Very Very Bored

Iran to Send Monkey Into Space

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 15:20:00 +0000

News just in that Iran is to send a monkey into space to ~~annoy the United States~~ advance their entirely innocent space exploration programme.

This comes hot on the heels of reports that President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad could soon be out of a job as a bitter power struggle engulfs the government.

A spokesman for the Iranian government denied that the two vacancies are related.

Playground Update

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 07:15:00 +0000

Lovers of classic toilet humour will be pleased to learn that this one is still doing the rounds:

My friend Billy had a 10 foot willy,
And he showed it to the girl next door,
She thought it was a snake,
And she hit it with a rake
And now its only 4 foot 4

You will note that this rhyme has still not been converted into metric, despite the best efforts of the EU

This one, judging by Arthur's blank faced response has fallen into disuse

Fatty and Skinny were lying in bed
Fatty rolled over and Skinny was dead

This is a shame. I have instructed Arthur to reintroduce it forthwith.

BBC TV Centre: Thanks for the Mammeries

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 05:15:00 +0000

BBC Television Centre in West London is up for sale. Your expression of interest for the iconic 14 acre site should be in by 1st July.

I have mixed feelings about the sale of the building. Although part of it has been listed - namely the 'doughnut' section - the rest of it can be levelled in favour of a more useful, bland and generic set of buildings.

Growing up in the 70s/80s, Television Centre was, for me, where television came from. Swap Shop, Saturday Superstore and Blue Peter all originated here. You will note that this is not a terribly eclectic mix - I could have put in Morcambe and Wise, Monty Python, proper Doctor Who, umpteen celebrated comedy and drama series, old style costume dramas - but these are the shows of my youth, and the programmes that visibly confirmed the creative powerhouse of Television Centre through their use of cheap outside broadcasts in the most literal use of the term 'outside'. This was an exciting building for me - I even wrote to Jim'll Fix It for a tour around the building but the octogenarian bastard seemed to be more interested in kids who wanted to eat chips on roller coasters.

It is a less necessary facility these days - television has become a lot cheaper to make on location so there is less call for turning studio space into, say, the 'over the top' trench scene at the end of Blackadder Goes Forth. Similarly, the beeb has moved a lot of its productions out of the capital; Wales for example (Doctor Who, Torchwood etc), and now Children's and Sport to MediaCityUK in Salford (for more details see any copy for the Daily Mail from the last two years). In turn, TVC is no longer the preserve of BBC producers alone - Harry Hill's TV Burp being a good example of a show that holds up ITV on a Saturday night, yet originating from the home of BBC Television.

I briefly worked at TVC in the late nineties and it made a strong impression of me for a few reasons. I was working in a highly peripheral role for BBC News in 'Stage 7' of the building (the new bit with all the glass). I had a desk at the top of the seven storey building glorying in the fact that the BBC was such a gigantic organisation that my mate was able to create a non-job for me upon my penniless return from the Antipodes. My view was across the expanse of land in front of the doughnut and over to the big box that is TVC1 - the one with the "BBC Television Centre" sign on it, and home to Strictly Come Dancing.

I would be driven from Brixton to West London in the early hours of the morning to prepare scripts on the in-house news wire service that no-one would read. There was always something special about walking in through the glass frontage of the news centre, but this was nothing compared to the sense of awe that I had at luchtime when I could amble around outside the doughnut, looking up at the contradiction of the brutal boxes and dated glass/plastic curved frontage, within which all the TV memories of my youth were contained. There were satellite dishes in all manner of sizes beaming feeds in and out of the building, rehearsals taking place and lines of over excitable audience members eager to catch a glimpse of their idols.

I was on the inside though. I had the BBC badge, and I worked at the place that offered up all of the excitement that they were there to enjoy. I was there with all the creatives. I was able to share a "yeah I know" look with Peter Sissons (a physical giant of a man) when a new member of the canteen staff got all flustered because she was serving her first 'famous' person. I got to share a lift with Jenny Bond too - back when she was The Queen's official stand in - a terrifying shoe staring moment given that I had guffed just moments before she entered the lift. In another incident, the opportunity that I thought I had to kick Jimmy Saville's legs out from underneath him was brought to a shuddering halt by the sight of Crimewatch's Nick Ross a short distance away in the car-park.

