After the initial shock of being woken by the paperboy, telling us the paper was going to be late because Princess Di was dead I have to admit that, with two smallish children in the house, by 11am I was getting thoroughly pissed off with nothing on the telly except the broken news, vacuous spectators giving even more vacuous comments and having to listen to the national anthem every hour. In a fit of pique I dashed off a quick missive to Ian suggesting music that could be played upon the deaths of various members of the Royal Family, can't remember them now but I'm sure you could come up with some of your own. My best suggestion was Stairway to Heaven for Diana. However my big bro won the game, coming back with the suggestion of...

Mercedes Benz

Bad taste? Us?

Watched Anne Widdecombe versus the truants last night. It was great to see Widdy lost for words in the face of a surley, arrogants and lazy fourteen year old.
Neither threats nor bribery would get the girl to school and she did not care that her mother would go to jail if she did not show her face in class occasionally. The program did at least show the stupidity and pointlessness of jailing parents for not controlling their offspring when politically correct government policies have undermined all forms of authority.
Confronting the truants ( Widdy: Why aren't you in school? Truant: Cant't be arsed." I love it.) did no good at all. And the girl mentioned above, Abi, was in a class of her own. Or rather, not in a class of her own because even when the school offered one on one tutoring she didn't turn up.

But I did end up with the fedeling that Widdy backed off deploying her secret weapon. Having told youg Abi, "What you need is a smacked bottom young lady," she could have added, "and I know a lot of dirty old Conservative MPs who would pay good money to smack it.

Yeah, you all knew we could write Red Top headlines better than tabloid headline writers, we’re just being self indulgent.

A Dwarf performance artist who was hoping the Circus of Horrors show at the Edinburgh Festival would provide a springboard to showbiz success saw his dream go flaccid as instead of scooping the Perrier award he was rushed to hospital with a vacuum cleaner superglued to his penis.
Captain Dan The Demon Dwarf, very undemonically aka Daniel Blackner, climaxed his act by crossing the stage with an industrial vacuum cleaner attached to his penis. One night a special attachment that connected Demon Dan to the cleaning appliance came loose.

Dan thought he could repair his props with superglue, but misread the instructions and gave the adhesive only 20 seconds to dry instead of 20 minutes (its an easy mistake to make, you’ve seen the size of print on those tubes) Unfortunately though the glue needs 20 minutes to stick to theatrical props, it only takes two seconds to stick to vacuum cleaners and human skin. Mr Blackner was stuck fast by the willie and had to be rushed to hospital.
Nurses at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary worked for an hour to free him but he missed his big moment in the show’s finale. Oh well, the dream of riches and fame may be gone but dare we suggest a lucrative advertising contract with Loc – Tite adhesives may be some consolation for being made to look a knob.

http://news.scotsman.com/entertainment.cfm?id=1321402007

A survey by Travelodge has found that the book most often deliberately left behind in hotel rooms is Ali Cambell's 'The Blair Years', followed by 'Don't You Know Who I Am?' (it's taken me three attempts to get that title correct even though I have the paper beside me for reference, no wonder people leave it behind) by Piers Morgan and 'A Whole New World' by Katie (Jordan)Price.
Two burning questions:
Who buys these books in the first place?
and
Don't the Gideon people visit hotels anymore?

More new humour every day from Boggart Blog

Amid reports of the epidemic of "sickening violence" evident in GCSE English manuscripts, BBC Reporter went undercover to meet and talk to candidates about their English exams.

Entering the moloko bar I position myself close to one Antony Burgess for to hear his tale of creative writing under the totalitarian state of the GCSE English Exam. He bids me lend an ear as he tells his humble tale.

