I am glad to pass on the news, thanks to my friends at BBC news on line, that my admired cousins in the scientific community have turned their attention to another line of research that will help to advance our knowledge and consequently improve the human condition.
They are trying to find out why cheetahs are so fast.
Unfortunately, they are unable to start their research, because they haven't been able to catch one yet.
I am obliged to my friends at BBC News who inform me that alcohol kills 1 in 20 Scots. This is very good news indeed, as I infer that 95% of my caber-tossing cousins, my porridge-devouring pals, as it were, are immune to the effects of intoxicating libations, and can indulge with even less consideration than they had shown. Good for you, McTavish!
There are many reasons not to go into the teaching profession, children being among the more numerous of those reasons. But for those with a strange desire to spend their working lives in the arcane and underground world that is the educational system, one of the prerequisites should be that one’s name be devoid of any aspect that could be construed as silly or rude. Should, for example, your surname be Pelvicthrust, or your name Mr P. Nightly, then a career in accountancy, where nothing ever amuses anyone, is what is required.
I was at college with one young lady who had a name that is guaranteed to make anyone from the age of 3 to 93 turn purple with mirth. She went on to become a teacher. I expect that she got married and took her husband’s name before she dared introduce herself to her students. I recall only one incident involving this lady that had little to do with her name. I was paying an all too rare visit to my college, and sitting in the canteen with six or seven other young men. The lady in question entered the canteen, and commenced to hand cards to everyone at my table, except me. She had been to visit an establishment of a discreet nature in a local town, and had been advised to invite certain of her closer friends to pay a similar visit. I had very mixed emotions; delighted not to have to make that trip, but concerned as to why I had not been in the group dealt the invitations. I shall not, because I am a caring person, tell you her name, but will say that I believe it is Lancastrian in origin.
My first chemistry teacher had an even more inappropriate name. I can think of very few situations in which the name would not cause embarrassment. At the time, however, the implication in the name was not in common usage, and I was not aware of anyone who drew sexual connotations from it. It would certainly not be the case today. I very much doubt whether she lived up to her name, and I am fairly certain that I would not want to find out. My memories of her are very vague, but I do recall a dislike of her that went beyond intensity and bordered on pathological loathing. She should not have been a teacher even if she had an unamusing name, because she was crap. Note how kind I am in not identifying her.
At my junior school there was Mr Horne. Today he would have to change his name before he considered passing through the school gates. At that time, again as far as I recall, and certainly in my school, there was no rumour that the gentleman was in a state of constant arousal.
It is Mr Horne that I want to tell you about, because he was a damned good chap. He didn’t teach me, but was the teacher given the job of coaching the football team. This is because he was male, 84 years younger than Mr Stevens and 17 stone lighter than Mr Nixon. Our school football team was top rate, and one of the best in the city. I used to go to the practice and training sessions that were held one evening a week after school. I was crap. Utterly, totally, useless. There was, however, never any suggestion made that I should not attend. There were a few of us who knew we would never make the first or second team, and would rarely get a game in the practice sessions, but we loved playing and were not just tolerated but encouraged. In my last year at primary school, the football team won every game in the league (not the top division) and got to the cup final where they narrowly lost. This meant that virtually every Saturday morning in winter, Mr Horne would leave the comforts of his hearth to accompany a group of raucous pre-pubescent thugs and their supporters to wherever the game was to be played. It would probably have been less fun if the team were losing, but it still showed a fair degree of commitment.
What, however, made Mr Horne so outstanding was that, in addition to all of this, he arranged a game for those of us who were regular attendees at training, but would never be picked on merit. The team consisted, if I recall accurately, about six or seven of us donkeys, and four or five good players. I loved it, even though no-one thought to pass the ball to me, I probably got half a dozen kicks of the ball in the game, some of which may have connected, but I was really happy and proud to be in a team which bore the school’s name.
This treatment is in complete contrast to the games teachers I encountered later - a bunch of ignorant, callous fascists who only had contempt for those with little ability. I would gladly frogmarch them all out of their piss soaked retirement homes, make them dress in vest and shorts and set the bastards on a ten mile cross country run.
So, thank you Mr Horne. I hope that you are happy and fulfilled.
