Final Ebenezering of the year

I am going to bed. Please keep the noise down. See the new year in? Bollocks.

My friends at BBC news are pleased to report that women who exercise by doing housework reduce the risk of breast cancer.

For my final competition of the year, can you guess the gender of the researchers?

If you need a clue, it was the same team who earlier in the year found that sitting in a recliner watching soccer was the equivalent of acupressure on the points most associated with arthritis, liver disease and knob-rot.

We should applaud such scientific discoveries and reward these researchers with titles and cash.

So, come along ladies. You missed a bit in the corner. And please bob down if you are walking in front of the television.

E J Thribb is on holiday

While others have been grieving the passing of major show business legends - a major recording artist (Charlie Drake) and a slapstick genius (James Brown), I would like to draw your attention to the passing of Dennis Linde.
Mr Linde was the composer of the Elvis hit "Burning Love", which, as the title suggests with not too much subtlety, was about the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases. Way ahead of his time, and ostracised for being so explicit, he would have perhaps become more famous had Elvis recorded the other song penned at the same time "Stop taking drugs and mainlining hamburgers, you overblown, past-it ball of blubber".
He will be sadly missed.

Post Script, 27th December. Bloody Americans eh? One of our great slapstick comedians dies, and then they have to go and try to cap it.

As you are all well aware, my lookalike is Andie McDowell. I was therefore a little distressed to see on the television this evening that she has taken to advertising products that are concerned with reducing the effects of greying hair. The cynical among you will be of the opinion that she is merely attempting to boost her already extensive fortune. But I have been affected by all of the wonderful messages that have been pouring in here, and have embraced the christmas message.

I telephoned Andie on the videophone (honestly, it is just like talking into a mirror) and told her not to worry. I have not let the aging process affect me, and I still have to fight the women off. She should be more concerned about spreading a little love and happiness than by concern with the transient nature of her appearance.

There are truly lessons out there for all of us to learn

Joy to the world.

I feel that I have been a little harsh on the deep feelings of humanity that are expressed at this time of year, and need to share something very beautiful that I witnessed today, in order to redress what might appear to some to be a balance in this journal that has been thus far loaded in favour of cynicism and ill-humour.

A colleague received an email greeting in Spanish. He parsed it through those nice people at Babelfish, and was delighted to receive the message “A happy christmas and a prosperous new anus.” I filled up. How refreshing that we can share these life-transforming and intimate moments with each other. This is, indeed, the christmas message.

But, let us not stop there. It matters not to me whether your anus is new, old, remodelled, recently decorated or hideously disfigured. Without prejudice, I declare my sincerest wishes that it becomes, or continues to be prosperous.

I recognise that I have strayed from the true path of righteousness, and am now stumbling back towards it. Your warm wishes will help in this quest. Please, however, desist from too much detail about the progress or condition of your anus. Some people, oddly, find it not to their taste (dde). I will return, unopened, any missives with unnecessary detail. This includes length prose or verse, explicit descriptions of any sort, photographs, drawings or etchings and tubes of “Anusol” or “Preparation H”.

My dear friend, MJ, has asked for more T&A on my blog, with pictures. (see previous thread).

That is not difficult, although quite why the need for information about the Bradford Telegraph and Argus is a little intriguing - let's just put it down to the cold Canadian winters.

Here is a picture of a Bingley post office from a recent edition of said organ.

I do love being Santa.

Come and sit on my knee

This evening I sat up later than I intended to fix a problem with my computer.
It was very much a problem created by me: in trying to see whether my printer was malfunctioning due to hardware or software, I installed some old drivers, and buggered up my active desktop.
Brief excursion for the technoplegic. “Active desktop” means having the software on the computer called ‘desktop’ do clever stuff. It does not mean indulging in inappropriate activities on a table.
I found the solution through some nice people on the internet and all is now fixed.
The printer problem was mechanical. It did not malfunction due to my printing my 100 christmas cards. They are very tasteful, and not even the most old fashioned printer would object to them.
Brief excursion for the technoplegic. By printer, I refer to a mechanical/electronic device for producing printed paper, not some old gentleman sitting in the corner of my room with a Caxton machine. He is not a gentleman, and that is not a Caxton machine.
I ordered a new printer from Amazon yesterday. For a small surcharge they guaranteed next day delivery by 1.00 pm. I forgot all about, being involved in some very exciting work, but at around 2.30 a Citylink van parked outside, and a man got out and rummaged around for a few minutes. He then drove away. This did not fool me. I knew that I did not have my printer. I checked on the Amazon site, and noticed that they were still anticipating delivery today. I also noticed that the printer had left Inverkeithing at 2.19 pm. The AA tell me that the journey from Inverkeithing to my house should take 7 hours and 43 minutes. I do not think that I will wait up.
Inverkeithing? (Have you ever inverkeithed, missus?) Just over the Forth Bridge.

Anyway the real purpose of writing this is that my attention was drawn to the Telegraph, who asked several people what they wanted for christmas. (Say what you like about the Torygraph, but I did recognise most of the people who they asked, unlike the sort of people who Betty features on her pages.)

Boris was, of course, on top form. “I would like world peace, piano lessons and my computer printer to stop gibbering in the middle of the night and waking me up.”

I suspect however that his taking piano lessons will not be conducive to world peace. But please note that he refers to his “computer printer” and thereby avoids all of the ambiguity that afflicted me earlier. Perhaps he was referring to a human being though, if his computer printer is sufficiently close to him at night to keep him awake.

So, dear readers, (aMToNW), what would you like for christmas? Be aware that I won’t be buying it for you.

You will all be pleased to hear that the annual time of great stress for me has passed, and I have produced the 2006 christmas card
As usual, it is of the highest standard, and best possible taste, and is available to any of you brave enough to email me your postal address.
If you email me your postal address, I will not be turning up at christmas, as I am aware that my gentle drug-free, vegetarian lifestyle is difficult to accommodate amongst omnivores, drunks, rebelrousers and practitioners of the art of dissipation.
Mrs S and I will, however, turn up for a summer vacation of not more than 12 weeks. We will give you several hours warning prior to arrival - plenty of time for you to get to the airport to pick us up.
I am going to rest now; tomorrow I shall start fretting about next year's card.

Ho Ho Horseshit

A few random observations for the weekend, which is when no bugger reads the blogs, so I am not making much effort.

Tonight on the wonderful “Have I Got News For You”, with the new James Bond, Boris Johnson, there was much speculation about whether the British royal family were responsible for the death of Dianna. Immediately following the programme, there was a trailer for “Newsnight” in which Dermot Murnaghan said “Tonight we bring you the latest news in the search for the Ipswich serial killer. We have an interview with George Clooney”. It may be all very well teasing prince Philip about underhand and criminal dealings, as he is well known for his sense of humour, but to implicate a Hollywood Megastar in a seedy and sordid crime is entirely a different matter. If anyone reading this is in contact with Mr Clooney, please advise him to get an alibi for the last couple of weeks.

