Friday, 19 November 2010

12 O'Clock

Forget Jack Bauer and CTU (if you haven’t seen 24, then at this point you may as well go and do something else now. Perhaps go back to watching Morse, you fucking tedious individual).  There is a new TV sensation that is going to make you spend at least 35 quid on the boxset (plus merchandising, game and ringtone) and only get 4 hours of sleep for the next week. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you;

This gripping new series of seasonal series seasons is based around Jock Sour, the great grandson of John Logie Baird.  Jock is the lead agent for the Counter Nauseating and Unwatchable Television Unit (CNUT Unit).  His mission is simple; to hunt down and neutralise every television show that poses a direct threat to the nation’s collective intelligence.  Needless to say, he’s a busy little chap.  Oh and he’s also a raging alcoholic.  Because he’s Scottish. Got a problem with that have ye laddie?  Here is a wee taster of what is in store:


7pm – 8pm
Jock gets a phone call from the Director at CNUT Unit informing him that an as yet unidentified television production company is planning on making a TV show so inanely repulsive that it could potentially lower the national IQ by up to 45%. Jock is instructed to track down the producer and stop him at all costs. Clearly shaken by this news, Jock goes straight to the Pig and Fiddle and blows the froth off a few to calm his nerves. He also has a few wee drams to take the edge off.

About 5 past 8 - 2100
Following his instincts Jock heads for the X-Factor studios via Oddbins to pick up a bottle of Buckfast. On arrival he chins all the Buckie in one go, smashes the bottle over Louis Walsh’s head and glasses Simon Cowell in the face, all without once taking his eyes off Cheryl Cole’s tits. Cheryl is now whimpering with fear as Jock pulls down his pants and begins to urinate on the desk. She tearfully confesses she has heard that SyCo TV was approached by a producer to make a show called ‘Which One Of You Desperate Twats Wants A Celebrity Lovechild?’. Jock is forced to leave by security, but is somehow still able to cop a feel of Cheryl’s chest bollocks before he is dragged out. As the security guards are stamping on his head he notices one of them has a Thames Talkback company tattoo on his ankle.

Around 9 – 10pm
A badly beaten Jock heads to a nearby safe house / strip bar. Whilst there he drinks several restorative Newcastle Browns and has a lap dance. He makes a call to CNUT unit to get them to find out more about the Thames Talkback television company. Jock is shocked to learn that they are the same group responsible not only for X Factor but also for other atrocities such as the Apprentice, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent and Celebrity Juice. Jock is so shocked he vomits copiously, but blames it on not having eaten all evening. He re-tops up with a refreshing half bottle of gin.

10ish – sometime around last orders
Inexplicably Jock is now wearing a pink sequined cowboy hat, only has one shoe and has blue WKD all down the front of his shirt. Jock gets a taxi to the Thames Talkback offices and is charged 100 quid clean-up costs for getting shit on the cab seat after pushing a fart too hard. At the offices he confronts the CEO of the company and waves his cock at her whilst shouting very, very loudly. The CEO informs Jock they are already preparing to film ‘Which One Of You Desperate Twats Wants A Celebrity Lovechild?’ in the studios right now and that the first episode is being shown live within the next hour. Jock quickly formulates a plan, necks the contents of his emergency hip flask and suffocates the CEO with his soiled underpants that he had stuffed in his pocket.

2300 – 12 o’clock
Jock stumbles over to the studios, grabbing a cheeky kebab on the way. He infiltrates the studio by falling through a plate glass window after leaning on it to take a piss. Now bloodied, barely coherent and still with his knob hanging out, Jock staggers onto the set just as the live feed for the show is being aired across the nation. Before Piers Morgan can begin his introduction Jock spots Myleene Klass in the judging panel and begins to masturbate live on TV. The OFCOM switchboard is immediately so swamped with complaints from Daily Mail readers that they are forced to order an airstrike directly on the studio. As the missiles hit Jock is blown through a wall, across the street and into an off-licence. A now relieved but emotionally wrecked Jock cries his heart out, downs some Famous Grouse and then texts a picture of his bollocks to an ex girlfriend and also, by accident, his mum.

