More Nonsense From _Paul_And_Land_

Month: September, 2013

Running Late: Heart Surgery

Could it be that Super Hippy Dickie Branson is poised to leap from a hot hair balloon/speed boat/aeroplane/TV channel* into the presently unvirginal territory known as healthcare? Seems that he’s making all the noises that the Department of Health like and, should it transpire, our Dickie will rock up at some hospital, probably with that Scottish fella in tow, and promise the earth for the sick and dying alike.

“What heart replacement package would you like?”, he’ll ask, “we have the one with free evening calls and added channels”. And for once he’ll be right when he burbles “you don’t get that with Sky” because, as yet, Sky aren’t doing open-heart surgery. But given the lucrative opportunities, it won’t be long before you’ll be given the opportunity to have a dish on your head – even before the surgeon’s scalpel (sponsored by Tata or some other weapons grade metal producers) has had a chance to be sponged down by SODEXHO, ICS or Mitie cleaners following it’s last incision. All most excellent if you want a faster broadband speed for your new heart (sponsored by ASDA) but, in reality, about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike.

Still we can look forward to Dickie making some inroads on timing and the like. Just look at the excellent service provided by his high quality trains which all turn up good and prompt and are always spotlessly spotless. Thinking about it, privatised healthcare will pretty much be the same as privatised trains. You’ll be all scrubbed up and ready to roll with the new Kidney Express (brought to you by Subway) when there’ll be an announcement that the operation is cancelled because of staff shortages. Or that new knee you’ve being promising yourself will have a surgeon failure meaning a major blockage of all knifework in Operating Theatre 1 (provided by Coca-Cola Healthcare and Soft Drinks inc.). But you won’t be able to find out what’s really going on, of course, because the various people wandering around the place work for SERCO or Circle Health or some other bunch. And the phone number you’ve been given by your Personal Healthcare Co-ordinator gets you through to someone called Kyle in Zimbabwe or BJ in Mumbai.

But at least you get to choose the music you want to hear whilst your blood is pumping out onto the operating theatre floor. UK garage, indy, urban jungle, what more could anyone even begin to desire at that moment of intense pain. Cheers Dickie.

Talking of intense pain, and in case you’d forgotten, this ol’ privatised stuff means you’ve got to shell out. “No worries” says Mr Super Hippy. “Now that you’ve got your free evening calls and twenty zillion gigabytes of broadband coursing through your internal organs, there’s every chance that you can get a loan from Virgin. Competitive rates, obviously”.

Dickie, you are a Modern Day Angel. Git.

*Delete as unnecessary

My Diary

I started this week on Monday which, as is the case for many people, the start of the week as well as being the first day of the week. To begin the week, I started the week off by riding my moped to Basildon where I met some other people who were also riding mopeds to Basildon.

Had dinner. Had tea and then went to see Snow White starring Linda Nolan and Lionel Blair. Wore my olive coloured trousers all day so they’re quite creased. I may use my CORBY trouser press in the morning.

Tuesday started in the morning and after popping into the House to see some people and wave at the Car Park Attendant, who I don’t know, I joined a group of other folks to sit around and talk. We talked about very important things. Very, very important things before I had a spot of lunch when I talked to some people about very, very, very unimportant things. Nice piece of fish. I dropped a piece on my beige TROUSERS but luckily it sponged off.

In the Afternoon, I met a group of local sportsmen who are truly sporting and enjoy beating women. It’s good to know that we are worldbeaters in a field which contains so many worldbeaters along with a number of worldbeaters and other assorted worldbeaters. It’s important that we continue this excellent work and I will raise my voice and wave my arms about whenever anyone is watching which I rightly should.

Pie for tea. Very tasty. And then I pressed my olive coloured trousers.

It’s Wednesday already and I’m wearing my freshly pressed olive coloured trousers. Today, according to my diary, I’m meeting with The UK National Pork Pie and Associated Pork Product Purveyors and, quite rightly, they’ll supply some Pork Pie. This afternoon I’ll be sitting about, again, whilst some people talk about some more more important things. I may wave some papers about and say hurrah a few times or I may just play Space Invaders on my phone. Either way, busy, busy, busy. Tennis tonight, burn off that Pork Pie.

Thursday already and I’ve got an early start to be in a film about eating cheese. It’s important that we eat cheese and I wholeheartedly support anyone who eats cheese. More Pork Pie later and a presentation by The British National Pork Pie and Pork Product Purveyors Association. I will smile a lot. As I’m being filmed, I will wear my red tie.

I’m struggling to decide what to do: should I listen to some people talking about really important things and the have some Pork Pie at the British Pork Pie and Associated Pork Product Purveyors Awards before heading off for tea and a production of La Traviatta or get on the moped and head north.

