Claim: Complaints about Breakfast Television still high

Complaints about breakfast television from individuals in the UK and Ireland are at a plateau, claims a new statistical report - if population increases are taken into consideration.

Per head of capita, the number of people who have been disturbed by breakfast television crews, woken at five a.m. in order to take part in a "street scene" in the local village at some time between six a.m. and 9.30 a.m., has remained static.

Alongside such street scenes, people are often otherwise harassed in the middle of the night by the "Daybreak Doorsteppers".

"We have a cat and a dog here," said one recent complainant from Bristol. "We were called on to get ourselves up, and our family up - the pets included - at four a.m. Pots and pans were involved to wake the children. They wanted us to contribute to a discussion about house dogs and house cats and how well they get along, and specifically how well our Pepper and Tramp get along. I wanted us all to get dressed, but they insisted on dressing gowns and pyjamas and mugs of tea and coffee. And we were forced to put the dog and the cat together in our living room with the whole family, and the pets don't really like being so close - I mean, they just about tolerate each other to be honest, which is what I was going to talk about. Tramp was snapping at Pepper the whole time, and Pepper tried to scratch Tramp twice, and the reporter was just laughing all the time when we went on camera and going 'Ooh! How jolly! They're certainly not morning pets!' Tramp was looking at me like he was going to kill Pepper. But the crew didn't care once they got their two minutes of live footage at twenty six minutes past seven! Then we still had to bring the kids to school and go to work. We didn't, like, get the day off or anything, from the BBC."

A police officer and a traffic warden were recently interviewed by another crew, about the problems of phone use among drivers.

"The crew had us hanging around from five in the morning," said the police officer, as the traffic warden nodded along. "I saw at least a dozen drivers on the blower - and I could have stopped them while I was sat in the makeup chair at the side of the road, waiting for the tan to dry. I wasn't allowed to move and I was accused of skewing up my whole face because I tried to scratch my ear. When I coughed with the microphone on, I was told that I was throwing the levels out of wack and to just shut up till I have to talk. It was said in a nice way. 'If you could just be quiet till you have to speak, please.' Like that. Then they had us out of our chairs and they chatted to me for ten seconds at about ten past six in the morning, about road safety. Then they said they would have us back in an hour for more chatting. 'I promise you', the smiley girl said. I stupidly agreed. But they had the exact same question an hour later. Exact same ten second interview!"

Some complainants are taking their criticism beyond the Independent Broadcasting Commission.

Woken up by an aggressively cheery knock at the door with a live camera and lights pointing at her face, a woman was recently told: "We're here in the town to talk about World Mental Health Day." The woman agreed with all of the general questions put to her before closing the door again. Two hours later, she contacted a solicitor over the undue stress that the encounter created. She has consistently declined subsequent interviews from the media - and there have been hundreds of requests to her in the last month.

The days of entire streets and extended families being forced to get up early for the delivery of a massive cheque, or for the birthday celebrations of someone exceptionally ancient, appear to be on the decline. But occasionally - even today - people are forced to line up to do street dances or to take part in processions of which they had no prior knowledge an hour earlier when they were sleeping.

Doctor Who to Rescue JFK in LIVE 50TH ANNIVERSARY SHOW

Enhancements in High Definition TV will tomorrow evening see actual events from the past change for the first time, as history and fiction merge. The BBC's Dr. Who hopes to travel back in real time in the first live broadcast of its kind.

The TARDIS will arrive on the day before the first episode of the time travel serial's broadcast, in 1963. It is thought that the current and eleventh incarnation of the Doctor (played by Matt Smith) will throw Lee Harvey Oswald from the window of the Texas Book Depository building, from where it is believed he assassinated President Kennedy - moments before the assassin carries out the deed. He will be assisted by the first Doctor (played by the late William Hartnell).

So how will the new technology enable time travel?

The fiftieth anniversary of the show will be broadcast live from 1,500 cinemas around the world - as well as on the BBC and numerous other channels in various territories - starting just before 8 pm GMT on Saturday night. As part of the TARDIS's sound effects, the cinemas will, for the first time, broadcast Fourth Generation sonic vibrations (provided by stentorian Who incarnation Tom Baker, at a Shepherd's Bush studio). The use of satellite technology will take into account the effects of time dilation above the Earth. Employing atomic clocks and real time updates will achieve the necessary synchronous amplifications from all of the theater houses and television networks.

