Call yourselves Pwaetowian guards?

I found an article on somewhere on one of the UK broadsheets’ web sites decrying the absence of satire in the election campaign, and suggesting that today’s stock of politicians are so bland that they are not worth parodying. Of course, Boris is the exception which proves that particular rule. However, my attention has been drawn to a candidate in the south by my friend Steve, who recently relocated to Bath (pause for Rog to post customary pun). Step forward Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg, for it is he.

Those among you above the age of 12 will recall the name Rees-Mogg as being a distinguished editor of The Times. Well, the silly boy not only propagated Tory values but propagated at least two right steaming puddings as offspring. He has a daughter, you know. You know what she's called? She's called... Incontinentia (Stop this silliness now. Ed.). Just kidding! As if? Her name is Annunziata. Annunziata Rees-Mogg. She is also a Tory candidate. There are stories, and I cannot work out how much, if any, truth they contain, about Cameron suggesting that she call herself Nancy Mogg for fear that people found her name a tad bizarre. He may well have thought that a name redolent of homosexual cats would be a positive boost to her campaign, but I am not here to write about her, oh no!

Ms Rees-Mogg’s brother is the subject of this little essay, and I must confess to be jealous of the aforementioned Steve for having a noteworthy candidate. My lot are very dull.

Would you indulge me by checking out Jake on Wikipedia, please? I think you need to get some perspective on exactly how nutty he is. I could tell you, but you might think that I was exaggerating. Enjoy the names of the people and places mentioned there. You couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?

May I now direct you to this web-site, created by a gentleman called Hadleigh Roberts? I would suggest that Mr Roberts merely wanted to direct attention away from his own rather quaint name, but I am not given to petty maliciousness. I prefer the larger variety. I hope that you all enjoy his work. I done a few lols. More importantly, I have learned that the real Rees-Mogg does not approve of this site, and hopes that it receives no publicity. I am sure that you will all make every effort to ensure that this happens.

Apology

Over recent months some readers (aMToNW) may have formed the impression that I was critical of some aspects of rather costly experiment being conducted in Geneva. I would like to reassure you that nothing could be further from the truth. I have always been in the vanguard of those campaigning for the increase of scientific knowledge. All that I needed was an explanation.

These fine people here have provided one. What could be simpler?

When did you last have an election? Just before bleakfast.

I am obliged to the Torygraph for a plethora of pointless stories this morning, that have inspired me to shower my wisdom all over you.

Firstly, a Mr Rhys Jones, a comedian from the last century, whose contribution to that art was worthwhile but not outstanding, has complained that the BBC commissions programmes based upon how popular they are in terms of viewing figures. As you all know I am no fan of ‘market forces’, but it would seem that this policy is not entirely lacking in sense. They want to make programmes that people want to watch. I am as much of a snob as the next man when it comes to television programmes, and seldom watch or record anything that is on terrestrial television of a Saturday evening. I am, however, indebted to the BBC and ITV for providing fare for people who find ballroom dancing, Ant and Dec, Celebrity Guess The Turd and so forth entertaining. It reduces the risk of my running in to them when out and about, and having to engage them in conversation. Further, I am not interested in the kind of programmes that Mr Rhys Jones wants to make – uninteresting quasi-documentaries hosted by third rate ‘celebrities’. I have no interest in going to the places favoured by the makers of these programmes. Any desire to do so that lingers is diminished by the prospect of running into Rhys Jones and his ilk poncing about in front of a film crew while I am there.

In keeping with its new impetus as being at the forefront of modern culture, the Torygraph carries an article about the Beatles. So modern is it that there is not even an explanation about who the Beatles were or are. If I open my window, I can hear the sound of heads being scratched in nearby Winchester and Guildford. The revelation is that the Vatican has forgiven the fab four for their trespasses and recognised their contributions to music. I am all in favour of reconciliation. I shall reciprocate. I pledge here that if I live for another seven thousand years I shall forgive the Catholic church for the Inquisition and for my having to pay for Ratty on his forthcoming UK tour. I may even attend one of his events, and in homage to the Beatles will sit at the front and scream throughout, hopefully with enough gusto to cause me to urinate on the seat.

I have been dabbling with Twitter again, for no reason that I can readily comprehend, and have found that there are many otherwise sensible people there who keep referring to something in the Daily Mail. I don’t want to read it, but there is no way of telling where some of the links posted on twitter might lead. Anyway, I was fooled into clicking one such link. Regular (i.e. habitual rather than unconstipated) readers will have linked to my new friend Dan in the previous article and his witty song about the Daily Mail, featuring a number of suggestions about what might cause cancer. I took this as being satirical. However, Mr Scaryduck supplied this link. If you don’t want to read it, it suggests that if you get up in the night to go for a pee and turn on the light you will get cancer. More alarmingly, they want you to vote Tory.

OK. I read the article. It was about TCM again, and I just can’t help it. Professor Charalambos Kyriacou has reached his conclusions based upon experiments on mice. He is probably correct. I have never heard of a case of a mouse turning on an electric light; they must know something that we don’t. Dr Rachel Ben-Shlomo, of the University of Haifa (crazeee name, crazeee gal) backs up this research. Don’t turn on the light! My advice is that if you visit the house of a noted scientist you eschew getting out of bed in the night at all, as you are likely to find yourself tramping through acres of piss-sodden carpet trying to find the bog.

Paxman? Amateur!

I have been aware for some time that although the written word is the supreme form of communication, we should not overlook other media in our pursuit of the spread of wisdom.

On the subject of links, I trust that you all read this one. May you all worship at the shrine of Scaryduck.

