Scientific discoveries of the decade. Chapter 1

The first contestant up to the mark is Colin Blakemore - Professor of Neuroscience at the Universities of Oxford and Warwick.

He nominates the breakthrough in the human genome project (pause while Rog makes joke about porcelain or plastic garden ornaments in form of small bearded men).

He says it is jolly important, although nothing has come of it yet. It probably will though, as it is ever so expensive. He predicts that “amazing new technologies will start to transform our understanding of how our bodies develop, work and go wrong.”

I predict that amazing new technologies will develop, seldom work and go wrong at enormous cost. Like my pals trying to understand the atom, the dna researchers will devise a way to spend a few billion quid, probably on some device to hurtle poor or dumb people into each other at almost the speed of light to see what results. More poxy scientists would be my guess.

Sobriety, sex, science and sundry soothsaying

Thank heavens for the Torygraph, inspiration for so many finely constructed essays in this blog. The following news items attracted my attention.

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A DJ in Birmingham has lost his job after cutting off the queen’s speech at Christmas, saying it was boring, putting on a record called “Last Christmas” by a modern beat combo called “Wham” and announcing “from one queen to another”. I applaud this action, it may seem harsh to some, but anyone playing christmas songs in public should be sacked. I shall seek out his employers and offer my services. I have exciting ideas to enliven public broadcasting, including a week devoted to playing the complete clarinet concertos of Carl Stamitz. Helpfully, the Torygraph published a picture of the queen. Most of its readers will have assumed that Ann is still on the throne.

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There is a report that the extra curricular activities of a well known golfer have cost the shareholders of his various sponsors $12 billion dollars. Good. Capitalist bastards. I trust that they are not so hard up that they face starvation. Having skinny targets for the firing squads when the revolution comes will be so tiresome.

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A psychologist has put forward the theory that male infidelity can help a marriage. It would be cruel to suggest that judging by her photograph she is just desperate for a shag, and so I won’t do that. I will, however, run the risk of ignoring her advice and persevere by trying to keep Mrs S happy by being the kind of husband of whom she can be proud. I will not allow my dispensing of wisdom to the masses to be compromised by being distracted by sundry sausage hiding – I have neither the time nor energy. No doubt there will be some people distressed by my lack of availability. May I suggest that you avail yourselves of the services of the golfer mentioned earlier? He seems to have the time on his hands, and by – (insert sordid golfing pun here) – you will be helping to bring about the downfall of capitalism.

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They have published numbers 11 to 25 (the rest tomorrow, I am so excited I could piss) of the “Britons of the Year”. I have heard of some of these people, and dare say that some of them may be loved by their families. Let me just take issue with their choice of Stephen Wolfram who, among other daft achievements, developed “the best-selling software system Mathematica, which has allowed millions of users to turn their computers into incredibly sophisticated calculating machines”. Yes, that is what we use our computers for, isn’t it? You won’t catch us wasting time by looking for obscure news stories, making jokes about tits or reading Dave’s blog, will you?

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There is a further section on scientific discoveries of the year. I am virtually orgasmic with anticipation and almost certainly will be reporting on this in due course.

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What of my review of the year? Well, there was that news story, that quite nice song, one or two good things on the electric television, a sporting achievement or two of note. Will that do?

Hark, the herald angels plummet.

Some of you may take solace from the report in today’s Torygraph, which shows that our brethren in the scientific community do not use the celebrations as an excuse to take rest from their important research. The report says:

Prof Roger Wotton, from University College London, found that flight would be impossible for angels portrayed with arms and bird-like feathered wings

“Even a cursory examination of the evidence in representational arts shows that angels and cherubs cannot take off and cannot use powered flight,” said Prof Wotton. “And even if they used gliding flight, they would need to be exposed to very high wind velocities at take off – such high winds that they would be blown away and have no need for wings”

“Fuck him”, said a clearly tired and emotional archangel Raphael, when tracked down to the Elohim and Otter public house, just outside Ipswich. “Tell the twat that reindeer can’t fly either, so that’s bollocksed up his Christmas, hasn’t it? Teach him to be a smartarse.” Raphael, clearly unwisely having begun his festive celebrations a tad early was then led away by two members of the Suffolk constabulary. “This’ll be three points on your flying license, my son”, quipped one of them.

Later the European Confederation of Cherubim, Seraphim and Allied Heavenly Aviators issued the following statement. “Professor Wootton is clearly talking out of his arse, which is ironic as his research has shown that this is as unfeasible as angels being able to fly. It is time that members of the scientific community desisted from trying to second guess the mysterious workings of the Almighty, after all, He could beat them in a fight any day. I expect that the Angel Malik is preparing to welcome Rog in the near future.”

Keep the noise down out there, please

I feel obliged to share this one with you too.

Hibernation

As the author of this little diary seems to be too idle to write anything, may I introduce you to my dear friend Max? Please pay him a visit, remembering that we are not at home to Mrs Rude or any of her friends. I have even started a limerick in his latest post, so those of you too shy to introduce yourselves will not be at a loss to contribute.

Listening to Hairy Chimps

My friends at the Torygraph report that "Monkey alarm calls provide clues to origins of human language". Nice to see TCM speculating about something and spending slightly less money in doing so. Here is what they have found being communicated.FFS! Can't a chap take a shit without some twat eavesdropping?

