In Through The Out Door But Then Back In Again III

The End Of The Road

2009-05-28T14:31:00.005+01:00

THIS BLOG IS NOW OFFICIALLY CLOSED!

For *ALL NEW* ITTODBTBIA IV poor-quality fun 'n' games, please GO HERE.

Also, if you currently link to this site, could you please get up off of your arse and update your fucking records? Well? What the hell are you waiting for?

Jesus wept! You people ...

CHEERS!

Meet The Team

2009-05-22T10:07:00.002+01:00

New team announced on appalling new SuperBlog™!

Public Service Announcement

2009-05-20T18:27:00.001+01:00

Hey! What's this?

The Poet Laureate

2009-05-20T10:59:00.004+01:00

As you may know, the Queen, in consultation with the Prime Minister, appoints an official poet to write gushing stuff about the royal family, royal weddings, important national events and, in Sir John Betjeman's case, the proposed axing of the 11:22 sprinter service between Farnham and Bagshot.

It's a strange old job, and the pay's even stranger, consisting as it does of six hundred bottles of sherry and the indifference of an ungrateful nation.

The post is now held by a woman (!), but what of the last Poet Laureate? What occupied the mind of the great Sir Digby Smatterbatter, official poet to the nation from 1980 - 2009?

On The Marriage Of Charles, Prince Of Wales And Lady Diana Spencer

The Prince is wed! Let's all be merry!
Now where the hell's me fucking sherry?

On The Death Of Diana, Princess Of Wales

Diana's dead, and I'm not merry.
Thanks a lot for all that sherry.

Reflections On A Day Out In Ireland

Today I visited Londonderry.
Can I have some more free sherry?

Sir Digby - Britain salutes you!

Is There Anybody Out There?

2009-05-14T15:58:00.006+01:00

Do you like Hazel Blears? Does anyone you know like Hazel Blears? Have you ever read of anyone who likes Hazel Blears? Or heard of anyone who likes her? Have you, perhaps, been sat at the bus stop and overheard two old dears have the following conversation:

"You know what? I really like that Hazel Blears."
"Yeah, me too!"

Well?

No, neither have I. Whenever I've mentioned her name to anyone, they've bristled up like a rankled dog before hurling a furious tirade of abuse at our smirking 'Communities Minister' (whatever that is).

Does anybody out there, anybody at all, like Hazel Blears? I'd love to know who you are and, most importantly, why? Why the hell do you like Hazel Blears?

Advert

2009-05-13T16:08:00.008+01:00

**FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY**

The Fleaston Village Hall is proud to present 'A Night Of Farting'.

Join your genial host, Clefton 'Wilmott' Pumsby, for a night of *professional* armpit-farting from one of the best in the business.

"I've been recreating the sound of farts out of my armpits for over twenty five years," Clefton says. "I don't want to blow my own trumpet, but I am very, very good at what I do."

"Which is armpit-farting," he added.

**347th place RUNNER-UP - New Faces (ITV), 1980**

Tickets on the door: £3, NO CONCESSIONS

"One of the worst nights out I've ever had to endure in my entire life." - The Slackby Advertiser

"I'd rather watch two hours of someone boiling dog dirts." - Yealand & Afferbury Mercury

"Unacceptable." - The Morworth & District Thunderer

Clefton Pumsby's 'A Night Of Farting' is brought to you exclusively by ITTODBTBIA Entertainment Ltd. No part of Mr. Pumsby's act may be recreated without permission. No refunds available. Management reserve the right to refuse entry. Show may contain racism.

The Voice Of Reason

2009-05-12T13:28:00.007+01:00

Hello there! I'm Tom Jones in my underpants in a phone box in 1973. I've taken time out from the important phone call I'm making thirty six years ago to remind all of you men out there to regularly check your gonads for any signs of early-onset testicular cancer.

Start by rolling each testicle in between your thumb and ... oh, hold on ...

Ah, hello? Is that the Leyland dealership? It is? Excellent. My name's Tom Jones and I'm in a phone box in my underpants in 1973. I wanted to talk to Mr. Laughlin about the Allegro he sold me last week, is he there? He's with a customer, is he? Yes, yes I'll hold.

... so where were we? Ah, yes - testicle examination. Now then, start by rolling each testicle ... hang on a second ...

Mr. Laughlin? Hello, Tom Jones here. I'm calling from a phone box in my underpants in 1973 about that Allegro you sold me last week. Yes, that's the one. Beige, that's right. What's that? No! No, I'm very happy with it. I like the snazzy square steering wheel and the fake leather seats ... I'm just concerned about a slight rattling noise I can hear when I engage third gear. That's right, third gear. Sorry? You'll have to have a word with who? Oh, right. Yes, I'll hold.

... hmmm. Look, this might not be the best time to talk. Perhaps you should pop back tomorrow when I've sorted out this rattle I've got on my new car? I'll still be here, don't you worry about that. Here in my underpants in a phone box in 1973.

Cheers!

The 2009 Dysentery List

2009-05-05T17:27:00.007+01:00

Every year, ITTODBTBIA picks five celebrities at random, and then predicts which ones will die of dysentery in the coming year. This year's list is sponsored by British Airways.

1. KATE WINSLET

Kate's looking a bit thin these days. The reason for her weight loss could be explained by her suffering from violent bouts of diarrhoea coursing through her bowels and out of her arsehole at speed.

Our prediction?

DEATH BY DYSENTERY

2. RUFUS SEWELL

This year, housewives' favourite Rufus is riding high on the success of his shit US TV show The Eleventh Hour. But is he also riding the Toilet of Doom all the way to Death By Shit Land?

Our prediction?

DEATH BY DYSENTERY

3. LIAM NEESON

It's been a terrible year for Liam Neeson after his wife fell over and kicked the bucket. But is this the only bucket to feature in his life? Is he, perhaps, shitting away his life into a real bucket?

Our prediction?

DEATH BY DYSENTERY

4. ANNE HATHAWAY

There's no doubt she's got a beautiful smile, but is that smile merely hiding a dark and terrible secret? A secret that involves diarrhoea shooting out of her arsehole at 400mph?

Our prediction?

