A father’s lot is not always a happy one, far from it in fact.  From naught to five, you watch your children grow; you keep them safe in the hope they will flourish.  From six to ten the apron strings are slowly removed and you encourage them to be their own person.  And how do they repay you?  At the age of 11 one of them says, “Dad, I want to be a ballroom dancer and mum says it’s okay!”

Well, you can safely say your life is over at this point.  That dream of a loft extension – gone!  The bi-weekly trip to the pub – history, and any hope of that life’s time membership to ‘Hooters Monthly’ fades into the mist too.  All of your disposable earnings now will be spent on equipping your child with ballroom tackle, driving them all over the country for lessons and competitions and supplying them with ‘junior Valium’ to cope when they lose every contest.

Of course, when they’re younger, the cost of keeping the little darlings in dancing paraphernalia is much cheaper, but as they grow and show no signs of giving up this ridiculous pastime, you may need to acquire a loan.

At best you can only hope you have a son that wants to strut about like fledgling peacock on heat.  He’ll only need one suit, a couple of pairs of shoes, socks and shirts, and let’s face it guys, one pair of boxers!  However, should you have a daughter it’s the female partner’s regalia that will push you closer to bankruptcy and the general feeling of wanting to take your own life.

After all chaps, this is mummy’s chance to relive her youth through a smaller version of herself, while promoting her and soaking up the adulation if she wins a contest.  The local papers will become her best friends as will the shops in the nearest high street.  It all begins innocently enough, but the more competitive it becomes the more the domineering the mother hen becomes. 

She’ll think nothing of buying 200 dresses, as the better the dress, the better her little angel will perform.  Then a friend says, “I know a stylist,” and before you know it bulk orders of hair spray start to arrive, followed by a truck load of shoes, four tons of makeup and 15 barrels of industrial strength tanning solution.

The final insult comes when you have to witness your first contest, after mummy hears the BBC is going to film your child’s dance school!  You have to watch the adults prancing about like their tendons have been fashioned from a Sherman tank’s fan belt and then it’s the kids turn.  If ever there was a case for quashing a pervert’s hobby, try this.  Don’t dress your kids up like adults, stop slapping makeup all over them and finally, don’t film them and put it on You Tube!

The good news is two thirds of the world is covered in it.  The bad news is only 3% of it is drinkable!  Yep, you’ve guessed it I’m talking, of course, about the single most precious substance in the known world, H2O.   

Oh yes matey-boy, three days without God’s gargling gear and could find yourself lying down looking up from a big hole, with all of your relatives chucking earth at you.  The rumour is the south-east of England is a tad short in the reservoir department and we’re in danger of a drought situation!

The claim is that we’ve haven’t been this short of water since the summer of ’76, but this can’t be right.  I should know, I was there and it was the longest and hottest summer I can remember.  You only had to fart back then and you would’ve started a forest fire.  It was 90 degrees everyday for three months in a row and chemists all over the UK were selling sun screen by the bucket load.  

Now it maybe that I’ve missed something, perhaps I’d been sectioned and was unaware of my surroundings, but to date I have absolutely no recollection of a blistering summer lasting over 12 weeks or a hosepipe ban. 

So where has all the water gone?  Well, some of it has been wasted by humans with a bladder problem.  It can’t be helped, but it’s my belief if they were shot you could save thousands of gallons a year.  Mother’s bathing babies everyday is another area I’d like to cover. 

I’ve put a recommendation forward to the water authorities that mothers should only wash their offspring once a fortnight.  They might pong a bit, but at least you’ll know whether they’re in the house or not.  And as of midnight to night baths will be removed from your property.  Hey, we’re leaving the sinks!   

But who are the real culprits when it comes to wasting water?  That’s right; the very people we send it back to, the water board!  Why do we give them money every month and what the hell are spending it in?  Oh sure, they clean it up and sell back to us, but you’d think by now someone would take a look at all the leaking pipes.  But no, they’ve let it slide and now there’s a shortage.    

Can we retrieve it?  No!  In fact you’ve got more chance of squeezing a hippo’s arse in a Butler sink mate!  It’s gone never to return, seeped deep below into the water table or its evaporated back into the atmosphere.  Don’t worry though; the government has issued a statement and a plan to easy the situation.  Next Tuesday the whole of the UK’s residence will be forced to take part in a sponsored 12 hour rain dance.  Call me old fashioned, but if water was gas there wouldn’t be any leaks.

