The Royal Year 2024

Annie is excited to attend the new Paddington premiere.

Chaz is not best pleased to see that it is yet another flipping vegetarian banquet.

Being queen has some disappointments.

   

"How many times do I have to tell you, you dull tart, we are not having flock wallpaper"

Nothing amusing about this one.

Chaz was prepared to execute a criminal before dinner in order to share cultural values with the Emir.

"For the 53rd bloody time, I am not that old"

The invitation specified fancy dress.

Chaz was feeling quite content, but moments later he was annoyed to find someone with a sillier hat than his.

For the third year running, Bill was the winner of the "Most Ornate Pigeon Crap" competition.

"No, tell them to back up, I'm the fucking king!"

Annie politely declined the offer of a bra fitting.
A few minutes later the gentleman was seen being loaded into an ambulance.

Chaz was unimpressed by the buffet at the official reception.

"Piss off - you are not rescuing any of my serfs."

Chaz was obliged to firmly grasp the young lady's wrists until he convinced her that he was not Russell Harty. *

"No I bloody well don't have Oliver Cromwell's mobile number"

Bill always enjoyed the Sandringham peasant hunt.

"I tell you I have been a good girl - is this all I get?"

Chaz selects the main course for the Balmoral dinner.

"See the blue moon? That's more common than an England tournament win."

Bill and Kathy had some embarrassing telephone calls to make after the brats' latest shoplifting jaunt. 

"Sit down you twat, I can't see a bleeding thing."

Soph couldn't remember buying that hat for Edward. Fourth time this year that she had mistaken someone else for her husband.

Tess was feeling very self-satisfied "I'm off home to sit down with a box of Thornton's Continental and watch a few episodes of 'Only Fools and Horses' - I don't have to attend the State Opening of Parliament anymore."

Chaz and Cams arrive on time to take part in the Wiltshire Flashing Festival.

Young Emily wasn't falling for any of that "pull my finger" shit.

* younger readers (there's no bugger here under the age of 80. Ed.) may have to google this reference.

Call to arms

Regular readers of this page (Do you really think anyone bothers? Ed.) will remember how delighted I was with the Brexit referendum. Overnight we freed ourselves of foreign dabbling in our affairs and reaffirmed our indisputable sovereignty. Hail to the house of Windsor!

There were those whingers who liked to bang on about a failing economy, people resorting to food banks, soaring costs of food, being ridiculed by the rest of the world, creating massive divisions in our society, and isolating ourselves from our neighbours. “So what!” I said, now we can get rid of those nasty plum coloured passports.

Now, alas, I am forced to admit that I was mistaken. I am stilling shaking with the decision that has been forced on my friends at Meridian Foods to discontinue the production of their organic, sugar-free fruit spreads. As I speed further into my dotage (have you sped into your dotage, missus?) I will have to do so without what has been a key part of my morning repast these 30 years. True, I still have my tahini and marmite on my home baked bread, but they will appear increasingly forlorn without the cheery accompaniment of morello cherry spread on the other half of the plate. I am not one to resort to trauma easily, and I took it stoically when they stopped make their plum spread (avoid the plural, Ed.) some time ago, but now the whole range has ceased to be.

Farage and his knuckle-dragging friends will get no further support from me! You can destroy the NHS and take education back to the Victorian era and I will consider it a fair price to pay for our freedom, but when you mess with my breakfast you have begun something the conclusion of which will be very unpleasant for you.

As A A Milne might have put it:
The Twat asked

The Receptionist, and

The Receptionist asked

The Spokesperson,

“Could we have some organic sugar-free wild blueberry spread for

The moron’s slice of bread” (Toast in this case, Ed.)

The Receptionist asked the Spokesperson,
The Spokesperson

Said “Not likely, mate, we can’t afford it, blame the Tories”. *

 

Who’s up for a game of insurrection?

 

*May have been my interpretation

In case you missed it.

 

Public service initiative

I have written to the chief executive of Sainsbury’s. There is no need to thank me.

 

 

Dear Simon

I am hoping that this matter will not intrude greatly on your daily routine – I am aware that those shelves don’t stack themselves.

