- October 15, 2014 -


So I don’t knows how I got this big. And I don’t knows how I got stuck up Big Ben (that’s the clock not our local postie – who is coincidentally big and called Ben). But here is a movie style poster of a recent incident involving me in Westminster. And yes, it is the season of the magical mushroom.  And yes, everything is full of slightly mutated colours. And yes, I am drinking a pint which could fill a swimming pool. Aces.

- March 5, 2014 -

People says I ain’t technological.  Wot with me giant paws and last century Nokia phone that I got  free with a packet of cornflakes.

Well, people can be wrong. I recently acquired meself an iPad which some fool had left on a table in a shop. Argos of all places.

And much more than that. I got one of me Polska boys to design me an App. And its an App which I think all of you’s out there can benefit from.

The Backtrack App. Tells you what you gonna do before you goes and does it.

Let me explain.

Take a typical Friday night. The type of night that can go either way. Devil or deep blue sea. Lover or hater.

So at the start of night I enters me variables into me App. Pints of Stella:8. Wraps of Speed:1. Is that annoying tosser, Darren,  in the pub.? Yes he is. Darren:1.

Then I press a button and see the outcome. Ten minutes past midnight. There’s me with a baseball bat kicking Darren’s fuggin door down.

Result. Good night.

But what if I wants to push it a bit further.  Pints of Stella:12. Wraps of speed:2. Darren:1.  And press the button.

OK. There’s me being thrown into the back of a rozzer van. Didn’t kill Darren apparently. Kicked the wrong fuggin door in.

And there you have it. Use me Backtrack App at the start of the evening and I can choose between giving Darren the good old pasting he deserves or pushing it too far and spending the night in clinky.

So what am I gonna do this Friday?

Gonna leave me App at home and start off with 15 pints of Stella. Coz I is a rabbit of mystery.

- February 13, 2014 -

“Urgent action is needed to boost working class participation in public life, including the expansion of a scheme which saw bus drivers working as magistrates.”

So says a report by a thinking tank – the Policy Exchange Unit.

Thank the Lord that a load of middle classed Tarquins are watching over us.

But this does explain something to me.

It explains why me old Dad, Tex, has been dressing a bit strange. Black gown, wig, hammer. Thought he was goin’ to some S&M party.

But no.

Apparently they promoted him from the busses and made him a magistrate. A working classed beak! Didn’t want to make the demographic younger or more ethnic. No way. Just a little bit more traditional working classed. Didn’t want to dilute their justice, you see.

And they hit the jackpot with Tex.

Case One – stealing a sandwich. Ham and pickle. Tex’s favourite. Off with his fingers.

Case Two – a bit of wandering hand in the work place. Not guilty!! You oughta have seen wot she was wearin’. Stone the strumpet instead.

Case Three – some argie bargie outside the Emirates Stadium. Slam ‘em all in the public stocks for a month.

Case Four – caught with a small amount of personal product. Red hot poker up the arse. And, boy, that hurt.

Tex quickly became the toast of the Walthamstow ‘short sharp shock’ brigade. The moral backbone of our society. All goody good. Until some smart Alec points out that Tex is, in fact, introducing his own version of Sharia law to the streets of North London.

So they, with regret, had to move him on. Bad publicity.

But I hears that the fine group of Tarquins on the Policy Exchange Unit are now looking for more working classed School Governors.

Bring back some 1950s style discipline is wot I’m hearing. Send for Tex.