Kaliyuga Kronicles

And nothing in life shall sever the chain that is round us now

2012-01-26T22:36:00.000Z

Iwas intrigued to see this headline on the BBC website:

“Lagging pupils 'don'tcatch up’”

Isee that standards at the BBC are slipping if they allow such shoddy andambiguous usage. I confess to being out of touch with modern practices ineducation, what with my having left school over forty years ago, and all therestraining orders.

Therewere some pretty bizarre ideas in those days, even in my progressive school.Some teachers thought that religious education was a sound idea, others thatthere was some merit in woodwork, other than providing a hobby for the sociallychallenged. To the best of my recollection, and I confess to having beenpartial to a spot of distraction now and then (mainly then, and I fear that Ineed hardly stress that the spot mentioned was not one of the smaller varietiesof that genus), but I cannot remember anyone putting forward the idea thatlagging pupils was a practice with any practical benefit. In my view it ratherseems like the policy that would be proposed by a pervert.

Rather the oppositeseems to have been on the curriculum in my day. I remember the winter of 1963,struggling down the road through two feet of snow, and then waiting for 40minutes or so for the ancient bus and its even more ancient driver to arriveand take us (unheated) round the byways of Leicestershire.

No-oneever showed much concern for us. Not even an offer to chip off the icicleshanging from our school blazers. Our school gym had a side missing, allowingsnow, dog faeces and other obnoxious substances (PE teachers) to drift in andadd to our discomfort. We lived in a bleak, colourless, dismal and ultimatelydraughty world and there was never any suggestion of insulating us.

Ido not understand how wrapping children up could ever get to be a priority.Perhaps I am just being old fashioned. Free them, I say, let them experiencethe joy of the wind blowing through their hair, the sun shining on bronzed armsand legs, as they scamper unhampered through their youths before the grimrealisation that their futures have been shaped by Wackford Gove hits them.

No wasps allowed

2012-01-21T13:00:00.000Z

I thought Iwould share with you this recent exchange of emails. I had not previously heardof or from the sender.

I will let youknow if my correspondence with the gentleman who thinks that I am a fan of theSt Louis Rams takes a turn for the interesting.

Hi Everyone,

Hope you're all having good weeks! Its about to get even better....Please come for dinner around 7:30 on sat night. Oh and if you could text Adamor me when you arrive rather than buzzing, that would be great. Wild!!

I'll bethere!

Who areyou?

I don'tuse text - I'll just stand out in the street and scream if that is OK.

Who areyou?

Is this a haiku??

Pls not toask complicated questions, I am still trying to work out why I have beeninvited.

What areyour expectations?

I'm so sorry! I had the wrong email address for my friend! Pleaseignore!

Oh, so Iam not invited now, huh? This is because of the screaming in the street thing,isn't it?

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

2012-01-20T12:51:00.000Z

Iam obliged to my friends at the Torygraph for this story, whichhighlights what we all suspected, and many of us gave up on these 50 years.

So,in order to avoid accusations of misogyny, I have been using my extensivecontact network to collect funding for BERN (British/European Research intoNookie) and am pleased to announce the construction of a 44 kilometre (that’s about200 yards, right?) underground at Kidderminster, where nubile young nakedpeople (this is not that disgusting dream you were telling me about is it? Ed.)will be fired at each other at high speed, in order to prove, once and for all,the existence of the elusive Grafenberg Spot.

Formany years there have been two distinctive theories about its existence. Oncethis dilemma has been resolved, we will have a more complete understanding ofthe nature of human sexuality, and although I am not prepared to compromiseempirical integrity by favouring one outcome, I must declare my hope that thereis a successful outcome, and that women can begin to enjoy sex. I have littlesympathy with the other camp (known as the “Who gives a shit?” group).

TheGrafenberg Shot is named after Ernst Spot, who purportedly stumbled across itwhile looking for his keys.

Biopolymer nanocomposite? Come again?

2012-01-12T08:16:00.001Z

Iam delighted to learn this morning that not all scientific research is basedupon the lunatic ideas of a few eccentric physics graduates. It is far too easyto mock the progress that our cerebral cousins are making, and far too easy toforget the improvement in the quality of life that this brings.

Scientistsin Taiwan and Germany have found a cheaper and more effective material thansilicon as the most important ingredient in the manufacture of computer chips.

What,I hear you exclaim, is this new and exciting material? Well, it is very simple,and I am frankly surprised that no one has thought of it before. It is amixture of salmon sperm and silver. Of course.

Bychance, someone was sexually exciting asalmon over a five pence piece and suddenly noticed its ability to conduct. Letthat be a lesson to all of the cynics out there.

Scientistssay that because of the availability of salmon sperm (you will have seen thefish spunk aisle in Tesco) and its ability to grow fast, it is an idealmaterial.

Pleasefeel free to do your own experiments (boys only, alas). If your computer isunderperforming, try tossing one off onto a Kit-Kat wrapper, and stick it intothe appropriate slot on your motherboard (yes, it is beginning to sound a bitdirty now, isn’t it?) and your CPU will be boosted.

Iam off now to continue my experiments to find an alternative to fossil fuelsfor the world’s energy source. Anyone have any spare yak bile and a torquewrench?

** points will be deducted for puns on the word "conduct".

*** and no fish puns

Teck?

2012-01-04T14:17:00.000Z

Over at the Torygraph there is a reviewof a programme on the electric television about George V and queen Mary. I didnot see it. Just to clarify. I did not see the programme, I did see the television,and I did see the review; I hope that this helps.

The comment section of the Torygraph is avery good place to practise your hobby, if your hobby is bigot-riling. Theybite very easily. I am not the only practitioner. There must be lots of peoplearound with nothing better to do. Nothing better to do is a very good way ofspending your life, given our short span on the planet, and the limited life ofthe planet in relation to the age of the universe.

The accepted view of George is that hewas dim. Those of you who have been astounded by the intellectual prowess ofhis descendants will find this hard to comprehend.

One of the commenters suggested that wedispense with our royal family. Of course, this caused a Mr Cross of TunbridgeWells to reply, in the time honoured manner of Torygraph readers “And replacethem with what?”

I joined in the debate, partly, Iconfess, to see if I could burst any Kentish blood vessels, by suggesting wereplace them with nothing.

Let’s do without a head of state. Save allof the expense and nonsense that goes with it. I would happily forgo thepleasure of a public holiday every 25 years or so when one of the hangers-ongets married. What a fine example of common sense this would set to the rest ofthe world.

I did offer my services at the weekends (‘unlessthere was summat good on the telly’), but I did not mean it. I have nointention of wasting time chatting to the vacuous.

Yes, I could have done better

2011-12-30T21:41:00.000Z

I was delighted to find this little note in myinbox today.

I hear via the grapevine that you're getting (orgot ) married recently. Whenever your name is mentioned my thoughts go back toyour stupendous fruit salad marathon at dan's 21st - a long time ago already !

All my best wishes and love to you and your bridefor a stupendous fruit salad filled future !

Love and hugs, audrey and barbara.

Here is my reply:

Auds! Babs!

How great to hear from you.

Loved the “grape”vine pun, by the way – I looked for more,perhaps you should get a punnet to store them in! Lol!!!!

Yes, I got married recently – 29 years come February, and Iam giving it a go – if it hasn’t worked out by 2042 I’m out of here – I willhave to sneak out, as I can’t elope (cantaloupe – geddit?)

How is Dan? I haven’t seen him for ages – what did he do forhis 22^nd?

Yes, it was a long time ago – round about the time that Danturned 21, if I remember correctly.

It may have started to occur to you by now that you sentyour email to the wrong guy. But, hell, I need all the friends I can get. Ishall be over to stay for a couple of months in the new year – please don’t goto any trouble, my needs are few, I can live on mostly fruit.

And, to be fair to myself, I usually write more articulatelyand less like a moron than this, but hey, if people can’t get the email addressright, why should I demonstrate my rich and unique prose?

Now, were any of you at Dan's 21st, and do you know what he did with the satsuma?

More seasonal suffering

2011-12-29T00:03:00.000Z

Ifyou would like to read reasoned and intelligent commentary on books and films,you might wish to give dear Rol a try. He is a very nice boy and may help youto try something you may not have considered before.

Alternativelyyou can stay here and enjoy (shurely shome mishtake. Ed) a foul mouthed lambastof one the most popular films of recent years. Is lambast a noun these days? Idon’t know – has there been a decent film in the last ten years?

Iwatched “The King’s Speech” the other day. I even watched it all the waythrough, and I was sober so can’t explain that particular lapse of judgment,but at least when I continue my biased and ill-considered onslaught on this muchapplauded work of art, no one can accuse me of not watching the sodding pile ofdross.

Ifind it hard (not quite impossible) to imagine a situation in which the worldis threatened by a megalomaniac fascist oppressor (not Slimy Dave this week, dotry to keep up) and those people considering taking arms against him beingpersuaded by words uttered by an outdated, inbred, over-privileged half-wit,whose ancestors had been megalomaniac oppressors themselves. Did their innerdialogue consist of “I see that things are a bit iffy over in Europe, shall wedo something about it, or finish this game of bowls? Not sure, but our belovedBert Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was just on the electric radio giving us a damn fine peptalk, let’s go and bash some Boche”.

Mydiatribe against the concept of royalty might lead you to believe that I havesome personal issues with the current incumbents. This is not the case; neitherdo I hold them responsible for the actions of their predecessors. But you wouldhave to search pretty carefully in the house of Windsor to find two connectedbrain cells.

Thenthe inevitable old chestnut of the class system. FFS. Is this the best you cando? See me. Or see the film, if you want to be persuaded that the British royalfamily could actually get on quite well with people. Let me know how you get onwith that, and let me know if you would like your brain drying after it hasbeen washed.

Oris it, perhaps, the story of one man’s bravery in the face of an enormousdifficulty? A heart-warming story of victory over adversity? Well, given thatthe backdrop to all of this was the second world war, where adversity meant watchingyour family being tortured, gassed and burnt in Auschwitz, or having to scrapeyour best friend’s entrails off your face when he was blown up, or spending yearsin a prisoner of war camp being starved, or suffering from post-traumaticstress disorder for the rest of your life from the things that you hadexperienced, then I hardly think that learning to say “privileged pissing ponce”in less than 24 minutes bears comparison.

Asfor the acting, I have never considered Colin Firth to be anything special,Geoffrey Rush is a splendid actor who could have done this film whileunconscious, and WTF Derek Jacobi was doing there, I don’t know; perhaps heneeded some easy cash. Was there anyone else in it? Wasn’t it the fat one – youknow the one in that crap thing with David Walliams - playing Churchill?

Oneday I might manage to sit through more than the first 15 seconds of “It’s aWonderful Life”. If I do I will let you know how they made truly dreadful filmsin the old days.

*****

I confess that, until reminded of it by one of my dear friends, that what this mediocre film needed was a good bit of crude sex. Let's face it, how unlucky was Bertie to find the only Australian who would have thought that therapy was the answer. Your typical Bruce would have suggested a few tinnies and giving the missus a fucking good seeing to. We would then have witnessed our dear old queen mother flung over the dining table in the great hall at Windsor and shagged mercilessly by an increasingly articulate heir to the throne. "G-g-g-g-od save the queen!" he would have screamed, increasingly purple faced and animated. The winter home would have been renamed Shaggingham, we might have seen a prince produced as a result, there would have been no princess Diana, and the queen mum would have died of exhaustion 50 years earlier, saving the tax payer a fortune in gin bills and gambling debts. The King's Shag. That would have been a good film.

Kim Jong Merrily on High

2011-12-19T08:08:00.002Z

Today has not had the mostauspicious of starts. I find little human compassion in evidence on news of thepassing of Kim Il Jong.

Indeed, the event seems tohave created a backdrop for poor jokes over on facebook (“I didn’t realise Kimwas that Il”, for example). Dear FFE whoused to entertain us over here hinted in response to a suggestion that thingsmight improve in North Korea now, that should that occur then monkeys would flyout of his ass. He did not specify a time frame, but I would advise you all tokeep up to date with Youtube postings over the coming weeks.

I was moved, also via themedium of facebook to adjust my comments about wishing to see Nick Clegg punchCameron, by a friend of a friend who took up the position that Cameron neededlove and compassion. I said this: “Perhaps we should remember to be ascompassionate towards Slimy Dave as he is towards others, and in the spirit ofhis legacy - no national health service, the education system perverted to thecreed of Wackford Gove, and generations of young people and innocent citizenskilled by his continued support of unjust wars on behalf of the petroleumindustry, I have changed my mind. No right uppercuts for him. Perhaps we couldarrange for him to be slowly kicked to death on Saturday night television,providing that it is not shown on all channels so that those of us who abhorviolence can watch something more gentle.”

I now look forward to myshort drive to work, where I will be regaled by soppy seasonal shite andcheerful updates on the world’s prospects for next year.

Are you ready for Christmasyet?

Baubles

2011-12-15T15:59:00.000Z

Itis the time of year where people are wont to say to me (not just me, you fool) “Areyou ready for Christmas?” I remain unsure as to how to respond. Sadly, I amnever ready for Christmas. Each year the contrived atmosphere of jollityaffects me less, and I begin to suspect that I am some alien species from the planetWTF, being punished for some undefined crime by witnessing the ridiculousantics of the native species here.

No,I am not fucking ready for the constant repetition of the same crap dirges eachtime I call into Sainsburys for my supply of horse tranquilizer that I find anecessity at this time of year.

No,I will never be sodding ready for the word ‘Christmas’ being used twice inevery sentence on the electric television.

No,I am buggered if I am ready to even add any more examples of stuff for which Iam not ready.

*****

Ona more cheering note, perspicacious readers will have noticed that our oldfriend Wackford Gove has been told off, with a warning of a detention if ithappens again, if he continues to use and encourage the use of by his staff,private emails as a medium for communicating government related business.

“P-r-opro s-e-e-d seed y-o-u-r your proseedyour –noun insubstantive - follow it”.

Please, someone, make it stop

2011-12-12T11:00:00.000Z

Iam getting tired of writing about these bloody scientists. (Good. Write aboutsomething you know about. Ed.)

Thismorning’s news from the world of fantasy, is that the Higgs Boson has been “glimpsed”.Yes, £10billion for a glimpse. Good job that there is plenty of money to goround, isn’t it?

Thenthere is the exciting news of the discovery of two large black holes not300million light years away. “How big are they?” you ask, “Fucking big” is myriposte. The reports about these holes all mention that in a black hole thelaws of physics break down. The laws of physics are always breaking down, whichis why I refuse to obey them. They are silly. Very silly indeed, and I wish thatI had taken the time to explain this to Mr McDermott in my fourth form physicslessons so that he could have talked about something more sensible.

