Ever wondered what happens when you die?

If you have you're not alone.

Thankfully those clever chaps at rathergood.com have done some research...

(Like all of their stuff it's probably best appreciated after ingesting large quantities of illegal drugs.)

The afterlife explained
Ed cruelly left me and Sea Dave alone this afternoon. He just left, and went to York, just like that. We have been so sad and lonely without him that we have decided we can't go on. We are going to end it all and leave notes for Ed so that he knows it's his fault.
"Dear Ed- when you abandoned us we lost all hope of happiness in this life. We have killed ourselves because of your cruelty. We hope you can be happy now we are dead. We'll be waiting for you in the next world, where maybe you will be less cruel to us."
I wasn't sure how this works in the after-life so I have looked into it. If he is still nasty to us in the afterlife, and we end up having to kill ourselves again, it turns out we will go to the super-afterlife. Either super-heaven or super-hell, depending. Super-heaven is brilliant, super-hell less so. If he is still nasty to us here and we kill ourselves again, we will go to the super-super afterlife. It isn't an infinite regression of super-afterlives though- after the super-super afterlife, if Ed is still being cruel to us and we kill ourselves again, there is just soup.
Depending on whether you have come from super-super heaven or super-super-hell you get either tomato and bacon soup, or celery soup. Personally, if I get the eternity of celery soup I will immediately drown myself in the soup without even waiting for Ed to catch up to see if he is still being cruel. I HATE celery soup.
After that it turns out you loop back to the physical world and are reincarnated as yourself but with a "2" on your forehead, in Croydon. If you leave Croydon then the police will bring you back, unless you wipe off the 2. It turns out the 2 is only written on with biro. Then you can go about your life normally.
This process is cyclical, and you keep going through the life / afterlife/ super-afterlife / super-super-afterlife / soup / Croydon cycle a further 11 times - 12 in total. You don't go back in time or anything, you don't get reborn in the past, you just turn up in Croydon with a number on your forehead, covered in soup.
After the 12th time, it's much the same but you get a haircut and a new name and this time round you have to rhyme everything you say. This only repeats 6 times though. After that you get reincarnated as an animal. Specifically, you get reincarnated as Lassie. The problem with this is that EVERYONE gets reincarnated as Lassie, all at the same time, so you end up as just one of billions upon billions of screaming voices in the head of Lassie, who has gone completely insane with the torture of the voices. No further suicides are possible at this point as your control over the dog is very limited- like many billions of people all trying to drive her at once. Mostly she just twitches and whimpers. You are basically stuck with that until Lassie dies.
Then it's Flipper. Same deal, with the billions of screaming mind-voices and insanity, just damper.
When Flipper eventually dies, you are back in Lassie again, then it's the bear off Gentle Ben. You spend around 300 years in total bouncing around the minds of famous acting animals, then you spend a couple of years in a featureless white room. It has no sensory input of any kind except for the white walls. After a few months a TV screen appears playing "Weekend At Bernie's 2" on loop.
After a couple of years of that you get reincarnated as a bee. It's random whether you get worker, drone or queen, but the odds are weighted towards worker. After hundreds of years of screaming inside dogs and watching crap movies it's quite a relief. Depending on how much pollen you gather as a bee, when you die you either go to bee heaven or bee hell.
Bee hell is the special all-bee version of Deep Impact, with Morgan Beeman playing President Bee. Suicide is still possible in Bee Hell- you have to sting another bee and you will die and go to bee super-super-hell.
Bee super-super-hell is a small room with a picture of a cock drawn on one wall. You are there for 20 million years.
After that a small trap-door opens up and you find yourself, still a bee, in a deserted infinite Weston Super-Mare, stretching off in ever direction without end. There are lots of pinball machines and stuff but you're a bee so they're useless to you. After the 20 million years in the room though it's nice to have the space, frankly. There are plenty of flowers too. The main plus-point is that Ed won't be there being mean. This goes on for eternity.
It's not a perfect system, but it's the only one we've got.

Jordan out-strips Kylie and Madonna!

Google Trends reveals the world-wide pulling power of Katie Price/Jordan.

A fascinating insight into the relative popularity of these three uber-babes.

