Dear Herr Doktor …

It’s Diarrhoea Week here on ITTODBTBIA and our deranged resident doctor, Herr Doktor Klaus Barbican (see above), is on hand to answer readers’ uncomfortable medical questions in his usual scatalogical fashion …

Dear Herr Doktor Barbican

Last week I sent our four year old down the shops to get me twenty Rothmans and a four pack of Double Diamond. Ten minutes later the little bastard’s back with nothing to show for his trip. On enquiry, I discovered the shopkeeper wouldn’t sell him my fags or my booze because he’s something called ‘underage’. Well, there was nothing for it but to tan my lad’s hide until he was blue wi’ bruises and kicking up a right stink into the bargain.

Now then, since I brayed him, he’s not stopped shitting buckets from out of his arsehole. Could the belting I give him – which is my right as a caring father, by the way – be the cause of his diarrhoea, or is it something more serious like the shitter cancer?

Fred O’West, Gloucester

The Doktor writes …

Nein! As a woman ages, her looks fade and her fanny dries up. Before you know it, she’s closed up shop, manned the barricades with expensive incontinence knickers and has begun refusing entry, even when it’s your birthday. No amount of cajoling will prise that dusty old relic open again, so I suggest you kill this woman, Norman, and get yourself a prostitute.

Ein prostitute made off of human flesh!

Dear Herr Doktor Barbican

Recently I wrote to you about my badly-injured four year old (see above), who’s gushing shite off of his anus at an alarming rate. I expected some sort of advice from you, but instead got something about the wife’s clopper seizing up. Now I’m all for talking about cladgers, don’t get me wrong, but not when the boy’s pumping out gallons of bum juice all over the spare room.

He’s ruined my collection of stolen knickers.

Fred O’West, Gloucester

The Doktor writes …

They turn off the taps! You’d think, wouldn’t you, that putting up with their endless nagging, their monthly ‘visits’ from the Shitbag Fairy, their nosiness when it comes to why you’ve come back smelling of brandy after ‘popping to the shops for a pint of milk’ and their inability to understand that a man needs an hour or two’s quiet meditation before tackling even the most basic of chores would mean they’d at least keep a trickle going … BUT NO!

Never get married, Don, that’s my advice. JAVOL!

Dear Herr Doktor Barbican

You may recall I wrote to you previously about my shitting boy? Well, thanks to your mental derangement, he’s dead now. As you can imagine, this has put the wife and I in a sticky position. It takes nine months to breed a replacement (seven if you kick her down the stairs, though that’s risky) and even then there’s a worry that the baby you’re trying to pass off as a four year old to the social worker won’t persuade, what with it being, well, a baby. Next thing you know that’s your child benefit slashed down to the bone and then … goodbye, Torremalinos.

Quite frankly, Herr Doktor, you’ve put us in a right pickle and no mistake. I’ll tell you this: It’s the last time I seek the advice of an internet physician who’s wrong in the noggin.

Fred O’West, Gloucester

Have YOU got a medical question you’d like the want-witted Herr Doktor to not answer? Perhaps you’d like him to go off on a tangent about women’s boobs instead of offering advice on your weeping cervix? Maybe you’ve got discharge leaking from an open sore in your ball sack, and would therefore like to know his thoughts on the 1977 Ipswich Town FA Cup winning side? If so, please write to:

The Deranged Herr Doktor Klaus Barbican
The Dusseldorf Central Bedlam for Lunatics
157 Scheissenstrasse
Dusseldorf
That Germany

Please mark your envelope, ‘I want a madman from off of the internet to answer my urgent medical question’.

It’s CLIIIIIIIIIIIF-MAS!

Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s the start of the Christmas season and, as is traditional, ITTODBTBIA is pulling out all the stops to ensure that you’re all thoroughly sick of the sight of Christmas before the day itself has had the chance to rear its ugly, tinsel-smothered head!

Aaaaaaaaaaaah, Christmas! Everyone loves Christmas! Even killjoy misery-gutses wot hate Christmas love Christmas! After all, what’s not to like …

