The Open Wound

Lingerie maker Triumph International Japan Ltd unveiled its environmentally friendly, “Solar Power Bra” on Wednesday. The bra’s solar panel requires light to generate electricity that can then be used for any appliances the wearer is carrying, such as a mobile ‘phone.

“Most Japanese women are petite and wear small bras, thus only generating enough power for their walkman,” said Hungon Mytiti a spokesperson from somewhere.  “However, an English model like Jordan should be able to pump out enough electricity to supply a small town.”

In a similar move Shine-a-Light ltd have fitted a solar panel to their latest torch so that if the battery expires it will run on solar power.  We wanted to speak to the marketing director about this novel invention but he was unavailable.
“His lights are on, but no ones home,” his secretary informed us.

A US couple checking their answering machine heard a frightening three-minute recording of their son caught in a battle in Afghanistan.

Stephen Phillips, 22, was fighting insurgents when his mobile phone was pressed, causing it to dial his parent’s number in Otis, Oregon.

Most of the sounds were gunfire, but swearing and shouts of “more ammo!” and “incoming!” could also be heard. 

In a similar incident a UK man checking his answering machine heard a frightening three-minute recording of his wife on a shopping trip around John Lewis.  Harriet Hardman, 49, was in Haberdashery when her mobile phone was pressed causing it to dial her husband’s number in The Shires.

Most of the sounds were cash registers but swearing and shouts of “more money” and “incoming store card” could also be heard.

“I’ve never been so scared in all my life,” said Mr Hardman, “for a while I thought I was going to lose everything.”

Here at ‘theOpenWound’ the staff are talking about last night’s ‘The Apprentice’.

Apparently, Sir Alan got so excited that he sacked two hopefuls rather than the expected one.  “There’s no written rule that says I can only fire one person… I can fire three of you today. I’ll fire all bloody five of you if I have to; it don’t bother me”.

Unfortunately, it does bother the Producers who need enough episodes for a full series.  If Sir Alan gets completely drunk on sacking-power and emerges from his secret room waving his finger like a pistol and firing somebody with every shot, then it will either all be over in week one or they’ll have to wheel out a new batch of idiots for each episode.

“You’ve been very quiet up to now, it’s episode six and I haven’t noticed you before, have you been keeping your head down?” demands Sir Alan.

“No, this is my first week,” trembles Alan, a window cleaning executive from Bristol.

“I don’t trust the quiet ones, they’re snakes.  You’re fired!  Get out and take your bucket and sponge with you!”

“You can’t keep sacking them, Sir Alan, we’re running out of candidates,” says Producer Jenny 426.

“Yes, I bloody can!  You’ve been getting on my nerves as well – You’re sacked!”

“But…” starts Producer Bryan 328.

“And you..you’re bloody fired as well!  And you cameramen – you’re all bloody useless, you’re all fired!”

Sir Alan throws himself onto the board room table and rotates on his back whilst drumming his expensive heels, shouting “Sacked, fired, fired, you’re all bloody fired!”

It’s like that scene in Bladerunner when Daryl Hannah gets shot, except she had a hole the size of a dinner plate in her torso and Sir Alan is ‘just a little tense’. 

“If you think this is bad behaviour, you should have seen him after the Duke of Edinburgh mistook him for Derek Trotter,” says Strain, Sir Alan’s loyal sidekick, picking up a fire-extinguisher.

                     

A black bear weighing over 400-lb is roaming the grounds of an American jail.  The Prison staff are looking upon this as an extra level of security.

‘I love that bear being right where it is,’ Warden Burl Cain, of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, said on Monday. ‘Even if it spends half the day scratching its arse that’s still twice as much work as some of my guys do.’

Maria Davidson, manager of the Large Carnivore Program for the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries said:
‘Bears are actually very shy, their tendency is to run and hide, to put one in an ill fitting uniform and arm it with a shotgun and taser could be seen as cruelty.’

‘It’s not the best paid job I’ve had, and the food is variable,’ said the Bear. ‘Sometimes the porridge is too hot, sometimes it’s too cold and only sometimes is it just right.’

                    

Whitehall officials were worried about the survival of the population due to lack of provisions in the event of a nuclear attack on the UK in the 1950s, new documents have revealed.

“The tea position would be very serious with a loss of 75% of stocks.  It would be wrong to consider that even 1oz per head per week could be ensured”.

