I turn to the opposition - the electronic Telegraph - this morning, to find with some dismay but not a great surprise that our lovely prime minister has taken to wearing fancy dress.
I cannot, for the life of me, work out what he is meant to be. An extra for Doctor Who perhaps, but I have not watched that program since the days of Patrick Troughton, so maybe not. Do any of you have suggestions?

More intriguingly is the slogan on his dog-collar. Already showing some reduncancy in the sense that 'forward' automatically rules out 'not back', I wonder in which direction we are going forward? My guess is toward the slimy pit of meaningless drivel that is the product of our current regime. Greasy Dave will have his work cut out to make things worse if he ever gets elected. But they said that Reagan was too stupid to be president.

She's back, she's back! It's the same one!

The snarling old antipodean ratbag is back, spitting venom, devouring children and flatulating in her unique way.
Lovely to have you back, sweetie.

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

My morning was brightened, not inconsiderably, by the return of our old friend Boris to his blog. He seems to be refreshed by his well-earned and needed 10 week holiday. He wrote a nice little article about education, which those of you who feel a need to improve their minds might enjoy. I posted the following in response. (Please note that it was thrown together quite quickly, and I have not checked it for any typos or factual mistakes. Given the subject matter, there are bound to be some, but please do not mistake me for someone who cares.)

Apart from the advertisement thing that deary old Toxy pointed out, the Davy reference was a clerihew. It was still a poem, but I prefer attention to detail. Also, please do not encourage children to make biscuits with Mrs Sindall. Use flour, water and flavourings of your choice, but not those extracted from members of staff. It is true, that in the kind of civilisation that you are supporting, where the so-called laws of physics hold sway over emotional considerations, that most schoolteachers deserve to be chopped up and used in snacks, but, call me old-fashioned, I believe in a caring and tolerant approach to our psychopaths.
I have to declare a prejudice against the laws of physics. In short, I neither accept nor obey them. They are nonsense. The propaganda of class room Goebbels. (If you want to read more please go over to my web pages to read about this. Advertisement.) This clouds my judgement of the thrust of your argument, which seems to be that some subjects taught in schools are of more use than others. It may well be the case, but I do not have the inclination to put forward my arguments about the fallacies upon which our current theories of education are built. So instead of that, I will embark upon a happy bank holiday skip down the lanes of North East Hampshire, singing merrily and smiling at the rabbits and proposing that the most valuable subjects at A level in these times are Love Studies, Peace Studies and the music of Janis Joplin.

PS. More attention to prep, Johnson (clerihews, advertisements, cookery ingredients), and less time spent staring out of the window dreaming of David Cameron would better prepare you for life in the real world.
C-.
See me.

Countdown to the election

That blithering idiot Blair calls in on his way back from holiday.

He likes these what he refers to as “surprise visits”. I would rather entertain the grim reaper or Cilla Black (I assume they are not one and the same?) anyday. It is bad enough having the world’s press camped on one’s doorstep at the best of times, but when Tone turns up with his entourage of secretaries, advisors (sic) and security staff, the whole road starts to look as residential as Red Square on May 1^st.

He is one of the most insecure people I have ever met, not without cause, I need not add. He is still under the impression that I will lend my influence to his idiotic policies. Quite why no one has told him that I burnt my honorary party membership card when they flung out Mikey Foot for not wearing a tie I will never understand. Unlike Mr Corleone, Mr Blair insists on never being told bad news.

Underlying all of this is his fear that I might back the Tories, so someone must have whispered something to him. His worries are groundless. Cameron has been badgering me, to the extent that my only option was complete honesty. “Fuck off, Dave”, I told him, quite sternly, “I would not back your lot even if you renamed Milton Keynes Milton Guevara, had the royal family shot, appointed Bozza to be Foreign Secretary, introduced an environment tax and declared Britain to be a People’s Republic. If you were to arrange the public execution of Thatcher I might remain neutral, but it will never get better than that.” I suspect that he is incapable of taking no for an answer, and have arranged with BT to have any calls from him to be diverted to the Uri Geller Fanclub hotline.

