Didn't he have a dream about the King of Sweden?

He isn't very funny, and I have taken issue with him in the past, but here is one UK politician who writes very little with which I can take issue.
I mean by that, for the pedantic among you, that I can take issue with very little of what he writes, rather than that his output is minimal.
He isn't very funny, but don't hold that against him.
Go over there and see if you can leave a comment.

Man of the Year

Arthur Craddock

Good news

The time has come to produce here an anecdote about a gentleman who may, or may not, have been a relative of mine.I am prompted to do this by dear Lin, who has been visited by some nice young people who are under the impression that holidays are related to religious festivals. Strange.

One fine morning, he was sitting at home, pondering the deeper mysteries of the universe, when his reverie was disturbed by a knock on his front door.
“Good morning”, said the young lady who was the knockee, “I’m from St John’s Church”.
“I’m particularly pleased to see you”, was the response.
“Really?”
“Oh yes, you see when I moved in here, I had a little bet with my wife, I was sure that it would be your church whose representative was the first one to call. She said it would be the Baptists.”
“That’s very pleasing, when did you move in?”
“Forty eight years ago”.

Drink your coffee.

Today, sadly, marked the passing of two fine actors, very different in style and the roles that they chose. One of them was the outstanding acting talent of his generation, and so none of you will have heard of him, the other was less elevated, but nevertheless a great professional.

Paul Scofield was most famous for his role as Foggy in “Last of the Summer Wine”, the world’s longest running sittrag. Alongside John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson he was part of a trio of aging single men faced with the bleak prospect of retirement and being sidelined by society. His catch phrase “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks”, usually uttered while staring balefully in the direction of Huddersfield, will stay with all of us who saw it. Even in the company of such great thespians as Dame Judi Dench as Nora Batty and Antony Sher as Eli, his talent stood out.

The highlight of Brian Wilde’s career came in his role as Thomas More in “A Man for All Seasons”, where he starred alongside Bill Owen as Henry VIII and Peter Sallis as Wolsey. Who can forget the scene in which they rowed off down the Thames in the carved out corpse of Ann Boleyn and sank at Isleworth, or the episode where they all made fun of Thomas Cromwell’s wrinkled tights.

It won't stand up in court

This week’s “Lewis” appeared to be following the path for which I have been campaigning. It began with Lewis and Hathaway getting sweaty together, and Lewis’s opening remark was “Knobs game”, which I took to be some sort of invitation to participate in homo-erotic activity. This was followed by Lewis wincing in pain. I was disappointed. This scene took place on a squash court (not an environment with which I am familiar, so forgive me) and this was as close as the two got for the whole episode. No sly winks, no delicate massaging of extremities, no tongues. Nothing. Indeed, I believe “Knobs game” should have read “Knob’s game” and was indicative of Lewis’s opinion of this sport. At least he has one redeeming feature.

There followed another plunge into the depths of inanity, depths which, if the evidence is anything to go by, are infinite. I believe the series has ended. This prevents us from seeing the next episode in which prince Michael of Kent is bludgeoned to death by a reincarnation of Harry Worth. I am considering taking up the ingestion of narcotics rather than watch any more of this tripe, particularly now the love story has burnt out.

I shall only watch detective movies where there is a love interest between the leading heroes. This means that “Miss Marple” must be put aside, unless she trades in her vibrator for one with considerably more functions. I shall eschew “Dixon of Dock Green”, apart from where Lauderdale gets to use his truncheon. “No Hiding Place” is out, until we get high screen as well as wide screen, and see what is going on in the back of the car below waist level. I shall not be watching “Softly, Softly” again, except for the brief interlude where Charlie Barlow whispers “Who wants shagging next?” and his deputy says “What?”. (Yes, I know you are all too young for this - that is not my fault).

If you think she is tough, you should meet her sister

Loathe as I am to reinforce racial stereotypes, I feel compelled to draw your attention to Ruth Butterworth. Ruth is a snake boxer and Brisbane housewife.

Love and peace

A few carefully crafted words in response to lord Goldsmith and his proposal to have schoolchildren pledge an oath of allegiance to the queen, and to have a British national day. I say all of this with concern and love.

