So why do we like to get drunk?  It’s a licensed poison, it affects your train of thought and eventually your sense of balance – well, it’s a great buzz isn’t it.  But how drunk do you have to be to steal a wild animal?  “Do you fancy another beer or shall we go to another club?”  “Naaaa, let’s go nick a penguin.”

Two blokes from Wales got hammered and then decided to stroll into Sea World, Australia and p-p-p pick up Dirk the penguin rather than a kebab, but not before a swim with the dolphins.  It’s probably just as well they were sober enough to let off a fire extinguisher in the shark tank rather than get in!

So, you’ve had your night out and you return home to sleep off the night’s alcohol and wake up to find you’ve got a short black and white guest standing in your wardrobe, what do you do?  Your first thought must be, “I don’t recall buying that last night.”  Then, between the two of you, you slowly piece together your evening.  Of course it begs the question, how much organisation went in to the plot?  I mean, did they think, better take a back pack or did they simply just tuck Dirk under their arm and leg it?

You realise you can’t keep it as it keeps trying to get in the fridge for a kip and you don’t want to draw attention to yourselves by ordering a hundred weight of sprats every two months from the fishmongers.  So what are you going to do with it?  Taking it straight back to the zoo is out of the question, I mean, you don’t want to appear stupid.  No, so you plum for dumping Dirk in the shark infested waters of the Gold Coast and do a runner hoping that no one spots you.

Well, after a good laugh at the Dirk’s expense, and thinking you’ve got a way with pilfering a Mary Poppins extra, you’ve just got to tell a friend about your latest jape.  Not via phone or Skype no, you decide to inform a chum on face book.  Big mistake!  Aah yes, what it is to be 20 something and that stupid!  FX: Knock, knock.  “S’cuse me sir, have you seen this penguin before?”  “Ermmm, yes.”  “Great, that’ll be a thousand dollars please.”

Then comes the ‘poor me’s’ cycle.  “It was just a laugh and now I’ve been evicted from my apartment.  People are laughing about this at home but I’m feeling the rough end of the stick over here.”  Awww, boo-hoo and hoo, tell it to the animal that spent a night avoiding a bunch of sharks, asshole…

 

Well, if you were there you certainly weren’t square, but there is a chance you’ll have looked like a right prat.  Welcome to England in the 1970’s…

Aah yes, those were the days, we had the miner’s strikes, a three day week, the worst fashion in history since the doublet and hose and the longest, hottest summer for years.  And I’m not just saying this because I was there, but there was something definitely special about this period in history. 

The seasons of the year fell in the correct part of the calendar for a start.  The metrication system was introduced in 1971 to confuse the old and devalue the pound over night.  And the best way to show this effect is thus: a sliced white loaf would set you back 19p and twenty Rothmans cost 42p, and I can clearly remember enjoying a cigarette, IN A PUB, with beer that I paid 32p for.  Yes, three pints for a quid!  

Sounds cheap, doesn’t it!  Well it does as long as you don’t look back and then take into consideration, at a very basic level, the price of a Mars bar then and now.   Then it was a tanner, sixpence, two and a half new pence.  Today the same item costs 60p or 11/- shillings in real money.  And bearing in mind there were 20 shillings to the pound then, you can how things have changed.

The fashion of the era was a disaster.  I can only assume the economic boom at the time gave the designers more material to play with so they added it to men’s trousers!  And boy did we think we were cool in our 28 inch bell bottoms and three inch waist bands!   And let’s not forget the obligatory platform shoes or boots!  It was about this time the Fashion Police was formed!  The sad part about this was people actually attended parties dressed in this rubbish! 

And what did we drink?  Well by and large that’s a secret.  The wine, for the little lady, had a high proportion of antifreeze in it, but as no one died and most made it through the British winter untouched by frostbite, the Government approved the sales.  But, the blokey-blokes of the day were had over big time.

Any form of bag carrying was seen as the first steps to homosexuality, so how did you get your beer to a party?  Well, Watneys had the answer – The Party Seven tin.  Yep, seven pints at the cost of a nifty 15/- shillings or 75p to you youngsters, and it was carried under an arm, with a stack of records under the other. 

You never actually got to drink the whole of contents though.  Most people walked in those days and right there was the reason.  Warm beer being slopped about for a mile or so caused havoc in the kitchen.  You arrived, looked for a hammer and a screwdriver and the first two pints shot up the walls and the rest hit the ceiling.  Oh yes, none of that namby-pamby ring-pull malarkey in my  day…

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Now us Brits may not be good at everything, but by George, when it comes to strolling into a country and taking it over we are past masters.

