An act of love and kindness

I believe that it is incumbent on all of us web diarists to help our fellow writers by constructive and loving criticism. This is particularly true of those younger and less able contributors who would most benefit from our help. Many of my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) will have visited the site of young Adam, if only to see how computers are being used in the less developed areas of the world, and will have become fond of his witty, erudite and absorbing prose. This week he has been playing with his Meccano.


Hello Adam, you silly tart, here are the suggested corrections to your latest work of mediocrity. Please call upon my services if you wish to graduate from the Governor George Wallace College. I would be only too pleased to help:

Visting relatives
1) Vesting relatives? Some ancient southern ritual which involves removing the undergarments of uncles and aunts without disturbing their outer clothes – people in your part of the world have taken to wearing clothes, haven’t they? But surely that would be ‘devesting’.
2) Misting relatives? Providing a cooling spray, the origin of which is an entirely personal matter, for your grandparents in the long, hot southern summers.
3) Visiting relatives? Unlikely. Were I related to you, I would hesitate to visit until you learned to spell.

See pervious post:
1) While it is not entirely impossible that you have some sort of pole that allows access, it is of little interest and has no meaning in the context in which you have used it.
2) Perverted post? You southerners, honestly.
3) See previous post. Unlikely. Were I a visitor to your site, I would be unlikely to go to another article until you learned to spell.

Fire-breating dinosaur
1) Barbara Bush.

Definetly
1) Folks in the UK definitely have difficulty with that word too, although most of the incorrect versions use ‘definately’. In the wonderful world of the web, you can share your ignorance with others.
2) I would definitely be unlikely to visit your site until you learned to spell.

Toliet
1) I can forgive you this, as such items are a luxury south of the Mason Dixon Line.

Audence
1) Or dense. As in “Adam’s readers are either drunk or dense.”
2) WHAuden. A purveyor of second rate verse, noted for his wrinkled appearance.
3) Audience. Unlikely. I would hesitate to come to see you until you learned to spell.

Talke
1) Talke. A town of great natural beauty, and some fame. Home of the Talke Pits Development Company.
2) Talc. Sure is sweaty down south.
3) Talk. Good idea. Better than writing until you learn to spell.

Cosists
1) Cosines. A mathematical term used in the 5th grade and above in the northern USA, but not in Southern schools who use the term ‘ciphering’ for all complex calculations.
2) Cousins. You sure have plenty of these. Some of them are also your brothers, grandparents, nephews and aunts.
3) Consists. Unlikely. Your prose is not going to display the attributes of consistency or cohesion until you learn to spell.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 4

I have been requested by a reader – a Mrs Trellis of North Island – for more up to date news of our favourite family.

Much of what I hear and see must remain confidential, even on so private a medium as the internet, and I am sure that no one would like me to be indiscrete or display evidence that I am incapable of keeping a secret.

Philip was on television this weekend, being interviewed by that prize wally Mark Nicholas, and managed to keep a straight face while saying nothing of any interest for 10 minutes, during which he managed to give the most boring and evasive answers to all of the questions. A remarkable achievement for someone who is well over 80, and is often accused of being neither use nor ornament. Phil is patron of the Lords Taverners, and shows a passing interest in cricket, but I fell about when he said, deadpan, that he was unable to play cricket because polo was his summer sport. “You old bugger,” I joshed, when I tracked him down at Winston’s Reggae Club in Willesden, “I bet that Nicholas chap hasn’t the slightest idea what you really got up to in the summer”. “Well, I mentioned show business enough times to give the soft sod a clue”, he chortled, “you can take a horse to water, but you can’t let it chase foxes”. I think he had been inhaling a bit too deeply at said establishment.

I can reveal here, for those who had not yet been made aware, that between 1956 and 1974 Phil would sneak off for 4 or 6 weeks, and appear in the chorus line at Butlin’s holiday camp in Prestatyn. He used the stage name Phyllis Edinburgh, but to the best of my knowledge his real identity was never discovered. He was a particular favourite, with his silky thighs and curvy abdomen, but one would have thought that the polo neck sweater that he habitually wore on stage to conceal the prominent Adam’s apple would have given the game away.

Since you ask

Congratulations, Watski, on setting the tone for this week’s postings. None of this maudlin stuff about politics and the like, but a serious debate about sex in outer space.

The whole purpose of this internet thingy is to publicise the pointless, glory in the absurd and debunk those who think that they understand anything about human existence.

