Countdown to the royal divorce - part 9

I am in the middle of writing my report on the Winter Olympics for the “Mogadishu Mercury” by the blue telephone ringing. It is Camilla. I settle down to listen to what I suspect will be several hours of her moaning about not being in the limelight.
“It’s not as if we haven’t all got diaries, duckie”, she commences, “but who wants to know about your holiday in Hong Kong ten years ago? Everyone goes to pigging Japan” (I couldn’t be bothered to tell her) “these days, after all. He’s just so careless, leaving things about all over the place, and trusts the staff, even those on work experience from the local comprehensive. God knows how many times I have to hide his confidential papers from prying eyes – only last Tuesday I had to stash his copy of ‘Sponge Fetish Quarterly’ under the mattress when the chambermaid was nosing around.”
“Is there any chance of reading your diaries in the tabloids in the coming months, you old ratbag?” I enquire.
“It would be a damn site more interesting if they were”, she retorts, “I have just written 4 paragraphs on the tattoo that Sophie Wessex has on her arse, and I skipped the less savoury details, such as what Cliff Richard was doing with his fist.”

I don’t bother to talk to Charles, it never helps either of us much.

I was just snuggling up with a cup of cocoa and the Morning Star, when William is the next telephonic interrupter. “Hey ho, Bill, how’s it hanging?” He is preoccupied. “This diary thing, yeah, you just have to write down what you have done each day, yeah?”
“Yes, Billy boy, but don’t use the same diary that your secretary uses to write down what you are going to be doing, get a new one”. Pause while future head of state tries to accommodate the concept of more than one book.
“OK, I see, and then do I get to sell it to the newspapers?”
“Yes, Bill, but you will only get lots of money for it if you exaggerate, and concentrate on writing about sex. With women rather than with yourself, if you want my advice.”
I expect to see the fruits of my counsel reach the Mail on Sunday in about eight weeks. Perhaps a little longer if he fails to master the art of using the pointed end of the pencil.

Clarification

According to the BBC:

“Three UK ex-servicemen have been given compensation after they were given LSD without their consent in the 1950s.
The men volunteered to be "guinea pigs"”.

I would just like to assure my readers (AMToNW) that if, as a result of ingesting hallucinogens, you perceive yourself transmogrifying into a rodent, then you are in possession of some ‘bad acid’. Fortunately, these symptoms are rare, (although my friend Dave was once attacked by the Incredible Hulk on a dark day in 1971).

If you choose the time and environment carefully, an LSD trip is a deeply meaningful experience which will expand your consciousness and turn you into a fine upstanding member of society. It may, however, have some unpleasant long term effects, such as being so deluded as to think that what you write is amusing and of interest to others.

Handy Hints

Amongst the usual tripe in my outlook express inbox is a missive from those wacky dudes at "Friends Reunited". Obviously aware of how few of my former schoolfriends have replied to my begging emails, they suggest ways to encourage people to contact me. "Update your profile - add a photograph" they counsel.
Yes, that will work.

And don't call me Vera

My new friend Richard, in adding a comment to a thread below, led me to find this charming little site.

Nothing whatsoever to do with Val.

These are indeed strange times. Each day I reflect on the title of this journal and realise just how apposite it is.

On Sunday evening, Independent Television continued their series which they have called “Agatha Christie’s Marple” – as opposed to Stephen King’s Marple, or Wayne Rooney’s Marple. And not a Miss any longer, you will note. This follows the trend which I had supposed to be entirely American up to this point of advertising Romeo and Juliet as “William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet”. This avoids disappointment, you understand, to those expecting to see the latest work of Mr Schwarzenegger. Anyway, back at Marple, someone chose to cast Ken Russell as an English country vicar. I have no complaints about this; again, I am just drawing it to the attention of my readers (Vicus Scurra’s AMToNW).

Today, over at the BBC news site, I was greeted by the headline “Murray thrashes Fish”. I was more than a little disappointed to learn that this was not a euphemism relating to post mortem onanistic activities by a former Trade Union leader. That would have been mildly interesting, provided that we were spared the details. Alas, it referred to a tennis match (why are these things ever considered newsworthy?) and the Fish in question is a gentleman bearing the name “Mardy Fish”. Where I come from, mardy means miserable or moody, in a whiny sort of way. A highly appropriate name for a tennis player, then.