And these two gentlemen seem to have a less than approving opinion of our national press.

Send them back to India

Support these idiots!

Who knows? Maybe if you raise enough cash they might not come back.

For those of you suffering from irony deprivation syndrome, I should explain that some of these people are in my extended family. I can't afford to give them much money, but those of you wealthy enough to spend enough time twatting about on the internet to find this page may be able to spare ten bob.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce part 25

Astute readers (pls to avoid oxymorons. Ed.) will have noticed that the princess royal, or “bouncy tits” as her equestrian friends know her, does not appear as often in my journal as other members of the SC&G clan. This is not because of any particular frostiness in our relationship, but due to her seldom venturing indoors during the hours of daylight, apart from the occasional gallop (on horseback, of course) through the dining room at Sandringham or Windsor to grab a scone or flask of chicken noodle soup. (She only does this to annoy Philip, and has perfected a way of squeezing the stomach of a mare so that it passes wind immediately. Unlike her siblings, she has never been intimidated by Old Marbleless, as she wittily calls him.) She seldom has time to chat on the telephone, and as I equate equestrian activities with entertainment for the brain dead, we seldom communicate.

I was not surprised, however, to find her on the telephone this week. I do keep abreast of international news as I find that it sometimes gives a clue as to what these people are talking about – not a skill acquired easily, I can tell you.

For those of you, and you only have yourselves to blame, who do not keep themselves up to date with the “Auckland Advertiser”, I can report that a young lady with the unlikely name of Denise L'Estrange-Corbet (real name Mavis Dawkins) was reported to have described Mrs Lawrence as “as boring as fucking bat shit”. No reports that I can find define whether she used that ubiquitous and unnecessary expletive as a verb or adjective. I am not particularly troubled by this gap in my vast knowledge, but feel it would give some insight into the psychiatric map of Ms L’Estrange-Corbet. I also feel that the comparison was a tad unfair. Those who saw the excellent episode in the Attenborough comedies where the hero met a huge pile of bat shit would have been far more enthralled than had they been called upon to converse with a member of the house of Windsor.

Without pausing to ask about my health (I have been a little under the weather these few days with a seasonal cold), Anne launched in to a florid description of the event. “For the love of buggery”, she began, “I travelled right the way round the naffing world to one of the most anachronistic cities on the planet”, she is virtually unique in the family for having mastered the art of the use of multi-syllabic words, “and even find time to attend a ‘Save the Children’ fundraiser. You know what they’re like, don’t you? Full of well-intentioned but very dull and dim people.”

“Just like home from home then”, I interjected.

“Apart from the ‘well-intentioned’ bit” we both said in harmony.

“Any road up”, she continued, determined not to be put off her stride, “I politely make my way round the room, and eventually find myself face to face with this ghastly wench who looks like a knickerbocker glory with acne, and all she wants to talk about are the piss-poor clothes that she designs. So, as I do on these occasions, I affect not to understand her accent. I ask her to repeat everything that she says, and then reply very slowly in the same way that I talk to my horses, or used to talk to Mark, and hope that she will shut the buggery up. It’s at times like these that I miss daddy. He would have said something witty, such as “are you wearing those clothes to win a bet?” or “why don’t you shut your poxy gob”, but I am always too drained. Eventually I just ran out of energy altogether, and fell back on asking her if she had come far in reply to everything she said. After that the twenty minutes I spent chatting to the transgender nun who had been a flanker for the All Blacks about his, her or its latest project – something to do with recycling – seemed like the most interesting conversation I had ever had.”

Ichthyophobia

I am delighted to read the report in the Torygraph this morning on the research of this gentleman, clearly in line for the TCM of the year award.

He has been researching into phobias, and has devised an injection that will cure people of phobias, including, no doubt, helping those folk who have a fear of needles.

You may be thinking that this is good news. Allow me to be the first to disabuse you of that misconception, by describing some of the research.

This centres on feeding lidocaine to goldfish.

“Early tests showed that goldfish given a dose of the drug lidocaine were unable to be scared.”

Bugger me! I never thought of that!

Old Masa (for it is he) decided to conduct an experiment in Pavlovian fashion (he performed “The Dying Swan” wearing diaphanous tights), by causing the poor goldfish to associate flashing lights with electric shocks, and demonstrated that they feared the lights even when there was no accompanying shock. He then administered said narcotic and broke the link.

We are then left with a bunch of drug addicted, epileptic, Japanese goldfish with third degree burns and totally lacking inbuilt danger warnings. If you see a very sorry looking member of the family Cyprinidae displaying bravado in the presence of a shark, you can feel justified in sending the bill for the funeral to Professor Yushida at the university of Hiroshima.

Would you welcome the recommendations of this man?

I look forward to his helping me to overcome my fear of one day being taken in by the absurd propositions of the scientific community.

A bogler's daughter

I know that all of you (AMToNW) come here to make sure that no matters of consequence that may have occurred have escaped your notice. Indeed, I pride myself upon the accurate and timely dissemination of wisdom. This time, however, I feel I may have let you all (AMToNW) down a little.

Tonight, I am reminded of my schooldays, and am conscious of many of the reasons that resulted in my failure to achieve what was expected of me in the world of academia. Of course rampant laziness was prominent in that conglomeration of reasons. It may be even the reason that I never learned the collective noun for ‘reasons’. (An accumulation, perhaps? An ostrich? A settee? I’m sure Christopher will know).

Getting sidetracked was another reason. In fact had there been a course in getting sidetracked I would have gone to Oxford. I didn’t take kindly to plain boredom, and looked for distractions in those classes where the subject matter seemed of little consequence and the presentation even less interesting.