Today while working I chose to have Classic FM TV on in the background to help the cerebral processes. They have some jolly tunes, and occasionally some nice videos to accompany them, but tend towards a plethora of pert choirboys which does not really appeal to me, but, as I say, they have some nice tunes. Except at this time of year. Just when I was looking forward to a couple of hours of pleasant music from Bach, Beethoven and Berlioz, they introduce Bing. Yes, Bing Bollocky Crosby singing about dreaming of a white bollocky christmas. There is just no escape from it. Thank heavens none of you have the poor taste to extol the virtues of this most dire of festivals. There was one blog where the author was asking about the three christmas songs that you hate. Three? Bollocky three? I hate the whole bollocky lot. And don’t send your spotty adolescent sons and daughters round to my house singing about bollocky herald angels, unless you want them returned to you in a box of mince tarts.

Which brings me back to my old friend Nasser Bollocky Hussain. He uses the phrase “he plays his cricket”, for example “he plays his cricket in Durham”. Well who else’s cricket would he play, you prize buffoon? I just wish someone else had played your cricket for you, then we would not have been subjected to over ten bollocky years of Gooch, Atherton, Stewart and Hussain playing for and captaining the England team through the most turgid and unwatchable cricket in living memory. Bollocks.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 14

As I have mentioned before this time of year is particularly tiresome as I am inundated with invitations to spend Christmas at Sandringham.

One year, to get away from it all, I actually spent the holiday season at Windsor Castle. It was a tad inconvenient, but at least the telephone was not ringing every five minutes. They did not think of looking for me there. (That reminds me, did I remember to switch off the electric blanket?).

Ever since Caroline of Ansbach beat George II at Scrabble and thereby indirectly caused the battle of Dettingen, it has been seen to be necessary for members of the royal family to be married to those less intellectually endowed than themselves. As generations of British idiots have been selected as hide-the-sausage partners for the royal house, there has been a diminution of mental prowess in succeeding generations, thereby making the “find a thicky” quest all the more difficult.

We should therefore congratulate prince Philip, whose task it has been to oversee the selection of prize fruitcakes as suitable mates for his offspring. In two cases (so far) he has had to go through the process twice.

Diana sometimes suspected that she was being made fun of, and would sulk, on one occasion Philip sent her to the kitchen for a “long weight”. That sort of thing. Philip is not so pleased with Camilla, because she thinks that everything that happens is a jape anyway, and guffaws like a herniated gibbon even when she is the butt of the joke. They had to drug her, apparently, to get her through the wedding without screeching. She was convinced that the ABofC was, in fact, Jeremy Beadle.

Duchess Fergie was a godsend. They had almost given up finding anyone more stupid than Andrew, but the British aristocracy can always be relied upon. It will be much more difficult should they try to find another for him. I am afraid they will have to follow the William route and go down-market. If anyone knows of a grade A airhead in need of a few bob, who wouldn’t mind putting up with a throwback for a husband, and could open a couple of playschools in Denbighshire each year, at a push, then let me know, and I will put the name forward.

Sophie Wessex and Dim Tim are quite unremarkable. They can sit for hours staring into space, and seem quite happy doing it. Philip has been known to use Admiral Laurence as a hat-stand. The poor chap doesn’t mind, but is not quite up to the job. Hats fall off whenever anyone walks past, because Tim salutes them.

But it was in the selection of the first partner that Philip excelled himself. Auberon Waugh used to say, and who are we to argue, that if you whistled, Mark Phillips would wet himself. I have never seen evidence of that. There is a rumour that his family were thinking of having him melted down and used as fertiliser, but he was saved that fate, and instead married to Anne. Phillips could trace his ancestry back, after only three generations, to a sheep named Trevor. Well, when I say he could trace his ancestry, that is a little unfair, he had to have someone do it for him. Philip was delighted with his choice, and never tired of making fun of Mark. Insisting on serving lamb for dinner was a game that he never tired of, and would repeatedly ask the boy about his family until the plates were empty.

I was with Phil and Liz as they watched the culmination of all of this at the weekend as dear Zara was presented with the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. I have never seen Philip laugh so much, apart from, perhaps, that unfortunate incident with the queen mother and the fishbone. Liz kept up a commentary throughout. She had been amused by an article in the Telegraph a couple of weeks ago that referred to the ‘estuarisation’ of her accent. She can, of course, mimic almost anyone, and was in her element with Zara. (After the programme finished, she fished the speech from the latest opening of parliament out of her handbag, and rendered it into Zaraese; “My government are like, wow, amazing, yeah – we are toadally going to revise the immigration quota. I am all ‘Yeah, who wants any more freeloading Greeks, innit?’” and so forth).

So hats off to Zara. There has been a long line of inarticulate buffoons on this particular programme – Paul Gascoigne, Terry Downes, Ian Botham and Lester Piggott (whose speech impediment allowed him to tell a particularly disgusting tale about dame Kiri te Kanawa, without anyone having the least idea what he was saying) to select but a few, but our Zara outdimmed them all. Amazing. I was like “Wow, she should get her own series”.

The State I'm In

For those of you wondering how to escape the usual dire yule crap on the television this year, you could do much worse than see the splendid BBC production “The State Within”. Those of you expecting this to be a series about self discovery will be the only ones disappointed. It is a jolly entertaining thriller, with a lovely ending. A couple of points about it:

• It has a rather unnecessary, as far as I can judge, sub-plot about a romantic liaison between the head of British Intelligence in the US and the American under secretary for defence. Although they call it defense. I would just like to assure readers who are considering a career in the British secret service that homosexuality is no longer compulsory, nor seen as in any way advantageous. In my day it was different, of course. At my interview I was asked some very pointed questions, and the aptitude test involved picking a colour scheme for a bedroom. I made my excuses and chose a career as a quiz show host instead. There is more than one way to serve your country. I suppose they added this story so that the series had “something for everyone”, but if so they failed – I found no reference to nor footage of the record stand between Tom Graveney and Peter May at Birmingham in 1957.
• It starred someone who was either Cagney or Lacey. (These are the names of characters in a television series, not adjectives). Anyone who might have seen that series (and you can see that I didn’t) might find it a little off-putting. It would be the equivalent of one of the actors in “The Professionals” taking the part of a high court judge. Actors should stick at what they are good at. Look at Ronald Reagan.

The other series that I have been watching that concludes tonight is “Into the West”. I am not so sure about this one. The thing is that I do not believe that native Americans speak in the manner in which they always appear to do in movies and tv series. The characterisation has hardly progressed since Tonto first got butt fucked by Kemo Sabe. (That was an unnecessary reference wasn’t it?). I also do not believe that they were any more imbued with natural wisdom or in tune with the universe than anyone else. They certainly had a hard time of it, being on the receiving end of the bad attitudes that were taken to the New World by social rejects from Europe. (How am I doing so far? Anyone who has not taken offence yet should send me an email and I will include a customised insult in my next posting, you twat). I have never (as far as I know) met a native American. There is one who occasionally visits here. What do they talk like when they are not being filmed for television? John Gielgud? Jed Clampett? Cary Grant? Don Corleone? Beryl Reid? I think we should be told.

