Category: Tongue in cheek

The English Patient

“You’ve heard of a French letter, yeah? Well, what’s a Dutch letter? A condom with clogs on so they can hear you coming” (boom boom).

“Did you hear about the two queers in a telephone box? They were ‘ringing’ (geddit?), ringing each other”.

And so I found myself transported back in time to when Jim Davidson was allowed, the mini metro was cutting edge technology and sexual assault was regarded as a little light flirting. A time when the classification of ‘rape’ was reserved for activities including the actual blindfolding and torture of young ladies in darkly lit back alleys in Whitechapel.

The ‘joker’ lay almost flat on his back on the opposite hospital bed. He wore, or rather was draped, in an NHS gown which barely covered his legs. The flap of the gown rode up so high on his thigh that it invited a shrivelled walnut shaped hairy scrotum to make its appearance, but thankfully we were spared. His dark sunken eyes and sallow complexion, his wrinkled turtle necked skin upholding a blotchy, mottled liver spotted complexion which, thanks to hair loss, covered his whole pate, were all testament to years of smoking. He rasped his jokes in between sucking in oxygen through plastic nasal speculae, while his rheumy eyes, long devoid of sparkle, attempted to project wit, but utterly failed to do so. Instead, Death’s bony fingers drummed impatiently on the bedside table, perhaps waiting for his cue, and certainly waiting for the end of the jokes.

“OH, DO SHUT UP”, Death silently boomed into his ear, “YOU ARE ALREADY LATE”.

Why it did not occur to Death to merely sever the plastic oxygen tube with one wing of the scythe is something to regret, no doubt, and to take to his grave, always supposing Death has a grave.

 

A hospital ward is not always a happy place.

It might be something to do with the people who go there. It might be something to do with the amount of forced cheer amid the pools of blood, piss and broken dreams. It is often a place in which a lifetime’s aspirations, vision and long hoped for achievement smash into the reality of desperation and blood flecked sputum often spewed out through clouds of alcohol infused breath and fag ash. A place where one hoped to live but come to die, where the milk of human kindness is not supposed to curdle, and where faith, hope and charity are not merely long faded memories or the names of a trio of white doe eyed fluffy kittens the vet accidentally put down after mixing up the lab results with that of a cancer riddled mutt with rabies.

The patients are not much better. especially when they tell jokes.

So, I find myself admitted for investigations and treatment after spending a brightly lit and noisy night in the ED. Ah, sleep, perchance to dream of fluffy pillows, soft warm duvets and dark peace. Imagine, if you can, being in a K hole but with operating theatre lights trained to hit your retina with the brightness of a thousand Hiroshimas. Noise assaults your every sense, you can even taste it. It’s not the EDs fault…for how else can they help assess, diagnose and treat humanity’s fear, stupidity and decrepitude. The only people at peace here are the near dead (and the actual dead).

“WELL, WHAT DID THEY EXPECT WITH THE ‘IRISHMAN WALKS INTO A BAR’ ROUTINE.”

 

I’m keeping my witticisms to the minimum over the next few days.

A scientologist homeopath in a K hole.

The Nursing Times reports on the falling number of nurses and midwives registered to work in the UK over the past few months.

Perhaps this does not matter to most of us as we worry about whether to buy our Christmas from John Lewis or J D Wetherspoon, or before concerning ourselves with the searing injustice and travesty that is some prancing git in a sparkly shirt being being shown the door before he has had the chance to enthral us with his pretty feet. Perhaps we believe that the real life Holby Cities truly are staffed with the beautiful, if very flawed, people who can perform miracles with just a twitch of a stethoscope, frowning and cries of ‘morphine stat’ before being covered in projectile vomit. Perhaps we think NHS staff smile through the mask of emetic substances dripping from their faces as they perform miracles every hour.

To take our minds off the future, when many of us will face our last days in some piss stained, overcrowded brightly neon lit corridor being looked after by an alcoholic doctor, and a Zimbabwean care assistant whose slim grasp of English is matched only by a desert dwelling Uzbek goat fucker with access to a torn, half copy of the Beano in which to learn verb conjugation, we stare at the TV screen promising us youthful skin, a drive on an empty mountain road and the chance to vote on some nonentity whose song we will not remember, will not buy and will merely momentarily dose us to kill the pain of ennui that is everyday life in consumer capitalism.

