I am such a rubbish at this blog malarkey

I've never got the hang of quite how this is meant to be done. Just so I'm straight on a few things: people without real friends sit, calcifying their retinas with each moment they spend gazing into the blank radiation of a computer screen, thinking that their observations, or pain, or poor attempts at humour are something the whole world is lacking? Do these people really imagine that people across the world rush home from work every day in order to discover which other girl they spent half an hour looking at in a coffee shop the other day as she failed to notice, until she was distinctly unimpressed by their "Programmers do it all night long, preferably with a can of Jolt and a huge amount of downloaded pornography" T-shirt?

I don't care. I just don't give even the slightest iota of a scintilla of a shit. Ream me sideways with a screwdriver if I ever think that what I really need to do with my life is find out, in 5000 words, why a teenager in Idaho thinks Korn rule, or who else is going in Carina's Book of People I Really Hate (vol. 7).

Not only is it offensive to my sensibilities, but it's physically embarrassing how shameless these people are. Just the words "I found something out today" bring me out in hives and send my skin scuttling off my back and into the corner. People are meant to have secrets.

You're not that interesting. Your impotence, your failure to relate to people who exist in a world you loathe having to deal with except to get groceries and cream for your bed-sores, your fucking awful, tawdry, banal little lives are not worth sharing.

Your pain isn't special, your jokes are almost invariably borrowed from Eddie Izzard, and the sheer self-obsession you display every time you decide to write another entry in $t@rFairy'$ Diary! makes you an utterly unlovable human bring, and a waste of perfectly good pixels.

Now, fuck off.

Yes, I am well aware of the irony inherent in this rant. You're still not clever.

Art

Little bit of politics, ladies and gennelmen...

Cheating bloody Normans

I Love Visual Gags

(hint: Fuck off, it's easy...)

My favourite book

Dead Fly edges out Chirac and Le Pen!

In a startling development in France's tortuous presidential election process yesterday, a dead fly beat both Jacques Chirac and far-right candidate Jean Le Pen to become head of state in the ailing democracy. In one of the closest-fought battles in France's electoral history, the dead fly edged out the other candidates, receiving only one vote more than either of the others.

The pivotal voter in this election, Jean-Bertrand Robespierre from Nimes, said of his crucial vote: "Hee-haw heehaw heehaw-heehaw. Heehaw heehaw heehaw. Fauteuil."

It is believe that the dead fly received the deciding vote, when he became lodged under the heel of M Robespierre's hand whilst crawling across the ballot paper on Monday. A spokesman for the beleaguered Frenchman said: "M Robespierre did not go to the polling station with the intention of voting, but, due to the amount of cheap, red wine he had consumed between his morning croissants and brushing his teeth, accidentally marked the page whilst stumbling through the polling booth.

"The fact that this mark quite clearly appears next to the dead fly attached to the paper in no way indicates M Robespierre's approval of the aforesaid candidate, nor should it be taken to be an indication of any willingness on his part to participate in the system of parliamentary democracy.

"M Robespierre's family have a long tradition of not-voting, and he would just like to apologise to the people of Nimes and to the people of France itself for any distress that may be caused by his inadvertently voting in such a flagrant and reprehensible manner." A government spokesman called his posting a ballot slip "a gross and horrible traducement of France's traditions of apathy and voter disregard for the realities of the world".

In other news, the French public were ousted as the electorate by a weasel. The French were ruled 'unfit to govern', and promptly organised a piss-up in a brewery.

France is made of green cheese.

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Old, Dead Woman Gets About A Bit!

Where next for the Queen Mum? That Coffin Tour in full

St James' Palace today released full details of the movements of the gin-soaked remains of the nation's granny. Highlights include:

1) Friday, April 5th, 8:00am: Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother will be moved via a fleet of royal pigeons to Balmoral, her very favourite place, where she will be massaged gently by members of the royal household, each of whom will be wearing a regimental stoat, draped loosely, yet stylishly, from their humble shoulders.

2) Saturday, April 6th, 12:00 noon: QEtQM will watch the Cordon Bleu Handicap Hurdle Class A (Listed) at Aintree, betting £400 million on the rank outsider Dark Flasher, just because no-one's going to tell her not to. This will be followed by a short period in which the corpse is liberally sprinkled with Gordon's, and QEtQM will mutter to herself about where that lovely My Wyatt went, and how the horses ran so much faster during the war.

