Cox and Fox

Sebastian Faulks has just completed a documentary series on the electric television about literature. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I have read some of them. They were good. I doubt whether I will read them again. They weren’t that good.

His television series was informative and well presented, putting various aspects of the novel into context. It helped that I had read nearly all of the books he talked about. He seems to be an excellent choice as presenter - articulate and interesting.

The only slightly off-putting aspect was of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places (usually associated with the location of the novel in question) to talk to the camera. An interesting choice of locations, and probably better than an hour of him sitting on a sofa in Potters Bar.

Brian Cox’s documentary currently showing on the electric television is one quarter of the way through, and is about the universe. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I haven’t read them, and probably won’t.  He has been on television quite a lot, being quite photogenic as physicists go. And as physicists go on, he went on. (Thank you, H H Munro).

The programme was interesting and well presented, and at the end of it I had a better understanding of the second law of thermodynamics than I had at the beginning. Whether that will help me in my construction of my sandwich for lunch tomorrow remains to be seen.

The only slightly off-putting aspect of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places to talk to the camera - Peru, Namibia and Costa Rica for example. When you are talking about the age of the universe, you don’t really gain much by trying to measure it against human time frames, or even time frames comprehendible by the human mind, so I don’t know why he felt the need to go to these places. The sea turtles in Costa Rica shared my reservations. “Fuck off, I’m trying to lay my eggs in peace, you fucking pervert” one of them said. At least I think that is what she said – they speak Spanish with a funny accent down in Costa Rica.

Beyond that, it is difficult to compare the two programmes. The novel can give us an insight into the human condition, and stir our feelings. If we can put the writer and his times into context, it might help us to understand it better.

Despite whatever I have written about the silliness of scientists, I can be equally stirred by their pursuit of understanding, and mankind’s attempt to put his existence into perspective by considering his place in the universe. The second law, which is pretty much accepted to be quite accurate by most of the scientific fraternity postulates that the universe will eventually end. Energy will be dissipated, matter will be broken down into radiation and disappear, and there will be nothing left. The good news is that there will be lots of it. A little on the bleak side, but it won’t happen before next Tuesday, so no need to fret just yet.

Here’s what I reckon:

• I am going to die at some stage. Probably before the end of the universe.
• I do not have the capacity to understand the universe
• The collective understanding of the total scientific community to date is miniscule and as likely to be seen as quaint in 200 years time as Jane Austens’ view of society is judged today.
• There are some things, and the essence of human existence is at the core of these things, that are too beautiful and mind blowing to be conceived or understood, and we are better off experiencing them than trying to explain them. Our explanations, whether religious or secular, scientific or mystical, are incapable of even beginning to approach the utter bliss of being.

Frustrate their knavish tricks

Some of you may have formed the view that I am not always entirely of the monarchist persuasion. Some of my writings may have hinted that I would be in favour of the wall building industry, resulting walls (keep it up, padre!) being used for various sections of society being lined up against in order to facilitate the shooting thereof.

I cannot comment on these speculations, as, as you well know, I prefer not to broadcast my opinions and prejudices like some tupenny Rothermere or Murdoch.

However, you may have noticed that Andrew Saxe Coburg Gotha has been attracting some unwelcome publicity over these few days. In addition to being a not entirely gifted academic, with poor choice of spouse, reactionary views and no social conscience (these characteristics are, after all, mandatory for the British ruling classes), he has been castigated for his choice of friends.

He has apparently given lunch to a member of the deposed Tunisian dictator’s family, and now it is revealed that he is good friends with a chap who likes to play hide-the-sausage with girls who are underage.

These revelations have resulted in the level of tutting in rural Kent, Surrey and Sussex to an unacceptably noisy level.

Young Andy must be feeling quite fed up.

But now I find myself springing to his defence. The knuckle draggers in the UK Government have announced that the duke enjoys the full confidence of Mr Cameron. Talk about kicking a chap when he is down. I say “Enough is enough”. It may be time to recognise that Baron Killyleagh would not be most people’s choice as an envoy of any sort, unless you were on a campaign to address a shortage of  morons, and should be relieved of his responsibilities and left to get on with his stamp collection. However, by comparison to other members of the family, he is fairly harmless, and should not be subject to further humiliation by being labelled as a “friend of Dave”.

Two and a half minutes.

Some of you (AMToNW) will have read this morning of the attacks made by Mr Charles Sheen, a little known thespian, on the writers of a programme on the electric television in which he currently ‘stars’. He has said that the writers have used his real life activities as inspiration for some of the plots in the programme.

You might be surprised to find me in sympathy with Mr Sheen (pause for third rate puns about household polishes), but I have felt similarly exploited on several occasions. I was close to suing Ian Fleming at one point, until he agreed to introduce a less than moral lifestyle to his most famous character (no, that boy, not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, you oaf). Despite having little interest in archaeology, there were times when I had to engage in tough dialogue with Mr Spielberg about the character of Indiana Jones.

