So anyway, here's what will - one day - be a proper logo. But not yet, obviously. Early days. I should also say up front that there's a tremendous amount of swearing on this site. Sorry about that. If you don't like bad language, you could always try  the Vatican's official site. I haven't looked at it properly, but I bet there's hardly any effing.  


Now with daily updates ... and navigation, like a proper website. Although sadly, that's all it has in common with a proper website. 

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Thought for the day

I read somewhere - on the internet, I expect - that all good websites should be updated every day. This is blatant discrimination against shit websites, like this one. So out of spite, I'm going to update it every day anyway.

TFTD 25/7/13:

Shit. I haven't updated this site for three years. During this time, things have changed. My children have grown up. They know how to use the internet. They've opened this horrifying window into their father's soul. Shit.

I've also been doing proper writing jobs for proper clients. I've been giving my @charleswilliams email address to - well, proper people.  Ones I've been going to meetings with. Given fucking business cards to them, for heaven's sake. Some of them, out of curiosity, may have looked at this website. Jesus.

If you're one of them, I apologise. In my defence, I never used the word 'cockspanner' in any of the copy I sold you. I never tried to slip in a drawing of a cock. No matter how tempted.

Ah well. Onward.

** New for 2010! **

There's a brand spanking-new section called StyleWatch, which you can find here. Or just click on the navigation bar. I'm not bothered. It's just a weekly rant about The Sunday Times's spectacularly fatuous glossy magazine.

TFTD 3/3/10: Gotta love Welsh language television. Last night on S4C there was a concert by a pianist called Llyr Williams. Apparently he's some kind of self-taught prodigy. It's not fair to pick on musicians' gurning faces when they're lost in the rhapsody of music, but our Llyr does pull the funniest faces in the history of concert pianists, ever.

He looks like he's bursting with some fantastic secret. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking: "There aren't any strings in this piano. I cut them all earlier. I'm making all these noises through my bottom."

TFTD 1/3
/10: It's not that I haven't been having any thoughts. It's just that they're so special, I've been keeping them to myself. Tell you what, go and look at StyleWatch instead. It's moderately funny.

TFTD 10/2
/10: All families develop their own private treasury of phrases and sayings. My current favourite is "dog in a pram", which describes the moment when someone spots something cute or amusing in the street, and feels the urge to share it with everyone.

So when a person says brightly, "Oh look! A rainbow!" or "See that woman's funny hat?" someone in my family will tersely mutter under their breath, "Dog in a pram..."

Dog in a pram:  smothering joy with sarcasm since 2009

TFTD 9/2
/10: Top tip: don't let a four-year-old tell you what to cook. She saw this recipe on CBeebies. It was billed as 'savoury hotpot'. We made it for supper last night. It tasted absolutely horrifying.

The picture from the CBeebies website. My version looked considerably more appetising. But wasn't.

TFTD 8/2/10: Gok Wan, as every Welsh-speaker knows, means ‘weak penis’ in Welsh.


TFTD 7/2/10: The great American crime novelist James Ellroy was the guest on Desert Island Discs a couple of weeks ago. In a spell-binding piece of radio, he described how the worst moment of his life was coming home to find his mother had been murdered, and how the unsolved murder has cast a terrible shadow over his life.

This week’s castaway was that berk Gok Wan. He described how the worst moment of his life was … having to style a fashion shoot for Bryan Ferry. His luxury item was lip-balm. He is, truly, a gigantic berk.

 Gok Wan’s murder remains not only unsolved, but unperpetrated. Pity.

How To Look Good Dead was, sadly, Gok Wan's final series for Channel 4

TFTD 4/2/10: I'm seriously thinking about buying this motorcycle. It's a Ducati ST2 tourer, which should be just the job for the France trip in May. But there's something about it that's putting me off. I can't quite put my finger on it.


Oh, hang on. That's it. It looks like a fucking banana


TFTD 3/2/10: Talking of cow shit -  which I have been, all week – may I introduce  the Common Yellow Dung Fly? You've definitely seen one - probably hundreds - on country walks. It loves to hang around on cow pats, to shag and lay eggs. 

It doesn’t actually eat cow shit, though. That would be dirty. No, it catches smaller flies and sucks their insides out. It likes to eat blow-flies, so this is a good thing. Hurrah for the Common Yellow Dung Fly! We salute you.


