Going out like a raspberry ripple

I am very grateful to my recent friend I, Like the View for providing the inspiration (although that hardly seems to be the appropriate word), for this little bit of wisdom.

First of all, she reminded me that I had referred to Leon Brittan in the standard reply to signers of my guest book. This reminded me, in turn, of an early skirmish in the world of blogging, when I used said gentleman’s name in vain. Try typing “Leon Brittan” and, for example “pendulous” into google, and see where you go. Here is a clue.

Secondly, my recently acquired friend mentioned Italy. I have been troubled of late by the preponderance of silly “make over” programmes on the television. I know that I do not have to watch them, and I do not have to watch the busty substances of the presenters in these programmes, as they bounce from side to side, demolishing walls and concussing passing plasterers, but I have decided that enough is enough. My solution? Simple, send them to Rome, which is overbrimming with useless old buildings, well in need of touching up a bit, and old Romans, similarly needful. That should keep them all busy for a damned long time. Well past my life expectancy any way. (And no, thank you very much, I don’t want any “Rome wasn’t built in a day” comments.) They can start with the Colosseum, which would make a very nice apartment block, with ample underground parking and so on.

I am also growing weary of the trend to fill the shitillion hours of broadcasting time with sending all and sundry round the world to give us the benefit of their opinion. Bollocks. Palin was all very well, but once he had been round the world, then north to south, there wasn’t much left was there? I wrote him a nice letter some years ago with a suggestion about a follow up series, and all I got was a letter from some minion about how busy he was blah blah blah. Last week it was Victoria Wood going some place or other, now Paul Merton is going to China. Piss off. I don’t care about their opinions about places. If I wanted to find out what these places were like I would go there myself. What the programme makers could do is to send people to places and NOT make programmes. I could provide a list of people and matching places that would keep them busy for many a long year.

The bloody film makers are as bad. Some creative genius has decided that it would be a good idea to remake “The Long Good Friday”. In the USA, obviously. I don’t blame them, it was such a deeply flawed film, lacking character development, plot lines, stunning dialogue, the definitive portrayal of a London gangster and blindingly good music. Which first rate thespian do you suggest should play the Harold Shand character? Arnie? Sly? Chuck? Richard Simmons?

Film producers? I’ve shit ‘em.

Tori Amos Fully Clothed, sod off perverts.

I am not best pleased with Graham Norton. I did not expect, although it would have been polite, him to telephone me to apologise in response to my letter of complaint, but there was no mention of me on his latest programme, even though he did attempt to cover Liz’s recent holiday. I could have helped him so much.

He compounded the issue by excreting on about the bloody song contest, but as with Mike, I expect he has some contractual obligation to do so. The rest of you should know better. His guests were Gerard Depardieu and a young lady called “Tori Amos”, who seems to have plucked her sobriquet (have you ever plucked your sobriquet, missus?) from the ethers and combined the world’s most anachronistic political organisation with one of the Old Testament’s leading bores, about whom I have written elsewhere. Well, he has had his chance. I shall not be appearing on next week’s instalment with him, and may go to talk to Oprah instead.

I may give him the benefit of the doubt. Gerry was once in a film with my lookalike, Andie McDowell, and my turning up may have confused the poor old chap, so I will not be too harsh on the BBC when they coming begging me in the week.

On the subject of television, I was sorry to see the end of the current series of “The Wire”. I still miss much of the dialect, but it is so good. Almost up to NYPD Blue standards, but so much darker. I think that Bunk may well finish up being my favourite tv detective. There is only going to be one more series, because the writers have run out of ideas. Not very professional in my view. Not having anything to write about has never stood in the way of my churning out this drivel.

The Blair Years: The Critical Moments

Tone and Ali look concerned. They would be even more peeved when they found out that Gordon had tipped the pilot £25 to fly them to Buenos Aires.

Then Gordon spiked the drinks at Labour Party HQ. Despite Cherie holding his right arm firmly, Tone still manages to give the nazi salute in Downing Street.

"Listen, you smelly provincial twat, I won't tell you how to play the fucking guitar, and you keep your nose out of my policies on primary school education, unless you want to see my latest karate moves, OK?"


During the night, Gordon slashed the tyres on the PM's Citroen, so Tone had to cycle to the state opening of parliament, trying very hard to maintain a cheery disposition.

"Well I was born stupid, what's your excuse?"

"Hey, mister, guess what I just did in my pants."

Tone wondered whether it would be worse to let her carry on singing, or to slap her round the face.

While the Blairs were taking a stroll by the Serpentine, Gordon had the locks changed. While they were waiting for Brian from "Easy Keysy", they were disturbed to hear the sounds of furniture being moved, and Kenneth McKellar on the gramophone.

Well, you make me want to Hail Mary

I note that my friends at BBC news have reported the Pope's visit to Brazil, where Lulu is still president. Either their photography skills have deserted them, or Lulu has really let herself go. I suppose the burden of running a large country has taken its toll, but if the new pictures are anything like representative, then I no longer fancy her.
The reason for Ratty's visit is to record a duet with Lulu. Someone told him at his recent party that he should capitalise on his talent. I thought that he sounded like Neil Young. Yes, as bad as that, and with a German accent. Rumour has it that they are going to do a hip-hop (whatever that is) version of "Macarthur Park".
This is all in retaliation for the publicity about the Eurovision song contest that is prevalent on some blogs at the moment. I am not surprised, someone had to do something before more innocent people are drawn to watch and write about the rubbish. Mike catches the other bus, so has some sort of contractual obligation to watch, but Mark and Betty, you really should know better.

