Here's to Old Friends.

Thanks to those nice folk at Friends Reunited, (despite what dear Richard says, they are very nice), I had a reply from someone with whom I shared my very brief college career.
Her message contained the quaint phrase:
"of course i remember you and the tin of Andrews liver salts you bought me for m 19th. birthday. "
Well, it made me smile. I really don't remember doing that.

Just for the ladies

OK, it is nearly the weekend, so as no bugger is reading, I can get away with a sports post.


1) The buggers picked Giles and left Panesar out. Skip the next couple of lines if you are of a delicate disposition.
Buggery bollocks. Fucking shit sucking camel shagging goat molesting arse mining third rate wankers.
I hope Australia win by an innings and 450.

2) Let us take a moment to reflect on the contributions to human joy of Ferenc Puskas who died last weekend. My earliest memory of watching a match on TV was the 1960 European Cup Final. The memory has been blurred by seeing highlights many times since, and I was certainly too young to realise just how spectacular that Real Madrid team was. Before Pele came along (and by 1960 he had only just begun to come along) either Alfredo di Stefano or Ferenc Puskas was the best player in the world (should that be ‘were’, FFE? Oh, sorry I forgot, you are no longer qualified to correct me) and they both played for the same team. There have been a handful of players since who were in their class, but, Pele aside, none who could be proved to be better. If you have never seen them, then my assertion would be that di Stefano was like Thierry Henry, but even better, and Puskas was as exciting to watch as Bobby Charlton, but even better. If you watch the 1960 match you will wonder how anyone ever managed to stop Puskas. It seemed as if he would get the ball somewhere near halfway, power past two or three defenders and shoot from anywhere from 10 yards to 35 yards out, and the shot would be unstoppable. It is possible that if he were playing for Chelsea now then my image would be entirely different; I prefer my memories.

3) Er ….

4) That’s it.

Some more practical help

On the television (you know, Pamela, that friendly shiny box in the corner of the room, that drowns out the sounds of the whining and droning of the people you live with, and generally makes existence tolerable) just now, on the BBC news, a judge, who for some reason was the subject of a news item said the following (now pay careful attention please):


“You don’t practise as a solicitor in Scunthorpe for 20 years without being in touch with reality”.


Before I discuss the implications of this let me help those of my readers from foreign parts (A Mrs Trellis of North Wuhan) by giving you some information about:

• Solicitors. Solicitors are lawyers. They are not necessarily those who solicit for sex on the city streets, but it would be inaccurate to say that the two professions had clear boundaries.
• Scunthorpe. Scunthorpe is an obscure town in Lincolnshire famous only for being banned as a domain name on the web, and for having a very ordinary football team that nevertheless provided three England captains.

So there is the ultimate secret of the path to liberation revealed. Who would have thought of that one? I am not sure whether conveyancing in Lincolnshire is more or less difficult than sitting naked in a Himalayan cave, but for the former we have the testimony (of a judge, no less) to its efficacy. So for those seekers of truth out there, the path is now illuminated. All you need is a law degree and the wherewithal to withstand the cruel winters in the east of England. Buy a home in Scunthorpe (motto “It’s close to Cleethorpes”) and simply wait for enlightenment.



I am off to produce some best sellers.

A Search in Secret Humberside.

Meetings with remarkable barristers.

The Bhagavad Grimsby.

The Tibetan Book of the Tort.

He's back, snarling and pouring bile.

My new friend, Kill them with Kindness, has written about being involved in the perfect wedding.
Here is my plan for a wedding. I will not charge you for the ideas.
Option 1. Don't have it. Just live together.
Option 2. Get it done as quickly and cheaply as possible. It should not take more than 30 minutes plus traveling time, cost less than £50, and involve no more than 4 guests. I will never be one of the guests.
There, you have saved people hours of pointless time, money and stress. Thousands of men all over the world will be grateful by not having their weekend sports viewing interrupted by some ghastly and obscene spectacle involving daft tarts in silly hats, listening to the ramblings of some twat you don’t know talk bollocks, seeing some hideous crone dressed like an extra in a very perverse porno movie being referred to as “the beautiful bride” and attempting to digest inedible, badly prepared food in an atmosphere loaded with tobacco, alcohol and cheap scent.

