The person I would choose is on a list I have that is of considerable length, and grows longer every minute of every hour of every day....the list is in a state of constant flux, depending on my mood and world events....so, no-one tends to stay at the top of this list too long....once added to the list, it is rare that anyone is removed....when the revolution comes, I'm going to need lots of bullets, a very long wall, a JCB and a power washer....I hate to single out any one of them for special attention, but one person, and I use that term loosely, that keeps rising to the top is that professional leech, 'pr guru', rent-an-opinion and all-round vampiric waste of skin, Max Clifford....it takes a special sort of cunt to make their living off the backs of the celebrity kiss and tell, the desperate, the fucked up, the grieving, the fallen from grace, the just released from jail with a story to sell, etcetera....him and the likes of him make me fucking puke....

To tell you a secret, folks, I have this special ability, superpower, call it what you like....you know, like the folks on 'Heroes'....not only can I make myself appear more interesting than I actually am - how am I doing? hahahahahaaaa.... - I can see into parallel realities, the future, whatever, and pull nuggets of knowledge back into this domain for your reading pleasure....it's a gift, not unique to myself, that writers, especially those of what you could loosely term as sci-fi, possess....in the style of william s. burroughs, "we don't report the news, we write it...."....so, I'm not only ready for the future, I'm shaping it....like everything in the universe - from the tiniest subatomic particles up to the largest of black holes - we are shaping the future and moulding it to our collective vision....it's all possible, thanks to the laws of quantum physics....I take great sollace in the fact that somewhere, someplace, sometime, Scotland won the World Cup in 1966....and no, we don't bring it up very ten seconds, as we have gone on to win it a further twice, in a typically humble and understated manner....Benazire Bhutto, Colin McRae, his son and family friends, Phil O'Donnell, they're all still alive and well....that wee girl didn't get a quad bike from her farmer dad for xmas this year and, having got over her initial disappointment at still being alive, is now playing riotously with her little brother and his Nintendo Wii....a family in the north of England decided against having a vicious, baby killing beast as a family pet....the McCann family decided on Spain instead of Portugal for the family holiday last year....Sadaam lives, and is a very kind and benign ruler, promoting the equal share of wealth and democracy in a progressive, peacefull Middle East, that is the envy of the world....Australia is the penaly colony/war zone for the world, where all violent and intollerant types are shipped off to settle their differences in the time honoured fashion....in retalliation for the events of October 23rd 2001, where hijacked airliners with radioactive materials in the holds were crashed into the Statue of Liberty and Times Square, the White House and Capitol Hill, former ballet superstar, US President Schwarzenegger, together with his Allies in the last remaining Nazi stronghold in the islands of Gross Britain, declared war on the Soviet Socialist European Community with a devastating nuclear first strike, precipitating World War 4, and the complete destruction of North America, Europe, and the Middle East....see what I mean?

Anything at all, as long as you don't clash with me, bitch!....I am The Fairy Scotsmother, dispensing magic dust and pumpkin carriages on a whim, hither and yon, and you shall go to the ball....what would Gok Wan suggest?....hmmm....naked is a good look for you, with pixilated genitals, of course, like when they show crotch shots on 'Sexcetara'....or, one of those folks out on the street with a clipboard pretending to do a survey while attempting to sell you their brand of salvation....or, dress as a maitre d'/waiter/waitress, and spend the whole party telling your fellow guests politely but firmly, "look, fuck off and get your own champagne and canapes, I'm a guest here too...."....oh, the comedy....

I once saw an episode of 'Hercules: The Bakery Years' on this television I have hidden away in my belly button....perfect for navel gazers, such as I....I digress....it's Zeus' birthday, and as a surprise, Posiedon has arranged for a huge cake to be made in his honour....Hermes has arranged it all by text message with Hercules....anyway, the party is in full swing, the cake gets wheeled in, they all sing Happy Birthday, the cake explodes and out jumps Hera, naked but for a couple of cake fragments and a Scots pie covering her modesty....Zeus starts to help himself to cake and pie - wouldn't you? - when, out of the corner of his eye, in the wreckage of the huge birthday cake, he spots Hercules slipping the old pink oboe to Aphrodite....spluttering cake and pie crust he bellows, "haw, you pikey bastard....it's MY fucking party, and if there's any fucking to be done, it'll be done by ME!"....in a drunken, uncontrolable rage, he grabs a pick and shovel from beside his throne, leaps to his feet and, swirling the tools around above his head like deranged rotor blades, he lunges at Hercules, who is stuck fast, bollock deep in cake and snatch....Zeus looses his footing in the devestated birthday cake, crashes to the floor, and is knocked out cold....Hercules finally whips it out, wipes it on the curtains, and gracefully dives out of the window into the blue of the Aegean Sea, several thousand feet below....the party erupts into uproarious laughter, and the drunken old fart is left to sleep it off where he fell....then Hercules....what? oh, you've seen that episode....ok then....

