In the last 2 weeks the English version of the Mason-Dixon line has been pushed to its limits in the press.

Topless Darts/Weather in Norwegian/NewsBunny gob on a stick Kelvin MacKenzie has been proposing a Southern Political Party, as apparently down here we make all the moolah and have to give it to them ‘oop there.

Quite why this NewsTurd is still allowed to have an opinion defeats Janky as it was probably his journalistic touch that ended up as the Levinson enquiry.

But it seemed to strike a chord with Telegraph readers, who it also seems are the most impotent in the UK.

Research by the purveyors of fine Viagra, www.healthexpress.co.uk has shown that the Borough of Westminster can’t seem to get enough of online erectile pills, whilst those above Manchester, seem OK and don’t have to resort to websites to maintain a love life.

But the Bristol-Beccles line has permeated itself into our nations’ subconscious more than we know.

Janky has had to drive the length and breadth of Engerland this week, doling out the finest free diving magazines. Motorway services have become my new cribs, and the road signage a lesson in stereotyping.

Around Wales it still says “Don’t Drink and Drive”. No kidding Dai…you’d have thought they had that figured by now. In London the signs are all about “Tiredness can Kill….” Is it because we all work as hard as Kelvin and need to take a break from raising the income to keep UK Plc afloat? Maybe.

Around Merseyside, we are told “Do not drive in a Stolen Vehicle”. A little bit ironic as most of the theft in this country goes on in the City of London, especially the oak panelled boardrooms of you know where.

In Manchester…yup you’ve got it “Don’t do Drugs and Driving”. For real…it’s all there, just spend 2 days on the M’s 1/6/5 and 4 and you can see the Highways Agency is as stereotypical as Mr MacKenzie.

But what is the truth. They say markets dictate.

Let’s look at the fun new fashion brand JACAMO.

For those that don’t know it, it was launched 3 or 4 years ago with Jonny Vegas as the front man.

He is fat. It sells clothes to fat people. “From medium to 5XL” goes the tag line.

They’ve dumped him now for Freddie Flintoff, who used to be fat, but now is a boxer as he hangs onto the media limelight. But Jacamo knows he will be an orca again soon, so its money well spent.

It used to be online but has now opened 3 stores across England.

This could be the obese yardstick we’re after. They wouldn’t open in Paris, eh, no lardies there.

The stores are in Leicester, Liverpool and Gateshead.

There you go, the fatty capitals of our sceptic isle.

So there’s our stereotypes sorted justly and fairly.

NORTH = poor, potent, druggie and tubby.

SOUTH = overworked, loaded, thin but impotent.

Hmmm, think I might move to Birmingham.

JCF

“Hey kids, were hooome. Daddy and Mommy have had a hard trip home from Vegas. Sorry we’re late.”

“ Stacey… why are you so pale. And thin. Have you not eaten for this last fortnight?”

“ Brett, get out of that pool of your vomit”

“Jesus honey, what the hells going on here. The kids have gone feral”

“OMG, Duane, there’s five dead dogs in the garden and absolutely no sign of…..”

NANNY MacAFEE

“Call him now honey”

“No answer….but there’s something on the computer here. A boarding pass download for Belize”

“Honey…can you hear that noise at the neighbour…Hey look, there’s CSI in his garden.”

“Nooo, Earl’s been shot. Single tap to the head. Nanny MacAfee’s gone. Surely these 2 facts can’t be linked..”

“Well of course they can’t be…only a fool would think the disappearance of our Nanny at the exact TOD of our neighbour with GSR all over our front door handle is incriminating”

“You’re right Martha, the best way to prove your innocence is to go to a non-extradition country, and hide there.”

“OK, I’ll go clean up the kids. Hey…all the bath salts have gone..”

And so begins a legend. The first Web multi-millionaire to completely lose it…but in a RocknRoll way. The way a Moon or Kobain would lose it. The way a Spector or a Vicious could do it.

Welcome to the New World of the hyperintelligent with money drugs n chicks. Jobs, Gates and even Berners-Lee were too sensible. Sold out, carpet slippers and Chareau Y’Quiem for them.

Not for the next generation.

What would you do..

