People Who Don't Blog...But Should

Blog Name: Nick Clegg's Xmas Message

2009-12-04T08:26:00.001Z

As leader of the Liberal Democrat Party, I wish to issue a simple message to all of you out there.

You know, people often ask me, "Why is our great country so divided? Why do we have so many out of work, so many who simply don't want to work? Why do we have broken roads and dilapidated schools? Why are our MPs allowed to get away with stealing tax payer's money? Why do we pay so much for fuel and energy supplies? Why do we no longer have any industry of our own but instead rely on foreigners to run the few production lines still in the country? Why do we allow arrogant and selfish bankers to push the economy to the brink of disaster, and then stand back and allow them to pay themselves huge bonuses out of public funds? Why are our soldiers fighting and dying for reasons no one can properly explain in a country that no one really cares a damn about?"

And when I am asked these things I, like every other politician in Westminster, shrug my shoulders and say "Sorry mate, not a fucking clue."

Merry Christmas one and all.

The Man In Kabul Talks Futbol

2009-11-20T16:41:00.001Z

It seems that just about everyone with a blog these days is talking about the game and I feel that it is an important enough matter that I should take some time out from my meeting with the US Secretary Of State to do the same.

I want to express the deepest sympathies of the Afghan people and assure the Irish that we did not bribe Thierry Henry to handle the ball in the box. I know that opinion around the world is that we are the second most corrupt nation on earth, and we take great offense on this matter because we believe that the Somalis' are mere amateurs compared to us, but I can assure the people of Ireland that we were hoping for an Irish win. We see many similarities in our countries. The Afghan people suffered the underdog tag for long enough to recognise one of our own. We had the Russians to contend with, then the Taliban, and now we can't seem to get those meddling Americans to stay out of our affairs. We know all about Ireland's struggle with the UK and therefore we would never dream of interfering in the game against France and Ireland in a negative manner for the Irish. And just to be certain I put my best men on it and there has been no record of Mr Thierry Henry ever been seen in the bazaars of Kabul.

Personally, like in my election with Dr Abdullah Abdullah (what a name eh, how he ever thought he could become Afghan President when his parents blessed him with so much imagination), I am all for a replay. I really think that in fairness it would be the right thing to do for France and Ireland to have another runoff in order for one them to go to the World Cup. And I can assure my Irish friends that we would do everything to manipulate the result in their favour.

Anyway must get back to talking with that Clinton woman and hope she hasn't seen this blog.

Vote Loony!

2009-10-09T10:53:00.001+01:00

Hello and cheese.

I would like to put it to you, and then take it out again. And then put it to you again, and then out again. And then shake it all about.

Election time is looming, rather like a tall and very hairy brown bear which has crept up on you whilst you enjoy a picnic somewhere in Eastern Europe, where they still have such things. Picnics, that is, not bears. And why, you may ask, is an election like a tall and hairy brown bear? Well, they both eat fish, for a start. And let's not forget the, er, the...

All over the country, people are shaking their fists at the telly. They are swearing at the radio. My Aunt Dorothy often chats to the pedal bin. When I was younger, I once propositioned a flipflop. None of this makes any difference though, we are still saddled with a hopeless government which continues to enrage anyone with half a brain, and a car, and a mortgage, and kids, and a desire to JUST GET ON WITH IT.

Clearly, the time for change is upon us, and so I say to you, the Great British Public, that your time has come. Vote Loony and all of this political nonsense will be cast aside as a new broom breathes fresh air, albeit brown and hairy air smelling slightly of bear, into Westminster.

We Loonys fully intend to change things. All MPs, for instance, will have to wear French Maid costumes, every other Friday. All right, a lot of them do anyway, but we'll ensure that this process is made public, in fact we'll hire an open top bus and cart the bastards around London, rain or shine.

We also wish to sort out the balance of payments. We will begin exporting beer and conkers, in vast quantities, to all the countries of the world. Proper brown beer, at cellar temperature, with no fizzy pop or lingering aftertaste of badger piss. Big conkers, shiny, tough, equal to any foreign conker. Once these exports have captured all the foreign markets, we will consolidate by exporting Daily Mail readers. No other country in the world could match our blinkered, bigotted, paranoid old farts and they'll pay good money to get their hands on them.

Well, I could go on, but frankly Mildred, I'd ruin my trousers. Just enough space to say hmm, let's stay anonymous for a while else the other parties might steal our policies. You can't trust any of them, you know. Back to brown bears again, really.

Blog Name: Fuck 'em

2009-09-28T11:44:00.003+01:00

World Statesman of the Year. How about that, eh? Are you listening to this, Mr Nick 'I'll pay you money to vote for me' Clegg? Did you cop that, Mr David 'Oooh I went to Eton and got squiffy on fucking babycham' Cameron? Eh? EH?

I'll soon be telling the lot of 'em where to get off, oh yes. Fuck 'em all, they don't deserve me. I'm up on the world stage now, pal, and frankly my friend Barack and I got better things to do than agonise over the piddling little problems of some third world country that no one gives a toss about, not now the banks are fucked and the north sea oil's run out.

I said to my friend Barack, I said "Wouldn't it be cool if I moved out to the States and then we could meet up all the time, like for dinner and stuff, because I've got loads of really good advice to give you." Well he was so choked up he could barely speak, but eventually he said well, maybe I should try and fix my own country's problems first?

What a guy, he really wants me at his side but he's prepared to wait for me to fix the UK first. That's what I call a friend. Anyway, I was about to tell him that I really didn't give a fuck about the UK any more, what with the polls suggesting that I'm about as electable as offal, and that I've already started house hunting in LA, when the line went dead, I guess because he'd finished washing his hands and wanted to go back in to see the rest of the show.

Anyway, all I have to do is go through the motions until May then I'm outta here, off to the US of A and a new life, whooping it up as a World Statesman, going to all the best parties with my friend Barack, and as for Downing Street, I shall laugh myself fucking senseless, watching Cameron or Clegg or Uncle Tom sodding Cobley trying to salvage something out of the train wreck.

