There was a young lady from Glasgow.

I have just listened to the poet laureate (Karen Stuffy – check this for me later, please) reading a poem what she writ to commemorate the death of Henry Allingham.

I couldn’t make it beyond the first 20 seconds.

I am putting it on record here that no matter how famous I may become - if my words here are recognised for their inherent genius and become part of the English Literature ‘A’ level syllabus, if I am chosen as the first president of the People’s Republic of Britain, if I save 50,000 children from suffering and pain, if I discover a cure for Thatcherism – I do not want this dull trollop spouting her gonad-aching tripe on the occasion of my death. In fact, now that Adrian Henri is no longer with us (“You make me feel like a septic bowel, You make me feel like Enoch Powell, Enoch, we hate you”) I could well do without any poetry to mark my contribution to the well being of the planet, thank you very much.

On the other hand, our dear friend Donn has composed a nice essay today. Please sit comfortably while you read it.

When you have done that, try to complete the limerick I began in the title, or send me a nice Clerihew about Ms Chuffy.

Here are the answers to last week’s quiz.

1) “Eight miles high” by the Byrds
2) Dame Vera Lynn and Graeme Souness
3) With one hand firmly cupping the right heel.
4) In 1908, with a score of 76.
5) Venezuela
6) This was a trick question – it’s never been done!
7) Greek Orthodox
8) Halitosis
9) Bob Monkhouse
10) Only during the months of November and May

Well done to all of you who tried.
Dave got all of the right answers, but to all of the wrong questions.

He's back! He's back! It's the same one!

Just in case you have failed to notice the return to the internet of one the universe's foremost chroniclers, (Four most chronic what? Ed.) may I draw your attention to the re-emergence of dear old Mark.
He withdrew from blogging shortly after my visit to him, so is obviously of a shy and gentle disposition, please be tender with him.
I can guarantee that his latest little composition is of a higher standard than anything you will read in the Sunday newspapers.

The queen attends the annual ceremony of mallard molesting, or whatever the bollocks it is called.

"And what do you do?". Same damn silly question every year, I was going to say "A bloody sight more than your bloody family," but Bert tried that last year and finished up on the table at Windsor with half a watermelon up his arse.

"Oh look! Your hats are the same colour as your jackets! Whose dumb idea was that?"


"And how long have you been a swan?"


Representatives from the Henley Aqua Sports club demonstrate the dying art of swan juggling.

From an early age the birds are taught to bow in the appropriate manner.


Liz is less than amused to find that, due to the credit crunch, her trip to Anchorage will take longer than anticipated.

"Then you snap the neck just here."

Clarification

For those of you not of the British persuasion, this is the Mr Goodwin referred to in the previous post.
I'd trust him with my savings.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce, part 23

It is seldom that Camilla displays anything other than her cheerful and carefree disposition. She should be congratulated for this when one considers what up with which she has to put. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found her at the end of the electric telephone, venting spleen and breathing molten lava. It took me quite some time to ascertain the cause of her angst. She seems to live her life in a stream of consciousness that is flowing without direction or consistency.

“Nasty little git! It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was sure Chuck told me it was Ken Goodwin we were going to have lunch with. He was always one of my favourites. I even rehearsed saying ‘we’re having a good time, aren’t we?’ in a gormless northern accent.”

“Calm down, old octopus,” I said, in my most caring manner, “give me a few minutes while I try to work out what the buggery you are referring to”.

“Lunch!” she exclaimed.

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t, “I never know what to have, either”.

“No, you soft sod, I am alluding to the two (seemed like thirty) hours that I had to spend with that odious little tit Fred Goodwin. Apparently he is standing down as something to do with the Prince’s Truss” (sic) “and Charlie, dumbass that he is, thought it appropriate to have the tosser round for lunch”.

“Oh come on, old platypus,” I interjected, hoping to relieve her ire, “consider some of the other twats you have had to dine with in your official capacity – George Bush, David Frost, Lloyd Webber …”

“Bollocks!” She was having none of it. “At least they didn’t try to sell me insurance during the fish course, or enquire, halitosis prominent, whether I needed a new mortgage for Highgrove. The moron didn’t even take the hint when I covered my head with the table cloth and affected to have died.”

“I’m sure you didn’t let him get away with it, ducky.”

