“If genius was an illness, you would be a hypochondriac”
“Everyone knows there ain’t no sanity clause”
The Cult of Stupidity is on the rise, with a new confidence and vigour. In the last two decades, creationism, conservatism, racism, xenophobia, aggression and scare-mongering have seemingly become a new, socially-acceptable, fashion accessory.
The Sixties gave rise to an unprecedented social revolution amongst the widest range of ages and social classes, where learning, mind-expansion, group awareness, political awareness, communal responsibility, and the responsibility of freedom were high (sic) on the agenda.  A new awareness was heralded and welcomed, and the desire to educate and liberate was all-pervasive … “Teach Your Children Well” was the anthem of a long-haired revolution in thinking, caring and learning, and the attitude which fuelled this feeling of positivity and optimism was Hope … naive as it may now seem … pure, unadulterated Hope.
Hope for the future was possibly naive and undoubtedly drug-fuelled in many cases, but even in the face of a blooming awareness of our environmental problems, a horrific war in Vietnam, repressive laws, record levels of unemployment, and an unprecedented level of inflation and recession, we still held a positive attitude and a belief that we could still change the world, beat the system, and strive for that ever elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow … The Happy Ending.
Whatever happened to Hope?  Whatever happened to a belief in The Happy Ending?
Well, as far as I can see, it was replaced by Pride.
A new attitude of selfish, uncaring, unreasoning, self-centred Pride … and, Pride for no good reason, at that.
“Proud of who I am, … and proud of what I am” … even if it’s shit.
You’ve heard it expressed on every reality show from “Big Brother” to “Wife Swap”, and from “X Factor” to “Question Time”
“I am what I am … that’s just me being me … it might seem stupid, but it’s my right as an individual to hold these opinions, and beliefs”
The Right To Be Wrong.
The Sixties new age of awareness also opened the doors for a conglomeration of pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo and metaphysical flim-flam.  In the same way that the political and social revolution of the sixties was subverted and dissipated by the commercial exploitation of its popularity and originality, the liberal, open-minded acceptance of new outlooks was equally exploited by every con artist and huckster, every well-intentioned zealot, every manipulative entrepreneur, salesman and politician who saw the money-making potential of that social naivety.
New Age commerce was born, and with it came a new sensibility or, to be precise, a new insensibility: The Right To Be Stupid. Not only The Right To Be Stupid, but also the glorification and adoration of the downright dumb.
During the 90’s, the hip-phrase that was flippantly bandied about was “the dumbing-down of television” – this emphasis was of course failing to predict that the Internet phenomenon would rapidly supercede TV’s dominance and escalate dumbing-down to supersonic levels of idiocy and to gargantuan levels of availability.  Not only was drivel elevated to an art-form, we now had access to unprecedented amounts of crap, on a round-the clock basis.
Myspazz, Youfukkintube, Beboring, and Faecebook are surely the technological equivalent of London’s sewage system, which was effectively the major contributor to the possibility and practicality of the growth of the first major cities of the 19th century.  The introduction of the modern sewage system was an effective method of dispersing the increasing volumes of crap that the new industrial society produced, both from its productivity and from the masses of its industrial workforce … and THAT was a huge load of crap.
The Internet has, similarly, given us a conduit for the immense amounts of shit that our current technological tsunami produces on a 24/7 basis.
Giving the public access to the Internet has made us greedy, acquisitive, little consumers of a seemingly limitless range of cyber-produce but, conversely, it has also given over the Internet to the consumer, in a welter of cottage industries – the Global Village is market gardening, and we’re liberally spreading dung on the allotment.
To paraphrase an often-used quote: “If the Abyss stares at you, then you stare right back at it”
“Hey!  Abyss. – You staring at my pint?”


In Praise Of … Wasps

Wasps get a bad press.  Well, apart from this article, they most certainly do

I am, apparently, one of those rare individuals who can let a wasp land on my hand or leg and not immediately turn into an arm-flapping, whirling dervish, with murderous intent and screaming exhortations of mayhem.

Over the years, I’ve occasionally been stung by wasps, and it was really no more painful than a cat’s scratch or a lover’s bite … but, the impending threat offered by these tiny, black and yellow punks of the insect world seem to turn the average person in to a frantic and furious, fear-filled psychopath.

I like to refer to this highly irrational form of mental instability as:  “Wasperger’s Syndrome”

Wasps fill a niche in the food-chain and control a plethora of other creepy-crawlies who’d over-run our existence if it wasn’t for the murderous ministrations of these wee biological jump-jets.

