Tag Archives: cat

See ya, pal: What our pets teach us about life and death

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My elderly cat is the singularly most irritating creature who ever padded on four paws.

She lies at the top of the stairs outside our bedroom every morning waiting for the first faint sounds of my stirring so she can burst into the room miaowing like an accordion possessed by the spirit of a dying elk, waking both of our kids before I have even half-a-chance to ninja-slide the hell out of there.

She always tries to trip me up as soon as I enter the kitchen, perpetually circling her food-bowl with her tail held aloft like a hairy shark’s fin. A few times she’s almost sent me flying down the stairs to my doom in the exaggerated manner of an A-Team stunt-man.

She licks my hand whenever I pat her, which sounds like it might be kind of cute, but not when it happens every single time I pat her, and certainly not when her tongue is as sharp as sand-paper and her breath is as foul as a hundred decomposing chickens.

She does night-time shits in the litter-tray outside our bedroom so foul that they snap me awake, forcing me to stagger out of bed to snatch up the poo-encrusted cat-spatula as fast as my sleep-leaden legs can carry me. I inevitably spill six tonnes of kitty-litter over the carpet in my haste to reach the toilet with the boufing, scooped-up jobby.

I’m mad at her at least once a day, and dream of a time when I’ll no longer be a slave to her licks, trips, mews and poos. She’s a broccoli-scented, past-her-prime grandma who for some reason I’m not allowed to shove in a home. And she stubbornly refuses to fucking die.

Until yesterday morning.

When she fucking died.

Our cat, Candy – inexplicably named after a 20-year-old Las Vegas stripper – was already middle-aged when we invited her into our home, which was the third she’d lived in. She’s always been a sweet, gentle and affectionate little creature – a cat who never once in her life yowled, hissed or clawed – so she wasn’t constantly re-homed because she was slashing people’s cheeks like some low-level drug-enforcer or anything like that. People loved her.

She was just unlucky.

In home number one her owner fell pregnant and developed serious pet allergies; in home number two she was bullied by the cats who already lived there; and in home number three she was our little baby, at least until our human babies came along, at which point she was relegated to the position of a suddenly inconvenient foster-child. Despite us having to shift the lion’s share (or the cat’s share, if you like) of our attention to the kids, Candy was always loved and looked after. One of the team.

She was the perfect cat to have around our kids, whether they were inside or outside the womb. Both times Chelsea fell pregnant, Candy stuck so close to her middle that she was practically gestating along with the fetuses.

Once they’d been born, Candy was unceasingly tolerant of the children; she was the sort of cat you could grab by the ears, squeeze by the tail and chase round the house without risk of counter-strike, which is a good job, because the kids grabbed her by the ears, squeezed her by the tail and chased her round the house. At least to begin with. Over time, Candy taught them how to be kind, soft and gentle. Well, okay, she didn’t teach them that at all. It was us. We taught them that. By shouting at them. A lot. But having a pet around the house undoubtedly helped our kids learn how to love things unconditionally.

Candy had been poorly for a while, but we chalked most of it down to her advanced years. Besides, she might have been less nimble, pickier with her food, and skinnier and scragglier, but she still purred away like a motorbike riding pillion on a motorbike that inexplicably was being ridden by another motorbike.

But this past week, though the purring continued apace, it became clearer and clearer to us that a battle was raging inside of Candy’s body, and one that she was losing. Her breathing became more laboured, to the point where we could hear the clanking mechanics of her failing respiratory system; see her sides puff out and collapse back sharply, like someone was operating a stiff set of bellows inside her rib-cage. The evening before last, one of her front legs and both of her back legs became swollen, lending her the appearance of mild gigantism. Walking became a serious effort for her.

I called the out-of-hour vet service. I gave my partner the phone. The vet told her that Candy was most likely suffering from an over-active thyroid that was putting strain on her heart, hence the struggle to breathe and the fluid retention. Although it might be possible to limit any further damage and lessen the severity of her symptoms, the vet went on to say, her prolonged life-span would probably be measured in weeks rather than months or years, and there was no guarantee that her condition would improve. I heard the inflection rise in Chelsea’s voice as she parroted the words ‘a thousand pounds or more’, which caused me to parrot her words, six times louder, and completely involuntarily, this time adding my own little flourish to ‘a thousand pounds or more’, which was: ‘Fuck off!’

