People Who Don't Blog...But Should

Blog Name: Living On The Box

2011-08-24T20:51:00.008+01:00

So I swore by Almighty Allah that I'd never flee my beloved homeland. So sue me.

This place may not be as flash as Osama's pad, but it's definitely a step up from Saddam's hole in the bleedin' ground. Let's see - shit food, no internet, TV under strict outside control, everything you do monitored 24/7 and an unwavering desire to kill everyone in the immediate vicinity. It's just like home, sigh.

Best of all, of course, is the fact that no Western Imperialist Capitalist Pig-Dog Infidel Unbelievers will ever find me here. Unless they're channel-hopping, but even then they'll probably just think Jackie Stallone has forgotten to go home.

Talking of plastic surgery gone wrong, what is it with Slim Boy Fat's belly? I'd like to slice it open to feed my dogs, but I fear it's all polystyrene inside. Even Kerry Katona finds him less attractive than the gypsy road-mender.

I thought I might find some peace and quiet here to plot my triumphant return, but there's this perpetual whining, screeching noise pervading the whole camp. I thought at first it was those infernal NATO missiles, but then it turned out to be the two-bodied monster from Ireland. That thing genuinely scares me. If I cut off one of its heads, I'm pretty sure another two will grow in its place.

Thanks be to Allah this blog's anonymous; I'd hate to be caught perving over Sally Bercow in the shower.

What's that? Oh. Both votes to evict Jedward please. Thank you, Big Brother.

Not Wading But Drowning

2011-07-05T08:54:00.000+01:00

This seems as good a place as any to draft that memo to my army of minions. Let's see...

~~You ungrateful bunch of treacherous shits,~~
Hmmm...too long.

~~You bastards,~~
Too honest.

Dear All,

When I wrote to you last week updating you on a number of business issues I did not anticipate having to do so again so soon, but some cunt has gone and let the cat out of the bag. I admit it's my own fault; I should have paid Inspector Knacker more handsomely to keep a lid on the whole hideous affair. I can only say thank fuck I've still got the dirt on Cameron safely locked up in Rupert's HQ.

And the dirt on Rupert locked up at no. 10. Hee!

We were all appalled and shocked when we heard about these allegations yesterday. And if I find out that any of you has grassed me up, just bear in mind that I can very quickly make your life a living hell. It would be no trouble at all to have the lot of you branded a bunch of paedophiles and produce the evidence to prove it. Witness statements, photos, it's amazing what you can "discover" when you're in charge of the biggest media machine on the planet.

Our first priority must be to ~~shred~~ establish the full facts behind these claims. I have written to Mr and Mrs Dowler this morning to assure them News International will vigorously pursue the truth and that they will be the first to be informed of the outcome of our investigation. In unmarked notes in a large brown envelope.

Our lawyers have also written to their solicitor Mark Lewis to ask him to show us any of the evidence he has so we can swiftly take the appropriate action, i.e. raid his offices, wipe his hard drives etc.

The process of discovery is complicated. First we hire a run-of-the-mill detective to find the ex-directory numbers of victims' families, then we use a professional to get the voicemail codes of their contacts. After transcribing their messages, we delete them to make room for more juicy material to fill our rag, then we pretend we got those statements during personal interviews with the bereaved. The MPS is the last to know, if we even feel like telling them.

I hope that you all realise that although I personally ordered my hacks to get this material at any cost, it is inconceivable that I should shoulder any responsibility whatsoever.

I am aware of the speculation about my position. Therefore it is important you all know that as chief executive, if I go down, I'm taking you lot with me.

We will face up to the mistakes and wrongdoing of the past and we will do our utmost to see that the Justice Secretary is done for and those culpable will never be punished.

Thank God this blog's anonymous, I could swing for this.

Blog Name: Goody Gumdrops

2010-03-15T22:28:00.008Z

I'm baaaaaaaack! Yep, it's me, the Bermondsey bombsite, minger, racialist and now Seint Facking Jade of Essex, innit?

Wannit lavverley the way mah boyz left some 'and-drorn cards on mah grave for Mavver's Day? Pity they was too facking stingey to buy me propah wans out of Birfdays but - you wot? Birfdays 'as gorn bast? Well, I nevvah! Probly cos of orl them Muslins taking over the cahntry and bannin' Christmas an' Eastah. No wonder pore little baby Jesus is always cryin' ap 'ere.

'Ere, that Shipla Poppadom done orl rite for 'erself, innit? Got 'er own tv show now an' everyfink. That was orl ap to me, of courst, raisin' wareness on Slebrity Big Bravva. She were livin' in a facking slum before I cam along an' dragged 'er outta the gatta. She cam to fank me in 'orspital, bless 'er little cotton socks. Wiv an 'ammer an' a pillow. Or was that Jack?

Talkin' of who, where is that lazy, womanising barsteward? He oughta be still mournin' me, according to that contract Max Clifford drew ap. Were does 'e fink the manny's coming from? Heat Magazine's got anuvva spread cammin' ap next week on me propah anniversery an' I wannit too look nice an' seintly, not cavvered in gossip abaht who he's been shaggin'.

Fank Gawd this blog's anomymus, Jordan would 'ave a fit if she knew where she's going this summer! Let's jast say it's hot, but it's not Europe! At least I fink it's not, I nevvah was good at geometry.

Blog Name: Chandelier Smith (Aged 9 3/4)

2009-12-22T08:19:00.002Z

This is my blog wot i am riting on the skool compooter wen teecher is not looking to see wot i am doing, she is a nozy cow her name is mrs nicholls we call her mrs nickers and wayne ses she dont ware any nickers and i sed wy not and he sed her bum is too big for nickers cos she is so fat.

i wont a barbie for xmas with the parti set, it is awsum i seen it on telly on the disney chanel. my dad hates disney chanel he only woches sports chanel, my mum hates sports chanel she only woches shoping chanel she spend a milloin pownds on joowellry and then ses dont tell daddy he will do his flamign nut.

i hate my bruther he is called beckam after sum stuopid fotball man, he is such a looser he just plaes on his xbox and piks his noze, his bedrom is very messe and he has stuopid hair wot stiks up, i rote a letta to santa arsking for becham to be taeken away by fairis and imprisnd in a big dunjen wot is all dark with nuthign but worms to ete, that wuld show huim.

i also arsked santa for a strech limo they are awsum i seen them on telly on the disney chanel orll the stars hav them they have servints as wel i so wont a servint to do orll mi homwurk i am exorstid with mi homwurk becos mrs nickers is such a mean cow i wuld like to lok her up with beckham they can get hungri and ete eech uther.

uncle miky is cumming for xmas lunch he is funne he can berp and sing at the saem time, mum ses he is disgustin he dusnt hav a job and is a laze git and a spunger tho i dont no wot a spunger is no wun will tel me.

i bort a jigsaw for mi dad for xmas from the skool jumbl sael, it onli hav wun peece mising. i bort a teddy for mum from the jumbl sael, it hav its ears mising but she can maek new wuns i think. well i ort to stop now it is hom time and no wun must no i dun this so ssssssshhhhhh alrite and lets keep it anonimus.

Blog Name: Nick Clegg's Xmas Message

2009-12-04T08:26:00.001Z

As leader of the Liberal Democrat Party, I wish to issue a simple message to all of you out there.

You know, people often ask me, "Why is our great country so divided? Why do we have so many out of work, so many who simply don't want to work? Why do we have broken roads and dilapidated schools? Why are our MPs allowed to get away with stealing tax payer's money? Why do we pay so much for fuel and energy supplies? Why do we no longer have any industry of our own but instead rely on foreigners to run the few production lines still in the country? Why do we allow arrogant and selfish bankers to push the economy to the brink of disaster, and then stand back and allow them to pay themselves huge bonuses out of public funds? Why are our soldiers fighting and dying for reasons no one can properly explain in a country that no one really cares a damn about?"

And when I am asked these things I, like every other politician in Westminster, shrug my shoulders and say "Sorry mate, not a fucking clue."

Merry Christmas one and all.

The Man In Kabul Talks Futbol

2009-11-20T16:41:00.001Z

It seems that just about everyone with a blog these days is talking about the game and I feel that it is an important enough matter that I should take some time out from my meeting with the US Secretary Of State to do the same.

I want to express the deepest sympathies of the Afghan people and assure the Irish that we did not bribe Thierry Henry to handle the ball in the box. I know that opinion around the world is that we are the second most corrupt nation on earth, and we take great offense on this matter because we believe that the Somalis' are mere amateurs compared to us, but I can assure the people of Ireland that we were hoping for an Irish win. We see many similarities in our countries. The Afghan people suffered the underdog tag for long enough to recognise one of our own. We had the Russians to contend with, then the Taliban, and now we can't seem to get those meddling Americans to stay out of our affairs. We know all about Ireland's struggle with the UK and therefore we would never dream of interfering in the game against France and Ireland in a negative manner for the Irish. And just to be certain I put my best men on it and there has been no record of Mr Thierry Henry ever been seen in the bazaars of Kabul.

Personally, like in my election with Dr Abdullah Abdullah (what a name eh, how he ever thought he could become Afghan President when his parents blessed him with so much imagination), I am all for a replay. I really think that in fairness it would be the right thing to do for France and Ireland to have another runoff in order for one them to go to the World Cup. And I can assure my Irish friends that we would do everything to manipulate the result in their favour.

Anyway must get back to talking with that Clinton woman and hope she hasn't seen this blog.

Vote Loony!

2009-10-09T10:53:00.001+01:00

Hello and cheese.

I would like to put it to you, and then take it out again. And then put it to you again, and then out again. And then shake it all about.

Election time is looming, rather like a tall and very hairy brown bear which has crept up on you whilst you enjoy a picnic somewhere in Eastern Europe, where they still have such things. Picnics, that is, not bears. And why, you may ask, is an election like a tall and hairy brown bear? Well, they both eat fish, for a start. And let's not forget the, er, the...

All over the country, people are shaking their fists at the telly. They are swearing at the radio. My Aunt Dorothy often chats to the pedal bin. When I was younger, I once propositioned a flipflop. None of this makes any difference though, we are still saddled with a hopeless government which continues to enrage anyone with half a brain, and a car, and a mortgage, and kids, and a desire to JUST GET ON WITH IT.

Clearly, the time for change is upon us, and so I say to you, the Great British Public, that your time has come. Vote Loony and all of this political nonsense will be cast aside as a new broom breathes fresh air, albeit brown and hairy air smelling slightly of bear, into Westminster.

We Loonys fully intend to change things. All MPs, for instance, will have to wear French Maid costumes, every other Friday. All right, a lot of them do anyway, but we'll ensure that this process is made public, in fact we'll hire an open top bus and cart the bastards around London, rain or shine.

We also wish to sort out the balance of payments. We will begin exporting beer and conkers, in vast quantities, to all the countries of the world. Proper brown beer, at cellar temperature, with no fizzy pop or lingering aftertaste of badger piss. Big conkers, shiny, tough, equal to any foreign conker. Once these exports have captured all the foreign markets, we will consolidate by exporting Daily Mail readers. No other country in the world could match our blinkered, bigotted, paranoid old farts and they'll pay good money to get their hands on them.

Well, I could go on, but frankly Mildred, I'd ruin my trousers. Just enough space to say hmm, let's stay anonymous for a while else the other parties might steal our policies. You can't trust any of them, you know. Back to brown bears again, really.

Blog Name: Fuck 'em

2009-09-28T11:44:00.003+01:00

World Statesman of the Year. How about that, eh? Are you listening to this, Mr Nick 'I'll pay you money to vote for me' Clegg? Did you cop that, Mr David 'Oooh I went to Eton and got squiffy on fucking babycham' Cameron? Eh? EH?

I'll soon be telling the lot of 'em where to get off, oh yes. Fuck 'em all, they don't deserve me. I'm up on the world stage now, pal, and frankly my friend Barack and I got better things to do than agonise over the piddling little problems of some third world country that no one gives a toss about, not now the banks are fucked and the north sea oil's run out.

I said to my friend Barack, I said "Wouldn't it be cool if I moved out to the States and then we could meet up all the time, like for dinner and stuff, because I've got loads of really good advice to give you." Well he was so choked up he could barely speak, but eventually he said well, maybe I should try and fix my own country's problems first?

What a guy, he really wants me at his side but he's prepared to wait for me to fix the UK first. That's what I call a friend. Anyway, I was about to tell him that I really didn't give a fuck about the UK any more, what with the polls suggesting that I'm about as electable as offal, and that I've already started house hunting in LA, when the line went dead, I guess because he'd finished washing his hands and wanted to go back in to see the rest of the show.

Anyway, all I have to do is go through the motions until May then I'm outta here, off to the US of A and a new life, whooping it up as a World Statesman, going to all the best parties with my friend Barack, and as for Downing Street, I shall laugh myself fucking senseless, watching Cameron or Clegg or Uncle Tom sodding Cobley trying to salvage something out of the train wreck.

Right, best keep this under wraps for a little while longer while I carry on pretending to care. Meantime, I'm watching the LA property market and looking for a good agent who can get me a part in the next Bruce Willis movie. Hey, I'm, like, doing an Arnie in reverse! That's funny, that is. I'll put that in an email and send it to my friend Barack. He loves a good laugh, he does.

Blog Name: David Brent's Faith

2009-09-09T09:54:00.003+01:00

Another day here at Wernham-Hogg. We do paper. That's what I like to say to my staff. It's punchy, like the stuff they say in films, like "Lock and load". That sounds good. No one knows what that means but it sounds good.

I'm not a sound bite person though, I mean, that's shallow. I'm more of a profound person. If I were to say to my staff "Right, let's lock and load!" Then I would have to follow that up. Yesterday I told Gareth that life is like a donut, which he responded to. No need to follow up, he understood my meaning. There was a moment between us, like two minds, coming together. Not that we're close, you know, in that way. Strictly professional.

Being profound can be hard work, though. When I go amongst my staff I can see on their faces that they're expecting wisdom and understanding, possibly rounded off with a belly laugh. Depends on how much time I've got. My presence amongst them is a bit like Jesus amongst his disciples. He was a carpenter so he was used to dealing with wood. Then he became a shepherd. That shows versatility. After that, he was a fisherman. Had he lived, he probably would have gone into textiles.

I often think about religion when I'm alone, in those private moments. When I have to tackle the big issues, I ask myself, 'Shall I turn away? Shall I shirk my responsibilities?' No, is the answer. John the Baptist never gave up, even as he led the people to freedom. Did he say, 'Oh, look, a big river, we'll never cross that, best turn around lads and go home again.' No, he built the ark and over they went.

If I had to sum up my faith, I would say 'I believe in a world where everyone is equal.' That's it. Equality. Even for foreigners and disabled people. I mean, just because you're in a wheelchair, that's no excuse to sit back and take it easy. I mean, I could sit in a wheelchair and get Gareth to push me round all day, but I wouldn't, and not just because other people might think we're gay, like a kind of gay couple, one of whom happens to be in a wheelchair. No, I wouldn't do that because I am equal. So I should be up and about, not loafing around.

I often say to people, 'Look up there and what do you see?' This works much better outside, otherwise you get the idiots saying 'Oh, light fittings', or maybe 'Oh, ceiling tiles,' like I've never heard that joke before. The answer should be 'Oh, the stars.' Well, exactly. If it's after sunset and it's not cloudy. You really do need to pick your moment with this one.

Anyway, enough blogging, enough 'technology'. There are problems to be solved, people needing guidance and, like the Good Lord, I only have my two hands. But then, I need nothing more. I can only be grateful that these two hands are capable of bringing me so much fulfilment.

Best keep this anonymous though. If those creeps in the computer section got hold of it they'd probably post it on you tube, like they did with that video of Gareth dressed as Rambo. You can't trust anyone these days.

Blog Name: A Soldier's Tale

2009-08-26T08:56:00.002+01:00

I don't remember too much about the day it happened. We were riding the APV out of Sangin on a road that seemed to be mostly pot holes held together with rocks the size of footballs. Dust fogged up and turned the sky brown. We bounced along, sweating like a squashed sponge, watching the desert for any sign of the bastards but, wouldn't you know it, they saw us before we saw them, and then - bang.

The APV must have turned over several times. I saw it like a slow motion movie, tumbling kit and bodies slowly slamming into bulkheads. Shadows whirled around and then swamped me and the world went all fuzzy. No pain though. Not a thing, which was weird, considering.

After a while, I don't know how long, I saw a face looking down at me, then that disappeared. More whirling shadows, clouds chasing each other across a nightmare of a sky, then a feeling of movement, like I was drifting. More faces, quite a few this time and I'm sure I recognised some of them but they moved so fast, or maybe I was too dopy to keep up. I think some of them were trying to talk to me. I got the feeling that they were telling me it was alright now. Nothing to worry about now.

I started thinking about going home. I wanted suddenly to go home, more than anything. I wanted to see my family and my little boy and I wanted to sit back and kick my shoes off and watch TV while Sharon fussed around plumping up cushions and Kevin chucked toys across the room and then maybe crawled over and clambered onto my lap so we could curl up together on the sofa and drift off into one of those perfect sleeps where the whole world just goes away and leaves you in peace.

There were a few moments when I knew what was going on, but mostly it was a daft blur of shapes and muffled noises. The only really clear moment was much later, when everything went still and the thudding noises went away. I saw Sharon, all dressed up in her very best, and she was holding Kevin by the hand. The poor little kid looked totally lost. I couldn't hear a thing but I could see him looking up at his mum and asking the same question over and over until in the end she scooped him up and walked away, shoulders heaving.

That was a while ago. They've been back since, with my parents and a few mates. They always bring flowers. I feel like a bloody florist's shop. I like seeing them though, because when they're not there, everything blurs and fades away. It's nice though. Very peaceful, very calm, and best of all, I'm home.

Hazel Blears

2009-08-11T11:19:00.002+01:00

In the light of recent press reports about my parliamentary allowances I wish to lay out the facts relating to the capital gains tax on my many flats in London.

I live, of course, mostly in my constituency which is in Salford, a place I love and where all the people love me. Sometimes, however, I have to spend time in London, which is where Parliament is, and so I need to have lots of flats there so that I don't have to use a great big car to travel to the place where Parliament is, which would be very wrong as it would burn petrol and thus melt all of the polar ice caps.

You see, in Parliament, which is a great big building where lots of MPs like me work, there is this thing called a 'Fees Office' which is a funny sort of place where important men in nice suits tell MPs like me how to buy lots of flats and how to get money to pay for nice things to put in the flats like televisions and lovely big beds and, obviously, some yummy food to eat. So like all MPs like me I followed their advice and had a lovely time shopping for nice things for my flats. But then the Fees Office told me I really had to name one of my flats as a 'Second Home' which I didn't understand really, and with so many to choose from I did get a bit confused and I chose first one, then another one, then I chose my house back in lovely Salford, then another flat, and oh dear I got into such a tizzy I completely forgot to pay capital gains tax when I sold one of the flats, and then again on the other one. Oops!

So there you are, silly me with a brain like a feather, I just made a few silly errors which anyone could have made but now some silly little newspaper, which is a sort of book that people print every day with pictures and words in, have tried to make me look like a sort of greedy person which is really very unfair and I can tell you that anyone back in my lovely constituancy of Salford will stand up and tell you just how honest and lovely I am.

Well, now that I've cleared all that up, it's time for me to get back to my lovely constituancy where they all love me and sort out a few repairs on my car. I'm also hoping to write another chapter of my autobiography, which is a book all about me, in which I will open my heart and reveal all sorts of wonderful things about me, plus there will also be a colouring competition and free balloons.

Well, my lovely husband did advise me to keep all this anonymous but I'm not quite sure what that means. He said something about "those homicidal scumbags back in that Salford shit hole would do us both if they found out" and I'm not quite sure what THAT means either... Still, I'm sure I'll find out eventually! Cheerio!

Blog Name: Harry Potter

2009-07-16T10:04:00.003+01:00

Found another pimple yesterday, SOD IT. So much for Hermione's pimple-zapper potion, I might as well have washed my shoes with it.

Thoughts of the Dark Lord have been preying on my mind. No one else UNDERSTANDS what is going on in my head. I wrote a poem about it:

I am alone in a black room
the Dark Lord fills me full of gloom
He is evil personified
Like the very best food, badly fried.

I think that says it all. He (the Dark Lord) is just like a good meal - pizza or something - which has been RUINED. I mean, if you fried a pizza, that would ruin it, right? Which is what happened to Him. I mean, he started off good, like a raw pizza, but it all went wrong. It's like someone sprinkled him with really nice stuff, like ham and pineapple chunks, then fried it. I mean Him.