Yes, it is a big fucking nose, but I have developed it over hundreds of thousands of years to help me cope with my environment - sticking it in other people's business is not the thing for which I use it. Now sod off.

Yo! George! Give him your David Bowie impression! See if the smartarsed git can make sense out of that.

One step closer, mofo, and you'll be investigating the origins of getting a microphone out of your ass.

Lend us ten bob until next Tuesday, please

Scientists at Cern show their delight at breaking a new record. The LHC has been officially recognised by Guinness World Records as "The biggest fucking waste of money ever, and then some!".

The project now outstrips all the previous occupiers of the record, having outspent:

• Money spent on buying Rod Stewart or David Bowie music
• The Christmas lights in Farnham, Surrey
• Dave's cosmetic surgery

Walk unafraid

I am very busy on an important project. If any of you really can't hold on for a while, please leave your concerns in the comments section and I will address them.

Just hit the ball

For those of you who think that because I sometimes cross the boundaries of iconoclasm that I am therefore without a religious dimension, may I direct you to this gentleman who seems to have a view of the nature of the Creator which concurs with mine.

Thomas Hardy's younger brother "Fool"

A gentleman whose surname will not be unfamiliar to some of you has entered on an interesting project. Please get over there and lend him your support.

Get down with this

My dear friend I,LTV has posted some Sibelius over on her site, and confesses to have been humming it.
If you prefer something older, let's hear it for Franky.

I am not Zoe's boyfriend.

I have entered into a sophisticated debate (note that twitter only allows 140 characters, so that gives some degree of the level of sophistication) with dear old Brian Cox on Twitter about the large hadron collider.
He asserts, and acknowledges that it is reported on Fox News so responsible presentation of an argument is obviously of negligible account to him, that “Anyone who thinks the LHC will destroy the world is a twat”.
I have pointed out the unfairness of this argument. Those of us who forecast that anything or anyone will destroy the world without defining a time frame will never have the satisfaction of saying “I told you so” when the prediction comes true. Let me say here and now, with complete conviction, that if the world ever ends, I will apologise to Margaret Thatcher. You have my word. Further I will donate £200million to anyone who correctly predicts the manner in which the world will be destroyed.
Professor Cox is the embodiment of the Schrodinger’s cat dilemma – he is a physicist, but I quite like him.

I've been in your family since 1532

"And what, Scurra" you may ask, "are you thankful for on this auspicious day?"
"Well," would be my riposte, "I am fucking thankful that at least one shitladen American tradition has not invaded these isles. We already have Hallowe'en, prom nights and baby showers, none of which were around in these parts when I was growing up, so let's hope that we maintain sufficient self-respect to resist this one. We already have one day a year where morons eat themselves even more fucking stupid on murdered poultry corpses, and the European fucking Song Contest. Let's hope that it stops here. What the fuck did we do to you, America, that we deserve to inherit your dross? Bastards! I'm glad we gave you Benny Hilll and Engelbert fucking Humperdinck."
love and peace.

Another splendid scientific theory

I have been a little remiss in attending to that section of my readership (aMToNW) who fall into the category “pervert” – those who come here, if you will, under the impression that because this blog is on the electric internet then it must be here to talk about sex. I am therefore pleased to pass on the following intelligence to those poor folk; maybe even Tom will be induced to comment.

I should point out that all is well with me. I am in no need of the following research. If it should ever arise that I find my interest flagging, as it were, I need only to listen to Marianne Faithful singing or imagine a Tom Graveney cover drive, and my ability to please the thousands of people who force themselves upon me on a regular basis is soon restored.

Anyway, to get to the point, my friends in the scientific community have decided that there are not enough openings, missus, at Cern to occupy them all, and so they have had to devise other pastimes in order to justify their title. What better, they asked themselves – they should have asked me and I would have given a better answer - subject for study is there than the good old penis and its different moods?

They have turned their attention to the issue of erectile dysfunction, what with viagra being so hard to come by, missus, and all. After all, I am down to about 40 emails a day offering me said substance at cheap prices.

It is my habit to link to sites on the electric internet from which I quote, but I do not feel that these people are worthy of attention. They say:

“The researchers treated 20 volunteers with an average age of 56 years old who had mild or moderate erectile dysfunction for roughly three years.

At each session, a device that resembles a computer mouse applied shockwaves at five different sites on their penises.”

Please note use of the word “roughly”. Hardly encouraging, is it? And which of you, after reading this, does not feel a slight compunction to wash your hands after touching your computer mouse. Further, why do they say ‘sites’ instead of ‘places’ or ‘positions’? To me the word ‘site’ implies a place of special interest. I confess to having no special interest in any particular area of penises. I would suggest that once you had established which end was which that you had pretty much discovered everything that you needed to know. Are these ‘sites’ designated by special symbols in medical textbooks? I really do not wish to know.

More importantly, I cannot discover what exactly constitutes a ‘shockwave’. I have not looked beyond the article, and, again, I really do not wish to know. Our scientist friends can only give meaningless comparisons (see my previous writings on ‘the size of a salad plate’ and ‘teaspoonfuls of semen’). Apparently, the pressure exerted is 20 times the air pressure in a bottle of champagne. You see how really useful that is? If there is one among you, and if there is please keep it to yourself, who has encapsulated his gonads in a bottle of champagne, then all you need to do is to imagine 20 times that pressure and you will know with what the subjects of this experiment had to cope. I confess to have never having drunk champagne. I now feel even less inclined to do so, as it appears that there are a significant number of my gender to whom this comparison will be meaningful.