And … Wasps don’t crap on you.

Now, that statement might seem redundant, but as I sat here, in my garden, on a, sunny, barbeque-beckoning afternoon, I observed a passing wasp release a tiny crap, while in mid-flight.

Astonished? You betcha!

I’ve been around for decades and I’ve never been crapped on by a wasp.  How considerate is that?

I’ve been shat on by seagulls, starlings, blackbirds and thrush.  I’ve waded through dog-poop, cat-poop, and even my own kids’ poop … but in all my years, a wasp has NEVER fouled my existence.

That’s astonishing

Wasps are cool … and, as a bonus, they also sting kids

We, as adults, are no longer happy about the prospect of a kid being skelped … and that is as it should be … so, it’s nice to know that payback is still there, in the prospect of our wee pal, the lowly wasp.

Stu Who?

Sandra Claws – A Xmas Story


Bah, Humbug … and Bother!

I’m not a fan of the Xmas season … and “season” it most certainly is, starting in October and finishing in January, when the last of the Xmas parties jingle to an unseemly end, and Roy Wood and Noddy Holder’s caterwaulings are finally laid to rest for another nine months or so.


Being neither Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or Druid, I have no notion whatsoever to celebrate bizarre religious-based festivities, especially ones which have become the very epitome of the hypocrisy that exists in our world today.


I don’t call you a retarded, superstitious, brainwashed moron for celebrating this economic extravaganza, so please spare me your Scrooge-like comparisons in return.


Xmas ISN’T a time of peace and love, and doesn’t even make an attempt to be so. In the majority, it’s a time of greed and over-indulgence for those-who-have, and a time for worrying, for debt, and for disappointment, for those-who-haven’t


Twenty percent of the UK population live below the poverty level, and at least the same percentage find it fukkin tough-going to merely survive economically, without this yearly, spending extravaganza that is socially-enforced through constant advertising and media drivel exhorting us to buy to show you care.


To be homeless, and separated from any family ties at this time of year is made doubly painful, as you stand in doorways begging for help and sustenance from busy shoppers who are spending a fortune on utter, self-indulgent, useless, disposable, over-priced crap … and that’s what makes me most sad, every year without fail.


So … I’ve established a wee tradition of gifting my excess coats and jackets for that year, the old CD players and Mp3 players, books, and whatever, into Xmas parcels that I give to Big Issue sellers


In addition, I take at least one of them to a café or restaurant for a wee Xmas meal …. Spend half-an-hour or so in their company, paying the bill. and leaving maybe £10-20 at the till for them, for when they finish their dinner. This ensures that they’ll definitely get some food, and don’t just spend the cash on dope or bevy … which I’d be tempted to do myself if I was in their situation, I can assure you!!


It’s not a lot to do, really … and I’m saying this in the hope that maybe others will do the same, whether or not you’re Christian, celebrating Xmas, or whatever


It’s the WORST time of the year for the homeless, and in these extremes of weather, it must be a nightmare, both physically and mentally.


Some years back, I expressed these feelings to a really “good” Christian friend of mine, in explanation for why I wouldn’t be exchanging Xmas prezzies with her and her man, but using the cash to feed some homeless dudes instead.


A half-hour later, I received an email, addressed to her man, but mistakenly sent to me as well.


In the message, she derided my bullshit, do-gooder attitude, and expressed the wish that one of my “pity-cases” would stay with me and Maggi at Xmas, and “rob-me-blind” in the process, to show me what these lazy ne’er-do-wells were really like.


I’d never, for a second, thought she harboured feelings like that, and was gutted.


Totally gutted.


Some time later, in the following year, after doing a corporate gig in Leeds, I was holding-court, telling jokes and talking shite, at the function’s bar with a group of very, well-to-do businessmen and civic dignitaries.


One guy, expensively dressed and groomed, was hovering at the edge of the group, and he eventually cornered me for a chat.


“Do you remember the filthy, ginger-haired, matted-bearded, foul-smelling jakey who used to beg on the forecourt of Glasgow’s central Station many years back” he enquired.


“I certainly do … in fact, I do a story about him in one of my stage-shows … he was legendary, and I used to see him regularly at the railway station when I was heading for trains, most weekends, to gig in London and the South … why do you ask?” I replied


“Do you remember taking him for his Xmas dinner into The Burger King in the station, and leaving money for him at the till?”

 “Aye.  How did you know about that?”

 “That was me” he replied

“No way!!!!!!!!!!!”

