Well, suck my possum and call me Susan!  It’s volume II of BBC News24 The warped side, where the news is real. 

You must remember, just because it’s on the news, it doesn’t mean that it is the only news on the planet.   People in rooms have a list, a list of what to include, and a list that ends up in the bin, and the events go unreported.  Well, here at the Mental Central Co. this is not the case/trunk for that matter.   Our journalists give an airing to what’s really gong on in the world today.  So, sit back and relax and take in The warped side.

The USA:  A terrorist is to sue the American Government after claims that he was tortured for information using illegal means, while he was held in Guantanamo Bay.  The suspect said a bag was placed over his head and he was forced to lie down in a bath while melted cheddar was dripped over his face and body.  Sometime later, a full packet of Ryvita biscuits were crumbled up and placed in his underwear.  An American spokesman said that this was the first reported case of cheese-boarding in the world. 

Life in general:  Items you never see a ‘buy-one-get-one-free’ offer:

a funeral – a pint of beer – a house – a holiday – a gallon of petrol – a car – a swimming pool – a bed – a conservatory – a loft extension – a wedding dress and breast implants.    

Philosophical corner:  I’ve just been handed this from our news bin, and it concerns a man who, after suffering from years of mental ill health, has remained ‘well’ for the last eight years in row.  He goes on to say that, even after all the problems that he has had to face, he’s still managed to retain most of his ‘normal marbles’.  The statement reads:

“The future is what’s ahead of you, and if you pass this point in your life, you may overtake yourself on the way back.  Moreover, let’s not forget what is in between.  Yes, the midlife period, the very centre of your exsistence, depending on how old you are when you snuff it!  But, more importantly than all of the above, remember this and pass it on to your nearest and dearest.  The past is what lies behind you, and if you’re still there, that’s where you are now!!!”

Wow, truly inspiring…  

NEXT WEEK: Why placing Duck Tape on your genitalia isn’t as much fun as it’s sounds when sober. 

And, from ‘Mustn’t Grumble Corner’, can you pull your foreskin over your head?   

This is me saying, “Oooh look, Heinz Terrapin soup”… Laters guys x

 

Hallo tiny tots, and big tots too.  I’d like to talk to you about fibbing today.  Not the itsy-bitsy little fibs that mummies and daddies tell each other, but the very, very big fibs that all Governments tell their country’s people, when they need to delay civil unrest or have to get all of the important people out of harms way, before the ploopy-plops-plops hits the fan.

In a town, much like yours, but in a land far, far away, where they drank low grade Vodka for breakfast lived 43,000 people.  It was a lovely place to live, the residents were told.  The poor were very poor, but the rich had bundles of extra cash flying about, mainly because there wasn’t a middle-class element worry about.

Anyway, one fine day on the 26th of April, 1986, in a very special building, a man in a white coat noticed that all was not ginger and peachy in reactor 4.  And this building, that was used to help keep everyone’s house warm, got a little too warm itself, and a big bang blew the roof off in the early hours.  In fact, it was such a big bang, that 12 hundred tons of concrete and metal vapourised in three seconds!

Well, after a tea break and a rub down with ‘Why has my fish got two heads?’, the men working in the special building saw a very naughty cloud of atomic particles high in the sky, and someone said, “I think we should tell somebody about that,” and eventually they did.  Yes, eight hours after the roof blew off in fact.  As they didn’t want to upset their leader, they told him they could fix the problem and everything would be fine and dandy, and he was very happy.  And this, children, is where a little fib turns into a string of absolute belters!!!

Just then, at exactly 10:30 in the morning, in the town that was three short miles away from that very, very special building I told you about, some helpful soldiers happened by.  As they didn’t want to worry the people walking about that day, they wore face masks and carried special boxes with them.  And if anyone asked them what they were doing, they just said they were doing some very important tests, and there was no need to worry.

On the 27th April, at 2pm precisely the town’s mayor said that everyone could have a free ride on one of the 1000 coaches that began arriving in the local square.  “Hoorah”, said all the people, and in a trice, or three and half hours as we know it, all 43,000 people had been whisked away to  place where they didn’t click so much.  And 48 hours later children, the only people left in the town were the helpful soldiers I told you about and some even more helpful scientists.  Gosh, what a stroke of luck. 

What a to-do!  Well now, 60 hours after the mishap at the special building, there was still no official word from the bigger boys running the country.  However, a little later the next day, a very, very important Russian man said, “Ooops, I think we a have a problem,” to the rest of the world.  But he only said because another country, which was a long way away, called them on the telephone and said, “You’ve got a problem with one of your special buildings mate-boy!”

