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.

Great Moments In Science No. 1 - Einstein Invents Vosene

2009-03-20T13:22:00.003Z

WARNING: THE ABOVE ILLUSTRATION CONTAINS IMAGES OF AN ADULT NATURE

"It was an incredible moment," Albert Einstein told The Sun newspaper, shortly before his tragic death in 1982. "I was pouring various chemicals into this beaker I was holding when a smelly green liquid bubbled to the surface smelling of science. I was so taken aback by its beautiful smell, I backed into a stool and fell over on me arse. The beaker toppled from my hand and the liquid ended up in my hair. Fearing it would dissolve my skull innards, I rushed to wash it out. Imagine my surprise when, on rinsing away the liquid, my hair was left shiny and silky-smooth. I decided to call my new invention 'Vosene', and it soon became the best-selling hair-shining substance the world has ever seen. With the profits, I bought glass-blown animal figurines imported from Czechoslovakia."

Next time: Thomas Edison invents the Soda Stream

Famous Eggheads Off Of History - Part Three: Professor Stephen Hawking

2009-03-19T12:51:00.004Z

Born in 1930 to parents Lilly and Norbert Hawking, the cyborg Professor Stephen Hawking showed an aptitude for science thanks to his futuristic robotic mind.

"He was always poking his nose into things when he was a lad," his mother told lesbian and gay general interest magazine Out!, shortly before her death from cancer of the arsehole in 1982. "I remember me and Norbert went out one night to post shit through celebrities' letterboxes, and when we got back, our Stephen had built a rotating vacuumn of all positively-charged electrons on the front parlour floor. Norbert went bloody spare ..."

Graduating with an upper upper from the University of Science, Liverpool, Hawking set about proving something called 'Theoretical Physics' - a complicated branch of physics (science) that sets out to prove weird imaginary stuff that we, the general public, have no hope of ever deciphering.

He locked himself away in his secret underground lair for many years, working out difficult scientific algorythms on his Casio digital watch. With only rats for company, many thought Hawking had gone stark raving mad - an opinion confirmed when, in 1982, he emerged from his lair to present a speech at a conference on gravitational radiation to the National Institute Of Importance in Switzerland:

"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!" Hawking roared, via the loud-speaker that sprouts from the top of the roller-skating helmet he wears when public speaking. "YOU ... WILL ... TREMBLE ... BEFORE ... ME! I ... HAVE ... UNLOCKED ... THE ... SECRETS ... OF ... THE ... UNIVERSE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! DEATH ... TO ... ALL ... HUMANS!"

Hawking then pressed the 'GO!' button on his console, reducing his audience of eminent scientists to ashes. Police later connected their demise to a death ray Hawking had built next to a bus stop just off the A17 in Lincolnshire.

It was 1982.

Next time: Galileo Galliopli - the father of modern science and all-round boffinated boffoid.

The Big Scientific Interview - Professor Steve Jones, Genetics Egg-Head

2009-03-19T10:15:00.006Z

ITTODBTBIA spoke to Professor Steve Jones about the impenetrable subject of genetics. Here's what he had to say for himself ...

Professor Jones, welcome to ITTODBTBIA.

You're welcome.

There's no time for that! Now then ... it says here you're a geneticist, is that right?

Yes, that's right.

And what's that when it's at home?

Well, the science of genetics seeks to understand inheritance through ...

Aha! Inheritance, I thought so. So here's my problem - my dad died last September leaving no will. I'm the eldest, yet my brother Norris says he's got first dibs on my dad's Ford Sierra. That's not right, is it?

Erm ...

It's a 'Y' reg.

Er ... I don't think you understand the science of genetics. It's not inheritance in the sense of what your grandma leaves you in her ...

Is that right?

Eh?

What?

Where was I?

Something about my grandmother?

Oh, yes! Now ... it's not what you're left in a will, but what is passed down to you through your genes. For instance, say your grandma has kidney troubles, she may pass those troubles down to your mother who, in turn, may pass them down to you. That's what I mean by inheritance, yes?

I see. So Norris gets the car?

No! Ignore the car! Look ... imagine if your dad had left you and Norris with a twenty percent higher chance of catching prostate cancer than is considered average, yes?

Wouldn't entirely surprise me ...

Right, well that's the science of inheritance. It's what we pass down through the generations via our genes.

I see. Does that explain the diarrhoea I had last week?

Diarrhoea? Well that depends. Do you have a history of diarrhoea in your family?

Oh yes. In 1974 my father went on a package holiday to Abu Simnel and came back with ferocious squits. He was off work for a month, the poor sod. Is that where I caught my genetics from?

Caught ...? No! You don't catch genetics for f ...

Well you say that, but how do you explain my friend Burt's syphilis?

Burt?

Yes. His dad went off on a business trip to Bangkok before Burt was born, says he ate some dodgy tiger prawns and guess what? When Burt's born, he's riddled with syphilis. How's that not catching genetics? It was so virulent, Burt's mother ended up with it as well. AND the barmaid of the Grouse and Partridge. Explain that!

But that's not genetics!

Yes it is! It's not bloody cooking genetics properly is what it is!

Cooking ...?

GET OUT!

Next time: ITTODBTBIA interviews Professor Stephen Hawking - Dalek-like science cyborg.

How Technology Improved Our Food

2009-03-17T12:57:00.004Z

"Good God, I've got it!" roared Professor Birdseye Fishfingers, clambering out of bed in the small North Yorkshire fishing village of Snape-By-Spattle. "Igor! God damn you, man, wake up! IGOR!"
"Uuuurrrghh ... wha? What is it, captain?" Igor groaned, brushing seagull shit off his rags.
"I've only bloody got it, Igor!"
"Got what?"
"A new way of improving food, you simpleton!"
"Improving food?"
"Well ... fish, mainly."
"Fish?"
"Yes, fish! It's just come to me in a dream," Fishfingers exclaimed, spittle flying in all directions.
"How the hell do you improve on fish? Add legs?"
"No, you bird-brained imbecile! We improve upon fish by a new scientific process I shall shortly demonstrate! Igor?"
"What?"
"To the room of instruments!"

* * *

"Now," Fishfingers said, passing Igor the tongs, "dip that pre-sliced, rectangular fillet of cod into this mixture of liquid nitrogen while I keep hold of the jar."
"Are you sure this'll work, captain?"
"If my calculations are correct, Igor, it will not only preserve the fish, but will also make it tastier when grilled and served with chips, peas and tomato ketchup."
Gingerly, Igor lowered the rectangle of fish into the jar the professor held.
"There! That should be enough, Igor," the professor said. "Now, transfer the frozen fish to the grill, and cook it under a medium heat for eight minutes on each side ..."

* * *

"Hmmm ..." the professor muttered, sixteen minutes later. "It's not very nice, is it?"
"Not really," Igor replied. "It's a bit dry."
"Yes. The preservation mechanism was a success, thanks to science, but the fish itself is vulnerable to the heat of the grill. If only there were some kind of covering we could wrap around the fish to protect it during both the freezing and cooking process."
"Well ..."
"Well what?" the professor spat. "Come on, Igor, out with it!"
"Well, sir, we could always take a leaf out of the Scotch's book?"
"The Scotch? What have that bunch of savages ever given the world?"
"Well nothing, obviously ..." Igor said. "They have, however, an ingenious method of preserving their foodstuffs from the fiery heat of the fat frier."
"Have they, indeed?"
"Yes. I've heard tell of a substance called 'breadcrumbs', sir."
"Breadcrumbs? What devilry's this?"
"Not devilry, sir - science! Apparently, the Scotch coat a ball of rancid sausage meat and rotten egg in these breadcrumbs before lowering it into the fat. If my sources are correct, the egg and meat stay perfectly preserved if, of course, still inedible."
"Of course," Fishfingers replied. "So ... we need to get hold of some of this 'breadcrumbs' stuff, do we? Please God, Igor, don't tell me we'll have to venture north of the border?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"Oh ... ARSE!"

* * *

"Ye gods!" Fishfinger thundered. "It's worse than I thought! The whole place stinks of faeces, Igor!"
"I'm sorry about that, sir. I read that the Scotch dine on faeces at least twice a week. Apparently, according to a book I'm not prepared to name, they think it aids digestion."
"Saints preserve us, Igor! These people are no better than apes!"
"They are apes, sir."
"Well, quite ..."
"Aha!" Igor exclaimed. "Here we are, captain ... Muckle Jim's Och Aye Thae Breed And Wee Jobbie Shop. We should be able to find some breadcrumbs in here."
"I hope so, Igor," the professor gagged. "Any longer in this foetid Scotch air and I fear the skin will rot from my very bones."

* * *

"Well that was hideous," Fishfingers moaned. "I never thought I'd have to spend any portion of my life standing in a shop in Scotchland buying a peculiar new form of food coating from a man dressed in a skirt showering me with abuse specific to my nationality. What on earth was that dried substance he kept trying to foist on us?"
"Excrement, begging your lordship's pardon ..."
"Good God, Igor! Who'd have thought these creatures inhabit the same isles as us, eh? You'd expect it of the French of course ..."
"Or the Germans, sir."
"Indeed," Fishfingers replied, dipping a fresh rectangle of fish into the breadcrumb mixture he had purchased from the Scotch bread and poo shop. "Now, let's try our experiment again, Igor. The tongs, if you please ..."
Igor grasped the newly-coated fish rectangle with the tongs. Fishfingers, a look of triumph in his eyes, manoeuvered the jar.
"Now, Igor!" he cried. "NOW!"

* * *

"Well I must say, sir," Igor munched, "this fish is delicious! This crispy Scotch coating has protected the meat perfectly!"
"Indeed, Igor!" Fishfingers agreed. "Thanks to the application of science, I calculate I have improved food by seventeen and half percent. No more will we be shackled by rotten old fresh fish! Now, thanks to my incredible freezing and preservation technique, the human race can eat small rectangles of fish coated in bright orange Scotch bread leftovers. A success, I fancy!"
"So what are you going to call these fish rectangles, sir?"
"Well I've put a lot of thought into that, Igor," replied Professor Birdseye Fishfingers, "and I've decided to name them Scientifically Ameliorated Fish Wands!"
"Huzzah!" roared Igor, farting with appoval.

Next time: When science goes horribly wrong.

The Theory Of Relativity Explained

2009-03-13T10:17:00.005Z

Einstein's controversial Theory of Relativity states:

"When you're standing still, it's all going at normal speed; when you're going fast - say, in a plane or on the the back of a dragon - it's still going at normal speed even though other folk will see you (and it) going all quicker, like."

What this means is:

Everything around you moves at the same speed as you relative to how fast you're going due, in no small part, to science.

The above is explained by this equation:

E = mc2

Shortly before his death in 1982, Albert Einstein - the theory's inventor - told The Sun newspaper:

"Now then. If I'm flying round the Earth dead fast - say on the back of a dragon - then the Earth will travel at the same speed as me. However, if I slow down, the Earth will slow down too. This means that all the people who were clinging on to things when I was going all fast can now relax and take a bit of time to regain their balance and not feel quite as dizzy as they did. This is relativity."

Einstein presented his controversial theory to the National American Institute of Important Science in 1982. After the presentation, senior physicist Professor Fudd Fuddmeister told The Daily Mirror:

"So let me get this straight: If I go dead fast, then everything around me goes dead fast too, yes? But that doesn't make any sense. If that's what Einstein's complicated scientific data tells him, how does he explain why I don't fall over when an ostrich runs past? According to his theory, the ostrich would turn the earth beneath my feet into a conveyor belt and I'd be over on me arse, surely?"

"No," replied Einstein, also speaking to The Daily Mirror. "It's all relative to you, see? The ostrich has indeed sped up the earth, but it's only relative to it. You aren't going as quickly as the ostrich and so, therefore, won't fall flat on your arse if you grab hold of something."

"I still don't get this," replied Professor Fuddmeister, before collapsing dead from cancer of the arsehole.

Next time: Galileo's controversial Kinematics Theory

The ITTODBTBIA Big Scientific Interview - Sir Fred Hoyle, Space Boffin

2009-03-06T11:10:00.006Z

Sir Fred, thanks for agreeing to rise from the grave to answer my questions.

That's alright. I was getting a bit bored being buried under the ground for ...

Never mind that! Now then ... you're an astrologer, is that right?

Ho ho! No, that's a common mistake to make. I am an astronomer, not an astrologer.

I see. So it's people's futures you look into and not planets, yes?

It's the other way round.

Don't you take that tone with me!

Tone? I wasn't taking any tone ... what is this?

Be quiet! Now ... I'm a Pisces. Apparently we're sensitive and artistic, but I've seen no evidence of this in my life. Where did that come from? Was it Mars?

Mars? Erm ... no. Mars is the fourth planet in our Solar System. It has no influence on any aspect of your personality whatsoever.

Is that right? So Russell Grant's lying, is he?

Who's Russell Grant?

He's an astronomer. Used to come on after Mad Lizzie ...

Mad Lizzie?

Never mind that! Now then ... I'm thinking of putting my house up for sale next month. What do the planets have to say about this? Am I doing the right thing, or should I wait for the market to become more buoyant?

Eh?

Should I sell my fucking house, for crying out loud?!

How the hell am I supposed to know? Look, you seem to be confusing astronomy with astrology. Astrology is mumbo-jumbo practised by charlatans who claim they can read a man's future by the movement of the planets. Astronomy - which is what I do - is the scientific study of celestial objects. We seek to discover how the universe came into existence, not whether or not you're going to meet the love of your bloody life next week.

I see ... my apologies. It appears I've got the wrong end of the stick.

That's alright. So, shall we start again?

OK. Now ... I've had some money troubles over the last year. Will Lady Luck smile down on me if I enter tonight's Euro Millions lottery draw?

I've had enough of this ...

That's right! Walk away, you four-eyed ...

HOW DARE YOU! I'm Fred Hoyle, I am! Fred fucking Hoyle! You know what that means?

Yes! You're not fit to wipe Mystic Meg's arse! GET OUT!

Next time: Professor Steve Jones, leading British Geneticist

The Theory Of Evolution Explained

2009-03-05T17:25:00.005Z

Many people think Darwin's On The Origin Of Species is about how we came out of monkeys' bums. In fact, it's about how every living thing on the planet originally came out of something completely different's bum.

Darwin, in his controversial Theory Of Evolution, states:

"Men came out of monkeys' bums, birds came out of dinosaurs's bums, mammals came out of rats' bums, and I reckon fishes came out of sharks' bums. Not the same bums, you understand? Different bums."

In essence, what Darwin was saying was the first creatures to inhabit the Earth all those years ago evolved from science, and then began growing bums independent of that first spark of science so they could give birth to something slightly different out of their bums and, in turn, those creatures would then give birth to something slightly different out of their bums ... and so on.

But that's not all. To make sure there weren't too many creatures roaming about giving birth to stuff out of their bums, Darwin discovered each animal had to fight for the right to give birth out of its bum by a mechanism he dubbed 'Survival'.

