Breaking News: All Online Data Lost After Internet Crash
Those of you familiar with Private Eye will understand that the title is ironic, and refers to the source of the above little news item.
Nevertheless, happy new year to ILTV especially, and to everyone else. You will all be guaranteed a happy new year if you go over there and give her a big (non-sexual) virtual hug. I am not prepared to speculate what the outcome of a sexual hug would be.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
But why did they need it confirming?
I am obliged to my good friends Theodore and Evadne Google for the following piece of information. (I should not forget the kind person who requested their services with this inquiry).
If you type "Gyles Brandreth" and "twat" into said web page, then I come second in the list of referencing sites.
In first place is his agent.
If you type "Gyles Brandreth" and "twat" into said web page, then I come second in the list of referencing sites.
In first place is his agent.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
On the origin of the spaghetti
The BBC have reported the finding of a book of recipes by Mrs Charles Darwin.
They should have asked me. I have a recording of her telephone conversation with her sister, Maud. Unfortunately, we can only hear one side of the conversation. Here is a transcript.
MrsD: Well, nice to sit down and chat for a minute. He’s been back you know. I can’t begin to tell you where he’s been. Poncing up and down the oceans, “studying the species” he call’s it – twatting about more like.
Maud:
Mrs D: Yes, the Beagle got back in October. 4 bloody days I was waiting while he got through customs. I told him before he went he needn’t bother bringing back a load of foreign crap, but did he listen? Did he bollocks!
Maud:
Mrs D: You can say that again! Cost me a bloody fortune to have all the stuff biked back here, and then he spends all his time sorting it out. Hardly a word to me, all the while he was here. Ignorant twat.
Maud:
Mrs D: Yes, I had one of those, but the doctor said that I needed to soak it in vinegar. How am I going to get vinegar up there, I asked. Another bloody doctor for you, anyway, where was I? Yes, that’s right, then he sods off to see his bloody scientist pals and me without a clue when he’ll be back. I told him, don’t expect your bloody dinner to be on the table when you get back – and I threw a lump of coal at him. “Evolve that you bald twat!” I said.
Maud:
Mrs D: I don’t think so, but then I’ve never been to Scotland. Anyway, I got sick and tired of seeing all these bloody dead animals all over the fucking house, “Specimens” he calls them. “Right fucking mess” I call them. I’d had enough, so I thought I would get rid of them, and not liking to see waste, I’ve been improvising. Tahitian wombat stew – that didn’t quite work, but since then we’ve been having some right tasty treats of an evening. Neighbours come round and everything. “You should write some of these recipes down” said old Mrs Throgmorton from round the corner. So I did. I’ve cleaned out about half his room now, and the little book I had published is doing very nicely thank you. It’ll be more popular than his bloody pompous load of crap that he keeps talking about. “Nobody will believe a sodding word!” I told him. The only problem is that for one of the dishes I can’t find any more of the main ingredient – no idea what it was called even. Some bloody strange creature that looked more like a man than a monkey when you’d shaved the hair off – bleeding delicious. I don’t think he’s going to miss it.
They should have asked me. I have a recording of her telephone conversation with her sister, Maud. Unfortunately, we can only hear one side of the conversation. Here is a transcript.
MrsD: Well, nice to sit down and chat for a minute. He’s been back you know. I can’t begin to tell you where he’s been. Poncing up and down the oceans, “studying the species” he call’s it – twatting about more like.
Maud:
Mrs D: Yes, the Beagle got back in October. 4 bloody days I was waiting while he got through customs. I told him before he went he needn’t bother bringing back a load of foreign crap, but did he listen? Did he bollocks!
Maud:
Mrs D: You can say that again! Cost me a bloody fortune to have all the stuff biked back here, and then he spends all his time sorting it out. Hardly a word to me, all the while he was here. Ignorant twat.
Maud:
Mrs D: Yes, I had one of those, but the doctor said that I needed to soak it in vinegar. How am I going to get vinegar up there, I asked. Another bloody doctor for you, anyway, where was I? Yes, that’s right, then he sods off to see his bloody scientist pals and me without a clue when he’ll be back. I told him, don’t expect your bloody dinner to be on the table when you get back – and I threw a lump of coal at him. “Evolve that you bald twat!” I said.
Maud:
Mrs D: I don’t think so, but then I’ve never been to Scotland. Anyway, I got sick and tired of seeing all these bloody dead animals all over the fucking house, “Specimens” he calls them. “Right fucking mess” I call them. I’d had enough, so I thought I would get rid of them, and not liking to see waste, I’ve been improvising. Tahitian wombat stew – that didn’t quite work, but since then we’ve been having some right tasty treats of an evening. Neighbours come round and everything. “You should write some of these recipes down” said old Mrs Throgmorton from round the corner. So I did. I’ve cleaned out about half his room now, and the little book I had published is doing very nicely thank you. It’ll be more popular than his bloody pompous load of crap that he keeps talking about. “Nobody will believe a sodding word!” I told him. The only problem is that for one of the dishes I can’t find any more of the main ingredient – no idea what it was called even. Some bloody strange creature that looked more like a man than a monkey when you’d shaved the hair off – bleeding delicious. I don’t think he’s going to miss it.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
You don't get to be head of state unless you are good at sums in the UK.
