the plodder

Plodder Factfile: Emo's

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Thu, 29 May 2008 21:40:00 +0000

Barely a day goes by without the emo youth of Britain dominating the headlines. They carry knives, bend genders and listen to the miserable pro-suicide sounds of Funeral For A Friend, Dashboard Confessional, Green Day and The Kaiser Chiefs.

Whilst you may be aware of the menacing danger this shadowy sect represents as it haunts your local high street, dressed in black, caked in make-up and intent on endangering your children's lives. We at The Plodder thought we'd bring you five fun facts about these dreary fun-haters.

1) Emo's hate Wesley Snipes but when pressed will often admit to a begrudging admiration for the Blade Trilogy.

2) Emo's can be found in Australia and are distinguishable from their North European cousins by their brighter foliage and nomadic lifestyle. Both are flightless.

3) Every emo is an individual and nothing that you say or do will ever change that.

4) Emo is the fastest growing oil company in Ireland.

5) Emo's control two thirds of the world's heroin trade.

Plodding Around... Michael Buerk's House

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Tue, 27 May 2008 17:42:00 +0000

Television's Michael Buerk has lived happily in his luxury semi-detached mansion in London's trendy Wood Green for 25 years with his wife and twin sons. Michael opened the doors of his house to The Plodder on a rare day away from the BBC newsroom.

Michael is proud of the dramatic driveway that sweeps up to his single garage, the door of which is brown and manufactured from metal. "It's an original period feature" says Buerk, "I believe it's early Elizabethan - you can almost smell Sir Francis Drake on it."

Michael rates himself as the BBC's keenest food lover. He employs a permanent Chef who manages the in-house two time Michelin star restaurant 'Buerk's Kitchen'. The restaurant is closed to those outside the Buerk household but Michael admits he still faces a three month wait for a table. "I get no privileges in my own house for being Michael Buerk. I remain grounded in spite of my fame and fortune".

Along a network of corridors, Michael leads us to his second kitchen. Michael's meticulous organisation is especially striking. He labels most items clearly so as to avoid confusion. "There's three things I can't just can't stand" says Michael "they are tardiness, clumsiness and ITN".

Michael's second kitchen functions mainly as a whisky still at present. He produces an award winning single malt which he ages in oak barrels in the sprawling catacombs that lie beneath Casa Buerk.

When Michael isn't reading the news he likes to spend a few hours each week relaxing in front of an art house movie or two. With that in mind, he personally built a ten-seater classical Parisien movie theatre, painstakingly sourcing original period materials and decorations from bric-a-brac shops across continental Europe. "I like to watch the works of Besson, Fellini and Bergman but for me, you just can't surpass the unspoken beauty of Beverly Hills Cop. I especially like it when Taggart wears that garish suit after falling in the swimming pool - it cracks me up."

The Buerk Lounge is a unique affair, continuing the theme of labelling items to avoid their loss. It is decorated simply but not without comfort and includes an open-plan en-suite toilet next to the stairs that lead down to the powerhouse of Casa Buerk.

"I'm an active man and I expend a lot of energy so I had a double boiler designed and installed" explains Buerk. "Kevin McCloud said it wouldn't work but he knows tit all". The boilers keep the upstairs of the house heated at a constant 36 degrees - too hot for most but optimal for Michael to relax, repose and mate.

Ever aware of the many countless dangers caused by modern digital signals, Michael's bedroom is decorated simply with aluminium foil - all of which is carefully recycled. If you stand close enough you can actually see the remnants of packed lunches he's eaten in the small breaks between reading the news bulletins. Michael's bed was custom built in Denmark and is one of the few electric analogue waterbeds in existence. Michael's work remains close at hand and his bookshelf features a picture of Peter Sissons whom Buerk credits for saving his life on countless occasions.

"Sunday is a family day in my eyes" explains Michael "and I like to start the day with a good bounce around on my Olympic-sized trampoline." Whilst many others in his position would opt for swimming pools, Michael insists that environmental concerns are of paramount importance "My carbon blueprint would be astronomically huge if I were to have a swimming pool so I've opted for the trampoline. It keeps you fitter than swimming and I'm as limber as I was 30 years ago."

Heading towards the end of Buerk's garden I am shocked to see a 60 metre water feature modelled on Buerk's handsome features. "It was designed by Wayne Hemingway" says Buerk "but I fired him mid-project when I realised I could do it far better on my own."

While we speak Buerk lets out a guttural cry to greet his dear friends who have dropped around for a glass or two of his whisky. Matthew Kelly and his partner Ivor arrive with a cheery 'hello!' whilst Bob Crow, General Secretary of the RMT, arrives looking distinctly pre-occupied with ideas of strike action on the Jubilee Line. All their worries and concerns quickly evaporate as these dear old friends hug and greet one another. It really is very touching to see.

