News update

I am pleased to note that my friends at the BBC have edited a headline on their website that referred to “pre-planning”, and have corrected it to say “planned”. I was on the verge of telephoning Jeremy Paxman to get it put right, but couldn’t face the prospect of him telling me a string of fart jokes, or doing his Adam Faith impersonation. Fortunately, the mistake has now been rectified.

More worryingly, the BBC television news has reported that the latest investigations of outbreaks of foot and mouth disease are in an area which surrounds Chessington World of Adventure. It is vital that I make this very clear, because I know some of you tend towards hot-headedness. This news is not a mandate for you to go and begin the mass slaughter of visitors to said tourist attraction. I know that there are one or two of you who somewhat pompously believe that the eradication of the amusement park visiting section of the population would serve to improve the quality of the race, but I cannot sanction it. I never approve of cruelty, and take a very dim very of it where children are concerned. Nevertheless, action needs to be taken, and I suggest the setting up of an exclusion zone around the property. People may go in, subject to their having purchased the appropriate ticket, but no one should leave until we can be sure that they are not carrying the disease. I reckon thirty years should do it.

I am not mad

My dear friend Mike asks whether anyone has noticed a downturn in the number of visitors to their blog. Well, I haven’t checked for a while, but as I haven’t written anything since Stanley Matthews was still playing, then I would not be a bit surprised.

I could tell you, and probably will, some of the things that have been upsetting me these last few days, but am considering whether there would be any benefit, other than a gratuitous display of honesty, in visiting all of those who upset me, and telling them to their face exactly where they are going wrong. I am not sure whether I share Wowbagger’s propensity for immortality. So far I have lived for a good many years, and not died once, so using the logic that my science teachers instilled in me, it seems likely that I will live for ever, However I am not sure whether the energy required to be expended in visiting all of those sentient beings who are in need of being put right by me would be worth it. I recognise that hiding in this obscure corner of cyberspace, disguised by an alias, and shouting that everyone is as daft as a canyon full of brushes is not the most noble of activities, but it suits me.

Rather than pour bile on humanity this evening (I really don’t know where to start), let me discuss marzipan. The creation of marzipan is one of the proofs of the existence of God. Human beings have not yet reached the level of intelligence where they could concoct something so crap on their own, only a supreme deity, and a supreme deity with a twisted sense of humour and too much time on his hands (the hands may be metaphorical, I am not privy to the physical characteristics of the creator of the universe. He, she, it or them may be devoid of matter, or they could be posing as that spider you just nearly trod on. It doesn’t really matter). When this age of darkness ends, and I am left to merge into infinite bliss in the golden age, there will be no messing about with food. Nuts will be eaten separately from anything else, occasionally added to a savoury dish, but never added to cakes or sweet dishes. It just is not right. I am not a vain person, I only suspect how wonderful and wise I am because people tell me that it is so, but should there be a flaw in my character then it is due to the trauma of having marzipan added to cakes when I was a young child. Cake I could understand and enjoy. And the idea of covering it with icing seemed logical, but then some prize tit inserted a layer of marzipan between the two. In the name of buggery, why? Go on, explain it to me. I bet you can’t.

Public service announcement

This is warning of an inspection that I will be carrying out at random in the coming weeks.
I am sure that you are all very familiar with my friend Scaryduck.

I have to tell you that that is not his real name.

He has published his book. I have read it. It is excellent. And I know that you have all bought a copy as well, haven't you?

If I arrive at your house and do not find a copy, I shall be very cross.

In case you have overlooked the purchase, you can buy it here.

When I read his book I 'lol' ed quite a lot, although I am glad that I did not have to take part in the episodes that were described. He seems to say "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!" quite a lot. It is not condusive to polite conversation.

I have a signed copy. If you ask nicely, he may sign yours as well.

Just checking that this site still exists.

For those of you in doubt as to what kind of Prime Minister Mr Brown would make:
"And we should acknowledge the debt the world owes to the United States for its leadership in this fight against international terrorism."
Yes, I am in their debt, and will willingly pay up next time the cunts want to go and murder some children.

Message from Ithaca

I was delighted to read a message in my guest book this morning from a lady in the USA called Penelope who added the following message after finding my family history pages.

