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It's all the other bailouts that I don't get. If no one's interested in buying stuff, why keep it going? The car industry for example; The Prince of Darkness Mandelson (he's really a Lord??) wants the mostly "foreign" owned car industry to be propped up. Presumably because they employ so many people, which on the face of it sounds reasonable, but it ain't is it when his logic is held up to scrutiny.

The money from car sales does not stay in the UK economy. And although workers get paid and their salaries do remain in our economy, what you're essentially doing by propping up that industry is turning into another Ponzi Scheme. As soon as that money stops or we stop buying cars, then the whole industry collapses.

We don't need more cars in this country. It's a tiny place, there's too many cars anyway. Let's just maintain the old ones. No new cars to be made unless they can at least be run on potato peelings and old newspapers. That's what I always say. Instead of offering up the car manufacturers a couple of billion trillion monies, why not inject that money in re-training the car industry workforce in industries we do need?

I know it's a hassle re-training, but a bailout is just delaying the inevitable no? If no one is buying cars, no one is buying cars. And to be fair, while this may be easy for me to say sat here essentially financially secure in my slippers, who wants to do the same job forever and ever anyway? It may offer security but really now come on...booooooooooring.

What I'm saying people, is it all just seems counter-productive. Mandelson is obviously playing politics here and just wants to appear to be sympathetic to all those people working in this industry, but I'm sure they'd all be far more appreciate it if he'd engage his brain a little and give the bigger picture a little consideration so they all had a rosy future because of the myriad of employment opportunities available to them.

If he had his way all those celebrity types with a fleet of cars would be forced to sell them and replace them with a milk float on account of environmental issues, but it's nonsense, cause the Jeremy Clarksons of the world can only physically drive one car at a time, where as forcing them to sell them potentially puts all those gas guzzling monstrosities on the road at the same time.

Lack of thought see. Lack of everything really except the ability to waste billions and trillions of British monies. If I worked in the car industry I'd be re-training myself as of Monday morning. I'd be on the blower to the skills-centre immediately. I hear under-takers are enjoying a roaring trade at the moment. The end.

Football's a frustrated and cruel mistress. Trying to dissect an afternoon like this one is an awfully dispiriting exercise. Even with Bolton offering me a small morsel of consolation by beating Totterington, I've no choice but to sit in silence now and read poetry.

The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock could have been written for Arsenal. Dear Jesus of all fuck how do you arrive at the decision to leave Robin van Persie on the bench and let that gangling mess of legs and hair Adebayor spend 90 minutes in an off-side position!?

I had hoped the return of Eduardo would arrive in time to salvage fourth spot, but assuming he does return in the next two weeks, I fear his return has come too late. Woe is us. Woe is us.


The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock: T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I've just received word that the scrummy Georgie Thompson is currently dating Dec of Ant and Dec fame! How is this possible? I estimate young Georgie could have taken her pick from approximately 1.9 billion men yet she's chosen to be with the 13 year old left side of the most irritating conjoined twins in all of human history? I shall never watch Sky Sports News again.

Absolutely mystifying this one. Ant and Dec, like people who go and watch Darts, make it very difficult to argue against the teaching of Creationism in schools because how can one reasonably argue that they are the product of a billion year process of perfection? They're a couple of irritating little gobshites as well. I find this quite depressing and I feel quite queasy now. This has been such a piss poor day all things considered.

I knew it would be frustrating, but I thought I'd prepared myself for it. I went outside, I took in a few lungfuls of clean air, I listened to some soft music, I took a few deep breaths and called them up. I'll never get that fifteen minutes back.

Oh, also - on the theme of being frustrated, I went to the Co-op earlier this afternoon and I thought I'd buy a Kinder Egg as there was a tray of them by the check-out.

I thought I could make the toy while watching the darts tonight. But no, there's a toy, it's a pirate, but it's already made. Is this some sort of health and safety regulation? Have kids been swallowing the little bits of toys in these eggs and been banned? Fucks sake. I bet the Kinder Eggs in Romania are still in bits. Brown's Britain.

Here's the thing I don't understand about Gordon Brown, or one of the things I don't understand about him - during a standard morning at Number 10 he moves Britain ever closer to the heart of the EU, which is obviously shit. But in the afternoon he holds press conferences with British news dudes and bandies about nationalistic phrases like "British jobs, for British people!" Huh? Say what?

You can't have it both ways. You can't sign up to a union that allows workers from all over the shop to come here and under-cut the wage demands of Northern and Welsh and Scottish people and then express outrage at the loss of jobs because of it.

