Vote Nobody

He’s got a Masters in Politics, you know.

I am quite taken by a new development in our current general election campaign. A political party that realistically has no chance whatsoever, has developed a movement for people to vote for ‘none of the above’, as the ballot slip allows. Their campaign posters show a series of unsavoury animals in suits with the slogan ‘Keep the animals out of Parliament’. Predictably the national vets association has complained for comparing innocent animals with politicians.

It reminds me of the old anarchist slogans – ‘don’t vote, it only encourages them’  and ‘whoever you vote for the politicians get in’.  But it goes beyond this to actually attempt to motivate people to vote, but actively vote for nobody at all.

It is an idea whose time has come. Plucky little Belgium has spent a year watching their bickering political parties attempt to form a coalition and fail, with the result that there has been no government for this period. And the sky didn’t fall in, regardless of the siren screeches of the doom-merchants.

So here’s your challenge. Imagine a ballot paper where you are invited to vote either for a politician (living or otherwise) or Nobody. Name that politico who so gets your hackles up that voting for Nobody is a distinctly rational choice. A point or two for the most compelling case, with credit given to pungent and intemperate language.

Meet the new boss/ same as the old boss//

Published in: on June 13, 2011 at 7:05 am  Comments (49)  


To remove all doubt, this post may or may not be written by Emperor Ming, but you are not entitled to pass an opinion nor are you permitted to consider other options.

Being insofar as the plaintiff XXXXXXXX does hereby exercise all liens and rights to XXXXXXXX  Giggs and XXXXXXXX Pippa Middleton‘s arse. XXXXXXXXX and XXXXXXX Cheryl Cole‘ accent may not be counterindicated and XXXXXXXXXX Donald Trump‘s hair. It may ipso facto  XXXXXX prerogative of the rich and XXXXXX totally Clegged.

XXXXXXXXXXXX nullifying Barcelona midfield threat and XXXXXXXX Adele XXXX Obama ping pong.  Furthermore XXXXXXXX volcanic eruptions XXXXXXX under Simon Cowell. Andrew Marr XXXXXX and XXXXXX and XXXXXX Beatrice’s hat. Any infringement of such XXXXXX may well result in XXXXX and full-blown Blatter.

This post does not exist and may not be read under any circumstances.

Published in: on May 27, 2011 at 10:32 am  Comments (38)  


So the Rapture didn’t happen yesterday. Pity.

Just imagine a world where the religious fundamentalists suddenly disappear into the clouds, leaving rational, sensible people behind. Rapture indeed.

Published in: on May 22, 2011 at 11:23 am  Comments (10)  

Fog lifting

Typical drug-induced vision

So then. After some check-up I have been taken off nearly all drugs, down to just 2 pills at night now. Helen took our sackful of pills to show the doctor and he seemed flabbergasted that he’d given me so much and took me off them pronto. The other possibility is that the bill-inflaters in pharmacy have just tripled the amount to triple the bill.

Anyway I’m home & capable of medium-length sentences that often make sense (at least to me). I’ve got a 2 month pass before I go back for this particularly grim internal examination to see if the cancers are regrouping. Bladder function has improved, but very slowly, and further down the line is the prospect of prostate surgery if bladder function stalls. The doctor tells me to be patient and remember I’m an old man with old mens complaints. I spluttered and protested at this as I still hold this self-image of myself at 27. But I suppose I must concede he has a point. To some extent.

Anyway, could be worse. I could be back in the hands of vicious sado-nurses and moon-faced dead-eyed nuns with halitosis.

So keep tuned, urinary tract fans, you’ll hear it here first.

Published in: on May 3, 2011 at 11:24 am  Comments (2)  

Gasbags of Tedium

So people are deserting this blog? I aint surprised. Thinking of leaving it myself. And why?

I’ll tell you. I’ve never seen such a smug bunch of peely-wally gasbags in my life. This is supposed to be a blog for rants and raves but it’s all so balanced and restrained. Pseudo-liberal nuance and mild offence if anyone steps out of line, like someone loosing a ripping fart at the soiree. “Oh Deidre we simply must expel that ghastly uncouth oik, he’s not one of us”

It’s become a haunt for a pack of Rev J.C. Flannels – “Yes Satan does attract a certain negativity in the commentariat but on the other hand…” Why do we need to give the other side? Just let rip. You don’t need to add references and a bibliography. Blurrrgh.

