I’ve got a hole in my front right pocket. It’s from a combination of cheap fabric and sharp keys, I suspect. Do you know what I’ve done? I’ve moved my keys into my back pocket, and put my wallet (formerly in the back pocket) into the front. It’s too large for the hole, and anyway, it’s on a chain (a measure introduced after waking up on the night bus with a foreign hand disturbing my goods and penis). You’d think the keys would stick in my arse, but if they do, I can’t feel it. And I daresay if I lost a couple of stone I would, so think on that, Gillian Pisswitch McKeith.

So, to celebrate this new arrangement, December’s sign of the month is dedicated to the adaptability of the human spirit, and the spongability of my arse. Also, happy Christmas, did you get what you wanted? I do hope so.

1. BEST REPACKAGING OF CHRISTIANITY AS FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH

Christians, you really do have to love them. If you attack their lunatic faith, they just smile, quote the Bible, and nowadays they can say “I bet you wouldn’t say that to a Muslim”. To which you can only reply “of course not, my attack was tailored towards Christians, you argument-ducking cretin”. They might reply “well it wasn’t so much an argument as an insult”, which leaves you with nothing to say except “THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE A CUNT OR SOMETHING”.

Christians are absolutely at their best when putting a new face on their religion. Nottingham’s Market Square had a Christian Nu-Metal band playing at the stone lions. This is the left lion, here.

Before that band played, it was quite a happy-go-lucky creature, that lion. The music was as bad as can be expected, and doesn’t really deserve special mention. It was the T-Shirts that I liked. “LIFE SUCKS” screamed the front of the bassist’s shirt. “WITHOUT JESUS” apologised the back. Well done, son - you’ve subverted the nihilism of rock in a way that requires you to turn around at regular intervals.

That band didn’t have a sign, so they’re sadly disqualified from this competition. But it wouldn’t be Christmas without evangelical posters at train stations, trying to snare the wanderers, the lost;

Get ready for the revolution, people. Apart from the transparent shitness of the poster, did anyone think about the wisdom of associating Jesus with a big fucking murderer? As Che himself said in a similar situation to Jesus’ own, “This is a revolution! And a revolutionary must become a cold killing machine motivated by pure hate!” That’s what I genuinely love about this poster. The fact that it’s pig-fucking-thick Christians limply using something that they’ve seen some kids wear.

(Also, notice Antony from the Johnsons doing his own little parody of the whole sorry mess.)

2. MOST COMPELLING HEADLINE

After seeing this poster, I had a huge decision to make. Do I buy the Evening Post?

SCENARIO ONE : I BUY THE EVENING POST
I leaf through the pages, including - no doubt - a 2,000 word piece about a little girl who done up her laces in a bow, scouring for the article about the Norse god of thunder coming to earth on a cloud and saying;

“Really, snap out of it. I mean, everyone’s got a lot on their plates at the moment. You sitting there with that look on your face, like you’re the only one with problems, is really getting on my tits. I know you’ve just lost your father, and I’d know how you feel if all my close friends weren’t immortal, but how much sympathy do you actually want? And be honest, before that, you were always a bit fucking prone to milking it, weren’t you? Have you ever thought that people hate you precisely because you go on all the fucking time about how much everyone’s against you? You make your own fucking luck, my dear, and the reason all this shit happens to you is because you want it. You want it because it’s so fucking easy to sit there bitching about it. Right, that’s it. NO MORE SELF-PITY. I HAVE BANNED IT.”

SCENARIO TWO : I LET THE DREAM LIVE ON
Because at heart, I am a soppy old romantic, who doesn’t want to know whether it’s just a nickname of a local football manager whose team has just been relegated. That would be the worst anti-climax of my life.

After spending 1984-1992 getting steadily more excited about sex, then finally having it.

3. LEAST RELEVANT DRAWING
(WHEN CONTEXT IS FRAUDULENTLY REMOVED WITH PHOTOSHOP)

The poster goes on… “Are you unemployed? So am I, but I still drew this really cool picture. It’s my dad!”

No, it doesn’t say that. It’s something about childcare - the drawing is totally appropriate. I’m a total fraud. But not as much of a fraud as Danny fucking Wallace, who is currently hosting a television show about hoaxes, yet pretends for about half of his insulting book “The Yes Man” to have been duped by a typical Nigerian email scam. Here is my copy of the book, which was a present from someone who appears to believe that I am a massive arsehole.

