Ooja Nicka Bollockov

"Gang 'tortures and murders rapist'" The Metro informs us, putting it's face an inch from ours so we can feel its breath cloud our stunned eyeballs. "death with scissors" it elaborates, allowing our minds to fill in the victim's previously scrotum-filled gap. Body "found in underground drain weeks after" it ghoulishly picture-paints. Correct me if I'm wrong (don't), but are there above ground drains big enough to squeeze a body into?
'Bit of a clogged gutter there Alan?'
'Yeah, bloody rapist still hasn't washed away'.

Tragically, the gang in question thought he was a pedophile, but (shock twist!) he wasn't.

He was just a rapist.

Shame, innit.








(incidentally, this is my 50th post. Does Hallmark do cards for such? Probably not. Either way, thanks for reading.)

Heart Stealers and Blood Kissers

Today I have two things I would like to draw to your attention. The first is the romantic tale of a burglar who robbed a couple and then later returned to ask the female half out on a date. Have a look at his picture. I applaud his optimism, but he really ought to have got changed before going back. Or at the very least leave his swag at home. She probably recognised the candlestick.

The second story that piqued my interest comes from Italy, where fear of The Swines [eek!] is so great that religious devotees have been forbidden from kissing a vial of blood 17 centuries old. Now, you wouldn’t think this would be so bad. Seriously, I wouldn’t be that broken up about it…
“Look, here’s some antique blood”
“Wow”
“You can’t kiss it though”
“…what?”
“You can’t kiss it. The dusty blood I mean. Sorry.”
“Er…really? Right. Well that’s…fine. Honestly. No problem.”
Apparently the blood liquefies every year. I should make it clear that this is in fact a miracle, and is almost certainly nothing to do with chemicals present in the vial, or environmental factors. That would be ridiculous, and the scientists that say it is are clearly sent here to test our faith.

The best part about this story is actually nothing to do with blood-kissers with invisible friends, but is actually to do with another religious relic. One belonging to mad monk Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin to be precise, though most of us will know him as Ra Ra Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine. It was this aspect of Rasputin which the relic was related to.
Being a lover of legendary ability, a group of Russian women in the 1920s took to worshipping a relic they believed to be his penis. He was assassinated in 1916 (thus the appendage was at least four years old), so if it was still recognisable as anything you’d want near you I suppose it is quite impressive and therefore maybe worth venerating. But I doubt it.

Cut to 1994 when the penis, now a grim 78 years past it’s bean-blowing days, was subjected to “whatever the usual tests on detached penises purporting to belong to famous historical figures are” and found, brilliantly, to be a sea cucumber.

In case you don't know why this is so funny that they mistook a sea cucumber for a rotting cock, this is a sea cucumber...

...and this is a cock...

Can't buy me love

What is occurring with Peter Jones, has his precariously balanced noggin finally succumbed to altitude sickness after sitting atop Mount Jones for 43 years? Now that I regularly see him lumber around a computer generated supermarket where the shelves are filled with pound signs and interest rates, I fear he may have. Why has he sold his gold-plated soul down the river of advertising like this?

Honestly, it’s not like he’s Phil Tufnell who, upon being crowned ‘King of the Jungle’ on ‘I’m a Celebrity…’ (“appee daze”) became more closely linked with debt consolidation adverts than Carol Vorderman. This upset me greatly at the time because it was such a transparently cheap technique used by the companies to hook poor, debt-riddled sheep into eternal buggeration. After all, Carol Vorderman is good at sums so she wouldn’t give loan advice if it wouldn’t definitely be right for me would she. But then she was sidelined when a boozy cricketer won a reality show and was beloved by (an often fickle) public for minutes at a time. Out of the jungle he came, onto every available advert he went, then back off into obscurity he fucked. Having more than a touch of the ol’ apples an’ pears about him, he was trusted by the sofabound bewildered who were all too glad to take his advice and sign up to a loan that meant 10,000 easier monthly payments instead of 26 slightly-tricky-but-doable ones. After all, honest cockerney Phil wouldn’t lie to us. It’s not like he’s being paid to say these things, he honestly believes them. Look, he’s giving us the two thumbs up, just like he did in the jungle. He’s great, I must remember to buy his autobiography.

And now Peter Jones is pretending to go shopping for logos in his local Moneysupermarket. Bad times.

I don’t really like seeing any of the various Dragons from ‘Dragon’s Den’ (shouldn’t that be lair?) away from each other. It just feels like they come as a set, a collective. It’s like seeing Ant without Dec, Piers Morgan doing an outside broadcast without someone yelling “wanker” behind him, or a new U2 album without a pervading air of disappointment. Each comes with the other.

