It will not have escaped the attention of my more keen sighted readers (AMToNW) that this week’s episode of “Lewis” was penned by good old Alan Plater. Therefore we had a succinct and witty script, whereby such absurdities as appear to be integral to any cop show these days were cleverly disguised. I doubt whether Knacker of the Yard, or even Knacker of Oxford intersperses his conversation with quotes from T.S.Eliot in the real world, but it does make for entertaining television, and gives Mr Whately a chance to prove that he has some acting talent. Lewis, assigned to guard one of the main protagonists managed to be standing next to him when someone shot him. (Are you still with me? Do you know who was shot? Do you care?) This is far more in keeping with the image portrayed by our real boys in blue these days. Gross incompetence. But let that not detract from an episode that redeemed last week’s drivel, with witty dialogue, some nice photography and even a story in which the mystery was solved by detective work.

***

Some of you will wonder whether I attended the Oscars this year. Unfortunately, my presence drives Judi Dench and Helen Mirren into a jealous frenzy, and they have to be separated by security guards. I attended the after ceremony party by video link, where I managed to “dance” with Penelope Cruz by means of young Danny Craig holding a laptop computer at Penny’s face level during a particularly tortuous waltz. I find these events more tiresome, which may be due to my getting old, but quite honestly I think that I have heard virtually every dull tart in California burst into tears and thank their therapist at least three times.

Dicks and balls

As a precursor to the normal weekend sports bit, let me first of all direct those of you who are still here in the direction of some friends in need of support.

Surly Girl – who is less than happy at the moment. Get over there now and give her a big hug.

Anna – going through a bit of a life changing period. Get over there and tell her that everything will be fine.

My new friend Arabella – who has just had some bits chopped off. Go and sit by her bed and tell her how you are going to decorate the spare bedroom this year.

In a blatant attempt to pick up the readership that has dropped off of late (Mrs Trellis has been unwell), I was going to comment on my friends at Livescience who have declared in a very scientific way that size does not matter. Yes, they are examining penises this week. “A penis longer than 8 inches can ram into the cervix and cause discomfort.” They begin their next paragraph with the heading “All in your head”. That is, I believe, taking things too far. Those of us blessed with physical deformities (in my case congenital ugliness) might be more reassured if the people reporting it were not Professor Twat and his absurd assistants.

Anyway, you can all stop here. I am going to write about cricket. Not just recent cricket, you understand, but ancient cricket. Things that happened years ago. Yes, I should be over it by now, but it behoves me to remind the world of grave injustices in the forlorn hope that these mistakes will not be made again. I was prompted to consider this by my good friends at Wisden who mentioned this episode in two recent issues of their monthly journal. It concerns two well known English cricketers, David Gower and Graham Gooch.

Graham Gooch was a batsman of mediocre talent by international standards, who through hard work and application became successful. He played for England for a long time. It seemed longer. He was dull. His shots were dull, his voice is dull (think of a high pitched Trevor Brooking) and he probably wears grey every day. I cannot remember anything about his cricket that is joyful, even the fact that he holds the record of having scored more runs in a match than anyone else.

David Gower was a genius. He had grace, elegance and amazing timing of his strokes. He didn’t care much for the ordinary. But everything that he did on the cricket field drew your attention. His strokeplay was sublime. Too good in fact, because there lived the constant fear in watching his innings that something so subtle could not last. (He was a contemporary of Ian Botham, and many prefer the style of Botham. I will not argue with them, that is their choice, but for me Gower was one of those who transformed cricket from a game into a religious experience. In the good sense of religious experience, that is.)

Unfortunately, the latter stages of Gower’s career coincided with a time when the twats who run English cricket decided that we needed to be more serious about the game, and Mickey Stewart was appointed as ubersturmfuhrer. I do not want to be cruel about Mickey Stewart*, but let us just say that he probably enjoyed Graham Gooch’s company. It was decided that these chaps needed to be a bit fitter in order to compete. This did not sit well with Gower, who did not need anything other than his natural talent in order to excel. He fell foul of Stewart, and more importantly Gooch who was the natural choice as England captain under the dour, dire and dull new regime. It was not just that Gower decided it would be a bit of a jape to divebomb an England game in a light aircraft on one day off, but his general failure to become boring that eventually led to Gooch being responsible for leaving him out of the team, and consequently to end his career.

Unforgiveable. Gooch is an arse, as indeed are his friends and successors. I have named them all before. Only in the last three or four years have there been England batsmen worth watching, after a very long period of crap. Bollocks to Gooch and his mates. I hope his bails drop off.

* Actually, I do want to be cruel about Mickey Stewart. He is an arse.

Several of you – you know who you are – have attempted to draw my attention to the television series “Life on Mars”, as it occurred to them that I might find it preferable to the dismal and dim “Lewis”.

I watch “Life on Mars” anyway, as it falls into the category that I make a point of watching – i.e. “any old rubbish”.

I have to tell you that “Life on Mars” does not match up to the standards of “The Sweeney” (which wasn’t one of my favourites, anyway). I will try to justify this statement.