Fuck off you complete dumbfuck tosser.
Take your fucking proposals and shove them up your tory arse, you twat.
Fuck off you dozy bastard.
Oath of allegiance? To a bunch of thick, overblown, throwback parasites? Stick it up your bollocks you motherfucking asshole.
National day? That’s just what we fucking need, a bit more jingoism, nationalism and division you odious conglomeration of camel turds. How fucking stupid can you possible be, you shitchewing goat molester?

I hope that this helps.

Up until midnight writing this crap. Still better than "Lewis"

Even I am surprised by how quickly ITV have picked up on my suggestion that “Lewis” should be transformed from a cop show to a man-on-man spectacular. This week’s serving was so preposterous that it is scarcely worthy of my spending time describing it. However, being worthwhile has never been a criterion that I have embraced. Let me just say that the plot was just about the most ludicrous to have ever appeared on television, even outdoing the disgusting deceit that in the 1980’s we had Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister. As if.

Having run out of dons and tutors to bump off in Oxford, the scriptwriters have turned to the clergy as the latest victims of crime. Oxford will soon become a place devoid of pedagogues and priests. There will be no culture left, nor any spirituality. Good.

When I saw a red hot poker being withdrawn from a fire, and being prepared to be used as a murder weapon, my heart leapt, believing that our old friend Edward II was about to be invoked. But no, the poker was (off camera) pushed through a vicar’s eye and into his brain. If you think this was silly, you should have seen the whole programme. It also featured a transsexual This transsexual had been known to almost all of the characters prior to her bollockectomy, but none of them recognised her. She had no male characteristics, as ridiculous as the transsexual on Coronation Street – Deirdre or whateverhernameis. This one was clearly female, apart from a slightly deep voice, but never mind, it was so obvious that this is what the scriptwriters intended us to believe.

The writers have also been struck down with a severe case of Bradley Hardacre, having the protagonists verbalise all of their thought processes. The writers obviously suppose that we are as dumb as they are. The “as you well know” included an explanation of what the Garden of Gethsemane was, just in case there was anyone watching who had been to school later than 1970 and had therefore failed to be taught anything.

Fucking hell.

We are also back to the old Morse days where all of the characters bar one have to be murdered before the brains of the fuzz work out who is the culprit. One suicide and three murders in this one. If you are planning to move to Oxford, take out some comprehensive life insurance.

Anyway, to move on to the gay thing, as it were. I should, at this stage, point out that I do not think that I have a particular gift for writing gay porn. I am at a slight disadvantage in imagining the sight of Norman Tebbit being anally penetrated by Clint Eastwood to be more funny than erotic. Maybe I am wrong, and a new career awaits me, but for those of you wanting a meaningful description of what is to follow, I suspect that I need to apologise. Many of the characters in this episode were gay. I suspect that this device was used to prepare the viewer for the moment were Lewis and Sergeant Hathaway actually get it on. In one poignant scene, Lewis asks Hathaway if he is gay. It is early days yet, and the question was asked in a decidedly non-camp way. No protruding tongues nor any hip gyrations. I am sure this is to come next week. Lewis then has an entirely meaningless involvement in a sub-plot about allotments. In this he is advised by a fellow allotmenteer that it is no good attempting to grow peas or marrows on his plot. Carrots get the nod of approval. We all know what that signifies, don’t we children? Meanwhile, Hathaway begins a sexual relationship with aforementioned transsexual, probably just to make Lewis jealous. It is of course, quite common practice for HM Constabulary to conduct affairs with mass murderers. You will all have heard about Harold Shipman and James Anderton. In the end (no pun intended) Lewis rescues Hathaway from a burning house. “James!” he cries seeing his loved one unconscious in a smoke filled room. He slings him over his shoulder (despite being 20 years older and three feet shorter) and carries him down the stairs, carefully caressing the pert buttocks. We then see him lying atop Hathaway as the house explodes (some sort of metaphor) in a way that would qualify for “up the arse corner” in Viz.

The programme ends with them both back to pretending to be butch, but the viewer is left in no doubt what they are thinking.

I will give you an update next week unless the action gets too graphic. I really don’t fancy that.

******

For the benefit of those of you without access to what passes for British culture, here is a brief description of some of the items mentioned.

“Lewis” is a third rate detective show, taking over from the series “Morse”, whose lead character died of incredulity some time ago.

Edward II was king of England. He made the mistake of asking someone to keep his seat warm.

Coronation Street is a long running soap opera, with which I have a passing familiarity as it is watched by Mrs S. while I twat about on the computer.