Those of you with longer memories will remember the kerfuffle that Dave had with Granada TV about Albert Tatlock.

Calm down.

A report in a reputable newspaper (oxymoron) this morning reports that the leading factors in risking a heart attack are drugs, overeating, anger and sex.

I am concerned for my readership. Many will be very cross to hear about these risks, thereby qualifying for the last criterion.

Please stop what you are doing – there is no need to shove so much in your mouth – and, gently chewing (remember to chew each mouthful 40 times) a small lentil rissole, read an improving journal, such as this one.

I hope that this helps.

Worth every euro.

Startling news from Geneva, according to my friends at the Torygraph.

"By the end of next year, we hope very much that we will be able to say something about the Higgs," Felicitas Pauss (for it is he).

I suspect that I am not alone in my ability to say something about it now, and I only have a grade 3 CSE in physics.

I could say a lot about Mr Pauss. I suspect that his or hers is a made up name. I cannot condone the use of exotic soubriquets. It undermines not only scientific research, but the veracity of the reporting thereon.

Nicholas Hadley, from the University of Maryland's who is a member of the research team for the LHC's Compact Muon Solenoid detector, told reporters: "If we don't see it, we will be very excited.”

Well, Nicky, I can’t see the bastard, and I am bored shitless. 

Countdown to the next royal wedding, part one.

I have held my counsel, missus, long enough about the forthcoming orgies of self-indulgence. I have to admit that my heart was not in the prospect of the endless cycle of email messages from all of you asking about whether there was any way that I could get an invitation for you.

Now that the missives have been despatched, it is too late. (Philip was on the telephone four times this week, complaining about having to seal the envelopes. I said “It’s the economy, old baboon, we’re all having to cut back. No self-seal envelopes except for the very rich and recklessly careless”. Actually, now that he can no longer be left unsupervised, even for ten minutes, they have to invent activities for him. Camilla reckons that he has licked in excess of 47,000 envelopes these two weeks, while the Duke of Kent was in the next room steaming them open, and the Duchess reapplying the glue. Once they got a barrow-load, one of the under-footman would wheel them back round to Philip).

You have not been invited, and your presence is not required. Call me cruel for being so blunt, but there it is.

Fear not, I shall not be attending either. I have given my tickets to the in-laws of Mr Protheroe at number fifty-six. He (the in-law, that is) suffers from Tourettes and his wife from chronic flatulence. Again, you might think me cruel, but you have no idea how badly my hibernation has been affected by the constant wailings of these people, all labouring under the huge misapprehension that I gave a shit.

Even my most avid admirers would have tired by now had I inflicted the daily round of nonsense upon you. Some bastard even gave young Katherine my number. To say that she is brighter than the average addition to the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan is hardly a compliment. A scratched and defaced hatstand would raise the mean IQ. I have had my first conversations with her, gawdelpus, and I will not fatigue you with the details. I have had previous dealings. I wrote her dissertation for her degree – they felt that it would be unseemly for a future queen to fail a course in the History of Art. This was not as easy as you might think, as I had to tone it down. No one would have believed it had she got a first. I expect that within a few years my references to Constable being a professional racing cyclist and the strange prandial activities of Claude Monet will find their way into Wikipedia, if not serious academic tomes.

More of young Ms Middleton later. More too, or perhaps ”more on” would be more appropriate, of the dreadful Zara. I am torn as to whether to tell her that my telephone is not equipped to receive ‘text’. I do not see why, at my time of life, I should feel compelled to learn a new language. The alternative is only slightly better, if at all, I get woken at all hours by someone whose job it is to convert the ‘texts’ into a spoken form. It makes no more sense, and is delivered in stilted and error-strewn English; you will not be surprised that it has led to appalling nightmares centring on the subject of “the best man’s speech”.

Porn - do you want it rammed down your throat?

