I take pleasure in interrupting this rubbish to announce that a new series of "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" began last week on BBC Radio 4. Mondays 18:30, repeated Sundays 12:05.
For those not fortunate enough to live in the UK, it is available on line:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/d/
(listed under 'comedies' - just in case you were in doubt.
Adam, if you are really coming to England, you will need to study these broadcasts, as immigration entry is predicated upon having a sound knowledge of British culture.

Having spent the day visiting regions that would be best served by a guidebook penned by Mr Dante, I find that I am wrong on so many counts, and need to open a new thread to respond to all the fond messages from my adoring public. You do read on a Sunday, and write so attractively as well.

Mike: Yes, the Super 14. Very sad. Does puff have the same meaning where you are as it does here? I personally don’t having any opinion on Mr Carter’s sexuality – his being the greatest rugby player alive would excuse him for performing oral sex on Jeffrey Archer on centre court at Wimbledon as far as I am concerned – but you must get up to date on the local vernacular if you propose to move to Monmouth. And, alas, my anger was only a literary affectation used for rhetorical purposes only. (and if you say any different I’ll kick your fucking head in). I suspect there was some residual anger left from watching Michael Moore’s films this week. Both Fahrenheit 9/11 and Bowling for Columbine were on, and I watched them on successive evenings, never having seen them before. I am not entirely supportive of Mr Moore – I suspect that some of his arguments could be presented more coherently, but I am grateful to him for saying it. (For those of you who have not seen the films, but would like them summarised, here is my attempt: No matter how much of a complete cunt you think that George Bush is, you have grossly underestimated, and if you guessed that his IQ reached single figures, you got that wrong as well). But I don’t normally get angry about sport. Actually two of my favourite moments in sport come from sports that I dislike, Arthur Ashe winning Wimbledon and Tiger Woods winning the tournament (Masters? Masturbators? Honky Domination Cup?) at Atlanta – as poignant as the black power salute at the Olympics.

Raincoaster – should that have been “Ask any of us who were there”?
Raincoaster – should who have been “Ask any of us who were there”?

Raincoaster - all of the Don Cherry clips were too long for me tonight – I might try them another day, but you have uncovered a morsel of patriotism in me that I would have sworn did not exist. I think that these royal islands are undisputed home of the awful commentator. Henry Blofeld? Bob Willis? John Motson? Trevor Brooking (so bad he can’t even pronounce his own name)? Murray Walker? Bob Willis? Nasser Hussain? Bob Willis?

Richard boasts of being nabbed by the fuzz in Leicester. Happened to me too, old boy. I feel proud to be the donator of however much it was to the coffers of Inspector Knacker. I, however, was nowhere near the Tigers’ ground when it happened. You should always approach sites of great religious significance in a mood of respect, reverence and calm. How do you expect to benefit from the prospect of sharing air breathed by Austin Healey, if you whiz around like a demented cheetah?

Tom corrects me again. Will my gratitude to this man never end? He points out the value of the build up to the competition, helping us to identify all of the participants, and chastises me for preferring classical music to ‘Big Brother’. Well, dear old friend, of course you are so right. Were I to quit my mortal coil now, and not know the names of the children of Paraguay’s reserve centre back, or the favourite colour of the Venezuelan goalkeeper’s pet goat, then I would, quite rightly, be denied entry to the celestial kingdom. No, Tom, complete bollocks as you well know. Whilst on my journey today, I invalidated my claim that I would not listen to lobotimised knuckle-dragging throwbacks, and drank in the wisdom of Mr Dwight Yorke. What seemed like ten minutes of the babbling of a drunken four year old. Nothing to say, but a great compunction to say it anyway. I was glad to that I stuck it out to the end, because I was rewarded by a moment of BBC brilliance that lightened the day. (Mr Yorke is noted for his ability to ‘score’ off the field more often than he scores on it, allegedly).
At the end of the interview the interviewer said “That was Dwight York from his hotel bedroom” to which his colleague riposted. “Remarkable, being able to find him in his own bedroom”. Yes, Tom, record the collected wisdom of all of those who will be interviewed before the world cup. If you play it to your horses, the RSPCA will be round quicker than the next inappropriate cliché or meaningless platitude issues from the lips of that squeaky voiced twat of an England captain. Also, you are quite right, in another 200 years, no one will be listening to the overture to the Marriage of Figaro or Beethoven’s 4^th piano concerto, they will all be too busy watching recordings of some fatuous quadruped tart who was famous for 3 weeks on “Moron TV” in 2006.