It was an instant and honest reaction, but it still made me feel ashamed. We don’t know how lucky we are in this country not to have to take fiscal factors into account when deciding whether or not to treat adult relatives for serious or chronic illnesses… else more of them might end up in the ground a lot sooner.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for grandma. NOTHING.”

“It’ll cost ten-thousand pounds to treat her.”

“…to be honest her soup was starting to lose its zest.”

Children are a different proposition altogether, though. If either of our kids needed tens of thousands of pounds for medical treatment, and we didn’t have it, we’d wrench appliances from the wall and flog them on the street, list everything we owned on Ebay. I’d put the car on the market, the house on the market, mySELF on the market – kidneys, liver, lungs, the lot – hell, I’d rob a bank, borrow from the mafia, rob from the mafia, anything. Everything.

But – with mercy set at a thousand pounds minimum – the cat was clearly on borrowed time. Besides, even if we had a thousand pounds or more, she was in pain, and our actions might only serve to prolong that pain, even escalate it. We knew which way the wind was blowing. And you can’t fight the wind. We decided we’d phone the regular vet’s first thing the next morning.

I tried to prepare my eldest son, Jack, freshly-turned four, for the inevitable. I lay in bed next to him after I’d finished reading his night-time stories, and shot the breeze for a while. I told him Candy was sick. Very sick. We had to take her to see the vet, but the vet might not be able to help her. Sometimes a cat is too sick and too old for a vet to help. Animal hospitals aren’t always as good at helping animals as human hospitals are at helping humans (because I didn’t want him to think that hospitals were just giant white death-factories). Out of nowhere Jack asked if there were cities in the jungle. No, I told him.

“So there are no vets,” he said. “Then the animals will just die.”

Bloody hell, I thought. This is going to be easier to explain than I thought. But possibly a million times more traumatic. Why can’t he just go around saying ‘Daaaattt’ all the time like his little brother?

“We might have to get Candy put…” I began to say, and then steered away from the cowardly euphemism. Probably best not to Freddy Krueger the kid. It wasn’t a great idea to make him scared of going to sleep.

“She might not come back,” I told him.

His aunt’s dog died recently. His mother didn’t sugar-coat it for him, or wrap it up in euphemisms, but neither did she labour the point. She just let him be sad, because death is very sad, especially when someone or something we love dies. Once he’d recovered his composure, he asked her, “Dogs die… but cat’s don’t die, do they?” He was getting nearer to completing the puzzle. He keeps finding new pieces. He almost found another one as I was talking to him about Candy.

“Candy’s a girl cat,” he said with a smile, “But she’s also an old, old cat. She’s like a granny.”

OK, I thought, I’m all for a good dose of the truth, but let’s gun up the engine and back the fuck out of Dead Grandmother Cul-de-sac before things get too grizzly.

The following morning, yesterday morning, was as sombre and heart-wrenching as you’d expect. I’d slept on the couch that night and Candy had slept on the foot-rest next to me. When I opened my eyes, she was looking at me. And she was purring. I’m glad I got that. It kind of made up for all the times I’d yelled at her.

I called the vet first thing and we were booked in for eleven am. We were filled with denial. And hope. Chelsea and I threw ourselves into the minutiae of family life: wiping butts, cleaning dishes, picking up clothes, all at a frantic pace. We focused on anything except what was about to happen. Even though Candy still picked and licked at her food, miaowing for more but eating very little of it, we kept filling and re-filling her dish. Anything you need, old lady. Anything you want.