Friday and I can happily admit that was one of the finest productions of La Traviatta I have ever seen. Got to rush now but I’ll still have time to have a bit of leftover Pork Pie. On the moped, I’ll read the latest Swedish crime thriller novelette and check my booking for Smorgasbord-Land “A Smorgasbord of Smorgasbords”.

Not such a good afternoon: Mrs Miggins cat still isn’t very well so I tasked my team to write a lot of letters. Broke out the spare pair pair of beige trousers and headed off for a meeting with the locals. I will tell them all about the very important things. I’m then going to the theatre as I got some free tickets. Hope there’s a bit of Pork Pie.


Chatting to the chaps that footballers get paid too much. I agree, people should get paid what they’re worth. May have put foot in mouth. Again. But, in my favour, I saved a fortune on dry-cleaning and pressing bills this week. Good for me.

Looking for Causes – 1997

A darkened room, London, 1997. A tall bald-headed man wearing a double-breasted suit and a blonde haired woman are in discussion.

PP: It’s like this, my dear, you get rid. Everyone will know it’s mine as soon as they see the finely chiselled nose and statuesque demeanour. No, you can’t carry on telling the world that it’s Pedalo’s, he’s one of those foreign types and we can’t have that. They come over here buying shops and newspapers, us British types just won’t stand for it. Yes, I know the old girl’s a kraut but we’re all the same, us and the krauts. Finely chiselled noses and a statuesque demeanour, it’s in the blood.

A pregnant pause.

PP: You see, if you’d stuck with mi-laddo, we’d be in the clear. Dopey looking sod, takes after the old gal, but he can carry off the double-breasted look. But no, you had to be all modern and get tied in with Dildo or whatever his name is. And well, we can’t have bloody foreigners running the shop, can we? We’ve been keeping the buggers down for long enough. They’ve started getting ideas above their station. Take his father, what can you say about him. Bought the best shop in town and stopped selling double-breasted numbers. Always good for one on appro until he turned up. Bloody foreigner. And now you’re in the family way again, it’s obvious you’re from the sticks, can’t do anything right.

A pregnant pause.

PP: Look, I’ll sort this out. You get rid of it and stop playing silly buggers with the papers and Panorama. Bloody hell, you got a bit close there. Third person in the marriage and all that old kibosh. Good thing I had old horse face in the wings. Yes, none of that old press nonsense, just piss off to France and keep your head low. Worked for the other pair. And she was a yank. Bloody hell, a yank, in the family. Coarse bastards, the lot of ’em.

A pregnant pause.

PP: Look girl, you get shot of the young ‘un, piss off to Paris and keep schtum. Get married to Volvo if you must but keep us out of it. Who knows, in a few years, they might make a film and job’ll be a good ‘un. Oh you want to know the alternatives, you think there are alternatives. Well perhaps.

World Annihilation Day -1

William is in a helicopter with a machine gun. Somewhere over Northern Syria. He has a headset.

WW: Katie, yah it’s Wills. I’m on a mission. The chaps often talk about their missions, gosh I feel like one of the chaps. I’m wearing boots just like the other chaps and, well wow, they’ve given me a machine gun and the box set of Ride of the Valkyries. One second.

William cuts off to fire machine gun.

WW: Sorry my precious, just went over an Al-Qaeda stronghold. Looked a bit like Daddy’s village but military intelligence told us that all these foreign Johnnies cover up their strongholds. That one looked like they were having a wedding. Not as good as ours, obvs, but still a bit like a wedding. They teach the buggers early out here as well. Whitewashing them with dreams of virgins and all that old nonsense. One second.

William cuts off to fire machine gun.

WW: Sorry about that, there was a chap waving his arms provocatively. Any way, the chaps want to know when they can pop round again. Another mission, they call it. Lugs had a great time, he says. As did Baldie and they just want to see the young ‘un. Oh, yah, can you get hold of Dad, get him to send round some of his apprentices. The lads say there’s a noisy toilet door. Makes a right racket, they said.

William cuts off to fire machine gun.

WW: Just another wedding Princess. They all look the bally same, these weddings. So what about the lads popping round then? I know things can get a bit boisterous but we have a hoot of a time, don’t we? And the lads are very close to you, aren’t they?

Inaudible chatter through the headset.

WW: What’s that? Not Junior? But he has such a good selection of reggae records and, well, the lads do rag him as he didn’t get invited last time. But whatever you say. Gosh! Goodness me these chaps are actually firing rockets at us now. That seems a little unfair of them. Maybe it’s the crown the lads make me wear, catches the old sunlight. Speak soon.

World Annihilation Day -2

Central London. A plush office and David is on a Trimphone. Grey, two-tone.

DC: Barak, cut me a little slack could you. These G4S chaps still haven’t finished my bunker. It’s just not fair that I will end up as toast whilst you and that crazy Russian get to live. Really most unfair.

Inaudible screaming from other end of line.