My Droogs being Duncan, Big Ed, so named for his big bones, and Boothy started the afternoon at Kite's Coffee Bar. Kite's not having a liquor licence proper meaning we had to put some brandy in the coffee but to take the edge off things and to get us in the mood to put a bit of the old ultra violence in our creative writing paper that afternoon.
We were dressed in the height of fashion, at the time being grey trousers, black blazers, stripey ties, fedoral hats and Doc Martin boots for the kicking of the gypsies that so infest this city.
We began to feel the warmth of the brandy prickling in our bellies. I shout "Out, out, out" in the manner of calling dogs and out my droogs ran.
We arrived at the exam hall and had a viddie of the seating arrangements.
We lined up, like good youthy wouthys to enter the exam hall.
The papers were distributed in an orderly fashion. My name beginning with B I was seated well away from the droogs on the middle row.
A pretty young baboushka handed out the papers and two of my droogs appeared quite distracted.
I open the exam paper and am pleasantly surprised to see the title "The Bully" for creative writing.
I have always been partial to giving a few kickings to those shorter and richer than myself so I set about the tale with glee.
I create a fictional character called Tony Liar to be the hero of my piece. It tells his story from melting out a few tolchockings in the yard of his posh private school he becomes a barrister, which leads to him melting out the old ultra violence on defence witnesses. Eventually he becomes Prime Minister.
At this stage I feel I can really let rip, with me having put the examiner in fear of walking the streets. I let Tony do what I wish I could do, taking his droogs to the posh buildings of Westminster and out to the foreign fields for to give real horrorshow kickings to fat Scots blokes in suits and ,foreign gypsies in robes.
Not the sort of thing a good young Malchick as your humble narrator should be doing.

Thursday 23rd August

I have a terrible pain in the gulliver to be telling you this my friends, but it looks as if my time roaming free within the literary world partaking in the old ultra violence has come to an end.
My examiner who has viddied all I have written, hath claimed my humble offerings to be inapproppriate, as if he would care. However it would seem that I cannot appeal, so I will bid you farewell, for on the way here I viddied that Netto had a vacancy that did not require English.

Well here we are again, time for the annual update! Do hope you don't mind too much the round robin but it does save so much time!

Out three continue to thrive, Edward has just received his first ASBO and is hoping to follow in his big brother's footsteps by having an arrest secured before his 14th birthday.

Tom has continued with petty crime, brought on by his need to feed his spiralling drug habit, although he has, finally, decided that stealing from the parental home is no longer worth while, not least because he has fenced all of his mother's jewels and most of the electrical items in the house!

Little Janey does seem a tad overshadowed by her siblings' achievements but is gradually coming out of her shell, having had her tongue, belly button, eyebrow and lips (both sets) pierced during an overnight stay with her riend Chantelle.

My brother, Julian, enjoyed his 10 years as Prime Minister but was quite reluctant to relinquish the reins of power, but that's Julian down to a TB as we like to say!
He's still married to that batty barrister he met in chambers but, as our sister Anne observes, they deserve each other!

Anne continues to cope well with her alcohol dependency, managing to remember where she has stashed the full bottles and more importantly still being able to dispose discreetly of the empties, but the underground cave on Killan is practically impassable now! We do feel it was her rather unfortunate choice in matrimony that set her on this course, but at least the judge saw it from her point of view, accepting the mitigating circumstances and threw out the murder charge!

Our cousin George is well on the way to recovery after the sex change op, and is much the happier following the surgery. The hormone treatment has lowered her/his voice at least an octave and with persistent shaving she/he is manging to promote the growth of facial hair. She/he was over the moon when she/he walked into the gents at the gay bar and nobody batted an eyelid.

We still have little Timmy, the great-great-great-great-great grandson of our original pet. He's a chip off the old block and, when not out and about chasing the neighbourhood bitches, no leg, be it furniture of human, is safe from his amorous advances.

Hope you've enjoyed catching up with all our news

Dick

A story syndicated by the Press Association tells us that that according to a survey organised by a food producer, 93% of people who responded chose Custard Creams as their favourite biscuit. Bourbon Creams were a distant second with just 2%.

For God’s sake what kind of people responded to this survey? Elderly spinsters and country vicars. Nobody eats Custard Creams and Bourbons now do they? These things belong in the 1950s with paper doilys* and sticking your pinkie out when you raise your cup.