I was just about to go to bed after a long and tiring day, when, checking the latest news on the BBC website I saw the uplifting headline: "Queen's speech addresses downturn". My heart leapt with joy. Just when we thought that there was no end in sight, along comes Liz with an answer.
I expect you're feeling very silly indeed now, aren't you Gordon Brown? With all your fancy advisers and financial experts, who have done bugger all, and then along comes a doddery octogenarian throwback with a posh frock, a damn silly hat and a voice that sounds like a gibbon having its testicles passed through a mangle, and solves the whole bloody lot in 15 minutes.
I expect you're feeling very silly indeed now, aren't you Gordon Brown? With all your fancy advisers and financial experts, who have done bugger all, and then along comes a doddery octogenarian throwback with a posh frock, a damn silly hat and a voice that sounds like a gibbon having its testicles passed through a mangle, and solves the whole bloody lot in 15 minutes.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas? Humboldt.
As you may have gathered, I am a light-hearted person, not averse to finding humour in some traditions, even those associated with the approaching solemn festivities. Indeed, it is not entirely unknown for me to join in from time to time. However, there are limits, and I am disappointed by a combination of appalling taste and scriptural inaccuracy that I find in some of this year’s cards. I will illustrate this by referring to two of them. I have disguised the names of the senders, as I do not wish to cause them embarrassment.
1) Cleronica and Vive sent me this one. Fortunately I opened it before I had had my breakfast. I cannot visualise the circumstances under which penguin paedophilia is in any way amusing, or appropriate for the Christmas message.
2) Nalcolm and Mora. There are so many things wrong with this image, that I am at a loss as to where to begin.
First of all, look at the shadows. When you have finished enjoying “Foot Tapper” or “Apache”, look at the shadows on this image. Two of the camels appear to have 3 feet off of the ground, and the third is in danger of toppling over. Secondly, the gentlemen appear to be moving parallel to the star, rather than towards it. I can think of two reasons for this. Either the artist has no sense of perspective - her name is Louise Cunningham, please feel free to contact her and tell her about it – or she felt that if the travelers were to be seen moving towards the star then the picture would depict three camel arses and she is sparing our sensibilities. However, my largest objection is the presence in this picture of the pyramids. I need to expand upon this objection, please bear with me (alternatively, piss off).
The gospel states that the three kings or magi were from the east. East of Jerusalem that is; they were not from Ipswich. Magi is a term normally associated with a bunch of hippy Zarathustrans from Persia, who were into astrology and other such nonsense. The pyramids are in Egypt. Even after sharing a joint the size of Tehran High Street, it is highly unlikely that these strolling itinerants would wander off course quite so much, particularly as they were following a bloody star. Now, those smartarses among you (i.e. the whole bloody lot) may well say “but Scurra, there were pyramidal structures in Mesopotamia at that time” to which I would counter “bollocks”. Or, you could say that this scene was depicting their journey home, after all the gospel does indicate that they took another route on the return leg, in order to avoid Herod. Yes, BUT, on their way home the star would not have been there, would it? And do you really think they detoured via Memphis? Perhaps they nipped down to Dar es Salaam and caught the hovercraft to Mumbai? No, I say “piffle and balderdash” to all of your justifications.
My Christmas sense of ease has been disturbed, and it is unlikely that I will be able to extract the most from the holiday season. Please try to be more careful in future.
I am also sadly aware of the likelihood that in my placing two of the words in the above consecutively, I will be attracting the attention of a whole new tribe of perverts finding their way here via the offices of Theodore and Evadne Google.
1) Cleronica and Vive sent me this one. Fortunately I opened it before I had had my breakfast. I cannot visualise the circumstances under which penguin paedophilia is in any way amusing, or appropriate for the Christmas message.
2) Nalcolm and Mora. There are so many things wrong with this image, that I am at a loss as to where to begin.
First of all, look at the shadows. When you have finished enjoying “Foot Tapper” or “Apache”, look at the shadows on this image. Two of the camels appear to have 3 feet off of the ground, and the third is in danger of toppling over. Secondly, the gentlemen appear to be moving parallel to the star, rather than towards it. I can think of two reasons for this. Either the artist has no sense of perspective - her name is Louise Cunningham, please feel free to contact her and tell her about it – or she felt that if the travelers were to be seen moving towards the star then the picture would depict three camel arses and she is sparing our sensibilities. However, my largest objection is the presence in this picture of the pyramids. I need to expand upon this objection, please bear with me (alternatively, piss off).
