I accept that parallel lines would eventually run out of ideas on how to arrange themselves once they’d reached 45 trillion variations, but did they have to bloat out to such monster proportions as this:

The Bar Code Cube or Cube Code as it should probably be called now the bar has done its time, is big. And square. And ugly. Like the bastard offspring of a Tetra Pringle sweater and a game of sudoko gone badly wrong.  The designer of it will defend it as the first 3D scan-happy code, a notch for man to look back on and tell his kids about just before the world ends.

All to help us buy more shit.

Zap me senseless at the checkout please, and while you’re there, tie that polythene bag over my head.

Most kind.


Due to cuts, the following programmes have agreed to join editorial forces to entertain the nation.

University Challenge & The X Factor are now one and the same. Two teams of 4 young people will be asked questions and they must sing their answers in front of a live fresher’s audience. This new look talent quiz will be kept in check by a panel of academic-celebrity judges (compile your own here as it’s more fun than reading mine). If any contestant interrupts Mr Dermot O Paxman in mid question, he or she will lose 5 points and an item of clothing. The overall winner will be given their own 1 year residency post in the coalition as Minister of Youth Entertainment on a basic salary of expenses.

Also in the pipeline…

Grand Squats – Kevin ‘Swampy’ McCloud presents the greatest grungestorations of the last 12 months.

The Only Way is Belgravia – scripted reality drama within the struggling trust fund local community of SW3.

In The White Garden – a political puppet party aimed at pre-school, starring these long lost twins.


Ever since story-telling man taught gullible man to believe in anything, tales of colossal beings have been spun around men. Usually with beards. And warts. And boots the size of houses.

What if King Kong had been Queen Kong and Ann Darrow had been Dan Arrow? Aside from the Daryl Hannah in Attack of the 50ft woman, really, really, really big women have been thin on the ground.

Until 5am this morning.

I found myself in the turquoise finger-nailed clutch of a female who was so tall, her hair was the clouds, and changed style as frequently. She was not a man-eater, nor was she a siren. Instead she spoke to me, in a Cumbrian accent, with the velocity of a summer scirocco – the wind that is, not the car. What did she speak of? She told me a story so sad that it had the power to bring the dead back to life.

So, if you know of anyone who you’d like to resurrect, or you are indeed undead yourself, then post me a message and I’ll find a way of telling you the rest.


One word might save them yet.

The O word.

No, not that one.

This one: organic.

Here’s how it unfolds.

The Soil Association hear of a communal allotment and ask for a look-see.

They call in the Eden Project who use their eco-clout to lobby for the UK’s first ever Area of Special Societal Interest.

By the News at Ten on Wednesday, it has certifiable organic status and a farm shop has opened up at the gates with Hugh F-Whit on the till.

By Friday clocking off time, Dale Farm Organic Jam is in Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s, Morrisons, Lidl, Fortnum & Mason and hits the ingredients trolley on Masterchef.

The site is given a PDO (Protected Designation of Origin), twinned with the Champagne region and they all live loadedly ever after.


Talk about u-turns. As unemployment does what he’d hope the economy would do, that is rocket, Citizen Cameron is about to pull off his most audacious coup to date in an attempt to save our sinking isle. So gather ye round liberalists of the shires and listen in to a tale that’ll make your ears blink.

David will break away from the true blues at midnight tonight. George Osbourne will step into Dave’s size 12 loafers and will endeavour to grow a beard for the rest of his term in office. Samantha and the family will move into Dale Farm with immediate effect. Her new role in the Big Sister Household (sponsored by Sky) will be as spokeperson to negotiate an extension to the eviction date. She will be in character and the last we heard, her persona of choice is Joan of Arc, although she will only speak to the media in English with a French accent, as she never quite made it past Madame Bertillon et famille.

As for big Dave himself, he’s in final negotiations with a splinter group from the union of train drivers and operators which they plan to rally under the banner of ISLEFT (Institute of Socialist Loving Extremists and Far-leaning Trotskyites – in case you were wondering). Dave is a firm believer of the law of the obvious. Although unavailable for comment, we did manage to get a paraphrased quote from his sacked butler who even dropped his p’s and q’s for us.

