Normal service will be resumed shortly

I have just spent some time posting the following message on random blogs around the world, chosen by the next blog wotsit at the top of the page.
If you are one of the people who have been visited by me and have come here to find out the story behind the comment, there is no story. Just wanted to wish a few random fellow inhabitants of the planet good wishes.
For my regular readers (AMToNW), feel free to accept the wishes. I will be back to being a miserable old twat very shortly. And now I am going to bed, in order to avoid the temptation of watching something dire on the television and 'seeing in the New Year'.

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As an act of penance for being a miserable old bugger over the Christmas period, I thought I would visit some random blogs and wish them a happy new year

Happy new year.
Wes hál in þám neowan Geáre
Stastny Novy Rok
Godt Nytår
Gelukkig Nieuwjaar
Bonne Année
Ein glückliches neues Jahr
Felice Anno Nuovo
Godt Nytt År
Szczesliwego Nowego Roku
Feliz Ano Novo
S Novym Godom
Gëzuar Vitin e Ri
Feliz Año Nuevo
Srechno Novo Leto
Gott Nytt År
Blian nua faoi mhaise duit
Blwyddyn Newydd Dda
Aliheli'sdi Itse(i) Udetiyvsadisv(i)
Voorspoedige nuwe jaar
Barka da sabuwar shekara
Karibu Mwaka Mupia
Teth loac tee kon rey ru-n a neme
kull 'aam wa-antum bikhayr
Shuvo Nobo Borsho
San nin faailok
Saal Mubarak
Nava Varsh Ki Haardik Shubh Kaamnaayen
Shinnen omedeto goziamasu
Selamat Tahun baru
Kong He Xin Xi
Namae Saaldiyan Mubarakan
Naththar Valthukkal Pudhu Varusha Vaazhthukkal
Naya Saal Mubarak Ho

New year honours

My friends at the BBC have produced a somewhat erudite list of the worst Britons of each of the last 10 centuries. All of my readers will be familiar with most of the names – Hugh Despenser (inventor of the condom dispenser), Richard Rich (portrayed on screen by Macauley Culkin) and Eadric Streona, which I had previously supposed to be the county dish of Herefordshire. I am not making these names up, check the BBC site.

I thought I would join in by nominating the worst Briton of my distinguished life.

It will come as little surprise to see the name John Emburey here. Some may say that he deserves this honour for being the only English cricketer to be as callous and mercenary as to go on two rebel tours of South Africa during the apartheid years, but that is nothing compared to the hour upon hour of excruciatingly pathetic bowling. He must bear the responsibility for the death of spin bowling in England. (Those wishing to challenge the assertion that spin bowling is not dead in England need only to consider the name ‘Ashley Giles’ to see the veracity of my statement). Year after year he was selected to play at test level, where over the last few years of his international career his bowling average exceeded 60 (are you getting this, Adam) and he was singly responsible for boring to death hundreds of people including the entire population of Little Shagging in Suffolk. His only redeeming feature was his imaginative use of language as illustrated by the apocryphal story of his replying to a colleague about an injury to his back with the response “the facking facker’s facking facked” (yes he had an appalling southern accent as well).

I invite readers (AMToNW) to supply their nomination for the worst Briton of their own lifetime. If you wish to simply lambaste an obvious target, then dear Betty has provided an excellent platform for that in her seasonal article about King Herod. But entries here should be accompanied by a reasoned argument, with points awarded for obscurity while at the same time the nominee should be in the public arena, so your gym teacher or aunt will not do, unless he or she is Cilla Black for example. Groups of people are allowed up to a reasonable level, but such general targets as “all the twats who voted for Thatcher” are beyond the parameters of this competition. Adam, to help you, as you do not know any Brits, or indeed anyone who does not live in East Dumbfuck, Kentucky - you can nominate me. Tell the world why you would like to see me at the mercy of Mr Schwarzenegger, but do it with respect.

Recommended reading

I have stolen this picture from my friends at Whitehouse .org
Read Laura's Christmas letter

Is it cosmetic surgery that makes her always look surprised?
In this one she seems to be saying "Remind me again how this arsewit got elected".
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If you didn't get this year's Kaliyuga Kards Christmas production, then send me your address and one will be in the post, or I could send the PDF version, but it somehow isn't the same is it?
Among my favourite comments so far is the one from the lovely Geoff and Betty, but I will not publish it here in case in spoils the surprise in the card.

The lovely Julia said:
"you never cease to satisy my under-utilized iconoclastic proclivities"
There's clever.

On the other hand, most people thought the card was crap and in the poorest of taste.

Fa la la la la, la la la BOLLOCKS

I have been reluctant to post these few days because I have recognised that there has been a tendency to use language in my posts that may frighten away the more delicate listener. Or those younger readers whose parents may not approve of some of the words used.

I would like to blame the preposterous antics and conversation of those members of the human race with whom I come into contact in the period leading up to the holidays, but must confess that I need to look to myself to be more tolerant. Probably need to eat more roughage, as nice aunty Caroline says.

Last night it was carol singers. No, not really carol singers, but two young ladies who thought that the ancient art of carol singing consisted of singing two lines of “jingle fucking bells” (you see, I can’t help it), off key and then asking for money. “If I give you some money will you stop singing and go away?” I ebenezered, quite politely.

Not that I want anybody thinking that I am some stuck in the mud traditionalist who believes that jingle bells is not a carol, and would prefer tuneful tales of the baby Jesus being sung loudly at my door. No. Sod off. I don’t want any of it. Thank you very much. The local church choir have stopped coming round as well. I don’t mind them, they collect for charity. Hopefully Doctor Barnados maximum security home for off key teenage carol singers. They stopped coming after the incident when they asked if I had any requests and I said “anything by the Sex Pistols”. I wish they would get into the Christmas spirit. I am obviously making a fucking effort.

Yosser Cameron

This young man is evidently in need of a useful occupation. I need someone to clean out my gutters, but he looks too fucking stupid to do something that complicated.

Crap joke (as if that distinguishes it from the other dross on this site)

My friends at the BBC inform me that "King Kong takes $18million on first day".
I am not surprised.
Who's going to stop a fucking great gorilla?

William Wanky Wallace

Many of my readers (AMToNW) will be familiar with the concept of the whinge. A reader from north of the border (A Mr McTrellis of North Wigtown), has complained loudly, repeatedly and some may say boringly about changes I made to this website.
It may be that the dark Scottish nights make it hard for him to read. Who cares?
But, in the spirit of tolerance and having nothing better to do. I publish here his suggestion for a poll. These are his words not mine.

"Simon has proposed we hold a multiple-question poll on the new design of my wonderful and informative blog. Please validate one of the following statements that you believe to be true - but only one box:

1. This is the most beautiful blog in the blogosphere.

2. Pretty cool, you may be a geek but you have style!

3. Above average - for NE Hampshire.

4. Is that the winter low light version?

5. Take it away! It sets off my SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

6. Man, it's so ugly it should win a prize!

A cautionary tale

I reject yet another invitation to spend Christmas with the Windsor-Mountbattens.