Custard creams are what people are offered after they give blood which is why there is always a shortage of blood donors. Offer the punters Hob-Nobs or Chocolate Digestives and the blood banks would be drowning in the red stuff.

Why are these consumer surveys always so out of step with reality? Eight out of ten cats prefer Whiskas my arse, eight out of ten cats prefer birds and mice or what they can find in the neighbours bins. Seven out of ten nurses would prefer to be rich and famous. Eight out of ten drivers would not give a damn what sort of petrol they bought if it wasn’t for the air miles.

We can reveal a recent survey conducted by Boggart Blog showed that nine out of ten people who respond to consumer surveys are regular attendees as day centres for the terminally bored.

*If anyone has any idea how this word is actually spelled, am I bovvered?

After a couple of months in which no award has been made we can return to our ever popular stupid criminal award thanks to Nicky Jax of Leicester.

27 year old Jax was arrested for holding up a bookies shop using his girlfriends “rampant rabbit” vibrator.

With his WEAPON concealed in a carrier bag so it looked vaguely like a handgun, Jax pointed it at the cashier and demanded money, saying “This is a hi – JACK, I’m TOOLed up so we can do this the HARD way or the easy way.

No he didn’t, we’re being silly now.

The criminal was arrested after police heard the buzz on the street. We wish. Actually he was identified from CCTV footage.

Its hard to know which is the bigger dildo, Nicky or his girlfriends rampant rabbit.

A conversation with my Mum, aged "79 but she doesn't feel it," (and who has in her time raised four childen, three of them boys so she should have some idea about teenage male eating habits) while she was staying with me last week.

FS: I'm going down the road, do you want to come?

Mum: Oh, alright then. What are you going down the road for?

FS: I need a loaf of bread.

Mum: You only bought one yesterday!

FS: I know, but when BBC reporter gets on it it soon goes.

Mum: A loaf of bread lasts me a week.

FS: Yes well there's four of us and only one of you.

Mum: I put mine in the fridge and then it lasts the week.

FS is completely bamboozled by this logic and changes the subject.

Its the World Athletic Championship again and few British Athletes have hopes of winning a gold medal. And if we remove from the equation those athletes who are totally delusional, no British Athletes have realistic hopes of winning a gold medal.

No doubt an array of old farts will be trotted out to reminisce fondly about the time Albert Stodgehoughton ran the four hundred meters hurdles in his pit boots and almost came fourth, which is of course the last time a British Athlete got anywhere near winning any kind of medal.

Stodgehoughton’s epic performance is usually brushed under the carpet by the Athletics establishment who don’t like British competitors who have unbritish attitudes like wanting to win. Albert Stodgehoughton damned himself in the eyes of officials on being told that Fartmeyer the American had devastating speed coming of the final bend.

“We’st see ‘ow fast ‘ee is when ‘ee’s flat on ‘is face and ah’m stood on his back,” was the classic reply.

The Athletics hierarchy were outraged by this blatant disregard for all that was good in British sport and closed ranks against the runner, apple pieing his bed and hiding his running shoes before the race.

“Stodgehoughton needed to be taught that it is not the winning that is important but the taking part,” said Colonel H.H. “Stiffy” Chollerton - Flothers, the Old Etonian president of the Fifty Seven Old Farts” committee that run all Britain’s international sports except football which is run by Victoria Beckham.

After the race a BBC commentator asked Stodgehoughton for his reaction to the rebuke he replied, “If ah’d ‘ad me runnin’ spikes ah’d of teken part alreet, part o’t’ German’s calf, part o’t’ American’s thigh and part o’t’ Frenchman’s ankle. As it were ah on’y managed to tek a bite aht o’t’ Swedish blokes showder.”

As a result of that Stodhoughton faced trumped up charges of using illegal substances and having tested positive for Theakston’s Old Peculiar was banned from competeing for life.

