Your assignment

I have a friend (and I know that my definition may not concur with yours, and please don't rest under the misapprehension that comments about my lack of social contacts constitute wit), who, in company with his dear wife is traveling around the world on public transport.
He has gone through Europe, Russia, Mongolia and China and is now somewhere in South East Asia. He is keeping a journal of these journeys (well worth a read in their own right) on his myspace site.
As far as I am aware he does not often read this blog. So, if you have five minutes, go over there, please do not mention that I sent you, and post some helpful advice on his blog. You will need a myspace account for this, but it is free and relatively painless to obtain, and then you will be up to date with what all the young people are doing. You will, should you care to linger there a while, notice that I have shared some of my wisdom with him in his adventure. Please make your entries as bizarre as you can. Prizes for the best entry will not be awarded.

Have you been on your holidays this year, sir?

I am pleased to note that my absence has neither affected the number of visitors nor the silliness of the comments.

I was surprised to learn that my absence from matters internetorial did not cause me any distress. I was beginning to think that I might have the beginnings of an addiction.

The other day on dear old radio 5, they were discussing the circumstances of the apprehension of Britain’s latest terrorist. (You can tell he is British, he failed abysmally to even get his neighbours to tell him to turning the fucking television down, let alone perpetrating atrocities. He must be the single most ineffective terrorist on the planet. It seems harsh to give him 40 years just for incompetence. I shall discuss this matter with some of my robed friends next time I call in at the Old Bailey).

The Radio 5 reporter said “He was arrested while he was at the barber’s, having his hair cut by armed police officers.” This caused a great deal of merriment among the listening public – yes, I was not the only one to notice it. However, during my listening period, I did not hear a satisfactory explanation.

Readers from overseas (a Mrs Trellis of North Warsaw) will need some illumination about the nature of Radio 5 and the traits of its listeners. Well, tough. I pay a licence fee each year to benefit from the wisdom of the BBC, why should you get it for free?

So, this hair cutting business. Mr Blair’s very effective terrorist prevention policy (item 1, he wears a jacket with the legend “Hey, look, I’m a nice guy, please don’t blow me up, or stick a turnip up my arse” on the back) is geared towards reducing the threats these people pose by ridiculing them. The gentleman in question was having his hair styled in the form of a comb-over at the time of his arrest, thereby rendering him ineffective as a symbol of militant Islam. If you are in Britain, particularly in one of the major cities, and you see a person with a particularly silly haircut, you can safely point him out as an ex-member of al-Qaeda. For the benefits of those not privy to this policy make sure that you create a scene and inform as many other passers-by as you can. Be wary of this outside the main cities. In places, the wearing of what would be regarded elsewhere as preposterous tonsorial effects is not uncommon among the less well informed; I refer you to the photograph on Tom’s page as an example. When Mr bin Laden is brought to book, the first act of punishment will be to fashion his beard into the shape of a shrivelled penis. Never let it be said that the Brits are not on the frontline in the war against fascism.

Glacial Arab pastures

I am very grateful to those nice folk at world history day for including my little essay in its entirety. As far as I can see I am the only person among the many thousands of people whose work has been displayed, who wrote about turnips up arses. This may, or may not, give future generations a distorted idea of the importance of the role played by root vegetables vis-a-vis the sphincter in the early years of the 21^st century. I am not afraid to be in the vanguard of this cause. According to Theodore and Evadne Google, I am the only source of information on the subject “turnips up their arses” on the whole of the internet. In the more general field of turnips up the arse, I come a modest second. Had it not been for dear old Frontier Editor introducing the radish (and I use the word ‘introduce’ with a certain sense of ambiguity) I may have attained my rightful first place. So, despite the world conspiring against me these two weeks, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

Pavlov. Are you back?

(The heading is an anagram)

I'll be there while I come back, tha knows.

As I have been nagged, virtually to death, by my readers (AMToNW) to resume my pepysalogical activies, I have given in and put aside my raging pustules, erupting sores and general debility to satisfy the yearnings of the less fortunate.

