- Your party spends it’s time in opposition complaining as loudly as possible about what a dog shit job the Government is doing. You don’t at any one point think that working even slightly together to make the country a better place is a good idea. You go out into the community, write newspaper columns and blog about how terrible the other party is doing. You feed the on the nations anger and disappointment, growing fat on votes as you promise to undo all of what has been done.
- Your voted into power at the expense of the other party who were doing such a shit job.
- Year One- After sorting out all those tax payer funded election parties you get down to the real business of running the country. Which in the first year is really hard and it looks like you’re not making a lot of progress it doesn’t matter just spend this year telling everyone your too busy sorting out the last lots mess. Things will get better next year.
- Year Two- Well the mess has been sorted out (the Monster Munch is no longer blocking the toilets) and you can start implementing the promises you made. But you’ve got to remind everyone that these things take time to get up and running. It’s a hard time for everyone and we all need to tighten our belts. Except you of course I mean how are you supposed to eat all those state dinners with a tight belt? With currently friendly African dictators.
- Year Three- People are starting to get annoyed as none of your promises have been fulfilled. So you take some oratory lessons and develop your hand signals so that these will distract from the non-committed nonsense that is pouring out of your mouth. If the people don’t buy this then use a conflict in the Middle East to distract them. That or whatever Amanda Holdens wearing.
- Year Four- Yes you know that none of the things you said you were going to be done have been. But this is an election year! So let’s throw out another load of buzzwords, prey on peoples fear of change and ally ourselves as close as possible to some tragedy that doesn’t require Government attention (Cameron-Maddie). In terms of actual voting it doesn’t matter what you say as long as your opponent cannot whip up the same amount of fear as you can. If he fails to terrify everyone enough then your safe to keep your head in the trough.
And this is the basis of politics give or take a couple of secretary shagging scandals.
After it was announced that David Cameron is now gearing up for thirteen months of election campaigning, cumulating in the General election in May 2015. I started to get excited about the possibility of change except I have this theory on how politics work:
I like the NHS. That’s why I’ve stayed in my job there, well that and the glamour. When I first heard that in April we were going to be putting prescription charges up to £8.05 I was overjoyed. I assumed I would be getting a pay rise and that would go some way to paying that enormous fine I got from the council.
Having been told that I wouldn’t be seeing a penny extra and that I should leave the building, because I am currently serving a suspension I flipped.
Quite frankly it’s a disgrace for people to be paying such a high price for medication that they may need to live their lives normally. Or at least without severe pain or those hallucinations were you can see Snoopy exposing himself to bus loads of people. Please remember people that the price of a prescription isn’t £8.05 it’s £8.05 per item. I suppose then you can pick and choose which meds you’re going to buy but as some meds are given to you to counteract the affect’s of other meds then I’d be very careful which one’s you choose.
But don’t worry if you can’t be arsed to get a job or are a heroin addict on a methadone program we’ll still hook you up for free. I mean what are friends for?
Neal Patel from the Royal Pharmaceutical Society hit the nail on the head when he said:
“Many have to choose between paying for medicine or house hold bills such as food and heating.”
I mean I had to choose to update the subscription to this website or if I was going to eat today and I’m in paid work. I haven’t put my heating on all winter, not because I’m from Hull and hard as fuck, but because I can’t afford it. Now you get a single mum who breaks her hand, she may be prescribed antibiotics, she may be prescribed “let the Dr rub your tits for five minutes a day” depending on the moral alignment of her GP. If she is prescribed her antibiotics she’ll know that she won’t die if she doesn’t have them so she decides to treat her kids instead of paying the £8 for the prescription. The broken hand may then become infected and the lady in question may require extensive surgery and treatment within the hospital costing the NHS thousands. All because they wanted to squeeze an extra 20p out of people.
Now I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I do think a fee should be paid for some medication and having seen the prices of some trust me you’re getting a bargain. Most people will have a little grumble about the increase and pay the extra but there is a very real danger that some of the poorest workers may not be able to afford their medicine. Then again the poorest workers don’t normally vote Conservative do they?
In a time of recession when the average British family now has to eat at least one stray dog a day to survive our MPs have promised to join in with the belt tightening. Except some of the older Lib Dems as they don’t see the point in wearing pants anymore as they get in the way of groping office interns.