Actually, I just remembered, I’m lying again! It was given to me by Ebury, the publishers. The publishers of my book are the same people who publish Wallace, and Terry Pratchett. This gave me the chance to ask someone who might actually know… “Is Terry Pratchett as big a cunt as I imagine?” The answer was superbly diplomatic - “he’s very powerful”.

4. CRAFTIEST SWASTIKA IN EVERYDAY LIFE

There are, apparently, people trying to slip swastikas into everyday drawings. Not through any desire to bring back the old peaceful meaning; mostly because they think swastikas are funny. They’re right - swastikas are funny. I’m not going to explain why, because it’s a fucking rickety bridge, that one. But don’t pull the Jew card on me, ‘cos they killed gays too (as did Che Guevara, if you’re reading, Jesus). If anything I should be given a little bit of the Promised Land because my, well, not ancestors of course, we’re shit at having descendants, but someone who likes cocks probably as much as I do got GASSED.

Thanks to David Grilliopoulos, who sent that in, saying “i spotted it in a manchester train station and thought of you”. I’m glad my branding is so strong.

5. THE GREAT TOILET SHOW-DOWN

November saw the Tit Freak winning without competition; this month, the “Opinions Or Needs So Strong They Burst Out When I’m Having A Piss Or Shit” category is divided into two sub-categories; “Oh For Crying Out Loud” and “Come Here You Poor Thing”.

5a. OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

Hey! Do you know what, I think people have mentioned that, before? I think I heard my grandmother saying something like that. And she wasn’t even trying to be political, or important. She just noted it, insightful as you like. She didn’t hop onto her Vespa and scrawl it on the wall of some nightclub shitter. My gran, bless her, doesn’t really hold with dressing up basic, insightless observations as YOUMUSTKNOW infosubversion.

Keep on changing the world, you awful twat.

5b. COME HERE YOU POOR THING

This is heartbreaking. There is the internet, there’s personal ads, there’s gay bars and there’s Little Britain showing that gays can even have catchphrases like normal people. Why are you still doing looking for sex through toilet graffiti? It can’t be because he’s got a wife and needs to be discrete, because it’s a landline.

SAM’S WIFE : Hello?
ME : Hello, I’d like to speak to Sam. It’s about the big cokc.

Perhaps he’s shy. In that case, he should be looking for nice people, not big cocks. Should I phone him, and offer to take him out for a drink? Should I? That’d be a blog entry and a half, that would. Oh, God. I think I’m going to phone Sam.

Today, I ‘m teetering with half a buttock on my chair. This is part of a hyper-new (March 2006) exercise regime - the continuous “tensation” that gluteal teetering brings is scientifically proven to automagically convert grotesque fat into strips of tough, dry meat in a wildly shorter period of time than you’d think.

And it’s so flexible! I can teeter whilst watching TV, I can teeter at work - where the extra precariousness from my wheeled-chair makes my teetering extra-brinky. I can even teeter on the tube! Although this requires you to sit sideways, and place your legs over the knees of your neighbour).

It was during a TV-Teeter that I accidentally watched the “News” - and I thought to myself… you know, this news! It’s ripe for a kind of “commentary”. I could be the first person to look at the news, and remark on it. Then I remembered that I keep a blog, and I’m certainly one of the only people to do that. So today, I’m going to give my UNIQUE TAKE ON GOINGS-ONS.

PRODIGAL CATTY CATKINS

That story’s about a cat who went away for six years, then came back. I wonder what he got up to? I bet he got into some scrapes! If only cats could write, or mime. But this period of history is a closed book to us - even using CCTV footage to piece together his six years as a stray, there comes a point where you have to say “this is not a valid use of my time, and the police are being really unco-operative”.

So I’ve imagined what he did! Here it is!

• Put his paw over his nose in a TV advert to show contempt for unbranded cat food.
• Put his paw over his nose in surprise after walking into a patio door.
• Put his paw over his nose to try and work out if that puddle he just walked through was piss.

GEESE EAT WALLS - NOT THE ICE CREAM LOL :) BRB

“This’ll stop those pesky geese!” said the foreman, as he put the final touches on his new wall. “I’ve covered the wall in aniseed! Geese hate aniseed, it stands to reason. This time they’ll never eat my delicious chocolate cottage! Now for a well-deserved forty winks!”

