Desperate Remedies

I am indebted to and inspired by my dear friend Christopher for this.

One of the features of North East Hampshire that is less than pleasing to the eye is the debris left by those involved in the ancient practice of fly-tipping. (In case this term borders on vernacularity, I should point out that it does not involve financially rewarding members of the order diptera, but rather refers to the illegal dumping of rubbish in public places). From time to time I will, whilst out taking my ipod for an airing (missus) be distracted by the sight of carelessly discarded car tyres or suchlike. Christopher has reminded me that this behaviour has been indigenous to Wessex since Dave was a lad.

As you will see, Thomas Hardy was not the only Wessex author to have a keen ear for lyrical dialogue.

“Darren! Darren! What the fuck is that fucking monstrosity outside the fucking front door? Ain’t it bleeding enough to leave your bedroom looking like a fucking bomb’s hit it, without littering up the front fucking garden.”

“Mam! Listen, right, first of all it weren’t nothing to do with me. Second, no-one knows what a bedroom looks like when a bomb’s hit it, because this is 2,468 B.C. and bombs ain’t been invented yet. Third, it weren’t nothing to do with me.”

“B.C.? B. Pigging C.? What’s that meant to be when it’s at home? How can you possibly calculate time going backwards, arriving at an event that none of us could possibly fucking know about, given that we are Neolithic, whatever the fuck that means, and if we don’t know about fucking bombs yet, then we certainly aren’t able to construct a fucking time machine.”

“Well, I’m just showing you that I know more than you, and that I represent progress, an inevitable evolution, if you will, whereby each generation improves upon the previous one, and we become more civilised and intelligent.”

“Intelligent my fucking arse! Even a fucking monkey (whatever they are) wouldn’t leave a fucking mess like that in their own fucking front garden.”

“Well, I told you before, it weren’t me. Must have been those sodding Welsh twats who were here yesterday.”

“What Welsh twats? And what’s with the ‘sodding’ – I’ve told you before to watch your fucking language.”

“Well, I couldn’t follow everything they said, on account of them talking funny, look you, but apparently they’d been substantially rewarded for removing a load of old crap from the gaff of one of their tribal leaders. He told them he didn’t want that shit within a hundred miles of his house, so they dragged it over here.”

“What have they fucking brought it this way for? The fucking A303 is a nightmare at fucking weekends.”

“Don’t ask me – it ain’t my fault. I think they said something about the English being a bunch of twats who liked to moan a lot, and they were looking to piss off the first stroppy bastard they came across, and I guess it just weren’t my day.”

“Fuck me! What a fucking monstrosity. Well, I’m not putting up with it. I’ll get your dad to fucking shift it when he gets back from Glastonbury”.

“No need! You remember what I said about me being more intelligent and that, well I reckon we could make our fortune out of it, if we play our cards right.”

“What are you fucking on about now? And what in the name of fuck are cards?”

“Don’t matter. I reckon if we spread the word that these rocks have deep spiritual significance we can attract people from all over Wessex, or whatever this place is called before the Saxons get here, and get them to reward us for letting them get near. Of course, the earlier use of 'English' was equally inaccurate, as the Angles aren't due to show up 'til about the same time as the Saxons.”

“You fucking twat! I can see the flaw in your fucking argument straight up. If people are, as you suggest, getting more intelligent, they ain’t going to travel fucking miles to see a load of old second hand garden rubbish from Fishguard are they?”

Tories take drastic action

In order to boost the Conservative's falling popularity, it was decided to remove the more embarrassing aspects of the campaign. Boris was looking forward to his fortnight on the beach in Lowestoft.

Boris was bemused (again) - he had no idea that the East London railway went this far east.

Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?

As some astute subscribers noted in the comments to yesterday's blog, today is an auspicious occasion.

Here is my present to you.

Hostile environment

You could be forgiven for thinking that I had a personal grudge against scientists. Allow me to rush to assure you that this is not the case. While I do not condone their ridiculous beliefs, I have no problem with their holding them (missus), I just don’t want to have bizarre dogma presented to me as if it were indisputable truth. I sat through double physics on a Monday morning in a drab laboratory, listening to the improbable rantings of sundry believers, and never once did it occur to me to doubt what they were saying. Fortunately, I paid so little attention that I managed to spend the next 40 years or so without having to apply what little I remembered from those bleak lessons.

I say this as a preface to this little dissertation on the words of Mr Stephen Hawking. The professor is one of the more famous of his ilk, mainly because of his struggling against debilitating illness. This does not mean that he should be treated with any more respect than any other of these odd people who would have us believe in dark matter or Higgs Bosons.