Notto be outdone, medical scientists are trying to grab attention on the BBC newssite by proclaiming the value of faecal transplants. I shit you not. For thoseof you not of a scientific disposition will perhaps be aided in understandingthis process by the analogy of the British democratic process. Every few yearswe have a transplant called a General Election, in which the same shit is movedfrom one set of bodies to another. Unlike the claims of our doctor friends,however, in this case nothing ever gets better.

Itrust that this has cheered you all, to the extent that you can now listen tosome twat playing “White Christmas” or some other seasonal shite withoutresorting to mass murder.

I am not a street fighting man - I'm out of here.

2011-12-06T11:00:00.001Z

Iwas somewhat taken aback this morning to read in the Grauniad the headlinereporting: “Williams: riots could happen again”.

TheWilliams in question is Rowan of that ilk, not Robbie or his sister Venus.

Iam alarmed that the head of the church is threatening insurrection. I cannotrecall this happening before. The establishment does not take kindly to theclergy interfering in matters temporal, as poor old Tommy Becket discovered. Inmy view, we haven’t had a decent ab of C since Sigeric the serious. PerhapsDave might consider a move in the January transfer window.

Ihope Rowan has not been inspired by my post yesterday. He ought to know I wasnot being entirely serious. I thought he was one of these modern clerics whodid not take the scriptures literally. I see I shall have to be morecircumspect.

Iam fearful for the survival of our society. I do not know how I would survive werethey to stop broadcasting “Have I Got News For You”.

****

Thescientific community are showing signs of excitement about the discovery of theexoplanet (what that? Ed.) Kepler 22-b, which has all the signs of being ableto support life. They say it is quite close by – 600 light years, but I can’tfind it on the North East Hampshire bus timetable, so probably won’t make theeffort of visiting, at least until the new year.

Ihaven’t read all of the articles, but so far haven’t found any mention of theimplications of Kepler being 2.4 times the size of the earth. Unless they havemore sensible scientists than ours who have abolished the law of gravity, Iwould have thought that the probability is that Kepler has therefore 2.4 timesthe mass of the earth, and therefore moving about on it would be quite tiring.This appeals to me, on balance. “Sorry, won’t be at work today, I find I that Ican’t get out of my chair”.

Pleaselet me know if any of you see a list of for volunteers to join the first trip.It behoves me to present any existing inhabitants with the friendlier face ofhumanity. I will do my best to make sure that all members of the party arecarefully vetted. We have all seen the results of letting a bunch of psychoticgod-botherers loose on new colonies, after all.

Wait for six weeks, and all you get is the same rehashed whinging

2011-12-05T12:15:00.001Z

Borisis trying to make me cross again.

“What!?”,is your response, “Are you deluded, he is trying to make everyone cross!”

“Whatdifference does that make?” is my reply. I know my Yossarian.

Inthe Torygraph, Boris has come clean and admitted that the future of capitalisminvolves all of us being able to buy expensive things that we don’t need, andbecause there isn’t an alternative then we should all do just that.

Isuspect that the silly fucker has overspent this month, and needs some cashwrung from the labour of the world’s poor people to make him feel a bit morecomfortable. Perhaps his shares in “International Child-Murdering War Machines” have taken adip. Let’s have a whip round for the odious tit, shall we?

Thereis no alternative, or so Bozza and his slimy mates would have us believe.

Theywant to bring about the end of the world in an orgy of consumerist ignorance.Better use up those last few resources even if it means poisoning us all.

Iwould love to see an end to these bastards. I am not, by any means a man ofviolence, but I suspect that if someone were to build a nice long wall and lineup all the capitalists, bankers and their apologists and proceed to shoot them,I doubt whether I would manage much more than a shake of my head and a loud tutas a symbol of my disapproval.

Guess the twat

2011-10-17T10:56:00.001+01:00

Peoplewho read my contribution to this news channel last week (aMToNW) may have beengiven the impression that I was lending some support to Liam Fox and hisunsavoury Dickensian friend in their current troubled situation. Allow me toclarify.

Iam glad to see the back of the odious little tit. What a shame that all of hisfriends didn’t resign with him. As the Minister of Defence, he takes some ofthe blame for our involvement in the currently obscene and ineffective militarycampaigns in Asia. It would have been more appropriate for him to have been sackedfor that rather than the rather puzzling series of events that led to his ‘resignation’.

(Afew years ago a UK charity sponsored a “Take your dog to work” day. Itelephoned an acquaintance employed by said charity, purporting to be JacquesCosteau, and berated him in my finest French accent about how silly my doglooked in snorkel and flippers, and concluded with “ze fucker ‘as drowned”. )

YoungLiam thought it was appropriate to take his friend to work. Never mind thesecurity implications, or the fact that anyone dumb enough to befriend loonyLiam was going to be neither use nor ornament.

Tryingto get in on the act, entering stage right, we have good old Ollie Letwin, who didn’twant to dirty the nice shiny wastepaper basket that slimy Dave had given him,so took his rubbish (official papers) out to the local park to dispose of.Picture, if you will a government minister, sitting on the banks of theSerpentine fashioning paper boats out of Top Secret documents, and then wettinghimself with excitement to see which one won the race.

Nowthat we have dealt with those two minor loonies, can we please focus attentionon the prize assholes who really need to be taken out and shot. (pls fill inthe usual suspects – Gove, Lansley, Willetts, you know).

Finally,can I say how tired I am of hearing Tory politicians (yes, I know I do not needto qualify this) suffixing all of their slimy utterances with the phrase “themess Labour left behind”. The biggest mess that Labour left behind was, and letus be clear that this is due to their woeful incompetence, a population sodespairing that they voted for the current shower of shit that occupies thegovernment benches in the commons. I am in no hurry to see (or hear) Millibandat the despatch box, nor will I ever lend my support to thelily-livered-Libdems until they apologise for supporting the current cabinetby crawling on their stomachs for 30 days through sewage and broken glass. Myview is that Labour is tory-lite, and will only slow the destruction of thiscountry due to incompetence and lack of the kind of ruthlessness shown by slimyDave.

Bringon the revolution.

Let tolerance be our watchword

2011-10-10T11:45:00.000+01:00

LiamFox is being hounded by the press because he has a friend. Unusual as that isfor a Tory, surely we should be congratulating him on his endeavours: he hasshown ingenuity. If it transpires that he has been using the services of awebsite - “BefriendaTory” or some such – then I, for one, will not judge him onthat.

Asa treehugging, pinko, commie faggot, I firmly believe that it is possible tointegrate Conservatives into our society by showing love and compassion. Justlook at my record in attempting to help dear Boris become human. There are, nodoubt, those out there who believe that the best remedy for our currentproblems is to take the current cabinet and burn them at the stake. Well, the “DisembowelDave” movement will find no favour here. Well, maybe a bit.

Iam grateful we do not live in an authoritarian regime where people who make poordecisions in their social lives are not immediately put in high securityinstitutions. As such, Adam Werrity should be cared for rather than condemned.

MrWerrity (even the name sounds Dickensian) should be allowed his socialliberties. If it turns out that he cannot count to seven or remember the wordsto Humpty Dumpty as we all suspect, then attempts should be made to educatehim.

Space Philology

2011-09-27T15:38:00.001+01:00

Regularreaders (a Mrs Television of North Wales) will be pleased to hear that I can nolonger bring myself to watch that third rate tosh ‘Downbog Abbey’, and I haveexhausted my ability to find new ways to describe how dire ‘Spooks’ is. Instead I will compare and contrast two otherrecent offerings on the electric television.

Iwas expecting to be mildly entertained by Stephen Fry’s “Planet Word”, but heldout little prospect of Jo Brand’s Big Splash being other than a schedulefiller.

Iwas wrong.

There.I’ve said it. I was wrong.

Ifound Planet Word to be fairly dull, learned nothing interesting from it, andfound myself becoming slightly irritated. (I know that most of you think that Ispend my waking life in a state somewhere between ordinary grumpiness andblood-vessel bursting. It ain’t so.) Theprogrammer planners seem to think that we all want to see endless footage ofrecycled celebrities trekking round obscure corners of the globe (yes, Dave, I know there are no corners on a globe,now shut up and write your blasted blog) making facile comments and expressingenthusiasm about subjects of no earthly nor celestial interest.

Thuswe have Mr Fry sitting amongst some poor bastards in East Africa who had onlyjust recovered from a visit by Gyles Brandreth making a documentary about trombonepolishing. They could not understand what Stevie was saying, and he spoke notone word of their language. I am notsure how many times my licence fee it cost the BBC to fly Fry to Eritrea tofail to communicate with some poor unsuspecting bugger who was looking forwardto an evening of goat-tending, but it is too bloody many. Then we have himstriding along a beach, pontificating. I do not know why he felt that he neededthe Caspian Sea (no, I have no idea where it was) as a backdrop – possibly todistract from the tedium of his discourse.

WhatI had overlooked about Jo Brand was that whatever she is in, she is brilliant,certainly when all she does is be herself. I just like her, it is as simple as that. I’ve liked her ever since herearly days of abrasive comedy (the “painter’s in” line was one of the greatestever), and now, even when her humour is no longer cutting-edge, and wouldprobably not be even remotely funny when done by someone else, whenever I seeher, I get the feeling that there is room in my enormous circle of friends forher, and I would love to spend time with her. Just watch it and feel good.

Hereis an example for those of you of a foreign persuasion, who may not be familiarwith her stage act.

PFC Wintergreen would say "Emil Steinberger"

2011-09-22T23:08:00.002+01:00

Youwill be aware that nothing inflames my ire (have you ever had an inflamed ire,missus?) more than racial stereotyping. As my dear friend Donn has just written– and please do not dismiss his work just because he is as nutty as a verynutty thing indeed – we are all cousins, and descended from the same woman(what an old slut she must have been). Consequently, we should dwell upon the vast majority of things which wehave in common rather than the superficial differences.

Itis therefore with a very heavy heart that I now speculate about theshortcomings of a nation. I need to say, before continuing, that some of mybest friends are Swiss. Well, Daniel is from Switzerland, and I have neveralluded to any differences there might be between our two friendly nations. Itwas in a spirit of fraternity that one year, for his birthday, we clubbedtogether and bought for him a bar of Cadbury’s finest Dairy Milk, a quarterpound of medium Cheddar and an alarm clock (sans cuckoo). I need hardly providemore evidence of my tolerant and open view of mon frère Suisse.

However,none of you will have failed to be orgasmatised by the news from Geneva thisday that they have found a particle that is moving faster than the speed oflight. The best way of describing what this discovery means would be to saythat if this particle had written this little essay, then this sentence wouldhave appeared two paragraphs earlier. And probably would not have had the word “this”in it so many times.

Itis a well-known scientific phenomenon that the observation of an experimentaffects the outcome. I have secretly been fearful of the choice of Cern as thevenue for the collision of particles. Until now I have held my peace, andtherefore cannot truthfully say “I told you so”, but “I thought you so” iscertainly not an exaggeration. It comes as no surprise to me that if youconduct experiments in Switzerland then the results are likely to be suspect. Yousee, the Swiss are so fucking efficient. Of course their particles will arriveearly. They will also be formally dressed, know automatically which side of thecollider to drive on, and answer all questions fluently in at least fivelanguages.

“Splendid!”you may say. “Piffle!” would be my riposte. These chaps are looking for theelusive “God particle”. Switzerland would not be my choice.

Yes, I must confessthat I would enjoy the universe much less if God were Swiss, or even had Swisscharacteristics. Go on, name a famous Swiss comedian. If you fancy a damnedgood belly laugh, would you go to Basle? Guffaw in Geneva? Laugh in Lucerne?Titter in (find me a Swiss town beginning with ‘T’, Ed.)?

No!If you are looking for God in the Alps you are going to find a very boring Godindeed. Efficient, disciplined but totally lacking in joy and spontaneity. WhenI was at school we learned about the Reformation. It would perhaps be moreaccurate to say that they attempted to teach me about it. There was a Swiss chapcalled Zwingli. He was so dull that I can remember nothing about him. What I doremember is that the arch-miseryguts Calvin – one of the most confirmedjoy-suckers in the whole sorry history of religion – fled to Switzerland. Hefelt at home there, and was never troubled by concepts of happiness and fun.

Theyshould have built the collider somewhere more redolent of the type of God thatthis world needs. Ireland, perhaps; they would give short shrift to precociousparticles. Gaelic gluons would not be in such a damn hurry. They could at leasthave moved over the Alps to Italy. You may not be very impressed with Italianorganisational skills, but there would be a damn sight more collisions thanthose over-polite Helveticans can produce.

Therewill, no doubt, be very many more discoveries from this overblown circus. Noneof them will be very interesting, and none of the news will be good. You markmy words.

Is it safe?

2011-09-19T11:49:00.001+01:00

Regularreaders – (A Mrs Trotsky of North Wales) will have been monitoring updates tothis site in order to keep up with news of the revolution. Keen to be first to read of the overthrow ofcapitalism, and the establishment of the People’s Republic of the Earth, wheremen can live as brothers, women can live as sisters, (this may involverelaxation of strictures against incest), there will be a just distribution ofthe world’s resources so that no-one need die of malnutrition, there will be noshortage of things to laugh at, and marketing will be abolished.

(Ihad a telephone call from someone the other day who said that I need not worry(I wasn’t worried anyway, so they need not have worried to tell me that), theyweren’t selling anything, but just wanted my opinion. This proved to be a lie.When I started to give them my opinion, they rang off.)

Ihope that you have all realised by now that I am not a man of violence. I wouldprefer Mr Murdoch, for example, to realise his mistakes by my reasoned argumentabout why greed is not good for anyone or the planet on which we live. I wouldlike to see Slimy Dave educated (unlikely, I know, while Wackford Gove is incharge) and work out for himself that constantly overproducing goods whichno-one needs does not serve a useful purpose.

Myposition was further reinforced by my visit to the dentist this morning. Itturns out that he did not take kindly to my lambasting the Tory government, Ilearned, while he was probing my pre-molars (or bashing my bicuspids, if you will),that, in his view, this government was not Tory – they had liberals in the government,that Tony Blair was a socialist, and that – well fill in the rest yourself.During this dental diatribe, I did not contribute much in the way of cogentcounterpoint. (I did, at one stage, say “mgffllbt”). My position, I realised,was not so much that of a man of peace, but that of a committed coward. Mymilitancy does not extend to confront armed opponents, whether they be wieldingassegais, machine guns or extracting forceps. I left the dental surgery thismorning, paid the £17 fee for having to listen to Norman Tebbitt while heascertained that I didn’t need any treatment, and I didn’t even mention NyeBevan.

So,here is the revised plan for the revolution:

Tut a bit when you hear Vince Cable on the electric radio.
Get quite cross when someone says “entrepreneur” and means it ina good way.
Call Wackford Gove a pillock
Er …
That’s it.