We idiots must band together to try to use up all of the world’s available disk space in pursuit of the bizarre.

A regular reader, a Mr Trellis of North Epsom, commented to me today that my contributions of late have been somewhat sparse. Well, Mr T, put your keyboard where your mouth is, and add a comment or two here, or are you concerned that Form 4a in the school where you teach will track you down here, and have concrete proof that you have crossed the boundaries of appropriate behaviour?

I am regularly asked, usually by people with nothing better to do, whether I have nothing better to do than ponce around on the internet. Up to this point, my answer has been an indignant “NO”. Henceforth, I shall strive to be more belligerent in my response. “Sod off you pompous prat”, or something equally reminiscent of Byron, shall be my reply.

Another new friend, a Mr Trellis of North Accra, who does not have regular access to the internet, asked me today what I put on my website. “Nonsense”, was my proud response.

So, dear friends, remember that I care nothing for your religion, politics, opinions, views, beliefs or your favourite member of the Bucharest Philharmonic Orchestra. I do, however, deeply appreciate your support in helping to maintain these outcrops of sanity in a universe filled with confusion.

Hats off to Boris (bearing in mind that he is a professional buffoon), who has decorated his photograph on his web log with an enormous phallus, upon which he has tattooed his name, lest those fortunate enough to receive his sexual attention should be in any doubt by whom they are being shafted.
* My campaign seems to have resulted in Bozza changing his website to something less phallic. I offer my deepest apologies.

I am very easily pleased

The only event that I shall be watching at the 2012 Olympics is the "Wipe the smile off of the face of that smug twat Coe".
Unless I am asked to collect the congestion charge from the marathon runners.

And another thing

Either my pals at the BBC need to pay closer attention to sentence construction, or the Teutonic law enforcement authorities need to address issues of security.

A German youth has admitted to creating the Sasser virus during the first day of his trial in Germany.

Avuncular advice to the young student

Thanks again to TCM at livescience.com for informing us that there is no danger from sharks.

"There are millions of people in the water at any given moment of the day," said John McEachran of Texas A&M University. "When you consider all of the people in the water at the same time, the number of shark attacks is very, very remote."

It is at times such as these that I begin to regret my lack of enthusiasm during science lessons. I do not understand how a number can be remote. I am sure that Mrs Dean covered it during 2^nd form Biology, along with the study of fungi and whatever, but it is not a concept that I can readily grasp. Although I suspect that I would have to travel some distance to reach 743 or 15189. Who knows? Alternatively, TCM at livescience may have misquoted Mr McEachran, and he actually said that “the chance of a shark attack is very, very remote.”

Although I would still query his lack of precision. What is the measure of remoteness, and how remote does something have to be in order to be classified as very, very remote?

"Shark attacks are like airplane crashes," said McEachran.

Yes, indeed.

Even peanuts, McEachran says, are a greater threat to humans than sharks.

Pause for man eating peanut joke.

"If you use some good common sense in the water, you should be fine," said McEachran. "To put your mind at ease, go to a beach that has lifeguards. They should be looking for possible sharks."

What is a ‘possible’ shark?

After all this nonsense, I was wondering who this McEachran chap is. I found that he is not the assistant under janitor, as I suspected, but actually a professor of wildlife and fishery sciences. I searched for him and found entries in google for him banging on about the same topic last year. This time he said “the number of shark attacks is very rare.” A rare number now.

I have no evidence, but suspect that the prof said all this from his desk, not waist deep in the Gulf of Mexico with a paper cut on his leg.

My advice to young people thinking about a career in science is very simple. Forget it. It is much safer to swim in shark infested waters, taunting sharks with witty slogans about them being thick, than it is to believe in the prognostications and lamentations of TCM. Forget your Faradays and Darwins, and embrace Jane Austen. She may have been an uptight bitch who only wrote trite advice about social matters, but she did not, unless it is in the pages of ‘Northanger Abbey’ that I skimmed, ever advise anyone that sharks were safe.

Look away now, to avoid being sick

I am obliged to a friend - a Mr Trellis of North Guildford - for the following.
Richard Whiteley’s Funeral has just been announced. It’s on YESWADNDE.

What did we ever do for the Romans?

