Saturday, 17 January 2009

Celebrity Shit Me A Winner


The New Show from the makers of That's My Jesus and Crack Whore Down. Teams grill a celebrity panel, one of whom has swallowed a diamond, before deciding whose shit to go through by hand. Hope you win, team, or you'll be disappointed!

Enough Contradiction brings Balance

Last night I was reduced to physical violence in my dreams (yes, I know) as I was snubbed by having my work yet again interfered with. Much of my frustration is a living embodiment of that old Jewish joke, "this food's terrible - and such small portions". Prostitution has life bang to rights - If you're not going to be respected at least get paid for it. Outside of this virtual cornucopia Dr Nostrum has suffered the fate of that downtrodden soul, the 'award winning' songwriter, been cursed to suffer 'critical success' as a Theatrical lyricist, been utterly ruined as a 'gifted' (that should probably be 'fetid') fine artist. All of these having in common those many fine reward's, none of which are money. Still, money's overrated - you can't eat it. (it can however keep you warm if you burn it or stuff it down your trousers - I feel this may be of some use to the irretrievably rich in years to come, but of less use to the rest of us)

"How much is enough?" is my inner refrain. I feel the answer is: "It's never enough until you realise you don't care anymore. Then you know have too much." I often care deeply about not being sure I care. I have also cared so deeply I was sure I required care (how strange to career wildly about for 6 years - "he careered from career to career"). However, I am now a few years older (and thus of course, beginning to thing I may in fact slip into becoming a bore - far, far worse than being a cunt)

My dear cousin gracefully said to me "I've never seen you get angry about anything, you have a great equanimity about you."

"Yes," I replied, "either that or I just don't give a shit about anything."


You know how much it costs to become President? $600 million. $600 million and the Presidency is yours. I can't work out if that's good value. I wonder what you can get for Cristina Milian? Probably a dose of the clap. I'd rather be President.

Dr. Nostrum again draws the reader's attention (and on a sideways notion - who the hell are you?) to the depressing clandestine work done by The Hidden Irish Conspiracy Kabal (THICK) in burying our President Elect's proud heritage. They even stoop to the old Music Hall trick of Black-face and bow ties to hide Barack (né Barry) O'Bama in plain site. Still, he's there now, and after all that money he cost I hope he makes a good fist of it.

I fear the Price of being Prime Minister may be Katie Price. (Boom, Boom - and here Dr Nostrum can reveal that the man with his hand up Basil Brush's backside trod the boards singing my words before settling on never being able to reveal his true identity)

That Filthy Queen Joke


Many BBC bylines have made reference to an otherwise un-publicised filthy Joke about Her Majesty The Queen, it may have appeared on Mock The Week, though I haven't heard it. Dr Nostrum fears they have been referring to sordid details from an otherwise very private life because as it happens The Queen was round the other week to give me a blowjob and she wouldn't even swallow, the cunt. "Call yourself a monarch?", I yelled as I kicked her out without even paying her.

I think that might have been something like the substance of what some prudes at Auntie turned their sniffy noses up at, except they may have been funny of course.

Wife Murdering


When was the last time you murdered your wife? Christ, I haven't murdered my wife for months. I'm thinking about murdering her again sometime in the next few weeks, but can't get my diary sorted out, what with work commitments etc. Anyhow, next time I murder her I was going to do the whole shebang, you know, candlelit dinner, soft music, sweet nothings, maybe a shared bath with candles and some incest burning - nag champa, maybe, for that touch of class. Then a swift one eyed cry whilst pretending I'm just getting ready for bed (so I last when the time comes) and straight in for a bit of murdering, the wife does love it.

Yes Is The New No.


"I enjoyed meeting you too, I'll call you this week." "I've made a note of that for you, when you call up next time whoever you speak to will be able to see the notes." "Yes, I love it, I think we could really do something, just give me a week to digest it all." "Definitely, I've got your details in my case, give me a call next week." "I've got a couple of people in mind, let me get in touch with them and I'll get back to you as soon as I've spoken to them." "O.K, that's all done for you, we'll send you a letter of confirmation this week." "So email me this week and I'll set something up." "Send in your material and we'll get back to you next week." "Thanks a lot, I'm going upstairs and I'll email you straight away." "Let me take your number and someone will call you later today." "I'm just going to slip into something more comfortable."

These are all cunts of the first order. Yes is the new no. I'm not sure when it happened, it used to be impossible to get anyone to do anything, now they're falling all over themselves to not do anything. Fuck you all you lazy lying motherfuckers. The only consolation is that you don't have the talent to do anything else.

