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Tuesday, 31 January 2006

Florian Sings.....



Yo Swipesters!!


A new spot in which we ask Kraftwerk frontman Florian Schneider to provide a little musical interlude to help us start the day with a song in our hearts and a tap in our feet. This week, Florian will be treating us to a selection from the songbook of the great Lancashire comedian, George Formby. Take it away Florian!!!

ein, swei, drei, vier..

(boom tisk ka-ka, boom tisk ka-ka...)


I em leanink on zer lamppost at zer corner of zer street,
In case a zertain lee-tall lay-tee comst by
Oh me, oh my,
I hope zer lee-tall lay-tee ghost by.
I don't know eef she'll gate avay,
She does nicht alvays gate avay,
But anyvay I know zat she veal try.
Oh me, oh my,
I hope zer lee-tall lady comst by.

I em leanink on zer lamppost at zer corner of zer street,
In case zer zertain leetall lay-tee comst by
Ve're talking zehr schon
Zer zer-tain
Lee-tall
Lay-tee
Comst
Baaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

(boom tisk ka-ka, boom tisk ka-ka...)


Next week: Florian sings a Wurzels medley...I am zer Zider Trinker, I have zer brandt neue Combineharzesterhaltestelle and many, many more!!




© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Monday, 30 January 2006

Silverton Falls Out With Murnaghan Over Perching Rights - Exclusive!



Woah Swipesters!!

Hold the phone!!! Leggy, bespectacled newscasteress Kate Silverton is once again at the centre of a row with one of her co-presenters when it emerged that she had asked for the BBC Breakfast sofa to be replaced with a luxury perch! The former bunny-girl and Wright Stuff panelist, whose bizarre appearance and nocturnal hunting habits have been reported previously, is thought to have had an ultra-pernickety rider included in her terms of service after a similar falling out with former co-host Philip Hayton. The reclining perch will include armrests stuffed with grain and be suspended over the 40 feet square of emery board that will replace the existing studio floor. "It's costing us a packet", said a BBC executive, "but if it keeps Kate happy, it's worth it. Besides, we don't want owl droppings all over the floor - Dermont's hacked off enough as it is, without running the risk of him slipping on some bird crap and breaking his neck."


Kate Silverton shares a joke with co-presenter Sian Williams. (That's Kate on the left....)

Keen to keep their highly sought after presenter on their books, the BBC have gone to what appear to be extraordinary lengths to mollify the temperamental star. This morning's show saw the unveiling of Silverton's new cage, replete with mirror, gold water bath, millet smorgasbord and a variety of freshly slain rodents and small birds. A visibly irked Murnaghan had to make do with a poorly constructed nest cobbled together from twigs, sanitary towels and sweet wrappers instead of his usual comfy seat. "She's at it again", complained one Breakfast insider. "Next thing you know, she'll be complaining that she'll only work at night and have us all camped out in a field waiting to film her swooping down on her prey and carrying it off to gorge herself on some poor little dormouse or baby rabbit. She's a merciless bitch, that's for sure. And you don't want to get on the wrong side of her - never mind the bloody beak, with those talons of hers she doesn't mess about!"


Kaplinsky: set to fly the nest leaving Murnaghan to slop around on bird poop alone....

BBC news suffered a further setback when it was revealed that its flagship presenter Natasha Kaplinsky would be leaving the department to pursue a range of journalistic projects. After her success on Strictly Come Dancing, the voluptuous newsreader will be allowing fly-on-the-wall cameras to document her progress as she spends a year learning to become a professional dancer in a private members' club in Pole to pole dancer. Later in the year, the telly lovely will host a new travel-based reality TV show in which alcohol-sozzled British tourists argue with one another at ridiculous volumes, before murdering one another's children. I'm a wanker and I'm going on holiday to shout a lot will be screened in the autumn.



Love on y'all,

Bob




© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Friday, 27 January 2006

Ask Mariella...



Yo Swipesters!!

Each week, our resident Nordic sexpert and fabulously saucy strumpet, Mariella Frostrup answers your questions about ....erm, that subject we'd really rather not talk about - you know?? .......birds.....bees...flowers..... and trees and that.......yeeeuuuurrrggghhhhh..... HHHEEEELLLLPPPPP!!

This week, Fluffy Economist writes:


Dear Mariella,
How do you feel your integrity as a sexpert has withstood an appearance on the panel of In Our Time's Greatest Philosopher and is it better to quote Aristotle or Satre when in the midst of a sweaty bout of felching?
Yours,
FE


Mariella says:

Fluffy, thank you for your question. Aristotle and Sartre have their relative merits, but aren't you forgetting someone? The exceptionally uncheerful disposition Kierkegaard held to the world (not without reason after a broken off engagement and a campaign against him in the Copenhagen press) has sometimes obscured the affirming and sympathetic nature of his ideas.

Opposed to the dominant Hegelianism of his day, which deemed individuals to be of little consequence within the grand dialectic of history, Kierkegaard placed the individual at the centre of his philosophy.

He believed that man exists in isolation relating only to God and that an authentic individual must sometimes stand alone against the crowd. Furthermore, because God is essentially unknowable then religion requires a leap of faith out of the anxiety of utter freedom.

These ideas came to be hugely influential on the existentialism of Sartre, De Beauvoir and Camus but Kierkegaard hated being called an existentialist.

He believed he was on a mission from God to "reintroduce Christianity into Christendom" and his sense of the individual was founded on that individual's relationship with God.

He declared there were three types of existence - the aesthetic, the ethical and the religious. The aesthetic involves a life lived in the moment with limited capacity for reflection on things such as art; the ethical life requires a commitment to ethical ideals; and the religious life involves an understanding of ethical ideals and a sense of one own transience in relation to them.

Kierkegaard believed that dissatisfaction with the aesthetic and ethical lives, provoking guilt and anxiety, would lead people to the religious existence. Still, you wouldn't kick him out of bed, would you??

Cheers,

Mariella xxx


Next week: Prof. Hawking from Penge writes: "D-E-A-R M-A-R-I-E-L-L-A, I-S T-H-E-R-E D-I-S-A-B-L-E-D A-C-C-E-S-S T-O Y-O-U-R B-O-U-D-O-I-R-? D-O-N-T W-A-S-H, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-X-X-X-X-X-X.....


Love on ya,



Bob


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Thursday, 26 January 2006

Blanche Librarian's Literary Luncheons!!

Yo Swipesters!!

Please give a warm welcome to our new literary correspondent Blanche Librarian:




Each week, Blanche will be talking to a prominent figure from the world of belle lettres over lunch and latte to find out what makes them tick. This week, Blanche tucks in to some Sweet Desserts while Lucy Ellman ponders: Man or Mango??


I Lunch Lucy: "....and hold the mayo - I asked for HELLMANS!!...."


Blanche Librarian: Lucy it's a real pleasure to be talking to you today.

Lucy Ellman: Why thanks Blanche. Mutual, I'm sure.

BL: Tell me, do you like shrimps?

LE: Well, to be honest, I'm not a huge fan...

BL: Well, Lu - can I call you Lu?

LE: Mmm-hmm...

BL: ...to tell you the truth Lu, I've never been such a big fan either. Why? Can't put my finger on it, it's just an irrational thing I guess, but I've never been able to stomach them. I guess it all started when I was in the third-grade and Tad Axeldrain asked me out on a kinda date. You remember Tad!

LE: Ny-uh-huh...

