Tube Strike – Solved by Prostitutes?
There's going to be a tube strike.
Why? Because the RMT (Rail, Maritime and Transport Union) is sulking. They've asked for something and been told "no". In fact they've asked for a 5% pay rise and a promise of no redundancies over the coming year. In the current economic climate that's like a fat white kid, sitting in an Ethiopian dust bowl asking for a third slice of cake, while surround by living skeletons too weak to brush the diseased flies off their eyes.
Of course the problem for most people is how to get to work, so here are some suggestions:
Boris Jonson, who apparently, despite my repeatedly pinching and bitch-slapping myself, appears to be Mayor of London, has greatly increased the amount of public transport along the Thames. So I suggest everyone surf to work on the back of a nuclear submarine.
Harness the power of Bob Crow (Leader of the RMT) by strapping yourself to his back and making him fly you to work. Unless he isn't actually a crow, which I doubt. Otherwise why would he be called that?
There are going to be "escorts to lead cyclists across the capital". What a great idea. Who better to help you get to work than a high-class courtesan, with a beautiful body, cold dead eyes and nothing on her mind but the money in your wallet, and a brief break from the beatings of her pimp?
Or just don't go to work; you don't like it anyway.
Meat War
The world is changing. Countries that we in the developed world previously thought of as barbarous, and not even good for colonising, are starting to blossom. And by blossom I do of course mean, attempting to keep pace with the West, which of course must not be tolerated.
The most significant aspect of this change is that, as previously less well-off countries become richer, their populations demand the food the rest of the world enjoys. That's right, it's all about the meat. They're sick of rice or dust, or children's tears, or whatever it is they suck-up through their malformed feeding holes, and they want to eat the good stuff.
Yet as our brothers and sisters in newly 'rich' countries aim to draw level with us, our rightly bloated internet-conjoined, first-world ego demands we eat ever more unusual meat, just to remind them how much better than them we remain.
So, here are the top ten meat meals we should be eating to prove we are still best:
10. Golden-eagle burger with lion-cub-eye salsa.
9. Komodo dragon balls soup with ring tailed lemur paw cake.
8. White tiger curry with orang-u-nan.
7. Snow leopard chow mein and crispy blue whale blow hole pancakes.
6. Black rhino jerky, washed down with fresh panda essence (obtained using the extraction method favoured in the Dark Crystal).
But you know, the problem is, even when you're chomping down on the rarest meats, there's always going to be someone disproportionately rich in one of those "Look at us, look at, us we're not poor any more, (even though 87% of our population sleeps in an AIDS hat, on a crisis infested straw mat)", who can match you.
So with that in mind, we have to raise our game, go the extra mile and pull as many clichés as possible out of the virus-protected hat as possible. These are the foods to remind Johnny Third World just who is big bad ballsy best and who is a living crippled hope ....
5. Unicorn flavour Pringles, with Ewok dip
Unicorn - even comes with a free toothpick
4. Leprechaun bolognaise with shaved Obama-san
3. Ligur kebabs in pita bread made from the ground up bones of Saddam Hussein
2. Centaur au Vin
1. God and pickle sandwiches
Nom nom nom.
Gas BBQ? What next, shoes made of cheese?
Gas barbecue? Are you joking?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for modern technology, I’m as keen to implant nano-genius into my head and get a death-ray mounted on the bonnet of my car as the next self-hating, rage-filled suburbanite. But there are some things that just aren’t right.
Barbecues, on the surface, may be about eating food that’s slightly burnt and has a rather lovely smokey flavour but don’t be fooled. At the heart of the barbecue is the ability to make fire and cook on it. The barbecue puts us to the test. The barbecue says, “IF you were stranded on a dessert island could you hack it (with only what you can forage from B&Q)?”
Pathetic
The real barbecue asks the question and then demands you answer it. Not only that but that you do so within a short time; there’s only so long people will wait to eat before they go inside and use the grill.
The gas barbecue, on the other hand is just a cooker that happens to be outisde. All it requires is the flip of a switch. It's pathetic. And so are you for even thinking about using one.
I mean really, gas barbecue, it doesn’t even sound right, like Nazi rabbi or razor pants.
Nanny State?
Do we have a nanny state? I don't think so. I believe it is fairly easy to tell whether or not we do, the signs would be as follows:
- Mary Poppins clears the scum off the streets by wiggling her nose. She then makes an audacious and wildly popular move to seize power, explaining that a spoonful of sugar helps democracy die down.
- The army is replaced by a throng of dancing, animated penguins and the police force is replaced by small squadrons of soot-faced chimney sweeps, with hearts of gold and dubious cockney accents.
- Full financial recovery is achieved within months, as the city's bankers are given some first-hand lessons, in what is really important in life.
- The issue of binge drinking is resolved with the plummet in alcohol sales that results from young people realising they can get high (up) simply by telling weak jokes and laughing hysterically.
- Umbrellas start talking.
Those are the signs of a nanny state. It is not here yet but I suggest we are all mindful. I'm sure we'd all rather have an overzealous government hell-bent on eradicating our human rights, under the guise of protection from terrorism, than have to ask Dick Van Dyke for directions.
Jade Goody: Cancer?
A lot of people have said to me that it was rather coincidental that Jade Goody died on Mother's Day, a PR man's dream. Some of those people have suggested that it would significantly have benefited Max Clifford's reputation as a PR mogul. One of them even suggested that he might have waited until her family left the room and then quietly but quite deliberately held a pillow over her face to speed her delivery to the hereafter.
The pillow?
Personally I don't believe that and think it's a terrible defamation of Max Clifford's unimpeachable character. I abhor all those claims and air them here only to refute them in the strongest possible terms.
