Pursuit of the Great God Ludd


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MacBastard here. Doesn’t the McCabe have a way with nicknames.

You probably didn’t know about McCabe’s worshiping of the the great God Ludd. Get it? He’s a Luddite.

He just said, “they were commies!”

I say, “if the cap fits …”

JJMcC replied “you’ll avoid babies. ha! ha!”

I’m now certain he suffers from a hard to diagnose form of dementedness, for which euthanasia might be an excellent and guaranteed cure.

Any way, I was summoned to sort out another of his computing catastrophes and, in doing that, my reward is, in no particular order (as the liars on Strictly Come Dancing say):

  • a mug of overly white tea
  • a few biscuits
  • brief thanks, and most importantly…
  • eternal admiration thinly disguised as highly personal abuse

Mac-SmilerIf you would prefer to read an alternative to this stuff, here’s a link to my site (not sh*ite as my dear host proclaims). No mention of knicker elastic anywhere, guaranteed.

If you like McCabe’s writing, “and the nurse lets you search for an alternative,” why not drop in and read there’s blushing and there’s BLUSHING.

by Mac Logan ©


Empty Bed Blues


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A Triumph of Hope over Experience

What is it with chicks? Hello? When a relationship is inexorably heading for the hills, most blokes will be relieved, albeit, in a sad, traumatised way. [Wipe that grin off your face! Ermintrude] Sure, she’s a great trick, but after a month or two, it has to be plain to the meanest intelligence that there are plenty more chicks in the ocean. [The attention span of a gnat in heat. Ermintrude] (I’ve heard that’s not the only thing that’s the size of a gnat. EdZilla). Beat it, ‘Sisters’! How do you feel by the time she wants to show you to her friends? How do you feel when she wants to show you to her parents??? And for her part, she must be truly sick and tired of laughing in the right places at your now-old jokes, which once seemed so sharp and witty. Ditto the shagging; sorry, ‘lurve-making’. And, like you’re not already eyeing up her younger sister, mother, best friend, bird in the library? Sure. [Not all men are cheating, two-timing bastards! Ermintrude] No. But they’d like to be.

Mattresses in Sickness and Health

If you have the misfortune to be one of the chromosomically challenged; i.e. a chick, it seems that you feel you just have to hang on to what you’ve got – long after it’s lost its usefulness… Even if it means kissing goodbye to your last vestige of self-respect some ten years down the line, in the futile future. ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Get a life! Better still, why not get a victim who still wants to shag you because you’re you; not because the in-laws have the kids on a Friday night? Try and remember, chickadees, ‘Erectile Dysfunction’ doesn’t mean he can’t get it up. It means he can’t be bothered to get it up you – it’s not quite the same thing. How you lot ever got the vote still remains one of life’s great mysteries. [How you’re still alive after all this shite is an even bigger mystery. Ermintrude] Oh. So none of ‘The Coven’ have stayed in a relationship long after the sperm has dried on the sheets? (It’s called ‘love’, twathead! EdZ) No, Dum-Dum, it’s technical name is ‘Irrational Optimism’; or rather ‘desperation’, borne out of ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Still; at least you all have got something to show, for all those years – apart from the stretch marks. [Your pathological fear of commitment demonstrates an insecurity the size of a bloody planet! Ermintrude] And your rare recourse to swearwords demonstrates that I am right. (Yeah. ‘Right’, but lonely. EdZ) You, dear EdZ, would romanticise the ten-times table. [You can’t count that far. Ermintrude]

The Truth Always Hurts

[Or rather, it soon will do, when its baked for ten hours in the oven, covered in hot pepper sauce and rammed up your arse! Ermintrude] Forget it, your Feminist Freakettes. As I may have mentioned before, ‘monogamy’ actually means ‘monotony’. Geddit? [No! Ermintrude] Dear Readerettes, or at least those amongst you who can understand the big words, (Lemme at him! EdZ). Take a long, hard look at yourself; then an equally long, hard look at your ‘soul-mate’. This is really what you were looking forward to when you employed all your feminine wiles to ensnare that lean, attractive male these many years ago? You must be especially pleased with the baldness, fat tummy and piles. ‘Love is blind’? No. ‘Cause if it were, the divorce courts would be a great deal less busy. Still; that’s why God invented ‘Personal Assistants’, ‘secretaries’ and ‘working late at the office’. And why women invented ‘personal trainers’, and ‘gardeners’. (You are one cynical, sick moron! EdZ) At least I don’t try to rhyme ‘romance’ with ‘orgasm’. [Twitter and Bisted. It certainly explains your books. Ermintrude] They’ll sell like hotcakes because of the deep and meaningful truths they contain: as well as the sex and violence. (Just keep kissing your mirror, you pathetic bastard. EdZ)

Cloud Cuckoo Land

‘With this ring, I thee bed’. Shakespeare, I think. (‘Twatspeare’, actually. EdZ) Come now, children. The freedom of women to control their fecundity, if not their temper, and to increase their economic independence has, at last, brought them face to face with the truth about the mythology surrounding ‘Happy Ever After’. Just a male invention for keeping chicks in and on the nest. The reality of the fall-out, when coupled with the Web, has resulted in an outpouring of some of the worst poetry this side of Edwin Morgan. Often as not accompanied by some soft-focus chicks splashing about in the sea, or by a waterfall. Probably something to do with their cellulite. And for anyone rash enough to try and read the stuff, with a few notable exceptions, once the angst and broken-heartedness guff has been peeled away, they all still revert to this longing for the mythical beast – the attractive, fit, slightly wayward bloke – who will sweep them off their feet, snap their knicker elastic, and stay with them forever? I mean to say; how sad is that?  [I do hope that your books are not as autobiographical as I’m beginning to think they are. Ermintrude] (If only for the sake of his balls. EdZ) [It seems to me that his continuing inability to work the washing-machine, or any other domestic appliance is really a metaphor for his inability to maintain relationships. Ermintrude] (It certainly helps to explain the state of his underwear. EdZ) Forget it, you two. Not so much ‘Witchcraft’ as ‘Bitchcraft’. Ouch! That was bloody sore!

