Tag Archive: Sunday Roast


The Sunday Roast – One Small Step, While the Disabled Face Ten Backwards.

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September 2, 2012

Mooning about at the minute.

So we lost Neil Armstrong this week. Possibly the greatest adventurer of all time … or the most successful at carrying on with a cover-up, ever. Depending on your conspiracy beliefs.

Photo of astronaut on the moon, taken by two passers-by.

I have to say, I’ve been guilty in the past of doubting but as I understand, you can now see good images of tracks, footprints and equipment where it was left all those years ago. It would have been really terrible if it had ever been exposed as a fake but what still amazes me is, how the hell they did it?

These days with all our technology, everything is so complicated yet 40 years ago we were sending men thousands of miles into space in a biscuit tin covered in turkey foil, attached to a giant firework. I mean, who needed fuel for the rocket when the astronauts own bodily gasses would have been enough to power the thing with the amount they’d have been crapping themselves on blast off.

So cheers to Neil Armstrong for being part of the greatest moment in history. And also for creating the basis for one of the quiz questions people get wrong the most.

“What were the first words spoken as the module made contact with the lunar surface?” And no – it wasn’t The Eagle has landed. Answers at the bottom, please.

Magnetic personality … or a shitload of money?

81-year-old, Formula 1 supremo, Bernie Ecclestone has got married again. His new wife is 46 years younger than him. Nothing wrong with that. His fresh missus obviously sees his charm and charisma … or could it be the £4.2billion he has in the bank?

Bernie with new wife, Fabianna. Which one is Fabianna? I don’t think Bernie’s that bothered.

And when you thought the Olympics were over …

We have the Paralympic games on at the moment. As you know, I’m quite at the front in protesting for disability rights, what with my son but even so, I wasn’t too fussed about the main Olympics and neither am I about these. I’ll take a passing interest and wish the athletes well. However …

I didn’t watch the opening ceremony but caught many tweets and updates online and some of the things I saw, irritated me.

First of all, we have smug David Cameron, sitting applauding, saying he is so proud and showing his support as the head of the government. But hang on. Would this be the same government that has spent two years trying to stigmatise the disabled, heading a campaign where they are made to feel worthless when essential services and benefits are cut? Is this the government which is quite happy to lie in bed with the gutter press and whip up a frenzy, accusing the disabled of being scroungers? Yes, I’m afraid it is. Cameron, your son was disabled, you should know how it is. Perhaps living with that silver spoon in your mouth, you never really got to know what it was like to be part of the disability chain?

And then we have Atos – major sponsor of the games.

This is the French company who make money from the disabled by hounding them and sending many back to work when they are in no fit state to do so. Cameron’s government have paid these profiteers over £100million in the hope they will weed out as many as possible to return to work and save the government a little money. I mean, we can’t have the poor and needy taking a share of the cash from the greedy bosses and administrators of this country, can we? Disability benefit fraud is under 0.5%, and most of those cases are found out. Yet again we are hounding the most vulnerable at the same time, Cameron, his cronies and greedy bosses in industry and the banking community, continue to shift billions into offshore accounts in the hope they will swell their own pockets a little more.

Cameron, Atos – Shame on you.

But back to the Paralympic opening ceremony and finally, we had the Queen and other members of her heinous family show up. All of them, sitting while applauding the bravery of the disabled. Just one thing to say to the Queen. Look at this picture.

Yes, it’s your cousin, the one you have never visited in the 70 years since your family shut her and your other (now deceased) cousin in an institution. The good old lovable Queen Mum was their aunt, for Christ’s sake, head of Mencap yet the she and the other royals even tried to declare the women dead in the 196os to hide the stigma.

So – our gracious Queen. Instead of sitting all smug while watching our Olympians, try and do something to help disability by looking closer to home. Your cousin. She still lives, exists – or had you forgotten?

One rule for the famous …

Pop diva, Rhianna uttered the immortal and unforgivable line this week. “Don’t you know who I am?”

She was drunk at a club, danced on the table and broke it, causing damage and potential injury to others. The bouncers stepped in, didn’t recognise her and she began screaming. One of her parasitic friends started yelling, “That’s Rhianna, you idiots.”

The bouncers realised who it was. But this is the best bit. Did she still get ejected? No, they apologised, let her continue her appalling behaviour and gave her and the spongers, free drinks.

She should have been flung out into the gutter on her scrawny arse.

Rhianna … Is there an umbrella big enough to cover your ego?

A little creepy exposure.

At least twice a week, I keep seeing pictures in the tabloids of Michael Jackson’s children. In particular, they seem keen to be publishing cute pictures of pouting teenage daughter, Paris. I can understand there is interest in some quarters. Not quite sure why but keeping on printing pictures of an innocent looking 14-year old girl cannot be right – surely?

However, the kid I feel for is the youngest one – Blanket. Every shot you see of him, he looks so unhappy. Mind you, I’d be pissed off if I was named after an item of bedding.

Well, did you get the answer to the moon question?

If not, look it up. There is still some debate but I’m talking from the point when the module first connected with the surface. Mind you, this is all irrelevant. We all know the real first person on the moon. It was Tintin.

Cheers.

Nick.

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The Sunday Roast – Fresco Woman, Takes to the Road.

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August 26, 2012

Only one place to begin this week …

And that’s in the Sanctuary of the Mercy Church in Zaragosa, Spain.

Yes, childish, I know, but I can’t stop giggling at the fresco ruined by the 80-year-old woman who thought she was helping by attempting to touch up the image of Christ which has been on the wall of the church over 120 years.

Poor old Christ, he once looked like this …

But damp attacking the plaster, rendered him like this …

Enter Cecilia Giménez and her box of acrylic paints. She thought she’d save the church the bother of forking out to restore it by doing the job herself. However, things got a little out of hand and Christ now looks like this …

I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s probably a truer interpretation of Christ than the usual inaccurate westernised image we see everywhere. What do you reckon, post modernist or impressionism?

I’m certain the Sanctuary of the Mercy Church will survive this one. I’m not so sure about Cecilia Giménez, though. With all the furore over this, she looks like she needs a little sanctuary, herself but there doesn’t seem to be much mercy shown by this church. Poor Cecilia, she’s now having to run the gauntlet of hate and she was only trying to help. She’s in her 80s. Leave the woman alone before she has a heart attack.

Is Richard III buried under a car park in Leicester?

Do we bloody well care? What the hell is the point of this? It’s taken over 500 years for scholars to come up with the theory that he was taken to a Friary where the Greyfriars Car Park now stands. So what if he was buried there. You going to dig the whole lot up just to prove a point? It ain’t going to bring him back to life so if you want to find out if he really did kill the princes in the tower, you’re not going to find out this way.

