Genocide In Gaza Still Happening

With all eyes on Iran, the Israeli genocide in Gaza has slipped out of the headlines but it hasn't slipped from Benjamin Netanyahu's mind because he has carried on doing what he has always done, killing Palestinians.
Since the Ian War began 28 days ago, dozens of Palestinians have been killed including killing 12 at a displacement Camp which Israeli planes bombed but then almost 700 Palestinians have been killed since the announcement of the ceasefire in October 2025 and at least 75,000 since October 2023.
Oxfam has said that despite the pledge that on the Peace Deal conclusion there would be an immediate resumption of full aid to Gaza, Israel is still refusing to allow essential aid to be delivered and 'progress towards recovery is limited and almost not there. This is basic survival in Gaza'.
Wanted War Criminal Netanyahu, who also faces charges of corruption and bribary in his own country as well as being on the list of the United Nations for War Crimes, seems to be looking for a war to keep him in power and after the UN  Security Council this week laid out a detailed plan for Palestinian armed groups to decommission their weapons, Netanyahu is demanding that Hamas disarm or Israel will disarm them 'the hard way'.
One Palestinian woman told the BBC that: 'We pray to God that peace will be imposed, and that the national committee will come and control Gaza' but the National Committee for Gaza Administration, which reports to Trump's absurd Board of Peace, said: 'There is no date yet for a return to Gaza'.
The whole Middle East is literally on fire and there is one common denominator in all which is happening there at the moment, Israel who have been committing a genocide for over 80 years in Palestine and America who have supplied the weapons and funding and now joined in another illegal war alongside the murderers in Tel Aviv.

Starmer Responds To Trumps Barbs

Day 28 of a war that the Fuchsia Fascist has said was already won despite him now readying thousands of American troops to the area but then not much of what he says can be taken as truth, even an ex-CIA leader came out and said that he is more inclined to believe the Iranians than his own President but we had already reached that conclusion anyway.
In a new move Trump is now saying that the Ayatollah is gay which doesn't do anything to improve his standing as having the mind of a spoilt child and we await the reply that you're a pedophile fired back at him and i don't know if the Ayatollah is gay, nor care, but we know that Trump is actually a pedophile and mixed in a pedophile ring for decades and if it walks like a nonce, and talks like a nonce then yep, he's a nonce.
Almost as much in the firing line as the Ayatollah has been our own Keir Starmer who refused to join the warmongers Trump and Netanyahu in the Iran debacle by saying it was not only illegal but Trump attacked with no viable plan and that really ticked off the Mango Moron because he hasn't stopped banging on about it ever since.
The sex pest President has said that the UK government's deal to hand over sovereignty of the Chagos archipelago to Mauritius, because he wanted to use the joint UK base on the island of Diego Garcia to launch attacks on Iran was 'An act of great Stupidity'  and 'A big mistake'.
After Starmer refused permission for America to use the airfield at Diego Garcia, Trump said he was  'very disappointed in Keir' and 'This is not Winston Churchill we're dealing with' and then came out with the bizarre statement that Keir offered to send both the Royal Navy's aircraft carriers to the Middle East but got the reply that 'That's OK, Prime Minister Starmer, we don't need them any longer - But we will remember. We don't need people that join Wars after we've already won!' 
The UK government denied it and went to the pain of pointing out that they wouldn't say that because one is in Dry Dock and the other is undergoing a major refit.
He then completely undermined his argument by saying that that Keir Starmer told him that he really didn't want to send any ships to help and said he thought that was terrible and very surprising and he was 'not happy' with the UK.
Then it was back to: 'Unfortunately Keir is no Winston Churchill' and returned to the story of the PM offering to send both Royal Navy aircraft carriers and that he had rejected the offer because 'We want things sent before the war, not after the war is won' which led Number 10 to again deny they made such an offer and patiently explained once again that they couldn't even if they wanted to, which they didn't.  Still obsessing over the ships we refused to send, the next insult was that the UK aircraft carriers aren't the best and are 'toys' and said that Keir Starmer was: 'A liberal and that's the way they think' so credit to Starmer who went on TV today to say that Donald Trump has been putting pressure on him in different ways to join the war but insisted that 'He won't buckle under pressure' nor 'Get dragged into the war' and vowed that he is 'Not going to waver on the issue of getting more involved in the Iran war' or make him abandon his principles or values.
Despite all the bluster, the Iran War is not going well for Trump and his war criminal pal in Tel Aviv and Trump's aides yesterday said that they only show him a 2 minute highlight reel of things being blown up in Iran so maybe he really does think it is going better than it actually is but with the Houthi's now joining in and threatening to bring a second crucial waterway to a standstill, it's not going to end anytime soon and Iran will enter the History Books along with Iraq and Afghanistan of Middle East Wars which left America running away with its tails between its legs.  