“You’re right there, I waited for a quiet spot in the conversation – everyone had been lulled by Charles’ soliloquy on organic marrows – and told Farty Fred he had only been given the position in the first place when someone told Charles that Himmler was dead, and the Yorkshire Ripper had turned it down. I also pointed out that I had switched my account to the Orkney and Shetland Building Society when Coutts had been taken over by the RBS, as I had heard there was some bollock brained crook in charge who wasn’t to be trusted, and perhaps ‘Sir’ Fred had heard of him. I then proceeded to slurp my Angel Delight very loudly while Goodwin attempted to engage some poor sod in a discussion about fly fishing in Monmouthshire.”

“And with whom are you dining today, dearie?” I cheekily enquired.

“No idea, but I’m taking an extra pair of ear plugs and a triple Courvoisier as protection.”

It's called a "Family Tree" because some people are descended from vegetation

I switched on the electric television yesterday to watch a programme that I follow regularly called “Who do you think you are?” The format remains the same. Some ‘famous’ (i.e. you stand a 38% chance of having heard of them before) twassock is invited to have genealogists research their family history while they make inane comments about it. I have written about this before – there was a splendid episode with Boris thinking that King George was English, and some dull tart called Jodi Summat who got a Ph.D. in senselessness.

Last night was the turn of someone called Davina McCall. I had heard of her and recognised her face, she must have been on one of the comedy panel shows that it is my habit to view, I guess, but I had no idea what she has done to make herself famous. After watching the programme, I gathered that she has something to do with the televisual banquet called “Big Brother”. Had I not learned this, I would have assumed that she had attained stardom by winning a competition to find the country’s leading gormless twat. I don’t know much about “Big Brother”, I have never watched it, and never will, voluntarily, but I believe that the premise is that you lock a bunch of arseholes in a house for a few weeks and film them. If the participants are as alluring as Ms McCall, I suggest that you slightly improve the format by taking away the filming part, and extend the duration by a few years.

At this point, I should declare an interest, one which has maybe tainted my objectivity. I have, as you may remember, been researching my family history for some time. It is a very time consuming pastime, and not without cost. I would love the BBC to spend a fraction of the amount they spend on transporting morons such as McCall around the world so that they can make fatuous comments to camera, and be seen making erudite statements such as “Hello” to the drones who have had to do the hard work of research, on helping me unblock the dead-ends I have encountered in my research.

There is a great lesson to be learned from all of this. If you watch this programme, you will become aware that it is very important to be circumspect about your choice of mate. Lack of care in this area may lead you to becoming the great-grandparent of some empty-headed dollop of vacuity such as Davina McCall.

Normal service will be resumed shortly

You will all have seen the excellent news that North East Hampshire is to get its own ecotown.
North East Hampshire is always at the forefront of movements that will help to shape the future of our planet, and this is no exception.
For those of you who have been too busy watching the sainted Andrew Strauss scoring runs at Lords, I should explain that someone has decided that if we are to provide housing for the increasing population, then that housing should at least be constructed with care for the environment.
There are those who say that this is all bollocks, we shouldn’t build anything anywhere, at least near where I live, blah blah blah.
Bollocks. I welcome the new neighbours. I hope the whole thing is as a success. If I still live here by the time it is finished (about 10 or 15 years from now) the construction will be a great inconvenience to me, no doubt, and there is a possibility that the view from my house will be spoiled by the reopening of a stretch of railway that the twat Beeching had closed down. (Beeching is still in hell, been raped on the hour by Himmler, and will remain there for the next 7,000 years.)
Bordon/Whitehill is described as a garrison town. This means that the major occupier and owner of land is the Ministry of Defence, and that the town is a very undesirable place to live, even for those such as I who have very little appreciation for town planning and architecture. It has little to offer, every other shop seems to be a purveyor of fast food of dubious quality, and in general it looks as though it has staged a dress rehearsal for the bombing of Dresden. When the army vacates, during the next couple of years or so, then there will be large tracts of brown belt land available for redevelopment.
I have disabled comments on this little tract, as I don’t want anyone to think that my opinion or that of anyone else who visits here is worth anything. If you want meaningless debates there are lots of outlets for them on the internet and elsewhere.

Thank you, I'm here all week.

I am glad to pass on the news, thanks to my friends at BBC news on line, that my admired cousins in the scientific community have turned their attention to another line of research that will help to advance our knowledge and consequently improve the human condition.

They are trying to find out why cheetahs are so fast.



Unfortunately, they are unable to start their research, because they haven't been able to catch one yet.