The Nissan Micra

The Accused

The Nissan Motor Company Limited

The charge

That the accused did wilfully and with malice aforethought manufacture very small low-powered cars and flagrantly market the same to immensely fat people with poor spatial awareness thereby preventing commuters from going about their rightful daily business.

The case for the prosecution

Ladies and Gentlemen, when Nissan USA president Yutaka Katayama introduced the compact pickup to America in 1959, he espoused a philosophy that was part Zen and part car aficionado: “Love cars, love people, love life.” When I was driving to this very court today I saw, and not for the first time, a hugely obese woman “driving” a Nissan Micra in the middle lane of the motorway at 40mph and I espoused a somewhat different philosophy. As there are likely to be children and people of finer sensibilities listening to this case, I will not repeat that particular philosophy here.

Suffice to say that the ghastly sight of some vast and lardy middle-aged female squeezed unceremoniously into a small tin and plastic wheeled box is not one that the eye welcomes so early in the day. Apart from the obvious visual enormity of the event, there is an altogether more sinister and indeed dangerous aspect to be considered. The viewer’s brain. Bereft of mental stimulation, the daily commuter will fall on the slightest curious incident like a pack of ravenous hyena on a wounded wildebeest. And this one is no exception. How did she get into that car in the first place? Given her relative bulk and the comparative tininess of the target space, the exercise was evidently not conducted by self alone.

So what fiendish accomplice, oiled and gloved, was responsible for squeezing and coaxing the behemoth into the Micra? How long did it take? Were wheels and pullies employed? Or large sticks and shoe-horns? Did a crowd of jeering small boys assemble to encourage the ingress? Which parts of respective anatomies came into contact to effect an entry? Hand on posterior? Like some appalling pastiche of Sartre, did it disappear right up to the elbow? What forces must have been at play!

And how would she be able to handle basic driving skills like steering when she clearly could not get her hands anywhere near the steering wheel, jammed against her voluminous folds of gut like it so clearly was. Had she perfected by way of necessity some kind of Tantric lower-abdominal muscle-control? And what of braking? The momentum of such a hideously disproportionate human frame encased in such a flimsy automobile careering along the Queen’s highway would surely not be halted by the mere application of rubber on metal. Presumably this goes a long way towards explaining precisely why a slow driving pace is required.

I think you will agree, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, that such thoughts are not the correct thoughts to be thinking when public road safety is of such obvious paramount importance.

In all the years that I have been kneeling at the feet of Genesius, I can safely say that I have never encountered such a depraved example of corporate barbarism as that displayed by the accused. The purveying of cancerous tobacco products, improperly-tested genetically-modified foodstuffs and even clackers pale into insignificance beside the considerable shadow of the Nissan Micra and its archetypal driver.

The case for the defence

Customer satisfaction levels are high.




Rarely have I had to listen to a case that so chills the marrow. Having considered punitive financial, custodial and indeed even mortal sentences, I am drawn inexorably to the most severe punishment that the law allows. I hereby sentence every senior executive within Nissan to drive a Nissan Micra until that day that he dies.

Tally ho

Hello sweeties

Gosh what a perfectly dreadful time it has been lately. London has been absolutely sardined with cousins from the country down here protesting about the horrid hunting ban. Now I adore spending time with the rosy-cheeked in-laws when I am in the sticks but town is town and country’s country. Darlings I do believe there hasn’t been so much tweed in the big smoke since they came down to pick up the ragamuffins during the Blitz. So I’m told by the elders.

I cannot blame them for getting so red in the face though. Well, redder. Those ghastly lefties are trying to ban something they simply don’t understand. How many of them know the joy of a good ride in the morning, the thrill of something powerful between your legs and an exciting climax? Bally few of them, that’s how many. In fact if old Teflon Tony knew that particular joy then we might all be better off.

Tristram Tuffington-Bart is organising an anti-anti-hunt ball down at his mother’s place and it should be a splendid evening. He says there will be a full-scale hunt through the old stately pile, except we will be chasing chaps dressed up as leftie Labourites and when we catch them we will whip them within an inch of their Bolshie lives. Pippi van Muflin, being soppy old Pippi, is worried that these poor coves might get hurt but Tristram says it’s ok because they will be local peasants who are only too happy to do it for £20, a glass of mulled wine and the chance of a glimpse of Lady Tuffer’s celebrated bosom.