I am obliged to a reader – a Mr Trellis of North Edinburgh – for drawing the attention of the world to the long lost links between my chosen home, North East Hampshire, and Rome, the cradle of civilization.
I must disabuse Mr Trellis of the notion that I am in any way out of the country in mortal fear of this news breaking. The only reason that we have not gone public with this news earlier is that the village of Kingsley – Leviculus as it was known at the time – is already overrun with tourists, and the constant invasion is far more damaging to the environment and archaeological relics than the Romans ever were.
I can save the researchers many years of time by passing on the folklore of the area. It is well known locally that there was a Pizzahut at the Sleaford crossroads one hundred years before Christ. The term ‘thick and crusty’ has been used to describe the locals ever since. I can reveal now that the Saxon Village Hall in Kingsley was formerly the site of a Roman Baths. The ancestors of Sophia Loren and Claudia Cardinale came from Oakhanger, and fettucine was first farmed at South Hay, cultivated by hand from 50BC until the 8th century. Dante’s Inferno was based upon family legends of a holiday taken in East Worldham, famous for its unsightly hill, mentioned obliquely in Dante’s description of the 4th circle of hell.
I am in Beeville, and will be appearing in world wide media coverage of the revelations that the first humans did not come from the Rift Valley of East Africa, but rather from the site of what is now the splendid Best Value Inn, in Beeville. We will be producing evidence linking the ancient remains of a knuckle-dragging, uncouth and amoral primitive to a famous son of Texas, currently living somewhere further north. We will be deferring this news release until the current furore about the opening of the new donut store has passed.

Advice Needed

I am going on vacation to Beeville, Texas.
Can my esteemed readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) advise me of anything that the astute tourist should see/partake in/shag/eat while in that part of the world?
I look forward to reading your comments on my return.

Do you not have a saddle this size then, Ted?

I am obliged to a colleague - a Mr Trellis of Jacob's Well - for the following link.
The Clare Champion
Kaliyuga Kronicles - no racial stereotype too hackneyed to bar it from mention.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 3

I meet Philip at Fortnums for coffee. To say that his glumness exceeds the already fairly high standards that he sets would not be an exaggeration.

It started with the wedding - “Too many fucking common people there”, he complains. I think that he is alluding to the presence of the Parker Bowles family, the archbishop of Canterbury and Stephen Fry.

Even the traditional ceremonies don’t cheer him any more.”Trooping the fucking Colour? Same every fucking year. They should make it more interesting by making it a steeplechase.” I point out to him that the queen no longer rides on horseback during the ceremony, but uses a carriage. He fixes me with a withering glare. “Are you fucking telling me that it is beyond the fucking wit of the British army to construct a few fucking ramps?”

His family are of decreasing comfort to him. He shows me a spoof letter which he has received, informing him that he is to be returned to Greece together with the Elgin marbles. “Must be that fucking Camelia person”, he conjectures. I disagree, it is too clever for her, but I know it is from within the family because of the atrocious spelling, but the terrible grammar and syntax points towards an Eton rather than a Gordonstoun education. He detests Camilla only slightly less than Diana. “Thank God I won’t be here to see it, but I have visions of her 100th birthday the nation's favourite step-grandmother, with her waving to the cheering crowds from the balcony at the Palace, and then doing something execrable such as flashing her tits”, he sobs.

He performs very few public duties these days, but even this is a cause for further misery. “Visiting a prosthetic device factory in Peebles, opening a nursery school for children of carpet weavers in Swindon, meeting a delegation of Ecuadorian pomegranate growers – are these people taking the fucking piss?” I detect frowns from the staff - anyone else would have been asked to leave by now. He bemoans missing his new favourite television programme because of these engagements. “It’s American, but I have to say it is the funniest thing I’ve seen in years”, he chortles, “it’s called ‘Extreme Makeover’, and what happens is that they visit the home of some downtrodden poor people, send them on holiday, and then while they’re away, they knock their fucking house down. I laughed so much last Tuesday, my false teeth shot across the room and ripped a hole in one of Liz’s favourite Reubens’. Got one of the footmen to fix it with a Pritt Stick and a magic marker – can’t tell the difference.” I don’t have the heart to tell him that what he has assumed to be the end of the program is, in fact, the first commercial break, and that the show then goes on to show a new home being constructed.

At this point the chauffeur comes to collect him, before he gets any more suicidal. I told Liz she ought to send him into retirement at Sandringham, out of the public gaze, for his own good, but she still affects to be fond of the old bugger.

Kaliyuga indeed

So dear friends, what do you make of this?

http://wetshirt.blogspot.com/

This bizarre site – and I wonder whether it tends towards the tautological to use that phrase – is one of the strange weblogs which exists for no purpose other than the posting of arcane and useless facts. Many of my dear friends, including the lovely Watski are listed as links.