Spending all your money on presents for people you despise, eating unusual foodstuffs such as dates, figs, York Fruits and those Toffifee things, the bulge in the alcoholic garden centre Father Christmas’s trousers as the four hundreth five year old of the day is lowered onto his knee, shitting a mountain of stinking turds after consuming an elephant’s weight in turkey and brussel sprouts, having an argument with your racist granddad who’s just inexplicably blamed the lack of green ones in the Quality Street tin on the coons, suspicious carol singers who know one line of We Wish You A Merry Christmas and who appear to be heavily armed, sweaters you wouldn’t wear at any other time of year, not even for a bet, the Great British office party and its associated sexually-transmitted disease bonanza, the poisoning of all your major internal organs, the celebrity who dies just before Christmas Day, the traditional Boxing Day disaster in a far-away land, the disastrous decision to buy your missus a microwave as her main present, the foreign city break spent on the floor of Heathrow Airport thanks to the Frogs being, but of course, on strike again, the comforting fact that Roy Wood, Shane McGowan and Jonah Lewie can eat again, the only time of year you’d ever contemplate drinking egg nog, watching The Santa Clause for the sixth year running, followed by fucking Shrek again, ‘Er Majesty saying something you didn’t quite catch because you’re blind drunk at three fifteen on a Friday afternoon, an overload of perfume adverts, the row that flared up over Monopoly on December 25th 1973 that’s still going strong, the boiler that breaks down at five minutes to midnight on Christmas Eve, the niggling feeling that the children you’ve nurtured are greedy, spoiled, ungrateful little bastards that you know full-well you’d loathe were they not your own, the Round Robin letter explaining, in monstrous detail, how much more money than you somebody you don’t like has, the ruptured nasal blood vessels, the Boxing Day tongue like sandpaper, the sinking feeling you get when every one of your presents feels soft to the touch … and, of course, Slade … AGAIN!

Yes it’s Christmas, ladies and gentlemen, and by fucking God am I going to bloody-well celebrate the bastard whether you like it or not!

MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOULS!

Vote Leave It Alone

The Bloody EEC – scourge of that crackpot bunch of stinking foreigners riding their British taxpayer-subsidised gravy train around the Alps, laughing and laughing and laughing – invites Maxworth O’Fishfingers (above), leader of the Leave It Alone Party, to knock some common bloody sense into you people …

“We here at the Leave It Alone Party have one simple message – leave it alone! Unlike all the other political parties, who spend half their time tinkering with things wot don’t need tinkering with, we here at the Leave It Alone Party would rather leave it alone, thanks all the same. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it – that’s our motto. Not for us the constant fiddling about of your Labours, your Conservatives or that other lot everybody laughs at, oh no. What we want is the status quo. What we want is to leave things as they are, thanks very much.

Take education. What wazzock decided to scrap O Levels, eh? Whoever it was should hang their heads in shame because all children are thick now. With their mobile phones and those funny hairstyles they all have and their pants round their ankles, it’s a disgrace. You know what they should have done? Left it alone, that’s what!

Then there’s this Royal Mail business. Instead of letting the Frogs in to deliver parcels, they should have left well alone. That’s what we’d have done – left it alone. You wouldn’t now have these bloody strikes if you’d left it alone.

And don’t get me started on the NHS. Remember when you used to go to hospital and didn’t catch a life-threatening illness because they’ve contracted out the cleaning to a half-asleep Albanian? Well if they’d left things as they were that would still be the case. But they didn’t. They farted about with it instead of leaving it alone and now look what’s happened. Just leave it alone!

And as for us joining Europe? I’ll never forgive Ted Heath for not leaving well alone, that yacht-sailing, posh TWAT.”

The Leave It Alone Party’s Manifesto, Going Forward Together By Staying Where We Are, is available from their website www.leaveitalone.com and all good book shops*.

*except those book shops that didn’t leave it alone

I’m S.A.A.A.A.A.A.A.D.

I’m afraid I’m far too busy to write anything on here at the moment. Instead, I’d just like to say to all you sufferers of Seasonal Affective Disorder that, despite what you may have heard, feeling sorry for yourself because it’s pissing it down isn’t a medical condition. What it is is self-indulgence.

GROW A BACKBONE, YOU WINTER-BLAMING SHIRKERS!

Oyster With Chronic Diarrhoea Breaks Land Speed Record

An oyster has broken the land speed record thanks to its chronic diarrhoea. The oyster, originally from under the sea near the holiday island of Majorca, is believed to have caught Winter Vomiting Virus shortly before its yearly migration to under the sea just outside Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire.

“As everyone knows, an oyster has no mouth,” Norris McGwirters off of the Guinness Book of Records told ITTODBTBIA. “As a consequence of this, the vomit wot builds up as a result of catching the virus was converted into shite. During its migration, the shite built up and burst out of its anus shortly after it arrived off the coast of England. It was that high-powered jet of diarrhoea that propelled it from the water and landed it in the record books.”

Eye witnesses claim to have seen the oyster travelling at 70,000,000 mph – twice the speed of a cheetah, the fastest thing on earth.

“It was very fast,” one man told reporters. “There was a jet of shit coming off of its arsehole as it shot past me and the wife. You could tell, even at that speed, that it wasn’t very well.”