Special Guest Blogger: Nicholas Brendon

So, if you’re reading this, I’ve finally achieved the one thing Xander Harris never quite managed and successfully transitioned into the spiritual realm without a resurrection spell or a grumpy British librarian hovering over me with a crossbow.
So, where to begin? My origin story isn't exactly a comic book epic. There were no radioactive spiders, no alien parents, just... a lot of average kid stuff, mixed with an unhealthy amount of television and an even unhealthier dose of self-doubt due to a stutter.
Before I was the guy who didn't have any powers, I was the guy who wanted to throw a 95-mph fastball. That was the dream, Nicky Brendon, starting pitcher for the Dodgers. I had the arm, I had the heart, and I had the ability to look great in those tight white pants. But then my arm decided to retire before I did.
I got into acting not for some some deep, artistic epiphany about the human condition, the  truth was my stutter made every sentence feel like I was trying to navigate a minefield while wearing roller skates. It was bad. I’d get stuck on a B or an S and just… stay there. Forever.
I discovered that if I used someone else’s words in a script, the stutter vanished. Acting wasn't about fame, it was the only way I could say a complete sentence without sounding like a skipping CD.
So, I traded the pitcher’s mound for the soundstage. I traded a baseball for a wooden stake. It’s basically the same motion, just with more splinters.
Then came the late 90s. The glorious era of grunge, dial-up internet, and an undeniable craving for supernatural teen drama. And suddenly, there I was, a guy somehow auditioning for a show about a girl who slays vampires while navigating high school. The role? Xander Harris. The lovable, wisecracking, perpetually unlucky-in-love best friend. It was like they’d read my diary and then added 'fights demons' to make it more exciting.
And thus, my destiny was sealed. For seven glorious, monster-filled years, I got to be Xander Harris which was the greatest gig in the world, even if I did have to wear those Hawaiian shirts.
Playing Xander was a trip. The guy who, despite being surrounded by vampires, witches, and werewolves, still worried about his love life, his job, and whether his friends actually liked him or just tolerated him so I resonated with Xander as we both had a talent for self-sabotage, and an unwavering loyalty to our friends, even when they were trying to turn us into a rat.
The show blew up, and suddenly, I went to people wanting me to sign their foreheads even if i was  the only one in the Scooby Gang who could die from a papercut while everyone else was busy being immortal but I survived seven years of apocalypses, two different weddings (one involving a demon), and I only lost one eye. In the grand scheme of the Hellmouth, that’s a pretty solid win-loss record.
After Buffy ended, I quickly learned that the world really, really liked the idea of me as the quirky, sarcastic best friend even if i wanted to move on making a joke about someone’s terrible fashion sense after they’ve just been dismembered.
I've had some fantastic roles since Buffy, and some that were... let's just say they paid the rent but i really enjoyed the convention circuit! Where else can you meet someone dressed as Spike, lamenting the price of a signed photo, while I'm sharing a table with someone who once played a disgruntled Alien on a forgotten sci-fi show from 1986?
I loved seeing my old castmates there. It’s like a mini-reunion every time. We swap stories, mostly about how old we’re getting, how much coffee we need, and whether anyone remembers that one incredibly obscure episode where a demon made it we had to sing every line. It’s a reminder of the incredible thing we all created together, and it brings a smile to my face every time. Not just because of the nostalgia, but also because I usually get free snacks.
After Buffy things got dark but I’ve never claimed to be a saint. I’ve struggled with the darkness more than most slayers. I’ve had my ups and downs with depression and alcoholism. I’ve been the guy on the poster and the guy on the mugshot. But through all the rehabs, the mistakes, the arrests and the public apologies, you guys stayed even after that one night in LA when things got a little, shall we say, electric.
Getting tasered while you’re drunk is an experience I would give a zero-star rating on Yelp. 0/10. Do not recommend.
My most important fall was an actual fall for which i underwent spinal surgery after I suffered paralysis from the waist down and the spinal surgery to fix that caused a spinal cord puncture and a heart attack and a dignosis of a heart defect which caught up with me.
It turns out that kicking the bucket from natural causes is a lot less dramatic than being eaten by a Preacher-turned-God or losing an eye to a rogue preacher.
There was no dust, no fancy light shows, no Glory, the Mayor or the First Evil it felt like a bit of a plot hole for a guy who spent his twenties fighting the undead which in all honestly, felt like a bit of a letdown.