I would like to think that my presence there is due to my knowledge of Indian philosophy rather than the charming little article about inflammation of the glans penis. I am too old to have anything other than chilblains as a sign of physical inflammation from the chest down.

This leads me to refute the allegations made against me by that Zoe woman.
I was laying in bed, in a deep sleep, dreaming of angels, the music of Bach, Tom Graveney and other such heavenly scenes, when I was whisked away into the maelstrom that is the psyche of our Belgian friend. Decency prevents me from listing the scenes I witnessed. Suffice it to say that I will resist all invitations to return, and I would counsel you all to do the same. Adam – that means you. You do not do depravity until your third year of college.

I think this calls for an early night – a cup of organic fennel tea and an improving book. It behoves some of us to uphold decorum.

Help a Scotsman part with £50

That nice Mr Holledge has discovered the combination to his wallet.
Help him open it.
http://www.pledgebank.com/treeplanting
Kaliyuga Kronicles - no racial stereotype too hackneyed to bar it from mention.

Making customers taste better

My friends at the BBC report that a man was taken to hospital after being bitten by a spider going about its business in the banana section at Sainsbury’s.

We arranged for his shopping to be dropped at home after the incident, and are extremely sorry that this may have caused him distress.

One can view this statement as either:

1) An apology for the embarrassment caused to the customer when his neighbours realised that he was still shopping at Sainsbury’s. “Did you see that, our Ryan? What’s wrong with Waitrose – it’s good enough for us. He’s never been better than he should be, that Mr Trellis. And now he’s got the cheek to show off that bloody spider bite as well.” Sainsbury’s should at least have arranged to have his groceries placed in a Harrods’ bag prior to showing him up like that.

Or:

2) A paltry attempt at compensation. What will prompt Sainsbury’s to be more generous – a pensioner savaged by a pack of Coyotes in the baked bean aisle? A pre-school child contracting cholera in the organic yoghourt section? Gangs of marauding shelf-stackers randomly mugging pregnant mums in the shampoo section? “I am sorry, Mr Trellis, that you suffered a near-fatal accident as a result of our negligence, so we thought we would drop your shopping off for you. That will be £34.47 + £8.50 delivery (tip discretionary) – Are you saving your rewards?”

Sordid details of the affair between David Beckham and Patricia Routledge

This is particularly for the attention of those strange characters who visited this site after typing the phrase “Ant a Dec 's private pictures” into Google.

Firstly, welcome. The title of this journal indicates that I have the broadest agenda for discussion, and will only exclude those who seek to harm others (or anyone who irritates me). Have a look round, and stay awhile if anything takes your fancy. Refreshments are available.

Secondly, learn that the GIGO principle applies to search engines just as much as other software.

However, I should point out that you are unlikely to find what you are looking for here. I am not being judgmental or unwelcoming, but I feel that it is incumbent upon me to inform you that I am unaware of the existence of any private pictures about those gentlemen. I might be interested, should the subject of the private pictures be the sort of thing that I infer from the fact that 93.854% of search engine inquiries are the result of a desire for bizarre sexual gratification, although my interest would almost certainly stem from amusement rather than arousal. I know very little about Ant and Dec. I mentioned them here once as names plucked from the ether, as I know that they appear on Saturday evening television. One lesson that the years have taught me is that nothing is to be gained by watching television on the mainstream channels of a Saturday. Even when I was young and TV was a novelty, I found ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ lacking in excitement, and what followed in the schedule to be in the range disappointing to crap. It would take more than a little persuasion to convince me to experiment in the hope of being proved pleasantly incorrect.

It is sad that only the perverts come here (I have nothing against perverts, I number many of them among my close friends) and not those for whom this forum is intended – the confused, those seeking comfort and wisdom, and the socially challenged. (I have nothing against the confused, those seeking comfort and wisdom, and the socially challenged, I number many of them among my close friends).

If you are really looking for pictures of Ant and Dec engaged in mutual unseemly acts, then I suggest that you contact your local member of parliament, or your political representative in the unlikely event that you live outside the UK and have heard of these chaps.

Never mind that other site, this is where it is all really happening

Some more news from These Crazy Motherfuckers.

