In which I manage to ensure that I will never get a US visa, and not be invited to the 2012 Games.

In which Scurra bangs on about topics he has covered before in dull and boring ways. If you wish to read a rehash of his views on patriotism and the bourgeoisie, then read on.

It’s fucking started already. No sooner has Boris been handed the Olympic flag than he starts to glorify Britain and London. I would have stuck it up Moynihan’s arse, given the opportunity. Let me make it clear that I do not begrudge the successes at the recent games of British competitors, even those who competed in sports that I would not watch even if the alternative was to watch “An audience with Cannon and Ball”. It’s just that I don’t see any difference between their achievements and those of competitors from any place else (using the American form there to illustrate my internationalism). I pretty much only watched the running. There has been too much cricket, rugby and soccer on other channels for me to devote much time to it. The outstanding achievements at this year’s games were those of Mr Bolt from Jamaica. Virtually unbelievable. Of course, the British rightly can claim credit for this, having dragged his ancestors in chains across the ocean to conditions that seem more favourable for developing prowess in competitive sprinting. So well done, whatshisbollocks in the five a side carrot tossing, I applaud your gold medal. But “Team GB”? Shove it. “We” did not do well. I was not competing. Neither did I assist in any training or other supporting activity. The £2 that I spent on a lottery ticket in 2001 might have found its way to financing the underwater scrabble team, but that’s about the lot. The nice, cuddly, loving part of me hopes that the next games is a success, for the sake of all of the competitors, but if the price of that is to have to award gold medals to Bozza and his thick mates for synchronised smugness, then I hope all of the buildings collapse, and it rains for the entire fortnight, and for the preceding month. See Bozza in action at dear Raincoaster’s page.

Now, where was I? Yes, that’s right, Greensburg. I have eschewed continued use of American form, and avoided calling it “Greensburg, Kansas” because that is something else that annoys me. “Rome, Italy” for example, not that the average citizen of the world’s foremost superpower has a fucking clue where Italy is. Greensburg is the subject of a series on one of the Discovery channels at the moment. Greensburg was destroyed by a tornado, and the fine citizens have decided to rebuild it to the highest ecological standards. You would have thought that this would be a cause that would warm my heart and renew my faith in the basic goodness of humanity, but, alas, the series so far (and I have only seen the first two programmes) has done nothing but reinforce my prejudices against white middle class culture, and I use that ultimate word advisedly. Firstly, having watched an hour and half or so of footage, I have not seen any black citizens. (I think I did notice one person who looked suspiciously brown.) I don’t know why this is. My bias tends to lead me to believe that apartheid is alive and well in the mid-west. The inhabitants are all, of course, church going and Jesus praising. Ending their council meetings with a prayer and thanking God for his help, they overlook the possibility that if the supreme deity interfered in any way to aid them in their daily lives, then he might have interrupted his game of darts to stop the fucking tornado in the first place. I am sorry to admit that I also harbour a very strong desire to physically harm one of the protagonists in particular. He is a teenage boy who is interviewed at length throughout. I have to resort to American usage again to describe him. He sits with a huge shit eating grin on his face, spouting utter bullshit. As a treehugging pinko liberal I am not proud of my belief that anyone who harms children should be locked away for ever, and neither am I proud of my desire to slap this young man repeatedly around the face. May God forgive me, if he can ever drag himself away from the Kansas godbotherers. I have read what I have written, and can unearth no clues therein to see why these people irritate me so much. I hope that they manage to overcome the enormous difficulties that they face in sticking to excellent principles and manage to construct a green Greensburg, and thereby encourage others to follow suit. If, however, you juxtapose the life and values of these Americans with the lives of those portrayed in dramas such as “The Wire” (and yes, I know it is fiction you silly arse), you will perhaps understand why the phrase “Land of the Free” makes me want to vomit.

No, I shall have misgivings

I hope you all managed to see Bozza on the box yesterday, on a nice programme that helped him to trace his ancestry. Ignoring the more commonplace British ancestors, the story focussed first of all on his paternal line, which came from Turkey. He then went on to follow a maternal line through some minor German nobility, through the royal family of Wurttemburg – all the while Boris continued to profess his Englishness – until eventually this line was traced back to king George II, via Frederick Prince of Wales. (“Wales in Britain?” asked the Eton educated lord mayor). Bozza felt very pleased to find that he had English connections as well as all of these foreign chaps. No one had the heart to tell him where George II was born. I have eased off in my pursuit of Boris on his blog since they started censoring my contributions. This is neither here nor there. Clearly one thing that he does not lack is someone making him look daft.

