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”.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
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.
'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
Friday, October 13, 2006
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?
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?
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 feelto 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 thereaislecalledscarrainScotland
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.).
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.
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?
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
In an exciting new development, scientists have discovered some planets that orbit their sun in between 1 and 4 days.
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.
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.