Perhaps most importantly though, lest we forget that the building also offers up the very visceral memory of my getting my hands on the most preposterously proportioned pair of breasts ever known to mankind. That had very little to do with television's heritage, and a lot more to do with a boozy lunch with two producers named Pinot and Grigio. This particular aspect of TVC left two very large impressions on me - impressions that I am sure any of the regional centres would be able to conjure up just as well. I can't tell you who they belonged to unfortunately owing to a long-standing super injunction relating to the matter.

Times do move on - I know that. What I do hope though is that this is not the moment where TVC, a building that has been at the centre of all things Telly for the last 50 years, gets turned into another god-foresaken shopping centre with "The Morecambe and Wise Lower Mall" and "Fawlty Towers Business Centre", incongruously arranged around the doughnut and the canteen block. There is history in them there walls and we bugger about with the building at our peril. Just because the Victorians didn't have TV, it doesn't make its ancestral home any less important than the other doughnut, The Royal Albert Hall.

Revelation

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 07:50:00 +0000

OK, ok. I admit it. My name is not Mr VeryVeryBored and I do not live in Eastbourne. I am, in fact, a twentysomething lesbian from Al Hasakah in north-east Syria. I just posted under this persona because no-one listens to anything that gay women say in Syria. Sorry for the deception.

Here is a picture of my house, just so you know that this is really me.

Daily Mail Goes Down The Tube

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 06:56:00 +0000

Before you get too excited by the title, I sadly cannot confirm that the Daily Mail and General Trust has succumbed our woeful economic times. However, The Poke provides us with a useful guide to the Daily Mail editorial guidelines with this handy print-out and keep tube map. I recently jumped aboard at Sun Beds, changed at Paris Hilton and again at Conservatories and alighted at Facebook cancer. The map was very useful.

Triple X Why Zed?

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 06:56:00 +0000

More news on my South Korean lady / Samsung Tocco SGH-F480i. I like to stay on top of events during my travels and therefore make liberal use of the 3G connection to browse my favourite blogs.

My South Korean friend seems to be of a delicate disposition and has taken it upon herself to take a somewhat censorious approach to some of the content that I choose to view. Specifically, Zed has been sent to the x-rated naughty step. Now Zed is not known for her potty mouth or for posting images of animals being made to do inappropriate things, so I can only assume that my South Korean friend has taken exception to the use of the final word in the title “My Boyfriend Is A Twat”. A little over-zealous maybe, but at least we can say that my South Korean friend is a little more clued up than one Mr David Cameron.

Things That The Children of the 1970s Never Said

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 06:56:00 +0000

[Extract of half heard conversation - partial nature of recollection owing to head being stuck down the back of the sofa in seemingly hopeless search for school shoe the size of a 6 year old's foot]

Arthur: [Shouting, as always, FX: reverb from bathroom] "Daaaaad!"

Dad: [muffled] "Bit busy at the moment Arthur given your inability to put your shoes in the basket marked 'Shoe Basket' when you take them off"

Arthur: "But Daaaad, it is an emergency!"

Dad: [aside] "Emergency my arse, what - have you fallen down the toilet or something, just your feet protuding from the bowl, waving frantically as you try to swim your way out the U-bend?". [Louder, shouting now but still muffled] "Can you describe the nature of the emergency, caller?"

Arthur: "Its my poo Dad"

Dad: [Muffled] "What, has it come..." [no longer muffled, Dad emerges from behind the sofa wearing a look of resignation, but has at least located the missing shoe and waves it aloft like a trophy] "has it come...alive or something, maybe doing a Mr Poo dance around the rim of the toilet?"

[Silence]...

Arthur: [Still shouting] "No, that would be silly Daddy."

Dad: [moves to base of stairs, puffs cheeks and does that slow exhale of breath that parents do so well] "What is it then, Arthur, I need to get you to school."