 He explained that his wife and two kids had been killed in a car-crash. His business had gone tits-up, he’d gone totally doo-lally, and eventually become homeless, filthy and incommunicative.

“You gave me money and food, but the important thing was that you talked to me, helped to stop me feeling invisible, and that no-one cared … the money you left got me cleaned up for the first in a long time, I went to my brother’s house for Xmas, after many years of being alone … and it was my brother, not you, that got me back on my feet again, but that meal, that money, and that wee chat, was what set me off again. Thanx.”

 He was now running a very successful business and, coincidentally was a major contributor and organiser for a charity … for the homeless.

I’m telling this story, not looking for any credit … what I did was the least I could do.

I’m telling this story in the hope that it might just make some other people buy a homeless person their Xmas dinner, and spend 20 minutes in their company

You never know the outcome …. It might be more important than you could possibly realise

Love’n Peas





More Animal Tails

Since I got so many nice reactions to the last lot,


here’s some more nonsense


And, especially for my friend Wendy Lee, as a wee cheer-me-up,

cos she’s done the same for me




The Crab has a shell

And sharp claws as well

And they walk

In a side-aways motion

Underwater for miles

’Cos a crab’s got rock piles

And they can’t find

A suitable lotion



The Dung-Beetle tries

To forget the size

Of the dung-ball they constantly roll

They just cannot figure

How it keeps getting bigger

They should try to show more self-control



Elephants feel

That they got a bad deal

‘Cos elephants can’t jump at all

In sporting events

They’d make gigantic dents

In the hurdles, and tracks

And footballs




The Fly

Having flew flights

Flees flickering floodlights

And flammable flossy filoux

As he flip-flops, and flaps

There’s a flaw there, perhaps

That can flatten a fly with the flu



The Giraffe’s neck is long

So, when he sings a song

His high notes can shatter wine glasses

His songs, ‘though popular

Won’t make him a star

‘Cos they go over the heads of the masses



The Goldfish has a moving tale

That daily gets him ‘round his jail

A see-through prison made of glass

How slowly all his hours must pass

His memory is very short

Yours would be too, if you were caught

And spent your life inside a bowl

‘Twould shurely break your heart and shoal



The Gorilla’s a beast

To avoid at a feast

As his etiquette lacks any manners

Lounging in cocktail bars

Eating Cuban cigars

‘Cos he thinks they are chocolate bananers



Hippo-Potamus is Greek

For River-Horse

And as we speak

In the Nile’s muddy rivers

There’s a man who delivers

Milk by hippo and cart, twice a week



The iguana sits

On a rock, and spits and shits

And sits and shits

And spits and sits

And shits and spits



The Jellyfish floats

In the sea

And some boats

Run them over without any warning

So, they silently squeal

‘Cos jellyfish feel

It’s a bad way to start off your morning



The Kangaroo jumps

So imagine the bumps

That he’d get on his head from low bridges

So he lives in Australia

Where it’s flat

But the failure

To evolve

Stopped them inventing fridges



The Lion controls

All the best waterholes

‘Cos lions are not known as wimps

He’d be no fun at all

If he drank alcohol

Staggering home

Looking for fish and chimps



The Llama’s domain

Is in mountain terrain

So he never wears pinstripes or spats

He spits and he drinks

And god knows what he thinks

Of Peruvians in bowler hats


Copyright Stu Who? – 2006



I’ve always delighted in the great British tradition of nonsense poems,

and have composed a complete alphabet of animal poems.



The Anaconda’s neighbours

Are oblivious to his labours

As he struggles to consume

A full-sized goat

Saying: “I would bite and chew

If I had teeth like you”

And he says it

With a big lump in his throat



The Antelope’s horn

Isn’t there when he’s born

So, it must get a shock

When they grow

“I just got out of bed

And there they were on my head

And what they are for

I don’t know.”




The Buffalo’s arse and his eyes

Are always surrounded by flies

So he tends to complain

Just now and again

And again, and again,

And again



The Camel’s prepared

To act quite debonaired

Whenever a party is thrown

When they run out of drink

He just says, with a wink

“That’s OK!

‘Cos I brought my own.”





The Donkey hee-haws

‘Cos the size of his baws

Are gigantic, between his arse-cheeks

So, he walks legs apart

Really desperate to fart

Hee-hawing, and straining for weeks



The Dung-Beetle tries

To forget the size

Of the dung-ball they constantly roll

They just cannot figure

How it keeps getting bigger

They should try to show more self-control

Copyright Stu Who? – 2006