Who knows what he could have achieved in the future had he been given the support of the sport’s authorities and his running shoes

A 33 year old man is facing a custodial sentence after being caught driving a borrowed Porsche 911 turbo at a phenomenal 172mph. Fair enough, it must class as dangerous driving despite his not having lost control of the vehicle, caused any injury or accidents. But how come, in two recent incidents members of the police force have not being punished for driving at excessive speeds whilst not on police business - one chap was going to pick up his take away from the chinese. I recall the judge in one of the cases stating that as the defendant was a police officer and nobody had been hurt he obviously had the necessary skill to drive at speeds way beyond the legal limit. Am I wrong or is this a case of double standards?

Bank holiday time again and warnings of hold ups and traffic jams, the same old story. But surely some of this could be avoided. For instance, the M5 in Gloucestershire was closed for several hours yesterday follwing an incident when at least two gunshots were fired at a police patrol car from a blue BMW.
Come on you hoodlums, spare a thought for the poor, holiday bound traveller who has to put up with so much already and save your drive-bys for less busy times.

Hello, it am Jenny Greenteeth here,
Yes, gorgeous broad pictured above is readers a rare chance giving for interacting multidimensional superbeing.
I giving Ian day off O yes, because it is birthday and indulging in subterfuge Jenny is. While him out getting stuffed with Salmon Alexandre and Dauphinoise Spuddies, I sneak in to telling you he today is nine and f....

SHUT UP, SHUT UP, YOU TELL THEM HOW OLD I AND YOU MINGING, MISANTHROPIC MISBEGOTTEN MONSTER AND I'LL HANG YOU OUT TO DRY...

Oh yeah, you and whose navy?

I'M WARNING YOU JENNY

You should not lying be about age. Is not nice to telling ladies thity nine you are. And anyway you can't get away with it, foty nine maybes they swallow but thirty nine, you're having a laugh they say. O yes.

LISTEN I MAY NOT LOOK MUCH AROUND THE OFFICE THESE DAYS BUT I STILL SCRUB UP WELL.

So do potatoes. You see you must coming to terms with mortality. Hair dye and high fibre diet holding back yearses are, but you human. Not like Jenny, five thousand years old and still freash and fragrant and virginal.

FRAGRANT? YOU SMELL OF POND WATER.

Is very fetching to boy boggart. Anyway you see me old minger aspect. I show you my young seductress and you lost will be. Get ready, I must take clotheses off to transform. O yes.

NO, NO. I JUST DON'T WANT TO SEE THAT. NO, KEEP YOUR ROBE ON. OH THAT'S HORRIBLE. NOT, NOT YOUR CAMISIOLE, DON'T TAKER THAT OFF PLEASE. NO,NOOOO, ARRRRRRGH.

Heh, that keep him quiet for a bit while I tell you him today reach fif....oof. Bugger is more resilient than what I thinking.

Normalish service will be resumed tomorrow.

I don't know when it came on, I was fine when I woke up. ~But sometime through the day I felt like being a bit of a bastard. So I went to myspace and invited two new friends, Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse.
If they accept they will sit side by side on my friends list
What a bastards trick.

Someone interesting and fairly new on my myspace friends list is Edwyn Collins. Remember him? I never knew a girl like you before. (I say that to them all) Well like me Edwyn is a stroke survivor. And he is fighting back and getting on with rebuilding a life.
Check out his new music HERE

I read in yeaterdays paper that scientists have shown a link between weight loss in females and the subsequent onset of Alzeimhers. Should I try to take off the results of all that beer and wine on holiday and risk becoming SlightlylessFatsally Butinfinitelymore .... OhbuggerIforgotwhatIwasgoingtosay ?

With pubs closing at an accelerating rate and our freedom to enjoy a few quiet drinks with friends being constantly eroded by government laws, health and safety regulations and the actions of the Political Correctness Police in the ongoing campaign to abolish fun and anything that looks like fun, it is nice to hear of one pub defying the trend.
The Dog’s Bollocks, we hear, is going from strength to strength. Unfortunately its a long way to go for a pint, Pattaya in Thailand in fact.
The pub which boasts that lager louts are welcome bans Arabs, Japanese, Backpackers, Darts and Quizzes.
All of this makes it popular with British tourists on long hall holidays.
They say the food is the dog’s bollocks too. Literally.

