Would you spend an entire week slipping into a wet and slimy crevice just to see what was at the other end?  You may be surprised to hear that groups of idiots do this every year, mostly in the dark!  Why do they undertake this activity, well in short, they’re just very, very sick and suffering from a new disorder called ‘pot-holitus’ from the Latin, ‘stark-starium as a boxus frogus’.

The symptoms are easily spotted; the sufferer simply can’t pass a hole without sticking his or her bonce through it, then entering it to see where it leads.  Just the safety aspects of this ridiculous pastime, and the total disregard for their own safety have been frowned upon by the emergency services, to the point where psychiatrists have stepped in to save these fools from themselves.  And now you can be sectioned if you’re seen attempting to enter the earth’s crust.   

No, no, don’t pick a hobby that’s above terra firma, let’s go underground where no-one can reach us if we break a leg, despite calling out, at great expense, an air ambulance, four paramedics, the police and the bloody fire brigade!                

I don’t care if the risk to caver is quite low, the fact is, someone at some point is going to have an accident and it’ll be the tax payer that cops the tab for it.  “Where shall we go this year dwarling, somewhere warm and relaxing?”  “Well actually I was thinking of a place where we’d be at risk of a fall,  with a definite chance of flooding and hopefully a good dose of hypothermia.”  “Ooh super!”

If farting about in small spaces in near darkness with no idea where you’re going isn’t bad enough, some fools go cave diving.  I mean – if it wasn’t dangerous enough, let’s put an aqualung on so we can really up the chances of getting wedged between two rock faces.  Bloody idiots; every last one of them!   

Okay, I’ll throw this one at you.  You’ve been under ground for a good four hours, you’re covered mud and soaking wet.  The night before you visited ‘The Old Slapper’s Inn’, downed 12 pints and then went for a curry.  Where’s the bog?  “I’m busting for a slash,” says the novice to the team leader he’s tied too.  “That’s okay,” says the cheery twit in front, “You can use my urine bottle.”

The novice speaks again.  “Ooh, hang on, I think that vindaloo’s making a break for freedom.”  “Can’t you hold on,” replies the twit?  “Bit late for that, I’m sitting on a turtle head now!”  So, with all the dignity he can muster, the lead twit says, “Here, you can use my rucksack!”  Ewww, ewwww and thrice ewwwwwwwww.   

No, no, no, no, no.  These people should definitely be shot at birth…

Which ever way you look at it, if you’re born or live in England you’re being taxed to death, and you have to pay a tax on that too.  And, as usual, it’s the little people who have no say in how much our taxes go up by, that’s all taken care of by a bunch of faceless sadistic ‘suits’ somewhere in the Government.

I’ve been on the planet for 54 years now, and not once have I seen a price reduction in a tax.  They may have been stopped at some point, but overall they’ve been superseded by a duty under a different name. 

Now I say ‘duty’ for a very good reason, because this means you are obliged to hand over part of your life savings for a service or product you can’t do without.  Hence the phrase, ‘They’ve got us by the bollocks.’  This isn’t a term you’ll hear used in Westminster but it means the same as, ‘There’s going to be a rail fare increase.’  Here’s a list of the taxes you might donate to in your lifetime and their total yearly income.  Better get yourself a stiff drink; you’re going to need it:

Aggregates levy – Climate change levy – Landfill tax – Betting and gaming duties – Petroleum revenue – Air passenger duty – Spirits duty – Insurance premium tax – Customs duties and levies – Wine duties – Inheritance tax – Beer and cider tax – Capital gains tax – Vehicle excise duties – Tobacco duties – Stamp duties – Business rates – Council tax – Fuel duties – Corporation tax – Value added tax – National insurance – Income tax and other taxes and royalties.  And the sum total is, 641.1 billion pounds, and that was for the year 2007/8!

The keen-eyed amongst you will have spotted that to offset the depressing word ‘tax’, other words have been employed, such as levy, revenue and royalties.  You may have also noticed that petrol seems to have been taxed twice – once with a duty and then again with a revenue.  What the hell’s that all about?

Now, it’s Friday and it’s five-to-five.  No, it’s not time for ‘Cracker Jack’, that well known English kids TV programme from the 60’s, it’s knocking off time in the office.  Thousands of work-weary people are heading for the station to get their train home.  It’s been 90 degrees all day and each commuter is walking around in a trance.  They board their carriage hoping to get a seat, but they don’t. 