Simply Divine


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God v Me

Obviously I have to have been a right bastard in a previous wife; sorry, I meant ‘life’.[Right both times. Ermintrude] Bah! Probably the love-child of Adolph Hitler and Attila the Hun. (They were both blokes, you utter twat! EdZilla) Anyway. As usual, I just struggle on, manfully, silent, yet suffering… [Not that bloody ‘Invictus’ speech again? Ermintrude] (Combined with a silent prayer for some gripe water; the big baby! EdZ) Beat it! Yet, sometimes, in the stillness, I can discern some Divine Intervention when the Forces of Darkness get a bit above themselves. [Discovering how to work the Dyson is not ‘Divine Intervention’! Ermintrude] Yes it is. (With a brain that small, he could be right. EdZ) Silence, ‘Sisters’! No. Seriously. When that bloody husband turned up last year, when I was just leaving, so to speak, the Mahonia tree just under the bedroom window was a miracle. [a) It was a dwarf conifer; and b) the only miracle was what that poor woman ever saw in you. Ermintrude] Modesty forbids. (She was desperate and delusional. Get used to it. EdZ) [I thought that was his type? Ermintrude] Forget it, you puny Earthlings! Me and God, we’re like that. (What? About as far apart as you are from understanding how to work the toaster? EdZ) Someone’s stolen the instructions! Probably some of you lot; or dark, mysterious forces at work. [I think he means his cleaner. Ermintrude] Be quiet! And beee nice to me! [Only if you start acting like a human being. Ermintrude] Forget it, you Power Mad Feministas; or should that be ‘Feministae’? (It’s a pity you spent most of the time in your Latin classes trying to get into that poor girl’s knickers. EdZ) ‘Into her affections’ you insensitive bitch! [That’s a funny place to keep them. Ermintrude]

The Elect

[Well, it certainly wouldn’t be ‘The Erect’ would it? Ermintrude] Rubbish! I don’t need any pills. Besides, I suit the colour blue. (Which is the colour you’ll be going if you don’t ‘come up to scratch next time, ‘Lover Boy’. EdZ) Humbug! Besides, none of the above ravings from the Waxing Salon can alter the fact that me and God are big buddies. He understands my travails against being deeply misunderstood, vilified and generally not appreciated. [Pass the sick-bag, would you? Ermintrude] You Coven had better watch out, in case I ask Him nicely to send a couple of bolts of lightning up your incontinence pads. (‘Him’? ‘Him’? God’s a woman! EdZ) Rubbish! Maybe a bit less gin in the G and Ts might not go amiss. God’s a bloke! [No She’s not. Ermintrude] (And guess what She’s gonna do to you, when you finally get hit by that long overdue bolt of lightning yourself? EdZ) Bollocks! [Spooky or what? That’s exactly where you’re going to be hit. Ermintrude] You can’t fool me! Stop laughing you cows! Also, if She really was a chick, I’d have Her eating out of my hands in seconds. Will you both stop laughing! (Sorry about that. PS; you’re dead. EdZ) [Cough, cough. And we’ve got tickets for it! Ermintrude] (Think Moses parting the Red Sea; only it’s your trousers that’ll be getting parted – while you’re still wearing them. EdZ) Squeak! [God’s a bloke? I don’t know whether to laugh or laugh. Ermintrude]

The Ultimate Question

(No contest. She’s gonna whop your arse for sure! EdZ) Beat it, you Feminist losers! [Ooops. Did no-one tell you. She’s a feminist as well? Ermintrude] (Guess who’s in deepest doo-doo? EdZ) Blow it out your ear, babe! (I just can’t wait for that cosy chat at the Pearly Gates. EdZ) [Short, but so very, very sweet. Ermintrude] (Five minutes? EdZ) [Nah. Five seconds more like. Ermintrude] (How long does it take to say, ‘Sub-basement; Level 69; right next to the crotchless panties? EdZ) [They’re having a ‘Fire’ sale. Ermintrude] Nonsense. Everyone knows that me and God are best mates… Arn’t we? [Too late now, you misogynist twat. Ermintrude] (And quite a few of the devils are going to be made up of some of your exes; with a year off from Hell for every jab they give you with a blunt pitchfork. EdZ) Erk! But what about all the good I’ve done? [Exactly; what good have you ever done? Ermintrude] Eh? I’ve done lots of good deeds! (Not shagging that very drunk girl all those years ago had more to do with the size of her boyfriend, than any altruistic motives. EdZ) ‘Altroo-what motives? [Exactly. Ermintrude] She was crazy about me! (No. She was just plain crazy. EdZ) What about that old lady I helped across the street? [That’ll be ten seconds off from infinity. Ermintrude] What if I promise to burn more Catholics? [That’s and add on. Ermintrude] Okay. What about if I promise to burn more Protestants? (Ditto. EdZ) How about more Hibs Casuals? {Double Ditto. GOD} Eeeeek! But I give generously to charity! [Viagra is not a charity. Ermintrude] Isn’t it? I mean; I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m kind to dumb animals. (Blondes are not ‘dumb animals’! EdZ) Most of the ones that I ever met were… [Careful; God’s a blonde. Ermintrude] Look; for the last time; God’s a bloke! Isn’t He? (Don’t you just love surprises? EdZ) Oh yeah! If God’s a chick, may you both be struck by lightning! Eh; do either of you know how to earth y-fronts; just in case…? The rest of this transmission was destroyed when an   unexplained power surge took out a cottage near Dollar.