Deirdre is a character in Coronation Street so hideously ugly that not even Tom would shag her.

Bradley Hardacre was a character in a sublime British comedy series called “Brass”, one of the running gags in which was to have one character explain to another a plot for the sake of the viewers, suffixed with “as you know”. The best use of this was the line (something like) “she went to Llandudno, as you did know”.

Harold Shipman was a doctor who prescribed unusual remedies.

James Anderton was the Chief Constable of Manchester, who believed God was talking to him. He was correct in this, but mysteriously missed the repeated requests from God to “shut the fuck up, you asshole.”

Allotments – plots of ground rented by local government authorities for the purposes of gardening.

Viz is a high quality British newspaper.

For those of you concerned about revicide, I should point out that Oxford is a safe distance from Norfolk.

The Garden of Gethsemane is a night club in Hereford. You daft bastard.

Margaret Thatcher is a fucking fascist twat. Where’s that red hot poker?

Countdown to the Royal Divorce Part 18

You will be distressed, and rending your raiment, (I can write that but don’t ask me to say it), to hear that I have been less than well these few days. Nowhere near in the Dave league of biblical plagues, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of my life to the extent that I have had my computing perambulations somewhat curtailed. Today, having failed to sleep much last night, and been woken by a cough every time I tried to sleep, and with a headache and other symptoms, I resorted to watching daytime television. I am happy to report that it is wonderful. I saw, for the first time, the whole of the episode of “Whose line is it anyway” with Richard Simmons, having only seen clips before. It was almost worth becoming ill for.

******

I have been reluctant to write much about my old friends, the Windsors, because of the news embargo, and not wanting to step out of line, but I know that some of you are keen to be kept up to date.

I knew that something monumental was afoot when that silly tart Camilla telephoned in November, in a bit of a state about what appeared to be a packing dilemma. “Just theoretically, of course”, she began, “what do you think the correct number of pairs of underpants would be required by a young chap for, say, 4 months in Afghanistan?”. I told her four, but put an extra pair in to be on the safe side. I am always surprised at how gullible the silly buggers are. One would think that they lived constantly surrounded by sycophants incapable of being anything other than totally subservient. I heard nothing more about it, and I have to confess that I was a bit bemused to see all the fuss about Charlie’s youngest in the news, because I could swear I found him hiding in a cupboard in St James’s Palace in January, and in February I had what I assumed was a misdirected text asking if he could come out yet. I replied that he would have to wait for Edward.

It is nice to see Liz taking it easy at last. Most Wednesday afternoons she nips out to the Bingo at the old Bermondsey Gaumont. It is surprising that she has never been found out, but generally the population of London are so up themselves that they notice nothing. A few years ago it fell to me to escort her on this venture – and what a bloody waste of time that was. Not made any more pleasant by her antics, I might add. One time the poor old love got a tad confused, and mistook the passengers waiting to board the train at Westminster tube station for a trade delegation from Paraguay, and went along asking them all “What do you do?” and “Have you come far?”. Generally in London there are more than 50 nutters to the square foot, so one more went unnoticed, but it wasn’t very easy for me to extricate her. Once she got inside the hall it was no better. It took her about 2 years to learn the rules, and then on the odd occasion when she managed to get a winning line she would yell out “Palace!” I eventually pointed out that this was not the accepted norm, but even when she changed to “Hice!” it was little better.

Help society by helping yourself

I have left a little comment over at Boris's website, lending him a little support in his latest hardship.

Boris, you remember how a few weeks ago I rebuked you for not calling in for tea when you were passing, well, in the light of recent news stories, the invitation still stands, but there will be a full body search as part of our new security procedures when you leave. This will, of course, be done with maximum propriety.
To save time, if any little trinket catches your eye, just ask for it. I am not a rich man by your standards, but neither am I ungenerous.

For those of you not abreast with current affairs (i.e. all of you) here is a link to the story in question in the Torygraph.

Remorse

These days I try to leave the business of television criticism to my articulate friend Willie Lupin. Well, he is either an articulate friend or a very bizarre form of decoration.

I cannot, however, let the beginning of a new series of “Lewis” go without a tiny comment or two.

Seldom can a series have got so far up itself. Highbrow ITV is one of the great oxymorons of our time. Have a crap detective show, throw in a couple of references to Shelley and Turner, try to make a joke out of it, and pretend that the joke is very clever, and you have a winning formula. And then they have that awful music in the background. Endless shots of Oxford, minutes of pseudo intellectual drivel, followed by a quick explanation about why someone had done something to someone else, as if anyone gives a monkey’s anymore.

