Human-animal embryos, or "How I learned to stop worrying and love the idea of a bloke with hooves"

Here's the thing about human-animal embryos. Why would we ever deny ourselves the right to create a fellow loosely resembling the Minotaur? We could pop him in a labyrinth, and sell candyfloss at the door. The kids would love it.

Being amoral on most issues, I find the idea to be pretty much awesome. We're going to end up with a bloke with hooves, called Jeff, whose sole hobby is to run into shop windows full-pelt. He can hang out with me. He can be my new dad. Jeff is the truest friend I ever had.

Your new mum

Okay let's get serious for a minute. I know you don't like that, but bear with me. We're going to talk about the Cardinal. The guy who doesn't like the sound of all this.

Cardinal Keith O'Brien, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh, is a cunt beyond all measure who deserves no less than death by means of having his genitals inserted into the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. Those genitals being oft-used solely for the paedophilification of choirboys.

Never had a blowjob

Catholic jokes and clichés aside, you might be asking: So how do I know he's a cunt? Simple: because he's Catholic. Catholics get in the way of science at its every turn because they don't understand it. It conflicts squarely with their notion of "God did it." Think of evolution. Such a simple, elegant concept which describes very nicely how we all arrived here. They don't understand it themselves, and they know it gets in the way of their gay little message they're trying to put out there, so they fight it. Just like they fought Galileo because he dared suggest the Sun is at the centre of the solar system, not the Earth. Scary-darey. How dare he.

Seriously, in order of importance of something to argue about, that ranks right up there with whether Britney Spears should be shaved or bushy next time she gets her cunt out.

So why don't people understand things like evolution, stem cells, gravity and science in general? Simple: because they've never bothered to try. Here's the thing about people. They are very egocentric. They trust their own judgment implicitly, even when that judgment is founded on shit. So, "If I don't understand this science, it must be bad, and the church agrees, which must be right because I thought of it first, so let's all be cunts and make a song and dance about it as though our lower-ninety-nine-percentile opinions actually mean something."

This is what's wrong with the "every man born equal" argument. It's literally not true. Most people are dumb and ambitionless (they're not actually dumb, they just don't know it's okay to be clever), and the 1% of people who rise above that are just cut straight back down - even when they're using science to try and save YOUR life. "The tallest poppy always gets cut."

What a human-animal embryo comes down to is a blob of jelly in a dish that scientists have put another blob of jelly into because they had to to appease the other cunts who wouldn't just let them use human embryos in the first place. These dudes are trying to help YOU live longer, and you would dare try and fuck that up for everyone? You're a cunt and I hope you get one of those illnesses stem cell research could potentially cure. Because it's nice and easy when someone else has it, but as soon as you get it, and I am talking to you, Cardinal, you might find your opinion has changed somewhat.

P.S. You ARE a cunt.

Tony Blair Converts to Catholicism

The news came in this morning that Tony Blair has converted from a silly religion to a slightly sillier religion. Good for him. The only thing I was left wondering was how this is deemed newsworthy.

The guy believes in an old man who lives in the sky. With a beard. Who watches your every move. And who is "all-loving" yet will send you to Hell at the slightest provocation.

Well done, you're a lunatic.

So now he's Catholic he gets to hang out with arch-paedophile Pope Benedict the 25,000,000th. Let's take a look at this guy's credentials:

• Millions of Africans with AIDS yet he tells them condoms are bad.
• Against stem cell research despite its potential to cure many debilitating illnesses, on the grounds that a blob of jelly in a Petri dish constitutes a human life.
• Supposed to be an authority on how to live your life yet has no life experience.

In fact the only thing he ever got right is when he called the Muslims a shower of bastards, and I could have told him that.

NEXT WEEK: WHY THE MUSLIMS ARE CUNTS.

Are you a War Rock bitch?

1) Upon entering the game, you:

a) Start playing like a normal person.
b) Immediately press TAB and check the pings, memorizing a shortlist of people to acuse of being "laggers" the first time you get killed.
c) Activate your hacks with a look of almost masturbatory glee on your face. You haven't been laid in many years (or ever), and now it's time for the world to pay for your complete insignificance as a human being by shooting people who you've never met in a computer game.


