On maintaining standards

I wish to draw your attention to my continuing efforts to help young people.

I have just posted the following on the facebook page of a dear friend.

You will see that it is couched in terms of concern and kindness. Please let me know if I can be of help with any of your younger friends and relatives who might benefit from my wisdom and compassion.


Much as I am loath to disturb you, I feel that I must draw to your attention a transgression by your younger son.
I was quietly going about my internetual activities this morning, when I was somewhat perturbed to find the following message from said offspring on my facebook page:
“well done you nob jocky”
I am not a judgmental person, and recognise that **** (name changed to protect the little git) has lacked the presence of a suitable male role model during his formative years, but I cannot sit by and watch this sort of display without protest. You were involved in the teaching profession for some years. I am therefore reticent to advise on a suitable deterrent, but in my day repetitive correction was deemed to be effective. May I suggest that you get him to write, 2000 times:
“Well done, Uncle Vicus, you knob jockey.”
I trust that you and your dear husband are in rude health and continuing to contribute to society. I am sure you will both join with me in my on-going efforts to stamp down on poor grammar and spelling.

Speak roughly to your little boy.

I would like to make it abundantly clear that I am contrite and very sorry.
My father-in-law, a devout Hindu, offers the imprecation "Sita Ram" when he sneezes.
I admit there is nothing clever or even mildly amusing about my saying "Sonny Cher" when I sneeze.
I am not sure at this stage which of world's religions I have most offended, and am therefore not totally clear as to which hell I will be consigned to. I don't really mind, as long as they like a good laugh.

Wallet emptying opportunity

For those of you who don't read lovely Lin regularly (and if you don't, why not? you some sorta idjit?)
Please go over there and donate some money. It doesn't have to be a lot, but do it now, please.

Yes, it's Henry Fonda in "On Golden Shower"

I am obliged to my dear friend Carol for drawing my attention to the following news item from my home town.
I was at school with Carol, and, incredibly, she is still alive. I have no embarrassing stories to tell about her as she was, as are all of my friends, a careful and well behaved young lady.

This item refers to unruly and antisocial behaviour by a group of senior citizens, in a cinema during sessions when they were allowed discounted prices.

I have left a comment on the site thus:

Allow me to speak up on behalf of the disruptive forces described in your charming little essay.
When I reach my threescore years and ten I hope to display the same sort of behaviour as those fine citizens so cruelly lambasted by the running dogs of commercial fascism. I doubt whether I will ever attend one of these orgies in the Freeman's common Odeon, but if I do I shall exercise my right to stand on my head during the national anthem, make loud sucking noises during the dirty bits, boo Clint Eastwood and goose the young lady selling choc ices.
The majority of these people have worked for over 40 years to earn their right to enact displays of mindless vandalism during "Carry on Constable".
How dare anyone encroach upon their basic human rights?

UPDATE: My comment appears to have been deleted. The Leicester Mercury was always run by fascists. Nothing has changed.

Cross of St George? Not as fucking cross as I am

Bollocks to it all.

It gets worse each year. In a futile and frenzied attempt to deny the trend of the breaking down of national characteristics, we are bombarded on the electric radio by an assortment of halfwits and jingoistic knuckledraggers to celebrate the day of loony George and the cult of Englishness.

Bollocks to it all.

George, who probably never existed, was born, if he ever existed which is doubtful, in Turkey, so his name was not George, but some Turkish/Arabic version of said sobriquet, never came to England, had nothing to do with England, would never have heard of England, Britain or Milton Keynes even if he had existed, which he probably didn’t, never killed a dragon, because the dragon certainly never existed, and neither did George, and if we are to believe the myths surrounding his doubtful existence, he was so many parsnips short of a casserole that he chose to give his non-existent life rather than renounce his religion. He was exactly the sort of dickhead that should be chosen as symbol of English greatness.

Bollocks to it all.

I am a citizen of the world. I am not particularly proud of it, considering the destruction that my species has unleashed on the planet that it depends upon for survival, but I will not compound that stupidity by identifying with an arbitrary section of the globe and the xenophobic portion of the population thereof that wants to promote divisiveness and conflict.

Bollocks to it all.

The hanging baskets of Surbiton

In an attempt to beat some life into this apparently slowly dying blog, I thought I would encourage some audience participation. If there is still anyone out there who could be bothered to check whether there has been an annual update.

Anyway, I have a very dear friend, who, like the majority of you, I have never met. A few days ago she posted a little item on facebook to the effect that one of the things that she wanted to do before leaving these islands to return home was to see “Stone Hedge”.

This may be a typo, a misapprehension of stunning proportions or some witty use of the language. As she comes from the same state as Adam, any of those could be possible, although the third would probably be a tad unlikely. When I say “state” I mean geo-political entity, rather than some bizarre consciousness that is a fusion of unfortunate genetics and unfortunater narcotics.

The main target of this information was initially unwilling to join in, so I pointed out that Stone Hedge was roughly midway between the Towel of London and the Severn Fridge.

Now it’s your turn. Which tourist attractions would you recommend to visitors? Points will be awarded for adhering to the precedent of mundane household and garden objects, for silliness and for being bothered to take part. Perhaps we could all meet at the most dull sounding attraction this summer?