Fortunately, because 99% of the population would be dead, 1oz per head would equate to 100oz per survivor per week, which is more than the amount the average Brit drinks, even with nuclear fall-out thirst.

A Ministry of Food list “for departmental planning purposes only” puts London, Birmingham, Merseyside, Manchester and Clydeside as H Bomb targets. 
Those listed as A bomb targets were Tyneside, Teesside, Leeds, Sheffield, Hull, Derby, Purfleet in Essex, Southampton, Portsmouth, Bristol, Plymouth, Cardiff, Coventry and Belfast. 
A later amendment removed Purfleet because, as the secret documents put it; “an A bomb would cause Purfleet to be a no less desirable place to exist in than it is today, and in some ways would probably improve it.”

 “You Brits make me laugh,” said the Russian Minister of Education, “We know where your Tea stocks are kept and we have our special T 2 Zero missile trained on them as I speak.  You will be Educated!”

    British Hot Tea Reactor
    (note the tall stirrer in the middle and the giant tea leaf caddies on the right)

       

So, last night after a nice dinner and bath I wandered down to the Wine Alley Barn to cast my vote in the local elections.  I had carefully chosen the candidate whom I was going to vote for, but when I arrived, they told me I could choose any three candidates from twelve. 

It’s a bit like a Yankee Bet on the horses; two of them might be crap outsiders but you’ve got a chance that the third is a good ‘un.  Or, like my horse racing bets: all three are losers.

The officials signing me off on the register sneered at my name, address, dressing gown and slippers and sent me to the voting cubicle where I quickly chose two more candidates from the list to make up my treble bet.  The tension and secrecy was making me giggle – and I wasn’t the only one, several people were twitching in their cubicles.

Only when I got outside and examined the poster sized candidate list did I realise that due to the giggling, not having my glasses and the small print on the voting slip, I had managed to vote for the wrong people.  Instead of 2 Green Party and 1 Labour I had managed one of each plus 1 Conservative.  None of them being my original choice.

Robin Hood forced Oliver Cromwell to sign the Magna Charta and Emily St Pancras threw herself under a jockey so that I could get the vote, and now I’ve gone and wasted three of them. 

Thank God it doesn’t make any difference.

     

I wave goodbye to the cat, walk down Wine Alley, through Grasping Close, around the Council Offices and Waitinrows Supermarket, up the exhale-ators beyond Marks and Spendloads and into the Strain station. 

I can hear the other punters thoughts:

One day.
One day soon.
One day soon I’m just going to keep walking south.
One day soon I’m just going to keep walking south and see how far I can get before I fall face down in some muddy field somewhere.  The grass whispering on my cheek, the sun on my back.  The warmth of the ground melting my body into the Earth.

I’ve got my credit card so I can walk onto a ferry at Folkestone.  France can’t be that hard.  Surely I can get as far as Italy?  I’ll need another pair of shoes.  And some more batteries for my walkman.  And I haven’t got my passport with me. 

No, today is another workday.

One day soon though.

        

Technicians in New Zealand have begun to thaw a rare colossal squid specimen.

The operation to defrost the 10-metre (34 feet) long, half-tonne squid began on Monday afternoon in Wellington. The animal is now sitting in a bath of salt water. Once it is thawed, scientists will begin to dissect it.

I know how they feel, how often have I gone to the bottom drawer of the freezer and found some strange specimen that’s only just within its’ use-by’ date?  Is it safe to eat?  Should I try it out on the cat or the kids before eating any myself?

Should I sit it in a bath of salt water?  Should I sit in a bath of salt water?

Here is some advice from the internet regarding frozen sea food:

• Don’t buy frozen seafood if the packages are open, torn, or crushed on the edges.  Especially if torn from the inside.
• Don’t trust anything found dead and handled by scientists.
• Go directly home and refrigerate or freeze your seafood immediately. If your trip is longer than 30 minutes, place your seafood in a cooler with ice or dangle it out of the car window so it catches the breeze.
• Never turn your back on anything bigger than about two feet long, even if you believe it to be dead.

I hope those guys have got a fridge large enough for a half-tonne package.

Come to that I hope they’ve got a big enough frying pan.  I recommend cutting the tentacles into rings and frying them in a little oil with some crushed garlic.

The mantle can be used as a paddling pool for the children, or set up as a lean-to porch it can be used to protect a car from bad weather.

