Im not sure if it was Doug or Michael who first pointed me towards David Thornes 27bslash6 site but his latest exchange of correspondence with Michael Harding of the South Australian police is hilarious and had me in stitches.
I've read the article four times now and am still smiling. You can't really quote sentences in isolation to pay justice to the brilliant humour so just enjoy the full article. The guy is a truly brilliant writer.
London, near England - Thursday 18 February 2010
British Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, astounded the world today by announcing the total and immediate withdrawal of all British troops from the current areas of conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Speaking exclusively to Piers Morgan on a prime-time chat show with tears in his eye, Brown explained: 'During the course of the Chilcott Inquiry (led by that England rugby prop forward), a few facts became clear; Tony Blair misled Parliament and lied to the British public.'
'There were never any Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. We are fighting a war we can never win in Afghanistan. The time has finally come to bring 'our boys' home. We have lost over 250 young men in Afghanistan. Enough is enough and there's an election imminent.'
'A total of 12,500 troops will return home immediately from the theatres of war in the middle-east and Afghanistan. They will be fully de-briefed and given clean underpants. Then they will return home to their families for emotional reunions. Finally, the daily funerals of brave bomb disposal experts in Wootton Bassett are over. Seven TV crews and an opportunistic florist will also be recalled to London today.'
'This is not a day for trite soundbites but I can feel the hand of history on my shoulder. This day shall be a Public Holiday to be forever known as 'Honourable Draw in Iraq and Afghanistan' Day (HDIA Day).'
'On Monday, all the 12,500 members of the armed forces will all pack up their kit, say a tearful good bye and fly out to The Falklands to defend our newly found oil reserves from those pesky Argies.'
Whos there ?
Its me - Jamie.
Thinks to myself - I don't know anyone called Jamie. My son isn't called Jamie. My daughter isn't called 'Janie'. Even though the wife is visiting her parents and I have the house to myself, I don't suppose it's that bizarre, twisted fantasy featuring Jamie Lee Curtis.
I reached for a 3 iron to defend myself and finally get myself in the Daily Mail as a selfless vigilante, wrongly imprisoned for 7 years for simply defending his own property. An Englishman's home is his castle and all that.
'Oh - wait. Hang on Mister Brightside. Please put the golf club down, please. I've just come round for an Xbox controller and Norman Junior said you might be out so he gave me the keys to get in.'
And with that, I put the golf club down (Wilson Graphite Di9 Steel 4-SW) and said 'Oh that's all right then.'
Many years ago, in a parallel universe not far from here, I worked for a small dot com Internet company.
One day, the boss walked in and proudly announced: Right - Ive bought everyone three sessions at the London Float Centre'. I thanked him but told him I wasn't interested and he could give my three sessions away to a more needy case but he was insistent and he was the boss.
So, on a Thursday lunchtime, I found myself nervously walking down to the mysteriously named 'London Float Centre' located not in sunny San Francisco but in grey, cold, dreary Clapham Common. As I nervously walked into reception, my preconceptions and prejudices were instantly reinforced when a young lady wearing a colourful, long dress with braids in her hair greeted me.
I looked around at the arty artwork on the walls and nervously mumbled: 'Err, this is, err, my first time. How does this all work ?' She replied: 'You just go to your cubicle, get undressed and enter the flotation chamber for 40 minutes. A quiet bell sounds to indicate the end of your session.'
'Undressed' - did she just say 'undressed' ? My reluctance and lack of commitment to this ludicrous idea was being severely tested already. I had packed my Hawaiian swimming trunks specially for the occasion. No-one back at the office ever mentioned getting 'undressed'. The young lady must have sensed my unease or maybe she saw my brightly coloured swim wear in my carrier bag I was holding (like Mark. E. Smith but without the broken hip). 'Of course, you don't have to get undressed. You can wear swimming trunks. It's entirely up to you.'
I was about to depart for cubicle 3, wondering what the hell I was doing here and cursing my boss when the young girl bamboozled me with a surprise, trick question: 'Do you want the music on or off ?' If I hadn't been so nervous, I would have answered 'Yes please. I'll have 'Bend Sinister' followed by 'The Sky's Gone Out' but instead I hesitated, looked blankly and replied: 'Music - how do you mean - exactly ?'
'Well - some people find the sensory experience is heightened by music playing during the session. If you don't like it, just press the button to your left to turn it off.'
'Ah OK then - yeah I'll have music. That will be nice. Thanks.' while thinking inwardly to myself '...nice to ease the boredom of being immersed in a salt water solution in a darkened room for 40 minutes.'
