£1,000, 000 = 1 Blue whale   £500,000 = 1 Polar bear   £250,000 = 1 Tiger   £100,000 = 1 Panda  

£50,000 = 1 Elephant   £10,000 = 1 Rhino   £1,000 = 1 Sea otter   £500 = 1 Ostrich   £100 = 1 Llama 

So, with these figures in mind, a Ferrari will now set you back, one giraffe and an elephant, and if you have it delivered, you can add a couple of sea otters on top of the list price.  If you’re looking to purchase a home in say, Holland Park that will put a hole in your account to the tune of six blue whales, one tiger, and a panda.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, what about forgeries?  Well, here at Mental Central we like to keep ahead of such issues, and we are working on a new version of the bar code system in tandem with the zoo police fraud squad.  We’ve undertaken a number of experiments in the field, but it was so bloody cold we came back inside.  Anyway, so far the zebra seems to be the best bet.  You see, although from a distance, a herd of zebras all look the same, even to a charging lioness, when you get up close their markings are all slightly different.  So the plan is to produce a set of high definition prints from a number of zebra skins and tattoo the results on the top left hand corner of your new currency.              

What about the interest in my account?  Good question.  Well again, here at Mental Central, I’m glad to say that we’ve come up with a peach of a plan.  It took seconds of exhaustive research, but last Tuesday in the ‘Slut and Gusset’, our scientists came up with the answer - maggots!  Working on the principal that four maggots equals a gnat, when they hatch, wallop, there’s your interest!  All you have to do, is catch ‘em. 

Where will my bank be? (plebs only)  Your bank or building society will still be in the same place; the only difference you will notice is that they will have all been converted into pet shops.  Any orignal pet shops will be closed and used as staff training centres.  If you’re on holiday in the UK, you will be able to withdraw or make a deposit at one of our many farms.  Government grants will also be  available for those customers wanting to build  hutches and pens, should they wish to keep a bit of spare cash at home.  Bank vaults and safes, of course, will have to be much, much bigger than they used to be.   There is some bad news I’m afraid, a new earwig and gnat tax will be introduced in May 2010.  The reason for this is that most houses and gardens will be full of the little blighters, and we simply can’t afford to have all that free money roaming about.  The good news is, that you will be able to reclaim the shortfall when your pension matures, that’s assuming you can prove they came from your garden and not a neighbours.    

Where will my bank be if I’m loaded?  The first private estate to collaborate with Mental Central and the banks will be Longleat.  I’ve had a series of meetings with Lord Bath, and he agrees with me, this new monetary scheme will boost employment, add a substantial amount of financial growth to the country, (both in terms of import and export deals) and, bloody and, you’ll never need to buy another bag of compost ever again.  Other safari parks are set to follow suit, and soon the stinking rich will be able to use any race course for their banking needs.  Well, that’s it for now, if you have any questions regarding the new currency, or if you have any suggestions on how we can make the change over less confusing than the naughty (spit-spit spitty) euro, don’t hesitate to contact me.  Now I must dash, I’ve been asked to open a new Abbey Gnational  branch in Hornsey High Road, drive-bys permitting… But before I go, I’ll leave you with a short poem that personifies the caring, sharing nation that we are.

It’s a funny old world we live in,

and it’s full of monetary shame.

It’s the rich what gets the credit,

and the poor what gets the blame.   (Keats)

The twat board declaring Jonathan Raymond of 15 Edgeware Road, Stoke, a twat - earlier today in the town hall, Stoke.

Who else could help if they wanted to? Well, I believe the lottery bods could.  Overall, the people who play the lottery can’t afford to, and yet  they spend millions over the year in the hope of scooping the ‘big’ one.  I mean, how much lottery money is sitting in a Swiss bank account right now?  In layman’s terms, frigging millions mate!  I understand that some of this has to used to pay the winners and help charity organisations, but,  bloody but, what about the unclaimed cashy-wonga?  The interest alone could be used to help the poorest people in the UK, the ones who can’t pay their rent or buy food because they’re spending way to much on lottery tickets in the first place!  “It could be you.”  Yeah right!  You’ve got more chance of being stabbed by the Pope!

