I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.

“Dave” is Dave, the heroic astronaut and Big Government is HAL 9000, the jumped-up vending machine from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dave plans to break “the grip of the state monolith” by ripping circuit boards out of HAL’s memory bank until the ailing PC-gone-mad is left singing ‘Daisy Bell’, bringing to a close the “old-fashioned, top-down, take-what-you're-given model of public services” but without, er, "top-down reforms", it says here. Not before hawking the computer’s innards on eBay, leaving Dave and his MP chums with no responsibilities other than finding more loopholes in their expenses claim forms. Nice one, Dave! At least in Dave’s head that’s how it goes.

David "Dave" Cameron uses friendly colourful words that we can all understand but which actually mean nothing, like "Big Government"and "Big Society", but avoids words that might scare us, like "privatisation". It's Dave against the machine. And something called Big Government has got to be evil, right?*

In reality, following the successful fire sales of such countries as Chile, Iceland and Russia, "comparable countries" we've "too long we've been slipping against", what few British national assets are still nailed down since the 1980s (schools, hospitals, all public services, nothing important really, but not trees – Dave's already tried that) will be flogged at Dave’s mates' rates to the people who have your best interests at heart – faceless tax-dodging multi-national corporations. Like Dave says, “power will be placed in people's hands” by, er, selling it to completely unaccountable private companies.

“Of course,” Dave continues, “there are some areas – such as national security or the judiciary – where this wouldn't make sense.” Unfortunately, this probably also covers one British institution that I would quite happily see privatised: the royal family.

Think about it – the Yanks would love to buy ‘em out. They’ve already bought London Bridge. Now we could sell ‘em Buckingham Palace (only this time the real one). Or we could fob them off to the commemorative plate industry. And what with the royal wedding and The King’s Speech**, the Windsor Plc (formerly Saxe-Coburg and Gotha Inc.) stock index probably hasn’t been this high since Diana carked it. And the best bit the sale is likely to make every single Daily Mail reader’s head explode (“I love privatisation, but I love the Queen, privatisation, the Queen – gah”). It’s a win-win situation. Instant saving of £41.5m a year – the most of any royal family in Europe and six times more than Spain’s thrifty monarchy.

You know it makes sense.

*I always thought that this particular monolith, Big Government, represented an evolutionary step forward for the human race, but there we go.

**Incidentally, The King’s Speech cost the UK Film Council around £1m to make and has already notched up more than £177m at the box-office. Again, keen bit of business there, Dave, closing down the UK Film Council.

Race for the prize

What is this, racism week? First, according to Fox News – Murdoch’s comical “Fair & Balanced” rolling hate generator, spewing fear but not Waitrose adverts into homes across America, not, sadly, updates on cunning plans to foil farmers and details of which bins boast the best scraps – reports on the racially dubious ideas of one Nobel winner. Then the dude who invented DNA, and picked up a Nobel prize (and England Man of the Match award) for the privilege, comes up with some idea about black people being stupid.

Sexy but stupid.

Now Keith Bardwell, justice of the peace in Tangipahoa parish, Louisiana, refuses to marry a mixed race couple (a black man and a white woman).

He came to the conclusion that most of black society did not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and nor did white society.

"I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way," Bardwell said. "I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else."

So piles of piles of Bardwell's black mates can shit in his toilet but a mixed race child will never amount to anything. They’ll never be, say, the President of the United States of America. Or a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Or the England Man of the Match.

Rightwing cant

There’s nothing in this universe more grating than graters. And not far after that, it’s a plucky, nasal, plummy West London twang. But while cut glass Queen’s English isn’t as sharp as it once was, with the likelihood of an Eton-educated PM around the corner, we’d better brush up on our uppercrust pronunciation just to understand what the shit he's banging on about.

Despite the image, the foppish class aren’t all bad. Take jaunty supermarket Waitrose (OK, so they’re part of the John Lewis Partnership, which Daily Mail readers will be horrified to learn is effectively a co-operative), who recently pulled it’s advertising on Fox News over blubbing moron Glenn Beck.

