I Wish It Could Be Christmas Once A Decade

The Christmas season now seems to commence on or around October 24^th. It is around then that we are first subjected to the brutally sentimental and abjectly cynical Christmas adverts by the major retailers; it is around then that the first tawdry tinsel is draped feebly in shop windows. It is also around then that the first tingle of anxiety and foreboding start to wriggle into my consciousness. It is approaching remorselessly and there is nothing I can do about it and it is going to get far more intrusive.

When young, I regarded it as a magical time. Although I never fell for the Santa propaganda, it did seem a period bedecked in bunting and fantastical with fairy lights. Even rushing down in the morning to prise open a tiny square on my Advent calendar, revealing a deeply unconvincing depiction of the birth of Christ, could send me into paroxysms of fevered excitement. As I grew older, the Christmas period was more often besprinkled, if not drowned, in oceans of booze; from about the 22^nd December to the 2^nd of January, I was mired in a miasma of alcohol fumes. All I had to show for it was the odd vague, confused memory – an ill-judged remark on the 23^rd; falling down in an alleyway on the 27^th; a mysterious, livid bruise on my inner right arm gained some time on the 29^th. Nowadays, Christmas Day feels like an amalgamation of all the dreary and uneventful Sunday's of the year. Even the so-called comedy 'Christmas Specials' on the box are usually woefully lame, seeming to consist of all the jokes considered too unfunny to appear in the original series.

Can music save Christmas? It is, after all, the time for the traditional beloved Christmas carols and the old pop favourites of yesteryear, resurrected and played to death on the radio and in shops. However, now that I harbour a far more jaundiced and world-weary approach to Christmas and all its irksome trappings I find myself reacting in the following irascible manner to these festive tunes:

“It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” - please furnish me with incontrovertible evidence for this unfounded and arbitrary assertion

“Ding Dong Merrily on High” - cease your interminable and overpoweringly annoying ding-dongery

“Jingle Bells, Jingle All the Way” - you leave me no alternative but to inform the local noise abatement officer. Expect a visit shortly.

“The Holly and the Ivy” - what do you expect me to do with such wretched foliage? Move along please.

“Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine” - the wine is corked and of an inferior vintage and the mistletoe is frankly inedible. Poor show all round.

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” - don't bore me with the colour scheme of this ghastly quadruped's proboscis.

“Hark the Herald Angels Sing” - I refuse to pay heed to the ceaseless trumpetings of those cumbrously-winged beings

“Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart” - I fail to recall you proffering such a distasteful and almost certainly illegal gift. Socks please this year

“Once in Royal David's City” - I expect once was more than enough in that contemptible metropolis

“Don We Now Our Gay Apparel” - Not so. I am clad in drab and unostentatious garb, thank you very much

“All I Want for Christmas Is You” - the very fact this atrocity is brayed by Mariah Carey is enough to chill the blood.

“Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time” - highly unlikely at the McCartney residence, with bracken sandwiches, roast hay and grass kebabs on the menu. He may also inflict a ditty upon you proving once again the complete ruination of his voice. Avoid at all costs.

“Little Donkey Carry Mary Safely On Her Way” - clambering aboard a malignant, malnourished ass while heavy with child verges on the criminally negligent. See you in court.

“Oh, I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” - such a longing renders you unfit to hold public office. Bother us no more.

“Silent Night” - a vain hope with police helicopters droning overhead, car alarms screeching, foxes emitting unearthly yelps, revellers bellowing inanities beneath my bedroom window. Don't be facetious.

“Are You Hanging Out Your Stockings on the Wall?” - I possess no such garment and, even if I did, wouldn't put it on public display for voyeurs to gawp at.

“Fairtytale of New York” - OK, I'll let you have that one, it's a classic

“In Dulce Jubilo” - Eh?

Despite this parade of negativity, I still hope that this year's festivities can actually pass without too much mental struggle and emotional turbulence. I may regain some of that childhood magic and wonder and find some joy and happiness. It is possible, especially if I avoid the Birds of a Feather 'Christmas Special'.

King Richard III, Scoliosis and Me

The first half of the room is wooden floored but the second half is glass, allowing the viewer to look down into what appears to be the foundations of a previous building on the site. On the far left is a shallow depression that is quite clearly the imprint of a former grave. Upstairs, one can see a replica of the skeleton that was discovered lying in this grave – and what is immediately and painfully apparent is the remarkable serpentine curve of the spine. Surely the person in possession of such a deformity would have been in constant, terrible pain and subject to an obvious physical deformity? Could the person with such a spine have conceivably lived a normal, healthy life?

I am, of course, describing the recently discovered remains of King Richard III, as displayed at the new and absorbing King Richard III Centre in the heart of Leicester, built directly above the site of the former Greyfriars Priory where the battered, mutilated body of Richard III was brought, slung unceremoniously over the back of a horse. I have long been fascinated by, and attracted to, the character and 'legend' of Richard III as I, too, was born with the same spinal curve, or scoliosis. Not only did we share a first name but we also shared the same vertebrae! This interest was galvanised when I studied Shakespeare's famous play, the source of much of the negative modern image of Richard – a shuffling, scheming, murderous hunchback; an image given malevolent form in Laurence Olivier's portrayal in the 1940's film. As I surveyed this labyrinthine coil of bone, my memories flooded back to my experience of scoliosis.

I was diagnosed with scoliosis when I was four years old, back in the early 1970's. The treatment at that time involved virtually my entire body being encased in plaster, save for my face and fingers and toes. I vividly remember that two small iron bars supported the plaster on either side of my face, impinging constantly on my vision. This treatment was only available at a hospital for sick children in Liverpool, a considerable distance from my home in Derbyshire – to this day, the sound of a Liverpudlian accent instantly transports me back to that time.

Memory, as neuroscientists inform us, is a fickle, malleable entity. We tend not to remember actual incidents, but our last memory of the incident, and these are constantly reconfigured, remoulded, even re-imagined throughout our lives. Experiments have shown that people can have very different memories of exactly the same event. With this caveat, I still possess certain specific and vividly haunting memories of that time. The strongest is of me crying and screaming for my parents not to leave me, not to abandon me to this strange and threatening environment, inhabited by people with strange costumes and even stranger accents. This is the earliest memory of my life and it is one of trauma and separation. Allied to this is the even more threatening memory of being subjected to numerous X-rays. I have in my mind's eye now, the imprinted image of me lying on a hard, cold bench, surrounded by looming figures wearing masks, subjecting me to an alien and utterly mystifying procedure. Finally, there is the memory of the terrible itches and pricklings which afflicted my skin beneath the plaster shroud. When I finally left hospital,after a period of roughly six months, I had to wear a brace around my neck and back which, weirdly, reminded me somewhat of the suit of armour that Richard III would have worn on Bosworth field.

