Anyone buying the nation’s most well-meaning newspaper tomorrow (Monday 12th) will get the chance to read exactly such a story, in which my trousers are quite brutally ripped off. It may not be something that the nation needs to read, but it’s got to be better than this, right? Yeah?

Alternately, you could just look at this link, where the new article will appear as soon as it’s up. And my fourth piece, believe it or not, actually expresses an earnest opinion. The last time I did that, I swear I nearly wiped out organised religion.

“Log, do you think the Large Hadron Collider MUST BE STOPPED in case a tiny black hole swallows the Earth? (Remember the set of things on the Earth includes Robert Mugabe and cancer, so it is not as simple a question as it first looks.)

Let opinions be weaved from the rainbow of ignorance!

NOT UNDERNEATH MY CONTINENT
Your Mechanical Beasts Are Not Welcome Here, White-Coated Butchers Of Innocence

Last month, I was playing tig with my two children in our garden. I call it a garden, it’s more of an orchard; but it’s very important, if you care for your children, that you provide an orchard for them. I understand that not everyone has access to an Orchard as gigantic and fertile as mine, but perhaps that’s God’s way of telling you to use contraception. As they played, naivity scrawled over their faces, a brief tremor ran underneath us. Imperceptible to all but the unshod foot of the family truly at one with nature, my poor saplings were flung into the air like reckless handfuls of grass.

“Mummy,” screamed Kieron. “I have landed on some soil, and I think I’m dying!” Natalie was more prosaic still, complaining of a troubling sense of disconnect with gaia, as though the very earth was pained, and shrinking from her. The innocence of children! I hadn’t the heart to tell them that deep beneath the Earth’s crust, scientists had built an infernal atom-smashing factory that would, one day, crush everything they loved to the size of an angel’s whisper.

The Large Hadron Collidor first came to my attention during a marquee lunch at the foot of the mountain that seperates our orchard from our rock star neighbour’s jungle. I’m not against other biomes per se, but that kind of sub-tropical expanse has the unsavoury whiff of new money. My dear best friend Sandragh, who is a highly experienced astrologist, informed everyone that atoms smashed together at such high speeds are liable to create energy with a significant cosmic resonance. My dear best friend Juliiann, who has spent a long time in the fascinating and important new field of crystallological endeavour, confirmed my worst fears when she said that her amber necklace had been positively squealing for the last three days. She went so far as to produce a large prismatic shard of quartz, and everyone agreed that it looked deeply uncomfortable.

Even the scientists admit it. Normally, I wouldn’t believe a word these poisonous merchants of steel theories put forward - but if they say something that seems cosmically sensible to me, then it can only be a very important concession. What these Butlin’s Whitecoats are saying, is that when you brutalise atoms at the very highest settings, black holes will fly out like freshly cracked pepper.

I’m reassured that the black holes this tiny wouldn’t completely annihilate my children. Sandragh, who is very open-minded, admits that an atom-sized black hole, placed a few feet behind your head, would even exert a gentle gravitational pull that would be like a surgery-free facelift. And Shiva knows, we girls need all the help we can get! But the contraption required to hold these unstable cauldrons of dark energy in place would probably resemble a harness - and are we really willing to be ridden around by astronomical phenomena, in the name of vanity?

The point is that we don’t know what’s going to happen, and I can’t see how finding out is going to help my Kieron and Natasha survive in a future of obesity timebombs and Frankenstein carrots. In a world so full of data, wouldn’t it be nice to leave a few pockets of factlessness, and allow them to be filled the the precious beauty of human imagination? You don’t need to smash electrons into each other to watch a basket of puppies having a kiss, and nature doesn’t need robotic “science” or so-called “atoms” when she’s conjuring the miracle of childbirth.

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet - but like my spirit guide Nathaniel says, if you let anyone else blow it, you can never be sure they won’t flob some green in the pipes. He’s very coarse, but you can’t choose the voices that whisper in your head. However, you’ll have to believe me when I say that I am almost definitely the most sensitive and emotionally intellectual person in the world. And if something makes me uncomfortable, you’re just going to have to trust me when I say that it will cause the death of every last one of your children.

