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...

Your new, soaraway, broadsheet Sun!

We love it.

Schadenfreud

Mindpiss

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…

I promised myself I wouldn't do this any more...

All right, seeing as he has lost all sense of shame, here, for one, last appearance, I give you...

Upon perusal...

So there it is then. This thing they call a mirror. Audacious, yes, and thoroughly that at that. It knows no fear. Shame is, to it, just a word that rhymes with 'game' in the intricate poetry of its heart. It stares blankly at me, and for a moment, for ever just such a momomenticle, I hate it.

"I don't have to put up with this, you know!" I say loudly and without stammers. It flinches. Or does it? It does.

Or. Does. It?

This thing, this reflective and refractive sheet of hell does not judge. It just stares dumbly like a mong in a washing machine. All of its faults are mine. And this is tragedy, This, my friends, is where it all starts to fall oh-so-ever apart.

I could pick the spot. The spot it is showing me. I could do that, but that's just another coda in this dance we know so well, but out of which neither of us can us out break. This is a time for new definitions, for the rewriting of contracts. This is a time for men with biros to scribble out history's polite standards, and draw knobs in the margin. I am man. I am mint-fresh. I am covered in thought-boils, each bursting into a clerihew.

Who, then, will emerge victorious from this, the age-old battle? I pull my knob out for shock value. The mirror doesn't seem surprised. Something, deep inside yet only just out of reach; my bongo-playing, palm-fronded, musk-buttocked self, frolicking in the sands of prehistory is wanking in my soul.

He wanks for everything we have lost.

I wank, too...

My morning

I was masturbating over a cookery programme when the doorbell rang. It was Candice, and I buzzed her in.

Bugger Candice. It was the third time she had come around that day. Just because her mother was in hospital and she had no-one to trawl T.K.Maxx with was no reason for her to inflict herself on me. Besides, they were just building up to desserts, and I had a feeling that it was going to be a good one.

Candice, of course, pretended not to notice me hammering away at my lap, and stared into the middle distance for a while.

“Do you want coffee?” she said, blinking.

On the screen a bowl of unsuspecting strawberries were about to be violated in ways they could not begin to imagine.

I did not want coffee. I wanted the pictures from this week’s heat magazine, with the heads cut off stuck to the television just above where a cumquat was having its innards reamed with a vicious-looking whisk.

Candice sighed and went through to the kitchen. If she wasn’t such a witless bitch I would have sworn she said: “You’re so predictable”.

I pumped furiously, imagining Candice handling the sharp things in my kitchen until she ruined the image by returning. I turned my attention back to the television, which had the audacity to roll the credits.

“I’m thinking of going to Prague.” Candice said, setting fire to a Marlboro Light, which she intended to leave burning in the ashtray.

“Damn you!” I roared, grabbing the cigarette and ramming it into my right nostril, flipping channels furiously, in search of stimulation. “Harlot! Harpy! Jezebel! Who are you to deny me the sweet release promised by the Fettucine Alfredo with your Slovakian mutterings?”

Candice informed me that Prague was in Russia, actually. In response, I sprayed her with jissom across the face and neck.

She seemed to take this as an affront, but snorted into the froth of her cappuccino, covering herself in foam, in order to disguise the pearly droplets that beaded in her eyelashes.

“I’m thinking of writing a novel.”

I couldn’t take any more of this. I decided that she would have to die very soon. The only question was how.

“What are you reading?” She picked up the copy of Oliver Sacks’ "The Man who pushed his wife down the stairs, sliced her face off and Ate her Sinuses in the Mistaken Belief that she was An Omelette" I had left at a rakish angle on the coffee table. In my experience, neurology really turns stupid women on.

She surreptitiously rubbed her inner thigh, as she read the jacket blurb, and, unless I was very much mistaken I could see a nipple tightening beneath four layers of clothing.

I went and knelt beside her, accidentally blowing on her breasts with every syllable.

“It’s a book about the brain.” I snapped my fingers and the stereo sprang into life. The first, plaintive strings of Baccara’s “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” began to fill the maisonette, like a wounded dove calling for its mate. My pelvis began to twitch.

Candice looked down at me, and plucked the cigarette from my nose with an expert touch.

“I love the brain. It’s so clever.” She blew a strand of hair which had drifted across her face back into place,

My flight back...

We were somewhere above Greenland when things really started to get
unbearable. On getting on, a young man had slid up the aisle to ask: "Would
anyone here like a free drink?" Once he had removed my tongue from his
lapel, he whisked away the young gentleman next to me, and deposited, in his
place, a young lady carrying a six-month old child of indeterminate sex and
intelligence. It blew drool-bubbles insolently at me as we took off.

To my dismay, it was the dashing young thing who had actually changed seats
who was to receive the free drink, rather than those who would now be left
confronted on one side by a grinning homunculus, greedily grabbing its
mother's ivory teat, and on the other by a Japanese student, who greeted my
every plea for another vodka and tonic with a tut, a sigh, and a flick of
the hair. Maybe I should have asked the stewardesses.

It wasn't long before the child to my left began to display his displeasure
at the quality of the in-flight entertainment magazine, by balling up his
tiny fists and shouting at everyone who passed by. Joining in made me feel
better. Needless to say, I tired after only an hour.

Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle left me distinctly cold and dehydrated, but
not completely unmoved. It may have been the depressurisation of the cabin,
it may have been one of the many vodkas and tonic, it may even have been
some strage, hormonal combination of the breast-sucking to my left, and the
presentation of Cameron Diaz' bottom at various angles in front of me, but
it was definitely uncomfortable. I returned my tray to the upright position.

I considered, for a moment, making full use of the thin blanket with which
we had been provided, but, on closer inspection, found it to be of a thin
and feeble thread, almost entirely transparent, and potentially incapable of
retaining the results of any serious use. The image of a young mother,
wiping jissom from her face and neck as she called for cabin crew to remove
me, lying in the foetal position, shreds of insufficient blanket twisted
into my fists was not going to relieve the pressure.

Thus I slunk, vainly concealing my tented crotch behind a bag of dry-roasted
peanuts, into the bathroom, only fumbling for about ten minutes with the
door-handle.

The question to be resolved was, in the first, one of position. The more
hurried, urgent and somehow forbidden lure of the standing, or the
contemplative wiles of the seat. Having six hours to spare, and no shortage
of memories from which to choose, I opted for the seat...

The first blast tore the side from the 'plane, and an air hostess named
Giselle was sucked out and flung into the icy North Atlantic, neatly
indicating the nearest emergency exits with her trajectory . Small, red
lights began to blink in the cockpit, as dehydrated lasagnes, hand luggage,
and one six-month old child disappeared through the gaping rent in the
aircaft's side.

The second and third emissions were, as usual, small, shuddery affairs,
capable of doing no more than covering those in rows 21-35 in a thin,
glistening film, which may well have saved their lives.

I staggered back to my seat, member stiffening as the pressure in the cabin
fell, wiped myself on the handily-placed 'Clean Up Towelette' left over from
dinner, and fastened my seatbelt as directed. As the oxygen masks dropped
from the ceiling, I took the opportunity to have a cigarette, whilst the
cabin crew were more occupied with throwing out the ballast of the drinks
trolley.

"There was perfectly good vodka in that." I thought, as we ploughed through
a family of killer whales, and sloughed to a stop in front of a
bemused-looking penguin.

The witch's trappings changed, but her methods remained the same

For those who have been paying attention

Some people just have to spoil it for the rest, don't they?

I'm sure you know the types. The kind who'd mock the chimpanzees into flinging their semen at the bars on a school day out at the zoo; the kind who always, always write rude words backwards in the humidity on the back window of the bus; the kind who pushed my head down the toilets at Chessington world of Adventures. And who gets a choc-ice after that, I ask you?

No-one, ladies and gentlemen, no-one. Mrs Hewson said no-one could have a choc-ice after that.

I, personally love the idea if the Internet: a free play of ideas between the best minds of their generation, neurons fizzing and cavorting in the ether. However, it has come to my attention, that some people wish, and wish only, to spoil it for others. They have taken advantage of my good nature, and pointed out that, if nothing else, I am not good-natured; and pointed that out on this very site .

It has been pointed out that there is something of an irony in my having detailed gory, personal, and quite intimate details of the lives of almost everyone I know, whilst being quite so precious and fey about myself. Indeed, one might suggest that listing the number of children's heads that were torn from an ex-girlfriend's vagina (although they were not mine) (the children, not the heads) might be considered indiscreet, whilst posing my own infidelities as unavoidable mishaps (with Chloe, who, before she became a lesbian, rang to see if I wouldn't reconsider. Or, she thought about it, I'm sure. Maybe she didn't have my number...) is either disingenuous or just shit.

Everyone has a right to an opinion. Except here.

It is therefore with a heavy heart that I must remove all comments not by me, or which do not conform to the following statements:

1)Anyone who writes a blog is not, as one might assume, opening themselves up to ridicule from the whole world, but, instead, is most probably a sensitive and gentle lover with an abstruse but educational taste in music and, quite possibly, a great man.
2) My life's more interesting than yours.
3) Cool people spend all of their time on the Internet, particularly constructing drunken satires about people who do not have the benefit of a right to reply.
4) I like my coffee how I like my women: milky, and injected into my eyeballs just before I wake up.
5) If poetry dost thou lack
To this site, hop'st I, you will come back.
There are very few, or scarcely worse,
Because it all is done in verse.

I hate to have to sound like Joseph Hitler, but something really has to be done. Blogging is an important way for people to communicate their basest thoughts to each other. It is a place for a free interplay of concepts and ideas. Let us not, then, have people abuse that, by freely bringing offensive or odd, ideas into the ether.

Ladies and gentlemen, it saddens me, but the censorship (for your own good) starts now.

G-Baby Killing Self-Aggrandisement (by a Mother-Fucker)

All right, you've had your fun. All of you.

Oh, ha ha! I expose my deepest, most inner, utterly inwards and quite deep thoughts to the world; and just because you know I'm a shallow, deluded twat, you think it's all right ('alright') to make fun of me. Well, whoever you are, let me make one thing clear!!!!

Fuck off!

Yeah, you heard!. Just fuck right off. I have asked my friends on the Internet that they all said each and every one of them, that it was all right to ignore you. And, from here on in, I shall only speak in clerihews.

For those who wished to mock the Cripps,
I should not sail upon your ships,
An iceberg may well come youjr way,
Because u r so fucking gay.