Please go and visit Adam. He is very lonely over at his blog. He tries very hard. I think it behoves us all to lend our support to one of the few Republicans who can actually write. And, yes, I know that he can’t spell and his ramblings lean towards the incoherent, but I have to confess a great fondness for the lad. I see him as the disinherited son that I never had.
This week, he has a missing word competition on his site. It is great fun. FFE will be particularly distracted by it.

No word from Alsace

When my old chums Theodore and Evadne Google decided to offer an email service, they contacted me so that I was able to get an email address that was my own name (and I mean the less well known name that I use to conduct my business in the alternative universe, not the witty sobriquet by which you know me), without any fancy characters, or, as in the case of my hotmail account, appending the number “69”. (How I laughed about that one).
I am ever grateful to them for this. One of the downsides of this is that I get a disproportionate amount of junk mail, but Evadne kindly sifts through it every morning before she waters the pelargonium, so I am only left with the cream, as it were.
It appears that there are other people in the world who share my name. None of them, it is barely necessary to mention, share my charms, but some of them have interesting lives. Others assume that the gmail address of these people must be the one that I reserved, and this has led to some bizarre correspondence over the months.
I had a very pleasant correspondence with a dyslexic estate agent who was keen that I buy some property in Texas. I soon became bored with that.
I then had a brief correspondence with a young man of French descent who was keen that I attend his parties. I am ashamed to say I was rude to him, as I thought for a time he was a spammer. I did not go to any of the parties, and so have nothing to report.
Today, however, things started to look up. A young lady, who I shall only refer to as Lorraine, sent me the following:

(it was headed: “Nigeria & Shakleton´s voyage..”)

Folks,

I didn´t lose the email addresses nor did I forget to send the email as requested...see..I can learn from my mistakes!

Boyos..hope you both have a wonderful time in BRAZIL...let me know if you have any interesting stories to tell..

take care and safe travels,
Thank you for an entertaining few days in Patagonia..

Lorraine xxx

I replied immediately:

Lorraine.
How delightful to hear from you.
I am so pleased that you did not lose the email addresses.
My time in Brazil must remain a secret due to international security concerns, but one day I may be able to tell the story. Next time we meet I will be able to tell you a little about it.
I am disappointed that you view the days in Patagonia as only entertaining. In my mind they are amongst the most enervating and erotic in my long and event-filled life.
Did I ever tell you the story about my night in Casablanca with the boy who was later to become Pope John Paul II?
Who are you?
love, peace and coloured orgasms.

I welcome your comments. I am particularly intrigued by Shackleton’s voyage to Nigeria. It is little wonder that he failed to reach the South Pole. I thought that educational standards were somewhat higher in those days, but it appears that dear old Ernie, were he alive today, could expect little more than an A++ GCSE in geography.

Here's to Old Friends.

Thanks to those nice folk at Friends Reunited, (despite what dear Richard says, they are very nice), I had a reply from someone with whom I shared my very brief college career.
Her message contained the quaint phrase:
"of course i remember you and the tin of Andrews liver salts you bought me for m 19th. birthday. "
Well, it made me smile. I really don't remember doing that.

Just for the ladies

OK, it is nearly the weekend, so as no bugger is reading, I can get away with a sports post.


1) The buggers picked Giles and left Panesar out. Skip the next couple of lines if you are of a delicate disposition.
Buggery bollocks. Fucking shit sucking camel shagging goat molesting arse mining third rate wankers.
I hope Australia win by an innings and 450.

2) Let us take a moment to reflect on the contributions to human joy of Ferenc Puskas who died last weekend. My earliest memory of watching a match on TV was the 1960 European Cup Final. The memory has been blurred by seeing highlights many times since, and I was certainly too young to realise just how spectacular that Real Madrid team was. Before Pele came along (and by 1960 he had only just begun to come along) either Alfredo di Stefano or Ferenc Puskas was the best player in the world (should that be ‘were’, FFE? Oh, sorry I forgot, you are no longer qualified to correct me) and they both played for the same team. There have been a handful of players since who were in their class, but, Pele aside, none who could be proved to be better. If you have never seen them, then my assertion would be that di Stefano was like Thierry Henry, but even better, and Puskas was as exciting to watch as Bobby Charlton, but even better. If you watch the 1960 match you will wonder how anyone ever managed to stop Puskas. It seemed as if he would get the ball somewhere near halfway, power past two or three defenders and shoot from anywhere from 10 yards to 35 yards out, and the shot would be unstoppable. It is possible that if he were playing for Chelsea now then my image would be entirely different; I prefer my memories.

3) Er ….

4) That’s it.

Some more practical help

On the television (you know, Pamela, that friendly shiny box in the corner of the room, that drowns out the sounds of the whining and droning of the people you live with, and generally makes existence tolerable) just now, on the BBC news, a judge, who for some reason was the subject of a news item said the following (now pay careful attention please):


“You don’t practise as a solicitor in Scunthorpe for 20 years without being in touch with reality”.


Before I discuss the implications of this let me help those of my readers from foreign parts (A Mrs Trellis of North Wuhan) by giving you some information about:

• Solicitors. Solicitors are lawyers. They are not necessarily those who solicit for sex on the city streets, but it would be inaccurate to say that the two professions had clear boundaries.
• Scunthorpe. Scunthorpe is an obscure town in Lincolnshire famous only for being banned as a domain name on the web, and for having a very ordinary football team that nevertheless provided three England captains.

So there is the ultimate secret of the path to liberation revealed. Who would have thought of that one? I am not sure whether conveyancing in Lincolnshire is more or less difficult than sitting naked in a Himalayan cave, but for the former we have the testimony (of a judge, no less) to its efficacy. So for those seekers of truth out there, the path is now illuminated. All you need is a law degree and the wherewithal to withstand the cruel winters in the east of England. Buy a home in Scunthorpe (motto “It’s close to Cleethorpes”) and simply wait for enlightenment.



I am off to produce some best sellers.

A Search in Secret Humberside.

Meetings with remarkable barristers.

The Bhagavad Grimsby.

The Tibetan Book of the Tort.

He's back, snarling and pouring bile.

My new friend, Kill them with Kindness, has written about being involved in the perfect wedding.
Here is my plan for a wedding. I will not charge you for the ideas.
Option 1. Don't have it. Just live together.
Option 2. Get it done as quickly and cheaply as possible. It should not take more than 30 minutes plus traveling time, cost less than £50, and involve no more than 4 guests. I will never be one of the guests.
There, you have saved people hours of pointless time, money and stress. Thousands of men all over the world will be grateful by not having their weekend sports viewing interrupted by some ghastly and obscene spectacle involving daft tarts in silly hats, listening to the ramblings of some twat you don’t know talk bollocks, seeing some hideous crone dressed like an extra in a very perverse porno movie being referred to as “the beautiful bride” and attempting to digest inedible, badly prepared food in an atmosphere loaded with tobacco, alcohol and cheap scent.