I gave in one year - I wasn’t feeling well, and cannot describe you truly awful it was. I refused to wear formal attire, and they didn’t take kindly to this. Being vegetarian was frowned on also, and for Christmas lunch I had a plateful of lukewarm mashed turnips. I think that was Philip’s idea. At lunch, the womenfolk all wore paper hats, while the chaps each had one of Liz’s spare tiaras. Apart from the turnip joke, Philip’s idea of merriment was to pretend that Timmy Laurence (who was dressed in naval uniform, God knows why, not many ships in bloody Norfolk (or anything else of interest either)), was one of the footmen. This was before the days of Camilla, and so there were no fart cushions or naked men jumping out of the pudding. The queen mother was obsessed with the idea that she could do Marlene Dietrich impressions, and spoke throughout in an accent that was a mixture of Welsh and South African: no one had any idea what she was saying, although they all seemed to view this behaviour as perfectly normal. At one point, one of the servants brought her a kipper wrapped in the Daily Express, she had a minor tantrum, but no one was able to understand what she had really asked for. The only good thing about this little episode was that it wiped the smugness from Phil’s face, and obviously made him forget about any more jokes at my expense. He became quite taciturn.

The worst moments were when Fergie turned up and banged on the window trying to get in. Everyone affected to ignore her, although Andy didn’t fare too well – he spent sixteen minutes trying to cut his roast potato with the blunt side of the knife. It could be argued that this was just normal for him, but he was not his normal cheerful moronic self. Eventually the old ratbag was carried away screaming across the lawn by two secret service chaps.

After lunch, Charles wandered off to make a telephone call, Phil and Anne had a blazing row about whether the sum of the IQs of her husbands reached 60 or some such, the York children played a game based, as far as I could tell, on Elizabeth the first and Mary queen of Scots. I was left with bloody Teddy, who seemed to think I was some sort of theatrical sort, despite my telling him several times that I had never been in ‘Brideshead’, and started telling me some bollocknumbingly dull story about Peggy Ashcroft.

At three o’clock we were forced to gather round the television. We knew what to expect, and were not surprised when as soon as the programme started Liz put on her Yorkshire accent (I have to say it sounded very good to me), “Ee! Look at yon bag! Ah’ve seen better clothes on ‘donkey down ‘pit!”

After that little episode, new year with John and Norma Major was positively refreshing.

Hard boiled sweetmeat flavoured with peppermint

I am happy to report, that in this part of NE Hampshire at least, Christmas is over.

Yesterday I posted my cards. This is the only concession I make towards recognising that the festival exists at all. My Christmas cards consist of several bought from a suitable right-on charity for my elderly relatives, and several dozen truly cheap and tasteless home produced monstrosities that go to dear and loved friends all over the world – Hawaii, Australia, Texas and even Belgium.

I gauge the success of the card by the number of litres of vomit produced by the lovely Mrs S. when she first sees them.

I can now safely bolt the door, and semi-hibernate for a couple of weeks. I will try very hard to avoid conversations about the season, resist the urge to smack anyone who says “… and all the trimmings”, resist even harder the urge to watch anything on TV that contains the sub-title “Christmas special”, and begin the long and anxious period of praying for inspiration for the design of next year’s festive card.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 8

I have declined the opportunity to be involved in the campaign to elect Zara Phillips as “Sports Personality of the Year”. This despite her all round prowess, which would be worthy of the most accomplished pentathlete.

In addition to her well known equestrian activities, and her slightly less reported involvement in Thai Boxing, discus throwing and trampolining, she has shown the sort of all round talent that characterises the entire family.

It is her plan to represent Scotland as a lock forward at Rugby that causes both her mother and me the most concern. “I hardly think it is appropriate for her to be seen packed tightly in a formation of muscular men, grabbing the testicles of the chap in front”, Anne complains, somewhat snootily. “Rubbish, lovey”, I retort, “your grandmother was famous for it.” It is true – Clarence House was the only royal household to have a permanent hernia surgeon on the staff, and if she was having one of her ‘off days’ you could wait for fucking ages at the front door, while either a fit footman dodged her, or one of those with whom she had tampered, limped painfully along the corridors.

My view is more for the safety of the other players. I was at the recent game with the royal party, when in the line out, Zara jumped for the ball, and the momentum caused her more than generous breasts to swing wildly and concuss a Saracen’s player, (giving new meaning to “loose-head prop”). Anne herself is known as “Iron Tits” in the family circle. More than one person has been caught out when standing behind her, and not anticipating her suddenly swinging round. It is in this lack of fairness that my objections to her activities in this area are based.

Camilla, of course, had to have her say. “I was captain of tiddlywinks of my house at school,” she enthused, “perhaps I could be on the programme as well.” “Fuck off, Cams,” I told her, “John Motson will almost certainly be there, and remember how pissed off you were, the last time you got mistaken for him? Even though he was much better dressed than you. And we had best draw a veil over the incident when you took part in the charity relay race, and tried to take the baton from Linford Christie.”

Even dear Anne did not go this far

I was a little alarmed to read “Greek billionairess Athina Roussel Onassis - worth up to $1bn - marries a Brazilian horseman on Saturday”, at BBC news. I had always thought that the Centaur was a mythical beast, but obviously the Greek aristocracy know where to find them.

Dear readers (AMToNW), please do not think this is an invitation to inundate this journal with inappropriate comments. I am trying to maintain standards.

He's back, he's back! It's the same one!

http://toastyzone.blogspot.com/
About bloody time too.

They are very rigorous - the judging exams

It has occurred to me that I am perhaps the only blogger in the 218 billion out there who has no idea how to pronounce his own name.

Perhaps some scholar of Latin would care to show off like a big girl’s blouse impress us with their immense knowledge and tell us whether the ‘i’ in Vicus is pronounced as in ‘git’ or as in ‘visa’. I don’t believe it should be ‘i’ as in ‘shite’.

And is the v pronounced as v or w?

There will be a prize for the 500^th comment. (Anyone posting consecutive comments will be disqualified).

Goodbye and thanks for all the fission

I had mixed feelings when my pals at the BBC reported that there was a problem with physics in schools.

The initial headline indicated that there may soon be a danger of physics dying out in our centres of education. I did not take this literally, and did not take it to mean that New Labour had meddled even further than it usually does, and repealed the law of gravity, and Curie’s law in schools.

Their article clarified this a little, by referring to a “shortage of physics teacher”. I took this to be a reference to a lack of quantity rather than stature, having read the entire article. This makes sense. When I was a lad, none of my physics teachers seemed either inordinately tall or short. The only characteristic they had in common was their continued belief in the absurd pronouncements they made during lessons. I am convinced that physics is little more than modernised Alchemy, and more of a mythology than a science. The complex rules of English syntax make more sense to me.

I am glad that this ridiculous belief system is dying out.