Many of you (a Mrs Trollop of North Wales) will have been as excited as I by the news that Ed “Royston” Vaizey is attempting to curb internet pornography.
Ed is the minister for communications, but, sadly, he failed to inform me of his appointment. 
For those of you who are not familiar with the term “pornography” it is defined as writing or pictures of obscene material. I tried to search for it using the offices of Theodore and Evadne Google, but could find little information. Obscene means depraved or likely to offend. Here is one of Ed’s many problems. I find his whole government depraved and offensive; much more so than depictions of Mrs Sturgess of Bismarck Crescent, Bexhill on Sea waving her uncovered wobbly bottom via the medium of my computer terminal. Mrs Sturgess’s buttocks I can take or leave. I have no feelings either way about them. Mr Vaizey and his gang of arseholes, on the other hand, fill me with utter disgust, and the nation’s young people in particular should be protected from them. 
Ed has summoned leaders of the UK’s leading broadband providers to discuss how pornographic websites should be based on an opt-in rather than opt-out basis. The first 27 minutes of the meeting will be spent on “in and out” puns. 
The difficulty of this whole idea is fairly clear. There will need to be a constantly maintained list of pornographic websites. However, this is not as difficult as it sounds. I estimate that all that is needed for this is the largest database in the universe, and a small army (say 3 and a half million – unemployment cured at a stroke, missus) of clerical staff to check all of the web pages on the internet. Then someone will have to link this database to the browser software operating in the UK to prevent someone from accidentally straying over to the Rev. East’s site on the morning that he is discussing the pair of jugs on his Welsh dresser.
The last time a government had an idea so plainly daft was in the reign of Cnut, and you can all provide your own jokes. 
The good news is that all of the articles reporting on this cunning scheme will be filled with innuendo, in order to prove that our colleagues who earn money by blogging are not devoid of talent.
Take for instance Harry Wallop’s (sic) piece in the Torygraph; he mentions: “censorship through the back door”. Dirty bugger.
I am off for a quick Harry Wallop.

Something uplifting

I doubt whether this link will work everywhere in the world, but try it anyway. Quite long, particularly if you don't like the music, but a very good film. 
Arena programme on Brubeck

Мой сарай сада большле чем это

I found myself strangely moved this week. I felt twinges of national pride and patriotism, which, regular readers (aMToNW) will recognise, I normally eschew. 


I allude, of course, to the brave bid by the Football Association to have the competition for the 2018 football World Cup hosted in this fine country. 


I will pause here to allow those who want to argue about whether I should have said “football” or “soccer” or “association football” in order to please the pedants and foreigners in your midst. Having dismissed such prattling I will move on.


“Why Scurra”, I hear you query, “were you so moved?” “Well, dear reader”, I hear myself respond, “allow me to explain”. 


I felt very proud to be linked to a nation who thought that when it was important to show the international community our seriousness, our compassion, our understanding of the need to modernise, our wisdom and our all-round jollygoodchapness, we should despatch as our ambassadors David Cameron, young Bill Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and David Beckham. 


Before I get carried away, I should point out that I have no dislike of young Beckham, he was a fine footballer, and has done some good things. However, he is thick - very dumb indeed. It is not his fault. That is all.


The English have decided that their three ambassadors should include two inbred, upper class throwbacks, two thickos, two slimy gits, two people with no knowledge of football, and two people whose main fame is to provide the mass media with tedious stories about their tedious lives. Just in case this did not work, and most other nations, even had they managed to assemble such an august spearhead, would not have thought of this, they searched the kingdom for someone who embodied all of the above qualities. Thus, it was no surprise to see old Boris accompanying the team. 


Once again, Britannia has shown the way. The fact that these foreign chaps failed to recognise the glory and awarded the tournament to the Russians is perhaps an indication of just how inferior some of these people are, and we are perhaps better off not having to accommodate their footballers.

Diplomatic triumph

David was shocked to find such poor living standards.

He was strident in his claims that no such shoddy establishments existed in the UK, and would check with Fortnum's whether they would deliver to Asia.

Vince had swapped his glass with Gove's, just in case

David laughed, when he realised that the translator had made a mistake.

He didn't know much about botany but did know that 

there was no way that this was a "big pansy".

Dave knew that if Sarkozy said "pass the salt" again, he would leap over the table and strangle the fucker.

Doing a very difficult job

Keep the bloody noise down

I am interested to read that my friends in Geneva have created a “mini big bang”. Overlooking the preposterous notion that something can be both “mini” and “big” (pause while some smartarse constructs some justification), I would like to consider the implications of this. Perhaps they are attempting to create a smaller scale universe, in the hope that this one is just as successful as ours, and that in 13.7 billion years, give or take 5 minutes, we will have miniature versions of Michael Gove and Janet Street-Porter. I can hardly wait. 
In fact, I doubt whether I will bother. Despite my healthy and active lifestyle, I have no desire to live beyond my allotted term. It has been, continues to be and looks likely to be a blast, and all in all has exceeded expectations. 
Anyway, if you are in the market from some quark-gluon plasma, then hop on over to Switzerland and grab a couple of barrels full. I will not be joining you. I am in the market for some kitchen tiles, this being one of the consequences of matrimony, and can only cope with so much excitement. 
The exciting news from the LHC is overshadowed in most of the media by some controversy involving a programme on the electric television called the “X Factor”. I have never seen this programme, require no information about it, know little about the participants other than knowing that it seems a waste to have a large collider used for smashing together particles when there is such a huge quantity of dull matter begging to be obliterated by collisions at speeds approaching that of light.
We are told that: "This process took place in a safe, controlled environment generating incredibly hot and dense sub-atomic fireballs with temperatures of over 10 trillion degrees, a million times hotter than the centre of the Sun.” In other words, Guy Fawkes Night for Nerds.

