Knockers, Tits and Big Dick

Yes, Tom, and you fell for it, ha ha ha, I'm afraid too long have I spent around shameless marketeers, and I can't help but have picked up some of their dastardly tricks. Knockers, tits, and, for the ladeez Big Dick (take yer pick!).

Oh what a phenomenally lazy day. I've spent two hours ploughing through all the letters and bank statements and bills that have not had a response for the last four months, most of it has gone in the bin, some has gone on the 'to question' pile, like the building society circular from the 'Head of Investments' who is writing to inform me of the cut in the interest rate on my savings account - hang on mate, I didn't notice a cut in base rates, so are you not investing very well, then?

Then there is the listening to loads of music. Oh, such wonders as the jukebox has turned up today [Excuse me, it's giving out 'The Rocker' right now, I am compelled to dance][Oh, back to back delight, 'Down At The Doctor' for some Dr. Feelgood, those cheeky chappies.] And reading. With a week to go, I have finished the book for the bookgroup, which was 'Barcelona Plates' by Alexei Sayle, and I loved it. Yes, pretty gruesome, but that's what short stories are for, isn't it - my experience of the genre is Dahl and Saki, so I guess that sets a certain expectation - anyway, I liked it. I don't think I'm Too Sexy For My Lorry will, though. It doesn't address ishooz, there's no starving peasants or oppressive dictators, no illustration of imperialist American hegemony, just lots of middle-class people, so bourgeois (Oh, thanks, I'll have a glass of chilled chardonnay, do they have any olives?), so no, probably won't tickle her thing. Besides, it wasn't her choice. It's grim up North Berkshire.

Oh Lord, I'm a couple of sherberts down the line, and they're suddenly coming home to roost. That, and the late night last night, as I attempted to watch the baseball - I didn't take any of it in, other than the continuing aggro about Barry Bonds, who did yesterday get to 715. [There's no need for me to say that, is there? If you're interested, you know that he got 715 yesterday, so you don't need me to tell you, and if you're not interested you have no idea what the fuck I'm on about, and equally don't give a fuck what I'm on about, do you?]

'Better a relativist than a Trotskyite, I always say - this coming from a country full of people so dense that they bend light on their own.' For the funniest thing I've read for a while, this gets a link.

Who is Tom DeLay?

"Hi folks, I'm an otter. My friends the gannets did warn me, but I still wasn't quite prepared for it. That eejit Simon King has moved in on my patch. No, not the drummer, the naturalist. The gannets spent a week shitting on him before he buggered off, I'm debating whether to do the same. Why does he insist on calling me Buster. My name is Geoff. All the girls know that - especially Stella and Trinny, my wifelets. But he thinks he's terribly funny. The badgers 'phoned to say that that Humble woman with the nice arse and absolutely nothing else to offer television other than a willingness to do whatever she's told in an effort to justify the contract the BBC obviously signed in a moment of madness, has moved in down the road from them. There's a camera outside their front door too. So they've taken to coming out later, then having a shit before clearing off into the woods. That's where they go to watch X-Factor Celebs.

"My cousin the Stoat, Bryan, tells me he ate the woodmouse's kids. That's the way it goes. I dunno, the lions get Attenborough. We get this."