Leave him be. It’s bad enough trying to find a parking space in Leicester without ruining a perfectly good car park just to do a bit of grave robbing.

That’s right, Richard. You stay hidden in a car park, or some 80-year-old woman will come along and paint a hump on your back.

Meanwhile, talking of Cecilia Giménez …

Our little old dear escapes the limelight in Zaragosa by taking a trip to Norway and visiting the National Gallery, there.

Shall I scream or will you?

So … what’s the Royal Knob been up to this week?

Now from previous posts, you may have gathered I am not a huge royalist but all this fuss about Harry being photographed unclothed is pathetic.

I mean … Do we really care? And if we do, then there must be little else in our sad lives if this is of public interest.

So Harry is naked. We all are at some point of the day. Also, he was romping with some lass. Big deal.

Sleazy paper, The Sun, decided it was their duty to splash the pic on the front cover the other day. That was after posting a fake version in their previous edition.

There you go. The two side by side. Obviously a mock-up wasn’t enough so they had to come all moral obligation on us. And just to avoid any legal comeback, they explain in very big letters, that people have already seen it on the internet, anyway.

The Sun, News International and all you other Murdoch slimeballs … go and crawl under a stone.

And on the next stage of Cecilia’s road trip …

She takes a trip to The Hauge and the Mauritshuisg Gallery.

Girl with the Very Tacky Earring?

Pot Kettle Black – Iain Duncan Smith

Tory twit – Iain Duncan Smith, this week spouted more of his bullshit when he claimed the BBC were biased against the Conservative party. He says the corporation portrays the news in a gloomy way and it makes his party look bad when all they are trying to do, is make the country better.

No. The BBC don’t make the Conservatives look bad, the politicians make a good job of doing that themselves.

Iain Duncan Smith goes on to say the BBC economics editor had peed over the Tories.

Hmmm … Makes a change from the Tories peeing over the rest of the country.

Shit … Cecilia’s reached Paris now.

Oh No. Poor Mona. Leonardo will be livid.

Can’t see the App-eal, myself.

Two new apps (see … look how with it I am in terms of technology) are being launched soon.

The first will tell your sat-nav, when exactly traffic lights are about to change so you can adjust your speed accordingly. The selling point is, you will never be held up by traffic lights again.

WTF? Yes you will. Whatever speed you go, you’re still not going to get across those lights any quicker, so what’s the point? Also, if you reduce to 5mph and drive like Miss Daisy, I give it two minutes before some plonker doesn’t realise you’re going that slow and rams into the back of you. Ridiculous.

The second device is a text speak translator. Now some might think this a GR8 but I don’t. Instead of a device to get you to understand what it is teenagers are talking about, how about one that lets you understand teenagers – in general.

OMG! OMG! Cecilia’s in New York.

Surely she wouldn’t … Not Starry Night?

Noooooooo! She’s given it cloud cover.

Cecelia. Go back to Zaragosa. All is forgiven. They want you to have another go at Jesus.

Cheers.

Nick

 

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The Sunday Roast – Bye Bye Olympics … and the Rest of Mankind.

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August 19, 2012

Put that light out.

So it’s all over. The torch has been extinguished and GB athletes can hold their heads high. They did the country proud and not only that, we saw a sight I thought I’d never see.

Yes, Andy Murray and the word winner being used in the same sentence.

Apparently there was some big closing ceremony but did I watch the pretentious rolling out of over the hill artists? No, I was too busy chewing my own arm off. It was slightly preferable. The thought of Russell Brand does the Beatles, turned my stomach. Neither did I want to see Annie Lennox and the bloody Pet Shop Boys. I spent most the 80s having them send me to sleep. At least we didn’t get Coldplay.

I say I didn’t watch it but I did catch a couple of clips later on when I couldn’t avoid them on the news. Therefore, I have one thing to say … Queen – hang your heads in shame. I mean, I love Queen but the bit I saw had a recording of Freddie Mercury followed by three minutes of Brian May, wanking on his guitar. Queen were great, but Freddie died twenty years ago. Stop milking it and leave grave robbery to Burke and Hare. Not only that, after Brian’s pretentious electric solo, some karaoke singer walks on to sing We Will Rock You. I ended the clip – just before my evening meal tried to do a u-turn and choke me to death. The only other bit I saw was some guy doing his best disco dad impression while playing songs on a turntable. Obviously he’d lost his way trying to get to Betty and Bert’s Silver Wedding celebration and wandered into the stadium by mistake.

Come on. Since when did playing records constitute live entertainment?

Not only did we have just half of the band, Queen, we didn’t even have a real Queen, either. No, poor Liz must still be shagged out after the parachute jump during the opening ceremony. After the Bond sketch, you think they’d have done a sequel for the closing event. You only try to die twice? Bearing in mind the opening with Bond and all the golds Team GB have won, wouldn’t it have been apt for Daniel Craig to walk into the Olympic stadium and find the Queen, naked and covered in gold paint?

Evolution of man

I read, the other week that a new and ancient species of human has been found from studying fossils in Kenya. This unknown link is thought to have lived about two million years ago.

I always find this fascinating, particularly due to the fact creationists think the world is only a few thousand years old but mostly, the scientists totally forget about the new breed of species already in the here and now.

Yes. These boffins reckon that in millions of years time, the evolutionary ladder will have climbed again with humanity branched into a division of higher elite and lower sub-human. A bit like H G Wells’ The Time Machine.

Thing is, they’ve got it all wrong. The new breed is already here. I mean … have you not watched the Jeremy Kyle Show?

We don’t have to wait for the far future to see what we’ll become. The future is happening now – walking around with baseball caps, wearing bling, hooded tops and sporting socks tucked into tracksuit bottoms.

Ascent of man? I bloody hope not.

You couldn’t invent such crap.

Just when you thought the sleazy world of banking could get no lower, another slimy cretin springs to the surface. New Barclays chairman, Sir David Walker says banks should charge customers for basic accounts. He also blames free banking for the mis-selling scandals, going on to spout bullshit that it was because of this, his poor misunderstood banking colleagues had to look for other ways to rake in the cash.

Bollocks.

The banks are in a mess due to greedy bosses on obscene bonuses and staff who abused their roles by speculating and short-selling on the markets. Not the function of banks at all. I briefly worked in a bank – HFC back in the 90s and the guidelines were to rip off the customer and sell them insurance policies they didn’t need.

Sir David … where did the Sir come from? You used to have to slay dragons or something to get such an honour. Now it seems all you need to be is a sycophantic toady, sucking up to successive governments. Honours and fat-cat bonuses? Most bankers should be in jail.

Sir David ponders why nobody likes him and his banking colleagues.

And talking of whingers …

Our unelected peers in the House of Lords have been moaning. Apparently, they don’t like the food in the posh taxpayer-funded restaurant.

