A unique chance to own some tat!

As my band of devotees will of course know, I have been drawing a strip for a better blog than this, twohundredpercent.net, for the last 17 weeks. It is called Shit Shot Mungo and it is about a football player called Mungo who is shit at shooting. You can find them all here.

Mungo will take a break of sorts for the next 10 weeks, the strip replaced with some other stuff I will be doing about the lives and careers of Mungo and his loyal teammates. I'm taking this opportunity to ruthlessly try and flog off the original artwork of the first 17 strips.

Each one is 24 x 20 cm in size, on a single A4-size sheet of 165 gsm white card. The first strip also features the Shit Shot Mungo header, which I then copied and pasted onto the subsequent sixteen outings. They will all be signed by me, a guarantee of authenticity and no mistake. They could be yours for £20 (inclusive of postage) each, with discounts negotiable for bulk buyers. I will do my best to keep this page updated with the ones which are still available as soon as a sale is made. Such is the nature of this sort of thing, however, I must apologise in advance if you cannot get the one you wanted.

If you are interested on owning a genuine, if minor, piece of internet history, email me by clicking on this: THIS.

Consolidation - a revolution in farts

As I'm sure you are all aware, whoever smelt it, dealt it. Whoever made the rhyme also committed the crime. However, far from this being a solipsistic post of auto-accusation regarding trumps, I confidently predict that this will be the beginning of a new era for human society. I will probably receive no credit for this, but I will know where the responsibility for this global revolution will lie and sate myself with this knowledge.

Before society collapsed and we all had to resort to trading in bark and pebbles, television was full of adverts for companies who would consolidate all of a person's individual debts into one handy, massive, monthly repayment. These days are now past, but the idea will live on. In your trousers.

The average human being produces about half a litre of gas a day, the internet helpfully informs me. It goes on to add that this is, on average, spaced out into 14 handy-sized farts. Some lucky individuals may achieve thirty or more farts a day, depending on diet, activity level and natural wit. I'm sure the more intelligent amongst you have already guessed where I am going with this, but, here's my idea. Fart consolidation. Every human being in the world will have their daily outgoings pooled into one huge, loud, smelly fart, to be done once a day. Crucially, this will be at the same time every day for everyone.

This will have two major effects. Firstly, hilarity. Imagine the sound and the smell. Once a day, the whole world would trill to the tremulous rumblings of 3 billion litres of bottom air. It would be like living next to an olden day factory when the lunch horn went off. A factory which perhaps dealt solely in the manufacture of egg salads. It would blow snow off high peaks, alter weather patterns and scare the cows. A display of unity from an otherwise disparate world. Far be it from me to suggest that everybody doing one big fart at the same time as each other would help us towards world peace, but, it would.

This theme of togetherness is continued in the second key effect. The fact the whole world tipped their hat at the same time would remove the stigma of the smelly fart. Instead of the laughter, the accusation and the pointing, human beings would instead simply embrace and congratulate one another on the wonderful malodour they had together created in a great stink tapestry.

Obviously, and as with any major social revolution, concessions will have to be made in other areas as life as we currently know it. But when we set out to break down paradigms, that is only to be expected. I fully anticipate that manufacturers of lifts, scented candles and cigarette lighters will do their best to resist these changes, whilst the people who make wallpaper, underpants and pomanders will be rushed off their feet. But this is a step for which humanity is ready. The economic model has proven itself to be too flawed to alone be a blueprint for existence. This humanistic and repugnantly accrid act will be human beings stood side-by-side, reclaiming the world for themselves and gassing half the pigeons. Let us start tomorrow. Hold in your farts. You have nothing to lose but your dignity.

Cat food - the verdict is finally in

This is Charlie. He is my cat. Charlie is 15 years old and, like anyone of his advanced years, has manky teeth. Last summer, the vet had to take half of them away.

Since then he's done battle with food, which is easily his favourite thing in the world regardless. He has suffered through sore mouth and sore gums, as well as putting us through that classic old feline standby, "I'm not eating that shit".

Quixotic even before this mouth jamboree went down, the past 8 months have seen us trying to strategically plan his meals to ensure he will eat his food. As such, I am now as expert as you can possibly be about cat food without eating the stuff. Although I did once eat a Whiskas kibble. Bone-shaped. Very bland. Don't judge me.

Anyway, here it is. Forget what the adverts tell you, this is now the final assessment of the cat food available in high-street stores across the land, written with the help of that festering, hairy, stinky tub of lard up there.

Whiskas

Very much still the market leader. Eight out of ten cats, they used to say, prefer it. Statistics prove nothing for individual cases, of course, so let's get down to brass tacks. The first thing to say about Whiskas is that it comes in a dizzying array of sizes, shapes, textures and flavours. The makers are clearly hyper-aware of their demographic, as cats are picky little bastards. So, let's break it down (with a fork):

Whiskas tins (chunks in jelly)
These vast monoliths were, until the invention of the tin opener, worshipped by primitive man. Upon the invention of that vital trinket, primitive man discovered they could feed the smelly innards to up to 40 billion cats per can. If you are a mad cat lady, big tins are probably the only economical solution. If you have only one cat, it had better be a lion.
Charlie's verdict: I don't like this. When it's fresh out of the tin it is not nice. After a while it is like bits of pencil eraser in a stinky brown puddle. Do not feed this to me.

