A dreamy pair of swimming trunks? Or is it just me……..

Why is it that every time this country experiences a dose of major sporting activity, the gym shoe and stripey track suit brigade always  enthuse and jump for joy with a nauseating stubbornness about how our fat arsed, bone idle, text obsessed youth are all of a sudden going to start throwing spears, running like hell around a race track and jumping off diving boards, in the hope that they will eventually achieve sporting immortality in an Elysium where computer games rule.

It’s all total tosh (and the research has been done to prove it), but they keep trying to fool both themselves and us. Amazing. Coe & co ( yes I know, he’s gone up in the world, it’s all silk tie and double cuffs these days) ought to go back into politics, at least their delusions will have some credibility on the back benches!

The Olympics has to be the most profound confidence trick of all time, and it’s official, it will eventually show a net financial loss.

A ten billion loss – at the time of writing!



A gay inconvenience.

Whilst walking the Woofler yesterday I bumped into a gay friend of mine.

Now Saucy Cyril, as he is known, is an old queen of the old school. Even his dog Gay George is gay, I’m serious. He’s one of those poncy little balls of white fluff that never stop yapping and irritating the hell out of one’s feet.Personally, I’d have thrown the little swine into the estuary but there we are, cruelty to animals and all that.

Anyway, Saucy Cyril used to be a car designer for Ford or someone. Like his men (so he says), his designs were always sleek and slippery with a touch of panache, these days though, age was definitely taking its toll thus his walking stick and brand new hip.

‘Trouble is Julian,’ says he in that sincere way of his, ‘ Tristan is getting a little impatient with it all, you know the hip.’ Tristan, by the way, is his long time live-in lover,

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Well you can’t help it, the hip I mean.’

‘No, I know. But that’s not the problem……… well on second thoughts maybe it is. You see I just can’t bend down anymore. Most inconvenient!’

Make of that what you will.


The End of the World is Nigh – and you had better believe it!

I can only conclude that the great and the good, our politicians and of course not forgetting those economic sages at the BBC (whom incidentally always get it wrong, come to think of it so do all the other ‘expert’ economists) are obviously obsessed with the works of Hemingway and Virginia Woolf – and look what happened to them!

Europe has been through worse and anyway it’s about time the BRIC’s had their chance, so let’s look forward to the future instead of being scared bloody stiff of it. Surely some laughter and a smile is better for business than suicidal gloom!

You really do have to laugh though, all these ‘expert’ economic Harry Potter’s who, as ‘chosen ones’, are presumably the only people able to untangle the finer points of Keynsian and Friedmanite failure and yet few, if any of them, foresaw the biggest financial meltdown ever to hit the global economy. The best bit is that some of them have even been awarded Nobel Prizes! If our Alfred was still alive, I bet he’d love to shove a few sticks of his newly invented dynamite right up their collective arses.


Gays and Lesbians come together!

I’ve just been listening to a lesbian explain what Christmas means to her – Channel 4.

She cohabit’s with another lesbian and they have two babies by a gay couple who cohabit together up the road. Confused? If I’m still trying to work this one out, imagine what the babies are  thinking! Modern life, damn me it gets more complicated by the hour.


PS Thank heavens neither of the babies came from test tubes!!

Action Man in court for sexist remarks!

The liberal elite are off again, but this time they really have excelled themselves. Apparently Action Man is a sexist bastard and an affront  to female emancipation. Why shouldn’t girls have one too – an Action Man that is! And what about Sindy and Barbie?! Why aren’t they lesbians?!

So much for Labour’s fifteen year obsession with minorities, God help us.

You have to admit though, that these people really do amuse if nothing else and how these news reader folk keep a straight face is utterly beyond me.


PS Come back Mr Clarkson all is forgiven.

Shopping- sales or no sales!

God I hate ‘shopping’, which is probably why my wife rarely if ever gets me to trail alongside her whilst she digs, rummages and examines various items of consumer deliverance.

It remains an enduring mystery to me ( and indeed, yet another example of female dominance and superiority) why some men seem to tolerate, if not actually enjoy, this exercise in female obsession and till-ringing irrelevance.

Have you seen them, the men that is? They stand around looking as if they have just been propositioned by some big busted tart ready to remind them that life without sex is rather dull after all, that they do have a right to choose and finally that the world will not stop turning if Tesco’s and M&S’s go bust.

They look vacant but ever hopeful, carrier bags at the ready, whilst the wife deliberates, prods and gestures  in every direction but theirs, and God forbid if they decide to fancy a new shirt. Not without wifely approval you fool!

And women want more ‘equality’ ?! Jesus. Stand up all you brow-beaten men, burn your jock straps and show ’em who’s boss. Dump the carrier bags,hatch-back shopping malls and mobile phone tyranny, tell ’em to bugger off and go and get plastered in the nearest pub is my advice. Be MEN and never look a till in the eyes again (or a baby changing room for that matter) —-at least not when the missus is about.

