Overdue

Thank you to the wonderful world of google, Turkey, where someone had entered the phrase “sneaky pee” into that wondrous search engine, and been directed to my site, because I used the phrase once.

I was intrigued, and pursued the link. Apparently this phrase is a euphemism used by those who gain sexual gratification from watching the act of urination. Good luck to them I say. There are sites called “Doctor Trickle” and “Pissing Bondage” among many others catering for this need. I am sure that my readers (a Mrs Trickle of North Wales) will not have been aware of this information.

Of course, publishing this data increases the chances of my site being visited by those who some might accuse of being perverse.

Whoever they are, and whatever they enjoy provided it does not harm others, they are welcome here.

File this entry under "Asking for trouble"

An erudite and very good friend of mine, who I will not identify lest it harm her chances of becoming a parent governor at her son's school in Haslemere, sent me a brief book review containing the phrase "I laughed my tits off".
Inevitably, this has had an unsettling effect upon me, and has resulted in images that, on the whole, I could better do without populating my consciousness.
Could any of my readers (a Mrs Titless of North Wales) help to suggest other images which might help to banish these particular ones to some less visited corner of my brain?

My new best friend

Despite competition from Watski, I nominate this as today's best journal entry.

At the other end of the scale, I urge my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales), not to read the comment by Karl in the thread "Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 2.

And a big "Thank You" to all of my visitors

I shall take some time to go through the interesting catalogue of sites that have appeared in the referring web site section of this diary.

The mundane explanation for the appearance of the sites is, for those of you unfamiliar with the mechanics of blogger, that if you click on the “Next blog” icon at the top of this screen you will be transported to a random blog. Not truly random, of course, as computers can’t cope with that concept. One, or a few, of my visitors have arrived here by that method.

1) You eventually become who you pretend to be.
She begins her latest entry with “I really don't have anything to say about today” and then continues.
D-

2) Nude Beauty.
Nice tits. Now fuck off.
C-

3) Welding and welders.
Inspired.
B+

4) Drama Club.
In Portuguese. Sample translation “ouch, this aches to think me lonely”. Charming
C+

5) All about scuba diving.
Not as funny as welding.
D

6) Best Free European Porn.
Fairly empty, as one would expect. Probably should have been a link to Zoe.
D

7) enna pArvai indha pArvai. (That is anglicised Tamil)
Dunno what the Tamil means, but the rest of the site is the incoherent ramblings of an ill educated baboon.
A-

8) La Cosa Knitstra. (geddit?)
Photographs of knitting. Utterly, totally and emphatically pointless.
A+

8) Rock and Rolls.
Photographs of dull buildings.
B+

9) TLC Janna.
Suicidal ramblings from middle America. Waltons without the sex and violence.
D-

10) Rulz indeed.
Shite indeed.
D

10) Alarm systems.
“Find an alarm system here”. And use it to alert others not to visit this site.
D

11) Obiter Dictum
I can’t stand these people who pick up an obscure Latin phrase just to show off.
B

12) Blog de toroenmaromado.
Translation excerpt: “In the Corrillo of San Nicholas, then neuralgic center of the villa, staged the allegory of the Eucaristía, completing the celebration "giant and tarascas". Consider yourselves educated.
B

13) Adam’s Web Journal
The thoughts of an embryonic Einstein.
Unfortunately, not Albert, but his moron cousin Dwayne.
F-

I guess I won't be seeing her again.

This week's lesson in etiquette comes from my chat with Naomi, who I met for the first time this weekend.
For some reason we were discussing Coronation Street, and I quoted my favourite line, circa 1966
"She were that bandy legged, she couldn't stop a pig in an entry".
Naomi: "And I bet you haven't had much occasion to use that line, have you?"
Me: "No, not till I met you".

Friends wanted. Low expectations an advantage. Apply Scurra House, Kingsley.

Countdown to the royal divorce - Part 2

I think that it is an opportune moment, while everyone who one talks to is obsessing about the world snooker finals, to bring you up to date on the latest happenings in the Houses of Windsor.