DEATH BY DYSENTERY

5. DANIEL CRAIG

Daniel Craig's winning praises for his portrayal of James Bond, but is this praise falling on deaf ears? Ears that have to listen to the constant torrent of shit flying out of Daniel Craig's distended and bleeding arsehole?

Our prediction?

DEATH BY DYSENTERY

So that's our list for this year, but what about YOU? Who do you think will shit themselves to death over the next twelve months?

Please make your predictions in the comments section below, marking your entry:

I think (insert celebrity's name here) will die of dysentery this year.

The first person whose prediction proves to be correct wins £1,000,000 and a go on a whore.

ITTODBTBIA's History Section Celebrates Six Glorious Years Of The Iraq War

2009-05-05T10:55:00.025+01:00

Fly the flag for freedom! It's been six magnificent years of WAR! in the Gulf, and ITTODBTBIA is celebrating in the only way it knows how ...

With some words and pictures!

PHASE ONE - THE THREAT OF WORLDWIDE GLOBAL ALI BABAISM

Back in 2003, the world teetered on the brink of falling off into the chasm of religious fundamentalistics. The madman Saddam Hussein (see above) had acquired many millions of weapons of mass destruction, and threatened to set them off up US President Dubbya Bubbya's arsehole.

Meanwhile, over here in Blighty, Hussein wanted to set up an Islamic superstate where we would all have to prostrate ourselves on carpets five times a day before somebody called 'Alan', not be able to eat hog roasts any more and have to chop off our wives's hands for some reason.

Well fuck that!

There was only one language this bastard understood, and that language was WAR!

LIFT OFF!

PHASE TWO - THE LEFTIES GET SHIRTY

Once the US and Britain decided to take a crack at that rat Hussein, left-wing types such as George Galloway, Charles Kennedy, Jonathan Ross and Billy Bragg (see above) got all shirty and organised some anti-war protests to protest against the war.

Thankfully, they were ignored by our governments on the grounds that all these protesters were sodomites. Their sexually deviant bedroom practices were and are a sin against God, and therefore their namby-pamby, anti-war attitudes didn't count for shit.

PHASE THREE - BLACKING IRAQ'S EYE

Yes! On March 20th 2009, the USA, Great Britain and their allies (see above) brought down a great rain of fire upon the heads of the evil people of Iraq. Using bombs and stuff, our mighty air forces pummelled Iraq's hospitals, schools, teddy bear factories, marshmallow plants and bubble gum tree emporia into dust.

Once we'd reduced the country to rubble full of wailing women, we sent in the big boys:

THE SAS™ (see above).

That's right! Within eight minutes of the Greatest Fighting Unit In The History Of The World© going in, Saddam had run off, his sons had been captured, skinned and thrown in a pit of acid, every man, woman and child in Iraq was dead and the country's precious supplies of oil had been secured for the exclusive use of the UK, the USA and their allies (see below).

We had won the war!

For a bit!

PHASE FOUR - THE FUCKING FROGS DON'T JOIN IN AS USUAL

While our brave boys + the utterly useless troops of the US Army and our allies (see above) were handing the Iraqis a beating they wouldn't forget in a hurry, the bloody Frogs (see below) were cowering under their carpets.

As punishment for the French's seven millionth recorded act of cowardice, the world renamed everything French as something that wasn't French. 'French Fries' became 'Freedom Fries', 'French Mustard' became 'Freedom Mustard' and 'French Dressing' became 'Thunder Dressing DX-7000'. As further punishment, certain sexually-transmitted diseases were named after the French. These included 'The French AIDS', 'The French Pox' and 'The French Anal Warts'.

PHASE FIVE - TAKE THAT, FRITZ!

After we'd won the war the first time round, it was time for our boys to have some fun. Quite rightly, they arranged naked Iraqi troops to look like they were bumming one another, then took videos of 'em so they could entertain the folks back home. Sadly, namby-pamby sodomites such as Piers Morgan and Greg Dyke reckoned this was undignified and had the practice stopped. This made them TRAITORS, and they justifiably lost their jobs.

PHASE SIX - WE'VE GOT THE BASTARD!

Since running away from The SAS™, evil dictator Saddam Hussein (see above) had been hiding in a hole in the middle of the desert. Having forgotten to bring any food with him, Saddam had to live on dog dirts for sustenance.

Unfortunately for him, the absence of dog dirts in the area surrounding his hole was noticed by a company of soldiers from The Parachute Regiment™ (Britain's mentally unstable army of shaved, hyper-violent killer gorillas).

Dragged from his hole and beaten, Hussein was paraded later on television for all the world to laugh at. Head of the US Army General Prestwick Cheeseburger III roared "WE'VE GOT THE BASTARD! LOOK! WE'VE ONLY GONE AND FUCKING GOT HIM!" whilst punching the former Iraqi president about the head, neck and fishfinger area*.

*The boabs

PHASE SEVEN - THE WAR STARTS UP AGAIN

After winning the war once, the US and the UK had to fight it all over again when they discovered they hadn't fully won it the first time round. Insurgents began attacking our brave boys + plus those idiot Yanks, despite the fact they were only doing their jobs (stealing oil). Beleaguered US President Dubya Bubbya had to explain himself before a furious US congress, all of whom had been led to believe the war had been won (see above).

"I know I flew onto a US aircraft carrier and formally declared the war over and everything," Bubbya said, "but now it turns out something's come up. Bear with me, and I'll get it sorted."

He then fled the building, handing the presidency over to a black man (see above) he encountered on the steps of the Capitol building.

"Well it's a result for me," new president Barry O'Beefburgers told reporters. "I was only 'ere on me 'olidays with the wife. Now I'm the most powerful man in the world. Which is just lovely."

PHASE EIGHT - THE UK PULLS OUT

With the collapse of the world economic system triggered by a sinister secret society called 'The Illuminati', new British prime minister and most miserable man in the world Gordoon McBroon (see above) announced he would be withdrawing the UK's troops from Iraq due to unforeseen financial circumstances.

"It's global," he told the Jeremy Clarkson during the 'Star In A Reasonably Priced Car' section of BBC2's Newsnight. "Global, global, global, global, global, global."

Clarkson had no option but to do him in with a spade, as you would an otter.