The current Doctor (and whichever companions and characters accompany him to Dallas in November, 1963) can then assist the First Doctor in dispatching Oswald. A secondary storyline deals with current companion Clara Oswald, as she addresses her ancestors' personal history.

Online leaks have suggested that the attempt to thwart Lee Harvey Oswald's assassination of JFK will involve the sonic screwdriver being driven up and into Oswald from behind, and a quip including the term "book suppository" from the current Doctor as he falls to his death.

The events will be watched live - but half a century later - by the Obama administration from the White House's situation room.

Public sector salaries still too high, insists watchdog

The public sector salary controversy continued through the week. As physician consultant consultant physicians at some of Ireland's public private public hospitals were forced to justify their salaries, further revelations are set to hit the government next week.

It was revealed yesterday that former IRA terrorist Gerry Adams is currently drawing down a salary as a member of the Irish parliament. The leader of Sinn Féin - who has been spotted occasionally in the Dáil chamber by television cameras, while making points and asking questions of the government - has been paid by the Irish taxpayer, at least since his election to the Dáil in 2011. Remarkably, a search of Adams's biography reveals that the leader of Sinn Fein has effectively been "hiding in plain view" as he went about his work in Ireland, with a constituency in County Louth, and a willingness to express views without having his voice hidden through that of an actor.

 Meanwhile, a super injection prevents reportage about Adams's former IRA terrorist friend - currently employed as a parliamentarian by the UK government. The curly haired sixty three year old has held a ministerial position at Belfast's Stormont Assembly for even longer than Adams has been working in Dublin.

The rusty-grey haired man - occasionally seen wearing spectacles - first took up the Education portfolio in Northern Ireland in 1998, and today, Martin McGuinness has the role of Deputy First Minister in Northern Ireland.

Sweat shop managers step up grey and wine jumper output thanks to Minister Quinn

Ireland's Minister for Education and Skills Ruairi Quinn forced hundreds of sweat shops in Laos, Bangladesh, Vietnam and Cambodia to increase their output of XXXL grey v-necked sweaters and XXXL wine v-necked sweaters yesterday, in response to his announcement that parents ought to be polled about the possibility of a reduction in the costs of Ireland's school uniforms.
Quinn wrote an international draft for €25.00 - made out to "The Sweatshop Boys" - which management and staff at the clothing factories will be forced to scrabble over. Quinn made a few doodles on the envelope into which he placed the money order. The scrawls - rendered to look like an approximation of Thai script -  were given the imprimatur of what appeared to be a genuine South-East Asian postal address, through Quinn's clever use of a stamp and an AerPhwisshhhht sticker, in the top right hand corner of the envelope.

At a press conference, Minister Quinn insisted that "the cheque will get there", nodding convincingly. He holds a personal hope that the money will ultimately reach the laundry and recycling facility in Lockahore Province that he had recently seen a report about on Upworthy. The video - which nearly brought him to tears, and compelled him to watch a compilation of kitten rescue operation videos afterwards on the same site "for a bit of a break from the compassion fatigue" - showed how unmarried mothers are provided with employment and accommodation at the facility. The women are taken off the streets of the city of Bangahore - where they are found to be filthy dirty, filthy, dirty filthy women - and set to work stitching, sewing and ironing clothes. He left the press conference to head up a Dail committee which is researching possibilities by which each national school in Ireland could adopt a cat.

Your Orthodox Problems Page, with Baba Rabba Aristotle Ghanoush

Today I want to address in my sermon just some of the problems faced by the Orthodox Church community that are related to tassels and fire safety awareness. And perhaps even provide some solutions!

Among the many thousands of converts to our Church every year - whether they are at home, in hospitals, in hotels or motels, in bedsits - or if they're lying on the floor, halfway under the bed for the last two hours, their poor hip broken, as they try in vain to reach the telephone cord with the hand that isn’t trapped in all those tassels between the bed frame and the mattress, with the laptop before them as they read my wonderful sermon, wondering if they will die there - there is a common expression among ALL of these converts. And that expression is:

"Tassels are Hassles!"

Why these unnecessary accoutrements in the Orthodox Church, you might ask?

We don't know. The reasons for tassels certainly go beyond hiding nipples! We will address just a few of the issues faced by our devotees now.