I am not sure what will happen if and when Blair hands over to Brown. He seems to have a good mind, but is very dull company. No wonder that Tone has kept him in charge of the accounts department all of these years. Brown is a little suspicious of me, stemming from an incident where he blames me for arranging for him to sit next to a very flatulent diplomat from the Philippines at a function some years back.

I sit back and try to concentrate on a repeat of Dallas on the television while Blair attempts to ingratiate himself. By this time, I am hoping that the emetic that I slipped into his Lapsang Souchong is one with a delayed reaction. He asks if I can keep an eye on Denis Healey at the party conference. Den is threatening to sing the Red Flag very loudly throughout Tony’s speech. I say that I will do it, but, of course, will not be party to any such silliness. Watch out for the octogenarian ex-deputy leader being carried out shoulder high by the security staff. You read it here first. I later call Denis, and tell him to hire a small brass band to accompany him, for maximum effect.

Educational television.

My friends at the Press Association carry an article that outlines how Tom and Jerry cartoons are to be edited to remove scenes in which the characters smoke.

My solution would be somewhat different. I would embellish the scenes, building up to a series in which Tom smokes at length, and develops lung cancer. The pictures could show his body slowly wasting away, while his hair falls out, his eyes glaze over and his knob drops off. He would be unable to chase Jerry for more than 10 yards before pausing for a lengthy wheeze. In my version, however, Tom would have the last (somewhat painful) laugh, as Jerry, so convulsed with hilarity at Tom’s predicament, would be rendered helpless, and captured by scientists. He would spend the remainder of his days in a small cage, forced to smoke Benson and Hedges, as his captors search for a cure for cancer.

We now have the situation where democracy prevails on airline flights. My friends at the BBC carry a story about two men of - wait for it - middle eastern extraction, who were removed from a flight to England because other passengers complained about them. It appears that they were speaking in a foreign language: "probably Arabic".

I will be forgoing this particular privilege. I will not be delaying any air travel by several hours while sweaty airline staff rummage through luggage, knicker sniffing on the way just because I don't like the look of one of my fellow passengers.

I very seldom like the look of my fellow passengers. That goes for humanity in general, although I am much too considerate to point this out to them.

Let me tell you now, I have travelled on an aeroplane that also contained Geoffrey Howe. Did I protest that the sound of this man's voice was likely to cause the pilots to doze off? Of course not.

On another occasion, one of my fellow passengers was Desmond Llewellyn, the original 'Q' (where is Pavlov to tell me that there was actually an earlier 'Q'?). Yes, I flew across the Atlantic with the world's leading expert in the design of concealed weapons. It never even occurred to me to risk delaying my flight by drawing this security risk to the attention of the air crew.

As I have been a little lazy in posting these few days, let me send you all over to my new friend realdoc.

Please note that she is a doctor. This does not mean that you should go over there with all of your embarrassing medical problems. She writes her blog in her spare time (or perhaps when she is listening to a particularly boring patient - but she says she is in admin now, so I guess that is not the case). Just get over there, read her stuff, if you leave a comment make sure it is polite.

And do not think that this is licence for you to refer your medical problems to me. I want no more of those photographs (you know who I mean).

A temporary moment of self indulgence

Blogger are updating.
This means that, temporarily at least, I have to choose a new default style for my lovely web pages, and not inflict my hideous customisations on the world.
No, I don't like the style much either, but I can't do much about it at the moment.
In fact, I can't even access the page through my browser. If you have had trouble getting here, it wasn't really worth the effort was it?
Normal crap will be resumed as soon as impossible.

Thank you, Theodore and Evadne

Another in the occasional series about the strange requests of search engines that result in visits to my page.

Kaliyuga anthem
This took me rather by surprise. What can anyone suggest as a suitable tune that sums up the age in which we find ourselves? My first thoughts were something absolutely fucking awful like “Congratulations” or “Mull of Kintyre”. We could fill hundreds of comments with suggestions about music that epitomised the craziness of these times in which we live. (Thank God that Mark is on holiday). I would suggest it would have to be something, like my two initial suggestions, that showed complete ignorance of the lack of sanity around us.

