Alleged Jokes

Chiropodist.

My grandmother became housebound in her old age, so went to live with my widowed aunt, her daughter.

The chiropodist was due to visit at two o'clock and at precisely that time my aunt opened the door to a smartly-dressed man with a briefcase. She showed him in to my granny, and went through to work in the kitchen.

Instead of starting on granny's feet, the man chatted to her, and kept on chatting. My aunt eventually returned to the living room and very pointedly removed granny's slippers and socks. Her children would soon be home from school. Still, the man and granny went on nattering to each other.

There was another knock on the door.

"Sorry I'm late. I'm the chiropodist."

"If you're the chiropodist..."

They confronted the first visitor.

"I'm from social services."

"But none of us use the social services."

"Mrs. Gordon? Two Harebell Close?"

"This is number three. Mrs Gordon is over the road."

The social services operative left in embarrassment.

As the chiropodist tried to bring his laughter under control sufficiently to carry out his duties, granny quipped, "I thought he was a bit nosey."

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Willie Nelson.

I used to know so little about country music that I thought Willie Nelson was an illegal wrestling hold.

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Hoseasons.

Some American tourists are confused by the British travel company, Hoseasons, which they take to be the time of year when it is legal to shoot prostitutes.

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Bobby George.

Bobby George is now long jumping for India. She has lost a lot of weight since she was a British darts player.

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Material.

This page is a bit brief because, as I now realise, I do not really tell jokes.

Politics

People Power.

In December 2004, protesters forced a rethink by those who had run the Ukrainian Presidential election according to Stalin's dictum, "The people who vote do not have the power. The people who count the votes have the power."

In the same month, protesters in Cleveleys, Lancashire, persuaded their local council not to close down the children's rides on the Promenade for redevelopment.

It is good to see people power in action, and I am glad to live where it is less likely to lead to intervention by the armed forces.

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Below are a few of my messages to other nations in the online game, Nationstates.

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Stealth Aircraft.

Our Defence Office has just spent billions on the prototype of the nationstates' most advanced stealth aircraft, with onboard artificial intelligence and active camouflace systems. If anyone finds it, could they let us know?

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Karaoke: an Apology.

The Constitutional Evil Wizardom of Fargon apologises to the people of Britain for our Ambassador's dreadful out of tune singing of "Rhinestone Cowboy", or "Nine Stone Cowboy" as he sang, and "24 Hours from Tulsa" at unarmed civilians.

He has not been replaced because he partially vindicated himself by rocking out to Weird Al Yankovitz's "Dirty Deeds Done With Sheep" and "Hi Ho, Silver Lining". He topped this with an uninhibited performance of "Timewarp".

He has promised to remember that he has a rock voice, not a crooner's.

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Camouflace.

Camouflace is a material developed by our defence industry scientists.

It is great at hiding things, but when it can be seen, it looks really pretty. This prompts attackers to hesitate to admire it or think "That would go well with my dining room curtains", creating a vital few seconds for a counter-attack.

Available from you local arms dealer or all good soft furnishings shops.

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Reality.

Our great nation receives TV broadcasts from the UK. We were recently treated to the sight of a beautiful, intelligent woman in a bikini reduced to tears at the prospect of going into a transparent tank full of water, crustacians and snakes. She climbed in and lay there in terror.

Then an extravagantly effeminate man lay down in a tank of water and fish guts. Finally, a second woman in a bikini lay down in tank of water and rats.

These are not the ravings of a madman, but a description of Five's "Back to Reality". Each of the "celebrities" earned £2000 for charity and kept themselves on telly. Great entertainment, but well beyond satire. But we'll try anyway.

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Camouflace Products.

Equip your armed forces with new Camouflace products. Now available: Camouflace jackets, trousers, shirts, T-shirts, sweat bands, knickers, socks, hats, spats, bandoliers, rucksacks, sporrans, kilts, handbags, couture dresses, shopping bags, sarongs, bikinis, posing pouches and off the roll.

Available from your local arms dealer or from all good boutiques, ladies' and gentlemen's outfitters, haberdashers and milliners.

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Free Press.

Now that our state is heading towards democracy, we have something resembling a free press, so we can forget the serious political stuff and concentrate on the trivial affairs of the rich and famous.

A report from the magazine, "Hell? Oh.":

Model, actress and "it" girl, Kazakstella, was sentenced to appear on "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me out of This Maze Full of Scary Animals and Booby Traps" for being annoying and having artificial bosoms.

Fargon the Wizard laughed so much when her boobies became trapped that he commuted her sentence to appearing on the show, "I'm a Celebrity, Watch Me Morris Dancing in a Fancy Waistcoat and Hiking Boots".

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X-Ray Peeping Toms.

Following Rontgen's Nobel Prize for Physics in 1901, there was some concern about x-rays and their use by Peeping Toms. X-ray proof knickers were advertised.

We are boosting our nuclear generation, so we have opened a factory to manufacture a variety of x-ray proof clothing, which will be available throughout the region.