Hands across the sea - part 3

Liz was rather surprised to be asked to open the "Old Hasbeen Silk Fetishists" home.

Meanwhile, Philip had great fun judging the Silly Hat Contest, even when the runner-up fondled him intimately.

While the queen distracted the security staff by taking an inordinate amount of time to finish her meal of grits, stewed possum and dirty rice, the Monmouthshire Militia began the campaign to reclaim the lost colonies.

"You are dumber than a bin full of turds, even my lanky streak of piss of a husband is smarter than you. They got rid of king George, then less than 250 years later their stupid descendants voted for you. You don't even understand what I'm saying, do you, you total and utter fuckwit?"

"Here's the bald motherfucker again, staring at my tits. Where are all the sodding assassins when you need them?"

Sarah Beeny's I HAVE enormous, MODIFIED THIS swinging, HEADING pendulous TO GET RID OF THE PERVERTS ti-ts

There follows an open letter to Mr Graham Norton at the BBC.
You will understand if I am not my normal cheery self at this distressing time.



Mr Norton

I am a struggling, but talented, young artist, whose aspirations have been cruelly dashed by you.

I wonder whether you ever consider the power that you wield, and the dramatic impact it can have on those of us who only dream of having our talents recognised.

Over the past few years I have, in the manner of my near neighbour Jane Austen, fostered ambitions of becoming a writer of note. Unlike Ms Austen, I do not advertise my house on tatty signs at the side of the road, but instead have sought to promote my work through the medium of the internet. I have built up a small but enthusiastic following of devoted readers, who look to me for advice and counsel about the difficulties associated with living in these times. I allow them to contribute by comment on my writings.

These last few days I have been surprised by the increased numbers of visitors. "Scurra," I exclaimed to myself, "Your time is coming, your ability is about to receive the recognition that is its due". Then, this evening I watched my recording of your latest program, featuring Ms Dawn French and Ms Sarah Beeny. Regrettably, the content of your program soon deteriorated, and the matter of Ms Beeny's chest became the focus of your conversation. "Google me", she advised, "and you will see that people are interested in my chest".

Due to the naughtiness of my friend Tom, who suggested in one of his comments that should I watch one of Sarah's programs, my attention would be drawn to her 'tits', I am high on the Google list of links to "Sarah Beeny's tits". It was this, not my wisdom, my style so redolent of Anthony Trollope or the serious topics upon which I discourse, that drew my visitors.

I suppose that I should thank you for disabusing me of the idea that I had anything worthwhile to offer.

I am going now, to resume my career in the business world. Heaven knows how many Keats or Dostoevskys have been treated in a similar cruel manner by those, who like yourself, think nothing of the lives of ordinary folk.

yours sadly

Vicus Scurra


I have to say that this is the first time I have ever seen Sarah Beeny. At the risk of being described as a pervert, my preference would be to engage with her in conversation rather than see her tits. She seemed a jolly nice young lady, and blessed with a pleasant and witty conversational style. I understand that she is involved in one of these home improvement programmes that are everywhere on television these days, so she must be a bit thick.

Hands across the sea part 2

Wait 'til I get you home, you lanky streak of piss, I told you explicitly not to ask where you could buy slaves.

"And when does your family hope to get indoor plumbing?"

Liz had only just touched down when she strengthened her position as world finger wrestling champion, by dislocating the ring finger of Mrs Audrey-Bob Skunkchewer of Kentucky.

Under American criminal law, the accused has the right to choose their place in an identity parade. Police were looking for someone in connection with the possession of an offensive former daughter-in-law.
Liz is again embarrassed by Phil's mistaking people for Raquel Welch.

"Yo! Grandma! Wanna come to Boston for a tea party?"

Hands across the sea

"I've travelled 4000 bloody miles to get here, and you give me one bloody flower, you tightfisted, diaper-headed bastard? See that uptight bitch behind me, dressed like a constipated peppermint? Well do me a favour a stick this right up her arse".

"No, I don't want another fucking cup of tea, you bald motherfucker, and keep your fucking hands to yourself, unless you want to find out what an orb and sceptre are really used for."

Liz was less than impressed with her accommodation. "And if you think that I am going to change my mind if that twat Ty Pennington turns up tomorrow morning with his fucking megaphone, you can piss off", she stated.

A minion commits a serious breach of protocol by highlighting the fact that he can see the royal nipple. Meanwhile, Philip spits on some poor people.

"Sup?"
"These pants are squashing my balls, man".
"Do you know who these dudes are?"
"Yeah, they are, like, the most famous married British couple, like, ever".
"I thought David Beckham was, like, younger than that".

Her majesty enjoys the traditional greeting by Barbara Bush and her tickling stick.

"You can keep Cleveland, Baltimore, Montana and Florida, but I am claiming the rest back."

The crowds go wild as Her Majesty declares the playschool open, by shifting her buttocks and releasing the royal fart.

"More poxy flowers? Save them for Helen fucking Mirren. Or give them to Philip - he's got hay fever."

Fixin' to die, part 2

I have completed the viewing of the horizon sci-fi programme. It was a jolly good laugh. The second part was slightly more enjoyable, and perhaps I should have waited until I had seen it all until I made my observations. Here they are, again in no particular order.

The programme was narrated by Sam West, who as most of you will know is the offspring of Bradley Hardacre and Sybil Fawlty. Some of you may think that this is not germane to the subject matter, but I think that it gives it an interesting perspective.

