MY LIFE OY VAY 13. (Diary Of A Mad Drunk Bastard.)

MY LIFE OY VAY 13
(Diary Of A Mad Drunk Bastard)

Hillary Clinton’s on tele as she’s campaigning for the Democratic nomination to run for president. If she becomes president I bet she won’t be offering cigars to visiting dignitaries.
I can only guess at what I think Clinton did with that cigar. I wonder if Lewinsky’s known as ‘flakey fanny?’ As in cigar flakes? No? OH IF I HAVE TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING!

Oh here’s the children’s story I wrote from memory’s twist I mentioned in MY LIFE OY VAY 1.
There's a report in the newspaper that stress can kill crocodiles.
Scene: The Jungle. Some Crocodiles are in conversation.
CROCODILE TEARS.
Lou grabbed another tissue from the box and dabbed feebly at his eyes. "What's up Lou?" said Marvin his best friend. "I haven't been sleeping recently" Lou snuffled. "Why's that?" snorted Marvin. "It's those damned digging machines that seem to go on all through the night for that new highway that Man is digging through the jungle" said Lou stertorously. "Yes I know" said Marvin "there was a time when all a croc had to worry about, was ending up in Bond st. as a handbag or a pair of shoes. "But now Man is chopping down the Jungle he's destroying the ozone layer, polluting the seas, George Bush has invaded Iraq and the word is Margaret Thatcher has intimated that she may come out of retirement and run for leader of the Conservative party".
"Oh don't don't don't, please stop it" shrieked Lou bursting into a fit of uncontrollable weeping, "it's more than a croc can stand. "Yes we Gavials are prone to stress" said Marvin. "Wossa Gavial?" said Shane a young croc who'd just shuffled up to see what all the fuss was about. "Ennit one of those hammers that the old 'Beak' bangs down on his desk when he wants order in the court?" he snivelled. "God stripe me" snorted Marvin "no it ain't, and if you took that flaming ipod out of your ear you might learn something! "No the gavials are our cousins in India who are dropping like flies due to the amount of people washing in the Ganges and polluting it. "They do all kinds of rum things in it so I'm told. "Yep" said Shane "there won't be many of us left soon, I heard it on John Craven's Newsround". This proved too much for poor old Lou who went into a paroxysm of sobbing and had a heart seizure and died.
"Oh well" observed Marvin, "looks like lachrymosity killed the Croc!"

There is absolutely no truth in the smear going around media circles that the real reason behind Prince William and Kate Middleton split-up is that she refused to have breast enlargements at William’s behest. It’s absolutely completely not true said a Buck House spokesman, that he said it’s like ‘boning’ a skeleton. And he certainly didn’t say ‘Now if she had tits like me Gran I’d marry her in a heartbeat.’ ‘He would never say boning or use the prefix - me - he would say ‘my’ said the spokesperson.’ “Well did he?” asked our reporter from The Daily Tits Up. The Palace spokesman began to go very red and then self-immolated.
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The Guardian phones me up to see if I am who I say I am? I tell them that I’m not sure myself. Vague tittering at the other end of the phone. They tell me that a letter I sent in, is up for publication the next day and they do this at random. Apparently some famous people will write in under a pseudonym to generate publicity for their play/book or film. Joe Orton once wrote in to several papers as a Mrs Somebody or other to complain about one of his plays. ‘She’ complained that she’d never seen such filth on the London stage and it should be banned forthwith. This filled up the previously half-filled theatre. Oh The Guardian (for you Yanks) is a vaguely left-wing newspaper which would make it a ‘commie’ rag over there. A bit like The New Yawk Times but with humour.
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Letter published in The Guardian, and to see my name in print, has me swamped in paroxysms of sticky orgasmic self-congratulatory intellectual semen. The Guardian was lovingly re-named The Grauniad some years ago because of its penchant (It’s pronounced pawshaw you Yanks! That’s French. They speak it in France. In Europe!) for typographical errors. Thank God for technology as they’re few and far between these days. The letter? Well more of a note. There had been a few letters published about the late psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud and his merits and de-merits. I just wrote ‘You can say what you like about Freud but at least he gave us the slip.’ Tee hee.