Since the immense success of the wedding – I hope you have all seen the pirate video that has been circulating on the web, where they tied up Rowan Williams and had Rowan Atkinson re-enact his role from 4 Weddings, and do an alternative blessing – Camilla has been barely able to sit down. Those of a critical disposition might say that she is a little bit full of herself. She has taken to addressing herself orally and in writing as “Her Majesty Apparent”, or HMA for short. This is all very well within the confines of the family, where they are used to her high spirits, but secretly there is concern that these japes may overflow into the public arena.

Liz confides that she would love to abdicate “Nothing I’d like better than to spend my afternoons down the bingo at Chiswick, or picking up bargains in the BHS sale, but I can’t really leave the family firm in the hands of these wallies. Heaven knows what they’ll get up to without my vigilance.”

Indeed, despite their raucous private behaviour together, on the world stage Liz seems to prevent Camilla from letting her hair down. Worries about Camilla bursting into giggles during the one minute silence on Remembrance Sunday, or mooning behind Charles during the Christmas broadcast abound. They always have a horse or two to take the blame in case Phil lets one rip at the Cenotaph, but who could justify hyenas?

In the midst of this Charles remains unchanged – bewildered and increasingly unworldly.

Camilla’s latest prank was to stick a carrot up the exhaust pipe of Andrew’s Range Rover at Highgrove. Not content with that, she did the same thing to Anne’s horse. The poor creature was alarmed and terrified, brayed like a thing possessed and left a trail of carrot flavoured dung all over Charles’ organic azalea garden. The horse was similarly distressed.

Another bloody buggery post about the bloody buggery election.

I was somewhat startled to read an honest article by a candidate in the forthcoming general election.

My old pal, Ozzie, has penned a somewhat uplifting article in the backwater that is his web journal.

Try reading his article “What the Yorkshire Post doesn’t want you to read”.

You might even considering moving to Grimsby to vote for him. These times call for futile gestures.

I don't mean to keep coming back to this

It's really that chap Gamon's job to do this.
But.
I have just had an election leaflet from my Conservative candidate.
His chief concern appears to be to have cleaner hospitals.
Excellent idea.
Why don't you stop poncing about in Westminster, representing none of my views, and do something useful like cleaning hospitals, Arbuthnot, you useless, total, third rate idiot.

This has been a party political broadcast on behalf of the "Up and against the wall and shoot them" party.

Control of this website has now reverted to the love and peace candidate.

I'm sorry he's from Barcelona

Thanks to my friends at sitemeter, I have discovered that someone has used the google translation service to translate my page into Spanish.
All the great writers use this language. Cervantes, Allende, Torquemada.
I feel a Nobel prize coming my way.
Cazza, how about a Latin translation?
Zoe, French, Dutch, Walloon?
Anyone for classical Greek? Homer, we all bloody hate him round our way.

TCM*

I apologise for using what might appear to be a vulgar heading, and if the sensibilities of my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales) are disturbed then please note that my regret is sincere. It is just that that particular phrase was used by Penn Jilette on his television programme ‘Penn and Teller: Bullshit’ to describe Richard Nixon, as I have mentioned before on this site, and I wish that I had been the first to use it in that context.
Tonight I found a link to a site that was reporting a new series of ‘Bullshit’, and when I clicked the link I found the following message:
“We at Showtime Online express our apologies; however, these pages are intended for access only from within the United States.”
Of course, my transatlantic friends have some justification in patenting bullshit, but I wonder what great national secret they are afraid of revealing. I am also prompted to wonder what Mr Jilette’s reaction might be to that page.

