Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Stating the bleeding obvious

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about signs stating the bleedingy obvious. As this post was received with mind-numbing apathy I've decided to repeat the process. Also, this type of post is piss easy to put together as the pictures write the story. Being a particularly lazy, but wonderfully put together fella, imbued with idleness and sloth, this sort of post suits my nature. All have to do is add is a few dry, wry, laconic comments and then I can bugger off to the pub for a quart, or two, of refreshing ale with my beer drinking ferret, Shagger.

Read and be amazed.



To be honest it is probably better to throw away the pizza and eat the box as far nutrition and taste is concerned. Have you tried Domino's pizza these days? The advice on the box is clearly aimed at the product demographic: dumb, young and intoxicated. 




Perhaps aimed at the consumer with a lacklustre appreciation of the gravity concept. Though to be fair most folks don't understand that gravity is merely an artefact of mass warping space-time. You know that 'civilisation' is doomed when you start to see this sort of advice. Of course, the folks who don't know which way up to hold a cup are also unlikely to be able to read. 


I've done some stupid stuff when I was a young man. I suppose it's a natural part of growing up. Luckily, most men learn from experience and come out the other side as decent citizens. For some folk, it is a near run thing. And for a sad minority it turns out to be their continuing reality. There is nothing as sad as seeing a middle-aged man acting like an immature teenager. And being drunk is never a valid excuse. From a developmental perspective they have become stuck. The learning process has become bypassed and they are doomed to become a target of ridicule, for ever. When I was 19 and drunk, I might have thought it a good idea to sit on a patient and inert crocodile. Luckily, for the furtherance of mankind, I never had the opportunity.




Now for me, this is sound advice. I'm drawn to fire. It activates and titivates a primeval atavistic desire. As I've aged, I have managed to keep my incendiary proclivities under control. There are those who aver that I burned down my alma mater (Tipton Secondary Modern) the day after I left. Scurrilous rumours, say I. The circumstantial evidence might have been strong, but the rozzers could never pin it on me as they were reliant on a frank confession, which they never got; eat your heart out, Inspector Drysdale.

Anyway, the notice is rather sensible. Don't ever throw your children onto a fire. C'mon, kids are precious little dumplings. However, if they are really naughty you could always expose them to a little, light singeing.  Nuff said.


If you don't know how to check whether your baby has had a shit then I suspect that this parenting thingy is not for you. Just get a ferret, they shit and piss all over the place. No need for a nappy, just put paper down in every corner. For some strange reason ferrets like to shit in corners. I've always thought it wise that prospective parents should undergo some form of IQ test. Those that don't make the grade are then sterilised. It's an observation of mine that those folk least fit to be parents are the ones that have the most kids.


Continuing with the bad parenting theme. Although it has to said that if you wash item with little L'Oriel (pronounced: poor white/black trash) still inside you will be saving on water and energy. And we must take care of the environment or hippy, greeny, whiney types get very upset. 



Not sure what to make about this disturbing image. When would it occur to anyone to stick a fuel nozzle up their arse (arse)? Takes anal probing to a whole new level. "Honestly doctor I slipped in the petrol station forecourt".  

Enough insanity for now. I promise my next post will be quite sensible about sensible stuff, honest.



Tuesday, 12 September 2017

The man who stares at sheep

Looks a bit like Jesus, but a bit Slavic looking for my taste


How would you like to earn loads of cash for doing bugger all? Sounds like a dream job, doesn't it? Surely no such job exists except in the realms of fantasy or a fancy in a madman's dream. But you would be wrong.

Let me introduce you to Braco. This fella holds an audience in his thrall and induces mild hysteria. So what does Braco do to deserve this devotion and attention? Well, not a lot really. He stands on the stage and gazes beatifically into the middle distance. That's it. For the privilege of watching Braco stare wistfully, you can expect to part with $10 for a 10 minute staring session after the obligatory flim flam introduction by his acolytes. At his best, he can entertain 10,000 people a day. This makes Braco a very wealthy man, indeed.

