Extant trilithons and cutting sarcasm

First of all, may I, as a public service point out in traditional style: “He’s back, he’s back, it’s the same one!” Good old Dr Marx has resurfaced. I admit that his latest addition to the journal is a somewhat uninteresting essay about why he has started blogging again, but I am looking forward to resuming our friendship and it would be nice if you all went over there to welcome him back. You don’t have to make an appointment, his receptionist is only marginally irritable rather than aggressive, and the magazines in the waiting room are less than five years old.

Secondly, I read that some nice young lady from the USA has been inspired to find pleasure while doing the vacuuming. What a splendid example she is. All we need now is for Mr Hoover to devise a machine that switches into silent mode when there is sport on the television.

I have been listening to the wireless this morning, and am astounded by the waffle being regurgitated because some old boat has been set on fire. For bollocks sake. I can understand that if you were one of those involved in the current restoration of said ferry you would be a little annoyed, but in my view the restoration of the catamaran in question is in the same general category as home make over programmes on the television – the most useless and dull occupation of the Golgafrincham third of the population. I have heard the wails of grief of those who claimed to have had their most meaningful moments on board this vessel, how their lives will never be the same again, and how it caught fire while being chased by the paparazzi at well over the speed limit and so on. Now listen very carefully, I shall say this several times, but not necessarily in the same way. It is just a load of old wood. Countless thousands of schoolchildren have had their trips to London ruined by being dragged around this most dull of ‘attractions’. Had the owners wished to make it more realistic and interesting they would have populated it with disease ridden, lice infested, inebriated and vulgar Victorian sailors, who hadn’t washed for 3 months. That would have been a history lesson. Not looking at some old stuff. They are already talking about restoring it. Let’s hope they put sentiment aside and rebuild it with central heating, a home entertainment lounge with internet access, and proper plumbing.

And don’t get me started on Stone bollocky Henge. It is just a load of old rocks. And if those fucking rocks were dragged from Wales or even Argentina by a bunch of sweaty stone age labourers, it is just further proof that our ancestors were as bored as we are, and had to invent stupid stuff to do with their free time, much in the same way that sweaty modern labourers queue at B & Q of a weekend to pick up the latest fashion in brick and wood and dog’s arse green paint. The bricks on Salisbury plain do not even have the fancy bits of carving that excite poor old Dave so much. The sooner that some bastard knocks them down and builds a much-needed Tesco on the site, the better.

That tart Jane Austen has a house just down the road from me. I have not been there. Why should I? It is just a house, and a very old one at that. If the silly moo had spent less time fantasising about being rogered by the English gentry and slapped a bit of woodchip on the walls and added a nice conservatory, then she might have had more interesting subject matter about which to write.