Whiskas tins (pate-style)
Like the chunks, only a more homogenous mix, less prone to separating and making the world a more unpleasant place.
Charlie's verdict: I'm going out.

Whiskas sachets
The single-serve food in a handy pouch! A revolution in cat science. These come in a dazzling array, too. However, no cat enjoys them quite as much as the free sample pack we received from Whiskas. Seemingly identical to the ones in the shops, they were laced with some deliciousness which turned the domestic cat into a vacuum cleaner which later ones just don't seem to have.
Charlie's verdict: These are nice. I particularly like the chicken in jelly one and all of the country pate range except for beef flavour. Beef flavour is disgusting. If you try and feed me beef flavour I will 'accidentally' miss in the litter tray in protest. I also don't like the gravy range. Well, I like the gravy, but I'm damned if I'm going to eat the bits floating around in it. However, Whiskas oh-so-meaty is brilliant and I want to bathe in it. Top marks.

Felix

Cats like Felix, like Felix! So says the advert, featuring the cutesy prancing of a cat who is demonstrably an animated cartoon. Charlie is not like Felix. Charlie would like to eat Felix and chase it with some Felix. Accordingly, as he gets more elderly, curmudgeonly and creaky, he seems to like Felix less and less.

Felix tins (chunks in jelly)
Like Whiskas but spelt different.
Charlie's verdict: I don't like this. When it's fresh out of the tin it is not nice. After a while it is like bits of pencil eraser in a stinky brown puddle. Do not feed this to me.

Felix sachets
Similar to the Whiskas ones, but nevertheless different. Sadly, I could probably pick Felix out from a line-up of Whiskas.
Charlie's verdict: These are alright. Feed me these when I am not expecting it. Do not try and feed me these two meals in a row or I will stink and hair this joint up in protest.

Sheba

Named after the Roman goddess of flatulence, Sheba has always angled itself towards the luxury market. However, since the crazy influx of really high-end cat food into the market in recent years, it looks increasingly less specialised. The sort of food advertised with a sprig of parsley on the cat's plate.

Sheba trays
Individual serving packs with a peel-back foil lid. These are mostly pate-style (after all, this is a luxury product, ambassador), although some gravy variants do exist. The most commonly available flavours seem to be yellow, orange and green. Or whatever the meat equivalent is. These look and smell the same going in and coming out.
Charlie's verdict: I am a big fan of Sheba. They fit my luxurious lifestyle. My favourite flavour is yellow, which is handy because it is the easiest to find in shops. I AM TOLD. This morning I had an orange one, which was quite nice. But then I went out.

Shop own-brand

Generally speaking, I am a complete slave to advertising and mass marketing, so rarely get shop own-brand cat food. However, we once tried these in desperation and by god, it worked. The products in question here are all of the Sheba-me-do foil tray variety.

Co-op Gourmet
Ethically sustainable socialist Sheba variant. Similarly packaged, the contents are a little less sophisticated and, duly, a little cheaper. Cats have almost no discernment, though.
Charlie's verdict: These are nice. I like the fact they are soft. I do not like the fact that the most commonly served one (chicken and salmon, folks) has great chewy lumps of chicken gristle and big solid lumps of wooden stuff. What up with that shit?

Sainsbury's

Marks and Spencer
Charlie's verdict: Like Felix pouches, I will eat these if you surprise me with them, but not as a routine. I am not an animal.

Hi-Life

Hi-Life pride themselves on being full to the brim with MEAT or FISH, rather than carrot, ash and bogeys. As such, cats like them. Or that's the theory.

Hi-Life pouches
Like a tin of sardines after a nuclear war.
Charlie's verdict: These are sometimes OK. They are full of big lumps of real sardine! But I don't like sardine.

Hi-Life Petit Pate
Tiny cans of super-fine mush. Stinky meaty mush. Stinky meaty mush for cats.
Charlie's verdict: These are awesome. They have no lumps in and I can eat them without chewing. In days past I would have just eaten the tin whole and crapped out the label later.

The final reckoning

The ultimate desert island selection must surely be Whiskas oh-so-meaty (Chicken flavour), Sheba (Chicken and turkey) and Hi-Life Petit Pate (Chicken flavour). So why is he so picky about eating actual bloody chicken these days? My advice to you if you happen to find yourself on a desert island with my cat is to chuck him in the sea and be done with it.

Drawing without prejudice

Yesterday I got my crayons out and drew away, probably with my tongue sticking out of my mouth, whilst I was watching the delights of FiveUSA's CSI Sunday. For reasons I don't understand, this always begins with an episode of Numb3rs, which baffles me to the point that I get angry about its existence. Either way, the results are there for all to see, click the thumbnail for (wallpaper-sized, in fact) full splendour.

Anyway, the importance of such absent-minded drawing without purpose came flooding back to me yesterday evening. Just look at the progress I made! No, honestly, that page there contains at least one revolutionary concept, as well as a particularly neat trench coat-wearing gent. I walloped him out in a minute or so, thanks to CSI, Hank Williams' I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry and a lurking hitchhiker going round murdering people.

I'm not going to tell you the precise thing which has revolutionised drawing for me. Principally because I think it's pretty obvious on the page, but also because spies are probably lurking, waiting to steal my ideas.

If this hasn't put you off art forever, I still have two pictures for sale. I also hope to have some new stuff up soon. There's a link to the relevant post in my sidebar for all you collectors out there.