2) You have just been killed by another player in a completely fair one-on-one shootout. How do you react?

a) You don't react at all because it's only a computer game and you're not a low self-esteem 14 year-old with learning difficulties.
b) You immediately declare your killer a "hacker" and insist they are kicked, before staging a one-man campaign of verbal abuse against the player for the remainder of the game. During this time you are killed repeatedly because you are spending more time typing than actually playing.
c) You respawn in the enemy's base, activate "unlimited ammo" and "super-stamina" mode and roll about for 5 minutes looking all tough.


3) You have just been killed at long range by a talented sniper. What do you do next?

a) Be more vigilant next time: learn his position and outflank him before killing him from behind.
b) Acuse the sniper of "wall hack" or "invisibility", take several screen shots of absolutely nothing, and report him to the K2 staff.
c) Activate super jump and reach his sniper perch atop a 3-storey building in a single leap, delivering a volley of punches to the back of the head, immune to his team mates' covering fire having cleverly activated invulnerability mode.


4) What proportion of War Rock players are hackers?

a) Probably 1% if that. Most people are genuine players just trying to enjoy an online gaming experience.
b) Everyone is a hacker. Or a lagger. Either way they suck and I'm the only real player.
c) I am the only hacker, and that means I'm the king of this tiny online empire - my only life achievement to date!


5) You play video games because:

a) In the spare time you have, you enjoy relaxing with a bit of FPS action and maybe a cold beer.
b) You have no real-life friends and this experience represents a large proportion of your social life.
c) Video games define you. When you're not cheating online, you're coding up new "sup3r h@x" in your parents' basement. You have massive insecurities, cannot relate to people in the real world and are probably *slightly* autistic. Being perceived as great at online computer games by strangers is your entire identity. If games ever went away, you might as well kill yourself.


Let's see how you did.

Mostly 'A's: Congratulations. You are a normal, well-rounded person whose only error in life was choosing to play War Rock - a game which, whilst mildly entertaining, happens to feature one of the worst online communities in the world.

Mostly 'B's: You are an acne-ridden teenager who has far too much invested in this game. You need to get out of the house, get some fresh air and meet some new people. No one likes a little bitch, and you're the biggest little bitch of all. You look forward to the day when you grow your first pube.

Mostly 'C's: They say everyone can change, but I'm not sure you can. You will enjoy a life of complete reclusion and celibacy before finally taking your "hacks" into the real world in the form of a machine gun rampage in a local technical college, killing 22 people before turning the weapon on yourself.


War Rock is a game by Korean game designers K2. It is completely free of charge to download and play.

Top Ten Best Things In The World

Most people's top ten best things in the world go something like this: "1. Sex, 2. Masturbation, 3. Taking a shit, 4. Bacon..."

I wouldn't dare be so predictable.

So here's my top ten...

1. Sex

Enough resources get squandered on this subject, so I'll leave this one to your imagination.

2. Masturbation

It's pretty much the same as 1, but without the other person. Having said that, I did really like Kate out of Kate's Playground (http://www.katesplayground.com/) until I found out recently that the reason she never shows her feet is because she got ran over by a lawnmower when she was young and one of her feet has only got two toes now - a phenomenon known as "Kate's Hoof". Google it if you're that interested. But I just can't look at her the same way any more.

It's like when my ex-girlfriend turned to me during some soppy film about a cancer victim and said: "Eddy, if I ever get cancer, will you stay and look after me?" My answer? "Absolutely not." True story.

Anyway, on to 3...

3. Taking a shit

The only problem with this fantastic facet of life is the curry shit. But help is at hand. What you do is, just before the molten lava is about to erupt, you slather your own asshole with Nivea Creme. What this does is provide a barrier between the tender skin of the nipsy and the putrid filth of your darkest bowels, flowing forth like some sort of evil geyser.

Its non-stick properties also facilitate wiping. So you've learnt something there. HAVEN'T YOU.

4. Having a piss

My fans are aware that I used to time my pisses, so proud was I of their duration. 2:14 minutes was the longest, if you were wondering. That was after a 2-hour plane journey from Switzerland, where I'd been drinking champagne and coffee the whole time. I just knew it was going to be a big one. There's something amazing about having a piss when you've held it in forever and a day. It's like ejaculating.

5. Burgers/Curries

They're joint fifth because I can't decide which one I like better. If these things stopped existing I'd just kill myself. It'd be worse than cancer.

