All stories copyright xoggoth


GM crops

Moosy didn't come home the other morning.

I left it a couple of days then went out looking for her. I drove around half expecting, in fact hoping, to see her squashed body by the roadside but there was nothing. I hoped because the other real possibility was worse.

I took the footpath across the Kale field on St Anne's farm and found what I had feared in the big hedgerow next to the wire mesh fence that seperated it from the GM Rape field. The little body lay sucked dry, the empty skull burst from within. I gave the farmer verbal hell. His bloody GM crops had eaten my cat, but in the end of course there was nothing I could do and he knew it. The cat was on his land, he had a licence and he had complied with all the legislation.

I can't really blame anyone but myself and all the idiots like me who supported these things and saw the protesters as typical anti-progress tree-hugger types. If we had all tried maybe we could have stopped it. Or perhaps not. After all, big business was involved and since when does the ordinary citizen ever really count against that?

Many of the other villagers had lost pets too. Like me they had had no remedy under the law. I geuss we would just have gone on grumbling and doing nothing if it had not been for little Lucy. She was the publican's daughter and during a moment of carelessness by her parents had wandered off too close to the wire. Tempers were high at the funeral, but many felt that this incident would at least change the law. It didn't. The tenant farmer and the large conglomerate that owned the land got slapped wrists for minor breaches of safety regulations.

We waited until the director of MegaCrops limited was on one of his rounds and stormed the farm. We took the harvester and thrashed the rape plants to pieces although three of our number were injured by the lashing barbs. We stamped on the snapping strawberry plants, ignoring their high pitched screams. Most dangerous of all were the maize plants because of their shear size and ferocity. In the end we used petrol and torched the entire field, hacking down any that tried to escape through the narrow gateway.

We left the director of MegaCrops until last. He was screaming after he saw how we had stood the farmer upright like a scarecrow in the burnt field, the GM maize stake protruding bloodily from his mouth at the upper end.

We felt he should have been more appreciative of having a little plant genetic material inside him.

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Head down

What is your worst horror? The most absolutely awful fate you can possibly imagine, the one you avoid thinking about lest somehow that should make it happen.

Mine is being stuck head down in a totally dark shaft. It nearly happened once.

Sounds a bit geeky but the missus and I used to be keen mineral collectors back when there was still some to collect in the UK. We had been roaming around Cornwall out of season staying at B&Bs and motels and spending our days walking and happily bonking away at rocks.

We were planning to have a look at some spoil tips marked on the map, but when we got there she had the women's things cramps. As we had driven some way I wandered across the field to see if it would be worth coming back next day.

The spoil tip was overgrown and useless. There was a small mine shaft nearby which looked safe enough as it was virtually horizontal. Went in and it narrowed to barely big enough to crawl through but there was no resemblance to my nightmare as it went upwards. If it got too narrow it would be dead easy to back out.

Wriggled up and came out in a roughly circular chamber 15 to 20 ft across and similar height. There was light from an aperture at the top largely covered by an old car. Over in one corner was the shaft proper, 6 to 8 ft in diameter and dropping into god knows what. The rim was so sloping and muddy it was unsafe to get close.

Had a look for any decent mineral signs but it was just bare grey rock and lots of mud. I turned round to go back and found there were three identical shoulder-width holes going into the ground, all pitch black, and I had no idea which one I had come from.

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File naming conventions - part 1

My computer has ben running very slowly recently.

While doing some installation packaging the other day I found the reason. There is a huge number of files in the Windows\System directory with very 80s feminist names like msimrt.dll, Msacm32.drv and msvcp60.dll.

Clearly the system would run much quicker if these were updated for the post feminist era with names like mrssimrt.dll, Missacm32.drv and mrsvcp60.dll etc.

I have therefore been looking in the Windows registry to try and find out which files are married. This only works for those files that were married in a registry office rather than in church of course.

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File naming conventions - part 2

My preferred convention for naming temporary files is to use ones derived from obscenities like @arse, w@nk and cVnt, and my ultimate ambition was to use this convention for all the files on my computer.

A few utilities like TweakUI have been very helpful in this regard in changing default directory names like Favourites (to Fartrites) but often it has been a long hard slog with a hex editor changing dll references in executables.

But I am pleased to announce that my work is complete, for example, instead of the boring C:\Windows\System my machine now runs using an immensely satisfying C:\Wankows\Shitem. The C: of course is short for cVnt:

If anyone would like a list of offsets please email me.

