Incoherent ramblings from the sick bed.

I would not wish to give the impression that my colleagues are anything less than witty, Wildean and wonderful, but in my enforced withdrawal from the channels of commercial intercourse this week, I had the opportunity to read. I particularly enjoyed another volume by Mr Harlan Coben, who never fails to entertain. However, I was disappointed to find his use of the word ‘leverage’ as a verb. Had the mood been right I could have written several paragraphs about that particular sin. Next time someone uses within your earshot, ask them exactly what the bollocks they think that it means, and use that terminology. I bet none of them can define it, and if they can, ask them what is wrong with ‘lever’. Bastards. Fortunately, I am too mellow to be distracted by such trifles. Mr Coben’s books are jolly entertaining, but I must warn you that they have the not-put-downable quality that is claimed by many, but captured by so few. I like to intersperse my fondness for ‘thrillers’ with other literature, but have failed to find anything much lately that I have really liked. Fortunately, I have a Jasper Fforde waiting for me not too far down my pile of books, so that should provide a safe remedy. I hope that Mr Le Carre has the good manners to live a good while longer and continue to write. There aren’t many of his calibre around. Also near the top of my pile is the much awaited “72 Virgins” by Bozza. (I have a signed copy, don’t you know?), I will be sure to report back on that one. I almost succeeded in diverting his latest thread away from a serious political point about the House of Lords into a discussion about sixties music, but there are too many of the buggers over there. Perhaps someone else would like a go. Hey, Kiwis, have you met Bozza? He is jolly entertaining, probably a throwback, and very unsound politically, but a very nice man, and a true idiot to whom we can all relate. Get over to his site and introduce yourselves.

And as a special treat for everyone, we have found America’s next president:

http://www.whitehouse.org/news/2006/031506.asp

He even looks like Adam. Adam, that isn’t you is it?

You will excuse me a little rant, won't you - I'm poorly you know?

According to the BBC:
Tony Blair has called for a "technological revolution comparable to the internet" to slow global warming.
Speaking in New Zealand, he said it was important to develop machines which produce fewer emissions, while maintaining economic growth.
Yes, and then someone can invent a drug to cure all diseases, and someone else can invent a device for sucking all of the pollutants out of the sky, and someone else can discover a microbe that converts sand to soil, so the great deserts can be fertile.
I know. This is probably nothing like what he said. I do not believe everything that I read. But it does come fairly close to his policy. Leave it up to someone else, just like Maggie did, it doesn’t matter if it is of importance to the survival of life on earth. What a complete bastard the man is.
We can have an end to all wars – as long as we maintain economic growth.
We can reduce medical waiting lists - as long as we maintain economic growth.
Fuck off. I apologise to my friends in New Zealand for having to put up with the twat. Send him back, we’re used to him.
To him and all his myopic motherfucking friends who think that business comes first, just Fuck Off. Fuck right off. Fuck right off now.

Not quite as eloquent and reasoned as Mr Gamon, but it gets the point across does it not?

As most of you will know, the Ramayana describes the human body as being the receptacle of flesh, blood, bile, urine, faeces, sweat and phlegm. Those lusting after the curvy or dangly bits of other human beings would do well to remember this. And this is not what the saints and sages mean when they tell us that what we are looking for is within.
This week I have had a reminder of how delicate the metabolism is. In short, I have been ill. As far as I know, nothing other than a common virus of some sort, but it laid me low and incapable of pursuing most avenues of sensual enjoyment. For those of you wishing to know lurid details of bodily functions, then I can hand that responsibility over to Dan, who is the world’s foremost poet of the scatological.

This is particularly unfortunate, when I have had so many nice visitors here, thanks to my new friend Patroclus, and that old harridan Zoe, who both obviously felt that their readers were in need of an emetic, and pointed them in this direction.
I seemed to recall (but had to verify it) that Patroclus was a mate of Achilles, but don’t know, and couldn’t be bothered to find out any more. Honestly, these people who assume identities using names or phrases from dead languages.

May I recommend the excellent televisual entertainment “Everyone Hates Chris”? I suspect that readers in New Zealand will probably have to tell their grandchildren to look out for it, unless everyone over there already has the altar to Mr Murdoch nailed to the side of the house as we do in the UK. What I do not really understand is why, in general, American comedies manage to find excellent child actors whereas in the UK there is a total lack. I would put forward Malcolm in the Middle, Home Improvement, and the excellent Angus T Jones in Two and a Half Men as evidence of my argument. On the other hand, I don’t know whether to blame the directors, script writers or actors in the Harry Potter films for the sickening performances. I was cheering for Voldemort.

Someone came here by searching for the “rudest man in Britain”. I came in third after David Starkey and a bouncer from a Soho nightclub. To say that I was disappointed was an understatement. I expect loyalty from my dear friends, the Googles. Next time I see Theodore I shall waste no time in telling him what a fatuous, camel-dung chewing, uncle-buggering, conservative-voting, odious little git he is.

Allow me to help some of the lost and confused beings who have found their way here after using the services of Theodore and Evadne Google, or their competitors.

