Porn - do you want it rammed down your throat?

Many of you (a Mrs Trollop of North Wales) will have been as excited as I by the news that Ed “Royston” Vaizey is attempting to curb internet pornography.
Ed is the minister for communications, but, sadly, he failed to inform me of his appointment. 
For those of you who are not familiar with the term “pornography” it is defined as writing or pictures of obscene material. I tried to search for it using the offices of Theodore and Evadne Google, but could find little information. Obscene means depraved or likely to offend. Here is one of Ed’s many problems. I find his whole government depraved and offensive; much more so than depictions of Mrs Sturgess of Bismarck Crescent, Bexhill on Sea waving her uncovered wobbly bottom via the medium of my computer terminal. Mrs Sturgess’s buttocks I can take or leave. I have no feelings either way about them. Mr Vaizey and his gang of arseholes, on the other hand, fill me with utter disgust, and the nation’s young people in particular should be protected from them. 
Ed has summoned leaders of the UK’s leading broadband providers to discuss how pornographic websites should be based on an opt-in rather than opt-out basis. The first 27 minutes of the meeting will be spent on “in and out” puns. 
The difficulty of this whole idea is fairly clear. There will need to be a constantly maintained list of pornographic websites. However, this is not as difficult as it sounds. I estimate that all that is needed for this is the largest database in the universe, and a small army (say 3 and a half million – unemployment cured at a stroke, missus) of clerical staff to check all of the web pages on the internet. Then someone will have to link this database to the browser software operating in the UK to prevent someone from accidentally straying over to the Rev. East’s site on the morning that he is discussing the pair of jugs on his Welsh dresser.
The last time a government had an idea so plainly daft was in the reign of Cnut, and you can all provide your own jokes. 
The good news is that all of the articles reporting on this cunning scheme will be filled with innuendo, in order to prove that our colleagues who earn money by blogging are not devoid of talent.
Take for instance Harry Wallop’s (sic) piece in the Torygraph; he mentions: “censorship through the back door”. Dirty bugger.
I am off for a quick Harry Wallop.

Something uplifting

I doubt whether this link will work everywhere in the world, but try it anyway. Quite long, particularly if you don't like the music, but a very good film. 
Arena programme on Brubeck

Мой сарай сада большле чем это

I found myself strangely moved this week. I felt twinges of national pride and patriotism, which, regular readers (aMToNW) will recognise, I normally eschew. 


I allude, of course, to the brave bid by the Football Association to have the competition for the 2018 football World Cup hosted in this fine country. 


I will pause here to allow those who want to argue about whether I should have said “football” or “soccer” or “association football” in order to please the pedants and foreigners in your midst. Having dismissed such prattling I will move on.


“Why Scurra”, I hear you query, “were you so moved?” “Well, dear reader”, I hear myself respond, “allow me to explain”. 


I felt very proud to be linked to a nation who thought that when it was important to show the international community our seriousness, our compassion, our understanding of the need to modernise, our wisdom and our all-round jollygoodchapness, we should despatch as our ambassadors David Cameron, young Bill Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and David Beckham. 


Before I get carried away, I should point out that I have no dislike of young Beckham, he was a fine footballer, and has done some good things. However, he is thick - very dumb indeed. It is not his fault. That is all.


The English have decided that their three ambassadors should include two inbred, upper class throwbacks, two thickos, two slimy gits, two people with no knowledge of football, and two people whose main fame is to provide the mass media with tedious stories about their tedious lives. Just in case this did not work, and most other nations, even had they managed to assemble such an august spearhead, would not have thought of this, they searched the kingdom for someone who embodied all of the above qualities. Thus, it was no surprise to see old Boris accompanying the team. 


Once again, Britannia has shown the way. The fact that these foreign chaps failed to recognise the glory and awarded the tournament to the Russians is perhaps an indication of just how inferior some of these people are, and we are perhaps better off not having to accommodate their footballers.