His adherents say that Braco's gaze has healing properties, although Braco has never explicitly stated that his gaze can heal he is clearly complicit with the notion and has never denied the claim. Actually, we never get to hear Braco talk on his 'abilities' as he never gives interviews or talks in public, at all. Tis all part of his mystique and enigmatic character. Usually, scam artists are adept at the patter and have a certain verbal charm and elegance/eloquence. Not so with Braco, he has stripped down the process to a bare minimum. It is even reckoned that simply staring at a picture of Braco will elicit peace, harmony and a cure.  

There will always be folk looking for a spiritual quick fix to find meaning and happiness in this life. Likewise, there will always be those who are happy to exploit the gullible and hard of thinking out of their gelt. Shamans, priests, gurus, televangelists and other charlatans have always been there to benefit financially. Rarely do mystics provide a service for free. And not only do they make money they make a hell of a lot of money. So much for the austere spiritual life. 

And is often the case with 'gurus' he has attracted celebrity endorsement. Apparently, Naomi Campbell is quite a fan. Why we should take heed of an unpleasant, air-head, clothes horse is completely beyond my ken.  

I've left a couple of links for my reader's perusal. I'm interested in hearing other opinions on 'Braco the Gazer' in the comments.





."

Monday, 11 September 2017

Scrotometer




It has been incumbent upon myself to invent a novel device for the measurement of testicular movement in all three planes. This is a neglected area of study and to date, I can find no article dealing with this most sensitive of topics. I, therefore, provide valuable and ground breaking research into this vexed area of study. Truly imbued with the pioneering spirit it is my fondest desire that others will take up the challenge and cast new light onto the field of scrotal metrics.

Try this at home
This invention was suggested to me after taking a hot bath, and noting while lying naked on the bed, the random, rapid and independent movement of my testicular tissue, without the intervention of external forces. I have been researching this phenomenon for many years and have come to the sound empirical conclusion that this represents normal scrotal behaviour after a thermal challenge. Hence, I have invented, the ‘Scrotometer.’ This device allows quantitative and objective measurement of scrotal activity. This is a scientific instrument that anyone can make in their home and should be a ‘must have item’ in every man’s bath room cabinet.

The Technical bit………
After a leisurely bath, simply take a sterile wooden skewer and insert into the posterior portion of the scrotal sac, taking care to avoid sensitive testicular tissue. Please note, a metal skewer will not do as the weight detracts from the instrument’s sensitivity. Place a child’s crayon on the non-testicular end of the skewer. Feel free to choose a coloured crayon of your choice. I like to use a mauve crayon as it contrasts nicely with the blend of seminal fluid and blood. Try to avoid an erection during the process. Place a piece of card or stiff paper next to the crayon. Your palpitating scrotum will do the rest. Consequent renditions make a suitable counterpoise for your living room décor or failing that you can stack them adroitly on your coffee table.

Friday, 8 September 2017

More shit about Tipton......

How pickled I am.

The Mayor of Tipton, Sir Enoch Vowel Jnr III, announced today that Tipton will host the forthcoming ‘Miss Gypo Universe’ contest. Sir Vowel is earnestly seeking a compere to judge the prestigious event but unfortunately suitably slimly and ingratiating ‘hosts’ keep dying by the bus load. It was hoped that Sir Benny ‘How pickled I am’ Pod would be in the running for the job. However, it was revealed that Pod had actually been dead for the past five years unbeknownst to his manager and wife, Trixie Bell. Apparently, Sir Benny’s high blood alcohol level had prevented major decomposition and his inactivity was ascribed to a period of rest following extensive dental surgery.

Already, glamorous gypos from all round the West Midland Metropolitan region have been clamouring to register for this once in a life time event. Sharon ‘It’s not eczema it’s impetigo’ Mugumbo, from Dudley North East, is as excited as a ferret eating polystyrene and gushed wantonly: “I be so excited, innit. I can’t wait to meet *****". Complete as necessary from the following 'celebs' according to current animation status:  Ben Pod (dead); Arthur Askew (dead); Henry Kissinger (mostly dead from the neck down); Richard O’Sullivan (not sure if he’s dead. Will have to Gogle it. Definitely did not look well last time I saw him in Aldi); Wee Kranky McSherbet (not looking good, might not make it to the podium). Sharon can’t wait to grapple with Chardonay ‘Hep C’ O’Magumbo (Smethwick West), in the emptying crap everywhere and not paying taxes round. She is certainly a strong contender in the whippet hurling and being drunk and obnoxious in the local hostelry playoffs.

