You're Having a Laugh

I give you, after God, Jesus, the Spirit, my dad, Father Christmas and the gerbils, my hero - one Jeremy Clarkson. The co-presenter of Top Gear, my favouritist programme ever, he is something of a inspiration to my more playful writing styles. He is one of the funniest men on the telly, and he says some of the most outrageous things - and often gets into trouble for it.

Today has taught me how strange humour is. Jezza's crime today was stereotyping Mexicans as 'feckless and lazy', and something about sleeping a lot. The BBC had to apologise to the Mexican Ambassador, who was right unhappy about the national stereotype. Now,  the thing is this, I can only assume that Signor Ambassador was watching Top Gear, the vehicle (get it) of the comments. If he is a viewer of Top Gear he will be well familiar with Jezza's style. Now, if I were to stand up in my pulpit and call Mexicans 'feckless and lazy', he might have a case - but when a professional Rude Geezer does it (like he does every week), it seems like a willfull humour-bypass moment from the man from Guadalajara!

Which is why Sally Bercow is a numpty (allegedly). She is the Speaker's Wife (the Speaker being the fourth [I think] most senior bod in Parliament - a serious piece of political kit), and exclaimed (among her other facile exclaimings) that Mr Speaker Bercow was something of a yummy scrummy sex-god as Speaker. She said this and then ripped her kit off for a photo shoot, and the resultant image of her in a bed sheet caused mayhem - as well it might. Funny she thought, wrong time and place, I think! 

And all this on the day when we learn that the government of Malawi is intending to make farting breaking wind in public illegal. 

Now, that is funny ...

Toilet Habits

Earlier today, when I was enthroned and in mid ... thought, I looked up at the windowsill in my Necessarium and pondered. To the left of this little missive, you will see a picture of the reading material that sits in my Chapel of Ease in perpetuity. 

I contend, dear reader, that my bookstack is proof enough of my blokishness if nothing else is. 

You will notice that the Lord Clarkson features prominently in my selection if those books best able to accompany the natural processes, and you may even note that my own writing style is somewhat influenced by the Man of Cars. Every house needs a small shelf purely for rant-reads and factoids. More especially, that small assortment of literary delectations finds its rightful place in none less the Little Curate's Room (the room that is small, not the Curate - take that how you like). I am aware that the Good Lord watches over all that I do, and alarming as that is, I think that a prayerful moment whilst adorning the Porcelain Trumpet is, well, wrong. 

So, friends, welcome to my 6' x 4' Blokery - a place where I can absorb the Vernacular of others (and those who get paid for it). All these editions were purchased in High Street Stores, so I needn't feel embarassed by having a book called 'Do Ants have Arseholes' or 'Is it just me or is Everything Shit' (the book called 'Do Bats have Bollocks' seems to have vanished - it will emerge covered in crayon soon enough). But, before you think that this is simply a Fellows-esque swear-a-thon, you will not have failed to notice the full back catalogue of David Attenborough - though in truth they are only there because they are too big for the other shelves. Former bookstacks in former Domiciles of the China Telephone have been the entire works of Calvin and Hobbes, with some Gary Larson and Garfield mixed in! 

So, readers - what books adorn your Temples of Relief? Any responses that include 'The Bible' will be treated as foul lies and calumnies.