Fed up.

I have spent a good portion of this day proof-reading a report/dissertation for a friend. To be asked to be a pedant is a joy, the equivalent for most of you would be to be asked to view the fine collection of erotic images available, I believe, on the internet.

I then glanced at the BBC news page, and noticed a scrolling headline proclaiming that the contents of the BBC costume department were being “sold off”. Why? Why not simply “sold”?

Now look, you bastards, will someone please tell me, once and for all, what this part of speech is called, which dullard invented it, and why it has not yet been outlawed.

Because (and yes, Dave, I can begin a sentence with any word that I choose, your school rules are outdated) it does not just stop there. It suddenly spreads so that the populace feel obliged to qualify every verb thus, which leads to obscenities such as “revert back”.

And (ditto Dave) while we are on the subject, do we fill in, fill out or fill up (mainly in North America) forms? Can we not just fill them? Or not fill them if we don’t feel like it.

That’s all. I am too tired to proof read this, so you can fill (out/in/up/through) the comments section with corrections. I am going to exit out of my computer, climb up the stairs, lie down on my bed, and sleep up.

Didn't he have a dream about the King of Sweden?

He isn't very funny, and I have taken issue with him in the past, but here is one UK politician who writes very little with which I can take issue.
I mean by that, for the pedantic among you, that I can take issue with very little of what he writes, rather than that his output is minimal.
He isn't very funny, but don't hold that against him.
Go over there and see if you can leave a comment.

Man of the Year

Arthur Craddock

Good news

The time has come to produce here an anecdote about a gentleman who may, or may not, have been a relative of mine.I am prompted to do this by dear Lin, who has been visited by some nice young people who are under the impression that holidays are related to religious festivals. Strange.

One fine morning, he was sitting at home, pondering the deeper mysteries of the universe, when his reverie was disturbed by a knock on his front door.
“Good morning”, said the young lady who was the knockee, “I’m from St John’s Church”.
“I’m particularly pleased to see you”, was the response.
“Really?”
“Oh yes, you see when I moved in here, I had a little bet with my wife, I was sure that it would be your church whose representative was the first one to call. She said it would be the Baptists.”
“That’s very pleasing, when did you move in?”
“Forty eight years ago”.

Drink your coffee.

Today, sadly, marked the passing of two fine actors, very different in style and the roles that they chose. One of them was the outstanding acting talent of his generation, and so none of you will have heard of him, the other was less elevated, but nevertheless a great professional.

Paul Scofield was most famous for his role as Foggy in “Last of the Summer Wine”, the world’s longest running sittrag. Alongside John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson he was part of a trio of aging single men faced with the bleak prospect of retirement and being sidelined by society. His catch phrase “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks”, usually uttered while staring balefully in the direction of Huddersfield, will stay with all of us who saw it. Even in the company of such great thespians as Dame Judi Dench as Nora Batty and Antony Sher as Eli, his talent stood out.

The highlight of Brian Wilde’s career came in his role as Thomas More in “A Man for All Seasons”, where he starred alongside Bill Owen as Henry VIII and Peter Sallis as Wolsey. Who can forget the scene in which they rowed off down the Thames in the carved out corpse of Ann Boleyn and sank at Isleworth, or the episode where they all made fun of Thomas Cromwell’s wrinkled tights.

It won't stand up in court

This week’s “Lewis” appeared to be following the path for which I have been campaigning. It began with Lewis and Hathaway getting sweaty together, and Lewis’s opening remark was “Knobs game”, which I took to be some sort of invitation to participate in homo-erotic activity. This was followed by Lewis wincing in pain. I was disappointed. This scene took place on a squash court (not an environment with which I am familiar, so forgive me) and this was as close as the two got for the whole episode. No sly winks, no delicate massaging of extremities, no tongues. Nothing. Indeed, I believe “Knobs game” should have read “Knob’s game” and was indicative of Lewis’s opinion of this sport. At least he has one redeeming feature.

There followed another plunge into the depths of inanity, depths which, if the evidence is anything to go by, are infinite. I believe the series has ended. This prevents us from seeing the next episode in which prince Michael of Kent is bludgeoned to death by a reincarnation of Harry Worth. I am considering taking up the ingestion of narcotics rather than watch any more of this tripe, particularly now the love story has burnt out.