The leading characters are portrayed in a mediocre fashion. Philip Glenister does not match up to John Thaw as Regan. The actor playing thingy, you know, the other one, reminds me too much of someone who used to be in Coronation Street – Trevor? Martin? Penelope? – I dunno. The whole series is too much of a caricature. Tonight’s episode featured the good old chestnut of a bent copper. This time a detective superintendent who was organising armed robberies. Every third rate series uses that device as an indication that the writers have run out of ideas. “Dalziel and Pascoe”, which has long since dropped out of the bottom of the “any old rubbish” category, even had one episode where they arrested the Chief Constable and his assistant. So, sorry, it did not do the trick.

My all time favourite Brit cop series was “Strangers”. It had the lead parts played by Don Henderson and Mark McManus (looked a bit like Alex Ferguson. On the day that United lost twelve nil to Arsenal), and had Thorley Walters and sometimes Richard Vernon to raise the standard even further. It was clever. I quite like that. I don’t mind stuff that you don’t have to think about, but clever is best.

I suppose I am going to have to write a series myself. I might subvert Wyndham’s idea of investing the hero with the characteristics of different detectives, and give him a really silly superhero power, such as the ability to curdle milk by power of thought. Although Wyndham’s idea bears some investigation. I would like to see Lewis dressed as Miss Marple (the Margaret Rutherford version of course), and that buffoon Lynley dress as Columbo.

“Between the Lines”. That was a good one. Tom Georgeson, he’s a bloody good actor isn’t he? And yes, I know given that what I said about bent coppers earlier it is not without some irony that I commend a series that was about nothing else, but this is my bloody blog, and I can do what I like, so shut it.

Get your trousers on - you're nicked.

Let me warn any of you out there tempted to watch the drama series called “Lewis” that it is just as fatuous as “Morse” ever was.

I stopped watching Morse when I realised that every episode featured at least two, but usually three people getting murdered, with the ace detective having failed to detect any of the guilty parties, followed by a chase at the end in which he failed to prevent someone else being murdered. Lewis is different. The episode I just watched feature two people getting murdered, with the ace detective having failed to detect any of the guilty parties, followed by a chase at the end in which he failed to prevent someone else being murdered.

Morse is dead, I expect he and three of his family were murdered.

The series is set in Oxford. There are now more dead bodies in Oxford belonging to people whom Morse and Lewis failed to protect than there are live inhabitants. I guess the citizens are not paying enough in local taxes. I hope Lewis turns up in the new series of “The Wire”. His accent is not quite impenetrable, but he is certainly dim, and I suspect that he would be murdered within the first ten minutes. I for one would applaud it.

The pretentiousness around the series is also emetic in its effect. There was a scene in the recent episode which featured a string quartet playing in a chapel. It had nothing to do with the plot, but I suspect that there is some contractual obligation with the burghers of Oxford that forces the TV production company to portray the city as a centre of culture. This is reinforced by the tepid dirge of “music” that accompanies the action. It is a different tepid dirge to the Morse theme tune, but very similar in effect. It will shortly be released on a CD called “Music to mourn the passing of your gerbil by”. Oxford is not a centre of culture, it is just an ordinary town with lots of old buildings. Some of you may be fascinated by old stuff, but, as I have said before and hope to live long enough to say again, I just don’t get it.

And now if I say that I am yearning for the days of Regan and Carter, my non-Brit friends will think that I have lost my political bearings.

We have a new friend

Rol has left a comment on an earlier post. I quite enjoyed what he had to say on his site
Although what "Roll on Laughing" means is beyond me.

In recognition of the support that I have received from you for my previous post, I thought I would alienate you all (aMToNW) by writing about sport (goodbye girls), rugby (goodbye non-Brits) and something that caught my attention on the Sky Sports (goodbye everyone else … apart from the twat Rupert, that is).

This week marked the official retirement from rugby union of the suave and sophisticated shrinking violet, Graham Rowntree. Over the last seventeen seasons he has been one of the best players in the world, not in the top flight, but quite close, and has had more than a little success.

However, it his appearance rather than his accomplishments that epitomise the wonderful game that is Rugby.

What do you think girls? A rival for Brad Pitt? Or Dennis Franz? Pamela, does this get your juices flowing? Martha, isn’t he cute?

They did a very nice tribute to him on Rugby Club on Sky Sports this week. I shall miss him, he has gone on to be a coach at Leicester, alongside his former playing partner Richard Cockerill, who could always be relied on to give away three penalties every game. Usually in the first 10 minutes.

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

But, as everything in the world is balanced, there came a disappointment. I do not watch much news on TV. I manage to keep informed by reading the BBC website, finding out who is dead from the Torygraph online, apart from, of course, my regular conversations with Downing Street, and picking up the gossip when I drop in to the Palace. I do, however, sometimes tune into Al Jazeera to get a different view on what is important, and it is often quite informative. Earlier today, for example, they were doing an investigation of the meth problem in the USA, which I hadn’t seen covered in quite the same way before. This evening, however, I discovered that they have David Frost on regularly. I support balance in reporting, but there is no need for Al Jazeera to contribute crap, there are plenty of other channels doing that.

Join with me, if you will, in mourning the passing of a dear friend who comforted me over many years, and has now gone to a better place.

Yesterday, I saw the final episode of NYPD Blue. I can barely begin to imagine what life will be like without it.

