Up against the wall

Grinning vile bastard rubs stomach in anticipation of massive dinner at the taxpayers expense, while Philip invites another foreign Johnny to pull his finger.

The group photograph of some of the world's leading wastes of space. Some of these people have been thrown out of their own country, others are merely  figureheads, and a small minority are fascist dictators. We welcome them all, torturers and sadists it matters not a jot.

Andrew politely asks whether there is room in the harem for a couple of frisky wenches that he wants to offload. Meanwhile Beatrice assumes that the Middle Eastern woman is a domestic servant and asks her to vacuum the curtains.

"Yes! I know! All I did was dress up as a nazi and the shit hit the fan, and here's you publicly executing people for witchcraft and nobody says fuck all! Amazing!"

"And remember to put the bloody covers back on the sofa before you leave"

"No, really, you can have them for free. No other bugger wants them."

"No, it's perfectly OK in this country for ginger people to walk around without tea-towels on their head! Crazy!"

The king of Swaziland is offended to be told that he is not the most despicable bastard at this gathering

Unless you have a first in PPE from Oxford, you will probably not understand this.

Each year on 23^rd April, it seems that I am obliged, in the face of continued diarrhoea in the media, to make clear the following carefully argued and philosophical points.

St George’s Day – fuck off.

Proud to be English – fuck off.

Isn’t it time we had an English national anthem – fuck off.

Our national heritage – fuck off.

Our country’s better than your country – fuck off.

Our country’s dad is better than your country’s dad – fuck off.




Addendum:

A friend has pointed out that PPE is not available at Cambridge. So I changed the title. I am grateful for corrections.

Another discussion of matters probably better left undiscussed.

In general, I have to confess to be very rarely afflicted by boredom. I exercise what freedom of choice that I have in order to avoid being in situations that provide no interest, and have very seldom found myself short of things to do. Indeed, I am so blessed in this regard, that God, in His infinite compassion, has provided me with a wife, and I know that she is ever vigilant and has a fairly extensive list of things that she believes I could be doing to counteract boredom. The only difficulty in all of this is in persuading her that the things on her list are significantly less interesting that those on my already full catalogue of projects.

I therefore struggle to understand how my friends in the scientific community manage to invent new and arcane ways to spend their time, rather than tackling the important issues facing our race such as poverty, pollution and Mitt Romney.

The remainder of this article is concerned, to some extent, with Thingy. Those of you with an immature viewpoint should not proceed further, I am not here to titillate. (Continues to write in the forlorn expectation that there is an audience left).

I do sometimes struggle to find a subject with which to entertain my readers (aMToNW), and thankfully my friends at LiveScience.com are usually on hand to provide evidence that this is indeed Kali Yuga, and as Valmiki noted in the Ramayana, “There’s nowt so queer as folk”.

Some deluded bastard has decided to investigate colour preference, specifically in the matter of female genitalia. I will pause for a moment while you read that again.

The researchers first needed some similar, non-pornographic pictures of female genitals, a task that was "quite difficult," Johns said. Finally, they found a website set up so that women could anonymously submit photographs of their vulvas as part of a project meant to educate women on the diversity of genitals and improve self-esteem. The researchers picked four similarly angled photos and retouched each of them into pale pink, light pink, dark pink and red.

(Have you had your vulva retouched, missus?)

I have never, in my existence, known a woman daft enough to fall for that. There have been some women of my acquaintance with a fairly open attitude who wouldn't mind shagging anyone, either because of their kindness or their needs, but any woman gullible enough to believe a man telling her that they wanted intimate photographs for scientific research is a danger to herself and in need of severe protection.

There is no mention, at any stage, of any of these researchers questioning the usefulness of their project.  If you have dipped into this little corner of the internet previously, you will have gathered that I am not of a typically scientific disposition. Indeed, much of my experience of boredom is centred on the hours I spent in chemistry, biology and physics lessons at school. So distorted was my experience of time during physics in particular that, perversely, I could have developed an acute interest in the subject and gone on to win a Nobel Prize by explaining how several lifetimes seemed to pass in the time it took Mr Sutton to say “magnetism”. I cannot, therefore, empathise with these people, and remain perplexed by their behaviour.

The researchers then asked 40 heterosexual men to look at all 16 images in random order and rank them on a 0-to-100 scale of attractiveness. The results showed that instead of preferring red, the men actually showed the least preference for red vulvas.

Yes, they asked heterosexual men to show a preference for colour. There may be some heterosexual men who use words such as “fuschia” or “peach” when asked to name a colour, and there may even be a few who can remember the colour of their living room wall, but most of us, and I am of that persuasion, couldn’t give a flying toss.

