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*...