Brotherly love

The BBC news channel is offering a story in which David Cameron outlines the Conservative’s approach to Europe.

Unfortunately one has to watch a video stream in order to find out what the approach is, and I fear that I would regurgitate the delicious vegan fruit and ginger cake that I have just eaten if I had to watch the odious little tit.

So I am guessing their approach is via Calais and direct to Dresden with the bombers.

My approach to Cameron would be from above, sitting on top of a five ton weight.

I will be back after these messages

• Boggins is back. Perhaps only temporarily. Please do not miss what may be his final performance of the year.
• Do not miss "Campus" on channel 4 on Friday 6th at 10.00. Dear old Blue Cat is the star behind the scenes.
• I am reluctant to send you lot to this next one. This lady is my cousin. She is actually my cousin's wife, so we do not have any genetic connection. I have never met her, and don't want any of you to be silly when you go to visit. She is a very nice lady, and I have forgiven her husband and his family for fleeing the continent when I was born. If you misbehave I will have my other cousins come and sing to you. Then you will be very sorry indeed.
• I had a postcard from my dear friend ILTV. I done a lol. Get over there and make her do one. Now.
  

Weeding out the troublemakers

I felt compelled to join the growing numbers of highly qualified experts who have resigned from the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs. My resignation letter is enclosed below. I trust that you will all respect the confidentiality.


Dear Alan

I am sorry to lay this heavy trip on you, man, but would it be cool if I split this scene? It’s kind of freaking me out, and I really want to be mellow and spend some time listening to the latest String Band album, if you can dig it. I can dig your vibe, right, but the only reason people have got it in for dope is that it is the people’s weed, man. The CIA and the KGB got together to try to control the supply (this is true, Steve told me) but they couldn’t stop all the brothers and sisters who were growing their own. I think that it would be far out if you stopped trying to mess with our heads, man, and realised that no harm ever came out of a few joints. Wow, man, if you just turned on, tuned in and dropped out in the cabinet meetings it would be too fucking much.

Love, peace and move away from the towers.

Scurra.

P.S. You know what would be really cool? To rename the Committee “The Advisory Council for Information about Drugs”. (geddit?)




You will all realise that the only way that a committee can advise on drugs is to get totally stoned. Otherwise there is no objective way of forming a view. The BBC have tried to cover up this truth, for example when they reported the sacking of Professor Nutt (crazee name, crazee guy) they said:
“The professor said smoking cannabis created only a "relatively small risk" of psychotic illness.”
I have corrected the punctuation:
“The professor said, smoking, cannabis created only a "relatively small risk" of psychotic illness.”

Trying to focus. What, all of us?

As I have mentioned before, I have taken refuge from the demands of the needy on the electric internet by immersing myself in the ancient science of genealogy. I had given up hope of ever tracing my male line back further than gt.gt.grandfather Ben, who had the misfortune to be born in Ireland. There is nothing wrong with being Irish, I must clarify, it is just that they failed to keep records of who did what to whom and the consequences thereof.

However, some time ago I submitted a DNA sample to some kind folk who were compiling a database, and this week I have found that there is a match, and Ben had a brother/cousin/second cousin and all sorts of people who came from Staffordshire, so although I cannot be sure of the relationships at the moment, I have found hundreds of his kin who wondered what possessed his mother to go to Dublin to give birth (perhaps they were doing a census, and Quirinius had mistaken Ben’s dad for a leprechaun).

Staffordshire sounds quite neutral, doesn’t it? It may lead you to deduce that the Scurras of Staffs were rural folk, tending their sheep and alpacas. But no, it is time to fess up. My forebears came from Willenhall. You know. Near Wolverhampton. In the Black Country. Willenhall, for some reason with which I am not yet cognisant, is associated with lock making. Many lock makers developed humped backs as a result of their work, but it is not this affliction that concerns me. I am not, as far as I know, quasimodoesque, although since the invention of the electric internet and Sky television I have little occasion to stand up. No, rather it is the fact that the Black Country has the most appalling dialect in this corner of the galaxy.

I am bereft to discover that not only do I not have anything worthwhile to say, but that when I say it I sound like a constipated manic depressive. For those of you of a foreign persuasion who are unfamiliar with the sound of the Wolverhampton accent, and are curious to hear it, let me just say this. DON’T!

Lugubrious does not begin to describe it. The caterwaulings of Robbie Williams, all country and western singers, Max Bygraves and Celine Dion combined are as heavenly choirs compared to the speech of the typical Willenhallonian. Those of you who find the singing of Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen less than cheerful (and I do not share that view) would change your mind if you had to spend a morning conversing in Walsall.