I'm studying old Leicestershire Docs
(Not books but surgeons, Apothec.s)
Amongst those learned gentlemen
Is a Beasley, first name John
Born 1786 - and note
His place of birth is Kimcote!
His wife Mary and he
Produced (so far) but children three:
And Anne Sophia married, what's more,
One John Sleath Beasley in 1864.

Might this possibly cousinly engagement
Warrant a place in your family history enpagement?

I wish that some of my readers here were able to compose such pleasant and clever messages. Some of you have been visiting for some time and show no sign of improvement.

I replied:

My dear new friend Penny Lope
Your lovely message gives me hope
My marvellous Penelope
For you and for humanity
If only other folk
Would use such verse in my guest boke
I would smile beatifically
In memory of Penelope.

In my ancient family tree
I have found John Sleath Beasley
But did not know about young Anne,
I will add her when I can.
Two Beasleys marrying may seem odd
Perhaps our John (incestuous sod)
Could not find love outside the clan
And had to settle for dearest Anne.

I hope their kids, if they had any,
Had ten fingers and not too many
And were not silly in the head
As can be the case when kinfolk wed.

It's strange to find a doc relation
A quite unique and odd sensation
My forebears were not rich or famed
And their kinfolk should not be blamed
For poverty and lack of glory
None will tell their lowly story
Until into this family came
One who was truly born to fame
My chronicle will last for years
And bring joy to all those ears
Who hear of my ingenuity
Or not, as, perhaps, the case may be.

So thanks, Penelope, and if you find
More stories of this kind
About the Beasleys or a Sleath
Who cured the ill or pulled some teeth
Let me know I will be joyous
To learn of cousins, (girls or boyous).
And I will always hold you dear
For telling me of Anne Sophia.

Dr Queer, Medicine Woman

First, in answer to Dave, who enquires as to the state of my current incarnation, may I clarify that I am alive, to the best of my knowledge, and you can get on your bike and stop touting for business round here. I am in negotiation with several distinguished figures with regard to the business of the conducting of my funeral, and you are not among them, old son. At present, Alexei tells me that he is concentrating on his writing career, Tom Graveney fears that I might outlive him and Goldie Hawn has some qualms about the costume that I had designed for her. I will keep you in touch.

This afternoon I saw a DVD for sale that, due to a misplaced price sticker, was called "Little Ho on the Prairie". The infiltration of realism into the saccharine cak that constitutes mainstream television programming is well overdue. I am hoping for gratuitous sex and violence in every episode. How much better Coronation Street would have been had Ena Sharples tied up Elsie Tanner, whipped her with a chain and shot her through the head, as the main character in the latest episode of "The Shield" did to a chap who had upset him slightly. It would have given us a much better idea of urban Lancashire life.

Oh I say

This is a public information announcement, aimed to save you time and trouble. Over at the Sun, who I will not link to, there is a picture of a young lady, a tennis player I believe, exposing what can only be described as a nipple. There is nothing unusual in this, the only way that a lady can get a mention in said toilet paper is to appear topless. Joan of Arc would not have been seen as worthy of reporting unless she got them out for the lads.
In this picture, however, there is caption which says "click to enlarge". Should you choose this option, you will find that it is the whole picture, not the protuberance, that is enlarged.
I hope that this helps.

The definitive version

Promise me that you will watch the previous two postings before you watch this one.

A mosquito

It seems as if some of you were puzzled by the previous post. I am not sure who, some of you are very naughty and pretend not to recognise it. I am very pleased to know people who fail to keep up with what has been happening, but think, on this occasion, you should all see this at least 3 times in your life.

It's hard to find

Talking Cak. The definitive study.

There it is, hidden in the more overgrown parts of the Telegraph online, an article about whether men talk more than women.

Before you all dash over there, chatting as you go, I should point out that the article is by some called “Science Editor”. This of course, completely discredits any of the arguments that he is putting forward.

Some bright spark, this time from the University of Arizona, (my wonderful nephew is a student there*, how proud I am), has worked out that on average we all use 16,000 words per day. Women use slightly more than men.

Most of the words used, according to the study, are of the form “Will you stop trying to count the number of words I use, and listen to what I am saying, you odious little tit, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE AND IF YOU TELEPHONE AGAIN I WILL COME OVER THERE AND RAM YOUR PHONE SO FAR UP YOUR ARSE THAT IT WILL DISLOCATE YOUR VOCAL CHORDS, YOU TOTAL TWAT” or “Right, that’s it, I’m on my way over with my scrotum slicer”.

