Twitter

It's almost a year since I wrote this blog so I thought it was time to update it having had much more experience of Twitter and considerably increased my following..

I am basically here for the humour. I joined a couple of years ago, followed Stephen Fry as you are supposed to, found it boring, and dropped out. In April 2011, Gabby Logan mentioned Twitter and my interest was piqued again. She advised us to follow Gary Delaney, adding he was hilarious though sometimes risqué. I did so and enjoyed some of his early posts. I particularly enjoyed one about him entering a semaphore marathon but after 18 hours he was flagging badly. I replied to a couple of posts he made but didn't, at the time, realise there was a hierarchy on Twitter to conform to.

Twitter basically falls into four levels or "social classes". There are the D listers where I am firmly rooted along with the majority of people who subscribe. Us D listers know our place. We sometimes tweet above our station and, feel excited when someone from an upper level gives us a compliment or a reply. Some might call it common courtesy but on Twitter, these are rare gifts. Most of the people I correspond with are also D listers, even though a few of them do comedy professionally.

The C listers are a strange breed. On here are unknowns who have become famous and lauded within the Twitter family. They feel they have elevated themselves to a higher status and they are due respect from their inferiors. There is an arrogance in their response to tweets from lower orders. Woe betide anyone who tweets a funnier reply than their post. That is unforgivable.They will not follow you, no matter how entertaining or funny you may be. If you do happen to attract a c lister to your following, don't post a funny reply to their tweets. They hate this and will immediately unfollow. The easiest way to spot a C lister for newbies is to check the retweets. They constantly retweet each others posts telling us how funny they are in case we didn't notice and commanding us to follow them.

They often grandly announce in advance that they are going to treat us to an old tweet of theirs so we can prepare ourselves for the merriment to come and gasp in admiration. I have taken to doing this as a piss take. I have no fear of retribution for saying this as no-one from this level would lower themselves to read an inferiors blog. I have lost quite a few C list followers. I am, of course, broken hearted. I do however still see most of their stuff as I follow one or two others and they constantly retweet them. None of them was much of a loss as there was often a touch of arrogance in their musings. I find far funnier tweeters at D level. To be honest, the people at this level are much better too. One thing you must never do to a C lister is question them or disagree with their pronouncements. That is a recipe for immediate banishment.

B list is the celeb level. On this level it can be quite confusing. There are celebs who wouldn't reply to their own mothers whereas some reply generously to questions or to remarks. A good example is David Baddiel who will comment if he sees something funny he likes or will reply if asked a direct question. I do. of course, take into account the fact that these celebs may be bombarded with tweets and it may be very difficult to answer a large number but, if you can't be arsed replying, don't bother posting. I still follow a couple on this level as I find them amusing or informative. I don't expect them to acknowledge my existance or humour me. C listers want to court the B listers. They suckle up to them and massage egos in the hope of kudos amongst their peers or admiration from their implied inferiors.

The A list is in space. It is reserved for the Lady Gaga's and Justin Biebers of this world. It is a publicity tool and offers little or nothing to the substance of Twitter. I follow no A listers.

I am more than happy to be a D with my contemporaries. I am more than happy to see some of them elevated to 2 or 3 and I will still follow them if they remember who us mere mortals are, when they ascend. I will however, continue to view the majority of C's with suspicion. Pride often comes before a fall. And, just in case I become famous (more likely infamous) I will continue to acknowledge the lower orders with a quip or remark, just so than can remind me of what a twat I have become

Walk Towards the Light

We went out for a meal last weekend with one of the small number of friends we have that you could call "spiritual". I can think of a much more apt and descriptive word but, as we enjoy their company, I refrain from my usual excesses.

Elaine has a guru. I would say, had a guru, but she disagrees as she still talks to him even though he died some years ago. She met him on a trip to India and he changed her life around. She readily admits to having lived life to the full but is now almost teetotal, a raging veggie and a little bit preachy. When I say a little bit preachy, I mean a lot preachy. I am pleased to say she no longer bothers with me. I am a lost cause not destined to enjoy the fruits of reincarnation due to my lack of faith or understanding. Even worse than not coming back, I may come back a little lower in the food chain. This got me to thinking about reincarnation and, what I would prefer to be reincarnated as.