DC: Yes, yes, I understand Barak. It was just a game that got out of hand. I left Branson in charge of the car keys and they got muddled up. How was I to know that you’d end up with Eric Pickles? But, I can tell you that you’re a very lucky man to have that Michelle, she’s quite some woman. I never knew you could that with a ….

Inaudible screaming from other end of line.

DC: Well try to imagine my position Barak, I mean Sam and that Berlusconni guy. She’s still struggling to walk upright.

Inaudible laughter from other end of line.

DC: Photographs? What photographs? I told my people to get those off the internet. Damn SERCO. They’re your people aren’t they? Why can’t they just do a job right for once. But to get back to my point of holding off World Annihilation Day for a week or two, I’ve got the army working on my bunker now. They think it’s a Command Centre. So much more easy than dealing with G4S.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

DC: Hmm, the badgers. I don’t know why he wanted them. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Take people’s minds off of other stuff. I just thought that maybe he was going to make some hats or something, you know what these Russians are like.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

DC: Please Barak, I won’t let you down again. Pretty please with sugar on top. I’m sure that Sam, when she’s feeling able to involve herself again would be more than happy to accommodate but, right now, it’s still a little painful.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

DC: Pippa Middleton? No Barak, I just don’t have that much pull. And well, like Charles, you know. He’s a little crazy.

Inaudible screaming from other end of line.

DC: You’re right Barak, I am a useless prick. Just another week, please. I’m begging you.

Click on the other end of line.

DC: Fuck’s sake. Gove, you snivelling two-faced shit, get in here now. And get that bastard Lansley on the phone.

09 May 2025

A grey and depressing bunker, just east of Moscow and Vladimir is on a phone circa 1956.

VP: Happy Unity Day Mr President Comrade. It is a very big day today and we Russians celebrate with vodka.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

VP: It is a special day for Russians and we celebrate victory over the fascists in 1945. Even Americans remember 1945, I think, Mr President Comrade. You turn up late and Mr John Wayne win war over fascism, on his own. I make a joke Mr President Comrade.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

VP: I don’t think you were ever in hand to hand combat Mr President Comrade, it teaches you to appreciate any humour. As warrior of Mother Russia, I learn many things. Most important thing is protecting pure and strong body for good of Mother Russia.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

VP: While you eat fast foods in Imperialist America, we in Mother Russia build up body of iron with much cabbage. Cabbage is very good for body. And me, Mr President Comrade, I have pure and strong body for all the Russian Mothers. I take special care of, as you say, parts. I wear special military underwear. All good Russian Fathers wear special military underwear. You cannot make bad song about me Mr President Comrade.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

VP: You make bad song about Adolf Hitler, how he only has one testicle. Like good strong and pure Russian father, I have two testicles in my special, lead lined, military underwear. I have not removed this underwear since the bunker door closed. I keep my testicles pure Mr President Comrade.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

You with your thoughts of Michelle, it is not good for pure and strong testicles. And lead is not a problem for good strong Russian men. You fools in West spend too much time worrying over nothing. One week red wine, next week butter, next week margarine. Cabbage and vodka pure for strong Russian men. And special lead lined military underwear good for strong and pure Russian testicles.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

VP: I do not care for your Imperialist lies, Mr President Comrade. But I call you back soon. And you are right, I hear cabbage water boiling in pan. Goodbye Mr President Comrade.

Click on other end of line.

VP: Cabbage water, how did he know about cabbage water?

January 17 2024

A damp, depressing and grey place somewhere in the US. The anniversary of Michelle Obama’s birthday. A phone rings and it is answered.

BO: Hello Vladimir, I’ve been expecting your call. Yes, it would have been Michelle’s birthday.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Yes, I had Spam for my meal, it was as usual. How is your vodka? Have you not run out yet? That is a shame. Just thinking about your health, Vladimir. You do realise that in a few years, as far as either of us know, we’ll be the only two on the planet.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Just a little human contact, Vladimir, that’s all I’m implying. I know that you’re the man and that you don’t wear a shirt because the ladies idolised you. As a matter of fact I was just relaxing with a few thoughts of Michelle and some pictures that guy Cameron sent me a few years back.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Look here Vladimir, what I choose to do in the comfort of my own bunker is no business of yours. If I want to relax in that way, then that’s my choice. If you want to be crude then that says something about you. All that vodka has probably rendered you incapable anyway.

Inaudible shouting from other end of line.

BO: Every time it comes back to this. Just because Bill was playing away doesn’t mean that Hilary would have wanted to engage in the same way with you Vladimir. I agree, she was very attractive…

More inaudible shouting from other end of line.

BO: No Vladimir, you dirty minded bastard, I have never relaxed with thoughts of Hilary. She was a very good friend, nothing more and just because I couldn’t get you some pictures you go off on one.