6. Cancer

I don't know, we've all lost so many dear to us to this cruel disease, but it still brings a wry smile to my lips picturing Roy Castle puffing his last tune on his rusty old trumpet before drawing his smoke-drenched terminal breath.

7. The word "terminal"

It's just so fucking final, isn't it? Just so fucking final.

8. Ian Huntley/Harold Shipman/The Madeleine McCann story

Or Colin McRae dying in a helicopter crash. I get shivers when I see this shit on the front cover of The Sun. So many twists and turns in these stories. Suddenly the parents did it? The bodies have been found half-burned in some woods? He killed HOW many people?

For someone who claims to hate the British media as much as I do, I am actually a hypocritical tosser who secretly gets off on it every time. It's better than a movie. It's better than a fucking movie.

9. The Nazis

They're so great aren't they? So well-dressed. And they all drove around in BMWs and Mercedes, so they must be cool. And they have those motorbikes with sidecars. There, that's another thing.

10. Bacon

So there you have it. And if any of those things disappear, I'm leaving this country. And committing suicide.

Sexy Times: Kate McCann

Introducing a series of short articles, each describing one of my many deviant sexual fantasies.

Up this week is mother of troubled tot Maddie, Mrs Kate McCann!

So the fantasy starts off with me in a balaclava, like they often do. I'm feeding a note under the McCanns' door which says "For Kate's eyes only, meet me at XYZ, don't bring the police and I will return Maddie to you." You know, the usual stuff.

So she turns up at my hotel room and she's been crying and stuff, and I'm like "Shut the fuck up." And she's wailing that she wants to hear from Maddie, so I play an amateurish voice recording on my phone that I've made of a child saying "Mummy", just to get her to SHUT UP.

Lying on the bed is a white corset with no knickers - she's a smart woman, she knows what to do. I step outside and let her get ready. I go back in and she's got the gear on. I enter her whilst laughing maniacally, and I come within the same amount of time it takes Dwain Chambers to run the 100 metres - about 9.87 seconds - therefore cementing the fact that there is absolutely nothing in this sordid scenario to benefit her.

She's crying again at this point. Oh well. Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs! She starts shouting "Now let me have my daughter!"
I'm like "What daughter? What you talking about? You living in la-la land? What did you think this was? Are you mental?" Then I sprint out of the hotel, leaving her with the bill.

All in all, a successful day out!

If you liked this, check out our online radio show at http://www.rehearsal-room.co.uk - episode "Viagra".



Sponsored by TShirtHell.com

Transformers

I had the misfortune yesterday of watching the new Transformers movie.

I just don't know what to do about it.

15 minutes in, I realized the film bore a striking similarity to Armageddon and alarm bells started ringing: “Have I paid £6.50 to watch a Michael Bay film?”
If I’d known Bay was at the helm, I wouldn’t have even bothered getting out of bed that morning.

So let’s break the film down. Basically it alternated between shots of Megan Fox’s tits (the film’s highpoint), some dorky kid being nervous which no one cared about, the Autobots acting gay, and a long drawn out 3-hour “epic” battle scene which basically consisted of metal balls rolling around indeterminately in a blurry haze and occasionally shooting at each other.

Cringeworthy Moments

The “comic relief” moments in the film were, like in Star Wars, neither comic nor relieving. Of particular note:

• The Autobots “hiding” in the kid’s garden for no reason. This was like something out of a particularly perverted Carry On film. Michael Bay has managed to make a huge automated killing machine look camp.

• The “black” Autobot who dances around saying “what up dawg” and doing that annoying thing with his arms that black people like to do. No one cares. Pack it in.

• Constant references to eBay. “The Autobots are logging onto eBay”. It wasn’t funny the first time, and repeating it fifteen times throughout the film didn’t make it any better. People in the cinema actually laughed. I died a little inside.

All in all, this film gave me cancer.

Let It Be... Naked

Or better known as "Why Paul McCartney Is An Asshole".

Okay, I know this album was released 4 years ago, but I just heard it now and needed to pour scorn on this trash record.

The whole point of a producer is to turn a piece of shit demo into something worth listening to. Phil "The Bullet" Spector may have killed somebody recently but he was one of the best producers of his time. So why Paul McCartney felt the need to tear out all his hard work is beyond me.