Season Two teaser:  Jock gets a Majestics loyalty card and is sent to the jungle to take on Ant and Dec.

Friday, 5 November 2010


Ooh fuck, here we go. I have wanted to say something about politicians since this blog started but every time I began to write I veered away from being frivolously humorous and became more ominously murderous.  This may get less and less funny as I rant on. I have also got a rounded wooden dowel on my desk to poke my lower intestine back up my anus as I tend to prolapse with anger every time I think about Ed…….fuck, that’s going to leave a stain on the chair……Balls.

For this piece I was going to loosely link the whole November 5th - Guy Fawkes - Gunpowder Plot - blowing up Government anti politics thing, but not only would this be a bit lazy, I also remembered old Guido’s motivation was primarily religious and therefore making him as much of a catholic twat as the protestant twats he was trying to turn into crispy crackling. 

Politicians are twats.  It’s a universal truth. You know they are twats. I know they are twats. And each one of them must at least have an inkling that they are a bit of a twat too.  It’s not a secret; in fact the definition of Politician in the dictionary could easily be shortened to one word.

By spouting my distaste at all politicians I am being deliberately apolitical.  Actually that’s wrong, it’s not deliberate it’s just that I can’t tell the difference between the political parties anymore.  It’s like staring down the unfocussed telescopic sight of a sniper rifle and trying to pick out which of the blurry images is Fearne Cotton or Holly Willoughby. Frankly it’s impossible. But that’s OK because I am quite happy to just blaze away at all of them anyway. 

The policies of the ‘opposing’ parties are also more or less the same.  The gap between the Tory and Labour policies on education are as thin and small as a catholic priests speedos on a Sunday School swimming trip.  This is because politicians spend most of their political life scrabbling over the middle ground of policy-making in order to not appear controversial and risk losing their valuable seat.  And this is the key point; Politicians do not care about you.  They care about looking like they care about you so they can care for themselves and keep their seat of power.

There is no altruism in Westminster; every single one of them is looking to further their careers and that’s all there is to it. How many MPs have you seen recently resign their seat in protest over an issue they feel strongly about? Exactly.  Just like a fat kid fighting tooth and nail in the playground to keep hold of his lunchbox, they will do anything to keep hold of their power because power tastes as good as a Ben 10 box full of Cheesestrings and Penguin bars. 

But it’s not just seats in parliament they want. Oh no, these fuckers are by their very nature ambitious and power hungry. It’s why they are there in the first place.  They want to go all the way and will do any of the shit jobs to get there.  None of them want to be the Secretary of State for Transport. How fucking dull is that? No, they all want the cooler and sexier jobs like the Home or Foreign secretary because they get to mess about with spies in MI5 and MI6 and have secret meetings in bunkers 100 metres under Whitehall.  Do you really think Chris Hume gives a steaming shit about re-evaluating the current policy on educational league tables? Or does he dream of sitting behind a large mahogany desk watching a live video feed of a suspected terrorist getting the good news from a car battery and a wet sponge?

We of course must shoulder some of the blame; we voted the buggers into office in the first place. But then 51 percent of the British public believe that Darwin's theory of evolution is incomplete and that intelligent design must be somehow involved. Plus we are also the same voting public that allowed Jordan to become unbelievably famous*.  We are all equally dim and to blame. When you look at the viewing figures for I’m A Celebrity it should not come as a complete surprise that we managed to elect an over privileged, game show host buffoon as the Lord Mayor of London – our stupidity is boundless. 

Don’t worry though, because as always, I have a half-baked plan.  I won’t bore you with the details now, but it primarily involves the appointment of a new independent parliamentry position; The Twat Finder General. This protector of the people shall stalk the corridors of power with a cricket bat ensuring twat levels in the government are kept to an acceptable minimum. The sound of righteousness is that of a piece of seasoned willow thwacking off the cranium of a smarmy prick in a suit.  I suspect he is going to need a few spare bats.

