Blow me.

I returned home this evening, having taken Mrs S out on a tour of the Midlands, to be greeted by a message from BT, which was in the form of a text message read out by some chip thingy. It told me, in a voice that sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated, that the fault on my telephone was fixed, and to please contact BT if there was still a problem. I was tempted to reply that my telephone was still faulty, because incoming messages now sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated. But I didn’t. (At least I haven’t up to this point). I fear that this is one of many symptoms of my growing old, and that I am losing the urge to practise immaturity at every opportunity. This lost chance is not the first time that I have failed to be silly just for the sake of it, and this is vaguely worrying. Whatever age I reach on this lovely little planet of ours, I have no plans to make any staggering pronouncements as my last words, but I do hope that there is somebody there to say “What will it take to make you grow up?” as Mr Reaper twiddles his scythe (pause for sniggering at what may be taken to be a euphemism by those of an adolescent disposition).

I should make it clear, lest I am accused of some ism or other, that I have no objection in any form to Mr Hawking or anyone else being fellated. I would just rather not be party to it, through any of my senses. In return, I promise not to bore you with my anecdotes in that particular arena, even though having Penelope Cruz under my desk is getting a little tedious, and I may have to make some public pronouncement soon to curtail her activities.

Oh no! He's off on one of his 3 hour pedantry lectures again

Well, everyone’s got to have a hobby.

Dr John Reid (BA (Hons) History, MA History and PhD economic history, University of Stirling), Secretary of State for Defense, used the word ‘pre-planned’ several times on the radio this evening.

I (grade 3 CSE physics) could forgive him using it once, but he just wouldn’t stop.

Pre-planned, I assume as opposed to post-planned, which seems to be the twatting Labour Party’s position on the environment and renewal energy sources.

If any of you bump into Dr Reid in the course of your lives, please pre-warn him that I am jolly cross with him. Or am I just being pre-preposterous?

Intelligent Design or Evolution?

I feel that it is time, in response to requests from readers (AMToNW), for me to join the great intelligent design/evolution debate.

It will come as no great surprise that I have to side with the intelligent design team, as the evidence is there in the scriptures.

Yes, folks, the internet was created by God, in His Infinite Wisdom, as a tool for his children to idle away their time in trivial pleasure. It is not an evolving method of accumulating information so that we can all share in the sum total of human knowledge. Such a project is doomed to failure, and well beyond the scope of humanity.

Genesis has this to say about the web thingy.

Chapter 3.
v25 And God thought a bit, and decided that He had been a tad hasty.
v26 “Look Adam, old mate, if you two silly buggers come along when I’m sitting down to watch Neighbours, particularly the episode where Marlene and Charlene find out about what Darlene has been up to, then you must expect me to get a bit cross”.
v27 “It’s not much blinking fun spending all that time creating matter and light and water and herbs and all that shit, then having your first day off for a week fucked up by some daft tart chewing apples.”
v28 “But I am a kind and loving God, and wouldn’t want you to think that I am vindictive, so I’ll buy you a computer, and help you get on-line”.
v29 So Adam popped down to Nod Computers and picked up a W487 with free games pack, and before you could build an ark, he had signed up with an ISP and started his blog. Like the rest of us, no bugger read it, but at least he had the excuse that at that time there were no other buggers to read it.
v30 And Adam spent his days happily surfing, ogling scantily clad women, checking the batting averages at Cricinfo and checking out the news from Kingsley.
v31 You see, it was all there already. Created by the infinite kindness of the Lord, not evolved and improving over the years. Before Cain and Abel were born, it was still impossible to download a Paris Hilton video without infecting your Space Invaders game with a virus.
v32 And Eve was sore afflicted. “Adam are you going to get off your fat arse and away from that sodding computer, you twassock, and help me with the pigging ironing, or do you want your fucking dinner wrapped round your fucking neck?”

If that little contribution does not bring the religious bigots over here in their droves next time that they visit Mr & Mrs Google’s home page, then I don’t know what will. See you in Hell.

Penal Colonies

My friends at the BBC inform me, and frankly I am disappointed that Simon was not first with the news, that the Scottish Nationalist Party are pressing for the action on what are known as ‘rendition’ flights in Scotland.

Before I continue with the main thrust of this insightful and profound message, let me pause a moment to escort you down the byways of English usage. Rendition my elbow. The SNP should be protesting about the pilfering of a word, albeit a non-Gaelic one, to describe some quasi-new phenomenon that the world of professional journalism is too lazy to describe in more than one word. Balderdash, poppycock and piffle.