PHASE NINE - THE US (AND HER ALLIES) GO IT ALONE

With the UK backing out to concentrate on turning itself into the 1970s version of itself, Iraq was left in the hands of the Americans and her allies (see above). This was bad news for the citizens of Iraq, because traditionally Americans are incapable of finding their own arses with both hands. Without the British to show them how wars work, the place soon collapsed back into chaos.

PHASE TEN - A BRIGHTER FUTURE FOR IRAQ?

Well no, not really. With the country's defences in the hands of a pack of fuckwits and its natural resources being syphoned off to light up the West's fast food outlets at night when they're all shut, the future for Iraq looks bleak. Unless stability is brought to the country soon, it will, in all likelihood, descend into a chaotic, Mad Max-style mess full of all violent punks riding dune buggies covered in chicken wire looking for the last precious drops of 'The Juice'. With Tina Turner in charge.

Still, if that happens, it'll be just as much fun as the six glorious years of the Iraq war have been to watch.

BRING ON THE ROAD WARRIORS!

Next week: ITTODBTBIA's History Section looks into the causes of the world financial collapse. What went wrong? Who's responsible? And who do we get to lynch?

UK Pig Flu Advice

2009-05-01T09:51:00.007+01:00

WHAT IS PIG FLU?

Pig Flu is a strain of influenza that is passed on to humans when a Scotchman has sex with either a Mexican, a Mexican pig, a Mexican that's had sex with a Mexican pig, a Mexican bird, a Mexican bird that's had sex with a Mexican pig, a Mexican that's had sex with a Mexican bird, or a Mexican pig that's had sex with a Mexican bird after the bird has had sex with a Mexican. The Scotchman then flies back to Scotchland, sneezes over Hadrian's wall and spreads the infection into England.

WHAT ARE ITS SYMPTOMS?

Suppurating buboes under the armpits, in the groin, and up the arsehole

Loss of skin around the neck, face and arsehole area

A partial or total falling off of the feet

Stinking discharge from the ears, nose and arsehole

Big knees

WHAT SHOULD I DO TO AVOID CATCHING PIG FLU?

Try not to come into contact with the following animals:

Pigs

Birds

The Scotch

If you do come into contact with the above animals, wash the infected area thoroughly with common household bleach. If any of the above carriers have been ingested, rinse mouth with common household bleach, and contact your doctor immediately.

I'M INFECTED, WHAT NEXT?

The first thing to do is:

Don't panic!

Pig Flu only kills 99.9% of all those who become infected with it, so there's a good chance you and your family will make a full recovery. Sit down, drink a cup of tea and clear your head for the tasks that need to be performed next.

These are:

Paint a large red cross on your front door

Paint 'There Be Plague Here!' across the front of your house

Nail boards to your doors and windows

Retire to the warmest room in your house and wait for the 'All Clear' siren

You may occasionally hear the sounds of banging, scraping and wailing from outside. Don't worry about this. It is only the sound of the infected scrabbling to get into your house to feast on yours and your children's flesh.

DEATH

Whilst in quarantine, there's a strong possibility one of your family members will succumb to the effects of Pig Flu and die in horrible agony in front of your terrified eyes. If this does happen, don't worry.

What you need to do is:

Bound the deceased in heavy-duty polythene sacking

Arm yourself with a pitchfork or Molotov cocktail

Exit your home in the dead of night, dragging the body behind you

Dig a shallow trench grave

Deposit and cover over the body

Run back to your house before the infected pick up your movements with their super-enhanced hearing

Be sure to mark the grave with a wooden cross with the words 'Plague Dead' painted along the horizontal axis.

I'M STILL ALIVE, WHAT DO I DO?

If you and any remaining family members are still alive when the 'All Clear' siren sounds, it's pretty safe to assume you're clear of the infection, and can emerge from your home. Be aware that the army may not have fully cleared the streets of the infected, so it's best to arm yourselves with knives, planks of wood, knuckle-dusters, crossbows and sawn-off shotguns. Please don't be tempted to loot any businesses when you leave your home - YOU WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

A government decontamination centre will have been set up in your area during your quarantine period, and you should now make your way there.

From there you will be:

Disinfected of any remaining Pig Flu residue

Checked for head-lice, tooth-decay and any signs of cannibalism

Allocated your new (compulsory) job and workers' dormitory bunk number

Given a bowl of gruel

Please be aware that any female members of your party above the age of eight will be removed from you and taken away to government breeding centres where they will be needed to help repopulate the country. We advise you not to make a fuss about this as YOU WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

PROTECT AND SURVIVE

Thank you for reading this leaflet. We hope it will help you survive the coming pandemic, and aid you in protecting your family from the ravages of the worst plague to hit the world since the Black Death. Good luck and remember:

Coughs and sneezes spread diseases!

England Under Threat After Scotch Start Having Sex With Mexican Pigs

2009-04-28T13:28:00.002+01:00

"It's disgusting," the English Minister in charge of the Scotch told ITTODBTBIA this morning. "Some of the Scotch have given up belting each other over the heads with rocks, have discovered aeroplanes and have begun heading to Mexico to have sex with pigs. Now two of the dirty bastards are back in Scotchland, and they've brought back pig flu with 'em, which you catch up pigs' bums."

An emergency meeting is currently taking place in Downing Street, and the Prime Minister is expected to announce draconian measures to prevent the Scotch spreading the disease to their betters - the English.

"I reckon we're going to have to get the flame-throwers out," one government insider told reporters. "It's the only way to deal with the sort of people who willingly fly to Mexico to have sex with pigs, the dirty pigs."

Have Your Say

2009-04-24T09:41:00.006+01:00

With the recent St. George's Day celebrations still fresh in our minds, ITTODBTBIA ventures out on to the litter-strewn streets of England to ask YOUR opinions on the state of this great nation ...

