Kim Jong Bender.

North Korea are launching nuclear warheads left, right centre and back.

This is not the 'WMD' fear mongering that punctuated the peak of the Bush/Blair 'axis of evil' affair. That was the very worst kind of manipulation of public opinion. By the time the tectonic plates and prehistoric depth layers of half truths, slight of hand and down right bare faced ugly lies had even begun to be layed out in a way that could be understood and translated we'd invaded, celebrated and bombed the usual friendly fire quota into the headlines. We were stuck on the much bigger issue of what to do next.

The concept of the 'axis of evil' linked all of the worlds key 'bad guys' into one easy to swallow idea. It allowed our governments to behave like a street gambler with some cups and a small ball. They hustled our £20 bid off us and had us pick pocketed whilst we looked on in a bemused awe.

North Korea however, is a terrfyingly real threat. Internal perception, ideologies and convoluted misconceptions within a highly suspicious and genuinely aggressive military government could result in any number entirely unpredicable and suddenly volatile explosions. In this case, literal explosions.

The first real opportunity for the public to be called into action to understand this reality arrived on our news stands today. Newspapers such as the Independent and the Guardian lead the way with the headlines.

A sure sign of a real issue with genuine intrigue that doesn't require manipulation to be understood is when the more liberal and/or more intellectualised forms of press lead with an statement exposure of the event not a judgement of western political participants reaction to it.

A surer sign, a flashing neon light screaming at you 'panic, run, flee like a footballer faced with a quadratic equation', is the the tabloids did NOT make a fuss about it and were more content to comment on Jordans brazenly childish relationship with Peter Andre. This does of course mean that the politicians currently in power are less obsessed with political gain, or that there aren't any oil reserves to be stolen from North Korea, but it also means that they might deal with the situation properly.

There is though a real opportunity being missed. Perhaps, if we were all very shrewd, and we all left very quietly, the woman I saw skimming past the Guardian and resting on a copy of Glamour (or some such) and was more motivated by the headline 'Angelina fights back but Brad's still texting Jen' than she was by 'North Korea launches two more missiles'; she could be left wading through the article when the missles hit Britain and we are all sailing away to a new utopia where Brad Pitt's texts are his own business.

In fact, does any body have Kim Jong Il's email address? I know roughly were she lives, and i heard her say that Kim Jong Il was Gay. Thought he might like to know.

Hash Brown Re-Hash.

The art of inspired story telling, unique method that stands out independent in nature, style, rhyme and reason has for a long time been tenuously identified.

Ever since the Ancients passed on their poetic forms and Beowulf was penned, the majority of fantastical exaggeration and formulae of tale can be made comparable to these early works. Once the unstoppable creative greed of a Rousseau, Orwell, Dickens or Shakespear is added to the fray, little is left for the modern literary mind as it spills out re-hash after re-hashed re-hash. They are likely to be young bohemians stuffing hash browns in a hash smoker fuelled frenzy whilst they make a hash of it at that.

The only way is up as they say and that seems to be the modern solution to this problem. Escalate existing tales. Re-make films, film books, modernise old TV shows, make them faster, brighter, bigger. Big, Bigger, BIGGEST the proles scream from their tortured, writhing, daily primordial soup.

To my mind, there are at least another 10 years of flagrant plagerism to be endured before we can begin the process of plagerising the plagerism in the name of a new modernity. A few nooks and crannies though may well slip through the net in the misguided name of PC. That's Political Correctness not Phil Colins by the way. Nothing escapes the net of Phil Colins. Once he has you in his sights you are done for, he's like the hunter apes from the planet of the apes, faster and stronger than you...and he knows the lay of land....fear him.

Two glaring re-hash, re-dux, revolutionary opportunities that I predict will be saved until the last drop has been squeezed from multi media, but that I would dearly love to see and hope to inspire are as follows:



'The Superfluous Six'









A take on the famed Enid Blyton tales. This new tale of adventure will re-invigorate the genre whilst simultaneously redressing the blatant class divide and latent racism of her more famous penmanship.