The train pulls off and everybody standing up or pressed against a window is wondering why they pay the same fare for hanging off a strap, and have to suffer with someone else’s armpit or gusset in their face all the way home.   They disembark, only to see the fares have been increased by another 11% and then they burn down the station.  It’s coming, mark my words.

Anyone who wishes to sign up to receive copies of FORWARD, the bipolar newsletter for which I am the news editor can do so by sending a blank email to ashby300@hotmail.com  Just type the word ‘subscribe‘ in the subject box and that’s it.  We cover bipolar and other mental health stories from around the globe.  We also have a humour section and it’s a free publication.

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I know what you’re going to say, we had some great holidays in a caravan, the  only difference is we drove to a site, rather than tow a mini-me version of our house down the motorway.  And right there is where all of the problems begin.

Think about it, you were probably quite young when you last took a holiday in a static home, now-a-days people are buying there own and travelling around blocking up the highways and byways at Easter and every bank holiday in the calendar.  It’s not a very green way to move about the country is it?  Not only do the drivers of these wheeled deaths boxes only go at 50 mph, so do the cars who are stuck behind them.  In plan terms they’re wasting valuable fossil fuel.

When they reach the field where you can’t kick a ball, let your dog off the lead and have to be in bed by 10:30pm, you realise that your pitch is just 15 metres from a high speed rail link.  So even if you wanted a kip you can’t, because every 17 minutes a train whips past at a swift 125 mph all through the night.

In the morning, what’s the first thing you want to do?  That’s right, drift down the hallway and visit the bathroom.  Not so in the small house on wheels no.  First you have to don most of your clothes then walk on damp grass in your slippers through a blizzard for at least 100 metres, before finding a wooden hut where there’s a queue.  And don’t bother looking for the soft tissue roll; it’s been replaced by grade four sandpaper.  Thank but no thanks!

Now, you’ve clearly paid for your gas and electric at home, and while some of your household items are still buzzing and whirring while you’re away, you have to pay for extra utilities just so you can eat and keep warm.  What a bloody stupid way to carry on.  Why not just cut the roof of the caravan off and really have a pop at Mother Nature to add to the global warming effect!

What you have to ask yourself is; what do you do once you’ve pitched your caravan on a site?  Well you could go for a walk.  That’s it I’m afraid!  The rest of the time is spent cooking on an item that can only cope with two rashers of bacon at a time.  You may find some excitement when you go to fill up the water carrier from the fresh water tap, which is usually no more than half a mile away, but I doubt it. 

If it’s cold you can sit inside your wardrobe on wheels and drink tea, and if not you can sit outside doing much the same thing – riveting!  Should you be short of food you can pop along to the licensed bandit who owns the site shop and get ripped off a treat on a daily basis.  I’m sorry to say you’d have more fun on a psychiatric ward suffering from the side-effects of the wrong medication…

They are, without doubt, the biggest bunch of money grabbing bastards since the UK’s tax systems were invent.  They ply their trade openly across this green and pleasant land and their main weapon of drumming up trade is to prey on the human fear of loss.  Naturally, I’m talking about this country’s car insurers….

They are raking in thousands of pounds a day and are quite happy to pay out on a claim, as long as you don’t mind if your premium goes up when you do!  And now they’re persecuting the unemployed driver.  My only question is; how the hell are they getting away with it?  Here’s an explanation from an arse inside the British Insurances Brokers’ Association.  

‘Unemployed people are viewed as less likely to maintain their vehicles and as higher credit risks.’  He went on to say, ‘Insurers might also have concerns over what their vehicles would be used for and whether they would be used more often.’  [You mean people are actually driving their cars - on the roads - OMG!!!]

And cop this from the AA.  ‘The unemployed are more likely to be distracted because of their circumstances, likely to be driving along unfamiliar roads and   attempting to find specific addresses in search of job interviews.’  Priceless!  Well I think someone should exert more pressure on the person who’s been cast aside from their employer, but how?  Ooh, I know, let’s hike up their premium by 40%.  This happed to one driver and it’s an absolutely despicable practice.

Another caring insurance Nazi said, ‘The long-term unemployed were more likely to be claimants than those just out of work, and their financial circumstances were seen as more likely to lead them to make fraudulent claims.’  Oh I see, so what they’re doing is ripping off the soft targets first, rather than shelling money to catch the few.  It makes you wonder what the   insurers next move will be, house insurance possibly.   Can you imaging the scene?  I’ll help you out.  