What we're left with is a shell of an album: unmixed, unmastered, barely listenable and more fit for a coaster than an AOL "free trial" CD.

The only reason this shit got in the shops is because Paul McCartney has more money than God and the ego to match.

My Dream

No doubt many of you have dreams of what you'd do with endless riches.

Maybe you'd spend your days partying with the glitterati in London's trendy bar G-A-Y, hanging out with Footballers' Wives star Gary Lucy and other '90s rejects.

Perhaps you'd use the funds to host an extravagant limousine and champagne party, all in honour of pointing out how old Jamie Theakston is looking these days in a bid to get him removed from television permanently.

Or you'd probably just spend it all on coke and hookers. There will be no judgment here.

My dream however is a little different. I do not ask for much. I just want my own tropical island with 100 *slightly* chubby blonde wives. These girls aren't obese, they just happen to have the fat deposits in all the key areas, i.e. their tits.

I would spend my days hitting golf balls off the roof of my mansion into the sea, which would contain floating buoys with yard markers on them to tell me how well I was doing. Between these buoys would lie vast drift nets, decimating local wildlife so I could claim the sea as my own.

The blonde wives would basically be baby factories, helping me to raise a 1000-strong army of my own offspring. This genius Aryan master race would begin the island's own nuclear programme, catapulting us to a world superpower.

I would use the island's newfound economical and political success to begin distributing Bibles and Korans that are actually The God Delusion in a different wrapper, thus confusing and converting the impressionable and idiotic youth of stupid sand countries and bonkers Bible belts across the world.

Thus we would see the fall of religion, and herald in a new utopian era of golf, chubby (not fat) blondes, coke, hookers and tropical hedonism.

And who wouldn't vote for that?

Check out this t-shirt about snorting coke off a hooker's ass - it's awesome.

The Sun

Have you ever been to The Sun's online forum?

Here are some post titles that have tickled me:

"Homosexuals wanting to adopt is like playing basketball and wanting to kick the ball..."
"Should New Labour change its name to New Slave Trade"
"Mrs Thatcher was a War Criminal who should be put on trial - Discuss"

Hmmm, I think I'll pass.

Where do they dig up these cranks?

These guys need to get some fresh air.

Find Maddie - Who cares?

Am I the only one thinking this whole Madeleine McCann business is a little bit sick? Anyone would have thought a child had never been murdered before.

In a world where tragedy befalls millions daily, why is this kid any more important? We've got our cricketers wearing yellow ribbons during a test match, and football fans can't even attend the FA Cup final without "her" eye staring down unnervingly.

So I have two observations here.

1. People love tragedies because it gets them talking to each other on a level besides the usual "How are you?" "Fine thanks" bullshit facade. It's pretty sad that it takes some kid being abducted or some towers falling down for people to let their shields down, albeit to immediately put up a new shield based around sharing the pain of some family they don't even know.

FACT: Putting "Find Maddie" as your MySpace picture won't help anyone.
FACT: Half the people doing this are idiots.
FACT: The other half are doing this to capitalize on the event by forging some fake relationship of "solidarity" with the idiots - probably in an attempt to get laid.

2. Last time I checked, the "reward fund" put forward by various national newspapers was up to something ridiculous like £2.5 million. If it's this easy for newspapers to drum up this kind of cash at a whim and a fancy, why aren't they solving all the world's problems. Oh, that's right, because sending money to local hospitals and places where it's really needed DOESN'T SELL NEWSPAPERS.

I don't watch TV and I definitely don't read newspapers. And if you're stupid enough to be sucked into wasting time and emotional resources on something that you can't change and which doesn't affect you anyway, neither should you.

Letter To New Scientist

This blog was originally going to be about my long-running feud with Wrigley's over them changing the packaging and taste of my favourite chewing gum, spearmint Extra, three years ago. However, I've lost all the e-mails and letters exchanged between me and the company during that time, and I've decided I actually like the taste of their new gum anyway.

Then I was going to print my 10-page dissertation to Tesco criticizing their piece of shit online shopping system, but I realized the only funny part was signing it with my e-mail address "eddy@drugsmakemecool.com", therefore undermining the credibility of the entire letter.

Faced with a rapidly shortening blog, I've decided to print this titbit I sent in to New Scientist magazine today.