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She hated common people and their little badges of scumminess, earrings on men, nose or eyebrow rings on anybody, body piercings, shaven heads, tattoos, baggy trousers, black music and fashions. Her son tried to tell her that these things were actually quite middle class these days but she would have none of it.

She hated people who watched soaps, at least they should have the decency not to talk about it, to pretend they didn't. She hated people who read the Sun or worse, the Daily Star. She hated people who used mobile phones in shops, dropped their aitches, were called Tracy or Wayne, ate takeaway suppers in the street.

When she died her son scattered her ashes at Wembley dog track.

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Time zones

Dear Diary

Both sons now finished at University and both at home busy installing CD player in their shared car and putting on new seat covers. They have only spent four days on it so far.

I can see that one of my many failures as a father was in not imparting any grasp of practical engineering. Constant requests for advice, how do I make a hole in this (use a drill?) how can I get this screw out (a screwdriver?). My failure was really brought home after No 1 spent 20 minutes carefully cutting around the cardboard speaker template on the box. Erm, why not just press it out, see, along these dotted lines where it says press out?

No 2 says "Why do I get the impression that I've done nearly all the work while No 1 has managed to put on one seat cover?". It's true, at least two entirely different time regimes operate in this house. No 1 is a Galapogus giant tortoise, no 2 is an ant. The wife is Everest. In both time and space.

More a terrier myself, once I start something I just have to get it finished. This is because I know that if you leave things even slightly unfinished they will seize every opportunity to revert to how they were before you started or worse. This used to happen all the time when I had a contract, I would knock myself out getting modules written and fully checked out, then they would start to revert. The test team would then fail them because they were full of obvious errors.

I always thought it was most unfair to blame me when it was their fault for not checking them sooner, they would have been perfect then.

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Hitting the window

I am an unashamed sentimentalist about wild animals and I really hate it when some poor little bird crashes into our patio doors or bedroom windows.

There it is, flying freely, its little beak open to catch a juicy bluebottle, when crash!, that little beak is rammed back into the fragile skull and after a few minutes of gasping on the cold flags of our patio its world goes out.

Off to the little graveyard at the bottom of the garden. No, I don't actually bury them or put up little tombstones, even I am not that sentimental, but I know they would appreciate the little spot I chuck them in behind the compost heap. Its nice down there, near the tiny stream and the horse chestnut growing from what was once a filial conker. "That there's some corner of Xoggoth's garden that is forever sparrow, or greenfinch or..."

I was sitting early AM eating cereal and watching Snailsbury. This is a kid's program about a town of snails that seems to have so many officials, mayors, alderman, policemen, etc. that I would not be surprised to see a snail taxman. Nice to see the BBC preparing children for their life of abject slavery to the state.

Loud thump at the patio door, a big one!, blackbird at least. Go outside. It was a tiny John Prescott with wings. Even behind the crushed nose I recognised the pugnacious surly expression and the jowls quivering in its death rattle. I threw it in one of the black rubbish bags next to the dustbin marked 'politicians'.

It is always a mistake to do that with anything edible, last night a vixen with the face of Ian Duncan Smith tore a hole in the bag and ate it leaving a trail of decaying cabinet ministers all over my lawn.

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Driving home from your new job near Birmingham down a road you have been along a handful of times and you think you know it but it all looks unfamiliar. Have you gone the wrong way at one of the many very similar roundabouts or is this just a bit you have not really noticed before?. So you drive on for a while longer and nothing looks right so you turn round.

There's a man standing on the verge two roundabouts back, he looks familiar. So does the roundabout, ah yes! you must have driven straight over when you should have turned left. But after half a mile you realise this road is too small, where is the dual carriageway section? You travel a bit further and nothing rings any bells so you go right round the next roundabout and drive back.

At the first roundabout there's that same man again, no can't be, this one's taller. You take the turning from the roundabout that you think takes you back the way you came. Why are there no signposts? You drive for two miles or so and realise this can't be it. The road is much narrower than you remember and there is nothing like the normal rush hour traffic. You feel disoriented and there is an edge of panic.