Ronaldo has been voted Football Player of the Year for the second time.

It’s probably because of those dazzling stepovers that confuse and torment opponents who just want to get on with the match.  I noticed that he tried a few of them during the game against Barcelona shortly before he missed that penalty.  Still, what’s impressive about kicking a dead ball into a goal from twelve yards?  I’m sure the fans are more interested in the stepovers.

If only they gave awards for good old-fashioned qualities like humility and honesty.  Surely the people that worship our great footballers would love them more if they occasionally said, “No, it’s okay Ref’, he didn’t foul me – I just fell over in a bit of mud.”

And how about ; “Yeah, the ball did hit his hand but my team all think it was an accident so we won’t be asking for a penalty.”

“We agree £44 is a bit steep for an authentic Man’ United football shirt so we’re going to bring down the price of the adults’ ones and give the kids’ version away for free.”

No, now I’m just being ridiculous.

Television program ‘A Place in the Sun’ has bright young English girl, Amanda Lamb, showing a middle-aged man around Fuerteventura.  No, it’s not an expose about an overseas escort service, it’s the latest chance to see a punter being dragged around some quickly thrown up, overpriced, Spanish holiday homes before politely declining the opportunity to renovate an abandoned piggery.

They are looking for a house with at least two bedrooms and are puzzled when offered a one bedroom apartment, until Amanda reveals that the builders have constructed a ‘hidden’ second bedroom for all the properties in the complex to avoid tricky local building regulations.  The door is bricked up but you can knock it through, just as most of the existing residents have done.

It’s a clever solution to get around the law, a bit like when you take something from a shop without paying for it because you forgot your purse, or when you drive at 120 mph because you’re late for an important business meeting.  It’s like the law doesn’t matter in those circumstances because its for other people, you know – criminals.

 Fascinated by this idea I decided to check out my own house for hidden rooms.  By pacing along the outside of the walls of the building, I calculated the floor area that should be available inside and imagine my surprise when these calculations did indeed expose the existence of a secret room!

 After that it was only a matter of time until I found the entrance and made my way into the gloomy interior – only to discover that my dear wife was already there!

             

The former president of Turkmenistan changed the names of various months and days in the calendar to be the same as those of his mother, his title and various historical figures.  Due to popular demand, the new president, President Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov, is reverting the Turkmen calendar to its original form.

At first, it was thought that the new president would follow suit and name a day of the week after himself but he foresaw problems.

“I’ll see you next Monday”  would become “I’ll see you next President Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov Day”, by which time a young person listening might become bored and leave, and an old person speaking might expire from lack of oxygen.

Before he became President, KB (as I like to call him) was a qualified dentist.  He could usually whip a tooth out whilst the patients were still saying ‘good morning Mister Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov’.

He had to give up and go into politics after he was sued for causing a patient RSI when they paid him by cheque.

“So Fruitella 521, what have you discovered on your tour of Planet Earth?”

“The earthlings are a confused bunch, Spangle 10, they live short and fearful lives and have little understanding of the Universe around them.”

“How do so many live on one small planet, Fruitella 521?”

“Ten percent live very well and grow fat on ninety-percent of the wealth, the rest do what they can.  Many of them die young from hunger and disease.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes, those ten percent waste valuable resources on competing for material wealth, frippery and status.  The planet itself is under threat but because of their underlying, selfishness and their belief conflicts nobody cares to do much about it.”

“So I should press the Destruct button then?”

He stretches a slimy green finger towards a red button on the spaceships control console.

“There is one thing they share with us, Spangle 10.”

“Yes?”  The green finger hesitates.

“Many of them love and care for a small carnivorous species of crepuscular mammal, valued for its companionship and its ability to hunt vermin.  It has been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years.  It is the animal we call Blackjack 28.”

“Blackjack 28!  Why, I have my own Blackjack 28 on this very spacecraft!  No species that has a relationship with such a noble creature can be all bad.  We will spare the earthlings now but check again in fifty years.  Let’s go, if we hurry we’ll get back to Planet Martins in time for the snooker on TV.”

                                          A Blackjack 28 licking its leg.

                 

A foul smell detected in parts of England and Wales is being blamed on easterly winds bringing farming or industrial smells across the Channel.

Labelled “Euro-whiff” by the Met Office, the source of the smell - alternately described as sulphur and manure - is under investigation.

