Pottery Corner 8

Spike
Tribute to Nick Cave

She'd knocked them back and staggered home
But soon began to flounder
And as the sidewalk slipped away
That's when yours truly found her

I took her in with my concerns
She wailed about her creditors
I helped her up to my place warning
Her of sexual predators

I held her hand and sympathised
In tones so reverential
But all the while my body's craving
Something far more sensual

I palmed the dropper like an ace
The charlatan was keeping
And twenty minutes later Anne Marie
Was soundly sleeping

My kiss was firm the fire it burned
Caresses long and sensual
By the way that whore was moving
Youd've sworn it was consensual

Now some of you will shake your heads
But I would contradict
Cos Brother stand where I'd been stood
No jury would convict

Oh rohypnol my special friend
Prelude to copulation
My silent partner ever near
Deliver my temptation


(End of poem. The next bit doesn't rhyme)

If this story is to be believed, then a third of us think that a woman is at least partly to blame if she is raped after acting flirtatiously, getting drunk or dressing provocatively. I had no idea that the Daily Mail was circulating so widely these days.

Just think about it. On any given jury there are four members who automatically think that she was asking for it.

If you're sat with two other people right now, statistically, you're sharing a space with someone who thinks rape's okay in certain circumstances.

Take a good look, and ask yourself: Which one of them is it?

If they let ME design fireworks...

click to enlarge

"Obsolete" Steve Austin Quits

Steve Austin, the world famous "Six Million Dollar Man" has finally quit his work as a special operative for the US government, after complaining bitterly of unfair treatment and victimisation.

"Steve's had his day." A Pentagon insider told us today. "He's had a good run, but he has to admit that he just isn't that special any more."

It famously cost the US government Six Million Dollars to put astronaut Steve Austin back together after the jet engine he was testing exploded. But thanks to advances in technology since the early seventies, that same level of upgrading is said to be worth fractionally more than two hundred dollars.

"By modern standards, Steve's a toaster." A Pentagon outsider admitted. "We've come a long way in a short time, and now that his old parts are wearing out, we just don't think it's economically viable to replace them. We've offered to swap his old legs for a set of shiny new wheels but there's just no talking sense into him these days."

Steve has had a very bad run of luck. His divorce from Jamie Summers, the much celebrated Bionic Woman, was inevitable, as this Hexagon informer revealed: "Steve was programmed by IBM and Jamie was programmed by Macintosh. Sooner or later they were going to have to admit that they just weren't compatible. They simply didn't support each other."

So the future looks pretty bleak for the man who inspired so many of us to run around the playground in slow motion. "It's getting harder and harder to find guys who can still read tikatape." A dodecahedron infighter added. "Steve's interphase hardware is unstable, difficult to operate, and requires thousands of square feet of flashing lights, endlessly spinning tapes and tiny green screens. It's becoming as difficult to find technicians who still remember the old pre-DOS routines than it is to find the old Radio Shack components."

In related news, K.I.T, the camp, vehicular sidekick to Michael Knight has also had a bad week, after being sold for scrap by the Foundation for Law And Government. A FLAG insider said: "Kit seemed pretty impressive in the eighties. But these days most people have more processing power in their mobile phones. Get a PDA and Tom-Tom and you've pissed all over anything we could have dreamed of twenty years ago."

In response, the fudge-nudging computer said "Hold on, Michael." before being flattened by a container load of Mister T action figures.

Monday Garbage

Ladies, it's Wheelie-Bin Night.
That's right, girls. Time to open up the big flap and dump it all down.
Check out the funky black wheels, girls. Smell the rubber; it's vulcanised. I've greased my axel and now it's dripping.
Oh yeah, honeys. Wheelie-Bin Night. Time to get filthy. Time to unwrap those feather-light liners, baby. Long, sleek and black. Just the way you like it.
Don't be shy, girls. Let's see those big white numbers that you normally keep hidden away. Some people might say it's dirty. But we know that's just trash.

"Haunted House - Beware - Don't Buy It!"

I love it when real life is even more random than I am. I spotted this one while walking to a bonfire party last night. Haven't laughed so much since the burglar alarm factory got broken into.

"Now Then, Mister Jones. If I can just draw your attention to the kitchen, you'll find hot and cold running water as well as blood seeping down the walls in the vestibule and ectoplasm in the pantry. The rear window affords excellent views of the ancient American Indian burial ground, while the patio area has recently been re-laid. Don't mind the flies. It's just that time of year."

"You'll be pleased to note the cold spot in the cellar, ideal for year-round food storage. Now it is fair to mention that we have had one or two problems with the dimensional portal to the gates of Hell but since the original owner had the pentacle in the floor re-pointed, Satan's minions have been relatively quiet."

Bo!

I decided to make the world a better place today. (No, I haven't given up blogging. Nice try.)

I decided that I'd do everybody a favour and have Craig David Killed. I considered doing away with Mariah Carey too. But she did such a splendid job of making every other artist at Live8 look good, I just didn't have the heart.

I didn't plan it, of course. I was just browsing the web quite innocently, and decided to give Amazon.co.uk a try. They had lots of Craig David stuff on sale (delivered under cover of darkness in a plain wrapper, no doubt) but, more interestingly, a friendly little icon next to his photograph marked "Despatch".