Sure, we all say that if we joined the super-rich we'd use it to enrich humanity. Build an orphanage. Go on the obligatory "round the world tour". But we all know what we'd do in our heart of hearts: we'd use it to fly in Russian models. We'd create a fortified complex in a semi-rogue state. We'd build, a free-love yoga ashram. We'd gladly pay the $150 taxi fares from San Pedro to our compound for the constant stream of fresh women there to join in our bath salts-fuelled polyamorous parties. We could even, as Nanny seems to have done, donate a million dollar yacht to the Belize coastguard in the hope that it would deflect from the curious chemicals we'd been brewing in our lab.

Back before the guy who owns Spotify was born, McAfee was the king of virus protection. An engineer at Lockheed in the late 80s, he'd wasted a lot of time trying to fix viruses, then stumbled on the idea of a programme that zaps them automatically. By 1992 he had taken the McAfee company public, and scooped $100 million for himself. Now, with the business he'd invented wrested from his control, McAfee was effectively retired at the age of 47. What was a man of drive and vision going to do with the rest of his life?

Yes, first try to be a Nanny…kids need experienced guidance. But when that fails…

The answer is "go increasingly insane", and it's an answer that has appealed to generations of the impossibly wealthy and over-imaginative before him

More than 99.9 percent of anyone now living, John McAfee seemed to have spent every waking hour Carpe-ing the darn Diem

Respec’ if you didn’t shoot the guy. None of you did.

Blog on from the jungle you bloody nutter.

And the rest of the world…this is just the start.

Innovators + $100 mill sell out + home brewed highs = Punk.

Always thought the Web would go that way.

JCF

Janky has the misfortune a few years ago to be ID thefted. Quite why anyone would want to be me is most odd. Having been described by a series of ho’s as a shit, fat, rat, abusive and worst of all – stupid, Janky feels he’s best left as the only version of him in the hood.

So one day when checking his account for how much he needs for laundry that week, (more in an ill-gotten sense than watching his Calvins rotate for an hour) card gets retained. See bank.

It turns out a man who is the complete physical opposite

(good looking and tanned) has provided the worst forgery of a Police report I have ever seen and managed to get a new pass book, access the account and walk of with Janky’s fortune.

The bank of course refunded some of it, but I wanted to see justice as there were CCTV images as well as the New Janky’s actual Brixton address. He was a bit like the old version – stupid. Some ho’s were right.

I figured 5:0 would love this. Easy arrest, they knew where he lived. But first I had to report this in.

“Is this the first time you have been a Victim, Sir?”

Shizzle- what a loaded question. The lids gonna come off Pandora’s lil’ box here.

“Weeell….there was the time I was wrongly accused of hitting my bro’ by Ma Janky. And I never put that cat in the toilet. It fell. As for that date rape case, it was a cow after all, and my lawyer was cr*p. And it wasn’t me, I was just there holding Jimmy’s cigar and Gary’s wig for them as a favour.”

“No Sir, Victim in the new enlightened Police sense…”

This is where we are now in Blair/Brown/Cameron (BBC) Britain. The Government is Mummy, it’s never our fault, and the Filth have to show tenderness and sympathy rather than actually banging up a perp.

It’s Modern Toss as Chaucer would say.

But there are victims out there.

Perhaps 240 of them, that few know about.

Whodoyathink? Guess….

It’s to do with you know who….Armchair. Badges. Keys to the mortuary. Yes…

The suckers that went to the Dreweatts auction in July of this year and bid over £2.5 million for Jimmy Savile memorabilia.

Fuggin’ A. They went with good intention, only to buy the pervert’s lame trakkies, kilts and humidor.

They must hate the Beeb. Knowing he was that bad, they let them walk into an auction house and spend their hard earned bucks on gear still moistened by under-aged girls’ tears.

Check the Daily Mail page here:

(http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2180953/Jimmy-Savile-Auction-One-time-Jim-fixes-charity-Saviles-personal-treasures-fetch-small-fortune.html )

See the happy smile of the Care Home owner from Rotherham as she got Jimmy’s yellow Bubble Car for 22 grand.

YES 22 large.

They were gonna put it in the middle of the geriatrics common room to make them happy.

Make them puke their ground up sucky food into their catheter bags more like!

Some fool paid £150k for Jimmy’s Roller. Registration plate JS 247. They said that number was the old wavelength for Radio 1.

We know it was his latest Victim count.

He called it “The Beast”.

For real.