Even if we did have a preference, how exactly would we choose a suitable mate? After a couple of chaste and successful dates does anyone believe that it would be appropriate to hand your companion a Dulux colour chart and ask her to circle the item most closely resembling the shade of her naughty bits? “Sorry, dear you’ve picked ‘Sumptuous Plum’ whereas I am a guy who prefers ‘Raspberry Bellini’, do you have a sister?” And yes, those are colours from the Dulux chart FFS. “Before I nip down to Boots and buy a couple of gross of condoms, would you mind if I took a quick shufty round your pubes to see whether it’s worth the effort?”

Perhaps I am just old-fashioned.  

May cause offence to excrement

In this ever-changing world, it is gratifying to see that the Torygraph maintains the traditions that have made it the watchword for bigotry and mendacity for longer than any of us can remember.

This sub-heading from their website is from today, not 1876:

“Immigration has made it harder than ever for parents to secure a place at a good primary school.”

 

Ignoring the fact that most parents, apart from Torygraph readers, do not need to be at primary school, it is nice to know that irrelevant differences between we citizens of the world will always be pointed out by the despicable Barclay brothers and their anus sucking lackeys.

 

They go on to highlight their story with this well-chosen photograph.

 

It is that poor white boy I feel so sorry for, obviously having to wait until he is almost pubescent before being able to attend kindergarten.

 

“Mind you”, said his mummy, “he is dumber than a sack of turds.”

 

 

Fuel for your bunsen burner

I am delighted to report that two stories from the Torygraph science section have attracted my attention today, my having been concerned for some time that scientists were running out of silly things to write about.

Story number one commences thus: “Dinosaurs laying eggs caused their mass extinction millions of years ago, scientists have said, while live birthing mammals went on to thrive.”

I could not be bothered to consider all of the detail – I am fearful of having my brain contaminated by these ramblings, but the essence is that whereas the larger dinosaurs became extinct after some catastrophic global event – a meteor hitting the earth, a Tory by-election victory, or the retirement of Sachin Tendulkar’s gt gt grandfather – the smaller ones failed to compete due to the relative size of their bodies to that of their eggs. Or some such bollocks.

Therefore, dinosaur junior’s health was threatened by being too small, whereas the same scientists would have you believe that our own young’s health is being endangered by obesity. Which one is it? And hurry up with your answer, I need to know whether to have an extra slice of toast for breakfast.

The second article, which I barely read at all, begins with the assertion that “Alcohol sharpens the mind”. It is a many a year since I imbibed intoxicants, so you will have to forgive my dull brain. Here I was under the impression that a few pints of Watney’s Red Barrel opened the gateway to fluency in speaking crap. I shall now make a habit of calling in at “The Twat’s Head” on my way home from work, downing six pints of mild, and then entertaining you, after all you are my best mate, with my newly found wisdom. I shall probably start with an essay on how marijuana aids the decision making process.

In which Scurra yet again expands the boundaries of taste.

In the news today, a team of 'government appointed' experts give the go ahead for fracking. I mean, who wouldn't put up with a minor earthquake or two if they could help some of Slimy Dave's mates get rich? And by 'government appointed' they mean lickspittle environmental fascists.

Last week it was Slimy Dave pressing for better relations with Burma. By that he meant licence to sell weapons to another oppressive regime, which is fine because they don't have much oil or anything.


I am tired of being in opposition, and have realised I must be wrong. I am looking for an opportunity to join the entrepreneurial culture. I shall be applying for a licence to open a slavery business in Henley on Thames. If I can  persuade the government that there is some good money to be made, I am sure that they will put aside any minor concerns about ethics. So, be on the lookout for any neighbours or friends who are young and strong (preferably) or maybe who just irritate the shit out of you. They don't have to be black, but as those people have it in their blood, I will be offering better rates. I will be round in my van in a few weeks to pick them up.

We paid for this, you know.

The Olympics began with the over-80s downhill chair tumble.

As George tried to catch a glimpse of Tony's cleavage, and Gordon used up  the twelfth of his twenty guesses as to who Sally Bercow was, Tony dreamed of what he might do to Harriet later. 

Harriet was trying to quantify Tony's preferences, Mrs Milliband began explaining to Nick exactly what she was going to do to him, Ed and Dave chuckled over Dave's plans for Nick, meanwhile behind them, one person had already become comatose listening to William, and on his other side someone else was contemplating suicide by spontaneous combustion.

