Don't say you weren't invited

I urge readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) to take part in the growing trend of open and consultative approaches to democracy by taking part in:
http://www.labour.org.uk/fileadmin/splash/ask.php

Frivolous and cynical questions, such as “"Do you feel any sense of satisfaction in transforming the party of Keir Hardy, Nye Bevan and Michael Foot into the most right wing, reactionary intolerant and authoritarian political group in living memory?"” are not clever or funny.

Thank God for Tony and his deep respect for our traditional freedoms.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 3

Camilla, as I have mentioned before, being from the British upper class, has a somewhat peculiar sense of humour, and is determined to play at least one practical joke at the wedding. When she telephoned last night, I told her that she was already lacking in popularity and had better watch her step, but she would not be deterred. I am so glad I am not going.

It took me ten minutes to dissuade her from hiring a princessDi-ogram to jump out of the wedding cake. Giving Anne a horse trough instead of a plate was also ruled out, but not without resistance on her part. “Why don’t you just behave for one day, and enjoy the occasion,” I counselled, “everyone will be telling you how l lovely you look, and when is that likely to happen again?”

“What about my strapping a cucumber inside my knickers, so it looks like I have a stiffy?” she asked. “As if, as if,” I said, “you sound so common, ‘as if’, not ‘like’. You’ll be the only one there who does have a stiffy”. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

This still failed to dampen her spirits. She recounted the tale of how someone had laced princess Margaret’s prawn cocktail with amphetamines at Andrew’s wedding, causing her to attempt Irish folk dances during Philip’s speech. “You’ve got that wrong, sweetie”, I said, “Margaret told me she could only ever go to these events while strongly drugged, so there was no need for spiking her food. At one of the queen’s birthday parties, the soup course lasted three and a half hours while Margaret watched dolphins perform King Lear in her mulligatawny.”

I had to leave it there, the Vatican was on the other line, asking was I ready in case John Paul snuffed it. (I told them to fuck off). Heaven knows what that girl is going to get up to. However, I am resolved not to go, so someone else will have to take responsibility for her.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 2

A friend of mine at court reveals the real reason for Liz’s absence from the civil ceremony. She is embarrassed by her aging spouse, and in particular his habit, which she admits privately is deliberate, of breaking wind explosively at the most inappropriate moments.

On most occasions, where formal functions are held in large halls or auditoria, the effect is minimised. At royal banquets, the guests put it down to the peculiar ingredients or the traditional horrors of British cookery. Things are so bad, that in the post-prandial period, the corgis are fitted with miniature gas masks. These events are heralded by shouts of “LIFTOFF!” or “Bombs away!” in a croaky old voice and this is a signal for members of the household to take cover. Even in the last years of her life, the queen mother could cover 50 yards in little over 15 seconds when news of her son in law approaching reached her. Zimmer frames were abandoned all around Clarence House, gin bottles tipped over, creating lakes of sticky fluid, causing unfortunate rumours to abound about her lack of control, but anything was better than being caught in the fallout zone.

This is all very well, but the prospect of this happening in a confined area such as a registry office was too much for Liz to contemplate, hence her withdrawing on the grounds that she had to open a vinegar processing plant in Slough that day. It is all made worse by that silly woman Camilla, who being of upper class stock finds these episodes enormously amusing, and never tires of them. Although I have never heard it myself, she apparently finds these episodes so amusing that she guffaws like a coyote in orgasm, an eardrum piercing shriek that Liz abominates.

One fact about the duke of Edinburgh that is not in the public domain, is that he is not really prince Philip of Greece. The real prince ran away with a woman from Caracas, and opened a marketing consultancy on the outskirts of Detroit in the 1940’s. He may still be alive; I got a Christmas card from him in 2002. The impostor was known to my Uncle Henry as Len Jessop, who owned a hardware store on the outskirts of Worksop. Len was a great mimic, and could do virtually all accents, but his impersonation of a Greek prince was a constant puzzle to Uncle Henry. “He’s as common as muck, and God help him if he has to perform state duties – he can’t stand foreigners. He’s bound to cause some major problems”, he predicted. Nevertheless, despite the queen no doubt being exposed to some of his more base personal habits, he seems to have got away with living for over half a century at the tax payer’s expense. Uncle Henry only saw him once after the wedding, when he was introduced to the royal couple at a ceremony to commemorate the 200^th anniversary of the Vale of Belvoir syphilis epidemic of 1771. Henry said “Good morning, Your Majesty, Ay up, Len you great lanky streak of paralysed piss”. To his credit, Len hardly batted an eyelid, but poor old Uncle Henry was carted off to the tower for 2 weeks to scrape raven shit off the turrets or some such.

