notice for those who would like to book N. Reg Mother

So it is my old friend and fellow Wotanologist Bernard Madoff has been slung into debtor’s prison, as another follower of Wotanology Richard Madeley protests his innocents on radio 4 regarding that heist he tried to pull on Sainsbury’s. I have also had many brushes with law and have done a spell in a Turk chokey and Bangkok clink before now, let me tell you dear reader.

I may get leather biker’s jackets printed up for the Church, with gang colours printed up on them with the chapter written underneath.

But this is all by the by dear reader, with Madeley on Desert Island Disk it shant be long before all manner of media ruffians trapes a path to my door and seek me as a guest on their sleazy programs.

Here’s a list what I absolutely demand be waiting for in my dressing room for those seeking to hire me for enlivening their programs or evening events:

48 sticks of butter, 6 packs of Charmin Kitchen towels, 8 packs of D-cell batteries, 6 bottles of Nigerian cooking wine, 2 bottles of Tramp Trawler whiskey-like drink, the bra section of Little woods catalogue, a chimpanzee, 8 pounds of chocolate, a plump rumped rent boy, 6 boxes of Viagra, 12 pounds of marijuana, a bottle of pure lysergic acid, twice the amount of amphetamines you deem appropriate for human consumption, a pair of nipple tassels, a single rubber glove, a Japanese gentleman and a used 10 pound note.

These demands are none negotiable.

Call for donations

Dear reader. Last week in a simple moment of indulgence I spent more than I aught on shoes and weskits. Several thousand pounds in fact. Now my damned credit card was wrenched from my grip and callously cleaved in two by some bloody dullard of a shop girl, so beneath my station I could barely credit it. Then to compound this act of impudence, the wretched creature dared utter, and I quote: “no more heels for you, fat boy”.

Oh reader I weep, pity me.

Now I have some half-witted thugs, calling themselves bailiffs at me heels. The credit crunch is supposed to be suffered by the dronelike zombies who work for a living. Not privileged prophets like yours truly. Was Jesus ever flung into a debtors prison because they wouldn’t let him off the exaggerated costs of a Top Shop store card? I think not.

I have, of course, demanded a bail out from the government, but to no avail. My old chum Fatty Brown isn’t returning my calls, but that’s what happens when you have a scotchman in the house.

Thus reader I await you kind donations. They can be wired direct to my account or placed between two slices of corrugated cardboard and be posted to me. Nothing less then a grand, dear reader, do be sensible.

Now then. I must return to my bacon sub, whose attentions I have been neglecting. Come here you!

From the book of Wotan: the story of Samu

Three –and-a-half trillion years ago Gynos, from the planet Gyno – which is in the Turdus Solitarius – came to Earth on seventy-five trillion Boeing 737s to use the supply of Earth women for “breeding purposes”.

During the flight there was an almighty mutiny, orchestrated by the lower orders of Gynos. They were pissed off that their Leader, Samu, and his mates - the upper-class Gynos - were enjoying all the trappings of business class, while they had to travel in the cramped conditions of economy class for duration of the three-thousand year journey.

To “lean” the lower orders for there impudence, Samu, on their arrival, pile the planes on top of one another at the foot of what is now Horsenden Hill, Middlesex and then blows them up with H bombs to show the lower orders that he “ain’t messing about”.

Wotan, who was roaming the land and keeping things in order, alerted to the explosion ran from his big flash house in Hollywood Los Angeles, across the seas saw Samu embroiled in a very amateurish punch-up with one of the main ones of the lower order. Seeing that this was a result of idle hands gave Samu a roundhouse kick to the head and said “get a job”.

Because there was no job centres in them days Wotan, being wise and merciful gave Samu a job as second in command saying, ‘I like the cut of your gib. The way you smack them proles around and letting them know whose boss, is right up my street, because I don’t take no shit, from no ne’er-do-well. Sam, you can be my lieutenant and help me keep things in order around here. If you play your cards right you and me’ll be best buddies.”

And so they became best buddies and roamed the land righting wrongs and keeping everyone in their rightful place. But came the day when Wotan discovered Samu was teaching his foul Gynaecology and giving the women folk haughty ideas above their station.

Wotan invited Samu for a drink at the pub one day. When Samu arrived, Wotan got the rounds in and asked Samu to come around the back for a chat. Samu, expecting nothing obliged, and when the got around there, Wotan, acting as if he was going to tell him something well important, round house-kicked him in the head so hard his neck stretched around fifteen feet. Wotan then proclaimed, “right you, from now on you’ll be a goddamn giraffe and I doom you to spend the rest of your goddamn days nibbling cherries from tree tops in the jungle, biatch. Now get!”

Samu tried to get one of them no win no fee shyster lawyers to sue Wotan’s arse but they were no match compared to Wotan’s team of Lawyers who succeeded in counter suing Samu and suing Samu’s mum for giving birth to such a specimen.