Perhaps the Queen could flog off a couple of castles.  After all, she can’t live in more than one at a time can she!  If a ‘Twat tax’ was introduced I believe that this would rake in millions over the course of a year.  Anyone who is deemed to be a twat, by the Twat Board, will automatically lose 7.5% of their monthly income.  The current contenders are: all of the Big Brother contestants, and everyone who the told the early entrants of X Factor they had a chance of winning.  And lastly, and I realise this is a radical move, how about the tossers who gambled away the money in the stock exchange, after a series of’ bad guessing days?  Extreme twats, such as this, should be forced to hand over their last bonus and fired, making sure that they never get another job in the money market again.  Harsh, but fair, I feel.

New currency for the plebs. It’s obvious to me that a new currency has to be invented, and I’m glad to say that I have come up with an absolute winner.  We survived for decades using pounds, shillings and pence (£sd), and then went metric.  My idea is no more radical than what’s gone before.  My new monetary system  involves using  woodland animals, pets and insects, instead of paper money and  coins.  In the long run this plan will save trees, halt the mining for metals, and my plans for the new ’super rich’ currency will go some way to saving some of the planets  most endangered species in the future.  No, no, there’s no need to thank me, I’m just glad to help.  The plans are thus:

Step one: April 1st 2009.  The inhabitence of the towns in London should all meet outside their local civic centre.   There, they will be met by bank representatives, and asked to hand over every bit of cash they can find in their homes.  The total will be added to their accounts, and their accounts will be closed, leaving the customer with a chit showing their current  balance.  Step two: once this procedure has taken place the customers with the chits will first receive a course of Imodium, and then led to conference room 1, where they will be able to pick up their new currency.  Here’s a break down of the new denominations.  I’d just like to say that these took me minutes to devise and, as far as I can see, they are faultless!

£50 = 1 Badger   £20 = 1 Fox   £10 = 1 Whippet   £5 = 1 Rabbit   £1 = 1 Pigeon   50p = 1 tit

20p = 1 Toad   10p = 1 Frog   5p = 1 Newt   2p = 1 Earwig   1p = 1 Gnat

A monkey will still be worth £500 of course, and a pony will remain the same at £25.  So let’s see how this breaks down in todays prices using some basic essentials - fags and beer.   (All prices correct from date of letter 27/10/08)  A packet of Lambert & Butler lights in my corner shop cost £5.20.  In the new currency this would set me back one rabbit and a toad, or five pigeons and two frogs.  If you try to pay with 520 gnats, you’ll do nothing but hold up the queue.  Hand over a fox and your change will be; one whippet, four pigeons and four toads.  You will need to buy a bigger wallet, and some larger trousers to hold any loose change but, apart from that, I can’t see a problem, accept perhaps when it comes to using an ATM!  Better make a note of that.

Moving on, a pint of Guinness, on average, costs £3.20.  This equates to: three pigeons and one frog, or six tits and four newts.  Hand over a rabbit and your change could be, two tits and four toads or variables thereof.  And thanks to The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds stepping in as a sponsor for Harvester pubs, you will be able to collect pigeon and tit miles, or air miles as they used to be called.  Okay, that’s enough information for now, but in the final part of, Letters from home, you will discover how much a Ferrari will set you back, and what a house might cost you if you choose to move to Holland Park.

Right, I’m off.  I’ve arranged a po-go championship for the patience at a local prolapse clinic…

Dear ex pats.  You may have heard that dear old Blighty is a tad short in the old ‘wedge’ department.  Well my British chums, this does seem to be the case, but who’s to blame?  Well that’s still under discussion over here.  Mr Brown is blaming the yanks.  The yanks are blaming the oiks in the sub-prime market, who couldn’t pony up the dough for their mortgages, when the price of gas and food went through the roof.  Now, call me old fashioned, but why did the prices go up in the first place, moreover, where did the problem really begin?  Pull up a petunia and I’ll give my version of the events.  Please set your visual receptors to radical.