Yes, that's the sensible thing to do

This blog post will, I hope, serve to help me remember that the leader of the Liberal Democrats is called Nick Clegg. It has definitely reminded me that, before I saw his picture in this article, I had never seen what he looked like before.

A few points:

1. I salute the faultless logic at play here. What this country needs to get itself out of it's worst self-imposed financial crisis in nearly 80 years is definitely political leadership from a party who've never been in power in their current guise, and who last held the top office in Britain in any form on 16th October 1922. I love this plan. I'm excited to be a part of it.
2. Scholars of language will notice my choice of words in the first paragraph. Article, rather than "news story". It's another piece of non-news. At least let the man give the speech before you report on it, for heaven's sake.
3. The leader of the Liberal Democrats is called Nick Clegg. Nick Clegg Nick Clegg.
4. I don't understand economics at all. This week I have, part by accident and part by design, watched a lot of documentaries about Margaret Thatcher. Her key political legacy to the UK - whether you think it's good or bad, pinkos - was, at its core, an economic one. Her free market political thinking was intellectually justified, indeed, by the writings of the economist Friedrich von Hayek. Even in spite of this continual assault of Thatcher on my brain, I still have no idea about economics. My idea to solve the economic problems is for everyone to stop being so silly.
   
5. Thatcher crushing the unions was a good thing, no matter what grubby pinkos will tell you otherwise. Especially the sort of Newsnight Review grubby pinko who have never even seen a lump of coal in their life, because they used to get their butlers to deal with it.

That ought to do it.

P.S. the sixth point may well be that sometimes I like to make deliberately controversial statements in the fifth point of a five-point list for no other reason but to get a rise out of people and in so doing amuse myself. Who knows?

Personal failings writ large

Hello. In his description of this blog on his site's link page, internet legend twohundredpercent describes this blog as "likely to be updated five times a day for a week and then not at all for two months". This is as accurate an assessment of anything that you will ever encounter. However, in the spirit of trying to break the vicious (yet sexy) cycle, I have decided to do a blog post about all the blog posts I keep meaning to do. This will serve to at least cruelly mock you with an indication of what you're missing, but at most give me a kick up the bot-bot.

• My favourite twenty Bob Dylan songs. I have already worked out what they are.
• My favourite albums which are 30 minutes long or less. I have not yet worked these out.
  
• Stylistic cock and balls drawing 101. In this exceptional post, I plan to assess five different hastily drawn cocks which we drew in my book the other week in the pub, on the basis of their artistic and social merit.
• Formula 1 season 2009 preview, which I should probably do on my motor racing-only blog if I can only remember where the hell it is. Equally, however, it's arguable that I don't have sufficient material for one blog, let alone several and so I should just CONSOLODATE.
• A biography of internet celebrity Sir Sand Goblin. I just this second thought that up, but it seems to have promise.
• Reasons I hate people complaining that I never update my blog, especially (as is usually the case) seeing as they either don't have one themselves or do but never update it. And complaining about it being substandard when I do. What am I, Proust?
  

Well. There's something to look forward to, eh?

Trimble Trouble

So, here's the deal. I've decided to not say anything about Britain's new cleverest person in all history™ Gail Trimble. Partially because she's clever enough to think me under the table and put a fie on my knackers. Or hoof them. But also because I don't understand all the clamour, all the snarkiness and all the farrago. It strikes me as a little unfair to give the same sort of coverage normally reserved for Jade Goody, Kerry Katona or Jordan, to a woman with enough brainpower to potentially succumb to a confused existentialist fug instead.

Personally, I think such a stellar intellectual performance should, if anything, be hushed up. If word gets out, they'll be wanting the VOTE next.

The burgeoning TV career of Piers Morgan

Like many Britons, I have managed to keep my enthusiasm for Piers Morgan in check for many, many years. However, he's become somewhat ubiquitous on telly now, with ITV1 deciding he's the ideal frontman for their most intellectually stimulating programmes, i.e. those ones with adverbs in. With his latest offering - Piers Morgan Interviews D-List Celebrities and Makes Them Cry - beginning this weekend, I thought I would take the opportunity to offer my ideas for his subsequent project.

The Road to Wigan Piers
Piers Morgan attempts to find the Greater Manchester town by driving a classic car down six British thoroughfares, meeting fascinating people on the way, before eventually finding out that the road to Wigan is the A49, off junction 25 of the M6.

Blackpool Has Three Piers
Piers Morgan spends the summer in a horse-drawn caravan in the Lancashire resort, finding things which Blackpool has no more or less than three of. Excitement ensues in episode 2 (of three) when Piers thinks he's found three food processing factories but one of them turns out to be just in Fleetwood.

Earn The Respect of Your Piers
Piers Morgan takes on the Alan Sugar role, as he judges the efforts of 12 budding national newspaper editors. Over 10 action-packed weeks, Piers guides the hopefuls through a series of weekly challenges such as: printing a ludicrously anachronistic piece of petty jingoism on the front page, and publishing a waspishly judgemental criticism of British army personnel in Iraq based on photographs which turn out to be a hoax, all in the mistaken impression that your newspaper is a weighty and substantial political player on account of the fact it doesn't print topless women on page three. Then printing a grovelling apology. Then being sacked.