Right, best keep this under wraps for a little while longer while I carry on pretending to care. Meantime, I'm watching the LA property market and looking for a good agent who can get me a part in the next Bruce Willis movie. Hey, I'm, like, doing an Arnie in reverse! That's funny, that is. I'll put that in an email and send it to my friend Barack. He loves a good laugh, he does.

Blog Name: David Brent's Faith

2009-09-09T09:54:00.003+01:00

Another day here at Wernham-Hogg. We do paper. That's what I like to say to my staff. It's punchy, like the stuff they say in films, like "Lock and load". That sounds good. No one knows what that means but it sounds good.

I'm not a sound bite person though, I mean, that's shallow. I'm more of a profound person. If I were to say to my staff "Right, let's lock and load!" Then I would have to follow that up. Yesterday I told Gareth that life is like a donut, which he responded to. No need to follow up, he understood my meaning. There was a moment between us, like two minds, coming together. Not that we're close, you know, in that way. Strictly professional.

Being profound can be hard work, though. When I go amongst my staff I can see on their faces that they're expecting wisdom and understanding, possibly rounded off with a belly laugh. Depends on how much time I've got. My presence amongst them is a bit like Jesus amongst his disciples. He was a carpenter so he was used to dealing with wood. Then he became a shepherd. That shows versatility. After that, he was a fisherman. Had he lived, he probably would have gone into textiles.

I often think about religion when I'm alone, in those private moments. When I have to tackle the big issues, I ask myself, 'Shall I turn away? Shall I shirk my responsibilities?' No, is the answer. John the Baptist never gave up, even as he led the people to freedom. Did he say, 'Oh, look, a big river, we'll never cross that, best turn around lads and go home again.' No, he built the ark and over they went.

If I had to sum up my faith, I would say 'I believe in a world where everyone is equal.' That's it. Equality. Even for foreigners and disabled people. I mean, just because you're in a wheelchair, that's no excuse to sit back and take it easy. I mean, I could sit in a wheelchair and get Gareth to push me round all day, but I wouldn't, and not just because other people might think we're gay, like a kind of gay couple, one of whom happens to be in a wheelchair. No, I wouldn't do that because I am equal. So I should be up and about, not loafing around.

I often say to people, 'Look up there and what do you see?' This works much better outside, otherwise you get the idiots saying 'Oh, light fittings', or maybe 'Oh, ceiling tiles,' like I've never heard that joke before. The answer should be 'Oh, the stars.' Well, exactly. If it's after sunset and it's not cloudy. You really do need to pick your moment with this one.

Anyway, enough blogging, enough 'technology'. There are problems to be solved, people needing guidance and, like the Good Lord, I only have my two hands. But then, I need nothing more. I can only be grateful that these two hands are capable of bringing me so much fulfilment.

Best keep this anonymous though. If those creeps in the computer section got hold of it they'd probably post it on you tube, like they did with that video of Gareth dressed as Rambo. You can't trust anyone these days.

Blog Name: A Soldier's Tale

2009-08-26T08:56:00.002+01:00

I don't remember too much about the day it happened. We were riding the APV out of Sangin on a road that seemed to be mostly pot holes held together with rocks the size of footballs. Dust fogged up and turned the sky brown. We bounced along, sweating like a squashed sponge, watching the desert for any sign of the bastards but, wouldn't you know it, they saw us before we saw them, and then - bang.

The APV must have turned over several times. I saw it like a slow motion movie, tumbling kit and bodies slowly slamming into bulkheads. Shadows whirled around and then swamped me and the world went all fuzzy. No pain though. Not a thing, which was weird, considering.

After a while, I don't know how long, I saw a face looking down at me, then that disappeared. More whirling shadows, clouds chasing each other across a nightmare of a sky, then a feeling of movement, like I was drifting. More faces, quite a few this time and I'm sure I recognised some of them but they moved so fast, or maybe I was too dopy to keep up. I think some of them were trying to talk to me. I got the feeling that they were telling me it was alright now. Nothing to worry about now.

I started thinking about going home. I wanted suddenly to go home, more than anything. I wanted to see my family and my little boy and I wanted to sit back and kick my shoes off and watch TV while Sharon fussed around plumping up cushions and Kevin chucked toys across the room and then maybe crawled over and clambered onto my lap so we could curl up together on the sofa and drift off into one of those perfect sleeps where the whole world just goes away and leaves you in peace.

There were a few moments when I knew what was going on, but mostly it was a daft blur of shapes and muffled noises. The only really clear moment was much later, when everything went still and the thudding noises went away. I saw Sharon, all dressed up in her very best, and she was holding Kevin by the hand. The poor little kid looked totally lost. I couldn't hear a thing but I could see him looking up at his mum and asking the same question over and over until in the end she scooped him up and walked away, shoulders heaving.

That was a while ago. They've been back since, with my parents and a few mates. They always bring flowers. I feel like a bloody florist's shop. I like seeing them though, because when they're not there, everything blurs and fades away. It's nice though. Very peaceful, very calm, and best of all, I'm home.

Hazel Blears

2009-08-11T11:19:00.002+01:00

In the light of recent press reports about my parliamentary allowances I wish to lay out the facts relating to the capital gains tax on my many flats in London.

I live, of course, mostly in my constituency which is in Salford, a place I love and where all the people love me. Sometimes, however, I have to spend time in London, which is where Parliament is, and so I need to have lots of flats there so that I don't have to use a great big car to travel to the place where Parliament is, which would be very wrong as it would burn petrol and thus melt all of the polar ice caps.

You see, in Parliament, which is a great big building where lots of MPs like me work, there is this thing called a 'Fees Office' which is a funny sort of place where important men in nice suits tell MPs like me how to buy lots of flats and how to get money to pay for nice things to put in the flats like televisions and lovely big beds and, obviously, some yummy food to eat. So like all MPs like me I followed their advice and had a lovely time shopping for nice things for my flats. But then the Fees Office told me I really had to name one of my flats as a 'Second Home' which I didn't understand really, and with so many to choose from I did get a bit confused and I chose first one, then another one, then I chose my house back in lovely Salford, then another flat, and oh dear I got into such a tizzy I completely forgot to pay capital gains tax when I sold one of the flats, and then again on the other one. Oops!

