Talking Bollocks

Doctors in Spain have successfully created a new windpipe and transplanted it into a patient. True. But it's not an old windpipe, as in one donated by some poor bastard who died; it's a brand new one, as in one which was artificially grown and cloned from the patient's own stem cells. Experts (them bastards again) believe that such procedures will reduce the risk of such things being rejected by the person's body, as in the past with unsuccessful operations.

But why a new windpipe? What sort of person would need a new windpipe? Yes, you've guessed it - the person needing a new windpipe is...a woman. What a fucking surprise! And why did she need a new one? Because, one may presume, the old one got worn out because she never shut her fucking gob. She wore the bastard out nagging her husband, gossipping with her big-mouthed friends outside the school gates, spreading rumours and never shutting the fuck up for five minutes about wallpaper, new shoes, lipstick or her husband staying out till all hours at the pub.

Commenting on the successful transplant procedure, Dr Hector Santos-Roya of Madrid General Hospital, said: "The patient came to us last year with no windpipe left because she'd been gobbing off non-stop at her husband for twenty years, and we decided to do something about it. This new windpipe, or traceo-epiglottal implant, will last for anything upto forty years, long into old age. Indeed, it is so durable that, upon her death, it can be used to be transplanted again and give years of happing nagging and incessant drivel to some other waffling bitch."

The patient's husband, meanwhile, is believed to have filed for divorce.

But it makes you think...new windpipes grown from a person's own stem cells? It's fucking ghoulish, a positively fiendish imponderable too distasteful to consider. What next? Hmmm...some bloke could go to the doctor because his wife had cut his knob off and get them to grow him a new one from stem cells taken from his kneecap. They could make him a huge monster of a cock. Like a baby's arm. Or a man's kneecap.

I think the whole thing's fucking sick.

I had to laugh this morning when I heard that details of hundreds of members of the BNP (British National Party) had been leaked and published all over the Internet. Great stuff. Now there are all these little racist pieces of shit all over the country shitting a stick in case it comes out that they are little racist pieces of shit who want to keep Britain white. It is believed that, among the names published as either current or recent members of this so-called political party, there are police officers, teachers, judges, magistrates, social workers, TV personalities and even a priest or two...

"Good morning, my child, and how may I help you with your confession today?"

"Well, father, I have been looking at nasty things on the Internet and I feel ashamed."

"Don't worry about that, my son. There's nothing wrong with that. Lots of people do it. Was it the pronography thing, was it?"

"No, it was all that stuff about you going on marches and posting dog turds through Asians' letterboxes and shouting "nigger" at pictures of Lewis Hamilton..."

"Er...Jesus Christ...er...I mean, I have to go now."

Priests in the BNP? Surely not! Police officers, judges, magistrates and high-ranking members of the social services? Shock horror! On the radio they interviewed some cunt brave enough to face the media, some twat pretending not to be arsed about the whole thing. "People," he explained, "think that being a member of the BNP is something to be ashamed of. But it isn't. It's a proper political party with clear direction, and is now accepted within the British political spectrum. People think that because you're in the BNP you must be a racist, but I can tell you that's not the case...[Now you know what's coming, and I swear to God that he said this next bit]...I know lots of foreign people and most of them are fine. One of my friends is an Indian."

Wahey!!

That's him drummed out of the party first thing in the morning, then.
"What's this about you going on radio and telling everyone that you know some foreigners and most of them are okay? And what's that bollocks...one of your friends is an Asian? Go on, get out. And pick your white sheet and burning cross up on the way out. Nigger lover!"

But you shouldn't talk about racism on a day like today, not when England are playing (cue 'Dambusters' theme music fading in the background) Germany. Nothing ignites the old xenophobic torch of racial hatred more than a clash between the footballing nations of our very own and that of those bull-necked goose-stepping war-mongering Teutonic Kraut twats on the continent. Every time the fixture comes along, memories flood back...the trenches, the blitz, Kristallnacht, the Holocaust, Geoff Hurst, mustard gas, poppies, Gary Lineker, Chris Waddle (and countless others) missing penalties that your granny could have scored, guarded beach towels, Dunkirk, that fat bloke off 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang', Basil Fawlty, ration books, street parties and windpipes worn down to the nub with delirious cries of: "COME ON, ENGERLAND! GIVE 'EM WHAT THEY GAVE MY GRANNY IN 1943!!"

I love this country.

Have you ever seen such a group of desperately sad people as those entered for this year's 'I'm A Talentless Twat, Get Me Out Of Here'? Well, apart from the people who watch it, of course. I thought last year's "celebrities" were bad; this year's make them look positively A-list...

Some gay policeman...er...correct me if I'm wrong here, but doesn't being a gay policeman mean that you are a policeman, who happens to be gay? Does it mean that, because he was once a top policeman who just happens to take it up the Gary Glitter, he automatically qualifies for celebrity status? I'm not sure that being a pillow-biting former flatfoot is an adequate criterion here.