The following usual suspects I have altered slightly to prevent further recurrences:
How to make tipple nassels.
Barah Seeny
Hick Meathcote.
fublic pefecation
"all doi ng very well" are you b eing se rved
Tit mus ru
Holdie Gawns arse
"an unsol icited fin ger in the an us, while crude, is not criminal".
do gging sites Christchurch
middle aged sha gging
Usually there would be some reference to Raula Padcliffe as well.

Tom Graveney family.
Please do not trouble the greatest living Englishman with needless impertinent questions about his private life.

my.home.page sex fuck my.photo
This one came from Russia. Well, young Sergei or Alexandre, I can assure you that there will not be any pictures of my indulging in intimate acts on these pages, despite the constant requests from gorgeous young blond boys such as yourself.

beach bath Val alta PICTURE
This is a follow up to my posting about the unfortunate gentleman with testicular bench related problems. My innocent attempts to offer him words of kindness have resulted in my being visited by those curious to find illustrations from a Balkan naturist resort. I shall redirected them all to Pamela.

how to get over someone missed opportunity
I see you also missed the opportunity to learn how to construct a sentence.

Malcolm Friend's email address in the United Kingdom
I am pleased you came here. I can help with this. It is the same fucking email address that he used when he was in Tierra del Fuego or wherever the fuck else he was last time you wrote to him.

things that happened march 26, 2005
Yes indeed. Someone here who has clearly understood the capabilities of the search engine. Adam, was it you? Try going to thingsthathappened.com. You will have to learn to be more specific about the sort of things you are curious about. Have you tried to use the word ‘sex’ in your query? That should narrow things down somewhat.

" purpose of the human race"
Congratulations! You have found your answer. Read on.

Further clarification

Someone at my place of employment recently used the word "synergies". I am appalled and saddened by this and, were it the case that I felt any degree of responsibility for this, I would apologise.
The definition of 'synergy' is thus:
The idea, propagated by those with no familiarity with the science of addition or training in the use of a calculator, that two plus two equals five.

I tuned in to my friends at BBC Radio 5 this morning to find that they were discussing the teaching of physics, a subject close to my heart, as regular readers (a Madame Curie of North Wales) will know.

They had unearthed some crazed harpy from a society (sorry – didn’t get the name) that was promoting the teaching of physics. I made a note to trace these people and bring about their downfall. Radio 5, being the democratic friend of the people that it is, would not let this prize loony beat her tuneless drum for too long, and the young lady on the program introduced an anecdote. At her school, the relationship between pressure and weight had been illustrated by the use of snow boots and stiletto heels – sounds like fun doesn’t it, boys and girls?

The CH took this up, “most of us have been trodden on by a stiletto heel” she informed us. Well, no, we haven’t. I have been informed about those areas on the internet where such activities are discussed and demonstrated for sexual gratification (cue next bunch of twats coming here for the wrong reason), and have no objection to any activity where all parties are happy, but I must state here that I have never been trodden on by a stiletto heel, either accidentally or as a result of a commercial transaction. I think this illustrates that the underlying premises of most of the ridiculous theories of physicists are dubious if not total bollocks. I shall be writing to parliament to have the laws of thermodynamics revoked very shortly.

The CH went on to illustrate the usefulness of physics by saying that it was used by those who did the special effects in the Harry Potter films and by writers of computer games. Yes, the reason that there have been no good films made in the last ten years is because of bloody physicists. We are no longer concerned with style, acting ability, clever writing or humour, but are subjected to a bunch of nerds showing off. I do not need to list the benefits that computer games have brought to us, do I?

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 13

There is yet another article in the press about the privacy of the Windsor Mountbatten family.

It is not as if the problem is unknown. For several years I have only communicated with them via mobile telephone, as the land lines are notoriously insecure. It is impossible to have a conversation with any of the official residences without Special Branch, MI5, the News of the Screws, the Daily Mail, Al Fayed and sundry seedy lawyers (tautology, I know) listening. There is so much noise in the background that both parties have to shout to be heard, which then causes, at least at that end, other people to start yelling about shutting the fuck up. This is not to mention the fact that there are so many extensions on all of the lines that the chances of some idiot not picking one up and starting to dial somewhere else are remote.