So there you are, silly me with a brain like a feather, I just made a few silly errors which anyone could have made but now some silly little newspaper, which is a sort of book that people print every day with pictures and words in, have tried to make me look like a sort of greedy person which is really very unfair and I can tell you that anyone back in my lovely constituancy of Salford will stand up and tell you just how honest and lovely I am.

Well, now that I've cleared all that up, it's time for me to get back to my lovely constituancy where they all love me and sort out a few repairs on my car. I'm also hoping to write another chapter of my autobiography, which is a book all about me, in which I will open my heart and reveal all sorts of wonderful things about me, plus there will also be a colouring competition and free balloons.

Well, my lovely husband did advise me to keep all this anonymous but I'm not quite sure what that means. He said something about "those homicidal scumbags back in that Salford shit hole would do us both if they found out" and I'm not quite sure what THAT means either... Still, I'm sure I'll find out eventually! Cheerio!

Blog Name: Harry Potter

2009-07-16T10:04:00.003+01:00

Found another pimple yesterday, SOD IT. So much for Hermione's pimple-zapper potion, I might as well have washed my shoes with it.

Thoughts of the Dark Lord have been preying on my mind. No one else UNDERSTANDS what is going on in my head. I wrote a poem about it:

I am alone in a black room
the Dark Lord fills me full of gloom
He is evil personified
Like the very best food, badly fried.

I think that says it all. He (the Dark Lord) is just like a good meal - pizza or something - which has been RUINED. I mean, if you fried a pizza, that would ruin it, right? Which is what happened to Him. I mean, he started off good, like a raw pizza, but it all went wrong. It's like someone sprinkled him with really nice stuff, like ham and pineapple chunks, then fried it. I mean Him.

I tried explaining this to Ron. As usual, Ron didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about. He just said I was talking bollocks. He doesn't understand me. No one does.

Ginny is ignoring me at the moment which is SO UNFAIR. Just because I drew a willy on her "Necromancy for Dummies" book. I mean, that was MONTHS ago and she only just found it so that shows how much she reads her text books, I think. Hermione says I should apologise and I said why should I, as willys go it's a pretty good likeness and she said how would you know, are you gay or something, so now I'M not talking to HER.

Ron wasn't talking to anyone last week, but that's because a bludger whacked him in the gob and knocked all his teeth out. He had to sleep with his head in a bag of bone-gro powder which meant he was in a stinker of a mood and tried to punch me when I called him "Gappy".

Had a fight with Malfoy in the Quad, actually. It was cool, I got him in a head-lock and stuffed mud down his shirt. He elbowed me in the ribs and whacked me and gave me a black eye. Then Hermione kicked him in the nadgers and we ran for it. I like Hermione, she's well cool and she's got LETHAL boots. I just wish she'd stop going all soppy over Ron, I mean, he's a great bloke and he can make fart noises under his armpit but WHY doesn't she get herself a pet hamster or something?

Well, best not advertise this blog around the school, if that loser Snape found out I'd be in trouble AGAIN which is NOT FAIR. He is such a LOSER he floats around the place like a bad SMELL and Ron says he's only miserable all the time because he's constipated which explains that look on his face so why doesn't he drink some liquid dynamite potion and SORT IT OUT.

Blog Name: James May - and another thing...

2009-07-06T14:39:00.003+01:00

It's a sad fact that Britain is not the country it used to be. We live in a country that is just a shadow of its former self. And who should we blame? Teenagers, that's who.

Now, I appreciate a good tune just like anyone else. I'm quite happy to tap a foot to any beat combo which knows how to get down on it. However, the recording artists of today are just a bunch of lazy yobs. They spend all day pushing cocaine up their noses, then once a month they nip into the recording studio to see if the engineer has finished programming their drum machine so that they can add the vocals. And the lyrics don't make any sense anyway, because they were written on the back of a groupie whilst having intimate relationships in the back of a stretch limo on the way to yet another dance hall where they'll spend all night pushing cocaine up their noses and then jumping up and down to unearthly howling noises known as 'acidic bungalow' music.

It is a fact that dress sense is a skill that must be learnt, and it takes time and practice before a chap can dress himself with any degree of style or flair. Clearly, this is a skill which the youth of today have all but abandoned. I often see young chaps sporting multi-coloured hair, their faces skewered by various items of cutlery, shuffling along the street in trousers that could well have been used to deliver a cubic yard of gravel from a DIY superstore. None of them own a sensible pair of shoes, preferring to encase their feet in orthopaedic boots or possibly sandals made of recycled lentils. I also weep at the sight of so many young chaps failing to grasp that on a baseball cap, the sticking-out bit goes at the front.

Cars, of course, are very important to a young chap and always have been. But whereas in my day, a chap would take a nice young girl into the country for a stroll by the river, the grunting youth of 2009 can only assemble the strength, and indeed the intelligence, to steer his plastic-encrusted monstrosity of a hatchback to the local burger shop where he meets with other like minded simpletons to eat greasy food and listen to unearthly howling noises pumping out of stereo systems that are only slightly smaller than the plastic-encrusted monstrosities that house them.

I don't like to complain, however. Teenagers, no matter how repulsive, often grow up into charming young people. Just occasionally it goes horribly wrong, and then you end up with Margaret Thatcher, or maybe Hitler, or Jeremy Clarkson. Sometimes, owing to all the greasy food, they don't grow 'up' at all, and then you get Richard Hammond. Personally, I blame the Government, which is why I started smoking pipes, so that I could prod people with them in the public bar, whilst blaming the Government. Then they banned smoking. Bastards.

I should keep this anonymous, or else Clarkson will get wind of it, and then get very annoyed because he didn't think of it and now he can't put it into another of his flaming 'best selling' potboilers about bugger all. Oh well.

Blog Name: Reggie Perrin

2009-06-23T08:40:00.002+01:00

In Patagonia there are people who can play the flute through their nose. Why do they do this? I take the train to Waterloo every morning. Why do I do that?