There will be a collection for the Ferry Two — that silly oaf Otis and his drug-addled mother who got themselves up in front of the beak last week — and Johnny Roxburgh will be raffling off some of his hounds to raise bail money for anyone else who gets themselves nickered, or whatever the expression is that the working classes use. First prize is two slobbering foxhounds guaranteed to rip your postman’s arm off and shake him like a rag-doll. Second prize is four dogs. Mieow.

Oh and there will be lashings and lashings of shampoo. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of being driven all the way down to Hampshire if there wasn’t a shipload of Bolly to make the thing bearable? Darlings, you should know Lady P better than that. Much as I adore being in the saddle, it hardly compares to the bliss of Bolly. God put peasants on this earth to pick grapes and it would be pretty churlish of their betters not to fully enjoy the sweaty labours of the rustics. Bottom’s up.

Of course, the lefties don’t understand the joy of champers — they are all brown ale, sandwiches and overactive armpits. So how can these heathens possibly understand hunting — or the beautiful game as Tristram T-B calls it? They think it is just a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces. Such poppycock. It is a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces and then they can enjoy a good bucket of Bolly after it. The Labourites just can’t understand the difference. No proper upbringing, you see

Mind you darlings, a decent upbringing is no guarantee of class. Every stately home has a tradesman’s entrance, as my old aunt Agatha used to say. Take that slutlette Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for example. She is as close to Royalty as Camilla’s cat but as near to the gutter as a tramp at the theatre.

She’s been ballyhooing it with the rest of them about hunting but I happen to know that she’s never been on a horse in her life. She has a fizzog like Shergar and has had more rides than Lester Piggott but she wouldn’t know a bridle from a groom. In fact, Henny’s brother Marcus rides out with the Beaufort and he tells me that la P-T is always first in the queue for the riding crops but never swings her leg over anything that can’t ask for Vaseline and gin. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So there you have it. If the lefties have their way and ban a perfectly innocent pastime like hunting then all the riding crops, whips and knee-length leather boots will be left at the disposal of Tara P-T and her nymphosexual chums. Do you really want that, chaps?


We didn’t start the Parly

Sheena Easton, Weir’s Way, Donald Dewar, Paul McStay,

Jimmy Spankie, Jimmy Krankie, Billy Connolly

Lorraine Kelly, Banquo’s ghost, Willie Carson, Sunday Post

Jimmy Shand, Burntisland, Dougie Donnelly

Denis Law, Thane o’ Cawdor, Carol Smillie, Harry Lauder

Border tart, Braveheart, Daniel Nardini

Arnold Clark, Rob Roy, Jackie Bird, Peter McCloy

Fran and Anna, Fyffye’s banana, Shereen Nanjiani

We didn’t start the Parly

Costs were always rising

Because of bad advising

We didn’t start the Parly

No they didn’t cost it

So we nearly lost it

The Fraser Report

It wisnae Donald

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Henry

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Steele

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Miralles

And it wisnae me

It wisnae naebody

But it wisnae me

Oor parliament’s finished

The builders have finished,

Well sort of.

We’ve aw moved in,

More or less.

They’ve cleaned up the mess,

Well most o’ it.

Noo everyone’s happy,


It was cheap at £440 million


Ach forget it.

A welcome to wee Nicola

Nicola Sturgeon

Nippy sweetie

Make-up done

By Balfour Beatty

Nicola Sturgeon

Nippy sweetie

Goes like a bunny

Says toilet graffiti

The stinky has hit the fan


Me typing might not be all that great today on account of how I’m writing this from under me bed. I figure it’s the only place to be in case there’s a Paddy Wagon at me front door and a bunch of plods offering me a lift to the cop shop to help with their enquiries.

Jaysus I couldn’t believe it. The dog and bone went off before the bleedin cockrel and I thought it was someone phoning to say me old ma had finally bought the potato farm. Sure and if it wasn’t worse than that. It was only after being Jamie Spencer, better call him Jamie X, telling me that the bleedin rozzers had been arresting every jockey that they could lay their dirty hands on. Keep your Alan Whickers on I told him, the plods are as much use as tits on a bull, they’ll not be knowing who they’re after.

