on them and say I saw these and thought of you, well that's very pleasant indeed isn't it? You have purchased these socks because you wanted to and you genuinely were thinking of me therefore on this occasion therefore socks are an awesome gift and our friendship will be cemented forever and I will immediately make tea for us both while we laugh as I try on my new footwear and I shall love you forever.

Do you see the difference? Not only have you not gotten into financial strife by spending thousands in one big chunk, your gifts spread over the year arbitrarily have been received with genuine gratitude, this my dear friends is the very currency of friendship and wouldn't we be all the richer if we spent it in this way, oh yes.

So yes, the obligation to buy stuff for people at this time of year is indeed both daft, expensive, irritating and unhealthy. But it's even more so when two people who don't even like each other are partaking in this baffling commercial ritual.

I aim this at no one in particular. Mainly most couples in this country really. If you happen to be in a relationship where love and tenderness long since departed, and eleven months of the year are spent hurling verbal abuse at each other with the odd sprinkling of physical violence, why oh why oh why, just because it's Christmas, would you suddenly declare a cease fire and be nice to each other and spend hundreds of pounds on gifts you'll be busting over each others heads by mid-January? Why?? Tell me please!

I can propose only two theories for this behaviour; A) It's just insincere and you're only pretending until January 1st for the sake of it. B) It's a time for reflection and you've somehow found it in your hearts to forgive and to remember what is was that brought you both together in the first place.

Now then, if it's scenario A, then don't be such twats. Give up. Go your separate ways and see other people. If you must buy things for people, surely it makes more sense to buy them for people you don't hate? If you're tied together because of financial commitments or you have wee ones and feel you can't separate because of them, that still doesn't mean you have to buy stuff for each other. Still see other people I say, just be grown up enough to be civil when the wee ones are about or uncouple yourself from the financial chains that are your enduring hell.

If it's scenario B, there is no such thing as scenario B. Christmas is acting like alcohol on your tiny minds. You're not thinking straight, you're in the over-sentimental stage of being drunk and it will soon pass when the freezing and soul-destroyingly long January evenings kick-in. Use the party season to find someone else quick and spend money on splendid evenings out with them instead of the one who makes you disgust yourself.

It's Tuesday now right? Monday seems to have passed in a painful delirious haze. I had three glasses of South African wine on Sunday night and it fucked me. What do they put in that stuff? Jesus! It's no wonder South Africa is so violent if they all drink this stuff. If it wasn't the wine then an invisible man was following me around all day yesterday repeatedly cracking me on the forehead with the back of a spoon and force feeding me gravel. Eeesh.

Someone has stolen my rear windscreen wiper. Bastard! It hasn't been ripped off either, that thing is hard to remove. It would have required tools. My car is parked in front of my house on a busy street and someone has stood there for a few minutes with a screw driver and had the thing away. Who does this? This can't have been vandalism. No one unscrews a rear wiper for the hell of it. Someone with the same model car as me as decided £20 is too much to pay for a replacement for their own missing wiper and decided to get up at 3am when no one is around and have mine instead. Bastard!

On a brighter note, the postman woke me up today delivering a nice parcel. If there's been a time in my life when I've felt move alive than when I'm receiving parcels, I can't remember it. I'm with Julie Andrews on the receipt of a brown paper package tied up with string. It's definitely one of my favourite things. It was a jumper. A Columbia University jumper if you really must know. I used to work for a Neurologist at Columbia University during my clever days. I know, how cool am I? I bought it so Americans I meet in the Co-op wouldn't abuse me.

I completed my research on TV weather girls this morning and have concluded that Sky TV's are 20% muckier. ITV's Becky Mantin was seen to be capable of a fair degree of kinky indecency under the influence of Bacardi Breezers, but generally the Sky TV girls needed no Dutch courage before engaging in the levels of depravity usually associated with the Dutch.

Dearest Ashley Cole, you left Arsenal who gave you everything for Chelsea who gave you a better wage a mobile phone deal. As your 'orrible chavvy world collapses around you, I have but this to say to you:

If Manchester United must win, there is some consolation to be found when the goal scorer and final score, win one enough money to buy a new bread bin, a tank of petrol and a nice new hat.

Carlos Tevez, while I think it's important mongers like you remain chained to a wall in a dank basement and released only when Scousers need beating, I still salute you.

If there's anyone with a more appalling dress sense than a Scandinavian, it's a Scandinavian poker player. Look at this poor chap. My feeling is, he's only recently moved out of his parents' house and for the first time he is able to dress himself without his mother looking on disapprovingly and naturally he's gone a bit crazy with it. Eventually enlightenment will take hold and he'll realise there was a reason his mother wouldn't let him go out wearing certain get-ups. Until then though, it's going to be one fashion horror show after another.

University students experience the same disastrous fashion liberation. We've all been there. You leave home in sensible trousers and side parting and not one week later, you look like a combination of a homeless man and Buck Rogers. We've all kidded ourselves that our get up is cool and we are the envy of the gob smacked public looking on as we stroll through town completely oblivious to what a twat we look. At least we can hide the photo's though, this poor chap is gonna be on TV...his kids may see this in years to come. He's on the final table of the EPT Prague. I fear to look, yet I cannot turn away.

I've got nothing against snooker you understand. As Alan Murray's Pub Landlord correctly pointed out, in 1940 snooker saved this country. All those lovely women in the RAF control rooms pushing squadrons around those big maps and all. God bless 'em. Salute snooker we should, but the players are a mess.