NEXT, IN SYNTHETIC OPINION #3

Can you write 700 words on the subject of “things that are sluiced” without hesitating, deviating or repeating? -Tyler

I believe in fate. I believe that the universe bends itself around me, because I am important. Nothing is trivial, once it has been perceived by me - when I clap eyes on something, it becomes a part of my destiny, because I am… well, I’m an intergalactic nexus.

So, when I found this flyer on the pavement, I knew that life had already written my future, and to fight it would only end in tragedy. What follows is select transcripts from my time with the Boppin’ Bunnies.

DAY ONE: SIGNING UP

Me: Hi. I’m here to join the Boppin’ Bunnies.
Mrs Shepherd: Excellent. We accept children from nought to five.
Me: I am threety-four. This will do, for your purposes. I will require exclusive use of a lavatory cubicle and vigorous affection. Here is my coat, don’t look in the pockets.

DAY TWO: JOINING IN

Michelle: Do you like horses?
Me: They are the best of all the animals, Michelle. You know that.
Michelle: You’re big.
Me: Fuck you.

DAY THREE: SONG AND DANCE

Stephanie: Why aren’t you clapping? This is the clapping song.
Me: Yeah, and this is the finger I’ve had up in my arse.
Stephanie: Aarrr! That’s a rude word!
Me: It’s a rude finger, baby. It’s a rude fucking finger.

DAY FOUR: A REVELATION

Me: It says here, you were formerly known as Jive Bunnies.
Mrs Shepherd: Yes.
Me: Why’s that then? Why’d you change it?
Mrs Shepherd: We… can’t say.
Me: I smell hot goss, and it’s coming from your pants. Spill, bitch. Scream!
Mrs Shepherd: Seriously, I’d be up to my tits in trouble if I said owt.
Me: SCREEAAAAAMM. SCREAAMMMM. screamscreamscream
Mrs Shepherd: OK I’ll tell you. The name was stolen from us by Angelina Stonebra, the leader of our bitterest enemies. God didn’t give their pre-school playgroup a name, so they stole ours.
Me: I’m going to get your name back, even if it means punching a three year old in the knickers.
Mrs Shepherd: If you do this for us, I’ll hoist up my petticoat and give you a two minute trolley dash.
Me: You know I said never to look in my coat pocket?
Mrs Shepherd: Yes?
Me: You can look in my coat pockets now.
Mrs Shepherd: It’s a packet of Rennies!
Me: You can have one if you want.

DAY FIVE: IN THE LAIR OF THE ENEMY

Me: Hi, I’d like to join the Jive Bunnies, please.
Mrs Stonebra: I’m afraid there are no vacancies. We have all the children we need for our dark sacrifice tonight.
Me: GASP

DAY SIX: THE AWESOME VOCABULARY OF THE HECATOMB

Me: So…  we wait until she’s killed all the children?
Police: Yeah. Otherwise she’d just say they were strapped to that dais as part of a game.
Me: Oh look! She’s just plunged a kris into that one’s chest. Shall we arrest her?
Police: Nah. It’s got to be unreasonable force. That one had it coming.
Me: I hope this builds into a satirical take on how the justice machine only moves to action when a white, middle-class girl is threatened.
Police: That would be politically sweet. Let’s do that.

DAY SEVEN: THE THRILLING CONCLUSION

Mrs Shepherd: Everything is as it should be, thanks to Log.
Me: Rennies for everyone!
Police: I’m afraid there have been some serious developments. I’d like you to accompany me…
All: Uh-oh!
Police: …to Alton Towers, where Mylene Klass will be giving everyone medals.
All: Cheer!
Me: Hang on… not Myleene Klass, the notorious medal thief?
Police: That’s her!
Mrs Shepherd: Here we go again!

“What about that hot button topic for 2008 - the US Presidential election?”

No sooner said than done, Adam! And to celebrate this inaugural opinion, I have included an animated gif of Hillary Clinton trying on a few new hands. That crazy cow just can’t settle on “the hand for her”. You should see some of the ones that didn’t even make it onto her snap-on attachment hole, though! They would have shaken your very root. Right up to the vinegars.

