In which I manage to ensure that I will never get a US visa, and not be invited to the 2012 Games.

In which Scurra bangs on about topics he has covered before in dull and boring ways. If you wish to read a rehash of his views on patriotism and the bourgeoisie, then read on.

It’s fucking started already. No sooner has Boris been handed the Olympic flag than he starts to glorify Britain and London. I would have stuck it up Moynihan’s arse, given the opportunity. Let me make it clear that I do not begrudge the successes at the recent games of British competitors, even those who competed in sports that I would not watch even if the alternative was to watch “An audience with Cannon and Ball”. It’s just that I don’t see any difference between their achievements and those of competitors from any place else (using the American form there to illustrate my internationalism). I pretty much only watched the running. There has been too much cricket, rugby and soccer on other channels for me to devote much time to it. The outstanding achievements at this year’s games were those of Mr Bolt from Jamaica. Virtually unbelievable. Of course, the British rightly can claim credit for this, having dragged his ancestors in chains across the ocean to conditions that seem more favourable for developing prowess in competitive sprinting. So well done, whatshisbollocks in the five a side carrot tossing, I applaud your gold medal. But “Team GB”? Shove it. “We” did not do well. I was not competing. Neither did I assist in any training or other supporting activity. The £2 that I spent on a lottery ticket in 2001 might have found its way to financing the underwater scrabble team, but that’s about the lot. The nice, cuddly, loving part of me hopes that the next games is a success, for the sake of all of the competitors, but if the price of that is to have to award gold medals to Bozza and his thick mates for synchronised smugness, then I hope all of the buildings collapse, and it rains for the entire fortnight, and for the preceding month. See Bozza in action at dear Raincoaster’s page.

Now, where was I? Yes, that’s right, Greensburg. I have eschewed continued use of American form, and avoided calling it “Greensburg, Kansas” because that is something else that annoys me. “Rome, Italy” for example, not that the average citizen of the world’s foremost superpower has a fucking clue where Italy is. Greensburg is the subject of a series on one of the Discovery channels at the moment. Greensburg was destroyed by a tornado, and the fine citizens have decided to rebuild it to the highest ecological standards. You would have thought that this would be a cause that would warm my heart and renew my faith in the basic goodness of humanity, but, alas, the series so far (and I have only seen the first two programmes) has done nothing but reinforce my prejudices against white middle class culture, and I use that ultimate word advisedly. Firstly, having watched an hour and half or so of footage, I have not seen any black citizens. (I think I did notice one person who looked suspiciously brown.) I don’t know why this is. My bias tends to lead me to believe that apartheid is alive and well in the mid-west. The inhabitants are all, of course, church going and Jesus praising. Ending their council meetings with a prayer and thanking God for his help, they overlook the possibility that if the supreme deity interfered in any way to aid them in their daily lives, then he might have interrupted his game of darts to stop the fucking tornado in the first place. I am sorry to admit that I also harbour a very strong desire to physically harm one of the protagonists in particular. He is a teenage boy who is interviewed at length throughout. I have to resort to American usage again to describe him. He sits with a huge shit eating grin on his face, spouting utter bullshit. As a treehugging pinko liberal I am not proud of my belief that anyone who harms children should be locked away for ever, and neither am I proud of my desire to slap this young man repeatedly around the face. May God forgive me, if he can ever drag himself away from the Kansas godbotherers. I have read what I have written, and can unearth no clues therein to see why these people irritate me so much. I hope that they manage to overcome the enormous difficulties that they face in sticking to excellent principles and manage to construct a green Greensburg, and thereby encourage others to follow suit. If, however, you juxtapose the life and values of these Americans with the lives of those portrayed in dramas such as “The Wire” (and yes, I know it is fiction you silly arse), you will perhaps understand why the phrase “Land of the Free” makes me want to vomit.

