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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...

50 shades of grime ...

His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me.
“Err… yesterday, it's been a real globber too I'm afraid. Sorry...” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.
He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And…  gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it onto the kitchen floor. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez. And then he’s at it… ah! Mop against lino… moving slowly at first… easily, testing me, pushing me… oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself to watch him, feeling him scrubbing and buffing. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my squidgy foam cleaning thingy. He sets a punishing rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my fridge, massaging the plastic salad trays and the bit with the holes in it for eggs… oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into the congealed blob of red leicester that's been dangling from the dairy rack for about the last 6 months, angling his jeye cloth, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.
Whoa… and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he does the necessary where I've dripped all over the lino again - and him having just cleaned it so thoroughly and everything. Holy Pooh!
“Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of your slovenly ways?” he whispers.
Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling.*So* *ruddy* *clean*.....?