BL: Oh you DO know! Mirsha Heppelwhaite's nephew - Spoonya's sister.....well, you'd know him if you saw him. OK, so, anyways, Tad – boy, Tad was cute, he really was peachy honey, you know what I’m saying? Tad comes up and he’s all, like, puffed-up and trying to be like the big macho man and everything and he says “hey, Miss Fancy Pants Librarian, like, you wanna, like, go out on, like, a date, kinda, with, like, me, huh? Waddaya say?” right? So I’m like, “urrrr, Tad: like, h-u-l-l-o! Like, I’m only D-R-O-O-O-O-O-L-I-N-G, like, every kinda day over sorta you, Tad. Like, what else am I gonna say? Cut to the chase, I’m, like – well, Tad, where’re ya takin’ me, huh? And he’s, like – well, whatever…Pizza? And I’m like: Ny-uh-huh….Taco-Bell? Nyuh-huh-uh-huh! Like, Karagheorghis World of Shrimp and Mussel Arcade, or what? UH-HUH! Meet me at eight - and don’t be late!

LE: Could you pass the salt please, Blanche....?

BL: Surely honey-pie. So, anyways, eight o’clock, on the dot, I’m there with Suki Baumwinter as, like, kinda a chaperone, right, OK and, like, I'm all excited and, like, making with the butterflies in the stomach - R-E-A-L nervous, uh huh - and Suki's, like, "he'll be here any moment, right - just you wait and see". So, long story short, we’re, like, waiting for, like, forty minutes, right – and guess what? That's right, honey - no Tad! So, after a further, like it musta been, kinda a half hour, Suki’s, like, telling me, “he is SOOOO, like, dumped, right, and I’m like – D-U-R-R!! When Suki taps me s-l-o-w-l-y and p-o-i-n-t-e-d-l-y on the left nipple and she’s, like, gawping at something behind me, like a big, slack-jawed kinda fish or something, right, and I turn slowly kinda round to see Tad Axeldrain trying to remove a bone or some dental floss or something from Heppy Leffborough’s, like, throat or something, kinda - WITH HIS TONGUE! Can you believe that? So, the long and the short of it is, I, like never speak to Heppy Leffborough OR Tad Axeldrain, like EVER again, right. And I’ve NEVER EVER to this day eaten shrimp. Can you believe that?? Now, Lu – are you just playing with that bagel, or are you gonna, like, eat it? Only I am positively famished ....Mmmmmmmmm-hmmmmmmmmm, that (chomp) is (chomp) SIM (chomp) PLY (chomp) DI (chomp) VINE...

LE: …….????



Lucy Ellman and friend. Insert your own "...now available in Penguin" -type joke....


Love on y'all,


Bob


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Wednesday, 25 January 2006

the belles de jour of st. trinians



Class 4B, rude, violent and high on homegrown sensimila, deny stnaderds fo ecudation is slipping....

I'm just about to dismiss 4B - a frightful bunch of monsters they are (and so overpriced!) - when Miss Pelling pokes her head around the door and starts hissing and making throat-cutting gestures like some sort of Samurai mongoloid. I dodge a blackboard eraser hurled in my general direction from the back row and squeeze myself out into the corridor where Miss P. is still jabbering and gesticulating like an overworked Parisan traffic cop. "Oh Jerry, do something," she yabbers, forgetting that my name is actually Cyril into the bargain. "The School Inspector's due this afternoon and Miss von Teese has asked me to second you to green house duty with me. 3C's sensimila crop needs to be destroyed before the Ministry get here. If we don't get it on a bonfire immediately, they'll be back off to Whitehall having lifted a briefcase full of top drawer skunk with a five-figure street value and we'll be left with nothing to finish cindering the school running track..." She drops to her knees and grabs at my knee caps. "Look Audrey," I moan, forgetting that her name is actually Cyril into the bargain, "this is no time for you to start fellating me. Quickly, fetch me one of the second form. You know how I prefer to feel the delicate blush of young lips." And with that, she's off with her drawers around her ankles waving her hockey stick around like a crack-addled primate.


"Mr. Cook, we're a little concerned about Jemima...."

Before I can disentangle myself from the awful dog's dinner Miss P. has made of my private parts, I hear the familiar creaking noises and Miss von Teese's shrill and heartless laughter emanating from the headmistress' study. Poor old Roger, I think. Sent out by Granada to film a Cook Report on falling standards in Education, the poor blighter thought it'd be a quick in and out job and back home for tea. Here he is, thirteen months later, chained to a vaulting horse with a nubile burlesque artiste disguised as the headmistress of a school for virtuous young ladies using him to buff her nubbin for her own self-gratification for hours on end - only freeing him for long enough to perform the most basic of ablutions before subjecting him to another marathon of degrading sexual role play involving a large rubber spanner. Still, I suppose it's better than Crimewatch....


Lovable chanteuse and songwriting legend Kirsty Macoll brandishes a large rubber spanner shortly before her untimely death.

As I'm hurtling past the Headmistress' study in hot pursuit of Miss P., the study door opens and out crawls a crumpled and bedraggled figure covered in lipstick traces, with torn clothing and hideous bruises concurrent with a slow tweaking using a highly frictional adjustable implement. "Ah, Cyril!", I say, forgetting that Miss von Teese's name is actually Dita into the bargain. "Lovely day for it, what?" I venture, quickly sidestepping the outsretched cosh with which she is attempting to attract my attention. "The School Inspectors have arrived, would you like me to send them up?" "Satirise them as much as you like", Miss von M. slurred in impeccable German, "just make sure there's one in my office by sunset." And with that, she retired to her study and the old school halls thrilled to the sound of hot spatula on soft flesh of Television journalist.



The spatula from Hell: Artists impression of Miss von Teese as she prepares for a roasting...


Love on y'all,


Bob


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Swipe Show First Western Blog to Break Into New Chinese Market - Exclusive!!



Yo Swipesters!!

And a very warm Ho Chi Minh* to all our newfound Chinese Readers!!

Yes, thanks to the introduction of Google.cn, millions of people in the People's Republic are waking up each day to a warm dollop of smut, vitriol and pathetic in-jokes about Rowan Pelling just like all our regular readers in the west. That's right, it really is a lil old global village, right enough! As Google has complied with requests from the Chinese government to filter out web content that may destabilise or corrupt the Communist regime there, we are pleased to announce that The Roberta Swipe Show is one of a handful of western blogs to have been given state approved status and, consequently, a prominent position in the new search engine's ranking system!


The editrice of China's own Erotic Review. Ro-wun-Pi-Ling with the gasman who has come to give the old boiler a good seeing to...."

This means that we are poised to be one of the most-widely viewed sites in the burgeoning Chinese blogosphere!! Obviously, with our new readership will come responsibilities as well as rights and freedoms. It goes without saying that we will have to be careful to present a balanced view of life over here and in China itself, much as we already strive to do in compliance with Hazel Blllllleeeeeeuuuuurgh and her HARSH NEW ANTI-TERROR LAWS!! Consequently, there'll be no mealy-mouthed criticism of China's terrible human rights record here!! No, we won't be feeding you any reactionary propaganda fuelled by renegade Capitalist lackeys suggesting that surveillance, torture and politically motivated murder are rife in the glorious Communist State. No, we're right behind the regime and we can't wait to give you accurate, unbiased and completely trustworthy updates on how our brave boys are getting on in Tibet, doing battle in the name of freedom and economic prosperity against the evil hordes of that hateful ogre the Dalai Lama (kwuck-phutt).


