Five Uses of a Father

Things that fathers are good at:

1) - Paying large sums of money for boring but important stuff. Like educations and weddings and that time he had to bail you out of prison after you killed that prostitute. Remember?
2) Bringing up (1) when it's time to think about putting him in a home.
3) Making you feel guilty about (1) when you've blown all your cash on extra-strength lager, crack and whores. Again.
4) Thinking that (1) makes it acceptable to invest more emotion into a relationship with his golf swing than he does with his own offspring.
5) Having great records hidden away in a collection otherwise full of tripe.

It is to point (5) that I now refer. A spot of digging unearthed this phenomenal album:
Stan Tracey and his Orchestra: Genesis and More...

Stan Tracey and his orchestra - The Beginning

Stan Tracey and his orchestra - The Light

I'll tell you the story about the prostitute another time (it was all a terrible misunderstanding). In the meantime, enjoy these two tracks.

Agony Aunt II

Chat magazine's celebrated Agony Aunt, Leopoldo Fregoli: Think you've got a problem? He'll give you something to whine about. Like a boot right in your face. You loser.

Dear Leopoldo

Things are going really well with my new girlfriend and I've started staying over at her place every now and then. However, I am worried about the effects this is having on my poo routine. I find I cannot poo in a strange toilet. Any advice?
Yours haemorrhoidally,

Name and address supplied

___________________________________
Leopoldo writes:

Dear reader

Thank you for having the courage to raise this important issue - so often a cause of heartache in budding relationships, and one that is completely overlooked in the dating literature.

I'm afraid there are no easy answers.

In the honest life of the great British taxpayer, few simple pleasures remain untainted by government interference. These days, it seems that we can't smoke until our lungs fall off, we can't drink until our liver shrivels into a walnut, and we can't eat beefburgers until our swollen stomach needs stapling - well, not without being made to feel "irresponsible" by our puritanical despotic leaders. Oh for the good old days! Do you know people used to leave their front doors unlocked back then? Fucking idiots, I would have robbed them.

Be assured, however, that having a good crap is one area into which Tony Blair and his meddling bureaucrats have not yet poked their socially-engineered (brown) noses. You can do it as much as you want! And not feel afflicted by your white-middle-class-bourgeois-guilt-complex! Because here's the great thing about pooing: anyone can do it! There is no quota system that aims to give 50% of the underclass access to a good shit by 2007 - 100% are doing it already! Admittedly, they have to use a bush or a bus shelter, but a poo is a poo, whatever you may say.

This is why you must get it right. Here a couple of unshakeable rules regarding the successful art of pooing:

1) - You MUST poo first thing in the morning. As Churchill once said: "Starting a day without a poo is like being a gay- it's just WRONG." Was that Churchill? Or was it me? I forget now.

2) - ALWAYS before the shower. NEVER after. Under any circumstances. Or you'll have to take another shower. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Can't poo in her toilet? A common complaint. The morning poo ritual is one that does not take easily to change. Why not try overdosing on high-strength laxatives? Surely your cantankerous bowels will not be able to withstand this pharmacological insult?

Worried that she will smell the malodorous emissions from your backside? This is a good sign, as if you did want her to have a good whiff, then you would be a fucking sicko. Why not carry a handy sized cannister of fragrance in your pocket? Now your poo smells like roses? Yes. Yes it does. Don't inhale too deeply though, or you'll get high. Again.

A final word, some couples think it acceptable to poo in front of each other. This is clearly wrong. Stay away from such people, they are animals.

All my best wishes. Happy pooing.

Leopoldo
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God I'm tired

Currently drinking another cup of Ginseng Herbal Tea. Still have 18 bags of this vile hippy shit to get through. As I sip the tears roll down my face.

Radio 5 were having an interesting debate (for once) on the boundaries of taste in modern comedy. However, an irritating nasal female panellist insisted on pronouncing the word "new" as "nooo". Repeatedly. I had to turn off the radio.

People should be given three opportunities (no more) to enunciate correctly, and if they still insist on communicating like a peasant, their vocal cords should be surgically obliterated.

