OK, I think I have about done.
I have made a very silly immature comment over at Tom’s about his masculinity.
Ditto Pamela and her eclipse-causing chest.
I have been very rude to my American friends over at Carmentza’s place.
So I can go now.

While I am away, try this game if you are bored:
Go to a blog that you normally read. Check the comments, most recent first.
When you find a comment from someone who you don’t know, go to their blog.
If you like it, leave a comment. Make the comment very obscure, but not anonymous.
If you don’t like the blog, search the comments for someone you don’t know.
And repeat.
Leave me a list of links to good places in the comments here.

(For those of you who are not familiar with html, you can put a hyperlink by the following example, except you need to change both of the { to <

{a href=”wwwrubbishorg”> some description of your own choosing {/a>

)

I have to warn you that I tried it and didn’t find anything interesting after 10 minutes, but what else are you going to do while I am away?

I hope to be checking in here over the next few days, to make sure that no impropriety has occurred, in the meantime, if you have a matter of an urgent and personal nature that needs to be aired, I have always found Tom to be a wise and sympathetic listener.

A plea for a more wholesome future

I have just got off of the telephone to Theodore Google, whose breakfast I interrupted in order to let him know, in no uncertain terms (does that sound like John Major?), what I thought of his latest little wile.

I am still not entirely happy with his insistence that visitors who search for a well known female athlete and her propensity for public defecation, the nature, size and photographic evidence of the chest of some fourth rate Neanderthal tv presenter of whom I have never heard, or the performance of public acts of an intimate nature in various UK locations should be sent my way. Regular readers (aMToNW) will recall that none of these items were originated by me, but were the result of irresponsible commenting.

Anyway, as I was saying, as if that were not enough, I am now plagued by some pervert looking for “Mr Seduction – Kansas City”. As if! As bollocky if! Unlike some, I do not swan around the globe looking for sordid sexual gratification. I find no need to, thank you very much. I get more than ample experiences of that kind from the crazed harpies who pursue me here (if the cap fits ….). I do not need my well earned vacation time sullied by Penelope Cruz look-alikes leaping out at me from every corner as I leisurely go about my lack of business. I may or may not have a passport in the name of ‘Mr Seduction’, but if I do, I shall not be using it on this trip.

I need some privacy.

I know exactly how Madonna feels, and how many of you can say that?

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

Hey everyone, Dyna's back.
Get over there and fill her comment area with nonsense right now.

Remember to recycle

I am obliged to Raincoaster for pointing (perhaps not an appropriate word under the circumstances) in the direction of this news story:
http://www.kansascity.com/mld/kansascity/news/14864475.htm
As I will be visiting the area of Kansas City next week, it comes as some reassurance that there is one circumstance that I need not worry about.
The airline might divert my luggage to Montreal, which is what they did last time I went to Kansas City, but at least there will be officers of the law on hand lest I mislay something more vital.

Today in history

Dear old Tom has requested that we move away from sordid topics and on to something a little more informative, thus excusing him, on the grounds of profound ignorance, from having to contribute. I doubt whether we will deter him, he has persistently blighted my life for many a year, and now appears intent to irritate my new imaginary friends by making cheap and lurid remarks of a sexual nature about them.

Dear Pavlov recently reminded us all, in the customary erudite and perspicacious way, that the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo had occurred. I thought I would see what had happened in history on this day, and explain some of the significance of it to you. On journeying over to the entirely error free Wikipedia site, I find that nothing happened on June 21^st that has the slightest bearing on anything, and so I am obliged to write a little about Edward III who died on this day in 1377.

I did not study the Plantagenets, and so am forced to rely upon my frail memory, together with the material supplied at Wikipedia. I knew that Edward was not the one purportedly killed by the insertion of a red hot poker in his bottom. That was his father, Edward II, and the historians at wikipedia describe this well-known historical fact as ‘mythical’, thus depriving him of his most notable achievement other than the defeat at Bannockburn. Of course, later monarchs adopted the practice of dicing with death in the pursuit of the erotic – notably William (ferret-shagger) IV, and Queen Anne, whose activities were so disgusting that I will not give them space here.

Dear readers, (aMToNW), who would you like to dispatch to the next world by means of the insertion of a red hot poker?