More importantly Dr Mehl (for it is he), overlooks the issue of quality as opposed to quantity. Step forward the Brit version of time wasting tossers, Dr Robin Dunbar of Liverpool University.
“What we do seem to find is a difference in the way men and women use conversation: women’s conversations seem mainly to be about networking, whereas men’s tend to be more advertising.”
Networking, my arse. Anyone who uses that word forfeits the right to be taken notice of.

No, both men and women talk complete bollocks 98% of the time. This is done in order to try to ignore our plight. Lost and confused, spinning around a dying sun, no idea why we are here and completely unable to come to terms with the ephemeral nature of our existence. Still, mustn’t grumble.

*This may no longer be true. He was planning to move to the University of Northern Arizona next academic year. “Where’s that” I asked. “Northern Arizona”, came the reply. I really love him.

I don't know what's going off out there

Yes, yes, I know. And I don’t much care, quite frankly. If only one of you had asked nicely instead of nagging me then I might have written something a little more substantial than this. And the only reason I am writing this here is because I can’t find a suitable place to post it on the Sky Sports site.

Open message to the Sky Sports Cricket Production team.

I have relabelled the mute button on my remote control device “Croft”. Because every time, (and I really don’t want to call him a Welsh Windbag, even though it is very apposite and alliterative, because I don’t like racism) that the annoying little git opens his mouth I feel a reflex reaction causing me to press said button. I do not want to spend my evenings having my entertainment spoiled by some arsewit loudly haranguing me with facile and trite remarks. I would remind you that in his professional career he occasional managed to achieve mediocrity, and was one in a long line of totally talentless slow bowlers to have played for England who had neither style nor charm. In his new job he has only ever achieved the standard best described as “crap”. I think I would rather listen to Trevor Bailey.

Laugh? I nearly read Dostoevsky.

I had an email today (I sure know how to grab your attention with a dynamic opening statement, don’t I?), which reported that the sender was “LOL”. I get nearly as many of these as I see people “Lolling” when they see me in the street. Amusing as I undoubtedly am, I am suspicious of the literal veracity of the statement. It is probably nearer the truth that in this case and many others, the sender had just been mildly amused by something that I had written, and wanted to convey the information that they had at least noted the attempt at humour, if not actually found it funny.

“Lol” aside from being ubiquitous and therefore annoying, is hardly the best description of the activity, in particular, “out loud” seems a tad redundant. I cannot recall laughing in any other way. Maybe if Margaret Thatcher were to be publicly beheaded, I would laugh so much that my vocal chords would cease functioning, but that is only speculation. There seem to be two other variants of abbreviations to convey finding amusement – roffling and lmaoing. I have, in the past, roffled, albeit on not many occasions. I now, on medical advice, try to avoid it, indeed, very little gets me out of my chair. I find it a very comfortable place to loll and lol (geddit?). I have never lmaoed, and do not believe that this has ever been done by anyone else. I am not sure whether lmaoing is higher on the scale of hilarity than roffling. I suspect that the amusement induced by lmaoing would be very short-lived, and quickly transmute into an expression of incredulity and distress.

I think that we need new expressions to describe degrees of amusement. Perhaps some of you would like to come up with suitable abbreviations to replace lolling and lmaoing, leaving roffling to be pretty much the ultimate accolade, short of dropping dead of laughter, or excreting all of your internal organs in merriment.

Can you suggest shorthand for the following:

• “I read your email and detect that you were attempting to be humorous. While not finding anything note-worthily funny, I acknowledge that you did your best, and will not, on this occasion, report you to the laughter police for underachievement”.
• (This one is really for use when meeting someone in the world outside of the internet). “I am making a noise, which I would be embarrassed to hear if it were played back to me, that may cause you to think that I found your comment to be funny, but is actually an attempt to discourage you from further communication because I find you crass and boring, please go away.”
• “Yes, that was funny and caused me to smile. It did not cause me to “l”, or “lol”, but please do not be discouraged by this.”
• “I am laughing, but at you, not with you.”
• “That was so funny that I have excreted all of my internal organs. Do you have a bag that I can use to keep them in, please?”

