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Goodbye Maurice, we will miss you

Open your wallets and repeat after me "Help yourself"

The gods are being kind to me this morning, providing a story that combines two of my favourite themes, scientific research and Stonehenge. I see now that they are almost made for one another.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-17073206

Go on, have a read. Or don’t, if you have already heard from your quota of silly people today.

The essence seems to be that they humped tons of crap hundreds of miles to improve the acoustics. No, really.

It seems to be a recurring theme in scientific research – “Why did they build Stonehenge?”

I doubt whether it had anything to do with traffic calming, I suspect that it is nothing more than a poorly conceived practical joke.  I have written enough about this nonsense already.

The scientific community, however, are never short of an idea or two to demonstrate their insanity. This is a description of the experiment they conducted:

The La Mesa, California-based researcher said he had demonstrated the auditory henge effect using blindfolded subjects.

He took these people into a field where two pipers were playing and afterwards asked them to draw diagrams of the soundscape they had experienced.

It would be a useful experiment to investigate exactly what one has to do to get volunteers to participate in such bizarre activity. I would counsel against trying to find out. If you put on a white coat, ask a young lady to slip on a blindfold while you conduct an experiment, it is my experience that you finish up with a £75 fine from Bow Street magistrates.

At the age of 11, I first encountered a chemistry and biology teacher (whose name I cannot publish here, as no-one would believe that a young lady with that name would consider teaching as a profession). She was the first in a long series of people I will refer to, out of kindness, as eccentrics, who believed that the sort of activity described above would help the advancement of human knowledge. I have eschewed participation in these rituals ever since, and am sure that is one of the reasons I have survived to this great age.

Whither Hadrian?

Slimy Dave, first lord of the Treasury and minister for epidermal secretions, is all over the media campaigning for the maintenance of the British union. Never have I felt so drawn to the nationalist cause. My advice to any area seeking to secede from his evil empire is to split, and run as fast as buggery in order to get away.

I intend to undertake a feasibility study to see whether North East Hampshire could be self-sufficient. I don’t see why not, what with the receipts from Bird World and the royalties from that dozy tart Austen’s soap operas.

You would have to be as thick as a Gove to want to hang around and put your affairs in the hands of Dave and his noxious cohorts.

Even at this distance I can hear the sound of Falkland Islanders scribbling their Argentinian passport applications. The inhabitants of the Isle of Wight are planning an event wherein they will all run to the south end of the island to see whether they can create a larger gap between them and the mainland.

It all seems like so much effort. Can’t we just get rid of the government, send them to Syria for example, and then we can all live nicely in harmony and peace.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - Part 26

Some of you have been anxious (you haven’t had any communications for ages. Ed.) for updates about my friends down the road in Sandringham. It has been close to two years since I last reported. I felt that it was appropriate to give them a little privacy, after all it is not as if they deliberately choose to live their lives in the public eye, is it? (Yes, it is. Ed.)

However, there are rumblings, and we may well find ourselves in some sort of constitutional crisis come summer, and it could all have been avoided with a little foresight and planning.

Liz called on the electric telephone last week. I have seldom heard her so animated. “I blame that buffoon Johnson,” she began, without so much as a “have you come far?” I should state at this point that she tends to blame Boris for all sorts of things. Ever since he was on “Who do you think you are?” and found out that he was descended from one of the Georges, Liz has developed the idea that he has ideas above his station, and might make a claim on the throne once dear old Ken wins the mayoral election. I have repeatedly told her that Boris is anatomically incapable of having an idea, and that she only needs to look out of the bog window at Buckingham Palace to see how the city has gone to pot since he was elected. She will have none of it. I have never known anyone hold a grudge so vehemently. She refuses to watch “The Simpsons” because of “that American tart”. If she were head of state in anything but name, we would have seen Normandy invaded as revenge on King William, overlooking the fact that he is family.

Anyway, back at the telephone. “How could the floppy-haired tit have organised a sports day in the very summer when everyone should be concentrating on the Jubilee?” For those of you less than quick on the uptake she is alluding to the Olympic Games.

“Don’t fret, ducky” I reply, “it’s all taking place in the East End, and anyone daft enough to spend £75 to watch some dull wassock throwing a spear is hardly likely to have the mental capacity to appreciate the monumental nature of your achievement.” I do make myself laugh sometimes. Anyway, the silly old goat was slightly appeased. “I hope you are right” she exclaimed, “but this is important for us, and a vital part of our pension plans.” (I remained, you will be proud to note, silent) “I’ve already got Sophie Wessex crocheting some commemorative table cloths, and we are hoping to shift a thousand or two and 30 guineas each”.

“That’s all very well,” I proffered, “but what about the rest of the gang who don’t quite have the co-ordination or dexterity of dear Soph? I think that your best bet is to have some events that will provide an alternative to the Olympics – you might attract the sort of people who abominate standing for national anthems every time someone wins something”. See what I mean about making myself laugh?

I waited a while and called Camilla. She had been sent to her room, having blown up and banged a couple of hundred more paper bags than were called for following Philip’s heart scare. “You should hear the old bugger swear.” she chortled. “There are at least 23 distinctive stains on the dining table cloth from where he has spat out his soup. I am on commission from Sketchleys in King’s Lynn.” This is what passes for fun when they are all assembled together. The sodding Jubilee is going to be as dull as a Gove unless I interfere and give them some idea about what constitutes entertainment in the 21^st century.