You turn round. It seems a very long way back to the roundabout, surely you did not drive this far? When you reach it, it is just a small one on a B road, where is the main road? But you turned around in a farm track and there were no junctions, how could you possibly have taken a wrong turning? There are no signposts but a very tall man is walking along the road on the other side of the roundabout and some way off. You drive that way to ask directions but he seems to get no closer and suddenly is gone leaving you wondering if it was anyone at all or just a shadow.

You make a seven point turn in the narrow road and drive back. And drive, and drive, and there is no roundabout, no junction, no traffic. The road turns to a dirt track with steep sides that will not let you turn. A mile further it stops altogether. In front there is just open moorland.

You get out of the car. There is no track behind you, no indication that a car has come that way. You walk to the top of a rise to try and see the nearest road. Stumbling, you glance back the way you came and there is no car. Way off on the next hill you seem to see an immensely, unbelievably tall man standing. Waiting.

There is nothing else but open moor. As far as the horizon in every direction, no roads, no houses, no lights, no aeroplanes, no sign of human life whatever and everywhere is silent except for the moaning of the wind.

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Tunnel vision

Mundane holidays were not for him and the three weeks in a remote part of Tibet was one his most adventurous. He camped in a remote region near the Himilayas. Local legend had it that the area was haunted by animal spirits that would possess men trespassing there. He found no demons of course but the scenery was spectacular.

The headaches started a few weeks after his return and he went for an eye test. Although he had noticed nothing untoward the optician suggested further tests. There appeared to be no physical reason but the second visit confirmed that his vision was narrowing.

It almost seemed as though the diagnosis was a trigger because the deterioration after that was rapid. The darkness closed in from the edges and in a few months he could see only a small circle in front of him, it was indeed like living inside a dark tunnel looking outwards. The doctors talked of a brain lesion but they could find no sign.

He used to be so active and coped badly. Months of sleepless nights scarcely helped by sleeping pills and tranquilisers. Days hard to fill, councilling and therapy. His other senses seem affected, his hearing sometimes echoed and rustled and a strange smell was always present but they told him it was just anxiety or the side effects of the drugs.

After a while he started to cope. To talk again, even joke about life inside his tunnel. Until he awoke to find the distant light partially eclipsed by a moving mass, a sound, a slop of wetness, the hiss of maggots on a putrefied corpse, an odour feral and decaying.

Something had made a burrow and now it was moving in.

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The jolly day of Sniffo the Bear

The sun beamed down brightly on Happy Valley and its happy little inhabitants as it always did.

Skip, skip skip. Sniffo the Bear skipped down the hill. He was ever so excited. From the top he had seen Mrs Lilywhitetits the Badger through her window, stuffing her smalls in the laundry basket. Sniffo wiggled his way through the hole in her fence, skipped up the little garden path, put his little paws through her window and was away with two pairs of knickers and a bra before you could say ooh that's wiffy.

Sniffo was very very happy. He sat in the Paradise woods with the lovely wiffy underwear. Sniff, sniff, sniff he went. Sniff, sniff, sniff eeeeeuuh. He was still sitting there when Mr Pervy the Penguin came by. Mr Pervy eyed the little bear and his little damp patch and his cute little bum.

"Hello there Sniffo" he said, "would you like to come for a walk with me and look for caterpillars?". "Ooooh yes please" said Sniffo. Sniffo thought his bottom was ever such a funny place to find caterpillars but Mr Pervy assured him that the best ones liked dark smelly places and probing for them like that was really the most scientific method. Sniffo was very disappointed that they did not find any caterpillars, it would have made the soreness all worth it.

On the way home he ran into his chums Clitoris the Cat and Friggy Fox in a small crowd of jolly Happy Valley animals. Hello Clittie, hello Friggy said Sniffo what are you doing? Hello Sniffo they cried. We're all having a facial gang bang on Ms Gaggingforit Goat, would you like to join in?. Oooh yes please said Sniffo. And so all the chums had a lovely time and Ms Goat got ever so sticky.

Then the jolly pals all went home and had their tea.

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Suitable candidates

It was only the total unpopularity of the established parties that let them in. People still remembered Blair's New Labour far too well. The brief and scandal ridden Conservative term of office after that ended in a vote of no confidence and brought back all the bad memories of the Tories too. The Lib-Dems were far too pro EU for what was now a totally anti-EU public.

Who else was there?. The Raindow Coalition gained power. It comprised the Animal Democratic Party (the political wing of the Animal Liberation Front who had only recently joined the democratic fold by putting their wire cutters beyond use) and the Monster Raving Loony Party. They produced a flood of new legislation to ensure equality for previous victims of gross discrimination and these were difficult times for business owners.