John J McCabe. Copyright.

A Week in Polly Ticks


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The North British Question

After much pressure from my massive fan base [Situated in the nearby public phone box. Ermintrude] I have, albeit reluctantly, bowed to pubic demand to squeak out on the pressing issues of the day. (Not another rant on why he can’t work the washing-machine! EdZilla) No! Serious stuff like that will have to wait. Anyway, why can’t they say which hole should be filled with the gooey stuff? [God, he’s pathetic! Ermintrude] (According to his exes, that particular problem wasn’t confined to washing-machines. EdZ) Bee Quiet! Now. Where was I? Oh yes. This Referendum thingy. Right. As the time draws near to work out where to place my big kissy kissy on the form [He means the ‘X’ for his vote. Ermintrude] I have had occasion to finally try and grasp the nuances of the debate. But one or two matters concern me. Hello? Earth calling anyone? It has only recently been brought to my attention, that the current local government in Edinburgh has decided to extend the right to vote to bratlets of the age of sixteen. Including females…  Including blondes! What? Are they mad? Good grief man! When I was that age my main concerns were the Theory of Pyshagoras, and the contents of Henrietta Molestrangler’s knickers. And how to pluck up enough courage to ask the condom machine in the pub toilet for a pack of FLs.(Some things never change. EdZ) Bah! At that age most of the wee monsters are still grappling with puberty; and how to spell it.

Beyond a Yoke

However, dear discerning reader; much worserer is to come. The press seem to be concerned about heckling at some meetings on the matter – I always thought that was part of the fun. You know the stuff: ‘Voters, I appeal to you’. ‘No you don’t. I wouldn’t shag you if you were the last man in the world’ kind of thing. And some of the hecklers throw eggs. Okay; it’s a bit hard on the poor chickens, but you can’t have a Referendum without breaking a few omelettes. No. What is worrying is that the organisers of such speechifying have decided to cancel the rest of them because the Police can’t guarantee the safety of the squeaker. Eh? Who the hell is in charge of the insane asylum while these people are speaking to the media? Have you seen the size of a Scottish Policeman? Minimum height; six feet six, on a bad day. Weight; sixteen to eighteen stone of solid muscle. I mean; hello? Ever wondered about all these brilliant ‘Godzilla’ movies? ‘Godzilla v Mothra’, ‘Godzilla v The Smog Monster’? Not even Godzilla would be mad enough to tackle one of these blokes. You know; the ones who week in week out, deal with broken-hearted, weeping, tired and emotional Celtic and Rangers fans whose team has just lost ten nil to The Women’s Institute Flower Arranging team. And if they can deal with them, I would have thought they could certainly deal with the egg-chuckers of this world. By the scientific application of reason and understanding to the miscreant involved. The technical name used to be ‘a thick ear’. I foolishly imagined that one of the few real uses of any politician was to provide target practice for amateur commis chefs. Still; what do I know? [Half of bugger all, divided by two. Twatface. Ermintrude]

McTweedle-Dum v McTweedle-Dee

The key question is, what difference will it make? To which the answer is; none at all. Will Independence see a fall in the price of booze? Nope. A fall in the price of petrol? Nope. A fall in the knicker elastic of that cute librarian? [Definitely no! How about a fall in the price of kicking sexist retards right in the goolies? Ermintrude] Eeeek! Bah! Because none of us can be trusted. We mere mortals need to rely on ‘our betters’, the politicians, to decide how to spend every penny of our own taxes. North Sea Oil could end tomorrow or go on forever but either way, you and I will get absolutely nothing. Unlike, say, for example the pension funds of certain politicians and civil servants. Scrap Trident? Build a brand new shiny one with even more bells and whistles? Who cares? Either way the electors get bugger all; unlike say, entirely at random, for example, the corporations and of course their friends, the politicians and civil servants. When I was young I wanted to be a cop or a robber or a train driver or a soldier, or a sailor or whatever. I don’t know anyone who ever said they wanted to be a politician. Come to that, I still don’t. To them, it’s all about money – because that’s all they ever think of. For those on either side of the divide in this Referendum, I cannot believe they will be swayed by the crude bribes and appeals to their wallets being paraded by both sides of losers. If you are genuinely proud to be Scottish; or equally if you are genuinely proud to be British, then taking a drop in your level of income would count for nothing besides the importance of that feeling in your heart. I don’t think the men of the Highland Light Infantry who died so bravely for their country in the last War, were terribly concerned that, seventy years on, the size of their children’s pension fund would be bigger than that of their English counterparts. Think about it.

John J McCabe. Copyright.

