Public Service Announcement

In today’s postbag there is correspondence on more topics than at which a stick can be shaken.

It comes from a Mrs Trellis of North Canada.

Raincoaster points out that in this blog, when a numbered list is used, superfluous and annoying text is inserted when viewed through Internet Explorer. Although I view superfluous and (particularly) annoying text as being the lifeblood of this website, I will attempt to remedy the situation. I did not know about it because I use Firefox, where the problem does not manifest. I think I have cleared it up in the thread on history. Please let me know.

Typically I compose an informative article write stuff in Word and cut and paste it.

It is easier to edit, (although not to proofread, obviously) than using the facilities that Blogger provides. It does seem to have the effect of making editing an arcane art. When I removed the aforementioned superfluous script just now, it changed the font in the preceding two paragraphs.

There is some sort of inconsistency in appearance from browser to browser and the customised settings therein. I don’t think I can do much about it. I did tamper with my template (have you ever tampered with your template, missus?) to get the appearance that I wanted. This alone was enough to upset our old friend Simon, who is much to busy to come here anymore.

So, tough. Please let me know if there is any unintentional crap here. The intentional crap will remain. We go back a long way.

Raincoaster, old wombat, is that what you meant by ‘tidying up links’? Because they weren’t links. And I am not whoring for links. Don’t need them. I have had visitors here over the last couple of days looking for information on “Sophie Wessex” – I think I can help, “disgusting nipple seed” – I don’t think anyone can help, and “Mick Heathcote” – whose name, as far as I can see, has never appeared on this site. So, I get all the lovely new visitors that I need, thanks to my old friends Theodore and Evadne Google.

All you need is love

Against my instincts, I watched a television programme that I recorded, called “The Summer of Love”. It was part of a series on BBC about events of 4 selected summers. I won’t be watching the rest, but had made up my mind about that before I watched this one. The show consisted of archive film and soundtracks from 1967, together with some commentary about stuff that happened that summer. Nothing new, but nice and fine so far. Unfortunately, it was interspersed with people talking about it.

The most bizarre bit was Arthur Brown discussing those times. It put me in mind of the village idiot sketch from Monty Python. The point is that lots of good stuff happened to us in those years, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything; however, the point was to enjoy it, not rationalise and theorise about it all for the rest of your life. As my new friend Frontier Editor points out, mankind is dumber than rocks. We were dumber than rocks before, during and after 1967. So, Arthur, set your hair on fire and dance around like a twat. You were really good at that, and some of us loved you when you did it. Having the ability to turn up the speakers in my car to maximum just before you announce that “I am the God of Hell-Fire” is one of the little pleasures that I indulge in, particularly when there are unsuspecting folk around.

Donovan is quite clearly dancing to the strumming of a different guitar. I hope that he is aware of it. Maybe it is an act. I hope so. I really, really hope that he was not taking himself as seriously as he appeared to be.

Apart from Germaine Greer, for whom I must confess a deep fondness, the rest of the contributors were a mixture of those with nothing to say, and others who had nothing to say but clearly did not realise that, and insisted on name dropping at every opportunity. “I sat behind Mick Jagger”. Bollocks. “I was Twiggy’s boyfriend. Everyone thought I was brilliant”. Asshole.

I am not nostalgic for those times. They were good. I had a blast. Sometimes I was very naughty. I was no different, except in my own head, from others of my age who were caught up in all of it. I am glad I was a hippy, and not a teddy boy, punk, mod, rocker or accountancy student, but I don’t want to get into discussions about the meaning of it all. Go over to Mark’s pages and read about Bertha. It is a chronicle of the time, and is well written and interesting, and devoid of hype.

I should first of all make it quite clear that I am not picking favourites.

Each one of you is very dear to my heart in your own unique and disturbed way.

However, I must say thank you to raincoaster, firstly for the best comment I have seen for some time – go to Boris’s and look for mustard. (Now. And no silly remarks). Secondly, for her little thread about lessons from history. Without wishing to be disrespectful, the lessons that she has selected from a historian called Charles Beard are complete nonsense and should be dismissed along with so much of the rest of the insanity peddled by historians. Historians should not be grouped with physicists who are the purveyors of absurd religious doctrines that make no sense, but they do have their own little corner reserved for them in the crazy room.