Stereotyped feminist bollox from the females, jokey blokey pub banter from the men. One-trick ponies who always twist the bland thread to their own tedious monomania. I mean, who gives a flying fuck about ID cards and holistic transgendered lentils? Who?

And that wretched last line – it’s always from some naff act in the 80’s but not one of their hits, so its hard and for the connoisseur. God, how I hate it. Last line my arse, it’s vile. Then there’s those dumb photos I save while looking elsewhere so I can insert them in posts and be terribly post-modern and ironic. Pass the sick-bag Alice.

There’s not enough posters – most are from me on my endless hospital adventures which might engage me a lot right now but we’ve all got collared by some boring old twat who goes on and on about his predictable illnesses and his ludicrous remedies. And we all legged it, right? Right. I’ll snip my drip before I turn into one of them.

Too much talking. Talk talk talk talk talk the sound & fury signifying nothing. Blether blether bleat babble babble blether blether bleat blether babble. Punctuated with staccato braying laughter Hahahhahaha. Set it on tapeloop; do it once then rewind & play again and again as new babblers emerge. They come in your house and you have to flee to the bedroom but it doesn’t stop them & you can hear the low bletherdrone grinding on punctuated with Hahahahahaha.

Its not going to be a good day today

Published in: on April 25, 2011 at 8:39 am  Comments (15)  


Wave bye-bye to medical confusion misery with our cut-out ‘n’ keep A-Z of healthcare, lavishly compiled by Ming the Mangled of Masho.

A is for Antibiotics. Don’t bother with tablets & pills, they’re just bill-inflaters. Go straight for the intravenous drips. 10 minutes and you’re on Planet Woop-Woop & they work. Mighty tackle

B is for Bedbaths. At face value most guys would love the prospect of pretty Thai nurses soaping up below the waist. Reality is they are so rough, especially over raw scar tissue, & many wear rubber boots. They pull and tug you up & every which way, rip out your drips, bang your head on the steel gratings, final effect is like 15 rounds with Mike Tyson. Pretty hardcore.

C is for Catheter. Absolutely brilliant invention, you can drink as much as you like and watch the full footie game or movie without interruption. Sleep undisturbed all night too (but see Z). Should be made optional for parties & social gatherings – loo queues obliterated at a stroke – and you can hide your bag in all kinds of flashy accessories. Easy to remove should the need arise (ahem).

D is for Denial. Cancer? No. Maybe they mean Capricorn. Yes, that’ll be it. Clerical error. Lost in translation. Phew!

E is for Electro-cardiogram. Bit of a money spinner. Keeps ’em happy though. Also Enemas – oh yes.

F is for Food. For some impenetrable reason this must be cold rice slop essentially placed on the far side of the room where you can’t reach it. The terrified nurse is in and out in seconds so you’ve no time to complain. Then the doctor does his rounds and says “You’re not eating – how come?” “(a) It’s in another time zone and (b) who wants congealed rice slop anyway?”

G is for Gurney, or hospital bed. Made of solid tungsten, bedsores are guaranteed within 2 days. You got buttons to raise & depress the thing, side cage-bars to prevent movement, pop-out arm straps to completely immobilise you, whatever you do you feel more uncomfortable than before. Pure sadism.

H is for Hospital Room Temperatures. These must be set to minus freezing. Nobody knows why. The blankets (read towels) are too short to cover you so you need loads. Once in your room you can switch off the aircon and open your windows to let some warmth in. They hate it and try to re-establish the tundra but stick to your guns.

I is for Insurance. Minute you walk through the hospital door the meter starts running. That helpful nurse with a glass of water? Ker-ching! The bloke you crashes your wheelchair into doors? Ker-ching! All the food slop you couldn’t/wouldn’t eat? Kerching! Every needle, plaster, pyjama pants, dressings, you name it. When you finally check out there are pages and pages of itemised things you’ve used (window-cleaners? Per-lease). You sign, they fax (fax!) it to the insurance company who spend hours and hours deciding whether to pay or not. By this time you’re desperate to get out and get tempted to pay up yourself. It’s what they want. Stand your ground.