“Muslims Will Never Understand The Cup Of Tea,” Shouts Nick Griffin MEP

Nick Griffin, leader of the British Nazi Party, has attacked the Muslims ahead of his appearance on tonight’s Question Time. Speaking exclusively to The Bloody EEC, Griffin said,

“With their brown skin, those funny little white hats they wear and the automaton way they carry out their religious devotions, these Muslims will never understand the Great British cup of tea.”

Sipping from a cup of Assam, Griffin continued,

“Look at your Indians. They come over here to a land noted for its cups of tea and what do they do? They don’t drink tea! Instead, they drink that funny bubbly stuff out of pipes in those shops where you can’t see inside. AND they’re always getting their hair cut, these Muslims. I ask you, is that normal? Is that British?”

Shifting the weight from one buttock to the other to alleviate sores caused by prolonged periods of bed rest brought on by worrying about the blacks, Griffin thundered,

“And it’s not just tea! These people – and I’m not being racist here – wouldn’t know one end of a Spitfire from the other because they have no collective national connection to one. If we’d had that lot fighting for us in World War II, Britain would now be a German colony run by Mercedes Benz.”

“How can you possibly hope to assimilate into British society if you don’t know anything about tea or Spitfires?” he continued, pulling out a jizz-stained photograph of his hero, Sir Winston Churchill. “Look at this guy. This is Churchill. Do you think he’d have allowed any fuzzy-wuzzy with a forged passport into the UK? Do you think he’d let them get their hair cut too frequently; let them not understand tea; let them not know a Spitfire’s arse from its elbow? No! Of course he wouldn’t! He’d have told them to go back to Bongo-Bongo Land where they can not drink tea and not understand the aircraft that single-handedly won World War II at their leisure.”

“With their funny little hats,” he added.

Mr. Griffin can be seen having a go at the Muslims on tonight’s Question Time, 10:35 BBC1.

Kiss-And-Tell Sex Scandal Rocks Celebrity Nursing Home

“I’ve had ‘em all,” purrs sexy Stacy Sligo (above), author of There’s More Than One Way To Wipe An Ass – My Hot Life With The Stars. “I don’t care how many cannulas, drips, surgical support calipers or wheelchairs stand between me and my prey, because I’ll do anything to fuck the famous, regardless of how close they are to death.”

In these exclusive extracts from her new book, Stacey shines a sex-torch of hot sex into the gloom and illuminates a sordid hot-bed of sleaze involving the residents of Portsmouth’s Bide-A-Wee Nursing Home for Elderly Celebrities (insert, above)…

Alan ‘Flaff’ Freeman

I met Flaff when I was asked by my supervisor to wipe his bottom after he’d eaten a rather large amount of mashed banana for his pudding, and this had caused him to have a faeces-related accident on the landing. I took him into the commode room and slowly unpeeled my uniform. Flaff, being pretty much a vegetable by this stage, stared into the middle distance and nodded his head as I slowly removed my bra and knickers and let them fall to the floor. Naked, I pulled aside Flaff’s travel rug, removed his industrial-strength catheter, and used all my female charms to coax a half-centimetre’s worth of engorgement out of his particulars. We made love for what seemed like hours, though in reality it was about six and a half seconds because we were interrupted by the crash team.

Norman Wisdom

I first met Norman shortly after he was admitted to the home in 2007. Suffering from dementia, Norman was extremely forgetful, and it wasn’t long before he’d had a little accident on the landing. My supervisor asked me to take him to the bathroom so I could hose the piss off his legs … and it was there that I seduced him. Slowly removing my uniform, I asked Norman if he wanted to play with my erect nipples. He stared into the middle distance and then shat himself. “Let’s get you out of these wet things,” I purred, pulling down his trousers and incontinence underpants. He was in a state of severe mental distress by this stage, so I only managed to get a good thirty seconds out of his shrivelled member before my pelvic thrusts caused an ulcerated vein to burst in his upper thigh.

Captain Birdseye

Captain Birdseye was admitted to the Bide-A-Wee in 2006, suffering from pulmonary heart disease, cancer of the anus and senile dementia. One morning, my supervisor alerted me to the fact the Captain had become bewildered on the landing, and crapped all up the walls. Taking him into a side room, I slowly removed my uniform. “Never mind you giving me fish fingers, Captain,” I muttered, removing my knickers. “How’s about I give you fish fingers instead?” I was, at the time, being treated for a particularly virulent strain of vaginal thrush.

Next month, Stacey reveals just what went on when Richard O’Sullivan was left in her care after suffering a double prolapse to the inner walls of his rectum.