This is what Darwin has to say about Survival in his controversial Theory Of Evolution:

"Every animal has to think about what it's doing, else it'll get eaten by another animal. If too many specieses of animals get eaten by other animals, it all goes tits-up for that species of animal and they will no longer be able to give birth to things out of their bums. Because there won't be enough bums to go about, see?"

Darwin made his controversial discoveries whilst on holiday in the Hippopotamus Islands. He later stated, in 1982:

"I was watching these big tortoises lumbering about, and it occurred to me that they must of come from somewhere. Originally I theorised it must be off of humming birds, but then realised that was a pack of arseholes. Then I was struck by the notion of it being all bums. I went to my charts of complicated biological equations, collated them against my other charts of scientific calculations, added them both together and they came up with bums too.

I presented my findings to the Royal Society of Science in 1982 to a shocked audience of brainboxes, egg-heads and boffins. At first they were sceptical but, when they read the bit where I'd crossed out 'humming birds' and written in 'it's all bums' instead, they agreed there was no other scientific explanation."

"From that day to this, it's been bums," he added.

Today, Darwin's controversial Theory Of Evolution is universally accepted as the only way life on Earth could have evolved. From the tiniest little ant, right up to elephants and lions, life as we know it can be summed up in one simple scientific equation:

S (Science) + B (Bums) + Su (Survival) = L (Life)

And that, boiled down, is the Theory of Evolution.

Next time: Einstein's controversial Theory of Relativity.

Famous Eggheads Off Of History - Part Two: Sir Isaac Newton

2009-03-05T16:51:00.005Z

Born to parents Harold and Eunice Newton in Grantham, Lincolnshire in 1634, Sir Isaac Newton quickly grew to be a towering figure of the science world thanks, in no small part, to his interest in science.

"He was always poking his nose into things when he was a lad," his mother Eunice told reporters shortly before her death from cancer of the arsehole in 1982. "One time Harold and I went off to the shops to buy some faeces, and when we got back young Isaac had built a revolving spire of sub-atomic particles made out of science on the living room carpet. My Harold went bloody mad ..."

Famously during this period, Newton sat beneath an apple tree, had an apple fall on his head, and realised something was afoot. Using complicated scientific calculations, he concluded that stuff stayed on the ground and that other stuff didn't. This he called 'Gravity', and it is Sir Isaac Newton we have to thank for taking this part of science firmly in hand, and shaking it about by the collar.

After leaving university with a 1:1 in Ye Science, Newton moved to London so he could begin his studies on motions. His Universal Theory Of Going Through The Motions was published in 1687 and explained, by the means of science, that the Earth, the other celestial bodies and plenty of other things were slave to the rhythm.

For this he was knighted.

Speaking of his discoveries to Jeremy Paxman on BBC2's Newsnight, Sir Isaac boasted:

"Without me, you wouldn't understand anything. Thanks to my all loads of important scientific discoveries, the arse isn't going to fall out of the Earth. Frankly, you people should get down on your hands and knees and lick my fucking ..."

At this point Sir Isaac collapsed dead of cancer of the arsehole. It was 1982.

Next time: Professor Stephen Hawking

Ask Sir Clive

2009-03-05T16:05:00.004Z

Each week, as part of ITTODBTBIA's week-long investigation into science, Sir Clive Sinclair answers readers' science conundrums for one week only. This week, he turns his egg-headed scientific mind to readers' science-based domestic queries ...

Dear Sir Clive

Last night my wife turned round to me in bed and confessed to having an eight year long affair with the milkman. I instantly flew into a rage and battered her to death. The next morning I realised I still loved my wife and decided to forgive her her infidelities. Is there any way I can reanimate her battered corpse so I can tell her I still love her?

Dave, Leeds

Dear Dave

Vaginal dryness can be a problem for many women, and it's nothing to worry about. Indeed, it's easily rectified. Simply purchase my patented Sinclair ZX Vaginal Dryness Lubricatometer vaginal lubricating machine, and you'll find she's instantly ready to be mounted without need for foreplay the next time you claim your marital rights.

Sir Clive Sinclair

Dear Sir Clive

Last week I caught my wife in bed with our postman. Furious, I picked up my golf clubs and laid into the pair of 'em. I went through the whole set and, by the time I was finished, the pair of them were just a mass of guts. In retrospect I now realise this was a bad mistake. I've a golf tournament final on Saturday, and I'm the hot tip to walk away with the trophy. Is there any way I can reverse time, save my precious clubs and do the bastards in with a tyre iron I've got in my garage instead? Help!

George, Milton Keynes

Dear George

My wife suffered from cracked nipples when she was breast-feeding too. At first I tried to lubricate the area with Vaseline but, when this method proved unsatisfactory, I scuttled off to my workshop to see if science held the answer. Using complicated mathematical equations, I soon had a prototype that healed the effected area enough for me to give her tits a good mash. I patented this machine, and today the Sinclair C7 Cracked Breast Healerliser is available to lubricate your wife's broken knockers for the very reasonable price of £89.99 + VAT.

Sir Clive Sinclair

Dear Sir Clive

I thought I'd surprise my wife on Valentine's Day by coming home early from work, running into the living room, pulling down my pants and jizzing in her face. Imagine my horror when I ran into the living room and found the window cleaner had got there first. Of course, I had no choice but to strangle them both to death. A few weeks later I'm wondering if this was the best course of action. My windows are getting dirtier by the day and, being a man, I have no idea how to clean them. At this rate I'm not going to be able to see my neighbour's teenage daughter undressing through my spare bedroom window, and that would be a shame. Has science a solution to my dirty window problem?

'Desperate', Wigan

Dear Desperate

You'd have thought there would have been a quick and easy fix to the problem of post-coital anal discharge, but I'm afraid when my wife had this problem back in 1984 there wasn't. That's why I had to use some science I found at the back of the fridge to help me invent the Sinclair DV5 Anal Discharge Menderator. Thanks to my invention, I can take my wife up the wrong 'un whenever I want, and then use my machine to disguise whatever problem she's experiencing up there with the computerized application of temporary industrial sealant.

Sir Clive Sinclair

Next week, Sir Clive discusses how best to mend a painful vaginal fissure using the power of the atom.

Famous Eggheads Off Of History - Part One: Albert Einstein

2009-03-05T13:00:00.006Z

Born Albert Fadgeberry Einstein in Kluurggenflammenfurgenborsch, Germany in 1880, Albert Einstein grew up to be a scientist from a very early age.

"I remember he was always poking his nose into things, even at that age," his mother Enid reminisced shortly before her death from cancer of the arsehole in 1982. "Me and my husband Neville went out once to the Bingo, and when we got back there he was, standing next to a big pyramid he'd made off of all molecules and numbers. Neville beat him black and blue ..."

After leaving university in the old days with a 1:1 with honours in science, Einstein got a job working for the government, working stuff out.

"I used to sit in my office all day long watching Nazis walking past," he remembered shortly before his death from cancer of the arsehole in 1982, "wondering how it all fit together. Obviously there must be some sort of universal doo-dad making everything work, but what?"

And it was then Einstein had his Eureka! moment. Staring at his secretary's tits, he realised it was all tied together by a simple mathematical equation.

"As I imagined jizzing up them boobies, it came to me: E + MC Squares! Suddenly it all made sense to me. With that equation in my head, I could solve all of the mysteries in the universe. Within minutes I'd solved time travel, nuclear missiles, how to make a dishwasing machine ... everything! It was all thanks to them tits plus the power of science."

Armed with his new equation, Einstein emigrated to America. Within weeks he'd knocked up Marilyn Monroe, used his mind to win a Nobel Prize and invented the atomic bomb so they could drop it on the Japanese.

"When that bomb went off up them Japanese bastards's arses, it was the proudest day of my life," he laughed in 1982, shortly before his agonizing death.

Einstein died off of cancer of the arsehole in 1982. At his funeral, American president Ronald Reagan said:

"Thanks to Einstein's scientific equation, we now know the secrets of the universe. Plus, it's made it a lot easier for us to get into birds's knickers."

Next time: Sir Isaac Newton.

How Things Are Cured

2009-03-05T09:56:00.008Z

"Bit of a problem, sir," said Lieutenant Colonel Torpington Tiddler, VC.
"A problem?" replied the government's Chief Science Advisor, Sir Burton Jizzbosom.
"Yes. We've heard from the Bletchley boffins that the Nazis have invented a new super virus they've codenamed 'The AIDS'"
"'The AIDS', eh?" said Jizzbosom, raising his eyebrows. "What is it? Some sort of new cold strain?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," Tiddler replied wearily. "This is worse than a cold, if you can imagine such a thing. It's transmitted by bananas, and causes havoc to the immune system by boring into it with microscopic The AIDS worms using science."
"Science, eh? Tricky business, Tiddler. Hmmm ... well I suppose we're going to have to find a cure for this 'The AIDS' business before the Bosch bring us to our knees. We can't have our brave lads catching scientific immune-busting worms off of bananas ... not with D-Day round the corner."
"D-Day, sir?"
"Oh! No .. forget I said that."
"It's already forgotten, sir."
"That's the stuff."

* * *

"So, Margaret, how are we getting along?" Tiddler asked the facility's Head of Scientific Stuff, Professor Margaret Howsyourfather.
"Oh, Colonel Tiddler," Margaret blushed, adjusting her hair and flickering her eyelashes. "I didn't hear you come in. My, but your moustache is looking especially manly this afternoon, sir."
"Why thank you, Margaret," the Colonel replied, patting her on the rump. "Sadly there's no time for horseplay ... how's my cure coming along, old girl?"
"Well we've identified what part of the banana contains the science worms, sir," she gushed, her ample bosom heaving under the tightness of her RAF-issue uniform for ladies. "It seems Hitler's implanted the worms along the centre of the banana."
"That sausage-guzzling swine!" Tiddler shouted. "They really are the most deceitful sort, Margaret!"
"I know, sir. And what's worse," she added, twisting her thigh a tad so the Colonel could catch a fruity glimpse, "is that they don't even care. They don't seem to mind that the rest of the civilised world sees them as bounders of the worst sort."
"Well carry on the good work," Tiddler said hurriedly, dashing from the laboratory, clutching his particulars.

* * *

"Ah, Tiddler!" cried Sir Jizzbosom, thrusting some kind of French gentleman's educational instruction pamphlet under his desk. "Any progress?"
"Well, sir, we think we've cracked it. The worms are transmitted up the central pipe of the banana, entering the man or woman's vitals, and then they bury themselves in the immune system where they begin to feast."
"Good lord!"
"I know, it's a disgrace what the Hun'll come up with," Tiddler sighed. "But Margaret believes she's found a cure. By applying a scientific medical sheath to the length of the banana, the worms are unable to escape into the immune system. Once the banana's been consumed, the sheath is simply disposed of and the worms die after being exposed to enough clean British air."
"And what's this sheath made from?"
"Science, sir."
"Extraordinary!"

* * *

And so, thanks to the domineering spirit of the egg-heads of the Poulton Park Awful Foreign Diseases Research & Prevention Facility, Britain would never be ravaged by scientific, banana-based, immunity-destruction worms made by the Germans and codenamed 'The AIDS'. Within a year, Great Britain had won the war, and the world would never know how close it came to being bored into by all worms and then dying of evil science.

Next time: How the pioneering work of Professor Birdseye Fishfingers made food better for all of us.

Your Star Prize!

2009-02-27T16:06:00.010Z

Thumper! Wave goodbye to the sunny skies of Italy and say 'hello!' to the drizzle and high winds that constantly batter the depressing Victorian exterior of the Sir Isaac Newton Industrial Slaughterhouse & Animal Rendering Plant, Grantham!

That's right! From your new accommodation at the A1 Bed & Breakfast (opposite the insecticide works, see above), we'll whisk you away at four o'clock each morning in a van full of surly Eastern-European immigrants and teenagers who may - or may not - stab you if you look at them funny!

After your breakfast of Tic-Tacs washed down with white cider in the dirty staff canteen, it's off to the killing floor! You'll be staggered as the stench of faeces mingles with the musky odour of piss mixed with terror! Your ears will be assaulted on all sides as the scream of terrified pigs competes with industrial killing machinery, combining to make a blood-curdling soundtrack of death that will haunt you for the rest of your days!

And it doesn't end there! Occasionally you'll be called upon to raddle the organs from a freshly-killed pig with your bare hands! That's right! Imagine the fun you'll have tearing the steaming innards from the inside of dead pigs, their bowels splitting between your fingers and covering you in fresh shit! That's FRESH SHIT!

At the end of each each shift (minimum 12 hours), we'll transport you back home (price of diesel deducted automatically from your wages) to your miserable accommodation where you'll have hours of fun chasing rats around your room and listening to your co-workers having angry, urgent sex with the area's vast collection of disease-riddled prostitutes. You'll say to yourself you'll never do anything like that ... but you will. YOU WILL.

And finally, after a week's killing, you'll have time to unwind with your colleagues down at the local pub. You'll have £180 per month to clothe, feed and keep yourself entertained. And by 'entertained', we mean 'drink as much as possible in an attempt to erase the horrors that swirl around your head in a monstrous kaleidoscope of blood and screams and shit and death and piss and machines'! BUT YOU NEVER WILL!

Then, on Monday, it's back to the killing! And that's what it'll be like ... FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!

That, Thumper, is your STAR PRIZE! Well done, and thank you for playing!

And The Winner Is ...

2009-02-27T15:53:00.004Z

Thumper Plowman!

That's right! For the second time in ITTODBTBIA history, Thumper has scooped the top prize in what they're already calling 'the worst online board game anyone's ever played ever'! In a game that dragged itself along the carpet in the fashion of the bullet-riddled Sean Connery in 'The Untouchables' for three soul-destroying days, everyone's favourite Scotchman living in Italy came from behind to beat strong contenders Moose, Fourstar, Hemmefru and Who to take the first place he desperately didn't want. But how did he do it?

Why, by being deceived, of course! That's right! Hiding in the awful medical trivia game that is Triveration! was an elaborate trap ... a trap baited with money! Thumper, being the trusting, gullible and greedy soul he is, walked straight into the jaws of that trap, and can now look forward to his new job killing animals for minimum wage! That's right - minimum wage!

Well done to Thumper, and congratulations to Moose, Fourstar, Who, Hemmerfru, Dave, Wagonwheel, Mr. H and Valentine who all walk away with the runner's-up prize of a BRAND NEW 1975 four-door family saloon!

Now, shall we all agree to never, ever mention the word 'Triveration!' ever again?

Details of Thumper's prize to follow ...

Triveration! - Day Three

2009-02-27T09:42:00.017Z

"Oh, doctor, I'm so glad you're here. I've been so worried."
"Now now, Mrs. Armstrong. I'm sure Timmy's condition's not as bad as you think ..."
"Oh I hope so, doctor. I couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to my little boy."
"Well let's take a look at him, shall we? Hello, Timmy."
"Hello, doctor."
"I hear you've been feeling a bit poorly?"
"Yes, doctor, in my tummy."
"In your tummy, is it? OK. Now, can you tell me, is the pain in your tummy a sharp pain?"
"No."
"Is it a dull pain?"
"No."
"Is it the one where Sid's wife starts up her own taxi firm that's staffed exclusively by dolly birds?"
"What? Carry On Up The Khyber?"
"NO! YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, YOU THICK-WITTED LITTLE SHIT!"