The dialect is more hideous than that of:

• Trevor Brooking, whose nasal whine and failure to pronounce the letter ‘g’ even though it is in his own name, has caused over 3 million people to defect from following football to taking up crochet.
• David Frost, for whom the word “smarm” would be complimentary.
• Mariella Frostrup, obviously one of Frost’s cousins whose sickening saccharine laden utterances have forced me to abandon watching the only cultural programme on Sky 1.
• Hugh Whatshisbollocks who does the rugby commentary in South Africa. God, in the cause of balance, decided that one of the most beautiful countries on earth should have an over abundance of Nazis, and, were that not enough, gave the inhabitants an accent that could only be achieved by a normal human being who was wearing underwear three sizes too small. Hugh has taken this already Hades-like rant, and infected it with a monotone so loathsome that his microphone melts three times during a typical Currie Cup game.
• Bob Willis. His voice may put you to sleep, however you will not sleep soundly, but rather have nightmares so horrendous that you would rather stay awake and read Jeffrey Archer.
• Gyles Badbreath. No explanation necessary.

Welcome to Kali Yuga

It is a strange day for news at the Torygraph. When there is a shift in its policies, one fears for the future of civilisation.

1) Cue for old joke.
It says that one person in five would consider voting for the BNP. There are five in my family, but I am not sure which one is the right winger – mum, dad, me, sister Stalina or brother Franco. I think it must be mum.
2) It reports on a book which says that pets are bad for the environment and that people should consider eating them. I was so incensed that I telephoned the palace to complain, but was told that Liz was busy, apparently making a Corgi Khorma in the kitchen. “A medium-sized dog has the same impact as a Toyota Land Cruiser driven 6,000 miles a year”. No, really, that is what it says.
3) “Woman gives birth in midair”. It transpires that she was on an aeroplane, so not such an entertaining spectacle as I had imagined.
4) A woman from Accrington has won £240,000 for biting a poisonous worm while on holiday. The worm was in her dinner. No matter what the financial incentives, little will tempt me to abandon my annual 10 days in Mablethorpe.

********

Over on twitter, by contrast, there are thousands of people suggesting “one letter off movies”.
Scaryduck is (and how could it be any other way?) the winner, with “The Shiting”. Although I thought my entry – “King Solomon’s Mints” was not without merit.

Contributors are welcome here for those too poor to afford Twitter, but I must warn you that they will all have been done already.

As promised

The Torygraph offers me the opportunity to return to topics promised in my last post.

A fine US citizen has been arrested for indecency after been seen ‘making coffee’ in his own home while naked. A passing woman (Pam? And why were you on stilts? And do you always carry binoculars?) with a 7 year old boy saw him.

She obviously took exception to his frappuccino, or didn’t approve of his method of stirring the brew. Perhaps she thought that his latte was too skinny. Perhaps he is the chap who put the “swell” into Macswell House (geddit?).

Tomorrow, the story of the man dunkin donuts in his kitchen.


I was also pleased to read the headline at the BBC that “Nasa should scrap Ares rocket”. Until I realised my mistake. It certainly sounded very unpleasant and dangerous.

Another county heard from

I am up late at night, twatting about on the internet again, with a compunction to write something about a topic about which every twat and his dog has opined ad nauseam this week.

We are all concerned about overcrowding. The bandwagon of sages and seers pontificating about the BNP is in danger of collapsing due to overpopulation. Controls must be adhered to, and only those who were on it to begin with should be allowed to stay.

This week a number of people (aMToNW) have been alarmed that the BBC has allowed a fascist to air his views on a popular television programme. Sundry shows on the electric radio featuring Ms Polly Filler and her associates have invited people to telephone and shout on air and completely ignore what everyone else has to say. If you switched on your wireless set you can hardly have avoided it.

The television programme has ended. Nothing has changed. No one has had their opinion changed about anything, apart from perhaps some very naughty boys on twitter and facebook who wish to shag Bonnie Greer.

Does anyone really believe that the knuckle-draggers and bottom-feeding paki-haters who make up a sizeable minority of the population of this fine nation will have had their views modified by the sight of Nick Griffin impersonating a twat tonight? Has anyone, and I admit it seems slightly less likely, suddenly realised that they don’t like rap music or gulab jamuns because they were so swayed by the deep insights offered by the leader of the BNP? Of course not.

I watched ‘Question Time’ this evening. A small part of it consisted of representatives of the three major political parties (The Silly party of Britain, The British Silly Party, and the Silly British Party) adopting their usual stance of trying to assert whose dad was bigger than whose. This is the normal format of these discussions. Tonight there was a significant diversion as the BBC had cleverly invited along someone so uncompromisingly odious that they could all take turns in calling him names. They had also provided on the panel, for the sake of university students who had been told to watch this particular edition but did not know why, a sexy woman.