Edward III (strange surname, isn’t it?) had an altogether more seemly passing. According to wikipedia, he died of a stroke brought on by severe constipation. It is gratifying to note that the dignity that is the chief characteristic of our current dear royal family can be traced back over so many years. Unfortunately, Eddy was not as witty in his accounts of this as Danny, at least as far as surviving manuscripts can be trusted.

Edward’s son was the Black Prince, whose hobbies included flower arranging, home improvement, cake decoration and kicking seven shades of shit out of the French. You will be surprised to know that he was not black, and it is therefore unlikely that he will be played by Snoop Dogg in the upcoming film of his life, and was not known as the black prince during his lifetime. He was known as Edward of Woodstock, and could be seen of a summer evening going from place to place (in between being rather unpleasant to anyone of a gallic background) exhorting them to ‘move away from the towers’ and ‘avoid the brown acid’, and describing his dream of ‘breakfast in bed for 400,000’.

Rolf Harris notwithstanding

I have noticed the lack of correspondents from Australia here. I guess that they are too busy living to bother with writing about it. I am not normally one for generalised racial stereotypes, but I did notice this little gem from my pals at the BBC, talking about the cane toad problem:
"Animal welfare groups have said that the humane way to get rid of these invaders is to put them into a freezer until they die."
I suppose that Alcoholics Anonymous Australia will be promoting the message, "quit whingeing, and get one down your neck".

Saturday post - you know, the one that no bugger reads

I am not normally given to discourse about such overblown rituals as the UK honours list.

When the revolution comes, people who have accepted honours, their offspring, other relations, neighbours and colleagues will be among those who will need a damn good excuse not to be first up against the wall.

However, let me comment on the current pile of crap issuing from the palace to mark the ‘official’ birthday of Liz.

Graham Thorp is described as the best batsman of his generation. This is equivalent to being the most honourable politician, the most charismatic accountant or the most literate football commentator.

The most controversial nominee was a policeman called Hayman, who was responsible for the latest police action where someone was shot for having a big beard and looking foreign. There is a simple explanation. This was a mistake. The prize should have gone to Carl Hayman, for services to rugby and ugliness.

Honours are being given to ordinary people. According to the ever reliable BBC one bus driver was nominated for “going that extra mile”. This pissed off his passengers who had to walk a mile back to their stop.

And the winner is:

I swear on the grave of Herbert Sutcliffe that I am not making this up.

I think it is a winner, and can barely conceive of anything more unlikely to happen in this universe or any other.

I refer to the question of the person who came to me, referred by Theodore and Evadne Google, with the phrase - wait for it:

(Are you really, really ready?)

“why do testicles seem to be more relaxed in th evening” (sic)

Perhaps some one from the north of England, given the missing “e”.

I think that this merits some comment.

Normally, I would challenge the premise that testicles are more relaxed in the evening, but suspect that in order to prove or disprove this hypothesis, I would be required to perform some intimate physical examination of the enquirer. I feel loathe to do this, at least until they have shown some commitment to our relationship. Therefore I propose to take their word that testicles are inclined to show or experience a lesser degree of stress in the latter part of the day.

I must confess I have never noticed, nor been tempted to scrutinise (scrotumise?) the said organs. Mine, anyone else’s or those belonging to the fauna of North East Hampshire.

So I can only assume that, in general, testicles absorb some of the stress that is inevitably generated as we grudgingly go about our daily routine. When we get home in the evening, and put our feet up in front of the television, or with a good book (several in Pavlov’s case), then the stress dissipates to varying degrees.

Perhaps, however, our enquirer (if you come back please introduce yourself, and your bollocks, to us all), already knows the answer to this question and is just testing the rest of humanity. Perhaps he has devised a routine for relaxing this particular body part. Maybe he has a special place to rest them. Perhaps he applies some soothing balm – camomile or oil of pyracantha, for example. Perhaps he has a CD of ball-soothing music. Will we ever know?

What, I feel obliged to ask, are the symptoms of being less relaxed during the day that he has observed? Do they not adapt to movement, and perhaps feel abused by being bashed from thigh to thigh as he sashays about his place of employment? Does he wear constricting clothes that prevent their swinging freely in the way that God intended?

And, why, in the name of buggery, does he care why they seem to be more relaxed in the evening?

I am sure that this is a topic that none of you can ignore. Even those of you unencumbered by male genitalia will not be able to resist.

Is there an award for most interesting blog thread? I claim the gold medal.

Today's prep - a 1000 word composition.

