Dear Beryl

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Dear Beryl,

My amazing wife and I have been together for nearly ten years and up until recently have been blissfully in love. I would choose death before accepting that I could never see the beautifully innocent perfection of her crimson lipped smile for the rest of my life. Since the first moment we met, our relationship has been a perpetually illuminating Aurora Borealis light display of emotional bliss, I felt complete. Now, I feel a complete dickhead.

 Over the past 6 months, I fear we have begun to drift apart following her new job. She has been spending an awful lot of time outside of her work with a handsome new colleague named Ben and suspect that they may be having affair. I have found condom wrappers in our bed on 8 separate occasions and when confronted about it, my wife called me a ‘paranoid twat’ and struck me. I began to think that perhaps I’d overreacted until she cancelled our annual Pony-trekking holiday claiming she had the sniffles, only to go down the Quasar with Ben and some other colleagues, not returning until 4am smelling of deep musk and anger.

I really love my wife and I‘d do anything to save our marriage. Every time I look at her, my heart is suddenly alight and even after a decade together, the quivering butterflies I get every time I see her face embodies the unremitting and indescribable adoration I have. I have to win her back, even for the sake of our sex life and our dog Benji alone…he’d be crushed. And the six children.

Please help me Beryl.

Ralph from Tittingham.

Beryl says… Ralph, I know exactly what has happened here and I hate to be the bearer of hurtful news but this soulless harpy is rightfully taking you for a bit of a cunt. She is most certainly being pummelled senseless by this ‘Ben’, and I suspect there are a string of other cum-padres sodding your smutty bride all over the neighbourhood.

Allow me to offer my educated conjecture; you were childhood sweethearts, completely enraptured by the very mention of each others name. A prolonged ‘Honeymoon’ period of insatiable carnal rutting lead, typically, towards good Sex’s hangover; Love. She was the one! You were the one! The one beautifully sculpted sentient being on this horrid Earthy doom-sphere perfectly created for a rose tinted, ditty-whistling saunter through life together. Soon Ralph, and correct me if I’m wrong, these rose tinted designer spectacles soon began to deteriorate until they resembled NHS-issued bin-lids with a worryingly shitty hue. The sex waned, the laughter muted, the previously un-awkward silences soon ring true with the loathsome Tinnitus soundtrack of fledgling hope. Her new job was not the catalyst, dear boy, time is the catalyst. Love is a subjective and unquantifiable investment of time and soul, which can offer only depreciation to the brainwashed feckless investor in question.

Despite the mutual culpability of your futile delusions of long-term unity; my opinion on your quandary in unfortunately divided. And I shall tell you for why;

  1. Firstly, I am tempted to call you a snivelling waste of testicles. Maybe your wife has simply come to the correct conclusion that the laughable husk you call your ‘marriage’ is slippery slope to assisted suicide. And has taken affirmative action by treating you in an increasingly heartless manner, she avoids the unenviable task of having to deal with a crying man as she tells you it’s over.  By treating you in this inhumane manner of serial infidelity, you are surely bound to snap and take ownership of the severance, leaving you a sitting duck for an expensive divorce.
  2. I concede that my responses have been somewhat scathing thus far and the last thing I need is another overdose on my CV so….. PERHAPS, she should respect you as the mutual owner of Benji and father of her children by being honest with you and voicing her feelings rather than getting pooned by any schmuck with a spare seven minutes. Perhaps.

 

At this point I can only imagine you sobbing like a fallen toddler so I will offer my suggestions for how to deal with this, Ralph.

Why not fight fire with fire? Assuming this scenario has not rendered you a sexless incompetent, the one sure method of alleviating your current plight is by offering her a taste of her own sticky medicine. Drag your friends to the nearest Lloyds Bar, sink 10 shots of Jaegermeister and shamelessly pursue any or all of the bulging harlots on offer. Seriously…escorts, prostitutes, single mums at your children’s school, local shopkeepers, Avon ladies, homeless women, all of them. Try. And. Fuck. Each. And. Every. One. Of. Them. At worst, she’ll find out and the marriage will be annulled anyway.