MJ. Much as I love you all, as each day goes by I feel myself less likely to ever visit Vancouver.

Kat – please note I am urging everyone to read your comment. It was poetry.

Geoff – who is Neneh Cherry? I think you make these names up.

Zoe – you little tease. If you carry on like this I will have to publish those pictures of our weekend in Bridlington.

Kyahgirl says that she doesn’t talk much about football so has nothing to say. All of you – listen to this very carefully – having nothing to say will never be an obstacle to posting here.

Frontier editor. Welcome – not sure whether you have ever commented here before, but I have seen your lovely face and lovely comments elsewhere. Yes, you are quite correct. Einstein and I. Unfortunately, I do not have the original photoshop file, I had to scan that picture. You may not be surprised that most people assume that I look like that in the alternative universe that we don’t mention here. The original was done as part of a departmental Christmas card at my place of employment, (and done by those more expert and patient than I in those techniques) with the caption “Of course light has to bend to get round that fat bastard” or something similar.

Adam gives a frightening report on the harsh regime in an American college. Not for the faint-hearted. Neither is Adam. Adam, sweety, escape while you have the chance. You can come and live in England. One more illegal immigrant, one more right wing ignoramus, one more silly person, who would notice?

Krusty. A better sport than the world cup is running a competition as to who can use the current space-filling, meaningless word or phrase of the moment in the highest concentration. At the moment the phrase is “to be honest”. It superseded “basically” on 14^th November 2004 at 17:36. I heard Dion Dublin being honest 7 times in 3 sentences. He may already be in an unassailable position, as most interviewees can neither start, construct nor finish a sentence. Andy Gray, on Sky Sports, uses the phrase “if I’m honest” (only once or twice a minute). “Stuart Horsefondler did not have a good game, if I’m honest”. Well, Mr Gray, I have no means of knowing whether you are honest, and therefore am sadly lacking in information of how well Stuart played. My guess, however, is that as you work for Murdoch, your honesty is roughly on a par with John Terry’s ability to knit custard.

I hate the fucking world cup. (That’s soccer for my colonial readers – AMToNW).

You can hardly switch the radio on without hearing the opinion of some lobotomised, knuckle-dragging throwback pontificating about the chances of Paraguay adopting a 2-6-2 formation or whether the climate in whereverthefuckitis will help whicheverthefuckteamitis or some such bollocks. I switch off immediately and listen to my CD of Rio Ferdinand singing Verdi arias. And then there are the vast numbers of inbreds who have adopted the practice of having the flag of saint George waving from their cars. Saint George hated bloody football, preferring a game of ludo.

Bollocks to them all. Football is an entertaining spectacle when played well, although there have been very few entertaining international games since the 1970 Brazilian team disbanded, but there is nothing to say about it. "Descartes had a good game", or "Aristophanes was at fault for the second goal" is about it. So please, shut the fuck up until June 9^th and talk about something more interesting. And not Big-fucking-girl’s-blouse-Brother please.

No, I am not cross, I am fine thank you. I did not mind that Leicester Tigers played like a bunch of wallies yesterday. I was not disappointed that the final of the Super14s was spoiled by fog and no-one could see from one side of the pitch to the other. I was not upset by the curtailment due to weather of the Test match. I was not affected one little bit by my friends Sheryl and Pamela pointing out that the American media were not covering the Indonesian earthquake but instead concentrating on trying to get some sense out of their assclown (thank you Danny) president. No, Adam did not rile me by adopting his normal “vote for Bush as the nukes rain down” political viewpoint. No, I am in excellent spirits thank you very much. I think I will celebrate by going round to Wayne Rooney’s house and stamping on his other foot.