I made my way to cubicle 3 and assured myself that the dimensions of the flotation tanks meant they were single user only and the cubicle could be locked to ensure stray people could not wander in and mistakenly stake a claim for immersion chamber No. 3. Finally, reluctantly, I decided to embrace the full hippy, flower power, free love experience by casting aside my shorts. Plus the wife would be pleased - they wouldn't need washing.
Feeling like an idiot, I laid down in a small-ish, rectangular tank of warm water. Gradually, the concentrated salt solution managed to float my enormous bulk and I just laid there floating - in silence - with the light on - staring at the cream roof. Now what ?
I remembered the girl had told me to press another button to turn the lights off which I did.
Now I was lying bollock naked, floating around in a tank of luke warm water, staring up at nothing - in pitch black. It was dark, completely dark. I waited 40 seconds for my eyes to adjust so I could make out the reassuring lines of the walls and the ceiling but my eyes didn't readjust. It was still pitch black.
I was floating around aimlessly. I nearly had a heart attack when my shoulder bumped the side wall. I thought someone, possibly the not unattractive hippie girl with dreadlocks, had somehow unlocked the door to cubicle 3 and silently crept in unnoticed to lie alongside me.
I tried to calm myself down, to be open minded and lighten up - for 30 seconds at least - and to actually try enjoy the whole experience. I managed to master floating while remaining perfectly still. I gradually felt calmer and actually started to enjoy the silence. No longer was I looking for the solace of the walls or the ceiling or worrying whether my wallet was safe.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, like a shot to the heart, from nowhere , soft music started playing. Very quietly, very gently - whale like music. This was just like having a water birth at home - except I was a middle aged man in a flotation chamber in Clapham Common. Obviously, they didn't have anything by The Fall or Bauhaus - I must put that on the feedback form.
I laid back again and listened - nothing - apart from the strangely reassuring and apt sound of dolphins talking to each other. I strained my eyes - nothing. Again, I relaxed and forgot all about my stupid, small, minuscule, trivial worries at work. I forgot about everything. I even forgot about the prospect of falling asleep, drowning in 8 inches of water and winning third place in the 2001 Darwin Awards.
I laid back, floating. My mind became strangely blank. Completely blank. It was glorious. A glorious nothing-ness. A glorious emptiness. A glorious void. I just laid there; doing nothing, thinking of nothing.
This state of mind continued for another 25 minutes. Not once did I think of the time. Not once did I think of work. Not once did I think of United's chances of lifting the title. Not once did I think of online media recovery of an Oracle database when some of the archived redo logs were in deep in secure storage offsite and we only had a daily collection from Iron Mountain. Not once did I think of the appraisals of the four people reporting to me.
After a beautiful period of more nothing-ness, a gentle noise told me the session was now over. I lay there for a little longer and finally pressed the light switch.
The lights came on. I was back in the real world. I could see the walls. I could see the ceiling. I could see how small the flotation tank was. I could see a third button next to 'Music' and 'Lights' called 'Emergency Assistance'. Good job I hadn't noticed that earlier. The whale music CD abruptly ended as if killed by a blood soaked harpoon.
I got dressed, checked the contents of my wallet and packed away my dry swimming trunks for my summer holidays in Crete.
I walked back into reception: 'Now - how was it ?' 'Yeah - it was great. Thanks.' 'Oh good - we've had a lot of people from your company. They all seem to enjoy their sessions here.'
'Would you like a cup of tea ?' I was about to reply 'No - really I've got to be getting ba-' but I caught myself just in time. 'Yeah - that would be great. Thanks.'
So I sat down with some blackcurrant, herbal tea chatting with the receptionist about the science behind flotation chambers or isolation tanks.
Then I returned to the office. Now this is where is gets really weird.
I couldn't concentrate. I felt like I was still floating up high, looking down on everyone. I felt like I'd done some drugs. I couldn't type or read my email - well that's not true - I could type letters and read words but they didn't seem to make sense. Nothing seemed important. Nothing seemed to matter. As The Chameleons sang in 'Second Skin', I felt like 'I was floating on air'.
At 4 o'clock, I capitulated, politely made my excuses and decided to go home early.
Years later, whenever I recount this story, my wife says: 'Yeah - it was weird. When he walked in, he looked like a complete zombie. I thought he'd been made redundant or someone had died at work. Either that or someone in the office had given him space cake for a laugh.'
Sometimes your faith in humanity is restored.