Gately Rots In Hell With All The Other Single Mothers

ITTODBTBIA invites guest columnist Londonella Upperarse to reflect on the tragic death of Steven Gately …

Where’s that sodding brief …? Fucking hell! They want how many bloody words? Jesus! By four p.m.? For Christ’s sake … I’m supposed to be meeting Ghastliana at La Bamba for lunch … ARSE! Right …

If we are to believe a Spanish coroner, Boyzone singer Steven Gately died of natural causes in his Majorca holiday apartment several days ago (Wikipedia’s down, so fuck knows when he carked it). However, one only has to look at the seedy underbelly of Gately’s life to see this verdict for the sham it is. It is clear to this writer that Gately died as a result of his evil, depraved, immoral (Lucy – shove another couple of adjectives in there, can you – Roget’s is acting up, there’s a sweetie) lifestyle. Indeed, his untimely death at the age of thirty something (Wikipedia’s down) has, to my mind, highlighted a serious flaw in the ‘civil partnership’ system Gordon Brown and his cronies – or Tony Blair and his cronies (Wikipedia’s down) – foisted on us just a few short years ago.

You see, unlike marriage – proper marriage, the sacred bond betwixt man and wife – these homosexual ‘partnerships’ lead to instant death.

Too strong? Then may I point you in the direction of Little Britain’s Matt Lucas and his partner, Kevin Keegan (that’s right, isn’t it?). Lucas and Keegan married in sin in 200- (Wikipedia’s down), and within several months (Wikipedia’s down), they were ‘divorced’ – a ridiculous notion, considering they were never married in the first place, in my opinion. No doubt Keegan, being a homosexual, had already begun to look around him for other homosexuals to pray on (as is their way), and his ‘lover’ got wind of it. I have no evidence for this, but that doesn’t stop me stating – as fact – that this was what lead to the break-up of their so-called ‘civil partnership’. And then look what happens:

Within some months (Wikipedia’s down), Keegan was dead. Killed, no doubt, by an overdose of disgusting homosexual sex and the drug abuse that this sort of vile lifestyle brings with it, probably. Healthy young men of the age of twenty or thirty something (Lucy, can you check this? Wikipedia’s down) don’t just die, no. Their evil homosexuality condemns them to an early death through depravity.

And what makes it worse is that this Keegan was living off the state at the time of his death, I have no doubt. Not content with going against God’s command (can you shove that bit in from the Bible where it has a go at the woofters, Lucy? Thanks!), this Keegan also thought it was acceptable to sponge off a society he had no intention of contributing to. Like a single mother – only male, without a baby – Keegan probably used the disability of homosexuality to jump the queue and get his foot on the top rung of the social housing ladder. If that’s what England’s become, can the last honest, decent, hard-working person please turn out the lights when they leave the country? Because if it is, there’s clearly no hope blah blah blah (Lucy – can you fill the rest of this in with one of our standard going to the dogs diatribes? I can’t be arsed, love, I need to get to a lunch meeting).

It doesn’t surprise this writer that Gately and his sort die sad, lonely deaths. Thanks to New Labour’s mission to hand every tin-pot minority group a set of rights they don’t deserve, young Irish singers will continue to die in the sex-pest, New Labour gutter. The rot set in when they banned fox-hunting, and the next thing we know it’s stealth taxes, health and safety regulations, political correctness gone mad, the nanny state and depraved homosexual hoodies stabbing pensioners in shopping centres.

Gone is the England of Churchill; in its place is a mire of look I’m going to have to get to this lunch meeting.

Londonella Upperarse writes for the Daily Mail, the Daily Express and the British National Party Morning Star. Her column, Hell In A Handcart, appears every Tuesday next to that one about Princess Diana’s death being the cause of rocketing house prices.

The Sofa

I’ve had a sofa on order from John Lewis for weeks now. I was originally given a ‘lead time’ (or ‘delivery date’ in old money) of six weeks, which was changed to eight weeks without anyone bothering to tell me. Eight weeks came and went, and phone calls to the company lead to a series of comedy excuses as to the sofa’s whereabouts, to whit:

1. It’s in Liverpool. The delivery company’ll phone you in the next day or two to confirm a delivery time.
2. It’s abroad. We can’t get hold of the suppliers as it’s night time over there.
3. We don’t know where it is at the moment, sorry.
4. It’s in Milton Keynes. The delivery company’ll give you a ring in the next day or two to confirm a delivery time.
5. It’s definitely in Britain. It’s undergoing rigorous quality control checks, wherever it is.
6. It’s at the warehouse. It’s been there since the 23rd, undergoing our ten day checking process.
7. Yes, I understand it’s now way past ten days. It’s definitely on its way.
8. You’ll almost certainly get it next week, probably.
9. We don’t know where it is.