At the other end, missus, of the spectrum we are told that it is less than the pressure exerted “by a woman in stiletto heels who weighs 132 lbs”. This, sadly, recalls a previous article, also featuring a deluded scientist, who banged on about stilettos. I can only conclude that there are some out there, and they may be reading this, who derive sexual gratification by enlisting the help of someone to dance on their tackle. Good for them, I say. However, I find that I am approaching the boundaries of credulity to picture their enquiring about the weight of the operator as she enthusiastically performed the can-can on their bludgeoned todger. Perhaps I lead too sheltered a life in North East Hampshire.

I knew that it would lead to this. From my first physics lesson with Mr Sutton – and I have no idea what he was trying to convey now any more than I did then – I predicted that my studies would be of no use. I stick by that assertion, and I have no more respect for these silly people and their research than I have for Saturday evening television programmes.

Our glorious democracy

Philip! Philip! Look! It's just as if I am on the telly!


Sarah refused to stay at home, even though Gordon had superglued her spectacles case to her head.


For God's sake woman, who the fuck are these people? I thought we were going to the Chessington World of Adventure.


No, David, I don't want to hold hands. You seem to have forgotten that I did not go to Eton.


The "Heigh-ho" song was always one of Liz's favourites.




Neither of them would admit to cutting the cheese, and managed to keep a straight face for over 36 minutes.

"What do you have under your gown?"
"Your momma!"


This year's erotic dancer adopted a black tights and giant pepper dispenser theme. "Sleaze and Sneeze".



No, we confiscated your wand and cauldron on the way in, you vile old ratbag, now sit down and shut the fuck up before you curdle any more milk.


Gerald had gone to great lengths to ensure that he had enough spare wigs for his Mae West tribute act.


Ever since she had seen "Cleopatra" it had been Liz's dream to be rolled out of a carpet down a very long corridor.



Hundreds of Father Christmases staged a sit in to protest about the proposed tax on beards.

The lads practise for the skittles tournament. Last year Edwin managed to topple Nicholas Soames.


Wait until you hear what I said about you in the speech. You'll piss yourself!


Liz read the script, and wondered who in hell had requested Take That to appear.


Gord and Dave were equally perplexed as to which party Jimmy Krankie represented, and why he got precedence over them.


You'll never believe this shit! And here's me supposed to read it out as if it is for real.



You will shit yourself when you hear what Philip is going to say to you.

Get a move on, you old trout, I want to get home before Countdown.

Illegal immigrants sent back home

We had all been waiting patiently for an update from our reporters at ground zero, but MJ giggled incessantly throughout her audience and couldn't remember a thing afterwards, and Donn claims to have been forced to sign the Official Secrets Act and says that his conscience will not allow him to discuss the plans to take the USA back into the Commonwealth using huskies and the RCMP.

So I will just have to tell you the story myself

The royal couple had been advised that it was protocol to wear two poppies in Canada - one to commemorate the war dead, and one to apologise to the rest of the world for Celine Dion. Just after this picture was taken, Cams leapt on Chuck's back, shouted "Yee Haw!" and had to be restrained. The palace refused to comment on the "All fur coat and no knickers" stories in the less respectable parts of the press.

Donn assures Chuck that he had not gone to any trouble, and that he always dressed like this on a Tuesday.
"Can you repeat that more slowly please? We're cutting down on expenses and haven't brought an interpreter. It sounded as if you said something like 'How'd y'all like three foot of rusty sword up your sorry limey ass' but I've no idea what that means.

Trisha and Janice told the prince that they certainly did not want to know what he had in his pocket, and that he could expect to hear from their respective mothers. Meanwhile Camilla is curious to know exactly what the children had done wrong to be roped off.


In order to avoid frightening the last 7 pairs of mating "McKenzie's bison" in Manitoba, Camilla was given a sound proofed umbrella. "I can still see you, though" joshed Charles, "and it's put me off rumpy-pumpy for the night!"

Charles was crestfallen. Mummy had told him that he would be going on a boat trip round the Great Lakes, but when he got to Toronto he had to make do with the Mayor's photographs of the new 'water feature' in his yard.

.... but I like it.

Now on YouTube - young Henry's audition to replace Steven Tyler.

Culture

May I solicit your views about the artistic performance most deserving of an award this weekend?

The contenders are:

• The elegant and poetic Martin Castrogiovanni, who epitomises grace and subtlety.

• The multitalented Henry. You will all know his dear mother Melissa from her association with dear old Bozza. Henry is the 8th of her seventeen children, and has already made it into the national spotlight. Henry hopes to become lead singer with Hawkwind when his voice breaks. On this link, he is about 9 minutes in.