It paid to be inventive – the hours flew by, as did all of the course content. Sometimes it could be as simple as looking out for the quirks of the teachers, for example, would Mr A. say “as it were” more times than “as I say” in this particular lesson? At other times the game became more complex; my very good friend, who, in order to protect the innocent, I will call Neil Ritchie, would sit next to me during one particular subject where most of the time we seemed to be simply taking dictation, and interject colourful nonsense, which I would dutifully record in the midst of the narrative in my notebook, caring not a jot for the consequences when the time came to revise for examinations.

The most enjoyable ways to avoid education, however, came as a result of spontaneity, usually by being amused by something that the teacher said. Looking back, it all seems very silly. Silly in a good way. The example that springs to mind is during A level geography when Mrs Williamson used the phrase “tortuous meanders”. No, I can’t explain why it was funny, and even were I to attach a sound clip to this piece, I doubt my ability to imitate said lady. If, for example, you think of Edith Evans saying “a handbag”, there is no reason why it should be risible. It just was, all right? Anyway, a very naughty girl, who, in order to protect the innocent, I will call Pam Wright, turned round and gave a very mischievous look, which caused me to lose concentration for the rest of the lesson, and possibly for the rest of the term, and I still remember that phrase, if nothing else, from the two years devoted to the works of some dude called Monkhouse.

That was all by means of a prelude, and to give some background as to why my report on this week’s episode of “Horizon” on the electric television, may not include all of the salient points. For those of you wanting a more informative report, go over to our dear friend I,LTV.

You see, even in the midst of writing this, I have been distracted and written a very silly comment on a photograph on facebook. I will never learn.

Within the first two minutes of the Horizon program, young Sam West (son of Bradley Hardacre and Sybil Fawlty) the narrator, for it is he, mentioned “Dark Flo”. I spent much of the rest of the hour wondering about this young lady, and her importance to cosmology. Flo, of course, features in a famous Derek and Clive song, and in another ballad carefully alluded to elsewhere on this page – there will be house points for spotting that one – and so the name is inherently given to ribaldry.

Anyway, the point of this what-may-have-been-an-interesting documentary was to assess the state of the understanding of the universe. In short, “Do we have a fucking clue? Of course not!” Much time was spent discussing “the standard model of cosmology” (SMC). In order to try to convince us that the SMC is not just the babblings of a lunatic, the programme was interspersed with film of some chap writing equations on a white board. This was intended to convey the idea that the SMC was the result of careful mathematical calculation. Unfortunately, the equations portrayed were actually part of an ideal recipe for semolina pudding and proof that the word “boobs” is funny in any language.

There were two other really irritating visual effects used throughout. Whenever someone said “Big Bang” there was film of an explosion. I am fairly certain that, with the exception of some marijuana addled students in Glossop who thought they were watching an episode of Star Trek, anyone choosing to watch a programme about particle physics would be bright enough to grasp the concept of a “bang”. I am pretty sure, also, that the bang portrayed was nothing like the “Big” one; at least it probably wasn’t as big. Whenever someone mentioned the theory of inflation (why the universe expanded phenomenally very early on), they showed a large cloth balloon being inflated. FFS. This happened so many times that I was tempted to join the Glossop students.

Without exception, all of the scientists represented had very silly names. I would propose that in any attempt to prove that physics is not all nonsense there should be at least a representative proportion of people whose surnames are likely to be credible to a majority of the audience. One gentleman was called Alan Guth (to rhyme with ‘tooth’) Obviously a contraction from his original name of Godstruth, which is no doubt sighed by all of his colleagues whenever he speaks.

Anyway, I think the point of it all was to convey the idea that the SMC does not make sense without inventing a load of stuff to make the physics work, in the same way that some bright spark in Geneva has decided to spend a sum of money enough to keep Dave in cream cakes for ten years on finding the nonexistent “Higgs Boson”. Our physicists/cosmologists have said that in order to fill the gaps left in the SMC, there has to be “Dark Matter”, “Dark Energy” and “Dark Flo”.

This is the good bit (at fucking last, Ed.). Dark matter is invisible, undetectable, and everywhere. It is needed in the SMC to provide gravity, otherwise bits at the outer reaches of the universe, such as the Thatcher fan club, would spin away at vast speeds. There was a chap in Minnesota or some such place, who had built an underground laboratory to try to detect dark matter, which is invisible, everywhere, and capable of passing through ordinary matter, which I believe is what his laboratory was constructed from. In order to make the SMC work then, boys and girls, we need something that is omnipresent, beyond our comprehension and invisible. Shall we call it God, perhaps?

I can see that I am losing the attention of some of those at the back of the class. Dark energy fills a similar hole in the scientific theory and Dark Flo is anything you want her to be, the slut, in order to explain stuff that you don’t understand.

I hope that you have taken careful notes during this lecture. I would hate to think that any student of mine would be tempted to write “This is all bollocks” on their GCSE examination papers.

I wish it had been Thatcher.

Today I am saddened, more than I expected to be, by the death of Michael Foot.

I am also angered, if not surprised, by the snide and unkind "tributes" paid to him. I expect nothing more of the Murdoch press, but cannot believe how ignorant the BBC is. Of the broadcast soundbites, only Ken Livingstone has had anything admirable to say. The ill-informed opinions of the lickspittle tory holders of office in the current Labour party are as vacuous as everything else they have to say. I have not read anything in the Mail or the Express, any more than I would examine the contents of the local sewer.

For those of you young enough never to have heard of socialism (and the rest of you as well) can I recommend you spend five minutes reading a fitting obituary in Tribune.