"It's these immigrants what are ruining England. You can't walk down the street nowadays without all these immigrants getting in your way. I went to Woolworths last week, and it was closed. I was later told by an inebriated man in a pub that it was because of the immigrants. They should send them all back where they belong." - Spotter Harris

"The rot set in when Ted Heath let the nig-nogs in back in the '50s. That opened the flood-gates, and now look what we've got. Brixton riots, reggae music, Brixton riots ... we should have left 'em where we found 'em - running around the jungle in grass skirts with bones through their noses." - Brickhouse Hamstank

"It's the kids I blame. They've all got knives and they have no respect for anything. I reckon we should burn them all alive on giant bonfires." - Eunice Turds-Potato

"As a mother, I think it's these paedophiles that are to blame. I have had to resort to wrapping my child in a sheet, bounding her in chains, padlocking those chains securely, and storing her in my cellar so a paedophile doesn't see her and start this grooming process I've read about on the internet. Hopefully, I'll be able to preserve her innocence until she's well into her forties." - Mimsy Fuckhead

"Old Enoch had the right idea! Never mind giving 'em benefits, stick 'em all on banana boats and send 'em back to Bongo-Bongo Land, that's my advice. They're all cannibals, that's what my wife says. And she works for Environmental Health." - Gospitter Fumpsumpington

"I'll tell you what's to blame - these video games they're all playing. No wonder we've got all this violence when they're all indoors playing on these video games. Look at that little kid that got killed a few years ago. You're telling me that wasn't video games? It was. It was these video games." - Dellordinaire Craptesticular

"It's these pakis. They've a funny religion I don't understand, and they're all terrorists. You only have to look at them arrests they made the other day. They were all pakis, and, yes, I understand they were all released without charge, but there's no smoke without fire. They should send them all back to Pakiland, just to be on the safe side." - Nadgebiter Dinglebranes

"You want to know what's ruined England? Apart from the wogs? I'll tell you - single mothers on benefits, that's who. They deliberately get pregnant at the age of twelve just so they can get a council house and loads of free money. There's one easy solution to the problem as far as I'm concerned - forced sterilisation of the poor, plus death camps." - Hitler Hangrenade

"The country went to the dogs when we joined the EEC, I reckon. I don't see why we should be dictated to by a bunch of unelected bureaucrats in Brussels. For a start, everyone knows the Belgians eat turds. It was on Eurotrash." - Enforcement Gumbuller

"It's these gays I blame. It won't be long until the dirty things they get up to in the bedroom spill out on to our streets. You mark my words, they'll be bumming each other in our local post offices if we don't do something about it now. I suggest chemical castration, followed by dissolving them all in acid. With their fancy houses." - Obobo T'Nang

"I'll tell you when it all went to shit, shall I? When men started growing their hair long, that's when! Now look at the place. Nancy boys to your left, nancy-boys to your right, nancy boys all over the bloody shop. They should get their bloody hair cut, the lot of 'em. Hitler had the right idea." - Troposcope Bumdanglings

Next week, ITTODBTBIA hits the streets of Scotchland to find out what the people of our sister nation think has ruined their country.

The ITTODBTBIA Budget Response

2009-04-22T14:54:00.008+01:00

So the budget's in and it's the usual boot in the teeth for drug addicts up and down the land. Both fags and booze are going up by 2% - meaning a penny on a pint of beer and seven pence on a packet of fags. Doesn't sound much, but when you consider how much us Britons spend on both commodities ('specially the Scotch), it's actually, like, all loads, and will leave the average man in the street drinking his own diarrhoea out of the toilet for roughage to support his habits.

Why the fuck is it always fags and booze? Why can't the chancellor tax something else for a change? We drinkers and smokers have been bearing everyone else's burden for years ... isn't it someone else's turn?

How's about all you CUNTS out there with kids? We know you've got it easy, so why don't you stump up some of YOUR fucking money for a change? How's about spending some of those 'working' families tax credits on an 80% tax rise on your snot-nosed little charges' toys? You're all a bunch of over-indulgent mollycoddlers anyway, and as far as I can see the government could hike up the price of a dolly to cost as much as a small car and you'd still shell out so your darling, ever-so-talented likkle miracles don't go without. Why shouldn't YOU take the strain if you're so intent on spoiling the little bastards to the point they'll be HIDEOUS adults? Oh, and if you object to this, remember you don't have to buy 'em toys. That's what the government tells me when I complain about tax rises on my pleasures, yes?

Or what about you home owners? You pack of SHITS have been guzzling on the good times for over a decade, with your fucking houses. How's about giving back some of the massive amounts of money you've gained by doing fuck all but own some bricks and a roof by paying some sort of compulsory home owner's tax? It's simple - do you own a house? Is it worth more than it was in 1999? Yes? Then you owe the country £20,000 NOW. If you don't like it, well, tough shit. That's the government's attitude to me and what I like to buy, and I don't see why you should escape similar treatment. Not happy about this? Well you shouldn't have become addicted to living in your own house then, should you? There was always renting, you AVARICIOUS BASTARDS.

And how's about you fucking old people put your hands in your pockets for once, hey? We know you've all got £300,000 stuffed in an old mattress upstairs, and it ain't like you can take it with you is it, grandad? Why not hand some of it over to take the burden off us smokers and drinkers for once? We all know you've got the money, and we all know you don't turn your heating on over winter because you're GREEDY BASTARDS. Think this is a little unfair? Then you should have smoked and drank more in your youth and died at a civilised age, you burdensome, money-hoarding pack of PARASITES.

Yes! This is more like it! Next year, the chancellor should tax YOUR shit for a change. Your children's clothes, your family fun days out, your dogs, your cats, your books, your fabric conditioners, your second homes, your second cars, your non-emergency surgeries, your 24 hour detox programmes, your tanning salons, your nail bars, your children ... fuck 'em! FUCK 'EM ALL! TAX 'EM ALL! None of these things are necessary, ALL of these things were YOUR choice, and if you didn't want to get year-on-year tax hikes on 'em, you should never have taken up your stinkin' habits in the first place!

SEE HOW YOU FUCKING LIKE IT!

And for those of you who say children's clothes are a necessity, by the fucking way, remember there is an alternative ...

RAGS, GOD DAMN YOU!

2009-04-22T11:03:00.001+01:00

(Click image doo-bi-doo-bi-dooo)

Castaway

2009-04-20T13:04:00.003+01:00

This is insufferable! I've been cast adrift by a technology I don't understand! Cut off from my daily routines, condemned, as I explained at the tail-end of my last post, to reading that rat Mr. H's site and a load of left-wing claptrap.