‘Do you leave your house outside madam?’  ‘Err, yes.’  ‘Ooh that’s going to be expensive, is it valuable?’ ‘Well yes.’  ‘Does it have windows and doors?’  ‘Ummm, no!’  ‘Is it a tent?’  ‘Is a tent cheap to insure?’  ‘Yes.’  ‘Well yes, it’s a tent then.’  ‘Okay, let me just look at the risks, will you leave your tent outside and does it have window and door flaps?’  And so it goes on…  I wouldn’t mind if insurers based the risks on actual human claims.  Instead they use a method called actuarial science, which uses Mathematics and statistics for calculations.

My answer – since we don’t have a crash everyday, why should we pay for insurance every day?  Think of it like the lottery…

So, you’ve saved up for two years and you’re on a ship that’s bigger than the Titanic and, so far, you’re having the holiday of a lifetime until… 

Come 9:30pm though there’s a bit of a thud and by 9:45pm the bar you were drinking at is now leaning at the jaunty angle of 22 degrees and you can’t stand up straight even if you were sober.  What do you do?  You do what every self respecting sea traveller would do; you panic in your native tongue!  And right there is the heart of the problem when it comes to abandoning a floating hotel.

Of course, it doesn’t helps if you have a captain who’s the first one in a lifeboat but asides from that, you’ve got a multinational crew who are all telling you not to panic, despite the fact the ship has tipped over to one side.  Could this sinking been avoided?  Well, after the nautical nits came to me for advice, I’m glad to say it could have, so here’s my 4-point plan for the future of sea safety.

The first issue to address is the height of the ship.  Why keep building them upwards, why not spread the load and put the different levels side by side?  Hey, what’s wrong with a square ship, it’ll be more bloody stable than a namby pamby single hulled effort thank you very much.

Next on this list – sea cones!  Well, we have them on our roads!  Bloody great orange cones 50 feet high, that’ll keep the ships well away from any under water boulders.  And let’s not forget about adding some sea traffic lights?  It works perfectly well on our roads.  But I draw the line at round-abouts, that’s just plain stupid.  However, I am looking into the possibilities of a wet shoulder.

Now, it’s come to my attention the captain of the Costa Concordia has been arrested, notably after the messages between him and the coastguard were recorded.  Yeah well, you dropped a bollock there son!  “I hit a rock that shouldn’t have been there,” he said.  What a twat.  So, we can safely say that underwater charts are a waste of time and dangerous.  My solution, raise up all of the rocks under the water line so everyone knows where they are!

When questioned, Capt Francesco Schettino then added to his statement, “I was thrown in the water when the ship tipped over.”  Yeah, what straight into a lifeboat – I DON’T THINK SO!  It seems as if the Italian language has changed over the years, because, “Get back on board,” now translates as,

“E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e  f-o-r  t-h-e-m-s-e-l-v-e-s,” or “R-u-n-a-w-a-y.” in certain quarters. 

Keep your eyes peeled for a return to this story, I can’t wait for the trial…

If you live outside the UK you should count yourself lucky.  Yes, we have running water and a food mountain that should be shipped to poorer countries on a regular basis, but on the whole it’s us who are saddled with The Royal Family!  

I wouldn’t mind if they’d been voted in, but they weren’t, they just stopped off during a European tour from Germany and never went home.  And let’s not forget, marrying your first cousin was seen as a normal practice in Victoria’s day, so it’s no wonder they all look alike.       

The misapprehension that most fall under is everyone in England is a Royalist, but I can safely say this is not the case.  The problems arise when one or a clutch of them decide to have a day out, take a holiday or worse still – get married.   

The entire British media reports nothing else for weeks, and it’s the cap-doffing residence of Blighty who suffer the most.  The news breaks and the initial report lasts for no more than 90 seconds, but being British we know what’s coming next and it’s enough to push the sane towards suicide.

The most recent Royal story to blanket the papers and the airwaves was Prince Philip’s admittance to hospital with a blocked artery.  You should’ve heard the old waffle we had to listen to.  Every syllable of the report was regurgitated over and over again for a five day period, by a bunch of salivating Royal correspondents all hoping for an MBE. 