I have often wondered whether the seeds of my lifelong battle with depression were sown during those lonely, bewildering and frightening days and nights in a Liverpool hospital ward. I have certainly inherited an ineradicable feeling that I am somehow physically repellent – misshapen, deformed, unlovable, even a mutant. Shakespeare famously has his Richard III determine “to prove a villain” as he “cannot be a lover”. I know for certain that when I am in the depths of my mental troubles, I can feel like a small, abandoned and malformed child, crying out for warmth and protection from a overpoweringly hostile, irredeemably intimidating and downright sinister world. The fear and distress I felt when a child invades my adult brain and leaves me as helpless and as rejected as I felt then. This now seems such a part of my mental and emotional make-up that I find it impossible to imagine being free of this fear and dread. In some profound sense, I am psychologically frozen at that time, still a broken child.

The type of scoliosis Richard III suffered from, I learned, is known as idiopathic adolescent onset scoliosis, meaning in layman's terms that it wasn’t, unlike mine, present at birth, but developed after the age of ten. No Liverpool hospital, X-rays and fearsome matrons for him. As I took my leave of the museum, though, I felt a definite affinity, across the centuries, with the defeated king. Perhaps the allegedly dark and suspicious aspects of his character were, quite simply, the outward expressions of a man battling with the psychological consequences of his disability in a world lacking sympathy and understanding, while still trying to exude the majesty of monarchy.

Facial reconstruction of King Richard III

Animal Magic

Despite rumours of rain encroaching from the East, the morning dawned brightly so I determined on a spot of wildlife watching. I ventured forth, clutching rather inadequate binoculars in my sweaty medium-sized hand. The weather was truly glorious, the sky an intense, cloudless blue, a couple of acrobatic swifts overhead, screaming and diving with effortless aerial agility. I was heading for a nearby nature reserve, or 'mosaic of habitats', sandwiched between the River Erewash and the Erewash Canal on one side, and the clanking, grinding expanse of Toton railway sidings on the other. On previous visits I had been overjoyed to witness the lightning bejewelled flash of kingfishers along the river bank, so I was hopeful of another glimpse of the halcyon bird.

(A kingfisher perched on a branch, embarrassed by its dowdy plumage)

My first glimpse of the reserve, though, caused a temporary disappointment as somebody had obviously been very busy with the lawn mower/scythe as a considerable area of the thistles, nettles, and brambles near the path had been severely denuded. This had previously provided ideal fluttering ground for butterflies and their absence would be unacceptable! I spotted a path of sorts between the remaining greenery and stumbled clumsily along, immediately feeling that most enjoyable of sensations, the burning sting of nettles scraping along my bared shins. It was worth the momentary discomfort, though, as I spied a Painted Lady (the butterfly, not a woman covered in emulsion sprawled amidst the foliage). This is a migratory butterfly, hailing originally from North Africa ("coming over here, laying eggs on our nettles....") and was a large specimen, the orange and white patches on its wings gleaming in the cleansed light. A sudden fusillade of birdsong behind me caused me to spin round - one hand feverishly scratching the nettle rash on my shapely leg, the other fumbling for my binoculars - but it had fled before I could establish a clear sighting; a Wren, I surmised.

(Painted Lady, Vanessa cardui, latter from Greek: kardos = thistle)

The river was flowing gently, idly along, murmuring gently as it navigated round a boulder in mid-stream. A dog was cavorting with a stick further upstream, two lads egging it on to further frivolity. Despite being shallow, there were a lot of fish swimming in its clear waters, some quite large. That is as far as the natural history of fishes goes on this blog as my knowledge of them is sadly deficient. Similarly, there were dragonflies and damselflies aplenty but my identification skills are hazy; I did spot the distinctive needle-shaped Common Blue Damselfly, and there was a Brown Hawker around too. Banded and Beautiful Demoiselles are more delicate and intensely coloured and seemed engaged in some form of combat (or mating).  I always think these delightful insects have such a primeval air about them; one can imagine them gliding around some prehistoric swamp with dinosaurs lumbering around and going extinct in the background. Sadly, though, there were no kingfishers on the river today; they must be way of exuberant youths.

I was hungry for more lepidoptera and trained my laser-like gaze at the surrounding verdancy. There were Meadow Browns in profusion, and the ubiquitous Large Whites but no Peacocks, my favourite, a quite stunningly iridescent insect. Then, another beautiful species, the Small Tortoiseshell, hove into view. This butterfly has declined a lot in the South but I have seen many in recent years so they must be fluorishing in the East Midlands. Butterflies, of course, are so damned difficult to identify sometimes without the requisite equipment; I imagined myself equipped with a huge butterfly net, flailing wildly and inexpertly around, getting it entangled in power lines or wrapped around a thug's shaven head. No, best just rely on the visuals. I was able to identify a Comma through my eyes, principally by the rather frayed, irregular outline of its wings. The UK Butterflies website correctly if rather harshly describes it as looking like "a tatty Small Tortoiseshell".

(Comma Butterfly basking in its tattiness)

Rabbits are rife in this reserve and, sure enough, I soon caught the briefest of sights of a white scut disappearing in the undergrowth. Further along, I saw a pair of large ears sticking above the grass and a hint of staring rabbit eye. I stopped a fair distance away and pointed the binoculars in tits direction, only to be confronted with the sight of a pair of legs disappearing once more out of view. Rabbits are such a familiar animal yet I still get a twitch of excitement when I see a wild specimen - I blame Art Garfunkel.

Birds were present in numbers, as their sweet trills and melodies signified, but sightings were meagre (save a proud Whitethroat venting its song from the treetops) until, leaning over the parapet of a bridge looking into river, some indefinable commotion behind me caused me to turn round to be confronted by a Song Thrush looking quizzically at me from atop a concrete pole. Then, as I turned to move on, a flash of scarlet out of the corner of my eye before it was enfolded by the shadows. I focussed my binoculars on the depths of the bush and there was a Bullfinch, preening its feathers in the gloom, its chest puffed out like a regimental sergeant-major. A beautiful bird and well worth the admission fee, even though there was't one.

(Photo of a Bullfinch that I didn't take)

It was a thoroughly enjoyable walk, sweeping the debris of the torrid night from the alcoves of my mind. However, the new high-speed rail line, HS2, will come right through Toton and the East Midlands Hub station is due to be built near here. I hope this little patch of wildlife-rich rus in urbe doesn't fall victim to this development.  As Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote in 'Pied Beauty':

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim

Requiem for Satao

On Friday it was confirmed that one of Kenya's largest male elephants, Satao, an enormous 'tusker', had been brutally slain by poachers for his ivory. I found the killing of this noble animal profoundly depressing and a savage indictment of humanity. It is therefore a lament for an individual elephant but, if the poachers and the ivory-seekers have their way, it may ultimately turn out to be a requiem for elephants in the wild. If this were to come to pass, it would be one of the most shameful and unforgivable moments in mankind's already blood-soaked record of decimating the wondrous biodiversity of our fragile planet. Thankfully, there are numerous people and charities working untiringly to prevent this dread scenario from coming to pass - we owe them a great debt of gratitude.

This poem was inspired by reading about Satao and, although I recognise that it is extremely far from being decent poetry, it is heartfelt and the only tribute I can really offer.

This was your domain, your empire, your land;

The land where you made the mountains shake,

The land that trembled at your imperious command.

