Tom Waits......and Waits......and Waits......and Waits.....and Waits....

....course what old Jedediah never reckoned on was the fall of Communism and the subsequent loosening up of trade barriers and the eventual globalisation of market conditions that we know and love today. See he had all his savings tied up in a little lobster hatchery out there in Somalia - pretty humble returns at first but low overheads and plus he used to get the little bits of broken off shell and pincer sent over to him in Wisconsin by mail order and they kind of came in handy on the rockery that he and old man Snowden down the way were constructing for Mrs Liebedish who had the Crowbars' old place over at Sleaman's Gullet that she came into when her Great Aunt Evadne came down with the croup and had to be shipped out in several separate packages to a rest and recuperation centre in Devil's County where they tried to shock out of her with electrodes the spirit of a 19th century Rosicrucian card shark and illusionist called Saul F. Magorian whom she claimed had been directing her every action since VJ Day on account of the mysterious and untimely manner of his demise at the hands of a German immigrant called Otto Schlussbomblats who had inadvertently sliced through a major artery with a piece of cheesewire having mistaken Magorian for a finely matured segment of Roquefort he'd been saving to celebrate Kaiser Wilhelm's recovery from a terrible stomach upset in the Spring of 1914....

Scott Walker To Take on Janner Defence Role in Historic Sex Abuse Case...

Breaking news just hitting the wires would suggest an astonishing turn of events in the impending trial of Lord Janner. The ageing peer of the realm has been controversially called to stand trial for alleged child abuse dating back to the 1960s. Despite the protestations of innocence of Lord Janner and his family, the peer's lawyers appeal against his being tried for the alleged offences on the grounds of poor health and dementia was recently overturned despite their being strong evidence that he is a member of the House of Lords. However, this traditionally strong indicator of poor mental health bordering on pyschotic insanity was dismissed by magistrates and so, on pain of arrest, Janner has been forced to attend initial hearings where, with alarmingly suspicious alacrity, he was able to answer yes to his own name. It recently came to light that he has also been suffiently mentally agile to fiddle his expenses for the past 2 years despite having previously testified to being unable to distinguish his own faeces from an airfix model of a Lancaster bomber.

In light of the mounting evidence of an attempted cover-up and potential miscarriage of justice should it transpire that Janner is no more insane than any other member of the political establishment, his choice of 1960s crooner turned avant garde bete noire Scott Walker as his defence lawyer is guaranteed to raise eyebrows, not least in the legal profession. "It's either an incredibly canny double bluff on Janner's part or he really is as loopy as a box of tadpoles", opined human rights lawyer Michael Mansfield QC. "Obviously, if I was looking for a brief who could supply silver throated harmonies to a gossamer-fine melody and soar above the gothic baroque of a quintessential dark sixties pop arrangement, Walker would be my go-to guy. But I fear he may be criminally exposed in the cut and thrust of the law court - especially if he pulls any daft stunts like whacking a pig's carcass with a drumstick or spending three weeks talking in a Mickey Mouse voice like he did on his last LP...."

In a tersely worded statement, Janner's new advocate outlined the bare bones of the case for the defence...

"The harbour kitchen ratchets up a crimson vestibule of mawkish rectitude and spinning rams the dog's leash sawdust billows of the prowling VOLE SPEW VOLE SPEW VOLE SPEW. Arachnophobe."

The case continues on Monday...

Downton Jihadi - episode 5...

 Previously on Downton Jihadi...

Sybil informs Gwenda that she has applied for a position at the Daily Telegraph on Gwenda’s behalf. Gwenda is thrilled to discover she has an interview and fakes a head wound in order to sneak out of the house. Sybil takes the governess cart and together with Gwen speeds off towards the town, tomato ketchup streaming from the roll of bath towel she has unconvincingly wrapped around her forehead. Although the interview goes well - they're impressed with her until she makes the silly mistake of mentioning the well-known editor who had resigned over the, as he saw it, alarming degree of influence wielded over content by the paper's advertisers. Having resigned, he wrote a damning opinion piece about the matter for a rival publication. Incensed, the Telegraph's owners described the piece as 'ridiculous - an incoherent conflation of the self-justifying, the bigoted and the biased, completely devoid of truth, evidence or accuracy - in short, exactly the kind of journalism that made him such a fabulous Telegraph contributor.' The interview over, the pair run into problems on their return journey when they are denied entry into a compartment on the train - they are told it's against the railroad's regulations to bring a governess cart onto a mainline commuter service. They have to walk the governess and her cart the rest of the way home and, with the family worrying about Sybil’s whereabouts, they arrive at Downton late, wet, covered in sticky red condiment and miserable.

Daisy is unable to get over what she witnessed on the night of Pamuk’s death. 'Psycho' is just one of those films that stays with you, I suppose. Like 'Honey, I shrunk the kids'. Edna O‘Brien-O'Edna-O'Brien O'Edna and Thomas suspect that the girl knows something. When questioned, she replies Le Paz, which is indeed the highest airport above sea level in the world. O’Brien-O'Edna deliberately hints to Edith that Daisy is hiding what she knows and that it may be harmful to Mary. This indeed turns out to the case. When asked 'What is the nickname of Association Football team West Ham United? She eventually gives up her ridiculous attempts at concealment and replies, 'The Hammers'.


In the village hall, they are preparing for the summer flour show. Isobel learns that Violet always wins the Grantham Cup for Best Wholemeal , despite Molesley’s father, Bill, growing the best self-raising. Violet denies that any outside influence is ever brought to bear but Isobel isn’t convinced but it all becomes a moot point anyway when Bill is discovered pouring a fresh bag of MacDougall's into his pestle.

Cora informs Robert of a rumour going round London questioning Mary’s virtue - she has none whatsoever, people are saying. Who could be spreading it? And what kind of man spreads things on a woman who patently has no virtue whatsoever? A pervert?? Surely not Evelyn Nappier-Rash? Although he was spotted leaving Mary's bedroom bearing a tub of Bovril and a spatula just the other evening. Cora wants Mary married so she suggests a local landowner, Sir Anthony Strallan. Robert Peston is unconvinced. Call him old fashioned, but if there's any marrying to be done around here, surely it's best left to the local priest or vicar? Or Imam? Strallan is too old and stuffy, so maybe there's still hope for him if he can do a crash course in theology and pull a few strings to get a stipend somewhere local. Mary rejects the plan. She tells Cora to concentrate on Edith’s martial art prospects, as she needs all the help she can get with her ju-jitsu. Edith is listening, which is a start, but she'll need to do more than just cop an ear when the blows start raining down on her torso.

Mrs Patmore seems fretful. Nothing is right, and Mrs Hughes notes to Carson that Daisy is bearing the brunt. At least, she hopes that's what she said. Her increasingly erratic hearing and advanced cognitive impairment have led to several highly embarrassing exchanges of late. Cora has the recipe for a pudding that she’d like to give to Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony, a complete botcher when it comes to anything cullinary, would much rather she just baked the ruddy thing herself and just gave him the pudding. Mrs. Patmore will have none of it and shouts at Daisy when she suggests she could read the new recipe to her. However, later, as pudding is served, Sir Anthony splutters in disgust. The whole thing is covered with salt instead of sugar - I told you he was a botcher, a ban-jaxed bollocks of a cack-handed clot when it comes to anything to do with the kitchen. Mrs Patmore is quick to blame Daisy but when she is alone with Carson, she confesses she thinks she’s going blind. Carson reveals this to Mrs. Hughes and although she sympathises, she makes it known that this behaviour cannot continue.

Thomas is almost caught stealing wine by Bates and when Thomas’s bullying of William continues, he has now progressed to episodically beheading him having drawn a dotted line around his neck during the last crucifiction and is now hacking away at the dots every so often with a special mail order scimitar he saw advertised in the Downton Gazette, the boy has an ally in Bates who foolishly hints to Thomas that he might reveal the latter’s stealing of the wine to Mr. Carson. He never would, but Thomas looks to O’Brien for help and they embroil a naive Daisy into their plan.

One of Robert Peston’s snuff boxes has gone missing and Carson rounds up the servants, dresses them in demeaning orange boiler suits and has them incarcerated in a Cuban prison camp without even the courtesy of a trial. Anna realises that Thomas and O’Brien O'Edna are involved - they have been secretly dying the boiler suits orange for years and desperately hoping for a cataclysmic event such as the disappearance of a snuff box to act as justification for an aggresively expansionist foreign policy and the suspension of Habeus Corpus. She warns Bates and sure enough he finds the missing box has been planted in his room along with a 'dodgy dossier' based on a thoroughly inaccurate failed Ph.D thesis that attempts to prove that the servants have also been using the snuff box to conceal chemical weapons. But, although he enjoys watching O’Brien and Thomas fret when Carson demands a room search, in the end he replaces it without giving them away in the vain hope that this clemency will be enough to deter Thomas from crucifying him. Anna tells Bates how she feels about him - he makes her skin crawl, but she finds the sensation strangely arousing - but he cannot allow himself to respond. Something in his past is preventing him, quite possibly a historic bout of lumbago which makes any form of sexual intimacy acutely painful and prone to flatulence.

(....to be dis-continued....)

Gardeners Question Time....

....With this week's guest host...

Joe Pesci!

JP: Arright ya  mama Luke's - what can I do for yous?? OK, our first question today comes from Mr. Derek Robledo - huh, what kind of crazy assed fuckin' name is that? - of Stoke D'Abernon, Surrey. OK, fire away Fuck....