This Was Supposed To Be Fun
Why have you stopped my election from being excellent

Facts are great, but after a while they stop being fun. Say, you’re enjoying a game of Swingball with your best friend, who is a vet. Suddenly, someone rises from a nearby deckchair, and informs you that over the course of his career, he has negligently caused the death of over two hundred Springer Spaniels. An unwelcome distraction, for sure - but then, if you’re easily distracted you have no place playing Swingball. Far worse, would be the sense the you’re playing a kind of rotary tennis against a man who doesn’t know his way around a Spaniel. A stupid, irrelevant fact has just ruined the game.

The less basic and rudimentary a fact, the less fun it is. Take my imaginary friend, the vet. That simple fact is lovely – he has probably seen a cow’s fanny, and I can draw pictures of him squinting at a giraffe and saying “I’m Sorry, It Has Got Very High Mumps”. The more information I find out about his job – that his assistant is called Maureen, that he is unlikely to ever diagnose a giraffe, and that he’s fatally shit at Spaniels – every fact I learn takes me into a world that’s more complicated that I care to learn about. The fact that it’s important to him just makes it annoying.

With this in mind, here are the facts that I know about the American Election, in ascending order of whatever, get over it, Jesus.

1. A black man and a woman are going to have a fight, and as far as everyone can tell, it looks like they mean it.

Hillary Clinton is a woman! That means she has cables running to her big, tanned nipples that are capable of firing out milk. If you don’t think the idea of someone running the world with lasers of milk pissing from their chest isn’t awesome, then I honestly don’t know what to say to you. Legislation brought in for approval would be dabbled with an approving squirt, and evil budgets would be obliterated by a machine gun burst of white staccato squits.

This is all old and stupid hats to us Brits though, we had Maggie Thatcher. We remember when she took the free milk from those poor schoolkids, and poured it into a mechanised tit that she used to rush through the anti-union legislation of the eighties. But even in her most unpopular moments, we - the British People - would never have asked her to fight a black man. Who can imagine the special powers that each candidate could draw from their respective stereotypes during the final rounds? It’s an excellent and probably racist scene to imagine. It’d probably climax with Barack channelling the powers of the Omegahedron through his Burundi Wand, while Hillary straddles his neck and tries to strangle him with her fallopians.

At this level of understanding, anything is possible, and the American Election is possibly the second most exciting thing in the world, after walking into a zero-gravity chamber full of St Bernard puppies, all rotating on a different axis.

2. Another man says he wants to fight the winner.

This is the first fact you’ll encounter in the American Election that is boring. His name is so unremarkable that you might as well simply let your mouth hang open instead of saying it. I can’t think what he looks like, I don’t know anything he’s said, and if you want me to feel something about him then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Everything’s already 40% less fantastic.

3. Super-delegates are being used to reinstate the smoky back rooms and hidden decision-making processes that gave the Democratic party a bad name in the past.

That clattering sound was the pan lid of my interest. First, it made me think “Typical! Politicians!” which is the single least thrilling thing a person can think. Secondly, they’re called super-delegates, but their only superpower appears to be the ability to vote for who they like, and even we’ve got that. Finally, though, it’s rubbish because it ruins the first, excellent point. If you’re going to fix the fight, do it in a cartoon fashion. Put horseshoes in boxing gloves, use suits of armour and massive magnets. Not in some pervasive, creeping and utterly reliable way that would make the public feel a bit shocked if they didn’t already assume that everything was already fundamentally broken.

4. The winner gets to rule the world.

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was watching Highlander. If you’re going to take the piss, I won’t bother.

In Synthetic Opinion #2, I shall be answering a question on which I have even less knowledge than American Politics:

Log, do you think the Large Hadron Collider MUST BE STOPPED in case a tiny black hole swallows the Earth? (Remember the set of things on the Earth includes Robert Mugabe and cancer, so it is not as simple a question as it first looks.)

To finish off, here is a decade of UK political opinion distilled into one moderately compressed image.

What’s become obvious, is that I need serious practice at pulling authoritative opinions from my arse. So, if anyone is still reading this blog after my crazy days of neglect, this is my challenge and my promise; I will write a 700-word opinion piece on any subject raised in the comments. And boy-frigging-howdy, I will be plumbing wells of passion you never knew I had. I will be searing. I will be sensational. I will be bereft of useful information. To make it in this game, I reckon I’ve got to churn it out like a cocksure fraud - so I won’t research a fucking thing.

