From Another Planet?

June 3rd 2006

The recent news in all the national dailies that the Inland Revenue are wasting more than a £1 million pounds in tax credits every year doesn’t come as a surprise to me after a recent telephone conversation I had with another Government department.

The Ministry of Pensions, or whatever name they’re calling themselves at the moment, sent me a circular telling me that I may be entitled to extra old age pension benefits, giving me a number to call. I rang them, but not with any great hope that the outcome would be beneficial to the Ravenscroft family purse. The woman on the other end told me that I would have to answer various questions and if the answers to the questions were favourable I might qualify.

The questions were what you would expect: Are you a homeowner?; Do you have any income other that your pension; Are you British: et cetera et cetera. In other words questions to which they already knew the answers if they’d only trouble themselves to look them up. Then, after about ten very boring minutes, when we’d moved from my personal details and onto The Trouble’s, the woman asked: “Does your wife come from another country?”

”No,” I replied. Then, seeking to inject a little light relief into the proceedings, I said: “From another planet maybe……”

There was a long pause, then: “From another planet?”


Another long pause. “But not from another country?”

”Well I’m not sure. Possibly. Maybe the planet she’s from is more advanced than  Earth and they don’t have countries, maybe they did have countries at one time but they’re all one country now – you know, like the European Economic Community but spread worldwide.”

There was an even longer pause before the woman said: “I think we’ll put that question on one side for a while. Come back to it later.

In the event we didn’t go back to it because a few questions and answers later she decided that there wasn’t any point in continuing  because taking into consideration  the answers I’d given so far it would be most unlikely if I did indeed qualify for extra pension benefits.

So, with staff off this calibre cluttering up the system is it any wonder that the Inland Revenue are wasting £1 billion pounds a year? I’m surprised it isn’t ten billion.

Good News

June 2nd 2006

I have good news and even better news. The good news is that the Pollitt’s dog has come out of its coma. Whether this had anything to with Wayne Pollitt or any of his clan singing ‘How Much Is that Doggy In The Window’ or ‘Old Shep’ into its earhole isn’t clear, but probably not. More likely it was one of the other methods the Pollitts employ to stir it into action, such as kicking it or tickling its bollocks, which brought it back into the land of the living.

People might be surprised to learn that I consider You Twat’s return to consciousness as good news, but although an intolerant man when it comes to dog barking I am not an evil or vindictive person, and certainly didn’t want the dog to die. Granted I could have done with it staying in a coma for a little longer – about five years would have been nice – but then I’m only human.

The even better news is that You Twat has spent all day in the back garden, with all the Pollitts out of the house, and hasn’t barked once. Perhaps, after its traumatic experience, it is simply taking time to build up its energies before returning to full barking and howling mode, but perhaps not. Perhaps, due to its enforced sleep, something has happened to it psychologically, and it now feels it can get by without having to bark and howl its fool head off all day.

I couldn’t even induce it to bark. I lobbed several small rocks and half a red brick at it and although they didn’t hit it some of them landed very close, but if it noticed them it didn’t give any indication that it had, and made not so much as a murmur.

While I was doing this Atkins Down The Road called round – he still has a bee in his bonnet about his inflatable rubber woman car passenger idea – and when I’d explained to him what I was trying to achieve he offered to return home and get his air rifle to see if a couple of slugs in You Twat’s arse would get it barking again. I thanked him for the offer but told him that two slugs up the dog’s arse would almost certainly not only get him barking again but keep him barking for a very long time, and that was the last thing I wanted. Atkins then said that if this happened he also had a .22 amongst his arsenal of weapons and could quickly and humanely put the dog out of its misery. I thanked him and put this solution to the problem on the back burner.

So all in all, and although it’s still early days, the signs are looking excellent. I just  hope it isn’t the proverbial lull before the storm.


June 1st 2006

I see that toerag Ron Atkinson is in Dictionary corner on Countdown this week.


DES: And now for a little light diversion from the normal Countdown fare. A special game show for our special guest for the week, Ron Atkinson.

Consonant please, Carol.


DES: Consonant.


DES: Another consonant.


DES: Vowel.


DES: I’ll try another vowel please.

CAROL: And that one is E.

DES: And a final consonant.

CAROL: And we complete the word with another G. So that’s NGRIEG.

RON: That’s only seven letters.

DES: Six actually Ron. Now all you have to do is arrange them into a well-known word – at least well-known to you. And it isn’t Ginger. And your time starts…!

RON: Er…Greign? Is there such a word as Greign?

DES: No.

RON: Ignerg?

DES: No. I’ll give you a clue, Ron. It starts with an N.

RON: Nergig?

DES: No. It starts N I G.

RON: Nigreg?

DES: No.

RON: No? Sorry then, no idea, so it ooks like its early doors for me then.

CAROL: Oh I’m sure you can get it if you try, Ron.

DES: It starts N I G G E. You’ve only got one letter to put in.

RON: Sorry. No idea.

DES: Say the word, Ron.

RON: No.

CAROL: Say it Ron.

RON: Look fellas I’ve only just managed to worm my way back onto mainstream television, give me a fucking break will….give me a flipping break will you.

DES: Say it Ron.

RON: No.

CAROL: Say it – and I promise not to appear on any other television programmes apart from Countdown ever again.

RON: Not even for that.

DES: Say it Ron, or we won’t ever invite you back.

RON: Er……er ……Ashley Cole.

DES: What?

RON: Well he’s a nigger, isn’t he……shit!


May 31st 2006

“What do you know about what happened to our fucking dog?”

I had opened the front door to be greeted by an angry-looking Wayne Pollitt. Not a welcome sight first thing in the morning I can assure you. I am an accomplished liar when the occasion demands and when faced with an irate man built like a brick shithouse who could eat me for breakfast I am an even more accomplished coward, so I feigned complete innocence. “Has something happened to your dog?” I said, a picture of concern.

“It’s been asleep for two days. The vet says it’s in a bleedin’ coma.”

“I see.” I thought for a moment, as if addressing myself to the problem of bringing You Twat out of its coma. “You could try singing to it.”


“What’s its favourite piece of music? ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window’ perhaps?” I searched my brain for other dog songs. “Or ‘Old Shep’ maybe?”

His bloodshot eyes bore into me. “Are you fucking mental?”

“Not at all. It’s a proven fact that if you play their favourite pieces of music to people in a coma it quite often brings them out of their coma. There was a case in the papers only the other week. A couple constantly played Cliff Richard songs to their mother and she came out of the coma after three days. Mind you it put the couple and one of the nurses intoa coma but……Anyway, if it works for people there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for dogs too, so….

Pollitt eyed me balefully. “The bloke next door said you were a bit of a twat.”

Our mutual next door neighbour is Mr Jones so I took it he must have meant his next door neighbour on the other side, Mr Pomfret. “So Mr Pomfret thinks I’m a bit of a twat, does he?” I said.

“What? No, the other side, Jones.” I made a note to tell The Trouble to cross Jones of our Christmas card list and not to lend him my hedge trimmers ever again. And probably piss on his bedding plants when he was out too. “So what do you know about it then, Mr Clever Fucker?” Pollitt persisted.

“What makes you think I should know anything about it?”

“Because you’re the twat what complained about it if I know anything.”

“I regularly complain to the window cleaner that he’s missing the corners but I’ve never yet felt the need to put him in a coma for it.”

He made a fist and threatened me with it. “If I find out it was you had anything to do with it I’ll fucking chin you.”

“Very well. But you won’t. Have a nice day.”