This morning on Radio 4...

Professor Jeremy Metters, Her Majesty's Inspector of Anatomy was lamenting the decline in those willing to donate their bodies to medical science. His sincerity might have been more convincing if in the background we'd been spared the sound of things being chopped.

A sad tale hit...

the UK news this week when a couple split up after she had an affair. The affair was exposed by the man's parrot who apparently is an excellent mimic. The woman, whom we might call Karen was having a dalliance with her boyfriend's best mate, whom we can call Darren. Farren, the boyfriend got wind that something was amiss when the parrot using perfectly modulated Karen tones took to saying, 'I love you Darren. I love you Darren.' Karen apparently did not deny the affair and has since left Farren and his parrot for the warm arms of Darren, but not before telling a local newspaper that she was driven to the affair because Farren loved that bird more than he ever did her. Farren responded by saying he was gutted, shame the same couldn't have been said about the parrot.

A tale of woe that confirms an iron rule in the Flynn household, never let a pet into your home because if they're not shitting on your carpets they're shitting on your relationships.

Today the weather in Manchester has been beautiful with clear skies, a winter sun and icy cold temperatures. Manchester has its fair share of statuary and they irritate me no end for on nearly every plinth is some Victorian businessman or other such worthy. In Piccadilly Gardens there's a statue to Victoria herself where she sits on a throne looking every inch like Jabba the Hutt, sort of hugely bulbous and with a very low centre of gravity. At her feet are angels who look up in an awe without doubt inspired by the consequences for them should her Imperial Bigness ever fall off. You can see in this statue how the sculptor has struggled to convey enormous power and authority and at the same time not make the real Queen seem like a person who was generally more comfortable only when in proximity to a crane. In the end he obviously abandoned delicacy for bulk and so she squats like an enormous toad at the South Eastern corner of Piccadilly Gardens. Interestingly her head is also of a very strange proportion perched as it is like a bowling ball atop a pile of bath towels. The City Fathers bless them have recently installed a pissoir within weeing distance though I'm not sure the two things are related.

Don't get me wrong I'm not against statuary and the like I just prefer them a little more democratic for instance I'm particularly impressed by the statue of 'Alison Lapper Pregnant' that currently adorns a plinth in London's Trafalgar Square, and I love 'The Angel of the North' in Gateshead (which is what they call South Newcastle) and Manchester's 'The 'B' of the Bang'. I just don't like statues of miserable undemocratic rich bastards who did nothing of worth other than be grasping and greedy, the fuckers.

Still, the weather remained nice, so that was something.

My fellow blogger...

Dcver whose link is on the right has posted a cocktail recipe that seems designed only to be drunk at weekends. Err, it's the weekend, so HURRAH! It's cocktail time again!

He also mentions that after drinking this witches brew one has to be careful not to run down any Irish nuns, yet surely this is a reason for drinking the stuff in the first place. Previous readers of this blog will know I'm no great respecter of the Catholic Church and it's clergy but I will not have it said I'm prejudiced, oh no. With drink such as this inside me I'm prepared to run down nuns from any Order. Lucky for me then that only half a mile away there is in fact a nunnery, so I won't have too far to go.

On a related matter this past few weeks I've been suffering from stigmata. Sort of unexplained marks on my body and no memory of how they might have got there. What set me worrying was the one on my thigh that was a dead giveaway for the Turin Shroud. Suddenly they started to appear everywhere. On my right shoulder last Wednesday morning I woke up to a Last Supper, and similar to Ray Bradbury's 'The Illustrated Man' (but not quite because this time there was sound as well) I could watch and hear the action.

Jesus says, 'Why is there no one sitting opposite?"
Peter who's completely pissed puts arm around Jesus and slurs in reply, "I fucking love you, you're my best mate. Do you hear that everyone, my best mate. Fucking top bloke..." He then slides under the table. I was in a hurry for work so put my shirt on only to hear Paul say, "Fuck, bloody meter's gone, anyone got any change? Judas?" When I returned home it had miraculously disappeared. Then emerged a lump on my shin the same shape as that small rock in the North Sea upon which a naked St Columbus used to sit out his winters. At least I presume it was St Columbus, he certainly had a very tiny penis though that could have been a trick of the light. I thought the stigmata a worry until the first Rorschach materialised. Okay, I admit to a little paunch but who doesn't? However it was unnerving to discover Rorschachs unfolding as I stood up. A particularly disturbed blot interpreted as 'Thou shalt not lay with any family pet' was shaped like one of the Blessed Saints lying on a warm hearth being attended to by a monkey with a cane. Honest, it would not wash off. I'm aware that Rorschachs are a means by which the Id might be exposed for examination and I'd almost made an appointment to see the Dr when a stigmata of Doubting Thomas reassured me that they weren't mine but instead those of a newly enthroned Cardinal who has started to farm out his guilt. The Catholic hierarchy are such bastards.

