This is the speech that I wrote for Liz this year, I hope that she uses it.

When I reached the zenith of my days of rebellion, having sacrificed the chances of a top rate education, and squandered more opportunities than you could stuff a hippo with (or ”than with which you could stuff a hippo” for those of you whose education was not squandered (twats)), and sat around typically watching Tom trying to decide whether getting out of his chair would ultimately benefit the cause of love and peace, I was of a cheery disposition, and optimistic that the world was going to be shaken by the new consciousness that we were experiencing.

Well, we didn’t end war, greed, poverty, misery. We weren’t part of a giant leap in evolution whereby mankind discover the mysteries of the journey within and resolved the arcane questions of the meaning of life. We didn’t manage to convince anyone that it was important to care for the planet, at least until it was too fucking late.

I am not sure how much I thought it likely that any of these changes would come, I suspect that like most of my friends I enjoyed being part of a distinctive rebellious minority (at least until it brought us to the attention of the drug squad) and took delight in the derision with which we were greeted by the straight world.

But one thing that I thought would definitely change would be the obsession with tradition.

I fucking hate tradition. I fucking hate tradition with a passion bordering on the psychotic. I really, sincerely hope that you all have a lovely time today, and every other day, but if your enjoyment involves any of crackers, silly hats, the fucking queen’s speech, brussel sprouts, saying “and all the trimmings” (FUCK OFF) then please do not invite me to be part of it. In fact, shove it. The same goes for your new year celebration and the fucking Scottish song (they only fucking composed it so that they could laugh at the rest of the world looking like twats singing it, there’s not much to be cheerful about if you are born in Glasgow for fuck’s sake). And most of all your fucking weddings with your fucking silly clothes, twatty speeches, bollocky confetti and whatever the fuck else some twat has decided is essential so that you can spend 3 million pounds on fucking dross. Thank you for your kindness, but I will not be attending.

What kind of deep rooted insecurity in humanity is it that makes it impossible to enjoy themselves without repeating meaningless rituals? “Oh, it’s a tradition! Dorothy choked on a chestnut the last two Christmases, so we’ve got to fucking force them down her throat until she turns blue, it’s a tradition”.

So, today, as you sit around your Ikea dining table having devoured a manky poultry carcass with “all the fucking trimmings”, and you are so amused by finding a coin in your food that you think your lungs are going to turn bright purple and explode, take a look at Uncle Norman, with his silly green fucking paper hat, playing with the fucking silly bit of plastic that was in his cracker and drooling down the new cardigan that Santa brought for him, and instead of thinking “It’s nice to see him enjoying himself” ponder on whether it would be possible for him to look any more fucking ridiculous than he does at this moment. You don’t have to upset him by saying it out loud, but pause for a second and think to yourself “You dozy looking old cunt”.

I hope that this helps.

Happy Christmas.

Overtaken by all of the joy

I was wrong. It is a time for goodwill to all men, and reverence for the sacred message.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 17

I was loathe to begin this little essay because I know how you all tire of hearing the regular christmas nonsense of my complaints about the Windsors and their persistent urging of me to spend the holiday season with them. I am, as you know, blessed with a patient nature, but many years ago I swore that enough was enough, and my first year at home I sent them all a biography of Cromwell. Camilla got a copy and without bothering to read it, telephoned to ask if Mrs Cromwell was the duchess of Cromwell like her, and were they related? I quietly agreed, and said that she should get someone to draw up a family tree. I said that I knew of people who could trace their ancestry back to the Norman conquest. She was really excited and said that maybe Charles was related to someone famous like William the Conqueror. Yes, I said, shocked that she should be able to relate William the Conqueror to the Norman Conquest. But I needed not to fret, because she then told me that her cousin used to go out with someone called Norman Conquest, and perhaps he was related too. Can you imagine what it is like playing charades with these people? They spend most of the time finding one of the staff to work out whether their title is a book, a film or a play, which is quite amazing since none of them have ever finished a book, and the only play they have seen is the annual panto - Aladdin – at the King’s Lynn rep.

Anyway, it was Camilla who has been disrupting my week again. She saw on the news that Liz is now the oldest reigning monarch. “We must do something to celebrate it, darling,” she oozed. I expect her motive is to set a precedent so that if she manages to outlive Liz and become queen herself (yes, I know, but you trying telling her), then she will be assured of a party. Her daftest idea (and I know you won’t believe it) (and there was some pretty healthy competition in that particular category) was to re-enact Liz’s birth by having her come down a slide and some curtains smeared in loganberry jam. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘undignified’ you daft bastard?” I asked the future consort of the head of state. “It was exactly that sort of stupid antic that finished off other contenders for the title of eldest monarch. See if anyone can tell you the story of Edward the second and the little party game of ‘what will fit up your bum’.”

Calls alternated between various members of the family wanting me to go to Sandringham, and those asking if I would act as babysitter to David Linley. The poor boy is the dullest company at the best of times – have you ever known a bright chippy? I told Liz I couldn’t possibly entertain him because I was out of brandy snaps, but I don’t think she got the reference.

Simple Sophie Wessex seems to think that she is the only woman on the planet to have given birth. She still can’t think of a name for him. I read that he will be given the title “Viscount Severn”. I told her to call him “Blake”. I might get away with it - I thought “Magnificent” was too obvious even for her, neither would it be particularly appropriate given his genetic make-up. I told her that she would be less tired if she put both the new baby and Edward to bed at the same time, and read them both the same bedtime story. It wasn’t entirely true, last January she had to be taken to bed with exhaustion when one of her birthday cards had a poem with more than one verse.

This is hilarious

For many years I have felt ever so slightly superior to those people who find themselves addicted to the internet. While I spend many happy hours poking around in the dark corners of the web, I have always managed to avoid obsession.

I have scorned those who cannot stop playing solitaire. I am a tad judgmental about the porn addicts (I turned down the invitation to appear on “Hetero Hampshire Hunks”, because I do not think that these sites are improving the lot of humanity). I have chided Tom about his escape into Second Life. I eschew chain mail, discussion group membership and anything that is recommended as being “hilarious”.

This morning, all of that changed. I have previously alluded to my fondness for the radio programme “I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue”.

Here for the overseas readership (A Mrs Trellis of North Wellington) are some extracts from the show:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/notts2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/mornington.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/rhymes.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/postcards.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/samantha.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/waiter.html

They are all very short, so have a good listen.

However, today I found on Facebook a user group called “I'm sorry, I haven't a clue apprieciation society”. The spelling mistake is theirs, not mine. I am hooked. They play the games online. There are something like 8000 posts on line. I have only justed started to read them all. I lolled. I lolled more than I have lolled for a long time. Repeatedly and often. I will never get away. Come in and rescue me if you dare.