The Plodder Meets Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Thu, 22 May 2008 19:23:00 +0000

Ladies and Gentlemen, London's only free internet newspaper is pushing back the boundaries of technology. You can now join us on what is known amongst internet scientists as a social networking web. We encourage you to join our Facebook Group and contribute to The Plodder.

Which issues are affecting you the most? What are the voices in your head telling you to do? Do you have rude photos of the lovely Northern Irish lady from The One Show?

Sign up online now and let our internet man Dave Onions know what you like, what you want to see more of and chat with other readers of The Plodder.

Please note: The Plodder's Facebook Group operates a zero -tolerance anti-grooming policy.

Ottö

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Sat, 10 May 2008 11:32:00 +0000

Ottö

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Thu, 08 May 2008 22:35:00 +0000

Miles Brackon Eats... At The Spiteful Farmer

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:36:00 +0000

by Miles Brackon

I have been sent to Coventry. Literally. I have literally been sent to Coventry. Fucking Coventry! Of course not the city of Coventry - I'd have quit my job at The Plodder in an instant. You know full well what I mean. South of the river. The darkest reaches of London. The Shitty of London as Roger Black famously labelled it. "Please, please, please review The Spiteful Farmer," implored my editor, whining and tilting his panama hat nonchalantly. Looking at the garbled words on what purports to be a website, I am disturbed to find that it is based in 'East Dulwich' and is the prime gastroteque to the Dulwich hoi-polloi (surely only rag and bone men live there?). My atlas informs me of the exact location. I recoil in horror.

I fear for my life. If I weren't a peace lover I'd arm myself judiciously. Then again, if I wasn't a gay woman, trapped in the body of a straight man, my life might have turned out quite differently to how it is now. I imagine I would be working in a small shop, cutting keys, scratching my testicles with a plastic fork and drinking bottles of stale Australian lager.

Who on earth will accompany me to the scum-riddled tenements of South London? Jade Jagger? She said no. Busy waxing her dog. Quick peddling cancer battler Lance Armstrong didn't return my calls. The ingrate. My agent provides me with a name. Henry Luxembourg. What the hell is that? WHAT! A Hollyoaks legend, apparently. I don't know what that is. The man has no idea what this game is all about. No idea at all. He's a bloody liability. He's from the regions. He hasn't worked in over two years now. I throw his CV down in disgust. I absolutely despise his tiny little eyes. I will sack my agent.

Parking my four litre converted turbo-diesel Toyota Prius in a conveniently located disabled parking bay, I find myself right outside 123 Blackheath Road - the home of The Spiteful Farmer according to their nauseating promotional material. I stand waiting for Luxembourg for nearly 3 minutes. I have no desire to tolerate him recounting tales of fingering a sweaty Mancunian actress who unconvincingly portrayed a date rape victim. Damnations to him. Giving up, I step into the establishment which is framed with a desperately cheap red facade.

I'm hungry. I look around the restaurant. It is a truly spartan affair. The bar staff are enclosed behind plastic screens. Horse racing dominates countless television monitors. A man sits shovelling great paws full of wheat crisps into his greedy mouth. How sinister. Large electrical machines whirr continuously, images of fruit spin around hypnotically and occasionally money is dispensed. The sign by the counter reads 'Ladbrokes'. What is this ghastly holding pen?

The restaurant appears to be cunningly disguised as a working class gambling den. The gentleman wearing a fluorescent bib really does look like he lives in a high-rise flat. He really might work on a building site and battle a discount alcohol addiction. I can imagine he steals rum from his local Co-Op. I hope he's sterile.

A man coaxes me outside and wills me to head across the street to a warm and inviting public house. I have found the dining chambers of the restaurant. My satellite navigation-enabled Tag Heuer timepiece beeps gleefully in agreement - it knows too much. We are there. Thank goodness - no Luxembourg. I hand the security guard a photograph and tell him that Luxembourg is a genuinely bad person.

The first thing I notice on entering the restaurant is that everybody is standing. There are no tables or chairs. In fact not a single item of furniture. There are no lights except for the glare of the jukebox, where all the diners are standing huddled together for warmth. Nobody comes to ask for my ticket. Or my cloak. "What shall I do?" I cry. "Where must I hang my cloak? Where ought I store it?" Nobody comes to my assistance. I wait.

"FOOD NOW" I bark desperately at a passing member of staff. My hunger is all-consuming. "I desire to place my order forthwith." I order the first starter I read which is cannibal porcine fois gras. Of the two main courses I am informed they will only serve me the one I don't choose. I am dispassionately allocated spatchcock boar. Moments later sickening, horrifying noises begin to emanate from the kitchen. Shrill, piercing shrieks and howling cries. The volume of the background music increases but cannot adequately distract one from the brouhaha. This experiment is quite intriguing. I wish I could sit down.