Also a warm welcome to the many visitors from Sheryl’s site, who have found their way here by means of her mystery link. I can only apologise for the sense of disappointment you might be feeling. (Don’t be mardy). I can only think she was displaying her superiority by directing her friends to this hotbed of the dire and ordinary.

... out for the lads

I can not let the opportunity pass to point out that last night’s “South Bank Show”, finished with the words “Tits, tits, tits, tits, tits”. (I am not sure how many tits there were, I usually find that two suffice, and get a little bewildered beyond that).

For the benefit of those living beyond the reach of UK Independent Television, and indeed also for the general riffraff that congregate round here, I should inform you that the “South Bank Show” is one of the leading, or perhaps only, arts program on mainstream television.

I find myself lacking in any opinion either way on this news item, but that has never prevented my writing before.

TCM again

Regular readers (AMToNW) will be grateful to know that although I have not been publishing details of my research, I have been keeping a close watch on those people who enjoy the description ‘scientist’, and making sure that their machinations to mislead us continue to be as ridiculous and bizarre as ever.

I will briefly cover three items that are currently being paraded as the fruits of methodical research, but are actually little more the babblings of the deranged.

• In the Telegraph, some bright spark has been investigating why we have two nostrils instead of one. Pause for loyal reader to wrap their mind round that one. They have come to the bizarre conclusion that it is in order to produce a stereo effect, and therefore help us to trace the source of a smell, by doing some trigonometrical calculation. Bollocks. Had God, in His Infinite wisdom, wanted to imbue us with stereophonic ability (and bear in mind that most of us could only afford Dansette record players when we were growing up), he would have put an extra organ to detect smell on the end of our fingers. It would make the calculation far more straightforward, and would have helped us in the days before the power of the Intel chip. No, the real reason is as follows. Presuming that the combined size of the nostrils is about right (some of us are more prominently proboscisularly endowed than others), then to give us only one nostril would have meant that we would have been subject to invasion by unwanted visitors. Small colonies of chaffinches would be able to nest nasally. In order to prevent this, nose hair would have to be the consistency of barbed wire. So, sod off, Mr Scientist. God knew what he was doing.
• At livescience.com, they have been researching the properties of semen. They have chosen to measure it in terms of teaspoonfuls, a typical ejaculation being half a teaspoonful. Now, I recognise that is valid to present these data (if there is such a need) in terms of concepts that can be assimilated by the human brain. Even during the excesses of adolescence, to measure semen in terms of bathtubs full would be unhelpful. But why, in the name of buggery, the teaspoon? I can only counsel my readers to avoid taking repast at the home of a member of the scientific community, particularly if cutlery is involved.
• As I compose this little essay, the BBC is doing one of its Horizon programmes, in which various eccentrics are allowed airtime to propound their delusions. The proposal at the heart of this little entertainment is that 96% of the universe is missing. Yes indeed. Another pause called for, I suggest. And take as long as you like. The obvious question is, where are we going to put 96% when some fucker finds it? My house is already overflowing with stuff that I don’t need. The wailing and moaning of Mrs S can be heard as far afield as Shropshire when she goes off on one of her “When are you going to get rid of that pile of …… that you never use?” episodes. I know. I know that it is the nature of men to hoard things. I am too old and seasoned to alter my behaviour, even though I know that if I were to lose on of my CDs of Carl Stamitz clarinet concertos, I might never notice, even should I live to be 98. But even I could not cope with having 25 times as many books, DVDs, CDs, software packages, socks, remote control devices and whatevers as are already in my possession. So I say that if 96% of the universe is missing, GOOD! it means we don’t have to fucking clean it. I have been concentrating mainly on this composition, and have only picked up fragments of the utterances of the Horizoneers, but they have been soothsaying about “dark matter” (fuck off), “about to discover something that didn’t make sense” (I fucking told you), “the universe is speeding up” (fuck off), “this didn’t fit with the current physics” (I fucking told you). I am not a cruel man, but I do wonder whether we would have all been better off had it been the tree that had fallen on old Isaac, not just the apple.
  

Blow me.

