He's back, he's back! It's the same one!

http://toastyzone.blogspot.com/
About bloody time too.

They are very rigorous - the judging exams

It has occurred to me that I am perhaps the only blogger in the 218 billion out there who has no idea how to pronounce his own name.

Perhaps some scholar of Latin would care to show off like a big girl’s blouse impress us with their immense knowledge and tell us whether the ‘i’ in Vicus is pronounced as in ‘git’ or as in ‘visa’. I don’t believe it should be ‘i’ as in ‘shite’.

And is the v pronounced as v or w?

There will be a prize for the 500^th comment. (Anyone posting consecutive comments will be disqualified).

Goodbye and thanks for all the fission

I had mixed feelings when my pals at the BBC reported that there was a problem with physics in schools.

The initial headline indicated that there may soon be a danger of physics dying out in our centres of education. I did not take this literally, and did not take it to mean that New Labour had meddled even further than it usually does, and repealed the law of gravity, and Curie’s law in schools.

Their article clarified this a little, by referring to a “shortage of physics teacher”. I took this to be a reference to a lack of quantity rather than stature, having read the entire article. This makes sense. When I was a lad, none of my physics teachers seemed either inordinately tall or short. The only characteristic they had in common was their continued belief in the absurd pronouncements they made during lessons. I am convinced that physics is little more than modernised Alchemy, and more of a mythology than a science. The complex rules of English syntax make more sense to me.

I am glad that this ridiculous belief system is dying out.

It may seem a little presumptuous of me to describe some of the greatest thinkers and scientists of this and former ages as misguided practitioners of an arcane mysticism, but, mark my words, students far in the future will fall about laughing at the bizarre understanding of the universe demonstrated by 21^st century physicists, while marvelling and being awestruck by the sagacity and wit of Kaliyuga Kronicles.

Pedantic old git

I was surprised to hear on Radio 5 just now a correspondent report that “FIFA wants soccer to be seen as a sport taking drugs seriously”. On reflection, I suppose that he meant that FIFA wants to soccer to be seen as a sport that views the taking of drugs seriously. I regret that my days of drug-taking, whether serious or frivolous are long past, unless one counts occasional aspirin and caffeine, so I am in no position to offer advice. I have to say that being frivolous about drugs is probably closer to my position, although I would not want to be too close to a drug-crazed John Motson, unless the drug was a very efficient sedative.

I accept no responsibility for the contents of this post

I have found a wonderful new internet resource, but am reluctant to recommend it.

It cuts down on the time spent “poncing about on the internet”, as some have unkindly described the time I spend broadening my perspective by investigating the offerings of humanity, or the time spent “doing puja at my mandir” as Mrs S. describes it, not without a little bitterness.

Google reader (reader.google.com) combines selected RSS feeds and puts them all in a single list. I have to confess to a certain nervousness in using it, due to anxiety about what to do with all of the time that it saves. Currently, I am pretending that it is not entirely reliable, and still checking each page individually. I will not be able to keep up this deceit for long, and may have to engage in the alternative universe out there. I trust that your thoughts are with me.

Next week, Minder in Mandarin

I was delighted to see that Britain is still having a colonial influence on the sub-continent. The other evening it was my pleasure to see the Indian version of “Who wants to be a greedy bastard”, which is called “2 Crorepati”. Let me expand on this.

The prize for getting the first question right in the Indian version is £12.50, rather feeble compared to the £100 offered by our pal Tarrant, but the 2 Crorepati of the title does not refer to a dish seldom seen at your local tandoori, but rather to an amount roughly equivalent to £2.5million. Thus far, to the best of my knowledge, no-one has won that amount, but someone won 1 crore rupees, something in excess of £1 million.

What was most interesting to me was to see my old friend Amitabh Bachchan hosting the programme. Amitabh is the most famous person in India, with the possible exception of the sainted Sachin. It is possible that there are no other famous people in India, and he has to perform all the duties which require fame, in the same way that Lata Mangeshkar is the only singer in India, and has to sing all of the songs.

Amitabh, who always looked vaguely odd to me, now resembles Rasputin, in much the same way that Mr Pacino has done, but with more conviction. He also makes the mistake that Tazza never does of affecting to be knowledgeable, and comes unstuck as a result.