Countdown to the royal wedding

I was a little preoccupied today, by having Liz on the telephone, fretting about all this fuss over her being too moody to cross the road for the crass event of the year. "Don't take any notice, duck," I said in my most reassuring voice, "I'm not going either". April the 8th, they must be barmy. New Zealand are playing Sri Lanka, and the West Indies are playing South Africa on that day. "I'll be lucky if I get out of my chair to go for a pee", I told her. She chuckled, she has a certain scatological frame of mind, best illustrated by the occasion when she left a dog turd on William Hague's chair at a banquet at Sandringham. "Bugger them all," she said, and I think I detected a slight sob, " the silly sod is over 50 now, and should be able to cross the pigging road without his mother."
I asked her whether my old friend Mark could have her place, but she evaded the question. I think that she is a little jealous of all the attention that Charles is getting. I even pressed the case for Broomhilda to officiate, but that didn't go down too well either. There's no pleasing some people is there?

Apologies

I wasn't going to mention it, but when I read at the Beeb that "the prince and Mrs Parker Bowles wanted to keep the occasion low key", I feel impelled to comment.
I will be helping them to fulfill this desire by not attending. This will disappoint my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales), who look to me for an unbiased and yet personal account of these occasions. But Charles was quite clear on the telephone this morning, and reading between the lines, I think that he fears that my continued presence in these circles threatens his position as future King. He need not worry, I will continue to turn down the opportunities to be head of state, no matter how emotional is the plea. These people should know by now, and it really does get quite tiresome.
To get back to the quote, take a tip from Charlie Windsor, if you want to keep an event low key, just make sure that all arms of the media mention that fact, and thus it is achieved.

It's been good fun

I have been inspired by other journalists of the internet to consider the validity of continuing this project.

Of late, two of the better diaries have ceased production, calling in to question the worth of their writings.

I am forced to agree that these articles, no matter how well constructed (and no one can accuse me of that characteristic) serve no purpose. They are trite, unfunny and worthless transient crap, soon to be lost in the effectively infinite amount of material available at WWW. All I am achieving is wasting my time and filling up disk space. In other words, I should heed the advice of friends and family and find something better to do with my time.

In the light of this, I have reached a decision about the future of this blogspot page.

I am sorry to say that I shall be making a renewed effort to generate pointless drivel for the foreseeable future.

I am here to help you all

An old friend and avid reader of this journal, a Mr Trellis of North Epsom, congratulated me today on my fame, and asked for a gift of £100. I pointed out to him that I saw my role as more of a help to the whole of humanity rather than specific individuals. As it, no doubt, behoves me to aid those less fortunate, if there are any readers with a problem of any sort on which they feel I can advise, then please feel free to ask. There are one or two subjects about which I know very little, but I do not see any reason why that should stand in the way of my giving advice. So come on then, whether you are troubled about the nature of human existence, or perplexed by your habitual return to read this kack, then do not feel intimidated by my towering intellect or insight into the human psyche.

Rutherford? Knew bugger all about the history of Charlton Athletic.

I am currently reading Mr Bryson’s splendid tome ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’. And jolly good it is too, like most of the rest of his work.

The trouble is, even though he takes great pains to explain current thinking on physics and its so-called laws, I do not believe any of it.

I have had this trouble all my days. I could compose and sing the Physics blues, and given my vocal talents, these blues would depress the listener even more than the contributions of Messrs Robert Johnson and Howlin Wolf.

At school I sat in anticipation of the day that Mr Sutton would come in and tell us that everything we had learned so far had been an elaborate jape on his part, and the real stuff would now begin. He never did, and neither did his successors. I should have guessed that someone so apparently humourless could not keep a straight face for so long.

