“Never trust a man in a shell suit”, is what my mum used to say…unless they’re stuck in some sort of parallel universe where Ali G is King and the music of Salt-N-Pepa is put on loop. Needless to say, this mantra should be universally recognised. From the public sphere to the media, everybody needs to know that – “if his suit’s made of polyester, he’s most probably a molester”.
So how can people be so surprised by the recent allegations against Jimmy Savile? I mean, yes his private life was forever shrouded in mystery but don’t tell me that the guy didn’t look like a sex offender in the making. For starters his hair looked like a combo of flattened down candyfloss and tensile cotton wool (apparently his barnet was so stretchy that Savage Garden were able to take it “to the moon and back”. No joke…). And as for those eyes? Come on, they were nothing short of a horny hawk’s gawk! Believe me, I am not shocked in the slightest. In fact, what surprises me most is how long the story has dragged on for; as if we need any more evidence to incriminate the man. Indeed, he once said, “I don’t own a computer because I don’t want anyone to think I’m downloading child pornography”…or something like that. If that’s not damning enough for you then what on earth is?! But, just to show how long the case has gone on for, since the 1st allegation of this series of ‘Jim’s Abused It’ came out the world has changed dramatically:
14th October – Man breaks speed of sound
16th October – Cats feud at Downing Street
20th October – Liverpool win league game at Anfield
The whole saga has gone on far too long now. So much so, I expect that the ‘awe-inspiring’ Ed Sheeran will write yet another subtly titled track – ‘Paedophilia’. A track where he’ll tepidly parody the lives of Gary Glitter and Freddie Starr before realising that’s where his lukewarm sardonicism is destined to take him. Although I’m not entirely sure if I believe the stories I’m reading anymore. In fact, I’m starting to dream up conspiracies whereby the Daily Mail has fabricated stories in a feeble attempt to try and humiliate the thing they love to hate the most. No, not Northern-Labour-voting-teachers… but the BBC.
Yet, it is not a dream, for the BBC must face the consequences of having let such savages slip through the net. However, whereas Fleet Street got the steely-eyed Lord Leveson, the ‘Beeb’ have to deal with the wrath of someone from the National Trust!
So don’t expect an end to this mess anytime soon but do make sure to look out for the likes of Jonathan King, or indeed a John Peel-shaped poltergeist lurking about Stourhead. Alternatively, if you’re lucky, you may even catch a glimpse on Lundy, so how’s about that then?!
It’s sad to admit, but our 21st Century society has become nothing short of a bevy of neurotic hypochondriacs… or should I say cyberchondriacs. Alas, for I speak of internet diagnoses!
For years when people had health problems a simple appointment with their doctors would suffice but now (oh how things have changed!), now we speak of our GP’s with a wave of fear in our words. “Go see a doctor!”, they’d say – what used to be nothing more than 4 words of simple encouragement has turned into a phrase of dread, as if your loved ones have turned against you, summoning you to the dark depths of hell!
Phewy chop suey, it was just a dream! But it isn’t, it’s reality. So what do we do (well, I say we, I mean most men…)? We decide to take matters into our own hands and diagnose the problem ourselves. That’s right, instead of confiding in someone who’s had years of medical training we decide to google (other search engines are available) the blooming thing so as to allow everyone to see several pages of ‘testicular pain’ filling up your history like some sort of nightmarish shopping list! I mean, why oh why do we assume that for some barmy reason we’re going to find:
- the correct diagnosis
- the diagnosis we want to hear
Lurking deep in the depths beneath, shrouded by a neighbouring cloud of shrubbery these malefactors stay hidden. Silent but undeniably deadly – are they social pariah’s of a lost age too scared to venture out in daylight or mere delinquents seeking to commit the perfect crime? One thing’s for certain, whoever they are they remain unnamed, unsighted, unloved (well by me at least!) yet evidence suggests that these aren’t cryptids simply concocted by my imagination but that they really do exist! That one, solitary coil of dog shit that spreads itself so carelessly across my path… for fuck’s sake clean it up!