It all happened so fast. Within ten minutes of arriving at the vet’s, Candy was gone. The anesthetic took her in less than a second. Chelsea had brought Candy’s favourite cat treat, which she was still licking as she nudged forward, and gently and silently left the world. Chelsea cried. What surprised me is that I cried, too. I’d spent the morning intellectualising, and dispensing little parcels of clinical rationalism like a Scottish Spock. I didn’t cry when my grandparents died, I didn’t cry when my children were born. But yet there I was. Crying like a bitch.

In later years the cat had become more of an adversary to me than a treasured pet. Never-the-less, my tears were pure and unsentimental. I loved her. I didn’t want her to die.

I deal with pain by leaning heavily into black humour. I looked at the vet – who’d been unspeakably patient, human and kind – and pointed at the table behind her, where another few needles loaded with anesthetic still sat. Earnestly, with tears flooding my eyes, I said: “Can I take one of those away for my mum?”

The vet turned round and reached for it, before turning back with a smile. We all laughed.

Little Candy’s body was released to us. I was going to bury her in my parent’s back garden. While it’s undeniable that the £40 price tag was a definite factor in burial’s favour, we owed it to Candy to lay her to rest alongside our three rats, and my mother’s dog, Zoe, all of whom I’d buried myself. It was an honour. A mark of respect. A sign they mattered and meant something.

Me, Candy and the bump

In the car as Chelsea cradled Candy’s body in a shroud made from her favourite blanket, I reflected on the feelings that were stirring inside me. My sense of humour sometimes hides a burning anger; behind that, sadness. That was what lay at my core. Sadness. Great, unfiltered sadness. As I got ready to bury our beloved little cat, something in me was being unearthed.

We told Jack. His first reaction was, “My friend Cory can still come today, right?” The entry for death in his internal lexicon is yet to be shaded with feeling. His second reaction was tears, a plaintive moan. He said he’d draw a picture of Candy. So we could remember her.

I told my mum about Jack’s reaction when I got to her house with Candy. A little gallows humour crept into the re-telling. I just couldn’t help myself. “And as he was crying, mum, I just looked him straight in the eye and told him, ‘While we’re getting it all out, son, I just need you to know that Santa Claus is definitely not real, okay?’”

I smiled. She didn’t.

I dug a hole for Candy. I burst through roots with the spade. Mulched up hard soil and clay. Laid her gently in the earth, and covered her over with soil and a slab, so the foxes wouldn’t get her. I remembered all the times she’d lain next to me in bed with a paw draped over my stomach. How happy she’d been when we’d finally got a garden and she could play outside.

This is how it always ends. With me, here, with a spade.

Why would we ever do this again?

We’ll do it again.

Want to read more about pets dying, you morbid bastard?

Here’s a long, funny and touching piece I wrote a few years ago about the deaths of the three rats and a dog mentioned in this piece

Here’s an article published a few years ago about the death of my mother’s cat, with whom I’d ‘shared’ a childhood

Jesus Christ, I write about pets carking it a lot, don’t I?

The Hell of Work: The Airport

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I used to work as a baggage agent at the airport, meaning I was the person whose life you threatened if your suitcase stayed behind at your airport of origin, or ended up going to Kabul by accident. I was the scapegoat, the fall guy, because whatever had happened to your piece of shit bag was never, ever my fault – although your childish or psychotic response to the reality of having to spend three days without a hairdryer or favourite golf club often made me wish that it had been.

On one occasion, an Argentinian man who looked like an angry Postman Pat took exception to me ordering him to stop shouting at one of my colleagues, who was a tiny 60-year-old woman. He threatened to splat my brains against the wall, and called me an ugly bastard, which was a bit rich coming from a man who looked like a pube-headed puppet with a cat for a best pal. He seemed to calm down once a big Scottish copper with a machine-gun came over to speak to him, as people generally tend to do. Ah, machine guns: life’s great levellers. Nos vemos más tarde, Cartero Pat! I promise we won’t ‘accidentally’ send your bag to Kabul, tu feo bastardo!