Police Community Support Officers (PCSOs)the pretend police force recruited as a result of one of Balir's big ideas, only solve one crime in six years.
Worse, the PCSOs only hand out on-the-spot fines for anti social behaviour or having bad breath on average once every four months.
Tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime, but not often.
Now I wonder could this be anything to do with all the PCSOs where I live being dwarves and old ladies. Our local likely lad stopped by for a chat not long ago and as he was asking me to let him know if I saw anyone chewing gum in an aggressive way I became very aware that all I could see was the top of his hat.
And I am not a big bloke.
Such people are hardly going to strike fear into the hears of chavs, crims and people of Evelyn Tent are they?

Suggestions in the news this weekend that there should be restrictions on what people may call their children, as there are in France. Sounds like a good idea to me, a bit like the argument for school uniform it will help to mask social differences. And of course it will save some children from lives of purgatory inflicted on them by their parents wacky ideas.
In the past I have come across a Dylan, Byron and Shelley, all boys, as their parents were heavily into English poets and they did live in the Lake District.
Then there were two brothers Nick and Dick unfortunately their last name was Cockin.
I once had the dubious privilege of teaching a young man by the name of J. The biggest problem was he still couldn't spell his name correctly! I often wondered what his brothers and sisters were called.
I sometimes think some parents just choose a string of letters and arrange them randomly. Or that literacy standards are a lot lower than we thought if parents can't spell their children's chosen names properly.
Of course even if there was an official register of names class would still show through as the uppers tend to have more forenames than you can shake a stick at whilst the lowers rarely progress beyond two.
So maybe we should just let people invent names for their children, at least it gives us something to laugh at.

A special report from BBC Reporter.

I started my day at my attorney's house with a shady spliff. I was still feeling a trifle stoned & very hungry from the night before.

My attorney came into the dining room & made alot of bad noise down his mobile telephone about room service before I recovered my senses and took the damn thing off him. After strong columbian coffee we departed and on the way to the main road we paused to look in the kitbag.

We had had quite a drug collection the day before but after the previous night the kitbag now contained 17 E pills (spirals, a good brand) 1 slightly smoked spliff an open 1/4 ounce bag of grass, 7 amyls & a big pot of ground up pro plus caffiene pills, as we had not been able to find any speed at 9 A.M in Sheffield.

I had a pint of J&B bourbon in my jacket pocket and we also had, between us, £37.96.

We ate one of the pills each and carried on walking toward school.

As we arrived I began to feel the first waves of a drug frenzy run up and down my spine. My attorney said something like "I feel a bit light headed, they sure came on quick" & all of a sudden it was on us with Fiendish Intesity.

We staggered down the stairs to where the results were being distributed, giggling and laughing in an extremely menancing fashion. My attorney's pupils were the size of espresso cups, giving him the air of the terminally insane.

There were 4 members of christian union discussing their results at the bottom of the stairs & we were both feeling slightly loved up, so we hugged them, and moved on to the results room.

The hallucinations hit me like a W.I members handbag, and then I reallised I would have to explain to my form tutor in this goddamn state. "Jesus Christ" my attorney said "you're doomed! Just don't say anything untoward, just name, form & candidate number" I laughed "You should worry" I replied "That pterodactyl looks like your head of year" we both nearly screamed, composed ourselves, and were called in.

At this point my mind goes blank & the tape appears to have run out. All I remember is saying "indeed" several times. My next memory is sitting on a bench on the school lawn drinking the J&B "Holy Shit" I said "what the hell happened, tell me I terminally scared the fuckers" "unfortunatley not" he replied "you called ---- ----- (name deleted at insistance of publishers lawyer) who you have theatre studies with a cheap honkey scumbag, and a total failure, but aside from that I got you out in time"

We walked along to the off-licence. I seriously needed a can of beer. I walked in and picked up £16 worth of Red Stripe. The Hallucinations were just slight distortions now but I was feeling very cranked up. The owner caught me off balance and asked me if I had any I.D & and I panicked. Shit, I thought, I didn't see that coming.