In case you have forgotten, ‘Dragon’s Den’ is the show where a handful of super-rich suits sit next to piles of fake cash in the upper level of a deserted warehouse (the ‘Den’) and have a succession of people trudge up the stairs to pitch business ideas; products or services in the hope that the super-rich ‘Dragons’ will be willing to invest their cash and expertise. Aside from Peter Jones, who is big in communications as well as being tall enough to graffiti light aircraft, the other Dragons are as follows:

Theo Paphitis, master of the ‘hilarious’ conclusion-bite (as yet unused examples to watch out for including: “This product is like a chocolate teapot: Brown. I’m out.” and “This business is like a freshly-castrated aroused male nudist: bloody pointless. I’m out.”). Theo also regularly peppers his comments with references to his family, specifically his wife: the coincidentally named ‘Mrs P’. These references are (like his conclusion-bites) invariably bizarre as they always accuse the pitcher of trying to vindictively steal his family's inheritance rather than simply achieve a modestly successful life for themselves. Most of Theo’s money comes from ladies’ underwear, which is presumably why his wife has such an amusing walk.

Deborah Meadon, who resembles a heavy smoking viper, but whom I’m not ashamed to say I actually quite like. Not in an attracted-to way of course, more in a she-would-be-the-best-PA-ever sort of way. She’s the sort of person who should be kept in a glass case with ‘In case of emergency, break glass’ emblazoned upon it in large intimidating letters. You would wheel her into all your staff meetings for use whenever you started to feel the message slip from your presentational grasp. I don’t think she’s necessarily the richest Dragon, but she is most certainly the scariest. I imagine her husband making love to her, giving her all his best moves at the best angles only for her to mutter “I’m out” and pull a face like a lemon sucking a lime.

Duncan Bannatyne, who until Peter Jones loomed into every available commercial break, was looking to be the most ubiquitous Dragon as he went through a stage where he seemed to appear on everything from Strictly Come Dancing to Ross Kemp’s Gangs, via Paul O’Grady, possibly to distance himself from the image of ‘dour Scot’ that he seemed to have been tarnished with. This didn’t quite go to plan as he is incredibly dour, and also, he is a Scot. This is possibly why he retreated back to the Den to continue matching his hair colour with every dining table in Harrods (he’s currently on mahogany), leaving the door open for Mr Jones to become an advertising Gulliver on Lilliputian telly.

And finally, James Caan, who sits with his shirt unbuttoned to his naval, thrusting his balls at the pitchers like an Arab Sheikh. You expect him to forget the cameras are rolling and to suddenly lurch forwards spitting “’ow much for dee woman?!” at any moment.I don’t know what his money is in, but I suspect he hands it over by playing a pungi and letting it dance into the recipients’ pockets.

If you haven’t seen it, you should give it a go. It’s really quite good, assuming you don’t get too hung up on presenter Evan Davis’ wonky eye.

Incidentally, one of the pitchers was once someone I (vaguely) know. I can’t remember what it was he was pitching, only that it looked like it had once been an integral part of a tumble drier, and it didn’t work no matter how hard he tapped it and gave it encouraging looks. He arrived being described as ‘serial inventor’, and left being described as ‘unsuccessful’. Shame he couldn’t have invented a tambourine.





(I love all the Dragons. Please don’t sue me. Thanks.)

Upset dents

Sensitive teeth are everywhere. In fact, these days you can’t even eat a sandwich without one of them getting upset. Fortunately help is at hand in the form of Sensodyne toothpaste, the advert for which tells the tale of a lady who discovered that her teeth were sensitive. How did she find out? Why she used her common sense and consulted an expert.

“I found that when I was eating, my teeth felt sensitive. I went to the Dentist and he diagnosed me with having sensitive teeth”.

Wow. She must have gone private for that opinion. Just like that he diagnosed her! Brilliant. Mystery solved. If only more experts were consulted in such a manner we wouldn’t spend our lives wandering blindly through a landscape littered with such enigmas.

“I fell down the stairs and found that a broken bone was poking through my skin, pointing at my foot. Finding it difficult to pull on my jeans I went to the doctor and he said I had broken a bone, and recommended repairing it.”
“Brushing my teeth I poked the toothbrush into my eye-socket and found that my vision was impaired. I went to the optician and they said it was because I had a toothbrush in my eye-socket, so they recommended removing it.”
“I found it difficult to form cohesive relationships because of all the murdering I did. I went to the police and they said it was because I was a murderer, so they recommended prison.”
“Being a f**king idiot I found that I was wasting a lot of experts’ time. Beating a path to my door they said that I was actually a f**king idiot, and they recommended no longer being such a f**king idiot.”

At least we can dream...