The first point to make is that there is no point in having any lessons from history if we refuse to, or are incapable of, learning them. Evidence: the re-election of George W. Bush.

Secondly, by its very nature history is not something that we can experience at first hand. Form 3b will not be going on a field trip to the battle of Lechfeld. They might go the site of the battle. They might see a lot of old stuff. They might, if they are lucky get to re-enact the battle. They will not, almost certainly, get to meet Otto the Great or Henry, duke of Bavaria. There is not a chance that they will ever know what it was like to be attacked by 50,000 magyars. This is a shame, because Form 3b are a bunch of annoying little bastards, and a sharp spear or two up the rectum might do them all a world of good.

One of my history teachers had a joke about the Holy Roman Empire. “There are three things to remember about the Holy Roman Empire, it was not holy, it was not Roman, and it was not an empire”. It would have been unfair to say that one of my history teachers had a joke and not qualify it - he may have had other jokes, but I was asleep on those days. The point is that that is as funny as history ever got. You can call your leaders Charles the Bald, you can have events referred to as “the defenestration of Prague”, but no matter how you tart it up, none of it relates to anything else and is therefore lacking in the potential to amuse.

So what, dear readers, can we learn from history? I suggest the following.

1. Don’t offer tea to Americans. It is too sophisticated a beverage for their palate.
2. If you have a bunch of religious nutters that you want shut of, by all means put them in a boat and send them somewhere distant, but at least make sure that they do not arrive there – they will fuck the new place up. Try drilling a few holes in the boat.
3. Don’t go to Moscow in the winter. If the Sainsbury’s truck can’t get through to help restocking the shelves, then you are going to get a little peckish by the second month.
4. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. Do not follow the example of that daft tart queen Elizabeth II of England and think that the souvenir from Ramsgate that makes an amusing farting noise is charming and an indication of the suitability of the donor as a mate. Your offspring will be cretins.
5. Do not interrupt the inhabitants of Devon when they are playing games. They are very touchy. They get cross very easily. Best let them finish before conducting any business, such as buying scones or conducting massive sea battles.
6. Organise your diary a bit better. You will not be at your best if you choose to fight the Norwegians on Friday in Yorkshire and the French on Tuesday in Sussex. Have a bit of a nap in between.
7. If you have a young son called Attila, the best course of action is not to force him to go to Rome during his summer holidays, let him get on with playing his video games. Otherwise he might develop a bit of a grudge.

(That’s enough crap examples: Ed.)

Over to you. Prizes for the more obscure references.

I take pleasure in interrupting this rubbish to announce that a new series of "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" began last week on BBC Radio 4. Mondays 18:30, repeated Sundays 12:05.
For those not fortunate enough to live in the UK, it is available on line:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/d/
(listed under 'comedies' - just in case you were in doubt.
Adam, if you are really coming to England, you will need to study these broadcasts, as immigration entry is predicated upon having a sound knowledge of British culture.

Having spent the day visiting regions that would be best served by a guidebook penned by Mr Dante, I find that I am wrong on so many counts, and need to open a new thread to respond to all the fond messages from my adoring public. You do read on a Sunday, and write so attractively as well.

Mike: Yes, the Super 14. Very sad. Does puff have the same meaning where you are as it does here? I personally don’t having any opinion on Mr Carter’s sexuality – his being the greatest rugby player alive would excuse him for performing oral sex on Jeffrey Archer on centre court at Wimbledon as far as I am concerned – but you must get up to date on the local vernacular if you propose to move to Monmouth. And, alas, my anger was only a literary affectation used for rhetorical purposes only. (and if you say any different I’ll kick your fucking head in). I suspect there was some residual anger left from watching Michael Moore’s films this week. Both Fahrenheit 9/11 and Bowling for Columbine were on, and I watched them on successive evenings, never having seen them before. I am not entirely supportive of Mr Moore – I suspect that some of his arguments could be presented more coherently, but I am grateful to him for saying it. (For those of you who have not seen the films, but would like them summarised, here is my attempt: No matter how much of a complete cunt you think that George Bush is, you have grossly underestimated, and if you guessed that his IQ reached single figures, you got that wrong as well). But I don’t normally get angry about sport. Actually two of my favourite moments in sport come from sports that I dislike, Arthur Ashe winning Wimbledon and Tiger Woods winning the tournament (Masters? Masturbators? Honky Domination Cup?) at Atlanta – as poignant as the black power salute at the Olympics.