It may seem a little presumptuous of me to describe some of the greatest thinkers and scientists of this and former ages as misguided practitioners of an arcane mysticism, but, mark my words, students far in the future will fall about laughing at the bizarre understanding of the universe demonstrated by 21^st century physicists, while marvelling and being awestruck by the sagacity and wit of Kaliyuga Kronicles.

Pedantic old git

I was surprised to hear on Radio 5 just now a correspondent report that “FIFA wants soccer to be seen as a sport taking drugs seriously”. On reflection, I suppose that he meant that FIFA wants to soccer to be seen as a sport that views the taking of drugs seriously. I regret that my days of drug-taking, whether serious or frivolous are long past, unless one counts occasional aspirin and caffeine, so I am in no position to offer advice. I have to say that being frivolous about drugs is probably closer to my position, although I would not want to be too close to a drug-crazed John Motson, unless the drug was a very efficient sedative.

I accept no responsibility for the contents of this post

I have found a wonderful new internet resource, but am reluctant to recommend it.

It cuts down on the time spent “poncing about on the internet”, as some have unkindly described the time I spend broadening my perspective by investigating the offerings of humanity, or the time spent “doing puja at my mandir” as Mrs S. describes it, not without a little bitterness.

Google reader (reader.google.com) combines selected RSS feeds and puts them all in a single list. I have to confess to a certain nervousness in using it, due to anxiety about what to do with all of the time that it saves. Currently, I am pretending that it is not entirely reliable, and still checking each page individually. I will not be able to keep up this deceit for long, and may have to engage in the alternative universe out there. I trust that your thoughts are with me.

Next week, Minder in Mandarin

I was delighted to see that Britain is still having a colonial influence on the sub-continent. The other evening it was my pleasure to see the Indian version of “Who wants to be a greedy bastard”, which is called “2 Crorepati”. Let me expand on this.

The prize for getting the first question right in the Indian version is £12.50, rather feeble compared to the £100 offered by our pal Tarrant, but the 2 Crorepati of the title does not refer to a dish seldom seen at your local tandoori, but rather to an amount roughly equivalent to £2.5million. Thus far, to the best of my knowledge, no-one has won that amount, but someone won 1 crore rupees, something in excess of £1 million.

What was most interesting to me was to see my old friend Amitabh Bachchan hosting the programme. Amitabh is the most famous person in India, with the possible exception of the sainted Sachin. It is possible that there are no other famous people in India, and he has to perform all the duties which require fame, in the same way that Lata Mangeshkar is the only singer in India, and has to sing all of the songs.

Amitabh, who always looked vaguely odd to me, now resembles Rasputin, in much the same way that Mr Pacino has done, but with more conviction. He also makes the mistake that Tazza never does of affecting to be knowledgeable, and comes unstuck as a result.

I commend it to those wishing to expand their knowledge of Hindi. I have learnt the following phrases, listed below with their English equivalent, after watching only part of one episode:

Hot-seat Hot-seat

Confident? Confident?

Are you sure? Are you sure?

I expect that having only mildly criticised Mr Bachchan, I will get some abuse from his fans, should they be bothered to come over here. It’s a good job I didn’t say he was a talentless, third-rate actor who wouldn’t even get an audition for Crossroads then, isn’t it?

Hari Om Tat Sat.

No, still nothing to write about here.

Concerned for the health and wellbeing of my readers, due to a recent lack of material here, I scan the competition, to see whether they are in danger of finding nothing to write about.

I am cheered that the online Torygraph has an article that begins with the heading: “Dave Stewart of the Eurythmics on his consuming passion for his G4 laptop”, and I immediately realise that all is well. I may be responsible for writing some total crap from time to time (pause for readers to shout out in disagreement), but there are very many unpleasant corners of human existence in which I will not be found. The only thing that intrigues me about the article mentioned above, is whether there is anyone – living, dead or Conservative – who is so bollock-numbingly bored as to contemplate reading it.

In the Independent, someone has written a 578 word article on vodka tonic. I suspect also that someone paid them to do it.

So, let us not get too despondent about Caroline, Watski and Toasty deciding to abandon their web journals, nor about Tom failing to find a new title this week. Those of us left can take some comfort from being further from the bottom of the barrel than our professional colleagues.

Hands across the sea

Charles has been very well briefed for this tour. Sadly, the information that tit grabbing is the state sport of Iowa proves to be somewhat misleading.

Another cheap and tasteless dig at the expense of Morons Reunited

Laura is not sure whether the finger up her butt belongs to Charles or Camilla. George just hopes that whoever is squeezing his testicles washes their hands before lunch.

Windblown damage

Despite my advice, Camilla cannot prevent herself from foraging through the wreckage of New Orleans for a bargain.

I was like oh my god

I have been beset by phone calls at all hours of the day and night from the Cornwalls. I am really finding my world renowned patience being stretched. “Cams, ducky”, I tell her, not for the 12^th time, “this is one of the few occasions where you will be in the position of dining with someone thicker than you. Take advantage of it. Even if Chaz starts chatting to the broccoli, it is a dead cert that President Fuckwit will do something even more bizarre. Relax and do what the hell you like. Put on your silly voice and pretend to be an upper class thicko.”

I wonder if my loyal readers can provide me with some information.

What is the style of speech affected by a substantial number of young ladies between the ages of 12 and 30 that makes everything that they say sound as if they are complaining? It seems to be gaining in popularity, and accompanied by an insistence to communicate every detail about everything, no matter how bollock-numbingly boring.

What is the name for those parts of speech that superfluously qualify verbs, as in “phone up”, “print out”, “fill out/ fill in/ fill up a form”?

I see six twits

Having been a little distracted of late, I need to get back to the rhythm of keeping my loyal readership (AMTONW) informed. I have been occupied this week with helping to tidy up the fiasco that was the celebration of Trafalgar. We managed to keep it out of the press, but only just. In short, Philip, Andrew and Edward became bored with the official ceremonies (“If I hear one more boring speech, I am going to bloody burst”, said Philip, unaware that the microphones were switched on). They decided to re-enact the battle, stole a fishing boat, attacked the Cherbourg ferry, and with all of the skill that their years at sea brought, landed at Shanklin and claimed it for England, thinking they were in Calais. Liz hasn’t spoken to any of them since, and it was only my timely intervention that saved them from a night in the nick, or even 4 years in Parkhurst, as the Isle of Wight legal system is not as sophisticated as that on the mainland. So exhausting, darlings.

I retired home, and having failed to spot any of the programmes that Geoff watches, I thought I would try out the new series of “They Think It’s All Over”, now with the subtitle “I Wish It Bloody Was”. Ian Wright? Jonathan Ross? Tosser Hussain? Not exactly anyone’s choice for purveyors of subtlety and wit. The only redeeming feature was Boris Becker – being funny and clever and disproving the racial stereotype about the Teutonic people.

80 buggery bollocky years

The Mandarin Oriental isn’t what it was. Fortunately, I am, at my own request, placed on a table at the back with Camilla, Bill Deedes and Gary Lineker, and have made it quite clear that I do not want to have to interact with the ‘guest of honour’. Lineker proves to be an excellent political commentator and mimic.