This weeks plot involved two Oxford tutors/dons/whateverthefucks, supposedly amongst the cream of British intelligence, launch a scheme to earn money by enlisting the help of some mentally disturbed people to forge documents by Shelley. This is the poet Shelley. I am not a fan of his work either (although I thought that Hywel Bennett made a good fist of playing him. I can see that dissatisfaction with bourgeois life would provide sufficient impetus to compose Prometheus Unbound.)

This nonsense was written by Alan Plater, normally very reliable. There must have been an “any old shit will do” clause written into his contract.

Lewis is a widower. His wife killed herself rather than play a part in any more of this drivel. I am hoping that he will get it on with Sergeant Hathaway. And very soon. I am not normally a fan of man on man action (either by way of participation or viewing (I know this will disappoint so many of you)), but I suspect that only a thorough rogering by Lewis would be enough to wipe the smug smile off of Hathaway’s face.

Living History

This is a slightly edited version of a little essay I composed as a fond reminiscence about the happy days of my youth. I hope that I have removed any references that might identify the individuals involved.

Preamble.

In the summer of 1971 two students at a fine academic institution that I had once attended, were apprehended by a member of staff when attempting to load a cupboard into the back of a vehicle. I cannot identify these people, but they bore a resemblance to two chaps who shared a house with me.

“What are doing with that?” enquired the fine representative of the establishment.

“We are taking it home to empty it”, was the reply.

Shortly afterwards, the above mentioned students could have been witnessed moving items from their deluxe town centre dwelling to stash them at the nearby house of friends. There is no suggestion that any of these items were other than their own property.

Later that day we were visited by two members of the constabulary, who although merely there to investigate possible theft of college property, were members of the drug squad. Actually they were the drug squad. The town in question didn’t have many drugs to speak of in those days. It didn’t have much of a drug squad to speak of either.

I can’t recall whether they had a warrant, but they were allowed to search the house. Upstairs, they found a young lady in a state of undress in a bed. No mars bars were present.

“Is that what you students get up to then?” said Morse or whatever his name was.

“Yes!” she replied, with more enthusiasm than was called for.

Having searched the house and found nothing, Poirot and Marple decided to use a more subtle approach.

“Have you got any cannabis on the premises, then?”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve completely run out” was my helpful reply. This moment is the one in which my card was marked.

And this is where the story really begins

One evening in late 1971 I was spending a pleasant evening in the company of a friend in a nearby flat, one of his flatmates having gone out to procure some herbal remedies.

This flatmate came running up the stairs, saying something about cops, and proceeded to throw a tin that he was carrying out of the window. To prove that he was not hallucinating, he was followed into the room by the Sweeney, who proceeded to serve us with a search warrant and place us under arrest.

Several objects had already been thrown into the fire. I was wearing a cardboard badge bearing the motto “Cheshire Constabulary”. This was, somewhat unfairly, ripped from my coat and thrown into the fire.

Another member of her majesty’s finest then came into the room, rubbing his head, and asking in a manner which was somewhat short of being polite, who had thrown the tin that he was holding in his hand. I could not swear under oath that it was the same tin that I had seen being hurled a few moments earlier, but neither could I deny it.

The flatmate was then hauled off to the nick to be given a demonstration of police brutality, without the need to have bought a ticket.

I was given a free ride in a police car round the corner to my house. Somehow, news of the imminent arrival of Starsky and Hutch had reached there already. As I entered through the front door with my new friends, one inhabitant was in the back room trying to swallow a large lump of what may or may not have been cannabis resin. He failed in this attempt, and hit on the brilliant scheme of hiding it by throwing it on the floor.

There follows a couple of lists of what Dalziel and Pascoe removed from the premises, and some of the things they did not.