If I hadn't resigned from the world I'd give this sort of thing more thought, but watching those engineers and oil refinery workers freezing their cods off on their picket lines I couldn't help but wonder if any of them have given any thought to using the same policies that have caused all this mess to their own advantage. Why not go and work abroad is what I'm saying?

If I was an engineer or had twenty years experience grafting away in an oil refinery I'd be off to Dubai or one of those other hot sandy places before you could say maasalaamah. Why don't UK workers pack up their pots and pans and move abroad? Britain is such an average place to live. Not just these dudes who are currently protesting, I'm talking about anyone. What's the UK's appeal? It's a miserable place and you can buy Daddies sauce and baked beans all over the world now so that can no longer be an excuse.


One gets the feeling that a lot of these dudes in Grangemouth (lovely place) would rather live in misery in Scotland and eat battered mars bars for tea than enjoy a regular income and a better than average standard of living by moving to Poland or Bulgaria or Romania. But why?

I'd be off in a heart beat me. No worries. Unfortunately, we're almost phobic about foreigners aren't we? Which is why we still call non UK citizens 'foreigners." Foreign - strange, alien, unheard of. We have a genetically inherited siege mentality when it comes to continental Europe and it's to our detriment.

Because we're an island and because we've handed out Europe a six-pack of whup ass regularly over the centuries, we're suspicious of them all and plagued by an ignorance that of all our most unpleasant national characteristics, I find it to be the most unpleasant. The most unpleasantest..unpleasantsome.

Eastern Europe is lovely. I think most people assume it to be still under communist control and everyone living there is surviving on dog casserole and state provided gin rations. To be fair, and with all due respect to Grangemouth, even if it was, that still sounds like an improvement in living standards.

There was a discussion about the unhealthy nature of kebabs on the news earlier this week. Ever since then I've really fancied one. I want one now as it happens but it's so frookin cold outside and I'm not sure I can be bothered to go and get one. If I don't, I'll have to eat fish. It's all I've got in the house. What a dilemma.

Maybe if I do go, not only will I have a lovely greasy kebab to eat, Arsenal might score while I'm gone as well. They certainly won't while I sit here watching them. Just as a watched kettle never boils, a watched Arsenal side by me never score despite having the lion's share of possession. OK I'm going. No I am, I've got to.

Wednesday evening dilemma update* I went for it. I got a kebab and quite frankly, although Arsenal did score, I wish I hadn't bothered. Horrific food. The hot sauce has made my toes curl. Now wonder the Turks all wear such curly shoes.

Note to self; if you're going to listen to gangsta rap in your car, do take the CD out when you arrive home or at least turn the volume right down low in case you leave your headlights on all night and subsequently subject the poor RAC man who arrives to revive your car battery to Dr Dre expressing his displeasure at some mo-fuckin bitch ass niggaz who no longer have love for the streets. It's just, it might be embarrassing for you is all.

What was I doing listening to such music? I was laughing at myself. Laughing at myself from many years ago when I enjoyed such music. I did grow up in south-central Carterton and I should think I'll always have love the streets, but a 35 year old from the Cotswalds ought not to be listening to this sort of thing without sound proof windows and with everyone in the immediate vicinity fully aware it's with a huge sense of irony.

This was the same RAC man incidentally who sorted my wheel out for me a few weeks ago when I misjudged which part of the road I ought to be in. He was polite though so I'm sure he doesn't think I'm a twat or anything. I did think I saw him mouth the words bitch ass nigga at me though when he drove off.

Although I bet on Andy Murray to win 3-1, his loss last night to some random bloke pleases me. Apart from the fact that be behaves like a twelve year old, he's a sweaty isn't he. Not just as far as his nationality goes either. I watched one of his matches a few days ago and between every single point, every single one people, he axed for his towel from the poor ball-boy so he could towel is miserable face down.

I ask you, how much sweat can a grown man produce during just one point of a tennis match? Not much surely. And he was wearing sweat bands anyway. What's the point in wearing sweat bands if you're not going to use them? Prima-donna tennis smiths. If you let them get away with this sort of thing who knows where it will end. I'll mark your card, he'll be taking a shower between each point next. He will, you watch. Cunt.

Happy New Year. OK so it's a new year, a new start, a clean slate, a blank canvas. Erm...I think I'll have some tea.

The NHL All-Star game is about to get under way and I'm slightly puzzled again as to the wagering opportunities available. Now I know that it's being played in an Eastern Conference arena, but it's Montreal and that's one of the most bizarre towns in the world, there's no way anyone's gonna feel at home in that barn unless they're a native.