They are all in Scotland just now. It is impossible to venture outside without being eaten by midges or getting drenched, so they sit around playing Scrabble or some such. I have employed a lady to act as dictionary umpire for them, so that my days are not spent on the telephone telling Camilla how many ‘f’s there are in philistine or whether ‘Beckham’ is allowed. You will be surprised that they choose Scrabble, but I suspect that the counters in those games more intellectually suited such as Ludo have long since been mistaken for smarties by Philip. It is amazing how patient they are. Edward once spent 37 hours on his move, and scored 8 points. You will understand why I regard the many hours in May and June each year turning down invitations as well spent. At least it keeps them out of trouble, although in the days of Diana she would often be on the point of physically assaulting them, usually Philip, who would never tire of asking here how to spell ‘yo-yo knickers’, ‘Carling’ or ‘squidgy’.

They never learn, do they?

TCM at BBC science report a strange astronomical phenomenon. Here are a couple of extracts:

• A pair of strange new worlds that blur the boundaries between planets and stars have been discovered beyond our Solar System
• Their existence challenges current theories about the formation of planets and stars, astronomers report in the journal Science.

Let us all be very clear about this. God created, in human beings, the desire for scientific knowledge for the sole reason of being able to mess with our heads. Adam was the original hippy, just doing his thing, until he began to think about the laws of nature, bought himself a chemistry set, and before he could write “method, result, conclusion” suddenly his missus was twatting about with snakes.

We are not equipped to understand existence. We can speculate, theorise and argue about all of that shit, and if we enjoy that pursuit, then fine; but we should never forget that the rules can be changed at any time.

I shall continue to advocate an agnostic approach to the so-called laws of physics. If there are any young people reading this, then I suggest that you erase from your timetables the double Chemistry on Thursday afternoon, and instead familiarise yourselves with the works of Jerry Garcia. Look at your physics teacher. Do you want to finish up like that? He or she, too, was once an innocent adolescent about to be led astray by the bizarre notions of the ignorant. The choice is yours.

My friends at the BBC report that some hidden texts containing works by Archimedes have been discovered.

I say that those who hid them knew what they were doing.

Archimedes was a famous mathematician (that really should be an oxymoron). His contributions to humanity were:

• To use mathematics to develop weaponry
• To foist his inane ramblings on generations of oppressed school students who should have been doing something more interesting, probably behind the bikesheds.

He is also apocryphally famous for being too stupid to realise that there was too much water in his bath.

Can humanity really benefit from learning more of the theories of this fascist?

I think that he has foisted enough of his tripe on us, and his ramblings should be left to rot. What will they discover next? Lost episodes of Family Fortunes? Three volumes of “The Wit and Wisdom of Iain Duncan Smith”? Turner prize winners from 1900 to 1920? “Grateful Dead – Just the Drum Solos”?

There is enough crap in the world already, stop looking for more

What happened next?

This competition is devoid of prizes. Other than experiencing the sheer joy of living in these times.

This story comes from my friends at Ananova (the Press Association).

What do you think happened next?

A Croatian man got a nasty surprise when he tried to get out of his deck chair and found his testicles had got stuck.
Mario Visnjic had gone swimming naked in the sea at the Valalta beach in western Croatia.
His testicles had shrunk while in the cool sea and slipped through the wooden slats when he sat back down on his wooden deckchair.
But as he lay in the sun they expanded back to normal size and got stuck between the slats.
He was eventually freed after he called beach maintenance services on his mobile phone and they sent a member of staff to.....

• Remove the offending items?
  
• Cut the deck chair in half?
  
• Have a bloody good laugh?
  
• Tickle his gonads?

Have your genitals ever got stuck anywhere? Did you ever get them back? Can this journal slide further down the poor taste league?

A return to more wholesome topics.

In case any of you were worried about the report at the BBC about sperm donations. I wanted to clarify some of the potential ambiguities.

“a shortage of sperm donors”
This means that there are insufficient sperm donors, not that sperm donors are lacking in height. Masturbation does not stunt your growth. I am six feet tall, and although I have been referred to on many occasions as “the biggest wanker in North East Hampshire”, it should not be construed that fellow practitioners are all midgets.

“The clinics are struggling”
This is all to do with meeting quotas, it does not mean that potential donors will be engaged in physical combat during the act of donation. That would be silly.

