Only moments ago, I was being your usual sad single Facebook-er of an evening and arsing about on one of the many mini-game applications that generously manage to congest my Facebook profile, and something amusing occurred. My very own FAIL.

I had to post it here for everyone’s enjoyment.

Either the programmers have no grasp of the basics of biology or they’ve been seriously tripping their tits off for the past decade. Actually, both of those statements are probably true.

As a child in Devon I often used to see sheep shaped like aubergines

Having once worked for the UK government in a similar capacity, I myself have had to write many dull responses to some terribly insulting letters. However praise is definitely due to the disgruntled taxpayer for their inventive and amusing use of language, and hats off to the hapless customer relations officer for keeping his cool throughout his response.

Dear Mr A***

I am writing to you to express our thanks for your more than prompt reply to our latest communication, and also to answer some of the points you raise.

I will address them, as ever, in order. Firstly, I must take issue with your description of our last as a “begging letter”. It might perhaps more properly be referred to as a “tax demand”. This is how we at the Inland Revenue have always, for reasons of accuracy, traditionally referred to such documents.

Secondly, your frustration at our adding to the “endless stream of crapulent whining and panhandling vomited daily through the letterbox on to the doormat” has been noted. However, whilst I have naturally not seen the other letters to which you refer I would cautiously suggest that their being from “pauper councils, Lombardy pirate banking houses and “pissant gas-mongerers” might indicate that your decision to “file them next to the toilet in case of emergencies” is at best a little ill-advised.

In common with my own organisation, it is unlikely that the senders of these letters do see you as a “lackwit bumpkin” or, come to that, a “sodding charity”. More likely they see you as a citizen of Great Britain, with a responsibility to contribute to the upkeep of the nation as a whole.

Which brings me to my next point. Whilst there may be some spirit of truth in your assertion that the taxes you pay “go to shore up the canker-blighted, toppling folly that is the Public Services”, a moment’s rudimentary calculation ought to disabuse you of the notion that the government in any way expects you to “stump up for the whole damned party” yourself. The estimates you provide for the Chancellor’s disbursement of the funds levied by taxation, whilst colourful, are, in fairness, a little off the mark. Less than you seem to imagine is spent on “junkets for Bunterish lickspittles” and “dancing whores” whilst far more than you have accounted for is allocated to, for example, “that box-ticking facade of a university system.”

A couple of technical points arising from direct queries:

1. The reason we don’t simply write “Muggins” on the envelope has to do with the vagaries of the postal system;

2. You can rest assured that “sucking the very marrows of those with nothing else to give” has never been considered as a practice because even if the Personal Allowance didn’t render it irrelevant, the sheer medical logistics involved would make it financially unviable.

I trust this has helped. In the meantime, whilst I would not in any way wish to influence your decision one way or the other, I ought to point out that even if you did choose to “give the whole foul jamboree up and go and live in India”, you would still owe us the money. Please forward it by Friday.

Yours Sincerely,
H***
Customer Relations

I’m sorry, I just had to post this headline. The mental imagery that arose from this story had me squirting the coffee out of my nose this morning [and not just because I look like an elephant].

Man glued to Oz loo in prank

My good friend Star sent me a text message recently of a conversation she overheard on a bus in Plymouth. I thought it was amusing enough to share with the rest of you motley miscreants.

Star was riding the bus past a takeaway joint in Plymouth called Fat Mama’s Burger Bar. There happened to be a young boy and his father sat on the seat in front of her. As the bus passed the takeaway, the little boy pointed to it and innocently commented to his father ‘Daddy, if Mummy wasn’t going to Slimming World, she’d go there.’

From the mouths of babes, eh? You couldn’t make it up.

If anyone has any similar stories of eavesdropped conversations please feel free to leave a comment here.

Firstly let me apologise for my lack of communication. Unfortunately Life, the inconsiderate bastard, likes to get in the way right when I have plans. Pestilence also decided to raise his distorted melon of a head last week: I was unfortunately caught in the throes of food poisoning. I am now in complete sympathy with all dysentery-ridden pirates and laxative-taking supermodels everywhere.

So with no further ado, I shall get on with things in my usual lackadaisical manner.

I went to Plymouth for the weekend recently and spent some time in an all-you-can-eat buffet. In my humble opinion a place of this calibre is possibly one of the best gathering places for all the freakish specimens of the human race to congregate. It was much like a Serengeti watering-hole but with more blubber and less intelligence.