Invoking the “allowed to mouth off on Sunday - no bugger reads it, they only blog when they’re meant to be at work” rule.

Empty your wallets again

Save the children already have a special fund for the Indonesian earthquake
Save the Children

As far as I can see, this is not true of the Disaster Emergency Committee, but I am sure that you can donate there as well.

This is one of the occasional articles written to provide comfort to those coming here looking for succour (I believe that is the spelling). I am grateful as ever to Theodore and Evadne Google for pointing these troubled brothers and sisters in this direction. Heaven knows where they would go were it not for me.

“Shag me till I bleed”

Well, perhaps, but I think that you ought to consider buying me dinner first. I also ought to warn you that, liberal as I may be, I am not entirely at ease with the concept of your harming yourself and my being a party to it. Perhaps, if dinner turns out to be pleasurable, we could start with handshaking until your wrist tingles; maybe hugging until your nipples stiffen. These are only suggestions. Frankly, none of them really appeal to me, but having been thrust into the public limelight as a refuge for the weary and the confused I ought to try to help wherever I can.

“Pomegranate trellis”

Good, a subject with which I am very conversant. You will need a sturdy trellis. I suggest you construct one using reinforced concrete, beech and the web of the Argentinian scrotum spider. Pomegranate plants grow to a height of 75 metres, and so your trellis will need to be at least 70 metres high. For best effect, have the trellis completely surround your house, and make sure to leave no gaps. There is nothing that a pomegranate likes less than a breeze up the inner thigh.

“Nipple tassles Vancouver”

What can I say that is not already widely known on this subject? Perhaps you meant to ask about an anagram of this phrase – ‘Crap spineless vol-au-vent’ or ‘Passive convulsant leper’. Please let me know, and I will provide the answers.

By the way, Toasty is back.

Friar Tuck was not a protege of the Reverend Spooner.

Inhabitants of the quaint city of Nottingham are incensed by reports such as that published by the BBC that theirs is the most crime ridden place in England and Wales. The name of Nottingham thus may come as some surprise to visitors to this wonderful metropolis, with its friendly if simple residents and balmy Mediterranean climate. Of course, the situation is not as straightforward as the one reported. Most of the burglaries in the area are followed by the distribution of the proceeds to the underprivileged of the city and county, and can be seen as a justified reaction to the totalitarian position adopted by those at the head of the law enforcement agencies.

It behoves me to point out that I did not watch, nor do I ever watch, the Eurovision Song Contest. This seems to set me aside from my virtual friends who watch it so that they can write articles saying how crap it was. I say this only as information, not in a judgemental way, for the sake of those dear friends who are wondering why I am not sharing my perspective and wisdom on their latest works. I do not watch Big Brother or any programme with “Celebrity” in the title, with the exception of the recent edition of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Thanks to that nice Mr Murdoch and his Sky Box, I can whiz through the whole programme in 10 minutes, by skipping the ads, the dumb questions and inane chatter of Mr Tarrant. I suppose that I should not be proud of watching Jerry Hall demonstrating how completely thick she was. I did not expect her to know the name of the king who was reigning in the time of Samuel Pepys, anymore than I would know the names of the presidents during the lifetime of Edgar Allan Poe. I might have heard of Mr Poe however, and been able to pronounce his name having heard it several times within the last five minutes. For those of you wishing to read the works of Mr Pips, or read Peppy’s Diary, then obviously they are popular in Texas, or perhaps Richmond. I will not be watching much more tripe like that, but instead improving my mind by reading the works of the great American authors such as Mark Twine, John Stoneback and Ernest Hummingbird.