Imagine!  Well, it didn’t matter that the radiation levels were 7,000 times higher than was safe for human habitation, at least he had told someone, and he felt so much better for doing so, because then no one would get cross with him.

To keep the people occupied in another town a little further from the naughty reactor, they were urged to organise a Mayday parade, so they did.  There were marching bands, games for the children, and food and drink for everyone.  In the extra heat of the day, everyone had a fantastic day, although we can’t prove this, as they all seemed to have vanished!  Still, I expect they will turn up one day to tell their story.  In fact I’m sure they will, because the parade was called ‘ The Parade of Death’, so I’m sure somebody would’ve made a note of that.  Don’t you children?

“Anyway,” said a Government official to the man in charge of the special building, “I suppose we should start clearing up the mess,” so they did.  But, when they realised the country didn’t have enough black bin liners, they had to ‘ask’ 500,000 people for their help.

Well, naturally everyone jumped at the chance to help their country and pass away in relative agony and obscurity, especially after their skin fell off, leaving their bones largely visible.  But don’t worry, this is all perfectly normal when you’ve had a lifetimes dose of radiation in just 41 seconds.  Thankfully, one man wrote down on a bit of paper that only 59 people actually went up to the official heaven, so that was very fortunate indeed.

Now children, where do you think that naughty cloud of atomic particles went?  Well, it was quite a windy day, but as far as we know, it was just the whole of Europe that got a really good coating.  Phew!  Wasn’t that lucky.  And don’t take any notice if the thyroid cancer rate went up in your area, just after the big bang, I’m sure it’s just a bit of tittle-tattle. 

It’s funny isn’t children, even after such a big problem, that happened over 25 years ago, no one has ever made a study of the people who lived near that special building!  And, more surprisingly, there aren’t any global statistics from around that time.  France said, “Cloud?  What cloud?”  There were so many figures knocking around at the time by someone, who thought that 40,000 people might have stopped breathing, but a little later on, and after an afternoon nap  in 2005, this figure dropped to just 4,000 people.  Phew, I here you say.

But what about the town today, I hear you ask?  Well, when the men in charge noticed that forest 30 miles away from reactor 4 looked a bit burnt, they put a big fence around it.  However, the very next day, they returned and extended the fence and isolated an area off a shade over 600,000 hectares from the rest of the world.  Lummy!

What’s that children?  When will the people be able to go back to their town?  Well, a little Russian bird has just told me that all will be hunky dory in about 800 years…

Night, night children, and don’t let the Chernobyl-bugs bite…

Right, I’m off, I’ve got  to… …can you hear clicking?

 

A group of football fans wives joined forces in London last week, in a bid to prevent their husbands arriving home completely rat-arsed, only to discover that they can’t find the toilet. 

One wife said, “He comes in, demands another beer, and then I find him standing at the top of the stairs with his old chap out saying, “Blimey, the bog looks bigger all of a sudden!” 

To put an end to this suffering, an engineer from the group has invented a belt, which can be fitted to their partners before they begin drinking.   

The Satellite Lavatory Ancillary Stabiliser Hub (S.L.A.S.H) or Sat Lav for short goes on sale next year.

 

NEWS FLASH…

The Royal Institute for the Blind came under scrutiny last week, when one of its members, and his Labrador, were arrested in a forested area of north London.  Three other visually impaired males are still on the run.

An arresting officer informed the press that lewd acts were taking place, and the incident involved five vehicles that were parked by a bridle path.  The officer went onto say that this was the first reported case of guide-dogging in the UK.

AQUATIC NEWS…

Scientists researching the dolphin, in a bid to understand why they look as if they’re smiling and sound as if they’re laughing, have found conclusive evidence.  A marine biologist said today, “It’s because they can fart through their head!”

THIS JUST IN…

Raffle tickets go on sale today for the chance to visit the Hadron particle accelerator.  The lucky winner will be given a tour of the site, and this will be followed by a three course meal and a Pina Collider.

THE WEATHER…

Yes, there will be weather over most countries at some point.

 

I swear, in this current trend, if you advertised a phone that could sweep your back yard and clean out your aquarium, somebody somewhere on the planet would make an enquiry!?!

Now, I want to make this absolutely clear – I’m not an old fart, and I’m in no danger of sounding like my dad, but really, what is the fascination with mobile phones?  Dad’s all over the world will know exactly what I mean.  If my two sons leave the house minus theirs, they loose the power of social intercourse and don’t know what to do with their hand!  And my God, if they hear a ring tone from another phone, their ears prick up like a couple of Meerkats on sentry duty.