I wasn’t hostile or cynical by default, although any job that puts you in prolonged contact with the general public tends to bring that out in you. I did feel genuinely sorry for a great many people who lost their possessions and/or souls in the great lottery of air-travel: among them, the band that was in town for a gig who had been separated from their entire collection of instruments whilst travelling on the airline that actually sponsored them; families with young kids arriving sans child seats; a guy whose actual fucking WHEELCHAIR hadn’t made it on to the plane. How do you even begin to excuse that? “Good luck, mate. Here’s some tokens for a free sandwich.”

I had no real power, responsibility or influence. I was just a guy who sat behind a desk waiting for all of you whinging, moaning bastards to be on your merry, bagless ways so I could slope off for a cigarette or six, or head through to the back office to put my feet up and read the paper. I used to work with a guy who made a habit of falling asleep in the FRONT, public-facing office, who was once actually roused from sleep by a group of passengers. Bold as brass, the fucker just opened his eyes and gave a dismissive and slightly irritated, ‘Yes?’ They ended up apologising to him, which is a level of greatness most people will never see in their lifetime.

When I wasn’t smoking or skiving, I’d while away the minutes rifling through the piles of unidentified bags in our store-room under the auspices of helping to trace the owner, but really just to hunt for funny or unusual stuff to help mitigate the monotony. Unfortunately, it’s a sad truth that most bags, like most people, are utterly boring: some jumpers there, a stick of roll-on deodorant here, an indentikit airport paperback there. But a small percentage of bags made all that rummaging around through strangers’ possessions (with its associated risk of AIDS-y-finger-pricks and the inadvertent grabbing of handfuls of unspeakably wet underwear) worthwhile.

Wonderful bags. Sensational bags. Bags that could’ve belonged to serial-killers-in-training. Bags that definitely belonged to seasoned perverts taking their kinks global.

I once found a bag that held such an embarrassingly large cache of dildos that they must’ve belonged to an international assassin who specialised in death by vagina. One bag was filled to the brim with whips, chains, clamps and tassels, almost certainly destined for a Tory party conference somewhere. I can’t convey to you with any degree of precision just how much niche wanking material I discovered over the years. Actually, there probably hasn’t been anything yet printed or filmed that the male of the species hasn’t been able to transform into niche wanking material, no doubt even microwave instruction manuals (“I’ll make you fucking ping alright, you dirty rectangular bitch.”), but you know what I mean. I once found a spanking magazine. An actual magazine about spanking, you understand, as in spanking ladies’ bottoms with paddles and assorted flat objects. It contained articles about the best materials to use, the science behind the best thwacks, vintage photographs, short stories, the lot. We managed to track down the owner of that bag, a local guy, and when he came in to collect his stuff he looked exactly as you’d expect a man with a collection of spanking magazines to look: absolutely normal.

Because the job requires you to juggle stress, boredom and death threats, when an opportunity for japes or laughter comes along you grab it with both hands, and choke the bloody life out of it. You come up with elaborate jokes and pranks to keep you from succumbing to the urge to rage-quit. Like the jape below, of which I’m still very proud.

Thanks, Schrödinger

Sometimes luggage is rejected at the aircraft, or doesn’t even make it that far, getting lost in the labyrinth of chutes and belts that weave spaghetti-like around the airport. When that happens, the luggage is sent back along a conveyor belt to the arrivals hall, where someone like me would pick it up, and send it to Kabul.

One day, a lone cat-box – the little plastic mini-jail that we all have so much fun cramming our cats into before a visit to the vet – appeared on one of our belts. We were initially horrified, imagining that a live (or hopefully still live) kitten was inside. It was empty. But the box’s appearance gave me a great idea.

At that time I had a mobile phone that thanks to some loose clips and connections could only stay operational through a very delicate balancing act between the battery and the handset. One bump – even an especially large quiver – could make the two pieces of the phone part company, instantly switching it off. I decided to make my phone’s most irritating characteristic work in my favour, by utilising it in the commission of the particularly cruel jape that was still taking shape inside my absolute dick of a mind.