Whenever I announce that I am going somewhere, the curious among you all develop an unnatural desire to know why, and what I will be doing there. By curious I mean nosey, inquisitive, in possession of an aspidistra face or having too little happening in their own lives. Although the other widely used meaning of curious is equally apposite in most cases.

I am going to Yorkshire. I am going to a part of Yorkshire close to the city that was recently reported to be the worst place to live in the UK.

What I shall be doing, and why, is none of your business. I will not tell you. Keep your nose out. (I have the strange sensation that I am writing this entirely for the benefit of Pamela).

For those of you unfortunate enough to live overseas, I should perhaps tell you a few things about Yorkshire.

The late Auberon Waugh suggested that the term “Yorkshire Ripper” was tautological, and thereafter referred to said gentleman as “The Yorkshire”.

Actually, that is probably enough.

People keep pestering me to update, but honestly, darling, I'm not up to it.
So here is a link in the hope that you will be amused.
Please make up your own jokes and keep this blog going for another day or two.


On a related note, I was in my office today, when I heard an altercation between some motorists outside. One of them yelled "Hey, arsehole!". My lovely young assistant responded by saying "He's in here". Such a nice boy.

PS. Scaryduck is in spectacular form today.

Mr Scurra is unwell

Not that I am going to apologise for the lack of updates.
Here is something to amuse you until I can summon the enthusiasm to post something original.

Sports news

My views on any activity that involves sitting down not being a real sport are already widely known, so I will not bore you further with that, but I was a little surprised to read that the formula one car racing championship will be decided this weekend at the Brazilian Grand Prix.
It seems very unfair that the deciding race should be staged on a circuit with a small tuft of foliage down the centre of the track.

As Mr Tomkinson doubled up in pain, the queen pointed out that the next time that he mentioned that she looked like princess Michael of Kent, it would be his nuts that got squeezed.

And she would stick a turnip up his arse.

And now for something completely different

The ‘One Day in History’ campaign has an interesting little project:

'One Day in History' is a one off opportunity for you to join in a mass blog for the national record. We want as many people as possible to record a 'blog' diary which will be stored by the British Library as a historical record of our national life.

Write your diary reflecting on how history itself impacted on your day - whether it just (sic) commuting through an historic environment, discussing family history or watching repeats on TV.

Hopefully, if you join in with this project you will construct your entry without the lack of attention to detail as demonstrated above.

I have been tempted throughout the day to post something subtly facetious and submit it, in order to mislead future generations. A conversation with Liz where she contemplated handing over the throne to Terry Wogan. Or perhaps a discussion on the campaign to build a space docking station on the village green.

Instead, I will be cheating by diverting from my usual nonsense and posting something for posterity that will make bugger all difference - but if we don’t try then we have no defence for our cynicism.

91 years ago this week, my uncle was killed in a totally senseless, I mean even more senseless than the average senseless, military action. He was barely twenty years old. He and countless other ill-prepared and naïve young men were sent over the top in a futile and virtually impossible attempt to dislodge some opposing troops from a heavily fortified position on higher ground. They ran across some mud, and were killed by machine gun fire. This week they opened a new memorial to the men who died at that time.

He is also commemorated on a monument in Loos, France, together with over 20,000 other dead young men.

91 years later we are still sending our young men to be killed in senseless wars. (Nearly all wars are totally senseless, some of them more senseless than others). The only thing we have learned is how to kill people more efficiently, but have sacrificed any notion of discrimination in doing so.

If you are reading this, you will be aware that there is nothing original in the content and sentiments. Indeed, I suspect that what I am writing could be written, albeit more lucidly, by most of the regular readers of this little outpost of insanity. The point is that the families of those killed in the Great War would have had no way of understanding why grief had been inflicted upon them. Today, in the wars around the world, there is the same bewilderment about why men are sent around the world to kill and be killed for no purpose. There are those who profess to justify and promote war, just as there always have been. If you are reading this in the year 2742, then they will probably still be among you. I am with the bewildered. I hope you are too.

Next time on this journal, we will return to the topics of men with turnips up their arses, or some major breakthrough by physicists to do with the nature of existence that is of no moment to anyone, or a detailed explanation by me of some facet of history, religion or literature.