For anyone familiar with the weekly publication, you may recall they do an end section called The Last Word, where readers can write in with a science query and other readers and science professionals try to answer it.

Well after making an important discovery this morning in bed, I sent them the following letter:

Dear New Scientist,

Probably not a question suitable for a family magazine like New Scientist, but for all you hay fever sufferers out there, I recently discovered that an orgasm shifts even the most stubborn blocked nose. Unfortunately I have only been able to test the male orgasm. Can anyone explain the physiology behind this phenomenon?

Many thanks,

Edd

I'm not really expecting a response, although my goal is for this phenomenon to be named after me in scientific journals someday. I'll keep you updated if anything happens.

Meanwhile, have you made a discovery like this?

Perhaps you've found a finger up the arse does the trick for hiccups.

Maybe you've noticed that a test tube down the urethra cures a headache (until it breaks).

Post comments now!

Are You Eddy?

Branded an “eccentric”, a “weirdo”, and a “cunt” in the past for my oddball behaviour, this test is here to determine how much like me you really are.

1. It is your first day at a new job. How do you behave?
   
   a. You are polite and friendly to everybody, quickly making new allies the length and breadth of the office.
   
   b. You are shy at first, but people quickly warm to you and embrace you as one of their own.
   
   c. You are immediately hauled into your manager’s office for a disciplinary hearing after making fun of an Asian female co-worker’s accent.
   
   
   
2. It is a beautiful sunny day, and you are out on a golf course, enjoying a game with friends. How does it go?
   
   a. You play well, and manage to knock three strokes off your best score. It’s back to the clubhouse to wind down with a pint and some friendly banter with your mates.
   
   b. Your playing is inconsistent, and you hit a particularly bad score for the day. You are heard to mutter “worst day ever” under your breath, as you trundle back to the clubhouse to get shit-faced.
   
   c. You are playing badly, and become increasingly enraged with your poor performance. Eventually you pick your ball up and throw it into the green as hard as you can. Your friends proceed to the next hole in disgust, leaving you to repair the inch-deep pitch mark you just made.
   
   
   
3. You are asked to leave a pub after a confrontational episode, because:
   
   a. You accidentally spilled your beer on somebody – it wasn’t your fault, and accidents happen, but he was drunk and became violent.
   
   b. You and your pals’ bad language was upsetting the other guests, and you were all asked to leave.
   
   c. After politely being asked to cease your continuous tirade of unprovoked bad language, you aggravate the situation further by telling the barman you are going to “fucking murder” him.
   
   
   
4. You are invited to a relative’s house for some lunch and an evening meal. You are:
   
   a. The toast of the party. Cordial and witty, your classic jokes and good humour carry the day, ensuring another memorable visit from the Cottrill gang.
   
   b. Quiet and distant, but polite enough to be invited back next year.
   
   c. Given a frosty departure after dropping a couple of Hitler gags at the dinner table, forgetting they’re Jewish.
   
   
   
5. It is Christmas day, and the whole family are invited over for dinner, including your elderly grandmother. How does the day go?
   
   a. Festive banter and boozy merriment mark another special Christmas for the Cottrill household.
   
   b. The standard Christmas bollocks: feigned thanks for substandard presents, chewy mince pies and falling asleep, pissed, with James Bond on the telly.
   
   c. The air is marred during Christmas dinner, when you loudly declare that your uncle’s preferred sexual position is the “poky bot-wank.”
   
   
   
6. Your driving instructor is disappointed with you. Why?
   
   a. Your clutch control lacked its usual finesse. But hey, everyone needs time to learn, and you both know you’ll get the hang of it soon.
   
   b. You have been told it will take “at least 25 more lessons” before you take the test, after almost running over a pedestrian.
   
   c. You are caught secretly taping the lesson on a Dictaphone, because you think the instructor’s banter is good enough to feature on a low-quality online radio show. After he destroys the tape, the remainder of the lesson is held in near-silence.
   
   
   
7. You are refused entry to a bar. Why?
   
   a. The bouncer believes you are under 18, and unfortunately you have forgotten your ID.
   
   b. You are deemed too drunk to be allowed into the premises.
   
   c. You accidentally KO’d the bouncer by smashing a heavy glass door into his head, after failing to notice he was there. Because you were cunted. And you’re a twat. Get a grip man.
   