Yes, dear reader, he really believed all that guff. None of it made any sense to me. I don’t believe in gravity, the Big Bang, electricity, waves, particles or any of it. I suppose that I am still hoping that a cosmic version of Mr Sutton will come along and tell the human race that they have been barking up the wrong supernova for far too long, and the real laws of physics have been recorded by the Blenkinsop family of Halifax for the last 400 years, and are now to be made available to the rest of the world’s population.

Mark my words, in a century or two, the scientists of the day will be proving that the theories of Einstein, Hubble, Bohr et al were as misguided and as inaccurate (albeit very clever) as the way that we view the attempts of Pythagoras and his pals to explain the mechanics of the universe.

I call upon all students of the world to write the words “Schrödinger was a twat” on their exercise books, and refuse to have anything to do with learning physics until such time as someone says something sensible about it.

Jet and Hot free posting *

An old friend – a Mr Trellis of North Devon – asks, not entirely originally, in an email “Are you short of something to do - you seem to spend all your life on the fucking internet”. I find this a difficult problem with which to wrestle. If I am spending all of my life on the fucking internet, then surely I am not short of something to do, which brings us on to the implication behind the comment, that there is little value in spending time on the fucking internet. The deeply philosophical musings lead one to contemplate what, if anything, are the human activities that have some value. Given that all of us are going to die, then, human emotions and feelings aside, all activities are equally pointless, and at least being on the fucking internet brings all of us able to connect to the fucking internet up or down to the same level. There are web sites where the content is largely the work of professional writers. Those wishing to link to the Independent site to which I provided a link in my previous posting, will now have to pay to access the article. I will not charge people to read my ramblings. From what I can see there is little to chose in quality between the postings of, say, my old friend Watski, than that of the professionals, I make a point of regularly checking his journal, and usually read everything that he writes, whereas there are few professional sites that I visit so regularly. It is my view, and I may be wrong, (although I have never experienced that particular circumstance), but I would suggest that it will benefit a human being more to read Watski’s comparison of his journey to work with that of the round-the-world sailor, than to struggle through the verbose offerings of the national press.
* JET = Jug Eared Twat
* HOT = Horsefaced Old Trout

A job well done

It will not have escaped the attention of anyone other than those living hermetic existences in the most remote outreaches of the globe (Tibet, Borneo, Market Harborough), that my efforts to support the downtrodden and bewildered have been recognised at national level:

http://news.independent.co.uk/media/story.jsp?story=608307
(For the full content of my contribution:
http://www.boris-johnson.com/archives/2005/01/general_electio.html#comments
)

My first recollection of hearing the name Boris Johnson was in one of those quaint and slightly embarrassing charity appeals that interrupted the absorbing Les Dennis weekend on UKTVGold. I was touched, moved and inspired to hear of this threatened species of clueless and absurd old Etonians, one of whom had managed to find a Tory pocket borough in Henley on Thames. I felt that it behoved me to do my best to help draw attention to his pathetic situation, and, thankfully, my efforts have been rewarded. I hope this selfless act of mine, for which I expect no thanks or earthly reward, other than the knowledge that my dedication may have inspired others, may in the fullness of time be seen as catalyst for historians to record the deeds of the Conservative party: it would be tragic if these were to become as mythical as the court of King Arthur, or the wit and beauty of Michael Winner.

This strange species breeds by sprouting young from their shoulders.

Some Sporting Observations

I am pleased to note, courtesy of Wisden, that Yasir Arafat has claimed a world record by taking 5 wickets in 6 balls. He therefore joins a select few world leaders who have established cricketing records. The others are Sirimavo Bandaranaike and Indira Gandhi, who put on 311 for the ninth wicket, playing for the rest v England at the 1971 commonwealth conference, and Ho Chi Minh, who took 3 catches off successive balls playing at second slip for a Viet Minh select eleven against a show biz team, his catching helping to dismiss Sid James, Dame Peggy Ashcroft and Larry Grayson.
Arafat is alone in being dead at the time that he established the record, but death has never been a bar to international distinction, as any of us who have seen Geoffrey Boycott bat will testify.