DR: Good evening Mr Pesci. My wife and I have been having terrible trouble with our sebaceous borders - can you recommend a good mulching solution for the incredibly chalky soil conditions we have round our way....

JP: Oh sure! Why the fuck don't I just fucking well come round to your fucking *shit* *hole* of a garden in Stoke d'Fuckin'-Abernon, dig a great big fuckin' hole in the fuckin' ground and I can bury yous two fuckin' assholes in the fuckin' hole and then you can take your stupid fuckin' mulching fuckin' soil con-fuckin'-ditions and shove them up your cock suckin' fuckin' *ass* you crazy motherfuckers....

Next week:

Thought for the day with Frankie Boyle...

xxx
'Berta

Downton Jihadi - episode 4....

Previously on Downton Jihadi...

Edith's reefer madness at the local Hindu mosque has got her ex-communicated from the C of E. She is now on the hunt for a new religion, desperately so as she still wants a church wedding and has to do *something* with those 3,479 tins of piccalili she has been systematically swiping from the local Marks and Sparks since her confirmation, hoping one day to bequeath it to the tombola stall at the annual summer fete and simultaneously catapault herself into the Guinees Book of Records. Pamuk's death has deprived both Arsenal and England of a very capable stand-in for their mercurial midfield schemer, Mesut Ozil. The former Miss Leichtenstein is also completely beside herself, itself a very useful asset when playing the offside trap. She is currently being courted by several scouts from the elite of European football but is thought to be considering seeing out her current contract then 'doing a Bosman' to Italy in the summer where she'll be a shoo in to the defence of any top flight club. Catenaccio, isn't it. She too has no idea what an entail is not neither, nor what a Catenaccio is.

Now read on...


The fair has come to Downton Village,which is just as well because the unfair was seriously starting to piss a heck of a lot of people off. Bates encourages William to ask Daisy to go with him but before he gets a chance, Thomas jumps in and a delighted Daisy accepts his offer to go to Gateshead instead - anywhere there isn't a sodding fair going on. She can't abide them and if it weren't for the yet-to-be-born-and-buddy-up-with-David-Cameron-to-usher-in-the-Coalition Nick Clegg, fairs would probably be her least favourite things in the whole wide world. It is left to Mrs Patmore - no, don't worry, she's a new one on me too - who tries and fails to explain to Daisy why Thomas is not right for her. She gets as far as his halitosis and the fact that he simply has no interest whatsoever in extending the life of his calliper by occasionally giving it a once over with the brasso but then gives up and flounces off, puffing out her cheeks and making a strange angry moaning noise. She is clearly a 'glass half empty' type, which, to be fair, is more than often the case. Thomas’s bullying increases towards William - he has progressed to crucifictions now. Even William notices and tempers flare, but there's little he can do from up there but grimace and wince and occasionally ask his Father why he has forsaken him. But Thomas takes it all in his stride, walking around with a mouthful of nails and a hammer on the off chance that he might bump into William and hastily erect a cross out of any loose timbers that might be lying around. He is definitely a 'glass half full' type is Thomas.

Sybil has awoken politically and is toying with joining Sinn Fein, even though they aren't standing any candidates on the British mainland. She instantly connects with the new Irish chauffeur, Branson, who shares her affinity for politics, although he's always been more of a Democratic Unionist himself. Robert is, at first, amused by his new chauffeur’s radicalism - he even invites him to go into an electoral pact with the local UKIP candidate in the hope that they can *really* stuff the Tories - but he comes to regret his choice, accidentally voting Lib Dem when he meant to put his cross by the Literal Democrat candidate. It might be legal, he seethes, but it really is *not* cricket, a trick like that. Meanwhile, Sybil is determined to help Gwen get a new job as a weather girl on the BBCs West Country local news programme and despite Gwen’s first interview falling through due to her making some very disrespectful comments about yet-to-be-born/famous Poldark actress Angharad Rhys (no, I don't know if that's the proper spelling either - it could well be Rees....), Sybil assures her there will be a next time.

Anxious to get the entail broken (some sort of lock?) and to advance Mary as heiress, Violet shocks Mahfuz by visiting his office to see if he will look into the matter. He says he'd love to, but he left his monocle at home. Could he give it a quick feel and maybe that way he'd be able to give her some idea as to what the matter is? Later, an awkward Mahfuz visits Robert to discuss Violet’s request. The two have grown close and Mahfuz takes his role as heir very seriously, he later runs into Mary, whom he appears to have a crush on. Mary for her part is still mourning Pamuk whom she is still convinced could have gone on to win the Champions League if only he was still alive and had been played more often in the central midfield role his surgical final passing skills demanded.

Mahfuz informs a delighted Robert that he does see Downton as his future, but only if it can be physically relocated to somewhere in the Levant. He desperately wants to die near Mecca and is not to be moved on the subject, even when told that there is an excellent William Hill's just at the bottom of the hill. But Mary feels that in Mahfuz, Robert Peston has found his ‘son’ and will no longer bother trying to fight the entail - I thought they'd made that illegal anyway, like badger baiting and things like that?

Robert Peston makes it clear to Violet that he is not moveable on his position regarding the entail and can she please leave him is peace now as the final deadline for a Greek bailout is looming and he has had several wagers over at Broadcasting house that there will indeed be a Greek exit (or Grexit). A later conversation (or latsation?) with Cora reaffirms his decision. Cora does not fight him because, although she still loves Mary (lovary?), she realises that following the incident with Pamuk, Mary is damaged goods (damoods? Or just Doods?) and that ironically, Matthew is the more suitable heir (Sueir?).

Violent is also in conflict with Isobel over a medical ailment affecting Molestation - she has been unable to contract one and it really is giving her the screaming ab-dabs (scrabdabs?). However, this time Isobel’s treatment fails to work and Violet’s does, which is confusing me every bit as much as it is confusing you, believe me.

The servants gossip about Mrs Hughes who takes a very rare evening off to meet a former suitor (foruitor?), Joe Burns. The evening makes Mrs Hughes question her position at Downton - she has always had a thing about tailors and haberdashery in general - and it is left to Carson to reassure her that she made the right decision all those years ago to become a black belt. Indeed, her repertoire of chops and headlocks proves very useful when Joe cuts up rough and tries to drag her forcibly back to Savile Row so he can use her as a pattern for a new range of suits for Lesbians.

Elsewhere, Carson has a problem, the wine book suggests they are missing at least two dozen of a special vintage. It might be Liebfraumilch and therefore almost by definition undrinkable, but that's not the point. Anna, in bed with a cold Frenchman, is touched by Bates bringing a tray of food up to her room - that's the French for you. An Englishman would never let a manservant touch his woman unless it was his own. It’s clear these two have feelings for one another, however, at the moment, they are unable to realise them. Not least because there's a Frenchman in the way.


...to be continued...

xxx
'Berta

Last night's telly....

It's a long time since I did a TV review - well, it's a long time since I watched a television programme, but that was never really an impediment in the past, so I don't know why I'm getting all particular now. Anyway, as there's not really much in the news today worthy of my scarcely considered adjudications, let's pick over the still warm carcass of last night's telly, possibly one final time.

Eastenders never disappoints. Invariably unfolding its unremitting misery on an increasingly obvious set, no doubt miles away from the rancourous festerings of the actual east end of London, it's now rapidly becoming the cultural glue that binds together such remnants of our fragmented and dissolute society as can still be joined together. I mean, where else can British Muslims go to see themselves presented as decent, ordinary hard working folk who bear no threat to the established order? Apart from Syria, obvs. My money is on Shabnam (Mishal Husain with a 'Demi Moore') being the first Albert Square resident to tell her folks - in her case the fabulous Masood Ahmed (David Aronovitch) - that she's just nipping out to buy a copy of OK! before boarding the next flight to Turkey, being driven to the Syrian border and smuggled over into ISIS controlled Raqqa there to enjoy a long, secluded, fertile life of domestic servitude and violence in between popping out the Caliphate's future Ummah. You can see it coming; her relationship with her dear old Dad increasingly strained, Kush's ill-advised and inconsiderate snog with Stacey (which will presumably develop into the full carnal Monty at some point during Ramadan) eventually revealed to her, not to mention Unrepentant Rapist Bastard Dean (Ched Evans played by a young Robbie Williams) and Shirley's campaign to drag poor Jade, scion of Dean's and her drunken cloakroom shag, away from the security of her adoptive home into the near-warzone that is the Mitchell/Carter stand-off and Shabnam will be just ripe for jihad. Cuckolded and shamed like that, who wouldn't want to behead a few western journalists? I know I would. Besides, Raqqa after curfew must seem like an eartly paradise after one of Mick's ever-more volatile cheery cockney knees-ups; the head-wetting of new baby Oliver being just the latest to descend into alpha male antler-locking immediately upon Dean's ill-advised arrival. The quest for Jade promises to be a good storyline and watching Shirley (Petula Clark as she would be in an alternative Universe run entirely along the lines of a sink estate) charm the social services will be a treat in itself.