The substitutes will just not do. Waking the Dead seems to be the best the Brits can offer at the moment, passable, even though it has the unbearably smug git Trevor Eve in the lead, and is unnecessarily silly at times.

I will have to hope that the fourth series of the Wire, which began this week, will live up to the quality of the other three. It is small comfort.

I saw NYPD Blue from the beginning, and despite the best efforts of moronic schedulers on channel 4, saw most episodes, I guess. I survived the early episodes which had that even smugger git David Caruso in them. We were even subjected to his naked body on screen, but I persevered, and eventually it became clear that there was no alternative but to let Dennis Franz become the star of the show. He out-acted all of the others, including Jimmy Smits. The show was controversial early on because of the amount of nudity. I had no particular opinion about this, but if pressed would have explored the possibility of Kim Delaney appearing nude in all of her scenes as an experiment in modern television.

And now there is to be no more.

Please support me in these days of sadness.

VD

In case any of my regular readers (aMToNW) have posted something emetic about February the 14th on their journal, and I haven't got around to commenting with something in keeping with my sentiments about this piss awful celebration of the execution of this god bothering nonentity please leave a message here, and I will be right over to put you straight.
Add to the list of what the Romans did for us the remedy of how to deal with Jehovah's Witnesses.

Hello! Hello! Are you still there?

I am obliged to my dear friends at Livescience, (yet again, they are just so damned funny) who reveal this week the little known (according to them) secrets of the micro-organisms that live on our skin.

Among other gems is the revelation (we all knew this didn’t we?) that each of us have our own unique combination of species, and in some cases may have bacteria that inhabit only us. How they will ever prove this, short of flaying each one of us, remains to be seen.

Once again our friends in the scientific community dwell on differences rather than similarities. Here they are gravely mistaken.

Like our race, dwelling on the surface of this once beautiful planet, they have more in common as far as their worries and aspirations are concerned than is generally acknowledged.

They spend their days in selfish activities, busying themselves with conduct that will ultimately destroy their host, and only in the latter days do they start to question their actions.

My bacteria recently held a conference (a sort of expanded United Nations, if you will) where they discussed such nonsense as why their planet had been expanding throughout its life, whether this was normal, why the north pole was changing colour, whether there was a meltdown in the north polar ice cap, and why, although beauty had never been an outstanding feature compared to nearby visible planets, a marked aesthetic deterioration was occurring.

None of them seemed to grasp the very simple concept that their own activities were responsible for much of this, and with some careful planning and sensible behaviour they might work together to prolong the life of the planet for enough time for them to find a way of safely migrating to another similar life supporting one before it eventually burns out.

I have been trying to tell them this for years, it is vital that to humanity that my existence is prolonged, but the stupid little fuckers won’t listen.

Service Announcement

In response to kind queries as to my well being, I am pleased to report that all is well, I simply do not have anything to say (not that that is normally an impediment).
I started blogging because I wanted to and enjoyed it. I will not allow it to become a necessity.
But, thank you all for your concern. Normal vitriol will return in due course.

Where are you going on your holidays this year?

Listening to my good friends on BBC Radio 5 today, I was intrigued to hear them reporting the theories of an exotic gentleman called Erasmus Bjork. He is Danish, but that is no excuse for having such a compelling name. I guess we can discuss this later. We could go down the road of exploring funny names, but let’s leave that for a day when we are really bored. Let me just pause here to report that in the latest edition of that admirable organ “Viz”, someone enquires of Mr Bacon the name of his insurance company “Hadaway an Shite” he retorts. What is their address? One, punch in the fookin mouth street. We don’t want to go there, do we, boys and girls?

So, back to Erasmus. He is saying that the reason that we are not in contact with extra-terrestrials is that it takes too long to find each other. The following is an extract from an article in the Grauniad, a newspaper lacking the political perspicacity of Viz, but not bad if you are really bored.

He found that even if the alien ships could hurtle through space at a tenth of the speed of light, or 30,000km a second, - Nasa's current Cassini mission to Saturn is plodding along at 32km a second - it would take 10bn years, roughly half the age of the universe, to explore just 4% of the galaxy. His study is reported in New Scientist today.

The question is, why bother? Surely our experience here on this tiny planet (Dave has written about smallness today) would lead us to believe that there is an abundance of boring beings within spitting distance of us at any time (I will leave Mr Bjork to do the calculations on the dimensions of spitting distance), so why waste our time searching the universe for others? I spend my working life try to avoid conversations with myriad accountants, consultants and marketers; do I really need to explore the possibility of there being a race of tax auditors a couple of galaxies across, even if they do have three noses? The fact is that none of us have anything worthwhile to say, and most of us manage to devote ours lives to the demonstration of that truth.

Were Star Trek to be made realistic (I am now going into a territory I know little about, I am not a fan of science fiction), then Captain Kirk would be portrayed sipping the national beverage of some small republic on a planet 3.7 light years away discussing the route he took to get their with some boring, fat middle aged alien with a droning voice, an irritating accent and wearing an out of shape cardigan. Star Wars should, to mirror reality, be in the form of a home makeover programme with interesting ideas on how to decorate houses made of helium, and add interest to a garden that has a ground temperature of 208 degrees Celsius.

We should not be asking about finding intelligent life in the universe, but the chances of finding interesting life. Is there a solar system out there somewhere where there are jokes that have not already been round the internet three times?