*A little aside on Jordan. Why is she still famous?  OK, I understand how she got famous – young men used to quite enjoy masturbating over pictures of her when she got her boobs out in men’s lifestyle magazines.  I get that.  But that was over 10 years ago.  I can’t believe that young men are still masturbating over her?  There are toothless Rwandan gang enforcers that are sexier than her, plus it’s hard to knock one out when you keep fetching up bile in the back of your throat. I know; I’ve tried.  So right now she is famous for being a woman who used to get her knockers out, has ‘written’ three books about getting her knockers out and appeared in a few reality TV shows with her knockers out.  Not a single man has masturbated over a picture of her for the best part of a decade and she has made £40 million so far.  I hope all those young men are feeling more guilty than usual after that cheeky wank over FHM in 2003 – LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. 

Friday, 29 October 2010


It has come to my attention that my last few blog entries have been perhaps a little single minded, offensive and sweary.  I sat down earlier this week, chewed the keyboard for a while and my mind naturally began to devise new and interesting ways to maim, torture and kill celebrities and criminals.  Now whilst I consider this a perfectly acceptable way of using my brain bits, I realised that I should perhaps try exploring other avenues of the human condition, rather than just working out a novel method of hurting Louis Walsh (incidentally I was going to utilise the entire Mariah Carey CD back catalogue in such a way that would have him wishing she had stopped recording in 1990, just like the rest of us).

Given that I have so far exploded 3,982 words - go ahead and check if you want - of anger and vitriol into the already overflowing bucket of bile that is the internet, I realised that I need to balance things up a bit. So in the spirit of lurching from one extreme to another just like John Lennon did when he got shot, I want to talk about Love.

For me love is like being fantastically drunk on an enormous rollercoaster, listening to Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell on full blast while someone massages your baby making apparatus with a pair of warm furry mittens.  But I imagine experiences differ from person to person.  You only have to search as far as the relationship interviews in Heat magazine to gain a better understanding of the broad complexities of this singular emotion; "It’s like, I really like Toffee Crisps and then I found out he liked Milky Ways and I thought we were through, but then he confessed to me that he secretly also likes Toffee Crisps which was like totally amazing and then we went to India and got married forever and I had all my little dogs as amazing bridesmaids dressed up as Funsize Toffee Crisps. It was like, totally amazing and forever."

There is, I feel, an overuse of the L word in the world today.  For an example look no further than the seemingly bright and enthusiastic advertising slogan of McDonalds; I’m Lovin’ it.  I could easily get very, very angry about the lack of ‘g’ in lovin’ but that little rant would quickly get out of control and I have way too much salt in my diet to risk getting that worked up.  It is more the casual, throw away use of arguably the most important human emotion to convince you to buy McOffal that offends me.  Are you really in love with McDonalds? For all that is pure and true in this world I sincerely hope you aren’t.  Sure, you might really, really like shovelling their tasty processed treats into your head when horribly hungover, I certainly do.  But love? Actual love?  In a better world the only love that should be occurring in Maccy D’s is the sweaty, grunting physical manifestation of the emotion, perhaps in the customer toilets or while parked up in the drive thru bay while you wait for your order. 

Whilst most people seem to be fairly carefree when using love to describe their feelings towards things they merely like, the true form of the feeling is a rare and beautiful thing.  Exceedingly rare for some individuals.  It is a sad but true fact of this universe that it is easier to fall in love with someone good looking than it is to fall in love with say, someone who closely resembles Andrew Lloyd Weber.  But take heart ugly and loveless reader because even Andrew, who has a face like a plate of melted Duplo bricks, has been successful on the battlefield of romance.  It of course has nothing to do with his enormous wealth. This is said with no hint of sarcasm or cynicism; it genuinely has nothing to do with the money. Just Google a picture of his face………see?.......only love in it’s purest form can go beyond that.  And he still managed to nail Sarah Brightman.