Seasonal quiz

You can find out for yourselves by searching the internet why the lady was striking matches aboard a plane, but I doubt whether you will find out the reason behind these statements:

She was carrying safety matches, which the TSA allows in carry-on luggage. The matches are not allowed to be struck, however.

This year’s seasonal competition – it is in several parts – first prize “bugger all” – is to determine what the TSA thinks passengers will do with unstruck matches, then to decide what "TSA" stands for, and finally to see whether you can smuggle a gun on board by insisting that you are not going to fire it. Once you have got through that part of the test, I need to you to move to an unrelated matter, although points will be awarded for finding a connection, which is the problem confronting my friends at LiveScience.com, which is to determine why pubic hairs are curly. Do they know for a fact that all pubic hairs are curly? In order to pose their initial question I would ask for evidence to support the argument. Have any of you had anyone who may have been a scientist probing your nether regions (not you, Adam, wait a few years) recently? My memory is not what it was, but I don’t think that I have been researched. She told me her name was Penelope Cruz, and I believed her. Anyway, they know the components that cause the curliness, but not why there is a need for it. Any suggestions? Finally, can you come up with a suitable name for the newly born eighth in line to the British throne?

When you have tired of all of that, try this little quiz that requires less imagination but more erudition. I think Dave publicised it recently, thank you Dave or whoever else it was – I have been told about it from several sources – but have a go. If, like me, you have just been listening to Uxbridge English Dictionary on ISIHAC, then I would give it a few minutes.

Snarling in a festive way

My dear friend I,LTV has sent me an email offering to send me a seasonal greeting:

I have bought a pack of cards with robins on them
My reply included the sentiments:

… one with an original gratuitous insult would be nice - one gets so few these days. Alternatively, it will come in handy for the traditional "card scoffing" ceremony on Christmas eve.
I trust that they are pictures of robins, rather than avian corpses stapled to the inside. We don't even have a turkey here.

Mrs S does not really get into the Christmas spirit until quite late. It is not usually until the thirty sixth person has asked what vegetarians eat at christmas that she spews wrath sufficient to mummify a reindeer at sixty paces, while I am in full humbug from the moment the first christmas reference appears on the television. Usually fucking March.

At my local supermarket, one of the staff enquired whether I liked the Christmas music. Rather than giving a direct answer, I replied by asking if there was an axe nearby, and if so could she direct me to the source of the music. She told me that she liked Christmas music. I called her a pervert. I was mildly cheered, though, never having met anyone who could stand the muck before.

If I were to see anyone at Christmas, then card scoffing would be one of the highlights. To select the most vacuous, insincere, glittery, unamusing concoction of piffle from the many that my poor postman feels obliged to deliver to me. How I long for the days when friends would take the trouble to personalise an offensive envelope (I confess I did not do this this year). “Mr U. Queunte” was one of my favourites. Tom usually remembers, but he has stopped making much of an effort with the cards.

This year’s selection so far has been disappointing. No rhymes, no nauseating pictures, no unfunny cartoon representations of Santa; the only one so far with a chance of making it through to the scoffing final has glitter on the front. This has the effect of giving it the texture of sand paper. A jolly jape, so that as you reach inside the envelope to extract it, there is a sixty four percent likelihood of your epidermis being ripped from you nerve endings, but I doubt that this was the intention.

Mrs Wagner's pies

Moving swiftly on from the introspection of that last distasteful article, I am relieved to see that eccentricity is a pastime that spans the ocean.

I am delighted that my friends at WNEM in Saginaw, Michigan, have taken the trouble to report the following:

The 2008 Guinness World Records book honors the 29-year-old McKnight for living to tell about being thrown 118 feet after being hit by a car. McKnight was standing along a highway about 15 miles east of Pittsburgh on Oct. 26, 2001, helping victims of a car wreck when he was hit by a car doing 70 mph.

He suffered two dislocated shoulders plus a broken shoulder, pelvis, leg and tailbone. His injuries put him in the hospital for two weeks, followed by 80 days in rehab, before returning to work in April 2002.

This seems to be a lot of trouble to go to in order to get one's name in print. At one point I contacted the said publication in order to see how many more people to whom I would have be rude in order to gain an entry, but when I addressed them as misbegotten sons of rat’s miscarriages, they refused to furnish me with the required data. I will certainly not be bothering them again, let alone take part in any activity that might involve my discomfort.

The article does not mention whether Mr McKnight was an accomplished jumper of any sort. Nor does it say whether he lay there in agony until a representative of Guinness arrived to accurately measure the distance. It would be churlish to suggest that he took the time to crawl an extra few feet. I am not sure how long it took Mr Guinness to arrive, and I would not begrudge Mr McKnight a couple of feet in his condition. Had he shown a little initiative, he could have claimed that he had been propelled all the way into his hospital bed by the accident. Thick twat.

The only thing that I know about Saginaw is that it took Paul Simon 4 days to hitchhike from there. The song implies that he was travelling to Pittsburgh, a distance of some 290 miles. He must have been as good a hitchhiker as he is a songwriter. The drivers on that route were obviously afraid that he would read some of his lyrics to them if they gave him a lift. I estimate that he could have made the trip by being involved in 12977 accidents such as that experienced by Mr McKnight, assuming of course that each car was able to propel him in the direction of Pittsburgh. That may have taken more than 4 days to accomplish, but may have provided him with the suffering necessary to have the perspective to be able to write good songs.

I really hate this sort of post. I wouldn't bother reading it

Darlings, sweethearts, fans and sycophants.

I really hate those blog posts where the writer gets serious and starts to justify blogging, or making some announcement about giving up as if anyone gives a shit, but, not for the first time, I am being nagged to produce something new here, and perhaps you need an explanation or something.

There is an area of my life, not very central and not hugely significant, that has been full of crap these last few months. As you know, I am a great yogi, and am able to remain detached from most of the events in this world. However, having this large lump of crap around has affected my desire and ability to post regularly.

The crap is not serious, or anything that concerns me deeply, it is just there. I don’t want to write about it.

At present I am attempting, with very little success, to channel my brilliance into the creation of the christmas card, that many of you have been anticipating since February. It may be very quiet here for a time.

UPDATE

Kaliyuga Kards is proud to announce the publication of this year's festive greeting. Email your address to me if you wish to be a lucky recipient.

Form an orderly queue for my autograph

You will understand if I am unable to continue our relationship. I am now moving in more exalted circles.

I have just received this:

Dear Mr Scurra

I very much enjoyed your email to James Arbuthnot.

Yours sincerely

The Rt Hon Ann Widdecombe MP

Taking a stand for standards in political life

I have sent the following note to my local political representative. The time has come for those of us who value decency to make a stand.