Why not try paying for your food then? It’s what the rest of the working population do at lunchtime.

Big Brother is watching you.

I love Big Brother on TV. For weeks, I get to know these folk and once it’s over, they can bugger off and I never have to see them again. A bit like the awful in-laws when I divorced. However, my daughter likes it too and I have to record it for her. Nothing wrong with that but now, she wants to see the celebrity version, too.

Give me strength. Talk about Z-list. I know there was a big thing with the Olympics, but to have Ashley McKenzie, one of the few who did rubbish at the games is really scraping the barrel. Perhaps his defeat after about 4 minutes into the judo meant he was able to appear because he had little else to do at the time.

Calling some of these people celebrities is stretching it a bit. I only know four out the thirteen and we now have ex reality TV stars … on a reality TV show. Not only that, people from American TV that nobody in this country has ever heard of. What’s the point of that on a UK celebrity show? I mean, there is some plonker on there who goes by the name of The Situation. That’s really what he likes to call himself. I have to feel for him though. After being confronted by Julian Clary and Julie Goodyear, I bet he wished he was back in the US reality world.

Bad taste?

A crazy golf course in a Blackpool gallery has been slammed as one of the features is a likeness of Adolf Hitler.

What’s the problem? Some might get a kick of knocking a golf ball in-between his legs. Anyway, we all know Hitler only had one ball, now’s his chance to have a few more in that area of the body.

So what next?

Now the Olympics are over, what can we do to fulfil our sad lives? Oh yeah, the football season started. Still, there must be something else, something we can watch on TV. Let’s take a look at what’s on tonight, I think a new show, began.

Nooooooooooo!

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Celebrity Slugs, Stupid Sports and the Art of Falling Asleep.

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August 12, 2012

Still scaling the lofty heights.

You may recall last week, I told you I was tackling a 10 years in the waiting job of clearing the clutter in the loft. I’m happy to say, it’s about halfway completed after about six hours work during the week. Can’t do much in one go as it’s so hot up there.

Another stint this week ahead and it should be done. Still got clutter all over the floor up there but at least it’s sorted into perfectly ordered piles of clutter. It’s amazing what you find, though.

Okay. So I have Cybermen and Daleks hiding in my loft, but at least there is one positive. I now know why I’ve not had any rats during the past year. I wondered why that poison hadn’t been touched. The bigger monsters exterminated the rodents.

Back at Olympic Park …

It’s nearly over and GB have done fantastic. As I type, Mo Farah is in the background, going for gold. Now you will know from previous roasts, I know nothing of athletics and have to be honest, I’d not even heard of Mo Farah until this week. Still, he’s GB so let’s give him our support. Now you go and watch the kiss of death from Britt land on Mo Farah. It normally does when I big somebody up.

One of the strangest things I saw this week was when a rider made her horse do the foxtrot and win a Gold for it. Some of these events do stretch the definition of the word, sport. Whatever next – a dancing dog called Pudsey, winning a Gold?

Well, there would be if Simon Cowell ran the Olympics.

Oh … Hang on. Go – Mo!

Yeeeeeesssss! Another Gold.

Breakfast’s gone a bit cold.

Coldplay’s Chris Martin said this week that he plays his new songs to his kids at breakfast to gauge how good the music is. If children, Moses and Apple (Yeah … I know) start singing, then Chris knows he’s onto a winner.

Come on, Chris, you’re playing safe testing it out at breakfast. Kids are wide awake that time in the morning. Test it out just before bedtime, then if the kids fall asleep, you’ll know they think it’s the same load of monotonous dirge the rest of us do.

Chris Martin and Coldplay – Possibly the best cure for insomnia ever created.

And talking of falling asleep …

Fishing enthusiast, Phil Hunt was in the news as it was reported he needs someone to look after him when he partakes in his favourite sport.

Fishing – Sport? Yeah – right. Surprised it’s not an Olympic event. Anyway, Phil suffers from narcolepsy which means he could fall asleep and fall in the river.

There’s a little gift for you, Phil but narcolepsy, come on! Fishing is the most boring pastime ever invented. It’s enough to send anybody to sleep. Has there been in-depth research into the condition? A bit of digging may find most of the sufferers were found to be sitting by the river with a rod in their hands. Either that or they were just listening to Coldplay.

In an unrelated news report, chef Gurpareet Bains has developed a curry which gets people to sleep better. His Insomnia Masala, produces effects similar to sleeping pills.

All well and good, but drifting into a sound sleep after eating a curry is only solving half the problem and very risky. What about when you wake up in the middle of the night and have to rush to the loo due to the volcanic eruption at the other end of the body when said curry, recycles itself to the tune of Ring of Fire?

And then you wake up …

Kay Delany from Cambridgeshire, slipped and banged her head. She was knocked out and when she woke up, found she’d lost twenty years and still thought it was 1990.

Blimey. Can you imagine if that happened? If it was me, I’d still think I was married to my ex-wife and therefore hiding the Kit-Kat bars while dodging flying crockery. Not only that, I’d still have the recent memory of having to listen to the bloody Pet Shop Boys.

Terms of the divorce. I got the house, she got the Pet Shop Boys. Now there’s another musical brand to send you to sleep.

But still … 1990? It took me years to get over the trauma of the Chris Waddle penalty miss during the World Cup in Italy that year. I’d be facing the prospect of waking in a cold sweat again, screaming, ‘Noooooo!’

Yes, Chris. Twenty-two years later, I still close my eyes and wonder … if the ball you put over the bar has come to land, yet?

Probably the sickest stunt I’ve heard in a while.

It was in the news this week that Take That’s Gary Barlow and wife, lost a child in a still-birth. As a father, I can only imagine the hurt and nobody – ever, deserves that. Now you can guess, I’m not a fan of Take That, neither would I know a Gary Barlow song if it was blasted into my ears. However, what little I do know of the man is that he comes across as a decent enough guy. Decent, on the other hand, is not a word which could ever in a million years, be attributed to former Big Brother contestant, Kenneth Tong.

Kenneth thought it really big to jump on the bandwagon and tweet hate-filled jokes, poking fun at the Barlow’s loss. I’m not going to repeat them or even suggest you check them out. Take my word, they come from a sick mind.

Kenneth Tong, as I said, was on Big Brother a few years back and in his six days in the house, showed himself to be the useless excuse for a human being we still know him to be. He once boasted money can buy you anything. Really? Not respect and the only thing it seems to have bought Kenneth is the tag of being a useless low-life scumbag of the highest degree. A complete wanker.

Kenneth stands by his evil tweets and says he only did it for fun and to get noticed.

I wonder, when he dies and nobody attends his funeral for him being the worst kind of slug from beneath a slimy stone, will anybody notice then? Will they care that he’s gone?

Is it safe to venture up the loft now?