I am communicating on behalf of LEICESTER (Local Easily Irritated Citizens [Especially Susceptible to Ear-aching Rubbish]) having spent a less than enjoyable perambulation round the aisles of your local establishment this very morning.

You will recall your excellent initiative at the beginning of lockdown whereby the elderly and infirm were allocated times when they alone could conduct their shopping activities. I was able to take advantage of that and appreciated your kindness. It is true that concentrating the bewildered and gormless into a fixed time period could have led to issues – more than the average number of customers blankly staring at the shelves for no apparent reason while their trolley blocked the lanes, and the meaningless meandering at a pace redolent of the chubby, asthmatic boy in the egg and spoon race to cite two examples – but I was able to zip round the store, and between March and May I only ran over 3 old ladies, all of whom apologised profusely.

Anyway, as I abhor circumlocutory verbosity, I will come to the main reason for this missive, which comes in the form of a request.

Would it be possible to set aside one or two periods each week for the remainder of this month when those not wishing to be assailed by the cacophony of what is politely described as Christmas music, could conduct their purchasing pursuits? All you would have to do is to press the off switch. I appreciate that you might see this request as simplistic, but I have given some thought to the issues arising and would be prepared to sign a waiver. I am cognisant of the health and safety matters resulting from the gathering together of those likely to take advantage of this scheme. Without the “music” (I wonder what Haydn would have called it?) then the sounds of sundry villagers whose disposition might range from mildly nervous to downright grumpy, all tutting, sighing and grumbling might be discomforting for your staff – you may even have to go as far as hiring extra security guards. But, on the whole I think that if you can ride this storm all of your colleagues will benefit from having overcome the challenge and standards will improve. Indeed, I might be inclined to spend more time, and in consequence money, chez vous if it meant not having to listen to some hackneyed jeremiad or the wailings of a third-rate quasi-musical ensemble.

Anyway, my dear old cabbage, give it some thought – but time is running out. I know that you may have other pressing matters to attend to – the issue of your failing to stock wholemeal hot cross buns any longer, and why they were only ever available between New Year and Easter while the other stodgier varieties were and are in abundance throughout the year, for example – but I am sure it will gladden your heart to see me skipping gaily up your produce aisle should you be able to satisfy my plea.

Love and peace

Evidence of further poor planning by those in charge

The BBC carries an article (tl;dr) entitled "Katie Mack: 'Knowing how the universe will end is freeing'"

The essence of it is that no-one knows how and when the universe will end, but posits that it would be a good thing if we did know.

What it fails to address are the really important issues such as:

1) If the universe ends during an Ashes series, how will it be decided which country should be considered the winner. Does the Duckworth Lewis calculation extend to include the end of existence?

2) What happens to unredeemed Nectar points?

3) Is insurance for white goods covered by this event?

4) If the Hindus have got it right - I have no reason to doubt them, other than the anecdotal evidence of knowing some who are very dodgy indeed - then the universe will be created the next day by Brahma. Will we be afforded accommodation while all this nonsense is going on? I have no objection to a temporary sojourn in a cosmic Premier Inn, provided that there is ample vegetarian/vegan food and that I don't have some noisy buggers in the room above (bloody Hindus celebrating the new Day of Brahma most likely).

5) If we are still in lockdown, will there be some warning, so that I don't have to bother to get up early on the Wednesday of that week to go shopping in Sainsbury's with all of the other doddery old twats?

Mr Creosote

I was advised yesterday by cousin Mary to enjoy my birthday “without indulging in too much cake”. I replied ‘Please explain to me the concept of "too much cake", I admit to never having been a student of philosophy.’ 

She kindly replied ‘it might be more accurate to speak of physiology rather than philosophy in this instance! When your shirt-buttons start popping and you feel you may be "bursting at the seams", you have certainly had "too much cake"’

I was grateful for the reply but, alas, it did not satisfy me. The symptoms she described were, in my view, evidence of clothing of the wrong size or an inadequate metabolism.