The sky paid homage to your regal presence,

The earth knelt before your tumultuous majesty,

The trees bowed in supplication before your rampant charge.

Your joyous, triumphant cry echoed to the stars:

"I am Satao, Kenya's greatest son".

Your tusks shone like pristine snow in the molten glare,

Spearing the heavens with ancient pride.

Now they lie on a far away shelf,

Carved with care into a worthless trinket.

Now you dwell in a different land

The ancestral home where your forefathers roam

The land of eternal splendour,

Where your victorious fanfare will resound for evermore:

"I am Satao, Kenya's greatest son!".

Vile Product of Britain's Sick Conservative State

This evil man embodies everything that is wrong with the Department for Work and Pensions, a man who has just been convicted of multiple counts of incompetence: he relies on Britain's hard-working families to pay his money, openly bragging that he could live on £53 a week; has fathered at least 17 illegitimate and useless policies; enjoys sordid austerity exercises with his sick cronies; was sacked from his only job, a menial post as leader of the Conservative Party; and openly goes on TV to brag about his depraved and shameless lifestyle.

He has committed one of the most horrible crimes against the poor, the sick, and the vulnerable in Britain in recent years. And it was done out of malice in a ham-fisted plot to destroy the Welfare State. It is time to lift the lid on the bleak and often grotesque world of the Conservative party politician, trapped in a cycle of abuse, callousness, hate, and a pathetic inability to see that they have done anything wrong. They are moral degenerates.

A Flame Extinguished

We were promised that the Olympics closing ceremony was going to be a celebration of bad miming to British music and, with the notable exception of One Dimension, this proved to be the case. The tone was set from the start when those titans of the British rock industry - Huw Edwards, Hazel Irvine, and the other bloke - were chosen by the BBC to make fatuous and banal comments over the music we were supposed to be celebratin'.

The quality was, of course, variable. The aforementioned gang of schoolboys, One Direction, simply gave up on even bothering to mime and just postured on the back of a lorry instead. The one direction they should have gone in was straight out of the stadium and into the Thames. One Dissection have, in fact, been referred to the International Boyband Federation after allegations they simply weren't trying to qualify for any applause, but I suspect that was as good as it gets from them. George Michael's 'Freedom' was a good choice and chimed well with the Olympic ideal, but his second song was protracted, obscure, and just too crap for such an event. I wasn't convinced by the need for the hirsute, priapic Russell Brand to declaim 'I am the Walrus' into a loudhailer either. I suppose we should be grateful that Liam Gallagher managed to refrain from bellowing a hail of profanities at the assembled throng; it certainly would have been a treat to see Noel's luxuriant mono-brow gyrating like an apoplectic caterpillar at the sight of his treasured sibling sneering through his composition on the world stage.

The parade of the athletes into the stadium clearly took a lot longer than the organisers envisaged and soon became wearisome; there are only so many shots of Montenegrin yachtsmen or Costa Rican fencers taking photos of each other and yelling "Hello Mum" one can take. We were occasionally treated to shots of some of the volunteers windmilling their arms at the Olympians in a vain effort to get them to get a shift on. Elbow tried manfully to extend their uplifting anthems but it ultimately meant the soundtrack of the songs we had already heard were played again, giving us another chance to hear One Digression's lame effort.

And then there were The Spice Girls being driven around on the top of London taxis. I am pleased to confirm that another world record was broken during this segment: Victoria Spice has now held the same sulkily pouting facial expression for 15 years and 27 minutes so shove that up your six-pack, Ennis. It seemed she might fail to break the record at one stage as she was filmed making increasingly panicky grabs at the handrail but her features held firm.

Posh Beckham breaks world record and adopts celebratory splay-legged Bambi stance 

That old trooper, Ginger Spice (who was 73 last month), also set personal bests  in the unsynchronised dancing and asymmetric boobs. I surely can't have been the only viewer, though, to hope the drivers would suddenly slam their brakes on and cause the the caterwauling coven to dash their talentless bones to pieces on the stadium floor. Mind you, it was during their turn that the camera thankfully fastened on Bozza Johnson 'dancing' like an electrocuted beluga whale; at least he managed to avoid impaling the Mayor of Rio on the Olympic flag. However, I really could have done without a gaggle of models stalking surlily up the catwalk; Kate Moss could only have been there as a reminder of the great debt British music and fashion owes to the Colombian narcotics industry, whilst the presence of violent yobette, Naomi Campbell, was baffling. I suppose we should at least be grateful she avoided ramming a stiletto heel into the eye of a disabled volunteer, or kicking Mo Farah in the knackers.

The ceremony also confirmed what many of us had long suspected: Prince Harry and Kate Middleton are now clearly stepping out together. Poor Wills was left at home in an empty, echoing palace, polishing his bald patch and playing with his toy helicopters, while his wife and brother openly cuckolded him in public. Poor show!

Harry: "Back to your places or mine?"

But there were stand-out moments - Madness; a Kate Bush song; the Mod scooters; Ray Davies performing the sublime 'Waterloo Sunset'; Eric Idle leading a decent sing-a-long; and The Who showing they can still perform live, with power and passion (take note Mr McCartney) - and it was good to see Anita Dobson can still churn out a decent guitar solo. Overall, not a bad gig and the Brits done good.

Chariots of Fire

There is a miserable, non-entity of a Conservative MP called Aidan Burley who infamously tweeted that the gloriously eccentric and anarchic Olympic opening ceremony was "leftie multicultural crap". We should not, perhaps, be surprised by this as the last time this chap bothered the news was when he attended a stag do with his very funny mates dressed as Nazis. Burley whimpered that his tweet had been "misunderstood" which merely proved that he had no idea what his own witless fingers were writing. It would have been interesting, therefore, to be a fly on the wall in Burley's household when black Muslim immigrant Mo Farah romped home in the 10,000 metres last night and then draped himself in the Union flag; perhaps he shared a consolatory beer with Nick Griffin and John Terry.

The magnificent, soul-swelling, heart-bursting victories of Farah and Jessica Ennis - glowing with vitality; exuding radiant grace and elegance; smiling pure sunshine - represent the life-affirming victory of a Britain that Burley and his egregious ilk will never understand and will never accept: a Britain that is open, inclusive, warm, and welcoming; a Britain that joyfully welcomes the fact that, no matter your colour, your creed, your background, you are British and can represent Britain with as much pride and distinction as anybody. That was the truly memorable message of yesterday's events. I mean, even a pale, ginger (GINGER!) bloke won the long jump and there is no minority more traduced than us gingers! The only sour note of the whole day occurred in the velodrome when Sir Paul Macca's querulous yowling caused deep distress and offence to many spectators.

When these athletes, including the rowers and cyclists, give their post-race interviews they are characterised by good humour, self-deprecation, and generosity to everyone who has helped them. With the rowers, in particular, this is all the more remarkable as they clearly go through intense physical, mental and emotional pain to achieve victory; some almost physically disintegrate with weariness at the finishing line. Many are clearly grateful for the massive avuncular frame of Sir Steve Redgrave to collapse onto once they reach terra firma; sometimes, his brawny arm will appear from off camera and give them an additional celebratory/consolatory pinch that would make a polar bear yelp. Compare this to the whingeing, whining, inarticulate, self-exculpatory and self-aggrandising interviews given by many footballers (and their managers) after their latest tedious failure. As the banking scandals have proved, paying people vastly more money than they deserve does not mean they will perform any better. For no amount of money can ever match the commitment, passion and determination shown by Farah, Ennis, Pendleton, Sir Hoy, et al.