I returned home this evening, having taken Mrs S out on a tour of the Midlands, to be greeted by a message from BT, which was in the form of a text message read out by some chip thingy. It told me, in a voice that sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated, that the fault on my telephone was fixed, and to please contact BT if there was still a problem. I was tempted to reply that my telephone was still faulty, because incoming messages now sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated. But I didn’t. (At least I haven’t up to this point). I fear that this is one of many symptoms of my growing old, and that I am losing the urge to practise immaturity at every opportunity. This lost chance is not the first time that I have failed to be silly just for the sake of it, and this is vaguely worrying. Whatever age I reach on this lovely little planet of ours, I have no plans to make any staggering pronouncements as my last words, but I do hope that there is somebody there to say “What will it take to make you grow up?” as Mr Reaper twiddles his scythe (pause for sniggering at what may be taken to be a euphemism by those of an adolescent disposition).

I should make it clear, lest I am accused of some ism or other, that I have no objection in any form to Mr Hawking or anyone else being fellated. I would just rather not be party to it, through any of my senses. In return, I promise not to bore you with my anecdotes in that particular arena, even though having Penelope Cruz under my desk is getting a little tedious, and I may have to make some public pronouncement soon to curtail her activities.

Oh no! He's off on one of his 3 hour pedantry lectures again

Well, everyone’s got to have a hobby.

Dr John Reid (BA (Hons) History, MA History and PhD economic history, University of Stirling), Secretary of State for Defense, used the word ‘pre-planned’ several times on the radio this evening.

I (grade 3 CSE physics) could forgive him using it once, but he just wouldn’t stop.

Pre-planned, I assume as opposed to post-planned, which seems to be the twatting Labour Party’s position on the environment and renewal energy sources.

If any of you bump into Dr Reid in the course of your lives, please pre-warn him that I am jolly cross with him. Or am I just being pre-preposterous?

Intelligent Design or Evolution?

I feel that it is time, in response to requests from readers (AMToNW), for me to join the great intelligent design/evolution debate.

It will come as no great surprise that I have to side with the intelligent design team, as the evidence is there in the scriptures.

Yes, folks, the internet was created by God, in His Infinite Wisdom, as a tool for his children to idle away their time in trivial pleasure. It is not an evolving method of accumulating information so that we can all share in the sum total of human knowledge. Such a project is doomed to failure, and well beyond the scope of humanity.

Genesis has this to say about the web thingy.

Chapter 3.
v25 And God thought a bit, and decided that He had been a tad hasty.
v26 “Look Adam, old mate, if you two silly buggers come along when I’m sitting down to watch Neighbours, particularly the episode where Marlene and Charlene find out about what Darlene has been up to, then you must expect me to get a bit cross”.
v27 “It’s not much blinking fun spending all that time creating matter and light and water and herbs and all that shit, then having your first day off for a week fucked up by some daft tart chewing apples.”
v28 “But I am a kind and loving God, and wouldn’t want you to think that I am vindictive, so I’ll buy you a computer, and help you get on-line”.
v29 So Adam popped down to Nod Computers and picked up a W487 with free games pack, and before you could build an ark, he had signed up with an ISP and started his blog. Like the rest of us, no bugger read it, but at least he had the excuse that at that time there were no other buggers to read it.
v30 And Adam spent his days happily surfing, ogling scantily clad women, checking the batting averages at Cricinfo and checking out the news from Kingsley.
v31 You see, it was all there already. Created by the infinite kindness of the Lord, not evolved and improving over the years. Before Cain and Abel were born, it was still impossible to download a Paris Hilton video without infecting your Space Invaders game with a virus.
v32 And Eve was sore afflicted. “Adam are you going to get off your fat arse and away from that sodding computer, you twassock, and help me with the pigging ironing, or do you want your fucking dinner wrapped round your fucking neck?”

If that little contribution does not bring the religious bigots over here in their droves next time that they visit Mr & Mrs Google’s home page, then I don’t know what will. See you in Hell.

Penal Colonies

My friends at the BBC inform me, and frankly I am disappointed that Simon was not first with the news, that the Scottish Nationalist Party are pressing for the action on what are known as ‘rendition’ flights in Scotland.

Before I continue with the main thrust of this insightful and profound message, let me pause a moment to escort you down the byways of English usage. Rendition my elbow. The SNP should be protesting about the pilfering of a word, albeit a non-Gaelic one, to describe some quasi-new phenomenon that the world of professional journalism is too lazy to describe in more than one word. Balderdash, poppycock and piffle.

Pedantry aside, I am alarmed that terrorist suspects are being handled in this way. It is one thing to deliver them to languish in abject squalor in a pit in Tashkent, or suffer the agony of a regimented maximum security cell in Zurich, but to deliver them to Kirkcaldy, Kinlochleven or Kilmarnock is beyond credulity*. What are these people accused of that allows the civilised world to cause them to be subjected to bagpipe music, the poetry of Burns and salted porridge? What crime is considered so heinous as to be punishable by listening to the warblings of Andy Stewart, Lulu and Donovan?