As a demonstration of irony, at a time when I am remembering a man who put fairness, tolerance and peace at the centre of his beliefs and practices, I shall be deleting dissenting comments.

What larks

Most of you will not have seen this story, even though The Leicester Mercury is always first with the big stories.

It has everything, summed up by being a successful struggle against adversity.

A young lad, (and lapsed blogger) fighting against a savage environment where vegetable-related cheating is a way of life, forges a career and gains international recognition.

I feel a strange empathy with Dickens in passing this on.

Stop it, Aggers

I posted the following short message on facebook, and received so many overwhelming offers of support, that I felt obliged to write about sport again, especially as it is the-weekend-when-no-bugger-reads-it.

“As you all know, I pride myself on my physical prowess, but tomorrow on the electric television there are two cricket games five rugby games and two soccer games, and they are just the ones that I want to watch. Any tips on

maintaining stamina during such exertions are welcome.”

Of course I did not enter this lightly. I was well prepared, having watched young Sachin score his celebrated double century this week. I am sympathetic to the views of those who do not allow a Murdoch box into their house, but, well, you missed it, you fools. The only time he came close to getting out was when he ran for a two and was nearly run out – he had already passed 150 by this time and must have been severely knackered. Exquisite shots and perfect timing.

Having completed today’s marathon, (I watched 4 rugby games, 5 if the England qualifies as rugby, a soccer match and last week’s ‘Rugby club’ – I still have a cricket match and the ‘Super 14’ show recorded) I can report that I feel quite well, and ready for another session tomorrow. I am as lithe and supple as I was at the start of the day and I am also able to bring you up to date on the state of the planet’s sport and address some of the issues brought up on facebook.

I wish it were not the case, but the sports coverage on Sky is way better than anything the BBC do. There are a few commentators who are less than satisfactory (Willis, Croft and others) but none as dire as the whining twassock Jonathan Davies. Hugh Bladen, who is a rugby commentator from South Africa, has a voice that sounds like the rusting engine of a 1962 Hillman Minx being dragged slowly across coarse gravel, and his delivery is so monotonous that he makes Bob Willis sound like Gielgud, but he knows how to pronounce the names of the South African players. I defy anyone to hear him say “Doppies La Grange” and not to be aroused, if not actually achieving orgasm. (For those of you not fluent in Afrikaans, La Grange is not pronounced the way you would think). I only truly appreciated how erotic Mr Bladen is when I heard the New Zealand commentator try to get his tongue round La Grange today, missus.

I am sure that there is a strong relationship between the names of the players in the southern hemisphere and their prowess as compared to the current bunch of second rate clowns who adorn the six nations. Bismarck du Plessis, Hosea Gear, Aled de Malmanche, De Kock Steenkamp, Quade Cooper, Israel Dagg, Josevata Rokocoko, Junior Poluleuligaga (he would have passed you three times and scored before you could say his name) and Tendai Mtawarira – these are proper names, worth a ten point advantage before kick off. The French, who are the only decent team in the six nations currently, tried to adopt this tactic, but peaked too soon with Harinordiquy. They couldn’t keep up that standard and now have to resort to names that sound numeric – Trinh-Duc and Dusautoir. The elegantly named Andrew Hore scored a try today that was better than any I have seen from a northern hemisphere player in the six nations this year, and he is a hooker.

Of course, one of the great pleasures in watching the super 14s is to regularly see Australian teams being the worst. This doesn’t happen anywhere else.

Some of my correspondents suggested that I might turn my attention to the Olympics. I believe that they were alluding to the Winter Olympic Games that I believe are being conducted somewhere on the North American continent. Oh dear. Snow and sport do not go together. Most of the “games” involve sliding in one form or another, much of it downhill; yes, you can win a gold medal by being the best at obeying the law of gravity. In the UK we do this once a year – it is called the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Rolling competition. We recognise that there are some people with a morbid interest in falling down hills and paralysing themselves, and provide an annual outlet for this perversion. No one gets any medals for it. I saw, quite by accident, those prize morons Torville and Dean once. I prefer to be non judgemental, as you all know, and recognise that there is no accounting for taste. Some folk like musicals, after all.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce part 24

Liz remains in sparkling form. We still chat to each other a couple of times a week. I keep her informed about my friends here, she is particularly interested in ILTV, who is one of her neighbours, and often asks about Rog, although she doesn’t get his jokes. She still chuckles about Tom telling her to stick it up her arse when offered a CBE for services to sloth.

This week she is pleased to have attracted the attention of the Torygraph “I was beginning to despair – almost on the verge of texting a nude picture to Chris Evans to see if that would rustle up interest.” “You’re in there nearly every bleeding day,” I retorted, “and it’s not as if anyone gives a stuff about you inviting the Azerbaijjani ambassador to lunch”. “Don’t remind me of that!” she almost shrieks, “I have repeatedly told Philip that no-one wants to see his trick with shrimps or his Gracie Fields impression”.

We got back to the latest news story.

“Of course it isn’t the first time it’s happened”, she confided, “We get so bored with sitting in that car waving at the proles – seen one you’ve seen them all. I sometimes get it to break down by sticking chewing gum in the ignition. When we had that other driver – Clarkson or some such name – he used to pretend to have the car break down, and I could rely on his discretion, but now we have to do it ourselves. It was Philip’s idea – he had always wanted to be in a police car with the sirens wailing. I was a little more nimble than him, and used to be the first out to yell “you’re fucking nicked, you slaaaag” when we saw any criminal activity. Of course, I can only do it now when he isn’t there – he has no sense of proportion. That time that he caused an old lady to wet herself when he yelled out on the tannoy “On the floor now, motherfucker!” when he saw her crossing Aldwych on an orange light was the last time. He doesn’t like it, so we had to arrange for him to take part in interviews at the Yard as an alternative – can’t let him loose on the public of course, but there are, thankfully, lots of resting actors willing to take part for £50 and a copy of princess Marina’s autobiography. I sometimes worry that he might recognise the actors, but then remember that he doesn’t remember what fucking day it is most of the time.”