Harry Phillips 1895 - 13Oct1915

I have sent the following query to Sky Movies. There will be no prizes other than my sincere affection for the one who mostly closely replicates the response.

I notice that Sky Movies is screening the film "Fantastic Four". I have not yet seen "Fantastic", "Fantastic Two" or "Fantastic Three". Do you have any plans to show these in the near future?

He's back, he's back. It's the same one!

Many of you will have noticed that Adam is back with a new blog.
It is called best of the internet, which may be a little premature.
So far, only Frontier Editor has joined in the Adam beating on my pages, and you may have thought that he did such a good job of it that your contributions weren't required.
I would, however, urge you all to visit Adam's site and give him some moral support. It takes tremendous courage to venture into the world of literate communication when there are so many factors acting to make that difficult.
So far, apart from me, he has had only one other commenter. He scared her away by correcting her spelling.
He has now published a little article pouring scorn on myspace, which is where people of his age typically hang out on the internet.
I am thinking of advertising for him on Google. Something along the lines of "Lonely young man, not too much to look at, but trying hard, needs to get laid, and could do with a couple of weeks of unrelenting drug fueled debauchery. Please enclose photograph of drugs". What do you think?

Thank you again, Theodore and Evadne

Another in the series of answers to those finding their way here via search engines.

she touched his stiffy illustrated

I am not familiar with this particular journal. It is not one for which I hold a current subscription, and therefore these comments are not as informed as they might be. My first impressions, however, are that it would appear to have a very limited subject matter, and would scarcely merit commercial success. I say this without any attempt to be judgemental. If any of you have a copy and wish to post extracted illustrations, then I will do my best to pass on the information.

buggery

Someone from the Emerald Isle asked about this. It is difficult to know how to respond, given the very brief question. Again, alas, I have to profess little or no expertise or experience in this art. If forced to opine, I would recommend against it, but if that is how you care to spend your Thursday evenings, then I have no objection. Perhaps you ought to get an instruction manual. Living in Ireland, your local priest will probably give you a few pointers.

bollock pain

Amazingly, another topic about which I have little knowledge. Try to solicit the help of a nice young lady with stiletto heels, or buy a crowbar or staple gun.

gertrude shilling hats

I do not know of any milliner with stock as inexpensive as those you are looking for. Even if you were to be successful in your quest, then I suspect that the quality of said item might be less than satisfactory.

did any good come of the cultural revolution?

Yes

Llewellyn journal crochet patterns

Now we are talking. Unfortunately, I am under legal obligation not to reveal the hideous and ancient secret that lies at the heart of this topic.

bum willy

Stop being silly.

disturbed how you feel to customers

I suggest that you desist from the habit of intimate relations with your clients. It exceeds the limits of your contract of employment and will get you into very hot water.

is there a isle called scarra in Scotland

There may be “an” isle of such nomenclature in the Pictish regions, but until you learn correct usage, I will be forced to decline to assist your enquiries. Was that you, Adam?

"vinegar processing"

Yes, I know all about it, what do you want to know?

edward III hobbies

He was a collector of thimbles and had an interest in the geology of Northumbria. His favourite pastime was cooking brussel sprouts – he had over 3 different recipes. He also gave silly names to his children.

• As I have mentioned before, the Black Prince was not black, and is remembered mainly for the first rock concert.
• Lionel of Antwerp was actually named after his place of birth and after Lionel Blair, star of “Give us a Clue”. Who can forget his attempt to do “Three Men in a Boat”?
• John of Gaunt – had a ghostly demeanour when born, but hardly grounds for labelling him with such a grim identity for the whole of his life. No wonder that he was a tad moody.
• Edmund of Langley – also named after his place of birth – Bury St Edmunds.
• Thomas of Woodstock – pretender to be the founder of the rock festival.
• There were eight other children who did not (that’s enough Plantagenets, Ed.).

Another post, worth Waiteing for (geddit?)

Mr Terry Waite, a man so annoying that his boss sent him away to be kidnapped for five years rather than put up with his babbling, features in an article in the torygraph today where he says that he prefers the quiet contemplation of a Quaker meeting to an Anglican service.