Okay, creatures of mass extermination have been obliterated, and there’s still no sign of rats. Therefore, this time next week, I think my work in the loft will be done and I’ll have loads of space. Great, then I can bung all the crap from every other part of the house, up there. Result.

Now then, what’s this lying in the corner? Oh my God! The worst horror of all. Is it rats, or even dead rats? No … worse.

Arrrggghhh! Bloody Pet Shop Boys. How did that get there?

I need therapy.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Going for Gold in the Loft Clearing Event.

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August 5, 2012

It’s been nearly 9 years. I can wait no longer.

Aug 2003, that’s when ex-wife departed the mansion. At the time, all the crap I’d accumulated was shoved up the loft and over subsequent years, anything else I didn’t want to trip over went there too. Toys, old books, CDs I no longer listen too. You name it, they’re in the loft.

Is that a drill? Jesus! That must mean at some point I did DIY. Explains why everything falls off my walls. All the stuff up there, though; I never realised it was that bad. Lets turn around, perhaps I can shift them into the space behind me.

Okay, perhaps not. Therefore, a few days ago I set about the task of clearing the clutter, or in my case, move it all about but this time have it in neat, ordered piles.

What, you expect me to throw things away?

I jest. Three bags of junk have gone now and there is a little daylight at the end of the cavern. In my defence, it would have been sorted earlier but since the notorious rat incident of New Year 2010, I’ve only recently dared stick my head up there. Huge big bag of poison’s still on the floor, unloved and uneaten for enough time for me to deem it safe to climb the rungs of the loft-ladder again.

Four hours so far and only once did I get distracted when I found an old Ann Summers catalogue. But it’s amazing the stuff you never get rid of. There is an Amstrad 464, an original 1970s TV pong game, half a dozen sketches I did when I was a teenager and the most embarrassing jumper I think I ever wore. No, I’m not posting a picture here. It’s gone, in the clothing bank. Some other poor bugger can carry the shame of fashion criminal. I also found about thirty copies of Madnotbad Anthology and then cried, remembering how out of pocket I was when I funded the said failed project. Still, when I’m a famous writer, people will be clamouring for an early Antony N Britt – won’t they?

Hey! They might.

What’s going on at Mount Olympus, then?

I actually watched a little Olympics and surprised myself with a rare bit of national pride. It’s not the sport I take issue with. I guess what I really dislike is all the hype and commercialism. As I said weeks ago, when some woman ran past me carrying a large matchstick in honour of the event, the advertising made me sick. I’m told the opening ceremony went well though and that Danny Boyle did a great job. I don’t know, I didn’t see it. I was taking part in a séance and hunting ghosts that night. The only bit I did see was Frank Turner’s spot as I’m a huge fan. Afterwards, I watched on You Tube. Groaned.

Yes, it looked very rural, transforming the stadium into a local yokel village of old but come on! The Americans already think London is like a Sherlock Holmes novel and that we all live in places like Midsommer Murders, they’ve told me so in the past. Now everybody else in the world is going to think we all sit with grass in our hair, sipping scrumpy cider and dodging sheep in the back garden. Give me strength.

Still, we’ve had triumphs and none more so that Boris Johnson competing on the zip-wire.

What do you mean, there isn’t a zip-wire event? Oh, he got stuck. Still, I suppose we should feel sorry for Boris, left hanging there. It can’t have been nice and I bet the entire Team GB was falling over with sympathy for his predicament.

Okay, not what you expect from Gold Medal winners. Having said that, do you think we could get away with leaving him there? Then we could all carry on and enjoy the games without having to listen to him talking crap as usual.

Meanwhile, back up the loft.

Found this child’s plimsoll.

Don’t know whose it was. Must be one of the older two for it to be up the loft. Then I thought – It looks brand new, hardly ever used. Ahh – I see. It definitely belongs to one of my kids, then. Therefore, I put it to one side in the hope of finding the other one and then I can send them to charity. At least somebody will get use out of them. Not the most sporting – my kids.

A slimy brand of nobhead.

Never seen the point of Russell Brand. Unfunny, untalented and the most wooden actor since Pinocchio. Russell delayed filming on new film, What About Dick (Guess who’s the dick?), refusing to work until a wardrobe assistant agreed to flash her breasts at him. The crew member said no for two hours until finally giving in so production could recommence. Apparently, Russell is known for getting away with murder while filming. Not so. He’s getting away with sexual harassment. If I did that to an employee, I’d expect the sack.

Russell – Go and find a filthy stone to crawl under, it’s all you’re good for. Better still, as you’re appearing in What about Dick and like people flashing sexual parts, how about flashing your own dick? Oh. Forgot. You do that every time we see your face.

Am I going doolally?

I have just seen a post-it note on my desk. On it is a phone number with the name Trevor by the side. I tidy my desk regular so this must be very recent. It’s my writing so the question begs – Who the hell is Trevor and should I ring him to find out?

Pump up the action.

Still up the loft, I scream with joy. Hooray! I have found the other plimsoll. Now all I have to do is pair it with the one I had in my hands earlier.

Oh. I see. It isn’t the second shoe. It’s the same one as before, it having landed in a mound of clutter when I slung it about half hour ago.

A matter of honour?

Take a look at these two. Go on, take a good look.

This is Iftikhar and Farzana Ahmed. They used to have a daughter but as found guilty this week, they killed her as in their eyes, she brought disgrace to the family.

Bollocks. Honour plays no part. The only disgrace is in this pair. They are not parents. They are evil – murdering – scum.

Okay, so I’m still up the loft.

Two Ker-Plunks! How the bloody hell have I got two Ker-Plunks?

I must have bought one for eldest, slung it up the loft and years later when the younger two came along, forgot I had it and purchased another. It’s not as if I even like Ker-Plunk. I hate it. Takes hours to get those blooming needles in, then having done so, the game’s over in two seconds. I always reckoned Ker-Plunk was designed by a guy who hated people who had kids. Payback for the kids running around in restaurants, disturbing his meal.

Two of them. I can’t believe it. Not only that, I’ve worked through half the loft and am still to find Twister. I want that one. At least try to play it with a nice obliging female … while my limbs are still able to take it.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Olympic Fever, a Pop Princess and the Art of Getting into Trouble.

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July 29, 2012

Holy Olympians … I just don’t understand it.

Not a great fan of the Olympics, even with Britain hosting the thing. The Olympics is an event which comers around every four years and suddenly, we watch sports we would never normally be interested in and sit glued to our screens, most of the time, not having a clue what is going on. It’s like the gymnastics. They all look bloody good to me but when you see the scores, I can’t tell the difference between crap and excellent.

Have London 2012 done a good job? Maybe, but I still hark on about the fact that hundreds of charity projects were thrown to the lions when their funding was cut to fund this couple of weeks of glory for one or two. And there have been cock-ups along the way.