I’ve already had my say about Stonehenge, several times. If any of you would like to see Stone Hedges, we have them in North East Hampshire. Round these parts we call them, somewhat quaintly, “walls”.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 22

I am grateful to my friends at the BBC for reporting that Phil has overtaken the record of Charlotte the Harlot and become the longest serving royal consort in these islands.

They inform us that: “The 87-year-old Duke, who is known not to like a fuss ….”

Well, he’s certainly chosen the right fucking career then, hasn’t he?

The suggestion is preposterous. The old git loves every minute of it, not just the whole ceremonial nonsense with uniforms, security guards, inspecting troops and meeting other unemployable heads of state and sharing banquets of undercooked offal with them, but the attention that he gets from the household staff and family.

Camilla and I have been planning a celebration of this day for some time, “I hope the old twat doesn’t pop his clogs the day before,” she confided, “I do so hate to waste my time.” We both cracked up at this. “When was the last time you did something worthwhile then, you daft trollop?” I enquired. “You’d be surprised, you cheeky boy,” she riposted “only last Thursday I took a pair of the old girl’s corgis for a walk in Hyde Park and exchanged them for a couple of shabbier versions belonging to a passing pedestrian. She won’t notice, will she? Well, not until one of them gives birth to a mongrel mixture of corgi, Scottish terrier, dachshund and Shetland pony in about seven weeks time!” She was so amused by this that her breakfast of vodka and pepsi cola was expelled through her nostrils. I find it expedient not to get too close.

If all goes according to plan, the auspicious day will unfold thus. Phil will be served breakfast in bed by a skimpily clad, well oiled out of work actor from Helsinki who was the star of the auditions we held. I made sure he was awake by calling at 5.30, purporting to be the Irish representative of a local double glazing firm, offering to pop round for an estimate. I didn’t hear all of the response. After six minutes I put the telephone down, made myself some breakfast and checked on the progress of Celine Dion on facebook, and when I came back he was still swearing, this time in German. It does him good to get the old ticker pumping first thing, which is not easy to do these days. When I say these days, I refer to the period since the unfortunate birth of Edward, since when Liz has had nocturnal and morning headaches every day, if you get my drift.

The morning will be spent allowing him to inspect troops. He loves this, as they are not, of course, allowed to answer back. Camilla has been trying to find a Welsh guardsman with Tourette’s for the occasion, but I have not had any reports on her success thus far.

There is nothing special planned for the afternoon – I expect it will be a typical Saturday, with him lurking in the background, breaking wind and blaming the dogs, while she goes all orgasmic watching the horse racing on Channel 4.

I am sorry to build all of this up and then let you down, but I cannot divulge much about the stellar evening that we have concocted, as many of the performers at the cabaret request zero publicity at these events. I can reveal, however, (and even I find this in bad taste) that Ray Winstone has agreed to do one of his infamous queen mother impersonations. The evening will conclude with the ceremonial burning of a portrait of queen Charlotte in the gardens. I am trying to get word to Fergie not to show up, just in case he sneaks up behind her and pushes her onto the bonfire.

What have you been doing this week?

Something to engage you until I get back/

Who says there are no good White heavyweights?

In a weekend full of sporting drama, not the least of which was Macheda's goal, this perfectly executed right wins my nomination as Sporting Highlight of the Week.

More horseshit

I note from reports in her majesty’s press that yesterday there was a horse race in Liverpool. I have little interest in these matters, but am opposed to the whole thing in general.

I am not an animal lover. My bargain with the animal kingdom is that I do not eat them and would prefer, all things being equal, that they reciprocate the arrangement at least until after I have died sleeping a deep and exhausted satisfied sleep during the night of my 112th birthday, having romped in a style that does not deserve further description here with several young ladies bearing a likeness to the young Goldie Hawn.

My dear friend Tom makes a living from pandering to the whims of horses. I do not criticise him for this, and indeed it seems to be a fairly clever way of keeping his contact with the rest of humanity to a minimum. I hasten to add that this is humanity’s loss – it is their effect upon Tom which concerns me. He finds human behaviour bizarre, and, as a friend, I keep my contact with him to a brief telephone call every 4 years or so, and a periodic check with his dear wife that matters are not out of control.

Anyway, to end that diversion, I see that one of the horses in yesterday’s abomination died. This is not unusual in these events, and quite often animals get injured and someone decides it would be better off if they were turned into dog meat as a result. (Yes, Dave, it might be more accurate to say that they are turned into horse meat, but you have again overestimated how much I care).
For once I am at a loss as to suggest a fitting way to curtail this cruelty.
Here are a few suggestions.

1) Any owners, trainers and riders of a horse which dies during a race should also be put down.
2) Anyone gambling on an event in which an animal dies should pay a fine of four times their gross annual income.
3) Spectators at an event at which an animal dies should be deprived of a limb of their own choosing prior to being allowed to leave. The limb should be one that is attached to their own body, Dave.
4) John McCririck should be sent to North Korea.

Help me out here, what do you think?