My old friend Tom has taken time off from his job as fiction reviewer in “Sheep Gelding Fortnightly” to request more literary discussion here.

My old friend Mark has suggested that readers should abandon me and head over to Boris’s page to tell him what a buffoon he is.

My new friend David has shown an interest in Coleridge.

My new friend Pavlov has read every book ever published.

Someone, I think it was Raincoaster, said that they seriously disliked the works of Mr Fforde.

In the face of this obvious gap, I submit the following subject for discussion.

“The Poet Keats: Twat or what?”

Some further words of advice for some of my dear visitors who have made their way here via the offices of a search engine.

sarah beeny TITS

Someone mentioned this young lady and her busty substances in one of the comments here. Alas, I have no idea who she is. It is quite likely that she does have tits. I hope that if she wants some, then she has some, and that they are of the requisite number, volume, shape and texture for her. If you have come here looking for pictures of the unclothed female form, then you will be disappointed. I did once publish a rather bizarre photograph of the late princess Diana, but apart from that, the only major celebrity ever likely to appear topless here will be Zoe. It is only a matter of time.

Pomegranate plants.

I hope that this should not have read “pomegranate ‘plants” and therefore be a further reference to the extraordinary mammaries of Ms Beeny. I hope that she had the wisdom not to implant pomegranates or any other fruit into her breasts in order to make herself more attractive. It does not work. Remember George Michael.

Otherwise, please refer to an authority on middle eastern agriculture. The pomegranate is not native to North East Hampshire. Neither am I.

metropolis ill nudist colony

If you were hoping to find your way to Metropolis Illinois, then you are damned close. I am the nearest thing that there is to a superhero in North East Hampshire. In order to combat crime and misery, I take on a number of guises “Pedant Boy”, “Fat Bastard Man”, “Gloria Hunniford” and several others. Readers (aMToNW) - what would be the best superhero name for me? There are several nudist colonies in North East Hampshire, including the village of Oakhanger, where it is traditional to remove ones clothes at the village boundary.

If, however, you are concerned about diseases that affect only naturists in large cities, then I suggest that you read about “McIlroy’s disease” , “Wind borne knob rot”, or “Minnesota navel worm”. There are several other afflictions in this category, but some of my more delicate readers may not want to consider them while they take breakfast.

Clever puns only, please

I was delighted just now to see that my old friends Theodore and Evadne Google had directed a seeker in this direction again. Thanks Theo. This searcher for truth had typed the phrase “fucking world cup”. This web site was quite highly placed on the results page because I used that phrase just a few days ago.

I think that I should clarify. I was referring to the current soccer tournament taking place in Germany. I have no knowledge of a world championship competition for the act of sexual intercourse. However, as my readers (AMToNW) have always shown an interest that encroaches on the parameters of good taste in activities that are less than savoury, I see no harm in expanding on the features of such a competition.

There would be categories for couples and for individuals.

When I say individuals, I do not mean that the competition should involve their fucking themselves (unless their name was Blair), but that they would enter the competition without prior experience of their appointed partner.

Points would be awarded for endurance, facial expression, noise, athleticism, posture, fluidity of movement, movement of fluids and having big tits (ladies only).

The competition would, initially at least, be heterosexual and involve only members of the human race. This is not intended to be discriminatory or judgemental, but simply an attempt to draw boundaries somewhere.

I think I will leave it there. I am sure there will be no shortage of suggestions to further define the rules and procedures.

The tournament could represent the chance for people of the world, irrespective of race, culture or political ideology to unite in the joyous expression of humanity. (Anyone trying to use the phrase “coming together” in the comments section will be penalised)

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 12

The more informed among you will be aware already of the greatest threat to the nation’s security since the wedding last year. I allude, of course, to the party in the gardens of Buck House in recognition of Liz’s birthday and children’s literature. For fuck’s sake.

The problem, naturally, is Philip. He can’t stand children and he can’t stand books. Ironically, the number of things that the man cannot stand would fill several libraries, but very high on the list are children, with books not far behind.