My first question would be, how long do you have to wait before you come back and, if it's not instantaneous, what do you do whilst your waiting. Take Glen Hoddle. What the hell must he have been in a previous life to have come back as Glen Hoddle?  If you come back straight away, it rules out Hitler or Stalin. Marcel Berré (12 November 1882 – 27 October 1957) was a Belgian Olympic fencer who died around the time that Hoddle was born. Hoddle is renown for always sitting on the fence so there is a loose link there. Hoddle is a God botherer and I sometimes wonder if the Almighty (I'll suspend my beliefs for a short while) may get a little irritated with them.

If we assume there is just one God and the world religions choose to call him by a different name, just think of how many people are asking favours from him at any one time. He/she/it must get sick to death of it. I know I would. How often in life are we intrigued by the people that ignore us and take for granted the devout friends? I reckon I must be really high on his list of preferred subjects by now.

I have solved the mystery of people who have near death experiences. They all seem to come up with the same shared experience, describing being drawn to a bright light. Isn't it obvious? At the point of death we all become moths! Those little buggers are always drawn to the light. Moths are frees souls awaiting rebirth. If you see one in your wardrobe, eating your clothes, don't hit it with a newspaper. Talk to it. Let it hear soothing words as it passes from one life to the next. Git rid of the Flit and Vapona. At night, light every lamp you can to draw these wondrous beings towards you and bask in their spiritual glow. Sadly I have just realised that our cat must be responsible for the untimely demise of many a freed soul and, as for the chickens!

Having taken all this into account, I have decided what to aim for. I know what my next reincarnation will be if I get my wish so ladies, after my demise, when you sit on your bicycle or put on that soft creamy bra, think of me. I may be looking at you.

God

I have never been trendy. I will never be trendy. I worry that if being untrendy ever becomes trendy I will disappear up my own backside in the confusion of working out how to solve the dilemma. I don't follow any fashion or music trends. I can't remember the last time I bought my own clothes. Actually, that's a lie. I bought a pair of hipster trousers in July 1969, taking a female work colleague with me for advice. Boy were they trendy. I think I wore them once. I preferred comfort. My label is Mattalan, Asda. and market stalls. God forbid they ever become the places to shop. I suppose I have had three mums. My mum, my first wife and Janet. They kept and keep me from looking like it is still 1969. I'd probably still be wearing my school uniform if I had it and it fit.


Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.

I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.

It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.

Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.

The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.

His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was  a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.

I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.


I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?

On reflection.

Of all the myriad of inventions, discovered, manufactured or stumbled over down the centuries, two, for me, stand out. They basically carry out the same function. One shows you how you looked, whilst the other shows you how you look.

Before the invention of the camera, only the wealthy ever had their image recorded. I am discounting the shroud of Turin here. Whether you believe it is genuine (tehe) or another manufactured holy remnant for the tourists and the gullible, it cannot ever be proved to be a good likeness as there is no-one around to corroborate it. If he returns to prove me wrong, I shall wipe the egg off my face (as well as wiping the mess from my soiled underwear too). I never really believe that portrait painters actually captured true likenesses of their clients. It would be bad for repeat business if he, say, painted Wayne Rooney, looking actually like Wayne Rooney. How pissed would Wayne be if he paid a fortune only to be handed a likeness of something looking like the old lady he had shagged the night before?

Cameras have a tendency not to lie. I am not saying they don’t lie as Photoshop has proved that myth to be incorrect time and time again. I look in the mirror and, after the initial shock I think “yeah, not too bad. You look more distinguished it’s true and there are a couple more lines and the hair colour is a shade lighter but overall I haven’t changed that much”. Then I look at a photo from 30, 20 or even 10 years ago and I can no longer lie to myself. Not only is the hair lighter, some swine has buggered off with half of it. True, I had lines back then but they didn’t criss cross each other giving my face the look of an ordnance survey map of Ambleside. I also didn’t have that saggy bit which I now expertly conceal under a neatly trimmed goatee.

I once read of a woman who suffered a trauma to the head and every morning she woke up believing she was 18 and not in her 40’s. Every morning she looked in the mirror and screamed as an imposter stared back at her. Can you imagine the shock of looking in the mirror and expecting to see your younger self but instead seeing your Mum, or Dad, or worse staring back at you?