I really don’t give a shit if the latest ‘bat-phone’ does dispense 1st and 2nd class stamps or downloads knitting patterns from Malawi or can round up a flock of rogue kamikaze frogs in Botswana, I just want to know if I can make a call and be heard the other end!

It’s got very silly out there phone land, nay fucking ridiculous.  You can operate your oven via your mobile now!  What possible use is that for Christ’s sake?  “Oooh, oooh I’m stuck in traffic, better text my cooker to turn down the heat and flip my kippers over – oh dear, I’ve hit the car in front.”  What happens if someone steals your phone of there’s a power cut?

And it doesn’t stop there either.  Along with all of the other pointless applications on your ‘talking hand box’, you can organise your fridge and your washing machine.  Why the fuck would you want to do?  What happens if you go out and get completely rat-arsed and then decide to undertake a spot of ‘drunk-dialing?  “Oh shit, the house has gone up in flames!  Are we insured for that?  Errrrrm, not unless you’ve got an app for that!”

And just to add a little more fear to the already paranoid ‘must keep in touch’ society, you can buy a box now that holds a call if you’re out of reach when your phone rings!!!  Oh yes, Blue Tooth or Brown Fang, or what ever they’re called, have designed an accessory for those users who are sick of missing calls.   Bloody idiots, if it’s that important surely the caller would phone back.

And what happens if you’re out of range, when you use your new ‘all singing all dancing’ out of hand range device?  I suppose death is instant.  No, hang on, I’ve just had a call from ‘Pink Molar’.  Yes, yes they’ve just launched their latest backup box, which will backup the backup box you already have!  I mean, who is so insecure that they’re frightened of missing a phone call?

It is my considered opinion that these weak and feeble people would die if they had to use a telephone box.  So, with that in mind, I’ll leave you with a saying of mine which I use for situations such as these.

“Just because we can it doesn’t mean we should.”

So there I was weatherproofing my wedding tackle for the year ahead, when the phone rang…

It was the British MoD, and a Commander ‘I’d like to be the first to stand in front of that tank to protect yoooou sah’ Smythe said, he needed my assistance.  Always keen to help, I asked Loin, my butler, to slap the kettle on, and invited the be meddled war hero over for a spot of tea and tiffin.

The problem inhand concerned the latest defence cuts, and as I was known as for my brain waves in the past, (I had wavy brains as a child you see), Smythe wondered if I had any radical ideas of how to save money from the budget in Afghanistan.  Well, as I’m not a huge fan of shooting, killing and disfiguring people in general, just because some arse in a uniform says it’s okay to do so, I had a detailed plan formed in less than seven seconds.

The war, and any further wars, will now have a new set of rules as of the publishing of this post, and my new scheme will replace all forms of naughty ammunition and explosives, in favour of jokes, games and windups!  Nobody gets hurt, saving valuable medical bills, and everyone has a bloody good laugh.

My first suggestion is to substitute all IED’s (Improvised explosive devices) and landmines with whoopee cushions.  To save any confusion in the scoring at the end of the day, the best ‘thrupping’ noise will register in the language of the respective nations taking part!  Not only will this procedure save our Government a vast amount of cold hard cash, it will also dramatically reduce the loss of limbs, life and and a whole bunch of grief suffered by the soldiers’ families and loved ones.

Now, all small arms fire will be superseded by rounds of one-liners, and in the same vein, any sniper fire will become a well camouflaged game of long-distance marbles!  Should any hand-to-hand combat break out, a neutral judge will   be called upon to preside over a civilised game of conkers, providing that they are in season.  Should they be out of season at the point of conflict, a game game of tiddlywinks will ensue.

Furthermore, bouts of sarcasm will replace all forms of mortar exchanges, using a standard sized megaphone, and any machine gun fire will be replaced in favour of a revised cycling proficiency test, while the riders are under the influence of an alcohol based substance of their choosing.  Moreover, all bazooka usage will be swapped in favour of a wet T shirt competition, and the term ‘friendly fire’ will mean just that.

Grenades containing nitrous oxide will be dropped into enemy territory by a squadron of comically trained parrots, along with a note that says, “Come on over guys, we’re having a barbecue.”  The japes and high jinks that cause the most laughter and smiles will win the confrontation.

So there we are, yet another problem solved by thinking out side of the box.  Right. I’d better slope off, I’ve got to sand down my shins in readiness to receive my second knighthood!  Yeeeeeeeee- harrrrrrrrrr whoop-whoop, tell ya mother ninepence!