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

Today marks a special day in the UK blogging calendar - the annual posting by Watski. One day each year, the stars align, electricity is restored to Nottinghamshire, flowers bloom, young maidens strip off their clothes and skip happily through the streets of Sutton-in-Ashfield, in Mansfield houses are decked with bunting spelling out the traditional message of "Sod off you southern poofs" and Watski dusts off the paper tape punch and composes a message to be fed into the Normantebbit 8700 supercomputer in his wardrobe which then updates the internet with all the latest news from Mansfield, usually bugger all.

Go over there and greet him, drape yourselves round his muscular body and festoon him with kisses (no tongues) and with joy in your heart, tell him "keep your fucking blog up to date, you idle twat".

Dearly departed

Just a quick note to report that I have been catching up with my television viewing, and have only just seen the programme where Trevor McDonald said he did not view Bernard Manning as a racist, just a "fat white bastard".
Yes, it was uncaring and racist, but on the other hand bollock numbingly funny.
I have disabled comments on this thread because I don't want to get into arguments.
love and peace.

Muntjacs

What a strange few days it has been. I was mindful of the advice to be wary of those that one had only met on the internet, but am delighted to report that the 3 fellow bloggers I have met this week lived up to all of my expectations and were exactly as I had imagined them.

Has it really been a week? It seems like only a couple of days ago that I was with Tom in his Torquay penthouse. We didn’t get to spend much time chatting, as he was negotiating deals to expand his mining interests in Ecuador, and to reunite the Joe Loss Band for a world tour – you will be sad to note that he failed to do this in time for Glastonbury. I found the high powered business environment a little speedy for my taste – always some lackey or another dashing in with questions or documents to sign, but Tom, despite the frenetic pace at which he lives his life remains cool, without a crease out of place, and always wearing the trademark Armani gold tie.

Mark’s lifestyle is equally bewildering to me – we called in during one of his exotic dance routines at the “Pole to Pole” nightspot in Cambridge. I have to say that he is exceptionally supple for an octogenarian, and he gets away with those costumes in a way strangely reminiscent of Peter Stringfellow. We made our excuses and left before the finale – I don’t mind what people do, but don’t always want to watch it.

Then this afternoon Dave fell over my threshold, kicking a passing cat, pausing to vomit on the godetias, and complementing one of my neighbours on “her rack”. The street was then entertained by his pointing out a young lady who was, apparently, only a roadbuilder’s daughter, but she liked her asphalt. I was not aware that it was possible to obtain alcoholic beverages in North East Hampshire of a Sunday, but Dave obviously has a nose for that sort of thing. This is not a personal comment – his gigantic crimson proboscis is due, he assured me, although in a slurred manner, to hereditary factors.

Glastonbury? I have pissed better.

Scurra productions is proud to launch the exciting supergroup "The Chair". Described as a fusion of rock and blues, and combining the best of the Grateful Dead, Zappa, Janis Joplin and Des O'Connor, a UK tour will be announced shortly.

Iraq and other warzones

It would be the height of ingratitude to turn upon my hosts for last weekend and in any way criticise them on this public forum, so please understand that the following is written with my usual care and compassion.

Many of you have been concerned about the absence of dear Tom from the blogging community these few weeks. I am happy to report that following my visit he is on the mend and may appear here again one day. I cannot divulge the methods and techniques that I used upon him, but suffice it to say that when I left, I think I detected the return of the smile to his wizened face, and we can all pray that he will soon be able to return to sophisticated society.

The highlight, at least from Tom’s point of view, of my visit to Dartmoor, was the visit to "the chair". I will return to that shortly, but for those folk from foreign climes who read this stuff, if you substitute the word “Alabama” for “Devon” or “Dartmoor”, you may get some sense of how those parts differ from the rest of the country.

It is very nice that the people of the moors are able to show their progress into the modern world in such quaint ways. Many of us would feel that we were vacationing on Craggy Island should we be offered a trip to “the chair”, but I recognise the importance of fostering positive self image in those less fortunate. I did not even mention that I have several chairs in my house, and some of them have been there for quite a long time. I am not one given to promoting my own achievements.