Special Guest Blogger: Trojan Prince Tithonus

You probably know me from the myth. If you’ve forgotten the details, allow me to give you the skinny. I’m the bloke who was granted immortality but, due to a rather significant clerical oversight on Mount Olympus, not the eternal youth to go with it. A classic case of not reading the fine print before signing on the cosmic dotted line. It’s the long and short of it. My life, the ultimate cautionary tale for anyone making a wish to a capricious deity. Always ask for the full spec sheet, that’s my advice.
It all started so promisingly. I was a handsome prince, Eos was the goddess of the dawn and we were madly in love, the whole nine yards. She couldn't bear the thought of me, a mere mortal, shuffling off this mortal coil. So, she went to Zeus. Now, Zeus was a busy god (lightning bolts, seducing swans, the usual) and I suspect he was dealing with a rather large divine paperwork backlog that day. He heard immortality for the boyfriend, scribbled it on a celestial post-it note, and bunged it in the Approved pile.
And so, my grand adventure began.
The first century was a hoot. The second was… fine. By the third, I was starting to notice a bit of a sag around the jowls. By the fifth, my hair had gone the colour of dusty cobwebs and my back made a noise like a trireme running aground whenever I stood up too quickly. Eos, bless her cotton socks, remained as radiant as ever. Every morning, she’d wake up, fresh as a daisy, ready to paint the skies. I’d wake up feeling like a crumpled, slightly damp parchment that had been left out in the rain.
You think getting old is tough? Try it for three thousand years. It’s not the dramatic sagas that get you. It’s the sheer, grinding, monolithic tedium of it all. I’ve seen fashions come back into style seven times. I’ve watched humans invent the wheel, then invent the self-driving car,  I’ve seen empires rise and fall, philosophies blossom and wither, and through it all, I’ve just been there. The world’s oldest and grumpiest man.
Achilles had his heel, Odysseus had his cunning journey, Me? I have a faulty warranty. I am a footnote. A cosmic blooper reel. When the bards tell my story, it’s not to inspire heroism, it’s to make people awkwardly shuffle their feet and say, Gosh, that’s a bit unfortunate, isn’t it.
Then came the final act. You can’t just keep withering forever, you know. Physics, even divine physics, has to kick in at some point. My body, having reached the absolute peak of decrepitude and one morning, I just… shrank. Went all papery and crackly. My limbs long and spindly, my voice no longer a wheeze but a buzz. I became a cicada.
So, the moral of my story is be careful what you wish for? Read the terms and conditions because one moment you’re the tragic figure who got a raw deal from the gods, the next you’re a happy little insect with a very simple to-do list. And to be honest, it’s a much better gig.

Who Will Join Us At World Cup?