• The cast of “The Thick of It”. I done several lols this week. I am especially enamoured of Ms Rebecca Front, and I have contacted her via Twitter to ask her, if possible, for her to visit and do her dance on the cushions at my house. As I have never met the lady I felt it expedient to point out in said message that I was not a pervert. Strangely, she has not yet replied. Those of you (Dave) with no interest in her distinguished comedy career may recognise her as the boss of the repressed homosexual Lewis and his screamingly camp sidekick Hathaway. Surely in this new century it is no crime to catch the other bus, and the sooner these two incompetent cops come out of the closet the better. I shall put this point to her if I get the opportunity.

IITW-E,WNBRI

I may attend to the request from the reverend gentleman in due course, but I need to record the fact that I have been moved by watching one of the finest displays of sporting prowess that I can remember.
For those of you, and I really must try to educate you, who do not appreciate the beauty of the spectacle of rugby union I will be brief.
Leicester have just beaten South Africa. South Africa are the world champions, and just about the best team in the world. The result may seem close, but actually they destroyed them. I have never seen a tri-nations team capitulate in the scrum in the way that the boks did tonight.
For those of you who would, more than a little churlishly in my view, say that it was not the main South African team, I would point out that Leicester had 12 players injured and a further 6 away on international duty - they had to recall players out on loan to other teams in order to make up a full squad today.
Please view it as a religious duty to see Martin Castrogiovanni play rugby in this lifetime.
That is all.

Brotherly love

The BBC news channel is offering a story in which David Cameron outlines the Conservative’s approach to Europe.

Unfortunately one has to watch a video stream in order to find out what the approach is, and I fear that I would regurgitate the delicious vegan fruit and ginger cake that I have just eaten if I had to watch the odious little tit.

So I am guessing their approach is via Calais and direct to Dresden with the bombers.

My approach to Cameron would be from above, sitting on top of a five ton weight.

I will be back after these messages

• Boggins is back. Perhaps only temporarily. Please do not miss what may be his final performance of the year.
• Do not miss "Campus" on channel 4 on Friday 6th at 10.00. Dear old Blue Cat is the star behind the scenes.
• I am reluctant to send you lot to this next one. This lady is my cousin. She is actually my cousin's wife, so we do not have any genetic connection. I have never met her, and don't want any of you to be silly when you go to visit. She is a very nice lady, and I have forgiven her husband and his family for fleeing the continent when I was born. If you misbehave I will have my other cousins come and sing to you. Then you will be very sorry indeed.
• I had a postcard from my dear friend ILTV. I done a lol. Get over there and make her do one. Now.
  

Weeding out the troublemakers

I felt compelled to join the growing numbers of highly qualified experts who have resigned from the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs. My resignation letter is enclosed below. I trust that you will all respect the confidentiality.


Dear Alan

I am sorry to lay this heavy trip on you, man, but would it be cool if I split this scene? It’s kind of freaking me out, and I really want to be mellow and spend some time listening to the latest String Band album, if you can dig it. I can dig your vibe, right, but the only reason people have got it in for dope is that it is the people’s weed, man. The CIA and the KGB got together to try to control the supply (this is true, Steve told me) but they couldn’t stop all the brothers and sisters who were growing their own. I think that it would be far out if you stopped trying to mess with our heads, man, and realised that no harm ever came out of a few joints. Wow, man, if you just turned on, tuned in and dropped out in the cabinet meetings it would be too fucking much.

Love, peace and move away from the towers.

Scurra.

P.S. You know what would be really cool? To rename the Committee “The Advisory Council for Information about Drugs”. (geddit?)




You will all realise that the only way that a committee can advise on drugs is to get totally stoned. Otherwise there is no objective way of forming a view. The BBC have tried to cover up this truth, for example when they reported the sacking of Professor Nutt (crazee name, crazee guy) they said:
“The professor said smoking cannabis created only a "relatively small risk" of psychotic illness.”
I have corrected the punctuation:
“The professor said, smoking, cannabis created only a "relatively small risk" of psychotic illness.”

Trying to focus. What, all of us?

As I have mentioned before, I have taken refuge from the demands of the needy on the electric internet by immersing myself in the ancient science of genealogy. I had given up hope of ever tracing my male line back further than gt.gt.grandfather Ben, who had the misfortune to be born in Ireland. There is nothing wrong with being Irish, I must clarify, it is just that they failed to keep records of who did what to whom and the consequences thereof.

However, some time ago I submitted a DNA sample to some kind folk who were compiling a database, and this week I have found that there is a match, and Ben had a brother/cousin/second cousin and all sorts of people who came from Staffordshire, so although I cannot be sure of the relationships at the moment, I have found hundreds of his kin who wondered what possessed his mother to go to Dublin to give birth (perhaps they were doing a census, and Quirinius had mistaken Ben’s dad for a leprechaun).

Staffordshire sounds quite neutral, doesn’t it? It may lead you to deduce that the Scurras of Staffs were rural folk, tending their sheep and alpacas. But no, it is time to fess up. My forebears came from Willenhall. You know. Near Wolverhampton. In the Black Country. Willenhall, for some reason with which I am not yet cognisant, is associated with lock making. Many lock makers developed humped backs as a result of their work, but it is not this affliction that concerns me. I am not, as far as I know, quasimodoesque, although since the invention of the electric internet and Sky television I have little occasion to stand up. No, rather it is the fact that the Black Country has the most appalling dialect in this corner of the galaxy.