This section intentionally left blank for the reader to insert their own unfunny racial stereotypes.

* Credulity – small Pictish settlement near Gatehouse of Fleet.

Request for assistance

Amongst my catholic reading habits (I like anything by the Pope, [thanks Alexei]), is a bias in favour of thrillers/detective stories or whatever.

I have read most of the works of Ms Patricia Cornwell. I am not sure how good a writer she is, she is very popular which does not mean a lot, but I cannot say that I look forward to reading her work any more than many other producers of fiction of that genre.

I have nothing against her being a proponent of lesbianism. Some may say that there is not enough graphic lesbian action in her books, but I am getting on a bit and prefer to read about gratuitous violence these days.

I can forgive her writing about dull Italian recipes. If her heroine chooses to grate parmesan while the killer creeps up behind her, then I will not quibble much, although given my druthers, I would opt for my meal being prepared in a more tranquil and mellow atmosphere.

I can even forgive her for using the ridiculous expression “high rate of speed”. Perhaps. Actually, no I can’t. If she uses the language like that, and identifies with her heroine, then I am on the side of the machete-wielding maniac who slices through her aubergines, as she slices through her aubergines.

However, what is truly inexcusable is the plot repetition, which, in every book of hers that I can recall, includes a finale in which the killer - who the heroine and her highly trained professional police detectives have failed to detect and stop from killing – breaks into the her house and tries to kill her. Despite having eliminated countless other defenceless victims with no problem throughout the tale, a middle aged unarmed woman proves to be too much. Don’t they offer courses in American high schools for serial killers? I find it difficult to believe such inefficiency in the execution of what is virtually the nation’s favourite pastime.

I have to say that if the current tome upon which I am just starting finishes in the same way as the rest, then I will be more than a little annoyed. Caroline, there may be insufficient prunes in North East Hampshire to assuage my ire.

Policy Statement

To divert briefly and temporarily from the normal theme of nonsense, drivel and rhetoric that adorns these pages, I was so pissed off this morning that I claim my right to a bi-annual rant.

As politicians go (and I wish they would {just fulfilling my crap joke quota}), I don’t mind Gordon Brown. He does not embrace the cult of celebrity, and over the last few years the british economy has been more steady than it has in living memory. From my perspective, that is the best I can hope for under a capitalist system.

This morning, however, I read that he is encouraging us to “embrace the Union flag”. I am fairly confident that he does not mean for us to use it as some kind of sexual aid, in conjunction with monkey wrenches and pickled artichokes.

So, Mr Brown, as you read this over your British breakfast of black pudding, porridge and marmite, let me give you my response. Fuck off. Fuck right off. Cleanse your colon with a union flag, preferably one laced with vinegar and having a wire brush stapled to it.

And as for those pillocks looking for English icons, here are my suggestions: Oliver Cromwell, Myra Hindley, Harold Shipman, Margaret Thatcher, the Black Hole of Calcutta and Jeremy Beadle.

The policy of Kaliyuga Kronicles is to (and not without some pomposity) embrace the concept of one world. There is no characteristic of any racial or ethnic group that makes them any different from any other. We are all bewildered, confused and largely ignorant beings, incredibly similar to one another and sharing the same fate.

I recognise the difference between racism, nationalism and patriotism, but I denounce them all and will have nothing to do with them here. Bollocks to it. I reserve the right to make fun of racial characteristics (are y’all reading this, Adam?) and am more than happy for my many readers (AMToNW) to include such material in their comments. However, please be aware that it is not your ethnic background that makes you a source of fun, but rather the fact that you have nothing better to do than hang around here.

I’m just off to Downing Street with a long pointed barbed stick to assist old Gordon with that fucking flag.

More unsolicited advice

May I suggest that you start your day by doing something uplifting and inspiring?

• Fling open your windows and inhale the fresh air.
• Thank the creator for another day of human life.
• Enjoy a hearty breakfast of freshly squeezed raspberry juice and green lentil pancakes.
• If you are of an athletic disposition, try a few minutes of vigorous masturbation.

Do NOT do as I did and check your RSS feeds for news.

This morning’s depressing items include.