 

G4S-on-Sea Security Fiasco

Anger erupted and uproar was roared this week when it was revealed that G4S-on-Sea platoon will be unable to provide the number of security guards needed to make the Olympics interesting, I mean safe. Captain Mainwaring, CEO of the lamentable platoon, and also a banker, said he was aware only nine days ago of the problems. I have obtained a transcript of that fateful meeting:

MAINWARING: "Right, gather round, men, I have a top secret mission for the platoon. We have been awarded, after an open and transparent bidding process, and rigorous contractual negotiations, the contract to provide security for the Olympic Games. Pretty impressive honour, eh?"

SERGEANT WILSON: "Do you think that's wise, Sir?"

MAINWARING: "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Wilson. That's defeatist talk".

WILSON: "I'm most awfully sorry, sir, it's just.....well.....do you think we have enough men?"

MAINWARING: (livid) "Have enough men?! We are Blighty's finest provider of security solutions for a wideranging customer base. We specialise in outsourced business processes. Of course, we'll be.....

PRIVATE GODFREY: "Excuse me, Captain Mainwaring, I'm terribly sorry but could I be excused? My sister Dolly and I polished off a delightful bottle of sherry last night and I'm afraid......(tails off)

MAINWARING: (exasperated) Oh really, Godfrey, go on if you must. Now.....

CORPORAL JONES: "Permission to speak, sir?"

MAINWARING: "What is it now?"

JONES: "When we provided security for the Sudan Olympics, the fuzzy-wuzzies...."

MAINWARING: (interrupts hurriedly) "Jones, we don't use language like that anymore, this isn't some 1970's comedy show. Didn't you attend the Diversity and Inclusivity Focus Group last week?"

PRIVATE PIKE: (sidling up to Wilson, tugging his sleeve) "Uncle Arthur....Uncle Arthur".

WILSON: "What is it now, Frank?"

PIKE: "You know Mum doesn't like me going to East London because of me chest..."

FRASER: "I tell ye, Mainwaring, it's going to be a shambles, a total shambles. G4S is DOOMED, DOOMED!"

Theme music plays:

"Who do you think you are kidding Lord Coe?
If you think the Games will be well run
We are the boys who can't provide security for your little games...."

(G4S security guards on manoeuvres)

Theresa May MP, Home Secretary, has issued a statement on the debacle:

"'The Government's over-riding priority is to use all resources necessary to deliver a safe and secure Olympic Games but concerns have arisen about the ability of G4S-on-Sea to deliver the required number of guards for all Olympics venues. I have been constantly monitoring the situation and it has only just become clear that Private Godfrey has a urinary tract infection, Private Pike is a stupid boy, Corporal Jones is 124 years old and has a tendency to panic, Walker is a thief, and Fraser is insane. In addition, it is now clear that most of them are, in fact, dead. I can confirm there remains no specific threat of excitement at the Games and the boredom threat level remains unchanged at IMMINENT".

Mrs May then went on to defend the Home Office's apparent inability to organise a piss-up in a brewery.

What is Depression?

What is Depression?


Depression is: mind-sludge, brain-filth, thistle-thoughts, thorns jagging and tearing, barbed-wire in the skull

Depression is: being home to a leprous toad, a putrescent rat, squatting in your soul, seeping foul, noxious fumes into your thoughts

Depression is: pyroclastic flows of misery, magma chambers of broiling fear, lava beds of scalding terror

Depression is: lying entombed in abyssal sediment, rusted and corroded; becalmed and beached on a grey and desolate shore

Depression is: seeking womb-warmth, foetal safety, amniotic comfort, the maternal shield

Depression is: craving monastic solitude, cloistral serenity, turning your face away, hiding under the pillow, loathing the world and its bruised beauty

Depression is: seeing the world through a steel mesh, a black gauze; seeing your life on a film screen, alienated and uninterested, fast-forward to the end.

Depression is: brutal, cosmic loneliness, alone in the Universe, cries fading, unheeded, across the inter-stellar emptiness; galactic grief

Depression is: being flayed alive, eviscerated, exposed to cruel scrutiny and malevolent laughter; nerve-ends quivering in torn, harrowed, scraped flesh

Depression is: limbs encased in concrete, body pressed by iron weights, soul mangled and crushed by geological boredom

Depression is: abject humiliation, avoiding the stranger’s gaze like a wounded animal, imposed servility, crawling abasement, shame-riven, guilt-tossed

Depression is: searching for healing herbs to strew in the chambers of the maimed brain; for aromatic balms and soothing lotions to smear on mind-wounds, soul-lesions

Depression is: the lozenged sunlight on rippling water, the blackbird’s song in the summer warmth, the bluebell’s vibrancy in the woodland glade: seeing all this, recognising all this - but feeling none of it.

Depression is: cupping your hands around the frail, flickering candle-flame of hope, sheltering it from the gusts and tempests that would blow it out and extinguish all light and all hope.

Chickens in Kiev

Hell's patio, who would have thought England would reach the quarter-finals of London 2012, or whatever, only to lose on penalties to a far superior footballing nation? That scenario seemed as likely as Andy Murray reaching the semi-finals of Wimbledon 2012 before being defeated by Roger Nadalovic - but that is what happened last night. The (un)match resembled nothing so much as an episode of any ITV drama: gruelling for the viewer, far longer than necessary, and with a wholly predictable ending. Our valiant boys, courageous lads, and ineffectual blokes are on their way home.

We were warned beforehand that the Italians, and Andrea Pirlo in particular, indulged in what is known as 'passing the ball', so England countered this threat by allowing Pirlo enough time and space to spray the ball around the park at will for the whole game. In contrast, England's main playmaker, ex-Hollyoaks star, Stevie 'Steven' Gerrard, performed an impression of recently deceased Lonesome George, before apparently retiring from the game completely after about 48 minutes; he made a brief reappearance after about 72 minutes when he contrived to get cramp, despite having previously shown no signs of using any of his muscles. Wayne Rooney, too, finally put paid to the oft-intoned canard that he is a 'world-class footballer' - he is not. Rooney is a very good footballer who occasionally scores world-class goals for Manchester United but, on the international stage, he has never delivered when it mattered, apart from a very brief efflorescence in Euro 2004: his last World Cup campaign, for instance, was notable mainly for an ill-tempered outburst against the fans who were foolish enough to travel half way round the world to cheer him on. In fact, he often renders himself incapable of playing when it matters by wildly swinging his Scouse studs at foreign flesh and being summarily dismissed for his efforts.

The game was often saved from being merely torturous by the entertainment value of Mario Balotelli, permanently poised on the cusp of outright lunacy. Has anyone on a football field wore a facial expression so expressive of imminent savage violence/childish tantrum/sublime talent as this ridiculous specimen?