J is for “Just a moment please”. The pinnacle of Nursespeak. It means “I haven’t a clue what you’re saying. I may (or may not) fetch someone else”.

K is for Kidley Infection. Don’t you mean ‘kidney’? It’s what I said, diddle I?

L is for Laxatives. Don’t bother – go for the enema. Wahoo!

M is for MRI scan. Used to be like being inserted head first in a front-loading washing machine with bad techno blasting away inside. Pure claustrophobic horrors. Now its just an arch you slide through, but the machine speaks Australian. “Take a deep breath and hold it right there, mate”.

N is for Narcotics. Morphine is vastly over-rated. All it seems to do is give you naff lava-lamp explosions on your eyelids when you close them. You have to self-administer with a click-drip. Don’t bother.

O is for Out-Patients Department. Bloody luxury.

P is for Paperwork. The raison d’être of the medical community, you are not in hospital to get well but to generate paperwork. Colossal amounts of forms must be compiled on every topic then utterly ignored. So every passing doctor or nurse will ask you what your temperature or blood pressure was last night instead of consulting your file. You can just make up numbers and they nod sagely.

P is also for Pyjamas. The tops are OK, but the bottoms are the most useless & irritating garments invented. They always, always fall down if you attempt to move. Try pulling your drip-on-a-stand to the bathroom at night with these round your ankles. After 2 days I just refused flat out to wear them at all. Still paid for ’em though.

Q is for Quit Smoking. Spend first 5 days immobile then another 15 days so drugged you can’t remember what cigarettes are and hey presto! You’re well on the way through cold turkey.

R is for Regulation . Like all Total Bureaucracies, hospitals run to rigid routines. Thus when you want to sleep (all the time) you will be constantly woken every hour to have silly tests done and be asked if you’re asleep. All is noted in the Paperwork that nobody reads. (Actually I may be a little unfair here; since they discovered my temperature soaring and blood pressure plummeting, denoting the kidley infection. Still, it annoys the living Bejabers out of you).

S is for Suspended Animation. That’s what we want. We spend 6 months out of it and they can do all the testing, slicing, probing, stitching, stapling, blood pressuring etc they want and we know nothing about it. After 6 months we revive, healthy ex-smokers. Well that’s the plan anyway.

T is for Tumours. The endoscope actually gives you take-home photos of the critters. When you close your eyes on morphine you see them totally black but limbed in bright yellow light. Nasty, & hard to shake off.

U is for Urine Test. If I’d had this very basic test 3 months ago I might have been spared a lot, but the Kan urologist didn’t think of it. It’s easy, painless and cheap, & the results are through in minutes. When did you last have one? Do it now, and have a blood test too.

V is for Visions. Largely very poor quality, and quite unpleasant, yet easy to dismiss. But dreams can be vivid and feature ancient events, feelings and people you’ve long forgotten about. Luckily a nurse will awaken you any minute and dispel it.

W is for Wheelchairs. Preferable without Thai drivers crashing you into everything.

X is for X-Rays. OK I suppose, but sooooo last century.

Y is for “You! Body Weight!” “You! Blood Pressure!” “You! Temperature!”. The eldritch screech of nazgul nurses as they continuously ruin yet another nights sleep.

Z is for Zzzzzzzz. Forget it, sleep aint gonna happen.

There’s a massive 5 points to be dispensed however my drug-addled brain decides. The question is: what have I missed from my litany of medical woe?

Published in: on April 1, 2011 at 7:55 am  Comments (25)  

Kindalike maybe

Emperor Ming issues a fatwa against pointless maddening qualifiers.

Kindalike. Dontcha just hate it? This ludicrously irrelevant neologism is just about ubiquitous and it must be stamped out immediately. Where did it come from? What is its point? Examples, I hear you cry. Well kindalike hang on, here they kindalike come.

