Every so often, like once in three years, I buy the Sunday Times.

It's always a worthwhile thing to do as it reminds me why I cancelled my subscription ages ago.

And so it was this Sunday. There was Jeremy Clarkson moaning on about how dreadful it is going to a restaurant "in the provinces"!

Ha! The predictable cunt comes from fucking Barnsley or something and worked on the Grimsby Evening News before lucking out with our licence fee money at the BB frigging C.

Tamara and that Guinness heiress, AA Gill and Tara PT - all the usual suspects were still there and still banging on dementedly about their wonderful London lives.

Mostly though this week, they are Fretting Over May's Invitations And That.

As indeed am I - and so should you be if you don't want to be chalked down for social death.

Have you got your V.V.I.P (note the extra fucking V) tickets for:

The Vanity Fair party at Cannes? P Diddy's bash at the Monaco Grand Prix? Naomi Campbell's birthday celebrations on the Aeolian islands?

And what about the difficulty of getting an appointment with Tamara Mellon's personal trainer?

Oh, and the handbag dilemma - which to choose? The new McQueen, the Valentino or the Miu Miu?

Plus, for every discerning reader, advice on what you should be listening to: BritneyFm.com, anybody?

"Britney songs all day long!!" as the fuckwit reviewer puts it.

It's all there and it froths on like this endlessly. As it always does.

How these fuckers get away with producing this breathless drivel week after week is a mystery.

But not one I could be bothered wasting too much time trying to solve.

I've done my bit now. Another three years before I'll have to do it again.

PS: A final thought on the hideous subject: "Secret whispers: Ronaldo's girlfriend was seen recently sporting 'R7' earrings!!! Talk about self-paraody!!!"

No, I didn't get it either.

Something happened today that affected me profoundly.

It's a very long story and will be the focus of a major show next week in the paper I edit.

There are so many aspects to it; most are at least disturbing, some are truly horrific.

The story is about the way some people are expected to live - in real danger and squalor, looked down upon and often mocked, totally powerless, despairing, neglected and ignored.

This of course is bad enough (if "bad" could even be considered to be anywhere near an adequate description). But there is another, nagging concept which I have been unable to shake from my mind since.

It is the concept of betrayal.

The concept that nothing has changed since the darkest days of Thatcher and her "survival of the fittest" acolytes and henchmen.

Nothing has moved forward one jot for those unfortunate (damned?) to a life on the sink estates, stuck in the generation after generation "Jobseekers" nightmare, stuck in a world which you or I would find incomprehensible and utterly terrifying.

They want the same for their kids as anyone else. Security, a safe place to go and play, an opportunity to earn a living, some bloody respect. In short, to be given a chance.

And I find it difficult to understand, let alone forgive, those who DO have the power, the influence and the ability to change things. Yet they do nothing. Well, nothing other that spin deceit and platitudes and then sit back toasting their own smug brilliance.

I'm going to stop going on now, but I'd love you to read some stuff by a Hero of mine, John Pilger, who wrote the following words in response to his disgust at Thatcherism.

Words written more than 20 years ago.

But can you not hear the echo reverberating, louder and louder, today?

And are they not a warning to those complacent with power to learn from recent history?

"Of course educating people 'once more to know their place' may face insurmountable difficulties.

A gloating speech by Enoch Powell, calling again for repatriation - sending the victims of Government policies and of racism back to where most of them had not come from - was described by the prime minister as 'very interesting' and 'worth reading very carefully indeed'."

'When the truth is replaced by silence, the silence is a lie.' - Yuri Yevtushenko

*charges onto BCUK like a deranged dervish*

*a dervish with SOMETHING TO SAY, Goddamnit*

Hah!

I've got a HEADACHE.

That is all.

As you were.

Hmm. Pretty lame.

There MUST be something else to report, surely, after all this time?

Er.

Things are tough/boring/impossible at work. But with extra boring.

Things are quiet at home, which is cool.

No one I know has died in the past month, excellent news.

I still have an almost irresistible urge to ride a motorcycle down a lethal mountain track with the throttle full out.

But that would involve the humiliating process of having to learn how to ride a motorcycle.

And I'm just not prepared to allow myself to wear one of those stupid day-glo vests while some boring git teaches me how to de-clutch in traffic. On a 50cc moped? No chance.

I want to be taught by a truly dangerous drunk of a Hell's Angel whose total disregard for my safety is matched only by mine for his. On a 100,000-CC chopped Harley. VeeerrrrrrOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooom.

Aha! I used to rant about Broon, let's go...

Oh, what's the point? It's like shooting fish in a barrel now.

No fun.

How's things for you?

x

Moscow is so close I can almost taste the polonium-210.

Gonna miss the game tonight as I'm in a posh hotel in that fancy London for a conference.

Quite near Heefrow, so how's a fellow to sleep with all these bleeding airplanes all over the shop?

Anyhoo.

In lieu of shouting at the the telly:

COME ON you MIGHTY REDS!

Again.

For a large Bloody Mary?
Hmm...
Black pepper in, or not?
*slurp*
Oh, nearly forgot:
COME ON you MIGHTY REDS!

Well...It is not an easy thing to sit here and keep a straight face while considering the notion that Ms Primarolo has any grasp at all on what it means to be living under the rag-end of this strange, war-ruined government.

Let's be smart about it: the rich are running this country. If you consider that the rich are American and Russian and Arabs then you must know the difficult position the sweaty, panicking relatively poor parliamentary bigwigs of England find themselves in.

A man who cannot abide the idea that he needs to listen or learn in these circumstances will be doomed to be a tiny footnote of history.

The fact that a nonentity like Ms P can be grabbing some kind of twisted interest while all around the financial stability of the nation is crumbling into ruins says a lot.

Brown will have to bargain wisely and well to retrieve his position in history.

He needs to think long and hard now as he faces the dark dawn.

It's hard to wish him anything but harm.
x

I have just read the most depressing sentence ever written in the English language

From today's Observer Magazine: "Next week - special climate change edition edited by Thom Yorke".

Yep.

After an almost full week off the ale, things have got crazy and I am already off on one at 10.03am on Satdee. Which is really just a continuation of Fridee.

Well, this kind of thing will happen from time to time.

I'm not out pillaging with the Hell's Angels, I'm not really gambling, nor am I fumbling my way out of an all-night swingers' party.

So: RESULT.

THE WORLD of blog was rocked last night as Juzzzy ended up with almost fuck all in the annual awards.

The young japester said this evening: "I fully accept the decision of my peers. I have hired independent adjudicators to scrutinise the voting schedule because it is evidently a corrupt sack of shite, a vortex of perverse lies, twisted untruths, sick, vile and very, very wrong for the future of blogging."

As his stomach was pumped in the ambulance by paramedics, who were anxious yet hopeful of saving a life, Zedds managed to chortle: "YOU CUNTS."

PS: He added: "You are definitely all cunts."