Martyrdom

So you're a suicide bomber in the West Bank. You strap on your explosives in the heady knowledge that 72 virgins await your arrival into paradise as a glorious martyr.

One question: What if you prefer a bit more experience?

Who wants to have sex with a virgin? Nobody in their right mind, that's who. Listen, I know other virgins say that sex is "special" and you should save yourself for the "right" person, but just look at the gays! They go at it like rabbits! It makes them very happy, that is why they wear brightly coloured clothes and have rainbow car stickers. And what harm has it done them? Apart from AIDS, obviously - 'cos everyone knows that AIDS is just their righteous punishment from God in return for their abhorrent deviation from the natural order of things.

Anyhow, I digress. It's not like the virgins will be the only ones who don't know their way around a cock in paradise. Those beardy suicide bombers are hardly gonna' be experts (or sexperts, if you will) ... it's not like they've been studying "Nympho Ass-fest 3" in preparation round at Mustapha's on a friday night. Or have they...? No. No they haven't.

So paradise for them is gonna' be a right hotch-potch of bits going in all the wrong places. Before you know it, someone will commit the mortal sin of sodomy and they'll all end up being burnt in eternal hellfire. Damn.

If only someone would tell the Palestinians this, I reckon we could have peace in the middle east within a year.

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An Announcement from the Tourist Board

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to sunny Britain: where ignorance costs nothing and the girls are easy. But also really, really, fucking ugly. So let us all thank Lord Tony Blair for the imposition of 24-hour drinking, so this need never be an issue. Pass me another alcopop. I like your medallion. How many GCSEs did you say you had again? Seven? No, I said GCSEs, not children.

Britain: the land where the favourite to win Celebrity Big Brother is not even a celebrity, but rather an imposter. Oh the delicious irony.

Britain: the land where a FUCKING WHALE makes the front page of the national newspapers. A whale isn't even cuddly, for fucks sake. Yet for some reason it's still ok to shoot badgers, the world's coolest animals. Badgers have fur, that makes them well better than shitty whales. You wouldn't get a badger stuck halfway up a river. Oh no, badgers are far cleverer than that. Have YOU ever discussed astrophysics with a whale? No? Neither have I. I think that says all you need to know about whales.

I am angry about something - but I'm not quite sure what it is. I don't think it's whales.

Oh yeah, I think it's what I've been reading on the Scarecrow's blog. Brilliant stuff.

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How far will the whale go?

Oh no! There's a whale stuck in the river Thames!

Bookmakers are taking bets on how far the whale will go... sounds just like my date last friday night.

Pervs still work with kids...

So it appears that the British education system has been infiltrated by a crack network of undercover paedophile operatives. There are LITERALLY THOUSANDS of them teaching PE in cold gyms up and down the country as we speak. Thousands. Their mission: to perv over YOUR CHILD in his tight little gym shorts, and then take him back to the staff room for a damn good senseless buggering whilst all the other paedophile teachers look on. Your child, remember that.

Some of those previous statements may have been exaggerated, but let's not waste time by ensuring that our facts are correct - these are our CHILDREN that we are talking about. God, why must you always insist on making a measured response to situations like these! The lives of OUR BABIES can only be saved through a knee-jerk hysterical reaction!

Let's make a big list of all the sickos working in these schools and pass a law saying it's OK to maim ANYONE who shares more than 5 letters of their name with a sex-offender. No smoke without fire, that's what I say. Many innocents may die, but if it prevents the brutal rape and murder of just ONE child, then they will not have died in vain.

Would you let this man babysit YOUR CHILD?

Yes, you probably would, wouldn't you? Well you'd wipe that smug grin off your face when you got back from the opera to find his sweaty hands defiling poor little Rupert.

That's right, this man is a SEX OFFENDER! Just look at his face! You can always see it in their eyes: "mmm... little boys..." Rupert will probably turn out gay now, how are you going to live THAT one down at the golf club, eh?

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Gary Glitter

I've just had a cup of Ginseng Herbal Tea. It tasted like shit. Fucking hippies and their homosexual beverages.