I am sorry to use such coarse language – I would prefer my website to be entirely family friendly, and encourage young visitors (a Miss Trellis of North Wales) to come here and expand their minds – but it just sounds so good. Neither should I pretend that such usage is uncommon at Scurra House. Mrs S and I enjoy nothing more than a free and frank exchange of views.

From my pals at LiveScience:

Scientists at the Sandia National Labs in Albuquerque, New Mexico have accelerated a small plate from zero to 76,000 mph in less than a second. The speed of the thrust was a new record for Sandia’s "Z Machine" – not only the fastest gun in the West, but in the world too.

The Z Machine is now able to propel small plates at 34 kilometers a second, faster than the 30 kilometers per second that Earth travels through space in its orbit about the Sun. That’s 50 times faster than a rifle bullet, and three times the velocity needed to escape Earth’s gravitational field.

The ultra-tiny aluminum plates, just 850 microns thick, are accelerated at 10¹⁰ g. One g is the force of Earth’s gravity. Doing so without vaporizing the plates was possible because of the finer control now achievable of the magnetic field pulse that drives the flight.

So, here we have it. Millions of years of evolution, and we have learned how to throw plates, really fast. What beats me is that these scientists do not know that this art has been developed to a much finer degree by the housewives of Gujarat over many centuries. Visitors to a traditional North West Indian household will be treated to food the like of which is unknown anywhere else in the galaxy (and this explains why the government discourages me from visiting the coast, lest the country develops a tilt), one of the highlights of which is the plate of chapatis.

As an aside, the compilers of Mr Gate’s dictionary seem to think that chapati should be spelt chapatti. They are wrong, and I can reveal that this is part of Mr Gates’ conspiracy to introduce superfluous letter ‘t’s into words. It stems from his having t at the centre of his surname, and thinks that increased use of this letter will increase his power. It also explains why, when using MS Word, it is almost impossible to use the phrase “President Bush”, without the adjunct “utter tit” mysteriously appearing alongside it. The clever chaps at Google know about this, if you enter the word ‘chapatti’ into their search engine, they say ‘do you mean “chapati”’, and I swear that I can hear the sneer in their little voices.

Anyway, back to the good ladies of Porbandar. Those with keen eyesight will have noticed that all chapatis at any mealtime are exactly the same size and weight, and are always perfectly round. This is achieved by Mrs Patel or Mistry or Desai exploiting scientific phenomena rather than manual dexterity. But actually, the skill they have developed is far more impressive than the ability to accurately roll dough. The dough is vigorously prepared (as a by-product causing exceptional wrist muscles to develop), rolled lightly, and then propelled at enormous speed around the kitchen. The speeds reached are such that the chapati attains optimum shape in order to avoid distintegration.

Sometimes, alas, things get out of hand. The last four visits from our friendly neighbours of the galaxy Brandreth have been wiped out by showers of supersonic chapatis that have escaped from the earth’s gravitational field.

So, bollocks to you, pathetic plate tossers of New Mexico. My missus can outfling you any day. I suppose we can take solace from the fact that they are not wasting their time trying to teach the principle of ‘one man one vote’ to the inhabitants of Florida, or trying to find a cure for malaria.

Today, nothing happened, again.

All is very quiet in blogworld. I am using my current attack of ill health as an excuse not to write, but even the more prolific writers are also having a quiet time.

Zoe is laid low with the realisation that being Belgian is no fun. Cazza in New Zealand has obviously hibernated. Even dear old Watski is not pouring out the usual quantity of nonsense.

So, to keep you amused, here are some links to some good stuff.

1) Mr Gamon is maintaining his high standard of political criticism.
Saves me the trouble of spouting about this and that.

2) Willie Lupin has realised that Ricky Gervais is a twat.

3) Sheryl is consistent in her literary genius.

You heard it here last.

It is with some relief that I am unburdened of the task of maintaining one of the world’s most intriguing secrets – the identity of Deep Throat. I have denied knowing the answer to this mystery so many times, and have always been aware that most people would never believe me. In the 1970’s I would sometimes invent an unlikely candidate in order to avoid the constant questioning; Mary Tyler Moore, Mike Brearley and Queen Juliana of the Netherlands among others all spent several months under close CIA scrutiny as a result of my attempting to lay a false trail.

Now that the yoke is lifted, I feel a strange compulsion to be candid about some of the last century’s other great mysteries. I have not taken this decision lightly, and trust that no one will be too upset by these revelations.

1) Did Hitler die in the bunker?

