The king who died on the toilet

I am aware that my blog is neglected. My current excuse is that I have been giving evidence in the long running inquest into the death of Ann Boleyn, now entering its four hundred and sixty second year. I have been demonstrating that the only logical explanation of her death is that she was running too fast down the corridor at Hampton Court, trying to escape from an over-eager portrait painter, when she ran into a pillar and her head fell off. It is ludicrous to suggest that King Henry had anything to do with her demise. What did he have to gain, apart from the expense of another wedding?

So, in order to make amends, I have made some sexist remarks on Pam and Ziggi’s blogs, been very rude about dear Dave (although Richard, bless him, claimed not to understand me) and am wondering whether that qualifies as my midweek quota.

This evening I watched the televisual entertainment “City of Vice”, I think it was on channel 4. It is based on the formation of London’s first, small, police force the Bow Street Runners. I am not familiar enough with the history of that time to comment on how accurate it is. Suffice it to say no-one said “We’re the Runners, and we haven’t had our breakfast” - there were no sedan chair chases, although there was the usual amount of police brutality. I know very little about George II, who was the monarch at this time, and I expect that the same is true of the non-historians (i.e. the whole fucking lot) among you. He was king for quite some time, but is less famous than his predecessor, famous for not speaking English, and his successor, famous for being mad, but not too mad to see the sense in getting shut of the most troublesome of the colonies. George II was even overshadowed by his utter cunt of a son, the duke of Cumberland, and Charles Edward Stuart, who was also an utter cunt, but not quite so utter as Cumberland. I suspect that, in consequence, the TV series will be dull. It would be nice to have a really top class cop show on TV again. Who remembers “Strangers”?

Apart from all that only the Pope is in the news. He has been upsetting the good folk of some place or other who don’t want him to visit because he once said that it was quite right for Galileo to be tried for heresy (you couldn’t make it up, could you? Unless you were a physicist or pontiff, then you could make any old shit up and there would be thousands dumb enough to believe you). He has also got some of his friends to condemn Harry Potter. Poor old Harry, got to 18 and never got his end away (or is that one of the chapters I missed?). The Torygraph is asking its readers whether they have been done harm by Harry Potter. I still have an itch from the last encounter, but am not sure whether that counts.

I bet the majority of comments are about underage sex, rather than my deep insights into history. See what I mean, Tom?

A break in transmission

Despite the title of this blog, and the usual tone, there are some human activities that do lift my spirits.

May I recommend to those of you able to take advantage:
The South Bank show with Kevin Spacey, about what he is doing at the Old Vic.
(No, the theatre, not me, you dull twat)
Cranford with Eileen Atkins. Orgasmically good.
Big Fat Quiz of the Year.
The Karelia Suite by Sibelius.
The books of James Lee Burke.
Mississippi John Hurt.

(That's enough cheerful things, Ed.)

Normal bile pouring will resume shortly.

Congratulations America

We all said that you would not be able to find someone more fucking stupid than that twat Bush, but (thanks to my friend Son of Groucho for bringing this to my attention) it looks as if we were wrong.

What I done at Christmas.

Many of you, (AMToNW) ask where my wacky sense of humour comes from. Well, when you can drag yourselves up by your elbows (your hands are still holding your aching sides) from roffling at my latest little essay, I should explain that I have traced a very zany streak up through my maternal grandfather’s line to the Sleath family of Gilmorton in Leicestershire.

These few days I have been adding several hundred people to my family tree, having at last discovered the precise identity of my 6x great grandfather. His name was Gabriel. Many of my family are angels. His kinfolk (and imagine the long cold winter evenings in rural Leicestershire in the 17^th century) thought it would be a great way to pass the time to call about every 3^rd male Sleath “Gabriel”. They could barely wait for one of the Sleath women to expel a male baby before they set about calling him “Gabriel”, the sound of their laughter could be heard from Wibtoft in the west to Upper Bruntingthorpe in the east. As the Sleaths (most of them Gabriels), banged their heads on the floor in mirth, earth tremors could be felt from Willoughby Waterleys in the north to Walton by Kimcote in the south (not very far south, you may think, but if you go much further south you get into Warwickshire, where people are too dull to have amusing place names). You can hardly imagine their delight should an outsider venture into the village looking for Gabriel Sleath. Their little jape postponed the establishment of the modern postal service by decades.

I don’t know much about my dear ancestor other than his name, (his grandfather was called Gabriel; his great grandfather was called Gabriel; he had an uncle Gabriel; uncle Gabriel called one of his sons Gabriel), except for the fact that the silly burghers of Gilmorton were equally flummoxed by the inhabitants all having the same name, and therefore added appellations to the various Sleaths so that they had some idea of about whom they were talking. Any vestige or pretence of knowing about what one is talking has long since disappeared in the family.

