I love wrestling. Proper wrestling with guys in cages. WWF is best. I watch all their stuff on Youtube, over and over again. I spent all day once watching 'Armageddon 2000'-6 men in a cage. It was amazing. 6 men in a cage; wrestling. It's like 3 Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome, but better, because there's 6 men, and they're not in a boat, they're in a cage and they're wrestling. I actually posted an original idea of my own on my facebook page: 'Holocaust 2013 - 12 men in a gas oven.' - It would be crazy, 12 men, solid steel walls and flames spewing from all directions. The referees could guard the exits in their striped uniforms, with fake coshes and improvised weapons. I knew it would be a smash. Imagine then, how excited I was when I saw a Mexican wrestler arriving at my door, complete with balaclava and long black coat, leather gloves - the lot. I knew he had come to discuss my exciting new idea for a wrestling extravaganza. When I opened the front door, autograph book at the ready, he threw acid in my face and called me a fucking nazi. Lucky for me I had just been practising wrestling moves on my inflatable wrestling doll, and I had my leather wrestling mask on. Otherwise I could have been seriously hurt. I never did like Mexican style wrestling anyway. WWF was way better. And The Yanks don't cheat by throwing acid in your face.

The irresistible paradox

After my shower last night, I sat in my towel, enjoying a drink and some wrestling matches on SKY sports gold - really good stuff from the seventies. Watching Big Daddy against Giant Haystacks made me ponder the irresistible force paradox. I really wanted to know what would happen if an irresistible force met an immovable object so I poured some Domestos into a pot of Activia yoghurt.
Things really fucking kicked off; I had to drop it after a few seconds when it started bubbling; I thought it was going to explode. Then it stained the new kitchen floor but I daren't clean it up because I'm sure it was letting off fumes so I grabbed a copy of The Sun from the recycling bin, turned round and tripped over the bloody dog. It yelped and snapped at me, tugging off my towel; I tried to force its head away from my groin but slipped and landed hard on the kitchen floor, winding myself. I lay there, crotch totally plastered in bleachy yoghurt, panting away, desperately trying to stop the dog from biting my privates.
Although we are now getting divorced and I am unable to see the children, I am actually quite grateful to my wife for walking in at that particular moment and distracting the dog with her screams.

A miracle

I was watching a television programme called Catastrophe with Tony Robinson. It's great, especially when the special effects make everything look great. Apparently, the earth used to be two planets that collided and made one planet and our moon.
I am a sceptic and find this rather hard to believe, until I was in town today, attending a talk given by Tony Robinson, all about his ground breaking work with the Timewatch team. Apparently they have discovered some watches or something in Sheffield.
Anyway, after the talk, I waited behind with a number of fans, hoping to get Tony's autograph and perhaps ask him how many watches he had found. The crowd was quite large and Tony was late so things were getting rowdy; by the time he appeared many of us were almost at boiling point. But that's because we were impatient.
Tony signed a few autograph books and spoke to some pretty looking girls who were clearly flirting with him, then he tried to get into a car, assisted by a body guard. Well, the crowd weren't having it; people were shouting, punches were thrown and a man leapt over the barrier and head butted Tony so hard that their heads fused. Tony's head grew bigger with lots of bits of head flying around it, then these bits of head all joined together to form little head orbiting around it like a moon. And even though I didn't get his autograph, I'll never disbelieve what he says about how the earth was formed again, never ever.

An interactive guide to animals

I've just been blamed for all that stuff that went on in Mumbai. As usual, it started when some racists came to my house and tried to give me leaflets. I said I didn't like terrorists either but I could feel a scene developing in my doorstep. So I told them that if they could prove they were the master race I would read their leaflets and possibly help them drive out a few desperate families. But I needed to test their strength if I was to believe they were the master race. I gave the first man a caber but he dropped it on his foot and swore at me. I told him the master race only used good words, not bad words, and that he was out of the competition. The next man I gave a few bits of metal and asked him if he could fashion them into a robot that did a backflip. He failed so miserably I decided to thump him in the eye. The third man I gave some used bubbly gum and asked him to make it new again with some sort of spell. After chewing it for a few seconds he was sick.
This is why I have become a fan of this web site that tells you all about animals.