The most amusing interlude was her calling Bill Wyman for help with a question. Yes, really. And then reading the question in her Texan drawl so slowly that over half the time was used up. Poor old Bill, who may have been disorientated by having his viewing of a repeat of Blue Peter interrupted, then realised that he needed to hear the question again.

The Rolling Stones are the greatest rock and roll band in history. Their members include someone who falls out of trees and a camp caricature of a singer, who has sold out so far as to accept a knighthood, and chose to spend his middle age with one of the planet’s most stupid women. The exploits of the ex-bass guitarist are too well known to bear my repeating them here, but he is obviously in need of extra Sanatogen in the “Let it Bleed” Nursing Home in Suffolk. Yes folks, welcome to Kaliyuga.

Once again I am glad that I rejected the advances of Jerry Hall all those years ago. It may have taken up too much valuable time for us to realise how incompatible we were.

My friends at BBC news report that a strange cult has been uncovered in Darlington. There is no criminal activity as all the inhabitants of the premises that they raided where there voluntarily.

Apparently, women in the cult are treated as slaves and ordered what to do all the time, including matters of an intimate nature. Durham police express surprise at this behaviour.

They have obviously never visited Yorkshire.

Here, as a bonus, are those whacky New York folk again.

I am grateful again to my friends at the BBC for the information that the new Drugs Minister – I am not sure if that is his official title – once smoked marijuana.

What intrigued me was his name, and I am not sure why no one has drawn this to my attention, viz. Vernon Coaker. It appears that he was born for the job.

Were I to be PM, and I fail to understand why that has not yet happened, then I would insist that my drugs minister had full first hand experience of all the narcotics that were within his remit. I am not sure what my policy on drugs would be - to make compulsory, encourage, control, restrict or abolish their use. I am sure, however, that my drugs minister would be too fucking stoned to care.

Would you appoint an education secretary who had never been to school? Would you appoint a minister of defence who had never ripped a man apart with his bare hands? Would you elect a president who couldn’t find his ass with both hands, a map and a search party?

I am reminded of my dear friend Dave, who left his mortal coil some time ago, and who has still not been replaced. He told me of finding a new job.

“And what is your job title?” I ventured.

“Youth outreach worker – drugs and sexual health”.

I found this more than a little amusing.

“If I were a troubled youth, and came to you and said ‘A man tried to sell me some drugs in a pub’, what would your response be?”

“I would say ‘What was the name of the pub?’”

Bollocks to earning a living

Monday morning. Do not be tempted to work. There is a game of Mornington Crescent in progress over at Scary's place.

I am obliged to my friends at the online edition of the Boston Globe for the following headline:

Thousands of Indonesians flee volcano spewing ash and rock

The first recorded instance of volcanicity being contagious

I trust that you are all well out there. I hope none of you have been suffering from geological symptoms. I hope that that crack is simply the one normally found at the base of the spine, and not the result of an earth tremor. I trust that the excessive nature of the passing of waste liquid is the result of over indulgence in Wincarnis, and not evidence that you have been infected by geyser activity.

TCM at livescience report on another spectacular research project undertaken by our colleagues with O level Chemistry.

Their latest musings are about the reason for women outliving men. Their conclusion is that this is due to competing for a mate.

This makes perfect sense. Which of us (males that is) have not sustained serious injury by injudicious use of a deodorant? Have we not suffered horrendous, life-threatening paper cuts on birthday or valentine cards? Have we all not absorbed toxic chemicals through an excess of hair styling products? I myself have been subject to severe anxiety about my attractiveness – yes, I know it seems ridiculous (I can hear a chorus of “As if!” from all parts of the world), but I guess it is something in our genetic heritage.

Of course, the alternative reasons are simplistic and should be tossed aside with scorn. They certainly do not wear us down by feeding us fattening and addictive foods in order to get their hands on our insurance pay out. The very idea is preposterous. My epitaph will not be “The chapatis got him eventually”. Oh no.