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH A LIE AS IT ALWAYS LEADS TO THE TRUTH.
That was Dostoyevsky or was it Jeffrey Archer?
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I see that Prince Harry is in trouble again over his drinking habits. He was pictured falling out of a night club very drunk and was then snapped by the paparazzi. He then proceeded to attack said paparazzi. Not a bad thing in itself I hear you say. But his commanding officer is going to upbraid him as he not only is bringing the royal family into further disrepute, but also his army unit. I wonder if he were ever to fetch up in A.A. how he might introduce himself. He‘s dressed in full Nazi regalia. “Air hellair, my name’s Prince Harreh and one is an alcoholic.”
Viewers of a cable T V company called Smallworld in Scotland, are up in arms about the content shown when they were expecting to watch BBC 2’s Newsnight with Jeremy Paxman. What they got was pornography from Climax 3, part of the Playboy empire. It was turned off after 2 hours when they discovered the mistake. This gave rise to thousands of calls. Jimmy McJimmy from Ayrshire said “It’s the best fuckin’ tele tha’ we seen in years dya ken? Tha’ fuckin’ Jeremy Paxman, nah tha’s fuckin’ pornography.”
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I watched a programme on TV about management-speak and how it was designed to exclude hoi polloi. I must admit I do quite like ‘asleep at the switch’ as in not concentrating properly. Oh by the way hoi means the in Greek, so writing ‘the’ hoi polloi the the is redundant. Verily endeth the lesson. But I thought I’d give management-speak a go. Mind you I was a bit drunk.
‘I’m going to be green-lighting from the get-go, I shall ricochet down the avenues of laughter and tears while hoping to avoid the corridors of self-loathing and disgust. I shall be gargling the waters of purity, I shall brush my teeth with the paste of human kindness, I shall wash my face in the milquetoast of sincerity and dry myself with the towels of angels. I shall excrete the crapulent faeces of humanity into the soul of the vitreous china that lies at the very heart of crepuscularity. I will then wipe my bottom with a tissue of lies.’
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A British gunboat dinghy thingy is captured in Iraqi waters the Iranians say they were in Iranian waters. Who to believe? Tony Blair or President Ahmanedinijad? Tough call. They are filmed being fed pitta bread, rice, barbecued fish with lime juice and saffron. Lime juice, Saffron!? Now lime juice is fine in a larger on a hot day but not with bloody saffron that’s a fucking flower isn’t it? They’re feeding our boys and one girl flowers!? What are they trying to do turn them into poofs!? Hang on a sec, they’re in the navy; they’ll probably feel totally comfortable eating flowers, the bloomin’ nancy boys. My dad was in the navy and it was rumoured that he was bi-dextrous - he could do it with both hands. Yep my dad fought in the war and was decorated for bravery - and he’s got the Iron Cross to prove it.

Joke. Irvine Walsh who wrote Trainspotting was being interviewed by a journalist and was asked if there was any subject that one should not make fun of. He replied “Yes, the holocaust. I lost my father in it” “Oh I’m sorry to hear that” said the journo. “Yes” replied Walsh “he fell out of his gun turret!”

Back to our captured poofs. Leading Seawoman Faye Turney the girl I referred to, looks stressed and in every shot is seen with a fag in her hand. She eats with a fork in one hand and a fag in the other, so that she can take puffs in between mouthfuls. No not the American sort of fag but the British kind. But as she is surrounded by the American kind of fags, the source of her stress is that she ain’t getting any, if you narda mean. Mind you, you wouldn’t want her smoke ridden gob around your knob. She’d give you cock cancer.

Ah hurrah! Our boys and girl are released by the Iranians, but that great holocaust denier President Ahmanedinijad, wonders why we treat our women so badly when we allow them to fight on the front line. Black. Kettle. Calling. The. Pot. The. (Re-arrange.) This of course is the regime that hangs 16yr. old girls from cranes, for having the temerity to allow themselves to be raped by a fat greasy old taxi driver.

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Do you remember Sam Fox who apparently used to get her tits out for lots of money for a tabloid newspaper? Well she re-invented herself as a pop singer. She’s sold 4,000,000 records mainly across Europe and particularly in Serbia, where they were going to erect a life-size marble statue of her in the town of Cacak. Or should that read cack. It wasn’t specified if it was going to be topless or not. Well Sam went over to give a concert to commemorate this and duly turned up at the gig. But the audience started up a chant which went ‘Dobijati Tvoj Grudi Otkriven’ (catchy eh?) which loosely translated means ‘get yer tits out.’ When she asked a Serbian band member what they were chanting and he told her, she stomped off and refused to sing. The concert was cancelled as was the erection. This applies to many of the Serbian men in the audience as with the marble statue.

I see that Leading Seawoman FayeTurney is going to appear in The Sun. No not topless
which is a shame, but if she did she’d probably be smoking a fag. No; she’s sold her story for a purported £100,000. This has the rest of the media up in arms, and an American friend emailed me saying why didn’t they fight? Um. They were heavily out-gunned and would have been killed, even if they had killed a few Iranians. This would have caused possibly a strike on Iran (and Bush is hankering after that) and certainly increased tension in an already hostile environment. And I would imagine Faye Turney was probably too busy smoking and could see nothing through the smoke haze. What I want to know is, why did the helicopter return to ship leaving them exposed. Don’t they have radar, and couldn‘t they see that several boats were approaching? Anyway: what we have is: they’re all alive and Faye Turney is quite rich. Maybe she’ll spend some of her wealth on nicotine patches.