But these pages can exclusively reveal that the hideous stink is due to quavery voiced crooner Chris De Burgh releasing yet another compilation album.  

His previous affronts include:

‘Notes from Planet Earth (the Ultimate Collection), ‘Best Moves’, ‘High on Emotion’, ‘Star Boulevard’, ‘Spark to a Flame’, ‘The Love Songs’, ‘The Ultimate Collection’, ‘Live from Dublin’, ‘Live in South Africa’.  

There may be more, we lost the will to research.

The ‘foul smell’ has been caused by our mate Chris dropping his latest compilation, namely : “Now and Then”, which features classic tracks from his entire career.

Health experts have confirmed that short term exposure should not be a problem as long as victims leave the contaminated area as soon as possible.  Over a longer period, especially if in a confined space, such as a 1980’s Disco, punters may become drowsy and nauseous.  Liberal doses of ‘Kaiser Chiefs’ and ‘AC/DC’ should be given to sufferers found mumbling the lyrics to ‘Lady in Red’.  A firm slap around the face should also help.

Madam Ovary is giving a psychic reading to a middle aged, grey man who is clutching a brief case to his chest and balancing a bowler hat on his lap.

“The mist is clearing from my mind, my spirit medium is here, in this room with us.”

“I don’t see him.”

“Obviously not, he’s dead and I’m a medium.”

“You look more like an ‘extra-large’ to me.”

“Please spare me the music hall jokes, this is a difficult business, and I must concentrate, my spirit guide tells me that I am in danger!”

“Oh why, oh why am I threatened, oh spirit guide?” chants Madam Ovary.  She closes her eyes for a moment and then;   “The spirits tell me that somebody close to me plots my downfall and doubts my power.”

“That would be me.”

“You?”

“I’m a Trading Standards Officer here to enforce the new Consumer Protection Regulations.  If you charge people for your services you must be able to prove they are genuine and you are not attempting to gain money through deception.”

“Oh crap!”

“It is my opinion that you have no more chance of contacting the dead than I have of captaining England to the next World Cup!  Unless you can change that opinion I will be obliged to stick you with a rather large fine!”

“What if I was to make an insightful reading about you?” 

“It would have to be convincing.”
Madam Ovary goes into a trance and begins her reading.

“You have a job in local government which you hate.  Your boss annoys you and you know you could do his job better.  You lust after a girl in ‘accounts’ who is young enough to be your daughter.  When you get home the mundane, banal pap on the television drives you mad.  Your wife thinks you are a weak minded, anally retentive, boring failure and your children show you no respect.  How am I doing?” 

The officer wipes a tear from his eye.
“That’s spot on Madam Ovary, I don’t know how you do it.  Just don’t tell anybody ok?”
“Yes, ok love.”  She takes ten pounds from his trembling fingers and shows him to the door.

‘The Apprentice’ is nearly getting exciting again.

Sir Alan Sugar strides through double doors into the boardroom where a bunch of young people with no business experience and few life skills sit nervously waiting for him to deliver his decision.

It’s a bit like that bit in ‘Star Wars’ where Darth Vader asks his crew why the Death Star is behind schedule and they all start muttering about overtime and poor plumbing. 
In fact, Darth and Sir Alan are very similar, except one of them wants to rule the universe through cruel and immoral methods and the other wears a black mask and cloak.

“You have no business experience and few life skills!”  Sir Alan shouts at his hopefuls,
“If you spent as much time grafting as you do poncing up your hair with gel I’d be a millionaire.”
“You are a millionaire, Sir Alan.”
“Don’t be cheeky, I meant billionaire.”

Sir Alan’s assistants, Strain and Unable, stare impassively at the motley crew.
Not much is known about these two except that they are actually twenty years younger than they look, which makes them about sixty years old.  Working for Sir Alan has taken its toll.  It can’t be easy never knowing when he is going to jump out of a cupboard or serving hatch, shouting and waving his stubbly little finger at them.

I’ve been so impressed that I’ve taken on an apprentice.  She’s young, has a sexy walk and can put her leg behind her head and lick her own anus.  Yeah, ok, I admit it; it’s my cat.  I couldn’t find a human that would want to follow in my footsteps.

Training has already started.  I jump out of the wardrobe and accuse her of lazing around all day, sleeping on the job and not pulling her weight. 
“You better get your act together and do some business or we’ll be meeting in the board room!” I shout.