The Dalai Lama (kwuck-phutt): "Evil bastard, monstrous tyrant, vile corruptor of The Party, tonight - this is your life!"

So, it gives me great pleasure to welcome aboard all our Swipe-loving friends in the PRoC and to wish you a hearty, state-approved,


Love on y'all!!




(And could we have a little more soy sauce on the #38 please?)



*Chinese for Yo Swipesters!


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Tuesday, 24 January 2006

the belles de jour of st. trinians.....


Class 4B, rude, violent and high on homegrown sensimila, deny stnaderds fo ecudation is slipping....

I'm just about to dismiss 4B - a frightful bunch of monsters they are (and so overpriced!) - when Miss Pelling pokes her head around the door and starts hissing and making throat-cutting gestures like some sort of Samurai mongoloid. I dodge a blackboard eraser hurled in my general direction from the back row and squeeze myself out into the corridor where Miss P. is still jabbering and gesticulating like an overworked Parisan traffic cop. "Oh Jerry, do something," she yabbers, forgetting that my name is actually Cyril into the bargain. "The School Inspector's due this afternoon and Miss von Teese has asked me to second you to green house duty with me. 3C's sensimila crop needs to be destroyed before the Ministry get here. If we don't get it on a bonfire immediately, they'll be back off to Whitehall having lifted a briefcase full of top drawer skunk with a five-figure street value and we'll be left with nothing to finish cindering the school running track..." She drops to her knees and grabs at my knee caps. "Look Audrey," I moan, forgetting that her name is actually Cyril into the bargain, "this is no time for you to start fellating me. Quickly, fetch me one of the second form. You know how I prefer to feel the delicate blush of young lips." And with that, she's off with her drawers around her ankles waving her hockey stick around like a crack-addled primate.


"Mr. Cook, we're a little concerned about Jemima...."

Before I can disentangle myself from the awful dog's dinner Miss P. has made of my private parts, I hear the familiar creaking noises and Miss von Teese's shrill and heartless laughter emanating from the headmistress' study. Poor old Roger, I think. Sent out by Granada to film a Cook Report on falling standards in Education, the poor blighter thought it'd be a quick in and out job and back home for tea. Here he is, thirteen months later, chained to a vaulting horse while a nubile burlesque artiste pretending to be a head teacher uses the poor beleagured master of the Televisual exposee to buff her nubbin with for hours on end - only freeing him for long enough to perform the most basic of ablutions before subjecting him to another marathon of degrading sexual role play involving a large rubber spanner...


Lovable chanteuse and songwriting legend Kirsty Macoll brandishes a large rubber spanner shortly before her untimely death.

As I'm hurtling past the Headmistress' study in hot pursuit of Miss P., the study door opens and out crawls a crumpled and bedraggled figure covered in lipstick traces, with torn clothing and hideous bruises concurrent with a slow tweaking using a highly frictional adjustable implement. "Ah, Cyril!", I say, forgetting that Miss von Teese's name is actually Dita into the bargain. "Lovely day for it, what?" I venture, quickly sidestepping the outsretched cosh with which she is attempting to attract my attention. "The School Inspectors have arrived, would you like me to send them up?" "Satirise them as much as you like", Miss von M. slurred in impeccable German, "just make sure there's one in my office by sunset." And with that, she retired to her study and the old school halls thrilled to the sound of hot spatula on twisted gonad.



The spatula from Hell: Artists impression of Miss von Teese as she prepares for a roasting...


Love on y'all,


Bob


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Buster

Yo Swipesters,

I had the strangest dream last night.


Why the long, white, poker face, Buster???


Buster Keaton is propping up a bar downtown, toying with the glace cherry on a stick from his umpteenth vermouth and soda. He's beating himself up over the events of last year. How could he have been so dumb? How could he have let her go like that, without even so much as a 'come back honey - maybe we can give it one last try, huh?' What a jerk.

Of course, on the other side of the world, as she reclines in her Olympic-size jacusi with bronzed slabs of beefcake attending to her every whim, Victoria Coren reflects that leaving that dumbass slapstick comedian was the best damn thing she ever did.


Semi professional poker and one guy gal, Victoria Coren. Sorry, that should read 'semi-professional poker player'...

Oh sure, it was fun at first. A laugh a minute. Those sad quizical eyes looking up at her as he picked himself up and dusted himself down from yet another comic pratfall. Oh, the thrills we had too - all those highspeed capers whilst being pursued at a hundred miles an hour by a monstrous great steam engine certainly got the old adrenalin pumping and all that testosterone certainly helped spice things up in the bedroom, that's for sure. But after a while, even the greatest poker-faced funnyman can get a little tiresome, Vicky reflects. And when I came home to find him standing in the window frame with the whole house front collapsed around him well, that was just the final straw. Still, it was fun while it lasted, she smiles. And talk about falling on your feet! How weird that John Travolta would have such a passionate interest in the etymology of the English language and get on so well with the old man! Hours the two would spend, howling with laughter, swapping Idi Amin stories and knock-knock-jokes. I sometimes wonder, she thinks, if Dad doesn't get on better with him than I do....Still, I can't wait for the wedding. Do they just have the one wife, Scientologists....?


John "Eight wives" Travolta...

Back in Beverley Hills and oblivious to his former squeeze's impending nuptials, Buster knocks back one last vermouth and spills some change on to the bar. He's just about to wobble onto the street when he spots Alan Titchmarsh coming towards him with arms open wide. Unable to avoid eye contact, Buster realises it's too late to escape, and that Titchmarsh has him cornered. "Get you a drink, Buster?" B. can hardly refuse, can he? - especially as Alan was kind enough to de-creosote those rhodedendrons for him the other week... "Sure Al, thanks." "There we are Buster, get that down yer. Now, about this time of year, I like to have a really good weed to make way for the planting in the spring...."


Love on y'all,


Bob


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Monday, 23 January 2006

An open letter to Liza Tarbuck


Oi Tarbuck - learn to eat propers!

Swipesters,

You'll excuse my terseness this morning, I trust, but I am - to put it mildly - a little fucked off with a certain actress/TV presenter/daughter of Jimmy Tarbuck stood not a million miles away. She's got me all mithered up and I don't mind admitting that, just like that fella in the Kate Bush song with the 'my silver Buddha and my silver bullet', she's "stirring violence up in me". Let me explain....

I'd just popped down to the Cow and Snuffers to catch last orders and return a cagoul I'd borrowed from Jarvis Cocker - well, I figured there was no way he was ever going to lend me his 5 CD Scott Walker boxed set while I still hadn't returned the waterproof he'd lent me to go three-legged fellwalking with Denise Lewis three years ago - kill two birds sort of thing. Anyway, I'm stood at the bar watching Jarv. take a right tonking off Lester Piggott on the shove ha'penny board, when I feel something rustling beside me and who should I turn to confront but Liza Tarbuck wearing a bin liner dress two sizes too small for her with a foot-long stain of dribble and half-masticated twiglets down the front. "Coming outside yer horny shite", she asks me, all coy like. "Pillocks to that, L.", I said - trying to keep a lid on it but feeling it wouldn't take much more of this to land one right on her. "Piggott's on a whitewash here and I'm not missing him taunting old Cocker with a celebratory display of faux-fart-wafting and John McCririck-style Turf Accountant hand signals."


Oi, Cocker! Here's your flamin' cagoul back, you tight wad!