The gospel states that the three kings or magi were from the east. East of Jerusalem that is; they were not from Ipswich. Magi is a term normally associated with a bunch of hippy Zarathustrans from Persia, who were into astrology and other such nonsense. The pyramids are in Egypt. Even after sharing a joint the size of Tehran High Street, it is highly unlikely that these strolling itinerants would wander off course quite so much, particularly as they were following a bloody star. Now, those smartarses among you (i.e. the whole bloody lot) may well say “but Scurra, there were pyramidal structures in Mesopotamia at that time” to which I would counter “bollocks”. Or, you could say that this scene was depicting their journey home, after all the gospel does indicate that they took another route on the return leg, in order to avoid Herod. Yes, BUT, on their way home the star would not have been there, would it? And do you really think they detoured via Memphis? Perhaps they nipped down to Dar es Salaam and caught the hovercraft to Mumbai? No, I say “piffle and balderdash” to all of your justifications.
My Christmas sense of ease has been disturbed, and it is unlikely that I will be able to extract the most from the holiday season. Please try to be more careful in future.
I am also sadly aware of the likelihood that in my placing two of the words in the above consecutively, I will be attracting the attention of a whole new tribe of perverts finding their way here via the offices of Theodore and Evadne Google.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Well, if Murray says it is alright
At the risk of being over productive in my blog writing activities, I am taking this opportunity to introduce you to Joe’s new blog. Please go over there and make him feel welcome, before he wanders off and finds friends of his own age. Adam, as you well know, has removed himself to the middle of the Pacific Ocean in order to escape us, and so Joe is the one keeping the average age of readers of this nonsense to under 85.
Joe, let me offer reciprocal introductions to some of the wacky characters here. What a zany bunch they are indeed! Gosh, the stories I could tell.
Pam. Mother of 17 (i.e. she has 17 children, she is slightly older than 17!). As your mother claims to be too preoccupied to write a blog of her own or set up a facebook account, then Pam will, from time to time, her lascivious hobbies permitting, remind you to tidy your room, eat properly and change your underwear. Let me clarify that. She will remind you to do those things. I should have said “She will remind you to tidy your room, remind you to eat properly and remind you to change your underwear.” I had no intention of implying any other meaning when I wrote that.
Dave. International bon viveur, profligate lecher and drug-runner. He is to Norfolk what the Genovese family are to New York.
Tom. Pillar of the community, firmly pro-establishment and uncompromising in his firm moral stance. A little on the serious side, but did crack a joke in 1987.
Betty and Geoff. A sweet couple – the Terry and June of the home counties. They can always be relied upon to share their sweetness and rosy world view. Sometimes they are a little too kind in their assessment of contemporary issues and figures, but you just can’t help loving them.
ILTV. A very dear friend. She is also the mother of a tall child, so will be conversant with the disadvantages that attend this hideous disfigurement.
MJ. Filthy tart. She will try to get you to send her pictures of your naughty bits. Do not be persuaded by her beguiling manner. I see it as my mission, through tough, firm yet loving methods, to reform her.
Zoe. The most famous blogger in the universe - harridan, bully and oppressor of her family. Stand firm against her imprecations. Has anyone stood firm against your imprecations, missus?
Donn. I have no idea who he is. And neither does he.
Kaz. Quite alert for her age. A contemporary of the Brontes, so she will be of help with your essays.
Richard. Luddite who occasionally stumbles across an internet connection and appears here. Take whatever he says very seriously.
Willie. He takes up the slack when I am too busy to devote my full attention to this site. Extraordinarily reliable on almost all matters, except perhaps musicals.
Boris. Only comments here anonymously, and I have to delete his rantings, After all, I cannot be expected to tolerate someone calling me, for example, a “pasty-faced arsehole” on my own blog, can I? You can, however, go and write whatever you like on his blog, no matter how silly, ill-informed and irrelevant – after all, he does.
(That’s enough idiots – Ed.)
As you can see, my introductions have been curtailed. There are lots of other lovely folk you can find in the blog listing,and I apologise to them for not having had space to effect personal introductions. I suspect that it will not do you too much harm to make up your own mind about some of them.
Now, all of you, after you have been to visit Joe and dispensed whatever wisdom you may have to hand, can I remind you that our dear friend Duck has a seasonal story to tell (this may not be suitable for those of a Christian disposition).
Joe, let me offer reciprocal introductions to some of the wacky characters here. What a zany bunch they are indeed! Gosh, the stories I could tell.
Pam. Mother of 17 (i.e. she has 17 children, she is slightly older than 17!). As your mother claims to be too preoccupied to write a blog of her own or set up a facebook account, then Pam will, from time to time, her lascivious hobbies permitting, remind you to tidy your room, eat properly and change your underwear. Let me clarify that. She will remind you to do those things. I should have said “She will remind you to tidy your room, remind you to eat properly and remind you to change your underwear.” I had no intention of implying any other meaning when I wrote that.
Dave. International bon viveur, profligate lecher and drug-runner. He is to Norfolk what the Genovese family are to New York.
Tom. Pillar of the community, firmly pro-establishment and uncompromising in his firm moral stance. A little on the serious side, but did crack a joke in 1987.
Betty and Geoff. A sweet couple – the Terry and June of the home counties. They can always be relied upon to share their sweetness and rosy world view. Sometimes they are a little too kind in their assessment of contemporary issues and figures, but you just can’t help loving them.