I just cooked myself an omelette sandwich with lots of yummy ketchup which the Americans curiously call catsup. Don’t ask me! I was eating it over a piece of work I was handwriting as a first draft, and yes, the fucking ketchup squirted out from the sandwich all over the paper. Oh well, I suppose it’s all sauce material.

My knee's fucking painful, so I took a load of drugs and hey pesto (no that's an accompaniment to pasta) I mean presto, no more pain. Lets hear it for allopathic medicine. Speaking of drugs, do you remember when some wag sent toxic substances through the post to the Vicar of Hinduja. (AKA Tony Blair) The meeja are rather vague about toxic; do they mean in a mephitic sense, or in a vague and smokey sense, as in nonsense and insensibility, which happens due to the inhalation of smoke containing marijuana sense? Ooer, can you imagine the Blairs chillin' out with a chillum, and a kilo of Colombian cataleptic laughing grass?
Well if you can't I jolly well can.
T.B. "Hey Euan, don't Bogart that joint son"
E. "It's a chillum daddio"
T.B. "Oh are you cold son, throw another log on the fire"
E. No I'm not cold I'm referring to this pipe, and we don't have a fire to throw logs on to"
'Ooh crikey thought Tone, what did I set light to?' Never mind John's here he'll sort it. Tony gazed over at Cherie, her bilabiate grin seemed to be not quite where it normally was. It seemed to be sandwiched between a pair of hairy legs. Oh. My. God. She's having soix-en-neuf with John!.
T.B. "Euan Euan don't look! oh crikey I'm sorry about your mum and John".
He began crawling over to the crimsoned rictus and threw his jacket over the offending pair. Euan was convulsed with laughter barely able to draw breath.
T.B. "What's so funny son?"
E. "Har har har har har har eeeehhhh har har har har!" was Euan's response. Tony thought, through his drug induced miasma, that Euan was so traumatised at seeing his mother engaging in a sexual perversion with the deputy Prime Minister, that his only defence was mania.
T.B. "God I must get help, what's Susie Orbach's number?"
He then made the sign of the cross over Euan and then himself.
E. "No dad stop! Don't you remember? John was mooning 'Diabolic Ali Campbell last night, but was so stoned he fell over with his trousers around his ankles. He then fell asleep like that so Ali thought it a wicked idea to draw a couple of lips on John's bum with mum's lipstick. God we couldn't stop laughing"
Tony had no real recollection of that, but he vaguely remembered getting a blow job from Cherie in the early hours, when everyone else was asleep. OH. MY. GOD! I Hope it was Cherie. Now get a grip man - think, think - who instigated the congresse amour?

So Victoria Beckham is going to put in a panic room in their mansion in Los Angeles. It’s probably going to be used to keep David in. Or it might be used by Vicki herself, if she feels an uncontrollable urge coming on, to go out on a binge and eat her own body weight in lettuce.
I’ve just watched a programme on young teens getting boob jobs. The programme postulates the theory that young teens should not be allowed to have re-constructive surgery. I think that this whole concept is completely outrageous. They should be made COMPULSORY for tiny tits teens! I knew this girl once who had gigantic boobs and she said she was going for a boob reduction. I said “You’ll look a bit daft with one tit.”

Zoomed up to see Felicity and we met at Kenwood for tea and buns. She told me that an Aunt had died and left her a 'bit' of money. I just said - 50 grand? As a wild speculation. Yes that was a good guess she replied. I had seriously thought maybe 10 grand. Mmmmmmmmm she is an attractive woman.
Got back from London and walked into town to go to the cinema but the heavens opened, I was sopping wet within a few minutes. I thought about going home but I wanted to see the film Factory Girl and it was the last showing. I sloshed my way there and took my seat. I began drying out. About half an hour later someone shouted behind me “Oi, keep the steam down in the front, I can’t bleedin’ see.”

The film was about the relationship between the ’artist’ Andy Warhol and a poor little rich girl Edie Sedgwick who he turned into a star. Which was her downfall. Well actually it was the drug overdose that was her falldown. Warhol who apparently said everyone wants to be famous even for fifteen minutes. He is portrayed in the film as conceited, arrogant and abusive oh yes and mean. No one ever got paid for their contribution to his art form. Such as it was. I’m sorry but I’m with Brian Sewell the art critic who’s vowels are not so much strangulated as being smothered at birth. Taking photographs of tomato soup cans and colouring in photographs of Marilyn Monroe doesn’t strike me as great art.
As I always like to say ‘I know everything about art, but I don’t know what I like.’