Whither McLuhan?

I am pleased to report that I found the following item posted by one of my ‘friends’ on facebook to another ‘friend’.


dude, get the GoChat app! its fuckin awesome, the layout is sick and it works perfectly...only downside is it's not a widget, but def worth getting!


It behoved me to add to the discussion thus:


Dude! Get go chat! It's brilliant. I don't know how to describe it, but if you are in the same place as someone else, particularly if you live with them, by manipulating your mouth and vocal chords you can make sounds come from inside you that means you can communicate with that person. Don't even need wifi. Then you don't have to splurge your boring ideas all over facebook.


I cannot, of course, identify the two ‘friends’, it would be a breach of privacy. I can tell you that they are brothers, and they live in the same house.


I think you should understand that I am not opposed to using the electric internet as a medium. I have lived in my village for less than twenty five years, so, even were I to leave my house, it would be inappropriate and forward to engage neighbours in conversation. Does anyone know of any app that allows a cup of sugar to be transported from number 86  to here?

Tethers, the end thereof.

Let me explain to you (although I expect that many of you may have some idea) why this man Cameron is such a complete pillock. A pillock from arsehole to Christmas, and back again.

He is trying to convince the rest of us that his idea of a “big society” is clever. He contrasts it to the “big state” which he sees as a not clever idea. The underlying philosophy of the big society is that the elected government should relieve itself of all responsibility for the welfare of its citizens, leaving all of the onus on those citizens to sort themselves out. By doing this, a large burden of tax will be removed from those fine fellows (bankers, entrepreneurs and other sundry twats) who support slimy Dave and his band of mendacious sociopaths. Freed of this burden, the theory goes, business will flourish, and, he would like us to believe, we will all be better off. I agree we will be better off, as long as we are not sick, disabled, less able, old or plain unlucky. The people who certainly will be better off are those who support slimy Dave, and whom slimy Dave supports, and who already are doing very nicely for themselves at our expense thanks to the efforts of slimy Dave and vast majority of the braying media who see things the way that slimy Dave does. 

Dave’s job is made much easier because there are large sections of the population who still associate the Labour party with left wing policies. They are helped in maintaining this mistaken view by slimy Dave’s friends in the majority of the media. 

Just in case you have not caught on, I feel I ought to make my position clear. There are surveys widely available, lots of them online, that will show you your political position in terms of left/right wing and authoritarian/libertarian. It shows some famous political and social figures to give you some idea where you stand. I stand in the corner. I am to the left of all of them, and more libertarian than any. I do not support the possession of power (wealth is less important) by a minority. I do not want a government telling me how to behave. But, in practical terms, I would like to be part of the process of choosing an administration that is responsible for the  provision of welfare for all, regardless of ability to contribute to the running of society. Education, health care, care for the elderly, care for the disabled and protection from abuse of power should be available to all and equal. Government should only exercise its power to prevent abuse of power and damage to the environment and damage to the well being of its citizens. This is a humanist view, in the broadest sense of “humanist”. It recognises that we are capable of attaining, and should strive to attain, the condition of being cooperative, caring and humble in our interactions with others. It is certainly idealistic, but I will not accept that as a valid criticism. If we cannot strive for the best we might as well all give up now. 

The alternative is the system that we are living under at the moment, which Twateron wants to make more radical by relieving the rich and powerful of the duty to contribute to the well being of us all. This is the system that takes us to war whenever the continued flow of wealth to the already overstuffed rich is threatened. The deaths of a million Iraqis is only one the consequences of holding that stance.  

I can do nothing about this. Although I sense there are thousands and possibly millions who are in broad agreement with me, I am disenfranchised. Every four or five years I get to cast a vote for one of three political parties who are almost indistinguishable flavours of self-serving environmental fascism. Alas, the majority of people are either too stupid to see or too afraid to admit that capitalism has never delivered the promises of wealth and security to all by lining the pockets of the few. 

To sum up, in a caring and well-thought-out way, I wish that Cameron would shove his big society up his big slimy arse, and fuck off.

You can give this one a miss, Mr Mans

My friend Clare composed a nice poem commemorating her wedding anniversary. It included the sentiments “And where are you today you bastard?” I suggested that the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be improved by the inclusion of that line. Clare agreed, and suggested that “a lot of poems would be enhanced by a smattering (smiting?) of verbal abuse”.


I do not need to be asked twice. I have set about improving some of the more well-known works. If only these people had had my flair they could have made more of a success.


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
And where are you today you bastard shite?
I’d like to stick a bottle in your face.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of poxy daffodils;
Beside the lake, beside the brook
My allergies are shot to fuck.


Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
It pisses down, and then the thunder roars
I wish that you would bloody go away
Your ma’s a tart, your sisters are all whores.


YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,  
How can ye blume sae fair!  
How can ye chant, ye little birds,  
Well, I don’t fucking care.


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
It’s bleeding cold, and that’s no sodding fun.


In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
Noisy twats.

As you know

I am typing this note. I am using an electronic keyboard attached to a computer, and as my fingers touch the keyboard, then the clever software inside the computer transfers the results electronically, and the letters appear on a screen in front of me. When I have completed this, then I will, using some simple commands, transfer the ‘output’ from the disk in my computer, via the “world wide web” to another computer, and you will be able to access it if you know where to find it.


If you found the above entertaining, then you will positively pee your pants if you get to watch “Downton Abbey” on the electric television. It falls under the genus ‘drama’. In order to be a ‘drama’, it seems that all you need is to have Broadbent, Carter, Glenister or some other such ubiquitous readily-recognised face to appear. If you want a successful drama, then you get someone really good (in this case Maggie Smith) to come and do a cameo that does not even begin to stretch them. You then construct a completely unbelievable script. The unbelievability of it is that the characters are constantly engaged in conversations in which they explain to other characters things that they already know. This is not a new device, Brass parodied it years ago. Downbeat Abbey features life in an early 20th century home of some rich  bastards with lots of servants. Everybody in the place has a single digit IQ, as they have to have everything explained to them over again. In Downdrain Abbey, there is one scene early on where someone explains to his wife that two people who have just died are his first cousin, and his first cousin’s son. This was the most interesting conversation. The cast comprises tired stereotypes and the dialogue has been contributed by rent-a-cliché. I may let you know how bad the second episode is.


Even more contrived is the utter tripe that is “Spooks” on the BBC. Worse melodrama than the average soap, and, set in the world of espionage, the characters are perpetually engaged in explaining to each other why they must thwart the latest plot, and why it would be a jolly bad idea for it to succeed. Apparently, MI5 do not believe in briefing and employ people who need to be told that wiping out cities is not a good thing. I have watched every episode. There have been over 700, and during that time I have seen all three facial expressions of Sir Hammy Pompoustit, and watched countless other spies being murdered. Alas, they are always replaced by others even more melodramatic and wooden.  


I have now almost finished this. You will know for sure that it is the end when the words run out.

A certain sensation of reality.

I would like to draw your attention to the writings of my old pal Jon Butterworth, who writes about physics.


Today I read his article in the Grauniad, and done a lol.


Specifically, he was defending the position of those scientists who had admitted that the new Disneyworld in Switzerland could be the place where an experiment was conducted that caused the end of the world. The word "could" is key, as, in physics, anything is possible. 


I reproduce the comment that I left on his blog, as I know some of you don't get around too easily these days.


Thank you, that was most risible. I studied physics for five years at school, and don't remember laughing once; I may have occasionally smirked, in a pubescent lascivious manner, at times when my concentration was distracted by the female class members.


Not that my concentration was much to begin with; concentration could not accurately be described as being one of my behaviours.


And, in deference to my new found fondness for scientific accuracy, I need to say that I did not "study" physics, I merely attended physics lessons. I learned nothing, but it was marginally preferable to sitting outside in the snow.


Do you know Ian Smith? He was my physics teacher in the second year. He was totally devoid of humour. He probably won't (and I now understand from your article that even if he has passed on to the great LHC in the sky it will not preclude the possibility of his so doing) even laugh when Thatcher dies. If only he had included some clerihews, I might have learnt summat.


For those of you wishing to find some clerihews about Physicists, I managed to find these very clever ones on the electric internet. This chap has a bright future.

That boy at the back! You're an idiot! What are you?

Yesterday some friends and I were kept in after school. Approximately 41 years after we left school may seem a little extreme, but some of them had been very naughty indeed.



Fortunately, we have all benefited by the strict disciplinary code practised at this fine seat of culture, and the successes that we have achieved have percolated into all seventeen corners of the world.

For the benefit of those of you who are careless in keeping up with news of global luminaries, here is a guide to my friends and I.

1) Dominic Plantagenet-Mincingboy.  Dom studied Aramaic at the university of Tirana, founded a company manufacturing software aimed at removing the word “” from the internet. As you can see, he has been very successful. With his enormous wealth, Dominic has pioneered a project ensuring that the inhabitants of the West Sahara have round-the-clock access to the television programmes of Nick Owen and Anne Diamond. As you can see he is not paying attention in class. We will probably have to repeat this detention.

2) Dame Eritrea Montgomery. She, of course, is the first woman to perform “Ol Man River” from Showboat at the Royal Command Variety event. She has a keen in interest in geology, blancmange moulds and the poetry of Richard Nixon. In between working on her fashion designs for the over-90s, she is the principle architect in charge of the reconstruction of “Plastic Henge” near Salisbury.