Well fuck that! If I'm to be denied my usual avenues of communication by a strangely specific virus, I'm going to fucking-well recreate how I waste a typical day on here instead. How d'ye like THAT, Mr. Virus? Eh?

So here goes ...

Right, first up, let's have a look at my e-mail account ...

From: Ngwgwe Agwnggwe
Subject: YOUR MASSIVE INHERITUNCE

DeAR MR Parrot

Good NEWS my FriEND! You're fAMIly has been MERCILESSLY wipped out in an attck ON there villageIN KENYA, USA. I am acting on there BEhalf as the EXECUTOR Of there will, and I am PLeaASED To infORM you are due A share in THERE $100,000,000 USD!!! foTUNE. Please SEnd me your bandk ACcount details and Sort code to Dr. Congo AND I will transfer YOUR'EE SHAre of the $100,000,000 USD!!! to ENGLAND, USA.

THis is a Genuine EVENt! Please Don't THINK this is yet Another NIGERIAN INTERNET SCAM!

Yours repeatedly,

Dr. Congo
Nigeria

Hmm ... well it's tempting, but I think I'll sleep on it. Now then ...

From: King Dick
Subject: YOU TWAT!!!

i red you're blog and i think your a TWAT! my frend also red ur blog, and he sez you're a TWAT too. YOU TWAT!!!! LOL!!!!

Well I can't argue with that, King Dick. Next!

From: Swineshead
Subject: ??

Have you drunk yourself to death? And would you care to click on the below link, which isn't a grotesquely overweight woman shitting into a cake that's halfway up her arsehole? Cheers!

*clicks on link*

Jesus Christ! Is that shit? Or is it cake?

OK, what's next? Oh yes! Over to The Mail ...

BIRTHDAY CAKES BANNED BY NAZI CITY COUNCIL BUSYBODIES
By Richard Littlejohn

It seems the NAZIS are at it again! According to my mate Phil, Birmingham City Council has BANNED birthday cakes from children's parties on the grounds that they are SEXIST and RACIST! YOU COULDN'T MAKE IT UP! According to Phil, a spokesman for the council (who is a NAZI) says birthday cakes offend Muslims and women because they're not blah blah blah blah blah blah blah ...

IT'S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ...

Fair enough. Now then, what's Clarkson got to say for himself over at The Times?

WE SHOULD GRIND POLAR BEARS INTO MINCE AND USE THAT MINCE TO FUEL OUR CARS, SOMEHOW
By Jeremy Clarkson

I was driving my children through the countryside this weekend, and we had a great time. I was in one of those appalling American pick-up trucks - all Americans are fat idiots, by the way - and my eldest was emptying a gallon of diesel out the back onto a field full of rabbits and foxes.

I hate foxes and I shoot rabbits in the face. Obviously the politically correct mob over at PETA aren't going to like this, but what do they know? They're all a bunch of whining liberals who don't understand the damage rabbits are doing to my car tyres. And anyway, blah blah blah blah blah blah ...

We should set fire to the environment! Etc.

Ho ho! You tell 'em, Jezza!

Right, time to take a look at Watch With Mothers ...

SOMETHING I WATCHED ON THE TV LAST NIGHT TURNED OUT TO BE A RIGHT PILE OF SHIT
By Swineshead

I watched this show on the TV last night, and it turned out to be a right pile of shit.

Well you'll hear no contrary argument from me. Let's take a look at the comments ...

COMMENTS

DINLT says: Football.
Swineshead says: Don't talk about football.
Napoleon says: Britain.
myopiniononstuff says: I'm worthless.
piqued says: I've just done a poo.
Breeks says: I've just eaten. Fact.
Swineshead says: Chicken kievs.
piqued says: Right-wing Nazis.
Napoleon says: The bloody EEC.
Ugeine says: South Park.
Who says: David Essex is great!
Nick says: Link. Link. Another link.
DINLT says: Football.
Swineshead says: Don't talk about football.

Lovely stuff! Right, let's check out what's going on in Lincolnshire today ...

MAN WITH EIGHT LIPS RUNS FOR COUNCIL SEAT
By Tony 'Scoop' Jackson

A local man with eight lips is running for the job of city councillor, we can exclusively reveal today. Runcorn Funcorn, of Clattersby, believes he's the right man for the job, even though he sounds like this:

"Umf ffeeew umf vvveeer mwright munn fmf viff yob."

The twit! You can't be a councillor with eight fucking lips!

Hmmm ... it's a bit later than I thought. I think I'll break for a spot of lunch.

Le Weekend

2009-04-20T11:33:00.003+01:00

Jesus. I fucked off to the boozer on Friday, got dead drunk, came home and slammed several glasses of a particularly evil drink called a 'speedball' (gin + vodka + tequila + Red fucking Bull, for Christ's sake) down my throat. After writing several bits of offal on Watch With Mothers' entertaining comments section at four in the morning, I gave that Spotify a whirl and discovered a whole catalogue of cheap-ass Led Zeppelin rip-offs that, to my jaded ears, sounded better than the real thing. I am not, as a general rule, a fan of the Zeppers, but I have discovered I'm a big fan of somebody pretending to be them.

Well I was when I was pissed-up, anyway.

Crawling from my pit on Saturday morning after three hours sleep, I resolved to become a better man. No longer would I fill my guts and lungs with booze and drugs, I decided, but I would instead become pure of heart and steadfast of purpose. A tee-totalling crusader for good, I would no doubt, in about ten year's time, be awarded for my insufferable nobility by a grateful nation and 'Er Majesty the Queen. Mr. Charity cometh, etc.

But then I saw the Saturday evening TV schedules and that set me galloping towards the off-licence at unnecessary speed.

So that was that fucked.

That night I finally got round to watching the Red Riding trilogy. An interesting piece of work with a flawed third act that managed to get on my nerves, slightly, by the almost total lack of authentic West Yorkshire accents. London-based poncified critics who think all Yorkshiremen sound the same have lauded this series for its gritty reality, but to my ears hearing a series of actors doing their stuff using accents more Barnsley than Bradford kept taking me out of the grimy world of the olden days I was supposed to be immersed in. Still, it was fun to relive that heady period when my mother was terrified to leave the house because Pete Sutcliffe was out there doing his murders.