 

Well, after ‘the speech’, I suppose our reigning Royal top dog of Germanic descent, did what a lot of us did, threw another beater on the fire, put what was left of the roast swan back in the fridge, and settled down to watch her favourite TV soap.

Some say that they can’t get enough of the Royal family, and it makes their day to see and hear our Monarch on Christmas day, God bless ‘er.  But I can’t help feel that the blinkered of this green and pleasant land are failing to see the bigger picture. 

We only have a high status family in this country because we pay their wages.  Sixty-two pence per person thank you very much.  Why, I could buy an extra slice of wafer thin rat with that!  I wouldn’t mind so much, but they breed like rabbits.  Oh I know they do a bit of overtime of course, and some charity work, but essentially it’s the under paid who fund their lifestyle.  And they’ve been getting away with this scam for years you know.

Let me reduce this situation to a basic humanitarian level.  If there was an Armageddon-style attack on this country, who do you think would be the first to be informed, and which family would be the first down the bunker?  I can’t see why it should be Royalty, I’m mean, it’s not as if they’re going to re populate the hive/country is it!  That lot would find it a bloody trail changing a fuse, let alone changing the plug on the kettle!

Despite being called the Queen’s English, the members of the Royal clan speak an entirely different form of language to the rest of the country, in terms of pronunciation that is.  A creche, for example, is what occurs when two taxis collide with each other outside Buck House, and a library door is something you take for a walk and throw a stick for.  By the same token, a Soviet isn’t a Russian citizen; it’s what one wipes ones gob with after McPheasant burger and fries, and sex is what the Royal coal is delivered in.  And don’t get me started on that bloody silly wave they use!

They get the best of everything, the best education and the finest of food, so it comes as no surprise that our current Royals have an average mortality rate of 173 years per person.  It’s time for change, let someone else have a go, it’s only fair.  Put somebody on the thrown who enjoys a good berp and a fart, a few beers down the local, and a round of chip sarnies!  

I’ve said my piece, and I assume I’ve stuffed my hopes of a knighthood this year at least.  Slopes orf, doffs cap, kicks a corgi on exit…

Happy New Year to you all.

 

Well buy me a dress and call me Nancy, six inches of snow and England is shut for business – AGAIN!  Meanwhile, countriess like Siberia, Austria and Sweden are wondering what all the fuss is about. 

Call me old fashioned, but I would’ve thought that by now the fine upstanding English traveller might know we have a case-history of being complete shite at organising our transport, when the temperature drops below -1.  I mean shit in yer hat and punch it, our train system comes to a grinding halt when we’ve got the ‘wrong type of leaves’ on the track!   

Now we’ve all got to suffer the consequences of this yearly event by listening and reading the media’s back catalogue of stock phrases.  This is then closely followed by the idiots complaints, who thought that they could make an exit from this country, during a cold snap, with their eight dustbins.  (Dustbin lids, kids) 

Moan No. 1 is, “There’s no information.”  You knew that last year you twat!  Moan No. 2 is, “My flight has been cancelled.”  Well derr – what did you expect?  However, I feel what it all boils down is this, “I’ve spent a lot of money on my dream holiday and I want what I’ve paid for.  Why isn’t anyone listening to me?” 

Hang on a cotton picking minute, I, I, my, my, me, me?  When you’ve finished throwing the toys out of your Silver Cross (Balmoral edition, £1,100) pram, have you ever stopped to think that you, and your entire family might die in a plane crash in this weather?  You selfish, selfish bastard.  Think yourself lucky you’ve only got to walk 12 feet to get a drink of fresh water, you have a fridge with food in, and a bed to lie on. 

If don’t want to be disappointed, shift the goal posts, don’t run with pack, and be open to the words, ‘change’ and ‘alternatively’.  Yes, be big and strong, and travel at a time when the possibilities of arriving at your chosen destination are the highest, and bollocks to what the date says on the calendar.    

On the upside, we now have a new winter Olympic event.  The respective teams turn up at Heathrow, and see how long it takes them to get home.  Having said that, I don’t fancy our chances much! 

 

On a personal note, I would like to thank each and everyone of you that has dropped in on my site,  and my nephew for building it for me.  Thomas, you’re a little star.  I would also like to thank my sister for sparing the time to edit my next book, ‘A Section for Laughing’ (c) copyright 2009), couldn’t have done it without you.

Many, many thanks for reading my posts (you fools!), and I hope I’ve managed to cause a few titters up and down the country, and aboard too.  I can only assume that you’re as mental as I am!  But then, I have a bit of paper that says I’m not – have you?