Most of us are unable to devote much time to deep reflection on the essence of existence, being more driven to concentrate on those activities essential to survival – foraging for sustenance, getting the required daily 11 hours sleep, correcting errors on twitter and watching “Only Connect”. However, the current suspension of test cricket, the IPL and Super Rugby allows me a few moments of reflection.

On a similar theme to the cake conundrum above, I confess to being troubled by the simplistic “glass half full/half empty” explanation of the difference between optimists and pessimists (I have always favoured the third option, that of engineering, which posits the case that the glass is the wrong size).  Facts of which we are not informed include the size, location and contents of the receptacle.  If one were thirsty and the glass was to hand and contained some nourishing, thirst-quenching substance, then it might be safe to say that the position of seeing the glass half full was an optimistic one. Alternatively, if the glass contained a highly radioactive substance then the size of the glass and its proximity would be factors in determining degrees of optimism/pessimism.

It is not in my nature to bemoan the shortcomings of this creation. I am sure that the next upgrade, or version 2, will eliminate sweet potatoes, capitalism, carrot cake, reality tv, misanthropy, the cult of celebrity, racism and Ikea. We should not be too hard on God for his oversights, particularly if she only had seven days to complete the task. (This of course raises the troubling question of who it was who was powerful enough to set ridiculous deadlines that constrained an omnipotent being – Mary, see what your edict has unearthed?)

I hope that this helps.

Darwin Award

I have been inundated with a letter, from a Mrs Virgin Australia of New South Wales and been forced to reply.

Dear Virgin Australia (winner of the oxymoron of the year competition 2016)

I was more than a little perturbed to find, upon opening my online calendar yesterday, that you have booked me on a flight from Newcastle (NSW) to Darwin via Brisbane on February 7^th (your time). It is unclear how you see me travelling to Newcastle – the journey involves 22 hours of flying and 8 hours of waiting at airports at a cost of over £8000 first class. I have no idea what attractions Darwin holds that would make this time and expenditure worthwhile. I have never been to either Darwin or Newcastle and have only a passing knowledge of Brisbane which I found to be adequately pleasant in a truly unremarkable way. I have a very good friend who lives there. I have not been to Newcastle upon Tyne either. I have been to Newcastle under Lyme, which is just down the road from Talke Pits, home of the famous Development Company, very much the Bloomsbury Group of the early 1970s.

I note that there is a ward in Darwin called Fannie Bay. I should alert you to the information that I am far too seasoned and sensible to be allured by cheap inuendo. I can find little in the way of entertainment or culture in that time period, not even the Breast Feeding Education Class at the Palmerston Recreation Centre on the 15^th has any appeal.

I can only conclude that someone has given you my email address in error. I am now concerned that just as his itinerary appeared in my diary so mine might appear in his. While I am sanguine about the prospect of his taking my place at either of both of my dental and urologist appointments (tell him not to get the two confused) I don’t want him pinching my tickets for Stewart Lee at the De Montfort Hall. Please do your best to contact him and whereas I would offer a warm Pom welcome should he appear on my doorstep, I do not want him messing with my busy social calendar.

Love and peace.

He shall have a square 'un

I am tickled pink to hear from Aaron who says:

Patient Visitation Group

“Dear Brothers,

We are looking to update you on 3 areas.

1. The concept of having a team so that when you are covered up with “matters” you can let others know that the hospitals are covered. This requires the Chaplin to be in communication with the team as well as the team being in communication with each member. This approach has worked very well in the areas that have been implemented. As you may be aware, there are multiple brothers currently assigned to each hospital. If you find that the brothers you are partnered with is unable to assist you, please notify me and let’s work on getting your team(s) built.
2. We are sending you a template(s) for business cards. We would like you to personalize it and get it printed professionally so that you will have a card to use at the hospitals.
3. If you do not have the link to the Google docs reporting tool it; it is as follows (link below). If you need training or having difficulty accessing the link, please let me know.

We have had many good experiences and developments with the PVG work and have received commendations from HLC for the work done. In particular, the brothers feel the love and we make Jehovah’s heart happy when we visit them.”