My ancestor’s uncle was known as “Gabriel Senior”, his uncle’s son “Gabriel Junior” (can you see the cunning application of logic there?). My ancestor was known as “Gabriel Medicus”. Yes indeed. I checked that it was not some Latin phrase meaning in the middle, but it does indeed relate to the ancient art of doctoring. I am not sure what a doctor did in the latter part of the 17^th Century, nor do I know whether he had to have any qualifications. Perhaps he was just able to open up a surgery in his scullery, rescue a local witch from the bonfire and appoint her as his receptionist, and go about the business of mucking about with the corporeal section of the local humanity, having already messed with their heads by calling everyone the same name. Gabriel perhaps spent his time stitching up the split sides of his patients, having caused said injuries by telling them his name.

I am not comfortable with this. I have found no evidence of anyone of any wealth, talent or redeeming features in any of my ancestors so far, and don’t like to think that there were any of the bourgeoisie in my line. I hope that I can eventually trace my line back to Adam without finding anyone going to a grammar school (let alone a public school), or having a mortgage or being called Gerald.

So, when I get round to creating my real family history, Gabriel will be the local village hippy, burning incense, doing aromatherapy and Chinese massage. He would probably have been seen as the local loony. One day I might go to Gilmorton to find his diary. I will not be surprised to find that its style bears a remarkable resemblance to some other great work of art that I can almost, but not quite, identify.

This is the speech that I wrote for Liz this year, I hope that she uses it.

When I reached the zenith of my days of rebellion, having sacrificed the chances of a top rate education, and squandered more opportunities than you could stuff a hippo with (or ”than with which you could stuff a hippo” for those of you whose education was not squandered (twats)), and sat around typically watching Tom trying to decide whether getting out of his chair would ultimately benefit the cause of love and peace, I was of a cheery disposition, and optimistic that the world was going to be shaken by the new consciousness that we were experiencing.

Well, we didn’t end war, greed, poverty, misery. We weren’t part of a giant leap in evolution whereby mankind discover the mysteries of the journey within and resolved the arcane questions of the meaning of life. We didn’t manage to convince anyone that it was important to care for the planet, at least until it was too fucking late.

I am not sure how much I thought it likely that any of these changes would come, I suspect that like most of my friends I enjoyed being part of a distinctive rebellious minority (at least until it brought us to the attention of the drug squad) and took delight in the derision with which we were greeted by the straight world.

But one thing that I thought would definitely change would be the obsession with tradition.

I fucking hate tradition. I fucking hate tradition with a passion bordering on the psychotic. I really, sincerely hope that you all have a lovely time today, and every other day, but if your enjoyment involves any of crackers, silly hats, the fucking queen’s speech, brussel sprouts, saying “and all the trimmings” (FUCK OFF) then please do not invite me to be part of it. In fact, shove it. The same goes for your new year celebration and the fucking Scottish song (they only fucking composed it so that they could laugh at the rest of the world looking like twats singing it, there’s not much to be cheerful about if you are born in Glasgow for fuck’s sake). And most of all your fucking weddings with your fucking silly clothes, twatty speeches, bollocky confetti and whatever the fuck else some twat has decided is essential so that you can spend 3 million pounds on fucking dross. Thank you for your kindness, but I will not be attending.

What kind of deep rooted insecurity in humanity is it that makes it impossible to enjoy themselves without repeating meaningless rituals? “Oh, it’s a tradition! Dorothy choked on a chestnut the last two Christmases, so we’ve got to fucking force them down her throat until she turns blue, it’s a tradition”.

So, today, as you sit around your Ikea dining table having devoured a manky poultry carcass with “all the fucking trimmings”, and you are so amused by finding a coin in your food that you think your lungs are going to turn bright purple and explode, take a look at Uncle Norman, with his silly green fucking paper hat, playing with the fucking silly bit of plastic that was in his cracker and drooling down the new cardigan that Santa brought for him, and instead of thinking “It’s nice to see him enjoying himself” ponder on whether it would be possible for him to look any more fucking ridiculous than he does at this moment. You don’t have to upset him by saying it out loud, but pause for a second and think to yourself “You dozy looking old cunt”.

I hope that this helps.

Happy Christmas.

Overtaken by all of the joy

I was wrong. It is a time for goodwill to all men, and reverence for the sacred message.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 17

I was loathe to begin this little essay because I know how you all tire of hearing the regular christmas nonsense of my complaints about the Windsors and their persistent urging of me to spend the holiday season with them. I am, as you know, blessed with a patient nature, but many years ago I swore that enough was enough, and my first year at home I sent them all a biography of Cromwell. Camilla got a copy and without bothering to read it, telephoned to ask if Mrs Cromwell was the duchess of Cromwell like her, and were they related? I quietly agreed, and said that she should get someone to draw up a family tree. I said that I knew of people who could trace their ancestry back to the Norman conquest. She was really excited and said that maybe Charles was related to someone famous like William the Conqueror. Yes, I said, shocked that she should be able to relate William the Conqueror to the Norman Conquest. But I needed not to fret, because she then told me that her cousin used to go out with someone called Norman Conquest, and perhaps he was related too. Can you imagine what it is like playing charades with these people? They spend most of the time finding one of the staff to work out whether their title is a book, a film or a play, which is quite amazing since none of them have ever finished a book, and the only play they have seen is the annual panto - Aladdin – at the King’s Lynn rep.