And so we drag the stinking, rotten carcass of Triveration! towards the finishing line. I would say the game's poised on a knife-edge, but it isn't. Still, if someone can actually answer some questions and fill their slots with cheese, that luxury unwanted job in an abattoir may still be given away by the end of the day. And let's not forget the staggering sums of money available in the Babs Big Money Accumulator. Or the fact there's cars. Real cars.

Anyway. It's a one dice game, it's open to anyone, play takes place in the comments section of this post, the board updates throughout the day and ...

... may the best man or woman* win!

*Not likely.

Triveration - State Of Play After Day Two

2009-02-26T17:18:00.003Z

Bastards! How hard is it, eh? How difficult is it to answer a couple of questions, win yourselves some cheeses, win a bit of cash-money and, ultimately, find yourself faced with the horrors of the abattoir factory floor?

Well ... really quite bloody difficult indeed if today's wretched round of Triveration! is anything to go by. ONE cheese - ONE! That's all you mob of buffoons managed today! Throw in one solved Hangman Bargain Bonus and that's damn shoddy by anybody's standards.

You pack of rats!

Well there better be changes tomorrow, d'ye hear? One day we've got left for one unlucky winner to land that dream job - ONE. So buck your fucking ideas up, you slovenly bunch of pig-ignorant shithouses!

And if you're wondering who's in first place ... well you can go just go and fucking whistle!

BASTARDS!

AND WHO WIPED DIARRHOEA ON MY BOARD??

Triveration! - Day Two

2009-02-26T09:15:00.021Z

"How can I help you, Mr. Roberts?"
"Sorry to trouble you, doctor, but I've a pungent yellow discharge seeping from me anus."
"I see. Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about your condition?"
"Fire away, doctor ..."
"OK. Is the area sore?"
"No."
"Is the surrounding area inflamed?"
"A little, yes."
"Which is the one where him off of Steptoe & Son plays the detective?"
"Carry On Up The Jungle?"
"YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, YOU IGNORANT BASTARD!"

Good morning! Welcome to day two of my confusing online medical trivia game, Triveration!. Anyone who was playing yesterday will know we've got a bit of a problem with tying the questions to their correct answers; still, with the chance to win a JOB IN AN ABATTOIR, I think we can all overlook that and soldier on with another exciting day's play.

As always, it's a one dice game, it's open to anyone, play takes place in the comments section of this post and the board (which can be enlarged by clicking on the above picture) updates throughout the day.

So come on, doctors! Let's save this poor bastard's life!

Triveration! - State Of Play After Day One

2009-02-25T17:20:00.004Z

Well it's not been as successful as I'd hoped as we wave goodbye to day one. After coming clean that I'd lost the answers to the trivia questions, the makers of Triveration! couriered me round a replacement answer sheet. Unfortunately, the sheet they sent was a factory second, and the answers don't seem to correspond to the questions. Still, we've persevered, and after the first day's play, the leaderboard breaks down like this:

Laundry Moose

Moose was the first of our players to roll the dice and take a punt at winning that job in an abattoir. After a mere hour's worth of bickering over who was supposed to roll first, Moose took up the dice and performed well enough to claim first place at close of play. He's had some tricky questions (made trickier by the lack of correct answers), but still managed to somehow fill one of his holes with an orange cheese as play drew to a close. Could be one to watch as the game progresses.

Fourstar

Sitting pretty in second place, Fourstar is (unless Thumper can prove otherwise) the only player to hold one of the game's coveted 'BABS Cards'. This'll come in handy for any attempt he makes on the 'BABS Card Big Money Accumulator' ... though he will have to figure out he can overcome the obstacle of being banned from the portal square that leads to it (and which he opened up by guessing that a man who steals faeces with the intention of selling it back to its owner was a 'shitnapper').

Who

Who was doing quite well until she foolishly agreed to take on the Hangman and became trapped in a hellish limbo she was unable to escape from until Fourstar came to her rescue. As a result of this chivalry, Who earned herself an 'Effluent Penalty Counter', and Fourstar earned himself a banishment (see above). Still, her fight against the Hangman leaves her sitting in third place at close of play.

THE REST

Undoubtedly a string of questions that did not appear to have the correct answers attached didn't help Thumper, Swineshead, Hemmefru, Valentine or me from getting anywhere today. Hopefully tomorrow should be more successful for us also-rans. Unless it isn't.

THE SIN-BIN

Both Mr. H and Turnip earned themselves 'Effluent Penalty Counters' today. This will make their job of winning vast sums of money very difficult tomorrow when they take on the 'BABS Card Big Money Accumulator'. Perhaps they might give behaving themselves a go in future, eh?

So there we have it. Day one down and two more to go. Hopefully tomorrow will see our first BIG MONEY winner and, hopefully, our first DISQUALIFICATION. Though it might not considering all the answers are suspect ...

Triveration! - Day One

2009-02-24T17:00:00.034Z

"Doctor! We have a problem!"
"What is it, nurse?"
"This man is on the verge of death. He's bleeding off of his arsehole, out of his eyeballs, from under his toenails, and out of the end of his ... of his ..."
"Well? Come on, nurse, out with it!"
"Out of his particulars, doctor ..."
"Hmm? Well the way I see it, nurse, we only have a limited time in which to save this man's life. So, could you tell me ... was the 1971 film Carry On At Your Convenience the one where Sid bets on the horses using his wife's talking parrot, or was it the one where they're all having dinner as the forces of the Khazi attack the British embassy?"
"Erm ... was it the dinner one?"
"YOU'VE KILLED HIM, YOU IGNORANT BITCH!"

Welcome, one and all, to the first day's play of Triveration! - the extremely unpopular Carry On film-based medical emergency general knowledge trivia board game you play on the internet and not on a table!

So, if you're not a retard, why not pull up a chair and test your luck as you attempt to heal the trivia-themed, abbreviation-shaped wounds of the poor unfortunate you see laid out on the Triveration! operating slab up there? Have you got what it takes to save this man's life over the course of three life-sapping and ultimately pointless days? Do you want to be forced to work in an abattoir if you win? Or maybe bag one of the EIGHT luxury 1975 four-door family saloons that I'm allegedly offering as runners-up prizes?

No?

Then let's begin! As always, it's a one dice game, it's open to anyone (except retards), play takes place in the comments section of this post, the board (which you can enlarge by clicking on the above picture) updates throughout the day, the player to the right of the player that's directly across from the player on the left's immediate right goes last*, and don't forget the Triveration! catchphrase - If The Nose Glows Red, You've Caught His The AIDS From All Blood Splatters!

Good luck, doctors!

So ... who's first?

*The player only does this if the player to his or her immediate left is sitting opposite the player who is sitting next to the player who is sitting directly in front of the player who is due to go first after the player who is seated two places to the left of them has taken their turn directly after the player to their immediate right has waited for the player on his or her immediate left to take their turn after the player directly behind them has rolled after the player to their left has waited for the player to their left to get back from the toilet.**

**Really, I shouldn't need to tell you this.

Triveration!

2009-02-24T13:33:00.005Z

Bonjorno! I bet you thought I was dead, didn't you? Eh?

Well I'm not! In fact I've been incredibly busy getting everything ready for tomorrow's bewilderingly complicated new game - Triveration! As you all know, it's the trivia-based medical board game that all the family can play ...

... well ... I doubt babies would be able to play it. Or retarded children. Or them old folks wot need the toilet every five bloody minutes. Or ... well you get the general idea.

There'll be literally HUNDREDS OF CASH PRIZES* to be won, as well as the usual selection of four-door, 1975 family saloons* and, for one lucky winner, the chance to work in an abattoir for ONE WHOLE WEEK*! Even if you don't want to!

See you all tomorrow!

*Terms & Conditions apply.

Me Me Me Me Me ...

2009-02-20T09:17:00.003Z

Unlike this congratulations fisherman, today is my actual birthday, not some falsified pseudo-birthday you think you're entitled to a pat on the back for simply because you've completed the herculean task of not deleting an online diary for two years.

Anyway. I have but one wish on this, my thirty fourth birthday:

May I live long enough to see the downfall of the entire human race!

Thank you.

Oh, Dear God! NOOOOOOO!

2009-02-19T17:50:00.004Z

Coming to a shanty town on the outskirts of the internet: 25/02/09

The Olden Days

2009-02-19T10:21:00.014Z

This bit o' fluff and its comments by Five-Centres and his disciples about going on holiday to the past and having a jolly old time of it got me thinking about those people who say stuff along the lines of,

"I'd love to go back and live in the olden days and meet 'Enery VIII, I am, I am."

Y'see, if you could live in an era other than your own, who's to say you'd be living the giddy, aristocratic lifestyle everyone who entertains these fantasies thinks they will as a matter of course? Isn't it more likely that, considering you're not on the top rung of the ladder now, you're never likely to have been back then either?

What makes you think that simply transporting yourself back to 19th century Paris, say, is all you need to do to transform yourself from the bored shitless office worker you are now into the darling of the Toulouse Lautrec set? Does the simple addition of you + the old days make you suddenly 1000% more exciting than you've ever managed to be here in the 21st Century?

I doubt it, somehow. Indeed, I fear the cold reality for most would-be time travellers is they'd find themselves cleaning the toilets ...

The Middle Ages

The Fanciful Notion

You're a dashing knight of the realm. You spend your days tilting at the lists, defeating friends and foes alike, catching mi'lady's eye and jousting your way to glory. By night you're resplendent in doublet and hose cut from the finest French cloth, dancing with mi'lady, tucking into a sumptuous banquet, bantering with the gentlemen of the court and then retiring for athletic bedroom fun 'n' games with the lady whose heart you captured on the tournament field.

The Grim Reality

You're woken up by a chicken every morning in a room that stinks of shit. You're crammed onto a mattress made from shit and straw, surrounded by your shit-spattered wife and kids and your collection of farting, shitting livestock, in a freezing cold house with no windows made primarily from shit. You get up, scratching at flea bites and boils, not washing or brushing the blackened stumps that were your teeth because the only water available is two miles away and five hundred feet underground. Instead, you wolf down pottage and beer that contains bird shit, then trudge off to spend twelve hours scraping out shit from cesspits. If you're lucky enough not to fall into said cesspits and drown in shit, you can look forward to doing this every day of your life until you die at the age of twenty five of something 'orrible. Oh, and when you do die, your wife and kids are thrown into the shit-spattered streets, and then they die too. 'Orribly.

The English Civil War

The Fanciful Notion

You're a dashing Cavalier. It's all massive hats, lacy gloves, enormous boots and twirly moustaches as you thunder across the battlefield, sword aloft, cutting a Prince Rupert-like figure of swaggering Carolian elegance. A 17th century Errol Flynn, you may well lose this Civil War business but, by God, you'll lose it in style.

The Grim Reality

You stride po-faced along a worn pathway with your silent wife and frightened children Virtuous, Chastity, Temperance and Jericho towards the church you attend every Sunday. Inside its morbid, whitewashed interior, you sit bolt-upright in uncomfortable wooden stalls as a wild-eyed frantic maniac thunders at you that if you don't do exactly what is stated in the Bible (right down to the small print), you will be condemned to a fiery eternity of torment in the roasting pits of Hell for ever and ever. After four hours of being shouted at, you're released to spend the rest of the week doing your day job - slitting pigs' throats to feed Cromwell's New Model Army of self-righteous, miserable bastards. Growing more and more disillusioned with how much fun some quarters of the country are still having despite edicts issued by the Puritans, you set sail for America with your bland family; there to spend the rest of your smug life avoiding anything in the slightest bit interesting. Amen.

The Regency

The Fanciful Notion

You're a dandy. A cocksure gadabout, you ponce about the more fashionable parts of London, delighting the ladies with your witty badinage. A peacock, you strut about in the latest fashions, attracting the attention of the scandal sheets with your wild parties, extravagant spending habits and rumours of fruity shenanigans in the court of the Prince Regent.

The Grim Reality

You and your colleague transport the gargantuan Beau Brummel from one fat, sweaty orgy to another in a sedan chair that's slowly tearing your arms from their sockets. As you wait outside in the rain for the fat bastard to finish farting and grunting his way through a forty course dinner laid on at the taxpayers' expense by the equally corpulent land mass that is the Prince of Wales, your mind wanders to your wife and children - sat freezing around a tallow candle in the dank, rat-infested cellar your slum landlord overcharges you a fortune to live in. You wonder, as the guffaws of gout-riddled, sweat-soaked pigs fills your ears, how the hell you're going to get enough money together to pay for the ineffective medicine your sick daughter needs. On impulse you steal a loaf of bread, are caught in the act, and hanged.

The Victorian Era

The Fanciful Notion

You're a dashing cavalry officer. Roaring and fucking and fighting your way from one Great British victory to another. A bewhiskered ladies' man, you're the officer and gentleman no self-respecting host can do without at her fashionable London soirees. From India to China and beyond, you're the toast of the colonies for your endless deeds of derring-do, all in the name of Her Majesty and an Empire on which the sun never sets.

The Grim Reality

After having your left ear sliced off during one of Britain's never-ending colonial wars, you're demobbed from the army and sent back to Blighty. Back on home turf, you discover your entire family died in the last cholera outbreak, and your house has been repossessed to pay for their miserable little funerals. Distraught but determined, you take a job in a soot-blackened backstreet factory making match-heads. Within three years the chemicals in the matches have rotted half your face away. Unable to continue with that job, destitute and on the verge of chucking yourself off a bridge, you throw yourself on the mercy of the local workhouse. There you are punished for being unfortunate by a disapproving do-gooder obsessed with God. For the rest of your days you work mind-numbing fourteen hour days to earn a thin meal of gruel and a slice of mouldy bread, before dying in a bed covered in lice and snow. Nobody notices. Or cares.

The Second World War

The Fanciful Notion

You're an ace Spitfire pilot. When you're not tearing through the blue skies of Southern England taking the fight to the Bosch, you're down on the ground, sitting in your deck-chair quietly smoking your pipe, filling in the Times crossword and waiting for the next wave of Nazis to dare defile your nation's green and pleasant land with their filthy foreign bombers. Quietly, methodically you turn the tide of the war back in Blighty's favour, and we all love you for it.

The Grim Reality

After being forcibly marched to a barracks, shouted at by a fat man in a field for six months, and then told you're joining an infantry regiment (i.e. cannon fodder), you and the rest of your company of knock-kneed former servants and land workers are sent off to the front to face one of the finest and most deadly fighting forces that's ever been unleashed on the human race. Pissing yourself through fear in a field in some godforsaken French backwater, you're shot right up the arse by a Nazi sharp-shooter, and have to be sent home in shame with a bloody great hole in your arse. For the rest of your life, you'll be that bloke that fought 'Itler for five minutes, then got shot. Up the arse.