Undetered, she splutters "..go on, I've just had it widened.." and I feel something cold and velvet glove-clad poking around beneath my waistband, trying to find the gap in my y-front and before I can help myself, I've blurted out "..oh, go on then - but mind me stubble or you'll have a thigh slit in your makeshift punk-rock outfit the length of the Yorkshire Dales..."


Oi Britton! Lay off the sherry!

Cut a long story short, she's obviously gone on the old bush telegraph straight after 'cause as I'm putting me coat back on, Jarvis looks over from the Mastermind quiz machine that's just got stuck on its "I've started so I'll finish" loop, and says, "I think the fan club's arrived". I'm not sure what he's on about until I'm halfway out the door only to find my way blocked by Denise van Outen, Lisa Rogers and Fern Britton - arms folded, all done up in see-through macs and looking like a tart's convention on a girl's night out with a bottle of Emva Cream and 40 Capstons.


Oi Rogers! Can I get you anything at the bar dearest darling?

So, without going into all the gory details, suffice to say that I'm fair bloody knackered and I haven't seen chapping like this since I fell asleep at the wheel on my rotaey powered exercise bike wearing a PVC "Vive le Plastic Bertrand!" t-shirt and matching cycle shorts. So, Ms. Tarbuck, the next time you want someone to put some wind in your sails, do me a favour willya? Pick on someone your own size!

Love on y'all,


Bob



© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

...and the winner is.....

Howdy Swipesters!!


Well, we were so inundated with responses to our Scary Duck-style Friday votathon that it's taken me all weekend to rig..I mean count the votes - consequently, I haven't had time to write the piece....

..er hem. Thanks to the 5 of you who actually bothered to vote.
Hon menshes to Brian, Spinny, Hannah, Shades of Grey and Mike Da Hat. You will all receive a copy of our beautifully ring-bound full colour, un-proof-read The Very Best of The Robert Swipe Show Vol. 1 Just let me know how to get them to you (and enclose a cheque for $50 to cover assorted bribes, bar tabs and legal costs associated with my money laundering massage parlour sideline and we'll call it quits)

Unfortunately, I can't prevent people who didn't vote from reading this - although I obviously take a very dim view of their non-participation and will be trying to come up with ways to punish them suitably - like makin' 'em read it twice, etc...) This was the clear winner with 2 and a half votes, beating What do porn stars do on their day off?, which got one and a half votes. I may post that up tomorrow as runner-up.As such, the I hope that the above mentioned stars thoroughly enjoy this little piece. Pillocks to the rest of you!




Is there a God, and if so, why is She doing this to us?

I get a call from My agent (you think I move in mysterious ways? You wanna see this guy wriggle). He says he’s getting a lot of fire from the fourth estate regarding a sequel. I tell him it’s all in The Good Book – why waste the ink, already? Times change, he says, you know we should maybe think about a re-brand, ‘updated and expanded’, ‘revised with new revealing insights’ – you know the spiel – reposition You in the self-help/New Age/guides-for-life sector. Besides, You gotta keep Your profile high, he’s saying (there’s a weighted pause) especially now the questions have started up again. Questions? What’s with ‘questions’, I ask. I know when someone’s trying to put the flame under My feet. Lou goes all cagey – I hate it when they do that, don’t you? – and starts to mumble something about people running out of patience with Me. So what are you saying Lou? (I’m getting a bit defensive here and now I wanna know what the deal really is.) OK, let’s cut to the chase, he says, and I don’t like the way he says it. I think I know where he’s going with this and I’m not sure I really wanna go there.

Look, I gotta be straight with you (he’s got that quiet, confessional voice on now – I can see this is getting serious) You’ve been looking at a dwindling readership for a long time – I know, I know, it’s probably just a blip and maybe things’ll pick up over the long term – but we’ve been saying that for a coupla centuries now. You can’t take it for granted that they will come back to You – it’s not like You’re Jane Austen, You know. And You of all people should know that nothing lasts forever – well, obviously apart from in Your case – but You know what I’m getting at. So the long and the short of it is, they want a sequel – 80,000 words minimum and they want it in the stores for Christmas – for obvious reasons.

I sigh – this will eat into a lot of projects I had lined up. OK, I pout, I’m onto it. (There’s another uncomfortable pause) Lou? Is there something else I should know? Listen, (now he’s on the defensive) Listen Honey (it’s always bad news when he starts to call me ‘Honey’) I love Your style – You know I’ve always been one for plain speaking and how much I hate anything mealy-mouthed and prevaricating? Well, I think You’re terrific and if it was down to me, I wouldn’t lay a finger on any M/S You’ve signed off on, OK – You trust me on that? (I let a non-commital mm-hmm just hang there and listen to him squirm.) Good, because You can – You should know that by now. (He clears his throat as if he wants to buy himself a bit more time before what’s coming next) Because I have to be honest with You – the market’s changed onehelluva lot since You brought out The Good Book, You understand me? Sure, I say, The Koran, The Rights of Man, On the Origin of Species, Das Kapital, A Brief History of Time – I have been paying attention Lou, believe it or not. But it’s not just the books, Honey – the audience has changed and quite fundamentally too. They want different things now, they have different expectations, their priorities are different and they have busy lives and they want their wisdom easily absorbed and nicely packaged, You with me? You’re not talking anymore about a bunch of guys scared witless in the darkness of the desert who need a strong and unyielding protector – these guys need different things.

I can feel one of My rages coming on but I somehow manage to hold it in and, My voice only trembling slightly, I say to Lou, OK – I’ll change. But you gotta tell Me what they need – I can’t do this on My own, you know that, don’t you? Atta girl (he’s back in full schmooze mode now and even I can start to feel Myself being infected by his all-consuming enthusiasm) listen, this is how I see it, OK? You’re the market leader in this field, right? (I cautiously, uh-huh) Come on, Honey, You wrote the book on the self-help manual and all that guide to life baitsim ...And your point is? I ask a little impatiently. My point is this. The product is sound, right? We maybe just need to work a little on the packaging. Like I say – repositioning, that’s all it is. Look at it like this - instead of fighting it out with the Bhagavad Gita and The Golden Dawn, You’ll be slugging one on Shirley MacLaine and The Jane Fonda Workout. I still don’t quite see… (there’s no stopping him now he’s in full flight) Here’s how I see it – we go for the Doctor Ruth, Judge Judy approach. Tough love, cruel to be kind, no nonsense Yiddisher momma. That’s it! That’s the angle. God, I love You (I hear a profusion of blown kisses at the other end of the line and a manic, triumphant guffaw brewing up) This is pure gold, Honey! You gotta believe me.

I still don’t know what you want from Me, Lou (I hear Myself sounding pathetic now – how is it they always manage to make you feel like a little kid again, all needy and desperate for approval and love?) Honey, all I want from You is Your copy – You don’t have to change a thing. Not even one? (I’m really confused now.) Well, maybe there is one little thing You could bear in mind. (Me, nervously:) Uh-huh? Now, please don’t take this the wrong way, Honey – like I said I don’t want You to lose Your fire in the belly but…. (the pause is agonising and I visualise Lou screwing his eyes up painfully tight) But? …Well, if I was to make one tiny piece of constructive criticism of Your work it would be this: do You think maybe You could try being a little less…judgemental?