  • “I guess I’m kindalike thinking of a Thai massage”.  Are you actually thinking or not? Or is it just a simulacrum of thinking? And why do you have to guess? Is this thought as we know it or not? And why is this pointless debate needed in making a breathtakingly simple order?
  • “And she’s kindalike Ugh and I’m kindalike Wow”. Excuse me, do you speak English?
  • “I guess maybe I’ll have the chicken”. Why the maybe? Is it the chicken or not? Or some quasi-chickenish entity unknown to science? Is that a Yes or a No? Why hedge it?
  • (A personal favourite) “If I kindalike buy a whole kindalike heap of the herbal products, like what will it kindalike cost?”. “Depends what’s in the heap” was my reply. But how can you kindalike buy anything? Either a financial transaction occurs or it doesn’t.  And what, pray, is a kindalike heap? A ziggurat?  A termite mound? Something with some attributes of heapishness but by no means all?

I first noticed these mangled debasements of our language a few years back, usually by our North American friends. Often English teachers (oh irony!). But now its everyone. Brits kynalike do it, Irish koindaloike do it,  Ozzies kannalak do it. Even people using English as a second or third language have been infected – “Zo now I am zinking of maybe ze oil massage unt also ze kindovlike steam room”. Enough.

It seems essential to deliver these spectacularly senseless missives in the tone of a dead cod, or that of an android from early science fiction B movies. With all emotion crushed out of the tone, they have to make wild flapping motions to denote emphasis.  “If I kindalike buy (waving two-hand flap) a whole kindalike heap (helicopter take-off flap) of the herbal products, like what will it kindalike cost ?” (crescendo flap, spilling drinks, shattering glasses and knocking people’s hats off).

"Not kindalike bunga bunga, is kindalike blinga blinga"

I have cast-iron proof of the sheer redundancy of these idiotic interjections. If they had any relevance to sentence construction they would have entered the parallel abomination of textspeak  (& im kndlk ug & shes kndlk wow).  They haven’t. Neither have they entered the dismal lexicon of net abbreviations like the ghastly LOL. They simply have no point or purpose.

In Darwinian terms they must be doomed to extinction. Serving no actual meaning or providing no actual value, they must be replaced with phrases of competitive advantage. But yet they proliferate. Why?

"I guess maybe I kindalike might, but I'm kinda unsure right now".

I am prepared to speculate that there is some rogue virus that assaults the speech centres of the brain. Once lodged, the speaker is completely unaware of its malign influence  while the virus rocks with mirth at the inanities spouted by its host. Why else would Americans describe everything as “awesome”? I remember, years ago, everyone being infected with a mild prototype of the virus whereby we would all say “Nice one Cyril” for no reason whatsoever. Eventually the malady wore off, leaving the continued afflicted looking sheepish.  But now the virus has mutated into such malignant and highly infectious strains that there seems to be no remedy.

I hereby declare jihad against the users of such vile nonsense and urge a culling of all infected speakers in order to purify the language. When you meet them, just kill them quickly and painlessly. There’s not a court in the land will convict and, besides, they’re kindalike asking for it. Maybe.

Something kinda oooh/ Jumping on my toot-toot//

Published in: on March 1, 2011 at 10:35 am  Comments (21)  

Global Dorking

By our resident climatologist Ming the Tolerant

One of the unexplored but crucial aspects of climate change needs to be brought centre stage. While weathers fluctuate wildly – record highs, lows, wets, drys – one constant factor has been a dramatic plunge in IQ regardless of external climatic effects. A rising tsunami of Stupidism now threatens to sweep away all vestiges of normal discourse and behaviour.  Examples, I hear you cry, evidence; let’s get empirical around here. Well OK, these examples come from just our little spa in the last week and, if replicated globally, point to an irreversible shift to global dorking.

  • Phone call. “Hello, we want to book a full-day package for 5 people.” “Certainly madame, when would you like to come?” “Tomorrow, but we need to finish by 13.00.” ” Tricky, the full-day package takes 6-8 hours and we open at 10.00.  Have you considered a 3 hour package?” “Oh no, it’s got to be the full-day package”. “It would appear difficult to fit an 8 hour package into 3 hours, given the laws of space-time”. “Yes (and this is their trump card) but we’ve booked a minibus to Ayutthaya at 13.30 so we’ll have to be finished before then.”
  • E-mail. “We don’t know when we’re coming and we don’t know how many people and we don’t know what we want. Please send availability and exact cost”.
  • E-mail. “We have reviewed your website and feel sure you will agree that we are the perfect link partners. Please add this link <Concrete blocks delivered to your site>… ” Also <Death tours in Bosnia> & <Liposuction for the over 70s>.
  • Phone call. “if we go to the tigers then go elephant rafting and then go to eat somewhere can you meet us at the restaurant?” “When? Where?”  “Oh, you don’t know?” “Give us more clues”. “Well we really thought you’d know” (click).
  • E-mail. “We’re thinking about coming on the train but we’re not sure. What time can you pick us up?”
  • E-mail. “We want to go to the museum and Hellfire pass and then get the train back to Kanchanaburi but we want to stop at the elephant bathing then go to the night market. Are my shoes OK for this? <Gives link to teva sandals>. Do you think my ballet shoes might be better? <link provided>. What should we wear on the train and do we need to get changed for the elephants? Do you think they’ll have vegetarian food for Evangeline? I’m not sure we’ll ever make it to your place! Please reply asap.”
  • E-mail. “Urgent. Do you have availability for 3 people yesterday?”