How did we achieve this in the days of the Empire?  By using the English language and shouting a lot of course!  And let’s not forget how having a crisp white shirt also gave us the upper hand.  Oh yes mate-boy, we may only have 26 letters to play about with, but boy do we know how to use ‘em.  I mean, which other country has words that sound the same, are spelt differently and mean totally different things?  Example: ware, wear and where.  It’s enough to confuse any ‘Johnny foreigner’, and even some of our American friends. 

Another bonus of our language is; the silent letter.  It reeks of opulence from way back.  We could save a fortune in printing costs, like the Americans who remove some of the letters, but no we sally forth regardless thinking we know no what’s best.  However, some people forget one salient point; there are different types of English spoken in England.  There’s the Queen’s English for starters. 

She uses the same amount of letters as her subjects but they all sound different to the riff raff.  A house translates as: a hice.  Trip a little bit further down the Thames estuary and ‘a house’ in the east end of London sounds like: an ass.  “I’ll see you round your ass at 9am!”  And ‘sex’ is what one puts ones coal in!

However, there is a flaw in the English language, some words and phrases are compromised by their very spelling which goes onto change the meaning, thus.  If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, shouldn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys can be deranged, models deposed and tree surgeons can be debarked!

This process also throws up a number of other questions too.  If you spin an Oriental person around a number of times, would they become disoriented?  If Polish people are called Poles, why aren’t the residence Holland called Holes?  And please spare a thought for the locals of Maryland, USA!

Here are a few more oddities to finish: do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?  A person who plays the piano is called a pianist, so why isn’t a racing driver called a racist?  Most people warm to a wise man but a wise guy – not so much!  And don’t get me started on the anagrams.  If you rearrange the letters in ‘President Clinton of the USA’ you get.  To copulate he finds interns!  And if you do the same with ‘mother-in-law and ‘election results’ you’ll find Woman Hitler and Lies – let’s recount!  I really must get out more!

PS  If you’re a smoker and are totally pissed off with where you can and can’t smoke and the whole anti-smoking campaign, this might be for you. 

Already, the staff who work behind the cigarette counter in supermarkets are hacked off with opening and closing the shutters that conceal the naughty cigarettes. 

The reason?  The shutters are linked to a bar code machine, which puts the till in ‘BUY MODE’.  So if you ask for something and THEN CHANGE YOUR MIND, the staff have to get a book out and, BY LAW, have to tell you the price or some such nonsense.  Now, if that happened once a day, it would become a tad annoying.  But what would occur if it happened 40 times day? 

It makes you wonder how long it would take before a story like this went viral and made the 6 o’clock news.  I’m not suggesting you  should go to your local supermarket and undertake this prank.  Well it’s childish isn’t it, and you wouldn’t want upset the Government, would you…       

40-a-day-man strikes back for British smokers on St Georges Day 

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Well I’d seen on the TV and bet on it from time to time over the years, but I never thought I’d actually see it live.  Then one Saturday lunch-time in my local a friend said, “You coming to Liverpool or what?”  It was too good to turn down. 

At worst it was a long and uncomfortable ride up North by car, and at best it was a long weekend on the beer in the Wirral, Merseyside.  My friend had been working in Liverpool and we were to hook up with his co-workers and at some point head off to Aintree for the race of the year.      

I’ve never taken to gambling on the horses, and still think it’s a mug’s game.  Not only that, I can’t think of a more boring way to pass the time than sitting there watching 5000 tins of potential cat food and glue running around in circles, all for the sake of a bet.  However, we were there, and it would have been daft not to go and soak up the atmosphere. 

We met Andy’s friends in a pub and the table we were sitting at was the resting place for forty hardened Liverpool supporters.  And it was here that the loyal fans would get rat-arsed three hours before any game kicked off.  Eventually they would stagger onto a mobile off-license and then get dropped off at the Kop.  Anyway, after a quick prayer and three Hail Marys the strategy for the day’s betting began to unfold.  It seemed all too simple, childlike in fact.�
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Our events manager for the day was a staunch racing addict and what he knew about turf, odds, horses, and the midgets riding them seemed astounding.  However, after sitting with him for a while my bullshit alarm went off and I surmised that this was a sure-fire way of being relieved of our cash.

We would begin in the bronze enclosure apparently, and with our combined winnings from there we’d all take a stroll into the silver enclosure and carry this game play until we settled down in the gold enclosure.  From this standpoint we, or he, should I say, would put our entire fortune on the last race of the day thereby cleaning out the bookies.  Have you ever heard such a crock in all of your life?  I was only 24, but even I could see the gaping great holes in his plan, but the sad part was, he actually believed what was coming out of his mouth. 