It's the World Cup Qualifiers tonight and pre-kick off we can dream of a World Cup with England, Scotland, Wales, the Republic and the Northern Irish players all turning up at a US Border and presenting their mobile phones to make sure none of them have bad mouthed the orange baboon before letting them in to grace the 2026 World Cup in USA, Mexico and Canada.
With England and Scotland already qualified, it is all eyes on the other three and their two legged ties to see if any of them will be joining us but what with this being a FIFA run competition it isn't as straight forward as that as of the 16 teams playing tonight, only four will make it and if they both make it past this round, Wales and Northern Ireland will play each other so one of the Home Nations will definitely not make it.  
Northern Ireland's opponents tonight are four times winners Italy in Italy but the Azzurri have not qualified for a World Cup finals since 2014 and the last time they failed to qualify before that was in 1958 when they were knocked out by Northern Ireland so what could it all mean? Eff all obviously because at odds of 1/3 on, even the bookies think the Belfast boys chances of winning are as long as a pair of Joshua Magennis's socks.
The Republic of Ireland also have a tough tie against the Czech Republic in Prague and at least Wales are are home and have a better chance against Bosnia and Herzegovina and Manager Craig Bellamy has promised that his team will: ' Go all out, we ain’t sitting back' which we will find out if it was a wise decision by about 21:30.
There is some British interest in the Ukraine V Sweden game tonight which is being played in Spain because even FIFA are not stupid enough to risk a second half drone attack disrupting the game and in the Swedish dug out will be Graham Potter who you may remember from his days leading West Ham to 19th in the League before the Hammers Directors decided that his skill set was best deployed anywhere else but at their London Stadium.   
If it goes as i think it will then i only really expect Wales to be joining us dodging heavilly armed ICE Agents in the USA come June but as football fans know, sometimes miracles do happen in football although the Northern Irish would have to pick Jesus himself at Left Back if they are going to get one in Italy tonight. 

Happy New Year

In 1751 you would be hearing: 'Happy New Year, may 1752 be a good one' because March 25th was the official New Years Day until Pope Gregory meddled with the Calendar and New Years Day got shunted back to January 1st.
It wasn’t just the year start that needed adjusting, as the new calendar was now out by several days which meant that in England, 11 days were lost as Wednesday September 2 1752 was followed by Thursday September 14 1752 in order to right things. The jump must have been very disconcerting if your birthday fell between these dates but apart from missing Birthday cake, it gave us the weird Tax Year we have which starts on April 6th.
Where the new tax year was March 25 (the old New Year) it was moved to April 5, and later to April 6, so March 25 may be a day that for most goes by with little notice now but it was once a major holiday that marked the beginning of the new year.
I always thought that to cram two big days of the year (Christmas and New Years) into the space of 7 days was an awful bit of planning although it does give us 3 Bank Holidays in a short space of time, it also gives us Twixmas which is that weird period between Boxing Day and New Years Day when you lose track of what day it is and nobody wants to do anything because they are too hungover or unable to move due to all the Christmas pudding and roast dinners.
I will add moving the New Year back to March 25th onto my 'To Do' list of when i become Prime Minister.

  

 

The No Talking Talks

According to Donald Trump, he is in negotiations with Iranians about ending the War he started although the Iranians are saying its all nonsense and he is just trying to smooth over the fact that the rising price of oil has just made Americans pay extra on top of the ill thought out tariffs he imposed on his supporters.
To be honest, as Trump has made a Royal balls up of everything i can see why he would be lying that a deal could be made to bring down the price of oil and provide a desperate off ramp from a war that has spiraled out of control but then again i can also see why Iran would deny entering negotiations with a man who has twice bombed then whilst in the process of negotiating so as i wouldn't trust either as far as i could throw a piano, but there does seem to be some evidence that someone is talking to someone over all this.
Pakistan has announced they are acting as a middle man between the two and after Iran made some demands for ending the war, they have now handed over a 15-point US plan to whoever in Iran and Iran poo-pooed them, said that only they will decide when the war ends and shot back with a further 5 demands of their own.
Although the details,of what is in the 15-point plan for ending the war, Israel's Channel 12 has reported it has gathered some of the content, citing a "Western source" and include Sanctions relief, Civilian nuclear cooperation, a rollback of Iran's nuclear program, monitoring by the International Atomic Energy Agency and access for shipping through the Strait of Hormuz which almost all were offered by the Iranians during talks when Trump  started the war.
The best line is from the Iranians who today said to America that: 'People like us don't negotiate with people like you' which i took to mean that even religious, murderous fanatics think Trump is untrustworthy and loathsome, and they do have a point, you wouldn't ask him to hold your Big Mac while you went to the toilet would you.