I am bereft to discover that not only do I not have anything worthwhile to say, but that when I say it I sound like a constipated manic depressive. For those of you of a foreign persuasion who are unfamiliar with the sound of the Wolverhampton accent, and are curious to hear it, let me just say this. DON’T!

Lugubrious does not begin to describe it. The caterwaulings of Robbie Williams, all country and western singers, Max Bygraves and Celine Dion combined are as heavenly choirs compared to the speech of the typical Willenhallonian. Those of you who find the singing of Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen less than cheerful (and I do not share that view) would change your mind if you had to spend a morning conversing in Walsall.

The dialect is more hideous than that of:

• Trevor Brooking, whose nasal whine and failure to pronounce the letter ‘g’ even though it is in his own name, has caused over 3 million people to defect from following football to taking up crochet.
• David Frost, for whom the word “smarm” would be complimentary.
• Mariella Frostrup, obviously one of Frost’s cousins whose sickening saccharine laden utterances have forced me to abandon watching the only cultural programme on Sky 1.
• Hugh Whatshisbollocks who does the rugby commentary in South Africa. God, in the cause of balance, decided that one of the most beautiful countries on earth should have an over abundance of Nazis, and, were that not enough, gave the inhabitants an accent that could only be achieved by a normal human being who was wearing underwear three sizes too small. Hugh has taken this already Hades-like rant, and infected it with a monotone so loathsome that his microphone melts three times during a typical Currie Cup game.
• Bob Willis. His voice may put you to sleep, however you will not sleep soundly, but rather have nightmares so horrendous that you would rather stay awake and read Jeffrey Archer.
• Gyles Badbreath. No explanation necessary.

Welcome to Kali Yuga

It is a strange day for news at the Torygraph. When there is a shift in its policies, one fears for the future of civilisation.

1) Cue for old joke.
It says that one person in five would consider voting for the BNP. There are five in my family, but I am not sure which one is the right winger – mum, dad, me, sister Stalina or brother Franco. I think it must be mum.
2) It reports on a book which says that pets are bad for the environment and that people should consider eating them. I was so incensed that I telephoned the palace to complain, but was told that Liz was busy, apparently making a Corgi Khorma in the kitchen. “A medium-sized dog has the same impact as a Toyota Land Cruiser driven 6,000 miles a year”. No, really, that is what it says.
3) “Woman gives birth in midair”. It transpires that she was on an aeroplane, so not such an entertaining spectacle as I had imagined.
4) A woman from Accrington has won £240,000 for biting a poisonous worm while on holiday. The worm was in her dinner. No matter what the financial incentives, little will tempt me to abandon my annual 10 days in Mablethorpe.

********

Over on twitter, by contrast, there are thousands of people suggesting “one letter off movies”.
Scaryduck is (and how could it be any other way?) the winner, with “The Shiting”. Although I thought my entry – “King Solomon’s Mints” was not without merit.

Contributors are welcome here for those too poor to afford Twitter, but I must warn you that they will all have been done already.

As promised

The Torygraph offers me the opportunity to return to topics promised in my last post.

A fine US citizen has been arrested for indecency after been seen ‘making coffee’ in his own home while naked. A passing woman (Pam? And why were you on stilts? And do you always carry binoculars?) with a 7 year old boy saw him.

She obviously took exception to his frappuccino, or didn’t approve of his method of stirring the brew. Perhaps she thought that his latte was too skinny. Perhaps he is the chap who put the “swell” into Macswell House (geddit?).

Tomorrow, the story of the man dunkin donuts in his kitchen.


I was also pleased to read the headline at the BBC that “Nasa should scrap Ares rocket”. Until I realised my mistake. It certainly sounded very unpleasant and dangerous.

Another county heard from

I am up late at night, twatting about on the internet again, with a compunction to write something about a topic about which every twat and his dog has opined ad nauseam this week.

We are all concerned about overcrowding. The bandwagon of sages and seers pontificating about the BNP is in danger of collapsing due to overpopulation. Controls must be adhered to, and only those who were on it to begin with should be allowed to stay.

This week a number of people (aMToNW) have been alarmed that the BBC has allowed a fascist to air his views on a popular television programme. Sundry shows on the electric radio featuring Ms Polly Filler and her associates have invited people to telephone and shout on air and completely ignore what everyone else has to say. If you switched on your wireless set you can hardly have avoided it.

The television programme has ended. Nothing has changed. No one has had their opinion changed about anything, apart from perhaps some very naughty boys on twitter and facebook who wish to shag Bonnie Greer.

Does anyone really believe that the knuckle-draggers and bottom-feeding paki-haters who make up a sizeable minority of the population of this fine nation will have had their views modified by the sight of Nick Griffin impersonating a twat tonight? Has anyone, and I admit it seems slightly less likely, suddenly realised that they don’t like rap music or gulab jamuns because they were so swayed by the deep insights offered by the leader of the BNP? Of course not.

I watched ‘Question Time’ this evening. A small part of it consisted of representatives of the three major political parties (The Silly party of Britain, The British Silly Party, and the Silly British Party) adopting their usual stance of trying to assert whose dad was bigger than whose. This is the normal format of these discussions. Tonight there was a significant diversion as the BBC had cleverly invited along someone so uncompromisingly odious that they could all take turns in calling him names. They had also provided on the panel, for the sake of university students who had been told to watch this particular edition but did not know why, a sexy woman.