Bush and Blair decided to look for weapons of mass destruction (WMD), in a land far, far away that just happened to have an inordinate amount of crude oil.  Did they find any WMD?  No, in brief, not even the bloke in local tourist information kiosk could help them.  Did they pop over to Iraq to grab some free crude?  Well, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.  Did Bush and Blair upset any of the other members of OPEC?  Oooh you bet your bippy they did!  Wallop!  Up went the price of sweet crude.  It was priced at $80 a barrel at the time, then, surprise surprise, six months later a barrel of ‘go-juice’ topped out at $153.  The knock-on effect, of course, was that the cost of all things transported went up too, three in some cases.   And it wasn’t long before the inflated prices were past on to the masses.

The timing was perfect for the  stock market to step in and secure the latest recession.  The ‘buy, sell, dollar, Mark’ brigade, in my humble opinion, they should be hung, drawn and quartered and then hung again.  In all intents and purposes it’s a ‘money for old rope’ job.  I wouldn’t mind so much, but the money isn’t theirs, and come to think of it, neither is the rope!  Let’s take the futures market for example, what a plum career that is.  Shit, I could do that job lying in bed!  If I’d have known, when I left school that you could apply for a job guessing for a living, I would’ve taken it!  I looked on a job search site last week in fact, but I didn’t see a single advert saying, WANTED - ONE OMNIPOTENT. 

While the banks are in a state of panic, the reliable British Post Office has reintroduced four old accounts that were used by millions of UK residence during the 40’s and 50’s.  The Under the floorboard account, the Mattress account, and the Shoebox account.  If you’re all ready using the popular, Shoebox & Mattress combined account, you’ll reap the benefits of a 3% bonus at Christmas, which will then be taxed at 4% in the New Year.

So, who’s going to bail out the people who have had their pensions reduced, their income slashed, and now can’t afford to pay their mortgages because they’re unemployed?  That’s right, you and me, the ‘little’ people, the ones who can least afford it, and haven’t got a bloody clue how we got in this state in the first place!  In banking terms this is called, the fungi effect.  The clients are kept in the dark, for months at time, and crapped on twice a day.  As plebs our job is to pull together so we can save the careers of the higher echelons of our great city.  Two bank mangers have already handed in their resignations, but don’t fret, they won’t have to go through the depressing act of signing on or losing the their homes and cars, because they were due to retire in four days anyway. 

So how can we help the poor rich?  Well for a start you can begin by having a good root around at the back of  our sofas and armchairs, slash open the material at the back if you have to.  Empty your child’s piggy bank, and send the contents, however small, straight to a stock broker.  You may have one living in your street.  If so, just tip what you’ve found through their letterbox.  Next, rally your friends, and see if anyone is willing to retire at the age of 106.  The extra tax will come in handy.  You could write to the BBC and suggest that Blue Peter starts an appeal, and if you could cancel Christmas that will be a great help too.  The cash you’ve saved can be posted directly to the stock exchange.   And finally, petition your local MP, and ask for a fresh air tax can be introduced.  Once a FAT has been implemented all UK nationals except: Royalty, people who think they’re Royalty, tennis club members (much the same thing), Lords and MP’s and all of their relatives, and of course,  the stock brokers, will be fitted with an oxygen cylinder and pay-as-you- go meter, and if you can’t keep up the payments, well I’m sure you get the picture.

Part two of, Letters from home will include: who else could help if they wanted to?  And, new currency for the plebs.   And in part three I’ll take a look at, new currency for the stinking rich.  What about the interest on my  account?   Where will my new bank be? (plebs only)  And, where will my bank be if I’m loaded?