Victorian Piers
Following on from the success of the BBC's Three Men in a Boat strand, Piers Morgan, along with two mates called Victor and Ian, go on a canal barge holiday around the UK proving that they are all one of the lads by lighting their farts.

Pea Ears Piers
Piers Morgan sticks a load of peas in his ears...

Historical revisionism?

I was reading a very sad yet very fascinating story on the BBC news site this lunchtime when I was interrupted by a bloody chugger, tap tap tapping at my chamber door, no less. Have the streets run out of people to persecute, forcing these wretched examples of humanity to go door-to-door? Could they not try the homeless first? "For just a small percentage of your lager money/Big Issue pay packet, you could help save deaf children from being bullied at school". "Well, as a man who has lived on the streets for five years, I'd like to first say that such a thought is deeply concerning". This is something of a digression, but still: chuggers can just bugger off.

Anyway, the BBC informed me of two things I did not know. Firstly, that at the weekend, when I was out being sophisticated and eating food, hero of our times Max Clifford revealed that the prognosis for Jade Goody's cancer is now extremely bleak, with Goody being given just months to live. Secondly, I discovered that Gordon Brown found this fact out before me, and commented on it at his regular press briefing. Jade Goody looks set, if her doctors are right, to spend her last few months as an extremely visible presence in the UK's life.

The basic fact is that this story is very sad. Goody is only 27 years old and has two young children. To her credit, she seems set to use her swansong for a massive media event marriage and other 21st Century trappings, exploiting the fact that she can command massive fees for doing so, so as to try and secure as comfortable a future as possible for her family. She should be commended for her actions.

Jade has, for better or worse depending on your opinion, very much entered the British public consciousness. It's difficult, then, to not feel sorry for her, living in one of the most unenviable situations imaginable whilst also being one of the other most unenviable situations - tabloid fame. It would be just as wrong, however, to lose sight of the fact that the root of this fame came from being swelteringly common, stupid and unpopular after her appearance on Big Brother. Subsequently embellished with a spell of being swelteringly common, stupid, unpopular and racist on Celebrity Big Brother. Since then she's been a fitness guru, a model, an A-lister, an F-lister, paparazzi fodder, a magazine columnist and a fashion icon. If we are living in the Big Brother era, where fame is seemingly handed out to the most bewildering recipient in the United Kingdom on an annual basis, Jade Goody is its flag-bearer. I predict that a state funeral will be granted any time now.

It has given me cause to reflect on the legacy of human beings, particularly those in the public eye. People who choose to remember Princess Diana's marital infidelities over the fact she was the sainted princess of all our very hearts are regularly burned in the streets. Fans of Russell Brand or Jonathan Ross beheaded at Traitor's Gate. The polarised view of the world troubles me slightly. It's rather un-British in the way it caters to a black-or-white mindset, an extremist view of the world. A return to anything resembling balance would be very nice. People do stupid things, thoughtless things, good things, smelly things, funny things, appalling things, because they are people. I personally manage to tick the majority of those boxes every single day. But it's OK, because I'm a person. People all realise that, too, even, I like to believe, the people who fill the newsstands with screaming, judgemental hyperbole every day. I just hope that when I go, I'm not remembered purely for the best thing I ever did, the worst thing I ever did or the last thing I ever did*.

* unless it involves a jet pack

Round-up

In the relentless quest towards personal gain cunningly disguised as an attempt to revive the flagging world economy, you're always bound to forget something. The above picture is also for sale, and should have been included in yesterday's post. I've now revised that post to include its details.

In general round-up news, my friend managed to guess who the killer was in ITV1's excellent three-part scary drama Whitechapel from a one line utterance - and perhaps its intonation, let's be generous - in episode two. Whereas I, long-time Ripper case enthusiast, merely sat there pooing in my pants and sleeping with the light on. I was a combination of hugely impressed at her analytical skill and massively disappointed at my own lack of one. Anyway, despite what some knuckle-dragging TV critics might have said (although, to be honest, I have no idea as I don't read them) or any assumptions you may have made (let's face it, it's a drama, it's on ITV...), Whitechapel was excellent, I thought. If you're in the UK, you can watch it all here for the next 26 days.

Also, those of you of an entymological bent may be able to assist with a bug puzzler from last night. Upon going to bed, I removed a beetle from the carpet and ushered it out the window into the streets where the likes of him belong. I carefully trapped him twixt a jar and a piece of paper. Upon putting everything back, the whole world smelt of apples. It was actually quite a pleasant smell. If the beetle was trying to scare me off with it, it didn't work. I actually went back to see if I could find it to put it to work as an air freshener, but alas it was gone. Probably to find a big enough jar to get revenge on me.

The beetle in question was about half an inch long, clearly segmented, dark brown and with highly-distinguished flattened segments on its rearmost legs. A cursory glance at the interwebs seemed to suggest it might be a Conifer Seed Beetle, a recent immigrant to Europe from the Americas and first spotted in Britain last year in Hastings. I live about 40 miles down the coast from Hastings to the west. Could the beetle have bought a car? Or could it have been another, more commonplace, insect which also has a delicious, appley, distress fart? Help me, science!

TV schedulers take note

There are countless channels on Freeview which, for people who for baffling reasons don't live in the UK, is our digital terrestrial TV service. I probably could count them, on a technicality. But I don't want to. I even tried to start for the sake of accuracy in this post but got bored. So, suffice to say, then, that Freeview provides enough TV channels.

