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This Muhammed fella; peace be upon him, he's really got his troops motivated I'll give him that. Two dudes (let's assume they were terrorists for the sake of argument), apparently set fire to their green jeep, drive it into a terminal, jump out, and then start a rumble with the police while they themselves are on fire. Jesus, these dudes really believe. I mean, Muhammed, peace be up on him. Ha, peace be upon him? What about all those poor folks on their way to Benidorm for the weekend? Where's their peace? One minute you're playing travel scrabble and the next a Mitsubishi Shogun comes blazing past you at 40mph.

What have Muslims got against the Jocks anyway?? I mean, it's ok for us to hate them cause you know, it's the Jocks, but Muslims?? Show me where it says in the Qu'ran that eating fried Mars bars and drinking whiskey before 9am is blasphemous. They certainly don't have a problem with Jocks beating their wives up. They still stone women to death in Pakistan for jay walking.

I give up trying to understand these people.

Wooooooooo! The Spice Girls are re-forming. Oh my god oh my god oh my god, can't breath, can't breath. They were such an inspiration to me when I was that age whenever they were about before. Before they came on the scene I was timid and shy, but the Spice Girls made me a strong and confident woman and I'll always be grateful to them for that, oh my god, cause you know, they're just sooooooo cool. They're re-forming to celebrate the past, and not cause they're short of a few quid.

If seeing the back of Tony Blair brought an assuagement to the resentful, bitter frustration people hold towards our Government and the political process in general, the arrival of Gordon Brown's front; and I use the word front in it's literal, political and behavioural sense, has made this sense of relief very temporary.

This is the political equivalent of ones bowel cancer going into complete remission only to be diagnosed hours later with Parkinson’s disease. He’s not exciting, he’s not new and it’s not going to make the slightest bit of difference to anyone’s life that we now have a miserable bastard Jock in power.

He’s already promising change, but change what? The ten years of policies he's just supported as Chancellor? If so then he was either lying then or he's lying now. If things need changing why the f*ck did he support them in the first place? If they don’t and he just wants to distance himself from Blair, then he's ten minutes into the job and already feeding us a sh*t load of false promises.

Also, it’s not his place to change things anyway. This is not a Presidency. His party was elected on the strength of a Manifesto. He can’t just change it and sod anyone who voted for it. If he wants to do that, let’s have a general election and see if you get your mandate. Right on!

Of course, that’s actually shite isn’t it? In real terms a general election will only offer us all the opportunity to vote for three kinds of the same shit. There’s not a cigarette paper between any of the three parties and it’s not worth getting out of bed to vote. I’d rather spend the ten minutes licking piss of a stinging nettle. Or something.

This country needs a tyrannical nutcase calling the shots: a real off his rocker, mad-as-a-hatter despot. A man who would make Caligula, Ivan the Terrible and Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar look like Rod, Jane and Freddy. Someone who believes in their own omnipotence rather than ‘Gods’. I’ve been saying this for years but only in jest, but lately I’ve come to believe this isn’t such a bad idea.


The problem with the country is not that we’re struggling with our identity since the break up of the Empire. It’s got nothing to do with our social structure or a lack of moral purpose. It’s got nothing to do with a growing disparity in wealth and status between the classes; everyone’s rich in this country even the poor, even if they don’t realise it. And, it has nothing to do with the economic growth of countries such as China and India.

The reason this country is such a boring and uninspiring damp shit hole is because of the sleazy, weaselly, socially inadequate, sexual deviants running the place and the millions of morons who live here. It doesn’t matter how these people were able to overrun the place, the fact is they’re here and something needs to be done before we start to de-evolve and end up scratching about in the woods beating each other with sticks and sniffing each other ringers.

If you cook something and it looks and smells like vomit, you don’t add salt and garlic and make do, you throw it in the bin and start again. We need to throw ourselves in the bin and start again. I’m up for it. I’ve got nothing else to do. If nothing else it’ll be exciting.