An even bigger bunch of TCM is that group known by the amusing sobriquet of ‘Physicists’. I have alluded earlier to my scepticism about the laws of physics and the mental health of physics teachers. Those thinking that I am a little extreme in my criticism should take note of the contents of this ridiculous article. Please note that I have warned before that Yahoo news links tend to expire quite quickly, so if you are reading this later than April 2005, the link may have expired: I shall therefore give you my version.
Apparently, there is a lump of stuff somewhere in Paris that has been used as a standard for exactly how much a kilogram weighs. This stuff has sat quite happily in the French capital (quite an achievement in itself – have you ever tried to get vegetarian food in this so-called cultural centre?) for some time (I will not be fooled into trying to define the length of time of this contented sitting). TCM are now saying that we should not rely on this lump of stuff because it is subject to change – it reacts with air for example. The implications of this are that the kilo of feathers that you buy in Anchorage may actually be a different weight to the kilo of coal that you purchase in Nairobi, even if the apparatus used to measure both had been calibrated with this lump of stuff in Paris at some time.
At this juncture, may I just point out: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
TCM are suggesting that instead of relying on a lump of stuff – Gallic or otherwise - we should be defining mass in terms of “counting the number of atoms in a silicon crystal using X-ray imaging”.
So there you have it. Next time you visit Waitrose to stock up on comestibles, insist that the manager counts the number of silicon atoms in front of you, lest you are overcharged for your aubergines.
If you think that I am being over emotional about this, please visit LiveScience.com and see other articles there. “Scientists now admit they don't understand the intricacies of how water works”.
At this juncture, may I just point out: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
“..scientists say the air around us is heavier than they had thought”. Who, and exactly how many whos, gives a flying Newton about that.
We need to free ourselves of the shackles of this bizarre religion of Physics. No more should our children be subjected to double physics on freezing cold Monday mornings in February in dilapidated classrooms listening to TCM expounding their perverted beliefs.
I had been struggling with the dilemma (much more tangible than that of the twat Schrodinger) about for whom to vote in the forthcoming general election. Let me say this (does that sound like Tony Blair?), if your party does not support the criminalisation of physics, then you need not bother to knock on my door.

* 'These crazy motherfuckers'

I engage in the democratic process.

My local labour party has a subset of the "proud of britain" website called "proud of North East Hampshire".
Bollocks.
They asked me what I was proud of about north east Hampshire.
Twats.
I wrote:
"Nothing. I am a citizen of the planet earth.
Proud of Britain - you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for hiding behind such jingoistic twaddle."
Bastards.
Back to the normal nonsense next time.

Next time, it will be Pope Britney

I have been urged by a colleague to shed some light on the election of the new pontiff. I say this because I do not wish to appear to be privy to the details behind every major world news story and feel that it behoves me to occasionally exercise severe discretion. However, at this point I do not think that a little more openness would be harmful.

Yesterday afternoon I received a call from Cardinal Capone, (if this story seems familiar, I regret to inform you that Peter’s story, amusing though it is, is fictitious), who said that there was a danger of damage to the hats of the cardinals, as so much head-scratching was going on. Joe the Rat, as his friends know him, had been elected, but they were damned (sic) if they could think of a suitable name.

Sometimes my patience is strained. This lot have had nothing else to think about for the best part of a fortnight, and still they don’t have the gumption to exercise their imagination. This is the direct consequence of being told what to do for their whole lives.

I suggested that it was time for a show of modernisation, and something to liven up the image of the new pope. Joe has been a boring old fart ever since I first met him when we were on the German jury for the 1983 Eurovision Song Contest. He was winner of the “Most boring mass” competition in Rome for seven years in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As former head of the Inquisition, I also felt he needed to be seen as not entirely devoid of humour.

“Pope Benny Hill”, I said, “that will do it”.

I had a vision of a Pope, while remaining respected for his piety, wisdom and compassion, who was also able to acknowledge his humanity at a universal level by deployment of cheeky double-entendre and well-meaning references to carnal activity (at the same time recognising that anyone going so far to practise these activities would burn forever). I had a vision of Popes and Cardinals chasing scantily clad altar boys round St Peters Square with the film speeded up.

Alas, it was not to be, thanks either to the Italian telephone system, Capone’s appalling grasp of English or maybe the will of God.

The same thing happened last time round. It should have been Jean Paul, in recognition of my old friend Sartre.

Mark Gamon, I hope you can sleep at night

Thanks to Mark's refusal to act as my mouthpiece in this election, I have been compelled to join in the pointless debate, and I have put a comment on Ozzie's site.
We should all join together to mourn for the witty, insightful and entirely pointless literary jewel that would have appeared in this space, had I not been distracted.