Raincoaster – should that have been “Ask any of us who were there”?
Raincoaster – should who have been “Ask any of us who were there”?

Raincoaster - all of the Don Cherry clips were too long for me tonight – I might try them another day, but you have uncovered a morsel of patriotism in me that I would have sworn did not exist. I think that these royal islands are undisputed home of the awful commentator. Henry Blofeld? Bob Willis? John Motson? Trevor Brooking (so bad he can’t even pronounce his own name)? Murray Walker? Bob Willis? Nasser Hussain? Bob Willis?

Richard boasts of being nabbed by the fuzz in Leicester. Happened to me too, old boy. I feel proud to be the donator of however much it was to the coffers of Inspector Knacker. I, however, was nowhere near the Tigers’ ground when it happened. You should always approach sites of great religious significance in a mood of respect, reverence and calm. How do you expect to benefit from the prospect of sharing air breathed by Austin Healey, if you whiz around like a demented cheetah?

Tom corrects me again. Will my gratitude to this man never end? He points out the value of the build up to the competition, helping us to identify all of the participants, and chastises me for preferring classical music to ‘Big Brother’. Well, dear old friend, of course you are so right. Were I to quit my mortal coil now, and not know the names of the children of Paraguay’s reserve centre back, or the favourite colour of the Venezuelan goalkeeper’s pet goat, then I would, quite rightly, be denied entry to the celestial kingdom. No, Tom, complete bollocks as you well know. Whilst on my journey today, I invalidated my claim that I would not listen to lobotimised knuckle-dragging throwbacks, and drank in the wisdom of Mr Dwight Yorke. What seemed like ten minutes of the babbling of a drunken four year old. Nothing to say, but a great compunction to say it anyway. I was glad to that I stuck it out to the end, because I was rewarded by a moment of BBC brilliance that lightened the day. (Mr Yorke is noted for his ability to ‘score’ off the field more often than he scores on it, allegedly).
At the end of the interview the interviewer said “That was Dwight York from his hotel bedroom” to which his colleague riposted. “Remarkable, being able to find him in his own bedroom”. Yes, Tom, record the collected wisdom of all of those who will be interviewed before the world cup. If you play it to your horses, the RSPCA will be round quicker than the next inappropriate cliché or meaningless platitude issues from the lips of that squeaky voiced twat of an England captain. Also, you are quite right, in another 200 years, no one will be listening to the overture to the Marriage of Figaro or Beethoven’s 4^th piano concerto, they will all be too busy watching recordings of some fatuous quadruped tart who was famous for 3 weeks on “Moron TV” in 2006.

MJ. Much as I love you all, as each day goes by I feel myself less likely to ever visit Vancouver.

Kat – please note I am urging everyone to read your comment. It was poetry.

Geoff – who is Neneh Cherry? I think you make these names up.

Zoe – you little tease. If you carry on like this I will have to publish those pictures of our weekend in Bridlington.

Kyahgirl says that she doesn’t talk much about football so has nothing to say. All of you – listen to this very carefully – having nothing to say will never be an obstacle to posting here.

Frontier editor. Welcome – not sure whether you have ever commented here before, but I have seen your lovely face and lovely comments elsewhere. Yes, you are quite correct. Einstein and I. Unfortunately, I do not have the original photoshop file, I had to scan that picture. You may not be surprised that most people assume that I look like that in the alternative universe that we don’t mention here. The original was done as part of a departmental Christmas card at my place of employment, (and done by those more expert and patient than I in those techniques) with the caption “Of course light has to bend to get round that fat bastard” or something similar.

Adam gives a frightening report on the harsh regime in an American college. Not for the faint-hearted. Neither is Adam. Adam, sweety, escape while you have the chance. You can come and live in England. One more illegal immigrant, one more right wing ignoramus, one more silly person, who would notice?

Krusty. A better sport than the world cup is running a competition as to who can use the current space-filling, meaningless word or phrase of the moment in the highest concentration. At the moment the phrase is “to be honest”. It superseded “basically” on 14^th November 2004 at 17:36. I heard Dion Dublin being honest 7 times in 3 sentences. He may already be in an unassailable position, as most interviewees can neither start, construct nor finish a sentence. Andy Gray, on Sky Sports, uses the phrase “if I’m honest” (only once or twice a minute). “Stuart Horsefondler did not have a good game, if I’m honest”. Well, Mr Gray, I have no means of knowing whether you are honest, and therefore am sadly lacking in information of how well Stuart played. My guess, however, is that as you work for Murdoch, your honesty is roughly on a par with John Terry’s ability to knit custard.

