Straitened circumstances. Screwed-up thinking.

It often brings a wry smile to my face when I see people whose occupations seem to have been pre-determined by the names that they were given at birth.
As an example, I've just had my hair cut by a chap called Jim Barbour.
And so it was, with slightly less amusement, that I read about the UK's highest paid official in either central or local government.
His name is Phil Dolan and it seems to me that the poor council taxpayers in South Somerset district council have been 'doling' out their money by the barrowload.
I suspect that having opted for a salary, pension and severance package of £569,000, Phil decided he has had his 'fill'.
To add salt to the wounds, two of his underlings will each have to get by on a smidgeon over £300,000 for a similar sort of package.
Suffice to say, while neither of them will go short, the payments are nothing short of scandalous.
To get clean away with all that filthy lucre from a district that has only 162,000 residents is impossible to justify.
Across the country, services are being cut by local councils in the name of efficiencies.
Libraries are living on borrowed time. Hospitals are in intensive care. And boy, do they need it. Even schools are having to re-learn the three R's.
Rationalisation and Redundancy.
Yes, even education has suffered - that was only two.
Okay, so let's add R-ithmetic.
As pensioners grow older and colder, fat cats are getting fatter and fatter.
But there is one bright spot.
For the time being, we should be able to suspend all cold weather payments for the elderly.
Their blood must surely be boiling.

Lawyers on the payroll. Prisoners on parole.

There is scarcely a week that passes in which the term Human Rights isn't dragged ever deeper into the gutter.
This past week was a case in point.
And just in case the points escaped you, one related to prisoners' rights to vote while the other was to do with paedophiles who rail against their inclusion on the sex register.
Maybe if we were to tell them that the sex register is a place where you can register for sex, they would happily form a disorderly queue.
So what's going on?
Well, let's not just blame the vile wretches who perpetrate these crimes.
Let's also implicate the Human Rights Lawyers who perpetuate this 'I've been wronged' culture.
Are these lawyers really too lazy to carry on chasing ambulances or was banking too honourable a profession that they opted for a career change?
As decent humans, we demand the right to protect ourselves and our children by locking up dangerous criminals.
And as dangerous criminals, the flagrant disregard that they showed for the law of the land in the first place, ought to preclude them from having a say in who makes these laws.
In fact, I'm even beginning to wonder whether lawyers themselves should have the right to vote.

ST VALENTINE. WAS IT CUPID OR ST UPID?

St Valentine lived as a priest in Rome. He also died there.
In fact, he was murdered.
So 'whodunnit'?
Rome is a city of romance. Even the name suggests that much.
The first two letters of romance are RO which is a homophone of arrow.
We all know about Cupid's arrow.
And Cupid, as we also know, is the Roman God of Desire.
Has the story come full circle?
Was it Cupid that killed St Valentine?
What might have been his motive or was he simply trying to instil some desire and his mischief 'misfired'?
Far-fetched?
Maybe so.
But then, who are the mugs that are fetching, flowers, chocolates and alcohol every February 14th?

I've been a wily Rover for many a year

Why do you think my kennel is next to that cute little bitch?
Woof! Woof!

Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

Noses are red
though mine was once blew
Grammar is dead
And if this rhyme is anything to go by
Poetry is too

The death of punctuation?

For anyone who believes that punctuation is not important, try explaining the difference between the following:

MAN'S LAUGHTER and MANSLAUGHTER

You're not laughing now.

Press caught Prescott

THE PHONE HACKING SCANDAL

A typical conversation?

Prescott calls Dorneywood.

"Hello, is that the butler?"

"Yes, can I help Sir?"

"Hello Rab. It's John here. I'll be at Dorneywood this weekend. I'd like some croquettes on the lawn."

"Very good, Sir. And would Sir like the the newspapers delivered to his room?"

"Yes please. But make sure they are yesterday's."

"Yesterday's Sir?"

"Yes, I find they normally include a fish supper."

"Very good Sir."

"Oh and one final thing."

"Yes Sir?"

"Please don't use 'Sir' all the time."

"Mr Prescott?"

"No, try practising 'Lord'. I'm getting used to living like one."

Silvio BerLOUCHEsconi

This vehicle makes frequent stops

The driver has a weak bladder.

Shh!

I'm scared of dying but not of death
I live my life with every breath

For me the dentist holds no fears
I haven't had my teeth for years

To catch a cold is not an issue
If I can find myself a tissue ATISHOO!

The dark will never cause me fright
As long as I can reach a light

And cabbage ain't my favourite food
Though it can't be bad if it does you good

But there is one thing that freaks me out
I'll need to whisper....IT'S KIDS THAT SHOUT!

If someone is 'dead on time', why are they subsequently described as 'The Late......'?