Six white children all from middle class backgrounds are superfluous to the point of invisibility within their social and family settings. As such they are blessed with the freedom of reign that will take their adventure searching far and wide, further than ever before as they can be away for an Odyssey, but no one will notice.

On their travels they will encounter many a danger, many an adventure. These will likely be being dealt with by the local law enforcement services ultimately progressing into protracted court battles or petering out due to loop holes in the law or the bigger picture being considered, yet our heroes will flap about in a superfluous fashion, having little to no impact on the progress or outcome of each situation. The reader will immediately identify with their impotency and irrelevance in the fight against crime, and those looking for racial connotation will see only 6 bleating white people screaming for attention that will never come.

............

Pob Nights: (Paedo Pob)









The ever haunting image of 'Pob'.



The original format was thus:

In a typical episode, the celebrity visitor to the show finds a label attached to a piece of string on the gates of Pob's garden;

If in my programme you would be,

Wind the wool and follow me.

The celebrity guest then follows the woollen string, winding it as they go, and encountering a second label;

Wind it slowly, wind it fast,

A secret you will find at last.

Ultimately the wool is found to be Pob's unravelled jumper, and he is awoken to trace his name on the screen. Over the course of the programme, the celebrity guest reads a story, and solves a word puzzle with Pob.

Before the end of the programme, the celebrity guest gives Pob a gift, usually related to their story, which they attach to the woollen thread of Pob's jumper. Pob retrieves the gift, and plays with it, stopping periodically to wipe the programme's end credits from the camera lens. The episode always ends with Pob blowing out a candle held by a ragdoll. The next celebrity visitor is seen arriving at Pob's garden, realises they are a week too early, and leaves.

Pob is often accompanied in his mischief by a silent teddy bear called Teddy.

In it's all new, hyper entertainment re-hash incarnation, 'Pob Nights', Pob shows his true colours.

Marauding around a local red brick housing estate in Taunton, Pob and Teddy are local Paedophiles using vibrantly coloured woollen string to lure unsuspecting youngsters into a disused and well concealed building where a 'celebrity' as he calls them, client to you and I, lies in wait.



The silent 'Teddy' is now simply a name for Pobs first victim, whom suffering from Stockholm syndrome has taken it upon himself to assist Pob in his 'mischief'. Teddy hasn't spoken since the 'incident' in which he first met Pob.



Each episode begins with Pob breathing on the window of his next victim and writing his name in the condensation.....



The show content will involve Pob evading the local law enforcement and generally progressing toward trapping his prey who will always look as if they may just escape.





Before the end of the show, the 'celebrity' give Pob a 'gift', or in this case collection of pictures of children in comprimising situations. Pob 'plays' with them...and himself, stopping periodically to wipe clean the show's end credits.



The episode will always end the same way, with Pob blowing out a candle held by the captured child.



A bleak tale, but be assured, the victim will always have done something that renders them deserving of a biblical punshiment during the episode, such as being a glutton and eating all of the family pudding before anyone else can get to it, or generally being a lazy child who won't help with the housework upsetting a despairing mother.

...................



So there we have it, 2 fast 2 furious eat your heart out and there is no need to re-make the Hulk the 40th time.



For all copyright enquiries please contact me on.....

Origins.

It’s a sunny day. Al is out on the pavement awaiting his parents, dressed in typically scruffy early 20’s attire. Jeans, trainers etc. They pull up next to him in a new Mercedes, he jumps in the back of the car.


Mother: ‘Hi Al’ cheerfully

Al: ‘Hello, how are we all?’ (Upbeat)

Father: (Cutting in)‘Where are we going then?’

Al: ‘The Warm As Toast café, it’s not far, I go there all the time, the lunch menu is excellent’

Father: ‘Your graduation celebratory meal and you want to go to a Café that you always go to?’

Al: ‘Well, i…’

Mother: (Cutting in) ‘Why we couldn’t have just gone to the graduation ceremony….!?’ (The rhetorically posed question whimsically tails off.)