I shall only watch detective movies where there is a love interest between the leading heroes. This means that “Miss Marple” must be put aside, unless she trades in her vibrator for one with considerably more functions. I shall eschew “Dixon of Dock Green”, apart from where Lauderdale gets to use his truncheon. “No Hiding Place” is out, until we get high screen as well as wide screen, and see what is going on in the back of the car below waist level. I shall not be watching “Softly, Softly” again, except for the brief interlude where Charlie Barlow whispers “Who wants shagging next?” and his deputy says “What?”. (Yes, I know you are all too young for this - that is not my fault).

If you think she is tough, you should meet her sister

Loathe as I am to reinforce racial stereotypes, I feel compelled to draw your attention to Ruth Butterworth. Ruth is a snake boxer and Brisbane housewife.

Love and peace

A few carefully crafted words in response to lord Goldsmith and his proposal to have schoolchildren pledge an oath of allegiance to the queen, and to have a British national day. I say all of this with concern and love.

Fuck off you complete dumbfuck tosser.
Take your fucking proposals and shove them up your tory arse, you twat.
Fuck off you dozy bastard.
Oath of allegiance? To a bunch of thick, overblown, throwback parasites? Stick it up your bollocks you motherfucking asshole.
National day? That’s just what we fucking need, a bit more jingoism, nationalism and division you odious conglomeration of camel turds. How fucking stupid can you possible be, you shitchewing goat molester?

I hope that this helps.

Up until midnight writing this crap. Still better than "Lewis"

Even I am surprised by how quickly ITV have picked up on my suggestion that “Lewis” should be transformed from a cop show to a man-on-man spectacular. This week’s serving was so preposterous that it is scarcely worthy of my spending time describing it. However, being worthwhile has never been a criterion that I have embraced. Let me just say that the plot was just about the most ludicrous to have ever appeared on television, even outdoing the disgusting deceit that in the 1980’s we had Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister. As if.

Having run out of dons and tutors to bump off in Oxford, the scriptwriters have turned to the clergy as the latest victims of crime. Oxford will soon become a place devoid of pedagogues and priests. There will be no culture left, nor any spirituality. Good.

When I saw a red hot poker being withdrawn from a fire, and being prepared to be used as a murder weapon, my heart leapt, believing that our old friend Edward II was about to be invoked. But no, the poker was (off camera) pushed through a vicar’s eye and into his brain. If you think this was silly, you should have seen the whole programme. It also featured a transsexual This transsexual had been known to almost all of the characters prior to her bollockectomy, but none of them recognised her. She had no male characteristics, as ridiculous as the transsexual on Coronation Street – Deirdre or whateverhernameis. This one was clearly female, apart from a slightly deep voice, but never mind, it was so obvious that this is what the scriptwriters intended us to believe.

The writers have also been struck down with a severe case of Bradley Hardacre, having the protagonists verbalise all of their thought processes. The writers obviously suppose that we are as dumb as they are. The “as you well know” included an explanation of what the Garden of Gethsemane was, just in case there was anyone watching who had been to school later than 1970 and had therefore failed to be taught anything.

Fucking hell.

We are also back to the old Morse days where all of the characters bar one have to be murdered before the brains of the fuzz work out who is the culprit. One suicide and three murders in this one. If you are planning to move to Oxford, take out some comprehensive life insurance.

Anyway, to move on to the gay thing, as it were. I should, at this stage, point out that I do not think that I have a particular gift for writing gay porn. I am at a slight disadvantage in imagining the sight of Norman Tebbit being anally penetrated by Clint Eastwood to be more funny than erotic. Maybe I am wrong, and a new career awaits me, but for those of you wanting a meaningful description of what is to follow, I suspect that I need to apologise. Many of the characters in this episode were gay. I suspect that this device was used to prepare the viewer for the moment were Lewis and Sergeant Hathaway actually get it on. In one poignant scene, Lewis asks Hathaway if he is gay. It is early days yet, and the question was asked in a decidedly non-camp way. No protruding tongues nor any hip gyrations. I am sure this is to come next week. Lewis then has an entirely meaningless involvement in a sub-plot about allotments. In this he is advised by a fellow allotmenteer that it is no good attempting to grow peas or marrows on his plot. Carrots get the nod of approval. We all know what that signifies, don’t we children? Meanwhile, Hathaway begins a sexual relationship with aforementioned transsexual, probably just to make Lewis jealous. It is of course, quite common practice for HM Constabulary to conduct affairs with mass murderers. You will all have heard about Harold Shipman and James Anderton. In the end (no pun intended) Lewis rescues Hathaway from a burning house. “James!” he cries seeing his loved one unconscious in a smoke filled room. He slings him over his shoulder (despite being 20 years older and three feet shorter) and carries him down the stairs, carefully caressing the pert buttocks. We then see him lying atop Hathaway as the house explodes (some sort of metaphor) in a way that would qualify for “up the arse corner” in Viz.

