So, You Think I'm A Dastardly Bastard, Do You?

Farting on Satan's Daughter, which episode I described to a professional associate today in order to give her succour as she mourned her constant irritation at our be-horned friend, elicited the response that I am a villain of considerable evil and malice.

This I deny. I offer one of what I think is described as a 'meme' (if not, someone will put me straight) with my top three villains, and also an illustration of some of those who made the shortlist but didn't quite get onto the podium. First, a word on the selection process; it was mostly done on the M25 at around 6.30pm, as the traffic was its traditional shit, and whilst I briefly considered real, actual and historical figures, I decided not as you don't want to look at pictures of charmers such as Mao and Hitler, and less still at that gurning cunt Blair.

So, my loves, to start with some of the oh so nearly losers;

The most persistent of Bond's nemesises (can I get away with that?), Ernst Stavro Blofeld, most attractively portrayed by the ever-sinister Donald Pleasance

Animation's dirtiest dawg, and that's a medium with some serious competition, it's that perennial pursuivant, the Wile E. Coyote.

Smooth, sophisticated, lecherous agri-business land-fucker extraordinaire, from 'The Archers' it's the fantastic Charles Collingwood as 'Brian Aldridge'.

But now, into the Top Three;

At Three, laird of all he surveys, urbane polar-neck wearing despoiler of maidens, pagan pontiff and human sacrifice enthusiast, Christopher Lee in his favourite role in 'The Wicker Man' as 'Lord Summerisle'.

At Two, cyborg psychic, fighter ace, neo-feudal Empire builder and something-Dan martial arts master, Dave 'Green Cross Code man' Prowse/James Earl Jones as 'Darth Vader'.

But Krusty's Number One fictional baddie is child-killing, cripple-beating rapist, sadist, hired gun and cigar-chomping murder-for-pleasure merchant, from the greatest western and possibly finest film ever made, Henry Fonda from 'Once Upon A Time In The West' as 'Frank'. This is in a different league, his sole motive is to watch other people suffer. The ultimate villain.


And as I don't consider myself fit to be seen in that company of wolves, I reckon I'm really quite a nice guy.

Unless you're Satan's baby...

I had written some great stuff up here, about a course I went on recently, and the fact that the 'coach' was this guy who was a sort of cross between Yoda and Chairman Mao, with a big splash of St. Paul for good measure, and that I had to endure the company of the non-stop verbal diarrhoea of my esteemed colleague Satan, she whose baby I did a really smelly fart over, but for some reason the site deleted it before I could save it, which was a bit of bind. Just not a lot to report on really, other than some delight in the motor racing today, and, an aside on the recent serialisation on BBC Radio 4 of David Blunkett's memoirs, read by the great man himself, and how I think even less of him now than I did before. The opening extract had him comment on how he felt that having achieved power there was no point in holding office if he couldn't personally intervene to affect things for specific individuals, even though he knew it wasn't supposed to happen. So, he acknowledges that he abused his office from the word go. Twat.

Anyway, some of you may recall that I am an enthusiast for short films, and I have been delighted to find this (below) available online. If you haven't seen it before, first watch the picture, then read about it elsewhere. It is vaguely controversial, and there is some debate about the identity of both motor and driver. Actually, who gives a fuck. It is highly entertaining, especially if you're stoned (NB: I'm not advocating that, of course). And without the blind panic that Spacemen 3's 'Rollercoaster' can induce in the same circumstances if you get in the wrong groove. I've seen men clutch the armchair with their eyes on stalks with that tune.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

So it appears that the consensus is in favour of this;

as opposed to this;

With regards to personal taste, have to tell you that I'm not going to expect any lady of my acquaintance to spend lots of time with the Gillette or Immac, although a hairy shin is not so hot. Armpits? Well, if I tell you that my first 'close encounter' as a green green undergraduate was with a German post-graduate, you'll figure out that it's not that big an issue. Although that doesn't mean I'd encourage a beard. The point I'm trying to make, and I think I'm eliciting some agreement, is that I like women to look like women, with all that entails, and that I don't think that we should deny the animal that we are. After all, sexual attraction and lust are pretty animal emotions, know what ah mean...?

And as I can demonstrate from some serious market research (source; MUN Research*, October 2006) that more men prefer snatch with thatch to shaven haven, and that women are not overly enthused at having to trim the quim, just what are the market forces which drive twat mags, and their computer age equivalents, to ignore the wonders of nature in favour of a more suspect offering? Does this reveal more about the taste of the editors and proprietors? It is worth noting that my collection of vintage material from the early and mid-seventies have more rug than a Christmas Day ad-break. So 'tastes' have changed? Unlikely in something so instinctive and fundamental, eh?