Anyway, it was Camilla who has been disrupting my week again. She saw on the news that Liz is now the oldest reigning monarch. “We must do something to celebrate it, darling,” she oozed. I expect her motive is to set a precedent so that if she manages to outlive Liz and become queen herself (yes, I know, but you trying telling her), then she will be assured of a party. Her daftest idea (and I know you won’t believe it) (and there was some pretty healthy competition in that particular category) was to re-enact Liz’s birth by having her come down a slide and some curtains smeared in loganberry jam. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘undignified’ you daft bastard?” I asked the future consort of the head of state. “It was exactly that sort of stupid antic that finished off other contenders for the title of eldest monarch. See if anyone can tell you the story of Edward the second and the little party game of ‘what will fit up your bum’.”

Calls alternated between various members of the family wanting me to go to Sandringham, and those asking if I would act as babysitter to David Linley. The poor boy is the dullest company at the best of times – have you ever known a bright chippy? I told Liz I couldn’t possibly entertain him because I was out of brandy snaps, but I don’t think she got the reference.

Simple Sophie Wessex seems to think that she is the only woman on the planet to have given birth. She still can’t think of a name for him. I read that he will be given the title “Viscount Severn”. I told her to call him “Blake”. I might get away with it - I thought “Magnificent” was too obvious even for her, neither would it be particularly appropriate given his genetic make-up. I told her that she would be less tired if she put both the new baby and Edward to bed at the same time, and read them both the same bedtime story. It wasn’t entirely true, last January she had to be taken to bed with exhaustion when one of her birthday cards had a poem with more than one verse.

This is hilarious

For many years I have felt ever so slightly superior to those people who find themselves addicted to the internet. While I spend many happy hours poking around in the dark corners of the web, I have always managed to avoid obsession.

I have scorned those who cannot stop playing solitaire. I am a tad judgmental about the porn addicts (I turned down the invitation to appear on “Hetero Hampshire Hunks”, because I do not think that these sites are improving the lot of humanity). I have chided Tom about his escape into Second Life. I eschew chain mail, discussion group membership and anything that is recommended as being “hilarious”.

This morning, all of that changed. I have previously alluded to my fondness for the radio programme “I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue”.

Here for the overseas readership (A Mrs Trellis of North Wellington) are some extracts from the show:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/notts2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/mornington.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/charades2.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/rhymes.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/postcards.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/samantha.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/clue/clips/waiter.html

They are all very short, so have a good listen.

However, today I found on Facebook a user group called “I'm sorry, I haven't a clue apprieciation society”. The spelling mistake is theirs, not mine. I am hooked. They play the games online. There are something like 8000 posts on line. I have only justed started to read them all. I lolled. I lolled more than I have lolled for a long time. Repeatedly and often. I will never get away. Come in and rescue me if you dare.

Seasonal quiz

You can find out for yourselves by searching the internet why the lady was striking matches aboard a plane, but I doubt whether you will find out the reason behind these statements:

She was carrying safety matches, which the TSA allows in carry-on luggage. The matches are not allowed to be struck, however.

This year’s seasonal competition – it is in several parts – first prize “bugger all” – is to determine what the TSA thinks passengers will do with unstruck matches, then to decide what "TSA" stands for, and finally to see whether you can smuggle a gun on board by insisting that you are not going to fire it. Once you have got through that part of the test, I need to you to move to an unrelated matter, although points will be awarded for finding a connection, which is the problem confronting my friends at LiveScience.com, which is to determine why pubic hairs are curly. Do they know for a fact that all pubic hairs are curly? In order to pose their initial question I would ask for evidence to support the argument. Have any of you had anyone who may have been a scientist probing your nether regions (not you, Adam, wait a few years) recently? My memory is not what it was, but I don’t think that I have been researched. She told me her name was Penelope Cruz, and I believed her. Anyway, they know the components that cause the curliness, but not why there is a need for it. Any suggestions? Finally, can you come up with a suitable name for the newly born eighth in line to the British throne?

When you have tired of all of that, try this little quiz that requires less imagination but more erudition. I think Dave publicised it recently, thank you Dave or whoever else it was – I have been told about it from several sources – but have a go. If, like me, you have just been listening to Uxbridge English Dictionary on ISIHAC, then I would give it a few minutes.

Snarling in a festive way

My dear friend I,LTV has sent me an email offering to send me a seasonal greeting:

I have bought a pack of cards with robins on them
My reply included the sentiments:

… one with an original gratuitous insult would be nice - one gets so few these days. Alternatively, it will come in handy for the traditional "card scoffing" ceremony on Christmas eve.
I trust that they are pictures of robins, rather than avian corpses stapled to the inside. We don't even have a turkey here.

Mrs S does not really get into the Christmas spirit until quite late. It is not usually until the thirty sixth person has asked what vegetarians eat at christmas that she spews wrath sufficient to mummify a reindeer at sixty paces, while I am in full humbug from the moment the first christmas reference appears on the television. Usually fucking March.

At my local supermarket, one of the staff enquired whether I liked the Christmas music. Rather than giving a direct answer, I replied by asking if there was an axe nearby, and if so could she direct me to the source of the music. She told me that she liked Christmas music. I called her a pervert. I was mildly cheered, though, never having met anyone who could stand the muck before.