I tried explaining this to Ron. As usual, Ron didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about. He just said I was talking bollocks. He doesn't understand me. No one does.

Ginny is ignoring me at the moment which is SO UNFAIR. Just because I drew a willy on her "Necromancy for Dummies" book. I mean, that was MONTHS ago and she only just found it so that shows how much she reads her text books, I think. Hermione says I should apologise and I said why should I, as willys go it's a pretty good likeness and she said how would you know, are you gay or something, so now I'M not talking to HER.

Ron wasn't talking to anyone last week, but that's because a bludger whacked him in the gob and knocked all his teeth out. He had to sleep with his head in a bag of bone-gro powder which meant he was in a stinker of a mood and tried to punch me when I called him "Gappy".

Had a fight with Malfoy in the Quad, actually. It was cool, I got him in a head-lock and stuffed mud down his shirt. He elbowed me in the ribs and whacked me and gave me a black eye. Then Hermione kicked him in the nadgers and we ran for it. I like Hermione, she's well cool and she's got LETHAL boots. I just wish she'd stop going all soppy over Ron, I mean, he's a great bloke and he can make fart noises under his armpit but WHY doesn't she get herself a pet hamster or something?

Well, best not advertise this blog around the school, if that loser Snape found out I'd be in trouble AGAIN which is NOT FAIR. He is such a LOSER he floats around the place like a bad SMELL and Ron says he's only miserable all the time because he's constipated which explains that look on his face so why doesn't he drink some liquid dynamite potion and SORT IT OUT.

Blog Name: James May - and another thing...

2009-07-06T14:39:00.003+01:00

It's a sad fact that Britain is not the country it used to be. We live in a country that is just a shadow of its former self. And who should we blame? Teenagers, that's who.

Now, I appreciate a good tune just like anyone else. I'm quite happy to tap a foot to any beat combo which knows how to get down on it. However, the recording artists of today are just a bunch of lazy yobs. They spend all day pushing cocaine up their noses, then once a month they nip into the recording studio to see if the engineer has finished programming their drum machine so that they can add the vocals. And the lyrics don't make any sense anyway, because they were written on the back of a groupie whilst having intimate relationships in the back of a stretch limo on the way to yet another dance hall where they'll spend all night pushing cocaine up their noses and then jumping up and down to unearthly howling noises known as 'acidic bungalow' music.

It is a fact that dress sense is a skill that must be learnt, and it takes time and practice before a chap can dress himself with any degree of style or flair. Clearly, this is a skill which the youth of today have all but abandoned. I often see young chaps sporting multi-coloured hair, their faces skewered by various items of cutlery, shuffling along the street in trousers that could well have been used to deliver a cubic yard of gravel from a DIY superstore. None of them own a sensible pair of shoes, preferring to encase their feet in orthopaedic boots or possibly sandals made of recycled lentils. I also weep at the sight of so many young chaps failing to grasp that on a baseball cap, the sticking-out bit goes at the front.

Cars, of course, are very important to a young chap and always have been. But whereas in my day, a chap would take a nice young girl into the country for a stroll by the river, the grunting youth of 2009 can only assemble the strength, and indeed the intelligence, to steer his plastic-encrusted monstrosity of a hatchback to the local burger shop where he meets with other like minded simpletons to eat greasy food and listen to unearthly howling noises pumping out of stereo systems that are only slightly smaller than the plastic-encrusted monstrosities that house them.

I don't like to complain, however. Teenagers, no matter how repulsive, often grow up into charming young people. Just occasionally it goes horribly wrong, and then you end up with Margaret Thatcher, or maybe Hitler, or Jeremy Clarkson. Sometimes, owing to all the greasy food, they don't grow 'up' at all, and then you get Richard Hammond. Personally, I blame the Government, which is why I started smoking pipes, so that I could prod people with them in the public bar, whilst blaming the Government. Then they banned smoking. Bastards.

I should keep this anonymous, or else Clarkson will get wind of it, and then get very annoyed because he didn't think of it and now he can't put it into another of his flaming 'best selling' potboilers about bugger all. Oh well.

Blog Name: Reggie Perrin

2009-06-23T08:40:00.002+01:00

In Patagonia there are people who can play the flute through their nose. Why do they do this? I take the train to Waterloo every morning. Why do I do that?

When I get to my office I throw myself into the task of designing new and exciting disposable razor products. Sometimes I combine this with exercise. This morning, as I type this, I am clenching my buttocks for three seconds, then releasing and resting for five seconds. According to our resident 'Wellness' and irritating bitch person, exercise releases chemicals into the blood which help us to enjoy our 'space'. Steven Hawking, he likes space. Clearly, he must be constantly flexing his buttocks, when he's not interfering with wireless broadband and minicab control centres.

Here at Groomtech we relish the challenge of hair removal for the masses. This is our mission statement. It's been laminated, so it must be true. If only Richard Nixon had laminated his alibi then he would never have lost the presidency. Razors are always changing and we like to stay at the cutting edge. That's not on the mission statement, I just made that up. Making stuff up is what I do, which is why Groomtech is so big in the trouser department. Sorry, I meant grooming and personal beauty. The size of Groomtech's genitals have nothing to do with this at all. In Patagonia, hordes of nose flute players spend a fortune on our products, just so that they can ensure a fluff-free nasal passage, perfectly prepared for hours of nose-flute playing.

I am often asked where I get my ideas from, to which I normally reply "Parsnips". This makes me look deep, plus I get a slight sexual tingle from watching boring dick heads wrestle with the inherent zen qualities of this concept. Parsnips, as a means of constructing a framework within which we can rationalise our own existence, have been ignored for too long. I always keep some in my desk drawer, so that during tedious progress meetings I can fantasize about carving them into suggestive shapes and then stuffing them up the backsides of my desperately vile colleagues.

Well, time to get on. Another progress meeting is scheduled, in which we will discuss the progress we have made on reading the minutes of the last progress meeting in which we discussed what we willbe saying in the next progress meeting which is in five minutes. Just enough time for more buttock flexing.

Best to keep this anonymous though, in case the Patagonian Embassy gets wind of it. Through their noses, of course.

Blog Name: Nick Griffin - My Struggle

2009-06-12T13:43:00.002+01:00

Just come down from the loft. Our Secretary for Public Works, Albert Sneers, is designing the new London, or as I like to call it, "New London". Albert's created a marvellous "Parliament Palace of the People". It'll be bigger than the Eiffel Tower, wider than the Taj Mahal and shaped like a Spitfire. His model is coming on really well but he's running low on lego again so we need to get round those charity shops.

Had a meeting yesterday with Joe Gobbles, our PR whizkid, about the recession. Henry Himenher said why don't we blame the jews, bearing in mind their international plot to overthrow governments and dominate the money markets? I pointed out that actually I quite like jews and in fact some of my best friends have spoken to jews. Finally we agreed that we should blame Freemasons. Joe agreed to stage a midnight rally during which we would burn an enormous pile of books about Freemasonry, although not the one proving that Freemasons came from Atlantis and aliens built stonehenge, because that needs to go back to the library next Monday.

I've been really busy out in the garden. The patio has been cleared and Albert and I have dug down nearly five feet. Albert says it'll be a while yet before we can start pouring concrete, but hopefully the bunker will be ready for Christmas. Herby Goring popped over to "help" but, surpise surprise, the fat, lazy bastard just "helped" himself to the contents of my fridge then buggered off again.

Tomorrow I'm seeing our Secretary for Science, Wally Vonbrundebier, who is still working on the Vengence Weapon Mk1. This is supposed to be a ballistic missile. At the moment we have a "Mega ThundaBlasta" left over from bonfire night, in a milk bottle. It's time to asked Wally about progress, and about the 500 quid he's had to fund his research program and about the new Mondeo parked outside and his holiday in Sorrento. Basically I can't help thinking there's something fishy going on here. Last time he promised that progress would pick up now that he has access to slave labour. I reminded him that three Polish plumbers and a Serbian carpet fitter working cash in hand do not count as 'slaves'.

Anyway, now I'm in the European Parliament the cash will start rolling in and then we'll see some changes. Some smart black uniforms for the boys, maybe a few torchlight parades now that we can afford more batteries. I really fancy a place in the country, probably on top of a mountain. Anyway, all that to come but no time to waste. I'd better keep this anonymous though - the gutter press would just take it all out of context and call me 'racist' or some such nonsense. Untermenschen.

Blog Name: Expenses? What Expenses?

2009-05-14T08:27:00.003+01:00

Editor's note: Extracts from the parliamentary blog of Lord Slippery-Clench, Tory MP for Sodham West. The following entry was made prior to the current revelations about MP's expense claims.

As the very proud Tory MP for Sodham West, which of course includes Little Felching, Much Spanking and Choking North, I often get asked how I manage on the very small salary which Parliament grants me.

Luckily, we MPs are able to put in claims for those expenses which we incur as part of our normal, every day parliamentary duties.

My house, for instance, is a constant drain on my slender resources. Darling Fanny, my good lady wife, is often in despair over the costs of staff, hunting, landscaping the grounds and maintaining the five limousines. I say to her, "Darling Fanny," I say, "Chin up, and remember, it may be hard but it's nothing you can't take."

Yes, I know what it's like to worry about cash. I barely have enough to finish the other house, which needed completely new furnishings, I mean, Darling Fanny was gaping when she saw how awfully outmoded it all was. But thanks to this marvellous expenses procedure, I was able to secure the entire contents of a Normandy Chateau which came up for sale. Another expenses claim will get me enough cash to have all three truck loads of furniture shipped over, and finally, our beautiful home will be finished just in time to get it on the market and sold before we whizz off to our well earned summer break.

Trouble is, the jolly old bills just keep rolling in. It seems that Darling Fanny has been paying her best friend, Chlamydia Barrels, for the use of her three Afghans as private secretaries. Well I naturally thought they were people, not bloody dogs. Now Chlamydia has asked that their salaries be upped by 20% because of their rising workload. Well, what's a chap to do? I told Darling Fanny to pay the bloody woman and just scribble something on the expenses form about providing gainful employment for political refugees.

Well, I'm not one to moan, so it's chin up and soldier on with the business of running this proud and noble country of ours. Meantime, I really should keep this anonymous else I'd need to claim for publishing expenses which would simply be greedy, what!

Blog Name: Gene Hunt - The Gene Genie

2009-04-29T09:28:00.003+01:00

Well well, you live and learn. There was i, thinking that 'blogging' was some deviant sexual practice between consenting bastards in a car park, when in fact, according to DI Drake it's all about keeping a diary and 'expressing yourself'.

The last time i 'expressed' myself, Fingers McGee had his teeth kicked so far down his throat he ate his lunch through his arse. But then i suppose that even an old fashioned copper like me can learn new tricks.

Take this psycho-wotsit profiling that Drake's always on about. I told her, villains don't have any psycho-wotsit worth looking at. The best way of profiling some spotty git who enjoys spraying his name on flyovers and mugging old ladies is to twist his nasty little head round until it comes off. She then accused me of being 'old fashioned'. Too bloody right love, i said. I like being old fashioned. I enjoy oldy-worldy stuff like banging up pimps and murderers. Much better than the modern alternative of feeding them tea and biscuits and asking them if this ink blot reminds them of their first wank.

But, because i am more flexible and accomodating than some tart in a Bankok floor show, i am willing to try anything. Last week, for instance, i cornered a certain Nobby 'Molegrips' Fletcher in the tap room of the Jolly Sailor. He was wanted for armed robbery and assault with intent. He didn't want to come quietly, but, remembering Drake's advice, i reasoned with him. After that, i let DS Carling reason with him. After that we called an ambulance while uniform swept up the bastard's teeth. Being flexible and accomodating i will, of course, have them wrapped and posted to him.

At the moment i am working on a case involving drugs, prostitutes and booze. It requires me to wade chest deep through the shit-infested sewer that lies underneath our cosy little world. But i'm not worried about that. All i care about is that Drake sorts out the disco and DC Skelton gets off his useless arse and sorts out the sandwiches. Otherwise we'll never get to enjoy my birthday party.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks, time to get out there and collar some more scumbags. And all of the above is staying anonymous, because, despite what Drake says, actually you're sodding guilty until i say otherwise.

Blog Name: French Sex and How To Do It

2009-04-20T13:20:00.004+01:00

Hi, my name is Nicholas Zarkozy and because i am French, i am an expert on all things to do with sex, including areas such as

What it is
Where it is
How things work
Nasty rashes
Disco music

In this blog i will present to you a number of ways in which you can spice up your sex life. So, buckle up and hang on, we're going on the sex rollercoaster down the Orgasm Peage to le paradis en France!!

Relationships

A stable relationship is very important, so i have several and, being French, i am able to satisfy all my women at the same time. This is crucial. If you are not French, or worse, English, you can not do this. You must only have the one relationship, else you will not satisfy any of your women and you will have to ask a nearby frenchman to help them achieve their orgasms.

Where to get sex

I get my best sex in the kitchen, where i take the scullery maid roughly from behind while she is grooming my poodle. Sometimes, i get sex almost as good when i am in a traffic jam and beautiful parisien women slide through the windows of my citroen and take my powerful french manhood in their gasping mouths, until the lights change and i have to beat them away with my fists. Occasionally, gorgeous film stars arrive at my house disguised as telephone repair women and i have brutal, french sex with them under the stairs where the junction box is.

Sex positions

The best positions depend on how many of you there are. Being French, i am usually surrounded by several beautiful women, all of whom are biting and scratching each other to be the first to receive my powerful french manhood. In this instance, i adopt the l'autobus position, IE three come at once. Sometimes i get bored however and go outside to smoke gauloises and write another chapter for my book on philosophy.

The G Spot

There is no such thing as the G Spot. Beautiful french women would not need one in any case as they are permanently in a state of arousal, on account of being close to so many virile, thrusting french men. English women may possibly have a G spot. I don't know. Probably no one does, least of all english men.

Lesbians

In France, lesbians are now accepted as legal in certain cities, although in rural areas, they are still traditionally tarred and feathered every Sunday, after Mass. NB this only applies to ugly lesbians in large and unfashionable shoes. Beautiful lesbians in nice clothes are welcome in most shops and restaurants.

Disco music

Music is very important to the French People which is why Sacha Distel is still popular, despite being dead. We French like to have wild sex whilst listening to music. I like to listen to marching bands of the French Foreign Legion whilst spanking my secretary, and her three sisters, with asparagus tips. After that, we play selections from La Cage aux Folies while they rub my nipples with coq au vin. We French do not play disco music as self abuse is still punishable by death.

Next time i shall explore the darker side of sex. Animals, corpses, dungeons. Yes, i'll be chatting to my great friend, Max Moseley. In the meantime i shall stay anonymous, otherwise Prime Minister Brown will be pestering me for tips on how to get girls. Au revoir!

Blog Name: The Bank of England

2009-03-12T09:20:00.001Z

In my capacity as Governor of the Bank of England, I carry many burdens upon my shoulders. Inflation, deflation, recession, depression, exchange rates and interest rates, avoiding fiscal prurience and staving off alien invasion.

My recent decision to implement a program of quantitive easing, to inject new money into the economy, was not arrived at without a great deal of thought. Clearly, in desperate times, we must consider turning to desperate measures. I feel I speak for the whole country, however when I say that even as our printing presses churn out more banknotes by the million, we can take some comfort in the knowledge that the measures are working and the banks are indeed queuing up to sell me their government bonds, which will help to release more capital into the economy.

And I can say to you all, that although we have acted quickly, we have not acted hastily. Indeed, we have little time to spare. Our economy is at a turning point and we must be sure to steer it in the right direction to encourage the money to flow once more which will give us the means to defend ourselves against the Treens, who even now are massing their armies on that distant world.

Yes, some are uncertain as to how effective these measure will be in the long term, but they should weigh their words carefully. A little pain today is preferable to Treen stormtroopers goose-stepping down Whitehall tomorrow, whilst that creature who is evil personified, the Emperor Mekon, takes the salute from the steps of his Imperial Command Ship.

I know that these are worrying times. Indeed, I am just as worried as anyone. In fact, I haven't slept for three months now and if it wasn't for the bathroom fairies scrubbing my armpits every morning, I wouldn't have washed either. But we must go forward, heads held high, and do battle with the new Axis of Evil, namely Inflation and His Foulness, the Emperor Mekon. We can prevail. We will fight them on the beaches and we will go forward into sunlit uplands, lit by the candles of Victory.

In the meantime, this blog shall remain anonymous - there are spies everywhere. Trust no one!

Prime Minister's Question Time

2009-03-05T09:55:00.002Z

I know that many of you have questions about the challenges facing us all. In this blog, therefore, I hope to answer some of those questions using every day terms that fully relate to and are born from the lives, and aspirations, of you, the people.

Alan, in South Wales, asks: Do you think we should nationalise all our banks?

Well boyo, look you, see this is a bit of a tricky one, like growing leeks, isn't it? You plant the buggers and let all that lovely rain soak them right through, look you, then before you can say Max Boyce, the bloody green fly have got 'em. Never mind eh, not while we got the telly and bit of rugby, isn't it?

June, in Birmingham, asks: Is the Government planning to cut public spending?

Bit of a tricky one, that. By rights we should be saving a few bob, y'know like a couple of quid every now and then, y'know, but thing is, we're all a bit strapped at the mo', so really it's, like, anybody's guess. Really.

Toby, in London, asks: How will the recession affect the plans for the Olympics?

Listen mate, we ain't gonna let a few fackin quid stop the party, never mind what those bleeding wankers in the City are saying. We're gonna have the biggest knees-up ever, strike me dead if we aint, and if some toffy-nosed barstard tries to get in the fackin way I'll have his knee caps.

Susan, in Glasgow, asks: What about Scotland's plans for independance?

Och, well, the noo, that's a bonnie wee question, and I think we all ken the answer there, lassie. Aye, let's not forget that many a mickle mucks a mackerel. The noo.

Alex, in Belfast, asks: Perhaps we should adopt the Euro currency now?

Bejaasus, and that's a fine question, to be sure, to be sure. Did i tell you the one about the two Irish men outside the job centre? Paddy says to Murphy, "Would you look at that, typical of our luck, they want tree fellers and there's only two of us." To be sure.

Norman, Vice President of the Lesbian and Gay Outreach Committee, asks: When will interest rates begin to rise again?

Ooh, i say, what a big question that is. I don't think i've ever been probed like that before, ooo-err. Still i'll do me best, i mean, you know i'll bend over backwards for anyone, dear. Now just give me a minute while me nail varnish dries.

Well, hopefully this answers a few of the questions that I know you all have. Should there be more, please send them to me, C/O Downing Street or via this blog. You can, of course, remain anonymous. I know that I certainly intend to.

Blog Name: Boris

2009-02-04T13:17:00.002Z

Now look, alright we had a bit of a problem with the weather, in that too much of the white stuff dropped us, as it were, very much in the brown stuff. But, just because Boris City (or London, as some luddites insist on calling it) ground to a halt leaving thousands unable to get to work, or home, or in fact anywhere, certain gutter press journos have taken it upon themselves to have a go.

Let's take the busses. Alright, you couldn't, because they weren't running. There was a perfectly good reason for that, which escapes me for the moment, but it had something to do with artichokes. I definitely remember artichokes being involved in the decision making process which led to the cancellation of all the bus routes. Or perhaps it was a radish. Either way, the non-appearance of your bus, as you waited at your bus stop, was no bloody fault of mine. If you really do feel the need to whine like a child over it, get yourself down to your greengrocer and take it out on his vegetables.

This brings me to the trains, which were not running because of the cold, which caused their fires to go out. As you know, Henry, James, and even Gordon, all rely on a roaring fire in their tummy to make the magic smoke which turns their wheels. Even Thomas, the little scamp, needs a hearty breakfast of coal before he can puff off, up his branch line. Clearly, on Monday, the supplies of magical coal were completely covered in snow, making it impossible for the engines to get up steam. Again, don't blame me, blame the weather, and probably vegetables, for this tiresome inconvenience.

Well, I hope this clears up any remaining suspicions you may have had that perhaps the problems were all caused by rank incompetence. This is not the case, and I can produce the vegetables and magic coal to prove it. For now though, best keep this anonymous before the scumbag journos get wind of it. That's if they managed to turn up for work, eh? Hoho!