Secondly you could seek mirthful revenge by drive her into a damaging spiral of insanity.

–          Wake her up every morning my screaming obscenities directly into her face then denying all knowledge of the incident. Say she’s ‘being dramatic’.

–          Bombard her life with a myriad of the most upsetting images possible i.e. cute dead animals, graphic colour photographs of frenzied and disturbing sexual practices emblazoned en-masse over typical everyday places she will certainly encounter. (You could try posting them on the roof above her side of the bed so that when she is awoken by your screaming alarm clock, the first thing she is greeted with is a close up digitally enhanced image of an aggressive scat fetish jamboree)

–          Constantly move her belongings and leave them in strange places to instil a fear that she may be losing her mind, then berate her for it. “Jesus, I’ve found your handbag in the oven again. What is the matter with you? I’m serious, this really can’t go on, sort your life out or you’re going the way of old Yeller”.

–          Secretly and subtly stash fetid, rotten foodstuffs about her person to make people begin to question her personal hygiene and undermine her self-worth immeasurably. This would also detract any potential suitors for extra-marital coitus.

Note Ralph, that these are just my suggestions and you must truly plunge the depths of your soul to decipher the most effective and personally damage-limiting methods to address this colossal mess you’ve got yourself in.

Good Luck Ralph!!!

Prickipedia Bill Oddie

 

Bill Oddie is a British presenter, musician, ‘comedian’, ornithologist and interminable excremental smear, most famous for his TV shows ‘The Goodies’ and ‘Spring/Autumn Watch‘, but is perhaps best known for having a face and voice which could infuriate a drugged shaman.

Bilious Herod Oddiowski OBE (Ornithologist Bellend Extraordinaire) was born on 29th February 1940 in Stonehenge in a standard ritualistic Pagan birth. Attending witnesses and well-wishers cite that Oddie began ‘crowning’ at the exact point the sermon master began chanting a medley of racist limericks and demonic incantations.

Parents

He was born to Romany Gypsy parents, Eugene Oddiowski; a well respected Cockfight referee and his reluctant wife and housemaid Tabatha. Tabatha suffered aggravated Bells Palsy but never allowed her affliction hinder a busy and exploited life, single handedly raising 14 children and 7 prized Llama on a budget afforded by collecting change from wishing wells. Oddie has since revealed that his father would  distastefully mock his ailed spouse, regularly referring to her as ‘Hindenburg Head’ in what was an upsetting home life for young Bilious.

Childhood

Oddie was a strange and reclusive child and spent much of his early years studying his reflection in puddles for hours on end whilst gurning incessantly. He had very few friends even within the close-knitted nomadic community in which he resided and his one friend and confidante was a dead, rotting duckling named Ivor which Bilious is said to have killed himself with his  catapult during a typical bout of spasmodic rage.

He was renowned for his animal cruelty amongst the community and there are accounts varying from gassing wasps to throttling a ferret unconscious at a family wedding when aged just 9.

In his early teens, Bill revealed that he had an epiphany which would change the course of his life forever. “It was fucking barmy mate, like a moth in a sun bed” he later told Michael Parkinson during an infamous television appearance. In the incident, during one of his prolonged puddle-staring days, he lost balance, fell face-first into the puddle and began to drown. He claims he would have perished were it not for the intervention of a local heron who nudged him aside to have a drink.

Bill said that his whole life flashed before his eyes and a bearded apparition foretold him that the Final Judgement would call upon his sins and that birds were his messianic saviours, his figurative winged angel-on-earth. “Quite why soppy bollocks didn’t just lift himself out of the puddle, or roll over, or just turn his head is fucking beyond me. Then again, he’s always had the brains of a dog’s bollock, that one” reported the attending Village Practitioner, Dr Grantham Fox.