My starter arrives. It has the outward appearance of a sweaty grey football. I am informed that a pig has been force-fed bacon at gunpoint until it's belly literally burst. I am served a sickly, distended pigs liver. How adventurous! It is ironic and post-modern. I can't eat it though - it sickens me. I send it back to the chef with my compliments.

A gentleman wearing an ornate silk kimono takes it away and returns immediately, dragging behind him a flattened heap of bones and gristle. He dumps a badly beaten boar at my ankles where it lets out a loud bloody sigh and dies on my foot. My white Yavush Vaahddy canvas winkle-pickers instantly depreciate to the tune of £635. Kimono-man unleashes a flurry of blows to the boar using a metal croquet mallet. I weep uncontrollably. The poor creature dies it's last death.

I am no longer hungry. The Spiteful Farmer has achieved it's aim. It has won. This is undoubtedly the finest example of dining without eating I have ever experienced. Boar shrieks still ringing in my ears I stand up to leave. Damn. It's that clown Luxembourg. He's waving at me like a thoroughbred prick. I sigh. Instantaneously the security guard launches a worldly-wise, swollen fist directly into the idiot man's throat. I slip past him lying on the pavement where he sobs, moans and begs for scraps.

Sadness is an appetite suppressant. At The Spiteful Farmer you pay according to how many tears you shed and how little you are able to eat. A sensitive, artistic soul such as myself can expect to pay a handsome price of around £208 for the experience. For the more Teutonic amongst you, expect to pay around £14 for a starter and £22 for main courses, whatever they decide to serve you.

The World Is Run By Idiots

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:32:00 +0000

by Ted Kettlespear

Another day, another group of deluded, badminton-playing, pinko liberals gather in protest. Campaigning for yet another ludicrous, misguided non-cause.

In the first three months of the year, the assorted sodomites, perverts and deviants of the Hampstead Lesbian Freedom Trust (HAMLESFRET) have variously held a 'hug-a-homo' afternoon, protesting against, and I quote, "draconian anti-gay anti-cottaging laws" - laws designed to safeguard the moral hygiene of our children from rampaging pederasts.

Last weekend they further stained their reputation by holding a bring-and-buy sale to raise money for convicted drunk drivers. They claim ludicrously that drunk drivers have human rights too.

Listen now gays of Hampstead - drunk drivers are NOT human. What about the human rights of Nero, my son Derek's beloved cat? Last week Nero was brutally torn to bloody shreds under the screeching drunken wheels of a Vauxhall Escort, driven by an alcoholic on his way home from the bottle bank.

Recycling kills. That's an indisputable fact. The tree-hugging, man-hating melon-dippers from Hampstead won't admit it - they're too busy this week organising an airlift to drop clean towels and suntan lotion to Kurdish dolphins, at the taxpayers expense.

It comes as little surprise to find out that Dorothea St. Montalban, 'Chairlesbian' of the HAMLESFRET is as much of a fraud as the organisation she represents. She may organise these so-called campaigns, chanting idiotic mantras (ban the bulldog, anyone?) and wasting everybody's time and money, but Dorothea is in fact not even a lesbian - she's been happily married to plasterer husband Kevin for 34 years. She doesn't even like musical theatre.

Having inspected receipts in her landfill-bound, unsorted wheely-bin, we have also discovered that Dorothea gets through two bottles of gin and half a pound of expensive, imported Perigeaux fois gras each and every week.

Her carbon blueprint is enormous. And it smells of stilton.

Looking At... Warren Chalice

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:31:00 +0000

Leaving the fussle and tussle of the City behind is a dream for hordes of suits and ties. But as Warren Chalice, 39, tells Belvedere Chatto expectation can sour as quickly as a cow's milk.

Warren Chalice is a man's man. After 10 years on the killing floor of Hort and Hort in the square mile his fiscal knuckles were thrummed to a knotty flunt.

"I'd been smashing people's face in for so long, financially speaking, that I just felt drained." he exhales. "When the pressure was on I always had this image in my head, of a farm somewhere - lambs skipping, cows chewing the cud and me there, tweeded, you know shotgun, bosh, the lot."

Events were about to overtake Warren. One 4.37am, watching the stock tickers on News 24, he was among the first to see the dawning of the foot and mouth crisis, and his mind was made.

"I saw my dream hurting," he said "and I had to do something about it. Yeah, there was that nightmare at staff Christmas party, but that just made leaving compulsory as well as a choice."

And leave he did: A mere two weeks of basic training later and Warren was knee deep in brush-tails and eyelids as Britain's only Pest Control Operative specialising in large mammals.