He objects to all the standing up and sitting down, and the attempts of modern clergy to modernise the message. I am reliably informed that in almost all Anglican churches, the service has not changed at all in 400 years. It is only when the grinning bulk of Waite is seen approaching that the authorities devise some improvised nonsense in order to discourage his attendance.

It has long been the unwritten policy of the c of e to drive away unwanted members of the congregation, and this explains the wide variety of different sects that exist within the protestant church in this country.

John Wesley had the unfortunate habit of breaking wind violently at his church of St Elton’s in Oxford, and because his fellow worshippers recognised that he was a bit of a gloomy sod, took to singing bawdy songs in place of hymns. Thus was Methodism born.

The founding members of the Salvation Army were a disparate bunch of tone-deaf worshippers, whose raucous and ear-splitting rendition of hymns ancient and modern caused their friends and family to devise a plan whereby the roof sprang a leak whenever music was called for. The music of the early Salvationists was so appalling that even their own congregation could not stand it, hence the tradition of taking the noise outside and irritating the shit out of everyone else.

The founding of most sects and religions can be seen to have underlying causes of a similar nature. The Egyptians got so pissed off with Moses, that they affected to let him ‘escape’, armed with a joke map of the area east of the Nile.

Anyway, that’s enough historical information for one day. I trust you have all benefited from it.

It’s the bloody Quakers I feel sorry for. Sitting for an hour or so on those bloody benches, praying fervently that you won’t be cornered by that Waite fellow after the meeting. What a way to spend a Sunday morning. Pacifism has its price.

I do not usually do requests, but my dear friend Frontier Editor has pressed me, and it would be churlish to refuse.

Astute readers (oxymoron?) will have noticed that Jack Straw is the latest politician to have attracted ire by making inconsequential remarks. This is the way of politics in this country now, they have no position, no policy and nothing of any substance to say, and so the media have to try to scratch among their obscure writings to find something that can be blown up into something sensational. Bollocks.

Mr Straw was a mildly radical student leader in the 1960s. He held a vaguely libertarian and leftish position, although not many took much notice. He is now one of the most authoritarian and idiotic former holders of the office of home secretary, which is a great achievement considering some of the morons who preceded him.

Mr Straw has said that when he meets constituents, if they are Moslem women and wearing a veil, he asks them if they would mind removing it, as he feels that enhances his ability to communicate.

Let me add this to the debate. I would make a similar request to Mr Straw should the situation arise whereby our paths crossed. Before I began to engage him in a rational and frank discussion, I would ask, politely, “Why don’t you fuck off, you deranged tory shitsucking fuckwit?”

Will this do?

In an exciting new development, scientists have discovered some planets that orbit their sun in between 1 and 4 days.

I am obliged to my friends at BBC News for this information.

I have been waiting some time for someone to do something about the tardy trajectory of our home planet. For those of us living in the non central parts of the planet it means that we have to endure at least six months of cold weather, or about 45 John Motson football commentaries. In an age where we are capable of cosseting ourselves in comfort, it is clearly unacceptable that we should be dependent on something as random as some ill-conceived laws of ‘physics’ in order to feel warm and enjoy some fresh air. I have scoured the agenda of the conferences of our leading political parties, and neither of them has anything to say about speeding up a bit. I am tired of having to wait from August to May to find that Chelsea have won the championship again, and that my teams in the Telegraph fantasy league have failed to excite.

This is not all. If we lived on these planets, and assuming some pompous Newton did not foul things up with their silly laws, our life expectancy would be about 7000 years. At 55, I would be just beginning my education with the happy years of puberty to look forward to, and the prospect of all of the exciting activities of teenage ahead of me. There would not be just 8 summers of teenage, but 800. Admittedly, they would be somewhat shorter, but the six weeks school holidays did tend to drag a bit.

I shall be following the Liberal Democrat conference with more than normal interest to see what they have to offer in the light of this news. Come on, Charlie Mingus, my vote is within your grasp.