Available in Camouflace and non-Camouflace versions.

Elf Service.

Do not be fooled into setting up a National Elf Service. We did so, and now our people are dying from easily preventable diseases and fools with bows and arrows and pointed ears are running about all over the country.

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Radiation-proof Knickers.

You might have noticed that many of our citizens are behaving strangely. This is because radiation-proof knickers have become fashionable. They make walking difficult, sitting down impossible, and going to the toilet a bit of an ordeal. But they should protect us a bit when non-UN nations start throwing nuclear bombs around.

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Facilities.

Okay, our seat of government, Castle Covet, has extensive dungeons, but they were built by Fargon's predecessors for law and order purposes.

The dungeons are now a tourist attraction and contain a television studio, home of "I'm a Celebrity in Pain, but At Least I'm on the Telly".

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Dress Code.

In response th numerous queries, in the daytime sections of the show, they wear special Morris Dancing trousers, with bells and ribbons. In the evening sections, it is just the fancy waistcoats and the hiking boots.

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Reputation.

Following model, actress and "it" girl, Kazakstella's recent extensive appearances on our media, we took the trouble to look her up on the internet.

We were shocked and appalled to discover that her activities are nothing less than disgraceful.

She is now in every newspaper and on every telly show of our free media, and will be until we are all sick of the sight of her. And after that as well, probably.

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Politically Correct.

Some of our hellspawn appear to have learnt how to read and have discovered some progressive ideas. A faction of them have started a petition for our nation to be called "The Constitutional Morally Challenged Wizardom of Fargon", hellspawn to be called "troops" and hellhorde to be called "armed forces".

We would not insult the troops and armed forces of other nations by such changes, and our name is long enough already, so we will stick with tradition for the time being.

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Morris Dancing.

Yes, our Celebrity Morris Dancing show does get more viewers in daytime than in the evening.

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Elections.

Our recent fake elections were supposed to have been won by the Fargon Is Best party, but instead were won by the Sentient Creatures Against Brutality party. Someone has fixed our fake elections.

Now Brunhilde, Dowager Sex Object of Fargon the First, is our Prime Minister.

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Blackpool Indian Woman.

One of our favourite towns is Blackpool, so when we read that the film, "Legend of Walks Far Woman" was about a "Blackpool Indian Woman", we bought it to show on FTV26-Movies!

Watching this load of old tosh, we realised that she was supposed to be a Blackfoot Indian Woman.

If our FTV head of Film Acquisition turns up in your nationstate, please return her to us for rehabilitation.

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Celebrities Disfigured.

One of our TV producers wanted to steal an idea from the UK's Channel 4 called "Celebrities Disfigured".

We thought, evil as we are, and desperate as they are, we can't do that to them. But it turned out that all it involved was making them up to look as if they had serious scarring or birthmarks on their faces and filming other people's reaction to them with hidden cameras.

Stupid idea.

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Celebrity Renaissance.

Violent Carson, who played Ena Scalpels in the hit serial drama, "Coronation Flagseller" is back from the dead.

"It's great what modern medical science can achieve," she said. "Apart from an urgent desire to eat living human flesh, I'm back to my old self again."

She is allegedly trying to revive Minnie Coldwell and Albert Tatdock for a three-in-a-crypt zombie romp, but they remain stubbornly dead.

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Celebrity Death Match.

We have been receiving a foreign TV programme, Celebrity Death Match. This is a cartoon using claymation figures, but of course it prompted some of our FTV producers to create a version using real, live celebriteis.

We have found a useful way of culling them, because only the most desperate and talentless are willing to risk a 50-50 chance of death to appear on telly.

There is a long waiting list to appear on the show.

Thoughts

Football Slippers (written 3 May 2006)

The England soccer player, Mickey Rooney, has broken one of his feet. This has changed England’s chances of winning the 2006 World Cup from extremely remote to even more extremely remote.

Broken feet are quite common now because footballers prance about in something resembling ballet slippers.

When I was a lad, I was forced to play soccer in hard men’s boots, designed to protect the feet from being run over by a World War II tank.

If professional soccer players were required to wear such footwear, they would be slowed down, but at least their feet would remain intact.

There would be the added bonus that kicking foreigners would have much more effect.

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Halloween Horrors (written 1 November 2005)

When I opened my curtains this morning, I saw four bananas lying in the road, two of them flattened by passing traffic.

One of my neighbours must have opened their door to trick or treaters, instead of ignoring them. They must have handed over the bananas, in the mistaken belief that scummy children or youths eat anything not stuffed with additives and advertised by a major multinational company.

Oh, no. Trick or treaters might take a passing interest in sweets, but what they really want is money, so they can buy spray cans, knives, alcoholic drinks, guns and illegal drugs.

They just threw the bananas in the road.

That sort of behaviour is its own punishment. They will probably die at an early age from potassium deficiency.