The Swinging Sixties

The Fanciful Notion

You're groovy, baby. If they can't find you shopping for clothes on Carnaby Street, they'll find you in the basement of The Establishment Club, chatting to Peter Sellars while the two of you sip martinis and tap your feet along to the super-smooth sounds of The Dudley Moore trio. Or maybe you're at your third orgy of the week, swinging your hips in the centre of a gaggle of naked chicksters as the far-out sounds of that groovy friend of yours, Jimi Hendrix, blows everyone's minds with his flaming electric guitar, man?

The Grim Reality

You're waiting patiently for the seedy old man who bears a striking resemblance to Arthur Lowe to finish aborting your girlfriend's child with a coat hanger and a bottle of bleach. Once he's done his business (and presuming she doesn't die), you have to be in court to see if your brother's going down for the evil crime of having sex with another man and being caught in the act. Then, when all that's done, it's back to your flat in the awful new tower block that stands on the site of a nice little community of Victorian shops, pubs and terraces that weren't modern enough to survive the greed and stupidity of local planners. As you sit on your nylon coated chair eating tinned food, having your nightly argument with your father about Harold Wilson, you can hear, faintly in the distance, the sound of a stately home that stood for three hundred years being dynamited to make way for a brutalist shopping centre that itself will be torn down within thirty years. In the morning, it's back to work making car parts for cars nobody wants.

So ... still fancy living in the past?

The One Hundred Year Old Fart - A Ghost Story

2009-02-16T11:07:00.002Z

Prepare to be terrified as ITTODBTBIA takes you back to the Victorian era for a tale of horror from the casebook of Professor Barrington Blindwise ...

I approached the withdrawing room cautiously. Suddenly, I felt McManure's hand on my shoulder.

"Dinnae go in there, sir! Dinnae dae it!" he cried. "There's a fart in that room that's been aroond for a hundred years! Dinnae dae it to y'self, sir!"

"Nonsense!" I replied. "I am a man of science, sir! This old wives' tale of yours holds no water with me, McManure. There's no such thing as a fart that lingers in a room for a hundred years ... as I shall soon prove!"

He moved to block my way.

"Dinnae dae it, sir! The fart's nae a legend, d'ye ken? It's real, sir! As real as you or me!"

"Get out of my way!" I thundered. "Your pudding-headed Scotch nonsense holds no sway, McManure! This is 1880, not 1480! Remove yourself from the doorway this instant!"

Reluctantly, McManure moved out of the way.

"Dinnae say I didnae warn ye, sir," he muttered.

"Pah!" I scoffed, turning the handle.

And, Christ Almighty, but it didn't half stink in there.

Shituppence

2009-02-12T14:07:00.005Z

I had to laugh when I read that the shit sculpture 'The B of the Bang' (above) by 'artist' Thomas Heatherwick was to be torn down because it's a risk to public safety. I'd have personally torn this overpriced piece of rat shit down years ago. Torn it down and hammered each of its one hundred and eighty individual steel spikes right up Mr. Heatherwick's arse.

The Secret Diary Of Noel Edmonds

2009-02-10T15:48:00.007Z

Many moons ago I started writing a fictional diary based on unpopular ex-DJ Noel Edmonds. For some reason I abruptly stopped writing it, despite the fact I really enjoyed doing it, or that it was gathering quite a few fans. Having recently gone back and re-read it, I haven't the foggiest idea why I stopped.

So it's back, it's been updated and it's got its own snazzy new website. Feel free to link to the bugger.

Foreign Muck

2009-02-09T17:06:00.003Z

There's all sorts of funny foreign foodstuffs a Britisher should avoid like the plague when he accidentally ventures overseas. Be it gizzards floating in water served up by the Chinese and eaten with twigs, some be-tentacled monstrosity the Italians have dredged from the bottom of the Mediterranean, or a horse's particulars dished out by those rats the French, trusting old John Bull can fall into all manner of inedible food traps when he makes the mistake of going abroad. Hopefully, by reading my handy guide to the shit they think's food over there, you'll be able to avoid the pitfalls that lead, inevitably, to a bout of the screaming ab-dabs in some cockroach-infested foreign hospital ...

Closest to home you'll find French food. The Frogs - that pack of contemptible traitors and rapists - like to tell you their food is the finest in the world. This is clearly claptrap because:

1. British food is the finest in the world.
2. French food is just British food with more gravy.

Your French, being permanently drunk, haven't the gumption to realise that all they've done is spoil a Great British meat and two veg Sunday dinner by smothering everything in a sauce what's as thick as soup, and that's made out of all innards. Best food in the world? Well maybe you think it is if you're the kind of character that hands over his country to the Germans without a shot being fired.

And speaking of the Germans, there's the garbage they serve up. Any Britisher reading this probably won't believe it, but the Bosch merrily wolf down:

1. Herrings pickled in vinegar wrapped around raw onions and bloody gherkins, if you please.
2. Cabbage (that shit they make you eat at school) pickled in vinegar.
3. Weird economy beef-burger type things with a suspicious name I can't remember.
4. All manner of other rubbish

You couldn't make it up! Not content with stuffing their faces with sausages (the scientific term for a German eating sausages is, of course, 'guzzling'), starting massive land wars and generally being disagreeable, humourless automatons, your Germans disgust the travelling British observer with a wide variety of sloppy, vinegar-soaked filth you wouldn't feed a damned dog. No wonder they lost the bloody war, eating rubbish like that.

Don't know what they eat in Switzerland. Probably chocolate and stolen Nazi gold.

Anyway, then there's your Italy. Now don't get me wrong, your Italians can occasionally surprise you by dishing up a proper British dinner - pizza, spaghetti bolognese, ravioli - but don't let this fool you into thinking they're civilised. Lulled into a false sense of security, the unwary British holidaymaker can suddenly find himself presented with a plate of cow's innards or pig's trotters stuffed with weeds and whatnot. So now, not only has he got to keep the waiter who's trying to sexually assault his missus at bay, but he's also got to try wolfing down the sort of thing you'd be prosecuted for for serving up back home.

No wonder Italy was a walkover in the War.

Eastern Europe's cuisine can best be summed up by the following statement:

Gristle floating around in salty water, jostling for room next to dumplings the size of cricket balls + vodka.

The Soviets have cut out the middle-man of the above statement and live entirely off of the vodka bit. Not only that, but they have to queue up for fourteen hours a day to file past the embalmed body of Lenin. If they don't, they're shot. The Commie bastards.

And so to the Middle East. Fancy eating rancid goat's meat covered in flies? Rancid goat's meat covered in flies and full of shrapnel from a nearby suicide bombing? Rancid goat's meat covered in flies and full of shrapnel from a nearby suicide bombing what's been smothered in spices to disguise the rancidity?

Yes?

Then go to the Middle East. But beware - they'll cut off your head for being British, and that's a FACT.

AND HOW DARE THEY?!

Now then. Moving on to the oriental lands. This, o weary British traveller, is where it really gets dangerous. Your Chinese, your Japanese, your Koreans and what-have-you eat:

1. Dogs and cats (and that's a bloody disgrace), eaten with sticks.
2. Giant spiders, eaten with sticks.
3. Snakes, eaten with sticks.
4. Shit they hoik out of the sea, usually smothered in suckers, eaten with sticks.
5. Stuff what wriggles when it's tossed in the wok, eaten with sticks.

Anyway you slice it, that diet's barbaric. All civilised rules of what is and isn't dinner have been tossed out of the window in your oriental lands, and it's a bloody minefield for the hungry Britisher abroad. Eat anything out there and you're 100% guaranteed a spell in a malaria-ridden clinic full of giant wasps. If you insist on eating in the Far East, take British Army ration packs and a camping stove. There's nothing for you to eat locally unless you've a penchant for wolfing down boiled insects, eaten with sticks.

And if you like doing that, you're not British.

African food's a mystery to me, as is Australian food. This being the case, let's just assume they don't eat anything and move swiftly on to that nest of overweight imbeciles that wobble about the country we know and loathe: the United States of America.

Americans would have you believe they have a national cuisine. They don't. What they actually have is barbecues, deep fat friers and skillets. From this sizzling trinity of culinary shortcuttery farts forth all American food. Fat-laden, stinking hunks of grease dripping all over your shoes, eased down struggling, sweaty gullets with the help of the worst coffee mankind has ever known. Filth.

Mind you, that said, their food is quite tasty if you've been drinking. And then you have a heart attack - the death that awaits all U.S. citizens.

Mexican food is basically shepherd's pie served in a big crisp.

I've no idea what they eat in the rest of South America, but I'm prepared to bet - considering the enormous quantities of grotesque insects they have down that way - that it's unsavoury. Think something with green blood being boiled in a jungle, served on a bed of grasshoppers, washed down with bird blood and you're probably near the mark. Disgusting, I call it.

And so our culinary tour of the world comes full circle. We're back, thank Christ, in the homely and familiar kitchen of Mother Britannia.

With her Yorkshire puddings, her roast beef, her fish 'n' chips and her chicken tikka masala, good old Mrs. Blighty offers an unparalleled bounty of delicious, non-toxic treats that won't - unlike that muck they serve abroad - leave you shitting blood into a dirty toilet on some rat-infested island covered in lizards, diesel and donkey shit.

Foreign food? It's excrement!

Don't Give 'Em An ASBO, Give 'Em A JIZZBO

2009-02-09T09:20:00.002Z

We all know ASBOs are rubbish. What does a kid care if he's banned from Middlesborough town centre for three months? He can just rob stuff on the outskirts of town, the little bastard.

No, what we need is a new punishment. How quick do you reckon kids would be to go out burgling houses and robbing old ladies if they knew that getting caught meant being bathed in jism once a week for four years, eh? Do you think they'd still be going out happy slapping in shopping centres if the dreaded hose of British justice awaited them? I bloody well don't.

So come on, Gordon McBroon (you one-eyed Scotch idiot), introduce the JIZZBO now. Let's get this country back on track, eh? It's about time we doused our rowdy kids in spunk.

They Just Don't Make ...

2009-02-08T03:11:00.001Z

... films like this anymore ...

... and it's a damn shame they don't.

All Noisy On The Western Front

2009-02-06T10:31:00.005Z

Here's an extract from my new novel When They Shoot Me Through The Gizzard, I'll See You In HELL!, which is out on Monday published by Blogs To Books Motorway Service Station Bargain Bin Fodder, Landfill & Roof Insulation Publishing Ltd ...

Private Trenchfoot stumbled over the bodies of his fallen comrades, bullets from the German guns whizzing over his head. He was not in the best of moods, obviously.

"Come on, Trenchfoot, old boy!" cried Lieutenant Marchmount C. Winterbotterer from the safety of the British line. "Imagine you're playing rugger for Charterhouse, and you're two hundred yards away from scoring the winning try for the Girdlestonites! Play up, and play the game!"

"Why don't YOU fucking well imagine you're playing fucking rugger for fucking Charterhouse, eh?" Trenchfoot roared, as his boot got stuck in the exposed ribcage of Corporal Finlay 'OJ' Tomatoes (that fat bastard). "You think that's sound fucking advice, do you? Pretend I'm playing fucking rugby with 'alf the German fucking army shooting fucking bullets up my arse? You bleedin' toffs is all the fucking same, pardon my French, sir. It's all a bloody game to you!"

"Show the Bosch who's boss, Trenchfoot!" piped in Captain Devonshire Perambulation, formerly of Eton and St. Shitwipe's College, Cambridge. "Give 'em a dose of their own medicine!"

"With what, exactly?" Trenchfoot shouted, desperately trying to pull his leg out of Corporal Tomatoes's chest cavity. "I've got no fucking grenades, I've lost me bleedin' rifle, they only issue fucking revolvers to you bloody toffs for no fucking reason I can fathom ... what do you suggest, sir? Throw a packet of Craven 'A' at the bastards?"

"Take off their heads with your old tin hat, Tommy Atkins!"

"Are you pulling my fucking leg?" replied Trenchfoot, pulling at his leg. "What the fuck kind of fucking tactic is that? Frisbee the only bloody thing what's keeping my brains inside my head at that pack of Kraut bastards back there, shall I? Oh, very fucking clever, I must say, sir! Any other smartarse suggestions? Strip down to me smalls and shame 'em into submission with the size of me Great British manhood? How the hell your mob of wet-behind-the-ears, aristo ... OH SHIT!"

A German grenade exploded within yards of Trenchfoot's position, knocking him free of that shitbag Tomatoes's innards, and backwards into the rotting groin of Private Fadger Crystaltits.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ al-fucking-mighty!" Trenchfoot wailed. "I've got me 'ead stuck up his arsehole, and his rotten old balls is resting on me fucking neck. I fucking HATE the First World War!"

It wasn't the best day for Private Vince 'Flick-Knife' Trenchfoot. And it was about to get a whole lot worse ...

A Quick Word To That Twerp, Mr. H

2009-02-03T14:55:00.003Z

Mr. H, you fat turd, for some reason I can't comment on your site. Every time I go to your comments section, the word verification box has one o' them little red circles with a cross in it instead of the usual ponderous jumble of letters. I don't know why this is, seeing as Thumper can comment on there, but I'll take an educated guess that it's because you're a grossly overweight arse-bandit with a giant chip on his shoulder. I'll wager, you stinking shitheap, that you've somehow managed to disable your verification thing for anyone your site detects is non-Scotch.

Well I'll tell you this, you cabbage-faced old toilet, you may have prevented me from commenting on your site using some kind of troglodyte Scotch magic, but you won't bloody well stop me from commenting about it on here, d'ye hear? So, here goes ...

I don't believe you're on the radio.

Thank you for your time, you unpleasant bastard.

Makes You Proud To Be British

2009-01-30T11:13:00.004Z

If you're anything like me, you'll have already heard of the mighty Lieutenant Colonel A.D. Wintle, MC. If you're a lilly-livered, meterosexual buffoon with the mannerisms of a perfumed Frog traitor, however, you'll have been too busy admiring your poncified hairdo in a mirror to know anything about this singular human being.

If you're of the latter persuasion (and if you are, you need a stint in the bloody army, you gutless weasel), it's about damned time you educated yourself, I reckon.

A.D. Wintle's Wikipedia entry

Time magazine article on the great man

When The Eagles And The Beatles Clubbed Together To Buy Some Beagles

2009-01-28T14:14:00.003Z

"I wish I owned some beagles,"
Said Don Henley from The Eagles.
"I wouldn't mind some beagles,"
Replied John Lennon from The Beatles.

"You know what we should do? We two?
With some money from The Eagles,
And some money from The Beatles,
We could buy ourselves some beagles."

"But would the other Eagles
Club together to buy these beagles?"
Asked Jon Lennon from The Beatles,
To Don Henley from The Eagles.

"I don't know about The Eagles.
What about The Beatles?
Or would we have to split it three ways
With A Flock of Seagulls?"

"You'd better ask The Eagles,"
Said John Lennon from The Beatles.
"And you'd better ask The Beatles,"
Replied Don Henley from The Eagles.

So John went and asked The Beatles,
And Don went and asked The Eagles,
And The Beatles and The Eagles
Said, no, we don't want to buy some beagles.

