Help society by helping yourself

I have left a little comment over at Boris's website, lending him a little support in his latest hardship.

Boris, you remember how a few weeks ago I rebuked you for not calling in for tea when you were passing, well, in the light of recent news stories, the invitation still stands, but there will be a full body search as part of our new security procedures when you leave. This will, of course, be done with maximum propriety.
To save time, if any little trinket catches your eye, just ask for it. I am not a rich man by your standards, but neither am I ungenerous.

For those of you not abreast with current affairs (i.e. all of you) here is a link to the story in question in the Torygraph.

Remorse

These days I try to leave the business of television criticism to my articulate friend Willie Lupin. Well, he is either an articulate friend or a very bizarre form of decoration.

I cannot, however, let the beginning of a new series of “Lewis” go without a tiny comment or two.

Seldom can a series have got so far up itself. Highbrow ITV is one of the great oxymorons of our time. Have a crap detective show, throw in a couple of references to Shelley and Turner, try to make a joke out of it, and pretend that the joke is very clever, and you have a winning formula. And then they have that awful music in the background. Endless shots of Oxford, minutes of pseudo intellectual drivel, followed by a quick explanation about why someone had done something to someone else, as if anyone gives a monkey’s anymore.

This weeks plot involved two Oxford tutors/dons/whateverthefucks, supposedly amongst the cream of British intelligence, launch a scheme to earn money by enlisting the help of some mentally disturbed people to forge documents by Shelley. This is the poet Shelley. I am not a fan of his work either (although I thought that Hywel Bennett made a good fist of playing him. I can see that dissatisfaction with bourgeois life would provide sufficient impetus to compose Prometheus Unbound.)

This nonsense was written by Alan Plater, normally very reliable. There must have been an “any old shit will do” clause written into his contract.

Lewis is a widower. His wife killed herself rather than play a part in any more of this drivel. I am hoping that he will get it on with Sergeant Hathaway. And very soon. I am not normally a fan of man on man action (either by way of participation or viewing (I know this will disappoint so many of you)), but I suspect that only a thorough rogering by Lewis would be enough to wipe the smug smile off of Hathaway’s face.

Living History

This is a slightly edited version of a little essay I composed as a fond reminiscence about the happy days of my youth. I hope that I have removed any references that might identify the individuals involved.

Preamble.

In the summer of 1971 two students at a fine academic institution that I had once attended, were apprehended by a member of staff when attempting to load a cupboard into the back of a vehicle. I cannot identify these people, but they bore a resemblance to two chaps who shared a house with me.

“What are doing with that?” enquired the fine representative of the establishment.

“We are taking it home to empty it”, was the reply.

Shortly afterwards, the above mentioned students could have been witnessed moving items from their deluxe town centre dwelling to stash them at the nearby house of friends. There is no suggestion that any of these items were other than their own property.

Later that day we were visited by two members of the constabulary, who although merely there to investigate possible theft of college property, were members of the drug squad. Actually they were the drug squad. The town in question didn’t have many drugs to speak of in those days. It didn’t have much of a drug squad to speak of either.

I can’t recall whether they had a warrant, but they were allowed to search the house. Upstairs, they found a young lady in a state of undress in a bed. No mars bars were present.

“Is that what you students get up to then?” said Morse or whatever his name was.

“Yes!” she replied, with more enthusiasm than was called for.

Having searched the house and found nothing, Poirot and Marple decided to use a more subtle approach.

“Have you got any cannabis on the premises, then?”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve completely run out” was my helpful reply. This moment is the one in which my card was marked.

And this is where the story really begins

One evening in late 1971 I was spending a pleasant evening in the company of a friend in a nearby flat, one of his flatmates having gone out to procure some herbal remedies.

This flatmate came running up the stairs, saying something about cops, and proceeded to throw a tin that he was carrying out of the window. To prove that he was not hallucinating, he was followed into the room by the Sweeney, who proceeded to serve us with a search warrant and place us under arrest.

Several objects had already been thrown into the fire. I was wearing a cardboard badge bearing the motto “Cheshire Constabulary”. This was, somewhat unfairly, ripped from my coat and thrown into the fire.