Oops! (written 2 November 05)

I took a closer look at the “bananas” and discovered that they are in fact some sort of banana-coloured insulating material.

My apologies to the trick or treaters. I am a grumpy old man with poor eyesight.

Mind you, I still regard anyone who puts on a mask and knocks on my door as a natural enemy.

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12 September 2005 – Fuel Lobby At It Again.

The primary purpose of the state is to ensure that people can live without being victimised, whether by criminals, terrorists, or foreign invaders.

So when the fuel lobby start victimising us by blockading oil refineries and disrupting traffic, the state should come down on them hard. Lock them up. Give them long, deterrent sentences. I would suggest hanging some of them as an example, but that is perhaps going too far.

Today I came past a petrol station where there was a queue along the main road, so the disruption has started even before the fuel lobby has done anything except issue threats.

Britain is a democracy. The fuel lobby has plenty of other ways to try to obtain what they want. They have no excuse for resorting to criminality to further their own selfish interests.

On second thoughts, let’s make martyrs of them. Hang the ringleaders. By the ankles. From motorway bridges. And don't haul them up until they've seen sense.

And what are the Ulster Loyalists up to? They are smashing up Belfast and shooting at policemen. Are they on drugs, or what?

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Flexible Drinking.

During the First World War, the UK introduced restricted opening hours by law in the hope that munitions workers would make munitions instead of getting drunk. The law went unchanged for so long that I can remember coming off the hills at 5 o'clock and being unable to buy a beer because the pubs all closed at 10 minutes past 3 and did not open until 7 o'clock, by law.

So finally the ridiculous 11 o'clock closing law is to be abolished. And there is a moral panic about binge drinking. We are allegedly less morally advanced than the Spanish or the French and so cannot cope with such freedom.

I bought a copy of the Daily Mail because they were giving away a CD and came across their "Say No to 24-Hour Pubs" campaign. Strange how those who whine about the "nanny state" become very nannyish when it comes to alcohol or anything which involves people having a good time.

I do not need policemen telling me when to go home or to an expensive club.

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"Radio Nine".

I was concentrating on a programme about cosmology on Channel 4 when the phone rang.

There was a jingle for "Radio Nine", then a recorded, "You have won £5,000."

"Oh no, I have not", and I put the phone down.

When the programme was over, I typed "Radio Nine" into google and found it closely associated with "scam". Some bloke was complaining that his daughter had spent a fortune on a premium rate phone line trying to claim the fictitious £5000.

I am not generally in favour of capital punishment, but the vermin responsible for "Radio Nine" should be hunted down and publicly executed as a warning to their kind.

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Popular Musical Entertainers.

My Freeeview box gives access to two popluar music channels. I thought that many of the performers looked like children because I was old. Then I heard that someone called Jojo, who sings about interpersonal relationships, is 13 years of age.

Whoever looks after her should send her back to school and tell her to get on with her studies.

Previous generations of child singers have had mixed fortunes. Most fade back into obscurity, but of the few who remain, Donny Osmond seems quite sensible, considering, and was recently on stage in Blackpool.

But Michael Jackson? A dreadful warning.

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Spoilt Brats.

Recently, I came across a complaint that the Kerrang radio station was allegedly on a loop, so that the complainant was deprived of variety.

When I was a lad, I lived in the UK when the only station playing popular music was the Light Programme. You have not suffered until you have experienced "Sing Something Simple". Bland! Bland! Bland!

Telly was no better. The likes of Six Five Special and Top of the Pops were on for about half an hour a week. When the Rolling Stones appeared on Saturday Night at the London Palladium, there was a huge fuss, with people claiming that the young would be driven to sexual excess and drug addiction. That on a show which included jugglers, performing dogs and top showbiz personalities.

And records cost six and eightpence, which was about a fortnight's wages for a skilled artisan. Nowadays you can buy CD's for next to nothing or get them free with your newspaper.

So think yourself lucky.

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Olympic Prancing About.

So Britain has won an Olympic medal in synchronised diving. What's that all about?

In the old days, sport was all about killing people or escaping from people who wanted to kill you: javelin, archery, running, long jump, hurdling and so on.

You had proper scoring based on what could be measured: time and distance. How do you measure synchronised diving? Gayest looking couple?

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Silly Season.

No wonder they call August the silly season. On BBC News they had a "story" about some doctors wanting to fine patients for missing appointments. A Non-story about a non-event. The other day, they had a story about a cat trapped in a pool table.

Better by far to say, "There's no news today. Nothing of note has happened. Instead, here's some Olympic beach volleyball.

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Common Sense.

Michael Howard has just denounced political correctness and asked for a return to common sense. Ho, hum.

The Conservative Party did not show much common sense when they elected one of the undead to be their leader.

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Woolly Hats.

As I write, there is a brief fad for men wearing woolly hats in stifling hot weather and indoors. Here's how it started: some cool dudes went snowboarding and, quite sensibly wore woolly hats to keep their heads warm.