Geoff Capes's Udder World Round-Up

2009-01-28T09:57:00.011Z

Each month, former World's Strongest Man Geoff Capes brings ITTODBTBIA readers all the latest udder-related news ...

"Hello, Geoff Capes here! When I'm not breeding budgies in my house just outside of Spalding in Lincolnshire, I'm fascinated with the strange and wonderful world of udders. I love udders, me. Big ones, small ones, some as big as your 'ead ... lovely! Anyway, here's what I've discovered this month ..."

Geoff Capes, Olympic Shot-Putter and Budgie Breeder

BUDGIES + UDDERS = BUDDHA (NOT RELIGIOUSLY OFFENSIVE)

Scientists in Japan have crossed a budgie with a pair of tits using futuristic scientific methods. The result - the religious diety Buddha Harris - has surprised everyone.

"We certainly didn't expect this," head science boffin Professor Hikito Hoshikoshi told ITTODBTBIA. "We assumed we'd get some sort of twitching lump that looked a bit like a pair of knockers, but with a beak and feathers and shit. Nobody could of guessed we'd end up with Buddha - that fella wot Buddhists worship."

Unfortunately, Buddhists have reacted angrily to the news that their god is a pair of women's tits crossed with a small green bird. Head of international Buddhery, the Dali Lama, fumed:

"It brings him down to the level of them bloody elephant people your Hindoos worship. We want a proper god, not one made off of some bird's boobies and an animal favoured by wrinkly old women and the strongman Geoff Capes. They should crush this thing under a car, or flush it down the toilet."

(Editor's note - This article is NOT offensive to the Buddhist community)

RAMBO III'S TITS VOTED 'UDDERS OF THE YEAR'

The Guardian has announced the winner of its annual 'Udders of the Year' award. The surprise winner - Rambo III's knockers - has upset high-minded snobs, who were hoping dungaree and wellington boot-wearing feminist 'novelist' Jeanette Winterson would claim the prize.

"This is a disgrace," one woolly-minded liberal nitwit told ITTODBTBIA on his way to a shit retrospective of some unheard-of photographer's early work. "Jeanette's tits are much better than Rambo III's. Plus, she's a proper person who knows about important things, not some potato-headed lump with a big gun. I for one will never be buying The Guardian again."

Guardian senior editor Toby Auroolaross admitted the result was a surprise:

"I think what's happened here is we made the mistake of opening the competition up to common people who don't understand how to think properly. Next year, we will be returning to a panel of judges picked from the line-up of Newsnight Review, instead of an online vote that any common-or-garden prole can participate in."

Meanwhile, Rambo III was delighted with his new award;

"Fuuuuuuuck yooooouuuu!" he roared, covered in oil, firing a giant gun at the Red Army with his tits out in Afghanistan.

GAZA TO RECEIVE EMERGENCY UDDERS

"Everyone loves tits - even the gays," UN head of Disaster Relief, Marchmount Fadderbladderer, told ITTODBTBIA. "That's why we're flying out seven hundred thousand individual pairs to the Gaza Strip in Iraq. Soon, the children you see on the news covered in all bullets will be able to nuzzle up to a big pair of udders when they go to bed in their houses made off of corrugated iron and rubble."

"Well it's not like we're not ungrateful," said Gaza's head terrorist, Ali Al Flibbertigibblets, "it's just that we could do with bottled water and medicines. Will these tits be attached? If they are, we could at least get milk off of 'em. If not, I can't see what use they'll be."

In reply, the UN issued this statement:

The tits being sent to Gaza are to be used for nuzzling and excitement purposes. We'll have a look in the cupboard and see if we've any bottled water knocking about as well, I suppose.

UDDERS OVER BROADWAY RECEIVES GLITTERING PREMIERE

"Well it was certainly different," Kate Winslet told ITTODBTBIA after attending the world premiere of the new West End musical Udders Over Broadway. "Some of the songs were alright, but I didn't understand why everyone was dressed as a cat with big tits."

Written entirely by mental patients, Udders Over Broadway tells the story of Tommy Two-Knockers - a wise-cracking cat from the bad side of the tracks with great big tits. His sidekick - Harry Double-Boobs - is kidnapped by the Tit Fairy Queen Boobmella, and it's up to Tommy and his friends from the municipal sewerage works to save him before his friend is cut up and shaped into glands.

Leaving the premiere early, big-nosed Hollywood actor Liam Neeson said:

"It's incomprehensible nonsense. Why is the queen going to chop that cat with the tits up and turn him into glands? And why have all the other cats got tits?"

The song's signature number - When The Eagles And The Beatles Clubbed Together To Buy Some Beagles - is expected to top the charts this week.

'TITS IN WAR' MEMORIAL BRANDED 'SCANDALOUS'

Wimmin's Lib groups have hit out at plans to erect a large monument shaped like a big pair of tits. The monument, which commemorates the contribution made by tits in the two World Wars, has been branded 'a disgrace' by the sort of wimmin your average fella dreads ending up married to.

"There was a woman behind every single one of those pairs of tits in the wars," whined one hob-nailed boot-wearing, frizzy-haired, 1970s throwback. "To just commemorate the tits is scandalous. And anyway, we grow those tits for us, not soldiers fighting their penis wars!"

But the views of these bloody wimmin's protest groups have been laughed down by memorial project leader, Don Brassixxx:

"What these tarts don't realise is how important a nice pair of tits was to your average Tommy serving at the front. When he was fighting 'Itler, it was the thought of getting his 'ands on a nice juicy pair of women's tits wot kept him going. I simply want to capture this feeling by erecting a 400 foot set of bird's tits in the Gloucestershire countryside. I reckon these feminists should just shut their traps and get on with ironing my fucking underpants."

"Tits never get boring ... unless they're rubbish tits," he added, irrelevantly.

"Well, that's it for my udder round-up for this month. I'm off to breed some more budgies in my house near Spalding in Lincolnshire. See you next month for more from the wonderful world of big udders. Cheers!"

Geoff Capes - World's Strongest Man In The '80s

A Nasty Surprise

2009-01-27T11:55:00.001Z

Ho ho! My uncle's over in Iraq at the moment fighting for the Empire. He told my mother that one of his colleagues woke up with one of these buggers on his head the other morning.

I've decided to cancel my application to join the British Army based on this new information.

2009-01-22T12:13:00.000Z

(Cleeeck eemage to eenlaaarge, Ernesto)

The ITTODBTBIA Supply Teacher Service

2009-01-16T15:54:00.008Z

Headmasters! Are you worried that your pupils are missing out on that old-fashioned school experience thanks to misguided, left-wing claptrap that sees the little bastards treated as 'individuals' nowadays? Do you sometimes wish things could be like they were in the good old days, back when you could beat children so hard they required hospitalisation? Do you want to see real dread on their annoying little faces as they walk through your school gates each morning?

Well worry no more!

The ITTODBTBIA Supply Teacher Service is here to fulfill all your old-fashioned teacher needs. Whether you want to put the fear of God into your charges with a master whose brutal disciplinary methods are grounded in the 19th century, or whether your school needs a sexually deviant physical education teacher who'll spend his life notching up pre-pubescent sex victories on his goalposts, we aim to please with our comprehensive selection of ready-to-use supply teachers.

Just take a look at our fantastic range ...

THE THUNDERER

Subjects: Greek, Latin, Ancient Egyptian, English Literature
Hourly Rate: 1 Measure of Pipe Tobacco p/h

This hot-tempered ex-Presbyterian preacher has no time for slovenliness, back-chat, fooling around or excuses, excuses, excuses. Furious from the minute he rises to the moment he goes to bed, this Victorian throwback will terrify your children with sudden violent outbursts, frequent thrashings, and long-winded lectures on crumbling ancient texts.

With his old-fashioned motto of 'spare the rod, spoil the child', your pupils will emerge from any encounter with 'The Thunderer' bloodied, bruised and utterly and completely terrified. You'll be amazed at the welts he can produce on an exposed backside, and you'll be dazzled at his accuracy when hurling a three kilogramme blackboard rubber at a talkative child's forehead.

Incapable of believing any pupil's side of the story, intolerant of new ideas and monstrously ill-equipped to deal with the modern notion of 'the rights of the child', 'The Thunderer' is the ideal teacher for those schools looking to impress upon their charges that if they don't do their algebra homework, they will be CONDEMNED to spend the rest of eternity ROASTING in the fiery pits of HELL.

*Headmasters should be aware that 'The Thunderer' is only available in sepia.

THE COQUETTE

Subjects: Maths, Science, Home Economics
Hourly Rate: 20 flirtatious comments p/h

With the body of Venus and the face of a road traffic accident victim, 'The Coquette' will leave your adolescent male pupils in a state of extreme sexual confusion. On the one hand, her perfect breasts, beautiful legs and habit of bending over at the slightest provocation will have them on the verge of ejaculating whenever they catch sight of her; but on the other, they'll be racked with guilt that they're entertaining fantasies over a woman with the visage of a medieval gargoyle.

With a voice that could melt hearts, a willingness to indulge in illegal store-cupboard fun, and a face like a wasp that's licking piss off a bulldog that's chewing a wasp that's sucking shit out of another bulldog's arsehole, 'The Coquette' will cause your pupils to have sexually-charged nightmares for the rest of their lives.

Don't let your male children get away with just fancying attractive girls their own age! Order 'The Coquette' today, and put a dirty little secret right slap-bang in the middle of their psyches that will haunt them to their graves.

*WARNING: May contain sexually-transmitted diseases.

THE FAILURE

Subjects: Music, Art, Drama, Religious Education, English Language, History
Hourly Rate: 17 cups of cheap vending machine coffee p/h

From the top of his hopeless combover to the tips of his shabby, unpolished shoes, 'The Failure' is every inch the classic teaching package.

He'll arrive unfashionably late every day in his clapped-out 1977 Austin Allegro, will stink of rotten tobacco, stale coffee and last night's drinking binge and will, by his very presence, impress upon your pupils that life is a worthless, pointless, repetitive slog through an unforgiving land littered with the twitching corpses of crushed ambitions and shattered dreams.

Slouching around in a suit he's owned for thirty four years, 'The Failure' will do his damnedest to make the cornerstones of human civilisation (art, music, etc.) seem dull and unattractive, and will make your pupils turn away from these subjects in droves.

With breath that's nothing short of a bio-hazard, a distinct whiff of piss off him, and fingers so stained with nicotine they've turned black (like gangrene), 'The Failure' will show your more artistically-minded charges that he is what they will become if they decide to frivolously throw away their futures on degrees in media, acting or fine art.

And the best thing is - they'll ignore his warning!

*WARNING: 'The Failure' may die of lung cancer at a moment's notice.

THE FIDDLER

Subject: Physical Education
Hourly Rate: 1 pair of used 12 year old's underpants p/h

With his spunk- and sweat-stained 1970s tracksuit, his footballer's perm and his spittle-flecked moustache, 'The Fiddler' is everything your school needs in a physical education specialist (if everything your school needs in a physical education specialist is a violent bully who has sex with underage boys).

When he's not spying on his young charges in the showers, sniffing jockstraps in his office or sodomising first formers in the gymnasium toilets, 'The Fiddler' can be found berating and teasing the weakest of your school's pupils with his foghorn voice.

Incapable of understanding the importance of anything other than sport, 'The Fiddler' is impervious to sick-notes, broken limbs and even death as he forces his pupils to run around muddy fields in their underpants. Sport is his God, he'll say, and those who do not like sport will be CRUSHED.

With 40,000 suspicious images stored in a passworded folder on the staff-room computer, a monstrous temper, an ignorance of anything that doesn't involve bats and balls and the firm belief that when a boy says 'no' he really means 'yes', 'The Fiddler' is your one-stop-shop if you want to psychologically destroy your pupils for life.

*Headmasters should take into account the fact 'The Fiddler' needs Fridays off to attend Thai language classes.

If you're interested in hiring any of the above supply teachers, please contact us on (0) 237863765636 and we'll be delighted to cater to your individual requirements (ask for Gladys).

The ITTODBTBIA Supply Teacher Service - For ALL Your Old-Fashioned Shitbag Teacher Needs!

Reply To The BBC Children's Television Department

2009-01-16T12:20:00.003Z

Dear Sir

What the hell do you mean my idea's 'not appropriate for children's televison'? You people wouldn't know a decent idea if it kicked you up the fucking arse.

Yours,

B P Perry

Illustration

2009-01-16T11:07:00.005Z

This bugger's the first illustration for Mick Wall's new column in Classic Rock (available from all good newsagents - next to vastly inferior music magazines such as Q, The Word and that bloody Mojo rubbish). The story goes that Mick went to tea with the Osbournes, and they behaved no better than a rancid pack of gibbering apes.

(Click image to enlarge, madam)

Comic Strip

2009-01-15T09:20:00.003Z

Still no time to post anything, I'm afraid. Instead, here's a couple of my recent comic strips ...

(Click on either to henlaaaaaaaaaaaaa ....)

Doo-Dad

2009-01-14T13:06:00.004Z

I'm far too busy drawing cartoons to post anything constructive at the moment. Instead, I've jumped on Clair's bandwagon and used this snazzy poster effect thingie to create the above image of ITTODBTBIA's favourite celebrity stalker, Alf Micklewhite.

So I'm not that busy then ...

The ITTODBTBIA Record Collection

2009-01-09T12:07:00.017Z

I don't know about you, but I'm a sucker for a girl who's decided to go back to the shit.

"My grandson's so evil, it's turned me to drinking meths in a back alley."

"Clean living and fresh country air are all well and good ... but when do we'm get ourr 'aaaands on our'm zizzzzzterrrrr?"

It took him ten years of cruel and bloody vengeance, but now, finally, Freddie Gage can make the album he swore he'd make when he walked in on his wife having group sex with his drinking pals.

Kung Fu + God = PAIN

"I don't like Harry, Daddy."

It's refreshing to be formally introduced to your rapist, I find.

Yes, Jim clearly loves his life as much as I love having a cocktail stick forced up my urethra.

"Well, Julie, it's your sixteenth birthday and ... ahem ... I don't want to resort to force ..."

"I am Laverne Tripp, and the world is MINE!"

"Professor! The genetic experiment's gone horribly wrong! The creature has multiplied!"

How d'ya like THEM onions, Satan?

I think we can all agree that Roger's greatest 'facet' is his ability to deny his inherent shitness.

Alright, ladies, form an orderly queue ...

NOBODY fucks with Devastatin' Dave The Turntable Slave!

CENSORED!

2009-01-07T10:15:00.002Z

This traitorous dog has bloody-well deleted the two comments I left on his fawning Frog-lovers blog! The bloody nerve! All I said was I'd rather have my innards torn out of my arsehole than find m'self amidst that filthy nest of garlic-chomping turncoats ... what the hell's the problem with that, eh?

Well, Justin from 'Visit France' (no thanks!), you may censor me from your horse-cock snafflin', snail chewin', sexually assaultin', dropping yer rifle at the first sign of Jerry and runnin', shoulder shruggin' coward's site that nobody reads, sunshine, but you'll damn-well not censor me here, d'ye hear?