John Redwood says “She spoke extremely well and she spoke generously about all the people who had helped her doing what she did in the 1980s." “Yes,” says Lineker in a remarkable Churchill voice “giving up their jobs and money, to help bankrupt the nation.” This is all very well, but as you all know, it doesn’t take much to make Camilla guffaw like a parakeet with a ruptured colon. I am able to hide behind a pillar while Cecil Parkinson glares in our direction. At least, I think it is a glare, maybe the old roué is on the pull and has mistaken the duchess of Cornwall for one of the ladies of the night that are standard fare at Tory party parties.

Lineker can also throw his voice, and I have to admit that it was more than a little funny to see Lloyd Webber square up to Michael Howard, being under the impression that he was the source of the “fat cunt” comment.

Deedes seems to think that he is sharing a table with Quinton Hogg, Edith Summerskill and Gerald Nabarro, and none of us has the heart to disillusion him. This is not altogether unreasonable: he is not the first to confuse the ex Mrs PB with Lord Hailsham. Although I can report first hand that it is no fun being addressed as “Baronessssh Sshummershkill”.

I am more than a little surprised when Phil turns up. He loathed the old bag more than Liz ever did, despite sharing the same political views. He was forever complaining about having Family Fortunes interrupted by Mrs T’s visit to the palace in the 1980’s. “Can’t the silly tart come during the day time like the rest of the tradesmen,” he would ask, “who the fuck does she think she is?”

I manage to persuade that odious little shit Archer that Caspar Weinberger is a powerful Hollywood producer, looking to film one of his books. Not much of a joke, I know, Weinberger is hardly any more aware of his own history than his mentor, Thick Ron.

Eventually, I manage to rescue Liz, “Let’s nip out the back way, lovey,” I say in my gentlest voice, “no one will dare say anything if you don’t come back.” She is a little worried that Phil and Camilla will show her up if we leave them both unsupervised, but the sight of Thatcher heading our way, looking as if she is intent on starting a conversation is sufficient incentive to get her to grab her crown and coat from the cloakroom, tip the doorman 10p, and slip home via Hyde Park, yelling “Oi, fuck off” at unsuspecting far eastern tourists.

I slip Iron Maiden, who are providing the music, ten quid, and tell them that one of Thatcher’s favourite tunes is “The Red Flag”.

Atticus? I thought he was a dead archbishop

Regular readers, (AMTONW) will understand that I had occasion to buy a Sunday newspaper this week, where a stasis leak had occurred, and a bit of the internet had spilled out into that parallel universe laughingly referred to as “the real world”, viz. my contribution to the Atticus column in the Sunday Times.

There is a flood of outrage, (well, one comment) over on Boris’s site, where old Atticus is castigated for ripping off material when he is paid so much to write his own. I don’t mind this. As a great artist myself, I am not unfamiliar with the struggle to entertain my audience (AMTONW).

What was surprising was the size of the newspaper. I really could have done with a shopping trolley to get it to my car. I asked a young lad who was loitering in the shop for assistance “Would you like to grab hold of my supplement?”, but he affected indifference. I imagine the recycling team will refuse to take the contents of the recycling bin next time. “No, guv, there’s no market for that much paper – we’d have to chop down three ancient woodlands to avoid overproduction”.

And all of it filled with cack. I haven’t read it, and don’t intend to. I just wanted a record of my little contribution. There are 4 pages apparently about the next leader of the Tories. It was Boris writing about this dull topic that inspired my very clever contribution to his web site. The analogy is, you are going to have a large stick inserted in your rectum. The good news is that there are five sticks to choose from, all identical in size, shape and volume, but slightly different colours, and the choice is yours. As with the competition to be top Tory, it may make some difference to the candidates, and I leave readers (AMTONW) to make up their own minds about the relative states of consciousness and awareness of sticks and Conservative MPs, but makes no difference whatsoever to me.

I dread to think what was in the other Sunday papers on offer, I didn’t buy the Observer, Telegraph, Anthrax or Koala. I refused to peruse the contents of the Mirror, People, Armpit or Pustule, as I have no interest in “My night of lust with Val Doonican”. (I see more unwelcome visitors courtesy of Theodore and Evadne Google).

No, friends (AMTONW), eschew the seamy world of Murdoch and read the blogs. Watski or Peregrine Worsthorne? No contest.

Please empty your wallets

http://www.dec.org.uk/

VS - advisor to the people.

I am indebted to the lovely Melissa (and how many men say that in an average week), who has taken time off from ministering to Boris Johnson, to inform me that I have, yet again, made the national press.
Once more, my views form the foundations of the whole position of News International in its ponderings on the future of Conservatism.
Atticus, in the Sunday Times, has this to say:
For the most erudite discussion of the Tory leadership, turn to the website of Tory MP and classics scholar Boris Johnson, where one contributor not only refers to the new boy wonder of the Conservative party as Boccaccio’s D Cameron but claims Rifkind is a Tamil word that means “virile vanquisher of the ungodly”.
For the online link (I don't know how long these are maintained)
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2088-1817288_2,00.html
And the thread on Bozza's site (still no pictures of Melissa).
http://www.boris-johnson.com/archives/2005/10/cameron.html#comments

Viewer Power

I am happy to report that the management of the BBC and Lulu, having read my recent somewhat critical article, have redeemed themselves by broadcasting the excellent programme, "Sounds of the Sixties" on BBC4 this week.

It featured an excerpt from a programme called "Happening with Lulu", featuring Mr James Hendrix, a guitarist of some note.
The BBC had been remiss in the Dylan programme by omitting Mr Hendrix's rendition of "All Along the Watchtower", and failing to display Miss Lawrie's talents to best effect, as I have mentioned before.
It also featured some lively young men called "Pink Floyd", performing to a back drop of their psychedelic light show, which may have been a little more appealing had it not been in black and white.
They were introduced by Hans Keller, who those amongst us aged over eighty will remember as the subject of constant satire by Private Eye, because of his pseudo-intellectual music criticism, his Germanic accent, and his fondness for football. Herr Keller was not over fond of Pink Floyd, thinking that they were a little loud. I need only need to point out that Keller was a fan of Schoenberg to give some indication of the degree of seriousness with which we should evaluate his opinions.
I have to confess that I am not very knowledgeable about modern rock music. I have made a decision not to pursue the study thereof, as I don't really have time, and have yet to tire of my large collection of recorded music. It is therefore with little authority that I claim that the music of the 60s was more vibrant and exciting than that of the current era. It seems that the current crop of young people, with their fixation on the accumulation of material possessions and their degrees in accountancy, business studies and 'meja', will grow into the kind of people who were shocked and bewildered by messrs Hendrix, Zappa and Joplin all those years ago.

Good job the president is smarter than these guys

An old friend - a Mr Trellis of North Brisbane - sent me the following link.
http://www.compfused.com/directlink/940/
Takes a while to load for you paupers without broadband.