Blog name: Spike

2008-12-24T08:12:00.004Z

Here's my blog, a silly old blog,
about as much use as a chocolate cog
or Italian cheeses that give you the sneezes
or a recalcitrant gun that won't kill anyone
or a fish in the desert or a boil on the bum.

Well I got up this morning and made up some verse
about seagulls and terns and then, even worse,
about Eccles and jam and daleks and spam
and when i'd finished that I put on my hat
and went off to work, saying “Well – that's that.”

You know people stare?
You must be aware of how they stare, they gawp and they peer
as if I'm a bit queer because I'm talking away
(as I make my way)
to no one at all in the street, in the hall,
in my office or under my desk, where I sit
where it's very quiet, in the fluff for a bit,
as I make up more verse,
full of silly old nothings like a goat in a hat
and witches on mountains and purple juice fountains
and silly old Seagoons grown lazy and fat.

I think they're all barmy and I'll tell you why,
if you'll sit still and wait for the click of the gate
as I come home from work,
and then with a sigh,
I'll say they're all barmy and you'll ask why
because surely they're normal and I am insane?
I can see I will have to repeat yet again...

This is my blog, just a silly old blog,
it has nothing to do with some chocolate cog,
I just like to tell jokes, to be helpful, eponymous,
but still I thank God this damned blog's anonymous.

Blog Name: Up Yours, Pal!

2008-11-25T08:48:00.006Z

Holy Hell-shit, I can NOT believe that sonofabitch won. What the fuck is this world coming to? I work my ass off for years, sorting out Iraq, Israel, even those commie queers in Europe, and what do I get in return? My man gets the finger while some jerk who don't even have a proper American name gets all the fucking votes!

Well, screw the lot of them. I'm retiring from all this shit and starting a new life as a preacher. I was visited by God in my dreams and he said to me, “George, you have brought so many people so much peace and happiness, and justice and the American Way, now you must go out and preach your wisdom to the people.”

I was so moved I bought me a bible, but I haven't gotten around to reading it just yet, but then who gives a fuck, when you're preaching you just make stuff up. I also just bought me a church on the Las Vegas Strip. I got big plans. I got a dozen dancing girls, a few hundred slots and a baptismal font. I got a stage where I can get people up and heal them. I got a franchise from Burger King for the catering. Fuck Washington, I can make more in a month in Vegas than I would have in a year of office.

Still, it pains me to see this Great Country of Ours brought down by evil men. I seen them, parading themselves on the TV, the commies and the faggots, lining up to vote democrat (hell, they ain't even worth a capital letter). That Obama, he's a sly one. Already he's trying to destroy this great Country of Ours, just a little bit at a time. For instance, every time he comes to a conference in the White House, he fixes it so that the conference room gets moved. Last time, that tricky SOB put it in the john.

God, he told me that there'll be a reckoning, and that's when the democrats will all go to Hell and get a pitchfork up the ass, though I guess the faggots will be looking forward to that. Everyone else, the good and the pure, will be lifted up to Heaven, which I reckon looks pretty much like Vegas, only with bigger neons.

Anyway, better keep this anonymous, at least until I got my stuff out of the White House – mental note, don't forget the poster of Arnie, Laura likes to keep that one by the bed.

Blog name: Long and Winding Road

2008-11-10T10:32:00.002Z

Just had another meeting with George. He was late as usual, this time he got lost trying to find the conference room and ended up in the john. According to his aide, he spent a good ten minutes demanding to know why the conference room had been redecorated in white tiles and chrome. He did, apparently, approve of the paper dispensers next to the seats. He thought they'd be useful for taking quick notes.

Well, we discussed the economy again. He keeps telling me that all the books, all the accounts are open to me and my team for perusal, any time we like. Then he just clapped a hand over his face and sniggered, while Secretary Paulson went pink, started humming “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and looked out of the window.

I guess the full story on the economy will have to wait until the new year. Meantime, I've been touring the presidential suite here in the White House. I've already asked that the signed poster of Governor Schwarzenegger be removed. I have no objection to the man personally, but my kids were asking awkward questions about why he was stripped to the waist and covered in baby lotion. George has a few mementos from his service career which also have to go, especially the Texas Air National Guard certificates, some of which still haven't been colored in.

All in all though, the place looks pretty comfortable and I guess Michelle and I will settle down OK. I tried out the big chair in the Oval Office and I even had a quick peek at the Big Red Button. I have to give George credit for one thing, he wasn't dumb enough to press it 'just to see what happens'. Although having said that, someone has drawn a couple of eyes above it and a smiley mouth underneath, with the caption “Room Service”. Hey, I can take a joke. I know it wasn't George anyway. He still can't do that joined up writing.

Anyway, I guess this blog had better stay anonymous, otherwise the Republicans will be on my tail and the first thing you learn in politics is to keep that area of your person covered up tighter than the grin on Sarah Palin's face on election night.

Blog Name: Last Man Standing

2008-11-04T20:54:00.007Z

Not long to go now. Soon the votes will be counted - and verified, of course - and then I shall be crowned the rightful winner of this long, arduous contest.

I have the advantage, being the BBC's top political commentator, of having learned from the masters of the world stage. Nod, smile, kiss babies - ooh, that was quite disconcerting the first time I had to do it, it was like looking in a mirror! And naturally I have my piece of young, female eye-candy draped over my arm to distract the less discerning viewers from my complete lack of any sort of skill or competency. At least there's no danger of her opening her mouth in public and giving the game away: nobody watches BBC2 anyway, as I've learned the hard way.

Not that the outcome is up to the viewers, haha. Goodness me no, that's just another element of this smoke-and-mirrors affair that's been pinched from the political arena. No, the real power lies with just a small elite: as usual, it's not what you know but who you know - and I do mean "know" in the Biblical sense. I've already slept my way this far with Arlene, Craig, and Len; that just leaves Bruno. God, I hope he hasn't been eating garlic! Bellissimo indeed!

Thank God this blog's anonymous. If this gets out I could be out on my ear like Russell, Jonathon and Jeremy and I don't mean Paxman!

Blog name: Rossed the Plot

2008-10-30T11:27:00.006Z

You find me in quandary, readers. Easy for me to say, eh?

Bloody Brand, what’s he gone and done that for? Now everybody will wondering why I’m not offering myself up. But how, how do I get to keep the money, and get an outlet for my genius at the same time? And what about you, the public who so desperately want me and need me? Has anyone given any thought to you who have come to rely on me for putting some colour into your sad little lives?

I’m worth a million of you, I am.

If I go, how will I get my daily fix of making inappropriate and lewd comments to female celebrities? How will I get to poke fun at the genitalia size and function of near-retirement broadcasters? How will I get to debase the politician du jour by poking fun at their imagined sexual preferences and cock size? Who will offer to rub themselves up against nubile young popstars and actresses if I don’t? Wogan? The only thing he’s rubbing is liniment into his arthritic joints.

More importantly how will the public be able to live without that kind of top flight entertainment? People will have to take the streets and hang around eavesdropping on pissed up hoodies as they call each other names and shout at passers by. I don’t want that. That’s my job. But in an expensive suit and with more prolific use of the word “Fuck” (which I invented).

I tell you this is all got totally out of hand. It’s like that time that I got blamed for causing havoc when some kids from my daughter’s school called up and left lewd messages for her on our home answerphone. I went mad, I did. Gross invasion of privacy. I’m a very private man. A family man.

What? Whaaat?....

Still I’ll be OK, I could go to America. They know what talent is! Surely my kind of chat show will go a bomb over there. I mean it’s not as if they have been doing my kind of thing years before I (pinched) did it, or anything? Russell’s got some contacts...still, I can’t seem to get him on the phone right now. I’ll keep trying. Oh and my old chum Ricky’s doing an absolute bomb over there. I’ll keep trying him as well...he’s bound to pick up sooner or later...

I don't need the BBC.....do I?

Blog Name: Bwa-hahahah!

2008-10-03T09:15:00.005+01:00

Now that I have become CEO of Microsoft, I can begin to tackle the many challenges facing this mighty empire.

My chair, for instance, is not as comfy as it once was. His name is Juan and I suspect he has lost weight. I only chose him to be my chair because he was fat, but now, he isn't. I shall have to dispose of him and find another serf to take his place.

This morning, on my way to the office, my vehicle broke down. Three of the serfs collapsed with heat exhaustion and nearly dropped me. I whipped them severely, but they refused to get up. In the end I called the Auto Club and they sent a mechanic, who whipped them for me as I was quite exhausted. Eventually they died and were thrown to the wolves. I got the office to send out new serfs by helicopter, but I was still late for an important meeting. However, I avoided embarrassment by phoning ahead and having the other attendees slaughtered and eaten by piranha fish.

I am comforted by the thought that Microsoft has made many technical innovations this year. I am proud of our new i-phone killer. His name is Igor and he has been tasked with killing anyone who owns an i-phone. I am also pleased with the progress on our 'zune' music player which has the ability to detect impure thoughts, such as the urge to copy music files. Anyone who thinks such filth will pay. With their lives. Spikes will emerge from the earphones and explode their brains. Acid will seep from the packaging and burn off their fingers. Such is the fate of any scumbag who tries to rip off copyrighted material.

Our new operating system, Vista, is attracting rave reviews from the press. I have made sure of this by sending pig entrails to all technical journalists. Even so, a couple of journalists tried to defy me, so I sent their entrails to my chef who served them to me with a green salad and a glass of Merlot.

Finally, Microsoft is investing heavily in Cloud Computing. In the future, all computers will use Microsoft online services. Then we will buy all the power stations and ensure that electricity only works on Microsoft products. Anyone running a wind farm will be savaged by flesh eating termites. Soon the world will be mine and then I shall possess ultimate power. Finally, after so many years of waiting, I shall get to shag Pamela Anderson.

In the meantime, this blog must remain anonymous, or else all my plans will be undone and I won't get to shag Pamela Anderson, or indeed, anyone else who isn't handcuffed.

Clarkson on.. The Credit Crunch

2008-09-18T08:53:00.004+01:00

It seems that all anyone talks about these days is the Credit Crunch, this big financial crisis that looms over us all like Godzilla in a cheap Japanese movie. So, in my capacity as world-leading financial guru, I have created this handy “cut out'n'keep” guide.

Q. Where did it come from?

A. Blame America.

Q. No really, where did it come from?

A. Communists are seeding the world with money eating cockroaches that are driving us all into ruin.

Q. I knew it! How can we defeat them?

A. I was lying. Blame America. Imagine this scenario. In down town Detroit, we have a young married couple named Hank and Monica. Hank is short and wide and the same shape as a water barrel. He has grown a beard, because he thinks it makes him look European. Monica looks exactly the same as Hank, but without the beard. She spends a lot of money on hair colouring, 'Because she's worth it'. Currently, her head is purple.

Hank works for a motor car manufacturer. He spends his working day discussing last night's re-runs of Star Trek, reading The National Inquirer and eating his own body weight in beef products. Occasionally he bolts a wing mirror on to a pick up truck.

Monica spends her day sitting down. She likes to read dieting magazines, many of which are full of delicious recipes. Sometimes the pictures are so tempting, she eats the magazines.

Several years ago, Hank and Monica were married in the Church of the Latter Day Flying Saucer. Hank wore his finest Star Trek costume, while Monica was shrouded in a white bell tent that made her look a little bit like a dog fight in a potato sack. It was at this point that THE PROBLEM STARTED.

You see, Hank and Monica wanted their own house, but they didn't have any money. Hank didn't earn much at the car company, who never valued his skills at eating, reading the National Inquirer, or impersonating the 'whoosh' of the USS Enterprise's sliding doors. So what did they do? They BORROWED A LOT OF MONEY.

They thought this was marvellous. Truly, America was The Land of Opportunity. Only in America could two young people, with no money, or skills, or brains, borrow such huge amounts of money and then spend it on a house that was actually worth slightly less than Hank's tab at the local 'Eat All-U-Can' burger and gun dispensary.

So, there it is. The start of all the world's problems, right there, as Hank sweeps Monica over the threshold of their new home, pausing only to clutch his groin as a suspected rupture makes his eyes bulge.

Q. Blimey. What can we do?

A. Buy a Range Rover. It won't help you with your financial issues, but at least you will go to Heaven.

Q. Can I quote you on that?

A. No way, this is definitely staying anonymous.

Blog Name: Northern Exposure

2008-09-05T09:56:00.006+01:00

Hi and wow! I’m just a hockey Mom here in my wilderness home with my beautiful family! Wow! What an honour! What a wholly unexpected honour!

There I was, doing what every American Mom does, squeezing out my fifteen wholesome kids, Chip, Buck, Chuck, Champ, Chad, Chimp, Buddy, Trapper, Hawkeye, Radar, Bristol, Birmingham, Newcastle, BJ and the Bear, with not a thought to ever doing anything other than baking cookies and shooting elk. Gee ladies, why, I’m just like you!

After marrying my husband, Kipper, at fourteen, I just wanted to be a stay at home Mom and never even so much as planned any of this! And then I became a beauty queen BY ACCIDENT! And then I ruled the fucking PTA, BY ACCIDENT! And then I became the kick ass governor, BY ACCIDENT. Wooo! Check me out! And now I’m going to be the Vice President, BY ACCIDENT!

I never wanted any of this! This stuff just seems to happen to me! I don’t even know what half of this stuff is! I just wanted to stay at home, squeeze out fifteen puppies, shoot some elk, bake some cookies and be totally awesome and wholesome.

I’m just a regular Mom, like you, (except one who’s gonna RULE THE WORLD)!

(Thank God this blog's anonymous, or else I might just get noticed and WHO KNOWS what would happen then?)

Vlad the Impaler

2008-08-14T13:34:00.005+01:00

So here we have example of Russian technical genius, yes? I make blog on entirely home made Russian computer. It fast as the lightning, it nice colour, it totally never goes wrong, unless woman downstairs switching on TV then all lights dim and hamster dies. But he is good Russian hamster and he happy to die for Motherland.

I wearing new suit today. Is good Russian suit. My grandmama made it herself, in between shifts at the tractor factory. It fit really well, because I am same size as Grandfather, who is dead. So I get suit, I am happy. It smell a bit of rotting Grandfather but in Russia, that is good way of attracting the babes.

I am man in charge of Motherland, you know. I Prime Minister, which much more important than President. My friend Dmitry, he President. He none too smart, he think he important, ho ho! In Russia, we say

“Keep your enemies close. They useful for stopping bullets.”

Yes, I let Dmitry be President, I tell him, “Hey, we power share. You get big office and comfy chair and prostitutes. I get key to gold reserves and prostitutes. Is fair, da?” He happy, naturally. He gets only comfy chair in whole of Kremlin. He only man there who don't have sore arse.

I wish to say few words on Georgia issue. We much bigger than them, we have more tanks than them. We have too many tanks. We try giving away on game shows, but people not happy, they sell them on ebay or swap for cabbage. Anyway, we decide to use up some tanks on invading Ossetia. No big deal, we could carpet bomb this dump and do maybe three roubles of damage. But suddenly whole world is climbing on high horse and saying we do bad thing. Even the USA. Ho ho! That George Bush, he remind me of Dmitry so much, like we say in Russia:

“The lights are on but owner too stupid to find light switch.”

OK, so now I have to go and run the country, plus Dmitry wants dinner and then story before bed. Meantime, I say to world, don't worry about Georgia – I don't. Also, keep this blog anonymous, or else that George, he get wrong end of stick and start beating his Bush with it.

до свидания!!

Blog Name: One From The Top

2008-08-01T22:09:00.007+01:00

Good heavens, what am I to do? I've been thrown on the scrap heap with barely a million to my name. All I have to fall back on is a stately home in Wiltshire, a couple of villas in Spain, a yacht in Marbella and half of the Netherlands. That's barely enough to keep me in sudoku puzzles till the end of the week!

Mind you, if the Inland Revenue finds out about all my Swiss bank accounts, even I'll need a Cray to help me fill in my tax return.

Sigh.

There's only one thing for it. I'll have to consolidate all my debts into one, easily-managed loan.

I wonder who the bastards have got lined up to replace me? Probably some tarty little bimbo who doesn't mind getting them out for the boys, or spelling out "knob" or "willy" or other rude words.

Thank God this blog's anonymous. If the Beeb knew I was desperate for ready cash, they could really drive down my fees for presenting their next rigged phone-in.

Blog Name: Carroll in Wonderland

2008-07-16T13:40:00.003+01:00

Well, I've been wrestling with this damned poem for weeks now and finally I think I've got it nailed:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
And through the murkest evergroves
Didst sandwiches of cheese invade.

With spiky cries of throated glee
They clumbered over the teatime throng.
They slugged the biscuits, drank the tea,
Whilst bellowing their cheesy song.

“Beware the sandwiches, my Son!
The curly bread and yucky mould!
Ignore the cheese, the ham, and shun
The egg'n'bacon five weeks old!”

OK, that should entertain my young readers. I mean, let's be honest, I could make up any old crap and they'd lap it up. Their brains are already fried by all this 'through the looking glass' business, not to mention talking rabbits and psychopathic playing cards.

Right, time to go smoke some crack. Oh, best keep this anonymous, don't want anyone thinking that 'Uncle Lewis' is relying on Columbia's finest for inspiration...

Blog Name: From the Side of the Page

2008-06-23T22:23:00.009+01:00

Dear Doctor,

I am at my wit's end and don't know where else to turn, so naturally I've decided to share my personal psychiatric problems with the whole world, courtesy of your enormous column.

My problem is this: I seem to be unable to stop myself from "appropriating" other people's material, shuffling a couple of words around and passing it off as my own.

At first, it was just a bit of fun, the odd headline here or there, but then I moved on to sentences and soon I found myself lifting whole paragraphs in order to get a "hit".

Now my "dealer" has got me hooked on the British Medical Journal. I just can't help myself, as soon as I see an article on delusional beliefs, kleptomania or transferred possession, I just have to cut and paste it into my own work wholesale.

I don't think I can go on much longer without being caught in the act, and that could lead to a lawsuit, a massive fine or even being struck off by the GMC. Please help!

Yours Faithfully,
R Perfraud (Dr)

Dear Dr P,

You appear to be suffering from copyright theft, or plagiarism professionalism as we doctors call it. This is actually quite common in the medical profession and nothing to worry about.

Simply pass the blame to your sub-editors for missing out attributions and quotation marks and you can be assured that your dishonest conduct and plagiarising other people's work on multiple occasions will be reprimanded with nothing more than a slap on the wrist and a three-month suspension.

Next time, you should be much more careful not to get caught.

Yours laughing all the way to the bank,
Dr R Perfraud.

P.S. This blog is anonymous, isn't it? One can't be too careful when one commits an article to print.

Blog Name: Licensed to Thrill

2008-06-18T10:24:00.002+01:00

Went into the office on Monday. M has a new receptionist, very nice. Can't think what her name is. Anyway, shagged her up against the photocopier, then went in to see M.

M is getting very irritable lately. Probably on her period. I wasn't really listening while she droned on about the need to cut costs, must stop smashing up cars, did I know how much it cost to compensate the inhabitants of small South American towns after I've blown them up with thermonuclear devices, I mean, dull, dull, DULL. Finally she got to the point and told me that some villain was trying to take over the world, could I hop on a plane for Frankfurt and stop him?

Well, I asked her where Frankfurt was and it turns out it's not anywhere hot and sunny, so I said bollocks, I only go to nice places with babes in bikinis. Then she really got annoyed, I mean, the bitch went totally hormonal. I tried to reason with her but she just screamed that I was a moronic pig. Anyway, I told her to go change her tampon or whatever it is that hysterical women do, and left her to it.

Went to see Q who said he had some new gadgets for me. No sign of my bloody i-phone though, apparently we still can't afford the contract. Still, at least he had my new Aston Martin with bullet proof stuff and big guns and the rear seat folds down into a double bed with mirrors on the ceiling and mink fur sheets and a condom dispenser (mental note, go to bank and get a sack of pound coins).

Also, he gave me a new laptop with Windows Vista on it. I asked him how it worked, he said he didn't know, in fact no one knew, then he took it away and gave me a pocket calculator. He assured me I could download porn on it, so I'm happy.

Finally, I was introduced to a fellow agent who will accompany me. I asked her name, she said “Rub my tits off” so I did. Next I knew, I was escorted out of the building. How was I supposed to know she was Russian?

Anyway, might need to get another job now. No point keeping this blog anonymous, the more people who know I'm available, the better. Maybe I should try ebay?