Not boring you, am I?

Post Script

Please go and read Danny's post today.
A little different from the normal post.
And proof that James Taylor can write songs as well.

My dreams have lost some grandeur coming true

I am not one to waste time quarrelling with old friends about musical taste but dear old Geoff and Betty have taken exception to some fine performers based upon a television programme that I have yet to see.

There are plenty of musicians, from a wide range of genres, whose music I enjoy. As far as I know all of them, with the possible exception of Mississippi John Hurt, have displayed symptoms of twatdom that would put most of us in the shade. Even at my most extreme, I would be pushed to be as tarty as Mick Jagger or as incoherent as Bob Dylan. From all accounts (and perhaps with some justification) Ludwig was a far grumpier old sod than I will ever be, even if someone says “Thatcher”. I enjoy Wagner’s overtures, and ignore his politics. The most recent track I downloaded was by an up and coming beat combo called “Oasis”, who are, without much doubt, a bunch of assholes. I find myself able to enjoy young Mick Jackson’s music without being influenced by his reported personal preferences. I might draw the line if Jeffrey Archer were to produce a single with the quality of, say, “Born to be Wild”, but possibly not.

I began to think that Betty and Geoff had turned into my parents when I read their posts. Although I might be one of theirs, as Betty has proffered the witterings of Mr Bowie as “music”.

Just let me put in some good words for Crosby, Stills and Nash. And James Taylor. And Joni Mitchell.

I don’t want to know much about their lives. I don’t want to change my life for theirs. I don’t want their money, or to shag any of the women they have shagged. Or men. I don’t much care about it.

It is just that for me they represent the mellow end of what was so good about the 60’s. Music that I enjoyed while under the influence of some gentle drugs, and still enjoy today years after the last hallucinogenic chemicals have found their way out of my system. They were only part of it. If I were asked, and as this is my bloody blog, then consider me asked, who was the best songwriter, I would choose Joni Mitchell. I don’t usually bother with the words, I go by the sound of the music. But I have come to the conclusion that Lennon and McCartney had the poetic ability of Keat’s pet squirrel. Bob Dylan concealed his clever bits amongst pretentious codswallop, Paul Simon should have stuck to humming, George Harrison is among the worst. “I look at the floor and see it needs sweeping”. What the fuck? Sweep it then, you dim bastard, and get some 12 year old to write your songs. I listen to all of these people from time to time. I might even sing along if I am sure no one is listening, but none of them have anything to say. Joni, on the other hand, does.

I expect this gets more comments than most posts here. I probably won’t pay much attention to them. You will not change my musical choices, anymore than I will change yours. Tom will still be listening to Val Doonican, Realdoc will be getting down to Matt Monro, and Pamela will be dancing naked in the yard to the tunes of Iron Maiden. Mark, who is back from his enforced absence, will come up with some 18th century blues singer from Malawi called Whispering Keith Jockstrap or some such, at which point I will turn up the Beethoven violin concerto and let you all get on with it.

So, carry on, love is coming. Love is coming to us all.

Mark Gamon is on holiday

My dear friend, David Milliband, has added to the list of things that didn’t make me laugh.

According to the BBC:

The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs said organic food was more of a "lifestyle choice that people can make".

He insisted that food grown with the use of pesticides and other chemicals should not be regarded as inferior.

Well, that’s it for you, New Labour. The party of war, pestilence, famine and death. Not only following Dubya into Iraq with your tongue firmly stuck to his anus, you now come out in favour of the polluters. We don’t want to offend ICI do we? The minister for the environment telling us it is ok to poison the soil. It’s a shame Harold Shipman is not still with us, he would have made a great Health Secretary. Wackford Squeers for Education Minister, anyone?

Mr Milliband (an early contender for asshole of the year)’s statement is so ridiculous that I will not bother to counter it. But, putting on my Tony Blair voice, let me say this, look, Mr Milliband why don’t you sprinkle some DDT and rat poison on your weetabix this morning, you jumped up nazi fuckwit, and do us all a favour.

Saturday. No bugger reads it

Some things that made me laugh.

• From “Overheard in New York”
  Tourist fighting his way off the train: Look, people. You actually have to let us out of the train before you can get on.
  Old guy: This is New York, son. A simple 'Fuck you' will do.

• The “The Thick of It” special. I love satire. For those of you unfortunate enough not to live in the UK, if this programme is eventually broadcast elsewhere in the world, do not miss it. Buy the DVDs when they come out, order it on the internet. Do not miss it, it is more vital than your children’s weddings, more important than your funeral, probably better than sex and that job interview can go screw. The writing is superb, the acting brilliant – they even managed this special without the lead character (the actor playing him is currently embarrassed, let’s hope temporarily), and Peter Capaldi’s performance is good enough to win 3 Oscars, the Eurovision Song Contest, the Ashes, Mr Universe and the “Guess the number of slugs in the bucket” competition at my village fête.

• “Jam and Jerusalem”. Started slowly and got better each week. The highlight for me was a little cameo by the wonderful Miriam Margolyes as a headmistress attending her local surgery for a smear test, to the embarrassment of the doctor who was a former pupil. As with most of Jennifer Saunders’ writing, almost all of the main characters are female, which gives it a unique flavour.