I don't see what advantage that gives the Eastern Conference team at all, in fact, the Habs fans are so weird and partisan that it might be a hindrance to them because the crowd are likely to boo the players on the Eastern Conference team rather than the West, especially those who play for the bitterest rivals of the Habs.

Any Maple Leafs player, any Bruins player and any Senator is going to get it in the ear - exhibition game or not - and everyone boos the Rangers players wherever they are cause no one likes New York.

Since they changed the format of this game and made it West v East it's 2-2 and no advantage to the home team is evident. The West is still the toughest league and despite the East having what one might call the two marquee players of the NHL - Ovechkin and Crosby - I still fancy the West to have the better roster.

Therefore I hereby declare officially that the 11/10 available is value. Not much value, but value none the less. The unders/overs of 16.5 is simply daft in my opinion. I know it's an exhibition game, but I can't see this game having any more than 8-10 goals*. Only one of the recent All-Star games under this format has been a blow out. I hereby declare that unders is my recpmmended wager for the night, which I'll quickly lump in with a few Premiership football bets this mid-week, which if all goes to plan will afford me the opportunity of making this face...

*Update: silly French Canadians ruining my bets§

§Update update: In fact I ignored my own advice and bet on tennis instead of this game. Ha, in my own face.

I've just been watching the Karate Kid again. They'll always been a place in my heart for that movie. It reminds me of being 12 and using Phillip "Huda" Harper to perfect my round house kicks. Aaaah picking on the fat kid..happy days. It's very clever isn't it though...who'd have thunked that all that time he was doing those manual chores he was actually learning Karate? Brilliant.

They're a devious lot those orientals aren't they. He's lucky though that Danial San was so honest. Had that been me left alone all day to do all that painting and sanding, I'd have just paid a couple of Mexicans to do it and spent the whole day at Golf 'n Stuff playing Out-Run.

* * *

My best friend has just run a marathon, literally about ten minutes ago. I'm impressed by this. I just can't comprehend how physically demanding it must be to run for twenty-six miles. I can barely walk to the Spar without shitting myself. Well done to my best chum, that's what I always say, I'm immensely proud of you sir.

* * *

I believe it's the Chinese new year tomorrow. The year of the Ox. Since I'm from Oxford I can only assume that means this year will be my year..and everyone else's year who lives in Oxford, but mostly my year.


From the minimum of research it seems that the Chinese new year according myths and legends began with a fight against a beast possibly resembling a dragon, which used to appear on a certain day every year and kill everyone and eat all their food and shit on everyone's bonfires.

The villagers began to wise up a bit though and left food on their door steps which the beast would eat instead of killing everyone. They also found the beast was scared of a kid dressed in red so they'd all hang red laterns up and let off fire crackers.

Eventually he was captured by a Monk and used as his mount (ooh matron!). Not much of a beast if you ask me; scared of children and lost a fight to a man in a nappy!? But to be fair to the Chinese I find this story far more exciting and believable than the story of Christ and of the two legends I know which one I'd rather base the beginning of time on.

In fact as of now I'm adopting the Agrarian calendar and I shall wear a red jumper tonight for the £40 freeze-out I'm due to play in order to ward off the bad-beat monsters.

Something just occurred to me that I must share with you. Last week during my Monday poker game there was a bit of a to-do between myself and my name-sake because of a dispute over whether I'd burnt the correct the number of cards.

You see, the chips had all gone in on the flop with just the two of us in the hand and I messed up the dealing of the turn and river. I had lost the hand on the river, but, I dealt it so spasticatedly it was unclear whether I'd dealt the right number of burn cards. I felt I had dealt too many cards because under the five board cards there were three down cards. My argument was there should only be two - the burn cards for the turn and river - as when I dealt the flop I had thrown that burn card in the muck as I am want to do.

Are you following this? My opponent was insistent that before I dealt the turn, the burn card for the flop was in front of me not in the muck, which was why there three down cards now instead of two. I was absolutely sure that when I dealt the flop I threw the burn card in the muck, but eventually since more people seemed to agree with my name-sake, I relented and the pot was shipped over to him.

It's just occurred to me that all we had to do was count the cards in the muck. We were playing six handed at the time, so if I was right there ought to have been nine cards in the muck - the four discarded hands plus the flop burn card. If I was wrong there would only have been eight cards in there. Since the whole card-room eventually got involved and we were all talking over each other we were unable to find a logical thought between us. Silly silly us, a quick sort through the muck and all would have been fine. Still, you've got to laugh. Anyway, speaking of a mucky sort..

Here's what I don't understand; Middlesbrough 2/1 to beat Wolves? Now granted, Middlesbrough are shit...in fact, it's quite likely that Wolves and Boro will swap places next season.