Something for the weekend

2011-09-08T13:58:00.000+01:00

Thegood news for stargazers this weekend is, according to all reliable newssources (oxymoron? Ed.), the explosion of a supernova in a nearby galaxy.

Supernovaeare phenomena caused by inhabitants of planets causing their sun to explodeafter realising that they were surrounded by people who had actually voted forthe current Tory government. Scientists have calculated that, given the billionsof stars in the universe there is what amounts to a certainty of there being atleast 44 other Wackford Goves in existence.

Iam not quite at the point of despair. Not quite ready to nip down to Homebaseto pick up their “Blow up the sun” kit – 2 for the price of one offer whilestocks last. I am determined to persevere through the winter months, in thesure and certain knowledge of seeing the All Blacks win the world cup, Viru surpassing400 runs in a test and finishing reading the pile of books currently at theside of my bed. I will do all this, and more, before I am so disheartened bythe list of knuckle-draggers who are the potential candidates for nextpresident of the USA that I consider halting the orbit of the planet.

Ofcourse, the events visible in the UK this weekend actually happened 21 millionyears ago. I suppose most of us will prefer to stay warm and watch Saturdayevening terrestrial television, which has only been the same for just over 13million years.

Assholes of the week. (Same as last week)

2011-09-02T09:06:00.000+01:00

SlimyDave was on the electric radio this morning, being pressed (not literally,alas) about the parallels between the recent display of youthful exuberance onthe streets of London, and the dreadful criminal activity of the terrorists inthe Bullingdon Club during his youth. His first response was that the Londonrioters were organised. Let us all hope that he has learnt since those days.Wouldn’t it be awful if the first lord of the treasury was lacking in basicabilities such as organisation and planning. I am confident in his capability toinflict the light hearted antics of his school pals on the rest of us in anefficient and calculated manner.

Elsewhere,his pet moron, Wackford Gove, has hit upon the splendid notion of usingex-service personnel to bring some backbone to the teaching profession. He hasthe foresight to realise that these young people have had it far too easy fortoo long. His new education act, subtitled “Shoot the little fuckers” will passthrough parliament next year. In the meantime, let’s welcome the first of the newqualified ex-military teachers to the profession.

Henry V Part III

2011-08-25T14:03:00.000+01:00

Regularreaders (come on, you’ve been waitingfor this, haven’t you?) will be delighted to discover that my muse, far fromhaving died, has just been on a rather lengthy summer break, and is now back,keen to tackle the major news stories of the day.

Soinvigorated am I by her return, and also inspired by the wise decision toremake “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” as a moving picture performance, that Iplan to embark on number of projects to improve the intellectual and culturalclimate.

Thereare some stuffed shirts who would opine that to tamper with what they see asperfection in the Alec Guinness portrayal of George Smiley. “Rubbish!” I say,the arts are fuelled by innovation and are constantly improving. Who among youwould not prefer to listen to Jedward rather than have to endure the tedium ofBach or Handel? The new “Tinker” adaptation will feature Arnold Schwarzeneggeras Smiley, Max Boyce as Control, Vin Diesel as Esterhazy, Roseanne Barr as AnnSmiley and Amitabh Bachchan as Bill Haydon. This is the way le Carré planned it.

Ihave written to the Pope, offering to freshen up the ceiling in the SistineChapel. I understand that magnolia is very much in vogue, and might brighten itup here and there with a strategically placed poster on a religious theme –Cliff, perhaps.

Iam working on enhancing the Kreutzer sonata by scoring parts for percussion,bassoon, didgeridoo and voice (I need hardly tell you that I am thinking ofMadonna for the first performance).

Myupdate of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner will be in blank verse, (so it won’tbe a rime at all), and will follow the more relevant story related by the Mariner(now completely land-based – I am thinking of his telling the tale of hisjourney from Yeovil to Halifax, avoiding all the motorways) in which heactually rescues endangered species. No albatross will be harmed in my version,oh no!

Imay write more about my other current project “Oh, here’s Godot now!” when Ihave added a little more structure and moulded the characters’ personalities.

No News of the World. Get your cheap filth here

2011-07-16T18:43:00.001+01:00

Ihave been urged by a certain East Anglian cleric to update this little cornerof the internet. Quite why it stresses him so much I do not know, but, as youknow, I am always willing to help.

Ihave chosen for my sermon the theme of thingy, you know, nudgenudgewinkwink.Coitus. This is not because of any attempt to court controversy, but simplybecause TCM have got it wrong again, unless my friends at the Torygraph have,heaven forefend, failed to report accurately. Scientists have, according to ascience correspondent who looks barely old enough to have begun puberty, discoveredthe point of sex. When they mean the point they mean the purpose, rather thanany unnecessary sharp objects that might form part of the ritual.

Hereis the reasoning. When a new being is created as a result of two other beingsof the same species being a bit bored and/or horny, then that being is betterequipped to deal with biological enemies such as parasites because of what isquaintly called the blending of genomes. Have you had your genomes blended,missus? By combining we keep ahead of parasites that are evolving to do abetter job of consuming us

Thismay make sense; I care little. They now, however, say they have “solid evidence”.Here it is:

“After exposing them toa harmful bacteria, worms that reproduced through sex survived fairly wellwhile those that were asexual died rapidly.”

Tothis I say ‘balderdash’. I would say that if your life prospects were limitedto performing self-stimulation and cloning yourself entirely to satisfy theperverse curiosity of nerds, while you could see your mates in the next boxalong were going at it like the clappers all hours of the day, would you not bemore inclined to roll over and look forward to some more satisfactory pastimein the next life?

Lactose Intolerant

2011-06-02T10:01:00.000+01:00

You can tell Andrew Lansley is crap at his job by following this train of logic.

He is the Health Secretary. He makes me fucking sick.

The headline in the online version of the Torygraph (doesn’t even come with a health warning) is “’Reform or die within years’ Andrew Lansley tells NHS”. “Go to hospital and die within days” will be his legacy.

I hope that the Lord, in all his mercy, strikes down dead any Tory who thinks that they are fit to intervene in running what is left of the NHS after the ravages of Thatcher and Blair. I have already expressed my views about this enough, and like to avoid too much repetition.

Lansley’s only valid contribution to the NHS would be as an organ donor, although he clearly doesn’t have a functioning heart or brain. Perhaps it would be simpler for him to just fuck off. There you have it, profound and carefully reasoned political analysis. This is what my public desires.

******

The Grauniad, on the other hand, prefers to bring us news that is not quite so new, about our ancient ancestors.

“Study suggests females roamed far and wide on reaching sexual maturity whereas males stayed near their birthplace”

Whereas today, of course, it is the women who sit at home watching football all day while the men like to spend their Saturdays picking up bargains at the shops.

******

The BBC, on the other hand, report on a galaxy similar, according to “astronomers”, to the Milky Way. It is called NGC 6744. That does not seem very friendly. If I wish to add some of its inhabitants as my facebook friends, then I feel that we should, as a minimum, give their galaxy a more descriptive name. Not that “Milky Way” is very appealing – I wouldn’t want that in my address. After all, they have named some dwarf galaxy “Magellanic Clouds”. Not that I can be much bothered – I haven’t even given my house a name. So, sod it, NGC 6744 it is.

Carefully constructed reasoning.

2011-05-26T09:11:00.000+01:00

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.

Get it while you can

2011-05-20T06:56:00.000+01:00

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

I got 75% on that

2011-05-13T23:49:00.000+01:00

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.

Now wash your hands please

2011-05-11T22:58:00.000+01:00

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.

I am Syrian, and don't call me Shirley

2011-04-28T23:40:00.000+01:00

Ere we start living in paradise

2011-04-26T14:39:00.000+01:00

Those of you foolish enough to have been nominated as my “friends” on facebook will have noted that I am in danger of being subsumed by the ridiculous posturings of the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan and their periodic celebration of “finding a girl thick enough to marry one of the throwback offspring”. I would hate to be responsible for fuelling the hype surrounding this obscene display of egregious frippery and luring some poor soul into thinking that it might be of interest, or there being some inherent value in following the proceedings.

Please, therefore, consider yourselves licenced to exclaim “Enough, Scurra! No more of this feudal fucktardery! Tell us tales of the Higgs Boson or the exploits of Michael Gove. Engage us with treatises on the wisdom of the saints, sages and poets.”

I am only here to serve.

A welcome return.

2011-04-04T07:27:00.000+01:00

From last night’s Lewis:

Hathaway to Lewis: “You had no idea the killer would strike again”

Which is quite true, unless he had seen any of the other previous 214 episodes of Morse and Lewis.

Public Service Notice

2011-03-31T14:20:00.000+01:00

I stumbled upon this little missive that I composed several years ago. I trust that it meets your satisfaction.
I could do this sort of thing for a living, I think.

A few weeks ago I ordered by telephone two replacement filters for my ***** kettle.

On 25^th February I reported to you that they had not arrived. I was called the next day with a suitable apology, and told that the goods were being despatched immediately.

I was therefore very pleased to receive a parcel from you yesterday.

Unfortunately, the parcel contained two packets of vacuum cleaner dust bags for the “Dirt Devil” model. They do not appear to fit my kettle, and leave my chosen beverage “Mrs Arkwright’s Elderberry Herbal Infusion” with a distinctly papery taste. I have not, as yet, experimented with my vacuum cleaner as a food preparation device, but would welcome your views as to the likelihood of the results thereof being satisfactory. It would, however, provide me with the opportunity for the first time in 20 years of consuming meals of the highest possible quality, to tell my wife that her cooking sucked.

I have opened up a little ‘book’ with a close circle of friends and neighbours to predict what will be in my next parcel. I do not wish to restrict your imagination, but if the parcel was to contain a collection of shrunken heads of the Burmese dancing ferret, then I would be a couple of quid to the good.

I am sending this missive to the fax machine at your ****** branch, and to your email address. Next time I will not be so conservative in the scope of my distribution list. I am not one to resort to threat, but I would point out that I do have the ear of a Mr Bush of Texas, and that a Mr Hussein of Baghdad once sent me the incorrect spare parts for my model 2976 left handed aubergine seeder.

Asterisks entered to protect the stupid.

Watch the blackboard while I go through it.

2011-03-28T22:45:00.001+01:00

A few months ago I attended an event at my former school. I had a very nice time with old friends, and was moved to write a little treatise about education for my loyal readers here (aMToNW). Like most of my homework, I have still not finished it, and will probably end up with an E. In fact, until tonight I have not started it. Might have started once and discarded it. The dog might have eaten it. Who knows?

Anyway, when I turned on the electric radio this afternoon, the idiot Gove was on - for a very long time indeed. I do not understand why the BBC (for it was they) believed that anyone apart from Mr Gove and his family had any interest whatsoever in what Mr Gove had to say. I doubt whether his family find him interesting, in fact, but I hope that in the interests of humanity that someone is fond of him, even if he is an unlikely recipient of love.

One of the real reasons that I did not finish the essay alluded to above was the fear that I could not summarise my feelings in what is acceptable in a blog. I don’t like reading long blogs, and expect that many of us are of the “tl;dr” persuasion.

Let me try to be precise.

Gove is an arse. He knows fuck all about education. I sometimes find myself agreeing with parts of what he says, but then realise that he must be wrong because he is an arse.

My headmaster, E. Sprope, knew lots about education. He knew (belief is not a strong enough term to describe his conviction) that if you provided young people with an environment in which they were supported and encouraged, they would succeed. In essence, human beings are fundamentally good. I tried to thank him for what he had done for me, but he countered with the view that I had done it myself. To argue with him would have been to contradict his underlying principles. The smart arse.

What else do you need? Well, young Johann wrote this nice essay the other day. Have a good read. It is very good. I was tempted to steal it and present it as my own work, but you know that even if I have a quarter of the ability to write this well, I seldom have the inclination.

To sum up, children are generally nice. If you love and respect them they will flourish, and become the sort of people we want to live among. It might be good if, during their school years, they learned a few skills to help them function in the world. Maybe stuff like being able to count, read, write, enjoy learning, present their ideas clearly, perhaps even be clever enough to expand the limits of our knowledge. Beyond that, I don’t care much. My view is that we have more than enough accountants, bankers, marketers, salesmen, entrepreneurs (some people use that word as if it is a good thing, ffs!), and Goves.

I think that was pretty much it.

*** My headmaster was not really called E. Sprope, that was his sobriquet in our semi-underground student magazine. His name is Andrew Finch. He is by far the most intelligent person I have ever met. I hope he lives healthily and happily for at least another 90 years, and is recognised for the fine human being that he is.

Two from the top, please, Carol.

2011-03-14T07:27:00.000Z

I am not altogether surprised that my recent treatise on filth attracted more comment (but only slightly) than my thoughts on the state of the universe. It seems that I have now found the level of my readership (aMToNW).

There may be some of you not familiar with the programme on the electric television called “Countdown”. (It has only been on for 25 years, Dave). It is a quaintly British institution, invented in France, where the last few dozen people in the country capable of spelling and counting compete with each other in order to win a teapot.

On Friday’s edition the competitors were required to make the longest possible word out of the letters “LAFTEINLO”. They failed miserably. The winning competitor offered “ELATION”, and Susie “that’s fantastic” Dent only managed “FLATLINE”. I saw the nine letter word immediately, and have been disappointed ever since not to hear it enunciated on mid-afternoon television.

Any commentators using the “a bit of a mouthful” comment will have 10 points deducted.

And your homework for today is ....

2011-03-09T14:08:00.000Z

This is public service posting. I am trying to limit the amount of smutty innuendo that is typically generated when a noteworthy news source broaches the subject of ‘thingy’.

The Torygraph, peace be upon it, this morning has an article about sex education in primary schools. This is a very serious subject, so let me clarify some of the points that they make to prevent an outbreak of sniggering and other generally immature behaviour. I will take the unintentionally ambiguous sections of the report in turn.

***

“ … may be employing classroom materials that cover subjects such as orgasms and foreplay.”

‘Materials’ refers to printed, descriptive items. It does not mean any kind of object used to achieve orgasm. The British education system is founded upon the principles of children being denied any avenue of enjoyment, and has worked successfully on this premise for many years.

***

“One book for children aged just five contains cartoon images of a couple having sexual intercourse and another compares sex to skipping.”

The skipping reference is entirely to do with (and you would know this if you read the entire article) the sort of activity that “you can’t do all day”.

Is that clear? There are no other similarities.

I have not skipped for over 40 years. The last time that I did, I fell over and got a nosebleed, and took several minutes to extricate myself from the rope.

***

“The Christian Institute – a charity that promotes Biblical teaching – said parents were being kept in the dark”.