What about the swimming pool, designed and built costing millions yet some idiot of an architect thinks a sloping roof will look good but fails to fathom that the 5000 yellow seats will not see the diving board as the view is obscured.

Then we have the fiasco of the lucrative contract awarded to G4S who having failed to attract enough people to work for a minimum wage, now have to turn to our police and the army to make up the shortfall. Why wasn’t a decent wage offered? There are some companies making obscene money out of advertising this event, surely the workers deserve good money too.

Also, with all the traffic, London is going to be a no-go zone for cars. Well, no change there then. I hope it goes well though. However, having seen London’s previous attempts, namely the over inflated cost of Wembley Stadium and even worse, the Millennium Dome, can you blame me for not having much faith in them to deliver?

I saw the other day, people are being victimised for wearing Pepsi logos as it offends sponsor, Coca Cola. Give me strength. People can do what they like. It’s a free country. There was also the mix-up over posting the South Korean flag alongside the pictures of the North Korean football team. Way to go. Just go and upset the nation most likely to have their finger on the nuclear button.

Still, London will say that was at Hampden Park, and blame the Scots. They can get bombed instead.

Life’s a beach.

This week, the sun returned to the UK and everybody headed to the beach. Okay, not so where I spent a day, in Rhyl. It was deserted. Described as a poor man’s Blackpool, Rhyl really lowers the bar in terms of sun destinations but there were a number of people taking in the sun. Costa Del Sol … you have nothing on the UK. Why fly out to experience this …

When you can got to Rhyl and come across this?

Come on. No contest, is there?

Getting shirty.

Wore this t-shirt the other day and being bored, started fiddling with the buttons on the collar.

Hang on, now I know what you’re saying. Why has a t-shirt got buttons on the collar? Well, I don’t know the answer. Obviously some stupid poxy fashion designer thought it a good idea at the time. I mean, what do I need them for? Obviously, somewhere along the line, I may find myself in a situation where somebody I know has lost a button and then I can come to the rescue and say, ‘Here you are, I have a one you can borrow.’

Stupid idea. Not only that, I was sitting down and something was digging into my naval. I looked down, turned the underside of the shirt and there it was – a spare button. WTF? So, not only have I got a useless three buttons that don’t do anything, there is also a spare in case I lose one of the other non-functioning buttons.

Crazy.

Careful where you walk with a camera.

I had to take a trip to a graveyard this week. I have a piece going into a non-fiction anthology and was asked for ideas on illustrations. Seeing as the piece is called, The Death of the Struggling Writer, I thought a shot of me writing by a tombstone would be a great image.

Therefore, I shanghaied my brother with his expensive camera and off we trotted to a local church to make use of some crumbling 200-year-old graves which were surrounded by weeds.

That was one of the shots taken before I reached my favoured choice of location at the back of the church. However, this was not available as it was occupied buy a Gothic couple who appeared to be … erm, copulating.

Right, seeing as it was conspicuous playing peeping tom with myself plus photographer with huge Nikon hanging from neck, I had to make do with the front of the church, in full public view of staring passers-by. Took loads of shots and got them off to the editor. Also, managed to escape the graveyard, without getting arrested.

And another close escape …

Having nearly got arrested over the photos, I had another attempt the next day when I took my daughter to her summer school. She starts year seven soon and some in her year are doing a two-week introduction. I tried to drop her off but the school gates were all locked up. Very badly organised. We walked around the back. Open gates but still no sign of life. Then, we came across two more 11-year-old girls who sort of, tagged along. Then, a third came and before I knew it, I had a trail of pre-teen females following me like the Pied Piper of Walsall.

Eventually, I found a side entrance, wandered in, girls in tow and found a member of staff who looked at me as if it was obvious which of the two hundred doors and corridors we should have been aiming for.

‘These girls all with you?’ the woman asked.

I looked to my unintended entourage. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘Just the one. I seem to have collected the others on the way. I must have a talent for picking up young girls.’

I then looked at the wide-eyed expression on the staff member and thought how that must have sounded to her.

I departed, leaving my daughter for day one of her induction, and drove away as the sirens were getting close.

Looking for an argument?

A German company has started a telephone arguing service, inspired by the Monty Python argument sketch.

For £1 a minute, you can shout, swear and let off steam.

I don’t get it, though. Why pay £1 a minute when you can ring Virgin Media to ask why your internet isn’t working and get an argument for nothing?

Prima donna

Madonna fleeced her fans £200 a head for a 45-minute show and then spent 15 minutes of that spouting her uninteresting views on the world. If folk wanted to hear people talk crap, they can watch a politician, not some over-inflated ego full of self-importance. £200 for half hour’s music. If you can’t be professional and give the customer what they want – retire.

Madonna. Some things are well past their sell-by date.

Let’s see how the Olympics are going.

Apparently, Team GB have blown their chance for a gold in the cycling. They are currently trapped in a pelaton behind the breakaway group. A pelaton? It sounds like something out of Doctor Who. Can’t they just say cluster of bike riders and have done with it?

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Poets, Poltergeists and Hate-Filled Protests

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 13 Comments
July 22, 2012

Things that go bump.

You may recall me ending last week’s roast with the news that I was about to partake in an all-night ghost hunt. It was good but for me, the only thing that went bump was my head when I hit it on a low beam in the cellar.

I shall remain a believing sceptic, or a sceptical believer, whatever sounds more apt. Let’s say that over the years, so much weird stuff has happened to me, I have to remain open to the possibility of ghosts, or accept the prospect that it’s all simply a product of my deranged mind.

On the night, apart from a couple of knocks on the table, nothing major happened that I couldn’t find an explanation for, though I did take this picture in the granary loft.

What do you think; definitive proof?

So I wasn’t scared, even when asked to go and sit in dark cupboards – I was game. Twice, I did it. No reason for wanting to prove or disprove the existence of ghosts. I just like sitting in cupboards.

I shan’t mock any more. It’s just a bit of fun and I do remain keen to try again. In fact, I’m off to another on Friday, so who knows?

Having said all of that, the scariest thing that happened to me all night was an encounter with the worst toilets I’ve spent a penny in, all year. Yew! Ghosts – no problem, but that … I won’t even post a photograph they were so disgusting. Well, I didn’t actually take a photograph. You see, with a queue of nice looking ladies waiting outside, having my flash go off from behind the closed toilet cubicle is not a look I’m keen to promote.

Ode-ear.

Poor old football fan. Dennis Swift found himself in hot water when police arrived on his doorstep to warn him off for writing … poetry.

Apparently, Dennis had not been too kind in his verse about his beloved Bolton Wanderers. The club took exception and complained to the police, hence the dawn raid.