• The release on bail of Pinochet.
• The retirement from international rugby of Tana Umaga, which will diminish the quality of play in the next world cup, and possibly reduce the amount of time that paramedics spend on the field also.
• Adam has added to his journal.

I think he has got right to the heart of the matter

I am obliged to my friends at CNN for reporting the case of another disgraced politician - Mr Dumbfart or some such, head of the house of bollockwits. He says "I have always acted in an ethical manner."
It is nice to see that he is now honest enough to admit that it was all an act.
I hope that some of our politicians now find the courage to admit to their own shortcomings. The difference will be that over here, being entirely independent and disassociated from the US model, the colleagues of any such individuals will get right behind them and ensure that they don't have to resign. You mark my words.

I refuse to resign

Some readers (AMToNW) will be concerned over the press reports about my struggle with addictive substances. Fear not! I admit that I did smoke cannabis, but it was over 30 years ago. In no way will it interfere with my continued efforts to enlighten, educate and enthral the world with this organ. I refuse to be bullied into stepping down by a minority of whinging malcontents. I will continue to lead this journal, and there will be no change in style. The same standards of truth, decency and clarity will be maintained. In every generation, there are a few individuals blessed with the perspicacity that sees them assume their natural position as guides to the rest of humanity. It would be selfish of me to fail to honour this responsibility.

Normal service resumed

Good! That’s got all the pleasant stuff out of the way.

The first task for my readers (AMToNW) is to get over to Sheryl’s place and get her to talk proper. She’s only gone and wrote “like” instead of “said” or “thought”.

There she is, on the one hand recommending the works of the splendid Mr Fforde, and on the other undermining the very foundations of effective communication.

So, get over there now, and tell her what’s what.

You may think that bullying the lovely Sheryl is the equivalent of stealing an ice cream from a four year old girl, or bursting paper bags behind nervous old ladies. Exactly! I am back.

Unsolicited advice from someone who doesn't care whether you take it

Continuing my theme of goodwill and joy to the world, I thought I would recommend a few of the things that have amused me over these few weeks.

Bleak House from my friends at the BBC was thoroughly splendid. Wherever you are in the world, wait for it to appear on your TV screen or DVD store, and watch it. I am not a Dickens fan – more of that later - and I haven’t read the book – I am not a Dickens fan – more of that later – but I think this was probably the best thing on television this year. Charles Dance, Gillian Anderson and Denis Lawson were all spectacularly good, and well supported by Anna Maxwell Martin and Tom Georgeson. It is of course obligatory for Dickens to encourage actors to ham it up, and Philip Davis rose to the occasion very cleverly – usually the whole cast joins in, but somehow the directors managed to avoid this. Timothy West is such a brilliant actor that it is difficult for him not to steal every scene he is in, but in this case the rest of the cast was so good that it was possible to enjoy his performance unreservedly (and never once thought of Bradley Hardacre).

I also watched a repeat of David Copperfield, in which Bob Hoskins gave the nearest it is possible to get to make Micawber believable. The rest of the characters are so preposterous that it is very difficult to watch.It is beyond the capability of any human being with a trace of sentiment in their bones not to split their sides when Dora dies or Emily runs off with Steerforth. When Ham effectively kills himself by swimming out to see, I was hoping he would take the rest of cast with him. How is it that Dickens can be held in such esteem when almost all of his characters are caricatures?

Speaking of Mr Hoskins, I watched Layer Cake, which attempts to recreate the brilliance that was captured in The Long Good Friday. It fails, as will all attempts to rehash Kray-like villains and bring something fresh to the exercise. Not even Michael Gambon could do it, and Kenneth Cranham was so much a caricature that I checked for Dicken’s name in the end credits. If you want to see a film about London gangsters, watch The Long Good Friday and don’t bother with any others.

After many years of putting it off, I watched The Taming of the Shrew (the Burton/Taylor variety) and must confess to having enjoyed it, probably more than any other version I have seen. Of course it was directed by Zeffirelli, so it is no surprise to find it so visually stunning. It is also the first time I have ever seen Elizabeth Taylor give any sort of indication of having any acting ability.

One of the best books I have read for a long time is “Altered Land” by Jules Hardy. These days I find myself looking forward mostly to thrillers, and so it is nice to find something outside that genre that appeals.

As for television, this is the time of year for Christmas specials. Bollocks. So the only ones I can recommend are French and Saunders and Last of the Summer Wine.

