Tuesday, September 29, 2009

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.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

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.

Monday, September 21, 2009

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.
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".

Thursday, September 17, 2009

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:
and for the music:
He will tell you when to start the music.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

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.

Monday, September 14, 2009


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.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

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.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Goodbye Mr Steak and Chips

Hats off to Andrea Charman, a ground-breaking school headmistress from Kent (why are they always from Kent?) who has made the news today.

She has decided that one of the school pets is to be sold to the local abattoir. (She claims that this was done democratically, but I suspect that the children were given the choice of “Listen brats, it’s either Marcus or one of you”)

She says that “I am trying to prepare children for the adult world in every sense”.

Good on yer, Andy!

Of course she does not go far enough.

Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to pass on the following suggestions so that she might take her laudable ambition to its proper conclusion. I would do it myself, but she scares the crap out of me.

Let the children slaughter the animals themselves. Have them shown how to sharpen the knives, discuss the best method of draining the blood. Make burgers out of the giblets. Make musical instruments out of the bones. (I was going to say make headmistresses out of the shit, but I am frightened of Ms Charman). Of course, this will not apply to vegetarian children, or “cissies” as they are known in Ms Charman’s school. They will be forced to pick the hand-reared peas that they have been growing at the back of the school prison, and pluck them from their pods, without anaesthetic.

Let’s have some marketing classes. Each hour have one class of children go round the school interrupting the other classes by trying to sell them crap that they don’t need.

Teach them about capitalism. Get them to hand over 45% of their pocket money to the Charman Investment Fund. When they leave school leaving age, they may get as much as 38% of it back, after tax.

Teach them about careers. Get them to do something entirely without merit, and then arbitrarily select one in twenty each term to be ‘made redundant’ from the class and get an “F”.

Teach them about journalism. Get the teachers to tell them a bunch of lies each day. (I suspect old Andrea will already have a good handle on this one).

For the school trip, hand out some Kalashnikovs and send the little loves to some third world country to see how many children they can murder there. Call it “democratisation awareness”.

Have a listen to Ms Charman, and unless you have children about to be put into her care, I defy you not to laugh.

I was struck by this sentence in the article:

“Mother Jo Davis said it was a disgrace that the sheep fed by hand by her eight-year-old daughter Megan was to be slaughtered and sold.” Delete the first 15 words and then you have a school policy that really reflects life in the world that we have made for ourselves.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Another attempt to get into the New Year's honours list

"If you think I'm going to put that in my mouth and lay myself open to some juvenile twat adding puerile captions to the photograph on his bollocky blog you can fuck right off."

Special trained troops help to escort Camilla from the "all you can drink" whisky exhibition.

And so the agent says "And what do you call the act?" and the little girl says "The Aristocrats!"

Every year, it fell to Hamish to get rid of the unwanted (i.e. all) haggises.

Liz fails to find any amusement at Philip's antics. Again. She has seen him give a 'Glasgow kiss' before, albeit never to the winner of the 'Glamorous Granny' competition.

"Oh, look Charles, whatever is Camilla doing now?"
"I'm not sure mater - Ann, isn't that the chap that you introduced to Camsy as 'Mr Caber'?"

"Heather? A bunch of fucking heather? You mean to tell me that the head of the British Commonwealth, the chuffing queen of England comes to your poxy locality, gets bitten by 2 squillion fucking midges, is forced to eat local fucking 'delicacies' that a starving dog would vomit up, has to listen to the worst music in the solar system (apart from country and fucking western) and watches a loaded of hairy-arsed twats in skirts hurl wood about in sub-zero temperatures, and all you can give her is a bunch of fucking heather? You didn't even bother to buy something from the BP station, did you? No, that would have meant sticking your hands in your pockets, you tight-fisted brat. No, you thought 'Oh, there's some weeds at the side of the road, that will do fine', didn't you. I've got a good mind to make you sit on Philip's lap for the rest of the afternoon.

White Trash

You may be surprised to learn that I was momentarily distressed this morning to read the Telegraph headline "Thatcher ready to quit Britain", and even surpriseder to learn that I was relieved when it turned out that the witch in question was the totally-without-redeeming-features Carol of that ilk.
"Why was I sad? And later desaddened?" I hear you ask.
Well, I saw it as a potential final kick in the teeth for those of us who number among her majesty's unemployed, and are therefore not particularly "flush" as the colloquialism goes. Were the vile old bitch to be interred overseas, where, I ask would we find the funds in order to be able to make the pilgrimage to dance on her grave?