I ran a small office stationary supply business and needed a new secretary. The applicants were a person of unknown sex called Mr. Yaffle Yaffle Cream-Cake-McToasty and a small golden hamster named Doris. I currently had 100% sane human staff and knew I would have to choose one of these, or someone/something very similar to avoid penalties under the Employment (Non human and Insane Persons Anti-Discrimination) Act 2009.

I interviewed Doris first. Doris's application had been written on her behalf by her assigned local government Anti-Discrimination Officer and was quite impressive considering. Doris was one year old and very inquisitive. She liked to eat bran flakes and Dandelion heads, to run in her wheel and chew the carpet.

I cleared my throat "What does Doris..." and received a sharp frown from her ADO. "Oh sorry" I muttered "Now Doris, what qualities do you think you can bring to this job?" Doris continued grooming. "Erm, where do you see your career going in five years time Doris?" Doris started stuffing apple chunks into her cheek pouches.

I showed them out. "Thank you for coming Doris, we will be in touch very shortly."

I had a problem understanding Mr McToasty's application. It consisted of a pork pie inside a goldfish bowl with HAMMOCK written on it. I had to interview him in the corridor because he refused to stop sucking the fire hose. "Thank you for coming Mr McToastie. Now, tell me about your career so far". Mr McToastie beamed and played with the cabbage tied to his pony tail. Then he closed his eyes (his lids had eyes drawn on them in coloured felt tip pen) and shouted "Damaraland, Namaqualand and Helligoland, yes please cheese please"

I took Doris on, she seemed less trouble. She was no good at all at any secretarial duties so I had to do all her work myself, but she was company during all the evenings I had to work late to catch up.

Happy days!

In the next election of course, the two party coalition lost their majority and only retained power by bringing other minority parties on board. The Green Party, The Extreme Disability Party and The Children's Democratic Party.

Doris is elderly now of course, she sleeps on her keyboard most of the time. Mr X, an anacephalic, is in charge of despatch. His iron lung gets in the way of the packing machine although it does not really matter as he does no packing anyhow, just drools. Melissa answers the phone, except when her mother had to feed or change her of course. I gather the few potential customers that ring in now mostly ask for deaaah, dah dah dah. Pity we don't have those in stock.

My business is sunk unless my salesman can bring us in some big orders, although as he is a small rainforest in the Amazon Basin I am not holding my breath.

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My new career as a suicide bomber

Dear diary,

As you know I have tried really hard to stay positive over this long 'resting' period but it has really got to me now, I haven't been able to afford any prossies for months.

I have therefore decided to end it all and take a bastard out with me, either Brownstuff or the Mad Messiah. I will be the world's first atheist suicide bomber and people will refer to me in awe for years to come as the welly bomber. I must succeed of course, poor old Guy Fawkes has had his effigy burned for centuries because he failed to blow up parliament.

I thought what the IRA would have in stock in their beyond use arsenal. Ammonium nitrate and diesel oil. No ammonium nitrate in the greenhouse but I had some Fowler's bone-meal, rich in nitrogen it said on the packet. No diesel either so I used central heating oil. Carefully mixed in old welly, took cover and closed switch. Nothing. Five minutes with blow torch just managed to get it alight.

The Brixton nail bomber made them from fireworks. Had a couple of boxes of Paynes in the garage, not used cos it was pissing down. Only two small bangers in each box, but some other things go bang a bit. Emptied powder from one box into welly. Got some lovely colours, lots of fizzy bits shooting out and at the end it went "wheeeeeeeee" but bit of a dead loss blowing politicians to smithereens wise.

Took me ages to wire brush the black stuff off each nail so it could go back in the box. Hate wasting things. Anyhow, they are a major part of my sons' legacy, along with my Maestro van and my collection of old washing machine parts.

I can solve these minor technical problems. In the meantime I'm planning my attack. It is clear that Downing Street will be far too well guarded, no chance of getting Blair there. I see his son Lionel begins a run at the Blackpool Hippodrome next week; nice to see he grew out of those youthful drunken episodes and made a career for himself in showbiz. The Mad Messiah is bound to show up for the opening night.

I shall be waiting. My place in history is as good as booked.