One Mitchell who has managed to escape the carnage of Albert Square is Victoria Coren- who wound up as far west as Soho in last night's concluding installment of How to be Bohemian. Confession time: I missed the first programme, have yet to watch the recording of the second so have jumped straight in at the finale, so anything I say here is appropriate only to last night's show, not the series. Ronnie and Roxy's smarter, prettier and more gambly sister, Victoria began her exploration of post-war London Bohemia with Francis Bacon - and immediately it became clear why mobile phone giant EE have chosen younger sibling Kevin to front their various TV ad campaigns. Not only is he considerably better looking than Franny, but he's far less likely - at least by the looks of it - to go on a three day bender, be sodomised and battered by a violent petty criminal before smashing his mobile phone into someone's face in a jealous gay hissy fit. On the other hand, Kevin's paintings probably can't quite match Fran's when it comes to dark, brooding intensity and existential suffering. At the other end of the Bohemian misery scale was light-loving Molly Parkin (Nefertiti). Wonderful, touching footage of her younger self, fresh-faced and newly drawn to London from her native Glamorgan, basking in the sun, full of fun and smiling inside and out. VC-M teased out some of the oddities of her free-loving life - for instance, she divorced her first husband for infidelity despite having had, by her own estimate, 'countless' lovers, among them not one but two whole rugby teams - 'all that brown hair...' I know the feeling Mollster, I know the feeling. But Molly's attitude seemed sane - what's sex? she asked; just like putting your arms round someone with but with different parts of the body.

John Cooper Clarke (Harry Cross from Brookside, halfway through the third week with the jar) contrasted the rigours of his father's generation - 'no such thing as leeeeeeezure wear' for Cooper Clarke Snr. - with his own identification with and apeing of the new 'kings' of pop like Keith Richards and Bob Dylan. And suddenly *everyone* was a Bohemian, even innocents the like of Will Self now feeling possessed of the gum and gumption to wear a spotty scarf, as he still does to this day. The sixties and the seventies saw the pill enabling women to explore some of the sexual freedom that had previously been the exclusive preserve of the men in the sixties and seventies, in the eighties it was the turn of gay culture to explode. But Rev. Richard Coles (the Verger from Dad's Army) and Johnny Woo (Julian Clary, midway through the third *month* on the jar) highlighted differing reactions to the new orthodoxy that seems to have emerged from that initial liberation. Both Woo and Coles rued the rise of consumerist materialism - Woo in the gay community, Coles more generally - but they have taken radically different lines of resitance. Whilst the former dons increasingly outre costumes in which to run around the west end shouting 'Woo woo woo', the latter joined the clergy. It's perhaps a more interesting route and I agree with Rev. Coles that at the core of Christianity is a subversive and challenging code of living.

But as hipsters stoke the nation's pogonophobia to new heights of murderous antipathy, is there still a need for, let alone the possibility of a Bohemian - or any - alternative to the slow, dull grind of people making money for other people and all that that entials? The truth, perhaps, is that it's probably happening right here and right now, we just aren't aware of it and, quite possibly, wouldn't even recognise it for what it is even if we were. Just as Soho became the focus for those who sought another path after pleasure centres like Southwark and Vauxhall became absorbed into what was allowable, so will new sites emerge after Soho has been gentrified and developed to extinction. It's still a shame to see it go. But there will always be resistance to the normal out there somewhere.

xxx
'Berta

Under the influence...

Well, it's official - I *finally* became a brand. And no, before you ask, that's not because Russell saw sense offered to make an honest woman of me, because he didn't (although I did get a couple of nice offers from Jo and Katie that I'm still mulling over....) No, this is all about the belated realisation among the movers and shakers of the cognoscenti that I, your humble scribbler, am an *Influencer*. Yep, the threats, extortion and bullying *finally* paid off! And in recognition of my newfound and not inconsiderable cultural *heft*, I've been asked by no less august an organisation than Twitter to curate my first 'collection'. I can't tell you how honoured I am, especially as I am just down to my last pair of marigolds*.

So, I can almost hear your silent, urgent inner question before you say it yourself, what's *in* the collection 'Berta??? Well, obviously we're still at the development stage and there will be a lot more product coming onstream - see, I'm getting good at the patter already, and I only just got the job.... - but I can let you in on a few of the highly desirable ranges we've already identifies as fulfilling the unique niche market value most closely associated with my work, lifestyle and image-reach.

First up, ladies and gentleman, I give you .....

The Deluxe Roberta Swipe Lock-tite Knee Pad...

Specially contoured by our underpaid Korean slave operatives highly specialised team of international designers, these little beauties won't let you down when you need that extra bit of traction. Whether you're being pummelled senseless from behind by a fat balding international salesman en route to a pointless sales team-building exercise in Rhyll, or you just need that little extra protection from the shagpile while you're submissively licking the Haagen das off a spaniel, the specially reinforced yet reassuringly elastic build of the Deluxe...won't let you down. Also available in special limited edition flame retardant and glow in the dark ...

Or how about these...

The 11th Anniversary Roberta Swipe Bin Liner dress....

No other item says 'Roberta Swipe' more clearly than that timeless, classic, that icon of modern fashion that is the badly creased and ineffectually sewn up refuse sack dress. For centuries women have dreamed of a look that's not only stylish, affordable but incredibly useful during industrial action by refuse collection operatives over weekend working rota, overtime and subsidised laundry payments on the part of the employer being put under review. Well, now you can have it all ladies. Available in black, white grey and green, although any biodegradables left out in anything other than a green receptacle may lead to fines and, in extreme cases, imprisonment... [Influencer's note; a small tip here, don't make the same mistake I made and make sure you remove as much of the refuse from the sack as you can before you put it on....saves a heck of a lot of Savlon...]

And finally...

Genuine Sophie Raworth and Tanya Beckett Ripped and Laddered Pantyhose....

Tired, lonely and alone in your opulent Swedish flat? The dawn can't come too soon over the Pacific Palisades? We've all wished for them, I know, and now, finally - they're here! Now you can own and wear the bespoke lingerie item that's been driving the civilised world's onanists into heights of Ryvita-assisted frenzy for the past decade. Yes, *personally* assessed by Channel 4's Miquita Oliver and stress tested to our own highly exacting standards, this limited edition collection in a variety of denier(s?) has been exclusively discarded by some of British broadcasting's most celebrated early morning news/business presenters. That's right, you'll *never* have to ladder your own to get that early morning slattern off the telly look again!

More product details as we think of them/find them in the bins outside Broadcasting House....


xxx
'Berta


*see previous post

Sophie Raworth stole Tanya Beckett's pantyhose, ripped them to shreds with her bare teeth, and smeared them both with chocolate caramel Haagen das...

A short interlude, blessed reader, from the mythologically proportioned pornography. Honestly, it's been cock, cock, cock, cock, cock this week, wall to wall. And that's just chapter one. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I actually want to start *writing* the thing now if this any indication as to the groundwork that's going to be involved, but needs must, I suppose. Besides, as I'm reliably and continuously informed as I wind my wary way through the delightful world of publishing - invariably by men, most of those single - sex sells. You could have fooled me last weekend. There was precious little commercial activity in cubicle number three of the public conveniences outside the new Asda just off the high street, I can tell you. But, heck, what do I know? I thought Marcel Proust was a mute Formula 1 racing driver.

But to be serious for a fleeting freekin' second. Straits being as dire as they currently are, I started doing a little research the other day into how to boost readership, publicise one's wares and generally start turning all that random computer generated 'traffic' into cold, hard, filthy lucre. Well, without taking recourse to spreadsheets, pie-charts, powerpoint presentations and all the other bullshit marketing paraphernalia my research pointed to, the basic upshoot of it all is actually quite simple: *know* *your* *readers*. Wowee. Thanks for diddly. Part of the problem over the last 11 years - OMG, 11 years? That's crazy! Do I get soem sort of medal or something, just for putting in the hours? - is precisely that: *I* *know* *my* *readers*. (And I sincerely hope you're both having a lovely day and haven't strated on the gin and it just yet....or the methadone for that matter.)

The shock having subsided somewhat, I began slowly to pick myself back up off the floor again and compose myself. A stiff drink or three later and I began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. Going back to my research, I realised I had to be a little more forensic and, delving a little deeper, I started to see a pattern emerging, barely discernible at first, but slowly growing clearer until, finally there in front of me like a 10 foot high flashing signpost of the bleeding obvious, was the plain and simple truth. Sex may not sell, but *smut* abso-bloody-lutely does!

If you don't believe me, take a look at the cold, hard facts. Last week's numbers: top search terms in ascending order:

10. Marigolds - 452 hits

9. Zoe Telford - 466 hits

8. Crotchless - 489 hits

7. Garter-chafe - 512 hits

6. Tanya Beckett - 553 hits

5. Ridged - 554 hits

4. Underdrip - 798 hits

3. Butane-minge - 12,467 hits

2. Sophie Raworth - 13,584 hits

1. Pantyhose - 15, 404 hits

Well, I don't really need to spell it out to you, do I? It's just bloody genius, isn't it? I mean, these things will virtually write themselves. So, it's with renewed vigour that I return to the fray, eager to give my adoring public - yep, that's you Ms. Sandvik, Vasstra Gotoland (7 min, 23 seconds, 01:46, 21/06/2015) - boy, have we got some threats in store for you, lady!! And as for Mllle. Pacific Palisades, CA (1 min, 45 seconds, 03:47, 20/06/2015 - boy, you don't hang around, huh? Go for it girl...), well, those cold and lonely three a.m.s just got that teeny-weeny bit brighter. No really, it's all part of the service....just remember to click on the ad at the bottom on your way out....

xxx
'Berta

Call me Bob...