A ruthless despot with absolute power will provide a final solution to the politicians’ infestation, so let’s look at how he might arrest the spread of crazies in this once great nations population. Temporarily, we’ll need to introduce a “Logan’s Run” carousel extermination policy where anyone considered to be a burden on society and a pollutant in our gene pool is immediately tied up with piano wire and gunned down in a public ceremony, possibly shown live on Saturdays instead of those talent shows that are on now. Also, anyone wishing to start a family will have to be subject to a strict vetting process and the number of progeny permitted, strictly regulated on a case-by-case basis.


It makes no sense to me that by some random quirk of fate an intelligent, educated and financially independent woman, unable to conceive naturally, should be subjected to an invasive probe into every nook and cranny of her life should she want to adopt, where as some horrible fat bitch who has done nothing with her life but eat cake, claim benefits and shag in alleyways on a Friday night, can get herself knocked up without any investigation at all as far as her suitability to raise a child is concerned.

The aim here is to cleanse the gene pool so we don’t continue to breed generations of pigeon toed, pot-bellied, allergic, imbeciles, incapable of independent thought and no more evolved than plankton. I’m not suggesting a master race or anything, just a population where the majority can manage joined up writing, basic mathematics and have a sense of ambition and an appreciation of life in general and obviously no more ginger kids.

Obviously in order to protect this majority from the minority of proles that will still exist, an uncompromising and expedient criminal justice system will be required, along with a system of containment along the lines of the Jewish ghettos only this time, these people will fully deserve their place in them.

The police will be armed not with silly sticks and whistles, but with guns, and anthrax sprays and other chemical and biological nasties and will be given a free reign on who they unleash them on. The chav will feel the full force of this new zero tolerance policy on public disorder. Any teenager caught sporting Burberry clothing or seen smoking using the thumb and forefinger will be placed in series of violent confrontations with the police and finally entered into a programme of re-education somewhere in Wales.

Prisons and trials will essentially be abolished. Human rights will not be respected until we can learn to behave like humans. Life will carry no value until we can show that we value it ourselves. All crimes will receive the death penalty. Especially driving in the middle lane of the motorway unnecessarily and also parking in disabled bays or on double yellow lines. Traffic Wardens will carry lethal injections instead of tickets and be on strict quotas to issue every last one of them on a daily basis. No longer will turning on your hazard lights exempt you from tickets. Traffic Wardens will not care if you were just picking up your dry cleaning; “pick a vein and let’s get this over with,” will be the procedure. Once law and order has become second nature, prisons and due process will be reintroduced and the death penalty issued only at the discretion of the Judge.

Money will become obsolete. The true value of life cannot be appreciate while financial gain and the accumulation of material status symbols continue to seduce us and provide a false sense of purpose. People will be assigned work according to ability. Unlike communist society, there will be no abuse of the system. A good work ethic will be maintained initially with uncompromising brutality and rewards in the shape of sexual gratification from legalised prostitutes or, in the case of female workers, make-up rations and shoes.

Eventually, when it is fully understood that the important things in life, the real good stuff: relationships, health, family, cannot be influenced by money, a strong work ethic will be maintained independently without the need for violent encouragement. People, in effect, to quote Rocky Balboa in Rocky II, “will do cause they wanna do”.

Our education system will undergo total floor to ceiling refurbishment. In Primary Schools, no longer will five-year-old kids be told to sit down and be quiet. It will become a capital offence to insist a child not answer back or question his elders. The wee ones come to school to learn and asking questions is the way to achieve this. Curiosity will be encouraged, as will conker fights.

Primary schools will no longer be permitted to indoctrinate children into religions. Religious studies and sex education will exist only on the curriculum of secondary schools. Children under ten will be given the opportunity to be under ten; which is to say they will not have to know about birth control, Gods and sexually transmitted diseases. Children will draw pictures of dinosaurs, climb trees and play in the sand, boys will be allowed to be cheeky and noisy and swatty girls will not be encouraged to tell on them.

Children will learn how to read, write and do simple mathematics. Science will also be introduced on an elementary level. There will no longer be naughty tables and any child forced to hold in his wee until break time will be given the opportunity to piss in his teacher’s coffee. His teacher will then be invited to Wales for re-education. The under 10’s will not be subject to exams, reports or evaluations of any kind. They will not be forced to wear uniforms and they will not have to sit boy-girl-boy-girl, as everyone knows girls of this age have the lergy.

