Placards

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Andrew Ian Dodge considers the hate-placards of protestors in London…

The Telegraph has reported that the Police have decided to arrest those with the more vile and violent placards at last month’s Religion of Peace rally. This is probably due to all the pressure on the Police over the matter. As I reported last week even Trevor Philips, chief racism bully, has expressed his concerns over the behaviour at the rally and the recent poll about Sharia law. The British government does seem to be trying to reverse the view that it is being more lenient with Muslims than other sorts. You think the public is going to buy it?

Ah, sweet fickle Lady Justice. When shall we ever see your knickers?

Wonk

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Andrew Ian Dodge keeps us up to date with his charmed life as a wonk.

This week has seen a rather interesting development in my writing career. I have been asked by a UK think-tank to write a 6000+ word piece on the future of the British music scene. What makes me laugh about this is that I was in the think-tank/wonk world in the 90s and never managed to get paid very much. Now I am a scary long-haired leather-clad heavy rock frontman and I will be paid nicely for my piece which will end up in a book from the organisation. The twists and turns of life can be quite amusing at times.

I want to be just like him when I grow old.

Salacis

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Prince Salacis was wise, beloved to the people, but loathed by his own advisers.
Fearful of his unchecked power, they stabbed him in the throat with a dagger.
But Salacis survived. Much to the advisors’ regret, I must say. They were all hung and left to rot.
The royal surgeons could not remove the dagger from his neck, so they wrapped it with gold foil and encrusted it with jewels.
For forty more years, Salacis presided over the land, commanding all with a raspy voice. Brilliantly, too.
When he needed advice, he consulted the rotted-away corpses, swaying in the breeze.

Compass Rose

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My staff travels the globe, searching for plants to send back so I can add them to my garden.
Some years, they don’t find much. Other years, I can barely keep up with the acquisitions.
This past month, all I’ve received is a packet of seeds with the label “Compass Rose” on it.
No pH readings or sunlight profiles. Not even a soil sample.
My people know better. I can’t just plant blindly. Such fragile specimens they are, some don’t even survive shipping back to me.
I’ll plant them anyway. Neutral soil, light, and water. We’ll see what comes up.

Anthem

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Andrew Ian Dodge chants an anthem for your arousal…

Raise your pints to our boys; Raise it high and make some noise; Cheer them on; raise the flag. What am I on about? Well my song-writing partner and I are going to have a crack at writing England’s World Cup anthem. To be sure, with one notable exception of ‘Three Lions’, the songs for England have not exactly been stellar. With lines like : Wave St George; if you love England; England. oh England We’re going east and we’re gonna win the cup; I am sure we are onto a winner. And there is no mention of the var!

Duet

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Andrew Ian Dodge talks about a recent competition:

A duet celeb competition ends in farce. First of all Sian Reeves can’t sing for toffee (it was painful at times to listen.) On the other hand the couple that didn’t win; Mark and Natasha produced several blistering performances that were tight and spot on. I guess its possible to be just too good. Andy Summers, who was a judge, must be still holding his head in his hands . After the “peoples” result (the judges gave it to the couple who could sing) it’s no wonder the British public chose a white Rapper to sing for GB at Eurovision.

Egad. Not a brit Eminem! Anything but that!

A tribute to Don Knotts

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We have reached a stage of technological advancement that at any time, at least one television set on the planet is receiving signals in some way, shape or form that contain the image of Don Knotts. And from this moment forward, Don Knotts will appear on at least one screen or another somewhere, from now on until the end of civilization.
Every scientific achievement, every war and every armistice, every struggle against the impossible has led to this one monument to posterity: Don Knotts’ electronic immortality.
Perhaps we can learn something from this. Or, more likely, in spite of it.

Gayball

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Brokeback Mountain may noit be the best picture, but instead of gay cowboys how about gay footballers? Andrew Ian Dodge is on the case…

The gay row continues in English professional football. An Arsenal player, Ashley Cole, is now sueing the News of the World over the allegations. The funny thing, of course, is that no one was named in the original article. One does have to wonder whether this was a clever idea or not. A smart mobile phone company could rush out a new phone with a really intense vibrate. Call it footballer’s friend or something. We all know that some people want to have anything associated with pro footie. The FA should use this as a marketing tool. Brokeball Pitch anyone?

Because it’s hard out there to be a pimp?

It’s hard to be a pimp

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Sure, it’s hard these days to be a pimp, but not in the ways you’d think.
PETA keeps protesting my fur hats. Also, the fur hubcaps on my pimpmobile.
Ever since I pimped my ride, it gets lousy gas mileage. Gas ain’t cheap these days.
Every John wants to pay with PayPal. Or credit cards. My pimproll is just a bunch of receipts.
See these gold teeth? Do you know what it takes to keep them clean? Colgate doesn’t exactly make Grill Paste, you know.
On top of all this, I bet iTunes delists this pimpcast.
Shoulda been a doctor.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 54

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Lincoln and Abner Doubleday mixed like oil and water.
“I invented baseball!” shouted the Commander in Chief at the brigadier general as he pinned stars on his epaulets.
“It was I!” shouted Doubleday back at Lincoln. “You told the men to just swing a stick around. I told them to swing it at a leather ball.”
“Fine,” said Lincoln.
Two years later, Lincoln penned his Gettysburg Address on the back of an envelope.
“Did that bastard Doubleday survive?” he asked.
“Yes, Mister President,” said an assistant.
‘Damnation and hellfire!” shouted Lincoln. “What will it take to rid me of Abner?”