Dear Mr Arbuthnot,

I was shocked, stunned and not a little saddened to learn, courtesy of the BBC television programme “Have I Got News For You”, that Ann Widdecombe has a cat that bears your name.

Would you please assure me and my fellow constituents that we are not going to be subject to an unpleasant news splash in the Sunday People or some such publication in the coming weeks, which would bring opprobrium on the inhabitants of North East Hampshire? I need hardly remind you that this is Jane Austen country. Even when Ms Austen wishes to shock us episodes such as Lydia Bennet’s indiscretion are not explicitly described.

If you were fortunate enough to spare a few minutes away from your busy schedule to view the television programme in question, you would have witnessed Ms Widdecombe calling out “Arbuthnot” in a manner not dissimilar to that used by the heroines in the genre commonly referred to (but not in North East Hampshire) as “bodice rippers”. I had to set aside the organic vegan eccles cake that I had been enjoying up to that point, and urgently have a little lie down.

I shall be posting this missive on the Kingsley web log, and on my own much more widely read (it has one reader) web journal.

I look forward to your urgent and completely rebuttal of any inferences that may be drawn from this serious and disappointing revelation.

Yours eagerly, (although not in the Widdecombe sense)

V. Scurra.

I am pleased to report that I received this reply:

Dear Mr Scurra,

I am sorry, but I can give you no such assurance. Ann Widdecombe (I am not sure I share your courage in calling her “Ms”) and I have been in discussions about this cat for some years now, and she keeps me regularly updated about its progress, but I have never met it, and I cannot answer for its behaviour. If, for example, it were found doing awful things in the bushes with neighbouring females, or began to slaughter all the nearby wildlife, I would have to bear the reflected publicity with such fortitude as I could muster.

Or perhaps you were suggesting something more? Again, I am not sure I share your courage.

Yours sincerely,

James Arbuthnot



Let this be a warning to all of you young Che Guevaras and Reg Pithers out there. Do not get close to your political opponents, you might find yourself getting to like them.

60 glorious years of opening kindergartens.

Take me now, Philip, I'm melting!

Crowds waited in silence outside the Palace, hoping to hear the royal orgasm.

Elizabeth was less than pleased to discover that he had used their wedding certificate to collect the autographs of the Tiller Girls.

I wish Batman or whoever the fuck he is would get a bloody move on, I keep thinking I'm a chess piece.

Bill had not yet noticed that the reading he was giving was not from the Bible, but from Oliver Cromwell's diary. Camilla would regret her little jape later.

"You can't possibly think that Clapton is a better guitarist than Santana, you silly mare!"
"Sixty fucking years, and you still don't realise who is the head of state round here, you lanky streak of piss. Watch your lip, or you'll be spending your twilight years in a nursing home in Salford."

You just can't go anywhere without nicking something can you? What are you going to do with that? As if we don't have enough bollocky pamphlets as it is. "Welcome to Llandudno" and all of that shit. Where are you going to keep it? We don't live in a fucking palace you know.

A political statement

Just say no

I thought that it was important to make it clear, particularly with regard to the debate over at Tom's, that there is no place for illegal drugs in our society.

Tom! Did you give this guy some acid when you were in the States?

While some of my correspondents agonise about their physical defects, I am pleased to note that the Telegraph on line has managed to come down on my side of the “Physicists: twats or what?” debate.

Once you have carefully examined the birthday photograph album of Charles, who has reached the age of 59 without once having a clue about what the fuck was going on, and, by the way, don’t be shocked by the startling news that he once visited New Zealand and once had a beard, as far as I can tell he did not have the beard when he visited New Zealand, that would be too fucking exciting, wouldn’t it? I mean, I had a beard once, (it was hardly worthy of the name, being light in colour and very sparse), but I would not have dared take it to New Zealand. There are limits which one should not exceed, and I pride myself on having a very clear understanding of them. You can find the Charles pictures by typing “twat in a kilt” into any reputable search engine.

Apologies, I got a bit over excited there. What I meant to construct was:
Once you have carefully examined the birthday photograph album of Charles, who has reached the age of 59 without once having a clue about what the fuck was going on, you can read all about the exciting research done by Garrett Lisi (this one has lots of anagrams “girlie tarts”, “is larger tit”, “girl arse tit”), who has done some careful experiments in sub atomic physics while surfing on Lake Tahoe. Mr Lisi has a doctorate (the subject is not specified), and is not possessed of a surplus of hair, but appears to be some sort of hippyish figure who has had a major realisation after his third tab of mescaline since he last slept. Imagine Neil from the Young Ones “Hey, guys, listen, no listen, I’ve just had this really cool idea about the theory of everything, right.” Or in Gazza’s own words:

"My brain exploded with the implications and the beauty of the thing," he tells New Scientist. "I thought: 'Holy crap, that's it!'"

Very much the reaction of the Buddha when he attained enlightenment, except he probably thought it in Pali or Sanskrit.

Even the normally sober correspondent of the Telegraph finds words difficult to manage:
E8 encapsulates the symmetries of a geometric object that is 57-dimensional and is itself is 248-dimensional.

There is a lesson here, be careful about reading this stuff, you might start talking bollocks any minute. Only strict discipline has sustained the clarity of my writing.

I have enclosed a picture of E8. Those of you familiar with the effects of ingesting lysergic acid diethylamide or its cousins will begin to understand the processes that Garrett has undergone.

All of this, if it is accepted by our deluded friends in the scientific community, will disprove “string theory”, as being too complicated. If they had paid more attention to this blog they would already know that. See my appraisal of string theory in a previous posting.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU.

Mr Lisi goes on to say:
"I think our universe is this beautiful shape."

Yes, Mr Lisi. Never mind the fucking shape, the universe is beautiful, and if these silly fuckers stopped trying to explain it and started to experience it, then not only would our children not have to sit through arse numbingly boring physics lessons, but there might be a tad more happiness in the world.

PS - you'll like this one, it only just occurred to me as I was passing on the good news to my fellow villagers on the Kingsblog. E8, as in "E8 too many fucking mushrooms".

Stick it up your subroutine

Most of you will by now be fully conversant with the sad news courtesy of my friends at BBC online that physicists have started to poke their wart-bedecked and misshapen noses into the world of computing.

One had hoped that by now they would have all blown themselves upon in their dismal experiment in the sewers of Geneva, but they probably need another 20 billion pounds to complete the experiment.

We are now faced with the prospect of replacing the good old “bit” with quantum bits or “qubits”.

You will all be aware that any phrase that contains the word “quantum” is highly suspicious, and that the word quantum is virtually a synonym for “bollocks”.