Once a solid foundation of a thirst for learning has been laid and education has become an enjoyable process for children they will progress to a secondary school where the child’s personality will be given opportunity to develop at it’s own pace allowing academic or vocational ability to be assessed easily. Natural abilities will be given priority and emphasise will be placed on social skill development as opposed to storing and regurgitating irrelevant information. Crazy kids will no longer be referred to as “special” and will be kept in chains and beaten with sticks in a secure location far away from the normal kids. Once of age, they we be indoctrinated into the Armed Forces and dehumanised as quickly as possible. The strongest crazy kids will be placed in breeding programs and sent to work building roads and digging ditches etc.

Religion will obviously be strictly prohibited. Religious studies will still be taught in school, but only to highlight how ridiculous it all is. Darwinian evolution will be accepted or I’m afraid, people will think you’re a twat. Prohibition in the USA was obviously not too popular, however, that was alcohol. Alcohol is fun. Religion is daft and therefore it is not anticipated that religious speak-easy’s will spring up in secret backrooms up and down the country.

Religious crazies will not be martyred publicly. Anyone found guilty of not accepting that there is no sky fairy controlling everything will be told in no uncertain terms to grow up. Further breaches will result in tutting and headshaking from local officials and a lack of respect from the rest of the population who have grown out of this nonsense.

Marriage will be banned as a religious ceremony and as a display of ones love, because, you know, that’s also stupid isn’t it. Cohabitation only permitted when children are involved. Anyone unable to accept that we don’t live in an episode of Dawson’s Creek will be sent to Coventry. There they will undergo training and attend workshops where the true meaning of love will finally become apparent and the difference between love, lust fully understood. It is anticipated that these workshops will be attended predominately by women.

Relationships will be strictly monitored. Anyone found not actually caring about their partner and resenting their very being will be told to get a grip and find someone else. Couples will appear before panels of soppy gay hairdressers every six months to demonstrate appropriate levels of intimacy and affection. Couples will not be permitted to make all around them miserable anymore through their petty arguments and squabbles.

Discrimination on the grounds of race, gender or sexual preference will be a capital offence. Only on grounds of someone being shit will discrimination be justifiable; however, anyone found to be really shit will have either been put through the carousel process or be on the waiting list for it, so this should not be an issue.

Defence and Health investment will flip-flop. Hospitals will become relative palaces. Doctors and nurses (and physios) will be appreciated for once in their f*cking lives. There will no longer be a ceiling on efforts made to keep people alive and their dignity intact. Charities will instead fund the military. People will give old clothing and tinned goods in order to finance the purchase of missiles, bullets and tanks. All overheads incurred by the military will be covered in this way and therefore it will be the general public who will decide, through their charity, when and if we should go to war.

A limited military will be of little consequence during the genesis our new nation as all diplomatic ties and hostilities with other nations will be severed immediately. Once our pride and self respect and identity has been rediscovered will we begin integrating ourselves within the global community once again should it be considered beneficial to our growth and not a threat to our new found utopian state. But this is far into the future, before we can learn to fly, we must first learn to walk and run.

Our public services will put the Scandies to shame. Buses will run every ten minutes from everywhere and be free. The streets will shine and every one of them will be lit. The emergency services will able to respond to actual emergencies. The fire brigade will arrive before your house burns to the ground. The police will arrive before the dirty bastard burglar has shot out of your bedroom window. Ambulances will arrive before you swallow your own tongue in agony from your heart attack and the AA; the fourth emergency service, will actually be able to fix your car rather than just make matters worse and toe you all the way to somewhere that’s nowhere near where you need to be.

Nowhere near where we need to be is where we’re at now people and if we want real change, not the Gordon Brown version of change, it’s not going to be pretty. Millions of people will perish on this journey to our new utopia, by the hand of natural selection or capital purge, but life without pain has no meaning and these cleansing processes are the inevitable labour pains of a new life and a new beginning.

And once we have been delivered, everyone will find cause to rejoice. People will be physically healthy and attractive rather than repulsive and wheezy. Greed, envy, resentment and bitterness will cease to exist. Everyone will have a role rather than a place in society. Respect and pride will have been restored without arrogance and conceit. Altruism will not just be a Swedish pop band, and a state of calm and contentment will reside over the place like a nice warm blankey on a winter’s night.

