Incoherent ramblings from the sick bed.

I would not wish to give the impression that my colleagues are anything less than witty, Wildean and wonderful, but in my enforced withdrawal from the channels of commercial intercourse this week, I had the opportunity to read. I particularly enjoyed another volume by Mr Harlan Coben, who never fails to entertain. However, I was disappointed to find his use of the word ‘leverage’ as a verb. Had the mood been right I could have written several paragraphs about that particular sin. Next time someone uses within your earshot, ask them exactly what the bollocks they think that it means, and use that terminology. I bet none of them can define it, and if they can, ask them what is wrong with ‘lever’. Bastards. Fortunately, I am too mellow to be distracted by such trifles. Mr Coben’s books are jolly entertaining, but I must warn you that they have the not-put-downable quality that is claimed by many, but captured by so few. I like to intersperse my fondness for ‘thrillers’ with other literature, but have failed to find anything much lately that I have really liked. Fortunately, I have a Jasper Fforde waiting for me not too far down my pile of books, so that should provide a safe remedy. I hope that Mr Le Carre has the good manners to live a good while longer and continue to write. There aren’t many of his calibre around. Also near the top of my pile is the much awaited “72 Virgins” by Bozza. (I have a signed copy, don’t you know?), I will be sure to report back on that one. I almost succeeded in diverting his latest thread away from a serious political point about the House of Lords into a discussion about sixties music, but there are too many of the buggers over there. Perhaps someone else would like a go. Hey, Kiwis, have you met Bozza? He is jolly entertaining, probably a throwback, and very unsound politically, but a very nice man, and a true idiot to whom we can all relate. Get over to his site and introduce yourselves.

And as a special treat for everyone, we have found America’s next president:

http://www.whitehouse.org/news/2006/031506.asp

He even looks like Adam. Adam, that isn’t you is it?

You will excuse me a little rant, won't you - I'm poorly you know?

According to the BBC:
Tony Blair has called for a "technological revolution comparable to the internet" to slow global warming.
Speaking in New Zealand, he said it was important to develop machines which produce fewer emissions, while maintaining economic growth.
Yes, and then someone can invent a drug to cure all diseases, and someone else can invent a device for sucking all of the pollutants out of the sky, and someone else can discover a microbe that converts sand to soil, so the great deserts can be fertile.
I know. This is probably nothing like what he said. I do not believe everything that I read. But it does come fairly close to his policy. Leave it up to someone else, just like Maggie did, it doesn’t matter if it is of importance to the survival of life on earth. What a complete bastard the man is.
We can have an end to all wars – as long as we maintain economic growth.
We can reduce medical waiting lists - as long as we maintain economic growth.
Fuck off. I apologise to my friends in New Zealand for having to put up with the twat. Send him back, we’re used to him.
To him and all his myopic motherfucking friends who think that business comes first, just Fuck Off. Fuck right off. Fuck right off now.

Not quite as eloquent and reasoned as Mr Gamon, but it gets the point across does it not?

As most of you will know, the Ramayana describes the human body as being the receptacle of flesh, blood, bile, urine, faeces, sweat and phlegm. Those lusting after the curvy or dangly bits of other human beings would do well to remember this. And this is not what the saints and sages mean when they tell us that what we are looking for is within.
This week I have had a reminder of how delicate the metabolism is. In short, I have been ill. As far as I know, nothing other than a common virus of some sort, but it laid me low and incapable of pursuing most avenues of sensual enjoyment. For those of you wishing to know lurid details of bodily functions, then I can hand that responsibility over to Dan, who is the world’s foremost poet of the scatological.

This is particularly unfortunate, when I have had so many nice visitors here, thanks to my new friend Patroclus, and that old harridan Zoe, who both obviously felt that their readers were in need of an emetic, and pointed them in this direction.
I seemed to recall (but had to verify it) that Patroclus was a mate of Achilles, but don’t know, and couldn’t be bothered to find out any more. Honestly, these people who assume identities using names or phrases from dead languages.

May I recommend the excellent televisual entertainment “Everyone Hates Chris”? I suspect that readers in New Zealand will probably have to tell their grandchildren to look out for it, unless everyone over there already has the altar to Mr Murdoch nailed to the side of the house as we do in the UK. What I do not really understand is why, in general, American comedies manage to find excellent child actors whereas in the UK there is a total lack. I would put forward Malcolm in the Middle, Home Improvement, and the excellent Angus T Jones in Two and a Half Men as evidence of my argument. On the other hand, I don’t know whether to blame the directors, script writers or actors in the Harry Potter films for the sickening performances. I was cheering for Voldemort.

Someone came here by searching for the “rudest man in Britain”. I came in third after David Starkey and a bouncer from a Soho nightclub. To say that I was disappointed was an understatement. I expect loyalty from my dear friends, the Googles. Next time I see Theodore I shall waste no time in telling him what a fatuous, camel-dung chewing, uncle-buggering, conservative-voting, odious little git he is.

Allow me to help some of the lost and confused beings who have found their way here after using the services of Theodore and Evadne Google, or their competitors.

