A Doctor writes

If you value honest and carefully argued debates about the benefits of a public health care system you can either listen to me suggesting that kicking Margaret Thatcher in the shins should be available for free on the NHS and that Vile Tart Palin should be euthanised, or you can read the words of my dear friend SoG.

And on Sky 3, another chance to see "Fuck up your living room"

I was interested to read the comments of a Mr James Murdoch, a purveyor of third rate toilet paper, anti-intellectual and gossip-monger, attacking the BBC.

As this is the weekend, when no bugger reads blogs, let me just say that, despite Ann Robinson et al, if the BBC is managing to annoy this dire little shit, then they are well worth double the licence fee.

Quite Easily Done

The bad news from the BBC is that the proportion of seven year olds reaching the "expected standard" in maths is falling.
The good news is that in 30 years time there will be no one around capable of working that out, so the fall will be halted.

Too easy

BBC Radio 5 reported this morning a distressing story about British Naturism.
Apparently its 16,000 members face discrimination.
You can do your own silly jokes.

I couldn't give a flying fox.

I am not entirely comfortable in the composition of this article; in order to construct it I may have overstepped one of my many strict moral boundaries.

Allow me to explain.

I tend to extract my knowledge of current affairs from upright and, as far as one can judge, reliable websites. (Of course I am privy to the workings of state, as many world leaders rely upon my counsel and wisdom, but it would be indiscrete to detail all of that here). I skip merrily through the BBC’s offerings, have a quick skim through the news service offered by Yahoo, an occasional peruse of the offerings of the Grauniad and the Indescribablyboring generally suffices, not to mention, of course, the Torygraph.

“Why do you read the Torygraph?” I hear you enquire. Well, you know where you stand with them, don’t you? Stand being very much the operative verb, as they have not moved since 1837. This week they had cause to mention Mr Bob Dylan. They explained that he was a singer and songwriter famous for “Mr Tambourine Man” and other popular ditties. I have visions of retired Brigadiers from Bishop’s Tippings, having been informed of this, dashing off to the local HMV to buy the latest cylinder, and afterwards skipping gaily down the local avenues, their senses having been stripped.

I am aware of other news sources on the electric internet, but only refer to them when someone has advised me that Dave has featured again.

I do not follow the cavorting of celebrities. I am not an expert on the adventures of Amy or the peregrinations of Paris. I would not recognise Jordan (or know if that is the correct spelling) even were she to bash me on the head with her left boob.

I am, in short, the model of decorum.

So, when I saw an article on the website of the BBC about the sex life of the flying fox, my first instinct was to ignore it. I am not interested in the fornicatory frolics of the genus Pteropus, and suspect that this healthy attitude is reciprocated. They avoid me, and I respect their privacy also. Without being too explicit, I have never, as far as my memory allows, been the victim of a peeping tom in the form of a winged mammal hanging from the ceiling whilst going about what passes for a sex life in my corner of the universe. (Unless you count Virginia Bottomley dressed in flying goggles and a Qantas flight attendant’s shirt, tied up with spaghetti on top of my wardrobe, but that could happen to anyone.)

So, dear reader, please believe me when I say that the only thing that led me to read this article was the mention of scientists “unlocking the secrets of the flying fox’s sexual success”. What a bunch of nosy bleeders. One minute they can’t make up their minds about the existence of “dark energy”, the next, instead of coming up with some form of energy that will be non-polluting, cure cancer and kill Thatcher, they are probing around the boudoir of a bloody bat. In fact, as usual, they have discovered bugger all. There is a link, apparently, between high testosterone and sexual achievement, but they have not a clue whether this is of any significance or causal. Twats. To be blunt, I could have told them that it is a fair bet that Usain Bolt is more likely to have offspring than is Russell Grant, and I could have deduced that without interrupting the vinegar strokes of some endangered antipodean guava guzzler.

*******

Points will be deducted for comments containing puns about “bats”.

Underselling

I received from a chap called Howard asking me to provide "Words from the author" to compliment a website he is creating to provide a new search engine on the electronic internet.
(I did not wish to burst his bubble that Theodore and Evadne Google are occupied full time with their nice little search facility, and so if he wanted to compete with them he would need one or even two assistants).
Anyway, here is what I sent to him. I think it is a fair and modest assessment of what these pages are all about.