Golgafrincham again

As the end of day approaches, and a fairly dull day at that, I have just been cheered up immensely by the news that my nephew has failed his first accountancy class.

(If you are a Brit like me, the concept and implications of “failing a first class” are not at all clear. It seems to be just one constituent of the course, but who gives a crap?)

I told him how proud I was. It seems that I have been spared the embarrassment of having an accountant in my family. I could always plead the case of his not being a blood relative, but the shame would be with me. I told him the old one about the definition of total waste being a bus full of accountants going over a cliff. With two empty seats. I also told him to buy his accountancy tutor a bus ticket.

I will be back with a new series in the Autumn

I am going to be away for a few days, and felt that it behoved me to select a few carefully chosen words to last you until my return.

engendered
marsupial
preposition
corrosion
thorax
trombone
strolling
pinch
Maudling

No surprise really

My very good friend Realdoc has this exciting link on her page about which ‘celebrity’ resembles you.

Before you read any further (this is addressed to the resilient, hard of understanding core of persistent visitors who have not already stopped), go over to her site and commend her for the high standards, and leave a comment about my being a thieving bastard.

My list came up with loads of people who don't look like me but wear the same style of spectacles. The only spectacle-free match was Andie McDowell.

I have never been so happy.

I am leaving now to visit House of Fraser to enhance my wardrobe. Do you think that this style suits me?

I am also going to have a good feel around next time I have a shower. It may be some time before you hear from me again. Well, let me modify that. I may be too preoccupied to write on this blog for the foreseeable future, but if you live in the vicinity of north east Hampshire, then you may hear low moans of ecstasy.

I am a little concerned, however, that I may attract the unwanted attentions of Hugh Grant. Do any of you have any advice as to how to get rid of this man?

I am relieved and a little surprised to learn from my friends at the BBC that Lulu is now president of Brazil. I thought I had not seen her hanging around outside my house for some time. I always felt that she had more to offer the world than being a mediocre singer with big tits, and is nice to see that she has made some effort to change career. It gives hope to us all. I am tempted to reconsider my decision not to play competitive soccer for Denmark. They are in need of a good attacking central midfielder, and it might be seen as selfish for me not to make myself available. There are just so many things to do.

Anyway, I sent Lulu an email of congratulation. I am still puzzled. She could barely speak English, let alone Portuguese. On further reading of the news item, I am somewhat alarmed to learn that she is involved in some sort of scandal. This is a great shame, as her reputation is high, and if anyone can claim that after being married to one of the Bee Gees, then they must be very resilient.

I am wondering if similar career paths have tempted other former friends. Does anyone hear from Mick of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich? Am I alone in thinking that the new pope is the spitting image of Helen Shapiro? And has anyone seen David Cameron and Alison Moyet together in the same place?

As I have commented elsewhere, loading videos from youtube has the effect of slowing down the loading, so you people will have to do the work yourselves.

As I have mentioned before, I have a strange weakness when it comes to reading detective stories/thrillers/I dunno which genre adequately describes them. I find this odd, given my lifelong support of non-violence (I would not wish you to test me on this by putting me in a room with a baseball bat and Thatcher or Bush) and my exemplary, law-abiding behaviour.

I am similarly drawn to the same type of TV program, but less often satisfied by the result. Over here in the UK at the moment we have a fair few to choose from. An alarming preponderance of utter crap they are too.

The best thing I have seen recently was the 3 part ‘Murphy’s Law’. They have run out of plots from the original books (I trust you all have at least a passing knowledge of the splendid works of Colin Bateman). The latest story was set mostly in Leicester, although none of the filming took place there. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama, but Mr Nesbit is not without talent, and pretty much ideal for this role.

ITV are showing ‘Rebus’. There are plenty of stories from the books to pinch the plots from, although the books are necessarily more intricate than the films. This is inevitable when you take a 300 page novel down to about 70 minutes of film. What I don’t understand is why they don’t make the episodes spread over two or three weeks and make a better job of it. It is not as if there is a great deal else to replace it with. The main character is played by Ken Stott. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. More amusing is his assistant, Sergeant Gormless. She is required to adopt the look that is worn by soap actresses when the closing credits begin, on a regular basis. You know you are getting old when the policemen start to look that stupid.