Blog Name; Never Gonna Give You Up!

2008-06-05T09:57:00.006+01:00

Life has been so busy the past few months as I tried to climb my way up the greasy pole and smash the glass ceiling, I’ve barely had time to update my blog. Yet here I am, pin hammer poised to break the glass. Watch out America! Madam President is on her way!

People have said America is too frightened of smart women to ever vote for me and that I would never be President. They said I was delusional, grasping, living in a dream world. Well I proved them wrong. Look how well I’m doing?

I’m no racist but if anyone ever thought the US would vote for a black candidate, then they are the ones who are delusional. American Pop Idol yes, Presidency, no chance.

And the hype surrounding his campaign! I mean the man is in a fantasy land. Last night he gave a speech that claimed he’d won! Ha! What a fruit loop! Someone should tell him. I mean, it's hard to watch, isn't it? And when I mean someone, I mean someone in a white coat. No! No! Not that kind of white coat…Bill’s from Arkansas, not me! How dare you bring race into this campaign!

Anyway, put the poor man out of his misery. The stress has clearly gotten to him and he needs help. Clinical help.

Anyway, onwards to the Whitehouse. Again! But this time I’m in charge and the interns are nice college BOYS!

Now to get out of this room…I can't see a door and my arms are strangely tied around my body. That stylist they got me; she really is gonna have to go before I win the Presidency. All these buckles and straps...who does she think I am? Sarah Jessica Parker?

Bill! Bill! Sheesh! Who let Bill near those nurses? Bill...get me outta here, I've a campaign to run!

Blog Name: Harry Potter and the Bottom of the Barrel

2008-05-29T21:26:00.007+01:00

So I could rake in eight million bucks for 800 words? Ten grand a word, yep, sounds about right. I don't see why I should even get out of bed for less. And it would take at least twice that much to make me crack a smile.

No, no, of course I'm not actively working on a prequel, I'm far to busy counting my fortune to stoop to that. Why bother when you can just point and click, shuffle some words around? Nobody will notice; when's the last time anyone actually sat down and read a proper book after all? There's no need with Hollywood taking all the effort out of it for you.

So.

Chapter One.
In a hole in the ground there lived a ~~hobbit~~boy wizard.

Doddle. Don't know why I never thought of it sooner.

Thank God this blog's anonymous, or everyone would be at it.

And we can't have that, can we my precious?

Blog Name: Cherie Baby

2008-05-23T09:48:00.004+01:00

It has become apparent that my book isn’t doing as well as Tony and I hoped. Yes, yes, I got a reasonable cash advance; yes, yes, I’ve got a highly paid job in the judiciary; yes, yes, I’ve made piles of cash from those flats in Bristol. But I want more more more! Is that so wrong?

Anyway, readers and fans of this blog will already know a lot of this, but for those of you hopping in by accident or chance, perhaps as a result of the Google Search you did for “wide mouthed money shot” or “big mouthed whoring”, I am going to give you a taster of what you’re missing if you don’t buy my book.

READ how I grew up in a poor socialist household with nowt but builders sand to eat!

READ how I met Tony and we planned to RULE the WORLD!

READ how clever I am at everything!

READ what an utter shit Gordon Brown is! But how Tony is helping him. Bless.

READ how Tony and I got it on at Balmoral right next to the Queen’s bedroom and I got up the duff! Stick it to the man! If that’s not socialism I don’t know what is!*

READ how much Tony and I do it in a week!

READ how sorry I am about getting found out about being financially involved with Carol Kaplan's sheister boyfriend. But how good the housing market in Bristol is (if you know the right people)!

READ how I discovered fake crying abilities from my actor/lush father! But want to distance myself from him otherwise.

READ how many famous folk give us freebies cos they think we are ace!

So go on, buy the book, you cheap bastards! Tony's lecture tours aren't coining it in as much as we'd like. Seems no-one wants to hear him speak.

And, this blog no longer needs to be anonymous as I've nothing to lose...Buy my frigging book! It's me Cherie Blair!!!! I'm still important!!! You hear me!

* Actually I don’t, but it’s all seemed to do well for Tony and I, whatever it is….

Blog Name: Clarkson on Clarkson

2008-05-20T11:08:00.001+01:00

I'm a motoring journalist and a TV presenter. I rub shoulders with A list celebs as I climb into supercars in the Italian mountains.

In my time I have annoyed just about everyone and that's a good thing because the world needs annoying gits like me. If I didn't exist, mankind would have to create me. If I was a nice person, then others would have to become more obnoxious to fill the gap. I'm a wolf in wolf's clothing, but if I were a sheep, then the other wolves would give up wolving for a living and open health food shops. And change their names to Russell.

I often come across as grumpy and cynical, but that's because most people are too stupid to have words like iconoclast in their vocabulary. I was in America a while ago, and after I'd finished laughing, I realised that America, and indeed all of its recalcitrant ex-colonial population, need a few more like me. Clearly, a country which elects a bone head who seems to be permanently squinting into a bright light, needs an injection of grump, and cynic, and indeed, icon-bashing. If I were American, then I would have my own TV show in which senior public figures were dragged through the streets behind stage coaches, while naked porn starlets fired heavy calibre machine guns at effigies of Francois Mitterand.

But I digress, which is inexcusable when I'm talking about me. I like to travel a lot, to see new places and people. To me, traveling is a good way of reminding myself how great I am, how much I love myself and my country, and how beautiful the world would be if it was mostly empty apart from the Home Counties and anyone who plays cricket.

For instance, I have spent many happy hours in Australia, in the departure lounge at Sydney International Airport, drinking myself senseless and charging it to the BBC. I had a fantastic break in Thailand, at 30 thousand feet in an executive jet, whilst en-route to somewhere else. Anywhere else, I wasn't fussy. I enjoyed Switzerland, because it's not far from my house. I even managed to smile whilst in Belgium, because I saw an old lady trip up and fall into a puddle. I see myself as a citizen of the world which, of course, gives me the right to bad mouth pretty much any part of it without constraint or fear of litigation.

Anyway, I need to sign off now as it's time for me to go drive some damned supercar or other, and I suppose you, the reader, need to get back to sorting potatoes, or whatever your dull and meaningless job involves. Meantime, let's keep this blog anonymous. I just don't think the world is quite ready for me.

Blog Name: Lord Boris

2008-05-08T09:56:00.001+01:00

Hello to the people of London and indeed to the rest of the world, such as France and, er, Barcelona. No, that's a town. Somewhere in Italy, I think. Could be wrong, but anyway, not the point.

Well, I have to say that this blogging nonsense is tremendous fun, I had no idea that one could just sit down at a computer thing and type any old rubbish. In fact, I had no idea what a computer was until I sat down just a minute ago and started typing this old rubbish. I'm told by the council computer department that Red Ken was a whizz with computers, well, I should think so I mean he had 'geek' written all over him. Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean. I knew chaps like him at university. They all had dreary voices that reminded one of an Anne Summers vibrator and they never washed.

Now, I ought to talk about being Lord Mayor of London, which is, of course, a tremendous honour for you, the people. After all, I'm a busy chap and I don't come cheap, you know, so make the most of me. I intend to put my stamp upon the city over the next few years through initiatives such as the construction of my new palace in Docklands, which will be named 'Southfork' in memory of my favourite TV show, 'Dallas'. And by the way, if anyone should know who shot JR, please write in and tell me. Ta. Also, I intend to rename London to 'Boris City', and to turn Hyde Park into a croquet lawn. Only those of pure blood will be allowed in, but everyone else will be able to peer through the railings.

I am absolutely delighted at the thought of how much my colossal victory has pissed off those commie bastards in Downing Street, especially old Droopy-Jaws himself at Number 10 who so richly deserves a sharp prod up the rear. Let's see him put a spin on this baby, eh? Hoho!

Finally, whilst I have been advised that I should probably keep this blog thing anonymous, to protect my integrity and good name, blah blah, I don't really give a toss so balls to that. My name is Boris, I'm bloody well Lord Mayor and if you don't like it, bugger off!

Blog Name: King of Horror

2008-04-29T10:29:00.002+01:00

I am Stephen King, creator of nightmares, and I invite you to step into my world, but be warned – these steps are a bit wobbly and you may find yourself falling – yes falling- into a place from which you may not be able to escape. Not easily, anyway. Not without climbing back up the steps, and even then, you might come a cropper on the wobbly one again. Such is the power of my world...

People often say to me, “Steve,” they say, “Steve, how do you manage to create such terrifying tales of utter horror and terror and still get to sleep at night?” I always give these people a knowing smile and a little shrug which, I think, says everything that needs to be said. Unless they're a bit thick, as many people are who just wander up to me in the street and bother me in this fashion. To them I always say, “Hey, I'm just a writer of world-class horror and suspense experiences, many of which have been turned into hugely successful televisual events. I just do my job, it's my readers who crap logs over them.”

I've always been blessed with genius. I remember I was only six months old and barely potty trained when I completed my first novel, a thriller entitled “The Beast with the Big White Gaping Mouth”. I was so proud as I presented both pieces of paper to my parents. Tragically, my father sneezed and wiped off all the crayon before he had a chance to read any of it. I was crushed, but also determined to continue. And I learnt a valuable lesson – The world is a bitch and to get on you need to be the biggest dog in town.

People often say to me, “Steve,” they say, “Steve, where do all these fantastic ideas come from?” Well, I am a traveller of the shadows, a silhouette in the moonlight, a lurker in the bushes. I remember doing a lot of silhouetting as a kid, but not so much lurking. That came later, once I'd done a bit of travelling. The lurking was sort of a natural progression.

Some of my books were actually too dangerous, too 'on the edge' to be published. My sequel to 'Carrie' was a roller coaster of a horror-fest, set in an indian restaurant. I thought 'Currie' was a great story. My publisher got cold feet. But hey, remember my bitch metaphor – this old dog just sniffed, licked it's balls and moved right on by.

Enough blogging. Let's keep this anonymous, lest the whole world discovers the man behind the words, the mastermind that yanks their terror-strings and makes them dance the dance of fear. This is Stephen King signing off – sleep tight, hold tight, and don't let the radio-active mutated slavering flesh eating bed bugs bite...

Blog Name: Bob The Builder

2008-04-22T20:25:00.005+01:00

Can we fix it? Yes we can!

If we keep recounting the votes often enough, sooner or later we must come up with the right result. Don't say this old fool has learned nothing from the "developed world". Hell, I'm so popular, even the dead are voting for me! Which is just as well, considering how many people have been having unfortunate accidents recently.

Once I've been unanimously re-elected, I can continue with my urban regeneration program of bulldozing all the inner-city slums of the MDC supporters, not that there are any, and building brand new shining cemeteries to house them. After all, they'll be Zanu-PF voters by then.

I'll give that little tiny dot a run for his money. Our farms are producing far more now that they're under the control of black teenage war veterans *cough* than they ever did under the hated experienced white farmers. Admittedly, what they're producing more of is hungry people, but that's not important right now.

What is important is that I win this election fair and square, however many bribes I have to pay. At least there's plenty of money in circulation. Banknotes are edible, right?

Thank the Lord this blog's anonymous. I'd hate anyone to think this election was rigged.

Captain's Blog

2008-04-18T08:23:00.003+01:00

Captain's Blog, Star date 5758.4

We are currently in orbit around the planet Gurgle. Starfleet has detailed the Enterprise to investigate rumours of a strange, new life form. In a few moments, First Officer Spock, myself and Doctor McCoy will be beaming down, together with some security guards.

Captain's Blog, Star date 5758.5

Well, we lost the security guards. What is it with these people? Don't they teach them anything at security guard school? How about if just once, one of the lecturers said to them 'Oh and by the way, don't go near any big holes in the ground lined with pointed sticks'?

Anyway, we made contact with the new life form and, well, wow, what can I say. They're all six foot tall blondes with massive tits. Wowza! Alright, so they're purple. Like I care! Bones ran his medical gadget over them to check their genetic make up and it seems they're actually half coconut tree. Like I care! With bazoomas like that, I wouldn't give a flying meteorite if they were mostly seaweed!

Captain's Blog, Star date 5758.6

Spock and I discussed what to do about the Gurglians. Spock wants to obey the Prime Directive and leave them alone. I said fine, as long as I get to screw a couple first. Had a bit of an argument over that. He was 'Mr Logical' as always, but then admitted that actually, his Human half was giving him 'illogical yearnings'. I told him that he should probably give in to them. After all, being Human is much more fun.

Captain's Blog, Star date 5758.7

Bit of trouble with the Gurglians now. I was in the sack with a couple of them when the Gurglian male turned up. It seems they were his wives, or maybe mother, I dunno. Anyway, I tried to reason with him, but hey, he's a coconut tree, so I smoked his ass, then got the Enterprise to irradiate the entire street with a photon torpedo. Boy, I just love the buzz I get when I hear those babies land!

So now it seems I have to make amends or else the entire planet will take up arms against the Human Race. Yeah, heard that before. Anyway, looks like I have to face the chief Gurglian in single combat. This should not be a problem, seeing as he's a tree for pete's sake, also I get to strip to the waist which will no doubt get those Gurglian babes dripping at the seams! Wowza!

Captain's Blog, Star date 5758.8

Well, I let the other guy win. Spock said it would be a good idea. Also, to be honest, the old Kirk torso is looking a bit thick around the middle and I didn't want to put the babes off. So this Gurglian graciously spared my life, we make up, pose for photos, we're out of there. Another job well done and a few more babes have had the benefit of my very own photon torpedo! Lock and load! Wowza!

(Oh yeah, I have encrypted this blog so as to keep it completely anonymous, if those chair jockeys at Starfleet got to hear about me screwing my way around the universe, they'd choke on their muesli...)

Blog Name: It's all Greek to me

2008-04-15T11:31:00.002+01:00

Been a bit poorly of late. Can’t really explain it. Still here I am stuck in the bally hospital with the whole bloody place overrun with chinks, wops, gyppos, ragheads, slitty eyed bastards, and spearchuckers. It's like being on tour with the wife!

Even the palace isn’t safe from Johnny Foreigner these days. I’ve noticed this one new chap...getting on a bit, sounds a bit like a gyppo for sure. Small fella, working in the kitchen. Just started before I had to be rushed into the hospital, I believe. I don't normally bother with the staff but this guy! Jeez, wait to you hear this!

I was in the kitchens as I got lost on my way to the gun cabinet and the blighter cornered me.

“You like my special sauce, mister your Highness? I make it just for you! I know you like the spicy- you just like me.”

Insisted I try it, he did.

Ordinarily I would have told the Egyptian bastard to get out of my way but I was peckish, so I had a smidge of his kebab. Used to love them, I did, when I was back home. Haven't had one in years!

But then, the bloody cheek of him he said,

“Sir you sign my passport application? Is great honour in my country!”

Well I don’t know who he is or where he came from and his special sauce tasted like a badger’s arse so I ordered the blighter be sacked and thrown out on the street. Face looked familiar but they all look the bloody same don’t they?

Anyway, next thing I knew, I’m in here.

Life, the Universe and Everything

2008-04-02T08:13:00.002+01:00

I'm still not convinced that this Human Race thing is going to work out so I've been keeping my options open.

I will be needing someone, or something, to take over when I retire and to be honest, Humans are not really heading in the direction I was hoping.

So, what about my other 'options'?

Well, there are the Eggs. They are great. They're small, quiet, they just get on with stuff. They like to think a lot and they don't do violence, not to each other or to the planet they live on. They only have one drawback and that is that they're rather fragile. Last time I paid them a visit, I had to lift up their great Prophet, Humpty, to Heaven, to receive the usual Ten Commandments. I'd only got him up a couple of metres when I sneezed, dropped him and – oh dear. What a mess. It was no yolk, I'll tell you. No, stop it. Anyway, I'm keeping them as a last resort, I mean, I don't want to put all my Eggs in – oh, you know what I mean.

Option Two is the Sprouts. They're a race of intelligent vegetables. They're very peaceful and friendly but I think I made a bit of a slip with their body chemistry and they all suffer from the most appalling flatulence. They don't seem to mind, in fact, they've elevated the act of breaking wind to a musical art form – they have entire orchestras performing operas that go on for days at a time. Artistically wonderful, but you wouldn't want to be downwind.

Finally, and probably my favourite option, we have the Roaches. They're beautiful, wise, friendly creatures who wouldn't hurt a fly. The only problem is, they only come out in the dark. So, at the moment, their rate of scientific progress has stalled. Every time one of them invents the light bulb, they scatter.

Well, in the meantime, I'm really just sitting back and seeing how things pan out with the Humans. I don't like to interfere, what with having spent so much time fine-tuning this 'free will' concept, but really I do wonder what on earth they think they're up to. They spend half their time scaring each other with horror films about this 'Devil' person (who the Hell is he?) and the other half doing things that not even this 'Devil' would contemplate. Bizarre or what?

Anyway, must dash. I've got a new universe coming to the boil, I need to add some Dark Matter and now I can't find the damned stuff. I know I put it somewhere... By the way, I suppose I should keep this blog anonymous. These Humans can take things the wrong way and before you know where you are, some loon has created yet another religion and bought his own TV station to 'spread the good word'. Humans? Give me strength.

Blog Name: Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Boy

2008-03-17T14:15:00.006Z

I'm roadtesting my new blurb for the dating pages in the Guardian on this blog. See what you think. Think I've got everything covered.

"Widowed and divorced musical father of four seeks intact woman with no past experience in soft pornography, and escorting of Arab businessmen.

Must have own money.

Will have to pass a series of rigorous tests in which applicants will subjected to media harassment, public vilification and hate campaigns spearheaded by brat fashionista offspring.

Japanese avant garde conceptual artists need not apply.

Ability to attempt back up vocals and keyboards a distinct advantage.

Apply to: Walrusboy PO BOX 8877"

Have kept it under 200 words as it goes up to £25 if you go over, and am a bit strapped at the mo.

That's the photo I'm using above.

Also thinking of using a pseudonym to protect against golddiggers, so thank goodness this blog's anonymous, la.

Is there anything I should add?

Blog Name: Vote for Me

2008-03-17T09:51:00.003Z

We live in a fast changing world full of serious issues. Global warming. AIDS. Cancer. Illiteracy. Illegal immigrants taking our jobs. Travellers camping in a field near your house and stealing your lawnmowers. Long haired communists seducing your daughter and feeding her drugs. And what does this Government do about these issues?

Nothing!

Look at Tony Blair's track record on the National Health Service. After he took power, our hospitals went into a spiral of decline. The wards were encrusted with filth. The operating theatres were smothered in blood and old body parts were left to rot in broom cupboards. Our brave doctors and nurses, driven to desperation by the bungling and interfering of Blair and his cronies, hid in the hospital outbuildings, swigging cheap gin and sobbing with despair, while patients waited, in agony, for months on end for treatment.

But it gets worse. Look at our schools. See how our children have to endure rotting and collapsing class rooms, see how they have to learn without text books or paper to write on. See how communists have infiltrated the ranks of our brave teachers and are filling the heads of our young, pure, innocent children with evil filth about gays and lesbian sex in dark alleyways. Finally, look at the results of Blair's education 'reforms'. Crowds of evil, menacing thugs who loiter in our high streets, swigging alcohol and shouting abuse, smashing shop windows and wearing ridiculous clothes that you or I would not be seen dead in.

We live in a twilight world of mounting horror. Crime is a festering sore on the genitals of our towns and cities. Filthy, barbaric criminals infest our streets. No one can walk to the shops without being kidnapped and tortured and whipped with birch twigs before being murdered with guns bought in wine bars from illegal immigrants who laugh at our incompetent and useless immigration laws. Our brave police, driven to desperation by the bungling and interfering of Blair and his cronies, hide in bus shelters, swigging cheap gin and sobbing with despair, while criminals and murderers rampage through our once-beautiful towns and villages.

My Fellow Britons, I stand before you today, humble but erect with excitement at the thought of what might be. I stand firm, filled with passion. I stand upright, for all to see. The challenges are great, but the length and girth of my determination must not be underestimated. This blog may well be anonymous but my swelling emotions can not be hidden. My name is Cameron and I am ready to thrust myself forward into the gaping hole of Government. I thank you.

Darling Alistair

2008-03-12T12:05:00.005Z

Well what is a blog if it doesn’t offer insights into what’s going on in one’s mind. Personally I can't hide the fact that this is a big day for me.