“Did you like that bit where I said ‘What a fantastic gift’ and they reported that ‘there was a big smile on her face’? Of course there was a bloody smile - who could keep a straight face in that situation? What in the name of buggery am I going to do with that? It’s not as if Charles is the sodding king and needs to be reminded of where he is – the poor boy has shown signs of creeping senility ever since he was twelve. We’ve already had to turn Anne’s room into a bloody storage facility with all this crap that people keep giving me. I haven’t told her, and can’t keep count of all of the excuses I’ve had to make when she says she would like to come and stay for a couple of days. I never liked her being here much anyway – takes weeks to get rid of the smell of horse manure after she’s been.”

“And as for telling them that I knew how busy the tube was, well, I nearly ruptured my liver keeping a straight face. I haven’t been on it for over sixty poxy years, and when I did there were only three other people on the train (and two of them got off when Margaret offered to show them her knickers) – I don’t know where I get these ideas from.”

Messier objects

My old friend Marty Rees has surfaced again, this time courtesy of the Torygraph. He is still banging on about the possibilities of extra-terrestrial life. This time he says it might be staring you in the face.

Here is a picture of old Mart.

What do you think?

In order to explain why we have never met anyone called Neville from one of the planets in Cassiopeia, Martin suggests that Neville may have evolved in a form that does not conform to our laws of mathematics, or our technology. He says “… it could be there as aspects of reality that are beyond the capacity of our brains.” As one who finds the laws of physics beyond the capacity of my brain, or at least beyond the boundaries of common sense, I find this a little disconcerting. Is the man seriously suggesting that the human intellect is limited, and it may not be possible for us ever to truly understand existence? God, in an interview on another page of the Torygraph which I seem to have mislaid, said of Reesy “What a dumbass.”

Mr Rees is not done yet: ‘He told Prospect magazine that improved telescopes made the chance of finding extra-terrestrial life “better than ever”.’

He has not considered the possibility that such nosiness will do little apart from piss off our neighbours. I cannot be the only one whose pursuit of knowledge with the aid of a telescope has caused my neighbours to display ire. Even dear Pam, who leaves her curtains open and cavorts in the most inappropriate manner, has set the dogs on me and my binoculars more than once.

A further speculator referred to in the same article is called Frank Drake. If he had wanted to be taken seriously, he should not have taken the name of a famous pirate and slave-trader, in my view.

Frank says that the switch from analogue to digital TV broadcasting means that we are transmitting less to the cosmos. He is obviously not thinking clearly. There is nothing likely to encourage visitors more than their wanting to know whether Ena Sharples finally managed to marry Albert Tatlock, is there?

I will attempt to save a recording of the splendid Lions v Chiefs match from last weekend for them, together with the collected writings of Padre East, and, if I ever managed to afford a powerful zoom lens, those photographs of Pam.

Filial affection

I was delighted to see the following message on that Facebook place just now.

The context is that a dear friend of mine has just been discharged from hospital after a week following a heart attack.

His son reported the event as follows:

"my fat dads out of rehab!"

Breaking the news

In this morning’s online Torygraph there is a topical report about a letter written by an obscure cousin of the queen 58 years ago. Apparently, she had a blister on her mouth.

I have been fretting about this incident for years, and you cannot conceive what a relief it is to finally know the truth.

They explain who the lady is, and go on to describe the recipient of the letter, the duke of Kent, as being “best know (sic) …. for presenting the trophies to the Wimbledon winner and runner-up.” This is odd, as I thought the duke of Kent was best known for being one of the gaggle of throwback parasites who bleed the exchequer while contributing nothing to the public good.

The Torygraph does not inform us about the business career of the lady’s husband and his association with Lonrho. Old readers (Monsignor East of North Norfolk) will recall the Grocer referring to Lonrho as “the unacceptable face of capitalism”. In this, as in almost everything else, old Ted was quite wrong. There is no acceptable face of capitalism. It is a blight on our species and will be written about by future historians (should we manage to survive) as a footnote to the worst excesses of Kaliyuga, not getting top-billing only because of our warmongering, genocide, buggering up the environment and allowing half of the world to starve (not to mention Thatcher).

*****

I was obliged to turn to the BBC to watch the rugby internationals at the weekend, as dear Rupert had neglected to update his standing order, and allowed the previous generation to cover the events. Oh dear. I am due to renew my television licence this month, and wish that I could afford an additional 10 bob for them to improve their technology. As it is, I am sure they can afford to pay someone (I volunteer) to watch the sports on the Sky channels and pass on hints gleaned therefrom as to how to make best use of modern equipment. Instead they chose to implement some strange overhead type camera which appeared to be operated by a drug addled, attention deficit disordered gibbon. Its use detracted from the experience, and would have been unsuitable viewing for those prone to motion sickness. In addition, the Beeb continue to employ archetypical northern miseryguts as co-commentators. Brian Moore is reminiscent of dear old Fred Trueman in his decline, offering nothing but moans about mistakes. I suspect that he did not know what was going off out there.

*****

Finally, may I inform those of you too technologically challenged to have mastered facebook about dear Tim describing an event that apparently occurred this weekend as “Kevlar-coated twuntball”. I done a lol.