Xrastina asks:

Baba Ghanoush, my husband is a strict Orthodox Christian! 

But when he smashes our plates and champagne glasses in the fireplace after the evening meal, he doesn't even notice that he sometimes sets fire to the ends of our rugs because the sparks often bounce out of the fire and land on the tassels!

Let me tell you, Baba Ghanoush, tassels are not on the fire officer's acceptability list! 

He has destroyed four tasseled rugs now smashing the dinner plates, and two family homes have burned to the ground!

I don't want to get a non-tassel rug, as this is a mortal sin according to the Book of St. Vladimir. But how do I stop this rug and floor burning destruction?

Any tips from the Orthodox tradition will be of great help!

Baba Ghanoush responds:
Any man of the house is eager to eat and drink right, but this plate smashing can be done with a little less song and dance! It is the wife's role in the marriage to place the fireguard over the fire hearth. If you put that guard over the fire each time your husband smashes a plate or a glass into the fire, this will help to prevent the flying sparks. When he is finished his plate smashing and he goes to bed, make sure that the fireguard stays in front of the fire.
And remember, you don't have to replace the rugs - you can just let the tassels grow back. Keep the tassels that are burnt out of direct sunlight so that they can heal - trim back any blackened ends as far as the knot - but do not break the knot. Unlike plants, tassels grow back better with touch. Rub the tassels and use a brush. And above all else, chat to the tassels. A few kind words to a frayed tassel will go a long way to helping it to grow back out.

More problems to address next week!

Shameful man forced to commit to thoughts of bestiality

An embarrassed local resident has described how his girlfriend accidentally forced him to think about sex with a horse while he was alone. The confession came in hushed tones in a pub setting to a friend last night.

'Frank' described what led up to the event one recent morning.

"We'd been sexting each other dirty pictures the night before - Melissa had texted me a couple of photos of her breasts. I had sent back a willy pic. You know yourself. The next morning I was lying in bed and a multimedia message came in at 8 a.m. from her. I had been, you know, just working my way up to things. I reached for the phone, figuring, you know, her new picture would help."

'Frank' opened the picture message moments before his imminent "arrival". The photo was accompanied by the caption:
"Look what I saw while out for my morning constitutional! Majestic! XXX Melissa"
'Frank' laments the fact that he was already "fully committed". He came to a split second decision - and it was a decision that he says he had very restricted choice over. If he had opened the image even a moment earlier - he claims - he could have averted the sexually aggressive thoughts that consumed him regarding the photo.

"I saw the picture and I thought 'Oh no!' My heart sank. I had to make a determination with limited options, so I just gritted my teeth and I let it all out!"

Have any of our readers had similar experiences? What would you have done in Frank's situation? Let us know in the comments below!

Nicky Soft Touch Gravano

Nicky "Soft Touch" Gravano would like to make absolutely clear that he's out of the business.

That's right! If you ignore the surgical gloves in the photo above - which (I'm sure you'll agree) have perfectly legitimate uses - badda bing - you'll see that Nicky's going straight, with his amazing range of top grade toilet papers!

So try Nicky Soft Touch's new luxury toilet roll and wipe your ass today! Or else!


Continued from the end of Chapter 26.
          We left Dyll’s apartment within a half of an hour, and we returned a full twenty hours later, after a day of fun and frolics. Being on terms enough with Dyll to keep a spare leg in her house, my cousin Barney was actually better acquaintered with her than I had ever been, having been only charged with having to impart the details of the death of her paramour, Eaglekins, during what we called in Ireland that bloody period of the Irish Civil War, and the War of Independence, before I after having fled, I did, to England, with the explosion of Ireland entirely and its ongoing repair.

          Coming in through the door with the day’s footage, what with Dyll being in the industry, we popped the tape into the projector and watched our exploits, going to ride on the bouncy castle and dodgems at the Mayfair, some trunk patting and petting at the Elephant & Castle, and a visit to Piccadilly Circus, where we did all of the tourist adventures, such as having a go on the bouncy castle and the dodgems, before meeting the animals for a bit of a petting and a patting of their ultra long noses. The laughter on the footage gave us much joy. Dyll pulled a little sticker out of the tape so that it wouldn’t be recordered over and shouted:
          “That one’s a keeper!”
          Then we all fell on the bed, and went to sleep.
          A slobbering bark and the charge of the Russian Fokov Mastiff, bounding into the bedroom to greet Dyll in the morning woke us all up. I roared with the dog looking over the posters of the bed, in at the three of us. Barney also woke and roared. Dyll got changed into her Havisham like wedding dress, and stood before the full length mirror holding a bouquet in her hands.
           I befriended the big hairy beast, tickling him under the chin. We were firm friends before breakfast.
          As if mirroring the day before, there was another deathly and ominous knock on the door.