No, I shall have misgivings

I hope you all managed to see Bozza on the box yesterday, on a nice programme that helped him to trace his ancestry. Ignoring the more commonplace British ancestors, the story focussed first of all on his paternal line, which came from Turkey. He then went on to follow a maternal line through some minor German nobility, through the royal family of Wurttemburg – all the while Boris continued to profess his Englishness – until eventually this line was traced back to king George II, via Frederick Prince of Wales. (“Wales in Britain?” asked the Eton educated lord mayor). Bozza felt very pleased to find that he had English connections as well as all of these foreign chaps. No one had the heart to tell him where George II was born. I have eased off in my pursuit of Boris on his blog since they started censoring my contributions. This is neither here nor there. Clearly one thing that he does not lack is someone making him look daft.

I am pleased to report that my family history research has not resulted in my turning up anyone remotely famous, apart from a young lady from Crewe (cue Limerick competition) with whom you are all familiar, a tenuous connection by marriage to one of the truly great television presenters (I am not telling) and an actress who I once saw on the television (still not telling). Unsurprisingly, I have not found any foreign ancestors. As an internationalist this is mildly disappointing, although my great great grandfather (direct paternal line) was born in Ireland. What they all have in common is that they were. Common that is. Proud working class folk, riddled with poverty under the oppression of Boris’s smarmy ancestors. Inevitably, when I find Adam’s marriage certificate, I will be able to prove my relationship to all of you. Then I will be round for Christmas.

In addition to the Boris Johnson show, I have enjoyed watching the splendid drama series “Law and Order”. Not the USA one, but GF Newman’s plays from 1978. I have been trying to get obtain this for some time. You may be amused (unlikely) to see a correspondence relating to an early attempt to do so.

Grief boundeth where it falls

I was distressed to read in the Torygraph that the latest terrorist cell to be uncovered in the UK had selected among its targets the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. I know a little about him – nerdy looking chap who looks, quite correctly, embarrassed to be sponging off of the British Taxpayer (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales). The old Duchess, however, is not someone about whom I know a great deal. Obviously our paths have crossed in the days when I used to attend the family Christmases and such like, and I vaguely recall chatting with her for about half an hour under the impression that I was talking to Helen Mirren, but I would have been stumped if you asked me anything about her. All became clear as I trawled through the various sites covering the family. She is a Viking! The Danes, of course, upset our fundamentalist friends by publishing some unfunny cartoons a couple of years ago.
The Duchess is the third most famous Danish woman in the world, after Sandi Toksvig and Nina of “Nina and Frederick”.
I was astonished to learn how many vital roles she fulfils, and how difficult it would be to defend our country should she be blown up (blown up with explosives, rather than inflated, you twat).
She is patron of the Royal School of Needlework. How would our troops respond to a terrorist attack if they were all running round with holes in their socks?
She is Colonel in Chief of the Royal Army Dental Corps. Singularly responsible for making sure that our boys do not go into battle with braces on their teeth.
It seems that Inspector Knacker has again averted a national catastrophe.
Anyway, I have mixed feelings about protecting her and other Danish political refugees. The last time the Danes came over here they weren’t too well behaved. Cnut famously defeated Edmund Ironside (what glory is there in kicking seven shades of shit out of a chap in a wheelchair?) and is generally credited with bringing a period of stability, but until they reimburse us for some of the crippling taxes that my forebears were forced to pay, I think they should all be forced to live in Essex.

Ashton Gate

I thought that I might make up for my lack of posting of late by covering a subject close to your hearts – filth. After all, my frequent visitors here who come via the website of Theodore and Evadne Google usually stumble across this site looking for some sort of perversion.

First of all while scanning the TV channels this evening, I noticed that Channel 4 were showing “The Perfect Vagina”. I was somewhat alarmed on passing through to find Gary Lineker* in it, asking for suggestions for a new flavour – ideas included bacon and egg and pork pie – however, much to my relief, this turned out to be a commercial for crisps** showing during the interval. I rapidly moved on and found another program called “The Complete Cunt”, which was a biography of George Bush. Yes, it has been a long time since I posted, please bear with me while I get up to speed.