When I get to my office I throw myself into the task of designing new and exciting disposable razor products. Sometimes I combine this with exercise. This morning, as I type this, I am clenching my buttocks for three seconds, then releasing and resting for five seconds. According to our resident 'Wellness' and irritating bitch person, exercise releases chemicals into the blood which help us to enjoy our 'space'. Steven Hawking, he likes space. Clearly, he must be constantly flexing his buttocks, when he's not interfering with wireless broadband and minicab control centres.

Here at Groomtech we relish the challenge of hair removal for the masses. This is our mission statement. It's been laminated, so it must be true. If only Richard Nixon had laminated his alibi then he would never have lost the presidency. Razors are always changing and we like to stay at the cutting edge. That's not on the mission statement, I just made that up. Making stuff up is what I do, which is why Groomtech is so big in the trouser department. Sorry, I meant grooming and personal beauty. The size of Groomtech's genitals have nothing to do with this at all. In Patagonia, hordes of nose flute players spend a fortune on our products, just so that they can ensure a fluff-free nasal passage, perfectly prepared for hours of nose-flute playing.

I am often asked where I get my ideas from, to which I normally reply "Parsnips". This makes me look deep, plus I get a slight sexual tingle from watching boring dick heads wrestle with the inherent zen qualities of this concept. Parsnips, as a means of constructing a framework within which we can rationalise our own existence, have been ignored for too long. I always keep some in my desk drawer, so that during tedious progress meetings I can fantasize about carving them into suggestive shapes and then stuffing them up the backsides of my desperately vile colleagues.

Well, time to get on. Another progress meeting is scheduled, in which we will discuss the progress we have made on reading the minutes of the last progress meeting in which we discussed what we willbe saying in the next progress meeting which is in five minutes. Just enough time for more buttock flexing.

Best to keep this anonymous though, in case the Patagonian Embassy gets wind of it. Through their noses, of course.

Blog Name: Nick Griffin - My Struggle

2009-06-12T13:43:00.002+01:00

Just come down from the loft. Our Secretary for Public Works, Albert Sneers, is designing the new London, or as I like to call it, "New London". Albert's created a marvellous "Parliament Palace of the People". It'll be bigger than the Eiffel Tower, wider than the Taj Mahal and shaped like a Spitfire. His model is coming on really well but he's running low on lego again so we need to get round those charity shops.

Had a meeting yesterday with Joe Gobbles, our PR whizkid, about the recession. Henry Himenher said why don't we blame the jews, bearing in mind their international plot to overthrow governments and dominate the money markets? I pointed out that actually I quite like jews and in fact some of my best friends have spoken to jews. Finally we agreed that we should blame Freemasons. Joe agreed to stage a midnight rally during which we would burn an enormous pile of books about Freemasonry, although not the one proving that Freemasons came from Atlantis and aliens built stonehenge, because that needs to go back to the library next Monday.

I've been really busy out in the garden. The patio has been cleared and Albert and I have dug down nearly five feet. Albert says it'll be a while yet before we can start pouring concrete, but hopefully the bunker will be ready for Christmas. Herby Goring popped over to "help" but, surpise surprise, the fat, lazy bastard just "helped" himself to the contents of my fridge then buggered off again.

Tomorrow I'm seeing our Secretary for Science, Wally Vonbrundebier, who is still working on the Vengence Weapon Mk1. This is supposed to be a ballistic missile. At the moment we have a "Mega ThundaBlasta" left over from bonfire night, in a milk bottle. It's time to asked Wally about progress, and about the 500 quid he's had to fund his research program and about the new Mondeo parked outside and his holiday in Sorrento. Basically I can't help thinking there's something fishy going on here. Last time he promised that progress would pick up now that he has access to slave labour. I reminded him that three Polish plumbers and a Serbian carpet fitter working cash in hand do not count as 'slaves'.

Anyway, now I'm in the European Parliament the cash will start rolling in and then we'll see some changes. Some smart black uniforms for the boys, maybe a few torchlight parades now that we can afford more batteries. I really fancy a place in the country, probably on top of a mountain. Anyway, all that to come but no time to waste. I'd better keep this anonymous though - the gutter press would just take it all out of context and call me 'racist' or some such nonsense. Untermenschen.

Blog Name: Expenses? What Expenses?

2009-05-14T08:27:00.003+01:00

Editor's note: Extracts from the parliamentary blog of Lord Slippery-Clench, Tory MP for Sodham West. The following entry was made prior to the current revelations about MP's expense claims.

As the very proud Tory MP for Sodham West, which of course includes Little Felching, Much Spanking and Choking North, I often get asked how I manage on the very small salary which Parliament grants me.

Luckily, we MPs are able to put in claims for those expenses which we incur as part of our normal, every day parliamentary duties.

My house, for instance, is a constant drain on my slender resources. Darling Fanny, my good lady wife, is often in despair over the costs of staff, hunting, landscaping the grounds and maintaining the five limousines. I say to her, "Darling Fanny," I say, "Chin up, and remember, it may be hard but it's nothing you can't take."

Yes, I know what it's like to worry about cash. I barely have enough to finish the other house, which needed completely new furnishings, I mean, Darling Fanny was gaping when she saw how awfully outmoded it all was. But thanks to this marvellous expenses procedure, I was able to secure the entire contents of a Normandy Chateau which came up for sale. Another expenses claim will get me enough cash to have all three truck loads of furniture shipped over, and finally, our beautiful home will be finished just in time to get it on the market and sold before we whizz off to our well earned summer break.

Trouble is, the jolly old bills just keep rolling in. It seems that Darling Fanny has been paying her best friend, Chlamydia Barrels, for the use of her three Afghans as private secretaries. Well I naturally thought they were people, not bloody dogs. Now Chlamydia has asked that their salaries be upped by 20% because of their rising workload. Well, what's a chap to do? I told Darling Fanny to pay the bloody woman and just scribble something on the expenses form about providing gainful employment for political refugees.

Well, I'm not one to moan, so it's chin up and soldier on with the business of running this proud and noble country of ours. Meantime, I really should keep this anonymous else I'd need to claim for publishing expenses which would simply be greedy, what!