Those of us (aMToNW) who learned the art of computer programming in the days when you actually had to understand the code in order to get it to work, will have a great fondness for binary code and the simple logic that underlies it. We are now faced with the bollocks bit, or “bobbit” (insert genital mutilation joke here):
A qubit can also represent a "1" or a "0" but crucially can be both at the same time - known as a superposition.

This is a delight. We will now have to go back over our work of the last 30 or so years, and replace all of the “if, then, else” loops with “if, perhaps, sometimes”. Those of you with a jocular disposition will by now be say “well, that’s how the computer that produces my bank statement already works”, and holding your sides until someone comes along with a staple gun.

For those of you who think that I have a silly name, may I introduce Professor Artur Ekert – seems to be a few consonants short of an anagram – who is keen on this baloney. He refers to “massively parallel processing”. I have heard of this before, and even understand something of what is meant by it, alas. My understanding, however, is in spite of rather than because of the mangling of the language. Lines are either parallel or not. You twat.

Professor Stan Williams of HP has a slightly (only slightly) more sensible suggestion, using photons instead of electrons (just join in for a minute and pretend to believe in them), or light instead of electricity. So, dispense with your mouse and keyboard, and dust off the Aldiss lamp in the loft in order to optimise input.

Any room in Grantham for physicists, Reg?

Sal Mubarak

Does anyone know the correct term for two conjoined spheres? Hands up!

Many of you (aMToNW) reacted with kindness to my story from childhood memory some time ago. Thank you for all your messages of support.

But there is always some fucker who has to go one better, isn’t there?

Nothing like this ever happened to me. Nothing like this ever happened at my school. It is all so unfair. God, you are a bastard.

What a wonderful day for ...

I would just like to say how tickled I am, under the circumstances - have you ever been tickled under the circumstances missus? - to celebrate the 80th birthday of Ken Dodd. Those of you who have not heard of him will not find much on the internet to indicate just how funny he is. A master of his craft.

(Anyone posting negative comments will be countered with "He's funnier than you, fuckwit" - you have been warned).

And any pedantic git noting that I posted this about 45 minutes before his birthday can sod off as well.

Here's looking forward to the next 80 years.

Phew! It's mild in Surrey

There have been laments and expressions of disappointments over at Tom’s journal now that he has returned from his adventure, because it is anticipated that his excellent travel log has ended. This is indeed the case. Unless he has been smitten by the thrill of travel, the next twelve months are unlikely to see him venture further than Moretonhampstead to stock up on his organic corn flour.

Perhaps I, in my humble way, might attempt to fill a tiny percentage of the gap that has been left on the internet. I do not claim to have the insights and mastery of prose that Tom has, but there is a need and who am I to shirk my duty?

This morning I crossed the county boundary into Surrey. I know that there are many of you out there (aMToNW) who can only dream of visiting Surrey, but this is not an idle boast, and in fact I have been there so many times that it almost seems commonplace. I have found the inhabitants to be generally friendly – not dissimilar to you and I, and the customs and lifestyle quite easy to relate to. In coming weeks, should this item prove popular, I may be able to describe, in an objective and anthropological way, such happenings as entertainment - the car boot sale in Crawley, the cuisine – as available at “Ye Olde Tea Shoppe” in Dorking, and glimpses of their quaint ways – a journey into the zany world of shopping at “Toys R Us” in Woking.

Coming back into Hampshire, one is reminded of why those of us lucky enough to live here rarely find it necessary to leave for entertainment. Within a couple of miles of passing the county checkpoint, one is reminded that one is in “Jane Austen Country”, there is the internationally renowned “Bird World”, and the Forestry Commission Research Station at Alice Holt. A giddy mix of culture, nature and science.

The reminder that we are in Jane Austen Country is for the benefit of visitors from Surrey. You need not be reminded, I am sure, that Surrey borders on London, and the inhabitants are therefore in danger of picking up the sloppy English usage prevalent in that place. The sign is therefore a warning that estuarisation will not be tolerated, and that dangling modifiers should be left at home. Jane is seldom seen in public these days. The rumour is that she is being shagged senseless by one of those drippy middle class morons who are the models for most of her characters.

I always listened to my party's call and never thought of thinking for myself at all

I have to write something because that silly bugger Reg has changed the picture that my previous post alluded to. I won’t be making that mistake again.

A summary of tonight’s battle against the trick or treaters.
0 fatalities,
0 injuries.

Nothing exceptionally exciting, but an unusually high turnout. We seem to be getting more young people in the village. Obviously shipped in to boost the Tory part vote when the current population turn up their toes.

My gambit with my first visitors was to tell them that they looked ill, and that perhaps they should go and lie down. “Lie down in the road” I suggested. They did. I love dumb obedience in the young (see my earlier comment about the Tory youth).

A gang of about seven were next to arrive. This was lovely. I opened the door and let out a scream (not a high pitched one, but still more of a scream than a roar). They screamed, very loudly, in return. Really high pitched screams. I then affected not to be able to hear them say “trick or treat”. It was fucking loud. And even fucking louder the fourth time.

“Don’t look behind you” I said to one young girl, “but there’s someone really scary standing at the end of my drive”. “That’s my mum”. “Scared me to death” I said. You will note that I did not say “scared the shit out of me”, or anything else inappropriate.

My favourite was a few years ago when a couple of older boys knocked (I guess about 11 or 12). I greeted them with the scream also. “I’ve peed my pants”.

I’m still waiting up at 11.00, but there have not been any visitors for some time. I guess I dug too many holes in the garden this year.

Commercial break

Having failed, as promised, to amuse anyone with my last post. (My motto - "If you don't find what you like here, fuck off"), may I point you in the direction of the amusing little photograph at the top of Mr Pither's web log? I almost missed it. You can even read his blog if you want. He seems to be a nice young lad, who suffers from irritability and moroseness, but has the makings of a fine citizen.

(I mean the bit in the top right hand corner)

Is this bus going to Talke?

I was going to entertain you all with an analysis of a BBC news article about public transport. How you would have laughed. Not just lolled, but roffled, lmfaoed and bmsled. (I made the last one up).

But the BBC have done some retroactive proofreading, and changed the title of their quaint essay. It is about bio-diesel fuels, and the heading used to say something about passengers using their own fat. I was going to write about each bus having a driver and a surgeon on board. You would state your destination, and then have liposuction applied until there was sufficient fuel to reach your desired location. I was then going to explain that the headline did not really mean that, but that the scheme was that you could trade in used cooking oil on the bus as a discount against the fare. I would then have made some hilarious comments about measuring the oil, checking whether it was olive, sunflower, peanut or corn, and giving change in lumps of margarine. But they changed the headline, so I won’t do any of that now. Pity. It was going to be fucking hilarious.