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Would you spend an entire week slipping into a wet and slimy crevice just to see what was at the other end?  You may be surprised to hear that groups of idiots do this every year, mostly in the dark!  Why do they undertake this activity, well in short, they’re just very, very sick and suffering from a new disorder called ‘pot-holitus’ from the Latin, ‘stark-starium as a boxus frogus’.

The symptoms are easily spotted; the sufferer simply can’t pass a hole without sticking his or her bonce through it, then entering it to see where it leads.  Just the safety aspects of this ridiculous pastime, and the total disregard for their own safety have been frowned upon by the emergency services, to the point where psychiatrists have stepped in to save these fools from themselves.  And now you can be sectioned if you’re seen attempting to enter the earth’s crust.   

No, no, don’t pick a hobby that’s above terra firma, let’s go underground where no-one can reach us if we break a leg, despite calling out, at great expense, an air ambulance, four paramedics, the police and the bloody fire brigade!                

I don’t care if the risk to caver is quite low, the fact is, someone at some point is going to have an accident and it’ll be the tax payer that cops the tab for it.  “Where shall we go this year dwarling, somewhere warm and relaxing?”  “Well actually I was thinking of a place where we’d be at risk of a fall,  with a definite chance of flooding and hopefully a good dose of hypothermia.”  “Ooh super!”

If farting about in small spaces in near darkness with no idea where you’re going isn’t bad enough, some fools go cave diving.  I mean – if it wasn’t dangerous enough, let’s put an aqualung on so we can really up the chances of getting wedged between two rock faces.  Bloody idiots; every last one of them!   

Okay, I’ll throw this one at you.  You’ve been under ground for a good four hours, you’re covered mud and soaking wet.  The night before you visited ‘The Old Slapper’s Inn’, downed 12 pints and then went for a curry.  Where’s the bog?  “I’m busting for a slash,” says the novice to the team leader he’s tied too.  “That’s okay,” says the cheery twit in front, “You can use my urine bottle.”

The novice speaks again.  “Ooh, hang on, I think that vindaloo’s making a break for freedom.”  “Can’t you hold on,” replies the twit?  “Bit late for that, I’m sitting on a turtle head now!”  So, with all the dignity he can muster, the lead twit says, “Here, you can use my rucksack!”  Ewww, ewwww and thrice ewwwwwwwww.   

No, no, no, no, no.  These people should definitely be shot at birth…

Which ever way you look at it, if you’re born or live in England you’re being taxed to death, and you have to pay a tax on that too.  And, as usual, it’s the little people who have no say in how much our taxes go up by, that’s all taken care of by a bunch of faceless sadistic ‘suits’ somewhere in the Government.

I’ve been on the planet for 54 years now, and not once have I seen a price reduction in a tax.  They may have been stopped at some point, but overall they’ve been superseded by a duty under a different name. 

Now I say ‘duty’ for a very good reason, because this means you are obliged to hand over part of your life savings for a service or product you can’t do without.  Hence the phrase, ‘They’ve got us by the bollocks.’  This isn’t a term you’ll hear used in Westminster but it means the same as, ‘There’s going to be a rail fare increase.’  Here’s a list of the taxes you might donate to in your lifetime and their total yearly income.  Better get yourself a stiff drink; you’re going to need it:

Aggregates levy – Climate change levy – Landfill tax – Betting and gaming duties – Petroleum revenue – Air passenger duty – Spirits duty – Insurance premium tax – Customs duties and levies – Wine duties – Inheritance tax – Beer and cider tax – Capital gains tax – Vehicle excise duties – Tobacco duties – Stamp duties – Business rates – Council tax – Fuel duties – Corporation tax – Value added tax – National insurance – Income tax and other taxes and royalties.  And the sum total is, 641.1 billion pounds, and that was for the year 2007/8!

The keen-eyed amongst you will have spotted that to offset the depressing word ‘tax’, other words have been employed, such as levy, revenue and royalties.  You may have also noticed that petrol seems to have been taxed twice – once with a duty and then again with a revenue.  What the hell’s that all about?

Now, it’s Friday and it’s five-to-five.  No, it’s not time for ‘Cracker Jack’, that well known English kids TV programme from the 60’s, it’s knocking off time in the office.  Thousands of work-weary people are heading for the station to get their train home.  It’s been 90 degrees all day and each commuter is walking around in a trance.  They board their carriage hoping to get a seat, but they don’t. 

The train pulls off and everybody standing up or pressed against a window is wondering why they pay the same fare for hanging off a strap, and have to suffer with someone else’s armpit or gusset in their face all the way home.   They disembark, only to see the fares have been increased by another 11% and then they burn down the station.  It’s coming, mark my words.

