Tuesday, December 25, 2007

This is the speech that I wrote for Liz this year, I hope that she uses it.

When I reached the zenith of my days of rebellion, having sacrificed the chances of a top rate education, and squandered more opportunities than you could stuff a hippo with (or ”than with which you could stuff a hippo” for those of you whose education was not squandered (twats)), and sat around typically watching Tom trying to decide whether getting out of his chair would ultimately benefit the cause of love and peace, I was of a cheery disposition, and optimistic that the world was going to be shaken by the new consciousness that we were experiencing.

Well, we didn’t end war, greed, poverty, misery. We weren’t part of a giant leap in evolution whereby mankind discover the mysteries of the journey within and resolved the arcane questions of the meaning of life. We didn’t manage to convince anyone that it was important to care for the planet, at least until it was too fucking late.

I am not sure how much I thought it likely that any of these changes would come, I suspect that like most of my friends I enjoyed being part of a distinctive rebellious minority (at least until it brought us to the attention of the drug squad) and took delight in the derision with which we were greeted by the straight world.

But one thing that I thought would definitely change would be the obsession with tradition.

I fucking hate tradition. I fucking hate tradition with a passion bordering on the psychotic. I really, sincerely hope that you all have a lovely time today, and every other day, but if your enjoyment involves any of crackers, silly hats, the fucking queen’s speech, brussel sprouts, saying “and all the trimmings” (FUCK OFF) then please do not invite me to be part of it. In fact, shove it. The same goes for your new year celebration and the fucking Scottish song (they only fucking composed it so that they could laugh at the rest of the world looking like twats singing it, there’s not much to be cheerful about if you are born in Glasgow for fuck’s sake). And most of all your fucking weddings with your fucking silly clothes, twatty speeches, bollocky confetti and whatever the fuck else some twat has decided is essential so that you can spend 3 million pounds on fucking dross. Thank you for your kindness, but I will not be attending.

What kind of deep rooted insecurity in humanity is it that makes it impossible to enjoy themselves without repeating meaningless rituals? “Oh, it’s a tradition! Dorothy choked on a chestnut the last two Christmases, so we’ve got to fucking force them down her throat until she turns blue, it’s a tradition”.

So, today, as you sit around your Ikea dining table having devoured a manky poultry carcass with “all the fucking trimmings”, and you are so amused by finding a coin in your food that you think your lungs are going to turn bright purple and explode, take a look at Uncle Norman, with his silly green fucking paper hat, playing with the fucking silly bit of plastic that was in his cracker and drooling down the new cardigan that Santa brought for him, and instead of thinking “It’s nice to see him enjoying himself” ponder on whether it would be possible for him to look any more fucking ridiculous than he does at this moment. You don’t have to upset him by saying it out loud, but pause for a second and think to yourself “You dozy looking old cunt”.

I hope that this helps.

Happy Christmas.

Monday, December 24, 2007

Overtaken by all of the joy

I was wrong. It is a time for goodwill to all men, and reverence for the sacred message.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 17

I was loathe to begin this little essay because I know how you all tire of hearing the regular christmas nonsense of my complaints about the Windsors and their persistent urging of me to spend the holiday season with them. I am, as you know, blessed with a patient nature, but many years ago I swore that enough was enough, and my first year at home I sent them all a biography of Cromwell. Camilla got a copy and without bothering to read it, telephoned to ask if Mrs Cromwell was the duchess of Cromwell like her, and were they related? I quietly agreed, and said that she should get someone to draw up a family tree. I said that I knew of people who could trace their ancestry back to the Norman conquest. She was really excited and said that maybe Charles was related to someone famous like William the Conqueror. Yes, I said, shocked that she should be able to relate William the Conqueror to the Norman Conquest. But I needed not to fret, because she then told me that her cousin used to go out with someone called Norman Conquest, and perhaps he was related too. Can you imagine what it is like playing charades with these people? They spend most of the time finding one of the staff to work out whether their title is a book, a film or a play, which is quite amazing since none of them have ever finished a book, and the only play they have seen is the annual panto - Aladdin – at the King’s Lynn rep.