Right then, I'm orf to get drunk.

A big freeze...

from Siberia where temperatures reached minus 60 is about to hit the UK and we're all gonna get cold. For the last two years or so I've been at war with three cats living nearby who insist on digging up the pot plants in my yard and leaving their shit where previously grew beautiful flowers. My real hope for the coming weather is that a la 'The Day After Tomorrow' an incredible temperature plunge will sweep from the skies catch them mid poo and freeze the fuckers to death. I would be soooo happy if come the following morning I might look through my kitchen window to see frozen solid, just at the moment of strain, three frosted cats. Wish fulfillment I know but without dreams we are diminished.

When I say at war with the cats what I really mean is that I've surrendered, given up. Yet these spawn of Beelzibub for too long have prevented me from planting flowers in my back yard pots. To scare them away during this period I've tried black pepper, white pepper, cayenne pepper, some incredibly stinky stuff from the pet shop that was like green jelly and smelled so strong the back door warped and I couldn't get out. The door was reduced to such a state I then worried the smell might get in. Were the cats bothered? Not a bit, they laughed, sneered, indeed one of them in full view took to dabbing the green stuff behind its ears and giving me the finger (well paw) from atop the gate. Other neighbourhood animals caught on and started to snigger behind my back and for a while I seemed never far from laughter, a mocking and cruel laughter that crept from alleyways, that echoed out of drainage grids, that seemed to lunge over walls, but then again that might just have been the bad drugs so I never took any of it too seriously. Friends suggested solutions such as a powerful water pistol or an air pistol, maybe razor wire, or shards of glass cemented on the wall top. The razor wire or glass solutions seemed too problematic and besides I'd no wish to turn my yard into a mini Folsom. I have been attracted to the shooting suggestion, particularly if it involves a proper GUN though sitting in my yard for hours on end cradling a rifle like some nutter holds no appeal at all. My mate Sean says there's machines that generate sounds pitched to scare the bejabers out cats, dogs and other animals. If these machines do exist then they're the ones for me! Mind you I am saddened there's to be no suffering involved, not even a little bleeding from the ears. Ah well, can't have everything. Might get a gun anyway.

I gather that some priest...

in Galway has become a father at the ripe old age of 73. I also read that he was immensly popular, well clearly, though I suspect he's now lost that crown. Given his advanced age he presumably completed his priestly training in the 1950's or thereabouts, a time when the Catholic Church was serious about hell and damnation, and birching, and torture, and beating children, and guilt, and sin, and punishment, and blood, and scourging. I could go on, no I really could but better not, don't want to get too excited, then I'll miss my nap.

I seem to recall that the church is opposed to contraception so we know at least one area of his life where he wasn't a hypocrite.

Which brings me back to scourging, well Ruth Kelly, and Opus Dei. I can't look at her without wondering the whereabouts on her person of the scilla, that spiky band thing whose purpose is to dig into the flesh and cause discomfort and pain. I'm not sure having someone who is so clearly into bondage is a wise choice as Education Secretary, not that I'm opposed to bondage, or think that those who are into bondage should be barred from public life, oh no. What I am opposed to as Education Secretary is some extremely right wing tosser who wears bondage as atonement for the rest of us not being into bondage. She's sacrificing herself for us, purging herself because we are all really so very very naughty, it was our fundamental naughtiness that got us kicked out of Eden in the first place, then later, just to put some icing on that cake we killed Jesus as well. What an absolute bunch of bastards, spelled out like this I begin to suspect she probably wears two.

The Catholic Church...

has let it be known it agrees with the theory of Evolution and not with the lie that calls itself Intelligent Design. According to press releases this week they've rejected Intelligent Design (that God made everything, no questions asked) and embraced Darwin. A superficial reading of Benny the Umpeenth's position might lead us to conclude the Catholic Church has rejected God and allied itself with, er, science. Now that would be revolutionary however on closer reading they've simply rejected Intelligent Design as a means of understanding God's will. What they say is that God did make everything but didn't make it that obvious and that those who argue Intelligent Design are just crude reductionists. So what appears as a fairly enlightened position is at heart that same old same old. Mind you, if they're prepared to argue with the nutters who currently run the White House that Evolution is a science who am I to object?