I commend it to those wishing to expand their knowledge of Hindi. I have learnt the following phrases, listed below with their English equivalent, after watching only part of one episode:

Hot-seat Hot-seat

Confident? Confident?

Are you sure? Are you sure?

I expect that having only mildly criticised Mr Bachchan, I will get some abuse from his fans, should they be bothered to come over here. It’s a good job I didn’t say he was a talentless, third-rate actor who wouldn’t even get an audition for Crossroads then, isn’t it?

Hari Om Tat Sat.

No, still nothing to write about here.

Concerned for the health and wellbeing of my readers, due to a recent lack of material here, I scan the competition, to see whether they are in danger of finding nothing to write about.

I am cheered that the online Torygraph has an article that begins with the heading: “Dave Stewart of the Eurythmics on his consuming passion for his G4 laptop”, and I immediately realise that all is well. I may be responsible for writing some total crap from time to time (pause for readers to shout out in disagreement), but there are very many unpleasant corners of human existence in which I will not be found. The only thing that intrigues me about the article mentioned above, is whether there is anyone – living, dead or Conservative – who is so bollock-numbingly bored as to contemplate reading it.

In the Independent, someone has written a 578 word article on vodka tonic. I suspect also that someone paid them to do it.

So, let us not get too despondent about Caroline, Watski and Toasty deciding to abandon their web journals, nor about Tom failing to find a new title this week. Those of us left can take some comfort from being further from the bottom of the barrel than our professional colleagues.

Hands across the sea

Charles has been very well briefed for this tour. Sadly, the information that tit grabbing is the state sport of Iowa proves to be somewhat misleading.

Another cheap and tasteless dig at the expense of Morons Reunited

Laura is not sure whether the finger up her butt belongs to Charles or Camilla. George just hopes that whoever is squeezing his testicles washes their hands before lunch.

Windblown damage

Despite my advice, Camilla cannot prevent herself from foraging through the wreckage of New Orleans for a bargain.

I was like oh my god

I have been beset by phone calls at all hours of the day and night from the Cornwalls. I am really finding my world renowned patience being stretched. “Cams, ducky”, I tell her, not for the 12^th time, “this is one of the few occasions where you will be in the position of dining with someone thicker than you. Take advantage of it. Even if Chaz starts chatting to the broccoli, it is a dead cert that President Fuckwit will do something even more bizarre. Relax and do what the hell you like. Put on your silly voice and pretend to be an upper class thicko.”

I wonder if my loyal readers can provide me with some information.

What is the style of speech affected by a substantial number of young ladies between the ages of 12 and 30 that makes everything that they say sound as if they are complaining? It seems to be gaining in popularity, and accompanied by an insistence to communicate every detail about everything, no matter how bollock-numbingly boring.

What is the name for those parts of speech that superfluously qualify verbs, as in “phone up”, “print out”, “fill out/ fill in/ fill up a form”?

I see six twits

Having been a little distracted of late, I need to get back to the rhythm of keeping my loyal readership (AMTONW) informed. I have been occupied this week with helping to tidy up the fiasco that was the celebration of Trafalgar. We managed to keep it out of the press, but only just. In short, Philip, Andrew and Edward became bored with the official ceremonies (“If I hear one more boring speech, I am going to bloody burst”, said Philip, unaware that the microphones were switched on). They decided to re-enact the battle, stole a fishing boat, attacked the Cherbourg ferry, and with all of the skill that their years at sea brought, landed at Shanklin and claimed it for England, thinking they were in Calais. Liz hasn’t spoken to any of them since, and it was only my timely intervention that saved them from a night in the nick, or even 4 years in Parkhurst, as the Isle of Wight legal system is not as sophisticated as that on the mainland. So exhausting, darlings.

I retired home, and having failed to spot any of the programmes that Geoff watches, I thought I would try out the new series of “They Think It’s All Over”, now with the subtitle “I Wish It Bloody Was”. Ian Wright? Jonathan Ross? Tosser Hussain? Not exactly anyone’s choice for purveyors of subtlety and wit. The only redeeming feature was Boris Becker – being funny and clever and disproving the racial stereotype about the Teutonic people.