I hate the fucking world cup. (That’s soccer for my colonial readers – AMToNW).

You can hardly switch the radio on without hearing the opinion of some lobotomised, knuckle-dragging throwback pontificating about the chances of Paraguay adopting a 2-6-2 formation or whether the climate in whereverthefuckitis will help whicheverthefuckteamitis or some such bollocks. I switch off immediately and listen to my CD of Rio Ferdinand singing Verdi arias. And then there are the vast numbers of inbreds who have adopted the practice of having the flag of saint George waving from their cars. Saint George hated bloody football, preferring a game of ludo.

Bollocks to them all. Football is an entertaining spectacle when played well, although there have been very few entertaining international games since the 1970 Brazilian team disbanded, but there is nothing to say about it. "Descartes had a good game", or "Aristophanes was at fault for the second goal" is about it. So please, shut the fuck up until June 9^th and talk about something more interesting. And not Big-fucking-girl’s-blouse-Brother please.

No, I am not cross, I am fine thank you. I did not mind that Leicester Tigers played like a bunch of wallies yesterday. I was not disappointed that the final of the Super14s was spoiled by fog and no-one could see from one side of the pitch to the other. I was not upset by the curtailment due to weather of the Test match. I was not affected one little bit by my friends Sheryl and Pamela pointing out that the American media were not covering the Indonesian earthquake but instead concentrating on trying to get some sense out of their assclown (thank you Danny) president. No, Adam did not rile me by adopting his normal “vote for Bush as the nukes rain down” political viewpoint. No, I am in excellent spirits thank you very much. I think I will celebrate by going round to Wayne Rooney’s house and stamping on his other foot.

Invoking the “allowed to mouth off on Sunday - no bugger reads it, they only blog when they’re meant to be at work” rule.

Empty your wallets again

Save the children already have a special fund for the Indonesian earthquake
Save the Children

As far as I can see, this is not true of the Disaster Emergency Committee, but I am sure that you can donate there as well.

This is one of the occasional articles written to provide comfort to those coming here looking for succour (I believe that is the spelling). I am grateful as ever to Theodore and Evadne Google for pointing these troubled brothers and sisters in this direction. Heaven knows where they would go were it not for me.

“Shag me till I bleed”

Well, perhaps, but I think that you ought to consider buying me dinner first. I also ought to warn you that, liberal as I may be, I am not entirely at ease with the concept of your harming yourself and my being a party to it. Perhaps, if dinner turns out to be pleasurable, we could start with handshaking until your wrist tingles; maybe hugging until your nipples stiffen. These are only suggestions. Frankly, none of them really appeal to me, but having been thrust into the public limelight as a refuge for the weary and the confused I ought to try to help wherever I can.

“Pomegranate trellis”

Good, a subject with which I am very conversant. You will need a sturdy trellis. I suggest you construct one using reinforced concrete, beech and the web of the Argentinian scrotum spider. Pomegranate plants grow to a height of 75 metres, and so your trellis will need to be at least 70 metres high. For best effect, have the trellis completely surround your house, and make sure to leave no gaps. There is nothing that a pomegranate likes less than a breeze up the inner thigh.

“Nipple tassles Vancouver”

What can I say that is not already widely known on this subject? Perhaps you meant to ask about an anagram of this phrase – ‘Crap spineless vol-au-vent’ or ‘Passive convulsant leper’. Please let me know, and I will provide the answers.

By the way, Toasty is back.

Friar Tuck was not a protege of the Reverend Spooner.

Inhabitants of the quaint city of Nottingham are incensed by reports such as that published by the BBC that theirs is the most crime ridden place in England and Wales. The name of Nottingham thus may come as some surprise to visitors to this wonderful metropolis, with its friendly if simple residents and balmy Mediterranean climate. Of course, the situation is not as straightforward as the one reported. Most of the burglaries in the area are followed by the distribution of the proceeds to the underprivileged of the city and county, and can be seen as a justified reaction to the totalitarian position adopted by those at the head of the law enforcement agencies.