On our arrival at the course we handed over our cash to Andy’s mate and watched as he shot off in the direction of the nearest bookies.  It was 12.30pm.  At precisely 1.00pm we learned that betting boy had lost our entire stake after placing it all on the first race of the day!  ‘Tosser’ was just one of the expletives banded about…

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Now, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there’s been a resurgence of the Titanic story.  Fine by me, it’s one of maritime’s finest blunders but, do we really want to listen to the same old facts being dragged up again?  Answer – no!  Not since I was approached by The Institute of Cock-ups at Sea.

They bestowed upon me the honour of dredging for the real facts surrounding the ship’s sinking.  And, I’m glad to say, after well under four minutes of fervent research, and half a kilo of Colombian marching powder, I’ve worked out how I could’ve kept her afloat and saved all of the passengers.  Oh yes matey-boy, I’d never steer you wrong.  (See, nautical humour and we haven’t even got under- way yet!)  Right, strap yourself to a bollard, and splice your sheepshank…

Now, it seems to me that the experts missed the most obvious danger in sailing a hollow metal object in huge quantities of water.  In parts it’s very, very, very deep.  My solution; concrete the seabed over, making it a blanket depth of 150ft.  Ships may sink to a degree, but on the whole they’ll just run aground. 

Another plus of the ‘Walton’ effect is it will raise the sea level of certain countries that would otherwise be land-locked.  With my plan in place they’ll be closer to a coastline and tourism will flourish.  Also, rainfall will increase due to the bonus water in the area and the extra clouds.   It’s a win-win situation all round.

The hull of the Titanic wasn’t watertight!  Now call me old fashioned, but surely someone, the designer perhaps, should’ve noticed this glaringly obvious flaw?  It seems not.  Well anyway, I feel with vast amounts of blotting paper aboard, this would’ve gone some way to soaking up the extra sea water.  The merry crew could’ve easily run up to the top deck, wrung it out, and returned to the hull.      

Next, jettison the sausages.  Well there were 2,500lbs of the little blighters!  Then I would’ve dismantled the fourth funnel and pushed it overboard.  It was only there for decoration and the loss of weight would, I think, have kept the Titanic afloat longer.  The lifeboat scenario was a 1st class problem; they didn’t want to travel with the riff raff.  My solution: extending lifeboats, rather like your dining room tables.  Once fully open, the boats will be marked for the correct classes.            

So there we are, the full report will be published next year just after my summer break on the Costa Concordia II, I think it’s called.  We know it’s easy, of course, to have the benefit of hindsight, but at the very basic end of the scale it boils down to this.  Spend a few more Bob/dimes on rivet heads and at all costs avoid smashing into the great big floaty things in the water…

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Now, you’ve done nothing with your life except join the army, take part in a bunch of wars killing a lot of ‘Johnny foreigners’ and now you’ve retired.  What are going to do with the rest of your life?

Well, with a keen interest in the young male form, you might think, how can I get some more of that without being arrested and hung?  The answer; start your very own boys movement and then write a book that states you are in fact ‘Scouting for Boys’.  So that’s what Baden Powell (BP) did, the dirty little devil!  And after all, he’d spent a life time in the army, ordering people about, so what better way to see out your retirement!  But it does go a little deeper than that.

Scouting was established in 1907 and it rapidly caught on.  What began with 20 boys in a hut near Dorset went on to amass 28 million scouts in 160 countries.  But back then BP saw another use for his tenderfoots.  He knew, after being in so many, wars can spring up out of nowhere and if you haven’t got a supply of cadets, you could find yourself a tad short in cannon fodder at the Front.

So while everyone thought they were have a great time, roughing it and starting fires by rubbing two of their fellow scouts together, they were in fact being seduced into a uniform, taught to take orders and to do their duty.  And what do you know; in 1914 a short Austrian kicked his toys out of the pram and invaded Poland!  What came next was The Hitler Youth Movement!  Here’s a quote from Scouting for Boys.  Campfire yarn no1:  “I suppose every boy wants to help his country in some way or other.”  Really!  Aged 11?   

Even though BP began a huge movement I think there was a darker side to his nature.  For a start, we didn’t play games like, staff tossing and bang the bear!  He seemed overly keen to watch the young in contact sports, and at the age of 55 he married a young gal of 23!  All of which makes me think, hmmm perhaps he was into bondage.  Well, he did show a keen interest in knots, didn’t he!

However, it was BP’s attitude toward suicide that took my interest.  “Where a man has gone as far as to attempt suicide, a scout should know what to do.”  “A tenderfoot is sometimes inclined to be timid about handling an insensible man or dead man, or even of seeing blood.  Well he won’t be much use till he gets over such nonsense.”  “The poor insensible fellow can’t hurt him, and he must force himself to catch hold of himself.  When he has done this his fears will pass off.”  Priceless wasn’t he! 