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I know what you’re going to say, we had some great holidays in a caravan, the  only difference is we drove to a site, rather than tow a mini-me version of our house down the motorway.  And right there is where all of the problems begin.

Think about it, you were probably quite young when you last took a holiday in a static home, now-a-days people are buying there own and travelling around blocking up the highways and byways at Easter and every bank holiday in the calendar.  It’s not a very green way to move about the country is it?  Not only do the drivers of these wheeled deaths boxes only go at 50 mph, so do the cars who are stuck behind them.  In plan terms they’re wasting valuable fossil fuel.

When they reach the field where you can’t kick a ball, let your dog off the lead and have to be in bed by 10:30pm, you realise that your pitch is just 15 metres from a high speed rail link.  So even if you wanted a kip you can’t, because every 17 minutes a train whips past at a swift 125 mph all through the night.

In the morning, what’s the first thing you want to do?  That’s right, drift down the hallway and visit the bathroom.  Not so in the small house on wheels no.  First you have to don most of your clothes then walk on damp grass in your slippers through a blizzard for at least 100 metres, before finding a wooden hut where there’s a queue.  And don’t bother looking for the soft tissue roll; it’s been replaced by grade four sandpaper.  Thank but no thanks!

Now, you’ve clearly paid for your gas and electric at home, and while some of your household items are still buzzing and whirring while you’re away, you have to pay for extra utilities just so you can eat and keep warm.  What a bloody stupid way to carry on.  Why not just cut the roof of the caravan off and really have a pop at Mother Nature to add to the global warming effect!

What you have to ask yourself is; what do you do once you’ve pitched your caravan on a site?  Well you could go for a walk.  That’s it I’m afraid!  The rest of the time is spent cooking on an item that can only cope with two rashers of bacon at a time.  You may find some excitement when you go to fill up the water carrier from the fresh water tap, which is usually no more than half a mile away, but I doubt it. 

If it’s cold you can sit inside your wardrobe on wheels and drink tea, and if not you can sit outside doing much the same thing – riveting!  Should you be short of food you can pop along to the licensed bandit who owns the site shop and get ripped off a treat on a daily basis.  I’m sorry to say you’d have more fun on a psychiatric ward suffering from the side-effects of the wrong medication…

They are, without doubt, the biggest bunch of money grabbing bastards since the UK’s tax systems were invent.  They ply their trade openly across this green and pleasant land and their main weapon of drumming up trade is to prey on the human fear of loss.  Naturally, I’m talking about this country’s car insurers….

They are raking in thousands of pounds a day and are quite happy to pay out on a claim, as long as you don’t mind if your premium goes up when you do!  And now they’re persecuting the unemployed driver.  My only question is; how the hell are they getting away with it?  Here’s an explanation from an arse inside the British Insurances Brokers’ Association.  

‘Unemployed people are viewed as less likely to maintain their vehicles and as higher credit risks.’  He went on to say, ‘Insurers might also have concerns over what their vehicles would be used for and whether they would be used more often.’  [You mean people are actually driving their cars – on the roads – OMG!!!]

And cop this from the AA.  ‘The unemployed are more likely to be distracted because of their circumstances, likely to be driving along unfamiliar roads and   attempting to find specific addresses in search of job interviews.’  Priceless!  Well I think someone should exert more pressure on the person who’s been cast aside from their employer, but how?  Ooh, I know, let’s hike up their premium by 40%.  This happed to one driver and it’s an absolutely despicable practice.

Another caring insurance Nazi said, ‘The long-term unemployed were more likely to be claimants than those just out of work, and their financial circumstances were seen as more likely to lead them to make fraudulent claims.’  Oh I see, so what they’re doing is ripping off the soft targets first, rather than shelling money to catch the few.  It makes you wonder what the   insurers next move will be, house insurance possibly.   Can you imaging the scene?  I’ll help you out.  

‘Do you leave your house outside madam?’  ‘Err, yes.’  ‘Ooh that’s going to be expensive, is it valuable?’ ‘Well yes.’  ‘Does it have windows and doors?’  ‘Ummm, no!’  ‘Is it a tent?’  ‘Is a tent cheap to insure?’  ‘Yes.’  ‘Well yes, it’s a tent then.’  ‘Okay, let me just look at the risks, will you leave your tent outside and does it have window and door flaps?’  And so it goes on…  I wouldn’t mind if insurers based the risks on actual human claims.  Instead they use a method called actuarial science, which uses Mathematics and statistics for calculations.