When I was in America, my niece’s husband was raving about a series called “MI5”. Apparently, the inhabitants of the former colony are too dim to understand the term “Spooks” and would be wondering when Bill Murray was coming in with his gun. I can’t quite take the melodrama in Spooks seriously. This week’s episode featured Robert Glenister. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. I am sure that Spooks is aimed at the gay audience. Or some other group whose perspective I do not share.

Continuing to go downhill rapidly is Dalziel and Thicky. I have never read the books. It stars Warren Clarke. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. Mr Clarke is a splendid actor who appears in any drivel offered to him. The standard of writing in this series is truly awful, combined with crappy acting and the awful device of explaining background data by means of contrived dialogue between the characters, as you know, Mr Hardacre.

Even worse is the Linley mysteries. The mystery is why they bother. Ace detective fails to detect killer before 3 others are butchered, as in Morse. This series stars Nathaniel Parker. I grow weary of seeing the same actors recycled in every major drama. The books are almost as bad, but quite well written. If you can overcome the awful conceit of having a member of the house of lords serving as a detective inspector at Scotland Yard, that is. For fuck’s sake.

Generally speaking, I prefer American writing and cop series. No, not ‘Murder she wrote’, you utter twat.

At some stage, they will film the novels of Stephen Booth. His hero is neither a social misfit, nor does he have special powers, or a double life as a transsexual Olympic gymnast. Give them a try. (The books, you complete arse, not transsexual Olympic gymnasts [although if that is your bag, so be it]).

Now that you have read all that, you will not have to bother with watching TV for the next 6 weeks, and can concentrate on blogging instead.

A call to arms

My good friend John O’Farrell at the BBC has composed a quaint little essay deploring the lack of humour on websites, specifically British ones. I am glad that he made that distinction. I laugh myself silly each day at the journals from the Mariana Islands.

I have sent a response, but do not expect the commies over there to publish it, reminding him that the world is in a serious predicament, and it ill behoves us to make light of this by resorting to attempts at humour.

I know that I can rely upon all of my readers (aMToNW) to support this stance by continuing to produce the humourless and boring drivel to which I have become accustomed as I peruse your product (almost) every day.

Now is the time to stand firm. Let us have more crochet patterns and discourses on the state of Welsh volleyball. I cannot bear to think that future generations, should our species survive, will view us as anything but upright and sober in our attempts to forge a new and safe world.

If I find anyone breeching the terms of this directive, then the full force of my ire will be unleashed.

So, Steve Irwin walks into a barb…

Today is the birthday of our dear friend Dave. Pretty, vivacious and charismatic, he never fails to charm us. Let's all go over there and have some cake (make mine vegan and organic please).

Here is what I have already wished him:

According to my friends at the BBC, you share your birthday with the Sun 'newspaper'.

Being forever associated with an organ for the production of virulent and dubious stories, with poor writing style and the absence of morality must be a great source of embarrassment. But I spoke to Rupert this morning, and he said he could put up with it.

Dear sweet Zoe, by coincidence is also celebrating having a twat for five years. Go and read her lovely little story. Am I alone in being reminded of Barbara Cartland when I absorb her words?

Are there any more anniversaries today? Have any of you any poignant moments to share? Is the 40th anniversary of your being laughed at in the showers at school? Have any of you been constipated for a year, or 2, or 3? How many days is it since you stopped poncing about on the internet and had a proper conversation?

And as a further anniversary, our favourite rightwingidiot Adam, has added to his journal. He is surprisingly articulate. Thanks for not making it political Adam - not something we particularly want to argue about. I suppose that the summer working in Target has done more for his education than being at college.

And, finally, as if you had forgotten, it is the birthday of good old Harry. (or 'you daft cunt' as his friends and family refer to him).

Neil Harvey standing in the slips with his legs apart, waiting for a tickle

I have been requested by a dear friend, devoted reader and quasi-relation to share my views on the selection of the England cricket team to tour Australia this winter.