I mean, how long can you pad out a visit to hospital for with the scantest of information?  If it was your Gran or Nora Splinge from the Oil Slick Housing Estate no-one would give a toss.

The BBC studios were plunged into a panic.  “What happens if he snuffs it?”  “Have we got any black ties in the building?”  Oh yes, pick the wrong colour neckwear when a Royal dies and you’ll get a bollocking from head office.  Just ask the BBC newsreader Peter Sissons.  He had the audacity to wear a burgundy tie when the Queen Mother shuffled off and was berated for his choice.

If you’re a decent human being, no one wants to see anyone die, but let’s face it Phil is 90.  And to-date he’s eaten the best food and drunk the finest wines in the world, as well as having access to the best medical care. 

He had chest pains and was immediately put in a helicopter and flown to an NHS hospital where they specialize in cardiothoracic surgery.  Did he eat the hospital food, was he on a mixed ward – I doubt it.  How would your Gran fare in the same situation?  She’d be dead mate. 

Still, some good did come from this Royal photo opportunity; less pheasants were blasted to death this year in the boxing shoot.  The hospital wouldn’t discharge him.  Give a 90 year old a 12 bore?  I wouldn’t give him a driving license!

Well, with the niceties out of the way here are your company’s new regulations for the year ahead.  As we are now entering a triple-dip recession our ‘open door’ policy will be locked as of your return to work.  This procedure has been implemented to reduce the amount of death threats and violence directed at the management once you have read this notice.  

 Sick days & Surgery: We will no longer accept a doctor’s sick note as proof of illness.  If you’re able to reach a surgery, you can make it into work, and operations are now banned.  As long as you work here, you’ll need all of your organs and shouldn’t consider having any removed.  We hired you in tact and to have something removed constitutes a breech of your contract.

Holidays: Each employee will receive a 104 days paid leave.  They are to be called Saturday and Sunday.  Death is no excuse for missing work.  There’s nothing you can do for a dead friend or relative, and every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements.

Bereavement leave: In rare cases where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be arranged for the late afternoon.  We will be glad to let you to work through your lunch-hour and subsequently leave one hour early, providing your share of the work is complete.

Absent for your own death: This will be accepted as an excuse, on the understanding that we receive at least two weeks notice.  Remember, it’s your duty to train your replacement.

Toilet use: Too much time is spent in the toilets.  We now require you to go in alphabetical order.  All workers whose names begin with ‘A’ will be allowed to visit the toilet from 8:00 to 8:20.  Should you miss your allotted time, you should wait until the next day.  In extreme emergencies emplyees may swap their time with a co-worker.  Both employee’s supervisors must agree this exchange in writing.

In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute rule in each cubicle.  At the end of 3 minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper will retract, and the door will open.

Lunch & Dress code: Thin workers get an hour for lunch as they need to eat more in order to stay healthier.  Average size people get 30 minutes to maintain a normal figure.  Obese staff will get 5 minutes as that’s all the time needed to drink a Slimfast.  You should come to work dressed according to your earnings.  If we see you wearing new attire we will assume you don’t need a rise.

We’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for your loyalty to our company and hope you will take advantage of our new ‘sweat miles’ reward card.

Fondue or don’t (Part two)

I sat in a silent agony with a mouthful of well-chewed salad plants, making nodding gestures at the points were everyone else was able to open their mouths and laugh out loud.  I got an insight as to what an overfed hamster must feel like, and I can tell you now, life’s no fun when you’re just left with your nostrils to breathe through. 

I was left with no other option but to guffaw through my nose, as my throat had signed off for the night and hadn’t bother to book an iron lung.  It relieved some of the pressure, but it didn’t go half way to solving my problem and, in desperation, I resigned myself to prayer, hoping upon hope that Sally was near the end of her story, but she wasn’t.

While I fought with my body’s natural defence against choking to death, Sally began re-enacting the scene with the umbrella and added a running dialogue – and they say there’s a God!  At the precise moment of contact, the woman was about to announce her destination and said, “One to the Mount please.” 

Now, in the cold light of day that statement was about as un-humorous as you could get but, add the sharp end of a brolly to the equation and the sentence takes on a whole new life.  If she said it once Sally repeated the phrase half a dozen times or more and what the pensioner actually ended up saying in a high pitched voice was, “One to the MOOOOOOOOUNT please,” as she was speared from behind.  Well that was it for me; I couldn’t shift the vivid picture from my mind.