I don't think Boro will go down as it happens, I think they're fortunate that there are a few teams in the Premiership shitter than them (please let one of them be Spurs, please please sports Gods let one be Spurs, I'll give you my telescope if one can be Spurs), but anyways..notwithstanding how poorly they've performed in the Premiership since their last win in November, the fact remains they are a Premiership team and they do have some very good players.

Wolves, top they may be, are a Championship team, and if whoever priced this game up did so on the basis of their respective performances over the last few weeks I think that is a wrong 'un.

Middlesbrough play in the toughest league in the whole wide world where as the teams Wolves play, generally speaking, sometimes aren't all even wearing the same coloured socks.

Apart from anything else, Wolves themselves have only won one game in the last five and Mick McCarthy has admitted that he'll be making changes for today's game because his priority is the league game against Reading in midweek. Midweek I tells ya!

I hereby declare 2/1 to be officially value and will lump this game in with Hull, Northampton Town and Manchester United, who will be playing a Spurs team consisting of some YTS lads and Garry Mabbut's nephew, in a cheeky Yankee, which will yield a return sufficient enough to allow me to make this face;

Do you remember where you were the day Barack Obama became President of the United States? I hope you do as it was only on Tuesday, but if I ask you that same question in a years time you'll probably still remember as will cabillions of people around the world. Probably one of those things you'll always remember, like the assassination of JFK, the 9/11 attacks and Arsenal's signing of Dennis Bergkamp.

Hands up who remembers where they were the day Gordon Brown was invited to royally fuck the nation up, quite literally by the Queen? Hands up who even remembers the date? June 27, 2007, and I only know that cause I looked it up. Did anyone in Tanzania walk 20 miles to find a TV set to witness Gordon Brown being sworn in as the first Scottish non-elected Raith Rovers supporting Prime Minister of the United Kingdom? It's a little facetious I know, but more people voluntarily voted for Robert Mugabe than Gordon Brown. What's happened to us? Our Empire used to encompass a quarter of the globe and now Countdown gets more viewers than the swearing in of a new PM.


I thought Gordon Brown was uninspiring before this week, but even more so now. It's hard to imagine kids of all creeds and cultures around the globe painting Gordon on their foreheads that rainy day in June he drove to see the Queen. She probably forgot about it too. It wouldn't surprise me if she answered the door with curlers in her hair. "Oh..fark..sorry Gordy....Phillip it's Gordon, put the kettle on."

I'm being silly of course. It's largely irrelevant who's in charge now. We're doomed. All nations who resided over great Empires all suffer the same fate. Our time has passed and the world looks to America now for inspiration. But it's still not too much to ask for us to expect our leader to offer us a little more than a dour Presbyterian lesson in attrition. He makes me feel like I'm living in Victorian times where every lump of coal is like gold dust. To quote Charles Dickens, "he would make a lovely corpse."

Unfortunately the only viable alternative is David Cameron and I wouldn't trust him to wax my car. "Just finishing the second coat now..." yeah right you spivvy fucker.

You know who I'd like to see as PM given the choices we're faced with? Who who?...well, I'll tell you. Not possible now of course, but I'd have given the job to Vince Cable. We need someone in charge with a funky first name.

He's old, but he's a good chap. He understands the economy and he's funny too. During his brief stint as Liberal leader he regularly made fun of Gordon Brown and David Cameron at PMQ's. He was the one who pointed out to Gordon Brown that he was in fact a robbing bastard with that 10p tax swindle.

I'm still mystified as to why they ditched him for this Clegg fella. People still don't know who Nick Clegg is. If the leader of one of the three main political parties walks into a pub the patrons ought to be able to spot him and recognise him. Brown and Cameron yes, but Nick Clegg, no. With the exception of maybe his own constituency, he is free to roam about the nation with his todger out - and does so too from what I've read about him - without so much as a by-your-leave from anyone. Sigh!

It's embarrassing isn't it. When Obama comes over here I want him to be met by someone as visionary and inspiring and as cool as he is. Someone he can put the world to rights with and then shoot some hoops. Not someone with a chin like a coffin and the ability to curdle a pregnant ladies breast milk just by looking at her. Oooooooowwww it's not fucking fair. It's like not wanting your friend's cooler Dad to meet your own Dad because he wears black socks with sandals. Let's have an election shall we, just something to spice things up a bit. Or some riots or something. I'm bored.