“I think you should organise some events with an Olympic theme.” I venture “Nothing as low-brow as that ‘It’s a Knockout’ fiasco, but something where the family can connect to the man in the street. Make it a joyful time.”

“Brill!” she shrieks, “I’ll send you a list of ideas.”

Two hours later I get the following list via email:

• A ‘using both legs of the trouser’ competition featuring Wills and the Duke of Kent.
• Converting ‘Trooping the Colour’ into a cavalry charge, with a prize to the first horseman through the gates at the Palace.
• A pin-the-tail-on-Pippa’s-arse competition.
• A fancy dress competition where we all dress up as Boris and gatecrash the Olympic Stadium.
• Getting Philip to go down there and reclaim the Olympics on behalf of Greece.

There was more of this guff, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it, let alone inflict it on you. At least there was no mention of a fart lighting contest. We all remember what happened when they invited Ann to the last one.

Banker's Bonus

A few considered reflections on the plight of Fred Goodwin.

Fred has been forced by the queen to change his name. This has caused large numbers of people to get agitated and take to the media with their protestations. Apparently it sends the wrong message to the business community. From my perspective, and do tell me if I am incorrect, it simply means that he can save some money on ink when he signs his name.

I mean, it is not as though the swivel-eyed, fornicating, despicable, loathsome, vile and disgusting pile of gibbon ordure had been public flogged, is it? It is not as though there had been some fitting punishment handed out to him, like having to work until he had earned enough money to pay back all the cash that he lost, and then going on national television and admitting to being a leading contender for arsehole of the last decade, is it?

The bastard.

The honours system is only there to nourish the already overblown egos of self-important narcissists anyway. All of these silly buggers with letters before, after and in the sodding middles of their names. I can’t wait for the revolution.

Goodwin? Take him round to the dwellings of all of those who lost their jobs, houses and pensions as a result of his incompetence, and see whether they will accept his explanations and apologies.

Wrong message to the business community? "Fuck you all" is my message to the business community.

Thank you for listening.

He only does it to annoy

I have just sent this email to Stanley Johnson, father of Boris.


Yo Stan!

I see that young Boris is in the newspapers today backing the right of parents to physically chastise their children.

Let me know if you need any help with that. I have lots of good ideas, but may need a couple of days notice to get into physical shape to carry them out.

Do you ever regret not having all of the paraphernalia of the Inquisition to hand when he was a lad?

love and peace

Scurra

And nothing in life shall sever the chain that is round us now

I was intrigued to see this headline on the BBC website:

“Lagging pupils 'don't catch up’”

I see that standards at the BBC are slipping if they allow such shoddy and ambiguous usage. I confess to being out of touch with modern practices in education, what with my having left school over forty years ago, and all the restraining orders.

There were some pretty bizarre ideas in those days, even in my progressive school. Some teachers thought that religious education was a sound idea, others that there was some merit in woodwork, other than providing a hobby for the socially challenged. To the best of my recollection, and I confess to having been partial to a spot of distraction now and then (mainly then, and I fear that I need hardly stress that the spot mentioned was not one of the smaller varieties of that genus), but I cannot remember anyone putting forward the idea that lagging pupils was a practice with any practical benefit. In my view it rather seems like the policy that would be proposed by a pervert. 

Rather the opposite seems to have been on the curriculum in my day. I remember the winter of 1963, struggling down the road through two feet of snow, and then waiting for 40 minutes or so for the ancient bus and its even more ancient driver to arrive and take us (unheated) round the byways of Leicestershire.

No-one ever showed much concern for us. Not even an offer to chip off the icicles hanging from our school blazers. Our school gym had a side missing, allowing snow, dog faeces and other obnoxious substances (PE teachers) to drift in and add to our discomfort. We lived in a bleak, colourless, dismal and ultimately draughty world and there was never any suggestion of insulating us.

I do not understand how wrapping children up could ever get to be a priority. Perhaps I am just being old fashioned. Free them, I say, let them experience the joy of the wind blowing through their hair, the sun shining on bronzed arms and legs, as they scamper unhampered through their youths before the grim realisation that their futures have been shaped by Wackford Gove hits them.

No wasps allowed

I thought I would share with you this recent exchange of emails. I had not previously heard of or from the sender.

I will let you know if my correspondence with the gentleman who thinks that I am a fan of the St Louis Rams takes a turn for the interesting.

Hi Everyone,

Hope you're all having good weeks! Its about to get even better.... Please come for dinner around 7:30 on sat night. Oh and if you could text Adam or me when you arrive rather than buzzing, that would be great. Wild!!

I'll be there!

Who are you?

I don't use text - I'll just stand out in the street and scream if that is OK.

Who are you?

Is this a haiku??

Pls not to ask complicated questions, I am still trying to work out why I have been invited.

What are your expectations?

I'm so sorry! I had the wrong email address for my friend! Please ignore!

Oh, so I am not invited now, huh? This is because of the screaming in the street thing, isn't it?

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

I am obliged to my friends at the Torygraph for this story, which highlights what we all suspected, and many of us gave up on these 50 years.

So, in order to avoid accusations of misogyny, I have been using my extensive contact network to collect funding for BERN (British/European Research into Nookie) and am pleased to announce the construction of a 44 kilometre (that’s about 200 yards, right?) underground at Kidderminster, where nubile young naked people (this is not that disgusting dream you were telling me about is it? Ed.) will be fired at each other at high speed, in order to prove, once and for all, the existence of the elusive Grafenberg Spot.