Nursing is being reduced to running around with a bucket, a mop and some hope, all aimed at stopping the bleeding. We all have orifices that need plugging from time to time lest we leave a trail like a pissed up slug on a mission to the next lettuce. However Florence Nightingale had higher hopes for the successors of her young ladies in training than being reduced to cleaning wounds with their own tears and the silk of parachutes from the nearby war museum. The measures of success on many shifts includes having the same number of live patients that you started with, avoiding a fight with a drunk (it is a bonus if the drunk is not the consultant) and being sprayed with non infectious urine. The great vision for the NHS includes the provision of care by families and a few care assistants. Registered Nursing, you know…the sort that includes people who might be able to spot if your babbling and loss of consciousness is not the result of being given the bill for care but is in fact the early stages of sepsis, is on its way out. Family care is fine, if your family is more Waltons than Addams. Do you really want your old mum, or your wife, poking her finger up your anus in order to clinically examine your tonsils? What your wife does in your spare time at home is your own business, but is she the right person to be prostate tickling in the intensive care unit when you are actually complaining of a headache?  Imagine Grandad, after a six pints of mild and bitter, pushing his way through the throng around your sick bed shouting; “stand back, I’ve got this” while brandishing a toilet brush and barely concealed menace?

This is what the ‘Austerity’ actually means. Hunt will blather about more training places…but we know ‘more’ is not the same as ‘enough’. Austerity, we should remember actually means the ‘dissembling of the protectionist state in order to facilitate the transfer of public services to private ownership’. Hunt know this…it is part of the plan. He once called the NHS a ‘great commercial opportunity’. Why should Hunt et al give a toss about hospitals and schools that they will never use? They are as disconnected from our social reality as a Scientologist homeopath in a K hole.

I’m sending Granddad over to Richmond House.

Dirty Money – Lovely Jubbly.

Photo by Les Anderson on Unsplash

Now, let’s get something obvious out of the way. Do I like a fiddle? Do I like to pick a pocket or two? Do I enjoy getting away with it? Well, if the opportunity arises to save a few quid I will take it laughing all the way from the pub to the bank. Have I been known to engage in activities that should ideally stay in a dark cupboard lest the very beasts of hell are let loose to defeacate upon the heads of babies? In short, am I cleaner than a freshly scrubbed and laundered starched white cotton cloth? Yet I have to admit that perhaps I have let slip my moral standards from time to time. My righteousness is as a filthy rag rather than crisp white linen. Jesus died to save sinners, but when he saw my track record on all things nefarious, immoral and perverted, it was too much even for the son of God. He was referring to me when, upon the cross, he cried up to God saying “Forgive him, for he not only knows what he has done, but he has encouraged others to do similar, only with less embarassment and more lubricant”. Jesus wept. Not for sinners, but for the complete waste of time his 33 years on earth was spent in order to redeem my wretched black hearted soul. As the last nail was banged in, all he could think about was my irretrievably ungrateful indifference to his suffering while I considered the next venture into silk pantied and lace lined debauchery with a sweet, cherry lipped vicar’s daughter and her vibrator on the lawn at the Queen’s garden party. “Christ, all that healing and vintnery for bugger all” he thought before letting out a wet fart.

That established, am I qualified to consider the implications of the ‘Paradise Papers‘?

First, let us not forget the ‘Panama papers‘. This was the leak of over 11 million documents from law firm Mossack Fonseca and shed a little light on over 200,000 offshore entities. They contained personal financial information about wealthy individuals and public officials that had previously been kept private. Some of the Mossack Fonseca ‘shell’ corporations were used for illegal purposes, including fraud, tax evasion, and evading international sanctions. The Paradise papers are a similar leak from law firm Appleby which again shed light on offshore tax havens and the avoidance activities of wealthy individuals and corporations such as Apple.