[FORTY WINKS LATER]

“OH FUCKING HELL MY WALL HAS BEEN ALL ET. HOW DID IT APPNE”

[READS NEWSPAPER : HEADLINE IS "GOOSE BEFRIENDS DOG IN BID TO EAT WALL", SUBTITLED "DOGS LOVE ANISEED"]

“Bah! Trust that wily goose to know which animals like aniseed. Also, curse the typewriter ants who conspire to deliver me these newspapers every time I so much as have a shit.”

[READS NEWSPAPER : HEADLINE IS "MAN SHOUTS NEAR DIGESTED WALL"]

POLICE DELAY IN REPLYING TO SOMETHING

My last “UNIQUE TAKE ON THE NEWS IN THE WORLD” is going to be political, so hold on to your hats (opinions) because they’re going to get BLOWN AWAY!

BORING. I can’t be arsed commenting on that. So I’ve improved it instead.

All police authorities in England and Wales rebelled against Home Secretary Charles Clarke and refused to look in a box with a big question mark on it.

Association of Police Authorities chairman Bob Jones accused Mr Clarke of seeking to “surprise and baffle” leaders of the 43 forces.

No police authority even approached the box in time for today’s Home Office deadline, despite Mr Clarke’s offer of financial incentives that “it could contain anything from money, to holidays, or it could be something horrid like a severed foot.”

Mr Jones said: “Police authorities have unanimously rejected the Home Secretary’s plans to force us to open the box, and we believe there are alternative options such as quickfire trivia with a gunging penalty for three consecutive wrong answers.”

Opening the box on Christmas Day, Charles Clarke revealed that it contained £600 million and a silver buckle.

That was my fantastic neverbeforedone sideways glance at the news. Now, back to my teetering - these buttocks won’t get firm enough to pick daisies if I just sit typing to you lot all day!

Rejection is usually such a whimsical experience. You approach a gentleman and suggest 40% anal, and he pelts you with almonds. Someone dumps you the same day you were going to dump them, leaving you sounding good-natured and warm-socked when you say

“You know, it’s funny, you dumping me, because I was going to dump you too! No, really, I was just going to say it, just before you. But well done, really. You won that one. Now you get to do all the crying, because as the dumpee it’s my duty to remain stoic whilst you fucking say how hard it is to do this, because you love me so much. Jesus, this is exactly why I’ve hated you for six months and yes we’ll be friends but only because you’re fit and I want to convince you you made the wrong decision.”

Today, I’ve found a new and even more exciting way to be rejected! I applied for a job - a shit job, no less - and I’ve just found out I “wasn’t successful“. Now, this isn’t special, I know. This happens all the time, to many hundreds of people. It’s not even the first job I’ve been turned down for this year. But it’s really fucked me off, because I’ve realised I’m fundamentally unable to give hot interview.

First, I loathe self-advertising. From a man who keeps a blog, this is queer-talk. Bloggers clearly rate themselves rotten, and are arrogant enough to think that, by tipping their truckload of shit into the ocean, they’re doing something notable and worthwhile. But I can do this, because it’s faceless, and I’m not explicitly saying “bo, I be the bestist”. It’s implicit that I’m the best. Transparent and obvious, maybe. But implicit.

In interviews, however, this translates to awkwardness around the questions “what could you bring to this company” or “why should we employ you?” My disinclination to big myself up leaves me with only a small puddle of answers, such as;

• Ha ha! That’s a good question.
• I dunno.
• I’m nice.
• Why would you employ anyone?
• Well, I’d employ you.

Secondly, I am an atrocious liar. I’m just not organised enough to cover my most rudimentary tracks, and I’m not so embarrassed about my life to want to have that many secrets. The amount of times I’ve had my porn politely propped against my bedroom door by appalled housemates who now have to visualise me wanking in the armchairs is more than once. Why couldn’t I remember to remove the DVD, and take it back to my room? Probably because I was too busy shuffling to the kitchen, because I wasn’t even organised enough to get any wiping materials in.

Sometimes I’m innocent, but even then I can’t cover my tracks; last time I coloured my hair, I used vaseline to prevent my scalp becoming stained, and a bum douche to rinse my hair in the sink. I didn’t think that this would create the impression of unprotected bathroom anal, but from the post-it note I was left, it apparently did.