For many years there have been two distinctive theories about its existence. Once this dilemma has been resolved, we will have a more complete understanding of the nature of human sexuality, and although I am not prepared to compromise empirical integrity by favouring one outcome, I must declare my hope that there is a successful outcome, and that women can begin to enjoy sex. I have little sympathy with the other camp (known as the “Who gives a shit?” group).

The Grafenberg Shot is named after Ernst Spot, who purportedly stumbled across it while looking for his keys.

Biopolymer nanocomposite? Come again?

I am delighted to learn this morning that not all scientific research is based upon the lunatic ideas of a few eccentric physics graduates. It is far too easy to mock the progress that our cerebral cousins are making, and far too easy to forget the improvement in the quality of life that this brings.

Scientists in Taiwan and Germany have found a cheaper and more effective material than silicon as the most important ingredient in the manufacture of computer chips.

What, I hear you exclaim, is this new and exciting material? Well, it is very simple, and I am frankly surprised that no one has thought of it before. It is a mixture of salmon sperm and silver. Of course.

By chance, someone was sexually  exciting a salmon over a five pence piece and suddenly noticed its ability to conduct. Let that be a lesson to all of the cynics out there.

Scientists say that because of the availability of salmon sperm (you will have seen the fish spunk aisle in Tesco) and its ability to grow fast, it is an ideal material.

Please feel free to do your own experiments (boys only, alas). If your computer is underperforming, try tossing one off onto a Kit-Kat wrapper, and stick it into the appropriate slot on your motherboard (yes, it is beginning to sound a bit dirty now, isn’t it?) and your CPU will be boosted.

I am off now to continue my experiments to find an alternative to fossil fuels for the world’s energy source. Anyone have any spare yak bile and a torque wrench?

** points will be deducted for puns on the word "conduct".


*** and no fish puns

Teck?

Over at the Torygraph there is a review of a programme on the electric television about George V and queen Mary. I did not see it. Just to clarify. I did not see the programme, I did see the television, and I did see the review; I hope that this helps.

The comment section of the Torygraph is a very good place to practise your hobby, if your hobby is bigot-riling. They bite very easily. I am not the only practitioner. There must be lots of people around with nothing better to do. Nothing better to do is a very good way of spending your life, given our short span on the planet, and the limited life of the planet in relation to the age of the universe.

The accepted view of George is that he was dim. Those of you who have been astounded by the intellectual prowess of his descendants will find this hard to comprehend.

One of the commenters suggested that we dispense with our royal family. Of course, this caused a Mr Cross of Tunbridge Wells to reply, in the time honoured manner of Torygraph readers “And replace them with what?”

I joined in the debate, partly, I confess, to see if I could burst any Kentish blood vessels, by suggesting we replace them with nothing.

Let’s do without a head of state. Save all of the expense and nonsense that goes with it. I would happily forgo the pleasure of a public holiday every 25 years or so when one of the hangers-on gets married. What a fine example of common sense this would set to the rest of the world.

I did offer my services at the weekends (‘unless there was summat good on the telly’), but I did not mean it. I have no intention of wasting time chatting to the vacuous.

Yes, I could have done better

I was delighted to find this little note in my inbox today.

I hear via the grapevine that you're getting (or got ) married recently.  Whenever  your name is mentioned my thoughts go back to your stupendous fruit salad marathon at dan's 21st - a long time ago already !

All my best wishes and love to you and your bride for a stupendous fruit salad filled future !

Love and hugs, audrey and barbara.

Here is my reply:

Auds! Babs!

How great to hear from you.

Loved the “grape”vine pun, by the way – I looked for more, perhaps you should get a punnet to store them in! Lol!!!!

Yes, I got married recently – 29 years come February, and I am giving it a go – if it hasn’t worked out by 2042 I’m out of here – I will have to sneak out, as I can’t elope (cantaloupe – geddit?)

How is Dan? I haven’t seen him for ages – what did he do for his 22^nd?

Yes, it was a long time ago – round about the time that Dan turned 21, if I remember correctly.

It may have started to occur to you by now that you sent your email to the wrong guy. But, hell, I need all the friends I can get. I shall be over to stay for a couple of months in the new year – please don’t go to any trouble, my needs are few, I can live on mostly fruit.

And, to be fair to myself, I usually write more articulately and less like a moron than this, but hey, if people can’t get the email address right, why should I demonstrate my rich and unique prose?

Now, were any of you at Dan's 21st, and do you know what he did with the satsuma?

More seasonal suffering

If you would like to read reasoned and intelligent commentary on books and films, you might wish to give dear Rol a try. He is a very nice boy and may help you to try something you may not have considered before.

Alternatively you can stay here and enjoy (shurely shome mishtake. Ed) a foul mouthed lambast of one the most popular films of recent years. Is lambast a noun these days? I don’t know – has there been a decent film in the last ten years?

I watched “The King’s Speech” the other day. I even watched it all the way through, and I was sober so can’t explain that particular lapse of judgment, but at least when I continue my biased and ill-considered onslaught on this much applauded work of art, no one can accuse me of not watching the sodding pile of dross.