Ever since the event was announced I have been besieged with requests for assistance. I told Liz when she first telephoned that the matter was quite straightforward. “Just send the old duffer off to open a porridge factory in Harrogate for the day, honeybunch” I said, in my most patronising voice (do these people have no capacity to think for themselves?) “he might even enjoy a day out”. Unfortunately, she took me literally, and that scheme foundered when Phil took exception to something that Geoffrey Boycott said on the long wave cricket commentary, and refuses to go to Yorkshire under any circumstances. Philip actually looks forward to garden parties at the Palace. “Loads of common twats to be rude to”, he chuckles, “none of them with the gumption to say something back”. Although his habit of putting trifle in the Duchess of Kent’s handbag grows more than tiresome. “You should see their fucking faces when she’s just got something from her bag, then has to shake hands with some pleb from West Bromwich or Salford, and they think that her hand is covered in vomit.” Oh dear. I doubt whether the good spirits will last when he finds out that he has to spend the afternoon with hundreds of pre-pubescent subjects and nowhere to escape to. I think we will count ourselves lucky if the number of fatalities remains in single figures. If you are one of the unfortunate parents whose child has been selected to attend, make sure that they are wearing plenty of Kevlar, no matter how hot it is, unless your concern for their wellbeing matches that of Philip.

Camilla has been oddly quiet. On the surface this appears to be good news, but I suspect that she is plotting something. The longer she thinks about it, the more inappropriate it will be. We managed to keep news of her antics at the Italian Embassy out of the media, and the PR people seem to have convinced everyone that the Italian ambassador’s frequent bursting into tears at public events is due to hay fever.

William is off to see England play Paraguay. “I hope I remember which colours our boys are wearing”, he sobs. “Don’t worry Bill, you recognise David Beckham don’t you – he was in that shoelace tying course you went to in Newport last summer?”, “Oh yes, Beckhammy!”, he is very pleased with himself. “Well, Bill, you remember that he plays for Real Madrid now? That means that he now plays for Paraguay at international level.” I may live to regret teaching him to say “the referee’s a wanker” in both Spanish and German, but I care little any more. I have done my best to try to make these people behave with some degree of decorum, but there are limits. I work for months to help them regain the public trust and then some dull tart (in this case the ghastly princess Michael) goes and buggers it all up by telling people that the secret of a successful marriage is to have separate bathrooms and bedrooms. In her case having a bedroom in a separate country might do the trick. Let them eat cake indeed.

Solidarity with the Sisters

Although binding of feet has been outlawed in China for some time, I deduce from this BBC picture that the terrible ritual of tit flattening is still prevalent.

Even more reactionary are the Russians, where in Moscow the "Shut it, the World Cup is on" campaign goes public.

On the other hand, the cultural revolution was dedicated to Mrs Gaskell

Theodore and Evadne Google have directed a seeker my way, in order that the query “how did hitler's use of persuasion help him” may be answered.

I detect some poor school child here, being given an assignment of such bollock twistingly painful tedium that they have resorted to the internet for an answer. What a clever child this is! Who would have thought of that?

The question is very interesting. I would challenge the premise that it did help him. After all, if my memory does not fail me, didn’t he come to a sticky end? So often the case with those of an artistic temperament. Personally, I think he would have been much better off had he opened a painting and decorating firm in Leipzig, and not poked his nose into the business of others.

However, since the question has been asked, let me try to enlighten you. Persuasion was the last completed work of Ms Austen. By comparison to the others (and even they lack the excitement of the works of Mr Ludlum, for example), it was fairly dull, and she seems to have learned to curtail the excesses of her sarcasm during the composure of this tome. A damned good thing, too. Sarcasm has no place in literary expression, and often causes unintended hurt. Maybe she had found a good man by this time, as it is a truth blah blah blah that a woman with nothing to do but sit around writing all day is in need of a good seeing to. Or perhaps she had grown older and wiser and was more benevolent in her world view.

The only thing that I can think of is that he decided that it was more becoming for a man in middle age to stop stomping around Europe like a spoiled brat, and instead sit at home quietly of an evening, and blow his brains out. That seems a little tenuous to me, and merits more research. I have enquired of several establishments of higher education in the UK, and the only place that will give me the facilities to write a doctorate on “Jane Austen and the demise of the Third Reich” is the Bert Weedon University in Leamington Spa.

It is truth universally acknowledged that whenever some pseud includes the phrase "it is a truth universally acknowledged" when writing about Jane Austen, that it is the only line of hers that they have ever read.