Balls to your France! Balls to that cowering pack of ungrateful swine over there in their third-rate country nobody likes! And balls to you! Call y'self an Englishman? Pah! If I had my way, Mr. Justin from 'Visit bloody France' (no thanks!), I'd strip you of your damned passport, tar you and bloody feather you, and drag you in chains to face a traitor's death at Tyburn! See how much you like France when they've tied your entrails to a windlass ... and let 'er rip!

HOW DARE YOU!

Romantic Fiction

2009-01-06T15:30:00.003Z

"Oh, Marchmount," Agatha blushed. "I don't think I've ever loved anyone as much as I love you."

"You won't tell my wife, will you?" Marchmount replied.

"From the first time our eyes met," Agatha whispered, laying back in Marchmount's manly arms, "I knew we were meant to be together."

"You definitely won't be telling my wife about this, yes?"

"Oh, I love you!" she gushed. "I love you like the flower loves the sun! Tell me you love me, Marchmount darling! Tell me you'll always be mine?"

"Y'see," Marchmount said, "it's extremely important that she doesn't find out about this. Financially it'd bloody cripple me ..."

"You suave, impulsive, beautiful, beautiful man!" Agatha trilled, moving her hands down Marchmount's muscular torso. "My heart sings with anticipation at the thought of your next caress!"

"Jesus, I hope the fucking wife doesn't get wind of this," Marchmount replied, wondering where he could hide the credit card bill.

Scotchland's Newest Greatest Poet

2009-01-06T13:13:00.006Z

Believe it or not, the Scotch occasionally find it necessary to make up an excuse as to why they drink so much. Despite being a pack of baboon-faced alcoholics who drink daily from the cradle to the grave, they sometimes feel the need to tell the rest of us that their antisocial behaviour has been triggered by some dubious-sounding national celebration of something-or-other (the origins of which usually don't stand up to close scrutiny, o'course).

One of the most famous of their excuses for a booze-up is 'Burns Night'. On this special night, the Scotch get just as drunk as the usually do, except this time they decide to blame their excesses on a poet none of them have ever read, and of whom none of them know anything about.

Why they do this is anyone's guess - we all know they drink like bloody fish, the godless barbarians.

Anyway. As a friend to the Scotch (well, sort of), I thought I'd help them out by providing them with a fresh excuse for their loutish roistering by becoming their newest greatest poet. Hopefully, if my appalling poems catch on, that rabble of bare-arsed, untamed troglodytes will be invoking my name when they're next called upon to explain why they were caught running naked down Sauchiehall Street smeared in their own excrement clasping a severed head at four in the morning.

Here I present my first poem to the wild beasts of Scotchland. I hope it fires you up as much as that one Burns wrote about the mouse you pretend to have read, you liars.

Braw Wee Jobbie O' Thae Glen - A Poem By Scotchland's Newest Greatest Living English Poet, B P McPerry

Faeces MacFaeces
Thae wee Scotch jobbie,
Laird o' Bum Glen!
Thy reekie stench
As ye drop fae thae
Mockitt, festering anus
O' poor daft Tam
Intae the chantie
'Neath Tam's bed
Tells wan, tells all
Thou art a Scotch jobbie.

Oh! Faeces MacFaeces!
Proud dirk made o' poo!
A shitty dagger to cleave
Thae hearts and noses
O' thae fucking English bastards
That did force ye from the hills!
Laird o' Bum Glen!
Duke of thae lavvy o' daft Tam!
They may flush ye,
But they will nivver
Take thy freedom!

There you are. I reckon that's worth at least three months off your sentence.

Lord, If I Promise To Be Good, Can I Lead The Revolution That Sees This Self-Satisfied Bunch Of Carping Fuckwits Put Up Against A Wall And Shot? Amen!

2009-01-06T11:41:00.005Z

Remember those old Fruit Pastilles adverts that challenged you to see how long you could keep one in your mouth without chewing it? Well, I have found the radio equivalent of that challenge: How long can you listen to this hideous fucking SHIT before you fly into a blind rage and throw your radio at the wall?

Ten points to anyone who lasts the whole show (I nearly managed it, then had an embolism caused by boiling apoplexy), and extra marks to those of you who grab a high-calibre assault rifle and go on a bloody rampage of righteous destruction on the streets of Shoreditch, Hoxton and ultra-fashionable Hackney as a result of this aural wazz squirted directly from the warty phallus of Satan himself into the steaming pisspot of Gehenna's bed-chamber.

GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH!

Old Lang Blah Blah Blah ...

2009-01-05T09:19:00.003Z

Fuck me! You become hopelessly embroiled in a computer game for a few days, and everyone thinks you're dead. My e-mail inbox is bursting with messages which all begin, "Are you alright???", as if my recent brush with disorganised crime was enough to do me in. Blimey, I never knew you cared ...

Anyway. Here's what I've learned over the festive holidays:

1. If an old friend who lives in a shitty part of the North East of England invites you up for a few days roistering, don't bother. Especially if the bugger then plies you with enough booze and dope to make Wotsits a medical necessity, leading to you 'battling' (running away from) youths armed with box-cutters in the middle of the night.

2. The NHS won't just dish out morphine to any Tom, Dick or 'Arry wot staggers through its doors sobbing crocodile tears. Nurses and doctors are remarkably astute at spotting a patient who is in genuine agony from one who is trying to chase the dragon free of charge.

3. Most of your relatives are ungrateful.

4. Who'd have thought The Royle Family would get worse with the absence of Two Pints of Lager's Ralph Little?

5. The innovative V+ box seems to be allergic to recording the Rab C Nesbitt Christmas special. It has no qualms, however, about recording the risible Holby City Christmas special. Harrumph, and bah humbug.

6. If you fancy seeing in the new year, don't get given a copy of Far Cry 2 for Christmas. Indeed, if you want to carry on with your career / relationship / life-in-general, don't get given a copy of Far Cry 2 for Christmas. I'm surprised, frankly, that I've found time out of my busy Far Cry 2 day to write this post, what with having much more important business to be getting on with in the world of Far Cry 2.

7. Booze and drugs are unhelpful to one's memory when attempting to identify violent youths to the police.

So there we are.

And now it's the new year, and I've a whole new set of things to look forward to.

First of all, my hunt for a new house by the sea begins in earnest. I need to get away form the rat-race (ho ho!) to somewhere with seagulls and fishing boats so I can paint landscapes ...

"Hang on! A house by the sea where you can paint landscapes?" - Avid Reader

"Well ... I say it's somewhere I can go and paint landscapes. What I mean, o'course, is it's somewhere I can go and slowly drink myself to death whilst getting enormously fat on fried fish." - B P Perry

"Aha! That sounds more like it!" - Avid Reader

"Yes, sorry about the confusion there." - B P Perry

And then there's a monstrously expensive holiday I have to save up for ...

"Them's the fucking breaks ..." - Annoyed Reader

Plus there's the little matter of my New Year's Resolutions:

1. Become a steroid-fuelled mutant with gigantic muscles and balls you'd have trouble finding under an electron microscope.

2. Persuade Thumper to meet me and my better half in Italy so we can rob him of his filthy Euros (let's hope he didn't read this one).

3. Take my fight against sausage-interference to the doors of Brussels.

4. Make pasty-faced racist Dave a millionaire in a cynical attempt to get myself and some of my internet cronies on GMTV.

5. Insinuate myself into the life of a lottery winner, then swindle them out of their money.

6. End the year as an inebriated tax-exile in Belize.

I think most of the above are achievable.

NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!

Nice

2008-12-28T14:34:00.003Z

I've got rid of those last two posts because my e-mail box is being flooded with messages from well-wishers and foreigners (hats off to you all for getting it from my illustration site, by the way - and damn all of you who use the same method to fire off hate mail). Can't be doing with sympathy - it gets on my tits. Let's just say I'm fine ... actually, I'm not fine. I'm bloody furious. That said, I might be able to wangle some money out of that victims of crime compensation malarky - every cloud, etc.

I wonder what a leg wound's worth on the open market? Is there a sliding scale? A knife in the guts means you're laughing all the way to Barbados, whereas a black eye bags you enough for a chip supper and your bus fare home? Is this money taxable?

I must look into this when I've stopped being livid.

Everybody OUT!

2008-12-23T12:18:00.004Z

I'm struggling a bit, but I reckon the only strike I can think of that would have less impact on the real world than this one would be a combined action between greetings card cartoonists and fashion journalists.

Everybody OUT!

Santa's Grotto

2008-12-23T10:05:00.003Z

"Well hello, little girl!"
"Hello, Santa."
"Tell me, have you been a good little girl this year?"
"Yes, Santa!"
"Excellent! So, what do you want for Christmas this year, little girl?"
"I want a Barbie ski set, a Dora the Explorer house, a Disney Princess princess dress-up set, a pony game, a pink ..."
"NEVER!"
"Wha ...?"
"You will NOT receive the Barbie ski set or the Dora the Explorer house or the Disney Princess princess dress-up set or the pony game, little girl! You will receive excrement!"
"What's excliament?"
"POO! Faeces! The stinking, foetid matter that spills forth from an anus! That is your prize on Christmas Day, little girl!"
"Whaaaaaaaaa! I don't want poo for Christmas! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"GET OUT, LITTLE GIRL! GET OUT, AND AWAIT YOUR EXCREMENT!"

Let Them Eat Salt!

2008-12-22T19:03:00.006Z

Gah! Some bloody woman on the bus was talking to her friend / mother / husband / pet brontosaurus (it was difficult to judge what this creature was under the mountain of fat their chocolate- and lack-of-exercise-hormones had made them manufacture by accident) about the expense of Christmas.

"What with Davidoff's XBox 360, Storm's Nintendo Wii and little Ice-Fire-Dynamite's miniature Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow fashioned from solid gold, we're really having to stretch Gary's pay-packet to bursting when it comes to the dinner and all the other bits this year, like. We'll be paying for it come January."

"Oooh, I know," replied Jabba the Hutt, as I gasped for air thanks to her / him / it taking more than their fair share of the bus's available oxygen reserves. "Our Whitney-Millennium's platinum paddling-pool filled with angels' tears has broken us, quite frankly. We'll be eating dust, shoes and moths next year."

"Yes," slobbered the hippopotamus's friend, "but it's all worth it to see their faces on Christmas morning."

Obviously I've paraphrased this a bit to make these two characters appear comically unpalatable, but the gist of what they actually said is still there jostling for attention amidst the forest of my lies: these two women / one woman and a man / one woman and a talking barrage balloon filled with sugar had bankrupted themselves for the sake of an idiot grin from their awful offspring on Thursday morning. That's all.

What the fuck's this country come to?

If the consequence of fulfilling their materialistic little dreams was I and my family had to live off the carcasses of dessicated spiders I found under the sink in January, then any child of mine would be sorely disappointed come Christmas day.

Santa, I'm afraid, would have missed out our house because - and modern parents seem to have forgotten this aspect of the Father Christmas myth - I would tell them he had decided they had been naughty that year. The patron saint of Christmas had taken note of their behaviour, and had decided they deserved NOTHING.

"Sorry, kids, but I don't make the rules," I would dismissively guffaw into their wailing faces.

I'm fairly confident I could carry this off because I know, even without the missus having pumped any out, that any child of mine would be a disgraceful, badly-behaved, bullying, foul-mouthed, unpleasant little shit. My children would be the sort of children that you asked the headmaster to keep your kids away from. My kids would be the sole cause of your kids' woes; the source of a never-ending nightmare of dead-legs, Chinese burns and monkey scrubs for your likkle cherubs.

Presents? For that set of snot-nosed fuck-sticks? Pah!

No. It would be empty stockings, a stinking lie about the petty rules and regulations of a mythical old man in a red and white suit, and money in the bank for muggins 'ere. Job done. Merry Christmas.

And then I'd make the little bastards eat salt!

Christmas Shopping II

2008-12-22T17:06:00.003Z

While we're in in the holly, jolly, ho-ho-ho spirit, here's a quick note to all those women out there who've devoted their lives to unnecessarily buggering about:

How to use a cash machine

1. Insert card
2. Type in PIN number
3. Enter amount of money required
4. Remove card
5. Remove money
6. Walk away

That extra bit of inexplicable dithering you do that adds ten sodding minutes to my queueing time can be done AWAY FROM THE MOTHERFUCKING CASH MACHINE. That way, I can use the ATM after you without hoping you spend the rest of eternity slowly roasting and sweating out your own blood in an iron cage suspended above a roaring fire in Hades, you ignorant shits.

Oh, and how's about getting your damned money out of your bloody purse before you're asked for it by the cashier?

Meanwhile, here's a note for all those people who might not realise how bloody rude a particular action of theirs is:

Not everything in life needs to be paid for electronically with a plastic fucking card. You may have noticed a little thing called 'money'? Well, if you gather some of that stuff together in a wallet, pocket or purse, you can hand it over when someone asks you to pay for something, and thus keep the queue that's forming behind you clipping along at a snappy and good-humoured pace. You see, buying twenty Benson and fucking Hedges and a cheap plastic lighter does not require an electronic conversation to take place between the shop and your bank, you time-thieving BASTARDS.

This Christmas shit better be done 'n' dusted soon because I'm tipping over into indiscriminate killing-spree territory.

Christmas Shopping

2008-12-22T16:59:00.003Z

I've just decided something. Everyone - man, woman, child - who was in Sheffield city centre this afternoon as I stumbled around unenthusiastically pretending to do Christmas shopping for the missus should be bound together in chains, buried under three hundred thousand used tyres, doused in gasoline and then set on fire.

Deranged Chris De Burgh Fan Fashions Disturbing Chris De Burgh Bodysuit From Calfskin To Attract Singer's Attention

2008-12-18T12:54:00.007Z

An insane Jersey resident has horrified his neighbours by wandering around the island in a monstrous skin-suit made from calf hide. The suit, which took erotic poster salesmen Jed 'Jeddo' Batsatterer eight years to make, is meant to resemble third-rate club singer Chris De Burgh, who Jed claims is the 'love of his life'.

Jed, who spent a considerable amount of his childhood chained to an ambulance being beaten with a hosepipe by his extremely religious father, told ITTODBTIA:

"I first realised Chris De Burgh was the love of my life after my dad kept me awake for two weeks by playing military marches at me loudly from an old gramophone. Hallucinating badly, Chris De Burgh appeared to me as an angel and told me that one day we would be together as lovers. Then my dad hit me with a broken fire extinguisher and I blacked out."

Years later, when Jed was released from prison after serving fifteen years of a life sentence for patricide, he decided he would call his lover - Chris De Burgh - to his side:

"I realised I had to get Chris's attention somehow. I knew he was a very busy man, and so thought the best idea was to distract him away from his international singing career by making a replica suit of him out of skin. I started making it in the year 2000, and now it's finally finished I've taken to wearing it and wandering around the island bellowing Mr. De Burgh's name. Hopefully the wind will catch my cries, and send my pleas for him to join me to his luxury home in Beverly Hills."