Wormcakes? Have to say, apart from the obvious coconut ones, I'm quite keen on the new ones that look like mini-mini battenburgs [even as I write this I am possessed of a savage desire to feast upon mini battenburgs], and wormcakes are only really to my taste as I get older. Don't you find them a bit more aniseed than liquorice?

I went to a trade conference this week, at which I fell asleep. Both days. This might be embarrassing, but it meant that I didn't snigger when we were spoken to by a Mr. Camel-Scat. I kid you knot.

You're not sure you want to think about that, are you? Love and Kisses, K

*Made Up Numbers Research ltd

Animal Magic?

No, this isn't a title designed to titillate the velcro-wellies brigade, but, I hope, a neat parenthesising of two of my themes.

So I sit down with a faceful of carefully prepared and lovinly cooked nosh in front of me, turn on the telly in anticipation of a weekly fix of Paxo despising what the great Paul Calf might describe as 'fockin shchewdunce' on 'Universally Challenged' only to find that it is 'Autumn Watch' with our old chum Bill Oddie, the do-able but almost certainly leaveable Kate Tedious, and Simon King, who I suspect has a personal hygiene problem, because he always gets to spend a lot of time on a remote island with notoriously smelly wildlife.

Now, when he's not looking at the wrong camera, oure hooste is increasingly seeking to plunge me into some kind of temporal trauma. As I learn that it is time to grow up, to stop the wobblies everytime I don't get my way, that it just isn't on to point out to people just what a stupid twat they are and that this tendency is probably somewhat responsible for social and professional retardation, Bloddie is attempting to imitate this dear old character.
I realise for some of you he will be a complete stranger, but for anyone who grew up in the UK in the sixties and seventies, within range of a telly, he was as much a part of childhood as Ribena and Spangles. I'm trying to leave childhood in the past, at last, and get on with adulthood. [N.B. if any attractive ladies would also be desirous of getting on my adulthood, drop me a line.] So it is just a tad confusing.

In retailing there is a concept of 'adjacency' which is about putting one type of goods next to another type of goods (wow, sounds complicated) and trying to make them 'relevant' to one another to encourage sales. E.G. bread, butter, jam. You will realise from your own experiences that it doesn't really work out, but next time you're hauling your arse around Tesdabury's in semi-zombie mode, realising what a distasteful experience it is, how there are too many people in this aircraft hangar-like structure with tellies and Tannoys (it's a brand name, I have to capitalise it) bombarding you with exciting offers on loo roll and tampons and tins of corned beef that you just can't afford to miss, and there are screaming children demanding more sweets, their older siblings crashing the trolley into your ankles then challenging if "you gotta problem?", then consider just how it is possible to put it all together in there in anything approaching a rational manner; there are about 40,000 different items for sale in a large British supermarket these days. [There's a rhetorical question buried in there, and no '?', so if anybody has an offer on a better delivery, I'm interested.*] On the other hand, consider how TV scheduling works. Adjacency might be a concept there too, hence the increased tendency for invariably shit and consequently disappointing theme nights. So following 'Autumn Watch' with a programme about the Nuremburg trials strikes me as just a tad abrupt. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of telly that reminds society of what a bunch of bastards they were, although I'd like a bit more of reminding that a) vigilance is still required and b) it isn't, as a former work associate - in this instance I don't want to use the word colleague as that carries hints of comradeship - put it, "all a long time ago". No, it's just a strange adjacency.

I love liquorice allsorts, and I have to say, Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts, because the supermarket where I do my shopping, whilst noted for having relatively high quality products, does shit confectionary, and especially shit licky allsorts. I binged a bit on the allsorts this weekend, as well as also having my first drink in a month (ok, I had a glass of shampoo for Cupcake's christening toast, but that doesn't count), and have suffered the inevitable consequences. Just thought I'd share that. Interestingly, they do not have the same quality as chicken livers.

Enough of the chit-chat and small talk. To Business. I want to return to an issue which troubles me, and which I'm prompted to mention as it came up here, and so I am not the only one troubled by it. What is it with this pubic hair shaving thing? I need to understand this. Do women do it because they want to do it? Because it is more comfortable? Or do they do it because they believe it to be expected, the societal norm, and what is deemed to be 'sexy'? If the latter, this is tragic. And do men prefer it? Isn't it just a bit unnatural? At best a denial of our own animal nature, and at worst, well, do I need to spell it out? So, let's hear it for a thick dark rug of lush pubic hair, as animal as it gets, and something to be celebrated.

At which point, I must depart for my pit. I am curious as to whether this post elicits any comments. It never ceases to amaze me which bits people want to comment on. Will it be Bloddie, Bassett's, bastards or bush? Or none of it? Or *? I need a punctuation refresher course. Such is the burden of pedantry. Love yer, folks, K.