80 buggery bollocky years

The Mandarin Oriental isn’t what it was. Fortunately, I am, at my own request, placed on a table at the back with Camilla, Bill Deedes and Gary Lineker, and have made it quite clear that I do not want to have to interact with the ‘guest of honour’. Lineker proves to be an excellent political commentator and mimic.

John Redwood says “She spoke extremely well and she spoke generously about all the people who had helped her doing what she did in the 1980s." “Yes,” says Lineker in a remarkable Churchill voice “giving up their jobs and money, to help bankrupt the nation.” This is all very well, but as you all know, it doesn’t take much to make Camilla guffaw like a parakeet with a ruptured colon. I am able to hide behind a pillar while Cecil Parkinson glares in our direction. At least, I think it is a glare, maybe the old roué is on the pull and has mistaken the duchess of Cornwall for one of the ladies of the night that are standard fare at Tory party parties.

Lineker can also throw his voice, and I have to admit that it was more than a little funny to see Lloyd Webber square up to Michael Howard, being under the impression that he was the source of the “fat cunt” comment.

Deedes seems to think that he is sharing a table with Quinton Hogg, Edith Summerskill and Gerald Nabarro, and none of us has the heart to disillusion him. This is not altogether unreasonable: he is not the first to confuse the ex Mrs PB with Lord Hailsham. Although I can report first hand that it is no fun being addressed as “Baronessssh Sshummershkill”.

I am more than a little surprised when Phil turns up. He loathed the old bag more than Liz ever did, despite sharing the same political views. He was forever complaining about having Family Fortunes interrupted by Mrs T’s visit to the palace in the 1980’s. “Can’t the silly tart come during the day time like the rest of the tradesmen,” he would ask, “who the fuck does she think she is?”

I manage to persuade that odious little shit Archer that Caspar Weinberger is a powerful Hollywood producer, looking to film one of his books. Not much of a joke, I know, Weinberger is hardly any more aware of his own history than his mentor, Thick Ron.

Eventually, I manage to rescue Liz, “Let’s nip out the back way, lovey,” I say in my gentlest voice, “no one will dare say anything if you don’t come back.” She is a little worried that Phil and Camilla will show her up if we leave them both unsupervised, but the sight of Thatcher heading our way, looking as if she is intent on starting a conversation is sufficient incentive to get her to grab her crown and coat from the cloakroom, tip the doorman 10p, and slip home via Hyde Park, yelling “Oi, fuck off” at unsuspecting far eastern tourists.

I slip Iron Maiden, who are providing the music, ten quid, and tell them that one of Thatcher’s favourite tunes is “The Red Flag”.

Atticus? I thought he was a dead archbishop

Regular readers, (AMTONW) will understand that I had occasion to buy a Sunday newspaper this week, where a stasis leak had occurred, and a bit of the internet had spilled out into that parallel universe laughingly referred to as “the real world”, viz. my contribution to the Atticus column in the Sunday Times.

There is a flood of outrage, (well, one comment) over on Boris’s site, where old Atticus is castigated for ripping off material when he is paid so much to write his own. I don’t mind this. As a great artist myself, I am not unfamiliar with the struggle to entertain my audience (AMTONW).

What was surprising was the size of the newspaper. I really could have done with a shopping trolley to get it to my car. I asked a young lad who was loitering in the shop for assistance “Would you like to grab hold of my supplement?”, but he affected indifference. I imagine the recycling team will refuse to take the contents of the recycling bin next time. “No, guv, there’s no market for that much paper – we’d have to chop down three ancient woodlands to avoid overproduction”.

And all of it filled with cack. I haven’t read it, and don’t intend to. I just wanted a record of my little contribution. There are 4 pages apparently about the next leader of the Tories. It was Boris writing about this dull topic that inspired my very clever contribution to his web site. The analogy is, you are going to have a large stick inserted in your rectum. The good news is that there are five sticks to choose from, all identical in size, shape and volume, but slightly different colours, and the choice is yours. As with the competition to be top Tory, it may make some difference to the candidates, and I leave readers (AMTONW) to make up their own minds about the relative states of consciousness and awareness of sticks and Conservative MPs, but makes no difference whatsoever to me.

