Sunday, September 24, 2006

Smack Heads

There’s a lot of debate at the moment about smacking children;

Whether it’s appropriate in civilised society to use violence to direct a child’s behaviour
Whether smacking your child is a lesson in being cruel to be kind
Whether it’s ok to smack another person’s child
Whether it’s best if we all smack every child we lay eyes on

On a recent Talk Sport radio phone-in, one caller said that if her kiddie was misbehaving in the supermarket she used to threaten it with her singing opera in the middle of the store and that soon brought the little toe-rag into line. Can you imaging that?

I was taught by nuns in primary school and these people new how to be violent. They customised rulers by splitting them at the ends or by tying a two together so they inflicted maximum pain when hit with them. Nuns were brilliant at throwing chalk and board rubbers. They always aimed for the temple. If you were lucky there’d be four of you still conscious at the end of an English lesson.

I think most of these nuns were blokes who couldn’t make the grade as priests. I know Sister Immaculata had a tattoo of a swallow on her neck and wore size 11 Dr Martin boots.


It seems like years since I last posted. I've been so damn busy with stupid things like earning a living. There's little short-term prospect of the pace slowing down so I'll post when I can.

Anyhoops. To the subject in hand....

As a result of purchasing Worzel Gummidge DVDs, I am now able to speak fluent Worzelees.

This makes me trilingual as I can also speak English and bollocks.

Worzelees is remarkably easy to learn.

First, all words are spelt out in Worzelees and there is no punctuation to worry about.

To translate a word from English to Worzelees, spell out the word using standard alphabet letters but follow each letter with the syllable "wor". Each word in Worzelees ends with the syllable "dip".

By applying this, my name in Worzelees is "Essworteeworeeworpeeworhaitchworeeworennwordip".See?


Saturday, August 26, 2006


You rarely see mourners
in corners of saunas
they don’t hang in steam rooms
it’s not their domain

They’re weepy eyes wetty
and not at all sweaty
but really upsetty
kickin’ ass graveside’s
the name of their game

That’s where they do their best work
Coffin Boffins

Thursday, August 24, 2006


If I won a million pounds on the lottery, my first purchases would be a top hat, a monocle, spats and a briefcase with a £ sign on the side of it.

Then I'd get some respect.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Not the Brightest

I despair. My 14 year old daughter asked me if Che Guevara came from Wales. Her belief that the revolutionary may have come from the valleys was borne out of her Welsh schoolmate have a Che badge on his jacket - The Motorcycle Diaries, isn't it, boyo.

Her best friend was under the impression that I was acquiring a pet bull. She had misheard. I had ordered a Motorola Pebl.

I conclude that both are dense.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

To Hull and Back

Yesterday, Auds the kids and I travelled to Hull to visit The Deep. We had planned to visit the coast but as the weather was typically British, i.e. as wet as an incontinent's under-trouser, we opted for this indoor attraction.

If you haven't visited Hull, don't bother. Why? Because;
  • It smells of fish but not a nice fish smell. This smell is not too far removed from that of an old lady with a "down below" infection.
  • The approach and exit to Hull involves a great deal of sitting in traffic jams with little to look at other than the men folk of Hull slumped on street corners swigging Special Brew and 14 year old mothers pushing baby-buggies in the direction of the benefits agency.

After enduring the odours and traffic jams, we eventually arrived at our destination.

The Deep would have been a great day out but for the number of people they had managed to cram into the place. It was like the Tokyo underground in there with faces squashed up against huge fish tanks and people struggling to breathe.

After enduring two hours of that, we made our way home through the streets of Hull where I was road raged - TWICE!

The first involved a taxi driver who was not too impressed with my nifty u-turn on one of their main thoroughfares - Rotting Haddock Street, I think. This vocular Hackney driver shouted "you fucking wanker" as I passed him going in the opposite direction.

"How unoriginal, you damaged tulip!" I called back, 600 yards down the road after I had time to think about it.

Just two minutes later I was being beeped by some impatient arse in a 1989 Ford Escort at traffic lights when I could move no further than three yards.

Naturally, had I not had the missus and kiddies with me, I would have given him a damn good thrashing but a combination of this and cowardice averted such an incident.

I think people in Hull are aggressive and miserable because of their surroundings and all the fish they have to eat.

Captain Birdseye is from Hull and he goes on long voyages with children. If I were parent of one of his "shipmate's" I would be waiting quayside to string him up.

Thursday, August 17, 2006


Coprophobia is the fear of poo
and if I were to suffer
I'd scream on sight of dog dirt
and never wipe my chuffer.

A Correction

The comment "layabout, thieving, drug-addled scum" in my previous post should have read "misunderstood, disadvantaged penitents suffering from addiction". I just wanted to clear that up.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Broke Again

Bloody lawyers! I received an interim invoice from my solicitor today for handling a saga involving our house and Auds' ex-husband (right). So far, nothing has happened. We are at stalemate. The situation hasn't progressed one iota in six months. Naturally, I have been charged just short of £1000 by my solicitor for overseeing absolutely nothing. He claims to have perused some letters from the opposition and has allegedly sent out twenty messages. I'm in the wrong game. At this rate, I may need to pass the hat round for fighting funds.

It seems solicitors are like doctors in that their word is rarely challenged. We tend to accept what they say as Gospel. Well, I can't afford to do that, so I may be dispensing with my lawyer's services.

It would be quite a bold experiment, but it has crossed my mind to represent myself using the Internet as a knowledge pool. It worked for Eric Bottlebank...

The nasty bill from the legal leeches soured my day however levity broke the mood at news that a Welsh council had confused cyclists by erecting signs which suggested they had urinery problems. Officials had translated the command "cyclists dismount" from English into Welsh for the sign between Penarth and the capital Cardiff. However, the result had been the baffling phrase: "Llid y bledren dymchwelyd" which roughly translates as "bladder inflammation overturn." Brilliant.

I missed Bad Lad's Army on the TV last night. I love it when layabout, thieving, drug-addled scum get the living daylights knocked out of them by hairy-arsed squaddies. That alone justifies the licence fee.