Ted Max

It hurts, doesn't it Daizie? Shall we talk about you, the now?

I wasn't necessarily being entirely, 100% serious, CoochieCouch, but no matter.

In the local's republic of North Devon all haircuts are ?6, children are controlled, and the daffs grow free.

Anyone paying more than ?5.50 for a dry cut or ?11 for a wet cut 'n' style is only doing so to tell themselves they are better than the rest of us. All haircuts are exactly the same, you are only paying more for the sense of superiority. My uncle cut hair for years and he told me this so I know what I'm talking about.

Or ... if only 20% of all kids should get in to University, say, you could propose that only the top performing 20% of those at private schools get into Uni. The rest of them can either join the army, clergy or go into The Company.

Heading for the hills is quite a good plan in the event of no phone coverage.

I feel you, JJ. I tried to get the community involved last year and nobody wanted to know. Even worse, some people made stuff up and that and I had to move on. Hope you at least managed to get well-soaked in the Vale and EDT?

5, Colyton Road, Southwark, London, Greater London, SE22 0NE 15/03/2007 ?961,000

Cheers, GSJ57. I've just slaughtered the nice barber, though. With his own scissors. It's possible that one's at an end!

1,000. Two years that's taken me. I'm going to have a solitary stare out the window now and think on.

I'm the tenth William I wouldn't want to piss on your pommes frites, old thing, but I think there's a been a few more than that. Reminds me of the old Douglas-Home put-down of Harold Wilson, the one amusing thing the skull-headed reactionary old codger ever did in his life.

I have met Will.i.am. I did not ask him if he had a JG Ballard-style gammy leg fetish. But he certainly needs to put a new band together. He'd probably be cool with the monkey thing as well.

The eyes are kind although the hand hurts on your arm. Come on mate, it?s best you come with us now and we can sort this all out. After a while, when the lucid periods are a little longer, they give you some time at a computer. There?s a view of outside, a glimpse of magnolia against a blue sky. They suggest you write some of it down. Write what you like, bit by bit. You create a new document, and start writing. It?s going to be a love letter?

Tattoes and piercings all over him. He?s not comfortable in his own skin either. He told you once that his scissors didn?t need sharpening as the constant cutting meant the blades sharpened against themselves. He kept scissoring thin air behind your head as he paused to tell you this. And you noticed the way his fingers flexed and curled, and the swish of steel on steel, and the smell of him. It doesn?t take long. He makes no noise, and you know now why dad used to yell at mum to say something. When it?s over you take the scissors and cut your own hair, letting it fall onto his body. It lies blond against his red-brown hide. You listen to the swish of the blades until they scissor only thin air.

The music rises and falls as the doors open and shut. You see the doormen nod the leavers out, scanning the street for any likely trouble. If they have noticed you, they do not think you are likely trouble. He comes out first, half-turning to grab a hold of the other one, and they stumble up the street. They stop outside the kebab shop. You see the long thin blade skimming the meat from the block. Pink-brown shavings topple down like flayed skin into the grease. Outside each bar, groups of people hang on to the night, spell-bound. Black Cherry - a pie mum used to make. The Bishop ? the sweet certainty of your confirmation. Liquorice ? how grown ups could make even sweets taste horrible. Magnolia ? mum crying in the back garden. They stop and kiss outside his house. Here?s what you could have won. You feel your hair, long now, catching the sweat around your temples. Later, much later, you slip the front door open.

You feel your body descend into itself, sleep having arrived late and unwanted. Nearly nine, but voicemail buys you a couple of hours. At school you'd needed a note to take in with you. ?Dear Mr Barnes, Michael had a doctor's appointment this morning. Please excuse his absence.? The old lie, offered and accepted as just that. The same morning routine displaced two hours means different voices on the radio and faces at the bus stop, a shift of intensity in the light. Like living a life you could have had. Enquiries about your health come at work but an answer is not expected. Mr Barnes often left Mum's letters unopened on his desk. The rows and columns total themselves but you keep count in your head anyway. Night mate, don?t work too late it?ll still be there in the morning. You'd always kept reading till the last light flickered off in the library. Haven't you got a home to go to, young man? The kindly question sending you home in tears down Barry Road. Save all, export, log off. Bus. Pub. Four pints of Adnams under the clock. Whisky. Last orders at the bar please. Whisky. Drink up now. Haven?t you lot got homes to go to? I said, haven?t you lot? He wasn't talking to you but you've already left. You're not going home.

http://icanhascheezburger.com No further witnesses, your honour.

If you were to ask me privately I might admit it's not the tiger's fault, but I'm afraid its domestic cousin has let the side down badly, so I've no option but to exclude them all. If, of course, Felix would put his paw up and come clean, then perhaps we could come to a more nuanced conclusion.

come on, what about tigers? Tigers are cool. And snow leopards. They've got brilliant tails. You can't deny me a snow leopard. They've got all the best agents haven't they, schmoozing it down at the beeb's Nat Hist Dept in Bristol. "Yes now, your wildebeest is an interesting enough creature for a ruminant, Sir David, but research shows that what your viewers want is all kill, all the time, and really my clients have been proven to deliver. ?100k a show less my 15%, please."

Cats = psychopaths. We've been here before on the Forum, but I am of the school of Snorky here, sorry. I am sure if there were no cats the makers of TopCat could have found some other anthropomorphic impersonator of Sgt Bilko. TopBadger, perhaps. (PS While I'm here, Jellyfish can piss off because although they look pretty in a certain light in the Horniman aquarium, they hurt. And you can't see them. And even the thought of their possible presence can take the edge off a bracing dip in the sea. The washed up ones are quite fun to jump into on the shoreline, though, if you are eight years old.

Jellyfish. And cats.

Has your pimp priced up the Monster suit option yet, D_C?

You know, I think there is: on the right of the scene a gentlemen of the watch sits at a bench, tearing to pieces a take-away curry. Dangling from his bursting waist band is an oversized, yet flaccid, truncheon bearing the legend: 0800 555 111. This meaning of this part of the picture was unclear to me. Thank you for clearing that up.

As the "daffs" are nearly over, I took Louisa's poster home, framed it and mounted it in the "smallest room". The poster is a beautiful, Hogarthian piece of work - in the foreground a chubby child, named "Excess", picks the young daffodils that (we are told) represent the working class. The child's docile mother looks on as she draws deep from a huge flagon of Cafe Nero coffee. In her buggy a baby, whose bib bears the legend "The Future", cries unnoticed. In the background, a small dog shits sausage rolls labelled "EDD", and a succession of effete dandies scoff them delightedly whilst burning ?10 notes. The dog itself has its nose in a bag of Gregg's Steak Slices. It's a shame I don't have a scanner or I'd post the image here. It's quite affecting.

FUCK CUNTS FUCKING hell