For the record, I have never in my life asked for a woman’s opinion on what I should wear or what item of clothing suits me. From my experience their sartorial acumen where men are concerned is appalling. I worked in John Collier’s once, remember ‘The window to watch!?’ – damn I’m really showing my age now aren’t I –  anyway, I shall never forget how all these emasculated men would come in, eyes examining their shoes and not saying a word, while their wives chose their suits for them and even their bloody underpants!

The forerunners of ‘feminised’ male kind perhaps? God help us, men that is – and I don’t put wax on my hair or carry baby milk in my arse pocket either!


PS If any man out there has ever known a woman go into a supermarket for a pint of milk, and come out with a pint of milk and nothing else, do let me know.

Divorce Coaching.

Nevermind the recession, now I know we really have hit rock bottom.

Whilst browsing the newspaper (and let’s face it, they only deserve a ‘browse’) I came across this ‘authoritative’ and ‘instructive’ article by, of all things, a ‘divorce coach’. I’m not joking I assure you.

Now, the only ‘divorce coaching’ I ever needed was another woman and a good bottle of whisky. Simple. So, who on earth do these people,these Oracles of profound wisdom, these media acclaimed ‘experts’ think they are? Their self-serving arrogance and know-all pontificating idiocy is nothing less than astonishing, but the best bit is that people actually pay them good money for the privilege of hearing them spout!

Next thing, there are those no doubt, who will be demanding a wee bit of ‘coaching’ to help them go to the toilet……… oh and paying for the privilege. Manoeuvring one’s way around a toilet roll can be a trifle traumatic and confusing I suppose.

The foolery and comic operas of our modern and so-called ‘enlightened’ Western societies never cease to disappoint, as we become more and more indulged, and more and more permanently pathetic by the day.

It is no wonder that Western so-called Empires and hegemony are on their way out. We thoroughly deserve all we get.As for all these ‘Gurus’, a bit of Clarkson’s Follies would sort this lot out…….oops, be careful now Julian otherwise the ‘Oh, I’m so offended!’ brigade will be off bless ’em.

The point is I don’t need any clown, who no doubt hails from the University of UpperComeTit and Media Expertise in How To Bullshit The Swinish Multitude, to tell me how to live, love, cry or buy a house – as long as I’m not hurting anyone or breaking the law that’s up to me!


PS The University of UpperComeTit I’m told, does actually do a Masters Degrees in ‘divorce coaching’ and ‘Counselling’ too apparently God forbid,  another equally offensive presumption, just to add insult to injury!

Welshy Buses.

Damn me, it’s happened again!!!!

Remember my escapades with Welsh language train arrival and departure announcements? Well, to-day I thought I would do my bit for the environment and take a bus to see my cross-dressing dentist Dafydd ap Islwyn, you know he with the frilly pink knickers.

Anyway, the bus to my particular destination only runs once every hour and what happened? A bus arrives with a Welsh name on its front as a destination. Not mine thinks I, so I carry on reading the newspaper. 15 minutes go by and my bus still hasn’t shown up, 30 minutes, there’s something wrong here, so I ask an obliging fellow traveller what’s happened to the bus.

‘It’s been and gone boyo, just like my last missus!’ says he with the look of one who has been divorced too many times.

‘Gone!’ I nearly shrieked. ‘But….but, I  haven’t seen any bus with my destination on it!’

‘Ah, well now boyo, that’s what ‘appens when you can’t speak Welsh see. The buses don’t always translate like. Nevermind, better luck next time eh. Like women, better off without ’em anyway. Come to think of it mind, like most people I don’t speak the lingo  meeself either.  Never been able to make ‘ead nor tail of it.’

So, there you have it. The name of the town I had become so used to had now been changed to its Welsh language equivalent.

I think I’ll apply to the Welsh Assembly for a Grant to make sure I catch the right buses and trains in future! On second thoughts what with the cutbacks………….


Childish negotiation.

I gather that in these liberal and enlightened times, one is supposed to ‘negotiate’ with a tantrum prone urchin everytime the degeneration of their ‘self-esteem’ and paucity of adult ’empathy’, results in an outburst of juvenile angst…..the end of one’s boot (hand-made of course) I suspect, might be a good initial ‘negotiating’ position.


PS And before any of you precious and admirably sensitive minorities start reporting me to ChildLine or God forbid Amnesty International I APOLOGISE, albeit that I am only joking, well……….Although, no doubt if you lot had your way a writer’s craft would be so anodyne and bland that the art form would eventually end up in blank paged history books.

Getting Young

Castaways without a desert island disc;

Statin squealing joints and aspirin loaded blood;

Yellow boiled cabbage and a lump of matching cod;

Memories of Stella bellies and vindaloo beyonds;

Televised days of going nowhere;

A difficult fag whining to be smoked;

Eyes fighting sight and everything already known;

Livid arms and falls that just happen;

And getting young?

Not bloody likely!