I find it hard (not quite impossible) to imagine a situation in which the world is threatened by a megalomaniac fascist oppressor (not Slimy Dave this week, do try to keep up) and those people considering taking arms against him being persuaded by words uttered by an outdated, inbred, over-privileged half-wit, whose ancestors had been megalomaniac oppressors themselves. Did their inner dialogue consist of “I see that things are a bit iffy over in Europe, shall we do something about it, or finish this game of bowls? Not sure, but our beloved Bert Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was just on the electric radio giving us a damn fine pep talk, let’s go and bash some Boche”.

My diatribe against the concept of royalty might lead you to believe that I have some personal issues with the current incumbents. This is not the case; neither do I hold them responsible for the actions of their predecessors. But you would have to search pretty carefully in the house of Windsor to find two connected brain cells.

Then the inevitable old chestnut of the class system. FFS. Is this the best you can do? See me. Or see the film, if you want to be persuaded that the British royal family could actually get on quite well with people. Let me know how you get on with that, and let me know if you would like your brain drying after it has been washed.

Or is it, perhaps, the story of one man’s bravery in the face of an enormous difficulty? A heart-warming story of victory over adversity? Well, given that the backdrop to all of this was the second world war, where adversity meant watching your family being tortured, gassed and burnt in Auschwitz, or having to scrape your best friend’s entrails off your face when he was blown up, or spending years in a prisoner of war camp being starved, or suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder for the rest of your life from the things that you had experienced, then I hardly think that learning to say “privileged pissing ponce” in less than 24 minutes bears comparison.

As for the acting, I have never considered Colin Firth to be anything special, Geoffrey Rush is a splendid actor who could have done this film while unconscious, and WTF Derek Jacobi was doing there, I don’t know; perhaps he needed some easy cash. Was there anyone else in it? Wasn’t it the fat one – you know the one in that crap thing with David Walliams - playing Churchill?

One day I might manage to sit through more than the first 15 seconds of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. If I do I will let you know how they made truly dreadful films in the old days.

*****

I confess that, until reminded of it by one of my dear friends, that what this mediocre film needed was a good bit of crude sex. Let's face it, how unlucky was Bertie to find the only Australian who would have thought that therapy was the answer. Your typical Bruce would have suggested a few tinnies and giving the missus a fucking good seeing to. We would then have witnessed our dear old queen mother flung over the dining table in the great hall at Windsor and shagged mercilessly by an increasingly articulate heir to the throne. "G-g-g-g-od save the queen!" he would have screamed, increasingly purple faced and animated. The winter home would have been renamed Shaggingham, we might have seen a prince produced as a result, there would have been no princess Diana, and the queen mum would have died of exhaustion 50 years earlier, saving the tax payer a fortune in gin bills and gambling debts. The King's Shag. That would have been a good film.

Kim Jong Merrily on High

Today has not had the most auspicious of starts. I find little human compassion in evidence on news of the passing of Kim Il Jong.

Indeed, the event seems to have created a backdrop for poor jokes over on facebook (“I didn’t realise Kim was that Il”, for example).  Dear FFE who used to entertain us over here hinted in response to a suggestion that things might improve in North Korea now, that should that occur then monkeys would fly out of his ass. He did not specify a time frame, but I would advise you all to keep up to date with Youtube postings over the coming weeks.

I was moved, also via the medium of facebook to adjust my comments about wishing to see Nick Clegg punch Cameron, by a friend of a friend who took up the position that Cameron needed love and compassion. I said this: “Perhaps we should remember to be as compassionate towards Slimy Dave as he is towards others, and in the spirit of his legacy - no national health service, the education system perverted to the creed of Wackford Gove, and generations of young people and innocent citizens killed by his continued support of unjust wars on behalf of the petroleum industry, I have changed my mind. No right uppercuts for him. Perhaps we could arrange for him to be slowly kicked to death on Saturday night television, providing that it is not shown on all channels so that those of us who abhor violence can watch something more gentle.”

I now look forward to my short drive to work, where I will be regaled by soppy seasonal shite and cheerful updates on the world’s prospects for next year.

Are you ready for Christmas yet?

Baubles

It is the time of year where people are wont to say to me (not just me, you fool) “Are you ready for Christmas?” I remain unsure as to how to respond. Sadly, I am never ready for Christmas. Each year the contrived atmosphere of jollity affects me less, and I begin to suspect that I am some alien species from the planet WTF, being punished for some undefined crime by witnessing the ridiculous antics of the native species here.

No, I am not fucking ready for the constant repetition of the same crap dirges each time I call into Sainsburys for my supply of horse tranquilizer that I find a necessity at this time of year.

No, I will never be sodding ready for the word ‘Christmas’ being used twice in every sentence on the electric television.

No, I am buggered if I am ready to even add any more examples of stuff for which I am not ready.

*****

On a more cheering note, perspicacious readers will have noticed that our old friend Wackford Gove has been told off, with a warning of a detention if it happens again, if he continues to use and encourage the use of by his staff, private emails as a medium for communicating government related business. 

“P-r-o pro s-e-e-d seed y-o-u-r your proseedyour –noun insubstantive  - follow it”.

Please, someone, make it stop

I am getting tired of writing about these bloody scientists. (Good. Write about something you know about. Ed.)

This morning’s news from the world of fantasy, is that the Higgs Boson has been “glimpsed”. Yes, £10billion for a glimpse. Good job that there is plenty of money to go round, isn’t it?