There is nothing wrong with this. Some people are shy. How and when they conduct ‘thingy’ is entirely their own concern. On balance (no innuendo intended), it is probably better that they conduct these activities in their own homes in the dark than in full daylight in the middle of a nearby traffic island, Pamela.

Cox and Fox

2011-03-08T08:00:00.000Z

Sebastian Faulks has just completed a documentary series on the electric television about literature. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I have read some of them. They were good. I doubt whether I will read them again. They weren’t that good.

His television series was informative and well presented, putting various aspects of the novel into context. It helped that I had read nearly all of the books he talked about. He seems to be an excellent choice as presenter - articulate and interesting.

The only slightly off-putting aspect was of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places (usually associated with the location of the novel in question) to talk to the camera. An interesting choice of locations, and probably better than an hour of him sitting on a sofa in Potters Bar.

Brian Cox’s documentary currently showing on the electric television is one quarter of the way through, and is about the universe. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I haven’t read them, and probably won’t. He has been on television quite a lot, being quite photogenic as physicists go. And as physicists go on, he went on. (Thank you, H H Munro).

The programme was interesting and well presented, and at the end of it I had a better understanding of the second law of thermodynamics than I had at the beginning. Whether that will help me in my construction of my sandwich for lunch tomorrow remains to be seen.

The only slightly off-putting aspect of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places to talk to the camera - Peru, Namibia and Costa Rica for example. When you are talking about the age of the universe, you don’t really gain much by trying to measure it against human time frames, or even time frames comprehendible by the human mind, so I don’t know why he felt the need to go to these places. The sea turtles in Costa Rica shared my reservations. “Fuck off, I’m trying to lay my eggs in peace, you fucking pervert” one of them said. At least I think that is what she said – they speak Spanish with a funny accent down in Costa Rica.

Beyond that, it is difficult to compare the two programmes. The novel can give us an insight into the human condition, and stir our feelings. If we can put the writer and his times into context, it might help us to understand it better.

Despite whatever I have written about the silliness of scientists, I can be equally stirred by their pursuit of understanding, and mankind’s attempt to put his existence into perspective by considering his place in the universe. The second law, which is pretty much accepted to be quite accurate by most of the scientific fraternity postulates that the universe will eventually end. Energy will be dissipated, matter will be broken down into radiation and disappear, and there will be nothing left. The good news is that there will be lots of it. A little on the bleak side, but it won’t happen before next Tuesday, so no need to fret just yet.

Here’s what I reckon:

I am going to die at some stage. Probably before the end of the universe.
I do not have the capacity to understand the universe
The collective understanding of the total scientific community to date is miniscule and as likely to be seen as quaint in 200 years time as Jane Austens’ view of society is judged today.
There are some things, and the essence of human existence is at the core of these things, that are too beautiful and mind blowing to be conceived or understood, and we are better off experiencing them than trying to explain them. Our explanations, whether religious or secular, scientific or mystical, are incapable of even beginning to approach the utter bliss of being.

Frustrate their knavish tricks

2011-03-07T12:28:00.000Z

Some of you may have formed the view that I am not always entirely of the monarchist persuasion. Some of my writings may have hinted that I would be in favour of the wall building industry, resulting walls (keep it up, padre!) being used for various sections of society being lined up against in order to facilitate the shooting thereof.

I cannot comment on these speculations, as, as you well know, I prefer not to broadcast my opinions and prejudices like some tupenny Rothermere or Murdoch.

However, you may have noticed that Andrew Saxe Coburg Gotha has been attracting some unwelcome publicity over these few days. In addition to being a not entirely gifted academic, with poor choice of spouse, reactionary views and no social conscience (these characteristics are, after all, mandatory for the British ruling classes), he has been castigated for his choice of friends.

He has apparently given lunch to a member of the deposed Tunisian dictator’s family, and now it is revealed that he is good friends with a chap who likes to play hide-the-sausage with girls who are underage.

These revelations have resulted in the level of tutting in rural Kent, Surrey and Sussex to an unacceptably noisy level.

Young Andy must be feeling quite fed up.

But now I find myself springing to his defence. The knuckle draggers in the UK Government have announced that the duke enjoys the full confidence of Mr Cameron. Talk about kicking a chap when he is down. I say “Enough is enough”. It may be time to recognise that Baron Killyleagh would not be most people’s choice as an envoy of any sort, unless you were on a campaign to address a shortage of morons, and should be relieved of his responsibilities and left to get on with his stamp collection. However, by comparison to other members of the family, he is fairly harmless, and should not be subject to further humiliation by being labelled as a “friend of Dave”.

Two and a half minutes.

2011-03-01T09:28:00.000Z

Some of you (AMToNW) will have read this morning of the attacks made by Mr Charles Sheen, a little known thespian, on the writers of a programme on the electric television in which he currently ‘stars’. He has said that the writers have used his real life activities as inspiration for some of the plots in the programme.

You might be surprised to find me in sympathy with Mr Sheen (pause for third rate puns about household polishes), but I have felt similarly exploited on several occasions. I was close to suing Ian Fleming at one point, until he agreed to introduce a less than moral lifestyle to his most famous character (no, that boy, not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, you oaf). Despite having little interest in archaeology, there were times when I had to engage in tough dialogue with Mr Spielberg about the character of Indiana Jones.

Those of you with longer memories will remember the kerfuffle that Dave had with Granada TV about Albert Tatlock.

Calm down.

2011-02-24T09:16:00.000Z

A report in a reputable newspaper (oxymoron) this morning reports that the leading factors in risking a heart attack are drugs, overeating, anger and sex.

I am concerned for my readership. Many will be very cross to hear about these risks, thereby qualifying for the last criterion.

Please stop what you are doing – there is no need to shove so much in your mouth – and, gently chewing (remember to chew each mouthful 40 times) a small lentil rissole, read an improving journal, such as this one.

I hope that this helps.

Worth every euro.

2011-02-21T11:12:00.000Z

Startling news from Geneva, according to my friends at the Torygraph.

"By the end of next year, we hope very much that we will be able to say something about the Higgs," Felicitas Pauss (for it is he).

I suspect that I am not alone in my ability to say something about it now, and I only have a grade 3 CSE in physics.

I could say a lot about Mr Pauss. I suspect that his or hers is a made up name. I cannot condone the use of exotic soubriquets. It undermines not only scientific research, but the veracity of the reporting thereon.

Nicholas Hadley, from the University of Maryland's who is a member of the research team for the LHC's Compact Muon Solenoid detector, told reporters: "If we don't see it, we will be very excited.”

Well, Nicky, I can’t see the bastard, and I am bored shitless.

Countdown to the next royal wedding, part one.

2011-02-20T09:35:00.001Z

I have held my counsel, missus, long enough about the forthcoming orgies of self-indulgence. I have to admit that my heart was not in the prospect of the endless cycle of email messages from all of you asking about whether there was any way that I could get an invitation for you.

Now that the missives have been despatched, it is too late. (Philip was on the telephone four times this week, complaining about having to seal the envelopes. I said “It’s the economy, old baboon, we’re all having to cut back. No self-seal envelopes except for the very rich and recklessly careless”. Actually, now that he can no longer be left unsupervised, even for ten minutes, they have to invent activities for him. Camilla reckons that he has licked in excess of 47,000 envelopes these two weeks, while the Duke of Kent was in the next room steaming them open, and the Duchess reapplying the glue. Once they got a barrow-load, one of the under-footman would wheel them back round to Philip).

You have not been invited, and your presence is not required. Call me cruel for being so blunt, but there it is.

Fear not, I shall not be attending either. I have given my tickets to the in-laws of Mr Protheroe at number fifty-six. He (the in-law, that is) suffers from Tourettes and his wife from chronic flatulence. Again, you might think me cruel, but you have no idea how badly my hibernation has been affected by the constant wailings of these people, all labouring under the huge misapprehension that I gave a shit.

Even my most avid admirers would have tired by now had I inflicted the daily round of nonsense upon you. Some bastard even gave young Katherine my number. To say that she is brighter than the average addition to the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan is hardly a compliment. A scratched and defaced hatstand would raise the mean IQ. I have had my first conversations with her, gawdelpus, and I will not fatigue you with the details. I have had previous dealings. I wrote her dissertation for her degree – they felt that it would be unseemly for a future queen to fail a course in the History of Art. This was not as easy as you might think, as I had to tone it down. No one would have believed it had she got a first. I expect that within a few years my references to Constable being a professional racing cyclist and the strange prandial activities of Claude Monet will find their way into Wikipedia, if not serious academic tomes.

More of young Ms Middleton later. More too, or perhaps ”more on” would be more appropriate, of the dreadful Zara. I am torn as to whether to tell her that my telephone is not equipped to receive ‘text’. I do not see why, at my time of life, I should feel compelled to learn a new language. The alternative is only slightly better, if at all, I get woken at all hours by someone whose job it is to convert the ‘texts’ into a spoken form. It makes no more sense, and is delivered in stilted and error-strewn English; you will not be surprised that it has led to appalling nightmares centring on the subject of “the best man’s speech”.

Porn - do you want it rammed down your throat?

2010-12-22T11:41:00.000Z

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

2010-12-07T17:17:00.000Z

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

2010-12-05T15:50:00.000Z

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.

Diplomatic triumph

2010-11-14T12:18:00.001Z

David was shocked to find such poor living standards.

He was strident in his claims that no such shoddy establishments existed in the UK, and would check with Fortnum's whether they would deliver to Asia.

Vince had swapped his glass with Gove's, just in case

David laughed, when he realised that the translator had made a mistake.

He didn't know much about botany but did know that

there was no way that this was a "big pansy".

Dave knew that if Sarkozy said "pass the salt" again, he would leap over the table and strangle the fucker.

Doing a very difficult job

2010-11-11T13:48:00.000Z

Keep the bloody noise down

2010-11-08T17:40:00.000Z

I am interested to read that my friends in Geneva have created a “mini big bang”. Overlooking the preposterous notion that something can be both “mini” and “big” (pause while some smartarse constructs some justification), I would like to consider the implications of this. Perhaps they are attempting to create a smaller scale universe, in the hope that this one is just as successful as ours, and that in 13.7 billion years, give or take 5 minutes, we will have miniature versions of Michael Gove and Janet Street-Porter. I can hardly wait.
In fact, I doubt whether I will bother. Despite my healthy and active lifestyle, I have no desire to live beyond my allotted term. It has been, continues to be and looks likely to be a blast, and all in all has exceeded expectations.
Anyway, if you are in the market from some quark-gluon plasma, then hop on over to Switzerland and grab a couple of barrels full. I will not be joining you. I am in the market for some kitchen tiles, this being one of the consequences of matrimony, and can only cope with so much excitement.
The exciting news from the LHC is overshadowed in most of the media by some controversy involving a programme on the electric television called the “X Factor”. I have never seen this programme, require no information about it, know little about the participants other than knowing that it seems a waste to have a large collider used for smashing together particles when there is such a huge quantity of dull matter begging to be obliterated by collisions at speeds approaching that of light.
We are told that: "This process took place in a safe, controlled environment generating incredibly hot and dense sub-atomic fireballs with temperatures of over 10 trillion degrees, a million times hotter than the centre of the Sun.” In other words, Guy Fawkes Night for Nerds.

Whither McLuhan?

2010-10-18T23:29:00.000+01:00

I am pleased to report that I found the following item posted by one of my ‘friends’ on facebook to another ‘friend’.

dude, get the GoChat app! its fuckin awesome, the layout is sick and it works perfectly...only downside is it's not a widget, but def worth getting!

It behoved me to add to the discussion thus:

Dude! Get go chat! It's brilliant. I don't know how to describe it, but if you are in the same place as someone else, particularly if you live with them, by manipulating your mouth and vocal chords you can make sounds come from inside you that means you can communicate with that person. Don't even need wifi. Then you don't have to splurge your boring ideas all over facebook.

I cannot, of course, identify the two ‘friends’, it would be a breach of privacy. I can tell you that they are brothers, and they live in the same house.

I think you should understand that I am not opposed to using the electric internet as a medium. I have lived in my village for less than twenty five years, so, even were I to leave my house, it would be inappropriate and forward to engage neighbours in conversation. Does anyone know of any app that allows a cup of sugar to be transported from number 86 to here?

Tethers, the end thereof.

2010-10-06T22:24:00.000+01:00

Let me explain to you (although I expect that many of you may have some idea) why this man Cameron is such a complete pillock. A pillock from arsehole to Christmas, and back again.

He is trying to convince the rest of us that his idea of a “big society” is clever. He contrasts it to the “big state” which he sees as a not clever idea. The underlying philosophy of the big society is that the elected government should relieve itself of all responsibility for the welfare of its citizens, leaving all of the onus on those citizens to sort themselves out. By doing this, a large burden of tax will be removed from those fine fellows (bankers, entrepreneurs and other sundry twats) who support slimy Dave and his band of mendacious sociopaths. Freed of this burden, the theory goes, business will flourish, and, he would like us to believe, we will all be better off. I agree we will be better off, as long as we are not sick, disabled, less able, old or plain unlucky. The people who certainly will be better off are those who support slimy Dave, and whom slimy Dave supports, and who already are doing very nicely for themselves at our expense thanks to the efforts of slimy Dave and vast majority of the braying media who see things the way that slimy Dave does.

Dave’s job is made much easier because there are large sections of the population who still associate the Labour party with left wing policies. They are helped in maintaining this mistaken view by slimy Dave’s friends in the majority of the media.

Just in case you have not caught on, I feel I ought to make my position clear. There are surveys widely available, lots of them online, that will show you your political position in terms of left/right wing and authoritarian/libertarian. It shows some famous political and social figures to give you some idea where you stand. I stand in the corner. I am to the left of all of them, and more libertarian than any. I do not support the possession of power (wealth is less important) by a minority. I do not want a government telling me how to behave. But, in practical terms, I would like to be part of the process of choosing an administration that is responsible for the provision of welfare for all, regardless of ability to contribute to the running of society. Education, health care, care for the elderly, care for the disabled and protection from abuse of power should be available to all and equal. Government should only exercise its power to prevent abuse of power and damage to the environment and damage to the well being of its citizens. This is a humanist view, in the broadest sense of “humanist”. It recognises that we are capable of attaining, and should strive to attain, the condition of being cooperative, caring and humble in our interactions with others. It is certainly idealistic, but I will not accept that as a valid criticism. If we cannot strive for the best we might as well all give up now.

The alternative is the system that we are living under at the moment, which Twateron wants to make more radical by relieving the rich and powerful of the duty to contribute to the well being of us all. This is the system that takes us to war whenever the continued flow of wealth to the already overstuffed rich is threatened. The deaths of a million Iraqis is only one the consequences of holding that stance.

