KILLER FACT!

In Britain, the suicide rate among cricketers is twice the national average.

BLAIR'S BRITAIN

The average person will eat 10,800 carrots, shed 121 pints of tears and have sex more than 4,200 times, a television documentary will claim tomorrow.

Much as I suspected. After ten years of Blair, Mr Average Briton now spends his days weeping, stuffing carrots into his yap and having sex, according to the experts. In my town, life isn’t really like that, but no doubt the carrot-eating sex fiends of the north are pulling the averages up.

I see that I am supposed to have sex 4,239 times, in between eating my 15 pigs and 2.3 tons of potatoes. If you want my advice, you need to aim for around 3,500 times by the time you’re 40, then try to knock off the remaining 739 before you get your pension. You've got to plan ahead. You don’t want to be in the position of having to pork the wife when you’re in your eighties. It must be the last thing you need.

When I hit 40 I might just call it a day, and buy one of those American dong-on-a-stick machines instead. That will free up a lot of time for my punishing carrot-eating regimen.


Blair's Britain. It's a living hell.

MALIGNANT TUBAS

Roy Edroso is having a tuba removed. For what it’s worth, I hope he lives.

When Randolph Churchill had a non-malignant tuba removed, Evelyn Waugh said, “It was a typical triumph of modern science to find the only part of Randolph that was not malignant, and remove it.”

That's the only tuba anecdote I can think of right now. Incidentally, why doesn't Edroso get his tubas removed in Cuba, if he likes it so much? Eh?

ONE-LINERS

Norm Geras, the angry man of British blogging, has linked to a poll of top one-liners. They’re good, but only quite good. I would have gone with:

1. The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life.

2. When I was young my Grandmother gave me $5 one day and said, "Don't tell your Mother I gave you this.” I said, “It's gonna cost you more than that.”

3. They laughed when I said I was going to be a comedian. They're not laughing now!

4. -Lady Astor: "Winston, if I were your wife I'd put poison in your coffee."
-Winston Churchill: “Get stuffed.”

(Oscar Wilde, Steve Wright, Bob Monkhouse, Winston Churchill)

A WELL-REGULATED MILITIA

"People don't stop killers," writes the Instapundit. "People with guns do."

The idea is that if one of the Virginia Tech students had had a gun with him, he could have come to the rescue like Dick Dauntless, and shot the Korean maniac.

Well that’s true. But what if 300 students had guns, and they were all on the look-out for a student with a gun? I’m failing to see the genius of this plan, though no doubt I’ve overlooked something obvious.

No guns here in Colombia, thank God. In Bogota there is a place called La Piscina, a much-loved local whore-house, run by one of the country’s most respected paramilitary groups. If you go up to the seventh floor you can buy a bazooka, if bazookas are what you require to protect you from the Koreans. Technically it’s against the law, but so are a lot of things.

POUND HITS $2

Back when I started blogging one of the favorite topics of discussion on conservative blogs was the inevitable crash of the euro in favor of the mighty dollar. Most of this had nothing to do with any thought about economics but instead a general association between perceived penis size of your country and the value of its currency (American big and mighty! Europe flaccid and wimpy!)

I remember when you could buy a bag of eels for two farthings.

ADVICE SOUGHT

An email arrives asking where, in my opinion, is the best place in Denver to hide a carcass.

I’m not really the go-to guy on dumping stiffs in Denver. Maybe some of you can help?

KILLER FACT!

The amount of caffeine in coffee decreases the higher it is grown, but the cocaine content of coca increases with altitude.

ANNIVERSARY

Been doing this nonsense for three years now, and where’s it got me? Nowhere. It has simply widened the circle of people who think I’m a dick. That’s all it has achieved.

Here are some of the rave reviews I have received:

“Fuck you, Hutton.”
“I cannot even fathom the fucking depravity of this.”
“You stupid American.”
“Man your ignorant.”

I have also been called a pommy arsehole, a fuckhead, a right-wing eliminationist, a hippy and a Canadian. (“Pommy arsehole” was mighty witty, I’m not denying it, but accusing me of being a Canadian was tasteless and uncalled for. Does it never occur to anyone that I have feelings?)

Tim Worstall started his blog on the same day as this one. He has a lot more readers than I do, but I would remind him that being Britain’s most influential blogger is like being the most influential solver of Rubik’s cubes, or a champion bowler. No one normal gives a toss.

