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.