A disgruntled Bertie Basset attempts to pacify a Kraft Cheese and Cadbury Flake exchanging fisticuffs whilst Her Majesty the Queen looks on in disgust earlier today, near an abandoned Woolworths, Stoke

I can tell you now I’m not ‘appy.  Why?  Well I’ll tell you - pull up a patio…   

Now then, it seems that because the Americans haven’t got much history and culture to speak of, they want to buy up some of ours and show it off to their friends.  I don’t mean the man on the street, I mean the big boys, the ones with an inordinate amount of cashy-wonga to throw about.  I mean sweet Jesus, we’ve got bloody trees in this country that are older than parts of the USA, for God’s sake!  So please Kraft, do the decent thing and take your takeover deal and poke it up yer poo-shoot, I don’t give a shit if it is signed and sealed.

I can tell you now, if the Kraft deal goes through, and they take over our iconic British company, I’ll never buy another product it makes again.  And I’m not the only one who feels this way.  So Kraft, beware, plans are afoot and a half, to bollocks up your Easter parade matey-boy - you have been warned!

Not only will the Krafty bastards be messing with British nostalgia, they will be trashing  part of my history and upbringing.  There is, was, a sense of ‘family’ in the Cadbury name, and an air of safety and trust that spread right across the generations.  When I was growing up it was boys up trees with cap and spud guns, and the girly-girls played with their dolls and read the latest Janet and John book, and a Mars bar would cost you a tanner, or sixpence in real money.  Dogging hadn’t been invented, and no one knew what a paedophile was.  There were adverts for Roundtrees fruit gums, with the signature tune, “Don’t forget the fruit gums mum,” as she disappeared out of the garden gate, and headed off the sweetshop that  just sold SWEETS!  Forget the fruit gums today, and the kid will crap  in your handbag!  Why?  E numbers!  Didn’t have ‘em in my day.  It’s all wrong, it’s all so wrong.  

I mean where can you get a decent packet of Spangles now-a-days, or a quarter of Rainbow sherbet?  And, bloody and now then, what about Army and Navy tablets, what’s happened to those?  And you try buying a packet of Glees!  Starburst!  Bloody STARBURST!  No, no, no, no, no, they’re Opal Fruits mate, and they ‘were’ made to make your mouth water.  I am incensed, I really am.  Snickers, your ‘aving a larff uncha!  Blue smarties, I don’t think so, I throw them away!  And who’s bright idea was it to put an antioxidant in my crisps?  It’s not as if they’re going to rust, is it! 

It’s true to say that what I know about business or how to run one, could be tattooed on bat’s butt however, what I do know is, people are more important than great big piles of paper with the Queen’s head stamped all over them.   Two of my pet hates are, bullshit and liars, and Kraft seem to excel in both of these qualities, and, and, they appear to have a trail of debt behind them, so how are they allowed to keep buying up other firms.  They bought up Terry’s chocolate, and shut it down, and then moved the business abroad.  From what I gather Kraft had promised Cadbury’s and their staff all sorts, I’ll tell you now, I bet  Berty Basset wouldn’t have swallowed it.  

On a serious note, my heart goes out to the workers at Bourneville, some of whom have been employed for over 30 years.  Can you imagine the scene at the dole office?  “What was your last job?  “Chocolate maker, man and boy.” “Have you thought about moving into IT consultancy?” “What’s that then?”  If Bourneville shuts down, that’s 5000 jobs gone over night.  But what some fail to take into consideration is that the total number affected by such action is far higher.  One redundant dad equals a whole family left suffering from the fall out.  I can’t believe the Cadbury family would want that, not after their history.  Take the figure of 5000 and times that by the amount of people it really affects, it could top 18,000 mark.  It’s nothing short of tragic, and for what, a great big pile of beer vouchers.  And don’t get me started on the mental health repercussions, the NHS will be swamped with new clients!  So come Cadbury’s, it’s time to get back on the board of directors, after all, you don’t want to be left with cream egg on your face do you…

Right I’m off, I’ve got a sudden urge to lick all of the windows at Stansted…    BB

Terrorists Earlier Today. - Stoke Highstreet

The unrest between Al Qaeda and Britain’s suicide bombers continues today, as a second round of talks begins, in an attempt to thrash out a deal on the shortage of virgins allotted to the bombers in the afterlife.