My political opinions have hardly changed since I was eight years old. I didn’t believe then that it was right to exploit minorities and I still adhere to that view. I believed then that it was incumbent (although I couldn’t spell it then) on society to take care of the underprivileged, and I still share that view. When I was eighteen I found Jack Straw to be a tad right wing, now I find him to be a total authoritarian tory loony, but, I would argue, it is Jack, not I, who has changed.

The programme should be renamed ‘Questionable Time’, because it is neither use nor ornament (apart from for the perverts mentioned above). This is why I don’t do serious on my blog very often. Even though I am clearly the most intelligent and perspicacious creature on the planet, my views are of no concern to anyone and will have no influence whatever.

So, let’s get back to knob jokes and captions featuring the Windsors, shall we?

Crap through the letterbox

A loyal reader (a Rev. Trellis of North Norfolk) has suggested that I might like to share my feelings about a certain 84th birthday that has been reported in sections of the media. I am suspicious that there is mischief in this request, and that the requestor feels that I might be moved to a rise in blood pressure when writing about this subject.
Let me make this clear. I wish the lady in question a long (albeit miserable) life. I am determined to dance on her grave, and her continued existence bodes well for my continued health and fitness.

However, after venturing from my hearth today, I returned to find some literature on my doormat (you see, the title of this little essay is descriptive rather than imperative).
From the Tory Party! ROFL!
It contained the headline “When Times Are Tough, Trust the Conservatives!”
I suspect that they ran out of space. Can you suggest a suitable conclusion to that sentence? I can think of lots.
Points will be awarded for the most creative answers.
And what do points mean?

Thoughtfully they have included on the leaflet a cut-out-and-return section with the imprecation “Let us know about your concerns”. I have replied “You keep pushing crap like this through my letterbox”.

You have 30 seconds to make sense of this

I am laying myself open to looking foolish in publishing this, but will take this major risk. I am, after all, blessed with modesty, so making the occasional mistake will not over concern me.

I was intrigued to find an article in the Torygraph giving space to that vacuous tart Carol Vorderman. The Torygraph seems to think that her opinions carry some weight. Perhaps they do, after all, vacuous tarts are not disenfranchised in this fine democracy of ours. She has decided that the Labour party has not done a good job with regard to education.

Determined to demonstrate my tolerance, I read further. This is what I found:

"I tell you what, as soon as you lift a rock, there is snakes down there," she said.

My dilemma is that I fear that she may have been either demonstrating irony, or quoting from someone/something, but I can find no reference to anyone else speaking in such a manner. Do any of my erudite readers (aMToNW) know?

For those of you of a foreign inclination, and who have avoided news of “celebrity”, I should tell you a little about Ms Vorderman.
1) She is a vacuous tart.
2) She earned a very poor degree in engineering, albeit from a reputable seat of learning
3) She earned a fortune by doing pointless sums on a quiz show. Doing pointless sums is all very well if you are Chancellor of the Exchequer, but otherwise has no known value to humanity.
4) Outside of doing sums she has consistently displayed her air-headedness in spectacular and consistent style.
5) She won the award for “Most annoying vacuous tart” by advertising rip-off debt consolidation services on the electric television
6) She is a vacuous tart.

I tell you what, anyone who prefaces their utterances with “I tell you what” is not worth listening to. I expect she will be next prime minister but one. After all, our transatlantic friends elected a vacuous twat who also didn’t know the difference between “is” and “are”.

Having devoted some precious space on my lovely blog to lambasting some vacuous tart’s mangling of the language, I will now sit back and wait for all of you to point out the typos and gross grammatical errors here.

*******

TCM strike again. I am indebted to my friends at the Torygraph for informing me about this important scientific research. Scientists claim that rooks understand the laws of physics better than chimpanzees. No, really.

The rooks were surprised when shown an 'egg-like' object 'floating' in mid-air. They looked for longer at pictures of these impossible scenarios than possible pictures where the egg was correctly supported by a platform.
The seven adults understood not only that contact between the egg and platform was necessary for support but also that there must be a sufficient amount of contact and that the contact must be from below.
This has been shown to be beyond the grasp of chimpanzees, said zoologist Christopher Bird and colleagues at the University of Cambridge.

I would make the following observations.

• The name of the researcher gives lie to his ability to be objective.
• They talk about “understanding the laws of physics” as if this is a good thing.
• Carol Vorderman went to the university of Cambridge.

Tuesday, and still no sign of the revolution.

I don't always get around to reading Michael Meacher in full, but as one of the remaining labour parliamentarians it is sometimes reassuring to know that there are alternative points of view.

It's only rock in hole, but I hate it.

I think that this must be the season in between the summer and autumn schedules where there is nothing but repeats on. I have already done Jane Austen (missus) and old stuff this week, and am aching to find something new about which to pontificate.

Alas, my friends at BBC news have thwarted my yearnings and caused me more than a little distress by reporting that some great steaming wassock has found the remains of another henge in Wiltshire. I have, on more than one occasion, made it sparklingly clear that one henge is too many, to the tune of one.