More scary are the full length mirrors. They are capable of such deceit. Our bedroom full length mirror is flattering. For some reason it stretches the torso and reduces the flab. The mirror in the bathroom doesn’t lie. I hate that mirror, even more so as it is opposite the toilet and, unless I have a good book, I have to stare at myself too many times a day in a position no-one should have to witness.

How many times have you seen someone in the street and said to yourself “God almighty, haven’t they got a mirror in their house”? They have, but they see themselves totally differently to the way the rest of the world sees them. Those tree trunk legs are shapely. The exposed midriff is taught and sexy, not somewhere you could imagine mushrooms growing in the underhang.

The world would be a better place without mirrors and cameras. Keep the kids photos. They are special and a reminder of youth but, once past twenty, forget it. Dump the camera and the mirrors and be happy.

Goodbye old friend

I will soon be saying goodbye to an old friend. A very old friend indeed. A friend who I have never been separated from since we first met each other. How we used to show off when we were kids. Frightening the girls was a favourite, pre school and at primary. We had outside toilets at our junior school. The girls used to tuck their knickers into their skirts and do hand stands up against the outside wall. Me and my friend could scale the wall with a quick burst of pee and drench them.

As we got older, our tastes changed. Our interest in girls changed too. They were no longer objects of fun but objects of strange curiosity. My friend would stand to attention at the drop of a hat (or the flash of knickers) and goad me into joining him in exploring the pleasures of the flesh. How we gorged. Our relationship became ridiculously close. We went everywhere together. His tastes and senses were far more acute than mine. Often he would take an interest in a girl that I hadn't seen the immediate attraction in. His judgement at first was sound. I never doubted him and his (often reckless) excesses. I forgave him everything.

The girls loved him too. They never seemed to tire of his attention and appreciation. His stamina seemed to know no bounds, and even after an intense workout, he could recover in no time at all and start all over again. I could never envisage a time when we would fall out or not need each other. Our mutual tastes and pleasures were so entwined we were able to spend hours in no-ones company but our own, reminiscing, looking for new challenges, new opportunities.

Then came the bombshell. He seemed to be slowing down. He had lost none of his enthusiasm and his stamina could only be marvelled at, considering his age but, something was wrong. We both knew it and, reluctantly, we confided in physicians in order to find the problem. At first the prognosis was good. We brightened a little. Perhaps we could see this thing through. Our optimism was misplaced. The writing was on the wall.

Within the next few days, our lifelong bond will be broken. Surgery will take away his very essence, his raison d'etre. Oh yes, there is a chance that some recovery will take place, but it is not a good one. Severing of vital organs will totally end the one function he was so damned good at. Never again will I see  that  proud look as he spills all before cosying up and resting until called upon to perform again.

Prostate cancer, I will never forgive you for damaging my oldest most trusted friend. My willy R.I.P.

Skeletons in the Closet

Despite its poor reputation for promoting the seamier side of life, the internet has also made so many different tasks simpler. My own business would not exist without it as I couldn’t possibly afford to travel around the Far East sourcing products. One or two clicks of a mouse and a whole myriad of products were at my fingertips. Another boon from the net has been tracing the past, in particular, your own past. A business trip to Belfast last year whetted my appetite to look in to my ancestry and, just over twelve months later, I have a published family tree with over 600 family members and more being added by the day. I have discovered cousins in Canada and the U.S. I had no idea existed. A few weeks ago a cousin visited from Canada for a couple of days. We knew nothing about each other until less than a year ago and there were many coincidences in our life patterns along the way. Her brother Ian even underwent the surgery I will be having in the next few days. Until I met him, I knew of no other cases of cancer in my family line. Heather started her research online thinking she was of Scottish extract with no other extended family. Now she knows she is Irish and has relatives by the score. Along the way she discovered her Grandfather was a double bigamist and had three families, none known to the others. I discovered my Granddad deserted from the Army in 1902 (it seems to get married) and was fined and dishonourably discharged. He redeemed himself, joining up in 1914 and being invalided out in 1916 after being buried alive by an exploding shell in the Flanders trenches. Just yesterday I found out which hospital he was in and I am now trying to find out anything I can about his stay there.