• Is Camilla asking for a divorce

This query came, apparently, from a company of lawyers in San Diego called “Thickston, Stern and Becerra”. The same person came to my website twice looking to solve this mystery. Firstly, she and I are not, nor ever have been, married to each other. Not from the want of pursuit on her part, I might add. I can see that her brand of empty headed and vulgar jocundity might appeal to a certain type of person, but I do not fall into that category. Nor is she seeking to end her romance with Charles. Mentally challenged, deranged and totally lacking in common sense she may be, but even she recognises when she is on to a good thing. Putting up with the in-laws is a small price to pay for all the material advantages.

• Ant and Dec prosthetic

I know nothing about these gentlemen, I have never seen their television programme, and were not aware that they were in any way artificial, other than in the manner prescribed for entertainers on Saturday evening terrestrial television.

• Paula Radcliffe poo

Ain’t got none. Run out. Do have a small packet of Gerald Kaufmann vomit, at a reasonable rate, if anyone is interested.

• Sainsburys how did it become famous

By twats putting its name into search engines

• The fox twins who lived in Stevenage

I am unacquainted with feral mammals in Hertfordshire, but have conducted an intermittent correspondent with some rather charming otters in Oswestry

• How to avoid being sick

Well, don’t come to this web page would be my first thought.

• Man tied up being fellated

If he is happy, then I am happy for him, on balance. I do not have any information or photographic evidence. If I did, I suspect that sharing it with you would not really help you. Would you not rather pick your all time best South African cricket XI?

Barlow, Richards, Kallis, Pollock (RG), Cook, Rice, Proctor, Lindsay, Pollock (S), van der Bijl, Adams.

I've fallen off of my chair, Brian

You should understand that there is no way that I am bowing to pressure. This blog remains fiercely independent, and is no way influenced by the large donation made by Tom’s Organic Dope, plc.

But, my kind nature cannot be concealed permanently, so here is a football project for you.

So why not submit your all-time soccer XI. And your all-time England XI. And your all-time British XI. Selections can be as bizarre as you wish. Anyone wishing to play seriously should restrict their selection to those playing during their own lifetime.

Can we do cricket as well? Why not. All time world XI and all time England XI. Or any other country. Same rules apply, as long as due reverence is paid to Tom Graveney.

And for the ladies, so that you don’t feel left out, what are your favourite knitting stitches?

Striking a blow for independence

I have been hesitating over these few days as to whether to accept the “tag” that some interfering harridan from the antipodes tried to impose upon me.

After some careful consideration, I have decided that this is my bloody blog, and I will write what I want to write about, and not have my agenda dictated to by people who would like to life their lives vicariously through me. If I wanted someone to tell me what to do all the time, I would get married.

So sod off, I don’t do requests. I will not be telling you about the seven most embarrassing illnesses that have afflicted me in this life, nor will I list ten things not to swallow or eight most irritating correspondents. Unless and until I want to.

There’s a fence going up round this journal, and visiting hours will be published.

Six things most likely to make me give up watching sport on TV.

Trevor Brooking

John Motson

Nasser Hussain

That South African rugby commentator with the most monotonous voice in the universe

The phrase “Big Ask”

The phrase “to be honest”

Not being entirely successful in trying to change the subject

Just as I was sitting here, refreshed, inspired and looking forward to fulfilling my task of bringing education to the world, my attention was caught by my old friends over at Live Science.

Please believe me when I tell you that I consider that I have done more than my fair share to highlight the appalling practice of using inappropriate units of measure. I never again expect to refer to salad plates except in acceptance speeches for awards for improving the lot of humanity. However, I cannot rest easy knowing that, in the name of science, TCM are getting away with it.

Apparently, man-made ponds in North America are having a “dramatic impact”, in as much as sediment is accumulating therein, instead of going into rivers and their deltas.

“The trapped sediment could fill more than three million railroad boxcars a year.”

How many teaspoonfuls is that then, Brains? I would further remind you that four hundred and thirty three billion is “more than three million”.

Not only that, but TCM fail to say whether the dramatic effect is positive or negative. As if we are supposed to know. As if we did our science homework last night. Twats.

There is another article about how the smoking of marijuana in youth affects memory. And do not think that I am going to provide obvious punchlines.

I am not obsessed

I have emailed the following to CNN. I will be pleased to report on their response.

Dear Sir

I am more than a little agitated by your article and TV broadcast about the lovely little crustacean that has been discovered.

Specifically, you state “The animal is white and 15 centimeters (5.9 inches) long -- about the size of a salad plate.”

I have no difficulty with the concept of 5.9 inches (although if we are to eschew the metric system, 5 and 7/8ths inches might have been more reactionary), and I can cope with 15 centimeters (although I would have to convert it to inches, being of a certain age), but I have no idea what size a salad plate is.

I have never heard of a salad plate. I have plates in my house, and I chose them according to the amount of food I want to put on them. I regret to say that the smaller plates are slightly less worn, chez moi. If I want to eat a lot of salad (and this is entirely hypothetical and I doubt whether it will ever happen), I will choose a large plate and distribute said comestibles accordingly. I will not choose a plate of 15 centimetres in diameter and pile it 28 centimetres high, with the sides tied down by spaghetti. That would be silly.