Sure and didn’t he then tell me that they had nicked Keiren. Fergal Lynch too and that useless fekker Darren Williams. Beef news begorrah, steal me Jaffas and call me skinny. The stinky has hit the fan right enough. I told them we couldn’t get away with fixing races forever. Not with shaggin eejits like Williams who doesn’t know the end that eats from the end that browns the stuff. His idea of “making it look good” is to fall off the fekker. He’d be as well holding up a big bleedin sign saying “not trying”.

Anyways, Jamie X tells me that the rozzers are banging down doors like nuns at the greengrocers when there’s a banana sale on. Poor Keiren was dragged out still wearing his Postman Pat jammies and thrown in the Paddy wagon with barely a chance to scratch his bitch-bag. Terrible so it is, treating a champion jockey like he’s some sort of bleedin criminal. Which he is I suppose but it’s its still pure diabolical.

As for me self I was so shocked it fair put me off me scran. It was a full 15 minutes before I could pull meself together enough to rustle up half a pig between a few rolls. I tell youse it took all me resolve to force meself to take a few sausages to keep the bacon company. Me aul fella always said you needed to eat when you find yourself in times of trouble. Or maybe that was Simon and Garfunkel. Anyways it explains how me aul fella had an arse on him the size of Cork, always in bleedin trouble he was.

Jamie X says they’ve lifted Mr Burke and that was a teeny bit of a worry on account of how I rode a couple of ‘tactical’ races for him. Ah come on, the little O’Farrells have as much right to Crimbo presents as the next brat. If I remember rightly, a favourite helped itself to two packets of bourbons and a couple of cans of Guinness half an hour before the off and it didn’t seem to quite agree with the nag. Had the absolute scutters after the finish so it did. Some of Mr Burke’s acquaintances had a bundle on the second favourite so they were happy enough despite the fact that the nag shat all over their Armani loafers.

I’ve been telling Keiren for years that he had to get better at the cheating or he’d be caught like Wayne Rooney in an aul folk’s home. Sure and I’ve passed on a few of the finer tricks of the trade but sometimes that caffler Keiren is as obvious as a priest with a tub of Vaseline. He may be the puppy’s privates when he’s trying to win but he can be a feckin eejit when he’s being ‘unlucky’.

So that’s why I’m lying here under me bed with the bleedin Z Cars tune going through me head. I’ve got an economy-sized box of Jaffas for company but I’ll need to send out for reinforcements before the evening news. Sure and I’d be eating anyways but I’ve got the fear they will drag me off to the nick and try and starve me till I spill me bleedin guts. Half an hour and I’d even be telling them about Coole Abbey and that little doxie from Kelso. Jaysus.

Feck, the fear is sure putting an appetite on me. Hungry? I could eat an Arab’s arse through a hail of missiles.

See youse at the track (or in the jail).

Fred O’Farrell.

Olympics Not Ideal

You’d think they’d get the message, but it seems that no matter how few people turn up to the festival of contrived sports that is the modern Olympic Games, they still persist in holding them.

The games have cost billions of Euro to stage and as I watched the beach volleyball last night I could not help but be disgusted at the rows and rows of empty seats on view. Have you any idea, brothers and sisters, how many books, videos and date stamps that kind of money can buy? The libraries of the world are crumbling to the ground, great works of literature, as well as some Jeffrey Archer remainders, are being lost forever in dingy, damp stores and we see fit to spend all this cash on half-empty stadia, swimming pools without any flumes, easily-detected pharmaceuticals and endless, endless commemorative tat that, apparently, no-one is really bothered about.

Of course, one reason for the rows of unfilled seats could be the ridiculous sports that are now part of the games – synchronised diving, beach volleyball, dressage and that crazy 20km walk. It can only be a matter of time before date-stamping and close harmony shelving are, at the very least, demonstration sports, hell’s bells, that could get a bit Sheridan. Also, since when were highly paid professionals allowed to compete – tennis players and football players paid millions in sponsorship and yet still able to compete in this amateur festival. It’s nonsense. And while I’m on the subject, LLF do not feel that keeping our “top” athletes in energy bars and Deep Heat is a suitable way to spend lottery money. The lottery is a scandal anyway, drawing money from the proletariat and giving it to over-privileged kids in pipe bands so they can make that trip to Florida is just plain wrong in a civilised society, but to spend it on allowing athletes to train full time isn’t much better. What happened to the Olympic tradition of post-persons from Norwich finishing their round on a Monday and heading off to the Olympic 100m final by Tuesday afternoon? How we would marvel at the proud workers as they took unpaid leave from the shipyards, the fields and, yes, even the libraries to compete at the games. Now thanks to the greed and stupidity of lottery ticket holders, our Olympic hopefuls get to “train” full time. Where’s the romance in that? Nowhere – and it seems to be having the opposite effect in terms of medals anyway. No, we say this has to stop, the glorification of the hoi polloi for the amusement of the rich and privileged by way of meaningless metal gongs must be ended, for the good of personkind.