   
   
8. At a nightclub, you have just thrown a glass of icy water over a group of girls you don’t even know, for no reason whatsoever. What happens next:
   
   a. Nothing. The situation didn’t actually happen, because you’re not a complete arsehole.
   
   b. You’re a disgrace. You abandon the night, buy a kebab and return home to think about what you’ve become.
   
   c. You are ordered to apologize immediately by a friend, who walks you over to the enraged girls. However, forgetting why you’re there, you put your arm around one of them and begin making lewd sexual comments. Two of the girls then throw their drinks over you, causing you to slip over on the wet floor. You lie there helpless as all six girls pummel you with kicks to the abdomen. You just got battered by six girls. What’s happened to you, man? When will it end? Where’s your self re-FUCKING-spect?
   
   

Scoring:

Score zero for every question answered with “a”, one point for a “b”, and two points for a “c”.

0 to 2 points – You are a normal, likeable chap with lots of friends. You command respect in any situation, and the world is your oyster.

3 to 8 points – You are a moody, dark character, but people can generally put up with you. While you have trouble handling certain situations, you have some good qualities, a few friends, and aren’t a total wanker.

9 to 15 points – You are a rambling, crude, selfish drunkard. You don’t know why you do the things you do, and you certainly don’t know how you’ve managed to survive this long without somebody head-butting you in the face. Most people think it’s about time you just fucking died.

16 points – You are Eddy, talented lead singer of Coventry two-piece Super Cash Gamble. Always willing to push the envelope whatever the situation, you get the best out of life at every turn. Admired for your candour, and envied for your sharp wit and intelligence, you are an essential component of any social event. While some find your amazing jokes to be cruel and inconsiderate, they also understand that the humour contained in them is for the greater good of the world. Often misunderstood, but always forgiven, you are the lovable rogue everyone wants as their best man.

How To Avoid Holding The Door Open For People

If you're anything like me, holding doors open for people is just another check in the "Cons" column of office life. The extra energy required, the stress of the final "Should I, shouldn't I?" moment as they cross into the Zone of Obligation - every time I hold a door open for somebody, I lose a little piece of myself.

Well an answer is finally here. Follow this guide and your door-holding hang-ups should be forgotten come the inevitable half-nine rush to the bogs tomorrow morning.

1. The Jogger

On your approach to the door, the Zone of Obligation is the perimeter into which people must step before holding the door open for them becomes your civic duty. However, if you quicken your pace with three or four oversized strides, you'll pull the Zone out from beneath their feet, giving yourself a short moment to get through the door unscathed.

2. The Dawdler

The Jogger's antithesis, this method involves creating time-wasting distractions on your way to the door, in order to let your enemy reach it first. Once he's out of the way, you have a clear path for unimpeded exit through the door.

Recommended distractions:

- Fake washing-up at the office kitchen sink
- Drop some files
- Have a drink for no reason

3. The Sidewinder

Only to be used when the door ahead is already open and about to swing shut, this ingenious manoeuvre momentarily fools your opponent into relieving you of your Obligation. Simply slink yourself around the closing door without ever actually touching it. If you weren't holding it to begin with, how could you hold it open for your hated co-worker? Exactly. Seconds later, and your getaway is complete.

4. The Load-bearer

If you are carrying a bundle of papers, split the load into two so that both hands are now occupied. Boot the door open and walk through. Obligation is now automatically relieved, "Because if I had so much trouble getting through in the first place, there's no way I can hold the door as well!" Make for the nearest lift before your clever trick is revealed to all.

NEXT WEEK: How To Avoid Having To Hurry Along While Someone Is Stood There Like An Idiot Holding The Door Open For You Well Beyond Their Obligation

Funny Foreigners

Friends of the band will know that ever since I installed MSN Messenger that dark day 3 years ago, I have been plagued by an incessant stream of foreigners adding me to their contact lists. Who the foreigners are, or what they want, are questions I have never received an adequate answer to. But they will haunt me till the day I die.

It started with two individuals from the Middle East. Well, I assume they were from there - I couldn't be sure, as I don't speak Squiggle. They were harmless enough. A dodgy e-mail and a couple of indecipherable instant messages, and they were on their way.

But that was just the beginning.