Bit nervous as well, I mean, stepping into the boss’s shoes like this hasn’t been easy. I don’t mind telling you that it took me five hours to wrestle the red case from his iron-like grip. Still I think he does trust me really and he was only messing about.

And well, I have been working hard, using a calculator with cosigns and tangents and logarithms and everything on it.... and I think it all comes together. All my own work, by the way. Some of you are in for a real treat…

What? You want a preview? Okay, ssshhh…I’ll just go and get it. Wait there….

Oh my Jesus fuck! Where the blazes is it???? I could’ve sworn it was just there five minutes ago…! Hang on….

”Susan????? Has Gordon been in?”……

*********

Christ, that power crazy bastard…..This was my one moment …I could have made a real difference. Maybe spend a bit of cash…maybe get a wee nickname for myself like…”The Caring Chancellor” or “The Giving Man”…"The Thick Eyebrowed Santa Clause", "Lovely Ally" or “The People’s Friend”.

Now I'll be forever known just as the Other Big Eyebrowed Chancellor Whose Collar and Cuffs don't Match.

Still, this blog is anonymous so nobody will know I'm holding up an empty case this afternoon...Hopefully, he'll at least let me read it out...

Blog Name: Harry's Game

2008-03-02T22:09:00.007Z

I say, that was a jolly good jaunt! Showing Johnny Foreigner who's boss, eh what? Ka-Pow, Ka-Pow, Ka-Pow! Mumsy would have been so proud! Just me and a couple of hundred bodyguards against Afghan's finest.

But talk about scary! Every minute having to look out for those war-crazed fundamentalists. And the Taliban were almost as bad.

Dear Old Blighty's positively dull by comparison. Well, except when I'm around, obviously! Wish I had a machine-gun when those paps came after my Chelsy! Ka-Pow! Ka-Pow! That'd show the horrid little oiks!

One thing though - I'm looking forward to eating real food again. After that staple diet of roast swan, quail's eggs, lark's tongues and grouse with pear sauce, I feel like I'm sprouting feathers! Can't wait to get my teeth into some proper pukka bangers and mash again!

Thank God this blog's anonymous. If Al Qaeda knew one's brother was heading out to Basra next week, one would be in deep soapy bubble!

Blog Name: Swill Grates

2008-02-14T13:18:00.003Z

(Editor's note: This blog was recorded using the new Microshite 'Speak-U-Like' voice recording software and has been reproduced here without, er, amendments...)

Hi there! Yes, it's me, Swill Grates, formerly chairman of Microshite, which is of horse the biggest and beast slopware company in the whole crammed world! Wicked!

Today, we bake slopware for grunted, but this was not all gays the case. Many queers ago when I parted Microshite, no bum had a gone shooter, instead every bum had to use shits of paper to do their work! No blunder that peephole were drowning in these shits of paper! So I had this grate eye deer to indent the world's burst gone shooter, which I named 'The Pee Sea'.

Wow! Piss was the fart of the Pee Sea! Pretty soon, every bum wanted a Pea Sea! Microshite laid the slopware while every bum else made the fartware, and that's how the gone shooter revel who shun got slowing!

Today, we all lose slopware laid by my bum pony and that gives me a warm blow. I like to stink that after I am gone, the hurled will be rear ending me as the pan who indented the most impotent device in the whole of piss story.

Well, it's been grate doing this slog and I pope to be writhing again soon, but I guess I should keep this low key and stay anal on he mouse, so crutch you hater, dude!

Blog Name: Camp Crusader

2008-01-22T13:53:00.000Z

Monday
Very hot today. Phew! Ate lunch on the terrace. Alfred served cocktails to a couple of business associates and I, then we spent the afternoon by the pool. Now feeling a bit tender across the neck, think I may have overdone the tan!

Tuesday
That boil in my armpit is getting bigger. Asked Alfred to take a look, he said it was nothing. Went to look for Dick so he could check it as well but he's out, seeing some girl, apparently. Asked Alfred who she was, he says she's some common office girl, of all things! I've made a note to have words with our Mr 'Boy Wonder' when he returns!

Neck very sore. Got Alfred to rub some lovely soothing cream into it. Mmm-mm, so-ooo relaxing.

Wednesday
Still very hot. Spent the day by the pool. Wore my speedos – very tight, very saucy! Asked Alfred if he liked them, he just went a bit red, muttered something about leaving the gas on and left. Wonder what's got into him?

Dick finally returned from seeing 'that woman'. He looked very sheepish, and rightly so! I pointed out to him that us crime fighters have to keep a low profile, that we can't go around just dating strange women! Dick retorted that 'wearing pink speedos hardly counts as a low profile' and stormed off! Well, I just didn't know what to do, as you can imagine.

Still rather upset at dinner. I left a single rose on his plate as a 'make up' gesture. He just stammered out some apology, but otherwise said nothing. I told him to forget it, which cheered him up, then I asked him to look att my boil and he went a bit funny and said he had to dash and check something in the Batcave. Oh well, at least it's nice to see him keeping his mind on the job!

Thursday
I can't believe this has happened! Some fool traffic cop pulled me over for speeding! He asked me if I was 'in a hurry', well, duh! I said hey, the fact that my car is black, thirty feet long and shaped like a bat means nothing to you? Next thing I know, he's given me a ticket! Still, can't be too angry, he did have lovely eyes and I think maybe I saw a hint of a smile? I'm fairly sure I would recognise him again, so maybe, when I'm out of uniform, I'll pop downtown and hang around outside the police station!

Friday
Got kidnapped by the Joker, locked into a massive freezer which could only be opened by some fiendish puzzle but luckily Alfred arrived armed with several obscure reference books all about solving fiendish puzzles, we got out and had a big fight, yadda-yadda. Joker thrown in jail AGAIN, honestly, he's like a bad penny, he just keeps bouncing back.

Boy Wonder and I celebrated with a lovely warm jaccuzi and a glass of champers. We got a bit tiddly and I showed him my boil, but he said it was nothing to worry about. Phew, I was quite relieved!

Well, what a week I've had! I just haven't stopped, you know. What with naughty Dick scurrying off to meet strange women, being stopped for speeding (by Officer Cutey, as I like to think of him!) and getting sunburnt, I just don't know where the time went. Oh, and defeating the Joker again. Anyway, even us Superheros need to offload now and again, so thank heavens for blogging and thank heavens it's anonymous!

Blog Name: Blame it on the Weathergirl

2008-01-12T13:36:00.000Z

Whew! Just in the nick of time I’ve landed a job. Hooray for me and my general fabulousness!

The mortgage can get paid once more and I can start paying off all the debts I incurred after I wrote that autobiography. I thought I’d make a heap after alleging somebody forced themselves on me, so I got the credit card out and went mad in Ikea. Who knew that people would get pissed off and stop buying the flipping book after they realised I didn’t name names and really only included the story to shift some extra copies?

Still, at least I’m not John Leslie. I hear he's just got a council house in the colourful Oxgangs Estate in Edinburgh.

Anyway “First Magazine” have asked me to be their Agony Aunt. You know the kind of stuff; giving advice on relationships, I can expect to cover subjects as diverse as keeping marriages alive, standing by your man, not getting knocked up every five minutes, not sleeping around, stopping yourself shagging people behind their girlfriends backs and stuff. May have to do some research before I start.

Personally I think I’m perfect for the job. I mean who is more down to earth than me?

Who has more experience with life than me? Who has more kids by different fathers than me?

So I need to get in training. I thought I’d use my blog to get some practice in. Use the comments box to ask me any relationship question you want and I will answer direct at the bottom of this post.

Oh how exciting! Hopefully more people will read this blog than tuned in to watch that one woman comedy special I did a few years back...

Make sure to start your question with Dear Auntie Uli. I look forward to sorting your lives out.

**************

Asym asks:

Dear Auntie Uli,
I think radishes are just silly, but the woman next door seems to like them. Well, that's what she says every time we have sex whilst her husband is at work. What do you think?

Auntie Uli says:
Well, Asym. Have you ever considered sex with a Swedish sporting coach? You'll find that there's little time for such salad vegetable talk with someone who always has their eye on the clock. Maybe it helps if the person concerned looks a little like a radish. That would maybe make them not want to mention it too much. Whatever, are you married? Not that it matters.

Mzungu Chick asks:

Dear Auntie Uli
Do you think if I spend more time on my back with my feet in the air I may one day be as knowledgeable as you?

Auntie Uli says:
I'm assuming that you are referring to my work out video. Mmm. It's not really intended to improve your brain power I must admit. However it is a big seller amongst middle aged men apparently so I can only assume my thrusts provide inspiration to thousands of red-faced, out of breath men in a mid-life crisis.

Asym Asks:

Who is this Swedish woman and does she have big tits?

Auntie Uli says:

I am unaware of any other women. Sorry.

Out of a Bottle Asks:

Dear Auntie Uli
I never seen to meet any nice men... Can you recommend anything to me, other than night classes?

Auntie Uli says:

Why Bottle, This is easy. First get yourself signed up as host of a television show where the aim is to marry off an eligible batchelor to one of a host of beautiful girls. Then after six weeks of mindgames, tears and competitive bitchiness between the contestants, sweep in behind the backs of all the hopefuls and shag him yourself in your dressing room. Easy!

Next!

Sian asks:

Dear Auntie Uli,

Do you have any tips for keeping hold of husbands once you've married them? They just seem to slip through my fingers.

--Another Weather Girl

Auntie Uli says,

Well if it isn't my old better qualified adversary, Sian! Yes you may well ask. Keeping a man against their will can be a problem for some. Me? I've always been the chucker, not the chuckee so I really can't draw on personal experience. When I want rid, I get rid. Simple as. As for keeping them. Mmmm. Having their babies usually makes them want to hang about. Plays havoc with one's boobies though as you can see from recent photos of me. You've got to weigh up the pros and cons, really. Daddy or tits?

Blog name: Shakespeare Rules

2008-01-04T10:45:00.000Z

Busy day today, forsooth. I've been working on the new sonnet. Thus far, 'tis proceeding in a most comely fashion.

To My Lady Fair

My love, thou art as the reddest rose,
That doth sprout up from the rudest soil.
Thine lips, thine ears, thine bulbous nose
Doth convulse me to spurt forth mine lumpy oil.

Verily, I am not sure about the 'bulbous nose' part, but I must confess, I am well pleased with all other parts and hope to present it to Her Majesty upon the occasion of my next visit to the Palace.

The new play is also coming along in a most pleasing fashion. I am done with maudlin tragedies, instead I am looking now to baudy comedy for, verily, 'tis what the people do cry for and will indeed put bums on seats. Here is a snippet:

Cast:
Excretio (A gentleman of Verona)
Fistio (A ruffian)
Frottage (A lady of Paris)

Excretio: How now, my unsightly friend! Tell me whose house doth lie yonder?
Fistio: Verily, thou canst kiss my raddled cheeks, poncy one.
Excretio: But still, good man, I am bent with desire -
Fistio: Indeed. Thou art reeking of limp wristed campery.
Excretio: - For my lady, the Fair Frottage. Canst this be her house?
Frottage (from the window): Cooeee!
Fistio: What fright at yonder window croaks? 'Tis the beast, and Frottage is its name.
Excretio: Be silent, peasant. I go to lie with my lady!
Fistio: Pray sir, do nothing rash, for to be rash with yonder trollop will lead to more rashness, and indeed much scratching, forsooth.
Excretio: Fear not, I shall take precautions.
Fistio: Wise words, sir. I wouldst advise tying your leg to the bedpost.

(curtain)

Indeed, a most well rounded scene and one which, I trust, will have them falling off their seats. Well, enough dillying, to horse, to horse! So many words to fashion, only one quill! The many secrets of the wordsmith's art are mine to command, thus this blog shall remain anonymous, lest mine enemies take my words and steal them from me! Bastards!

Blog Name: Sanity Clause

2007-12-24T00:01:00.000Z

I'm getting too old for this game. Sleighs and reindeer are so last millennium nowadays, it's all one-click this and Paypal that. And have you tried lately taking a kiddy on your knee to ask what they want? The parents'll slap an ASBO on you before you can say Rudolph. There's gratitude for you!

And the things the little f***** darling angels ask for? In the olden days it was easy enough - it just took a few minutes to make a wooden hedgehog or maybe a couple of hours to knock out a painted doll. That's the beauty of leaded paint, it dries so quickly. Ah, good times!

Not any more, though. Do you know how long it takes to carve an X-Box 360 out of spruce? My little helpers have threatened to go on strike unless I cut their hours, and that means bringing in even more staff. At this rate I'll have to start taking on polar bears, and it's a bitch training them to stop eating the glacier mints.

Thank God this blog's anonymous, if anyone found out I've lost the CDs with the names, addresses and burglar alarm disable codes of all the good kiddies in the world, I'd be demoted back to elf in no time!

Blog Name: So Seuss Me!

2007-12-21T10:28:00.000Z

I was walking one day in the Land of Blog,
With a paper bag and a big brown dog,
When I noticed a quite funny thing, A blog of blogs
With a cheeky sting

“A blog?” said the dog with a big wide grin,
"A blog?" said a frog who had just popped in.

“Yes” said I ,
“I just don’t know,
How they’ve not be hauled ,
to court,
By now”

They’ve slagged off Posh and they’ve slagged off Becks,
They’ve poked fun at Stingo’s tantric sex,
They’ve dealt with the drama of big brother,
That Camilla blog caused regal bother!

Poor Amy Winehouse was a hoot,
I believe the media followed suit,
They’re going to hell,
We can but hope,
They’ve done Jesus, Satan and the Pope!

Poor Britney asked to be included,
Jacko’s sounding quite deluded,
Hang on lets examine this properly,
They can’t miss out Pete Docherty!

Those pesky bloggers,
Every one,
Appear to have had litigious fun,
Said the frog, "Who's next for a cutting jibe?”
"Dunno” said the dog,
“But I’ll subscribe!”

A blog of blogs,
A sea of bloggers,
A seeming bunch of cheeky buggers,
Anonymous this blog must be,
“No no, you’re dead,
You’re copyright free!”

Merry Christmas and many thanks to all the wonderful contributors to and readers of "People Who Don't Blog But Should" in 2007!

Blog Name: Ike; Beat Master

2007-12-13T18:38:00.000Z

Vacancy:

Most hated man in music.

Enquire Within.

Blog Name: Icke - Truth Warrior

2007-12-13T17:03:00.000Z

I used to be a world class footballer. I used to be a TV presenter. Now I am a warrior of the Light, fighting for Truth against the evil Illuminati and their foul followers, who seek to enslave mankind.

In this blog I shall attempt to explain how this horrifying conspiracy began, why the Illuminati are seeking to control us all, how they manipulate governments and world banks, and why everything you see around you is an illusion.

When you hear the truth you will be stunned, as I was. My neighbour, he heard the truth the other day. I told him while I was putting the bin out. He did not want to listen but I insisted. He found it hard to accept the awful things I told him, about how the British royal family is descended from iguanas, how Hollywood and the movie industry is controlled by lesbian cockroaches, how tin foil is your only defense against herpes. All of these things he had never dreamed of. But in the end he heard, he listened, and even as his wife beat me over the head with a frying pan whilst screaming for the police, he UNDERSTOOD.

My life is constantly in danger from those who would stop me, who would snuff out the beacon of light that is David Icke. A few days ago, as I went into the supermarket, an assassin tried to murder me! It was one of THEM, the Illuminati, disguised as an old crone. It thrust a shopping trolley at me, leering and gibbering with hatred, but thanks to my superhuman reflexes honed by years of world class athletic prowess, I was able to leap aside. I was hoping that in its disappointment it would lose its human shape and revert to its true self, a kind of hideous orange banana shape with bandy legs, a bit like that bloke who used to do the funny walks on those sunday evening variety shows. What was his name... Anyway, not important. Oh yeah, Max Wall. He was rubbish, he was. Bugger, lost me thread now... Oh yeah, so off went the ENEMY, dribbling and cackling, obviously planning the next attempt on my life, leaving me to nip in for the cabbage and sprouts like nothing had happened!

I have written many books on this conspiracy, I have given many lectures, and always I am asked the same questions. Am I mad? Can it really be true? Is Prince Charles really an iguana who can lick his own arse? The answer is YES, because I am MAD with hatred for these monsters, I am speaking the TRUTH and Prince Charles does nothing BUT lick his own arse.

So, now you want to know what you can do. How can you protect yourself from these vermin? The answer is, give me MONEY via the usual channels (no cheques please) and I will work tirelessly to spend it. On defeating these SCUM who would destroy us all, who would defecate on the doorstep of history and urinate through the letterbox of civilization.

And now I must rest. To protect my life, this blog must be anonymous, so keep it to yourself, unless you know some rich people who might be interested in donating. Or buying some books or DVDs of my lectures. Or the tee shirt. It's lined with tin foil to block interstellar thought waves (a bit itchy but you get used to it).

Blog name: Pamela - Hollywood Superstar

2007-12-04T11:50:00.001Z

Hi, my name is Pamela Anderson and I am a serious actress who lives in LA, which is in America. Hi to all my fans around the world who are reading this, which is my blog, what I have written and what is all about me, Pamela Anderson.

Right now, you know, I am writing my own script for a new movie by me, which will be called “Romeo and Prejudice” which is like a combination of my two favourite stories, and it's all about this famous actress who is the best in Hollywood but she spends her spare time healing the sick, and then she meets this amazing guy who is totally cool and teaches rock guitar to blind children and together they get chased by these guys who are trying to build a nuclear bomb and destroy California, but they escape and stop the bomb just at the last minute and they end up getting married on a cliff top in Hawaii as the sun goes down, and she looks just amazing in a sort of kimono outfit which is, like, Japanese, and he just looks gorgeous in his tuxedo and they kiss and that's the end.

I am hoping to get Tom Cruise to play the lead because he is so cool and I don't care how short he is, or maybe Mel Gibson which would be OK because I'm not Jewish. I went to see my agent yesterday to talk about the movie and he is totally behind me, he is so funny though because he kept asking about the sex scenes and telling me to put more in and I said no, this is a romance, you know? Then he showed me a script what he said is so perfect for me and it was called “Ass Busters IV” and he said it was a comedy and I said it sounded more like a porn flick and he said no way, as if. Well, I read that script and I got up to page 15 and so far it's all sex, so I don't know, I mean the script only has 17 pages.

Anyway, I am so busy at the moment, what with my work for this great charity called “StarGrope” which is so cool, they find dirty old tramps and they make them swear to lay off the booze and drugs, and if they stay clean for a month they get to grope my boobs. It does take a while to really work, I mean, I do see the same old faces every month, again and again, but you know I like to do whatever I can to help out.

Well, busy old me has to get moving again! Time to stop writing this blog and head off to the beauty parlour, then the mall for a little shopping, then the clinic to get a little air pumped into the left hand one because it's slipping again. I think those tramps get a little over excited and don't know when to stop groping, but don't tell them I said that, so let's keep this blog anonymous, huh? Ciao!

Blog Name: Prophet and Loss

2007-12-03T19:59:00.000Z

It's not fair, I'm the victim in this. There I was, happy just to do my job, thinking I was giving them a purpose in life. How was I to know that purpose was to stab me in the back?

I mean, obviously I knew something was up, I may not have been in this job for long but you know when your charges have got something up their sleeves.

"Oh, Miss", says little Mohammed, smirking away like the Cheshire Fucking Cat, "I've got a good idea. All you have to do is go along with it." And all the others are behind him, laughing away at their little secret.

How was I to know it was against the law? Am I supposed to pick up on every piddling little piece of local legislation right from day one? Someone could have told me, should have told me.

And now I'm virtually unemployable. Lucky to get away without my head ending up on a pointed stick outside the Palace.

Conniving bastards. Just because they all hate women.

Thank God this blog's anonymous, I'm keeping this for my memoirs. Got to earn a living somehow.

Blog Name: Sweet FA

2007-11-23T08:40:00.000Z

And so my work is done.

It was all so simple. Pretend to be English for 40-odd years - easy enough when you spend all of your working life coaching in their top league. Of course, Fergie was in on it the whole time, letting me be his "assistant" for a few years so that everyone thought I knew what I was doing.
I mean how much more obvious did we have to make it - McLaren?! It's hardly a typical English name. And my wonderful red hair - did nobody cotton on that it was more Lanark than London?

Anyway, once I'd weasled my way in with Sven and got the England assistant job (that was an easy one - set Eriksson up with a couple of birds and told him I could get him the Man Utd job when Fergie leaves) it was just a case of biding my time until I got the chance to screw the England squad up good and proper.