There were some pleasant chaps in the second part, some of them admitting that they didn’t have a clue about anything - I admire that. I was particularly taken with Leon Lederman, who not only dropped his Nobel medal on the floor, but kept it in a display cabinet along with other trophies, including his 6^th grade attendance medal. Leon won his Nobel prize for "for the neutrino beam method and the demonstration of the doublet structure of the leptons through the discovery of the muon neutrino". He won his attendance certificate by failing to climb the fence at his school. He seemed like a decent fellow, and proof that the study of physics is a handicap that need not interfere with the leading of a normal life, as far as I can tell.

Now, I appear to have misled you yesterday. The machine in question is not called a “Big Hadron Collider”, but a “Large Hadron Collider”. Go to your print outs of yesterday’s article, tippex out the word “Big”, and pencil in “Large”. Thank you. I was obviously not paying attention. Blame Mr Sutton, my first physics teacher. I learned to drift off very early in my physics career, when I came to the conclusion that what was being proposed was either blatantly obvious or blatantly absurd. I have never recovered. I am fairly certain that LHC stands for Large Hadron Collider. It does not, I can say with a modicum of assurance, stand for “long hairy cock” or anything else those on the back row have come up with.

Here’s the thing. If you take as a premise that stuff is composed of atoms, and that atoms contain particles, then the problem that physicists have is to understand why particles, which are energy (yes, I know this is simplistic, but bear with me), stick together to become matter. They have identified lots of different particles, but none that have the quality of binding together, if you will, that would be necessary for matter to be formed out of energy. In order to make their theories work they have hypothesised that something called the Higgs Boson Particle exists. This particle acts to stick the other particles together. No one has ever produced any evidence of the Higgs particle, let alone got one in a cupboard at home (I, as I said in an early article have a complete set in my garden shed, and one day will reveal to the world the real purpose of these bosons). They are hoping that when someone puts the first quarter in the slot and fires up the LHC, then Higgs Bosons Particles will pop out from behind the door and reveal themselves. Or summat.

Actually, atoms are made in a factory in Kidderminster, where teams of highly skilled workers assemble them from the particle pile, and using a very secret process, cover them with a substance not unlike cassava. Atoms are therefore very similar to miniature tapioca. Now that you know this, your understanding of the nature of the Universe will take on new perspectives. The workers in Kidderminster work very hard, as there a quite a lot of atoms in the universe, apparently.

So, these physics chaps are hoping to see evidence of things in their new toy that will lead to the first “Theory of Everything”. They will understand the nature of everything, and be able to answer all questions. If you like, I will prepare a list of questions and forward them for you. The three that I want answered the most are:

• How can anyone see any merit in the work of the Poet Keats?
• Who in the name of holy crap ever voted for Jeffrey Archer? (apart from those on the jury who found the bastard guilty).
• Who was responsible for John Emburey playing test cricket?

They failed to convince me that there is no risk of this experiment destroying the galaxy. If I were you, come November, I would have my running shoes on at all times, and be prepared to run in the direction away from Geneva very fast indeed.

Welcome, Welcome, Welcome. The important thing is your arrival, not the route you followed to get here.

I will return to the important topic of nuclear physics shortly. In the meantime, here is a brief foray into that old favourite of those of us with nothing to say – the referrals section of our site counters.

98% of search engine queries come to me looking for the busty substances of a television presenter of whom I had never heard. Bastards. I am number 4 on Theodore and Evadne’s list for that particular topic. I did manage to get poor Surly Girl in at number 2 by leaving a comment on her blog, and I am just going over to that bugger Tom who started all this and leaving a comment on his blog, to see if that will attract some attention away from here. And why, in the name of buggery, is there such a fixation for these particular two. There are literally dozens of other tits in the world, and several of them, so I have been told, can be seen on the internet. Big ones, small ones, ones with nipples akimbo. White ones, brown ones, black ones, yellow ones and polkadot ones. More boobs than you can shake a stick at (geddit?).

I am also the number one authority (thanks again Tom) for “insects in mange tout peas from Kenya”. I have never been to Kenya, do not care much for insects, and despite being a proud vegetarian, am not fond of Mange Tout. Mange tout is the slogan of the omnivore, surely. If God had intended us to eat pea pods, he would not have created the Bird’s Eye factory.

To the person who asked about “protocol for ladies day at Ascot”. Shit in your handbag, and be sure to show the evidence to everyone you meet. Should you be introduced to royalty (and this only applies on Ladies day at Ascot) be sure to use the phrase “you pox ridden bastard” at least twice in the conversation.

Also in the charts this week, I am at number 35 at Dogpile for “Removed his testicles”. This is probably the protocol for men who attend ladies day at Ascot. Please remember to remove your testicles and leave them with the cloakroom attendant. Although if you are so whipped that you have to go to bollocky racemeetings attended by single digit IQ throwbacks, your testicles are probably approaching non-existent anyway.

I am indebted to dear Adam (where is the sweet boy these days, I miss him so?) for the occasional visitor enquiring about the insertion of fingers into recta.

“Chekhov, footballer’s name”. No, you must be thinking of Pushkin who played on the left wing for Brighton and Hove Albion.

The next one is again the fault of Tom. He wrote a comment about having hand’s on experience of the aforementioned organs of the lovely Lulu. This was most uncalled for, and has resulted in all sorts of perverts hanging around here.