ILTV. A very dear friend. She is also the mother of a tall child, so will be conversant with the disadvantages that attend this hideous disfigurement.
MJ. Filthy tart. She will try to get you to send her pictures of your naughty bits. Do not be persuaded by her beguiling manner. I see it as my mission, through tough, firm yet loving methods, to reform her.
Zoe. The most famous blogger in the universe - harridan, bully and oppressor of her family. Stand firm against her imprecations. Has anyone stood firm against your imprecations, missus?
Donn. I have no idea who he is. And neither does he.
Kaz. Quite alert for her age. A contemporary of the Brontes, so she will be of help with your essays.
Richard. Luddite who occasionally stumbles across an internet connection and appears here. Take whatever he says very seriously.
Willie. He takes up the slack when I am too busy to devote my full attention to this site. Extraordinarily reliable on almost all matters, except perhaps musicals.
Boris. Only comments here anonymously, and I have to delete his rantings, After all, I cannot be expected to tolerate someone calling me, for example, a “pasty-faced arsehole” on my own blog, can I? You can, however, go and write whatever you like on his blog, no matter how silly, ill-informed and irrelevant – after all, he does.
(That’s enough idiots – Ed.)
As you can see, my introductions have been curtailed. There are lots of other lovely folk you can find in the blog listing,and I apologise to them for not having had space to effect personal introductions. I suspect that it will not do you too much harm to make up your own mind about some of them.
**************
Now, all of you, after you have been to visit Joe and dispensed whatever wisdom you may have to hand, can I remind you that our dear friend Duck has a seasonal story to tell (this may not be suitable for those of a Christian disposition).
Monday, December 15, 2008
Letter to the Torygraph
Dear Sir
Despite being overwhelmed by festive emotions and enjoying the sight of carollers happily plying their trade and dodging shrapnel in the lanes and byways of North East Hampshire, I am moved to compose this letter of complaint. I do this with charitable motives. No one can accuse me of being less than generous in sharing my wisdom.
I refer to an article headed "Spider as big as a plate among scores of new species found in Greater Mekong". Despite the fact that the article itself goes on to stipulate that the plate at issue was a dinner plate, I feel that this is a wholly unsatisfactory comparison.
You see, my dear sir, many of us do not limit our mealtime habits to always ensuring that our crockery is of standard dimensions. In short, I have no idea what size a "dinner plate" is. Come supper time, chez mois, a plate (trough/bucket) is chosen according to my appetite. I suspect that the resulting choice would be larger than any arthropods known to science, be they south-east Asian or no. "A deepwater stingray, the size of Scurra's dinner plate" would be a description more likely to result in understanding among your readers.
I have to inform you that many of your patrons, in these modern times, will have attended school, and picked up the rudiments of weights and measures. We are familiar with concepts such as "feet" and "inches". Had you said that the creature in question was 1/64th of a furlong in diameter, you would have sensed the vibration of heads nodding in comprehension up and down the country. I am told that in schools these days pupils are taught the metric system. You need not overly concern yourself with this, as it will be very many years before these people are mature enough to interest themselves in your journal.
I hope that you take note of my concern, and address this issue. If not, I fear that my next missive will be as long as an under-butler's cummerbund.
with very best wishes
Vicus Scurra
Despite being overwhelmed by festive emotions and enjoying the sight of carollers happily plying their trade and dodging shrapnel in the lanes and byways of North East Hampshire, I am moved to compose this letter of complaint. I do this with charitable motives. No one can accuse me of being less than generous in sharing my wisdom.
I refer to an article headed "Spider as big as a plate among scores of new species found in Greater Mekong". Despite the fact that the article itself goes on to stipulate that the plate at issue was a dinner plate, I feel that this is a wholly unsatisfactory comparison.
You see, my dear sir, many of us do not limit our mealtime habits to always ensuring that our crockery is of standard dimensions. In short, I have no idea what size a "dinner plate" is. Come supper time, chez mois, a plate (trough/bucket) is chosen according to my appetite. I suspect that the resulting choice would be larger than any arthropods known to science, be they south-east Asian or no. "A deepwater stingray, the size of Scurra's dinner plate" would be a description more likely to result in understanding among your readers.
I have to inform you that many of your patrons, in these modern times, will have attended school, and picked up the rudiments of weights and measures. We are familiar with concepts such as "feet" and "inches". Had you said that the creature in question was 1/64th of a furlong in diameter, you would have sensed the vibration of heads nodding in comprehension up and down the country. I am told that in schools these days pupils are taught the metric system. You need not overly concern yourself with this, as it will be very many years before these people are mature enough to interest themselves in your journal.
I hope that you take note of my concern, and address this issue. If not, I fear that my next missive will be as long as an under-butler's cummerbund.
with very best wishes
Vicus Scurra
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Gin soaked barroom queen.
I recently obtained a copy of the film “Shine a Light”.