I have replied thus:

Hello Aaron

I trust that you have recovered from your somewhat prolonged journey across the desert.  I am not a theologian, and when the good book describes you as a “high priest” I hope that they mean exalted rather than under the influence of some narcotic. I have no issue with what folk do in the privacy of their own space, but feel compelled to express reservations about their suitability for the clergy. I recall the incident when dear old Loopy Longfellow applied for the position of Patriarch of the Assyrian Church of the East, but failed the written exam because he tried to inhale the ink.

I deduce from your message (it isn’t entirely clear) that you propose to spread your message among the sick and infirm. I am sure that you are sincere in your objectives, but have you paused to consider the feelings of your visitees?  Were I to be lying abed just having had 28% of my giblets extracted or some appendage removed or been treated for galloping lurgy with wire-brush and Dettol, I suspect that the prospect of being targeted by a proselytiser, no matter how alluring, would be unlikely to stir feelings of a cordial nature. Indeed, I might be obliged to comment that the prospect of eternal damnation with which they were threatening me would be preferable to my current situation and state of well-being. Neither is the less-than-welcoming response limited to those sick of the palsy. The last time a member of your church called at my house they proffered a tract entitled “How do you view the future?”. “How do you view the future?” she asked. “Without tracts” was my brief but entirely veracious response, with which I closed the door. If folk do come bothering me when Rohit Sharma is on 84 then they should not have any expectations of lengthy conversation.

In short, I am not sure why you have tried to enlist my support.

I should add that I have turned down similar invitations from Mephistopheles who promised me dominion over the Earth. I told him to bugger off (I have retired and the last thing I need is more responsibility; I still have over 100 unread books on my Kindle). I believe this proves that I am an equal opportunities misanthrope.

I am not sure who HLC are. I immediately though of Harrogate Ladies’ College, naturally, but cannot see any reason for that fine body of youthful femininity to be impressed – they are non-denominational. Perhaps you may mean the village of Holton-le-Clay – just up the road from me in Lincolnshire. I should warn you that Lincolnshire is not the place to go for excitement, and its inhabitants are easily impressed.

Anyway, Aaron, old pomegranate, it was kind of you to think of me, and I reciprocate the warmth. Or perhaps you have the wrong email address?

Love and peace.

Please read the terms and conditions

I confess to bearing Luddite tendencies when it comes to cellular telephones. It is a technological phenomenon that has washed over me leaving no debris in its wake.

I have a mobile telephone. I use it, on average, once a month to make a telephone call. I seldom send a text message. Most of the time it is switched off. I prefer to see where I am going when out and about, increasingly important these days when you are constantly the subject of intrusive physical contact by those too busy texting Gary telling him what Sarah Louise has just texted to look where they are going.

I know that there are all sorts of uses for these devices. I have only dabbled at the rim of the ocean of exciting possibilities and suspect that the occasional dipping of the metaphorical toes therein will suffice.

I was bemused, however, by this headline on the BBC news website:

“I delivered a baby over the phone”

I am very concerned about this for a variety of reasons. I chose not to read the article lest I became more alarmed. I have never been one to let ignorance of the facts deter my forming an opinion, I believe, indeed, that it is one of the criteria to which you are compelled to agree when signing up for internet access.

Was the baby downloaded from the cloud? If so I shall be considerably more circumspect in my use of the device if that is the case. I have no wish to press an icon that I assumed was a link to an app that updated me with the plot synopsis of the last 8 years of “Homes under the Hammer” only to find myself in possession of a newly born human. Does the technology only work with infants? Imagine your surprise to find that while you had been intending to check your email you had inadvertently beamed Gyles Brandreth down.

Even more alarming, mainly from the point of view of the baby, is the prospect of delivery by landline. One can only assume that the expulsion from the womb is a traumatic enough event without it concluding with a tortuous journeys down very thin cable via a junction box in Cirencester.

Don’t ask me, I can barely comprehend the mechanics of a propelling pencil.