I could go on. And on.  But I think I’ve pretty conclusively proved my point.  So, in the spirit of genuine data-gathering, I offer the point to the post that most corroborates my thesis – are things getting thicker out there or whut?

Published in: on January 25, 2011 at 8:04 pm  Comments (56)  

Prostate yourself

By our WGYG medical victim, Ming the Bleary

Right. Got a heap of stuff I need to get off my chest and I know just the place.

About 2+ months ago I got a bleary eye, tears dribbling down my cheek. Thought little of it, talked to the staff if they knew of an eye doctor and got the default kneejerk response mai ruuuu (beats me Guv). Talked to Panitta the sensible pharmacist at Yaa Dii (Good Drugs) and she says there’s only one in town worth bothering with so I made an appointment. After an hour with needles in the unafflicted right eye, burrowing down to unblock the obstruction that wasn’t there, they declared success. Only after 15 attempts by myself  to point out their 50/50 error did they attempt the procedure on the visibly drippy left eye.

This is the stuff of nightmares. You can see it all as the needles close in and then you hear ao khem yao yao (Pass me the very long needles) as the giggling assistants home in with the hardware. First attempt went nowhere, bought a heap of drugs, made a second appointment. Same procedure with the assistants this time babbling on about the price of mango (expensive), zero result, more drugs, and a recommendation that I try somewhere sensible in Bangkok.

Back to Yaa Dee and Panitta recommends a hospital with very good doctors for this kind of thing, happily it’s on the right side of the Chao Phraya river so I don’t have to spend hours ploughing through Bangkok traffic. The minibus (screech skid brake) say they’ll drop me outside but don’t. I ask around and nobody’s heard of it (even though it’s only 500 metres away). Find it myself, check in, informed no doctors there today. Zoom 140 km back to Kan (Skid slam Jeez did you see that?) then repeat the journey  the next day when doctors apparently will be present.

Check in, get weighed, blood pressure taken, take lots of silly tests (the meter is running & the bill is rising) then see Dr Rosana. She’s really quite lovely and if there’s anyone you want jamming needles in your eyes it’s her. So tender in an immensely painful kind of way, I was smitten. Procedure failure again, so she packs me off to see a nose doctor, suspecting something up there causing the blockage.

Nose doctor Sathit jams all kind of hardware up my nose, including a camera, and announces the presence of polyps. These undoubtedly are exerting pressure on the tear duct and they’ve got to go. After 3 hours heated argument with the bureaucrat-fascists in the finance office who just want me to pay up rather than having them process my insurance (they can’t be bothered) then I’m off again with another carrier bag full of drugs. I’m due back in a fortnight to have the polyps removed.

Check in, take weight, blood pressure, more silly tests (ker-ching!). They zonk me out & do the operation and my first sight is someone waving a plastic bottle in front of me containing ex-polyps. “Polyp go already!” they exclaim, waving the evidence. Back in my room I’m groggy and just want to sleep but no bloody chance. Every 2-3 hours some nazi nurses come scuttling in to make my life a misery. “You! body weight” (6 pm) Why? Have I suddenly gained/lost 10 kilos?. “You! blood pressure” (9pm). You! sign paper now” (11pm). “You! bed bath” (2am). At this point my normally sunny disposition deserted me and I threw them out and extracted promises that they would not bother me again. “You! food” (4am) and yes, it’s a huge bowl of rice slop. How I missed remains a mystery to this day. I hobbled over to my door and locked it then pulled my IV drip onto the balcony and smoked like a fiend till the sun came up. If I locked the balcony door they couldn’t get me & I wanted it just that way, amused myself flicking my dogs ends 4 floors down onto their cars.