So, speaking as someone who has learned not to lie, because he will always get found out; when you ask me “why do you want this job?” - I’ll um and ah, and finally come out with “well, it seems like a nice enough place”. Because I’m not physically able to say “I’m dynamic, hardworking, there’s nothing I don’t know and here’s a lock of my hair. If I have any faults it’s that I’m a perfectionist and I make too much money for my employers. Also I rarely forget to shower.”

I was at one interview where they threw in a role-play. I mean, but pardon me if that isn’t the trick of a cunt. It’s super-lying. Not only do I have to pretend something that isn’t happening is happening, when everyone knows it isn’t - I have to pretend that in this situation I would behave like someone who would be good at the job.

During this role-play, my brain synapses went spastic, and all I could do was laugh appreciatively. My eyes swipped helplessly to each interviewer, as they confidently played out their roles, while I laughed (appreciatively, mind), clenching hard enough to combine my buttocks. When I did say something, it was so awful that my body rebelled. From a sitting position in my comfortable chair, I leant forward and put my hand on the floor.

What does THAT say to an interviewer? A man who laughs and puts his hands on the floor? I have tried to put myself in their position, and the only possible explanation I’ve come up with is “our interviewee is haunted”.

This interview was for an admin role. It was a real “put aside your dreams, Mr Blyth, your vast belly needs thrice-daily feeding” day. I was going to prepare a number of questions, about the changeable nature of my career path, and how each job informed the current role in a different way. But bearing in mind I get excited, distracted and sleepy in times of stress, I had spent the entire previous week lying down and frantically playing Soul Caliber.

And I don’t want to sound dramatic, but I really can’t remember much at all from the interview. It seemed to be over in three minutes. I have the foggiest memories that it went something like this;

Them : Thanks for coming in.
Me : Thanks for seeing me, I appreciate it.
Them : So, what made you apply for this job?
[three minute pause]
Them : Well, thanks very much for coming in.
Me : Thanks for seeing me, I appreciate it.

The worst thing about not getting this job is that I’d have been Brenda’s boss. Gut-ted.

Because when communities start celebrating Christmas without the quality control that corporate sponsorship brings, this is the kind of shit you get outside Sainsbury’s.

Listen in anguish.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll enjoy the recorder flourish at the end of the verse. Before they start the verse again, and do it three times worse.

Crossover Website Factotum : this branch of Sainsbury’s in the very same branch where Cha-Man, the inspiration for the Law of the Playground, works.

THE BOARDROOM OF GORBACHOCâ„¢ ENTERPRISE

After three years of continuous decline, Gorbachoc Enterprise have decided to use advanced taste science to boost the desirability of their chocolate product. The day has finally come for the unveiling of the new chocolate.

Boris
This chocolate is one of the finest we have ever tasted.

Scientist
Thank you. It’s mainly down to a small reconfiguration of the ingredients. We used milk, where previously you had used vinegar and spicy livers.

Boris
We will have to take the picture of spiced livers off the wrapper, then. It would be misleading to have a dissected and heavily paprika’d rat on our packaging if the customer is to be eating milk.

Scientist
I’ve also increased the level of cocoa solids from 0% to around 50%.

Boris
I am not sure what you are saying, but it is soothing and hypnotic.

Scientist
But this increase, sadly, meant that I had to lower the shit and piss content.

Alana
This is outrageous! He is uprooting our fundamentals! Where will we shit and piss now?

Boris
Calm, Alana. Were I a younger man, Scientist, I would say you had gone too far. However, my experience in life has taught me that there is always a place to shit and piss. We will go in the liitle room underneath the staircase.

TWO WEEKS LATER : MARKETING DIVISION

MARKETING GUY PRESENTS HIS NEW ADVERTISING CAMPAIGN TO BORIS AND ALANA

Marketing Guy
Hey. Nice face. Seriously. Liking the face. Yours too. Couple a great faces here, yeah.

Boris
Your pe…

Marketing Guy
Not. Another. Word. I know what you’re thinking - why’s this guy standing there with his dick out? It’s a metaphor, Boris. This is how far I’m willing to go for you.

Boris
You are willing to get your penis out for my chocolate?

Marketing Guy
Metaphorically, yes.

Alana
But your penis is out.