String Theory in two seconds

In a week where both the eminent Kingsley Web Log and dear old “Son of Groucho” both give space to a damned silly video attempting to “explain string theory in two minutes”, it is yet again left to me to be the voice of sanity.

I can explain string theory in two seconds:

“IT IS BOLLOCKS”.

I will not give you the links to any of these sites, nor to the very clever sites that give the explanation of the theory of relativity in words of one syllable. The noxious body of physicists have given up on trying to persuade us that their preposterous claims are founded in science – that is patently stupid – and have joined the image over substance bandwagon by the use of dismally unfunny gimmicks.

Jacques Anquetil

I would like to make it absolutely clear that there is nothing even a little amusing about this story.
The women in question were quite correct in their conduct - invading the gentleman's privacy and reporting his entirely harmless activity. The headline is somewhat misleading. He did not perform the act described in court, but was in court as a result of performing the act earlier.
There will be no prizes for appalling puns or cheap jokes. Tittering at the back of the room will be dealt with harshly.

My cousin Westmoreland. I actually prefer "Cousin Caterpillar".

In order to catch up with this blogging business, I thought that it was about time that you received some education and benefited from my wisdom. I thought that as today is a day when a couple of famous events happened in history, I would tell you about them, and other things that I have found out by doing a bit of internet searching.

Every schoolboy knows that 25^th October is the anniversary of the battle of Agincourt, and courtesy of Bill Shakespeare therefore knows that it is St Crispin’s day. Most schoolboys also know it is the anniversary of the Charge of the Light Brigade.

Before continuing, let me just say that when I say “every schoolboy”, I mean anyone who was a schoolboy 50 years ago. Today’s schoolboys know fuck all, (not their fault, and not necessarily a bad thing) and are proud of it.

Let me deal with some international events that are not necessarily to do with England, but may have some significance nevertheless.

Today is Picasso’s birthday. As you will know I have little sense of appreciation for the visual arts, so what Picasso produced in his studio is of little interest to me. Some of you may be fond of his work. Others may say that it is complete bollocks. I say “Happy Birthday, Pabs”. I prefer Dali, who painted some freaky pictures, according to the song.

It is also the anniversary of the second battle of Dorylauem, when the 2^nd Crusade got their arses well and truly kicked. Good. The Crusaders were the medieval equivalent of Jehovah’s Witnesses, although a visit from them was slightly more exciting. They were under the impression that their particular brand of God bothering was worth slaughtering half of Asia Minor for, but met their match with the occupiers of the Fertile Crescent. The Saracens were not people to politely say “Sorry, we’re Church of England”, and quietly close the door. Oh no! “Come round here with your fucking Watchtower, you dozy wassock” was more their style, followed by a fairly definitive dismemberment, if you were lucky.

St. Crispin, was not, of course, English. He had a twin brother, also a saint, called Crispinian. What the fuck was the matter with his parents, you may ask. Malchristening (I will come on to that again shortly) is a guarantee of a less than happy life. Crispin is the patron saint of cobblers, so is therefore particularly welcome here. Him and his kid brother were tortured and beheaded for their troubles. I take comfort from the Saracens not having a monopoly in dealing with the boring doorbell ringers. Astonishingly, if Wikipedia can be trusted, this all happened in Belgium. You have been warned. Don’t go peddling your religious tracts round Zoe’s house.

Other foreigners who knew how to weed out the less desirable elements were the Bolvsheviks. In 1917 they captured the Winter Palace.

Today also marks the death of King Stephen. The only two things I can remember about King Stephen are from Sellars and Yeatman, and I have consulted that tome to verify my recollection. King Stephen was a mistake. He was also malchristened. I suppose in these days having a King Steve might be considered slightly trendy, but back then it was asking for trouble. I don’t want to spend any more time on him – let me know if you know anything interesting about him.

It is also the anniversary of the death of Chaucer. I was in form 4Y, and we did not have Dr. Adey for English. Dr. Adey got a Ph.D. for knowing stuff about Chaucer. As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to it. We did modern poets instead. At the time I thought that Philip Larkin was more interesting than Chaucer, so did not complain. I have never read Chaucer, know very little about the Canterbury Tales, but can tell you that their author has been underground for a few days short of 607 years. Ironically, the modern poets are all dead now too. Funny old world, isn’t it?

I have written before about good old George III who began his reign on October 25^th. He is to be commended for his policy of garbage disposal. May he rest in peace.

So, to the two things that some of us already knew about. (Are you taking notes, Adam?).

The Charge of the Light Brigade is commemorated for the two fashion items that originated there. Young men died there, but that is not memorable or we would have learned lessons from it, and wouldn’t be sending our children to kill and die in Iraq.
(That is the end of the serious bit, you can open your eyes again.)

Henry V. Another meddler. Got England involved in the 100 Years War. Tit. There was also a man called Henry Scrope who did something or other during his reign. I just like the name, OK.

Ooooooooh

Having trouble staying awake? Go here for an image guaranteed to drive sleep away.

I have been troubled lately by a memory of Miss Rumsey. Strangely, it is my only memory of Miss Rumsey, and stems from an age (no, not 34 that boy at the back) when I did not know where naughty bits go, but knew that what I was witnessing was very erotic, if I only knew what erotic meant.

Miss Rumsey, if, as I hope, she is still possessed of her physical body, will now be in her 70s. I very much doubt that she is still Miss Rumsey. If my memory of her is anything to go by, I expect she has seen out at least 3 husbands.

I was very young. Anywhere between 6 and 8, at a guess, and seated for school dinner at a table with several other children. This is very strange, because I can’t recall any other school dinner at my primary school. I can’t figure out where the room where we ate was. There must have been kitchens somewhere, but I can’t locate them in the mental map that I have of my school. This rambling has nothing to do with anything, other than the fact that I don’t know why this memory in particular should lodge in my mind when millions of others have vanished. Anyway, back at the dinner table, where it was a requirement that one of the teachers sit at the head of each table. The poor sods. On this day – and for all other days at primary school for all I know – Miss Rumsey sat at my table. I wouldn’t recognise Miss Rumsey, even as she was then. I have no idea what her face was like – it must have been reasonably attractive. I think that she had long dark brown hair. She wore a very tight skirt. It was knee-length, and probably virtually impossible to walk in. The next bit is very difficult to describe. My shortcomings as a writer of narrative will be exposed for what they are if I attempt it, so I need you all to indulge me. We are going to re-enact the tantalising manoeuvre that Miss Rumsey negotiated on this day in 1958 or whenever it was. For this exercise, you will need a simple dining chair, one without arms. Stand in front of the chair, with your back to it, and attempt to sit down, keeping your legs tightly together. If, like Dave, you are wearing a tight knee-length skirt when you do this, you will probably find that it helps. You will find that in order to achieve this with some decorum, you will have to swing your buttocks in a downward zig-zag movement. This is the exercise that Miss Rumsey performed on this day. Her curvaceous buttocks swung from side to side, accompanied slightly off-key by her generous bust. Had it not been for the chair back, the view from behind may have been even more startling. All that I know is that I was captivated by this dance. Never had anything had such a profound physical effect upon me. Fortunately, I was paralysed by the sight. At a later age I would have groaned like Dunbar at the sight of General Dreedle’s nurse. Eddie Stephenson. I remember Eddie Stephenson. I only remember Eddie Stephenson in this one episode. As far as I know, I never talked to him. I can remember nothing about dear old Eddie apart from this one incident. Why do I remember his name? Dunno. He was in the seat next to Miss Rumsey, and was not blessed by the paralysis that engulfed me. He tittered. His tittering set off several other boys who knew that they had witnessed something arcane and wonderful, without having any idea as to its real meaning. Miss Rumsey pretended that nothing unusual had happened.