Clean Sweep


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Dishing the Dirt

Arrrrrgggghhhh! I’ve been infiltrated! [You wish! You pervert! Ermintrude] No. Seriously! (I just hope she washed her hands afterwards. EdZilla) Don’t pretend you two don’t know! And the rest of you Power Mad Totty – PMT geddit? [No. Ermintrude] Anyway. My life is in ruins. (Like your balls will be if you don’t tell us what you are raving about. EdZ) Bah! As if you didn’t know. My bloody cleaner – Cruella de Pankhurst has taken over my life. [I did tell her to wear gloves. EdZ) Silence! She seemed such a nice girl too. Albeit a midget. Albeit a Communist Feminista from Latin America; or Leith at least. She’s trying to effect a coup de grace! [More a ‘Coo, what an arse!’ Ermintrude] Rubbish! (Like all the stuff she’s been throwing out, you mean? EdZ) She says I give slobs a bad name. [You give the Human Race a bad name. Ermintrude] When she came to quote for the work; I suggested one hour a week, for the first month, then one hour a month thereafter. She just looked at me like I was some new species of twat she’d just discovered, laughed in that really annoying way chicks have, then said three hours a week for the first year, then we’ll talk. (What an optimist. EdZ) Quiet! And now she makes my life a pure hell. I even have to clean up the place before she turns up! What’s the sense in that? And she stole my favourite shirt and washed it – I’d only worn it for about six weeks! And she threw out all my underwear; well, at least the ones who didn’t run away when they saw her coming for them. She says I’ve got to wear clean y-fronts in case I get knocked down by a truck. What in Christ’s name has that to do with anything? [Everything. Ermintrude] And, this is the really spooky bit, she guessed I was an only child! How weird is that? (Predictable. Tithead. EdZ)

Paint in the Neck

It gets worserer! [So does your English. Ermintrude] She has a sister – and no, I don’t mean another Power Mad Left Wing Feminist mate, but a real one; Boadacea von Panzer Division. Who decorates… So now the rooms are all to get a lick of paint or I get a kick of pain. And, this is the really good bit, apparently it’s all for my own good. Now where have I heard that before? Apart from the occasional marriage ceremony. Which means I’ll have to move the books and furniture and paintings all about the bloody house while Leonardo’s Big Sister goes potty with the paint. Humbug!  My life is no longer my own! [It never was, idiot. Ermintrude]  And what’s all this pish about my cooking? As my discerning and avid public will already know, I am, amongst other things, a cook of no little genius. (Shouldn’t that be ‘cock of very little penis’? EdZ) No! Anyway, I have of late, since the demise of Ratty, been entertaining from time to time as part of my charm offensive to overcome certain narrow and hidebound prejudices to my literary brilliance. (The truncheon stays out; alright? EdZ) [That is, if you wish to keep breathing. Ermintrude] Regardless, various parties of the third part have staggered into the kitchen when I have been midway through creating yet another gastronomic triumph, only to express both admiration and surprise at the culinary colossus – MOI. The admiration I’ve gotten used to over the years, but what’s with the shock that MOI can actually wield a pretty skilled skillet? [Because you’re such an out-and-out dipstick in every other walk of life. Ermintrude] Since the critics are all chicks, I can only put it down to ‘penis envy’.

Jungle Warfare

And there’s more to come! The gardener whose services I thought I had engaged to start in July has so far failed to materialise. It’s now the end of August. And being as where I live in Sunny Jockland it’s been peeing down every day, with odd bouts of sunshine in between. Apparently this is good for plants and trees and grass and stuff like that.  But not so good for neatness and tidiness in the garden. To date, both pergolas have disappeared under a sea of yellow flowery stuff [Clematis you tube! Ermintrude] The slabbed path has been taken over by green stuff (Moss you utter fathead! EdZ) And the stems of the trees that had been cut down are now sprouting long twiggy things. And both my cleaner and her bloody sister have been casting nasturtiums about my green fingeredness. [You haven’t got any. Ermintrude] (Except when he forgets to wash his hands for a month. EdZ) Beat it! So; anyway. Now it appears that Boadacea has a son who, if not a gardener, is still quite good at killing green things. So arriverderci alders, move over moss, bye-bye blossoms, ciao chestnuts, auf weidershen… ouch! That was bloody sore! [Any more crap alliteration and it’ll be ‘bye-bye balls’, and ‘goodbye goolies’! Ermintrude] (With weed killer, rusty garden twine, and a pair of very blunt garden shears. EdZ) Eeeek!

John J McCabe. Copyright.

The Great Divide


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To Plunge in or Not?

Thank you fans; thank you. Back, you mad fools! Thank you. Yes. Here it is. After many, many years of contemplation on this burning issue which has occupied the greatest thinkers of the age, I, reluctantly, have resolved to enter the lists in this most divisive and weighty of all questions.  Are Jordan’s tits real? No. Seriously folks, that question will take a great deal more time and investigation before a definitive answer can be given. (And you’ll be blind by then, you pervert! EdZilla) No. In the meantime I have finally agreed after massive pressure from all my fans, [Now down to one; the pet goldfish died last week. Ermintrude] Bah! From my intellectually superior position, I have condescended to give The Definitive View on the presently piffling matter of Scottish Independence. It is truly a struggle of positively Lilliputian proportions. Because, my dear discerning reader, in case you haven’t noticed, neither the ‘Yes’ nor the ‘No’ Party offer any true independence. Either you vote for Salmon and Sturgeon and the other rejects from a fish-farm; or you vote for the parade of Z-list failed politicians who pollute Westminster with their pension plans. What both sides have in common is the tacit understanding that, whichever way the vote goes; you, me and all Jock Thamson’s Bairns are gonna get half of bugger all, divided by two, in terms of North Sea Oil or any thing else for that matter. ‘Cause we’re too stupid; obviously. No. When the votes are counted, regardless of the result, you, the electorate, will still be getting told how to spend all your taxes by the soi-disant experts. You know, the ones who got you that concrete suppository for the Seriously Hard of Thinking at the Foot of the High Street, at the bargain basement price of £400 million. and not the trifling sum of £40 million. In the real world, that would get them a boot up the balls, and bankrupted. Here, in Cloud Haggis Land they have the utter gall to try and tell you that they know best how to run a country. They couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery. Henceforth you will be known not as ‘The Electorate’ but ‘The Erectorate‘, since you’re all being so soundly fucked over.