The workers came back to the table with a list of demands that the management say are impossible meet during a recession.  Shop steward, Ali Pali said yesterday, “All we want is a fair crack of the whip, and get what other suicide  bombers are receiving in terms of pay and working conditions.”  Osama Bin Laden was reported as saying, “We simply can’t afford to increase the worker’s pay at the moment, because quite simply they’re not hitting their monthly targets, look at the cock up at Glasgow airport for example.”  He went on to say, “It would be financial suicide for the company if we were to raise the wages of our employees during a credit crunch, as it is we are buying explosives that have past their sell-by date in a bid to reduce cost, and save jobs.   

The rift between the two sides seems to be widening, and complaints about the suicide bomber’s training came to light last Tuesday.  “Saying, three… two… one… BANG, in a loft in Huddersfield, simply isn’t good enough,” said one union leader, “The cramped conditions, and lack of decent detonators is only adding to the bomber’s demoralisation.”

The management have offered a job share scheme, continental shifts, a subsidised canteen, grenade vouchers, and a ‘take your child to work’ day.  The suicide bombers are asking for a 34 and half hour week, six weeks paid holiday, four weeks sick pay, at least 2 duvet days a month and, if they work on Sundays, they want the overtime rate to be increased to a time and a half.    However, the overriding grievance is still over the promise of pukka virgins, not a bunch of mingers.  The management say they have always maintained that insuring every virgin is a page three stunner is vitually impossible, as some of the parents fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.  Some of the suicide bombers in Wood Green say, it’s not been the same since we went metric.

A group of disgruntled bombers in Edmonton had this to say.  “It’s always the same when one of our members is promoted from the shop floor to the office.  They lose touch with the needs of the lower ranks, and it’s about time the top brass came back to the shop floor, to see for themselves what we have to deal with on a day to day basis.  Simple things like a space in the car park would go a long way to end the strike, as it is, the ones that we have been afford have got bloody great craters in them.”  And one of the bombers, who blew himself up recently, and wasn’t working that day, left a message on his website saying, “If it’s so bloody good in the afterlife, why hasn’t Osama Bin Laden blown himself up?  Makes you think doesn’t it…

Problems began on MichaelmasThursday, when Al Qaeda announced that the number of virgins a bomber would receive after his death will be cut by 25% in February 2010, from 72 to only 60.5  The rationale for the cut was the increase in recent years of the amount of suicide bombings, and a subsequent shortage of virgins in the afterlife.  Union members are said to be up in arms and down in legs, and a spokesperson from Y FRONTS R US said they have noticed a fall in sales already, they are worried  that the bottom will drop out of the market.    A market research Analyst said, “The figures have been blown up out of all proportion.”  

The suicide bombers’ union, the British Organisation of Occupational Martyrs (or B.O.O.M.) responded with a statement that this was unacceptable to its members and immediately balloted for strike action.  General secretary Abdullah Amir told the press, “Our members are literally working themselves to death in the cause of jihad.  We don’t ask much in return but to be treated like this by the management is the last straw, and if they try to take our tea breaks away there will be trouble.”

Mr Amir accepted the limited availability of virgins, but pointed out that cutbacks were expected to be borne entirely by the workforce and not by the management.  “Last Christmas Abu Hamza alone was allocated an annual bonus of 24,000 virgins,” complains Amir.  “And let’s face it, all of the pretty ones go to the guys at the top of the pyramid.  How can Al Qaeda afford that for members of management but not for the 72 people who do the real work?” 