The next day, the other half and I dragged our carcasses off to the woods for some exercise. Squirrels, trees, various birds, dog-dirts, litter, slobbering dogs off their leads, blah, blah, blah ...

After walking for hundreds of miles, we stopped off in the Waggon & Horses for a few ales and a pub quiz. Now I'm all for pub quizzes, me. Booze, some questions, good company and all that jazz. Perfick. But I ask you, what damnfool BASTARD spoils one of life's simple pleasures by coming up with questions such as these ...

Where do the blue stones used in the construction of Stonehenge come from?

What connects Florence Nightingale, Charles Dickens and Charles Darwin?

Well, in the case of the first question, the answer's surely 'Wales', is it not? Apparently not, because it's actually 'Pembrokeshire'. Which is in Wales. Which, as an answer, isn't correct somehow. Even though it is. Minus one point. BASTARDS.

Then there's the vagueness of question two. All three were Britons. Correct? All three were Victorians. Correct? For all I know, all three had beards. Possibly correct ...

But no! Because the only answer that was allowed was that they have all appeared on the back of the ten pound note. Minus one point. Quiz lost. BASTARDS.

Of course, arguing this point with the quizmaster when you're a bit pissed on the booze cuts no sway. "That's the answer I've got on my sheet," they always say. "But the answer's fucking wrong," you reply, angrily. "There's several possible answers. Don't you see? DON'T YOU SEE?" you continue. "Yes, but it's not on my sheet," they argue. "The sheet isn't the only credible resource for correct answers!" you roar, desperately. "The sheet can be contradicted!"

"It's not on my sheet."

BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!

So that was that, and now it's Monday and I'm having internet problems. My e-mail account's not worked all day - cheers Google! - so if you've written to me to ask me to draw you a picture / to try to sell me something GUARANTEED to increase the size of my penis / to tell me I've bagged a share of $100,000,000 USD!!! / to accuse me of being a shitbag or to ask what the fuck I was doing leaving a stream of abusive comments on your blog at four in the morning, my apologies but I cannot reply until somebody kicks Google up the arse.

I also can't access The Times, The Lincolnshire Echo, The Daily Mail, my Wordpress account and lots of other things in my favourites folder. Is this a virus? If so, why's Blogger working? And how come I can get onto the stinking Guardian's site, but not the Telegraph's? Is this a right wing-specific virus? Targeting anything that contains the phrase 'it's political correctness gone mad'? If so, thanks, virus writer. You've denied me my fix of that idiot Littlejohn's feeble-minded clatter, a chortle at Clarkson's attitude to the environment, the icy hand of fear that my country's being overrun by immigrants, gays and Islamic fundamentalists, a laugh at what the bum-faced, backwards bumpkins of Lincolnshire have been up to this week, and the chance to get shouted at (quite rightly) by a man called Ugeine.

Instead I've got loony-leftie SHIT to read. Bleeding heart liberals banging on about electric cars, nanny-state busy-bodies telling me I should be reducing my alcohol intake and eating more bird seed, London food critics waffling on about the latest overpriced shite they and their ghastly friends have eaten in Squatney over the weekend, boring reviews of boring foreign movies people in the south of England pretend to like because they're terrified of looking stupid, and whatever that arsehole Polly Toynbee's got to say for herself this week. Gah!

Oh, and Mr. H's site, which I'm sad to discover I can still read.

That's the real pisser.

I JUST CAN'T BE ARSED!

2009-04-16T17:06:00.003+01:00

I can't, y'know? Can't be arsed at all. There I was, sitting at my desk, ready to write about the fascinating world of business when ... when ... WHEN I JUST COULDN'T BE ARSED!

Here's a quick list of other things I can't be arsed to do neither:

TAKE OUT THE RUBBISH

There's chicken in there, and it STINKS. I know I should take it out ... BUT I JUST CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED!

FINISH OFF MY APPALLING FIRST NOVEL

It's got a shark crossed with a dinosaur fighting dinosaurs in it. AND Nazis. AND naked cheerleaders. AND Hitler. AND the Vietnam War (won, of course, by the British). But can I be arsed to finish it? CAN I ARSE!

DRAW A CHARMING SEASIDE TOWN FOR CASH-MONEY

And, believe me, this is a SHITLOAD of money we're talking about. But y'know what? I CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED WITH IT!

HAVE A PISS

That's right! My bladder's about to burst, triumphantly, out of either my arsehole, my mouth or my ears. But can I be arsed to walk the few yards to the toilet to empty the bugger? CAN I FUCK! I CAN'T BE ARSED!

I was going to finish this post with a punchline, but d'ye know what?

I CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED!

How Business Works - The Importance Of An Important Title

2009-04-15T11:26:00.005+01:00

"You wanted me, sir?"
"Yes, come in, Digby, sit y'self down."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now then, Digby, I have a problem."
"Problem, sir?"
"Yes. I'm afraid my title in this company isn't important enough anymore."
"Important, sir?"
"Yes. At the moment, I'm a mere 'Managing Director'. Now that was fine back in the 1970s ..."
"It was a very important title back then, sir."
"It was. But now it's not. It makes me sound like an arse, Digby. AN ARSE!"
"So what are you going to do about it, sir?"
"Well, Digby, I've been thinking about this, and I believe I have three options. I could call myself a 'CEO'."
"A very important-sounding title, sir."
"Indeed. Or, I could call myself a 'President'."
"Again, an incredibly important title, sir."
"Yes. Both of them are very, very important titles, Digby. However, I personally prefer my third option ..."
"And what would that be, sir?"
"Intergalactic Overlord Of All He Surveys In This, His Universe Of Insignificant Minions And Hapless Drones, Digby. What do you think?"
"That'll make 'em sit up and realise how important you are, sir!"
"My thoughts exactly, Digby. Could you make all the necessary arrangements for my new name change? Letter heads and what-have-you ...?"
"Certainly can, sir."
"Excellent. Now get out, will you? And send Sandra in. I haven't had s'much as a whiff of a blow job since I interviewed that young lady this morning."
"Can do, sir."
"There's a good chap. Just get me trousers off ..."

Business Advertising

2009-04-09T15:00:00.001+01:00

(Cleck himage too henlaaaaaarrr ...)