I have reproduced this post on facebook, but some readers here think that facebook is not their cup of tea.

I hope that you will all enjoy this account of my dear friend Mountaine's recent birthday. Proof, were it needed, that you can still be bloody silly in old age.
Those of you who know him, in particular, will enjoy the photographs.
Surprisingly, I have yet to receive my invitation. I guess I am still just too eccentric for him.

Limitless undying love

The Torygraph contains an extraordinary headline (I didn’t read the story) about claims by the brother of someone called “Susan Boyle”. I am not aware of the young lady. I assume that she is a pop singer of some sort, perhaps a member of one of these “girl groups” about which one hears so much these days. Perhaps Dave can illuminate this little corner of popular culture; he likes to keep abreast of modern music.

Anyway, Mr Boyle has expressed fears that his sister might be assassinated in the same way that John Lennon was.

I find this disturbing and disrespectful.

John would never have courted controversy by comparing his status to someone even more famous from the past.

Welcome to our world, I will put the kettle on as soon as either Tendulkar or Dravid is out

In a vain attempt to provide interesting news stories to fill round-the-clock broadcasting, BBC Radio 5 this morning spent some time interviewing a cove by the name of Lord Rees (Rhys? Reece? – [it’s Rees. Ed. Now get on with it]) who is President of the Royal Society (some conflict of political philosophy there?) who gave lie to the fact that he has a very large brain by discussing with Nicky Campbell the possibility of life elsewhere in the Universe.

Readers (a Mrs Trellis of North of North Mayall’s Object) will be surprised to hear that yes, it is likely that there is life out there, but no, we do not know for sure.

Well thanks, chaps, for filling in that little gap in my knowledge. There’s one less conundrum about which to fret, then.

For those of you who are unfortunate enough to be of foreign or alien extraction, I should tell you that the Royal Society is a club for scientists, founded by Christopher Wren, the ornithologist, and Robert Boyle, the discoverer of carbuncles, and other ghastly swots as “'a Colledge for the Promoting of Physico-Mathematicall Experimentall Learning”. It would be cruel to comment on their inability to spell or correctly use upper case in judging whether they were qualified to form a college.

Anyway, old Rees tells us that if there is life out there capable of communicating with us, it is so far away that exchange of messages will take many years.

I have checked comments on a few of my earlier posts here, and find no sign of visits from beyond the bounds of this planet, although with some of you it is difficult to be absolutely sure. (Hello Adam).

I am not entirely sure whether there is any benefit to be gained from having such a readership, even if they have broadband and have not defaulted on their direct debits to BT. They are probably not yet aware of the result of the Battle of Trafalgar, for example, and may be expecting me to be writing in French. It is bad enough waiting for dear old Dave to keep up, without having to explain to some creature from the next galaxy who Keith Chegwin is. I am not implying, I hasten to add, that all of the inhabitants of Norfolk are as chronologically challenged as Dave; some of Rog’s puns, for example, are under thirty years old.

When these people do communicate with us however, and have established an internet connection, downloaded IE, created a facebook account, done a lol on twitter, searched for “pictures of big tits” and checked their numbers on Euromillions, they will dash over here to check out the epitome of human wisdom.

So, what should I tell them first? What are the bedrocks of human existence, without which nothing will make sense? Here is my first draft:

1) No matter how beautiful and glorious your planet is, with its psychedelic sunsets, North East Hampshire-like topography, and curvaceous features of all thirteen sexes, nothing on it will approach the majesty of a Tom Graveney cover drive.

2) Discard the theory that God rested on the seventh day. It is silly. The poor old bugger laboured for many millennia, and only after he had created Goldie Hawn’s arse was he able to tick the “job well done” column on his to-do list and put his feet up for a few hours.

3) You are not allowed to dance on Thatcher’s grave. We have a system here, called queuing, and, as late arrivals, your place is at the back. Even if you combine the skills of Dame Ninette de Valois and Michael Jackson.

4) When you arrive, you will be pestered by scientists. Do not pay them much mind. By doing so it would be as if you had given as much credence to those who make canvas as those who paint on it – a necessary and skilled craft, but only a means to an end. Be kind to them – pat them on the head, say “well done” and give them a toffee, but do not be distracted by their ramblings.

5) For amusement, try the ancient sport of skittles. Our most famous bowling alley is called “Stonehenge”. Just off the A303.

6) If you want to piss yourselves laughing (that is, if you share those characteristics with us. Perhaps you truly do lmfao when you find something quite amusing), go and have a look at the LHC. Guess how much it cost? No, really.

Thank you

Thank you to the lovely Geoff for this

Geoff is here

Your own poster here.

Miss Marple, starring Joan Vixen (geddit?)

May I say how much I enjoyed the programme on the electric television this evening called “Book Club”?

I may?

Thank you!

I enjoyed the programme on the electric television this evening called “Book Club” very much, thank you for asking.

I struggled for some time to tolerate the smarmy Frostrup woman on one of the Sky channels. I failed, alas.

Those nice people at channel 4 then came up with the idea of having a book programme hosted by Jo Brand. We love Jo, don’t we? I probably won’t read many of the books that are discussed (as a concession to being one of her majesty’s unemployed I have curtailed my book spending), but it was still very enjoyable.

You may have seen a television series called Silent Witness. As it is sort of a detective thing, I felt obliged to watch.

I found myself becoming slightly fascinated by the leading lady. Like many actresses in these sorts of programmes she seems to have only one facial expression (as does, for example, the nice young lady who is the DS in Rebus).