My political opinions have hardly changed since I was eight years old. I didn’t believe then that it was right to exploit minorities and I still adhere to that view. I believed then that it was incumbent (although I couldn’t spell it then) on society to take care of the underprivileged, and I still share that view. When I was eighteen I found Jack Straw to be a tad right wing, now I find him to be a total authoritarian tory loony, but, I would argue, it is Jack, not I, who has changed.

The programme should be renamed ‘Questionable Time’, because it is neither use nor ornament (apart from for the perverts mentioned above). This is why I don’t do serious on my blog very often. Even though I am clearly the most intelligent and perspicacious creature on the planet, my views are of no concern to anyone and will have no influence whatever.

So, let’s get back to knob jokes and captions featuring the Windsors, shall we?

Crap through the letterbox

A loyal reader (a Rev. Trellis of North Norfolk) has suggested that I might like to share my feelings about a certain 84th birthday that has been reported in sections of the media. I am suspicious that there is mischief in this request, and that the requestor feels that I might be moved to a rise in blood pressure when writing about this subject.
Let me make this clear. I wish the lady in question a long (albeit miserable) life. I am determined to dance on her grave, and her continued existence bodes well for my continued health and fitness.

However, after venturing from my hearth today, I returned to find some literature on my doormat (you see, the title of this little essay is descriptive rather than imperative).
From the Tory Party! ROFL!
It contained the headline “When Times Are Tough, Trust the Conservatives!”
I suspect that they ran out of space. Can you suggest a suitable conclusion to that sentence? I can think of lots.
Points will be awarded for the most creative answers.
And what do points mean?

Thoughtfully they have included on the leaflet a cut-out-and-return section with the imprecation “Let us know about your concerns”. I have replied “You keep pushing crap like this through my letterbox”.

You have 30 seconds to make sense of this

I am laying myself open to looking foolish in publishing this, but will take this major risk. I am, after all, blessed with modesty, so making the occasional mistake will not over concern me.

I was intrigued to find an article in the Torygraph giving space to that vacuous tart Carol Vorderman. The Torygraph seems to think that her opinions carry some weight. Perhaps they do, after all, vacuous tarts are not disenfranchised in this fine democracy of ours. She has decided that the Labour party has not done a good job with regard to education.

Determined to demonstrate my tolerance, I read further. This is what I found:

"I tell you what, as soon as you lift a rock, there is snakes down there," she said.

My dilemma is that I fear that she may have been either demonstrating irony, or quoting from someone/something, but I can find no reference to anyone else speaking in such a manner. Do any of my erudite readers (aMToNW) know?

For those of you of a foreign inclination, and who have avoided news of “celebrity”, I should tell you a little about Ms Vorderman.
1) She is a vacuous tart.
2) She earned a very poor degree in engineering, albeit from a reputable seat of learning
3) She earned a fortune by doing pointless sums on a quiz show. Doing pointless sums is all very well if you are Chancellor of the Exchequer, but otherwise has no known value to humanity.
4) Outside of doing sums she has consistently displayed her air-headedness in spectacular and consistent style.
5) She won the award for “Most annoying vacuous tart” by advertising rip-off debt consolidation services on the electric television
6) She is a vacuous tart.

I tell you what, anyone who prefaces their utterances with “I tell you what” is not worth listening to. I expect she will be next prime minister but one. After all, our transatlantic friends elected a vacuous twat who also didn’t know the difference between “is” and “are”.

Having devoted some precious space on my lovely blog to lambasting some vacuous tart’s mangling of the language, I will now sit back and wait for all of you to point out the typos and gross grammatical errors here.

*******

TCM strike again. I am indebted to my friends at the Torygraph for informing me about this important scientific research. Scientists claim that rooks understand the laws of physics better than chimpanzees. No, really.

The rooks were surprised when shown an 'egg-like' object 'floating' in mid-air. They looked for longer at pictures of these impossible scenarios than possible pictures where the egg was correctly supported by a platform.
The seven adults understood not only that contact between the egg and platform was necessary for support but also that there must be a sufficient amount of contact and that the contact must be from below.
This has been shown to be beyond the grasp of chimpanzees, said zoologist Christopher Bird and colleagues at the University of Cambridge.

I would make the following observations.

• The name of the researcher gives lie to his ability to be objective.
• They talk about “understanding the laws of physics” as if this is a good thing.
• Carol Vorderman went to the university of Cambridge.

Tuesday, and still no sign of the revolution.

I don't always get around to reading Michael Meacher in full, but as one of the remaining labour parliamentarians it is sometimes reassuring to know that there are alternative points of view.

It's only rock in hole, but I hate it.

I think that this must be the season in between the summer and autumn schedules where there is nothing but repeats on. I have already done Jane Austen (missus) and old stuff this week, and am aching to find something new about which to pontificate.

Alas, my friends at BBC news have thwarted my yearnings and caused me more than a little distress by reporting that some great steaming wassock has found the remains of another henge in Wiltshire. I have, on more than one occasion, made it sparklingly clear that one henge is too many, to the tune of one.