Seeing this, a lot of twits thought that the essence of cool dudery was wearing a woolly hat.

They should be aware that someone wearing a woolly hat in summer or indoors is not a cool dude, but a twit in a woolly hat.

Facts and Figures

Blood! (written 21 November 2006)

If you are going to be ill, vomiting blood over the reception desk of accident and emergency is a particularly spectacular way to do it.

I had set off to walk to the pub, had the mother and father of nosebleeds caused by high blood pressure, walked home, rang my friends to say I wasn’t going out. When they came round to see if I was all right, they rushed me to hospital.

While I was giving the receptionist my details, some of the blood that had been running down the back of my throat into my stomach decided to leave without warning. The receptionist stopped taking my details and told me to go to the triage nurse.

I was able to go home after the doctor had stuck some cotton wool sticks up my nose and left me to recover for a few hours. Fortunately my friends kept me company.

No violence, no drugs, blood everywhere. Rock ‘n roll.

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Double Glazing.

When I had my house double-glazed, the company gave me a ten year guarantee.

No problems until I came back from Christmas and New Year holiday and found that one of my bedroom windows and the main living room window had water between the layers of glass. My windows were eleven years old.

The company went bankrupt several years ago, but they did know how to time a guarantee.

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Grammys 2005.

Ray Charles has won 8 Grammy Awards. How much of this success is due to his death in 2004, I don't know, but I have his double CD, "Ray Charles: Shades of Blues", which I bought while he was alive for £1, reduced from £2.99.

More importantly, Motorhead won a Grammy! Motorhead are highly accomplished entertainers and Lemmy is an inspiration to us all, well to some of us anyway.

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Televisions and Radios.

It seems obvious that a television should cost more than a radio. Not any more. Argos is now (December 2004) selling 15inch colour tellies for £50 and DAB radios for £100.

I'm not comparing like with like. The technology in the TV has been around for years and the DAB radio's is relatively new. But even so, a telly does so much more than a radio that such pricing just seems wrong.

I won't be buying a £100 radio, because I can receive an ample supply of radio from my television and freeview box.

Nor will I be buying a £2000 42inch plasma screen television until they have evolved into £50 42inch plasma screen televisions.

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Dolphins.

Two items on television have made me wonder about dolphins. The first was a news item about a school of them which formed a tight, protective circle around some swimmers until a dangerous shark went away.

The second was a dolphin brain next to a human brain on a slab. The dolphin brain was actually bigger. If I was an alien with no knowledge of the shapes of dolphin and human heads, I would have struggled to say which type of brain had been on the Moon.

This led me to speculate that dolphins believe that their gods live on land, and that we are the gods' servants or messengers, and so should be protected. Perhaps when our science is even more advanced, we'll know.

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Old Ladies Are Bad For Your Figure.

I've come up with a temporary excuse for becoming excessively drunk. About a month ago, my 80 year old mother sold her house a mile and a half from mine and moved to Muirkirk, where she was brought up, 150 miles away.

I used to go round for a meal about three times a week, but 150 miles is a bit too far.

Three meals a week might not sound much, but she used to give me soup, main course, pudding, biscuits, cake, nuts and even sweets. I generally just throw something into the frying pan or microwave and have a couple of slices of bread or some chips with it. No first course and a piece of fruit for pudding. No cakes or biscuits and certainly no sweets.

Trousers which were once tight round the waist are now loose and my stomach is almost flat.

My mate John, a double divorcee, has his 86 year old mother living with him. He says she makes quite a lot of their meals. John is overweight, verging on very overweight.

On Saturday night I matched John drink for drink. Dissolved in my reduced amount of body tissue, the alcohol had an increased effect on me. It made the difference between getting away with it and feeling unwell the following day. Very unwell.

So two tips: drink sensibly, and if you want to lose weight, don't let old ladies cook for you. And a bonus tip: I'm better at dishing out advice than setting a good example.

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2004 Olympics.

The rowing events took place at Skinnyass, to the delight of English-speaking immature minds everywhere.

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Word Count.

That wordcount.org is great fun. Be a number, not a free man. "Robert Muir" is "1307 19,503".

You can send rude messages to your friends, if you have any, such as "3497 69 32,180".

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Satire Lives?

Surfing Freeserve: One half of the screen: "Welcome to the BBC Parliament Service. BBC Parliament offers comprehensive coverage of all the parliaments and assemblies which govern the political life of the United Kingdom".

Other half of the screen: The Republican Party Convention in New York.

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Defacement.

All tattoos have the word "fool" woven into the design. All tongue studs and bits of metal designed to be inserted in inappropriate parts of the body carry the "fool" hallmark.

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Some Name.

"Now over to Mike Hunt," startled me when I heard a female announcer say it on the comedy programme, "Radio Active" on BBC7.

The yournotme site shows that there were 581 Michael Hunts in the 2001 census, and two Mike Hunts. Presumably these two appear courtesy of people who filled in their forms while intoxicated.