[For those of you that don’t know much about Plymouth, it is a moderately-sized city in the south-west of England notorious for brawling with [and beating] the Spanish Armada in the 16^th century, and brawling with [and beating] one another from as long as I can remember. A naval-turned-university city, it is awash with drunken yobs, criminals and teenage mums as well as sailors, students and hippies. Its achievements include being voted the Worst-Dressed City and having one of the ugliest buildings in Britain . It is also rather too close to Cornwall, which as we all know is positioned at the rather thin end of the stick when it comes to genetic diversity.]

Not pictured: genetic diversity

As I grazed my merry way through several succulent Chinese dishes [little did I know the havoc this meal would later cause to my digestive system], I made a list of observations about the rest of the clientele over an approximate half-hour period, and here is what I discovered [reproduced almost verbatim]:

’19:04 – Man in queue with face too small for skull. Overly curly hair and double-chin. Slight resemblance to a retarded Leo Sayer.’

’19:05 – A disturbing amount of what can only be described as female whales in here, all massing around the buffet selection. Best get Greenpeace here quick: the poor things need saving before the Japanese spot them and try to claim them for ‘research purposes’.’

’19:05 – I shit you not there is a proper slack-jawed hillbilly type in here. It’s like a scene from Deliverance. And it’s putting me off my food.’

’19:12 – A young girl that looks rather unfortunately for her, like Martin Clunes. I believe this is something known as foetal alcohol syndrome.’

’19:15 – A Ross Kemp lookalike has just shambled in. He looks rather confused. Maybe he’s only just realised he’s not in Eastenders any more.’

’19:19 – Oh. My. God. A ‘woman’ [I use the term loosely] whose blubbery belly hangs below her fucking pelvis. I’m feeling rather nauseous now. Thank god I didn’t choose the pork.’

’19:20 – A gaggle of orange-skinned female youths whose skin tones are much the same as the fish eggs that adorn the outside of the California roll I’m just about to pop in my mouth. I think I’ll leave that one for later, eh?’

’19:21 – There is actually a girl wearing a swimming costume with her jeans. She looks furtive: she’s obviously hoping nobody’ll notice. In all honesty most of the half-blind fuckwits in here wouldn’t but I’m rather more blessed in the chromosome department I feel.  National Geographic would have a field day.’

’19:22 – A man, mid-50s, with hair exactly like James May from Top Gear, but uglier. This is something that never fails to amuse me.’

’19:24 – A double-whammy of misshapenness! A gentleman with a bottom lip fatter than Jamie Oliver’s AND an impressive underbite”

’19:24 – As if to counteract the underbite we now have a man with NO CHIN in the queue. Where the Jesus titty-fucking Christ are all these freaks coming from? I blame it on the weather. And Plymouth being too close to Cornwall.’

’19:25 – A woman with arms rather too short for her body. If not just a disproportioned woman, she is definitely the world’s tallest dwarf.’

These were her eHarmony matches

’19:29 – Somebody please shoot me. Another blubbery cowpat of a being with a belly that covers her pelvis.’

’19:30 – What can only be described as a group of cabbages wearing condoms has just lumbered into view through the front doors. All female. Sadly my positioning is such that I get ghastly great eyefuls of the clientele whether I like it or not.’

Even the waiters feel the need to protect themselves from possible contamination with these freaks of nature

’19:33 – Woman with posh hair-do. Doesn’t detract from the fact that her eyes are way too far apart. She looks like a cow with a chignon.’

’19:41 – I pray that I’m going to be struck with sudden blindness. A young girl dressed completely in neon orange and shoes several sizes too big has clattered into view. Please remove your vile person from my sight, you are giving me a migraine. (Amusingly there is a man right behind her with what looks like a ballbag on the back of his ox-like neck).’

’19:46 – There is a man in here that looks exactly like one of those artists’ impressions of a Neanderthal: he has a receding forehead, very prominent brows and a thick set neck. Is also wearing the customary scowl and appears not to be able to use cutlery with any modicum of success…’

At this point I suffered a complete and irreversible breakdown. Even now as I write I am surrounded by burly nurses and being strapped firmly to a potty chair. They only let me have this laptop because I promised to blow one of them later.

A word of warning: don’t go to any all-you-can-eat buffets in Plymouth, lest you want to suffer like I did. Actually, best not to go to Plymouth at all. Unless of course you’re returning to the mother-is-also-your-sister-and-your-wifeland.