Speaking from a kipper splitting factory in Bognor, Al Qaeda CEO Osama bin-Laden explained, “We sympathise with our workers, however, Al Qaeda is simply not in a position to meet their demands.  They are simply not accepting the realities of a modern-day jihad, in a competitive marketplace.  Thanks to western depravity, there is now a chronic shortage of virgins in the afterlife, and Haringey.  It’s a straight choice between reducing expenditure and laying people off.  I don’t like cutting wages, but I’d hate to have to inform 3,489 of my staff  that they won’t be able to blow themselves up, they would go to pieces.  He defended management bonuses by claiming these were necessary to attract good fanatical clerics.  “How am I supposed to attract the best people if I can’t compete with the private sector.”  Asked Mr Bin-Laden.

Talks broke down today after management’s last-ditch proposal of a virgin-sharing scheme was rejected outright after a failure to agree on orifice allocation quotas.  One virgin, who didn’t want to be named said, “I’ll be buggered if I’m agreeing to anything like that, it’s to much to swallow, and besides, what would the neighbours think?”  

Unless some sort of agreement is reached over the weekend, suicide bombers will put down their explosives at midday on Monday.  Most branches are supporting the strike.  Only the north London branch, which has a different union, is likely to continue working.  However, some members of that branch will only be using half-strength explosives, in order to express solidarity with their striking brethren… Further talks will be held next week.

Piss off, Santa - Yellow Water Shopping Centre, Stoke.

Apologies for missing last weeks blog, I couldn’t get into the system.  Well, it’s come to the point in the year where I have to bugger off for a bit and hibernate.  The minute the clocks go back my mood take a nose-dive.  I don’t get depressed, I just feel a bit flat.  It’s a cycle that started about 10 years ago so I know what to expect, but the important thing is the feeling always passes, so I’ll have sit tight and wait.   Before I slope off, I leave you with a few quotes, and a poem and wish you all a Merry Happy Jingle Balls, and I’ll catch up with you in the New Year…

“Never has there been such a great talent without a touch of madness.”  Seneca

“Being creative isn’t a 9 to 5 job.”   Walton 2.51am 02/08/01

“You can’t book a judge by his cover.”   Walton 13/09/99
 

This is one of three poems that I sent to Sir Spike Milligan.

Eccles I’ve

I’ve had all the years unable to cope

And been down the road with the slippery slope.
 

I’ve suffered the anguish, the pressure and pain

And even heard voices trip round my brain.
 

I’ve taken the tablets, and had E.C.T.

And wonder if now it was right for me.
 

I’ve read all the books, had the forced injection

(Oh bollocks)

I’ve just lost my job on a mental health section!

This story comes from one of the happiest periods of my life, back in the days when I worked in the lithographic trade. To this day I don’t know how we used to get any work done, as we seemed to spend most of the time annoying the tea lady’s, laughing, and winding up the boys in the firm.   The place was known as ‘The Mad House’ by anyone who worked there, and it was the scene of many a silly situation.  This particular episode  concerns one of lads in the office.  He came a cropper when he walked into the plate making department one day, at a time when the work had dropped off, and the plate makers were bored… 

The apprentices were our main targets for japes and entertainment when the work dropped off, but the boys in the office weren’t immune from the windups, ritual verbal abuse and the odd light beating.  Some were afraid to walk through the proofing department, and one kid left the day after joining the firm as I believe the first words he heard from one of the proofers was, “I’ve shagged yer mum, and yer dad,” and he followed it up with, “You haven’t got a sister ‘ave you?”  Another boy filled his shoes a week later, and the proofers jumped on him, posing a mock query on a job spec.  A client wanted a bunch of special colours to wrap around his biscuit tin, so they asked the fresh lamb to pop along to see our ever jovial store man, to see if the tartan ink had been delivered!  He arrived, job bag in hand, only to be to, “Fuck off, and stop asking stupid bloody questions.” 

The next day he was walking through my department, when a workmate noticed his brightly coloured tie.  He engaged him in a futile conversation and then said to me, “‘ere Neil, look at that tie, I bet you wouldn’t cut in half.”  I said, “How much?”  “Thruppence,” came the reply.  “Done,” I said, and with that I snipped it in two with my scissors.  Witnessing that clothing wasn’t a barrier to us, the office boyss came up with a new survival technique to get them through the day.  A few would exit the firm and re-enter at another point, just to bypass the proofers and plate makers.  Others would feign leg injures or death to drop someone else in it, rather than face the walk of certain ridicule themselves. 