Fancy a shag? Go on then, you smooth talker.


 TFTD 2/2/10: Fuck the pope. Obviously.


 TFTD 1/2/10: Talking of cow shit (which I was, the day before yesterday), did you know that a cow’s shit changes with the seasons? Most of the time, a cow produces the classic cowpat that is so beloved of country walks and picnics.

But in late autumn, when the grass stops growing, cows move inside to their winter sheds. Instead of fresh grass, they eat silage, which is a lot drier, so they get all constipated, and strain to force out nuggets of hard, fibrous dung.

On the upside, their milk tastes great for a couple of weeks, because it becomes creamier and more concentrated.

Then in the spring, the cows go back out onto fresh grass. It’s a joyful sight, seeing cows go back into pasture after a long winter inside, paddling around in their own shit. The entire herd goes batshit crazy for about five minutes, running and bucking and generally having a blast. Even the older cows, the arthritic ones with the giant baggy udders, have a bit of a frolic.

The downside is that with the diet of fresh grass, the milk tastes a bit watery for a while. And the cows get terrible diarrhoea, so when a cow lifts its tail in the milking parlour, you have to watch out for great jets of liquid shit flying across at you. Ahh, happy days.


And on this week's Springwatch, Bill Oddie gets what's fucking coming to him. 

 TFTD 31/1/10: I’ve just been reviewing the papers on the radio. I wonder how many people were listening to BBC Radio Wales at 7.15am on a Sunday. As I sat there in the studio, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the only person in the world listening was a farmer, standing in a milking parlour somewhere in darkest Carmarthenshire, watching a cow lift its tail to force out a shit.

TFTD 29/1/10:   Television famously adds 5lb, but it also deducts 25 IQ points.  I’ve met a few TV presenters, and as a rule they’re very clever people who appear slightly denser on-screen because of the demands of working in a mass medium.

The exception is, of course, horse-faced shoutypants Davina McCall, who is an idiot in real life, but looks okay on telly thanks to autocues and a boundless store of terrifying ambition.

Davina once appeared on Room 101, where she was superbly vulgar and tiny-minded. I can’t remember the exact details, but her list of pet hates went something like this: Frank Sinatra, books, nature, education, puppies, sunshine, water, the countryside, art, dolphins, science, progress, the Renaissance, good manners, civilisation. etc etc.

TFTD 28/1/10:   Sly Bailey talks such a lot of bollocks. The Trinity Mirror boss is attacking council newspapers on the grounds that they’re a threat to the regional press.

Really? The truth is, local newspapers have bled councils for years. Papers make very little money from the cover price – the vast majority comes from advertising. The most lucrative ads were always for jobs, known in the trade as ‘sits vac’. Around 60% of a newspaper’s entire revenue might come from sits vac. Not a bad earner.

And the creamiest profits came from local authorities, who had no choice but to advertise their jobs in local newspapers  - bilingually in Wales, which meant twice the cost.

Then two things happened. The internet, obviously - sits vac quickly moved online. And councils realised that rather than spend a fortune on local advertising, it was cheaper to start their own newspapers – ones that didn’t take their advertising revenue, shaft them and then slag them off in the news pages.

Despite calling for them to be banned, Sly Bailey is still happy to print council newspapers, mind – Trinity Mirror is contracted to print seven of them in London alone.

Talking of hypocrisy, Sly has also attacked the BBC for its hyperlocal web strategy, saying it’s unfair competition to local papers. At the same time, she’s closing down her own local newspapers, and axing branch offices. Most local papers simply don’t have a local presence any more – they’re run remotely from head office.

So who is going to give local people a voice? Not Trinity Mirror, that’s for sure. Personally, I’d feel much safer if the whole thing was in the hands of the BBC, rather than Dee Snider.

Sorry, I should explain: Dee Snider. That’s Trinity Mirror employees’ nickname for Sly Bailey.


Dee Snider: delivering profits to shareholders. And fuck the rest.  

TFTD 27/1/10: One Friday night in college, when everyone else was getting merrily rat-arsed down the Rosemary Branch, I had to stay in because I was absolutely skint.  To cheer myself up, I made an event of it - admittedly, a poignant and shitsomely lonely event - by listening to Radio 1’s Friday Rock Show. And just to make it even more special, I marked all the songs out of 10. I’ve still got the piece of paper somewhere.