I’m Sorry, Ru Paul


Where are you Ru? A little known fact is that Ru used to serve fruit salad in the back rooms of the New York Club scene in the early 90's. This sounds like a euphemism, but in fact was just fruit salad.

Dr Nostrum declined the fruit salad politely way back then and I offer by belated apologies Ru, I couldn't quite get my head round the fact that a huge black genderfucker would simply be serving fruit salad and became ever more anxious that it was laced with LSD.

Pro-Celebrity Boasting or, Sachs Brands Ross a Cunt


I don't know why Ross and Brand are so contrite or Sachs so indignant. Everyone's slept with Georgie, my god, she was round here for a roasting with my hutchback midget assistant the other week. Doesn't Grandpa know?

This message was brought to you on behalf of the New Social Outrage Department of the Untied Kingdom, where two people complaining is two too many.

Gary Lineker’s Inconvenience


Dr Nostrum overheard a short joke about one of the English Nation's leading sporting figures too good to leave in the small flat on Triangle Place, where one of the girls living there used to often arrive home and sit mere inches from the Television screen until she fell asleep (?)

It had been widely reported that Gary and Michelle's first baby, George, was suffering from Leukemia. Gary had been telling us that the radiation treatment George had to endure had impacted every aspect of family life, even to the point that to change his nappies he and Michelle had to wear gloves, to stop the skin on their hands being burned by George's shit. It was a further inconvenience to Gary as it meant he had to wear a rubber every time he fucked his son.


NoGoat Citywide Protection


Dr Nostrum was walking down the burgeoning aisles of Tesco's several years ago in Westcliff (which is so staid it should be spelled (which should be spelled spelt) Westcliffe) when I caught a glimpse of a new product 'Goat Honey'. Ha! typical, I thought, another proliferation of the endless bourgeois grab all that is any product of a goat as opposed to sheep or cow. A few moments later I realised that I may have misread the label.

Several hours later me and my midget hutchback assistant (much more useful than my hunchback assistant) and a short, short haired girl (presumably to help her appear taller, as long haired short girls often look shorter than they actually are. I must say, as a young man Dr Nostrum had several things for short haired short girls, which did beg the latent homosexuality question) expanded the premise and it is indeed scary. Imagine the size of the hives!

With all those goats flying about it would be necessary to erect huge nets around cities to keep the goats out. These nets would be manufactured by the global leader in Goat Nets - NoGoat Citywide Protection. A company Dr Nostrum formed but immediately made dormant, thus dooming himself to endless annual dormant company accounts to submit to Companies House until goats have mutated sufficiently to allow the company to rise to it's rightful position at the head of the Goat defense industry.

Final Fantasy 11: What, Haven’t I Finished Yet?


Why are the video games (there's Dr Nostrum showing his age) all about wandering around in some variety of viking rape pillage thing in various era, previous or future? And the future ones are relentlessly dystopian. I'd like to play a game where in the far future nothing much happens except the occasional exchange of warm humour by esp. Dull game, but you could throw in some kind of task orientated goal, like picking the nose of God via all manner of puzzle solving larking about followed by battling homunculi before the doors of perception are opened.

What’s That Lyric? The Real Stories of Brit Hits


The most surprising song stories often get buried following success, so it was with the old Maria Mckee hit originally titled "Show Me Devon", written as a jingle for the Devon Tourist Marketing board in the early eighties. It had bummed around for years on late night regional TV and was heard by Don Simpson in late '87 on one of his frequent short holiday's there whilst in the throes of Cardiac arrest. He thought he'd heard "Show Me Heaven" (as always, attributable to his enormous ego) and from his hospital bed in Dawlish it was rewritten as he heard it for Days Of Thunder.

Years later in 1995 the true inspiration for Clapton's heartfelt "Tears in Heaven" was wrongly attributed (even by the writer) to his son Conor's tragic 49 story tumble, for whilst convalescing in Cornwall he was writing his annual jingle for the Cornwall Tourist Marketing Board (where his family had holidayed as a child), which ran that year with the competitive theme of showing up it's neighbour with the lyric "cos I know I don't belong here in Devon". With a simple twist a la Don Simpson, creating the myth of one of his most deeply personal songs was a no-brainer, as was Conor, after the fall. (this last comment will probably shortly be removed)

Favourite Put-Downs


Try this one kids (substitute situation as desired):

Son "Pass the sugar"

Mom "What's the magic word"

Son "Pass the sugar, cunt"

it works a charm.

How to Dump a lover in 2008


As practiced by Dr Nostrum, when you've finally had enough, Just text STOP to their messages of love.