The move comes after shoppers, taking time out from writing stern correspondence to the Daily Telegraph, gave the Champagne socialist chain whatfor:

An angry Waitrose shopper who emailed the chain to express his distaste over its decision "to be associated with this particular form of rightwing cant" received an apology last week.

Not quite how I would have worded it, but I can see what they were getting at.

Cat eat cat world

Shock discoveries in parks are nothing new. But in the days of the internet, bundles of porn discarded in hedges are getting few and far between. People are having to get more imaginative when leaving things for others to chance upon in public spaces. Take Sara Hill, 32, of south London, who, as freebie shitrag the News Shopper reports, made a “grim discovery on Saturday during her daily walk around Sydenham's Southend Park”:

The horse groomer who lives in Bellingham, said: "As I walked up to it I thought it was an old jumper - but then as I got closer I suddenly realised what it was.

"It's one of the most horrific things I've seen. I am a country girl and have seen a lot of dead animals and have plucked chickens - but I wasn't prepared for this.”

It was of course a savaged cat. (It’s pretty gruesome, actually – only the bones and head were left). But who could have done this? Tramps? Mice seeking vengeance? Sara offers:

“There is no way a dog did it, as it would have been ripped apart. And a fox would have taken it away."

In wades “full-time big cat researcher Neil Arnold, who has been studying cat sightings in the area for more than 20 years” with his two pence:

"It looks very much like a large cat would carry out this type of kill, especially when comparing it to other kills I've examined over the years."

(Funny a “full-time big cat researcher" coming up with that.)

"The main animal seen around Sydenham, Penge, Norwood and Bromley is a black leopard - or panther.

"I've seen a black leopard three times locally, and have evidence such as livestock kills, faeces and paw-prints. But kills of animals are the best evidence."

He added: "When a leopard kills, it kills only to eat, to survive, and will rasp away fur with a sandpaper like tongue leaving a very clean kill.

"Domestic cats are on the menu although preferred prey is pigeon, pheasant, rabbit, rats, mice, and also larger prey such as deer and sheep.”

And people?

Mr Arnold also said black leopards are no threat to humans unless cornered, provoked or injured.

Phew. So running the fuck away is fine. There’s more advice on Neil’s blog, which is written in third person, so he must know what he’s talking about.

Helpfully, the News Shopper offers a picture gallery (which I would link to but I'm at work and the pictures are grim as fuck):

See photos of the dead cat - beware, the pictures are very gory.

I would suggest an interactive element, with a virtual stick to poke the corpse with.

Hard cheese

There comes a time in a man’s life when all he can expect for birthdays is booze, socks and James Bond DVDs. But sometimes, a dad craves something a bit more substantial. It’s time to bring out the big guns.

The Pong Cheese Pong Box is hardcore quattro formaggio. Take note of the write-up:

An awesome selection of our most revered and most feared cheeses. These rogues are not only among are best sellers, they are also our strongest, smelliest and most oozy creations.

This wonderful box of cheese 'superstars of smell' makes a great gift idea but would also be more than suitable to send as an act of revenge!

Each order comes with a warning: they say it's best to make sure that you are in to collect the cheese and claim no responsibility for cheese that's been left to fester on a warm doorstep for a day.

This is where I shoehorn in a gag about revenge being a dish best served cold.

And speaking of Revenge...

Apocalypse Soon

I’ve granted myself until the end of the world to write this post. Unfortunately, that doesn’t give me as much time as I would’ve hoped.

Had my diary stretched three-and-a-half years into the future, there’d be a big red pen mark around Friday, 21st December, 2012. The remaining 10 blank pages I could use to make a chatterbox - that would be nice. Only it wouldn’t be nice because I’d be dead and you can’t enjoy a chatterbox when you’re dead.