Joe Hart: "Smell my wrist, Balotelli, smell it! SMELL IT!"

The penalty shoot-out ran to script despite the fragile flame of hope engendered by England briefly taking the lead. Pirlo responded with a penalty of daring and delicacy, before Ashley Young tried to ensure the Euros moved further eastward by attempting to leather the ball into Moldova, the crossbar inconveniently interposing itself. Ashley Cole actually looked surly and indifferent before his attempt, as if resenting the fact that he actually had to prove he was obviously going to miss. Cue a return to the studio to a giggling Alan Hansen. Our abysmal record at penalties hides a more fundamental failure: at every tournament, the England players are completely knackered by half-time of the quarter-finals. There is no way we will ever win a major footballing tournament if you can barely drag yourself on to the field of play at the start of a match. Even Rooney, who had languished in the stands in the group stages, biting his skull and punching his teeth, looked shattered early on, the sweat glistening on his tuberous cranium.

Rooney's thorax and abdomen

This campaign has, though, marked a refreshing break from recent tournaments as it was accompanied by a welcome blast of hard-nosed realism about our chances of success; gone were the chest-beating, posturing nationalism, ludicrously over-hyped expectations, and bellicose, embarrassing and historically inaccurate blaring tabloid headlines ("ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY BLOKE TO GIVE SWEAT, MUCUS, AND......er.......FIGHT THEM ON THE PLATEAUS........LET'S SHOW THE NAZI ARGIES WHO REALLY WON THE BATTLE OF DUNKIRK......er........CHURCHILL"). Instead, most people were astonished England progressed beyond the group stage.  Perhaps, ahead of our futile World Cup 2014 campaign, the red tops will go the opposite way entirely: "ENGLAND'S REJECT BENEFIT SCROUNGERS NOT FIT TO WEAR ADMIRAL CROMWELL'S FLIP-FLOPS". Our defeat, though, did have one avert one nightmare scenario, darkly hinted at by comic genius Gary Lineker when he signed off the BBC's coverage - what would the Germans have done to that team if we had won?  

The Madness of Chancellor George

There was relief yesterday after it emerged that the police have finally cornered extremist fanatic, George 'Paleface' Osborne, in his Central London apartment. Osborne is wanted after the anaemic maniac recently went on a murderous rampage, cutting and slashing wildly and indiscriminately at poor and vulnerable minorities across the land. It is understood that Osborne was already known to the security services as a petty Qonservative and that he became seriously radicalised after a spell in the Bullingdon Club in his youth. A source told me:

"We know that Osborne has also been heavily influenced by the crazed free-market rantings of the notorious hate cleric, Thatchertollah Maggieini. He also attended an al-Qonservative training camp where he learned how to damage or destroy those less privileged than himself. Like many militants inspired by the radical ideology of al-Qonservatives, Osborne seems to have believed he would be rewarded in heaven if he reduced the 50p tax rate".

When he went on the spree against the poor and the elderly in Parliament on 21 March, Osborne shouted "Allahu Maggie" ("Thatcher is great" in Toryspeak), "Britain is open for business", and, chillingly, "I commend this Budget to the House".


Osborne: "It is easier for a rich man to pass through a camel, than to collect the 50p tax rate off him""

Questions are now being raised about how Osborne was able to get away with these terrible crimes. Perhaps the lesson is that the UK needs to be more aware of the different faces that violent al-Qonservative extremism can assume. The security source continued:

"Belonging to the al-Qonservatives is not an offence in and of itself, though some people think it should be; we cannot mix up free-market fundamentalism with hate crimes, even if we know there are elements that unite them."

For young, grossly wealthy, posh boys, of Tory background, in the Southern banlieus (suburbs), to feel the call of al-Qonservatives is not in itself unusual. What is different in Osborne's case is that he appears to have revelled in committing his brazen crimes in the middle of the day and with plenty of witnesses.

This whole episode should cause the whole of UK society to look at itself very deeply and question just how it was possible for our society to produce such a disaffected and odious young millionaire. Better intelligence may have stopped him sooner but, ultimately, only united opposition to this virulent and hate-filled faith will protect us from spiralling inequality and despair.

God moves in mysterious ways.....

The Archbeard of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has been sensationally sacked as manager of The Anglicans after 10 years in charge. In a characteristically ruthless move, God, the secretive oligarch owner of the Anglicans, wielded the axe today. In a commandment delivered by His spokesman, Archangel Gabriel, God thundered:

"I am sorry to have to smite Mr Williams but the team's performances recently have not been good enough and attendances have fallen to an all-time low. I would like record our gratitude for his work and express our disappointment that the relationship has ended but we need to remain competitive on all fronts, especially as the Muslim United team are challenging strongly."


Williams is said to be "dishevelled and hysterical" by his dismissal

Williams's reign was dogged by reports of the kind of changing-room unrest that previous Anglican managers have said led to their own downfall; there have been consistent reports of ongoing battles with senior players, such as Didier Sentamu. His team talks have been incomprehensible and he has lost too many players to hated rivals, The Catholics. The final straw appears to have been Williams desire to pick openly gay players for the first team.

There is no doubt who Anglican fans would like to see replace Williams - their favourite former messiah, Jose Christinho. However, doubts remain that Christinho will agree to a Second Coming, after the way God got rid of him the last time. He is said to still bear the scars of that ordeal and cannot understand why God forsook him. If there is no miraculous return, then Sentamu may become the first gap-toothed manager of the Anglicans.


Sentamu in the Anglicans new away kit

Olympic Dreams

The Olympic Games is the world's most exciting, important and brutally expensive sporting event; only Derby County v Nottingham Forest (and vice versa), The World Cup, The European Championships, The FA Cup Final, The Ashes, Horse of the Year Show, Cheese Rolling, and Moustache Growing can beat it. This year, of course, London will host this extravaganza of performance-enhancing drugs taking and, as an essential part of the interminable build-up, His Royal Highness Lord Sir Sebastian Coe, OM, MBE, has ordered me to inform the agog world of the latest hot tips for some of the events. So here goes:

CROSS-COUNTRY VOTE RIGGING

Vlad 'the Imposter' Putin's team have hit top form at just the right time, with some awesome displays of ballot box stuffing and multiple voting in the Russian qualifying rounds. Putin himself is also tipped to do very well in the Topless Brown Bear Grappling and Tiger Clobbering.

100 METRES PHOTO OPPORTUNITY

German sprinter Harry von Windsor has suddenly emerged as the favourite after his comprehensive defeat of a strangely lacklustre Usain Bolt in Jamaica last week. Harry left Bolt for dead after unleashing a devastating burst of Public Relations. Bolt's tardiness has been attributed to his appearance as Richard Branson in a recent pisspoor advertisement. Every mode of transport associated with Branson goes very, very slowly.

SABRE-RATTLING

The Argentinian team were fancied by many after recently resurrecting their renowned Malvinas manoeuvre. However, in recent weeks, those in the know say the Israelis, funded by US money, have recently embarked on vigorous and sustained rattling and now apppear on the verge of causing a real explosion. The secretive Iranian team are predicted to currently lack the firepower to defeat them in the first round.

