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BofDate – 25th April 2007
Bullying is something with which we are all unfortunately
familiar. Like stepping in a dog turd and accidentally treading it into the
shag pile – it’s unpleasant, abhorrent and something we’d rather not be
reminded about. This week the idea of unisex toilets was mooted by
‘Partnerships for Schools’ as a possible way to combat bullying. Anyone who has
attended a secondary school will of course be aware that the bog is the squalid
lair in which the bully and his/her moronic compatriots can be found. Why this
is remains unknown. Logical theories include a link between bullying
personalities and incontinence; a primeval urge to climb back into the toilet
from whence the bully was spawned, particularly as it smells so much like home;
or perhaps there is an underground movement of bullies that secretly rate
lavatorians ability to use the facilities, slyly holding up tiny cards that
rate people with marks out of 10 for speed, style and endurance. Regardless of
the reasoning, the fact remains that the latrine is a bully’s home from home. A
place to smoke. A place to write barely legible swearwords using Tippex. And
best of all, a place to intimidate those members of society who are cleverer,
cleaner and just plain better than they are (i.e. everyone else). The irony of
the situation is of course that the bog-dwelling bully is merely preparing
him/herself for later life. The chances are that future employment will involve
urinal cakes and industrial Flash or there’ll be a pretty good view of the
toilet from the prison bunk. But, putting jollification aside for the briefest
of moments, bullying is a serious issue and any measure that could counter it
should be given a fair shit…erm, shot. Certain members of The BoF team remember
a childhood where a trip to the lav between the hours of 8:45 and 3:45 was
simply not an option. And for those who could not sustain an iron bladder
comparable to the Hoover Dam, horrors would await. Whilst the often lamented
‘dunk’ headfirst into the pan is now regarded as an amusing and timeless
classic by the popular media (unlikely to be deemed as amusing by the poor sod
with his head halfway round the u-bend), it rarely happens. More likely is an
old-fashioned beating at worst or a tirade of limited-vocabulary abuse at best.
Could it be that unisex toilets mean an end to toilet-time terror for our
nation’s children? And where will the
bullies go? Maybe they’ll chain themselves to the toilet in an act of defiance.
Perhaps they’ll open a private, members-only latrine with bullying by
invitation only. Or maybe they’ll be forced to see the error of their ways and
realise that hanging around the toilet is fairly perverted. One things for
sure, if the worst comes to the worst in these days of equal opportunities and
political correctness, at least kids everywhere will have the opportunity to
have their heads rammed down the bowl by a bully of either sex.
Elsewhere this week it was the London marathon, which makes for television
as riveting as watching 26 miles of paint drying. And, according to some
plonker on BBC Radio Five Live, ‘everyone has friends and/or family taking
part’. Do they?! What, all 60 million Britons know someone taking part in the
cockney love-in do we? That would mean that every participant had a plethora of
chums spread across the whole of the nation. Why, those popular Southern
chappies have a friend in every town! And here was me thinking the BBC had just
forgotten, once again, that life exists outside of London…
And also in London,
this week a man stabbed himself repeatedly before cutting off his penis in
front of appalled onlookers in a restaurant. Sadly, the man was not Jamie
Oliver.
BofDate
20th April 2007
This week the BofDate has a distinctly sporting feel. For
those of you repulsed by the idea of a strictly sporting diatribe, remember we
are but the messenger. We float on the winds of rage, land on the runway of
disgust before taxiing to the ranting terminal. But, putting dodgy metaphors
aside, it’s been another miserable week for the English sports fan. The
nation’s cricketers decided that, after providing as much entertainment as an
evening with Daniel O’ Donnell throughout the course of the world cup, they’d
bow out like a dog on his last trip to the vets. By capitulating quicker than a
balsawood bomb shelter against the South Africans earlier this week, England finally
confirmed what we all knew anyway - lack of talent and abundance of ineptitude
can only be carried for so long by poor Kevin Pietersen. He obviously missed
the meeting where the world cup ‘tactics’ were handed out. He also must have
missed the team doctor’s appointment where skill, determination and will to win
were surgically removed by a specialist. In fact there’s only KP and Monty
Panesar that return with much credit. Monty must also have missed a few
meetings. Specifically the one that concerned the 'when you take a wicket/score
some runs/make a catch, for the love of God don’t be happy, excited or show any
outward emotion - because they can read your mind you know. In fact, put
tinfoil inside your helmet’ rule. It’s a cringe inducing sight when Monty takes
a wicket and is looking to lay some hugs n’ high fives on his team mates only
to be met with absolute and total apathy. The BoF has a word of caution for the
emotionally constipated cricketers - the ‘I’m too cool to celebrate’ look only
works IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY ANY DAMN GOOD!!
Frankly, we’d make them all come back via pedalo. The irony
is that successful, albeit temporary, boarding of the pedalo after a skin full
was Flintoff’s finest moment of the world cup. He may not have floated up shit
creek without a paddle, but the whole England team managed to motor up
diarrhoea drive in double quick time, boring the whole nation half to death in
the process.