Pedantry aside, I am alarmed that terrorist suspects are being handled in this way. It is one thing to deliver them to languish in abject squalor in a pit in Tashkent, or suffer the agony of a regimented maximum security cell in Zurich, but to deliver them to Kirkcaldy, Kinlochleven or Kilmarnock is beyond credulity*. What are these people accused of that allows the civilised world to cause them to be subjected to bagpipe music, the poetry of Burns and salted porridge? What crime is considered so heinous as to be punishable by listening to the warblings of Andy Stewart, Lulu and Donovan?

This section intentionally left blank for the reader to insert their own unfunny racial stereotypes.

* Credulity – small Pictish settlement near Gatehouse of Fleet.

Request for assistance

Amongst my catholic reading habits (I like anything by the Pope, [thanks Alexei]), is a bias in favour of thrillers/detective stories or whatever.

I have read most of the works of Ms Patricia Cornwell. I am not sure how good a writer she is, she is very popular which does not mean a lot, but I cannot say that I look forward to reading her work any more than many other producers of fiction of that genre.

I have nothing against her being a proponent of lesbianism. Some may say that there is not enough graphic lesbian action in her books, but I am getting on a bit and prefer to read about gratuitous violence these days.

I can forgive her writing about dull Italian recipes. If her heroine chooses to grate parmesan while the killer creeps up behind her, then I will not quibble much, although given my druthers, I would opt for my meal being prepared in a more tranquil and mellow atmosphere.

I can even forgive her for using the ridiculous expression “high rate of speed”. Perhaps. Actually, no I can’t. If she uses the language like that, and identifies with her heroine, then I am on the side of the machete-wielding maniac who slices through her aubergines, as she slices through her aubergines.

However, what is truly inexcusable is the plot repetition, which, in every book of hers that I can recall, includes a finale in which the killer - who the heroine and her highly trained professional police detectives have failed to detect and stop from killing – breaks into the her house and tries to kill her. Despite having eliminated countless other defenceless victims with no problem throughout the tale, a middle aged unarmed woman proves to be too much. Don’t they offer courses in American high schools for serial killers? I find it difficult to believe such inefficiency in the execution of what is virtually the nation’s favourite pastime.

I have to say that if the current tome upon which I am just starting finishes in the same way as the rest, then I will be more than a little annoyed. Caroline, there may be insufficient prunes in North East Hampshire to assuage my ire.

Policy Statement

To divert briefly and temporarily from the normal theme of nonsense, drivel and rhetoric that adorns these pages, I was so pissed off this morning that I claim my right to a bi-annual rant.

As politicians go (and I wish they would {just fulfilling my crap joke quota}), I don’t mind Gordon Brown. He does not embrace the cult of celebrity, and over the last few years the british economy has been more steady than it has in living memory. From my perspective, that is the best I can hope for under a capitalist system.

This morning, however, I read that he is encouraging us to “embrace the Union flag”. I am fairly confident that he does not mean for us to use it as some kind of sexual aid, in conjunction with monkey wrenches and pickled artichokes.

So, Mr Brown, as you read this over your British breakfast of black pudding, porridge and marmite, let me give you my response. Fuck off. Fuck right off. Cleanse your colon with a union flag, preferably one laced with vinegar and having a wire brush stapled to it.

And as for those pillocks looking for English icons, here are my suggestions: Oliver Cromwell, Myra Hindley, Harold Shipman, Margaret Thatcher, the Black Hole of Calcutta and Jeremy Beadle.

The policy of Kaliyuga Kronicles is to (and not without some pomposity) embrace the concept of one world. There is no characteristic of any racial or ethnic group that makes them any different from any other. We are all bewildered, confused and largely ignorant beings, incredibly similar to one another and sharing the same fate.

I recognise the difference between racism, nationalism and patriotism, but I denounce them all and will have nothing to do with them here. Bollocks to it. I reserve the right to make fun of racial characteristics (are y’all reading this, Adam?) and am more than happy for my many readers (AMToNW) to include such material in their comments. However, please be aware that it is not your ethnic background that makes you a source of fun, but rather the fact that you have nothing better to do than hang around here.

I’m just off to Downing Street with a long pointed barbed stick to assist old Gordon with that fucking flag.

More unsolicited advice

May I suggest that you start your day by doing something uplifting and inspiring?

• Fling open your windows and inhale the fresh air.
• Thank the creator for another day of human life.
• Enjoy a hearty breakfast of freshly squeezed raspberry juice and green lentil pancakes.
• If you are of an athletic disposition, try a few minutes of vigorous masturbation.

Do NOT do as I did and check your RSS feeds for news.

This morning’s depressing items include.

• The release on bail of Pinochet.
• The retirement from international rugby of Tana Umaga, which will diminish the quality of play in the next world cup, and possibly reduce the amount of time that paramedics spend on the field also.
• Adam has added to his journal.