Marketing Guy
Also literally. Let’s not ass-fuck the labrador, Boris, Alan, here’s what I’ve got.

Marketing Guy
See the background? That’s like the Matrix. This girl lives in a messed-up world. The only thing that keeps her going since she was reborn into hell - Russia - is the reassuring taste of Gorbachoc.

Alana
I have seen the Matrix. I watch every film with a character called Tank. Generally they are very attractive men, although sometimes they are just fat. This usually results in a desolate mood, and the digging out of old magazines.

Marketing Guy
So this girl, she’s like The One. The One who gets to enjoy delicious chocolate for every meal. That’s why she’s so happy. Mona Lisa happy. I’ve done some market research here. You know that Mona Lisa? They asked her what she was feeling. She said she was 83% happy, right? And 9% disgusted. Also 6% fearful, and 2% angry. You got that? That’s like getting a big cake - the best cake in the world. You’re happy. Then you see a caterpillar on it. Ew. But it’s still a big, excellent cake. So it doesn’t bother you too much. But then the caterpillar says “yo mama”. A talking caterpillar on your cake? That’s freaky! Now you’re scared! But hang on, that caterpillar is ragging on yo ma… who the fuck does he think he is? Angry! That’s what happened to the Mona Lisa. And we recreated those conditions exactly to get this photograph. I’d like to introduce you to Steve. He played the caterpillar.

Steve
Yo mama!

BORIS AND ALANA APPLAUD

Marketing Guy
Sir - Madam - this girl is gonna sell you some chocolate. It’s little Obligata you should be applauding. And I don’t think you should ever stop.

BORIS AND ALANA CONTINUE APPLAUDING FOREVER

How will the Chocolate Relaunch go? Will the Russians adopt little Obligata as a national mascot, or will she end up old before her years, a teen crack slut turning OAP tricks for cash? Find out… if I ever bother to write another one of these!

From reading this blog, you’d probably have me pegged as a well-spoken gentleman. You most likely picture me tapping my pipe on the cocktail cabinet, and excusing myself from diplomatic engagements on the grounds that I’m too busy combing the pelts of endangered animals.

Well, I’ve been back in Nottingham for two days. And this afternoon, I asked my cousin if she could pass me my bottle of fizzy pop. Well, that is what I would have said in my London manor. “Be an absolute darling and fax me my fizzy wizzy”, I would have said.

50 hours in Nottingham, and I said “chuck us me wet”. I stopped, afterwards, to touch my lips in a baffled way. Chuck us me wet? It’s not even a phrase that they use in the East Midlands. It’s like my mouth stayed on the train and went to some imaginary Northern town where nouns have given way to adjectives.

“Would you like a Coke?”
“Away, with your brown air-water! I want a nice cup of the nice!”

Anyway, more on the confused stereotypes, blood-soaked old ladies and family betrayals that have marked my homecoming later on in the week - today, I want to tell you about The Heartbreaking And Entirely True Tale of Graham Williams. Graham was a regular face in the pub I ran in Nottingham a few years ago. He was a well-known in the pub trade, and a well-liked man; separated from his wife, but very much the doting father to his daughters.

I have vivid memories of him coming into the pub after an afternoon’s Christmas shopping, fretting over his presents for his two daughters. He was a terrible worrier, although he was too considerate to burden you with too many of his worries. Instead, Graham’s hands would flap to his mouth when he was talking, then he’d walk his fingers along his face and tug at his ear. Hard enough to cock his head. Often, he’d blink so heavily that when he finally got around to opening his eyes again, I expected him to shake his head, rub his peepers with his fists and say “wu-huh-huh!?”

And because he was so concerned about burdening other people with his problems, these were the only signs of his turmoil that I saw. So I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles and went wu-huh-huh!? when I found out that he’d committed suicide this year.

Well, not quite.

Graham had sealed the windows of his flat, and put a canister of carbon dioxide next to the filled bath. And knowing him as superficially as I do, I picture him dithering. Staring at the bath and crushing his lips between his thumb and forefinger. Going to sit down, but being drawn back to the bath and the cannister. Most powerful amongst the feelings that this scenario brings up, I imagine him feeling imprisoned in his newly airtight flat. Each individual preparation being relatively effortless, until all the preparations had been made, and he realised that all he had to do was turn a valve and lie down. He was at the end of the plank.