I do wonder though if this argument might not have caused God to pause and look over his newspaper to see what the fuss was about. And from the Messianic sofa might not an eyebrow have been raised at Benny arguing that rationality rather than faith was the most fruitful means by which nature can be known? And for a moment, until reassured by the small print might not the sacred hand of Jehovah have stroked the blessed designer stubble, scratched the immortal ear, drew in a deific breath and exhaled a celestial sigh before relaxing once more behind the racing pages? We'll never know, and therein lies the rub, nothing useful can be learned through faith, with science we can learn everything, even the truth that God doesn't exist. Oh to be in heaven when that news came through!

Lowly type runs in and says "God, God, just in, science has finally proved you don't exist."
God snatches paper, "Let me see that! Shi...."

There is a row...

of canal locks at Marple in Cheshire and this afternoon a mate and I walked down them, sort of for fresh air and health and stuff. Some people were feeding the ducks and I tell you those ducks had loser written all over them, they might as well have been carrying signs. (That's a bird flu joke by the way.)

Not far...

from where I live there is a tanning salon, a shop where you can get a suntan. Whilst walking past said shop this morning out stepped a completely orange woman. I tried not to look but my eyes were drawn to her like a magnet. She noticed, I smiled sheepishly, she returned my smile which was friendly given I was so blatantly staring. I really wanted to mention that the particular hue she had chosen was one not normally found in nature but that would have been insulting so I said nothing. Then I thought, well, she must think she looks fantastic which is fair enough, though personally I would avoid any machine that might turn me into such an odd shade of orange, or indeed any shade of orange.

Oh yeah, the shop was called Tanfastic, now how vomit inducing is that?

Flourescent Green...

pigs have been developed in Taiwan for medical purposes, of course. A photograph of said pigs appears in the British Press today. An odd video can be seen on greenpig.wanton.wonton.org.tw. The video is most illuminating (hur hur hur) and carries a soundtrack. It seems these pigs are flourescent throughout and this is some kind of breakthrough as previously flouresced animals carried only surface flourescence. Now you can see what's going on inside. A discussion between the pigs, well more an argument really, was recorded thus.

Mother pig to adolscent pig "I know you took those sausages Billy because I really can see right through you. Oh and you need a pooh so you'd better go now."
Adolescent pig. "Mum!"
Dad pig "Leave the boy alone Vera he's really struggling at the moment."
Mum pig "Don't you side with him, hold it, what's that? There, near your large colon. Harry Pig what have I said to you about eating the children. That's our Barry in there, well what's left of him."
Dad pig, "It were dark Vera, ah thought he were an egg, all glowing and just lying there, in the trough. It's them scientists they've gone glow mad, everything glowing, glowing water, glowing food. It's given me a headache, I can tell you."
Mum pig, "Yes I can see that but try not to eat the children love, eeh our Barry just look at him. He were a right little tinker, well blinker, especially after they got the mix wrong. I suppose it's for the best especially as we could never really tell if he were in or out. Poor lamb. Anyway you also need a pooh so you'd best be off."

A short film that I think says it all. Don't fuck with nature, it can only lead to sorrow.

At 10:30pm on the...

2nd January one of my bookshelves collapsed. I've got a decent size bedroom and all my books are shelved on the walls. I was downstairs watching something really boring on the telly when a tremendous crash came from above so I rushed upstairs, well rushed to the stairs then paused. What stopped me was the thought that it might have been a burglar crashing through the ceiling or a madman with an axe sweeping my books to the floor in his demented rage, or a book troll unhappy that the plot of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is so fiendishly complicated, these and many other daft ideas rushed hither and thither as I paused with one hand on the rail looking upwards like some Christian supplicant.

"Hullo" I called before me, "Is anyone there?" The kind of genteel question that by its tone and form would confirm to any waiting predator that in this house lives someone who is A VICTIM and therefore should cause them no trouble whatsoever. Every few steps I stopped to listen for heavy breathing and maybe the swish of something with a blade cleaving the air in practice, but there was nothing so with a toe I gently pushed my way into the bedroom taking care all the while to look through the crack and confirm that no psycopath lurked, behind the door, with a machete, on tiptoes, ready to pounce, the way they do.