I do however believe Jade got cancer deliberately, probably by sleeping inside a microwave oven, because let's face it, that makes for a better story and snappier headline than, "Talentless nothing, famed for no reason, fades back into the obscurity she had no right to leave behind."
The Dangers of Dieting
I’m dieting at the moment. It’s a common story, I (still) need to lose the Christmas pounds and shouting at them doesn’t appear to be scaring them off. I had a tin of pea and ham soup for lunch. I might have to eat a piece of bread later. Otherwise I'll be ravenous when I get home and inhale dinner.
If I'm still hungry I'll probably eat one of my girlfriend’s arms and then she’ll be all like, “Ow, ow, oh God, oh Jesus there's so much blood, there's so much blood, what the hell are you doing?! You ate my arm!”
And I'd be all like, “Nom, nom, nom, munch, chomp, chomp.”
She’ll be screaming and crying and stuff, and then eventually once I’m full, I might feel sorry. Maybe I would try to make it up to her by getting the little hand-held kitchen vacuum and shoving it into her bloody stump. It would probably still work because it’s cordless. Maybe we could find a way to charge it from her heart, that would be more eco-friendly, which is quite important to her.
But then after a while it probably wouldn't work and she might feint from the strain or blood loss or something. Then I would probably be sad and have some chips, which would ruin my diet and I really wouldn't appreciate her not helping, so maybe it’s worth her remembering that, so she can try to be less selfish in future.
Alas poor media…
The writing's on the wall for CDs, it has been for ages. It's no surprise because historically one form of media has always been surpassed by a younger, better, sexier format that immediately makes the old one feel like a decrepit useless husk and its user embarrassed to be associated with it. Ever was it thus.
The CD Reaper. Camp as hell to you but to CDs he's pure terror.
Of course personal digital transfer now spells the end of single track or album storage media forever, which I will stop discussing immediately, for fear of growing metal from my eyes, wires from my fingers and speaking only in digital screams, which as we all know is the fate of people who write about such things. Yes it is.
I shall miss putting CDs into the stereo. I quite enjoyed the eager glint of the disc and the pleasant sensation of its sharp but soft edge, snugly nestled into my finger tips. I liked opening them and flicking through the inlay. I liked the feeling of having bought something solid from a record shop.
Though I have to admit I won't miss the scratches and the impossibly fragile cases. Neither will I miss that moment when you open the box and it's empty, and you KNOW you put it away, so it was DEFINITELY someone else and then you get really angry. You start shouting and ranting about how no-one has any respect for anyone else's property, and maybe even a bit of spit comes out of your mouth, and then you're hitting the CD rack and kicking at it and then the CD rack falls over and it's broken and you finally calm down and realise it's not the CD rack, its your house mate lying on the floor and those aren't CDs on the carpet, they're his teeth along with the irreparable pieces of another friendship, which was doomed to failure by CDs.
So on reflection I won't miss CDs. They're crap. Thank god we're getting rid of them. I hate them, they're a lot like Hitler, only much worse on a very real scale.
The Truth About Michael Jackson
Often it falls upon humble writers to reveal uncomfortable truths. Usually the world turns away, content to keep its blissful ignorance rather than face the unsettling realities of life. Today I ask, nay plead, don't look away, hold fast and stare down truth. Fix your courage,ook into the eye of the storm of actuality and accept that Michael Jackson and Mickey Mouse are the same person. Yes they are.
...just ONE white glove
In case you need any more evidence, here it is:
- They have the same name
- They were both born black
- The have the same voice
- They both hang around children a lot
- Both have a lot of imaginary animal friends.
I rest my case.
Abba Will Kill Me
I'm going for sushi tonight. It's highly likely that while I am there someone will kill me. There won't be any fuss. It will be very quiet, it won't happen immediately but my fate is sealed.
Of course I'm not talking about my lovely girlfriend who'll be there without, I hope, murderous intent. No I'm talking about the Polonium-B-loving Russian secret service. They are going to kill me, I know this because what I am about to write is the kind of information that could bring the country crashing to its knees.
I could forget what I know. I could look the other way. I could; but I won't. I owe it it to you. I owe it to myself.
So, this is it. Four little words: Putin danced to Abba.
"Whoa! Get down! If you ever speak of this I'll make a hat from your lungs"
There, I've done it, that is a relief. He denies it of course. As would anyone who had danced to Abba, (yes, yes, it's great pop, but it's still as musically interesting as sand) or who set up a private concert with Abba tributary Bjorn Again.
God bless.
Read it here last.
Obama: The Facts
Wow. I never thought I'd see the day. A black president. They'll be teaching women to read next. No it's really rather special, so to mark to occasion here are some OBAMA-FACTS.
1. When Obama is enraged his elbow spikes emerge, ready to repel enemies.
2. When Obama senses attack, projectile-resistant scales immediately cover his whole (oh yeah) body.
3. When Obama hears a child cry, a sub-sonic wave of tear-blasting sympathy is automatically emitted from his spinal column.
4. When Obama sees any form of prejudice his eyes immediately emit a solid beam of pure empathy into the offending party, ensuring immediate regret, apologies and financial compensation.
5. When Obama uncovers an environmental catastrophe he immediately inhales in it's direction, sucking it up and instantly neutralising all forms of toxicity within his purity of spirit.
6. When Obama sees children fight in the street a vision of blood and pain involving their parents and pets is immediately delivered into their minds via Obamalepathy (like telepathy only much more pure and strong).
7. When Obama cries, he cries bullets of justice and steely determination.
8. When Obama meets foreign dignitaries, they feel dirty; until they shake his hand. Then they feel clean.
9. When Obama encounters a financial crisis, his body immediately modifies to ensure he eats failing companies and excretes money.
10. When Obama sees starving children on TV, a piece of his soul is automatically transmitted to them which will nourish them for years to come.