"It started to decrease even while the law was under discussion."
Then talk about something slightly more erotic.

“too few men were coming forward”
This is indicative of a lack of volunteers, not some bizarre onanistic position.

"Today, many NHS clinics are finding it hard”
Needs no explanation.

“a lot of sperm banks have closed their doors.”
This is probably a positive step. It may discourage a few exhibitionists, but generally these activities are best kept private.

Moist, throb, inner thigh, engorged, thrust.

As it is the weekend, and everyone pretends to have no time for the internet, I thought I would sneak in a quick sports post, at least it will serve to cool down the ardour of the many frenetic females who hang out here (aMToNW).

After many years of wandering in the wilderness, it seems that there is an English slow bowler who may develop into world class. Apart from Derek Underwood, who was a slow bowler rather than a spinner, there have been none in my cricketing years. I never saw Jim Laker play. Monty Panesar seems to have the ability to bowl aggressive spin. I don’t remember seeing that in an England test team. My memories are of English spin bowling are clouded by that complete and utter twat Emburey, and various bit parts played by the woefully pathetic Tufnell, Croft, Edmonds and countless other underachievers. Panesar is accurate, he varies his delivery and he is able to spin the ball. I suspect that often he does not know what it is going to do. He is good to watch, unusual enough in a bowler. All of the current England batsmen are good to watch too, with the exception of Collingwood, and I don’t begrudge him his place in the team. So I have found another (lack of) activity which will cause my roots to embed themselves further into my couch as the long hot days of summer pass by. Regular readers (a Mrs Trellis of Silly Mid Off) will know that I do not pass the Tebbit test (and no, I will not, at this time, indulge my non-British fans be explaining that). I like to watch skilful players; however, in defence of the English cricket team who were criticised for their performances against Sri Lanka, I would point the critics towards today’s scorecard from South Africa. 624 for the third wicket, no less. Can I also put forward the name of Michael Holding as the filler of the void left by Richie Benaud.

I also took time to watch the Bledisloe cup game (see my previous Tebbit related comment). I thoroughly enjoyed it, despite being distracted by the whingeing Australian commentators. What a pair of big girl’s blouses. Then after the test match had finished on Sky there was a short film about Laker’s match in 1956. Some of the Australian players were interviewed. They are still whingeing 50 years later.

There, I don’t think there was anything slightly amusing in any of that, so I will have to try out Jack’s theory to see whether the title of the article attracts more readers than normal.

And I still might write about Fred Trueman at some stage.

Recycled garbage

I found this old comment of mine from Bozza's website - someone had visited me from this page.



"Boris's mummy and daddy were deeply shocked to find such a book under his mattress. Boris sheepishly tried to think of an explanation why one of such tender years should have an interest in Danish cheerleaders."

A slight intermission

OK, everyone over to Carmenzta's place and give her a big hug.

(and while you're there ask if she has any pictures that are more explicit (I did say 'slight'))

Oral sex

I trust that my loyal readers (aMToNW) are not bored of my reviewing TCM at livescience. If you are, please let me know, and I will ignore you.

One of the items of ‘research’ detailed there is about praying mantids. Every schoolboy knows that these creatures are notorious for their mating habits, in short, the female is wont to devour the male after the sexual act. Billy Brown of some university in New York has this to report: "Males are clearly not complicit, and the act of sexual cannibalism in praying mantids is an example of extreme conflict between the sexes." To you or I this may seem to be a little obvious. He probably gets paid for stuff like this. Either that or his married life is so extraordinarily violent that it is likely that either he or his spouse has spent some time in a penal institution. This all questions the intelligence of the male praying mantid. I of course, have never been devoured after any sexual act. I have managed this by noting that my partner may be a little peckish, and bought her a nice meal beforehand. This is a deterrent to post-coital cannibalism, and is more likely to result in her nodding off with a satisfied smile on her lips. I can only conclude that the praying mantid is thick. I do not think this point of view favours either the Darwinians or the ‘intelligent creationists’, which is quite pleasing as I hate to be the source of controversy. The question is, particularly to the gentlemen, how much risk would you take for a shag? Is there anyone out there who would, or has ever, risked death for a quick legover? Ladies, have you ever had congress with someone so attractive that you could not prevent yourselves from swallowing them whole afterwards?