‘Only the little people pay taxes’. I forget who said that, possibly someone as wealthy as Croesus and the morals of a rutting dog with easy access to a pack of bitches on heat. They share the same disdain and indifference towards others as they fuck anything that looks like it needs fucking as long is it feels good. They are now fucking the great British public by stealing a decent education from children, kicking the zimmer frames away from our grannies and laughing in the face of the mentally ill.

As dogs sniff arseholes, the wealthy sniff loopholes.

They are aided and abbetted in their endeavours by lawyers whose attachment to ethics is as loose as a coke fuelled casanova’s commitment to celibacy at an orgy. They are advised by accountants whose devotion to public service is in inverse proportion to their devotion to gaining pecuniary advantage, and serviced by politicians whose obseqiousness in the presence of wealth would make an Edwardian butler blush in embarrassment. The rules of the game are so rigged that not only is the line between good and evil blurred, it has been erased, deleted, rubbed out and thrown away waiting discovery and study by some future historian of 21st century moral philosophy. Plutocrats, the 0.01%, the ‘super-rich’ are so detached from the rest of us that not only do they think we should eat cake, we should pay them for the ingredients, the recipe and the aga to cook them in while they insert a finger of fudge to milk our collective prostates for more cash. Their moral universe is so distorted that they would consider buggering schoolboys over the high alter in St Paul’s Cathedral acceptable if the price was right. To them, the general public are bovine, nothing but a source of capital accumulation, and when we have lost our usefulness we are thrown away like a snot damped tissue in the gathering winds of an October gale.

Why do only fools and horses work?

 

“She’s a little cracker”

Photo by Anita Peeples on Unsplash

 

It was shockingly revealed today that a knee had been touched. Moreover, the perpetrator was a man whose grasp of dinner table etiquette was as firm as a weasel’s wet fart only less palatable. The sous table fiddling had followed nods and winks over the soufflé and not a little gentle innuendo over the cheese course. We have reason to be thankful that dessert was not a crème brulee lest it provoked the ardours even more, symbolising as it does how a superficial hardness later reveals a softer creamier extrusion after a short bit of agitation with spoon and finger. Reports have noted similar events at other gatherings where men in dinner suits, over inflated egos and unjustified self-confidence had mistaken large bulges in their trousers for indicators of sexual prowess instead of their wallets. It is generally accepted that where two or three, or more, are gathered together in an alcohol infused reverie, in which ego is in inverse proportion to actual importance or ability to deliver, that lines would be crossed and perhaps later snorted. To say this was revelatory is stretching it a bit, following as it does numerous sightings of woodland defaecations by the genus ‘Ursus’. Journalists at certain tabloids of course have made hay, splashing the story across their front page feigning faux indignation at such an outrageous and clumsy attempt at foreplay. On page 3, Sharon of Colchester (23) was quoted as saying that “although this appears to be an indiscretion, it by no means reduces the Honourable Member’s ability to be a thrusting bastion of Defence expenditure in the Cabinet, if he can control his member in number 10”. Her tits looked rather splendid as well.

 

Dr Archibald Creampie at the International Journal for the Promulgating of Advancement of Studies has conducted research into this area for quite some time. He has written extensively and recently published a paper ‘Tory Ministers, Their Trousers and Trifling Infidelities in the Neoliberal era: An ethnography in troubled times’, stated “The association between certain positions of power and incidences of knee touching are highly correlated. It has even been known that late night drinking in bars at Westminster has a causal relationship to fellatio, rimming and embarrassment the next day.” However, his ‘participant observation’ methods have been criticised for allowing subjectivity to cloud his analysis.

 

Boris Johnson was unavailable for comment.

Military Morality

Bugger.

And there was I thinking that the military was a bastion of middle class, middle england values, whose members would no more indulge in the seven deadly sins than Marks and Spencer would sell premium sex toys next to the baby food. The Army, Navy and Air Force are renowned for taking feral working class oiks whose career paths would otherwise include a little light fingering, assault as a matter of ritual (and avoiding picking up the soap in the showers at HMP Dartmoor), and then turning them into highly trained, disciplined, single minded targets for every passing jihadi with a rucksack and bitterness. Officers, of course, being drawn from the ‘respectable’ middle classes, already know the score and how to keep their little peccadillos from being dragged out of the shadows, blinking into the harsh light of justice. They are the moral backbone of the military, whose first principle is of course ‘don’t get caught’.