Next came the love letters from ‘Susana’, a girl from Chile who had fallen in love with me based on the picture on my profile, and insisted on telling me this via lengthy romantic dissertations – in Spanish – to my Hotmail inbox every 2 weeks. She’s blocked now. But she did manage to convince me to watch her on web cam one day. She lived in one of those poky little apartments you only see on films – the sort that are so small that everything is contained within one room, including mother cooking dinner and father watching football and scratching his bollocks with a pan of boiling water about two centimetres from his fucking head. And no, she wasn’t hot.

After this, a period of relative calm ensued. I believe I had one guy pester me a couple of times (I can’t remember his name, so we’ll assume it was Pedro), but he took the hint soon enough and hauled anchor.

Then the Swedes came. At first it was just one. His name was Simon Arvidsson, and he had an unhealthy obsession with 50 Cent. He messaged me everyday for about five days – his opening comment always ‘Fuck you’. We quickly established that he didn’t speak English.

Three days later I had another two Swedes on my list, all talking their gibberish at me. Two days after that and there were seven of them. They would make me watch them on web cam – a sea of 12 year-old boys all sticking their middle fingers up at me, and smirking.

A couple of days later, a girl Swede added me. Thank God this one spoke English. We could finally start getting to the bottom of what they wanted from me. It turned out a boy called Sebastian had been handing out my e-mail address at his school in Stockholm. Why? Where did he get it from?! She said she didn’t know. After that, another five 12 year-old girls added me to their list, and bombarded me with requests to view their web cams – at least that’s what I told the police.

I am now the current flavour of the month over in Mexico. And I’ve got some photos to prove it:

I have since found out that his name's Juan, he's fifteen, and he loves me very much. 'TO MUCH' [sic], in fact. He also doesn't mind that I like 'the females'.

This one added me around the same time as Juan. I don't know his name yet. I suspect that it is actually just Juan again, talking to me from a different account.

Another one who clearly likes my profile picture very much indeed.

Oh sweet Jesus - someone has literally added me right as I’m typing this…

hola

ke tal

hello

bye

...Is all it's said to me so far. Could be Juan again, but from the e-mail address it looks female. I'll let you know how that goes.

But I'm tired now, so bye-bye!

And to any foreigners reading this:

Meirty bwino ehr anneh SOOKA!

The Official SCG Stance On War

Since launching our new song 'Who Says It's Not Justified' earlier this week, many of you have written in asking what it's really about. It seems that the conflicting messages of verses one and two against verse three have left some of you wondering whether the song, and the band as a whole, are pro- or anti-war. Well let's clear that up for you:

Pro.

We are pro-war on so many levels, and in this article I'd like to explain some of the important reasons as to why this is the case.

1) War is cool

It's like supporting your country in a football match, except the stakes have been raised a little bit. But the best thing about it is, for every goal the opposing team scores, we score a thousand. That's like playing FIFA with the other team running in slow motion. Sex.

2) It's the best thing on TV

Fans will know that I haven't watched television for three years now. But nothing gets me back in the game like a bit of war. Watching planes blow the living shit out of people makes me hard. It's like porn, but with a real woman. Get me?

3) We want the oil

"We only invaded Iraq for the oil!"

And? Sounds like a great reason to invade someone to me. When was the last time you saw a car in Iraq? Do they even have bikes yet? Or the WHEEL? Last time I checked, people in Iraq live in mud huts and the women dress up like post boxes for fun. What do they need the oil for? Let's give it to someone who needs it. Like me.

4) The war isn't real

I'm pretty sure no bombs have dropped on my head yet. In fact, I'm fairly certain this country hasn't been hit by any bombs in recent years. Apparently some bangs went off in London the other week, but it was probably just a couple of chavs letting off fireworks again.

I'm also pretty sure I've never been to Iraq, or Afghanistan. That means they probably don't even exist.

So you could say there's no actual evidence of there ever being a war. I personally think the whole thing was conjured up by The Sun to sell a couple of newspapers. Whatever. It's fairly entertaining, so let them have it. Best of luck to them. Anyway, I think I've outlined the reasons behind 'Who Says It's Not Justified', and I hope I've also managed to dispel some of the myths surrounding war.

Drive safe!