Then there is the exciting news of the discovery of two large black holes not 300million light years away. “How big are they?” you ask, “Fucking big” is my riposte. The reports about these holes all mention that in a black hole the laws of physics break down. The laws of physics are always breaking down, which is why I refuse to obey them. They are silly. Very silly indeed, and I wish that I had taken the time to explain this to Mr McDermott in my fourth form physics lessons so that he could have talked about something more sensible.

Not to be outdone, medical scientists are trying to grab attention on the BBC news site by proclaiming the value of faecal transplants. I shit you not. For those of you not of a scientific disposition will perhaps be aided in understanding this process by the analogy of the British democratic process. Every few years we have a transplant called a General Election, in which the same shit is moved from one set of bodies to another. Unlike the claims of our doctor friends, however, in this case nothing ever gets better.

I trust that this has cheered you all, to the extent that you can now listen to some twat playing “White Christmas” or some other seasonal shite without resorting to mass murder.

I am not a street fighting man - I'm out of here.

I was somewhat taken aback this morning to read in the Grauniad the headline reporting: “Williams: riots could happen again”.

The Williams in question is Rowan of that ilk, not Robbie or his sister Venus.

I am alarmed that the head of the church is threatening insurrection. I cannot recall this happening before. The establishment does not take kindly to the clergy interfering in matters temporal, as poor old Tommy Becket discovered. In my view, we haven’t had a decent ab of C since Sigeric the serious. Perhaps Dave might consider a move in the January transfer window.

I hope Rowan has not been inspired by my post yesterday. He ought to know I was not being entirely serious. I thought he was one of these modern clerics who did not take the scriptures literally. I see I shall have to be more circumspect.

I am fearful for the survival of our society. I do not know how I would survive were they to stop broadcasting “Have I Got News For You”.

****

The scientific community are showing signs of excitement about the discovery of the exoplanet (what that? Ed.) Kepler 22-b, which has all the signs of being able to support life. They say it is quite close by – 600 light years, but I can’t find it on the North East Hampshire bus timetable, so probably won’t make the effort of visiting, at least until the new year.

I haven’t read all of the articles, but so far haven’t found any mention of the implications of Kepler being 2.4 times the size of the earth. Unless they have more sensible scientists than ours who have abolished the law of gravity, I would have thought that the probability is that Kepler has therefore 2.4 times the mass of the earth, and therefore moving about on it would be quite tiring. This appeals to me, on balance. “Sorry, won’t be at work today, I find I that I can’t get out of my chair”.

Please let me know if any of you see a list of for volunteers to join the first trip. It behoves me to present any existing inhabitants with the friendlier face of humanity. I will do my best to make sure that all members of the party are carefully vetted. We have all seen the results of letting a bunch of psychotic god-botherers loose on new colonies, after all.

Wait for six weeks, and all you get is the same rehashed whinging

Boris is trying to make me cross again.

“What!?”, is your response, “Are you deluded, he is trying to make everyone cross!”

“What difference does that make?” is my reply. I know my Yossarian.

In the Torygraph, Boris has come clean and admitted that the future of capitalism involves all of us being able to buy expensive things that we don’t need, and because there isn’t an alternative then we should all do just that.

I suspect that the silly fucker has overspent this month, and needs some cash wrung from the labour of the world’s poor people to make him feel a bit more comfortable. Perhaps his shares in “International  Child-Murdering War Machines” have taken a dip. Let’s have a whip round for the odious tit, shall we?

There is no alternative, or so Bozza and his slimy mates would have us believe. 

They want to bring about the end of the world in an orgy of consumerist ignorance. Better use up those last few resources even if it means poisoning us all.

I would love to see an end to these bastards. I am not, by any means a man of violence, but I suspect that if someone were to build a nice long wall and line up all the capitalists, bankers and their apologists and proceed to shoot them, I doubt whether I would manage much more than a shake of my head and a loud tut as a symbol of my disapproval. 

Guess the twat

People who read my contribution to this news channel last week (aMToNW) may have been given the impression that I was lending some support to Liam Fox and his unsavoury Dickensian friend in their current troubled situation. Allow me to clarify.

I am glad to see the back of the odious little tit. What a shame that all of his friends didn’t resign with him. As the Minister of Defence, he takes some of the blame for our involvement in the currently obscene and ineffective military campaigns in Asia. It would have been more appropriate for him to have been sacked for that rather than the rather puzzling series of events that led to his ‘resignation’.

(A few years ago a UK charity sponsored a “Take your dog to work” day. I telephoned an acquaintance employed by said charity, purporting to be Jacques Costeau, and berated him in my finest French accent about how silly my dog looked in snorkel and flippers, and concluded with “ze fucker ‘as drowned”. )

Young Liam thought it was appropriate to take his friend to work. Never mind the security implications, or the fact that anyone dumb enough to befriend loony Liam was going to be neither use nor ornament.

Trying to get in on the act, entering stage right, we have good old Ollie Letwin, who didn’t want to dirty the nice shiny wastepaper basket that slimy Dave had given him, so took his rubbish (official papers) out to the local park to dispose of. Picture, if you will a government minister, sitting on the banks of the Serpentine fashioning paper boats out of Top Secret documents, and then wetting himself with excitement to see which one won the race.

Now that we have dealt with those two minor loonies, can we please focus attention on the prize assholes who really need to be taken out and shot. (pls fill in the usual suspects – Gove, Lansley, Willetts, you know).