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Saint Willibald.

The saint with the most ridiculous name to modern ears is Saint Willibald (700-86). If you can, celebrate his feast day on 11 July by having a shave.

Making an Effort

Hit me! Hit me! Hit me! (writted 11 August 2006)

I had just finished karaoke singing, “Hit Me with your Rhythm Stick”, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads and was heading back to my seat, when a hard-looking young man called me over. I thought, “Soldier in civvies. Or criminal.”

“Can I hit you with this?” he asked.

He pulled up his trouser leg, took off his artificial leg and waved it at me. His real leg ended just below the knee.

I think he expected some sort of shocked or horrified reaction, but I just told him, “No. That is not a rhythm stick.” I go drinking in Blackpool, so I’m pretty unshockable

So far, after singing “Hit Me with your Rhythm Stick”, I’ve been threatened with an umbrella by a drunk woman, a pole by a drunk barmaid, and now an artificial leg.

I would sing, “What a Waste”, but that is not in the karaoke songbook.

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Things to do before you die (written 8 June 2006)

I entered a garden and a big, daft Labrador lumbered out of the house. It licked my leg just above the knee, with lots of tongue and even more saliva.

It then withdrew its head and looked up at me with a disgusted expression on its face. It was working its lips as if to get rid of the taste.

So, on the list of things to do before you die, “Disgust a Dog” gets a tick.

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Scary Dairy.

I checked in at Stansted, went to the Gate 87 holding area, and waited. When almost everyone else stampeded towards the Gate, I went along with them. I showed the official my boarding pass.

“This is dairy,” she said.

I was completely baffled. What did she mean? Was she mad? Had the pressures of her job proved too much for her?

“Dairy!” she said.

This did not help.

"This is Dairy. You need to go and sit down.”

Then I twigged. What she meant to say was, “This is the flight for Derry. Go away with your boarding pass for the Blackpool flight, which boards from this Gate, but not yet. Fool.”

She was Irish, so she had an excuse for violating her vowels. I don’t know what my excuse was.

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Adventurous Spirit.

Every year, my cousin Bill climbs Cairn Table, a hill overlooking the village of Muirkirk, and brings in New Year at the top. At first he went up on his own, but last time he took his wife, two of his daughters, his daughter's boyfriend, and the son of one of our cousins.

The two young men went racing ahead, prompting everyone else to speed up, so they arrived at the top of the hill twenty-five minutes before midnight, and had to hang about up there. It was cold, wet and windy. One of Bill's daughters came back covered in mud after falling over and the boyfriend had to limp back after twisting his ankle.

I was in Muirkirk on holiday, so I could have tagged along, but decided that the best place to bring in the New Year is indoors.

Bill is blessed with a spirit of adventure which I do not possess. Instead of understanding it more as I get older, I understand it less.

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The Guest from Hell.

Over the years, I have adopted a "no present" policy, with very few exceptions.

Last Christmas, I visited my cousin, Bill, and stayed overnight, with about twenty other people. He and his wife, Fiona, gave me a box containing four expensive-looking miniature bottles of whisky. I tried to abandon it under my chair, but Fiona reminded me it was there and I had to put it in my luggage.

So I drank his beer, ate his food and slept in his daughter's bed. (His daughter was not in it. She was on the floor of her sisters' room.) I got drunk, showed off at charades, sat near the snacks and ate huge quantities of expensive nuts and other luxury food items, and nearly sang karaoke at them.

The only thing which makes me feel slightly less bad about the situation is that I do not drink whisky.

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Snowballs.

I went to Scotland and experienced a White Christmas. I was out in the snow quite a lot, bet never thought to throw a snowball at anyone. Nobody reminded me by throwing one at me. So this is what getting old is like.

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Bonfire Karaoke.

The combination of an unusually indulgent karaoke DJ, few customers and a midnight licence meant that I sang ten songs on Bonfire Night. Five was my previous maximum.

I chose a Bonfire Night theme, starting with "Great Balls of Fire", by Gerry Lee Lewis, "Fire", by Jimi Hendrix, "Fire and Rain", by James Taylor, "Burning Love", by Elvis Presley, "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes", by the Platters and "Smoke on the Water", by Deep Purple.

Then things became tricky. "Burning Down the House", by Talking Heads, "Boom Boom", by John Lee Hooker and "Bang Bang", by Cher were relevant, but "Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick"? As I told the karaoke DJ, every rocket has a stick attached to it. She had the cheek to call it a "tenuous link".

So I got away with ten songs, eight of which I had never sung in karaoke before. A bonus was a complete stranger telling me I was entertaining. Well, he grinned at me and repeatedly put up his thumbs, which is drunk for "I enjoyed that".

With all the singing and song selecting, I only had time to become tipsy.

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In Defence of Karaoke.

I have met some odd people who sneer at karaoke.

Our ancestors used to sit round the fire and tell stories and sing to each other. Then electricity turned most of us into passive viewers and listeners. Karaoke has slightly reversed that trend.