How To Write A Super Cash Gamble Song

1) Decide which song(s) you feel like ripping off today

Invariably this will be a Pink Floyd, Beatles or Verve song, with bits of Bryan Adams singles pasted in there for effect. Make the verses out of one song and the chorus out of another. Use the Bryan Adams bits to form a crude bridge. Now swap the chords around a little bit, and maybe even change one.

2) Change all the chords

Why play F when you can play Fmaj7? A chord just isn't Super Cash Gamble unless it's got one of the following suffixes attached to its name:

sus2
sus4
add9
maj7
m7

This is one of the many measures we take to help disguise which songs we've otherwise blatantly copied.

3) Write some lyrics which subtly support our crackpot political agenda

Our songs generally appear to have a message at first, when actually they don't mean anything. Except they do. But only we know what they mean. And it's not good. Believe us.

4) Start planning how you're going to rip off other artists during the production phase



NEXT WEEK: How To Rip Off Other Artists During The Production Phase

Live 8

Well, 20 years have gone by, but it's finally happened again! The moment people have been waiting for for two decades - the GREATEST moment in music history.

I am, of course, talking about Pink Floyd getting back together. And let me be the first to say it was no let-down. Apparently some other bands played that day as well or something? Fuck knows. We were down the pub playing fruit machines all day.

Okay, a little embellishment there. They did have a television set in the pub, and we did catch most of the show.

I was going to do a full review at this point, but there is no real need, as the show can effectively be summed up in one word: embarrassing.

Live 8 was of course opened by "The Band With Only 3 Songs," U2. I can't comment on their performance, as I'd rather take cyanide than listen to a U2 concert.

Coldplay followed, giving a poor performance of some of their weakest songs. Their saving grace should have been hero Richard Ashcroft appearing on stage. However, we were treated to a croaking performance along to a backing track of Bittersweet Symphony, with Coldplay adding absolutely nothing to the music.

Add to this the incompetently-set sound levels (could anyone actually hear any treble?) and I was comfortable to sit back with a little smirk on my stupid twat face, safe in the knowledge that this was the pantomime gig everyone knew it was going to be.

I think Elton John followed, accompanied by non-entity Pete Doherty. I can't rate Doherty's performance, as I went for a lengthy toilet trip as soon as Elton's token jangly piano blues bollocks permeated the room. But the papers are saying he was SHIT, and I couldn't agree more.

Dido was on next, and I liked it because I love her. They had also fixed the levels by this point and the show was starting to perk up a bit.

Stereophonics looked cool in shades and leather jacket, and we were enthralled by 10 minutes of absolutely nothing worth mentioning. Someone remind me why they're famous?

REM were cool, except for Stipe's ridiculous make-up. But he's the kind of guy who's never going to look cool. ISN'T HE.

Ms. Dynamite warbled her set tunelessly, with the only song she's ever done. She is what the mute button was made for.

Well I can't really comment on anything else, as Pete and I spent the rest of the day practising for our gig on Monday with the sound turned off on the telly.

All I remember is seeing an interview with Razorlight, who looked as camp as a row of pink tents - the lead singer actually has breasts. And little piggy Joss Stone waltzing around barefoot, which I found strangely arousing. She's hot, but she's not, you know? I'd love to roll her on her back and tickle her little piggy belly. Awwww.

We finished our practice in time to see The Who, who were frankly great. Best thing I'd seen all day, until of course Pink Floyd came on.

The crowd went absolutely mental, and Floyd reminded us why they're the greatest band ever to walk the planet. 'Breathe' was excellent, and 'Money' was as boring as it always has been. 'Wish You Were Here' was the best song of the set, with Waters making an emotional speech at the beginning, and unconventionally opting to sing one of the verses. Tear-jerking. But his voice has worn with age, and his skeletal features somewhat resembled a lurching corpse, as though someone were pumping him with voltage in an attempt to strain the last ounce of life from him. And I fucking loved it. The last number of the night, 'Comfortably Numb', the greatest song ever written, sounded empty without the strings, but was still fantastic. I love the solos so much. They make me want to jizz.

Live 8 fucking rocked. And the best part of all was during the interviews with random members of the audience, where one individual was asked "Why are you here? Is it JUST about the music?" His reply? "Yes." Brilliant!

Pity he backtracked like a wet lettuce and threw some crap in about it being about "Africa" as well. Just when I thought there were some honest people left in the world...