Many happy returns

An email from a young lady called Gwen, a young lady I have never met nor communicated with before, asking me whether I had a good birthday has prompted me to record some memorable birthday occasions. I do this in order to save the rest of the world from having to enquire – I trusted that your curiosity will be sated by a few of these recollections. Whether they are good is not a straightforward matter – opinions change over the years and it is perhaps better to eschew judgement on events that may have been seen differently by some of the participants.

Allow me to begin (Allow? Ed. Who tf is going to stop you) by describing the year that my birthday was spent on the Orient Express. Some friends had decided that it would be fun. I did not entirely share their sanguinity but as I had declined invitations for excursions of the same nature I felt it appropriate to join in with this one. (My cynicism was grounded in evidence, I may, should time allow, describe at some point several of the vicissitudes experienced by my social circle).

It was decided that Bucharest would be our destination – again, not my choice. I am no real fan of rail travel, and London to Bucharest takes almost as long as the 14:42 service between Waterloo and Alton.

Although we set off with optimism and expectation, our spirits were somewhat dampened when it transpired that, due to a booking glitch, Tubby Mountjoy would have to share a sleeping compartment with Lord Hailsham.  I need hardly say that Hailsham was not one of our party – we had renounced the practice of consorting with senior politicians ever since the fiasco with Duncan Sandys – he simply had chosen to travel at the same time.

Tubby complained bitterly about Quintin’s appalling flatulence. We did not take it very seriously and thought that Tubby was exaggerating, but were forced to concede that the claims bore some veracity when a particularly alarming emission set off the smoke alarm and we had to spend several hours in the waiting room of a somewhat squalid station waiting room a few miles east of Zurich while the train was fumigated and the equipment repaired. On the bright side, Tubby was happier because the staff insisted on moving his Lordship. They set him up with a mattress in the luggage compartment at the rear of the train, and insisted that the rear door be left ajar in order to improve the air flow. Someone, can’t remember who, postulated that this would propel the train forward at a faster rate and thereby make up for lost time, but I am an agnostic when it comes to the laws of physics.

Countdown to another Royal Divorce part 1.

It behoves me to assist those readers of a foreign persuasion, and also those a little slow on the uptake (that just about covers every bugger, Ed.) to explain the contents of the document whose image is currently circulating on the electric internet concerning the forthcoming shitfest in the UK.

For most of us, when informed about, and invited to, a wedding, a simple “Fuck off, I will be busy watching television” is an adequate and concise response, but dear old Lizzie Saxe-Coburg-Gotha – one of the few people old enough to remember how to use Microsoft Paint – has to make a song and dance about it.

I shall endeavour to explain some of the quaint terms and usages:

“ElizabethR”: The R stands for “Richards”. This is a throwback to the happy days she spent playing the part of Mrs Richards in Fawlty Towers. Even now, she affects to be deaf, if only to irritate the shit out of Phil.

“Our other Realms and Territories”: These days, the Scilly Isles and Lindisfarne (when the tide is out).

“To all to whom these Presents shall come”: ‘Oi! You lot’, would be more concise and easier to comprehend.  There are no presents. Young Hal will be lucky if she slips him a fiver on the day, her parsimony being the stuff of legend.

The Great Seal:

(come on, some readers expect this sort of thing).

Privy Council:

(That’s enough catering for the lowest common denominator, Ed.)

“Know Ye that We”: She refers to herself as more than one person. You will have to consult a Freudian about that, beats the shit out of me. As for the Know Ye bit, let’s just call it rhetoric, out of kindness.

“Our Most Dearly Beloved Grandson”: she can’t abide the other fuckers.

Great Seal:

(This time for the younger readers)

“Signed with her own hand”: She keeps the hands of several people who have got on the wrong side of her, in a drawer in her living room. When she uses one of those hands to sign, then the writing becomes even less comprehensible.

I will not go into all of the dialogue that has beset me these last few months about declining my invitation. Suffice it so say that I was not influenced by the prospect of having to sit immediately behind Anne Laurence and her legendary flatulence, as has been reported in some of the media.

Victory for common sense

It will not surprise you to know that I fully support the proposal of Mr Trump to train the teaching profession in the use of ordnance.

I adopt this position on the basis of experience and watching how effective it was during my schooldays.

