A nose tree! A nose tree! Praise Beelzebub for our nose tree!

I’ve had some time off work, so I’ve not being posting. Instead I’ve watched a lot of snow/ice based sport on the television and rehearsed a lot and tried to out complain Frictionless Bass as to who has the most painful shoulder. For some reason we are both creaking like a pair of pensioners. Still, we should be good for the gig tomorrow, a little bit of pain will focus the mind. And of course I have a blocked nose that is making me sound a little too Elvis Costello for my liking.

Last night there was a program on about divorced fathers trying to see their children. It was a sad programme and for someone actually waiting to be entertained, it was thoroughly inappropriate. Thankfully the snooker soon started on BBC 2. If only everyone could appreciate the healing power of televised snooker, the bright colours, low speaking voices and the musical click and clop of balls gliding on baize. I was asleep in twenty minutes.

I hope that they never get people with high pitched voices to commentate on the snooker.

In fact I hope that unpleasant speaking voices are made illegal soon. I think that they inspire every form of hatred you can think of, at least in me. If it was a requirement for everyone to speak slowly, clearly and at a reasonable volume I think the world would be a better place. Furthermore people should speak in well formed sentences at all times and all their words should sound like they have been spelt correctly. People who use words as punctuation, such as people who use fuck as a comma, should have their heads squeezed in a large stainless steel vice in the centre of each village, town and city. Their brain juice could be put to some practical use, since it is obviously wasted in their heads, maybe as a nutritional feed for a race of super snooker commentators who would have the vocal chords of the humpbacked whale for extra sub-bass. They speak in the “soothing” register you know.

The phrase “what the fuck” would ideally be met with a swift lynching, or at least a hasty flaying.

The diversity of language is not a wonderful thing; it is the result of giving a complex tool to a coven of monkeys. Imagine giving sophisticated propaganda techniques to cows, or teaching the finer arts of sophistry to whelks. Rhetoric for salamanders? You’ll be giving pelicans the vote next. What kind of a world do you want to live in? Do you want your exhaust pipe fitted by a duck? By a duck? Or your brain surgery performed by a team of specialist antelope? Do you think Keats was a herring? Or Stoppard was a gnu?

But I can’t have what I want. Instead I still have to endure verbal exchanges that increase my blood pressure, strain the fine capillaries in my eyeballs, wear the enamel from my molars, distress the leather of my toe-caps and leave my knuckles with fist clenching related injuries. These people are trying to kill me, or at least seriously degrade my physicality.

I know I’m not alone. If you suffer like me, why not write me a message of support on a tongue freshly ripped from the mouth of some linguistic offence. I can then forward these to my MP. Then we can sit back with a cool glass of delicious brain juice and watch the wheels of government turn to our benefit, just like it always does.