As it's been a while since I communicated with you my dear, loyal reader, I thought I'd try to make it up to you for my inexcusable absence by letting you in on a little secret. That's right my limpet-like little bijou(s) ....(bijoux? Damn, I hate the French - why can't they speak English like the rest of us, Dammit!?) as the exclusive preview of my latest Vanity Fair cover shoot will more than amply demonstrate, I am...(come on gal...I mean...guy ...let's be true to the real us, boyfriend....shame on all the haters....we can *do* this* thang*!!!) Yes, I can finally reveal that, after years of denial, decades of pain, misery and living a falsehood, I am, finally....ta-da..., yes, you guessed it...I am in mid-*trans* *for* *may* *shun*!

Yay brothah!

Go me!!

Oh sure, there's still a little bit of work to be done, as you can see. For a kick off, the tummy-tum-tums is *waaaaay* too flat and almost lends me a look of someone who does the occasional bout of exercise requiring more effort than just reaching over to the coffee table to take another slurp of 'buie breezer in between mouthfuls of Tesco finest salt and vinegar potato sticks. The beard? Well, that's still a little too obviously false and velcroed on to make me look like the genuine lard-bucket male hipster dude I aspire to be. And as for that mascara brush that's been poorly run over my flimsy blonde down to give the impression of a full pelt of unsightly male chest hair - well, it barely registers so much as a blip on the Giggs scale, does it? I know, I know, I know. But hell, give me time to *eaaasse* into my new gender will ya?? And besides, look how well I'm carrying off that grimy, 'just gone for a wee in the middle of my afternoon nap, but still didn't get a stain on my sweat pants' look. *Sexy*!! So, ladies, gentlemen, people of indeterminate gender who fall somewhere in between...I give you...

my new body....

my new self....

the new *ME*.....!!!!.....

                            

So how, I can tell you are *dying* to know, am I doing? Well, it's all been a bit of an upheaval, obviously. But the lads at the Rygbi club have, to a man, been very kind, and as gentle and supportive as you could reasonably expect of a bunch of hardened Welsh farm lads with minimal familiarity with their own bodily hygiene, let alone the needs of someone experiencing the biological turmoil of a complete gender reversal at an age by which most impoverished valley folk have either perished or been consigned to a dismal end of life spent salivating into a Toby jug of Harvey's Bristol Cream, muttering about Max Boyce whilst watching the 'Pobl y cym' omnibus on repeat. Given the difficulty they have in even accepting the existence of someone like Alan Carr-Chatty-Mann, they've taken having to watch the fragrant, lithe, leggy, lushly-maned nymph from whose ample cleavage they've grown up pinching the half time orange segments transmogrify herself into a portly bearded nerk pretty well I suppose, all in.

Obviously, this is just the beginning for me. I still have a long way to go, I knows that. There will be very difficult adjustments to make - not least in the undercarriage department. At the moment, I'm still finding a few *blocks* to my masculinity. For instance, I can't be doing with those badly bitten false nails with the fake black grit in the pith - no, it's Maybelline extra durable with a Cardiff City crest tattoo for this boy's talons, every day. And how do you guys walk in those shoes???? I know better than any one that, come hell or high water, high heels were never, ever,*evah* meant to be worn with a pair of tracky bottoms. But I'm sorry. I'm just not ready for the ultimate sacrifice. Can you *seriously* imagine a lad like me wearing flats? No, exactly. So, as we say at Laboratoires Garnier: *day-ull* *way-uth* *ay-ut* - Because *I'm* *wurth* *ut*...

Tanya Beckett & Sophie Raworth are......Waiting for Godot......

TB: .....here, Soph. Can you lend me some of your nail varnish? I think I've just chipped one picking away distractedly at this cheaply decorated set meant to convey a bleak existential landscape in which you and I are waiting for a metaphoric redemption in the form of Godot...... who never arrives.



SR: Sure thing Tanny. Midnight Plums OK? (Why does that colour always remind me of Jeremy Bowen, by the way?) Now, where did I put it? Ohhhh! Don't tell me I left it on the dresser by the hall with the gas bill I forgot to post on my way to the theatre. £55.65 by the way? Is yours ever that high?



TB: Sounds a bit steep to me, Soph old girl. What have you been doing, taking midnight bubble baths with an entire Premiership Rugby side and indulging in a crafty sachet of Belgian choccy options or several while they practice their rucking techniques with your aromatherapy bath cushion? It's a wonder your bills aren't sky high carrying on like that...

SR: ...I mean, you expect it to be a bit more in the winter quarter, but this is just ridiculous...



TB: My uncle Stan used to work for the gas board. He was a funny old stick. Used to make us little puppets based on prominent politicians of the day - Lord George Brown was a particularly eerie likeness, as I recall - and entertain us with a little miniature theatre he made up out of old cornflake boxes and j-cloths when we were kids. That was when he wasn't trying to get his hand up our skirts. Filthy old sod! He still sends us a Christmas card every June. It's amazing how much things have changed in secure psychiatric units, isn't it?



SR: ....£55.65. And we were away in Dubai for all of October...

TB: You found it yet?

SR: Sorry, Tans. I was just leafing through my little red book. I didn't realise I had it with me. Gosh, some of these dates...I'd completely forgotten about them - with good reason... Did you know that Griff Rhys Jones is double-jointed?



TB: Really?

SR: Well, that's the only explanation I can think of.....him and his pair of plyers...

TB: How long did you go out with him for Sophs?

SR: Only a couple of weeks - until I got bored rigid with his sheet metal origami obsession. Honestly, he couldn't go anywhere without a full toolkit and a pack of handy wipes. Until, that is, he dislocated his shoulder trying to make a huge ornamental Mandarin Duck out of our boiler flue. I never heard back from him after that. Here we go. Oh, sorry Tans, it's Prussian Blue. will that do?



TB: Oh I suppose so. It won't clash with my mustard twin set, will it? This is Desiree by the way. She's waiting for Godot too. What's he like eh?

Desiree: I know - I waited 3 days for one last week....and then they were all only going as far as the Broadway....

SR: Hi Desiree. Course it won't clash, you picky mare. Here, something I've always meant to ask you - you know when your skirt rides up when you're interviewing someone on the couch on Breakfast News?

TB: Mmm-hmm...

SR: Do you do it on on purpose or is just accidental?

TB: What do you think!! As my dear old Grandfather used to tell my Mum, "there's no point wearing stockings if you're not going to flash a bit of garter, girl!" How she put up with him wearing her smalls for all those years, I'll never know...



SR: Thought so. I always wear tights myself. You should give them a go - you know how chilly it is on the studio floor before the heating clicks on at 7.30. Now, are you quite finished with my varney? I've just bitten one of mine off remembering Griff and his bizarre metal folding exploits. I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes when I hear a creaking noise in the night...

TB: Here Soph, have these for being such a brick about lending me the nail varnish.

SR: Oh Tans, they're lovely! Where did you get them?



TB: I half-inched them from outside the Sally Army on the way in while they were out beggaring about with their trombones and tambourines. See, I forgot to take the card out, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it??

SR: Too right Tans - I'll just stick them in some water. Now, where has that confounded Godot got to? Shall I stick the kettle on......??

Delle de Jour

The Diary of a London wheeler and dealer.

Nice little earner this call boy lark, Rodders. The manager - madam, if you will - takes 30%. Tips and travel expenses are exempt from her commission. The client usually pays an extra 30-50 pounds on top of the agreed price for travel. About a quarter of 'em tip. Cushty!

I have only seen the madam in person a handful of times. I prefer to pay the spondulicks in to her account, and she knows I am reliable with it. Some of the other lads she meets at restaurants or at home or down the Black Horse, but she ain't comin' back to our grotty little flat in Nelson Mandela Mansions, I'll tell you that for nuffink, my son!

Most other WBs I have met do not work for the same agency and are usually friends-of-friends. I only meet others from my agency if someone hires two of us at a go - Mange tout de Triomphe, Rodders! As we say in the trade. We arrive and leave in seperate transportation, and know nothing of each other beyond professional names, which is just as it should be. Honi soit qui malibu, Rodders.

I have never had an overtly negative review reported to the manager. My clients are not usually drunk and I have not yet run into an abusive one. We are instructed that if they are abusive, we take the money, ring the manager, and leave. They are instructed by her that if we find them objectionable, we leave. Bish bosh! You might say I'm lying, or have been extremely lucky. You might also say that I have some skill in putting people at ease. But I've never had a spot of bother. Apart from when one old bag recognised me down Peckham market and wanted a refund on some dodgy inflatable Korean carp I'd flogged her. Said she'd put 'em straight in her pond and they were all dead. Dozy mare! Still, Cherchez la femme, eh Rodders? Cherchez la femme!

I do get a bit nervous about clients if they've changed the location or time of the liaison more than once. In these instances the agency provides security, or I ask Trigger to drive and guard me. I bung him a pony out of me pocket for this. If you want the bestest but you don't ask questions, brother, he's your man. Nastro azurrio, my son!

Do I kiss clients? Of course I do, you plonker! Pretty Woman is not real. Comprendez? Fiction. Richard Gere is not really a gigolo. You're thinking of David Hemmings in American Gigolo, Rodders.

Refusal to kiss is an affront similar to fake porn lesbians who won't put their tongues anywhere near a pussy, but are perfectly happy to shove a fist up one. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, Rodders. I don't hold back. Kissing is no more intimate than any other act - intimacy is what the mind does, not the body. Outlandos d'amour, Rodders.