GRECO-GERMAN WRESTLING

This seems the most one-sided contest in the whole of the pointless games. The German team, headed by dumpy, dour heavyweight Fraulein Merkel, is expected to continue the German run of success against the Greeks and have them in a deadly Fiscal Headlock immediately. Some say the Greeks have submitted already and there are rumours the team does not even possess the cash to travel to the Games.

THE BORE-ATHON

No contest here either. The US trio of Mitt Mittney, Rick Rickney, and Newt Newtney, all members of the Republican team, have been mercilessly boring their home crowd for seemingly months already and there is no sign they intend to stop anytime soon. The 'banning abortion' and 'anti-gay' routines prove particularly lethal.

INCOMPETENT SAILING, SYNCHRONISED DIVING, FRANTIC SWIMMING

The Italians, sponsored by Costa and badly led by their perma-tanned, womanising, crooner pilot Francesco Schettino will take some stopping (unless they hit an island). Recent exercises off Giglio and the Seychelles have proved wildly successful and the Back-to-Shore stroke is a real speciality of Schettino's, frequently leaving his team far behind while he returns to his hotel for an agreeable lunch.

INAPPROPRIATE BOXING (LOSERWEIGHT), TOSSING THE TRIPOD

Imbecilic British duo, David 'Haylord' Haye and Derek 'Arsehole' Chisora have been in noticeably good form. Their recent bout in Munich was a roaring success and manager Frank Warren is convinced the pair will garner lots of gold and silver for his pocket.

Wedding Balls

The baroque grandeur and moral authority of the Roman Catholic Church has been somewhat diminished of late by the appalling child sex abuse scandal; a scandal that destroyed thousands of innocent lives and caused terrible mental and physical anguish to its victims. This anguish was compounded by the reaction of the Catholic hierarchy to these allegations: obfuscation, dilatoriness, cover-ups, and outright denial were deemed the appropriate response to these criminal acts by some of their priests. Most people would agree that such abuse represents a stark example of a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right.

Of course, many Catholics were shocked and disgusted by these acts of betrayal, just as the vast majority of Muslims are shocked and disgusted by the murderous acts committed by jihadi extremists in the name of their religion. The Church hierarchy did finally issue a laughably belated apology, extracted through their teeth with red-hot pincers and the use of the rack......oh sorry, that was how the Church used to extract confessions from its enemies. Anyway, one would have thought that a period of quiet repentance and heartfelt humility - all traditional religious values - would have gone some way to repairing its tarnished image.

But lo! from the icy land of the Scotsmen there comes forth a voice in the wilderness by the name of Cardinal Keith O'Brien (former lead singer of The Prodigy), who is none other than Britain's senior Catholic. This visionary prophet, in a fiery sermon in the Sunday Telegraph, declares that two people who are in love getting married is, in fact, "a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right." Now, these two people, in the scenario he is alluding to, would be two men or two women: Dave 'Boy' Cameron is reportedly strongly in favour of legalising same-sex marriages.


O'Brien: "Hmmm, this feels like a gay head to me"

O'Brien is, of course, perfectly entitled to his voicing his objections and his views are unsurprising, if expressed in unnecessarily extreme terms. O'Brien raves on:

"it is clear that this proposal is not about rights, but rather is an attempt to redefine marriage for the whole of society at the behest of a small minority of activists".

Now, I may be wrong, but I was under the impression that Catholics are also a minority in this country; in fact, practising Christians are a minority. O'Brien is effectively accusing his opponents of the same tactics thhat he is employing so that argument won't wash. Also, O'Brien himself says that marriage is a "universal human right". If it's universal then it applies to every human being, whatever their sexuality. Any attempt to limit marriage to a man and a woman would therefore limit its universality so O'Brien is the one attempting to subvert it not its supporters.

I happen to think that same-sex marriage represents a welcome extension of an accepted human right to make it truly universal. To me, the fact that the people concerned are in love and want to marry is enough; their gender is irrelevant. I cannot believe that heterosexual mariage will be undermined by this extension:

"Morning, our lass, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. The wedding's off - I've decided to marry Big Larry from the Dog & Duck just because I can".

Can't really see that happening. Mind you, I expect gay weddings would be far more fun than heterosexual weddings, with better dresses and far more flowers.

This intervention comes hot on the heels of a number of public figures complaining that religious people are under the cosh from rampant and brutal atheists/secularists (Professor Richard Dawkins mainly). Baroness Warsi, co-chair of the Conservative Party, recently warned, in a speech at the Vatican (go to Narnia and turn left), that British society was under threat from a wave of "militant secularists." She was moved to say this after 20 Christians were burnt at the stake at Smithfield. Once again, that was how "militant Christianity" used to behave - not quite the same level of severity, is it?


Militant secularist leads Warsi to her gruesome fate at the stake

MANCHESTER FLOODED WITH 'TORY IMMIGRANTS'

The people of Manchester have reacted with shock and alarm to a sudden influx of Tory immigrants from the Home Counties. Many of the Tories are believed to have made the arduous and potentially fatal 36 hour journey to Manchester on what is known as the 'Virgin Express', a secretive organisation run by The Bearded One, who is said to live in a hot air balloon. Many of them would have paid vast sums of money to travel on this route, enduring squalid, overcrowded and insanitary conditions. "It was perfectly ghastly", said one Tory, "there were 40 of us crammed into this container with no pheasant pie or Evian."


(Two of the Tory immigrants caught braying nonsense in Manchester)

In Manchester, the Tories are said to have isolated themselves in their own ghetto. One local said, "these Tories make no attempt to integrate with the local community. They keep to themselves, braying in their own strange language about "bringing back matron" and "hanging's too good for them", and they all seem to be called Sebastian or Rupert". Another said, "they come up here, getting rid of all our jobs and cutting our benefits. If it wasn't for the Human Rights Act, we could deport them all back to Maidenhead or Basingstoke where they belong. Surely we have a right not to be tortured by their terrible speeches and shiny faces?". It has even been suggested that the Tories have taken the dirty jobs which most Mancunians are not prepared to do, such as Secretary of State for Defence. It is believed many of the Tories may return to their homeland later in the week as supplies of champagne are said to be running low.

Meanwhile, the actress Amanda 'Foxy' Knoxy has received a much-needed boost to her career. After her recent starring role in the courtroom drama, 'Guilty As Hell', the homicidal temptress has caught the eye of raddled crooner and pornographer, Silvio Berlusconi.


(Knox Fox shows her delight at Berlusconi's offer)

Mr Berlusconi, 102, is believed to want ex-Charlie's Angel Knoxy to stay in Italy and become his Minister for No Justice. "I like a chick who can get away with murder. She reminds me of me and I wanna her in my bunga bunga parties.....I mean, government. Whatta mistaka to make."