So if you are ugly, poor, talentless and have all the charisma of a Pot Noodle tub brimming with monkey sick then it’s a case of having to work a little harder to force someone to fall in love with you.  It’s all about salesmanship and making the target of your heart’s desire see the hidden beauty underneath your hideous, sneering, violent exterior.  Those of you that have already been victorious will know that you have to work harder than an Israeli Estate Agent selling new builds in Gaza in order to successfully pull it off.  Or was that just me?

But in the end it is always, always worth the effort.  To have love reciprocated by another human being (let’s quickly skip over the subject of bestiality here) is the single most astonishing feeling to experience.  The sensations surpass everything. You are convinced that what you are feeling makes the story of Tristan and Iseult look as significant as Kerry Katona and Insert Next Husband Here selling their marriage in OK magazine with exclusive pictures of their wedding reception in Greggs.

Right, that’s enough. 867 words of being vaguely nice, no swearing at all and talking about love. Not bad, eh? I will wait and see what reaction I get from this post before considering my next subject.  Suggestions are more than welcome, but be warned, if I use your proposed topic and it doesn’t go down well then I will feed Tinie Tempah into a wood chipper and drown you in the resultant slurry of blood, teeth, gold earrings and bad lyrics.  Aren’t I a cunt?

Friday, 22 October 2010


We live in dark times.  Our heroes today are few and far between and those we do have are celebrated for the whiteness of their teeth, the amount of bullets they have taken in a drive-by, the size of their house in Chester and the amount of £50 notes they would use to make a papier-mâché model of their ego.  In years gone by children idolised the likes of Sir Edmund Hillary, Superman, Indiana Jones, Amelia Earhart and, for the thirstier under 14’s, George Best.  All these icons were noble, modest and brave, but who do we have in the present day? 50 Cent (bullet catching, blinged up, gangster talker), Wayne Rooney (whoring, blinged up, professional kicker), Paris Hilton (cock hungry, blinged up, jizz sponge), Dappy from N-Dubz (not a fucking clue what he does, I think it’s something to do with an earflapped bobble hat?).  These are the role models that most aspire to today. Wealth is valued over values.

Like the darkest days in Metropolis and Gotham City the citizens need a new hero to re-new their faith in human nature and serve as beacon of hope.  However, do not look to the sky for a caped avenger or scour the tops of buildings for fruity looking vigilantes in spandex and armoured cod pieces.  The next generation of superhero is likely to be nearer than you think.  He is polite.  He wears his trouser waistband at a respectable height. He does not have gold teeth. And the News Of The World are completely unable to fill any column inches with details of who he fills with the inches of his cock.  I give you; Gentle Man.

Wait, don’t go. Hear me out.

Gentle Man was created after being caught in an accidental flavoured vodka explosion in a Yates Pub as he walked past.  The blast did not leave him with any superpowers, or mutate his genes, but as he picked himself up from the debris of scorched baseball caps, burnt hair scrunchies, smoking scraps of Burberry and shattered pieces of chunky gold jewellery he knew the world had just been made a better place. From that moment on he vowed to embark on a crusade against bad manners, petty crime, ignorance and chain pub doormen.

Given that he has no superpowers Gentle Man needs to be lightly armed in order to protect the righteous.  Like any good gentleman he will have some sword skills, so carries a rapier – the only thing about him that is sharper than his wit (but only one of them will leave an oik kneeling and weeping on the pavement, holding his warm, slippery intestines in his hands after he dropped some litter). The only other weapon he bears is an umbrella which he wields with deadly force; able to decapitate a benefit fraudster with a single swipe and then open up to deflect the shower of arterial blood.

His sworn enemies are the rude, the thoughtless, the selfish and the dishonest people of this world.  A man who does not give up his seat for a pregnant lady will be barely halfway home before a lightening flash of tweed and cufflinks leaves him rolling in the gutter with an underground tube seat jammed snugly in his ringpiece.  Anyone who spits in the street will not walk another ten paces before a blur of corduroy and smart hair smashes their jaw off with a rolled up copy of the Evening Standard.  Any individual who takes it upon themselves to push into the front of a queue will find themselves at the front of the queue…….of pain, as our well heeled and courteous punisher uses their pancreas to buff up his brogues. 