The incident left Oddie with a profound fear of the afterlife and this newfound benevolence manifested itself in strange affectations. At the age of 16, he threw his bed out of the window and proclaimed from that day forth, he would live from a self-built nest in the corner of his bedroom. Unfortunately, his bold vow was not supported by the requisite cognitive aptitude to build a proficient, nor even a recognisable nest. Often his attempts culminated in Bill stubbornly sleeping atop a pile of broken sticks; and does so to this day. (citation needed).

Dr Fox suggested that this acted only to exacerbate his already bubbling mental decline, “Well just imagine it? Sleeping on a load of sticks all poking into your organs and that. How are you supposed to sleep and keep a level head if you spend 50% of your life with a crooked branch lancing your spleen?”

Early Career

After finally graduating from Orkney Islands University with a BA in Comedic Tomfoolery after 10 years of failed exams and repeated terms, Oddie’s first break in television came after a reported letter to Jimmy Saville in which he bribed the star to use his influence and stature at the BBC to get him his own show. The letter claimed that Oddie would contact to police to inform them that he had been brutally abused by Saville, or as he came to know him, ‘Uncle Stop it’, following an appearance on his ’Jim’ll Fix it’ show aged 31.

Oddie had appeared on the show after asking for Jim to ‘fix it’ for him to do a peregrine falcon handling course and had used his childhood near-death experience as a mewing sob-story. Saville had empathised with Bill and despite his age, agreed to allow him to appear on the show.

This incident only came to light in 1999 when Saville wrote in his autobiography  – Sit on my knee and your dreams will come true‘;

I was fucking livid. I had put my reputation on the line for that bearded tit when I allowed him on the show and how did he repay me? When we met for the show he immediately stripped naked and forced my hand on to his crotch while an accomplice took a picture. He then proceeded to bribe me to get him a show claiming that no-one would believe me as I certainly looked like a rabid sex offender. Against mine, and my lawyer’s better judgement, we agreed he had a point and reluctantly yielded to the pressure arranging for him to have a show commissioned called ‘The Goodies’. I did insist it was on the proviso that we draft in 2 capable co-presenters who could at least make the show vaguely fucking watchable. If I ever see that manipulative little shit ever again I’ll kick him in the liver

Upon release of the book in 1999, Bill Oddie claimed that Saville was ‘a decrepit, moccasin-faced liar who probably can’t remember that he’s still alive, never mind event’s 25 years previous’. Oddie sued Saville for the claims and, in a landmark case, won £142,000 damages with Saville’s book being immediately withdrawn.

With the addition of 2 co-presenters, ‘The Goodies’ became a baffling success and even resulted in a hit single ‘The Funky Gibbon’; believed to be a coded reference to Saville.

Women

The onset of puberty and testosterone surges at the age of 19 added a further dimension to his fragile character; an irksome and dangerous dimension.  His suppressed anger and rage towards animals had found a new outlet through his newfound interest in (human) females. Friends and family have reported that he swiftly became a staunchly misogynist, lustful ogre; later dubbing women as “titted grief receptacles” in an infamous interview with Cosmopolitan Magazine.

These sentiments towards women began mildly in his early twenties, usually resulting in him spending time alone in his bedroom, drawing increasingly demented drawings of naked women with snarling panther’s mouths instead of vaginas.

By his mid-thirties, these quirks had escalated to appalling behaviour towards women. A known womaniser, Oddie has been repeatedly subject to ‘Kiss and Tell’ stories, throughout his life. One conquest, a dyspraxic Zimbabwean Paralympic female wrestler Ekundu Olawe, told The Sun that Oddie would habitually recite Ted Bundy’s prison memoirs during sordid intercourse.

In undoubtedly the most overt example of his chauvinistic persuasion, Oddie is reported to have met his wife during a stag party in Swansea where he lassoed his future spouse with a VIP velvet rope and dragged her back to his Travel Lodge without saying a single word.