It behoves me to point out that I did not watch, nor do I ever watch, the Eurovision Song Contest. This seems to set me aside from my virtual friends who watch it so that they can write articles saying how crap it was. I say this only as information, not in a judgemental way, for the sake of those dear friends who are wondering why I am not sharing my perspective and wisdom on their latest works. I do not watch Big Brother or any programme with “Celebrity” in the title, with the exception of the recent edition of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Thanks to that nice Mr Murdoch and his Sky Box, I can whiz through the whole programme in 10 minutes, by skipping the ads, the dumb questions and inane chatter of Mr Tarrant. I suppose that I should not be proud of watching Jerry Hall demonstrating how completely thick she was. I did not expect her to know the name of the king who was reigning in the time of Samuel Pepys, anymore than I would know the names of the presidents during the lifetime of Edgar Allan Poe. I might have heard of Mr Poe however, and been able to pronounce his name having heard it several times within the last five minutes. For those of you wishing to read the works of Mr Pips, or read Peppy’s Diary, then obviously they are popular in Texas, or perhaps Richmond. I will not be watching much more tripe like that, but instead improving my mind by reading the works of the great American authors such as Mark Twine, John Stoneback and Ernest Hummingbird.

The most amusing interlude was her calling Bill Wyman for help with a question. Yes, really. And then reading the question in her Texan drawl so slowly that over half the time was used up. Poor old Bill, who may have been disorientated by having his viewing of a repeat of Blue Peter interrupted, then realised that he needed to hear the question again.

The Rolling Stones are the greatest rock and roll band in history. Their members include someone who falls out of trees and a camp caricature of a singer, who has sold out so far as to accept a knighthood, and chose to spend his middle age with one of the planet’s most stupid women. The exploits of the ex-bass guitarist are too well known to bear my repeating them here, but he is obviously in need of extra Sanatogen in the “Let it Bleed” Nursing Home in Suffolk. Yes folks, welcome to Kaliyuga.

Once again I am glad that I rejected the advances of Jerry Hall all those years ago. It may have taken up too much valuable time for us to realise how incompatible we were.

My friends at BBC news report that a strange cult has been uncovered in Darlington. There is no criminal activity as all the inhabitants of the premises that they raided where there voluntarily.

Apparently, women in the cult are treated as slaves and ordered what to do all the time, including matters of an intimate nature. Durham police express surprise at this behaviour.

They have obviously never visited Yorkshire.

Here, as a bonus, are those whacky New York folk again.

I am grateful again to my friends at the BBC for the information that the new Drugs Minister – I am not sure if that is his official title – once smoked marijuana.

What intrigued me was his name, and I am not sure why no one has drawn this to my attention, viz. Vernon Coaker. It appears that he was born for the job.

Were I to be PM, and I fail to understand why that has not yet happened, then I would insist that my drugs minister had full first hand experience of all the narcotics that were within his remit. I am not sure what my policy on drugs would be - to make compulsory, encourage, control, restrict or abolish their use. I am sure, however, that my drugs minister would be too fucking stoned to care.

Would you appoint an education secretary who had never been to school? Would you appoint a minister of defence who had never ripped a man apart with his bare hands? Would you elect a president who couldn’t find his ass with both hands, a map and a search party?

I am reminded of my dear friend Dave, who left his mortal coil some time ago, and who has still not been replaced. He told me of finding a new job.

“And what is your job title?” I ventured.

“Youth outreach worker – drugs and sexual health”.

I found this more than a little amusing.

“If I were a troubled youth, and came to you and said ‘A man tried to sell me some drugs in a pub’, what would your response be?”

“I would say ‘What was the name of the pub?’”

Bollocks to earning a living

Monday morning. Do not be tempted to work. There is a game of Mornington Crescent in progress over at Scary's place.

I am obliged to my friends at the online edition of the Boston Globe for the following headline:

Thousands of Indonesians flee volcano spewing ash and rock

The first recorded instance of volcanicity being contagious

I trust that you are all well out there. I hope none of you have been suffering from geological symptoms. I hope that that crack is simply the one normally found at the base of the spine, and not the result of an earth tremor. I trust that the excessive nature of the passing of waste liquid is the result of over indulgence in Wincarnis, and not evidence that you have been infected by geyser activity.