To continue the plank metaphor involves casting all his negative emotions as pirates. I am resisting the temptation to write Graham’s inner monologue and adding loads of “me hearties” and a snide parrot.

Even if he had changed his mind, undoing the preparations he’d made would do little to chirpy him up. The bathetic retreat would have been crushing; in that situation, I would have imagined a hundred CCTV cameras, manned by hyenas. But he might have changed his mind, for all anyone knows. He had a heart attack, and they found his body next to a full bath, and a full cannister of carbon dioxide. He was dead, whether he wanted to be or not - he just left enough evidence of his previous intentions to make it all seem hopelessly naff. The tragedy - and it’s fucking tragic - is burgled by its jaw-dropping crapness.

When I was told this story, I laughed, and said “oh, for fuck’s sake, Graham”. Our resident scientist said “the fucking idiot was lucky - carbon dioxide poisoning is an awful death. The daft cunt was thinking of carbon monoxide”. Everyone else… well, they said something fond and abusive too. Then they drank more than they usually would, in his honour. I wasn’t drinking, though. I was saying “what’s the point” to myself, in a pirate’s voice.

On the upside, I saw a car with the registration “WUF”, which made me say “woof” to myself, and laugh. This put a spring in my step for a good two hours.

I’ve been totally wrapped up in PHP and crap like that for a week, in an attempt to add a gallery-style area to Lifelong Disappointment. This means I haven’t got any fun words, and I’m terrified of syntax errors.

I’ll be back when my mind is in a chirpy prosish place.

And I’ll be running my parents’ pub in Nottingham next week, if anyone wants to come in and bludgeon me to death in the wee hours. (That’s when I wee).

Oh, woe! That it should come to this! That a delicate creature, such as myself, should be edged, beaten and broomed into the agonising position of having to break a man’s heart!

Two suitors have I, each devoted and true - and yet my aunt is most particular that I do not, as she puts it, “fuck the poor cunts about”. Might I implore your indulgence, dear reader? If I shared with you the story of my triangle, (the details of which have become somewhat hairy), would you help me choose a suitor?

I first met Desmond at the sandwich counter in Boots the Chemist. He glanced down at my egg and cress, and said that he felt like he’d known me all his life. “Sir,” I giggled, knowing a thing or two about seduction. “To know me so quickly and so completely is to make me seem quite shallow!” But I had pulled my T-shirt above my stomach to let him know that I was interested.

For my birthday, Desmond bought me an exquisite pair of sugar tongs. “A girl like you shouldn’t be touching sugar,” he said, plainly oblivious to the fact that I am a 31 year old man with sideburns. I’ve started leaving catalogues open on the pages featuring ornate gravy boats - I do hope he gets the message. That I want a gravy boat. Otherwise I’ll have to resort to wailing “woe, to live without a gravy boat”.

Silly old Desmond will try to dress me in frocks and suchlike, and when I complain it is his delightful habit to put his large hands over my face until I pass out. When I wake, it is always wearing a dress, with a localised ache in my hips, where he has attacked me stupidly with his fundament. It is a fortune that he has not found any of my holes, yet.

Desmond has proposed to me. He has occupier’s rights over an end terrace in Lincoln, so I’m not taking it lightly.

But then there’s Duncan. Sweet, adorable Duncan. Grant me, pray, a few more moments of your time to tell you about Duncan.

Duncan first came to my attention in the queue at the Leicester Square Burger King, where he was facing in the wrong direction. My immediate reaction - apart from a sense that I had been eating celery my whole life, and here was meat - was that the poor creature needed the care of a skilled sponge-maiden. I approached him with my kerchief wrapped around my finger, and sweet Duncan flapped his head around, and tried to bite my hand.

Two weeks later, I had managed to coax Duncan into a seated position, although he would still spring to his feet and salivate wildly if he smelled chips. My goal was clear - I was to take Duncan to the ambassador’s party!

After three months of training, Duncan had come along most encouragingly. He had stopped hunting the furniture, and with the aid of a bespoke contraption wired into his skull, he could no longer bite anyone, although some growling and frothing still occurred. I was greatly excited… word had got around about Duncan, and my handiwork was to be admired by Tony Blair himself!