The subject matter consists largely of a Mr Jagger arsing around like a preposterous prancing prat. This may come as little surprise to many of you, but I have to confess to a slight sense of disappointment. I don’t know quite what I expected, but I did not foresee having what little respect I have left for these people being further eroded.
I should say at this point, before Tom gets even more upset, that I still like their music, at least as much as any other rock group. For me they were the outstanding group of the 60s, and the most exciting musical events were the playing on the radio of their latest records, which were instantly recognisable as being by them. At the time they also represented in some ways the changes that were happening in society, and became for a time icons. This changed slowly and sadly. They sold out long ago and have contributed nothing to the world apart from the occasional above average song every 3 years or so since 1970. I know people who have enjoyed going to their concerts and am pleased for them. I, however, have now been cured of the desire to go to one. Of course it must be difficult to retain any sense of perspective when you are thrust into the media, surrounded by hype, libidinous women, narcotics and all the other trappings of fame. Only Dave among the readers here will be able to relate to that, and yet he has remained the same gentle and modest chap that he has always been.
Another little outburst of iconoclastic irritancy then.
The only band I ever want to see again, and will have to wait until we all are, is the Dead. I may be guilty of over romanticising it, but it was something like the feeling of being part of an experience where the performers had no other agenda other than to perform and share the music. Of course, once you see them live, then you spend the rest of your life trying to find a recording of their music that is even a quarter as good as their stage show. You will be wasting your time, and you know it, but persist regardless.
If that was not quite cross enough for you on a Sunday evening, allow me to get a trifle agitated about DVD’s. You buy the fucker, put it in the fucking machine and then a have to fucking wait for a fucking minute and a fucking half for the fucking film to fucking begin. On the aforementioned “Give a shite”, a minute and a quarter of this consists of being extolled not to download films from the electric internet. Bastards. I have just bought your bastard product, and you think you have the bastard right to tell me not to bastard steal your bastard property. Bastards. As if it isn’t e-bastard-nough to know that these bastards have 83 million times as much money as I will ever bastard have. If I did download the bollocky film then at least I wouldn’t have to listen to your bollocky sermons. (that’s enough bollocks. Ed.)
The subject matter consists largely of a Mr Jagger arsing around like a preposterous prancing prat. This may come as little surprise to many of you, but I have to confess to a slight sense of disappointment. I don’t know quite what I expected, but I did not foresee having what little respect I have left for these people being further eroded.
I should say at this point, before Tom gets even more upset, that I still like their music, at least as much as any other rock group. For me they were the outstanding group of the 60s, and the most exciting musical events were the playing on the radio of their latest records, which were instantly recognisable as being by them. At the time they also represented in some ways the changes that were happening in society, and became for a time icons. This changed slowly and sadly. They sold out long ago and have contributed nothing to the world apart from the occasional above average song every 3 years or so since 1970. I know people who have enjoyed going to their concerts and am pleased for them. I, however, have now been cured of the desire to go to one. Of course it must be difficult to retain any sense of perspective when you are thrust into the media, surrounded by hype, libidinous women, narcotics and all the other trappings of fame. Only Dave among the readers here will be able to relate to that, and yet he has remained the same gentle and modest chap that he has always been.
Another little outburst of iconoclastic irritancy then.
The only band I ever want to see again, and will have to wait until we all are, is the Dead. I may be guilty of over romanticising it, but it was something like the feeling of being part of an experience where the performers had no other agenda other than to perform and share the music. Of course, once you see them live, then you spend the rest of your life trying to find a recording of their music that is even a quarter as good as their stage show. You will be wasting your time, and you know it, but persist regardless.
If that was not quite cross enough for you on a Sunday evening, allow me to get a trifle agitated about DVD’s. You buy the fucker, put it in the fucking machine and then a have to fucking wait for a fucking minute and a fucking half for the fucking film to fucking begin. On the aforementioned “Give a shite”, a minute and a quarter of this consists of being extolled not to download films from the electric internet. Bastards. I have just bought your bastard product, and you think you have the bastard right to tell me not to bastard steal your bastard property. Bastards. As if it isn’t e-bastard-nough to know that these bastards have 83 million times as much money as I will ever bastard have. If I did download the bollocky film then at least I wouldn’t have to listen to your bollocky sermons. (that’s enough bollocks. Ed.)
Nonsense
Not known for joining in with these silly things, so ILTV should know better.
Nicely asked me to list ten things beginning with N that I loved.
Naturally, necrophilia, Neasden and Nureyev sprang to mind, but I'm not going to do it.
Nevertheless, can I nominate Nora who died today - she was lovely?
Nicely asked me to list ten things beginning with N that I loved.
Naturally, necrophilia, Neasden and Nureyev sprang to mind, but I'm not going to do it.
Nevertheless, can I nominate Nora who died today - she was lovely?
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Black and white and crap all over.
There is so much in the Torygraph today that needs explanation and clarification. I will attempt to be brief. And fail.