To be continued here...

Fake Teacher fools her way into school

A 27 year old journalist who applied for substitute teaching roles at a number of schools - without qualifications or any form of police vetting - can now reveal that she gained unsupervised access to a classroom of seven- and eight-year-olds.

She spent a total of three hours masquerading as a substitute tutor. The headmaster of the school at which she found the work had got her details from an open jobseekers' site, on which she claimed to have a higher diploma to teach at primary school level. She doesn't.

Over the three hour time period, she didn't teach a single lesson to the children. Instead, she introduced spanking paddles - claiming them to be ball bats - and rocket shaped toys to her pupils, and went so far as to squeeze nine sets of buttocks and pinch three cheeks - only one of them facial.

She then got the class captain to handcuff a pair of her fellow students to each other and go to the corner and rub each other's noses, "Eskimo style". She subsequently encouraged the first child to swallow the handcuffs key, which had already been placed into a toasted cheese sandwich prepared by the entire class in a more than family-friendly, not safe for work fashion, using a portable camping stove which the "teacher" had sneaked into the class.

The journalist then used the same stove to heat up some wax, threatening to remove the hair from the belly of Peppers the class gerbil, getting the children to come to the top of the class to ask if they should "wax the fat mouse" while she licked her lips and winked. None of the children wanted to wax Peppers, some of them declining tearfully before being sent back to their seats.

After forcing some of her charges to write the words PLONKER, GUMMY CHOPS and POOPER FACE on the whiteboard with indelible markers, the journalist promptly left the classroom to return to her newspaper's offices, where she filed an exposé on her day.

An Early Childhood Chapter 26 Part 6: A Visit to Middlesex

An Early Childhood Chapter 26 Part 6: A Visit to Middlesex


          Dylly Oblong got out of bed and stretched her lithe, nightclub singer’s body.
          “I have to feed the pooch,” she declared.
          I stayed on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
          There was a thump on the door below, and Dylly came back into the bedroom. She was dressed in a wedding gown.
          “What are you wearing?” asked myself.
          “My wedding dress, Sugar Plum,” she said. “I want you to see my blushing bride look, so that you know what you’re missing out on!”
          She winked.
          The knocking continued. An ominous knocking that made us both be looking at each other like startled rabbits, right on the apartment door, rather than the hall door below.
          “Who could that be at this hour?” Dylly asked. “All of my gentlemen caller friends keep night club hours!”
          She stripped out of her dress, putting it into the wardrobe, and walked to the door in bra and knickers – which were granny pants.
          Opening it, and there stood my Cousin Barney no less!
          “Heya Dylly! I’m just in town right now and I thought I’d give your door a crack, wha’?” he said.
          Cousin Barney was an old man now. He had spent his early years in the British Army, serving in a tedious conflict in South Africa.
          He stepped into the apartment and saw me lying on the bed.
          “Barney! What are you doing here?”
          Barney limped into the apartment, and came over and all three of us sat on the bed.
          “Well, Ireland’s only after exploding! So I fled to the British mainland here to try to get a bit of work while they’re carrying out repairs over there!”
          Barney removed the leg made of teak he had strapped onto the stump that remained of his real leg which he’d lost during the war in South Africa. He handed it to me and he said:
          “Hold this,” in his gravelly and hoary voice. Clearly familiar with Dylly Oblong’s apartment, he hopped over to the chest of drawers and opened the bottom one. He withdrew a second wooden leg and he shouted out:
          “Leg fight!” and the spare leg whirred through the air, struck me across the temple and felled me to the floor. I got to my feet quickly, howsoever dazed, and I said:
“What was that in aid of?”
          Barney whipped the fake leg over his stump and had it attached with alacrity.
          “Be prepared for anything,” was his response. “Now,” he said, as he put his shoes on and tied his laces with alacrity. “What’s for breakfast?”

To be continued at the top of Chapter 27...