I can confirm that someone in their attempt to improve upon what God has created has put a chair in a field in Dartmoor. I refer you to the title of this journal.

*******

Many of you will be familiar with the kind of spam illustrated below:

Good day to you,
I am Mrs. Silifat Al-Fayadh , wife of Late Sheikh Dhari Ali Al-Fayadh (Prominent Member, Iraqi House of Assembly ).
I have a business obsure for you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Silifat Al-Fayadh

I, however, am tempted to reply. The lady should be told about the cruel trick her parents played upon her. She must have avoided the playground and probably found no solace until her marriage. Then her husband dies. I am not sure what obsure means. I hope she does not mean obese.

Tripping with Colours

"You can put your hand down, you great useless ponce, I told you last year that there is no part of the ceremony called 'Grabbing the royal tit'."

William is fearful for his eyesight. Either he will find his retina impaled on the barbed hat, or he might accidently get a glimpse of stepmother.

The shadows cast by the household cavalry endorse their awesome reputation, and explain the reasons for the rejection of so many applications.

Inspector Knacker and his men are as vigilant as ever. "Have any of you fuckers seen a tall geezer in a silly hat?"

"I'll give you a legacy, you dull twat. This is the third time this year you have insisted that it was fancy dress and left me looking like a tit. I just hope you didn't expect to get laid any time soon. "

Provide your own fart caption here.

Standing up in court

Back at home briefly on my world tour of deserving causes, I have to report on my sadness on the ending of the recent indecent exposure trial in London.
Every day a double entendre.
For example, on Monday they reported that they "hoped to wrap it up tomorrow". This is the BBC, mostly Radio 5. I hope they do all of this deliberately. At least the defendant, who was found not guilty did not have the bad grace to say that "it had been hanging over my head".
Another victory for justice. I cannot understand these laws. What kind of a democracy are we living in when a chap can't balance an aubergine on the end of his knob on the Hammersmith and City Line without someone taking offence?

Thank you for your continued support here at these times of sparse output. I will be back refreshed and verbose in due course.

A few things to gladden your heart.

Firstly, my old pal Ken Livingstone, Mayor of London, does not take kindly to people who do not pay their taxes, in this case a gentleman who thinks that he is exempt from the traffic congestion charge in London. According to the Grauniad, Ken has demonstrated his CSE grade 4 diplomacy by describing the American ambassador to the court of St James’s thus:
"What is sickening in this world is people who are venal little crooks like Tuttle, who gets treated with respect just because George Bush has rewarded him with an ambassadorship as a big kickback for contributions to his campaign."
I would not necessarily agree with this. I have difficulty with the word “little”.

Whole Foods Market has opened the first UK branch. You can read about it here. It is not without its critics, but is pretty high up on my list of acceptable faces of capitalism. I’ve been to the Austin branch, and I liked it. We should all pray that they overtake Tesco and Sainsburys as the leading supermarket within 5 years, and give us a sensible alternative to Hollocks and Bollocks as a place to buy good stuff.

And finally, here is the next prime minister.Isn’t he lovely. Proof, were it needed, that in a true democracy anyone can succeed. I do not wish to be accused of judging people by their appearance. It may be that there are pictures of me out there that do not present me as the charismatic Adonis with which you all associate me. And it may be true that unlike our colonial transatlantic cousins we do not go to the greatest lengths to find the biggest bloody idiot to be our leader, we do, at least, make some effort.

Some of the stuff God got right

I have found something to raise my spirits, after the recent bad stuff. May I point you in the direction of my old friend Anth, to try to put this blog back on course. I seem to have some work to do now, so I don't have much time for the usual careful composition that characterises these pages. Please leave a comment on Anth's page. He is very lonely, he has walked to New Zealand to try to find someone on the planet who could put up with his silliness for more than 10 minutes, and has had no success so far.

Some more of God's mistakes.

Sorry to be heavy and everything, man, and I will attempt to get back on course with the usual tripe later on today, even though I have some work to do.

1) Doddery Old Fart has decided to withdraw his on line services in quite a spectacular and theatrical fashion. If any of you other bastards think it is a good idea to die before reading my complete works, then please let me tell you it will just not do. You need to apply for permission, and it will not be given unless your name is Margaret Thatcher. Now go over to Doddery's site and leave a farewell message please.