Arthur: "My poo has got bits in it"

Dad: [Pauses] "What sort of bits? Does it look like sweetcorn by any chance? ...Or Lego?"

Arthur: [pause as Arthur presumably examines his poo, hopefully just a visual inspection and with due deference to the laws of basic hygeine]...[shouting]..."they look like... they look like the pimento peppers that they put in the stuffed olives at the deli counter in Waitrose".

Dad: [Raises eyebrows, smirks] "flush the toilet please Arthur and come down to put your shoes on... and don't forget to wash your hands."

Pointless Products - "Fake Call Feature"

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 04:56:00 +0000

The Samsung Tocco SGH-F480i is a splendid device. For my purposes it satisfies an inexplicable urge to keep up with the Jones's in that it looks a bit like an iPhone and has many of the features of an iPhone. It does not, however, cost £300, nor does it tie me into a 500 year contract on a tariff that I don't need. In fact, and at the risk of sounding like a Luddite, the phone came onto the market in 2008 and I acquired one a few months back from Virgin Mobile for the princely sum of £No:Money. It does me just fine.

Symptomatic of being a dad, I have to confess that I did suffer the ignominy of having to glance through the manual to find out how to plug the thing into the mains since there seemed to be no obvious hole into which the charger could be inserted. It was whilst finding myself in this unusual position that I read the the words "To get out of a meeting that you do not want to be in, simply press the down side of the volume slider for 5 seconds and a fake call will be initiated". In fact, the Tocco doesn't just offer the fake call facility, but you can also turn on/off a fake voice to talk to, just to add to the authenticity of the whole fraudulent call scenario. At the time I had to applaud the geniuses at Samsung for not just coming up with the feature, but for the fact that they so brazenly advertise the intended use of the function within the manual. This is somewhat at variance with the "private browsing" feature that has become commonplace now on internet browsers - that is advertised as a feature for finding nice surprise presents for your wife, rather than for looking at internet sites with ladies in erotic poses that perhaps your wife might consider less than artistic.

Since then, with modern life requiring an ever increasing assemblage of items to carry around in ones pockets, I have found myself interrupted on an almost daily basis by telephone calls from a South Korean lady. This is not because the South Korean arm of Comantra have managed to get hold of my mobile number, more it seems that the down-button on the volume slider is all too easy for wallets, pens, keys, confiscated toys etc to press. Now, whilst this is an irritant, I am able to write off the time spent on these 'phone-calls' with the sure and safe knowledge that I paid £No:Money for the phone and that, given the music player capabilities of the device, I no longer have to suffer listening to the radio in the car.

I fear that my unsolicited caller is starting to get a little frustrated with my hanging up on her, however. She struck last night at the worst possible time. We will shortly be moving to a three bedroom house following a long and arduous trawl through the Eastbourne housing market. At present, however, we have a 'two-up, two-down' affair shared between Mr and Mrs, and sons Arthur (6) and Eric (1). Eric is effectively homeless given that, if there is one thing that Arthur really doesn't need, it is the loss of any sleep overnight - he is quite mentalist enough thank you. Eric then sleeps in the corner of our room ever eager to migrate from the 'adorable cherubic sleeping baby' condition to 'very loud screaming and shouting' in a manner that suggests that at least an hour needs to be written off before decides that 03:30 isn't actually a good time to get up.

Consequently, the process of getting into bed is a stealthy operation that is not to be entered into lightly. I am typically charged with sourcing items for use overnight such as glasses of water, baby water cups, tissues, spare nappies, baby wipes, mobile phones to be used as elaborate alarm clocks etc. I am also male so the thought of making multiple trips is anathema – all items need to be carried up the stairs using whichever body part can be best adapted to carrying that night’s accoutrements.