I think he has got right to the heart of the matter

I am obliged to my friends at CNN for reporting the case of another disgraced politician - Mr Dumbfart or some such, head of the house of bollockwits. He says "I have always acted in an ethical manner."
It is nice to see that he is now honest enough to admit that it was all an act.
I hope that some of our politicians now find the courage to admit to their own shortcomings. The difference will be that over here, being entirely independent and disassociated from the US model, the colleagues of any such individuals will get right behind them and ensure that they don't have to resign. You mark my words.

I refuse to resign

Some readers (AMToNW) will be concerned over the press reports about my struggle with addictive substances. Fear not! I admit that I did smoke cannabis, but it was over 30 years ago. In no way will it interfere with my continued efforts to enlighten, educate and enthral the world with this organ. I refuse to be bullied into stepping down by a minority of whinging malcontents. I will continue to lead this journal, and there will be no change in style. The same standards of truth, decency and clarity will be maintained. In every generation, there are a few individuals blessed with the perspicacity that sees them assume their natural position as guides to the rest of humanity. It would be selfish of me to fail to honour this responsibility.

Normal service resumed

Good! That’s got all the pleasant stuff out of the way.

The first task for my readers (AMToNW) is to get over to Sheryl’s place and get her to talk proper. She’s only gone and wrote “like” instead of “said” or “thought”.

There she is, on the one hand recommending the works of the splendid Mr Fforde, and on the other undermining the very foundations of effective communication.

So, get over there now, and tell her what’s what.

You may think that bullying the lovely Sheryl is the equivalent of stealing an ice cream from a four year old girl, or bursting paper bags behind nervous old ladies. Exactly! I am back.

Unsolicited advice from someone who doesn't care whether you take it

Continuing my theme of goodwill and joy to the world, I thought I would recommend a few of the things that have amused me over these few weeks.

Bleak House from my friends at the BBC was thoroughly splendid. Wherever you are in the world, wait for it to appear on your TV screen or DVD store, and watch it. I am not a Dickens fan – more of that later - and I haven’t read the book – I am not a Dickens fan – more of that later – but I think this was probably the best thing on television this year. Charles Dance, Gillian Anderson and Denis Lawson were all spectacularly good, and well supported by Anna Maxwell Martin and Tom Georgeson. It is of course obligatory for Dickens to encourage actors to ham it up, and Philip Davis rose to the occasion very cleverly – usually the whole cast joins in, but somehow the directors managed to avoid this. Timothy West is such a brilliant actor that it is difficult for him not to steal every scene he is in, but in this case the rest of the cast was so good that it was possible to enjoy his performance unreservedly (and never once thought of Bradley Hardacre).

I also watched a repeat of David Copperfield, in which Bob Hoskins gave the nearest it is possible to get to make Micawber believable. The rest of the characters are so preposterous that it is very difficult to watch.It is beyond the capability of any human being with a trace of sentiment in their bones not to split their sides when Dora dies or Emily runs off with Steerforth. When Ham effectively kills himself by swimming out to see, I was hoping he would take the rest of cast with him. How is it that Dickens can be held in such esteem when almost all of his characters are caricatures?

Speaking of Mr Hoskins, I watched Layer Cake, which attempts to recreate the brilliance that was captured in The Long Good Friday. It fails, as will all attempts to rehash Kray-like villains and bring something fresh to the exercise. Not even Michael Gambon could do it, and Kenneth Cranham was so much a caricature that I checked for Dicken’s name in the end credits. If you want to see a film about London gangsters, watch The Long Good Friday and don’t bother with any others.

After many years of putting it off, I watched The Taming of the Shrew (the Burton/Taylor variety) and must confess to having enjoyed it, probably more than any other version I have seen. Of course it was directed by Zeffirelli, so it is no surprise to find it so visually stunning. It is also the first time I have ever seen Elizabeth Taylor give any sort of indication of having any acting ability.

One of the best books I have read for a long time is “Altered Land” by Jules Hardy. These days I find myself looking forward mostly to thrillers, and so it is nice to find something outside that genre that appeals.

As for television, this is the time of year for Christmas specials. Bollocks. So the only ones I can recommend are French and Saunders and Last of the Summer Wine.

As for music, I am sadly out of touch. Regular readers will be pleased to hear that eventually I caught a glimpse of this Blunt chap that everyone seems to be talking about. He was on one of the TV music channels. Unfortunately, when I caught him, he appeared to be trying to get his voice and piano in tune, with little success. I suspect that if he can inject a little more nasal whine into his performance he could become the British Neil Young. I really don’t know why they didn’t show any film of his singing one of his songs.

As for Miss Abi Titmuss who seems to exercise the imaginations of some of my correspondents, still haven’t seen her. If anyone has a recording of her playing Sibelius’s violin concerto, I would be happy to hear it and offer an opinion.