The first task was to convince them that all they had to do to win matches was turn up. When you're dealing with people like Gerrard and Lampard, this isn't too much work. But then the cunning bit started - telling Gerrard to play in front of the defence, pushing Joe Cole out wide, dropping Beckham. I figured that if the players didn't know what the hell they were doing, it would make things a little bit easier.

And it worked so well. But someone forgot to tell Israel, and they almost buggered it up for everyone. So I had to get ingenious.

A Scottish consortium of Fergie, Gordon Brown and Alan Hansen (our three leading undercover agents) chipped in to make sure that England's entire defence was injured ahead of the Croatia game. Wembley's owners didn't take much convincing to hold an American Football match on the pitch ahead of the Croatia game either - they'll sell anything to anyone.

And then came my master stroke - dropping the only good keeper and putting in an untested guy for a must-not-lose match. I thought some people might be a bit suspicious of that one, but no-one batted an eyelid.

From then it was just a case of standing in the rain with my brolly doing the Daily Record sudoku. Just to rub it in, I've spent a truckload of their cash having my teeth done and taking a holiday in California just before the Austria game. Mugs.

And so my work is done.

The consortium was hoping that the FA would go for an all-English dream team of Gazza and John Barnes to replace me, but I don't think even THEY'LL be that daft. But have no fear comrades - Messrs O'Neill, Capello, Scolari and Mourinho have all been briefed. Project "Screw The England National Team Up Good and Proper" will remain on course.

Thank God this blog is anonymous.

Blog Name: Nigella Swallows

2007-11-19T12:18:00.000Z

Hello there, you know, being a busy working mother with young children who is totally average and normal, I like to keep my recipes simple and average and normal, like me. So today, I just need to flutter my eyelashes at the camera and wiggle my huge breasts before telling you how to make a lovely old spanish recipe I discovered whilst on a totally normal and average summer holiday, hot air ballooning over the arabian desert. Prior to spending a couple of months in the Seychelles.

Anyway, just a quick pout of my full and luscious lips before tweaking those nipples and telling you how to prepare this very average and normal dish which I like to call “cheese on toast”. Now, before we begin, you have to imagine the camera zooming in on my pendulous breasts as I bend over to get the bread out of my normal fridge which is actually big enough to sleep four. In fact, it has it's own postal code. But then doesn't everyone have enormous fridges like this?

So, time to lick your index finger before sliding it gently inside your knickers, like I often do whilst cooking. Having done that, get some cheese and cut off a few slices. If you don't have any cheese, don't worry, simply send out the maid to get some, or else contact the estate manager and tell him to get one of the farmhands to start churning some up for you.

While that's going on, you've got time to flutter those long, lustrous eyelashes and run your fingers lightly over your neck before trailing them down into the shadowed valley between your superb breasts, which should now be heaving ever so slightly as your pulse rises.

The next step is to fetch the bread from the larder. Now if you're normal and average like me, then your larder will be somewhere in the east wing, a good ten minutes walk away. So why not save time by getting the butler to fetch it, which gives you a few minutes to rub your moist crutch against the worktop.

Well, nearly finished! All that remains is to put the cheese on top of the bread and bend over, exposing your pert bottom to the camera, while you put the bread and cheese under the grill. There, time now to open that bottle of Moet and knock back a well-earned glass of champers. Don't forget to moan slightly as the camera man zooms in on your mouth, while you run your tongue over your full and luscious lips before seductively downing the champagne.

There you have it! A lovely old spanish dish, very simple, very seductive, can be enjoyed at any time of the day, or just rubbed over your breasts for the film crew to lick off. Wonderful. Mind you, don't tell my husband, so let's keep this blog anonymous, hmm?

Dec on Ant

2007-11-12T21:47:00.000Z

Ant is definately the mastermind in this outfit. Just look at the size of his forehead - massive, it is! No, wait. Is that me? I always have trouble remembering which of us is which. Hang on...no, he's always the one on my right.

Anyway, it was aal his idea, the big Geordie twat. Rippin' off the poor viewers and spending aal their hard-earned cash on wor lavish lifestyle - two bottles of Newkie each when we go to see Newcastle United play.

He's always been like that, y'kna. Even We're On The Ball was fake - that wasn't us singin' at aal, it was really recorded by Chas & Dave.

Still, we got away with it then and we'll get away with it again. If only they knew - "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!" was prerecorded last summer in the Big Brother hoose, with a few animals thrown in from Whipsnade Zoo to make it look wild and a few plants from Hello! magazine to make it look like a sleb show!

Thank God this blog's anonymous! If ~~Dec~~ Ant found oot what ah'm sayin' aboot him, he'd have me guts for garters!

Blog Name: Ant on Dec

2007-11-11T23:30:00.000Z

Dec is definately the mastermind in this outfit. Just look at the size of his forehead - massive, it is! No, wait. That's me. I always have trouble remembering which of us is which.

Anyway, it was aal his idea, the little Geordie twat. Rippin' off the poor viewers and spending aal their hard-earned cash on wor lavish lifestyle - two pies each when we go to see Newcastle United play.

He's always been like that, y'kna. Even Let's Get Ready To Rhumble was fake - that wasn't us singin' at aal, it was really recorded by Sting.

Still, we got away with it then and we'll get away with it again. If only they knew - "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!" was prerecorded last summer in the Big Brother hoose, with a few animals thrown in from London Zoo to make it look wild and a few vegetables from Heat! magazine to make it look like a sleb show!

Thank God this blog's anonymous! If ~~Ant~~ Dec found oot what ah'm sayin' aboot him, he'd have me guts for garters!

Blog Name: Notes From Under the Blanket

2007-11-11T15:50:00.000Z

Now that I'm five I was allowed out to go trick or treating. Shoulda been great.

I spent ages getting that Werewolf costume together. Just ages. And then my dad got the guy that did his makeup for some horror video he did once- took twelve hours to get right. The teeth looked really real. I was awesome!

But could any of the neighbours see me as I stood there arms outstretched and shouting “Trick or treat” in the scariest possible way?

No they bloody couldn’t.

Blog Name: Auntie Hannibal

2007-11-06T16:08:00.000Z

Well hello and welcome to my blog. Sit back and relax... there, that's better. It's so important to relax the muscles, it stops them getting too... tough. Gristly, even.

Now, let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter, currently on the run from the police for several murders and cannibalism. However, i am trying to put those little episodes behind me and concentrate on my new life as a celebrity agony aunt. I feel that with my extensive experience of the human mind, both in and out of the cranial cavity, I am well positioned to offer advice on all manner of emotional issues.

For instance, in my postbag this week i have a note from Jeff in Iowa, who is racked with guilt after sleeping with his own sister, instead of attending his banjo lessons. Jeff, trust me, there's no shame in this at all. Lots of people play the banjo. And as for your sister, you should have her for dinner. I mean, invite her over, for dinner, so you can chew the fat and get to the meat of the problem. But please keep it low key – there's no need to grill her.

I have also received a plea for help from Sharon in New Mexico who thinks she is seriously overweight. Sharon, please don't fret. Boys like the larger girls. They like to have something to get their teeth into. When i was a young man i went out with a hugely fat girl, until I realised that I had bitten off more than I could chew and decided to put everything on ice.

Finally, a few words of consolation for Ken who worries that he is boring and that no one loves him. Ken, surely there is someone who would be happy to baste you in the juices of their love and stuff you with the sweet chestnuts of compassion before sliding you into a soft, cosy bed of mixed vegetables? Can't you feel their love, warming you all over and leaving you glowing and... crispy.

Well, enough blogging, i really must get on. Time to pop out to the kitchen to see if the plumber is done. I mean finished. Mending the sink. Oh dear, I'm lucky this blog is anonymous.

Blog Name: Tess of the Derbyshire-hills

2007-11-01T20:23:00.000Z

There is summat right luvley about being a northern lass on tv. It doesn't matter what a vacuous clothes horse I am, some people will always mistake my flattened vowels for actually having a personality! How good is that? I used to be a model, you know, but that doesn’t mean that I’m talentless. Goodness me, no!! I have a magnificent pair of breasts and I can read out loud, sometimes without even making a mistake. That takes quite a bit of practice you know.

And a stage school education.

You would never guess that I grew up in the countryside would you? I know! You really can’t believe it can you??! Heaven knows, if I had kept that dreadful habit of slamming my fists on my ample hips like a farmer's wife and wagging my chubby finger at people I would never work with in TV again! No, to be a model-turned-TV presenter, you do need a degree of sophistication, darling, but I was lucky enough to find some in that there London village.

The lovely man who did my photos – he thought I had really marvelous breasts, by the way – told me that one day I could be a model-turned-actress, but I don't have ideas beyond my station. That would be ridiculous for a humble lass like me from oooooop t’t’t’t’t north. I know my place…..ideally presenting barrel scraping pap on prime time TV with a co-star who has just a slightly higher cringe factor then me. It's a skill.

You need a certain degree of flexibility to present the kind of tedium that I specialise in, and I thank the lord that I can be as flexible as they come: my hair does either poker straight or bouncing curls and my breasts look bloody marvelous in either a plunging neckline or a tight little top. There aren't many fluffy blondes who can say the same thing. No sir, sometimes I feel very grateful to be me.

When I met my luvley husband I just couldn't believe my luck: dishy but bland, another model-turned-TV presenter, comedy northern accent and a personality that made even me look interesting….we really are a match made in heaven, or at the very least a match made in Bolton.

It's a vicious rumour that whilst at Jonathan Ross's house for dinner he rang his wife in the States to ask her advice on how to get rid of us, he was so mind-numbingly bored. That was just a funny story he used in his radio show! How we both laughed! It is a shame that we forgot to defrost the frozen Sara Lee gateaux we had brought for pudding, but I do think Jonathan made rather too much of it. Any simple person could have made a simple mistake like that. I think Jonathan rather liked my magnificent tits though.

Gosh, I appear to have drawn rather a lot of attention towards my stupendous breasts! Good job this blog is anonymous.

This was posted on behalf of a secret poster who really would like to remain anonymous...'citing, eh? (who could it be? Jonathan Ross? Brucie? Vernon?)

Blog Name: Lee on Lee

2007-10-30T16:39:00.000Z

I am today reminded of the time I spent in New Zealand with those young lads that played the Hobbits as the youngsters arrive at my door for their Halloween treats. Ahh memories that stay with me still.

“Tell us stories of your time as Dracula” the young actors would whine all huddled round me every waking hour.

But I would wave them away, “You’re too young. Too green. I could tell you stories but you’d never be able to sleep afterwards, my boys.”

“Then tell us stories of all them orgies in the Wicker Man and all the naked women” they’d insist.

“My dear young fellows, that kind of story is for men, not boys like you. Come back when you are older. You wouldn’t understand.” I would say, looking at their disappointed little faces.

But they’d go on, insisting I regale them of my mastery of the craft and my life as a thespian. They’d hang about my trailer waiting for scraps of genius to fall from my table, hoping to grasp the secret of my longevity and success.

But I send them away and they’d seek solace in the pub with the rest of the cast where they all tried to get off with Liv Tyler. Yes they wanted me there, I know deep down; too scared to ask me to come in case I declined. In awe of me, probably.

But I’m beyond all that hanging out with the cast type nonsense. I’m a professional you see. And they respected that. That’s why they never asked.

And if this blog wasn’t anonymous I’d mention the name cheeky young Hobbit bastard that stuck a condom to the hem of my white cloak before I went on set and challenged McKellen to pick it off unseen with his staff whilst filming that fight scene. Bloody stage school bastards. And where is he now, eh??? Where IS that snivelling little curly haired midget NOW?

Blog Name: Leo of Vinci

2007-10-23T10:33:00.001+01:00

Another god-damned day on the painting. That useless bitch, she won't keep still. I say to her, 'keep still, stop with the scratching', but no, first it's a one hand, then it's a both hands, scratch and fucking scratch again. She says it's the plague, I tell her, 'fuck the plague, keep still or you gonna be wearing this god-damned portrait'. It's a no use, I tell you, i'm a seriously thinking about going back to the inventing stuff.

I mean, I was doing good with the inventions. I had fantastic inventions. I make pictures of tanks and helicopters and submarines, all that and no fucker even know what i'm a saying, this stuff don't even have words yet and I inventing it all over. I sit down to breakfast, pow, right there, I invent a birth control device, right there on the napkin. I go sit on the toilet, pow, right there I invent a machine for wiping my ass. I tell you, this is all good stuff, I go and tell Ludovico Il Moro, I say, 'Hey, you want something invented? I got here a machine for wiping my ass'. He say, 'Get the fuck out of my throne room'. I tell you, the man is a moron. Also, he's ugly, I mean, when that fucker was born, the nurse slapped his momma, you hear what i'm saying?

Well, so we got a renaissance going on here in Italy at the moment, I gotta tell you, we're leading the whole god-damned world in all kinds of stuff. I mean, we're living in the big houses with the plumbing. So you say, 'Yeah Leo, so what's the big deal?' Listen, I tell you what the big deal is, you go spend a week in that shithole up north, that England place, I tell you, their idea of plumbing is a god-damned hole in the floor, you wanna take a leak, you piss through the hole, on a good day you don't hit no one in the street. You wanna take a dump, you check the air temperature, if it's too cold you don't even drop your trousers. I tell you, the whole god-damned country smells like a whore's laundry basket.

Anyway, I gotta go, I gotta finish that god-damned painting. Not that i'll ever get to sell it, that bitch moved around so much it's all lop-sided and I forgot to put in the god-damned eyebrows. Still, who gives a fuck, it keeps me off the streets and it's anonymous, just like this blog, ok?

Blog Name: Lucky Heather

2007-10-22T22:57:00.000+01:00

Well as ye all na, it’s gone tits up. Well I was warned he was a reet tight get.

“Pay up”, I says through me barrister, like. “Fifty mill or I spill the beans in Penthouse. The drinking, the beating, the hairdye, the stinginess-all of it. And I’ll get my tits oot just to show ye up!”

And ye na I will; I’m still on the payroll from all those nudey shots I did before!”

And I tell you, he makes that Beatles face. You na the one; the “Oooooh!” one. Does yer bloody head in, that. I tell you if I see that one more time, or the flippin’ thumbs aloft thing, I’ll take his bloody auburn "Just for Men" head off! With me leg, if I have to.”

So I says to him, “ I don’t know why ye look so shocked, pet. If I was still on the game, you’d owe me that much anyway, ye tight git. It’s loss of earnings.”

And he takes out his calculator. Can you believe it? “Based on what rate, £50 mill a shag?” he says.

“No, you daft bastard. I’m not talking about the time after we were married. I’m talking about all the times BEFORE we were wed.”

And that’s when he walked out.

So the whole story then..any offers? Highest bidder. Give Max a call and he'll sort it.

As for anonymity; Heather Mill's McCartney doesn't do nowt without some cameras present, so to hell with anonymity!

Blog Name: The Little Red Blog

2007-10-16T22:33:00.000+01:00

Well it appears I’ve won a poll of some kind. Wow! I can’t believe it! I've never won a thing in my life; not an election, not that war against the Japanese, not the battle against receding hairline.

Well I suppose you can count the hearts and minds of millions of my people. I won them. Yes, I did. Well...OK... I kind of cheated at that, I suppose looking back. It wasn’t really winning as much as taking people who didn’t like me away from their families and having them severely beaten with big sticks.

So, in summary; no, never really won anything. So thanks. Means a lot.

So I suppose I take this chance to give a speech. It just so happens I have one prepared in my Little Red Book ™.

Chew on these nuggets of Commie gold:

“Every Communist must grasp the truth; 'Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.'"
(I see that nice Mr Putin is carrying the torch in that department. Nice work. Poison gas? Shoulda thought of that...)

“The seizure of power by armed force, the settlement of the issue by war, is the central task and the highest form of revolution. This Marxist-Leninist principle of revolution holds well universally, for China and for all other countries.”
(I am sooo going to email that one to George Bush; he is going to shit himself that he’s a Commie!)

“We are advocates of the abolition of war, we do not want war; but war can only be abolished through war, and in order to get rid of the gun it is necessary to take up the gun.”
(Yeah, I was pissed when I wrote that. I can admit that now.)

Thank God I’m dead and this blog is anonymously ghost-written or else Chinese Communism would collapse. Hang on.. excuse me, I'm getting a call. What? Whaaaaaaa???

Blog Name: Ming The Merciless

2007-10-16T20:53:00.000+01:00

Shower of bastards. Just because I'm 102, I'm not good enough to be gang leader any more.

Shower of bastards. Any time anything interesting happens, all the drones decide that it's too risky, and kick out the interesting people.

Shower of bastards - it happened to Paddy. The first time in history that one of us admitted having ever had sex, and he had to go. All he did was shag his secretary - and who hasn't done that now and again?

Shower of bastards. Charlie takes the odd drink or seventeen, and suddenly he's "drinking too much". Christ on a bike - he's Scottish - there's no such thing as too much.

Shower of bastards. Just when we get a Prime Minister more boring than all of our lot put together, I'm "too old" at 102. Just because I'm three times as old as that jumped-up little Tory twat, I can't be the gang leader any more.

Shower of bastards. Fuck the lot of them. I'm setting up a new gang. No such thing as too old. No such thing as too much drink. Shagging secretaries will be a requirement of all members. So far I've got Gazza, who'll be my Home Secretary; Jade Goody, who'll be ideal as Foreign Secretary; Callum Best will be Education Secretary and David Blunkett will be Health Secretary. That'll show them.

Shower of bastards. Thank God this blog's anonymous.

Blog name: Prince of Wails

2007-10-15T10:05:00.000+01:00

It is at this time of the year that one's thoughts turn to the festive season. I can well remember the marvellous family Christmases that we used to have at Balmoral. Dear Nanny would bring us children into the library and introduce us to to Mummy and Daddy. Mummy would inquire after our health and then examine our fetlocks for signs of withering. Daddy would jokingly claim not to know us and make such a big fuss, demanding to know why Nanny had brought 'filthy street urchins' into the house. How we laughed.

Now, of course, one has children of one's own and one thoroughly enjoys the festive season as never before. Darling Squidgy Cheeks and I simply love shopping to buy gifts for the boys. William has always liked music, so last year we got him the best of the Sugar Babes, for five days, on an island in the Bahamas. Harry, of course, loves all things military so last year we rented a small village from our great friend, Sheik Al-Opecia, who also supplied a few dozen troops and some heavy artillery. Harry had simply the best time, blowing things up and machine-gunning the few natives dim enough to stay behind.

As for Squidgy Cheeks and I, we love the simple things. As I always say to my friends, Mr Potato and Bertie Begonia, Christmas is all about giving. Darling Squidgy Cheeks, for instance, gave me a personal organiser. Unfortunately, I had to sack her because she was quite rude to Mr and Mrs Cactus. It's the thought that counts though, which was why, in return, I gave Squidgy Cheeks a damned good seeing to, up the hay loft.

Christmas, of course, is also about remembering, and especially those who are no longer with us. I shall be lifting a glass on Christmas Day in memory of Diana, and also in her memory, Squidgy Cheeks shall be modeling a rather saucy landmine detection outfit, which consists of a very tight little flak jacket, a highly polished helmet and not much else. In this way we shall pay our own special tribute to Diana, the People's Princess and a woman so frightfully frigid that a light came on every time she opened her mouth.

Well, time to stop writing and get on. I can't leave Squidgy Cheeks bent over the piano for ever. It only remains for one to say, thank heavens this blog is anonymous...

Blog Name: Clever Little Katy

2007-10-10T15:23:00.000+01:00

Apart from being an, in no way nauseating, world class beauty, intellect, singer, piano player and family favourite, I am quite the poet.

It is the lyrics in my songs of which I am most proud. They display my enormous precocious intelligence. I look at my body of work and compare myself to John Keats who like me did his best work as a young person and who, unlike me, had the good grace to end it all by committing suicide in his early twenties.

“There are 9 million bicycles in Beijing”.
Yes, I Iove that; that’s one of my favourites. I read it on a coaster in a hotel bar in Torquay and it just struck me as being so profound.

Of course now that there are a potential 9 million cars ready to be shipped over the Beijing for the Chinese to use up all the world’s oil, I think my song becomes even more poignant, losing whatever triteness it once might have had. In that way I see myself as being like the young Friedrich Nietzsche because he was dead clever too. He also had trouble with some facts, not actually knowing for a fact that was illegal to sleep with your sister or that it’s morally wrong to suggest that any race is better than another. Just like me not being able to get the statistic right about how many bikes there actually are in Beijing.