But islanders are not happy with Jed's recent behaviour:

"He's a bloody menace," one neighbour who wished to remain anonymous told us. "Last week I was digging up spuds in the back garden when he comes over the hill hollering out Chris De Burgh's name. My elderly mother caught site of his disgusting skin-suit thing, and shit herself on the bloody spot. It's disgusting. I blame John Major for shutting down all the loony bins."

Meanwhile Nancy Bloops, a concerned mother of three, voiced those concerns:

"He scares the kids in that horrible suit. And what's this rubbish about Chris De Burgh? How the hell does he think he's going to attract the attention of a superstar by wandering around in a ghastly suit shouting his head off? It doesn't make any sense. Can't he just send De Burgh a letter, or something?"

But Jed remains defiant in the face of the islander's concerns,

"I don't care what they say; they're just jealous. Chris De Burgh spoke to me when I was chained to that ambulance. Me, not them. And if trudging around a small island in a suit made from animal skin is what's necessary to bring the love of my life to me, then who are they to deny me love? This is like Romeo and Juliet, is this. Only it's between two men, one of whom looks like a rotten, wobbly version of the other one."

"They will not shatter my dreams!" he added, picking up a ball-hammer.

Mr. Batsatterer is due in court on Monday.

2008-12-18T11:42:00.001Z

(Cleck t'enlaaaa ...)

Out Now ...

2008-12-17T15:16:00.002Z

Mood Summary ...

2008-12-16T10:30:00.003Z

The Lion

2008-12-15T15:03:00.004Z

Look at this magnificent bugger! The lion! As British as brown sauce, ladies and gentlemen! A proud and defiant symbol of this island's contempt for the rest of the world! "Damn you!" that lion's saying. "Damn you with your funny foreign food, your light-hearted approach to sexual assaults, your arse-washing machines, your onions, your squashed, inedible sandwiches, your pickled bloody cabbages, your inability to win at land wars, your throwing of horses off of churches, your guzzling of sausages, your indifferent waiters and your inability to distinguish meat from offal! To Hell with your unusually small motor cars, your ghastly languages, your centrally-controlled economic system, your weights, your measurements, your lack of bloody manners! I'm a lion, d'ye hear? A Great British lion! Born on the great plains of the Peak District! Born to a life of freedom! You'll not shackle me with your petty foreign rules, your ignorant regulations, your Mickey Mouse money and your foolish habit of driving on the wrong side of the road! I'm British, you cowards! I plant my paws on the fertile soil of this glorious island! Defiant! Watching, waiting for one of you buggers to take another swing at the champion! Ever vigilant! Ready, at a moment's notice - BY GOD! - to raise the lethal claws of British might and defend this magnificent realm and her overseas dominions from your sunshine, your bicycles, your fizzy bloody wine, your greasy, foreign hairstyles, your scooters and your preposterous 'kilometeres'! I'm a lion, thanks very much! I don't want what you're peddling, you European dogs! KEEP OUT! I, sir, am a lion! And I'll die with my fucking boots ON! RULE BRITTANIA!"

Well I'm not arguing with THAT!

What The Hell's Happened To Britain?

2008-12-15T10:48:00.004Z

The rot's set in, damn it! Look at this ponce off of the internet:

Gah! This 'specimen', believe it or not, is British! Not this British:

Or this British:

Or, indeed, THIS British:

NO! That wally up there is the sort of Britisher we've ended up with thanks, I have no doubt, to those scoundrels in Westminster handing our island over to these bastards:

These bastards:

And these bastards:

That bloody toerag, with his stupid hair, his eye make-up and his jewellery would make this man:

TURN IN HIS BLOODY GRAVE! And there's no bloody way we'd have beaten these bastards:

If we'd had his sort manning the guns during this bugger:

No! We'd have been well and truly fucked! Well I've had enough! That prat up there needs one of these:

Followed by two years in this:

That way, the make-up wearing ponce will end up with a Great British one of these:

And if he says no? Why, then he should bloody well end up dangling from the end of one of these:

Have Yourself A Very Miserable Christmas, You Shitters

2008-12-15T09:58:00.003Z

Humbug! I've had it up to here with Christmas this year. Those fucking Co-Op adverts, Des O'Bloody Connor singing badly in that stupid TESCO ad, that flabby-tongued, Mockney wanker Jamie Oliver serving people cups of fried cabbage and onion in a Sainsbury's car park. The whole bloody thing's driving me mad, d'ye hear?

This is what I hope happens this Christmas:

Father Christmas is publicly BIRCHED.
Ebenezer Scrooge loses both his legs to GANGRENE.
Frosty the Snowman dies in a head-on collision with a heavy goods vehicle on the M6.
James Stewart gets thrown off that bridge by Clarence the angel. And then Clarence HANGS himself after realising what a waste of time he is.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is inhumanely SLAUGHTERED by a Middle-Eastern market butcher.
Likkle Baby Jesus cops it with MENINGITIS.

The whole situation STINKS. Children are greedy little bastards who don't understand that their lust for £300 consoles will land their idiot parents in debtor's prisons; family get-togethers reek of SHIT; town-centres are clogged up with scum ... it's a PISSPOT OF FILTH, is Christmas.

You know what you can do with your Christmas? You can SHOVE IT UP YOUR ARSE, that's what! There'll be no Christmas cheer from me, d'ye hear? NONE. In fact, fuck it. I'm banning Christmas altogether. As far as this site's concerned, Christmas is officially dead. Eh? How d'ye like that, you Christmas-worshipping pack of jolly holidaymakers?

I HOPE YOU ALL BREAK YOUR BLOODY LEGS THIS CHRISTMAS! And if you've already broken your legs, I hope you get MRSA in your broken leg wounds! And I'm not talking about benevolent broken legs neither! I'm talking about them broken legs wot leave your bloody bones sticking out of your skin, eh? How d'ye like them eggs?

I BRING DOWN A CURSE ON YOU ALL THIS FESTIVE SEASON! MAY YOUR BONES BE BROKEN, MAY YOUR TREE SET FIRE TO YOUR HOUSE AND MAY YOU CHOKE ON YOUR PLUM-PUDDINGS! DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU ALL!

Merry Christmas!

The Monkees

2008-12-13T20:52:00.003Z

I'm thinking of joining The Monkees. How do you go about joining The Monkees? Is there an online Monkee application form?

I WANT TO JOIN THE FUCKING MONKEES.

Can you say 'fucking'? In The Monkees?

Hey hey?

Blog Becomes Fast Food Outlet Credit Crunch Shocker!

2008-12-12T10:38:00.002Z

ITTODBTBIA's fallen on 'ard times. Thanks to the Global Credit Crunch©, your least favourite internet experience has been left wallowing in a sea of credit card debt, mortgage arrears and final demands. ITTODBTBIA's skint, on its uppers, down 'n' out ... FUCKED. Any more o' this, and I'll be reeling my way up Skid Row with my pants round my ankles.

However! A solution has arisen! By opening up a branch of the third-rate burger franchise 'Wimpy', we can keep this blog going with only the minimum of interruptions. It'll be the usual ... excuse me a second ...

"Hello, my name's Ben. How can I help you?"
"I'll have a cheeseburger, please."
"D'ye want fries with that?"
"No."
"Are you eating in?"
"No."
"That'll be one ninety nine, please."
"Here you go."
"Thanks ... here's your burger."
"Cheers."
"Bye."

Right. As I was saying, it'll be the usual madcap collection of japes and scrapes and kerrrr-azy ... if you'll just excuse me a second ...

"Hello, my name's Ben. How can I help you?"
"Do you do Whoppers?"
"No."
"Big Macs?"
"No."
"Oh ... I think I'll leave it."
"Right you are."

So as I was saying, I reckon we'll ... OH FOR CRYING OUT ... bear with me a second ...

"Hello, my name's Ben. How can I help you?"
"Chicken burger."
"Is that a meal?"
"Chicken burger."
"Any drinks with that?"
"Chicken burger."
"OK ... that's one ninety nine please."
"Here."
"Thanks. Enjoy your ..."
"Fuck off."
"SON OF A ..."

The Twin Pillars Of Vileness

2008-12-09T14:18:00.003Z

So I've had some fun with that vomiting / shitting out your organs illness they usually get on cruise ships. 'Er indoors came down with it first, and I loyally followed suit soon after with my own little session of abject misery. For those of you who have yet to experience the full horror of Winter Vomiting Virus, here's a sample of the typical virusee's day:

9:00 - Shit and projectile vomit at the same time with so much violence you expect your liver to come out of your nose.
9:10 - Watch a bit of The Wright Stuff whilst drinking copious amounts of water (you must do this in order to give y'self something to shit and throw up; if you don't, you'll still try to shit and vomit, you'll just try to shit and vomit up nothing ... and that really fucking hurts).
9:25 - Shit and projectile vomit all the water you've just drunk. After you're done, reel about the bathroom with tears streaming down your face looking like you've just gone ten rounds with Smokin' Joe Frasier.
9:30 - Watch a bit more of The Wright Stuff whilst drinking more water.
9:55 - Shit and projectile vomit that lot up. Call out a plea for God to have mercy on your soul.
10:20 - Wonder if God listened to you.
10:30 - No, no he didn't.

And so on. I now feel a little drained (because I have been - of everything bar a couple of pints of blood), slightly bewildered and in need of a veterinary surgeon to give my paws and back end a quick check-up.

More 'hilarity' will follow when I've finished rushing to get a comic strip finished, and when my arse works properly again. Probably Thursday. Probably Friday.

PROBABLY.

2008-12-03T13:10:00.003Z

(Click to enlarge)

It's Baker Day!

2008-12-02T11:36:00.002Z

Today is the day we celebrate the patron saint of in-house teacher training - St. Kenneth of Baker. As anyone who was educated in the late 1980s knows, 'Baker Day' is the day all (1980s) schoolchildren give thanks to the former Conservative Education Secretary for blessing them with a whole day off from school; and it's the day all teachers parade through their towns on their way to commence a hard day's 'training' at such educational establishments as 'The Dog & Partridge', 'The Fox & Hounds' and 'The Coach & Horses'.

In memory of this special day, I shall first be drinking a litre of Martini in ten seconds flat before persuading my better half to give me a blowjob in a farmer's field. I shall then give thanks for the life of Kenneth Baker by having my stomach pumped in my local hospital's Accident & Emergency department.

So how will YOU be celebrating Baker Day? Perhaps you'll be setting off some fireworks you stole from the local newsagents? Or maybe you'll smoke ten Benson & Hedges cigarettes in the vicinity of some girls? Or what about posting some shit through the letterboxes of a local old folks' sheltered accommodation block?

Share your Baker Day stories with ITTODBTBIA, and there's 75cl of Thunderbird and a free taxi ride to your nearest A&E for the best story ...

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - The Solution

2008-11-28T15:48:00.005Z

"After three days of hard investigation, I can finally reveal who murdered Backslide Fanshaw onboard the Whoreient Hexpress, McFaeces!"

"Yeah? And ...?"

"Indeed! Now four out of the five suspects had a motive for killing Fanshaw; the one who didn't was his wife, Lady Fanshaw. Even though she ordered a large quantity of cyanide before the journey, we now know for certain the victim was murdered with a mallet. Yes, she was distraught on learning that Deathenheffen had killed her beloved uncle in World War II, but this gave her no reason to take her anger out on Fanshaw. We can eliminate her from our enquiries.

Now to Betty La Radiator. Indeed she did bring a mallet on board the Whoreient Hexpress, and she may well have intended to use it to murder her agent. After all, he was extorting money from her in exchange for a diarrhoea cure - an illness he had inflicted on her thanks to his wife's acquiring of the formula to give a person the squits upon the death of her uncle. Add to this the fact that Fanshaw asked her for even more money when onboard the train, and her refusal led him to withdraw the Immodium that then caused her to run from his room in her newly shitted knickers, and we have ample enough motive. But remember this: Her father - the evil Dr. Deathenheffen had removed the mallet from her luggage to use for his own nefarious purposes. Betty had no mallet; therefore, she committed no crime.

So we turn to the next suspect - Sod Hull. Sod certainly had the motive, and he certainly had the means to murder Fanshaw. After refusing to let the greedy agent take more of his money, Hull was stricken down with diarrhoea and had to relieve himself in the only way he could: through his penis into Fanshaw's underwear drawer. This gave the victim enough of an excuse to throw Hull out of his talent agency, and out of show business. Forced to beg outside his agent's office using a cup fashioned from the only substance he had in abundance - his own shit - Hull gathered enough money to buy two mallets (one secreted in his puppet and one up his arsehole to stem the flow), and a first class ticket on the Whoreient Hexpress. Onboard he encountered Tex; they argued and Tex stole Hull's puppet. He could still have committed the crime, however, as he still had that secondary mallet stuffed in his anus. But did he do it? I shall reveal all in a moment.

Now, turning to Dr. Deathenheffen. I think it's obvious he went to Fanshaw's room not to show him a new magic act, but to plead for a cure for the diarrhoea he had suffered from since 1943. Unfortunately for the good doctor, he had already (in a moment of spite) revealed to his ex-wife, Lady Fanshaw, that he had caused the accident that had killed her beloved uncle, and was therefore the author of his own intestinal misery. Furious, Lady Fanshaw demanded her husband deny the doctor a cure for his shits on pain of never having access to the Immodium fortune she had inherited from her father. Fanshaw - already noted as a greedy man - readily agreed, and denied Deathenheffen the cure when he came to see him. Outraged, the doctor rushed to his daughter's room to retrieve the mallet she had told him she was carrying in her luggage. He was now armed with both a motive, and a murder weapon. But did he do it? I shall get to the that.

Finally we turn to Tex. Now Tex was desperate to get back with his beloved, Betty La Radiator. He, like all the others, was stricken with terrible diarrhoea and, not wanting to offend Betty's delicate sensibilities, he arranged a meeting with the deceased to plead for some Immodium. Sadly, Tex's drinking habit had brought down the business he shared with Fanshaw in the 90s (and for which the victim had exacted revenge by infecting Tex with diarrhoea), and he was refused the cure he craved. Still desperate to see if he could rekindle his romance with Betty, he met her for a romantic liaison in the toilet. Unfortunately, the unholy stink of his diarrhoea turned Betty away, and she left for her meeting with Fanshaw. Heart-broken, Tex slowly made his way to the victim's cabin to once again plead for a cure for his diarrhoea. But what did he find when he got there? Only his beloved leaving the deceased's compartment with her knickers round her ankles. Enraged, Tex ran to find Sod Hull. He demanded Hull give up the mallet he had hidden in his puppet. Hull refused and the two men tussled. Victorious, Tex stole the puppet and raced (with the concealed mallet) to take his revenge on the man that had cuckolded him. Did he get there before Hull or Dr. Deathenheffen? I shall reveal all momentarily."

"So who the fuck was it then?"

"Why, it's elementary, my dear McFaeces. The murderer was ...

Tex McGrulagroo!"

"Wha?"