I am pleased to report that my family history research has not resulted in my turning up anyone remotely famous, apart from a young lady from Crewe (cue Limerick competition) with whom you are all familiar, a tenuous connection by marriage to one of the truly great television presenters (I am not telling) and an actress who I once saw on the television (still not telling). Unsurprisingly, I have not found any foreign ancestors. As an internationalist this is mildly disappointing, although my great great grandfather (direct paternal line) was born in Ireland. What they all have in common is that they were. Common that is. Proud working class folk, riddled with poverty under the oppression of Boris’s smarmy ancestors. Inevitably, when I find Adam’s marriage certificate, I will be able to prove my relationship to all of you. Then I will be round for Christmas.

In addition to the Boris Johnson show, I have enjoyed watching the splendid drama series “Law and Order”. Not the USA one, but GF Newman’s plays from 1978. I have been trying to get obtain this for some time. You may be amused (unlikely) to see a correspondence relating to an early attempt to do so.

Grief boundeth where it falls

I was distressed to read in the Torygraph that the latest terrorist cell to be uncovered in the UK had selected among its targets the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. I know a little about him – nerdy looking chap who looks, quite correctly, embarrassed to be sponging off of the British Taxpayer (a Mrs Trellis of North Wales). The old Duchess, however, is not someone about whom I know a great deal. Obviously our paths have crossed in the days when I used to attend the family Christmases and such like, and I vaguely recall chatting with her for about half an hour under the impression that I was talking to Helen Mirren, but I would have been stumped if you asked me anything about her. All became clear as I trawled through the various sites covering the family. She is a Viking! The Danes, of course, upset our fundamentalist friends by publishing some unfunny cartoons a couple of years ago.
The Duchess is the third most famous Danish woman in the world, after Sandi Toksvig and Nina of “Nina and Frederick”.
I was astonished to learn how many vital roles she fulfils, and how difficult it would be to defend our country should she be blown up (blown up with explosives, rather than inflated, you twat).
She is patron of the Royal School of Needlework. How would our troops respond to a terrorist attack if they were all running round with holes in their socks?
She is Colonel in Chief of the Royal Army Dental Corps. Singularly responsible for making sure that our boys do not go into battle with braces on their teeth.
It seems that Inspector Knacker has again averted a national catastrophe.
Anyway, I have mixed feelings about protecting her and other Danish political refugees. The last time the Danes came over here they weren’t too well behaved. Cnut famously defeated Edmund Ironside (what glory is there in kicking seven shades of shit out of a chap in a wheelchair?) and is generally credited with bringing a period of stability, but until they reimburse us for some of the crippling taxes that my forebears were forced to pay, I think they should all be forced to live in Essex.

Ashton Gate

I thought that I might make up for my lack of posting of late by covering a subject close to your hearts – filth. After all, my frequent visitors here who come via the website of Theodore and Evadne Google usually stumble across this site looking for some sort of perversion.

First of all while scanning the TV channels this evening, I noticed that Channel 4 were showing “The Perfect Vagina”. I was somewhat alarmed on passing through to find Gary Lineker* in it, asking for suggestions for a new flavour – ideas included bacon and egg and pork pie – however, much to my relief, this turned out to be a commercial for crisps** showing during the interval. I rapidly moved on and found another program called “The Complete Cunt”, which was a biography of George Bush. Yes, it has been a long time since I posted, please bear with me while I get up to speed.

I saw a little bit of the Olympic Games today: it seemed to be a day for the lady athletes to be competing. It’s so nice that we give them a chance these days isn’t it? OK, so they will never be much good, but it isn’t fair to deny them a chance to win a medal or two, to hang up in the kitchen while they do the ironing. They are so much more attractive these days – the last time that I watched them competing the races were all dominated by androgynous eastern Europeans, but now they are much more representative of the female population. One thing that I did notice though was the absence of bosoms. I can see that have a great pair of floppy watermelons flying off in all directions might inhibit athletic prowess, but I think it would make up for that in entertainment value. I shall telephone that smug twat Seb Coe*** tomorrow and ask for the 200 metres triple D to be included in the London Olympics. Or perhaps the steeplechase with an extra deep water jump for the mammaralogically gifted competitors. I am too old for this sort of entertainment, but not too old to know what the public wants.