I owe my own existence to Michael Collins and his orders to execute a Lisburn based police inspector, witnessed by Aunts and Uncles as children outside church one Sunday lunchtime in 1920. This murder brought about the infamous Lisburn burnings. Without that, and the reprisals against Catholics in the town, my grandfather would never have emigrated to France and then to England where my parents eventually met. I have enjoyed the “Who do you think you are” series on the Beeb but most of us will have just as fascinating backgrounds if we only take the time to look. If you have not done so, I suggest you do. It is relatively cheap and the information is out there, if you take the time to look.

More one liners

I'm thinking of changing my hair style. A stone one would be more practical as the number of walkers has increased substantially lately.

I've been sacked by the local garden centre for not looking after the lawns properly. They gave me no warnings. I was just turfed out

I was thrown out of the magic circle as they said being dyslexic meant I couldn't spell properly.

When the Dr. asked me to come in short pants for my examination you can imagine my embarrassment at the misunderstanding.

I am opening a Hogwarts themed cafe with food served in flatbread. It's called Harry Pitta's

 I've opened a themed cafe called cravats. We serve Thai food.

Just got back from the docs. I Had one of those annoying floaters in my eye. He told me to stop drinking out of the toilet bowl.

 Kids are at a petting zoo. I'm fondling the mrs. next door at the heavy petting area.

Those golfers are pathetic taking a caddy with them every time they play a round. Why not make it easy and slip a flask in the bag?

Competitors in the German sausage eating championships have taken a turn for the wurst.

Damned Chinese car mechanic told me I had headlight problems. I bought new bulbs. Turned out I needed Hedrin and medicated shampoo.

They are casting locally for a production of the vagina monologues. I'm hoping to get a part in it.

Our local Chinese gangsters are looking for new members so they are going to triads in the local paper.

Golfer just took out a driver on the fairway. Bloody idiot shouldn't have parked there.

Ian Poulter had a 69 yesterday at the golf. It was a blow for the rest of the field.

Apparently panelists really enjoy recording "Q.I" but are never happy to go for a fry up afterwards.

Just got a quote of £3250 to have the house painted. Decided a photograph will be cheaper.

My pointing business has gone to the wall.
A thief dressed as a court jester stole our money from our lockers. We chased after him but he lead us a merry old dance.

 I just got a job as P.R. for a firm marketing a new type of bicycle wheel. I am now their official spokes person.

My new business venture in producing Kangaroo meat is coming along in leaps and bounds.

Those who are guilty of cupboard love cannot complain when they are left on the shelf.

My mates fire breathing act was described as "rubbish" He was quite put out.

My dad used to tinkle on the ivories. His incontinence pants were useless.

The local chicken pox sufferers club is advertising a shingles only night.

My budgie was a bugger for flying into my tropical fish tank. I eventually had to knock him off his perch.

I was employed as a detective at a bedding factory investigating theft of sheets. I spent most of my time working under cover.

The audience were quite impressed at the ladies boxing championships until the referee knocked one out.

I bought a dvd from the market. It had a patch on it and was covered in salt and what looked like parrot shit. I think it was a pirate copy.

I asked the barman for a stiff drink. The viagra cocktail hit the spot.

I fell in love with a woman who assembled light switches on an assembly line. Ours was an on/off sort of romance.

I complained loudly to the decorator about the standard of his work but he just glossed over it.

I see those Irish family popsters have joined the charity brigade but feel that the name "Corrs for concern" is a little flippant.

I knew a scary frenchwoman who wore bread underwear. It was from a boo lingerie.

Following a lawn mower accident I kept falling over without warning. After tests, doctors advised me I was lack toes intolerant.

Sight sound, touch and taste were all a turn off to me until therapy helped me to come to my senses.

My wife's stutter means she has trouble with words like fellatio. She just can't get her mouth around it.

My drooling dyslexic mate was shocked to be given a tambourine when he believed he had joined the salivating army.
Children with special needs should be trained as bakers.

Just did some trading on the stock exchange. I just swapped a box of oxo cubes for a box of bisto.

My wife is in hospital having a CAT scan. I told her that her arse was too big and to be careful where she sat.

As a member of the Town's only gay male voice choir, I can confirm that we really do all sing from the same him sheet.

My wife and I couldn't think of a theme name for our forthcoming party. We've decided to call it a do.

I got told off yesterday when picking my nose. The surgeon was adamant that the one I chose wouldn't suit me.