Football is not a matter of profit and loss

It's far more important than that.
Well, that's what you'd glean if you asked fans of the clubs that occupy the upper echelons of the English Premiership. (As long as you refrain from using words like 'echelons'.)
While lesser teams make do with pumping high balls into the opposition's penalty box, the more fashionable clubs benefit from wealthy benefactors pumping high finance into their coffers.
More money pays higher wages which attracts better players which, in turn, draws bigger crowds.
There seems to be the vestige of some logic in this economic model.
But there isn't. At least, not on the scale that money is being paid to modern day footballers.
Last week signalled the closure of the transfer window.
Before it shut, Andy Carroll, who had only played half a season of Premiership football, moved from Newcastle to Liverpool for something approaching £40 million. He replaced FernandoTorres who had been shipped out for £50 million to Chelsea.
There's not another business like it and the owners could not have made their fortunes had they conducted their core businesses in that way. So what's their game?
Is it a tax loss? Is it ego? Or is it simply men and boys and the size and value of their toys?
This week we witnessed an even more significant event.
A pub landlady from Portsmouth fought for her right to beam in top UK games via Greece.
If Sky cannot dictate where we buy their viewing packages from, revenues will fall and so too will the money that they inject into the game.
Were the bubble to burst, the rich owners are wealthy enough to walk away. The fear is, by then, many fans will have walked away too.
For the future of football to be worth a punt, we need to start thinking more about the punters.
Today and tomorrow.
Otherwise, you won't need to be a prophet to forecast a loss.

Stuff his contributions. Let's have retribution.

If any alien beings had spent yesterday observing planet earth's social networks, they might well have wondered what the hell was going on.
Activity was frantic.
It was merely a reflection of the goings-on in the English Premiership transfer market.
Had they paid more attention to what was going on in the Bank of England, they would have been even more perplexed. That's because yesterday was the day that the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street chose to put an extra £1.4 million into the pension pot of its Governor, Mervyn King.
Coincidence or clever timing?
So when he retires in 2013, Mervyn King will collect a pension equivalent to £198,200 in today's money.
In his defence, the figure is also based on his own contributions.
I wonder if that includes his contribution towards making Britain the busted flush that it has now become.

I was laughing all the way to the bank

It was a different matter when I got there.
Thieving bastards.

There has to be merit in a meritocracy

Have you ever asked yourself, if you were to enter Mastermind, what would be your specialist subject?
Mine would be fuse boxes.
But whatever you go for, there is a degree of fatuity about so many of the subjects that contestants choose.
How can I be impressed by someone who has devoted their entire recent life to learning every available fact about paving stones, for example?
Far more impressive is a credible performance in the general knowledge section where you are liable to be asked anything from aardvarks to zebras, astronomy to Zoroastrianism or from AA Gill to Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Scrabble competitions are no different.
Contestants study seemingly endless lists of words with the sole aim of scoring more points.
Personally, I just don't get the point.
To encourage education, wouldn't it be far better in Scrabble if you could challenge your opponent's knowledge of the word they've just played? If they don't know its definition, then instead of accruing points, they get deducted.
And therein lies a metaphor for life in Britain today.
Too many people are rewarded for being thick. They should be punished.
Except where it comes naturally.
Me? Why fuse boxes?
As a kid, I spent many a lesson in the school corridor.
How thick is that?
Thick of me. Thick of my teachers.

Sexism? Let's have some realism.

Before I do anything else, I'd like to put my cards on the table.
My first card is of the 'get well' variety.
Britain is sick. Parts of our society have become morally debased and for too long now we have failed to respond to ever-increasing doses of political correctness.
The next card I'd like to put on the table is a picture of Jimmy Johnstone, the ex-Celtic winger and Lisbon Lion.
I collected it as a boy. I was once a Celtic fan and remain an ardent football fan.
Sadly, football is where so much of our moral turpitude manifests itself.
And while there are many decent people who attend football matches, if I were a recruiting sergeant for boors, I can't think of a better place to go.
The next card is my driving licence.
I would personally like to chauffeur Andy Gray from the Sky studios should he need to return to collect a few personal effects. Just so long as he doesn't collect any more of his obscene £1.7 million salary.
And that's where the realism should come in.
As good as he might have been at his job, I fail to see how Sky could justify paying him even half that amount.
Never mind the salary cheque, I think Sky should take a reality check.
Yes, Andy Gray is a boor who escaped the terraces for the comfort of the studio and the even greater comfort that his salary provides.
Yes, the comments he made were crass in the extreme. But the reaction - which is yet another overdose of political correctness - was out of proportion almost on the same scale as his salary.
And yes, things will be a lot brighter without a Gray Sky.
But I still think we have missed an open goal.
Wouldn't it have been far better to fine him £150,000 (not much more than a month's salary) and donate that money to the people who are fighting sexism where it really exists?
As a centre forward, Andy Gray was undoubtedly great with the head. Maybe he should start using it again.

Don't let anyone tell you they cant spell

That's hypocrisy.

Women used to fall at my feet...

...but I wash them more regularly now.

I used my dongle in a dingle but my connection was prone to dangle

The Curate's Egg. An alternative definition.

It's when your priest has a real apse.