Now, where are me low-waisted flesh-coloured lace knickers (La Perla). What do you mean they're in the wash, Rodders? You plonker!

// posted by delle @ 3:21 PM

xxx
'Berta

Blog Comment Whore....

Why do I do it?

I must spend several hours a day posting rubbish like this (on Blind Flaneur's effort) on blogs belonging to people I have no connection with other than that they happen to have chanced upon my blog rather than any of the other billion or so that they might have:


The 27 used to be a nice route. We used to be able to pick it up at the bottom of our road in Twickenham and go all the way to Archway for 4 pence. Christ knows why you'd want to do that, mind - but you could. Then again, I can't see why anyone would want to buy a record by Rod Stewart, but people still do. Though I doubt you can pick one up for 4 pence. Bloody charity shops - they're worse than HM bloody V. My late father once opened the door to Rod Stewart - on the Archway Road as it goes. It wasn't this that killed him, by the way - it was progressive heart disease, but the door thing might well have been a contributory factor. It must've been quite a shock I imagine, opening the door to find a pre-fame Rod Stewart standing there with a tea chest bass and a Scotland scarf demanding "can Kenny come out to play?" We'll never know now, of course. My uncle was a mate of his. Rod Stewart, that is. He was tight as arseholes, apparently - always hid at the back with his hands in his pockets, never bought a round. Rod that is - not my uncle Ken - he's a diamond when it come to buying a round. Had a trial at Brentford too Rod Stewart, not Kenny. Never really had much time for him, personally - although I do quite like the strings on Do ya think I'm sexy...

Roberta

p.s. Just a quick technical point here, BF. Being blind, was this sequence of events relayed to you by a sighted companion, or did you just make it up? Don't give up hope - it's amazing what they can do with lasers now, apparently...

Say you ponced about like that for three hours a day. That's 21 hours a week. That's almost a full working week. (If you can call it a working week when you spend 2/3s of it posting meritricious crap on blogs belonging to people you've never met etc. etc. instead of doing what you're being paid to do. Whatever that is. It's so long since I've done anything except blog that I've actually forgotten. I know it can't be very important...) I wonder if you could put it on your passport - occupation: spurious blog commentator (p/t)?? Imagine the adverts: Aimless individuals, highly unmotivated despite being in regular, full-time employment but with time on their hands are required to bombard pointlessly world wide internet weblog sites with frivolous, self-aggrandising verbage. No prospects. No supervision. No time wasters.

The other thing is I've started using the word 'cunt' in every comment I post. Must stop doing that. Imagine if there are children reading it....I really need to start setting a better example. I'm forty fucking one years old......

Envoi: S. this morning, overheard from the bathroom while she's watching the BBC Breakfast News item containing an interview with the chaps on the wrong end of the the recent bungled terror raid - "with a beard like that, I'd've fucking shot you.."

She's the funny one.

Further envoi:

I can't stop myself - just posted today at 11.02:

There's a technical term for it, BF. You are a sufferer of what we in the medical profession (I am a registered Paedophile - I know what I'm talking about and have the broken windows to prove it...) refer to as Severe Geoffrey Howeing of the Hair Syndrome. It's a relatively managable condition, but in extreme cases it can flare up into the more general and potentially life threatening affliction of Incurable Darcus Howeing of the Scalp. Once diagnosed, there is little hope for the poor victim of this awful illness. There is no cure, unfortunately, and the only known palliative care involves the patient being taken out into a field by the Secretary of State for Health and shot at dawn. You will, however be pleased to know, that this treatment IS currently available on the NHS.

HEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

xxx
'Berta
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

The Other Girl With a One Track Mind...

I bought the Sunday Times yesterday (and no, before you get all aeriated, I'm not going all New Labour now we've joined the propertied classes - it had a free DVD of One Plus One in it, if you must know. See, bit of culture and that) and there's an article in there about this tart. Apparently Girl with a one track mind is a freelance camera assistant (surely they can't be that difficult to operate...??) and she's been working her way through the casts and crews of what remains of the British film industry (I bet that Puttnam gave her a good seeing to - he looks like a right saucy sword swiveller, doesn't he? It's the beard, I think...) and posting up the (incredibly interesting, I'm sure) particulars on her eponymous blog (although, apparently she also witters on about films a lot as well, making her a girl more of the two-tracked mind variety by my reckoning...but, hey, whatever...)

Anyroad up, GWAOTM has just become the latest blogger to have her highly riveting sexploits published in good old analogue* book form. So, after years (well, a year) of trying to persuade the sceptical world of publishing (and radio, Reality TV, DIY show hosting, mail order catalogue modelling etc.) that Roberta is the greatest thing since sliced wotsits, I've finally realised what I've been doing wrong all these year(s). So, brace yourselves dear, gentle readers for the new look Roberta Swipe Show. That's right, from tomorrow, you and the rest of the world of Global Publishing can sample the delights of the Other Girl With a One Track Mind.....(be warned, if you don't have much time for Goth girls splattered with fek blood wearing fishnets as string vests, I'd stick with Spinny - at least you know what you're going to get with La Spinster. Well, you know what you're not going to get, anyroad...)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have beggars to flog and a podcast to tape......


* Will Self: "they're portable, you don't need batteries for them and they last for hours..." (books that is - filth!)

xxx
'Berta


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

I'm in a band.....(Yay!)....

That's right Swipettes - all those years hanging around backstage in a beehive wig wearing fake leather twinsets with a pretend cigarette dangling seducticely from my lower lip have finally paid off! I've been asked to play keyboards in my brother Bob's newest techno pop combo - and he's even asked me if they can call the group after me. I was a bit sceptical at first, but Bob thinks it's a great idea and cited other great bands that were named after real people - Alice Cooper, Lynyrd Skynrd, Pele, Jeremy Irons etc. etc. So I'm cool with it, plus I get to have my mush pasted over every bus shelter and big issue poster in the Greater London area - what's not to like? I did wonder at first if I was letting my sisters down by allowing my physical charms - yes, that's right, charm*s* (I have at least two) to be put to use selling the band. But then I realised that, hey, if you've got it flaunt it - and if you haven't, you'll probably soon be able to get it on the NHS, once they finish fully privatising it.

Anyway, we've been doing a lot of rehearsing and recording of late and I'm pleased to say that my high school one finger sythesizer line skills have not completely deserted me. OK, I'm no Linda McCartney yet - although I can do a mean veggie sausage roll, believe me - but what I lack in musical ability, I more than make up for in sly sexual manipulation and a thoroughbread's understanding of the minutiae of  the upholstered brassiere. Just think of me as the new Candida Doyle, only without the candida....well, mostly...

Right, judge for yourselves...

http://mukto-mona.com/bangla_blog/

You stare at the blank screen.

It can take minutes, sometimes hours. Sometimes nothing comes at all. Sometimes it's so poor and expresses so badly what you wanted to say that you wish it hadn't come at all. But usually something comes and you're grateful, grateful because, when something comes you can hope - hope that it will build, hope that you might feel that pleasure-rush behind the ears, that quiet ecstasy that radiates around the base of the skull when you do get it right, or read it when someone else has. Usually though, you're grateful for nothing more than that the screen is no longer blank. But it's the good days you do it for, when it comes before you can even get yourself before the screen, your fingers do their merry dance in a blur and the flow of words picks you up and transports you - the images shine, the meanings resound and you follow every twist and turn, every pause every punchline as if you are outside it all; you are not writing so much as something is being written through you: you, your eyes aglow, your skull aflame. And then it fades, the words cease and those guiding hands put you back down, you go back to the routine, back to the drone, back to the blank screen.

And there you are, today, back in front of the screen, trying to will the whirring of the wheels in that free mind of yours, trying to wipe away the grime and the grit from the windscreen of your consciousness, trying to see. Trying to write down what you see. There may have been words, you may have made a start, the piece may have been completed, you may have had about you that quiet smile or look of mild consternation as you finessed the almost finished article, squeezed those last few drops of meaning, irony, humour or remorse from whatever you were writing. We won't know what it was you were writing, only that that was what you were planning, or what you had done or what you were in the middle of doing when they came.

They came, I imagine, from behind you - the coward's way. Because you would have had a desk with a screen, by a window or a lamp so that you could type facing towards the light. I know this, because that is what we all do, no matter how ineptly, no matter how pointlessly, no matter how reviled or acclaimed. It doesn't matter. We just do it because that is what we do. We type towards the light.

So now all we can do is to go here and hope to see your words one day replace the night black screen. Hope that even if you can't, your words may come back. And then we go back to our own blank screens and wait.

Wait for it to come.

Then we type.

We type towards the light.

For Tim Footman and in memory of Avijit Roy.

ISIS members sue Apple Corps over lost Beatles royalties...

Lawyers acting on behalf of the self-styled terror group, So-Called Islamic State have begun a civil action against Apple, the company set up in 1968 to manage their affairs by self-styled lovable mop-tops, the So-Called Beatles. Members of So-Called Isis also known as the self-styled, So-Called Beatles - Jihadi John, Jihadi Paul, Jihadi George and Jihadi Ringo - claim that they are not receiving royalties due to them for a large body of popular songs they wrote during the So-Called Swinging Sixties, songs which set the toes of the world tapping and launched an era of sexual freedom and social experimentation as the world reverberated to their tuneful Mersey beat music. A spokesman for the group which is currently succeeding in returning large swathes of the so-called Levant and self-styled Middle East to the Middle Ages through an impressive use of 21st Century social media skills, strict adherence to So-Called Islam and lots of beheadings, urged Apple to cough up.