If there are any ladies who have not been offended by this so far, I apologise and would welcome suggestions as to how I might make it more unacceptable.

* for non UK readers Gary Lineker is Britain’s answer to OJ Simpson.
** for non UK readers – potato chips.
*** for non UK readers – learn the fucking language, why don’t you?

Fatter, dire, stranger

Unlike some of my dear friends out there, I don’t want to take up much space here discussing the nature of blogging, suffice it to say that I have found myself with little inclination to write anything these last few weeks.
However, this morning I was fortunate enough to listen to Radio 5 for a few minutes, and felt that it was incumbent upon me to provide some balance against the dross being broadcast.
Apparently there is some sort of sporting event about to take place in China. Some sort of competition to see which nation can best conceal the consumption of narcotics. I hope to miss it all. While I can understand that broadcasters might wish that they had journalists on hand to cover the quasi-sporting elements of this ridiculous spectacle, I fail to empathise with their stance that all of their staff should go to China as well. This is particularly true of the wireless companies.
The BBC has sent Nicky Campbell to China. Haven’t they suffered enough? While I can see the benefits of sending this silly person to the other side of the world, giving him airtime while he is there seems to be counter productive. This morning, Mr Campbell was on the Great Wall. The only difference that I can think of from the viewpoint of a listener (can listeners have viewpoints? What is the aural equivalent?), is that it proves that no matter where in the world the idiot is, he still talks bollocks.
This morning we learned that:

• There was no one else around on the wall – no tourists, a few security personnel. This makes sense. If I were inclined (and I ain’t) to go and look at a few old bricks, then I would choose a day when I was not likely to encounter Nicky Campbell.
• It’s the best wall he’s ever seen. (He told us that he hadn’t seen Hadrian’s Wall – this will vex Hadrian, Campbell is exactly the sort of person that old Hadie wished to exclude when he built the fucker). It would be entirely untrue and go against my principles of love, peace and tolerance to suggest that my favourite wall would be the one into which Nicky Campbell’s face had been smashed, but you get my point. (He also told us that he hadn’t seen the Wailing Wall. It would do more than fucking wail if it had to listen to that pillock.)
• Er…..
• That’s it.

We were then treated to an interview with Sarah Brightman. When the gods in charge of distributing names dished that one out they must have been having an off-day.
Ms Brightman is apparently singing at the “opening ceremony” tomorrow. She was asked what she would be singing, and replied that she couldn’t disclose that. This was her most interesting answer. Had she been involved at an Olympic Games before? Yes, 15 or 16 years ago. That would be 16 then, you dull tart, as the Games take place every four years and fifteen is not divisible by four. Answers to other questions were variations on the theme “I dunno”.
This event is going to be a real success isn’t it? The UK is showing goodwill towards the People’s Republic by inflicting Campbell and Brightman on them. I’d jump under a fucking tank if they showed up here.
One thing that Campbell said was that “China was going to be at the centre of the gaze of the world”. Of course, this sounded more like “gays of the world”. Which brings me neatly to the opening ceremony again. At this point, I need to make this disclaimer. I am a commy, tree-hugging, bleeding-heart, lentil-chewing, liberal big girl’s blouse. I don’t care what anyone else does, provided it does not hurt anyone else (without their consent). I hold all of humanity in equal disdain, irrespective of political stance, religious allegiance, racial group or sexual orientation. However, (and I say this as someone who has only had a passing glimpse of these ridiculous displays), the opening ceremony of the Olympic games can only be adequately described as a bunch of twats dancing around like a bunch of Kansas City faggots.

Must dash. The heats of the freestyle cardigan knitting begin in a little under 40 hours.

Something for the weekend

There appears to be a deluge of correspondence (it comes from a Mrs ILTV of North Wimbledon) asking me to post more regularly. Would that I could.
In the meantime, may I direct you to my good friend Willie for this weeks "I wish that I'd've writ that".

Inviting another Jihad.

Just to keep you going until I find time to bring some more relief to your suffering, I saw a newspaper headline today asking "Should women be CofE Bishops?". My initial response is "No, not all of them".
I hope that this helps.