Last night has a particularly hefty payload given that a summer cold has rendered the administration of Calpol a possibility. The bottle is inserted into a jeans pocket, whilst a baby water bottle gets shoe-horned into the other. Mrs VVB’s phone is uncomfortably transported in the mouth, bitten between top and bottom lip, the two glasses of water carried in the style of a man bringing a few pints back from the bar. The third ‘pint’ in question is the Samsung Tocco SGH-F480i, held with a finger either side. Progress up the stairs is more than adequate with minimum spillage, and an application of elbow to the bedroom door results in a successful opening. Next, gingerly proceed to either side of the bed to drop off the water. This involves tip-toeing with stealth and cunning past the sleeping baby, attempting to breathe neither in nor out for fear of waking him – he is a light sleeper.

In the dark, the ‘three pint’ formation slips – not a terminal slip by any stretch, but enough to be a cause for concern – the careful structure unravelling, heightening the risk of disaster. An adjustment is made mid-flight. The threat recedes and the carriage of items returns to business as usual until A VERY LOUD AND OFFENSIVE RING TONE LEAPS FROM THE TOCCO PHONE REVERBERATING AROUND THE ROOM LIKE A BLOODY AC/DC CONCERT. Mr VVB takes fright – must stop the ringing before Eric is woken. A quick emergency landing of water glasses onto the mantelpiece is executed before darting to the door to make good an esape. “…’cking thing” mutters Mr VVB as his fight or flight reflex sends him running across the landing to a vacant corner, the ring tone increasing in volume with every step – the South Korean lady seemingly impatient for a response. In the half light Mr VVB jabs and prods the phone, finally finding the cancel button. The ensuing silence is a symphony in itself – an alarming incident, but seemingly without consequence.

SQUEAK-CHUNK. The unmistakeable sound of Arthur’s door. It seems that the muttering under breath of profanity and ill-constructed sentences was actually delivered at considerably higher volume than first thought. The design of the house is such that the landing is no larger than an airing cupboard and so the ‘vacant corner’ might be read in normal circumstances as ‘right next door to Arthur’s room and really quite close to his ears. “What’s going on Dad, you’ve woken me up? What do you think the red Power Ranger should do if he is attacked by…”. I could be some time. “What the hell is going on?” Mrs VVB is in on the act now, with a miserable and strangely wet baby slung over her shoulder. Sadly, the ‘emergency landing’ for the water on the mantelpiece was true for only one of the vessels – the other heading south into the cot, luckily missing any vital organs/head etc, and being made of strong glass.

It took an hour and a half to get Arthur down to sleep again, primarily because Eric had to pitch up in our bed for the night, his own being soaked by 0.25 litres of fresh water. In Arthur’s world, our bed is perfectly adaptable to sleeping four people and us denying him this is obviously a sign of us favouring his brother. I slept mainly on the wooden edge of the bed, venturing that maybe proffering the query “is there any chance that you two could move over a bit?” might result in actual bodily harm being visited upon me.

Now I accept that maybe I ought to consider (a) making multiple trips in future and (b) should think about using a tray. That said, I do hold Samsung 95% to blame for the whole debacle since the ‘fake call’ feature is very obviously flawed. For this reason, and in no way trying to deflect any sense of blame from myself, I am hereby placing the ‘fake call’ feature of the Samsung Tocco SGH-F480i into the Pointless Products hall of shame.

Mrs VVB, for some reason, disagrees with the blame ratio.

The Glorious South Downs

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 08:22:00 +0000

I try to stay away from home as little as possible which, when you work in data-comms and live in Eastbourne, can sometimes prove tricky. I have spent the last couple of days in London, currently worthy of the motif "London - The Sweat Box of The South" and set to get even more so with the Met Office forecasting 30 degree heat over the next couple of days. Three things are assured: (1) headlines which unashamedly state "Phew! What a Scorcher!", (2) too many men walking around without their tops on, unaware of the fact that adverts for Armani pants are meant to be causing a rise in men with body issues, and (3) the collapse of all civic infrastructure because of what will be termed "exceptional heat".

A couple of days in the stifling hurly-burly of the capital is enough for me these days, and it is always a pleasure to return home. When I lived in London, the signifiers that I had returned to home turf were typically the hoards massing in the middle of the pavement just outside Woolworths in Brixton, or indeed the whores massing on the corner of Josephine Avenue and Brixton Hill.

