Here's an idea.

Why don't you take a phone call from a "supplier" who in fact works solely for you and has done for almost two sodding years.

Listen half-heartedly to question regarding payment of invoices pre-expensive popular winter religious festival held annually.

Respond that only half of the owed money will be paid.

And that you're not quite sure when that will be.

And then fuck off back to your comfy house with its fairy lights on the garden hawthorne bush, you absolute cunts.

I may have had one or two shandies too many last night, but then you know that already.

I may have overdone it on the lime pickle and the red onions, too - but then you know that, too.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

Join in, now...

I may be late for work,

I may be in a hurry,

I may be about to fill my pants with internally processed curry.

My face is getting redder,

Because you're a fucking traffic light and you're Just Plain Mean.

You stand on every corner,

You're everywhere I look!

But of my smooth traverse to work you couldn't give a fuck.

You stay on red for ages,

Even though pe-des-trians are merely fucking dross.

You're tall and bright and flashy,

Annoying on all fronts,

Yes you AND your Belisha mates are a twattish bunch of cunts.

I really really hate you,

Instead as per fucking usual my collar will be felt.

'Cos you'll grass me to the coppers,

Send them a colourful snap,

Then wonder why dogs just look at you and immediately take a crap.

Traffic lights I hate you,

And anyone who dis-agrees is a snivelling Green Party shit.

December 12, 2006

Used to be nice, now they're, well, less nice.

Not as chewy.

Bastards.

Here's an idea, you utter bastard:

Drench the outer sides of my desperate brain in some kind of fluid that, through the miracle of osmosis, eventually seeps through the grey viscous until both ends meet in the middle, thus producing a reaction not unlike that when electrical contacts find that all-important spark.

PING! go the Greed Lights, flickering and flashing on, like strobelights, all around my skull.

HURRAH! What will I buy for myself?

What kind of house?

What kind of car?

In fact, how many cars?

Gadgets?

Furniture?

And what about my family friends?

Where shall we all go on holiday?

How popular will I be?

How much sex will I get?

*gurning with excitement, dry in the mouth*

God, I can finally pay off this, and I can pay off that.

And I can pay off their debts, too.

Because that'll make them love me.

And I can get my eyes lasered.

And buy that suit.

And one of those watches.

And a London apartment. And one in New York.

And a yacht.

Oh, yes. I need that fucking yacht.

And helicopter flying lessons.

And a season ticket.

And my own restaurant. Inside my own hotel.

*gibber gibber gibber*

And then I can SING to the mirror without a care in the world!

SCATTER fifty pound notes from my penthouse balcony!

PISS in my bed!

SHIT in my sink!

PUNCH my own butler!

I CAN! I CAN! I CAN! I C -

"And here's your host, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale WIN-tonnnnnnnnnn........."

And then you remind me that I'm 50p short of a pint of Black Soup.

You absolute cunt.

Just fuck off

Why not continually phone up local newspapers with your opinions about that week's news and then sound all sad and confused when it is explained that the newspapers do provide a letter's page for that, but not a fucking answering service?

Why not then say you can't write a letter on your own because your eyesight is bad and then when it is suggested you get someone else to write the letter, like a family member or neighbour, for instance, reply that you haven't got anyone, even though you obviously have because they're prompting you, loudly, in the background?

And why not then reluctantly hang up only to dial the same bastard fucking number, instantly, thinking there is a cast of thousands at the other end of the line who unlike the first person to answer do actually provide some kind of typing pool service for lazy pensioners?

DO NOT spread yourselves around me like a gaggle of seagulls with beak ache, rifle through the free newspaper and exchange your opinions on the least interesting stories, spray each other with perfume, laugh so loud that your wigs wobble, bully the only male in the group until he uses the emergency hammer to break the glass and throw himself out of the window or tut about anybody so much as an hour younger than you. Thank you.

Four books.

Each with a handsome, clever protagonist.

Each with a sinister baddie whose identity is known almost from the start.

Each with a beautiful and brainy female co-star who apparently has nice tits but doesn't drop her knickers until the end.

Each with fairly interesting but ultimately fucking useless pieces of information about which I along with many others will sit in pubs and debate about (until I become one of the Enlightened Ones, and then become the equivalent of a Dan Brown non-smoker, which is, of course, in many ways much worse).

Each with rather large clues as to what is going to happen much, much later on after many needless and frankly quite unbelieveable chapters (example: Angels and Demons, at CERN in Switzerland, watching people "sky-drive" in a vertical wind tunnel, being explained that a metre-or so of material is enough to bring a man down safely from the sky, then for a timely discovery of a piece of tarpaulin much, much later while hovering over the Vatican in a helicopter with a big bomb under your arse.)

Each a load of absolute bollocks until you start slagging off Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular (which is, in fact, fair enough).

And now four hundred million sweet, sweet dollars in your money barns.

Bastard.

There's one in our office.

He's about 76.

Or something.

Whistles all the time.

No actual tunes or anything.

Just that really fucking annoying warbling thing.

Like he's a fucking military band or something.

What's Mr Bloody Blair going to do about that, eh?

EH?

Just be honest for once.

You think Anthony - second from the left - is dying of something, don't you?

Jordan and Peter have already provided the public with a generous amount of insight into their fabulous lives, in the form of documentaries, a magazine column, weekly photo shoots in everything from Gardener's World to Sainsbury's Magazine and a webcam direct from Mrs Andre's (if that IS her real name) knicker drawer.

Anyway, this is a line-up of songs a good deal more solid than Peter's shiny pecs. The album will confirm, repair, or shatter your faith in humanity, depending on your attitude. If it's the latter, you clearly have a face like a squirrel scrotum, and we recommend a trip to Battersea Dogs Home, and a subscription to Hello magazine.