A change in room accoustics really emphasised the pathetic in my hollow laugh.

The whole experience set me wondering if books were becoming more heavy. Over Christmas I read the excellent Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, a fantastic novel about English magicians at the time of the Napoleonic Wars and though brilliant is extremely heavy and gave me wrist ache when I read it in the bath. I also treated myself to Robert Fisk's The Great War for Civilisation: The Conquest of the Middle East, a recently published stupendously large and learned tome written by one of the great journalists of the last 30 years. Mind you these two books are on the floor by the bed and have never been on the shelves so it couldn't have been them that caused the collapse. In the end I determined it was my crap workmanship in using screws and rawplugs that were not adequate to the job when putting up the shelves. Of course the blame really lies with my school woodwork and metalwork teachers for fervently believing that violence was the only pedagogy worthy of the name. One result of their painful largesse was that I learned not a jot about 'do it yourself'. Pity it wasn't upon them that the shelves collapsed, though such a thing might have raised more questions than it answered.

It is New Year's

Eve. 2005 started off for me so well and really improved as the year wore on. However in November disaster struck, someone malicious said something about me which is untrue and my life has been plunged into a nightmare as a result. I'm hoping that in the next few weeks truth will prevail and the lies that have been told will be exposed for what they are.

It is at times such as these that friends really prove their worth and I'm lucky to have so many who have stood by me.

As ever I can also turn to the written word for solace. So here's a little more from Under Milk Wood. The wonder of this long poem is that every bit works and any piece from it can stand as an example of how joyous words can be.

At random then...

First Voice.

And in Willy Nilly the Postman's dark and sizzling
damp tea-coated misty pygmy kitchen where the
spittingcat kettles throb and hop on the range, Mrs
Willy Nilly steams open Mr Mog Edwards' letter to
Miss Myfanwy Price and reads it aloud to Willy
Nilly by the squint of the Spring Sun through the one
sealed window running with tears, while the drugged,
bedraggled hens at the back door whimper and snivel
for the lickerish bog-black tea.


Under Milk Wood is best read aloud if you want to experience the heady mix of words and sounds. The BBC have a brilliant production with Richard Burton narrating and if there is such a thing as literary heaven on this earth then it is to be found here. This poem cheers me up, it restores my faith.

Here's a bit of Billy Blake...

to get me back into blog mode.

The following poem was first published by William Blake in 1794 as part of his Songs of Experience collection. Its subject is the terrible majesty of industrialisation and of nature and of people bowed under change. It is of little surprise that the Songs of Experience was published only five years after the French Revolution of 1789 and during a decade of repression in Britain that arose from fear amongst the rich and powerful of revolution here. So astonishing is this poem that it can be applied 300 years on to what is happening in China as we speak, can still be applied to heartless capitalism everywhere.

The Tyger.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame they fearful symmetry?

News today is that Goliath did...

exist! Or at least that's according to some nutty archeologist currently suffering from Trench Foot in the ancient Philistine city of Gath, in Israel. A shard of pottery has been found with Goliath's name on it, actually it was the letter G but lets not quibble about minor details. Already excitement is growing amongst Goliath's descendents that an historical wrong is about to be put right. The real truth which until now has remained hidden from history (a la the Da Vinci Code), they hope may soon become evident. It seems Goliath was really a quiet unassuming kind of guy who loved his dog and one day David, or Idiot as an earlier shard describes him killed the dog and ate it. Now David, also known as David the blind (from an even earlier shard) thought the dog a sheep and so he smote it down. Goliath went to remonstrate and David thinking a large baboon was loose in his front parlour thus also smote Goliath. There was the usual cover up and the rest, as they say, is history. My own feeling is that one has to be careful with Philistine artifacts given that these were a remarkably ignorant people, the original Philistines in fact. However I have seen a photograph of said shard and you can see the G scratched just above the image of a dog being turned on a spit by a baboon. The baboon is portrayed receiving instructions from some no eyed chap holding what looks like a Martini (with silverskin onion) so it must be true. The current day Goliaths (Christian fundamentalists to a man and woman) have released a press statement denying baboons have been ever been part of their family line. Meanwhile David's descendents shake their heads and readily agree their forebear was an idiot adding that not only could David not tell his arse from his elbow but he struggled with the difference between an onion and an olive, to their eternal shame. From the dark times of David's original faux pas to the present day his embarrassed family have been forced to avoid the great cocktail bars of history. Goliath's family on the other hand moved to what was to become the US where they too have sought to avoid something great, in this case the theory of evolution. Indeed it is on such things that history sometimes turns.