In order to drum up some interest in a forthcoming series on the airwave filler channel on the electric television, Stevie has declared that there probably is intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, but that contacting it presents a risk too great to make such contact sensible. They might, he warns, view the Earth as a depository of resources to be plundered, and cites the example of the unfortunate consequences to the existing population of Senor Columbus pitching up in East Earwax, South Carolina.

I can comprehend the possibility, indeed the likelihood, of there being intelligent life in other parts of the universe. I can understand that it might be possible for some life to have developed technology well in advance of ours that allows them to travel the vast distances involved to get here. I can conceive of these beings not necessarily having a benign attitude towards us. What I cannot imagine is that evolution has produced a strain of life that is more capable of fucking up our planet than we are. What are they going to do, introduce the concepts of war, needless famine, industrial pollution, greed, selfishness and Thatcher? As far as I am concerned, a period of sensible dictatorship would do us no harm at all, as long as it did not interrupt the cricket season or cause a shortage of spinach. They are welcome to share some of our stuff. Fill your seven stomachs with as much sweetcorn as you can carry. Pass those long evenings traversing the Milky Way by taking all of our country and western singers and their music. A bit of decoration needed? Take Stonehenge. Need some nuclear waste to fuel your starship? We’ve got it! How about Jeremy Clarkson? Francis Wheen? Graham Gooch?

No, I am afraid that Prof. Hawking is wrong, again. The chances are that spaceships have been getting as close as half a light year away for several centuries, studied us for half an hour, and buggered off at warp factor 18 in fear of chronic stupidity being contagious.

It is still no excuse for bollocky bad language

For those of you not fortunate enough to live in this blessed area of the world, I thought I should tell you about my options in the forthcoming election, or “Choose a Tosser Day”, as I call it.

Although I live in North East Hampshire, due to boundary changes I am now part of the East Hampshire constituency. This makes a huge difference. One is an ultra safe Conservative seat, the other is a Conservative seat which is ultra-safe.

Until today, I was unaware of who the candidates were. I have had two leaflets from the Tories, and one from Labour. I have seen no campaigners, although the countryside is littered with large placards bearing the persuasive motto “Conservative”. There seems to be no definitive website which lists the official candidates.

I had an earlier email from David Cameron, to which I replied “sod off you slimy lickspittle”.

Here they all are. It is like being asked what shade of black you would like your cyanide tablet to be.

Adam Carew. Liberal Democrats. A right wing party who are currently popular because no one much has heard of them, and some think they may offer something different.

Jane Edbrooke. Labour. A right wing party virtually indistinguishable from the Conservatives, but they won’t be elected here because there used to be a party of that name who were vaguely left-wing, and people in Hampshire have long memories. At least they remember “We always vote Conservative”.

Damian Hinds. Conservative. A right wing party who always win in East Hampshire. He is so complacent he even managed to answer my email.

Hugh McGuiness. UKIP. A right wing party even more right wing than the preceding three. I might vote for them, because they only have one policy, which is withdrawal from Europe. If they succeed by, say, Christmas, there will be no more government for four years until the next election.

Matt Williams. English Democrats. Well done! Right wing loonies who prove it is possible to be even more right wing that UKIP, without actually calling yourself BNP.

Don Jerrard. The Justice & Anti-Corruption Party. I can find nothing about him or them. I suspect that they may be right-wing.

I will keep you updated on more candidates – BNP, “Hitler was too soft”, “British Anti-Nigger”, “Fuckwit Braindead Mailreading Arsehole Party” and any others that may come along.

Do not fret for me, I am accustomed to being effectively disenfranchised. Please just indulge me for a minute or two, while I quietly mutter “fuck, fuck, fuck, fucketty fucking fuck, fuck fuck. Fuckers. Fuck.”

Call yourselves Pwaetowian guards?

I found an article on somewhere on one of the UK broadsheets’ web sites decrying the absence of satire in the election campaign, and suggesting that today’s stock of politicians are so bland that they are not worth parodying. Of course, Boris is the exception which proves that particular rule. However, my attention has been drawn to a candidate in the south by my friend Steve, who recently relocated to Bath (pause for Rog to post customary pun). Step forward Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg, for it is he.

Those among you above the age of 12 will recall the name Rees-Mogg as being a distinguished editor of The Times. Well, the silly boy not only propagated Tory values but propagated at least two right steaming puddings as offspring. He has a daughter, you know. You know what she's called? She's called... Incontinentia (Stop this silliness now. Ed.). Just kidding! As if? Her name is Annunziata. Annunziata Rees-Mogg. She is also a Tory candidate. There are stories, and I cannot work out how much, if any, truth they contain, about Cameron suggesting that she call herself Nancy Mogg for fear that people found her name a tad bizarre. He may well have thought that a name redolent of homosexual cats would be a positive boost to her campaign, but I am not here to write about her, oh no!