To find out that the House Of Commons has a “Art Budget” that is seemingly bigger than Hull City Councils education one is a little bit of a kick in the teeth. Then to find out that MP’s have finished spending a whopping £250K on paintings of themselves is a little less like a kick in the teeth and much more like having Nick Clegg coming round to your house pissing on your fridge and then raping your mouth.
The paintings (seemingly done by a child with no arms and extreme epilepsy) capture nothing but the soulless look most MP’s sport when asked about anything. Each and every one of them is a vanity project that is quite simply inexcusable. It’s the sort of shit that revolutionaries burn when they storm the political powerbases.
Ken Clarke has had one done, in it he looks like a melted waxwork (which he kinda does in real life) beckoning to a seagull that has landed on his fire place. It cost eight grand I can only assume the artist charged a quid for every bad idea Clarkes had this week.
The political behemoth that is Iain Duncan Smith has had a £10K one done, he stands in a pose that clearly reveals he has done very little belt tightening. In fact the belt has been well and truly let out and he has the look of a touchy feely uncle cornering you in the kitchen at Christmas.
Diane Abbott’s honestly makes it look like the top half of a full frontal nude shoot. If there was one thing I never wanted to write on my website was “Diane Abbott full frontal nude shoot”. It looks like a bad caricature drawn on the beach by a heroin addicted sailor.
My personal favourite though is the twenty two grand (and a fifteen grand frame) picture of John Bercow. A portrait of somebody who’s sole responsibility seems to be stopping his wife from banging a Gypsy bare knuckle boxer (Sally Bercow is his wife if you didn’t know, Google her that joke makes sense) cost more than most nurses earn in a year.
But by far and away the crowning glory of this daisy chain of arty wanking is the £11,750 spent on a bronze sculpture of Margret Thatcher. They should have done the thing out of coal that would have been cheaper.
Having been single for as long as I can remember (the 1950s?) and getting older by the second, it’s time I got my “strut” on and found someone willing to accept my genetic material. After a few false starts I realised I shouldn’t use the previous sentence as a pick up line.
I spent the best part of a week emailing, tweeting and “facestalking” a number of high profile celebrities but my efforts came to naught and several even threatened legal action. In the case of Keria Knightly the fifth such event, one more and I get a free coffee at the courts Starbucks!
So after multiple painful rejections by my peers I decided the best option would be to get some practise in on some of you “normal’s”. I thought it would be easy, I was horrifically wrong. Again.
Now if you’re like me and have a bit of a scattergun approach when it comes to members of the opposite sex you will have probably gotten some of the same rejections that I have. Here are my top five and what they actually mean.
They Say: I don’t want to get involved with anybody from work.
They mean: I wouldn’t want to let anyone who respects me as a professional see me hanging around with you. In fact the longer this conversation goes on the more my job prospects diminish.
They Say: I wouldn’t want to jeopardise our friendship.
They Mean: You’re great really you are. I love moaning about all the sexual escapades I get up to and how people just use me for sex. I need you as a shoulder to cry on and a safe place to run to. I wish you were gay so this never came up.
They Say: I don’t want a relationship
They Mean: You look like a warthog and your bank balance is lower than a Jamaican limbo pole. I would only consider seeing you again if you were my bone marrow match and I had leukaemia.
They Say: You’re just not my type.
They Mean: I fancy your brother.
They Say: Your really not my type.
They Mean: I’m your brother in drag.
So there you have it the mysteries of dating revealed! Despite these and countless other reasons I am still totally not bitter and not making voodoo dolls of all of the people who turned me down. I simply don’t have enough cloth.
The John Lewis Advert has long been lauded as an advertising triumph I hadn’t seen it. Until now. For those of you who haven’t witnessed it in all its glory I pity you, your Christmas has been rendered worthless. It’s a beautiful story of a bear and a hare at Christmas and the bear is sad because he always misses Christmas day because he’s hibernating.
In an act of supreme kindness the rabbit buys the bear a alarm clock for
Christmas so he’ll wake up and spend the day with him and all his woodland friends. Sure enough the plan is a success and much merriment is had.
