Saturday, February 14, 2004

There are three different St. Valentines...

Each and every one's a fucking martyr.

So, as you mouth the platitudes your latest prop against self-sufficiency wants to hear mumbled across the pillow this morning, remember this:

1) Married people get more cancer. Nuns and eunuchs have the lowest rates of cervical and prostate cancer recorded (there are no recorded cass of prostate cancer in eunuchs). These people don't tend to be married.

2) One of you will die first. And they'll probably wait until you're old and incapable to do it. The nurses might change your nappies, and wipe the mashed potato from your chin, but they're not going to fellate you the way you really like. Constantly.

3) It's a statistical improbablity that you're soulmates. There are 7 billion people in the world. If we each get one soulmate, you're probably not even on the right continent. Chances are, yours is Chinese.

4) You can name ten people more attractive than the one you're spending today with. And if you can't, I will. Unless you are David E. Kelley.

5) It's not going to last. After all, none of the others have.

Happy Valentine's Day, you lucky, lucky bastards...

Friday, February 13, 2004

Your new, soaraway, broadsheet Sun!

We love it.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004


Sunday, February 08, 2004


One of the problems with discussing the Hutton report has been the sheer number of things in it that simply beggar belief. One just doesn’t know where to start. Indeed, the Guardian’s 12-page report on its contents consisted almost entirely of outraged spluttering, and articles that read: “Wha…? But the…? And the…? But…But…Wha-aa…?”

So effective has this been in dissuading anyone from attempting any serious analysis of the 192,000 word monstrosity, that one of its more baffling and frightening passages has gone almost completely without comment.

In his statement on the report’s publication Lord Hutton said: “I consider that the possibility cannot be completely ruled out that the desire of the prime minister…may have subconsciously influenced Mr Scarlett and the other members of the JIC.”

And again:

“[T]he prime minister…may have subconsciously influenced Mr Scarlett”

Literally, that Number Ten doesn’t have to actively meddle in the workings of the security services because it is well-versed in mind-control techniques far beyond the ken of mere mortals.

It is not made clear how the prime minister came by these awesome powers, or, indeed, how he exercises them, but the thought of Tony Blair saying to John Scarlett “And whenever you hear this piece of music [cue Baccara’s Yes, Sir I Can Boogie] you will feel the need to drop your trousers, and insert claims with which you are unhappy into intelligence dossiers” is one that should fill us all with fear.

If the assertion is that the prime minister himself has control over the subconscious minds of members of the civil service, is it not reasonable to assume that Lord Hutton himself was in the grip of these diabolical powers as he analysed the million words given in evidence to the enquiry?

It seems odd that there has been no call for an inquiry into how Tony Blair can, apparently, force members of the security services to act against their better judgement, simply through the use of dolls stuffed with human hair, and a selection of judiciously-placed pins.

And if the idea that the very services designed to analyse data regarding Britain’s security have all slipped under the control of someone who makes Paul McKenna look like a cheap, washed-up fraud weren’t frightening enough, let us consider how far these powers might extend.

Things to look forward to in the future may well include:

· About to deliver a withering attack on the government’s education policy in Prime Minister’s Questions, Michael Howard dropping to all fours, and barking like a dog until restrained by Black Rod.

· On the News at Ten, Peter Sissons, tears welling in his strangely-glazed eyes, telling the nation: “We’re sorry, all right? We’re shits. We’re shit at journalism, we’re shit at making sitcoms, and most of us lead horribly unfulfilled lives. We’re just so fucking sorry.” before clawing at his face until it bleeds.

· Crowds of angry protestors, burning copies of The Butler Report (which not only exonerates Tony Blair completely, but suggests that he be canonised and made Head of the Church of England), suddenly turning to each other, embracing, and starting to chant “Five more years! Five more years!”

Only Derren Brown can save us now…