I'm really tired people. I've been awake since 10pm last night. My sleeping pattern has meant I haven't really seen daylight for quite some time and it's given me a keen appreciation for why Scandinavians behave the way they do. So I'm making an effort to change it today. My plan has been to stay awake all night and day so by about 10pm tonight I'll be so tired I should fall asleep immediately and not wake up until some time late tomorrow morning. I should feel like a new man. Hopefully I'll have never felt so alive. I also bought some nice apples today as I'm not getting enough vitamin C.

The end.

I get a lot of emails mostly from Germans and people from western parts of Belgium asking me about comedy: What is comedy? How can I be as funny as you? Please teach me how to be funny etc etc.

A recent letter from an old lady from München was a very typical enquiry and I'm sure she won't mind me discussing it here. Lisel von Schtrophenburß sent me a joke and asked me if I felt it was funny enough to have her dinner party guests laughing so hard they'd womit into their apple strudel.

Due to the mild anti-Semitic flavour of the joke I won't repeat it here, but what I will say to Lisel is that comedy is not just about telling jokes, or "Monkhousing" as I like to call it. The late Bob Monkhouse proved that any old fool can memorise 5,000 jokes and just rattle them off during the conversations he shoe horns his way into. But while this is mildy amusing initially, it soon becomes irritating and eventually a nation of people will welcome your death.

Comedy of course is not a science so there are no hard and fast rules to follow as such. What is funny to one person may be considered highly offensive to another. While I'm sure a joke about three rabbi's having a shower might be considered hilarious at a Bavarian dinner party hosted by an ex-Nazi youth septuagenarian, it almost certainly would no be appropriate sort of anywhere else on the globe. Nonetheless, all genuine comedy is made from a combination of the same ingredients.

Comedy gold has a more sophisticated quality to it than simple joke telling unless of course the joke is original. Even slapstick. Hitting someone in the face with a spade isn't too sophisticated, the subtlety comes from the timing of the blow and the reaction after it's delivery. In all comedy there should be an element of the unexpected, some misdirection and a cheekiness or even an element of the taboo to tease out the rebellious streak in us all.

You can learn of all this and more by undertaking my course in comedy. For €150 (£750) you too can be as funny as me in only a few months by listening to and watching the examples included in the various CD's and reading the examples in the reading material.

Using the simple listen, watch, read and do technique, my three part course will give you an extensive insight into slapstick, parody, satire, sarcasm, farce, surrealism, irony, black comedy and timing, in order to ween you off your reliance on Monkhousing and give you the ability to spot and exploit amusing situations in any social setting by delivering good original comedy gold.

I'm so confident you'll be as funny as me after taking this course, lesson 1 comes with a 30 day money back guarantee. If you're not entirely satisfied with the progress you've made after taking lesson 1, please just return the CD's and reading material for a full refund and I'll even send you a copy of Bob Monkhouse's book, "5,000 dinner party jokes" free of charge. Please allow 31 days for delivery.

Hahaha, see what I did there? I said it's a 30 day money back guarantee, but yet there's a 31 day delivery allowance. Haha, fucking brilliant.

Who remembers the TV show 'Bread?' How ze hell was that ever popular? As far as I can recall it was a show about a family of scouse benefit fraudsters who lied and cheated in order to extract as much money from the state as possible so none of them would ever have to work. Am I missing something? That was the premise of the show no?

Forget for a moment the fact that nothing Carla Lane ever wrote was really funny, what with her being a man hating feminist lezza; just a series of jokes that began "men are like .....attach derogatory metaphor," how did the tax payers of our great nation ever warm to this show? I can understand the pinko commie sympathising BBC directors thinking this was a hoot, but it was aired during the height of Thatchers Bwitain and if there's something that got every one's goat during that time it was a family of sponging scallies. Still does in fact. Very odd.

I finally got to have a look at Countdown. I had to Sky + it cause it's on at such a ridiculous hour, but I've now had a decent look at the new numbers woman. She looks very tall to me. Unless it's a small set. I personally can't see the need for a woman to be taller than 5ft 4. She looks very gangly. I think it would like riding a bike without a saddle if I took her for a spin as it were. No, still an improvement on Carol Vorderman of course as I found her an appalling creature, but no, I won't be getting up early to watch Countdown any time soon.

It's funny innit, that Israel suddenly decided to call off their annihilation of the Palestinians in the Gaza strip just as Barack Obama was handed the keys to the White House. The cynics amongst us, the cynics, they might suggest that Israel was just unloading on the Palestinians during the final days of Bush's Presidency because they knew he offered unwavering support for the "defense" of their lands..where as Barack Obama as an unknown quantity may not be quite so enthusiastic for it, what with all the deaths of kids and women folk and the destruction of schools and hospitals and the so on...something Bush never really seemed to have a problem with. Cynics might say that, I never would of course. I'd never suggest that the Israeli Government has a policy of systematically denying the Palestinians the ability to reprodce themselves.