First, I used the phone’s sound-recording function to make a 90-second clip of me miaowing. Next, I made sure the animal-loving woman who worked for a rival airline in the office next to mine was definitely at her desk. Then, I made sure my phone’s volume was turned up to max, pressed ‘play’ on the sound file, gently placed the phone inside the cat-box, and walked next door with a concerned look on my face.

“Can you believe that they’ve put this through on the belt with a cat inside it?”

The woman rose from her seat, horror moulding her mouth into an ‘O’. “Oh, the poor wee thing. We need to get it out of there.”

Before she could get out from behind her desk, I executed a perfectly-timed stumble and trip, throwing the cat-box up and out of my arms and into the nearby wall, whereupon the phone’s battery disconnected from the handset, and the miaowing instantly ceased.

Dear reader, I let that poor woman contemplate my imaginary cat’s snapped neck for an unforgivably long time before revealing the truth. And I loved every bloody second of it.

She tried to send me to Kabul.

Pet Cemetery

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butchIf you’ve ever had a pet, then you’re intimately acquainted with death – especially if you grew up with one.  This piece you’re reading now (as opposed to a completely different piece you may once have read six years ago) is about having pets, loving pets and losing pets, with a few detours along the way to incorporate things like the Rat Jesus, inter-species murder and mafia slayings. I lost four of my pets this year. Three rats and a dog. This is their tribute, delivered the only way I know how: not very well. 

Paddy’s Troubles

One of our first family pets was a budgie called Paddy; he lived during the height of The Troubles, and he was blue. I’d like to think that the act of naming him was some sort of artistic comment on the futility of Scottish sectarianism, but it’s possible that my mum was just racist, and had to fall back on her second choice of offensive racial nickname after Sambo was vetoed.

This isn't Paddy. But who gives a shit? They all look the same.

This isn’t Paddy. But who gives a shit? They all look the same.

Anyway, Paddy didn’t live long enough to have much of an impact on global race relations, as he was tragically murdered. Who’s your number one suspect? A cat, right? Tsk tsk. You bigoted cattist. And don’t even think about telling me that all of your best friends are cats. No, you feline fascist, the perp wasn’t a cat; although in your defence history does tell us that cats and small birds have been mortal enemies since time immemorial (Bros, Warner., 1963, Sylvester & Tweetie Pie). As far as rivalries go it’s a bit of a one-sided enmity (kind of like the rivalry between the sun and asteroids), and, yes, I’m willing to concede that the cat’s usually the aggressor. What I’m saying is, I can understand the root assumption from which your flagrant cattism sprouts. But you’re wrong, friend. Paddy didn’t meet his maker at the jaws and claws of a cunning cat: he died a statistical anomaly, having been snuffed out by an over-excited dog. What a twist.

The dog came bounding into our house with its visiting owner at the same time as Paddy was enjoying one of his brief periods of liberation, free from his cage and happily toddling and hopping about the living room floor. The spaz-tongued, slobbering beast pulled free from its owner’s grip, hurtled in to the living room, and gave our feathery little fella the gift of a massive and fatal heart-attack – as I suppose creatures fifty times the size of you are want to do. A little while later, after the requisite period of budgie mourning (two hours and eleven minutes) we got Paddy II. A little truer to expectations, Paddy II was skillfully – and lovingly – eviscerated by our first cat.

Perhaps unsurprisingly the family declined the option of a Paddy III. As my mother put it: “I’m not having a bloody horse coming in and trampling this one to death.” Also, my mother well knew that the final installment of any trilogy is usually the shittest. She’s right… isn’t she… Spider Man 3? Stop your smirking, Godfather 3, you’re next!

We're so weird as a species that we even keep pets inside giant pets.

We’re so weird as a species that we even keep pets inside giant pets.

I think it’s weird that we keep pets (especially fish. They’re excruciatingly boring. You might as well keep a brick as a pet). Sometimes I look down at my pet cat as it brushes against my leg and think, ‘How did this happen? This is surreal. Why is this four-legged creature living in my house?’ You could argue that keeping a pet is a ridiculous, pointless and incredibly wasteful act. Look after your own genes, or the genes of another of your species: don’t invest your time in the well-being of a creature that shits in a box and licks its own arsehole. Sure, you could argue that case. I’d counter that our ability to indulge in these seemingly pointless acts of nurturing might just be one of the more important stitches in the patchwork-quilt of our humanity.