Some poor soul wants to know about the after effects of Kaliyuga. Kaliyuga is defined in the Shastras as the time when a great soul writes about matters of importance for the world on the internet, and gets bombarded by weirdos looking for specialised porn. The after effects, although I would not phrase it quite that way, are that things get so bad that God incarnates and heralds the arrival of the golden age. Don’t get too excited about the golden age – it is all purity and peace. I doubt whether the bureaucrats in charge will allow us to watch “Have I Got News for You” or listen to Jefferson Airplane.

Inverkeithing. Not some bizarre pictish sexual practice, but a town in Scotland where Amazon store stuff in order to ensure that next day delivery is virtually impossible.

Ken Dodd joke. I told you all the one about cat’s eyes. Another favourite was the three legged chicken, which he tells very well. If you haven’t heard it, I will add it to the comments section.

Someone from Russia asked “what you do what you say divorce royal”. Well, comrade, I think what you do is save on the lawyer’s fees by shooting the lot of them. It is a position not without merit, in my view, although I am opposed to violence.

You will all be pleased to hear that:

a) I am in the top ten already for “Horizon Six Billion Dollar Experiment”

b) (That’s enough links. Ed.)

And it's one, two, three what are we experimenting for?

TCM.

I love them. They are barmy beyond the bounds of belief.

Here are a few unordered observations about the Horizon programme called “The Six Billion Dollar Experiment”.

I note that some roads in Geneva are named after scientists. They call these roads, for example, “A. Einstein” and “I. Newton”. This is because they do not want to confuse us, and lead us to believe that they have named streets after Kevin Einstein or Britney Newton. They need not have bothered, Einstein and Newton have a lot to answer for, and I would prefer that they go unrecognised.

For those of you who do not know about the “BHC”, I will explain a little. They have built a circular 27 kilometre tunnel, 100 metres below the surface near the French/Swiss border. They are filling it with the stuff of scientific experiments – Bunsen burners, pipettes, magnets and the intestines of frogs – at least that was the sort of stuff we used when I last studied science. Things cannot have changed that much. BHC stands for “Big Hadron Collider”. The Big refers to the collider rather than the hadron. Hadrons are very small indeed. Call me a cynic, but why do they need to bother to describe this monstrosity as “Big”. What are they going to do if this experiment fails? Build a “Huge Hadron Collider”, a “Fucking Enormous Hadron Collider”? A “So Pigging Gigantic Hadron Collider That Even Thinking About How Colossal It Is Will Make Your Ears Bleed”?

Now, here’s the thing: they are attempting to create conditions that might have existed in the very early stages of the universe. This all assumes, of course, that their silly theories about the Big Bang are anything like correct. Daft sods. They are attempting to get protons to collide with each other, something that doesn’t happen much, apparently. Protons are very polite, and move out of the way when they see another one approaching. Should they be successful they may even produce black holes. Reassuringly, they tell us that these black holes will disappear as soon as they are created, and that the creation of a black hole capable of sucking in the experiment, France, Switzerland, the Earth and our galaxy is “almost impossible”. That’s alright then. What a bloody relief. The destruction of the earth in November, when Phil Tufnell cuts the ribbon to open the BHC and protons start rushing at each other, would drastically interfere with the project that I am employed to complete, and may even lead to its cancellation.

The questions that may be answered include:

• What happened in the first second of the universe?
• Which twat decided that it would be a good idea to give these buffoons 6 billion dollars (that is nearly 10 quid at current exchange rates) to build a toy capable of destroying the earth?

My theory is that if the Big Bang theory is anything like accurate, then our universe was created by a bunch of scientists in Zimbabwe or Milton Keynes, who managed to build a machine capable of destroying their own universe and spilling all of the matter and energy in it into a new one. This happens every 14 billion years or so – the time it takes for matter to evolve into sentient beings capable of fucking everything up in a very big way.

This is all because Orson Welles pissed off the Swiss with his cuckoo clock line. They never could take a fucking joke.

One way or another, I will be sadly missed

I am going out again tomorrow. If you see me in the street, please do not impede my progress, I shall not be signing autographs nor engaging in idle chit-chat. I am a little concerned with the latest British pastime – shooting people. I don’t know why people require more excitement than can be obtained by a few games of cribbage, but I suppose I will just be called old-fashioned.

I have not yet had the opportunity to view tonight’s Horizon programme on the preposterous machine that the Swiss are building, and so you may never get to hear my views on it. In the event of my not being sniped tomorrow, then I shall endeavour to produce a full and unbiased report.

I have already made some arrangements for my funeral. An old friend has promised to travel from Brisbane to tell everyone that I was a complete cunt. I would hate that contribution to be omitted for future generations. I want to be buried in a paper sack under a newly planted tree. Please sort out among yourselves who is bringing the tree. Mark seems to have disappeared, so if the funeral is in the short term, Richard, you can be in charge of the music. Betty, please tell people where to sit or stand, and don’t put up with any nonsense. Zoe, please keep your clothes on. I am sorry there are not enough little jobs to go round, and am sorry to disappoint people, but please join in with the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Let yourselves go, people of my calibre do not pass this way often.

There's only one way to settle this ...

My new best friend, although he is probably not a regular reader here, is Krishnan Guru-Murthy, who presented a documentary/news programme on Channel 4 this evening about India. The programme was, I suppose, quite good, cramming lots of information into about 45 minutes. (The racial, religious and class bigotry that remain at the centre of Indian culture were all reported on in what seemed like a fair and comprehensive way).

What really appealed to me, though, was his interview with a junior government minister, Ashwani Kumar. Good old Krish got really pissed off with the smug, glib and mendacious answers that this prize moron was giving.