I could just say "Ashley Giles" and leave it at that, but that would not be fair to all of those of you waiting eagerly to be better informed.

A team has been selected with only one reserve batsman (assuming that the captain bats at number six) and a handful of bowlers who are all either out of form, unfit or not quite up to standard.

Giles is clearly so far below standard that he hardly merits discussion. It would be kind to say thank you and goodbye. You were an almost adequate stop gap until a genuine attacking spinner could be found. I hope that Panesar continues to develop and learn, although he will have to play extraordinarily well to make a real difference in Australia. I would have chosen Dalrymple as the second spinner, if one is needed. He is a better bat than Giles, and looks to be a better bowler, at least he is unafraid to experiment and they certainly don't need two left arm spinners.

Anderson is clearly not fit. Flintoff may be fit. Harmison and Hoggard are well below their best. Mahmood and Plunkett are (and they may improve), at the moment, reminders of the nameless and mediocre bowlers who were back up in the bad old days of Caddick and Gough. Not that there is much alternative. It is right to send Broad to Perth for the winter. I know that Lewis is not suited to Australian conditions, but I think he might be more reliable than Mahmood. It is a great pity that Simon Jones remains injured.

Nothing very original there, alas.

I doubt whether the bowling attack will be strong enough to win the series. If I am wrong, I will echo the sentiments of the sainted Michael Holding who expressed the view this evening that if England were to steamroller Australia, he would not cry for the Australians.

On the other hand I have never seen an England team with so many batsman who are so good to watch. Not even in the days of Cowdrey, Graveney and Dexter.

I realise that this post is entirely devoid of the normal levels of filth and humour, but at least I can guarantee that this is one thread that will not be taken over by the smutty comments of that dirty old man, Tom.

Let's finish with a story told by Fred Trueman about his time in Australia. In the days when there were more first class and exhibition matches than in current times. The team had a fixture against a country eleven, whose big star was the opening batsman. As was customary, the umpires were local. The first ball from Fred to their star player took the outside edge and was cleanly taken by the wicket keeper. Not out said the umpire. The second ball was plumb lbw. Not out said the umpire. The third ball removed the middle and leg stump. "I bloody nearly got him that time, didn't I?" said Fred.

I have been a little disturbed by what can only be described as naughtiness by my friends Theodore and Evadne Google whose efforts have led, on more than one occasion, to people coming here looking for a young lady called "Liz", surname "Vicus".

Cursory examination leads me to believe that the woman in question is some sort of porn star.

I would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that, despite numerous requests, I have never taken part in these activities. I am not being judgemental, and wish every success to those who do, but it is not my cup of lubricant. Life is difficult enough being the focus of admiration from the female (and probably most of the male) half of the world's population, without my encouraging it. Unlike Tom, who despite his advanced years, is still somewhat naive when it comes to understanding the machinations of the myopic nymphomaniacs who sometimes pursue him, I do not think that anyone's best interests are served by indulging in private activities on a public forum.

So, nothing that you say will induce me to star in the forthcoming production of "Norse Sex Gods" or what have you. I know this will be an enormous disappointment to you. I am not related to Liz, or anyone else with similar inclinations (although Sharon has her moments).

Have a nice cup of fennel tea and an organic chocolate biscuit.

Welcome to my new friends

A periodic salute to those who came here to visit by courtesy of my friends the Googles. They do a splendid job.
Just two to report this time:
avoid going out
This is not advice I would be party to. Where you go and what you do when there, provided that it does not harm others, is fine by me. If you are worried about bumping into me, there is little chance of our meeting. I seldom mix with the populace these days - celebrity is a difficult burden. I mostly stay here and spread love and wisdom via the internet.
what happened next
My guess is that you typed other questions into the search engine that were equally unlikely to result in your being satisfied. Have you tried "where did I put my keys", "what did you just say", "does this colour suit me". You are, what those of us who work in the proximity of IT call, 'technoplegic'.

There goes his chance of the foreign ministry, then.

Our old pal Boris has been naughty again, this time insulting the inhabitants of Papua New Guinea by comparing them to Conservatives, or some such.
I left the following message for him on his blog. I hope you all have time to go over there and comfort him.