‘Don’t go writing any more,’ one of the cops blasted.

Oh, give me strength. Have they nothing better to do? Talk about soft targets and what about the club; how petty are they? Every week on the terraces, 30,000 fans scream, ‘You’re a fucking wanker,’ at the manager when the team lose and nothing can be done yet one man writes a sonnet, and the swat team are banging on his door.

This soccer club doth protest too much.

Shame on you, Bolton Wanderers, and shame on the local police for following through.

And talking of bad cops …

PC Simon Harwood may not be guilty in the eyes of the law over committing manslaughter but one thing doesn’t alter. He is a violent thug who should never have been allowed to continue in the force.

Cowardly, Harwood, during the G20 protests, decided enough was enough but rather than vent his anger at those causing the trouble, had a go at a middle aged man on his way home. Minutes after being pushed to the ground from behind by Harwood, Ian Tomlinson was dead.

So Harwood had been subjected to a bad day. Been taunted. Was that any reason to take out his anger issues on an innocent passer by? I worked for years within the police alongside hundreds of good, honest officers. This incident is an insult to their excellent work. The fault here, lies with the tosspot chiefs who sit on their backsides and couldn’t spot a wrong-un if one thumped them, which sounds likely in the case of Harwood, now having heard the long list of previous disciplinary accusations against him. The Met, however. conveniently managed to keep these incidents from the public domain, having not acted when they arose over the years.

Outside the court, Harwood’s wife expressed relief after enduring three years of hell. What about the hell suffered by the family of Ian Tomlinson? Tell them that justice has been done.

You chiefs at the Met. You have blood on your hands.

And to celebrate his 94th birthday …

Nelson Mandela turns into a chameleon.

Barclays boob again?

After the scandal of rate-rigging, fat-cat bonuses and the like, beleaguered bank, Barclays were in the news again. This time, it was one of their own employees who has been found guilty. Clerk, Rachael Martin stole £40k from the bank in order that she could have a boob job.

Well, it isn’t the first time Barclays or any other of these greedy bankers have swiped money from their customers to fund a load of tits.

May the love of God, picket your funeral and spout hate at grieving families …

Okay, you may have guessed from previous roasts, I’m very anti-religion. However, God has very little to do with the bollocks spewed out by those planks in the Westboro Baptist Church. Come on, I’m all for free speech but this is nothing more than bigoted hate. In the UK, this lot would be arrested., especially if the hate was directed at Bolton Wanderers Football Club in the shape of a poem.

Hiding behind the mask of our fictional hero, God, this load of pond-life have spouted hatred against everything. You name it: Sexuality, the armed forces, Judaism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Islam and just about everybody who isn’t a member of their twisted community. Don’t worry Westbroro. It’s reciprocal. Everybody hates you in return. Says it all – even the Klu Klux Klan distanced themselves from Westboro on the grounds of the religious group being extreme.

The Foo Fighters – Kicking Westboro’s sorry ass in a counter protest last year. Long live Dave Grohl.

Off on the ghost trail, again.

As I mentioned, I’m booked up for another ghost event. I’ll have done it by the next time I’m roasting, so who knows, I may have that proof of life in the world beyond … or not. I am keen though. It’s just an interest and I’m penciling in two more for later in the year. Woodchester Mansion is supposed to be extremely haunted so should be good. Also, Dudley Castle will be really terrifying. Okay, spending a night at Dudley Castle won’t be, but having to travel through Dudley to get there, will.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – In a Bit of a Spin

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 8 Comments
July 15, 2012

All the fun of the fair.

David, my 19-year-old autistic son, left school last week. His mom had been promising him a trip to Alton Towers theme park for ages but in usual fashion, she let him down. Therefore, muggins here, had to step in and take him.

Now I don’t like going to the place. It’s always packed and you spend all day queueing. However, I thought that seeing as David left school two weeks before the end of term, it would be quiet.

Nooooo!

The place was crammed and not only that, full of bloody kids. Shouldn’t they have been in school? I’ve never seen so many lycra-legged, track-suited, baseball capped wearing teenagers in my life.

Yes. He actually got me on that thing after lunch, despite me hating rides that twirl around. Not only that, I also had to suffer the spinning barrels straight after.

Here’s a pic from last year when I took the other kids. Then, I could stand and watch. This time, I had to endure with my eyes closed. Then came the final horror. Yes, white knuckle rides like Rita and Thirteen, I’m fine with, but David insisted we go on this …

This ride was in the shape of a mushroom. After I’d been on it, I felt as though I’d eaten mushrooms of a magic kind, I tell you. OMG! Spinny things; they make me want to throw up, especially after just having had lunch.

And talking of our lunch, I looked forward to and purchased the battered fish and chips. Hmmmm. Chips – yes, but battered fish? It wasn’t so much battered fish as simply – batter. Okay, there was some kind of fish inside it. I think it was a stickleback.

Apparently, the reason there were so many schoolkids is that many schools take them to theme parks for day trips.

WTF? When I was at school, we had to go to castles and museums. It isn’t fair.

Inane comment of the week.

While waiting at my Doctor’s surgery. a guy comes through the door, smiles and says hello to his friend sitting near to me.

‘Hello, Mate,’ the new arrival says, ‘how are you keeping; you okay?’

I would have thought that was bloody obvious that he wasn’t keeping okay. You know, what with him waiting to be seen by the doctor in a surgery.

Anyone for … anything else apart from tennis?

So Andy Murray didn’t win, despite my baiting and challenge to buck the trend of getting so far, then bottling it at the last minute. Yes, I know, you will all have been crying tears with him at the emotion, praising him because he did so well for getting further than ever before. We all said, ‘Well done, Andy. You did us proud,’ when in fact, what we really wanted to scream was, ‘You loser! You had Federer four break points to your favour in the second set and you blew it!’

She should think herself lucky.

22-year-old Amy Crowhurst was once famous for being Britain’s youngest mum after falling pregnant at the age of 12. Amy, having lived off the state for ten years, spawning a further child at 15, says she’d recommend it to anybody. You see, while other girls of 22 are settling down to create their own families, Amy can meet up with her mates and go clubbing, when she dumps the kids with her mum, that is.

Here’s Amy at the younger age when first giving birth and she now says having kids as a child, meant she kept her figure to a size six while other girls are all fat.

Amy resides with her two children in a three-bedroom council house, paid for by the working taxpayer and lives off state benefits. She was evicted from a previous house a couple of years back for throwing drug-fueled parties. Where were her precious children at the time, I wonder? She should think herself fortunate that her house was the only thing she lost. She’s lucky not to have had her children, or as most would call them – the meal ticket, taken into care. Sixty years ago, Amy would have probably had her kids forcibly removed while being sent to an institution herself, for being a pregnant teenager. Thankfully, we are not as bad a society to that extent any more but there is still a difference between young girls needing help and those like Amy, who simply don’t give a toss.