Controversy

Never a stranger to controversy, Bill hit the headlines in 1984 for a bizarre incident involving Terry Nutkins. Nutkins was hosting one of his legendary Really Wild Show after-parties when an ambulance was mysteriously called to his Surrey mansion due to an incident quickly shrouded from the swarming press.

After a week of unexplained hermitry, Nutkins finally appeared before the press with a bandaged hand and released a statement announcing that he had lost the tip of his finger in a seemingly implausible story of otter hi jinx. The same day, reports surfacing in the tabloids contained an emerging scandal; a topless waiter serving at the party, known only as Renoir, claimed in the News Of The World that it was in fact Bill Oddie who had been responsible for Nutkins severed digit. The allegation suggested that Oddie and Nutkins had become embroiled in an argument after Oddie had drunkenly defaced a priceless decorative stoat before calling Michaela Strachan a ‘venomous, prehistoric frill-necked  lizard’. Nutkins snapped and lunged at Oddie who – during the ensuing scuffle – removed the stars finger with a fish slice.

Oddie’s management company Oddie Representz Plc quickly moved to deny the allegations and within days, the NOTW had published an apology for ‘inaccuracies’ and Oddie was paid £113,000 damages. Just one week later Renoir committed suicide; asphyxiating himself by lodging a large golf umbrella down his own oesophagus and opened it during his sleep, accordingly to his autopsy report.

Art Attack star Neil Buchanan – a dignitary at Nutkins’ soiree – described in a TV Interview for Newsnight that the media reports on the incident were “fanciful and salacious dredge guffed from the collective bruised riggot of a gaggle of media fauntleroy’s”. A police inquiry was filed on the incident when, during his TV appearance, Buchanan seemed to display  visible trauma to his lips, wrists and temples, cried throughout and was found with a crumpled note reading the exact quote he had provided to reporters, written in Oddies unmistakably mangled handwriting.

Buchanan refused to press charges or admit to any of the claims and was soon admitted to Styal Prison for female offenders after stealing a police car and crashing in to a grit bin, following a period of boozy decline.

Gangster Years

Rumours were rife at this stage of Oddies underworld might. He is alleged to have affiliated himself to a notorious gypsy-catching gang in Kings Lynn known as The Peoples Fist of Norfolk (PFN), being photographed with gang leader known locally as The Ham Dagger (Real name Colin Snodberry) after they met at a dog shooting range in Gaywood, Norfolk.

In an infamous interview with the Observer, Oddie’s now time-ravaged mother furiously lambasted her son for renouncing his traveller roots and associating with vicious gypsy catchers. “If that treacherous little gizoid’s father was still alive he’d turn in his grave. He wouldn’t be in a grave would he? Well, if he was dead he’d turn in his grave..hang on,  he is dead…Look, lets not get bogged down on semantics, I hope the little Judas, chaffinch-fingering, hairy hessian sack of gelatinous disappointment shares solitary confinement in Hell with Liberace. Hang on, it wouldn’t be solitary would it? Oh just get off my fucking doorstep.

It became widely known amongst executive circles at the BBC that Oddie was using his nature programmes as a front to undertake reconnaissance missions for the PFN, strolling around arable countryside under ornithological masquerade ,while in fact hunting and observing travelling gypsies. Despite these fears, no action was taken by the BBC against Oddie amid claims that an influential shareholder in the Beeb was a coveted Gypsy Catcher and known affiliate of the PFN.

Depression and Dependency

In 1997, to allay concerns over increasingly erratic behaviour, Oddies publicist Max Clifford announced that his client had been long been suffering from bi-polar depression and lived on a cocktail of MOAI’s (Monoamine Oxidaze Inhibitors) or as Bill called them, Shouty-Stoppers. However, as with all of his brushes with the press, rumours of a cover up were spreading like wildfire.