Holiday tips

I was delighted to find out, during the course of my monitoring TCM at livescience.com, that they, in partnership with National Geographic Expeditions, are offering a trip to the DDay landings. For the modest sum of $5580 you can fly from New York to London, nip in to St Paul’s, then via Portsmouth get a ferry to the beaches in Normandy, where you will be decimated by the local friendly machine-gun wielding inhabitants. Those unfortunate enough to survive will be treated to some vile French food (yes, it is tautology, but over-emphasis is sometimes necessary).

If my American friends (a Mrs Trellis of North Wyoming) value my advice, I would caution them not to come. Violent death is seldom the exciting climax to a vacation that the travel agents would have you believe. This does not apply to dear Adam, who is currently working in Target. On balance, it is probably safer for you to risk being massacred on Utah beach than to work in a branch of Target in the southern states; we have all seen ‘Deliverance’.

PS - the Telegraph have realised that the value of their site will be enhanced by my patronage, and have consented to publish my comment.

I just don't get it

I feel it only fair to warn my loyal readers (aMToNW) that there are some aspects of human existence in which I have to declare a bias that might cause some of you to look elsewhere for the sort of advice that normally pours forth like a torrent from these pages.

Perusing the online Torygraph this morning, I see that one of the writers says that the sight of Stonehenge is the highlight of his annual journey to Devon, and opposes the building of a road tunnel in the area.

I just don’t get it. I drive by Stonehenge on my regular charitable visits to the underprivileged, uncultured and friendless in Devon, and my reaction to this historic monument is that it is just a bunch of rocks. I am not filled with wonder that these stones were dragged from Wales (by a man known as “Bert the half-wit” by his contemporaries) in the days before the railway network (and therefore made the journey in less than a year). I do not ponder for hours the significance of it, but I expect that future archaeologists will puzzle for hours why the previous owner of my house built a structure that looks like a well in order to hide a drain cover. They will probably deduce that it was an altar in some strange twentieth century religion, and there will be one day a year when future generations will assemble in North East Hampshire to commemorate this ancient wisdom, little realising that the true wisdom of the era was composed on a Dell 8300 not 30 feet away.

I just don’t get it. Once when I was in Rome, I had some time to spare and went to look at the Trevi fountain and the Vatican. Just a bunch of bricks. With some water in the former case. I felt no desire to queue to see what Michelangelo had done on the ceiling inside. When I was in Paris I did not go to the Louvre. I went to Notre Dame, and was underwhelmed. I just don’t get it. I have tried. I have visited the National Gallery in London. Totally unimpressed.

I have no desire to travel the world to look at stuff. Never seen nor want to see the Pyramids, the great wall of China, the grand canyon, Ayers rock, giant redwoods or the branch of Ikea on the north circular road.

If someone offered me the chance to view Goldie Hawn’s butt, then I would probably accept, but only if it didn’t clash with a Test match.

So, dear friends, if you want an opinion about how something looks or what colour to paint your house then you might be better asking the advice of someone who professes an interest in such matters.

And Pavlov, I don’t care.

Having grown somewhat tired of Boris playing the same record, just with more volume to try to get attention, I have decided to begin a relationship with Bill Deedes over at the Telegraph. I left a little comment on his latest article today (I doubt whether it will appear on line). I feel in need of friendly Tories to abuse, and have a great admiration for Bill. I hope that we can develop a new series of Dear Bill letters, because my world wide recognition is well over due, and who better to combat than a nonagenarian?

I have never had a letter published in the Torygraph. I expect that my views are about 12 centuries too early. They do a very good sports section, however, and don’t usually miss anyone of note in their obituary section (apart from the living who seem to be curiously neglected). Did you know that Peter Hawkins had died, for instance? Their on line fantasy football competition is also excellent. Yes, Richard, I pay to compete in that. On top of my subscription to Murdochvision. Good job you don’t know about my collection of Cecil Parkinson speeches, isn’t it?

Bill Deedes was famously the inspiration for Boot in “Scoop”. If anyone missed the filmed version with Donald Pleasance as Lord Copper, then try to rectify that forthwith. For people in North America, the DVD is available from Amazon.