If I were to see anyone at Christmas, then card scoffing would be one of the highlights. To select the most vacuous, insincere, glittery, unamusing concoction of piffle from the many that my poor postman feels obliged to deliver to me. How I long for the days when friends would take the trouble to personalise an offensive envelope (I confess I did not do this this year). “Mr U. Queunte” was one of my favourites. Tom usually remembers, but he has stopped making much of an effort with the cards.

This year’s selection so far has been disappointing. No rhymes, no nauseating pictures, no unfunny cartoon representations of Santa; the only one so far with a chance of making it through to the scoffing final has glitter on the front. This has the effect of giving it the texture of sand paper. A jolly jape, so that as you reach inside the envelope to extract it, there is a sixty four percent likelihood of your epidermis being ripped from you nerve endings, but I doubt that this was the intention.

Mrs Wagner's pies

Moving swiftly on from the introspection of that last distasteful article, I am relieved to see that eccentricity is a pastime that spans the ocean.

I am delighted that my friends at WNEM in Saginaw, Michigan, have taken the trouble to report the following:

The 2008 Guinness World Records book honors the 29-year-old McKnight for living to tell about being thrown 118 feet after being hit by a car. McKnight was standing along a highway about 15 miles east of Pittsburgh on Oct. 26, 2001, helping victims of a car wreck when he was hit by a car doing 70 mph.

He suffered two dislocated shoulders plus a broken shoulder, pelvis, leg and tailbone. His injuries put him in the hospital for two weeks, followed by 80 days in rehab, before returning to work in April 2002.

This seems to be a lot of trouble to go to in order to get one's name in print. At one point I contacted the said publication in order to see how many more people to whom I would have be rude in order to gain an entry, but when I addressed them as misbegotten sons of rat’s miscarriages, they refused to furnish me with the required data. I will certainly not be bothering them again, let alone take part in any activity that might involve my discomfort.

The article does not mention whether Mr McKnight was an accomplished jumper of any sort. Nor does it say whether he lay there in agony until a representative of Guinness arrived to accurately measure the distance. It would be churlish to suggest that he took the time to crawl an extra few feet. I am not sure how long it took Mr Guinness to arrive, and I would not begrudge Mr McKnight a couple of feet in his condition. Had he shown a little initiative, he could have claimed that he had been propelled all the way into his hospital bed by the accident. Thick twat.

The only thing that I know about Saginaw is that it took Paul Simon 4 days to hitchhike from there. The song implies that he was travelling to Pittsburgh, a distance of some 290 miles. He must have been as good a hitchhiker as he is a songwriter. The drivers on that route were obviously afraid that he would read some of his lyrics to them if they gave him a lift. I estimate that he could have made the trip by being involved in 12977 accidents such as that experienced by Mr McKnight, assuming of course that each car was able to propel him in the direction of Pittsburgh. That may have taken more than 4 days to accomplish, but may have provided him with the suffering necessary to have the perspective to be able to write good songs.

I really hate this sort of post. I wouldn't bother reading it

Darlings, sweethearts, fans and sycophants.

I really hate those blog posts where the writer gets serious and starts to justify blogging, or making some announcement about giving up as if anyone gives a shit, but, not for the first time, I am being nagged to produce something new here, and perhaps you need an explanation or something.

There is an area of my life, not very central and not hugely significant, that has been full of crap these last few months. As you know, I am a great yogi, and am able to remain detached from most of the events in this world. However, having this large lump of crap around has affected my desire and ability to post regularly.

The crap is not serious, or anything that concerns me deeply, it is just there. I don’t want to write about it.

At present I am attempting, with very little success, to channel my brilliance into the creation of the christmas card, that many of you have been anticipating since February. It may be very quiet here for a time.

UPDATE

Kaliyuga Kards is proud to announce the publication of this year's festive greeting. Email your address to me if you wish to be a lucky recipient.

Form an orderly queue for my autograph

You will understand if I am unable to continue our relationship. I am now moving in more exalted circles.

I have just received this:

Dear Mr Scurra

I very much enjoyed your email to James Arbuthnot.

Yours sincerely

The Rt Hon Ann Widdecombe MP

Taking a stand for standards in political life

I have sent the following note to my local political representative. The time has come for those of us who value decency to make a stand.

Dear Mr Arbuthnot,

I was shocked, stunned and not a little saddened to learn, courtesy of the BBC television programme “Have I Got News For You”, that Ann Widdecombe has a cat that bears your name.

Would you please assure me and my fellow constituents that we are not going to be subject to an unpleasant news splash in the Sunday People or some such publication in the coming weeks, which would bring opprobrium on the inhabitants of North East Hampshire? I need hardly remind you that this is Jane Austen country. Even when Ms Austen wishes to shock us episodes such as Lydia Bennet’s indiscretion are not explicitly described.

If you were fortunate enough to spare a few minutes away from your busy schedule to view the television programme in question, you would have witnessed Ms Widdecombe calling out “Arbuthnot” in a manner not dissimilar to that used by the heroines in the genre commonly referred to (but not in North East Hampshire) as “bodice rippers”. I had to set aside the organic vegan eccles cake that I had been enjoying up to that point, and urgently have a little lie down.