I can do nothing about this. Although I sense there are thousands and possibly millions who are in broad agreement with me, I am disenfranchised. Every four or five years I get to cast a vote for one of three political parties who are almost indistinguishable flavours of self-serving environmental fascism. Alas, the majority of people are either too stupid to see or too afraid to admit that capitalism has never delivered the promises of wealth and security to all by lining the pockets of the few.

To sum up, in a caring and well-thought-out way, I wish that Cameron would shove his big society up his big slimy arse, and fuck off.

You can give this one a miss, Mr Mans

2010-10-01T09:24:00.001+01:00

My friend Clare composed a nice poem commemorating her wedding anniversary. It included the sentiments “And where are you today you bastard?” I suggested that the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be improved by the inclusion of that line. Clare agreed, and suggested that “a lot of poems would be enhanced by a smattering (smiting?) of verbal abuse”.

I do not need to be asked twice. I have set about improving some of the more well-known works. If only these people had had my flair they could have made more of a success.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
And where are you today you bastard shite?
I’d like to stick a bottle in your face.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of poxy daffodils;
Beside the lake, beside the brook
My allergies are shot to fuck.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
It pisses down, and then the thunder roars
I wish that you would bloody go away
Your ma’s a tart, your sisters are all whores.

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
Well, I don’t fucking care.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
It’s bleeding cold, and that’s no sodding fun.

In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
Noisy twats.

As you know

2010-09-30T06:00:00.001+01:00

I am typing this note. I am using an electronic keyboard attached to a computer, and as my fingers touch the keyboard, then the clever software inside the computer transfers the results electronically, and the letters appear on a screen in front of me. When I have completed this, then I will, using some simple commands, transfer the ‘output’ from the disk in my computer, via the “world wide web” to another computer, and you will be able to access it if you know where to find it.

If you found the above entertaining, then you will positively pee your pants if you get to watch “Downton Abbey” on the electric television. It falls under the genus ‘drama’. In order to be a ‘drama’, it seems that all you need is to have Broadbent, Carter, Glenister or some other such ubiquitous readily-recognised face to appear. If you want a successful drama, then you get someone really good (in this case Maggie Smith) to come and do a cameo that does not even begin to stretch them. You then construct a completely unbelievable script. The unbelievability of it is that the characters are constantly engaged in conversations in which they explain to other characters things that they already know. This is not a new device, Brass parodied it years ago. Downbeat Abbey features life in an early 20th century home of some rich bastards with lots of servants. Everybody in the place has a single digit IQ, as they have to have everything explained to them over again. In Downdrain Abbey, there is one scene early on where someone explains to his wife that two people who have just died are his first cousin, and his first cousin’s son. This was the most interesting conversation. The cast comprises tired stereotypes and the dialogue has been contributed by rent-a-cliché. I may let you know how bad the second episode is.

Even more contrived is the utter tripe that is “Spooks” on the BBC. Worse melodrama than the average soap, and, set in the world of espionage, the characters are perpetually engaged in explaining to each other why they must thwart the latest plot, and why it would be a jolly bad idea for it to succeed. Apparently, MI5 do not believe in briefing and employ people who need to be told that wiping out cities is not a good thing. I have watched every episode. There have been over 700, and during that time I have seen all three facial expressions of Sir Hammy Pompoustit, and watched countless other spies being murdered. Alas, they are always replaced by others even more melodramatic and wooden.

I have now almost finished this. You will know for sure that it is the end when the words run out.

A certain sensation of reality.

2010-09-29T10:58:00.002+01:00

I would like to draw your attention to the writings of my old pal Jon Butterworth, who writes about physics.

Today I read his article in the Grauniad, and done a lol.

Specifically, he was defending the position of those scientists who had admitted that the new Disneyworld in Switzerland could be the place where an experiment was conducted that caused the end of the world. The word "could" is key, as, in physics, anything is possible.

I reproduce the comment that I left on his blog, as I know some of you don't get around too easily these days.

Thank you, that was most risible. I studied physics for five years at school, and don't remember laughing once; I may have occasionally smirked, in a pubescent lascivious manner, at times when my concentration was distracted by the female class members.

Not that my concentration was much to begin with; concentration could not accurately be described as being one of my behaviours.

And, in deference to my new found fondness for scientific accuracy, I need to say that I did not "study" physics, I merely attended physics lessons. I learned nothing, but it was marginally preferable to sitting outside in the snow.

Do you know Ian Smith? He was my physics teacher in the second year. He was totally devoid of humour. He probably won't (and I now understand from your article that even if he has passed on to the great LHC in the sky it will not preclude the possibility of his so doing) even laugh when Thatcher dies. If only he had included some clerihews, I might have learnt summat.

For those of you wishing to find some clerihews about Physicists, I managed to find these very clever ones on the electric internet. This chap has a bright future.

That boy at the back! You're an idiot! What are you?

2010-09-26T16:57:00.002+01:00

Yesterday some friends and I were kept in after school. Approximately 41 years after we left school may seem a little extreme, but some of them had been very naughty indeed.

Fortunately, we have all benefited by the strict disciplinary code practised at this fine seat of culture, and the successes that we have achieved have percolated into all seventeen corners of the world.

For the benefit of those of you who are careless in keeping up with news of global luminaries, here is a guide to my friends and I.

1) Dominic Plantagenet-Mincingboy. Dom studied Aramaic at the university of Tirana, founded a company manufacturing software aimed at removing the word “” from the internet. As you can see, he has been very successful. With his enormous wealth, Dominic has pioneered a project ensuring that the inhabitants of the West Sahara have round-the-clock access to the television programmes of Nick Owen and Anne Diamond. As you can see he is not paying attention in class. We will probably have to repeat this detention.

2) Dame Eritrea Montgomery. She, of course, is the first woman to perform “Ol Man River” from Showboat at the Royal Command Variety event. She has a keen in interest in geology, blancmange moulds and the poetry of Richard Nixon. In between working on her fashion designs for the over-90s, she is the principle architect in charge of the reconstruction of “Plastic Henge” near Salisbury.

3) Fortuna Aristophanes. English hammer throwing champion, compiler of the Shrewsbury University directory of bathroom windows, and lead singer with Iron Maiden, her talents are catholic as, indeed, are her propensities.

4) Hephzibah Lumbarpuncture. Pioneering surgeon whose work on replacing ankle bones with ball bearings, and the extension of the optic nerve to finger and toe ends has advanced the theory and practice of voyeurism, and her lectures at the Gdansk medical facility were truly ground-breaking in their audience participation aspects, but sadly resulted in her being prevented from returning to Eastern Europe.

5) Patriach Archbishop Arthur Rosebush of the Armenian Orthodox Church, winner of the 1996 final of “Wheel of Fortune”.

6) Gandalf Montesorri, still playing left side flanker for the Tintagel Patriots rugby union team, and a trailblazer in the field of marine unorthodoxy.

7) Uriel Wenchfondler. Tireless worker for the advancement of vegetable rights, and recipient of the Life Time Achievement award in kale husbandry.

8) Cynthia Leftpancreas. Inventor of recyclable salad dressing, pomegranate ketchup and the dodecahedral apple and raspberry pie. We are all deeply, deeply indebted to her.

9) Eroica Entwhistle. Despite, in this photograph, appearing to gaze admiringly, if not lustfully, at the star of the class, Ms Entwhistle is an expert on the migratory habits of snails, has translated the works of Jilly Cooper into 17 African languages and is widely respected in the Meccano collectors community.

10) Vicus Scurra. All round good egg, confidante of and counsellor to the rich and famous, accomplished sportsman, musician and academic.

11) Ciceley Thricenightly. Exotic dancer, aardvark charmer, Phil Collins impersonator and the only woman to be a freeman of both Willoughby Waterleys and Phnom Penh.

12) Audrey Gnomesnatcher, PhD. President of the Islamic Jihad for the liberation of Carlton Curlieu, walked backwards across the Gobi to raise money for research into research. Mother of 24 children and advisor to the Gyles Brandreth Appreciation Society.

13) Rear Admiral Sir Hezekiah Amberspoon. Sixth in line to the throne of Upper Volta, handkerchief designer and lothario.

14) Guevara Cerise. Professor of Tomfoolery at Curly Howard University, East Moron, Vermont. Dancing coach to Joshua Nkomo and holder of the world record for squid balancing.

Mr Mans has been waiting for us to attend this detention since 1968. This is typical of his deep commitment to his profession. You may think that someone who did not know the correct plural of one of the most common words in the language was not a suitable candidate for head of English. However, the alternative would have been to have been taught by one of the Mr Men. Not something to mention in your university entrance application.

Mr Mans’ favoured area of study were the works of great comic writers; Dostoevsky, Milton and Barbara Cartland were the most popular authors in this category. Here he is seen expounding on the great slapstick scene “Before the Law” from “The Trial”.

*************

If I may break out of character for a moment, I request that if you adding a comment please do not make derogatory remarks about any of the people depicted above apart from me, (unless you are in the cast list).

Yesterday I went back to my school for the first time in 41 years, and met these splendid people who were all in my year, many of whom I had not seen since, and we were able to recruit Peter Mans, one of the many outstanding teachers of my time, to re-enact those days.

I see myself as very fortunate to have been educated here. Humanity was seen as more important than accomplishment, equality and fairness professed and practised. Being a pioneering school it attracted a very high standard of enthusiastic and committed teachers (interspersed with the occasional throwback and idiot, of course). I am very grateful to these people and in particular to my headmaster, who returned yesterday and expressed similar sentiments in a far more forceful and articulate manner than I can manage.

That is the end of this service message. Normal nonsense will return next time.

In case you missed it

2010-09-09T22:11:00.000+01:00

A talented reader (and there was me thinking that was an oxymoron)

2010-09-04T09:15:00.000+01:00

Go and read Rol's story. Don't tell him I sent you, don't want him getting big-headed and all.

http://rolhirst.blogspot.com/2010/09/friday-flash-highway-hypnosis.html

Policy Statement

2010-09-02T14:16:00.000+01:00

After centuries of moving in a mysterious way and shunning publicity, God has broken his silence and announced that the Universe does not need Stephen Hawking.

“Frankly, my infinite patience and mercy has been pushed beyond the fucking limit by this irritating little tit”, He exclaimed at a news conference in Swanage, attended by a select few members of the international news media. “I have gone out of my way to keep a low profile, only appearing occasionally in pizzas and half eaten Turkish Delight, but I am fed up to my back teeth of these wiseacres, wizeasses and witless wankers,” went on the Supreme Deity (6189), “were they there at the Creation? Well if they were, I didn’t fucking see them. They were no fucking help to me, with their calculations, theories and hypotheses. Have you seen the size of the fucking universe? Big, that’s what it is; very fucking big, and all my own work. Hawking can take his doctorate and shove it where the sun don’t shine – and I know where that is too, because I made the sun, and not on the fourth day either. Who do these people think they are? As if I’m going to construct a fucking universe in the fucking dark. Hot – that’s what they are, suns; take a bit of careful handling too. How many are there? Well, more than Hawking and his mates can count, I can tell you that for nothing. Twat. You have no fucking idea how much planning it took.”

Sounds of thunder could be heard.

“Hawking? He can kiss my hairy divine arse. And while we’re at it, I’m none too fond of that twat Bruce Willis. That will be all.”

Thank you, I'm here for at least two more years

2010-08-22T13:49:00.000+01:00

I wonder which of these comedians is more to your taste?

Perhaps Rodney, with his rapid banter, or Dick with this charming characterisations. Do many of you find Bazza, with his subtle satire, obliquely camouflaged by apparently mundane observations to be the new force in America humour? I think that his patter needs to be sharpened to match his content, and were he to attend to this, his ratings would rocket.

“We can’t allow the corporations to take over our democracy”. I’m sure that we all fell about. Did any of you rofl? Are any of my dear readership (aMToNW) buttockless this fine day having lmfaoed? I thought it was a very clever idea, delivered with a straight face and no clue as the underlying irony. How could the performance be improved? Well, perhaps with reference that even the most humble person can become president, juxtaposed with the cost of an election campaign would have added some weight to his theme. Surely his audience still remembers Dubya, and there could have been some further humour extracted by referring to him. I am not sure that the introduction and exit music that featured in Rodney’s act would be appropriate in these times, but some acknowledgement of, if not interface with, the audience would have added to the mirth. I also think that the potty mouth approach, as adopted by Mr Prior, would have detracted from the aura of the performance.

Apparently, in yet to be broadcast episodes, Barry goes on to say it that it is important we avoid a terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre, that the rain forests must not be depleted for profit and that it is essential for democracy that the defecatory habits of the family Ursidae in areas of aboreal density is restricted.

The Long Haul

2010-08-19T23:04:00.000+01:00

I would like to express my thanks to Priyamvada Natarajan and Eric Jull, the latest pair of prize Herberts conspiring to keep me from my bed.

They have distracted me by publishing a study which hypothesises that the universe will expand for ever, and eventually become a cold, dead wasteland. Much like Basingstoke, then, probably with more roundabouts and a slightly larger branch of Tesco.

Before you start to panic, and stampede through the streets wailing and gnashing teeth, I should explain that this latest spurious conglomeration of fanciful brainfart is predicated upon the existence of dark energy. You will recall from previous studies here that dark energy does not exist, and is merely an attempt to explain some inexplicable rather than just calling it God. The piffle also depends on their calculations about how light bends round something called Abell 1689, apparently a massive cluster of galaxies, somewhere east of Aberystwyth.

They predict that the temperature of the universe will approach absolute zero, so I have been out gathering logs and kindling this evening. You are all welcome to drop in and huddle round my fire, but don’t rely upon sharing my body warmth, as I am English and we don’t do that sort of thing.

May I refer you to this somewhat simplified article in Wikipedia for an alternative and somewhat more sensible explanation?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Day_of_Brahma

You may think that my perspective is slightly awry in worrying about my bed time in comparison to all of these things, but I need to be alert tomorrow for the Test Match.

A guide to democracy

2010-08-16T09:48:00.000+01:00

On the news this morning is the latest world-saving policy from our nice new government. They want to abolish mixed-sex wards in hospitals. I should perhaps explain that they want to curb the practice of having people of differing genders in the same room. They are not attempting to abolish “mixed sex”, whatever that is. It seems an unsavoury habit, and I will not go down that particular street of seediness, at least today.

I haven’t had to stay in hospital for over 30 years (no, not many people have, I hear you wittily say, you would have to be very ill). It is over 30 years ago since I had to stay in hospital, there, is that better? My dentist took exception to the sight of my tonsils and decided that he would refer me to the fang-fondler in chief at the royal infirmary to have my wisdom teeth pulled out. I can recall little of my sojourn; particularly I do not remember harbouring feelings of antipathy towards my fellow patients. These days I am probably more choosey about night-time company, and I wish Jennifer Aniston would stop pestering me about the subject.