2) This link was posted on my village website. Doddery has gone, and Bush is still alive. Shit.

A broad church

I am hoping to toss off something more interesting later, but I feel that I need to tell you about a visitor who found their way here via Theodore and Evadne Google's Bulgarian site who was searching for "young lady total denture".
I do so enjoy being of service.

Gladys Knight

I have been somewhat preoccupied these few days. Fortunately, little of consequence has happened in the world, and so you need not have bothered to read all of those newspapers.

Instead, I shall take as today’s theme, “Today in History”. Let’s start with something that you all know about, unless you forgot to do your prep yesterday. Today is the birthday of John the Fearless. Or it would have been, had he still been alive. His chances of still being alive are somewhat remote as he was born in 1371. They were made almost impossible by his living up to his name. Fearless is not a characteristic to be embraced. Had John been just a tad fearful, he might have escaped being murdered, but that is neither here nor there. You will realise, even if you are not overly familiar with European history, that he lived during the 100 years war - even less prudent to be fearless during such a turbulent era. What English boys and girls are not really taught in school is that the French eventually won the 100 years war. Despite all the nationalism and glorification of that prize tit Henry V, eventually the English, not for the last time, were kicked out of northern France. To this day they are only allowed back in order to rid the country of crap wine that any discerning Frenchman will not allow to pass his lips. The admirable thing about John the Fearless was that you knew where you stood with him. It was all in the name, you see. Similarly, his father was called Philip the Bold, and his son Philip the Good. It is not clear whether these names were on the birth certificate, or whether they were acquired during the lifetime of their owners, but at least you knew where you were with them. (I have to confess to not knowing what Philip was good at, and it is too late at night to look it up (my very good friend a Mr Trellis of North Epsom will no doubt know, but he is somewhat reticent about posting comments here), but he did have lots of children, mostly illegitimate, so perhaps that was it.) One of the French kings in this period was called Charles the Mad. Unequivocal. With good old Charlie, you knew exactly what you were getting. I am not one to pretend that things were better in those days, but at least you didn’t have to worry too much about the kind of person you were being introduced to. I can’t think of a single good reason as to why we have discontinued that habit. Of course, there are lots more of us these days, and so our names would have to be a little more precise to have meaning – I am sure that we would all like to be called “The Good” or “The Well Endowed” or “The Clever”, but eventually we would all know at least seven “Trevor the Tall”s and this would be confusing. So, let me know what you would like to be called. Something along the lines of “Kevin the Ever So Slightly Annoying”, or “Janet the Well Meaning But Hopelessly Indiscriminating”.

Today is also the birthday of Kylie Minogue. I have no interest in this person, but feel that having already attracted thousands of new readers with “Tori Amos Naked”, and still getting more than a few Beeny busty substance related visitors, that it would do no harm to include the phrase “pictures of Kylie Minogue’s arse”.

Free the Huddersfield One

It seems to be a day for silly news. A man has been charged with “possession of an axe near the queen”. Or something daft such as that.

Let’s look at the evidence shall we?

The last 3 monarchs (if you include the idiot Edward VIII) died of smoking related illnesses, although there seems to be some suggestion that George V was finished off by a cocktail of cocaine and morphine. Very trendy. Is there any suggestion that smoking tobacco is bad for you, and that it should be banned from public places, let alone near a monarch? Of course not, the very idea is preposterous.

If we ignore the noble heads of state who died of natural causes, we are left with the following candidates:

• George IV died of obesity. I feel a strange fellowship with him. Do we hear of a woman being arrested for being in possession of a lemon meringue pie outside Windsor Castle? No, of course not. Neither is it a criminal offence to own a bag of chips and mushy peas in Balmoral.
• George III died deaf, blind and insane. It could be argued that at over 80 he had had a good innings, and that the insanity was not directly linked to his watching daytime TV. But even if a causal link could be established, then does that mean that there is justification for imprisoning Jeremy Kyle? Actually, it probably does, so let’s skip that one and blame the demise of George on old age.
• George II died on the toilet. It is well known that the current head of the commonwealth does not use the lavatory, but there never seem to be any security measures taken to prevent her being in the vicinity of one.
• William II fell from a horse, broke his collarbone and died of resulting pneumonia. Horses. I shall be writing to Inspector Knacker and asking him to round up and incarcerate the Household Cavalry prior to this year’s Trooping the Colour.