She blinks at me, ‘We haven’t got a board room and I’m a cat.  Wait until you see what business I’ve done in your vegetable patch.”

Uh-oh, the German GCSE Oral Exams are upon us!

Nervous teenagers muttering to themselves in guttural tones stalk our homes and streets.

I would like a double room with bath, please.
Can you tell me the way to Poland?
Is that a frankfurter in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?

But don’t panic there’s plenty of advice on-line, for example:

 ‘Imagine you’re an exchange student in Berlin.  You can use your real identity as an American UW-student, but it’s often more fun to make up a fictitious identity or celebrity, for example the son of Bill Gates, a Moroccan prince or something.’ 

Hello, I am the son of Bill Clinton.  I would like a double bed in a good hotel, two packs of Durex Featherlite and the ‘phone numbers of three Class A Hookers.

Would the Hilton suit your requirements?
Yes, if she is available cancel the hookers.

Is that a frankfur………….?
No.  It is not.

                          

The Simpsons has been dropped from morning TV in Venezuela after being deemed unsuitable for children - and has been replaced by Baywatch.
The popular US cartoon about the yellow dysfunctional family was branded “inappropriate” and pulled by the country’s television authorities.

The countries TV regulator commented that having admired ‘Spring Watch’ and ‘Badger Watch’ they had purchased a series of ‘Bay Watch’ to fill the gap in the schedule.  He was sure that the public would be entertained and educated by the antics of seaside creatures, fish and marine birds.  There could be nothing offensive in such an innocent theme.

On being shown the opening credits of ‘Baywatch’ the regulator said:
“Doh!”

It’s a radio channel and all they play all day, every day is…go on, have a guess!

I listened for ten minutes this morning but I have to have it quite loud otherwise the noise from the birds in our back garden tends to drown it out. 

It drives the cat nuts as well.  I caught her trying to get into the dishwasher, either because she thought that’s where the bird song was coming from, or because she has actually gone mad and it was a suicide bid.

Perhaps they’ll broadcast other sounds as well, like whales crashing onto the beach, or cats singing, or that shuffling noise made by people queuing in the Post Office. 

Add the smell of sweaty clothes and hair gel and you can actually believe you’re there.

Saturday night in the ‘Slug and Philosopher’ and the punters are relaxing after a hard week of work, watching football and junk food eating.  I can see that Old Ted has something on his mind, but he waits until Wayne and Bert sit with us before he starts up.

“Who’s ‘Alan Aspect’ then?”  I ventured.

 ”Alain Aspect is from the University of Paris.  His findings seem to show that sub-atomic particles can communicate with each other instantaneously whether they be two metres or two million metres apart, thus exceeding the speed of light.”

 ”But I thought Einstein said that nothing could exceed the speed of light,” chimed in Bert.
“Don’t you bloody start!’  Wayne cast him a frosty look.  “You’re right though, nothing can exceed the speed of light, and so if you believe Aspect’s findings you may also believe that reality as we traditionally portray it does not exist. 

 Some have suggested that all subatomic particles are connected, each one of them a perfect complete image of the whole universe, they all exist as one entity.  The whole is contained in every part.  Only our minds separate them so that we see separate objects and perceive distance, in the same way that our brains slice time into measurable, linear slices.”

 Wayne waved at the barmaid for her to bring more beer.
“And that means that every atom in your body is connected to every other atom in the universe.  We are suspended in an ocean of infinite possibility from where our minds pluck particles which they weave into the threads of our existence.”

 ”Yeah, that’s what’s worrying me,” said Ted.  ”My mind could have created any existence for me it wished but it’s chosen to make me a poor, near alcoholic, mildly smelly, sadly married pensioner.”

 ”It’s actually worse for you than that,” said Bert.
“Why?”
“It’s your turn to weave your way to the bar and pluck out enough particles to conjure up a round of beers!”

Matron is looking worried.

“Doctor, quick come with me; we’ve got a trouble maker in the Private Wing!”
“What’s the problem?”
“Some old guy getting delusional and he’s a stroppy one.  There he is now, the bald man in the tartan dressing gown.”
“You get on the ‘phone to security Matron, I’ll try and calm him down.”

“Hello sir, why are you out of your ward, is there a problem?”
“Yes, there is a bloody problem!  I don’t need to be in this bloody place and nobody will listen to me!”
“And what’s your name, sir?”
“I’m the Duke of bloody Edinburgh!  Don’t you people know anything?”

