GOING TITS UP DOWN AT THE NICK.

By God you need a sense of humour in this day and age although you’d be arrested if you were so indelicate to laugh at the wrong things, the sort of jokes pub comics had them in stitches with in days afore, when you could enjoy a fag and clout the missus without being banged up for the rest of your natural. I think that at this point I should confess that I am not politically correct, save a lot of explanations further down the line that will.

Now this is all about humour, laugh? You’ll have diarrhoea ‘till doomsday by the time you’ve got through this lot. Down on the Jurassic coast, often referred to as Dorset, the panjandrums of authority, starting with the police have finally lost their marbles, that’s assuming they had any in the first place, and they certainly didn’t have any balls to substitute for them. A woman police officer visited Purbeck School in Wareham to talk about a playground spat, a task vital to the security of our nation.

When she was out of the room, the right on P.C was referred to by some of the boys as P.C Nipples. Thirteen year old lads taking notice of a pair of Bristols, whatever next, at that age they should long since have been taught the superiority of homosexuality, and a proper appreciation of a nice pair of nuts. Anyway, the upshot of these remarks was that someone, probably the teacher, undoubtedly constipated with political correctness, immediately rushed off to inform the officer of what had been said about her. The PC, obviously as daft and as humourless as the teacher, set in motion the modern equivalent of an excommunication, a full bell book and candle job.

A “restorative justice conference” was called into being. Apart from the five boys and their parents round the table, there were three uniformed officers and, now get this folks, a plain clothes community safety manager, all that was missing was Jasmine Buggerall-Brown sitting in on the pow-wow and insisting the children should be charged with racism.

But there are a few questions that need to be asked, P.C nipples? Take it from me, thirteen year old lads know the difference between nipples and knockers. What was the dame wearing to illicitate such a comment? Why did such a production have to be mounted? Have they called time on common sense in that neck of the woods? And if the actions of the police are representative of a front line service then the sooner we get those cuts the better.

As the Bard so memorably said “Much ado about nothing.” Hours of time wasted, thousands of pounds down the drain, and all for the want of an old fashioned clip around the ear.

WHAT A CUNNING STUNT.

Television, especially the news programmes, could not survive the week without a plethora of surveys and studies. Making few programmes which are worth watching, the T.V. companies fall back on broadcasting the latest research of various bodies. These polemics are designed for two things only, to frighten the crap out of your archetypal couch potato, and to pressure the powers that be into handing over money to continue the said research, in most cases this amounts to nothing more than a re-hash of the gospel of the bleeding obvious.

The latest in this genre to hit a television screen near you is from a clutch of medicos and suchlike who claim that magnets can relieve menstrual pain, the mind fair boggles at the implications contained therein. I mean to say, we have all heard of a magnetic personality, but a magnetic pussy! Well, the generality of mankind know the attractions of a cunning stunt, but would it still need the additional pull of a magnet to draw attention to it.

Lets go down on the nitty gritty here, as far as I can remember, a magnet is an object shaped something like a horse shoe, naturally the size varies (It is the magnet to which I refer) but I should imagine it would have to be of reasonable size to be effective, and if that is so what about the possible embarrassments which could materialise at the most inopportune moments. Say for instance you are a model and supposed to glide elegantly down the cat walk, well you could hardly do that with a magnet stuck up your mitch, not to mention the bitchy comments that would arise from the fashion tricoteuses, such as for example.

“Second month she’s missed Anna”.

“I had noticed Sapho. You can’t walk like that with your magnet in”.

“And there was me thinking she was one of us. The bitch”.

The permutations on the theme are endless, imagine what could happen on an aircraft. The magnets could effect the instrumentation, passengers would have to be demagnetised before boarding, and British officialdom is not noted for it’s delicacy of expression except when dealing with poofs and illegal immigrants who are not portrayed in television series.

“Roll up, roll up, get yer magnets pulled ‘ere, and that means you missus, you can’t fool me, I can tell a full un.”

“Of course the odd one will get through, desperate to avoid the humiliation of the magnet check. Picture this, auntie Lil sitting in cattle class, looking forward to two weeks in Benidorm and already half cut on duty free Bailey’s. Old Lil is coming up to the change but not quite there, so she still needs her magnet, when suddenly the Captain comes on the intercom.

“What James Blunt back there is wearing her magnet?” Oh, the humiliation of it all. Where would one put one’s face, let alone anything else?

“No leave well alone, technology has it’s place but not up the rosebuds of the nation, I know we live in disturbing times but is it really necessary to make such a cunt of things.