“Young women 'have more sexual partners' than men”. They clarify this in the first phrase of the text – “Young women are more promiscuous than men”. So, just to reiterate, my good friends are not implying that women are engaging in thrusting and moaning activities with partners other than males of their own species. That sort of thing will never be reported in the Torygraph (but will probably be discussed in unnecessary detail in the comments section, Tom; my fault for making it the first item). I did not read the article, not having had my breakfast yet, but I expect it goes on to suggest that some young ladies are no longer virgins when they marry, and may have had carnal knowledge of more than one chap. It really does not bear thinking about.
“Cigarettes to be sold 'under the counter'”. This is a very kind seasonal gesture to the pathetic nicotine addicts that one sometimes encounters (seldom in North East Hampshire, of course). Having had their growth stunted by this senseless indulgence in narcotics, they find it impossible to reach over the counters of shops to avail themselves of said product. Staff are being trained to operate little hatches for the customers, who no longer need to feel embarrassed. It is also good news for the other group of undersized Player’s No 6 purchasers, i.e. primary school children. It is educationally valid to engage them in commercial activity and familiarise them with market forces. You will all now understand why you see the shop assistants in your local tobacconist crawling around on their knees.
“'Jesus was born in June', astronomers claim”. Don’t be so damned silly. The Carol singers from St. Elvis’s turn up on my doorstep on 22nd December. I trust them far more than I trust Patrick Moore and his voyeuristic cabal of assorted loonies. I shall continue to not celebrate Christmas with gusto on December 25th. I am not going to not celebrate it in June as well.
“'Nagging' wife to thank for lottery win”. A New Zealand man was driven out of his armchair by a typical antipodean harridan (where is that Morphy woman these days?) and, as a result won £2.8 million. I hope that, in the festive spirit, he forgave her and slipped her a couple of hundred quid. After all, he now has more than enough money to buy New Zealand.
“Machu Picchu was not so lost after all”. Some pile of old rocks may have been found before the chap, of whom I had never heard, normally credited with discovering them got there. Bollocks. I have rocks in my back garden. I don’t know why. They are not interesting. There is a “famous” pile of old rocks down the road, Andover way. They do fuck all, and could do with a lick of paint.
“Words associated with Christianity and British history taken out of children's dictionary”. Various Torygraph consultants (Pitt the Elder, the Black Prince etc) are up in arms about words like “Bishop” being left out and words like “Broadband” being included in ‘The Oxford Junior Dictionary’. Later editions enlisted the opinion of a Junior who said “I ent reedin it, innit? Lol”.
I should like to thank two of my correspondents who have been kind enough to send christmas cards. I am particularly obliged to the wise man from the east who took the trouble to explain that the picture on the front was berries surrounded by glitter, and not a bunch of bright red testicles in sugar as I had at first imagined. The second card arrived this morning. It depicts Santa picking his nose. I think that I am in love.
“Young women 'have more sexual partners' than men”. They clarify this in the first phrase of the text – “Young women are more promiscuous than men”. So, just to reiterate, my good friends are not implying that women are engaging in thrusting and moaning activities with partners other than males of their own species. That sort of thing will never be reported in the Torygraph (but will probably be discussed in unnecessary detail in the comments section, Tom; my fault for making it the first item). I did not read the article, not having had my breakfast yet, but I expect it goes on to suggest that some young ladies are no longer virgins when they marry, and may have had carnal knowledge of more than one chap. It really does not bear thinking about.
“Cigarettes to be sold 'under the counter'”. This is a very kind seasonal gesture to the pathetic nicotine addicts that one sometimes encounters (seldom in North East Hampshire, of course). Having had their growth stunted by this senseless indulgence in narcotics, they find it impossible to reach over the counters of shops to avail themselves of said product. Staff are being trained to operate little hatches for the customers, who no longer need to feel embarrassed. It is also good news for the other group of undersized Player’s No 6 purchasers, i.e. primary school children. It is educationally valid to engage them in commercial activity and familiarise them with market forces. You will all now understand why you see the shop assistants in your local tobacconist crawling around on their knees.
“'Jesus was born in June', astronomers claim”. Don’t be so damned silly. The Carol singers from St. Elvis’s turn up on my doorstep on 22nd December. I trust them far more than I trust Patrick Moore and his voyeuristic cabal of assorted loonies. I shall continue to not celebrate Christmas with gusto on December 25th. I am not going to not celebrate it in June as well.
“'Nagging' wife to thank for lottery win”. A New Zealand man was driven out of his armchair by a typical antipodean harridan (where is that Morphy woman these days?) and, as a result won £2.8 million. I hope that, in the festive spirit, he forgave her and slipped her a couple of hundred quid. After all, he now has more than enough money to buy New Zealand.
“Machu Picchu was not so lost after all”. Some pile of old rocks may have been found before the chap, of whom I had never heard, normally credited with discovering them got there. Bollocks. I have rocks in my back garden. I don’t know why. They are not interesting. There is a “famous” pile of old rocks down the road, Andover way. They do fuck all, and could do with a lick of paint.