No. It will come as no surprise that Hitler had taken the utmost care to make contingency plans. He had damning information about the British royal family, and was able to blackmail them into taking care of him. He adopted the persona of princess Alice of Gloucester, and despite being caught several times with a mysterious moustache on public occasions, was able to bamboozle everyone outside of a small circle of trusted friends. It was perhaps the curious mixture of hormones that were administered daily to disguise the moustache that allowed him to live to such an astonishing old age. Even I was never certain of the precise nature of the information that caused such an amazing cover up, I know that prince Philip will always blush and change the subject whenever Field Marshal lord Montgomery is mentioned, however.

2) What happened to lord Lucan?

Lucan lived in obscurity for about a year after his disappearance, but like Hitler decided that adopting an unlikely identity was the best form of disguise, and became famous as Sid Vicious in the mid 70s. His drug use caused fear among the secret service, and his frequent lapse into the Eton accent was one of the factors in their deciding to have him assassinated.

3) Why did Harold Wilson resign?

To cover up a scandal involving clotted cream, a member of the singing group, the Bachelors and an assignation in Helsinki.

4) Schrodinger’s cat

Asleep.

5) Why did David Frost become popular?

Bugger off, there are limits to even my knowledge.

If you have enjoyed these disclosures, perhaps you would care to submit your questions to me, and I will make this a regular feature.

Overdue

Thank you to the wonderful world of google, Turkey, where someone had entered the phrase “sneaky pee” into that wondrous search engine, and been directed to my site, because I used the phrase once.

I was intrigued, and pursued the link. Apparently this phrase is a euphemism used by those who gain sexual gratification from watching the act of urination. Good luck to them I say. There are sites called “Doctor Trickle” and “Pissing Bondage” among many others catering for this need. I am sure that my readers (a Mrs Trickle of North Wales) will not have been aware of this information.

Of course, publishing this data increases the chances of my site being visited by those who some might accuse of being perverse.

Whoever they are, and whatever they enjoy provided it does not harm others, they are welcome here.

File this entry under "Asking for trouble"

An erudite and very good friend of mine, who I will not identify lest it harm her chances of becoming a parent governor at her son's school in Haslemere, sent me a brief book review containing the phrase "I laughed my tits off".
Inevitably, this has had an unsettling effect upon me, and has resulted in images that, on the whole, I could better do without populating my consciousness.
Could any of my readers (a Mrs Titless of North Wales) help to suggest other images which might help to banish these particular ones to some less visited corner of my brain?

My new best friend

Despite competition from Watski, I nominate this as today's best journal entry.

At the other end of the scale, I urge my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales), not to read the comment by Karl in the thread "Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 2.

And a big "Thank You" to all of my visitors

I shall take some time to go through the interesting catalogue of sites that have appeared in the referring web site section of this diary.

The mundane explanation for the appearance of the sites is, for those of you unfamiliar with the mechanics of blogger, that if you click on the “Next blog” icon at the top of this screen you will be transported to a random blog. Not truly random, of course, as computers can’t cope with that concept. One, or a few, of my visitors have arrived here by that method.

1) You eventually become who you pretend to be.
She begins her latest entry with “I really don't have anything to say about today” and then continues.
D-

2) Nude Beauty.
Nice tits. Now fuck off.
C-

3) Welding and welders.
Inspired.
B+

4) Drama Club.
In Portuguese. Sample translation “ouch, this aches to think me lonely”. Charming
C+

5) All about scuba diving.
Not as funny as welding.
D

6) Best Free European Porn.
Fairly empty, as one would expect. Probably should have been a link to Zoe.
D

7) enna pArvai indha pArvai. (That is anglicised Tamil)
Dunno what the Tamil means, but the rest of the site is the incoherent ramblings of an ill educated baboon.
A-

8) La Cosa Knitstra. (geddit?)
Photographs of knitting. Utterly, totally and emphatically pointless.
A+

8) Rock and Rolls.
Photographs of dull buildings.
B+

9) TLC Janna.
Suicidal ramblings from middle America. Waltons without the sex and violence.
D-

10) Rulz indeed.
Shite indeed.
D

10) Alarm systems.
“Find an alarm system here”. And use it to alert others not to visit this site.
D

11) Obiter Dictum
I can’t stand these people who pick up an obscure Latin phrase just to show off.
B

12) Blog de toroenmaromado.
Translation excerpt: “In the Corrillo of San Nicholas, then neuralgic center of the villa, staged the allegory of the Eucaristía, completing the celebration "giant and tarascas". Consider yourselves educated.
B

13) Adam’s Web Journal
The thoughts of an embryonic Einstein.
Unfortunately, not Albert, but his moron cousin Dwayne.
F-

I guess I won't be seeing her again.