I am not, as you know, a man of violence, but had Mr Guru-Murthy leapt out of his chair and kicked seven shades of shoeshine out of his interviewee, as he looked as if he wanted to, I have to confess that I would be hard-pressed to stifle a cheer.

Wouldn’t it be nice to see an established TV journalist actually say “Don’t give me that fucking crap, you lying, hypocritical, slimy bastard”? Krishnan may be the first. I hope that if he does it, he does not lose his job as a result. In other words, it is nice to see someone who cared about what he was reporting on, rather than using the TV camera as an excuse to show off.

(I shall be available for autographs at the conclusion of this article.)

You'll have had your tea.

Up until this evening I had taken the stance of opposition to Scottish separation from the UK, not for any other reason than that it had been supported by the Scottish Nationalist party. In my book, any group of people who include Nationalist in their title should be viewed with a certain degree of suspicion. (Hands up all of those of you who thought I was going to say “Scottish” instead of “Nationalist” there). I loathe the concept of Nationalism. There may be an element of truth in the accusation that I adopt this posture because if we were to be grouped by ethnic type, then I would be with the fat, ugly, ginger twats, but I have more altruistic reasons for my distrust of those with a parochial view of the world.

That is until my old mate Gordon Brown, he of the lugubrious disposition, enlisted the help of scientists in his campaign against the SNP. According to my friends at the BBC, he could only find 61 of the buggers to side with him. I don’t know how hard he looked. My eyebrows are arched at the lack of enthusiasm found in the scientific community to poke their very ugly noses into someone else’s business. They are normally at the forefront of such nonsense. Perhaps it is Brown that they object to. I do not have figures to hand. There may be many more than 61 scientists in the UK, who is to say? I doubt whether our frail economy could support many more than that, and even my vivid imagination is stretched to encompass the prospect of what we need that many for, and what they do all day. I may be wrong. The islands may be overrun with them, and only 61 failed to come up with a good excuse when Brown called to enlist their support. “Daphne, if that fool Brown calls, tell him I am conducting important research into the average diameter of lumps of coal and can’t possibly speak to him”.

Whatever the facts and figures may be, and both Gordon Brown and scientists are notoriously unreliable when it comes to sums, the fact that this many of them are in favour of union with Scotland leads me to the conclusion that independence for the Scots can only be a good thing.

The whole of the article at the BBC is riddled with nonsense. I am slightly suspicious that it is the work of my new friend Reg, who, by his own admission, has a new job, and is very inebriated indeed.

He (Brown) said: "Of the world's top 200 universities, Scotland has three - more than Ireland, Iceland and Norway combined.”

What? It is the early hours of the morning, and I can’t quite deduce what he is trying to say. It may be that he thinks that having lots of universities is a good thing, who can tell? Personally, I cannot fathom how an economy based upon crofting, crocheting porridge and trying to find the last remnants of fossil fuels in the North Sea can possible thrive with all of those bloody students, and if he thinks that being joined to England will make the Scots less prosperous, then I would like to know if there is anyone south of Berwick involved in any useful trade. It seems to me that we are all accountants, marketers, conservatory designers or telephone sanitisers these days. The last time anyone in Britain produced anything of any use was when someone gave Engelbert Humperdinck a passport, allowing him to leave the country.

Apparently, according to the BBC (or Newcastle Brown addled Reg as the case may be), a group of prominent Scottish footballers have spoken out in favour of the Union. That must be all right then. We can’t go raising the school leaving age without the report of a working party consisting of Nobby Stiles, Ian Wright and Peter Shilton. It would be wrong to join the European Union single currency without thorough scrutiny by Dion Dublin. I trust that none of you has rushed into matrimony without first seeking the approval of Malcolm Macdonald.

I shall treat those two impostors just the same

I attended a meeting in my village this evening, where someone addressed me by the name that I use here, rather than the silly pseudonym I use to conduct my worldly affairs. There are now at least two people in my village who can put my name and face together. Three if you count me, although I am notoriously unreliable. Much of my success in bringing you all news about the major events of the age are due to my being able to retain some degree of anonymity, and I am more than a little concerned that fame and glamour, which I have struggled to escape from over the years, are about to engulf me. I will try to keep things much as they are. I shall not repine.

I have been reading a rather wonderful book, which I recommend to you all. It is called “Fathers and Sons” by Alexander Waugh. I suggest you all obtain a copy, whether you know of the gentleman or not, and take your time to read it. Some parts I found rather dry, but on the whole it was most enjoyable. I will say nothing more lest I spoil the enjoyment of it for you. If you get a chance to see the television programme that was made about the book, then I recommend that to you also.

I see, courtesy of my friends at the BBC, that there has been some sort of contest to judge the world’s sexiest women. I am delighted to inform you (no, you silly bugger, I was not one of them) that of the top ten, I recognised the names of two of them, and would not be able to put a name to the face of any. Well, not the correct name, at any rate, I could probably make something up. It is indeed a welcome relief that I am no longer pursued by such people wherever I go.

My dear friend Richard has hinted elsewhere that he is hopeful of my turning my attention to the subject of Biros. I am not entirely sure whether he is serious, as he seemed less than interested in Dave’s wonderfully informative treatise about cake decoration or the songs of Billy Fury or some such, and may have been being a little sarcastic, a habit for which I have had to chastise him in the past. Unfortunately, I dare not take the risk of treating his request as frivolous. There would be dire consequences were I to handle cries for help in a trivial manner. A Biro is a make of ballpoint pen. In correct usage it does not mean any ballpoint pen, but only those made by the Biro Company. Then biro pen was named after its inventor, Mr Pen. I trust that this helps.

