She fought her case and won. A minor settlement but it changed legislation for ever. From that day on, no one person could accrue celebrity status beyond reasonable notoriety. Katie Price was one of the first to suffer with her fame and power eroded overnight by 91%.

Before the decade was out, the newly formed Anonymous Party won its first seat in the House of Lords.


Due to the new open air smoking ban, the following central London theatres have been graded according to their cast of smokers grabbing a few quick drags between acts and performances.

Theatre                           Tar Rating             Lighting mechanism of choice

Royal Haymarket            Low                         Bic lighter

Wyndhams                      High                        Swan Vestas

Young Vic                        Ultra low                England Glory

Vaudeville                        Medium                   Zippo

New London                    High                        Matchbook from unknown cafe

Lyric                                 Low-medium         Bryant & May


If football has any connection with your life, you’ll be as saddened and baffled as anyone right now following the tragic news of Gary Speed’s suicide at the weekend. Thoughts go out to his family.

Radio 5 live, the voice of sport, chose to dedicate its phone-in to the subject this morning and the airwaves were a mixture of ordinary people alongside footballers, ex-players and managers, many of whom have had shared a sofa in recent years with Gary Speed to analyse the match of the day.

The shift from the superficiality of football to the depth and darkness of death, and the taking of one’s own life at that, is as vast a leap in tone and empathy as is humanly possible. I’d like to applaud those who stepped away from the game at the weekend, such as Jon Hartson and Craig Bellamy, as well as those who rang in this morning. You all spoke with brutal truth and without probably meaning to, delivered a programme that could teach politicians the lost art of sincerity.

To Nicky Campbell and all those involved, I salute you and hope you’ll join me in 90 seconds silence.

FORCE QUIT (# 74,885)

Yesterday I had the great pleasure of working with a bunch of feral-thinking students at UCF, an art school in Cornwall, UK.

I set them 7 exercises in 7 hours, the first of which was to write a leaving note to their tutor (may I take this moment to applaud them all for writing with their enteric nervous system – the brain in the gut).

This mass exit made me imagine the consequences of the teachers strike over pensions on 30-11-11. What if they resigned instead? What if every teacher in the land and their public sector comrades chose to quit their jobs as the greatest statement of solidarity since Gandhi led the Salt March. If you’re one of the 3 million possible candidates who could bring this slow motion economic genocide to a head, don’t think twice.

Trust your gut, it can’t lie.


He drank from a new bottle of water without drawing breath.

He only knew when he’d finished once it had turned inside out.




I, the undercommented,

second the motion to remove Joseph Blatter from his role as president of Fifa,

before 21:30 on 18-11-11

by order of the rights of the human race.



You read right. I didn’t mistype adventures. I meant dentures. And I meant the one man exempt from criticism, Sir David Attenborough.

It’s not his programme-making I take issue with. It’s his voice. Yes, it’s the slowest voice on British television and it’s getting ever slower, which most argue gives his words even more gravitas.

But something’s wrong. His teeth don’t fit. Seriously, listen right now.


As you do, listen very closely to every ‘S’. His dentures whistle. There’s so much air soaring through with every ‘S’ he could give Burl Ives a run for his money on Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

Am I being voicist in saying he needs to pipe up or nip out to Harley Street and get his wobbling plate adjusted? Or is it my right as a licence fee payer, to have a pedantic whinge about double-standards? By this I mean, they can boot out intelligent female newscasters whose middle-aged faces just aren’t cutting it with the public anymore, yet they let an 83 year old national treasure drool down a mic for a primetime hour a week.

There is another way of listening to him. Imagine he’s chewing on a dingo carcass in between in each line and yes, we’ll all forgive him.


We lie in Financial Times

We die in Financial Times


By the skin of his teeth, he’s safe for now. But now will be yesterday by tomorrow. By February Italy will be torn in two, or possibly three.

Berlusconi will have been ousted illegally and held hostage by students in Milan at an unknown address. There will be many thousands of casualties during the 33 month war, with constant defections from side to side to side, mimicking the ‘flexible Italian’ reputation of WWII.

Peace will emerge out of the ruins, and a technocracy will govern the newly formed North Italy, while South Italy will be unofficially given over the Sicilian mafia.


The year is 2031. The date is 3 November. The continents of Europe and America are one supercontinent. One man is in charge. His name is Ned.

Like Brazilian footballers, he is known only by a single name, such is his status on the world stage. He wears an N just as he did as a boy. It was only on his 7th birthday that his mum realised he was destined for greatness, which was pretty handy, because she was pretty disillusioned with the world at the time. But this was about to change. Her day would come and she too would win the Nobel prize, the first ever mother and son duo to do so. The entire future of the world hinged on a single event on this day, the day he would be 7. All that happened was he heard a song sung to him. That song went something like this:

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday mr president Ned

Happy birthday to you

This, they say, was the turning point in the future of man. Whatever Ned said, the bigwigs did. They acted on his every word and somehow, by the most wonderful stroke of luck or skill, he fixed a very poorly planet. He married his childhood sweetheart and they adopted 203 orphans, one for every nation recognised by FIFA – his first official presidency that he took on to fill his Saturday mornings at the age of 9.

There was a Ned statue in every capital city on earth, sculpted in play doh by his mum.

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