http://www.jihadwatch.org/2010/06/pat-condell-on-ground-zero-mosque-is-it-possible-to-be-astonished-but-not-surprised.html
Check this out. Without doubt, unless you live on Mars and are tuning in on Martian FM, you will have heard about President Obama's plans to open a mosque just a few hundred yards from the site of the 9/11 attacks.
In this video, a numpty named Pat Condell claims the usual reactionary banter about Islam being a religion of evil. If you haven't clicked the link already, I'd do so now or else the following is going to seem a little bit nonsensical...
I’m sorry, but I feel that I have to argue this case. Mr Condell is clearly a very intelligent man, and clearly also a man with a much skewed opinion. I mean for Christ’s sake – you just have to take one glance at the web URL to work that out, this is posted on a site called “jihadwatch”, which doesn’t quite suggest an impartiality of opinion.
This is also coming from the man who claimed that, "Muslim women in Britain who cover their faces are mentally ill". Oh dear.
As for claiming Islam to be a religion of intolerance and hatred, I interpret this as quite the hypocritical statement as in the video he’s proven himself to be little more than a bottom-feeding racist, using multiplicity of language in a poor effort to come across as intelligent. Mr Pot, meet Mr Condell – or should I say Mr Kettle?
And as for the claim that Islam is a bigger threat to our world than Nazism ever was, is that really believable? Especially as the more I watched that video the more I became convinced that Mr Condell himself is probably wearing underpants emblazoned with swastikas. I was genuinely surprised when he didn’t end the video with a “Sieg Heil!”.
I also love the way he appeals to the conscience of the great American people. Yet isn’t the very last line of the American Pledge of Allegiance as follows,“...with liberty and justice for all”? And that, in my opinion is exactly what this boils down to – a matter of liberty.
It’s not “diversity” as he claims, it’s freedom. The right to exist. And yet he seemingly wants to deny this basic human right and obliterate every and all form of Islam. Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?
Who is this man to denigrate Islamic culture and religion, who is he to judge and to tar Muslim people with the same brush, and who is he to tell them where to build their “offensive” mosques? Really? Anybody with half a brain should surely recognise this language as nothing but utterly, utterly disgusting.
Don’t get me wrong of course, I’m not saying that they absolutely should build a mosque at Ground Zero – of course that’s a terrible move to make, but to use it as an excuse to scatter filth of the faith of millions of fellow human beings?
Don’t the words “Love thy neighbour” mean anything to this man, or to anyone who has a similar opinion? Take note that it’s “Love thy neighbour”, not “Love thy neighbour unless he’s a dirty Muslim, in which case you’re more than free to shit all over him.”
As far as answering his question, yes I think it is possible to be astonished, but not surprised. Astonished at the sheer narrow-mindedness some people harbour, but I’d have to have my head stuck in the sand for a LONG time to be surprised; this attitude is hardly anything new. If this is the attitude of the “civilised world”, then I do not want to be a part of it.
Please don’t feel the need to quote this post or even to pay any attention to it, as I’m sure it’ll do nothing to change the opinion of those who already have their own formulate opinions on the matter. This is not a post in support of Islam or anything of the sort, it’s simply me addressing the need I feel to combat the warped opinions of fraudsters like Pat Condell.
Peace out, Elvis has left the building.
Wednesday 18 August 2010
Wednesday 7 April 2010
The Picture. And The Art of Warfare - My Way.
First of all - yeah, the cheesy picture's gone, thanks largely to the totally unfunny comments of certain rapscallions. In its absence you will find a suitable replacement I hope?
Anyways, this blog needs some serious new material and seeing as I have nothing better to do on this fine Wednesday morn than sit and gnaw my fingernails like a jaundiced goat, I might as well contribute to something semi-productive.
If there's one thing that has defined this decade it's war. Not internet porn, iPods or even the catastrophic brainfarts on behalf of the economy monkeys. No, it's war - fighting silly turbaned men in flipflops called Achmarajahajahajadin.
I have a friend who joined the army not so long ago, much to my dissappointment. I mean, why on earth would you willingly sign up for a job in which you spend all day in the blazing heat getting shot at by weirdy-beardys with rocket launchers?
There's more too. From the moment you get up in the morning (which is usually "O'FUCK!" or "INCOMING" o'clock) to the moment you go to bed at night it's all shouting, bugling and explosioning. Yes, explosioning.
