No News of the World. Get your cheap filth here

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

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

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

.

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

“After exposing them to a harmful bacteria, worms that reproduced through sex survived fairly well while those that were asexual died rapidly.”

To this I say ‘balderdash’. I would say that if your life prospects were limited to performing self-stimulation and cloning yourself entirely to satisfy the perverse curiosity of nerds, while you could see your mates in the next box along were going at it like the clappers all hours of the day, would you not be more inclined to roll over and look forward to some more satisfactory pastime in the next life?

Lactose Intolerant

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

******

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

Carefully constructed reasoning.

Just in case I have been equivocal about the state visit of president Obama, let me try to add some clarity.

State visit. Bollocks.

Official reception. Bollocks.

Hands across the sea. Bollocks.

Oldest allies. Bollocks.

Black tie dress code. Bollocks.

Star studded dinner. Bollocks.

7.823 squillion pounds security budget. Bollocks.

Endless patronising platitudes. Bollocks.

Special relationship. Bollocks.

Royal family. Bollocks.

Land of opportunity. Bollocks.

Working towards world peace. Bollocks.

Get it while you can

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

I got 75% on that

After a day in which I played my part in rejuvenating the economy, I turned on my car radio and was greeted by someone whose voice I did not recognise talking about examinations, of the academic kind. Several times they mention “rigorous exams”. I wondered whether anyone could use that term without reference to judging, or not having the Latin, or even mining. Who, I pondered, could this person be, so lacking in the rudiments of humour?

In my defence, I will claim tiredness, for there is only one person walking the planet so boring and humourless to miss that opportunity. Yes, you are faster than me, it was the idiot Gove. I am convinced that were he still with us, Gandhi would have given this idiot a sound kicking. If Gove lived in India, Jains would form knife wielding gangs and attack him. Members of the Society of Friends are locked in their homes when Gove is in town lest they are tempted to knee him in the groin. Even when he says something with which one might find some common ground the instinct is always to reassess one’s position. Whatever he says, I’m against it.

When the education system first welcomed me to its bosom, the Minister of Education was David Eccles. He held this position on a part time basis, as his other job was in the Goon Show. Eccles later became Minister of Someothershit and is famous for introducing entrance fees to our museums. Tit. I am not sure how much influence he had on me personally during my early years at school, and I don’t harbour any lasting grudges. The old fool is dead now, and I have no desire to seek revenge for whatever early trauma I suffered at King Richard III school, so full of dismal terror was the time.

We have, in this country, a proud tradition of allowing total twats to be in charge of education – I can recall Quinton Hogg, Patrick Gordon Walker, John Patten and Shirley Williams being put in charge. Rivalling Gove for being totally unsuited were Keith Joseph – mothers wouldn’t even let their children look at, let alone speak to him, and of course, everyone’s favourite aunty Mag the Hag. Even among all of these psychos, Gove stands out. I cannot explain why. Fortunately, I do not need to. You only have to listen to him for two minutes. I will not be so cruel to say that looking at him for two seconds would have the same effect, as I pride myself on not judging people by their appearance. Please help me to maintain these minimum standards. Let our views of him be formed by his policies not his face. Even if you would rather have a man dressed as a chicken formulating plans for our schools.

Now wash your hands please

As my closest fans will know, I recently passed the landmark indicative of being six sevenths on the way to my allotted term in this body. I enjoyed a quiet celebration, once the super models, Hollywood sirens and the duchess of Cornwall had been fought off, the interviews for the Tatler and “Twilight Twinks” given, and gallons of Mrs Heckmondwike’s Herbal Infusion consumed.

I naively expected that achieving this age would bring me some recognition of my status, and there would be some modest financial benefits coming my way. I believed that the caring, loving and compassionate government we all didn’t elect last year would be keen to enlist my support by, at the minimum, sending informative and interesting information my way.

I was soon disabused of this idea. Have no fear, dear reader, my spirits have not been dampened. My cheery disposition is unaffected. I can still be observed skipping gaily and energetically down the byways of North East Hampshire, a smile on my lips and a cheery greeting exchanged with fellow residents. But a lesser being may not have survived the disappointment of opening the first official missive that arrived after my birthday. What, you may be keen to discover, were the contents of this communication? Well, I might reply, they were these. I received a pamphlet outlining the danger of bowel cancer. “Happy birthday, Scurra!”, they exclaimed, “you are evidently not much longer for this earth, here’s our first guess at the disgusting ailment that might provide the finishing nudge towards the eternal abyss.”

In short, those nice people in charge want me to send them some excrement via the royal mail. I had some Conservative party leaflets nearby, and was tempted to forward them, but then considered how thoroughly miserable it must be to have a job in the postroom at the screening programme headquarters without subjecting them to vile photographs of slimy Dave. Turds not Tories is their motto.

This is our fine Big Society. Serve your time, work for most of your active life completing (or not) meaningless tasks, pay your taxes, contribute to the economy, and, just as you round the final bend and the finishing line is in sight, we will invite you to shit in a bag. 