Look at this shit, I wrote this back in 2005. If I can write 1,000 words about putting on a sock, I reckon 700 words about the Palestinian conflict should be piss-play. So go on, you glorious titmice - get commenting and commission me into orbit.

(This blog post was this man’s idea.)

http://www.disappointment.com/welsh

There’s a 12-page booklet in there. It’s a pdf, if you fucking please. Also some photos, which you won’t be interested in unless you’re a mate. Which, I admit, is probably all of you.

I’ve done it a couple of times on this blog, with religion. Can’t stand the thing, but I’d never tell my mum to stop believing her dad isn’t in Heaven, so there’s weak. I also seem to remember Twiggy got me frothy once by saying there’s no excuse to be fat. How can you say that, Twiggy? Have you not tasted how delicious food is? What are you supposed to do, just lick it?

Both times I was left slightly mortified by having a real thing that represented something I believed out there. If I were to imagine myself as a boss battle - and I do - then you’d have to plough your way through a six minutes Parodius level of self-deprecation and whimsy before reaching a glowing red chicken nugget of sincerity that you destroy with the whiff of disagreement.

So, when I was asked to write something for The Guardian’s comment section, I was kind of paralysed by my own unwillingness to be contradicted, so this is what I came out with.

Read it, and comment on it - make me look popular, please. Yeah, even you, freaky comments stalker who’s forced me to ban three IP addresses. And call that fourth-commenting cunt a retard who completely missed the point, yeah? As if the world needs more pricks gobbing off about what they reckon.

“I dreamed I was falling down a pit, do you think that means I am not keen on being a gigantic failure for the rest of my life?”

Because the people who tell you about their dreams are often quite dull, they’re the kind of people you ignore. But this opens you up to a new situation. The situation where you are listening to someone telling you about their dream, but you didn’t catch the bit where they told you it was a dream.

You, the sudden listener, feel like they’re opening up their true, interesting self - and your aghast reactions are giving this person exactly what they want; a reassurance that their subconscious is the most shockingly imaginative cloud factory to which you’ve ever been exposed.

Of course, the fact that this person’s most noteworthy and recountable dream is something that just about constitutes “quite an interesting story if it had actually happened” is the depressing opposite, but you can hardly say that to their face. It’s a kind of symbiosis, I swear it fucking is, but it is short-lived. For when the mistake comes to light, you must part - an abused host and a parasite bloated with self-regard.

TWO MINUTES INTO A TYPICAL DREAM CONVERSATION

LIFESPONGE: Meeeeh. Snib zha zha zha. And I said to him shakkatakka. Hnggg. Hnggg. Told him to fuck off.
YOU: What?
LIFESPONGE: Bold as you like, I just said “fuck off”.
YOU: Then what happened?
LIFESPONGE: Well, he didn’t know what to say. Shut him right up.
YOU: Good for you, that’s excellent.
LIFESPONGE: Then I flew away. And I was reading a book about that, it means I’m up for a promotion.
YOU: You made me care for you, Denise. You made me believe there was something substantial inside you from which I could hang my emotions. This is nothing less than a betrayal.

It’s something I’m completely guilty of myself, but at least I waited until I’d had ten really shit dreams before I got past the embarrassment of sharing them.

Yeah, well that’s all very well, but I JUST HAD THE BEST DREAM and I’m going to tell you about it so FUCK YOU.

MYSTERYU DREAM THEATRE
THE CANDLE AND THE HOOF

Alright, so I had to light a candle. This is basic stuff - lighting a candle is one of the primary ways of unlocking a door / causing a chest to appear. I had even been presented with a griddle - a source of fire, perfect for my quandary. My problem was that the griddle - which had a fucking great big horse on it - was twenty yards away from the candle, and the candle was fixed to the ground.

It wasn’t urgent, and I didn’t mind. I was outside an American High School, and there were people sitting under a tree that I liked the look of. I’m like that in my dreams, I’m devil-may-care. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was wearing a denim jacket, I’m that laissez-faire with goings-on.