(Berlusconi - "Hey, bambina, come to Uncle Silvio")

Germ Warfare

Across Europe people have been falling ill, tragically even dying, from this virulent and highly infectious illness. Symptoms include violent and copious vomiting; tsunamic diarrhoea; feelings of severe nausea, dizziness and lassitude; feverish sweating; brain cramps; and monomaniacal obsession with a particular person. Scientists are baffled, health experts stumped - just what has caused this outbreak of exponentially multiplying stories about Cheryl E. Coli? One suggestion is that a bacterium called Simonia Cowellensis is the microscopic organism to blame. This is an extremely toxic and terrifyingly ubiquitous germ which has the capacity to ravage human beings, robbing them not only of their physical health, but totally destroying their ability to think rationally. If the infection is not treated immediately, the victim becomes a gibbering wreck, robbed of all dignity and self-respect. Toxicologists have advised people to take the following steps if they want to avoid this lethal disease:

1) Avoid reading Daily Mirror/The Sun/Daily Star and, if you read one accidentally, disinfect your entire body afterwards;
2) Do not, under any circumstances, watch ITV. Simonia Cowellensis finds this barren, sterile environment ideal for breeding;
3) Always wash radishes.


(Enlarged photo of foul, pestilential virus, Simonia Cowellensis)

Speaking of harmful and unpleasant germs that need eradicating quickly, David Cameron MP has today unveiled his 'five guarantees' for the future of the NHS. Cameron, looking suave in a top hat, monocle and a Jimmy Choo negligee, vowed that:

1) Hospital waiting lists will be kept entirely for the poor;
2) Eugenics will be introduced free at the point of use for anybody who works for a public service;
3) The NHS will remain a free, universal service (except for those who cannot access it or afford it);
4) Local GPs will be handed an enormous amount of money so that they can ensure their bank accounts remain fit, healthy and their only concern. Any services that interfere with this noble aim will be discontinued;
5) Hospitals will be renamed morgues to reassure people that the NHS will remain safe in Conservative hands.


(Cameron: "I say, old bean, the poor really do stink, what?")

Hairy Story

The Libyan imbroglio continues with British Apache helicopters being deployed in action for the first time. The helicopters instantly proved their lethality by destroying a cement mixer and the Tripoli branch of Clinton's Cards. On the same day, a member of Britain's feared SAS (Silly Arse Squadron), Lieutenant William Hague, owner of slightly less hair than a helicopter, parachuted under cover of broad daylight into rebel-held Benghazi. Billy of Benghazi, as nobody will call him, held talks on the conflict with the motley crowd of rebels but 'Mad Dog' Gaddafi was not best pleased. In a short 8 hour rant, Gaddafi first of all called for Admiral Hague to be evicted from Libya as he could not understand his 'incomprehensible accent':

"Is this silly little bald man a Geordie? I cannot understand a word he say - what is this 'ee ba gum' of which he speaks?.......Hague should not visit Benghazi as is city run by armed criminal gangs who spend whole day driving around shooting their weapons. Law and order has broken down completely. It is equivalent of me making visit to Manchester or Liverpool."

It is understood the rebels would like to position General Hague so the blazing North African sun reflects off his ridiculously shiny Tory head into the eyes of the oncoming Gaddafi forces.


(Legendary British commando Private Hague, code name 'Stupid Boy')

Hague's visit got his dander up and he immediately commandeered a Spitfire and flew straight to Germany where he crash-landed on a cucumber farm. Hague leapt from the cockpit and began to frenziedly gnaw and masticate upon the humble yet possibly fatal fruit. His jaw was a blur of activity as his right-wing teeth sliced through the epidermis and the fleshy, pulpy innards. He was last seen standing like the Statue of Liberty, half-eaten cucumber in his outstretched arm, humming the 'Dambusters' theme music.

Another hero, Wazza Rooney, has taken steps to cure himself of incipient baldness by having a hair transplant. Rooney tweeted the glad tidings: "Just to confirm to all my followers I have had a hair transplant. I was going bald at 25 why not?" There was a slight delay at the start of the operation when the surgeon, Dr Kojak Goodhew, was unable to distinguish between the front and back of Rooney's head. His head was said to be 'bruised and swollen', but what it was like after the operation is unclear.


(Rooney: "I'm well made up with me follicle unit transplantation.")

His betrayed wife, Coleen, tweeted that she was "pleased for him and it will look great", thereby revealing that she refers to her beloved adulterer as 'it'.

Entertainment news - The powerful music mogul, Barry Porpoise, the man behind the highly successful talent show, The Cleethorpes Factor, has had to drop one of the most popular judges, Bessie Clawhammer, due to her Geordie accent being impenetrable to the people of that opulent resort. Comments such as "Why aye man, you remind us of a young Raoul Moat, canny lad" and "Listen, pet, you haven't got the vocal range of James Bolam yet" have not gone down well. The talent show, held every year in the Cleethorpes Cheese Emporium, is one of North-East Lincolnshire's hottest tourist attractions (ahead of Mablethorpe's 'So You Think You Can Inbreed'), even though it is an updated version of Opportunity Knocks, with added pointless screaming and deeply tedious and unending publicity. Porpoise is believed to be concentrating on his other gaudy end-of-the-pier show, Wigan's Got Talent, fronted by the desperate dwarves, Not-Funny and Even-Unfunnier.

Obamarama

Elongated US President Bazza Obama, his statuesque wife, Michael, and a modest entourage of 32,678, descended on plucky Blighty this week. The royal couple started in Ireland, from whence Obama's great-great-great grandad, Norris McWhirter O'bama, left to seek his fortune in the USA. Sadly, his dreams turned to ashes and he ended his days as a bison in the Badlands of North Alabamassippi; he finally came to grief when he was kicked to death by feared Sioux warrior and architect Chief Galloping Nostril (immortalised by a raging Charles Hawtrey in the classic romantic comedy 'Nostril Kicks a Bison to Death').

As it was a state visit, the Obamas were taken in their 2 mile long Cadillac, nicknamed 'The Beast', to Buck House, where Liz and Phil had interrupted a game of British Bulldog in order to greet them. Liz peered down the Mall and inquired: "Have you see The Beast?". Phil replied, "Yes, Camilla's in the khazi munching on a bale of hay". When The Beast finally pulled up, Phil whispered to Liz: "Are these the new servants you were talking about?". Obama uncoiled himself from the Beast's depths and said:

OBAMA: "Hi....Yes, we can!.....how are you, your royal Edinboroughness"

PHIL: "Bloody hell, it's Huggy Bear!"

OBAMA: "I hear you guys were in Irelandland last week....Yes, we can!....did you enjoy the craic over there?"

PHIL: "No, Mr Bear, Lizzie keeps me on a tight leash these days. She wouldn't even let me attack the black stuff.....no offence meant, Mr Freeman."


(OBAMA: "Psst, your husband thinks I'm Huggy Bear. LIZ: "I'm sorry, Mr Luther King, he's from Greece.")