 

Our fabled military then is a supposed home to a solid conservativism, one which would no more recognize impropriety in the ranks than it does Imperialism in Whitehall.

 

And yet…turns out someone (and 8 of his shipmates on a nuclear submarine) likes a toot of Colombia’s finest white stuff, while two of his superior officers breach the ‘no touch rule’ designed to prevent intimate relations on board. There is now panic in the rest of the fleet as the Defence Secretary, Micheal ‘Fiddler’ Fallon, wants all submarine crews to be drugs tested. Is he mad? That’s like lifting manhole covers in London hoping to see sweet scented pink ribbon wrapped bouquets of roses instead of a fleet of fetid, feacal flecked fatbergs clogging the arteries of the city. What does he think will turn up?

 

Who does he think joins up and why they do so? The Royal Navy in particular was built on Rum, Sodomy and the Lash. Hearts of Oak joined up to serve King/Queen and Country, to go to other countries and shag their women, bomb their brothers and shout loudly for more beer. They went to avoid having to do the shitty zero hours, low paid, dead end bullshit jobs back home. Alcohol is the lifeblood that makes it tick over. Pusser’s Rum was the oil lubricating the penile pistons in whorehouses from Devonport to Sembawang. Adultery is always an option, especially now that Wrens go to sea.

So, there is of course a stonking great elephant here, wearing a big red sash called hypocrisy. The Navy is not the Church of England at sea.

 

If you ever find yourself in a huge metal tube, cut off from the outside world for very long periods of time with the coming apocalyse in nuclear form as company, and you don’t sniff a little, swig a little or shag a little to avoid facing up to the insanity of your situation…I fear for your soul.

Finance’s dirty secrets – Who will open the hotel door?

 

Photo by Fabian Blank on Unsplash

When no one is looking, when silence falls like a heavy blanket, while dust particles float in the shaft of sunlight in the dimness, slim bony fingers move over the keyboard. Nods are given and winks flashed in order to transfer big numbers via noughts and ones from a shady hidden one to a darker other. Old school ties are metaphorically straightened, thoughts turn to the Club when the day’s work is done. Dreams of avarice beckon one on like an old fashioned Soho whore in the doorway. Lust will put its boots on after Greed has paved the way and to make it acceptable to one’s addled moral conscience, cliché upon banality upon lies will tell the story to oneself, to provide the silken pure white sheets that cover the blood and sweated faecal stains of the night’s endeavours.

 

Capital accumulates in strange ways. Some are open and honest, save for the overlooking of the true nature of the transaction which always involves taking more candy from the baby than is actually given to it. This is a sleight of hand worthy of cardsharps and magicians of the most celebrated of seaside ‘end of pier’ shows. Now you see the surplus…. Capital used to just kill people openly by pitting spears and wishful thinking against flag, cannon and musket. Gold, nutmeg and people were exchanged for religion and germs backed up by guns and steel. This imperial and colonial routine followed the removing, at home, of peasants’ access to the commons through telling them the story of Divine Right of Kings, backed up visions of hell for the non believer. ‘Divine Right’ has been replaced by threats of ‘Venezuelan Marxism’ as the stick with which to beat the peasants.

 

Shoving a rifle in someone’s face while you steal their land, is of course a bit passé, a bit too obvious and unnecessary in the digital networked age. Instead, join the Club, the one that Capital keeps hidden in the murk of misinformation, disinformation, ideology and obfuscation. We are told, or we pretend to believe, the Club does not exist. Yet, some of us aspire to joining the Club, dreaming of the day the invitation flops onto the doormat accompanied by the sound of crying and dying babies being droned bombed in far away places to the soundtrack of the tuneless drivel of ‘Star Spangled Banner’ or ‘Gosudárstvennyj gimn Rossíjskoj Federácii’.