It’s a beautiful story of Christmas friendship triumphing against adversity in the same vein as Die Hard and Germlins. It’s a fucking masterpiece.
I fear though it may be harbouring a dark secret once the cameras stop rolling.
You see the bear spends the year gathering and eating food to put on enough weight to survive the winter. Once winter starts he finds himself a nice cave and sleeps off the main course of a year’s worth of deer. He goes into a natural deep sleep that has been inbuilt into the genetic makeup of his body, but this deep sleep is disturbed.
The rabbit’s clock breaks this pattern that bears have been involved in for thousands of years and wakes him up to see Christmas day. Once awake the bear cannot go back into his deep sleep and so must see out the winter awake. Bears must eat and there’s only going to be a couple of days of leftovers before the bears going to have to find a source of food. Now bears aren’t veggies nor do they have the capabilities to order a pizza so what remains?
The rabbit and the other woodland creatures that he shared Christmas day with of course! In order to survive the bear must devour most of his friends, without pity and without restraint. The only alternative is to suppress his natural blood lust and, unable to murder the very things that showed him the meaning of Christmas, wander into the forest to slowly starve to death.
You’ve got to then think that maybe this was the rabbits plan all along?
Just a Christmas thought.
For those of you who didn’t know Christmas is coming and a lot of people hope it’s going to be white. In our experience if it’s not white then there’s something seriously wrong. Again.
Back and to the Left has come up with the “Festive Stress Test” for people to find out how well their coping with flashing lights, immaculate conceptions and being pelted with snowballs by all the bastard kids as you walk to work. Nothing say’s“Christmas is cancelled” as much as you rubbing a ten year olds face into the snow to teach him the rights and wrongs of throwing snowballs at your car.
Here’s the quiz.
1. Your getting ready for Christmas and the family are at your house. You feel:
A. Happy, relaxed and content to be surrounded by your loved ones
B. A little nervous as there’s still lots to do.
C. It starts off fine until the screaming starts. From trying not to let Sarah’s new black boyfriend hear Granddads comments that“Mandela was wrong” to phoning an ambulance for Uncle Mick who finally made good on that suicide bid you’re having an awful time. It gets better as next doors dog electrocutes itself trying to rape your electronic garden reindeer.
2. The kids moan that there are not enough Christmas decorations. You:
A. Agree and all pop down to “Winter Wonderland” and buy some
B. Tell them that the house already looks like Santa’s grotto and
suggest baking buns instead.
C. Throttle the oldest (he’s the ringleader) with tinsel whilst pelting decorations at the others. Eventually when they back down they’ll
realise they’ll have to make do with the barren tree decorated with multicoloured socks you stole from Primark.
3. Christmas shopping turns you into:
A. A joyous Christmas fairy whose smile (and credit card) light up many a stores day.
B. A slightly irritated version of your normal self but inwardly
knowing it’ll be worth it when you see their little faces on Christmas
C. A comet of unrelenting fury bouncing from shop to shop gathering
unsuitable gifts as you go. As for their faces fuck their faces seriously fuck
this entire holiday!
4. Your work Christmas party is:
A. A great way for your boss to show his appreciation at all the hard work you’ve all put in throughout the year.
B. A pub meal followed by a night of dancing to stupid Christmas
songs all while trying to catch the eye of Dave from accounting.
C. A living nightmare where you desperatly attempt to make some sort of human contact you fail and drink until you black out. You Wake up with your hair plastered to your face with a mixture of vomit and blood and realising you’ve gone and fucked the fax machine.
5. Your alcohol intake at this time of year is:
A. A little bit more than usual because it’s Christmas. LOL.
B. You overdo it but hey everyone does and you can always quit in January.
C. Fucking heroic.
6. A neighbour pops round while your wrapping presents. You feel:
A. Christmassy! And invite them in for a chat.
B. Not annoyed, not pleased just a little tired but the smile never comes down.
C. Confused. Who the fuck is this guy standing in your living room? What the fuck is he saying? Is he speaking Russian? Is that duct tape? Oh
7. Your parents want you to spend the day at your more successful
sibling’s house on Christmas Day. You:
A. Wholeheartedly agree because you haven’t seen Max in ages.
B. Agree but promise yourself you won’t rise to his baiting this year.
C. Agree to the idea only on the off chance his sexy young Swedish wife might just fall for you over a second helping of turkey. Don’t take any
food or drink round and aim to get as smashed as possible so you don’t have to look around and be constantly reminded of how much of an epic failure your shit pot of a life is.