My mate lived alone in a lighthouse for three months. Eventually he went stair crazy..

I'm just too tired to keep this Irish funeral celebration going. I simply cannot keep a wake.

The surgeon who wanted a sample of my brain tumour was out of order. I really gave him a piece of my mind.

My mother in law died yesterday from poisoning. It was inevitable one day that she would bite her own tongue.

Putting hydrochloric acid on her handkerchief sure wiped the smile off my wife's face.

I gave an editor all my one liners. He read them then covered them with his copy of the Observer. I fear he was papering over the cracks.

The architect was sacked when the building inspector fell into the cellar. He had misunderstood the request for no flaws in the plans.

I have a dreadful addiction to masturbating into jars of Hartleys strawberry jam. I got caught in Tescos but they are keeping a lid on it.

I met my wife on a morse code course. We were happy at first but then she left me. She said I'd started sending out the wrong signals.

Incompetent vaginal swab analysers have confessed to starting a badly flawed smear campaign.

Today's march by the pro teabagging anarchists is expected to end up with heavy police use of ketteling.

I will be shortly be expressing a doubt or choice between alternatives. That is the end of the whether forecast.

In mediaeval times torturers worked to a punishing schedule

Before I developed Parkinsons disease I used to love a glass of milk. Now it makes my stomach churn.

The inventor of alphabetti spaghetti insisted that when he died he wanted to be buried at C.

My wife accused me of masturbating whilst reading a book. I argued with her that I was only having a scratch and I'm sticking to my story.

I've written a playfully quaint, fanciful, appealing, amusing short story set to music and dance. I suppose you'd call it a little whimsical

A nasty bug is going round, I hope that I don't catch it, It's from a thrush, affects the bush and makes you want to scratch it.

My dyslexic neighbour went for a jog but ended up working in Sainsburys.

My Chinese neighbour turned to seafood after being trapped under stream roller. He became a crustacean.

I went on the Mothers Pride walk last year and got sandwiched between two protesters.







I left my job making devices to open doors as I couldn't handle it.

I've been waiting ages to hear how my interview went at the tennis racquet repair shop. I fear they may just be stringing me along.

I had a hobby doing silhouettes of people with scissors and cardboard . I made no money as I wasn't cut out for the job.

Pimples aren't so important but boils matter.

Our local undertaker put a body in the wrong plot yesterday. They have put their hands up and admitted to a grave error of judgement.

My philandering pal pretends to be at the golf club when being unfaithful to his wife. Luckily for him he hasn't been caught playing around.

You know that bloke who cuts your hair? I take my hat off to him

A local man has been arrested for interfering with fish. He said it started when he was a child and he became hooked on prawnography

Big noses run in our family
.
Mrs. doing volunteer work this morning for cat protection. Little buggers piss all over your door if you don't pay up every month.

A mate of mine dies after falling into a vat of fermenting cheese. He tried to stay afloat but was whey out of his depth.

I would have loved to have been a successful doctor but I just don't have enough patience

My investment in a new type of notice board is looking promising but I'm not pinning my hopes on it.

got a job as an extra playing an ice cream salesman in a film. My role was to melt into the background.

Want to know an funny story about a thorny subject? Thistle amuse you.

My bloody car keeps stopping and starting then going into a spin. I think it's the brake dancing

The inventor of the low cistern toilet was initially flushed with success

I can be a very belligerent market trader when I set my stall out.

I always keep the scales on cooked fish when I want a balanced meal.

You can count on the fingers of his right hand the number of views I have in common with Abu Hamza.

A horse walks into a bar after a particularly badly botched transplant operation. Barman: Why the lung face?

I, of course, always assumed that. The American space programme was all shuttlecocks until they finally sent a woman up.

I used to have a job lifting the lead singer of the Animals when he was drunk but eventually I couldn't carry the Burdon.

I've written a brilliant play about a dog walker. Can you suggest any suitable to take the lead?

Buskers often earn good money, at the drop of a hat.

My interview didn't go well. He asked me to make myself at home. The farting annoyed him but insisting he made my tea really pissed him off

The first spot the ball competition was held in the Blue streak Harem, Egypt in 1427.

The last thing an actress wants during a gynaecology examination is a big hand.

I wasn't able to offer money to the man collecting for the hernia awareness charity campaign but I was happy to offer him my support.