Several years ago Dr Nostrum once bought a small torch and batteries from an 'Everything for a £1' store (almost nothing was a pound but, hey) or something like that, in other words an "It fell off the back of a lorry and it's all shit" store, although, interestingly they did have Brabantia Bins, which is either a comment on the bins or a strange wormhole issue.

The torch and batteries set was less than a pound with the unexpected bonus that the included AA batteries were Chinese, with a fabulous tiger painted on the side of them. It had less heft than one likes in a torch, or indeed a pair of false eyelashes or a robin's wing, being made of a thin red plastic bottom and a thin white plastic helmet, with a loose black plastic sliding switch (the colors of the flag of Iraq, Yemen, Egypt, Sudan and Syria, so perhaps I shouldn't have expected anything but trouble). There was a bulb, though I'm not sure there was a reflector behind it.

I inserted the batteries and pushed the switch on... Light! It Works! Then, it began to get quite hot and shortly after went out. The bulb looked fine, the batteries had stayed hot though, so I tried it with trusty Duracell's. Nothing. I checked the Duracell's with a fiddly battery meter and they were good. On removing the Duracell's I saw something inside, low down.

Pushing my finger in I could feel it was a piece of paper, but I couldn't quite get it out as I had no real purchase and just a pinkie's strength. Heading to the ever generous tool box that is the kitchen drawer I tried to find a suitable implement and settled on the flat handle of a desert spoon. Still no luck, the piece of paper was jammed in quite tight. From the real tool box the pliers fit in but didn't have room to open. I was forced to raid the girlfriends beauty bag and found some solid tweezers.

Firmly I grabbed the paper and with a few tugs out it came, slightly curled from the shape of the torch. It had some words printed on the back of it, I turned it round, flattened it and read "DO NOT REMOVE THIS PIECE OF PAPER"



Kato, released from the long years of subservience to Peter Sellers heirs, has reinvented himself as a hard as nails ex glamour model and gone and married himself an ex cultural joke. This brings Kato almost full circle from where we first saw him as the sharp obedient brains in a suit behind a young foolish french detective. After starring in Ang Lee's epic tale of tragic homoeroticism, HULK, Kato swiftly transited to low-brow reality. We, the money, are reminded every week how lucky we are to be invited into the pointlessness of Kato and the ex cultural joke's life. The cultural joke's now on us as we simper and glance askew at Kato's relentless BREAST rejuvenations, as we wonder, is that some problem with Kato's upper lip, or is it the light. Kato has two good reasons to be concerned about her appearance, because without them he would have no impact, other than as a nagging Harridan who constantly reminds the ex cultural joke that the ex cultural joke is a mere divorce away from becoming an embarrassment. DR NOSTRUM sympathises, in America DR NOSTRUM even sympathizes, for achieving the status of a cultural joke is not the work of a moment, it takes years of dedicated self deprecation and swallowing of semen to rise above the level of a cultural irrelevance to the exalted level of a joke, but the amount of semen needed to pass the lips in order to achieve Kato's status can only be described eloquently as "Gene Semens", the lead leg runner in Kiss, who always fail to get the baton round despite Gene's bursting out of the blocks at every opportunity (incidentally I happen to know that Gene was in fact a psychologist of some repute in his mid thirties who traveled forward in time to allow himself to be teaching in Pittsburgh at the same time as appearing on his own reality TV show in his mid fifty's.).

Some jokes have staying power, but some disappear for years and need resuscitation by iconic Japanese butlers forced to reinvent themselves after being on the receiving end of a trawl through the gutter to find work with any circus travelling through (in England this time, you will notice, for in America you merely travel; they have no need of the "l" you need to experience to make it in the UK sidekick business). So KATO has thus been a means for Salvation for the ex cultural joke, for without the ex cultural joke we would be left watching a moderately unpleasant reinvention on a stick who feels the need to tell us how they are "Shitting themselves" at every demure opportunity for self concern and that would not be a 'Show', merely an indulgence.

I warm to the ex cultural joke weekly and wish it every good luck in extricating itself from the clutches of Kato in order to fully discover that it is more of a man than Kato and more of a woman too. You go Peetee!



The mid eighties harked back to the seventies in the great popularisation of one of Britain's middling comedians. MAX WALL was the inspiration for Star Trek's Mr. Worf and his brethren, they did use the funny walk in early rehearsals but it didn't fit. Other than Max Wall, keep the Vidal Sassoon(my Grandma took him to school) Jean Muir bob over pointy ears for the Vulcan's and add a little Issey Miyake shoulder padded Japan-easy sparkle to create the Romulan's. I forget the name of the race of the little circumcised penis headed money grabbing homunculus' that used to orgasm by rubbing their rim (who could they be?). But enjoy the Q, a race invented purely to allow John de Lancie to fund his wild parties.