I was pleased to discover a message in my Thunderbird folder this morning from a dear old friend (a Mr Trellis of North Epsom). He informs me, among many such interesting items, that his daughter is studying English at university and is partially financing this by working in a hairdressing establishment. (Keats and Cuts? Byron’s Bouffants? Our Mutual Fringe?)
Of course, this combination is nothing new, I always enjoy a debate about English prose or verse when I wend my way to the barber’s shop to have my coiffure attended to.
The last few visits have been entirely been taken up with the works of John Donne. We discussed the combination of religious and secular themes in his work, his use of metaphor, how he compared with, say, Ben Jonson, (pause for inevitable athletics joke). Indeed, on one occasion we spent such a long time discussing in what way the sun could be described as a “saucy pedantic wretch” that I had to wear a wig for two weeks afterwards. In the end we concluded that Donne was just a twat.
What do you discuss with your hair technician (no cruel quips about Dave having to have very short conversations (e.g. Great Norfolk Intellectuals) because he’s never in there for very long)?
I wonder if any of you can assist me with a little project. Do you have a current email address for Denis Healey? I have composed a little missive to him (below) and don’t really want to put it in the post, as the secret service is still notoriously Tory, and is likely to intercept it. Fortunately, they haven’t yet got to grips with the electric internet and therefore we are free to communicate unencumbered by the prospect of a dawn raid by a bunch of spooks.
Dave – are you in contact? I believe he was a contemporary of yours at school. Perhaps you still exchange advice about antirrhinums or discuss your pergola?
Donn – is the old boy on your blog followers list? I hear that he takes a keen interest in matters Winnipegonian.
Pam – have you been stalked by a senior politician famous for his facial hair?
Anyway, let me know. I lost touch with Denis because of a minor tiff about his support for the nuclear deterrent, and his failure to back me in my campaign against the Radio Times subscription department.
Anyway, the message is as follows.
Den! You old goat!
Well done!
I was quietly perusing the news sites on the electric internet this morning, when what should I find but an article about your appearing on Desert Island Discs. I’m afraid I don’t listen to it any longer, as I hate to be taken by surprise. Much as I would like to know more about the musical tastes of Delia Smith and Nobby Stiles, for example, I tend to eschew broadcasts on which some prize chump such as Brandreth might turn up, and I owe it to my readership not to get overstressed.
Anyway, the article mentioned that you have softened your stance against the Thatch, and recently gave her a hug. Blow me if two pages further on there was not an article about her being admitted to hospital with a broken arm! You crafty sod!
Do you have any plans do continue your career as a nonagenarian ninja, or was this a one off? Are you doing this as a public service, or do you take contracts?
Do you have a price list?
I have spent my life as an ardent campaigner against violence, and would therefore be less than comfortable with your swinging on a rope through the chamber of the commons and raking the opposition front bench with machine gun fire, nor would I sanction mowing down the Bottomleys in an armoured car in Farnham High Street, but my pals in the North East Hampshire Maoist Trotskyist Alliance may be able to rustle up a few quid to finance some of the following projects.
I started to write about Armando Ianucci’s television programme about Milton and Paradise Lost, but after the first paragraph realised that, like said poem, the resulting text was much too long.
Here are the edited highlights.
The programme was average. It did not encourage me to read Milton.
There were too many changes of venue for someone who was just talking to camera.
Most annoying bit was when he compared Horton (check spelling, I can’t be bothered) in Buckinghamshire to Florence. Horton has changed a lot since Milton’s time, otherwise he would have mentioned the bloody M4 and being on the Heathrow flight path in one of his poems.
He might have mentioned the bloody M4 for all I know. I haven’t read his stuff. Don’t wanna, ain’t gunna.
Close ups of Armando were too close up. At one stage you could see right up his nostril and out of his left ear.
I don’t like poetry much. The only serious poem I really like is Gray’s Elegy. Don’t see the point of the rest. None of these guys have anything worthwhile to say. If Keats was writing a blog today no bugger would read it.
Perhaps I am Keats.
The programme failed to convince me that I should read Milton, despite the great regard in which he is held by Armando.