Hands up, class, anyone who can tell me what this is

I recall an Andy Capp cartoon* in which he says to his wife “I’ve just read another article about how boozing is bad for you, I’m going to give it up”, “You’re going to give up boozing?” asks the astonished Mrs Capp. “No, stupid, reading”.

I feel a strange empathy with him, having perused the online Torygraph. Even in Kali Yuga some of these stories are barely credible. The first one concerns the criminal activities of an elected politician. This dastardly villain travelled to Iraq and purloined a cigar case belonging to a government minister there. Astonishingly, the Torygraph gives this footpad – who goes under the unlikely name of ‘Boris Johnson’ – space on their website to justify his actions. Johnson was educated at Eton. Can you imagine their giving the same space to Kevin Spode of Hackney to explain why he nicked a Twix bar from WHSmith? Or invite Herbert “Fingers” McGillicuddy of Salford the opportunity to inform readers of his motives in breaking and entering the premises at 77, Kropotkin Road, Wilmslow and tea-leafing a Ratsarse 7485 DVD player? I say that 25 days in the stocks at the Tower is the only suitable punishment for Johnson. Only when justice is done and seen to be done will our streets become safe. I have done my bit by searching down the blog of this Johnson cove and leaving him a piece of my mind.

Equally noteworthy is the story of Ms Pritchett, a schoolteacher from Alabama, who has been accused of having sex with eight boys. Not all at the same time, apparently. Whenever I read one of these stories, I am saddened that these studies were not on the curriculum when I was a lad. Young people these days have so many more opportunities. This chance has well and truly passed me by. Even the youngest of my teachers would be getting on for seventy now, and I am not sure that I could rise to the occasion, as it were. Anyway, Ms Pritchett was a sponsor of the Christian Athlete’s Club. I don’t recall there being one of those at my school. I would not have qualified for membership by either criteria, so perhaps I am destined to be unmolested. Ms Pritchett faces two charges of second degree sodomy. I was intrigued by this phrase. It occurred to me, briefly, that she was awarding marks in the subject, based upon technique, penetration or artistic interpretation, but on doing a little research find that it is to do with one of the participants being on the other side of 21 to the other. Another disappointment.

I think that is enough slander** and smut for today. I will not comment on the headline “Bishop urges clampdown on homosexuality”. That would be like stealing cigar cases from fascists – much too easy.

* Andy Capp – for non-Daily-Mirror-reading viewers - was a cartoon character based on an educated George Bush.

** Yes, Dave, I know that it is libel and not slander, but slander scans better.

Tenei Te Tangata Puhuruhuru

On the train to London today, I finished reading “War and Peace”. I should clarify that I did not begin to read it on the same journey. That would have been a very long journey. Or a very fast read. It wasn’t either of those. Oh no.

It is over 35 years since I last read this book. I remember being very impressed with it at that time. This time I have to confess to a sense of disappointment. I rationalise this by having read many more books in the intervening period (at least 3), some of which I judge to be more enjoyable than Mr Tolstoy’s epic. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy it, rather than I was much less impressed than I had expected to be.

In addition to “W&P” I have read Anna Karenina, most of Dostoevski, and “Fathers and sons”. I read “Crime and Punishment” for the second time a couple of years ago.

Like my comments on the scripture writers, I find the great Russian writers to be a fairly dour lot. There ain’t many belly laughs in “Crime and Punishment”, and Anna Karenina does not live happily ever after. I loved “C&P” both times that I read it (but still didn’t have much occasion to titter). I seem to remember (years ago) that “F&S” had much more warmth than the others.

Anyway, I was particularly unimpressed by Tolstoy’s banging on about the forces determining historical events. Almost as dull as those ubiquitous bloggers about whom we read so much.

In case anyone is wondering what happens in “W&P”, I can tell you that Napoleon loses. This is just as well. Had he not embarked on his campaign to annexe Russia, he would probably have conquered Europe, including Britain, and our culture would be very different today. Our high streets would be populated by shops selling “croissants” and “baguettes”, and “coffee shops”, instead of the traditional English Tea Room – hard to imagine, isn’t it?

*****

I was particularly fortunate to be on the railway network today. Someone had organised a “Guess the Twat” competition. I later found out that most of the competitors were on their way to Ascot, to watch a lot of other twats pretend to have some interest in midgets engaged in bizarre equestrian perversions. Twats. Later in the day I read an account by Alan Davies of visiting Lord’s during the Test match this summer. More twats. I can only think of one sporting tradition that I enjoy.