"The cows were done and they had to go - simple as." he trips out emotionlessly. "Back then it was like Vietnam. The council gave me one of those L85A1 assault rifles that the army had just dumped cos they were unreliable, but it worked like dream for me.

"I must have done 45 or 50 farms, maybe 35,000 head of cattle. I'd just roll up in the 5 series and start shooting. We had a lot of support across the board, and even got some land mines from the Princess Diana Memorial Fund, so we were never short on bang bang bang, you know. My grandad was so made up he lent me his Bren gun for this one rowdy herd in Aldershot. Five hundred rounds in one minute, and then it was just me and the wind - not one single, solitary moo."

Warren Chalice, then - a Great British hero?

No.

The blood stopped flowing as the milk began again in earnest. Winter came and went without a single shot fired. Four years later Warren is on the breadline, and feels betrayed by his country.

"The ends just don't meet" he sighs. "My licence is very specialised and won't allow me to off anything smaller than a miniature horse. That means no dogs, no cats: none of the stuff that people really want smashed off.

"I've had the odd day down at Ascot with the sledgehammer, and a weekend at Whipsnade that paid my mortgage for 6 months, but I'm up against it now - I've even had to sell the crossbow that Gina Davis gave me."

So, friends, next time you're bathed in idyll of the green spaces away from our noisy places, picture Warren, bloodied, bowed, unsmiling, and thank god for blunt instruments who have no place in the forgotten.

The King of Extreme Sport

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:30:00 +0000

by Dufresné Hollard

Tearing past lines of parked cars, shocked commuters and understandably wary stray dogs in Toby Penridge's limited edition hand-built Korean sports car, one can't help but notice the excited shouts of 'respect that man!' and 'top notch!' from scattered groups of seriously impressed school children and street gangs.

Peaking at 80 mph in West London's residential side streets, with Limp Bizkit's hypnotic cover of 'I Shot The Sheriff' booming away at monstrous ear-melting volumes. Toby isn't concerned. Even when he's flashed by four speed cameras in the space of 10 minutes. He's confident. He's nonchalant. He's the Home Secretary's stepson.

He's also the chief owner/proprietor of Xtreme Riskk - Britain's foremost danger sports innovation agency. A self-made millionaire at the tender age of seven - investing wisely in internet start-up companies - Toby remains remarkably unaffected.

He's due to meet and greet the world's press this morning, at a Park Lane hotel, to discuss his latest danger sport 'Walk London'. Rather, that's what he should be doing. He walked out yelling one simple instruction to 'keep that prick Toynbee out of my bubble.'

I alone am given unlimited access to Penridge for the afternoon; I provided him with the email address of a truly wonderful drug dealer at a Belgravia dinner party several summers past.

"So, what on earth is Walk London?" I ask Toby, trying hard not to let on how much I admire the devilishly handsome man.

"It's the culmination of more than three years of meticulous research by Europe's leading adventure scientists" explains Penridge candidly "we have created the most truly extreme sport and it has NONE of the usual barriers to entry. Seriously! Any race, any creed, any gender, any sexuality - even gays - can compete and win. Not the poor though. Definitely no poor people."

Walk London participants are gagged, blindfolded and stripped of all but their most essential clothing and abandoned deep amidst the decay and squalor of any one of London's foulest estates. They must then retrace their steps and reach Kensington's exclusive Grovemont Club in a daring race against the clock. They must ensure they do not adopt any unseemly working class traits or habits such as eating whilst walking or glottal stops.

"It's fucking dangerous" admits the charmingly sincere Penridge. "The vile proletariat one encounters are truly horrifying. Enoch [son of Bryan] Ferry was utterly traumatised by his afternoon in Bermondsey. It took him days to get back. He came in wearing nylon head-wear and all manner of jewellery. It was awful to see."

So what tempts so many to attempt this feat of bravery? "You can't achieve that buzz any other way..." admits Penridge, growing steadily irritated by the wailing sirens of police cars that follow his every manoeuvre "...at least, not without an arse full of cocaine and a box of US Army grenades!"

Penridge roars with laughter. Delicious great peals of hearty laughter. The laughter continuous long after he is cuffed and dragged away by furious policemen who don't understand his daring ways.

Save The Whale... Or Not?

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:27:00 +0000

by Mandy Woad

Ask a dozen 8 year olds to name their favourite fish and the unanimous response will be 'whales'. The ignorance of schoolchildren today is undoubtedly cause for concern - the whale is a milk-bearing reptilian.

Of far greater worry however, is this wholly false image of the whale as a kindly, gentle, benevolent ocean-dwelling titan of the deep. An image which has been carefully designed and manipulated by the most expensive marketing firms in London, New York and Geneva on behalf of Save The Whale.