To hell with him.

And sod all the people who come round here leaving comments, trying to cheer everyone up with their wretched jokes and stories. I really hate them, to be honest with you. This one tosser even tried to use my comments section as a place to post his damnable poems, until I enthusiastically deleted them all. I hope he gets hit by a bus.

YES, WE HAVE NO BUZZARDS

Killer Fact! Andrew Jackson personally fought in 103 duels.

I have never fought in a duel, though I’ve been beaten up a few times, if that counts. When I was a teenager this guy told me that if he ever saw me again I’d be “floating face down in the canal.” “There is no canal, ya half-wit,” I thought, but kept it to myself.

I wish I’d known what TV show he got this from. It would have added great interest to the occasion. It would have made as much sense to threaten to leave me for the buzzards. That's because the buzzard nests in moorland and hilly crags, you see. No self-respecting buzzard would show its face in High Wycombe. I don't know if any of this interests you.


John “the buzzard” Prescott, as he isn’t known. For when you examine the facts, what is less like a buzzard than John Prescott?

OPEN LETTER TO PRESIDENT AHMAJINADAD

Just got back from Vegas, baby, what a riot. We were all like frickin wasted at the pool throwing back 40s for breakfast. The place was off the hook with smoking chicks, but there was this like convention in town with like these dicks in suits and shit.

This one dork was bragging about how he’d outperformed the market three years in a row and I’m like that’s nothing I got my bash on last night with this chick with tits out to here.

Then we bust out some deep ball in the parking lot and I took a couple cuts out of the park. Then we get in my buddy’s hummer and we take off down the strip checking all the tight booties, with the super woofers pounding out Verdi’s Requiem.

I was totally wasted.


Todd Mathers

A TRANSPORT DEVICE USED TO MOVE PEOPLE OR GOODS VERTICALLY

The Flying Rodent is having a go at lifts again:

"So what can be done to reinvigorate the Lift? The answer can only come from the Lift itself, and the prognosis is not good - for as long as it continues to serve only those within its cold embrace rather than offering a coherent vision to society, it will remain irrelevant to the majority of humanity."

Sure, it’s easy to sneer at lifts. But he couldn’t be more wrong. Krugman himself praised the Lift as “still the most effective mass-transit system yet devised.”

As the poet Aerosmith put it:

Love in an elevator
Livin' it up when I'm goin' down
Love in an elevator
Lovin' it up 'til I hit the ground... [my italics]

And how true that is. And never more so than today. Those who oppose the Lift will be left behind, in the dustbin of history.

PYONGYANG-ON-TEES

"Talking" CCTV cameras that tell off people dropping litter or committing anti-social behaviour are to be extended to 20 areas across England.

Right, fuck it, time to flee the country. I’m not staying in this stinking place another minute. How do I become an Australian? (Or a Chinaman, I’m not that bothered.)

The talking cameras were first introduced in Middlesbrough, and succeeded in their goal of making life in Middlesbrough even more unpleasant than it already was, so now they are spreading to Reading, Darlington, Blackpool, and several other dog-holes. If you want a vision of the future, imagine a whining stream of orders in a Teeside accent- forever.

Who are these people issuing the orders? If anyone can give me the name and address of one, I’ll follow him around with a bullhorn, yelling impertinent advice in his ear-hole all day. See how he likes it.

I’ll tell you what might work. Instead of badgering everyone from a control centre, they could dress up in nice blue uniforms and go down and stand in the street. We could call them “policemen”.

I eventually decided against signing the John Doe manifesto, on the grounds that I would rather plunge my head into boiling chip fat. It’s based on the idea that to defeat the terrorists, we have to go around with a stupid solemn expression saying, “I am John Doe”.

I am on your street. I am in your subway car. I am on your lift. I am your neighbor. I am your customer. I am your classmate. I am your boss.

I am John Doe.

Fucking bunch of half-wits. Anyway, here’s another one, since the way I figure, the more the manifestos the less terrorism:

I am famous for metaphysical poetry. I was vicar of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West. My works employ paradoxes, puns, and subtle yet remarkable analogies.

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe.

I am John Donne.

Send it to your MP and demand to know what he plans to do about John Donne.