Perhaps someone can help me with a puzzle. Over these last few weeks several people have visited my pages after coming from this web page:
http://www.writestuffautographs.com/shop/images/products/film298.jpg
As far as I can tell, there is no link to me from there, nor, more importantly, is there any reason for there to be. That young lady is neither my mistress nor my daughter. If any of you can help me with this I will ask Dave to write you an essay on the subject of his choice.

Cak

In the words of the great 20^th Century philosopher Alexei Sayle, don’t people talk some fucking cak?

I have been out today. I don’t get out much these days – work at home, occasionally communicate with other humans non-electronically, but generally have little in the way of social intercourse.

Today I went to London on the train. Don’t people talk some fucking cak? I have never been one to subscribe to the concept that my private conversations are of interest to the entire planet. On the contrary, I recognise that they are seldom of interest even to my conversatees, and therefore tend to talk less than most people. I have, however, noticed the trend that people talk some fucking cak. Shut up you bastards. I don’t care about your pox ridden families, your lobotomised friends or your dreary careers. Keep this information to yourself. Or start a blog about it and bar me from it.

I take my responsibilities here very seriously, which is why the posts are laden with valuable information, steeped in the truth and always written in a charming, clear and friendly way. I do not, however, foist my views on the world. I am sure that there may be a few (a very few) members of the species out there who do not view my writing as the epitome of wisdom, and choose to disregard my advice. That is their choice, I bear no malice. (Twats).

I am afraid to say that most of the people today who were guilty of talking fucking cak were of the younger generation. This excludes the lady this evening who seemed to think that everyone in the railway carriage wanted to know what Tim’s problem was, even when it was perfectly obvious that his biggest problem was that he moved in social circles where people talked fucking cak. Loudly.

I suppose it is inevitable that as I approach the prospect of being stuck in a box and buried (ecologically of course), that I should start to have a jaundiced view of youth. I have managed to put off this symptom of being a crusty old bastard for quite a long while, and in general I find most young people better company than older ones, on a one to one basis, but when they gather together, they seem to have perfected the art of talking fucking cak much better than their elders.

To illustrate the point that I prefer the company of young people, I should tell you about my new friends who have included me in their new email group. Yes, thanks to my having a gmail address made up of just my name with no numbers or special characters, I sometimes get an interesting email intended for someone else. I am now in negotiation to join a rock band as bass player. I suspect the band is in the United States, and this may create some logistical problems. I guess I will just have to play louder to be heard. I do not know the name of the band, or even whether it has a name, but I would welcome your suggestions. In the meantime, one of their number sent me an email consisting of the words “Hey dude … sup”. I replied “Hanging”. I hope that this did not expose me as one of the uncool. Again, your advice and views on this are welcomed. Rest assured, I will not let my new found fame affect me. I will continue to be known by the name I use here, I will probably not alter my appearance, and will not appear in a promotional photograph looking surly. I will resist the temptation to sleep with legions of teenage fans of either sex. I will not get a tattoo or a piercing. I will not throw things out of hotel windows, or appear on stage in an indecent way. I may, however, should the opportunity arise, shag Marianne Faithful. I will let you know.

In the meantime, here are some happening dudes, rock and fucking roll.

Red Square

Regular readers (aMToNW) will be relieved to hear that I have turned down the many requests to attend the funeral of Yeltsin.

Frankly, I never liked the man, although I never met him sober. He spoke English with a strange west country accent, which made him sound even more dense than he actually was. Beware of leaders who are described as “not having lost touch with ordinary people”, it is usually a euphemism for being thick. Andropov remains my favourite Soviet leader. He could breakdance with the best of them, and sang the complete Rolf Harris song book with a Queensland accent. These were only two of his many talents, I am, as you know, not given to spreading idle gossip about my talented and famous friends, so I will not tell you more, for the moment. Brezhnev was actually a blonde woman called Tracey, from Kiev. The old Soviet Union could not countenance the prospect of the world knowing that they had a woman leader, so they constructed that awful face mask for her. This explains why Brezhnev’s expression never changed.

Both Andrew York and John Major wanted me to accompany them on the journey. Dim Andy is afraid that he will miss his stop. You might be surprised to hear this and treat it as a joke, but on at least four occasions he has forgotten to get off the plane when it touched down, and consequently missed affairs of state, to be returned home looking even more confused than usual. The last time I travelled with him I had to place a postit note on his forehead to remind the stewardesses to escort him from the plane. John has read an interesting book about Huntingdonshire butterflies that he would like to discuss. Is it any wonder I am staying at home?

I turn my back for 5 minutes

The festivities in Rome are lasting much longer than was budgeted for. I could have told them this. I have never known anyone hold their drink like Ratty, and don't see a downturn in the momentum before May at this rate.
Sister Mary Shania, of the order of the Unrevealed Mysteries, did her best to put a lie to that nomenclature by winning a 4 euro bet with a member of the Kenyan college of Cardinals, when she dived into the Trevi fountain, displaying the glory of the Lord.
A few quick phone calls (and I wish I spoke Italian more fluently) managed to persuade them to pass the blame onto some poor pleb from Milan.
I don't know what the Italians get so upset for. I have been to the Trevi fountain. It is just some old bricks covered by water that you would not drink even in the desert. In my view, Rome is well overdue for redevelopment. I mean, would you want to live in a 2000 year old house? I am tempted to get my old pal the Duke of Westminster to buy it up, and get my friends at Barratt's to knock up some nice modern semis, with a garage and garden each. I am sure there will be some complaint from the stick in the mud locals, but we should not stand in the way of progress.
It is a good job that they haven't found out what the Bishop of Neasden carved into one of the pillars at the Pantheon during Ratty's party.