Suffer the little children

I am obliged to my friends at news.com.au, who are owned by that nice Mr Murdoch, so the stories must be true, for highlighting the news item about a Christian Charity’s scheme to distribute a DVD about the nativity to all UK Schools. This is an animation, not a documentary, despite it being a well-known fact that the News Corporation does have exclusive rights to broadcast the second coming. It features three quails, and boasts Stephen Berkoff, Joe Pasquale and Cannon and Ball on the sound track.

This goes to explain the current dearth of new material on the web journal pages. When confronted with events such as these, there is little that we can write that challenges the imagination compared to the activities in the parallel world out there.

They’ll be telling me next that one of the candidates for the top job in the Conservative party (if that is not an oxymoron), wants to have each school in the UK fly the union jack.

A news item, an update on British business and a critique of popular music, all in one post

1) Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed in an accident". "Shit!” the President exclaims. "That's terrible!" His staff sit stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the president sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks... ''How many is a Brazillion?”

2) My boss was discussing a series of meetings that are due to start on the 10^th October. We may not be ready for these meetings, and he said “We may have to postpone the 10^th.” I pointed out that we could not do that, we would still have to have it between the 9^th and the 11^th, but what we could do was to arrange to do something else on that day. I sometimes wonder why my career has not progressed further, given my ability to clarify issues so helpfully.

3) As I have commented elsewhere, the sight of Lulu performing “Mr Tambourine Man” on the BBC the other evening has had a profound effect upon me. I still cannot understand the reason for inflicting this upon us. There was no need to prove that there are people capable of making Mr Dylan’s songs sound worse than the man himself does, and were there to be such a need, then the appearance of a modern beat combo called “XTC” on the same programme would have made the point quite adequately.

This, that and definitely not 'the other'

A miscellany of thoughts this evening.

1) My 8000^th visitor joined me here this evening. He/she/it came via the website of that nice Mr & Mrs Google, looking for “East Worldham”. Why?
East Worldham is a settlement in NE Hampshire, famous for its unsightly hill, which all of my efforts to have removed have so far foundered.
I am ranked fourth in the list of authorities on East Worldham. I do, however, have valuable advice for anyone wishing to go there. I may share that advice some day.

2) Bob Dylan is currently on television, along with a load of other addled creatures from my generation. I have some Dylan CDs, and a selection of his songs on recordings by others – I enjoy listening to them. However, I can not understand anything that he says, and have sufficient confidence in my own judgement for this not to trouble me in any way. Anyone wishing to make a study of his work should first read the story of the Emperor’s new clothes. Just remember that the prize twit Bob Willis changed his name to Bob Dylan Willis, and you will have some idea of the importance of this man’s contribution to modern culture.

3) No matter how bad the cricket commentators are, they cannot approach the knuckle dragging nonsense spouted by the soccer commentators. I wish someone would explain to Clive Tyldesley the meaning of the word ‘ironic’. Preferably with the aid of boxing gloves.

4) I smiled, for the first time, at dear Adam’s website entry this evening. You know, the Star Wars thing. Was it really your own idea Adam? You will soon to be smart enough for elementary school in the north.

5) Back to Theodore and Evadne Google, who I must call to get them to improve their software. Disclaimer: I am providing the following information on the basis of finding out the means by which the adoring population of the world comes to my little journal here. I have not used their software to search for these items, and offer no judgement on those who do.
I am, according to T & E, the 6^th most important authority on ‘preschool pervert pictures’. This does alarm me, somewhat.
I am ranked only 8^th for information on ‘Kaliyuga’. Don’t these people read my writings?
On the positive side, I am the leading reference point for ‘Sophie Wessex September 2005’. Quite rightly, but do not expect me to be indiscreet.

Scurra, stupified by Hussain, bored by Willis, 1

For the benefit of those readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Madagascar) who do not reside in these isles, I am sorry to report that today is the last day of summer. We mark this occasion by declaring an end to the cricket season. From the moment the copy of Wisden arrives on the doormat in April to the dark evenings of September, England is showered in sunshine, the populace adopt a cheerful disposition, flowers bloom, birds sing and hedgehogs copulate noisily beneath my bedroom window.

We spend our days drinking in the soothing tones of Messrs Benaud and Holding, and following the progress of Messrs Hick and Crawley to their inevitable centuries via cricinfo.com, or by teletext for the paupers.

My friends at Sky Sports chose to prepare us for the winter nights to come by having Willis and Hussain commentating on this afternoon’s game. Never in the annals of human history has someone been so unsuited to his chosen profession as Mr Willis and commentating, at least since Frankie Howerd retired from boxing. The drone of his voice causes the flowers to shrivel, the birds to migrate and all mammals to hibernate. I spent some time this afternoon having my soul sucked out by his excruciatingly dull voice, interspersed by the ruminations of Nasser Hussain, whose inability to say anything interesting in no way inhibits his practice of talking. Next summer will indeed be dull when we have to listen to these people instead of our friends on Channel 4.

Anyone following cricket in England during the 1990s will have despaired as sides led by Gooch, Atherton, Stewart and Hussain produced some of the dullest, negative, dreary and soul destroying rubbish ever witnessed on a sports field. Now these ambassadors of crap are deemed fit to be knowledgeable commentators on the current generation of entertaining and joyful players. It is high time that these purveyors of the tedious were found a home somewhere, where they could no longer feed on the élan of the rest of humanity.

Political Update

My thanks to the BBC news for informing me that Mrs Merton is about to become the new chancellor of Germany.

I have always felt our governments would be better run by those who were more familiar to us prior to their embarkation upon a political career. I would like to see more spoof talkshow hosts leading their countries, but would draw the line at the real thing.Parkinson is a tad too smug for my liking, and very unsound on monetary policy.

I would like to think that Lily Savage would make a lovely PM, but can never see the day when this country is led by some foul mouthed vile ugly misanthropic tart.

Mrs Merton would not be the first of course. Australia have, I am reliably informed, been led by Norman Gunston for many years.

For the benefit of any of the rednecks who came over to this site some time ago, and who I have now become bored of visiting, I must acknowledge the USA’s lead in this. They went one better than having a failed film star as president, and now have as head of state someone who is a complete and utter failure at everything other than being a complete wanker.

Thought for the Day

Someone visited this site after putting the phrase “mimic vinegar-processing” into Google.

Alas, I am not the foremost authority on this subject according to Theodore and Evadne Google, collators of data. There are some Chinese academics who report thus:

“In this paper, the variation of genkwanin content before and after mimic vinegar-processing has been analyzed by HPLC. The result has shown that there is no difference between the quantity and quality of genkwanin before and after mimic vinegar-processing. It is clarified that acetic acid is not the main reason for the decrease of genkwanin content in the flower of Daphne genkwa during the process of vinegar-fry.”

For those of you who were not paying attention during 4th form chemistry, I distinctly remember the week we ‘did’ genkwanin, or 4',5-Dihydroxy-7-methoxyflavone (C₁₆H₁₂O₅), and I cannot count the number of times that I have been grateful for paying attention at that time.