Blog Name: Gene Hunt - The Gene Genie

2009-04-29T09:28:00.003+01:00

Well well, you live and learn. There was i, thinking that 'blogging' was some deviant sexual practice between consenting bastards in a car park, when in fact, according to DI Drake it's all about keeping a diary and 'expressing yourself'.

The last time i 'expressed' myself, Fingers McGee had his teeth kicked so far down his throat he ate his lunch through his arse. But then i suppose that even an old fashioned copper like me can learn new tricks.

Take this psycho-wotsit profiling that Drake's always on about. I told her, villains don't have any psycho-wotsit worth looking at. The best way of profiling some spotty git who enjoys spraying his name on flyovers and mugging old ladies is to twist his nasty little head round until it comes off. She then accused me of being 'old fashioned'. Too bloody right love, i said. I like being old fashioned. I enjoy oldy-worldy stuff like banging up pimps and murderers. Much better than the modern alternative of feeding them tea and biscuits and asking them if this ink blot reminds them of their first wank.

But, because i am more flexible and accomodating than some tart in a Bankok floor show, i am willing to try anything. Last week, for instance, i cornered a certain Nobby 'Molegrips' Fletcher in the tap room of the Jolly Sailor. He was wanted for armed robbery and assault with intent. He didn't want to come quietly, but, remembering Drake's advice, i reasoned with him. After that, i let DS Carling reason with him. After that we called an ambulance while uniform swept up the bastard's teeth. Being flexible and accomodating i will, of course, have them wrapped and posted to him.

At the moment i am working on a case involving drugs, prostitutes and booze. It requires me to wade chest deep through the shit-infested sewer that lies underneath our cosy little world. But i'm not worried about that. All i care about is that Drake sorts out the disco and DC Skelton gets off his useless arse and sorts out the sandwiches. Otherwise we'll never get to enjoy my birthday party.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks, time to get out there and collar some more scumbags. And all of the above is staying anonymous, because, despite what Drake says, actually you're sodding guilty until i say otherwise.

Blog Name: French Sex and How To Do It

2009-04-20T13:20:00.004+01:00

Hi, my name is Nicholas Zarkozy and because i am French, i am an expert on all things to do with sex, including areas such as

What it is
Where it is
How things work
Nasty rashes
Disco music

In this blog i will present to you a number of ways in which you can spice up your sex life. So, buckle up and hang on, we're going on the sex rollercoaster down the Orgasm Peage to le paradis en France!!

Relationships

A stable relationship is very important, so i have several and, being French, i am able to satisfy all my women at the same time. This is crucial. If you are not French, or worse, English, you can not do this. You must only have the one relationship, else you will not satisfy any of your women and you will have to ask a nearby frenchman to help them achieve their orgasms.

Where to get sex

I get my best sex in the kitchen, where i take the scullery maid roughly from behind while she is grooming my poodle. Sometimes, i get sex almost as good when i am in a traffic jam and beautiful parisien women slide through the windows of my citroen and take my powerful french manhood in their gasping mouths, until the lights change and i have to beat them away with my fists. Occasionally, gorgeous film stars arrive at my house disguised as telephone repair women and i have brutal, french sex with them under the stairs where the junction box is.

Sex positions

The best positions depend on how many of you there are. Being French, i am usually surrounded by several beautiful women, all of whom are biting and scratching each other to be the first to receive my powerful french manhood. In this instance, i adopt the l'autobus position, IE three come at once. Sometimes i get bored however and go outside to smoke gauloises and write another chapter for my book on philosophy.

The G Spot

There is no such thing as the G Spot. Beautiful french women would not need one in any case as they are permanently in a state of arousal, on account of being close to so many virile, thrusting french men. English women may possibly have a G spot. I don't know. Probably no one does, least of all english men.

Lesbians

In France, lesbians are now accepted as legal in certain cities, although in rural areas, they are still traditionally tarred and feathered every Sunday, after Mass. NB this only applies to ugly lesbians in large and unfashionable shoes. Beautiful lesbians in nice clothes are welcome in most shops and restaurants.

Disco music

Music is very important to the French People which is why Sacha Distel is still popular, despite being dead. We French like to have wild sex whilst listening to music. I like to listen to marching bands of the French Foreign Legion whilst spanking my secretary, and her three sisters, with asparagus tips. After that, we play selections from La Cage aux Folies while they rub my nipples with coq au vin. We French do not play disco music as self abuse is still punishable by death.

Next time i shall explore the darker side of sex. Animals, corpses, dungeons. Yes, i'll be chatting to my great friend, Max Moseley. In the meantime i shall stay anonymous, otherwise Prime Minister Brown will be pestering me for tips on how to get girls. Au revoir!

Blog Name: The Bank of England

2009-03-12T09:20:00.001Z

In my capacity as Governor of the Bank of England, I carry many burdens upon my shoulders. Inflation, deflation, recession, depression, exchange rates and interest rates, avoiding fiscal prurience and staving off alien invasion.

My recent decision to implement a program of quantitive easing, to inject new money into the economy, was not arrived at without a great deal of thought. Clearly, in desperate times, we must consider turning to desperate measures. I feel I speak for the whole country, however when I say that even as our printing presses churn out more banknotes by the million, we can take some comfort in the knowledge that the measures are working and the banks are indeed queuing up to sell me their government bonds, which will help to release more capital into the economy.

And I can say to you all, that although we have acted quickly, we have not acted hastily. Indeed, we have little time to spare. Our economy is at a turning point and we must be sure to steer it in the right direction to encourage the money to flow once more which will give us the means to defend ourselves against the Treens, who even now are massing their armies on that distant world.

Yes, some are uncertain as to how effective these measure will be in the long term, but they should weigh their words carefully. A little pain today is preferable to Treen stormtroopers goose-stepping down Whitehall tomorrow, whilst that creature who is evil personified, the Emperor Mekon, takes the salute from the steps of his Imperial Command Ship.