I shall be posting this missive on the Kingsley web log, and on my own much more widely read (it has one reader) web journal.

I look forward to your urgent and completely rebuttal of any inferences that may be drawn from this serious and disappointing revelation.

Yours eagerly, (although not in the Widdecombe sense)

V. Scurra.

I am pleased to report that I received this reply:

Dear Mr Scurra,

I am sorry, but I can give you no such assurance. Ann Widdecombe (I am not sure I share your courage in calling her “Ms”) and I have been in discussions about this cat for some years now, and she keeps me regularly updated about its progress, but I have never met it, and I cannot answer for its behaviour. If, for example, it were found doing awful things in the bushes with neighbouring females, or began to slaughter all the nearby wildlife, I would have to bear the reflected publicity with such fortitude as I could muster.

Or perhaps you were suggesting something more? Again, I am not sure I share your courage.

Yours sincerely,

James Arbuthnot



Let this be a warning to all of you young Che Guevaras and Reg Pithers out there. Do not get close to your political opponents, you might find yourself getting to like them.

60 glorious years of opening kindergartens.

Take me now, Philip, I'm melting!

Crowds waited in silence outside the Palace, hoping to hear the royal orgasm.

Elizabeth was less than pleased to discover that he had used their wedding certificate to collect the autographs of the Tiller Girls.

I wish Batman or whoever the fuck he is would get a bloody move on, I keep thinking I'm a chess piece.

Bill had not yet noticed that the reading he was giving was not from the Bible, but from Oliver Cromwell's diary. Camilla would regret her little jape later.

"You can't possibly think that Clapton is a better guitarist than Santana, you silly mare!"
"Sixty fucking years, and you still don't realise who is the head of state round here, you lanky streak of piss. Watch your lip, or you'll be spending your twilight years in a nursing home in Salford."

You just can't go anywhere without nicking something can you? What are you going to do with that? As if we don't have enough bollocky pamphlets as it is. "Welcome to Llandudno" and all of that shit. Where are you going to keep it? We don't live in a fucking palace you know.

A political statement

Just say no

I thought that it was important to make it clear, particularly with regard to the debate over at Tom's, that there is no place for illegal drugs in our society.

Tom! Did you give this guy some acid when you were in the States?

While some of my correspondents agonise about their physical defects, I am pleased to note that the Telegraph on line has managed to come down on my side of the “Physicists: twats or what?” debate.

Once you have carefully examined the birthday photograph album of Charles, who has reached the age of 59 without once having a clue about what the fuck was going on, and, by the way, don’t be shocked by the startling news that he once visited New Zealand and once had a beard, as far as I can tell he did not have the beard when he visited New Zealand, that would be too fucking exciting, wouldn’t it? I mean, I had a beard once, (it was hardly worthy of the name, being light in colour and very sparse), but I would not have dared take it to New Zealand. There are limits which one should not exceed, and I pride myself on having a very clear understanding of them. You can find the Charles pictures by typing “twat in a kilt” into any reputable search engine.

Apologies, I got a bit over excited there. What I meant to construct was:
Once you have carefully examined the birthday photograph album of Charles, who has reached the age of 59 without once having a clue about what the fuck was going on, you can read all about the exciting research done by Garrett Lisi (this one has lots of anagrams “girlie tarts”, “is larger tit”, “girl arse tit”), who has done some careful experiments in sub atomic physics while surfing on Lake Tahoe. Mr Lisi has a doctorate (the subject is not specified), and is not possessed of a surplus of hair, but appears to be some sort of hippyish figure who has had a major realisation after his third tab of mescaline since he last slept. Imagine Neil from the Young Ones “Hey, guys, listen, no listen, I’ve just had this really cool idea about the theory of everything, right.” Or in Gazza’s own words:

"My brain exploded with the implications and the beauty of the thing," he tells New Scientist. "I thought: 'Holy crap, that's it!'"

Very much the reaction of the Buddha when he attained enlightenment, except he probably thought it in Pali or Sanskrit.

Even the normally sober correspondent of the Telegraph finds words difficult to manage:
E8 encapsulates the symmetries of a geometric object that is 57-dimensional and is itself is 248-dimensional.

There is a lesson here, be careful about reading this stuff, you might start talking bollocks any minute. Only strict discipline has sustained the clarity of my writing.

I have enclosed a picture of E8. Those of you familiar with the effects of ingesting lysergic acid diethylamide or its cousins will begin to understand the processes that Garrett has undergone.

All of this, if it is accepted by our deluded friends in the scientific community, will disprove “string theory”, as being too complicated. If they had paid more attention to this blog they would already know that. See my appraisal of string theory in a previous posting.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU.

Mr Lisi goes on to say:
"I think our universe is this beautiful shape."

Yes, Mr Lisi. Never mind the fucking shape, the universe is beautiful, and if these silly fuckers stopped trying to explain it and started to experience it, then not only would our children not have to sit through arse numbingly boring physics lessons, but there might be a tad more happiness in the world.

PS - you'll like this one, it only just occurred to me as I was passing on the good news to my fellow villagers on the Kingsblog. E8, as in "E8 too many fucking mushrooms".