These days, the signpost for home is an altogether more genteel experience, gliding through what is to be Britain's newest National Park on the train, staring out of the window and... seeing a naked man standing in a field, propping himself up on two sticks and staring at the traffic. He's nestling in the picture above that I took from said locomotive, but here he is in all his glory - I give you The Long Man of Wilmington:

The Gingerstocracy

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 15:43:00 +0000

Mirroring the current pre-occupation of tabloid editors the world over, I found myself considering the visual attributes of Anna Chapman, alleged Russian spy. I couldn't help but observe that Russian females generally fall into two key categories: (1) shot-putters from the early 1980s Cold War period and (2) visions of unbelievable beauty. Chapman introduces us to a sub-set of the latter - the "flame-haired" Russian beauty.

Now of course, "flame-haired" is nothing short of a euphemism for the word "Ginger". "Red head", "Titian", "Strawberry Blonde" - these are all examples of the phrases used to skirt around the subject - they are Carrot Tops the lot of them and have for many years been the object of ridicule on the basis that they have higher levels of the pheomelanin pigment than most.

Yet of late, and I can't help but think that this must have something to do with the ascendancy of the Liberal Democrats to power, the Ginger army appears to have regrouped and now look to be working on naked ambition and some sort of world domination complex. Let us consider (and doubtless with a liberal sprinkling of Daily Mail-esque pictures of pretty ladies to help shift a few more copies) the new Gingerstocracy:

Karen Gillan / Amy Pond - Doctor Who

Ginger? CONFIRMED, Ginger is cool, apparently.

Anna Chapman - Alleged Russian Spy

Ginger? Query over this - could be a deep cover operation

Danny Alexander - Inexplicably the Chief Secretary To The Treasury

Ginger? CONFIRMED, most definitely CONFIRMED and in the process of undoing all the good work of fellow ginger ambassadors

David Laws - Former Chief Secretary To The Treasury

Ginger? CONFIRMED, along with all Liberal Democrats come to that (see "Paddy Ashdown" and "Charles Kennedy")

Nicholas Witchell - BBC Royal Correspondent and former BBC Chief Sitter On Lesbians Who Invade the 6 O'Clock News studio

Ginger? CONFIRMED - standard bearer and the dictionary definition of Ginger since mid-eighties

Caligula - Third Roman Emperor between 37 and 41 AD

Ginger? So says Suetonius, and you don't argue with Suetonius... unless you are Caligula.

No, this really is just an excuse to put up pictures of Karen Gillan, Anna Chapman and Nicole "is she / isn't she" Kidman, isn't it?...

6 Music Saved

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 10:25:00 +0000

The BBC Trust has rejected Mark Thompson's half baked proposal to save 0.26% of the annual BBC budget through the closure of 6 Music. This comes as something of a relief since I was beginning to think that I had developed a reverse Medusa effect which was unleashed on media organisations that I chose to support. Every station that I would be happy to report to someone with a RAJAR clipboard as being "my favourite station" gets shut down.

First was Laser 558 which had to be towed into port in 1985 after the DTI's "Euroseige" operation starved the pirate ship's generator of fuel. Then, in the early noughties came the lobotomy of Xfm by parent company Capital/GCap/Global who seem to think that twenty minute repetition of The Dandy Warhol's Greatest Hit represents good programming.

More recently, the closure of NME Radio, winner of Mr Very Very Bored's "2009 award for Best Thing Since Sliced Bread" came as something of a disappointment. That station was founded by Sammy "Xfm" Jacob and took us back to the roots of the now much diminished London alternative station. Money talks though in commercial radio and it seems that this station just couldn't do the numbers, evidenced by the frequency of adverts for, er, the NME to the exclusion of most other advertisers. Apparently, successful commercial radio stations have to appeal to generic housewives between the ages of 25 and 35 for it is they who decide what type of car the family buys, what type of mobile phone to use and what type of bleach gets used down the loo. Not enough of them like bands like Crystal Castles or Bombay Bicycle Club, alas.