I’d had a good run and, considering I’d been breathing through my schnoze for the past five minutes, I thought I’d done quite well.  My lungs, on the other hand, simply couldn’t take another repeat of when and where brolly met jacksey, followed by a mass outbreak of infectious laughter from around the table. 

After a swift confab with my throat, my brain sent an urgent one-word message back which read, “Eject, eject, eject!”  There wasn’t a hint of coughing or gagging, or spluttering of any kind and the velocity of the mulch was purely fuelled and projected by a backlog of my laughter.  Up it came – and out it went, and it all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to put my hands in front of my mouth.

Once I’d begun to laugh my little face off, and unfortunately I found it hard to stop, I had a clear throat again and for the first time in 10 minutes was able to bend my neck forward.  On achieving this position I sprayed my trousers in a fine mix of well chewed flora, but not before I managed to spray a good number of guests, the table cloth and the table’s contents in an arc of 45 degrees. 

I hit the wall behind the guests too, leaving a green silhouette of four people’s heads.  I’d coated the faces, clothing and drinks, and the meals of complete strangers, and they were picking greenery out of their hair and clothes for the rest of the evening.  Thankfully they all thought my eruption was hilarious but the night wasn’t over yet, and I still had an hour or so to go before I could take my final bow.

During a lull in the laughter at my expense the kettle was put on and, a short time later, the best crockery arrived displayed on a hostess trolley.  It was mum’s finest high grade, eggshell porcelain – very posh.  I was just thankful I didn’t spray that!

Now, I don’t know what was used to heat the water in my cup but there was no way it could have come from a bog standard kettle.  Sally handed out the drinks and then walked over to where I sat on the sofa to give me mine.  I assumed she was going to put my tea on the table that separated us.  First rule in life – never assume anything! 

I’m not sure whether it was the fact that she had two options of where to place my drink that caused her a directional problem, but as I held out my hand she leant forward and then hesitated, and then for some inexplicable reason Sally bypassed the table and my outstretched hand and dropped the lot in my lap.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a string of worried, “Oh’s,” and for a brief moment I remained silent.  Obviously this state was to change when the cataclysmically heated liquid reached my wedding tackle!  In no time at all it had soaked its way through my jeans and boxer shorts, and came to rest on some very sensitive skin.  Now you’d have thought that, by the time the scalding water had reached the old family jewels, there might just have been a drop in temperature?  No – was the short answer to that!  

I began panting like a bloodhound that had just come last in a marathon, only through gritted teeth.  My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but the salad spraying incident did, perhaps this was payback time?  I was trying hard not to swear as Sally’s mum was present but I came very close to giving into temptation I can tell you.   I stood up.  Stupid, stupid, move!  Gravity took over, and I now had rivulets of a boiling infusion heading towards my knees!

Like I needed reminding, my brain flashed up a signal to the effect that 40 percent of my lower half was now on fire.  Soon after my mouth joined in the debate and confirmed the diagnosis.  “Ferrrrrrrrrrr Chriiiist ssssake that hurts,” I winced.  Sally panicked, then turned a bright scarlet and apologised more than once and then asked if there was anything I needed.  Well a bucket of cold water wouldn’t have gone amiss. 

She ran towards the kitchen saying she going to get her nurse’s kit.  I shouted after her, “Don’t bother love the dress will never fit me.”  She stopped in the doorway and collapsed into a heap of laughter and so did the rest of crowd.  Hell of a night!

Well, that’s it for this year, I’m creamed-crackered and need a rest.  I’ve finshed my second book, while writing with the online bipolar magazine ‘Forward’, which is now back in circulation after a break. 

We’ve been working on a new book called ‘A Bipolar Book’ and it covers the creative people through the years who’ve had and still have  bipolar disorders.  Artists such as, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, Frank Bruno and many more.  A Bipolar Book will be released in the New Year.

Forward now has 17,000 readers, worldwide, and if you would like to recieve our free mid-week and weekend editions covering international bipolar news and our humour pages, please send a blank email to  ashby300@hotmail.com  and type ‘subscribe’ in the subject box.

Thank you one and all for dropping by my site, I hope I’ve caused a little  wave of laughter over the last 12 months and you’ll stop by in the New Year. 

Take care and have a cool Yule