The seven deadly sins: Pride, envy, wrath, gluttony, lust, greed and Rich. I found out today I sleep more than the Sloth. According to the wikipedias they sleep under 10 hours a day not the 15-18 the science dudes thought initially.

I'm currently racking up at least 10-12 hours a day. I got up at 6pm yesterday. I was asleep again sometime around 1am at which time I had some sausages and a Creme Egg then I was back in the land of nod by about 7am. I'm all over the place.

I generally prefer it this way though. My dreams are more exciting than watching Countdown or Bargain basement. I almost had the opportunity to give Felicity Kendalls' minge a sniff just a few days ago.

A young Felicity too, so I'm sure it would have been april fresh rather than a bit whiffy as it probably is these days. Havig said all that it does mean I haven't seen day light for quite some time and I'm becoming translucent which makes it very difficult to perform basic tasks. Still, you've got to laugh.

It's dogs I really for sorry for. For us it was eight years, but for them it was fifty-six - although as America's poodle it has felt like fifty-six years to us also. For Barney in particular, being dropped on his head every afternoon, it must have been an unimaginable hell and for him the pain will continue in Dallas instead of Washington, for the rest of us the healing can begin.

After eight long years, the leader of the free world and our new master, is finally going to be someone who can speak in coherent sentences and manage a bag of pretzels without choking himself. A man who has some degree of appreciation for the value of human life and an intelligence and poise befitting his position as the most powerful man in the entire galaxy.

For Bush a life of alcohol and shooting beer cans off a fence at his ranch in Dallas awaits. He'll be happier this way, I doubt he ever really wanted to be President in the first place. For Dick Cheney, probably a clandestine escape to Argentina like Adolf Eichmann before he's indicted for war crimes. Speaking of whom, I was watching a documentary about Auschwitz-Berkenua recently and although Bush and Cheney didn't succeed in an attempt to exterminate an entire people, their remorselessness at the loss of life they caused is the same.

You wonder how they all could have behaved so inhumanely, but being in a position where you're able to determine the fate of so many people must be an intoxicating level of power. They were all playing God and humanity is entirely subordinate to divinity. Humanity is a human inconvenience - divinity means no consequences, no repercussions and no accountability or justification for your actions because you're your own judge.

The only morsel of solace I ever felt during the last eight years was that I might be entirely wrong about there being no God and all of them would be judged eventually by him - or failing that they might be abducted by Islamic extremist snatch squads and hanged live on You Tube. I won't lie to you, I preferred the latter option.

Anyway, I digress; today, the day after Martin Luther King day and forty-six years after his "I have a dream speech," we will witness a piece of ideological alchemy. The baseness of the Bush doctrine transformed into philosophical gold by the inauguration of Barack Obama.

Nothing will change over night of course. People may treat him like a messiah but he's been quite insistent that everyone fully understand there can be no miracles. Bush has successfully bankrupted the entire globe financially and morally, but we can at least begin the reciprocal course back to a different and better time in the hope that we have not traveled too far and become lost forever. At least it is safe to dream again now the nightmare is over. Hopefully without having to wait forty or fifty years to see them realised.

I'm gonna tell you a story now, it's a bit sad but not really. Have you seen these white floaty things before? They're usually wafting about the place during the summer. They're about the size of a golf ball, maybe a bit bigger. I have no idea what they are or where they come from.

The reason I ask is cause I want to know is cause trivial things like this occupy my every waking moment until I find the answer. I've been thinking about them cause of a conversation I had with a guy recently who used to be my neighbour when I was a kid, he told me about a time when I was in a field behind my house and he saw me waving my arms about trying to catch these nameless floaty things.

He asked me what I was doing and apparently I told him I was trying to "catch the angels, because one of them might be my sister." Unfortunately, for those of you who don't know me, she died when she was 9, I was 6 or 7 at the time. Way after I'd realised there was no Santa I still used to catch these things and I'd make a wish and blow them away - as far as I can recall none of the wishes came true so I doubt they really are angels.

So anyway, I would very much like to know what they hayell they are now and what they're called. They look like Dandelion clocks, but that's not what they are. I'm getting pissed off because I don't even know how to search the googles for them cause I don't know what to punch into the search box. 'Floaty angel" just gave me some fucking odd shit. Any ideas?

So anyway yes, I'm in the barbers this afternoon and there's a few people in there so I make myself comfortable and have a go at the Daily Mail crossword that was amongst the reading material.