Having a pet can teach you about compassion and selflessness. It can also, as I’ve glibly demonstrated, teach you about death. Perhaps, in a strange way, we’re nothing but masochists. Owning a pet is like saying: ‘I don’t believe that I’ve been subjected to quite enough in the way of human loss and agony. I’d quite like to experience grief and heartache through a variety of different species, please.’

In a world crammed with suffering, the greater share of which happens unseen or unimagined by mankind – i.e. the never-ending reclamation of flesh as carbon through tooth and claw – why do we desire to bring a proportion of that invisible suffering into sharp focus by ensnaring an animal, developing feelings for it and then observing it as it gradually dies before our very eyes? What a curious species we are. In this year alone, during which I’ve wept not a centiliter of ocular fluid for a single fallen human at home or abroad, I’ve cried genuine tears of grief over the bodies of three rats and a dog.

This piece you’re reading serves as both obituary and commemoration for four special creatures that were plucked from their ancestral destinies within the animal kingdom’s brutal pyramid, and placed – plump and cosseted – upon a man-made pedestal. And loved with a deepness not often seen between two different species outside of underground German movies from the early 1980s.

So RIP, you wonderful, fun-filled, furry little fuckers. I’ll always remember you. You may have spent most of your time eating, shitting, pissing and sleeping, but, collectively and individually, you still lived more worthwhile lives than the cast of Geordie Shore.

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On the Death of a Pet – Piece Published in The Cat Magazine

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This is a piece I wrote following the death of our family cat a few years ago. The article appeared in various national cat magazines, which is my way of saying that I’m rock and roll. It’s a little departure from normal service, in that I show compassion and sensitivity. Well, as much compassion and sensitivity as a man can show when he’s cynically exploiting the death of an animal to get himself in print. This article should accentuate my humanity, or perhaps confirm that I like animals more than people.

Click on the pictures to view the full-size text. Or, if you’re an eagle just read it as it appears on the page, you show-off.

Do it the George Gallo-Way

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What’s the difference between Tony Soprano and George Galloway?

One’s a tough-talking, narcissistic, sociopathic, cigar-smoking adulterer, and the other one’s from New Jersey.

There’s a scene in ‘The Weight’, a season 4 episode of HBO’s The Sopranos, in which mob boss Tony Soprano covertly directs one half of a telephone conversation between Ralph Ciffaretto, one of his underlings, and Johnny Sack, a New York mob family underboss. Tony wants to make sure Ralph says the right things – and avoids saying the wrong things – to prevent further escalation of hostilities. Tensions are high between Ralph and Johnny: Ralph made a crack about the size of Johnny’s wife’s ass; somebody told Johnny; and now Johnny’s looking for blood.

Ralph: sorry seems to be the easiest word

Tony counsels Ralph to deny the allegations vehemently, and warns him that under no circumstances should he apologise. Ralph ignores Tony’s advice and, while still protesting his innocence, decides to apologise to Johnny in the interests of harmony and goodwill. That decision sets Ralph and Johnny on a course that puts both of them in mortal danger, and risks losing Tony a lot of money.

The moral is clear: never apologise. It’s weak, and makes you look guilty: especially if you are. This simple strategy worked for Tony Soprano, and it’s certainly doing the trick for ‘Gorgeous’ George Galloway. One stray ‘I’m sorry’ from the lips of the Teflon Don-donian at any point throughout the last few decades could have sunk his entire career.

'SPUNK LOVING SLUTS!'

Galloway knows that the world loves a larger-than-life character; a fighter; a righteous rebel. Where Winston Churchill – another famous cigar smoker with attitude – held two palm-facing fingers aloft to symbolise peace, Galloway prefers them flipped around to spell out ‘Fuck you’ with his fingernails. A large part of his appeal – and strength – is in his utter refusal to back down from any opponent, to answer for his actions or to show any contrition whatsoever for his apparent misdeeds.