The henge that is the only famous thing in Wiltshire is irksome to me, as it is visible from my route to Tom’s house. Visiting Tom is stressful enough, what with all of his problems about which I am too considerate to dwell on here, but to have my attention drawn to countless daft bastards gawking at some old rocks every time I pass by does nothing to put me in the right frame of mind for dealing with Tom.

I wish someone would knock the monstrosity (Stonehenge, not Tom) down, or perhaps steal it.

Bloody great eyesore (Stonehenge, not Tom, and I won’t clarify the subject of my writing again).

At least the new henge doesn’t have any stones. Just holes where they think the stones were. John Lennon wept. There will now be CDB (see above) going to look at the place were the stones aren’t. Bugger off, the lot of you. Stay at home, and look at the stuff that isn’t there – Tosspot on Severn or Witless, Kentucky whereeverthebollocks it is that you live.

“The circle was made using the Preseli spotted dolerite stone.”

Hoo pigging ray. Well you won’t be able to bloody spot it any more, will you, because it ain’t bloody well there?

I may be missing something, but cannot work out all this fascination with trying to work out the significance of Stonehenge is about. It is just a bunch of rocks stuck in a field in Wiltshire. It is either the work of some prehistoric loony god-botherers, a student prank or the psychotic result of an attempt to relieve acute boredom by my great granddad and his mates one weekend when the internet was down. We should be no more fascinated by the eccentricities of these ancient weirdos than by their descendants today who watch “The Antiques Roadshow”, enjoy Country and Western music or vote Conservative. Or go and gawk at a bunch of stones in a field in Wiltshire.

I cannot be responsible for the actions of my neighbours

Over on facebook I have issued a swift rebuttal to the rumourmongers at the BBC who have published allegations that a seriously perverted hack is at work in the vicinity of the proud county of Hampshire, sending unpleasant missives around the country, including one to our dear leader, curvaceous Gordon Brown.

Over there, I suggested that the author must be Jane Austen, as no one else in Hampshire is capable of such filth, here I can be more candid, and while much of the blame lies at the feet (or the hands, or the mouth) of the Chawton harpy, the truth is more complex.

Hampshire schools are the only ones in the UK privy to the unedited transcripts of Ms Austen’s work. Consequently, whereas the rest of the country sees her work as finely crafted ironic social commentary, albeit limited to descriptions of the interactions of a narrow social class, the children of this otherwise proud county are subjected to the language of a two centuries old sewer, and their literary style forever warped by the arcane workings of Jezebel Jane’s diseased psyche.
Near where I live, as one enters the proud county, there is a sign displaying the information “Jane Austen Country”. This is not an advertising message, it is actually a dire warning to cover the ears of young children lest they be subjected to a local quoting from the hussy in question.

No wonder that the children of Waltham Chase find Dickens so tame. At Itchen Stoke the children scratch their heads, not because they are itchin’ (geddit?) but rather because of the lack of vulgarity in Jane Eyre. Those sprung from the loins of the fine burghers of Lower Swanwick find Thackeray unenthralling.

The children are taught, however, not to use this language in front of outsiders, but obviously someone has not heeded this instruction and taken to lambasting the rest of the country with the style of Dirty Jane.

Here is a selection of some of the phrases from her works with which you may be familiar (just in case there is one of you who has not memorised her complete works) together with the original version.

“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does” (Emma)
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does, so get your tits out and I’ll give you a groat.”
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London” (Northanger Abbey)
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London, so get your knickers off, and it will soon go in again, know what I’m saying?”
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper” (Pride and Prejudice)
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper, and banged like a shithouse door in a force nine gale”
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then” (Pride and Prejudice)
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be given a bloody good seeing to, from behind.”

I have of course, in recognition of your sobriety and delicate sensibilities, omitted more lurid examples. It does none of us any good to dwell upon this sort of writing, and I struggle to maintain the highest standards of information and wisdom on this page while being a martyr to good taste.

Less fun than some loon on a plinth.

After many years of updating this diary, it is inevitable that, from time to time, themes recur. Fortunately the majority of my readership (aMToNW) is so drug addled or mentally deficient as to not to notice.

I expect that the media has some system of ensuring that once in a while every place gets a mention in the news. As nothing of note has happened in Staffordshire since the Great Drugs Bust of 1970, there are acres of newsprint currently dedicated to the startling news that someone in Staffordshire has dug up some old stuff in a field.

This has so excited the populace of said manor, that they are queuing round the clock to see it. The old stuff, that is, not the field. Nor Staffordshire. That would be silly.

I just don’t get it. I have no desire whatsoever to see some old stuff that someone has unearthed. Even were they to have disinterred it in Shropshire or Cumbria I would have no concern. I don’t care how old the stuff is. I don’t care if it is the lost Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, Alexander the Great’s jockstrap or a polo mint half sucked by Ferdinand Magellan, I would not cross the road to see it.

Furthermore, I think that the populace of Staffordshire deserve better. They have been deprived of entertainment since the Talke Pits Development Company relocated, but surely someone can devise a more stimulating diversion than gawking at old stuff that some bloke dug up in a field.