Words alone cannot express the sense of moral desolation and anger I feel, therefore, when I turn on the TV and find that there is absolutely nothing worth watching. At all. Come on, people. There can't possibly be an excuse for that, surely?

If it weren't for iPlayer and its perky ITV and Channel 4 equivalents, I think I'd probably revert to a feral state and have to be talked down out of a tree by Ray Mears. If the people who run television can deal with that on their conscience, so be it.

Good news for society

Heartening news from America, as the woman who held the world record for the longest fingernails lost them following a motor accident. The nails are, it seems, beyond repair (why would you want to repair a fingernail?) but the manky woman they are attached to will seemingly make a complete recovery.

The fingernails were older than me, it seems, having been last cut in 1979. All of this pales rather against the sheer, unmitigated, mankiness of the whole thing. Aside from the fact the mere sight of a photo of them gives me the heeby-jeebies, I find their mere existence offensive to my way of life. World records are important to me. I'm a statistics-obsessed lunatic. I honestly feel that the whole concept is sullied by someone deliberately deciding to break one by the simple expedient of neglecting personal hygeine. I could, should I wish, stop wiping my bottom from my next poo onwards and break the world record for the filthiest rear end. I choose not to, on account of the fact we're trying to have a society here. This is before we even get to the thorny issue of how she went about wiping her bumhole herself.

Fingernails (and their cousins, the toenails) perplex me. Principally because I don't know how our ancestors went about cutting them. All I know is that they must have cut them. Because not cutting them makes you a manky titwitch. Further more, the Renaissance couldn't have happened if Leonardo da Vinci had 4-foot long nails. But mainly the manky titwitch thing.

Just to stress again, anyone with really long fingernails, cut your fingernails. We live in an enlightened age with wonderful tools. You manky titwitches.

Mints

I love mints. They are my favourite sweets. The other day I tried to imagine a world without mints and it was not a pleasant thought. I love mints so much I even buy the overpriced ones from WH Smiths at Brighton Station. The only mints I don't really like are Murray Mints. My favourite of all are Trebor Mint Imperials.

However, I particularly like Trebor Spearmint flavour Softmints at the moment. I've never fully understood why spearmint is represented as blue in confectionary circles, because spearmint is in fact green. Green and leafy. Spearmint softmints, though, come in a white and blue packet and the sweets are a lurid blue colour. I was disappointed that Trebor didn't also make the peppermint flavour softmints - which come in a predominantly green packet - bright green. I bought both, you see. For research purposes. Minty research.

That's really all I have to say on the subject, to be honest.

On reactions to snow

It hath snowed. As I tip-tap-type this drivel, there is 2 (two) inches (eeenches) of the white flumpy stuff laying on the ground. Which is, of course, its preferred place to lay. Oh, and yes, I did measure it specially.

Reaction to snow number 1:

Our subject here is a 10-month old female Selkirk Rex pedigree cat. This subject had never seen snow before. The reaction was a blend of wide-eyed wonderment coupled with terror. It was very cute. I would give it an 8 (eight) on the cuteness scale. And I am a tough critic.

Reaction to snow number 2:

Our subject here is a 2-year old human female. She was very excited. Dizzily so, considering that there was but a centimetre or so dusting the ground. I anticipate that she is, at this stage, going completely mental.

Reaction to snow number 3:

Our subject, a 14-year old male moggie cat, black from head to toe and, as such, with the tendency to see snow as the very antithesis of his being, looked out the window at 3.30 a.m. and thought "Oh, fuck". Never before has a domestic feline managed to convey a thought so clearly. It made me laugh, despite the fact he had woken me up at 3.30 a.m. The subject subsequently woke me up at 4.30 a.m. to reiterate his displeasure. This hardly made me laugh at all.

Reaction to snow number 4:

Our subject this time is a 29-year old human female. It must be noted that this subject originates from a part of the world where snow is more commonplace than it is in the coastal area of Sussex. Which could be a description of Egypt, but in this case it is not. Also for consideration is the fact that I had informed the subject that her chances of being snowed-in today were laughably minimal. The subject displayed pleasure at the snow in a text message at about 8.20 a.m. this morning. The other knowledge gained - that I know three-fifths of bugger all - may well have been filed away for later reference.

Reaction to snow number 5:

Our subject, a 28-year old human male, was seen making plans to run about in the snow like a simpleton with a big grin on his massive, massive face. However, he had to write a blog post first.

On football

Yesterday I went to a football match. You can see a properly considered review of it here. However, I would like to add that it was a terrible match. I know that ticket prices for Conference National games are centrally set, but I really do think that to charge £12 for the dirge I witnessed is pretty shameful. As more and more credit crunches up, causing the currency to inflate in your pocket like a dead dog in the noonday sun and more and more people find themselves unemployed, it's pretty easy to imagine that going to a football match will be one of the first luxuries to be cast asunder. It's likely that a lot of the clubs would suffer - some terribly - as a result of this. To this I say, good. You all bloody deserve it. Every single last one of you. I personally hope professional football in this country completely collapses and has to be rebuilt by the people who actually care about the game as opposed to the profits. The great thing about football is that it will never die off. All you need is a ball - or even something which can be used as a ball - and somewhere to play. All a big recession would do is kill off the greed. This would be a double bonus, as it would also make me laugh.