The aforementioned date is, of course, when the Mayan calendar stops. Big deal – my calendar ends on 31st December THIS YEAR (and seems to be stuck on May). But then Mayans weren't a bunch of lazy halfwits with scratch-and-sniff trousers with a 12-month VW Campervan jobbie like me. Or the flesh-hungry primitives awaiting the salvation of Catholicism of Mel Gibson’s (god-awful, if you'll excuse the blasphemy, Mel) Apocalypto. They actually built pretty cool pyramids and shit, don’t y’know.

What happens when Mayan time runs out is unknown, but the doom mongers (as apposed to the fishmongers, who’s remit is mainly fish) are getting excited. That’s great, it started with an earthquake, bikes and snakes and airplanes, Lenny Bruce is not afraid; honeybees, eagles and otters are all fucked; swine flu; knitted soft toys; reality TV; zombies; Vogon Constructor Fleets; cats and dogs living together. CGI is going to kill us all. Or maybe nuffin.

Wikipedia's take on it is more definite:

The world burns in flames.

But while I’m here picking bits of toothpaste out of my t-shirt, there are thankfully those amongst us who are more proactive. Joining apocalypse-battling John Cusack are the likes of portly whistleblower-cum-21st century David Ike (and possibly Jesus) David Shayler, who will not stop "until the truth has conquered the New World Order." Unless there’s a Gregs the baker on the way.

How about other self-appointed saviour Rob Bast, then? He offers some practical advise on his website:

Most home owners have fire insurance, even though they do not expect their house to ever burn. They have it because losing their home and contents would be devastating, and insurance is quite cheap.

The human species does not have an insurance policy that covers a global cataclysm in 2012. Until governments, organisations or high-worth individuals make an effort, my intention is to do the best I can, because at least 1 person out of 6 billion people should make an effort.

Good work, Rob. The rest of you need to get your finger out. That’s all I’m saying.

And now for something completely different

It's been a while. To be fair, in the last month, I've been to Basel, Brussels and Vienna. That's not really a boast – I was mostly working, innit (except Basel, where I was climbing mountains, swimming in rivers and getting off my face on spas and shit).

I was in Brussels for maybe six hours, long enough to find the cashpoint in the station.

Vienna I spent a bit more time in. Stunning city – looks like it was built yesterday, supposing yesterday was 1850. Ultravox didn't write a song about it for nothing. Anyway, there I broke a toilet with my own poo: true story.

So yeah, the point I was going to make is that despite all the neglect I lavish on this blog, I'm actually doing a pretty good job, comparatively. According to Caslon Analytics, some Australians who research stuff when they aren't slapping shrimps five times the size of those found in British waters onto a barbecue grill in a stereotypically brash manner, 60 to 80% of blogs cease to exist within a month of conception. And most of these probably have some sort of purpose, other than mine which seems to just needlessly fill the internet with more words.

What I am offering is diversity. Outside a Raphael Saddiq gig, the sight of a slightly hairy 30-year-old white dude of average height is about as eventful as an episode of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps. If this was a bell curve, I'd be sitting right at the top, admiring the view.

But in the world of blogging, I'm an anomaly. I'm chronologically challenged, genderly transgressive and I DON'T GET EXCITED ENOUGH. In fact:

The typical blog is written by a teenage girl who uses it twice a month to update her friends and classmates on happenings in her life. It will be written very informally (often in "unicase": long stretches of lowercase with ALL CAPS used for emphasis) with slang spellings, yet will not be as informal as instant messaging conversations (which are riddled with typos and abbreviations).

Teenagers have created the majority of blogs. Blogs are currently the province of the young, with 92.4% of blogs created by people under the age of 30. Half of bloggers are between the ages of 13 and 19. Following this age group, 39.6% of bloggers are between the ages of 20 and 29.

Better still, one commenter notes that blogging "remains the dominion of geeks, wittier-than-thou twenty-to-thirtysomethings in Manhattan and angry gay Republicans." At least I'm not a Republican.

This all means the odds against me actually getting off my arse and posting this are astronomical. So if you're reading this, think yourself lucky. Or don't. Your choice.