The henge that is the only famous thing in Wiltshire is irksome to me, as it is visible from my route to Tom’s house. Visiting Tom is stressful enough, what with all of his problems about which I am too considerate to dwell on here, but to have my attention drawn to countless daft bastards gawking at some old rocks every time I pass by does nothing to put me in the right frame of mind for dealing with Tom.

I wish someone would knock the monstrosity (Stonehenge, not Tom) down, or perhaps steal it.

Bloody great eyesore (Stonehenge, not Tom, and I won’t clarify the subject of my writing again).

At least the new henge doesn’t have any stones. Just holes where they think the stones were. John Lennon wept. There will now be CDB (see above) going to look at the place were the stones aren’t. Bugger off, the lot of you. Stay at home, and look at the stuff that isn’t there – Tosspot on Severn or Witless, Kentucky whereeverthebollocks it is that you live.

“The circle was made using the Preseli spotted dolerite stone.”

Hoo pigging ray. Well you won’t be able to bloody spot it any more, will you, because it ain’t bloody well there?

I may be missing something, but cannot work out all this fascination with trying to work out the significance of Stonehenge is about. It is just a bunch of rocks stuck in a field in Wiltshire. It is either the work of some prehistoric loony god-botherers, a student prank or the psychotic result of an attempt to relieve acute boredom by my great granddad and his mates one weekend when the internet was down. We should be no more fascinated by the eccentricities of these ancient weirdos than by their descendants today who watch “The Antiques Roadshow”, enjoy Country and Western music or vote Conservative. Or go and gawk at a bunch of stones in a field in Wiltshire.

I cannot be responsible for the actions of my neighbours

Over on facebook I have issued a swift rebuttal to the rumourmongers at the BBC who have published allegations that a seriously perverted hack is at work in the vicinity of the proud county of Hampshire, sending unpleasant missives around the country, including one to our dear leader, curvaceous Gordon Brown.

Over there, I suggested that the author must be Jane Austen, as no one else in Hampshire is capable of such filth, here I can be more candid, and while much of the blame lies at the feet (or the hands, or the mouth) of the Chawton harpy, the truth is more complex.

Hampshire schools are the only ones in the UK privy to the unedited transcripts of Ms Austen’s work. Consequently, whereas the rest of the country sees her work as finely crafted ironic social commentary, albeit limited to descriptions of the interactions of a narrow social class, the children of this otherwise proud county are subjected to the language of a two centuries old sewer, and their literary style forever warped by the arcane workings of Jezebel Jane’s diseased psyche.
Near where I live, as one enters the proud county, there is a sign displaying the information “Jane Austen Country”. This is not an advertising message, it is actually a dire warning to cover the ears of young children lest they be subjected to a local quoting from the hussy in question.

No wonder that the children of Waltham Chase find Dickens so tame. At Itchen Stoke the children scratch their heads, not because they are itchin’ (geddit?) but rather because of the lack of vulgarity in Jane Eyre. Those sprung from the loins of the fine burghers of Lower Swanwick find Thackeray unenthralling.

The children are taught, however, not to use this language in front of outsiders, but obviously someone has not heeded this instruction and taken to lambasting the rest of the country with the style of Dirty Jane.

Here is a selection of some of the phrases from her works with which you may be familiar (just in case there is one of you who has not memorised her complete works) together with the original version.

“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does” (Emma)
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does, so get your tits out and I’ll give you a groat.”
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London” (Northanger Abbey)
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London, so get your knickers off, and it will soon go in again, know what I’m saying?”
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper” (Pride and Prejudice)
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper, and banged like a shithouse door in a force nine gale”
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then” (Pride and Prejudice)
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be given a bloody good seeing to, from behind.”

I have of course, in recognition of your sobriety and delicate sensibilities, omitted more lurid examples. It does none of us any good to dwell upon this sort of writing, and I struggle to maintain the highest standards of information and wisdom on this page while being a martyr to good taste.

Less fun than some loon on a plinth.

After many years of updating this diary, it is inevitable that, from time to time, themes recur. Fortunately the majority of my readership (aMToNW) is so drug addled or mentally deficient as to not to notice.

I expect that the media has some system of ensuring that once in a while every place gets a mention in the news. As nothing of note has happened in Staffordshire since the Great Drugs Bust of 1970, there are acres of newsprint currently dedicated to the startling news that someone in Staffordshire has dug up some old stuff in a field.

This has so excited the populace of said manor, that they are queuing round the clock to see it. The old stuff, that is, not the field. Nor Staffordshire. That would be silly.

I just don’t get it. I have no desire whatsoever to see some old stuff that someone has unearthed. Even were they to have disinterred it in Shropshire or Cumbria I would have no concern. I don’t care how old the stuff is. I don’t care if it is the lost Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, Alexander the Great’s jockstrap or a polo mint half sucked by Ferdinand Magellan, I would not cross the road to see it.