This important website offers the definitive analysis of the state of the planet in this time of darkness.
It offers succour to the needy, hope to the desperate, information to the inquisitive, astute analysis to the knowledge-seeker, wisdom to the student and love to all.
Diurnal study will provide weaponry against the fickleness of God and the randomness of fate.
Proud readers will tell their descendants "I read Scurra, and look where I am today!"
Thousands will campaign to have monuments erected to honour the author and grandchildren of Spielberg will be forced to admit that the making of a film could never do justice to the importance of these words.


Scurra.

Hands across the sea.

As you all know, I am very fond of a sophisticated political debate, where the arguments on each side are presented with honesty and intellectual integrity. There is no reason why one should bring the language of the gutter to such events, and it is possible to have a deep respect for those who do not necessarily share one’s own views.

In the spirit of this, I venture the following response to the nice young lady, fashioning herself “Vice Chair of Republicans Abroad” who I just heard, on the electric radio, expounding her views on the contrast between the British and American approaches to health care:

Fuck off, you supercilious twat. Take your “fuck the poor” politics, shove them up your anus, chain yourself to your vice chair, whatever the gonads that is, and have some passing Samaritan push you over a convenient cliff.

Quite a mouthful

This morning, while perambulating along the highways of Hampshire and Surrey in my internal combustion engine powered vehicle, I beheld a van bearing the motto “B J Champion”.
I confess to being intrigued.
Those of you, (aMToNW), with a curiosity that lends itself to speculation about what constitutes a champion may ask: is proficiency measured by quality or quantity, or some combination of the two? Who judges, and how do they maintain objectivity?
These were not my immediate thoughts. My first concern was why someone would choose to advertise this achievement to all and sundry. I find myself strangely unable to empathise with this person. Perhaps they are contractually obliged to advertise their achievement in order to qualify for whatever prize comes their way. (Comes their way – geddit?). Are any of you in possession of prizes, certificates or testimonials detailing your proficiency in a matter that would normally remain private?
I did not imagine this. I found a website where customers congratulate the Champ on his erection.

The doctor told me to walk ten miles every day

Say what you like about the Torygraph, but it does do some amusing little stories. Stuck in a view of the world that was popular in 1827, although not correct even then, it continues to delight and amuse. Much like Dave’s blog, apart from the delight and amuse bit.

First, it tells us that British men are the ideal partners.
Experts claim that women are more attracted to men if they believe they will help out with household chores and make an equal contribution towards childcare.
I can certainly claim to have made an equal contribution towards childcare in my house, and as for chores, well, ladies, let me know if you need your artefacts polishing.

Then there is a little story about a chap who bought a bit of coloured wood (WHAT THE FUCK FOR?) from a car boot sale, only to find out later that it was a 1300 year old relic from the Crusades. Well, you dull wassock, it’s too late to take it back now and get a new one, isn’t it? This is why I buy useless bits of coloured wood only from Harrods. They have a very generous returns policy, and they deliver.

What really caught my eye (disclaimer: this story is attributed to ‘scientists’* – please help yourself to the salt) was an article that talked about all of humanity outside of Africa being descended from a tribe of a couple of hundred people who crossed the Red Sea from Africa about 70,000 years ago. We are all brothers and sisters you see. Not only did these brave folk cross the Red Sea, but engaged in some industrial grade shagging in order to produce all of us.

They took a very long time to reach Britain, because of a virulent campaign by the Daily Mail to keep them out. (“Who”, I hear you ask, “was around to read the Mail before human beings came along?”, “Well”, I hear me reply, “the same bunch of lobotomised reptiles and diseased slugs who read it today.”).

This may not appear to be an auspicious start. Nothing much good comes of leaving Africa across the Red Sea. That arch god botherer Moses managed to con a bunch of political dissidents into a 40 year schlep round the desert in order to arrive at a destination that could have been reached by Geoffrey Boycott’s mum in seven days. But before we judge our granddads (or in Dave’s case, brothers) too harshly, let us consider the options. South of Africa lies the Antarctic. Not the sort of place to set up home in my view. They considered crossing the Med to Spain, but found that all of the beaches had already been occupied by Germans. (I am grateful to Little and Large for that joke. I am a martyr to originality.) They considered travelling west across the great ocean, but wisely decided that colonising that area would definitely lead to unassailable problems, and to the south east lay a great land mass, but research showed that there was no chance of culture developing there (thanks to Cannon and Ball for this joke).

If anyone has the names of the people who were among these two hundred, please let me know, so that I can finish my family tree. (Apart from knowing who it was who shagged my great great grandmother, Lucy).

* One of the ‘scientists’ is identified as “a senior lecturer in archaeogenetics at Anglia Ruskin University”. Bugger. I wanted that job.