I can only pray that all young boys undergoing the draconian regime that is the British educational system in this dark age are able to share the experience of being in the audience at a performance of something like Miss Rumsey’s dance. It is these formative experiences which make schooling beneficial.

The British are coming

Bizarre as it may seem, dear old Tom has arrived in America. This is the guy who finds a trip to Bovey Tracey traumatic and taxing, and thinks that Newton Abbott is about as sophisticated as a very sophisticated thing.

He has started blogging again, and is telling you all of the things about the USA that I have told him over the years. Had the soft twat listened to me, he could have saved himself the trouble of going. I can see him settling in the Mid West on a farm with fifteen thousand acres. Never travelling more than 20 miles to the nearest town. He has discovered Whole Food Market (which he could have done by reading this blog), has been to Target, but not realised how cheap stuff is out there yet, apparently. I hope he brings me a present from his holiday.

Don't Fuck with Phil

I have just read that the bus carrying the jury to visit/recreate the final journey of old wossname, has been involved in an accident.
You can do your own jokes.

Coincidentally, dear old Anne has been at it again. There was, according to my friends at the BBC, an incident involving her helicopter today, and:
The aircraft was evacuated and the pilot used a carbon dioxide extinguisher as a precaution.
I have told her before about those curried eggs.

Sorry to keep adding to this, but I read at the BBC:

Earlier the tour of the tunnel was delayed because the jurors' coach blew a tyre when it hit a small pillar as it pulled up outside the Ritz.
The inquest is expected to last six months.

Ridiculous! A six month inquest into a burst tyre? We're paying for this, you know.

We don't need no television

I sat down this evening to watch the new Jennifer Saunders series on the television. So far, not up to her usual standards, but still quite funny. She plays a female version of Jeremy Kyle, and in the first episode gets set upon by one of the guests. Since watching I have been disturbed to discover how much I would enjoy seeing Jeremy Kyle getting smacked around the head with a cricket bat. This is not the sort of image that a peace loving, gentle and caring person normally has to contend with. I am so disturbed by this, that I am thinking of applying to appear on the Trisha Goddard show to discuss the problem, except I might be tempted to kick the smug cow in the tits. Or I could go over the seas to Dr Phil, but I might pull his all’s smartass moustache over his all’s head and shove it up his all’s ugly butt.

It was meant to be a comedy programme, for God’s sake.

Even more disturbing was the documentary on the children who sang on “Another Brick in the Wall”. With their apparently progressive headmistress conceding that there was room for “one” eccentric teacher in each school. The teacher in question had actually made a difference by conveying his enthusiasm for his subject to his students. Heaven forfend that we should allow those sorts of people in our schools. (Yes, yes, I know that you can only get a very superficial view in 45 minutes). No, let’s populate the staffrooms of our centres of learning with mindless, efficient, soulless drudges who excel in getting their charges through an endless stream of meaningless examinations. Fuck the lot of them. Look out for me on the 11 o’clock news running round the department of education with my Kalashnikov.

Reg, you take over.

Compefuckingtition time

Here is a chance to redeem yourselves.
Only one of you bothered to wish dear, sweet Adam a happy birthday, and even that person (You know who you are) was very unpleasant about it. Don't expect the birthday angel to visit you this year.
I also suspect that not many of you got the joke in the previous post. I hope that is not the case, but I am not very optimistic about it.
Anyway, I received an email headed:
"Increasing ROI for COA Solutions Users"
Come on then, what does it mean?
Removal Ointment Imminence for Carbuncle on Arse?

Your tasks for the coming hours

Thanks to my friends, the Facebook brothers, I am able to pass on the information that tomorrow (3rd October) is Adam's birthday. I hope that you will all visit him and leave sincere and effusive good wishes on this most auspicious of days. And, who knows, he may even get laid. You will see that he is very lonely - no one much comments on his blog these days - and confused - he still adopts a pro-Bush stance. What is the internet for, if not to guide young people along the path to decadence and cynicism?

I was also surprised when listening to Zoe's appearance on the radio to hear that she has been troubled by a commenter on her blog who constantly takes the part of her twat of a boyfriend and her son. Surely to goodness there is no place for male chauvinism in the virtual world? Does it not behove us all to support at every opportunity those poor women who are not blessed with a partner who has embraced female emancipation? I am saddened, having given her so much support over the years, to find that there are those out there who seek to undermine the loving vibes that we are all sending to her. I would encourage you to be vigilant in seeking out those who think that Zoe and those of her friends who are similarly mistreated are to be viewed as the subject of some puerile schoolboy humour, and publicly shaming them.

This is what we want

Just when you are thinking that God has abandoned us, and that there is only bad news, along come some spunky lasses with their own brand of performance theatre. Alas, so far, there is no video footage, so regular readers will have to make do with that film of Dave in his work clothes wrestling a body builder in a vat of raspberry yoghourt, that is proving to be such a hit on youtube.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 16

It is fairly unusual for Philip to call me these days. He has always preferred conversations with those whom he can intimidate, and he knows that I am a match for him when it comes to trading pleasantries. I am not particularly proud of my comment “Fuck off, you lanky streak of camel piss”. It does not exactly fit into my literary standards – I prefer to think of myself as W.S.Gilbert rather than Vinnie Jones, but it was effective, and I think has led to our understanding each other.

I was therefore initially surprised when he called. I was also fairly displeased, he knows that there is a busy sporting schedule at the moment, and that I have been out of town. After all, I never telephoned him during the chariot racing, or whatever the fuck his silly sport was called, season.

“I’ve got this god-awful anniversary coming up, you know,” he whined, “60 years and I’m still meant to buy her a present. It was OK the first couple of years …”.