Another member of her majesty’s finest then came into the room, rubbing his head, and asking in a manner which was somewhat short of being polite, who had thrown the tin that he was holding in his hand. I could not swear under oath that it was the same tin that I had seen being hurled a few moments earlier, but neither could I deny it.

The flatmate was then hauled off to the nick to be given a demonstration of police brutality, without the need to have bought a ticket.

I was given a free ride in a police car round the corner to my house. Somehow, news of the imminent arrival of Starsky and Hutch had reached there already. As I entered through the front door with my new friends, one inhabitant was in the back room trying to swallow a large lump of what may or may not have been cannabis resin. He failed in this attempt, and hit on the brilliant scheme of hiding it by throwing it on the floor.

There follows a couple of lists of what Dalziel and Pascoe removed from the premises, and some of the things they did not.

What they took:

• A stool from a local hostelry called “The Dirty Duck”. (This was the name of the hostelry, not the stool, you soft twat). This item resulted in the only charge and prosecution from my house – the naughty boy was charged, tried, fined, and lost his job.
• Some drug paraphernalia, viz: 1 pipe. This pipe had been left on the premises by a peripheral character. Said person, probably with the surname “Fuckwit” had been too intimidated by the legal strictures surrounding the smoking of dope, and had instead tried to smoke banana skins, having been assured by some other fuckwit that there was virtually no difference in the effects. I would like to think that Constabulary spent £20,000 trying to identify the traces of the exotic substance found in this pipe.
• Some correspondence from an innocent third party, containing details, among other things of his first born. “He’s got his granddad’s teeth – none, his dad’s balls – big and his mother’s tits – one in each hand”
• They removed, but may not have taken away, a notice that I had in the front room window that advised passers-by “Help the Police, Your Home may be in Danger”.

What they didn’t take:

• A large lump of what may or may not have been cannabis resin, lying in plain view on the back room floor.
• A packet of suspicious looking tablets, sellotaped to the ceiling above my bed. These tablets were almost certainly birth control tablets left by some passing young lady. Discretion demands that I say no more on this matter.
• A poster on my bedroom wall which displayed the photograph of a young lady, which had had the caption “Cops eat shit” added to it.

To this day, due to this appalling incompetence, I have no criminal record.

An analysis of economic conditions prevailing in 18th Century Egypt.

It seems that no-one has posted anything today. Either you have all died or the RSS feeds aren’t working. What is a poor boy to do but sneak in a little sports related post while no-one is looking.

I watched Chelsea lose today. I am not sure whether Spurs winning or Chelsea losing gave me the greatest pleasure. I have just about forgiven Spurs for cheating Leicester City out of the 1961 FA Cup. It was a very hard lesson for one so young. Bastards. Spurs play, or attempt to play and usually succeed, open, attractive, attacking football. Chelsea play, to borrow from Mel Brooks, like a bunch of Kansas City faggots.

I should point out that I have nothing against Kansas City, its faggots or any place else’s faggots. The phrase is entirely rhetorical.

Chelsea belong in the Italian league. Their style is dull, unimaginative and sterile. Having spent the best part of £600 million on players, they have contrived to produce a boring spectacle. I would like to see them relegated. To borrow from another great wit, Shanks, who was talking of Everton rather than Chelsea, but it fits, “if they were playing in my back garden, I’d close the curtains.”

Anyway, today justice was done, and the overpaid primadonnas from Fulham were sent packing.

Slightly more worrying was the conclusion I reached having had more than my normal dose of rugby this weekend, that I would rather watch the poorer teams from the Super 14 than the home international matches. It would be unfair to say that England won their match this weekend. France lost it. I can think of no players currently playing in Europe, apart from a handful of All Blacks, who I would go out of my way to watch. The standards really are dreadful. Too many errors, stupidity abounds. In contrast, for example, was the performance of Richie McCaw this weekend. Exquisite. Although the highlight may have been Phil Waugh, when called over to speak to the ref and seeing Jono Gibbes approach saying “He’s talking to me. Fuck off.” Simple and to the point, it encapsulates the spirit of the modern game.