What they took:

• A stool from a local hostelry called “The Dirty Duck”. (This was the name of the hostelry, not the stool, you soft twat). This item resulted in the only charge and prosecution from my house – the naughty boy was charged, tried, fined, and lost his job.
• Some drug paraphernalia, viz: 1 pipe. This pipe had been left on the premises by a peripheral character. Said person, probably with the surname “Fuckwit” had been too intimidated by the legal strictures surrounding the smoking of dope, and had instead tried to smoke banana skins, having been assured by some other fuckwit that there was virtually no difference in the effects. I would like to think that Constabulary spent £20,000 trying to identify the traces of the exotic substance found in this pipe.
• Some correspondence from an innocent third party, containing details, among other things of his first born. “He’s got his granddad’s teeth – none, his dad’s balls – big and his mother’s tits – one in each hand”
• They removed, but may not have taken away, a notice that I had in the front room window that advised passers-by “Help the Police, Your Home may be in Danger”.

What they didn’t take:

• A large lump of what may or may not have been cannabis resin, lying in plain view on the back room floor.
• A packet of suspicious looking tablets, sellotaped to the ceiling above my bed. These tablets were almost certainly birth control tablets left by some passing young lady. Discretion demands that I say no more on this matter.
• A poster on my bedroom wall which displayed the photograph of a young lady, which had had the caption “Cops eat shit” added to it.

To this day, due to this appalling incompetence, I have no criminal record.

An analysis of economic conditions prevailing in 18th Century Egypt.

It seems that no-one has posted anything today. Either you have all died or the RSS feeds aren’t working. What is a poor boy to do but sneak in a little sports related post while no-one is looking.

I watched Chelsea lose today. I am not sure whether Spurs winning or Chelsea losing gave me the greatest pleasure. I have just about forgiven Spurs for cheating Leicester City out of the 1961 FA Cup. It was a very hard lesson for one so young. Bastards. Spurs play, or attempt to play and usually succeed, open, attractive, attacking football. Chelsea play, to borrow from Mel Brooks, like a bunch of Kansas City faggots.

I should point out that I have nothing against Kansas City, its faggots or any place else’s faggots. The phrase is entirely rhetorical.

Chelsea belong in the Italian league. Their style is dull, unimaginative and sterile. Having spent the best part of £600 million on players, they have contrived to produce a boring spectacle. I would like to see them relegated. To borrow from another great wit, Shanks, who was talking of Everton rather than Chelsea, but it fits, “if they were playing in my back garden, I’d close the curtains.”

Anyway, today justice was done, and the overpaid primadonnas from Fulham were sent packing.

Slightly more worrying was the conclusion I reached having had more than my normal dose of rugby this weekend, that I would rather watch the poorer teams from the Super 14 than the home international matches. It would be unfair to say that England won their match this weekend. France lost it. I can think of no players currently playing in Europe, apart from a handful of All Blacks, who I would go out of my way to watch. The standards really are dreadful. Too many errors, stupidity abounds. In contrast, for example, was the performance of Richie McCaw this weekend. Exquisite. Although the highlight may have been Phil Waugh, when called over to speak to the ref and seeing Jono Gibbes approach saying “He’s talking to me. Fuck off.” Simple and to the point, it encapsulates the spirit of the modern game.

Wherein Scurra again inadvertently offends large sections of his readership.

Continuing the theme of unreliable right-wing (redundancy?), I found this little gem on the site of one of the world’s largest conglomerates of lying bastards.

Ladies, be not alarmed! If it is on Fox news, its veracity is at best questionable.

I am sure that you all have a G spot. If you find it, or already know where it is, then tell your partner. He or she will be grateful, and will save themselves hours of effort.

I was particularly intrigued by this section:

“….used an ultrasound to scan the area of the vagina where the G-spot, also called the Gräfenberg spot after Ernest Gräfenberg, the man who discovered it, is located.”

I had to read it several times before I could be sure that the subject of the “where” was the G Spot, and not Mr Grafenberg. I am pleased for him. Being located in that area has its merits, and indeed seems to be the most sought after place in the universe for many of us, but I don’t think I would like to take up residence there, and I am sure that Mr Grafenberg shares the same view. If I am wrong, then please form a single column line of volunteers to conduct the search for him.

I was also unaware why the G spot was so called. It had never occurred to me. I admit it. I am, like the rest of the male sub group only interested in personal gratification. The pursuit of female erogenous zones is tiresome enough, without having to study the history, geography and etymology.

Herr Grafenberg led a team of explorers in search of this elusive area. He was rewarded by having the spot named after him. It is only a tiny area, so they couldn’t use the whole name, so, although I had heard of Cook, Van Diemen and Rhodes, and knew something of them and had a vague idea of the location of the places named after them, the name of Grafenberg has, up to this time, been beyond the boundaries of my knowledge, and I have no idea where his discovery lies.