I dread to think what was in the other Sunday papers on offer, I didn’t buy the Observer, Telegraph, Anthrax or Koala. I refused to peruse the contents of the Mirror, People, Armpit or Pustule, as I have no interest in “My night of lust with Val Doonican”. (I see more unwelcome visitors courtesy of Theodore and Evadne Google).

No, friends (AMTONW), eschew the seamy world of Murdoch and read the blogs. Watski or Peregrine Worsthorne? No contest.

Please empty your wallets

http://www.dec.org.uk/

VS - advisor to the people.

I am indebted to the lovely Melissa (and how many men say that in an average week), who has taken time off from ministering to Boris Johnson, to inform me that I have, yet again, made the national press.
Once more, my views form the foundations of the whole position of News International in its ponderings on the future of Conservatism.
Atticus, in the Sunday Times, has this to say:
For the most erudite discussion of the Tory leadership, turn to the website of Tory MP and classics scholar Boris Johnson, where one contributor not only refers to the new boy wonder of the Conservative party as Boccaccio’s D Cameron but claims Rifkind is a Tamil word that means “virile vanquisher of the ungodly”.
For the online link (I don't know how long these are maintained)
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2088-1817288_2,00.html
And the thread on Bozza's site (still no pictures of Melissa).
http://www.boris-johnson.com/archives/2005/10/cameron.html#comments

Viewer Power

I am happy to report that the management of the BBC and Lulu, having read my recent somewhat critical article, have redeemed themselves by broadcasting the excellent programme, "Sounds of the Sixties" on BBC4 this week.

It featured an excerpt from a programme called "Happening with Lulu", featuring Mr James Hendrix, a guitarist of some note.
The BBC had been remiss in the Dylan programme by omitting Mr Hendrix's rendition of "All Along the Watchtower", and failing to display Miss Lawrie's talents to best effect, as I have mentioned before.
It also featured some lively young men called "Pink Floyd", performing to a back drop of their psychedelic light show, which may have been a little more appealing had it not been in black and white.
They were introduced by Hans Keller, who those amongst us aged over eighty will remember as the subject of constant satire by Private Eye, because of his pseudo-intellectual music criticism, his Germanic accent, and his fondness for football. Herr Keller was not over fond of Pink Floyd, thinking that they were a little loud. I need only need to point out that Keller was a fan of Schoenberg to give some indication of the degree of seriousness with which we should evaluate his opinions.
I have to confess that I am not very knowledgeable about modern rock music. I have made a decision not to pursue the study thereof, as I don't really have time, and have yet to tire of my large collection of recorded music. It is therefore with little authority that I claim that the music of the 60s was more vibrant and exciting than that of the current era. It seems that the current crop of young people, with their fixation on the accumulation of material possessions and their degrees in accountancy, business studies and 'meja', will grow into the kind of people who were shocked and bewildered by messrs Hendrix, Zappa and Joplin all those years ago.

Good job the president is smarter than these guys

An old friend - a Mr Trellis of North Brisbane - sent me the following link.
http://www.compfused.com/directlink/940/
Takes a while to load for you paupers without broadband.

Suffer the little children

I am obliged to my friends at news.com.au, who are owned by that nice Mr Murdoch, so the stories must be true, for highlighting the news item about a Christian Charity’s scheme to distribute a DVD about the nativity to all UK Schools. This is an animation, not a documentary, despite it being a well-known fact that the News Corporation does have exclusive rights to broadcast the second coming. It features three quails, and boasts Stephen Berkoff, Joe Pasquale and Cannon and Ball on the sound track.

This goes to explain the current dearth of new material on the web journal pages. When confronted with events such as these, there is little that we can write that challenges the imagination compared to the activities in the parallel world out there.

They’ll be telling me next that one of the candidates for the top job in the Conservative party (if that is not an oxymoron), wants to have each school in the UK fly the union jack.

A news item, an update on British business and a critique of popular music, all in one post

1) Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed in an accident". "Shit!” the President exclaims. "That's terrible!" His staff sit stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the president sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks... ''How many is a Brazillion?”