It's the technology and the fashion that dates sci-fi so terribly. Why would the far future have us twiddling knobs (from the sixties), tapping keys and touching screens (the eighties and nineties), waving hands over speaking into thin air (...) blah blah. Anyway, give 'em credit they invented the flip cell phone.

Dr Nostrum understands the futility of predictive imagination, doing things by thought (where else could we be headed) will, sadly, not make for good drama.

Dead Drunk on Debt!


Ha! now that's a metaphor for where we're at. Whisky and chocolate to rinse the day away, and now for random channel hopping:

'At least two people have died and thousands are forced to flee their homes in California...' (read in chirpy girls mag promo voice): 'Brave Jade plans her own funeral.' 'The winner of the Booker prize is a first time novelist..' (sing in a short black dress and red pumps:)'Hey, hey eh eh eh eh hey..' 'Shut it, (the trunk of a car) it's ok... (open the trunk by grabbing the emergency release handle and show your palm to Gary Sinise) it's a perfect match to what our first victim had on her hands.'

It must be true that things have gone very terribly wrong, can anyone understand why having things has become the be all and and all of aspiration for the masses? Yes, DR NOSTRUM CAN; When you have nothing having some things is a great improvement in your life and when you have enough having more things is a great improvement to your status and when you have more than enough things having more things is of great importance to your ego and when you truly have too many things you realise you don't care about the things you have.

BROWN SAVES WORLD! (Er, not really)


That (NEW) Financial Rescue Plan in full:

We will invent even more shitloads of money (that will never see the light of day, with the exception of some lining deep pockets, because that'll fuck everything up) and buy into the banks to secure your money. If the banks fold we will be absolutely completely fucked because then you will have no money to pay for the money we are inventing at the moment.

This way we can all carry on borrowing money until the (ever closer) end of our Civilisation!!

I have however invented something called DR NOSTRUM'S ALTERNATIVE. Under this plan we kiss goodbye to our improving standard of living and quite probably end up reminiscing about luxuries such as meat 3 times a day and hot water. The key element to this plan is to carry on borrowing money until the (ever closer) end of our Civilisation.

Oh, that's the same plan.



Pamela Anderson went to Washington last week to bring the PETA campaign further into the public eye. The Military are still experimenting on animals and Pamela's long standing vociferous animal activism condemns this cruelty. Dr Nostrum along with Pamela advocates changing the focus of experimentation onto prisoners in exchange for shorter sentences. When asking "Who do I have to sleep with to stop this happening?" Secretary of State Condaleeza Rice agreed to meet within 5 minutes. Despite clear and cogent argument on the behalf of dumb animals the powers that be were unable to understand a word Pamela was saying as they were too busy looking at... I can't be bothered to finish this...

A hunch


Dr Nostrum's midget hunchbacked assistant has now been given control of the blog. However he has no opinion about anything at the moment. He will post shortly.



It's been deemed by the powers that be that biting the skin at the side of your nails is self-abuse. It is, it's a fearsome furious attack that masks the very deepest personal troubles at the heart of low self esteem. It is a cover for years of relentless incestuous sodomy. It's a bubbling up of that subconscious self-loathing towards the very digit that has committed paedophilia. It's the deformity of the damned instruments of death that end the lives of screaming mothers and innocent baby victims of genocide. Or, it might be that you're just a bit nervous.

On this theme, having become engaged, it's my New Yearly Resolution not to pick my nose. Friends look aghast, this is a resolution too far, one no man can hope to achieve, one foolish to even contemplate, one deemed to pitiable failure within two hours. Still, I strive. I have considered going the other way and applying for a grant to develop my nose picking. After setting up the appropriate company and filling out all the forms I was offered one from the National Lottery if I could match the funding, but I couldn't raise half a million pounds.

It would have been in vain in the current climate though, as nose picking follows finger nibbling into being classed as self-abuse. We shall soon be looking ruefully at the desperately sad figure of a child picking his or her nose then biting their fingers. How we will worry and fret that they may be an abused child secretly crying out to be saved, we shall call the police anonymously having followed the family home "I think I know a child that's being abused" "Why's that sir?" "There was a little boy in his push-chair I saw at lunch, when his Dad leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the top of his head, the boy... it's hard to say it..." "Go on sir" "He started... picking his nose." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm afraid so." "Are you sure he couldn't have been scratching an itch?" "No, it went in and..." "And what?" "It's too terrible." "What happened next sir?" (almost whispering)"He bit the skin at the side of his finger." "It's all right sir, you've done the right thing. Do you know the identity of the boy?" "I followed them home, I don't think they saw me." "Give me your location, we'll send a car round straight away, don't worry, it can all stay anonymous. If you could just wait till the car arrives and talk to the attending officer. Thank you sir, and I'm sure the boy will thank you one day too."

