He’s not really funny anymore, is he?

For as long as I can remember I have felt like I’m living in a kind of global pantomime, a worldwide farce in which one actor has captivated audiences night after night in his role as villain: George W. Bush. Whenever he comes on (or even gets talked about by the other characters) all the children around me dutifully boo and hiss and they bloody love it.

Except these aren’t children – they’re adults. And it’s all real. We all thought it was brilliant in the early days, and most people still do, but I have to say that I’ve had enough. Watching George Bush do anything now is a bit like watching a modern day clown. He’s unfunny, tedious, slightly unsettling and really has no right or need to exist at all. Yes, we don't like him - but it's getting boring. He's the obvious choice. Obvious things are dull.

In his credit, he has been such a stalwart – so reliably hateable, so inarticulate, hopeless and rubbish. We have been enjoying a veritable orgy of disdain, a parade of contempt that needed only one central premise: we don’t like George Bush. This was all you needed – slap a picture of the Great Satan on to your verbal punch-bag and you’re away. Everything is so simple about it. Finally, something that we can all enjoy. From hippies to yuppies there is no corner of our social world that disagrees. Brilliant. George Bush is rubbish! Yeah, fuck George Bush. Hey, look at me! I know where I stand politically! Give me a pat on the back!

One of the reasons he is so accessible as an bad guy is the fact that he is so uncomplicated. We have been so accustomed to villains as super-geniuses that were on a completely different level to the likes of you and I. The cat-stroking, well-spoken, art-loving psychotics of Hollywood have always remained distant and enigmatic. Sure, they were evil, but there may well have been good reasons for their actions – if only we could understand the things that they knew. Which, not being geniuses, we could never do.

Then finally, a baddy who is also a cretin comes along in real life. We could hate him and feel good about ourselves! It’s two for the price of one! What’s more, he doesn’t just get things wrong in a subtle, unfunny way – he produces comic gems that can be captured in brief sound bites and stills: ripe, pre-packaged nuggets that seem to have been made for Mock The Week and Have I Got News For You. He makes gaffes and blunders like a pie maker makes pies.

Unfortunately, just as you get very bored and sick of eating nothing but pies (or I imagine you would), so have I grown tired of George’s antics. I have a calendar on my desk (bought for me as a Xmas present) called the ‘George W. Bush Countdown Calendar’. As you can guess, it not only has a calendar but also a countdown until he leaves office. Each day you get a fact or quote that will make you tut, shake your head and say ‘George Bush, man. What an idiot.’ Personally, I am counting the days – but mainly because when he is gone we might actually start talking about (and more importantly, joking about) someone else. By the way, there are 359 days to go.

Chris

Darts

I’ve never really been interested in the game “darts”. However, when the opportunity to take part in this pub “sport” recently presented itself, I thought I might as well have a go. You basically have to throw three darts at a board, and depending on where they land you get a certain amount of points. And that’s all there is to it, really.

You may well protest that it is not a “sport” at all. I thought this too – but after thinking about it logically, I changed my mind. This is basically how I worked it out:

1. I am rubbish at sports.
2. I am rubbish at darts.
3. Therefore, darts must be a sport.

The numbers (that tell you how much a segment on the board is worth) are all over the place – there is no rhyme or reason to the way they are arranged, and no one seems to have a problem with this except me. The middle (!) of the dartboard isn’t even worth the most points. At least in archery they have the sense to make the middle worth loads because it’s a) really small and b) right in the middle. Archers may not be perfect in many ways (for example, they haven’t realised that you can get guns now) but at least they know how to put together a good scoring system. Whoever made darts evidently designed the board after a long night of drinking, and had reached that point where you just love everyone and so decided to scatter the numbers anywhere so at least the most shit player could sometimes land a ‘17’ by accident now and then. In other words, players like me.

Anyway. I was throwing my darts at the board in my customary, haphazard way, when I noticed a craggy old man drinking at a table nearby. He was smiling at me. His expression was kind and careworn, but with perhaps a hint of quiet rage that was tucked away somewhere in the folds of his leathery face. I got the feeling that he wanted to look after me, but yet that process would involve a beating at some stage. I smiled back and continued to play.

After a while he got up, came over to me and just stood a couple of feet away, still nursing his pint and…well, watching. Watching - with eyes that has seen a thousand games of darts. Sipping his beer with a mouth that had sipped a thousand pints. He didn’t say anything, he just watched.

It was getting late, and the pub had become quite full and noisy. The old man decided to lean over and say something to me. Above the pub PA system, and the general hubbub, I could just about hear him say:

“Championship darts.”

What on earth? What could that mean? I thought for several seconds, looking at his inscrutable face and trying to guess what he meant. Championship? Was this some kind of mysterious portent? Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe he had observed the rapid progress I was making – the grace with which I had mastered the basic elements of the game in merely half an hour! I thought that I had better get him to repeat it.

“Sorry?” I said.

“Yer rubbish at darts,” he said.

Chris

Protection Money

I’m stood having a wee in the pub (in the pub toilet that is). It’s one of those long communal urinals which run along the gutter. It mixes your urine with that of complete strangers – a cocktail of piss. On this occasion I'm stood alone and my wee flowed undiluted. I made my best attempt to control my outpouring so as to not splash wee-flecks onto my shoes. I was largely successful.

As I stood at the urinal, the toilet door swung open and two men walked in. The first was a young guy in his early twenties. He had long foppish hair swept across his face and tight black drain-pipe trousers. You know the sort – a cunt. The second was a large thuggish brut of about fifty. He had a shaven head and wore a luminous tabard. You know the sort – a bouncer. Conscious not to maintain eye-contact for too long in a gentlemen’s public convenience I averted my gaze but continued to listen to their conversation.

“I put in the money but nothing came out,” said the dandy Emo.

“What type did you select?” grunted the thug.

“Ribbed – for her pleasure,” he replied timidly. What a guy, I thought. A real modern man. And fair play to him for asking the bouncer to solve his problem. I’d have written it off as an unfortunate embarrassment and run off with my (flaccid) tail between my legs. Having said that, maybe he should’ve taken the time to get some ‘doms from a more reputable source. Or maybe he was just too horny.

“Just give it a hit,” said the bouncer as he pounded the machine. Whack. Nothing. Thud. Nothing. Smack! As he hit the machine for the third time a pound coin shot out of the change dispenser and dropped to the floor. It bounced and rolled quickly towards my foot. I could feel the eyes of the two men stalking the coin. The coin tapped into my foot and ricocheted into the urine-aquaduct which lay before me. Without changing my stream of pee it pushed the coin down the gutter towards the outlet. A shiny gold boat sailing on a yellow sea.

“Well I’m not fucking havin’ that,” moaned the young ragamuffin.

“Your choice,” said the bouncer “we’ll see what the manager can do”. They both left. I quickly finished my deed and washed my hands. As I turned to leave I gave the condom machine a quick nudge. Out popped £2 and a pack of three ribbed condoms. I pocketed the money and sheaths and beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t see the guy in the pub to return his stuff but I do hope he managed to find some protection. I can’t bear the thought of him having unprotected sex and contracting an STD.

Dan

Hierarchy of Tragedy

Not every tragic event is front page material. News editors often have to prioritise the deaths that they cover, and place them in their newspaper or news programme accordingly. Should you ever become the editor of your own news publication or production company, print out the following chart and tape it your desk or wall. Consult it whenever you need to know where to place that difficult story.

Of course, even if you don’t work in the media, the chart can be a useful way to find out how much you should be grieving for any given tragedy.

Chris