Which is where the BBC come in. Thompson had planned to leave top 40 station Radio 1 and MoR station Radio 2 alone and close the station that seems to more accurately fit the "public service" remit. This morning at 1100, Lauren Laverne delivered the news that the Trust has acquiesced to the campaign to save 6 Music. Apparently the Trust has decreed that Thompson and his slightly ginger beard must be placed in the stocks outside White City for the rest of the week for good measure.

Anna Chapman

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 08:26:00 +0000

With the arrest of Anna Chapman (unsurprisingly pictured on the left) on suspicion of being a secret agent for the Russian authorities, it is good to see that her friends, family and acquaintances are rallying around her. Neighbours have expressed their shock and disbelief, whilst her former husband, Alex Chapman, has been doing his bit by saying that he always knew that she was a spy anyway.

Also offering up soundbites, Viktor Golovkin, the director of the KhEP creative arts school that Anna is said to have attended, provides us with a bit of background.

"We don't remember her and we don't keep records"

Apparently somewhat perturbed by spotlight that has been suddenly shone on his school he goes on to say,

"She studied her for less than a year, I think, from September to March in 1996 and 1997".

At which point Mr Golovkin turned yellow, went bald and was said to be shouting "Doh!" as he waddled off back to his ~~nuclear reactor~~ school.

Comantra Scam Tech Support Call

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 09:54:00 +0000

One of the pleasures of working at home is occasional contact with the outside world in the form of religious doorsteppers, sales calls and scam phone calls. Fresh from my victory over the God Squad the other week, I was pleased today to receive a call from a "Microsoft Gold Partner" who wanted to mend my laptop for free.

It has to be said that my laptop is indeed in need of mending since it has now decided to not play videos from YouTube or BBC iPlayer properly, and my remedy the other evening nearly resulted in my being kicked out of the house by Mrs VVB when the machine slipped into a "blue screen of death" coma.

What better then than a Microsoft Gold Partner contacting me out of the blue to solve all of my problems? The drill was thus:

1) Open the run dialogue box (which I now know that I can do using the Windows key and the letter 'R' on the keyboard - a handy hint)
2) Enter 'eventvwr' into the box and hit return
3) Marvel at the number of error logs that there are in the list under "Applications", but do not take any interest in what the error report says. These logs are the result of "corrupted software that gets downloaded from the internet without my knowing"
4) Simply let my unsolicited caller connect to my computer and they will sort it all out for free.

Of course, no-one would be so stupid as to allow someone to connect to their PC from an unsolicited call, so reassurance can be found by

1) Entering "Microsoft Partners Directory" into Google
2) Searching for "Comantra" - lo and behold, my unsolicited caller who says that he works for Comantra must be bona-fide because they are listed on the Microsoft site.

Sadly, whilst in Google, a quick search for "Comantra" reveals a long list of websites headed "Comantra Scam Tech Support Call", an uncomfortable truth that my nice caller did not seem to either understand or believe. He offered to provide me with a telephone number that I could call to confirm his credentials, but did not seem to understand my logic when I said that I would call the Comantra HQ in Kolkata to confirm that this was a genuine campaign that they were running. I believe that he was in the process of explaining a much easier way of reassuring myself when I cut him off.

Should you want to use his services then you can call him on 12030519993.

If you want references beforehand, you might be interested in hearing some of his work on these sites: Blogarithmic Disfunction and Digitaltoast.

There is no implication in the above that Comantra are not a genuine Microsoft partner.

Spoiler: Judgement Day

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 12:24:00 +0000

I have just received a visit from the local evangelical church and succeeded in them effectively slamming the door in my face. I'm always happy to discuss the fact that I place my faith in the chaos of evolution and will keenly discuss these matters on the doorstep for a good half-hour. This couple must be working on commission however and decided that they were not going to be able to close the deal with me. A polite and wide-ranging discussion was brought to an abrupt end by someone tooting them from a mobility scooter and tapping their watch.