Forget the lyrical introduction, this is about one thing and one thing alone – dog’s and their owners. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know I can’t attribute total blame to the mutt since it is not entirely their fault. Yes, they void their bowels wherever they like and haven’t developed the necessary brain-power to sweep it away under the relative safety of some mud but it’s their bloody owners I can’t understand! I assume that this is the scenario:
- Owner and dog go for a walk
- Dog needs to relieve itself (on the footpath)
- I come walking down said path
- Owner decides that this would be a rather hilarious prank so decides to slip out of sight
- I don’t notice the dog’s turd (due to lack of visibility at night) and walk straight through
The worst thing is that, as soon as you’ve stepped in it, you know immediately. The combination of that tell-tale squelch and the almost immediate pungent smell, redolent of shit, warns you that you’re best taking your shoes off before you enter your house that night. What is more, I can’t fathom why we have a fine for this when no one, I repeat, no one is ever caught! These inconsiderate ruffians are roaming the streets (well paths), mongrels by their sides, just waiting to trip up some unsuspecting victim with a dollop of excrement… it must be stopped!
So please, criminal dog owners (you know who you are) clean up your act by cleaning up your shit! Otherwise, if you don’t, there’ll be a very funky smelling batch of post coming through your letterbox when I find out your name… or perhaps I’ll just get some of this…
If chips be the answer, send forth!
Or heaven purge another starch-ridden
Antidote for my hunger.
Shy not from the relinquishing of your golden goods, for
I seek to inhale, exhale and embrace all that you throw at me,
We’ll lead the crusade against the caustic inconveniences that corrode my
Screams of mercy shall greet my three-pronged General,
The war is not lost.
There will be men and women, who sit and stare, not care,
Slurping copious amounts of coffee…
…since when was a moustache a welcome addition to a man’s upper lip?
Whereas Tom, he has the right idea.
A warm wad of moss hanging from his cliff-like jaw,
The long lost piece to finish Mr. Tash’s jigsaw, yet it’s
Absent, missing, nonexistent,
Those rascal hairs have played truancy and deserted the poor sod,
Fear not though for he bears a gift of green,
Fairy dishwasher tablets for tea bags?
No thanks sir, an Assam will do just fine,
Surely nothing could be more horrendous, useless… unless
There are high visibility jackets in conditions of considerable
Visibility, then we shall try, feebly,
To break out the enviable obscenities for a quick swig,
Stand up, be a man,
Murdock would have a blind stab at it,
For God’s sake, even Tash would!
Too much choice? But
Choice doesn’t make us indecisive, having to decide does.
But now they leave,
Tash in tack,
Tablets in good knick,
Their faces exhibiting the cockle-warming benefits of a nice tomato soup,
Personally, the chips would have been better, but
Who am I to say?
Come closer; let me whisper in your ear,
Psst, oi, I’m talking to you!
All I wanted to say was that…
…a fork really is a man’s best friend.
If you expect everything in life to conveniently drop into your lap then you best hope that you’re sat in the right seat… – Albert Winestain
Behind the stinging bars of social delusion,
Meanwhile mellifluous sounds sit so surreptitiously
Behind battering-ram-like choruses,
Silence is golden.
We hear the noises of eager beavers, morning birds,
Murders of crows with irksome calls,
A cacophony to raise even the deaf from their graves,
There’s never a good time to join the parade.
Seats filled with canvas friends,
Buckled, strapped, chastened by the law’s unwanted wrath, yet
Further back we hug one another like old comrades-
Supportive, not sympathetic,
“If only the tracks were cheaper than the roads”, one says.
Now utterances are thrown,
Carelessly, not caringly,
Constantly, not consistently,
Balls of fiery mesh watered down by an oncoming chuckle,
But still we sit silently,
Silence isn’t golden, it’s gold-plated silver.