Finally, can I say how tired I am of hearing Tory politicians (yes, I know I do not need to qualify this) suffixing all of their slimy utterances with the phrase “the mess Labour left behind”. The biggest mess that Labour left behind was, and let us be clear that this is due to their woeful incompetence, a population so despairing that they voted for the current shower of shit that occupies the government benches in the commons. I am in no hurry to see (or hear) Milliband at the despatch box, nor will I ever lend my support to the lily-livered-Libdems until they apologise for supporting the current cabinet by crawling on their stomachs for 30 days through sewage and broken glass. My view is that Labour is tory-lite, and will only slow the destruction of this country due to incompetence and lack of the kind of ruthlessness shown by slimy Dave.

Bring on the revolution.

Let tolerance be our watchword

Liam Fox is being hounded by the press because he has a friend. Unusual as that is for a Tory, surely we should be congratulating him on his endeavours: he has shown ingenuity. If it transpires that he has been using the services of a website - “BefriendaTory” or some such – then I, for one, will not judge him on that.

As a treehugging, pinko, commie faggot, I firmly believe that it is possible to integrate Conservatives into our society by showing love and compassion. Just look at my record in attempting to help dear Boris become human. There are, no doubt, those out there who believe that the best remedy for our current problems is to take the current cabinet and burn them at the stake. Well, the “Disembowel Dave” movement will find no favour here. Well, maybe a bit.

I am grateful we do not live in an authoritarian regime where people who make poor decisions in their social lives are not immediately put in high security institutions. As such, Adam Werrity should be cared for rather than condemned.

Mr Werrity (even the name sounds Dickensian) should be allowed his social liberties. If it turns out that he cannot count to seven or remember the words to Humpty Dumpty as we all suspect, then attempts should be made to educate him.

Space Philology

Regular readers (a Mrs Television of North Wales) will be pleased to hear that I can no longer bring myself to watch that third rate tosh ‘Downbog Abbey’, and I have exhausted my ability to find new ways to describe how dire ‘Spooks’ is.  Instead I will compare and contrast two other recent offerings on the electric television.

I was expecting to be mildly entertained by Stephen Fry’s “Planet Word”, but held out little prospect of Jo Brand’s Big Splash being other than a schedule filler.

I was wrong.

There. I’ve said it. I was wrong.

I found Planet Word to be fairly dull, learned nothing interesting from it, and found myself becoming slightly irritated. (I know that most of you think that I spend my waking life in a state somewhere between ordinary grumpiness and blood-vessel bursting. It ain’t so.)  The programmer planners seem to think that we all want to see endless footage of recycled celebrities trekking round obscure corners of the globe (yes,  Dave, I know there are no corners on a globe, now shut up and write your blasted blog) making facile comments and expressing enthusiasm about subjects of no earthly nor celestial interest.

Thus we have Mr Fry sitting amongst some poor bastards in East Africa who had only just recovered from a visit by Gyles Brandreth making a documentary about trombone polishing. They could not understand what Stevie was saying, and he spoke not one word of their language.  I am not sure how many times my licence fee it cost the BBC to fly Fry to Eritrea to fail to communicate with some poor unsuspecting bugger who was looking forward to an evening of goat-tending, but it is too bloody many. Then we have him striding along a beach, pontificating. I do not know why he felt that he needed the Caspian Sea (no, I have no idea where it was) as a backdrop – possibly to distract from the tedium of his discourse.  

What I had overlooked about Jo Brand was that whatever she is in, she is brilliant, certainly when all she does is be herself.  I just like her, it is as simple as that. I’ve liked her ever since her early days of abrasive comedy (the “painter’s in” line was one of the greatest ever), and now, even when her humour is no longer cutting-edge, and would probably not be even remotely funny when done by someone else, whenever I see her, I get the feeling that there is room in my enormous circle of friends for her, and I would love to spend time with her. Just watch it and feel good.

Here is an example for those of you of a foreign persuasion, who may not be familiar with her stage act.

PFC Wintergreen would say "Emil Steinberger"

You will be aware that nothing inflames my ire (have you ever had an inflamed ire, missus?) more than racial stereotyping. As my dear friend Donn has just written – and please do not dismiss his work just because he is as nutty as a very nutty thing indeed – we are all cousins, and descended from the same woman (what an old slut she must have been).  Consequently, we should dwell upon the vast majority of things which we have in common rather than the superficial differences.

It is therefore with a very heavy heart that I now speculate about the shortcomings of a nation. I need to say, before continuing, that some of my best friends are Swiss. Well, Daniel is from Switzerland, and I have never alluded to any differences there might be between our two friendly nations. It was in a spirit of fraternity that one year, for his birthday, we clubbed together and bought for him a bar of Cadbury’s finest Dairy Milk, a quarter pound of medium Cheddar and an alarm clock (sans cuckoo). I need hardly provide more evidence of my tolerant and open view of mon frère Suisse.

However, none of you will have failed to be orgasmatised by the news from Geneva this day that they have found a particle that is moving faster than the speed of light. The best way of describing what this discovery means would be to say that if this particle had written this little essay, then this sentence would have appeared two paragraphs earlier. And probably would not have had the word “this” in it so many times.