And I am very sorry about the incident in Sainsbury’s. I would like to take this chance to apologise to the very nice young man who served me this week, and who had probably had his quota of idiots for the day.

NYM : Did you have a nice Christmas and New Year?

Me: Yes, 1958.

NYM: 1958?

Me: Yes, that is the year I had a nice Christmas and New Year.

Not funny or clever. I will go in next week with a paper hat on my head, talk about “all the trimmings”, the queen’s speech and Cliff Richard, and stuff myself with the flesh of murdered animals in commemoration of the birth of baby Jesus.

Yes, yes, alright, I'm here

OK, You can stop nagging now.

I noticed that my dear friend Dave has done one of these little things that get passed around when none of us have anything to write about. I have nothing to write about, so I thought that I would do it. But no, he has set a trap, asking about the composition of the alphabet.

This alphabet was designed by fucking consultants. Too many consonants and too few vowels. Bastards. This alphabet was the cause of the collapse of the Roman Empire. Forget Alaric the Visigoth and forget Caligula. The place was too fucking big to administer with inadequate documentation. There has been a singular lack of consensus on how my name is pronounced, or how the frigging Romans would have pronounced it. No bugger knows, and no bugger knew, because the alphabet was insufficiently unambiguous. So, eventually, they couldn’t find their way around, because no bugger knew how to pronounce the place names.

Hindi is a completely phonetic language. This is why there are more people per square mile in India than in Europe. When Inderjit says “I fancy a shag”, there is no possible confusion as to his meaning. There is only one way to spell it, and no alternative as to how to pronounce it. Hindi has shit loads of vowels. Had I chosen a Hindustani sobriquet, there would be no doubt as to its pronunciation.

Hey, you Americans, how would you pronounce “Loughborough”? That’s right, the spelling makes no sense whatsoever. Or whatsoevah, if you want the limey version. And don’t get so high and mighty, you rebellious lot. See how many of you pronounce “literally” as “lidderally”, and then you can feel free to criticise those of us who fail to roll our r’s. Pause for Pete and Dud zoo sketch.

So bollocks to the A to Z.

A – for alphabet. Shove it up your ass.

Will that do for now?

Final Ebenezering of the year

I am going to bed. Please keep the noise down. See the new year in? Bollocks.

My friends at BBC news are pleased to report that women who exercise by doing housework reduce the risk of breast cancer.

For my final competition of the year, can you guess the gender of the researchers?

If you need a clue, it was the same team who earlier in the year found that sitting in a recliner watching soccer was the equivalent of acupressure on the points most associated with arthritis, liver disease and knob-rot.

We should applaud such scientific discoveries and reward these researchers with titles and cash.

So, come along ladies. You missed a bit in the corner. And please bob down if you are walking in front of the television.

E J Thribb is on holiday

While others have been grieving the passing of major show business legends - a major recording artist (Charlie Drake) and a slapstick genius (James Brown), I would like to draw your attention to the passing of Dennis Linde.
Mr Linde was the composer of the Elvis hit "Burning Love", which, as the title suggests with not too much subtlety, was about the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases. Way ahead of his time, and ostracised for being so explicit, he would have perhaps become more famous had Elvis recorded the other song penned at the same time "Stop taking drugs and mainlining hamburgers, you overblown, past-it ball of blubber".
He will be sadly missed.

Post Script, 27th December. Bloody Americans eh? One of our great slapstick comedians dies, and then they have to go and try to cap it.

As you are all well aware, my lookalike is Andie McDowell. I was therefore a little distressed to see on the television this evening that she has taken to advertising products that are concerned with reducing the effects of greying hair. The cynical among you will be of the opinion that she is merely attempting to boost her already extensive fortune. But I have been affected by all of the wonderful messages that have been pouring in here, and have embraced the christmas message.

I telephoned Andie on the videophone (honestly, it is just like talking into a mirror) and told her not to worry. I have not let the aging process affect me, and I still have to fight the women off. She should be more concerned about spreading a little love and happiness than by concern with the transient nature of her appearance.

There are truly lessons out there for all of us to learn

Joy to the world.

I feel that I have been a little harsh on the deep feelings of humanity that are expressed at this time of year, and need to share something very beautiful that I witnessed today, in order to redress what might appear to some to be a balance in this journal that has been thus far loaded in favour of cynicism and ill-humour.

A colleague received an email greeting in Spanish. He parsed it through those nice people at Babelfish, and was delighted to receive the message “A happy christmas and a prosperous new anus.” I filled up. How refreshing that we can share these life-transforming and intimate moments with each other. This is, indeed, the christmas message.

But, let us not stop there. It matters not to me whether your anus is new, old, remodelled, recently decorated or hideously disfigured. Without prejudice, I declare my sincerest wishes that it becomes, or continues to be prosperous.

I recognise that I have strayed from the true path of righteousness, and am now stumbling back towards it. Your warm wishes will help in this quest. Please, however, desist from too much detail about the progress or condition of your anus. Some people, oddly, find it not to their taste (dde). I will return, unopened, any missives with unnecessary detail. This includes length prose or verse, explicit descriptions of any sort, photographs, drawings or etchings and tubes of “Anusol” or “Preparation H”.