Al: ‘Like I said….’

Father: (Cutting In)‘Which way is it then? I can’t sit here with the engine running all day, this thing guzzles petrol you know. The SLK does 37 miles per gallon, your crappy old Ford does more like 50’.

Al: ‘It’s not THAT old. A friend of mine just managed to take his on a road trip to the Alps and back, so it must be good for something?’

(Met with Silence.)

Al: ‘It’s left here’.

(The car pulls off.)

Parking in a road full of nothing but battered old hatchbacks and inner city bin bags scattering the pavement, the brand new Merc looks distinctly vunerable. As they all climb out of the car, the smartly dressed parents seem acutely aware that they do not fit in to the surroundings.

Mother: ‘Are you sure we won’t get a ticket? Why are all these bins in the road? It’s not very nice is it!?’(catching herself being impolite and putting her arm round her son with a commiserating hug.)

Al: ‘It’ll be fine’.

(They step round the corner)

Al: ‘Here we are’.

The Warm As Toast Café is ahead of them. A large sign above the door spells out the intials in big letters:
T.W.A.T
……………….

WOODN'T it be nice.

Today, I am working so hard that the below was a question that i asked myself. I was staggered to discover that there was somebody with more time on their idle wandering hands than even I, newly deposed king of idling.

What WOULD we do withouth the internet i ask you?


..............................................

How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?
In: Jokes and Riddles [Edit categories]



Woodchucks Chucking Wood
I think that the woodchuck could chuck as much wood as he wanted! By the way what is a wood chuck? Is it like a gopher? This is difficult to question answer. The amount of wood that woodchucks would chuck on a given day varies greatly with the individual woodchuck. According to a Wall Street Journal article, New York State wildlife expert Richard Thomas found that a woodchuck could chuck around 35 cubic feet of dirt in the course of digging a burrow. Thomas reasoned that if a woodchuck could chuck wood, he would chuck an amount equal to 700 pounds.
Some say it depends on three factors:
The woodchuck's desire to chuck said wood.
The woodchuck's need to chuck the aforementioned wood.
The woodchuck's ability to chuck the wood.
Others say:
He would chuck, he would, as much as he could, if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
If he could chuck wood, the woodchuck would chuck as much as he could!
A woodchuck would chuck as much wood as a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
A woodchuck would chuck all the wood that the woodchuck would chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
If a woodchuck could chuck wood, he would and should chuck wood. But if woodchucks can't chuck wood, they shouldn't and wouldn't chuck wood. Though were I a woodchuck, and I chucked wood, I would chuck wood with the best woodchucks that chucked wood.
If a woodchuck could chuck wood, then s/he'd chuck all the wood, s/he'd chuck and chuck and chuck and chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
It would chuck the amount of wood that she sells seashells on the seashore divided by how many pickles Peter Piper picks.
One quarter of a sycamore if you give him a quarter for every quarter of the sycamore he cut.
It might depend on how many female woodchucks were present. Or, it could depend on whether the woodchuck's mother-in-law was around or not. If she was, he'd be chucking all day. If not, he'd be watching the football game.
Some maintain that woodchucks could not and would not chuck wood at all.
It depends on how good his dentures are!
A woodchuck, would chuck, as much wood, as a woodchuck, could chuck, If a woodchuck could chuck wood. But unfortunately, woodchucks do not chuck wood.
About 5.72 fluid litres of wood
About as many boards as the Mongol hoards would hoard if the Mongol hordes did hoard boards.
Um....... 23????