Duncan spent the first half of the party eating the ice sculpture and looking suspicious, because he could see through it a little. It was quite charming to watch him at play, and I commented to Tony Blair himself that I imagined he was hung like a barn. I also spotted a divine fragrance, and mentioned to Tony Blair himself that I adored his perfume. Tony Blair told me that it was made from expensive oils, and extracts from a rare family of vegetable distantly related to the potato.

“Posh chips!” howled Duncan, launching himself at the Prime Minister’s neck. I’m sorry to report that Duncan chewed poor Tony Blair to death, and were told not to come back until we’d found a new Prime Minister. I gestured at Duncan, but they reacted angrily.

That night, Duncan and I kissed for the first time. Well, I say kiss. He ate some chips out of my palm, which is as good as.

So you see my torture - I love both these men with all my heart, and would simply make a mess on the carpet without either of them. But who should I choose? Any suggestions from you, dear hearts, would be gratefully received, so long as you don’t swear or talk about men’s hot cocks.

Medico-Educational Category

Runner-Up

“OPEN UP TO MOUTH CANCER”
You and mouth cancer are like a couple of bloody children. Look at you both sitting there with your arms folded, not looking at each other. Isn’t it time you put your differences aside? Open up to mouth cancer.

This touchy-feely approach to localised cancers is to be backed up with a range of huggable plush cancers, and a Rubik’s cancer that goes benign when you solve it. A sitcom about a boy who lives with a cancer-stricken giraffe and/or alien is set to be broadcast on HBO, and the Chuckle Brothers’ new show - “Tumour, To You” - promises to set the skies on fire and never stop burning, according to Barry Chuckle.

Winner

“TURN YOUR BACK ON MUSCULOSKELETAL DISORDERS”
This poster takes a different approach, imploring readers to behave more frostily towards illness. This poster is more in the vein of such medical information posters as “Smile Blankly And Walk Past Your Best Friend Amnesia”, “Scream When Autism Moves Things Around In Your Room”, and “Piss Crabs Off”.

However, “Turn Your Back On Musculoskeletal Disorders” is shaping up to be as popular as 1989’s “OMFG! AIDS!”, with 50 Cent already recording a song to back up the campaign.

“If I was your sargeant, I’d give you this order -
turn your back on musculoskeletal disorder”

Also, it looks like the person is pissing onto a wall, and don’t tell me nodoby noticed THAT in the focus groups. A deserving winner.

CROSS-GENERATIONAL COMMUNICATION

WINNER

“NO MESSIN’”
A meeting with the Fat Controller;

“I understand that the younger generation is currently labouring under the impression that congregating in groups around the railway is somehow ‘cool’, as your Fonz would say. I can only imagine that they have read Edith Nesbit’s excellent book, The Railway Children, and cultivated a nostalgic romance with rail travel.”

“Probably, sir.”

“Perhaps they appreciate the rail paradox - the freedom that such travel gives us, and the train’s own status as prisoner of the tracks. To borrow from our red-faced brethren - if it is a steel horse, then it’s steel testicles have been truly castrated. Perhaps they relish that tragedy all too keenly.”

“I should think.”

“Well, I’m an old fuddy-duddy, I know that. Let’s erect a poster that speaks directly to these romance-dazzled children, in their own patois. All we need to do is inform them that such recreational endeavours are not cool.”

“OK, sir.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

“Well done. I’d have put three exclamation marks after Get Real, but otherwise, perfect. Here, have a train.”

“Wow, are you sure sir?”

“Yes, I’ve got loads.”

SPECIAL WORTHY CAUSE AWARD
WINNER

“TIT FREAK”
If you think you can help this poor tit freak out, you might like to drop him a line. Do you have tits? Then Tit Freak might be interested. Sadly, this quick doodle doesn’t give any information about his interests beyond titfreakery, so if it’s any help, his previous graffiti in this very same toilet (I’m something of a regular) includes “tit freak seeks men for mutual breastfeeding”.

Are you up to the task? ENJOY TIT FREAK.

This entry is karma for my previous “work toilet” entry, in which the man in the next cubicle made wild rattling noises and gasped “shit“. This time, it was my turn to be the monster in the cupboard.

I’ve just had the one moment in my life that means I don’t need to live any more - I just want to live the last few moments over, and over, again. I’ve just spent a full two minutes crying with laughter, padding my little feet on the floor, and nearly screaming with delight. Oh God, please let me tell you why.