3) Fortuna Aristophanes. English hammer throwing champion, compiler of the Shrewsbury University directory of bathroom windows, and lead singer with Iron Maiden, her talents are catholic as, indeed, are her propensities.

4) Hephzibah Lumbarpuncture. Pioneering surgeon whose work on replacing ankle bones with ball bearings, and the extension of the optic nerve to finger and toe ends has advanced the theory and practice of voyeurism, and her lectures at the Gdansk medical facility were truly ground-breaking in their audience participation aspects, but sadly resulted in her being prevented from returning to Eastern Europe.

5) Patriach Archbishop Arthur Rosebush of the Armenian Orthodox Church, winner of the 1996 final of “Wheel of Fortune”.

6) Gandalf Montesorri, still playing left side flanker for the Tintagel Patriots rugby union team, and a trailblazer in the field of marine unorthodoxy.

7) Uriel Wenchfondler. Tireless worker for the advancement of vegetable rights, and recipient of the Life Time Achievement award in kale husbandry.

8) Cynthia Leftpancreas. Inventor of recyclable salad dressing, pomegranate ketchup and the dodecahedral apple and raspberry pie. We are all deeply, deeply indebted to her.

9) Eroica Entwhistle. Despite, in this photograph, appearing to gaze admiringly, if not lustfully, at the star of the class, Ms Entwhistle is an expert on the migratory habits of snails, has translated the works of Jilly Cooper into 17 African languages and is widely respected in the Meccano collectors community.

10) Vicus Scurra. All round good egg, confidante of and counsellor to the rich and famous, accomplished sportsman, musician and academic.

11) Ciceley Thricenightly. Exotic dancer, aardvark charmer, Phil Collins impersonator and the only woman to be a freeman of both Willoughby Waterleys and Phnom Penh.

12) Audrey Gnomesnatcher, PhD. President of the Islamic Jihad for the liberation of Carlton Curlieu, walked backwards across the Gobi to raise money for research into research. Mother of 24 children and advisor to the Gyles Brandreth Appreciation Society.

13) Rear Admiral Sir Hezekiah Amberspoon. Sixth in line to the throne of Upper Volta, handkerchief designer and lothario.

14) Guevara Cerise. Professor of Tomfoolery at Curly Howard University, East Moron, Vermont. Dancing coach to Joshua Nkomo and holder of the world record for squid balancing.

Mr Mans has been waiting for us to attend this detention since 1968. This is typical of his deep commitment to his profession. You may think that someone who did not know the correct plural of one of the most common words in the language was not a suitable candidate for head of English. However, the alternative would have been to have been taught by one of the Mr Men. Not something to mention in your university entrance application.

Mr Mans’ favoured area of study were the works of great comic writers; Dostoevsky, Milton and Barbara Cartland were the most popular authors in this category. Here he is seen expounding on the great slapstick scene “Before the Law” from “The Trial”.

*************

If I may break out of character for a moment, I request that if you adding a comment please do not make derogatory remarks about any of the people depicted above apart from me, (unless you are in the cast list).


Yesterday I went back to my school for the first time in 41 years, and met these splendid people who were all in my year, many of whom I had not seen since, and we were able to recruit Peter Mans, one of the many outstanding teachers of my time, to re-enact those days. 


I see myself as very fortunate to have been educated here. Humanity was seen as more important than accomplishment, equality and fairness professed and practised. Being a pioneering school it attracted a very high standard of enthusiastic and committed teachers (interspersed with the occasional throwback and idiot, of course). I am very grateful to these people and in particular to my headmaster, who returned yesterday and expressed similar sentiments in a far more forceful and articulate manner than I can manage. 


That is the end of this service message. Normal nonsense will return next time.

In case you missed it

A talented reader (and there was me thinking that was an oxymoron)

Go and read Rol's story. Don't tell him I sent you, don't want him getting big-headed and all.

http://rolhirst.blogspot.com/2010/09/friday-flash-highway-hypnosis.html

Policy Statement

After centuries of moving in a mysterious way and shunning publicity, God has broken his silence and announced that the Universe does not need Stephen Hawking.


“Frankly, my infinite patience and mercy has been pushed beyond the fucking limit by this irritating little tit”, He exclaimed at a news conference in Swanage, attended by a select few members of the international news media. “I have gone out of my way to keep a low profile, only appearing occasionally in pizzas and half eaten Turkish Delight, but I am fed up to my back teeth of these wiseacres, wizeasses and witless wankers,” went on the Supreme Deity (6189), “were they there at the Creation? Well if they were, I didn’t fucking see them. They were no fucking help to me, with their calculations, theories and hypotheses. Have you seen the size of the fucking universe? Big, that’s what it is; very fucking big, and all my own work. Hawking can take his doctorate and shove it where the sun don’t shine – and I know where that is too, because I made the sun, and not on the fourth day either. Who do these people think they are? As if I’m going to construct a fucking universe in the fucking dark. Hot – that’s what they are, suns; take a bit of careful handling too. How many are there? Well, more than Hawking and his mates can count, I can tell you that for nothing. Twat. You have no fucking idea how much planning it took.”