I know that these are worrying times. Indeed, I am just as worried as anyone. In fact, I haven't slept for three months now and if it wasn't for the bathroom fairies scrubbing my armpits every morning, I wouldn't have washed either. But we must go forward, heads held high, and do battle with the new Axis of Evil, namely Inflation and His Foulness, the Emperor Mekon. We can prevail. We will fight them on the beaches and we will go forward into sunlit uplands, lit by the candles of Victory.

In the meantime, this blog shall remain anonymous - there are spies everywhere. Trust no one!

Prime Minister's Question Time

2009-03-05T09:55:00.002Z

I know that many of you have questions about the challenges facing us all. In this blog, therefore, I hope to answer some of those questions using every day terms that fully relate to and are born from the lives, and aspirations, of you, the people.

Alan, in South Wales, asks: Do you think we should nationalise all our banks?

Well boyo, look you, see this is a bit of a tricky one, like growing leeks, isn't it? You plant the buggers and let all that lovely rain soak them right through, look you, then before you can say Max Boyce, the bloody green fly have got 'em. Never mind eh, not while we got the telly and bit of rugby, isn't it?

June, in Birmingham, asks: Is the Government planning to cut public spending?

Bit of a tricky one, that. By rights we should be saving a few bob, y'know like a couple of quid every now and then, y'know, but thing is, we're all a bit strapped at the mo', so really it's, like, anybody's guess. Really.

Toby, in London, asks: How will the recession affect the plans for the Olympics?

Listen mate, we ain't gonna let a few fackin quid stop the party, never mind what those bleeding wankers in the City are saying. We're gonna have the biggest knees-up ever, strike me dead if we aint, and if some toffy-nosed barstard tries to get in the fackin way I'll have his knee caps.

Susan, in Glasgow, asks: What about Scotland's plans for independance?

Och, well, the noo, that's a bonnie wee question, and I think we all ken the answer there, lassie. Aye, let's not forget that many a mickle mucks a mackerel. The noo.

Alex, in Belfast, asks: Perhaps we should adopt the Euro currency now?

Bejaasus, and that's a fine question, to be sure, to be sure. Did i tell you the one about the two Irish men outside the job centre? Paddy says to Murphy, "Would you look at that, typical of our luck, they want tree fellers and there's only two of us." To be sure.

Norman, Vice President of the Lesbian and Gay Outreach Committee, asks: When will interest rates begin to rise again?

Ooh, i say, what a big question that is. I don't think i've ever been probed like that before, ooo-err. Still i'll do me best, i mean, you know i'll bend over backwards for anyone, dear. Now just give me a minute while me nail varnish dries.

Well, hopefully this answers a few of the questions that I know you all have. Should there be more, please send them to me, C/O Downing Street or via this blog. You can, of course, remain anonymous. I know that I certainly intend to.

Blog Name: Boris

2009-02-04T13:17:00.002Z

Now look, alright we had a bit of a problem with the weather, in that too much of the white stuff dropped us, as it were, very much in the brown stuff. But, just because Boris City (or London, as some luddites insist on calling it) ground to a halt leaving thousands unable to get to work, or home, or in fact anywhere, certain gutter press journos have taken it upon themselves to have a go.

Let's take the busses. Alright, you couldn't, because they weren't running. There was a perfectly good reason for that, which escapes me for the moment, but it had something to do with artichokes. I definitely remember artichokes being involved in the decision making process which led to the cancellation of all the bus routes. Or perhaps it was a radish. Either way, the non-appearance of your bus, as you waited at your bus stop, was no bloody fault of mine. If you really do feel the need to whine like a child over it, get yourself down to your greengrocer and take it out on his vegetables.

This brings me to the trains, which were not running because of the cold, which caused their fires to go out. As you know, Henry, James, and even Gordon, all rely on a roaring fire in their tummy to make the magic smoke which turns their wheels. Even Thomas, the little scamp, needs a hearty breakfast of coal before he can puff off, up his branch line. Clearly, on Monday, the supplies of magical coal were completely covered in snow, making it impossible for the engines to get up steam. Again, don't blame me, blame the weather, and probably vegetables, for this tiresome inconvenience.

Well, I hope this clears up any remaining suspicions you may have had that perhaps the problems were all caused by rank incompetence. This is not the case, and I can produce the vegetables and magic coal to prove it. For now though, best keep this anonymous before the scumbag journos get wind of it. That's if they managed to turn up for work, eh? Hoho!

Blog name: Spike

2008-12-24T08:12:00.004Z

Here's my blog, a silly old blog,
about as much use as a chocolate cog
or Italian cheeses that give you the sneezes
or a recalcitrant gun that won't kill anyone
or a fish in the desert or a boil on the bum.

Well I got up this morning and made up some verse
about seagulls and terns and then, even worse,
about Eccles and jam and daleks and spam
and when i'd finished that I put on my hat
and went off to work, saying “Well – that's that.”

You know people stare?
You must be aware of how they stare, they gawp and they peer
as if I'm a bit queer because I'm talking away
(as I make my way)
to no one at all in the street, in the hall,
in my office or under my desk, where I sit
where it's very quiet, in the fluff for a bit,
as I make up more verse,
full of silly old nothings like a goat in a hat
and witches on mountains and purple juice fountains
and silly old Seagoons grown lazy and fat.

I think they're all barmy and I'll tell you why,
if you'll sit still and wait for the click of the gate
as I come home from work,
and then with a sigh,
I'll say they're all barmy and you'll ask why
because surely they're normal and I am insane?
I can see I will have to repeat yet again...

This is my blog, just a silly old blog,
it has nothing to do with some chocolate cog,
I just like to tell jokes, to be helpful, eponymous,
but still I thank God this damned blog's anonymous.

Blog Name: Up Yours, Pal!

2008-11-25T08:48:00.006Z

Holy Hell-shit, I can NOT believe that sonofabitch won. What the fuck is this world coming to? I work my ass off for years, sorting out Iraq, Israel, even those commie queers in Europe, and what do I get in return? My man gets the finger while some jerk who don't even have a proper American name gets all the fucking votes!