Naturally if a proper Supervillain along the lines of Doc Ock, the Joker or the Abba tribute act from Superman II were to appear, Gentle Man would probably have his arse served to him on a Royal Doulton soup plate.  But thankfully Supervillains are relatively few and far between (with the exception of the Dark Lord Mandelson) and the real danger to us is not a mutant half-man half-crab running amok in Croydon, but the possibility of being mugged by a demented teenage  degenerate strung out on Sunny Delight, cheap skunk and McNuggets. 

Unfortunately our cleanly shaven, thank you letter writing, door opening champion of charm will in true superhero form never get the girl. In a cruel twist of fate the vast majority of ladies seem more attracted to Stella drinking, Joop scented, tracksuit wearing, so called ‘bad boy’ sociopaths than well scrubbed upstanding chaps who phone their mum every Sunday evening.   

So there he stands; Gentle Man.  The only polite, smartly dressed and chivalrous defender of morals that stands between us and an engulfing tide of Jeremy Kyle guests. He can be you.  He can be me.  He can be any one of us.  But he is very, very unlikely to be French.

By the way, on the off chance that a film producer is reading this and wants to use Gentle Man as a film character, I beg you not to have Tom Cruise play him.  That man is living proof that we were right to ban lead based paint in children’s toys.  I bet that fucker licked half a battalion of toy soldiers clean by the time he was 12. 

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

TV Democracy

It is my duty to inform you that you were abused last night.  Statistically it is likely that most of you will have watched television for about 4 hours yesterday, during which time you were being unwittingly oppressed. It may not have felt like it - I mean it’s not like you were being waterboarded while a government agent took a DNA swab from 5 inches up your urethra with a metal spatula - but none the less you were being mentally abused. 

In a country where we consider ourselves free under democracy, we are being degraded and humiliated by a television dictatorship that is discreetly unzipping it flies and unleashing a hot torrent of acrid piss into your ears and eyes and saturating your brain. They call it light entertainment; I call it Audiovisual Mind Rape.  Not very catchy I know, but I accidentally watched a few seconds of ‘What Katie Did Next’ and my IQ dropped faster than a Premiership Footballers pants in a Harvester (they are usually confused by the promise of a Spit Roast on the menu).

What the fuck am I blathering about? I will tell you.  We spend on average 60 days a year watching television. Unquestioningly and obediently flicking through the channels for 2 solid months a year until we find something we can vaguely tolerate and then convince ourselves we enjoy it.  Now you must understand that I am not having a bash at the concept of television itself; I love the noisy, colourful, time wasting slut as much as anyone. What I object to is the fact we are subjected to such horrific crimes of entertainment without having any real say in the matter.  At this point I was going to list all the programmes I dislike, but I am pretty sure you know the ones I’m talking about and if you don’t then there is no hope for you anymore. Go watch America’s Next Top Model in the bath and cuddle a toaster, it’s the only humane thing to do now. 

Perhaps you think I am wrong, and you may be right. You’re not of course, I am right and you are wrong.  You may be saying; ‘Hey, I like the X-Factor. It’s easy to watch, entertaining and I love scripted, manipulative karaoke shows hosted by animatronic waxworks.’  But do you really? I mean really, really?  Or do you just like it because you have been given no decent alternative?  Someone emerging from Josef Fritzl’s Basement of Love would almost certainly think that a bowl of cornflakes is awesome, especially if they don’t have to be bummed before being given a spoon.  But really that’s not that great at all; it’s just that they don’t know any better.

Did anyone ask you if you wanted Britain’s Got Talent made in the first place? No. Some pony tailed media twat sat around a big glass table with other pony tailed media twats and they decided that this is what you want.  So they went ahead and made it and then shoved it in your face so hard that all you could do was obligingly open up your brain and let them force their cock shaped TV show repeatedly into your head.  I make no apologies for the overly colourful simile – if BGT is not the biggest cock shaped thing on television then I will never raise this subject again. Yeah, right.