If she wins the contest Sharon would like to work with children displaced by war and hunger; foster goodwill amongst all nations; promote world peace and round up of the inhabitants of the Gornal Wood gypsy encampment, hand them over to the special Einsatzgruppen battalion for special treatment and liquidation with extreme prejudice.

Laudable sentiments indeed, Miss Mugumbo.  


 
Sharon in repose


Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Charles Robert Darwin

Behold a great man

Charles Darwin was typical of the gentleman savant of 18th/19th century Britain. An amateur meddler who, because he enjoyed financial independence through inheritance and land, could do as he pleased. And fortunately for the furtherance of science he chose biological research.

Charles Robert Darwin was born in 1809 to English landed gentry in the town of Shrewsbury, situated north-west of Tipton. Darwin was originally destined to become a physician, like his father, and began study in 1829 at Edinburgh University. However, Darwin was not enamoured with the profession and had the ungentlemanly (not a real word, but you get the drift)  habit of fainting at the sight of blood. Darwin's father thought that a change in career choice would be in order and Darwin dutifully resumed his studies and prepared for a career in the Church as an Ordained Minister. During this time Darwin developed a passion for natural history and geology and he was fortunate to come under the wing of a succession of eminent scholars. In 1831 he was awarded a BA degree in Theology. Darwin was considered a lack lustre student and perhaps a poor intellect by his father and peers. In Victorian England the route to the parish was paved with the sons of the rich who were considered not bright enough to pursue a conventional career in Medicine or Law.

Darwin's zeal to embark on a life as a 'Country Parson' was non-existent and in 1831 Darwin obtained passage as resident naturalist on HMS Beagle. For the next 5 years the Beagle would explore the Southern Atlantic before traversing the Straits of Magellan and entering the Pacific Ocean. Stopovers were frequent on the mainland and the many islands encountered en route.

As the ship's naturalist, Darwin took a keen interest in the exotic fauna he encountered. I'll not dwell too much on his research as it is not the purpose of this brief post. Needless to say his experiences whilst on the Beagle gave forth to a germ of an idea which when fully matured gave birth to his theories on natural selection and evolution. His famous book: 'Origin of the Species' was finally published in 1859. Even without his work on natural selection, Darwin would be considered an exceptional scientist due to his ground breaking work in geology and biology in general. He was the foremost authority on earthworms, beetles and animal husbandry. What is so astonishing is that he never received a formal education in the sciences. Darwin represents the last of the Great English Gentleman Naturalists.

Darwin rushed his book into print because it became known to him that he was not alone in his conclusions. The Englishman, Alfred Wallace, had also worked out the same thesis. A Gentleman's agreement was swiftly reached and papers written by the two men were presented at the Linnaean Society in 1858. How interesting that these men, working at that time and independently should arrive at the same intellectual place? Curious indeed, but not unprecedented. It is to be remembered that Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibnitz invented infinitesimal calculus at the same time. In the case of Newton and Leibnitz no gentleman's agreement was reached resulting in a nasty, permanent, petulant break between the Great Men.

In regard to the theory of evolution, all the pieces of the puzzle were available to the astute biologist of the mid 19th century. It took a genius to place all the bits of evidence into a comprehensive whole. Actually, the theory of evolution is deceptively simple, so simple that only a genius could have worked it out. So what were the great Darwinian/Wallace insights? It can be considered thusly:

It is an observation that organisms will rapidly breed until a check intervenes. Most likely this will occur due to an exhaustion of available resources, usually food.

Individuals within a species differ in their behavioural and physical characteristics and these characteristics are heritable.

Changes in the environment drive selection. Those organism best suited to a given environment, at a given time, thrive and beget more offspring than their less 'biologically fit' brethren. Thus adaptive traits become fixed in the surviving population. Over eons large scale biological change can occur in a population resulting in the formation of new species. .

That is the quintessence of evolution. The rest is mere commentary- go read.