From now on, I am going to set myself a ceiling price - of say, a tenner - for the amount of money I'm willing to pay for admission to a football match. I think that's a reasonable sum. Naturally, this will leave the clubs feeling a ache of supreme indifference. However, I'll feel a lot better about everything. I would love to be able to see Brighton and Hove Albion play every week, but I'm not going to stump up £30 a time to do it. What am I getting in there? It's certainly not entertainment.

This pretty much leaves me with the Conference South and below to play with. And that's plenty. I've had much more worthwhile experiences watching a match at Sussex County League Division 2 level - which is as low as you can go in the football pyramid without having mixed-species teams playing - than I ever have anywhere else. Whisper it, but, the standard of football is really not that much different to anything you'd get except for at the very top of the best leagues in the world, a fact I don't anticipate Sky television will be revealing any time soon. Plus, you get to hear every foul swear uttered by the players, and witness the glee on the face of someone who accidentally does something skillful.

I'd like this to turn into a bigger campaign. But at the same time. I'd rather it didn't. You see, the more people who cry off the rampantly overpriced matches in the professional leagues to follow their local amateur or semi-professional clubs, the more attractive they'll become to the money men. And then I'd have to start following rugby or something. God save me from that.

On boxing

This week I have watched again the BBC's excellent four-part documentary The Fight, a series of films about the history and development of professional boxing. I love a bit of that, you know. I love the simplicity, the combativeness, the total lack of any mitigating factors - it is sport in its absolute rawest form. I love the history behind it, too - the murkiness, the characters, the contests. To top it all off, boxing has provided some of the most staggering visual images of sport since the invention of photography and the moving picture. One particular piece of film - featured in the third episode of The Fight - sees Sugar Ray Robinson leaning casually against the rope during the count to one of his many felled opponents, occasionally silhouetted by the exploding flashbulb in the opposite corner. It's extraordinary - better than anything Martin Scorcese, even, got into Raging Bull.

As such, it may be unusual to note that I never watch boxing on the telly. I have seen the odd round in the Olympics here or there, maybe. But the dawn of satellite and pay-per-view TV has really put a crimp in my style. Put simply, I'm not interested in two men called Neil with arms like knotted pipecleaners, fighting to decide who is the third-best light-welterweight in Northern Ireland. I want to see the heavyweight world championship bouts. Preferably, whilst they are happening, rather than on Sportsnight 12 days later.

This was all brought into sharp focus by the fourth part of The Fight, a brilliant 50 minutes viewing for any sports fan, concerning the 1975 Thrilla in Manilla fight bewteen the Champion, Muhammad Ali and the challenger, Joe Frazier. This is as legendary, thrilling and brutal a sporting contest as the world has ever seen, and without wishing to come over all Des Lynam, Ali won after 14 rounds. The Beeb's man at ringside was Harry Carpenter, who claimed that the world stopped to see the outcome of this bout. Now, personally I doubt this somehow. But it is indicative of the kind of unifying effect sport is able to have, if only people would let it. At a time when the Government are looking at refurbishing the list of essential sporting events to be available free-to-air, it's perhaps an indication that flexibility, rather than thoroughness, should be the key. Who knows where or from what sport the next Ali will come? But I'd hate to think I'd have to miss it because I'm a skinflint.

On cooks

This week, I have been watching Heston Blumenthal's three-hour long advert for Little Chef and enjoying it a lot. I like Heston. Channel 4 obviously like him too, as they have recently snaffled him up on a multi-year contract to make programmes for them, just as they did for Jamie Oliver. Their cookutainment line-up is now so formidable, it's hard to see anybody else even bother to try and seriously compete with it.

One could wonder exactly why Channel 4, who are currently feeling the financial pinch to such a degree that they are cutting down on in-house production of drama series to a skeleton of their most successful products and are also contemplating mergers, would be so keen to painstakingly build up this roster of A-grade TV chefs. Well, one could wonder that up to the point that they watch UKTV Food. Because it turns out, making cookery programmes on the telly is quite an artform in itself. As an aficionado of rubbish TV, I thought I'd introduce you to some of my favourites in the exciting, buttock-clenchingly awful TV cookery programmes genre.

Tamasin's Weekends (UKTV Food)

The epically terrifying Tamasin Day-Lewis takes us on a whistle stop tour of some of the dishes she would prepare for her braying, shooting the poor in the face, everyone on horseback, jodhpury upper-middle class leisure time. Often, Day-Lewis - who is the sister of Daniel, the actor - will rope in some of her friends to help. These friends, who are usually called Arabica, Fenella or Ribenica, are then put to some serious kitchen graft by the stern Tamasin, who has the look of Tracey Emin dressed as a scarecrow and you're unlikely to want to cross. She is also a keen proponent of locally-sourced and organic produce, so her programmes will often start with her chastisement of a greengrocer at a farmer's market. The man, normally 6'5", 28 stone and with facial tattoos, is left in the foetal position as Tamasin haggles over the price of rhubarb.