There’s irony.

The best bit about the Mail reportage of the event are the “comments” below the article. Go on have a look. E.g.

“What a charitable and public spirited man, even in death, that undoubtedly deserved the 'Sir' preceding his name, and what a contrast to many of the other knights currently dominating the news ”

Yeah right. They haven’t had their gravestones removed.

My favourite:

“ This man was one of the greatest ever to live. He gave more of himself than any other living man, and the knighthood was more worthy than a thousand others. He should have had a higher honour bestowed on him. Perhaps at last he has become a saint!!!!”

Indeed, I reckon the Catholics are looking for a Patron Saint of Pervertion to guide their own similar in-house problems.

Like all comments on news sites there’s a wonderful click through beneath each one.

REPORT ABUSE it says.

Where shall we start.

JCF

That’s the last Sa-Vile entry please Janky.

Machete Masta Moderator.

Agreed MMM…unless Chegwin gets dragged into this “Tsunami of Filth” too. Then bets are off dude.

JCF

I’m in heaven. Like rare medical disorders a doc will only see once in their life. Like a total solar eclipse or a comet returning, yes we are seeing something that happens so rarely, that when it does – it reminds us of Moore’s Utopia.

Indeed, what a joy it is to see the BBC absolutely bang to rights, on the back foot and being humiliated on a daily basis, even by that fine moral arbiter - the Sun.

Even with the results of Levinson a long way off, the Murdoch’s now have higher moral ground than Chris Patten and Auntie.

Janky must though declare his interest.

I pay the BBC tax, so am partly to blame. But I have also been on the receiving end of what the BBC calls “journalism”.

They fuggin make it up as they go along a lot of the time.

But for Newsnight to pull a story so they can release the simpering special on the great life of Britain’s blondest dead paedo, is shocking.

Where has Panorama been all this time?? Nowhere. Pathetic.

If I am a few days late with the license fee, letters threatening me with imprisonment are sent.

Well whose looking at jail now? Ha. Just desserts.

They shipped the vulnerable in for him to abuse, and laughed it off with a “that’s just what Jimmy does” and drinks all round in the Green Room after.

Auntie?? Uncle more like, and one that the family tells the kids to steer clear of.

Such is the symmetry of life, however, we now find this….

A culture of silence from those in the know. Immunity from criticism due to “celebrity”. Shenanigans in hotel rooms on “Tour”. And wearing yellow.

Step forward Mr Armstrong.

You are Jimmy’s parallel universe. Lycra everywhere but less under age girls and more bikes.

How do you hide and pass 60 plus dope tests? How do you hide the abuse of 60 plus teens?

Where is decent investigative journalism when you need it?

Yup – stuck up a tree in France with a long lens aimed at Her Future Maj’s knockers.

Strange old world.

JCF

So no matter what our nation’s yoof do in their exams, they’re f***** either ways. Results get better, the exams must be easier really, not them being cleverer. The results get worse and suddenly they’re all thick. Janky can’t quite remember this hubbub going on back in the day of his metalwork CSE. But back then league tables were only for football, not for ranking education.

This recent “drop” in results astounds me. MP’s, journos and the usual rent-a-gobs on Newsnight are standing in line to diss the kids, but not one of them seems to have even the most basic grasp on statistics. A 0.4% drop in results is deemed “insignificant” statistically. That’s 4 one thousands of a decrease. If your lover said she loved you 4 one thousandths less this morning, you wouldn’t worry. Blame the hormones. If your house dropped this in value, it’s about 800 quid. Not enough to go into a selling frenzy.

It is obvious that Mr Gove, (who currently holds the “MP that most looks like a paedophile” award, having taken this honour from Oliver Letwin- funny how they’re always Tories. Whereas it’s always Labour females for the “MP I’d least like to sit next to at dinner”- Estelle Morris anyone) is using this most dubious stat to big up his career and the O-level.

Hmmm, if he knew his stats better, he would see that the only rise in results was in Northern Ireland.

And could this be fully attributed to the presence of the Jordanian Paralymic team. I am sure that 4 one thousandths of the population of Antrim are wheelchair bound residents of Aqaba. There- that explains it.

It also happily explains the complete lack of revolution in Amman. When you’re bordered by Lebanon, Iraq and Syria, there must be concern in the marble halls walked by the King. But he can rest easy. If the disabled athletes get done for under-age sex and voyeurism, imagine what the able bodied ones get up too.