My research isn't fully completed as yet, but I feel I've collected enough data to conclude with a 4% margin of error that Snooker players are the unhealthiest collection of individuals in the developed world.

What about Darts players I hear you cry. Well, obviously the very fact that professional arrowsmiths are even capable of lifting themselves out of bed in the morning is boarding on the astonishing and how their hearts can heave their congealed gloopy blood through partially blocked arteries is nothing short of a medical phenomena, but I think it's fair to say these individuals were genetically doomed to physical destruction.

Consequently, these people all have horribly translucent skin and I suspect severe osteoporosis. Poor Jamie Cope was sizing up a tricky black just a few days ago and I swear I could see the audience through his face. Oooh those poor boys. Somebody please, get them a plate of fish and a gallon of milk before it's too late.

What’s your favourite planet? Mine is Neptune. It’s big and blue and awesome and has the coolest name. Mercury and Mars are obviously the gayest. For scale, if Earth was the size of a football then those two are only tennis ball sized and everyone knows how gay tennis is. And the Roman God Mercury was a messenger, which really means he was a secretary. Poof.

Neptune was an awesome God, a big fat man with a beard as all good Roman Gods should be. Not some nancy boy in a nappy skipping about with an olden days biro and notepad, and Neptune was able to vanquish entire countries with tsunami’s worse even than how the sea gets in Blackpool. Woooooosh, crash, drown, hark, gargle, waaaargh.


Jupiter is another pathetic planet. I don’t care how big it is. Jupiter is the celestial equivalent of a lardy benefit recipient who’s always banging on about how it’s his glands and nothing to do with how many bags of crisps he eats between meals and how little exercise cause of those silly buggy's.

Your basic Jupiters always expect to have things done for them; being fed grapes, arse wiping, hand jobs and so on. If I’m not mistaken, Jupiter has so many moons cause they act like a hand spinning a basketball cause Jupiter is too fat and lazy to spin itself.

So yeah, it’s Neptune for me. Incidentally, why were all the planets named after Roman Gods? Galileo was a Roman Catholic no? Why didn’t he give them Biblical names. I’m glad he didn’t cause planets called Peter and John would just be silly. I think I’ve answered my own question.

I’m going to bed now. I haven’t been drinking I’m just tired. Oh, I didn’t mention Uranus because it’s a comedy basic and I’m not 9. I’m above all that. You should be too.

boomp3.com

Watership Down was on this evening. I hadn't seen it before. My mum wouldn't let me watch it when I was a nipper cause she said it was weird and scary. She was right about the long term effects of boiled cabbage and she was about this too. Scared the hell out of me it did and if I'm not mistaken, the bird was a foul mouthed bastard. FUCK AAAARF FUCK AAAAARF and so on.

I'm not sure what the point of the original novel was but I suspect it was some sort of thinly veiled Biblical bollocks. All those kids books from that era were religiously allegorical. That CS Lewis dude and his Narnia stories - dirty paedo bastard, Roald Dalh too probably being Welsh. Harmful harmful stuff. Boiled cabbage for the mind. It's a wonder I emerged from my childhood emotionally unscathed. Sort of. Baaaaah.

I killed a rabbit last night as I was driving home as it happens. From the crushing noise I assumed I'd caught it flush on the skull with my driver's side rear wheel. For some reason I thought I'd go back and have a look, maybe take a picture for the blog, but I couldn't find the bugger. Weird no? Up and down the road I drove and not a bleeding Leporidae carcass to be found. My wheels were clean too as was the road, but I definitely hit it; either that or I'd driven over a large back of pork scratchings.


In other news, this afternoon I bought a t-shirt. It's of Popeye playing poker. And why not? Although I don't like Popeye because I've always been horrified by fat arms, and Olive Oyl ..urgh jesus,in my opinion shagging that would be like riding a bike without a saddle, and she reminds me of the woman from the Shining. Shelley Duvall I think? But the T-shirt was something I felt would be worth having. Now I think about it though I feel I've made an error.


Now then, as far as take-way food is concerned I don't think you can go wrong for value with a visit to the fish and chip shop. Pound for pound it's got Chinese food, pizzas and Indian nosh dominated. A pizza is clearly the worst for value. Bread, tomato sauce and cheese that'll be £10 please. Naff orf!

Indian food while expensive is rather dense and filling and is therefore good value and I think the Indian accent is amusing. God bless those little chaps, genetically subservient to us and don't they do it well. I've forgiven them the mutiny as they always give me free poppadoms.

With Indian food though you do have to factor in the cost of the medication during the convalescence period. Indigestion remedies, ulcer creams, haemorrhoid balms and toilet paper don't come cheap.

Chinese food is a favourite of mine, but I'm still to be convinced they're not aliens and therefore the danger exists that all the meats in those dishes are of human origin. Chinese sinography is not of this world, and with that entire race of 'people' all being the same height and all having names beginning with X and all being good with computers and all wearing those uniforms that look like pyjamas, not to mention their eyes and language, they can't possibly be of this world.

So with this in mind, I declare a good honest bag of fish and chips possibly with a pickled onion and if the mood takes you, a battered sausage all for about £6, just about as out of this world you can achieve without being Chinese. I had this very meal this evening and I've never felt so alive.


The End