How Did You Do?
Mostly A’s- A real breath of fresh air throughout the bedlam of the festive season with a constant smile and a song in your heart you’re a true Christmas fairy!
Mostly B’s- It’s a trying time this Christmas but you’re a trooper and will shine through for the sake of your loved ones never for a second allowing them to know your stresses. A real Christmas giver.
Mostly C’s- You spend your Christmas the same way Back and to the Left do. We’d pity you but were too busy stealing Christmas lights from the neighbours to care.
Merry Christmas fuckers.
I had a discussion with my Granddad (the only person who is able to get me to change my mind) the other day. He is a man who has had constant and repeated knockdowns, who has only ever looked out for other people and put everyone else’s needs in front of his own.
He lived his life the way he saw fit, raised two fine daughters who then went on and raised a questionable brood of their own. He is my hero.
Despite my multitude of personality deficiencies I have often tried to model my life on his. If I could become a eighth of the man that he is I would die knowing I had achieved something.
It seems to me sometimes that the only thing I have ever achieved is the growing of my all encompassing beard it’s the only thing I’ve ever really stuck at. I have some of my Granddad’s traits, including his insane sideburns, that, when I was staring at them while we shared a quiet pint, I realised seemed to go on forever.
I’ve made my way towards the end of the year treading a very fine line of self imposed madness and extreme depression. Out of it has come of the weirdest (I’m not saying best) creative moments of my life. My confidence in my work, in my own ability, seems shattered. I did a gig, got heckled and for the first time in my life had no idea what to say. It was weird.
But I am slowly rebuilding myself bit by bit layer by layer. Every time I feel like I’m ready to go another plane crashes into my West Tower.
I realise that I don’t have a lot of nice things I never have really. I don’t have a fancy TV a X-Box or even a decent sound system but what I do have and that a lot of people don’t is faith.
I realised that the point of humanity is not the accumulation of things as Christmas seems to have become, but people. I understand that the thing that me and my granddad have in common ahead of everything else is a faith in the relationships of people rather than the acquisition of things. I place more value on a shared conversation a moment of happiness between two people than I ever would on an I-Pad.
So with this in mind I ask for only one thing this Christmas (not peace for all men because seriously fuck that day dreamer bullshit) I ask for time. I ask for five minutes with the person who means more to me than anything else in the world, a sharing of the same space for five minutes would mean more to me than anything. It would cost nothing but enable me to perhaps find my soul again because, believe me, it’s sitting in a black fucking pit right the fuck now.
I know that it won’t happen.
I don’t know if anyone reads these things and if they do I hope you enjoy them and thanks for reading. My grammer is a joke itself sometimes. I promise the comedy will return with the next thing I’m putting up here. I’m going Christmas shopping next week and if I don’t have something to say about that orgy of consumerism I’ve probably died.
Peace fuckers. Al
Having just read a article in The Sun in which an A&E nurse writes a diary of her “typical working week” I find myself worried that the same thing could be happening on all our other wards in the not too distant future.
This is the grim situation that will soon be facing all our wards (if it’s not already) if something at the top level is not done. Several schools of thought abound about how we should solve these problems ranging from more frontline staff, less managers, less fucking think tanks, stopping “health tourism”, less drug wastage or catching whoever keeps stealing all the pens. These are all valid arguments that could help our great NHS in the long term however I’m not going to sit here and shout my mouth off about them. I may get myself in trouble if I start telling people how to do their job. Someone should, not me but somebody should.
One thing we can all do to help ease the burden on the staff “down in the trenches”(A&E) is this: IF YOUR KID HAS THE SNIFFLES DO NOT TAKE IT TO A&E!
I decided to put that in capitals because as far as I’m aware that approach hasn’t been attempted in all the efforts to tell people this. If my mum had taken me along to hospital every time I had a slight injury or illness I would have clocked up enough hours in the place to become a GP.
I got taken to hospital once when I was younger and that was when I had a major chemical burn eating through my skin. No employee at a NHS institute can begrudge something like that or a broken bone.