Well, screw the lot of them. I'm retiring from all this shit and starting a new life as a preacher. I was visited by God in my dreams and he said to me, “George, you have brought so many people so much peace and happiness, and justice and the American Way, now you must go out and preach your wisdom to the people.”

I was so moved I bought me a bible, but I haven't gotten around to reading it just yet, but then who gives a fuck, when you're preaching you just make stuff up. I also just bought me a church on the Las Vegas Strip. I got big plans. I got a dozen dancing girls, a few hundred slots and a baptismal font. I got a stage where I can get people up and heal them. I got a franchise from Burger King for the catering. Fuck Washington, I can make more in a month in Vegas than I would have in a year of office.

Still, it pains me to see this Great Country of Ours brought down by evil men. I seen them, parading themselves on the TV, the commies and the faggots, lining up to vote democrat (hell, they ain't even worth a capital letter). That Obama, he's a sly one. Already he's trying to destroy this great Country of Ours, just a little bit at a time. For instance, every time he comes to a conference in the White House, he fixes it so that the conference room gets moved. Last time, that tricky SOB put it in the john.

God, he told me that there'll be a reckoning, and that's when the democrats will all go to Hell and get a pitchfork up the ass, though I guess the faggots will be looking forward to that. Everyone else, the good and the pure, will be lifted up to Heaven, which I reckon looks pretty much like Vegas, only with bigger neons.

Anyway, better keep this anonymous, at least until I got my stuff out of the White House – mental note, don't forget the poster of Arnie, Laura likes to keep that one by the bed.

Blog name: Long and Winding Road

2008-11-10T10:32:00.002Z

Just had another meeting with George. He was late as usual, this time he got lost trying to find the conference room and ended up in the john. According to his aide, he spent a good ten minutes demanding to know why the conference room had been redecorated in white tiles and chrome. He did, apparently, approve of the paper dispensers next to the seats. He thought they'd be useful for taking quick notes.

Well, we discussed the economy again. He keeps telling me that all the books, all the accounts are open to me and my team for perusal, any time we like. Then he just clapped a hand over his face and sniggered, while Secretary Paulson went pink, started humming “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and looked out of the window.

I guess the full story on the economy will have to wait until the new year. Meantime, I've been touring the presidential suite here in the White House. I've already asked that the signed poster of Governor Schwarzenegger be removed. I have no objection to the man personally, but my kids were asking awkward questions about why he was stripped to the waist and covered in baby lotion. George has a few mementos from his service career which also have to go, especially the Texas Air National Guard certificates, some of which still haven't been colored in.

All in all though, the place looks pretty comfortable and I guess Michelle and I will settle down OK. I tried out the big chair in the Oval Office and I even had a quick peek at the Big Red Button. I have to give George credit for one thing, he wasn't dumb enough to press it 'just to see what happens'. Although having said that, someone has drawn a couple of eyes above it and a smiley mouth underneath, with the caption “Room Service”. Hey, I can take a joke. I know it wasn't George anyway. He still can't do that joined up writing.

Anyway, I guess this blog had better stay anonymous, otherwise the Republicans will be on my tail and the first thing you learn in politics is to keep that area of your person covered up tighter than the grin on Sarah Palin's face on election night.

Blog Name: Last Man Standing

2008-11-04T20:54:00.007Z

Not long to go now. Soon the votes will be counted - and verified, of course - and then I shall be crowned the rightful winner of this long, arduous contest.

I have the advantage, being the BBC's top political commentator, of having learned from the masters of the world stage. Nod, smile, kiss babies - ooh, that was quite disconcerting the first time I had to do it, it was like looking in a mirror! And naturally I have my piece of young, female eye-candy draped over my arm to distract the less discerning viewers from my complete lack of any sort of skill or competency. At least there's no danger of her opening her mouth in public and giving the game away: nobody watches BBC2 anyway, as I've learned the hard way.

Not that the outcome is up to the viewers, haha. Goodness me no, that's just another element of this smoke-and-mirrors affair that's been pinched from the political arena. No, the real power lies with just a small elite: as usual, it's not what you know but who you know - and I do mean "know" in the Biblical sense. I've already slept my way this far with Arlene, Craig, and Len; that just leaves Bruno. God, I hope he hasn't been eating garlic! Bellissimo indeed!

Thank God this blog's anonymous. If this gets out I could be out on my ear like Russell, Jonathon and Jeremy and I don't mean Paxman!

Blog name: Rossed the Plot

2008-10-30T11:27:00.006Z

You find me in quandary, readers. Easy for me to say, eh?

Bloody Brand, what’s he gone and done that for? Now everybody will wondering why I’m not offering myself up. But how, how do I get to keep the money, and get an outlet for my genius at the same time? And what about you, the public who so desperately want me and need me? Has anyone given any thought to you who have come to rely on me for putting some colour into your sad little lives?

I’m worth a million of you, I am.

If I go, how will I get my daily fix of making inappropriate and lewd comments to female celebrities? How will I get to poke fun at the genitalia size and function of near-retirement broadcasters? How will I get to debase the politician du jour by poking fun at their imagined sexual preferences and cock size? Who will offer to rub themselves up against nubile young popstars and actresses if I don’t? Wogan? The only thing he’s rubbing is liniment into his arthritic joints.

More importantly how will the public be able to live without that kind of top flight entertainment? People will have to take the streets and hang around eavesdropping on pissed up hoodies as they call each other names and shout at passers by. I don’t want that. That’s my job. But in an expensive suit and with more prolific use of the word “Fuck” (which I invented).

I tell you this is all got totally out of hand. It’s like that time that I got blamed for causing havoc when some kids from my daughter’s school called up and left lewd messages for her on our home answerphone. I went mad, I did. Gross invasion of privacy. I’m a very private man. A family man.

What? Whaaat?....

Still I’ll be OK, I could go to America. They know what talent is! Surely my kind of chat show will go a bomb over there. I mean it’s not as if they have been doing my kind of thing years before I (pinched) did it, or anything? Russell’s got some contacts...still, I can’t seem to get him on the phone right now. I’ll keep trying. Oh and my old chum Ricky’s doing an absolute bomb over there. I’ll keep trying him as well...he’s bound to pick up sooner or later...