Then this guy showed up, and offered me the solution; use the horse’s hoof to transfer heat from the griddle to the wick of my candle. The horse, he explained, is incapable of catching fire - it simply stores the heat energy in its hooves. It’s like when dogs pant, he explained, and I nodded in a sage way that must have screamed “Do go on”. He dragged the leg of the horse over to the candle, tapped the wick, then put it back on the griddle to refuel.

Nothing happened, but my friend explained that the wick was still cooking, “because it was microwaves”. I was about to deliver a brutally sceptical chinny when the candle burst into flame. I was so impressed that I tried to convince a nearby reporter to cover the story on the TV. She was reluctant, but I was pumped; I launched into a song to convince her. To the tune of Sweets For My Sweet (Sugar For My Honey);

Motherfucking hoof
Lit the fucking candle
Come on and see it, everyone.
That motherfucking hoof
It lit that fucking candle
Now I’m gonna use it to mourn my mum

“This is for kids,” she warned - possibly in relation to the language and adult themes of grief. I asked if that would be a problem. “No, they’ll love it,” she replied. I said good, because the solemnity of the final line was important for the point I was making, and would lend emotional gravitas to a situation that was in danger of becoming whimsical and unscientific.

AND THEN I WOKE UP

Having made this blog post, I am officially the dullest cunt on the internet.

At best, the canoe-like slug of a lip would distract movie-goers from the pints of liquid coating Bette’s slowly rotating, wide-open eyeballs. At worst, Joan’s tongue might have curled, unseen, from the vast shadow of her upper lip and drank from Miss Davis’s basketball-sized tear ducts during a moving monologue. In the combative atmosphere of 1930s Hollywood, this would have been unforgiveable.

That’s just my speculation, though. There are many more official rumours about Bette and Joan’s mutual hatred. Some say that they were great friends until Greta Garbo pinched Joan’s bottom in a bus queue and blamed it on Miss Davis. Others insist that Bette went bass fishing with Jayne Mansfield, and during a more theatrical cast, her hook got snagged in Joan’s bra-strap, severely twanging it.

Fighting your way throught these rumours, it’s a relief to find out what really happened, in my visual dramatization of the book “Bette & Joan: This Hollwood Feud Is On, Starting From… NOW“.

(Click for more legible)

A couple of years ago, I farted seven times in two minutes in a toilet cubicle, and had to spend many more minutes trying to meditate myself out of a frankly childish giggle fit. I’ve never done anything like that since. It’s not for lack of trying. For a good while after that, I took my dictaphone with me everywhere, convinced that it could only be hours or days until my next musical bumphony.

Two years later, no such lyrical toot has been delivered to me. Tomorrow is the year’s shortest day, and that’s something of a metaphor for this penury, this dearth, this void. This Dearth Voiders’ Penus. Incidentally, if Darth Vader had a penis, and that penis could talk, and if that penis was granted an audience on Michael Parkinson’s final show, I’m fairly certain it would secrete a tactile brown putty that would provide a second metaphor for my emptiness by rolling onto the floor and being ignored for the whole show.

It wasn’t always like this. Let me tell you a story I forgot to mention when it happened, because I was too busy stealing picnic hampers and having my photo taken playing Swingball for Athena.

I listen occasionally to a podcast called Distorted View. A large percentage of the show’s content is the audio from porn clips; either bloopers, anal fisting, incest or screaming Asian girls falling off a table whilst getting DVDA. Farts are definitely a staple. Here’s a tiny clip of a messy-sounding plop attack. It’s not safe for work, but it’s a sound clip, so what the fuck are you worrying about.

And here’s a yipping chick giving flatulent and fruity birth. This isn’t safe for work because it’s just fucking annoying. However, it does show exactly what a relief a good fart can be, especially when coupled with the removal of an aubergine from the anus.

So, the scene is set. I’m on the train, and I’m listening to Distorted View.

STEP ONE: QUEEF CAN HAVE LOTS OF FUN

That day’s show centred around Queefing. I capitalise Queef because I refuse to believe it isn’t a contraction of Queen Latifah, who done the first fanny trump on the Eiffel Tower. It’s a long section, about two minutes of vaginal farts interspersed with Tim Henson laughing and saying things like “Madam, get your cunt laced shut”.