I wouldn’t mind if the games were the festival of international brother(or sister)hood that we would all like to see, but they are not. We bring the youth of the world’s nations together and force them to engage in competition, thinly veiled humiliation if you ask me. The LLF are not happy with this competitive edge. Faster, higher, stronger? What about Nicer, Neater, Kinder?

We would rather see some element of cooperation and harmony – perhaps a combined US/Iraqi/Afghan hospital and school building team. Or a British team dedicated to the learning of languages other than English? We propose a tournament aimed at furthering understanding between nations.

To this end, we call upon the youth of the world to come together to help clear the planet’s cataloguing backlog. We would be promoting libraries, making the world’s literature more easily accessible and getting rid of a really nasty wee job from Cautious Col’s “to-do” list. No fancy stadia will be required and no corruption-ridden voting process for the right to host the games, people would just be given a copy of AACR2 (between two) and a pencil. The opening ceremony would simply be a training day dedicated to the rule changes since the last tournament. What a wonderful, well ordered world this could be.

Sven Goran Eriksson

Blimey what a rammy about Sven giving it large to that bird from the FA. Can you Adam and Eve that they were going to sack him just for having a bit of extra time with a secretary? Bleedin crackers.

If they wanted to give him the boot because he couldn’t get his team to beat a bunch of waiters in the Euros then that would have been fair enough but not just for a bit of how’s your father. Look the bloke is Swedish, he can’t help himself. They are all it over there, nothing else to do is there? Blimey I’ve seen enough videos to know what they’re like.

If you’re brought up in the fjords, Abba records on all the time and nothing but porn on the telly then it’s hardly surprising that you are going to grow up and not be able to keep it in your trousers. The man’s only human.

England should be proud that they’ve got a manager who makes all that top totty want to get inside his tracksuit. For years there was blokes like Graham Taylor and Kevin Keegan who had all the sex appeal of a digestive biscuit. Saint Glen Hoddle was too busy raising the dead or what ever it was he did and El Tel always had his finger in pies but never cherry ones. As for poor old Sir Bobby Robson, by the time your average footballer-chasing slapper had strapped on the jump leads and waited for a bucket of Viagra to take effect he’d probably have wet himself twice. Blimey.

So let’s hear it for Sven. As a football coach he’s flippin rubbish — I give you two words, Emile Bleedin Heskey — but when it comes to pulling birds he’s a genius. He’s nearly bald, he’s got stupid teeth, he wears glasses and he always looks like he’s just sat on a hairbrush. Yet he pulls the toppest totty in totty town on totty day.

Okay Ulrikaka doesn’t really count because she’s had more footballers than Manchester United. If that woman isn’t a nymphocrazy then I’ve never added a little surcharge owing to the fact that I didn’t like someone. Blimey she’s looser than a van load of WD40.

But that Nancy Dell’Olliollio is a bit of all right. There’s something about Italian women that make you think of Spain, isn’t there? Ariba, ariba. That women could make a pan of pasta sauce boil over at ten paces. She’s a whole lot of woman but even that wasn’t enough for our Sven. He wanted amore.

I’m not sure about this secretary bird though. She looks dirty right enough but it seems like she’s done dictation for half the building. Would you really want seconds after the Greek bloke had dipped his taramasalata? Not bleedin likely.

Still, you’ve got to take your cap off to Sven. He might look like he should be lying on Tesco’s fish counter but he can pull birds like a man with a knife.

Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover or a swede by its turnip. Even an apprentice who doesn’t know shit from chocolate knows that you can look at a cistern lid but you can never tell what’s inside. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Don’t sack Sven, give him his head. Oo’er missus.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb.

No Donald Dewar

Auld baw face says

He’ll hae me on a skewer

Auld baw face says

Oor MSPs will be fewer

Auld baw face says

I ain’t no Donald Dewar

Which is fine by me

Cos Donald’s deid