At the other end of the intellectual scale, I have heard several football commentators refer to some new player, whose nickname, they never fail to mention, is "the Rifle". This is because he is a good shot. Rifle, shot, geddit? I must also take issue with Radio 5 this afternoon, who apologised for interrupting Stuart Hall. I wish they would apologise to us for broadcasting the outpourings of this complete buffoon, rather than his absence.

While in rant mode, I should let no opportunity go by without berating the dreadful Bob Willis, whose commentaries show no sign of improvement. See my comments about death being no impediment to a career in cricket. This does not apply to commentating.

Finally, I would like to mention a young chap called James Cracknell who criticised Paula Radcliffe a few weeks ago. This is rich from someone who claims to be simultaneously a sportsman and a rower. Rowing cannot be a sport, as it involves sitting down (and, to be fair, waggling your arms a bit). I am expert at sitting down, even if I find very little need to wave my arms about, and am clearly the antithesis of athleticism. Any activity that involves sitting down or standing still (rowing, equestrian activities, motor racing, darts, snooker) are not sports but pastimes. Golf, which involves walking slowly, is marginal. On the subject of walking does anyone remember Dr Barbara Moore, who round about 1960 was famous for long distance walking? She could have been a true British eccentric, although I seem to recall her having a foreign accent. She espoused an early form of what is known as breatharianism, suggesting that humans did not need to eat, but could absorb nutrition from the elements. She did long distance walking to prove that this was possible, and claimed that she could live to 150. On one of her walks, she was knocked down and killed by a car. Proof, were it needed, that God abhors smartarses.

Heartwarming moments

I am happy to recommend tv channel FX289, which I have recently discovered. Apart from the quite delightful "Reno 911", I have just watched a jolly little production during which Penn Jillette referred to President Nixon as "this crazy motherfucker". An apposite description if ever I heard one.
I am puzzled, however, on two counts. Firstly, I think that FX289 is owned by Fox, who I associated with having their corporate noses well inside the recturm of the Bush administration, and being perpetrators of reactionary bullshit. Secondly, I wonder whether these shows* have ever been shown in North America - perhaps my North American readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wisconsin) can inform me about that.
Long may it last. Let us look forward to the day when all citizens of the world can describe their leaders, past and present, as "crazy motherfuckers" without fear of reprisal.
Just off to bolt the door.

* Penn and Teller : Bullshit

Another ripped off post

I was reminded when composing the previous post about some cricket commentary I once heard. Unfortunately, I cannot remember who said it.
"Yousef Youhana, only the 5th Christian to represent Pakistan".
"That's about 4 more than Australia have had".

I suspect that I am hallucinating

Obliged as I am to my friends at the BBC for their fair and accurate reporting of interesting items of news, I have to say that the following story leaves me with more questions than answers.

A man who grappled naked with a policeman who called at his home admitted assault on Tuesday.

Clint Catcheside, 47, of Cambridge, threatened Pc Christian O'Brien with a broom before grabbing him around the throat, Cambridge magistrates heard.

He assaulted the Pc trying to stop his son, Marc, being arrested in August. Catcheside, who also admitted assault with intent to resist arrest, was ordered to carry out 150 hours' community service.

Completely naked

Yetunde Fawehinmi, prosecuting, said Catcheside confronted Pc O'Brien while completely naked then attempted to prevent him from arresting Marc about an alleged breach of bail conditions.

Catcheside said he had been in bed when he was alerted by his son's cries for help.

He said he had "reacted badly" and regretted the episode.

Catcheside was also ordered to pay £50 compensation to Pc O'Brien, who suffered bruising.

• Why do the protagonists have such strange names?
• Has anyone ever come across a Christian policeman before?
• Why does the prosecutor’s name form a perfect anagram of ‘Finite weedy human? And is this significant?
• Where did Mr Catcheside find the broom, having, apparently, been woken up?
• Was it really a broom?
• If it was a broom, and he had it about his person in bed, why?
• Is the offence made more serious by Mr Catcheside being completely naked, rather than, say, naked from the throat down?
• Is this activity symptomatic of residence in Cambridge – it certainly wouldn’t happen in North East Hampshire?