"They're just four ordinary, working class Muslim lads from the north of England who have given us all a lot of pleasure with their grisly execution videos and cheeky but completely reverent and Halal-observant online banter. It just doesn't seem fair that they are toiling away in the desert with a 2nd generation i-pad and a pathetic 32 giga-bite laptop while Sir Paul McCartney and Ringo 'So-Called' Starr swan around with top of the range personal computer gear - how can you wage a Holy War aimed at restoring the Caliphate to its 11th Century boundaries with intermitent internet access and no wi-fi signal??? Even just freeing up the royalties from one of their big songs like 'Yesterday' or 'Let it Be' would keep us in broadband and viagra for several months. We might even be able to stretch to some kinky underwear for the lasses - Christ knows they need something to sauce them up. They make Jihadi Cilla Black look like Gina Lollabrigida. Still, at least you can't see their faces I suppose. So, come on lads, play fair - or we'll be round with a machete to chop off Heather's other leg..."

Critics of the regime who haven't already been silenced with a scimitar up the jacksy have pointed to the large revenues that are helping to prop up ISIS' campaign of violent jihad. They are currently funded from a variety of surprising sources - donations from wealthy Saudis, oil bootlegging, tobacco smuggling, sales of Yazidi women as sex slaves and the National Lottery. They also question the probability that members of a violent sect that has banned all forms of music in the territories it controls could possibly have composed songs of the beauty and expressive depth of 'Across the Universe', 'Hey Jude' and 'The Long and Winding Road' - although it's quite possible they may have been responsible for stuff like 'Octopus's garden' a singular dud from the 1969 classic album, Abu-Dhabi Road.

Meanwhile, in related news, former Beatle Jihadi John has himself been at the centre of controversy surrounding comments he is supposed to have made about the group's manager Jewish manager, Jihadi Brian Epstein. Epstein, a practicing homosexual, is alleged to have asked John to suggest a title for his autobiography to which he is purported to have replied, 'Queer Jew', a suggestion which could, if true, have dire consequences for him in homophobic, anti-Semitic ISIS controlled areas. The punishment for these crimes could lead to Epstein being beheaded and thrown from a tall building, or possibly the other way round, depending upon which is going to look better in a glossy snuff video aimed at radicalising young British teenagers. Fortunately, Epstein is no longer a smoker. The punishment for smoking - 'slow suicide' according to the ISIS ideology - is having a series of explosives tied to your waste and being very rapidly detonated in a crowded area.

The row comes only months after the furore generated by the controversial pop star's assertion that one day his group were going to be 'bigger than Muhammad'. 'If I'd said Buddha or Jesus or Krishna, I might have got away with it', said a clearly medicated Jihadi John.(Probably all that viagra.) The comments generated a spate of record burnings, book burnings, Jihadi Beatle wig burnings and a few innocent people were thrown in too for good measure.

The case commences on Monday...

Coalition Announces Stepping up of British Roles in Syria and Ukraine...

The government has announced major military engagements in both the Syrian and Ukraine conflicts. Following heavy international criticism of the failure of Britain to shoulder its responsibilities as part of the coalition forces engaged in airstrikes against the so-called Islamic State in Syria and Iraq, the Prime Minister announced that it will do all it can to bring about a swift resolution to the current bloodshed in the beleagured Middle Eastern states. "We will not tolerate the barbarity and bloodthirsty ideology that ISIS is inflicting on the poor citizens of the areas it has under its control. Crucifictions, beheadings, stoning people - these are simply not appropriate actions in a civilised society. That's why we'll be sending some of our finest singers and variety artistes out there to form a concert party. People often ask me, 'how are we going to put the smiles back on the people of Raqqa and Aleppo? It must be a living hell out there.' Well, ISIS may have banned music, but let's see them try to stop Ed Sheeran and his vast array of foot pedals and digital loops - I wouldn't even know how to turn them on, let alone decommission them."

A clearly pumped up Sheeran, interviewed shortly after his performance at this year's Brit awards was defiant: "I can't wait to get out there and play the same four chords over and over again, starting off gently then building up a series of loops to a near deafening crescendo and then shouting over the racket my foot pedals make. It's the only way I know how to help, but naturally I'm going to be first in the queue to go there and try to put a smile back on the faces of the poor innocent civilians who've got caught up in this terrible civil war. I've even been growing a beard for the last 3 years in the hope that I won't get beheaded - it's just starting to take root, what do you think?"  Questioned as to whether this was just a cynical career advancing publicity stunt, Sheeran was adamant: "I really believe we need to get out there and sing those people back into the 21st Century. Honestly, it's been a top night for me, getting this award, playing at this prestigious show, then finding out I'm going to be playing Syria, the nearest place to hell on earth. The only thing that could top all that would be if Madonna were to fall off stage..."

 Ellie Gouding: 'Apprehensive, Michael'

Sheeran will be joined by a dazzling roster of British talent said to include the likes of Ellie Goulding, Paloma Faith, Ant & Dec, David Suchet, The Krankies, Joe Pasquale, Russ Abbot, Chris de Burgh, The Arctic Monkeys, Colin Welland, Krishnan Gurumurthy, David Walliams, Tony Robinson, The Proclaimers, Chris Tarrant, Simon Cowell, the surviving mebers of Dave, Dee, Dozy Mick & Titch, Celia Imrie, Rhod Gilbert and several of the families from the hit Channel 4 couch potato reality show Gogglebox.

In a separate but parallel development, Mr. Cameron announced an escalation of British involvement in the Ukraine conflict. "We're committed to backing up the legitimate Ukrainian government and making sure that the terms of the recent ceasefire are adhered to on both sides. That's why we've decided to reunite the concert party from 'It ain't 'arf 'ot Mum'. We're going to get the old gang together - Don Estelle, Windsor Davies, Melvin Hayes, 'La-di-da' Gunner Graham, the one he used to call 'Lovely boy' that one always assumed would turn out to be his son. 'Land of hope and glory, mother of the free - SHUT UPP!' I can't think of a better way of sending a very clear message that we have the resolve to stand up to Mr. Putin and tell him exactly where he gets off. If we had more than 6 tanks, we'd be sending those too."

Melvin Hayes: 'delighted', Allan.

Scott Walker's Indispensable Guide to The General Election 2015!!!!...

With what promises to be one of the most fiercely fought and unpredictable elections ever just around the corner, we asked our resident Psephologist and Sixties Crooner-turned-weird-avant-garde-art-thing Scott Walker to give us the lowdown on all the major parties and their leaders...

This week....

The Conservative Party: 

The received wisdom: Many doubted the Conservative Party's alliance with their Liberal Democrat Coalition partners would hold on for the full five year fixed term Parliament, but Tory leader David Cameron has seen off hard right critics in his own party and in the process hobbled a major political adversary - few expect the Lib Dems to recover from the taint of being the junior partners in a coalition despised by many on the left. Cameron may still feel the squeeze from the alienated via a strong nationwide UKIP showing, but he'll be secretly hoping that the upstart anti-Europe party will wreak as much havoc in the north for Labour. Scotland may, ironically, hand him control of the UK on a plate if the SNP do as well as many expect.

Chances this time round: Odds on to be the largest party in an even more fragmented parliament.

Scott says: The benecol demands a hurried Instagram denouement constellations spitting rancid flu-jab rigmarole pyjamas at the moooooooo-oooooooooooon.

Next week:

The Labour Party...

The Beatles...

Carlton Palmer of the F.O.....

A House of Lords committee has issued a damning appraisal of the Foreign Office and its reading of the build up to the current crisis in the Ukraine. The Committee's report has been highly critical of what it sees as a loss of experience and skills within the department and has poured particular scorn on the employment of former Sheffield Wednesday and England footballer Carlton Palmer. Palmer, seen by many as little more than a tenuous attempt by desperate bloggers to link the current Foreign Office story to the 1959 Boulting Brothers comedy, Carlton Browne of the F.O. starring Terry-Thomas and Peter Sellers, was unavailable for comment as he was appearing for the Foreign Office works team in a friendly against a Qatar Embassy XI. However, a spokesman for the lanky and industrious defensive midfielder defended his appointment to the seemingly incongrous world of high level diplomacy and strategic global security.

'Obviously Carlton's a box-to-box type player, likes to put himself about a bit, has a better touch than many people expect from a big lad and has a similarly intelligent range of passing. Some may question whether he has the genuine world class ability to power the sort technically adept, quick thinking midfield unit you expect in the engine room of a modern international governmental department in today's game, but you could certainly do a lot worse, mentioniong no names. Marouane Fellaini."

The report expressed alarm at what it sees as a skills deficit within the Foreign Office, questioning whether the department had the requisite linguistic and cultural expertise to comprehend the subtleties of developments within the Russian sphere of influence. A Foreign Office expert defended the department's skills set: "Obviously it's just one of those where we've taken our eyes off the ball for a second, failed to switch on at a set-piece and no one's picked up the lad Putin, ghosting in at the far post and extending Russian influence in the former Soviet bloc. But it's a cold war of two halves, they've got to come back to our place and no doubt buy up the other half of London they don't own already while they're there. We're still very much in this tie and let's hope we can give the fans something to really sing and shout about while they're stopping black people boarding the tube on the way home..."