“Oh, I see.  And when did you start to think you were the Duke of Edinburgh?”
“When?  Since nineteen forty bloody seven, that’s when!”
“And who did you think you were before then?”
“Before then I was a Prince of Greece and Denmark, a member of the Danish-German House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg.”
“Mmmm… I see. Why don’t I give your family a call and get somebody down here?”

The doctor dials the number on his mobile and explains the situation, then turns to ‘the Duke’. 
“They say that if you can name the footman who has ironed the Royal shirts for the last fifteen years, they’ll believe you’re the Duke and come and fetch you.”

The old man frowns for a moment.
“Tell them to bugger off!”

The sound of laughter from the ‘phone is cut off by the doctor.
“Time for bed old man, time for bed.”

A survey of sex therapists concluded the optimal amount of time for sexual intercourse was 3 to 13 minutes. Dr. Irwin Goldstein, editor of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, cited a four-week study of 1,500 couples in 2005 that found the median time for sexual intercourse was 7.3 minutes. (Women in the study were armed with stopwatches.)

“Hold on a minute love, I’ve got to start the watch. OK?  Ready, go!”

“Oooh crap!  I’ve got my leg trapped in the sheet, I’m going to have to stop.  Quick, quick stop the watch!”
“But you’ve only been going 23.5 seconds!”

“I don’t care, I’ve got bloody cramp now.”
“Well how can I enter 23.5 seconds as a result?”

“You can’t enter it as a result. We’ll have to start again and add the two times together.”

“But that’s not fair, you’ve had a rest!”

“A rest!  You call agonising leg cramp ‘a rest’?  Besides, who’s going to bloody know!”

“If you’re going to cheat, we may as well not bother at all!”

“I knew it would end like this; why can’t you do anything without a fuss?” 
“It’s you that’s got the cramp!”

“Look, let’s not bother.  You enter 7.3 minutes as our result and we can both get some sleep.”
“Suits me!”

“Stupid sex journal therapists.”

 Disruption at Heathrow’s new £4.3bn Terminal 5 is continuing for a fifth day, with 54 flights grounded and a backlog of 15,000 bags.

A spokesman stated that the reason for the backlog was ‘technical’ and he was not authorised to discuss it.  However, our roving reporter, Tim Flaps, found one baggage handler who was willing to be interviewed, although his voice is disguised here to protect him.

“Yeah, well, the reason for the chaos is that we have less baggage handlers now,” said Brian Wilson, a baggage handler who did not wish to be named. 
“Is that because the new technology means less workers are needed?” 

“No, it’s because they’ve started to disappear.”
“They haven’t been turning up for their shift because they don’t like the new technology?”

“No Mister Flaps, they’ve been clocking on ok.  They just disappear.”
“Where are they going then?”

“Through holes in the baggage tunnels walls like this hole here.  Look I’ll just move the Poker table and the beer barrels to give you a better view.”   
“That’s a large hole, Brian.”

“Yeah, that’s what we in the business call a ‘man-size’ hole, and it’s cut through two inches of steel!”

“What’s that gooey goo around the edges, where the metals melting?”
“It appears to be some form of organic acid, mate.”

“And what’s that stuff on the floor, like snake-skin?”
“That’ll be discarded carapace, we find that in all the baggage tunnels.”

“That’s very interesting, I think I’ll just pop my head in for a closer look.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Mr Flaps.”

“Mr Flaps?  Mr Flaps, are you there?”

Why is Google black today?

Apparently Google have put the lights out to help spread the word about ‘Earth Hour’.

Tonight between 8 and 9pm you are encouraged to participate in this world wide event and turn your lights out.  Wanting to find out more I tried to get to the Earth Hour website but it’s unavailable.  Looks like they’ve turned it off to save energy or something.

Anyway, the main thing is that by turning off your electricity you will be doing something and this will be appreciated by somebody somewhere else.  It will send a pretty clear warning to the Chinese that if they don’t get their act together we might turn our lights off again.  Probably sometime in the summer when it’s easier to see after dark.

Some people are worried that sitting without lights, TV or microwave for an hour to save energy could be boring, but I would encourage them to get in their cars and go for a drive, see what’s going on.  Perhaps go down to the local Chinese restaurant and encourage them to turn those wasteful ovens and gas hobs off.  Then possibly a visit to the hospital to see how they are coping in Accident and Emergency without electricity.  You could even turn a few things off yourself whilst you’re there to encourage them.