 

Its membership is exclusive of course, and the hoi polloi have as much a chance of joining, as it has of finding itself showered with gold plated rose petals in a one star, pissed stained, public lavatory run by Kensington and Chelsea Borough Council on fire. Instead the Club works behind the scenes while the hoi polloi get fingered and fucked like a Hollywood starlet in a Producer’s hotel bedroom. Our collective prostate is being massaged by the big, fat, hairy knuckled finger of corporate banking and will go onto until we realise our screams for mercy are caused not by the pain of seeing the ‘skiving disabled sick shirking their responsibilities for looking after their mums and dads while sponging off the state’. Rather we might see that the origins of our screams lead back to the invitation to the hotel room, that it was a promise to be bent over and humped by the fickle phallus of finance lightly lubricated by the emollient of ideological cover. Yet in that room, we have chosen, or been forced, to swallow the salted seminal poison of the misdirection and legerdemain of finance capital.

 

Not all banks are bad of course. But when we read of certain activities linking South Africa, fraud, money laundering, and the buying of influence, which has ruined a UK public relations company and damaged auditors KPMG, we might like to consider that given the heroic role of finance in the US and the UK that this might be a tip of the iceberg? We might want to open the hotel door little wider just as the skirts are being lifted for another go at the naif?

Five giants unleashed

Upon a blasted heath, or in a very dark corner of a smoke filled room, or around the kitchen table in a Cotswolds mansion at ‘kitchen supper’ time, plots have been ruminated over, designed and put into action. Cold stone hearts drive the calculated rationalities of bureaucratised, intellectually bereft mindsets who can not see further than their own bank balances and a slow descent into senility. Horizons of expectation and hope have been so lowered that they barely reach the fetid scum ring line of a misused toilet in a backstreet brothel in Rochdale. Pettiness, fear and misanthropy are the guiding principles of social policy that not so much gets developed as oozes from under a slaughterhouse door like a pool of blood specked vomit looking for a dog. Blank eyes, behind them a vacuity of such sucking force a black hole would be jealous of, stare with barely concealed contempt at the need to think about social responsibility. The only thing they see is a gold coin being held in the hand of a starving child, a gold coin they think is rightfully theirs and therefore the prising of infant fingers from which can be justified. Tears do not move them, anguish is ignored, pain is relished as being good for building self reliance and character building. ‘Top Cornflakes’ rise to the top in the face of such adversity.

And so it is that families are shirkers, and homes paid for over 30 years must be sold. Pooling risk, so that individuals may be spared the trauma and bankrupting expense of personal tragedies, is anathema now. Beveridge’s five giant evils awaken, stir, blink, the reports of their death somewhat premature. They’ve been given new life by the austerity defibrillator and the life giving infusion of Brexit. Squalor surveys the landscape and smiles with delight at both gilded and burning towers; Want is pleased to see repositories for foodstuffs proliferate across the land like pustules on a teenagers face; Idleness delights itself as it transforms into a new form of gig activities which strengthens Squalor and Want’s grip around the citizen’s throat. Sickness revels in its ability to inflict its pain unequally and with increasing force, while Ignorance cannot believe the ease with which it has captured so many Oxbridge educated minds.

Ministerial nightmares pave the way for the dismantling of both Beveridge’s and Bevan’s dream. “I have a dream” has been replaced with “go fuck yourself, you lazy skiving (migrant) peasant”. Another dream, “The British Dream” drifts into our space like a wet vindaloo and Guinness generated fart. The dream only includes nice white people in the Home Counties and bits of Cheshire. ‘I’m alright Jack’ is now ‘I’m alright Rupert’ as Jack is far too working class and is not aspirational enough. Aspiration itself is the new Jerusalem upon a green hill far away, but upon closer inspection only a few have been given the map showing the hill’s location.

The blasted heath is deserted now, the smoke clears and the last supper in the Cotwolds has been eaten. Five giants stomp across the land while the plotters retire to Tuscan homes, comforted by fat pay checks and bonuses for setting them free.