Plan B

And yet, avid readership, do not despair; the answer is starting you in the face; it lies in your own hands! [You wanker! Ermintrude] Humbug! Plato was full of it. (So are you. EdZ) Fools! Puny Earthlings! I was referring to his need for a ‘Philosopher-King’ to guide all these poor deluded people out of the cave and into the sunlight. [I think he means ‘total oblivion’. Ermintrude] Rubbish! (That too. EdZ) After long soul-searching [In your trousers. Ermintrude] I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that what this country needs is a good dose of MOI. (We’re doomed! EdZ) [Nah. But he sure as hell is. Ermintrude] Idiots! Here I present, to a breathless World, my ten point MAN-ifesto; ‘Watch With Mother’. I did not put that in! [No. We did. Ermintrude] Just you wait till the revolution! (Just you wait till The Coven reads all this pish! EdZ) Forget it Dum-Dums, the chicks won’t be able to understand the big words. [He’s dead. Ermintrude] (Since it’s all about Scotland can we use a boiling hot gallon of porridge with a blunt ‘spirtle’. EdZ) Since it’s Scotland, can you ‘carnaptious cauldron-clutching cows‘ put a sock in it? [Not a bad idea. Ermintrude] (Starched rigid, then sideways. EdZ) Eeeek!


1) The wearing of the kilt shall be a crime anywhere south of Stirling; unless you’re a chick with gorgeous legs.

2) Even then, the sporran will have to be worn on the inside; face turned in. Ouch!

3) All skean dhus will be worn in the buttocks, with no sheath. Double ouch!

4) The new crime of bagpipe-fondling will attract a punishment of having to listen to all the poems of Edwin Morgan; read out by a haggis with a squeaky voice.

5) Gaelic will only be taught in East coast harbours, when the tide is in. Unless read on TV by some of these good-looking birds. All Scottish folk groups will only be allowed to sing in Gaelic if the lead singer has at least 36Cs; and a good understanding of Scottish history. Maybe.

6) The main export of Scotland will be knife crime.  Glasgow already leads the world in this form of self-expression. During the last War the Highland Light Infantry scared everyone shitless, even on their side, when they pulled out their bayonets – they thought they were special long knives made just for them.

7) The outrageous tax on whisky will be reduced by ninety percent; especially for discerning middle-aged men, who nobody really understands.

8) All football gangs; like ‘Hibs Casuals’ and their brethern in other cities, will be hired out to the British Army as mercenaries; known as ‘Jock-hadis’. The towel round their head shall be an optional extra. Their price shall be linked to the price of a pint of heavy as it so shall vary from time to time. If they insist on being chummed by their girl-friends; or ‘burrdz’ as they are known, their steel combs shall entitle them to be paid in free Pina Coladas and tanning sessions.

9) White nylon jump suits shall be banned over size thirty. Except in very dark discos.

10) All politicians shall be forced to make love to a really ugly bird/bloke every night for their rest of their lives. They may get time off for good behaviour if they’re nice about the stretch marks.

The case rests.

John J McCabe. Copyright. [Rhymes with load of xxxxx. Ermintrude]

Brain Transplant No 17. (Failed)


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Squeak de coeur

They all hate me! [How very, very true. Ermintrude] No! It’s not fair! (Oh, God! He’s off! EdZilla) [Can someone please burn a feather under his nostrils? Ermintrude] (Where’s his bloody nurse when you need her? EdZ) Bah! Not that anyone cares about me… At all… Ever…  I’m waiting… [Except similarly retarded chauvinist losers like yourself? Ermintrude] That’s not what I meant! The bloody Coven had a go at me last Sunday! And I was being nice, too! (No he wasn’t. EdZ) I’d prepared a special prawn and avocado thingy, ’cause Valkerie’s such a shite cook. [Alternatively, ‘because Valkerie is a kind, committed, long-suffering friend’; unless you like sitting down to pee? Ermintrude] Humbug! (That’ll be a ‘yes’ then. EdZ) Anyway; the feast of soul and reason got underway, but as usual, the Power Mad harpies couldn’t leave it alone. First off go, smug uber-Feminista, EdZilla, calmly offers to help me in the kitchen whilst MOI is peeling the avocados. Then, once and only once, I am absolutely up to my tits in green gunk [What? Again? Ermintrude] She goes and shows me how, once you’ve cut the wee bastards in two and removed the stone, you simply cut the flesh still in the skin, like a melon, then press the back of the skin to let each chunk fall into the water and lemon juice to avoid going brown. Bitch! Where was I? [In mid rant, as usual. Ermintrude] (Or if you’re being Freudian, ‘Id Rant’. EdZ) That’s not bloody funny!

Pre-frontal Lobotomies for Beginners

So. As usual, stuffed to the gills with grub and my sparkling booze – to be fair, EdZilla made the brilliant main course of deep-fried gerbil willy served in a bed of vulcanised linguini – ouch! That was bloody sore! [Two feet lower and a thousand volts stronger, it’ll be a good deal more than that, buster! Ermintrude] And a sheer dead brilliantissimo coffee-cum-chocolate cake. (Crawler. EdZ) Anyway. I had, in all innocence, brought some party pooper things to explode over the table – most of which then got exploded over me; if you please! And this was a great pity since I had hoped to be able to have a private chat with the current victim of Valkerie Minor; poor bastard. [He means ‘luckiest man in the Universe’. Ermintrude] (For the sake of his balls; if nothing else. EdZ) Pah! But it was not to be. Besides, he let slip that he already has lots of friends in Brazil, and knows a plastic surgeon there; so he’s well ahead of the game should things take a turn for the turgid. (I think you mean ‘become romantically attached on a more permanent basis’. EdZ) [Whereas your balls are gonna become surgically detached on a much more permanent basis. Ermintrude] Moving on. Somehow in the post-prandial fug of the feast, the subject got on to my book, ‘The Final Arbiter’ – which EdZ is finally getting round to edit. Mucho Acclaimo for Captain Fabulous. [Or not. Ermintrude] It seems that The Coven, if you please are still concerned about the hero and his attitude to chicks. Especially in the horizontal position; but not exclusively. Oww! [Wipe that dirty grin off your face right now! Ermintrude] I’m not a child! (Yes he is. EdZ) Can we just get on? Thank you. So. In the book(s) the hero, on occasion, puts it about a bit. (Shags everything in sight. EdZ) And, dear discerning reader, I hear you say; ‘So bloody what?’ Well, [I’d be really careful about this next bit. Ermintrude] Well; naturally, all such encounters are ‘deep and meaningful’. I mean to say, he would be the last person in the world, nay in the Universe, nay in the Solar… Ouch!