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Catering for all tastes

This is based on a very old crap joke I first heard at school. A bloke with a tic in one eye is introduced to a nice young lady at a brothel and says she is not quite his type, winking furiously. The madam calls up the stairs "Oi Bert there's one here for you".


He was in his mid 40s and getting past dances and discos populated by 20s and 30s types. Most of the young ladies, if they were kind enough to dance with him at all, just said thanks very much at the end and disappeared with alacrity. On the other hand there seemed to be nowhere to meet women of his own age that were not spoken for. In any case he was rather shy and found the initial contact difficult. The nervous tic in one eye hardly helped, it got worse when he was nervous or embarrassed.

He still had needs. After much dithering he plucked up courage and went to the local brothel.

The lady at the desk was very nice. She introduced him to Sophie, who looked about twenty. He was ashamed of his paunching body and the way that most of the hair that had once grown luxuriously from his head now sprouted in weird tufts from his back and shoulders. Winking furiously, he said he would prefer someone more mature.

She showed him to the gerontophile suite. Elsie lay naked on the bed, or rather most of her did, her breasts spilled like soggy French loaves onto the floor.

She had a thick white moustache and a wispy white beard. A bold tracery of blue veins covered the body, here skeletal, there bulging, where gravity had hauled things to unaccustomed places. A string bag of offal. Her teeth grinned from a glass. He had paid £70 but was entirely unable to get his money's worth. He was too diffident to offend and pretended he had other things on his mind.

The next time he was introduced to a woman in her thirties, attractive but rather skinny for his taste. Winking, he said he preferred the fuller figure.

She showed him to the elephantophile suite. Julie lay naked on four beds, or rather most of her did, entirely unidentifiable bits also spilled off the edges at all compass points.

She had a pleasant, if balloon like, face and he might have found certain parts of Julie a turn on if he could only have found them. The problem was there just so many likely looking creases, including several in the right vicinity that might have contained the requisite orifice. After a number of false tries he thought he had found the right place but her thighs, bum and belly were just so gigantic that no matter what angle he tried, his modest manly dimensions just could not reach that far. He had wasted his £70 again.

He tried somewhere else. He was introduced to a very modern looking young lady with nose and eyebrow piercings and a lesbian style haircut. He said he liked women with more hair.

He was shown to the slothophile suite. Leyla probably lay naked on the bed although it was entirely impossible to tell.

She was covered in vast amounts of coarse black hair from head to foot. Texture varied from long and silky on what was probably her head, to an explosion of coarse pubes at the other end of the body, somewhat resembling a gorse bush that has survived a heath fire. He found it most unattractive and his fruitless attempts to get his moneys worth left him feeling he had been trying to bonk a Brillo pad. Another £70 down the drain.

As befits a guy from a very old joke our man was ridiculously persistent and wasted his £70 many times over, but I have already told the more acceptable adventures and in the interests of good taste I am ending this tale here. If you want the really mucky ones email me with a credit card number and for only £15 I will send them to you in a plain brown envelope. For another £50 I won't tell everybody.

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Cowboy surgeon

He had been a caring and brilliant surgeon. After he lost his wife during a mugging he was a bitter and brilliant surgeon. He was still fuming over the cowboys who had 'fixed' his central heating and charged him £750 for a £50 job. Had he been more his old self he would have stood up to them. The patient in for a routine operation was familiar, chief cowboy. He cut the artery to the liver, muttering in his head "whooooh, looks like yer pipe's gone there mate", shaking his head over the kidneys "yer filters 'ave seen better days, need replacing them do" before incising them both. The heart - "'fraid yer pump's 'ad it mate, that'll cost yer". The scalpel went in.

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They ran a busy collagen injection clinic for women who wanted fuller lips. On Friday they had a number of women booked in but they had run out of collagen and none of their suppliers could deliver until Monday. Five surgical assistants were dispatched to the bogs to provide suitable replacements of the right colour and consistency. Four carried copies of Razzle to cater for the white ladies and one didn't to cater for the black ones.

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Flight simulator

He had been dozing and the co-pilot shook him awake. Time to begin the descent to one of the world's most notoriously difficult airports. Clear the rocky peak of Velez and then the very sharp decent to the runway in the narrow valley. He felt very tired and his head ached. "Tell you what, Sean, I don't feel like this right now" lets just crash the damn thing into Velez and get out of this simulator. Sean could scarcely speak. As the mountain filled the cockpit's view he managed to croak 'simulator?'