*****

On the way back, I began reading a book by one of my current favourite authors, James Lee Burke. Try reading the first two paragraphs of one of his books (not you, Tom, you fucking philistine) and see if you can see why.

If any of you had any hopes of becoming a successful author, then reading that will probably put paid to those ambitions. There are very few around who can use language like that. I love it.

I was also listening to Beethoven’s 4^th piano concerto. I recommend this as an antidote to atheism. By the time I got to Brookwood, I wasn’t half a million strong, but the memories of the twats in hats had vanished, to be replaced by much more mellow feelings. I should also mention that I also listened to Janis Joplin, just so that Tom knows where to start reading this little entry again.

You will all be very proud of me.

On way to airport to pick up in-laws.
Mrs S. "I forgot to bring any nuts".
Me: Nothing. Not a word. Nary a smirk. Zilch.
I will be giving lessons in self-control next month. Please sign up here.

I hope that this helps

Having spent the day away from the computer screen and interacting with others of the species, I thought I would share with you some of the wisdom that I have dispensed during the course of my busy day. After all, it would be unfair not to spread it around.

Friend to Scurra: “How come your wife doesn’t complain about you like mine does about me?”
Scurra to friend: “She’s waiting for yours to finish – it’s only been 20 years”.

Friend to Scurra and others: “When I was in India I had a thorough medical check – it only cost 5,000 rupees*. I asked the doctor if I was OK and what I should do. He said that I should take it easy – after work, I should have dinner and sit and relax with a couple of beers for the evening”. (Scornful laugh from friend’s wife).
Scurra: “You should have gone to the 10,000 rupee doctor, he would have told you to have sex as well.”

*5,000 rupees = approximately £60 or US$5,000.

Then on the way home I realised that, frivolous though I might appear to some, I was probably in the upper ranks of those offering advice. Having tuned in to a radio station that was playing nice music, I was somewhat alarmed to find that it was psychic help time. Some woman wanted confirmation that now was a good time to leave her partner. For fuck’s sake. I didn’t hang around for the answer. On consideration, these airheads can’t be doing too much harm. If anyone is chronically stupid enough to pay them any attention, then the chances are that any advice given would be better than said fuckwit could imagine for themselves. I think I might apply for the job. I could do that. Sit there pretending that uncle Herbert, who was congenitally thick and incoherent throughout his life had been transformed into a purveyor of wisdom as a result of decomposition or being burnt. I fear, however, I might be a little extreme. I am not sure whether I could keep up the pretence of revering the dead, a group of people who, by definition, have already made one enormous miscalculation.

Anyone out there need any help from the spirits?

For ILTV - our mission to educate

My dear friend introduced the idea of including cultural references in this blog.
I give you Wilson, Keppel and Betty.
Wilson became Labour Prime Minister.
Keppel changed his name to Dave and entered the ministry.
Betty shacked up with Geoff.

World population increases by 100

"George, you prize anus, I told you not to light that fire."

The mass media are reporting a “lost” tribe in Brazil being found. I regret the use of “lost”. I wonder how much their lives will be improved now that they have been “found”. Some twat will teach them English so that they can watch “The Price is Right” or “The Jeremy Kyle Show”. Some twat will try to get them to mortgage the fine dwelling we see in the picture. Some twat will introduce diseases they had never come across. Some twat will make an intrusive documentary about them. There are already queues of double glazing salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses and canvassers for New Labour on their way to irritate the crap out of them. Some twat will sign them up for broadband (at least I might get some interested readers here). They are, to use an anthropological term, fucked.

Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the great mass of humanity. Fucking up the planet faster than George Bush can talk bollocks.

I hope those nosy bastards at NASA don’t catch any Martians. They all moved to the other end of the planet when they saw the launch of the latest mission. They all have a morbid fear of that arsehole Frost asking “who lives on a planet like this?”.

What a silly girl I am.

When I lived in Crewe, not much happened. That is the kind of place that it is, and the residents, by and large, are fairly happy with that state of affairs. It is the sort of place to which one goes in order to do nothing. To be inconspicuous, anonymous and not given to displays of public excess.

How things change!
When I was there, not once was there an occasion where the Leader of Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition was fellated by a high court judge in the town centre. At least during daylight.