The woman surgeon who gave me cornea transplants was gorgeous. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

The editor was irate when I returned from an interview with a tape of the celeb chewing his dinner. How was I to know what a sound bite was?

I was hoping to use my experience as a tailor to launch myself as a stand up comedian but unfortunately I didn't have enough material.

I like to eat it nice and slow, my dopiaza curry, but must admit, when it turns to shit, it exits in a hurry

 I pushed a mixture of turmeric, cardamom, and galangal up my bottom and ever since I have been walking rather gingerly

There has been a spate of robberies at houses belonging to 1980's over hyped pop and rock stars. Police as we speak are dusting for Prince

Whilst travelling in Iran I had an argument with my wife and she left for Iraq alone. Things are so bad now and there is a gulf between us

Wife just asked me to separate two eggs. I didn't even know that the little buggers were fighting.

My dad was same when the National Anthem was played by a brass band. He simply wouldn't stand for it.

Our neighbours were talking to us through gritted teeth last winter. The council snow plough had the spray turned up too high.

I passed out on the waterslide at Blackpool pleasure beach yesterday. I hate those wooden log carriages. I was overcome by flumes.

My eldest was born nine months after my wife had the flu. Though feeling dreadful she still wanted sex. The pregnancy was ill conceived.

 My mate writes dreadful furniture reviews for DFS. He's a terrible armchair critic

Proceedings at the world masturbation championships were halted today when two contestants began to argue the toss.

In France Rabies is all the rage

I know a dyslexic homeless PDF writer who has no fixed adobe

I blame the Queen for it constantly pissing it down. Even our National Anthem asks her to rain over us. Get a grip

Builder told me my house urgently needs pointing. I'll sleep on it and decide which direction to take tomorrow.

I'm doing a three legged race tomorrow tied to a mate who is a superb runner. We are bound to win.

I am finding this pamphlet on how to attach steel girders together quite riveting.

Testicle transplants? That's a whole new ball game

I just had one of Walkers new "Heather and Peat" flavoured crisps. They are very moorish.

Another tip for mac users. Undoing the lowest two buttons enables a quicker flash and getaway.

My barber wants to give me a new style with hair short at the sides but long at the back. I need some time really so I can mullet over

I love my new bic biro, It cures all my writing fears, it works on any surface, and scoops the wax out from my ears.

I've just been expelled from the master guild of Tarot readers. To be fair, it's been on the cards for a while.

Did you hear about the woman who contacted the official receiver when she was told to fold her ironing board up?

Apparently one of my friends suffers from curvature of the spine. I have a hunch who it is.

My doctor tells me if I don't eat more fibre I'll end up constipated to a dangerous level. Personally I don't give a shit.

My hospital consultant was a former Road planner which explains why he told me I needed a bypass in a roundabout sort of way.

I'm worried as I tend to orgasm very quietly. My wife assures me however that sighs don't matter.

When walking barefoot where cheese has been dropped, it is advisable to tread Caerphilly..

The weather has varied so much today I've worn five different sets of clothes whilst cutting down a tree. I'm sick of chopping and changing

Sky News: The queen had been on the throne over 14 years when David Cameron was born. It must have been one hell of a curry.

Following a tip off, police have smashed a gang accused of multiple buggery attacks by taking the ringleader into custody.

Just heard about all those deaths in Syria. the Italian football authorities really need to clamp down on hooliganism.

Walrus trainers who pass their exams gain the seal of approval

French Peters crack under Pierre pressure.

My unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year old won't smile and shows no interest in girls. I'm worrying he is emosexual.

My lad complained like buggery when we enlisted him into the army. I am sure he said that one day he wanted to be a vet.

I think it is absolute folly, to class the obese as all jolly, I think it's just dire, to own a spare tyre, and push it around in a trolley.

In my long gone youth I was healthy if uncouth, Now every single day more of me rots away and I've got a broken tooth.

Asked what they wanted for Christmas M.P. Jake Berry said Berries, William Cash said cash and Therese Coffey, coffee. Ed Balls said fuck off

Sky News: Old man put to bed at 5.00pm and left there until 10.00am the following morning! Jammy bastard.

German shepherd turds are truly wondrous sights, not like normal stools, they are more like stalagmites.