Come the morning of ‘The Great Soaking’ the plate makers were in fine fettle.  The work had eased off, and it was playtime, where quite honestly anything could happen.  Our Irish tea lady copped the first wave of inane banter, and she was now in charge of going out for our mid-morning grub.  This was the woman that came into the firm one day complaining that her feet hurt; when we looked down we saw that she had her boots on the wrong feet!  As usual, she already had a certain amount of dubious request on her list.  Item one was a whelk yogurt, and from the bakers she was asked if she could get a fresh pie, a bun cup and two pregnant tarts!  Anyway, as she was doing the rounds in our department one of the office boys drifted in, and as he was walking past one of our sinks, our foreman, Mick asked if he would fill it up.  He put the plug in, turned on the tap, and began searching through our job rack looking for a bag of films. 

At this point I should explain that our sinks were a tad larger then your average household fitting, quite a lot larger actually.  A six foot man would’ve had no trouble in lying flat out in one, with his arms and legs spread open.  He could also have had a bath if he wanted too, as they were roughly two feet deep.  Well, our victim had been rifling through the job rack for 15 minutes or more, and he eventually found what he was looking for, and he was just about to return to the office when Mick asked him to turn the tap off for him.  Then he made a fatal mistake.  He asked our foreman if there was anything else he wanted him to do before he disappeared.  “Well, get in of course,” Mick replied.  There was a sort of stunned silence, followed by a look of impending doom about his face when he realised what department he was in.  Then, in a fit of peak, he made a break for the door, the door that somebody had locked quite recently! 

He put up a hell of a struggle for someone of his slight stature and weight, but overall he was only ever going one place before making his way back to the safety of the office.  Splash he went; soaked from head to foot, an excellent way to start the day off.  He gave up in the end of course, and ended up laughing his face off, we grabbed him some overalls, and a coat from the stores, and someone lent him a pair of trainers.  He dried himself off, and eventually made it back to the office in his new attire.  Just over an hour later he returned with a jubilant smile of acceptance on his face, and he’d come back to check on his clothes, which were drying off in the boiler room.  His shirt, boxers and socks were nearly wearable, but his jeans and shoes were still way off being dry.  He still had a good few hours to go before clocking off, but he was concerned about his shoes, so one of our apprentices said he’d spend some time blowing warm air into them using one of our plate driers, which was just like a big hair drier.  He seemed happy with that and went on his way.

An hour before knocking off, Martin returned to see if his strides were ready to wear, but they weren’t.  The legs were almost dry, but the waist band, the pockets and parts of the seat of his jeans were still damp.  As he was beginning to look despondent, and I didn’t want to see him upset further, I said he might as well put them in out plate oven to speed up the process.  What I didn’t know, because I’d been working in another part of the firm for most of the afternoon, was that the oven had been on for most of the day. 

We used to bake some of our plates as it gave the images on them a longer life when they were used for long print runs for jobs like Dulux paint tins.  I felt the side of the oven and, although it was still hot, it was starting to cool down, so I hooked his jeans onto one of the oven racks, slide it in and closed the door.  I told Martin to come back in 15 minutes, so he wondered off, and I picked up another job from the rack.  Another key factor that I wasn’t aware of was that the oven, which was electric, had only just been turned off.  Worse still it was cooling down from a temperature of 700 degrees - whoops!