I'll tell you what's really pissing me off at the moment: Gary Glitter. Here's the deal. He decides that British children aren't his cup of tea any more, goes off to the Orient, fiddles with their kids, and then when apprehended, gets off on a much lighter charge by convincing the victims' families (can you believe that!) to appeal for clemency on his behalf! - thanks, of course, to the obscene amounts of money he has just deposited in their bank accounts.

Firstly, the fact that the kids ended up making a fast buck out of this surely changes the case from one of child abuse to one of prostitution: lock up the kids I say. Zero tolerance.

Secondly, how on earth did the families manage to convince the judge to drop the more serious charges? "Ah, thank you Mr Glitter, this experience has turned out to be very character-building for our offspring." What? "Thank you Mr Glitter, our little Hoi-Sin now finally understands why it is wrong to take sweets from fat, bald, sweaty men." Eh? Or perhaps the girls were asking for it - you know, walking around wearing those short skirts and crop-tops, make up, flirting. Everybody knows it's ok to rape someone if they're asking for it - it's just not fashionable to say that in public yet. Sssshh!

Thirdly, seeing as there seems to be no real biblical-style "eye-for-an-eye" justice in this part of the world, I say as soon as Gary hauls his sorry ass back to the UK we seize him, turn him into a woman, and then rape him - just so he knows how it feels. Yeah!

I wanna' be in your gang (bang) Gary!


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Winter sucks

Winter sucks. I took a powernap this afternoon and by the time I woke up it was dark. Can we get some scientist to make it hot and sunny all the year round?

Cameron Diaz, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, naked, ass, sex, cum, blowjob, tits, wank, fuck, whore, free porn.

Sorry, just trying to generate a few Google hits there. I hope you don't think any less of me for knowing all those naughty words. Don't blame me, blame society. Anyhow, you're the one who generates those Google searches, you sicko.

Normal service will be resumed shortly. In the meantime, you should all be listening to Fat Freddy's Drop. Do so. They are brilliant.

Fat Freddy's Drop - Ernie

Fat Freddy's Drop - Wandering Eye

Agony Aunt

Britain's favourite Agony Aunt - Leopoldo Fregoli: embraces compassion like the Pope embraces gays...

A male reader from Berkshire writes:

Dear Leopoldo

I have been seeing my girlfriend for 2 months now and we still have not had sex. Now all my mates laugh at me down the supermarket where I work - they all lost their virginities before the age of ten, and had fathered a football team by the age of fifteen. The closest I get is a quick fumble down by the canal after a couple of alcopops. My dilemma is this: my girlfriend keeps saying "no", but secretly I suspect that she means "yes". I mean, what else can she want? I gave her a ride in my Vauxhall Nova and everything.

What should I do? I cannot cope with these mixed messages!

Yours desperately

Name and address supplied

____________________

Dear reader

I sympathise with your difficult situation. It must be tough for you not to owe maintenance to the child support agency like all of your friends. Peer pressure can be terrible. Never fear; here are a few suggestions:

Taking her down the canal for a quick smoke and a fumble does not rate highly on any girl's list of "hot dates". This is literally because it is not a hot date. It is purely the cold night air that prevents her from stripping all her clothes off and jumping into the long grass with you. That and the broken bottles and dog faeces. You need to take her somewhere really classy, like the superbowl, or laserquest. She won't be able to resist you.

If this fails, remember that evolution has decreed that your biological imperative is to reproduce. The future of the human underclass depends on men like you. Your supervisor down the supermarket might argue that your role is mainly to replenish the baked beans on aisle 7, but do not listen to him. Your genes are too good to waste! Who is your girlfriend to stand in the way of natural history?

If she is incapable of understanding this argument, wait until she is asleep, and then pretend you are sleepwalking. Legal precendent has decreed that this is an acceptable method of having sex with girls that would otherwise say "no". Be sure to take advantage of it before some liberal closes the loophole.

Happy hunting

Leopoldo

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My "hysterical" calendar

This Christmas I was lucky enough to receive a "hilarious" joke-a-day calendar. It's gaudy packaging promised 365 "hysterical" jokes.

Call me cynical, but in my experience, it's always wise to be wary of something that claims to be both hysterical and hilarious. Today's joke is below - shall we see if it delivers on these wild claims?

