Monday, 16 March 2009


Pace, dear Noel. For those of my readership who are neither artistic nor literate, probably about eighty five percent of you, the title of this piece is paraphrased from the song by Noel Coward where he warns against ambitious maters putting their daughters on the stage. Now if you are offended by what I have so far written, then all I can say is that you shouldn’t be reading this blogg in the first place, try St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians.

But, I digress, I am almost as good as digressing as I am at insulting folk, however I will now get down to the substance of this rant. Recently there appeared in the gullible press, the results of some research in the good old US of A, where else for God’s sake? The substance of this earth shattering intelligence was a survey which had been conducted on lavatory paper, no dears, I am not arsing about here, I kid you not. The research states that the love affair the yanks have with their rolls of posh bog paper, is a direct threat to the planet. This is something to do with the chemicals used in the stuff and their effect on climate change, naturally.

While the writers of this academic diarrhoea warned of the hole we are heading for if we persist in this pampering of our nether regions, they offered no solution to the problem, so I will plug the gap so to speak. In certain regions of the world they use water to refresh the parts which paper should not reach, but, this has it’s draw backs. Apart from the inherent hazards of shoving a hose pipe up one’s fundamental orifice, the is the question of the pressure, too high and it could blow your false teeth clean out of your mouth, too little and it would be trickling down your leg. I suppose one could always wear Wellingtons when embarking on a tour of the toot.

That ever practical race of men, the Romans used a sponge on the end of a stick to wash away the evidence of the ancient equivalent of ten pints and a vindaloo. The public lavs in old Rome were just that, public, the Romans enjoying nothing more than a communal crap with the neighbours, and all the sticks were kept in a jar in the middle of the room. Indeed a sponge on a stick was part of the legionnaire’s kit, which probably gave rise to the old saying to get the wrong end of the stick, or sticky fingers.

The resolution of this conundrum is obvious, ban lavatory paper. Unfortunately, people being what they are, would try to ignore such a ban, and a brisk trade in bootleg bog paper would soon spring up, but don’t worry dear ones, I saw that one coming, and I know what to about it. In the old days, on the morning after the wedding, the bed sheet would be hung out of the window, and if it was stained, that was proof positive that the brides reputation wasn’t, ipso facto, to prove that the populace was complying with the ban on papering one’s posterior, everyone would be required to hang their shitty knickers out of the window. I do not know if this would halt the change in the climate, but the quality of the skid marks on the undies would certainly overtake the weather as a topic of conversation.