- = Jordan

- = Madonna

- = Kylie

Great to see our lass out in front... so to speak.

(The Captain is back! Forget Speaker Mick "ye canny expect ma wife to take a bus" Martin and the trauma of seeing the oldest democracy in the world laid low by bath plugs and dog food. It's only at the Chateau you get trenchant social insight like this.)

Bye Bye, Dolly. Bye Bye!

Dear All, I am emailing directly because I wanted you to know before anyone else does about developments at LabourList.Two weeks ago I posted on the site saying I was sorry for my role in the Damian McBride affair. Of course I regret ever receiving the infamous email and I regret my stupid hasty reply. Instead I should have said straight away that the idea was wrong.

Thus begins an email sent to the Chateau this morning in which the editor of LabourList, Nulabour's rather sad attempt at getting down with the boys in the blogosphere, announces his long-overdue resignation.

After rather cleverly apologising for receiving the infamous email ("I'm a victim in this") Derek "Dolly" Draper goes on to bemoan the dirty tricks of the bastards who hacked into his email account.

He continues to be a hypocritical, self-deluding schmuck sans-pareil...even as he waves us all a sad farewell.

Ruthless politicians set to take over Nulabour shock!

LabourList has an interesting and refreshing article by a frustrated supporter today.
What is noteworthy is this addendum...

This article was born partly out of frustration. Having attended some young party events in recent years, I came to realise that what used to be a loose affiliation of Labour friends has become a clique of ruthless young careerists, a gaggle of Labour Party diehards hell bent on winning. It's a shame, given the transparency of the Labour Party (and of politics in general since the advent of the blogosphere), that the next generation being flaunted on LabourList are: white, university educated, middle-class careerists, nearly all of whom live in London, nearly all of whom aspire to public office of one kind or the other, and nearly all of whom indulge in the pompous fantasy that the Labour Party will save the world.

Good Lord! Blinkered, ruthless, metropolitan careerists? In the Labour Party? Indulging in pompous fantasies?

Wherever might they have got those ideas from?

World Naked Gardening Day

The Captain enjoyed his day in the garden, and he hopes all his readers did too...

Blunkett and Clarke spotted at the bookies

Sporting Index’s spread for the Tory majority at the next election is 136-140 seats.
Political betting offers no odds at all on the Tories winning, and you can get 12-1 (8-1 only two weeks a go) on a Labour majority (when did you last hear of 12-1 in a two horse race, unless one of them had only three legs…?)

If anyone can tell the Captain where to find odds for a motion of no confidence being called within the next two months, he’d be most grateful.

O.F.F.S.

A useful acronym for use in moments of exasperation -as in Oh for f*ck's sake! -

such as when one spies this in the magazine racks in Smiths.

Conspiracy swine flu

Mexican drug cartels
American immigration agencies
Al-Qaida (of course)
Chicken farmers ...
For all your wacko conspiracy needs

Poor old Piglet

via

Sion Simon's Twitterings

Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Further Education, Sion Simon, apparently thinks this is a suitable joke to share on his Twitter feed:

“I'm not saying Susan Boyle (X factor contestant) causes swine flu. I'm just saying nobody had swine flu, she sang on tv, people got swine flu."

Sometimes one is just lost for words.

Draper helps Nulabour implode

LabourList –Where Labourminded people come together (not in a Lennon-like way we assume)- has an interesting link on its site today to Labourhome – Back to the roots.

Now, LabourList is Dolly Draper’s baby and is usually an organ of the accepted Nuspeak. (Let’s ignore for the moment the fact that Dolly also uses it to push his psychotwaddle websites.)
Labourhome, on the other hand, is a place where proper people like Michael Foot and Tony Benn might have felt comfortable, offering, as it does, a more traditional vision of Labour values.

You can begin to see why a link between the two might be of interest. More so when one reads the post as it makes quite startling reading:

Brown has to go, and soon!

Let me declare an interest. I never have liked the current leader [...]More problematically, I never viewed him as capable or well rounded enough to connect with the electorate, and always assumed that if selected he would lead us to a crushing defeat.
My views on this were confirmed by the appointments he made, unpleasant power hungry second rater thugs like Watson, Balls, Sion Simon. These were the rejects who clung to Brown since Blair would not promote them. They largely worked to wreck any attempt to control expenditure though reforms and now we can see where this has brought us.