I wonder what he told his wife he had done at work each day. Did he, as they say, bring his work home with him, literally or figuratively. “For fuck’s sake Ernst, put that torch and telescope away and give us a shag, will you?”

Is that a javelin in your pocket?

Even though I am often diametrically at odds with the opinions expressed therein, I retain a fondness for the Torygraph, and its complete refusal to acknowledge the passing of Queen Victoria.

Earlier this week it reported that Hugh “Rubber Johnny” Despenser had been found. Astute readers (i.e. none of you) will recognise the name of Hughie from an earlier article here in which I reported that he had been nominated as one of the greatest 10 villains in British history. I had no prior recollection of him, and was a little surprised that he should accrue such opprobrium, but reading about him does tend to further the view that he wasn’t very nice.

The Torygraph must be alone in thinking that anyone has been searching for him. Reports of his public execution and the details thereof are readily available. This execution took place in 1326. Even his most loyal friends and relations have long since given up hope of his returning home, with a hair-raising tale of cheating death, and a healthy appetite. The faithful old cocker spaniel lying curled up on the hearthrug has long since ceased to whine whenever someone came to the door. We have all recognised that he has probably failed in his application at the pearly gates and been stoking the boilers in Hades these nigh on 700 years.

The Torygraph will probably be reporting in 700 years time about the finding of Lord Lucan. Not many of us will be here to read it, at least not in these bodies. Adam might – Adam, what is the life expectancy of your species?

Anyway, in somewhat startling language, the Torygraph describes old Hugh as “the gay lover of Edward II”. This is truly sensational. It also contains some redundancy, unless they mean “gay” in its traditional usage. At the same time, it is very reassuring. Never mind that Hugh was corrupt beyond the dreams of even a Conservative politician, was prone to torturing folk and that he allied himself with Edward II, who was one of the worst monarchs in the dizzying array of complete twattishness that has been the English royal family, no, much worse than all of that - he caught the other bus. The British establishment welcomes villains, psychopaths and mass murderers, but can’t abide poofters.

If you go to the report in the Telegraph, you may be startled to note the size of Hugh’s male member. It may well catch your eye. At least, I assume that is what is on display, some of you may be more habitual in your study of these things than I. When you have done this, you may like to search for images of Edward. (No, Adam, there are no movies). He is usually depicted with an unnaturally curly beard. These curls are the result of either over attention to cosmetics or an intimate act with someone well proportioned. In any case, the apocryphal manner of Edward’s death could scarcely have been more painful than joining in the games that he played with Hugh should you care to believe the Torygraph.

Edward’s most notable single achievement is losing the Battle of Bannockburn. It would be a bit like Chelsea being knocked out of the European Cup by Stenhousemuir. Of course, if you know anything about the rest of his reign you will note that he managed to piss off just about everyone, and was eventually deposed. His character could scarcely have been more different to that of his vanquisher at Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce, which is strange – they were probably related, both having the same middle name.

Missing words competition. "Police probe MP's _________"

I am obliged to my friends at the BBC for reminding us that today is the anniversary of the death of Conservative MP Stephen Milligan.

Normally, out of a sense of sympathy for friends and relations, I try to curtail my instinct to make fun of the recently departed. In Mr Milligan’s case, however, I feel it is not only important to make an exception but also I am sure that it is what he would have wanted. Some politicians are remembered for their contributions to the world. Some, like Stevie, leave us with much fonder memories.

The BBC mention the stockings and suspenders, and the bin liner. I seem to remember something to do with a small orange, or satsuma and electrical flex, but that could have been one of so many other politicians.

It could, of course, have been worse for him. He could have been found alive in that state.

I also seem to recall that this all happened when John Major was in charge (I use the term advisedly) and that it was during his “Back to Basics” campaign. What sweet days those were.

I will try to desist in make derogatory comments about those who have died. However, when someone finally drives a stake through the chest of the Thatcher cow, I will declare a public holiday and sing loudly, should the Good Lord spare me that long.

I know bugger all about this. Here is my opinion

I was pleased to get a call a few days ago from my old friend Rowan Williams telling me how good Sharia Law was. I have to confess that I have not yet had the opportunity to listen to any of her music, and to further confess that until Rowan contacted me I had not heard of her, but I will certainly be going to my local record shop and sampling an LP or EP or two. Rowan has always been a very good source for musical tips – he has a keen ear. Much of my music collection – The Glitter Band, Robert Johnson, The Tremeloes and Grace Jones to name but a small cross-section – originates in his recommendations.

