This is a press release to all editors on behalf of the celebrity volcano in Iceland. If you are among the 92% of Europe’s media who reported the incident and published photographs, we regret to inform you that you have violated the image rights of Eyjafjallajokull. By Icelandic law each trademarked image bears a retrospective charge of $40,000. If you do not repay the country within 48 hours, a pandemic of equivalent eruptions will be triggered as part of a geological pact, thus grounding all flights indefinitely.


If you removed the talent and the vice out of the former, you’ll be left with the face and the voice of the latter.

Sorry Will.

Don’t mention it John.

NOSE POST (# 74,934)

my fingers are on strike and my nose is the next best pointy key pusher but fuck it makes the head ache.


If they’re older, are you a fraud?

If they’re younger, should you sue?

If you’re the same age, were you separated at birth?

If they’re dead, would their grave give you the spooks?

If they’re in the same profession, should you take your middle name or change career?

If they’re famous, then aren’t you too?

If they met you, would you have anything else in common?

If you killed them, might the murder trial sound like suicide?

If they gave their child their name then befell a tragic accident, would you be able to foster their child?

If you were both gay, might you get it on?

If you had the same name, met up, fell head over heels and got married, would you keep your maiden name as a matter of karma?

If you met several people with your name, might you start your own private club?

If no-one else is ever born with your name, might you feel extinct?

If you’re called Peter Kirby and you’re reading this, am I you and are we us?


No, not the first of seven dwarfs. Sure, he was a lump.

I’m talking about Happy – the emotion, the state of being happy. The one that is immeasurable according to the pall bearers of joy. Their shoulders cannot lie.

Or can they? Happy is a complex condition. It is also rarely whole for more than a millisecond. Weighing happiness is akin to throwing a mercury dart at the treble twenty. Just as you think you’ve got it there in the palm of your soul, it evaporates into thin something or other.

As a remedial scientist, I think there may be another way to weigh happy. Not in weight, but in mass. And not in mass in the conventional sense as density, but mass in its radiant quality.

Still with me…because I’m not. Keep going into the blindness of hope.

Mass as atmosphere. Mass as aura. Mass as good times. Now, we’re talking mass language.

Happy can be measured in its contagiousness. As it passes from one person to another, it has two options. To fade or to build.

As my energy fades, I kneel before you all and wait to see if a post will arrive and take this Olympic flame somewhere new, somewhere happier.

Or whether, sadly, this is:

The Elegy Of Happy.

FOR 1984, READ 2010

He was the first to march. His placard read: I AM A POLICY. Within a week of his debut protest, he was 154 strong. They called themselves THE PERSONs. The press called them The Breakthrough. They denounced the riots in Trafalgar Square and came to calm them after the riot police failed. Within a year, one ninth of Britain had joined THE PERSONs. Before the incumbents had served their term, they resigned. From that day forth, the nation became the world’s first wholly co-operative government with citizen rule. As political parties gave way to self-parliament, the class system collapsed and tax became fair for all. With nothing to rail against, the country was renamed New Switzerland and slowly depopulated, until the last man standing, a Mr Eric Blair, finally past away, a bachelor.


It is now.

If John Motson had commentated on the election, we’ve just survived the penalty shootout and it’s still a draw.

And while we’re on the topic, if we win the World Cup, will the recession receed?


Sam: I’m not really pregnant y’know.

Miriam: You are y’know.

Sam: No, really I’m not. I faked it for the election and now we’re in number 10, I can take the cushion out.

Miriam: Sammy, it’s not a cushion. It’s Nick’s.

Sam: You’re kidding, it can’t be. What would David say?

Miriam: He’s in on it. It’s a coalition baby.

Sam: Ohh, that’s so romantic. I’m going to call it Mizzy, after you.

Miriam: Why not Dizzy, after Dave…and me?

Sam: And Mr Rascal.


This post will take the two minutes to write one-handed (the time it takes to brush my teeth), about the same depth of thought that has gone into the co-ifesto drawn up tonight.


We’ve just heard that David James and Gordon Brown have agreed to swap roles in an historic deal. The former England shot-stopper was always one of the brighter exponents of the beautiful game and is the son of an abstract artist, which ironcially, has paved the way for his entry into abstract economics under the watchful brow of Harriet Harman. In exchange, Mr Gordon Brown will don the gloves in nets at South Africa thanks to his grandmother’s sister who lived in Carlisle. Both goalkeeper and politician are ‘doing fine’.

Next Page →