More alarmingly, when wearing this expression, which I calculate to be 90% of the time, she adopts a kind of frown in which something sticks out on her forehead just above the right eye. It does seem to be a vein, but, lacking medical training, I could not accurately identify it. Maybe it is the clitoris, who knows?

I suspect that they employ actresses with these bizarre quirks in order to distract the discerning viewer (i.e. me) from the appalling continuity errors and ludicrous plots.

I became so diverted by this lady that I decided to find out more about her, to see whether there were any genetic reasons for her face to be set into so peculiar an expression.

“Bugger me!” I exclaimed. She is Emilia Fox, and cousin to my favourite weirdo, Lawrence, who is Sergeant Haveitaway in “Lewis”. Do you know of any more members of the Fox dynasty who are portraying eccentric members of the law enforcement community on the electric television? Maybe they have a monopoly. I think we should be told.

Continued on page 94

I apologise in advance for writing about blogging. I hate it when people do that.

But I need to tell you that my absence here is due not only to my not having anything worthwhile to say (yes, I agree, that has never stopped me before), but also my awareness of that lack.

I am still reading your daily jottings, but I don't have anything much to say about them. Fortunately, there is one blog out there specifically invented for those with nothing to say, so I usually leave a comment there. Thanks, Dave. I have also been more than a little rude to Tom. I may regret that later.

Anyway, can I direct you to two of the many little contributions to the creative part of the electric internet which may have escaped your attention?

First Nations.

Max.

I've nearly finished this, and still not regretting what I said to Tom. I mean he's watching some sort of celebrity nonsense on television.

Spare me a moment, please, Mrs Bennet, and you better bring half a pound of your finest butter with you.

Much as I hate to select the less savoury aspects of the news upon which to comment, I am sure that some of you will have seen the description of the poor man who had a rather embarrassing incident with a metal pipe.

The Torygraph, usually so careful about sensationalism, reported somewhat ambiguously:

“Medics at Southampton General Hospital could not get the man's penis out of the stainless steel pipe because the restricted blood flow had caused it to become aroused.

So they called in Hampshire Fire and Rescue Service.”

I think that it needs to be stated that they were called because of their expertise in releasing things from other things, and not because they were likely to cause the end of the arousal. Yesterday evening a couple of members of the Hampshire police force had reason to enlist my help and called at my house. I cannot tell you how exciting this was, and can only assume that other members of the emergency services are equally stimulating in this fine county.

For those of you whose geographical knowledge is below average, I should tell you that Southampton is in the far south west of the county, whereas my property is in the North East. While I am shocked and stunned that anything like this should occur in this locality, it would certainly never happen in Jane Austen country. She was, after all, a leading advocate of lubrication – Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Ass and Anallube.

Any more perverts?

Someone on the Indescribablyboring has located my previous posting, if not my G spot, and commenced to find some other unsubstantiated claims to do with thingy.

The correspondent finds ten subjects to conjecture upon, but mysteriously ends the final one with:

"that frequent masturbation can actually reduce the chances of contracting prostate ca"

I guess that he just gave into the impulse after getting too involved in the subject.

I tell you this by way of warning.

Fearful that this tripe will attract unwanted perverts via search engines

As the more astute readers (there is a fine oxymoron for you) may have detected, I became somewhat disenchanted with the Torygraph’s scientific review of the decade. I think it was just a space filler, which is odd as I read it online, and as of 8:40 this fine morning there still seems to be lots of potential space on the electric internet as yet unfilled.

So this morning I turned my attention to the august offerings of the Belfast Telegraph and their perspective on the scientific community.

The particular article that caught my attention, and I have no idea why, concerned a study by ‘scientists’ from King’s College London which has cast doubt on the existence of the ‘G Spot’.

No details are given as to the source of funding for this project, but I suspect that it was the good old taxpayer. The alternative is that a millionairess had become distraught at the loss of her erogenous zone.

Let us applaud the restraint, then, of these fine scientists who did not set about their task by the more obvious practical route, but instead conducted the research by the medium of a questionnaire.

The BT tells us that the questionnaires were “filled in”; not “filled out”, nor “filled up”, nor even simply “filled”. What does one do with questionnaires? Perhaps I ought to conduct a questionnaire about it. When ‘filled in’ and ‘filled out’ clearly carry the same meaning ought we not to dispense with all the outs, ins, ups, downs, rounds, throughs, ons and offs that superfluously qualify verbs? I am sure that you all have an opinion on this important matter. I am equally sure that I care not what it is. (that’s enough wandering off topic, Ed.)

There will be, no doubt, a parade of comely wenches who, having had this issue highlighted, will be begging my time and expertise in searching out their G spots, and indeed any other alphabet related personal area that is normally concealed from public view. I am sorry to disappoint, but my mailbox and letterbox are filled with similar requests, and these boxes alone take too much of my time (I nearly wrote “take up” there). I really wish there were someone around with my discretion and sensitivity with whom I could share these arduous duties.

Perhaps instead you could inform the chaps at KCL if you have a G spot. Or tell them if you once had one and have now lost it (where was it the last time you remember seeing it?). If you have ever found a G spot, particularly in some place that you were not expecting to find one, then I am sure that they would be equally interested.

Scientific discoveries of the decade. Chapter 4

Are you all keeping up?

Colin Pillinger Professor of planetary science at the Open University is excited about the discovery of ice on the moon, and the prospect of an astronaut base there. Yes, boys and girls, another corner of the universe that mankind can go and befoul. I don’t rate the ice’s chances of survival. If we (the species, you fool – my readers and I will be lucky to get past Thursday) survive the next century then the news will be full of the threat of lunar warming.