More than a woman

Even in these dismal days of summer, when it is too hot to move and I am suffering from some sort of strange disease contracted in the USA, there comes the occasional shaft of light to brighten this dark age. This one comes from TCM at livescience. They are discussing the problem of cane toads in Australia. As recently as June I tried to provide an answer to this problem, something about getting Rolf Harris to sing until they had all killed themselves.

“Attempts to eradicate the toads have been largely unsuccessful, although scientists reported last year that they had managed to lure and trap the creatures using ultraviolet lights like those used in disco clubs.”

Yes, there we have it. I wish (not for the first time) that we had some Aussie visitors here. But perhaps some of you are familiar with nightlife in Queensland. Have any of you frequented the discotheques in the area from Brisbane to Cairns?

I have never been an attendee at such institutions. From what I can gather they are so noisy and poorly lit that it is impossible to discern what your dancing partners are saying and what they look like. I suspect that many of you are thinking that that would be an ideal environment in which I could find myself a partner, but so far I have never been quite that desperate.

So, despite my lack of first hand experience, I would urge caution. It may be at the end of the evening that you find that the attractive young lady with whom you have been dancing, chatting and drinking, is slightly more amphibitorial than you had hoped.

Here are the signs you should look out for to help you make sure that your dancing partner is not an impostor:

• Deep voice.
• Bulging eyes.
  
• Poisonous glands on back.

Now, some of you might be unkind enough to suggest that the above criteria are insufficient to distinguish them from the typical Queensland Sheila. I would never stoop to such ethnic stereotypes, (unless I could be sure that I had some Queensland readers).

Off you go now and check your marriage certificates. If your partner is named “Bufo Marinus” then you may have been deceived. Unless you are Tom. I understand that these creatures are prodigious breeders – right up your street.

The seamless handover of power

Then I grabbed her arse like this, and did that thing where you shake your cheeks between her breasts, and told her that I had licked the back of her head every time I posted a letter, and now could I lick the front please? Is that what you do on your weekly briefings?

Mystery revealed. What was actually said.

You silly fellow, there is no way that Schopenhauer was a Buddhist, he reached his conclusions through pure empiricism.

sits back and waits for that frightful swot Pavlov to correct something or other.

Jottings in lieu of listening to people talking bollocks about football

Children, if you are reading this because you think that old uncle Vicus is quite funny in his depraved way, then read no further. This article contains a very naughty word. It is not clever to use it, and you will get into trouble if your parents find out.

There. That should have done the trick.

The BBC has chosen as it theme music for the world cup "See the conquering hero comes" from Judas Maccabaeus by Handel.

You know the one - da da de dum dum, da dee da dee da dee da.

A lovely tune, very memorable and uplifting.

Unfortunately, it was written to celebrate the achievements of prince William, duke of Cumberland. He was a complete cunt. Even by the standards of the British royal family, even by the standards of the worst manifestations of British imperialism he was a complete cunt. The only good thing to say about him was that he helped in the downfall of Charles Stuart, who was also a cunt, but not quite such a complete one. I suspect that God might have intervened in this one, to make sure that neither of these complete cunts became monarch.

Back at the music, an analogy would be for Joni Mitchell to write a song about Dubya's marvelous foreign policy.

So, here we have an interesting paradox. Is it fitting that the current world cup be linked with a wonderful piece of music, or that it be linked with one of history'’s complete cunts?

I haven'’t seen all of the games in this competition, so I do not know whether there have been any memories that would do justice to the music of old Georg Frederick. None that I have seen, for sure. Argentina looked good against teams that allowed them to look good. But on the quality that I have seen, then perhaps, at best, Henry Mancini would be the composer to pick. Or have songs written by Stock, Aitken and Waterman. Or sung by Petula Clark.

I will remember this tournament more for the continued appalling rule breaking and wishy-washy enforcement that has characterised almost all World Cups. The continuing theme seems to be to cheat the better teams and players out of the competition.