3) Sunday April 7th, 6:00am: QEtQM's body will be lain in state at Westminster Abbey, in order that the common folk of London can come and remenisce about how 'she was the only decent one of 'em', and how she got bombed during the war, too. No mention will be made of the infamous "What was all that about? I thought we had a deal!" telegram sent by George Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to the Reichschancellor shortly after this, nor of the fact that QEtQM use to give copies of 'Mein Kampf' to people as birthday presents. During this period, the Royal Grandchildren will keep a vigil, during which Prince Charles may weep freely, showing the ability of the Royal family to display emotions, despite their insides being a jumble of wires and plastic, unless, however, the dead person happens to be a common, feckless slattern who was carrying on with a jumped-up cameljockey.

4) Wedneday April 10th, 2:00pm: It is traditional that on the elevelnth day after the death of a monarch their body be made available to the general public of Great Britain for a period of not less than four hours, in order that they might cry. Thus, at this time, the Queen Mother's corpse will be inflated to the size of a small car park, and displayed in the sky above the major cities of the United Kingdom until, as was her express wish, the wind will blow her to Glamis.

5) Wednesday April 10th, 6:00pm: QEtQM's grossly bloated corpes will be towed, by means of ceremonial rope, to Windsor, where Princes William and Harry will take turns to attempt to deflate it, using nothing more than guns. When this is achieved, QEtQM will take her final whizz around London, helium and hydrogen pouring from the orifices her great-grandchildren have newly prepared for her, finally being deposited, with a splash, into the murky bowels of the Thames, her very favourite river.

Old women die, sometimes.

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Trepanning Permission

In a move announced by Stephen Byers today, it has become clear that the government is planning to adopt the French methods of ensuring that local government is both efficient and accountable. The Department of Transport, Local Government and the Regions, in the green paper it published today "Delivering a short, sharp death sentence" describes how it will be encouraging Britons to follow the lead of Parisian Richard Durn, who opened fire on his local council meeting with an automatic weapon, shortly before killing himself, leaving eight dead, and 19 more injured.

"It is clear that we must combat the spiralling costs of local government," said Mr Byers "And if we can do that at a local level, so much the better. Let's be frank, it's annoying that anyone should have to vote any more than once every five years, and culling members of parish, city and county coucils through the use of heavily armed vigilantes, who will take their own lives before coming to court marks a cost saving in every department."

It is believed that any council seat held by someone slaughtered by a lonely gun-nut will be filled by an appointee from Westminster, saving the expense and wasted time of a by-election. A spokesman for the department said: "It is clear that in the future, murder will become one of the key performance indicators on which we shall judge any council. A council in fear for its life is more likely to be responsive to the needs of its constituents, and offer higher vertically-integrated advantages for greater all-round growth."

The move, however, has come in for criticism from the Opposition. Shadow Chancellor, Michael Howard met the press in the parlour of a Westminster brothel. Dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, dangling a cheroot rakishly from his twisted bottom lip, and gazing smoulderingly at the assembled hacks he said: "This is just another example of Labour trying to use the language of efficiency but the policies of rampant socialism. What guarantees have we that we are getting best value from our psychotics, against what are they to be benchmarked? That is where this green paper is dangerously quiet, and it is that which the British taxpayer will refuse to wear."

Referring to a 'nanny state', Mr Howard went on to call for public tendering for all positions as homicidal brain-jobs, with preferred bids coming from consortia made up of members of previous Tory cabinets, and other wealthy industrialists. "The success of private enterprise in our rail and tube systems, hospitals, gas, electricity and steel industries, all attest to the fact that this shouldn't be a cushy, nationalised butchery, but one carried out by the far more experienced members of the private sector. After all, who else is better-versed in blood-letting for profit?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, before sinking his fangs into a plump, young virgin.

The Yellow ones are on holiday. They like sausages.

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"Retards win Oscars, give me mine now!" says Crowe

During a press conference at which he wrestled a sheep to the ground today, Russel Crowe demanded that the Academy forgo its usual awards ceremony, in favour of just giving him the damned thing, and replace it with a documentary about how to drink beer.

The feisty Antipodean stood astride a podium, freshly sheared mutton in one hand, his Oscar from last year in the other. "Look, mates: Rain Man, My Left Foot, Forrest Gump, Scent of a Woman, and even As Good As it Fuckin' Gets, all of these had spazzers in on the understanding that they'd get the Oscar. I'm last year's Best Actor in a Leading Role, and this year I made the effort to pretend to be a duhrbrain in front of all my friends, so let's cut the crap, all right?"

The grizzled Australian, who expressed no surprise at how it snows at the wrong time of year in the northern hemisphere, and seemed unfazed by the direction water flowed out of his sink, says that they may as well chuck the whole thing now, and give it another go next year. He also demanded that the Academy award a post-dated Oscar to Richard Dreyfus for Whose Life is it Anyway, and cried when someone mentioned the whales.

Yahoo Serious had no comment.