At 7am I decided it was time for “Don’t retreat, reload”. Starting buzzing them to come to me. “I want coffee, black, no sugar” “Cannot” “Can” “Cannot” “Wanna bet?”In dog end car park I can see a coffee shop with medical staff checking in before a long days bill inflation. “Right, I’m going there then, stand aside” “Oh it shut today already”. Default lies. When I got my IV drip to the door they relented and brought me a flask of hot water. And the coffee? “Cannot” “Can” etc. A nong brings me one sachet but I see another on her trolley & snatch it. “Cannot” “Watch”. About 11am, after another misguided bucket of rice slop, I’m told I can check out once the paperworks done. 2 hours later after much wrangling with the bureaucrat-fascists they admit my insurance has paid the 48,500 baht bill ( $1,600+ USD) and I’m on my way with a crate of new drugs (ker-ching!).

Get a taxi (swerve slam I don’t believe he’s doing this) with a funky guy who used to work in export but now drives cabs but his brother’s cousin’s girlfriend knows someone still in trade. Do I want to export anything? Yes, you. Normally I’m terrified on Thai roads if someone other than myself is driving. It’s just total traffic madness with amazingly stupid and dangerous high-speed stunts pulled all the time, I’m always jamming my foot on a non-existent brake. This time I just slumped behind him so I couldn’t see the idiocy in front and just zoned out on my remaining anaesthetic. Now that’s the way to travel.

I have another appointment to check up on the nose operation and faithfully take all the drugs as prescribed. 3 after breakfast, 6 at lunch, 4 at evening meal (which we don’t have, I’m on a diet) and another handful at bed time. After about 10 days I can’t pee. I can, but it’s slow, painful & inconclusive. I’m up all  night. Get back into bed and immediately need to get up for another dribble. I’m alarmed & google it to discover I have all the symptoms of major prostate disorder. I’m alarmed as my Dad died with this, family history etc., and I’m at the right age for this to kick in. Check out the Bangkok hospitals dealing with this and they want $$$$$$, way over my insurance.

Back to Yaa Dii and Panitta says there’s an army doctor in Kan who’s great and has a private surgery in the evenings. The local hospitals are a complete & utter waste of time for this. Go his clinic, get the old KY prod and sundry tests (ker-ching!) and he says I’m OK but need more drugs (a tiny bagful!)

Go back to the Bangkok hospital (screech slam Jesus!) to check on my nose. It’s OK & healing but the bleary eye problem remains. So the nose surgery was a bill-inflating distraction that achieved zip. Mention the prostate scare and doctor says “Oh yes, all the drugs I gave you often do that”. Say whut? Right, that’s it, no more drugs at all. I had such a struggle to persuade him of this, it’s inconceivable that a patient leaves a Thai hospital without bags of drugs. But I won after threatening to bin all and any drugs he prescribed (without paying).

Afternoon spent with more needles in eyes and no progress. Gorgeous pouting Dr Rosana announces that I must have another operation (ker-ching!) to replace the blocked tear duct with a bypass synthetic tube thingy. Around $12,000 USD. She too is flabbergasted that I want no more drugs. “Not even nasal spray?” Not even that.

So that’s where I’m up to. I’m due a check-up with the prostate doctor on Saturday for more KY fun followed by the new eye operation on Feb 15 with another overnight stay with rice slop and demented nurses. But the prostate problem vanished pronto as (a) I binned all the hospital drugs and (b) I only took the prostate ones.

Had I known all this I would have settled for a bleary eye. I mean, it’s not crippling and easily explained away (“I always weep when in the presence of genius tourists”). The next operation will only be a temporary fix as the by-pass needs replacing after 3 years (ker-ching).  But it’s times like this you realise how valuable the cheap, accessible and professional medical services are ‘back home’ (wherever that may be). And I’m just so f**king incandescant with fury at the time, effort and mind-numbing idiocy that has gone into such a trivial affair.