In fact, I can hardly think of a position in the armed forces that I would want to occupy. The RAF might be alright, there's a good opportunity to laze around all day 'What-ho'ing and drinking tea. Unfortunatley though, there's always the danger that I'd actually be required to get in a plane. And the problem with that is I'll most likely crash it.
As well as this, there might arise the need for one of the planes to drop an atomic bomb on some daft Talibans. Gordon Brown says that it's important for a country to maintain its own nuclear deterrent. But, as we know, Gordon Brown tends to be wrong about pretty much everything.
The Navy? Forget it. If popular myth is anything to go by, I'm signing up for months stuck on a less-than-luxury cruise with rejected members of the Village People. Not that there'd be much time for rampant homosexuality, because I'd spend the majority of my time vomiting over the railings.
And of course, when the time comes for actual warfare, it must be damned hard to actually aim at the enemy with Cher straddling the end of your cannons. On top of that, if the Falklands achieved anything it showed us that Navy boats are big. And therefore very susceptible to mustachioed men called Gonzalez in fighter jets. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that a boat would be nearly useless in the fight against a man in the desert coming at you with a £3 AK-47 and a pair of sandals.
If there's anywhere I'd like to be in the armed forces, it would be in the submarine regiment. To me, this seems like the only option devoid of any of the hassles associated with any of the above. You can fight while sitting in complete, air-conditioned comfort, you're well under the seasick zone, the enemy won't be able to find you and of all Cher's extensive plastic surgery, she never did manage to get a pair of gills.
When military submarines were first mooted, the Royal Navy top brass dismissed them as unfair. They had grown up with the notion that you charged at your enemy in red coats, with a lot of people playing brass instruments. But sneakery is my kind of warfare. The first inkling your enemy has that you’re there is when he is treading water in a big puddle of blazing engine oil. Excellent.
Of course, that leaves one problem still remaining. In a submarine, there's absolutely nowhere to run from the YMCA gang. Still, I'd rather be alive and be fondled by sweaty, muscled men than be paste on the side of a road somewhere deep in Asscrackistan. And I do quite have a thing for men in uniform.
Anyways, this blog needs some serious new material and seeing as I have nothing better to do on this fine Wednesday morn than sit and gnaw my fingernails like a jaundiced goat, I might as well contribute to something semi-productive.
If there's one thing that has defined this decade it's war. Not internet porn, iPods or even the catastrophic brainfarts on behalf of the economy monkeys. No, it's war - fighting silly turbaned men in flipflops called Achmarajahajahajadin.
I have a friend who joined the army not so long ago, much to my dissappointment. I mean, why on earth would you willingly sign up for a job in which you spend all day in the blazing heat getting shot at by weirdy-beardys with rocket launchers?
There's more too. From the moment you get up in the morning (which is usually "O'FUCK!" or "INCOMING" o'clock) to the moment you go to bed at night it's all shouting, bugling and explosioning. Yes, explosioning.
In fact, I can hardly think of a position in the armed forces that I would want to occupy. The RAF might be alright, there's a good opportunity to laze around all day 'What-ho'ing and drinking tea. Unfortunatley though, there's always the danger that I'd actually be required to get in a plane. And the problem with that is I'll most likely crash it.
As well as this, there might arise the need for one of the planes to drop an atomic bomb on some daft Talibans. Gordon Brown says that it's important for a country to maintain its own nuclear deterrent. But, as we know, Gordon Brown tends to be wrong about pretty much everything.
The Navy? Forget it. If popular myth is anything to go by, I'm signing up for months stuck on a less-than-luxury cruise with rejected members of the Village People. Not that there'd be much time for rampant homosexuality, because I'd spend the majority of my time vomiting over the railings.
And of course, when the time comes for actual warfare, it must be damned hard to actually aim at the enemy with Cher straddling the end of your cannons. On top of that, if the Falklands achieved anything it showed us that Navy boats are big. And therefore very susceptible to mustachioed men called Gonzalez in fighter jets. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that a boat would be nearly useless in the fight against a man in the desert coming at you with a £3 AK-47 and a pair of sandals.
If there's anywhere I'd like to be in the armed forces, it would be in the submarine regiment. To me, this seems like the only option devoid of any of the hassles associated with any of the above. You can fight while sitting in complete, air-conditioned comfort, you're well under the seasick zone, the enemy won't be able to find you and of all Cher's extensive plastic surgery, she never did manage to get a pair of gills.