I am Syrian, and don't call me Shirley

Ere we start living in paradise

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

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

I am only here to serve.

A welcome return.

From last night’s Lewis:

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

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

Public Service Notice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asterisks entered to protect the stupid.

Watch the blackboard while I go through it.

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

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

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

Let me try to be precise.

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

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

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

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

I think that was pretty much it.

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

Two from the top, please, Carol.

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

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

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

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

And your homework for today is ....

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

Is that clear? There are no other similarities.

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

***

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

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

Cox and Fox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s what I reckon:

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

Frustrate their knavish tricks

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

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

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

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

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

Young Andy must be feeling quite fed up.

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

Two and a half minutes.

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

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

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

Calm down.

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

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

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

I hope that this helps.

Worth every euro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Countdown to the next royal wedding, part one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porn - do you want it rammed down your throat?

Many of you (a Mrs Trollop of North Wales) will have been as excited as I by the news that Ed “Royston” Vaizey is attempting to curb internet pornography.
Ed is the minister for communications, but, sadly, he failed to inform me of his appointment. 
For those of you who are not familiar with the term “pornography” it is defined as writing or pictures of obscene material. I tried to search for it using the offices of Theodore and Evadne Google, but could find little information. Obscene means depraved or likely to offend. Here is one of Ed’s many problems. I find his whole government depraved and offensive; much more so than depictions of Mrs Sturgess of Bismarck Crescent, Bexhill on Sea waving her uncovered wobbly bottom via the medium of my computer terminal. Mrs Sturgess’s buttocks I can take or leave. I have no feelings either way about them. Mr Vaizey and his gang of arseholes, on the other hand, fill me with utter disgust, and the nation’s young people in particular should be protected from them. 
Ed has summoned leaders of the UK’s leading broadband providers to discuss how pornographic websites should be based on an opt-in rather than opt-out basis. The first 27 minutes of the meeting will be spent on “in and out” puns. 
The difficulty of this whole idea is fairly clear. There will need to be a constantly maintained list of pornographic websites. However, this is not as difficult as it sounds. I estimate that all that is needed for this is the largest database in the universe, and a small army (say 3 and a half million – unemployment cured at a stroke, missus) of clerical staff to check all of the web pages on the internet. Then someone will have to link this database to the browser software operating in the UK to prevent someone from accidentally straying over to the Rev. East’s site on the morning that he is discussing the pair of jugs on his Welsh dresser.
The last time a government had an idea so plainly daft was in the reign of Cnut, and you can all provide your own jokes. 
The good news is that all of the articles reporting on this cunning scheme will be filled with innuendo, in order to prove that our colleagues who earn money by blogging are not devoid of talent.
Take for instance Harry Wallop’s (sic) piece in the Torygraph; he mentions: “censorship through the back door”. Dirty bugger.
I am off for a quick Harry Wallop.

Something uplifting

I doubt whether this link will work everywhere in the world, but try it anyway. Quite long, particularly if you don't like the music, but a very good film. 
Arena programme on Brubeck

Мой сарай сада большле чем это

I found myself strangely moved this week. I felt twinges of national pride and patriotism, which, regular readers (aMToNW) will recognise, I normally eschew. 


I allude, of course, to the brave bid by the Football Association to have the competition for the 2018 football World Cup hosted in this fine country. 


I will pause here to allow those who want to argue about whether I should have said “football” or “soccer” or “association football” in order to please the pedants and foreigners in your midst. Having dismissed such prattling I will move on.


“Why Scurra”, I hear you query, “were you so moved?” “Well, dear reader”, I hear myself respond, “allow me to explain”. 


I felt very proud to be linked to a nation who thought that when it was important to show the international community our seriousness, our compassion, our understanding of the need to modernise, our wisdom and our all-round jollygoodchapness, we should despatch as our ambassadors David Cameron, young Bill Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and David Beckham. 


Before I get carried away, I should point out that I have no dislike of young Beckham, he was a fine footballer, and has done some good things. However, he is thick - very dumb indeed. It is not his fault. That is all.


The English have decided that their three ambassadors should include two inbred, upper class throwbacks, two thickos, two slimy gits, two people with no knowledge of football, and two people whose main fame is to provide the mass media with tedious stories about their tedious lives. Just in case this did not work, and most other nations, even had they managed to assemble such an august spearhead, would not have thought of this, they searched the kingdom for someone who embodied all of the above qualities. Thus, it was no surprise to see old Boris accompanying the team. 


Once again, Britannia has shown the way. The fact that these foreign chaps failed to recognise the glory and awarded the tournament to the Russians is perhaps an indication of just how inferior some of these people are, and we are perhaps better off not having to accommodate their footballers.

Diplomatic triumph

David was shocked to find such poor living standards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing a very difficult job

Keep the bloody noise down

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

Whither McLuhan?

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


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


It behoved me to add to the discussion thus:


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


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


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

Tethers, the end thereof.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can give this one a miss, Mr Mans

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

As you know

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


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


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


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

A certain sensation of reality.

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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