You, my loyal readers, (AMToNW), can come here to expand your minds. I am off to mimic some vinegar processing. Beat that, Boggins.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 7

Well, what a weekend. I sometimes think that I am too kind by nature, and need to adopt a more abrasive approach to those who believe that they cannot do without my counsel.

I made the mistake, early on, of not switching my telephone off on Saturday morning, and had to deal with a stream of assorted Windsors and Parker-Bowles in various states of panic about the damned wedding. I had already made it clear that I would not be attending, and that they should learn to fend for themselves, but no detail was too trivial to lead them to think it needed my attention. William, our future King Thicky the First, is top of the list. “I didn’t get invited to the rehearsal”, this at 4:45 in the morning. “It isn’t you who is getting married Bill, you soft sod,” I admonished, “when it is your turn you will probably have someone there to tell you. If you get to the stage where there is some unbelievably thick bimbo escorting you wherever you go, it is a sign that your family have found a suitable mate, and that should give you a clue.” Harry has the idea of revenge, following the episode where a congress of Parker-Bowles pinned the motto “arsehole in chief” to his back during the last wedding, and only clever editing by the BBC prevented it from being broadcast. He wants help from me, inevitably. “Use your imagination, young Henry,” I tell him wearily, “if there is one thing you should have taken from your time at Eton, it is the ability to take the piss.” I make oblique references to pageboys and laxative chocolate, and hope that he takes the hint, but am not too optimistic. Then I get a call from Camilla asking why I told Harry to dress up as a page boy, and smear his face with Toblerone. I told her that it was a tradition in Henley, which, unsurprisingly, she accepted without any argument.

I turned the telephone off, to watch the cricket and rugby, and “forgot” to switch on the answering machine.

The next ordeal is the nonsense surrounding the preparations for Harry’s 21^st. I told Charles to lock the silly little bugger in the Tower for a week as the only way to prevent all of the bad publicity that it is going to generate.

OK, this time all is really revealed

I feel compelled to confess that someone has arrived at this site by typing in "st tropez 05 'Barbara Bush'" into google.
OK, she was with me as well. I hope that does not give the game away.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 6

Although no one has directly asked, I suspect you are all waiting for me to reveal some of the secrets from Andrew’s autobiography that I mentioned in my previous article.

Obviously, I will not say too much, as the poor boy needs to earn a few shillings from the venture, bless him. So I will report nothing about the incident in Buenos Aires or the secrets of Sophie Wessex’s hen night. You will just have to wait for Amazon to get it in stock. It will be a novelty at least, with a foreword in crayon by the ‘author’.

Very few people know that the marriage to Sarah Ferguson was orchestrated by the Buck House mafia. Andrew was always abysmally dim, and it was decreed that a wife should be found of such towering intellect, that any children that were born at least had a fighting chance of being able to feed themselves before they were twenty one, and wouldn’t dribble when they spoke.

As part of the wedding contract, Sarah agreed to hide evidence of her enormous brain in public, for fear of showing up Andrew. How well she has done.

Sarah has an encyclopaedic knowledge of particle physics, the flora of Oceania and the history of Mesopotamia. She speaks fourteen languages and is a chess grandmaster.

Of course, the project was doomed from the start. I cannot count the number of times that I would be distracted from whatever I was doing by having Andy on the telephone whinging about this and that. “She is speaking to the children in Ancient Greek – she only does it to make fun of Daddy, because that’s what she calls him.” Or “She insists that she will only have a conversation with me if we do alternate lines of a sonnet. I started with ‘There was a young girl from Biarritz’, and she called me a buffoon.” Or “Why couldn’t they find me a thicky like Di or Cams? Even Sophs – she is a bit bright for me but at least doesn’t laugh when I have to get one of the footmen to tie my laces for me. One time Sarah said ‘no nookie’ unless I translated four pages of George Eliot into English.” I know, but would you have told him?

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 5

Camilla confides that she is keen to return to the days when she was able to get away and hang out with her old friends without being in the public glare. I am filled with apprehension. She already shows too little concern for the decorum that her position demands, and it is only the good will of the kind people in the media that keeps news of her activities off of the front page, or page 3 if one includes the episode in Marks and Spencer, Stroud in July where she insisted on trying on a bra, and refused to go into the fitting room in case she was secretly filmed. Silly tart.

“We’re going to Richmond next week, honey, official engagement” she tells me, “surely no one would notice if I nipped into town on the tube and did a spot of shopping? All Charles will be doing is patronising a load of local officials and watching them squirm as he talks about saving some tree or other in Mali. I won’t be missed.”

I consult my diary. “No, you daft mare, that is Richmond, Yorkshire. They don’t have a shop selling anything more glamorous than a monogrammed Wellington boot within 25 miles.”

“That’s very confusing! When Charles is King, the first I’ll get him to do is to institute sensible place names. Honestly, sweety, how are we meant to find our way around when we have two places with the same name? I spent 3 hours in New Brighton looking for the nudist beach last week. It really is tiresome.”

I continue to read my copy of the yet unpublished autobiography of Andrew while she prattles on for an hour or six. I don’t mind helping Chas by doing this, but I’m buggered if I’m going to listen as well. I nearly give the game away when I laugh out load at Andrew’s story of the queen mother and the watermelon, just as she is talking about her favourite hat or some such shite.

Clarke free zone

I became a little bored with the tedious debate over at Bozza’s about who was going to be the runner-up leader at the next election, and scratched my head to think of a poll here that was as irrelevant to my readers (AMToNW). Then, with a leap of genius that exemplifies why so many people (AMToNW) find this site required reading, I decided to ask:

What is the most boring poll we could have here?

(Answers including Jayne Mansfield, Winston Churchill etc will be ruled out on the grounds of being too obviously derivative)

PS – Mark, Simon – you can get out now while it is dark. It is a dangerous place, you go in there, coaxed by that siren Melissa, and before you know where you are, you are engaging in debate with those who think the site is not a parody.

All is revealed

Thank you, and welcome – anyone know the Japanese for welcome? – to the person from Japan who came here looking for a “St.Tropez Jean-Claude Van Damme” on msn, where I am deemed to be the leading authority.
I was worried, for a moment, that the secret of my absence these seven days had been discovered. I have been vacationing in St Tropez, with Mr Van Damme, Colonel Gaddaffi, Miriam Stoppard, Kevin Keegan, Lata Mangeshkar, Wayne Sleep and Peter Mandelson. I hope that is sufficient explanation. I am not at liberty to discuss scuba diving equipment or plum based confectionery in regard to this sojourn.