Anyway, the Friday Rock show was presented by heavy metal prophet Tommy Vance, who used to refer to himself as ‘Thomas the Vance’, because he was like that.

More than 20 years later, I still remember that the two worst songs were something by Neil Young – naturally - and Never Satisfied by the Tygers of Pan Tang.

I just listened to Never Satisfied again on YouTube. It’s still marvellously shit after all these years. The narrative arc goes like this: our hero meets a lady in a nightclub. Despite his very best efforts, she proves to be sexually insatiable. The encounter leaves him exhausted.

It was a surprisingly common complaint of heavy metal singers from the NWOBHM period.

Oh, and I just checked and Tommy Vance’s real name was Richard Anthony Crispian Francis Prew Hope-Weston. Absolutely true. Fucking marvellous.

TFTD 26/1/10: So I went to a seminar last night. It was called “Keeping your children safe from harm on the internet.” All seminars contain five minutes of genuine interest, buried in two hours of bullshit. Last night was no exception. It was conducted by a woman called Pam who specialises in prim moral outrage. (Ha! She should see this website). Whenever Pam walks into her living room, she probably checks under the cushions for paedophiles.

What Pam definitely does, because she bragged about it, is spend a lot of time stalking her 13-year-old daughter and her friends on Facebook, and ringing their parents to report what she sees as the Deadly Dangers of the Internet.

“One girl put up a picture of herself sucking a lollipop,” she said, purple-faced with outrage. She paused to let the horror sink in. “Ladies and gentlemen. She was sucking. A. Lollipop.” She sucked in her own cheeks triumphantly. Quite possibly she had a small orgasm.

See, I’ve never understood this. If you’re a pervert, you’ve got the whole garish majesty of the internet to go looking for porn. Why on earth would you bother trawling through Facebook for pics that are only faintly titillating? It’s like going on a shopping trip to London, and only visiting Poundstretcher in Lewisham.

Incidentally, if teenage lollipop action is your thing, Pam, here’s a picture from a recent advert for Converse trainers:

The rudest picture on the entire internet.  

TFTD 25/1/10: Women are prettier than men. Even the prettiest man is, generally speaking, only as pretty as a fairly ugly woman. Here’s a rare example of the reverse, where an unusually ugly man looks an awful lot like a very attractive woman:

Left to right: Pretty Woman starJulia Roberts; big-nosed prog rock icon Geddy Lee from Rush 

TFTD 24/1/10: Club DJs: instead of exhorting the crowd to, “Put your hands in the air like you just don’t care”, it’s more economical to say, “Put your hands in the air insouciantly.” And far more elegant.

TFTD 23/1/10: The Three Worst Noises In The World, in reverse order:

 3. A heavy metal filing cabinet being dragged along a concrete floor.

2. Foxes shagging outside your bedroom window, at three in the morning.

1. Neil Young singing After The Gold Rush.

Sweet Jesus - what's that unbelievably fucking awful noise? Oh, it's...

TFTD 22/1/10: I can’t tell who is looking at this site, but thanks to Google Analytics I know which Google searches they’re using to find me. If you type any of the following into Google, it directs you straight to this website. How marvellous, and yet slightly shameful. These are my ten favourites:

 *    amanda burton in police uniform pic
 *    charles williams some suggestions for being good
*    dirty very young naked schoolgirls slag like fucking after school
*    gary barlow hair transplant
*    gloryhole cardiff
*    nurses enimas
*    sally james tits
*    she is wearing a pudding bowl crash helment show pictures
*    tesco culverhouse cross butchery complaint
*    would you shag amanda holden

It's true, I did write about Sally James's tits, but that was months ago. And imagine - some poor sod is just looking for a gloryhole, and he ends up on my rubbish website. Quick public service announcement: I just did a quick check and apparently Cardiff Gate Services on the M4 is the place to be. After work and at weekends are best.  Have fun. Write and tell us how you got on. Take pictures. Etc.

I get a nasty surprise as Google's new 'enhanced reality' search function brings an unexpected visitor to my site

TFTD 21/1/10: Bafta nominee Carey Mulligan has a tenuous Llandeilo connection: her grandfather taught at the local school (in fact, he taught my father at the start of his teaching career, and me at the end). He was called Denzil. Great name. More people should be called Denzil.