A hasty judgement

Today I went to the doctor to have some nodules on my vocal chords photographed. The waiting room was so depressing it changed my mind about Prozac; It made me really need it. I really needed it. Show me a man with a razor at his throat and a noose round his neck, suicide note written, tears of self loathing running down his cheeks and I'll show him my fist as I snatch his Prozac then chuck him down a well, the miserable trainspotter. I needed Prozac; I was in the ENT ward at the hospital watching a subtitled cookery programme being shown to a load of people who'd had their throats ripped out by dogs or lost their larynxes to cancer and their partners were illiterate or short sighted. I was trying not to read the aphorisms of the x list celebrities, but I just kept on catching them: "Joan was distraught about the state of her chutney." or "Lee loves beef," I then realised that every inane comment about an aubergine or whatever was being relayed by the men with no larynx to their illiterate other halves, but they couldn't speak, so hideous, incomprehensible squeeks and bubbling noises would issue from their mouths like Nosferatu reading a cookery book underwater.
I then realized I needed a medieval shield to protect me from the jolly enormous doctor who raped my nose with some sort of military dildo. He thrust it back and forth, taking deep throat pictures until I swear I felt something hot dribbling down the back of my throat. I think his aggressive medi-sex lobotomised my brain, spoiling any chance of prozac working because it would all leak out of the hole he had made, in a blue ooze.
I walked home a traumatised zombie, being followed by suicidal trainspotters licking every morsel of prozac dribbling down my neck. My nostrils were so badly stretched they looked like flared trousers. I had been brutalised. When I arrived home my wife had a stroke with the shock of seeing me, rendering her unable to read or move properly, so we spent the whole evening trying to cook tea for the kids, with me squeeking and bubbling instructions through my flapping nostrils and drooling mouth, and her just groaning and slicing her nipples off.
Tomorrow I will find us both sat in the ENT queue,Bubble and bloody Squeek convincing anyone who looks at us that a high pressure prozac enema is the only solution. And thus the wheel turns full circle.

A special little girl

I went into a corner shop today to buy a newspaper and was suprised to note that young men were still able to purchase single cigarettes, much the same as when I was a lad. Despite the above inflation price hike, the facility was clearly welcomed by the roving young scallywags who frequented the shop - several single cigarettes were vended during the time it took me to decide between the Observer or the Independent on Sunday. As I went to pay, I was overcome with nostalgia and decided to make a similar purchase - for auld lang syne - pour recherche les temps perdue perhaps. I asked the shopkeeper for a 50p single and he smiled. "Yes," he said, "So am I," pointing to my ringless marraige finger, "But don't worry, there's plenty of time." He smiled at me benignly. "No," I said, enjoying the joke, "I want a single cigarette,"
"Oh," he said, "I understand, you want to be single." Then he winked at me, "Are you gay man?" he asked. "If you are, one of my brothers very interested."
I had no choice but to augment my intended purchase with a little sign language. I mimed having a cigarette between my forefinger and index finger, pulling it back and forth across my face. The shopkeeper seemed offended, "Don't bloody swear at me," he said, "You come into my shop and want to do bum stuff with my brother, if you don't want to buy anything get out you sodding homo."
I thought it best to abandon my intended purchase of a 'single' and just leave with my newspaper; I put it on the counter. "Just an observer please." I said, holding out my two pounds. The shopkeeper went crazy, "You want me to watch?" he was incredulous, "You come into my shop and offer me two pound to watch you have sodomy with my own brother, two pounds only to watch my own flesh and blood arse be defiled?" and before I knew it he was coming at me with a tazer.

So Jemima, this blog is for you; you are my special girl. If you hadn't walked into the shop at that moment, I really think, with my weak heart, I could have died. As it was, there you were, just back from the hospital with your shiny new head brace, firmly holding in place your little fractured skull - the perfect lightening conductor.
In heaven there will be no head braces and no tazers - in fact, no electricity of any kind. It is lit by the heavenly glow of Jesus' halo shining down on all the little girls and boys who you can play with for all eternity. The fridges are cooled by the breath of eskimo angels and the playstations run on batteries that god will sell you for a small fee - or a few 'favours' - but don't worry, God won't hurt you, and if he does - who are you going to tell?

A sad time of year

I got a letter today from the parents of my ex-fiance. I think they are still really confused about what happened between us and they make no secret of the fact that they are very disappointed about the circumstances of our separation, and in my heart, I think I share those feelings. The thing is, I still love her, really very much. I can see her now, in a green dress, her stunningly beautiful pre-raphaelite looks. She really was my English Rose. I remember asking her to marry me; we were in Barcelona, walking through the piazza del toro, I got down on one knee and just asked her if she would be my bride-of course she said yes. That night we made beautiful love as the moonlight poured into our five star penthouse hotel room; it was just perfect.
The next day we went to see a bull fight. We had front row seats and I remember so clearly as the matador gave the signal for the bull to enter the ring, she turned to kiss me, shaking her scarlet mane of beautiful, bright red hair that glowed radiant with sunlight.

The bull must have leapt about ten feet into the air. Someone said it just went mad. All I know was that it's left horn took her head clean off and the some of the rodeo clowns were sick. If it had been any other photo in the Barcelona Daily Herald then her parents would understand. Do they really think I would have deliberately done that with her mouth?