Furthermore, I think that the populace of Staffordshire deserve better. They have been deprived of entertainment since the Talke Pits Development Company relocated, but surely someone can devise a more stimulating diversion than gawking at old stuff that some bloke dug up in a field.

Dullness seems to be a characteristic of the region. The dug up items might date from the reign of Wulfhere of Mercia. I do not expect many of you will have heard of Wulfhere. That is because he was basically boring, and his idea of fun was to doodle on bits of shiny metal and then bury said metal in a field. He had a more notorious brother called Peada, but on the whole it was the sort of period of English history which has resulted in generations of bored schoolchildren nodding off or indulging in unseemly activities at the back of the class while Mr Blenkinsopp tried to convey some of the enthusiasm for the subject which he so singularly failed to feel. I doubt whether many people can tell you much about Mercia. You have not missed much. In their favour, the Mercians incurred the displeasure of that tiresome god-botherer the Venomous Bede, who wanted to pop round on a Saturday afternoon and interrupt Sports Report to read to them (in Latin) from the book of Lamentations. They told him they were not interested. This was not because of any devoutness on their part, or enthusiasm for paganism, it’s just that they preferred to sit around and whittle or doodle on metal rather than go to church on their day off.

To give you some idea, the collection of items includes “sword pommels”. No, I have no idea what they are, either – and points will be deducted from anyone smartarsed enough to try to inform us.

To give you a further idea, the “expert” consulted by the BBC news reporters is called “Roger Bland”.

To give you the best idea, the items are being exhibited in Birmingham.

The whole sorry episode is so incomprehensibly boring that I expect Dave is on his way over there now to have a good look.

Another county heard from

This is a brief interruption to normal service, where I invoke my privilege to have a quiet little rant, and have disabled the comments.
I hope that normal service will be resumed shortly. Please skip the rest of this article if you, like me, think that there is no value in halfwits spouting their ill informed opinions on the electric internet.
I was perturbed to hear two separate “news” items on Radio 5 this evening, within a few minutes of each other.
The news was that:
1) Someone who had been receiving visits from his local social services flipped and killed someone.
2) Someone, and I did not listen to how they came up with the figure, neither do I give it any credence or import, that 1 in 7 medical diagnoses in the UK are incorrect.
They then proceeded to get a social work manager to apologise, and a doctor who had misdiagnosed someone to apologise.
FUCK OFF.
Social Work. Would you do it? Would you want to spend your days trying to help or monitor the activities of someone seriously mentally ill? Particularly if you knew you would never have the resources to support you? Particularly if you knew that the state of psychiatric science was in its infancy and that there are millions of people out there, fucked up beyond comprehension, with no one knowing how to treat them? And then to compound it all, as soon as you make a mistake you get the full weight of the parasitic mass media on your back, blaming you for being under resourced and under educated. Bastards. We are lucky to have any social workers at all in this country. They are underpaid, underappreciated and under supported. People going into this profession are those who want to help others. There is no other reason why you should surround yourself with so much crap on a daily basis. And then when some poor sod makes an error they are pilloried by our righteous Murdoch arse lickers and fascist tabloid twats, people who have never done any good for anybody.

The medical profession. A profession doomed to failure, because, ultimately, their job is to stop people from dying. Would you want to be a doctor? (No, Donn, the opportunity to ask ladies to take their clothes off is not a good enough reason). Spending your mornings with the sick and disgruntled, the ill and the miserable? Examining urine samples, telling people that there is nothing to be done for them. Hanging around with people that you would like to help, but can’t because of the same combination of problems as besets social workers – insufficient resources and insufficient knowledge. A nurse at the top of her profession can only be expected to be paid £40,000 a year in this country. Many are earning half of that amount. Would you do it?

Yes, I do feel sympathy for those people who have lost their friends and relations because of mistakes. But I can see no value in a witch hunt conducted among the caring professions.
And much as I enjoy listening to Peter Allen on Radio 5, he ought to be very ashamed of taking part in this disgusting display today.

This is the conclusion of today's sermon. We will now sing hymn number 72 "Let's burn Thatcher".

An object of wonder and desire

Please visit Mike's page and rejoice in knowing someone truly demented.
If you don't feel joy watching it, then there is little hope for you.
Here are the links that you will need:
http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/miketd/
and for the music:
http://soundcloud.com/miketd/mikes-plinth-mix
He will tell you when to start the music.

Showing off

A reminder to support Mike in his endeavour to be the silliest person you know.
He is performing here between 6.00 and 7.00 UK time on Thursday.