The Ipswich Gazette published a story that his depression was being drastically understated as a PR ruse to cover the truth that Oddie, now unappeased by standard mood stabilisers, had become hooked on sucking the potent chemicals from urinal cakes. Within hours the story had spread across the world, reaching headline infamy as far as Tokyo and The Gabon; the scandal becoming irreverently known in the media as ‘Troffgate’.

This was soon followed by pictures in the Sheffield Guardian appearing  to show Oddie, trouserless, rifling though a pub store room in the frantic hunt for more urinal cubes after gorging on them for hours.An onlooker said he was shouting that he was ‘rooting for truffles’  and was ‘giggling like a giddy tit’ before being tenaciously ejected by several regular patrons of the drinking hole. Oddie’s management company released an official statement explaining;

On behalf of Bill Oddie and all of his fans, I would like to condemn both the smutty local rag for printing this bile horrifically out of context, and the braying blue-collar stooge who tried to oink a quick buck from peddling rubberneckers hogwash. The photograph taken of Bill in the cupboard illustrates nothing more than his innate care and almost paternal altruism for birds. When passing to use the restroom, Bill heard the unmistakable cry of an adolescent thrush in peril coming from said cupboard, and was trying desperately to rescue the stricken bird. The other pictures show Bill simply enjoying a large packet of a particular brand of rectangular Gobstopper of which he is extremely partial. “

Just three months later, Oddie was again wracked in controversy after a surreal incident at Bruges airport after a boozy European weekend break. He arrived at the airport for his return flight visibly inebriated, dressed only in a neon Dashiki and carrying what transpired to be a leopards head in a duty free carrier bag. Upon being accosted by airport security Oddie became furious, proclaiming that he was the King of Tiffin and could have each of them beheaded with one phone call (citation needed).  The origins and relevance of the Leopards head was never uncovered despite extensive investigation. Under PFN-lead government pressure, Oddie was swiftly extradited back to the UK where he was immediately released without charge.

Shitting

Oddies career reached an all-time disaster chasm in 1992 when he ‘shat’ himself on stage during a televised live Goodies performance of ‘Funky Gibbon’ on a Top of the Pops special. Half way through the cult number, almost as though unaware of the microphones presence, Oddie squirmed before the startled audience “oh my bastard Christ, batten the hatches, code Brown…no…it’s. ..it’s…yes, its too late” before throwing down the microphone and jogging off stage. He later attributed the episode to an under-poached quail he’d had for breakfast; while tabloid prattle used the mishap to further dramatise his substance dependency.

In similarly recurring theme of circumstance, Oddie launched a lucratively successful defamation of character and libel lawsuit against Heat Magazine, who reported the widely-rumoured claim that Bill had again ‘shat’ himself while presenting a lifetime comedy award to Bradley Walsh at the 2001 BAFTA Awards. Walsh said of the incident “we all fackin’ ‘eard it din’t we? There was a fackin’ roar like a walrus bein’ disembowelled and then a tiddly wink that stripped the enamel off me fackin’ coral reef.”

Personal life

Since 1979 Bill has been ‘happily’ married to El Salavador native Paulina, an extravagant cabaret singer who was born with Kleinfelter’s Syndrome. The couple were embroiled in bitter clashes with the British Psychology Society over their right to marriage after the BPS argued that Paulina’s Syndrome rendered her with an additional xx Chromosome and consequently could not be considered genetically female.

Under this ruling, their relationship was technically defined as ‘gay’ and with homosexuality still considered a mental illness in the psychological diagnostic manual DSM 4, attempts to marry should be vetoed. However, under somewhat acrimonious circumstance, Oddie married his man-darling in an impromptu ceremony in Gretna Green amid claims that a well-respected member of the BPS was a coveted gypsy catcher and known affiliate of the PFN.