2) My boss was discussing a series of meetings that are due to start on the 10^th October. We may not be ready for these meetings, and he said “We may have to postpone the 10^th.” I pointed out that we could not do that, we would still have to have it between the 9^th and the 11^th, but what we could do was to arrange to do something else on that day. I sometimes wonder why my career has not progressed further, given my ability to clarify issues so helpfully.

3) As I have commented elsewhere, the sight of Lulu performing “Mr Tambourine Man” on the BBC the other evening has had a profound effect upon me. I still cannot understand the reason for inflicting this upon us. There was no need to prove that there are people capable of making Mr Dylan’s songs sound worse than the man himself does, and were there to be such a need, then the appearance of a modern beat combo called “XTC” on the same programme would have made the point quite adequately.

This, that and definitely not 'the other'

A miscellany of thoughts this evening.

1) My 8000^th visitor joined me here this evening. He/she/it came via the website of that nice Mr & Mrs Google, looking for “East Worldham”. Why?
East Worldham is a settlement in NE Hampshire, famous for its unsightly hill, which all of my efforts to have removed have so far foundered.
I am ranked fourth in the list of authorities on East Worldham. I do, however, have valuable advice for anyone wishing to go there. I may share that advice some day.

2) Bob Dylan is currently on television, along with a load of other addled creatures from my generation. I have some Dylan CDs, and a selection of his songs on recordings by others – I enjoy listening to them. However, I can not understand anything that he says, and have sufficient confidence in my own judgement for this not to trouble me in any way. Anyone wishing to make a study of his work should first read the story of the Emperor’s new clothes. Just remember that the prize twit Bob Willis changed his name to Bob Dylan Willis, and you will have some idea of the importance of this man’s contribution to modern culture.

3) No matter how bad the cricket commentators are, they cannot approach the knuckle dragging nonsense spouted by the soccer commentators. I wish someone would explain to Clive Tyldesley the meaning of the word ‘ironic’. Preferably with the aid of boxing gloves.

4) I smiled, for the first time, at dear Adam’s website entry this evening. You know, the Star Wars thing. Was it really your own idea Adam? You will soon to be smart enough for elementary school in the north.

5) Back to Theodore and Evadne Google, who I must call to get them to improve their software. Disclaimer: I am providing the following information on the basis of finding out the means by which the adoring population of the world comes to my little journal here. I have not used their software to search for these items, and offer no judgement on those who do.
I am, according to T & E, the 6^th most important authority on ‘preschool pervert pictures’. This does alarm me, somewhat.
I am ranked only 8^th for information on ‘Kaliyuga’. Don’t these people read my writings?
On the positive side, I am the leading reference point for ‘Sophie Wessex September 2005’. Quite rightly, but do not expect me to be indiscreet.

Scurra, stupified by Hussain, bored by Willis, 1

For the benefit of those readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Madagascar) who do not reside in these isles, I am sorry to report that today is the last day of summer. We mark this occasion by declaring an end to the cricket season. From the moment the copy of Wisden arrives on the doormat in April to the dark evenings of September, England is showered in sunshine, the populace adopt a cheerful disposition, flowers bloom, birds sing and hedgehogs copulate noisily beneath my bedroom window.

We spend our days drinking in the soothing tones of Messrs Benaud and Holding, and following the progress of Messrs Hick and Crawley to their inevitable centuries via cricinfo.com, or by teletext for the paupers.

My friends at Sky Sports chose to prepare us for the winter nights to come by having Willis and Hussain commentating on this afternoon’s game. Never in the annals of human history has someone been so unsuited to his chosen profession as Mr Willis and commentating, at least since Frankie Howerd retired from boxing. The drone of his voice causes the flowers to shrivel, the birds to migrate and all mammals to hibernate. I spent some time this afternoon having my soul sucked out by his excruciatingly dull voice, interspersed by the ruminations of Nasser Hussain, whose inability to say anything interesting in no way inhibits his practice of talking. Next summer will indeed be dull when we have to listen to these people instead of our friends on Channel 4.

Anyone following cricket in England during the 1990s will have despaired as sides led by Gooch, Atherton, Stewart and Hussain produced some of the dullest, negative, dreary and soul destroying rubbish ever witnessed on a sports field. Now these ambassadors of crap are deemed fit to be knowledgeable commentators on the current generation of entertaining and joyful players. It is high time that these purveyors of the tedious were found a home somewhere, where they could no longer feed on the élan of the rest of humanity.