It is a well-known scientific phenomenon that the observation of an experiment affects the outcome. I have secretly been fearful of the choice of Cern as the venue for the collision of particles. Until now I have held my peace, and therefore cannot truthfully say “I told you so”, but “I thought you so” is certainly not an exaggeration. It comes as no surprise to me that if you conduct experiments in Switzerland then the results are likely to be suspect. You see, the Swiss are so fucking efficient. Of course their particles will arrive early. They will also be formally dressed, know automatically which side of the collider to drive on, and answer all questions fluently in at least five languages.

“Splendid!” you may say. “Piffle!” would be my riposte. These chaps are looking for the elusive “God particle”. Switzerland would not be my choice. 

Yes, I must confess that I would enjoy the universe much less if God were Swiss, or even had Swiss characteristics. Go on, name a famous Swiss comedian. If you fancy a damned good belly laugh, would you go to Basle? Guffaw in Geneva? Laugh in Lucerne? Titter in (find me a Swiss town beginning with ‘T’, Ed.)?

No! If you are looking for God in the Alps you are going to find a very boring God indeed. Efficient, disciplined but totally lacking in joy and spontaneity. When I was at school we learned about the Reformation. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that they attempted to teach me about it. There was a Swiss chap called Zwingli. He was so dull that I can remember nothing about him. What I do remember is that the arch-miseryguts Calvin – one of the most confirmed joy-suckers in the whole sorry history of religion – fled to Switzerland. He felt at home there, and was never troubled by concepts of happiness and fun.

They should have built the collider somewhere more redolent of the type of God that this world needs. Ireland, perhaps; they would give short shrift to precocious particles. Gaelic gluons would not be in such a damn hurry. They could at least have moved over the Alps to Italy. You may not be very impressed with Italian organisational skills, but there would be a damn sight more collisions than those over-polite Helveticans can produce.

There will, no doubt, be very many more discoveries from this overblown circus. None of them will be very interesting, and none of the news will be good. You mark my words.

Is it safe?

Regular readers – (A Mrs Trotsky of North Wales) will have been monitoring updates to this site in order to keep up with news of the revolution.  Keen to be first to read of the overthrow of capitalism, and the establishment of the People’s Republic of the Earth, where men can live as brothers, women can live as sisters, (this may involve relaxation of strictures against incest), there will be a just distribution of the world’s resources so that no-one need die of malnutrition, there will be no shortage of things to laugh at, and marketing will be abolished.

(I had a telephone call from someone the other day who said that I need not worry (I wasn’t worried anyway, so they need not have worried to tell me that), they weren’t selling anything, but just wanted my opinion. This proved to be a lie. When I started to give them my opinion, they rang off.)

I hope that you have all realised by now that I am not a man of violence. I would prefer Mr Murdoch, for example, to realise his mistakes by my reasoned argument about why greed is not good for anyone or the planet on which we live. I would like to see Slimy Dave educated (unlikely, I know, while Wackford Gove is in charge) and work out for himself that constantly overproducing goods which no-one needs does not serve a useful purpose.

My position was further reinforced by my visit to the dentist this morning. It turns out that he did not take kindly to my lambasting the Tory government, I learned, while he was probing my pre-molars (or bashing my bicuspids, if you will), that, in his view, this government was not Tory – they had liberals in the government, that Tony Blair was a socialist, and that – well fill in the rest yourself. During this dental diatribe, I did not contribute much in the way of cogent counterpoint. (I did, at one stage, say “mgffllbt”). My position, I realised, was not so much that of a man of peace, but that of a committed coward. My militancy does not extend to confront armed opponents, whether they be wielding assegais, machine guns or extracting forceps. I left the dental surgery this morning, paid the £17 fee for having to listen to Norman Tebbitt while he ascertained that I didn’t need any treatment, and I didn’t even mention Nye Bevan.

So, here is the revised plan for the revolution:

1. Tut a bit when you hear Vince Cable on the electric radio.
2. Get quite cross when someone says “entrepreneur” and means it in a good way.
3. Call Wackford Gove a pillock
4. Er …
5. That’s it.

Something for the weekend

The good news for stargazers this weekend is, according to all reliable news sources (oxymoron? Ed.), the explosion of a supernova in a nearby galaxy.

Supernovae are phenomena caused by inhabitants of planets causing their sun to explode after realising that they were surrounded by people who had actually voted for the current Tory government. Scientists have calculated that, given the billions of stars in the universe there is what amounts to a certainty of there being at least 44 other Wackford Goves in existence.

I am not quite at the point of despair. Not quite ready to nip down to Homebase to pick up their “Blow up the sun” kit – 2 for the price of one offer while stocks last. I am determined to persevere through the winter months, in the sure and certain knowledge of seeing the All Blacks win the world cup, Viru surpassing 400 runs in a test and finishing reading the pile of books currently at the side of my bed. I will do all this, and more, before I am so disheartened by the list of knuckle-draggers who are the potential candidates for next president of the USA that I consider halting the orbit of the planet.

Of course, the events visible in the UK this weekend actually happened 21 million years ago. I suppose most of us will prefer to stay warm and watch Saturday evening terrestrial television, which has only been the same for just over 13 million years.

Assholes of the week. (Same as last week)

Slimy Dave was on the electric radio this morning, being pressed (not literally, alas) about the parallels between the recent display of youthful exuberance on the streets of London, and the dreadful criminal activity of the terrorists in the Bullingdon Club during his youth. His first response was that the London rioters were organised. Let us all hope that he has learnt since those days. Wouldn’t it be awful if the first lord of the treasury was lacking in basic abilities such as organisation and planning. I am confident in his capability to inflict the light hearted antics of his school pals on the rest of us in an efficient and calculated manner.