Oh? Where was I? Ah yes. I was just explaining the hero’s commitment to black lace underwear and self-support stockings… and the vital necessity for any sexual encounter in the story to be pregnant with meaning and relevance; and understanding; and, what’s this word? Oh yes, ‘redolent of  respect for the chi… for the female involved’. Who will not ever, never ever, be valued solely for her heavenly hooters, come-to-bed-thighs that don’t touch at the top, nor drop-dead gorgeous looks. Much. Apparently she’ll have to have a brain too; even if she’s a blonde! So that’s how I got out alive. But there’s worse to come. Valkerie Minor is reading ‘Trick Cycling’ [‘Psychiatry’; actually. Ermintrude] And both Valkerie as a nurse; and EdZ as a former social worker, have more than a passing knowledge of some of that shite. And they seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that MOI is as much of a sadistic, heartless womaniser as the hero. Which I’m not. I do not sum up chicks just by their looks, height and weight and age. No. I always take into account the size of their bra-ins. Phew! The hero is a psychopath with a death wish, caused by the  tragic murder of his only love some twenty years earlier by the mafia – who he then killed. And now he has lots of opportunity to get himself killed by doing the dirty work for a dark civil servant; an old school pal. Entirely fucktitious. Because, as all The Coven know, see me and chicks; I always admire them for the size of their brain. No; honestly. It’s the very first thing I ever notice. No, really, truly. [4 out of 10 for style. Ermintrude] (-869 out of 10 for content. EdZ) [Pass the blow-torch, would you? Ermintrude] Eeeek!

John J McCabe. Copyright.


Care in the Community [Rent-a-Rant No 4127]

The Ministry of Stealth and Total Stupidity

First of all, may I apologise for my big-mouthed, Power Mad, feminist computer. [Hi there! Ermintrude] I did not put in the stuff about ‘Rent-a-Rant’ in the heading. [No. I did. Ermintrude] You see what I mean? [No. Ermintrude] I can only conclude I must have been a right bastard in a previous life. (You still are. EdZilla) Bah! Where was I? [About to launch yet another of your pathetic tirades. Ermintrude] (Forgot how to work the washing-machine, again? EdZ) No! Anyway; I don’t need it right now. No. Ah yes. The Potty-Training Police; Bottom-Sniffing Division. In a way I quite approve of reintroducing people with psychological difficulties back into the community. [It didn’t work with you. Ermintrude] Silence, you puny Earthling! It’s just the level of responsibility into which they are thrown at the start. Take, for example, the current advice from the Anti Alcohol Anal Retentive Secretariat – AAARS for short. Presumably they fell down their own ‘hole’. Let me see now; ah yes. Here we are. Are we all shitting comfortably? You soon will be. Good. Then I’ll begin. Once upon a time in a land far away, called England, there lived an utter twat called Oliver Cromwell, who had clearly been bullied when he was at school. And he secretly liked it. So much so, he built himself a private set of showers where he would go with some of his friends and strip off and then be forced to pick up the soap in the wet, steaming shower… Then he grew up. Around that time there was a bunch of even bigger twats called ‘The Puritans’, nicknamed ‘The Purple Heads’, because of the colour their willies would go whenever they became excited – which was quite a lot. They decided to take over the World; or the bit nearest to them – which was called England. En route they cut off a King’s head, and abolished Parliament – and made no ‘BareBones’ about it. Geddit? [No. Ermintrude] Anyway. In pursuit of their goal of terminal boredom, they abolished singing and songs; and even Christmas. (They were, ‘apparently’ Christians themselves.) Not unnaturally when fun-loving, Catholic-burning Ollly died, what was left of the English asked the dead King’s son if he’d like a job; and Olly and Co were consigned to the dustbin of history; along with Eric Hobsbom. Hobsbaum? Some lefty git soi-disant historian apologist for Stalin, anyway. Until recently. 

The School of Joined-Up Thinking

So. There I was, about to get myself outside a rather decent G and T whilst grappling with the Daily Torygraph crossword. It was a Friday, because they always employ Xavier de Sadisto, late of the Spanish Inquisition, to do the clues then. Bastards. And I suppose I must have dozed off to the strains of Radio Two – a bit highbrow – I know, but there you go. I dreamt I was back with one of my wives; either one will do – they always were nagging MOI. And so vivid was the dream that I fell off my chair and came to, cowering in the corner, trying to explain I didn’t like her sister that much at all. Then as sanity recovered I realised my fright had come from the gibbering pish being trotted out by the News. And since it was about health; the first point I wish to make is that such utter shite should only be broadcast after the cut-off time, and come with a pretty stiff warning. I even took notes to make sure I got it right. Here goes. Apparently alcohol is bad for you. Full Stop. No. We’re not talking about excess, or alcoholism; just the stuff itself. Evidently even if you look at a label of Johnny Walker Black Label, you ought to go and lie down in a darkened room for twenty-four days; or hours; or some such tripe. Presumably under some agreeable blonde. The broadcast was silent on that point. Anyway. The Master Plan is to ban all labels; except for dinky wee pictures of livers in sickness and not health. Not, sliced thinly in strips, fast fried in olive oil and served up with mashed potatoes and a glass of Valpollicella. Shock Yawn. And the tax thereon should be quadrupled. And anyone using the letter ‘G’ in close proximity to the letter ‘T” will be taken out and shot, three times a day, between meals. Excuse me; I’ve just got to have a quick one to restore the shattered tissues. Oh yes. PS. The Scottish Whisky Industry and the English beer and spirits giants who contribute so much revenue to HM Customs and Revenue can go take a flying foreskin to themselves. And the fragile Balance of Trade?  Do you ever have the feeling that Christmas will be next?