Another Hollywood star you often see knocking around Llandeilo is flame-haired (ie, ginger) heart-throb Damian Lewis, whose father owns a farm in nearby Trapp. Another great name, Trapp. Anyway, Damian Lewis usually turns up for the Boxing Day hunt - which is a bit daring, for a ginge.  

Tragedy at the Llandeilo hunt as Damien Lewis's vividly ginger head is mistaken for a fox

TFTD 20/1/10: So farewell then, the great Bill McLaren. He never learnt to pronounce ‘Gwendraeth’, as in Gwendraeth Grammar School, the famous ‘fly-half factory’ of the 1970s and 80s. Our school used to play rugby against them, and they usually beat the shit out of us. Here are my greatest rugby moments:

1. Being kicked in the face by my own team captain, and being given four unanaesthetised stiches in the changing room by Dr Terry.

2. Being knocked briefly unconscious against King’s College, and not remembering where I was supposed to stand in the line-out, or any of my team-mates’ names. They thought it was really funny; the referee called an ambulance.

3. The horrendous fighting during a tour match to the dismal industrial French shithole of Longwy. We had to leave two of our players behind in hospital. 

 Fair play to Bill McLaren, though. I’ve just had a look at the map of Scotland and it’s full of places I can’t pronounce, like Aultachruine and Achnaluachrach and Achiltibuie, which smacks of them just being plain awkward.

TFTD 19/1/10: Here's another thing I hate: the food reviews in local press. They're always written by some junior reporter on a freebie, or some witless advertising executive who writes things like: "My wife said her soup was very tasty."

I'll tell you what YOUR wife needs, pal.

 Tragedy at the restaurant as the advertising sales director's wife drowns in a bowl of soup that she had earlier pronounced "quite nice"

TFTD 18/1/10: I've got nothing against him, but Prince William always looks like such a gigantic tit in photographs. Look:

Nothing to do with the costume - it's just his big posh face. Tit.



TFTD 1/6/9: Okay, so I haven't been updating the site as much as I should have. I've been BUSY, okay? I'll do it later today, I promise. In the meantime, have a look at this. It's marvellous:

And if you enjoyed that, go and see them at Dempseys in Cardiff on Saturday:

p.s. Will that do, Wilco?

TFTD (21/6/9): Hey ho. Another weekend ruined by heroin.

I wanted to make elderflower cordial. Dissolve some caster sugar and citric acid in hot water, then add a couple of lemons and your elderflowers, collected from the riverbank by you and your winsome children, possibly while singing in three-part harmony, like the fucking Von Trapps. What could be more wholesome?

Ah, but I can’t get hold of citric acid in any chemist in Cardiff. Why? Because heroin isn’t water-soluble. In order to shoot up smack, you have to add citric acid, which helps it to dissolve in water. Then you heat up your delicious heroin/citric acid/water mix on your spoon of choice, et voila. Inject. Enjoy. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Also works with crack cocaine, apparently.

It’s illegal to supply citric acid for drug-taking purposes. Excuse me, Mr Chemist. Do I look like a fucking junkie? Apparently I do. Sigh.

And then when you protest, “But I only want to make some deliciously refreshing elderflower cordial from the frothy blossoms that nature has so generously bestowed,” they look at you like you’re just some shrill middle-class ponce. Which I am, but still.

Heroin. Just say no.


The syringe falls from the cold, dead hand of Pete Doherty, after I swap his citric acid for fucking battery acid. That'll learn him.


TFTD (20/6/9): I fail to see the point of magpies. I hate that football-rattle noise they make, at six in the fucking morning, every morning. When I am king, they shall be wiped from the face of the earth. And assorted other birds I don't like.


When swans breed with seagulls: a bird that breaks your arm, then nicks your chips.


TFTD (19/6/9): Piers Morgan, the new face of Burger King? Jesus. It’s put me off burgers for life. Piers Morgan, naked except for a tiny little loincloth? Whopper with Cheese, sir? No thanks, I’d rather not.

In the picture, Piers Morgan’s face is grafted onto the body of a much younger man. It’s the opposite of Amanda Holden, who has the face of a much younger woman stuck onto the wattled neck of, well, Amanda Holden.