My dear friend, MJ, has asked for more T&A on my blog, with pictures. (see previous thread).

That is not difficult, although quite why the need for information about the Bradford Telegraph and Argus is a little intriguing - let's just put it down to the cold Canadian winters.

Here is a picture of a Bingley post office from a recent edition of said organ.

I do love being Santa.

Come and sit on my knee

This evening I sat up later than I intended to fix a problem with my computer.
It was very much a problem created by me: in trying to see whether my printer was malfunctioning due to hardware or software, I installed some old drivers, and buggered up my active desktop.
Brief excursion for the technoplegic. “Active desktop” means having the software on the computer called ‘desktop’ do clever stuff. It does not mean indulging in inappropriate activities on a table.
I found the solution through some nice people on the internet and all is now fixed.
The printer problem was mechanical. It did not malfunction due to my printing my 100 christmas cards. They are very tasteful, and not even the most old fashioned printer would object to them.
Brief excursion for the technoplegic. By printer, I refer to a mechanical/electronic device for producing printed paper, not some old gentleman sitting in the corner of my room with a Caxton machine. He is not a gentleman, and that is not a Caxton machine.
I ordered a new printer from Amazon yesterday. For a small surcharge they guaranteed next day delivery by 1.00 pm. I forgot all about, being involved in some very exciting work, but at around 2.30 a Citylink van parked outside, and a man got out and rummaged around for a few minutes. He then drove away. This did not fool me. I knew that I did not have my printer. I checked on the Amazon site, and noticed that they were still anticipating delivery today. I also noticed that the printer had left Inverkeithing at 2.19 pm. The AA tell me that the journey from Inverkeithing to my house should take 7 hours and 43 minutes. I do not think that I will wait up.
Inverkeithing? (Have you ever inverkeithed, missus?) Just over the Forth Bridge.

Anyway the real purpose of writing this is that my attention was drawn to the Telegraph, who asked several people what they wanted for christmas. (Say what you like about the Torygraph, but I did recognise most of the people who they asked, unlike the sort of people who Betty features on her pages.)

Boris was, of course, on top form. “I would like world peace, piano lessons and my computer printer to stop gibbering in the middle of the night and waking me up.”

I suspect however that his taking piano lessons will not be conducive to world peace. But please note that he refers to his “computer printer” and thereby avoids all of the ambiguity that afflicted me earlier. Perhaps he was referring to a human being though, if his computer printer is sufficiently close to him at night to keep him awake.

So, dear readers, (aMToNW), what would you like for christmas? Be aware that I won’t be buying it for you.

You will all be pleased to hear that the annual time of great stress for me has passed, and I have produced the 2006 christmas card
As usual, it is of the highest standard, and best possible taste, and is available to any of you brave enough to email me your postal address.
If you email me your postal address, I will not be turning up at christmas, as I am aware that my gentle drug-free, vegetarian lifestyle is difficult to accommodate amongst omnivores, drunks, rebelrousers and practitioners of the art of dissipation.
Mrs S and I will, however, turn up for a summer vacation of not more than 12 weeks. We will give you several hours warning prior to arrival - plenty of time for you to get to the airport to pick us up.
I am going to rest now; tomorrow I shall start fretting about next year's card.

Ho Ho Horseshit

A few random observations for the weekend, which is when no bugger reads the blogs, so I am not making much effort.

Tonight on the wonderful “Have I Got News For You”, with the new James Bond, Boris Johnson, there was much speculation about whether the British royal family were responsible for the death of Dianna. Immediately following the programme, there was a trailer for “Newsnight” in which Dermot Murnaghan said “Tonight we bring you the latest news in the search for the Ipswich serial killer. We have an interview with George Clooney”. It may be all very well teasing prince Philip about underhand and criminal dealings, as he is well known for his sense of humour, but to implicate a Hollywood Megastar in a seedy and sordid crime is entirely a different matter. If anyone reading this is in contact with Mr Clooney, please advise him to get an alibi for the last couple of weeks.

Today while working I chose to have Classic FM TV on in the background to help the cerebral processes. They have some jolly tunes, and occasionally some nice videos to accompany them, but tend towards a plethora of pert choirboys which does not really appeal to me, but, as I say, they have some nice tunes. Except at this time of year. Just when I was looking forward to a couple of hours of pleasant music from Bach, Beethoven and Berlioz, they introduce Bing. Yes, Bing Bollocky Crosby singing about dreaming of a white bollocky christmas. There is just no escape from it. Thank heavens none of you have the poor taste to extol the virtues of this most dire of festivals. There was one blog where the author was asking about the three christmas songs that you hate. Three? Bollocky three? I hate the whole bollocky lot. And don’t send your spotty adolescent sons and daughters round to my house singing about bollocky herald angels, unless you want them returned to you in a box of mince tarts.

Which brings me back to my old friend Nasser Bollocky Hussain. He uses the phrase “he plays his cricket”, for example “he plays his cricket in Durham”. Well who else’s cricket would he play, you prize buffoon? I just wish someone else had played your cricket for you, then we would not have been subjected to over ten bollocky years of Gooch, Atherton, Stewart and Hussain playing for and captaining the England team through the most turgid and unwatchable cricket in living memory. Bollocks.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 14

As I have mentioned before this time of year is particularly tiresome as I am inundated with invitations to spend Christmas at Sandringham.