But why? Why do Save The Whale spread such heinous lies? What is the shocking truth about the whale? Following six months of investigations during which I disguised myself as a number of Japanese fishermen, I have found many shocking truths behind the modern whaling industry and a great deal more about the disastrous impact whales have on the environment.

Save The Whale is a front for Shotomatsu-Zenko Incorporated - Japan's largest whaling conglomerate. By protesting against other firms trawlers and limiting catches they have falsely inflated the price of delicious, nutritious whale meat, allowing the numbers of these lazy sea parasites to grow rapidly, for future profit.

It is now known that the number of whales in the sea has increased by 4000% annually throughout the 17 years since the foundation of Save The Whale.

Little known publicly until now, The Plodder can reveal the sheer enormity of a whale's carbon blueprint. In a single afternoon a minke whale expels more carbon dioxide than the entire fleet of British Airways planes produce in a fortnight.

If the population of Glasgow turned on every item of electrical equipment at full volume for a month, set fire to their houses and then drove around in their cars, vans and lorries destroying an area of virgin rainforest the size of Zambia they would produce a mere 6% of the harmful greenhouse gases a right whale will produce in a mere weekend.

The damaging effects of the blue whale are thought to be so large that they can't be expressed in numbers alone. Try to imagine every man, woman, child and cat on earth simultaneously exploding an atomic bomb twice the size of that dropped on Hiroshima in 1945 and you will create something approaching the damage caused by a single pair of blue whales in a leap year.

The future of this blue and green planet rests on a knife edge. Through co-ordinated action the delicate balance that sustains life can be maintained. By killing each and every minke whale in the sea we can prevent global warming. By killing all the greedy sperm whales we give the dwindling fish stocks a chance to re-establish themselves. By killing every last blue whale we can feed the world's poor for a decade. It really is that simple.

Queen Mother Peahen Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:26:00 +0000

By Maurice O'Doigne

The people of Snaithe, Buckinghamshire have long been proud of their small village. Set in a picturesque valley lie small clusters of cottages unspoilt by the rapid development that has swept through surrounding towns and villages. Search as you might, you won't find the brainless proletarian stain left by satellite dishes, wheelie bins, fast-food takeaways or gutless gastro-pubs that haunt every other high street.

What you will find is a community united in their anguish. Mysterious events have torn a sickening hole through the very heart of this traditional village. The resident Argyle Peahen, for 200 years the proud symbol of the community, has all but disappeared from the village green. No longer does it's distinctive wailing squawk wake the villagers throughout Spring and early Summer.

The Argyle Peahen holds particular importance as a noted favourite of The Queen Mother. In fact the Argyle's call so reminded her of the cries of her firstborn, Queen Elizabeth II as a child that she often referred to her daughter as 'Argyle Beth' or 'Little Lizzie Peahen'.

Following weeks of undercover investigation by The Plodder, in which spy cameras were secreted across Snaithe village green we have uncovered the sickening truth. A group of odious parasitic illegal immigrants from Poland, employed in nearby factories to polish gooseberries, brutally massacre the lovable feathered beauties. Cruelly setting up snares to maim, capture and eat these gentle creatures in some sort of sick satanic ritual.

We witness an orphaned baby Argyle Peahen crying plaintively on the green, desperately seeking the help of loved-ones. It stands no chance when confronted by the brutal, blood-stained hands of Kryztofr Zbriovski and his band of thieves. Wearing an expensive leather jacket, no doubt paid for by unaware English taxpayers, he is seen cackling and whooping gleefully as he clutches the poor creature, pulling it's delicate neck across his knee and in one fluid movement snapping every last drop of life out of the poor fragile bird.

Zbriovski wasn't available for comment, his contempt for all that is good about England goes as far as a complete refusal to understand spoken English. His left-leaning legal representative, Janice Lane merely uttered some contemptible lies about Polish tradition and refused to issue an apology to the dead Queen Mother or the good people of Snaithe.

We at The Plodder have passed a weighty dossier of damning evidence to the authorities and we await the swift detention and punishment of this band of Eastern European rogues - it's certainly what the Queen Mother would want.

Where Were You When... Brian Paddick

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:23:00 +0000

In the first of an occasional series, we ask the stars where they were on days that shook the earth.

This week, mayoral candidate Brian Paddick recalls the release of the Keeley Hazell sex tape, and the rollercoaster of highs and lows that followed.

"I was actually woken up by a text message. I'd been on Question Time the night before and remember being tired. It was from my mate John, and to be honest, I thought I must still be asleep. 'Keeley Hazell sex tape released' it said.

I called in sick to work - I was on autopilot to be fair - I found it on a Russian torrent site and had a bowl of Alpen while it was downloading....and a banana, yeah, a banana. I fired it up, and there's this guy's schlong waving around. I quite clearly remember thinking 'bollocks' but then - there she was - and she started noshing him off, and, you know, really getting into it.