Hands across the sea

Can I refer you to my new friend, Alice, and her web journal? I was particularly interested in her views on the withdrawal from Washington in 1814.
Please note that I am not a supporter of British imperialism, nor the sorry record of those dim-witted fascists who typically have statues erected to them for the criminal invasion of less developed parts of the world.
Neither is this article anti-American. America has given much to the world – Janis Joplin, the Modern Jazz Quartet and Weird Al Yankovic to name but a selected few. It would be churlish to mention George Bush, Barry Manilow or the Waltons in an attempt to invoke anti-US sentiment.
However, I think I can shed some clarity on this particular period of history, and for once support British policy in the handling of the invasion of North America.
Firstly, the British took the sane view that there were too many religious bigots around, and selected a cross section of the most deranged, put them on a flimsy boat and headed them in the direction of the east coast of America.
Americans celebrate their arrival in the New World annually, in a holiday called ‘Thanksgiving’, which involves the ritual slaughter of turkeys. In Britain, we celebrate the despatch of these unwanted residents every day, and only have to look at Pat Robertson to realise how wise our ancestors were to have dealt so effectively with them. Their legacy has been to give rise to countless generations of a sub-species called ‘rednecks’, who have caused the average IQ of the United States population to remain in double figures, or slightly below that in parts of the south.
Secondly, wise King George, seeing which way the wind was blowing, enacted an elaborate campaign to free Britain from the responsibility for a region that was beyond control. The holiday that marks ‘Independence Day’ in the US is secretly called ‘You’re fucking welcome to it’ Day in the UK.
So it remains to this day. Readers (AMToNW) should draw their own conclusions:
Malibu or Skegness, Manhattan or Milton Keynes, Yellowstone or Hyde Park – I think the decisions will not be difficult to make.

Continued p.94

Acute readers (AMToNW) will have noticed that there has been a dearth of new postings on this and other web journals these few days. The possibility has been mooted that the leading literary legends have been offline at a secret conference, to share inspiration and bodily fluids. While decorum prevents me from commenting on this conjecture (Broomhilda, please stop doing that, we may need to eat that for breakfast later, and Mark, I know that Caroline said she didn’t have any objections to what you are doing, but please, not in front of the window), I feel obliged to reveal the real reason for the current hiatus.
The fact is that the unleashing of the power of the internet onto the world has meant that everything that has ever been written, or could be written has now been published. The limits of human invention and art have been exhausted, and there is nothing more to say. In a freaky parallel with the monkeys and typewriters story, we have arrived at the end of creativity and must now scratch our heads about what is left to do.
Personally, I am going to force a spot of breakfast down, watch the tri-nations game, the Trent Bridge test match while coming to terms with the endless dull hours that await me until the great sub-editor in the void applies the final full stop.

Bum, willy, knockers

Don’t all look at once, but there is a little flag in the top right hand corner (your right), I SAID “DON’T ALL LOOK AT ONCE!”, which purports to be for the use of those wishing to report ‘objectionable content’ to this Blogger chap.
The words bolt, stable door and horse come to mind.

The Ruling Class

I was delighted to hear of a quaint gentleman on the radio just now, who is known by the slightly suspect appellation of “Lord Adonis”. He is a government junior minister of some species, apparently. For a short time, until I researched the matter, I was under the misconception that he had chosen his title upon being elevated to the peerage. I was more than a little disappointed to discover that ‘Adonis’ was his surname, his being of Greek descent. Bugger. I was hoping that we had someone bucking the system from within, now my dreams are destroyed.
However, I am considering a course of action based upon this little episode.
As regular readers are aware, I am constantly being badgered by that fool Blair to accept an honour. Earlier this summer I had the distinctly unpleasant experience of having the idiot hammering on my door early one morning, while I was trying to watch a super 12 game on Sky sports. I had to let the bugger in eventually, as he was disturbing the neighbours. I was expecting Mrs Arbuckle at no 29 to get the air rifle out again at any minute. There is nothing worse than having to scrape an injured first lord of the treasury off of the drive on a Saturday morning. I told him in no uncertain terms that unless he stopped pestering me I would be forced to reveal to the world the secret of his scouse accent, and the eighteen months he spent at her majesty’s pleasure in the 70s.
I am now minded to reconsider the whole business, if I can choose my own name and title. I have drawn up a short list. What do you think?
Along the lines of young Adonis:
Lord Gorgeous of Ample Proportions
Earl Heartthrob

But I am more inclined to one from the following list:
Lord Trellis of North Wales
Lord Syrup of Figs
Lord Nothing of Interest
Lord Oneradishshort of Asalad
Lord Full of Crap

I wonder whether it is as simple as this

Those nice people at Blogger have integrated their product with a little known utility called MS Word. It seems I can use this overblown word processor as a means for editing text. I am just creating this post to test it out.

Recommended read

May I commend Dad Gone Mad?
Today's entry is written to the usual high standard, but lacks the usual unpleasant scatological detail that is typical of his work. I can find only one reference to a practice about which I would rather not know, so this may be a turning point.
This young man seems to be able to compose several journal entries per week based upon his own experiences. Were I to emulate that, my pages would remain blank (pause for applause). Perhaps I should discuss with my wife the possibility of starting a family, in order to give me material that is based on activities in that sphere of existence which is laughingly referred to as 'the real world'.

Setting new standards

I am indebted to a correspondent on the site of the bizarre and wayward politician, Boris Johnson, for the following insight:

PS Vicus Scarra. Bog off, will you? I've read better stuff in sixth form magazines. At least they don't recycle Mrs Trellis.

This person uses the name ‘Howard’. It would be too much to be hoped for that this is the lovely Michael. To think that someone as humble as I could prove to be an irritant is a thought too delicious ever to come true.

I suspect that Howard is just another Tory attempting to gain favour by changing his name to ingratiate himself with the party leader. If this is the case, he will have spent quite a fortune in legal fees and stationery by the end of the decade.

I will take Howard’s criticism to heart, and from now on will attempt to raise the quality of this journal to that of a sixth-form magazine. In order to achieve this, I will need the help of all of the regular commentators (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales. Bugger!), so please try harder next term, and let’s have lots of jokes about how Miss Shagworthy the Chemistry teacher looks like Ronnie Barker.

Maya

A good friend, a Mr Trellis of North Hertfordshire, was advised by a commenter on his splendid journal to try some ketamine.
I had not heard of this particular narcotic either, and had to look it up.
The first website that I came to suggested that it was commonly known as “blind squid”. I choose not to believe this nonsense, too reminiscent of Mr Morris’s “Cake”.
This internet thingy is very misleading. Being a trusting sort, I am inclined to believe what I read. I now find myself, somewhat like Raja Janaka, questioning which of my perceptions is real and which is illusory. I would welcome advice on this matter. If Messrs Google, Gates and Yahoo are perpetrating an elaborate hoax, then I think that we should all be told.

Reader's questions answered

In a thread below, Mr Trellis of North Epsom questions whether I am Professor David Starkey.

I did a cursory search to find the answer to this question, and found the following sample of the prof’s work.

'The problem is you can only have a "Diana monarchy" if you have a monarch who is a celebrity or at least a bit sensational', says constitutional historian professor David Starkey. 'But do we really want a head of state or a consort like Diana who was reported as having her head stuck down the lavatory one minute and having an upper colonic lavage the next? Is that really an appropriate image? I don't think we are going to get the Queen talking openly about her battle with thrush, although it's hard to know; news is breaking all the time.'

