Friday, February 17, 2012
The gods are being kind to me this morning, providing a story that combines two of my favourite themes, scientific research and Stonehenge. I see now that they are almost made for one another.
Go on, have a read. Or don’t, if you have already heard from your quota of silly people today.
The essence seems to be that they humped tons of crap hundreds of miles to improve the acoustics. No, really.
It seems to be a recurring theme in scientific research – “Why did they build Stonehenge?”
I doubt whether it had anything to do with traffic calming, I suspect that it is nothing more than a poorly conceived practical joke. I have written enough about this nonsense already.
The scientific community, however, are never short of an idea or two to demonstrate their insanity. This is a description of the experiment they conducted:
The La Mesa, California-based researcher said he had demonstrated the auditory henge effect using blindfolded subjects.
He took these people into a field where two pipers were playing and afterwards asked them to draw diagrams of the soundscape they had experienced.
It would be a useful experiment to investigate exactly what one has to do to get volunteers to participate in such bizarre activity. I would counsel against trying to find out. If you put on a white coat, ask a young lady to slip on a blindfold while you conduct an experiment, it is my experience that you finish up with a £75 fine from Bow Street magistrates.
At the age of 11, I first encountered a chemistry and biology teacher (whose name I cannot publish here, as no-one would believe that a young lady with that name would consider teaching as a profession). She was the first in a long series of people I will refer to, out of kindness, as eccentrics, who believed that the sort of activity described above would help the advancement of human knowledge. I have eschewed participation in these rituals ever since, and am sure that is one of the reasons I have survived to this great age.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Slimy Dave, first lord of the Treasury and minister for epidermal secretions, is all over the media campaigning for the maintenance of the British union. Never have I felt so drawn to the nationalist cause. My advice to any area seeking to secede from his evil empire is to split, and run as fast as buggery in order to get away.
I intend to undertake a feasibility study to see whether North East Hampshire could be self-sufficient. I don’t see why not, what with the receipts from Bird World and the royalties from that dozy tart Austen’s soap operas.
You would have to be as thick as a Gove to want to hang around and put your affairs in the hands of Dave and his noxious cohorts.
Even at this distance I can hear the sound of Falkland Islanders scribbling their Argentinian passport applications. The inhabitants of the Isle of Wight are planning an event wherein they will all run to the south end of the island to see whether they can create a larger gap between them and the mainland.
It all seems like so much effort. Can’t we just get rid of the government, send them to Syria for example, and then we can all live nicely in harmony and peace.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
Some of you have been anxious (you haven’t had any communications for ages. Ed.) for updates about my friends down the road in Sandringham. It has been close to two years since I last reported. I felt that it was appropriate to give them a little privacy, after all it is not as if they deliberately choose to live their lives in the public eye, is it? (Yes, it is. Ed.)
However, there are rumblings, and we may well find ourselves in some sort of constitutional crisis come summer, and it could all have been avoided with a little foresight and planning.
Liz called on the electric telephone last week. I have seldom heard her so animated. “I blame that buffoon Johnson,” she began, without so much as a “have you come far?” I should state at this point that she tends to blame Boris for all sorts of things. Ever since he was on “Who do you think you are?” and found out that he was descended from one of the Georges, Liz has developed the idea that he has ideas above his station, and might make a claim on the throne once dear old Ken wins the mayoral election. I have repeatedly told her that Boris is anatomically incapable of having an idea, and that she only needs to look out of the bog window at Buckingham Palace to see how the city has gone to pot since he was elected. She will have none of it. I have never known anyone hold a grudge so vehemently. She refuses to watch “The Simpsons” because of “that American tart”. If she were head of state in anything but name, we would have seen Normandy invaded as revenge on King William, overlooking the fact that he is family.
Anyway, back at the telephone. “How could the floppy-haired tit have organised a sports day in the very summer when everyone should be concentrating on the Jubilee?” For those of you less than quick on the uptake she is alluding to the Olympic Games.
“Don’t fret, ducky” I reply, “it’s all taking place in the East End, and anyone daft enough to spend £75 to watch some dull wassock throwing a spear is hardly likely to have the mental capacity to appreciate the monumental nature of your achievement.” I do make myself laugh sometimes. Anyway, the silly old goat was slightly appeased. “I hope you are right” she exclaimed, “but this is important for us, and a vital part of our pension plans.” (I remained, you will be proud to note, silent) “I’ve already got Sophie Wessex crocheting some commemorative table cloths, and we are hoping to shift a thousand or two and 30 guineas each”.
“That’s all very well,” I proffered, “but what about the rest of the gang who don’t quite have the co-ordination or dexterity of dear Soph? I think that your best bet is to have some events that will provide an alternative to the Olympics – you might attract the sort of people who abominate standing for national anthems every time someone wins something”. See what I mean about making myself laugh?
I waited a while and called Camilla. She had been sent to her room, having blown up and banged a couple of hundred more paper bags than were called for following Philip’s heart scare. “You should hear the old bugger swear.” she chortled. “There are at least 23 distinctive stains on the dining table cloth from where he has spat out his soup. I am on commission from Sketchleys in King’s Lynn.” This is what passes for fun when they are all assembled together. The sodding Jubilee is going to be as dull as a Gove unless I interfere and give them some idea about what constitutes entertainment in the 21st century.
“I think you should organise some events with an Olympic theme.” I venture “Nothing as low-brow as that ‘It’s a Knockout’ fiasco, but something where the family can connect to the man in the street. Make it a joyful time.”
“Brill!” she shrieks, “I’ll send you a list of ideas.”
Two hours later I get the following list via email:
- A ‘using both legs of the trouser’ competition featuring Wills and the Duke of Kent.
- Converting ‘Trooping the Colour’ into a cavalry charge, with a prize to the first horseman through the gates at the Palace.
- A pin-the-tail-on-Pippa’s-arse competition.
- A fancy dress competition where we all dress up as Boris and gatecrash the Olympic Stadium.
- Getting Philip to go down there and reclaim the Olympics on behalf of Greece.
There was more of this guff, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it, let alone inflict it on you. At least there was no mention of a fart lighting contest. We all remember what happened when they invited Ann to the last one.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
A few considered reflections on the plight of Fred Goodwin.
Fred has been forced by the queen to change his name. This has caused large numbers of people to get agitated and take to the media with their protestations. Apparently it sends the wrong message to the business community. From my perspective, and do tell me if I am incorrect, it simply means that he can save some money on ink when he signs his name.
I mean, it is not as though the swivel-eyed, fornicating, despicable, loathsome, vile and disgusting pile of gibbon ordure had been public flogged, is it? It is not as though there had been some fitting punishment handed out to him, like having to work until he had earned enough money to pay back all the cash that he lost, and then going on national television and admitting to being a leading contender for arsehole of the last decade, is it?
The honours system is only there to nourish the already overblown egos of self-important narcissists anyway. All of these silly buggers with letters before, after and in the sodding middles of their names. I can’t wait for the revolution.
Goodwin? Take him round to the dwellings of all of those who lost their jobs, houses and pensions as a result of his incompetence, and see whether they will accept his explanations and apologies.
Wrong message to the business community? "Fuck you all" is my message to the business community.
Thank you for listening.