This week's lesson in etiquette comes from my chat with Naomi, who I met for the first time this weekend.
For some reason we were discussing Coronation Street, and I quoted my favourite line, circa 1966
"She were that bandy legged, she couldn't stop a pig in an entry".
Naomi: "And I bet you haven't had much occasion to use that line, have you?"
Me: "No, not till I met you".

Friends wanted. Low expectations an advantage. Apply Scurra House, Kingsley.

Countdown to the royal divorce - Part 2

I think that it is an opportune moment, while everyone who one talks to is obsessing about the world snooker finals, to bring you up to date on the latest happenings in the Houses of Windsor.

Since the immense success of the wedding – I hope you have all seen the pirate video that has been circulating on the web, where they tied up Rowan Williams and had Rowan Atkinson re-enact his role from 4 Weddings, and do an alternative blessing – Camilla has been barely able to sit down. Those of a critical disposition might say that she is a little bit full of herself. She has taken to addressing herself orally and in writing as “Her Majesty Apparent”, or HMA for short. This is all very well within the confines of the family, where they are used to her high spirits, but secretly there is concern that these japes may overflow into the public arena.

Liz confides that she would love to abdicate “Nothing I’d like better than to spend my afternoons down the bingo at Chiswick, or picking up bargains in the BHS sale, but I can’t really leave the family firm in the hands of these wallies. Heaven knows what they’ll get up to without my vigilance.”

Indeed, despite their raucous private behaviour together, on the world stage Liz seems to prevent Camilla from letting her hair down. Worries about Camilla bursting into giggles during the one minute silence on Remembrance Sunday, or mooning behind Charles during the Christmas broadcast abound. They always have a horse or two to take the blame in case Phil lets one rip at the Cenotaph, but who could justify hyenas?

In the midst of this Charles remains unchanged – bewildered and increasingly unworldly.

Camilla’s latest prank was to stick a carrot up the exhaust pipe of Andrew’s Range Rover at Highgrove. Not content with that, she did the same thing to Anne’s horse. The poor creature was alarmed and terrified, brayed like a thing possessed and left a trail of carrot flavoured dung all over Charles’ organic azalea garden. The horse was similarly distressed.

Another bloody buggery post about the bloody buggery election.

I was somewhat startled to read an honest article by a candidate in the forthcoming general election.

My old pal, Ozzie, has penned a somewhat uplifting article in the backwater that is his web journal.

Try reading his article “What the Yorkshire Post doesn’t want you to read”.

You might even considering moving to Grimsby to vote for him. These times call for futile gestures.

I don't mean to keep coming back to this

It's really that chap Gamon's job to do this.
But.
I have just had an election leaflet from my Conservative candidate.
His chief concern appears to be to have cleaner hospitals.
Excellent idea.
Why don't you stop poncing about in Westminster, representing none of my views, and do something useful like cleaning hospitals, Arbuthnot, you useless, total, third rate idiot.

This has been a party political broadcast on behalf of the "Up and against the wall and shoot them" party.

Control of this website has now reverted to the love and peace candidate.

I'm sorry he's from Barcelona

Thanks to my friends at sitemeter, I have discovered that someone has used the google translation service to translate my page into Spanish.
All the great writers use this language. Cervantes, Allende, Torquemada.
I feel a Nobel prize coming my way.
Cazza, how about a Latin translation?
Zoe, French, Dutch, Walloon?
Anyone for classical Greek? Homer, we all bloody hate him round our way.

TCM*

I apologise for using what might appear to be a vulgar heading, and if the sensibilities of my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) are disturbed then please note that my regret is sincere. It is just that that particular phrase was used by Penn Jilette on his television programme ‘Penn and Teller: Bullshit’ to describe Richard Nixon, as I have mentioned before on this site, and I wish that I had been the first to use it in that context.
Tonight I found a link to a site that was reporting a new series of ‘Bullshit’, and when I clicked the link I found the following message:
“We at Showtime Online express our apologies; however, these pages are intended for access only from within the United States.”
Of course, my transatlantic friends have some justification in patenting bullshit, but I wonder what great national secret they are afraid of revealing. I am also prompted to wonder what Mr Jilette’s reaction might be to that page.