The time slipped by, as it does when you’ve got your head buried in your work, and I’d completely forgotten about what was simmering in the oven.  Suddenly, a frantic office boy burst back into my department, with a worried look on his face, as he knew he was five minutes later than he should have been.  Now having the attention of the whole plate making staff, I un-clipped the oven door and pulled out the rack with a pair of heavy-duty heat resistant gloves.  At first glance you couldn’t help but notice that something wasn’t quite as it should have been.  My co-workers reinforced this observation by collapsing, one by one, over their workbenches.  The jeans entered the oven with the dark blue colour usually associated with this apparel.  However, on their exit from Satan’s sandwich maker they were now an unhealthy shade of brown.  “Well,” I said with straight face, “at least they seem to be dry now.”  The whole floor burst out laughing.  Martin looked at me, and then at his well cooked jeans in total disbelief.  Gingerly he touched one of the legs with the tip of a solitary forefinger, and then watched as they disintegrated into dust on the floor before him.  It was just like watching a clip form a Tommy and Jerry cartoon…

No apprentices were harmed in the production of this episode.  

All material is under copyright.

Katie Price (aka Jordan) Literally Shitting out her Latest Books before an astounded audience at Waterstones, Stoke.

I don’t know about you but, aren’t you just a tad bored with what Ms Price aka Jordan is up too next?   The spin-offs from her soppy life-style have got beyond a joke, especially when you consider there are more interesting subjects to worry about.  And who gives a shit about what Peter Andre is doing next week?  There’s two programmes right there where the airtime could have been better filled.  I mean, there are actually people on the planet who haven’t got enough water to drink.  Hasn’t anyone realised that she pays someone to come up with next ridiculous story in her so-called life?  She is a cute business person, there’s no doubt about that, but her morals suck.   

It’s got false fun-bags, a reconstructed face and bright white teeth, it’s just a shame that she didn’t spend any money on her brain.   “Mummy, what did you do for a living when we were growing up?”  “Well, I used to get my tits out on a regular basis, I made a home porn film, which mysteriously got leaked to the press, and married an idiot and got paid to make it all into a TV programme.  “Will we get ridiculed at school because of your past mummy?”  “Ooh no, well not much anyway!” 

We’ve gone from, What Katie did next, then the farce that was ‘The Wedding’ and the spin-off from that was, What Peter did next, after the split.  Who’s funding this shit?  The gossip mags, and the twats that buy them because they haven’t got a life of their own I feel.   And now her mum and brother have got in on the act when they appeared on the day time television show, This Morning.  I only hope that those two don’t get a show each, but I reckon it’s on the cards  And let’s not forget Katie’s cleaner and all of her relatives and friends too. 

The This Morning slot was one of the most inane pieces of television I have ever seen.  “Katie has gone to the jungle to acquireclosure,” apparently - awww bless.  And there was me thinking it was for the alleged £500,000 pay cheque.   ”She wanted a space were she could be alone.”   Well, I can’t think of a better place to go than a jungle set with 12 other people she’s never met, oh, and let’s not forget the 20 hidden cameras.   Have you ever heard such a load of old bollocks!   Of course, we might all be in for a shock when Katie Jordan Price (it’s the same person, unless she has a personality disorder) hands over ALL of the wonga she acquired for her return to the jungle, to Water Aid.  Could happen, but don’t hold your breath!

BB has got to go now as I start a new college course, next week.  Yes, I going to be… a seahorse whisperer…

Name check:  Billy Twevletrees.  (cricketer)  Where do you pick up a last name like that?

Barry the sloth, despite his outward appearance, suffers from depression and involuntary rage disorder. - Stoke Zoo, 2005

What did Katie Price and Peter Andre do next - WHO GIVES A SHIT!?

Have you ever seen a parking meter being emptied?

Would the Psoriasis Society ever consider promoting a scratch card?

If trees were interested in mathematics, would they have square roots?

How much would the sea level drop, if you removed all of the marine craft in the world?

If I had a hole in my mattress, would I lose sleep?

What do vegetarians do if they contract Chickenpox?

Have you ever heard a cat fart?

Does your cat walks past the toilet when you’re flushing it and think, “I wish mine did that?”

If a person left an inordinate amount of spaces between each sentence they spoke, and then they passed away, would they have died of natural pauses? 

If a sloth was suffering from depression, how would you know?

Well I’m glad I got that of my chest…

Copyright N Walton  (c) 2009