Special Guest Blogger: Jilly Cooper

Darlings, I have popped off! Honestly. It’s enough to make a girl reach for a second G&T. And I did.
A quick, ridiculous, and faintly unglamorous end, a fall and hitting my head. Gravity, that vindictive cow. How utterly… tedious. I’d rather be run over by a runaway horse-drawn carriage driven by a naked viscount. I was a Dame and famous for my bonkbuster books for heaven’s sake. One has standards but i almost went twice before, once from a minor stroke and the second time when i was a  passenger in one of the derailed carriages in the Ladbroke Grove rail crash. 31 people died but i managed to crawl our through a window to escape.
Sure I left behind a mountain of books filled with gloriously naughty aristocrats, formidable women with bosoms like howitzers, and more bonking than you can shake a riding crop at so there's that I suppose.
I began as a journalist after the editor of The Sunday Times Magazine saw some short stories i had submitted for teenage magazines and asked me to write some columns and then after 11 years, i began writing books with an explicitly upper-middle-class British perspective, with many many sex scenes or as the tabloids nicknamed me 'The queen of the bonkbuster'.
People forget the sheer graft involved, you know. They see Rivals on the telly, with all those glorious, beautiful people shagging in my name, and they think it was all a jolly romp. And it was! But it was a chaotic jolly romp. My ‘research’ for the romantic scenes mostly involved lying on the sofa, eating a packet of cheese and onion crisps, and asking my poor, long-suffering husband, Leo, is he thought ir was physically possible to do that on a chaise lounge while wearing jodhpurs and holding a glass of Bollinger?
My legacy isn't the books. It's not the gongs from the Queen, bless her. It’s not even the fact I kept the gin and tonic industry in business single-handedly for the past fifty years.
No, my true legacy, I’ve decided, is the number of women i’ve enabled to imagine there’s a magnificent brute on a horse who’s desperate to sweep them off their feet (and then probably do terribly rude things to them).
If my books have given readers a few hours of joy and a bit of a flush to the cheeks… well, then pop that cork. I’d consider that a job bloody well done.
Cheerio, darlings.