Q: What do John the Baptist and Winnie the Pooh have in common?
A: Their middle name.

Hysterical eh? Er, no. For me, it's these little disappointments that make life so miserable. God, I would have prefered an ethical Christmas present to this shit.

Personally, I much prefer the joke that Jimmy Carr told on the BBC earlier this week. It went something like this:

The male gypsy moth can smell the female gypsy moth up to seven miles away - and that fact also works if you remove the word "moth".

Ho ho ho.

Can you believe that some filthy liberal over at the Guardian newspaper did not find this funny? What are gypsies for if not for laughing at? Granted, gypsies ARE good at stealing things and tarmacing your drive very badly, but it's hard for me to use these abilities to my advantage. Perhaps the poor little creature would not be so keen to rush to their defence if it was her shed that had been broken into. Power tools are very expensive you know.

And she wasn't impressed by this joke either:

Q: What's worse than finding a worm in your apple?
A: Getting raped.

Ho ho ho.

In the liberals had their way, not only would Christmas be banned entirely - to be replaced by a non-specific areligious holiday season, but all jokes would also have to be vetted by the ruling Guardian-reading junta. The result? A humourless society. Is this what we want? Political correctness gone mad, my friends.

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Christmas Time

First day back at work today and everybody keeps asking me whether I had a nice Christmas. They don't really care, it's just what everybody says to each other in these situations. Convention dictates that I reply with "yes, it was nice thanks, how was yours?" But I am nothing if not a flouter of bourgeois tradition. Watch as I blow their middle-class world APART!:

"Hey Leopoldo! How was your Christmas?"
"It was shit."
"Oh..., get up to anything exciting over New Year?"
"Nope, as I said: it was shit."
"Oh..., see you around then."

Boom! One more smug Western worldview rocked! Although I sometimes think that this is why I don't have many friends, I always remember what Spiderman said: "With great power comes great responsibility." Yes, my mantle is too important to cast aside.

In all seriousness, it's hard to have a good Christmas when your racist grandmother comes to stay. I mean, I'm all for a bit of no-nonsense right-wing banter, but the endless stream of xenophobia does eventually become a little wearing. That and her table-manners, which bear an uncanny resemblance to a truffling pig. Here are some quotes I collected for you.

Grandmother on fishing quotas: "The problem with these Spaniards is that they're all thieves aren't they? We should build a big fence round our waters so they stop stealing all our fish. Then we should go and steal their fish." Oh, so like a kind of reverse Armada then Grandma? "Yes. Just like that."

Grandmother on stem-cell research: "The problem with this human cloning is that it's all done by these orientals, you know." No grandmother, I don't know. "Well, they're taking over the world aren't they? With their human clones, and their microwaves, and that..."

Grandmother on receiving an ethical Christmas gift: adoption of a tiger: "Shouldn't the darkies be paying for this? They're the ones who have let them go extinct. Can't trust them with anything - they take our benefits, steal our jobs, and kill our tigers." Um, I don't think tigers belong to anyone actually Grandma. "Yes they do, this one's mine - look! It says so on this certificate!"

And then there's the classic Grandmother quote, one which dates from a Christmas several years past, but bears inclusion on merit alone:

Grandma, what would you do if an Irish-immigrant-asylum-seeking-African-lesbian-beggar asked you for change on the street? "I would spit in his face!"

I'll stop now.

For me, perhaps the most exciting part of the Yuletide festivities was awaiting the arrival of the turkey-man on Christmas Eve. Turkey-man? Some kind of superhero perhaps? All day I peered through the window, breath baited. Would this "turkey-man" have the body of a turkey but the head of a man, or the body of a man but the head of a turkey? Would he be sexually attracted to humans, or turkeys? Could we kidnap him and sell him to an Eastern-European circus for cash? So many questions were racing through my fertile mind, mainly revolving around turkey-sex, admittedly.

But this "turkey-man" was nothing more than a man in a refrigerated lorry carrying a load of turkeys. Who would have thought it? Another dream shattered. If Christmas is this shit next year I'm definitely gonna' stop believing in Father Christmas.


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