And that is how giraffes were invented and why there are no giraffes around Horsendon Hill, Middlesex. Fact.

List of things the Church Of Wotanology finds offensive and should be banned/or “removed” from society

Noel Edmonds

Gynaecology and gynaecologists

Mushrooms – they are a dirty vegetable

Communism

Fairness in society – some of us are born privileged

The Guardian and The Independent newspapers

She Ra cartoons and memorabilia

Anyone who does not exhibit velveteen portraits of N. Reg Mother (looking typically ravishing) in prominent positions in a multitude of highly visible locations in their threshold and places of work.

Naked or near-naked ladies and other such obscenities

Weston-super-Mare and anyone from there

Any remarks to any degree of negativity directed at N. Reg Mother or Steven Segal (the two are often mistaken, dear reader)

Low fat foods – an abomination, I’m sure you’d agree

Anyone saying anything that is not positive about Wotan or Wotanology

Shops that aren’t supermarkets

Weight Watchers

Freedom of speech – unless to espouse the attributes of The Church of Wotanology

Bumholing and Giddy Aunting

Ladylads

The budget-minded – Wotanology is not for you

All the scoundrel so-called literary agents who have refused my masterpieces.

Sneak-thieves in the night

Men who are not manly

Women

Knickers

Fruit

Aeroplane lavatories – they do not adequately accommodate my almighty girth

Health food

Proletarians

This is an incomplete and ever growing list and will undoubtedly be added to in the future.

Pondering the current fad for superheroes

I would like to share with you my thoughts regarding the recent spate of lycra-clad superhero movies that have come out recently at the talkies:

What would my super power be? I mused, gazing whimsically at a large voyage of mildewed damp across the ceiling. Super strength? Nay. Invisibility? Hmmm, intriguing. But nobody will be able to behold my beauty, so nay. A body, made of bricks, flourished by a pair of royal blue underpants that seem a size or two too small, perchance? Nay, nay and thrice nay.

I have however, dear reader, narrowed it down to a combination of brute strength and sheer beauty. Like a diamond or perhaps a single sheet of triple-quilted lavatory paper with floral accents. Diamond Man or Bog Roll Boy? Which to choose, one wonders? Oh I simply don’t know.

I bought myself a couple of these so-called comics, to provide myself with inspiration. I was flicking through one The Boys, by an Irishman who rejoices under the name of Garth Ennis. Oh-ho I can hear you filthy mind whirring away, dear ready. “Oh Reggie,” you cry, we wonder why you chose a book called the Boys.” Oh shush you. Anyway I was flicking through this and incredulously observing some rather fetching chaps, all muscular and covered head-to-foot in brightly coloured lycra, getting thrashed to within an inch of their lives by a bunch of ruffians. I found it hard to credit that ones so omnipotent can be, not only engaged in, but duffed-up in a simple bout of fisticuffs.

If I, mild mannered N. Reg Mother by day and Bog Roll Boy or Diamond Man by night, were there, things would be rather different, I imagine. For I would deafen the ruffians with the grace of my poetry and blind them with the awesomeness of my physical beauty. Then, having reduced them to naught all but a living consciousnesses, I would simply apply a sound, open-handed slap to their cheeks that will send them comfortably into next week. I would of course be victorious, cue standing ovation and a shower of bouquets. Curtsey, exit stage left. Genius, I’m sure you’d agree. I shall be furnishing Mr. Ennis, if that is his real name with my treatment, forth-with.

Nuts oh hazel nuts, I must begin to construct a costume. Something revealing. Something sexual. “Typical Reggie,” say’s you, the reader. A leopard-skin leotard with a severe back , me thinks. Something that shows off my shapely form and allows me free movement to express myself through the medium of dance. I may be six-foot-six and tip the scales at a dainty five hundred pounds but I am as graceful as a kitten and deft and sprightly as little girl collecting daisies.

Maybe I could be Diamond Man, and Bog Roll Boy shall be my, oh what’s the vernacular, side slap? Left hook? Bottom Punch? Oh I don’t know, ah sidekick, that’s it. If Bog Roll Boy was to be my sidekick like Batman has his Robin and Cannon has his Ball. Oh reader, tihihihi, I can’t possibly tell you how that’ll pan out as it simply isn’t for here, mwaha!

As a child I attempted all sorts of ingenious ways to achieve my dream of superpowers. One time I took my beloved gerbil, Pootube, and attached a naked wire from every power outlet of the house to either side of his cute little head, having secured him to a chopping board with gaffer tape. I then turned the mains back on. Oh reader, I find myself weeping still. In my failed attempt at harnessing the power of electricity to embellish my own attributes, using Pootube as the proverbial guinea pig, I succeeded only in raising my beloved parents pile within a ball of queerly bluish flame. As to what became of Pootube, I am ignorant. One must assume that he is off fighting crime in the rodent world or some such.

Now if you’ll excuse me, dear reader, Diamond Man must rescue a Boost bar from the news agent and devour it with much gusto.