Update

Following requests, I have decided to publish a photograph to illustrate this story. I hope this will keep you happy.

And the runner up is.

Home of spirituality and the birthplace of Buddha, Ram and Krishna?
Fuck off.

Update.
I have no idea why the comments thing isn't here on this post. Fucking Blogger. Obviously a bunch of upper caste twats.

OK, now I'm really grumpy.

I cannot believe these motherfuckers.
It is 2007. These fuckers are 200 years behind the times.
This must be the most backward fucking place on earth.
What in the name of holy fuck is wrong with them.
Right in the middle of the fucking bible belt. Egypt, you are safe. If God wants to get pissed with anyone, then these fuckers deserve it.
And if anyone thinks there is any merit in segregation, you can fuck off and your comment will be deleted.
love and peace.

Reader, she married him.

Despite my many protestations, people do not believe that I turn down wedding invitations. This week, I have been attempting to recover from the party in Rome, but never intended to go to Mumbai for the joining of Aishwarya to Mr Bachchan jr. I don't know how many of you have ever tried to turn down an invitation to an Indian wedding, but it is a tiresome process, and by Thursday I was considering taking up residency in my garden shed in order to escape the constant hammering on the front door.
I do not see, however, why my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Warangal), should not benefit from my explanation of some of the rituals and customs surrounding the ceremonies.


Someone not familiar with etiquette bought a pop-corn machine as a wedding gift. It is an Indian tradition to blow on all wedding presents, as a symbol of purification. In this case the groom was showered with cheap confectionery which attached itself to his make-up.


Someone with the same problem offered poor old Amitabh a sherbet dab.


Mr. Dutt was later disappointed to learn that the custom of bidding at auction for first go with the bride had been abolished by the British in 1884.

Pissup of the year, part 2.

I am obliged to a dear friend and occasional reader of this nonsense, a Mr Trellis of North Epsom, who has encouraged me to share a little of the details of the birthday shindig in the Vatican. I have just arrived home, and would perhaps be better advised to collect my thoughts before attempting to chronicle the events, but I think that someone spiked my food, and I appear to have let my abstemious and well-behaved self slip into the background. I cannot really feel guilty about this (there is so much in Catholicism to feel guilty about, after all), as Keith Moon in his heyday would be hard pressed to outdo some of the scenes witnessed this weekend. As a consequence of the tampering, I have to confess that I am unclear about which of the following scenes could be hallucinations and which actually occurred. I must confess that I tend towards the latter.

I am not, as you all well know, a judgemental person on the whole, and believe that the Pontiff is allowed to let his tiara down every 80 years or so. I therefore ask you to treat these insights as confidential, and not to be spread around to satisfy the curiosity of the masses.

• David Beckham is not aware that the pope is catholic. He is aware of where his wife shat. It was not, unfortunately, in the woods.
• Variety acts can be very entertaining, I allude to the display put on by around 24 cardinals, in full crimson attire, singing “Satisfaction” while dancing in the style of the Tiller girls. (If you are under 50, look it up. I am too jaded to be bothered with explanations).
• The archbishop of Canterbury was not invited, and did not attend. Just as well. I saw at least thirty people dressed up as him, and none of them contributed much to the spirit of reunification of the Christian church.
• Some Swiss guards are very camp given the opportunity. I would rather not have found this out.
• Even though I have know Ratty for years, I have never seen his impersonation of Deirdre from Coronation Street before. I nearly vomited up my pelvic bone.
• Sadly, the clearest recollection I have, and I pray to the deities of all the major religions that I imagined this, was me and Ratty urinating off the balcony into St Peters in the early hours of this morning. I have no idea who won the contest for distance, but I was too inebriated to spell my own name. I can only hope that there were no pilgrims below, and that if there were, they did not believe that they were experiencing some sort of bizarre blessing.

Shatner's Bassoon

As my more astute readers (a Mr Trellis of North Crewe) have already discovered, my attention has been drawn to an article in that excellent organ “The Scotsman”.

For those of you less well informed, I should point out that “The Scotsman” is the name of a newspaper, and not an indication that the world is down to a singular number of Caledonian males. Despite their propensity for irritating the shit out of their neighbours (porridge, Burns, bagpipes, midges, Glasgow Rangers), the Scots are not a threatened species.

Neither, alas, are physicists. The article in question refers to the arcane musings of the world community of physicists.

This picture:

Is not the centrepiece of the latest Saturday evening game show on the BBC, but rather part of a toy that these deluded individuals have had constructed in Switzerland. They are going to use it to search for something very small. Even smaller than the sum total of common sense present in the consciousness of physicists, should their propaganda be believed.

I have not troubled, and I counsel you to do likewise, to try to fully understand the exact nature of their experiments. I value what remains of my sanity too highly for that. I will try to distil some of the drivel for you courtesy of “The Scotsman”. The italicised sections are reproduced from their website. I hope that they will not sue me. The picture is from the same source, although I have not managed to italicise it. I only got grade 3 CSE physics.

“it will fire two beams of proton particles in opposite directions around a 17-mile ring some 300 feet under the earth's surface”

It sounds as if someone has a Scalextric fetish.

