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).
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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.
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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.
11 comments:
just passing, never been first here before, not as exciting as I thought it would be.
I enjoyed Jonny strutting his stuff **sigh**
Zlggl, the feeling of emptiness you describe is as nothing compared to that of reading the original post.
Keep up old boy. I moved to South Norfolk 18 months ago.
I didn't enjoy the drunk bird's eye view either.
Keep up, very old boy, I have been writing this journal since before Pepys was weaned. All readers and commentators live in North somewhere or other.
oil of cloves
(for the mouth ulcer)
I hope this helps
(word ver: Herge. . . but no Tin-Tin)
I searched through the Dly Tgph (French edition) in a vain attempt to identify the lady for whom I,LTV has so thoughtfully prescribed but could only find a disquisition on Martha Stewart cup cakes, which I fear isn't really grist to your mill, not even those with berry fruit compote.
Can we have a Brian Moore to commentate on the cricket to give us the set?
Nobody walks on grass quite like the Kents.
Thank you, ILTV, I shall pass on this tip when I next dine with old Lexy. I expect, however, that the ailment may have now cleared up.
Christopher I have added a link for you in the text. I hate to think of you suffering without the latest news.
Geoff. Not as easy as you think. They have to stop princess Michael from grazing on Centre Court. That's why she is not often invited.
"a rare letter with good references to the Royal Family." should be worth £400!?!?!?!
Would somebody puh-leeze rescue me from this stupid bloody planet :/
I appreciated Mr Tim's summation regarding the quiet dissolution of the blogosphere...
it has sprung a leak and I'm afraid that we're all re-arranging the deck chairs.
I would have thought you, with your inside knowledge, would have known it was the Duke of Kent, the one without the beard, and his Missus, Katie, who did Wimbledon. She's given up being a royal and now teaches music somewhere. I always liked her. Seems sensible.
The useless one married to the harpie is Prince Mikey. He's the one that looks like George V or the Tsar the Bolshies sorted.
Richard. Off course I know the difference. Geoff referred to the Kents. Mike is a Kent. (I think that's what they called her). Do keep up.
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