In fact, I do not understand what has become of the good inhabitants of the town. Any suspicion of such behaviour would have resulted in political rejection in my day. I suppose that I must be getting old.

I shall not be watching the news on television or reading newspapers until after the next general election for fear of being presented with a picture of Mr Milliband being buggered by a squirrel or Norman Clegg of the Liberal Democrats being recognised by someone. It is more than my delicate constitution can tolerate.

When I lived there, most of the things that were done to offend the sensibilities of the locals were perpetrated by me or my friends. I did not last long.

I would not like to give the impression that Crewe was some backwater. Tom visited once, and found it much too exciting, and quickly returned to Talke Pits.

Without wishing to be over judgemental or hasty, it appears that Crewe has elected the sort of representative that it deserves.

Heard it before, but this is quite articulate.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - Part 19

You will all have been in sympathy with me these last few days because of the enormous pressure that I have been under to attend today’s event at Windsor. The telephone has turned white with constant ringing, the air has turned blue, and my face is bright red through constant bellowing at various members of the family. “Fuck off, Anne, you daft bint”, I exclaimed, “I am not going, you know why I am not going, and I will not go even if you run out of Union Jacks”.

Some prize tosser gave the idiot father of the groom my number. I had sincerely prayed that I would never have to spend time talking to the buffoon again, but no such luck. The first time he called I affected to be the proprietor of the “Curry Favour” restaurant in Datchet. The twat called back two minutes later to order a beef Jalfreeza and a Peshwari naan. I told him the only meat we served was Welsh lamb – a reference to his ancestry that I have mentioned before, and that did the trick for a couple of days, until those memories had fallen off of the stack. When he called back, I followed dear old Bron’s advice and whistled down the telephone: that worked, “Sorry old chap”, he muttered, “got to go for a pee”.

Autumn joins in the frantic search for the sun-glasses.

Of all of the grand-offspring of Liz, I have always been strangely fond of Pete. He is totally harmless, and is quite good at filling up a room – I always counselled them to get him a career as an item of decorative furniture, but do they listen? Naturally he wanted me to be best man. “Sorry, Pete, my old flower, but haven’t they told you? Protocol demands that you get a professional", and I gave him the number of a gentleman called 'Jeremy Twink', who, apparently not only gives an interesting speech but concludes with an unusual dance.

I heard the bride-to-be in the background during several of these calls. She is a colonial management consultant. I had always hoped that Canada was populated by citizens too intelligent to allow this sort of role to be adopted. It probably cost them a fortune to find some gullible foreigner on whom they could dump her. “We need to synchronise our synergies”, I overheard on one occasion. “She’s really good with hors d’oeuvres” was Peter’s explanation. Daft sod.

Autumn continues to wear her portable satellite dish, so that she can keep up with the hockey scores. Today, the Moose Knob Sealclubbers are playing the Calgary Mincers.

Out of kindness, I finally managed to persuade Peter that he should record the Cup Final and watch it later, rather than listening on an earpiece during the ceremony. His team, Cardiff City, are the underdogs, and he is prone to join in with the chanting of the crowd particularly when things are not going well. I told him that the exclamation “Who’s the wanker in the black?” would not be taken well by the Right Reverend Fortescue, and nor would “You’re not singing any more” be viewed kindly as the Windsor Mountbattens struggled through remembering the words of the National Anthem.

Ronnie and Mildred

After a somewhat tiring journey into London today – and Boris has made bugger all difference – I was delighted to return to a nice present from my dear friends, Mr and Mrs Ginn. It was a copy of their delightful book based upon their blog, describing their trip around the world, which I have told you about before (pay attention at the back, that boy, and put that away). To read the blog, I think that you have to be a member of myspace. You certainly do have to belong in order to comment. I realise that the majority of the readers (aMToNW) are too sophisticated for that particular network, but the Ginns have some nice stories to tell.

Anyway, in short, they spent several months circumnavigating the world, sponging off of some of the world’s poorest communities, taking unsavoury diseases to new places, gate-crashing some private functions and setting back international relations by several millennia. They have, wisely, chosen to include the comments made by those caring individuals, such as Tom, Donn and a Mr Scurra of North East Hampshire, to help them through the most trying times.

None of you (apart from Tom who shares my woeful lack of discrimination when it comes to selecting friends) will be able to read it and see the lovely pictures, because it is not for sale.

So many of you seem to be in print, that I feel strangely moved to produce a book of my own. But I won’t, being bone idle.

