Because he can
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December 31, 2007
Frotteur, noun
Someone who gets their kicks by rubbing against people in crowds
"I hope it's not too busy tonight," grumbled Zeds. "I hate it when the bars are packed."
"Oh, I don't know," said Nipper, rubbing his wings on his pantalooned thighs. "I rather like it."
December 31, 2007
Received quite a few already.
If you want in, so to speak, get them in before 6pm tonight.
Merci.
x
December 31, 2007
Me too.
But it won't ever happen, and there are sound and good reasons for that.
So I'll look forward to 2008 instead, with not a little gusto.
Thank you, Post Secret, for being precisely what you are.
x
December 30, 2007
It works thus:
Captain Calamity awakens in the comfortable and large spare bed of his eldest brother's abode.
He walks down the stairs, pours approximately eighteen pints of ice cold grapejuice down his neck, and returns to his aubergine-coloured nest.
The grapefruit burns, so returning to sleep is not an option.
He picks up Shott's Almanack of 2007 and gets himself into a lather about the fact that MPs, when taking a ministerial job, get paid over £70,000 - while still getting their MP salary of almost £60,000, too. (I know, I'm an anorak, but there you are.)
He goes for a wee.
On the way to said wee, he meets Mojo on the landing, who wants to sit and watch him wee, which makes previously said wee a bit more uncomfortable than it otherwise should be, but is completed nevertheless.
He goes to bed.
Removes mobile from under arse (where spookily placed, he feels).
He greets large and suddenly immobile Hound Of The Slobbervilles onto the majority of sleeping space onto bed.
Uses said hound as pillow, and drops off to the sound of rubbish morning TV.
He wakes up again, without a hound, but with curious stains on top of duvet that are clearly hound's, but will also lead to awkward conversations with sibling and sibling-in-law.
Thinks: "Cheers, mate."
Wonders where dog is.
Wonders where phone is.
Wonders if two wonders are related.
Gets dressed in last night's clothes.
Goes downstairs to find eldest sibling in charge of tea and eggs.
Agrees to assist in demolition of said items.
Watches something on TV that he cannot remember.
Watches sibling go out to the shop for papers and suchlike.
Sees hound. Still no sign of phone.
Dog appears to vibrate.
While smiling.
Sibling returns.
Football starts.
As does The Observer.
Dog sings Push The Button by The Sugababes.
Faint feeling of guilt begins to rise like a volcano.
Reads paper.
Dog lies next to radiator, buzzing.
Watch Liverpool. Shout "cunts!" a lot.
Pork arrives. A huge, garlic and homegrown rosemary slab of the stuff, with gravy milked from the breasts of angelic pigs, homemade apple sauce, roasties, carrot and turnip, broccoli.
Dog eats all of his meat, perhaps as dessert, he thinks.
Phone still missing.
Dog goes online and checks his Gmail account. From his stomach.
Zeds' friend rings the house.
Agrees to pick him up.
So time for another wine then.
Dog changes the colour of his tongue wallpaper.
Zeds hurriedly checks house, bedroom, living room, one more time.
Finds nothing.
Dog changes his ringtone to "Ain't Nothing But A Hound Dog". From his arse.
Zeds leaves.
Zeds applies the cooling balm of lager to his mouth.
Zeds wonders if 2008 will be any less calamitous, just for bastard once.
To be continued...
December 30, 2007
Cacation, noun
Excretion
"Surely, surely not?" asked Nipper.
"Well, I just don't know," said Zeds. "I went to bed with it last night, and yet it's been missing all day. And Mojo really has been acting a bit strange all day. Stranger than normal, that is. And that's saying something."
"But... a phone?"
"It's either buried in the garden, behind a sofa, or is in fact indeed the sandwich between some fine pork and a can of Pedigree Chum midway through his intersection, which, frankly, is just my fucking luck, really."
"Yeah," said the buzzard. "Sounds about right."
December 29, 2007
Hmm.
I appear, at 15.59 on the post meridian, to still be absolutely pissed from yesterday.