As for music, I am sadly out of touch. Regular readers will be pleased to hear that eventually I caught a glimpse of this Blunt chap that everyone seems to be talking about. He was on one of the TV music channels. Unfortunately, when I caught him, he appeared to be trying to get his voice and piano in tune, with little success. I suspect that if he can inject a little more nasal whine into his performance he could become the British Neil Young. I really don’t know why they didn’t show any film of his singing one of his songs.

As for Miss Abi Titmuss who seems to exercise the imaginations of some of my correspondents, still haven’t seen her. If anyone has a recording of her playing Sibelius’s violin concerto, I would be happy to hear it and offer an opinion.

Normal service will be resumed shortly

I have just spent some time posting the following message on random blogs around the world, chosen by the next blog wotsit at the top of the page.
If you are one of the people who have been visited by me and have come here to find out the story behind the comment, there is no story. Just wanted to wish a few random fellow inhabitants of the planet good wishes.
For my regular readers (AMToNW), feel free to accept the wishes. I will be back to being a miserable old twat very shortly. And now I am going to bed, in order to avoid the temptation of watching something dire on the television and 'seeing in the New Year'.

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As an act of penance for being a miserable old bugger over the Christmas period, I thought I would visit some random blogs and wish them a happy new year

Happy new year.
Wes hál in þám neowan Geáre
Stastny Novy Rok
Godt Nytår
Gelukkig Nieuwjaar
Bonne Année
Ein glückliches neues Jahr
Felice Anno Nuovo
Godt Nytt År
Szczesliwego Nowego Roku
Feliz Ano Novo
S Novym Godom
Gëzuar Vitin e Ri
Feliz Año Nuevo
Srechno Novo Leto
Gott Nytt År
Blian nua faoi mhaise duit
Blwyddyn Newydd Dda
Aliheli'sdi Itse(i) Udetiyvsadisv(i)
Voorspoedige nuwe jaar
Barka da sabuwar shekara
Karibu Mwaka Mupia
Teth loac tee kon rey ru-n a neme
kull 'aam wa-antum bikhayr
Shuvo Nobo Borsho
San nin faailok
Saal Mubarak
Nava Varsh Ki Haardik Shubh Kaamnaayen
Shinnen omedeto goziamasu
Selamat Tahun baru
Kong He Xin Xi
Namae Saaldiyan Mubarakan
Naththar Valthukkal Pudhu Varusha Vaazhthukkal
Naya Saal Mubarak Ho

New year honours

My friends at the BBC have produced a somewhat erudite list of the worst Britons of each of the last 10 centuries. All of my readers will be familiar with most of the names – Hugh Despenser (inventor of the condom dispenser), Richard Rich (portrayed on screen by Macauley Culkin) and Eadric Streona, which I had previously supposed to be the county dish of Herefordshire. I am not making these names up, check the BBC site.

I thought I would join in by nominating the worst Briton of my distinguished life.

It will come as little surprise to see the name John Emburey here. Some may say that he deserves this honour for being the only English cricketer to be as callous and mercenary as to go on two rebel tours of South Africa during the apartheid years, but that is nothing compared to the hour upon hour of excruciatingly pathetic bowling. He must bear the responsibility for the death of spin bowling in England. (Those wishing to challenge the assertion that spin bowling is not dead in England need only to consider the name ‘Ashley Giles’ to see the veracity of my statement). Year after year he was selected to play at test level, where over the last few years of his international career his bowling average exceeded 60 (are you getting this, Adam) and he was singly responsible for boring to death hundreds of people including the entire population of Little Shagging in Suffolk. His only redeeming feature was his imaginative use of language as illustrated by the apocryphal story of his replying to a colleague about an injury to his back with the response “the facking facker’s facking facked” (yes he had an appalling southern accent as well).

I invite readers (AMToNW) to supply their nomination for the worst Briton of their own lifetime. If you wish to simply lambaste an obvious target, then dear Betty has provided an excellent platform for that in her seasonal article about King Herod. But entries here should be accompanied by a reasoned argument, with points awarded for obscurity while at the same time the nominee should be in the public arena, so your gym teacher or aunt will not do, unless he or she is Cilla Black for example. Groups of people are allowed up to a reasonable level, but such general targets as “all the twats who voted for Thatcher” are beyond the parameters of this competition. Adam, to help you, as you do not know any Brits, or indeed anyone who does not live in East Dumbfuck, Kentucky - you can nominate me. Tell the world why you would like to see me at the mercy of Mr Schwarzenegger, but do it with respect.

