Stop it, Aggers

I posted the following short message on facebook, and received so many overwhelming offers of support, that I felt obliged to write about sport again, especially as it is the-weekend-when-no-bugger-reads-it.

“As you all know, I pride myself on my physical prowess, but tomorrow on the electric television there are two cricket games five rugby games and two soccer games, and they are just the ones that I want to watch. Any tips on

maintaining stamina during such exertions are welcome.”

Of course I did not enter this lightly. I was well prepared, having watched young Sachin score his celebrated double century this week. I am sympathetic to the views of those who do not allow a Murdoch box into their house, but, well, you missed it, you fools. The only time he came close to getting out was when he ran for a two and was nearly run out – he had already passed 150 by this time and must have been severely knackered. Exquisite shots and perfect timing.

Having completed today’s marathon, (I watched 4 rugby games, 5 if the England qualifies as rugby, a soccer match and last week’s ‘Rugby club’ – I still have a cricket match and the ‘Super 14’ show recorded) I can report that I feel quite well, and ready for another session tomorrow. I am as lithe and supple as I was at the start of the day and I am also able to bring you up to date on the state of the planet’s sport and address some of the issues brought up on facebook.

I wish it were not the case, but the sports coverage on Sky is way better than anything the BBC do. There are a few commentators who are less than satisfactory (Willis, Croft and others) but none as dire as the whining twassock Jonathan Davies. Hugh Bladen, who is a rugby commentator from South Africa, has a voice that sounds like the rusting engine of a 1962 Hillman Minx being dragged slowly across coarse gravel, and his delivery is so monotonous that he makes Bob Willis sound like Gielgud, but he knows how to pronounce the names of the South African players. I defy anyone to hear him say “Doppies La Grange” and not to be aroused, if not actually achieving orgasm. (For those of you not fluent in Afrikaans, La Grange is not pronounced the way you would think). I only truly appreciated how erotic Mr Bladen is when I heard the New Zealand commentator try to get his tongue round La Grange today, missus.

I am sure that there is a strong relationship between the names of the players in the southern hemisphere and their prowess as compared to the current bunch of second rate clowns who adorn the six nations. Bismarck du Plessis, Hosea Gear, Aled de Malmanche, De Kock Steenkamp, Quade Cooper, Israel Dagg, Josevata Rokocoko, Junior Poluleuligaga (he would have passed you three times and scored before you could say his name) and Tendai Mtawarira – these are proper names, worth a ten point advantage before kick off. The French, who are the only decent team in the six nations currently, tried to adopt this tactic, but peaked too soon with Harinordiquy. They couldn’t keep up that standard and now have to resort to names that sound numeric – Trinh-Duc and Dusautoir. The elegantly named Andrew Hore scored a try today that was better than any I have seen from a northern hemisphere player in the six nations this year, and he is a hooker.

Of course, one of the great pleasures in watching the super 14s is to regularly see Australian teams being the worst. This doesn’t happen anywhere else.

Some of my correspondents suggested that I might turn my attention to the Olympics. I believe that they were alluding to the Winter Olympic Games that I believe are being conducted somewhere on the North American continent. Oh dear. Snow and sport do not go together. Most of the “games” involve sliding in one form or another, much of it downhill; yes, you can win a gold medal by being the best at obeying the law of gravity. In the UK we do this once a year – it is called the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Rolling competition. We recognise that there are some people with a morbid interest in falling down hills and paralysing themselves, and provide an annual outlet for this perversion. No one gets any medals for it. I saw, quite by accident, those prize morons Torville and Dean once. I prefer to be non judgemental, as you all know, and recognise that there is no accounting for taste. Some folk like musicals, after all.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce part 24

Liz remains in sparkling form. We still chat to each other a couple of times a week. I keep her informed about my friends here, she is particularly interested in ILTV, who is one of her neighbours, and often asks about Rog, although she doesn’t get his jokes. She still chuckles about Tom telling her to stick it up her arse when offered a CBE for services to sloth.

This week she is pleased to have attracted the attention of the Torygraph “I was beginning to despair – almost on the verge of texting a nude picture to Chris Evans to see if that would rustle up interest.” “You’re in there nearly every bleeding day,” I retorted, “and it’s not as if anyone gives a stuff about you inviting the Azerbaijjani ambassador to lunch”. “Don’t remind me of that!” she almost shrieks, “I have repeatedly told Philip that no-one wants to see his trick with shrimps or his Gracie Fields impression”.

We got back to the latest news story.

“Of course it isn’t the first time it’s happened”, she confided, “We get so bored with sitting in that car waving at the proles – seen one you’ve seen them all. I sometimes get it to break down by sticking chewing gum in the ignition. When we had that other driver – Clarkson or some such name – he used to pretend to have the car break down, and I could rely on his discretion, but now we have to do it ourselves. It was Philip’s idea – he had always wanted to be in a police car with the sirens wailing. I was a little more nimble than him, and used to be the first out to yell “you’re fucking nicked, you slaaaag” when we saw any criminal activity. Of course, I can only do it now when he isn’t there – he has no sense of proportion. That time that he caused an old lady to wet herself when he yelled out on the tannoy “On the floor now, motherfucker!” when he saw her crossing Aldwych on an orange light was the last time. He doesn’t like it, so we had to arrange for him to take part in interviews at the Yard as an alternative – can’t let him loose on the public of course, but there are, thankfully, lots of resting actors willing to take part for £50 and a copy of princess Marina’s autobiography. I sometimes worry that he might recognise the actors, but then remember that he doesn’t remember what fucking day it is most of the time.”