This is, perhaps, less than ideal.
Especially as, in just over an hour, I am to join my extended family for a birthday celebration.
So: I need a shower, a shave - taking particular care not to leave myself with a moustache, for instance, despite my apparent talent for growing them ["You look like a 70s circus weightlifter!" said a Facebook-lurking colleague. "And you're a Cunt with an all important capital C," I replied] - and I need to iron my new shirt, to go under my new suit, and then slather my finely-boned skull face in Jo Malone's Pomegranate Noir, courtesy of Eggbod.
And then, no doubt mon ami, shit my pants just moments before I fall over in a puddle.
Still, I have done a rather funny front page for her.... 
December 29, 2007
Zonesthesia, noun
The feeling of wearing a tight girdle
"You just couldn't resist that, could you?" said Nipper.
"Nope," admitted Zeds.
December 28, 2007
I'm absolutely shitfaced.
Probably topping up from the Redleader debacle of last night, mind, but an almost full (shared) bottle of dark rum is also a potential suspect in this no-doubt intriguing mystery.
Will someone please call:
1) The ambulance - for about 10ish.
2) A&E to tell them it's just a trapped fart (again)
3) My brother, to remind him we're going suit shopping tomorrow
4) The custody suite - to ask if I can have my own cell tonight. Which will make it nice and easy to meet up with the brother, too.
5) A pizza. I'm a bit peckish.
6) - That was close. Now shut up - Ed.
December 28, 2007
This is the inside of the Daily Telegraph's shiny new multimedia offices in Victoria.
Interesting looking bunch, eh?
December 28, 2007
Sub-Prime Minister Gordon "Is A Moron" Broooooon was last night counting the cost of yet another wide-of-the-mark prediction about the UK economy.
Citing scenes of people huddling in sleeping bags outside stores in Oxford Street as a vindication for his tax-on-taxes policy of bankrupting the nation for the desperate and unwanted-by-anyone-but-him sake of political survival, he sat back and waited for his lapdog ministers to bark and jump and chirp at his second-hand booted feet.
But they didn't.
Because then it was pointed out to the Faintly Glowering Ember that the people he was talking about were not shoppers after all, but the faceless homeless, for whom he was doing precisely bugger all to help.
December 28, 2007
Temulance, noun
Drunkenness
"It's simple, not complicated," said Nipper. "Just don't go to Redleader and Mrs Redleader's house on a school night for a glass of wine and expect to get out alive. And here endeth the lesson," he finished, with a flourish of his wing.
December 27, 2007
I'm starting to think my colleagues don't respect me.
December 27, 2007
Very rude - but very, very funny.
December 27, 2007
Gelasin, noun
Dimple-like dent which appears in your cheeks when you smile
"Not much chance of smiling today when every other bastard is off on holiday, though, is there?" said Nipper.
So Zeds punched him.
December 26, 2007
Edea, noun
The external genitals
"Makes perfect sense to me," said Nipper.
"It does?" asked Zeds.
"Sure. When she says, put your head 'ere, that's what she means."
"You know, for a buzzard, you're quite a sick-minded puppy."
"I know. I'm barking."
December 25, 2007
Soliped, noun
Having a single hoof on each foot
"Guess what?"
"What?" asked Nipper.
"I've finished it," said Zeds.
"At last?"
"Yes."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. Happy Christmas to me."
December 24, 2007
This report has been sent to Sarah's mum. If it's not signed on return, she's on detention and she's getting six of the best over my knee. (It's okay, she lives in Filthy Continental Europe where that kind of thing is still not frowned upon. In fact, maybe I should move?) Erm, anyway, moving on...
Form teacher:
This year, Sminchin has produced a body of work that she can be proud of. Not only has she paid plenty of attention in class, she's also managed to produce a near perfect set of manicured eyebrows.
French:
Not bad at all. Tres bon, in fact. If only she'd stop chattering away in that off-putting Roast Beef language all the time. Merde!