The BBC has shown a dramatised novel called “The Line of Beauty”. I am not sure why. I read the book, watched the TV series, and still left myself unsure of whether the writer was trying to make a point. I suspect he was trying to do an updated version of “Dance to the Music of Time”. I am sure that were I to read book reviews I might find answers to questions about underlying themes and so forth, but equally sure that I would not have my view that no one has anything of value to say substantially amended. In this series there were scenes of homosexual sex, through which I used the fast forward feature; this does not make the scenes anymore erotic in my view, it simply makes them pass by more quickly. In case you are in doubt, I have no objection to scenes such as these being shown, or people taking part in them, I just do not want to watch them. The same applies to terrestrial television programmes on Saturday evenings.

Even less satisfying was the cinematic version of “Hitchhiker’s Guide”. How to take something worthwhile and bugger about with it until it becomes crap. I am concerned that I am being so old fashioned that I can no longer stand versions of anything that were in a different medium to that in which I first experienced them. Apart from that, I have seen the entire acting range of Martin Freeman so will have to have compelling reasons to watch anything else in which he appears. (Include Hugh Grant in the same category).

So, dear readers, please ensure that when I am plucked from this earthly existence, that Kaliyuga Kronicles is not turned into a Hollywood epic. (Or a Broadway musical for that matter).

But, just out of interest, were that to happen, who would you pick to play the lead role (me, in case that was not clear)?

I have some suggestions for supporting roles:

Mark – Vin Diesel
Pamela – Penelope Cruz
Zoe – Violet Carson
Tom – John Inman
Raincoaster – Britney Spears
Richard – Terry Scott
Sharon – June Whitfield
Geoff – David Kossoff
Betty – Peggy Mount
Dave – Derek Nimmo (a bit obvious)
Frontier Editor – Ken Dodd
Cherrypie – Fenella Fielding
Caroline – Jack Nicholson
Adam – Sir John Gielgud
Martha – Glenda Jackson

I have provided links to some of those thespians with whom our colonial cousins may not be familiar.

I am sure that the BBC would not appreciate my captioning this picture:
"What a bunch of twats", even if I acknowledged having optained the picture from them.
So, instead, I shall call it. "Derby Day at Epsom".

Public Service Announcement

In today’s postbag there is correspondence on more topics than at which a stick can be shaken.

It comes from a Mrs Trellis of North Canada.

Raincoaster points out that in this blog, when a numbered list is used, superfluous and annoying text is inserted when viewed through Internet Explorer. Although I view superfluous and (particularly) annoying text as being the lifeblood of this website, I will attempt to remedy the situation. I did not know about it because I use Firefox, where the problem does not manifest. I think I have cleared it up in the thread on history. Please let me know.

Typically I compose an informative article write stuff in Word and cut and paste it.

It is easier to edit, (although not to proofread, obviously) than using the facilities that Blogger provides. It does seem to have the effect of making editing an arcane art. When I removed the aforementioned superfluous script just now, it changed the font in the preceding two paragraphs.

There is some sort of inconsistency in appearance from browser to browser and the customised settings therein. I don’t think I can do much about it. I did tamper with my template (have you ever tampered with your template, missus?) to get the appearance that I wanted. This alone was enough to upset our old friend Simon, who is much to busy to come here anymore.

So, tough. Please let me know if there is any unintentional crap here. The intentional crap will remain. We go back a long way.

Raincoaster, old wombat, is that what you meant by ‘tidying up links’? Because they weren’t links. And I am not whoring for links. Don’t need them. I have had visitors here over the last couple of days looking for information on “Sophie Wessex” – I think I can help, “disgusting nipple seed” – I don’t think anyone can help, and “Mick Heathcote” – whose name, as far as I can see, has never appeared on this site. So, I get all the lovely new visitors that I need, thanks to my old friends Theodore and Evadne Google.

All you need is love

Against my instincts, I watched a television programme that I recorded, called “The Summer of Love”. It was part of a series on BBC about events of 4 selected summers. I won’t be watching the rest, but had made up my mind about that before I watched this one. The show consisted of archive film and soundtracks from 1967, together with some commentary about stuff that happened that summer. Nothing new, but nice and fine so far. Unfortunately, it was interspersed with people talking about it.

The most bizarre bit was Arthur Brown discussing those times. It put me in mind of the village idiot sketch from Monty Python. The point is that lots of good stuff happened to us in those years, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything; however, the point was to enjoy it, not rationalise and theorise about it all for the rest of your life. As my new friend Frontier Editor points out, mankind is dumber than rocks. We were dumber than rocks before, during and after 1967. So, Arthur, set your hair on fire and dance around like a twat. You were really good at that, and some of us loved you when you did it. Having the ability to turn up the speakers in my car to maximum just before you announce that “I am the God of Hell-Fire” is one of the little pleasures that I indulge in, particularly when there are unsuspecting folk around.