The other day...

I was driving past a long fence that borders an industrial estate. Inside the fence was a factory of some kind or other. A strip of mown grass lay between the fence and public footpath. Halfway along this fence which ran for a mile or so sat a black cat looking pretty pleased with itself. I wonder what that was about?

How cool is...

this? I've bought a mini ipod, I know, I know, it may seem like I'm a slave to fashion but it is pretty smooth and groovy and the sound quality, well! I've also got a copy of Salif Keita's latest album M'Bemba and this afternoon was driving through deepest East Manchester (the ipod is to cheer myself up because my posh Ford cd player is buggered and Ford have told me to throw it away cos they no longer make them even though it's only three years old and was a pretty mean machine, yada yada yada)... anyway, there I was driving on a busy main road traffic to the left and right of me and heading east when from behind the setting sun lit the whole area. The music of Mali giving it what for in my head and everything suffused in a deep golden hue was mind bogglingly stunning. A quarter mile in front traffic crossed at a junction, white vans, red cars, silver vehicles, a large truck and trailer, an orange double decker bus whose windows flashed like they were on fire, all were picked out by the late afternoon sun. It was as if a beautiful necklace of huge stones passed in front of me and then was gone.

Such a lovely higlight in an otherwise crap day.

All the students...

are returning to college. I was in Bangor, North Wales over the weekend and a tad under the influence. As I walked Bangor's mean streets with my mate a little worse for the wear I was struck by the number of adults with teenage offspring in tow. At first I thought it odd so many teenagers out with their mum and dad until it dawned that last week was freshers week at the university. Awww. Anxious parents trailing their offspring wondering where the previous eighteen years has gone, worrying about Tarquin or Jemima but more likely Baz and Mopsy after all this is Bangor. Many of the parents looked grey due no doubt to an overactive imagination seared with images of drug fueled orgies all night clubbing and vomit. You can tell the newies because, a) their clothes are clean; b) they look anxious; c) they laugh inappropriately, like in shops and stuff; d) their clothes are clean. My view is that freshers always look like freshers until they're not, such as when they return a battle scarred second years. Experience is a grubby business which is why the innocent are always clean and this rule applies especially to students. Despite this I still find something positive about freshers, maybe they remind me of the Spring and renewal I really don't know. Maybe I like the fact that they're about to embark on a FUCKING TOP TIME that will last three whole years. Am I jealous? Nah, been there done that moved on. Nevertheless it was good. Bless em.

I may return to student shennanigans in a later blog.

Can I be the only one...

to notice Benedict the Umpteenth has become sponsored? The embroidered badges and sown on logos were a bit of a giveaway but it didn't really click until I looked at today's list of newly ensainted saints. When I was young the minimum criteria for saintdom (and I mean minimum) were: be dead at least a thousand years plus your death had to have been particularly unpleasant. You know the sort of thing, hot poker up the bum, tongs in the gizzard, something involving a wrench. In my catholic youth Saints were tough cookies, they were no nonsense don't fuck with me sorts. Adorning the various churches I frequented as a child were statues, representations in stone of these heroes, and everyone with a scar, a five o'clock shadow, reddened knuckles, even the women saints looked like bag men for the Mob. These were the type who laughed in the face of torture, spat in the eye of fear, wiped snot on the cuff of destiny, they died for what they believed. So it comes as a bit of a shock to learn it's now possible to sponsor a Saint. Of the five ensainted today three are supported by drugs companies, one by nuclear power and one by an unnamed cartel from Bogota. Never one to miss a trick the companies want some return for their investment so, as they say, everything really is in the name. Apparently Saint Exlaxica will become known as an efficacious treatment for all things relating to innards (her award winning logo "And Nothing Shall Linger" is seen by the industry as a marvel of brevity) Saint Viag of Ara speaks for itself and dying him blue was a nice touch and it seems cobalt does come off with vigorous scrubbing; Saint Beelzibub of the Black Lung I think demonstrates a tobacco industry still out of touch with public opinion. I did like Saint Radiumumhum represented as a small glowing child able to manage the average family's heating, lighting and contraceptive needs. Finally Benny the U should do something about the talc on his upper lip, it is not becoming especially when declaring Saint Charles of Medelin as the only one who didn't like either dogs or people with obvious colds.