Where is our democracy? This is not freedom, we are being forced to watch stuff that would make a visiting alien send a report back to their home planet simply containing the words; ‘Cunts. Avoid.’  I want choice. I don’t want to have Simon Cowell in my house anymore. I am so fucking tired of TV offering me insights into Peter Andre’s latest shopping trip and what sort of socks he likes to wear when in LA.

We deserve better and I am certain that given the choice we would choose to have a whole different type of TV made for us, rather than having to choose something vaguely tolerable from the mindless shit that is put in front of us every night.  Here is an unbiased(ish) example to illustrate my point: We get to choose by (free) telephone vote which one of the following shows is commissioned and shown on a Saturday night:

Option 1:  Britain’s Big Sparkly Song Show.  Emotionally vulnerable and mentally delusional members of the public are told they are unbelievably fantastic by production assistants before going on stage and miming to an autotuned Mariah Carey cover of a N-Dubz cover of a looped Christina Aguilera sample.  A panel of multi-millionaires will tell them they are lovely, but are in actual fact complete talentless fuckwits, but re-affirm that they are lovely. The winner, selected after 16 sodding weeks of the same thing, gets to mime to another cover record which is released at Christmas, have a highly publicised eating disorder before disappearing into obscurity and then shooting themselves in the face. 

Option 2:  Fame Is Mine.  Every single reality TV celebrity of the last 5 years that is available for work (i.e. all of them) is invited to a studio for a mystery reality show.  On arrival they are sent to Cambodia, one of the most heavily mined (as in explosive mines, not the highly watchable Chilean collapsing type) countries in the world. They then walk in an extended line through a huge minefield.  The survivors go through to the next round and the next week they are sent to Angola for more of the same. This is repeated every week until only one remains who is then declared the winner. That’s it. We reduce our excessive surplus of D-List celebs and some of the most dangerous minefields in the world are made safe. 

No contest surely?  Sadly, until we the people are given the power back, all we can do is piss and moan about the quality of TV at the moment. But that is arguably a better form of entertainment in itself. 

Having said all this, I do genuinely enjoy Masterchef with Greg Wallace enthusiastically shoveling badly made apricot tartlets into his big shiny head and then looking guiltily at Michel Roux Jnr. because he didn’t even taste it as he threw it down his gullet. ‘Facking laaaverly’ as Greg would say. 

Thursday, 7 October 2010

Manifesto Z

I think that what this country needs is a bit of a shake up.  Allow me to ask you a few questions: Do you agree Britain needs to pull itself up off the dirty sofa of mediocrity, wipe the congealed semen of social strife from its tracksuit bottoms, brush the Dorrito crumbs of corruption from its T-shirt and open the curtains to a brand new life of heroism and greatness? Do you find your life mundane, routine and lacking excitement? Do you enjoy casual violence?

If you answered yes, yes and oh my, by the ball sweat of St George YES!! Then I hope you will support an idea that I am going to propose to the assortment of animated turds in suits that are currently sitting in Government.  Now stick with me on this because what I am putting to you is a strategy for social reform that is so groundbreaking it will make Hitler’s efforts look as insignificant as a small memo posted on a Health and Safety notice board.

My plan begins with getting the UK criminals and rounding them all up.  Now I realise that most of the Really Bad Ideas in history generally begin with the premise ‘Round them all up’, but I think this time it will be different. No really, what the fuck does history know anyway? In fact scratch that, we don’t need to round up all the criminals do we? They are all currently in prison so already nicely herded. Good start.  Next, and this is where things might start to get a little controversial, we take our top scientists and get them to turn all our prison inmates into zombies.  Still with me?  Good.  So now we have the entire population of the UK prison system (95,000 and counting) transformed into vicious, slavering, murderous zombies, but safely behind bars.  At this stage I must point out that these are not the shuffling, shambling, arms outstretched Ramero type zombies, but will be the nasty, fast, bitey ones like in 28 Days Later.  That bit is important.