Recommended reading

I have stolen this picture from my friends at Whitehouse .org
Read Laura's Christmas letter

Is it cosmetic surgery that makes her always look surprised?
In this one she seems to be saying "Remind me again how this arsewit got elected".
------------------------------------------------------------------
If you didn't get this year's Kaliyuga Kards Christmas production, then send me your address and one will be in the post, or I could send the PDF version, but it somehow isn't the same is it?
Among my favourite comments so far is the one from the lovely Geoff and Betty, but I will not publish it here in case in spoils the surprise in the card.

The lovely Julia said:
"you never cease to satisy my under-utilized iconoclastic proclivities"
There's clever.

On the other hand, most people thought the card was crap and in the poorest of taste.

Fa la la la la, la la la BOLLOCKS

I have been reluctant to post these few days because I have recognised that there has been a tendency to use language in my posts that may frighten away the more delicate listener. Or those younger readers whose parents may not approve of some of the words used.

I would like to blame the preposterous antics and conversation of those members of the human race with whom I come into contact in the period leading up to the holidays, but must confess that I need to look to myself to be more tolerant. Probably need to eat more roughage, as nice aunty Caroline says.

Last night it was carol singers. No, not really carol singers, but two young ladies who thought that the ancient art of carol singing consisted of singing two lines of “jingle fucking bells” (you see, I can’t help it), off key and then asking for money. “If I give you some money will you stop singing and go away?” I ebenezered, quite politely.

Not that I want anybody thinking that I am some stuck in the mud traditionalist who believes that jingle bells is not a carol, and would prefer tuneful tales of the baby Jesus being sung loudly at my door. No. Sod off. I don’t want any of it. Thank you very much. The local church choir have stopped coming round as well. I don’t mind them, they collect for charity. Hopefully Doctor Barnados maximum security home for off key teenage carol singers. They stopped coming after the incident when they asked if I had any requests and I said “anything by the Sex Pistols”. I wish they would get into the Christmas spirit. I am obviously making a fucking effort.

Yosser Cameron

This young man is evidently in need of a useful occupation. I need someone to clean out my gutters, but he looks too fucking stupid to do something that complicated.

Crap joke (as if that distinguishes it from the other dross on this site)

My friends at the BBC inform me that "King Kong takes $18million on first day".
I am not surprised.
Who's going to stop a fucking great gorilla?

William Wanky Wallace

Many of my readers (AMToNW) will be familiar with the concept of the whinge. A reader from north of the border (A Mr McTrellis of North Wigtown), has complained loudly, repeatedly and some may say boringly about changes I made to this website.
It may be that the dark Scottish nights make it hard for him to read. Who cares?
But, in the spirit of tolerance and having nothing better to do. I publish here his suggestion for a poll. These are his words not mine.

"Simon has proposed we hold a multiple-question poll on the new design of my wonderful and informative blog. Please validate one of the following statements that you believe to be true - but only one box:

1. This is the most beautiful blog in the blogosphere.

2. Pretty cool, you may be a geek but you have style!

3. Above average - for NE Hampshire.

4. Is that the winter low light version?

5. Take it away! It sets off my SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

6. Man, it's so ugly it should win a prize!

A cautionary tale

I reject yet another invitation to spend Christmas with the Windsor-Mountbattens.

I gave in one year - I wasn’t feeling well, and cannot describe you truly awful it was. I refused to wear formal attire, and they didn’t take kindly to this. Being vegetarian was frowned on also, and for Christmas lunch I had a plateful of lukewarm mashed turnips. I think that was Philip’s idea. At lunch, the womenfolk all wore paper hats, while the chaps each had one of Liz’s spare tiaras. Apart from the turnip joke, Philip’s idea of merriment was to pretend that Timmy Laurence (who was dressed in naval uniform, God knows why, not many ships in bloody Norfolk (or anything else of interest either)), was one of the footmen. This was before the days of Camilla, and so there were no fart cushions or naked men jumping out of the pudding. The queen mother was obsessed with the idea that she could do Marlene Dietrich impressions, and spoke throughout in an accent that was a mixture of Welsh and South African: no one had any idea what she was saying, although they all seemed to view this behaviour as perfectly normal. At one point, one of the servants brought her a kipper wrapped in the Daily Express, she had a minor tantrum, but no one was able to understand what she had really asked for. The only good thing about this little episode was that it wiped the smugness from Phil’s face, and obviously made him forget about any more jokes at my expense. He became quite taciturn.