Stick it up your subroutine

Most of you will by now be fully conversant with the sad news courtesy of my friends at BBC online that physicists have started to poke their wart-bedecked and misshapen noses into the world of computing.

One had hoped that by now they would have all blown themselves upon in their dismal experiment in the sewers of Geneva, but they probably need another 20 billion pounds to complete the experiment.

We are now faced with the prospect of replacing the good old “bit” with quantum bits or “qubits”.

You will all be aware that any phrase that contains the word “quantum” is highly suspicious, and that the word quantum is virtually a synonym for “bollocks”.

Those of us (aMToNW) who learned the art of computer programming in the days when you actually had to understand the code in order to get it to work, will have a great fondness for binary code and the simple logic that underlies it. We are now faced with the bollocks bit, or “bobbit” (insert genital mutilation joke here):
A qubit can also represent a "1" or a "0" but crucially can be both at the same time - known as a superposition.

This is a delight. We will now have to go back over our work of the last 30 or so years, and replace all of the “if, then, else” loops with “if, perhaps, sometimes”. Those of you with a jocular disposition will by now be say “well, that’s how the computer that produces my bank statement already works”, and holding your sides until someone comes along with a staple gun.

For those of you who think that I have a silly name, may I introduce Professor Artur Ekert – seems to be a few consonants short of an anagram – who is keen on this baloney. He refers to “massively parallel processing”. I have heard of this before, and even understand something of what is meant by it, alas. My understanding, however, is in spite of rather than because of the mangling of the language. Lines are either parallel or not. You twat.

Professor Stan Williams of HP has a slightly (only slightly) more sensible suggestion, using photons instead of electrons (just join in for a minute and pretend to believe in them), or light instead of electricity. So, dispense with your mouse and keyboard, and dust off the Aldiss lamp in the loft in order to optimise input.

Any room in Grantham for physicists, Reg?

Sal Mubarak

Does anyone know the correct term for two conjoined spheres? Hands up!

Many of you (aMToNW) reacted with kindness to my story from childhood memory some time ago. Thank you for all your messages of support.

But there is always some fucker who has to go one better, isn’t there?

Nothing like this ever happened to me. Nothing like this ever happened at my school. It is all so unfair. God, you are a bastard.

What a wonderful day for ...

I would just like to say how tickled I am, under the circumstances - have you ever been tickled under the circumstances missus? - to celebrate the 80th birthday of Ken Dodd. Those of you who have not heard of him will not find much on the internet to indicate just how funny he is. A master of his craft.

(Anyone posting negative comments will be countered with "He's funnier than you, fuckwit" - you have been warned).

And any pedantic git noting that I posted this about 45 minutes before his birthday can sod off as well.

Here's looking forward to the next 80 years.

Phew! It's mild in Surrey

There have been laments and expressions of disappointments over at Tom’s journal now that he has returned from his adventure, because it is anticipated that his excellent travel log has ended. This is indeed the case. Unless he has been smitten by the thrill of travel, the next twelve months are unlikely to see him venture further than Moretonhampstead to stock up on his organic corn flour.

Perhaps I, in my humble way, might attempt to fill a tiny percentage of the gap that has been left on the internet. I do not claim to have the insights and mastery of prose that Tom has, but there is a need and who am I to shirk my duty?

This morning I crossed the county boundary into Surrey. I know that there are many of you out there (aMToNW) who can only dream of visiting Surrey, but this is not an idle boast, and in fact I have been there so many times that it almost seems commonplace. I have found the inhabitants to be generally friendly – not dissimilar to you and I, and the customs and lifestyle quite easy to relate to. In coming weeks, should this item prove popular, I may be able to describe, in an objective and anthropological way, such happenings as entertainment - the car boot sale in Crawley, the cuisine – as available at “Ye Olde Tea Shoppe” in Dorking, and glimpses of their quaint ways – a journey into the zany world of shopping at “Toys R Us” in Woking.

Coming back into Hampshire, one is reminded of why those of us lucky enough to live here rarely find it necessary to leave for entertainment. Within a couple of miles of passing the county checkpoint, one is reminded that one is in “Jane Austen Country”, there is the internationally renowned “Bird World”, and the Forestry Commission Research Station at Alice Holt. A giddy mix of culture, nature and science.

The reminder that we are in Jane Austen Country is for the benefit of visitors from Surrey. You need not be reminded, I am sure, that Surrey borders on London, and the inhabitants are therefore in danger of picking up the sloppy English usage prevalent in that place. The sign is therefore a warning that estuarisation will not be tolerated, and that dangling modifiers should be left at home. Jane is seldom seen in public these days. The rumour is that she is being shagged senseless by one of those drippy middle class morons who are the models for most of her characters.

I always listened to my party's call and never thought of thinking for myself at all

I have to write something because that silly bugger Reg has changed the picture that my previous post alluded to. I won’t be making that mistake again.

A summary of tonight’s battle against the trick or treaters.
0 fatalities,
0 injuries.

Nothing exceptionally exciting, but an unusually high turnout. We seem to be getting more young people in the village. Obviously shipped in to boost the Tory part vote when the current population turn up their toes.