I had a great time in the cubs and the scouts, and remarkably I was allowed to openly carry a knife.  Luckily the badge for dealing with stiffs and suicides victims had been discontinued by then…

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And the financial prophet Bastard the money lender said unto his flock, “If ye be fund-less ye be not so much a loan, more an easy target.  Moreover, soon ye will have many new followers just like thee and we are here for your interest – purely your interest.”

So how can ripping off the already poverty stricken be legal?  Well, the UK’s governments and banks have got away with it for years; maybe the online prey-day loan sharks have friends in high places.  However, there’s very little difference between them.  One will beat the crap out of you if you can’t pay up on time; and the other charges you with such an extortionate interest rate you’ll top yourself!  And here’s why, please read the next paragraph carefully.

Victim X took out a loan of £300/$471; then he found he couldn’t make the repayment of £388/$609.  He called the company and they said, “No sweat, but it’ll cost you £40/$62 for your default.”  Then the licensed bandit passed on the debt to the firm’s collections partner, ‘Thug Inc’.  And knowing the money wasn’t in the victim’s account, they tried to redeem the debt every three days for a month, and all at the nominal rate of 2334%, now the debt is £630/$989.         

It’s nothing more than the all-ready opulent sucking the life out of the vulnerable.  Personally, I’d like to line them all up, set fire to the contents of their high interest bank accounts then feed them the remains via their poo-shoots! 

Having said that, I’m not sure who’s at fault, but which ever way you look at it, there are loan companies waving a lot of carrots at a bunch of vegetables who are minus a vegetable crisper!  The result?  Very shortly something will go rotten. 

First we see the misleading advert.  You might see a happy and cheery, well dressed women working in a spacious office.  She’s just got off the phone to ‘Prey-day loans’, so called because once you’ve signed up, and agree to the payments, you become their quarry.  But, “It’s so quick and easy and the money will be in my account in 15 minutes,” she says.  The stupid trout goes on.  “If you’re short until your next pay day, get a ‘Prey-day loan’ to tide you over.”

Well, she’s paid to say it, isn’t she!  The reality of the situation is very different.  Forget the daft tart in the ad, and think about the out of work smack addict who’s got nine children by 36 different fathers who also likes a drink.  The words, slaughter and lamb come to mind pretty rapidly.  I’m surprised the loan companies haven’t set up offices out side the nations psychiatric wings!

Promotion: Prey-day loans, we specialize in mugging you in your own home.

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Not some much a post of humour this week, more a rant of utter exasperation.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so disgusted with our Conservative-lead Government.  Quite how I didn’t leave the expletives in I’m not sure – first the lie.

In 2007, Chris Grayling, MP for Epsom, Surrey said in Parliament: ‘Let me assure Remploy and its employees that the next Conservative Government will continue the process of identifying additional potential procurement opportunities for them and the public sector workforce’.

This has turned out to a great big fib boys and girls, even by a politician’s standards.  The fact is Remploy – which provides work for people with disabilities all over the UK – is planning to close 36 of its 54 factories, putting more than 1,700 jobs at risk. 

Well, it’s only had a 60-year history of giving disabled people a sense of pride and purpose – go ahead, shut the factories down.  Just make sure Mr Grayling it’s you that visits each employee in person and tells them their jobs have been axed.  And while you’re at it, mention their benefits will be cut in the future too.  [And people are alarmed when the suicide rate increases!]

I’ve had a look at the map and you won’t be surprised to hear there isn’t a Remploy factory in Epsom, but there is a very nice race course.  The only people suffering with a disability in opulent Surrey are the ones who religiously count their stocks and shares statements, and acquire a repetitive strain injury in the process.  And they won’t be signing on anytime soon; they will be head-hunted.

I don’t give a monkey’s if Remploy isn’t financially viable – there are more important things than cash, people’s lives is No. 1 on my list. 

Liam Byrne MP, Labour’s work and pension’s secretary, said: “Frankly it’s outrageous that the government has tried to smuggle out the news on the day of the Parliament’s celebration of Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee.  “This is the wrong plan at the wrong time.  Unemployment is going through the roof and back to work schemes are sinking under the weight of spiraling unemployment.

A machinist aged 58 at the Remploy factory in Swansea, and a Remploy national convener, described the decision as “absolutely devastating”.  “Where am I going to get a job?  Living in Wales, there are no jobs here.” 

It’s nothing short of despicable, and it’s as if the staunch Conservatives actually enjoy watching the unprivileged and debilitated grafting themselves to death for thruppence/2c a week.  If only there was a workhouse or mine open…

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