You can find karaoke bars which are full of shouty, knuckle-dragging drunks, but a well run karaoke bar is an excellent night out.

Some singers are terrible and so tone deaf that they think everyone is clapping and cheering them because they are good. They sometimes turn up on the modern generation of talent shows, looking surprised.

A few are so good you would pay to see them, or full of surprises, like the bloke I saw recently who didn't sing, but played the harmonica instead.

Some can't really sing well, but get up anyway and have a laugh, like I do. I enjoy singing, watching the audience reaction and the occasional compliment afterwards. If people want to sneer at that, well, it's their loss.

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Olympic Marathon.

Paula Radcliffe said she could not work out why she stopped running in the Olympic Marathon. She just ran too fast up too many hills for her body to cope. She turned out to be weaker in those conditions than the maniacs who were able to keep running.

In temperatures of 35C, my own body copes with sitting in the shade with a cold drink, and not much more than that.

The fact that Paula Radcliffe is mystified by her own exhaustion shows that people who run marathons are different to those of us who would much rather not.

And if I appear critical, I will add that I know who Paula Radcliffe is, but I assume she has absolutely no idea who I am.

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Pedantry.

The fashion for "giving 110%" seems to have passed away. When Kelly Holmes was interviewed before the Olympic 800 metres race, she promised to "give 100%", indicating that she is not a mathematical illiterate and that she deserves her gold medal.

Now, would everyone please stop saying, "at the end of the day". This habit has become so widespread and unconscious that when one of my friends said, "At the end of the day, I prefer a fried breakfast," and I replied, "That's supper," he didn't know what I was talking about.

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Artistic Impression.

Some of the Olympic "sports" involve marks for artistic impression.

Is this where you shuffle about on your knees and claim to be Toulouse Lautrec in a French accent? Or leap about, holding your ear, going "Ouch, ouch," in Dutch?

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Owimpics.

The Paralympics might not be an entirely good idea. If they can lead to fame and riches, some people might mutilate themselves to be eligible to take part.

Much better would be the Owimpics, a Games for people who are rubbish at sport. Nobody should be able to volunteer to take part, but should be forced to do it by authority figures.

I write as one who was always last to be picked for any team at school. This was because of my complete lack of enthusiasm. I did not care who won, and could not understand why anyone did. I was afraid the ball might break my glasses and, in the case of cricket, my head.

At football, I used to think of myself as a defender, but ran towards the opponent's goal when the ball came near ours.

At cricket, batting was a nightmare, but mercifully rare because after the first few games I was always eleventh man. They did not ask me to bowl or keep wicket, so I used to work out where the ball was least likely to travel and moved as far as I could in that direction without actually leaving the field.

I did not realise that running was supposed to hurt, so at the first hint of pain I either slowed down or, in the case of cross-country running, walked. I still managed to beat most of the fat kids, because I had a distance runner's build and a high motor instinct. I would run to and from school simply to save time, but could not see the point of hurting myself just to be faster than someone else.

So I would be right for the Owimpics and want nothing to do with them, which makes me even more right.

Okay, let's just forget the whole idea.

Criticism

Winter Olympics 2006 (written 17 February 2006)

The Women’s Snowboarding Downhill Slapstick was particularly amusing. Small boys were pleased that a Swiss called “Nobs” was taking part and older boys were disquieted that Himmler was there as well.

The final four races were great, with competitors falling about all over the place. The sure-fire gold medallist won silver by showing off with a trick near the finishing line. Instead of gliding to victory, she had to get to her feet and watch a rival speed past. There could have been two more, but they had fallen over further up the course.

Well, if they were not crazy, they could not be snowboarders.

*

Panto Season Over (written 28 January 2006)

Cinderella has won Celebrity Big Brother, with Baron Hardup in second place, Buttons third, Principal Ordinary Boy fourth, Wicked Queen fifth and Daft American Bimbo sixth. The Giant, the Villain, the Good Fairy and the Ugly Sisters were eliminated before the final stage.

Big Brother combines the best of science documentary and pantomime. I have learned some anthropology and abnormal psychology from it, and been thoroughly entertained into the bargain.

I am looking forward to the summer season, and wondering what they can possibly do to top Celebrity Big Brother 2006.

*

Celebrity Big Brother 2006 (written 9 January 2006)

The funniest thing on television at the moment is Celeb. B.B. It’s been on for several days, so let’s see if I can remember the eleven inmates without looking them up:

George Galloway, MP, admirer of Saddam Hussein.
Michael Barrymore. Anyone who is still doing Frank Spencer impressions has severe problems.
Chantelle, the joke non-celebrity.
Maggot out of Goldie Looking Chain, of whom I had heard because they are funny.
A singer from the Ordinary Boys, of whom I had never heard. I thought he was another joke non-celebrity.
A six foot eight basketball player, Dennis Rodman.
An actress from Baywatch. Tanya something?
Rula Lenska. Good actress. Should stop smoking.
Page 3 stunna, Jodie Marsh, I think.
That’s nine and I’m struggling now. Two more.
Pete Burns. My poem, “Looking Good” could have been written for him, though it wasn’t.
Number eleven’s escaped me. (Eventually, oh, yeah, Faria out of the F. A.)