Still, nothing will change. She’s 22 now. Expect to see her face in the paper again in a few years time when she becomes a gran at 27.

And on the subject of people named Amy – Superstitious bullshit of the week.

Amy Winehouse was reincarnated as a butterfly. That’s the belief of her grieving mother. Okay, you have to feel sorry for someone who’s suffered a loss but as far as superstitious nonsense goes, this ranks alongside Scientology.

Let’s for one minute, accept you do come back as an animal and Amy is a butterfly. I hate to break the mood but the average butterfly doesn’t exactly live very long. Wouldn’t it be better if she came back as a giant tortoise? Then, if life’s pressures got too much this time, she could just retreat back into her shell.

Hunting for a bargain.

I spent a not-so-lovely afternoon rummaging through the local rag market, or as it is more commonly known – TK Maxx.

UFOs over Old Trafford?

Apparently, secret files have revealed that there have been UFO sightings all over the country and one of them took place during a Manchester United match at Old Trafford.

Strange flying objects in Manchester? No, the boffins are confusing matters. There are no unidentified flying objects during a Man United game. All objects flying through the air can be put down to Ashley Young, every time he reaches the opposition penalty area.

Is that an unidentified flying object I can see? Oh no, it’s only Ashley in the penalty area, again.

Stating the obvious.

My 11-year-old, Eleanor, has a habit for doing this. I had a classic the other week. Sitting outside her house, waiting for her mom to return home, my daughter pointed to the house next door to hers. ‘That’s our next door neighbours house,’ she said.

Well, I’d never have guessed that, seeing as it’s next door.

Nice one, Eleanor.

It’s been a hectic week.

As I said at the start, David finished school and seriously, I have had so little time free, I wondered if I’d actually get this roast done. Still, he went into respite yesterday and I have managed to recharge. I am writing this on Saturday as later in the evening, I am doing an all-night ghost hunt. I shall therefore be out of it till lunchtime, Sunday.

Boo!

Never done a ghost hunt before. Not a proper vigil. Some of you may know I do have experience of stuff like this – they follow me around but I also remain a sceptic. Nothing’s real till I see it. I don’t communicate with spirits, I just get vibes, see and hear things.

I love all that sort of stuff, and I’m not remotely frightened. Once you’ve had to suffer that spinning chair thing at Alton Towers, the one on the earlier photo, surrounded by thirty or more lycra-clad, screaming girls, nothing is frightening any more.

Cheers.

 

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Scientology, Sting and Stupid Fake Breasts.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 12 Comments
July 8, 2012

Katie opts out of Cruise control.

It was always going to be a matter of time before Top-Gun movie darling Tom Cruise, said farewell to his latest wife. Anybody that spouts religious bullshit on a regular basis is always walking a fine line but to promote Scientology, you have to wonder how he has any credibility left.

Scientology is an oddball cult which appears to be little more than pyramid selling on a religious level. In other words – a con. Scientology was created by L Ron Hubbard and his profession as a writer of science pulp fiction, says it all. Scientology tells us that we are but astral energy, trapped in human form. In fact, when Hubbard died, his followers told us he’d abandoned his body to carry on important work in another part of the universe. Hmmm … I reckon there are many involved in this nonsense of a cult whose minds have long departed this planet, but ironically, still appear to be active here.

Above we see Mr Cruise practising in his spacesuit for the day he ascends to that astral plane. However, it is no joke for wife, Kate and daughter, Suri. Can you not blame a mother in fearing for her child’s well-being? She has serious fears. I mean, she should know, after five years being married to Cruise.

Scientology is not officially recognised as a religion but is exempt from UK tax as it alleges it is a non-profit organisation. However, for something supposedly not in it to make money, there are an awful lot of properties owned by the cult and some very rich people – at the top.

Mind you, it’s the same as any other religion. Promises eternal existence, but is simply after your mortally-gained wealth.

Yes Katie. I’d keep her very close to your chest – and don’t bloody let go.

Boy. I must stop forgetting what I’ve left in my living room.

The other week, David came home with a puppet he made in school. Now when I say puppet, this one is about three feet high with a head that’s real-sized, as you can see below.

It’s really good and he did, apparently do a lot of the stitching himself. However, the first night it came home, I placed it in the far corner of the living room, went to bed, forgot it was there. Next morning in the gloom at six, I walk bleary-eyed into the room, turn and … Arrrgghhh! My God. I wasn’t expecting to see that out the corner of my eye. It’s the most frightening thing since David left the home video of 2001, on pause and I walked in to see the face of my ex-wife grinning back at me on a 32” screen.

Mind you, David’s puppet reminds me of a sight we saw on holiday. This was at the other end of the road away from our caravan.

Imagine walking past that every day to get a packet of cornflakes. Simon Cowell in a grass skirt. Yew!

She’s a bit Gaga …

So we have a storm in a teacup about Lady Gaga doing a song about the death of Princess Diana. I was amazed when I heard. I mean, has she only just found out the princess is dead? You can imagine the Gaga comeback tour of 2028. Opening number – Wacko about Jacko.

Lady Gaga – Keep up with the times, Dear.

Crime scene? Some of that music is criminal. I tell you.

On the menu last night …

Ugh! I spent a lovely couple of minutes clearing up what can only be described as congealed badger vomit after suffering the stench beforehand. The residue, also more commonly know as Pot Noodle, belonged to David, and he’d spilled it on the carpet.

Is this child abuse?

Chantal Marshall, having persuaded four of her daughters to follow her example and have excessive breast enhancement, now wants youngest daughter Britney, 14, to also have boob surgery.

Seriously, Britney. Do you really want to look like that? Ugh! They are horrific. Cinderella never needed to be the same as her sisters, and neither do you.

Every minute on the internet …

I read this week that each sixty seconds online, people send 200million emails. They also post and share over 700million items on Facebook. In addition, they load nearly 4000 poor quality retro-style photos on Instantgram followed by tapping in 100,000 tweets on Twitter.

I don’t know about that lot, but according to my statistics on this site, most of the world is searching for pictures of Rose from Titanic on a blooming raft.

Arrrgghhh! It – was – a – joke! And for the record, it probably would have sunk.

A bit of madness with a sting in the tail.

Madness singer, Suggs, allegedly got drunk at a posh bash the other day and gatecrashed Sting while the former Police singer was on stage.

Sting ought to be grateful. Maybe seeing an artist with a bit of oomph might remind him what it’s like to perform energetic rock. It’s what Sting did best, not this solo artistic stuff, or as it’s also known – semi-pretentious crap.

Sting – Winner of the Smug Git of the Year Award – near thirty years running.

I don’t want to contribute to their air miles.