The post continues for some time in similar venemous vein.

I particularly like the bit about second-rater thugs.

(And yes I know I promised not to post about Nulabour any more, but it’s such fun watching them kick each other in the gonads...)

Gurkha victory over NuBritain

The Captain has a soft spot for strong, intelligent women (don't I, Mrs H, dear...?).

New to the pantheon of Chateau Moulinsart's heroines, alongside Germaine Greer and Katie Price (shurely shome mistake - ed) is Joanna Lumley.

What an uplifting, soul-stirring sight we witnessed yesterday. Ms. Lumley, fist raised in triumph over the weasley, mean-spiritted, penny-pinching little people of NuBritain, joyously celebrating with the Gurkha veterans she has selflessly helped for so long.

And what a contrast with Whiny Woolas, whose obfuscating has led to the first audible calls for Brown to resign in the Commons chamber.

O frabjous day! Callooh! callay!

Georgina Gould- Nulabour’s Henry Long

Henry Long was the youngest MP ever in this country. He was returned for the 'rotten borough' of Old Sarum in 1435 at the age of 15.

Georgia Gould’s propulsion, at the tender age of twenty-two, to the top of the Erith & Thamesmead selection list begs the question: what qualifies someone to stand for parliament nowadays? Wisdom gained from experience? A desire to be a voice for the people with whom one shares a common bond? A proven track record in local government?

Nah –at the risk of stating the bleedin’ obvious, what qualifies someone to represent the good people of a constituency under this government is having Daddy at the heart of the Nulabour project and rewarded with a Lordship by a grateful Blair, and Mummy a millionaire publisher who has recently given a reputed £1 million to Alastair Campbell for his memoirs.

The truly draw-dropping aspect of this whole debacle is the arrogance of the inner circle of Zanulabour who apparently are no longer even pretending to care what the grass roots of their once proud party think.

My God, you have to feel sorry for the poor bastards who cheered on that balmy night in ’97. How they’ve been shafted by this group of self-serving, hypocritical shysters.

(The Captain hereby states that he will no longer waste breath on them. They're finished and good riddance.)

Labourlist Fantasy Land latest

The Captain has just received an interesting missive from LabourList which does its best to talk up the budget, and those public debt figures in particular..

On the day that ONS releases a preliminary estimate showing GDP at minus 1.9 per cent, quarter on quarter, the FTSE All Share index improves by 3.3 per cent....and the All Share has improved by 5 per cent since Alastair Darling's budget speech. Clearly, folk in the 'square mile' don't share the apocalypse view of the economy that Conservatives are currently making hay over.

Just to put these 'shock horror' numbers (public sector net debt at close on 80 per cent of GDP in 2012/13) in perspective, these are the numbers for what used to be called 'National Debt' since the end of the second world war:
1945 : ND 232 per cent of GDP
1951 : 178 per cent
1964 : 93 per cent
1970 : 66 per cent
1974 : 50 per cent
1979 : 46 per cent
1990 : 35 per cent
1997 : 53 per cent
2004 : 43 per cent

So let me get this right, fellas…the fact that these are the worst public debt figures for OVER 50 YEARS is now something to crow about?
Are we supposed to compare the latest figures to those of post-war Britain and feel somehow reassured that it’s not as bad as it could be??
As desperate spinning goes, this latest effort is going to take some beating.

Alan Duncan's squirm factor

Prize for the most salaciously bizarre headline of the day goes to the Mail for

Gay Tory frontbencher faces police probe after Miss Universe death threat live on TV

which reports on claims that Alan Duncan is to be investigated by police after his toe-curling appearance on HIGNFY in which he suggested that 'If you read that Miss California has been murdered, you will know it was me won't you?' Duncan was playfully responding to the revelations that Miss Prejean did not support gay marriage.

Duncan’s appearance was a perfect illustration of the old maxim, “If you’re a bit of a git with an inflated idea of your own worth don’t try to be one of the lads on national TV.”

The Captain weighed up offering readers a picture of Mr. Duncan against one of Miss California and, at the risk of offending Mrs H’s feminist sensibilities, plumped for the one who looks better in a bikini.