Scientology and shooting pringles in the faces of the poor

I’m hoping that anybody reading this is not a member of the church of Scientology. The simple reason for this is that I can’t be arsed laying out the finer points of why your religion is an utter pile of wanking aftermath, aptly summarised in your deluded spokesman Tom Cruises’ couch jumping shenanigans on Oprah Winfrey’s equally lamentable excuse for daytime programming. For those who don’t have time for the venerable Mr. Hubbard’s pseudo-scientific, religious clusterfuck, well done for achieving the base level in rationality.

OK, there’s nothing new in taking a stab at the most obviously fraudulent cult in modern times, in fact, it’s actually a bit trendy to take a pop at Scientology, the most gaping open goal in the minefield of intellectual discourse. Nobody in their right mind is going to disagree with whatever far out statement you make lamenting this horseshit; you may as well argue that food aid for famine victims is better provided in the form of cooked meals rather than serving Pringles via a shotgun to the face. Yet still the delicate balancing act between the freedom of religious worship and protecting people from being conned rages on, often coming down in favour of the former through sheer laziness. Are we too scared to recognise that some religions are totally made up? Why do we have to give equal credence to every bogus notion that smacks of false spirituality, hiding itself behind basic human decency that allows people to believe whatever the hell they want to without bullying them?

There’s an important court case happening in France at the moment, where a former Scientologist is suing her religious bosses for extorting money from her after a free personality test (we’re back the Pringles analogy, once you pop, you can’t stop). If successful, Scientology could be banned across the country, to which I say good riddance. It’s bad enough that Microsoft word is automatically correcting my poor spelling of Scientology to include a capital letter, the idea that people’s lives are being destroyed is much worse

The reason we can’t put other religions on trail such as Christianity and Islam is that it’s simply too late. All the key witnesses are dead, and should Jesus ever show up to provide testimony it would be a shore fire indicator that we’d better all start getting down to church pronto. Luckily we still have a chance to rid the world of the utter poison that is Scientology. In my hometown of Perth, Australia, I regularly see large groups of former Scientologists marching through the city centre, living witnesses to the danger of letting things be. The scene is made all the more fitting when you see the marches dressed in fancy dress, an attempt at masking identity rather than joviality.

Life is often about tolerating the various views that people hold that may not coincide with your own, and accepting the multi-cultural world we live as complex place that needs to be dealt with empathetically and with respect. In the case of Scientology, it simple isn’t.

The most important day in the history of the universe

24th of May is shaping up to be a momentous day in World history, and not just because Mongolians are charging to the polls to elect their next president (is there a person amongst us who hasn't cried out 'go Tsakhiagiin Elbegdorj, go' whilst out shopping or during sex). Even more important than suspect democratic institutions going through the motions is the upcoming finale to the English football season, with four teams battling it out to avoid having to ply their trade in footballing purgatory, or to be more precise playing twice a year against Blackpool. In just a few hours Newcastle, Middlesbourgh, Hull and Sunderland will be applying the same suspect tactics that got them into trouble to try and salvage their status as being amongst the big boys of world football. It's an unsurprising list of the usual suspects, aside from Newcastle United, whose plight has been filling many column inches as football pundits attempt to dissect the reasons behind the gradual disintegration of a club that should have been challenging for trophies rather than trying to overtake Hull City in a footballing fight to the death.

The various diagnosis have been offered up in much more detail than I could possibly cover, but here's a summary for the uninitiated. Firstly, and most importantly, as the old song goes they've never won fuck all. Despite claims to greatness, Newcastle United haven't won a major trophy in over 50 years. Various managers and directors have chucked millions of pounds at the team to try and fire them towards the top, each campaign grinding to a halt in the face of better organised and more ambitious opposition. The only time Newcastle stood a genuine chance of winning the league was in the 1995–96 season when, after leading the pack for most of the season, they chucked away a big point advantage to Manchester United, giving the world the famous footage of Kevin Keegan utterly losing the plot in a post match interview that summed up the clubs forthcoming fortunes. Since then various managers had a crack at matching the club's expectations (it should be noted that expectation and ambition are very different beasts, the latter driving clubs to success, whilst the former has poisoned great clubs with the deadly venom of impatience). Money was pissed away on expensive mercenaries, manager after manager brought in and sacked until finally the team began to resemble a jigsaw puzzle without a picture on it. This season alone has seen four managerial appointments, a staggering testament to the utter incompetence of the people running Newcastle United. Now, in the clubs darkest hour, their fate lies in the hands of po-faced local hero Alan Shearer, perhaps the greatest player to wear the black and white, and a man who represents everything wrong with Newcastle United.

On the day of Shearer's appointment, Sky news (a network with nothing better to do) showed footage of delighted fans hailing the arrival of their saviour. To be fair it was pretty big news, as speculation had surrounded his potential appointment for years, undermining almost every manager that had tried to do their job at Newcastle under the huge shadow he cast. There was nothing to indicate Shearer was equipped to mastermind the great escape fans had hoped for. He'd never managed a team in his life, and quickly returned a serious of lacklustre losing performances that saw them languish in the relegation zone. This has been overlooked by the pundits and fans, probably the same ones who so enthusiastically welcomed Shearer in front of the Sky cameras. After all, Newcastle fans are more interested in a glorious narrative rather than an acceptance of the realities of their situation. They'd much rather take a punt on a local hero like Shearer, a man who has waited until there is barely anything left in the tank until taking over the reigns, perfectly setting himself up as a miracle worker if he succeeds and hardly to blame if they were relegated, in spite of the shockingly poor football orchestrated under his reign thus far.