The programme ends with them both back to pretending to be butch, but the viewer is left in no doubt what they are thinking.

I will give you an update next week unless the action gets too graphic. I really don’t fancy that.

******

For the benefit of those of you without access to what passes for British culture, here is a brief description of some of the items mentioned.

“Lewis” is a third rate detective show, taking over from the series “Morse”, whose lead character died of incredulity some time ago.

Edward II was king of England. He made the mistake of asking someone to keep his seat warm.

Coronation Street is a long running soap opera, with which I have a passing familiarity as it is watched by Mrs S. while I twat about on the computer.

Deirdre is a character in Coronation Street so hideously ugly that not even Tom would shag her.

Bradley Hardacre was a character in a sublime British comedy series called “Brass”, one of the running gags in which was to have one character explain to another a plot for the sake of the viewers, suffixed with “as you know”. The best use of this was the line (something like) “she went to Llandudno, as you did know”.

Harold Shipman was a doctor who prescribed unusual remedies.

James Anderton was the Chief Constable of Manchester, who believed God was talking to him. He was correct in this, but mysteriously missed the repeated requests from God to “shut the fuck up, you asshole.”

Allotments – plots of ground rented by local government authorities for the purposes of gardening.

Viz is a high quality British newspaper.

For those of you concerned about revicide, I should point out that Oxford is a safe distance from Norfolk.

The Garden of Gethsemane is a night club in Hereford. You daft bastard.

Margaret Thatcher is a fucking fascist twat. Where’s that red hot poker?

Countdown to the Royal Divorce Part 18

You will be distressed, and rending your raiment, (I can write that but don’t ask me to say it), to hear that I have been less than well these few days. Nowhere near in the Dave league of biblical plagues, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of my life to the extent that I have had my computing perambulations somewhat curtailed. Today, having failed to sleep much last night, and been woken by a cough every time I tried to sleep, and with a headache and other symptoms, I resorted to watching daytime television. I am happy to report that it is wonderful. I saw, for the first time, the whole of the episode of “Whose line is it anyway” with Richard Simmons, having only seen clips before. It was almost worth becoming ill for.

******

I have been reluctant to write much about my old friends, the Windsors, because of the news embargo, and not wanting to step out of line, but I know that some of you are keen to be kept up to date.

I knew that something monumental was afoot when that silly tart Camilla telephoned in November, in a bit of a state about what appeared to be a packing dilemma. “Just theoretically, of course”, she began, “what do you think the correct number of pairs of underpants would be required by a young chap for, say, 4 months in Afghanistan?”. I told her four, but put an extra pair in to be on the safe side. I am always surprised at how gullible the silly buggers are. One would think that they lived constantly surrounded by sycophants incapable of being anything other than totally subservient. I heard nothing more about it, and I have to confess that I was a bit bemused to see all the fuss about Charlie’s youngest in the news, because I could swear I found him hiding in a cupboard in St James’s Palace in January, and in February I had what I assumed was a misdirected text asking if he could come out yet. I replied that he would have to wait for Edward.

It is nice to see Liz taking it easy at last. Most Wednesday afternoons she nips out to the Bingo at the old Bermondsey Gaumont. It is surprising that she has never been found out, but generally the population of London are so up themselves that they notice nothing. A few years ago it fell to me to escort her on this venture – and what a bloody waste of time that was. Not made any more pleasant by her antics, I might add. One time the poor old love got a tad confused, and mistook the passengers waiting to board the train at Westminster tube station for a trade delegation from Paraguay, and went along asking them all “What do you do?” and “Have you come far?”. Generally in London there are more than 50 nutters to the square foot, so one more went unnoticed, but it wasn’t very easy for me to extricate her. Once she got inside the hall it was no better. It took her about 2 years to learn the rules, and then on the odd occasion when she managed to get a winning line she would yell out “Palace!” I eventually pointed out that this was not the accepted norm, but even when she changed to “Hice!” it was little better.