STEP TWO: IT’S JUST ME AND YOU (THE ENTIRE CARRIAGE)

Because I’m on the train, and I’m tediously polite, I take my earphones out to see if they’re too loud. I am horrified and overjoyed when I hold them in front of me, and hear a waspish, but unmistakably loud series of farts coming out of my hands. This is brilliant. It’s like I’m nursing a little trump with a broken wing back to health, in my loving hands. Needless to say, I laugh out loud.

STEP THREE: HEE HEE WHEE

Having laughed out loud, I try to disappear. Being a massive prick who won’t stop eating, this calls for special measures. So, I lean forwards and look down a bit, giving myself a chance to replace my earphones and turn the volume down a bit. It doesn’t stop me laughing, because there are still fanny farts going off in my ears and I can’t stop knowing that everyone around me knows I’m listening to trumps on my iPod.

I’ve got a friend who has filled her iPod with birdsong. She’s a birder. She’s also beautiful, funny, and if any TV company is thinking about pulling birding back from the hairy ex-Goodie demographic, she’s your girl. But for now, the fact she exists is a curse, because I can’t stop thinking about myself walking around, studiously listening to trumps as part of some… hobby.

I am shuddering.

STEP FOUR: I AM SPIRITUALLY POOR

Having regained my composure, the train pulls into Great Portland Street. The train has been getting busier, and the newcomers are forced to fill the gap between the chairs. I’m hiding, but sensing something close, I look up. Just in time to be eclipsed by a massive woman’s midriff. The profile of one buttock switches into a staggering full arse as she turns away from me. Because I’m leaning forward as part of my stealth costume, this new arrival is alarmingly close to my face. Bearing in mind that I’m already primed for puerility, a big bum is absolutely the last thing I need to see. I make a little whimpering sound, and bite my lip.

Sadly, that cunt on Distorted View chooses this moment to play the largest queef of the segment. A ripsnorting slurper, that sounds like hot Plasticene being sluiced through a didgeridoo. There’s no point hiding it anymore. The laugh that comes out is a yelp, the snigger that follows is stifled into a mucus-producing rasp, and when I get out at Baker Street I look like a man who’s won the lottery and been punched in the nuts.

Two things come from this story; a renewed tolerance of people who look like retarded cunts on trains, and an opportunity to recommend Distorted View. If you, you know, like that sort of thing.

MY TOP 6 ADVERTISING SLOGANS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD

WALNUT WHIP : “It’s got a nut on - and so will you, after you finger this fucker into your mush”

GANESH : “I know you don’t be steppin’ on this bad mother’s trunk, stone cold”

HOUSES : “No there isn’t a scullery, what are you, Edwardian or something”

THE POPULAR NINTENDO WII MACHINE : “Mine organs have beheld the wyrd illusion factorie ycleped thee Nintendo Wii, and my mum loves the Tennis like billy-o”

COFFEE : “Buy six coffees, and we’ll pamper a spastic”

BRITISH GAS : “British Gas puts the Gas Board into Smorgasboard.”

It was only a matter of time before the advertising department in the company I work for saw my incredible talent and <del>stole</del> incorporated one of my slogans into an item of hooded clotheswear. Check this out, fuckbuddies!

Behold, my addition to the world of PC gaming merchandise - “In The Absence Of Sexier Hobbies Or Bands I Like, I Wear PC Games Clothing”.

I am the advertiser. I just sold you.

VideoJug: How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse

Nyah, He-Man, you broke my staff again.

Here’s ten posts from the GET HUNTLEY OFF FACEBOOK discussion group, which is one of the most successful groups around, because Huntley isn’t on Facebook. Can you tell which six posts are rabidly sincere, and the four which were posted by post-modern, meta-lolling internet wags?

1. personally i think people like this sick shit should have there hands and cocks cut off for everyone to see what they are plus they could never do it again! his prison life is fantatstic

2. Ian shouldnt be allowed to Sing!! all there should be in his cell is a bed, an alarm for if he starts Singing, and a machine to cut off his cock. He shoudlkt be allowed to sing

3. What needs to be done is;
* Prisons need to be Prisons not Hotels!
* Inmates All need Castrating!
* Sentences need to be Long and Brutal!
It worked before the 60’s after All the Fucking Hippies made the Country Sex Mad and now look at the State of the Nation well it’s getting as bad if not worse than the Lower of the Species in Africa!