So, pray tell, firstly, is there really a standard sized ‘salad plate’ in the USA? Is it governed by federal mandate? Is it a criminal offence to possess a plate used for salad that is not of this size?

But more importantly what, pray tell, possesses you to think that your audience is so educationally challenged as to be unable to grasp the concept of slightly less than six inches, but to be able to visualise using crockery? If I were to tell you that today I drove my car at the speed of a Tom Graveney cover drive, would you understand that better than my saying 40 mph? If I were to say that my nose was as long as the stem of a Peruvian anemone, would you have any sense as to its dimensions?

Yours in anticipation

I am feeling elated

As I was just commenting to my new friend and quasi-cousin Richard, I am rather proud of the fact that Theodore and Evadne Google have placed me second on their list of most popular web sites for those typing the phrase “I am being fellated” into their message box.

I am of the view that we should be circumspect about delving into the motives of those who visit the Googles. Theodore and Evadne are remarkably non-judgemental, which is one of the reasons that I am so fond of them, but this does mean that, sometimes, they fail to discriminate sufficiently, and some of their visitors are less than charismatic.

So, under what circumstances would one type the phrase “I am being fellated” into a search engine? If all is well with the world, and the energy is flowing nicely and all that bollocks, then there are millions of people being fellated at any given time. I doubt, however, whether there are millions being fellated while at the keyboard. I am at the keyboard, but not, as far as I can tell, being fellated – I have had to have a stern word with Penelope Cruz about that, and so far she is behaving with more decorum. So, given that there are not that many people simultaneously practising their keyboard and Joe Blob skills, how many of them would need to let the world know about it by seeing if anyone else has used the phrase in recent times? What would be gained by this? Given that Theodore and Evadne have not yet made their application real-time, what are the chances that you could find someone in a similar situation and compare notes with them?

Most of these questions are rhetorical, and I would not want my blushing virtual friends to be indiscrete by being over-descriptive here, but maybe, having used the phrase “I am being fellated” several times, I might get to number one in the charts, and the next time my mysterious visitor wants to share his (or her?) experiences with us, he (or SHE?) would be so kind as to leave an explanatory comment.

Another crabby comment

I happened to tune in to CNN news this morning on the television. That was the device we used to use in the days before the internet. There was a young lady reading the news who had obviously failed at her first choice profession of nursery school teacher because her condescending manner and her fixed grin would have been too nauseating for even the most precious four year old.

She described a new genus of crustacean that had been found deep in the Pacific.

“It is about 15cms long, that’s the size of a salad plate”. I had to rewind to make sure that my hearing was not deceiving me. I don’t mind being told about how big a centimetre is. It was inches, feet, yards, chains and furlongs when I was at school, and I think in those terms. I would tell you how many years ago that was, but for all I know they have since changed the standard measure of time from years and days to be something based upon the lifecycle of a marmoset. That is not the point I was intending to make. I suppose it would have been too easy to say “15 centimetres, that’s about six inches, for all the geriatrics out there”. And yes, I know that men traditionally have a false impression of what six inches is, but, frankly, that would have been good enough for me. I am unlikely ever to come across this creature, or to need to know its precise size, unless I get a job as lobster measurer at the North East Hampshire School of Malacostracology.

But no, a salad plate. Bollocks. Come on, which of you demented bastards out there has a plate specifically for salad?

I need to divert a little. I am not by nature sexist in my outlook, but I do adhere to the conviction that salad is for girls. Salad should only be eaten as a penance. If Mrs S prepared a meal accompanied by salad she would hide it under a lentil or something.

So, what is all this “salad plate” shit? And what, in the name of bollocks, is CNN doing by using such comparisons? Are there really people out there who live in this bizarre universe where it is necessary to define crockery other than by the simple terms “big” and “small”? If there are such people, then I would suggest that they are probably much too busy measuring their falafel skewers to be tuning in to world news programmes.

Missed Opportunities

I am inspired by the delicate and fragrant Caroline to make the following observations. She recounts how she engaged a nutter in conversation on the telephone. I suppose you can do that in New Zealand. It is not recommended practice for UK residents, even those of us fortunate enough to reside in North East Hampshire. Most of my telephone calls (and I get at least two a month) are from nutters, but they are either friends or relations, but should someone call who is both psychiatrically suspect and unknown, then the only safe policy is to bolt the doors and buy a gun.

I once had a call from a young lady asking to speak to "Miss Wong". I failed to make the obvious response. I will now have to reincarnate as all 8.4millions species before I get another chance in a human body, and I am fearful that when that happens the young lady will in question will call when I am out. It just isn’t fair.

I also missed out on the occasion where I went to buy a copy of a well-known tome outlining English usage. As a copy was on display inside at the front of the bookshop I was not able to ask “Have you got Fowler?”

I did not make the same mistake when visiting a hardware shop, where I wittily asked “Have you got a bleeding key?” Although I shall probably be forced to explain that one to Adam when he next shows up here.