It is difficult for modern educated folk (most at least) to imagine the impact Darwin’s theory had on the scientific community and Victorian society in general during the mid 19th century. Most scientists welcomed the theory and rapidly assimilated its implications. The established church and those of a conservative nature, or of a pious disposition (often the same thing), recoiled in horror. The advance of science was almost complete in removing the need for a deity to describe nature and natural phenomenon. The ‘God of the gaps’ had nowhere to scurry and shrivelled under the cleansing light of the scientific method (you couldn’t resist waxing lyrical, could you Flaxen?). As for poor Wallace, the man never received the credit he deserved. But this was not of Darwin’s doing. Darwin remained, always a fair, equitable man and it is not Darwin’s fault that history has been unkind to Wallace. Perhaps one day I’ll redeem and redress the balance and give fair credit to Wallace’s contribution. Or perhaps I’ll forget, who can say?

If you would like to gain insight into Darwin and 'Evolutionary Theory', consider the following links and be amazed: Darwin influences   Preamble  Evolution


Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Wednesday Whimsy


We all deserve to be loved but finding a suitable mate can be fraught with difficulties and frustration. In my day we used to hit the local disco on a Friday/Saturday night. The lack of light, pounding music and a belly full of ale made for indiscriminate selection criteria. In the 70s everyone had long hair making it even more difficult to pick out a mate. The opening gambit usually consisted of: "Are you a guy or chick?"  It is best to sort this sort of thing out at the beginning otherwise you may wake up with a hairy miner from Walsall.

Tis much more simple these days. Just upload a profile and picture on the netty and watch all the gorgeous chicks come to you. No rejection, no having to buy a dozen Babyshams and brandies and no daft gyrations on the dance floor as you try to convince your intended that you actually watched 'Saturday night fever' all the way through.

For some folk it may be prudent if they took a little time and effort to make sure that the picture they upload shows off their assets in the best possible light. Sound advice, you say. But some folk are just irredeemably dim.

   
Who you looking at?
They notice your sword, first? You sure it's not the fact that your eyes are too far apart. Worst case of hypertelorism I've ever seen.


Lawrence of Tipton
I think he already knows the answer to his question. Throwing a towel over your head and looking freaky ain't helping your dating chances. Or at least put on a clean towel- might corner the niche Middle East market.



You sure it's not shooting women?

Was this picture taken at the Bate's Motel? Where is the ski mask and chain saw? 

Wot a fucking nutter

Well that's something you don't hear every day. My first question would have to be: what does Jesus look like? Is he tall, of a fair complexion/hair with dreamy blue eyes or is he short, dark and Jewish looking?


Me lika women- honestly
No repressed issues here. This is a straight up and down man who definitely likes girls. If you are into bum fun, do not message this exclusively heterosexual man. Doesn't he look a bit like that Bonaduce fella?



ARSE
I'm strangely drawn to this young, hot blonde. Not sure whether it is the lack of gag reflex or her arse (it's her arse).




O, those Russians


In Russia, it get cold. Come in warm bath. Together we can soak up all the water with our flock jackets. Then we make love with our clothes on. Squelchy, squelchy.


Pies, num, num
What more does a women need in a man? I guessing he is not a sensitive 'new man' type. Don't try to share at the same food trough, he might shoot ya.


Fucking weirdo
This pretentious twat has a face you just want to punch repeatedly, then bang his smug bonce against a brick wall. I'm not advocating violence but some folk really deserve a good hearty kicking. Well at least it would fulfill goal number 4. 


Anyway, enough for now. I'm orf to the pub for a snifter....
Toodly Pip

Saturday, 26 August 2017

The No Blame Culture

ARSE!


Yesterday, I fucked up big style. It all started with a submitted 'incident report' concerning a precious pathological sample that went missing during transport. Said sample was eventually located and everyone breathed a sigh of relief and patted each other on the back for being good fellows. But, as we subsist in a no blame culture, we are encouraged to submit reports even if the problem gets resolved in a manner deemed satisfactory. This would come under the designation: 'near miss'. And of course, if we didn't record it somewhere there would be no one to blame, would there? No 'blame culture' is just meaningless jargon for: 'who can we blame?'