"Please stop talking to me now, I still have a slight reputation in some backward parts of the world"

Philip was hoping to get a quick couple of frames in before all the endless jibber jabber commenced, and the bearer of the royal cue was taking bloody ages to walk past all of these frightful people.

John was a little nervous. He was not entirely sure that Philip had been joking about inserting something someplace.

The moment when they both realised that they would be sitting next to each other for some considerable time.

When Liz got to the part where she said that she was looking forward to many more years, Phil wondered whether he could manage to kick her down the stairs and make it look like an accident.

"The Aristocrats"

Protocol prevented Liz from telling Mr Bercow exactly how far up his arse he could shove the dvd of his speech that he offered to have delivered to the palace.

Adam Leonard made me do this.

David had never eaten without a knife and fork before. He wondered whether he could hold out until he got back home.

Barack kindly told David that they probably had some cutlery some place, and that he would not be allowed to starve to death.

David was a little perturbed and wondered how far the re-enactment of the war of independence would go.

David had to explain "I assure you that it is my wife, yes, really, and she left her passport on the sideboard. Please let her in - she dresses me every day!"

Eventually, and just in time, Barack told David that that was not really necessary.

"The Aristocrats!"

"And you read every word, exactly as it is written, or you'll be eating with your fingers again tonight"

"There's only two kind of people I can't stand - those who eat when I'm talking to them, and slimy bastards".

"Please! Pull me up, I can't stand another minute with this assclown!"

"Eventually, after listening to the Limey whine for 48 minutes, he succumbed to the arms of Morpheus"

Michelle wondered how far she could shove it up the bitch's ass.

Much as he hated racial stereotypes, Barack had to allow that these folk had absolutely no sense of rhythm.

Finally, a reminder of the happier days, when we could be sure that no matter how embarrassing an upper class tit we sent, the good old US of A could be relied upon to trump it with a crook with no redeeming features.

Countdown to the jubilee : part 1

Liz was not best pleased to see that someone else had chosen the same frock.

Private Wilburton hoped that no-one noticed that he had misremembered the dress-code.

For the fourth year in succession, the over eighties chewing gum spitting team had failed to land a single gobfull into the canopy.

Liz could hardly believe what Cams was telling her. She prayed fervently that Boris would remove his thumb before the cameraman changed angles.

Public Service Announcement

It is awfully lonely over at Mark's blog. I can't leave comments there, please try, and let him know if it fails. It doesn't have to be anything deep or meaningful, the usual drivel that you leave here will suffice.
Thank you.
Click here for a quick lift over there

Goodbye Maurice, we will miss you

Open your wallets and repeat after me "Help yourself"

The gods are being kind to me this morning, providing a story that combines two of my favourite themes, scientific research and Stonehenge. I see now that they are almost made for one another.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-17073206

Go on, have a read. Or don’t, if you have already heard from your quota of silly people today.

The essence seems to be that they humped tons of crap hundreds of miles to improve the acoustics. No, really.

It seems to be a recurring theme in scientific research – “Why did they build Stonehenge?”

I doubt whether it had anything to do with traffic calming, I suspect that it is nothing more than a poorly conceived practical joke.  I have written enough about this nonsense already.

The scientific community, however, are never short of an idea or two to demonstrate their insanity. This is a description of the experiment they conducted:

The La Mesa, California-based researcher said he had demonstrated the auditory henge effect using blindfolded subjects.

He took these people into a field where two pipers were playing and afterwards asked them to draw diagrams of the soundscape they had experienced.

It would be a useful experiment to investigate exactly what one has to do to get volunteers to participate in such bizarre activity. I would counsel against trying to find out. If you put on a white coat, ask a young lady to slip on a blindfold while you conduct an experiment, it is my experience that you finish up with a £75 fine from Bow Street magistrates.

At the age of 11, I first encountered a chemistry and biology teacher (whose name I cannot publish here, as no-one would believe that a young lady with that name would consider teaching as a profession). She was the first in a long series of people I will refer to, out of kindness, as eccentrics, who believed that the sort of activity described above would help the advancement of human knowledge. I have eschewed participation in these rituals ever since, and am sure that is one of the reasons I have survived to this great age.

Whither Hadrian?

Slimy Dave, first lord of the Treasury and minister for epidermal secretions, is all over the media campaigning for the maintenance of the British union. Never have I felt so drawn to the nationalist cause. My advice to any area seeking to secede from his evil empire is to split, and run as fast as buggery in order to get away.

I intend to undertake a feasibility study to see whether North East Hampshire could be self-sufficient. I don’t see why not, what with the receipts from Bird World and the royalties from that dozy tart Austen’s soap operas.