The vehicle for our journey will be our own inner sense of what is right and wrong. The initial brutality of our Despot leader will act as a kind of stabiliser. Much like a child learning to ride his bike. Once he has the balance and skill and appreciation of what is involved in travelling independently, the stabilisers can be removed and freedom, total freedom enjoyed forever, for once it is learnt it is never forgotten.

After ten years, three of which were spent resigning, today finally marks the end of Tony Blair's Prime Ministerising. To me, it kinda feels like I've hosted a dinner party and it's 3am and there's just one pissed bloke left who I don't know and who has ignored all of my hints to please f*ck off. Finally a toot of a horn announces the arrival of his taxi and he's gone and thank f*ck for that, cause I thought he'd never leave.

Possibly some more on this from me later, but for now, I think this cartoon from the Daily Telegraph sums up how the country feels about the man.

This is a dude called Pascal who is famous/notorious for bombing round the 21 miles of Periphique, (the Parisian M25) in about 11 minutes averaging approximately 115mph. This run beat the record set by the French army bailing out of Paris in World War Two when the Nazi's invaded, by almost 5 minutes!!

Obviously the guy who performed this wee stunt is dead now. Not surprisingly, he died in a motorbike accident, so don't be trying this yourself on the M25.

I happened to be watching Cheers today and while the Frasier character makes me disgust myself, today, I felt his pain. He was teaching young Woody the basics of grammar; and who better to do so considering the actors name and so on.

I'm as guilty as the next man or woman (thank you Loretta) for being slack with the odd comma and stray apostrophe, but at least I do know how to use the damn things. So let's clear up a few rules of the writing game and in the process make the fings wot we write a little easy for to read for the peeps we send's them two.

Now then, this is not complicated. It's just a few basic rules to make a huge difference to your email recipients ability to understand what the f*ck you're going on about.

Apostrophes

OK, now this is easier than you may think. You DO need an apostrophe if you're using an 'S' to indicate that something belongs to someone (possessive). For example: 'Rich's car' and 'the dog's bollocks'. You need an apostrophe but no extra 'S' if the possessive already ends in 'S', for example: 'Thomas' sammich'.

Now, you DON'T need an apostrophe when you're talking about plurals. For example: 'three nipples' or 'a pair of fours'.

The only exception to this rule is with the words 'its". With 'its' you do the reverse. If you're adding an 'S' because it belongs to someone you don't use an apostrophe. If you're contracting 'it is', you do use an apostrophe, for example: 'it's a shame she's got a face like a bag of spanners, cause her personality is very pleasant'.

When knocking out a sentence, commas are used to indicate a pause. If you read your paragraph out loud, just put in a comma wherever you take a pause. If you have millions of commas in one paragraph, look to see where you can add full-stops instead. Lots of wee sentences are preferable to long 'orrible sentences.

We'll address colons and semi-colons at a later date, but for now that's about all you need to know to make your emails just that little less retarded.

See now, as far as girls bits go I sort of thought you people had a kind of 2 into 1 exhaust system rather than the dual exhausts you appear to have. I mean I know where pee pee comes from and where the fun tunnel leads to, but I sort of thought they converged inside somewhere rather than being a dual piping scenario.

But it's actually like this:

This is like finding a new species of Gorilla or something. Are there any more I should know about? Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Marvelous. Women are amazing. Amazing (shakes head in wonderment).

Answers on a postcard please to the usual address if you can tell me what the f*ck is going on in this picture. Where is the rest of this lady in blue? This is either an apparition or, on Cornmarket Street in Oxford, there's a portal to some other place in time and space.

Imagine that; you're just on your way to McDonalds for a happy meal and then suddenly you're in the 28th century like Buck Rogers. I'm going down there tomorrow to see what the hell goes on. I hope I can get back.

I once knew a woman, Danny I think her name was, it was claimed she had one of those portals in her, you know..foo foo.

Anyway, it turned out she was just sort of like a wizards sleeve in that area and guys just fell in. They'd be in there for hours and sort of get flushed out when she went for a number onesey.

The End.