One year, to get away from it all, I actually spent the holiday season at Windsor Castle. It was a tad inconvenient, but at least the telephone was not ringing every five minutes. They did not think of looking for me there. (That reminds me, did I remember to switch off the electric blanket?).

Ever since Caroline of Ansbach beat George II at Scrabble and thereby indirectly caused the battle of Dettingen, it has been seen to be necessary for members of the royal family to be married to those less intellectually endowed than themselves. As generations of British idiots have been selected as hide-the-sausage partners for the royal house, there has been a diminution of mental prowess in succeeding generations, thereby making the “find a thicky” quest all the more difficult.

We should therefore congratulate prince Philip, whose task it has been to oversee the selection of prize fruitcakes as suitable mates for his offspring. In two cases (so far) he has had to go through the process twice.

Diana sometimes suspected that she was being made fun of, and would sulk, on one occasion Philip sent her to the kitchen for a “long weight”. That sort of thing. Philip is not so pleased with Camilla, because she thinks that everything that happens is a jape anyway, and guffaws like a herniated gibbon even when she is the butt of the joke. They had to drug her, apparently, to get her through the wedding without screeching. She was convinced that the ABofC was, in fact, Jeremy Beadle.

Duchess Fergie was a godsend. They had almost given up finding anyone more stupid than Andrew, but the British aristocracy can always be relied upon. It will be much more difficult should they try to find another for him. I am afraid they will have to follow the William route and go down-market. If anyone knows of a grade A airhead in need of a few bob, who wouldn’t mind putting up with a throwback for a husband, and could open a couple of playschools in Denbighshire each year, at a push, then let me know, and I will put the name forward.

Sophie Wessex and Dim Tim are quite unremarkable. They can sit for hours staring into space, and seem quite happy doing it. Philip has been known to use Admiral Laurence as a hat-stand. The poor chap doesn’t mind, but is not quite up to the job. Hats fall off whenever anyone walks past, because Tim salutes them.

But it was in the selection of the first partner that Philip excelled himself. Auberon Waugh used to say, and who are we to argue, that if you whistled, Mark Phillips would wet himself. I have never seen evidence of that. There is a rumour that his family were thinking of having him melted down and used as fertiliser, but he was saved that fate, and instead married to Anne. Phillips could trace his ancestry back, after only three generations, to a sheep named Trevor. Well, when I say he could trace his ancestry, that is a little unfair, he had to have someone do it for him. Philip was delighted with his choice, and never tired of making fun of Mark. Insisting on serving lamb for dinner was a game that he never tired of, and would repeatedly ask the boy about his family until the plates were empty.

I was with Phil and Liz as they watched the culmination of all of this at the weekend as dear Zara was presented with the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. I have never seen Philip laugh so much, apart from, perhaps, that unfortunate incident with the queen mother and the fishbone. Liz kept up a commentary throughout. She had been amused by an article in the Telegraph a couple of weeks ago that referred to the ‘estuarisation’ of her accent. She can, of course, mimic almost anyone, and was in her element with Zara. (After the programme finished, she fished the speech from the latest opening of parliament out of her handbag, and rendered it into Zaraese; “My government are like, wow, amazing, yeah – we are toadally going to revise the immigration quota. I am all ‘Yeah, who wants any more freeloading Greeks, innit?’” and so forth).

So hats off to Zara. There has been a long line of inarticulate buffoons on this particular programme – Paul Gascoigne, Terry Downes, Ian Botham and Lester Piggott (whose speech impediment allowed him to tell a particularly disgusting tale about dame Kiri te Kanawa, without anyone having the least idea what he was saying) to select but a few, but our Zara outdimmed them all. Amazing. I was like “Wow, she should get her own series”.

The State I'm In

For those of you wondering how to escape the usual dire yule crap on the television this year, you could do much worse than see the splendid BBC production “The State Within”. Those of you expecting this to be a series about self discovery will be the only ones disappointed. It is a jolly entertaining thriller, with a lovely ending. A couple of points about it:

• It has a rather unnecessary, as far as I can judge, sub-plot about a romantic liaison between the head of British Intelligence in the US and the American under secretary for defence. Although they call it defense. I would just like to assure readers who are considering a career in the British secret service that homosexuality is no longer compulsory, nor seen as in any way advantageous. In my day it was different, of course. At my interview I was asked some very pointed questions, and the aptitude test involved picking a colour scheme for a bedroom. I made my excuses and chose a career as a quiz show host instead. There is more than one way to serve your country. I suppose they added this story so that the series had “something for everyone”, but if so they failed – I found no reference to nor footage of the record stand between Tom Graveney and Peter May at Birmingham in 1957.
• It starred someone who was either Cagney or Lacey. (These are the names of characters in a television series, not adjectives). Anyone who might have seen that series (and you can see that I didn’t) might find it a little off-putting. It would be the equivalent of one of the actors in “The Professionals” taking the part of a high court judge. Actors should stick at what they are good at. Look at Ronald Reagan.