In my current hit I sing about nailing my lover to the floor, mainly because it rhymes with "door", but mostly because it is empowering for women, and in that way I’m a lot like the young Simone de Beauvoir, except I’m a lot prettier.

“We are 12 billion light-years from the edge. That's a guess — no-one can ever say it's true, but I know that I will always be with you.”
This is an example of me being really intellectual with lots of spacey science-y stuff . I went with this because I was worried that after the completely vacuous lyrics of “The Closest Thing to Crazy” people might think I was a bit dim. I am often misunderstood as being a stage school pain in the arse, brat, but in that way I’m a bit like my mentor and co-songwriter Mike Batt, because folk think he’s a wombling, irritating, little, jingle writing twat . And he’s really not.

There are nine million blogs to parody
That’s a fact,
Yes it’s true,
But thank the Lord that mine’s anonymous
Or else my little stage school ass would sue!

Truly, Madeley, Deeply...

2007-10-06T11:04:00.000+01:00

So. Coming up now, we have a fantastic new feature, in fact you could say features, plural, as in a face, namely my face, meaning me! You see, I meant my own features being featured... what? Yes, Jude, shush. No, no I didn't just butt in. Yes I know we're still counting the votes for this week's blog, but it doesn't matter. We're featuring me this week so here I am. By the way folks, even though we've already picked the winner, of course your votes still count so keep sending 'em in!! (usual charges apply.) Anyway, I'm the winner so here I am.

We were just saying to the kids, weren't we Jude, how well I've done in my career. When we got together, Jude, we never imagined how well I would do, did we Jude? Myself and Judy started a good many years ago - I know, I don't look it, haha! - in, um, where was it Jude? Yes, thanks, shush - The North, that's right, yes. Just local reporters in the North. I remember Shakin Stevens just couldn't get enough of me! What Jude? Was that before we met? Well it doesn't matter. Shush. Pretty soon it was noticed how hip and cool I was so we got into the big time national stuff.

It's good this, isn't it? It's like standing on top of a lighthouse looking over the waving fields of my career, isn't it? And you're the moon Jude. Do your moon. Not that kind of moon, obviously. You know, when you smile like the moon in that film, but you don't get a rocket in your eye! Yes you do. You know. The moon. Remember? Well it doesn't matter. Anyway.

Obviously everyone remembers me from the work we did for years at This Morning. Let's have a clip. We do have a clip, don't we? Yes we do, there's a clip. A clip of my bits. We do enjoy looking at my bits, don't we Jude? We don't have a clip? OK, doesn't matter, doesn't matter.
We made some classic television up there in Liverpool. So good in fact that we moved to London so we could do it properly. The ratings maybe weren't quite so good, but hey, that's good isn't it? We were more hip, underground and even a bit dangerous. We were even on Channel 4! The kids loved us. Not our kids, although obviously they did. Our two were always saying how cool I was weren't they Jude? Yes they were. Yes, they were. Anyway, doesn't matter. Not just our kids thought I was cool, I mean THE kids. Y'know, the youngsters. They even started to copy my hairstyle when I got it cut spiky like kids do. They copied that.

And now we share our time with Paul, who's a transvestite. That's right, isn't it? He dresses up like a woman. Well yes, OK, he used to. But he still is one, isn't he? He wants to be a woman. He does doesn't he? Well why does he dress like one then? Is that the same as being gay then? Oh really, is he? Well that's great. Really, that's cool. And he is cool, really funny. I just don't see why he gets half of our time though, that's all. It's not fair, but that's great. Maybe I'll dress as a woman for a show. I'm great at dressing up. Remember my Ali G? Of course, everyone does. As someone said, it was 'beyond parody'. That's great.

Is that all we've got time for? OK, doesn't matter. Roll the titles. Only without any names. Because this blog is anonymous, isn't it Jude? Jude?

Blog Name: Being A Prime Minister's Wife: Buy the Book

2007-10-03T13:20:00.000+01:00

I don’t want to give anything away but the book is going to dish some serious dirt. On you know who. Yes, Mr Personality.

I mean, I don’t want to put the boot in or anything but he never once accepted any gifts from any media moguls. How rude is that? Statesman like? Ha! I don't think so! A most serious threat to international relations, actually. Something Tony can never be accused of being.*

And he never once accepted an invitation to Cliff Richard’s house in Antigua. Snubbing a national icon, outrageous! Bet he wouldn't do that to Sean Connery!

And when Berlusconi tried to give him stockmarket tips, he just snorted. Embarrassing. I could’ve died. Luckily, Tessa Jowell stepped in and saved the day.

And he would work the weekends and evenings. I mean what was he up to? Saving electricity at home, I’ll bet. You know what they say about the Scots. Robbing from the public purse via increased government heating bills cos he’s too mean to pay his own. Thieving Scottish bastard.

And then he would be in at work during the four month summer recess. You know what that says to me? Not working enough during Parliamentary session; can’t need a break or five. Or he was stealing stationery, I dunno.

Ugh! And that wife of his. No guru, no stylist, never takes free designer clothes! I mean, doesn’t she take her duties seriously? Lazy cow.

Anyway, it’s all here, in the book. (£25.99 from all good bookstores) That time he growled at Carol Kaplan when she tried to give him a free smiling lesson, the time he refused to use the Chancellor’s country pile (a tax dodge if ever I heard one) even though the rest of us were putting hours in, and the time he made Peter Mandelson cry by calling him a waste of public money.

Oh yes, they’ll look back on the day he took over and rue the day!

Obviously this blog is anonymous, me being a judge and all that. And also there's no money in blogging. (Unless you talk about doing it a lot)

PS: (Buy the book! We need to buy our own holiday home, and that bloke that got me my son’s flat in Bristol has got a bargain lined up)

* Except that one thing...but that's someone else's problem now.

Blog Name: Spice for Sale!

2007-10-01T22:10:00.000+01:00

Isn't it amazing? Really, when you think about how life can throw all these challenges at you, and you can either sink or swim, fight or give up, lie down or stand up, or eat, it's really amazing how well I have survived.

After I outgrew the Spice Girls (still love them!!! Girl power!!!) I was like a little seal cub floating on a bit of ice with cameras all over me and millions of fans floating around me like hysterical bits of wooden wreckage. And when you find yourself floating on a bit of ice surrounded by crying wood, you need to really reach deep within yourself with a spiritual kind of deepness and find a big friendly polar bear who knows about the quicksand of immense fame to come along and show you where the cameras are.

So I found a deeply spiritual polar bear in my great friend GeorgeMichael, and let him in to my MAD! world so we could help each other. And I made it through the desert with my polar bear as he led me safely out of the burning building and back on to the lifeboat. Not that I needed a man to do that for me, but I couldn't have done it without one. Girl Power!

Yes it is sad to see how GeorgeMichael's career has crashed without me beside him, but really I had to think about myself for a change and had to set him free from my crazy world. But I like to think that I have left him with a small piece of me forever. Although he could never get the hang of the 'humming bird resting on a lotus flower' position (men just can't bend that way - girl power!) he was extremely quick to master the art of meditation. All I had to do was even just begin to speak to him and he would be off! And when he meditated, nothing could snap him out of it! And of course he still has this gift that I shared with him to this day.

As SimonManager used to say to me when I started the band, I have a duty to share my gifts.

So last year I gave a gift to the whole world. Perhaps the most special gift a girl can give. A baby. The pure joy, the innocent pureness, and pure simple innocent joy and beautiful happiness that I have given is quite simply amazing. And beautiful. The pure innocent love that I see in the eyes of the world when they see the simple innocent gift that I have given to it is simply amazing. But the amazingly pure thing about giving gifts for me is that I just can't stop!

So after watching the other Spice Girls (love you girls!!!) struggle so much after I outgrew them, I finally decided not to have any more solo hits and lead them to greatness once again like a polar bear. So yes, Girl Power is back! We'll be climbing back on the horse and really making this machine fly!

Please come and see us. Tickets will be available at the usual outlets, booking fees may apply and yes, men can come too! Girl power!

This blog's anonymous? Who would want to be anonymous???

Blog Name: Take Tat!

2007-10-01T19:24:00.000+01:00

Like the new look? Pretty cool, eh? Courtesy of our new sponsors, M&S. Poor Gary thought the deal was with M&Ms, but there'll be no sugar-coated chocolate treats for him! He told me, "Mark, you can model the kids' sizes," so I said he could do the Fat Bastard size. That shut him up, the cheeky twat!

Hey, what about Jason and the other one? What do they look like, eh? They're like a couple of monkeys dressed up for a chimps' tea party! The dry-cleaning's going to cost a fortune once they start break-dancing in those outfits.

Pity Robbie's not here, he really knows how to wear a suit, but he's got a pretty full schedule fighting the paps, groping teenagers and licking David Beckham's arse.

Thank fook this blog's anonymous! Otherwise I'd be back in the jungle eating kangaroo balls.

Blog Name: The G Word

2007-09-24T22:42:00.000+01:00

People often ask me, “Gordon, what the fuck are you doing hanging out with the Beckhams?”

“Is it a swinging thing?” they ask.

As if. Even David tries to get out of that one these days. Christ, have you seen her; she’s like a shaved whippet.

The truth is I can’t fucking stand the pair of them, but I had to do something to up the profile ever since Jamie used the C word on telly. Why the fuck did I not think of that? So fucking obvious. Devious Mockney bastard. I could lose everything; the book sales, the telly programmes, the restaurants. Everything.

The classic Ramsay effin and jeffin wasn’t cutting the ice it used to.

What could I do since he’d used a c*nt?

Well the answer’s obvious, isn’t it?

Use two.

Oh shut up, I don’t give a fuck if this blog’s anonymous.

Blog Name: I Should Be So Lucky

2007-09-24T22:36:00.001+01:00

What a weekend I have had! Six hours sitting between Louis, who bats for the other side and farts like a trooper, and Simon, who fancies the girls almost as much as himself. Helllll-oooooo??? Eye-candy calling!

And as for the acts? Oh, pur-lease! Jumping around like wallabies, forgetting their lines, howling like dingoes, with no stage presence at all, and all of them utterly convinced that they're the next Dannii Minogue. Don't they know anything?

It takes more than just a glitzy outfit, a pop princess for a sister and a squeaky voice to make it in showbusiness, let me tell you. You also have to sleep with any number of agents, record producers, PR gurus, DJs and anyone else you can get your leg over.

And as for those allegations that people only come to my shows on the off-chance that Kylie might make a surprise guest appearance, I'd like to know who the allegators are. I don't expect those visits, I totally rely on them.

Thank God this blog's anonymous!

Blog Name: Toxic Girl

2007-09-20T15:45:00.001+01:00

It takes two to Shuffle My Truffle, Honey

Lord! What's a girl gotta do to get satirised on this blog, already?

I've married a bloke for half an hour, I've shaved my hair off, I've done the rehab thing like you wouldn't believe, I've showed my butt I don't know how many times and now I've royally fucked my career sideways at the VMA awards.

I mean I can understand no record company wanting to touch me, but THIS BLOG? You gotta be kidding me!

Hell, I'm MADE for this blog, honey.

Helloooo? Helloooo? Anybody?

Blog Name: I'm Just Being Honest

2007-09-15T11:25:00.000+01:00

So, I’m thinking of getting “Call Minder” from BT. You know, it’s the thing that shows you the numbers of people who are calling you. You can check out the number and if it’s say Gareth Gates or Shane Ward then you can just let it go to voice mail. It’s a life saver.

Other news is that the restraining order from Kate Thornton is FINALLY in place. It was getting a bit much. She was turning up at all the auditions and annoying the contestants as they came out crying from the audition space shouting, “He did the same to me, you know!”.

Now, she can’t come within a 100 metre distance of me, Sharon, Danni or Dermot. And given that Dermot is in bloody everything right now, that means she pretty much can't appear on TV. Frankly I think the British public owes me a debt for that one.

Louis is quite glad of the physical contact, so he opted out of the restraining order.

The judge did give me a bit of a row though, in his summing up.

He said, “Mr Cowell, I don’t know if there’s a legal precedent for this but there surely must be a legal limit on the number of restraining orders you can have against other citizens. To date we’ve got the fat lass from Glasgow, the stuttering bloke from Yorkshire, the singing bin man, the bit of stuff that won the latest Pop Idol and numerous boy band members that claim you stole their money.

"Let this insincere, talentless bint, Thornton be the last of them”

And I said, “ I could buy and sell you” and he reluctantly had to admit that this was the case.

Anonymous? I don't do anonymous. I'm Simon Cowell.

Blog Name: Because I'm Worth It!

2007-09-12T15:15:00.000+01:00

I have this friend right who broke up with her husband after he cheated on her with a total skinny whore bitch from hell. Now, I’m just throwing it out there, but my friend wants to get the guy back as nothing seems to be working out with all the guys she’s been stalking/seeing since the break-up.

She’s really desperate as her body-clock is ticking and none of the men she’s been seeing seem to hang around longer than a few weeks, even though she is super nice to them and mentions getting married and having children and settling down and stuff. Hey they need to know she’s open to it, right?

My friend even invited the mother of her new boyfriend over to meet her after one week of dating. Super-friendly, huh? Nice of her, huh? Wife material, huh? You’d think!

Anyhoo, she needs to get her husband back in her life as he’s rightly hers anyway and she reckons he’s sick of the skinny whore now anyway as she keeps on adopting kids and he has no time to work on his fabulous abs or nothing.

She’s tried everything to get his attention; she’s been on Oprah, she’s spearheaded a media campaign against the whore, she’s dated unsuitable men, she’s even mentioned adopting children like the whore, to show him she’s just as good as her. But I tell ya, nothing’s working!

And here’s the science bit; she’s even hired a private investigator to follow him so that she knows when the whore’s not there, so that she can call him on his cell and talk about the good times. Still nothing.

Readers, what should I do to get Brad back?

Ooops, I mean what should she do to get her husband back. Thank the Lord this blog’s anonymous!

Blog Name: Look Who's Talking

2007-09-07T08:54:00.000+01:00

At the moment, I’m in San Francisco on holiday with my wife. Praise the aliens, what a town!

And this is true, I swear. I was popping out for some flowers for my wife to show her how much I love and respect her and my long-term marriage, when did I not get summoned by Xenu and taken up in his craft. What are the chances? Wow! What an honour! Me, plain old John from New Jersey sitting side by side with the master himself!

I was chatting to the master about how far we’d come since the whole Volcano being jammed with those hydrogen bombs thing, sending those Thetan particles into the host planet.

I told him of my personal journey and he promised me that if I paid him a million dollars that he would let me into the ultimate secret. But first I had to go and round up as many able bodied men as I could to build an army of Scientologists to fight the second Galactic War alongside him and his Thetan brethren.

“Anything for you, Master. But where will I get such an army of able bodied men?” I asked his great self.

“Look around you, my brother,” he bellowed as he gestured out the window of the craft to the Castro area of San Fran.

And he was right! Men; hundreds of men! Able bodied men who looked ready for action. Some had already joined up, holding hands as they walked. Such solidarity, such fraternity! I had to get in amongst them at once! I had to befriend them. One by one.

Right, I reckon that should tick all the boxes; it’s got the wife, it’s got the aliens, it’s got the mission, it’s got the reason for being seen hanging out on the Castro. Build religion into any case and they can’t touch you. That’s the first amendment right there, baby!

Why didn’t George Michael have an excuse like this all planned out when they caught him? Jeez, I’ll never know.

Thank God this blog’s the best kept secret in Hollywood!

Blog Name: Just Think Of Me As Celebrity's Favorite "Get Me Out Of Jail Expensively" Card

2007-09-06T22:00:00.001+01:00

I've had many high profile clients over the years. Winona Ryder and Lindsay Lohan to name but two but by far the easiest to defend was Michael Jackson.

You see the problem wasn't Michael, the problem was the parents. Michael fits the profile of a paedophile, and then some. Did he do it? I don't know. I wasn't there and I knew better than to disturb him from his oxygen chamber. But the fact is when most paedophiles have to start off the confidence building with a packet of sweets, Michael can say "I've got a rollercoaster in my backyard! Want to come play?" or "I've got a monkey in my bedroom! Want to see it?"

How as a parent can you then turn around and say "I left him at Michael's house because I had no idea he was a paedophile!"

Come on!

When you draw up to Michael's estate you see men in trench coats, shaking their heads, mumbling "How can I compete with that? He's got a private zoo in there!"

The 'I'm a stupid parent" card just didn't wash with the judge. All I had to do was point out that fact that everyone on the planet who owns a television has seen the Michael Jackson moonwalk - the gloved hand, the feet sliding backwards, the spin at the end followed by the "Ooooh oooh"

Case closed. With that it was easy to say that the case wasn't about whether Michael was guilty, everyone knew that Michael certainly looked capable. The only possible reason you would allow your kids to stay over at Michaels house would be to build a case for extortion.

I wish I could write more on this and my other cases but that's Lindsay's number flashing on the display of my cell phone.

Thank God this blog is anonymous or I'd be out of work.

Blog Name: Hey Jude Breaks the Law

2007-09-05T15:14:00.000+01:00

Hey, the only thing I’m guilty of is being the most dashing, charming, beautiful, sexy specimen to hit EVER! I mean not hit, cos I didn’t hit anyone, you understand. What I mean is. ... damn where’s that script my lawyer gave me. I’m crap without a script. Fucking gorgeous and grrreat in the sack, but crap otherwise.

Anyway, I digress. The only physical damage I’ve done to anyone is a bit of heartbreaking with the IT crowd ladies and a nanny or two. Woof!

And whilst I am probably the most photogenic man around, that doesn’t mean to say I actually want my photo taken. Right? It’s not as if all there is to me is physical appearance, you know.

Hang on...a blonde bird just walked in the lawyers office. Back in a sec once I've shown her the old Law charm ...and cheeky smug eyebrow raised...and.. action!

OK, sorry, I'm back. Where was I? Yeah, I admit my physical appearance is pretty bloody special and I do take a smashing photo. I don’t mean smashing as in some paparazzo skull, I just mean…oh, you know…

Oh god, am I going to jail? They do bad things to pretty boys like me in there….

Sorry, I lost it there. Method acting, you know.

Thank God this blog's anonymous.

Blog Name: Posting Bail

2007-08-30T21:30:00.000+01:00

Hi Everbody! Pete here. Got some new song lyrics I thought I'd run past you all. Here goes:

I struggled on leaving RADA,
I couldn’t even get a job on "The Bill",
I had no unique selling point,
Other than looking slightly ill.

And then my agent rang me,
He said, "Would you a job with some stress?
There’s a waning super-model,
Who’s desperate for some press.

"She’s rented 'Sid and Nancy',
She’s besotted with Cobain,
Do you think you could hook up with her,
And take a great deal of cocaine?"

So, I got myself the clobber,
And finally stopped being so skint,
Cos soon the press were obsessed with us,
And we made a fucking mint.

I’m sorry if you bought it,
Those stories about superstar junkies ,
But the truth is quite upsetting ,
I’m as manufactured as the Monkees!

Whaddya think folks?

Only kidding of course. Shit, I forgot to make this blog anonymous. Oops!

Blog Name: Gladys Gives Vent

2007-08-28T14:09:00.001+01:00

Seems I’ve got Friday off then.

It’s the boys I feel for. They really wanted me to be there. You know what they’re like, didn’t really say it out loud. Like to keep their feelings in check, do the Windsors. But I could tell; oh yes, a mother knows!

It was the little things that told me. The way they’ve warmed to me in the last ten years by playing loveable little pranks, for example. There was the darling little Corgi poop that the ginger one put in my glove compartment. A sign of love if ever I saw one. Oh and when I found the little darling trying to protect my wedding dress from moths by waving a carving knife around it. Well, my heart nearly burst!

Then there was Wills gluing a photo of my head onto the body of a porn star and photocopying at posting it up all round Clarence House. A little adolescent crush, I think! Not the first time I’ve been called a “Yummy Mummy!” (his Dad was the last one. He also said something terribly rude about a tampon but let’s not revisit that here)

Bless them, they’ll be so disappointed. But a Royal order is a royal order and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the mother in law.

I overheard Wills say the other day, “I hate that evil ugly cumbucket, I wish she was here to protect us from the utter vileness” and I can understand why he isn’t comfortable around Elton John . And he’s right, I could have protected him from his salacious advances. The horrible little rotund beast. But of course, I’m not going, so he’ll have to fend for himself!