Charlie Burton, who is only a journalist and not an academic, but he probably tries hard, champions the cause of wireless power transfer. He says “meaning that inconvenient clutter, such as mobile-phone chargers, will soon be a thing of the past”. Oh goody. This means that the owners of cellular telephones will never have to go home, and can entertain us all with their conversations – 24/7 as annoying people like that say.

Roger Highfield is another journalist, and I can barely follow the reasons for his being excited. The clue may be in the surname, but perhaps I am being uncharacteristically cynical. He thinks that the discovery of “Homo floresiensis” is important. This refers to a bunch of remains of creatures now extinct who lived 18,000 years ago. Dave is nearly that old, and still with us, but does he get that kind of recognition? Most unfair.

Vicus Scurra, head of applied obfuscation at North East Hampshire Faculty of Physics Deniers heralded the discovery that you don’t have to review the rest of the contributions in this particular offering from the Torygraph. Apparently, it gets even more boring and is filled with similar piffle.

Scientific discoveries of the decade. Chapter 3

Sue Hartley, professor of ecology at the University of Sussex is thrilled to report that plant scientists (i.e. fauna who study flora rather than flora who study something else) have found that plants can recognise what is attacking them and adapt their behaviour accordingly. She reckons this will be important. I reckon it foretells the evolution of triffids. I need to clarify that my problem is not with those who like nothing better than to tuck into a cabbage (not a euphemism, that boy at the back), but those who destroy the environment with chemicals. She also says that we need to work out how to maintain crop yields in the face of a changing climate. Good point, Sue, no other bugger has thought of that, have they?

Simon Singh who is not even a professor, not even at the University of Slighty Obscure on Severn, is excited that we have seen a planet outside of this solar system for the first time, but is unclear as exactly ‘how’ we saw it. I have checked, I just took a peek through the curtains, and even though there is a clear sky and a full moon, I can’t see this planet of which he speaks. He does say “Viewing another planet (albeit at infrared frequencies) was an extraordinary moment, because it made the idea of extraterrestrial life more concrete. This particular planet is probably too inhospitable to harbour life.” In other words, even though we can see it, (probably only if our name is Simon Singh), that’s all we can do. We can look at it. Simon, lovey, there are more than enough bloody things to look at already. I have not seen half of the things on the electric internet, and I’ve been sitting at this screen since quarter past seven. In fact, all Simon really has to say is that there’s a very good chance of intelligent life out there in the universe. I think, Simon, that we have caught you unprepared, haven’t we? The heading for your section should be “Will This Do?”. And what, pray, do you mean by 'harbour life' - not entirely free from ambiguity, is it?

Lord Rees - Astronomer Royal and president of the Royal Society. Is in agreement with Simon, and is all excited about the discovery that lots of stars have planets. I think the Torygraph must have contacted him whilst he was quietly getting pissed in the “Pipette and Micrometer”, probably with Simon Singh, if this is the best he could come up with. What, in the name of buggery, does an Astronomer Royal do? Is he on call in case Prince Andrew sees some light outside his bedroom window that he can’t recognise? Does he have to telephone Liz once a fortnight to report that Saturn is maintaining the correct orbit? I wonder if there is a Cynic Royal and how much it pays. I could do that. (Drifting off topic a bit here – just caught the end of Spinal Tap on the electric television).

Paddy Moore (still apparently alive) has got all het up about the discovery of bacteria on Mars. (Rog, do you want to do something about unhygienic chocolate bars?) saying how marvellous it is that life will appear just about anyplace that is capable of supporting it. To me, this just shows that life is totally indiscriminate, as witnessed by it managing to allow Patrick Moore and his loony cronies to exist.

Scientific discoveries of the decade. Chapter 2

Next up to the oche is Steve Jones. professor of genetics at University College London (When did professors start having names like Steve?).

He agrees with contestant number one about the garden gnome project, but thinks that sooner or later people will stop funding research which has no promise of any benefit. I almost like him.

I will now demonstrate a proper name for a professor, and quote his section in full:

Richard Wiseman - Professor of psychology, University of Hertfordshire

"In my field, I would select the 'Gorillas in our Midst' experiment by Daniel Simons, of the University of Illinois, and Christopher Chabris, of Harvard, in 2004. They asked people to count the number of passes being made by a basketball team in a video – the vast majority failed to notice a gorilla walking across the court, even when it thumped its chest (the idea was copied for a recent road-safety video, using a moonwalking bear).

As well as being a fascinating demonstration of a psychological phenomenon known as 'inattentional blindness', the experiment illustrated that it is possible to have a great deal of fun while carrying out science, and inspired lots of researchers and students to create other fascinating studies exploring the surprising limitations of our perceptual system."

(When did they start having universities in places like Hertfordshire).

Doncha just love “inattentional blindness”. I have made studies of the limitations of our perceptual system. I have observed that there is a propensity among humanity to read the discoveries of members of the scientific community and not immediately proclaim “This is bollocks”. As for having fun carrying out science, well, Dickie, you obviously didn’t go to my school.

OK, time for the big boys:

Frank Close - Professor of physics, University of Oxford

He is excited by the fact that some chaps found fault with earlier research by another chap. We can now detect all three kinds of neutrino being emitted by the sun. Before you all breathe sighs of enormous relief, then I should inform you that I am in the process of contacting Frankie, and telling him that I have found six different kinds of neutrino in my garage this morning, without having to look too hard.

Prof. Close goes on to predict that the LHC will discover something that no one had ever anticipated. Wrong again, Close you old goat, I have anticipated every daft notion, theory and useless fact to emanate from that particular corner of the age of confusion. Refer to my “this is bollocks” remark above.