Anyway, it was Camilla who has been disrupting my week again. She saw on the news that Liz is now the oldest reigning monarch. “We must do something to celebrate it, darling,” she oozed. I expect her motive is to set a precedent so that if she manages to outlive Liz and become queen herself (yes, I know, but you trying telling her), then she will be assured of a party. Her daftest idea (and I know you won’t believe it) (and there was some pretty healthy competition in that particular category) was to re-enact Liz’s birth by having her come down a slide and some curtains smeared in loganberry jam. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘undignified’ you daft bastard?” I asked the future consort of the head of state. “It was exactly that sort of stupid antic that finished off other contenders for the title of eldest monarch. See if anyone can tell you the story of Edward the second and the little party game of ‘what will fit up your bum’.”

Calls alternated between various members of the family wanting me to go to Sandringham, and those asking if I would act as babysitter to David Linley. The poor boy is the dullest company at the best of times – have you ever known a bright chippy? I told Liz I couldn’t possibly entertain him because I was out of brandy snaps, but I don’t think she got the reference.

Simple Sophie Wessex seems to think that she is the only woman on the planet to have given birth. She still can’t think of a name for him. I read that he will be given the title “Viscount Severn”. I told her to call him “Blake”. I might get away with it - I thought “Magnificent” was too obvious even for her, neither would it be particularly appropriate given his genetic make-up. I told her that she would be less tired if she put both the new baby and Edward to bed at the same time, and read them both the same bedtime story. It wasn’t entirely true, last January she had to be taken to bed with exhaustion when one of her birthday cards had a poem with more than one verse.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

This is hilarious

For many years I have felt ever so slightly superior to those people who find themselves addicted to the internet. While I spend many happy hours poking around in the dark corners of the web, I have always managed to avoid obsession.

I have scorned those who cannot stop playing solitaire. I am a tad judgmental about the porn addicts (I turned down the invitation to appear on “Hetero Hampshire Hunks”, because I do not think that these sites are improving the lot of humanity). I have chided Tom about his escape into Second Life. I eschew chain mail, discussion group membership and anything that is recommended as being “hilarious”.

This morning, all of that changed. I have previously alluded to my fondness for the radio programme “I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue”.

Here for the overseas readership (A Mrs Trellis of North Wellington) are some extracts from the show:









They are all very short, so have a good listen.

However, today I found on Facebook a user group called “I'm sorry, I haven't a clue apprieciation society”. The spelling mistake is theirs, not mine. I am hooked. They play the games online. There are something like 8000 posts on line. I have only justed started to read them all. I lolled. I lolled more than I have lolled for a long time. Repeatedly and often. I will never get away. Come in and rescue me if you dare.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Seasonal quiz

You can find out for yourselves by searching the internet why the lady was striking matches aboard a plane, but I doubt whether you will find out the reason behind these statements:

She was carrying safety matches, which the TSA allows in carry-on luggage. The matches are not allowed to be struck, however.

This year’s seasonal competition – it is in several parts – first prize “bugger all” – is to determine what the TSA thinks passengers will do with unstruck matches, then to decide what "TSA" stands for, and finally to see whether you can smuggle a gun on board by insisting that you are not going to fire it. Once you have got through that part of the test, I need to you to move to an unrelated matter, although points will be awarded for finding a connection, which is the problem confronting my friends at LiveScience.com, which is to determine why pubic hairs are curly. Do they know for a fact that all pubic hairs are curly? In order to pose their initial question I would ask for evidence to support the argument. Have any of you had anyone who may have been a scientist probing your nether regions (not you, Adam, wait a few years) recently? My memory is not what it was, but I don’t think that I have been researched. She told me her name was Penelope Cruz, and I believed her. Anyway, they know the components that cause the curliness, but not why there is a need for it. Any suggestions? Finally, can you come up with a suitable name for the newly born eighth in line to the British throne?

When you have tired of all of that, try this little quiz that requires less imagination but more erudition. I think Dave publicised it recently, thank you Dave or whoever else it was – I have been told about it from several sources – but have a go. If, like me, you have just been listening to Uxbridge English Dictionary on ISIHAC, then I would give it a few minutes.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Snarling in a festive way

My dear friend I,LTV has sent me an email offering to send me a seasonal greeting:

I have bought a pack of cards with robins on them
My reply included the sentiments:

… one with an original gratuitous insult would be nice - one gets so few these days. Alternatively, it will come in handy for the traditional "card scoffing" ceremony on Christmas eve.
I trust that they are pictures of robins, rather than avian corpses stapled to the inside. We don't even have a turkey here.