The exception to this is that prize charlie Nasser Hussain. He will meet his death gruesomely at the hands of an irate viewer who has reached the boundaries of his tolerance for hearing the name of Mr Muralitharan pronounced incorrectly.

I surrender

I know I will never to be able to write as wittily, well and consistently as Dan.
Pay him a visit now, and then leave a comment telling him how funny he is.
Go on.

Thanks to some of my visitors, I find myself a source of information for “dogging sites in Hampshire” on some of the search engines.

Well, as my readers seem to prefer threads about seedy sex rather than my contributions to literature, the arts and philanthropy, allow me to list some of the well known sites for such activities. I trust this will be of help to tourists.

• On the roundabout in Basingstoke.
• Andover High Street
• The beach at Southsea.
• The lawn outside police headquarters in Southampton.
• The girl’s clothing section in BHS, Portsmouth
• The nave of Winchester cathedral.

Let me know how you get on. That is, let me know whether this was helpful, rather than a description of some bizarre mounting.

I also had someone from Australia coming here after searching for “Sainsbury yoghourt”. Yes, we all know what you wanted it for, you pervert.

Open those wallets

I posted this just now on the Boris Johnson blog. As it contains hyperlinks, it will have to wait for approval by the lovely Melissa, but anyone who saw Bozza in action the other night should commemorate admiring his tackle (impossible to post here without some smut) by donating to the appropriate charity (both if you want to show off).
Here is what I posted on Bozza's site:

As there appears to be no specific link on the Red Cross site for the Boris Johnson Football Hero appeal, then please follow this link to make a donation Red Cross
The other charity supported was the Bobby Moore Cancer Appeal:
Bobby Moore

(All gate receipts from the match went to these two charities).

As there is no way of mentioning Boris in your donation, then you will have to be altruistic about it and give some money anyway. Conservative voters will have to look up the definition of ‘altruistic’.

UK tax payers (I suppose that marginalises the Tories as well) please remember to use the gift aid option.


Please do it now.

In defence of the Kiwi

For the benefit of my many fans and spiritual dependents in the antipodes (a Mrs Trellis of North Wellington), I think I should be the one to put the record straight.

There has been no tsunami in New Zealand in the last few hours. Rumours that the country has been removed from the surface of the Earth and no one has noticed are not true. Rumours that happenings in New Zealand are so rare that this one was judged to be a hoax are also totally without foundation. Headlines such as “Auckland obliterated – damage estimated at $15” will not appear here.

It is also untrue that New Zealanders have so little entertainment that they are forced to travel to the other side of the virtual world in order to find some entertainment. My readers come here to share the uplifting and enlightening views expressed by the author and his many virtual friends, and to share in the spirit of love and peace that pervades this corner of the web.

There is no conspiracy to murder the Rolling Stones. Stories that they are too racy for sedate residents of Christchurch or Napier are to be dismissed. Just because it takes a band 40 years to realise that there is an untapped market of English (or something quite close) speakers to exploit entertain does not mean that the islands are a cultural backwater. New Zealand is a very with-it and trendy place. Only last year Shirley Bassey performed to record crowds (at the Rose and Crown in Invercargill). The fact that the world’s ‘number one hell-raiser’ could find nothing more exciting to do in New Zealand than fall out of a tree should be seen as a tribute to the country, not a source of cheap taunts.

The following recent extract from the archives of the BBC news service is in no way ‘quaint’ or ‘bizarre’:
Artist Sally Logue, from Kirkoswald, near Penrith, has been asked to produce portraits of photogenic pigs for the New Zealand Mint.

I do not ask for thanks for this defence of my colonial cousins. It is just an expression of my philanthropic nature.

A better tone

I have been urged by a reader to post something edifying to take the emphasis away from the filth that has begun to be the main characteristic of the previous post.
As I am somewhat busy at the moment, (providing banality to all and sundry) may I draw your attention to this?