De-reality

Sad times are upon an ever-decreasing audience, as the bloated toss-filled battleship labeled Big Brother creaks leakily into a disinterested port. I say sad times as now it only has a week to go in the current series, so there are only another 14 weeks (ish) of Big Brother…ever! (I’m thinking of hosting a street party). You see the audience is dwindling to such an extent that Channel Four are canceling the “show”. I put the word ‘show’ in airquotes because a) I’m an unbearable arse, and b) to call a programme in which a dozen unknowns walk around a plastic fishtank scratching their bums all summer a show is, quite frankly, ridiculous. This is a show. This is not a show.

Of course, when it began many moons ago I was one of the (if we’re being honest) majority who watched with (again, if we’re being honest) a surprising amount of interest as people were being filmed twenty-four hours a day. We had seen docu-soaps develop from the likes of Driving School and Airport, each making stars of Maureen Rees (seen here struggling with a particularly taxing left turn) and Jeremy Spake (seen here smiling through a particularly stubborn bowel movement) as they went, through to MTV’s almost-certainly-not-scripted ‘The Real World’. It seemed that as a public we were hungry for more details of strangers’ lives, so it was inevitable that sooner or later we would round up some free-range civilians, put them in a box and stare at them whilst they brushed their teeth and argued over tea-bags.

What made the first series curious was that noone knew where it was going. Once the exhibits from this human zoo were released back into the wild, what would become of them? Like beagles released from laboratories by animal rights activists, freed to stumble about the moors dying for a fag, Big Brother housemates generally perished but there are one or two survivors. Jade Goody being the most famous (okay, so I use the word ‘survivor’ loosely) and Aisleyne Horgan Wallace is still gracing the pages of Nuts and Zoo magazine every now and then. Aisleyne aside, not all contestants have taken part purely to be masturbated over. Some have entered the house in an attempt to prove something to themselves. This woman for instance used to be a man and wanted to prove that she can be accepted as a woman without people thinking that she looks like a Spanish bricklayer with tits. To the most part, she succeeded and won the show. She hasn’t been seen again, but this is to be expected since the credit crunch has seen many builders out of work. For her sake, I hope she can still afford Nuts.

Ten years is a long time, and now interest in ‘The King of Reality Shows’ is looking very unwell indeed. It may not have died just yet, but it is terminally ill and its grandchildren are already sorting through its jewellery. Its friends may smile sweetly and chuckle awkwardly at its wheezy jokes, but when its back is turned they shake their heads gravely at each other, knowing that their once strong chum is fading fast. Interest is at such a low ebb in fact that three people left the current series because they simply couldn't be bothered to carry on.

The days of post series ‘uncut’ highlights dvds flying of the selves are also at an end. In fact they ended around series 3 (we are now on 10). This could be because laptops are more common so people can watch proper porn without having to go to a sex-shop, and so the prospect of pert un-pixelated bottoms being soaped up and showered isn’t quite as alluring as it once was. Alternatively it could simply be because people were bored whilst the series was on so they see no reason why they would want to have a dvd to be bored in front of until their dvd player crumbles to dust and Death wraps his bony arms around their yawning bodies. This is naturally the more realistic option as pert un-pixelated soapy bottoms will never lose their allure. The very idea is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

The Horror of Our Times

Britain has a depressingly famous history of murderers. Much of this fame could be down to our delightful ability to attribute memorable phrases or nicknames to the killers in question. Look at the evidence:
George Haigh: The Acid Bath Killer;
Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, The Moors Murderers;
The Rippers (Jack and Yorkshire);
Harold ‘Doctor Death’ Shipman;
Fred and Rose West’s House of Horrors’;
John Christie of 10 Rillington Place.
Ok, so John Christie shouldn’t really be included as his ‘memorable phrase’ is actually just his address, but his address became so famous that the street was changed to Ruston Close, so I think it counts. I’ve not included Dr Crippen, though his is one of the most famous English moiders, as there is the possibility that he is actually innocent. He was also American.

In case you don’t know, Drippen’s case involved the disappearance of his wife. When he was asked where she was he said that she had gone to America, died and been cremated. Clearly a broken man, Crippen moved his lover into their house and she wore all of his wife’s clothes. Not all at once of course, that may have raised suspicion. They then hopped on a boat bound for Canada, with Dr Crippen dressed as Dr Crippen and his lover dressed as a young boy. So as not to raise suspicion. Meanwhile the Fuzz were trying to piece together the body that they had just found hidden in the walls of Crippen’s home. Identifying it as his wife, Crippen and his lover were promptly arrested and he was hanged later that year. New evidence has appeared however that suggests the human remains that were discovered in his walls were actually that of a male. His wife may have been many things, but she was almost certainly female. I am slightly curious as to how they ‘identified’ the body as his wife? Did they look at it and say, “it’s human alright, bring the bastard in”. This isn’t really ‘new evidence’, it is simply ‘evidence’. Evidence that may lead to him being pardoned. That must come as a huge relief to a man that was hanged in 1910. I imagine him getting the bus from Hell and arriving at the Pearly Gates.