Donovan is quite clearly dancing to the strumming of a different guitar. I hope that he is aware of it. Maybe it is an act. I hope so. I really, really hope that he was not taking himself as seriously as he appeared to be.

Apart from Germaine Greer, for whom I must confess a deep fondness, the rest of the contributors were a mixture of those with nothing to say, and others who had nothing to say but clearly did not realise that, and insisted on name dropping at every opportunity. “I sat behind Mick Jagger”. Bollocks. “I was Twiggy’s boyfriend. Everyone thought I was brilliant”. Asshole.

I am not nostalgic for those times. They were good. I had a blast. Sometimes I was very naughty. I was no different, except in my own head, from others of my age who were caught up in all of it. I am glad I was a hippy, and not a teddy boy, punk, mod, rocker or accountancy student, but I don’t want to get into discussions about the meaning of it all. Go over to Mark’s pages and read about Bertha. It is a chronicle of the time, and is well written and interesting, and devoid of hype.

I should first of all make it quite clear that I am not picking favourites.

Each one of you is very dear to my heart in your own unique and disturbed way.

However, I must say thank you to raincoaster, firstly for the best comment I have seen for some time – go to Boris’s and look for mustard. (Now. And no silly remarks). Secondly, for her little thread about lessons from history. Without wishing to be disrespectful, the lessons that she has selected from a historian called Charles Beard are complete nonsense and should be dismissed along with so much of the rest of the insanity peddled by historians. Historians should not be grouped with physicists who are the purveyors of absurd religious doctrines that make no sense, but they do have their own little corner reserved for them in the crazy room.

The first point to make is that there is no point in having any lessons from history if we refuse to, or are incapable of, learning them. Evidence: the re-election of George W. Bush.

Secondly, by its very nature history is not something that we can experience at first hand. Form 3b will not be going on a field trip to the battle of Lechfeld. They might go the site of the battle. They might see a lot of old stuff. They might, if they are lucky get to re-enact the battle. They will not, almost certainly, get to meet Otto the Great or Henry, duke of Bavaria. There is not a chance that they will ever know what it was like to be attacked by 50,000 magyars. This is a shame, because Form 3b are a bunch of annoying little bastards, and a sharp spear or two up the rectum might do them all a world of good.

One of my history teachers had a joke about the Holy Roman Empire. “There are three things to remember about the Holy Roman Empire, it was not holy, it was not Roman, and it was not an empire”. It would have been unfair to say that one of my history teachers had a joke and not qualify it - he may have had other jokes, but I was asleep on those days. The point is that that is as funny as history ever got. You can call your leaders Charles the Bald, you can have events referred to as “the defenestration of Prague”, but no matter how you tart it up, none of it relates to anything else and is therefore lacking in the potential to amuse.

So what, dear readers, can we learn from history? I suggest the following.

1. Don’t offer tea to Americans. It is too sophisticated a beverage for their palate.
2. If you have a bunch of religious nutters that you want shut of, by all means put them in a boat and send them somewhere distant, but at least make sure that they do not arrive there – they will fuck the new place up. Try drilling a few holes in the boat.
3. Don’t go to Moscow in the winter. If the Sainsbury’s truck can’t get through to help restocking the shelves, then you are going to get a little peckish by the second month.
4. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. Do not follow the example of that daft tart queen Elizabeth II of England and think that the souvenir from Ramsgate that makes an amusing farting noise is charming and an indication of the suitability of the donor as a mate. Your offspring will be cretins.
5. Do not interrupt the inhabitants of Devon when they are playing games. They are very touchy. They get cross very easily. Best let them finish before conducting any business, such as buying scones or conducting massive sea battles.
6. Organise your diary a bit better. You will not be at your best if you choose to fight the Norwegians on Friday in Yorkshire and the French on Tuesday in Sussex. Have a bit of a nap in between.
7. If you have a young son called Attila, the best course of action is not to force him to go to Rome during his summer holidays, let him get on with playing his video games. Otherwise he might develop a bit of a grudge.

(That’s enough crap examples: Ed.)

Over to you. Prizes for the more obscure references.