When people move home or job, 70% of them are moving to “pastures new”. This is Milton’s fault. Bastard.
Milton was a republican. There was a need for reform but what we got was a load of uptight god-bothering dickheads. When they turned out to be uptight god-bothering dickheads that nobody liked much, we got a return to the house of Stuart, a load of stupid dickheads, and we are still lumbered with their inbred descendants.
It should be noted that the current economic climate makes political upheaval more likely. If that happens, godelpus, we are likely to finish up with an intolerant rightwing coalition, in which the BNP is included. As with the interregnum, lots of people will dies, lots more will suffer, and we will be no better off at the sorry end of it. You may say that Bill Cash and his friends are a bunch of sleazy, disreputable, bone idle, incompetent tossers (I couldn’t possibly comment), but they are likely to be slightly better than having Kilroy Silk as prime minister.
I bet you are glad I didn’t publish the full article, aincha?
I mentioned in my previous diatribe the “controversy” surrounding the decision of a BNP politician to invite his hideous boyfriend, Nick Griffin, to Buckingham palace.
I see, courtesy of the BBC, that one of Boris’s underlings has written to said politician thus:
"While elected representatives may and do attend, the event is a social occasion hosted by Her Majesty and it is inappropriate to exploit this privilege for party political purposes. …. However, in the light of the views expressed by the mayor and chair of the assembly, reinforced at yesterday's assembly meeting, I am writing to say that the authority may need to review its position in relation to your nomination unless you revisit the selection of your guest with a view to avoiding further controversy and desist from any further publicity."
I doubt whether Boris could comprehend that, let alone a knuckle-dragging Hitlerite. I would have phrased it in a manner that the recipient could understand. Perhaps: “Stop hanging out with this cunt”.
As I mentioned on facebook, I have posted the following notice on my front door:
Having been somewhat preoccupied these few days, I felt it behoved me to give you a quick update, so I sashayed over to the Torygraph to pick up on any old trivia that I may have overlooked, and thence to reassure you, my dear readers, (aMToNW) that all is in order.
I was saddened to read of the passing of Albert Hoffman, who, praise the Lord, survived to the age of 102 to prove that just saying “no” is really crap advice. I have affection for him as the inventor of one of those things that made young adulthood so enjoyable. He did not lend his name to his invention, unlike the others who contributed so much to my formative years, such as Sidney Durex, Muriel Chillum and Sir Colin Stereo. Albie famously fell out with Timothy Leary.He felt that Tim was entirely wrong in promoting the recreational use of his invention, rather than preserving it as a medium for academic research. I never saw the two as mutually exclusive, although the quid’s worth that I purchased at a famous seat of learning in Staffordshire in 1970 fell short on both counts. I hope that God has prepared a banquet for old Alb, and is chilling out with him this evening. If that is the case, it may explain some of the strange phenomena around us at the moment.
I notice that our pal Boris has spoken out against the BNP being invited to Buckingham palace, and says that he is opposed to anything that embarrasses the queen. I done a lol. 98% of the people who visit the old bat would embarrass most human beings, and Bozza himself is in the upper portions of that list. I pride myself on my resistance to embarrassment, but anyone who has hung around with barmy Phil for most of her life must be totally immune.
Out-borissing Mr Johnson by some considerable distance, however, is the Roman catholic archbishop of Westminster, who has launched a scathing attack on secularists. He accuses them of encouraging intolerance. I done an even bigger lol, as did my friend Gerald Torquemada, when I mentioned it to him in Waitrose this morning. Much as I applaud anyone having a go at that prize anus Dawkins, I see little difference in the tripe that any of these god botherers purvey, whether they believe in God or not.
As part of a comment on a young person's status update on facebook, I left the criticism:
"Not to mention the ubiquitous superfluity of the word indicating similarity."
She affected (blaming inebriation) not to understand.
I expect all of you to know exactly what I meant, even without seeing the context.
Have you noticed how sales assistants of the female tendency use the word "lovely" when the transaction is completed.
I usually agree with them and say that I am lovely.
They usually laugh at this. I suspect that they are laughing at, rather than with, me.
My loveliness is obviously only revealed to those who have a perspicacity well above the norm.