The worst moments were when Fergie turned up and banged on the window trying to get in. Everyone affected to ignore her, although Andy didn’t fare too well – he spent sixteen minutes trying to cut his roast potato with the blunt side of the knife. It could be argued that this was just normal for him, but he was not his normal cheerful moronic self. Eventually the old ratbag was carried away screaming across the lawn by two secret service chaps.

After lunch, Charles wandered off to make a telephone call, Phil and Anne had a blazing row about whether the sum of the IQs of her husbands reached 60 or some such, the York children played a game based, as far as I could tell, on Elizabeth the first and Mary queen of Scots. I was left with bloody Teddy, who seemed to think I was some sort of theatrical sort, despite my telling him several times that I had never been in ‘Brideshead’, and started telling me some bollocknumbingly dull story about Peggy Ashcroft.

At three o’clock we were forced to gather round the television. We knew what to expect, and were not surprised when as soon as the programme started Liz put on her Yorkshire accent (I have to say it sounded very good to me), “Ee! Look at yon bag! Ah’ve seen better clothes on ‘donkey down ‘pit!”

After that little episode, new year with John and Norma Major was positively refreshing.

Hard boiled sweetmeat flavoured with peppermint

I am happy to report, that in this part of NE Hampshire at least, Christmas is over.

Yesterday I posted my cards. This is the only concession I make towards recognising that the festival exists at all. My Christmas cards consist of several bought from a suitable right-on charity for my elderly relatives, and several dozen truly cheap and tasteless home produced monstrosities that go to dear and loved friends all over the world – Hawaii, Australia, Texas and even Belgium.

I gauge the success of the card by the number of litres of vomit produced by the lovely Mrs S. when she first sees them.

I can now safely bolt the door, and semi-hibernate for a couple of weeks. I will try very hard to avoid conversations about the season, resist the urge to smack anyone who says “… and all the trimmings”, resist even harder the urge to watch anything on TV that contains the sub-title “Christmas special”, and begin the long and anxious period of praying for inspiration for the design of next year’s festive card.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 8

I have declined the opportunity to be involved in the campaign to elect Zara Phillips as “Sports Personality of the Year”. This despite her all round prowess, which would be worthy of the most accomplished pentathlete.

In addition to her well known equestrian activities, and her slightly less reported involvement in Thai Boxing, discus throwing and trampolining, she has shown the sort of all round talent that characterises the entire family.

It is her plan to represent Scotland as a lock forward at Rugby that causes both her mother and me the most concern. “I hardly think it is appropriate for her to be seen packed tightly in a formation of muscular men, grabbing the testicles of the chap in front”, Anne complains, somewhat snootily. “Rubbish, lovey”, I retort, “your grandmother was famous for it.” It is true – Clarence House was the only royal household to have a permanent hernia surgeon on the staff, and if she was having one of her ‘off days’ you could wait for fucking ages at the front door, while either a fit footman dodged her, or one of those with whom she had tampered, limped painfully along the corridors.

My view is more for the safety of the other players. I was at the recent game with the royal party, when in the line out, Zara jumped for the ball, and the momentum caused her more than generous breasts to swing wildly and concuss a Saracen’s player, (giving new meaning to “loose-head prop”). Anne herself is known as “Iron Tits” in the family circle. More than one person has been caught out when standing behind her, and not anticipating her suddenly swinging round. It is in this lack of fairness that my objections to her activities in this area are based.

Camilla, of course, had to have her say. “I was captain of tiddlywinks of my house at school,” she enthused, “perhaps I could be on the programme as well.” “Fuck off, Cams,” I told her, “John Motson will almost certainly be there, and remember how pissed off you were, the last time you got mistaken for him? Even though he was much better dressed than you. And we had best draw a veil over the incident when you took part in the charity relay race, and tried to take the baton from Linford Christie.”

Even dear Anne did not go this far

I was a little alarmed to read “Greek billionairess Athina Roussel Onassis - worth up to $1bn - marries a Brazilian horseman on Saturday”, at BBC news. I had always thought that the Centaur was a mythical beast, but obviously the Greek aristocracy know where to find them.

Dear readers (AMToNW), please do not think this is an invitation to inundate this journal with inappropriate comments. I am trying to maintain standards.

He's back, he's back! It's the same one!

http://toastyzone.blogspot.com/
About bloody time too.