Economics:
Having based herself in Geneva under the guise of teaching, it's fairly obvious that Sminchin's interest is not after all in the welfare and education of children, but in money-laundering, half-decent chocolate, knives with many blades that will forever remain unused, and the skiing bits in Bond movies.
Music:
Well, her jukebox is mental, let's put it that way.
Geography:
Has just secured a piece of land where she and her husband, Johnny Rotten, and their two young boys, will build a home and live happily ever after. If, as I suspect, Hansel and Gretal were Swiss, then it's possible their home will also be made out of Battenburg cake. Or however you spell it. This is a particularly important module for Sminchin, as there were fears that the land was a bit shit. Literally, because of the sewage pipe.
History:
She's 30, for God's sake. She must have tales going back to medieval times.
Social Studies:
Likes nothing better than taking her sons to the large lake-side mansions of ambassadorial types where they are, no doubt, spoiled rotten with tureens brimful of Ferrero Rocher. (Please don't try to bribe this teacher with that rubbish, however.)
Greek:
I've no idea. And I'm highly unlikely to ask her.
PE:
No you don't - that's quite enough filthy school report references, I think - Ed.
December 24, 2007
And thus it came to pass that Zeds decided it was high time he got leathered in a fashion that can only be described as festive.
Enjoy.
x
December 24, 2007
Sub-Prime Minister Gordon "Is A Moron" Brooon is hoping to claw back a shred of credibility for his crumbling leadership by letting it be known that he is unlikely to support an above-inflation pay rise for MPs in the New Year.
A bold move by the self-styled Stoic One?
Not in the slightest.
Because it is those very same MPs who will get to decide whether to pour more taxpayers' cash into their tailored pockets through a vote, with not the slightest thought to what the dour but damaged son of the manse has to say about it.
It's called gesture politics - saying one thing, doing another.
No doubt the police - recently told an agreed 3% pay rise won't be backdated to September, despite having been promised just that by the hopeless Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith - will be hoping for the opportunity to take a vote on their own pay rises, too.
There is a cartoon in the current edition of Private Eye featuring a young boy being scolded by his parents. The mother says to her husband: "I want him to understand the difference between right and the need to launch an urgent independent review."
Which is spot on.
The arrogance and cynical detatchment of our elected representatives simply knows no bounds. No one apologises any more, no one ever puts their hands up, no one takes responsibility when things go wrong.
Their snouts are burrowing further into the trough than ever before, and now - because party donations are plummeting entirely due to the public's distaste at the self-serving bores who no longer serve their country, but assume they master it - they want to use the same tax pot that apparently can't afford to pay for certain cancer treatments to fund their corrupt and maladministrated political parties.
We do nothing, as a nation, because we know whoever's in charge will merely do the same, be it Brooon, Cameroooon, or the other fella who hasn't got a hope anyway.
Cheery, isn't it?
Oh, and on top of that, because of the rising cost of hops and barley, the BBC is reporting that the price of a pint could rise to £4.
'Tis the season, to be merry... but only if you can afford it, eh, Gordon?
December 24, 2007
Tronc, noun
Alms-box; system of pooling tips among waiters
"Here's a tip," said Nipper, to the Wetherspoons staff. "Clear the bloody tables."
December 23, 2007
Ferine, adj
Feral
"Shall we cross the road?" asked Zeds.
"Why?" said Nipper.
"I want to take a walk on the wild side."
"I wouldn't, if I was you. Didn't the moustache teach you anything?"
December 22, 2007
So, earlier this week, I was told to remove my ridiculous, scruffy beard.
I was little "refreshed" at the time, and decided to leave the moustache until the end, just to see what it looked like.
These photographs are graphic evidence - if it was needed - of why I will never, ever, ever sport a moustache.
You can leave the Freddie Mercury abuse at the normal address.
Right, really gotta go...
December 22, 2007
Salwar, noun
Loose, light, oriental trousers
"I don't know what you mean," said Zeds. "In the Far East, they're considered reasonably fashionable, despite not being a finely tailored suit, and certainly practical."
"That may well be," said Nipper. "But here we call them pyjamas."