It was great, but I was just waiting for her to get her bouncers out. Instead we get some decorator's arse bobbing up and down and more of his cock flapping about. It was utter shit.

A word of advice. If your girlfriend has really nice tits, and you're going to make a sex tape, maybe, just maybe, her tits should feature in it to some extent. Just a thought.

I'm still fucked off about it to be honest."

Brian Paddick was talking to Jane Stottlemeyer

Reading the Stars

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:18:00 +0000

by Sally-Ann Grombus

Aries (March 21-April 20)

For the week ahead caution should be the buzzword for all Aryans. Your new greengrocer has hidden motives, don't trust his smooth and charming patter. You know in your heart of hearts that he is a married man and you're mostly certain that you are a heterosexual. Could blackmail be in the air? Take care of any loose ends at work and you can celebrate your birthday with a clear conscience at All Bar One. The new moon means interest free savings to be had on all sofas at Land of Leather, why not buy that recliner you've always wanted?

Taurus (21 April-21 May)

Thursday is a great day for new relationships, however picking up drunken teens outside Ilford Snooker Club is inadvisable. You will meet a mousy, anaemic redhead at your friend's birthday in All Bar One but she may not be up for the quick fumble you're angling for. Exchange telephone numbers, make your excuses and pop along to Camden Sauna to treat yourself. What better way to spend your bonus from work? Steer clear of the one that looks like Beverly Callard though, she may still have crabs.

Gemini (22 May-22 June)

Easter has passed and you're probably missing the kids. Your ex-wife is such a cow. If the police have returned your passport and trust you not to indulge in acts of hooliganism on foreign soil with other like-minded England supporters it is definitely time to get away. A fortnight's Interrailing awaits. Steer clear of those bargain antiques in Poland - you don't want to get arrested for trading in World War 2 Nazi paraphernalia when you arrive in Dusseldorf.

Cancer (23 June-23 July)

Put an end to those pointless disagreements you have had with your family, life is too short. Take the lot of them out to dinner at All Bar One and all your problems will be quickly forgotten. Tactfully ensure your Mother doesn't eat any seafood. Treat yourself to some clothes in Miss Selfridge - their summer range will really suit you. At the weekend you should head along to the Tate Modern. The display in the Turbine Hall is thoroughly disappointing but there's some good displays on the second floor even if the hoardes of Spanish tourists really irritate you. And the carrot cake is dead nice.

Leo (24 July-23 August)

Still smarting after being short-changed in Costcutter? Don't go there again - they'll be closed down by the end of the summer when the Council carry out an inspection and find rat wee all over the cans of Fanta in their store cupboards. Celebrate this knowledge, relax and enjoy yourself at your friend's birthday party in All Bar One. They have some delicious food on their menu even if the beer is a little more expensive than at Wetherspoons. Try to pick up one of the rowdy Northern bridesmaids from the hen party - she's so drunk she'll let you do anything (and I mean ANYTHING) even after you've eaten that foul kebab from Dionysus on the corner of Tottenham Court Road.

Virgo (24 August-23 September)

Shave off that beard immediately! You do realise that you won't get in to All Bar One looking like a feckless, hopeless, gin-filled Bee Gee. Smart hair, winning smile and maybe a dash of fake tan and you'll be welcomed in at the fashionable high street bar, chardonnay in hand, charming the ladies with your tales of UN Peacekeeping in Macedonia. They'll think you're a right bloody hero. Just don't mention the time you chased those kids playing football with your rifle in hand to make the other squaddies laugh and one of them trod on a landmine. Be kind to children from now on. The elderly too. Don't worry about small dogs though, they can't be trusted this week.

Libra (24 September-23 October)

If you're going to call in sick you'd better make it convincing. A sore throat just won't cut it with the boss - he's in a foul mood after discovering his wife still keeps love letters from her first husband. Tell him that you're suffering from 'women's problems'. At the first mention of bleeding he'll happily sign you off for 3 or 4 days. Indulge yourself with some topless sunbathing in the back garden during the day and perhaps read the latest masterpiece from Dan Brown. Head along to All Bar One in the evening - your boss isn't trendy enough to go there.

Scorpio (24 October-22 November)

Stress and panic for you this week. Try to keep things in perspective. Your ex-girlfriend will phone tearfully saying she's pregnant and you're the father. She's faking. The cold-hearted cow. Don't believe a word of it. Tell her you've moved on. Tell her you're gay. Yeah. Say you're properly cock drunk. She won't like it, but it's for the best. Don't tell her it's your mutual friend's birthday or else she'll be drifting around All Bar One like a bitter dumped smell. And she'll tell your friends about your misshapen testicle. To think you ever trusted her.