Mrs S does not really get into the Christmas spirit until quite late. It is not usually until the thirty sixth person has asked what vegetarians eat at christmas that she spews wrath sufficient to mummify a reindeer at sixty paces, while I am in full humbug from the moment the first christmas reference appears on the television. Usually fucking March.

At my local supermarket, one of the staff enquired whether I liked the Christmas music. Rather than giving a direct answer, I replied by asking if there was an axe nearby, and if so could she direct me to the source of the music. She told me that she liked Christmas music. I called her a pervert. I was mildly cheered, though, never having met anyone who could stand the muck before.

If I were to see anyone at Christmas, then card scoffing would be one of the highlights. To select the most vacuous, insincere, glittery, unamusing concoction of piffle from the many that my poor postman feels obliged to deliver to me. How I long for the days when friends would take the trouble to personalise an offensive envelope (I confess I did not do this this year). “Mr U. Queunte” was one of my favourites. Tom usually remembers, but he has stopped making much of an effort with the cards.

This year’s selection so far has been disappointing. No rhymes, no nauseating pictures, no unfunny cartoon representations of Santa; the only one so far with a chance of making it through to the scoffing final has glitter on the front. This has the effect of giving it the texture of sand paper. A jolly jape, so that as you reach inside the envelope to extract it, there is a sixty four percent likelihood of your epidermis being ripped from you nerve endings, but I doubt that this was the intention.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Mrs Wagner's pies

Moving swiftly on from the introspection of that last distasteful article, I am relieved to see that eccentricity is a pastime that spans the ocean.

I am delighted that my friends at WNEM in Saginaw, Michigan, have taken the trouble to report the following:

The 2008 Guinness World Records book honors the 29-year-old McKnight for living to tell about being thrown 118 feet after being hit by a car. McKnight was standing along a highway about 15 miles east of Pittsburgh on Oct. 26, 2001, helping victims of a car wreck when he was hit by a car doing 70 mph.

He suffered two dislocated shoulders plus a broken shoulder, pelvis, leg and tailbone. His injuries put him in the hospital for two weeks, followed by 80 days in rehab, before returning to work in April 2002.

This seems to be a lot of trouble to go to in order to get one's name in print. At one point I contacted the said publication in order to see how many more people to whom I would have be rude in order to gain an entry, but when I addressed them as misbegotten sons of rat’s miscarriages, they refused to furnish me with the required data. I will certainly not be bothering them again, let alone take part in any activity that might involve my discomfort.

The article does not mention whether Mr McKnight was an accomplished jumper of any sort. Nor does it say whether he lay there in agony until a representative of Guinness arrived to accurately measure the distance. It would be churlish to suggest that he took the time to crawl an extra few feet. I am not sure how long it took Mr Guinness to arrive, and I would not begrudge Mr McKnight a couple of feet in his condition. Had he shown a little initiative, he could have claimed that he had been propelled all the way into his hospital bed by the accident. Thick twat.

The only thing that I know about Saginaw is that it took Paul Simon 4 days to hitchhike from there. The song implies that he was travelling to Pittsburgh, a distance of some 290 miles. He must have been as good a hitchhiker as he is a songwriter. The drivers on that route were obviously afraid that he would read some of his lyrics to them if they gave him a lift. I estimate that he could have made the trip by being involved in 12977 accidents such as that experienced by Mr McKnight, assuming of course that each car was able to propel him in the direction of Pittsburgh. That may have taken more than 4 days to accomplish, but may have provided him with the suffering necessary to have the perspective to be able to write good songs.

Friday, December 07, 2007

I really hate this sort of post. I wouldn't bother reading it

Darlings, sweethearts, fans and sycophants.

I really hate those blog posts where the writer gets serious and starts to justify blogging, or making some announcement about giving up as if anyone gives a shit, but, not for the first time, I am being nagged to produce something new here, and perhaps you need an explanation or something.

There is an area of my life, not very central and not hugely significant, that has been full of crap these last few months. As you know, I am a great yogi, and am able to remain detached from most of the events in this world. However, having this large lump of crap around has affected my desire and ability to post regularly.

The crap is not serious, or anything that concerns me deeply, it is just there. I don’t want to write about it.

At present I am attempting, with very little success, to channel my brilliance into the creation of the christmas card, that many of you have been anticipating since February. It may be very quiet here for a time.


Kaliyuga Kards is proud to announce the publication of this year's festive greeting. Email your address to me if you wish to be a lucky recipient.