‘Tell ’em what you’re gonna tell ’em, tell ’em, then tell ’em you’ve told ’em.”

We took this to mean I have nothing to say right now, but the press will fill in the gaps with assumed policies and ideas.

So where does this leave us, the bemused public? And where will Purple Ed head now? To a darker shade of indigo perhaps. We shall just have to wait and see if Che Cam has the courage of someone’s else’s convictions.

And be sure to check out Sam’s new Parisian crop. It’s so of the now.


Tonight was a lesson in listening, something I do so badly it’s a wonder my ears don’t divorce me. But listen I did and something sank in.

The title of this post is not an anti-Dylan song. Nor is it a child’s essay after drinking a litre of Red Bull.

So why write it and why read it?

For the peachy feeling that all 3 words contain all 5 vowels.

Just like ‘eunoia’.

And if this is a new word to you but you’d like another peachy feeling, search its meaning on this site (because after nearly 3 years on this long hand blog I still can’t figure out how to tag a word from one post to another).

If you can help me tag on wordpress, please tell me how.






Numbers continue to dominate this event but it’s a sum that still doesn’t add up. We are blinded and deafened by the mathematics of human life. Like any large scale disaster, be it natural or inflicted by man, we hear about it through the language of figures, of statistics, as reporters struggle to convey any genuine emotion such is the obsession with the amount of death as opposed to the depth of it. After it has lost its newsworthiness, we look to dates to allow us to re-mourn. Is all this really fair on those who lost their loved ones when the towers collapsed – to reprise the tragedy for the sake of a date? A deathdate at that. As sad as it is, these dead people would rather we toasted their birthday in memory if we’re to chose any significant date.

One final thought from my wonderful sister-in-law. She told me she’d read about a New York widow whose husband had died on 9/11 but not in 9/11. He had died the same day a few blocks away in a separate incident and the ambulance had got there too late to save him. So, forever he’ll be remembered for that one vowel of difference. ‘On’ 9/11, not ‘in’ 9/11.


There are a fraction under sixty two million people living in Britain.

Guess how much land is occupied by housing?


Yes, 1%.

Or, if you count roses, lawns and driveways as homes, then it’s a mammoth 4%.

That leaves 96% of uninhabited land in one of the most densely populated nations on Earth. Every British resident still has almost double the space of our near neighbours, the Dutch. We have five times more room to swing a cat than Malta and the Maldives, while Monaco’s uber-wealthy live in the slum-like confines of 16,440 residents per square mile. Put another way, that’s 1/66th of the acreage of UK citizens.

So, where does this lead us?

To bed, or better still, the nearest meadow. To procreate. To do what we were put on this earth to do before we made it such hard work with videos of how to do it wearing a moustache and permed hair, unless of course you live in Monaco and model yourself on a late 70’s Kevin Keegan.

The moral of this whim is, in some ways the climate cannot change fast enough because a little less land might make us share the stuff that’s left a teensy bit more equally.


An online dating agency specialist was pimping her racket on the radio today. She swore by the photograph and claimed it gives you ten times the chance of someone saying “Yes, let’s meet up.” Most people will show an old vain portrait where they’re looking half their current age and distinctly pre-meltdown. There are however some braver people around who just happen to be single and are willing to take a risk on humour or kookiness without feeling it might lead to perennial misery.

My question to you readers is: would you meet someone whose calling card looked like this?

Judge people by their picture


Ok, it’s not the way the military want it to end. Laying down his weapons and sitting in a cell won’t immortalise him among the tyrants of history, but he’s not after what we all think he’s after. So what is he after?

A longer life living where those around him will let him be. Judging by tonights reports of a love-in with the MI5 and the CIA, this will be the Cabinet of the United Kingdom. Where he’ll fit in remains to be seen, although early money is on a new ministerial post – Secretary of State for Fair Trade. If you can outdo this suggestion, please start the following petition:

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