Should Newcastle survive tonight, it won't be a story of pluckiness and fortitude in the face of insurmountable odds, an honour that should be Hull city's (though their manager Phil Brown looks like he should be running the knicker factory in Coronation Street). In the same way that Leeds United's spectacular fall from grace acts as a warning against overextending the financial security of a club, Newcastle United should be an lesson in what happens to a football club that is run on the misguided ambition of impatient fans, mesmerised by a narrative nobody else can see.

How will Mugabe finally bump off Morgan Tsvangirai?

Morgan Tsvangeriai, Prime Minister of Zimbabwe has once again narrowly avoided death after his car was hit by a freight lorry as he drove into the capital city Harare. The crash, which left Tsvangirai with minor injuries and his wife Susan dead, is just one of many near fatal incidents that have occurred over a decade of actively campaign against Robert Mugabe, President of Zimbabwe and dictatorial shitbag. The official line is that the driver of the lorry fell asleep at the wheel, precisely at the moment when the prime minister was heading towards him, veering off at just the right angle to hit Tsvangiari’s car. With luck like that Mugabi really should do the Zimbabwean lottery, except the million dollar cash prize would only get you a pack of Marlboro lights and a box of matches.

There is a chance that this was an accident, but it goes to show just how violent the political climate has become when the odds are more in favour of an assassination attempt. I feel pretty confident to call this one as a shot just wide of the post for Mugabe, who seems to be able to murder and starve his own people with impunity, secure in the impotency of the international community.

Assuming that he gets the full 200 years of life guaranteed him by the devil when he sold his soul, how will Mugabe, a man who’s so busy trying to oust Tsvangiari that he forgets not to dress like he’s doing the annual comic relief fun run each morning, finally put paid to the pesky prime minister. Here are a few of my carefully worked out predictions.

1. Whilst visiting Tsangaris in hospital to wish him a speedy recovery, Mugabe kindly brings him a bag of grapes, a copy of nuts magazine and a wash bag. “Thanks Rob, I must admit I’m feeling a bit minty and could use a wash. Damn, you forgot to put a toothbrush in.” “No problem,” says Mugabe, “just give your pegs a quick rub with the pillow; it’ll at least get the worst of the stains off.” As Morgan is wiping his teeth, Rob notices a mosquito has landed on the prime ministers head. “oh dear,” thinks Rob, “I’d better bat that away, I know for a fact from his MySpace page that mosquito bites are Morgan’s third most disliked thing, just after assassination attempts and the music of Cold Play,” As Rob leans over to swat away the pesky mossie, tragedy strikes. He slips on the still wet blood of a cholera victim who’d had the bed previously. With his arms akimbo and his legs flailing like Willie Coyote, Mugabe frantically reaches out to steady himself, landing both palms on Tsvangirai’s pillow, pushing it down into the prime ministers mouth, suffocating him. “Oh no,” thought Mugabe, “I’m accidentally choking Morgan with his pillow, but if I let go I’ll fall into the blood and stain my suit. I’m meeting the South African ambassador later to thank him for obstructing efforts by the international community to curtail my dictatorial shenanigan, and turning up in a blood stained suit would be one hell of a faux pas. Sorry Morgan, looks like your goose is cooked.”

2. The lorry driver, wracked with guilt for falling asleep at the wheel, decides to drop of a bunch of flowers to Mr. Tsvangiari and apologies in person. Unfortunately, on his way to the hospital, he once again falls asleep at the wheel of his lorry after staying up all night watching Zimbabwean big brother, smashing into the exact room of where Morgan is recovering.

3. A pissed of Robert Mugabe turns up to hospital, revolver in hand, marching straight into Tsvangiari’s room. “Alright Tsvangers, that does it, I can’t be arsed with all this fannying around. I’ve had it up to here with your selfish refusal to be assassinated, for fucks sake I’m trying to run a country into the ground and you’re not helping. It’s like my great granddad said “if you want someone killing you have to soot him yourself,” or was that Bob Hope, no matter, the point’s still valid.” Said Mugabe, as he expertly popped off a few rounds off into Tsvangiari’s bonce.

Tune in next week, as I finalize my prediction about what hilarious prank North Korean leader Kim Jong Ill will play at the UN with the miniature nuclear device he got for Christmas. The results: explody!

duuhhh, duuuhhh, duuuhhh....daa daaaa

In case you're wondering, the title is my lame attempt to spell out the theme tune from Space Oddesey: 2001. I don't think there will be another piece of familiar music that will encapsulate the grandiose nature of our hopes for the future. So why I’m employing it for my first blog is a mystery. After all, I’m writing this in my underwear, half cut, trying to add a sense of occasion to my meagre monkey musings. Ho hum.

I can't really lay out an agenda for my blog, it's mostly a forum to dump a few musings and opinions.

A Lady Guinevere like figure has just burst into my bedroom and proceeded to knight me, charging me with a holy task, which I didn't hear properly as I was busy wondering how she got into the building without a key card.

I guess i'll just start by explaining the name of the blog. 'Hurry up please it's time,' is a line from T S Elliot's poem The Wasteland. It's an old saying that landlords used to use to say that it was time to finish supping your drinks, but has a sinister, apocalyptic edge. Seems about right. Aside from saying that this will be poorly spelt and punctuated, I guess I’ll call it a half decent manifesto.

Keep it lefty