Normally, I would feel supportive of proposals to bring practice in line with the desires of the majority. Hospital accommodation is not a topic which vexes me greatly, but I would, all things being equal, go along with the consensus.

But, you see, things are not equal. This measure is being proposed by the Tories. I am therefore beginning a campaign for open plan hospitals, merged with veterinary hospitals. When you come round from your anaesthetic after having your gall bladder scraped, you may be in a bed/compound/sty next to a Thompson’s gazelle suffering from chilblains. This may seem harsh, but if the Tories want it, it must be wrong.

If Cameron announces world peace, I shall take to the streets with a grenade launcher. If Lickspittle Lansley announces a return to the days of “free at point of delivery” and the abolition of trusts and private hospitals, I shall buy shares in BUPA. If Gormless Gove proposes an education system based upon the writings of Kropotkin, I shall demand tougher control. If Halfwit Huhne announces a system of tax based entirely upon environment impact, I shall burn my refrigerator in a national park. Fuck ‘em. Unless they bring in a policy proclaiming free love, in which case I shall be celibate.

Nato annuled after delegate swallows treaty.

2010-08-03T01:38:00.001+01:00

I feel a need to break my self imposed exile from this journal in order to reach out to my adoring audience tonight. I am sure I will find some succour here.

Firstly, Mrs S and two of our friends began discussing pottery, ornaments, flat pack homes and other such nonsense until I was driven, muttering “Kaliyuga, Kaliyuga” to consult the DellFick oracle in the corner of the room. I can only attribute my poor choice of information source to the late hour. I could pretend that what I was seeking was proof that one only had to search for seven seconds to find some true moron spouting much more poisonous guff than the decoration obsessed trio mentioned above. The truth is more mundane, alas. I simply found the news at the BBC too boring and trickled over to the Torygraph.

WTFFF as young people would say, were they as capable of the degree of astonishment that I experienced over there.

At least the Daily Mail have some sense of proportion. The slow and miserable death we will suffer from whatever made up story appears on their front page always has the benefit of being slow. The Torygraph, who appear to have hired the headline writer from “The Day Today”, are much more positive.

“Nasa scientists braced for 'solar tsunami' to hit earth”.

They shriek. They go on:

“Experts said the wave of supercharged gas will likely reach the Earth on Tuesday, when it will buffet the natural magnetic shield protecting Earth.”

Buffet? All you can eat for £5.95 no doubt.

Read the article yourselves, I can’t even be bothered to provide a link. It reads like the wailing of the prophet Jeremiah on the morning he poured curdled milk on the last of his Cocopops.

Reading between the lines, what is likely to happen is that round about Tuesday, or it could be next Michaelmas but three, a lady in Mogadishu is likely to find her afternoon play on Radio 4 slightly more difficult to hear, and a chap in Norfolk is going to feel a tad warm. Or the planet could be wiped out by some giant magnetic storm. I will let you know which, if you miss it.

More implausible still is the other “science” story I found. They have found it necessary to devote some space to the incoherent jabbering of Nikodem Poplawski, of Indiana University, Bloomington. I must warn you that what follows will seem strangely familiar to any of you unfortunate enough to have experimented in your youth with hallucinogenic drugs. Cannabis and d-lsyergic acid diethylamide are two such substances in that category. You may recall propped up against a wall (if you were luckly) next to some callow slob from Barnsley who kept you awake and confused by expounding the profound realisation that had revealed itself to him during his ingestion of said narcotics. If you were really stoned, you may have found his theory interesting or even believable. You may have even been the tripe perpetrator yourself. If so, you probably don’t remember.

Doc Pop, or “Nutty Nik” as he is known on campus, offered one of the following insights. Can you guess which one?

A) “Maybe Nicholas Soames is the New Messiah, come to lead us to a land of eternal orgasm”, he told The Watchtower.

B) "Maybe the huge black holes at the centre of the Milky Way and other galaxies are bridges to different universes," he told New Scientist.

C) “Maybe broccoli has an IQ beyond the measure of our current tests”, he told the Theresa May edition of Penthouse.

D) “Maybe I forgot to take my tablets this morning”, he told the Bloomington Sheriff’s Department.

I can do little but copy from the Torygraph. I am at a loss as how I can embellish it. Here is a lily so pre-gilded that it positively shines like fifty thousand suns.

He says instead of matter reaching infinite density in a black hole called "singularities" in Einstein's theory of relativity - the behaviour of the space-time acts more like a spring being compressed with matter rebounding and expanding continuously.
Dr Poplawski explains that this "bounce-back" effect is caused by the torsion of space-time having a repulsive force against the gargantuan strength of gravity in a black hole.
Dr Poplawski also claims that this recoiling effect could be what has led to our expanding universe that we observe today and could explain why our universe is flat, homogeneous and isotropic without needing cosmic inflation.

Here comes a really good bit. No, honest, it is good. You will love it. You may experience quasi-orgasm.

It is hard to see how we could test whether or not Dr Poplawski's theory is correct; the force of gravity in black holes is such that nothing can escape, so no information about what is going on inside one can ever reach us.

Yes, there you have it. Some chump, and we can only guess what nonsense his wife was spouting to cause him to toddle down this particular avenue, has added to the already overloaded truck of scientific speculation with a theory as useless as the gibberish issuing from the gob of a semi-comatose hippy, and been reported in the national press.

FFS.

To be fair, though, his theory, if proved to be valid, would explain the oscillation of neutrinos. That particular conundrum has deprived me of many hours of sleep over the years.

I am going to bed.

What do you call an enclosure constructed specifically for the genus loxondonta?

2010-07-27T01:10:00.002+01:00

Many of you (A Mrs Trellis of North Baker Street) will have been sitting as if permanently attached to their chairs, staring with anticipation at their monitors, waiting for my verdict on the latest Monday evening entertainment to be perpetrated by our friends at the BBC.

I refer of course to the latest attempt to squeeze on last drop of haemoglobin out of the basalt by another dramatisation of the Holmes stories. Oh dear. Seldom can we have seen a production so up itself. High camp and silliness abounds in this series which appears not to know whether it is Batman, Carry on up the Bakerloo line or Harry Potter.

Mark Gatiss was excellent as Dr Chinnery. Unfortunately the book he attempted to write was rubbish, and he has now turned to thespianism. What a shame.

But what I really wanted to write about was something that seems to happen in most crime series and films. It is as annoying as all American telephone numbers having the area code 555. It is not as annoying as David Cameron but I am still going to complain.

In this instance, Holmes and Watson get in a taxi in Baker Street in daylight. When they arrive in Brixton it is night. Not dusk, not overcast, but black. I cannot think of a good reason for this. If Holmes is the cleverest man in London (a bit like saying the most handsome man in Norfolk), then why does he tolerate a taxi driver taking several hours to travel seven or eight miles? Do the producers/writers/continuity checkers believe that Brixton is in a different time zone? I shall not rest until I know the answer. This, more than all of the other nonsense, campery and absurd storylines made the whole production ludicrous and unbearable. I shall be watching again next week.

(I shall be awarding points in the comments section. You know to what I am referring.)

To er.. is human

2010-07-22T13:42:00.003+01:00

Readers with a keen interest in matters spiritual (a Mrs Trellis of North WGGrace) will be expecting me to comment on the momentous individual achievement that happened in the world of Test Cricket today. Cricketers of earlier years would be hard pressed to believe the landmark reached today. Of course, much more cricket is played these days, but it would be churlish not to applaud today’s record-breaking feat.

For those of you not abreast of the latest news, I refer, of course, to the achievement of Bob Willis in becoming the first man to say “er..” 750,000 during a commentating career. This attainment is all the more remarkable given that Bob is no longer a regular commentator on Sky during test matches. How such professionalism can be overlooked is beyond the understanding of most of us. There seems to be unwarranted prejudice in favour of those who are articulate, avoid the monotone, have something to say, and fail to use clichés three times in every sentence. Willis has been delighting us for years with his references to “the cherry” and “the blade”.

I have to finish here, I feel strangely anaesthetised.

George, don't do that.

2010-07-02T09:58:00.000+01:00

I find myself surprisingly busy. Having been away from home for a couple of days, and having returned with/to several new projects I may be updating this little corner of creation less frequently, even in less frequently than in June. I will be watching you all, however, and possibly commenting on your writings. Do not take my lower profile as an excuse to allow standards to slip.

Another inside story

2010-06-27T00:04:00.002+01:00

Dave did his best not to look silly. He had forgotten to bring his earphones. Meanwhile, the others tried not to giggle while Barack told the story about the corgi and the Moldovan Ambassador.

Dave was a little concerned. He felt sure that sure that Barack was whispering about "British", "oil", "water" and wondered whether he could outsprint Harper and Merkel.

Barack's little joke had worked better than he could have hoped; he had waved goodbye to Frau Merkel, while getting the others to give her the forbidden salute.

George's new job - Part 15

2010-06-22T10:46:00.001+01:00

George was not very happy.

He had been sitting at his desk for 23 and a half minutes, and even though he had told Kylie that he should not be disturbed, he hoped that the telephone would ring, or that Kylie would bring him some bourbon biscuits and one of those exotic coffee thingies that came out of the machine that he could never operate without his tie getting caught up or spilling cinnamon powder down his trousers.

George sighed.

He added a fourth underline to the word “Budget” that was on his notepad.

This reminded George of his days at school when he had sat at the back of Madame Thierry-Henry’s class and got very depressed while all the other boys were writing and he couldn’t even remember whether his vacances were male or female.

It just didn’t seem fair.

He knew that whatever he wrote in his budget would not be popular.

He knew that whatever he wrote in his budget would be crossed out by Dave and replaced by something that his new friend Dan wrote.

He knew that Sir Nicholas had told him what to write, and wished that he had been paying attention, instead of counting the pigeons on the pavement opposite Sir Nicholas’s office. It wasn’t George’s fault that Sir Nicholas was so boring, after all.

Even when George thought that he was being very witty someone or other told him that he was wrong. John Bercow, who George seemed to remember had once been on his side, had had the temerity to tell him off. George had thought that saying “And the same to you with knobs on!” was a pretty good riposte to that oik Alistair Darling. Who did Bercow think he was, anyway? George was Chancellor, and Bercow didn’t even get a vote any more.

Eventually George wrote:
Sell the Treasury.
Send Dan out to get a paper round. Morning and evening.
Put a tax on bingo winnings, fish and chips and Coronation Street.
Sell the BBC to Mr Murdoch.
Make John Bercow clean the toilets in parliament, and sack all of the cleaners.
Will this do?

Who am I?

2010-06-15T23:01:00.004+01:00

I was in receipt of an email today from someone who shares my name, and had changed their email address. However, they appear to have given all of their contacts my email address.

I have had several interesting (from my point of view) exchanges today.

(I should clarify that when I say they share my name, I mean that they have the same name as me. We do not actually take it in turns to own the name. That would be silly.)

This evening I received a message from dear old Carolyn, thus:

Hi,
Just wanted to confirm your plans for the 4th.
Still coming to see Jerry on the Fri. before 4th and then coming to beach house?
Do you know the way? We have new 73/74 hwy open now. Let me know what your plans are. What time to expect you.

Love you and looking forward to seeing all of you.

I replied:

Hi!

Who are you?

My plans for the 4th what?

For the 4th anniversary of Margaret Thatcher's death my plans are to dance on her grave, possibly a tap dance, but that all depends on the weather and how much longer she can hold on for.

For the 4th course of dinner tomorrow, I will probably have some of the date slice that my wife made at the weekend.

For the 4th round of the T20 cricket competition, I rather fancy Durham to beat Sussex.

You really should learn to be more specific.

I haven't seen Jerry for ages. She started to campaign on behalf of those with erectile dysfunction, and I took that as a personal slight. Whatever problems she had with Jagger should not reflect on the rest of us.

I would be happy to come to the beach house, provided that you can assure me there will be no sand, due to my allergy.

My plans are to live a happy, fulfilled and utilitarian life, and to persecute those people who are careless with the spelling of email addresses.

See all of me? I am overweight, but not obese. Or are you suggesting something more intimate? If you do manage to see all of me, I shall probably be blushing all over, you saucy young thing.

love and peace

Modern Times

2010-06-13T09:48:00.001+01:00

Liz preferred to celebrate her official birthday with a low-key ride through the locality.

Once again, Philip managed to struggle free from his gag, and was soon regaling passers by with his views on immigration, capital punishment and shirt-lifters

Bill tried very hard to screen the more graphic images of the day.

Once again, Charles only came seventh in the "Spot the odd one out" competition.

The family gathered to witness the "shoot a pauper out of a cannon" event.

"Fuck me, she's made a run for it again!"

Some could hardly contain their excitement.

Mike tried to scare Liz by dressing up as her granddad and calling her a silly bugger.

Colonel Siddons was expecting the George Cross, but decided not to make a fuss when he got a copy of "Corgi breeding for beginners" instead.

This year it fell to a Mrs Hampton from Yeovil to perform the "goose the monarch" ceremony.

Liz never tired of hearing the "six foot cock" joke.

Mr Faversham had always realised that exclaiming "Hey, George, what's this?" had been a major error.

"They'll never spot us amongst this lot".

Liz was looking forward to the article posted by her loyal subject, Mr Scurra, on his internet diary, which would form the basis of the definitive historical archive.

Evil infectious moronic megadeath

2010-05-30T00:19:00.005+01:00

I am aware that my current keen interest in matters political might be a tad wearisome to some of my readers (aMToNW), so I thought I would focus upon matters religious and philosophical, and in so doing, piss off the rest.

On this week’s News Quiz on the electric radio, the subject of Michael Gove came up, and there was some banter about whether this was an argument against intelligent design, to which that nice Jeremy Hardy pointed out that it didn’t really support the argument for evolution much either.

Here is a picture of Michael Gove.

He is the minister for Education. I am assured that this appointment was made with no ironic intention.

It is cruel, childish and anti-libertarian to judge people on their appearance. Please do not do this. Listen to him speak, or read his works (the first government papers to be written in crayon) before you decide that he is a prize plonker of the first order.

Now, what say you, you promoters of the notion that the Creator has made man in his own image; that we are the result of painstaking research and development in the kingdom of heaven? That God, having created Michael Gove, gave himself a pat on the back (He can do this, because he is God) and took a day off. Did the Almighty, when showing his friends what he had made, pause for a long period when he came to the Gove Room, and stand back with a particularly smug smile?

Or, you heathen followers of Dawkins, is this what natural selection has given us? Is this the result of 13 or more billion years of adapting to the environment?

I think you can see that there is a third way. Let’s call it Govism. The first tenet of this new and proud religion/cult/philosophy is that the God who created all was not driven by concerns of intelligence, but rather by the intention of having a bloody good laugh, with a touch of vindictiveness to give it some edge.