A Merry Happy Jingle Balls to you all, and I’ll catch up with you in the New Year, Bipolar Bill X

 

So, there we were, the very naughty Germans on one side, and us, the fine upstanding Brits on the other.  The pressure was intents and marquees…  This story is a life-lesson, and shows the uses and advantages of being totally off your trolley.   Please note: this is a true story from WW II.  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerp

We needed a plan, a plan to dupe the Hun into believing that we were going to take Greece, rather than the glaringly obvious Sicily.  “What to do,” said our brandy swilling Churchill.   “I know, let’s see what Intelligence can come with.”  So he did.  Beavering away there was a young Ian ‘007’ Fleming, and he had been compiling a list of radical ways to deceive the enemy, and it was suggestion No. 28 that caught our leaders attention.  It was  without doubt, a very British wizard prang idea, and Churchill said, “Hmmm, sounds like a plan!”  So from that point it was all, chocks away and tell yer mother ninepence!

Now, on Jerry’s side was a Spanish fisherman, two high ranking spies, a Mr ‘Gobby’ Goebbels, and one Adolf ‘I like a good shout me’ Hitler.  And on our side we had Mr Fleming, a Royal Navy Commander, who didn’t go to sea, and an RAF pilot who didn’t fly!  And on the subs bench was a pathologist called, (I kid you not) Sir Bentley Purchase, and our star striker – one dead Welshman!

The whole bizarre scheme all hinged a stiff, the right sort of stiff, and it had to be a fresh one.  He had to have died in the ‘right way’, so the German pathologists wouldn’t smell a rat.  The plan was to dropped a body, dressed as a Major in the Marines, into Spanish waters.  It would have a briefcase loaded up with, what looked like top secret documents, and he would also have a wallet stuffed with fake personal details.  The hope was that the body would find its way into enemy hands, and the duff information would filter its way up to Mr Shouty.

Well now then and then some, they found their boy, all thanks to ‘Gently’ Bentley Purchase, but what a tragic back story.   The guy they found was the son of a minor, and after his pit was closed downed, because the coal had run out, he topped himself.  This left Glyndwr Michael (pronounced, Glyndur) and his mother in a village that was slowly dying.  Then, a short time later Glyndwr’s mother died, well happy bloody Christmas!  By this stage he was homeless, penniless and friendless, and had drifted to London.  In 1943 his body was discovered in a disused warehouse, where he had killed himself using rat poison – H-a-p-p-y fucking New Year!!!

Now it was time for our boys to do their stuff, but why did Winston ‘where’s the brandy’ Churchill pick these two particular men to work on, what would come to be known as ‘Operation Mincemeat’?  Well, they were both highly ranked officers and both were fairly young, but the key factor was, they didn’t think in straight lines.  In short, they were both barking mad!

Ewen Montagu, the matelot minus a minesweeper, was chosen because he was an eminent barrister, and had a remarkable skill for spotting bullshit.  And Charles, (wait for it) Cholmondeley, (Pronounced, Chumley!) the fly-boy who didn’t, was employed because he had a superb waxed moustache and a very peculiar mind.  On his days off, for example, he studied the mating habits of insects, and if his was really bored, he hunted partridges with a revolver! 

 Our fine and well educated mentals had three months to invent a whole new personality for the relatively newly dead man.  He was given a bank account, and a bollocking letter from his bank manger, stating that his overdraft would be called in if he didn’t start slapping some folding money in his account pronto.  He gained a girlfriend and was carrying a ring worth, £13, 000 in today’s money.  And I think he even had a Mayfair address too.

Well he had done well for himself!  Two weeks after he was dropped into Spanish waters, via submarine, the news had reach the bloke with a stolen logo.  The telegraph from Bletchley Park read: Operation Mincemeat swallowed hook, line and sinker.  You have to laugh at the front and nerve of the men involved!  Churchill was bipolar.  Our ‘Brill-cream boy’ was a plane short of a fuselage, and our sailor had spent more time in court than the sea!  

Can you imagine the scene?  While Hitler was moving everything he had from Sicily to Greece, by sea, air, rail and road, British Intelligence were organising a piss-up to Blackpool.  And when Jerry reached Greece, they couldn’t understand why it was so quiet!   Abso-frigging-lutely brilliant.  

The full story is told in the film, The man that never was.  It’s got to worth a look hasn’t it?

Right, I’m off, I’ve got a reindeer to sand down.  Catch you all in the New Year sometime…