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.