While the poker elite (and Alan Lake) maybe focused on the World Series of Poker in Vegas this month for the small matter of catrillions of dollars, the best fortnightly game no one ever heard of took place at the Three Pigeons tonight and once again it was an awesome display of power poker, audacity, guile and blind luck by yours truly, that saw me take down the first prize for the second, yes the second, game running and in the process stretch my lead at the top of the table to an almost insurmountable tally of sixty something or other points.

The rootin tootin shootin strategy in the early rounds had my opponents on the ropes and a series of outrageous and death defying bluffs saw my chip stack grow into an intimidating phalic tower of masculine potency. The chips flew, passers by gasped, women fainted and the parrot made noises like a telephone as pot after pot was taken down and players fell like dominoes. Consequently I became slightly aroused sexually and lost my way a little in the middle rounds, not helped by continually being dealt 7-3 off suit.

But once my semi had subsided and focus returned, it was business as usual and once again my opponents were tied up in an almost Gordian knot of unfathomable bets, bluffs and buffoonary (ran out of B words there). The most audacious play coming at heads-up stage as PC Neil was sucked into a trap of almost supernatural cunning.

Dealt wired fours and sensing a monster hand under my opponents quaking hands, instinct took over. I was a huge dog, I knew this, but by now I was playing in a state tantamount to Matrix level subconscious understanding, and I pushed in my stack. PC Constable Officer Neil called instantly. His chips reaching the centre of the table on the C of Call. Without fully appreciating the subconscious level I was playing at he loved his chances as he confidently turned over his pair of Kings..


The flop was of little consequence, fourth street no help to me and at this point I may have been a 20/1 shot to win, but odds don't amount to a hill 'o beans when you have instinct, and inevitably, as my instincts had shown me, the four appeared on fifth street like a guardian angel and I saw that it was good.

Chief Constable Neil was sent reeling back in defeat, a couple more women fainted and we thought the parrot was making more telephone noises, but it was actually the telephone. The final hand came soon after along with a short session of autograph signing and then it was back home for a slice of pie.

A wise man once said, "It's better to have loved and to have lost than to have never loved at all," But that dude never had pocket kings in the hole busted by the Sheriffs' fours.

I went to bed yesterday at 9.30pm. I haven't done that since I was 8. I was a tired boy though and slept soundly until about 4.00am when the hungries woke me up. I chose to bed them back down with soup. It was a BIG soup. Chicken and vegetable if you must know.

Now, I can often be found awake at this hour, but you don't generally expect to see people walking past your window and you definitely don't expect it to be Jon Pertwee, partly because he doesn't live round here, but mostly because he's dead, and yet this is what happened.

I was taking a sip of my soup and there was a carrot on my spoon too, I remember the carrot being there cause I said to myself, oh, a bit of carrot is on my spoon; anyway, then I looked up and a chap was walking, nay floating, past my window. He stopped for a second, looked into my living room and then continued on, as if, ..as if he was going somewhere or something. Weird.

Anyone who remembers Worzel Gummidge will appreciate how terrifying this experience was for me. I'm still not myself. Jon Pertwee was a scary looking fella. You have to have a certain look of crazy about you to play Dr Who but to play old Worzel you have to make Ian Brady look like a Chuckle brother.

Why would someone stroll past my window at 4.30am? Why did they stop for a second and look into my living room? Just cause there was a light on? I'm hoping it wasn't Jon Pertwee, but who was he? And what did he want?

Royal Ascot today and using my cunning and my ferocious analytical intellect, I plan to do my bollocks five days running. My first attempt at putting myself on a diet of bread and water until the Autumn comes in the shape of; well let's add some mystery to the post, here's a visual clue:

Apparently Russian working class men are dying because of their "non-beverage" alcohol addictions. No one can afford Vodka so they're making do they say. To be fair, with the state Russia is in, if I was a tarmacing roads in Volgograd, I'd drink after shave too and all those yummy herbal tinctures and cleansing agents. Why wouldn't you. If a bottle of Vodka cost you a weeks wages but five litres of Brute cost you half a days pay and got you pissed in a fraction of the time, only a fool would choose the Vodka.

Really, it's the people who are living to a ripe old age you want to feel sorry for. Imagine living in somewhere like Burnley with ten below zero temperatures for eight months of the year and tell me you wouldn't be drinking Windowlene every night. And those who are drinking aftershave will have the loveliest smelling breath surely?

