Tuesday, 9 June 2009
The Labour Party: Pregnant mothers unite in the current leading majority of government. However, they are now losing support swiftly due to excessive moaning, the fact that they are all eating us all out of house and home - an unfortunate side-effect during the current economic climate, and that they have been claiming money to get their birthing pools cleaned, apparently.
Their long-term aim is to throw all men into a torturing vortex of fiery doom by 2013, though they appear not to have thought this through properly as it may well lead to their demise. Plans to develop a method for immaculate conception were thrown out in a mass zealous strop by all members after finding that there was no chocolate available during the meeting. But then, they are known for their irrational tendencies.
The Conservatories: A party of generally un-aesthetically pleasing glass structures, usually added to the side of a property, the Conservatories are aiming to have left their mark in every household in Britain by 2015. Often accused of an unyielding disregard for the state of people's body temperature, they have been blamed for many a case of sun stroke. However, they fervently deny this, siting excellent garden views and extra storage facilities as just a couple of their pros. So as not to hamper their 2015 aim, those who cannot afford to build a conservatory or do not have the space for one will be mowed down by evil dogs in a ceremonious hunt, jollyfied only slightly by the sound of a trumpet. Yah, yah, yah.
The Lib Dames: A group of Liberace tribute acts, some say that the Lib Dames exclude most areas of society. Their party tagline 'Bling is Best' is considered an unachievable ideal by many during the current recession, although chavs beg to differ, claiming they can bejewel themselves for under a fiver and still have change for fags. Many worry that taxpayers money will be used to lavishly furnish the Houses of Parliament, although the Lib Dames insist that this is nothing new.
The Green Party: With a ridiculous passion for its namesake colour, the Green Party rejects anything that moves beyond it in the spectrum. Often accused of basing their party policies around obsession and, some say, consequent bipolar disorder, many of its members wake up hating themselves on account of being a sort-of skin colour. Currently trying to pass an act that states all trunks must be chopped from underneath trees, many think the Green Party are actually closer than we may think to worldwide domination thanks to Gucci earmarking green as the colour of the season. It's so in, dahling.
UKIP: A party representing the narcoleptics of society, UKIP fight for the right to make no distinction between day and night. Although many have tried to explain that this would seriously effect the economy, society as a whole, and those who enjoy dogging, nobody in the party managed to remain awake long enough to hear the pinnacle of the argument. A positive point of having narcoleptics in the Houses of Parliament, and one that is currently enriching the lives of most MP's and day time TV watchers respectively, is the speed at which proceedings occur during Prime Minister's question time in order to try and catch the UKIP members before they nod off.
RESPEC': Certainly a very modern form of Political Party, Respec' is made up of the chavs of society who brought their descriptive language traits with them, izzit. Currently baffling everybody in the Houses of Parliament, the teens often break into rap and break dancing to get their points across. That's if they actually turn up. Their aim is to rob from the rich and give to the ever increasing numbers of yooff what can't be arsed to work, innit, but instead spread their seed and watch their girlfriend's wombs grow. They are presently trying to pass an Act in parliament recognising procreation as a job. With a very decent income, incidentally.
The BNP (Banoffee Pie): Represented by a band of fascist, yet house-proud women, the BNP's aim is to send all foreigners home, because this is their land. Daddy told them so. Unwavering in their belief of British superiority mixed with an irrational hatred of most people they just can't understand, many of its members have use of only one brain cell that gets passed around the party. A firm favourite of the late Diana Mitford, they are currently looking to intersperse anti-asylum propaganda adverts with a cooking tip of the day. Should they come into power, those who cannot agree with their ideals will be publicly humiliated and sent to India to work for the Empire.
Lets all move to Monaco. They have a very pretty royal family.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
This splendid, “medium, black Americano please” (“do you want milk with that?”) drew me to consider something that was brought up on twitter recently – men & women. Friends. Double acts; they always seem to be of the same gender. Morecambe & Wise, Peter Cook & Dudley Moore, Fry & Laurie, French & Saunders, the two Ronnies; Ant and Dec might be the only exception to the rule. And even they both look like women. This thought got me wondering – why? Why, God, hasn’t Ant McPartlin taken a step towards the Antonia dream and had gender reassignment surgery?
Ant & Decla
It got me wondering why, bar perhaps Phil & Fern (both happily married to other folk) and Richard & Judy, (married to each other, perhaps not happily) is it that a man/woman team just doesn’t seem to work out well? Is it that, as a general rule, such double acts can only reach the dizzy heights of day time TV? Or that perhaps somewhere down the line feelings might develop, things might change, and suddenly we’d all be tuning into Phil and a heartbroken Fern? Phil and an “I might carve my heart out with a blunt ruler if I have to look into your eyes during a link once more” Fern? Can a woman and a man be just friends? What about if the desired deforms their face in an act of rebellious vengeance against the damn feelings of lust separating them from one of the people they care most about in the world, but platonically? Would the desiree not desire as much anymore, and be willing to rekindle their friendship? More importantly, was the nineties’ singer Des'ree named after a person what does lots of desiring? So many unanswerable questions, yet not one person willing to test out my self-deformation theory. Foo’s. All of you.
Talking of the effects of coffee on my brain cell, the psychic barista at Costa Coffee struck up conversation today! Tomorrow, we’ll be best friends.
But forgetting caffeine for a moment, and the dangers of the testosterone/oestrogen combination, the Sun was shining at the weekend! I went to a family birthday party on Sunday and the kids managed to persuade some of us adults to play a game of girls v boys football. Why I agreed I’ll never know – I’m the front man of fairness, the ambassador of candour. Five blokes, most of whom are established at a Sunday league standard of football is no equal match against a set of girls who can count on their pinky how many games of football they’ve ever played and still have a finger left spare. One girl was about 8, didn’t have shoes on, and spent her time playing with a hula hoop while taking up her position as “striker”, marked by my dad, 6ft 3in, who shattered many of his teeth in an overzealous attempt at goal in the early nineties. You might say he hit the post, but in person. The goalie, who was the birthday girl, was far too busy listening out for the signal to go and blow out her candles to pay any attention. The rest of us, incapable as we were anyway, had to deal with two rampant teens who seemed intent on brutally murdering anyone who dared to approach them when they had the ball, two little kiddies, 5 and 6 respectively, who would cry if we succeeded in an attempt to tackle them, and their father, whose only objective was to set up his sons to get multiple hat-tricks, in preparation for their position as Man United’s newest and youngest sibling act within the next few years, definitely.
I ended up taking the position of striker while the young girl of 7, who had decided to stop playing without informing anybody, sat on the grass contemplating life, or something equally as important to a 7 year old. My newfound position was almost purely to hold my dad back – probably not the most important aim for a striker traditionally, although eventually literal in meaning when I found my only option was to clasp my arms round his body and jump on his back.
Even after we had recruited an ex-professional footballer (yes, he was a man, but we were running out of options, and I was having far too much fun explaining that “Uncle’s a girl!”) we still lost by about seven goals to two. That’s if the game finished. I’m not sure – I went inside for a coffee 20 minutes in.
I think I’m addicted to caffeine.