Thank you for that, I can feel the Christmas spirit coming up on me already.

Your assignment

I have a friend (and I know that my definition may not concur with yours, and please don't rest under the misapprehension that comments about my lack of social contacts constitute wit), who, in company with his dear wife is traveling around the world on public transport.
He has gone through Europe, Russia, Mongolia and China and is now somewhere in South East Asia. He is keeping a journal of these journeys (well worth a read in their own right) on his myspace site.
As far as I am aware he does not often read this blog. So, if you have five minutes, go over there, please do not mention that I sent you, and post some helpful advice on his blog. You will need a myspace account for this, but it is free and relatively painless to obtain, and then you will be up to date with what all the young people are doing. You will, should you care to linger there a while, notice that I have shared some of my wisdom with him in his adventure. Please make your entries as bizarre as you can. Prizes for the best entry will not be awarded.

Have you been on your holidays this year, sir?

I am pleased to note that my absence has neither affected the number of visitors nor the silliness of the comments.

I was surprised to learn that my absence from matters internetorial did not cause me any distress. I was beginning to think that I might have the beginnings of an addiction.

The other day on dear old radio 5, they were discussing the circumstances of the apprehension of Britain’s latest terrorist. (You can tell he is British, he failed abysmally to even get his neighbours to tell him to turning the fucking television down, let alone perpetrating atrocities. He must be the single most ineffective terrorist on the planet. It seems harsh to give him 40 years just for incompetence. I shall discuss this matter with some of my robed friends next time I call in at the Old Bailey).

The Radio 5 reporter said “He was arrested while he was at the barber’s, having his hair cut by armed police officers.” This caused a great deal of merriment among the listening public – yes, I was not the only one to notice it. However, during my listening period, I did not hear a satisfactory explanation.

Readers from overseas (a Mrs Trellis of North Warsaw) will need some illumination about the nature of Radio 5 and the traits of its listeners. Well, tough. I pay a licence fee each year to benefit from the wisdom of the BBC, why should you get it for free?

So, this hair cutting business. Mr Blair’s very effective terrorist prevention policy (item 1, he wears a jacket with the legend “Hey, look, I’m a nice guy, please don’t blow me up, or stick a turnip up my arse” on the back) is geared towards reducing the threats these people pose by ridiculing them. The gentleman in question was having his hair styled in the form of a comb-over at the time of his arrest, thereby rendering him ineffective as a symbol of militant Islam. If you are in Britain, particularly in one of the major cities, and you see a person with a particularly silly haircut, you can safely point him out as an ex-member of al-Qaeda. For the benefits of those not privy to this policy make sure that you create a scene and inform as many other passers-by as you can. Be wary of this outside the main cities. In places, the wearing of what would be regarded elsewhere as preposterous tonsorial effects is not uncommon among the less well informed; I refer you to the photograph on Tom’s page as an example. When Mr bin Laden is brought to book, the first act of punishment will be to fashion his beard into the shape of a shrivelled penis. Never let it be said that the Brits are not on the frontline in the war against fascism.

Glacial Arab pastures

I am very grateful to those nice folk at world history day for including my little essay in its entirety. As far as I can see I am the only person among the many thousands of people whose work has been displayed, who wrote about turnips up arses. This may, or may not, give future generations a distorted idea of the importance of the role played by root vegetables vis-a-vis the sphincter in the early years of the 21^st century. I am not afraid to be in the vanguard of this cause. According to Theodore and Evadne Google, I am the only source of information on the subject “turnips up their arses” on the whole of the internet. In the more general field of turnips up the arse, I come a modest second. Had it not been for dear old Frontier Editor introducing the radish (and I use the word ‘introduce’ with a certain sense of ambiguity) I may have attained my rightful first place. So, despite the world conspiring against me these two weeks, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

Pavlov. Are you back?

(The heading is an anagram)

I'll be there while I come back, tha knows.

As I have been nagged, virtually to death, by my readers (AMToNW) to resume my pepysalogical activies, I have given in and put aside my raging pustules, erupting sores and general debility to satisfy the yearnings of the less fortunate.

Whenever I announce that I am going somewhere, the curious among you all develop an unnatural desire to know why, and what I will be doing there. By curious I mean nosey, inquisitive, in possession of an aspidistra face or having too little happening in their own lives. Although the other widely used meaning of curious is equally apposite in most cases.

I am going to Yorkshire. I am going to a part of Yorkshire close to the city that was recently reported to be the worst place to live in the UK.

What I shall be doing, and why, is none of your business. I will not tell you. Keep your nose out. (I have the strange sensation that I am writing this entirely for the benefit of Pamela).

For those of you unfortunate enough to live overseas, I should perhaps tell you a few things about Yorkshire.

The late Auberon Waugh suggested that the term “Yorkshire Ripper” was tautological, and thereafter referred to said gentleman as “The Yorkshire”.

Actually, that is probably enough.

People keep pestering me to update, but honestly, darling, I'm not up to it.
So here is a link in the hope that you will be amused.
Please make up your own jokes and keep this blog going for another day or two.


On a related note, I was in my office today, when I heard an altercation between some motorists outside. One of them yelled "Hey, arsehole!". My lovely young assistant responded by saying "He's in here". Such a nice boy.

PS. Scaryduck is in spectacular form today.

Mr Scurra is unwell

Not that I am going to apologise for the lack of updates.
Here is something to amuse you until I can summon the enthusiasm to post something original.

Sports news

My views on any activity that involves sitting down not being a real sport are already widely known, so I will not bore you further with that, but I was a little surprised to read that the formula one car racing championship will be decided this weekend at the Brazilian Grand Prix.
It seems very unfair that the deciding race should be staged on a circuit with a small tuft of foliage down the centre of the track.

As Mr Tomkinson doubled up in pain, the queen pointed out that the next time that he mentioned that she looked like princess Michael of Kent, it would be his nuts that got squeezed.

And she would stick a turnip up his arse.

And now for something completely different

The ‘One Day in History’ campaign has an interesting little project:

'One Day in History' is a one off opportunity for you to join in a mass blog for the national record. We want as many people as possible to record a 'blog' diary which will be stored by the British Library as a historical record of our national life.

Write your diary reflecting on how history itself impacted on your day - whether it just (sic) commuting through an historic environment, discussing family history or watching repeats on TV.

Hopefully, if you join in with this project you will construct your entry without the lack of attention to detail as demonstrated above.

I have been tempted throughout the day to post something subtly facetious and submit it, in order to mislead future generations. A conversation with Liz where she contemplated handing over the throne to Terry Wogan. Or perhaps a discussion on the campaign to build a space docking station on the village green.

Instead, I will be cheating by diverting from my usual nonsense and posting something for posterity that will make bugger all difference - but if we don’t try then we have no defence for our cynicism.