After all this hoo-hah, I got a call from the courier last week telling me the sofa was on the final leg of its odyssey; it would, I was reliably informed, be sitting in my living room in a mere five day’s time. Halleluia! All hail the gods of efficient furniture delivery!

Then I got a text message that read:

Your delivery is booked for Tuesday 13th October. Delivery time between 7:00 am and 13:00 pm.

Hang on! Seven o’clock in the fucking morning?

SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE FUCKING MORNING?

No, no, no, no, no! I’m not so green as I’m cabbage-looking, thanks very much. I’ve lived in this country long enough to know that any self-respecting British workman is sitting in a roadside transport cafe up to his eyeballs in Page Three tits at seven o’clock in the fucking morning. He’s wolfing down a Belly Buster breakfast washed down with a cup of tea with eight sugars, thanks all the same. He’s not, at seven o’clock in the fucking morning, manhandling a sofa through the doors of some bugger’s house.

Which über-efficient country was the delivery company trying to hoodwink me into thinking I was living in? Germany? Realistically, the text message should have read:

Your delivery is booked for Tuesday 13th October. Delivery time between 7:00 am and 13:00 pm … mind you, you can whistle if you think one of our lads is going to be round your house delivering a sofa at that unholy time of the day. I mean … SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE FUCKING MORNING?

Which is why, at seven o’clock this fucking morning, I wasn’t sat waiting for a delivery van to turn up. I was in bed asleep …

… BECAUSE IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE FUCKING MORNING.

ADVERTS!

In the interests of fair play, ITTODBTBIA would like to draw your attention to the following products and services currently available from the talentless pool of wastrels who have some sort of spurious connection to this site …

Nick Tann, an awful musician whose last ‘album’ sounded like something being sick in a sewer, wants you all to shell out money that would be better spent on pornography on his ridiculous new vinyl record project. Apparently, if enough imbeciles give him the cash, he’ll press a small quantity of records off of vinyl (y’know, from the olden days?) which will then sit gathering dust on your shelves until a future clearout condemns them to the landfill – where they belong. It goes without saying that, should you not throw it away by accident, this record will be worth absolutely nothing, not even after Nick’s death.

That’s THAT fucker advertised!

Now then. Libellous anti-TV site Watch With Mothers wants you all to subscribe to its badly-researched podcast. Featuring regular ITTODBTBIA readers Swineshead and Piqued, plus muggins ‘ere, this waffling waste of everyone’s time purports to offer in-depth analysis of TV past and present, when in reality it’s little more than me shouting at a man in London. If you like a dim-witted northerner roaring at a Guardian-reading, left-wing, do-gooding meejia bastard, by all means follow the above link and subscribe today. Personally, I’d rather listen to somebody doing a diarrhoea into ‘Er Majesty the Queen’s face. AND I LOVE ‘ER MAJESTY.

That’s THAT fucker advertised!

Right! Want something to read? Then why not take bitter internet loner Bete De Jour’s awful book for a spin? There are no dinosaurs, Nazis, sharks, explosions, neck-snappings or guns … nothing. Instead you get a miserable sod called Stan banging on about how he can’t find a bird because he’s so ugly. Word of advice, Stan – promise ‘em an £8.99 steak dinner and they’re yours. No need to write a fucking book about it. Ridiculous notion. No wonder it’s already been reduced on Amazon. A WASTE of money, and worst of all he likes cats. What sort of a man likes cats? A WOOFTER, THAT’S WHAT!

That’s THAT fucker advertised!

This gets worse! Fancy flushing your brain cells down the toilet? Then look no further than flea-ridden Scotch monkey, Mr. H. Not only does he write the worst blog on the Internet, but he also ‘presents’ a radio show. Thinking this must be a joke, I followed this link and was staggered to discover he’s not lying. The patients really have taken over the asylum, ladies and gentlemen.

That’s THAT fucker advertised!

Would YOU like your shoddy, third-rate product or service advertised on ITTODBTBIA? Perhaps you’ve spent five minutes designing a range of t-shirts, and are labouring under the impression your ‘designs’ are actually worth real-world money? Maybe you’ve spent twenty five minutes cutting and pasting your blog into some semblance of a book, and now you’re desperate for more people to buy it than the thirteen people who read your blog? Or possibly you’ve wormed your way on to an unlistenable internet radio station, and you’d now like somebody who isn’t a member of your family to listen to it?

If so, please leave a comment below, and if the shit your flogging’s worthless enough, it’ll be featured in the next edition of ADVERTS! whenever I can be arsed to write it.