Tons. More than you can count. Honestly. No one can chuck more would than a woodchuck.
If the woodchucks name was Maurice, then it could chuck all the wood that it wants to. However, if its name is Frank, no chucking would be for it.
Due to the average size of a wood chuck and the general density of wood (not including cork) if a wood chuck could chuck wood it would probably get through about 6.573 pounds per day, assuming the wood chuck is functioning correctly.
Using the formula: (W + I) * C where W = the constant of wood, which is well known to be 61, as agreed in many scientific circles. I = the variable in this equation, and stands for the word "if" from the original problem. As there are three circumstances, with 0 equaling the chance that the woodchuck cannot chuck wood, 1 being the theory that the woodchuck can chuck wood but chooses not to, and 2 standing for the probability that the woodchuck can and will chuck wood, we clearly must choose 2 for use in this equation. C = the constant of Chuck Norris, whose presence in any problem involving the word chuck must there, is well known to equal 1.1 of any known being, therefore the final part of this calculation is 1.1. As is clear, this appears to give the answer of (61 + 2) * 1.1 = (63) * 1.1 = 69.3. However, Chuck Norris' awesome roundhouse kick declares that all decimal points cannot be used in formulas such as this, and so it must be rounded to the final solution of 69 units of wood.
How Chuck Norris got involved
A woodchuck would only chuck as much would as Chuck Norris would allow it to, because the woodchuck shares Chuck's name. Therefore, Chuck must punish it and make it chuck as much wood as Chuck can. So, a woodchuck would chuck as much wood as Chuck could.
None cuz a wood chuck cant chuck wood! :P
Approximately 3.9675 pounds every 5.6843 seconds. So there.
2.865 lbs every 11.3686 Seconds?
About 15 pounds a minute.
i speak differently i say WHAT DOES YOUR QUESTION HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING! and btw its 84% lol
it depends how good his dentures are!!!
As much as he needed to be satisfied
But the true jokey answer, as told by my grandfather is: As much wood as a woodchuck could chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
a woodchuck would chuck all the wood he could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

Floundering Bounder.

I saw today something that occurs everyday, in fact, i see it every day. Today though, I really saw it.

I was feeling vulnerable on my daily route to work. The wind was biting cold and i had selected a thin Plastic Mack to shroud my quivering cocktail stick bones. My belly was empty and had tightened itself into a cramp when faced with the morning revulsion of feeding the cat. Cat food is so oppressively pungent and looks like a war ration. The last thing i need as i attempt to iron shirts, hunt for matching socks and find those bloody keys that I've hidden from myself, is to be reminded of World War one and all the suffering that makes my morning shout, stamp and whinge look like a trip to Hawaii with Pamela Anderson in tow.

I stopped in the street on my last leg of the journey, shoulders arched up over my head like a wing-ed Demon. I stopped because i wanted a respite from the nature of the journey to work. A to B. A, being a desirable though ultimately purposeless home, full of beds, meals and idle entertainment. B, being the work place, my physical bread and butter, though my metaphysical desert inducing famine.

When people travel from A to B, especially if it is work related, they seem almost entirely single minded, operating on some sort of auto pilot. The strangest thing is the level of frustration they display when anything obstructs this journey, even for an instant. Often, it has been apparent that the traveller will almost be searching for frustration, huffing with indigence at the person in front who objected to leaping fearlessly in front of an oncoming Juggernaut travelling at 60 mph, and shouting at it, 'BACK, BACK YOU VEHICLE OF SATAN, I AM RIGHTEOUS, I AM GOING FROM A to B AND THOU SHALT NOT OBSTRUCT ME LEST YOU BE SMOTE'. It seems somewhat unreasonable on reflection.

I on the other hand like to stop at any given point on a journey, simply to re-assert my freedom. I will go to work, I will go to B, but I will do it my way, in my time and i will find something to enjoy or to involve myself in en route if it bloody kills me. The feeling is not one of defiance or of a desperate search for individuality amongst the grinding cogs of social necessity, it is similar to the childhood trudge toward a ticking off.

One figure of authority would send you to visit another, be it parent or teacher. In between, whatever happens at the two ends of spectrum, is your time and yours alone. So why rush it? Inevitably i would be moping along like a rain soaked beagle either brimming with indigence or racked with trepidation but also guilt. I was rarely reprimanded unless I had crossed some moral boundary, caused misery, inflicted something upon someone and was as such shaken to my bones by an empathy that rendered my previous action senseless. I would on these walks, stop, sit, idle, chew the fat, fatten a goose, goose a gander anything to create a personal experience separate from the point of the journey so that I might take something of my own from the experience.