How about that? Can you believe how thoughtful they are? I must say, it takes all the guess work out of assassination, when a reliable company such as Amazon can offer to curl up the toes of the loathsome celebrity of your choice, you know you're dealing with a company that actually cares about music. Still, in this era of customer service, I'm rather surprised I couldn't have selected a few more options, such as "Mame" or "Attack Credibility".

Perhaps it wasn't exactly the most ethical thing to do, but the little "Despatch" button was far too tempting. I did it for the planet. Trust me on this.

But now I'm getting a little impatient. It's been over a week, and still there are no headlines advertising his demise. The Website clearly stated "Usually despatched in three to four days." But I've not witnessed any hoards of ten-year-old girls wailing at the sky and tearing their clothes. Some sarcastic arse sent me a copy of his latest CD for some reason, but I don't want to talk about that.

I should have known it was too good to be true. I made some phone calls to my old gangland friends, who told me that they would generally charge about £17,000 for a celebrity offing. Apparently soap stars are a little bit cheaper, and Big Brother contestants are on two-for-one this month. Amazon only looked like they were charging £8.99. That's a hell of a discount in anybody's book.

So I've decided to set up a bit of a fund. Since it's obvious that the only way I'm going to get this job done is by sorting it out myself, I'm pleased to announce the creation of the "Can You Fill Him In?" fund.



It's your chance to do something worthwhile and meaningful with your spare change. I've set the ball rolling by donating a fiver of my own money, but with your help we can have him pushing up daisies before he gets the chance to work on any new material. Please feel free to fax me your cheques. Scanned cash is acceptable, as long as you remember to use RGB colour and scan both sides.

I'll keep you posted on how much we make over the next few days.

At it like Dandy Lions

I've had it with the whole silly business of trying to find/attract/seduce/keep Ms Right. Had it, had it, had it.

I mean, it's all such a chore, isn't it? This is, of course, mainly down to the fact that I'm fat, poor, too old, and drive a Volvo. Since changing any of those circumstances would take a lot of time/effort/therapy/crime, I've decided that the best thing I can do is sack the whole idea of mammalic reproduction.

Now that might seem a bit extreme, but think about it. Who ever saw a thistle with a raging horn? Who ever saw a tomato plant prepared to pay good money for the sake of a few minutes of recreational procreation? Who ever saw a wild oat that couldn't sow any of itself?

No. I've made my mind up. It's official. From now on, I shall be reproducing in the time honoured tradition of the plant kingdom and casting my seed to the winds.

Of course, I'll only be able to set off one or two balloons a day, but nature is a numbers game, and each airborne hanky should contain enough DNA to start a small legion of David Juniors if handled correctly.

Which brings me to my next point. This alternative means of passing on the genetic code will only work if there are enough willing female volunteers prepared to get into the spirit of it. To maximise your chances of successfully receiving the payload, I recommend you take up a position some sixty miles north-east of Holmfirth (To allow for wind-flow) and lie for at least eight or nine hours a day with your genitals exposed. A high vantage point, such as a roof, or church steeple would be an distinct advantage.

Obviously, since I am adopting the vegetable method of pollination, I will not be available for maintenance payments for any little sprouts that may develop as a result. That said; please inform me if you actually manage to germinate. It would be nice to report a success story once in a while.

Spot the Twat

"268,000 children in England could be sharing a bedroom with their parents, with as many as 72,000 overcrowded teenagers of the opposite sex potentially being forced to sleep in the same room. The survey also reveals that in over a quarter of overcrowded families in social rented housing, children have to sleep in rooms other than bedrooms - such as lounges, dining rooms or kitchens - due to a lack of space. This could be equivalent to 98,000 children across the country."

Source: www.shelter.org.uk

"Fifteen per cent of British people live in poverty, according to the latest UN reports. The gap between the poorest and richest in the UK is now said to be wider than in Sri Lanka, and Ethiopia. As well as being one of the most unequal societies among rich nations, the UK suffers problems of deprivation, chronic unemployment, and poor literacy levels. This makes Britain one of the most poverty-stricken developed countries in the world."

Source: www.oxfam.org.uk

"Every year, more than 10 million children die totally preventable deaths. Some are directly caused by illness – pneumonia, diarrhoea, measles – and others are affected by indirect causes such as conflict and HIV/AIDS. Malnutrition, lack of safe water and inadequate sanitation are contributing factors to more than half of these deaths."

Source: www.unicef.org

In a country where thousands do not even have basic privacy. In a country where there are more people existing in poverty than at any other time in living memory, in a world where a tsunami's worth of children die needlessly every WEEK just because to do something about it would eat into our profit margins, what sort of twat would put tax cuts at the top of his agenda?

"Mr Davis vowed to tear up the Tories' past "timid" tax policies as he unveiled plans for a cut of £1,200 a year for the average family.
"Mr Davis wants £38bn a year tax cuts by the general election after next."

Source: BBC News

Of course, I'm NOT saying that David Davies is a twat.

And of course, I'm NOT saying that if you're a Tory, you're a Twat.

It's just that, if you're a Tory, and if you're into Twats, then it might just be likely that David Davies is your kind of man.