Of course all this may have been avoided had the US maybe given the Russians a bit of financial aid once the cold war was over. I mean if you're gonna be hell bent on installing democracy all over the globe Russia would appear to be a good place to start. One or two McDonalds' and a Starbucks in St Petersburg doesn't quite cut it.

Anyway, you've got to laugh.

It's Royal Ascot next week and for what it's worth my big bet of the week is Bentley Biscuit in the Golden Jubilee Stakes next Sarruday. I promised myself I wouldn't bet anti-post after the connections of Teofilo's coup de théâtre which no doubt had them laughing all the way to the bank, but my promises to myself are as solid as cats poo, so I've had a few shillings on it and promises be damned.

On a slightly different note, I've been experimenting with high-fives recently instead of handshakes. High-fives make me laugh. They're not as stuffy and formal as a handshake. Don't get me wrong, a handshake has it's place, but the satisfying slapping noise of a high-five leaves one feeling exhilarated and vibrant in a way that hand-shakes never could.

I offered the lady at a well know high street supermarket check-out a high-five; she was late 50's by way of age and hours of monotonous check-outing had given her a vanquished glazed countenance, so when she offered me my change I offered up a high-five and god bless her she took my offer and high-fived me like a pro. Honest, you would have thought she'd been high-fiving all her life. She laughed, I laughed, the man behind me with a basket full of Castlemaine XXXX laughed and I left the place dancing on air. A handshake couldn't do that.

Try it yourself.

Just cause you've got cancer it's OK to go out and slaughter wildlife? I might have a dying wish to give Georgie Thompson from Sky Sports News a good rattling, but if she's not keen on the idea I shouldn't still be allowed to do it.

"To be honest Rich, I think it might be like riding a bike without a saddle," she'd explain. "Tough," I'd say. "I'm dying, here, bite on this, I won't be long" I'd retort. Should I be afforded such a violation cause I'm poorly, bless me? No. One third of us get cancer and a shit load of other people will battle some other horrible illness and all of us will die anyway; you don't get a license to do whatever you want just cause you're about to expire.

And anyway, of all the things a child could have as a dying wish, this kid wants to go out and kill something. It would be physically demanding for him, but he didn't want to waste a second more of his life, cause you see cancer makes you realise how precious life is. I know the yanks don't get irony, but jeez.

F**king hell, why do I keep doing this???? Am I some sort of modern day Sisyphus? Condemned for ever by the poker gods to attempt to push rocks off pots for all eternity with no hope of success?

Rich man, listen to me, us, yourself. HEAR us, me, you, yourself. Next time you play poker and you have a pair of sevens and the board is King high and the guy before you decides to bet 3000 into a 5000 pot; a guy who just happens to be the only player at the table who, chip wise, can fuck your shit up as the kids say and who hasn't bluffed all night, don't put all your sodding chips in there hoping to bully him off the pot. You'll end up feeling and looking like a twat. Again!

I’m not sure why, but I found myself watching, “The Real Football Factories: International" on Challenge TV the other night. It featured the Italian Ultras from Lazio and Roma preparing for the Rome Derby. I’m no fan of football hooliganism. I mean, it’s fair to say I did once find my way into a Parisian jail for a spot rowdy behaviour when I went to watch Arsenal play in a European final many years ago, but I was a rascal then, I didn’t know what I was doing. I was a different person and by gum I learnt my lesson. The French have always hated us anyway.

You see though, there’s a fundamental difference between the Italian version of football hooliganism and the British version. The whole concept may have found it’s genesis in Moss Side or New Cross, but the thuggish, rather base motives your honest to goodness British hooligan had for these kinds of mass conflagrations bear no resemblance to the almost artistic romantic and somewhat noble justifications the Ultras have for kicking peoples heads in on a Sunday.

The Italians essentially are just cooler than us for one thing. They’re better looking, their language is one of the most beautiful in the world, their way of life and culture is just so much more sophisticated than ours and because of this, their football violence is tantamount to an opera or a ballet as opposed to the chaos you’ll see in this country with a herd of blokes charging about lumping bricks at each other. And their fireworks are so pretty.