91 years ago this week, my uncle was killed in a totally senseless, I mean even more senseless than the average senseless, military action. He was barely twenty years old. He and countless other ill-prepared and naïve young men were sent over the top in a futile and virtually impossible attempt to dislodge some opposing troops from a heavily fortified position on higher ground. They ran across some mud, and were killed by machine gun fire. This week they opened a new memorial to the men who died at that time.

He is also commemorated on a monument in Loos, France, together with over 20,000 other dead young men.

91 years later we are still sending our young men to be killed in senseless wars. (Nearly all wars are totally senseless, some of them more senseless than others). The only thing we have learned is how to kill people more efficiently, but have sacrificed any notion of discrimination in doing so.

If you are reading this, you will be aware that there is nothing original in the content and sentiments. Indeed, I suspect that what I am writing could be written, albeit more lucidly, by most of the regular readers of this little outpost of insanity. The point is that the families of those killed in the Great War would have had no way of understanding why grief had been inflicted upon them. Today, in the wars around the world, there is the same bewilderment about why men are sent around the world to kill and be killed for no purpose. There are those who profess to justify and promote war, just as there always have been. If you are reading this in the year 2742, then they will probably still be among you. I am with the bewildered. I hope you are too.

Next time on this journal, we will return to the topics of men with turnips up their arses, or some major breakthrough by physicists to do with the nature of existence that is of no moment to anyone, or a detailed explanation by me of some facet of history, religion or literature.

Harry Phillips 1895 - 13Oct1915

I have sent the following query to Sky Movies. There will be no prizes other than my sincere affection for the one who mostly closely replicates the response.

I notice that Sky Movies is screening the film "Fantastic Four". I have not yet seen "Fantastic", "Fantastic Two" or "Fantastic Three". Do you have any plans to show these in the near future?

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

Many of you will have noticed that Adam is back with a new blog.
It is called best of the internet, which may be a little premature.
So far, only Frontier Editor has joined in the Adam beating on my pages, and you may have thought that he did such a good job of it that your contributions weren't required.
I would, however, urge you all to visit Adam's site and give him some moral support. It takes tremendous courage to venture into the world of literate communication when there are so many factors acting to make that difficult.
So far, apart from me, he has had only one other commenter. He scared her away by correcting her spelling.
He has now published a little article pouring scorn on myspace, which is where people of his age typically hang out on the internet.
I am thinking of advertising for him on Google. Something along the lines of "Lonely young man, not too much to look at, but trying hard, needs to get laid, and could do with a couple of weeks of unrelenting drug fueled debauchery. Please enclose photograph of drugs". What do you think?

Thank you again, Theodore and Evadne

Another in the series of answers to those finding their way here via search engines.

she touched his stiffy illustrated

I am not familiar with this particular journal. It is not one for which I hold a current subscription, and therefore these comments are not as informed as they might be. My first impressions, however, are that it would appear to have a very limited subject matter, and would scarcely merit commercial success. I say this without any attempt to be judgemental. If any of you have a copy and wish to post extracted illustrations, then I will do my best to pass on the information.

buggery

Someone from the Emerald Isle asked about this. It is difficult to know how to respond, given the very brief question. Again, alas, I have to profess little or no expertise or experience in this art. If forced to opine, I would recommend against it, but if that is how you care to spend your Thursday evenings, then I have no objection. Perhaps you ought to get an instruction manual. Living in Ireland, your local priest will probably give you a few pointers.

bollock pain

Amazingly, another topic about which I have little knowledge. Try to solicit the help of a nice young lady with stiletto heels, or buy a crowbar or staple gun.

gertrude shilling hats

I do not know of any milliner with stock as inexpensive as those you are looking for. Even if you were to be successful in your quest, then I suspect that the quality of said item might be less than satisfactory.

did any good come of the cultural revolution?

Yes

Llewellyn journal crochet patterns

Now we are talking. Unfortunately, I am under legal obligation not to reveal the hideous and ancient secret that lies at the heart of this topic.

bum willy

Stop being silly.

disturbed how you feel to customers

I suggest that you desist from the habit of intimate relations with your clients. It exceeds the limits of your contract of employment and will get you into very hot water.

is there a isle called scarra in Scotland

There may be “an” isle of such nomenclature in the Pictish regions, but until you learn correct usage, I will be forced to decline to assist your enquiries. Was that you, Adam?

"vinegar processing"

Yes, I know all about it, what do you want to know?

edward III hobbies

He was a collector of thimbles and had an interest in the geology of Northumbria. His favourite pastime was cooking brussel sprouts – he had over 3 different recipes. He also gave silly names to his children.

• As I have mentioned before, the Black Prince was not black, and is remembered mainly for the first rock concert.
• Lionel of Antwerp was actually named after his place of birth and after Lionel Blair, star of “Give us a Clue”. Who can forget his attempt to do “Three Men in a Boat”?
• John of Gaunt – had a ghostly demeanour when born, but hardly grounds for labelling him with such a grim identity for the whole of his life. No wonder that he was a tad moody.
• Edmund of Langley – also named after his place of birth – Bury St Edmunds.
• Thomas of Woodstock – pretender to be the founder of the rock festival.
• There were eight other children who did not (that’s enough Plantagenets, Ed.).

Another post, worth Waiteing for (geddit?)

Mr Terry Waite, a man so annoying that his boss sent him away to be kidnapped for five years rather than put up with his babbling, features in an article in the torygraph today where he says that he prefers the quiet contemplation of a Quaker meeting to an Anglican service.

He objects to all the standing up and sitting down, and the attempts of modern clergy to modernise the message. I am reliably informed that in almost all Anglican churches, the service has not changed at all in 400 years. It is only when the grinning bulk of Waite is seen approaching that the authorities devise some improvised nonsense in order to discourage his attendance.

It has long been the unwritten policy of the c of e to drive away unwanted members of the congregation, and this explains the wide variety of different sects that exist within the protestant church in this country.

John Wesley had the unfortunate habit of breaking wind violently at his church of St Elton’s in Oxford, and because his fellow worshippers recognised that he was a bit of a gloomy sod, took to singing bawdy songs in place of hymns. Thus was Methodism born.

The founding members of the Salvation Army were a disparate bunch of tone-deaf worshippers, whose raucous and ear-splitting rendition of hymns ancient and modern caused their friends and family to devise a plan whereby the roof sprang a leak whenever music was called for. The music of the early Salvationists was so appalling that even their own congregation could not stand it, hence the tradition of taking the noise outside and irritating the shit out of everyone else.

The founding of most sects and religions can be seen to have underlying causes of a similar nature. The Egyptians got so pissed off with Moses, that they affected to let him ‘escape’, armed with a joke map of the area east of the Nile.

Anyway, that’s enough historical information for one day. I trust you have all benefited from it.

It’s the bloody Quakers I feel sorry for. Sitting for an hour or so on those bloody benches, praying fervently that you won’t be cornered by that Waite fellow after the meeting. What a way to spend a Sunday morning. Pacifism has its price.

I do not usually do requests, but my dear friend Frontier Editor has pressed me, and it would be churlish to refuse.