I was therefore sorry to see that he has got into some trouble in the media because, apparently, the young lady has Moslem connections. I am saddened by this, it is nobody’s business. Perhaps we are living in less liberal times. David Whitfield, Captain Beefheart and Mary Hopkins were/are all devout Moslems, and it never impacted on their careers.

****

If I listen to the news media, then it is usually Radio 5. This morning they were covering the hysteria surrounding the latest ill advised remarks by a minor cleric. They tackled this in a, sadly, typical way by first of all playing “pick a bigot” – the family game whereby you put some negative spin on a news story, and ask someone in the street, who has obviously not studied the reports, what they think about it. “If they come over here, then they should follow our laws”. They then interviewed a man who was a Moslem, but clearly not able to answer the questions about the processes of Sharia when it comes to divorce. Really helpful. I switched to Radio 4, which was a welcome relief (despite their having the idiot Blunkett on board). They put the speech into context, pointed out that there was perhaps a precedent in the Jewish community. They then interviewed someone from the Jewish community who had a clear understanding of how this worked, and corrected the assumptions they had made in relating this to the Sharia case. They then had further analysis, and discussed the real issue, which was that by making these comments the priest in question had invited the hysterical response that the media have displayed. But I doubt whether anyone much was listening to Radio 4. Very few were listening to Radio 5. The majority will get their prejudices confirmed by the Daily Pox, the Daily Scum and the Daily Asswipe, or the wailings of braindead disc jockeys on other radio stations or cheap news channels. Please refer to the title of this journal.

Old friends

Aware that Hephzibah had done a very good drawing of her house, Boris tried, unsuccessfully, to hide behind her with his "drawing" that was actually an email from his mum telling him his tie wasn't quite straight.
Sergeant Major Livingstone told private Johnson and his pal that they would not need to wear camouflage for the trip to Iraq. He guaranteed that they would be quite safe without it.

The king who died on the toilet

I am aware that my blog is neglected. My current excuse is that I have been giving evidence in the long running inquest into the death of Ann Boleyn, now entering its four hundred and sixty second year. I have been demonstrating that the only logical explanation of her death is that she was running too fast down the corridor at Hampton Court, trying to escape from an over-eager portrait painter, when she ran into a pillar and her head fell off. It is ludicrous to suggest that King Henry had anything to do with her demise. What did he have to gain, apart from the expense of another wedding?

So, in order to make amends, I have made some sexist remarks on Pam and Ziggi’s blogs, been very rude about dear Dave (although Richard, bless him, claimed not to understand me) and am wondering whether that qualifies as my midweek quota.

This evening I watched the televisual entertainment “City of Vice”, I think it was on channel 4. It is based on the formation of London’s first, small, police force the Bow Street Runners. I am not familiar enough with the history of that time to comment on how accurate it is. Suffice it to say no-one said “We’re the Runners, and we haven’t had our breakfast” - there were no sedan chair chases, although there was the usual amount of police brutality. I know very little about George II, who was the monarch at this time, and I expect that the same is true of the non-historians (i.e. the whole fucking lot) among you. He was king for quite some time, but is less famous than his predecessor, famous for not speaking English, and his successor, famous for being mad, but not too mad to see the sense in getting shut of the most troublesome of the colonies. George II was even overshadowed by his utter cunt of a son, the duke of Cumberland, and Charles Edward Stuart, who was also an utter cunt, but not quite so utter as Cumberland. I suspect that, in consequence, the TV series will be dull. It would be nice to have a really top class cop show on TV again. Who remembers “Strangers”?

Apart from all that only the Pope is in the news. He has been upsetting the good folk of some place or other who don’t want him to visit because he once said that it was quite right for Galileo to be tried for heresy (you couldn’t make it up, could you? Unless you were a physicist or pontiff, then you could make any old shit up and there would be thousands dumb enough to believe you). He has also got some of his friends to condemn Harry Potter. Poor old Harry, got to 18 and never got his end away (or is that one of the chapters I missed?). The Torygraph is asking its readers whether they have been done harm by Harry Potter. I still have an itch from the last encounter, but am not sure whether that counts.