*******


So that’s how it came about. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to give you what you want, but I’ll certainly try My very best. I know that The Good Book is very hard to live up to, certainly if sales and influence are anything to go by. But I am willing to accept the need for a little humility despite the obvious immensity of My reputation. I’m willing to try to rephrase My earlier thoughts in a more appropriate style for the times. If that’s what it takes to get My message across, then so be it. Besides, I’m quite fatalistic obviously, usually those of My own choosing. But that’s agents for you.

But seriously, I know you may find this hard to believe but trust Me it is true – there really is a masterplan. All My acts, all those deus ex machines that smite you down, beat you up, roll over you like tanks and hammer at your belief in the middle of the night – they all had to be. They had to be because of what came before just as they themselves are the cause of what will be - que sera, sera. And you can trust Me on this. Besides, if you can’t trust Me, who can you trust? Would I lie to you? No, I am no unreliable narrator. I mean let’s face it; you can’t get a more reliable narrator than an all seeing one, can you? And, yes, that does mean I’ve spotted you, lady, scratching your head, muttering under your breath. And you sire, fiddling with your balls while your mind wanders off to thoughts of some lady in a tight, shiny outfit.

Not here, please. So stick with Me on this, will you? Because I can see the whole picture - I know what’s going on and I know what happens next. And I know what happens in the end. I don’t go with the current thinking, you see. Everything is post- right now, isn’t it? - post-modern, post-history, post-9/11 – whatever. I guess it’s only natural for you – after all, you tend to have less to look forward to than I do. I can see the attraction for you of looking back and feeling clever – from Welsh to Joyce, from Emin to Duchamp, from Eminem to Elvis. Oh, by the way, he really was the King – and that’s official. That’s where we differ, I suppose. Where you see a post- I see a pre-. It gets a bit unwieldy sometimes. For instance, your modernism is My pre-post-modernism. And, whatever you do, don’t get Me started on those pre-post-Pre-Raphaelites, will you? Oh, I’m forgetting, you haven’t heard of them yet have you? Don’t get Me wrong, I’m not anti-post-, I just tend to have a preference for that other prefix. But I don’t want to say too much about what’s coming up, if you don’t mind – I mean, you wouldn’t want Me to give away the plot now, would you?

Forgive Me I’m coming over as a bit of a smart ass, aren’t I? And, yes, you’re right lady – it ain’t fair. And you sire are correct to observe that I do indeed hold all the cards. I have the upper hand. I am the bank. I cut the deck, deal the deals and will always trump you in the end. I am the big I am and evermore shall be-oh. But what can I do about it, sir, madam?

You see omniscience isn’t something you can just dip into and out of. It requires a great deal of application and concentration. You would not believe the attention to detail that is required for a start. And the hours I put in… And, I’ll be honest with you, when you’ve been in the job as long as I have, you do find your powers can start to wane somewhat. But then, you probably have firsthand experience of one or two of My little – how can I put it – lapses of concentration. I believe that once you get to My age they come under the heading ‘Senior Moments’. But I’m working on it. I’m trying to get My act together, get back on the case, on the ball. Yes, pretty soon I’ll be right back on top of My game, don’t worry.

The fact of the matter is, if I can be frank with you kind folks, that I’ve been having a bit of a personal crisis Myself. I can’t really say if it’s the mid-life type – like I said, I don’t really want to give away too much of what’s ahead. But it’s certainly knocked Me back a bit. You see in some ways, we’re not all that dissimilar – you and Me. Oh, sure, the bit about you having been made in My image is way, way off the mark. I think we’ve already covered one or two of the perceptual differences. And I really don’t want to get too personal on this and get into the physical stuff - or the physics stuff, for that matter. But, for all our differences, we still have certain things in common. There is a little bit of Me in you, after all. And, I suppose, we have a mutual need for one another. I mean Randy Newman got it right – you really need Me. And I guess we all need to feel needed, don’t we? We all love to be loved.

And, just like you, I’m prone to the odd crisis of faith. I don’t mean in Me, obviously. I know I exist, even if some of you are not too sure. I am a gnostic in the truest sense. This was no loss of Self-belief, no dip in Self-esteem. No, I’m worth it. It’s just that I was having second thoughts about you. Or rather, second thoughts about us. Call it a crisis of motive, or of motivation, but we all sometimes wonder aloud – ‘just what is the point?’ Only in My case, it’s rhetorical. Of course I know what the point is – I know everything. But that’s a very isolated position if you think about it. Like the man said – it’s lonely at the top. Damn right it is. And you can see – and please, whatever you do don’t take this personally – how I might tire a little of your company, can’t you?

Don’t get Me wrong; you’re My favourite. You’re the tops. There’s no one comes close to you – and there’s no one else, if that’s what you’ve been thinking – at least, not in your particular neighbourhood of galaxies. I remember when I first set eyes on you across the baked savannah; I just knew you were going to be special. You had that look in your eyes – almost intelligent. And you’ve grown up just fine, I guess, if I take a lenient, indulgent parental view. It’s so hard to be objective about your own creations, isn’t it? Ask any parent.

But for all of us parents one day there comes the dreaded day when you know that a certain line has been crossed, an epoch marked; a new era has been embarked upon. You know that the awkward questions will start and that your precocious offspring will begin to pick apart your efforts, question your methods and start lying about what they’re doing under the bed covers. In short, the bastards just throw all the blood, sweat and tears, all that labour right back in your face. And, just like you, I sometimes find Myself thinking the unthinkable – was it all really worth it?
Relax, I’m over the worst of it now. I can see it from both sides of the telescope now and I feel I have acquired a bit more wisdom and understanding. Of you, yes; and of Myself, but mostly of our relationship. I realise now that you’re right; I do have to give you a bit more independence. I should stand back a bit and let you handle your own affairs. Sure, I’m always here if you need Me, but I won’t be so over-powering, so ‘in your face’ in future. And you? Well, maybe you’ll appreciate all the effort that’s been put in – with never a thought for thanks or reward – on your behalf. Sure, the odd little conspiratorial wink in My direction as we sit down for Thanksgiving won’t go amiss.

You see I really do want what’s best for you, deep down. I am benign – well, as much as I can be given all the demands placed on My time by an ever-expanding Universe. And I do understand – I understand everything. I know how you rail at My seemingly arbitrary displays of fury, My hysterical and mysterious mood-swings. I know the pain I inflict on you when you lose loved ones. I know how thoughtless and indifferent I can appear – and I really am working on it, believe Me. But, be fair, you do have very high expectations of Me – more than at any time I can remember. And I have a very long memory, trust Me. And if you go back to that old parenting handbook that you’ll hand down to your kids – you know, the one they’ll throw down the back of the couch then place on prominent display when you come around to visit the grandchildren - it’s there in black and white. The first commandment: NEVER SPOIL YOUR KIDS!! And if you’re honest, if I’m honest, we’d have to agree that on balance, you’ve probably been spoiled rotten.

But I’m really going to make more of an effort from now. I know I can be very judgemental and that that is not the way things are done right now, so please forgive me if I occasionally lapse into being a little ‘Old Testament’. Yes, from today you’re going to see a whole new Me.


Love on y'all (who voted),

Bob



© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Friday, 20 January 2006

Audience Participation Time.