Talking of which (ie, botoxed judges), whom would you rather shag: Danni or Kylie? Scientific research conducted in a pub recently reveals that 68% of men would rather bend one up Kylie, but only because it bestows greater bragging rights. Most men, however, believe that Danni would actually be the better shag. 


TFTD (18/6/9): I’ve been to the degree show at the Cardiff School of Art. Lots of excellent work, plus the usual hefty dose of posturing student wank. Oh, and some blocks of lard, pretending to be a sculpture:


A cow died to make this. Perhaps that's the whole point. I don't know. Or how about my own personal favourite – a small white empty room, with this label:


The label doesn't  identify the artist. I suppose what I mean is, it doesn't identify the sex of the artist. Perhaps that's the whole point. I don't know. Sigh.


TFTD (17/6/9): And the award for Greatest Living Englishman goes to… Gary Barlow. The fat one nobody fancied. The talented one who wrote all the songs, and yet we still picked on him. Gary Barlow, who went to work diligently every day, and every day had a bucket of shit poured on his head. And he’d come back into work the next day, and it happened again, every day, for ten years.

So he went away, had a family, reformed the band, and made the two best albums they’ve ever done. Gary Barlow. Stoical role-model. National treasure. On behalf of all smart-arsed columnists, I apologise. Still needs to shoot his fucking stylist, mind.


The obvious choice for that vacant plinth in Trafalgar Square: Gary Barlow with a bucket of shit on his head. Yet still somehow dignified.


TFTD (16/6/9): Cardiff is reeking of female sex pheromones, which are forming a dense cloud over the city. They’re oozing from every pore of about 75,000 excitable chubby housewives in their early middle age. Take That are in town. If Howard or Jason wandered onto Mill Lane by accident, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d be fucked to pieces, and then torn to pieces. Not a shred of evidence would be left.
Tragedy in Caroline Street as little Mark Owen is fucked to death by a munting Valleys slag

TFTD (15/6/9): I love Scotland. The scenery’s amazing, and the people are delightful. Apart from that porter in Glasgow Airport. Horrible little fucker, he was. No wonder Al Qaida didn’t stand a chance.

Instead of hiring ex-special forces soldiers, I reckon world leaders should employ crack teams of Glaswegians porters. Anyone who came within 50 feet would have their shins hacked off by wheelie trolleys. Honestly, it really hurts.


Barack Obama walks the streets of Baghdad unhindered, under the watchful eye of a malevolent little ginger fucker from Glasgow Airport


TFTD (14/6/9): There were hundreds of walkers on the main path up Ben Nevis, but hardly any on the route we took, the Carn Mor Dearg Arrete. It’s bloody hard work, with a couple of genuine if-you-fall-you-die moments. Good character-building stuff for our ten-year-old daughters, whom we cajoled around the 11-mile route, with its whopping 2,500 metres of ascent/descent.

All our fellow walkers were in full-on hiking gear, with compasses and maps and lashings of Goretex – apart from one bloke who was just wearing trainers and a Newcastle shirt. Proper hard, he was. Presumably if the weather turned nasty he’d simply head-butt it.

On Ben Nevis, a Newcastle supporter out-stares a rain cloud until it fucks off back to where it came from, Sunderland probably


TFTD (13/6/9): I’d read about Scottish midges, usually in a glossy travel feature by some hysterical Islingtonsite, who makes you mutter, “Keep your knickers on, luv, it’s only a tiny little insect.”

But fair play. They’re horrendous. It’s like being taunted simultaneously by three million pre-school children. I’d bought some fancy insect repellent in Millets, which Highland Midges clearly find delicious.

I ended up using the military stuff, nicked from the Quartermasters Stores by our ex-army friend. It works really well, but apparently the chemicals are so strong, it melts the plastic of the SA80 rifles. God knows what it did to our children’s faces. Kept the midges off, though.


TFTD (12/6/9): I once wrote in a guide book that Snowdonia “… has all the drama of the Scottish Highlands compressed into one small corner of North Wales.” Having spent the weekend climbing Ben Nevis, I cheerfully admit that I was writing bollocks, again. 

Snowdonia is fantastic, but the Scottish Highlands are truly, jaw-droppingly fucking amazing. So there.


Me, writing bollocks, again. It's a kind of  pictorial metaphor, if you will.


TFTD (11/6/9): Shame about Ryan Jones missing the Lions tour, again. He’s a nice guy, and deserves a break.