TCM at livescience report on another spectacular research project undertaken by our colleagues with O level Chemistry.

Their latest musings are about the reason for women outliving men. Their conclusion is that this is due to competing for a mate.

This makes perfect sense. Which of us (males that is) have not sustained serious injury by injudicious use of a deodorant? Have we not suffered horrendous, life-threatening paper cuts on birthday or valentine cards? Have we all not absorbed toxic chemicals through an excess of hair styling products? I myself have been subject to severe anxiety about my attractiveness – yes, I know it seems ridiculous (I can hear a chorus of “As if!” from all parts of the world), but I guess it is something in our genetic heritage.

Of course, the alternative reasons are simplistic and should be tossed aside with scorn. They certainly do not wear us down by feeding us fattening and addictive foods in order to get their hands on our insurance pay out. The very idea is preposterous. My epitaph will not be “The chapatis got him eventually”. Oh no.

The exception to this is that prize charlie Nasser Hussain. He will meet his death gruesomely at the hands of an irate viewer who has reached the boundaries of his tolerance for hearing the name of Mr Muralitharan pronounced incorrectly.

I surrender

I know I will never to be able to write as wittily, well and consistently as Dan.
Pay him a visit now, and then leave a comment telling him how funny he is.
Go on.

Thanks to some of my visitors, I find myself a source of information for “dogging sites in Hampshire” on some of the search engines.

Well, as my readers seem to prefer threads about seedy sex rather than my contributions to literature, the arts and philanthropy, allow me to list some of the well known sites for such activities. I trust this will be of help to tourists.

• On the roundabout in Basingstoke.
• Andover High Street
• The beach at Southsea.
• The lawn outside police headquarters in Southampton.
• The girl’s clothing section in BHS, Portsmouth
• The nave of Winchester cathedral.

Let me know how you get on. That is, let me know whether this was helpful, rather than a description of some bizarre mounting.

I also had someone from Australia coming here after searching for “Sainsbury yoghourt”. Yes, we all know what you wanted it for, you pervert.

Open those wallets

I posted this just now on the Boris Johnson blog. As it contains hyperlinks, it will have to wait for approval by the lovely Melissa, but anyone who saw Bozza in action the other night should commemorate admiring his tackle (impossible to post here without some smut) by donating to the appropriate charity (both if you want to show off).
Here is what I posted on Bozza's site:

As there appears to be no specific link on the Red Cross site for the Boris Johnson Football Hero appeal, then please follow this link to make a donation Red Cross
The other charity supported was the Bobby Moore Cancer Appeal:
Bobby Moore

(All gate receipts from the match went to these two charities).

As there is no way of mentioning Boris in your donation, then you will have to be altruistic about it and give some money anyway. Conservative voters will have to look up the definition of ‘altruistic’.

UK tax payers (I suppose that marginalises the Tories as well) please remember to use the gift aid option.


Please do it now.

In defence of the Kiwi

For the benefit of my many fans and spiritual dependents in the antipodes (a Mrs Trellis of North Wellington), I think I should be the one to put the record straight.

There has been no tsunami in New Zealand in the last few hours. Rumours that the country has been removed from the surface of the Earth and no one has noticed are not true. Rumours that happenings in New Zealand are so rare that this one was judged to be a hoax are also totally without foundation. Headlines such as “Auckland obliterated – damage estimated at $15” will not appear here.

It is also untrue that New Zealanders have so little entertainment that they are forced to travel to the other side of the virtual world in order to find some entertainment. My readers come here to share the uplifting and enlightening views expressed by the author and his many virtual friends, and to share in the spirit of love and peace that pervades this corner of the web.

There is no conspiracy to murder the Rolling Stones. Stories that they are too racy for sedate residents of Christchurch or Napier are to be dismissed. Just because it takes a band 40 years to realise that there is an untapped market of English (or something quite close) speakers to exploit entertain does not mean that the islands are a cultural backwater. New Zealand is a very with-it and trendy place. Only last year Shirley Bassey performed to record crowds (at the Rose and Crown in Invercargill). The fact that the world’s ‘number one hell-raiser’ could find nothing more exciting to do in New Zealand than fall out of a tree should be seen as a tribute to the country, not a source of cheap taunts.

The following recent extract from the archives of the BBC news service is in no way ‘quaint’ or ‘bizarre’:
Artist Sally Logue, from Kirkoswald, near Penrith, has been asked to produce portraits of photogenic pigs for the New Zealand Mint.