May’s ‘Big Club’

 

George Carlin was, and Frankie Boyle is, a comedian. And it falls to comedians to, at times, spike the ideological and smug self serving petty bourgeois bubble that surrounds many politicians, a bubble that allows them to utter, on publically  funded platforms such as the BBC, complete codshit they allow to flow from their silver spooned throats like cancer inducing projectile vomit. George reminds us that there is a ‘Big Club‘, who don’t want you to know that “you are owned“. Members of this Club don’t “want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking“. The Big Club exists and “you ain’t in it“, because “good honest hard working people continue elect rich cocksuckers who don’t give a fuck about you” while they sell you the “American Dream”. Its a dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

Frankie suggestsThe Conservative party doesn’t really do principle, it’s more of a pitch by elite interests at what they think the public might buy“. This pitch is fronted by cartoons such as Boris Johnson and latterly by  “Jacob Rees-Mogg, a composite figure drawn from the nightmares of 18th century millworkers. He looks like a Punch cartoon of the first giraffe in England, and maintains the general air of someone who has had a wank to the Book of Deuteronomy.”

A Tory somewhere will spot an opportunity and start printing ‘wipe clean’ old testaments. Jesus will weep.

We should not have to be reminded that the Tories represent the interests of Capital while simultaneously trying to convince us that having milk snatched from babies mouths, throwing the disabled in front of buses, telling the mentally ill to ‘pull themselves together and get a (zero hours) job’ is the best thing since discovering that your willy is a source of eternal gratification especially when you get someone else to stroke it.

Members of the Big Club in the UK often share a certain background, but not exclusively so…they manage to co-opt members of all classes, some of whom lemming like, leap willingly into the abyss while some of their peers push them over the edge singing ‘Rule Britannia’.

Our society is riddled with contradictions. We complain about a health and social care service being brought to its knees like a catholic choir boy being forced to swallow the acrid jizzum of Capital’s High Priests while being told it tastes like honey and yet we don’t want to ‘tax the rich’ in case they take fright and hide away. We gawp at, and cheer on, one London based couple receiving State handouts because they talk posh, are pretty and went to a decent school while baying for the blood of other State supported couples who have the temerity not to be born in a gilded tower in Mayfair but to have lived in some other smoke stacked tower in Kensington.

Frankie writes: “The contradictions of our society are managed by having an elite class who have internalised them, often through attending public school and Oxbridge (Oxbridge is a compound term formed from the words obnoxious and privilege). What we often think of as the self belief instilled by an elite education is really a kind of class exceptionalism, a belief that privilege is earned through talent and hard work, against all of the available evidence“.  Don’t confuse an ‘elite’ education’ with ‘education’.

Theresa May had an education. This included St. Juliana’s Convent School for Girls, a Roman Catholic independent school. When she was 13, May won a place at the former Holton Park Girls’ Grammar School, a state school in Wheatley. May then attended the University of Oxford where she read geography at St Hugh’s College, graduating with a second class BA degree.

I’m assuming the geography she read at Oxford included the ‘Ladybird of Book of the British Empire’, Capitalism for Dummies’ and ‘How to Airbrush History’.

Recently May stated “A free market economy, operating under the right rules and regulations, is the greatest agent of collective human progress ever created. It was the new combination which led societies out of darkness and stagnation and into the light of the modern age … That is unquestionably the best, and indeed the only sustainable, means of increasing the living standards of everyone in a country“.

May either does not know or wilfully ignores the fact that the ‘free market’ bit is bollocks, that neoliberalism is all rhetoric, not reality, one which serves the interests of Oligarchs and Plutocrats.  That the notion of ‘progress’ is blind to the past and present human suffering required to create it, that to call other eras, and human societies that exist or have existed ‘darkness and stagnation’ is the arrogance of Anglo-American modernity…a modernity that is consuming itself, the biosphere and the planet. May is the product of a petty bourgeois home, spouting petty bourgeois platitudes, to a petty bourgeois audience whose tears of joy at such banalities flow as acid to the hopes, dreams and ambitions of billions.