Downton Jihadi - episode 3

Previously on 'Downton Jihadi'....

Ashraq's insatiable desire for a bright, handsome young eager-to-please-then-make-her-a-widow young Doctor, preferably a specialist leads her to explore the possibility of the establishment of an insurance-based National Health Service. She contacts a three year old yet-to-be-Lord Beveridge but is told it will be a nightmare getting the Doctors to agree to a pay cut. Perhaps a couple of global conflagrations will soften their mood? We still don't know what an entail is, but we have a good idea what Brien O'Edna-O'Brien and Cora have been getting up to behind the bike sheds, but not whether or not it will rub off....

Now read on...

Like so many in this house, Gwenda has her own secret and Anna discovers it. It seems Gwenda is taking a correspondents course in Welsh. Inspired by Robert Peston, she wants to work for the BBC as a current affairs or economics presenter, or possibly an anchor for BBC Wales? She's always dreamed of the nautical life off the coast of a Principality. Brien O'Edna-O’Brien discovers the typewriter and alerts Carson to have her tailed to Broadcasting House or, where is it they've relocated to? Somewhere horrible and up north. Oh yes, Salford. Why does Gwenda think she is better than they are? Is it because she can spell? Has some rudimentary concept of personal hygiene? Belongs to the as yet only a glimmer in the imagination of the teenage Adolf Hitler's eye Aryan master race? We'll never know, but she looks simply lovely in a pair of jackboots and a brown shirt, her long blonde tresses and clear blue eyes glinting in the sunlight as she annexes the Rhineland. Gwenda is upset and explodes. Brien O'Edna-O'Brien-O'Edna, to the shock of Carson and Mrs Hughes, is unscathed but something funny appears to have happened to her name.

Mary learns that Evelyn Nappier-Rash is riding out with the local hunt and the meet will be at Downton. Cora presses him to stay, but he explains that he will be accompanied by a 'friend', Kemal Pamuk, an attaché at the Turkish Embassy, who is in London to discuss the independence of Albania and Turkish entry into the as-yet-unformed European Union and can she please now stop pressing him as he's coming over all unnecessary and has developed a rash. Cora is unfazed. If the price of Nappier-Rash is the presence of this Mr Pamuk, then she will invite them both and just hope that the latter can get the hang of a properly constructed water closet before there are any more accidents. She caught him flossing his teeth in the last one. To get some mileage out of Nappier-Rash’s brief stay, Mary will join the hunt and leave his briefs to look after themselves.

To her surprise, Mary is instantly attracted to Pamuk - she normally expects at least four weeks written notice and a tip off from her astrologer before she is smitten like this, and the feeling is reciprocated. When Thomas makes an ill-judged pass at Pamuk - well, he is no Mesut Ozil - the Turk, who despite his nationality and uncanny likeness to Peter Lorre is no Mesut Ozil himself, forces him to take him to Mary’s room later that night, the two gliding through the night along the Downton corridors with their deceptively lazy gaits before missing half the season with a hamstring strain and being photographed smoking in a Cologne night club with the former Miss Leichtenstein.

Bates, who is no Per Mertesacker, has purchased what looks like an instrument of torture in an effort to cure his lump but is in fact merely a decommissioned electric chair in need of a little upholstery and a few thousand volts. The pain it causes makes him cry out - "...it was fifteen shillings....FIFTEEN SHILLINGS I tell you!" - but he dismisses any concerns, until Mrs Hughes, who is no Gerd Muller but can bear an eerie resemblance to the late Helmut Schon in a dim light,  threatens to take the matter to Carson if Bates is not honest with her. Reluctantly, he shows her the residual seepage from his lump which is now covering a fairly substantial area of local farm land.

Edith has decided that if Mary is not interested in Mahfuz, she would like to try for him, herself. Learning about his interest in local mosques Edith volunteers to act as his guide only to find she's not allowed in as she is neither a Hindu nor a man. She is told that she can enter if she converts but tells the Hindu authorities that she has already been confirmed. They too confirm that she is definitely a non-Hindu woman but say she would make someone a lovely wife. After a brief ceremony during which she is ceremonially stoned, Edith is allowed day membership of the Hindu faith and finally allowed into the mosque on pain of silence. She reluctantly stubs out the reefer and enters the mosque. While there Mahfuz ignores her attempts at flirting, simply answering her questions with ones about the mosque - is it true that it can be seen from space? Are the hens kosher? Does it have a bar? Stuff that he should, as a good Hindu, really know already. In fact if he seems interested in anybody, it appears to be Mary who, whilst no Lucas Podolski, strangely reminds him of Karl Heinz Rummenigge of whom he's always been somewhat of a fan, apart from the blatant diving of course. The family discuss Gwenda and her ambitions. Violent, particularly, is shocked at her rebelliousness, although she is strangely attached to the safety pin through her nose and can see herself wearing one one day, should she ever tire of the bulldog clip. The only ones to defend her are Sybil and Matthew - and no, I have no idea who they are either. Mary is more interested in flirting with Pamuk, who whilst no Miroslav Klose could just about pass as a rather swarthy and chubby Gunther Nietzer on a dark night.

Anna is asleep and a hand comes down over her mouth. It is Mary. Well, the hand bit of her at any rate. Pamuk has had a heart attack, in Mary’s bed - all that smoking and carousing in nightclubs in Cologne, most likely. He’s dead. Anna is stunned. If Mary is not to be completely ruined they must get Pamuk back to his own bed so he can at least be dead in some clean sheets. The only person they can call on for help is Cora, no Franz Beckenbauer, but a pretty useful Uwe Seeler on her day. They do not know that Daisy witnesses Mary carrying Pamuk along the corridor. They don't call her 'The Kaiser' for nothing.

Nappier-Rash, in complete ignorance, undertakes all the arrangements following Pamuk’s death. But not before Mary’s tear-streaked eyes and a forty foot neon sign she's had attached to the main Downton tower saying, "I fucking hate you you completely ignorant tit" have told him that she is not in the least attracted to him. He graciously bows out of the running for her affections, concentrating his efforts instead on the Cirencester 12K mufti fun run which he hopes to complete in under three and a half hours hours and a sari.Thomas informs Edna-O'Brien-O'Edna that he took Mr Pamuk to Mary’s bedroom on the night he died, and that he saw him go through the door. Brien Edna-O'Brien-O' Edna  saves this vital information in her squirrel store of mischief along with an assortment of nuts whilst pondering the strange shifting uncertainties of her own nomenclature.

Holiday on the buses...

This week......

Raqqa....

Mid-morning, three stops from the main Raqqa bus terminus....

Stan: 'Ere, Jack - there's a bird on here wiv'aht a veil on....

Jack: (too busy smooching with a scantily clad blonde to hear properly replies to Stan): I left it in yer locker, next to the can of milk stout....(to the blonde bit) ...yak yak yak, cor blimey you ain't arf a right little goer and no mistake...what time do they come orf?

The bus comes to an abrupt halt sending many of the passengers, mostly fully veiled women tumbling.

Stan: Oi, Jack!! I fort I told you not to let any crumpet on the bus unless it had a veil on it. Blakey'll have our guts for garters if he finds out - *literally*! Nar, put that bit of fluff dahn, hook 'er orf the bus and get back to punching tickets. And don't forget you still owe me half an ounce of shag. I wan' it in me locker by the time we get back to the depot. Just leave it by the can of milk stout...

Jack: Alright, alright, keep yer 'air on. I'll escort the young lady orf the bus and see she gets home safely....now, if you'll just kindly follow me young lady....

Stan: Ja-aaa-aaack! Put 'er down fer Gawd's sake (peace be upon him) or yer'll 'ave yer 'ands chorped orf, never mind a flamin' floggin'...

Jack: Ta-da darlin' - safe home...

The blonde lady strides sexily off to her imminent death and the bus pulls off. At the next stop, all but one of the passengers alights leaving just one fully veiled woman on the bus. Jack pulls at the chord expecting the bus to move on...and again...and again...but the bus stays where it is.

Jack: Carm on Stan, let's get back to the depot, I could murder a bacon sarnie and a can of Mackesons...Stan...

The bus stays put.

Stan: I ain't goin' nowhere wiv 'er still on the bus. Carn't you remember nuffink? Regulation 323 sub section a) part vi - '...solitary females will not be allowed to proceed unaccompanied. In the event that a female party is the last passenger on the bus, she should be ejected from the bus so that it may proceed back to its terminus....' Carm on Jack, wakey wakey. Let's get this tart orf so we can get back and knorck orf, I'm ruddy famished....

Jack: Carm on darlin', horp it. We carn't 'ave you sat 'ere all on yer Jack Jones wivout no chaperone....do us a favour love....carm on, yer'll jest 'ave ter walk the rest....

The lady departs and the boys trundle back into the depot where they are met by a subjectively unattractive woman in her late forties and a misreable faced man....

Olive: Where the 'ell ave you two been?? I got a hot flask of broth 'ere for yer lunch, ain't I Arfur?

Arfur: I wish you was a few years younger Olive...

Olive: (blushing) ....Aaaaah! You are lovely sometimes. What make you say that?

Arthur: Well, if you was under 45, you'd 'ave to wear a bloomin' veil...

From off stage left...

Blakey: I 'ate you Infidel scum Butler!!