That is what I was doing today, when I saw it.

A man in his 50's wearing a suit looking pained by despair, jogging on the spot behind a small cluster of people moving slower than he wished down the street. Not enough people to be a permanent block, a brief obstruction.

Why? It is unlikely that this was an impromptu bid to reclaim the fitness of a forgotten youth. It is unlikely that he was a raging but bold agoraphobic bravely but desperately racing to his destination like a child that needs the loo.

It is likely that he was late or at risk of becoming late. It is also likely that he was high enough up the food chain at his age, that it was the shitty rod that he has shoved up his own anus and inflicted upon everyone else in the name of protocol that he was beating himself with.

Or was it that he simply wasn't thinking? If he was late, then he is exactly that, late and no amount of running on the spot will turn back time. Ambitious though running against the turn of the earth on it's axis is, it won't get it moving the other way, and even if it did, the desired effect would not emerge. If he is nearly late, then he will be in work there or thereabouts on time, a few minutes either side and simply walking at a higher pace where possible would suffice. Attempting to plow through the thudding grey rock of London Commuter crowding is only adding frustration and a sense of being wronged to his plight.

It only takes a brief look around to notice that they are all doing the same thing, panic stricken, desperate to get to work convinced of their purpose.

Why is this so distasteful to my palate?

It's the greed, the way they demand that their journey is more important than everyone else's and even worse, the way this futile act that tickles the gag reflex creates an almost universal sense of righteousness permitting them to take the aforementioned shitty stick and jab it in my eye whenever my methods, my scribble, drifts outside of the line that they are all adhering to with Biblical fervour.

So, I stood and watched him go, it took him fucking ages and i thought it was hilarious when he smacked his brief case against a lamp post and ran on as if it hadn't happened.

Then I went to work, my journey my own.

'Everything happens for a reason'.

This morning entailed a bus journey and me nursing my 5th hangover of the working week.

I was acutely aware of the 'imago horribilus' of my fermenting features.

I looked like alchohol someone who had experimented with Botox with a do it yourself kit, ultimately only managing to inflate ones own face.

This in mind, despite the misery of attempting to catch a morning bus and the gymnastic one footed stance required to sqeeze into my allotted centimeter square (a right of the londoner), I carried with me a sympathy for my fellow passengers endurance of my presence.

However, there is always one person who insists on approaching the boundaries of tolerance, then burns the boundary, invades your space and claims it for their own is there not?

In this instance the protagonist of my pompous huffing was a South African lady making a phone call at incredible volumes. The volume itself was a mere trifle, her piercing accent a light clip around the ear and the dullness of her responses nothing more than a barely noticable headache cureable with a quick popping of a 16pence paracetamol....

...Her crime was far more sinster, a lurker of a crime, the type of crime that should rest naked in the cold, damp, dripping corner of a medieval dungeon, fed only with rats and mouldy bread.

She finished almost every sentence of her conversation with the remark, 'Every thing happens for a reason'.

Be sure that it does, but i fail to see how this oral parping can be tolerated. A statement designed to console or explain, but offering none of the necessary facets or functionality required to achieve these things save to be open to interpretation. The extended reach and purpose of this abomination is that the woman has not formulated an opinion on what is being said to her. She has been presented with a problem by someone in need, glanced into the dusty cupboard of her mind and lazily hurled out, 'Every thing happens for a reason'.

I hardly think that a survivor of a Tsunami would be greatly comforted by the sentiment, nor indeed the actual reason.