This in turn caused me to pursue the question of Liz’s battles with feathered vertebrates, and I asked her what her position was with regard to being candid in this area. “I am quite ambivalent about it, sweetie,” she confided, “it is well known to students of the monarchy that I have not always enjoyed cordial relations with the airborne visitors to my gardens ever since one of the corgis was lifted from the Pyotr Kropotkin garden at Windsor by an overfed starling, but I really don’t think that these tales are of great interest to the general public, even the most fawning of them”. What might be of passing interest is the fact that since his television career declined, Noel Edmonds has been employed as the royal bird-scarer at Sandringham. He can be seen of a morning running round the lawns waving his arms and making strange noises. “Philip finds it most amusing”, she says, “he can watch for hours, which is a great relief to all of us who try to limit his capacity for mischief. I don’t have the heart to tell him that as soon as we have Edward trained, he will replace Mr Edmonds. I suppose that when that happens Philip will get bored again, as he can’t stand looking at Eddie for more than five minutes, and will take to aggravating Charley again by trying to exterminate endangered species.”

So that answers the question about the queen and the quails. As for the professor, I think I will let you draw your own conclusions. I am rather taken by his style, but am disappointed by his lack of imagination. If he thinks that the most inappropriate image of Di is that of her poncing about St James palace with a rubber tube protruding from her arse, then he is no match for me.

An act of love and kindness

I believe that it is incumbent on all of us web diarists to help our fellow writers by constructive and loving criticism. This is particularly true of those younger and less able contributors who would most benefit from our help. Many of my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) will have visited the site of young Adam, if only to see how computers are being used in the less developed areas of the world, and will have become fond of his witty, erudite and absorbing prose. This week he has been playing with his Meccano.


Hello Adam, you silly tart, here are the suggested corrections to your latest work of mediocrity. Please call upon my services if you wish to graduate from the Governor George Wallace College. I would be only too pleased to help:

Visting relatives
1) Vesting relatives? Some ancient southern ritual which involves removing the undergarments of uncles and aunts without disturbing their outer clothes – people in your part of the world have taken to wearing clothes, haven’t they? But surely that would be ‘devesting’.
2) Misting relatives? Providing a cooling spray, the origin of which is an entirely personal matter, for your grandparents in the long, hot southern summers.
3) Visiting relatives? Unlikely. Were I related to you, I would hesitate to visit until you learned to spell.

See pervious post:
1) While it is not entirely impossible that you have some sort of pole that allows access, it is of little interest and has no meaning in the context in which you have used it.
2) Perverted post? You southerners, honestly.
3) See previous post. Unlikely. Were I a visitor to your site, I would be unlikely to go to another article until you learned to spell.

Fire-breating dinosaur
1) Barbara Bush.

Definetly
1) Folks in the UK definitely have difficulty with that word too, although most of the incorrect versions use ‘definately’. In the wonderful world of the web, you can share your ignorance with others.
2) I would definitely be unlikely to visit your site until you learned to spell.

Toliet
1) I can forgive you this, as such items are a luxury south of the Mason Dixon Line.

Audence
1) Or dense. As in “Adam’s readers are either drunk or dense.”
2) WHAuden. A purveyor of second rate verse, noted for his wrinkled appearance.
3) Audience. Unlikely. I would hesitate to come to see you until you learned to spell.

Talke
1) Talke. A town of great natural beauty, and some fame. Home of the Talke Pits Development Company.
2) Talc. Sure is sweaty down south.
3) Talk. Good idea. Better than writing until you learn to spell.

Cosists
1) Cosines. A mathematical term used in the 5th grade and above in the northern USA, but not in Southern schools who use the term ‘ciphering’ for all complex calculations.
2) Cousins. You sure have plenty of these. Some of them are also your brothers, grandparents, nephews and aunts.
3) Consists. Unlikely. Your prose is not going to display the attributes of consistency or cohesion until you learn to spell.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 4

I have been requested by a reader – a Mrs Trellis of North Island – for more up to date news of our favourite family.

Much of what I hear and see must remain confidential, even on so private a medium as the internet, and I am sure that no one would like me to be indiscrete or display evidence that I am incapable of keeping a secret.

Philip was on television this weekend, being interviewed by that prize wally Mark Nicholas, and managed to keep a straight face while saying nothing of any interest for 10 minutes, during which he managed to give the most boring and evasive answers to all of the questions. A remarkable achievement for someone who is well over 80, and is often accused of being neither use nor ornament. Phil is patron of the Lords Taverners, and shows a passing interest in cricket, but I fell about when he said, deadpan, that he was unable to play cricket because polo was his summer sport. “You old bugger,” I joshed, when I tracked him down at Winston’s Reggae Club in Willesden, “I bet that Nicholas chap hasn’t the slightest idea what you really got up to in the summer”. “Well, I mentioned show business enough times to give the soft sod a clue”, he chortled, “you can take a horse to water, but you can’t let it chase foxes”. I think he had been inhaling a bit too deeply at said establishment.

I can reveal here, for those who had not yet been made aware, that between 1956 and 1974 Phil would sneak off for 4 or 6 weeks, and appear in the chorus line at Butlin’s holiday camp in Prestatyn. He used the stage name Phyllis Edinburgh, but to the best of my knowledge his real identity was never discovered. He was a particular favourite, with his silky thighs and curvy abdomen, but one would have thought that the polo neck sweater that he habitually wore on stage to conceal the prominent Adam’s apple would have given the game away.

Since you ask

Congratulations, Watski, on setting the tone for this week’s postings. None of this maudlin stuff about politics and the like, but a serious debate about sex in outer space.

The whole purpose of this internet thingy is to publicise the pointless, glory in the absurd and debunk those who think that they understand anything about human existence.

We idiots must band together to try to use up all of the world’s available disk space in pursuit of the bizarre.

A regular reader, a Mr Trellis of North Epsom, commented to me today that my contributions of late have been somewhat sparse. Well, Mr T, put your keyboard where your mouth is, and add a comment or two here, or are you concerned that Form 4a in the school where you teach will track you down here, and have concrete proof that you have crossed the boundaries of appropriate behaviour?

I am regularly asked, usually by people with nothing better to do, whether I have nothing better to do than ponce around on the internet. Up to this point, my answer has been an indignant “NO”. Henceforth, I shall strive to be more belligerent in my response. “Sod off you pompous prat”, or something equally reminiscent of Byron, shall be my reply.

Another new friend, a Mr Trellis of North Accra, who does not have regular access to the internet, asked me today what I put on my website. “Nonsense”, was my proud response.

So, dear friends, remember that I care nothing for your religion, politics, opinions, views, beliefs or your favourite member of the Bucharest Philharmonic Orchestra. I do, however, deeply appreciate your support in helping to maintain these outcrops of sanity in a universe filled with confusion.

Hats off to Boris (bearing in mind that he is a professional buffoon), who has decorated his photograph on his web log with an enormous phallus, upon which he has tattooed his name, lest those fortunate enough to receive his sexual attention should be in any doubt by whom they are being shafted.
* My campaign seems to have resulted in Bozza changing his website to something less phallic. I offer my deepest apologies.