It’s all about encouragement.

Licensees across the country are rushing to join a campaign to ban the Chancellor from every pub   Following Alastair Darling’s decision to ignore pleas to freeze beer duty and help save pubs, the Chancellor instead whacked 4p on a pint and promised a 2% above inflation rise for the next four years.Ian Pitbull, the landlord of “The Bucket of Blood” public house in Dagenham, has written to the Chancellor to inform him of the ban. (Well, his mum actually did the writing).

‘We don’t really get that much business from Mister Darling,’ said Mr Pitbull, ‘in fact I don’t think he’s ever been to my gaff or even to Dagenham come to that.  But if he ever does come here, and assuming we recognize him, and assuming he wants a drink, and it’s something we actually sell and we’re open - he won’t be served! Probably.’

There was a similar move in the Chancellor’s local pub in South Edinburgh.
‘Yeah, he’s banned here too,’ said the landlord, ‘but not because of the Budget.  He’s banned because he’s always getting into fights with punters who take the piss out of his poxy name!’

And what about the public house near Chequers, the governments country retreat, will Alistair Darling find comfort at “The Rat’s Refuge”?
‘No, he bloody won’t!’ said the landlord.
‘Because of the Budget?’
‘No, because he’s another poncey lawyer. I hate ‘em, we never served the bleedin’ Blairs either!’ 

 It is with regret that these pages confirm that the English TV Show “‘Allo, ‘allo” has been sold to the Germans and will be broadcast and dubbed into German in its entirety.

How will Officer Crabtree be in the German version, with his mangled French, “Good Moaning” ? 
How often did we laugh at that? No, really, how often?

And how amusing will the Germans find Michele and her catchphrase “Listen very carefully, I will say zis only once!”, after she has said it in every episode?

Well, let’s be honest, it wasn’t funny in English was it? 

Aah… the number of times I sat through that awful, bland, humourless tripe because one of the more retarded members of my family insisted on watching it and there was nothing else on, and now some clever bastard has managed it to foist it off on the poor Germans.

How embarrassing for us that they will see such a poor example of British humour, relying on tired catch phrases and childish innuendo.  How many times can we be expected to laugh because a painting is named “The Maddona with the big Boobies” or fall out of our chairs because somebody shouts “..flashing knobs!”? 

Selling this to the European cousins who gave us Bach, Einstein, Jung and Marx to name just four, is as funny as selling your posh neighbours a pair of your dirty y-fronts.

If this shameful stereo typecasting doesn’t start The Third One off, I don’t know what will.

 Heather Mills poured a jug of water over the head of Sir Paul McCartney’s lawyer Fiona Shackleton at the end of their divorce case, she has admitted.

Ms Mills told the BBC she approached Ms Shackleton and said: “I’m not a loser.”  She then “poured the whole jug of water on her head”, she said.

In similar copy-cat incidents up and down the country various lawyers and court officials were soaked, sprayed and sodden with milk, jam, oil and mud as angry losers took petty revenge with no fear of reprisal. 

“I think Ms Mills has set a legal precedent there,” said Magistrate Stoat from Blackburn Court House, drying a pint of cream from his hair following a speeding prosecution against Milkman Ben Williams.

“I’m anxious about the outcome of my next case; the Crown versus Althorp’s Sewage Disposal.  I won’t leave the MG in the car-park with the soft-top down that day.”

 The village I lived in as a kid had some good-looking girls amongst the trolls and inbreds, but there was one beautiful girl who kept the rest in the shade.  She was such a looker that instead of whistling and shouting sexist comments, workmen would stand, slack-jawed and applaud as she walked by.
Let’s say her name was…mmmm…let’s say “Clair de Lune”

She lived in a huge Victorian house inherited from her father after he had become completely barmy and gone to stay in Margate.  There were more than forty rooms in the house and Clair lived there with twenty-three black and white, rescue cats and a live in French servant called Eleanor.

Every door inside the house had a cat flap that could be set to open in either direction, or both, and every cat flap was linked to a central computer.  Each morning when she went to the University to teach modern languages Clair would set the cat flaps in a different sequence.  Each evening when she returned, she would find all twenty-three cats sat together in a different room from the day before.  As she walked in they would look up expectantly and she would stroke and feed them.