Poor Ronnie O’Sullivan. He’s got it tough you know, as
seemingly the whole world is out to get him. The snooker ‘superstar’ this week
complained that the draw for the World Snooker Championships must be fixed. It
must be, because he’s been drawn against a half-decent player. Again. Shocking!
Because he should be allowed to progress straight to the final, or at worst
have to play against stationary objects in the earlier rounds. I can hear
whispering Ted Lowe now: ‘O’Sullivan has scraped past the hat-stand and the
sideboard, but he’s really up against it here versus the fridge-freezer’.
Ronnie obviously hasn’t read his copy of the English sportsman’s charter. It quite
clearly states that pathetic excuses should be reserved until after you
have lost…
We reserve the final word this week for non-sporting
matters. Power companies are allegedly raking it in to the tune of £4 billion
by not passing on reductions in wholesale energy prices to customers. Its
enough to make to want to disconnect the cooker and piss down the gas pipe*,
harbouring that faint hope that it might hit the gas company director in the
eye.
* The BoF does not encourage
this course of action.
BoFdate – 13th
April 2007
It happens rarely, but like a solar eclipse or quality
programming on ITV, it does happen now and again. We are of course referring to
the recent bank-holiday weekend that for once was bathed in sunshine and
butterflies as oppose to rain and fog. The lovely weather serves as a reminder
that summer is nearly here, which can mean only one thing: Holidays? No!
Sunburn? Pah! Ice Creams? Ker-pow! No, no, no…the Labour Party leadership
contest of course. Oh, that…Yes that. Although the mystical-cum-mythical date
of Mr Blair’s departure is still officially ‘TBC’ (we have it on good authority
that details can be found written in unicorn’s blood on ancient parchment in
one of those boxes from ‘Deal or No Deal’), big Gord must be suffering a bit of
pre-PM tension. The lack of a serious heavyweight competitor for the post
coupled with the public’s already lukewarm reception for No.11’s current
resident means only one thing: its time for The BoF to talk up the Brownster.
Casting other cabinet lightweights aside, we pit Brown against 3 of histories
finest leaders in a series of televised debates. Probably on Channel 5...
Gordon Brown debates
Darth Vader…
As both men approach the pulpit, Darth wastes no time.
Throwing of the shackles off actual debating he goes straight for the old
patented psychic choking technique. However, Lord Vader hesitates momentarily;
seemingly captivated by that funny camp thing Brown does with his mouth before
he speaks. Vader’s dithering allows Brown to launch into a devastating
soliloquy on the merits of trade route taxation. Nauseous and semi-comatosed, Vader
fights back; drawing his lightsabre and delivering a seemingly fatal blow. Unfortunately,
Vader did not account for Gordon’s invincible self-satisfaction force-field
which merely deflects the blade, causing the accidental decapitation of Des
Browne. Panicking, Vader tries to talk his way out by offering to ‘show Brown
the power of the dark side’. In response, Brown offers to ‘show Vader the new
floral border at No. 11’. They head off, arm in arm, into the sunset where
Brown agrees there’s always room on the front bench for an intergalactic
dictator. Come the next reshuffle however, Vader is lost in the mix and his
political career is left in tatters after rumours of a shameless affair with
Tessa Jowell won’t subside. A broken man, Vader hurls himself into the Great
Pit of Carkoon. Winner: Brown.
Gordon Brown debates Hannibal Smith from ‘The A-Team’
Fearing he’d be outnumbered at the lectern, Brown arrives
with half the cabinet in tow – only to find his opponent has not yet turned up.
Whist Smith and the team are seemingly in the midst of turning the van into
some kind of battering ram, Brown and the cabinet take the opportunity to set
up a local small-time money laundering/drug running/gun running/mildly evil
organised crime thing that leaves the local people a bit unnerved/threatened,
but without any loss of life or serious injury. The locals have a problem. And
no one else can help. Cue the A-team, leaping out of poorly-assembled wooden
crates and smashing the now-transformed A-team van into the lecture theatre.
Before Brown et al have time to react, the A team offload roughly 800 rounds
from their AK-47s, somehow missing with every single shot. Desperate, Hannibal Smith
sends in Mr T. He pities the fool. Don’t give him no back talk, sucka. And so
on. As T swings a mighty left, John Prescott steams in. The old one-two from
Prezza leaves T reeling and gives Brown just enough time to ring up George Bush
and have the A-team sent to Guantanamo Bay for being a crack commando unit that
was sent to prison bya military court for a crime they didn't commit,
who escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Whilst being
hauled away by the military police, Mr T. can be heard declaring ‘I ain’t
gettin’ on no plane fool’. ‘I love it when a plan comes together’ proclaims
Brown. Winner: Brown.
Gordon Brown debates
Fred Jones and Mystery Inc. from ‘Scooby Doo’.
Having already overcome seemingly weightier opponents, Brown
laughs in the face of the teenage sleuths and their talking dog. ‘No one can
stop me now! Muahahahhahaha!’ declares Brown. ‘Jinkies! It’s the tar-monster!’
cries Velma. But alas, it’s merely Ann Widdecombe looking for the lady’s.