My gambit with my first visitors was to tell them that they looked ill, and that perhaps they should go and lie down. “Lie down in the road” I suggested. They did. I love dumb obedience in the young (see my earlier comment about the Tory youth).

A gang of about seven were next to arrive. This was lovely. I opened the door and let out a scream (not a high pitched one, but still more of a scream than a roar). They screamed, very loudly, in return. Really high pitched screams. I then affected not to be able to hear them say “trick or treat”. It was fucking loud. And even fucking louder the fourth time.

“Don’t look behind you” I said to one young girl, “but there’s someone really scary standing at the end of my drive”. “That’s my mum”. “Scared me to death” I said. You will note that I did not say “scared the shit out of me”, or anything else inappropriate.

My favourite was a few years ago when a couple of older boys knocked (I guess about 11 or 12). I greeted them with the scream also. “I’ve peed my pants”.

I’m still waiting up at 11.00, but there have not been any visitors for some time. I guess I dug too many holes in the garden this year.

Commercial break

Having failed, as promised, to amuse anyone with my last post. (My motto - "If you don't find what you like here, fuck off"), may I point you in the direction of the amusing little photograph at the top of Mr Pither's web log? I almost missed it. You can even read his blog if you want. He seems to be a nice young lad, who suffers from irritability and moroseness, but has the makings of a fine citizen.

(I mean the bit in the top right hand corner)

Is this bus going to Talke?

I was going to entertain you all with an analysis of a BBC news article about public transport. How you would have laughed. Not just lolled, but roffled, lmfaoed and bmsled. (I made the last one up).

But the BBC have done some retroactive proofreading, and changed the title of their quaint essay. It is about bio-diesel fuels, and the heading used to say something about passengers using their own fat. I was going to write about each bus having a driver and a surgeon on board. You would state your destination, and then have liposuction applied until there was sufficient fuel to reach your desired location. I was then going to explain that the headline did not really mean that, but that the scheme was that you could trade in used cooking oil on the bus as a discount against the fare. I would then have made some hilarious comments about measuring the oil, checking whether it was olive, sunflower, peanut or corn, and giving change in lumps of margarine. But they changed the headline, so I won’t do any of that now. Pity. It was going to be fucking hilarious.

String Theory in two seconds

In a week where both the eminent Kingsley Web Log and dear old “Son of Groucho” both give space to a damned silly video attempting to “explain string theory in two minutes”, it is yet again left to me to be the voice of sanity.

I can explain string theory in two seconds:

“IT IS BOLLOCKS”.

I will not give you the links to any of these sites, nor to the very clever sites that give the explanation of the theory of relativity in words of one syllable. The noxious body of physicists have given up on trying to persuade us that their preposterous claims are founded in science – that is patently stupid – and have joined the image over substance bandwagon by the use of dismally unfunny gimmicks.

Jacques Anquetil

I would like to make it absolutely clear that there is nothing even a little amusing about this story.
The women in question were quite correct in their conduct - invading the gentleman's privacy and reporting his entirely harmless activity. The headline is somewhat misleading. He did not perform the act described in court, but was in court as a result of performing the act earlier.
There will be no prizes for appalling puns or cheap jokes. Tittering at the back of the room will be dealt with harshly.

My cousin Westmoreland. I actually prefer "Cousin Caterpillar".

In order to catch up with this blogging business, I thought that it was about time that you received some education and benefited from my wisdom. I thought that as today is a day when a couple of famous events happened in history, I would tell you about them, and other things that I have found out by doing a bit of internet searching.

Every schoolboy knows that 25^th October is the anniversary of the battle of Agincourt, and courtesy of Bill Shakespeare therefore knows that it is St Crispin’s day. Most schoolboys also know it is the anniversary of the Charge of the Light Brigade.

Before continuing, let me just say that when I say “every schoolboy”, I mean anyone who was a schoolboy 50 years ago. Today’s schoolboys know fuck all, (not their fault, and not necessarily a bad thing) and are proud of it.

Let me deal with some international events that are not necessarily to do with England, but may have some significance nevertheless.

Today is Picasso’s birthday. As you will know I have little sense of appreciation for the visual arts, so what Picasso produced in his studio is of little interest to me. Some of you may be fond of his work. Others may say that it is complete bollocks. I say “Happy Birthday, Pabs”. I prefer Dali, who painted some freaky pictures, according to the song.

It is also the anniversary of the second battle of Dorylauem, when the 2^nd Crusade got their arses well and truly kicked. Good. The Crusaders were the medieval equivalent of Jehovah’s Witnesses, although a visit from them was slightly more exciting. They were under the impression that their particular brand of God bothering was worth slaughtering half of Asia Minor for, but met their match with the occupiers of the Fertile Crescent. The Saracens were not people to politely say “Sorry, we’re Church of England”, and quietly close the door. Oh no! “Come round here with your fucking Watchtower, you dozy wassock” was more their style, followed by a fairly definitive dismemberment, if you were lucky.