Contrafribularities

Our pal Boris has chosen to mark today by eulogising Samuel Johnson, who, surprisingly, seems not to be related to him.
To some, old Sam might seem like a loud mouthed twat – a partially educated Clarkson, if you will; an intolerant, cantankerous twerp of the highest order.
Boris says “He is not just sexist. He is not just xenophobic. He is a free-market, monarchy-loving advocate of the necessity of human inequality.”
Boris also says that today Sam would not be tolerated or listened to. I disagree. He would be listened to and dismissed by the majority as a twisted foolish bigot. I am trying to think of an example of a modern figure who serves as an example of this, but I am Johnsoned if I can.

Ne-Ne-Ne-Never in the field of human congress.

I read this morning that the late queen mother's reaction to the palace being bombed during the war was that her "knees trembled a little bit for a minute or two". How extraordinary! One hears about admirable stoicism in the face of adversity but this is both brave and extremely candid. I hope she was rewarded with multiple orgasms, as the bombs fell around her, and old Bertie stammered out expletives in ecstasy.
Had the French not made the mistake of dispensing with their inspiring royal family they might have found inspiration from the copulatory activities of their king in the dark hours of the second world war, and been able to offer more resistance to the enemy.

Goodbye Mr Steak and Chips

Hats off to Andrea Charman, a ground-breaking school headmistress from Kent (why are they always from Kent?) who has made the news today.

She has decided that one of the school pets is to be sold to the local abattoir. (She claims that this was done democratically, but I suspect that the children were given the choice of “Listen brats, it’s either Marcus or one of you”)

She says that “I am trying to prepare children for the adult world in every sense”.

Good on yer, Andy!

Of course she does not go far enough.

Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to pass on the following suggestions so that she might take her laudable ambition to its proper conclusion. I would do it myself, but she scares the crap out of me.

Let the children slaughter the animals themselves. Have them shown how to sharpen the knives, discuss the best method of draining the blood. Make burgers out of the giblets. Make musical instruments out of the bones. (I was going to say make headmistresses out of the shit, but I am frightened of Ms Charman). Of course, this will not apply to vegetarian children, or “cissies” as they are known in Ms Charman’s school. They will be forced to pick the hand-reared peas that they have been growing at the back of the school prison, and pluck them from their pods, without anaesthetic.

Let’s have some marketing classes. Each hour have one class of children go round the school interrupting the other classes by trying to sell them crap that they don’t need.

Teach them about capitalism. Get them to hand over 45% of their pocket money to the Charman Investment Fund. When they leave school leaving age, they may get as much as 38% of it back, after tax.

Teach them about careers. Get them to do something entirely without merit, and then arbitrarily select one in twenty each term to be ‘made redundant’ from the class and get an “F”.

Teach them about journalism. Get the teachers to tell them a bunch of lies each day. (I suspect old Andrea will already have a good handle on this one).

For the school trip, hand out some Kalashnikovs and send the little loves to some third world country to see how many children they can murder there. Call it “democratisation awareness”.

Have a listen to Ms Charman, and unless you have children about to be put into her care, I defy you not to laugh.

I was struck by this sentence in the article:
“Mother Jo Davis said it was a disgrace that the sheep fed by hand by her eight-year-old daughter Megan was to be slaughtered and sold.” Delete the first 15 words and then you have a school policy that really reflects life in the world that we have made for ourselves.

Another attempt to get into the New Year's honours list

"If you think I'm going to put that in my mouth and lay myself open to some juvenile twat adding puerile captions to the photograph on his bollocky blog you can fuck right off."


Special trained troops help to escort Camilla from the "all you can drink" whisky exhibition.


And so the agent says "And what do you call the act?" and the little girl says "The Aristocrats!"

Every year, it fell to Hamish to get rid of the unwanted (i.e. all) haggises.

Liz fails to find any amusement at Philip's antics. Again. She has seen him give a 'Glasgow kiss' before, albeit never to the winner of the 'Glamorous Granny' competition.


"Oh, look Charles, whatever is Camilla doing now?"
"I'm not sure mater - Ann, isn't that the chap that you introduced to Camsy as 'Mr Caber'?"

"Heather? A bunch of fucking heather? You mean to tell me that the head of the British Commonwealth, the chuffing queen of England comes to your poxy locality, gets bitten by 2 squillion fucking midges, is forced to eat local fucking 'delicacies' that a starving dog would vomit up, has to listen to the worst music in the solar system (apart from country and fucking western) and watches a loaded of hairy-arsed twats in skirts hurl wood about in sub-zero temperatures, and all you can give her is a bunch of fucking heather? You didn't even bother to buy something from the BP station, did you? No, that would have meant sticking your hands in your pockets, you tight-fisted brat. No, you thought 'Oh, there's some weeds at the side of the road, that will do fine', didn't you. I've got a good mind to make you sit on Philip's lap for the rest of the afternoon.