Elsewhere, his pet moron, Wackford Gove, has hit upon the splendid notion of using ex-service personnel to bring some backbone to the teaching profession. He has the foresight to realise that these young people have had it far too easy for too long. His new education act, subtitled “Shoot the little fuckers” will pass through parliament next year. In the meantime, let’s welcome the first of the new qualified ex-military teachers to the profession.

Henry V Part III

Regular readers  (come on, you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?) will be delighted to discover that my muse, far from having died, has just been on a rather lengthy summer break, and is now back, keen to tackle the major news stories of the day.

So invigorated am I by her return, and also inspired by the wise decision to remake “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” as a moving picture performance, that I plan to embark on number of projects to improve the intellectual and cultural climate.

There are some stuffed shirts who would opine that to tamper with what they see as perfection in the Alec Guinness portrayal of George Smiley. “Rubbish!” I say, the arts are fuelled by innovation and are constantly improving. Who among you would not prefer to listen to Jedward rather than have to endure the tedium of Bach or Handel? The new “Tinker” adaptation will feature Arnold Schwarzenegger as Smiley, Max Boyce as Control, Vin Diesel as Esterhazy, Roseanne Barr as Ann Smiley and Amitabh Bachchan as Bill Haydon.  This is the way le Carré planned it.

I have written to the Pope, offering to freshen up the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. I understand that magnolia is very much in vogue, and might brighten it up here and there with a strategically placed poster on a religious theme – Cliff, perhaps.

I am working on enhancing the Kreutzer sonata by scoring parts for percussion, bassoon, didgeridoo and voice (I need hardly tell you that I am thinking of Madonna for the first performance).

My update of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner will be in blank verse, (so it won’t be a rime at all), and will follow the more relevant story related by the Mariner (now completely land-based – I am thinking of his telling the tale of his journey from Yeovil to Halifax, avoiding all the motorways) in which he actually rescues endangered species. No albatross will be harmed in my version, oh no!

I may write more about my other current project “Oh, here’s Godot now!” when I have added a little more structure and moulded the characters’ personalities.

No News of the World. Get your cheap filth here

I have been urged by a certain East Anglian cleric to update this little corner of the internet. Quite why it stresses him so much I do not know, but, as you know, I am always willing to help.

I have chosen for my sermon the theme of thingy, you know, nudgenudgewinkwink. Coitus. This is not because of any attempt to court controversy, but simply because TCM have got it wrong again, unless my friends at the Torygraph have, heaven forefend, failed to report accurately. Scientists have, according to a science correspondent who looks barely old enough to have begun puberty, discovered the point of sex. When they mean the point they mean the purpose, rather than any unnecessary sharp objects that might form part of the ritual.

Here is the reasoning. When a new being is created as a result of two other beings of the same species being a bit bored and/or horny, then that being is better equipped to deal with biological enemies such as parasites because of what is quaintly called the blending of genomes. Have you had your genomes blended, missus? By combining we keep ahead of parasites that are evolving to do a better job of consuming us

.

This may make sense; I care little. They now, however, say they have “solid evidence”. Here it is:

“After exposing them to a harmful bacteria, worms that reproduced through sex survived fairly well while those that were asexual died rapidly.”

To this I say ‘balderdash’. I would say that if your life prospects were limited to performing self-stimulation and cloning yourself entirely to satisfy the perverse curiosity of nerds, while you could see your mates in the next box along were going at it like the clappers all hours of the day, would you not be more inclined to roll over and look forward to some more satisfactory pastime in the next life?

Lactose Intolerant

You can tell Andrew Lansley is crap at his job by following this train of logic.

He is the Health Secretary. He makes me fucking sick.

The headline in the online version of the Torygraph (doesn’t even come with a health warning) is “’Reform or die within years’ Andrew Lansley tells NHS”. “Go to hospital and die within days” will be his legacy.

I hope that the Lord, in all his mercy, strikes down dead any Tory who thinks that they are fit to intervene in running what is left of the NHS after the ravages of Thatcher and Blair.  I have already expressed my views about this enough, and like to avoid too much repetition.

Lansley’s only valid contribution to the NHS would be as an organ donor, although he clearly doesn’t have a functioning heart or brain. Perhaps it would be simpler for him to just fuck off.  There you have it, profound and carefully reasoned political analysis. This is what my public desires.

******

The Grauniad, on the other hand, prefers to bring us news that is not quite so new, about our ancient ancestors.

“Study suggests females roamed far and wide on reaching sexual maturity whereas males stayed near their birthplace”

Whereas today, of course, it is the women who sit at home watching football all day while the men like to spend their Saturdays picking up bargains at the shops.

******

The BBC, on the other hand, report on a galaxy similar, according to “astronomers”, to the Milky Way. It is called NGC 6744. That does not seem very friendly. If I wish to add some of its inhabitants as my facebook friends, then I feel that we should, as a minimum, give their galaxy a more descriptive name. Not that “Milky Way” is very appealing – I wouldn’t want that in my address. After all, they have named some dwarf galaxy “Magellanic Clouds”. Not that I can be much bothered – I haven’t even given my house a name. So, sod it, NGC 6744 it is.