An even bigger bunch of TCM is that group known by the amusing sobriquet of ‘Physicists’. I have alluded earlier to my scepticism about the laws of physics and the mental health of physics teachers. Those thinking that I am a little extreme in my criticism should take note of the contents of this ridiculous article. Please note that I have warned before that Yahoo news links tend to expire quite quickly, so if you are reading this later than April 2005, the link may have expired: I shall therefore give you my version.
Apparently, there is a lump of stuff somewhere in Paris that has been used as a standard for exactly how much a kilogram weighs. This stuff has sat quite happily in the French capital (quite an achievement in itself – have you ever tried to get vegetarian food in this so-called cultural centre?) for some time (I will not be fooled into trying to define the length of time of this contented sitting). TCM are now saying that we should not rely on this lump of stuff because it is subject to change – it reacts with air for example. The implications of this are that the kilo of feathers that you buy in Anchorage may actually be a different weight to the kilo of coal that you purchase in Nairobi, even if the apparatus used to measure both had been calibrated with this lump of stuff in Paris at some time.
At this juncture, may I just point out: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
TCM are suggesting that instead of relying on a lump of stuff – Gallic or otherwise - we should be defining mass in terms of “counting the number of atoms in a silicon crystal using X-ray imaging”.
So there you have it. Next time you visit Waitrose to stock up on comestibles, insist that the manager counts the number of silicon atoms in front of you, lest you are overcharged for your aubergines.
If you think that I am being over emotional about this, please visit LiveScience.com and see other articles there. “Scientists now admit they don't understand the intricacies of how water works”.
At this juncture, may I just point out: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
“..scientists say the air around us is heavier than they had thought”. Who, and exactly how many whos, gives a flying Newton about that.
We need to free ourselves of the shackles of this bizarre religion of Physics. No more should our children be subjected to double physics on freezing cold Monday mornings in February in dilapidated classrooms listening to TCM expounding their perverted beliefs.
I had been struggling with the dilemma (much more tangible than that of the twat Schrodinger) about for whom to vote in the forthcoming general election. Let me say this (does that sound like Tony Blair?), if your party does not support the criminalisation of physics, then you need not bother to knock on my door.

* 'These crazy motherfuckers'

I engage in the democratic process.

My local labour party has a subset of the "proud of britain" website called "proud of North East Hampshire".
Bollocks.
They asked me what I was proud of about north east Hampshire.
Twats.
I wrote:
"Nothing. I am a citizen of the planet earth.
Proud of Britain - you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for hiding behind such jingoistic twaddle."
Bastards.
Back to the normal nonsense next time.

Next time, it will be Pope Britney

I have been urged by a colleague to shed some light on the election of the new pontiff. I say this because I do not wish to appear to be privy to the details behind every major world news story and feel that it behoves me to occasionally exercise severe discretion. However, at this point I do not think that a little more openness would be harmful.

Yesterday afternoon I received a call from Cardinal Capone, (if this story seems familiar, I regret to inform you that Peter’s story, amusing though it is, is fictitious), who said that there was a danger of damage to the hats of the cardinals, as so much head-scratching was going on. Joe the Rat, as his friends know him, had been elected, but they were damned (sic) if they could think of a suitable name.

Sometimes my patience is strained. This lot have had nothing else to think about for the best part of a fortnight, and still they don’t have the gumption to exercise their imagination. This is the direct consequence of being told what to do for their whole lives.

I suggested that it was time for a show of modernisation, and something to liven up the image of the new pope. Joe has been a boring old fart ever since I first met him when we were on the German jury for the 1983 Eurovision Song Contest. He was winner of the “Most boring mass” competition in Rome for seven years in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As former head of the Inquisition, I also felt he needed to be seen as not entirely devoid of humour.

“Pope Benny Hill”, I said, “that will do it”.

I had a vision of a Pope, while remaining respected for his piety, wisdom and compassion, who was also able to acknowledge his humanity at a universal level by deployment of cheeky double-entendre and well-meaning references to carnal activity (at the same time recognising that anyone going so far to practise these activities would burn forever). I had a vision of Popes and Cardinals chasing scantily clad altar boys round St Peters Square with the film speeded up.

Alas, it was not to be, thanks either to the Italian telephone system, Capone’s appalling grasp of English or maybe the will of God.

The same thing happened last time round. It should have been Jean Paul, in recognition of my old friend Sartre.