Most tsunamis are caused by earthquakes generated in a subduction zone, an area where an oceanic plate is being forced down into the mantle by plate tectonic forces. The friction between the subducting plate and the overriding plate is enormous. This friction prevents a slow and steady rate of subduction and instead the two plates become "stuck". As the stuck plate continues to descend into the mantle the motion causes a slow distortion of the overriding plage. The result is an accumulation of energy very similar to the energy stored in a compressed spring. Energy can accumulate in the overriding plate over a long period of time - decades or even centuries. Energy accumulates in the overriding plate until it exceeds the frictional forces between the two stuck plates. When this happens, the overriding plate snaps back into an unrestrained position. This sudden motion is the cause of the tsunami - because it gives an enormous shove to the overlying water. At the same time, inland areas of the overriding plate are suddenly lowered. The moving wave begins travelling out from where the earthquake has occurred. Some of the water travels out and across the ocean basin, and, at the same time, water rushes landward to flood the recently lowered shoreline.

So there you go. Your family is dead. Your house destroyed. The family pet missing presumed searching for his bone, never to find to it, eventually becoming stuck in a rabbit hole and starving to death. Worry not though, because as a South African lady on the number 243 once told me, 'everything happens for a reason'.

Unfortunately, I spent such a lavish amount of time and energy chewing on this wasp, that the insufferbale journey was over before I knew it, leaving a real window of opportunity for this woman with an elbow instead of a brain, to with reasonable cause suggest to me that, indeed, 'everything happens for a reason'.

Bronchial Heroism.

Sometimes all we need to re-invigorate our souls is a change of scenery.

If one stays in the same place, visiting the same shops, seeing the same faces and routinely travelling along the same routes for too long without loving, (and i mean loving like I loved my Optimus Prime action figure when i was 8), one's environment it all fades out into background noise. The subtle daily differences become lost behind a deafening drum, a hum drum to a hum bug.

The turgid mud that becomes day to day activity amid almost complete sensual break down is almost impossible to observe as the total annihilation of the senses by this routine trudge is so complete as to mask even it's own existance.

Today I made my way to work on a route new to me, from my new rented accomodation. Every footstep was unsure of itself. This was not least to be blamed on 3 days of almost literally bathing in whiskey, but the way that each step and every decision was as potent as being stabbed with a pin was screamingly apparant.

The real gift, the santa's stocking brimming with brazil nuts and freshly ripened fruit that change brought me, was not fully realised until i entered an unto now unfrequented strip of tube journey. Necessity nuzzled me into the breast of Goliath of a man during the Londoners favourite early morning game of sardines made ever more exciting by it's jarring thrusting locomotion between A and B on the tube.

Just ever so slightly behind me, his brief case wedged into the small of my back was the vile criminal who was crushing my face into the warm embrace of an unwilling recipients chest. This man was in his mid 50's and was enthusiastically relaying to a younger near suicidal colleague something insidious. Regulations and their implications were being reeled off referred to only by numbers and the occasional snort of disbelief that regulation 24 could be mistakenly actioned as a regulation 432. The type of bone marrow disolving boob who is this enthralled by the intimacies of his job must invariably be singularly unimaginative, decidedly lonley or power hungry with about as much access to power as a communist peasant in 1950's Russia.

The man looked like someone had attempted to remove him from the fabric of reality with laser treatment. A faded imprint regretably conceived some 50 years gone, only a lack of technology had left his stain in place.

Despite all of his crimes it could so easily have been nothing more than a part of the morning din had this not been a special day glittering with new observations. However, the man seemed to have a bronchial condition and a sniff reflex. With the regularity and relentlessness of an artillery gun during the Allied bombardment at the Somme, he roared from the depths of his twitching raw pestilant lungs, then suddenly would snort a crackling rich thick slime back from his nostrils.

This sound, this horror, smashed into my ears, drowned my entire being like a sudden tidal wave of steaming manure, constantly withdrawing then swamping my arched tense expectant whole over and over.

Even now, 4 hours later, i want to scream at the resonance of the experience, shove him in front of a hurtling train then smash the remains into oblivion with a mallet.

Yet,

He's the best thing that has happened to me for 3 months and probably the best thing that will happen for another 3 months, because i actually heard him and will likely hear and see all of the wonderful things that have been thrust into context by him.

Thank you, you feculant, blabbering, oafish plague on mankind, may you spread your spluttering filth upon another deserving soul and bring them back from their unwitting brink.