Now this is a barbers not a hairdressers and the dude who owns it is big on rugby. We're an RAF town also so the vast majority of the magazines on the table are either rugby or aviation related. There's a few car magazines, but also and inexplicably, a copy of Heat. I can only assume this belonged to one of the hairdressers or one would hope anyway.

I'm giving 4 down some consideration and in plods this big old boy weighing in at about 20 stone and judging by his voice survived on a diet consisting of diesel fuel and gravel. He approaches the table from the west looking for something to read, more likely though just something to look at as it turns out he's a taxi driver or maybe he wants something to eat...and stone the crows, you guessed it, he picks up the copy of Heat magazine!?

I thought to myself, I thought.....funny!! I give up trying to work the world out, I reeeeeaaally do. Anyway, I better go I've got some biscuits in the oven. Ta da.

I've counted my monies and I failed by just under 50%. Thanks to an Arsenal, Chelsea and Man Utd treble yesterday, which seemed very unlikely with 2 minutes to go in two of the games and a European accumulator today involving Roma, Real Madrid, P.S.G and Ajax, which I'd forgotten about, I made a monkey plus £13. I don't know what a monkey is in rhyming slang though.

None too shabby, but had Portsmouth held on for the win and the Eagles not performed so completely opposite to how I'd prophesied, it could have all been so different. That was fun though, I'll take any profit.

I do have one more bet outstanding..which is Overs in Pittsburgh (almost impossible I hear you snigger) and a Half-time-draw/Full-time-win for Liverpool tomorrow in the Meeeeersyside Derby, but only the £13 of the £513 has been wagered and it only pays £115 anyway I think so not only is it even further out of my time limit, it won't deliver me my bag of sand.

I may have another crack at this though in February when I've had a chance to adjust my body clock so I'm awake for more games. I think I didn't have enough positive energy surrounding me. I need more red furniture I think.

The End.

He may have been as gay as the day is long, but I loved his shows and his lovely colourful cravats. Such a shame because of his sexual deviancy, he'll now be condemned by God to spend all eternity in a fiery hell.

See how much of this you can watch. I haven't managed all of it yet, he does everything but add woop woop to the end of every fucking speech. Three more days.

I prayed to Saint Jude and thank fuck he delivered, so far. As we speak thanks to a late Berbatov goal at Bolton and "Fat" Frank Lampard's goal against Stoke, my bets are all still live.

I shall now have to endure the Hull v Arsenal game. I've broken a cardinal sin in betting on Arsenal...hopefully God has too much to do with preparing for the Sabbath to punish me.

Finally I feel I should remind you en passant that I said the disparity in strength in the Premiership is incidental and I think today's results so far bare this out. I'm best.

I gave myself permission to extend my £1,000 challenge by two days to include this weekend as I've slept a lot this week and missed some important wagering opportunities. It's really about time football matches kicked off at about 9pm in my opinion.

Having been denied a £700+ payout on Wednesday on a technicality, I went on tilt a bit and slapped the £249 I did receive back from the Yankee bet in question on some rather optimistic selections. If they come in, I shall have succeeded in my challenge. If they don't, I shall be annoyed.

So, tilt bet number one is another £5 Yankee, the four selections are as follows:

Portsmouth to beat Spurs @ 9/2. This for me is a daft price. Granted, Tony Adams seems to be steering Portsmouth with all the command and control of that Ford Sierra he ploughed into someone's front garden wall back in 1990, but how can a team sitting 14th be playing a team third from bottom and still be a 4.5/1 dog?


The Premiership is tighter than an Italian waiters kecks, and with very few exceptions no teams are a 4/1 underdog under any circumstances in any given fixture, not even Stoke playing Manchester United at Old Trafford (or Chelsea at Stamford Bridge) let alone Pompey playing a totally shit Spurs team at that god forsaken hole in N17. So anyway - 9/2 I felt this was value.

Philadelphia Eagles to win by 7-12 @ 4/1. Not sure about this one. Bit too specific really since anything could happen in that game, but we might just get lucky. I do think the Eagles will win, although I heard Brian Westbrook has hurt himself, but that could just be mind-games and nonsense. I've sacrificed a couple of kids and a chicken to appease the betting God's, it's out of my hands now I've done all I can.

PSG to beat Sochaux @ 1/2. When I selected this I was punching up markets and going with whatever looked reasonable. Sochaux?? Who the fuck are they?

Sheffield Wednesday to beat Charlton @ 4/5. See explanation above. Charlton are shit I know this much is true and London teams playing in Yorkshire don't do so well, so that was enough justification at the time to make this my fourth selection.