Thank you for that, I can feel the Christmas spirit coming up on me already.

Your assignment

I have a friend (and I know that my definition may not concur with yours, and please don't rest under the misapprehension that comments about my lack of social contacts constitute wit), who, in company with his dear wife is traveling around the world on public transport.
He has gone through Europe, Russia, Mongolia and China and is now somewhere in South East Asia. He is keeping a journal of these journeys (well worth a read in their own right) on his myspace site.
As far as I am aware he does not often read this blog. So, if you have five minutes, go over there, please do not mention that I sent you, and post some helpful advice on his blog. You will need a myspace account for this, but it is free and relatively painless to obtain, and then you will be up to date with what all the young people are doing. You will, should you care to linger there a while, notice that I have shared some of my wisdom with him in his adventure. Please make your entries as bizarre as you can. Prizes for the best entry will not be awarded.

Have you been on your holidays this year, sir?

I am pleased to note that my absence has neither affected the number of visitors nor the silliness of the comments.

I was surprised to learn that my absence from matters internetorial did not cause me any distress. I was beginning to think that I might have the beginnings of an addiction.

The other day on dear old radio 5, they were discussing the circumstances of the apprehension of Britain’s latest terrorist. (You can tell he is British, he failed abysmally to even get his neighbours to tell him to turning the fucking television down, let alone perpetrating atrocities. He must be the single most ineffective terrorist on the planet. It seems harsh to give him 40 years just for incompetence. I shall discuss this matter with some of my robed friends next time I call in at the Old Bailey).

The Radio 5 reporter said “He was arrested while he was at the barber’s, having his hair cut by armed police officers.” This caused a great deal of merriment among the listening public – yes, I was not the only one to notice it. However, during my listening period, I did not hear a satisfactory explanation.

Readers from overseas (a Mrs Trellis of North Warsaw) will need some illumination about the nature of Radio 5 and the traits of its listeners. Well, tough. I pay a licence fee each year to benefit from the wisdom of the BBC, why should you get it for free?

So, this hair cutting business. Mr Blair’s very effective terrorist prevention policy (item 1, he wears a jacket with the legend “Hey, look, I’m a nice guy, please don’t blow me up, or stick a turnip up my arse” on the back) is geared towards reducing the threats these people pose by ridiculing them. The gentleman in question was having his hair styled in the form of a comb-over at the time of his arrest, thereby rendering him ineffective as a symbol of militant Islam. If you are in Britain, particularly in one of the major cities, and you see a person with a particularly silly haircut, you can safely point him out as an ex-member of al-Qaeda. For the benefits of those not privy to this policy make sure that you create a scene and inform as many other passers-by as you can. Be wary of this outside the main cities. In places, the wearing of what would be regarded elsewhere as preposterous tonsorial effects is not uncommon among the less well informed; I refer you to the photograph on Tom’s page as an example. When Mr bin Laden is brought to book, the first act of punishment will be to fashion his beard into the shape of a shrivelled penis. Never let it be said that the Brits are not on the frontline in the war against fascism.

Glacial Arab pastures

I am very grateful to those nice folk at world history day for including my little essay in its entirety. As far as I can see I am the only person among the many thousands of people whose work has been displayed, who wrote about turnips up arses. This may, or may not, give future generations a distorted idea of the importance of the role played by root vegetables vis-a-vis the sphincter in the early years of the 21^st century. I am not afraid to be in the vanguard of this cause. According to Theodore and Evadne Google, I am the only source of information on the subject “turnips up their arses” on the whole of the internet. In the more general field of turnips up the arse, I come a modest second. Had it not been for dear old Frontier Editor introducing the radish (and I use the word ‘introduce’ with a certain sense of ambiguity) I may have attained my rightful first place. So, despite the world conspiring against me these two weeks, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

Pavlov. Are you back?

(The heading is an anagram)