Sounds of thunder could be heard.


“Hawking? He can kiss my hairy divine arse. And while we’re at it, I’m none too fond of that twat Bruce Willis. That will be all.”

Thank you, I'm here for at least two more years

I wonder which of these comedians is more to your taste?







Perhaps Rodney, with his rapid banter, or Dick with this charming characterisations. Do many of you find Bazza, with his subtle satire, obliquely camouflaged by apparently mundane observations to be the new force in America humour? I think that his patter needs to be sharpened to match his content, and were he to attend to this, his ratings would rocket.


“We can’t allow the corporations to take over our democracy”. I’m sure that we all fell about. Did any of you rofl? Are any of my dear readership (aMToNW) buttockless this fine day having lmfaoed? I thought it was a very clever idea, delivered with a straight face and no clue as the underlying irony. How could the performance be improved? Well, perhaps with reference that even the most humble person can become president, juxtaposed with the cost of an election campaign would have added some weight to his theme. Surely his audience still remembers Dubya, and there could have been some further humour extracted by referring to him. I am not sure that the introduction and exit music that featured in Rodney’s act would be appropriate in these times, but some acknowledgement of, if not interface with, the audience would have added to the mirth. I also think that the potty mouth approach, as adopted by Mr Prior, would have detracted from the aura of the performance. 


Apparently, in yet to be broadcast episodes, Barry goes on to say it that it is important we avoid a terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre, that the rain forests must not be depleted for profit and that it is essential for democracy that  the defecatory habits of the family Ursidae in areas of aboreal density is restricted.

The Long Haul

I would like to express my thanks to Priyamvada Natarajan and Eric Jull, the latest pair of prize Herberts conspiring to keep me from my bed.


They have distracted me by publishing a study which hypothesises that the universe will expand for ever, and eventually become a cold, dead wasteland. Much like Basingstoke, then, probably with more roundabouts and a slightly larger branch of Tesco. 


Before you start to panic, and stampede through the streets wailing and gnashing teeth, I should explain that this latest spurious conglomeration of fanciful brainfart is predicated upon the existence of dark energy. You will recall from previous studies here that dark energy does not exist, and is merely an attempt to explain some inexplicable rather than just calling it God. The piffle also depends on their calculations about how light bends round something called Abell 1689, apparently a massive cluster of galaxies, somewhere east of Aberystwyth. 


They predict that the temperature of the universe will approach absolute zero, so I have been out gathering logs and kindling this evening. You are all welcome to drop in and huddle round my fire, but don’t rely upon sharing my body warmth, as I am English and we don’t do that sort of thing.


May I refer you to this somewhat simplified article in Wikipedia for an alternative and somewhat more sensible explanation?


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Day_of_Brahma


You may think that my perspective is slightly awry in worrying about my bed time in comparison to all of these things, but I need to be alert tomorrow for the Test Match.

A guide to democracy

On the news this morning is the latest world-saving policy from our nice new government. They want to abolish mixed-sex wards in hospitals. I should perhaps explain that they want to curb the practice of having people of differing genders in the same room. They are not attempting to abolish “mixed sex”, whatever that is. It seems an unsavoury habit, and I will not go down that particular street of seediness, at least today.

I haven’t had to stay in hospital for over 30 years (no, not many people have, I hear you wittily say, you would have to be very ill). It is over 30 years ago since I had to stay in hospital, there, is that better? My dentist took exception to the sight of my tonsils and decided that he would refer me to the fang-fondler in chief at the royal infirmary to have my wisdom teeth pulled out. I can recall little of my sojourn; particularly I do not remember harbouring feelings of antipathy towards my fellow patients. These days I am probably more choosey about night-time company, and I wish Jennifer Aniston would stop pestering me about the subject.

Normally, I would feel supportive of proposals to bring practice in line with the desires of the majority. Hospital accommodation is not a topic which vexes me greatly, but I would, all things being equal, go along with the consensus.

But, you see, things are not equal. This measure is being proposed by the Tories. I am therefore beginning a campaign for open plan hospitals, merged with veterinary hospitals. When you come round from your anaesthetic after having your gall bladder scraped, you may be in a bed/compound/sty next to a Thompson’s gazelle suffering from chilblains. This may seem harsh, but if the Tories want it, it must be wrong.