I interviewed him shortly after the last Lions tour, when he came back from New Zealand covered in glory. I went to meet him at his house in Penllergaer. He’d only just moved in, and he didn’t have any furniture yet, so we sat on his living room carpet.

He’s a big bloke, and his legs stretched almost the entire length of the room, with these huge bare feet pointing up at the ceiling.

My abiding memory of the interview is that I sat there thinking, if his feet are that big, then his cock must be absolutely enormous.

I did think of asking, but it would have been a bit weird, just the two of us, sat in his living room, on the floor. So I didn’t.

I’m still curious, mind. Do you know how big Ryan Jones’s cock is?


The whistle blows as Ryan Jones is illegally supported by his Wales and Ospreys team-mates


TFTD (10/6/9): I've been neglecting my daily updates. It's partly because I've been doing proper work, and partly because I've been up Ben Nevis. That's the mountain, not someone I met on Gaydar. Still, I'll just cheat and fill it all in retrospectively. Nobody will notice. 


TFTD (9/6/9): Terrible news for England football fans, who may not be able to watch the crucial World Cup qualifier against mighty Andorra tomorrow night. It’s because of the Tube strike, and the difficulty of getting 75,000 fans, at least 48,000 of whom are tattooed morons, safely to and from Wembley.

Yes, but it’s a risk worth taking, surely? What with the desperate shortage of transplant organs and everything.

An alternative would be for the 48,000 tattooed morons to go to somewhere safe and spacious, like Hyde Park for example, and arrange themselves into a huge conga line. Then they could sit back on each other’s laps, and attempt the Guinness World Record for the world’s biggest circle jerk. Yes. That would be good. Better than watching football, anyway.


 What, forgotten where it is? Try looking under your grotesque belly, you fat cunt


TFTD (8/6/9): The great thing about Google Analytics is that I now know what kind of Google searches people are doing to find this website. (Don’t worry, it’s all anonymous. I don’t know who you are. More's the pity.)

I had a visit a couple of days ago from someone who’d Googled the phrase ‘Penrhiwceiber gurning champion’. And this leads directly to my website. No other options. I’m not sure why.

But I’m very pleased to learn that there is a Penrhiweciber gurning champion, and that someone is Googling him/her. Although having been through Penrhiwceiber on the train recently, I spotted at least eight contendors, and that was just on the railway platform. Faces like fucking Picassos, every one of them.


TFTD (7/6/9): "Tell me," people often ask, ""What is the secret of a really good cottage pie?"

"Well," I reply, carefully marking the page in my well-thumbed copy of Gibbon's Decline and Fall, desperately pleased that anyone cares about my opinion on anything these days, "The secret is to put a layer of baked beans between the meat and the potato." 

"But isn't that a bit, well, common for a man as urbane as yourself?" they ask, clearly taken aback. 

"No indeed," I reply, removing my pince-nez and polishing the lenses with a large handkerchief taken from the pocket of my smoking-jacket. "I also find that a cheesy crust is a pleasing addition," I say with an avuncular twinkle, while stroking my long white beard.

"But..." they begin to interject as I raise a forestalling hand. "Please, no further questions," I say. "You must now fuck off, for it is time for Trisha."     


TFTD (6/6/9): Well, Graham Norton's new Saturday night show was breath-takingly rubbish. 


TFTD (5/6/9): Never intervene in a playground squabble between three-year-olds. It's more trouble than it's worth. 


TFTD (4/6/9): After David Carradine wanked himself to death, I wonder how many men found themselves idly fiddling with the dressing gown cord, musing about whether it’s worth a crack.

It must be pretty good fun, if celebs like Kung Fu man and Michael Hutchence think it’s worth a pop. Hmm... shall I shag Kylie or go for a spot of autoerotic asphyxiation? If the choice is that tricky, then it must be fantastic. And it’s only a wardrobe away.

I bet there’s a statistical spike of accidental deaths every time a celebrity dies while having a wank. Copycat wanks. Apparently this whole asphyxiation thing is more common than you'd think. But it's rarely reported because the relatives who find the body usually tidy away the shameful evidence before calling the police. And that's the bit that puts me off, frankly.