Hence no medals- hence no revolution.

They’re using the web for saucy pictures, not spreading Jihad.

But the Paralympics will miss any competitor, as will Janky. I’ve been lucky enough to get tickets for the Blind Shooting and Wheelchair Long Jump. Go Team GB etc.

It seems now a lot of competitors are ex-Vets. No, not James Herriot types, but those poor sods sent out to win the hearts and minds of the Taliban, only to be shot at by those they have trained and befriended. Let’s hope Prince Harry stays safe on his next tour of duty. I’d hate to see what he would get up to in Antrim if he were amputated and wheelchair bound. Not that his Dad should mind.

After his coke-snorting, letter-selling shenanigans, he hasn’t got 2 legs to stand on.

JCF

“Step away Sir. Step behind the red line. You are NOT permitted in front of the red line, Sir. You will be cautioned if you do not comply.” Fly freezes, expecting the harsh crack of the Tazer any moment on his chest.

Yes we are at Area 51.

At the Lil’ Ale-E-Inn to be precise. Fly had wandered too close to the bar serving alcohol, and Nevada State law has it that minors can go no nearer than two feet. Hence the warning.

We’re worried though. If that’s what you get at the friendly local inn, what awaits us at the doors of the Nellis Airforce Bombing Area, known to the world as A51.

A headshot perhaps.

Ale-E-Inn has to be the oddest eaterie on the planet. Set in a dustbowl plain, with broken vehicles all around, and good ole boys spitting tobaccy outside. They rest against plinths erected by Universal Studios containing time capsules to be opened next century “when we are all living an interplanetary existence.” Inside locals eat Patsy’s soup as the “we are not alone” tourists eat Alien burgers. Fly and I sat next to Japanese, Spanish and Brazilians, whilst the tender whooped “where are ya’ll from?”

This is my Haj.

And when they do come, which frankly has shorter odds than any Jesus second coming, I can say I was there first.

[The truth, which is out there – weather balloon my arse. And if it were a crashed experimental plane, the Feds would have told us by now, ‘cos there ain’t no Cold War anymore. So the logical conclusion was a downed ET.]

There is only one way in. Groome Lake Road. Every other direction does not go to the core of the place. Fly and I set off up the unpaved 20 mile track. Half way there, we saw it.

The black van.

Heading our way throwing up a dust trail visible for miles. Going at some speed it soon turned head on and shimmering in the haze, the dark speck got bigger.

A secret military vehicle carrying dissection remains.

The latest in anti-radar trucks.

The “welcome committee” of hardened Delta Force to send us back.

The President.

Fly and I were getting concerned as its path took us into a head on collision.

At the last second it swung away and sped past. 3 letters were emblazoned on its side.

CIA, no.

FBI, no.

It was fuggin’ UPS.

I guess even incarcerated aliens are allowed to use eBay now.

JCF

Las Vegas. What better present for young Fly, when he’s just fresh outta young offenders, and about to go to older offenders in September, than a few lessons in how life works.

Janky’s Pa taught him no shit of any use at all, ‘ceptin always get even, which is on the cards or a lotta folk out there. So as not to revisit his sins on me all the way to young Fly, it is time to learn him the dark arts of gamin’ [as they call it here..not gamblin’] because as we all know, life is a lottery, so you may as well know how to play it well.

The Feds though had other ideas. Once again Janky was put in the airport holding pen by the Department of Homeland Security. Every fuggin time it happens. My record is 5 hours in Miami Dade. This time only 2 in Vegas McCarron, but just at the time you think you’re gonna smoke your first cigarette after the 12 hour flight you feel the dreaded hand on the shoulder… “Sir, would you step this way.”

Turns out they have me for an illegal. I overstayed my welcome by ten years about twenty years ago. Although this was just a technical error after not handing back the green bit of a transit visa at LAX on the way to the Outback. I have pointed out to the charming fools at US C and I that if I had been 10 years of my life in the Great Satan then I would be 50 pounds heavier and a lot more stupid.

They love that one.

Alamo had the Camaro ready. Same wheels as in Transformers. The yellow goodie, not the Megatron truck, which we probably did need for all of Fly’s golf shit.

