Big deal

There's a new razor on the market. Not one blade. Not two. Not even three, but four. Four blades to shave you even closer still. It was announced in an advert on the television like it was an astounding breakthrough in face technology.

Before they assign the research team a budget of millions to find the ultimate shave for the square jawed type they use in the adverts, I'm going to write to them and tell them to use five blades.

If two is better than one, and three is better than two, and four is better than three, then it's safe to say, five is better than four. Soon razors will have so many blades on them, and they'll be so big, each one will have its own postal code. You won't be able to pick it up. You'll just have to run at it and hope for the best.

Or even better, go stick your head in a propeller...

I hate adverts, unless they make me laugh. The adverts for razors are particularly bad. Having just seen one for Gillette I can say it's particularly annoying. It has questions like the one below:

WHAT IS IT LIKE SHAVING WITH THE NEW MACH3 POWER?

Well, personally, I can't say for sure, but I'd imagine it's like shaving. If it feels like flying a kite you're probably doing it wrong.

One quote from a customer said 'after trying the razor for the first time, I really liked how it felt. I knew it was safe to use'

Safe to use? What kind of a idiot picks up one of these things and thinks... 'best be careful with this. Don't want to lose anymore fingers while I'm shaving.' This quote has obviously been put on the Gillette website because there must be men out there who worry about this kind of thing. They'll be the ones who buy the triple layered, quilted, medicated, toilet paper.

Fuckwits or what.

And the Mach Turbo 3.4 injection razor... whateverthefuckitscalled apparently gives you 'less irritation even when shaving against the grain.'

I'll remember that next time I'm shaving a tree.

It also features 'ease of use' as if there would be some kind of dilemma over which end to use. If you're of an age where you don't know which end to shave with, you're to young to shave. In fact, you're too young for solid food so put it down. And, in reference to the bright spark who devised this particular tag of, 'ease of use' for a disposable razor, I may be wrong, but I think nature sorted out that one by giving us opposable thumbs.

Though if it was down to Gillette we'd have an extra three on each hand ...

When quizzed as to if he ever smoked marijuana, Bush didn't deny he had dabbled in drugs. All he said, was he wouldn't answer the marijuana question because he didn't want some little kid saying, 'Hey daddy, President Bush tried marijuana, I think I will?'

I don't normally give Bush credit for anything, apart from the time he got that pretzel stuck in the back of his throat. I hear the CIA have a specially trained anti pretzel squad ready to deploy with surface to throat missile the minute he gets something else lodged in his windpipe.

It's nice to know he's worried about being a bad influence. I'm just wondering what he'll think about the kids who say, 'hey daddy, I just kicked the shit out of the foreign looking kid and siphoned all the oil out of his car but it's okay because I'm calling it democracy and I also, had it on good authority there was a Weapon of Mass Destruction in the glove compartment.'

I saw God again today.

He had a smile on His face, and His face turned up to the sun.

He stopped, by the bus stop, and scratched His beard, looking at the timetable. He was swaying from side to side, like a drunken python.

All at once, His bottom, in saggy baggy pants started to move from side to side, as if it was caught in the middle of a hula hoop, and God began to dance; slowly, circularly, moving to some music in His heart. Pedestrians passed Him by and smirked at the figure with the beard, eyes closed and lost in a peculiar little dance.

God grooves in mysterious ways, I thought to myself.

Click the poster above for the review of the Harem Pilots.

Behave yourself or I'll throw you out..

I've been decorating, which mainly consists of me covering myself in paint. Whatever is left over goes on my walls.

And no

That isn't rhyming slang...

China has been accused of harvesting the organs of thousands of executed prisoners every year to sell for transplants. Evidence gathered by transplant surgeons in this country, and from human rights organisations suggest this is the truth.

Nice

If somebody I knew needed an organ transplant, I wouldn't sit on my high horse if they were the recipient of some poor sod's heart. In fact, if it was possible, I'd tear the heart out of a horse to give it to them. If one death can preserve another then it's a pretty difficult thing to say no to. However, the death sentence is actually state sponsored murder. For a government to have the right to execute its people is never a good move.

There is actually transplant tourism going on. Organs are being supplied within a week of being requested, which means the execution of the prisoner is being expedited by the demand for the organ; prisoners are living incubators for the organs.

Two million Chinese need a transplant each year but only about twenty thousand come up on the transplant lottery; and you can bet they are the ones who have the money to pay. Given the scale of the need it is understandable how the organs of the executed are seen as a solution.

But, no matter how well intentioned this may have started out, the fact that money changes hands means corruption is or will be involved in the process.

Maybe one day we'll see it being a business like any other on the street, advertising organs for those who can afford them. It may even become a multinational corporation like MacDonalds.

You'll be able to walk up to the counter and order your King Size Happy Lung

And the kid behind the counter will, no doubt ask, 'would you like eyes with that?'

Or maybe not. China has agreed to suspend transplants until it can investigate the matter; or until nobody is looking; whichever comes first...

What the...?

The Home Office said two new toilet blocks are being installed as part of a refurbishment at Brixton jail in south London.

Prison bosses were told it is unacceptable for Muslim inmates to face Mecca while using the toilet. In that case, how can a Muslim go for a quick piss? How do you know which way to point your doodah?

And there was I thinking that some of the rappers I've seen on MTV had a sock stuffed down the front of their trousers. It turns out, the Muslim ones actually have a compass strapped to their knobs.

It's amazing what people will Mecca fuss over

How interesting. According to the Daily Mail, and other newspapers, batches of cod liver oil tablets are being withdrawn. The reports say they have been contaminated by cancer-causing chemicals. If a product increases the risk of giving you cancer, it is understandable that it should be recalled back to the manufacturer. I think the manufacturers are being completely irresponsible to their shareholders in withdrawing these particular products. What they should do is add a few other carcinogens, make them addictive, and then give the government a cut of the proceeds. If you become a government approved drug pusher, you've got it made.

