So, half of kids born after 2007 will live to be 100. Do they mean half of your child will live to be 100, while carting around their dead half in a rucksack? Sorry to trivialise the longevity of your offspring, but it’s another one of those sensationalist statistics that yearns to belong in an ad campaign, or if it fails that audition, a general election.

Let’s assume they’re not lying, or fudging. Let’s assume our kids will outlive us by a decade or two and their kids will look after them. But hang on, there’s not enough air, food, water and car parking spaces to go round. Our kids may not be allowed to have kids. At this rate, we might as well have them spayed at the vet when we get the dog done. This would then spark a surge in adoption until the surplus of unwanted babies and kids would run dry. The ad men would step in and create children vending machines, where we press the button at the one that gives us the sweetest smile. He or she would tumble into the cushioned container and we’d haul them out, give them a kiss and foster by the hour until the terror starts crying at which point we’d hand them back.

Now before you call Save The Children to apply, or report me, spare a thought for your Centurian children. They will die on or around 2107. Look at that date. It’s as scary to us as 1984 felt to Orwell when he went to the Outer Hebrides to write it.

Of course, there’s one simple, humane way to counter this entire argument about the provision of care for the elderly: euthanasia.  If we are allowed to pull our own plug out, or sign the papers to let our loved ones do it before we parasitically drain every last penny out of the NHS, then please god let us do it.

If we fail to change the law whilst we’re alive, let’s at least die proud that we tried.


Their mother can’t tell them apart because there is no apart.

They are one and the same, in person and in name, bar the McMask.

As it’s Oscars night, we can unveil other previously unreported families that grace both Hollywood & the football pitch:

For legal reasons we cannot prove the bloodline between Tommy Lee Jones and his bastard offspring: Phil, Brad, Reece, David, Rob, Mick, Kenwyne and of course Vinnie (although this one is already public, according to Vinnie’s mum).


Dear James,

We’re in the shit and we need your help. Renewable energy has been barking up the wrong tree, or rather, it’s been meowing up the right tree.

The weather is both the enemy and the saviour. The elements are screaming at us night and day, sniggering at us in the way we try and scoop them up as useful forms of power, only to see most of it spill through our fingertips. The wastage is on a par with oil – and yet we wouldn’t know an insult if it slapped us round the face with a warm horse steak.

So it’s you, Sir James Dyson, we turn. And the way you confounded 100 years of idiocy in vacuum cleaners, and 50 years of hot air in hand driers.

I have 3 ideas I’d like to run by you.


Wind. It’s all huff and puff and a lot of pissing in the. But undeniably, in the right hands, wind could lift us up out of our energy nightmare. So, here’s the pitch. Is there any way we can capture wind and centrifugally suck it into a vortex store to ease the strain on the national grid? I’d do it myself but my physics is a bit patchy and besides, you have the dual cyclonic patent. I’m fully prepared to go 50:50 with you on this one.


Once you’ve cracked wind, I’d like you to take a look at Hydro Electric Rain. Yes, it’s another idea I stole whilst having a wee, then drying my hands. Somehow, we capture the sheer force of gravity of every single raindrop falling half a mile from the sky and stash it in funnel shaped pylons. Yes, it sounds ugly but you’ll make it work and look beautiful. In no time, the ramblers will be dancing round these techno-water towers as if they are maypoles. Seriously James, our grandfathers took H.E.P. by the guts and gave it one hell of a go. For them, let’s dust it down and go up, up, to the heavens from where the water loves to flow.


I know…it’s so bloody obvious. Tarmac is black and it absorbs heat like a pot-bellied pig. Britain brags 246,985 miles of road, give or take a cul de sac. If each of these had has the solar equivalent of cats eyes embedded into it, we’d be laughing in a warm, bright, cheap-to-run society.

There you go. I don’t expect you to crack all 3 by the end of lent, but it’d be great if one of them had a small grain of truth buried within.

Yours hopefully

Peter Kirby


The Economist knows numbers, whereas I don’t.

This is why I’m quoting them in their analysis of the cost of living across the world.

The first surprise is that Oz has 2 cities in the top 8. Both Sydney & Melbourne are now more pricey than Murdoch’s Utopian playpen of Singapore.

The second surprise is that Asia and Australasia rack up 11 of the top 20, while Europe weigh in with 8 and South America clings to one extortionate capital – no, it’s not Port Stanley.

Which leads us to the third surprise: where the hell are the yanks? Where are all the big fat moneyed cities of the States? Well, give Obama his due here, but somehow the USA is getting cheaper. Even NYC, one of the richest back yards on Planet Earth ranks a lowly 100 on the cost of living index, while Zurich, Tokyo, Geneva, Osaka, Paris and Oslo all top 150.

This is no thumb in the wind. Twice a year they track hundreds of prices across the likes of bread, rice, fuel, rent, power and for some reason, private schools. And of course, it’s all done in dollars.

So, is the $ the best pound for pound currency money can buy, to slur 3 cliches into one cheap cocktail?

Yep siree Chuck, yep siree.