“Did you like that bit where I said ‘What a fantastic gift’ and they reported that ‘there was a big smile on her face’? Of course there was a bloody smile - who could keep a straight face in that situation? What in the name of buggery am I going to do with that? It’s not as if Charles is the sodding king and needs to be reminded of where he is – the poor boy has shown signs of creeping senility ever since he was twelve. We’ve already had to turn Anne’s room into a bloody storage facility with all this crap that people keep giving me. I haven’t told her, and can’t keep count of all of the excuses I’ve had to make when she says she would like to come and stay for a couple of days. I never liked her being here much anyway – takes weeks to get rid of the smell of horse manure after she’s been.”

“And as for telling them that I knew how busy the tube was, well, I nearly ruptured my liver keeping a straight face. I haven’t been on it for over sixty poxy years, and when I did there were only three other people on the train (and two of them got off when Margaret offered to show them her knickers) – I don’t know where I get these ideas from.”

Messier objects

My old friend Marty Rees has surfaced again, this time courtesy of the Torygraph. He is still banging on about the possibilities of extra-terrestrial life. This time he says it might be staring you in the face.

Here is a picture of old Mart.

What do you think?

In order to explain why we have never met anyone called Neville from one of the planets in Cassiopeia, Martin suggests that Neville may have evolved in a form that does not conform to our laws of mathematics, or our technology. He says “… it could be there as aspects of reality that are beyond the capacity of our brains.” As one who finds the laws of physics beyond the capacity of my brain, or at least beyond the boundaries of common sense, I find this a little disconcerting. Is the man seriously suggesting that the human intellect is limited, and it may not be possible for us ever to truly understand existence? God, in an interview on another page of the Torygraph which I seem to have mislaid, said of Reesy “What a dumbass.”

Mr Rees is not done yet: ‘He told Prospect magazine that improved telescopes made the chance of finding extra-terrestrial life “better than ever”.’

He has not considered the possibility that such nosiness will do little apart from piss off our neighbours. I cannot be the only one whose pursuit of knowledge with the aid of a telescope has caused my neighbours to display ire. Even dear Pam, who leaves her curtains open and cavorts in the most inappropriate manner, has set the dogs on me and my binoculars more than once.

A further speculator referred to in the same article is called Frank Drake. If he had wanted to be taken seriously, he should not have taken the name of a famous pirate and slave-trader, in my view.

Frank says that the switch from analogue to digital TV broadcasting means that we are transmitting less to the cosmos. He is obviously not thinking clearly. There is nothing likely to encourage visitors more than their wanting to know whether Ena Sharples finally managed to marry Albert Tatlock, is there?

I will attempt to save a recording of the splendid Lions v Chiefs match from last weekend for them, together with the collected writings of Padre East, and, if I ever managed to afford a powerful zoom lens, those photographs of Pam.

Filial affection

I was delighted to see the following message on that Facebook place just now.

The context is that a dear friend of mine has just been discharged from hospital after a week following a heart attack.

His son reported the event as follows:

"my fat dads out of rehab!"

Breaking the news

In this morning’s online Torygraph there is a topical report about a letter written by an obscure cousin of the queen 58 years ago. Apparently, she had a blister on her mouth.

I have been fretting about this incident for years, and you cannot conceive what a relief it is to finally know the truth.

They explain who the lady is, and go on to describe the recipient of the letter, the duke of Kent, as being “best know (sic) …. for presenting the trophies to the Wimbledon winner and runner-up.” This is odd, as I thought the duke of Kent was best known for being one of the gaggle of throwback parasites who bleed the exchequer while contributing nothing to the public good.

The Torygraph does not inform us about the business career of the lady’s husband and his association with Lonrho. Old readers (Monsignor East of North Norfolk) will recall the Grocer referring to Lonrho as “the unacceptable face of capitalism”. In this, as in almost everything else, old Ted was quite wrong. There is no acceptable face of capitalism. It is a blight on our species and will be written about by future historians (should we manage to survive) as a footnote to the worst excesses of Kaliyuga, not getting top-billing only because of our warmongering, genocide, buggering up the environment and allowing half of the world to starve (not to mention Thatcher).

*****

I was obliged to turn to the BBC to watch the rugby internationals at the weekend, as dear Rupert had neglected to update his standing order, and allowed the previous generation to cover the events. Oh dear. I am due to renew my television licence this month, and wish that I could afford an additional 10 bob for them to improve their technology. As it is, I am sure they can afford to pay someone (I volunteer) to watch the sports on the Sky channels and pass on hints gleaned therefrom as to how to make best use of modern equipment. Instead they chose to implement some strange overhead type camera which appeared to be operated by a drug addled, attention deficit disordered gibbon. Its use detracted from the experience, and would have been unsuitable viewing for those prone to motion sickness. In addition, the Beeb continue to employ archetypical northern miseryguts as co-commentators. Brian Moore is reminiscent of dear old Fred Trueman in his decline, offering nothing but moans about mistakes. I suspect that he did not know what was going off out there.

*****

Finally, may I inform those of you too technologically challenged to have mastered facebook about dear Tim describing an event that apparently occurred this weekend as “Kevlar-coated twuntball”. I done a lol.