Who's Who In This Year's 'The Apprentice'

2009-04-09T11:18:00.003+01:00

PHIL 'PILEDRIVER' PILEDRIVER

"I will destroy the entire world if I don't win this year's The Apprentice on BBC1 at nine o'clock on Wednesday nights," roars Phil 'Piledriver' Piledriver from the battlements of his fortress made out of human bones perched high on a craggy, windswept rock in Scotchland, Northern England. Phil, a cannibal, isn't prepared to take prisoners. "I'll rend the flesh from humanity's bones if I, The Piledriver, don't end up working for AMSTRAD making combination telephones / rubbish e-mailing machines for ONE HUNDRED K A YEAR PLUS BENEFITS!"

Born to parents Maureen and Wilfred Piledriver in 1982, Phil showed an early aptitude towards business. Shortly before her death from cancer of the arsehole, Maureen told Giant Shits magazine:

"He was always poking about in business when he was a boy. I remember me and Wilfred went out to the bingo one night, and when we got back our Phil had built a dynamic, blue-sky concept made off of all business on the carpet. My Wilf went bloody spare."

Phil attended the University of I'm Too Busy in London's important business district of The Trocadero, and came out with a first in Thinking Outside The Box. "My degree marked a paradigm shift in my dynamic thought processes," Phil thundered to press at a recent Apprentice press conference, held for the benefit of the press. "I realised, if I were to become the greatest business mind in the history of business, I must touch base with Alan Sugar. On television."

"He was a bleedin' arse'ole," Sugar said. "With 'is bleedin' 'aircut, an' 'is facking suits, he looked like a bleeeedin' woofter," Sugar commented from his tin bath in the front parlour he shares with his son, Phil 'Piledriver' Piledriver.

"Oh, vat's wright!" Phil replied. "You nevvah let me do me aaahn fing, you zzzirty old man. Haaah the 'ell am I going to evvah find a bird if you're washing yer bleedin' particulars in ve front wroom? Eh?"

"Wooouuuuuurrrrrgggghhhh," Sugar replied, opening a bottle of brown ale.

"I'm off ahht to feed the 'orse!" Phil thundered, slamming the door behind him in disgust.

The Apprentice continues next week.

Job Application

2009-04-03T18:18:00.002+01:00

I happened upon this job on the Guardian's employment site, and thought it was right up my alley ...

Product Manager - Online Subscriptions

Employer: PFJ

The Company

This dominant leader in Digital Marketing solutions to the Travel and Ecommerce markets is renowned for their pioneering solutions to increase their client revenue.

Having grown substantially since their UK launch this organisation is now seeking to appoint a new Product Manager

The Role

As a Product Manager you will be responsible for managing an entire loyalty/subscription programme to enhance their products and services on offer.

Key Responsibilities:

· Competitor Analysis - Competitive audit, analysis and research

· Liaise with several areas of business - internal and External

· Initiate new vendor relationships, negotiate with suppliers

· Test new initiative - A/B Testing, Multivariate

· Introduce new initiatives to enhance offering

In addition to this, the ideal Product Manager will be confident in delivering presentations, educating the internal business and working with external partners

Your Profile

As a Product Manager you will have experience in Product Management of internet solutions, loyalty programmes, subscription based sites, or paid-for services .

In addition you will;

· Be comfortable with Testing

· Have experience in vendor relationships

· Have experience as a Product Manager

· Confident with delivering presentations

· Prepared to travel

For more information please email your CV to natasha

Well, I could hardly pass that up, so fired off a letter straight away ...

Dear Natasha

I'm writing to apply for the position of Product Manager I note you are advertising on the Guardian's job website. I have worked in this field for over twenty years, and am considered one of the best in the business. I'm a go-getting, can-do guy noted for thinking outside of the box. I'm dynamic, hard-working, harsh when I need to be, fair at all times. With me on board, your company will become the richest company on the planet, and it'll all be thanks to me.

Professor Steve Hussein Obama, head of Project Management Sciences at the University of Cambridge, recently said of me:

"Nobody gets da woik done like dat guy over dere, knowwhaddimean?"

You can't, I believe, say fairer than that.

I expect to hear from you soon, and can start work straight away. Thank you for your time.

Yours,

B P Perry

P.S. Under the terms of the 2005 Prevention of Terrorism Act, I'm legally obliged to disclose I served six years in prison for my part in a plot to flood Greater London's water supply with cyanide. I was unwell at the time, and hope this information does not unduly hinder my application.

Fingers crossed, eh readers?

Letter To The Penguin Book Company

2009-04-03T17:43:00.001+01:00

Dear Mr. Penguin

For the last twenty six years I've suffered from the most appalling wind. This state of affairs has led to many embarrassing situations, most notoriously at the 1997 Huddersfield Children's Writing Competition prize-giving ceremony, when I was called upon to present a nervous ten year old with a book token for £25. I'll openly admit that eating a pound of raw sprouts shortly before the event was a mistake, but even I was taken aback by the volcanic force of the emissions I involuntarily launched in the style of a Gatling Gun into the poor boy's face as I made my way to the podium. I'm told that even now, as a grown adult, he still wakes up screaming in his bed.

My doctor - a shifty little man with an irritating nasal complaint - tells me I'm suffering from depression as a result of such wind-related episodes as the one described above, and suggests I begin writing down my experiences as a way of coming to terms with the condition that's blighted my professional life. This strikes me as an excellent idea, and I was therefore wondering if you would be interested in publishing my anecdotes?

Off the top of my head, I've:

Inadvertently let a very loud one go during a midnight mass attended by the Archbishop of York.
Set off a chain of repeaters whilst waiting in line to shake hands with the Duke and Duchess of Kent.
Split my trousers in half during a chance meeting with the musician Brian May.
Ill-advisedly downed several tins of value baked beans twenty minutes before presenting the General Accident Young Achiever's Awards (2001) with catastrophic consequences.
Loudly soiled myself live on television when talking to Watchdog's Nicky Campbell about my company's poor customer service record.

This, believe me, is only the tip of a very embarrassing and messy iceberg.