Stranger than Friction  

So. I was at the computer instanter waxing lyrical about mad, lefty, muesli-abusing ‘Fiends of the Earth, when Ermintrude pointed out that the authors of this sheer shite were in point of fact government employees. Eh? I mean; No-one has a higher regard for the daring and innovative ways in which the State has tried to rehabilitate The Hard of Thinking by making them Prime Ministers and Foreign Secretaries and Chancellors of the Exchequer, and what have you. Tony Bland, Gorgon Broon, David Camp-Person, Nick Who? –  and what a contribution they have all made to blood pressures throughout the land. But this, this drivel, this babbling from the sickbed, should really have a limit somewhere – preferably within the margin of sanity and not the Cloud Cuckoo Land from which it clearly emanates. What were their nurses thinking of? Surely a modest ‘liquid cosh’, washed down with a good belt of Scotch would have cured the problem for at least a day or so. But no; Nanny knows best. Apart from a rather poor understanding of the Right to Privacy as set out in the Human Rights Act. Not forgetting the lesson of ‘Brave New World’. You see, Uber Spam Heads, if you turn off the Soma, then the Epsilons start to wonder about the shitty quality of their lives. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to thank the politicians for their utter failure to address even their most basic of needs, as they line their own pockets and pensions. Who knows? The ‘Oiks’ ‘Hoi Polloi’ or ‘Electorate’ as they used to be known, might even drop into Tescos, Asda or Sainsbury’s to buy their very own Kalashnikov, preferably monogrammed, complete with shells, in order to personally thank the authors of their present misfortunes.

It’s a Funny Old Word

‘Care Homes’. ‘Care in the Community’. ‘Child Protection’. ‘Collateral Damage’. Odd how words can be abused. The Ministry of Truth became the Ministry of Lies a long time ago. It certainly helps explain why both Tory and Labour Administrations managed to ‘lose’ the files on paedophiles. I bet they still have the ones on Burgress and Mclean. And if the ‘Plonk Police’ can’t get the booze shut down yet; why not insist that all supermarkets provide personal details of all their customers who by booze? Or don’t you think that little number hasn’t been floated already? The Puritans are back. Although I seem to recall Queen Elizabeth the First kept her heating bills down by burning some three hundred of them. Probably nicked the idea from her sister. Nah; they’d probably enjoy it too much. The Greeks cautioned that wine was a good servant but a bad master; the same can be said for self-styled ‘health experts’. Cheers.

John J McCabe. Copyright.       

Communist Plot Number 3158


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Arrggghhhhh! The bloody Dyson’s exploded! In the middle of the bloody kitchen! Again! [Surely not, Captain Fatuous? Ermintrude] All over everywhere. Without warning! I simply pushed a wee tit and it blew up in front of me! (What? Like an inflatable doll? EdZilla) No! Besides; she sprang a leak. Luckily I now have a cleaner, who can work the hoover and washing-machine; so this particular problem will not arise again. [Which just leaves the computer, the printer, the toaster, the alarm clock, the mobile telephone; and of course; the barbecue. Ermintrude] Thank you fans; yes. I, all by myself, without the aid of a safety net, have actually built a barbecue thingy from scratch! It only took me half an hour! [Per day; for ten days. Ermintrude] Silence! (And he put the lid on the wrong way; twice. EdZ) Beat it! Anyway; there it stands; a silent testimony to my brilliant engineering skills. [A combination of Brunel and Bagpuss. Ermintrude] And since I got it up and running it’s rained every bloody day! (Who says there isn’t a God? EdZ) But now, with Ratty out of the way, I merely await the onset of good weather and I can have ‘The Coven’ round to show off my culinary skills. [While they show off their fire-fighting ones. Ermintrude] (And their knowledge of First Aid. EdZ)

Printer Wars

And now, the stupid printer is playing silly buggers. (Note please, the use of transferred epithet. EdZ) Eh? It’s the Ascot machine thingy! It won’t take even its own ink pot thing, never mind the ones from Tescos. [Listen Uber-Twat. Firstly, it’s an Epsom; and Secondly it’s a’cartridge’. Ermintrude] (And Thirdly, you are absolutely effing hopeless. EdZ) It won’t take it! Even when I threaten it with mindless violence. [Well; he got the first bit right. Ermintrude] It won’t let it in! (You’ll be all too familiar with that problem. EdZ) Shut up! I’ll have to be nice to that maniac Bronco to see if her son can come round and fix it. Then we’ll have ‘The Coven’ all hooting and farting with laughter at my lack of high-tech knowledge. [To you, a loo roll is ‘high-tech’. Ermintrude] Well; what about how the thing is always stuck down at the start, and you have to unfurl it like a bloody flag ten times before it starts to work! (That’s what your last girlfriend said about you too. Spooky or what? EdZ) Humbug!