They have 2 adopted children; Jose (aged 9); a Nicaraguan albino believed to have been orphaned when both of his parents were murdered by having large golf umbrellas lodged down their respective oesophagus and opened during their sleep, accordingly to autopsy reports. Allegations that Bill was holidaying in the area at the time of the murders have been furiously denied by the Oddie camp.

Their second adopted child, Eugene, named after Oddies father, is a 7 year old Chechnyan feral girl who is believed to been raised by Puffins; brought to Britain after being found by PFN leader Colin Snodberry following a meeting with a Chechnyan faction of the Gypsy Catching fraternity.

The family currently live in a converted former army facility Truro, Devon.

Reluctant voyeur

So allow me to paint a picture, there I was, walking down Tibb Street minding my own smutty business, a touch tired, slightly inebriated, negotiating as linear a path across town as possible to seek solace in my bed and regress to embryonic slumber. Then suddenly, like a hairy nuclear surface – to-eye shit missile, my solipsistic daze was punctuated with a rustling image which inadvertently caught my trudging glance, and my pleasant evening was to meander off course to a disgusting nadir.
Lurking within the sordid shadows of a backstreet doorway in Northern Quarter, I realised that the rustling image my eyes had become drawn to was not some bin bags blowing in the wind, nor was it an unfortunate vagrant trying to huddle some warmth from external air conditioner leakings; I was, in fact, gazing at what can respectfully be described as a monumentally fat couple, engaged in drunken doorway coitus, revolting, blubbersome, alfresco coitus. In fairness, his motions of 50 jiggling pelvic thrusts per nanosecond was admittedly impressive and gravity defying – Newton would have turned in his grave; much akin to a Peter Crouch high-speed bicycle kick. She, or ‘it with tits’ as is probably more apt, merely seemed to be concentrating all over her efforts to remain upright and vomit free, yet still managing to warble out a cacophony of rotten fucksounds to accentuate her ‘performance’.
Now, I am no prude, you understand, but never has my gag reflex recoiled in such austere and cataclysmic fashion than to see 2 rutting swines clumsily negotiating a horrific ‘doggystyle’ botch job with feckless disregard for their self respect, decency and the mind state of any passing reluctant spectator. To make things worse, one of the beasts (the male, I estimate but it was unclear as together they looked like 2 sacks of muleshit sculpted into anthropomorphic shape by a severely retarded seven year old) looked at me and grinned. GRINNED FOR FUCK SAKE.
What is he expecting from me? Perhaps to whoop and run over and ‘give him five’ in a ceremony of obsequious phallus camaraderie, perhaps try and assert my priapic prowess and urinate in a circle around them before charging at the male and try and bestow my turgid seed in the females gloop canyon instead. Maybe it was just so I could see, so I was aware of what he had achieved and be either proud of my fellow man, or jealous of this most auspicious fete. Well done brother, you have successfully managed to get this horrendous marsh-dwelling mass of harridan bile comprehensively drunk enough to let you lance her, in public, with your grubby little disease wand. You really are flying the flag for the state of this much maligned country and it must make mother earths wilted bosom lactate with pride with this display of nature at its beautiful best .

They should both be chemically neutered. They and all of their friends, families, colleagues, neighbours and family pets of yesteryear.

I may never get over this.

Bananas and Intelligent Design

In watching Charlie Brooker’s ‘You Have Been Watching’, they covered an American evangelical ‘chat show’ in the ilk of the fetid haggathon ‘Loose Women’,….’Loose Gideon’, if you will, equally idiotic but infinitely more sinister.

The excellently named Ray Comfort casually stood around musing his ‘Intelligent Design’ theory, proclaiming the undoubted proof of God in an eerie ‘fishing TV’ fashion with the banana as his prized catch. They were clearly bigot-oblivious to the comic irony of caressing the phallic fruit in a homoerotic manner akin to Graham Norton appraising a sordid prop in front of a bewildered B-List method actor.