Boris, if you would like me to cover your journalistic duties while you are away apologising in the far east, just let me know. Usual rates apply. I would offer to cover your political duties as well, but regret I am not quite silly enough to pass for a Tory MP.

Next time, say something disparaging about north east Hampshire - Jane Austen being a tart for example - then you can call in for a cup of tea and a snack while you are on your apology tour. Provided, of course, that you bring Melissa along.

Thanks to our hosts at Blogger, I am unable presently to post comments on other blogs, unless they allow anonymous comments. I suspect a conspiracy. And I have so much to give.

This is because I have 'upgraded' to "Blogger beta". For those of you not familiar with technological terminology, 'upgraded' is a euphemism for 'change for the worse'. It means that suppliers have removed some of the things that worked, and added things that someone who has not had any human interaction since Nixon was president has decided might be nice.

Anyway, I was over at Richard's just now, and noticed that our old friend MJ has posted something about "New Year's". Why do the North Americans refer to "New Year's" (in the south it is "New Years" - folks down there can't count)? New Year's what? If someone were to ask me what I was doing for 'New Year's budgerigar', my reaction would be to tell them to mind their own business, then to think them a trifle eccentric, but it would certainly remove the uncertainty that would be reaction to the question "What are you doing for New Year's?".

You may think that I am scraping the bottom of several barrels if I have nothing better to complain about, but were I to tell you the contents of the document I interrupted composing in order to post this, you would all understand.

They only have themselves to blame

My friends at LiveScience report that sperm have been killed when a fridge malfunctioned.

Firstly, anyone undertaking inappropriate activities in their fridge should not be surprised when difficulties occur.
Secondly, I cannot think why TCM consider it to be any of their business in reporting it on a so-called scientific web site.
Personally, I have little interest in this subject, but I am sure that my sex crazed readers, particularly Tom who had an unfortunate intimate incident involving a kitchen utensil, will find plenty to write about.

And Ray Illingworth is relieving himself in front of the Pavilion

Out of kindness I tend to compose treatises on sporting themes at the weekend when no bugger reads them. I find it curious that my virtual friends find plenty of time during the working day to call in to deliver or receive wisdom, but are curiously busy at weekends. Perhaps you are all in the employ of some bizarre internet monitoring company and have been assigned to me.

As the cricket season is nearly at an end in England, I felt that I should share some observations.

• Mr Gower: ‘Mighty’ is an adjective. The corresponding adverb is ‘mightily’.

• Most commentators: ‘Ask’ is not a noun.

• Bob Willis: you are not a commentator, you are a sedative. Your tone is so monotonous, and your speech littered with so many inappropriate clichés that you could get a job in an accounts department.

• Sky in general: try to discourage sponsorship of cricket coverage. The repetition of the same unfunny skits is unbearably tedious, in the same league of tediousness as Mr Willis’s voice, if that gives you a clue. I am very weary of hearing that blithering buffoon, Henry Blofeld, uttering the phrase “Protection is our game”. I deeply regret that his parents adopted a different philosophy.

The better bits.

• Michael Holding: as good a commentator as he was a bowler. For those of you who are not sure how good that was, it was fucking good.

• David Lloyd: thank you.

• Nasser Insane: I am prepared to attempt to overcome my prejudice and give you a bit longer. You seem to be realising that the situation in which someone of your mediocre cricketing ability was an automatic choice for England for so long was an indication of the dreadful quality in your time, and that the current team and several of those waiting in reserve are much, much better batsmen than you were.

Fred Trueman: we will miss you. I trust that you have found a place in heaven suitably commensurate with your very high standing, and that someone has finally explained what is going off out there. You were one of the best. The best English bowler I ever saw. Up there with the top group (see the reference to Mr Holding above). For those who never saw Mr Trueman bowl (and he mostly bowled in black and white), then you have missed one of the most graceful and at the same time powerful of sporting spectacles.

And this evening, just to prove me wrong, Bob Willis started to get interesting. It didn’t last for long, but he did refer to ‘left-handed mustard’.