I think that pays something like £1,200+ so this would see me over my target, but I've also got a back up treble of Arsenal, Chelsea and Man Utd to win paying £240 if it fails. The final game finishing about 6pm on Sunday, which would leave me about an hour and 15 minutes to have one more bet to make my bag of sand before I head out for the Pigeons game.

I need to make sure that whatever funds I do have after this, if any, is securely deposited back in to my bank account before I go out on Sunday as that game is bound to tilt me up beyond anything a bookies betting technicalty could achieve and I'm libel to then put it all on a game of womens lacross when I get home if I'm not prudent.


Finally, I don't think there's enough smut on my blog. I think for the next few weeks at least I'll be adding one or two images a week just to add a little sunshine to the blog during these dark and cold wintery months. Nothing too gratuitous, just enough to put a smile on one's face and a spring in one's step.

So I've managed to come through the click-fest registration for the first APAT National event of season three. Venue is Walsall Grosvenor and given my last performance there in season 2 - a report of which you can read here - it'll very much feel like returning to the scene of crime. Just to recap, I was going well, made a stupid move and was on the M6 soon after.

I've just re-read my justification for my move and unfortunately, I haven't learned a damn thing since. I made almost exactly the same move in Vegas in May with pocket 8's and many times since. I am an old dog, and new tricks are clearly beyond me. On a more positive note, I'm due a suck out. I'm looking forward to this one for that reason alone.

Thank fuck we have newsreaders who don't state the bleeding obvious giving us the vital information surrounding such an emergency so the worries of those with loved ones and friends on board can be alleviated.

While I'm waiting to fall asleep let's discuss a few things I've been thunking about just this evening. First off, it looks to me like poor old Steve Jobs is not long for this world. Have you seen him recently?

Poor dude. He's stepped down from his position with Apple and one has to wonder if he'll ever return. If you want to know what I think, I think he's got AIDS. Seriously, I'm not about to bust out some gayest joke, I really think so. HIV or AIDS is my best guess.

That might explain all the secrecy behind his illness and his physical condition. Damn shame if you ask me. Steve Jobs, maker of the most awesomest computrons ever, on the brink of a grizzly end and Alan Sugar, maker of Amstrad computers which were total shite, is still perfectly healthy. No justice man.

It's not launching until February. Do they always move it onto the launch pad so long before the launch? Isn't it freezing cold in Merca as we speak? Even in Florida? I have a deep sense of foreboding about this launch.

They don't want ice to form on the thing and have it blow up over the Florida suburbs. Although if it lands on all the old ****** f*ckers then that can't be a bad thing I suppose...but anyway no...I shouldn't say such nasty things. Bad Richie. All's I'm saying is this seems like a wrong 'un to me. I've said me piece.


I've got a check up at the Big House tomorrow, but there's no way I'm going to be able to make it there. See, they used to have the clinics on Wednesday afternoons. I could manage that if they gave me the later slots. But now they have them on Thursday mornings. I just can't do it.

I physically can't get out of bed before about 2pm at the moment. I wonder what would happen if I did wake up at about 10am and noticed my flat was on fire...would I have the strength or the motivation to bother getting up?

I'm not sure to be honest. Certainly if I looked outside and saw a £50 note on the pavement I'd just let it blow away. It's hard work reversing my body clock and I don't really have a reason to at the moment since the shops are open so late these days, plus there's too many people about in the mornings. Everywhere they are, crawling about the place...like rats...psss psss psss.


Finally, I've been reading the Koran recently. Dear gah, it really makes one sigh. I'll probably bring a fatwa on myself saying this, but really...if you're going to fly a plane into a building because of a book why on Earth would you choose this one?? As literary works go, it's no more worth sacrificing ones self for than Jimmy Greaves' book "Football, it's a funny old game."

I don't get it. I don't get how it can be the literal translation of the word of Allah, yet it have been written in the 7th century. If I've got this right, it was meant to have been written over the course of 22 years from 610-632, but that's the Christian calendar. That's 610 AD, which means they accept that Jesus lived, which means they accept he was the son of God, which means that Allah can't be the only God don't it? Do it? Huh?

Clearly it's just a mishmash of the Torah and the Bible ain't it, which themselves are just a mishmash of stories and allegorical tales and Chinese whispers and myths and legends and drunken nonsense and so on.

Now that's fine if it's the 7th century and you're not even sure what the hell the moon is or what lightning is, but freaking heck fire, it's the 21st century now and I think, intellectually and academically we really ought to have progressed past this sort of stuff. I don't like the cheesy rhyming either. It reminds of me of something Richard Stillgoe would write. Come on now Muslims, Jews, Christians....grow up eh?

And as for those burkha's...well I've got this for you: