Monthly Archives: April 2011

Kate and Wills

William and Kate tied the knot yesterday and we thanked their national-bank-holiday arses for it.

Because Kate’s pleas for a quickie Elvis wedding in Vegas fell on deaf ears (God bless Wills, but he can be so bloody traditional) Westminster Abbey it was, where it seemed as if it was always meant to be.

But it was a long 10 years ago they first met- the tabloids didn’t dub her ‘Waity Katie’ for nothing (spelt, by the way, with an ‘ai’- something she wished she’d discovered sooner).

It happened completely by accident, the pair having enrolled on exactly the same course at the University of we-all-marry-each-other St. Andrews.

Wills had heard that all the fit, dizzy girls study History of Art and Kate had heard that Wills had heard that all the fit, dizzy girls study History of Art.

When they were introduced at Fresher’s week, it was fondness at first sight but the music was loud and neither of them had any idea who the other was.

After their first date over a deep-fried mars-bar, each sought the company of others…


Kate called her sister.

 ‘Good fun?’ asked Pip.

 ‘Um, he’s really into history.’

‘Good hair?’

‘He can’t remember.’

‘Good shag?’

‘Well, I think he was groping for my coat of arms.’

‘Good family?’

‘Dysfunctional. Unpopular. Power-hungry. Attention-seeking. German.’

 Pip was losing faith. ‘Does he like pets?’


‘Not all bad then,’ she concluded. ‘Passable surname?’

‘Wales,’ said Kate. ‘I’d be Mrs. Willy Wales.’

That night, Kate went back to her digs and Googled her date.

When she finally stopped punching the air, all she could think to do was reach for her phone, to send Pip the following text message:

‘OMG. I’d be, like, the FUCKING QUEEN!!!!!’

The next day, both girls went for professional blow-dries.


Meanwhile, on the other side of Fife, Wills was confiding too.

‘I say, thanks for taking the night orf,’ he said to his bodyguard.

‘Good legs?’ enquired his aide.


 ‘Is she worldly, like you?’

‘No. She didn’t do a gap yar.’

‘Did she put out?’

‘Emphatically, no. She’s from Berkshire.’

‘Tell me more, tell me more, like does she have a car?’

‘Ya, Fiat Punto,’ replied Wills, possibly not getting the reference.

That night, the young Royal thumbed through a copy of Debrett’s Who’s Who and the 2001 British Airways Staff Yearbook.

Michael Middleton was only in one of them.

‘OMG,’ he yelled through the adjoining door. ‘She’s as common as muck! She’s not even honorable!’

‘Wahay!’ shouted his aide, possibly not getting the point.


But love conquered all and the couple met in the Middleton.

When William told the Queen of his engagement, she had only kind words:

‘Given that she’s not a whore like your late mother or a gold-digger or a bore, like your aunts, I approve,’ she sort of said.

When Kate told her parents they both wet themselves- Carole because she knew she would deer stalk into a comfortable dotage, Michael because he feared his ISA would not have matured enough to fund his daughter’s nuptials.

‘Don’t be a silly sausage, Daddy,’ his daughter reassured him. ‘The nation will pay.’

 Pillow talk soon turned to the wedding arrangements.

Kate lost on John Lewis holding the gift list but drew the line at having Candle in the Wind as the first dance.

Guests were another matter. ‘To be honest, I don’t give a shit if the Syrian ambassador is there or not,’ exploded Kate.

‘Well, one could do without your pissed uncle doing his flight exit routine as well,’ replied Wills.

But compromises were reached because if there’s one thing Widdleton knows, it’s not to let private passions interfere with civic duty and for that we thank them.

And for uniting the nation in Marxist sentiment; for knocking Peter Andre off the front of Hello; for rescuing Jenny Bond from Cash in the Attic.

But above all, for reassuring us that within the bosom of the British Establishment, beats the heart of the American Dream.



Filed under London Mumbo, Mumbo Life


There was once a man who fell ill.

The doctor diagnosed a general malaise and prescribed rest.

A month later the ache had gone but he could still feel a twinge in his back.

He went to his Well-Being Co-ordinator: ‘To the Chiropractor with you’, said she.

And off he went.

‘He says it’s to do with an old injury,’ reported the man. ‘Working at a desk is bad for me and I need to change my job.’

At which point, the Co-ordinator sent the man to a life coach.

But he found it hard to concentrate in the meeting because of terrible indigestion and was dispatched to a nutritionist.

‘And?’ asked the Co-ordinator, when he boomeranged back.

‘My diet was bad so I changed it. But still I’m unwell.’

‘You are complex,’ said the Co-ordinator. ‘Now’s the time for my acupuncturist, whose partner’s a masseuse.’

So the man had sessions with the couple, who re-balanced his chi and eased the tension in his back.

For some time he felt better but it was not to last.

‘The thing is,’ said he, ‘my mother is on her death-bed. And there’s nothing anyone can do about that.’

Which the Co-ordinator refuted, recommending a counsellor to whom he could pour out his feelings.

As their relationship turned out to be unusually close, the counsellor called an analyst and soon they were knee-deep in Freud.

‘To tell you the truth, my wife doesn’t like her,’ admitted the man.

Whereupon, the Co-ordinator packed the pair off to Relate.

But he was back- ‘I don’t think she likes me either’– and referred to a sex counsellor.

‘Now, now,’ said the counsellor as the man reached breaking point. ‘We’ll get you to my plastic surgeon and then she’ll see what she’s missing.’

So the man readied himself for a new face but the Co-ordinator intervened with an NLP professional, who made him repeat, ‘I’m happy the way I am.’

Finally, the man was exhausted.

He made one last attempt to harness the universal healing power of Reiki but had run out of energy.

‘Let’s see,’ said the Co-ordinator rummaging around. ‘I’ve got a reflexologist, a priest, a psychic- oh, and a fantastic hair colourist.’

‘You know, I think I need to re-visit the doctor,’ he concluded.

At this, the Co-ordinator heaved a sigh of defeat, opened her top drawer and offered the man a brown envelope with words scribbled all over it, that read:

Make your pulse race. Make your muscles hurt. Vacate your mind. Feel your body. Orgasm. Love. Be loved. Laugh about what affects you. Cry about what affects others. Be present. Keep close friends who make you feel good. Keep in sight a stranger who makes you feel bad. Keep some things to yourself. Get pissed with someone you like. Get pissed off with someone you don’t. Stretch. Create. Act attractive. Eat vegetables when you’re hungry. Drink water when you’re not thirsty. Don’t smoke. Eat less sugar. Eat more protein. Go easy on the carbs. Cut out coffee. Don’t judge your reality against your dreams. Examine your reality when you stop dreaming. Be humble. Be confident. Believe in something. Disbelieve in nothing. Keep learning. Listen. Contemplate. Don’t worry. Stress less. Relax more. Breathe deeply. Open your mind. Challenge your expectations. Allow grief. Be bored. Don’t be boring. Feel alive. Know how to feel deeply. Learn how to live lightly. Choose to be your best with those who accept you at your worst. Be hopeful. Be realistic. Be kind. Don’t be a pushover. Prioritise others when you can. Prioritise yourself when you need to. Be thoughtful. Don’t overthink. Stand up tall. Strive for balance. Accept yourself. Accept you are alone. Don’t seek approval from others. Give generously. Receive gratefully. Lose well. Win better. Don’t be a victim. Be responsible about things that matter. Be carefree about things that don’t. Cross something off your list. Do something that wasn’t on it. Save more. Spend less. Live within your means. Visit somewhere new. Remember somewhere old. Be polite. Be irreverent. Be respectful. Break the rules. Understand the past. Be optimistic about the future. Know when you’ve got it good. Put energy into a passion. Put passion where you lack energy. Hold on to yes. Let go of no. Clean under your fingernails.

Do the specific things at least twice a week and the general things all the time.

‘But this is EXACTLY what I need,’ said the man, brightening. ‘Confucius?’

‘Your mother,’ replied the Co-ordinator. ‘She says you never bloody well listen to her but she’s not dead yet and she doesn’t like your wife either.’

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Census Form


If you don’t, we’re going to come to your house and arrest you because we know your name and where you live.

Don’t be a smart arse; there are lots of other things we don’t know that you need to tell us, about your house and its toilets.

And we trust you not to lie, in a way we don’t trust you to do anything else for yourself in this society:

1. Who lives in your house and how are they related to each other?

Ignore this if you’re a regular family with the same boring surname. We’re only interested if you’ve got some sort of messed-up situation going on. Maybe there’s a weird lodger or a menage-a-trois or, like, masses of people co-habiting in one room, that can give us some crazy Daily Mail statistic.

2. What kind of house do you live in?

We want to know if it’s in the middle of loads of other houses all squashed up or if it’s attached to the one next door, like a Siamese twin.

Once you’ve told us, we’ll Google Map it to confirm you understand exactly how your property relates to the ones around it.

3. How many rooms are there in your house that you can actually use?

Don’t count the bathroom, kitchen or mis-shaped rooms. Don’t count the ones with shit in them or the old nursery you turned into a sewing room. Don’t count the stupid ones that property developers say are bedrooms but you can barely squeeze in a futon.

Just count the ones that are the balls of the house.

4. Was there anyone staying with you on the arbitrary night of April 19th, who usually stays somewhere else?

If so- sounds complicated but just ride with it- you need to go to table 2 and imagine that, for one night only, they are a person living in your house who will not be filling in their own form because on the night of April 19th they were staying with you.

Did you let them use your van?

Did they use the bath/shower AND toilet that is available only for the household?

Did they leave wet towels on the floor? That’s not crucial but it IS colour.

Speaking of which, if they were a person of colour can you describe exactly what shade, from the spectrum below.

5. Do you look after anybody who can’t look after themselves or help out in any way with Special Needs characters?

If ‘no’, then you really should, so don’t interpret the fact that you can skip the next 5 questions as a reward.

6. Do you work, or have you ever worked, for a living?

Now, don’t rush into this. Think long and hard and try to remember what you put down on your tax form. Ideally, the two should match up and then we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet.

Just to let you know, there’s going to be a Tax/Census Summer party where we’re going to take a bunch of forms to All Bar One and cross-reference them.

7. If a job had been available last week to start work in 2 weeks’ time at the place you worked 3 years ago, would you lie about your qualifications in the same way you have to us, in order to get it?

Yes, this IS a trick question.

8. Were you born in this country or have you recently arrived to freeload?

Oh, where’s your sense of humour?

Nevertheless, we’re hoping to dig out some of the stuff immigration have fluffed because the census has been going since 1801 and every 10 years 67.6% of illegal immigrants have been tripped up by it.

9. Can you tell us what flavour religion you are?

This need not be a reflection of how you were brought up or how you would describe your outlook. It’s nothing to do with whether you are trying to get your child into a Faith school or whether you are prepared to say God things in a church at Christenings.

It’s more of a stirring-up kind of question, to make the Vatican panic.

(And don’t you dare do what 390,000 people did in 2001 and enter ‘Jedi’.)

10. If you haven’t got an iPhone, how could Apple make you get one?

This is a new-wave question wholly unrelated to the fact that each member of the Census workforce is getting an iPod-shuffle.

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