“Then the particles in the beams will collide ….. Each collision will cause an explosion similar to the Big Bang … creating conditions almost identical to those experienced less than a second after the universe came into being.”

No, I don’t believe it. Or rather my attitude is agnostic towards it. To believe that the scientific community can know the exact age of the universe to within a second requires a leap of faith that I am not prepared to indulge in, particularly when my Sky+ Box often misses the beginnings of programmes.

They are looking for something called the “Higgs boson”. No, really. They should have asked me, I have a complete set in my garden shed. They are truly very heavy. It takes both me and Mrs S ages to shift them whenever we want to get the chrysanthemum scissors out.

According to our deranged chums, without the Higgs boson there would be no mass in the universe. No, this is getting too fucking silly for me.

Mr Higgs, and this really grabbed my attention, is described thus:

"He doesn't say very much and when he does, it's not always easy to comprehend what he is talking about …. He is a model scientist."

I commented on this at “The Scotsman”:

I had physics teachers like this at school. I would advise you all that in this case first impressions are accurate. Physicists have nothing to teach us about anything other than the propagation of nonsense, and we should let them all play nicely, away from the rest of us.

I was criticised for my comments, until the aforementioned Mr Trellis came to my defence.

I suspect that the very nice man or lady (Eben Harrell) who wrote this article actually believes some of this stuff, but he or she explained it in a way that makes it approach intelligibility.

At the beginning of the article he poses three questions. I think I can help.

What is dark matter?

A polite term for the utterances of the scientific community.

Why is the universe expanding?

There are intelligent beings in the outer reaches who are trying to accelerate away from this area, so that they do not have to listen to the babblings of our intellectuals.

What are its building blocks?

Love and Grace.

Pissup of the year, anyone?

I have taken the extraordinarily militant step of writing to the editor of the Telegraph:

Sir,

I note with sadness that you have failed to learn the lesson from a news story that has been widely reported in the popular press over the last few days, to do with the publicising of private celebrations. On the one hand we are presented with sad images of a home wrecked by uninvited guests, and on the other your respected organ announces to the world that the Pope will be shortly celebrating a birthday party.

I hope that he finds it in his heart to forgive you if gangs of drug-addled archbishops destroy his nice home. I shall make it my business to inspect the premises after the celebrations, and if I find any evidence of chalices soiled with vomit, inappropriate urination or graffiti in the Sistine chapel, I shall hold you responsible.

Yours

Vicus Scurra

I resisted the temptation to be verbose. I shall keep you informed about the progress of my campaign.

I have been drawn out of my long silence to pay tribute to one of the great literary figures of this age, whose death was reported today.

Seldom has one man been so accurate in his description of the human condition, and at the same time highlighting the futility of our actions.

** For those of you coming to this late, Terry Hall died at the same time as Kurt Vonnegut.

It is not, as you will know, my normal practice to comment on news items that feature unfortunate individuals, and to use this forum as a front for ridicule.

I will make an exception in the case of a dentist from Yorkshire whose sad little history has been brought to my attention by those nice people at BBC news.

The gentleman in question has been found guilty of cleaning his fingernails and ears with his instruments, prior to using them to probe the cavities of the good citizens of Batley. (i.e. he used his instruments, not his fingernails and ears, to probe the cavities, let us be clear about this).

It is not, as you will know, my normal practice to comment on the lifestyle choices of my fellow humans, and I leave it to less compassionate commentators to say that those choosing to live in Yorkshire have only themselves to blame.

The star of this news story completed his performance as described by one of his nurses.

"How do you tell your employer that you've just seen him urinate in the sink?" she said.

Mr Hutchinson had claimed he had been cleaning his teeth at the sink as part of his normal routine.

For those of you not conversant with care of dentures, I should point out that there are many proprietary cleansers available at your local pharmacy, and pissing on them is not recommended. (i.e it is recommended that you piss neither on your dentures nor the proprietary cleaners nor your local pharmacy.) If such practices appeal to you, I will not sit in judgement. You daft bastard.

What, then, should you expect from a national health service dentist in this age of new labour? I really cannot say. I would just advise keeping your eyes open, no matter how sharp the instruments look, because that antiseptic rinse might not be within the boundaries of acceptability, no matter how impressive the aim.

I am driven to lower the tone here somewhat, because I have met my match when it comes to poetry on the internet. This morning’s offering from my new friend Reg (sorry to keep going on about him, I expect he has many serious defects in real life), made me laugh more than anything I have ever read on the internet. It may not do the same for you, but I defy anyone not to find it funny. Of course, if I tab across to BBC news and find that Thatcher has died, I may have to revise that judgement. If I find that she has been eaten slowly to death by rats then “may” will become “will”.

I am a lazy fat drug crazed commie bastard.

You have probably all seen that naughty Boris has been at it again, this time picking on the fine citizens of the ancient settlement of Portsmouth. He will soon have a full set.
Here is what I posted on his blog:
Slightly off topic here, Boris, but I thought we were friends. The route from London to Portsmouth takes you within a Tebbit's scowl of my house in north east Hampshire, and yet you thought it necessary to go all the way to the coast to find a place "too full of drugs, obesity, underachievement and Labour MPs". We in North East Hampshire are proud of our obesity and underachievement. We could probably rustle up a few joints and a tab of acid for you should it be really essential. No Labour MPs, alas, but we could sit in my garden and sing the Internationale.
I am very hurt, unless these allegations on Sky news are false or a belated April Fool jape.
I am sure he will be very pleased to hear from you all.

I apologise for being a little late in bringing you news of this service.