Which takes us back to the only known victim of an axe, good old Charles I. I know that we live in uncertain times, but it seems a little overzealous of the security services to focus on some poor chap, innocently going about his axe-wielding business, particularly as it has been over 350 years since the last little hiccup.

A Doctor Writes

There has been a lot of stuff and nonsense in the media today about drinking and pregnancy, the view from the medical profession is that it is not a good thing.

I would take this further. I would ask people to refrain from imbibing alcoholic beverages for up to two years before giving birth. This will result in the conception of fewer unwanted babies.

Some culture for you

Lowering the tone

I am obliged to my friends at the Telegraph online who have reported that the compound which is the main constituent in Viagra is also useful in countering the effects of jet lag – specifically jet lag that results from flying east by six hours or more.

I am therefore asking for like-minded (is that hyphen alright for you, Dave?) entrepreneurs among you to contribute to my fund (currently £3.74) for building brothels in the arrivals area at terminals 3 and 4 at Heathrow, to greet the hordes of horny and invigorated Americans pouring out of the skies. If this experiment goes well, then there will be branches of the enterprise at all international airports, alongside the ubiquitous hotel chains, car rental companies and fast food outlets. I would welcome your suggestions as to a name, tasteful please. I hope to be able to advertise on television within two to three months. “Howhard Johnsons”? “Breast Western”? for the alternative market “Gays Inn”?

Those wishing to apply for employment, please let me know, in a discrete and polite way, your qualifications.

Extant trilithons and cutting sarcasm

First of all, may I, as a public service point out in traditional style: “He’s back, he’s back, it’s the same one!” Good old Dr Marx has resurfaced. I admit that his latest addition to the journal is a somewhat uninteresting essay about why he has started blogging again, but I am looking forward to resuming our friendship and it would be nice if you all went over there to welcome him back. You don’t have to make an appointment, his receptionist is only marginally irritable rather than aggressive, and the magazines in the waiting room are less than five years old.

Secondly, I read that some nice young lady from the USA has been inspired to find pleasure while doing the vacuuming. What a splendid example she is. All we need now is for Mr Hoover to devise a machine that switches into silent mode when there is sport on the television.

I have been listening to the wireless this morning, and am astounded by the waffle being regurgitated because some old boat has been set on fire. For bollocks sake. I can understand that if you were one of those involved in the current restoration of said ferry you would be a little annoyed, but in my view the restoration of the catamaran in question is in the same general category as home make over programmes on the television – the most useless and dull occupation of the Golgafrincham third of the population. I have heard the wails of grief of those who claimed to have had their most meaningful moments on board this vessel, how their lives will never be the same again, and how it caught fire while being chased by the paparazzi at well over the speed limit and so on. Now listen very carefully, I shall say this several times, but not necessarily in the same way. It is just a load of old wood. Countless thousands of schoolchildren have had their trips to London ruined by being dragged around this most dull of ‘attractions’. Had the owners wished to make it more realistic and interesting they would have populated it with disease ridden, lice infested, inebriated and vulgar Victorian sailors, who hadn’t washed for 3 months. That would have been a history lesson. Not looking at some old stuff. They are already talking about restoring it. Let’s hope they put sentiment aside and rebuild it with central heating, a home entertainment lounge with internet access, and proper plumbing.

And don’t get me started on Stone bollocky Henge. It is just a load of old rocks. And if those fucking rocks were dragged from Wales or even Argentina by a bunch of sweaty stone age labourers, it is just further proof that our ancestors were as bored as we are, and had to invent stupid stuff to do with their free time, much in the same way that sweaty modern labourers queue at B & Q of a weekend to pick up the latest fashion in brick and wood and dog’s arse green paint. The bricks on Salisbury plain do not even have the fancy bits of carving that excite poor old Dave so much. The sooner that some bastard knocks them down and builds a much-needed Tesco on the site, the better.

That tart Jane Austen has a house just down the road from me. I have not been there. Why should I? It is just a house, and a very old one at that. If the silly moo had spent less time fantasising about being rogered by the English gentry and slapped a bit of woodchip on the walls and added a nice conservatory, then she might have had more interesting subject matter about which to write.