And, let’s not forget, Galloway is the only politician ever to have uttered the words ‘spunk-loving sluts’ in parliament, and for that alone I will love him forever. Go on, Google it. Youtube it.

They say that great men become great by standing on the shoulders of giants. Galloway’s managed to keep himself astride the world of politics by standing on the shoulders of the underdogs. First, he spoke for the working class masses of Glasgow, then he gave a voice to those affected, both ethically and actually, by the occupation of Iraq, and now he’s championing the UK’s arab and muslim minorities. Galloway denies that he’s a demagogue, but it’s hard not to view him as Dundee’s answer to Gaius Baltar, a man ready to shed or cultivate any allegiance that will secure him power and a public platform with which to showcase his tub-thumping.

That being said, I’ve got something of a soft-spot for the little firebrand, and I even find myself agreeing with him from time to time…

And I’m not going to apologise for that. But, then, neither am I going to apologise for this:

GALLOWAY FUN FACTS

1) Galloway smokes a cigar. This makes him cool by default, because Winston Churchill, Tony Soprano and Che Guevara all smoked cigars, too, right? Wrong. Jimmy Saville also smoked cigars.

 

 

2) Galloway’s support for the Palestinian cause was lent extra credibility through his ability to look the arab world in the face and proclaim: ‘Of course I’m pro-Palestinian. I’m fucking one, aren’t I?’

 

 

3) Eric Joyce looks at George Galloway with envy. ‘Galloway’s shagged his way through just about every nationality on earth, cheated on his pregnant wife and enjoyed cavorting with younger women. If only I hadn’t apologised for MY behaviour I could have bounced back like him.’ When Eric Joyce thinks this way about Galloway, he gets much the same feeling as Gary Glitter gets when he thinks about Michael Jackson. In a nutshell, Glitter thinks he’d be on T4 if he’d fucked boys and danced better.

 

4) Born in Dundee, George Galloway is a big fan of The Broons.

 

 

 

5) George Galloway went on Celebrity Big Brother to teach Britain’s youth about politics, which he successfully achieved by pretending to be a robot and licking invisible cream from Rula Lenska’s fist.

 

 

6) On the same programme, George Galloway championed the great British underdog Michael Barrymore by harnessing all his powers of rhetoric and being right mean an’ that about the entertainer’s alcoholism and mental illness. Barrymore’s not bitter, though. He’s still invited Galloway to his ‘CBB 2012 Reunion Pool Party’.

 

7) Galloway’s represented the Hillhead constituency in Glasgow, campaigned and conquered in Bradford, and toured the war-torn, bomb-savaged Middle East, and he still hasn’t found anywhere as shit as Dundee.

 

 

8 ) Galloway has his own show on TalkSport, where he can reach that all-important demographic of medicated housewives, racist taxi-drivers and truck-driving serial killers.

 

 

9) Galloway said the address he made saluting Saddam Hussein’s ‘indefatigability’ was taken out of context. ‘It’s like when two lorry drivers from the same haulage firm pass each other and toot on the motorway. It’s respect. I wasn’t saluting HIS indefatigability, but the indefatigability of his smashing moustache.’ Galloway claims that only one other moustache on earth has moved him in this way: that belonging to Denny-born comedian Bob Graham.

 

10) George Galloway has eleven testicles.

 

 

 

 

11) Galloway vowed he would ‘never become a Conservative’ because ‘their birds are well ugly.’

 

 

 

12) The only nationality of woman that Galloway has never slept with is an Eskimo. And he’s working on that.

 

 

 

13) Galloway was born and raised a Roman Catholic, but his last few wives – and weddings – have been Muslim. So which is he? On the one hand, he’s a sex-obsessed hyopcrite. On the other hand, he’s a complete bastard to women. I guess he’s both. 

 

 

14) George Galloway thinks the relationship between Tony Soprano and this article was incredibly tenuous. I’m sorry about that.