"George, you prize anus, I told you not to light that fire."The mass media are reporting a “lost” tribe in
Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the great mass of humanity. Fucking up the planet faster than George Bush can talk bollocks.
I hope those nosy bastards at NASA don’t catch any Martians. They all moved to the other end of the planet when they saw the launch of the latest mission. They all have a morbid fear of that arsehole Frost asking “who lives on a planet like this?”.
When I was there, not once was there an occasion where the Leader of Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition was fellated by a high court judge in the town centre. At least during daylight.Some prize tosser gave the idiot father of the groom my number. I had sincerely prayed that I would never have to spend time talking to the buffoon again, but no such luck. The first time he called I affected to be the proprietor of the “Curry Favour” restaurant in Datchet. The twat called back two minutes later to order a beef Jalfreeza and a Peshwari naan. I told him the only meat we served was Welsh lamb – a reference to his ancestry that I have mentioned before, and that did the trick for a couple of days, until those memories had fallen off of the stack. When he called back, I followed dear old Bron’s advice and whistled down the telephone: that worked, “Sorry old chap”, he muttered, “got to go for a pee”.
Autumn joins in the frantic search for the sun-glasses.
Of all of the grand-offspring of Liz, I have always been strangely fond of Pete. He is totally harmless, and is quite good at filling up a room – I always counselled them to get him a career as an item of decorative furniture, but do they listen? Naturally he wanted me to be best man. “Sorry, Pete, my old flower, but haven’t they told you? Protocol demands that you get a professional", and I gave him the number of a gentleman called 'Jeremy Twink', who, apparently not only gives an interesting speech but concludes with an unusual dance.
I heard the bride-to-be in the background during several of these calls. She is a colonial management consultant. I had always hoped that
Autumn continues to wear her portable satellite dish, so that she can keep up with the hockey scores. Today, the Moose Knob Sealclubbers are playing the Calgary Mincers.
Out of kindness, I finally managed to persuade Peter that he should record the Cup Final and watch it later, rather than listening on an earpiece during the ceremony. His team,
After a somewhat tiring journey into
Anyway, in short, they spent several months circumnavigating the world, sponging off of some of the world’s poorest communities, taking unsavoury diseases to new places, gate-crashing some private functions and setting back international relations by several millennia. They have, wisely, chosen to include the comments made by those caring individuals, such as Tom, Donn and a Mr Scurra of North East Hampshire, to help them through the most trying times.
None of you (apart from Tom who shares my woeful lack of discrimination when it comes to selecting friends) will be able to read it and see the lovely pictures, because it is not for sale.
So many of you seem to be in print, that I feel strangely moved to produce a book of my own. But I won’t, being bone idle.
I am feeling remarkably sanguine, against all the odds you may say. I look at it this way, one of the bastards is going to be the death of me, so I am wasting my time concerning myself about the identity of the specific individuals.
I am likely to die of heart failure, brought on chiefly by those caring people who have offered me work during my adult life, and included stress as part of the package. Their insistence that I work at a desk with a computer screen on it for long hours, instead of gaily skipping down the lanes of North East Hampshire, further compounds their guilt.
I may suffer an aneurism of some sort by venting my ire on those fellow beings who annoy me. There are not many of them, and they have no lasting impact, so that is unlikely.
I am perhaps likely to contract some tumour or other brought about by pollution created by the running dogs of capitalism whose greed outranks all concern about humanity and the future of the planet.
None of these options are particularly attractive. There is little chance of my dying peacefully while caressing the buttocks of Goldie Hawn, and even less while watching Tom Graveney compile a beautiful not out 120 at Worcester, as the saintly man’s playing days are almost certainly over.
There is an element of irony, however, in the possibility that we will all perish together when Professor Gonadwit and his team of nerds in
To digress briefly. I do not know whether it is the Hadron or the Collider that is large. I don’t know how big a typical Hadron is, nor a Collider for that matter, so have no clue how to distinguish a large one from an average one. I do not know what a Hadron is, what colour it is, what it likes for dinner or whether it supports Arsenal rather than Spurs. I understand the concept of collision. Collisions are things that, all things being equal, I prefer to avoid. Some twat has spent several fuckillion dollars building a device to encourage collisions. Obviously not acquainted with the concepts of love and peace.
They continue to reassure us that the creation of a black hole that will consume all matter with which it comes into contact is a very small risk. That’s OK then.
What still, kind of, baffles me, is why someone has given all of this money to these people. (I used the qualification “kind of” there because it does not really baffle me. The propensity of our race to act with the utmost stupidity is so obvious that only a very naïve person would be baffled.) These are physicists. They are revered because they speak of things that no one else understands. When I was young, speaking of things that no one else understands was called 'being mental'. Would you give a physicist limitless amounts of money for experimentation? Think back to your physics teacher at school. Try to form some idea of how much you would trust him/her/it. Would you allow them to run the country? No? How about being head of a large business? No? Would you let them teach physics in your Alma Mater? No? Would you lock them in a room and never let them out?
We had one chap at school (there may have been more, who knows?) who showed an aptitude for science. I will call him “G”. He was very bright, and was suspended from school for a time because he had “borrowed” some equipment for an experiment. This experiment (and I am very hazy about the details) involved a very loud noise (heard a mile away perhaps), a garden shed, and a hole in the roof thereof. Or something like that. I am happy to report that G is no longer a physicist but a computer professional. Those of us who belong to the group (loosely, in my case) of IT professionals, have a deep common understanding that what we do is of very little consequence and mostly harmless.
So, how shall we celebrate the end of the world? We have already elected Boris to be Mayor of London. We are celebrating the epitome of sporting fairness by staging the Olympic Games in the back garden of one of the world’s most totalitarian regimes. We are quibbling about what we should do about our poisoning the planet, and will do anything to stop that process as long as we can drive there to do it.
I shall continue to record all of this in Kaliyuga Kronicles. I expect that, in several billion of our years, another civilisation will find my writings, introduce them to the school curriculum, and use them to educate their young, but also to provide endless hours of bowel emptying laughter at the antics of homo sapiens.
It had been some time since Boris had used public transport, and was puzzled to find that there were now conductors on the underground. WPC Golightly tried hard to suppress her delight - she had bet £10 that PC Williams would break at least 2 of Boris's fingers.