And, as Barry Norman once said, why not? It’s a rather extreme expression of freedom, but why spend fifty years doing a shitty job? Whoring out your dignity for very little reward other than a measly financial one, most of which goes to the Government whom you didn’t elect and is made up of weasely corrupt sexual deviants you’ll often find in sleazy hotels with a black plastic bin liner over their heads and apple up their arse; people you wouldn’t trust to mow your lawn or baby-sit your children let alone run the country.

You might as well spend your time throwing fireworks and bottles at other Ultras. As long as you have a code, no matter how tenuous, so that your confrontations don’t permeate into the street and you’re not arbitrarily giving shoppers and other innocent citizens a pasting for the hell of it.

It’s a crazy world, I think you’d struggle to make a case for Ultras being any less unscrupulous than Italian politicians or the police or the bakers or the cheese makers, cause most of them are connected to wise guy types aren’t they? Probably. Fair do’s, most of these groups are rather fascist and right wing and what not, but that’s just Italy as a country, they’re not keen on ..well anyone really, they never have been, but they’re not feeding people to lions anymore so they’re making progress.

So the point of all this is what? I don’t know. I just want to feel ok that I was kind of impressed by these people. I'm not saying I want any part of it, even if they had wheelchair access to these riots, but you know, they say this kind of violence shouldn't be glamourised, but if more people got involved in this sort of thing and it was cocooned in this little world, then maybe people would be too knackered during the week to be shitty to each other. Fink abaart it. Ciao.

None of this has anything to do with anything, but I'll share it anyway cause it's important to share. Helicopters they say are very tricky to fly cause your four limbs are all engaged at the same time in different functions and one needs to be very well coordinated or else crashing will occur. People tend to assume this is why females have, historically, not been allowed to fly helicopters in the military, but I think this is untrue. I haven't done any research, but I think their exclusion was not down to some sort of chauvinistic stereotyping of the woman, but purely because the mans penis was needed to press the button that fires the missiles. I think now with technological advancements advancing such as they do, voice activated weapons systems have now made female pilots a reality and it's only a coincidence that helicopter crashes have increased ten fold since their introduction. I made all of this up.

Now then. Paris Hilton, bless her, has decided she WILL serve her jail sentence. That's the spirit girl. Of course, it's not actually up to you, but well done anyway for playing along. I'm hoping her parents live to older than Yoda cause the idea of this woman having access to billions concerns me as I've already explained in a previous entry.

How about this for a sit-com; Jurassic Perk. Six dinosaurs sit about eating humans and talking about relationships and have no other demands on their time by way of careers or sleep or nothing. One of the dinosaurs is kind of cookie and silly, one is a T-Rex who shags and eats and does nothing else, one is a bit of nerdy and book smart and the other two I suppose just shop for hand-bags. It's kind of like Friends, but with dinosaurs. When you write it down it doesn't seem quite as good an idea though.

CNN newsflash: "Several injured in explosion in Istanbul". To me, the thing that's most wrong with this newsflash is that I don't need to know that people have been injured, (explosions generally cause injuries) the compelling factor here is what has caused the explosion. Istanbul is an unstable part of the world, it could be a bomb, it could be a dodgy cooking pot. I'd have preferred it to have read; SUSPECTED BOMB BLAST IN ISTANBUL KILLS PLENTY. Or something like that, you see? You can take it as read people are injured, I want to know what caused the explosion and if there's any chance at all that loads of Muslims have perished. If you're gonna use ticker tape newsflashes you have a finite amount of space to fit the relevant goings on of the incident, so CNN, use it wisely.

My granny bought me some Crunchie Nuggets today. It's only grannies that buy these kinds of chocolates. What Cadbury have done here is scoop up all the little bits of honeycomb that have fallen on the floor and down the cracks of the machines and covered then in chocolate and put them in a shiny bag. They know full well Granny's will buy them for their grandsons even though their Grandsons are in their 30's. I'm not complaining, just saying is all.

Alright that's enough, on your way.

Schadenfreude has become some what of a hobby for me recently if I'm totally honest, but only because there are so many people in my immediate vicinity who deserve nothing but the most appalling luck and insurmountable circumstances heaped on them by the shovel load.