The snail's on the thorn

2010-05-28T06:00:00.000+01:00

I am obliged to Mr Rufus Hound, (not his real name), an amusing chap of whom some of you may have heard (not Dave, obviously).

On Twitter, Mr Hound mentioned a rather large cheesecake that had been delivered by room service to him at his hotel. He was then challenged to eat it.

Here is the result.

I hope you can all see this, and don't need to log in to twitter to see it. (Dunno what I can do about it if you can't).

I done a lol. So much better than going to bed with visions of the prime minister being beheaded in parliament square.

You make me feel so young

2010-05-27T06:00:00.002+01:00

Thank you for indulging me these last two weeks, while I told you all about George. I think that it is perhaps time to give him a rest, as he has some jolly important decisions to be made for him, and could do with a nap.

However, I find myself still focussing on politics and have found a new interest in said bed of dung. Hardly a day passes when I am not to be found COLing (cussing out loud) at one form of electric medium or another. Only yesterday you may have observed me, had you been in the vicinity of the A325 at Buck’s Horn Oak, using all sorts of ungentlemanly language at dear old Liz during her little speech. I know that these displays, particularly in public and in Jane Austen Country, are unseemly and serve no purpose other than to stabilise my blood pressure, but it is nice to have a reason to get up in the morning.

I calmed down, and even while watching slimy Dave on the electric television, I thought he did quite well, considering*, I remained tuned in despite drifting in and out of consciousness during old Kaufmann’s ramblings, but finally succumbed to the desire to stave off the grim reaper when Beith tossed in his two penn’orth.

Then I got quite cross again with Boris and the Brian Haw story. For the benefit of those of you of a foreign disposition, I shall briefly tell you something of Brian Haw.

Brian Haw is a loony. He is the sort of fellow most of you would cross the street to avoid. However, for the last eight years or more he has undertaken a protest against the UK’s involvement in war(s) in Iraq and Afghanistan. His protest has been conducted close to parliament. Latterly he has been joined by several more pacificists, hippies some or all of whom may also be loonies, who have formed a small encampment in Parliament Square. Like most of you, I would probably not want Brian and his mates camping in my garden, however sympathetic I may be to his views (although I have allowed Tom to stay at my house on more than one occasion. Call me sentimental). Boris has taken the view that the Square was being damaged.

What is distasteful about this as much as anything is the timing. While his new slimy friend was across the road telling the nation about a new era of politics, in which freedom and fairness was to be at the forefront, Boris instructed Inspector Knacker and his men to clear a demonstration for peace and freedom in a less than sensitive manner.

This morning, (Wednesday 26th) without a trace of irony, we had that prize rectum Gove telling us that in order to eliminate bureaucracy schools could apply to become academies, but in order to do that needed to produce a “business plan”.

Congratulations, Gove, you tit. I thought I had long ago given up all hope of education in this country exciting my passions, geared as it is to produce 4 trillion unemployable business studies and marketing graduates each year. But no, here I am feeling the urge to shout “fuck off” every time I see your hideously deformed visage or listen to words flow through your just-begging-to-be-throttled neck. A school is not a fucking business, you twat. Fuck off.

* considering that he is an arsebrained, mendacious, slimy pig turd.

George's new job - Part 14

2010-05-26T06:00:00.001+01:00

It had been one of George’s favourite birthdays, ever. Dave had given him a new house, called Dorneywood, (not Dorkywood, as PC Collins, who followed George everywhere, had called it). George had been driven there in the shiny new car that Dave had given him. George knew that he must be doing very well in his new job for Dave to give him so many presents.

For tea, Frances had baked a cake for George. It was a sponge cake, with THREE layers. There had been raspberry jam in between the bottom layer and the middle layer, and blueberry jam between the middle layer and the top layer. George had been quite giddy trying to decide which bit was his favourite.

Last year, at his birthday, Frances had arranged some entertainment for George. His friend Theresa had dressed up as Sophie Tucker, and when she sang ‘Man I Love’, George had been so pleased that he knocked over his dandelion and burdock. Frances had already told him that Theresa was too busy this year, because she was now the home secretary. George seemed to have lots of secretaries at home, but didn’t remember seeing Theresa. Perhaps she had worn a wig to look like Ms Tucker.

George was just having his second helping of Viennetta ice cream, when he thought that the entertainment had arrived. His new friend Vince came into the room, looking very cross and started shouting. He partly spoke in Polish, which George didn’t understand, and partly in English, which George didn’t understand. George was clapping his hands and laughing, and breathlessly said to Frances, “He’s very funny isn’t he? But I’m not sure who he’s meant to be!”

“I’ll tell you who I’m fucking meant to be,” said Vince, “you great gormless, public school, bottom feeding twat! Your worst fucking nightmare, that’s who I’m meant to fucking be!”

By this time George was laughing so much he thought that he might be sick!

“First of all they put a useless fucking wassock like you in charge of the fucking economy”, continued Vince, becoming even redder, “then I have to report to you, even though you don’t know your fucking six times table,” (this bit wasn’t true, noted George), “then I find out that my department does fuck all, and then, to put the icing on the shit, you fucking cut my fucking budget more than that of any other fucking department!”

George still, couldn’t recognise who Vince was impersonating. He thought that it might be one of these ‘alternative’ comedians, who George didn’t much care for, on account of them being nasty to Mrs Thatcher.

“Well!” said Vince, who was clearly just getting into the swing of things, “I’m going to make sure that everyone knows what a double-dealing, mendacious, fucking stupid sack of shit you are. I know, for a fucking fact, that you don’t have a fucking clue what’s in your fucking budget, and you are the most incompetent fucking boob in a fucking Tory front fucking bench of prize ball sacks! And no, I don’t want any fucking ‘scrummy cake’, and you can stick your trifle up your fucking arse!”

With that, Vince turned round and stomped out.

“Priceless!” shouted George, tears streaming down his face, “Frances, remind me to thank Dr Cable in person at tomorrow’s meeting, please.”

George telephoned and asked Mr Sutcliffe, the butler, to tip Vince a fiver on the way out if he hadn’t already left. George got his favourite pen from his pocket, and wrote “eight times six is seventy six” on his napkin.

George's new job - Part 13

2010-05-25T06:00:00.000+01:00

George had had a very exciting week. Dave had arranged for him to go to Brussels, where George had shouted at a lot of foreign people, and told them that he was better than they were, and he wasn’t going to give money to Greece.

“They’ll be wanting the Elgin Marbles next!” he said, and thought that was very funny.

He told them all off for wanting to spend more money this year, but let them do something or other about hedge funds, which was OK with George, who didn’t have a hedge anyway.

On the way back on the train, George asked Kylie to go and see whether the driver would mind if George sat next to him for a time, and perhaps could have a go with the steering wheel. She came back with a jam (strawberry) doughnut and a puzzle book, and he soon forgot about her mistake.

A couple of days later George had gone back to Brussels, and had been a lot tougher. He had insisted on blackcurrant jam in his doughnut. Dave was going to ask William to go with George this time. George wasn’t sure why, so he went ‘online’ and changed William’s booking to a trip to Afghanistan. George didn’t see why he should have to share his doughnuts. Anyway, William came from Yorkshire and would probably prefer the tripe and onions that they served on the aeroplane.

George had also given an important speech at the CBI, and told them how much he supported their efforts to provide affordable furniture for poor people.

George met some very clever people who were able to do foreign accents frightfully well.

"Go on - do that Sarkozy chap!", demanded George.

George's new job - Part 12

2010-05-24T06:00:00.001+01:00

George was very pleased when the telephone rang, and it was his friend Dave who asked if George could call round in ten minutes. It actually took 15 minutes to get there, because George could never remember which door led from his house to Dave’s and when he went out of the front door could never remember whether to turn left or right. When PC Collins, who followed George everywhere, caught up with him on the Victoria Embankment, they had had to jog back.

George was pleased that Dave wanted to see him, and hoped that Dave had arranged a trip for him. He knew that Dave had already been to Scotland BY PLANE and was going to Wales, and that William had already been to Washington. George was very jealous of William. George couldn’t see the point of sending William. George couldn’t understand why William got to go to Disneyworld – he was too short for all of the rides.

“George, you silly ass,” said Dave, jovially, “Settling in all right?”

“Oh yes”, said George, “although Frances hasn’t unpacked my gameboy yet”.

“George, do you remember that meeting we had a few months ago, about the OBR?”

“Yes, Dave, of course! The Oxford Bullingdon Reunion. Absolutely fantastic! I had two helpings of jam roly-poly!”

“No, no, you twerp, the ‘Office for Budget Responsibility’. You remember. We explained to you that when we won the election you would be very busy, so we would privatise part of your job, and leave you more time to do a bit of chancelloring?”

“Yes, I remember now, of course. We had muffins and blackberry jam.”

Dave introduced George to Sir Alan Budd who he seemed to have met before somewhere, but George wasn’t really concentrating. He kept trying to see Sir Alan’s shoes. He remembered that there had been an athlete called Budd who ran in bare feet, and wondered whether it was a family trait.

“So, George, we already have Dr Cable and Mr Laws to blame if you get your sums wrong, and Sir Alan here will carry the can if the forecasts are wrong. He has already issued a disclaimer – go on, Al, tell him”.

Sir Alan cleared his throat and said, very importantly, “We are not claiming that we shall get the fiscal forecasts right; it is easy to demonstrate that that is impossible.”

Dave obviously thought that this was very amusing, so George laughed too. “At this rate” said Dave, still chuckling, “we’ll be able to abolish the Treasury by the end of summer, convert the building to flats, and the rent on those and the savings on salaries and pensions should pay off the national debt in about six weeks. Don’t tell Sir Nicholas about this, will you George?”

But George hadn’t been paying attention. He had noticed that Sir Alan was wearing some very cheap looking brothel creepers, and was very disappointed.

George wasn't sure whether his new friend Dave was copying him out of admiration, or trying to make George look silly.

George's new job - Part 11

2010-05-23T06:30:00.001+01:00

George was more than a little perplexed. He had suggested to Sir Nicholas M. that he could solve the government borrowing crisis by getting an overdraft from the Natwest. While this had seemed like a good idea at the time to keep old Macpherson quiet, now that George had had time to think about it, he was very troubled. In short, he did not like banks.

The first time he had been in a bank was with his father. George was very young and bored, and didn’t like the look of Mr Kermody, who was the manager at Coutts. Kermody had asked, in a very creepy way, whether George “wanted to show him his portfolio.” George had had incidents like that with the big boys at Eton, and hadn’t enjoyed them at all.

When George had become a grown up he still didn’t like banks, and suspected that banks didn’t like George either. George had lots of good ideas about how he could improve things, but the bank managers always seemed to be in meetings, and when they replied to his letters only said that they found George’s ideas “interesting”.

He asked Frances whether, if she wasn’t doing anything else, she would mind going to the Nat West and asking Mr Witherspoon whether they could have an overdraft for, say, 910 billion pounds. Frances started to speak Polish again, but then smiled in her lovely way, and said that she was busy that morning, as she had to alphabetise the wine cellar.

After a great deal of head scratching, George decided that action was needed. He telephoned the Chelsea branch of Lloyds and arranged an appointment. He said his name was “Gideon Usborne”. He didn’t want to give his own name in case they started sending him letters and suchlike.

(Usborne was like his own name, but with one letter different. Gideon was what he had been called at school. He didn’t like the name, because people kept thanking him for the bible, even though George was sure he had never given anyone a bible. So George had changed his name to “George” and no one ever mentioned bibles again. Result! As the young people said these days.)

The meeting had not gone well. Mr Jackson-Pollock, the manager of Lloyds, Chelsea, had begun by saying “Thanks for the bible”, and laughed like a drain when George told him that the wanted to borrow 910 billion pounds at 0.75%. In the end George had come home with a new current account, an accident insurance policy and a shiny pen, which, although it was nice, was not as nice as the pen that Kylie had bought for him from WHSmiths.

George liked his new shiny desk.

When no one else was in the room, he could bend over it, and see all the way up his nose.

George's new job - Part 10

2010-05-22T02:53:00.000+01:00

George was very cross this morning. He hadn’t finished dunking his soldiers, let alone decided whether to have plum jam (from Waitrose, wink, wink) or marmalade on his toast, when Kylie came in and told him that Sir Nicholas Macpherson was on the telephone.

“Dash it all, Nick,” said George, “Can’t a chap have breakers these days?”

“It is 10:30, Chancellor, with all due respect”, said Sir Nicholas.

“Stop showing off! I was working on my diary with Kylie well before 9 this morning”.

“Well, I’ve been at my desk since 6:15”, said Macpherson.

George thought that that explained why Sir Nicholas was being so short tempered. George knew that the secret to a happy disposition was a good night’s sleep and lashings of kedgeree for breakfast.

“I was in my office at 4 this morning, so there” said George. He didn’t add that he had only been looking for the biscuit tin. It was the second time that he had woken up hungry in the night since taking this new job. Being important wasn’t as easy as people thought.

“We really ought to be talking more about the new budget,” said Sir Nicholas.

“Can’t it wait until Friday?” asked George. “I’m going down to Rymans on Thursday afternoon with Kylie and PC Collins, to pick up some nice notebooks to write things in, and I might even buy a new calculator, so I will be fully prepared by Friday”.

“But Chancellor, we are in the worst economic situation ever, the national debt is mounting, and it needs urgent attention”

“Oh pooh!” said George, “How much is the national debt anyway?”

“All told, it is in excess of 900 billion pounds, Chancellor”.

“Lumme!” said George, he didn’t want to appear silly in front of Sir Nicholas, so wrote down the question ‘How many billions in a hundred?’ to ask someone later. “I’ll get Frances to pop along to Natwest and see if we can’t arrange an overdraft, and let you know.”

“Most risible, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas, and rang off.

George telephoned Sir Nicholas back straight away, and tried an accent he had been practising. “This is Jeffrey Osborne from the Financial Times”, he said, trying not to giggle, “I wondered if you could settle a little wager we’ve been having here in Fleet Street. How many billions are there in a hundred?”

“Seven, Chancellor,” said Sir Nicholas and put the phone down again.

George was very excited, and wondered which of his friends would be the first to say "George Osborne, this is your life."

He hoped that it would be Nick, because William's accent made George giggle.

George's new job - Part 9

2010-05-21T06:30:00.002+01:00

George had had a very good day. He had been to an interview with some chaps from the Financial Times. Not only had he remembered the advice that his new friend David Laws had given him, but had remembered to say it out loud:

“One of the things you learn as a new chancellor of the exchequer with the Budget less than 50 days away is that you don’t talk about things.”