Later she would watch that day’s cctv recording of the interior of the house and laugh at the cats’ antics as they travelled from room to room, eventually all ending up in a furry heap through the final, one-way cat flap.

One day the police came for her, something to do with a fraud from which she and her father had removed millions of pounds from the vaults of a Neo-Nazi party.  The case proved so complex and labyrinthine that in the end all charges were dropped and the cult had to pay the costs.

The police picked her up from the big house one evening, just after she had dressed to go out.  She looked so good that if she had asked they would have beaten each other to death with their truncheons.  But she didn’t ask that, she asked them to stop at a nearby restaurant where she was due to attend a dinner party, so that they could let her guests know she would be delayed.

When PC Crass entered the restaurant twenty-three handsome young men, all wearing black dinner suits and white dress shirts looked up expectantly.  They all lived within twenty miles and had got there by following a series of clues.  Some of them had been travelling for days.

 These pages can exclusively reveal that a new game show is being produced by the BBC.  It will have a ten minute timeslot, just before the 6 o’clock News and be hosted by a top TV star, maybe even Adrian Chiles.  Members of the public can challenge leaders of industry in “Openly Embarrassed”.

Each evening a punter will demand that the Managing Director of a manufacturing company open one of their own products in full view of the Nation.  Already, some programs have been pre-recorded.  Our roving reporter spoke to some of the contestants.

“Yes, hello, I’m the MD of St Libel.  I successfully opened a four pack of strawberry Fromage Frais.”
“In the act of opening one yoghurt, did one or two others in the four pack also become unpeeled?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, but it must have been a defective pack.”
“And what’s that pink stuff on your tie and splattered across your face?”
“Um..I don’t know.”

Also involved was the MD of the firm that wraps pre-sliced delicatessen meats.
“How did you get on?” Our reporter asked.
“Uh..well, I didn’t actually get the packet of ham open, but then I only had ten minutes.”
“Is that blood on your hands?”
“Yeah,   I seem to have chipped a tooth somehow, and one of my finger nails has come off.”

According to rumour, in other shows we will see senior businessmen wrestling with overfilled cans of tuna, peel top sauce bottles and those plastic bags you can never open at the supermarket check-out when you have six people queuing behind you.  Also, Joan Rivers will try to open her mouth without embarrassing herself.

 It’s hard enough to avoid the original seven sins of lust, gluttony, avarice, sloth, anger, envy and pride. Or so I’m told.  Now though, the Church has found some more sins to add to the list to help us survive the 21^st Century.

A spokesman in the Vatican said:
“You offend God not only by stealing, blaspheming or coveting your neighbour’s wife, but also by ruining the environment, carrying out morally debatable scientific experiments, or allowing genetic manipulations which alter DNA or compromise embryos,” he said.

Well, that’s my plans for the weekend out of the window.

Bishop Girotti continued by saying that mortal sins also included taking or dealing in drugs, and social injustice which caused poverty or “the excessive accumulation of wealth by a few”.

And that’s my pension scheme shot to hell as well. 

Jeez, it wouldn’t be so bad if the church going folk me and my family are forced to mix with every day followed their own rules, but they’re worse than the rest.  During the week they delight in shafting their employees, insider share dealing and coveting their neighbours wife, but come Sunday the church car park is crammed to busting with their four-wheel drive SUVs.

I can feel the idea of a morally debatable scientific experiment coming over me. 

 The world record for getting dressed up as Robin Hood has been smashed in Nottingham by a group of enthusiasts.

Volunteers gathered at the city’s castle and beat the previous record of 607 with 1,119 Robin Hoods. Participants had to meet minimum costume requirements of a hat with a feather, a green or brown tunic and trousers and leather footwear.

At a similar event, held at my house this morning, I equaled the existing world record for dressing up as me.  The previous record was 1, set by me yesterday, and I managed to dress up as me again today.  The minimum requirement costume is baggy grey underpants, frayed black socks and a cheap suit from Burtons. Shoes, shirt and tie are optional.
Guinness Book of Records officials released a statement over the ‘phone which said:
“You are a fool. Please stop ringing us about this.  Besides, all our Counting Officers are still up in Nottingham, so they can’t get to your house and count you until next week.”

Last month the record for Dressing as a Policeman was broken when 141,000 people turned up for work in the minimum requirement costume of Police Uniform.
“No, of course they’re not trying to break a world record, they actually are Policemen,” said a spokesman.