Also, I think deep inside us all runs a vindictive nasty streak and because of this I think it's OK for me to find other peoples misfortune amusing, particularly when that other person is clearly a twat.

So anyhoo. I'm a betting man. I like to have the odd flutter, but I'm not greedy. Any profit will warm my cockles. But some people are greedy. Like the chap today who decided to lay a horse at odds of 1000/1 for a stake of £150 when the commentator, Derek Thompson had announced that it had fallen at the first fence.

Anyone who uses betting exchanges and has listened to Derek Thompson's commentary will already have guessed the rest. The horse had in fact not fallen and in fact, went on to win the race.

The greedy bastard who had laid the winning charge at odds of 1000/1 had just lost £150,000.

I've only just stopped laughing about it. I haven't been able to eat and I've been sick twice. I find it so amusing because anyone who wants to risk £150,000 just to win £150 deserves everything they get. But to risk that amount of money on the say so of Derek Thompson is proof if any were needed, that some people shouldn't be allowed possession of that amount of money in the first place cause they're so stoopid they're a danger to themselves and others.

For those of you not familiar with Derek Thompson, he knows the racing game inside out, but he's a bit Alzheimey and senile; the kind of guy who'd go outside without socks and always get your name wrong. Consider the progeny of David Coleman and Thora Herd, or Ronald Reagan and Blanch from the Golden Girls, and you've got Derek Thompson.

God bless him though, he did have a laugh when he realised his mistake. I did too. Don't worry Thommo it's only cabillions of pounds being thrown away on your say so. I think there's a lesson in this for us all kids. Mostly it's to do with not following old senile men down dark alleyways, that's literal and metaphorical dark alleyways. And always be kind to your mummy.

This is the logo for the London Olympics in 2012. You know how sometimes when you spend an extended amount of time on your own, you have thoughts and ideas and then you go out for a while, spend some time with friends and then realise in hindsight that your ideas were utter shite and very embarrassing; I'm guessing this is how the British Olympic Committee are feeling about now after being duped by a marketing company into thinking this logo was inspiring and cutting edge and modern.

Surely this was met with childish sniggers from the waiting media when it was unveiled and the Olympic committee, all eager and proud to show off their logo, must have immediately felt their blood turn to ice and their faces burning red as they realised from the guffaws and out and out hysterical laughter from the assembled media that something was wrong.

I imagine some of them took furtive glances at their flies to make sure they weren't exposing themselves, they may have checked their noses to make sure they didn't have a bogey hanging off, perhaps they all stared at each other all equally baffled as to why four members of the tabloid media have collapsed and two others have clearly pissed in their own pants.

Finally, when the hysterics had died down and claimed two or three lives, and the questions and answers session could finally begin, the monstrous fuck up they just dropped £400,000 on became evident when someone enquires from the back, "erm..do you think perhaps this logo looks a bit like Lisa Simpson giving Bart a blowjob?"

Sebastian Coe has defended this typically British cock-up by suggesting to those childish enough to find it funny that, "it's not a logo, it's a brand that will take us forward for the next five years."

What the hell does that mean? Take us forward? How will it do that exactly? I fucking hate that kind of language. Politicians really do talk shite. They're worse than hairdressers. Both can talk for ages without saying anything, but at least you get a fucking hair cut at the end with a hairdresser.

These Olympics will cost £20billion. We'll be paying for them for the rest of time. Surely they can sell themselves can't they? We shouldn't need a logo or a brand name to take them anywhere. If the Olympics costing this much can't sell itself without the help of cartoon porn then we shouldn't have them in the first place.

Jesus!!! Did I miss something? Are our hospitals now like palaces? Do doctors and nurses now receive six figure salaries? Are there no more homeless people? Are children being educated and fed properly now? Isn't there still a war on? Have we got £400,000 to chuck away on this sort of thing? Have we got £20billion handy so we can all watch minority sports for a couple of weeks five years from now? Cause if we have I'd like to apply for a grant to have my house bronzed. Oh, and I need a bionic arm too please, so I don't get tired wanking to cartoon porn.

Oh...I'm just hearing that the animated version of this logo (hahahaha) ought not to be shown on TV as it may cause seizures in epileptics. Seizures and offense I'll wager.

Sigh!