In Darkest Brussels

Pausing briefly to lift my head from the pile of papers that represent my 'finding a job' quest, I was somewhat bemused by the latest EU games in darkest Brussels.
Signor Barroso, commission president, it seems is having trouble with his hearing.
I'm sure I heard the French snarl 'Non'.
I'm sure I heard the Dutch sniff 'Nei'.

But, swipe me, the cameras beam in on the EU Palace, out comes the great Broccoli leaf, beaming and nodding.
"Business as usual! " he utters, and all the lesser Brussels sprouts nod and beam in chorus.

No problem, you bunch of cabbage-heads, the totally unwanted European treaty is just as shiny as ever, and we will of course be expecting Britain to have a quickie referendum and ratify, by the weekend would be good.

Uncle Tone is great at skidding backwards. Within hours we were hearing that we wouldn't be 'proceeding' for the time being, nod, nod, and Jack Straw, managing not to look amused, announced a 'period of sober reflection'.

Simon Jenkins, always an astute commentator gets it right when he says in the Sunday Times, that only in Brussels is democracy synonymous with 'disease.' As he points out, these Harvard clones might as well have been on the moon.

What planet are these people on? A thunking great 'No', and we have Jean C Juncker weepily saying that the peasants should be made to vote until 'they got it right.'

Hey? Did he miss the shots of the Dutch jumping up and down in the streets, and screaming with delight as they threw his horrible business plan in the gutter?

Never seen the Dutch so animated in all my life.

Amazing. Gives new life to that saying about 'popping yer clogs'.
Yep.

Reference: Sunday Times News Review 4. The Peasant's Revolt, by Simon Jenkins. June 5, 2005.

Priase the Lord and Surf the Net

BT answers prayers of distracted UK congregation

LONDON (Reuters) - British telecoms operator BT Group Plc has wired up a church in Wales to allow the congregation to hook onto local high-speed Internet connections when they want a break from the sermon.


Jesus, I thought I was fairly bad when it came to hooking up to the net, but it looks like the Welsh are total addicts.

Praise the Lord and surf the Net.

Its true what my mate zaphod said, the Welsh always have the best news.

The vicar said “I have no problem with people quietly sending an email or surfing the Internet in church, as long as they respect the church."

Well, yes, give the good Lord a respectful nod and get on with the surfing.
Like the Vicar said “Got to move with the times.”

Yep, sure do man.

Pizza Rage

What is it about pizza that has people behaving like the insane or something?

I guess we’ve all remember the story about the Aussie convicts who gave up on the hostage, just for pizza??



I came across this:-

Pizza rage lands US woman in jail

Instead of a pizza delivery, Mrs Densmore got a different caller
An 86-year-old US woman arrested for incessantly calling emergency services to complain about a pizza parlour has spent two nights behind bars.
Dorothy Densmore of Charlotte, North Carolina, called the emergency 911 service 20 times in 38 minutes.

This pizza fiend who is all of 5ft, not only demanded that the cops arrested the pizza proprietors, but scratched, kicked and bit the hand of the officer who came to arrest her!

But they did release her from jail pending medical reports.

I’ve been eating the stuff on and off for years – so far, haven’t bitten anyone, at least if I did, in me sleep or something, no one’s complained.
Nope.

Beautiful Boris

Now the dust has settled over the recent election here in Britain, I can see that it was marked by a simply appalling fog of mediocrity, by a mind-numbing procession of politicians who became a blur of ‘sound bites.’

Twitface Howard had his slot, Blair had his slot, with the odd rumble from Two Jags Prescott, but apart from the degrees of insincerity, there was nothing to choose between them.

The only bright spot was ‘Beautiful Boris’ who enlivened BBC Question Time, and if I remember rightly, got sacked yet again for some misdemeanour, in the middle of the election.
No doubt about it, Boris is one on his own.


He simply doesn’t care, he is so politically incorrect that only a madman would include him in an election campaign.

Which is just what Michael Howard did.

I was fairly chuffed to find a website dedicated to Boris and it had some wacky stuff.

When asked about the new 24 hour drinking legislation.
“I’m very attracted to it. I may be diverting from Tory party policy here, but I don’t care."

and

Boris once stated that he had as much chance of being Prime Minister as of being decapitated by a frisbee or of finding Elvis

The only serious facts were these:

Boris Johnson is a Euro-sceptic, British right-wing journalist, Conservative Member of Parliament
and editor of the magazine The Spectator.
Full Name:
Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

Now that’s a name to live up to.

Lets hear it for Boris! Oh yes, he’s written a book called ‘Seventy-Two Virgins’.

He must have enjoyed writing that

Anyone who wants to Boris watch can go here:
http://www.wibbler.com/boriswatch/quotes.php

Designer Dandelions

I didn’t know it, but round where I live, we have designer habitats, here in the land of dog poo. Judging by one of them gardens featured on the telly, us lot are at the height of fashion.

