Jpeggy Babcock : December's Best Sign

I’ve got a hole in my front right pocket. It’s from a combination of cheap fabric and sharp keys, I suspect. Do you know what I’ve done? I’ve moved my keys into my back pocket, and put my wallet (formerly in the back pocket) into the front. It’s too large for the hole, and anyway, it’s on a chain (a measure introduced after waking up on the night bus with a foreign hand disturbing my goods and penis). You’d think the keys would stick in my arse, but if they do, I can’t feel it. And I daresay if I lost a couple of stone I would, so think on that, Gillian Pisswitch McKeith.
So, to celebrate this new arrangement, December’s sign of the month is dedicated to the adaptability of the human spirit, and the spongability of my arse. Also, happy Christmas, did you get what you wanted? I do hope so.
1. BEST REPACKAGING OF CHRISTIANITY AS FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH
Christians, you really do have to love them. If you attack their lunatic faith, they just smile, quote the Bible, and nowadays they can say “I bet you wouldn’t say that to a Muslim”. To which you can only reply “of course not, my attack was tailored towards Christians, you argument-ducking cretin”. They might reply “well it wasn’t so much an argument as an insult”, which leaves you with nothing to say except “THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE A CUNT OR SOMETHING”.
Christians are absolutely at their best when putting a new face on their religion. Nottingham’s Market Square had a Christian Nu-Metal band playing at the stone lions. This is the left lion, here.

Before that band played, it was quite a happy-go-lucky creature, that lion. The music was as bad as can be expected, and doesn’t really deserve special mention. It was the T-Shirts that I liked. “LIFE SUCKS” screamed the front of the bassist’s shirt. “WITHOUT JESUS” apologised the back. Well done, son – you’ve subverted the nihilism of rock in a way that requires you to turn around at regular intervals.
That band didn’t have a sign, so they’re sadly disqualified from this competition. But it wouldn’t be Christmas without evangelical posters at train stations, trying to snare the wanderers, the lost;

Get ready for the revolution, people. Apart from the transparent shitness of the poster, did anyone think about the wisdom of associating Jesus with a big fucking murderer? As Che himself said in a similar situation to Jesus’ own, “This is a revolution! And a revolutionary must become a cold killing machine motivated by pure hate!” That’s what I genuinely love about this poster. The fact that it’s pig-fucking-thick Christians limply using something that they’ve seen some kids wear.
(Also, notice Antony from the Johnsons doing his own little parody of the whole sorry mess.)
2. MOST COMPELLING HEADLINE

After seeing this poster, I had a huge decision to make. Do I buy the Evening Post?
SCENARIO ONE : I BUY THE EVENING POST
I leaf through the pages, including – no doubt – a 2,000 word piece about a little girl who done up her laces in a bow, scouring for the article about the Norse god of thunder coming to earth on a cloud and saying;
“Really, snap out of it. I mean, everyone’s got a lot on their plates at the moment. You sitting there with that look on your face, like you’re the only one with problems, is really getting on my tits. I know you’ve just lost your father, and I’d know how you feel if all my close friends weren’t immortal, but how much sympathy do you actually want? And be honest, before that, you were always a bit fucking prone to milking it, weren’t you? Have you ever thought that people hate you precisely because you go on all the fucking time about how much everyone’s against you? You make your own fucking luck, my dear, and the reason all this shit happens to you is because you want it. You want it because it’s so fucking easy to sit there bitching about it. Right, that’s it. NO MORE SELF-PITY. I HAVE BANNED IT.”
SCENARIO TWO : I LET THE DREAM LIVE ON
Because at heart, I am a soppy old romantic, who doesn’t want to know whether it’s just a nickname of a local football manager whose team has just been relegated. That would be the worst anti-climax of my life.
After spending 1984-1992 getting steadily more excited about sex, then finally having it.
3. LEAST RELEVANT DRAWING
(WHEN CONTEXT IS FRAUDULENTLY REMOVED WITH PHOTOSHOP)

The poster goes on… “Are you unemployed? So am I, but I still drew this really cool picture. It’s my dad!”
No, it doesn’t say that. It’s something about childcare – the drawing is totally appropriate. I’m a total fraud. But not as much of a fraud as Danny fucking Wallace, who is currently hosting a television show about hoaxes, yet pretends for about half of his insulting book “The Yes Man” to have been duped by a typical Nigerian email scam. Here is my copy of the book, which was a present from someone who appears to believe that I am a massive arsehole.

Actually, I just remembered, I’m lying again! It was given to me by Ebury, the publishers. The publishers of my book are the same people who publish Wallace, and Terry Pratchett. This gave me the chance to ask someone who might actually know… “Is Terry Pratchett as big a cunt as I imagine?” The answer was superbly diplomatic – “he’s very powerful”.
4. CRAFTIEST SWASTIKA IN EVERYDAY LIFE

There are, apparently, people trying to slip swastikas into everyday drawings. Not through any desire to bring back the old peaceful meaning; mostly because they think swastikas are funny. They’re right – swastikas are funny. I’m not going to explain why, because it’s a fucking rickety bridge, that one. But don’t pull the Jew card on me, ‘cos they killed gays too (as did Che Guevara, if you’re reading, Jesus). If anything I should be given a little bit of the Promised Land because my, well, not ancestors of course, we’re shit at having descendants, but someone who likes cocks probably as much as I do got GASSED.
Thanks to David Grilliopoulos, who sent that in, saying “i spotted it in a manchester train station and thought of you”. I’m glad my branding is so strong.
5. THE GREAT TOILET SHOW-DOWN
November saw the Tit Freak winning without competition; this month, the “Opinions Or Needs So Strong They Burst Out When I’m Having A Piss Or Shit” category is divided into two sub-categories; “Oh For Crying Out Loud” and “Come Here You Poor Thing”.
5a. OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

Hey! Do you know what, I think people have mentioned that, before? I think I heard my grandmother saying something like that. And she wasn’t even trying to be political, or important. She just noted it, insightful as you like. She didn’t hop onto her Vespa and scrawl it on the wall of some nightclub shitter. My gran, bless her, doesn’t really hold with dressing up basic, insightless observations as YOUMUSTKNOW infosubversion.
Keep on changing the world, you awful twat.
5b. COME HERE YOU POOR THING

This is heartbreaking. There is the internet, there’s personal ads, there’s gay bars and there’s Little Britain showing that gays can even have catchphrases like normal people. Why are you still doing looking for sex through toilet graffiti? It can’t be because he’s got a wife and needs to be discrete, because it’s a landline.
SAM’S WIFE : Hello?
ME : Hello, I’d like to speak to Sam. It’s about the big cokc.
Perhaps he’s shy. In that case, he should be looking for nice people, not big cocks. Should I phone him, and offer to take him out for a drink? Should I? That’d be a blog entry and a half, that would. Oh, God. I think I’m going to phone Sam.