Happy New Year!

Or at least a bearable one.  Frankly a year in which I don’t die or find myself in the magistrate’s court for non payment of debts will do me.  That or a year of constant sex and huge acclaim for my unwritten works.

To ensure a smooth start to 2011 I have bared my chin and shorted my hair. My new look says “I mean business and I’ll bum you for £50 and a bottle of Lidle sherry.”  In fact, it was this look which led to my being asked for ID to buy a bottle of wine. At first I though the lady was joking and stood waiting for her to provide the necessary ‘approval needed’ at the self service till. However she just stared at me until I produced my driving licence. Which she glanced at before taking it to show her supervisor because she thought it was a forgery. After all, how could this fresh faced youth possibly be a 38 year old man? Well, probably because he looks like a 38 year old man.

After about ten minutes the myopic woman returned with the supervisor, who looked me up and down like a prize bull and said “sorry sir but we’ll need to see some more ID, this is insufficient.”

“For gods sake I’m 38 years old, why do you need ID?”

“It’s the law sir, we don’t make the law.”

I rummaged in my wallet for more proof but the only thing I could find was the paper part of my driving licence.

“Will this do?”

“Yes that’s fine,” said the supervisor, handing me back the contents of my wallet before fucking off back to her nest.

However the woman continued to stare at me until I’d paid for my shopping and walked out of the store. She’s probably still staring.  I don’t know.

For an even better story about Sainsbury’s click here.

Disregarding this little hiccup, the year began well.  Probably because I spent its first week watching Doctor Who and drinking bottle after bottle of loverly booze. In fact I can’t think of another year which began in such an agreeable manner, save the year I was born, which began without me.

At this point in the blog I should be telling you about my plans for 2011.  However lack of money has curtailed nearly all the things I intended to do this year. Which  I suppose makes me the rule rather than the exception. Most of the British population is being fisted by the treasury’s barbed wire glove and I’m no different.  Gas and electricity are expensive, VAT has gone up on all the pleasures of life and the BBC are splitting the next series of Doctor Who into two  to make it go further.  Rather like I used to do with a packet of crisps when I was a kid.  I’d mash them all up into small pieces and then slowly munch my way through them,  savouring every crumb.

To be honest I wish the BBC would stop fucking around with Doctor Who. Just begin it in March, run the 13 episodes and chuck in a Christmas special at the appropriate time. We don’t need an Easter special, I fucking hate Easter! I’m too old for people to buy me chocolate eggs and my friends are never around for a drink which makes it – for me at least- a miserable time of the year and I don’t want to watch a new episode of Doctor Who when I’m miserable. Granted, being in a minority of one, I don’t expect the BBC to take much notice of my feeble rant, however many people do.

The other day while laying in bed reading Stephen Fry’s flowery autobiography, I happened to nudge my digital radio onto a local station. It holding a phone in about the future of the BBC and one caller took particular exception to the scheduling of the six o’clock news. Stating that ‘it was at the wrong time because he was just getting in from work and didn’t have time to watch it’.

The presenter of the show suggested that he turned over to News 24 or popped onto BBC’s website for the latest headline – the man went ape shit. He told the presenter in no uncertain terms that he refused to have the internet in the house as it was full of perverts and murderers. Neither would he sanction a digital television box because he felt that by boycotting all digital services, the government would be forced to ‘back down’ and maintain an analogue signal.

Sadly we didn’t get to hear anymore because the presenter cut him off for being mental.

However he is not alone in his beliefs. Frankly there are thousand of deeply disturbed people out there who believe that their licence fee gives them the right to dictate how the BBC is run or how programs are made. It doesn’t and that fuck for that. If it was down to those cunts, we would be up to our televisual arses in ‘Noel’s Lovely Family Show’ and hours of bland dramas about Ant and Dec. There would be no rude words or anything that would annoy children – who at all times must be protected.  Even after they’ve gone to sleep, because they may sleep walk and turn the television on.

BBC 1 would show Last of the Summer Wine on a loop which would be interrupted at 18:30 for a two hour news program.  But the news mustn’t show anything nasty and must end with a cat up a tree or an hilariously shaped vegetable.  BBC 2, 3 and 4 would be cancelled because they’re modern abominations. All  new comedy will be banned, with old Morecambe and Wise shows taking their place (they will think about showing the Two Ronnies but some of their sketches feature double entendres which would cause children to turn into rapists and murderers).

To protect the purity of their vision, they will increase security around all BBC building and to prevent the wrong sort of person getting in, all security guards will be forced to administer an imagination test to visitors. If the test is passed the unfortunate comedian, actor or writer will be pushed into a pool of pulped scripts and piss by a moving polystyrene wall.

Vegetarian haggis for tea.

TV Thick

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