No, I’ll be fine. Knowing that my boys wanted me there is enough for me. I’ll just stay at home supervising the cleanup of the graffiti off my new Range Rover. Disgraceful affair. The graffiti reads, “Fuck off you whore!”

I don’t know who would do such a thing. The boys were terribly upset when they saw my reaction. I swear I could see the tears streaming down their little darling faces.

Anyway, Fred doesn’t like me going on about it too much, I think he feels marginalised by the overwhelming affection they show me, so I’ll stop now.

Thank God, this blog’s anonymous.

Blog Name: Life of Brian

2007-08-28T05:00:00.000+01:00

So, here we are in the final week at last - and hasn't it been a veritable roller-coaster ride getting here? You know, in a very real sense, getting "down and dirty" for ten weeks of applied social anthropology has been a breath of fresh air compared to the dusty halls of Cambridge, lecturing my fresh-faced but not entirely street-wise undergraduates on comparative sociology. Let's hope they take some lessons away from this!

Entering the Big Brother house has granted me an unparalleled opportunity to examine "life in the raw", and I must admit that some days have been rawer than others. I've made enough observations of my fellow housemates to fill several volumes of the Journal of Behavioural Psychology, especially my detailed studies of the twins - I trust that nobody thought that I spent nearly three months simply ogling the young ladies!

Despite maintaining the highest level of professional detachment (*ahem*), I do believe that sweet young Amanda has taken quite a shine to me; it'll be a pity to see her go. I hope her feelings won't be too badly hurt when we finally part company!

I am eternally grateful to Endemol for this golden opportunity to keep a secret log of proceedings in the Diary Room; nevertheless, I'll be only too delighted to drop the mask of idiocy after my exit interview with Davina on Friday. Who would have thought playing the fool could be so exhausting?

Thank heavens this blog's anonymous!

Can I have some fags now, Big Bruvva?

Blog Name: Reality Bites!

2007-08-25T10:31:00.001+01:00

I stand by what I’ve said all along; it’s the best show on telly and there’s NO WAY that’s going to change. And I’ll be there til the bitter end, even though I’ve got heaps of offers to do other amazing things that will also allow me to gurn like a muppet at the camera and speak utter off-the-cuff shite for heaps of money.

So OK, Russell left last year but frankly I don’t think 2 million viewers leaving us hurt us. And that’s Dermot leaving now. And we can’t even say he’s sold out by going to the X Factor, since we all checked our integrity at the door 8 years ago when we took our vows with the Satanic Church of Endemol. Wicked! (No really, in its dictionary sense, actually wicked.)

But don’t worry, I’ll still be here, through all the spats with Ofcom and the European Court of Human Rights, looking fab with my Shades of Cilla Black hairdye and Ann Robinsons cast offs. And I am confident next season’s show’s going to be even better as I’ve been privy to some new ideas from the evil genius team Endemol!

Here are some of their best bits:

All contests will be given a hand gun. But only one will be given bullets. Evil! (Gurn)

Instead of voting, we will bill any viewer who switches over after starting to watch the show. They haven’t checked that one with Ofcom yet, but what the hell? All they do is make us apologise on air a couple of times and “The man” comes round and wags his finger at us and when he turns his back we all give him the Vs. We can swallow that. Naughty! (Gurn)

We don’t have auditions anymore. We kidnap people and fling ‘em in there against their will. The wannabes are too media savvy, folk who desperately want to leave will be far more interesting. We reckon the Home Office’s new rules on holding people suspected of thinking about terrorism may help us out there. We could target types. Some ideas have been: folk just getting out of prison, full term pregnant ladies, psychiatric patients, and anyone in the last stages of a terminal disease. Genius! (Gurn)

If things get a little dull, which they won’t as I find everything funny, we will drop tabs of acid into the drinking water or pump either angry wasps or laughing gas into the house to stir things up a bit. Nasty! (Gurn)

We trawl the bank of old contestants once again and fling them in randomly to stir things up a bit: Sezer for when there’s vulnerable women, Barrymore if there’s a swimming pool, Goody if there’s anyone black or Asian, and this year’s Charley if there’s not enough bullying going on. Love it! (Gurn)

Thank God this blog’s anonymous, I can write all this up with no fear of getting into trouble and losing the only chance I have at stayin’ on telly.

Blog Name: The King Fisher

2007-08-22T15:50:00.000+01:00

Well bless me soul, what's wrong wit' me?

I know I'm 72, but me back is playing up summat rotten. It's 'ard graft running a Skegness chip shop during the summer, let me tell ~~y'all~~ you.

I've had a 'ard life y'know - back in't day, I was out driving around America, playing in a little band. We did quite well n'all, but I got sick of it and decided I wanted to be a movie star.
Over't years, I appeared in more than 30 films. Me wife Hilda tells me that I'm making it up, but

I remember those days with a little fondness - all the girls, all the drink, all the drugs, spending t'day messing about on't beach in Hawaii. Aye, them was right good days.

But, after a while, I got a bit bored with that n'all. So I went back to me music. Couldn't quite fit into't leather trousers mind, but found a nice line in jump suits that fitted a right treat.

It were around that time that I put on a bit of beef - deep fried peanut butter sandwiches and bacon burgers were me poison of choice. I was 'appiest in me kitchen, melted cheese dribbling down me face and ketchup on me fingers.

I were getting right sick of idiots breaking into me 'ouse just to say that they'd met me. So I decided to move to England and open a chippy - then I could eat me fried food all day and make money at't same time.

It's been nearly 30 years since I moved to Skeggy, and I've loved every minute. Met me second wife Hilda in 1985 when I were 50 and she were 15. We got married in 1987 - never 'ad any kids, I've already got one daughter from me previous marriage, quite 'igh maintenance she is too.

But I'm tired these days - it's 'ard work peeling the spuds for the chips and going to't 'arbour for fish every day. Me chipper's called The King Fisher - we do the best fried doughnuts in Lincolnshire.

Sometimes I think I should just pack it in and move back to America - I 'ad a 'uge 'ouse over there - but last time I tried to apply for a passport they told me that there was no record of a David Presley Cribbins ever 'aving been born, so I must be an illegal immigrant. I tried to tell them I was born in't ghetto, and that me mother cried on a cold and grey Skegness morn, but they still wouldn't believe me.

Anyroad, I've seventeen kilos of spuds to prepare for tonight, so I'd best be off. Where did I leave me blue shoes?

Thank the Good Lord in 'eaven on 'igh that this blog's anonymous.

Blog Name: Just Joshing with Joss

2007-08-21T13:48:00.000+01:00

Listen I’m just tired okay, just need a little rest in a £2,000 a day resting facility. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the following:

1. A massive bucket of booze stashed in my barnet to be drunk all at once through a straw. Or two Bacardi breezers before breakfast. Yum! I'm so dangerous!

2. A line of coke the length of the chalk fault line on a tennis court which I am so into right now as I'm a Rawk Chick. I do everything, me! Woo!

3. Realising marriage to a gold digging cheating bastard who only came back to me after my album sold gazillions maybe wasn't such a good idea, if indeed I managed to find anyone like that on the gymkhana circuit.

4. Not eating more than the froth of my morning yard of ale per day and the leftover powder off a wrap if I'm really hungry. And I'm off my mash on ecstacy pipes an' all! Wooo!

5. The family of Russian Hamsters that are nesting in my barnet keeping me awake at night. Like the dangerous purple dye job? It's fucking OUT THERE!

6. Getting a tattoo of husband who I haven't found yet (any takers?)'s double barrelled name emblazoned on my chest, while he comes home with his end of the bargain being one of my name tucked discretely behind his ear. Not that I’m bovvered or nuthin’, like some people.

7. Not being able to go on stage and get through a song without falling over/drinking a yard of ale/spitting on my audience/having an onstage fight with potential gold digging, cheating bastard husband or badmouthing any other bitch female singers that I secretly wanna be but pretend I'm better than by singing their songs like a flippin maddoe at the Brits.

8. Being a fucking mentalist generally as a career plan. No-one will call me a child star again. I'm OUT THERE! Wooo!

As I said, I’m just a wee bit tired (and hard core! Woo! Check it OUT!).

Thank God this blog’s anonymous. Otherwise Amy may well kick my ass.

Blog Name: Rehabilitation Blues

2007-08-18T10:31:00.000+01:00

Listen I’m just tired okay, just need a little rest in a £2,000 a day resting facility. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the following:

1. A massive bucket of booze stashed in my barnet to be drunk all at once through a straw.

2. A line of coke the length of the chalk fault line on a tennis court

3. Realising marriage to a gold digging cheating bastard who only came back to me after my album sold gazillions maybe wasn't such a good idea.

4. Not eating more than the froth of my morning yard of ale per day and the leftover powder off a wrap if I'm really hungry.

5. The family of ferrets that are nesting in my barnet keeping me awake an night.

6. Getting a tattoo of husband’s double barrelled name emblazoned on my chest, while he comes home with his end of the bargain being one of my name tucked discretely behind his ear. Not that I’m bovvered or nuthin’.

7. Not being able to go on stage and get through a song without falling over/drinking a yard of ale/spitting on my audience/having an onstage fight with gold digging, cheating bastard husband or badmouthing any other bitch female singers that are copying my ass.

8. Being a fucking mentalist generally.

As I said, I’m just a wee bit tired.

Thank fuck this blog’s anonymous. Otherwise Joss Stone might copy it.

Blog Name: Mrs Golden Balls

2007-08-16T17:19:00.000+01:00

Met up with Shirl down on the Strip for lunch. The water here is much cleaner than back home. Had to have two whole pints to feel full. Shirl had a skinny latté and chicken ceasar salad no dressing no bread. The fat cow.

Anyway, she said that Kurt wasn't going to break up with Jess because Jess gets papped everywhere she goes and that's really great for his career right now so he's gonna keep seeing Shirl on the sly like until he's properly famous but Shirl says she doesn't really like that and she's pretty sure Kurt doesn't know Jess is seeing Chad which makes Kurt really stupid because Jess and Chad are always in the gossip columns and if Kurt's so stupid and doesn't even know the gossip does Shirl even want to be with him because he's clearly not that into PR which is like the whole point of Shirl being with him in the first place so I said that she should stay with Kurt just to see if he gets wise and if he doesn't she always has Max who is in charge of the gossip and can make Kurt look like a strategically shaved chimp if he wants to and then Kurt will look stupid and probably Jess too but Chad will be ok so Shirl could go with him then. Shirl said that was a good plan.

The kids are driving me nuts. Brooklyn has decided he wants to be a hairdresser, Romeo needs glasses and spends more and more time with his books, Cruz threw his spaghetti hoops at the nanny then drew a pentagram in the tomato juice and David has learned how to use the internet.

Thank God this blog's anonymous.

Blog Name: The Red Blog of Westmarch

2007-08-15T23:04:00.000+01:00

The cheek of the boy! There he goes, lording it around the world of fantasy as if he owns the bleedin' place, with his muggle this and his quidditch that. I'll have you know I was fighting the Witch-King of Angmar and his gang up on Weathertop when he was still in short trousers.

He's not even a proper magical character. Where's his pointy ears then, eh? Eh? Answer me that! Does his stick light up automagically whenever dark forces approach? Does it fuck. And I'll bet a mithril shirt to an Orc dagger he hasn't even got hairy feet. Magical character my arse!

And call that a stigma? Ha! It's barely a scratch, slap a sticking plaster on it and it'll clear up in no time. Look at this, look! I had a whole bleedin' finger bitten off by that little shit Gollum. Boy, did that Sting in the morning! (But we showed him, didn't we my precious?) Talking of which, wtf is that Kreacher supposed to be? You're having a laugh, right?

I'm a close friend of PJ, you know. We're like that. Er. Very close. Since he got bumped from the prequel, he's been very keen on promoting my big comeback. We've been talking a lot about doing a confrontataion. Mano a mano. Like Freddie vs Jason. Alien vs Predator. Jade vs Shilpa. I've even been rehearsing my killer line: "No, Harry, I am your father. Bwahahaha!"

I've had a word with me old mate Legolas and he reckons he can find me passage back East on a ship, I think he said it was called the Black Pearl or something like that. I like a nice quiet cruise, works wonders for me lumbago.

Thank Eru this blog's anonymous!

Blog Name: Foot in Mouth

2007-08-14T23:30:00.000+01:00

Oh for the love of God. If one more idiot calls me up about whatever the hell is going on in England ...

Let's get this straight.

It. Is. Not. Me.

Yes. I was a hoofer in my day. That's a HOOFer, not a heifer. And yes, I've been known to have a mouth on me. And I know there's no such thing as bad publicity, but really ... I haven't had so much attention since that cow Liz Taylor stole my darling Eddie back in 1958. Bygones.

And if anyone sees my daughter, tell her I could use some valium. Her momma did teach her to share.

Now leave me alone. I've got wigs to comb and a show to do.

Thank God this blog is anonymous.

Blog Name: Lil' Ritchie

2007-08-14T22:56:00.000+01:00

First of all, you'd think with all her money, my new mum could have gotten me a better picture.

So here I am, almost a year since I was ~~bought~~ lovingly adopted and ensconced in a London townhouse. Sure, it's better than Africa, from what I remember, but do all my lullabyes have to be remixed with samples from "Sorry" and "Hung Up"?

Can someone please make Lourdes stop dressing me up like a monkey? If she reads me The Jungle Book one more time, I swear I'm gonna go all Mowgli on her. Missy could use a bear necessity. Word.

Oh, is there any way to get this red string off my wrist? Nobody's noticed, but I've been growing and it's starting to cut off the circulation to my hand.

Not sure how much longer I'll be here. I keep hearing rumbles about lawsuits and keeping up the that "Jolie twat."

Not sure what that means. Dad says it's just friendly rhyming slang from his side of town, but we're not aloud to go there. And mum hasn't been very poetic lately.

Thank Jehovah this blog is anonymous.

Blog Name: The Satanic Verses (Redux)

2007-08-14T21:13:00.000+01:00

This week I’ve been mostly reviewing my Mission Statement.

To be honest I can’t make horned head nor forked tail of it. I must’ve have written it when drunk. I hate it when that happens. You're smashed, you have a really good idea and you shout, “Somebody get a pen! Write it down! Write it down!” And then you wake up in the morning and it’s utter bollocks!

Here’s what I wrote:

“The sixth angel poured his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up in order to prepare the way for the kings from the east. And I saw three foul spirits like frogs coming from the mouth of the dragon, from the mouth of the beast, and from the mouth of the false prophet. These are demonic spirits, performing signs, who go abroad to the kings of the whole world, to assemble them for battle on the great day of God the Almighty. And they assembled them at the place that in Hebrew is called Harmagedon.”

(Copyright: Lucifer. All rights reserved)

Here’s what’s wrong with that idea:

1.How the blazes am I going to get all that together? You can’t just Google “Dragon” punch in your credit card number and wait for a slabbering beast of doom to be delivered by Fed-Ex. Anyway, dragons are so last millennium. And they cost a fortune to feed. I'm not made of flippin' money!

2. Even if I could get all the bits and pieces together, it’s all a bit lame. I’ve got some serious competition, and well when I wrote that, apart from clearly being off my mash, who was I up against? Goody Two Shoes and his box o’ tricks? Need to up my game. Got Scientology to reckon with now. Gotta be scarier than that. That’s not going to be easy. Aliens, wish I'd thought of that.

3. There are people out there doing far worse than what I wrote on a daily basis. You know who you are, you cheeky monkeys! People wouldn’t even notice me if I tried that old school crap. I’ve even stopped buying up people’s souls. They were giving them up for free. Why bother? And it was an administrative nightmare.

4. What’s worst is that now I’ve told everyone that’s what I’m going to do, they’re like“That’s a bit rubbish” and “You don’t exist” or “Bore off, even heavy metal isn’t about Satan anymore”

5. Even I'm not going near the Euphrates. Are you mental?

6. Harmagedon is now a Gala Bingo.

So here’s what I’m thinking:

1. Do something AMAAAZZZING. Haven’t really thought what yet. C’mon give us a break! This is hard! Will get a quango together to brainstorm.

2. Manifest myself as someone they would never expect it from. Will buy Heat magazine and see whose look I like best. I’m thinking Orlando Bloom. He can sell any old shit and people buy it.

3. Go for Big Brother again. Yeah the queues are dreadful and I’ve been knocked back five times already for not being evil enough, but one day I’ll get in.

4. Try and get in the papers more. I used to get blamed for all sorts. Now? Flippin’ arctic tundra, PR wise. Got to have a strategy. I wonder how much Max Clifford charges?

5. Go for more ASBOs to get my name in the paper. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Goody Two Shoes next door complains to the council about my hounds shitting on his lawn, so that’s one sorted. And he's doing his nut about the noise and me not taking the bins in after collection day, so that could be another couple. He's so easy to wind up.

6. Gotta look dangerous again. I blame Jack Nicholson and Al Pacino- they just made me look so damn cute! I used to be a contender you know! Oh...I'd get angry but I'm on anti-depressants and they kind of numb things, you know?

Anyway, I should really be keeping the new campaign under wraps. Element of surprise and all that; that’s the ticket.

Thank my old boss this blog is anonymous!

Blog Name: The Audacity Of A Hopeful Deamer

2007-08-12T14:56:00.000+01:00

I got a letter from Don King today. In it he says that if I am endorsed as the Democrats Presidential candidate he would be keen to fund the campaign. At first I thought it was because of my policies or he thought it would be good thing for this country to have its first black president, but I should have known better. With Don, its always about the Dollar.

In his letter he went on to explain that interest in the heavyweight division has waned somewhat since Lewis’s retirement. With Tyson not having bitten any ears lately he seems to think that the time is right for someone (aka Don King) to move into new fertile ground of news promotion. He believes that in the coming years CNN, Fox News, the BBC and Al Jazeera would be willing to pay big money if they had the exclusive worldwide rights to cover the Obama Vs Osama fight. He says polls show that some Americans don’t know the difference between Iraq & Iran and quite frankly couldn’t care less but given the chance he could change all this. The Obama Vs Osama contest would be, if promoted in the right way, something these people could identify with. He would promote me in the red, white, and blue corner as the all American, clean cut, suit wearing, black president, whilst portraying Osama as the army camouflage wearing, Arab terrorist. He believes that it has the potential to be bigger than Ali Vs Foreman’s Rumble In The Jungle.

I don’t know about all this, I might have to write to Don and decline his offer of financial help. Don doesn’t seem to realise that I have no interest in fighting Osama. All I want is to be able to ride out of the State of Illinois in a nice car with blacked out windows without being pulled over by the police and accused of being a pimp. It’s tiresome having to explain that you are a senator. Besides I’ve yet to be endorsed as the official Democrat candidate, and Bill says Hilary has been known to bite. No one tell Don this though, or he’ll be all over Hilary like a rash.

Thank God this blog is anonymous.

Nominus Bloggi: Bovis Pontificate

2007-08-10T07:30:00.000+01:00

Blog Name: Papal Bull

Me confutas si hic unum audiatis.

Stop me if you've heard this one.

Vir sacerdoti confessum quod cattum molestaverat. Sacerdos Apollo est. Viro Pater Noster decem et Mama Mia quinque donum.

A man confesses to a priest that he's shagged a cat. The priest is appalled and gives the man ten How's Your Fathers and five Hail Marys.

Sed id noctem, sacerdos ipse cattum videt. Vestimentum levat. Cattus testicules statim lacerat. O me miserum dicit.

But that night, the priest himself sees a cat. He lifts up his cassock and the cat promptly shreds his bollocks. Oh deary me, he says.

Ab recuperatio, sacerdos ad templo redeat. Primo penintentiarius vir idem est. Cattum etiam molestaverat.

After a spell in hospital, the priest returns to his church. His very first penitent is the same man, who admits that he's shagged the cat again.

Qui? Sacerdos exclamat. Quemadmodum, filius mei?

"What!" exclaims the priest. "How??? I mean, tell me the details, my son."

Vir explicat. Cattus in pyi locerat. Pyum persecerat. Cattum per pyi molestaverat.

The man explains how he first put the cat in a box, then cut a hole and shagged the cat through the box.

Sacerdos penintentiario poenas dare statuat. Cattum pyo absque molestat.

The priest decides the sinner's punishment: he must shag the cat without the box.

Dei gratia bloggum anonymous est!

Thank God this blog's anonymous!