Their central premise being that the banana is a bountiful largesse from His divine hand, so perfectly designed for human consumption in ergonomic shape it could not have possibly been due to coincidence. He did so with such unbelievable patronising smugness, it was though he was trying to teach a card trick to a chimp. Once I had finishing scoffing and chuckling at their astonishingly haughty performance with about as much valid discourse as a Kerry Katona interview, I was left a little agitated and craving more angered appraisal. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that if I was to draw an e-fit image of someone whose ‘proof’ would be less valid to my opinion, I think I may draw a picture of one of these homunculus God botherers before I would draw a demonic bestiaphile with hooks instead of feet.

Now the last thing I want to do is embark upon a contrived, much covered bout of lurid biblioclasm but I feel an overwhelming desire to vent and take issue with this, more for my own sanity than any other reason.

So,…..

My first issue, the banana a much coveted and consumed fruit, although now globally commonplace is a fruit belonging to the Musaceae family which grows exclusively in countries with a tropical climate. This would lead me to ponder that if this is a foodstuff purposely ‘gift designed’ by Gods own skilled hand, why He would limit this to only specific areas of the globe baked in His own finely chiselled sunshine. Can I only then assume that this is an example of deital favouritism or, dare I say it, racism? Backhanding this sacred fruit to those of a swarthy persuasion while the rest of the sun dodging globe must slither about amongst thorn-covered shrubbery to paw helplessly at rain-sodden bilberries?

Now, clearly this is aimed at a pre-consumerist society whereby humans were responsible for sourcing their own means of survival, rather than current western methods of swanning into a giant psychedelic food hall to collect a slab of fat-trimmed flesh by crossing the palms of a reluctant miscreant with patterned paper. Much of the world has now dispensed with His seemingly transient endeavour which Comfort has so praised God for, through the gradual introduction of such treasures as pre-packed fruit salad and bags of pre-grated cheese. At this point, I feel bound by duty to re-iterate that my use of the term God is in a staunchly non-specific context. Even though I am addressing Ray Comfort’s specifically Christian ideology, I feel indebted to cover all doctrinal angles. Despite idle forays in to researching Islam, Hinduism et al, I am hopelessly ill-informed, thus bound to sway toward the Christian/catholic brand of tripe I have been exposed to my whole life.

Having said which, I am not assuming that any punctilious bias in these irreverent words would induce widespread sectarian uproar and effigies of me to start barbequing on the streets of Goa or Helmand.  I am intrigued what an effigy of me would look like, my immediate wretched spectre conjures a hybrid of the infamous Litvenyenko hospital bed photograph and a blow up sex aid designed for women with a yearning lust for translucent monks.

My second point can be covered by one word only; pomegranate. I will elaborate further but I think this one word speaks the full gambit of my issues with Comfort. If the banana is unrequited evidence for the existence of God, how in babysitting Herod could he explain the existence of the pomegranate? This is a fruit which, despite having a bafflingly comical name, offers such little taste return on the laborious exertion needed that it could make the most ardent God-fearing brain eunuchs question the wisdom of any creationist ideals alone. Just to obtain a tiny piece of flesh you must open it up, sharpen a sewing kit needle, ensure you are facing due south then tweak away with such intricacy that you resemble a 19th century Bavarian watchmaker.

Where does this fit into your schedule Ray? If fruit design was so integral to God’s time-laden life creating schedule, surely even you would want to shake Him by his perfectly pressed saffron lapels and ask him what his Holy malfunction is. This isn’t the fucking Krypton Factor your sodding majesty (or whatever He prefers to be addressed – I’ve not yet had the pleasure), I just require sustenance enough to abide by Your conduct protocol and continue the species. Now, conversely, if I was Ray Comfort, my riposte would hinge around 2 central points.

Firstly, with God adopting the guise of a trendy modern parent, He realised that people dwelling in warmer climates had already been issued with His piece de resistance – the banana, so that He had to even this out by also issuing them with the polar opposite and tip the scale to ensure his undoubted all-loving neutrality.