All The Best Olympic Lines


By far (and when I mean by far I mean a solar system's lead ahead) the most marvellous commentary from this year's Olympics and Para-Olympics came just yesterday where the BBC commentator on the amputee women's 100m Butterfly excitedly told me that there was a "A great start by the Australian, catching Natalie Du Toit on the hop" Go look her up.

Also greatly enjoyed Michael Johnson coining a new and fabulous metaphor for giving it everything. In the much re-run men's 200m running away semi final he comments on Usain Bolt seemingly jogging alongside Shawn Crawford who's going as fast as he can "Balls, er eyeballs out".

IOC to include The Palin Bounce


This is a new Winter Paralympic event. The contestant is superfluous, but the result is everything. At this point in the planning stage, how the combination of all Paralympic qualifications (mental or physical disability, outstanding ability, TV friendly) will work itself out into an actual competition that anyone can enter is unclear. It will likely be a version of the modern Pentathlon consisting of Moose shooting, Dog sledding, Giving birth, Threatening and Praying. One thing for sure though is that is has to include leading your own applause.

Keegan To Manage Mental Patients 11


Because of the sensitivity of some fans of the football team from Newcastle I shall tone down the language here. Kevin Keegan is of course only fit to manage the best eleven you could choose from any mental hospital. I should know, I've been there. For a hospital team your sole aim is the enjoyment of the game and the benefit all get from being involved. You could be a manic depressive on the wing, distraught at life on the fringes of the team, but King Kev would soon have you in the thick of midfield, tigerishly tackling and flooding you with the confidence of competition met face to face instead of being dependent on the largesse of others. Should you have a manic phase you may well burst through on your own and the team will surely follow. A schizophrenic could be a perfect utility player in his or her different states, goalkeeper, full back or big number nine, it's all in the mind. Ron Atkinson, that famous usurper of racial steriotyping, had it right when the concussed player, not knowing who he was, was told he was Pele and sent back to battle.

Not even the anorexic has a tough time in Keegan's team, 3 stone and on dialysis? No matter, for you would soon find yourself defended on the steps of the hospital with enough gusto to swallow a mouthful of gruel and launch into a 2 minute time-wasting substitution at the end of a game.

It's an unknown whether Keegan would be the same man without his loyal lapdog Terry McDermott. When the football circus, that long help Utopian dream of Keegan's to bring a smile to the world through football played in clowns shoes and greasepaint, needed a lift, he had to look no further than just below his belt, where Terry (wiping away the offending cream) provided the instant inspiration to boldly add the comedy 'tache to the posters.

I do wish him well away from the glare of the media, it is the glare that has blinded him since he put himself in it's way. Yet, nearly like King David, he has clearly amassed great wisdom, but just missed and amassed Norman Wisdom, which is close, but not the same, this is the lesson for all Newcastle fans. Be careful what you wish for.

Car Swingers


I saw the guys that 'loved' their cars. Secretly filming a creepy spilling the seed reel, for one of the rarer public displays of love was quite a passion killer.

It may have been a coincidence that neither man filmed in this old perv young perv less than tense juxtaposition was likely to ever have scrubbed up nice despite mother's best efforts (you feel they may have received their mother's best efforts in other less gracious directions) and that they had hitched their wagons to Volkswagen Beetles - not one of the most beautiful, but one of the most numerous of cars.

They knew their place even in car society. It was not a surprise to hear them lewdly comment on passing Ferrari's and Corvette's ("look at her, that dirty shameless bitch"). You could see the disappointment to know no good looking car would ever look twice at either of them for here were two hopelessly helpless freaks entirely lacking in self-confidence with the opposite sex-machine.

If you see any ugly guy dating a concourse winner he must have a big cock.

The younger fetishist had once had a Mini and was cheating on it with a Morris Minor, the filthy bastard. (The Mini must've felt a pang to read of Colleen McLaughlin's heartache)

The elder showed a picture of a family left far behind, the wife looked like the back end of a bus.

Retail Stupidity


I was off to meet my other half at a store near Old Street. I called them up and asked the nearly charming girl that answered whether they were North or South of City Roundabout. "It depends which direction you're coming from." "No it doesn't." The silence that roared down the phone line told me all I needed to know.