• Is Camilla asking for a divorce

This query came, apparently, from a company of lawyers in San Diego called “Thickston, Stern and Becerra”. The same person came to my website twice looking to solve this mystery. Firstly, she and I are not, nor ever have been, married to each other. Not from the want of pursuit on her part, I might add. I can see that her brand of empty headed and vulgar jocundity might appeal to a certain type of person, but I do not fall into that category. Nor is she seeking to end her romance with Charles. Mentally challenged, deranged and totally lacking in common sense she may be, but even she recognises when she is on to a good thing. Putting up with the in-laws is a small price to pay for all the material advantages.

• Ant and Dec prosthetic

I know nothing about these gentlemen, I have never seen their television programme, and were not aware that they were in any way artificial, other than in the manner prescribed for entertainers on Saturday evening terrestrial television.

• Paula Radcliffe poo

Ain’t got none. Run out. Do have a small packet of Gerald Kaufmann vomit, at a reasonable rate, if anyone is interested.

• Sainsburys how did it become famous

By twats putting its name into search engines

• The fox twins who lived in Stevenage

I am unacquainted with feral mammals in Hertfordshire, but have conducted an intermittent correspondent with some rather charming otters in Oswestry

• How to avoid being sick

Well, don’t come to this web page would be my first thought.

• Man tied up being fellated

If he is happy, then I am happy for him, on balance. I do not have any information or photographic evidence. If I did, I suspect that sharing it with you would not really help you. Would you not rather pick your all time best South African cricket XI?

Barlow, Richards, Kallis, Pollock (RG), Cook, Rice, Proctor, Lindsay, Pollock (S), van der Bijl, Adams.

I've fallen off of my chair, Brian

You should understand that there is no way that I am bowing to pressure. This blog remains fiercely independent, and is no way influenced by the large donation made by Tom’s Organic Dope, plc.

But, my kind nature cannot be concealed permanently, so here is a football project for you.

So why not submit your all-time soccer XI. And your all-time England XI. And your all-time British XI. Selections can be as bizarre as you wish. Anyone wishing to play seriously should restrict their selection to those playing during their own lifetime.

Can we do cricket as well? Why not. All time world XI and all time England XI. Or any other country. Same rules apply, as long as due reverence is paid to Tom Graveney.

And for the ladies, so that you don’t feel left out, what are your favourite knitting stitches?

Striking a blow for independence

I have been hesitating over these few days as to whether to accept the “tag” that some interfering harridan from the antipodes tried to impose upon me.

After some careful consideration, I have decided that this is my bloody blog, and I will write what I want to write about, and not have my agenda dictated to by people who would like to life their lives vicariously through me. If I wanted someone to tell me what to do all the time, I would get married.

So sod off, I don’t do requests. I will not be telling you about the seven most embarrassing illnesses that have afflicted me in this life, nor will I list ten things not to swallow or eight most irritating correspondents. Unless and until I want to.

There’s a fence going up round this journal, and visiting hours will be published.

Six things most likely to make me give up watching sport on TV.

Trevor Brooking

John Motson

Nasser Hussain

That South African rugby commentator with the most monotonous voice in the universe

The phrase “Big Ask”

The phrase “to be honest”

Not being entirely successful in trying to change the subject

Just as I was sitting here, refreshed, inspired and looking forward to fulfilling my task of bringing education to the world, my attention was caught by my old friends over at Live Science.

Please believe me when I tell you that I consider that I have done more than my fair share to highlight the appalling practice of using inappropriate units of measure. I never again expect to refer to salad plates except in acceptance speeches for awards for improving the lot of humanity. However, I cannot rest easy knowing that, in the name of science, TCM are getting away with it.

Apparently, man-made ponds in North America are having a “dramatic impact”, in as much as sediment is accumulating therein, instead of going into rivers and their deltas.

“The trapped sediment could fill more than three million railroad boxcars a year.”

How many teaspoonfuls is that then, Brains? I would further remind you that four hundred and thirty three billion is “more than three million”.

Not only that, but TCM fail to say whether the dramatic effect is positive or negative. As if we are supposed to know. As if we did our science homework last night. Twats.

There is another article about how the smoking of marijuana in youth affects memory. And do not think that I am going to provide obvious punchlines.

I am not obsessed

I have emailed the following to CNN. I will be pleased to report on their response.

Dear Sir

I am more than a little agitated by your article and TV broadcast about the lovely little crustacean that has been discovered.

Specifically, you state “The animal is white and 15 centimeters (5.9 inches) long -- about the size of a salad plate.”

I have no difficulty with the concept of 5.9 inches (although if we are to eschew the metric system, 5 and 7/8ths inches might have been more reactionary), and I can cope with 15 centimeters (although I would have to convert it to inches, being of a certain age), but I have no idea what size a salad plate is.

I have never heard of a salad plate. I have plates in my house, and I chose them according to the amount of food I want to put on them. I regret to say that the smaller plates are slightly less worn, chez moi. If I want to eat a lot of salad (and this is entirely hypothetical and I doubt whether it will ever happen), I will choose a large plate and distribute said comestibles accordingly. I will not choose a plate of 15 centimetres in diameter and pile it 28 centimetres high, with the sides tied down by spaghetti. That would be silly.