Gamin’ Lesson No1 – you have to be over 150 kilos to play the slots. There’s no point in the casino reinforcing the seats otherwise. A waste of titanium.

Macs have come a long way since I was last here. Impressive. They have totally comped all of the good bits off the KFC menu with no shame whatsoever. They ripped Nuggets in the eighties, now they’ve taken the Buckets, Zingers and all other poultry lines off the Colonel and into Ronnie’s fiefdom. I had McZinginChickenNibbles that were a poor Popcorn in disguise.

“Would you like sauce with that , Sir?”.

“We have tomato, honeymustardranch and barbeque.”

She got her friends over to laugh at me as well for thinking Sauce number 2 was a flavoursome combo.

“Sir, that’s 3 sauces…hahahaha etc.”

I’m a long way from home.

Gamin’ Lesson No2 – the more comfortable the seats, the less likely they are to be used by gamblers. Somehow they’ve turned American Idol into a high stakes slot/video game. Bet on the crooner. Cowell gives his verdict. Baddabing, out comes the money. The 3 generations of Mexican family failed to see the fun in this and preferred to sleep instead.

The same principal is seen at airports with massage chairs. Elderly obese see them as their free disabled seating.

A 24 oz cup is about a pint. Kids get these with as many refills as they want. It starts with Coke, but by the 3rd trip, it’s the cocktail. Fly reckons the trick is to make it undrinkable. That’s the Holy Grail for yoof. His offering is a Diet Sprite base, topped up with Powerade and Dr Pepper. Finish with a twist of Banana Sludgee and OJ. Proffer to parent and stand back for the obvious result. I’ll get him back with Guiness and cider when he’s old enough.

Gamin’ Lesson No3 – craps is just that. Crap. It needs flamboyance of the thrower and rules you can figure out. Not a limp- wristed German chucking and croupiers who disdainfully look at you when you ask how to bet. Stick to the slots. No-one else watches your complete inability to gamble.

Fly reckons its one big con, Vegas. Much better to find somewhere historical with relevance to the future in our Higgs boson times.

That’ll be Area 51 tomorrow then.

JCF

On the Northern borders of Janky's turf lies that famous Hill...Lavender Hill. Janky has now signed it over to Shoeman to run, and he does a good job satisfying demand for all the rackets needed in this part of London. Numbers, grass [literally] and footwear keep him busy. Its a tough areas to keep control of, the riots saw the loss of high end telly retail and the local ethnic balance means its a lot easier to start a Chicken Cottage than a shop selling venison. No matter though, da Hill is often graced by the great 'n'good. Even Mao/Ashe prison tatted Iron Mike Tyson has had the pleasure of the bars here. Only for 20 minutes though, before the mob descended on him for a mixture of autographs and to "av a pop at the man who beat the man etc". Even the 137 bus stopped, full of passengers, and the driver stood for 10 minutes to get his signature.

Such is the Hill. Full of passion and offbeat shops. The best recent success is "Comet Miniatures". A growing need in the area for repro Daleks and retro toys has developed. Janky often poses the question to himself..."just where can I buy a life sized Cyberman to go with a chess set featuring Orks as pawns..?". Ah, da Comet shop. Its now expanded to take a double front on the Hill.

Anyways, the proprietors have just installed a huge graffiti mural on the steel roller blinds of Alien vs Predator. AvP to those keen on that film genre, which includes FlyAss, whose school sent a letter to Janky after he had done a talk about it. They informed me it was an 18 film and he was only 6. Guess I'm on one of those Social Services lists now.

Last Sunday round about 9pm..2 drunks walked past the mural, and like any drunk at that time of night, took the chance of repeatedly headbutting Predator on the roller blinds. There's no better way of showing pissed-macho than taking on Pred when he cant fight back. That done, the drunks stumbled on to find a place to vomit and urinate that can be blamed on dogs later.

But what they didn't account for was... despite it being the Sabbath, and late to boot AND the fact that the shutters were down, that the shop was inhabited. The owners came out in a reasonable degree of annoyance. AND what the drunks could never had guessed was that the owners were not Dungeons n Dragons/Trekkie like geeks, the kinda guys that run these sorts of establishments, but shaven headed Chelsea 'ard men.

"Did you just f****** hit my mural of AvP, you c***!!!"