GRAMS (deflating trumbone notes....) wah wah wah wah...

Downton Jihadi...

 Episode 2...

 Previously on Downton Jihadi....

Following Great Aunt Robin Nedwell's spontaneous combustion, Cora immerses herself in rehearsals for her esperanto production of 'Oh what a lovely Boer war'. A sudden refrigeration crisis leads Robert Peston, Thomas and Carson to abandon their ambitious attempt to build a three quarter scale facsimile of the Humber Bridge out of Dairy Lea Triangles. We still have no idea what an entail is.... 

Now read on....

The heir presumptuous, Mahfuz Crawley, and his mother, Ishraq, arrive in Downton where they have been allotted a spacious biovouac. As a doctor’s widow, Ishraq asks about helping out at the village hospital - she would like to become the widow of a younger, better looking doctor, preferably a specialist or a brain surgeon. Violent assures her the hospital does not need help from Ishraq or anyone - the doctors there are perfectly capable of widowing themselves thank you very much. It is clear these two will be at scimitars drawn from the start.

Cora’s maid, Brien O'Edna O'Brien, is openly contemptuous of the newcomers - well, they're foreigeners for a kick off. And Hindus. She and Thomas encourage the servants to snub them as much as they dare, although they have to be careful as stocks of snub are getting perilously low thanks to the imminent (well, it is only two and a half years away - or three episodes) First World War. However, she has misjudged Cora - who is upon closer inspection really a rather hirsute and stocky Bermudan gentleman - and finds herself being reprimanded in front of the staff. Cora has further offended by taking on a local man, Alfred Molestation, as butler and valet for Mahfuz. Thomas is furious he has not been offered this post as his first foot may be missing its rightful partner but with the proper assistance (i.e. a crutch or shooting stick arrangement) he can kick ass with the best of them. Mahfuz finds it hard having a valet - he's not too sure of the spelling either and had conjured up something wholly more agreeably treelined  and pastoral than the disgusting one footed wretch he was presented with - and in the process offends Molestation who attempts, unsuccessfully at first, to behead him. It is Robert who makes Mahfuz aware of his new responsibilities. Even so, he cannot dissuade Mahfuz from taking a job with a local turf accountants, even though gambling is expressly forbidden under the yet to be invented Hindu green cross code. Violent finds this tradesman-like thinking absurd, especially as he insists upon going to work wearing a suit of armour and sling-backs.

Meanwhile, the butler Carson, a stickler for standards and dignity, is mortified when he is confronted with his own past. Charles Grigg has been blackmailing him, revealing that before working at Downton, Carson was one half of a transgendered pantomime horse, in point of fact, he had once been the graphically accurate nether quarters of "Cheerful Charlotte" - 'the droopless brewer's dray with a fanciful fetlock and a sting in the tail!!' Together, Robert Peston and Bates defend Carson, and Bates gains respect from Carson as a result - especially once it's discovered that Bates too has a theatrical past. He was third understudy in the Bracknell Folies for several years and once had to perform in an emergency, unscripted and with no notice whatever, as a chorus girl's appendage. 'It was the best job I ever had....' he tells them, dreamily.

One of the housemaids, Gwenda, seems to have a secret correspondent. She has received several packages, all in the shape of a hexagon, and is seen hurrying into the village to post a rhombus shaped letter. Second Footman, William, who has the second foot that Thomas was so cruelly denied, but is in turn without a good first foot of his own, develops a crush on Daisy, but she is far too taken by Thomas' first foot to notice his second. She secretly dreams of a tall, handsome third footman who will be able to sweep her off both her feet and win three-legged races all on his own.

Defying Violent’s strictures, Ishraq visits the hospital and sees a villager, John Drake, who is suffering from dropsy. It's so serious, in fact, that he's had to be put on a dripsy. She is determined he should benefit from the latest Cure, but Dr. Clarkson would prefer to treat him in a more traditional way, so Tony Bennett it is. At last he is persuaded, and a distraught Violent witnesses a seemingly barbaric procedure only to have to accept Isobel’s victory following Drake’s impressive recovery after extended exposure to side two of the 'Pornography' album.

Despite her dislike of him, Violent can’t help promoting a match between Mahfuz and Mary. Even Ishraq can see the benefits - especially as the disposable lighter is still some way from being invented. So does Cora who is coming to like the new heir, even if she doesn’t want to have him and his filthy kind living next door. Yet. But Mahfuz is unconvinced and Mary is insulted by the very notion and insists on holding out for a proper zippo. The idea is consequently dead in the water, meaning that Violent and Cora have to resume their fight to get the entail (a belt of some sort??) overturned. Later, whilst talking to her sisters, Mary reveals she has a viscount’s heir in play, The Hon. Evelyn Nappier-Rash. She'll be happy to introduce him to the rest of the family once she's cleaned him up and got him out of his romper suit.

Dr. Clarkson is nervous after Violent’s protests, but Robert Peston supports him, proposing that Ishraq will be brought on to the hospital board so that she can personally select her next victim...erm.. husband. The offer is made to Ishraq and accepted. Ishraq and Violent are consequently, if anything, even more at war than ever....

Downton Jihadi...

Episode 1...

As Daisy the kitchenmaid opens up the house a telegram is delivered. It is 16th April 1912 and the Titanic has gone down having, according to your viewpoint, either hit a Mujahideen iceberg or been surreptitiously blown up by agents of Mossad, the yet-to-be-established secret security arm of the yet-to-be-established State of Israel, cunningly disguised as a Mujahideen iceberg and taking with it Lord Grantham’s heir, James Crawley, and his son, Patrick. So who is to be the new heir? Not just to the Duke of Earldom but to Downton Abbey, itself, which is entailed to the title - and before you ask, no, I don't know what entailed means either. Violent, the Dowager Countess, assumes that Robert Peston, the present Duke of Earl and as yet unborn BBC economics correspondent, will break the entail - some sort of seal? A biscuit? Fuck knows - and make an heiress of his eldest daughter, Mary, but Robert is not so sure. He's unsteady on his feet too - probably on account of all the brandy and late nights spent waiting for the Hong Kong Stock Exchange to open. To make matters worse, his wife, Cora, has her own money - at least £13.76 - tied up in the estate, and there is no way to extract it without crippling Downton. Even if Robert could break the entail (a vase of some sort??), or take Cora’s money out of it, would he want to? After all, you can buy a lot of brylcreem for £13.76.

Below stairs, a new valet, John Bates, arrives. Bates was Robert’s batman during the Boer War and Robert welcomes him and is keen to show him to his new cave. However, he looks as shocked as the rest of the servants when he sees Bates’s lump. Will this lump hamper his duties? It's certainly doing something extraordinary to his trousers. Cora’s maid, Edna O’Brien-O'Edna, and first footman, Thomas, who wanted Bates’s job but couldn't afford the second foot, deliberately try to sabotage his first days at work by putting a haemorroid preparation on Bates's lump and then making him balance a tray of scones on it.

Mary was supposed to marry the heir, the late Patrick Crawley, but his death has freed her to move on, so she's toying with becoming either a high class call girl or a professional all-in-wrestler, depending upon which comes with a free lyotard and has half day closing on Wednesdays. She believes her own prospects have changed for the better, especially once she hears that she could be smeared with real lard if she goes into the wrestling lark, and now she angles to catch the young Duke of Crowbar. Her sister, Edith, was in love with Patrick and seethes with resentment towards Mary. The Duke arrives at Downton, ostensibly to present his condolences, but after dinner he requests an interview with Robert Peston, presumably to ask for Mary’s hand and whether or not to stick with his yet-to-be-invented premium bonds or take the plunge on a riskier investment option. As long as it's tax free, he doesn't really give a stuff.

But when he learns that Robert Peston is not intending to challenge the entail (some sort of costumier's accoutrement??) he withdraws his offer, without ever in fact making it. No, I didn't get that bit either, but what do you want from ITV? Bloody Shakespeare???? It was Thomas who brought the Duke of Earl to Downton, luring him with the prospect of the Grantham money, all £13.75* of it, and the promise of ten minutes at the peephole into Mary's bedroom whilst she's trying to get the lid off her tub of wrestling lard. He and Thomas shared a summer dalliance - neither of them can remember the chap's name - and Thomas intends to use this to further his own career, blackmailing the Duke of Earl with his own letters if he has to - although there's only so much you can get for two vowels and two consonants unless you're on an as-yet-univented triple word score. However, the Duke of Earl is one step ahead of Thomas - who only has only got the one foot after all - who can only watch as the incriminating pages go up in flames.

Meanwhile, Robert Peston informs Bates that his disability is interfering with his work and he will have to have his lump either removed or re-fashioned into a useful household appliance such as a nutcracker or some such. Bates seems to take the news well, fainting instantly before slipping into a coma for 3 weeks, but the Head Housemaid, Anna, hears him crying in his room - it's the Brazils, they're always a real bugger aren't they? However, as Crowbar leaves, Robert finds himself unable to let Bates down in this way, especially as he's just bought in a month's supply of shop-soiled hazelnuts on the cheap, and to the amazement of Cora and the servants he asks the valet to stay.

Mary’s fury is matched by Cora’s surprise when they realise Robert Peston has made up his mind and will not challenge the entail (some sort of truss??). He has discovered the identity of his new heir, a distant cousin, and intends to write instantly to the distant young man and invite him to Downton to be distant in person. In Arabic....

*deflation...