When military submarines were first mooted, the Royal Navy top brass dismissed them as unfair. They had grown up with the notion that you charged at your enemy in red coats, with a lot of people playing brass instruments. But sneakery is my kind of warfare. The first inkling your enemy has that you’re there is when he is treading water in a big puddle of blazing engine oil. Excellent.
Of course, that leaves one problem still remaining. In a submarine, there's absolutely nowhere to run from the YMCA gang. Still, I'd rather be alive and be fondled by sweaty, muscled men than be paste on the side of a road somewhere deep in Asscrackistan. And I do quite have a thing for men in uniform.
Saturday 27 February 2010
Killer Whale Kills. Imagine That...
I heard on the news this morning that an employee at SeaWorld had been offed by one of the whales. If you ask me, it's about time.
I don't mean that in a harsh way - it is, afterall, a complete and utter tragedy - but I must admit that it would certainly make for an eventful day out. I mean, what's the alternative? Some namby-pamby dolphins dancing for a bunch of slack-jawed 8 year old bogey munchers? Boooooring. I'd much rather see some action!
There also seems to be a lot of confusion as to what to do with the whale. Some want to put it to death, some want to give it a fair trial, the Japanese want to harpoon it and a young Jason James Richter shouts "Let's free Willy!".
The thing that baffles me the most though is the shock people have expressed. "Gadzooks! A person killed by a whale at SeaWorld?! What is the world coming to?!".
Put it this way - if someone advertised their car as a fast car, I would expect it to be fast and if they told me that their girlfriend was a beautiful woman I would certainly expect that she would indeed be beautiful. Similarly, if someone says that this animal is a "killer whale"... I'll assume you can do the math.
I don't mean that in a harsh way - it is, afterall, a complete and utter tragedy - but I must admit that it would certainly make for an eventful day out. I mean, what's the alternative? Some namby-pamby dolphins dancing for a bunch of slack-jawed 8 year old bogey munchers? Boooooring. I'd much rather see some action!
There also seems to be a lot of confusion as to what to do with the whale. Some want to put it to death, some want to give it a fair trial, the Japanese want to harpoon it and a young Jason James Richter shouts "Let's free Willy!".
The thing that baffles me the most though is the shock people have expressed. "Gadzooks! A person killed by a whale at SeaWorld?! What is the world coming to?!".
Put it this way - if someone advertised their car as a fast car, I would expect it to be fast and if they told me that their girlfriend was a beautiful woman I would certainly expect that she would indeed be beautiful. Similarly, if someone says that this animal is a "killer whale"... I'll assume you can do the math.
Thursday 4 February 2010
Falling Victim To Airborne Buffoonery
The past 3 or so days I have spent in the city of Leicester, where unfortunatley I have witnessed first-hand the overpowering ineptitude of the British air travel system.
Time flies when you're having fun they say, and if that's true then I'm certain that sitting in an Airport terminal is about the least fun a human being could endure without losing the will to live.
If time does indeed fly whilst one is having fun,the fact that the arms on the clock seemed stickier than a Toyota's throttle was quite an indication of how I felt. 15 minutes became half an hour, half an hour became an hour and 10 minutes and so it went on.
In the end and by the time the plane finally arrived I had a beard to put Sophocles to shame and a temper akin to that of a menopausal grizzly bear. And that's not even the worst of it. Enter the air hostesses.
Most men jump for joy when they find out they're going to be jetting off on a plane, because on paper at least, flying in an aeroplane is everything a man could want. He gets to go in excess of 200mph, sit on his buttocks for hours on end doing sweet nothing and also, and perhaps most importantly, gets to ogle at attractive cabin crew.
However, these stewardesses were different. Traffic cone orange and reeking of mule sweat they were the Nadia Almada, the Burberry, the Dagenham of aeronautical hospitality and the absolute antithesis of everything air hostesses represent. I actually started to wonder where the airline recruited such (supposed) females and came up with the only logical conclusion that they hired directly from the back of the local sex-change clinic.
That said however, the trip itself was enjoyable and Leicester city was absolutley charming, albeit a slight culture shock to get to grips with. I had been told that it was the English city with the largest Indian population, but I honestly started to wonder whether it was actually the Indian city with the largest English population.
Perhaps I'd hopped on the plane to Dubai instead? And perhaps we'd picked up some kathoeys from Bangkok en route?
Time flies when you're having fun they say, and if that's true then I'm certain that sitting in an Airport terminal is about the least fun a human being could endure without losing the will to live.