The boss volunteered me to fill in the necessary paperwork. So off I scurried to my haphazard office conveniently located next to the faecal waste sluice. I knew there was a programme somewhere on the departmental drive dedicated to this sort of thing and therefore I searched diligently until I encountered an application suitably titled: 'SERIOUS INCIDENT REPORT. Twas rendered in large, red, bold font and I knew immediately that I'd found the rightful repository for our near mishap.

Dutifully I filled in the various drop down boxes and free text cubicles. I started to have fun and inserted a few grammatical flourishes. I even managed to slip in 'albeit' and 'hitherto' into the text. Today was a good day. Finally, I espied a drop-down choice regarding the seriousness of the incident. I pondered deeply as my finger hovered over the respective options. In the end, I opted for: 'CRITICAL EVENT' in bold shininess. Yea, potentially it could have turned out rather nasty and I'm drawn to shiny things or anything that glitters in the sun if truth be told. I hit the submit button and went home to my cosy warm house to sleep the sleep of the just and self-righteous.

Whilst abed, the programme whirled away in the dark chasm of computer land until it came across the embedded code: 'CRITICAL EVENT'. Somewhere in mid suburbia a middle manager was contacted and informed of a code red situation. He considered the matter for quite a while before calling his manager, who called his manager. Thus the 'situation'. continued up the greasy sullied chain of command until at about 1.30am a frantic call resonated on a cell phone strategically placed on a tastefully bedecked cabinet athwart the CEO's ornate super king sized bed.

Once the CEO figured out that the prime mover in the whole sorry/soggy episode was a geneticist in one of his minor research departments he phoned my boss about 2.30am. The boss was none too pleased and phoned my cell phone in order to illuminate and throw light upon this dark and ponderous conundrum. Of course, my phone's battery was completely drained ( no one ever phones me- ain't dat sad) and so the boss had no recourse but to drive the 30km to my palatial abode. He banged on the door and rang the bell with furious abandon. All was to no avail as earlier that night I had quaffed deep of a soporific sleeping draught (double positive ) of laudanum and alcohol and consequently was adrift in an ochre sea of oblivion. He wrongly surmised that I'd buggered off to my mistress's apartment (rent: $450 per week, but I'm a sucker for red heads). Yea, thankfully the boss is not privy to such personal and private information. Standards need to be maintained otherwise they tend to leak out of the sides. I've digressed.         

After a delightful night’s rest, I awoke refreshed and invigorated, I broke my fast with a good hearty repast comprising: bacon, eggs (poached), sausage, pig’s pud, hash browns and sautéed mushrooms washed down with strong black coffee with a tincture of fine brandy. Suitably imbued with sustenance I toddled off to work and arrived at my department at a sedate and civilised 9.30am. As I approached my office I noticed the boss conversing with a gaggle of suits and expensive haircuts. The boss looked harassed and unkempt and shouted out: "Dr Saxon, in my office, now"! The lead suit chimed in: “Mr Mugumbo (not his real name), I want a full report on my desk, by noon". As the lead suit turned on his heels he was followed by an assortment and coterie of middle management lackeys. Within a thrice they had dispersed/disappeared like a fart in a colander.  

Once ensconced in the boss’s well-appointed office he proceeded to relate the whole dismal episode. Apparently, I should have filled in the internal departmental incident form and not the ‘serious sentinel’ form which initiates corporate Armageddon. O, we did laugh. Under the circumstances, the boss suggested that I send a grovelling email to a host of middle and upper management types, including the CEO, expressing honest contrition for my transgression. I refused, pointing out that I committed a genuine mistake with no malice intended. I reminded the boss of the 'no blame' company policy and finally, I pointed out that management folk get paid very well for sorting out this sort of shit, especially the CEO who earns in excess of $1,000,000 a year plus a generous bonus. The boss said I should re-consider my response in the light of how this might impact on my illustrious and glittering career. I pointed out that at 62 I couldn’t give a stuff about ‘career progression’ and was on the verge of retiring, anyway. For this, he could offer no rejoinder. After shaking his weary head, he asked me to leave.

Moral of the story: If you do fuck up mightily and refuse to apologise and kowtow to the ‘suits’ have the good sense to ensure that it occurs at the end of your career and not at the beginning.