Astute readers (oxymoron?) will have noticed that Jack Straw is the latest politician to have attracted ire by making inconsequential remarks. This is the way of politics in this country now, they have no position, no policy and nothing of any substance to say, and so the media have to try to scratch among their obscure writings to find something that can be blown up into something sensational. Bollocks.

Mr Straw was a mildly radical student leader in the 1960s. He held a vaguely libertarian and leftish position, although not many took much notice. He is now one of the most authoritarian and idiotic former holders of the office of home secretary, which is a great achievement considering some of the morons who preceded him.

Mr Straw has said that when he meets constituents, if they are Moslem women and wearing a veil, he asks them if they would mind removing it, as he feels that enhances his ability to communicate.

Let me add this to the debate. I would make a similar request to Mr Straw should the situation arise whereby our paths crossed. Before I began to engage him in a rational and frank discussion, I would ask, politely, “Why don’t you fuck off, you deranged tory shitsucking fuckwit?”

Will this do?

In an exciting new development, scientists have discovered some planets that orbit their sun in between 1 and 4 days.

I am obliged to my friends at BBC News for this information.

I have been waiting some time for someone to do something about the tardy trajectory of our home planet. For those of us living in the non central parts of the planet it means that we have to endure at least six months of cold weather, or about 45 John Motson football commentaries. In an age where we are capable of cosseting ourselves in comfort, it is clearly unacceptable that we should be dependent on something as random as some ill-conceived laws of ‘physics’ in order to feel warm and enjoy some fresh air. I have scoured the agenda of the conferences of our leading political parties, and neither of them has anything to say about speeding up a bit. I am tired of having to wait from August to May to find that Chelsea have won the championship again, and that my teams in the Telegraph fantasy league have failed to excite.

This is not all. If we lived on these planets, and assuming some pompous Newton did not foul things up with their silly laws, our life expectancy would be about 7000 years. At 55, I would be just beginning my education with the happy years of puberty to look forward to, and the prospect of all of the exciting activities of teenage ahead of me. There would not be just 8 summers of teenage, but 800. Admittedly, they would be somewhat shorter, but the six weeks school holidays did tend to drag a bit.

I shall be following the Liberal Democrat conference with more than normal interest to see what they have to offer in the light of this news. Come on, Charlie Mingus, my vote is within your grasp.

Golgafrincham again

As the end of day approaches, and a fairly dull day at that, I have just been cheered up immensely by the news that my nephew has failed his first accountancy class.

(If you are a Brit like me, the concept and implications of “failing a first class” are not at all clear. It seems to be just one constituent of the course, but who gives a crap?)

I told him how proud I was. It seems that I have been spared the embarrassment of having an accountant in my family. I could always plead the case of his not being a blood relative, but the shame would be with me. I told him the old one about the definition of total waste being a bus full of accountants going over a cliff. With two empty seats. I also told him to buy his accountancy tutor a bus ticket.

I will be back with a new series in the Autumn

I am going to be away for a few days, and felt that it behoved me to select a few carefully chosen words to last you until my return.

engendered
marsupial
preposition
corrosion
thorax
trombone
strolling
pinch
Maudling

No surprise really

My very good friend Realdoc has this exciting link on her page about which ‘celebrity’ resembles you.

Before you read any further (this is addressed to the resilient, hard of understanding core of persistent visitors who have not already stopped), go over to her site and commend her for the high standards, and leave a comment about my being a thieving bastard.

My list came up with loads of people who don't look like me but wear the same style of spectacles. The only spectacle-free match was Andie McDowell.

I have never been so happy.

I am leaving now to visit House of Fraser to enhance my wardrobe. Do you think that this style suits me?

I am also going to have a good feel around next time I have a shower. It may be some time before you hear from me again. Well, let me modify that. I may be too preoccupied to write on this blog for the foreseeable future, but if you live in the vicinity of north east Hampshire, then you may hear low moans of ecstasy.

I am a little concerned, however, that I may attract the unwanted attentions of Hugh Grant. Do any of you have any advice as to how to get rid of this man?

I am relieved and a little surprised to learn from my friends at the BBC that Lulu is now president of Brazil. I thought I had not seen her hanging around outside my house for some time. I always felt that she had more to offer the world than being a mediocre singer with big tits, and is nice to see that she has made some effort to change career. It gives hope to us all. I am tempted to reconsider my decision not to play competitive soccer for Denmark. They are in need of a good attacking central midfielder, and it might be seen as selfish for me not to make myself available. There are just so many things to do.

Anyway, I sent Lulu an email of congratulation. I am still puzzled. She could barely speak English, let alone Portuguese. On further reading of the news item, I am somewhat alarmed to learn that she is involved in some sort of scandal. This is a great shame, as her reputation is high, and if anyone can claim that after being married to one of the Bee Gees, then they must be very resilient.

I am wondering if similar career paths have tempted other former friends. Does anyone hear from Mick of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich? Am I alone in thinking that the new pope is the spitting image of Helen Shapiro? And has anyone seen David Cameron and Alison Moyet together in the same place?

As I have commented elsewhere, loading videos from youtube has the effect of slowing down the loading, so you people will have to do the work yourselves.

As I have mentioned before, I have a strange weakness when it comes to reading detective stories/thrillers/I dunno which genre adequately describes them. I find this odd, given my lifelong support of non-violence (I would not wish you to test me on this by putting me in a room with a baseball bat and Thatcher or Bush) and my exemplary, law-abiding behaviour.

I am similarly drawn to the same type of TV program, but less often satisfied by the result. Over here in the UK at the moment we have a fair few to choose from. An alarming preponderance of utter crap they are too.

The best thing I have seen recently was the 3 part ‘Murphy’s Law’. They have run out of plots from the original books (I trust you all have at least a passing knowledge of the splendid works of Colin Bateman). The latest story was set mostly in Leicester, although none of the filming took place there. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama, but Mr Nesbit is not without talent, and pretty much ideal for this role.

ITV are showing ‘Rebus’. There are plenty of stories from the books to pinch the plots from, although the books are necessarily more intricate than the films. This is inevitable when you take a 300 page novel down to about 70 minutes of film. What I don’t understand is why they don’t make the episodes spread over two or three weeks and make a better job of it. It is not as if there is a great deal else to replace it with. The main character is played by Ken Stott. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. More amusing is his assistant, Sergeant Gormless. She is required to adopt the look that is worn by soap actresses when the closing credits begin, on a regular basis. You know you are getting old when the policemen start to look that stupid.

When I was in America, my niece’s husband was raving about a series called “MI5”. Apparently, the inhabitants of the former colony are too dim to understand the term “Spooks” and would be wondering when Bill Murray was coming in with his gun. I can’t quite take the melodrama in Spooks seriously. This week’s episode featured Robert Glenister. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. I am sure that Spooks is aimed at the gay audience. Or some other group whose perspective I do not share.

Continuing to go downhill rapidly is Dalziel and Thicky. I have never read the books. It stars Warren Clarke. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. Mr Clarke is a splendid actor who appears in any drivel offered to him. The standard of writing in this series is truly awful, combined with crappy acting and the awful device of explaining background data by means of contrived dialogue between the characters, as you know, Mr Hardacre.