The celebrities themselves decided that the non-celebrity, Chantelle, was ninth most famous of the eleven of them. But this was because while George Galloway, MP, was shouting and arguing that Michael Barrymore was more famous than the Americans, Maggot went and stood at number 11 and was joined by the Ordinary Boy at number 10. Both genuine gentlemen, particularly Maggot.

They set a fine example to George Galloway, MP, of which he was probably completely oblivious.

*

Big Brother 2005.

Final Night.

The desire for fame was prominent as the failed contestants took advantage of their last chance to be noticed. The Cockney geezer capered and grinned along the catwalk like a lunatic, the Turkish boy came as a Las Vegas showgirl, and the pretty girl with the teeth shouted something about her porn site.

I am glad that the very straightforward Anthony won the thing, but also glad that the vagaries of the game allowed the more intellectually gifted but socially inept Eugene to make off with half the prize money.

*

Moral imbecility.

The Victorians used to put some of their unmarried mothers into insane asylums because they suffered from moral imbecility.

I used to believe that it was a condition they had made up, until I saw the antics of Kinga in the Big Brother house. Her illicit affair with the red wine bottle can hardly be explained any other way.

First impressions.

When Anthony entered the Big Brother house, he was a prancing fool, showing off with what he thought were seventies dance moves. He then told his fellow inmates that the security man was booed for trying to move him on. It was Anthony who was being booed, but he was too vain to realise it. What an idiot.

Vain, ignorant and shallow just about summed him up. But after nearly three months in the madhouse, he has come through as an example to us all. When the Cockney geezer and the Italian bloke were squaring up to assault each other, it was Anthony who physically kept them apart. He has put up with the gay hairdresser’s obsessive stalking with good-natured tolerance, although driven to exasperation by the hairdresser’s antics. His expression of horror while he watched Kinga with the red wine bottle made me laugh out loud.

There are worse things in the world to be than vain, ignorant and shallow. To come through the mental trial that is Big Brother looking like a decent human being is an achievement indeed.

*

Modern Art.

Since the invention of photograpy, fine art has really gone down the toilet, a playground for preposterous poseurs.

Here's a literary equivalent of the works of the likes of Tracy Emin or Damien Hurst:

lampoon tanh differentiate non-technical tour epigram server tanka discord underbrush cold wave publicity
That will be a million pounds, please.

The scary thing is that the words were picked with an attempt at randomness, but the more I look at them, the more they start looking as if they mean something.

*

Samuel Beckett.

I have just read that Max Wall had a special affinity for the plays of Samuel Beckett.

I must suffer from Samuel Beckett-blindness. His works appear to have no merit at all. I was once required to sit through two of his plays, one about an old man eating a banana, and another about an old woman being buried up to her neck. They were rubbish.

Some members of the audience were laughing, either because there was a joke going on which I didn't appreciate or they were mad.

Perhaps this is a mystery which will never be solved.

*

Chaplin and Wisdom.

Two comedians I can't see the point of: Charlie Chaplin and Norman Wisdom. Chaplin's Little Tramp was an arrogant, smarmy, vicious little git. Norman Wisdom is ingratiating.

"Don't Laugh at Me Cos I'm a Fool". Okay.

*

Franz Kafka.

Whe I was a student, I read "The Trial" and "The Castle" by Franz Kafka. These were supposed to be very deep, grim novels, so I was surprised to find parts of them very funny.

Years later, I heard some woman on a a BBC Radio 4 programme say that, according to witnesses, Kafka used to laugh while he was writing, and he thought his stuff was funny.

So I suppose I was right and the critics got it wrong?

*

Would I Lie to You?

Strange how tastes can change. When I first heard the song, "Would I Lie to You?" by Charles and Eddie, I could not stand to listen to it. After several years, I saw the joke.

The unsung reply is "Of course you would." I now enjoy the song, and smile when I hear it.

*

Going Through Changes.

When Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In and The Prisoner were first broadcast, I thought they were great, very funny and very entertaining respectively. My parents thought they were nonsense. Now Laugh-In just looks stupid and The Prisoner is interesting, but not great. The later Prisoner episodes look particularly ludicrous.

Similarly to what happens to most people, I am turning into my dad.

*

Olympic Closing Ceremony.

Athens could not produce a star of the magnitude of Sydney's Kylie Minogue, but it was good of the Greeks to let some of their old people have a go at singing.

*

Ally McBeal.

I watched the television programme, Ally McBeal, thinking it would be about a Scotsman and there might be beautiful Highland scenery, but discovered it was about an American skeleton.