White Trash

You may be surprised to learn that I was momentarily distressed this morning to read the Telegraph headline "Thatcher ready to quit Britain", and even surpriseder to learn that I was relieved when it turned out that the witch in question was the totally-without-redeeming-features Carol of that ilk.
"Why was I sad? And later desaddened?" I hear you ask.
Well, I saw it as a potential final kick in the teeth for those of us who number among her majesty's unemployed, and are therefore not particularly "flush" as the colloquialism goes. Were the vile old bitch to be interred overseas, where, I ask would we find the funds in order to be able to make the pilgrimage to dance on her grave?

A Doctor writes

If you value honest and carefully argued debates about the benefits of a public health care system you can either listen to me suggesting that kicking Margaret Thatcher in the shins should be available for free on the NHS and that Vile Tart Palin should be euthanised, or you can read the words of my dear friend SoG.

And on Sky 3, another chance to see "Fuck up your living room"

I was interested to read the comments of a Mr James Murdoch, a purveyor of third rate toilet paper, anti-intellectual and gossip-monger, attacking the BBC.

As this is the weekend, when no bugger reads blogs, let me just say that, despite Ann Robinson et al, if the BBC is managing to annoy this dire little shit, then they are well worth double the licence fee.

Quite Easily Done

The bad news from the BBC is that the proportion of seven year olds reaching the "expected standard" in maths is falling.
The good news is that in 30 years time there will be no one around capable of working that out, so the fall will be halted.

Too easy

BBC Radio 5 reported this morning a distressing story about British Naturism.
Apparently its 16,000 members face discrimination.
You can do your own silly jokes.

I couldn't give a flying fox.

I am not entirely comfortable in the composition of this article; in order to construct it I may have overstepped one of my many strict moral boundaries.

Allow me to explain.

I tend to extract my knowledge of current affairs from upright and, as far as one can judge, reliable websites. (Of course I am privy to the workings of state, as many world leaders rely upon my counsel and wisdom, but it would be indiscrete to detail all of that here). I skip merrily through the BBC’s offerings, have a quick skim through the news service offered by Yahoo, an occasional peruse of the offerings of the Grauniad and the Indescribablyboring generally suffices, not to mention, of course, the Torygraph.

“Why do you read the Torygraph?” I hear you enquire. Well, you know where you stand with them, don’t you? Stand being very much the operative verb, as they have not moved since 1837. This week they had cause to mention Mr Bob Dylan. They explained that he was a singer and songwriter famous for “Mr Tambourine Man” and other popular ditties. I have visions of retired Brigadiers from Bishop’s Tippings, having been informed of this, dashing off to the local HMV to buy the latest cylinder, and afterwards skipping gaily down the local avenues, their senses having been stripped.

I am aware of other news sources on the electric internet, but only refer to them when someone has advised me that Dave has featured again.

I do not follow the cavorting of celebrities. I am not an expert on the adventures of Amy or the peregrinations of Paris. I would not recognise Jordan (or know if that is the correct spelling) even were she to bash me on the head with her left boob.

I am, in short, the model of decorum.

So, when I saw an article on the website of the BBC about the sex life of the flying fox, my first instinct was to ignore it. I am not interested in the fornicatory frolics of the genus Pteropus, and suspect that this healthy attitude is reciprocated. They avoid me, and I respect their privacy also. Without being too explicit, I have never, as far as my memory allows, been the victim of a peeping tom in the form of a winged mammal hanging from the ceiling whilst going about what passes for a sex life in my corner of the universe. (Unless you count Virginia Bottomley dressed in flying goggles and a Qantas flight attendant’s shirt, tied up with spaghetti on top of my wardrobe, but that could happen to anyone.)

So, dear reader, please believe me when I say that the only thing that led me to read this article was the mention of scientists “unlocking the secrets of the flying fox’s sexual success”. What a bunch of nosy bleeders. One minute they can’t make up their minds about the existence of “dark energy”, the next, instead of coming up with some form of energy that will be non-polluting, cure cancer and kill Thatcher, they are probing around the boudoir of a bloody bat. In fact, as usual, they have discovered bugger all. There is a link, apparently, between high testosterone and sexual achievement, but they have not a clue whether this is of any significance or causal. Twats. To be blunt, I could have told them that it is a fair bet that Usain Bolt is more likely to have offspring than is Russell Grant, and I could have deduced that without interrupting the vinegar strokes of some endangered antipodean guava guzzler.

*******

Points will be deducted for comments containing puns about “bats”.

Underselling

I received from a chap called Howard asking me to provide "Words from the author" to compliment a website he is creating to provide a new search engine on the electronic internet.
(I did not wish to burst his bubble that Theodore and Evadne Google are occupied full time with their nice little search facility, and so if he wanted to compete with them he would need one or even two assistants).
Anyway, here is what I sent to him. I think it is a fair and modest assessment of what these pages are all about.