The next stage is where I randomly release these insane criminal zombies across the UK, a dozen or so at a time every few days. Probably more at weekends.  They will be dropped off by special Zombie Vans that play tinkly ice-cream music as they merrily open their doors and release their scrabbling, deadly, crazed animated corpse cargo into the general population.

I am aware that this might give some people a bit of cause for concern. After all, the last thing most people want is to have their intestines dragged out from their abdomen by a screaming nightmare mutant that once used to be a violent drug dealer, especially while they are browsing around Ikea. Although in some respects this might be seen as a blessed relief by some.  But do not fear good citizen because Big Uncle Dave won’t allow this to happen.  The second part of my proposal is that all good, law abiding, tax paying people will be licensed to carry an array of weapons with which they can defend themselves.

So this is where it gets interesting.  Essentially the government (i.e. me) will issue you a weapon or weapons according to your social worth and value.  Never been arrested? Have a small pistol.  Regularly pay tax, with no defaulting? Good chap, have a shotgun. Been in gainful employment for a continuous period of 3 years? Well done, have a rifle. 10 years you say? Well in that case have a machine gun. Screw it, have two.  On this basis the more honest, lawful and hard working you are, the better you are equipped to defend yourself and your loved ones from the continual bombardment of brutal living dead wrong doers.  Plus you get to strut about with some serious hardware, which goes without saying, is fucking cool.

Let me break down the benefits, in list form (I like lists, and I know you do too because if you have read this far then I assume you are a moron and lists are nice and easy to read):

Criminal Population Dramatically Reduced – At least they should be as long as Joe Public zero their weapons properly and apply good marksmanship principles.  As an added bonus the empty prisons can be turned into accommodation for the homeless, or some shit like that.

Childhood Obesity Eradicated – Kids aren’t allowed guns. I’m not that stupid.  So Tubby Thompson had better start working on his middle distance running performance otherwise he’s going be turned into zombie poop.

Unemployment Reduced – Can’t be arsed to get a job and prefer to live on state hand outs? Well that’s perfectly fine, but you might find yourself trying to fight off a zombie attack with a small, blunt piece of wet bamboo.  I reckon Job Centres will need to fit revolving doors.

Rise In Education Standards – The better you do in exams and the higher the level of education you have, the bigger the gun you get on graduation day.  I would have tried harder in maths if there was the promise of a double barreled 12 gauge at the end of it.

Increased Levels of Charity – So you don’t feel your Lee Enfield .303 has enough stopping power? Want something with a bit more grunt? Well put in 80 hours of volunteering at your local donkey sanctuary and you will be eligible to pick up a nice shiny new belt fed grenade launcher.

Reduced Celebrity Bullshit – Everytime you appear in a celebrity magazine, work on a reality TV show or release an album that you can’t successfully perform live without miming, you will be downgraded. Basically, Cheryl Cole will end up defending herself from the savaging undead hordes with nothing more than a sharpened raspberry flavoured popsicle. Let’s hope it’s a hot day.

So imagine this; you are walking into your office one morning and from out of the stationery cupboard bursts a slavering, howling paedophile zombie demon going full on mental and generally upsetting people.  With one smooth action you reach inside your trench coat, draw out your pump action assault shotgun (which you have just been awarded after giving trumpet lessons at the local orphanage) and blam, blam, blam; social justice in action. And that corking bit of fluff Janine from accounts probably wants to breed with you now too.

There are of course some finer details that need sorting out, but I’m just an ideas man really and can’t be bothered to give it much more thought.  But I do like the idea that a 50 year old Matron nurse who has had to do double shifts for most of her career, not got a criminal record and is generally a nice lady will probably end up cruising around in a tank and have a fighter jet parked on her driveway, but I think she’s earned it.

Oh and a quick inside tip; if this does work out then be sure to buy shares in a dry-cleaning business, because those guys are going to be seriously busy.