Obama made a speech to MPs and Peers in the ancient surroundings of Westminster Hall. One row consisted of all the living former Prime Ministers: Brown, Blair, Major, Cameron - but no Thatcher. The Iron Lady was too busy mixing eye of newt and kneecap of bat in her cauldron at home. Her welcome absence presented a dilemma - who could replace one of the most hated political figures in British history? Step forward, Mr Clegg, your time has come! Blair and Brown sat uneasily next to each other; they reminded of something but I could not put my finger on it. Then it came to me:


(Cissie Blair and Ada Brown enjoy emotional reunion)

Fortunately, I was able to lipread their conversation:

BLAIR: "Eee, Browny love, I hear you fancy going t'IMF."

BROWN: (looks puzzled, gurns, pushes up man boobs) "Nay, Blairy lass, I don't fancy any more bairns, not with me being a martyr to me...(mouths "haemorrhoids").

BLAIR: (Tuts) "Don't be so silly, Browny love, that's IVF, you twattish barm cake."

Meanwhile, it's been a bad few weeks for fugitive war criminals. First, Osama had his beard blown off by Steven Seagal; then, brutal Serb warlord Ratko Mladic was found lurking in a Serbian skip; and now, the most ruthless of them all, Sepp Blatter, leader of the notoriously corrupt mafia mob, FIFA, has been accused of corruption himself. Amazingly, his case has been referred to FIFA's ethics committee! FIFA has an ethics committee?! That's akin to the SS having an Etiquette Panel. Still, Obama's final gesture showed just how much he values the 'special relationship': he authorised the extradition of the notorious slapper of female toilet attendants, scrawny Geordie warbler Cheryl Cole, back to the UK. Cheers, canny lad!

Unlucky Gym

Previously I regarded gymnasia (from the Greek word gymnos meaning 'go and have a kebab instead') with ill-disguised terror and revulsion, so when my GP referred me to the local gym I was riven by doubt. Would this be the most ridiculously ill-advised venture since Ken Clarke decided to give us his considered views on rape? Anyway, there was I, puce-faced; sweat gushing from every pore; coughing violently; spluttering; spitting; belching; mucus-drenched; gasping for breath, as I finally arrived at the leisure centre after a two minute walk from my home.

I entered through the portals into the Land of the Fit and immediately felt severely ill at ease. The room was full of murderous looking instruments of torture, people splayed, stretched, and entwined in their vicious coils. One big-boned lady on some sort of bike gave a tragic moan and slumped forward as if life had departed her quivering carcass. A few seconds later she was resurrected, furiously pedalling again; then, another moan, another lifeless slump forward, a procedure she repeated annoyingly often. I tried to catch the eye of a brawny youth whirling some weights around but he responded with a fierce glower and a belligerent gnashing of teeth; most people there were cocooned in their own isolation - 'the zone' I believe it is called - and interaction was kept to a minimum. Exercise is a very serious matter indeed. To aid our concentration, there are a number of screens on the walls, one showing scowling, dour Andy Murray being comprehensively thrashed by a Malawian plumber in the first round of the Kandahar Invitation Cup.

I began surprisingly brightly, pedalling away like an obese, drug-free Lance Armstrong; when I stood up, though, I suddenly became aware that my legs were made of pig-iron. I attempted to perform some muscle-loosening exercises, such as leaning against the wall, which seemed to do the trick. All was proceeding fairly, if maladroitly, well until I attempted to defeat a particularly sadistic implement called the Cartilage Rupturer 500i or something. It involved grasping two moveable upright bars with your hands and moving one's legs up and down as quickly as possible. I realised that establishing a regular rhythm was essential and swiftly and easily failed to establish one; very quickly I was simply flailing and gesticulating wildly with my arms, while my poor legs were jerking and bending randomly like the last, desperate spasms of an impaled frog. Sweat soon began to spray from my head and carpet the machine in a dazzling rain of iridescent globules - a nice present for the next participant. I realised that not bringing a towel was an error, as rivulets of salty water bypassed my redundant eyebrows and stung my eyes. When I realised I was weeping like a baby and breathing like a bronchitic, raddled walrus, I realised it was time to gracefully retire. The trainer quickly pointed me to the water fountain, murmuring something about "blood pressure" and "dehydration". From the look on her face, she clearly thought I was on the verge of a massive coronary; the distant wail of a siren seemed to imply she had already assumed I was doomed and had made the necessary phone call.

However, I survived to not go there another day, and left the scene of the atrocity feeling like a new man:



Meanwhile, it has been reported that former Beatle and Manchester United stalwart Ryan 'Giggs' Giggsy has erupted, spewing ash and lava miles into the air above Northern England. Volcanologists believe the eruption occurred when he was revealed as the injunction-happy footballer denying us our God-given right to know every detail about the activities of his groin. Attention-seeking MP and idiot, John Hemming, revealed his name in the House of Commons in order to safeguard the freedom of his silly face to appear in the press and on the news. I don't think that, back in 1689 the Bill of Rights, which guarantees parliamentary privilege, was envisaged as safeguarding this type of revelation:

"Verily, I hath heard that Sir Ryan of Giggs, late of the county of Wales, hath been dallying and rutting most covetously and lewdly with my constituent, buxom milkmaid and most grievous strumpet, Mistress Imogen Thomas. Every low-born peasant and churl in the land knoweth Giggsy hath been ploughing another furrow as it appeareth on ye Olde Twitter most every day ......."


(Imogen Thomas shows off her fantastic distress at Giggs revelations)

Queen on Tour

It has been, we are repeatedly told, a truly historic visit. Not only historic but deeply symbolic too. In fact, it has been a historically symbolic and symbolically historic visit. This is, of course, Lizzie Windsor and Phil the Greek's jaunt to the Emerald Isle, so it is. As soon as the plane landed at Dublin airport, it was announced that the Queen was now eligible to play football for the Republic of Ireland, as well as Germany. It is thought unlikely she will be picked, though, as she has suffered a dramatic loss of form since she did her Achilles in at William's wedding.

Lizzie dutifully performed various memorial and ceremonial duties before she got down to the real reason for her visit - a trip to the Irish National Stud, or Colin Farrell as it is affectionately known. The Queen's vacant, dead eyes lit up when various gleaming stallions were paraded in front of her; she laid a wreath in memory of the Republican horses brutally murdered by the British in 1916; and she patted lots of wizened, tiny jockeys on their funny little heads. There was an embarrassing moment, however, when Lizzie mistook one of the horses for her daughter, Princess Anne. This was a ridiculous mistake to make as Anne was running in the 3.30pm at Kempton Park at the time.


(Wooden, clapped-out, unrealistic old nag views a demonstration of jockey skills)

Elsewhere, it has been a unrelenting litany of men behaving badly: Huhne, Laws, Fred the Shred, Schwarzenegger, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Ken Clarke, and Rooney. The latter caused a Twitter rumpus when he responded to abusive tweets by threatening his interlocutor:'I'll put u asleep within 10 seconds'. One can imagine the fierce look of concentration on his primitive features - the furrowed overhanging brow; the tongue jutting from betwixt his baboonish incisors; sweat gleaming on his potato skull - as his huge Scouse paws bashed out his reponse.


(Rooney: "Hey, Coleen, how do you spell 'u', our kid?")

It is thought Rooney aimed to carry out this threat by ambushing his abuser and forcing him to read his pisspoor autobiography.