Wednesday, August 19, 2009

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”.

16 comments:

Dave said...

I stopped reading this post as soon as the word 'sex' raised its ugly head. I get too much of that at home, thank you.

KAZ said...

But those prurient blokes who get off on the sex lives of bats aren't really scientists are they Vicus?
You should have different levels of contempt for Chemists, Biologists, Physicists and Naturalists (or are they the ones that take all their clothes off?)

Vicus Scurra said...

Dave, don't be so harsh with yourself. Yes, I have to admit, you do have an ugly head, but those of us who are proud to be your friends see the inner beauty.
Dunno Kaz. All of my science teachers were equally weird. Although Alvin Jackson did manage to get me through O level Chemistry. (Everyone passed in his group). He even had a joke "Watch the board while I go through it" he would say. Not much of a joke, but at least he tried. I have, however, found no use for the periodic table since.

Dave said...

I think you'll find the periodic table is of more interest to women, Vicus.

I, Like The View said...

erm

sorry. . .

. . .where was I?


I have a suntan, you know

Vicus Scurra said...

Dave. You are very close to having points deducted.
ILTV. Yes, I know, and I also know where it ends.

Geoff said...

Is this where the phrase "swinging from the chandeliers" comes from?

Morton Shadow said...

We had a chemistry teacher at our school called Mr. Lakharni [I'm pretty sure that's the spelling - unless it was Locarno, of course - no, hang on - that was the History chap...) Anyway, he delivered impenetrable lectures on the surface ratio of the Tsetse fly in fluent Hindi and would punish the uncomprehending (usually the whole class) by making them keep their arms out to their sides for the bulk of the lesson. (It was, I'm sure you've already guessed, a comprehensive.)

Oh, he's allowed out of Pentonville every couple of years in order to attend school reunions and to have a quick peek through the hole in the girls' changing room just like old times (services rendered and all that), for which we're all very grateful. After all, God only knows, but for him, how I'd ever have got this call centre job without being word perfect in the lingo...

Enough, anon - & c.

xxx
Mort

Richard said...

I'm still trying to work out whether the Virginia Bottomley thing is a fantasy or fear. In either case I suspect you may need professional help.

Vicus Scurra said...

Richard, I would welcome professional help. I have been trying to coax her down for several weeks. I have scanned Yellow Pages, the typical response is "Tory tarts on wardrobes, guv? Can't help you before the new year".

Richard said...

Might I suggest a cattle prod?

Rol said...

What, so you're not a batsman, Vicus? Why? Problem with the middle wicket? Holy fruitbats, Batman. My ultility belt was full to bursting when I read this report, I haven't been so excited since that time I saw Nora Batty unwrinkling her stockings with a batarang. You must have bats in your belfry to not be getting ready for battle at the first mention of this foxy little critter. I can't believe you couldn't give a flying fox. Time to pass the baton, I think...


(How'm I doing? Minus 400 yet?)

Adam said...

Ah yes, any mention of bats as "flying foxes" reminds me of the Samoan legend "The verdict of the Flying Foxes" in which bats save a woman from the death penalty, because her only crime was killing a lousy half-Tongan baby.

G Eagle Esq said...

Merhaba

"... many world leaders rely upon my counsel and wisdom ..."

If only that were the case - or "carse" as Southerners pronounciate it

Our Dear Leader (Heil Braun) would long ago have agreed to give Home Rule to the Isle of Wight AND had it towed Northwards to Scotland

.... the Wight inJustice Minister could then empty all its Prisons on compassionate grounds and send them to Libya, as an alternative to unleashing them on the Honest Burgers and Property Owners of Wessex

Allahismarladick

Donn said...

That is precisely what I wasn't thinking.
Who gives a flying Fox about Fruit Bats.

hesspartacus said...

Re: the Bottomley business....

Try the local Polish chap. They're generally available at a few hours' notice as the whole extended family tends to muck in, they get the job done without recourse to incontinent ramblings about "the government", "asylum seekers" and "expenses", or constantly requesting cups of tea, and they don't charge like wounded bison.