Political Update

My thanks to the BBC news for informing me that Mrs Merton is about to become the new chancellor of Germany.

I have always felt our governments would be better run by those who were more familiar to us prior to their embarkation upon a political career. I would like to see more spoof talkshow hosts leading their countries, but would draw the line at the real thing.Parkinson is a tad too smug for my liking, and very unsound on monetary policy.

I would like to think that Lily Savage would make a lovely PM, but can never see the day when this country is led by some foul mouthed vile ugly misanthropic tart.

Mrs Merton would not be the first of course. Australia have, I am reliably informed, been led by Norman Gunston for many years.

For the benefit of any of the rednecks who came over to this site some time ago, and who I have now become bored of visiting, I must acknowledge the USA’s lead in this. They went one better than having a failed film star as president, and now have as head of state someone who is a complete and utter failure at everything other than being a complete wanker.

Thought for the Day

Someone visited this site after putting the phrase “mimic vinegar-processing” into Google.

Alas, I am not the foremost authority on this subject according to Theodore and Evadne Google, collators of data. There are some Chinese academics who report thus:

“In this paper, the variation of genkwanin content before and after mimic vinegar-processing has been analyzed by HPLC. The result has shown that there is no difference between the quantity and quality of genkwanin before and after mimic vinegar-processing. It is clarified that acetic acid is not the main reason for the decrease of genkwanin content in the flower of Daphne genkwa during the process of vinegar-fry.”

For those of you who were not paying attention during 4th form chemistry, I distinctly remember the week we ‘did’ genkwanin, or 4',5-Dihydroxy-7-methoxyflavone (C₁₆H₁₂O₅), and I cannot count the number of times that I have been grateful for paying attention at that time.

You, my loyal readers, (AMToNW), can come here to expand your minds. I am off to mimic some vinegar processing. Beat that, Boggins.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 7

Well, what a weekend. I sometimes think that I am too kind by nature, and need to adopt a more abrasive approach to those who believe that they cannot do without my counsel.

I made the mistake, early on, of not switching my telephone off on Saturday morning, and had to deal with a stream of assorted Windsors and Parker-Bowles in various states of panic about the damned wedding. I had already made it clear that I would not be attending, and that they should learn to fend for themselves, but no detail was too trivial to lead them to think it needed my attention. William, our future King Thicky the First, is top of the list. “I didn’t get invited to the rehearsal”, this at 4:45 in the morning. “It isn’t you who is getting married Bill, you soft sod,” I admonished, “when it is your turn you will probably have someone there to tell you. If you get to the stage where there is some unbelievably thick bimbo escorting you wherever you go, it is a sign that your family have found a suitable mate, and that should give you a clue.” Harry has the idea of revenge, following the episode where a congress of Parker-Bowles pinned the motto “arsehole in chief” to his back during the last wedding, and only clever editing by the BBC prevented it from being broadcast. He wants help from me, inevitably. “Use your imagination, young Henry,” I tell him wearily, “if there is one thing you should have taken from your time at Eton, it is the ability to take the piss.” I make oblique references to pageboys and laxative chocolate, and hope that he takes the hint, but am not too optimistic. Then I get a call from Camilla asking why I told Harry to dress up as a page boy, and smear his face with Toblerone. I told her that it was a tradition in Henley, which, unsurprisingly, she accepted without any argument.

I turned the telephone off, to watch the cricket and rugby, and “forgot” to switch on the answering machine.

The next ordeal is the nonsense surrounding the preparations for Harry’s 21^st. I told Charles to lock the silly little bugger in the Tower for a week as the only way to prevent all of the bad publicity that it is going to generate.

OK, this time all is really revealed

I feel compelled to confess that someone has arrived at this site by typing in "st tropez 05 'Barbara Bush'" into google.
OK, she was with me as well. I hope that does not give the game away.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 6

Although no one has directly asked, I suspect you are all waiting for me to reveal some of the secrets from Andrew’s autobiography that I mentioned in my previous article.