A call to action

My dear friend, Mr Gamon, has vowed to remain on the sidelines for the duration of the election, and not trouble us with his opinions.
I find this somewhat unsettling, as I had been relying upon him to make some cutting observations, and thereby saving me the trouble. I was hoping that I could continue to post the occasionally portion of rubbish, without getting too disturbed by the ridiculous posturings of our candidates. I understood that every now and then I would have to go over and abuse Boris, and that I might post the occasional comment on the site of my new friend, Dicky. I have also signed up for the Austin Mitchell site, but so far not contributed anything. I feel a little patronising towards Austin, as he is old enough to remember when his party had a few principles and ideals and weren’t a windblown hotchpotch of smarmy gits. He is also quite funny (his web log is Austin Powered – a reference to a contemporary cinematic production, I am told).
So, dear readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales), please petition our Mark to abandon this ludicrous oath, and to keep us entertained with his observations.
Mr Gamon is a splendid author. I recently read his book “Briton” and would like to use this vast forum to recommend it. In my view, his primary gift is that of storytelling. Apparently, the book is carefully researched, but what impressed me was his simple style, and the avoidance of letting his characters lapse into rhetoric when speaking. A damn sight better than many of the best sellers I have read.
If enough of you buy it, he may be able to give up whatever absurd activities he undertakes during the day to keep the wolf from the door, and become a full time writer, with no excuse for failing to update his web journal several times each week.

Most definitely NOT funny

http://www.livejournal.com/users/wertz/130155.html

Boris, my old flower, I have been neglecting you because of this wedding nonsense

I am not altogether sure that I approve of the practice of stigmatising the less fortunate members of society, but in England some of the more troubled minorities are being forced to wear big blue badges, indicating that they have some sort of social problem.




Visitors need not worry, these people are mostly harmless. If one approaches you, throw your arms around them and while patting them lightly on the head, push some gastronomic treat such as salted peanuts or a grape into their mouths. They will then go on their way, merrily looking for other victims. Do not, under any circumstances, provide them with comestibles containing sugar. They get over excited and wet themselves.

What's the worst job you ever had?

My friends at Ananova report the following story:

The orchestra of Argentina's most famous theatre played in the middle of the road to protest about their low pay.

The Colon Theatre Orchestra gave a concert in front of Buenos Aires City Hall, reports Clarin.

As well as their low salaries, the musicians were complaining to Mayor Anibal Ibarra about their working conditions.

My guess would be that working conditions are far more an issue of contention than the salary, but perhaps musicians have different standards.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 1

My friends at the Kingsley Web log have tried to deflect attention away from the local area by repetitively reporting that the royal honeymoon is to take place in Scotland.

I posted the following riposte:

“Mediawatch and his cohorts in the national press and worldwide television networks may try to mislead you, but there is a very strong Kingsley connection. Honeymoon at Birkhall be buggered. Astute visitors will have noticed a very strong rocking motion from a large and expensive looking motorhome that was parked in the car park at the Kingsley Centre this evening, surrounded by armoured vehicles.
And visitors to the weekly car boot sale at Country Market tomorrow might well be lucky in picking up some spectacular bargains in the form of unwanted wedding presents.”

I can now reveal the reasons for my shock absence from today’s festivities. I have been busy putting the finishing touches to the arrangements to accommodate the royal couple in our prestigious settlement. Fortunately, coverage of the Test match did not begin until three o’clock, and so the duties were not too arduous.

It is because we have managed to disguise the popularity of Kingsley among the world’s royal families, that it is still so much in demand. The extensive boating lake, the ancient monuments (the Saxon village hall) and the newly equipped playground make it an irresistible draw to the more discerning visitor, for whom expense is no barrier.

Of course, Charles is a little nervous about being too far away from his trusted friends, which is why I agreed to be on hand in case he gets anxious during the first days of his new marital partnership. Frankly, I hope that he desists from knocking on my door at seven in the morning with some trivial problem, but I am not over-optimistic.

I would urge you all to be respectful and stay away from the village for the next few days. I know that this will be a disappointment, and many of you will be at a loss to find alternative attractions. If you are truly incapable of curbing your urges, then at least observe some decorum if you notice a slightly bewildered and anxious looking gentleman and his bizarre spouse strolling through the village or the surrounding lanes. It is no coincidence that Kingsley is in the middle of MoD property, and those misguided persons thinking that they have something profound or witty to shout at our visitors, might find themselves carrying round slightly more lead than they began the day with.