“St Peter, hi, it’s Hawley Crippen. I’ve come to be let into heaven”
“Really? I thought you were a murderer?”
“That’s what everyone thought, but it’s all been cleared up now, so can I come in?”
“I don’t see why not. By the way, when you were caught who was that woman with you, the one dressed as a boy?”
“Oh that was my mistress”
“…”
“Peter?”
“Did you get a return ticket?”

Now we have a new killer on our books, complete with nickname. A nickname to live forever in infamy…The Omelette Murderer [gasp!]. This isn’t someone who took against egg-based meals, so proceeded to pick them up in bars, take them home and…well…beat them. Oh no, this is a man who if there was a prize for ‘Most Unpleasant Boyfriend in England’, would stand a pretty good chance of winning. In fact, if Jack Tweed lived in France, our omelette spiking friend would win hands down. The hands that weren’t busy beating up his beloved that is. After all, this is a man who poisoned her, beat her, locked her and her baby in her house, and then burned it down.

That’s more than the Russian nobles did to Rasputin.

And what did this woman do to deserve such variety in her death? She had the audacity, the indecency, the impudence, the gall…to have a relationship with him. What a bitch. I bet she kissed him too, cuddles too probably. What an absolute cow. She had it coming really.

Such homicidal overkill reminds me of Sam Kinison’s comment about a victim of the Manson family murders (I should warn the sensitive among you that the following contains a swear)…

“The Police report said they stabbed this guy 51 times....bludgeoned him in the head with a heavy object 13 times and they shot him twice....so I figure this guy's by the door on the way out going....’you don't have to leave do you?!....you haven't shoved a chainsaw up my ass yet!’”

Suddenly I feel like quite a catch.

Watching the World Urn

Despite occasional evidence to the contrary, and assuming (optimistically) that I have remembered how to work out a percentage on a standard calculator, 71% of my relatives are still alive. This is not a gloat directed at any orphans that may have tearfully stumbled across this page, merely it is a statement of fact. It’s great having your relatives about, though you would be lying if you denied the amount of useful space that would be freed up if you didn’t have to remember so many birthdays. The usefulness of your presence at pub-quizzes would increase tenfold.

Everything’s eventual, and Bruce Forsyth aside (who will be hosting the all-cockroach ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ long after Nuclear Armageddon), we all have our lights extinguished at some point. Assuming we didn’t drive a mini-bus full of family members off a cliff, we leave people behind to handle the grief, memories and (more importantly) the remembrance buffet. Funeral arrangements are also to be considered.

“Would he like to be buried or cremated?”
“Well he did like gardening…but then he also liked warm holidays”

Should you choose cremation you are left with a decision: what do to do with the remains. Standard practice is to scatter them somewhere the deceased loved when they weren't dead, be it the ocean, the bottom of the garden at their childhood home, or over their grandchildren. It is also common for relatives to keep ashes on their sideboard like a ghoulish potpourri. The problem with this is that urns are pretty dull ornaments, even if you did used to kiss their contents. A quick tour around Urns Online proves this point (it also turns out that you can own a pet urn. I wonder what they eat?). So this raises the question, how can you keep your relative’s remains but not get bored of looking at the container? Simple. Keep the ashes in their head. Now really, why has it taken so long for this to be available? True, Ed Gein probably thought about it, but if he did he didn’t follow it through to retail.

All you need is a couple of photographs of your loved one and no sooner than you can say ‘what the…is that…oh good god’, you have your relatives head stuffed with your relative perched on your mantelpiece. They don’t even have to be very good photos as there is an extensive proofing process. Imagine proofing your Gran’s head! Of course, the best part is that you can scatter the ashes and be left with the creepiest nibbles bowl in town. Actually dip would probably be better. You could surround it with crudities and park it on the coffee table when your friends come over. It would be like the banquet scene from ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’.

In the words of Bertie Basset, it takes allsorts, but personally I would bloody hate it. Me sitting on the sofa watching Eastenders and eating crisps while my Mum’s decapitated head stares blankly down at me from the top of the television, as if saying ‘I used to like crisps, now…I am crisps’.

You can own one for only $2,600, which is equivalent to about £2,600. I would say ‘collect the whole set’, but that would make me feel like Charles Manson. These days, that’s frowned upon.