Would this be the sort of thing Penguin would be interested in? I hope so, as I've always fancied having a book published. My friend - a man who's rather a bigwig in the world of excrement disposal - reliably informs me it's the easiest way of becoming a multi-millionaire short of robbing a bank. As a millionaire, I could retire from the world of public speaking, and become free to while away my days in comfortable isolation where I no longer fear the consequences of constantly breaking wind.

Thank you for taking the time to read my enquiry. I look forward to receiving your response.

Yours sincerely,

B P Perry

Scientist Theorises Giant Arse At Centre Of Universe

2009-03-25T11:23:00.004Z

"I assume it's farting out new matter out of its giant space arsehole," Professor Heinz Beans told a recent international conference on what's at the centre of the universe. "There's probably a separate universe what's all guts behind the one we can see, and that's supplying our universe's arse with the gases needed to create stuff like ... oh, I dunno ... carbon, or something."

"This is an outrageous theory," one eminent Cambridge egg-head told reporters. "There's simply no evidence for a giant space arse at the centre of the universe. And even if there were, what's to say it's being fed by another universe full of all guts? What's these guts feeding off? Another universe full of food? Ridiculous!"

But Professor Beans remains adamant that his theory is correct. Speaking to ITTODBTBIA after making his controversial speech, he said:

"How did everything we can see in the universe come into being? It has to come from somewhere, and a giant arse in space shitting out planets is the only logical explanation."

Jimmy Savile's Weekly Science Round-Up

2009-03-20T16:19:00.003Z

Exclusively for ITTODBTBIA, unpleasant former DJ Sir Jimmy Savile casts his gimlet eye over the week's science news ...

Now then, now then, boys and girls, I hear tell, don't y'know, that those clever boffins meeting in Mexico this week 'ave come up with a new strain of wheat that's resistant to 'armful fungus.

'Ow's about that then?

* * *

Now then, now then, jew'lry, jew'lry, your Uncle Jim 'as 'eard, down the science pipe, don't y'know, that those eggheads over in California - that's in America, boys and girls - 'ave discovered a way of using light, I say light, to 'elp fight the effects of Parkinson's Disease.

'Ow's about that then?

* * *

Now then, now then, guys 'n' gals, heuuurgggh-heeeuuurgh, 'ow's about that then, jew'lry, jewl'ry, don't y'know, now then, now then, those clever science boffins 'ave found, don't y'know, boys and girls, a complete dinosaur skeleton they're calling, heeeeurrrggh-heeeeeeuuuuurrrggggh, the 'T-Rex of the Cambrian era'.

'Ow's about that then?

* * *

More from Sir Jimmy next week (if he hasn't been eaten by rats).

The ITTODBTBIA Celebrity Stalker - Science Week Special

2009-03-20T14:35:00.004Z

Each month Alf Michaelwhite, ITTODBTBIA's resident celebrity stalker, brings us more stories from the dark side of the grim underbelly of the Skid Row of the rotten heart of the decaying carcass of celebrity. This time, he focuses on the scientists he has harrassed over the years ...

Albert Einstein

I was sitting in a cafe reading this copy of the Daily Star after my release from a ten year stretch at Her Majesty's Pleasure for daubing the word 'JUDAS!' on Cary Grant's car. On the front page of the paper it said my old mate Albert Einstein had just got married to a former girlfriend of mine - the actress Marilyn Monroe. I was deilghted to read about this wonderful news, and decided there and then to hot-foot it over to Hollywood to offer my congratulations in person.

Emptying my mother's Post Office savings account, I caught a Pan-Am flight to Los Angeles and soon found myself, after a short taxi ride, outside Einstein's impressive mansion in Beverley Hills.

Hauling myself over the security fence, I sprinted to their front door and rang the bell. When Einstein answered - in his carpet slippers - I pulled down my trousers and started shitting up his doorstep whilst looking him straight in the eye. Of course, he starts shouting for his guards, and the buggers were soon on me, dragging me away from the eminent physicist's doorway still with all shit coming out of my bum.

"HOW'S THAT FUCKING SUIT YOU, EH?" I bellowed, as the guards dragged me towards a waiting police van. "MARRY MY FUCKING GIRL WILL YOU? FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING EGGHEADED BASTARD!"

I got ten years for that, and I can't understand why.

James Watson & Francis Crick

In 1953 I walked away from H.M.P. Wormwood Scrubs a free man after serving ten years for aggravated burglary and criminal damage after an incident involving the comedian Phil Silvers was misinterpreted by the police. Stopping into a cafe for a cup of tea, I noticed the headline on the Express read:

Watson And Crick Invent DNA!

Could this be the same Watson and Crick I'd made friends with back in my National Service days when I'd been dishonourably discharged from the army on mental health grounds when my corporal discovered I'd been hiding dried turds painted blue in their boots, I wondered? I endeavoured to find out!

I caught a bus to their university in Cambridge and, when I arrived at the gates, asked the porter to be shown to their room. He wouldn't let me in of course, so I returned in the dead of night and broke into the university compound through a window. Once I'd located Watson and Crick's rooms, I set about reacquainting myself with my old friends by digging about in my own arsehole, and pelting what I found in there through their open windows. Watson came to see what was going on, and it was then that I took off all my clothes and began capering around and around in circles, alternately slapping both of my buttocks and making hooting noises like a big owl.

To this day it remains a mystery to me why a simple visit to friends earned me a ten year prison sentence in H.M.P. Doncaster.

Professor Stephen Hawking

I was sat reading the paper on my first day of freedom for ten years when I saw, on the front page of the Sunday Mirror, that Professor Stephen Hawking had cracked the secret of the universe. Now me and Stephen go way back, so I thought I'd send him a present to congratulate him on his amazing discovery.

At first I was going to send him flowers, but then I remembered reading somehwere that he's allergic to them. Then I hit upon sending him a nice box of chocolates from Thronton's ... then remembered his disability makes eating chocolates very difficult for him.

So I settled for a dead rat dipped in diarrhoea and a note that read:

I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE, YOU FUCKING SPASTICATED MONGOLOID

The police had my handwriting on file, and I was sent down for ten years.

Next month, Alf remembers the time he sparked a county-wide manhunt after showing his appreciation for the actress Joan Collins by kidnapping her and holding her hostage in a hole half-filled with excrement and rotting pig's heads.