"I'm sorry" I said Quickly "the ummm Conditions of the ahh Mental Health act prevent from holding a passport or a driving licence or passport" he laughed nervously as I smiled in the craziest way I could manage and handed over the money.

My Attorney & I left the shop quickly "Oh god man, Did you see that guys eyes we had a real freak on our hands. As your attorney I advise you to get back to my house as quickly as possible. The bastard is probably getting his axe right now" we ran most of the way back and arrived exausted.

We put the Beer in the refridgerator & got last nights curry out.

My attorney finished the spliff from the kitbag and I started to roll another couple whilst eating cold Jalfrezi, and we waited for the photographer the magazine had promised would come and meet us to turn up, as the locals were having some kind of party tonight, to celebrate their results.

The photographer arrived & We spent the afternoon getting drunk, hopelessly stoned & listening to Bob Dylan in the garden at maximum volume, Doubtless enraging some of the good God Fearing citizens of Sheffield. At around six in the post meridian we each ate 2 E's and went up to the party which was being held at someone's house about ten blocks away.

By the time we got to the party my attorney was singing Pink Floyd & jabbering about nothing in particular. We turned him loose inside and realised that the photographer and I weren't feeling any effects yet. I sat down on the step, cracked an amyl under my nose, opened a beer and pondered the problem briefly. Then the solution came to me. I found the photographer, a mirror (full legnth, antique looking frame) and took it up stairs, where I ground up some of the pills & mixed in some of the pro plus powder, untill we had a line about 14 inches long.

"Oh crap" I yelled realising my attorney had the money, and was so twisted he was probably trying to roll a joint in it. "Fuck" yelled the photographer, also realising our folly "the cheap honkey faggot would Do it as well" I grabbed the mace from the kitbag, ready for a struggle and ran down stairs.

He was in actual fact, attempting to roll Basil and chocolate crumbs into £10 bill, and judging by the looks of Fear& Loathing on the faces of those watching had found the worst possible place to do it, these people probably never smoked a cigarette. We quickly relieved him of the money and apologised profusely to the onlookers.

(Much of what followed that horrific episode will only be reportable once we find who we entrusted the tapes to) Sometime around five A.M my attorney began trying to set fire to soft furnishings and curtains so we left before the locals got even more hostile than they were and we had to soak them down with the mace.

Around 2 hours later I found myself at the station, stone broke, pouring sweat & and shaking in the midst of some horrific drug psychosis/comedown, with no tapes after 7p.m the previous day, a horrible mess of deranged scribbles in my notebook and a deadline in 24 hours, around 23 of which would be required to sleep off this terrible state.

I did not think I would ever be able to watch another series of The X Factor, the show seemed to have become a tawdry parody of itself.

Then a couple of months back I read Chart Throb by Ben Elton (who has also become a tawdry parody of himself.) And thanks to that novel which follows a fictional talent show of the same name I can now sit and pretend I am Oscar Wilde, observing as life mimics art.

Yes there was the opening montage of talentless mingers being given their fifteen seconds to wail and grunt "Angels" or "You Are Thhe Wind Beneath My Wings," there were the delusional fools who have not realised that a full set of teeth is an essential requisite for a career as a pop star. And there was the desperatly needy one who can sing a little bit and will be dumped in round two, to provide a few minutes televisually perfect histionics terminating in death threats against all the judges.

And las of all in the opening show, the amazingly talented but self effacing performer with a heart rending backstory who is fated to be sent home in round four or five because as Mr. Fat Cat Cowell will certainly say, "I'm not convinced you want it enough."

Having read the script I can concentrate on the characters. Its much more interesting and I don't need to bother about who might win. We will not see the chosen one for more than a few seconds until round three.

Read a review of Chart Throb

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