“Words associated with Christianity and British history taken out of children's dictionary”. Various Torygraph consultants (Pitt the Elder, the Black Prince etc) are up in arms about words like “Bishop” being left out and words like “Broadband” being included in ‘The Oxford Junior Dictionary’. Later editions enlisted the opinion of a Junior who said “I ent reedin it, innit? Lol”.
I should like to thank two of my correspondents who have been kind enough to send christmas cards. I am particularly obliged to the wise man from the east who took the trouble to explain that the picture on the front was berries surrounded by glitter, and not a bunch of bright red testicles in sugar as I had at first imagined. The second card arrived this morning. It depicts Santa picking his nose. I think that I am in love.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Too easy
Another reason why I read the Torygraph online:
"Prof Piers Steel, a Canadian academic who has spent more than 10 years studying why people put off until tomorrow what they could do today..."
I won't even bother with the obvious joke.
"Prof Piers Steel, a Canadian academic who has spent more than 10 years studying why people put off until tomorrow what they could do today..."
I won't even bother with the obvious joke.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Never rape a man with oblong eyes
I was going to call this little discourse “Bellender”, but, for reasons that will not become clear, I found the alternative far more appealing.
I am not too proud to admit to my weaknesses. There are those who consider that frittering 65 hours every week watching detective/police/mystery/spy series on TV to be a waste of time. Indeed, there are some extremists such as my dear friend Richard, who has so taken against the intrusion of the Murdoch Evil Empire into our society that not only has he refused to subscribe to Sky, but has turned his television into a hothouse for growing antirrhinums. I have an answer to these critics (should they wander in here). I have thought deeply and considerately about this, and decided that they can all “fuck off”.
I was intrigued to see what was special about “Wallander” that could cause Kenneth Branagh to indulge in a bit of television drama. I have watched the first episode, and my pondering remains unanswered. It was fairly average – there was little therein to which I could take exception, even the presence of Wossname Warner taking himself a little too seriously, and I wonder why it is necessary for the sexual abuse of children to be a constituent part of every detective drama. The producers indulged themselves by making reference to Sweden in the opening minutes, and there was some nice music. I suspect that the music was not Swedish. As you know, nothing of any quality musically has come from Sweden since old Bernie Crusell added the last augmented sixth to his final clarinet concerto. Sorry, Dave, I know that you enjoy headbanging round your new greenhouse to “Soilwork”, but they are hardly up to the standard of the Beverly Sisters, are they? I usually enjoy watching Branagh, even when he performs so well that I find myself observing his acting rather than the film or play that he is in, but dunno, so far, why he chose to do this.
I still watch “Spooks” too, even though the plot has more leaks than an MI5 memo, and the acting is as hammy as a ham and tomato sandwich without the tomato. And the bread. I got into trouble for saying that Spooks had its name changed to “MI5” in the USA because the television companies thought that the audience were too stupid to understand the original name. Some folks of an American persuasion thought that I was saying that they were too stupid. That was really dumb of them, wasn’t it?
I have, however, learnt that anything associated with Lynda La Plante is not worth watching. I will use that in evidence when I reach the slightly tarnished side gate next to the pearly ones. Please feel free to wrestle the remote control device out of my hands if you hear me say “Maybe I’ll give her one more chance”.
I am also pleased to announce the completion of the annual festive card. You will hear me kicking my printer this weekend as I fail to understand why Hewlett Packard, who have been in the business since Charles Babbage was in nappies, can’t make a sodding printer that selects one sheet of paper/card at a time, every time.
If you received a card last year, and have not had the foresight to relocate, then this year’s production will be on its way to you soon.
If you did not receive one and would like to (don’t pretend that you have standards, you’re here, aren’t you?), send your address in an email to me. You can see the email address on my profile.
I am not too proud to admit to my weaknesses. There are those who consider that frittering 65 hours every week watching detective/police/mystery/spy series on TV to be a waste of time. Indeed, there are some extremists such as my dear friend Richard, who has so taken against the intrusion of the Murdoch Evil Empire into our society that not only has he refused to subscribe to Sky, but has turned his television into a hothouse for growing antirrhinums. I have an answer to these critics (should they wander in here). I have thought deeply and considerately about this, and decided that they can all “fuck off”.
I was intrigued to see what was special about “Wallander” that could cause Kenneth Branagh to indulge in a bit of television drama. I have watched the first episode, and my pondering remains unanswered. It was fairly average – there was little therein to which I could take exception, even the presence of Wossname Warner taking himself a little too seriously, and I wonder why it is necessary for the sexual abuse of children to be a constituent part of every detective drama. The producers indulged themselves by making reference to Sweden in the opening minutes, and there was some nice music. I suspect that the music was not Swedish. As you know, nothing of any quality musically has come from Sweden since old Bernie Crusell added the last augmented sixth to his final clarinet concerto. Sorry, Dave, I know that you enjoy headbanging round your new greenhouse to “Soilwork”, but they are hardly up to the standard of the Beverly Sisters, are they? I usually enjoy watching Branagh, even when he performs so well that I find myself observing his acting rather than the film or play that he is in, but dunno, so far, why he chose to do this.