I cannot imagine that Dr Adey would have been so successful in instilling respect for Chaucer’s popularisation of the vernacular had he not reinforced his thesis with his trademark P938.

Miss Stones, later Mrs Lewis, was famous for her enquiry about the number of Commandments – “Are there nine commandments or are there ten? Ask yourself one question – do I feel lucky?”

Who can forget the day that “Butch” Robinson and “Sundance” Hargreaves Minor came a cropper when they tried to sneak out before the bell had gone and were met with the combined fire power of the staff of the biology department?

I doubt whether many of us would have understood the birth of the Romantic movement in symphonic music had Mr Newby not kept time with Mendelssohn’s Reformation symphony by shooting the score onto the blackboard with his famous Smith and Wesson.

None of us would have mastered the declension of German verbs had not Herr Clarke and Herr Still been mounted in gun towers.

As for Barry Batterham’s replacement of the starter pistol on Sports Day with an AK47, what can one say? Seldom have the competitors in the 880 yards felt so motivated.

Happy days indeed.

Filth

The Torygraph reports:

"France declares Marquis de Sade's ... 120 Days of Sodom 'national treasure' hours before auction"

Another example of the cultural ties we will lose when we leave the European Union. Scholars should note that this fine description of life in an English public school was written 26 years before the similarly themed "Sense and Sensibility".

I have not read Monsieur de Sade’s works, but believe that he foretold the coming of the current First Lord of the Treasury by naming one of the characters “Thérèse”.

Some would argue that the gratuitous violence in “Three Men in a Boat” makes it more enjoyable than that soppy farce “The Three Musketeers” which it plagiarises, but the joyous frolics in the latter capture the spirit of those merry japesters, the French aristocracy. (You haven’t read that one either, have you? Ed.)

It is alarming that so much of the great British literature which we are encouraged to venerate while we are at school is simply a poorer reworking of sublime French works of art. Who can deny that the coming of age novels in the Harry Potter series are inspired by “À la Recherche du Temps Perdu”? Bridget Jones is clearly based on Madame Bovary, and only the most uneducated could fail to see that “Wuthering Heights” is an almost literal translation of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame".

Let me be among the first to congratulate the French government on moving to protect its national works of art and manuscripts. I shall later be writing to the cabinet to ask that the works of Jeffrey Archer be kept in the UK and only used as a deterrent in the event of a nuclear holocaust. Perhaps some of my transatlantic friends could join me in ensuring that the works of Dan Brown are also kept in maximum security.

Another helpful discourse on the nature of existence.

I am delighted to read that this year’s Nobel Physics prize has been awarded to three gentleman who have detected ripples in space time.

It is hard to explain just how much this means to me, as unlike the apparatus that was used to detect the aforementioned ripple, no mechanism has been invented to measure such refined units of meaning. Of course, much of this has passed me by; the last time I was in a physics lab the most sophisticated instrument was the micrometer screw gauge. I will pause while you make your own facile (witty, shurely? Ed.) remarks about screwing and measuring very small things. Finished? Good.

This is all to do with (excuse me if I am being simplistic) the ability of very large objects moving at speed being able to slow down or speed up time. By large objects what is meant is black holes. (All the while I am writing this I am reminded of a particularly humorous comment made by a colleague about an event germane to this thread, but as the subject of that comment may one day read this I am obliged to simply apologise for being distracted). When they collide they produce ripples.

Now, call me picky, but if I refer again to the last time I was in a physics lab, it was in the company of some of the least able pedagogues ever to exist. What they could do, however, despite their lack of mass was to make time slow down. I once spent 263 hours in double physics one Monday morning. Mr S* was a short dapper man with an admirable beard who could monotonise for Europe. The other Mr S* was a slim, sardonic creep who kept the spirit of Torquemada alive, despite being much less funny. Mr M* was a dishevelled loon who also taught RE, I suspect in an attempt to persuade a benevolent deity to instil a sense of interest in his pupils.  So please don’t come round here telling me that they’ve only just detected these phenomena.

Yellow cards will be shown to anyone trying to make jokes about raspberries or nipples.