Apparently, Prince William and Kate splashed out £52k on a one-way flight recently. This is in addition to regular member of the mile-high club, Prince Andrew, who fleeced the country nearly £400k over a short period in his role as trade envoy. Trade envoy? That’s a new name for playing golf I haven’t heard before. Also, the Prince of Wales and Camilla, spent nigh-on half a million on their tour of the Middle East and Africa. All on private jets.

Have any of these leeches ever heard of using a bus? I’m told that the £32 million the UK taxpayer gives to fund these useless load of ferret droppings each year, amounts to 52p a head. It may not sound much to you, but I want to opt out.

The royal family. They live on a different planet. Maybe they should become Scientologists.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – The Olympics Arrive at the 22A Bus Stop.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 4 Comments
July 1, 2012

Holding a torch

After much deliberation, I thought I’d go and watch the Olympic Torch journey through my little town. Actually, I didn’t go into Walsall as the convoy passed very near to my son’s school fete and I thought, if I’m parked up – why not? Therefore, ignoring all the crowds and celebrations laid on in the town centre, I made camp along the A34 near the corner of Irvine Road by the 22A bus stop.

Uplifting experience? Yes, you guessed it. This miserable bastard was totally underwhelmed. It’s not my fault. I’m not even remotely interested in the Olympics. As I’ve said before, too many small organisations lost funding because of it and had to fold.

New game – Kick five balls through all five rings and you get to keep the Tower of London.

After waiting an inconvenient five minutes, I heard cheering and thought, Hey, here it comes. No. That was the preamble, namely the obligatory and blatant advertising as buses drove by promoting gut-rotting cola and some company that makes Galaxy phones. Ha … No free advertising here.

Well, the commercial break came and went, carrying it’s smiling teen cheerleaders further down the road and then another five minutes, we had the main spectacular event.

Now when I say spectacular, what I cannot put into this transcript is the immense layers of sarcasm. You see, immediately prior to the passing of the torch, the ecstatic hordes waiting, were not so much lining the road, as encroaching. Still, in the distance, I saw loads of blue flashing lights. The police would sort it – wouldn’t they? However, the solution was not one of controlled health and safety, but an old guy on a pushbike telling everybody to get back on the pavement.

Still, the torch arrived, and I even saw a handover. As it disappeared into the distance, I then heard further clapping as running behind in convoy, were about thirty police officers on foot, joining in the parade. People cheered. Some even jeered, but my main thought was, wouldn’t it have been better for them lot to run in front and move the spilling crowds back and not leave it to some old guy on a bike?

I’m never happy, am I? Seriously, though. Well done to all the officials involved and the people of Walsall for making this a success.

Football’s coming home?

Well, the English team are, yet again – predictably.

Yes, we have the usual hopes, the usual result, and the usual awful penalty misses. Actually, people are slamming England’s poor performance against Italy but they’ve forgotten one thing. Italy were bloody brilliant.

Still, what do the English people expect? Millions of fans glory hunt and share their support between five or six clubs. These clubs, bankrolled by billionaires, are filled with foreign players at the expense of home grown talent so our lads never get a look in. The supporters show passionate loyalty from the comfort of their armchairs and cheer on the same guys who are knocking our national team out of major tournaments on a regular basis. The English vilify our own players yet come September, when the new season starts, they’ll be wetting themselves when the top Euro stars start kicking a ball again on our own turf.

Still, you have to feel sorry for the England lads. It was hard. I mean … kicking a large ball twelve yards into a huge fucking net with only one man in the way. It’s near impossible.

Above we see serial diver, Ashley Young, guilty party for the first miss. Mind you, better than James Milner. He spent the entire tournament crossing the ball to an the invisible man at the other side of the field. A player only he could see.

Anyone for tennis, then?

Andy Murray, apparently plans to spend as much time away from Wimbledon this year in a cunning plan to win the tournament. Funny, I thought that was the usual tactic of us Brits at Wimbledon. We always spend loads of time away from the place. Namely when we’re knocked out in the first week.

Apparently, Murray thinks keeping his distance will make him relax and remove the pressure. No, Andy. The pressure will be off until, as usual, like Tim Henman and Greg Rusedski before you, you get within a shot of actually making the final then bloody bottle it at the last minute when it matters.

There. Gauntlet thrown. Now go and bloody prove me wrong.

What’s that coming over hill, is it a monster?

This has to be the most bizarre and ludicrous thing I have heard in many a year. Children in schools in Louisiana are being taught that God really does exist as dinosaurs still walk the earth. Their proof – The Loch Ness Monster.

Yes, creationist lunatics are getting away with brainwashing folk’s poor unsuspecting offspring by saying Nessie, the massive hoax that Scotland’s tourist industry has lived off for 80 years, is real.

Arrrgghhh! I’ve seen it all now. A mythical creature of fantasy being used to prove another creature of pure fantasy (God) exists.

Teaching kids bullshit like that … It’s not education, it’s child abuse.

What about a winning formula?

Apparently, Formula One chiefs are proposing to stage a Grand Prix through Central London. If plans go ahead, you could soon see Lewis Hamilton, Jensen Button and the rest, all racing through the capital. We are told, roads would be closed, obviously. However, why obviously? Since the advent of congestion charging, nobody can afford to drive through Central London, anyway. You wouldn’t need to close the roads; there’s nothing on them.

That’s about the only mode of transport you see traveling freely through Central London, these days who don’t have to pay congestion charges. Ask them to, and they exterminate you.

Thieves and Looters.

If I cost my company, millions, I’d expect the sack but the likes of Bob Diamond, head of fraudulent bank, Barclays, is adamant he is staying put. I know where I’d like to put him and his ilk of short-selling speculating greedy bastards – on a deserted island. That is after we’d seized back their cars, houses, money and all other ill-gotten gains.

Save our ears.

Apparently, The Voice live tour has been canceled due to lack of interest. The Voice, is yet another banal karaoke style TV talent show, full of generic wannabees singing other peoples songs. They were due to go on tour but poor ticket sales meant the shows had to be called off. Great. Now can we get rid of the TV show too?

Singer Jessie J says scrapping the tour will mean the acts can now “spread their wings” and find their own direction. Yes, Jessie. Straight to oblivion. Actually, I don’t know about finding their own direction … what about finding One Direction. The boy band from The Voice’s rival ITV show, X-Factor, seem to be doing rather well. They could give this lot from The Voice some tips.

But back to that torch …

Well, not the torch, but the day. Boy, was it tiring. That flame event, the fete, shopping in town (twice). No wonder I was knackered. Sitting writing this … do you think it’s safe to say you’ve had a long day when you then spend five minutes trying to locate the source of the steady drip, drip, drip noise you can hear, only to find out after looking, it was just the sound of your own watch ticking?

Cheers.

Nick

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