I still watch “Spooks” too, even though the plot has more leaks than an MI5 memo, and the acting is as hammy as a ham and tomato sandwich without the tomato. And the bread. I got into trouble for saying that Spooks had its name changed to “MI5” in the USA because the television companies thought that the audience were too stupid to understand the original name. Some folks of an American persuasion thought that I was saying that they were too stupid. That was really dumb of them, wasn’t it?
I have, however, learnt that anything associated with Lynda La Plante is not worth watching. I will use that in evidence when I reach the slightly tarnished side gate next to the pearly ones. Please feel free to wrestle the remote control device out of my hands if you hear me say “Maybe I’ll give her one more chance”.
*******
I am also pleased to announce the completion of the annual festive card. You will hear me kicking my printer this weekend as I fail to understand why Hewlett Packard, who have been in the business since Charles Babbage was in nappies, can’t make a sodding printer that selects one sheet of paper/card at a time, every time.
If you received a card last year, and have not had the foresight to relocate, then this year’s production will be on its way to you soon.
If you did not receive one and would like to (don’t pretend that you have standards, you’re here, aren’t you?), send your address in an email to me. You can see the email address on my profile.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Democracy in action
I was delighted this morning to find a little email from the American President waiting for me!
His name is Adam. (No, silly, not that Adam. Or that one).
He writes:
It is my distinct pleasure, as the president of Americans for Limited Government, to invite you today to become a key member of the exciting new conservative “bloggers central,” NetRightNation.com.
I did not hesitate in responding.
Adam! you old goat.
Thanks for the invitation.
Nothing would give me more pleasure to have access to a list of conservative bloggers, so that I could abuse each one of them personally, although I doubt whether time would allow.
I like the idea of limited government! I take it to mean government by someone so limited that he would not have the capacity to think and shit at the same time. George W. Bush's name springs to mind.
Let's all hope that your little campaign has as much success as he did in impressing the world about the worthiness of the conservative cause.
Scurra. Keeping the red flag flying.
His name is Adam. (No, silly, not that Adam. Or that one).
He writes:
It is my distinct pleasure, as the president of Americans for Limited Government, to invite you today to become a key member of the exciting new conservative “bloggers central,” NetRightNation.com.
I did not hesitate in responding.
Adam! you old goat.
Thanks for the invitation.
Nothing would give me more pleasure to have access to a list of conservative bloggers, so that I could abuse each one of them personally, although I doubt whether time would allow.
I like the idea of limited government! I take it to mean government by someone so limited that he would not have the capacity to think and shit at the same time. George W. Bush's name springs to mind.
Let's all hope that your little campaign has as much success as he did in impressing the world about the worthiness of the conservative cause.
Scurra. Keeping the red flag flying.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Little Merit
I was going to write a critique of a televisual drama series, but may not be able to in light of my having discovered that I am number one in Theodore and Evadne Google’s list of references for “radish adultery”. The only person with more reason to be miserable than I on this discovery, is the perverted sod who inserted this phrase into his search engine, missus. It is not even my fault, it was Frontier Editor who introduced the word “radish” into the comments on my discourse about Liz, turnips and arses.
Anyway, I finally got around to viewing the first few episodes of the BBC’s latest costume drama. I shall probably watch it to the end, but doubt whether I will benefit much from it. We have been spoiled somewhat of late, what with Eileen Atkins making an all too rare appearance in Cranford and acting everyone else off of the set. Bleak House was even more impressive – the director and actors actually managed to turn Dickens’s ridiculous caricatures into believable characters, and even allowed Philip Davis to ham it up like a very large pig.
Little Dorrit, on the other hand, shows all the acting range of a Carry On film, or an amateur dramatic society rendition of a pantomime in Spanish. Tom Courtenay is passable, but I suspect that he did not have to make much effort. As for the rest, well, that is what I suggest that they take. I just can’t get to grips with Dickens. Did he ever intend us to take any of his characters seriously? Was his intention merely to draw attention to social conditions? I suppose that the adaptees have run out of classic novels to convert to television drama. I think the kindest criticism of this nonsense is to call it “ordinary”.
Anyway, I finally got around to viewing the first few episodes of the BBC’s latest costume drama. I shall probably watch it to the end, but doubt whether I will benefit much from it. We have been spoiled somewhat of late, what with Eileen Atkins making an all too rare appearance in Cranford and acting everyone else off of the set. Bleak House was even more impressive – the director and actors actually managed to turn Dickens’s ridiculous caricatures into believable characters, and even allowed Philip Davis to ham it up like a very large pig.
Little Dorrit, on the other hand, shows all the acting range of a Carry On film, or an amateur dramatic society rendition of a pantomime in Spanish. Tom Courtenay is passable, but I suspect that he did not have to make much effort. As for the rest, well, that is what I suggest that they take. I just can’t get to grips with Dickens. Did he ever intend us to take any of his characters seriously? Was his intention merely to draw attention to social conditions? I suppose that the adaptees have run out of classic novels to convert to television drama. I think the kindest criticism of this nonsense is to call it “ordinary”.
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