I do not ask for thanks for this defence of my colonial cousins. It is just an expression of my philanthropic nature.

A better tone

I have been urged by a reader to post something edifying to take the emphasis away from the filth that has begun to be the main characteristic of the previous post.
As I am somewhat busy at the moment, (providing banality to all and sundry) may I draw your attention to this?

A test of the theory that postings about football or sex get the most comments

Just when I thought that there was an end of help that I could give to the world, some poor lost soul found their way here by means of typing the phrase “I want a intercourse in Oswestry” into Theodore and Evadne Google’s search engine.

Now, some of you might be inclined to deduce from this that our new friend is a resident of Oswestry. I would not rush to share that view. I think that it is more likely that Oswestry has some arcane quality that enhances the female orgasm, or induces some priapic effect that is not available in Shrewsbury or Ellesmere Port, for example. We should not conclude that this person is deprived of carnal intimacy, but rather that their desire is specific to that particular auspicious geographical location.

Of course, as you all know, the most famous son of Oswestry is the Reverend Spooner. So perhaps it is in the repetition of some unintentional spoonerist innuendo that the delights of this quaint town are best revealed. The prize for the best suggestion is unlikely to manifest.

1 - 1

Not to be outdone by Plod, the mayor of New Orleans, according to my friends at CNN, has stated that the New Orleans election is in "uncharted waters".
I don't know whether this sort of black humour goes down well in the South (Adam, can you hear laughter from your left?)(and I doubt whether they would be allowed to use the word 'black', and it would have to be 'humor'), but I suspect he would get my vote.

Police, looking into it, nothing to go on, and now...

In the wonderful tradition of constabulary verbal mangling, I am pleased to report the following that was broadcast by Inspector Knacker on Radio 5 just now.

“… they had a push-bike with them. If that rings any bells, please call us on …”

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 11

“And what do you do?”. This is Liz on the telephone at 5:15 a.m.

“I’m your family’s consiglieri, you dozy trollop.” I reply, already weary.

“And how long have you been doing that?”

“Ever since what we refer to as ‘The Snowdon Incident’”, I remind her.

She is very excited about her birthday.

“They’ll all have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ as well as ‘God Save the Queen’,” she chortles, “then I might make them do it all over again”.

Think of Queeny from Blackadder, and you might get some sense of her mood this morning. She tells me of the little trick she has played on Sophie Wessex. She told her that it is the duty of the wife of the youngest son to personally reply to all the birthday cards – 28,000 at the last count. I keep quiet, I happen to know that even though SW was dumb enough to believe this, she used Word to produce the letters, and now there are 28,000 letters in the Kensington Palace office waiting to be posted, all with the message “What do you do? Have you come far?” in them. She was even bright enough to have scanned her signature, although to the untutored eye the result reads, appropriately, “Soppy Wassock”.

“And what have you bought for me?” Liz again.

“You’ll find it under the tree.” It is cruel, but very difficult to resist.

Of course, I haven’t bought her a present. That all stopped years ago. I bought Charles a pair of fake ears for his 12^th birthday, and the soft bastard hasn’t taken them off since.

To save my readers (AMToNW) the trouble of reading the sordid details in the latest attempt by my friends at the BBC to titillate the populace, I can give you some background to the headline “middle aged people still enjoy sex, especially in the west”.

The west in question refers to the western hemisphere. Although how a sphere can realistically be divided into east and west seems to be another example of the warped musings of our scientific friends. Silly sods.

This is very good news, unless you live in New Zealand, as Phnom Penh would be a bloody long way to go for a shag.

So, sorry New Zealanders, another night in front of the telly or the latest Charles Dickens novel for you.

No, gran, you inspect the officers, not the privates. Let go now, please.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 10

I seem to spend the larger part of my time trying to calm Camilla down, and keep her behaviour within the limits of decorum. This time she wants to do something outrageous for the St James Palace party for Liz’s 80^th. I have to spend what seems like two hours explaining to her that even though this might be called a private function, the size of it means that news will leak out. “No, Cammy, you soft tart,” I say, somewhat wearily, “you do not want Michael Barrymore as the MC. Nor Bernard Manning, for that matter; and no, it is not a good idea to announce the engagement of princess Eugenie to Gary Glitter. Liz might find it funny, but the readers of the Mail will not.” She has one of her stroppy turns, which have become more frequent ever since her ‘elevation’ to the title of Mrs Chazza. “Stick to good old fashioned talentless, geriatric lickspittles like Cliff and Cilla,” I counsel, “and if you need a comedian, get Les Dennis, Phil finds him amusing, for some bizarre reason.”