Trip of The Tongue


Did enjoy a spokesperson for 'Women against Rape' (that probably isn't the right name for whatever group it was, for obvious reasons, but whichever one it was escapes me) angry at 'The Queen' commenting about the unlikelihood of date rape coming to court, seemingly discouraging women from reporting it. "I don't know what she thinks she's doing.... it's already hard enough for women who've been up against it." Quite.

Patronisation or, What Are We Voting For


Well, there's not much comedy in politics you'd say. But the Democratic audience are a great canned audience, "No" they yell as Hillary asks whether they want more of the same "Boo" they clamour as Hilary raises the specter of John McCain. "Keep Going" they chant as she reminds them that they're not there yet. Cheers rain down as she reminds them that they have to elect Barak Obama and not her. "Why is she shouting?" asks my fiancee. Well, if you saw Kathleen Sebelius (who can't even spell her own name right) you'd soon see the advantage of shouting. Boy, she sucked the life right out of that room and reached all the way across the atlantic to suck the life out of my veins as I sit here in London, home of Mayor Boris Johnson - the joke that never stops. As he becomes p.m. it shall surely be the greatest joke ever told.

i have a theory that George Bush Jr's presidency was a making real of 'Trading Places' with the dollar bet won by his dad from Kenneth Lay. "Impossible" Ken would've said in 1999 "You could never, ever make him president". "Told you so." says George snr 1 year later. "Hand it over."

Shouting is a key element in rousing the rabble. Hilter, now there was a man who could project. Not many know that the Nuremberg p.a. failed halfway through his Labor-Front speech, all that yelling because of it was the making of him as he bust a gut to be heard at the back.

The irony never stops as Lilly Ledbetter comes to the mic and speaks from the heart about the deep immorality of pay equality, which she sued for as an employee and wants to see for the supreme court judges. Her walk out theme song: 'Material Girl'

O’bama/Bi(n La)den and other famous Irishmen


It can't have been easy finding a running mate that you could do it with but I swear every time the ticket came into shot it looked like Obama Bin Laden.

I remember reading about Sarah Palin some months ago and she was tipped for the top in as political a publication as 'Monocle'. Looks like McCain needed to tap that 'celebrity'.

Back to the greatest living Irishman. Have you ever heard so many promises outside of a making up after a lover's quarrel? Well, if you shoot for the moon, maybe you won't get shot, but I doubt it.

Other famous Irishmen that have somehow been adopted by poorer and less scrupulous countries should be reclaimed. Leonard O'DaVinci, Marc O'Polo and my favourite Irish hairdresser Albert O'Balsam (who wasn't nabbed by a desperate country of underachievers but was looking for some much needed romance lacking in his god given name.)

If fiction were a human only construct, and film survived the human race it would be incredibly confusing for an alien watching. Why are the people the same in all those different stories. How did the uniformed cop in The Big Easy also manage to assist Lex Luthor especially after all that trouble in the hills getting away from those crazy natives? I imagine they'd just think there were a small, finite number of body types and that each type filled a particular narrow social caste.

Ronald McDonald for a better Afghanistan & A New Viagra’s figurehead


There is a huge missed opportunity to privatise the military, or at least bring in shit-loads of extra money. this came to me in a flash as a story was told to me about a co-worker digging up an unexploded ww2 bomb the other week. I could only imagine the manufacturer's name plate on the side of it. (translating) "This bomb is brought to you by Luftwaffe, Kurt and Sons". and all of a sudden we're off: The underside of US planes and helicopters seems an obvious place to start.

"Ronald McDonald for a better Afghanistan - We're Lovin' It" the golden arches would fit very well across the wings actually.

What about advertising on the screens of the bomb guidance systems? Certainly there must be room for the latest fuck 'em up sim. (or something 'other', say - "Trojans, for todays heroes"?)

Maybe the tanks could be loud-speakered up with the fabulous "By Mennen" jingle, those three notes endlessly blared at debilitating volume cold prove an effective weapon and create brand awareness at the same time.

There really is nowhere you'd need to stop, from bullets sponsored by "Microdon - for what comes next" to Battleships fitted with Google SeaView cams.

Funds would surely be next to limitless, allowing government ministers to cream off huge amounts of money for their dungeon building hostage exploits. Imagine the recent shudders that went through the family incarceration/incest circles the civilised world over as one of their number was tapped up by his ungrateful grand-daughter. Now there's a posterboy for Viagra if ever there was one. I believe his agent is also fishing for DIY chain spokesperson work for him too.