Sagittarius (23 November-22 December)

Family come a calling and you're happy to see them. Your Lithuanian grandmother is entertaining as always. Put aside any misgivings you still harbour - you'll never know the full extent of her collaboration with the Germans in World War 2. Ask her to teach you the clarinet some time. Tell her you like listening to the snappy sounds of Acker Bilk to put you in the mood for a stylish night relaxing in your Hoxton Loft. Tell her you want to play in the swish jazz band at your local All Bar One. Don't tell her about the abortion.

Capricorn (23 December-19 January)

A trip to Brixton proves eventful. Sat there nervously in your £700 Maharishi jeans you feel urgent pangs of trepidation but you soon learn to relax and enjoy your curry goat, rice and peas. If you could stop thinking you are an undercover policeman for a little bit your dinner companions might warm to you a little more. Disappointment will ensue when you find there's no All Bar One. A taxi ride to the Clapham branch is cheaper than you might expect.

Aquarius (20 January-19 February)

Good luck is in the air so strike while the iron is hot. Get along to the Basildon point-to-point and bet heavily. Seriously. Sell all your DVDs at Cash Converters and make sure you have plenty of money to gamble. Don't bother with the Tote, there's no money to be made there. Sniff a few grams of cocaine at lunchtime. Don't be weak - bet more. You'll win enough money to get that suit from Saville Row you saw Chris Eubank wearing in a Paxo advert and still have enough left over to buy your loving mother a box of noisette triangles.

Pisces (20 February-20 March)

Oh the irony. You're a piscean but you can't stand the sight of fish. Fear not - you won't have to suffer any great social discomfort - All Bar One have a substantial menu that offers meat, fish and vegetarian options so you definitely won't go hungry. The birthday party will be a lot of fun. Doesn't your birthday seem ages ago now, even though it has only been a fortnight. Time to take the cards down otherwise you'll start to look like a bit of a spinster. Stick them in a box in the wall unit. I bet you don't even look at them again, you'll just bin them when the council eventually rehouse you.

News In Brief

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:18:00 +0000

A woman has been awarded £400 after she found her new fridge was 'full of food'. Jane Leaves, 35, told Snaresbrook Magistrates Court she had been 'slightly suprised' after finding her Indesit Baan 10 stuffed with sliced ham, milk and yoghurt. Ms Leaves, of Circus Crescent, Chesunt, said: " I dont even drink milk, as i usually have toast in the mornings, if I have time to eat at all." Chairman of the Bench Alan Spence commented: "It's a perfectly understandable mistake. The fridge was obviously not new, as advertised. However, letting this go unpunished would, I feel, set a dangerous precedent."

Orlando Bloom is still handsome, according to readers of Now! magazine. A whopping 83 percent of those polled said the star still sent their hearts fluttering, despite recently celebrating his 30th birthday.

Police in Arosa have dubbed actor Brian Blessed too loud for Switzerland. Sgt Michel Detarte said the keen mountaineer had been asked to leave the country after terrifying chalet staff with his breakfast order. He added:" It's pointless really. Mr Blessed is perfectly capable of speaking at a normal volume like everyone else: He shouts only because it is expected." A defiant Mr Blessed bellowed that he had no plans to cut his trip short.

Miles Brackon Eats... At ¬!toy?Faktorie

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:15:00 +0000

by Miles Brackon

I don't like East London and my Editor knows it. He knows it and he continues to torture my artistic sensibilities by sending me to the most miserable and disgusting corners of working class London. With my stress levels rising and that familiar tingle of herpes simplex sounding her cruel alarm on my proud face, I step out of my Tozu Kirozano-designed apartment to meet my dinner companion, Britain's foremost conceptual artist Shebanna Manzallo, parked outside in her ecologically megasound Citroën Jaaan.

We pull into London's Hoxton Square with a carbon footprint smaller than the daintiest snow leopard and enter a decidedly different gastrotheque from Tilly McJallow '¬!toy?Faktorie'. What makes his latest establishment so different? You wouldn't guess from the subversively humorous entrance, that's for sure - copper kettle fire lanterns AND a Hotpoint fridge front door - Tilly, you've outdone yourself!

"Welcome to ¬!toy?Faktorie" bellows the Dining Sergeant, pricking the haughty pretence of a generation of Maitre D's. He forces us with barely controlled aggression to adopt a series of stress positions. Positions purportedly devised by consultant specialist Lynndie England. Positions proven to more than double one's appreciation of taste and texture when combined with the forceful aural assault of screeching horns and whistles devised by McJallow's in-house Sonic Taste Engineer Jens Lynqvist.

Sore of limb, we enter our secluded dining booth and sup freely on a glass of Antarctic meltwater infused with coriander and peach. We point at the outsized stone menu tablets hanging precariously above our heads to indicate our order to our mute waiter. I select for both myself and Shebanna.