Dullness seems to be a characteristic of the region. The dug up items might date from the reign of Wulfhere of Mercia. I do not expect many of you will have heard of Wulfhere. That is because he was basically boring, and his idea of fun was to doodle on bits of shiny metal and then bury said metal in a field. He had a more notorious brother called Peada, but on the whole it was the sort of period of English history which has resulted in generations of bored schoolchildren nodding off or indulging in unseemly activities at the back of the class while Mr Blenkinsopp tried to convey some of the enthusiasm for the subject which he so singularly failed to feel. I doubt whether many people can tell you much about Mercia. You have not missed much. In their favour, the Mercians incurred the displeasure of that tiresome god-botherer the Venomous Bede, who wanted to pop round on a Saturday afternoon and interrupt Sports Report to read to them (in Latin) from the book of Lamentations. They told him they were not interested. This was not because of any devoutness on their part, or enthusiasm for paganism, it’s just that they preferred to sit around and whittle or doodle on metal rather than go to church on their day off.

To give you some idea, the collection of items includes “sword pommels”. No, I have no idea what they are, either – and points will be deducted from anyone smartarsed enough to try to inform us.

To give you a further idea, the “expert” consulted by the BBC news reporters is called “Roger Bland”.

To give you the best idea, the items are being exhibited in Birmingham.

The whole sorry episode is so incomprehensibly boring that I expect Dave is on his way over there now to have a good look.

Another county heard from

This is a brief interruption to normal service, where I invoke my privilege to have a quiet little rant, and have disabled the comments.
I hope that normal service will be resumed shortly. Please skip the rest of this article if you, like me, think that there is no value in halfwits spouting their ill informed opinions on the electric internet.
I was perturbed to hear two separate “news” items on Radio 5 this evening, within a few minutes of each other.
The news was that:
1) Someone who had been receiving visits from his local social services flipped and killed someone.
2) Someone, and I did not listen to how they came up with the figure, neither do I give it any credence or import, that 1 in 7 medical diagnoses in the UK are incorrect.
They then proceeded to get a social work manager to apologise, and a doctor who had misdiagnosed someone to apologise.
FUCK OFF.
Social Work. Would you do it? Would you want to spend your days trying to help or monitor the activities of someone seriously mentally ill? Particularly if you knew you would never have the resources to support you? Particularly if you knew that the state of psychiatric science was in its infancy and that there are millions of people out there, fucked up beyond comprehension, with no one knowing how to treat them? And then to compound it all, as soon as you make a mistake you get the full weight of the parasitic mass media on your back, blaming you for being under resourced and under educated. Bastards. We are lucky to have any social workers at all in this country. They are underpaid, underappreciated and under supported. People going into this profession are those who want to help others. There is no other reason why you should surround yourself with so much crap on a daily basis. And then when some poor sod makes an error they are pilloried by our righteous Murdoch arse lickers and fascist tabloid twats, people who have never done any good for anybody.

The medical profession. A profession doomed to failure, because, ultimately, their job is to stop people from dying. Would you want to be a doctor? (No, Donn, the opportunity to ask ladies to take their clothes off is not a good enough reason). Spending your mornings with the sick and disgruntled, the ill and the miserable? Examining urine samples, telling people that there is nothing to be done for them. Hanging around with people that you would like to help, but can’t because of the same combination of problems as besets social workers – insufficient resources and insufficient knowledge. A nurse at the top of her profession can only be expected to be paid £40,000 a year in this country. Many are earning half of that amount. Would you do it?

Yes, I do feel sympathy for those people who have lost their friends and relations because of mistakes. But I can see no value in a witch hunt conducted among the caring professions.
And much as I enjoy listening to Peter Allen on Radio 5, he ought to be very ashamed of taking part in this disgusting display today.

This is the conclusion of today's sermon. We will now sing hymn number 72 "Let's burn Thatcher".

An object of wonder and desire

Please visit Mike's page and rejoice in knowing someone truly demented.
If you don't feel joy watching it, then there is little hope for you.
Here are the links that you will need:
http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/miketd/
and for the music:
http://soundcloud.com/miketd/mikes-plinth-mix
He will tell you when to start the music.

Showing off

A reminder to support Mike in his endeavour to be the silliest person you know.
He is performing here between 6.00 and 7.00 UK time on Thursday.

Contrafribularities

Our pal Boris has chosen to mark today by eulogising Samuel Johnson, who, surprisingly, seems not to be related to him.
To some, old Sam might seem like a loud mouthed twat – a partially educated Clarkson, if you will; an intolerant, cantankerous twerp of the highest order.
Boris says “He is not just sexist. He is not just xenophobic. He is a free-market, monarchy-loving advocate of the necessity of human inequality.”
Boris also says that today Sam would not be tolerated or listened to. I disagree. He would be listened to and dismissed by the majority as a twisted foolish bigot. I am trying to think of an example of a modern figure who serves as an example of this, but I am Johnsoned if I can.

Ne-Ne-Ne-Never in the field of human congress.

I read this morning that the late queen mother's reaction to the palace being bombed during the war was that her "knees trembled a little bit for a minute or two". How extraordinary! One hears about admirable stoicism in the face of adversity but this is both brave and extremely candid. I hope she was rewarded with multiple orgasms, as the bombs fell around her, and old Bertie stammered out expletives in ecstasy.
Had the French not made the mistake of dispensing with their inspiring royal family they might have found inspiration from the copulatory activities of their king in the dark hours of the second world war, and been able to offer more resistance to the enemy.