Monday, 25 March 2013

Pass the Toast, Jezza!

Killin' makes ya hungry, apparently...

Hello my beauties!

Here’s a question for ya – how do you spot a murderer? Someone who has killed. Murder weapon? Forensics? Confession? Dead body (or bodies, but let’s not start that again!)?

No – none of those things. How one really spots a killer is the mighty epic that is the beloved full English breakfast. It is renowned, it is plentiful and lordy lord it is deadly. You’ve gotta be a bad man to get involved with that sort of thing.

You may ask how I know this... You may suggest that you sat down at your nan’s kitchen table the other day and scoffed one yet the only thing you’ve ever managed to kill was that spider wot crawled up your inside leg when you was in the shower that one morning. But it don’t make you a murderer, you protest.

Well, how I know this is the case of Mr Jeremy Bamber. The Guilty Warriors (happy chaps they are, too) tell us that bad man Bamber sat down and revelled in a full cooked breakfast in the company of police offers after murdering his entire family.

They tell us that Bamber sat down at his own kitchen table, thrashed around the red sauce and baked beans and chomped on sausage and egg whilst chatting away to the noble officers from our finest police force – cursing the minor inconvenience earlier in the day of having to take up valuable eating time with the death of his loved ones. They tell us he wore a cheesy grin through bites of grilled tomato and belly-laughed at the whole affair.

So there you go – the full English is the killer’s breakfast.

Which is fine, all except for the fact that it’s all a load of old bollocks. For one point, the fact that you might eat a full English after learning of the death of your whole family hardly makes you responsible for killing them. We all deal with grief in different ways, after all. I don’t think I’d eat after bad news, but some might.

But it’s hogwash for a big reason – the closest Jeremy Bamber got to a ‘full cooked breakfast’ on the  morning in question was about as close as he got to killing them – i.e. not very! Study the FACTS (cos we’re fact fans at this ‘ere blog) and speak to the officers themselves and they’ll begrudgingly tell you that, back at his home and in the company of police, Bamber was offered old, past-its-best whisky which duly made him sick.

To stop him heaving his guts up, they suggested he might well eat something. Jeremy then went into his kitchen and cooked in the microwave the only thing he could find – two pieces of bacon. Prompted, he then put this between two pieces of bread to form what many of us call a sandwich. Yes, that’s right – a sandwich of microwaved bacon. He barely even managed to finish that, under their watchful eye and in virtual silence.

So what do you think? Shall we listen again to the propaganda and just stick with what seems to fit what many people will have us believe about Jeremy? Or shall we believe that, oddly, after knowing his entire family had just been gunned down, he actually didn’t feel like doing much at all – especially eating.

The full English might well be the breakfast of killers – it might just be why Jeremy went without one!

Monday, 11 March 2013

Countdown Conundrum!

I was sitting in the bath the other night playing with my rubber duck – I do that cos I’m too cool for school. While I was all suds and rub-a-dub-dub, I had a wonderful moment, a Eureka! moment... I knew, then and there, how I could free the innocent Jeremy Bamber after 27 years in prison. I knew what and who I need in an instant of perfect clarity.

So, you ask me, what is it you need, mystery flippant blogger man? A confession? Those audio tapes of the phone calls to and from White House Farm wot never existed? No! What I need, readers, is Carol sodding Vorderman!

What a woman she is. Jolly pleasant on the eye and a super-sharp when it comes to words and numbers and that. I thought to myself, surely if we could recruit this fine lady then we may finally be able to assist the fine darlings involved on the night of the tragedies who, bless them, have a little problem with their mathematics.

Now we must not jab or be spiteful. We’re all good at something. I’m good at blogging (that’s why you’re here), you’re good at reading blogs (that’s why I’m here), and some police officers – albeit not many, are very good at concealing the truth. What some officers aren’t good at though, is counting.

Counting sheep? Troublesome. Counting the amount pesky young oiks who stole a lot of jammy dodgers from the corner shop? Tricky. Dead bodies indeed? That’s just impossible!

Don’t just believe me, though. As the maths exams always used to tell you: “always show your working out.”  And here we can see the scribbling of the fine Police folk who just can’t seem to decide how many bodies there were downstairs and upstairs in the farm.
In fact, these statements seem quite clear and reasonably consistent – lots of officers report two bodies downstairs (cos there were), and three bodies upstairs (cos there were.) But then they started to get flustered and decided they just didn’t know anymore. NO, they said, there was just the one body downstairs and four more upstairs. (Yes, it seems incredibly that each and every single one of them had got it wrong and were in fact mistaken!).

What do you think?

I think the truth is pretty clear -  they made note of two bodies (downstairs) because that’s exactly what they saw and nothing can change that, however hard some have tried.

Alas, the lovely Vorderman is no doubt a bit too busy to help me. So I’ve decided to invest in an abacus for the Police. Two, actually. One so they can count bodies, and the second so they can work out how many days it is until their near 30-year lie comes crashing down around them. Now that will be some bloody conundrum, won't it?!!

I guess you could call that a Countdown, eh?  Cue the thinking music, boys, Mr Bamber’s heading home...