If time does indeed fly whilst one is having fun,the fact that the arms on the clock seemed stickier than a Toyota's throttle was quite an indication of how I felt. 15 minutes became half an hour, half an hour became an hour and 10 minutes and so it went on.
In the end and by the time the plane finally arrived I had a beard to put Sophocles to shame and a temper akin to that of a menopausal grizzly bear. And that's not even the worst of it. Enter the air hostesses.
Most men jump for joy when they find out they're going to be jetting off on a plane, because on paper at least, flying in an aeroplane is everything a man could want. He gets to go in excess of 200mph, sit on his buttocks for hours on end doing sweet nothing and also, and perhaps most importantly, gets to ogle at attractive cabin crew.
However, these stewardesses were different. Traffic cone orange and reeking of mule sweat they were the Nadia Almada, the Burberry, the Dagenham of aeronautical hospitality and the absolute antithesis of everything air hostesses represent. I actually started to wonder where the airline recruited such (supposed) females and came up with the only logical conclusion that they hired directly from the back of the local sex-change clinic.
That said however, the trip itself was enjoyable and Leicester city was absolutley charming, albeit a slight culture shock to get to grips with. I had been told that it was the English city with the largest Indian population, but I honestly started to wonder whether it was actually the Indian city with the largest English population.
Perhaps I'd hopped on the plane to Dubai instead? And perhaps we'd picked up some kathoeys from Bangkok en route?
Monday 1 February 2010
Chivalry Is Dead. Blame The Women.
This past weekend one of my close friends said to me, "Chivalry's certainly dead these days isn't it? It's the bloody women that killed it too,". I did a doubletake, my eyes bulged and steam literally cascaded from my ears.
I was shocked. I was outraged. I was mortified. Most of all though, I felt robbed - not robbed emotionally by this grotesquely un-PC comment - but robbed because I'd been saying this for years.
The reason for this, is that only the other day I was walking down the street (with aforementioned friend) late at night when a woman in her mid-30's came stumbling out of the local flophouse and doddered into the middle of the path of oncoming traffic.
Being the noble and pure of heart cavalier that I am, I went to offer her assistance only to be met with an endless string of horrible profanities and a barrage of fists worthy of Bruce Lee.
Apparently these days if you lend a helpful hand to any female unlucky enough to stray across your path you're a sex pest.
Now, when it comes to sweeping generalisations (as I'm sure you're by now aware) I tend to be the Mack-Daddy. All Germans are humourless, anyone who listens to the Village People is a homosexual and if you wear a shell suit you're more likely than not to rob me.
My writing is however a mixture of observation and slight cynicism all gelled together with a pinch - or perhaps more a bucket - of salt. I am of course completely aware that the majority of generalisations are all tosh.
For instance, I know an incredibly funny German, I listen to Village People and have largely retained my heterosexuality, and nobody round these parts in trackies will rob you. Just call your mother names and stuff fireworks up your cat's bum.
It's exactly these generalisations that have led to the death of chivalry and the subsequent labeling of all men as sexual deviants by women, who have become so obsessed with casting off the chains of practical domestic slavery in days-gone-by that their spouses are now treated as walking, talking, money-earning sex toys.
To an extent though, we all need generalisations, because if we didn't have them life would tick by very slowly - points would never be made, anecdotes would take two years and comedy would inevitably die. "How many blondes does it take to screw in a lightbulb? According to recent survey it takes on average 1.2547 blonde females to screw in a lightbulb!". Ba-dum tish indeed.
I was shocked. I was outraged. I was mortified. Most of all though, I felt robbed - not robbed emotionally by this grotesquely un-PC comment - but robbed because I'd been saying this for years.
The reason for this, is that only the other day I was walking down the street (with aforementioned friend) late at night when a woman in her mid-30's came stumbling out of the local flophouse and doddered into the middle of the path of oncoming traffic.
Being the noble and pure of heart cavalier that I am, I went to offer her assistance only to be met with an endless string of horrible profanities and a barrage of fists worthy of Bruce Lee.
Apparently these days if you lend a helpful hand to any female unlucky enough to stray across your path you're a sex pest.
Now, when it comes to sweeping generalisations (as I'm sure you're by now aware) I tend to be the Mack-Daddy. All Germans are humourless, anyone who listens to the Village People is a homosexual and if you wear a shell suit you're more likely than not to rob me.
My writing is however a mixture of observation and slight cynicism all gelled together with a pinch - or perhaps more a bucket - of salt. I am of course completely aware that the majority of generalisations are all tosh.
