Sometimes the news is so depressing and just plain boring that I can’t muster the enthusiasm to sit at the grey/brown desk and lazily poke my fingers into the plastic board sat in front of me. “Look at it, with its stupid letters all in a random order; how can I make any sense of this?” I often wonder. Then I chain my pet chimp, Edgar, to the chair and voila, every week it’s gold! It’s not Shakespeare yet, but I only have one chimp and at the moment he is sick with Swine flu. I would have been able to test out my new arrival, Sedgwick, but he was unfortunately seized at the airport in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
So, alone I have to try and alchemise this pile of baseness that we inhabit.
Stories that I considered and in some cases even started to write about this week, are as follows:
UEFA and their useless set of rules that benefit literally nobody
Destroy a young man’s dreams of playing in the biggest game of his career; allow a diabolical Norwegian referee to fuck up a massively important games. That’s about as far as I got before a red mist descended and all I could do was type ‘TWATS, TWATS, FUCKING TWATS’, like that bloke Jack Nicholson plays in The Shining.
Joanna Lumley’s Gurkha love
I was more intrigued by Joanna Lumley’s particular zeal for the campaign than what it stood for and as I found no particular reason for her fervent campaigning I lost heart in the matter. As for whether Gurkhas should be granted right of abode in the UK, I say – No.
Looked promising due to yesterday’s ridiculous headline: ‘Very ugly man is now Madeline suspect’ and accompanying artist impression, which made the bloke look like an Egon Schiele portrait. Then I started to write these things down and realised that only cheap laughs can be wrought from the disappearance of a three year old girl and that is not what Ventspleen is about – unless the cheap laughs are directed at someone or something that deserves ridiculing.
Government expense claims
Seemed mildly amusing when it came to light that Gordon Brown had paid his brother to clean his flat. I envisaged Brown stooping over the hunched figure of Andrew in an apron and spitting through clenched teeth, “You’ve burnt the Ristorante Quatro Formagi!”, while Andrew gushed apologies and continued to vigorously scrub Brown’s toilet with his own cascading tears. Then it turned out that they ‘shared’ a cleaner, which sounds a little disgusting, but far less humourous.
So that’s it. A week of news and nothing insightful or interesting to write. Hopefully Edgar will have recovered by next week, or you can expect more of this shit.