The Ghost of David Kelly

It’s one of the unfortunate aspects of the 2005 Election in Britain that the outcome is a forgone conclusion, namely that Tony Blair will win and return to Downing Street as Prime Minister.

It produces a lack of tension, and most certainly a lack of passion among the voters.

Looking from the sidelines since I have no vote this time round (my fault you know for living in Norway for 2 years) I note a lack of honesty and integrity.
Sure, not always so prevalent in politics, but its disturbing to see such a total absence of either quality in the British political scene.

The lies and dishonesty that took this country into war with Iraq are hallmarks of this Government and continue to operate.

Uncle Tone smiles at confused school kiddies, and Twitface smiles at bemused hospital patients, and it means sod all.
Load of crap.

And the ghost of David Kelly who was murdered by the lies and dishonesty of Blair’s government stands beside me.

So I’m asking “Where’s justice and truth gone to these days, even a modest amount?”
Don’t ask Blair or Twitface, they don’t know.

Frogs in Your Underpants

Seeking relief from the banel, not to say, juvenile level of debate that Uncle Tone and Twitface are currently indulging in, I went surfing.

I think this little verse should be an inspiration to us all !

May the light always find you on a dreary day.
When you need to be home, may you find your way.
May you always have courage to take a chance,
And never find frogs in your underpants.

These frogs yu' know can be a real menace to life, liberty and sanity. Not to mention one' s underpants.

Yep, be careful out there

Is it over yet?

Some television journalist remarked how boring the Election in Britain has become.
He’s right, I keep falling asleep in front of the box, the endless droning, the fake concern, it’s a form of torture.

Even Jon Snow, presenter of Channel 4 News, is sinking under the nightly line up of Conservative, Labour and Lib Dems frothing away, talking complete crap.

Normally, Jon can stop them in their tracks but these days all bets are off.


I can’t stand it - I suddenly find domestic yearnings for a clean cooker come over me.

Worst thing is, I simply can’t care who wins, please just have the bally Election, and spare us, Good Lord (if there is one) from this onslaught of Verbal imbecility.

Hand me my knitting. Please.

Holy Eggs

I have this vision of an egg sitting on the Papal throne... dispensing eggy blessings dripping with sauce.

Worrying isn’t it? Very.

Worse still, a Rottweiler in a white smock and red skull cap barking at the crowd in St Peter’s Square.

It’s the stuff of nightmares.

Bog off to BUPA

I am getting totally pissed off with having our collective health being the subject of political football in the run up to the election. None of ‘em give a fart about our health, the buggers couldn’t care less.

I tell you now brothers and sisters, they do what anyone with enough cash does. Bog off to BUPA.
Nice yummy private health care.

Still, in a grim ‘Here comes the Reaper’ sort of joke, I much enjoyed watching Howard Twitface explain his little faux pas the other day.

Naughty Michael had fudged the figures for MRSA and got caught.

Shoved leaflets through folk’s doors telling ‘em they had the dirtiest hospitals in the country, thereby making the local Health Authorities very cross indeed.
Cos’ Twitface had told a big porky pie. His facts were not facts at all.
(To you Yanks, that means he told a lie.)


With much writhing and rubbing of hands Twitface had to explain his little mistake.

Now Blair has become ever so concerned about our health as well.

Watch it Uncle Tone, I am STILL KNITTING.
Yep.

The Finger of My Aunt

Reports of a severed human finger in a bowl of chilli at a Wendy's restaurant have hit the firm's sales in the San Francisco area, a company spokesman says.

Like the rest of us I’ve been watching this saga unfold, and found myself unable to resist it.


Lets do a recap here-
The complainant sez she found this finger in her chilli. Fine.
Its human. Good to know.
The complaining lady has all her digits, Well all right.
All the staff in the restaurant have the correct
number of digits So far so good.

So where’s the body that was once attached to the finger?
Police don’t know. Oh Dear.


But one thing the lady is sure about.
It is Not, I repeat not, the finger of her dead aunt. she denied that she HAD a dead aunt. Well, that’s cool.

And then...are you still with me? Good.
Then attention switched to a lady who had lost a fingertip when she was attacked by a leopard one month.
NOW we are getting somewhere.