The Cornwalls will be taking tea with me tomorrow. I can’t say that I am looking forward to it. He has no conversation, and she has too much. Last time they called, India were batting and I missed Dravid getting his century. Then the silly tart misheard the reference to Ganguly, spat crumbs all over the carpet, and guffawed so loudly that the Canada geese on my pond were startled and I had to pay £640 to have the goosecrap scraped off of my roof.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 10

Readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Windsor) may be surprised to know how much resentment exists between the house of Windsor and the Grimaldi family. In some quarters there is a strongly held belief that Rainier held out so long in order to bugger up the wedding of the year.
Surprisingly, no such animosity has been expressed against the Pope, with whom the British monarch has had an even more contentious relationship over the centuries. In fact, Liz was quite taken with him when he called on her. This did not prevent her from having fun at his expense by doing one of her silly voices throughout, and speaking in such a way that neither he nor the interpreters had any idea what was being said. I do not know whose idea it was to serve as a main course “Chops Thomas More”, but the incident passed by without any comment.
Our lot has always scorned the Monaco monarchy. “Principality of Monte Carlo”, said Phil, scathingly, “might as well be the Principality of Hemel Bleeding Hempstead”. “Or the dukedom of Edinburgh”, I said, under my breath.
What really got their goats was when Rainier married Grace. Uncharacteristically, the Windsors were determined to outdo them, and for a few months in the late 1950s, efforts were made to get Margaret married off to Marlon Brando. Brando was a frequent visitor to the royal households, and later modelled the voice and mannerisms of his character ‘Don Corleone’ on Louis Mountbatten; an uncanny resemblance. He also tried to get the butter delivered to him by an ex-butler from Balmoral in “Last Tango in Paris”, but Bertolucci would have none of it. Although this fell through, a number of matches were proposed in the following years, but I think that the rumour about Charles and Lulu is purely gossip.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 9

In response to all of the requests for further details, I draw my tired digits across the keyboard.
What a week it has been. As you can imagine I have been on the telephone for about eighteen hours a day. Most of it dealing with trivia, I will have you know.
Here is a sample from about 5 hours ago.
16:15. Charles. “Do you need any duty free from Italy?” I have told him countless times over the years that I don’t smoke or drink, but I am afraid that it just does not register. He is so preoccupied with trying to be helpful.
16:18 William (7th time today). “I am a witness, yeah?”. “Yes, Bill, that’s right. You only have to watch,” and then under my breath, “staying awake would be an advantage, too”.
16:23 Camilla. “Do you know a good fancy dress hire shop, (not too far from Windsor), the Ann Boleyn costume that I had on hold is already hired out for Saturday.” “For God’s sake, Cammy,” I implore “fucking well behave yourself, for once. Just put on a sensible fucking frock, and sensible fucking shoes, and speak when you are fucking spoken to. There’s enough bad publicity about this damn silly event without you adding to it. And it is a civil ceremony, so there is no need for anyone to give you away, and Will Carling was not the best choice anyway, if you want my opinion.”
16:29 William “Windsor registry office, yeah?” “That’s right Bill, just turn up and grin. Can you manage that?”
16:32 Phil. “Anyone chance of fixing another funeral for Saturday so we have to postpone again?” I deny all knowledge of influencing things in Italy. He seems to think that we are still living at the time of the Borgias, and that cardinals can be bribed to slip a drop of strychnine in the papal crème de menthe. “Forget it, Phil,” I say, quite crossly, “this is probably the last time that one of your lot gets married, so just do your frigging duty for once.”
16:47 William (I have just had time to make a cup of coffee, and watch it grow cold while he witters on about this that and the other). “I have to sign something, yeah?”. “Yes, Bill, your name, and someone will have a pen, so you don’t need to worry about that”. “I just write ‘Billo’ then?” “No, Bill, your full name, you soft sod. William Windsor Mountbatten.” “How’s that spelt then?” “W-A-L-L-Y W-I-T-L-E-S-S M-O-R-O-N.” I have reached the borders of my tolerance. “Is that enough letters for Mountbatten?” he asks – not much gets past him. “Yes,” I say, “it’s like Cholmondley is pronounced ‘Chumley’”. “OK, right, yeah”.
And so forth.
I am not going. I am not going to the bloody funeral either. Last time I had to stand next to Kenneth Kaunda for three hours, and I think he had consumed about 7 pounds of garlic the night before.
And have you tried to find somewhere to park in Windsor on a Saturday? Utter madness.