As you can plainly see, I'm not getting enough action in the bedroom....what with two kids under four, 'The Colonel' (mrs sarge to you) liking her sleep, and my rampant myspish habit that keeps me up to all hours, it's not happening....so, in another of these parallel realities I was waffling on about, I have already invented a walking, talking, love making woman made entirely out of McCoys Chilli crisps and Double Decker chocolate bars....the magic part is that, once you've had you way with her, you can eat her all up, not a single crumb left, without feeling sick....and, the more you eat, the thinner you get....and oh yeah, I nearly forgot....she also farts out Cream Eggs if you whisper sweet nothings in her ear during love making....it just doesn't get any better than that!....but, on a Sunday, for a bit of variety, I indulge myself with a tube of magic Smarties that allows me to stop time, split myself into three facets of my personality, retire to the bedroom with a nice bottle of red and a joint, and do what comes naturally when you have your male, female and bi-curious selves to play with....

My keen ears are picking up the background radiation from the moment this universe was created, 'the big bang'....my complete lack of faith tells me that 'the big bang' came about when some scientists in the universe that existed prior to this one were a little too successfull in recreating the conditions at the start of their universe in a huge particle accelerator on the fourth planet orbiting a non-descript star in a quiet part of the cosmos....what's that? that sounds a bit far fetched....prove it, monkey boy....well, is it any more far fetched than some omnipotent beardy fella creating it all on his lunchbreak one wet Tuesday afternoon on a whim, a wing and a prayer? you believe your tall tales, I'll believe in mine....over the constant hum of the background radiation, I can hear the baby monitor symphony that is my daughter's breathing and/or screaming as she sleeps....and, this week, I have been enjoying the sounds of Seasick Steve, This Will Destroy You, Our Dark Horse, Isabel at Sunset, Remember Remember and Nine Inch Nails....

Have you lost your mind?!....you really are on a hiding to nothing with that fools errand....you might be better advised to ask someone to superglue a jar of mango chutney to your upper arm....but only, as Gok has just reminded me, if you're wearing a short sleeved t-shirt or vest, or a strapless dress or boob tube....they might be persuaded by the promise of easy access to the aforementioned chutney, and an invite out for an Indian meal may seal the deal in your favour....

It's the same thing, every fucking year....it's a real problem living in this gated community, what with the Richies and the Martins as neighbours....Madge, or Mabawzr as she likes to be known, and Gwenyth have got this little cottage industry going....Fair Trade Orphans, 100% environmentally friendly, of course, and sourced completely from sustainable resources....so, they have these car boot sales all the time, you can get a shit load of screaming, puking orphans in the back of a Toyota Prius, let me tell you....we've complained to the local neighbourhood watch, but they do fuck-all....so, their surplus stock, they give away to all their neighbours at xmas, a 'loss leader' they call it, over crumpets and tea on the veranda, pink gins and shit-eating grins, as they polish their halos with the grease from their noses....and the fucking gall of that woman, Mabawzr....she says to me as she hands over the present on xmas eve, the kid is screaming its eyes out inside a two foot square box, wrapped in silver paper with a huge bow, "and remember, sargey wargey, an orphan is forever, not just xmas!"....it took all of my wife's strength and dexterity with a marble rolling pin to knock me unconcious and peel my fingers from around her throat as Mabawzr's eyes rolled back in her head and her lips went a lovely hue of royal blue....so, there I am, 3.00am at the local river, xmas morning....John Travolta is standing there, loading rocks into a sack alive with small animal friskyness....we exchange a knowing look...."puppies?" I ask him...."puppies AND kittens!" he grins his dead-eyed Scientologist's grin, opening the bag to show me...."how's about you?"...."shop-soiled orphan from the fucking tree huggers next door...."....I open the bag, the kid screams, John drops in a rock, there's a sound like a melon splitting open, and then the kid's not screaming any more...."on the count of three?" I suggest, knowing John struggles with high concept thought, like counting....he gives me a playfull punch on the arm, and we toss our sacks into the fast flowing brown water...."same time, same place, next year?" he asks...."you better believe it...." I reply, heading off home....