Inaudible shouting from other end of line.

BO: Yeah, well fuck you too Vladimir. Metaphorically speaking of course. And stop sending me pictures of Russian Wives. I know they’re all dead. You made sure of that.

Click as other phone is put down.

BO: You wanker.

Barak Obama’s Birthday. 2021

A grey and depressing bunker, just east of Moscow and Vladimir is on a phone circa 1956.

VP: Happy Birthday Mr President Comrade. I know it’s late but what is there to worry about? I’m drinking Vodka in your honour. Cheers, I think you say.

Inaudible chatter from the telephone.

VP: What does it matter if I get arse-holed, Mr President Comrade? I get drunk, I fall over, I wake up with a mouth like a bear’s crevice. Nobody can tell me what to do in Russia because I am the man.

Inaudible chatter from the telephone.

VP: So what if Russia doesn’t exist, I don’t care because I am still the man. I refuse to wear a shirt. I will wear what I choose, Mr President Comrade. As for you, Mr President Comrade, you are the big fool because you call yourself the President of the United States of America. That is a big joke, there is no United States of America.

Inaudible shouting from the telephone.

VP: I can twist you right around my little finger, Mr President Comrade. Or I could if I had not eaten them. All I have is this imperialist telephone with your number on speed-dial. It is glued to my head. I hate you, you bastard. I do not care for your stupid imperialist birthday.

Inaudible laughter from the telephone.

VP: But I have vodka, all you have Mr President Comrade Birthday Boy is spam. Spam from the glorious Republic of Russia. I’ll get pissed whilst you enjoy your tasty Russian Spam, Mr President Comrade.

Inaudible click from the telephone.

VP: I care not if you hang up, you imperialist pig. Enjoy your Spam. Oh those bankrupt Britons and their badger corpses.

Christmas 2020

A damp, depressing and grey place somewhere in the US. It is Christmas 2020. A phone rings and it is answered.

BO: Oh yeah hello Vladimir, long time no hear.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Yes, that’s right, I would have sent a card but, you know, all this bunker ettiquette. Seven years, yeah times flies, only another fourteen to go.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: We’ve been over this again and again Vladimir. No I don’t want another picture of you killing bears back in the old days. Yes, you loved bears, I understand, but no I can’t see there being any left. Of course you know I’m sorry about Mrs Putin but that was the deal. I waste Mrs Putin and you take out Michelle and the kids.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: I know it was effective, Vladimir, but taking out the Mid-West states was a little over-zealous don’t you think. Just for three people anyhow. How in the name of all things could I appease the good old US of A…

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Uh-uh, yes I got the MP3 of Ebony and Ivory, its very nice but the batteries have gone on my MP3 Player. And yes it is pretty cold but y’know a deal’s a deal.

Inaudible chatter from other end of line.

BO: Every year Vladimir, its the same. You drink your home made vodka and get emotional about Afghanistan and all that stuff. Get over it….

Inaudible shouting from other end of line.

BO: Fuck’s sake, you God-damned Commies. We had a deal for world control and you let me down with that Saudi guy. No Vladimir, you fuck off! Like proper fuck off.

Phone slams down.

BO: Next year, you bastard, we’re playing Risk.

Home Town

So it appears that the lovely Council in this neck of the woods are planning to overhaul the town centre, yet again. Talk of Phoenixes rising from the ashes abound and the usual pictures of smiling, dead-eyed politicos presenting and poring over their pretty little artist’s impressions fill the local news-sheet. We’ve been here before, countless times, and nothing of any true substance ever arises.

Yes, we had the shiny bus station but that rapidly lost it’s lustre and is now, as ever, a depressing reminder of the lack of thought and emphasis given to public transport in this country. Already, within a few short years of its arrival, the cracks are showing: uncared for, badly maintained and poorly planned, it is going the way of many bus stations, down-hill.

And the open air shopping facility attached to our bus station. Oh those heady days when the smiley German walked through on her World Jubilee Tour, opening stuff that smelt strongly of fresh paint, newly laid tiles and workers’ sweat. Gone are the multinational and even nationally known stores, victims of Meadowhell and recession, we are told.

And now the town smells only of depression, pasties and the vomit of last night’s revellers. The only smell of paint being the whitewash on the windows of another recently closed store. But don’t lose sleep over this single home-town for, without doubt, every other home-town is its replica. And why? Does every town have it’s Meadowhell to drag the last few quid from the punters pocket? We think not. And no, this process was well under way prior to recession giving that particular route of explanation a slap in the face. Perhaps this has more to do with the dead-eyed, dead-souled ones holding their pretty little pictures, their lack of foresight as they licked at the arses of their masters throughout the latter years of the 20th century clearly apparent. Dumb-ass policies laid down by dumb-ass politicos and followed by dumb-ass planners. And now more. Look no further, there’s the cause.