Paradise Kitchen (UKTV Food)

Far from Tamasin's well-appointed country kitchen, where a fox steams merrily away in the Aga, we go to Andalucia to meet up with Gioconda Scott. The doe-eyed Gioconda is probably too sweet and innocent to realise how annoying people speaking in English but then affecting Spanish pronunciation of local words can sometimes be. However, I imagine the majority of viewers - me included - are willing to forgive this on account of the fact that Scott is without serious parallel in the ranks of People Who Look Absolutely Terrified To Be On TV. With sunny Mediterranean skies glowing off the terracotta-lined terrace, with chorizo sausages playfully swinging in the breeze, with tapas dishes heaving with a bounty of just-cooked artichokes and pimenton, Scott smashes up another mortar-load of picada whilst looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Compelling television.

Sophie Grigson's Weekends (also Sophie Grigson's Sunshine Food; Grigson) (UKTV Food)

Much less laid-back than Tamasin's weekend plans, Grigson normally spends Saturdays and Sundays running around like a blue-arsed fly. This does not mean she doesn't have time to slap out some hearty tucker, though. Oh no. She's pretty good at what she does, too - coming from a family of cookery writers gives her a solid background of knowledge, and two decades of regular TV work has honed her camera skills. No, she makes this list because she is the most resolute, militant left-hander I have ever witnessed. Gordon Ramsay and Keith Floyd are both also left handers, but niether of them use the southpaw method of wielding a huge sharp knife. It's white-knuckle chopping of the highest order. I have to also point out at this juncture that I find the fact she looks like she was drawn by Matt Groening highly off-putting.

Rick Stein's Taste of the Sea (BBC)

The programme title which allowed a generation of wags to remark, "I've heard that rumour", the Stein genre is perhaps a surprising choice for here. However, whilst I think his culinary skills are beyond reproach and his Food Heroes project is admirable, he's still just not a natural on the telly. I find him to still be a bit twitchy and nervous, as perhaps evidenced by his legendary mandolin slip-up, easily the most stomach-churning real-life injury ever suffered on TV. I also found his habitual recourse to reading poetry made me hope he choked on a bone. Luckily, Rick's early career was helped along by his insane pet Jack Russell terrier, Chalky. Chalky helped take the pressure off of Rick, all sweaty palms and blue plasters, by biting a cameraman's arsehole or jumping in the sea. However, with Chalky now passed away, I await to see how it affect's Rick's confidence on camera. I would suggest he perhaps get a parrot* and wear it on his shoulder. But that's just me.

* Or a seagull, obviously. A dirty great herring gull.

More things

I was planning to do a post about how much I like Girls Aloud today, but that will have to wait. Because several other things which aggravate me have come to mind, and I just can't hold off.

5. People playing music on trains or buses

This is just outrageously annoying. Transcendentally so, in many cases. It's on the rise, too, thanks to generation-after-generation of more sophisticated mobile phones. Plus generation-after-generation of more inadequately socialised children, of course.

6. Drivers who don't know how to indicate properly

As a lifelong pedestrian, I'm by now pretty much used to giving motor vehicles right of way. It seems only reasonable. Would it, therefore, be too much to ask for the courtesy of road users actually learning how to drive properly? I've never driven a car, but I seemingly know more about the use of the indicator than half of the motorists whose path I cross. Literally, in many cases, as they blithely turn without so much as a hint. I hope they all get diarrhoea.

7. Sports fans who cry when their team are relegated

I have sympathy for people who care about sport and invest their time and money in it. I could even understand someone getting upset if their favourite club fell foul of the economic climate or other factors. However, please believe me when I say, if your team get relegated from their division to the one below, they'll still be there at the start of next season. In fact, you may even have a better chance of seeing them win. Of course, the kind of moron who cried on the final reckoning of the previous season will most probably have buggered off to support someone else by this point. If behaviour like this was exhibited in any other realm of public life, you'd be registered as mentally ill.

8. Christian rock music

Hey, guys, let's let people know about Our Lord, but in a way the kids will dig, yeah? You fucking arseholes. If you end up writing a song which happens to be about your faith or beliefs, fine. If you don't, but have them inspiring your creative endeavours all the way, fine. Christian rock is the musical equivalent of people who sit on the toilet straining to have a shit. And, like people who try and force bowel movements, Christian rock has been known to cause massive brain aneurysms, usually in the listener.

9. Apologies no-one means

"Essential road maintenance in progress. Sorry for any inconvenience" Well, no, no you're not. And that's fine. Things have to be done. The road network is pretty important for society, for example, so the occasional roadwork is the lesser of two evils. So why, why, why the need for the completely perfunctory and disingenuous apology? The world, I tell you, it's gone rotten.

10. Accidentally taking your mother's HRT tablets instead of paracetamol and lactating for the next six months as a consequence

Okay, I'm making these up now, I'll stop there.

++ New amazing product! ++

Stalkers amongst you will have noticed a new link in my sidebar, for Some People Are On The Telly. This is a blog about television. I will occasionally be contributing to it, as you may notice from the first page. And if that's not enough of a guarantee of satisfaction for you, there will also be regular articles from articulate people!

Leroy

My favourite actor is Robert de Niro. However, he only just edges my second favourite, Samuel L. Jackson, because Jackson is unquestionably the coolest single entity on the planet. It speaks volumes for Samuel L. Jackson's abilities (and epic coolness) that I have watched a lot of his films, even though they generally tend to be not as good as films other people are in. Here are my five favourite Samuel L. Jackson films (in alphabetical order).