Special Guest Blogger: Chuck Norris

I always assumed that death was actually too afraid to check its calendar when it sees my name, the Grim Reaper kept sending me Get Well cards even when I’m not sick just to stay on my good side but its appears he finally plucked up the courage to knock on my door.  
People always asked me, how did you become the man, the myth, the legend and its a long story and starts with Karate, ends with a roundhouse kick to the face of destiny in Hawaii and involves a whole lot of denim in between.
I wasn’t born a martial arts master,  I was actually born a relatively normal human being in Oklahoma and my early years were quiet as I was a shy kid. But then I joined the Air Force and got stationed in Korea where I quickly realised that waiting for bad guys to come to us was a waste of perfectly good punching opportunities and that’s where I met Tang Soo Do among the rice paddies, a Korean martial art.
I came back to the States and started opening Karate schools where i didn't so much push the gentle resistance side of Karate and concentrated more on the fists and feet and in the late 60s, I started competing. I won the World Middleweight Karate Championship in 1968 and held it for six years.
They didn't just give me black belts, they practically begged me to take them and I accumulated black belts like some folks collect stamps. Taekwondo? Check. Judo? Check. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu? I eventually mastered so many styles that I had to found my own: Chun Kuk Do, or The Universal Way.
When I retired in 1974 it was because I ran out of people who were willing to be hit by me for a trophy and a man can only kick so many sparring partners before he starts looking for a bigger challenge so then came the movies.
Some folks ease into acting with small roles, maybe a commercial. Me? My first big break was literally going toe-to-toe with Bruce Lee in Way of the Dragon. Bruce was a dear friend and a phenomenal martial artist. He asked me to play his opponent in the final fight at the Roman Colosseum and it was then that I realised my chest hair had its own gravitational pull. It was a simpler time, one roundhouse kick at a time.
The 1980s were a blur of cordite, sweat and sleeveless shirts but the 80's were a terrifying and desperate time to be alive. The world was entering a recession and governments slashed welfare budgets so they could treat themselves to a nice war every now and again. The United States and Soviet Union stockpiled ever more powerful weapons in a game of Thermonuclear Chicken. Duran Duran walked the Earth unopposed like some New Romantic behemoth and I did Missing in Action, The Delta Force, and Lone Wolf McQuade and then came the 90s and I swapped the jungle for the Texas brush and became Cordell Walker.
Walker, Texas Ranger ran for eight seasons. We didn’t have a script for most of it. The writers would just write Chuck walks into a bar and I’d take it from there with me representing Law, Order, and the ability to kick a man through a plate-glass window while wearing a very nice cowboy hat.
Around 2005, something strange happened. The internet discovered me and memes abounded even if nobody actually watched my films but it did keep the youth of today aware that there is a man out there who only backed down to give myself more room for a running roundhouse kick which most people have at some point tried to replicate in their living room and ended up knocking over Grandma's flower vase or her prize-winning porcelain cat.
Beyond the flying kicks and the unwavering stare, there was a man with a set of principles as solid as my jawline. I was an outspoken Christian, and my faith was always part of me and I loved everyone as long as they were not gay, or into science or anything although i do put my extreme right wing views down to being punched and kicked in the head so much in the 70s but i maintain that America is the land of the free, not the land of the free lunches for minorities. Okay? I don't care if they are the ones serving it. They shouldn't get it for free.
So that's my story then and now i know what the internet is like but this is a somber occasion and humor at this particular time would be inappropriate so you are going to mourn and be sad and somber and you will be respectful. Any deviation from this will result in me coming back and delivering an immediate roundhouse kick to your face.

Special Guest Blogger: Shannen Doherty

If you’re reading this, one of two things is true. Either you’ve finally decided to care about my life story (thank you, loyal fan!), or you stumbled here while Googling 'Is that 90210 girl still alive?' Spoiler: She’s not. But more on that later.
Let’s start at the beginning or as I like to call it, the part where I accidentally became a ’90s icon.
I was born in 1971, which, in astrological terms, means I’m a Cancer.
My big break? Little House on the Prairie. The show where I played a girl who lived in Minnesota and by the time I joined Beverly Hills, 90210, I’d mastered the skill of  pretending to be a rich teenager.
Eventually, I decided to stop playing teenagers and start playing, well, adults? You may have seen my 10 page nude spread in Playboy. Very artistic.
It was a rocky transition but hey, I tried and while I may not have won any Oscars, I did manage to survive Hollywood long enough to realize that no one knows what they’re doing. Not the producers. Not the stylists. And definitely not me because i was labelled the bad girl of the nineties which didn't help when the tabloids regularly featured heavy partying, on set lateness and physical fights but especially particularly my long running feud with fellow 90210-er Jennie Garth.  
My next big hit was being cast in the television series, Charmed where i played one of the lead characters, Prue Halliwell, the oldest of three sisters who are witches but after three seasons i was sacked due to severe on-set tensions with co-star Alyssa Milano.
My attitude probably explains why i was married, and divorced three times, well two and half actually because one of my last acts was to finalise my divorce and the official declaration arrived two days after my death.
Cancer. That's one party crasher we all hope never shows up. In 2008, I got the 'You’re dying, sweetie' news but I’m Shannen Doherty! I didn’t just have cancer, I turned chemo into a spa day (minus the cucumber slices), survivors’ meetings into group therapy and my YouTube channel into a platform for me to argue with my Intravenous Drip pole.
The worst part? Explaining to people that yes, I did have breast cancer which had spread to my bones and brain, and no, I won’t stop talking about it.
I guess now i'm dead I am best remembered as Brenda Walsh and not the woman who laughed in the face of mortality and wore ugly sweaters to chemotherapy but that's ok, as long as i am also remembered for my grit, hope, badassery and gorgeous, glossy hair.