St. Crispin, was not, of course, English. He had a twin brother, also a saint, called Crispinian. What the fuck was the matter with his parents, you may ask. Malchristening (I will come on to that again shortly) is a guarantee of a less than happy life. Crispin is the patron saint of cobblers, so is therefore particularly welcome here. Him and his kid brother were tortured and beheaded for their troubles. I take comfort from the Saracens not having a monopoly in dealing with the boring doorbell ringers. Astonishingly, if Wikipedia can be trusted, this all happened in Belgium. You have been warned. Don’t go peddling your religious tracts round Zoe’s house.

Other foreigners who knew how to weed out the less desirable elements were the Bolvsheviks. In 1917 they captured the Winter Palace.

Today also marks the death of King Stephen. The only two things I can remember about King Stephen are from Sellars and Yeatman, and I have consulted that tome to verify my recollection. King Stephen was a mistake. He was also malchristened. I suppose in these days having a King Steve might be considered slightly trendy, but back then it was asking for trouble. I don’t want to spend any more time on him – let me know if you know anything interesting about him.

It is also the anniversary of the death of Chaucer. I was in form 4Y, and we did not have Dr. Adey for English. Dr. Adey got a Ph.D. for knowing stuff about Chaucer. As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to it. We did modern poets instead. At the time I thought that Philip Larkin was more interesting than Chaucer, so did not complain. I have never read Chaucer, know very little about the Canterbury Tales, but can tell you that their author has been underground for a few days short of 607 years. Ironically, the modern poets are all dead now too. Funny old world, isn’t it?

I have written before about good old George III who began his reign on October 25^th. He is to be commended for his policy of garbage disposal. May he rest in peace.

So, to the two things that some of us already knew about. (Are you taking notes, Adam?).

The Charge of the Light Brigade is commemorated for the two fashion items that originated there. Young men died there, but that is not memorable or we would have learned lessons from it, and wouldn’t be sending our children to kill and die in Iraq.
(That is the end of the serious bit, you can open your eyes again.)

Henry V. Another meddler. Got England involved in the 100 Years War. Tit. There was also a man called Henry Scrope who did something or other during his reign. I just like the name, OK.

Ooooooooh

Having trouble staying awake? Go here for an image guaranteed to drive sleep away.

I have been troubled lately by a memory of Miss Rumsey. Strangely, it is my only memory of Miss Rumsey, and stems from an age (no, not 34 that boy at the back) when I did not know where naughty bits go, but knew that what I was witnessing was very erotic, if I only knew what erotic meant.

Miss Rumsey, if, as I hope, she is still possessed of her physical body, will now be in her 70s. I very much doubt that she is still Miss Rumsey. If my memory of her is anything to go by, I expect she has seen out at least 3 husbands.

I was very young. Anywhere between 6 and 8, at a guess, and seated for school dinner at a table with several other children. This is very strange, because I can’t recall any other school dinner at my primary school. I can’t figure out where the room where we ate was. There must have been kitchens somewhere, but I can’t locate them in the mental map that I have of my school. This rambling has nothing to do with anything, other than the fact that I don’t know why this memory in particular should lodge in my mind when millions of others have vanished. Anyway, back at the dinner table, where it was a requirement that one of the teachers sit at the head of each table. The poor sods. On this day – and for all other days at primary school for all I know – Miss Rumsey sat at my table. I wouldn’t recognise Miss Rumsey, even as she was then. I have no idea what her face was like – it must have been reasonably attractive. I think that she had long dark brown hair. She wore a very tight skirt. It was knee-length, and probably virtually impossible to walk in. The next bit is very difficult to describe. My shortcomings as a writer of narrative will be exposed for what they are if I attempt it, so I need you all to indulge me. We are going to re-enact the tantalising manoeuvre that Miss Rumsey negotiated on this day in 1958 or whenever it was. For this exercise, you will need a simple dining chair, one without arms. Stand in front of the chair, with your back to it, and attempt to sit down, keeping your legs tightly together. If, like Dave, you are wearing a tight knee-length skirt when you do this, you will probably find that it helps. You will find that in order to achieve this with some decorum, you will have to swing your buttocks in a downward zig-zag movement. This is the exercise that Miss Rumsey performed on this day. Her curvaceous buttocks swung from side to side, accompanied slightly off-key by her generous bust. Had it not been for the chair back, the view from behind may have been even more startling. All that I know is that I was captivated by this dance. Never had anything had such a profound physical effect upon me. Fortunately, I was paralysed by the sight. At a later age I would have groaned like Dunbar at the sight of General Dreedle’s nurse. Eddie Stephenson. I remember Eddie Stephenson. I only remember Eddie Stephenson in this one episode. As far as I know, I never talked to him. I can remember nothing about dear old Eddie apart from this one incident. Why do I remember his name? Dunno. He was in the seat next to Miss Rumsey, and was not blessed by the paralysis that engulfed me. He tittered. His tittering set off several other boys who knew that they had witnessed something arcane and wonderful, without having any idea as to its real meaning. Miss Rumsey pretended that nothing unusual had happened.

I can only pray that all young boys undergoing the draconian regime that is the British educational system in this dark age are able to share the experience of being in the audience at a performance of something like Miss Rumsey’s dance. It is these formative experiences which make schooling beneficial.