Obviously, I will not say too much, as the poor boy needs to earn a few shillings from the venture, bless him. So I will report nothing about the incident in Buenos Aires or the secrets of Sophie Wessex’s hen night. You will just have to wait for Amazon to get it in stock. It will be a novelty at least, with a foreword in crayon by the ‘author’.

Very few people know that the marriage to Sarah Ferguson was orchestrated by the Buck House mafia. Andrew was always abysmally dim, and it was decreed that a wife should be found of such towering intellect, that any children that were born at least had a fighting chance of being able to feed themselves before they were twenty one, and wouldn’t dribble when they spoke.

As part of the wedding contract, Sarah agreed to hide evidence of her enormous brain in public, for fear of showing up Andrew. How well she has done.

Sarah has an encyclopaedic knowledge of particle physics, the flora of Oceania and the history of Mesopotamia. She speaks fourteen languages and is a chess grandmaster.

Of course, the project was doomed from the start. I cannot count the number of times that I would be distracted from whatever I was doing by having Andy on the telephone whinging about this and that. “She is speaking to the children in Ancient Greek – she only does it to make fun of Daddy, because that’s what she calls him.” Or “She insists that she will only have a conversation with me if we do alternate lines of a sonnet. I started with ‘There was a young girl from Biarritz’, and she called me a buffoon.” Or “Why couldn’t they find me a thicky like Di or Cams? Even Sophs – she is a bit bright for me but at least doesn’t laugh when I have to get one of the footmen to tie my laces for me. One time Sarah said ‘no nookie’ unless I translated four pages of George Eliot into English.” I know, but would you have told him?

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 5

Camilla confides that she is keen to return to the days when she was able to get away and hang out with her old friends without being in the public glare. I am filled with apprehension. She already shows too little concern for the decorum that her position demands, and it is only the good will of the kind people in the media that keeps news of her activities off of the front page, or page 3 if one includes the episode in Marks and Spencer, Stroud in July where she insisted on trying on a bra, and refused to go into the fitting room in case she was secretly filmed. Silly tart.

“We’re going to Richmond next week, honey, official engagement” she tells me, “surely no one would notice if I nipped into town on the tube and did a spot of shopping? All Charles will be doing is patronising a load of local officials and watching them squirm as he talks about saving some tree or other in Mali. I won’t be missed.”

I consult my diary. “No, you daft mare, that is Richmond, Yorkshire. They don’t have a shop selling anything more glamorous than a monogrammed Wellington boot within 25 miles.”

“That’s very confusing! When Charles is King, the first I’ll get him to do is to institute sensible place names. Honestly, sweety, how are we meant to find our way around when we have two places with the same name? I spent 3 hours in New Brighton looking for the nudist beach last week. It really is tiresome.”

I continue to read my copy of the yet unpublished autobiography of Andrew while she prattles on for an hour or six. I don’t mind helping Chas by doing this, but I’m buggered if I’m going to listen as well. I nearly give the game away when I laugh out load at Andrew’s story of the queen mother and the watermelon, just as she is talking about her favourite hat or some such shite.

Clarke free zone

I became a little bored with the tedious debate over at Bozza’s about who was going to be the runner-up leader at the next election, and scratched my head to think of a poll here that was as irrelevant to my readers (AMToNW). Then, with a leap of genius that exemplifies why so many people (AMToNW) find this site required reading, I decided to ask:

What is the most boring poll we could have here?

(Answers including Jayne Mansfield, Winston Churchill etc will be ruled out on the grounds of being too obviously derivative)

PS – Mark, Simon – you can get out now while it is dark. It is a dangerous place, you go in there, coaxed by that siren Melissa, and before you know where you are, you are engaging in debate with those who think the site is not a parody.

All is revealed

Thank you, and welcome – anyone know the Japanese for welcome? – to the person from Japan who came here looking for a “St.Tropez Jean-Claude Van Damme” on msn, where I am deemed to be the leading authority.
I was worried, for a moment, that the secret of my absence these seven days had been discovered. I have been vacationing in St Tropez, with Mr Van Damme, Colonel Gaddaffi, Miriam Stoppard, Kevin Keegan, Lata Mangeshkar, Wayne Sleep and Peter Mandelson. I hope that is sufficient explanation. I am not at liberty to discuss scuba diving equipment or plum based confectionery in regard to this sojourn.