Patricia Hewitt seizes the opportunity to grab Daphne and take her back to her
lair. In the ensuing chaos, Fred puts his plan into action – dropping a large
fishing net on top of Brown, leaving the Chancellor trapped like a landlocked
cod. With previous savour Prescott engaged in a pie-eating contest with Shaggy, Brown is done for. ‘And now its
time to see who’s really behind all this’ says Fred, tearing the latex mask off
the PM to-be’s head. ‘GASP! It’s Neil Kinnock!’ cries everyone in unison.
‘Bah!’ says Kinnock ‘And I would have finally been Prime Minister too, if it
wasn’t for you meddling kids…’
Winner: Fred Jones
and Mystery Inc.
Ah pity the fool that don't vote for me
Elsewhere this week, Pot Noodles have been recalled amid
fears that cracks in the plastic packaging may lead to ‘leakage of hot
product’. It’s hard to tell just what is more horrible – the thought of being
scarred for life by a freeze-dried noodle snack or the use of the term ‘leakage
of hot product’.
And
in Taiwan a vet has seen his arm bitten off by a crocodile, only for it to be re-attached
by surgeons a few hours later. Unfortunately the same surgeons were unable to
re-attach the man’s pride, which appears to have been damaged irreversibly. The
limb-chewing fun is of course good news for YouTube, where advertisers who
market products that contains the words ‘arm’, ‘crocodile’ and ‘oh dear’ can
expect a lot of exposure
BoFdate – 6th April 2007
The French this week broke their own world record for the
fastest train on conventional rails; as a TGV reached a phenomenal 356mph. France’s
super-fast rattler takes its place in alongside the Citroen 2CV and the Le
Creuset casserole dish as the nation’s finest technological achievement. It
also assures that as a nation they can travel almost as fast as they can
surrender. But putting sarcastic Francophobia aside, it was an event that
should make the British simultaneously stand up and take notice whilst hanging
their heads in shame. Attitudes to various wide ranging topics this week have
led us at The BoF to believe that should Britain have broken the aforementioned
locomotive world record, the tracks would not have been lined with enthusiastic
members of the public. It would have been lined with people shaking fists and
flat caps, spitting and hurling rotten fruit, whilst crying ‘What a waste of
money! Think of the under funded NHS!’, because we’ve heard that a lot in the
last few days. This week, the Human Fertility and Embryology Authority said that
limiting the number of embryos women are given during IVF could be a way to
reduce multiple births. In amongst the debate, the issue of IVF on the NHS
arose. Cue many a lonely, childless, angry citizen becoming enraged about why
such treatment was being paid for when Granny Miggins has to wait for 57 years
for her hip operation. People of a similar mindset would have you believe that
the under funded NHS can’t cope with the plight of asylum seekers with AIDS,
who should be sent home to die in the comfort of their own poverty-stricken
war-torn hell hole. So, in the spirit of having one’s say about what should and
should not be treated on the NHS, The BoF would put forward the following recommendations:
maybe the moronic ‘social alcoholics’ that flood the A&E departments after
consuming their body weight in lager and vodka-based inebriants every Friday
night could be refused treatment. Maybe if they wish to harass and insult
hospital staff whilst vomiting on themselves they can go private? Perhaps those
people who smoke 20 a day could refrain from having their lung cancer treated
at a hospital which taxes pay for, and try exercising the power of positive
thinking instead? And could it be that people who feel it necessary to eat the
amount similar to that of a hippo whilst avoiding exercise like a vampire
avoids sunbathing, should just stop piling deep fried crap into their mouths
and start moving about a bit? Maybe some of the hardliners should have a look
around at what society could do for itself, before condemning what the NHS
could do for people other than themselves. 1000 people per month in Britain need
hospital treatment because they’ve failed to read the instructions on their
stepladders. Are those 1000 people more worthy of treatment than a couple who
can’t conceive? The answer is fairly obvious to one who has a natural loathing
of muttonheads. The simple facts are that if people took responsibility for the
things within their control, the NHS would have a lot more money for things out
of our control. And maybe enough left over for a train that goes really fast as
well.
Trials of a new type of security camera that tells you off
if you partake in anti-social behaviour have proved successful, ensuring their
more widespread use. Frightened middle class people point to comparisons with
Orwell’s Big Brother and whinge about the nanny state. Presumably such sensible
members of the populace fear its only a matter of time before ‘stop pissing in
that bus shelter and setting fire to that rubbish bin’ becomes ‘take that
cagoule back to Millets because its bloody awful’.
Keith Richards snorted his Dad’s ashes. No he didn’t, just
joking. Hilarious? Not really. But what is hilarious is the question which the
interviewer posed, i.e. ‘What’s the most unusual thing you’ve ever snorted?’
What was Mr Richards supposed to say. ‘Oh, you know…that motorbike and sidecar
was fairly odd, but not as bad as the bevy of Otters or that time I did a line
of Cathedrals’.
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