So, pray tell, firstly, is there really a standard sized ‘salad plate’ in the USA? Is it governed by federal mandate? Is it a criminal offence to possess a plate used for salad that is not of this size?

But more importantly what, pray tell, possesses you to think that your audience is so educationally challenged as to be unable to grasp the concept of slightly less than six inches, but to be able to visualise using crockery? If I were to tell you that today I drove my car at the speed of a Tom Graveney cover drive, would you understand that better than my saying 40 mph? If I were to say that my nose was as long as the stem of a Peruvian anemone, would you have any sense as to its dimensions?

Yours in anticipation

I am feeling elated

As I was just commenting to my new friend and quasi-cousin Richard, I am rather proud of the fact that Theodore and Evadne Google have placed me second on their list of most popular web sites for those typing the phrase “I am being fellated” into their message box.

I am of the view that we should be circumspect about delving into the motives of those who visit the Googles. Theodore and Evadne are remarkably non-judgemental, which is one of the reasons that I am so fond of them, but this does mean that, sometimes, they fail to discriminate sufficiently, and some of their visitors are less than charismatic.

So, under what circumstances would one type the phrase “I am being fellated” into a search engine? If all is well with the world, and the energy is flowing nicely and all that bollocks, then there are millions of people being fellated at any given time. I doubt, however, whether there are millions being fellated while at the keyboard. I am at the keyboard, but not, as far as I can tell, being fellated – I have had to have a stern word with Penelope Cruz about that, and so far she is behaving with more decorum. So, given that there are not that many people simultaneously practising their keyboard and Joe Blob skills, how many of them would need to let the world know about it by seeing if anyone else has used the phrase in recent times? What would be gained by this? Given that Theodore and Evadne have not yet made their application real-time, what are the chances that you could find someone in a similar situation and compare notes with them?

Most of these questions are rhetorical, and I would not want my blushing virtual friends to be indiscrete by being over-descriptive here, but maybe, having used the phrase “I am being fellated” several times, I might get to number one in the charts, and the next time my mysterious visitor wants to share his (or her?) experiences with us, he (or SHE?) would be so kind as to leave an explanatory comment.

Another crabby comment

I happened to tune in to CNN news this morning on the television. That was the device we used to use in the days before the internet. There was a young lady reading the news who had obviously failed at her first choice profession of nursery school teacher because her condescending manner and her fixed grin would have been too nauseating for even the most precious four year old.

She described a new genus of crustacean that had been found deep in the Pacific.

“It is about 15cms long, that’s the size of a salad plate”. I had to rewind to make sure that my hearing was not deceiving me. I don’t mind being told about how big a centimetre is. It was inches, feet, yards, chains and furlongs when I was at school, and I think in those terms. I would tell you how many years ago that was, but for all I know they have since changed the standard measure of time from years and days to be something based upon the lifecycle of a marmoset. That is not the point I was intending to make. I suppose it would have been too easy to say “15 centimetres, that’s about six inches, for all the geriatrics out there”. And yes, I know that men traditionally have a false impression of what six inches is, but, frankly, that would have been good enough for me. I am unlikely ever to come across this creature, or to need to know its precise size, unless I get a job as lobster measurer at the North East Hampshire School of Malacostracology.

But no, a salad plate. Bollocks. Come on, which of you demented bastards out there has a plate specifically for salad?

I need to divert a little. I am not by nature sexist in my outlook, but I do adhere to the conviction that salad is for girls. Salad should only be eaten as a penance. If Mrs S prepared a meal accompanied by salad she would hide it under a lentil or something.

So, what is all this “salad plate” shit? And what, in the name of bollocks, is CNN doing by using such comparisons? Are there really people out there who live in this bizarre universe where it is necessary to define crockery other than by the simple terms “big” and “small”? If there are such people, then I would suggest that they are probably much too busy measuring their falafel skewers to be tuning in to world news programmes.

Missed Opportunities

I am inspired by the delicate and fragrant Caroline to make the following observations. She recounts how she engaged a nutter in conversation on the telephone. I suppose you can do that in New Zealand. It is not recommended practice for UK residents, even those of us fortunate enough to reside in North East Hampshire. Most of my telephone calls (and I get at least two a month) are from nutters, but they are either friends or relations, but should someone call who is both psychiatrically suspect and unknown, then the only safe policy is to bolt the doors and buy a gun.

I once had a call from a young lady asking to speak to "Miss Wong". I failed to make the obvious response. I will now have to reincarnate as all 8.4millions species before I get another chance in a human body, and I am fearful that when that happens the young lady will in question will call when I am out. It just isn’t fair.

I also missed out on the occasion where I went to buy a copy of a well-known tome outlining English usage. As a copy was on display inside at the front of the bookshop I was not able to ask “Have you got Fowler?”

I did not make the same mistake when visiting a hardware shop, where I wittily asked “Have you got a bleeding key?” Although I shall probably be forced to explain that one to Adam when he next shows up here.

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