Trivia

Grandeurs of Delusion. (written 15 January 2006)

In the pub, I told one of my chums that if, as a world-famous poet, I was invited to stay in the Celebrity Big Brother house, I would accept. Celebrities are granted privacy in the toilet and shower. They are paid a guaranteed £50,000 for a maximum three weeks work.

He said that I had “grandeurs of delusion”. I asked him if he meant “delusions of grandeur” and he said he did, but I like “grandeurs of delusion”.

*

Sleep Singing. (written 17 November 2005)

People have been known to wake up crying or laughing, but this morning I woke up singing a song I had made up.

It went, “Love is doing far too much for far too few people. Sing it like you are a Beatle.”

Ah, the mysterious workings of the human subconscious.

*

Karaoke Hell.

Things can quickly go wrong when one goes to karaoke pubs, like the night I ate Mad Drunk Laura's food.

There was a huge buffet laid out in the pub. The karaoke d.j. announced, "There's free food over there. Everybody welcome. Eat it or it will go to waste."

So I helped myself to a chicken leg, sanwiches, small sausages, and so on. Later, the d.j. announced, "Laura is leaving. Everyone who is eating should buy her a drink." Uh-oh.

Not long after, Mad Drunk Laura came to our table and demanded we should each buy her a drink. My suggestion that I had sung for her and that should be enough was ignored. But we managed to fob her off with vague promises of a future drink.

Then when I was at the bar, waiting to buy a round, she came up and demanded the drink she felt was due to her.

"You ate my food. You have to buy me a drink." In the background, I could hear the d.j. regretting what she had said, but Mad Drunk Laura was not listening.

When I suggested to Laura that she should stop drinking because if she drank any more she would fall over, she turned quite nasty.

She put her arm round my shoulder and said, "Right, I'm annoyed now. I'm stopping here until you buy me a drink."

She was distracted when some other customers brought drinks over for her. Three double vodkas with blackcurrant and lemonade.

I escaped back to our table. My friends already had their coats on.

"We'll be all right when she moves away from the bar," I said. "She's got three drinks now."

"She's just knocked them all over," said one of my friends.

By the time I had my coat on, my friends were out of the door. I hurried after them.

"Time Warp" and "Tell Laura I Love Her" went unsung.

*

Dennis Dunaway, Marleen Gorris, Ron Vawter and I were all born on the same day in the same year.

Bass guitarist and vocalist, Dennis Dunaway, of Deadringer and the Billion Dollar Babies, has worked with Donovan and played on seversl Alice Cooper albums. What an excellent fellow.

Director, Marleen Gorris, has made some films in Dutch and "Mrs. Dalloway", which sounds vaguely familiar.

Actor, Ron Vawter, appeared in "Philadelphia", "Silence of the Lambs" and "sex, lies and videotape", all of which I have heard of. The reliability of the internet is indicated by two sites I checked, one of which gave his date of birth as 1949 and the other as 16 April 1994.

Ron Vawter is, unfortunately, deceased, which gives the four of us a 25% mortality rate so far. It is probably just as well that the sample is too small to be statistically significant.

*

Anti-Sweating League.

Clementine Black (1853-1922) was president of the Anti-Sweating League. On reading this, I had visions of Victorian ladies campaigning against strenuous excercise and the wearing of excessively warm clothes.

I was a bit disappointed to read on and discover that their campaign was against sweatshops.

*

Moral Superiority.

I share a birthday with John Milton, poet and puritan. We have a lot in common, then? Well, Milton's poetry is funnier than mine, and I'm not a puritan.

Whenever I am prompted to think about my moral character, I remember what I agreed to do with two bottle-blonde ladies I met in a nightclub not many years ago.

It was only the belated realisation that I was too drunk to be of much use for their purposes that prevented me leaving the premises with them.

So, unless they were planning to have their boyfriends beat me up and rob me, I got the worst of both worlds. No high jinks with my new friends and no moral superiority either.

Zhuangzi

I had a lucid dream this morning. I was aware of two existences, one of which was sensible and ordered, and one which was bizarre, surreal and irrational. Of course, I awoke to this one, the latter.

Yes, I certainly had a touch of Zhuangzi aabout me this morning. I still find it hard to credit that this is the real one.

A Conspiracy Against the Government

An MP is secretly recorded by the security services when he speaks to a prisoner. The prisoner is the target, not the MP, but the press and the Opposition start a huge fuss about the Labour Party creating a police state.

Some idiot civil servants lose some important data discs, as they do, and the press and the Opposition rant about Labour Party incompetence, as if a Minister is standing behind every civil servant, watching their every move.

There is a nasty element in the UK twisting and distorting all sorts of events to show the Government in a bad light.

The Opposition need to start putting forward sensible arguments and the press need to report real news, not a lot of nonsense.

It is a real shame that years of democratic government have created an anti-democratic press and anti-democratic politicians.

(All this was supposed to be in the same font, but the last sentence and this one have spontaneously changed. I will get the hang of this sort of thing eventually.)