For instance, I know an incredibly funny German, I listen to Village People and have largely retained my heterosexuality, and nobody round these parts in trackies will rob you. Just call your mother names and stuff fireworks up your cat's bum.
It's exactly these generalisations that have led to the death of chivalry and the subsequent labeling of all men as sexual deviants by women, who have become so obsessed with casting off the chains of practical domestic slavery in days-gone-by that their spouses are now treated as walking, talking, money-earning sex toys.
To an extent though, we all need generalisations, because if we didn't have them life would tick by very slowly - points would never be made, anecdotes would take two years and comedy would inevitably die. "How many blondes does it take to screw in a lightbulb? According to recent survey it takes on average 1.2547 blonde females to screw in a lightbulb!". Ba-dum tish indeed.
Saturday 16 January 2010
Stupidity Is Not A Crime... Just Damn Annoying
It’s a well known fact that the world is mad. Grass is green, sky is blue, all English men are dentally challenged Hugh Grants and yellow snow is not to be eaten – all of these are simple but proven truths.
It seems to me though, that as time drags on we’re all getting more and more stupid. Case in point, in these days conversation in the pub is very dull. “What have you done this past week?”
“Nothing much, tried to look down my secretary’s top for a while, went out and got drunk, pissed myself and then cried myself to sleep”.
Now imagine that same conversation 6000 or so years ago. “Today, I killed a mammoth with my bare hands and invented the wheel, what about you?”
“ Same old really, designed the concept of time and came up with the idea of cooking with fire.”
Fast-forward to the present day and you can hardly breathe for some moronic person doing some moronic thing for some moronic reason or another. Stupid people with stupid clothes, stupid people making stupid sentences, stupid people on stupid phones, stupid people in stupid cars – which leads me to another point; how much safer would the roads not be if a shotgun was mounted in the steering column rather than an airbag?
Just last week I spied on eBay some idiot selling a ticket to see my beloved Lady Gaga at the princely sum of £210 for a single standing ticket, and standing in the queue in an off-licence last month I overhead the following conversation between the person at the till and some air-headed blonde:
“What’s your date of birth?”, “July 15th” “What year?” ,“...Like, every year, duhhh”. I mean really?
The numpties in my hometown are also apparently going into spray-can hyperdrive with the rise of East-LA style graffiti marring pretty much every smooth concrete surface they can get their needle-scarred mitts on. Catch a grip, this country’s about as “gansta” as Ronnie bloody Corbett.
The media these days is awash with tin-foil hat wearing Star Wars nerds who warn us that humankind will one day be destroyed by technology and super-robots (with or without Germanic accents). I, however, am not so sure about this – because with the current state of human intelligence, ingenuity and manufacturing skills it’s pretty much guaranteed that aforementioned killer robot will have broken long before you can say “Hasta la Vista, baby”.
It seems to me though, that as time drags on we’re all getting more and more stupid. Case in point, in these days conversation in the pub is very dull. “What have you done this past week?”
“Nothing much, tried to look down my secretary’s top for a while, went out and got drunk, pissed myself and then cried myself to sleep”.
Now imagine that same conversation 6000 or so years ago. “Today, I killed a mammoth with my bare hands and invented the wheel, what about you?”
“ Same old really, designed the concept of time and came up with the idea of cooking with fire.”
Fast-forward to the present day and you can hardly breathe for some moronic person doing some moronic thing for some moronic reason or another. Stupid people with stupid clothes, stupid people making stupid sentences, stupid people on stupid phones, stupid people in stupid cars – which leads me to another point; how much safer would the roads not be if a shotgun was mounted in the steering column rather than an airbag?
Just last week I spied on eBay some idiot selling a ticket to see my beloved Lady Gaga at the princely sum of £210 for a single standing ticket, and standing in the queue in an off-licence last month I overhead the following conversation between the person at the till and some air-headed blonde:
“What’s your date of birth?”, “July 15th” “What year?” ,“...Like, every year, duhhh”. I mean really?
The numpties in my hometown are also apparently going into spray-can hyperdrive with the rise of East-LA style graffiti marring pretty much every smooth concrete surface they can get their needle-scarred mitts on. Catch a grip, this country’s about as “gansta” as Ronnie bloody Corbett.