He was very pleased with that. He had also told them how much he liked the Liberals and agreed with them on everything, and wouldn’t even mind living next door to one! He had, of course, had his fingers crossed the whole time, and they hadn’t even noticed. On the whole they seemed very silly people to George, because they didn’t know that he lived next door to David Cameron who certainly wasn’t a Liberal, and on the other side were just some offices or something; George wasn’t sure what was there, and made a note to knock on the door and introduce himself – hoping that there were no common people living there.

When he got back to his new office, David Laws was there and politely asked how the interview had gone. George told David what he had said about not talking about things, and David was very pleased. But when George told him that he had talked about spending cuts, David wasn’t very pleased.

“It’s all perfectly in order, old chap.”, said George. “I told them that I was not afraid to face the challenges and would be leading by example. I told them that I had asked Frances not to buy any more of Fortnum and Masons organic plum jam, and that we could jolly well make do with the Waitrose own brand. (I didn’t tell them that I had stashed 12 jars of the F&M jam in the cupboard under the stairs!). They didn’t know what to say to that!”

David Laws said “Jesus” and something in Polish, and left, which George thought was a bit rude, but put it down to David Laws being new, and not used to statesmanship and ruthless decision making.

George was surprised how many people spoke Polish to him. He asked his secretary, Kylie, to find out if there were any classes in Polish in the Westminster area.

“Monday nights would be best, because Frances likes to watch Panorama, and she won’t notice if I’m in a bit late,” he said.

“Don’t you watch Panorama, Chancellor?” asked Kylie.

“Oh no”, said George, “it’s all about politics and the economy, and I don’t like to take my work home.” He fell about laughing at this. It was a really good joke, because now he worked at home, you see. It was the best joke he had made since the cabinet meeting a couple of days ago when he had said “Ee by gum” every time William said anything.

George was so pleased with his new joke that he telephoned his friend Iain who was in charge of Work and Pensions, and told him about it.

Iain said something in Polish.

George was very confused about having too many friends called 'Dave'.

They all looked like a blur to him.

He was beginning to think it was a plot to make him look silly.

George's new job - Part 8

2010-05-20T06:30:00.001+01:00

George was sitting in his office drinking a cup of strong Assam that Kylie had made specially for him, trying to remember his password for the computer, in case he ever needed it, when his new friend Vince arrived.

Vince had a young man with him. The young man’s name was Dave. George found this very confusing.

"How will I know which one is calling?", he asked Vince.

“Well, Chancellor, you are David Laws’ boss, and he will probably begin by saying ‘Hello, Chancellor’ whereas David Cameron is your boss, and will probably begin by saying ‘Hello, arsehole’”.

George wasn’t entirely sure that Vince was not teasing him, but he had never seen Vince so much as smile, so he let it go.

“Before we start talking about all this money nonsense,” George said to his new friend Vince, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. There was another chap, I’m sure his name was Vince as well, and he once said that I was ‘out of my depth’. You don’t know who he is do you?”.

“No idea, Chancellor”, said Vince, very positively.

“Well, if you find out, let me know, will you, I am going to go round to his house, IN MY NEW CAR that my friend Dave gave me, and tell him that I am Chancellor of the Bloody Exchequer.”

“I am sure that that will scare seven shades of shit out of him”, said Vince.

George didn’t like Vince being so crude, but overlooked it, as Vince hadn’t been to Eton, and was therefore probably lacking in vocabulary and good manners.

George wasn't particularly fond of his new friend, Dave, who seem a bit on the smug side, but at the same time did not want to let go of him, because if he did, he would have no-one to take him back to his office - he was pretty sure he could find it, but didn't want to take the risk.

George's new job - Part 7

2010-05-19T06:30:00.000+01:00

George was very surprised to find out that he was in charge of a very big house called “The Treasury”.

It was only a couple of minutes walk from his house, but George liked using the shiny car that his friend Dave had given him.

“Does it have sirens?” he asked.

“No,” said PC Collins, who seemed to follow George everywhere, “Boris has said that the only sirens in London are to be used to fetch mad people to the asylum. You’ll probably be hearing them soon enough.”

George was quite fond of Boris, but thought that power had gone to his head.

George wondered if it would be a good idea to put a tax on Mayors.

When they got to the Treasury they were shown into a jolly big room and were told that Sir Nicholas would be with them soon.

George wondered whether this was the same Nick who had become a very good friend of George’s friend Dave.

George was a little bit jealous, until Dave explained that he was just stringing Nick along because he needed his support, but would “knife the little shit in the back at the first opportunity.” This made George feel better.

George looked in all of the cupboards, and was sad that he could find no treasure; he reasoned that it would probably be kept in a chest somewhere, and would ask someone about it. There was no point in being in charge if you didn’t get to see all of the secrets.

Sir Nicholas came in, and George was relieved to see that it wasn’t his friend Dave’s new “friend”, but was still uncomfortable because Sir Nicholas looked a bit like that fool Alistair Darling, who was the chap who used to have George’s job, and George didn’t like Alistair at all.

“What do you do round here, then?” asked George.

“I am the permanent secretary, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas.

“Well, we’ll see about that, old boy” said George, “I’ve got more secretaries than I can shake a Pritt stick at round the corner, and, call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always seen it as a woman’s job. I certainly don’t need another one, permanent or not!”

George felt quite silly when Sir Nicholas explained that he wasn’t that kind of secretary.

George didn’t know what else to say. Eventually he ‘remembered’ an important meeting back in Downing Street.

“We’ll probably meet again one day,” said George, “what with being neighbours and all. You do live here, don’t you?”

“Alas, no Chancellor,” explained Sir Nicholas.

“Well, I live upstairs from my office!”, boasted George, “My friend Dave arranged it for me – he lives next door you know – he said that if I lived anywhere else I would probably get lost on the way to work. He’s a proper joker is Dave. Oh! I know what I was going to ask, can I come round tomorrow and look at some of the treasure? About 11 o’clock, would that be all right? Don’t want to hurry breakfast. Frances says it gives me wind.”

“You have no idea how much I look forward to it, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas.

“That meeting went jolly well, Collins” said George to PC Collins in the car. With that he rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and made siren noises all the way back home.

George's new job - Part 6

2010-05-18T06:30:00.000+01:00

George had a telephone call from a man called Mervyn King, who said that he was governor of the Bank of England.

George was very surprised, because his own bank manager was very difficult to get hold of, despite George having lots of advice for him. George’s bank manager had been in a meeting for ever such a long time, and George couldn’t help but think that he must have needed a wee by now.

Anyway, Mr King was very nice to George and said that he was looking forward to working with him. This stumped George a bit, because nobody had told him that he would be working with Mr King.

“You know what, Mr King, I’ve always thought it would be a good idea to have your photograph on cheques.”

Mr King didn’t say anything

“And what would be really fantastic would be to have a different photograph on each cheque, so that when you flicked through the book it looked as if you were moving. Do you think we could implement that? I think it would make people think I was very clever to have thought of it”.

Mr King didn’t say anything.

“Shall I send Mr Cable round to see you to sort it out?”

“It’s Dr Cable actually, although I’m not surprised he doesn’t use the title, it makes him sound like a third rate television installer from Berkhamsted.”

George hadn’t known that his new friend Vince was a doctor. George telephoned Vince and told him that he was very worried about a rash on his bottom, and would Vince mind having a look at it next time he came round.

Vince didn’t say anything.

George's new job - Part 5

2010-05-17T06:30:00.000+01:00

George liked his new house, and couldn’t wait to explore it. Downstairs was where he worked, and they had photographs of a couple of old chaps called “Gladstone” and “Disraeli”.

He asked his friend Michael about it. He chose Michael because someone told him that Michael was now in charge of education “he brings a refreshingly uncluttered perspective to it” they had said.

“Oh, those two”, tittered Gove, “they were a famous double act in the old days, like Little and Large.”

“Or Cameron and Clegg” someone muttered. George looked round angrily, but the only person there was PC Collins, who seemed to follow George everywhere, so it couldn’t have been him.

“Yes,” continued Michael, (showing off a bit too much for George’s liking) “Disraeli used to pretend to make fun of Gladstone – that was the basis of their act. One time he said that Gladstone was inebriated by the exuberance of his own verbosity.”

Gove seemed to think this was amusing or clever. George didn’t think Gove was amusing or clever.

“What did Gladstone say?” asked George.

“Fuck off, you Tory cunt”, said PC Collins, and George stared at him with a very displeased expression.

“I think we ought to modernise,” said George. He asked his secretary, Kylie, to try to find some photographs of Nervo and Knox to replace Bill and Ben.

Upstairs there were lots of boxes with things for George’s flat. Frances had unpacked some of them. “Wow!” exclaimed George, “Some of this stuff is just like the stuff we had at the other house!”

Frances said something in Polish, which made George think that she had been having lessons from his new friend Vince.

George's new job - Part 4

2010-05-16T06:30:00.001+01:00

George was very pleased to have an important job with a very important title, but he did not really know what a Chancellor was, or was supposed to do.

He asked his friend Oliver Letwin about Chancellors, even though he knew that Ollie liked to pull George’s leg. “Well, Osborne, you dozy pillock, Hitler was the most famous Chancellor, probably.”

George knew about Hitler, because he had read history at Oxford. “Oh dear, Ollie,” he moaned, “does that mean I shall have to invade Poland?, Only we usually go to Barbados for the summer.”

“You oaf, Osborne, of course you don’t, get one of your new friends to do it for you – ask Vince to draw up the plans.”

George asked Vince, and was pleased to learn that Vince could already speak Polish – at least he guessed that “ferfucksake yertwattywassock” was Polish.

George's new job - Part 3

2010-05-15T06:30:00.002+01:00

George did not understand Dave’s new joke, which was to refer to his friend William as the “foreign secretary”. William wasn’t even a girl, (George was fairly certain of that, what with William being bald and having a deep voice and all) and as far as George knew, William came from Yorkshire.

George knew that Yorkshire was in England, and that although the people spoke in that funny, lower-class northern way, they still spoke English, even though they obviously hadn’t been in Mr Pomphrey’s English class at Eton, and probably didn’t know how to conjugate.

George didn’t really know how to conjugate either, but at least he knew how to speak in a manner that led some people to think that he must be clever.

Dave’s jokes often baffled George, and so he had adopted the strategy of laughing at everything Dave said. This appeared to be a fairly safe option, because lots of other people laughed at Dave. Unfortunately, Dave did not like this.

It seemed very strange to George that Dave should pick on William, because Dave was always talking about equality and all of that stuff, and was very cross when George laughed at this.

Dave had even allowed the charwoman, a Mrs Wotsit, to sit down at the cabinet meeting with all of the important people, and was very nice to her. He even told George off when George asked Mrs Wotsit to iron the curtains before the next meeting, because they had creases.

George was very upset about this, and secretly thought that Dave didn’t want her to iron the curtains because she was foreign looking, and they probably didn’t have curtains (or irons) where she came from.

George decided to ask his new friend Vince to check whether Mrs Wotsit was in the UK legally.

Vince told him that her name wasn't "Mrs Wotsit", but "Baroness Warsi", as if that made any difference.

George and his friends from the press were dying for William to open his mouth and say something funny and northern. George was afraid that if William didn't say "By 'eck" or something soon, he would probably have to change his pants.

George's new job - Part 2

2010-05-14T06:30:00.000+01:00

George enjoyed standing outside of his new house. Lots of people wanted to take his photograph, and he liked that. He wondered whether they all thought that he was handsome.

He was pleased that he lived at No 11, and his friend Dave had to settle for 10. That means that George had one more than Dave. He wasn’t sure one what, but his new friend Vince would probably know.

Vince knew a lot of things, and always had the information to hand. George never bothered to know things, he felt fine unencumbered by data and facts, and found the world a simpler place that way.

While he was posing outside his new home, several people commented along the lines of “Look, George, it goes all the way up to 11!” George did not understand this, neither did he understand why they all felt it to be a funny thing to say.

This would be another thing he would ask his new friend Vince, although he did not expect Vince to be able to tell him why it was funny.

Vince did not seem to find many things funny; usually, when George asked Vince a question, Vince would moan out load before answering. George thought that Vince was sad, but could not understand why, but understood enough to know not to ask him.

George's new job

2010-05-13T12:16:00.002+01:00

So far it looked like being one of George’s favouritest days ever! He had a new job, and had remembered to go to Dave’s new office, which was NEXT DOOR! How fab was that? Even he couldn’t get lost! Well, he could, but PC Collins, who seemed to want to follow him anywhere, had stopped him in Horse Guards Parade.

His job seemed to involve sitting round a table listening to Dave and some of the other chaps witter on about something or other, but George was very happy because his secretary had written his name on both sides of the name tag, so he wouldn’t get caught out like that again.

Even better, he had woken up at 4 o’clock this morning with a really brilliant idea! If anyone asked him a difficult question about his new job, such as “What’s an exchequer?” or “Who is the governor of the Bank of England”, he would simply say “I think I will let Vince answer that!”. Brilliant or what? George knew that he wasn’t as dim as some people liked to think. He had practised the phrase in front of his bathroom mirror for twenty minutes this morning, and was pretty sure he could remember it. The only event to spoil the day was when he was in front of the mirror in the gents at number 10, practising “I think I will let Vince answer that!”, and had jumped a mile when the mirror had replied “What are you doing, Osborne you tit, it’s me, Ollie!”. George was a bit cross, but knew he wasn’t the first person to mistake Osborne for Letwin.

George didn’t quite know what to make of his new friend Vince. He seemed quite old and a bit of a swot, and already had a habit of not taking George seriously. Dave had explained “He’s here to take the blame if anything goes wrong.” George thought that Dave was a very good politician, he thought of lots of clever stuff.

Today was nearly as good as the day when he had jumped on Jamie Fitzhugh-Jackson’s back and they had done two circuits of the track at royal Ascot before they had been nabbed by the rozzers. He had been arrested and kept a straight face when they asked him his name and he said “Osborne” (it was the first name he could think of). Dave had seemed a bit cross when he came to collect him from Windsor police station, but George knew that he would do it again next year.

The most exciting thing about the day had been when they told him that he had a new car and driver. He had almost wet himself. If this meeting ended on time he would have time to be driven all the way round the M25. In both directions! If not, he could leave it for another day, and spend the afternoon driving round the city, looking for old Boris to knock him off his bike.

A stable government! Praise the Lord

2010-05-11T22:54:00.002+01:00

A timely reminder

2010-05-07T23:19:00.002+01:00

Rather than be conceited enough to think that anyone was interested in yet another old fart pontificating on politics, I thought you might like a bit of a giggle.

It may be a little dated now, but I remember seeing this at the cinema. My friends and I were the only ones laughing during this part of the film.

Happy Birthday, I,LTV

2010-05-01T06:59:00.000+01:00