I saw a little bit of the Olympic Games today: it seemed to be a day for the lady athletes to be competing. It’s so nice that we give them a chance these days isn’t it? OK, so they will never be much good, but it isn’t fair to deny them a chance to win a medal or two, to hang up in the kitchen while they do the ironing. They are so much more attractive these days – the last time that I watched them competing the races were all dominated by androgynous eastern Europeans, but now they are much more representative of the female population. One thing that I did notice though was the absence of bosoms. I can see that have a great pair of floppy watermelons flying off in all directions might inhibit athletic prowess, but I think it would make up for that in entertainment value. I shall telephone that smug twat Seb Coe*** tomorrow and ask for the 200 metres triple D to be included in the London Olympics. Or perhaps the steeplechase with an extra deep water jump for the mammaralogically gifted competitors. I am too old for this sort of entertainment, but not too old to know what the public wants.

If there are any ladies who have not been offended by this so far, I apologise and would welcome suggestions as to how I might make it more unacceptable.

* for non UK readers Gary Lineker is Britain’s answer to OJ Simpson.
** for non UK readers – potato chips.
*** for non UK readers – learn the fucking language, why don’t you?

Fatter, dire, stranger

Unlike some of my dear friends out there, I don’t want to take up much space here discussing the nature of blogging, suffice it to say that I have found myself with little inclination to write anything these last few weeks.
However, this morning I was fortunate enough to listen to Radio 5 for a few minutes, and felt that it was incumbent upon me to provide some balance against the dross being broadcast.
Apparently there is some sort of sporting event about to take place in China. Some sort of competition to see which nation can best conceal the consumption of narcotics. I hope to miss it all. While I can understand that broadcasters might wish that they had journalists on hand to cover the quasi-sporting elements of this ridiculous spectacle, I fail to empathise with their stance that all of their staff should go to China as well. This is particularly true of the wireless companies.
The BBC has sent Nicky Campbell to China. Haven’t they suffered enough? While I can see the benefits of sending this silly person to the other side of the world, giving him airtime while he is there seems to be counter productive. This morning, Mr Campbell was on the Great Wall. The only difference that I can think of from the viewpoint of a listener (can listeners have viewpoints? What is the aural equivalent?), is that it proves that no matter where in the world the idiot is, he still talks bollocks.
This morning we learned that:

• There was no one else around on the wall – no tourists, a few security personnel. This makes sense. If I were inclined (and I ain’t) to go and look at a few old bricks, then I would choose a day when I was not likely to encounter Nicky Campbell.
• It’s the best wall he’s ever seen. (He told us that he hadn’t seen Hadrian’s Wall – this will vex Hadrian, Campbell is exactly the sort of person that old Hadie wished to exclude when he built the fucker). It would be entirely untrue and go against my principles of love, peace and tolerance to suggest that my favourite wall would be the one into which Nicky Campbell’s face had been smashed, but you get my point. (He also told us that he hadn’t seen the Wailing Wall. It would do more than fucking wail if it had to listen to that pillock.)
• Er…..
• That’s it.

We were then treated to an interview with Sarah Brightman. When the gods in charge of distributing names dished that one out they must have been having an off-day.
Ms Brightman is apparently singing at the “opening ceremony” tomorrow. She was asked what she would be singing, and replied that she couldn’t disclose that. This was her most interesting answer. Had she been involved at an Olympic Games before? Yes, 15 or 16 years ago. That would be 16 then, you dull tart, as the Games take place every four years and fifteen is not divisible by four. Answers to other questions were variations on the theme “I dunno”.
This event is going to be a real success isn’t it? The UK is showing goodwill towards the People’s Republic by inflicting Campbell and Brightman on them. I’d jump under a fucking tank if they showed up here.
One thing that Campbell said was that “China was going to be at the centre of the gaze of the world”. Of course, this sounded more like “gays of the world”. Which brings me neatly to the opening ceremony again. At this point, I need to make this disclaimer. I am a commy, tree-hugging, bleeding-heart, lentil-chewing, liberal big girl’s blouse. I don’t care what anyone else does, provided it does not hurt anyone else (without their consent). I hold all of humanity in equal disdain, irrespective of political stance, religious allegiance, racial group or sexual orientation. However, (and I say this as someone who has only had a passing glimpse of these ridiculous displays), the opening ceremony of the Olympic games can only be adequately described as a bunch of twats dancing around like a bunch of Kansas City faggots.

Must dash. The heats of the freestyle cardigan knitting begin in a little under 40 hours.