My remedies to stamp out this behaviour are as follows:

• Introduction of the 10 minute sin bin for a yellow card.
• A fine, based upon a percentage of the weekly wage of the player, for all dissent; for example holding your arm up to indicate to the referee that the throw-in should be 10% of your weekly salary. Remonstrating with a referee or linesman should be a 100% fine. There should be no limit on the number of times these fines should be levied during a match. (Therefore it would be possible to be fined 3000% of your weekly salary during a single game). These fines would have to be paid by the player, not the club or country.
• Any player going to the floor injured (or, obviously, pretending to be injured) has to leave the field for a minimum 5 minutes for treatment.
• Tribunals should decide on diving. Penalties for diving should be a multiple of 1 match missed.

I saw the opening game of the tri-nations yesterday. Not a classic, but far more worthy of the epithet "“beautiful game"”. And I haven'’t even got around to writing about Freddie Trueman yet.

Go on, France and Italy, prove me wrong.

It certainly takes a while to catch up with reading all of the comments and new articles that have been posted by my many virtual friends while I have been away. My goodness, you are very productive.

Fortunately, none of you have felt it necessary to try to usurp my position by writing anything that is amusing, interesting, creative, informative, original or in any way worthwhile, so I am reassured that I can have another little break at some stage without too much to worry about.

A few brief comments while I find my feet (explains why the typing is so slow. Just read slowly, or, like Tom, keep pace with me by enunciating each letter).

1) Missouri, for some reason (I suppose there is a reason, but being in the heartland of Bush voters that may be presumptuous), is known as the “Show me” state. The local sheriff’s department is not very sympathetic to those of us who mistake the intent behind this motto.
2) Next time I am away, please do not allow Fred Trueman to die. There has not been a world class English bowling partnership since the days of Trueman and Statham, and I was hoping for a comeback. Now that both of them are dead I suppose that has become unlikely. Warning. I may write more about Trueman later, notwithstanding Richard’s contribution. Look away if men’s stuff offends.
3) I must apologise to John Motson. The football commentators on ABC are much worse than him, in the same way that we thought it was not possible to get a president who was more stupid than Reagan.

OK, I think I have about done.
I have made a very silly immature comment over at Tom’s about his masculinity.
Ditto Pamela and her eclipse-causing chest.
I have been very rude to my American friends over at Carmentza’s place.
So I can go now.

While I am away, try this game if you are bored:
Go to a blog that you normally read. Check the comments, most recent first.
When you find a comment from someone who you don’t know, go to their blog.
If you like it, leave a comment. Make the comment very obscure, but not anonymous.
If you don’t like the blog, search the comments for someone you don’t know.
And repeat.
Leave me a list of links to good places in the comments here.

(For those of you who are not familiar with html, you can put a hyperlink by the following example, except you need to change both of the { to <

{a href=”wwwrubbishorg”> some description of your own choosing {/a>

)

I have to warn you that I tried it and didn’t find anything interesting after 10 minutes, but what else are you going to do while I am away?

I hope to be checking in here over the next few days, to make sure that no impropriety has occurred, in the meantime, if you have a matter of an urgent and personal nature that needs to be aired, I have always found Tom to be a wise and sympathetic listener.

A plea for a more wholesome future

I have just got off of the telephone to Theodore Google, whose breakfast I interrupted in order to let him know, in no uncertain terms (does that sound like John Major?), what I thought of his latest little wile.

I am still not entirely happy with his insistence that visitors who search for a well known female athlete and her propensity for public defecation, the nature, size and photographic evidence of the chest of some fourth rate Neanderthal tv presenter of whom I have never heard, or the performance of public acts of an intimate nature in various UK locations should be sent my way. Regular readers (aMToNW) will recall that none of these items were originated by me, but were the result of irresponsible commenting.

Anyway, as I was saying, as if that were not enough, I am now plagued by some pervert looking for “Mr Seduction – Kansas City”. As if! As bollocky if! Unlike some, I do not swan around the globe looking for sordid sexual gratification. I find no need to, thank you very much. I get more than ample experiences of that kind from the crazed harpies who pursue me here (if the cap fits ….). I do not need my well earned vacation time sullied by Penelope Cruz look-alikes leaping out at me from every corner as I leisurely go about my lack of business. I may or may not have a passport in the name of ‘Mr Seduction’, but if I do, I shall not be using it on this trip.

I need some privacy.

I know exactly how Madonna feels, and how many of you can say that?