Or maybe I'm wrong.

But there's plenty of company for him, whatever his fucking name is (because I can't remember), in some old bent actor off 'Star Trek'. That's the idea - put the two dinner-mashers together and see what happens. Add, for extra spice, a clam-noshing former tennis player in the shape of Martina Neveradherlegova, and there's plenty of eye candy for the gay community. No jokes, please, about how Martina should walk it because she's used to eating bush tucker. We'll have less of that.

Some famous "glamour model" in there, as per usual. What is a glamour model anyway? Years ago there was a name for such women: slut. Some huge-breasted (false) bint who's only claim to fame is that she rips off her clothes and shows her tits to anyone sad enough to stare and become aroused. That's a celebrity these days, as is being the wife (or girlfriend...WAG...clever, that) of some footballer. And not even a particularly famous or half-decent one, either...

"I'm perhaps best known for being a personal trainer..."

"I've never fucking heard of you."

"...and being the current bit of skirt on the arm of Joe Cole of Chelsea and England."

"Ahhh, now I know you. Thanks for that."

Robert Kilroy-Silk, former Labour MP and disgraced TV Presenter with an orange face and the scruples of a shark. The producers of 'I'm A Celebrity...' obviously looked at the bottom of the barrel and thought: It's either that or the short-arsed little bitch out of The Krankies. So they went with that - Mr Kilroy-Silk. The man is a bellend, and one of the highest pedigree. But it's okay, because there to keep him in check is Esther Rantzen.

All over the jungle there are creepy crawlies and poisonous things of the night, together with all the hitherto inedible creatures, dreading the prospect of Ms Rantzen being chosen to set those gnashers to work in the "Bush Tucker Challenge"...

"And the person chosen by you, the British public, to eat all them nasty things is...Esther!"

Cue every wichety grub from Melbourne to Alice Springs burrowing for cover at the thought of Esther's considerable fangs and molars setting to work on their sorry hides.

As usual there's the ubiquitous actor (or former version thereof) from 'Eastenders' or some other carbolic TV shit. This year we have some whining little Cockney runt who keeps asking questions and coming out (ha!) with wonderfully obvious remarks about the three gay mambers of the team...

"So, what was it like being a bent copper. Er...I mean, you know, not a bent copper as in one who takes back-handers and hides valuable evidence or plants drugs on unsuspecting black people; I mean like a bent copper. A bummer. And you, Martina, did you ever blimp Chris Evert's tits and fanny when you were playing together or try to finger Virginia Wade?"

Talking of black people, there's only one of them this year - some dumb spade from a fucking boyband who are shit these days (or should I say "more shit") and not as popular as they were. He's there to roll his eyes and look all flummoxed as the white folk around him order him about and tell him he'd better get some decent food or it's a rope over a tree for you, Sambo!

Who else have we got? Dani Behr. A name from the past there, though I'm fucked if I can recall what she ever actually did. Wasn't she a TV presenter about ten or fifteen years ago? Or am I thinking of Mariella Frostrup?

I can hardly wait for the next two weeks in the jungle to unfold.

This week saw the death of Mitch Mitchell, former drummer with the legendary Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the last surviving member of said band. Following his death, at the premature age of sixty-one or something like that, rumours are now rife that the Jimi Hendrix Experience were cursed by a gypsy in 1968, and that this curse was to be the cause of the deaths of all three band members over a 38-year period.

Hendrix, as everyone knows, fucking snuffed it in September, 1970, in mysterious circumstances. Having downed three bottles of wine, smoked several dozen joints of marijuana, taken half a bottle of sleeping pills and done at least five tabs of whizz, Hendrix went to sleep and choked on his own vomit. Just 33 years later, in 2003, bassist Noel Redding also died at the premature age of 57 when, after almost forty years of drinking heavily on a daily basis, his liver bizarrely packed in for no apparent reason.

Following the death of Mitch Mitchell this week, the curse would now appear to have come true. Former Jimi Hendrix Experience manager Chas Chandler, 84, told the Daily Telegraph: "I remember once, when we were touring the West Country, a gypsy knocked on the dressing room door before our set. She asked if Jimi or any of the other lads would buy some pegs off her, and when Jimi told her to go and fuck herself, she put a curse on them. I can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something to do with them all dying soon if they weren't careful and didn't buy some pegs. Or dishcloths. When Noel grabbed her and punched her in the tits, she screamed that they would all die then and it would serve them all right. Now that Mitch has gone and fucking snuffed it, you could say that she was right."

Mitchell's widow, some old slag, refused to comment on his death, apart from saying that she was having all his royalties and anyone who said she wasn't could get to cunt and back.