But having been told that a nurse once treated a thirteen year old boy for
“grazed knees” I cannot believe the molly-cuddling-no risk taking-panic at every bruise approach to parenting we all seem to have adopted.
When did a grazed knee become a cause for concern? The referee didn’t even stop the game if you “grazed” your knee. My mates barely stopped biking towards your head if you fell off your bike. Kids heal quickly their all like mini Wolverines that’s what their bodies are
designed to do. Remember as well most kids get their injuries by climbing over things that they shouldn’t be. What’s the best way to teach someone a lesson about what they shouldn’t be doing? Not taking them to a busy A&E department where they will be fussed over by nurses and given a cool bandage to show to their mates. No it’s by taking that grazed knee and sloshing some iodine over the fucker and telling them it won’t hurt a bit
Also please tell me what grown man has to attend hospital for a bust lip? You only get a bust lip in three ways:
1. You fell over, ergo it’s your fault, fuck off home.
2. You got punched, you probably had it coming, fuck off home.
3. You had your lip bit in a sex game, it’s your fault, why aren’t you still at home?
So please next time your thinking about going to A&E for a mild case of the
‘flu don’t. Obviously if some crazed Moroccan has aimed some wild swings at your cock with a meat cleaver and it’s taken a beating, get your ass to hospital.
Back and to the Left, as a sketch group, is going to return! Like a avenging seagull swooping down at a confused pensioners chips we are preparing to take the world by storm again!
Since the departure of Henry (RIP) BATTL has been swimming in largely lazy circles stewing in it’s own filth waiting for something spectacular to happen. Apart from getting an all clear from a clap test nothing has....until now.
Thanks to HM Prisons new “community work schemes” BATTL comedy now has a new group of talented and ambitious individuals working within it! Some of them are even off their tags others sadly aren’t and yes one isn’t allowed near children but that’s not the point.
A new group of hungry writers, actors, comedians and petty criminals ready to take BATTL comedy to a new level. A level previously not thought attainable by this performer: Mediocrity.
They’ll laugh, they’ll cry, some will even beg me to end their lives as once again we are hounded from another stage by baying single mothers who don’t like the word“cunt”. We will perceiver, we will fight for every laugh, drag every chuckle kicking and screaming out of our audience members. Our task will not be easy, no matter how talented the newcomers are, the enormous drag factor of my attitude problem could easily pull us into the mire of failure.
But we will prevail. We will once again march towards the hallowed turf of the Edinburgh fringe and this time.....I’m not going to drink any De-Icer.
Let battle commence.
Pornography is great. For men and women. It allows you to relax into a fantasy and release your frustration without having to pay an inflated price to hire a disinterested looking hooker. However there is a darker side to porn these days (and no I’m not talking about animal or kiddie stuff here, it’s a comedy website remember) porn addiction! Not as glamorous as a sex one or as expensive as a alcohol one but a dark, dark addiction to watching other people fornicate.
If anyone was going to tackle such a sensitive issue it was of course going to have to be those bastions of decency: The Sun newspaper and Channel Four. The Sun newspaper concentrates on a 19 year old who has a porn addiction, he is called Calum Wrist, the most aptly named addict since Marcus Heroin. For the purposes of this “blog” he will be referred to as Mr. Wrist.
Mr. Wrist admits, in the national paper, that he masturbates 15-16 times a day. He once managed to hit 28 orgasms in a 24 hour period, but he says that was pushing it, or pulling it he can’t remember.
He says that sex with real girls is a let-down. This is probably because he’s
wanked that much his dick no longer touches the sides of a vagina.
He say’s that to combat his addiction he has thrown away smart phones and laptops. Which is probably because he always has his hands full.
Mr. Wrist admits that he needs help, although it seems to me he’s got his technique down to a T.
He has being offered some help in dealing with his addiction with group therapy sessions. The name alone is probably enough to send Mr. Wrist into a wanking frenzy.
Dr. Hall, the UKs leading sex and pornography addiction psychotherapist (seriously that’s her name I am not falsely claiming a doctorate, again) says that online porn is as addictive as drugs but it’s obviously not as dangerous. Unless you’re caught doing it outside your next door neighbours bathroom window.