Nevertheless, I have managed to get a sneak preview of the day of my own judgement. I can exclusively reveal that because I lead what I believe to be a "good" and charitable life, God will overlook my having been an unmarried father for the last seven years. I do not worship at his alter and so obviously cannot go to Heaven, however I will probably not be condemned to Hell and damnation. Instead I will be resurrected and live on Earth under the thousand year rule of Christ. This will, apparently be a direct rule with all human governments swept to one side, rather like the German Reich, but hopefully without all the mess and bloodshed.

I'm not 100% sold on the benevolent dictatorship, but I have concluded from this that I am OK to carry on with my atheist existence. This is particularly handy because, having checked the calendar, I am busy for at least the next 3 Sundays.

Great Manchester Run

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Sun, 16 May 2010 07:43:00 +0000

Manchester is truly blessed today as it welcomes an athletics sensation. He plans to break the 10K road record as he pounds the streets of the North West city in the Great Manchester Run . The man is, of course, Ethiopian legend, Haile Gebres...er...something-or-another...

A Load of Old Bull

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 14 May 2010 07:43:00 +0000

One week on, it must surely be time to stop posting vitriolic bile about the new Tory/Lib administration and just deal with the fact that Labour lost the election. That's democracy for you, even if it does result in Theresa May being made the Home Secretary.

On that note then, in the absence of any other insightful remarks, and without passing any comment on Messrs Cameron and Clegg, here is a delightful scene from the East Sussex countryside:

David Cameron - Biological Definition

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Thu, 13 May 2010 14:18:00 +0000

Full marks to NaveCleggeron on the Twitter machine for his observation that Google Images is currently carrying an excellent description of the young Mr Cameron in terms of anatomical definition. Simply type "David Cameron Side View" or, if you trust me, click to enlarge the image below:

Soggy Biscuit

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Wed, 12 May 2010 19:31:00 +0000

DC: "Wotto Nicholas, how do you fancy coming up to my room? I've got a coolio new DVD called "Tony Blair's Greatest Hits". It's got all the brill one-liners, hand gestures, statesmanlike poses and dead princess analogies. We could play at being prime ministers?"

NC: "Totally skill Dave. We could maybe practice our moves in the mirror before we go down the Rose Garden to meet the world's media and show them how very excellent we are. Can I also suggest that we watch my DVD "Bruce and Tess: Strictly Cringe-worthy Double Header Presentation?"

DC: "Great idea Nicholas. We're gonna be the best double act since Sam Fox and Mick Fleetwood."

NC: "You can be Sam Fox - show me your tits or I'll break 'The Chain'"

DC: "No, I'll be Mick. I'll take you for a Tango In The Night and you can show me your tits whilst I shag you over."

NC: "In the spirit of compromise, let's just play soggy biscuit. We'll get our rocks off, it will all look a bit sordid and public school, and everyone will feel a bit disappointed"

DC: Whizzer idea Nick. I like the New Politics - reminds me so much of Eton.

Tory Nicks

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Tue, 11 May 2010 20:51:00 +0000

Tory Nick Robinson, not more than ten minutes after Call Me Dave was anointed half a Prime Minister today, got somewhat carried away and declared Cameron as the new Disraeli. A job at Sky News beckons maybe for Tory Nick, providing Adam Boulton with a the opportunity of a much needed rest. With any luck, Laura Kuenssberg will take his place at the BBC - she is Scottish and can clearly therefore not be a Tory.

Meanwhile, Tory Nick Clegg cops a mouthful from Mrs Very Very Bored this evening. "If that Tory twat ever thinks that I am voting Liberal again then he has got another thing coming". Tory Nick Clegg has been bombarding Mrs VVB with emails for weeks now in a clear example of cyber-stalking. Coinciding with the deferential commentary from Tory Nick Robinson came the sound of an angry keyboard unsubscribing from Tory Nick Clegg's address book. Not all is well it seems in the Liberal camp.

Adam Boulton versus Alastair Campbell

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Mon, 10 May 2010 21:08:00 +0000

It's a fight on College Green. In the Red corner is Alastair Campbell. Most definitely in the Blue corner is Adam Boulton. Yes, that is the same Adam Boulton that independently adjudicated the second leader's ~~pantomime~~ debate. Watch from about 04:00.