Wherein Scurra again inadvertently offends large sections of his readership.

Continuing the theme of unreliable right-wing (redundancy?), I found this little gem on the site of one of the world’s largest conglomerates of lying bastards.

Ladies, be not alarmed! If it is on Fox news, its veracity is at best questionable.

I am sure that you all have a G spot. If you find it, or already know where it is, then tell your partner. He or she will be grateful, and will save themselves hours of effort.

I was particularly intrigued by this section:

“….used an ultrasound to scan the area of the vagina where the G-spot, also called the Gräfenberg spot after Ernest Gräfenberg, the man who discovered it, is located.”

I had to read it several times before I could be sure that the subject of the “where” was the G Spot, and not Mr Grafenberg. I am pleased for him. Being located in that area has its merits, and indeed seems to be the most sought after place in the universe for many of us, but I don’t think I would like to take up residence there, and I am sure that Mr Grafenberg shares the same view. If I am wrong, then please form a single column line of volunteers to conduct the search for him.

I was also unaware why the G spot was so called. It had never occurred to me. I admit it. I am, like the rest of the male sub group only interested in personal gratification. The pursuit of female erogenous zones is tiresome enough, without having to study the history, geography and etymology.

Herr Grafenberg led a team of explorers in search of this elusive area. He was rewarded by having the spot named after him. It is only a tiny area, so they couldn’t use the whole name, so, although I had heard of Cook, Van Diemen and Rhodes, and knew something of them and had a vague idea of the location of the places named after them, the name of Grafenberg has, up to this time, been beyond the boundaries of my knowledge, and I have no idea where his discovery lies.

I wonder what he told his wife he had done at work each day. Did he, as they say, bring his work home with him, literally or figuratively. “For fuck’s sake Ernst, put that torch and telescope away and give us a shag, will you?”

Is that a javelin in your pocket?

Even though I am often diametrically at odds with the opinions expressed therein, I retain a fondness for the Torygraph, and its complete refusal to acknowledge the passing of Queen Victoria.

Earlier this week it reported that Hugh “Rubber Johnny” Despenser had been found. Astute readers (i.e. none of you) will recognise the name of Hughie from an earlier article here in which I reported that he had been nominated as one of the greatest 10 villains in British history. I had no prior recollection of him, and was a little surprised that he should accrue such opprobrium, but reading about him does tend to further the view that he wasn’t very nice.

The Torygraph must be alone in thinking that anyone has been searching for him. Reports of his public execution and the details thereof are readily available. This execution took place in 1326. Even his most loyal friends and relations have long since given up hope of his returning home, with a hair-raising tale of cheating death, and a healthy appetite. The faithful old cocker spaniel lying curled up on the hearthrug has long since ceased to whine whenever someone came to the door. We have all recognised that he has probably failed in his application at the pearly gates and been stoking the boilers in Hades these nigh on 700 years.

The Torygraph will probably be reporting in 700 years time about the finding of Lord Lucan. Not many of us will be here to read it, at least not in these bodies. Adam might – Adam, what is the life expectancy of your species?

Anyway, in somewhat startling language, the Torygraph describes old Hugh as “the gay lover of Edward II”. This is truly sensational. It also contains some redundancy, unless they mean “gay” in its traditional usage. At the same time, it is very reassuring. Never mind that Hugh was corrupt beyond the dreams of even a Conservative politician, was prone to torturing folk and that he allied himself with Edward II, who was one of the worst monarchs in the dizzying array of complete twattishness that has been the English royal family, no, much worse than all of that - he caught the other bus. The British establishment welcomes villains, psychopaths and mass murderers, but can’t abide poofters.

If you go to the report in the Telegraph, you may be startled to note the size of Hugh’s male member. It may well catch your eye. At least, I assume that is what is on display, some of you may be more habitual in your study of these things than I. When you have done this, you may like to search for images of Edward. (No, Adam, there are no movies). He is usually depicted with an unnaturally curly beard. These curls are the result of either over attention to cosmetics or an intimate act with someone well proportioned. In any case, the apocryphal manner of Edward’s death could scarcely have been more painful than joining in the games that he played with Hugh should you care to believe the Torygraph.