The first day of summer

I am pleased to announce that the first day of summer is here, heralded by the arrival of this year's Wisden.
I will not be swayed from this proclamation, despite the outside temperature being -7, one of the cricketers of the year being Ashley Giles, and that awful idiot Shane Warne being declared World Player of the Year for 2004.
I am happy to be ecumenical in my outlook on this great day of rejoicing.

It made me laugh

I admit it. I spent 10 minutes trawling other blogs to find somewhere to post this, just so that I don't attract the ire of my readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales). But I could find nowhere.
A friend sent me this link with the tag "Their time has come"

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 8

Following all the nonsense about C&C not meeting the parents in private, I was happy to attend the beginning of the little private lunch that they had last week.

I saw the twinkle in Liz’s eye, and knew that we were in for some fun, so I joined in by introducing them to each other. “And what do you do?” Liz asked Camilla, in that silly voice that she adopts for meeting the common folk. Poor Philip has lost all sense of irony in his old age, and is often not privy to the subtle undertones. “You silly bugger, it’s that hideous Camelia person, are you bloody blind? And as to what she does or what good she is, we’d all bloody like to know that, I’m sure.” Charles allowed himself a nervous smile, he is still intimidated by Phil, but is unable to exact any revenge, apart from occasionally taking a sneaky pee in the gin decanter.

“Have you come far?” continued Liz. “I should bloody say so,” interjected Phil, “from ‘thicky of the year’ at school to queen-in-waiting is a bloody long way, in my book”. “Watch it, granddad” said Camilla, “you’re a fine one to talk, you could have been running a kebab shop in Dulwich with your brother, if Liz wasn’t so short-sighted.”

I left the happy party to the echoes of Charles’ sobbing.

A few days to go, and still getting bad publicity. I am trying to arrange for them to appear on Ant and Dec’s television programme the following day, in order to introduce a little dignity.

Interesting things that happened yesterday

A lady who I was visiting, (she is English and aged over 90) recited 'Humpty Dumpty' to me, in Urdu.
Unfortunately, I did not write it down, nor do I remember it, so please do not ask for a rendition.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 7

A regular reader (a Mrs Trellis of North Island) has expressed concern that my absence from the wedding may lead to no one being on hand to prevent disasters happening on the day. While I admit, with some modesty, that the current high esteem that the British royal family commands worldwide is due in no small part to me, I cannot be on call all of the time to all of them.

I will outline some of the steps upon which I insisted to prevent unfortunate results.

Originally, there were plans to have a full traditional ceremony at St Paul’s. I quietly persuaded Charles to move to the private ceremony in Windsor. The plans, including having Kylie Minogue as a bridesmaid, and the ridiculous involvement of Dale Winton were getting much too bizarre. Further, Camilla’s repeated threat to reply ‘Not chuffing likely’ instead of ‘I will’ could not be taken lightly. She constantly fails to see that what some view as a robust sense of humour is regarded by others as pure bad taste. Additionally, Edward, poor boy, has this strange fixation about the current Archbishop of Canterbury. He is convinced that Dr Williams is Celtic warlord, whose mission is to overthrow the foreign monarchy, and faints every time that he meets him.

Charles will not be having the stag night that his irresponsible brother, Andrew, had planned. I suggested that a quiet night in with a few trusted friends, a pizza, a limited amount of alcohol and a ‘Police Academy’ DVD would be an appropriate kind of evening. Fortunately, I did not have to be explicit about this and remind him of my rescuing him from being found naked in the zebra enclosure at Whipsnade during the early hours of the morning the last time he got married.

Security is a concern. That is another reason why Philip will not be attending. He seems to think he has some feudal right to assault anyone whose face he takes exception to. At his advanced age, the days when he could lift Jim Callaghan over his head and slam him down three places away are gone, but he can still do some damage with an unexpected kick to the shins, as dame Vera Lynn will attest.

So, what more can I do? I have carefully assessed all of the risks. At least we no longer have to contend with the dear old queen mother’s endearing habit of yelling out “Piss off, yo-yo knickers” every time she saw Camilla.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 6

As the great day approaches, despite my constant protests that I will not be attending the damn silly event, people, many through the medium of this journal, keep pestering me for tickets. I think that I should point out at this stage that it behoves me not to press your cases too hard. As a friend, I would suggest you are better off not going, although I have tried.