A kuju liver and artichoke salad to start, as main I request poached urchin with a langoustine tapenade. The disinterested waiter ignores my graceful gesticulation, his eyes buried deep in the warm fleshy comfort of my companion's heaving cleavage. Exasperated, I cry out "Those are the breasts of a lesbian you silent twit". Completely unaffected, the waiter skulks away smelling the palm of his hand.

In ¬!toy?Faktorie the menu is an irrelevance, a tease of anticipation; you eat whatever you're given. Some 85 minutes later our starters arrive with admirably restrained urgency. We are served what appears to be a platter of brick dust. Taking my spoon in hand I sample. It is brick dust. It's a purely decorative starter. Double damn. I am convinced that Tilly is now fully in charge of my senses.

Whilst spitting furiously and scratching my tongue clean with a credit card the mute waiters deliver 3 bowls of a fetid grey porridge. They disappear promptly on serving and ignore my appeal for water and cutlery. With undulating trepidation I sample the dishes using my hands and am suitably shocked. Designed to resemble the food of Abu Ghraib, the taste is something altogether different.

Flavours collide with a stultifying anger that evokes initial comparison to the Battle of Cable Road - a sense of nostalgia which dissipates to reveal a heartfelt plea to end all wars, global poverty and benefit fraud once and for all. With such complex flavours the portions are unnecessarily generous. I feel a compulsion to return a clean bowl and duly soldier on.

I retreat to the utilitarian bathroom to shed a tear, straighten my neckerchief and shortly return with the anticipation of what might follow. I couldn't be more surprised.

Rhubarb crumble for dessert? It appears to be topped with thick clumps of pubic hair and woodlice. On further inspection I find it to be merely hair-thin treacle toffee rather than pubic hair. The woodlice are very much real and scuttling about, albeit imported at great expense from the wilds of Patagonia. The flavours match the meticulous presentation of the dessert - simultaneously sweet with a powerfully bitter undertone of rancid butter. The crunch of the insects and the tender rhubarb flirt outrageously creating a dextrous melange of textures.

Before we finish the Dining Sergeant returns and drags us outside by the ankles, removing my wallet from it's holster and collecting a fistful of currency and loyalty cards.

Pricing is keen - with starters at around £18 and mains double that. The service, like the whole experience is brutal on the senses and for this we were charged £80. Tipping is compulsory, I was charged £212 as well as my Patek Phillipe watch. The wine list is comprehensive with a startlingly low mark up, though be warned that it is served in broken glasses. Don't make my mistake and wear a pristine white Marticx Bentham jacket and trousers whilst visiting.

Huq in Harare

noreply@blogger.com (The Plodder) — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:11:00 +0000

by Konnie Huq

Driving through the centre of Harare there is a definite sense of a people under siege. The buildings are old and crumbly, electric lighting fizzles on and off, throwing occasional light on uneven skin of a people who have not known fresh fruit juice since Mugabe's iron fist first crashed down here in the distant past.

Most would say that the ordinary men and women here don't mind their situation: I don't agree. I think they mind. How could they not.

I draw a line in the sand and call my agent to let him know I'll be boycotting the stage play of the Lion King I bought tickets for this morning.

I enter the home of Catherine, an 82 year-old - a billionaire in a worthless currency, who has lived at the edge of survival for longer than she can remember.

She gives me a weak soup. Smiling despite her frailty. I'm touched, and accept her offering with a glad heart.

It's disgusting. But it's not Catherine's fault. Fennel has long since become a black market commodity more valuable than water on the iron streets of Zimbabwe. I call my agent on the satellite phone and let him know that I'm going on hunger strike until the food improves.

My stomach feels like its on fire and i make a plunger motion at my host "Toilet, toilet!" I shout. I'm pointed to a dirty cream door and walk through to a picture of degradation that drops me to my knees. Sunlight struggles through filthy net curtains screening a tiny porthole window. The floor is linoleum, the toilet paper has the consistency of greaseproof paper.

The mad king has taken everything from his people.

I choke back tears as I'm filled with a sense of purpose. Evil triumphs when good men do nothing. I am a good man.

I squat, summoning a furious strain and squeezing modest protest into my cupped hands. I look at it, and feel sad that I can't do more. I take it to Catherine, who stands, gaping mouthed at my show of solidarity. Our hands unite as I brush stroke after stroke of defiant smear on the wall; her feeble fingers locked around my wrist, pulling it this way and that as she cries.

Her face is puzzled, but the tears are those of joy, of long, painful debts being repaid.Come Mugabe, bring your truncheons, your guns and your tanks, and we will meet them, with shit, together.

Konnie Huq may not attend the Olympics.