William wants to buy his grandmother an ipod. “Just get her a small one, Bill, you daft sod,” I tell him, “how much fucking disk space do you need for ‘God Save the Queen’, even with all six verses”.

I don’t suppose I will manage to miss all of the festivities, these people become more dependent as the weeks pass by, and paying Leonardo Di Caprio to act as my look-alike is getting a tad expensive these days.

Today is the First Day of Summer

Wisden has arrived

Here is an email I received today from someone I have never heard of or from before, and my reply. I feel that it is the appropriate tone with which to start the week.

I was just checking in and seeing how your decision process is going> i will be on Vacation in Vegas (HOPE I win the Jackpot) LOL from 4/12 -4/15. I will be back on Mon the 17th. I wanted to make sure that you did not any other questions. The Incentive of $13K ends the end of April. I look forward to hearing from you. Have a Good Easter if i don't tlak to you.
thanks,
Chris

Hello Chris
How nice to hear from you after all this time.
My decision process is a little slow. I cannot decide whether you are some elaborate hoaxer, a bloody spammer, or just an idiot who has typed the wrong email address into his mail box.
Anyway, that joke about winning the jackpot had me ROFL. or LMAO. or ESAD.
I did not any other questions. In fact, I did not any other gazelles either.
I can assure you that my Easter will be good if I don't talk (or tlak, if you prefer) to you.
love and peace

I would like to thank all of those kind people who have enquired about my health. I regret to inform you all that I am in fine fettle (Adam, that is a small settlement just off the coast of Northamptonshire), apart from a very irritating cough. I am sure that your prayers have been effective in producing a cure.

On the subject of prayers and miracles, TCM at LiveScience have an article wherein scientists are putting forth the opinion that Jesus did not walk on water. No, of course not, the Sea of Galilee froze over. Yes, Jesus was the Robin Cousins of his day. I will not get into the religious/theological aspect of whether this makes any bloody difference (I may even censor the comments if I get an attack by loonies). There is no point lampooning a minority religion when TCM leave themselves open to such ridicule. Why are scientists bothering to invent reasons for strange phenomena, when there are questions of great import waiting to be answered? How big was the big bang? And in comparison to what? For all we know there could have been much bigger bangs before it, but there was no bugger there to record them.

Also at LiveScience is a report that children in the USA are having sex before they learn to drive. Adam will confirm the veracity of this. I do not believe that the same is true in the UK. I did not have sex before my driving test, I merely shook hands with the examiner. I sense that he may have wanted to go further, I can tell by the way that he clenched my thigh during the three point turn, and shouted out “Shag me till my ears bleed” instead of hitting the dashboard, when testing my ability to do an emergency stop. You will know that I am not judgemental by nature, but I do tend to be in favour of one thing at a time. Call me old fashioned.

Following that is the news story that a teacher, also in the USA, had sex with a pupil 28 times in a week. I sometimes feel that opportunity passed me by. I went to a very liberal and progressive school, and feel that I had a well-rounded education, but this particular extra-curricular activity was never made available to me. I could make a list in order of preference of those teachers with whom 28 sexual adventures would not have been too arduous, but it would be unfair to them to name them here. I can say, to his relief as much as mine, that Mr Robson would have come fairly near the bottom of the list.

Finally, now that I appear to be on the mend, please divert your prayers and good wishes to the demented sod who found his way here by putting the phrase “nudist acetic acid” into a search engine.

Even more finally, note that Mr Gamon, who still is unable to decide whether to blog, has transferred his blog to his own website. Please visit and cheer him up, he seems a little confused. I hope you enjoy Geoff's comment as much as I did. (Should that be "as much as I" or "as much as I did"?).

It will not get any more final than this. I hope that those of you with modern electronic equipment enjoyed “The Wire”, the third season of which concluded on FX last night. Completely brilliant, despite my difficulty in following the language (those crazy northerners, eh, Adam?). I am pleased to note that a fourth series is planned.