Even worse is the Linley mysteries. The mystery is why they bother. Ace detective fails to detect killer before 3 others are butchered, as in Morse. This series stars Nathaniel Parker. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. The books are almost as bad, but quite well written. If you can overcome the awful conceit of having a member of the house of lords serving as a detective inspector at Scotland Yard, that is. For fuck’s sake.

Generally speaking, I prefer American writing and cop series. No, not ‘Murder she wrote’, you utter twat.

At some stage, they will film the novels of Stephen Booth. His hero is neither a social misfit, nor does he have special powers, or a double life as a transsexual Olympic gymnast. Give them a try. (The books, you complete arse, not transsexual Olympic gymnasts [although if that is your bag, so be it]).

Now that you have read all that, you will not have to bother with watching TV for the next 6 weeks, and can concentrate on blogging instead.

A call to arms

My good friend John O’Farrell at the BBC has composed a quaint little essay deploring the lack of humour on websites, specifically British ones. I am glad that he made that distinction. I laugh myself silly each day at the journals from the Mariana Islands.

I have sent a response, but do not expect the commies over there to publish it, reminding him that the world is in a serious predicament, and it ill behoves us to make light of this by resorting to attempts at humour.

I know that I can rely upon all of my readers (aMToNW) to support this stance by continuing to produce the humourless and boring drivel to which I have become accustomed as I peruse your product (almost) every day.

Now is the time to stand firm. Let us have more crochet patterns and discourses on the state of Welsh volleyball. I cannot bear to think that future generations, should our species survive, will view us as anything but upright and sober in our attempts to forge a new and safe world.

If I find anyone breeching the terms of this directive, then the full force of my ire will be unleashed.

So, Steve Irwin walks into a barb…

Today is the birthday of our dear friend Dave. Pretty, vivacious and charismatic, he never fails to charm us. Let's all go over there and have some cake (make mine vegan and organic please).

Here is what I have already wished him:

According to my friends at the BBC, you share your birthday with the Sun 'newspaper'.

Being forever associated with an organ for the production of virulent and dubious stories, with poor writing style and the absence of morality must be a great source of embarrassment. But I spoke to Rupert this morning, and he said he could put up with it.

Dear sweet Zoe, by coincidence is also celebrating having a twat for five years. Go and read her lovely little story. Am I alone in being reminded of Barbara Cartland when I absorb her words?

Are there any more anniversaries today? Have any of you any poignant moments to share? Is the 40th anniversary of your being laughed at in the showers at school? Have any of you been constipated for a year, or 2, or 3? How many days is it since you stopped poncing about on the internet and had a proper conversation?

And as a further anniversary, our favourite rightwingidiot Adam, has added to his journal. He is surprisingly articulate. Thanks for not making it political Adam - not something we particularly want to argue about. I suppose that the summer working in Target has done more for his education than being at college.

And, finally, as if you had forgotten, it is the birthday of good old Harry. (or 'you daft cunt' as his friends and family refer to him).

Neil Harvey standing in the slips with his legs apart, waiting for a tickle

I have been requested by a dear friend, devoted reader and quasi-relation to share my views on the selection of the England cricket team to tour Australia this winter.

I could just say "Ashley Giles" and leave it at that, but that would not be fair to all of those of you waiting eagerly to be better informed.

A team has been selected with only one reserve batsman (assuming that the captain bats at number six) and a handful of bowlers who are all either out of form, unfit or not quite up to standard.

Giles is clearly so far below standard that he hardly merits discussion. It would be kind to say thank you and goodbye. You were an almost adequate stop gap until a genuine attacking spinner could be found. I hope that Panesar continues to develop and learn, although he will have to play extraordinarily well to make a real difference in Australia. I would have chosen Dalrymple as the second spinner, if one is needed. He is a better bat than Giles, and looks to be a better bowler, at least he is unafraid to experiment and they certainly don't need two left arm spinners.

Anderson is clearly not fit. Flintoff may be fit. Harmison and Hoggard are well below their best. Mahmood and Plunkett are (and they may improve), at the moment, reminders of the nameless and mediocre bowlers who were back up in the bad old days of Caddick and Gough. Not that there is much alternative. It is right to send Broad to Perth for the winter. I know that Lewis is not suited to Australian conditions, but I think he might be more reliable than Mahmood. It is a great pity that Simon Jones remains injured.

Nothing very original there, alas.

I doubt whether the bowling attack will be strong enough to win the series. If I am wrong, I will echo the sentiments of the sainted Michael Holding who expressed the view this evening that if England were to steamroller Australia, he would not cry for the Australians.

On the other hand I have never seen an England team with so many batsman who are so good to watch. Not even in the days of Cowdrey, Graveney and Dexter.

I realise that this post is entirely devoid of the normal levels of filth and humour, but at least I can guarantee that this is one thread that will not be taken over by the smutty comments of that dirty old man, Tom.

Let's finish with a story told by Fred Trueman about his time in Australia. In the days when there were more first class and exhibition matches than in current times. The team had a fixture against a country eleven, whose big star was the opening batsman. As was customary, the umpires were local. The first ball from Fred to their star player took the outside edge and was cleanly taken by the wicket keeper. Not out said the umpire. The second ball was plumb lbw. Not out said the umpire. The third ball removed the middle and leg stump. "I bloody nearly got him that time, didn't I?" said Fred.

I have been a little disturbed by what can only be described as naughtiness by my friends Theodore and Evadne Google whose efforts have led, on more than one occasion, to people coming here looking for a young lady called "Liz", surname "Vicus".

Cursory examination leads me to believe that the woman in question is some sort of porn star.

I would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that, despite numerous requests, I have never taken part in these activities. I am not being judgemental, and wish every success to those who do, but it is not my cup of lubricant. Life is difficult enough being the focus of admiration from the female (and probably most of the male) half of the world's population, without my encouraging it. Unlike Tom, who despite his advanced years, is still somewhat naive when it comes to understanding the machinations of the myopic nymphomaniacs who sometimes pursue him, I do not think that anyone's best interests are served by indulging in private activities on a public forum.

So, nothing that you say will induce me to star in the forthcoming production of "Norse Sex Gods" or what have you. I know this will be an enormous disappointment to you. I am not related to Liz, or anyone else with similar inclinations (although Sharon has her moments).

Have a nice cup of fennel tea and an organic chocolate biscuit.

Welcome to my new friends

A periodic salute to those who came here to visit by courtesy of my friends the Googles. They do a splendid job.
Just two to report this time:
avoid going out
This is not advice I would be party to. Where you go and what you do when there, provided that it does not harm others, is fine by me. If you are worried about bumping into me, there is little chance of our meeting. I seldom mix with the populace these days - celebrity is a difficult burden. I mostly stay here and spread love and wisdom via the internet.
what happened next
My guess is that you typed other questions into the search engine that were equally unlikely to result in your being satisfied. Have you tried "where did I put my keys", "what did you just say", "does this colour suit me". You are, what those of us who work in the proximity of IT call, 'technoplegic'.