Analytics have got/ my type worked out/ analytics on me/ the poison render//

Published in: on January 21, 2011 at 7:36 pm  Comments (17)  

Bang a gong

Yes, it’s that time again folks. The most hotly contested awards in the blogosphere await as the judge’s panel considers the 2010 WGYG contenders for this years highly coveted annual prizes. As usual, bribes have availed nought (unless substantial) and the panel has met in hidden seclusion (the Jiggly Jiggly Bar) to impartially drink the proceeds. To avoid whinges of bias the judges have set on one side the magnificent and totally prizeworthy posts of our gracious host. So, without further ado,  let’s get this ball rolling.

The Marcel Proust Award for Over-Punctuation

Only one serious contender this time?????  The winner is Maggie Farmer!!!!!!!

Post with the Most Unpleasant Associated Mental Images (sponsored by Rumble Toilet Appliances)

Quite a few contenders here, mostly concentrated in the Hangovers post by TurboTrout. But a clear winner, by virtue of his erudite language and graphic descriptions, is HotLunch. It’s so horrible I can actually see it and smell it.

The Peter Mandelson Award for Crypto-Twattism 

The early runner was hegenious, but he fell by the wayside. Discourage The Moth fluttered but lost heart. But the judges were deeply impressed with a candidate of such dire tedium coupled with pompous arrogance and semantic torture so that the clear winner can only be Trackfinder.

Oddbins Award for Curious and Offbeat Posts

Quite a few contenders in the oddbox here – Takeoshi’s inverted underpants, Shed5 and the eccentricities of sheddism,  Maggie on the elaborate complexity of chicken-care, HornDevil’s unconventional obituary for Michael Jackson, Boxo on vuvuzela useage.  Who can forget Susan and her barstools, or Lotte with her missing hairdryer? But the oddest post of all was undoubtedly FreakingPig  & his (?) dystopian cyber-future. What’s he on?

The MasterMind Specialist Subject of the Bleedin’ Obvious Award (sponsored by Basil Fawlty).

Own goal

A strong field. Mark on shopping, Repoman on neo-hippies, Axel on drunks, No2ID on mad drivers, Benno on women’s mobile phone retention rates, Wilma on male hygiene, Del on junk and Fangio Banjo on smells. But squeezing through the pack to grasp the gong is Mark with Feet of Clay, a true open-goal invitation to gripe.

The Chicharito Award for Best Newcomer.

Private Fraser amused but seems stuck in a rut, hence a premature doom. justaphase flitters hither and yon and really must try harder. Oestrogen Cloud offers proof that every silver lining has a cloud. But the winner has to be No2ID for starting out as a one trick pony and developing into a more rounded poster.

Comments From Planet Zonko

Axel’s bald comment ‘kartoffel’ baffled all terrestrial life forms. But the runaway winner can only be HornDevil with his ‘mullah-flavoured condom’ and multiple comments that almost but not quite cause profound offence. You’ve got to admire the guy – he just don’t care.

Hugh Heffner Award for Crusty Sexism

Only one contender – step forward Repoman for his diatribe on female tattoos.

Anne Robinson Weakest Link Award

Who can forget Fluffy? Why I am reminding us all of it? Del – you gave the weakest link. Goodbye.

The Sir Clive Sinclair Award for Creativity That Fails.

Mark’s Group Gripe promised much but got sidetracked  into personal issues and the swamp of lethargy. Boxo on Vuvuzela useage fizzled and farted. So we decided not to award the prize this year as we can’t be arsed. So, go ahead and sue us.

Sepp Blatter Best Post of the Year (sponsored by Gizza Backhanda and Ivan Tabungski Financial Consultants)

The most fiercely contested and coveted award. Making the shortlist were Takeoshi on crap service, Axel on womens abrupt changes of plan, TurboTrout on Hangovers from Hell, Del on pirate radio & old music is better than modern $hite, Boxo on his playlist of worst possible records to take to your desert island, 42DD on male sporting prowess, & Boxo again on the Xmas Dinner to avoid. The statistics show that the post clocking up the most hits by far was Boxo’s Desert Island Donkeys so that’s our worthy winner for 2010.


That’s all folks, put any gripes in a new post. Wishing you all a Goat-Gotten New Year with plenty of ammo to post here.

Published in: on December 29, 2010 at 3:24 pm  Comments (11)