"You see, all three men were bent on murder that night, but only one man got there on time - Tex! If you remember, we discovered that Dr. Deathenheffen was seen running towards First-Class and passed Tex in the dining car as he was racing towards Second-Class. And we also learned that Sod Hull passed Dr. Deathenheffen (who was on his way to retrieve Betty's mallet) in First-Class on Sod's race to get to Fanshaw in Second-Class. As we know, the notoriously cheapskate Fanshaw was staying in Second-Class and the first man to get there and mallet the agent to death was Tex. He, therefore is the murderer. Poor Dr. Deathenheffen arrived too late to kill Fanshaw, found the body and covered himself in blood picking the corpse up, picked up the mallet, and was found howling over the corpse not because he'd done it, but because he didn't get to do it. The clues were all there!"

"Well fuck me!"

"No thanks, my dear McFaeces!"

So there you have it! None of you were right, so nobody - that's NOBODY - wins the star prize of a landmine. Thanks for playing anyway (even if none of you can follow a simple set of clues a child could work out), and I look forward to seeing you all agin in January when my long-awaited rip-off of 'Operation' rears its ugly head. The game's afoot!

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - Day Three Part Two

2008-11-28T12:35:00.012Z

So here we are! The fourth and final installment of Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

The game is poised on a knife-edge as we go into the final session, what with me attempting to balance the board on the edge of a knife. Don't ask me why - I'm mentally ill!

So, without further ado, let's get rolling and solve the internet's most devilish mystery since some other site did a more devilish one a bit ago! Probably!

The solution to this mystery is, I guarantee you, more convoluted than the ones you used to get on '3-2-1'! The game's afoot!

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - State Of Investigation After Day Three Part One

2008-11-28T12:07:00.004Z

"The net's closing in, McFaeces!"

"Yer fucking arse!"

"Right ... ahem. So, what do we know so far? Well:

As well as begging outside Fanshaw's office using a cup fashioned from his own shit, Sod Hull owns other stuff made off of his own shit. He also has the shits, and was caught masturbating into Fanshaw's wife's underwear drawer. WHY has he got the shits? WHY does he own so much stuff made off of shit?

Tex McGrulagroo used to go out with Betty, and would have done again were it not for the fact that she was disgusted that he stank of all shit. Not surprising seeing as he had horrendous diarrhoea, I suppose. But why did Tex then leave Betty and go off and see Fanshaw? Was it to discuss their failed 1990s business (brought to its knees by Tex's drink problem, according to Fanshaw)? Or was it something more sinister? And what was he arguing about with Sod Hull in the corridor shortly before the victim's death?

Betty, it transpires, was not having an affair with Fanshaw - her agent - but was in fact seen leaving his room with her knickers round her ankles because they were shitted knickers. But why were they shitted? What was she discussing in Fanshaw's room, and why did the discussion end with her running from the compartment with her shitted knickers round her ankles? Were they discussing her accounts? Accounts that clearly show she isn't earning half as much as she should have been. And what significance is it to the case that Betty turns out to be Dr. Deathenheffen's daughter?

And speaking of Deathenheffen - what was he really doing in Fanshaw's compartment? Was he discussing a new magic act? Or was he discussing the shits he'd been plagued with since an accident in the laboratory of Lady Fanshaw's uncle's shit experiment (against the Nazis) went horribly wrong in 1943?

And finally there's Lady Fanshaw herself. Why did she order that cyanide? What is the importance of her uncle's secret project to give the Nazi high command diarrhoea during World War II? As heir to the Immodium fortune, she seems to hold both the cause of AND the cure for diarrhoea in the palm of her hand. What, McFaeces, is her game?"

"Fucked if I know."

"The game's afoot!"

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - Day Three Part One

2008-11-28T09:22:00.011Z

Welcome back to the third and final day's play of the internet's only online murder-mystery / suet-based trading game, Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

We came closer to finding the killer yesterday, and today we'll finally reveal which of our five suspects ended the life of theatrical agent Backslide Fanshaw. Was it Tex - the vulgar American oil baron? Was it Betty La Radiator - the sultry Hollywood actress with a dark past? Or was it Sod Hull - the embittered family entertainer with a chip on his false Plaster of Paris shoulder? ALL WILL BE REVEALED ...

As ever, it's a one dice game, play takes place in the comments section of this post, the game is open to anyone and the board updates throughout the day. And as this is a murder mystery, the game will be separated into two halves with a summary of the evidence so far at midday. Good luck!

The game's afoot!

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - State Of Play After Day Two

2008-11-27T17:12:00.003Z

Here is a rundown of the possessions, debts and current positions of all of the players after day two of Birder on the Whoreient Hexpress:

Mr. H - 2 McFaeces Faeces Penalty cards, a free jumper, a small business specialising in tea, tits and tunes and 1000lb of fried suet. Currently investigating absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Fourstar - 1 McFaeces Faeces Penalty card. Currently onboard the Whoreient Hexpress probing Art Garfunkel.

Who - 1 small business specialising in the buying and selling of suet. Currently carrying out her investigation whilst eyeing up a young lady in dungarees and workman's boots.

Festooned - £500, £500's worth of fried suet and a brand-new, 1975, four-door family saloon. Currently hogging a 'FREE CAR' square after not playing all day, the shithouse.

Thumper - £500's worth of fried suet, £500, a small business specialising in jumpers and a further £20's worth of fried suet. Currently languishing in Hell.

Tombstone - Owes Mr. H 1000lbs of suet and Thumper £30's worth of suet, Owns a small business selling cyanide. Currently shopping for jumpers at Thumper's Jumpers.

BP - Owns nothing. Currently giving Jesus a tongue-lashing onboard the Whoreient Hexpress.

Clair - Owns nothing. Owes £1000 out of her bank account to some bugger. Currently baking a job-lot of scones for the annual Downeysett-On-The-Wold Wimmin's Institute Teddy Bear's Picnic.

Louche - Owns nothing. Currently trying to gamble his way out of having to pay Mr. H £20's worth of fried suet.

Wagonwheel - Owns nothing. Currently missing a turn.

Laundry Moose - Owns nothing. Currently not getting his arse in gear onboard the Whoreient Hexpress, the swine.

Swineshead - Owns nothing. Currently not pulling his finger out sitting on one of those bastard 'MEPHISTO' squares. Will be DISQUALIFIED first thing in the morning.

DISQUALIFIED

Piqued
Eggstationzebra
Mr. Tits

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - State Of The Investigation After Day Two

2008-11-27T16:58:00.004Z

"So, McFaeces, what have we learned today? Well:

Not only does Sod Hull beg from a cup made off of his own shit, he also has monstrous diarrhoea AND was caught masturbating into the deceased's widow's underwear drawer. As a result of this, he was thrown out of Fanshaw's talent agency. Did Sod seize an opportunity to exact his revenge onboard the Whoeient Hexpress?

Tex McGrulagroo had a meeting with the victim to discuss unknown matters shortly before Fanshaw's death. Shortly after this meeting, McGrulagroo came down with diarrhoea. Was this Fanshaw's revenge for the business he shared with Tex going bust in the 90s? And did the diarrhoea drive Tex to murder?

As well as calling Fanshaw a 'scoundrel' before her trip, Betty was seen on board on the night the victim met his end leaving his compartment with her knickers round her ankles. Was she having an affair with Fanshaw? Or had she just strangled him with those knickers? WHY would she strangle him with a pair of knickers?

The murderous Dr. Deathenheffen held a private meeting with the deceased shortly before his death. Was this REALLY a chance for the evil Doctor to show the agent his new magic act? Or was murder on the cards?

And finally there's the victim's widow, Lady Fanshaw. Why would she order a gallon of cyanide shortly before her trip? Was it entirely innocent? Or did she suspect Fanshaw was putting it away with his client, Betty La Radiator?

What do you think, McFaeces?"

"Haven't the fucking foggiest, you turd."

"Hmmm ... the plot thickens!"

So there we are. Is diarrhoea the key to unravelling this mystery? Or suet? All will be revealed in tomorrow's exciting climax to the most complicated game I've come up with so far - Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - Day Two

2008-11-27T12:45:00.015Z

Well it was a deeply unsatisfying day's play yesterday, what with a distinct lack of enthusiasm from many of the so-called players (I'm pointing at YOU, Who).

As we go into day two we're no closer to solving the mystery, though with three players now onboard the Whoreient Hexpress we should be able to rip along at a bit faster pace than yesterday. Really, folks, it's was bloody shoddy.

Anyway, without further ado, lets get those thinking deerstalkers on, and delve deeper into the incomprehensible online mystery that is Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

As always, it's a one dice game, play continues in the comments section and the board updates throughout the day. The game's afoot!

(And yes, Tombstone, you CAN play)

A Break In The Investigation

2008-11-27T11:22:00.003Z

Due to it raining in my kitchen, Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress has been suspended until 1:00 p.m. today. In the meantime, why not try working out who murdered Fanshaw from the flimsy amount of evidence you already have?

Do you know who the culprit is?

YOU'RE WRONG.

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - State Of The Investigation After Day One

2008-11-26T17:02:00.005Z

"So, McFaeces, what have we learned over the course of our exhaustive investigation today?"

"Don't ask me ..."

"Well, we've learned that:

Sod Hull owns several items fashioned from his own shit; one of which is a cup he uses to collect money as he begs outside the deceased's office. And lest we forget that the victim is Sod Hull's agent.

Tex McGrulagroo has diarrhoea.

Betty La Radiator was overheard on the phone to Sod Hull telling him she thought Fanshaw was 'a scoundrel'.

Dr. Deathenfeffen has a private life.

So ... what are we to conclude from our findings, McFaeces?"

"Fuck all?"

"Precisely!"

Tune in tomorrow for another exciting day's play of Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress - Day One

2008-11-25T18:47:00.026Z

Hello, and welcome to Birder On The Whoreient Express!

In this game YOU take the role of Chief Inspector Rattertatterer T. Birder of the Yard - the finest detective England has ever produced (if we all ignore the existence of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Hercules Poirot and Ken Boon).

Together with your trusty companion, Sergeant Smallbruce McFaeces, you must solve the horrific murder of Backslide Fanshaw - agent to the stars! Use all your detecting skills to unravel the mystery as you interview suspects, find clues, talk to that prostitute off of Pretty Woman, consult the heads of the four main monotheistic religions (Jesus, Abraham, a Can of Diesel* and Simon & Garfunkel), and dabble in the dark arts with the help of evil 19th Century magician ... MEPHISTO!

Who had the motive? Who had the means? Who looks shifty and quite clearly guilty from his mug-shot? Only YOU can discover the shocking mystery that lies at the twisted and virtually incomprehensible heart of Birder On The Whoreient Hexpress!

Terms & CODitions apply!

So, without further ado, let's meet your suspects ...

Betty La Radiator

Famous film star Betty La Radiator has a secret she'd rather the good detective did not know. But what is it? Is she hiding the fact she's a cold-hearted killer? Or is she worried she might get drunk and reveal to the Inspector that her bra does not match her underwear? And what the hell has she got in her compartment that's making such a racket? All will be revealed ...

Tex 'Tex' McGrulagroo

Vulgar Texan oil baron Tex 'Tex' McGrulagroo says what he wants and does what he likes. But is what he's saying the truth, or an intricate web of clever lies? Well, considering he's American that's unlikely ... or is it? What's Tex doing on the Whoreient Hexpress? And just what is in his luggage that he doesn't want Inspector Birder to find? All will be revealed ...

Lady Fumpbumperstein Fanshaw

Is Backslide Fanshaw's widow hiding something in that voluminous pant-suit? Has she got the wherewithal to bludgeon her despised husband to death with a large mallet? Was it her that the porter saw running away from the corpse? It certainly looked like her ... but was it? All will be revealed ...

Sod Hull

Professional sod Sod Hull certainly had the motive when it came to doing the dirty deed. Spurned by his former agent, he's been living on beans for twenty five years - beans he's forced to eat off a plate made from his own shit. But was this enough to drive him to murder? And what about that puppet? Does it conceal a bloody mallet? Or a gun? All will be revealed ...

The Murderous Doctor Deathenfeffen

What was evil convicted murderer Doctor Deathenfeffen doing standing over the victim's corpse roaring revenge? Why was he soaked in blood? What was he doing with a mallet in his hand? Was it all a coincidence? Or is he the guilty party? All will be revealed ...

So those are your suspects. And now that you've met them, we can begin our investigation. As always it's a one dice game, the game takes place in the comments section of this post, it's open to anyone, the board updates throughout the day and remember - IT'S TRAWLERMAN'S RULES!

Good luck!

(Click board to enlarge)

*Can of Diesel replaces head of one the four main religions** following receipt of death threats

**Religion in question will be referred to as 'Petroleum' to prevent further death threats

Wimmin's Movement Condemns Brand New Internet Game

2008-11-25T10:50:00.005Z

Excitement mounts in the caves beneath the internet!

Tomorrow sees the start of my monumentally awful new murder mystery / female objectification / barmy religious fundamentalism game, and already the saggy-breasted 1970s feminists are lining up to denounce it as an appalling example of mancentric manocracy gawn mad!

"I think it's bloody disgraceful that he's allowed to get away with it," mutters bra-burning old bag Camile Paglia. "Doesn't he realise that us wimmin have every right to be treated as something other than sex objects?"

Tell that to the Hollyoaks girls, love! Now get in the kitchen ... WHERE YOU BELONG!

Meanwhile, brillo pad-haired monstrosity Carol Hanisch waded in with one of her characteristic rants (no doubt fuelled by the menopause, eh fellas?).

"What this awful man doesn't understand is his game stifles the economic prospects of women worldwide!"

Whatever, sweetheart! Your mob only wastes money on shoes! Now how's about you make me a nice cup of tea, eh? The kettle's in the kitchen ... WHERE YOU BELONG!

And what a surprise that caterwauling old troll Germaine Greer demands her pound of flesh ...

"This game strangles the rights of wimmin! If this was 1973, I'd be burning my bra and showing off my saggy 70s tits in fury over this!"

That's right, darling, you carry on. Nobody's listening to your clapped-out brigade of humourless old fishwives anymore. You lost the war, love! Have a bun as a consolation prize. They're in the kitchen ... WHERE YOU BELONG!

BIRDer on the WHOREient HEXpress starts tomorrow. Terms & CODitions apply.

In Through The Out Door But Then Back In Again III

The End Of The Road

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The Poet Laureate

Is There Anybody Out There?

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The 2009 Dysentery List

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

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The ITTODBTBIA Budget Response

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Castaway

Le Weekend

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How Business Works - The Importance Of An Important Title

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

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Letter To The Penguin Book Company

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Jimmy Savile's Weekly Science Round-Up

The ITTODBTBIA Celebrity Stalker - Science Week Special

Great Moments In Science No. 1 - Einstein Invents Vosene

Famous Eggheads Off Of History - Part Three: Professor Stephen Hawking

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Geoff Capes's Udder World Round-Up

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Scotchland's Newest Greatest Poet

Lord, If I Promise To Be Good, Can I Lead The Revolution That Sees This Self-Satisfied Bunch Of Carping Fuckwits Put Up Against A Wall And Shot? Amen!

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