TFTD (3/6/9): Just after the Kosovo war ended, I went on a press trip to the capital city, Pristina. The place was utterly shafted. Nato cruise missiles had punched huge ragged holes in all the government buildings. Welsh squaddies were trying to stop the ethnic Albanians murdering the few remaining ethnic Serb peasantry. Everyone had AK47s. The national drink, slivovitz, tasted fucking disgusting.

All in all, it was a pretty screwed-up country, but there were the first fragile signs of hope. Outside the library in Pristina was a bold new piece of public art – a giant concrete ovoid. I don’t know what it was meant to represent – new life, rebirth, regeneration, etc. But someone had taken a black marker pen and scrawled on its side these immortal words: Fuck your egg.

Fantastic. This has become a personal mantra of mine. It can be used in all sorts of situations. For example:  

Melvyn Bragg:     In this week’s In Our Time, we look at how Wittgenstein’s philosophy of linguistics has changed 20th-century thinking.
Me:         Fuck your egg

Manager: You can’t take your glasses outside.
Me:         Fuck your egg.

Hairdresser in Llandaff North, just now:     We don’t cut children’s hair.
Me:         Fuck your egg.

Twitter:     OMG jus sn ladygaga on jon ross show she rocks yeh!!!
Me:         Fuck. Your. Egg.


Look, it's all very impressive and you're very clever and I don't wish to appear rude, but...


TFTD (2/6/9): I’ve just been reviewing the papers on BBC Radio Wales’s breakfast show. Here’s how it works: you turn up at 6am, spend 20 minutes frantically skimming a huge pile of today’s newspapers, and go on air to talk about the day’s burning issues.

Like MPs’ expenses, for example. This isn’t something I care deeply about. I’m bored of it all, and say so. The presenters, though, are serious political journalists to whom it matters a great deal. And they’re a lot cleverer than I am. So they tear me to shreds. Fuck. Same thing with the Susan Boyle story. It’s the inalienable right of people with learning difficulties to go on freak shows and have their lives ruined, apparently. Fuck again. Not my finest radio moment. Still, there’s another look at the papers in an hour. Perhaps that one will be better.

Now I have 35 minutes to go through the papers again. This time I pick some fluffy bollocks about children’s books, a story about email, and some absurd research on the virtues of chocolate milkshake. I’m on home territory here. At least I can make jokes.

As I listen to my own wittering, and watch the presenters nod politely as they listen in their headphones as they plan the forthcoming interviews with cabinet ministers and ambassadors, I have a horrible self-revelation. I’m turning into that fucking idiot Simon Fanshawe, who reviews the papers on BBC Breakfast. Simon Fucking Fanshawe. Ye Gods. Has it come to this?


Just when my radio appearance seems doomed to failure, I remember the trusty old adage: if in doubt, get it out.


TFTD (1/6/9): I just spent an hour in Primark, a shop I seldom visit because I am middle-class. I like being middle-class. I like the food, and the skiing, and the not having to shop at Primark.

But I need several key pieces for my daughter’s school play costume, and Primark is the cheapest place in town, thanks to the nimble fingers of all those children sewing away in sweatshops in the third world, just so my daughter can be a Robin Hood villager for the afternoon, before the clothes are tucked into the dressing-up box until they are eventually thrown away.

My three items cost me 8.88. The personal cost is that the queues are fucking enormous, even on a Monday morning. So I join the line, standing morosely in a 40-strong queue of the chip-eating classes whom we laughingly used to call Chavs, until we felt guilty about dehumanising people who don’t happen to ski at the same resorts as we do. We're big on guilt, we middle-classes.

If this was John Lewis or M&S, everyone would be loudly harrumphing and demanding to see the manager. But the queue at Primark was polite, patient and cheerful. There was almost a party atmosphere. The girl in front was telling her family how she couldn’t wait to get into her new outfit for the party tonight. There was none of that dreadful sense of entitlement you get in, well, middle-class shops.

Oh, and that’s the other thing about the middle-classes. We’re unbelievably fucking patronising.


Stand aside everyone, and let the fine young gentleman through. He's middle-class, you know.



But wait - where has all the other shit gone? I'm sure there was a cartoon from mid-May that was almost funny.

Fear not, gentle reader - it's all in the archive. Simply click on the link below - or this one here, which does the same thing, which seems like unnecessary duplication - and you will be directed into the loving arms of Marion, the friendly archivist. 

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