Howdy Swipesters,

The more observant of our readers will have noticed a significant drop in the quality of our posting over the last few weeks, culminating in yesterday's frankly abject effort. This is obviously of great concern to all of us here at Swipe Towers, especially as the paucity of imagination shown in our output recently is beginning to have a knock-on effect on our readership figures. So, we decided to commission a user survey from a renowned Market Research company. Unfortunately, they weren't able to tell us anything remotely useful, but a quick glance at our site meter was enough for us to realise that unless we took remedial action - and pronto - the Swipe Show would soon be consigned to the dustbin of weblog history. So, whilst we realise that posting pictures of nubile newsreaders like Nina Hossain


Nina Hossain: the 'u' and the 'e' changed to avoid Mishal Hussein-esque Saddam daughter confusion.

and tacking on spurious, pun-driven spoof stories is no substitute for genuine wit and perceptive social comment, dang to Murgatroyd, it don't not do any harm does it, for heck's sake??

There is of course a reason for our criminally inadequate efforts of late. Over the last month or so, our staff have been working flat out to ready The Robert Swipe Almanac, Tide Tables and Year Planner for publication, and you'll be pleased to know that we've got about 90% of it all typed up, proof-read and ready. Now all we need is to find some idiot to publish it. So, in a belated effort to regenerate our readership - we're down to 15 visits a week now: two thirds of those are Mike Da Hat and I'm pretty sure Rowan Pelling is the anonymous viewer based in Gdansk who writes in requesting alcohol-based body rubs - I will be introducing an innovative new concept in web-based publishing. (OK, I'll be ripping off Scary Duck as per...)

To celebrate the near-completion of our Almanac, we will be giving you, are loyal readers, your chance to vote for the extract of your choice from the list below. We will post up the winner on Monday (assuming anyone can be bothered to vote, of course...) So, get voting and apologies for the crap you've had to endure over the last few months.

Love on y'all,

Bob

Drop us a line to let us know which of the following extracts you'd like to see posted:

a: Is there a God, and if so, why is She doing this to us?

b: What happens in a Library run by dyslexics?

c: Can animals really talk?

d) What if posh girls spoke common…

e) What do porn actors do on their days off?

f) Is there such a thing as a Utopia?


The extract with the most votes will be posted up Monday




© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Thursday, 19 January 2006

Ann Wintour Demands Campbell Skin Coat - Exclusive!!

Yo Swipesters,


Fashion news: Delectable Vogue editrice Anne Wintour says she has tired of wearing fur and has developed a hankering for a coat made from the skin of supermodel Naomi Campbell.


Anne Wintour with curiously named daughter Bee. (Insert your own Bee in a bonnet-style captions - preferably up Anne Wintour's arsehole.)


The feisty Conde Nasty bigwig gave a big no-no to foxstoles and minged the minks when she turned up for the launch of a prestigious new clothes line wearing a jacket made out of young ghetto children. But in her ceaseless quest for the perfect garment, Wintour has since claimed that you are only as classy as the lady you have on your back. Having failed to entice Kristen Scott Thomas to donate her beautifully matured hide, Wintour is thought to have approached temperamental British model Naomi with regard to a lend-lease deal that would allow the fashion editor rights to Campbell's exterior at weekends and for Oscar ceremonies.


Scott Thomas: "...so much class, she could play for the Arsenal..." Arsene, make it so....

"It was a real drag when Kristen turned me down but, hey! What are you gonna do? Besides, I noticed she's getting a little saggy in the crow's feet department so maybe I kinda lucked out there! Everyone knows that Black is the new Amer-Indian, so who better to ask than Naomi?" Questioned as to the ethics of her new craving for the epidermal couture that's so skIN this season, Winter was defiant. "All those bleeding hearts out there pissing in my soup over me wearing fox fur and mink can just butt out, lady! A fox is OK draped over my shoulders, but would you want one whooping and a'hollerin' and going through your bins at 4 a.m. in the bins? And it's exactly the same where Naomi's concerned. They may have great natural rhythm and be fabulous at tennis and basketball, but would you want one living next door to you?"


"9/10, Shania": Insert your own Mark Twain caption - again, preferably up Anne Wintour's arsehole...

In the meantime, while she waits for her very own little black number, our fashion experts opine that Anne could do worse than to settle for the simple downhome elegance of a Shania Twain. She may be common, lowdown trailer trash who would stab her own grandmother for 30 cents, but at $5 a metre, she's incredibly good value - soft as satin and man, She feels like a woman!

Love on y'all,


Bob



© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Wednesday, 18 January 2006

Gemma Craven's Newsround!

Hi Swipesters!

Please give a big Swipe Show welcome to our new correspondent Gemma Craven.

Every week, the lovely Gemma will be daubing her nips with lippy to bring you all a round up of the day's big news stories.



Over to you Gemma!


Police Foil Plot to Kidnap Leo Sayer!

Leaked reports made up by the Sun newspaper suggest that police have uncovered a plot by the campaign group Fathers4Justice to kidnap popular 70s entertainer Leo Sayer. Sayer, a frequent and outspoken critic of fatherhood, put himself at the top of the group's list of targets when he denounced the campaigners' poor taste in joke super-hero costumes. "What's wrong with a nice clown costume and a bit of slap? It worked for me on "I won't let the show go on", it can work for them too", said the chirpy singer and former star of The Hair Bair Bunch.


"...it's the only way - but at least we'll stay together.." Sayer provokes more Fathers4Justice outrage with insensitive lyric shock..."

Meanwhile, actor Leo McKern has been given a police escort following an incident involving the same protest group earlier today. The tubby actor was in the process of recording his drum part on "You're Going to Lose That Girl" when would-be kidnappers were discovered attempting to saw around his drum riser. Fortunately, McKern was unharmed as the campaigners had, in time-honoured slapstick tradition, miscalculated the position of the portly drummer and succeeded only in bringing the harmonium used to record "We Can Work it Out" crashing down upon themselves.


The Fab Three: "..whadda you wanna do? I dunno, whadda you wanna do...??"

McKern is thought to have become a target for Fathers4Justice when he came into the possession of a large ruby ring which he has subsequently been unable to remove from a swollen finger. The ring is used by the campaign group in its satanic rituals in which the wearer of the ring is sacrificed at an altar in protest at the machinations of the Child Support Agency whilst Eleanor Bron gyrates around with a veil to a George Martin sitar score. As McKern is still unable to remove the ring, actress Mariam D'Abo has been put on red alert and is primed and ready to slide to the rescue using her cello as a snowboard should there be any further attempts on the life of the Australian Rumpole of the Bailey star, currently in hiding in the Swiss Alps. McKern and Sayer remain targets despite Fathers4Justice claiming to have disbanded due to having been infiltrated by spooks aiming to discredit them with trumped up and unsubstantiated rumours of evil kidnap plots. Die-hards on the lunatic fringes of the campaign group made distraught and desperate by lengthy separations from their wife and children have vowed to continue scaling up public monuments and buildings dressed up like tossers and indulging in far-fetched plots to dismember bluff old theatricals and kidnap diminutive light entertaiment figures.


D'Abo: "...I knew I should have brought a cagoul...."

Cameron Launches New Tory Party Manifesto.

Elsewhere, Conservative Party leader David Cameron has outlined his vision of Britain under the next Tory government. The new leader has pledged to replace Britain's current mixed economy balancing free-market liberalism and cautious state intervention with a new commune-style model in which each is granted according to their needs. At a symbolic press conference held in Highgate cemetary, Cameron called for an end to inequalities perpetrated by the profit motive and challenged workers of the world to rise up and unite, telling them "you have nothing to lose but your chains. As Conservatives, we have always been the natural party of overthrowing the bourgeoise hegemony and instigating a workers' state brought about by seizing the means of production in a violent and bloody revolution."