I am of course, joking, but on a serious note, some cigarettes are being recalled after tests revealed that they may contain traces of cod-liver oil.

They say life imitates art so I don't know why I was surprised to see a story in the news about a giant Rabbit causing havoc in Northumberland. It is reported to have ripped up prize winning leeks and turnips. I expect we'll see it on Crimewatch next. I'm looking forward to the photo-fit and the reconstruction.

A group of growers from the allotments where it has made it's presence felt, have clubbed together to hire a marksman to, well, blow it's furry arse away. Animal welfare workers are saying it should be caught and not shot. Mind you, one report said is was as big as a deer and if one of them wants to stand in front of it holding a ten foot carrot, I'm sure they're welcome.

You can tell from the picture on the left how big they can grow.

This one was caught trying to rob a bank.

At the trial it told the judge it had a wife and 97 bunnies to support. The final straw came when his wife said she was converting to Catholicism. That was when the rabbit, who answers to the name of Warren, turned to a life of crime.

It was apprehended outside the Abbey National in Manchester with a loaded water pistol and a note saying ' GIVE ME ALL THE CARROTS OR I SQUIRT. THIS IS A  STICK UP.'

Armed police had received a tip off from a mole. They arrived just as the rabbit was about to give the cashier a quick squirt. Witnesses say the police shouted 'drop the carrot and assume the position.'

The rabbit's wife was quoted as saying, 'last time he said that to me I ended up with a bunny in the oven.'

Warren, the rabbit, said he needed the carrots to feed his bunnies. The judge asked, in light of the largeness of his family, if he had tried condoms. The rabbit said he had, but preferred the crunchiness of a traditional carrot. He admitted to trying several types of condom and was particularly fond of the strawberry ones, but they gave him indigestion.

The judge let him off with a caution.

Since then, rumour has it that Warren has gone underground.

I was sitting outside the bar in Piccadilly Station, settled into the cold metal embrace of one of the chairs. I was above the crowds passing by, on the balcony, having stopped off for a swift one. The ice in my glass tinkled as I took a full mouthful and swallowed, clattering the glass back down on the glass tabletop.

'You can't fuckin' well drink that out here!'

I turned around, to see a pensioner pointing at my glass; a woman, wrinkled and holding a pint and a half of lager. She had a perm that looked like it was carved out of concrete candy floss. If we got into a fight and she head butted me, I was in trouble.

'Well, you can't be the bouncer, so you must be the bouncer's mum,' I said.

She laughed and pulled up a seat. She took a ciggie packet out from her handbag. I pushed the ashtray closer to her.

'They don't let you drink out here with a glass,' she said. ' They give you one of those plastic ones. Tumblers they call them. Some silly buggers get drunk and throw the glasses off the balcony.'

I rolled my eyes and said, 'there's always one, eh?'

She took a long gulp of her pint, and lit a cigarette before saying, 'when I was growing up, I used to go to school in a cart. My dad had a horse you see, and we used to get a lift when he went to work. By the time we got to school, there were about twenty kids in the back of the cart.'

Somewhat bemused by her sudden appearance, and how she launched into a horse anecdote I said, 'Oh. That must have been nice. Better than going on a bus, eh?

'When we got there we stank of horse shit and were covered in straw, so, no. Not really.'

'Oh, right.'

She put her hand on my arm, in a confidential manner, and said, 'you know, when we got off it my dad used to like us to give it a carrot. A fucking carrot! Can you believe that? If I'd had a carrot, I'd have eaten it myself!'

She laughed, wheezing, and stopped abruptly, squinting at something over the balcony. You could see through the glass partition.

'Would you look at the legs on her!' she said.

I peered over and saw a young woman in a short skirt and a big pair of black boots.

She tutted. 'What does she look like? She's got legs like sticks. She looks like a fucking heron.'

I laughed out loud, more than a little tickled.

'How old are you?' I asked. I usually don't ask a lady her age, but I'd never heard someone of her age swear so much. If she took umbrage at my question, I was quite confident she would tell me to fuck off.

'I'm CONFIDENTIAL and I've got two jobs and..,' she broke off and eyed me up, ' how old are you?'

'I'm forty,' I said.

'Well, you're quite well preserved for a forty year old.' She raised her glass to me. 'Now, you see, the Irish, they're all fucking skinny like that girl.'

'I'm also Irish, ' I said.

'Well, don't be drinking that Guinness. It'll make you fat. But did you know the Irish, they all live on cabbage, and potatoes and ribs?'

'I've had my fair share. We used to call it 'Colcannon' .'

'Really. Well, y'see. It's all good food. That's why they can dig those holes up all day. Fucking great workers the Irish. Now me, I have these two jobs, and I've been there since..' she counted quickly on her fingers, skipping the two that held her cigarette, '...since 1980. And every now and then they give me a vase and say thanks. And I say, 'where's the fucking money! What good is a fucking vase? If we still had the horse, he could piss in it, but we don't, so where the fuck is the money?'

She wheezed out another laugh.

'Anyway, what do you do for a living?'

I paused, for a moment or two, and pondered the question, necked the last of my whiskey, stubbed out the butt of my cigarette, and finally replied.

'I'm fucked if I know...'

This is my brother Jason.

He was good enough to buy beer for me at the Kevin Duffy gig in the Rampant Lion. It was a good night. Kevin and his band Duffy are well worth catching. There was also another band on that night which was...eh...odd, but I got it in the end. I won't tell you what they were called because that would be giving the game away...

 If you'd like to come along and see what happened, click below, and... well, read on.


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