I don't need the BBC.....do I?

Blog Name: Bwa-hahahah!

2008-10-03T09:15:00.005+01:00

Now that I have become CEO of Microsoft, I can begin to tackle the many challenges facing this mighty empire.

My chair, for instance, is not as comfy as it once was. His name is Juan and I suspect he has lost weight. I only chose him to be my chair because he was fat, but now, he isn't. I shall have to dispose of him and find another serf to take his place.

This morning, on my way to the office, my vehicle broke down. Three of the serfs collapsed with heat exhaustion and nearly dropped me. I whipped them severely, but they refused to get up. In the end I called the Auto Club and they sent a mechanic, who whipped them for me as I was quite exhausted. Eventually they died and were thrown to the wolves. I got the office to send out new serfs by helicopter, but I was still late for an important meeting. However, I avoided embarrassment by phoning ahead and having the other attendees slaughtered and eaten by piranha fish.

I am comforted by the thought that Microsoft has made many technical innovations this year. I am proud of our new i-phone killer. His name is Igor and he has been tasked with killing anyone who owns an i-phone. I am also pleased with the progress on our 'zune' music player which has the ability to detect impure thoughts, such as the urge to copy music files. Anyone who thinks such filth will pay. With their lives. Spikes will emerge from the earphones and explode their brains. Acid will seep from the packaging and burn off their fingers. Such is the fate of any scumbag who tries to rip off copyrighted material.

Our new operating system, Vista, is attracting rave reviews from the press. I have made sure of this by sending pig entrails to all technical journalists. Even so, a couple of journalists tried to defy me, so I sent their entrails to my chef who served them to me with a green salad and a glass of Merlot.

Finally, Microsoft is investing heavily in Cloud Computing. In the future, all computers will use Microsoft online services. Then we will buy all the power stations and ensure that electricity only works on Microsoft products. Anyone running a wind farm will be savaged by flesh eating termites. Soon the world will be mine and then I shall possess ultimate power. Finally, after so many years of waiting, I shall get to shag Pamela Anderson.

In the meantime, this blog must remain anonymous, or else all my plans will be undone and I won't get to shag Pamela Anderson, or indeed, anyone else who isn't handcuffed.

Clarkson on.. The Credit Crunch

2008-09-18T08:53:00.004+01:00

It seems that all anyone talks about these days is the Credit Crunch, this big financial crisis that looms over us all like Godzilla in a cheap Japanese movie. So, in my capacity as world-leading financial guru, I have created this handy “cut out'n'keep” guide.

Q. Where did it come from?

A. Blame America.

Q. No really, where did it come from?

A. Communists are seeding the world with money eating cockroaches that are driving us all into ruin.

Q. I knew it! How can we defeat them?

A. I was lying. Blame America. Imagine this scenario. In down town Detroit, we have a young married couple named Hank and Monica. Hank is short and wide and the same shape as a water barrel. He has grown a beard, because he thinks it makes him look European. Monica looks exactly the same as Hank, but without the beard. She spends a lot of money on hair colouring, 'Because she's worth it'. Currently, her head is purple.

Hank works for a motor car manufacturer. He spends his working day discussing last night's re-runs of Star Trek, reading The National Inquirer and eating his own body weight in beef products. Occasionally he bolts a wing mirror on to a pick up truck.

Monica spends her day sitting down. She likes to read dieting magazines, many of which are full of delicious recipes. Sometimes the pictures are so tempting, she eats the magazines.

Several years ago, Hank and Monica were married in the Church of the Latter Day Flying Saucer. Hank wore his finest Star Trek costume, while Monica was shrouded in a white bell tent that made her look a little bit like a dog fight in a potato sack. It was at this point that THE PROBLEM STARTED.

You see, Hank and Monica wanted their own house, but they didn't have any money. Hank didn't earn much at the car company, who never valued his skills at eating, reading the National Inquirer, or impersonating the 'whoosh' of the USS Enterprise's sliding doors. So what did they do? They BORROWED A LOT OF MONEY.

They thought this was marvellous. Truly, America was The Land of Opportunity. Only in America could two young people, with no money, or skills, or brains, borrow such huge amounts of money and then spend it on a house that was actually worth slightly less than Hank's tab at the local 'Eat All-U-Can' burger and gun dispensary.

So, there it is. The start of all the world's problems, right there, as Hank sweeps Monica over the threshold of their new home, pausing only to clutch his groin as a suspected rupture makes his eyes bulge.

Q. Blimey. What can we do?

A. Buy a Range Rover. It won't help you with your financial issues, but at least you will go to Heaven.

Q. Can I quote you on that?

A. No way, this is definitely staying anonymous.

Blog Name: Northern Exposure

2008-09-05T09:56:00.006+01:00

Hi and wow! I’m just a hockey Mom here in my wilderness home with my beautiful family! Wow! What an honour! What a wholly unexpected honour!

There I was, doing what every American Mom does, squeezing out my fifteen wholesome kids, Chip, Buck, Chuck, Champ, Chad, Chimp, Buddy, Trapper, Hawkeye, Radar, Bristol, Birmingham, Newcastle, BJ and the Bear, with not a thought to ever doing anything other than baking cookies and shooting elk. Gee ladies, why, I’m just like you!

After marrying my husband, Kipper, at fourteen, I just wanted to be a stay at home Mom and never even so much as planned any of this! And then I became a beauty queen BY ACCIDENT! And then I ruled the fucking PTA, BY ACCIDENT! And then I became the kick ass governor, BY ACCIDENT. Wooo! Check me out! And now I’m going to be the Vice President, BY ACCIDENT!

I never wanted any of this! This stuff just seems to happen to me! I don’t even know what half of this stuff is! I just wanted to stay at home, squeeze out fifteen puppies, shoot some elk, bake some cookies and be totally awesome and wholesome.

I’m just a regular Mom, like you, (except one who’s gonna RULE THE WORLD)!

(Thank God this blog's anonymous, or else I might just get noticed and WHO KNOWS what would happen then?)