Ms Rees-Mogg’s brother is the subject of this little essay, and I must confess to be jealous of the aforementioned Steve for having a noteworthy candidate. My lot are very dull.

Would you indulge me by checking out Jake on Wikipedia, please? I think you need to get some perspective on exactly how nutty he is. I could tell you, but you might think that I was exaggerating. Enjoy the names of the people and places mentioned there. You couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?

May I now direct you to this web-site, created by a gentleman called Hadleigh Roberts? I would suggest that Mr Roberts merely wanted to direct attention away from his own rather quaint name, but I am not given to petty maliciousness. I prefer the larger variety. I hope that you all enjoy his work. I done a few lols. More importantly, I have learned that the real Rees-Mogg does not approve of this site, and hopes that it receives no publicity. I am sure that you will all make every effort to ensure that this happens.

Apology

Over recent months some readers (aMToNW) may have formed the impression that I was critical of some aspects of rather costly experiment being conducted in Geneva. I would like to reassure you that nothing could be further from the truth. I have always been in the vanguard of those campaigning for the increase of scientific knowledge. All that I needed was an explanation.

These fine people here have provided one. What could be simpler?

When did you last have an election? Just before bleakfast.

I am obliged to the Torygraph for a plethora of pointless stories this morning, that have inspired me to shower my wisdom all over you.

Firstly, a Mr Rhys Jones, a comedian from the last century, whose contribution to that art was worthwhile but not outstanding, has complained that the BBC commissions programmes based upon how popular they are in terms of viewing figures. As you all know I am no fan of ‘market forces’, but it would seem that this policy is not entirely lacking in sense. They want to make programmes that people want to watch. I am as much of a snob as the next man when it comes to television programmes, and seldom watch or record anything that is on terrestrial television of a Saturday evening. I am, however, indebted to the BBC and ITV for providing fare for people who find ballroom dancing, Ant and Dec, Celebrity Guess The Turd and so forth entertaining. It reduces the risk of my running in to them when out and about, and having to engage them in conversation. Further, I am not interested in the kind of programmes that Mr Rhys Jones wants to make – uninteresting quasi-documentaries hosted by third rate ‘celebrities’. I have no interest in going to the places favoured by the makers of these programmes. Any desire to do so that lingers is diminished by the prospect of running into Rhys Jones and his ilk poncing about in front of a film crew while I am there.

In keeping with its new impetus as being at the forefront of modern culture, the Torygraph carries an article about the Beatles. So modern is it that there is not even an explanation about who the Beatles were or are. If I open my window, I can hear the sound of heads being scratched in nearby Winchester and Guildford. The revelation is that the Vatican has forgiven the fab four for their trespasses and recognised their contributions to music. I am all in favour of reconciliation. I shall reciprocate. I pledge here that if I live for another seven thousand years I shall forgive the Catholic church for the Inquisition and for my having to pay for Ratty on his forthcoming UK tour. I may even attend one of his events, and in homage to the Beatles will sit at the front and scream throughout, hopefully with enough gusto to cause me to urinate on the seat.

I have been dabbling with Twitter again, for no reason that I can readily comprehend, and have found that there are many otherwise sensible people there who keep referring to something in the Daily Mail. I don’t want to read it, but there is no way of telling where some of the links posted on twitter might lead. Anyway, I was fooled into clicking one such link. Regular (i.e. habitual rather than unconstipated) readers will have linked to my new friend Dan in the previous article and his witty song about the Daily Mail, featuring a number of suggestions about what might cause cancer. I took this as being satirical. However, Mr Scaryduck supplied this link. If you don’t want to read it, it suggests that if you get up in the night to go for a pee and turn on the light you will get cancer. More alarmingly, they want you to vote Tory.

OK. I read the article. It was about TCM again, and I just can’t help it. Professor Charalambos Kyriacou has reached his conclusions based upon experiments on mice. He is probably correct. I have never heard of a case of a mouse turning on an electric light; they must know something that we don’t. Dr Rachel Ben-Shlomo, of the University of Haifa (crazeee name, crazeee gal) backs up this research. Don’t turn on the light! My advice is that if you visit the house of a noted scientist you eschew getting out of bed in the night at all, as you are likely to find yourself tramping through acres of piss-sodden carpet trying to find the bog.

Paxman? Amateur!

I have been aware for some time that although the written word is the supreme form of communication, we should not overlook other media in our pursuit of the spread of wisdom.

On the subject of links, I trust that you all read this one. May you all worship at the shrine of Scaryduck.

And these two gentlemen seem to have a less than approving opinion of our national press.