You would have to be as thick as a Gove to want to hang around and put your affairs in the hands of Dave and his noxious cohorts.

Even at this distance I can hear the sound of Falkland Islanders scribbling their Argentinian passport applications. The inhabitants of the Isle of Wight are planning an event wherein they will all run to the south end of the island to see whether they can create a larger gap between them and the mainland.

It all seems like so much effort. Can’t we just get rid of the government, send them to Syria for example, and then we can all live nicely in harmony and peace.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - Part 26

Some of you have been anxious (you haven’t had any communications for ages. Ed.) for updates about my friends down the road in Sandringham. It has been close to two years since I last reported. I felt that it was appropriate to give them a little privacy, after all it is not as if they deliberately choose to live their lives in the public eye, is it? (Yes, it is. Ed.)

However, there are rumblings, and we may well find ourselves in some sort of constitutional crisis come summer, and it could all have been avoided with a little foresight and planning.

Liz called on the electric telephone last week. I have seldom heard her so animated. “I blame that buffoon Johnson,” she began, without so much as a “have you come far?” I should state at this point that she tends to blame Boris for all sorts of things. Ever since he was on “Who do you think you are?” and found out that he was descended from one of the Georges, Liz has developed the idea that he has ideas above his station, and might make a claim on the throne once dear old Ken wins the mayoral election. I have repeatedly told her that Boris is anatomically incapable of having an idea, and that she only needs to look out of the bog window at Buckingham Palace to see how the city has gone to pot since he was elected. She will have none of it. I have never known anyone hold a grudge so vehemently. She refuses to watch “The Simpsons” because of “that American tart”. If she were head of state in anything but name, we would have seen Normandy invaded as revenge on King William, overlooking the fact that he is family.

Anyway, back at the telephone. “How could the floppy-haired tit have organised a sports day in the very summer when everyone should be concentrating on the Jubilee?” For those of you less than quick on the uptake she is alluding to the Olympic Games.

“Don’t fret, ducky” I reply, “it’s all taking place in the East End, and anyone daft enough to spend £75 to watch some dull wassock throwing a spear is hardly likely to have the mental capacity to appreciate the monumental nature of your achievement.” I do make myself laugh sometimes. Anyway, the silly old goat was slightly appeased. “I hope you are right” she exclaimed, “but this is important for us, and a vital part of our pension plans.” (I remained, you will be proud to note, silent) “I’ve already got Sophie Wessex crocheting some commemorative table cloths, and we are hoping to shift a thousand or two and 30 guineas each”.

“That’s all very well,” I proffered, “but what about the rest of the gang who don’t quite have the co-ordination or dexterity of dear Soph? I think that your best bet is to have some events that will provide an alternative to the Olympics – you might attract the sort of people who abominate standing for national anthems every time someone wins something”. See what I mean about making myself laugh?

I waited a while and called Camilla. She had been sent to her room, having blown up and banged a couple of hundred more paper bags than were called for following Philip’s heart scare. “You should hear the old bugger swear.” she chortled. “There are at least 23 distinctive stains on the dining table cloth from where he has spat out his soup. I am on commission from Sketchleys in King’s Lynn.” This is what passes for fun when they are all assembled together. The sodding Jubilee is going to be as dull as a Gove unless I interfere and give them some idea about what constitutes entertainment in the 21^st century.

“I think you should organise some events with an Olympic theme.” I venture “Nothing as low-brow as that ‘It’s a Knockout’ fiasco, but something where the family can connect to the man in the street. Make it a joyful time.”

“Brill!” she shrieks, “I’ll send you a list of ideas.”

Two hours later I get the following list via email:

• A ‘using both legs of the trouser’ competition featuring Wills and the Duke of Kent.
• Converting ‘Trooping the Colour’ into a cavalry charge, with a prize to the first horseman through the gates at the Palace.
• A pin-the-tail-on-Pippa’s-arse competition.
• A fancy dress competition where we all dress up as Boris and gatecrash the Olympic Stadium.
• Getting Philip to go down there and reclaim the Olympics on behalf of Greece.

There was more of this guff, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it, let alone inflict it on you. At least there was no mention of a fart lighting contest. We all remember what happened when they invited Ann to the last one.

Banker's Bonus

A few considered reflections on the plight of Fred Goodwin.

Fred has been forced by the queen to change his name. This has caused large numbers of people to get agitated and take to the media with their protestations. Apparently it sends the wrong message to the business community. From my perspective, and do tell me if I am incorrect, it simply means that he can save some money on ink when he signs his name.