The Big Club cheers while it watches its rentier and casino finance wealth pile up in untouchable tax havens. The arms dealers, the tobacco Lords, the military-industrial complex, the fossil fuel and media Barons, shower themselves with praise and dividends while the little people are distracted by two morons with an arsenal of nuclear weapons whose size is only matched by ego.

 

Ein Bisschen Muscheln Penisneid

Photo by Sebastian Spindler on Unsplash

Psychoanalysts in the US have been examining detailed evidence provided by professors in projectile physics (rocket scientists) at the Bikini Atoll Institute for the Study of Ionising Radiation, University of Hawaii, following the testing of nuclear weapons in the Pacific. As the radioactive fall out settled down into the aquatic food chain, detailed psychological profiling using data found in marine life, revealed a long suspected but to date unconfirmed thesis. Notwithstanding the difficulty of extrapolating conclusions from the study of molluscs’ post blast mating behaviour, a eureka moment occurred to scientists when observing two mussels (glowing bright green at this stage) facing each other and sticking out their little elongating pink feet from under their shells. The dimunutive molluscs did this in rapid succession as if to compare the size of their tiny muscles (no pun intended). A limitation to the analysis was the requirement to anthropomorphise this behaviour in order to apply the findings to the already documented psychodynamic behaviour in humans. A key factor was the use of the nuclear weapon and its ionic radiative effect on aquatic fauna, who in response to being bathed in the fallout displayed alpha male behaviour normally seen in Political Leaders of tinpot dictatorships such as PRNK and in Washington DC. Dr Gottfried Freud (no relation) of the Institute for the PsychoAnalytic Understanding of Marine Fauna said of the molluscs, “it was as if they were in a competition to see who had the biggest dick”. This finding suggests that political leaders not only like to compare the size of their phallic shaped rockets but that actual use, such as penetrating the space of another’s enclosed airspace, actually encourages further comparison which could lead to further use and escalation. Dr Freud added that if this analysis was correct, then the aquatic studies reveal “we are fucked”.

 

Beer

Photo by Yulia Combat on Unsplash

A recent study suggests that beer is better than paracetamol for pain relief. In a randomised controlled trial in which one control arm was given beer and the other 1 gram of paracetamol, self reported pain levels were nearly 90% lower in the beer group.  The beers were two from England: 1) Old Cockfiddler’s IPA at 4.5% and 2) Munchnuggets dark stout of 5%, and a beer from Scotland  McTavish’s Sporran Lifter at 4.8%. Researchers from the Institute of Entheogenic studies at Tolskiddy University were involved in the 5 year long study in three locations: Cornwall, Shropshire and Ross and Cromarty. The lead investigator, Seamus, also known as ‘f*ck me I’m pissed’,  Penberthy had to spend the first four years finding suitable locations in which to conduct the study. This involved visiting numerous public houses with either ‘Arms’ in the name or those that made reference to Royalty. Pubs with non-traditional nomenclature were excluded from the study, as were all Wetherspoons. The locations had to have high levels of bonhomie and cleavage on display. The scientific reason for the necessity of the display of the latter was not reported. Participants were asked to rate their pain levels before taking either the beer or the paracetamol and then again about 4 hours later. The beer was to be taken in quantities decided upon by the research participants within that time frame. They were not allowed to take any spirits as this was identified early on in the pilot study as a confounding variable and thus invalidating the results. Pork scratchings, and other non meat based snacks were allowed. Limitations to the study were reported as a) the source of the pain was not identified except for childbirth which could safely be ruled out b) not all data from particular locations could be recorded due to passive inebriation on the part of the data recorder. The Scottish data was particularly affected by the inebriation factor. Conclusion: if there is any suggestion that you might feel pain now, or in the near future arising from any cause (physical, emotional, financial, existential or philosophical) then it is better to drink beer than rely on piffly packets of paracetamol which are harder to source in a pub than beer. This latter finding was a happy  unintended consequence of the study.

Why 10% did not find beer better at paracetamol for pain relief was not known. Hypotheses include abstinence, lack of a pain source or death of the participant within the 4 hour time frame.

 

 

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