This important website offers the definitive analysis of the state of the planet in this time of darkness.
It offers succour to the needy, hope to the desperate, information to the inquisitive, astute analysis to the knowledge-seeker, wisdom to the student and love to all.
Diurnal study will provide weaponry against the fickleness of God and the randomness of fate.
Proud readers will tell their descendants "I read Scurra, and look where I am today!"
Thousands will campaign to have monuments erected to honour the author and grandchildren of Spielberg will be forced to admit that the making of a film could never do justice to the importance of these words.


Scurra.

Hands across the sea.

As you all know, I am very fond of a sophisticated political debate, where the arguments on each side are presented with honesty and intellectual integrity. There is no reason why one should bring the language of the gutter to such events, and it is possible to have a deep respect for those who do not necessarily share one’s own views.

In the spirit of this, I venture the following response to the nice young lady, fashioning herself “Vice Chair of Republicans Abroad” who I just heard, on the electric radio, expounding her views on the contrast between the British and American approaches to health care:

Fuck off, you supercilious twat. Take your “fuck the poor” politics, shove them up your anus, chain yourself to your vice chair, whatever the gonads that is, and have some passing Samaritan push you over a convenient cliff.

Quite a mouthful

This morning, while perambulating along the highways of Hampshire and Surrey in my internal combustion engine powered vehicle, I beheld a van bearing the motto “B J Champion”.
I confess to being intrigued.
Those of you, (aMToNW), with a curiosity that lends itself to speculation about what constitutes a champion may ask: is proficiency measured by quality or quantity, or some combination of the two? Who judges, and how do they maintain objectivity?
These were not my immediate thoughts. My first concern was why someone would choose to advertise this achievement to all and sundry. I find myself strangely unable to empathise with this person. Perhaps they are contractually obliged to advertise their achievement in order to qualify for whatever prize comes their way. (Comes their way – geddit?). Are any of you in possession of prizes, certificates or testimonials detailing your proficiency in a matter that would normally remain private?
I did not imagine this. I found a website where customers congratulate the Champ on his erection.

The doctor told me to walk ten miles every day

Say what you like about the Torygraph, but it does do some amusing little stories. Stuck in a view of the world that was popular in 1827, although not correct even then, it continues to delight and amuse. Much like Dave’s blog, apart from the delight and amuse bit.

First, it tells us that British men are the ideal partners.
Experts claim that women are more attracted to men if they believe they will help out with household chores and make an equal contribution towards childcare.
I can certainly claim to have made an equal contribution towards childcare in my house, and as for chores, well, ladies, let me know if you need your artefacts polishing.

Then there is a little story about a chap who bought a bit of coloured wood (WHAT THE FUCK FOR?) from a car boot sale, only to find out later that it was a 1300 year old relic from the Crusades. Well, you dull wassock, it’s too late to take it back now and get a new one, isn’t it? This is why I buy useless bits of coloured wood only from Harrods. They have a very generous returns policy, and they deliver.

What really caught my eye (disclaimer: this story is attributed to ‘scientists’* – please help yourself to the salt) was an article that talked about all of humanity outside of Africa being descended from a tribe of a couple of hundred people who crossed the Red Sea from Africa about 70,000 years ago. We are all brothers and sisters you see. Not only did these brave folk cross the Red Sea, but engaged in some industrial grade shagging in order to produce all of us.

They took a very long time to reach Britain, because of a virulent campaign by the Daily Mail to keep them out. (“Who”, I hear you ask, “was around to read the Mail before human beings came along?”, “Well”, I hear me reply, “the same bunch of lobotomised reptiles and diseased slugs who read it today.”).

This may not appear to be an auspicious start. Nothing much good comes of leaving Africa across the Red Sea. That arch god botherer Moses managed to con a bunch of political dissidents into a 40 year schlep round the desert in order to arrive at a destination that could have been reached by Geoffrey Boycott’s mum in seven days. But before we judge our granddads (or in Dave’s case, brothers) too harshly, let us consider the options. South of Africa lies the Antarctic. Not the sort of place to set up home in my view. They considered crossing the Med to Spain, but found that all of the beaches had already been occupied by Germans. (I am grateful to Little and Large for that joke. I am a martyr to originality.) They considered travelling west across the great ocean, but wisely decided that colonising that area would definitely lead to unassailable problems, and to the south east lay a great land mass, but research showed that there was no chance of culture developing there (thanks to Cannon and Ball for this joke).

If anyone has the names of the people who were among these two hundred, please let me know, so that I can finish my family tree. (Apart from knowing who it was who shagged my great great grandmother, Lucy).

* One of the ‘scientists’ is identified as “a senior lecturer in archaeogenetics at Anglia Ruskin University”. Bugger. I wanted that job.