The media these days is awash with tin-foil hat wearing Star Wars nerds who warn us that humankind will one day be destroyed by technology and super-robots (with or without Germanic accents). I, however, am not so sure about this – because with the current state of human intelligence, ingenuity and manufacturing skills it’s pretty much guaranteed that aforementioned killer robot will have broken long before you can say “Hasta la Vista, baby”.
Saturday 9 January 2010
Sex, Lies And Chocolate Cake
Only a few weeks ago the world was enraptured in the season to be jolly (LaLaLaLaLaa!) but it seems that the tabloids have enjoyed a year-long jolly season. Not so long ago people made the headlines for being either genuinely famous, for sleeping with and/or killing somebody genuinely famous or for being blown to pieces in some far-off war.
Apparently though, this has changed and the only way to enter the public eye is to have your arse ripped out by The Sun. The sheer amount of public scandals that have happened in the past 12 months is enough to make even Bill Clinton hot under the collar. Banks burst at the seams with the sheer volume of snakes running them, Christian Bale got angry, world leaders were punched, Christian Bale got angry some more and Jude Law changed lovers more than Col. Gaddafi changes psychoanalysts.
I've noticed a certain trend between a good amount of these, which is the recurring theme of Nazism. From Max Mosley's less-than-healthy obsession with all things German, Prince Harry's stint as a Gestapo officer way back when in 2005, to Nick Griffin and the daftest bunch of Nazis this side of 'Allo 'Allo. Perhaps the conspiracy theories are true, and Mr Hitler truely is hiding in a bunker in the Antarctic, pulling strings and orchestrating his grand return through the medium of British idiocy?
Rarely these days do politicians get away with anything, especially the current stock of lifeless, braindead chimps in suits that run our country. Noone in their right mind would give a monkey a gun and for that reason whoever decided it would be a good idea to give a monkey taxpayers money surely deserves to be slowly fed a bag of iron filings?
This only adds to my list of reasons for not wanting to become a politician for fear I'd marry a woman who looks like a sack of mouldy pears, spend public money on porn because I'm married to aforementioned pear sack, and turn my constituency into a giant moat for ducks.
Sportsmen have also come under scrutiny, Max Mosley and Lewis Hamilton both doing their very best to make Formula One even more rubbish than it already was, Thierry Henry incited the wrath of the whole of Ireland for his controversial handling of balls. Tiger Woods of course did something completely different with his balls, managing to sink many holes in one with his 9 wood, something which inexplicably has sent his sponsors abandoning ship like rats....
There's absolutely no way that I could leave this post without a tip of the hat to Northern Ireland's very own femme fatale. So here's to you Mrs Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you could know. And now so does Dominic Mohan.
Apparently though, this has changed and the only way to enter the public eye is to have your arse ripped out by The Sun. The sheer amount of public scandals that have happened in the past 12 months is enough to make even Bill Clinton hot under the collar. Banks burst at the seams with the sheer volume of snakes running them, Christian Bale got angry, world leaders were punched, Christian Bale got angry some more and Jude Law changed lovers more than Col. Gaddafi changes psychoanalysts.
I've noticed a certain trend between a good amount of these, which is the recurring theme of Nazism. From Max Mosley's less-than-healthy obsession with all things German, Prince Harry's stint as a Gestapo officer way back when in 2005, to Nick Griffin and the daftest bunch of Nazis this side of 'Allo 'Allo. Perhaps the conspiracy theories are true, and Mr Hitler truely is hiding in a bunker in the Antarctic, pulling strings and orchestrating his grand return through the medium of British idiocy?
Rarely these days do politicians get away with anything, especially the current stock of lifeless, braindead chimps in suits that run our country. Noone in their right mind would give a monkey a gun and for that reason whoever decided it would be a good idea to give a monkey taxpayers money surely deserves to be slowly fed a bag of iron filings?
This only adds to my list of reasons for not wanting to become a politician for fear I'd marry a woman who looks like a sack of mouldy pears, spend public money on porn because I'm married to aforementioned pear sack, and turn my constituency into a giant moat for ducks.
Sportsmen have also come under scrutiny, Max Mosley and Lewis Hamilton both doing their very best to make Formula One even more rubbish than it already was, Thierry Henry incited the wrath of the whole of Ireland for his controversial handling of balls. Tiger Woods of course did something completely different with his balls, managing to sink many holes in one with his 9 wood, something which inexplicably has sent his sponsors abandoning ship like rats....
There's absolutely no way that I could leave this post without a tip of the hat to Northern Ireland's very own femme fatale. So here's to you Mrs Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you could know. And now so does Dominic Mohan.
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