Elizabeth David: The original domestic goddess only not related to Nigel Lawson. Unlike Nigella, obviously.

However, Cameron's plan to outflank New Labour by moving to the left on social and economic issues has not gone down well in all Conservative quarters. Speaking from his bunker in Penge, the former party chairman Lord Tebbit said, "it's all very well trying to give some scrounging, bone-idle, good for nothing single Mum on a sink estate the same quality of life as Oliver Letwin, but who's going to pay for it all??" Cameron is expected in Moscow today where he will be meeting Vladimir Putin and pushing for the Russian leader to assasinate Tsar Nicholas II and withdraw Russian troops from World War I.


Nigella: Gratuitous, perhaps - but so ample. And fruity...


More from me next week,

Gemma.


Love on y'all,


Bob




© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Tuesday, 17 January 2006

Ask Mariella...



Each week, journalist and TV lovely Mariella answers your questions about sex.

This week: My wife doesn't understand my needs.

'Terry' from Doncaster writes:

Dear Mariella,

My wife and I have been married for 6 years. For the first two or three years, we were at it like rabbits, continuously shagging each other senseless in a bone-wearying orgy of passionate, earth-shuddering sex. Outdoors, indoors, in the bedroom, halfway up the stairs - you name it, if it could support one of our rumps, I'd slip her a length on top of it. Over the last few years, however, we seem to have slackened off the pace a little, to the point where we now only bonk with one another 7 or 8 times a week - and then I have to get her to dress up in a frilly French maid's outfit, suspenders and stilettos and watch her dolloping golden strup all over her collagen-enhanced lips in order for me to be able to get one up. My wife and I have talked long and hard about this as the sexual frustration is starting to do my head in and I can't concentrate on putting up the conservatory we ordered from a catalogue the other week and the wife is, understandably, going spare. We think there's only one solution: would you be up for a threesome? We would supply the frilly French maid's outfit if you could see your way to bringing a tin of the gooey stuff.

Mariella's reply:

'Terry',

Your wife and you have obviously put a lot of thought into this and it's heartening for a sexpert like myself to come across a couple who take the physical intimacies of their relationship as seriously as you both evidently do. My husband, on the other hand, is often cold, aloof and distant whenever I broach the subject of a quick knee-trembler inthe back of the limo on the way to the latest film premiere. I've even tried to drag him along to the green room when I'm doing my review of the papers on that dull old Andrew Marr programme on Sundays so we could shock the assembled politicians, vicars and Katie Melua by having a quickie on the hospitality sofa before we go on air, but he'd rather muck about with photoshop or check his fantasy football scores. I've even had my knockers pierced and hung a chain from them and capered in front of him in a see through veil, but I still get the jib off him. So, I 'd be delighted to join you both for a furious menage of syrup-driven sexual role-playing. Shall I bring my feather duster?


Mariella.


Next week: 'Roger' from Berwick-on-Tweed asks Mariella: "do you tek it up the Gary on a first date?"


Love on ya,



Bob

© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Saturday, 14 January 2006

Roberta Update - Condition Stable But Doctors Still Fear the Worst...

Swipesters,

Firstly, thank you all for your support and the flowers and messages that have been flooding into the office in the wake of Roberta's tragic accident. Our intrepid Entertainment USA reporter is still in a critical condition after being hit by a hijacked plane in the streets of New York City in the early hours of yesterday morning. We will be posting up a full memorial board of your kind words and expressions of sympathy as soon as we can, but in the meantime, I would like to express my sincere thanks to all of you for showing us the solidarity and compassion you have at this very difficualt time.

Tributes to Roberta have been pouring in from the great and good of the world, as well as the unspectacular nonentities who sent in all the flowers and shit. Margaret Trudeau praised Roberta for her "style, poise and wit", claiming that "if ever you were going to go off on a 24-hour liqueurs and benzedrine bender culminating in a high stakes strip poker tournament, you'd want someone like Roberta by your side. Well, she made me look good." Randy Newman, a long-time friend and admirer, also praised her, claiming that her "rough, tough exterior" masked a "gentle and surprisingly supple interior". Newman is hoping to compose a song in memory of the much-loved Television journalist saying, "it's gonna be as belter. I hope to have it finished as soon as I can come up with a clean rhyme for Roberta..."

Elsewhere, Roberta's colleagues in the world of television news have been expressing their sdaness and relief. "Jesus, it's just knocked me for six", said BBC Breakfast News star Mishal Husain. "How often have I tottered into work on 15 inch heels, still full to the gizzard with bad liquor from the night before in a highly flammable conglomeration of man-made fibres? It's just by the grace of Allah that I never got hit by a re-routed jet-plane commandeered by terrorists belonging to a bizarre Masonic sect bent upon getting a television animal star his own daytime TV slot. BBC London news presenter Emily Maitlis was unavailable for comment, but is believed to have been admitted to a retreat for nervous TV anchorwomen where specialist health professionals are thought to be operating on her to have a pair of extraordinarily high-heeled boots surgically removed.

Wednesday, 11 January 2006

Roberta Swipe Feared Dead in Air Tragedy.


Roberta Swipe R.I.P.?: a beloved sister to me and a colleague and friend to all of us....

Dear Swipesters,

We are receiving unconfirmed reports that our entertainment USA correspondent Roberta Swipe has been involved in a tragic air accident that occured in the early hours of this morning. Details are still hazy, but it is believed that a hijacked plane crashed in US airspace at around 9.15 a.m., EST and that our bubbly colleague and friend is though to be one of those seriously injured in the incident. Paramedics at the scene have worked for several hours on resuscitating Roberta and, although we cannot confirm yet that her injuries were indeed terminal, as more and more data becomes available to us regarding the scale of the disaster, we are increasingly fearing the worst.


Firefighters struggle with the blaze from one of Roberta's shoulder pads...

We have attempted to piece together a timeline based on the few fragments of information we have in the hope of retracing Roberta's (possibly) final steps:

8:45 a.m. Armed Terrorists board an American Airways flight bound for Boston from Newark.

8.46 a.m. Roberta Swipe rises in her Lower East Side apartment. Realising she is late, she douses her face with cold water and finishes the remainder of the nightcap she left undrunk when she fell asleep on the sofa at 3 a.m. Refreshed by the three bottles of brandy, quart of Amarula and Rolling Rocks chaser, Roberta lights the cigarette she fell asleep with in her mouth and begins to extricate herself from the foreign language student she somehow became entangled with the night before. Dispatching Leung-Chi to the drugstore for a package of Kent and a set of replacement shoulder pads - "a girl can never have too many shoulder pads", she no doubt mutters to herself under her breath - Roberta quickly dresses herself ready for her 9.30 appointment - an interview with a Slovakian silage consultant who has recently finished an epic solo performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle on a comb and paper from a sewage duct beneath Gramercy Park. With little time to spare, Roberta throws on a gunship grey satin blouse, her favourite tangerine ankle length pencil skirt and - perhaps fatally - her 14 inch platform soled sling backs. Snatching the change from the hand of the returning Leung-Chi, Roberta gives him a friendly slap to the jaw and whispers "see you at 8 - and don't be late you Oriental wunderkind...mwah!", before embarking on her tragic final undignified waddle downtown.


Roberta's tragically high soles.

9.00 a.m. Barely halfway through the flight's schedule, and ignoring the shrieks and cries of the terrified passengers and crew, the hijakers force the pilot to turn tail and head Flight 505 right back towards NYC...