The DEC Haiti appeal has raised over £25 million just from the news coverage alone. This exceeds the £20 million raised by last year's Children in Need campaign which (while still a worthy cause) is mercilessly peddled and trailed by the BBC for two long weeks.
Don't forget to mark your donation as 'Gift Aid' which allows DEC to reclaim 28p for every pound given.
This country is shit. The food is shit, the government is shit, the weather is shit, the transport system is shit, education is shit, life is shit, death is shit, I am shit.
As this country grinds to a halt yet again after a light dusting of snow, a timely and apt quote from Arthur Smith whose autobiography 'My Name is Daphne Fairfax' I can highly recommend.
What a terrible holiday period for Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab.
By the time, we had opened all our presents, stuffed ourselves with turkey, fallen out over charades and finally slumped in front of 'Gavin & Stacey', Umar should have been sitting at the right hand of Allah, surrounded by a variety of 57 vestal virgins, clad in white silk lingerie, feeding him grapes, tending to his every whim, straddling... - [That's enough vestal virgin fantasies - Ed].
Even worse, the young man does not have much to look forward to in the coming weeks of 2010.
His girlfriend is unlikely to accept his perfectly reasonable explanation that the white, sticky stuff coating his boxer shorts and trousers is indeed PETN explosive residue and nothing more sinister after his 20 minute visit to the aircraft lavatory, clutching a copy of 'High Life' magazine.
Umar Farouk will need nerves of steel and great mental strength to endure the endless questioning and sophisticated interrogation techniques used by the FBI and CIA. Overcoming sleep deprivation, maintaining stress positions for prolonged periods and surviving water boarding are child's play but heaven help him when the US authorities play Metallica, David Gray and Dire Straits 24 hours a day with the volume turned up to 11.
Poor Umar is unlikely to be able to claim a refund on his underwear from Marks and Spencer. 'I'm sorry, Sir but with no receipt we can only offer you gift vouchers. In any case, these Y-fronts appear to be worn and, worse, slightly soiled.'
If and when he should finally rediscover a place in his girlfriend's affections (after persuading her that he wasn't pleasuring himself when he placed the blanket over his waist), sexual intercourse is going to be very painful with charred bollocks and a red hot poker that is just like - well - a red hot poker with third degree burns.
A few years ago, on a Wednesday night, I returned from work and Norma told me in passing that she had got a man coming to clean our carpets for free.
Ten minutes later, I found myself welcoming not one but two Kirby salesmen into my house. What followed was possibly the worst 96 minutes of my life (with the possible exception of yesterday's fixture at Anfield).
I am normally polite and well mannered so I dutifully sat with my cup of tea and listened to the sales guy's pitch about the miscellaneous wonders of the Kirby vacuum cleaner.
After a while of professional, polished and non-stop patter, I interjected and tried to ask 'OK - this sounds great but how much is it ?' in an effort to curtail proceedings but was ignored.
I waited patiently as he assembled various attachments for dog hair, vacuuming the inside of the car and accessing the hard to reach areas behind radiators.
I got slightly more irritated as Norma excused herself to make tea for the kids and the senior salesman passed over to the junior apprentice for phase 2.
I cursed silently as Norma returned and asked 'Listen - you've been here 25 minutes now. When are you going to hoover my carpets for me ?'. Without pausing for breath, senior sales guy triumphantly plugged in the vacuum cleaner, and proceeded to clean and re-clean a 4 inch square of my lounge carpet. He then instructed his stooge to dump the contents onto a white cloth and invited us both to examine the contents in minute detail.
It was dust. Not that fascinating.
Again, I interjected with 'Listen - I'm really not interest-' but was interrupted with 'OK - now we will hoover your bed for you. Please bring your current hoover upstairs'. To my horror, Norma led them upstairs where they apparently lifted up a duvet and vacuumed the mattress of my 6 year old daughter. Twice.
Two more pristine white cloths was brought out and we poured over the skin debris that a human leaves behind on the sheets when asleep. We compared and contrasted the superlative results of the Kirby which has lifted much more dirt than our Panasonic hoover.
Norma, feeling incredibly guilty and no doubt a little embarrassed, now started to assert herself and politely asked the salesmen to leave as it was now the kids' bedtime.
Still, the two sales guys persisted as, after what seemed like hours, we entered the home straight and the the closing of the deal. Finally, we got to a price. It was a lot - I think it was over £2,000 which almost made me spill my now cold cup of tea. I countered with 'Come on, I can get a Panasonic for £200 from Comet' and the sales guy immediately replied with his 'Objection-Retort' from the school of pressure selling about the benefits of the Kirby and its lifetime guarantee.