If Cameron announces world peace, I shall take to the streets with a grenade launcher. If Lickspittle Lansley announces a return to the days of “free at point of delivery” and the abolition of trusts and private hospitals, I shall buy shares in BUPA. If Gormless Gove  proposes  an education system based upon the writings of Kropotkin, I shall demand tougher control. If Halfwit Huhne announces a system of tax based entirely upon environment impact, I shall burn my refrigerator in a national park. Fuck ‘em. Unless they bring in a policy proclaiming free love, in which case I shall be celibate.

Nato annuled after delegate swallows treaty.

I feel a need to break my self imposed exile from this journal in order to reach out to my adoring audience tonight. I am sure I will find some succour here.


Firstly, Mrs S and two of our friends began discussing pottery, ornaments, flat pack homes and other such nonsense until I was driven, muttering “Kaliyuga, Kaliyuga” to consult the DellFick oracle in the corner of the room. I can only attribute my poor choice of information source to the late hour. I could pretend that what I was seeking was proof that one only had to search for seven seconds to find some true moron spouting much more poisonous guff than the decoration obsessed trio mentioned above. The truth is more mundane, alas. I simply found the news at the BBC too boring and trickled over to the Torygraph. 


WTFFF as young people would say, were they as capable of the degree of astonishment that I experienced over there.


At least the Daily Mail have some sense of proportion. The slow and miserable death we will suffer from whatever made up story appears on their front page always has the benefit of being slow. The Torygraph, who appear to have hired the headline writer from “The Day Today”, are much more positive.



“Nasa scientists braced for 'solar tsunami' to hit earth”.


They shriek. They go on:


“Experts said the wave of supercharged gas will likely reach the Earth on Tuesday, when it will buffet the natural magnetic shield protecting Earth.”


Buffet? All you can eat for £5.95 no doubt.


Read the article yourselves, I can’t even be bothered to provide a link. It reads like the wailing of the prophet Jeremiah on the morning he poured curdled milk on the last of his Cocopops. 


Reading between the lines, what is likely to happen is that round about Tuesday, or it could be next Michaelmas but three, a lady in Mogadishu is likely to find her afternoon play on Radio 4 slightly more difficult to hear, and a chap in Norfolk is going to feel a tad warm. Or the planet could be wiped out by some giant magnetic storm. I will let you know which, if you miss it.


More implausible still is the other “science” story I found. They have found it necessary to devote some space to the incoherent jabbering of Nikodem Poplawski, of Indiana University, Bloomington. I must warn you that what follows will seem strangely familiar to any of you unfortunate enough to have experimented in your youth with hallucinogenic drugs. Cannabis and d-lsyergic acid diethylamide are two such substances in that category. You may recall propped up against a wall (if you were luckly) next to some callow slob from Barnsley who kept you awake and confused by expounding the profound realisation that had revealed itself to him during his ingestion of said narcotics. If you were really stoned, you may have found his theory interesting or even believable. You may have even been the tripe perpetrator yourself. If so, you probably don’t remember. 


Doc Pop,  or “Nutty Nik” as he is known on campus, offered one of the following insights. Can you guess which one?


A) “Maybe Nicholas Soames is the New Messiah, come to lead us to a land of eternal orgasm”, he told The Watchtower.


B) "Maybe the huge black holes at the centre of the Milky Way and other galaxies are bridges to different universes," he told New Scientist.


C) “Maybe broccoli has an IQ beyond the measure of our current tests”, he told the Theresa May edition of Penthouse.


D) “Maybe I forgot to take my tablets this morning”, he told the Bloomington Sheriff’s Department.


I can do little but copy from the Torygraph. I am at a loss as how I can embellish it. Here is a lily so pre-gilded that it positively shines like fifty thousand suns.


He says instead of matter reaching infinite density in a black hole called "singularities" in Einstein's theory of relativity - the behaviour of the space-time acts more like a spring being compressed with matter rebounding and expanding continuously.
Dr Poplawski explains that this "bounce-back" effect is caused by the torsion of space-time having a repulsive force against the gargantuan strength of gravity in a black hole.
Dr Poplawski also claims that this recoiling effect could be what has led to our expanding universe that we observe today and could explain why our universe is flat, homogeneous and isotropic without needing cosmic inflation.


Here comes a really good bit. No, honest, it is good. You will love it. You may experience quasi-orgasm. 


It is hard to see how we could test whether or not Dr Poplawski's theory is correct; the force of gravity in black holes is such that nothing can escape, so no information about what is going on inside one can ever reach us.


Yes, there you have it. Some chump, and we can only guess what nonsense his wife was spouting to cause him to toddle down this particular avenue, has added to the already overloaded truck of scientific speculation with a theory as useless as the gibberish issuing from the gob of a semi-comatose hippy, and been reported in the national press. 


FFS.


To be fair, though, his theory, if proved to be valid, would explain the oscillation of neutrinos. That particular conundrum has deprived me of many hours of sleep over the years. 


I am going to bed.