Liu Xiang Amputation - The Extreme Price Of Olympic Failure


Liu Xiang has had his offending foot cut off by the Ruling Party as punishment for failing to compete at the Beijing Olympics, which had been built around the national hero's attempt to retain his 110m hurdles title.

The amputation was carried out as an extraordinary reminder of the cost of disappointing the regime.

Liu Xiang must have feared what fate awaited him as he lined up and tried to start the race although his foot was sending such searing pain thorough his body. No-one could have forseen this, though.

It follows on from the public execution of the management team responsible for the series of recalls of Mattel toys due to the hazardous levels of lead in the paint used in manufacturing.



Usian Bolt proved again that he is the world's fastest ever at running away. With centuries of running away behind them, Jamaica has proved a great breeding ground and they are finally capitalising on their pround heritage with a clean sweep in the women's 100m running away being a footnote to Usain Bolt's long limbed one man re-writing of the men's running away record books.

With more to come the youth of the world has a new hero to idolise and hope of emulating as they dream of never being caught if they've got a fair start. The young Brits better get their skates on for 2012!

Razor Blade M.A.D.


What is happening in the great razor blade wars? They seem to have reached a mexican standoff at 5, but I know the product development departments at Gillette and Wilkinson Sword are hard at work on how to beat the opposition after so many years of hard fought advances. There's some crazy and fearless young turk in one of the labs now who's come up with the next weapon to bludgeon the opposition with. He's bursting to storm the boardroom and tell them "I've got it! I've got it! It's six, we've got to go to six." and they'll all look at him with fear and incredulity. "Can we do it? can we really do it?" "SIX?" "Is it possible?" "Let's do it!" and they'll go for it. It's only a matter of time though before the enemy catches up, and reports will spread that they have a fearsome new blade in secret research, it could be a seven!. We're heading for M.A.D. I can't imagine where it will stop, 20? 50? And how smooth can they get your face, it'll be so smooth that nothing will stick to it. Kisses will slide right off, light will be bent round it, men will disappear from the neck up. Hundreds, possibly THOUSANDS of blades ready to shave you so effortlessly you won't notice you've sliced your face off!

I have another, alternative universe prediction, where the young turk bursts into the boardroom and says "I've got it! I've got it! It's one, we've got to go to one blade! One sharp blade for a perfect close shave."

Turtlewax - wax at the speed of ice. That's a tag that doesn't need any help. I have a feeling that the speed of ice is usually something like a meter a day, unless they mean Shabu or Hiropong, in which case, good luck!

Other names and tags that stuck were "Kiss My Ass" moisturiser, with it's even better sister product "Kiss My Ass Al Night". We all often need E45 Bitch relief cream.

On a tangent, I've always liked "Sainsbury's, where good food doesn't exist"

not being a c*nt


it's a major pre-occupation. My tongue trips over my mouth and falls flat on it's face. After trying so hard to have a great healthy diet, my partner was proudly telling me how she used to eat three small chocolate bars a day but doesn't any more. "Now you eat two." was my considerate response. Cue the silent treatment.

The o- and para-lympics


Swimming is just so dull. The commentators are going bananas, the crowd is going crazy and the coach is screaming encouragement as he's walking slowly alongside the pool. "Come on, come on, you can do it, come on, yes, yes, push, that's it, yes, YES!". Yes, a man can swim much slower than we can walk, but why would we care? Perhaps they could have the swimmers swimming away from sharks to add desperately needed dramatic tension?.

I do however particularly like the paralympic triple bounce. This is a team event with the wheelchair athlete and the broomstick shover. The athlete tears down the track at full pelt in the chair and at the board the team-mate shoves the broomstick into the wheels, launching the athlete from the chair into the bounce phase, which requires far more skill than the long jump.

I found out this evening that St. Jude is the patron Saint of Lost Hope (not one of the better things to be a patron saint of perhaps) but who is the patron Saint of Lost Keys?

The invention of shift work and the world order.


There would have been a first human to pick something up. Off of the ground. This act was the first advance in human history, for all the other humans who never picked anything up would immediately have been at a disadvantage, in fact I imagine that the first human to pick things up became a tribal leader. His or her tribe, taught how to pick things up, would have quickly become the dominant tribe in the area, for suddenly they would have all sorts of things previously left on the ground.

Quickly though, other tribes would have had to adapt, scouts must have been sent out to discover where all the things that were on the ground had gone. Spying the new discovery and passing on the trick, soon all tribes would have begun picking things up, with equal success: once learned the skill was never forgotten and easily adapted to many different sizes of objects.