Sack Kay Burley!

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Sat, 08 May 2010 18:46:00 +0000

Take a look at the video below. Protestors from the Take Back Parliament group marched on Whitehall today and demanded that Nick Clegg does not accept the sweeties that are being offered by Call Me Dave to prop up the Tories. Specifically, they demand that our hung parliament is used as a catalyst for meaningful electoral form - be it the Alternative Vote, Single Transferable Vote or some other method. They also appear to have an issue with Sky News and most specifically their 'journalist' Kay Burley:

So, all very amusing and satisfying for anyone who has a pathological dislike of the stranglehold that the right-wing press have on our politics. Avid viewers of Sky News, however, might have had an inkling of what had annoyed the protesters quite so much had they been watching a little earlier. You will need to excuse the sound on the clip, but the content is quite unbelievable...

"Sack Kay Burley" is, at the time of writing, consequently the top trending topic on Twitter.

Lib Dems Win at Eastbourne

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 07 May 2010 02:51:00 +0000

Inexplicably, the Tories have contrived to lose their constituency in Eastbourne. Lib Dem Stephen Lloyd has won here to evict the Tories for the first time since 1910 (by-election in 1990 excepted). With the final national result somewhat unclear at 0340, this is hardly a ringing endorsement of The Big Society that Call Me Dave has so ham-fistedly expounded.

Good work Stephen and campaign staff (particularly the one that ended up being arrested for allegedly vandalising Conservative posters, ha!)

New Tory Poster

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 19:32:00 +0000

Full marks to Bloggerheads for providing the base image and an A* to jb_ontheroad on Twitpic for lampooning the Tories latest poster. Word has it that they tried to make this altogether less happy-clappy piece of marketing unspoofable - £18.9 million pounds well spent lads...

Bizzarely, the word from Eastbourne, which stereotype would have you believe to be more Conservative than Edmund Burke, appears to be on the verge of turning yellowy orange thanks to the persistence of local candidate Stephen Lloyd. Mr Lloyd has been trying to get elected here since about 1906 and, if the ballot were to be based on the number of signs up around the town, local Tory MP Nigel Waterson ought to be applying for burger flipper jobs with some haste.

Oh go on then, let's have another...

qwghlm moves to the top of the class.

Touched By The Hand of God

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 18:34:00 +0000

A friend of many years' standing, though one that you do not see very often owing to geographical and logistical issues, has two announcements. The friend might best be described as a serial bachelor with obsessional tendencies, and entirely secular. His first annoucement is that he is getting married in five weeks' time and the second that he has found God. Furthermore he asks you, with no hint of irony given your atheist credentials , whether you would like to join him in his journey through Christianity.

The correct response is probably one of the following:

1. "Congratulations, I am very happy for you both. When is the wedding - I am so looking forward to it". Avoid any mention of the religion bit since (a) he is entitled to believe whatever he wants and (b) there is a strong risk of putting your size nine into it.

2. "Eh, are you taking the piss? When did you meet her? Is she by any chance a long standing Christian and has this, perchance, got anything remotely to do with your sudden epiphany that Darwin was talking bollocks?"

3. "Congratulations. No, I am with Richard Dawkins on this one". Shift nervously in your seat as the shortcomings of Darwinism are 'explained' and then make a ham-fisted joke about the reception probably being good value since all that they need to buy in are five fish, five loaves and a tank of water - they can invite as many people as they like on that basis. Wait for the stony silence to end. Write about the incident on your anonymous 'blog.

Babbage and Lovelace Return

noreply@blogger.com (Mr VeryVeryBored) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 22:00:00 +0000

Hallelujah! A further instalment in the Charles Babbage and Ada Lovelace saga, this time featuring the Victorian inventor of the concertina, Charles Wheatstone. The backstory and historical accuracy that Sydney Padua employs in her work is extraordinary. Oh, and there is the fact that it is very very funny.