Leung-Chi & Friend: Roberta's current beau dazzles in his tiara and pink tutu while some far eastern fella gives it with the peace sign....

9.02 a.m. Roberta Swipe picks herself up from the bottom of the steps leading up from the Subway at 14th St, dusts herself down and repositions the 15 layers of her carefully arranged bra-padding. She bats away a persistent admirer who has somehow mistaken her for a street walking trollope claiming that the last time he hired her, she ran off with his collection of autographed Jim Reeves sta-presseds and $350 dollars worth of Lubbock Texas lottery scratch cards. As the crazed lunatic's screams of "I love you Donald, even if you are a lowdown cheating sleezeball" subside, Roberta prepares to take her final one-finger-saluting jaywalk....


The Sta-press trousers of a country legend. The inscription reads: "I still love you Clifford, in spite of all the lies - love Jim"

9.05 a.m. The hijackers - members, it transpires, of a bizarre Masonic sect whose political aims are to gain Clarence the Cross-eyed Lion his own slot on daytime air-your-dirty-laundry-in-public T.V. or Independence for Rhode Island, whatever... - alight upon their target - what appears to be a 200 storey tangerine building topped off with a badly combed man's wig and three hundred-weight of shoulder pads glinting like a satin-clad diamond in the sun....


Clarence: "...I think you owe Nathan an apology Britney for sleeping with his Grandpa like that.....er. no... sorry, I think you owe Britney an apology Nathan...aaahhh!! Dang these boss eyes of mine!!"

9.10 a.m. As the smoke lifts a little, New Yorkers get their first sight of what will become a haunting absence in the city's skyline. Fuelled by a lethal combination of highly-flamable silicon pads, all-over lycra body stocking, and a mansize hipflask of brandy and amarula mix, already a fire risk from the residuals in her blood supply, on contact with Flight 505, our friend and colleague must have gone up like a recidivist AA convention in a wharehouse full of synthetic fibre cardigans. A small child's jaw trembles as he looks on before his mother places a palm over his eyes to preserve his gaze from the terrible sight of Roberta's finest yak's hair mullet gently fluttering in the cold January breeze....


We will be bringing you regular updates throughout the day, but obviously, all our hearts and prayers go out to plucky Roberta and her poor, suffering family and friends. It's at times like this that we all need to pull toget....I'm sorry - I can't go on....


God speed y'all,




Bob

Tuesday, 10 January 2006

Educating Miquita!


"It's no good pouting like that, Young lady - for the last time, you're not going out with a skirt halfway up your crack. And that's final!"

Yo Swipesters!!

Following the huge success our campaign to help ensure that T4 Popworld's Miquita Oliver was properly shod and hosed, we ask you to be just as generous in supporting our snappily titled Send T4 Popworld's Underage Presenter Miquita Back To School To Take Her O'Levels Campaign. We will be using the surplus cash you've already sent in - the interest from which helped us get a fab new nano-pod for the office, by the way - to help Miquita get back on track with her schoolwork.


Miquita falls in with a bad crowd: "...and then while you're blowing off the parky, right, we nick 'round the back and make off with the alco-pops...."

Obviously, it's a great start in life for a young teenager like Miquita to be able to interview stars like Simon le Bon and Geri Halliwell, but what about later in life when the one-to-ones with chubby, second-rate pop singers, dry up? In order to help prepare Miquita for life's ups and downs, we will be investing in a complete satchel-full of educational goodies - rulers, jotters, multi-coloured felt-tip pen sets, compasses, protractors (you name it, it's in there!) - in the hope that we can lure Miquita into spending at least a couple of hours a week at her studies instead of comparing cocaine come-down stories with the Kaiser Chiefs' road crew. But, as any parents of maladjusted teenagers will know all too well, that's only the start of the hard work. How many kids like young Ms. Oliver will, if left to their own devices, pretend to be puzzling over a particularly vexing algebra probem when they are really engaging in an illicit exchange of trivial text messages with Abi Harding, the saxophonist from the Zutons? You see our problem?


Abi Harding: "...the hardest working woman saxophonist in a band called the Zutons in show business...."

But fear not! The solution is - with your help - at hand. We are hoping to raise £250,000 in order to install a sophisticated network of surveillance cameras and microphones in order to be able to monitor Miquita's study periods and ensure that next time we ask her to name Henry VIII's seven wives and the manner of their separation from the Tudor monarch, we will get something a bit more intelligent out of her than "...er....dunno..but Rachel from Steps says she's never wearing spangly lilac mazzy again after the last lot ran...."


The Sunday Show: a warning from history....

Please, dear readers, give generously so that Miquita does not go the way of so many others - Katy Puckrick, Terry Christian, Donna MacFailure and many more besides - and end up a sad washed up T.V. non-entity with no employment prospects and no qualifications to fall back on in an increasingly competitive media job market. It may not be quite as exciting as rubbing shoulders with the Sugababes, but you could do worse than a nice Saturday job at Boots. You never know, Miq - with hard work, application and complete submission to your superiors, in 55 years time you could be retiring - a degraded, used up tube of festering frustration after having allowed a pointless round of drudgery and routine to grind any semblance of humanity out of you!! Come on - dig deep!! And together we can make a difference!!!


Love on y'all,



Bob

I Can't Believe It's Not Ute!!



Hi Swipesters,

Our mailbags here at Swipe Towers have been bulging at the seams recently with photographs alleging to capture sightings of notoriously bashful diva and leggy German beauty Ute Lemper. Unfortunately, in your understandable rush to commit shy and retiring ubermadchen Ute to film, many of you have unfortunately snapped up nothing more than uncannily similar lookalikeys, often posing on the sides of buses as advertisements for the West End musical Chicago...as we say in the Social Services Departments in the Outer Hebrides - 'close, but no cigar, Buddy boy!' Still, we thought that as you'd gone to all the trouble and seeing as how we could easily figure out an excruciating pun to put at the top of the post and turn it into a regular serial we could always fall back on when we had nothing more interesting to say, we may as well put the dang things up anyhow! And just for your delight and delectation, we asked theatre critic and all-round diamond geezer Sheridan Morley to run his rule over the young pretenders and sort the wheat beer from the chaff! So, here's the first of our Ute-ly divine Lemper Lookalikeys - with Sheri's accompanying notes to help you identify the real thing in future!

Ute #1:



Sheridan Morley's verdict: The girl's good, I'll give her that. She's certainly got the legs for the role - marvellous fetlocks and she was beautifully turned out in the paddock. Her choice of brocaded see-through net arms is a masterstroke - Ute herself would be proud! Excellent rump curvature and that is the knee grip of a true star - either that or or an excellent three day eventer. Unfortunately the face is more Bermondsey than Berlin, and the hair's all wrong lovey, it just won't do at all. Ute's a blonde, dear - hadn't you noticed? Still, on the whole, a not bad effort. I've certainly turned away worse looking fillies offering to lather me up for a handful of Deutschmarks in a dark alley off the Grosse Freiheit - I can tell you!

Conclusion: The rump and fetlocks to take Badminton by storm, but when it comes to Lemper, she's an Ute charlaton!

Sheridan.



Have you seen someone who vaguely looks like Ute Lemper recently? If so, please help us keep this lame idea for a serial going by posting your photos of leggy West End musical chorus hoofers to:

I Can't Believe It's Not Ute!
Swipe Towers
Rothergavenny
Llan Ambwlans
Welsh Wales


We promise to wipe them down before we give them back to you.


Love on y'all,



Bob