My answer – since we don’t have a crash everyday, why should we pay for insurance every day?  Think of it like the lottery…

So, you’ve saved up for two years and you’re on a ship that’s bigger than the Titanic and, so far, you’re having the holiday of a lifetime until… 

Come 9:30pm though there’s a bit of a thud and by 9:45pm the bar you were drinking at is now leaning at the jaunty angle of 22 degrees and you can’t stand up straight even if you were sober.  What do you do?  You do what every self respecting sea traveller would do; you panic in your native tongue!  And right there is the heart of the problem when it comes to abandoning a floating hotel.

Of course, it doesn’t helps if you have a captain who’s the first one in a lifeboat but asides from that, you’ve got a multinational crew who are all telling you not to panic, despite the fact the ship has tipped over to one side.  Could this sinking been avoided?  Well, after the nautical nits came to me for advice, I’m glad to say it could have, so here’s my 4-point plan for the future of sea safety.

The first issue to address is the height of the ship.  Why keep building them upwards, why not spread the load and put the different levels side by side?  Hey, what’s wrong with a square ship, it’ll be more bloody stable than a namby pamby single hulled effort thank you very much.

Next on this list – sea cones!  Well, we have them on our roads!  Bloody great orange cones 50 feet high, that’ll keep the ships well away from any under water boulders.  And let’s not forget about adding some sea traffic lights?  It works perfectly well on our roads.  But I draw the line at round-abouts, that’s just plain stupid.  However, I am looking into the possibilities of a wet shoulder.

Now, it’s come to my attention the captain of the Costa Concordia has been arrested, notably after the messages between him and the coastguard were recorded.  Yeah well, you dropped a bollock there son!  “I hit a rock that shouldn’t have been there,” he said.  What a twat.  So, we can safely say that underwater charts are a waste of time and dangerous.  My solution, raise up all of the rocks under the water line so everyone knows where they are!

When questioned, Capt Francesco Schettino then added to his statement, “I was thrown in the water when the ship tipped over.”  Yeah, what straight into a lifeboat – I DON’T THINK SO!  It seems as if the Italian language has changed over the years, because, “Get back on board,” now translates as,

“E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e  f-o-r  t-h-e-m-s-e-l-v-e-s,” or “R-u-n-a-w-a-y.” in certain quarters. 

Keep your eyes peeled for a return to this story, I can’t wait for the trial…

If you live outside the UK you should count yourself lucky.  Yes, we have running water and a food mountain that should be shipped to poorer countries on a regular basis, but on the whole it’s us who are saddled with The Royal Family!  

I wouldn’t mind if they’d been voted in, but they weren’t, they just stopped off during a European tour from Germany and never went home.  And let’s not forget, marrying your first cousin was seen as a normal practice in Victoria’s day, so it’s no wonder they all look alike.       

The misapprehension that most fall under is everyone in England is a Royalist, but I can safely say this is not the case.  The problems arise when one or a clutch of them decide to have a day out, take a holiday or worse still – get married.   

The entire British media reports nothing else for weeks, and it’s the cap-doffing residence of Blighty who suffer the most.  The news breaks and the initial report lasts for no more than 90 seconds, but being British we know what’s coming next and it’s enough to push the sane towards suicide.

The most recent Royal story to blanket the papers and the airwaves was Prince Philip’s admittance to hospital with a blocked artery.  You should’ve heard the old waffle we had to listen to.  Every syllable of the report was regurgitated over and over again for a five day period, by a bunch of salivating Royal correspondents all hoping for an MBE. 

I mean, how long can you pad out a visit to hospital for with the scantest of information?  If it was your Gran or Nora Splinge from the Oil Slick Housing Estate no-one would give a toss.

The BBC studios were plunged into a panic.  “What happens if he snuffs it?”  “Have we got any black ties in the building?”  Oh yes, pick the wrong colour neckwear when a Royal dies and you’ll get a bollocking from head office.  Just ask the BBC newsreader Peter Sissons.  He had the audacity to wear a burgundy tie when the Queen Mother shuffled off and was berated for his choice.

If you’re a decent human being, no one wants to see anyone die, but let’s face it Phil is 90.  And to-date he’s eaten the best food and drunk the finest wines in the world, as well as having access to the best medical care. 

He had chest pains and was immediately put in a helicopter and flown to an NHS hospital where they specialize in cardiothoracic surgery.  Did he eat the hospital food, was he on a mixed ward – I doubt it.  How would your Gran fare in the same situation?  She’d be dead mate. 

Still, some good did come from this Royal photo opportunity; less pheasants were blasted to death this year in the boxing shoot.  The hospital wouldn’t discharge him.  Give a 90 year old a 12 bore?  I wouldn’t give him a driving license!