The first tribe was in trouble, how could they maintain their dominance? The only answer could be to get up early and start picking things up before the other tribes. Soon tribes were competing to get up earlier and earlier, but, limited by the sun, this too was a level playing field. What was needed was a way to see in the dark, they had it in fire and briefly power swung to the innovators of the night-shift, for now there could be round the clock picking things up, and this combined with putting out the best teams of small, close to the ground, knuckle dragging big handed cavemen proved a recipe for unrivaled success.

Human invention soon took off, with the need for ever cleverer ways to pick a lot of things up, sacks made of animal stomachs, poles to hang bigger and bigger sacks off gave way to the wonder of the wheel barrow - still in use today. The advances in picking things up seem to have peaked with the Mechanical digger. And it is still true today that the most advanced civilizations compete for the best methods of picking things up, compare poor Czech peasant women, working in the field, all day bent over double picking up handfuls of dirt with the great JCB diggers bought on the cheap from dodgy UK exporters by scheming African nations to make sure they leapfrog Eastern European states in the rank of humanity.

The Great British Cheese Awards


Is on television. Actually it's the 2007 awards, perhaps this was a taster, just to see if it got a big enough audience to ramp up the budget for a glorious 2008 awards ceremony, red carpet and all. But imagine the pong, how would the venue recover from the stench.

Surely cheese could only have been invented by accident, perhaps muching on the udder of a long dead cow, but I am most likely displaying my cheese ignorance. I can't be bothered to look it up. Actually, I just did look t up and I was close enough to being right as anyone.

The lifetime award is called Cheese-person of the year. Surprisingly, there are a lot of regional accents. Anyhow, Urine Richards, or that's what I think she was called, won.

The programme is unfortunately just a number of worthies talking about cheese. such gems as "Cheesemaking is a craft, everytime you make cheese you learn something new". Oh, you mean something new about cheese.

I could only stand 5 minutes.

Celebrity Auschwitz and American Inventor - A Preview


Why not start as I mean to go on. Celebrity Auschwitz. It's a series that needs making and it's in pre-production, so you're too late!

Meanwhile - american inventor. the first contestant walks in, he's small, unremarkable, a bit shabby and not too bright, he comes in holding a tube, maybe 2 and a half foot long with some wires and copper tubing wrapped round it, and a sheet of semi-rigid plastic. He's asked who he is.

"burt flahrmun"

"and what have you brought in for us, burt?"

"I've got this" he holds up the tube, "lemme show you, just hold on."

he lays the plastic sheet on the floor, drops his pants and squats over it. the millionaires are concerned. burt begins straining

"I been holding one in, it's coming."

the panel look at each other, very worried. he squirms a little more and out it comes. he stands and pulls his pants up and rolls the plastic sheet around his deposit, into a conical shape.

"ok, i got it."

balancing the tube clumsily on his knee and angling it to the floor burt slides the shit out of the rolled up plastic into the top of the tube, he fiddles with something and shakes the tube a little, some led lights flash and it begins to hum, burt looks up.

"here it is."

a bar of gold drops out the other end of the tube and onto the floor. burt is non-plussed.

peter jones "that's very impressive, how long have you been working on that?"

"bout a year, i couldn't get the bar shape."

george foreman "I just love this and i think america may love it too, it's just so good to see a man follow his dreams and triumph"

pat croce "i'm not so sure," to flahrmun "have you done any marketing?"


croce "have you got any patents?"


jones "well, what have you done?"

burt points to the tube "i invented this"

sarah blakely "burt, do you have any ideas about how to use this invention?"

burt, unsure "it turns shit into gold, i don't know, i thought it would be useful. i suppose i could tweak it to make diamonds."

jones "burt, you haven't thought this through, if you can make gold and diamonds for nothing then they're essentially worthless."

foreman "now hang on a minute, gold and diamonds are very nice shiny things and america loves them"

burt "i like them"

foreman "so do i"

croce "ok, ok. let's vote on it"

the panel all vote no except george foreman. the show continues in this vein with a middle aged rotund jewish lady who has a small box wih a red button on it, when pushed she disappears and re-appears behind them in an instant - teleportation. a spotty nerdy teenager has a contraption with a chute on one side and a light bulb screwed in the other, he dumps rubbish in the chute and the light comes on - free energy. a tall korean man has a piece of metal he can put underneath anything to render it weightless so he can shove it around the studio - anti-gravity. all are rejected, the panel goes for a retired school teacher who has spent 50 years perfecting a lint roller that is especially good at getting cat hair off of velvet.

p.s. It was a series of bald and heroic actions that created the civil rights movement. The bald have not received enough credit.