No we ain’t.

The hospital didn't know what had become of the finger.

Some folks are so careless with their pinkies, don’t you think?

Not My Teeth but Her Teeth

I realise now that my nashers are not mine – after the recent trips to my dental practice, I realise they are HERS.

I refer to Miss Lady Hygienist.

We’re on a mission here, Houston.

As she fills my mouth up with hacksaw, scalpel and concrete driller, Miss Lady Hygienist prattles away.
“Oh yes, we’ll get our teeth back on track, so we will. “ (Yes she’s Irish)

Scrape, poke and dig.

“Just have to do some work on these, and we’ll have these teeth back in condition.”
I agree, hell, of course I agree.

“Mmmphhh, prawffff, ffffffthhhh”
Dentists understand the lingo.

Smiling at the task ahead Miss Lady Hygienist polishes away and looks forward to seeing me again.

I promise to bring back ‘our teeth’ in good and shining order.

Not mine, but hers.

The wrong sort of Granny

Pothead granny spared jail

LONDON (Reuters) - A 66-year-old grandmother with a taste for marijuana casserole has been spared jail despite admitting she had shared cannabis-laced cookies with fellow pensioners.

Wow.....pothead granny eh? And to think we were concerned about thick 'ead football players being the wrong sort of role model.

Worse still, apparently
'The white-haired, bespectacled granny was unrepentant.'

Now I'm really worried. An unrepentant granny, this is the end of everything!

Don't Mess with an Eclipse

I can see that I must stiffen the sinews or whatever it is us Brits do in times of trial; after all I have several weeks of profound irritation to look forward to.
One of course is the General Election, which will amuse for a few weeks, and the other is the hysterical saga of Chas and his Custard getting hitched.

The astrologers are having hysterics about Chas as well, in particular Jonathan Cainer who was horrified to find that the original date for this idiot wedding fell under an eclipse.
Bad news apparently, real bad news. You don’t mess around with an eclipse.
However Mr Cainer was not happy with the change of date either.

Void of Moon.

Nope, not good either – under this Void, events ‘come to nothing’ and apparently the last Royal wedding (Andrew and Fergie) took place under the influence.
Yeah well, with the Sun and the Moon in opposition, don’t murmur sweet nothings, nothing is what you get.

What’s worse is that the Grand National has now been buggered up! Why the hell can’t this imbecile get hitched in Siberia or a deep undergound cave, anywhere so that we don’t have to miss our important appointments with the Grand National or the Lotto?

I must order a new guillotine, at once, yep, I must.

Miss Head-Mistress

There’s been a lot of comment lately about badly behaved football players, nothing new in that you might think, after all none of ‘em seem to have more that 2 brain cells each.Anyone who knows a football player with more, do let me know.

The last episode involved some plonker who was swearing on the pitch.

Shock, horror.

A school headmistress was interviewed, saying in distressed tones that the young man sent out the wrong message to kids, and that he was certainly the wrong type of role model.

Lady, come round where I live - as described in:Walk in Dog Poo

Any day of the week walk through the shopping centre, down the next street and you can hear the kid’s parents effing and blinding like there’s no tomorrow.
“Wayne! F*****g come here you little sod!” screeches the fond mother “Do you want me to bloody hit you!”

The aggression, the violence towards a kid that can barely wobble on its feet, are all it takes to produce these children we see every day, learning a language and behaviour that would do credit to an old lag in jail.Where these kids will end up.Of course every parent suffers from their children winding them up to screaming point; but they need to scream at a two year old?

I don’t think so.
Like I said Miss Headmistress, come round here, and listen to a few parental role models; oh yeah, and bring the soap to wash their mouths out.

Short-Arse Blues

The reading of the week-end papers has left me in my customary Monday morning depression.
No not the news, hell, some of it causes many chuckles.
I refer to all those glamorous shots of models with legs up to here, somewhere under the armpits.

I don’t envy these lovelies their skeletal figures, nope, its just them legs.

For all us short-arses, that’s what causes the grief.

I remember trying on long boots, the sort that are meant to rest somewhere just above the knee-cap.
Well, they went way past that point, I won’t tell you where they ended up. I’m sure you get the picture.

Short-Arse Blues. Yep.