THE LEADERS' DEBATE

Ah, our glorious leaders...

It is very hard for me to hear the words "Leaders' debate" because my brain is hard-wired to immediately flash up an image of Mrs.Merton announcing loudly: "Let's have a mass debate!" And then I snigger to myself.

I can proudly say that I have not heard one word of "The Leaders' Debate". Nor do I intend to. This pantomime is not for the likes of me, it is for people who decide how to vote depending on which way the wind is blowing. It is for the floating voters. I never liked that phrase myself, to me it sounds like slang for "those turds who can't make their minds up".

I have, however, seen clips of said debates with the sound removed (the best way to watch it, if you ask me). I can tell you now, it is written on Cameron and Brown's faces that if they have to join forces to oust that upstart Clegg from people's minds then they will make that Satanic pact. Both parties have worked too hard to please all of the people all of the time to be relegated to third-place status at this late stage. God forbid the Tories or the Labour party end up in the political wilderness as the Lib Dems have this past few years.

In some parts of the country the viable alternative to the Labour and Conservative parties is the BNP. Yes, folks, you heard correctly: THE BNP, with their racist policies - and, no debate about this, people, yes, they are RACIST, you only have to scratch at the surface to find out that they are Nazi sympathisers by any other name. Their spin is the worst spin of all and anyone who falls for it is a MORON.

Brown and Cameron can think themselves lucky that they are actually having a civilised debate at all. If the only viable alternative was The Monster Raving Loony Party, Brown and Cameron would have to debate with them. Or Mr.Blobby. Or a paper bag. Or a hedgehog names Maurice. People obviously want an alternative to the Tory/Labour nonsense, let's just hope they hold their nerve in the election box and teach these pompous politicians a lesson.

My alternative theory for Nick Clegg's rise in the polls is that rather a lot of Tory/Labour voters were trapped abroad by an ash cloud, leaving a disproportionate amount of Liberal Democrats in Britain.

I hope not.

A SATIRICAL POEM. BY ME.

"Volanic ash,

Volcanic ash,

Is it true you

Cause all planes to crash?

Volcanic ash,

Volcanic ash,

All flights are grounded

In a flash.

Volcanic ash,

Volcanic ash,

Makes more cloud

Than a stash of hash.

Volcanic ash,

Volcanic ash,

Thicker than

A Victorian's moustache.

Volcanic ash

All over the place

People in Europe

Hoping it will dissipate.

Volcanic ash

From the Eyjafjallaokul ridge.

At least it beats

The election coverage."

The. End.

PAEDO BIKINI!

The Sun newspaper has done it again. In a bid to sell more copies, it led with the headline: "PAEDO BIKINI"!!!!!!

You may be forgiven for thinking that perhaps this was a bikini with hidden cameras in the bust that had been manufactured for the paedophile that is out and about on the beach this summer. Maybe combined with some sort of crotchless pants or subtle cock attachment. But no.

This was in fact a storm in a teacup over a padded bikini being sold in Primark "for girls as young as 7". Chav mothers immediately complained to The Sun newspaper and made loud noises about how it sexualised little girls. Call me old-fashioned, but here's a thought: if you don't like it, don't buy it. Simple as. I'm all for letting children stay kids for as long as possible, but paedophiles think all children are sexy little minxes who are asking for it anyway, clothes or no clothes.

Primark have now withdrawn the product, The Sun is smugly pleased with itself and even David Cameron has jumped on the bandwagon: "I'm delighted they've taken the decision to withdraw this product," he gushed inbetween kissing babies and promising everlasting life for all.

THE MAN WHO INJECTS SNAKE VENOM

"How can I make myself feel special and justify my existence? I know, I can spend 20 years injecting myself with snake poison in a "quest" to make myself immune and become a superman." Oh, and it might help some doctors in their research.

God bless Channel 5. This documentary is being broadcast under the banner of science, but, frankly it's just another version of The Boy With an Arse For a Face (copyright: That Mitchell and Webb Look).

This man (I'm sorry, I haven't paid attention to his name) develops serious allergic reactions to some of his injections, and didn't understand until he met with a doctor for a chat that this hobby could be in some way bad for him. 18 months ago he was hospitalised when he over-injected himself. The documentary makers referred to this as "the accident". I would call it a "deliberate act". It is impossible to "accidentally" inject oneself with snake venom. It is very easy to "accidentally" trip over a rug.

The point is laboured throughout that this guy could be doing something selfless and heroic here, since research into this area is very thin on the ground. There could be potential cures for cancer, Alzheimers' disease and all manner of other terrible afflictions out there if only more people would inject themselves with snake venom to see what it could do. Selfish bastards.

Snake venom is a cure, but a hell of a drastic one. It will cure you of life itself so that you don't live long enough to have to suffer any serious diseases.

I was waiting for a sombre voice to announce over the credits that "Since the filming of this documentary, Steve has died", but it didn't happen.

This programme should really have been called "The Man With a Pea For a Brain".

AFTERSHOCK. DOES EXACTLY WHAT IT SAYS ON THE BOTTLE...

I had a teenage moment. To prove I've still got it, that I'm still "down with the kids" I walked into a Bargain Booze and walked out with a bottle of Aftershock. I paid real money for it, I didn't steal it - although that would probably have been cooler and more urban.

To the uninitiated, if there are any of you still left out there, this is a drink best served chilled, in a glass the size of a thimble. It looks like medicine. It smells of medicine. It tastes like sh*t - for two seconds, and then the inside of your mouth is so numb you can't taste or speak. You can probably cleanse wounds with it, to be perfectly honest. It should be banned by the EU.

After a couple of these shots, my evening carried on pretty much as normal. There I was, waiting for it to kick in in my brain so that I would start doing wild things which would go down in legend as "The Night We Drank Aftershock and Had the BEST PARTY EVER, Man, it was Hysterical, There'll Never Be Another Night Like the Aftershock Night, if You Weren't There, You Were Square..." And so on, and so on.

An hour later I got raging, burning indigestion. And then I was sick. There weren't mounds of sick everywhere, there was hardly any sick. But it shot out of my body at 200 miles an hour, bounced off the porcelain I was aiming into and splattered onto my new, cool jeans.

And that was it. I felt normal. But now I stank of sick. Not ordinary sick. That special acidic reeking sick that your body comes out with when you're very ill.

Aftershock: "I'll Never Forget The Night I Had to Wash My Jeans and Then Go to Bed". Party on, dude!

MY DAILY MAIL MOMENT

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THE DOOR

I see they've revamped The Adventure Game. And crossed it with The Crystal Maze, Fort Boyard and the Saw franchise. Vile and scary. Nothing like a bucket of blood substitute for getting the viewers hooked. Ideal Friday night viewing, especially since the edge is taken off by Chris Tarrant - ex-children's tv presenter - and his wry, friendly voice over.

And the great thing is that the "celebrity" contestants are doing it for charity. (And I use the word "celebrity" wrongly in this context. It should be pronounced "desperate morons"). Whoever wins can write this off as a tax dodge.

That makes it all right, then.

The Doors of perception remain firmly closed this time. Honestly, expecting actors to be able to think laterally. (My money's on Keet Duffy, since the Irish are hard-wired to think like that. Unless Jenny Macalpine rips his arms off first). It's all as contrived as Michael Winner's Tv Dinners, if not worse.

God, how I wish Chris Tarrant had cycled up to the camera on a tricycle, wearing a Saw mask. Now that would have made the entire budget worthwhile.