Puff the Magic Dragon Retard

Will you stop doing that? [No. Ermintrude] (And make sure you tell the truth about how you cocked up your Ventolin spray – for the last zillion years. EdZ) It was an accident! [No, Sweetie; YOU were the accident. Ermintrude] Anyway. I was going to get round to telling you about my recent attack of bad health. (Liar! EdZ) [You normally spout it out like another triumph of your will. Ermintrude] (Modest you ain’t. EdZ). Well I’m going to recount the grisly episode now. (I can hardly wait. EdZ) I had left a message on the Health Centre phone line for another puffer. I had been helping EdZilla with her plan for World Domination the previous week, which had required me to return to her lair each evening for a post mortem of the day’s events. Which further involved me getting close up and personal with her pussy – cat! To which I am allergic; get the picture? So by the end of the week I was coughing and squeaking like Billyo. I ordered another one. Which in turn activated the Quackery Police who insisted I attend an asthma examination. So I did. Which set the scene for a titanic struggle. [In your trousers. Ermintrude]

Big Breaths

At least 42Ds. Magnificent. And she very generously showed me how to inhale… Wow! I could only assume her lucky bra was reinforced with steel hawsers. Apparently my breaths weren’t big enough; and I was pressing the puffer at the wrong time. [This all sounds terribly familiar with you and your female victims. Are you sure she wasn’t one of your ‘conquests’? Ermintrude] (Unlikely; she still had a pulse. EdZ) Wheesht! Then she showed me again how to take a really BIG breath. When I came to I was on the couch in the surgery, with her leaning over me. If she’d got any closer I’d have died of concussion. (You wish! EdZ) But I’m a fast learner; and after an hour I was pretty sure I knew how to do it. Then she started on about blood pressure and weight and my alcohol intake and other matters… [Yeah. I’ll just bet she did. Ermintrude] (Any personal ‘problems’? EdZ) No! And suddenly it was time to leave. She says she wants to see me again in a month – babe magnet or what? [In a month of Sundays, you burke! Ermintrude] (He’s gone through to kiss his bloody mirror again! EdZ) [Pathetic! Ermintrude] (It’s cool. I sprayed cat pee over it when I was there last night. EdZ) 

John J. McCabe. Copyright.


Rhyming Twang


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Schlock Sonnet

A new Shakespearean Sonnet has been unearthed by scholars working in ‘Spearmint Gerbil’ in Edinburgh! [Apparently. Ermintrude] It was discovered when they were sandblasting a pair of crotchless knickers in the Gents urinal. They appeared to be stuck to the wall. According to one observer, from the Smegma Police, ‘it was ‘a sticky situation’. The knickers in question were found attached to the mammified corpse of a right old Merchant Banker. The undertakers apologised for not being able to remove his grin. Poetophiles from the nearby Edinburgh University Bar – still the longest in Europe – have been tight, as well as tight-lipped, since the find. Most Elizabethan observers agree that Shakespeare probably wrote it when he was up there, helping Jordan with her large double negatives, at the last Edinburgh Book Festival. But the literary world is still divided. Was this yet another poem purchased by his patron, Duke Ellington; or a personal cri de hoor? Certainly, Shakespearean buffs recall the Bard of Basingstoke (Is this right? EdZilla) returning from Edinburgh with a limp; which he found very difficult, if not to say ‘hard’, to explain to his wife, Anne Have-it-Away. Contemporary records have him ascribing it to ‘An Olde Whore wound’.


Ace reporter and bon viveur [and utter twat. Ermintrude] Yours UnTruly, has been granted access to the inner sanctum of Poetopia; and now as a Wurrld Furst, publishes the entire sonnet; unblemished; unlike Shakespeare’s willy was, apparently. Back fans! Back! (Get on with it! EdZ)

Thonget 18

‘Shall I compare thee to an easy lay?

Thou art more lovely and you want more pay.

Rough fingers tweak the buttons on your dress,

Your boobs are heaving and your hair’s a mess.

Sometime too hot your thighs of heaven get,

And often is your underwear quite wet.

And every bra from time to time declines,

By chance or drinking one too many wines.

But thy eternal blusher shall not fade.

Although you turn a pleasingly red shade.

Nor lose possession of that which thou owest

Until the price is right; and then thou ‘goest’.

So long as men can pay and you take plastic,

The world is full of melting knicker elastic.

Signed ‘Big Will’. (The ‘y’ is silent)

Kulture Vultures

What can I say? ‘The rest is silence.’ Does this not demonstrate the ongoing commitment of MOI, aka Captain Fabulous, to raising the intellectual profile of this Blog? [No. Ermintrude] (Pull the other one. EdZ) Bah! And bear in mind, all this was done whilst I was in the grip of a beaver! [‘Fever’, you pervert! Ermintrude] Anyway; I was ill! (A combination of flatulence and ‘Writer’s Droop’. EdZ) Beat it! Here I am; prone on my sick-bed, [and prone to type a load of crap. Ermintrude] Fools! Just so as to show you the soaring peaks of intellectual endeavour to which we aspire I now set out hereunder, for the first time in pubic, my own, my very own, brand new, shiny, Haiku. Or is that ‘Haddock’? I give you -‘Triumph of the Willy’. [They’re gonna kill him for sure this time. Ermintrude] (Trouble is, they all want to cremate him while he’s still alive. EdZ) [Fair enough. Ermintrude]

‘Triumph of the Willy’

Hand in hand.

Hand in gland.

Gland in gland.


As an afterthought, I’ve sent a copy to the ‘Grauniad’, their ‘Wimmin’s Sexshun’, for comment. [Famous last turds. Ermintrude] John J. McCabe. Copyright