Anyway after the cinema I had a few drinks and stumbled to a Gay and Lesbian meeting, I knew I’d get some sort of action there. They do stress that this is not a pick-up joint. Yeh right! I shared that I’d like people to come home with me, because I was frightened of drinking and I would need their collective moral strength. Which is code for I’m up for a gang-bang. I had to fight ‘em off at the end of the meeting. So I chose three guys (None of the lezzers wanted to come back?) and we meandered home. I told mum that these were people from the meetings, and we were going to do some healing work, so if you hear a few moans upstairs I’m just getting sanctified. She pulled a face and said “Is that what they call it!” Anyhoo as I was getting blowed and blowing this other guy and getting colonic irrigation from the other - hey I used to do gymnastics OK! - I was thinking how ludicrous the sex act looks. The genitalia of both men and women are not exactly pretty. There was a guy I used to work with who was talking about a woman’s vagina and he said “I can smell it I can taste it but please NEVER EVER make me look at it.” You might as well stare into a butcher’s shop window.

A 10 Downing Street spokesman said that there is no substance to the rumour, circulating in the clubs of Mayfair and the voodoo juke joints of Tiverton, that just because Tony Blair and Darcey Bussell were retiring at the same time that they were going to bugger off and squat Riff Pilchard's gaff in Barbados.

Scene: A party is in full swing at The Red Lion's basement in Tiverton. Two old codgers Clive and Bernie, are in earnest debate; they ignore the fact that a young baby is going to be sacrificed to the Gods of Moisture and Sogginess. It hadn't rained in Three months and their Cider trees were beginning to droop. (They weren't the only things drooping dear reader-but that's another story.)

Clive, "so wot you be a'thinkin' o' them rumours goin' round about that Barcy Dussell 'n' that Tony Benn buggerin' off together?
Bernie, It's Tony Blair.
C, "Where?"
B "No 'es not 'ere you muppet." And it's Darcey Bussell. "'Ang on I've got an infarction." Lets out a huge fart. "Ar tha's better."
C "Caw she's a bit of alright that Bissell bird, jus' think of the positions she could get in to."
There was a long silence.
C "Oi, you alright?"
B "Yeh, I was just thinkin' about the possible positions; but think about that Cherie, wot a gob she's got on 'er, you could patent that gob as the 'perfect blow job gob.'"
Clive began a fit of laughter so severe that his head exploded. S'true.

Burtons the high st. men’s outfitters have dropped a clanger. No: they haven’t started selling suspender belts! Don’t be silly. I don’t know though, they might do a roaring trade. No, they bought a line of chic T-shirts from the manufacturers KGB Moskow. Written in Cyrillic writing around the double-headed eagle motif on the front of the T-shirt it read: “We will cleanse Russia of non-Russians.” Ooer! “You would be arrested if you wore that in Russia” said a Russian speaking member of staff, after another member of staff who obviously could read Russian, spotted the gaffe and informed her boss. What I want to know about this is: how many Russian speaking members of staff do Burtons employ? Shouldn’t they be working as translators for the M.O.D.? I’m sure they’d earn a damned sight more than fondling men’s crotches when measuring up. Oh I dunno, maybe that’s a side benefit.

Those barmy boffins have been at it again. They've developed a fabric to ward off germs, they should have designed a fabric to ward off Germans, especially abroad. You could then just pile on to the available sun-loungers and watch as they are repelled, and begin scratching like mad. Ha ha, we'll teach them to beat us at football. Now if these scientists could develop a fabric that would fend off fat girls, especially fat German girls: job done.

Proust said that ‘No man is a complete mystery except to himself.’ But he was a mad fucker. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on London: 'That great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained'. So-that's why I love the place.
So David Beckham’s back in the England team: not if Victoria’s got him locked in that panic room he’s not.

As the weather is better I thought, 'Oh good, it'll be a nice walk into a meeting tomorrow’ only to be reminded that it's FA cup final day. One must get one's priorities right, so the FA cup it is. I'm being facetious as usual. I'll just record it. I'll have to walk all the way back with my eyes to the ground and with my fingers in my ears going "wibblewibblewibble" so that I can't see or hear the result. I can't see the point of watching a football match when you know the result. If I make it home without being arrested under the Mental Addicts Department or M.A.D. I can have my foam filled bath in Loreal's CREOFIN, which their products management dept. say has nothing to do with creosote or paraffin. CREOFIN, is the name of Loreal's new foam bath for addicts, there slogan being - 'Because you're not worth it.'

I’ve picked up a drink again, and I know I’ll suffer. I feel so stupid sometimes. Maybe I need some moronic irrigation.