What on earth is wrong with this country? Has everyone finally taken leave of their senses? I say this because when I returned home from work today, I was greeted by a large crowd of people dressed in overalls, a couple of my so-called 'friends' and some television presenter type chappie who looked to all intents and purposes - given his mannerisms - like he was bowling from the Gasworks End. The slightly effeminate chappie informed me that my house had been given a '60 Minute Makeover.' You can probably imagine my horror when I noticed that all of my furniture and possessions had been thrown into a skip. And then, adding insult to injury, when I went into my house, I discovered that it wasn't my house any more. They'd put up lurid coloured wallpaper in every room, painted half the place orange, half of it purple, and the other half a horrible Opal Fruits type of lime green. My lovely, battered old sofa had been replaced with a 'trendy' angular thing which looks about as comfortable as a spell in an iron lung, and they'd changed absolutely everything and installed all this 'modern' rubbish. The bastards! I didn't ask for that! I was jolly well happy as I was. Thankyou very much. Now I shall have to spend hours digging all my old stuff out of the skip and burning all the new stuff out in the back garden. Not to mention all the painting and decorating I'm going to have to undertake in order to restore my house to its former glory. Interfering swines! I'm seriously considering calling the police on them and pressing charges for criminal damage.
What a swizz this 'Dickinson's Real Deal' antiques show is. When I heard that they were filming in my area, and appealing for people to turn up with any unwanted antiques which they wanted to sell, I was delighted. Imagine my utter disgust when they refused to make me a cash offer for the wife, and then, to add insult to injury, they refused to allow me to put the prune faced old cow up for auction. Real Deal my arse! They want sorting out, that lot. Bloody shysters.
In my locale, I am quite correctly regarded by the vast majority of people as something of a wit, and am by no means a hater of female women types. But that Anne Robinson off television's 'The Weakest Link' is so rude to the contestants on that show, that if I were one of them, I would probably feel an overwhelming urge to bash her head in with a baseball bat, and bury the body under my back patio. Or some place where it is unlikely to be discovered by the police, or by interfering dog-walkers. I wouldn't have much cared ten years ago about hiding the body, but I'm getting a bit long in the tooth to be serving life imprisonment.
Sometimes I get so annoyed with the BBC. I just don't understand why they don't bring the 'Generation Game' back to our screens on a Saturday evening. I get so annoyed about this that I have taken to biting my own hands in sheer frustration, and they are red raw, even bleeding occasionally. I know that Brucie's knocking on a bit these days to be doing such an energetic show, and Anthea Redfern probably isn't 'all that' any more, but they could do it with somebody like Paddy McGuinness out of Phoenix Nights and Max And Paddy's Road To Nowhere. They could partner him up with Cheryl Cole or somebody. I used to love watching that show, and once, my cousin Simon actually appeared on it with his daughter, Clare, as contestants. They made proper tits out of themselves as they messed all the tasks up, but I didn't mind because I never liked them anyway. Too far up their own arses for my liking. I have written to the BBC several times with this proposal, but the dullards have yet to respond.
I think that adventurer/survivalist bloke off the television, Bear Grylls ought to be put in prison, at the very least. The bloke is setting a dangerous example. After watching one of his programmes about surviving in Patagonia, I decided to have a go at that. So off I went to the woods down the road from our house, with a small tent, a pen-knife, a ball of string and a box of matches. I didn't take any food or drink with me, because I wanted to survive the Bear Grylls way. So for the next 24 hours, I survived by eating snails and various other bugs, wild mushrooms, grass, and the bark off trees, obtaining drinking water from a little stream that has supermarket trollies and empty beer cans in it. I only lasted 24 hours. Then I had to go home and ring the doctor. I had terrible stomach cramps, a fever of 104 and I was shitting through the eye of a needle for three days. In total I lost over 28lbs. I can't for the life of me understand why they allow this Grylls chap to talk gullible fools like me into this survival malarkey.
May I call you Ed? Maybe your name really is Ed. I don't know. You may be Harry Tom or Dick for all I know. Or even some other name. Indeed, you could even be a lady Editor, but none of that really matters. I call you Ed simply because you are the Editor. Anyway, I have a complaint to make. Some chap off the internet posted a link to a clip from an old television programme which featured the musical artist known as Whistling Jack Smith, whistling his way through a whistly tune known as Kaiser Bill's Batman. To my mind, this sort of thing ought to be prohibited, because after clicking on the link, I found myself whistling along with Whistling Jack Smith, to the tune of Kaiser Bill's Batman, before discovering to my horror that I couldn't stop whistling that tune. From which point, things got even worse when I found myself involuntarily dancing in a similar manner to Whistling Jack Smith on the clip. Yesterday I spent hours whistling along as I played the clip over and over again, and it has been pretty much the same story today. The real problem - apart from having sore cheeks with all that whistling - is that I am now concerned for my personal safety, as the wife threw a kitchen knife at my head earlier today, and whilst whistling Kaiser Bill's Batman up the shops, I was accosted by a scruffy individual who was clearly worse for wear from cheap supermarket drink. I think your readers need to be made aware of the perils involved when logging on to Whistling Jack Smith clips.
If you have anything you'd like to share with our readers, just eMail us at the usual address. Or send a letter. We'll probably delete it without bothering to read it, or if it's written on paper, we'll probably burn it, but you never know! We might just publish it in an off-guard moment of madness.