Edward’s most notable single achievement is losing the Battle of Bannockburn. It would be a bit like Chelsea being knocked out of the European Cup by Stenhousemuir. Of course, if you know anything about the rest of his reign you will note that he managed to piss off just about everyone, and was eventually deposed. His character could scarcely have been more different to that of his vanquisher at Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce, which is strange – they were probably related, both having the same middle name.

Missing words competition. "Police probe MP's _________"

I am obliged to my friends at the BBC for reminding us that today is the anniversary of the death of Conservative MP Stephen Milligan.

Normally, out of a sense of sympathy for friends and relations, I try to curtail my instinct to make fun of the recently departed. In Mr Milligan’s case, however, I feel it is not only important to make an exception but also I am sure that it is what he would have wanted. Some politicians are remembered for their contributions to the world. Some, like Stevie, leave us with much fonder memories.

The BBC mention the stockings and suspenders, and the bin liner. I seem to remember something to do with a small orange, or satsuma and electrical flex, but that could have been one of so many other politicians.

It could, of course, have been worse for him. He could have been found alive in that state.

I also seem to recall that this all happened when John Major was in charge (I use the term advisedly) and that it was during his “Back to Basics” campaign. What sweet days those were.

I will try to desist in make derogatory comments about those who have died. However, when someone finally drives a stake through the chest of the Thatcher cow, I will declare a public holiday and sing loudly, should the Good Lord spare me that long.

I know bugger all about this. Here is my opinion

I was pleased to get a call a few days ago from my old friend Rowan Williams telling me how good Sharia Law was. I have to confess that I have not yet had the opportunity to listen to any of her music, and to further confess that until Rowan contacted me I had not heard of her, but I will certainly be going to my local record shop and sampling an LP or EP or two. Rowan has always been a very good source for musical tips – he has a keen ear. Much of my music collection – The Glitter Band, Robert Johnson, The Tremeloes and Grace Jones to name but a small cross-section – originates in his recommendations.

I was therefore sorry to see that he has got into some trouble in the media because, apparently, the young lady has Moslem connections. I am saddened by this, it is nobody’s business. Perhaps we are living in less liberal times. David Whitfield, Captain Beefheart and Mary Hopkins were/are all devout Moslems, and it never impacted on their careers.

****

If I listen to the news media, then it is usually Radio 5. This morning they were covering the hysteria surrounding the latest ill advised remarks by a minor cleric. They tackled this in a, sadly, typical way by first of all playing “pick a bigot” – the family game whereby you put some negative spin on a news story, and ask someone in the street, who has obviously not studied the reports, what they think about it. “If they come over here, then they should follow our laws”. They then interviewed a man who was a Moslem, but clearly not able to answer the questions about the processes of Sharia when it comes to divorce. Really helpful. I switched to Radio 4, which was a welcome relief (despite their having the idiot Blunkett on board). They put the speech into context, pointed out that there was perhaps a precedent in the Jewish community. They then interviewed someone from the Jewish community who had a clear understanding of how this worked, and corrected the assumptions they had made in relating this to the Sharia case. They then had further analysis, and discussed the real issue, which was that by making these comments the priest in question had invited the hysterical response that the media have displayed. But I doubt whether anyone much was listening to Radio 4. Very few were listening to Radio 5. The majority will get their prejudices confirmed by the Daily Pox, the Daily Scum and the Daily Asswipe, or the wailings of braindead disc jockeys on other radio stations or cheap news channels. Please refer to the title of this journal.

Old friends

Aware that Hephzibah had done a very good drawing of her house, Boris tried, unsuccessfully, to hide behind her with his "drawing" that was actually an email from his mum telling him his tie wasn't quite straight.
Sergeant Major Livingstone told private Johnson and his pal that they would not need to wear camouflage for the trip to Iraq. He guaranteed that they would be quite safe without it.