The other series that I have been watching that concludes tonight is “Into the West”. I am not so sure about this one. The thing is that I do not believe that native Americans speak in the manner in which they always appear to do in movies and tv series. The characterisation has hardly progressed since Tonto first got butt fucked by Kemo Sabe. (That was an unnecessary reference wasn’t it?). I also do not believe that they were any more imbued with natural wisdom or in tune with the universe than anyone else. They certainly had a hard time of it, being on the receiving end of the bad attitudes that were taken to the New World by social rejects from Europe. (How am I doing so far? Anyone who has not taken offence yet should send me an email and I will include a customised insult in my next posting, you twat). I have never (as far as I know) met a native American. There is one who occasionally visits here. What do they talk like when they are not being filmed for television? John Gielgud? Jed Clampett? Cary Grant? Don Corleone? Beryl Reid? I think we should be told.

Please go and visit Adam. He is very lonely over at his blog. He tries very hard. I think it behoves us all to lend our support to one of the few Republicans who can actually write. And, yes, I know that he can’t spell and his ramblings lean towards the incoherent, but I have to confess a great fondness for the lad. I see him as the disinherited son that I never had.
This week, he has a missing word competition on his site. It is great fun. FFE will be particularly distracted by it.

No word from Alsace

When my old chums Theodore and Evadne Google decided to offer an email service, they contacted me so that I was able to get an email address that was my own name (and I mean the less well known name that I use to conduct my business in the alternative universe, not the witty sobriquet by which you know me), without any fancy characters, or, as in the case of my hotmail account, appending the number “69”. (How I laughed about that one).
I am ever grateful to them for this. One of the downsides of this is that I get a disproportionate amount of junk mail, but Evadne kindly sifts through it every morning before she waters the pelargonium, so I am only left with the cream, as it were.
It appears that there are other people in the world who share my name. None of them, it is barely necessary to mention, share my charms, but some of them have interesting lives. Others assume that the gmail address of these people must be the one that I reserved, and this has led to some bizarre correspondence over the months.
I had a very pleasant correspondence with a dyslexic estate agent who was keen that I buy some property in Texas. I soon became bored with that.
I then had a brief correspondence with a young man of French descent who was keen that I attend his parties. I am ashamed to say I was rude to him, as I thought for a time he was a spammer. I did not go to any of the parties, and so have nothing to report.
Today, however, things started to look up. A young lady, who I shall only refer to as Lorraine, sent me the following:

(it was headed: “Nigeria & Shakleton´s voyage..”)

Folks,

I didn´t lose the email addresses nor did I forget to send the email as requested...see..I can learn from my mistakes!

Boyos..hope you both have a wonderful time in BRAZIL...let me know if you have any interesting stories to tell..

take care and safe travels,
Thank you for an entertaining few days in Patagonia..

Lorraine xxx

I replied immediately:

Lorraine.
How delightful to hear from you.
I am so pleased that you did not lose the email addresses.
My time in Brazil must remain a secret due to international security concerns, but one day I may be able to tell the story. Next time we meet I will be able to tell you a little about it.
I am disappointed that you view the days in Patagonia as only entertaining. In my mind they are amongst the most enervating and erotic in my long and event-filled life.
Did I ever tell you the story about my night in Casablanca with the boy who was later to become Pope John Paul II?
Who are you?
love, peace and coloured orgasms.

I welcome your comments. I am particularly intrigued by Shackleton’s voyage to Nigeria. It is little wonder that he failed to reach the South Pole. I thought that educational standards were somewhat higher in those days, but it appears that dear old Ernie, were he alive today, could expect little more than an A++ GCSE in geography.

Here's to Old Friends.

Thanks to those nice folk at Friends Reunited, (despite what dear Richard says, they are very nice), I had a reply from someone with whom I shared my very brief college career.
Her message contained the quaint phrase:
"of course i remember you and the tin of Andrews liver salts you bought me for m 19th. birthday. "
Well, it made me smile. I really don't remember doing that.

Just for the ladies

OK, it is nearly the weekend, so as no bugger is reading, I can get away with a sports post.


1) The buggers picked Giles and left Panesar out. Skip the next couple of lines if you are of a delicate disposition.
Buggery bollocks. Fucking shit sucking camel shagging goat molesting arse mining third rate wankers.
I hope Australia win by an innings and 450.

2) Let us take a moment to reflect on the contributions to human joy of Ferenc Puskas who died last weekend. My earliest memory of watching a match on TV was the 1960 European Cup Final. The memory has been blurred by seeing highlights many times since, and I was certainly too young to realise just how spectacular that Real Madrid team was. Before Pele came along (and by 1960 he had only just begun to come along) either Alfredo di Stefano or Ferenc Puskas was the best player in the world (should that be ‘were’, FFE? Oh, sorry I forgot, you are no longer qualified to correct me) and they both played for the same team. There have been a handful of players since who were in their class, but, Pele aside, none who could be proved to be better. If you have never seen them, then my assertion would be that di Stefano was like Thierry Henry, but even better, and Puskas was as exciting to watch as Bobby Charlton, but even better. If you watch the 1960 match you will wonder how anyone ever managed to stop Puskas. It seemed as if he would get the ball somewhere near halfway, power past two or three defenders and shoot from anywhere from 10 yards to 35 yards out, and the shot would be unstoppable. It is possible that if he were playing for Chelsea now then my image would be entirely different; I prefer my memories.

3) Er ….

4) That’s it.