[pissed reply] along the lines of it was an accident, we fell head first onto the battle scene of these 2 Hollywood giants

"C'm here you ***** and I'm gonna smack you..etc"

The drunks teetered, Chelsea hard men worked themselves up into a frothing acid salivating Alien like fury. Onlookers hearts paused...what would the denouement be??

Well the Chelsea baldy extended his jaws 3 feet forward to snap at the neck of the pisshead.

But amazingly, the drunk guy just vanished, like he had a cloaking device.

I tell you, it al 'appens on da Hill.

We're all fed up of it now. It was fun to start with, for a few days. Now its just miserable. Britain, the only country that can have a hosepipe ban running concurrently with flood alerts.

Poor Fly-Ass has had 6 cricket matches cancelled in a row. He now demonstrates an entirely new psychological manifestation of too much indoor practise. "Net Fever" it is now termed. If Fly sees another net he will go proper mental. Bang goes our summer holiday to Fleetwood.

Even Janky's one game of the season was waterlogged off. As this was my only exercise planned for 2012, it will herald my ensuing coronary event that bit closer.

Thames Water, though, have decided to remind us via highly expensive Tube ads, that "a few weeks of rain don't make up for 2 years of dryness". Piss off I say. If any of you have had to be outside, and I mean outside like a farmer or that nutter outside the Houses of Parliament..we know the truth.

Ever since Gordon Bloody Brown banned smoking in boozers back on that fateful day in June 2008, Janky has had to spend most of his days and evenings perched on a pub doorstep, freezing/getting soaked/ adding hypothermia to which ever lung disease I am supposed to get.

Thames Water...there's been plenty of rain, you should use the eternal excuse we WILL believe.."its just the wrong sort of rain". British Rail used that in the 90's and we still believe it.

But which Knight should come to our rescue to brighten these showery days? The good old PoW himself, the future Charles III. He actually was quite funny doin' da wevva, as is said in my parts.

Janky once met him when I was in the homeless shelters of Pimlico. Bizarrely short, and I mean Chegwin short, not Corbett short, he spent the whole time talking about GM goats producing drugs in their milk, and how all doctors would have one in their surgery by the time he reigned. Off he went after that diatribe leaving all the Oirish nurses thinking he was nuts.

Mind you, the rate his Mums going, there will be space stations on Saturn by the time he gets to wear the family bling at Westminster Abbey.

But things could change soon. How about this for a Casualty situation. Lets see the Thames full of flood water...stick more boats than have been seen since Dunkirk on it..probably add a few copycat protestors who like to swim amongst things..and then stick the Queen in the middle of it all. I am surprised that Her Majesty's Elf 'n'Safety have not kyboshed it by now.

Rain will bring yet more reign.

JCF

The world waits as the shimmer off the race track in Bahrain increases with the midday heat. Will this be added to by petrol bombs which have effectively send the Indian team home?

Should sport and politics never be an interlocking part of a Venn diagram?

If it can be used as a force for good, then it must realise it can be manipulated to be a force for bad. You only have to look at Berlin Olympics and 1930's Italian World Cups to know that. But then again we know how cretinous the IOC and FIFA can be.

And now Formula 1 are dragged into a Sunni-Shia punch up on a tiny island only famous for pearls and being the residence of a scumbag that owes Janky 30k.

[Are you reading this Farad..yes YOU Farad Heidari.]

The decision to go ahead or not with the race is still a political hot potato, that only someone with the wisdom of Solomon would welcome.

Fortunately F1 has at hand, Sport's Favourite Midget. Step forward Mr Bernie Ecclestone.

He will make the right judgement call, won't he...

OK, so he bribed Blair a bit, still has an odd choice of haircut, but he will be up to the job, eh?

Mmmm, did you see that piece in the rags last week about the female test driver, Susie Wolff at Williams?

Bernie the Wise commented "If Susie is as quick in a car as she looks good out of a car then she will be a massive asset to any team. On top of that she is very intelligent"

Thank the Lord/Allah that the Bahrain decision has Bernie at the helm.

What also was odd, was the Telegraph reported this with no hint of irony. Bernie Bresslaw and Sid James must be chuckling away, wherever deceased Carry On stars end up in the afterlife.

Probably in a pit lane with Susie on their laps.."Oooer Sid , she's got good assets etc etc"

JCF