Just to see how the land lies, I approached Dave Linley, who has been given the job of looking after the spare tickets. Now, you may think from the publicity that he gets that he is one of the more down-to-earth members of the clan - works for a living, keeps his head down, and so forth. That is not my impression. I have yet to meet a chippie who has the full complement of brain cells, and he sadly fits that stereotype. I once ordered a customised mahogany tripod from him, so that I could take my own seat to the bloody garden parties at Buck house, and he asked me how many legs I wanted on it. I didn't have high expectations, and this proved to be the case. "Listen," I said with more than a little authority, "Zed wants to come. You know that she is European Bloggie of the Year, don't you?". "Euro-pissing-pean?" he riposted, "you think that lot mean anything to me?"

He has a point. Liz is not too fond of the continental cousins, particularly the Belgs. "Albert and his missus are conjoined twins, you know," she confides in me (this is borne out by the attached picture), "and who in their right mind is called Bert in our circles? Mum used to call Dad 'Bertie' just to get on his tits, because what with his stammer, he could never say it in less than 15 minutes."

So, there you have it. I will be happy to get you invitations to the royal enclosure at Ascot for the appropriate sum, I can get you on the honours list, but I consider it beneath me to beg for invites to what promises to be a right cock-up.

I shall be videoing the television coverage, and may even tune in if rain stops play in the Sri Lanka test match, but shan't give it much thought. I have to go to the castle in the evening, I usually smuggle in Liz's Friday takeaway from the Chinese in Datchet, and she doesn't like to offend the kitchen staff by having food delivered, so relies on my discretion. I won't be mingling with the guests though. Most of them will be out of their heads on Wincarnis or crack, and the remainder forced into playing fart lighting with Philip.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 5

Liz has been very amused by the recent press speculation that she and Camilla don’t get on. What the press does not know is that Liz and Camilla are the best of friends, and actively seek out each other’s company. They have been meeting at least once a week for a night out at the ‘Festering Ferret’ just outside Staines for a number of years, and like to (metaphorically) let their hair down on these occasions.

I am often invited along, partly as advisor, but also as chaperone lest things get out of hand.

Liz is usually attired in a headscarf and dark glasses, resembling a latter day Greta Garbo, and, of course, and is never recognised. Who, after all, would expect to see the reigning monarch sitting in the snug of a suburban public house on a Wednesday evening, puffing on a Benson and Hedges, and quaffing from a pint of Guiness?

They were in fine form recently, acting out the roles so inaccurately given to them by the Daily Mail. “Oi, you slag”, said Liz, (imagine a slightly softer Bob Hoskins voice), “you ain’t good enough for my Charley, and you won’t never be.” Camilla, who, as I have mentioned before, tends to immaturity, tries to keep a straight face as she replies, “Shut it, you cow”, (not such a good mimic, I fear, imagine 1930’s film attempts at cockney), “or I’ll slice the bleeding umbilical cord now”. Unfortunately, she finds this so funny that she loses control, and guffaws uproariously (a sound that covers 5 octaves), and sprays rum and peppermint cordial out of her nostrils. I warn her not to attract too much attention to herself. It would be awful if the public and the press were to find out about these meetings. The publican has been very kind to us over the years, in providing anonymity, and it would be unfair to him to remove this source of income, not to mention the other customers who would desert should their privacy be threatened – I glance round at a well known bishop who had been enjoying a vodka and cocaine cocktail with his young companion, and think I detect a worried frown appear briefly.

Liz is far better at keeping a straight face. She has had years of practice, and is notorious for giving others the giggles. I remember the time that she called the president of Portugal ‘an ugly twat’ when being introduced to him. I barely managed to maintain my dignity, but poor Philip turned purple, wet himself, and had to withdraw. The great thing is that these utterances are so unexpected that the recipient and others within earshot always assume that they have misheard.

“Anyway, darling”, Liz continues, “I can’t possibly come to the wedding – I don’t have a thing to wear.”

Apart from Chelsea, obviously

Just in case my loyal readers (a Mrs Trelllis of North Wales) wonder why I seldom issue opinions about the human condition and so forth, I should inform them that I have a man who does it for me.

3 Interesting things that happened today

1) I had an email from someone whose name was an anagram of "Slovak gormandiser"
2) er...
3) that's it.

Today's Competition

Today, someone said "No one is as pedantic as me".
Can you guess my response?
First prize, a link to a website of your choice.