4. If you cut his hands off, he’d just spear young girls to death with his stumps. Because I am anti-death penalty, I think the only solution is to remove both of this demon seed’s arms and legs, and replace them with bags full of smoke. I’d like to see this bastard kill people with bags of smoke for arms.

5. It seems that our twisted little fuck Huntley has signed to play for Margate FC (Ryman Premier Division) this season without the club or the community knowing about the danger he poses to the children, the town and oposing players. I think we should boycott Margate FC! until they sack the sick outside half. I for one will not be buying the club’s away jersey as planned. make yourself known to the sicko’s who signed this bastard and tell them what you think!

6. We here on the south coast of England wish the maggot filled fly infested vomit soaked urine drinking puss bucket of scum Ian Huntley all the very worst. We truly hope that Ian Huntley sufferers eternal headaches , toothaches , backaches , neck aches ,angina , gangrene ,and a very very very slow death in agony from every known cancer of every organ in his pathetic, weedy, wimpy, vile demonic corpse. Here are the sounds of athiest communist miners in hell. THESE ARE REAL.

7. I would like to see Ian’s hands cut off. At least Sutcliffe killed guilty whores.

8. Because of the human right acts saying all human beings should be treated they way they are being treated…. thus letting nonces prowl over the internet on the innocence, criminals living the life of luxery in prison and terrorist and extrimist to destroy our home kill our loved ones and reign terror on the good people of this country.

9. Prison seems to be like a luxury hotel! They should be locked up in tiny cells, with several people!

10. ian huntley should die is when he alive and being covered in petrol and burned alive and so should maxine carr

Answers to this year’s Real Or Hardly will be posted in the comments. In the meantime, here’s two screengrabs which I like, one of which is also a clue! The first topic is called

ian huntley and others alike him should have there hands and cocks cut off!

That was a lot of fun. But not as much fun as this topic, which is called, simply

“huntlel”

SERIOUSLY HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET IAN HUNTLEL OFF FACEBOOK IF NOBODY TAKES THE FACT HE IS ON FACEBOOK SERIOUSLY? I don’t CARE that he isn’t on Facebook. I WANT HIM OFF FACEBOOK. I don’t care about the fact that I’m generally against everything Muslims do - I WANT HIS CHILD-TOUCHING HANDS CHOPPED OFF. I want all the children he is talking to be warned in assembly that when he gets out of prison his is going to TOUCH THEIR PENSIONERS’ BOSOMS

CHAPTER ONE
BICYCLES

I have bought a bicycle. Having a bicycle is brilliant, even if you can’t just put your legs in the air and go forward by yelping enthusiastically. It’s exercise, it’s saving me money, it’s all the best things in the world and I can’t shriek at a high enough pitch to express my love for my new bicycle. I’ve only got one problem with my new bicycle - it’s too small, and I hate it.

I knew it was going to be too small, from the moment the 5′6″ sales assistant looked me up and down, and said “I’ll put you down for the twenty inch frame. That’s what I ride, and we’re the same height.”

I’m six feet tall, give or take OK TAKE half an inch. I’m a full penis taller than this guy. But you can’t say to a tiny fella “excuse me, knee-high superguy, wake up and smell the congenital defect - you’re a tiddler”. I dated someone who was 5′8″ once, and he’d have a spaz attack if you prefaced any insult with the word “little”. I can only imagine how someone two inches more miniscule - and substantially deluded about his own height - would react if I rested my chin on his head and told him he was like a dinky toy version of a real man. He’d probably hop from foot to foot and shake his pea-sized fist at me.

Partly to prevent this humiliating situation, and partly because I’m convinced he’s a biter, I console myself with the idea that I can just put the seat up myself. Turns out, right, I’m so fat it goes down again while I cycle. Lol! Fat people. In retrospect, though, I think I made the right decision. Cycling with my knees bumping against my chest is a small price to pay for the dignity of a man who isn’t as tall as he thinks he is.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter One to Chapter Two is “a simmering strangeness around short people”.

