spiffingwheeze

With Stuart Hall, long-time host of school-sportsday gone mad TV trash “It’s A Knockout” in the news now, for alleged acts of an unsavoury nature against children.

So that’s It’s A Knockout off the list of TV shows allowed to be re-run.

Is it just easier if we round up all TV personalities, Radio DJs and popstars from the 70’s and 80’s and presume them guilty until proved innocent?

As the birthday celebration of the invisible being’s son of legend approaches, I find myself void of festive feelings. How to festive up?

Some perfunctory online shopping was executed at lunchtime. No score.

I observed the Town lights on the way home. Needle barely registered. Have they been up since last year?

Works festive piss-up approaches. Will be going sober due to location fecking miles from home, and a nagging lack of trust in self discipline at a free bar. Plus you should avoid getting drunk with people you work with. The potential for lurching disaster is all there. The truth may out from loosened tongues.

Closest so far is festive aroma from pine tree in reception at work. Most evocative of proper childhood Christmas past. But stuck in place of daily toil, seems wrong. However, our home tree does not go up until close to the event, and it lives in a box in the loft, and so only smells of dust so it’s unlikely to fix the mood.

Maybe I could douse it with pine disinfectant. But then it would probably only smell like an accident in a retirement home.
The way I feel, if I went to a 24hr Tesco now, post 10pm to get some Christmas booze shopping done, I’d make a start on it straight away, having wheeled a trolley round a deserted over-lit shed strewn with Eastern Europeans and bored staff stacking shelves, whilst Noddy Holder shouts 70’s yuletide musings over the P.A. System.
Then on to the soulless self checkout, where my only interaction is with the short tempered helper to swipe their approval for my alcohol laden cargo.
Fuck it. I’m off to bed.
Try again tomorrow…

If, dear reader, like me, you frankly couldn’t be arsed to get up and troll down to a polling station to cast your vote for some weirdo to be your  local PCC, then you’re not alone.

Yee Haw! Your Local PCC thanks you for your lack of vote. Still, fuck you! He’ll be busy counting his cash for a while, so just let those coppers run free and wild for a bit… Now for cigars, Whiskey,and hookers.

It seems barely anyone could be bothered. Middle class families with children were busy working out what to do with the missing child benefit coming round the corner, an increase in the cost of everything, and a monthly kick in the plums from the taxman.

Toffs were busy enjoying their latest tax breaks, and hiding their kiddy fiddler friends in organisations up and down the country as the witch hunt continues.

Poor people were busy being crushed into the earth under Tory boots.

Which meant that the old ladies smelling of wee, and officious local busy bodies manning the polling stations had nothing to do drink shitty tea. Or maybe  smoke a fat dooby, fornicate with each other, and plan post office robberies, whilst the odd drop-out stuck an X on a piece of paper.

Of course, the real crime here is that, rather than leave the policing of the police to Police Authorities made up of local councillors and the suchlike, who are already being paid, the geniuses in charge decided to create a new role.

A role paying between 65,000 and 100,000 pounds apparently. But somehow the same as was already being spent. Yeah, sure.

No. Really: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-19504639

I’d rather they had carried on as before, and spent the money on a couple of coppers, and a vicious attack dog, so that we might actually get some local policing.

What a fucking travesty.

Following on  the heels of  the Spiffing Wheeze’s previous article regarding erasing Mr Savile from history, and its rights and wrongs, rumour has it that MPs are meeting in secret to discuss officially declaring the whole of the 1970s a write off.

This kind of thing NEVER HAPPENED. Right?

As the Jimmy Savile scandal grows daily, those few remaining people who have not yet put their hands up to being abused, now miserably look back on ruined childhood memories of Saturday Night Jim’ll Fix It envy and nights spent in front of Top Of The Pops featuring their favourite bands irretrievably tarnished.

In order to head off a mass national glumness on a scale to match the already ruined economy, the government is formulating a plan to symbolically tie the whole shit pile up in a gigantic sack, put a couple of bricks in the bottom, and lob the fucker off the side of the Palace of Westminster into the appropriately filthy Thames.

It will then never be spoken of again.

Only the 1970s will be disposed of, even though the unmentionable one’s reign of terror on TV continued into the next 2 decades, as the decade was already, well, a bit of a skidmark in plenty of respects. Power shortages, strikes, inflation, the beginning of the end of British Industry etc.

The 1980s will now be recorded as having officially begun directly after 31st Dec 1969.

This will mean, however, that people of a certain age will have to concentrate hard on finding good memories from the 80’s to replace any memories from the 1970s. Acceptable memories suggested by a government think-tank include: Joey Deacon on Blue Peter, Ford Escort XR3is (orange ones), Thatcher, impending nuclear war with the Soviets, Yuppies, George Michael when he was still pretending, and men proudly sporting Princess Diana hairstyles.

Felix Baumgartner’s spectacular tumble to earth, breaking the sound barrier was a bigger breakthrough than is widely understood.

Behind the jolly facade of breaking a record for falling to earth from a giant rubber johnny full of helium on the edge of space lies a dark secret…

Felix was the test pilot for the first real spacesuit, in a very public trial.

Now that the technology has been proved, statements are being prepared to the effect that the moon landings and all that grainy space footage stuff was all a bit of a wheeze.

This is as far as we’ve gone folks. But now we have a working spacesuit… Time for a rocket!

It was all started by the USSR when they pretended to fire a man into orbit, and was then topped out in a game of tit-for-tat bullshit by the USA with the pretend moon landings.

All of this before people had digital watches… Think about it.

Anyway, once both sides got started, it was all a bit difficult to back down, and so the superpowers publicly fronted up to each other like two piss-heads in a pub who can’t stop talking horse shit. “Go on, punch me in the stomach”. “My old man was a bare knuckle boxer” and so on.

Having come to a mutual agreement that they’d carry on spinning the yarn, whilst spending the money allegedly poured into  the space programmes on ever bigger fireworks for their nuclear arsenals, the ruse continued. And so lots of actors pretending to be astronauts ended up wobbling around on sets in the Nevada desert wearing suits that would have had difficulty keeping a fart in, let alone the vacuum of space at bay.

Until now.

Another interesting point was that apparently, Felix Baumgartner was chosen because he is medically unable to swear, thereby negating the need for the innocent public to endure 2 minutes of somebody screaming “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” as  he hurtled to Earth.