There goes his chance of the foreign ministry, then.

Our old pal Boris has been naughty again, this time insulting the inhabitants of Papua New Guinea by comparing them to Conservatives, or some such.
I left the following message for him on his blog. I hope you all have time to go over there and comfort him.

Boris, if you would like me to cover your journalistic duties while you are away apologising in the far east, just let me know. Usual rates apply. I would offer to cover your political duties as well, but regret I am not quite silly enough to pass for a Tory MP.

Next time, say something disparaging about north east Hampshire - Jane Austen being a tart for example - then you can call in for a cup of tea and a snack while you are on your apology tour. Provided, of course, that you bring Melissa along.

Thanks to our hosts at Blogger, I am unable presently to post comments on other blogs, unless they allow anonymous comments. I suspect a conspiracy. And I have so much to give.

This is because I have 'upgraded' to "Blogger beta". For those of you not familiar with technological terminology, 'upgraded' is a euphemism for 'change for the worse'. It means that suppliers have removed some of the things that worked, and added things that someone who has not had any human interaction since Nixon was president has decided might be nice.

Anyway, I was over at Richard's just now, and noticed that our old friend MJ has posted something about "New Year's". Why do the North Americans refer to "New Year's" (in the south it is "New Years" - folks down there can't count)? New Year's what? If someone were to ask me what I was doing for 'New Year's budgerigar', my reaction would be to tell them to mind their own business, then to think them a trifle eccentric, but it would certainly remove the uncertainty that would be reaction to the question "What are you doing for New Year's?".

You may think that I am scraping the bottom of several barrels if I have nothing better to complain about, but were I to tell you the contents of the document I interrupted composing in order to post this, you would all understand.

They only have themselves to blame

My friends at LiveScience report that sperm have been killed when a fridge malfunctioned.

Firstly, anyone undertaking inappropriate activities in their fridge should not be surprised when difficulties occur.
Secondly, I cannot think why TCM consider it to be any of their business in reporting it on a so-called scientific web site.
Personally, I have little interest in this subject, but I am sure that my sex crazed readers, particularly Tom who had an unfortunate intimate incident involving a kitchen utensil, will find plenty to write about.

And Ray Illingworth is relieving himself in front of the Pavilion

Out of kindness I tend to compose treatises on sporting themes at the weekend when no bugger reads them. I find it curious that my virtual friends find plenty of time during the working day to call in to deliver or receive wisdom, but are curiously busy at weekends. Perhaps you are all in the employ of some bizarre internet monitoring company and have been assigned to me.

As the cricket season is nearly at an end in England, I felt that I should share some observations.

• Mr Gower: ‘Mighty’ is an adjective. The corresponding adverb is ‘mightily’.

• Most commentators: ‘Ask’ is not a noun.

• Bob Willis: you are not a commentator, you are a sedative. Your tone is so monotonous, and your speech littered with so many inappropriate clichés that you could get a job in an accounts department.

• Sky in general: try to discourage sponsorship of cricket coverage. The repetition of the same unfunny skits is unbearably tedious, in the same league of tediousness as Mr Willis’s voice, if that gives you a clue. I am very weary of hearing that blithering buffoon, Henry Blofeld, uttering the phrase “Protection is our game”. I deeply regret that his parents adopted a different philosophy.

The better bits.

• Michael Holding: as good a commentator as he was a bowler. For those of you who are not sure how good that was, it was fucking good.

• David Lloyd: thank you.

• Nasser Insane: I am prepared to attempt to overcome my prejudice and give you a bit longer. You seem to be realising that the situation in which someone of your mediocre cricketing ability was an automatic choice for England for so long was an indication of the dreadful quality in your time, and that the current team and several of those waiting in reserve are much, much better batsmen than you were.

Fred Trueman: we will miss you. I trust that you have found a place in heaven suitably commensurate with your very high standing, and that someone has finally explained what is going off out there. You were one of the best. The best English bowler I ever saw. Up there with the top group (see the reference to Mr Holding above). For those who never saw Mr Trueman bowl (and he mostly bowled in black and white), then you have missed one of the most graceful and at the same time powerful of sporting spectacles.

And this evening, just to prove me wrong, Bob Willis started to get interesting. It didn’t last for long, but he did refer to ‘left-handed mustard’.

I turn to the opposition - the electronic Telegraph - this morning, to find with some dismay but not a great surprise that our lovely prime minister has taken to wearing fancy dress.
I cannot, for the life of me, work out what he is meant to be. An extra for Doctor Who perhaps, but I have not watched that program since the days of Patrick Troughton, so maybe not. Do any of you have suggestions?

More intriguingly is the slogan on his dog-collar. Already showing some reduncancy in the sense that 'forward' automatically rules out 'not back', I wonder in which direction we are going forward? My guess is toward the slimy pit of meaningless drivel that is the product of our current regime. Greasy Dave will have his work cut out to make things worse if he ever gets elected. But they said that Reagan was too stupid to be president.

She's back, she's back! It's the same one!

The snarling old antipodean ratbag is back, spitting venom, devouring children and flatulating in her unique way.
Lovely to have you back, sweetie.

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

My morning was brightened, not inconsiderably, by the return of our old friend Boris to his blog. He seems to be refreshed by his well-earned and needed 10 week holiday. He wrote a nice little article about education, which those of you who feel a need to improve their minds might enjoy. I posted the following in response. (Please note that it was thrown together quite quickly, and I have not checked it for any typos or factual mistakes. Given the subject matter, there are bound to be some, but please do not mistake me for someone who cares.)

Apart from the advertisement thing that deary old Toxy pointed out, the Davy reference was a clerihew. It was still a poem, but I prefer attention to detail. Also, please do not encourage children to make biscuits with Mrs Sindall. Use flour, water and flavourings of your choice, but not those extracted from members of staff. It is true, that in the kind of civilisation that you are supporting, where the so-called laws of physics hold sway over emotional considerations, that most schoolteachers deserve to be chopped up and used in snacks, but, call me old-fashioned, I believe in a caring and tolerant approach to our psychopaths.
I have to declare a prejudice against the laws of physics. In short, I neither accept nor obey them. They are nonsense. The propaganda of class room Goebbels. (If you want to read more please go over to my web pages to read about this. Advertisement.) This clouds my judgement of the thrust of your argument, which seems to be that some subjects taught in schools are of more use than others. It may well be the case, but I do not have the inclination to put forward my arguments about the fallacies upon which our current theories of education are built. So instead of that, I will embark upon a happy bank holiday skip down the lanes of North East Hampshire, singing merrily and smiling at the rabbits and proposing that the most valuable subjects at A level in these times are Love Studies, Peace Studies and the music of Janis Joplin.

PS. More attention to prep, Johnson (clerihews, advertisements, cookery ingredients), and less time spent staring out of the window dreaming of David Cameron would better prepare you for life in the real world.
C-.
See me.