I mean, it is not as though the swivel-eyed, fornicating, despicable, loathsome, vile and disgusting pile of gibbon ordure had been public flogged, is it? It is not as though there had been some fitting punishment handed out to him, like having to work until he had earned enough money to pay back all the cash that he lost, and then going on national television and admitting to being a leading contender for arsehole of the last decade, is it?

The bastard.

The honours system is only there to nourish the already overblown egos of self-important narcissists anyway. All of these silly buggers with letters before, after and in the sodding middles of their names. I can’t wait for the revolution.

Goodwin? Take him round to the dwellings of all of those who lost their jobs, houses and pensions as a result of his incompetence, and see whether they will accept his explanations and apologies.

Wrong message to the business community? "Fuck you all" is my message to the business community.

Thank you for listening.

He only does it to annoy

I have just sent this email to Stanley Johnson, father of Boris.


Yo Stan!

I see that young Boris is in the newspapers today backing the right of parents to physically chastise their children.

Let me know if you need any help with that. I have lots of good ideas, but may need a couple of days notice to get into physical shape to carry them out.

Do you ever regret not having all of the paraphernalia of the Inquisition to hand when he was a lad?

love and peace

Scurra

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

I was intrigued to see this headline on the BBC website:

“Lagging pupils 'don't catch up’”

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

There were some pretty bizarre ideas in those days, even in my progressive school. Some teachers thought that religious education was a sound idea, others that there was some merit in woodwork, other than providing a hobby for the socially challenged. To the best of my recollection, and I confess to having been partial to a spot of distraction now and then (mainly then, and I fear that I need hardly stress that the spot mentioned was not one of the smaller varieties of that genus), but I cannot remember anyone putting forward the idea that lagging pupils was a practice with any practical benefit. In my view it rather seems like the policy that would be proposed by a pervert. 

Rather the opposite seems 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 40 minutes or so for the ancient bus and its even more ancient driver to arrive and take us (unheated) round the byways of Leicestershire.

No-one ever showed much concern for us. Not even an offer to chip off the icicles hanging from our school blazers. Our school gym had a side missing, allowing snow, dog faeces and other obnoxious substances (PE teachers) to drift in and add to our discomfort. We lived in a bleak, colourless, dismal and ultimately draughty world and there was never any suggestion of insulating us.

I do 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 experience the joy of the wind blowing through their hair, the sun shining on bronzed arms and legs, as they scamper unhampered through their youths before the grim realisation that their futures have been shaped by Wackford Gove hits them.

No wasps allowed

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

I will let you know if my correspondence with the gentleman who thinks that I am a fan of the St 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 Adam or me when you arrive rather than buzzing, that would be great. Wild!!

I'll be there!

Who are you?

I don't use text - I'll just stand out in the street and scream if that is OK.

Who are you?

Is this a haiku??

Pls not to ask complicated questions, I am still trying to work out why I have been invited.

What are your expectations?

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

Oh, so I am 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?

I am obliged to my friends at the Torygraph for this story, which highlights 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 extensive contact network to collect funding for BERN (British/European Research into Nookie) and am pleased to announce the construction of a 44 kilometre (that’s about 200 yards, right?) underground at Kidderminster, where nubile young naked people (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.

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

The Grafenberg Spot is named after Ernst Spot, who purportedly stumbled across it while looking for his keys.

Biopolymer nanocomposite? Come again?

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

Scientists in Taiwan and Germany have found a cheaper and more effective material than silicon 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 a mixture of salmon sperm and silver. Of course.

By chance, someone was sexually  exciting a salmon over a five pence piece and suddenly noticed its ability to conduct. Let that be a lesson to all of the cynics out there.

Scientists say that because of the availability of salmon sperm (you will have seen the fish spunk aisle in Tesco) and its ability to grow fast, it is an ideal material.

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

I am off now to continue my experiments to find an alternative to fossil fuels for the world’s energy source. Anyone have any spare yak bile and a torque wrench?

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


*** and no fish puns

Teck?

Over at the Torygraph there is a review of a programme on the electric television about George V and queen Mary. I did not 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 a very good place to practise your hobby, if your hobby is bigot-riling. They bite very easily. I am not the only practitioner. There must be lots of people around with nothing better to do. Nothing better to do is a very good way of spending your life, given our short span on the planet, and the limited life of the planet in relation to the age of the universe.

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

One of the commenters suggested that we dispense with our royal family. Of course, this caused a Mr Cross of Tunbridge Wells to reply, in the time honoured manner of Torygraph readers “And replace them with what?”

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

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

I did offer my services at the weekends (‘unless there was summat good on the telly’), but I did not mean it. I have no intention of wasting time chatting to the vacuous.