My wife left the room. I could tell she was now quite upset at the imposition of having these chaps in our house, interrupting our routine. People who upset my wife (with one honourable exception - me) tend to upset me so I now got slightly more forceful.
'Listen, chaps. I realise my wife invited you here this evening but she thought she was getting her carpets cleaned for free not a gentle, prolonged, high pressure sales pitch. We've got a hoover. We're not looking to buy a hoover and we certainly would never contemplate a Kirby hoover that cost over £2,000.'
Senior salesman piped up with 'Ah but that's the good news Mr. Brightside - if you commit tonight, I can offer you a 40% discount.'
I sighed inwardly and stared at the mantelpiece. I was transfixed. I stared again at the clock on the mantelpiece. The time was 7:41pm on a Wednesday night.
I stood up, folded up the white cloth, put the assorted attachments back into the box and handed it to the junior apprentice.
'Listen lads. I realise you're only doing your job but my wife has politely asked you to leave. I have also politely asked you to get out of my house but United are playing in Lyon and the game kicks off in 4 minutes so now I telling you to get your fucking stuff together and leave. Now.'
Senior sales guy could now (finally) see the writing on the wall and started moaning about how we'd wasted their time - a little ironic as I viewed it as them wasting our time - and started to protest and call me rude names.
I ignored him, turned the TV on, picked up his box of tricks and his catalogues and ushered them both to the door.
Driving along the M25, my son noticed some large graffiti on a bridge
Give peas a chance
Norman Junior III: 'Hmm - that's interesting 'Give peas a chance' - what does that mean ?'
Me: 'Well these days broccoli and green beans are getting really popular so these people just want us all to give peas a chance.'
17 seconds silence then both of us burst out in uncontrollable laughter.
Update: A picture is worth a thousand words (or peas).
This morning I commuted, Reggie Perrin style, from my leafy suburb into the heart of London by train. Nothing too unusual about that.
After I paid for my daily travelcard, I took my place on an unusually crowded platform. An unusually crowded platform normally means only one thing. An lengthy delay inevitably followed by an overcrowded, late running train.
Sure enough, I soon gathered that there had been a fatality on this section of the railway line last night which caused major delays and now had a knock-on effect to this morning.
Naturally enough, I didn't hear this update from South West Train staff at the ticket booth or over the loudspeaker system. Instead I heard this important travel status update from a gentleman in a smart, grey suit (and not so smart white trainers) giving a blow by blow account to his secretary, Julie.
The gentleman spoke with such a loud, clear authoritative voice, I took the opportunity to thank him and suggested that he should get a job as a station announcer. Thankfully, the delays didn't inconvenience him that much as his first meeting was only at 10:30a.m - a catch up on the Q3 numbers with Brian and Phil.
A train arrived. It was already overcrowded with standing room only. Everyone attempted to pile on and most of them succeeded. I stood to one side and watched the melee with a few other commuters who didn't fancy standing for half an hour, uncomfortably positioned, face to face, desperately trying to avoid bodily contact with a young lady's breasts or worse, with your head positioned directly under someone's sweaty armpits.
Two minutes later, another train arrived. It was empty. Gleefully, we all boarded and took our choice of seats in the empty carriages.
The train set off - it didn't stop at New Malden and it didn't stop at Raynes Park. Even better, it turns out that we are on a fast service that only stops at Wimbledon, Clapham Junction and Vauxhall. Only this train didn't stop at Wimbledon. Nor did it stop at Earlsfield. It just sailed straight through both stations at great speed.
We also sailed straight past Clapham Junction (the busiest railway station in England) which was a surprise to a couple of people who had got up and stood by the doors, hoping to disembark. I spotted the earlier train packed to the rafters with yet more people trying to board, politely enquiring in a very British way: 'Could you possibly move down inside the carriage - possibly - at all ?'
Back on our train, no-one got off (even if they wanted to), no-one got on and no-one spoiled the blissfully quiet environment with their mobile phones and discarding their copies of 'Metro' so I was able to enjoy my high speed journey, listening to 'Boxer' by The National, in a virtually empty carriage.
As we approached the final destination (Waterloo) I was slightly worried I was sitting on a ghost train with no driver at the controls. Briefly, I wondered whether we were, in fact, even going to stop at Waterloo or simply plough straight on through the buffers into the station concourse, killing 34 people who were staring blankly at the 'Departures' board.
We arrived at Waterloo and thankfully stopped at platform 4. The journey which is normally timetabled to take 29 minutes and normally takes closer to 35 was over. In a new world record of 18 minutes.