Deep Blue Sea

Samuel L. Jackson is, as I may have mentioned, cool. As such, he lends much to daft animal attack films. Sadly, I've not seen Snakes on a Plane yet, but I know I will love it simply because it has him in it, and I have seen Deep Blue Sea. Jaws may be the shark film's book of Genesis, but Deep Blue Sea is its New Testament. Genetically modified, super-intelligent, massive sharks take over an underwater science laboratory and go mad. This film is also an excellent example of how Samuel L. Jackson is not afraid to be that film stereotype from the bad old days: the black protagonist who doesn't quite make it to the end. But what a way to go!

Die Hard with a Vengeance

Here, SLJ plays a racist store owner in Harlem, NYC, who gets dragged into Detective John McLain's running battle with Eastern-European terrorist cells. The film itself withers a bit towards the end, but Samuel L. Jackson keeps it cool throughout.

Jackie Brown

I'd heard mixed reviews about this film when it came out, so didn't expect much from it when I finally saw it on television. It taught me that film critics are to be ignored, because it is an outstanding film, undoubtably my favourite Tarantino venture so far. Here, Samuel L. Jackson goes the other way to play a nasty piece of work, an arms dealer trying to get his money out of Mexico and killing people who stand in his way. The coolest movie antagonist you could ever imagine.

Pulp Fiction

This will probably always be the definitive SLJ role, and with good reason. Jules Winfield, the moralising, cerebral mercenary, is perhaps one of celluloid's most sympathetic ever Bad Men. Regardless of that, he is almost certainly the single coolest film character you could ever hope to see.

The Long Kiss Goodnight

SLJ plays a washed-up private investigator, trying to help Geena Davis - an ex-government assassin suffering from amnesia - regain her memory. He's slowly caught up in her whirlwind and faces mortal danger, but never stops keeping it way cool.

Four things

I'm not going to sit here and claim to be one of those easy-going people. I'm not. I'm a total grouch. However, I like to arrange the things which annoy me into lists, which gives the impression of a zen-like calm. Whereas actually I'm furious.

Four Things Which REALLY Annoy Me

1. Dog poo on the beach

Maybe this would be all right on the Côte d'Azur. A freshly-spun brown trout probably shows up quite well against miles and miles of golden, sandy beach. However, in Sussex, as any fool know, the beaches are made up of pebbles. Pebbles which tend to be a range of greys, whites, blues and, yes, browns. There was some consternation when moves were made by Brighton and Hove council to ban dogs from Brighton beach. However, I think it's a good idea. OK, it's unfair on the proportion of dog owners who clean up after their pet (≤ 0.9%?), but it saves the rest of us a faecal beach.

2. Spitting

Oh my word, how I hate spitting. Oh, man. If you have ever just gobbed on the street for no other reason than that you fancied a good spit, I almost certainly hate you. Some commentators blame professional footballers for this. While it's true to say that they are all gob fountains, I believe it's possible to watch something and then not go on and do it yourself. The badly brought-up, ill-mannered, filthy, cunts.

3a. Cyclists who ride along the road until they get to a traffic light

We've all seen these arseholes. As soon as the red light goes up, they decide that the rules of the road suddenly don't apply to them. Some of them even go onto the pavement, to emphasise the fact that, at the moment that being a road vehicle doesn't suit them any more, they can switch back to being a pedestrian. I'd like to see it written into the Highway Code that all motorists are permitted in law to drive into these cyclists when they catch them up again on the other side of the lights.

3b. Cycle lanes on pavements

What in the gods is going on? Maybe we should have lanes for everyone on promenades. One for pedestrians, one for dogs, a thin one for snakes, one for HGVs. Actually, there's already a special lane for HGVs and other motorised vehicles. It's pretty extensive, too - it goes all over the country. A cyclist is not a pedestrian, people. We footbound souls already have to suffer their venal behaviour enough as it is (see 3a). Worse still, these bastards have the nerve to get antsy if people walk in their precious cycle lane. Joke's on them - last night I fingered their mum.

3c. Cyclists

Basically, yes.

4. Ludicrous security precautions

It's human to want to protect yourself and your loved ones. However, you can go too far. Big Alsatian? Fair enough. Big gun? Maybe not. A country with a standing army is a sound precaution. A country with a multinational strategic missile defence system has probably taken things into the realm of psychosis.

If you are out today, I guarantee you'll see at least one example of someone having gone equally insane, but on a more local level. Someone with a steering wheel lock on their 1993 Vauxhall Nova. However, my current beef is rather more personal, and pertains to a neighbour's security light. You know the ones, they operate on a circuit which detects movement. In principle, it's a reasonable idea. I actually think it would be a good idea for streetlighting in smaller towns or rural areas, to help save energy. However, this neighbour's security light is like nothing I've ever seen before. Well, actually, I tell a lie there, it's like one thing I've seen before. I see it every day, in fact. The sun. This thing could floodlight a football pitch. I am seriously considering the possibility of a garden party, knowing full well all I'd have to ensure is a few cats wandering around on the other side of the fence to make it almost like daylight. This light's awesome power is such that I can see it throwing shadows on houses 100 yards away. As soon as it's triggered, birds start singing. For a security light, you might think that brighter is better, but again, this has taken it too far. Because if you try and get a look at anyone this bulb illuminates, you'll burn out your retinas. At which stage, it becomes particularly easy for someone to rob you.

Yes, the cat, or leaf, or gust of fucking wind, to rob you.