Rest in peace

My very clever friends at Science Daily (much too frequent in my view) report that they have found bones under a floor in Bulgaria that may belong to John the Baptist.

They do not mention who or what he was baptising under a floor in Bulgaria, but that is not the only flaw (geddit?) in their preposterous argument. They say that the bones are from the period in which he would have lived.  According to calculations there were about a hundred and fifty million living at that time, so quite how they have narrowed down the odds to it being Johnny the water fetishist we are left to speculate.

This is the problem that I found myself faced with. I am firmly on the side of the fence of those who are fairly convinced that evolution is a proven fact. I don’t really care too much about it, but have no problem in accepting evidence as evidence. On this side of the fence live most of the scientific community. There are large proportions of the scientific community who decry the views of those who believe that God created the earth about 6000 years ago. They view these people as silly or deluded. They are entitled to that view, but hardly enhance their reputation or credentials by conjecturing as to the identity of some poor bastard having a quiet kip near the Black Sea, and saying that there is a chance that these may be the remains of someone, let alone someone whose existence is in question.

In short, which side of this pointless argument contains the larger proportion of silly buggers?

Now, if these people were really smart they would do a DNA comparison to determine the identity of JtB. I can help them here. I have in my loft the incisors of his brother Eric, and somewhere in the vicinity a tupperware container holding the pickled spleen of his dear old gran.

In loco parentis

This evening I was in receipt of an invitation to attend a “catering meeting” from a group of people who appear to be governors of a primary or infant school. I, of course, felt obliged to decline – one can only give so much – but am now feeling a little sad.

In mitigation, regular readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wembley) will be aware that I scarcely have time to eat, what with constant demands for my participation in one project or another. This summer has, of course, had more than the usual degree of lunacy associated with the correspondence. I think that Camilla has been on the telephone five nights out of every six since October, each call with a more preposterous idea. Somersaulting down the aisle at the service (6^th November), doing a duet with Grace Jones (January 17^th), spiking Philip’s Wincarnis with drain cleaner (January 23^rd) (she obviously found some other poor sod to do that). It culminated with her (May 5^th) trying to enlist me, Gary Lineker, Shakin’ Stevens and Oliver Letwin to dress up as Somalian pirates and attempt to capsize the barge. She is quite good fun most of the time, but when you’ve missed four episodes of Emmerdale in a week, while she guffaws down the electric telephone sounding much like a pregnant rhino with laryngitis, it does become a bit tiresome.

Then it was some unctuous cove from the Football Association, name of Bernstein or some such (and I only entertained his calls because I assumed he was one of Leonard’s family and wanted me to conduct Candide again). Could I travel with the team to Eastern Europe and give some of my inspiring talks, he wanted to know. “I could, old egg, of course I could. But I won’t” (He didn’t like this). “Tell you what,” I conceded, “You teach them the alphabet, and I will teach them tactics”. I haven’t heard since.

The biggest sodding nuisance of all, and this, I fear, is why I have been sometimes curt in my correspondence with others, has been that irritating little tit Coe and his floppy haired pillock of a mate, Bozza. Will I give out the prizes, will I sing the anthem, and will I act as host to various world leaders and other VIPs. Will I buggery, I told him. That is the edited version. What I suggested he do to Boris, and with what equipment, would result in an event that would make the Olympics worth watching. I doubt, however, whether it will come to pass.

So, members of the school catering committee, I apologise for my brevity, but hope you will be able to sympathise with my plight. I am hoping that the kind people who are my closest associates on this heavenly little corner of the electric internet will leave some comments here that will inspire you to excel in the field of juvenile catering. So, come on, gang. What suggestions do you have for satisfying the discerning palates of the youngest generation?

Just in case that, like me, you missed all this shit

As an early morning treat, Liz was cheered up by looking at some really old dudes.

The first really feeble assassination attempt of the day.

Mick wonders how many more fucking boats he has got to look at, and whether anyone would notice if he slapped the really annoying tart clapping in his ear.

Sophie gets very excited, as she spots the Queen. Shortly after this photograph was taken, Mick had to be dragged off of her throat, as she asked for the third time who was in the boat.

Liz did not feel inclined to embrace Cammie's imprecation to "look at the tits on that".

Charles is visibly tense as he prepares for the musical chairs final.

Charles wasn't entirely sure what it was, but was still fairly sure that there wasn't any "dozy tart" on the table.

As had been feared, Fergie gatecrashed yet another event.

Stop press

Can I ask you all to get in touch with your compassion and spare a thought for poor dear Brian Leveson. Prayers, if you are of that disposition might be appropriate. I do not know what the man has done to be punished so severely.


For many months he has had to listen to the outpourings of some of the most odious, criminal and slimy sectors of society day after day, with only the occasional comic interlude. 


He has barely had time to wash the odour of Blair out of his clothes before he is sent back into the fray to deal with Gove and May.


I shall endeavour to find some suitably nourishing vegan snacks to send to him in the hope that he can struggle through. 

Up against the wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St George’s Day – fuck off.

Proud to be English – fuck off.

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

Our national heritage – fuck off.

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

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




Addendum:

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

Another discussion of matters probably better left undiscussed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Have you had your vulva retouched, missus?)

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps I am just old-fashioned.  

May cause offence to excrement

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Fuel for your bunsen burner

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

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

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

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

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

In which Scurra yet again expands the boundaries of taste.

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

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


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

We paid for this, you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Aristocrats"

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

Adam Leonard made me do this.

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

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

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

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

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

"The Aristocrats!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Countdown to the jubilee : part 1

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

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

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

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

Public Service Announcement

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

Goodbye Maurice, we will miss you

Open your wallets and repeat after me "Help yourself"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whither Hadrian?

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

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

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

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

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

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - Part 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two hours later I get the following list via email:

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

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

Banker's Bonus

A few considered reflections on the plight of Fred Goodwin.

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

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

The bastard.

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

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

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

Thank you for listening.