CHAPTER TWO
DWARVES

A genuine dwarf came into the office, yesterday. He was promoting a Lord of the Rings game, under the pretence that he was a Hobbit.

As a professional dwarf, he’s completely aware of his position. And when I say his position, I mean his position as a man who’s as sexless to women as a disabled gay. Far from discouraging him, he realises that this means he can abuse his position as honorary child by groping the bums of ladies. No well-groomed lady will shriek in horror at the leering advances of a dwarf. Instead, they will laugh, and say “oh, you! You’ve seen what we do and you’re copying us!”

So, this sex pest mini-man is perfectly aware of, and profiting from, his shortness. It should, in theory, be perfectly acceptable for me to go up to him and say “can I have a photo of you riding me like a horse, please?” He must get cunts like me coming up to him with this kind of shit all the time.

TOP FIVE REQUESTS MADE OF PROFESSIONAL DWARF

1. Can you ride me like a horse please, like I am a big proud horse
2. Can I knock on your overhanging forehead please, I want to see whether it’s like a block of wood or an aquarium
3. Please can I stand you on the handle-end of a fork, then slam my hand on the stabbling end, and you go flying through the air
4. Can I see your teeth please, I want to see if you’re adapted for an omnivorous lifestyle
5. Get your cocktail sausage hands off my tits please, this stopped being charming some minutes ago and I can see your erection

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I got up a few times and moved backwards and forwards, but I got nowhere near actually saying “ride me” to a dwarf. Annoyingly, this is because I respect people in real life, getting my kicks instead from being a dick on the internet.

The problem is, this leaves me without a photo of me being ridden like a horse by a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit. Which I really, really, wanted. God, I can’t explain how much I want that photo.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter Two to Chapter Three is “lost opportunities, and a lingering preoccupation with being ridden like a horse”.

CHAPTER THREE
RICHARD ARCHER FROM HARD-FI

I’ve met Richard Archer from Hard-Fi before, when he was in less popular bands like Contempo, Parachute, Transitional XHTML, Richard Archer And The Randy Binmen, and the extremely unpopular Jewstabber. He’s a friend of a friend, but I’ve always been a bit too dazzled by him to ever say anything other than “OH WOW A SONG ARE YOU GAY”. This was certainly the first time I’d met him since he became an international superstar, and toast-chomping spokesperson for the underclasses, or whatever it is the NME thinks he is.

Because I’m concentrating on not saying anything too obvious, my brain turns into an ale-fuelled tumble dryer. He’s not being a prick at all, like I’d expected. Like, pretty much, I demand of my reputedly-cunt celebrities.  He’s responding to questions without holding court, and being unassuming, modest and aware of the madness - but all I’m really thinking for two hours is “I wonder if he’ll let me take a photo of him riding me like a horse”.

He’s got more to lose than a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit, who - it could easily be argued - has nothing to lose but a life of punishing introspection and sex offences. Richard Archer’s enough of a celebrity, and any photo of him riding me like a horse is going to look so much like doggy-style sauciness that it might compromise his position as an available lady’s man.

Driven by the lost opportunity of the morning, where I swore to myself I’d never not ask someone to ride me like a horse ever again, I asked him if he would do this one favour for me. Did he comply? HOW, SIR, DO YOU LIKE THESE APPLES?

Richard Archer from Hard-Fi, thank you for riding me like a horse. And may I take this opportunity to reassure any of his fans that it isn’t going in. It’s just sort of sliding around the small of my back. OH SHUT UP LOG

As you all know, my life is amazing, and I have three bags full of crazy fun with every mouthful. However, that’s not to say that my daily life isn’t an agonizing catalogue of loss and regret. It’s because I love so much, and so intensely - the only equivalent I can think of, based on what I’ve been doing in the last twenty minutes - is that my love is an EMP bomb. Sure, it knocks out all the electronics and causes chaos, and sure, it’ll damage any friendly security bots you’ve hacked into; but it lets you open that door. The door to love.

The video is briefly unavailable, thanks to a bunch of humourless cunts who think more of their own legal rights than they do of my rights to dick about on the internet. In the spirit of good will, I’m going to get the video hosted elsewhere, but until I manage that, here’s an H1 fuck you to the cunts in the comments section.

FUCK YOU, CUNTS.