I just went to the toilet in work. Unusually, both the other cubicles were full, so I went into the third booth, dropped my grubbies, and got ready to untidy myself. But what came out was a succession of what I can only - in all fairness - describe as trumps.

NUMBER 1
The first fart with any shit is forgivable, and to be expected. I’m not puerile, so I didn’t laugh at this fart. I did listen to the reactions of the other cubicles - it’s something of a catchphrase in my family to appreciatively cheer “Good Arse” after a peculiarly beefy trump. There was no reaction, so I got on with the more serious business of having a shit.

NUMBER 2
But no shit was to come. What came instead was another fart. Identical in tone, timbre and moisture as the last, if nipped to a close earlier, thanks to a sense of mild embarrassment. The similarity of the farts made me smile a little, and made me think about all the old theories we came up with as children to explain different kind of farts - fatness, gayness, and so on. And all the names for farts we had, from the onomatopoeic “pern” to the Angry Anderson (aggressive, comes from Down Under). These memories make me smile, but I really am thinking more about having a shit.

NUMBER 3
I relax and gently push for a third time, but I’m prepared for the fart, and ready to pinch it off instantly. I can feel my mouth starting to crinkle, but at this stage I mistake it for concentration, and don’t admit to myself that I’m on the verge of laughing out loud. So when my tense sphincter produces a totally different squeaker-style fart, I’m not ready to stifle the “aha!” laugh that jumps out.

NUMBER 4
So now, I’m fucked. The fact that I audibly chuckled, and didn’t even disguise it to sound like a grunt of effort, means that they know I’m in a cubicle, farting and laughing to myself. This was made worse by my clumsy attempt at a late conversion - a wild effort to make any sound that would make the laugh sound like something that wasn’t a laugh. My conversion sound was a gasping, quiet “uphooo”.

If I’d heard that sound coming from another cubicle, I would have pictured them pressing against the walls in fear at what was about to happen; a brown down-volcano spitting its first sloppy rocks. My farts had so far been dry, thankfully - I think I would have fallen off the bowl if I’d sputtered. But everything is building up, and I’m starting to revert.

NUMBER 5
I’ve also seen the flaw in my plan to stifle the farts; I’m having a shit. I’m going to have to get rid of the air, first. I lack the internal dexterity to manoeuvre a balloonful of air around or through a turd. Now that I’ve been stupid enough to cut that fart off mid-toot, I’ve got more left. So I either wait for the other two men to leave, or I just get a grip, act my age, and fart what is left onto the water.

Unfortunately, I’ve totally reverted to schoolboy mode, and during the two second fart that follows, I’m laughing like Muttley would laugh during a two minute silence. If he was fucking rabid. I put my hand to the wall to steady myself, and I hit the oversized toilet roll dispenser, which makes a sound loud enough to imply that my cubicle is a rocket ship that’s about to take off.

I give in. There’s more fart left, but if I don’t stop soon I’ll shit myself laughing.

NUMBER 6
I can’t stop laughing now. I don’t even need to fart to set myself off. I only have to picture the faces of the people in their private shittoirs, and I’m off. The sixth fart comes from this juddering heap - by now, I really don’t have enough control over my body to stop farts coming out. This isn’t helped by the absolute silence from the other cubicles. If one of them would just laugh, or acknowledge the farts, it would break the spell. The fact I’m imagining them to be appalled is just making me worse.

I swap between gasping, laughing, wobbling, biting my fist - and it’s when biting my fist that the sixth flies out. This makes me stop shaking - or perhaps I’m shaking so fast I can no longer feel it - and raise my eyebrows in a disbelieving appreciation of what is happening to my poor anus. It’s fair to say that I’m having the time of my fucking life.

NUMBER 7
The seventh fart proves to be the last, and it’s mercifully short, as the turtle finally stops coughing and sticks its head down my toot-chute. This kills the charm, at last, and I can finally calm down. Even though I do feel like I’ve just done a brazillion sit-ups. The other chambers remains silent, so I suspiciously look under the partition. Sure enough, there’s feet. So, with a final, wry chuckle, of the kind that Oscar Wilde might use after saying “ah, but tis better to have a wind-filled shit than a sin-filled wit” or something gay like that, I run without washing my hands back to my desk.

On the upside, it was a clean break and barely needed wiping.