Thursday, May 26, 2011

Carefully constructed reasoning.

Just in case I have been equivocal about the state visit of president Obama, let me try to add some clarity.
State visit. Bollocks.
Official reception. Bollocks.
Hands across the sea. Bollocks.
Oldest allies. Bollocks.
Black tie dress code. Bollocks.
Star studded dinner. Bollocks.
7.823 squillion pounds security budget. Bollocks.
Endless patronising platitudes. Bollocks.
Special relationship. Bollocks.
Royal family. Bollocks.
Land of opportunity. Bollocks.
Working towards world peace. Bollocks.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Get it while you can

Our dear friend, Former Frontier Editor, has moved into the sphere of public service broadcasting.

Friday, May 13, 2011

I got 75% on that

After a day in which I played my part in rejuvenating the economy, I turned on my car radio and was greeted by someone whose voice I did not recognise talking about examinations, of the academic kind. Several times they mention “rigorous exams”. I wondered whether anyone could use that term without reference to judging, or not having the Latin, or even mining. Who, I pondered, could this person be, so lacking in the rudiments of humour?

In my defence, I will claim tiredness, for there is only one person walking the planet so boring and humourless to miss that opportunity. Yes, you are faster than me, it was the idiot Gove. I am convinced that were he still with us, Gandhi would have given this idiot a sound kicking. If Gove lived in India, Jains would form knife wielding gangs and attack him. Members of the Society of Friends are locked in their homes when Gove is in town lest they are tempted to knee him in the groin. Even when he says something with which one might find some common ground the instinct is always to reassess one’s position. Whatever he says, I’m against it.

When the education system first welcomed me to its bosom, the Minister of Education was David Eccles. He held this position on a part time basis, as his other job was in the Goon Show. Eccles later became Minister of Someothershit and is famous for introducing entrance fees to our museums. Tit. I am not sure how much influence he had on me personally during my early years at school, and I don’t harbour any lasting grudges. The old fool is dead now, and I have no desire to seek revenge for whatever early trauma I suffered at King Richard III school, so full of dismal terror was the time.

We have, in this country, a proud tradition of allowing total twats to be in charge of education – I can recall Quinton Hogg, Patrick Gordon Walker, John Patten and Shirley Williams being put in charge. Rivalling Gove for being totally unsuited were Keith Joseph – mothers wouldn’t even let their children look at, let alone speak to him, and of course, everyone’s favourite aunty Mag the Hag. Even among all of these psychos, Gove stands out. I cannot explain why. Fortunately, I do not need to. You only have to listen to him for two minutes. I will not be so cruel to say that looking at him for two seconds would have the same effect, as I pride myself on not judging people by their appearance. Please help me to maintain these minimum standards. Let our views of him be formed by his policies not his face. Even if you would rather have a man dressed as a chicken formulating plans for our schools.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Now wash your hands please

As my closest fans will know, I recently passed the landmark indicative of being six sevenths on the way to my allotted term in this body. I enjoyed a quiet celebration, once the super models, Hollywood sirens and the duchess of Cornwall had been fought off, the interviews for the Tatler and “Twilight Twinks” given, and gallons of Mrs Heckmondwike’s Herbal Infusion consumed.

I naively expected that achieving this age would bring me some recognition of my status, and there would be some modest financial benefits coming my way. I believed that the caring, loving and compassionate government we all didn’t elect last year would be keen to enlist my support by, at the minimum, sending informative and interesting information my way.

I was soon disabused of this idea. Have no fear, dear reader, my spirits have not been dampened. My cheery disposition is unaffected. I can still be observed skipping gaily and energetically down the byways of North East Hampshire, a smile on my lips and a cheery greeting exchanged with fellow residents. But a lesser being may not have survived the disappointment of opening the first official missive that arrived after my birthday. What, you may be keen to discover, were the contents of this communication? Well, I might reply, they were these. I received a pamphlet outlining the danger of bowel cancer. “Happy birthday, Scurra!”, they exclaimed, “you are evidently not much longer for this earth, here’s our first guess at the disgusting ailment that might provide the finishing nudge towards the eternal abyss.”

In short, those nice people in charge want me to send them some excrement via the royal mail. I had some Conservative party leaflets nearby, and was tempted to forward them, but then considered how thoroughly miserable it must be to have a job in the postroom at the screening programme headquarters without subjecting them to vile photographs of slimy Dave. Turds not Tories is their motto.

This is our fine Big Society. Serve your time, work for most of your active life completing (or not) meaningless tasks, pay your taxes, contribute to the economy, and, just as you round the final bend and the finishing line is in sight, we will invite you to shit in a bag.