So that was it today for Catholicism and sponsorship. Looking at some of the early rushes for the morning's press I see that George Bush has floated the idea of sponsoring hurricanes. No more Wilma and Katrina, nope if the Republicans get their way hurricanes are to be branded like everything else. Imagine it, Coca Cola did this? Wow! Or in an attempt at the teenage vote, 'Pepsi? Damage teeth? Psshht! You should see what it can do to your neighbourhood." Anything under category three is to be reclassified as Lite.

A recent photograph showing a...

gorilla fording a stream seems to have caused a stir. Zoologists, anthropologists, astrologists, arthopods, neuropods and sennapods worldwide were in such a flap because the creature is seen testing the water's depth with a stick. Not one expert mentioned the ipod or for that matter the Blackberry in the creature's left hand. Indeed a video of the event shows him clearly speaking with his broker in London.

Gorilla, "Charles love, I want you to move ten thousand out of teak, hmm hmm, yes teak. And yes darling I am standing in a river, it's sweet I know, I've got a stick you see so shan't fall in. Mm mm, what into love? Hang on, wait a moment." Calls out to other gorilla resting on shooting stick at water's edge flicking through the Racing Times. "Freddy, I say Freddy, out of teak into what?"
Gorilla on stick looks up. "Is that Charles? Tell him no dollars, not whilst that buffoon Bush remains in the White House. Say we'll take anything out of Shanghai. And ask him who's going to win the 3.30 at Kowloon."
First Gorilla still casually poking water, "Charles dear did you hear that? We'll take anything out of Shanghai. Can you organise it in Euro's? Such a lovely currency, lots of stars. You can? You're such a love. Oh and by the way, Freddy wants to know if you've a tip for the 3.30 at Kowloon? What? Mucky Meg, and it's a cert you say. Jolly good. Got to go old chap one of the zoologists has started to wet himself so I'd better do a bit more of the stick thing. Yes, they are so easy to impress I know. Love to Jocasta. Mwah, mwah."

Hmmm.

God has been talking to George Bush...

or so GB tells us. In this country that kind of talk can get a person admitted to hospital. I simply don't believe Bush because I suspect a real holy message would be more like this... "Hello, hello, er, zzzpppprffff, is this on? zzzprfffffffffffffnnnnnnnnnn. Hello, hello. There's no one there. I SAID THERE'S NO ONE THERE! Ooops sorry a bit loud that. Bollocks. Who is this fucker anyway? Peter, PETER! You sure this one's on, it's so dark in there I'm not so sure. And he looks like a chimp, yeah, a real branch hanger, he's certainly got a chimp's intellect. Little ping pong brain, no wonder there's so much room. Hello? Sod it, I'm off."

Dateline Harrisburg Pennsylvania...

where some loony right wing Christians are once again trying to overturn Darwin's theory of Evolution this time by arguing that through scientific method they can prove God exists and evolution is wrong. The Sunday broadsheets here in the UK have articles on the story. Now, we all agree that the universe is huge, and we're talking stupendously huge here, however the loons state that it is so huge and complex only God could have designed it. Ipso facto he did, therefore he exists and evolution is wrong. A question I wish to ask is, if God designed the universe why did he make it so big? I deeply suspect it's a means of keeping some distance from the weirdos who are currently arguing about his wondrous ways in court.

This size thing is interesting though because if God is everywhere at all times and the universe is expanding does this mean he's getting thinner? I think we should be told. Be wrong not to tell us because if at the moment of the big bang God was pretty concentrated, like you get with washing up liquid say, 14 billion years later he must be quite dilute. We may have been sold a pup on this God deal because he's not the God we've been promised. I don't claim to be an expert on the bible but I'm almost certain there's no warning label sown anywhere within it's pages that states of God 'Danger: Prone to Dilution' or 'May fade in direct sunlight.' And in this universe of ours there's a lot of sunlight. So now we find God subject to two pressures, he's diluting and fading. No wonder he's not letting on, I bet he's knackered. Managing an expanding universe? It's important to keep your anonymity and avoid accusations of favouritism what with so many galaxies and planets around. And at the very moment when the exhaltedc one declares it safe some right wing nutters on the tiny blue ball go and prove he exists. I bet it's enough to make your average Deity weep.

These people just don't know what they're doing.