I interrupted at this point, I couldn’t let him get away with that one. “It was OK the first couple of years?” I exclaimed, “It was OK the first couple of fucking years? You seem to be forgetting the tiara, which looked very pleasant at first glance, but on closer inspection was decorated with erect phalluses.” I reminded him, “The fucking archbishop of York had a bloody angina attack, and you were nearly sent back to Athens with your visa revoked, you total prat. Even Camilla has never gone that far. And as for that book you bought in duty free at Manilla airport, all I can say is that it is a bloody good job for you that she never got around to reading it.”

“Don’t you have people there to advise you on this sort of thing?” I asked. “What happened to that chap who used to nip out to Pizza Express for you, is he still around? He was always full of good ideas”. “No, I think I had him shot.” I let this one pass. He is getting on a bit and doesn’t always separate reality from wishful thinking these days. (I hope that never happens to me). “They’re a real bunch of dull bastards here these days,” he moans, “ what with that daft tart Camelia around, we have to keep the entire staff on medication. Costs a fucking fortune. The whole household behave as if they are on valium, and it takes about three hours to get dinner served. I tell you, if my swan’s scrotum is cold again tomorrow, I’m going to fucking kick someone”.

“Zoe’s book is available at Amazon,” I said, without really thinking it through. “Piss off!” came the reply, “buy the head of the commonwealth a Belgian self help book that focuses on how to oppress the male of species? You must be bleeding joking”.

“I bought her a 6000 piece jigsaw a few years ago” he goes on – I am losing track of the score in the rugby – “ but the daft old trout found it too difficult and got some of the staff to do it, all very well you might think, but she uses my people too. Ever tried shaving your own back?”

I don’t know why he worries. She loses track of all of the gifts, can never remember who gave them to her, can never work out how to use anything utilitarian, and is virtually colour blind. I think he just likes to be under the impression that he has something to do. It comes with age. Most of us would have realised after the first five weeks that trotting about after the missus, shaking hands with dull people and visiting the most boring places on the planet was not much of a career. I have never had the heart to tell him that most of the people he meets are “resting” actors, because the rest of us find him more boring than he finds us and can’t be bothered to turn up. It nearly went wrong once when Jim Broadbent was a foreman in a gusset factory one day and the next was introduced as the winner of the ludo world championships.

I suppose I’ll have to go through the whole fucking episode again at Christmas.

Democracy

It is some time since I was in contact with my old pal Stephen Fry (we were in the same pub darts team, and also took a course in metalwork together at the Open University), and I was pleased to notice that he has taken up blogging. It may well be the sort of thing that gets him some serious attention at last. It may be churlish to criticise the new boy, but his first article tends to be on the long side. I know, it is difficult to get this right. One needs to develop a theme, and therefore exceed the standard length of articles on myspace (i.e. “Sup?”) or facebook (maximum 2 sentences), but not be so verbose that the reader is put off by the sight of too many words.

Anyway, the point is, I need to get my act together to impress old Steve when he comes over here – I may be tempted to leave a comment, and he might follow it, and I would hate for him to find the rather meagre fare that I have offered to you all of late. Pointers to obscure Scottish poets (is that tautology?) and so forth. Alas, I have rather lost track of what it is that you expect of me. The readership has changed, gone are Mark, Tom and Real Doc. Zoe occasionally blows in on her tour of underprivileged blogs, but I am at a loss to know what sort of treat to prepare for Stevie baby when he visits. Do any of you have any suggestions for a subject that would grab his attention and prevent his pouring scorn on my style? Just name a subject, and I will tell you what a complete tosser you are for suggesting it, and write about something totally different. This is your chance at collaboration. This web log will be on the A level syllabus in fifty years time, and you may get a mention as a supporting artist.

Stop the nagging, please

Just get used to it. I cannot be relied on to post regularly.
For those of you in need of literary genius, here is a nice link to some culture.

Bless her pointed little head

Reg seems to have got himself into a bit of a state about the alleged meeting between Gordon and Thatcher, and out of kindness, and after careful consideration, I decided to break another confidence and let you really know what happened that afternoon.
I was sitting in the garden at No 10, waiting for Gordon to join me in one of our occasional games of Happy Families – I usually win because most afternoons he is too stoned to tell the difference between any of the families, and I suspect that there maybe some incidence of incest in his family background.

Earlier than I had expected, he came staggering out of the back door, trying to aim a kick at the cat, wearing a Jefferson Airplane “Volunteers” tee-shirt and a lime-green sou’wester, laughing uncontrollably, pausing only to try to beat the record for peeing up the outside wall (the plaque, at an improbable thirteen feet above the ground says “B. Disraeli, first lord of the treasury, 16^th October 1876).

“I thought Maggie was coming round this afternoon”, I said. “Oh, she’s inside”, he retorted, rubbing his sides in a theatrical attempt to show mirth. “She’s with a constituent of mine who I invited round to discuss her council tax arrears. Maggie thinks she is talking to Hazel Blears, and the constituent thinks she is talking to some sort of ombudsman. They’re getting along fine, because neither of them has ever listened to anyone else in their life. I’ll go back in later, slip some gin into Thatch’s Earl Grey, nod and grin a bit, and then go out and meet the press looking all serious, she probably won’t find the catshit that I slipped into her handbag ‘til she gets back home”.
“It’s a good job I’m here, isn’t it?” I inquired “You need to let your hair down sometimes, and the rest of the country thinks you are dour and serious.”

“Fuck ‘em” he riposted, doing a double somersault down the path and landing less than three inches from the goldfish pond that Ted Heath had installed. “I spent more than a decade pretending to support old slimy britches, and now I'm the boss I intend to do whatever the fuck I want.”

He then proceeded to tell me some of the schemes he had lined up to become law over the next eighteen months. I was shocked. I cannot give you any details, not because of my fear of betraying trust, but because I suspect that you would not believe me.

One small schlep

It is with a heavy heart that I report the news that my old friends Theodore and Evadne Google have let success go to their heads, and are not in quite such a comfortable state of mental health as when I last saw them.
They have taken it into their heads to give away $30million to anyone who can land a functioning robot on the moon in the next five years. Twats. I would give them $5 if they could stop perverts looking for Barah Seeny or Ory Tamos naked coming to this site. I thought it odd that old Theo was always a tad vague when I spoke to him about this matter. I put it down to his being inundated with complaints from users of his web page, but now I see that his concentration was not on the matter in hand.
Let me make it clear to anyone tempted by this ludicrous offer (Adam, if you are still around, you know you are not allowed to play with anything sharper than play-doh) that it will cost you considerable more than 30 million to launch a space craft. The local bus (the Wheatley Express) charges more than £2 for the journey from Kingsley to Sleaford, so you can imagine the likely cost of a trip beyond the atmosphere.
The last time there was such excitement about discovery was when they were looking for the Atlantic route to the Indies. And look what trouble those silly fuckers caused.
My whole attitude to space travel, reinforced by the excessively uninformative series currently on the BBC fronted by another chap called Adam, is best summed up in the following little clip.