I bet the majority of comments are about underage sex, rather than my deep insights into history. See what I mean, Tom?

A break in transmission

Despite the title of this blog, and the usual tone, there are some human activities that do lift my spirits.

May I recommend to those of you able to take advantage:
The South Bank show with Kevin Spacey, about what he is doing at the Old Vic.
(No, the theatre, not me, you dull twat)
Cranford with Eileen Atkins. Orgasmically good.
Big Fat Quiz of the Year.
The Karelia Suite by Sibelius.
The books of James Lee Burke.
Mississippi John Hurt.

(That's enough cheerful things, Ed.)

Normal bile pouring will resume shortly.

Congratulations America

We all said that you would not be able to find someone more fucking stupid than that twat Bush, but (thanks to my friend Son of Groucho for bringing this to my attention) it looks as if we were wrong.

What I done at Christmas.

Many of you, (AMToNW) ask where my wacky sense of humour comes from. Well, when you can drag yourselves up by your elbows (your hands are still holding your aching sides) from roffling at my latest little essay, I should explain that I have traced a very zany streak up through my maternal grandfather’s line to the Sleath family of Gilmorton in Leicestershire.

These few days I have been adding several hundred people to my family tree, having at last discovered the precise identity of my 6x great grandfather. His name was Gabriel. Many of my family are angels. His kinfolk (and imagine the long cold winter evenings in rural Leicestershire in the 17^th century) thought it would be a great way to pass the time to call about every 3^rd male Sleath “Gabriel”. They could barely wait for one of the Sleath women to expel a male baby before they set about calling him “Gabriel”, the sound of their laughter could be heard from Wibtoft in the west to Upper Bruntingthorpe in the east. As the Sleaths (most of them Gabriels), banged their heads on the floor in mirth, earth tremors could be felt from Willoughby Waterleys in the north to Walton by Kimcote in the south (not very far south, you may think, but if you go much further south you get into Warwickshire, where people are too dull to have amusing place names). You can hardly imagine their delight should an outsider venture into the village looking for Gabriel Sleath. Their little jape postponed the establishment of the modern postal service by decades.

I don’t know much about my dear ancestor other than his name, (his grandfather was called Gabriel; his great grandfather was called Gabriel; he had an uncle Gabriel; uncle Gabriel called one of his sons Gabriel), except for the fact that the silly burghers of Gilmorton were equally flummoxed by the inhabitants all having the same name, and therefore added appellations to the various Sleaths so that they had some idea of about whom they were talking. Any vestige or pretence of knowing about what one is talking has long since disappeared in the family.

My ancestor’s uncle was known as “Gabriel Senior”, his uncle’s son “Gabriel Junior” (can you see the cunning application of logic there?). My ancestor was known as “Gabriel Medicus”. Yes indeed. I checked that it was not some Latin phrase meaning in the middle, but it does indeed relate to the ancient art of doctoring. I am not sure what a doctor did in the latter part of the 17^th Century, nor do I know whether he had to have any qualifications. Perhaps he was just able to open up a surgery in his scullery, rescue a local witch from the bonfire and appoint her as his receptionist, and go about the business of mucking about with the corporeal section of the local humanity, having already messed with their heads by calling everyone the same name. Gabriel perhaps spent his time stitching up the split sides of his patients, having caused said injuries by telling them his name.

I am not comfortable with this. I have found no evidence of anyone of any wealth, talent or redeeming features in any of my ancestors so far, and don’t like to think that there were any of the bourgeoisie in my line. I hope that I can eventually trace my line back to Adam without finding anyone going to a grammar school (let alone a public school), or having a mortgage or being called Gerald.

So, when I get round to creating my real family history, Gabriel will be the local village hippy, burning incense, doing aromatherapy and Chinese massage. He would probably have been seen as the local loony. One day I might go to Gilmorton to find his diary. I will not be surprised to find that its style bears a remarkable resemblance to some other great work of art that I can almost, but not quite, identify.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope that this helps.

Happy Christmas.

Overtaken by all of the joy

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

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 17

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

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

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

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

This is hilarious

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

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

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

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

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/notts2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/mornington.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/rhymes.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/postcards.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/samantha.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/waiter.html

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

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

Seasonal quiz

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

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

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

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

Snarling in a festive way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Wagner's pies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darlings, sweethearts, fans and sycophants.

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

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

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

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

UPDATE

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