A couple of they designer chappies were waxing lyrical about these gardens in a posh competition, and it did look familiar.

Carefully arranged toilets in a mass of ‘designer weeds’ and assorted rubbish apparently are the new wave idea for gardens. Think they called it ‘urban environment.’

Lots of gardens like that round here. Better even – we got gardens with old cars, and bikes. Some have a few rusty car batteries to add flavour. The really good ones grow lots of dandelions to offset the arrangements of broken chairs and hacked up bits of kitchen.

Those designer chappies should come round here if they need inspiration and mind where you step. The pet life round here has an issue with incontinence, just reminding you like.
Yep.

Stir My Chemistry

Oh Damn, Bother, Blast... I let go of my brain and sat in front of the TV watching Kirstie Allsopp in that property programme

Not the other one, with the other pert property presenter, the one that Mad Dog mentioned and sez he got all them hits.....

Wasted a whole hour watching some obscenely rich designer who wanted two homes... with 'chemistry' you know. And 'features' that 'spoke' to him.

I'll tell the local Council Housing Department that - a designer home with features that stirs my chemistry, is wot I want.

Should go down a blast in Dog Poo land, so it should - watch this space.

Oily Twerps

Good, the election is done with, Uncle Tony is back in Downing Street, well that's just dandy eh?
No Tory government to give us nightmares, so why can't we all sit back and relax? Well folks they are looking for a nice new shiny leader to win all us non-Tory lovers back on their side. Shudder.

But there is one Tory who has taken off his rose-tinted glasses, it is David Willetts MP,Shadow Secretary of State for Work & Pensions.

Never heard of the guy.

But with startling precision for a Tory, Mr Willets writes in the Sunday Times

The Conservative Party does not appear to understand the Britain which it, above all, has brought into being. We have gone from one of the architects of modern Britain - forward looking, individualistic, meritocratic - to being seen as a party that inhabits a different country from most of our fellow citizens.


Got it sunshine, got it! As each new candidate is waved in front of the cameras, all I can do is weep and scream "No, no, not another oily twerp, pleaase!"

Let's hope God and Mr Willets will save us from Oily Twerps. Yep.

We Got Pavements

Round where I live we know how to make the most of our pavements.

Yep, we got back yards, and better still we got pavements. We use ‘em big-time.

Walking down our road, over the last week or so I could have picked up a sports top fleece (black) or a kitchen mop (slightly bent) but usable.
I didn’t much care for the fake Christmas tree, or the tennis racquets, but must admit there were two racquets, very handy that.

Was a bit tempted by the bike, in good condition, one ‘lost’ owner.

When folks round here are bored out of their skulls by the garden, then there IS the pavement.

That’s why I found three lads having a Sunday morning snooze on the pavement, plus a few cans of doubtful origin –a bit of sun, stretch out, legs in the road, lovely stuff.

I walked past them very quietly,and did not even think of kicking a few cans as I passed. Honest.

The Sainsbury’s trolley is still hanging around – by some mysterious means it travels up and down the road, but never strays far from home. It was back down on the 3rd corner in the hedge yesterday.

Jolly good, keep things orderly-like.
Yep

We want a Body, Yes Siree!

Like so much on this planet, it started off as a bit of a news snippet, I refer to the runaway bride in Georgia, USA.
Of course its Hollywood time, young bride (blonde of course) goes missing on eave of big wedding. It may surprise any of my readers (ok they may be a tad invisible) that I smelt a rat.
Yep, when I read the description of this wedding, with 14 bridesmaids and 14 groomsmen, and a tally of 600 guests, I thought "Hey! This spells Trouble with a capital T!"

For God's sake, it's a leg trembler, getting hitched, who was trying so hard to make it a new form of torture? Huh?

The bride's Mummy, I bet you my last dole cheque.

So the bride turns up in New Mexico after scores of folk in her hometown go looking for a body.
Was everyone happy? Like hell they were.
Dig these headlines.


FURY AT BRIDE WHO LIED
Relief turned to rage in an Atlanta suburb yesterday after residents learned vanished bride-to-be Jennifer Wilbanks fabricated her abduction, which caused days of worry among her friends, family and small-town neighbors.


More anger than joy in missing bride's Georgia hometown

County District Attorney Danny Porter vowed to look into whether Wilbanks, 32, violated the law by reporting a crime that didn't exist.

A local resident is quoted as saying that the bride was the most selfish person on the planet.

Jesus, they would rather have found a BODY? Just so it was worth their while to have so much trouble?

Worse was to come, as the Hispanics Group got ratty with the poor girl for inventing an abductor of Hispanic origin. Their spokes person thundered
"We cannot and will not stand for any racial stereotyping of Hispanics as criminals and thugs,"
No siree, we can't have that.

I think the groom's dad should have the last word.

"I think the wedding plans got a bit out of hand."

Some advice for these lovebirds. Run away and get married, try the Outer Hebrides, only the sheep to worry about. Yep.

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.