Dame Kiri de Kantankerous

Hey! Everybody! I sense the visit of the Maori Harridan, the Christchurch Crusher, the Kiwi Kranium Krusher. She will be here soon, disguising her real loving nature by pretending to be critical and cruel. But we all know she is a big softy with a heart of gold.
Welcome back, Morphess. Now bugger off and start a blog of your own.

Not inconsiderably disappointed

I recently (and I am sure that you all noticed) replaced my picture here - I had a scanned image, but managed to locate the digital original.
Today, I thought that I would try the face recognition software at Heritage with the new, clearer image.
Last time, once I had eliminated all of those candidates who were selected merely on the basis of spectacles, then I was left with the rather obvious result that I resembled Andie McDowell. Today, to my distress, I find that I now look like John Major. Have I really deteriorated that much these few months?
I have the consolation that Umberto Eco, who often uses my ideas, is also nearly as handsome.
Rol - this is a photoshopped image. Someone has superimposed their face on my head. What a cheap trick.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 15

Richard asked, in a not altogether friendly way, whether I was venting my spleen because of a lack of an invitation. Richard, my dear, we are not at home to Mrs Jealous.

Last week the telephone almost melted with the constant invitations to attend. Astute readers will be aware that I have not appeared at one of these events for some time. And no, Richard, it is coincidental that on the last occasion I got caught sitting between David Frost and Jilly Cooper, and had to pretend to faint to get away from the pair of drivelling ninnies.

“It won’t be much of a laugh, honey” said Camilla, “but we can nip down to the Gasfitter’s Armpit for a pint afterwards to take the piss out of the silly hats”. I told her that she was being a bit previous, and resisted the temptation to telephone her during the event just so that I could hear the sound of “Neighbours” dying as she hurriedly switched to BBC 1. It is nothing to do with protocol that causes her exclusion from state occasions but rather her ability to give Sophie Wessex the giggles at inappropriate moments. Sophie manages to contain herself, but alas not at both ends, which results in a histrionic effect of the SBD variety engulfing the nearest two hundred people.

“Do come” said Charles, “you are so good at making people feel at ease. I still haven’t got the hang of all of this, you know, I never know what to do with my hands.” “Neither does your bloody sister” I retorted, “and she doesn’t know her own strength. I am not afraid to give her a swift kick to the shins, so she steers clear of me, but poor old Johnny Mills had to walk with a stick for the last 15 years of his life, because she grabbed a protuberance that she swore she thought was a handkerchief”.

I stayed quietly at home, well, I say quietly, but I was interrupted three times by Zara, the silly moo, calling to ask why no-one was answering their mobiles.*

I was becoming rather gloomy because it looked as though Phil was going to behave himself for once, and I was expecting to have to transfer some funds to my William Hill account as a result, but the old bugger came through in the end. Fortunately, the microphones weren’t working when he engaged one of the choirboys in conversation, and was telling him which of the family would pay him “a fanny load more money than you get for singing” for dressing up in a surplice.

*Liz bought herself a cell phone a couple of years ago. You can guess what tune she downloaded as the ring tone. "It's such a scream, sweety", she confided, "everytime it rings, every fucker in the room has to jump up, stand still and start singing."

A few words on the poignant memorial service taking place today, and the surrounding publicity.

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.

Shove your market forces up your arse

I owe an apology to dear old Dave, who has been feeling poorly of late, and this morning I jokingly accused him of tetchiness - being grumpy for no reason. I had no idea that he had already read the latest load of bollocks from Boris in the Torygraph.
I have now read said article, and no, I am not tetchy, I am furious to the point of Pithery.
Please join me in posting on Boris's blog and tell him what a complete arse he is.
Here is my contribution:
Welcome back Boris, and thanks for a return to the usual standards of drivel. How my heart leaps with delight to read your words and then dash out for a quick vomit.
"But the final judge of the value of a degree is the market".
Yes, indeed, let's make sure that our children are marketable, and applaud the universities churning out faculty loads of greedy, vacuous, inarticulate, selfish and self absorbed marketeers, accountants, public relations consultants and telesales executives, with their ipods, iphones, blackberries and designer labels, with not a care for the demise of the world through the efforts of their newly sucked-up-to employers. God save Mrs T, for it is she who taught us that only those things that can be sold are worthy of praise.
And of course there is a place for those who care for others - once they have paid back their loans, got a job, a crippling mortgage and invested enough in a pension fund so that they are not condemned to the workhouse when they retire. They should be fit and able to volunteer when they are 75.

Coming to your screens soon

I am obliged (as ever) to Dave for the impetus to pen this missive to my friends at the BBC.

Dear Sir

Due to my acute perspicacity, I have observed the trend for the television companies to fill the 8413 channels currently broadcasting with all sorts of banal nonsense, the latest trend seeming to be to send some well known public figure to some place on Earth and have them report on it. I confess to not having watched all of them, being somewhat preoccupied with the series on “How to make your own Grand Canyon” on the Macramé channel, but those that I have seen seem to be lacking in originality and educational depth.

I am not sure what the aims of these programmes are. Most of the venues that are seen as “interesting” have already been filmed and reported on several times, mostly by Michael Palin. Perhaps it is time to for some genuine investigative reporting and for visiting some places that are genuinely fascinating and yet neglected by the media.

May I suggest the lovely village of Kingsley, in North East Hampshire, as a suitable site for in-depth study? We have two churches, a functioning post office, a Saxon village hall and an extraordinary sand pit. There is an active campaign to attract the 2016 Olympics, and a massive leading-edge political campaign to have the speed limit reduced, which is now entering its fifty third year. Apparently there are concerns that someone crossing the main road may be involved in an accident. I have only lived here for twenty years, and have therefore had no occasion to cross the road, but this should not minimise the possible danger.

You will not be slow to recognise the potential in this idea. I would suggest that anything more than a thirteen part series may result in intrusion in the lives of the residents, and therefore judicious editing will need to be a feature of the production.

I suggest that one of the following heavyweight presenters would be most suitable – it would be a shame to spoil the idea by engaging the services of someone not equal to the challenge:
Stephen Fry
Michael Palin
Goldie Hawn
Armando Iannucci
Penelope Cruz
Alexei Sayle.

Please keep me informed. I will not be seeking financial recompense for this idea.

I will let you all know the response. I expect a standard "thanks for your suggestion ... at this time". Anyone got any better guesses as to the reply?