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PC island

The papers called it PC island. On his inheritance, Mason Wentworth, the spoilt son of the multi-billionaire Harvey Adlai Wentworth purchased a small island in the West Indies, and with friends of the same leftist persuasion, set about turning it into an isolated self-sufficient paradise of total equality. The first major challenge came when a citizen lost a leg in a quad bike accident and could not contribute fully to the shared duties. It was totally wrong that he should feel in any way less valued than the others. They decided on the only proper course of action at the council of equals. Of course over the years there were many accidents and illnesses. When they were all down to one arm, half a leg and no eyes they starved to death.

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Old bungee jumper

He was a danger freak. His weekends were filled with sky diving, bungee jumping and pot holing. He loved bungee jumping most of all and never got tired of the thrill. Age takes its toll and there came a time when they told him "Sorry grandad, our insurers won't cover us if we let you go down." What was left?. He climbed sadly to his sixth floor flat. With a needle and thread he sewed every one of his varicose veins to the curtains and jumped out.

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Stealth trucks

Their opponents proved more resourceful than the Americans gave then credit for, they invented stealth trucks.

These were flat platforms with a wheel at each corner driven by silent electric motors. Partly inflated small diameter balloon tyres did away with the need for suspension and made them, with the driver lying prone next to the batteries and cargo, less than two feet high.

Camouflage made them appear like small rocky outcrops. The careful shaping of the titanium camouflage panels and the shallow angles they made to the ground, together with their low height, made the trucks invisible to radar. In the rough desert terrain they had a range of less than 20 miles and could make less than 10mph but that was all they needed.

Under cover of darkness, eleven of the vehicles crept to within 300 yards of where the American 5th armoured division had halted and formed an 1500 yd arc upwind. Thin fibre glass masts extended 20ft and each began to discharge a thin mist of deadly pathogens. Effective dispersal of biological agents is not easy, but when you can discharge up to 1000 gallons over a period of four hours efficiency is scarcely a concern. When their tanks were empty the trucks crept silently away.

A few soldiers felt ill late the next day. When the morning broke most of the 18,000 men were in a fevered state and only a handful of the tanks could be crewed. The US had suffered the first defeat of the Arab oil wars.

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Saw something on TV the other day, don't even know what it was, it was just one of those flicking though the channels moments en route to deciding there was nothing worth watching. Good job we only get four of 'em in backward Mid-Sussex going on Dhaka.

It had that fat ugly bloke, Ricky something from the Royle family. Another familar face too, under the make-up, couldn't place it. Only later it came, for no obvious reason, Harry H Corbett. Couldn't have been, he's been dead for what, twenty years? twenty five?. But Ricky thing is fairly recent surely?, at least looking as old and ugly as that anyhow.

Week later, bank holiday. We always start with great plans for our long weekends and never get round to any of it. Slumped watching latest overhyped BBC costume drama by Charlotte whatsername with the missus. She pretends to like these things cos she had to read a book by whatsername when she was doing teacher's training, I just polish off vodka and do my best to ruin it for her with clever Dick remarks and eating of noisy food. Its the only fun I get these days.

Isn't that whatsit? you know, him that was in that thing about the woman in the Bangcock prison, him, you know, thingy, you know, Denzil summit?, Denzil Washington?. No, Denholm Elliot!. But surely he died of up the bum disease about ten years ago?. You're thinking of that other bloke. Who? You know!. Trouble is, dying of up the bum disease never narrows it down too much with actors.

Last week, Paul Eddington, Good Life/Yes Minister bloke, died of skin cancer about ten years ago. All sort of red and scabby in the Caramel Lawn. Turns up unscabby in the latest episode of East Enders. Not that I watch that crap mind, I'm a university educated intelligent intellectual sort, me, I just happened to notice when I was putting on the Teletext to check when Parsifal was on on channel 4.

Turn on the TV tonight. John Thaw, Bill Pertwee and Sid James starring in a brand new sitcom about traffic wardens. Leslie Crowther, the most irritating deceased compere ever in the entire history of the universe, standing in for that premier up the bum disease candidate chat show host thingy. They say it's not a death sentence these days anyhow. Pity. Thingy will be round a few years yet then, but then he probably would even if it was.

That the trouble with the BBC, nothing but repeats. Don't know what we pay our licence fee for.

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