Secondly, in similar patriarchal fashion, He thought it prudent to include in his little blueprint of earth a number of challenges in life to ensure the development of his most prized muse; in this instance to ensure that we are suitably equipped with visceral micro-dexterity so that once we reach the 20th century, we are adequately proficient at such tasks as changing the fuse in an electrical plug or weaving an intricate tapestry. In any instance, it does scream of a glaring inconsistency in his approach.

In pondering this issue, my train of thought deviated to other areas of His botanical pursuits; if the welfare of humankind was at the forefront of thinking when designing the plant life of earth, why are we surrounded by murderous bastard weeds whose seemingly sole nefarious purpose is to kill all who foolishly plunder its stock like some sort of ghoulish tree villain from a demented David Lynch film? For example – Anthora, Death Camas, American Pokeweed, Apple of Sodom (topical) and Hounds Berry, to name but a few of the more sinister. To allow us to have the comprehensive knowledge we have today of fruits, vegetables, herbs, even organic drugs, a  convoluted process of ‘trial and error’ must have preceded, leaving hundreds of thousands of poor feckless nitwits in its wake.

Is God so callous that he would knowingly oversee the plight of a succession of humans dying in a revolting heap seeping poisonous ooze out of horrific lesions and vomiting themselves inside out? Not the God I’m told about. An insidious rapscallion planting deadly booby traps around which we must learn or yield the deadly consequences of naivety? I find it hard to digest that the same benevolent all-loving God would either allow such a calamitous oversight in his plans; or go to such lengths to create the banana in such detail for us, only to backhand our collective chops with his parlous and aptly dubbed ‘deadly nightshade’.

I am morbidly intrigued by the concept of an anthropomorphic God besieged by febrile insecurity, a tortured genius whose undoubted creative achievements are plagued by his inert Ying and Yang fulcrum of anger and pain. In order for Him to exist, one can only assume that he was Himself created by either a relatively scaled reproductive cycle or a divine creator further afield. I would like to imagine that our God is just one individual in a society of his own, each with their own created universes.

This would make it easier to explain world tragedies and the existence of things like diseases and Stephen Beale (Ian’s son from Eastenders, I don’t even watch it but I’ll never forgive or forget this whiny little shitkicker) as they may have simply been the result of masochistic revenge from a bad day for God. “I woke up abruptly, late, with a painfully throbbing erection, I made toast only to realise there was no butter, made tea only to realise the milk was sour, I then got stuck on a bus with afore mentioned crotch destroyer still nodding frantically like an asylum lunatic, my girlfriend is still ignoring me after I got carried away with sex talk on Thursday and called her a dishevelled wench in the heat of the moment , I’ve had a complete  prick of a day so if earth thinks I’m getting out of my throne to stop a Tsunami  or celebrity ice dancing they can cock off, I’m having a cigar and making some Skittle Vodka“. God c(2001).

Fruit aside, all of nature is widely considered amongst religious cabal to be equal creations of God, particularly animals and wildlife. Keen believing Darwin-agitators use the byzantine array of eclectic animal life as further credence to shun any notion of evolution. “I don’t  know ’bout ya’ll, but I ain’t no monkey, I was created by Gaaawd” I recall  seeing a pastor once exultantly squeal, while brilliantly harbouring the most harrowing epicanthic fold of Klingon proportions I have ever seen. While humans have been afforded by God undoubtedly the most powerful tool in the form of critical thinking and cognitive reason, the world is awash with creatures of mind boggling design existing within the farrago of ecosystems balanced by chaos, symbiosis and societal hierarchy.

In summary, ideally, Ray Comfort should have gushed about the suitability of a banana being used as a medieval bludgeoning tool (what with it having a God-handle and all), picked a particularly unripened sturdy one, and attempted to flagellate himself unconscious live on screen.