Open your wallets and repeat after me: "Help Yourself"

For those of you who would like to contribute to the latest disaster appeals, then the site in the UK to get your funds converted most quickly to the appropriate place is the Disasters Emergency Committee.
They concentrate on the latest appeals, and quickly get a specific fund set up within hours of a disaster. Having said that, there is nothing on line for China at the moment, but I expect that they have a fund if you want to pay over the telephone.
They work with all of the leading relief charities.
I made the mistake of donating through my favoured charity last week, and my credit card has still not yet been charged.
DEC accepts on line donations, is a registered charity so that you can add gift aid to your donation if you are a UK taxpayer. My guess is that is fine for non UK donators as well - you will need to quote a sterling amount - and may be the best international collection point.
Happy donating.

I've fallen off of my chair again, Brian.

A quick sporting note, while it is still the weekend when no bugger reads this.
A heartwarming end to the football league season here, where the team with most flair, skill, entertainment and vastly improved sporting behaviour won. The current Manchester United team are among the best teams I have ever seen, and quite possibly the best club team. It would be silly to try to be objective about it.
It may not be very sporting to deride the runners up, but it was very heartwarming to see Chelsea fail. Never can a man have wasted so much money as Roman Abramovich, no matter how many trophies Chelsea go on to win. They are dull, unadventurous and mechanical. Never can so much talent have been assembled with the result being such a highly forgettable team. I wish they would bugger off and play in Italy where their style would fit in. To borrow from Mr Shankly, if they were playing in my back garden, I would close the curtains.

Phew! What a scorcher!

I am feeling remarkably sanguine, against all the odds you may say. I look at it this way, one of the bastards is going to be the death of me, so I am wasting my time concerning myself about the identity of the specific individuals.

I am likely to die of heart failure, brought on chiefly by those caring people who have offered me work during my adult life, and included stress as part of the package. Their insistence that I work at a desk with a computer screen on it for long hours, instead of gaily skipping down the lanes of North East Hampshire, further compounds their guilt.

I may suffer an aneurism of some sort by venting my ire on those fellow beings who annoy me. There are not many of them, and they have no lasting impact, so that is unlikely.

I am perhaps likely to contract some tumour or other brought about by pollution created by the running dogs of capitalism whose greed outranks all concern about humanity and the future of the planet.

None of these options are particularly attractive. There is little chance of my dying peacefully while caressing the buttocks of Goldie Hawn, and even less while watching Tom Graveney compile a beautiful not out 120 at Worcester, as the saintly man’s playing days are almost certainly over.

There is an element of irony, however, in the possibility that we will all perish together when Professor Gonadwit and his team of nerds in Geneva put a shilling in the meter and activate the Large Hadron Collider this summer.

To digress briefly. I do not know whether it is the Hadron or the Collider that is large. I don’t know how big a typical Hadron is, nor a Collider for that matter, so have no clue how to distinguish a large one from an average one. I do not know what a Hadron is, what colour it is, what it likes for dinner or whether it supports Arsenal rather than Spurs. I understand the concept of collision. Collisions are things that, all things being equal, I prefer to avoid. Some twat has spent several fuckillion dollars building a device to encourage collisions. Obviously not acquainted with the concepts of love and peace.

They continue to reassure us that the creation of a black hole that will consume all matter with which it comes into contact is a very small risk. That’s OK then.

What still, kind of, baffles me, is why someone has given all of this money to these people. (I used the qualification “kind of” there because it does not really baffle me. The propensity of our race to act with the utmost stupidity is so obvious that only a very naïve person would be baffled.) These are physicists. They are revered because they speak of things that no one else understands. When I was young, speaking of things that no one else understands was called 'being mental'. Would you give a physicist limitless amounts of money for experimentation? Think back to your physics teacher at school. Try to form some idea of how much you would trust him/her/it. Would you allow them to run the country? No? How about being head of a large business? No? Would you let them teach physics in your Alma Mater? No? Would you lock them in a room and never let them out?

We had one chap at school (there may have been more, who knows?) who showed an aptitude for science. I will call him “G”. He was very bright, and was suspended from school for a time because he had “borrowed” some equipment for an experiment. This experiment (and I am very hazy about the details) involved a very loud noise (heard a mile away perhaps), a garden shed, and a hole in the roof thereof. Or something like that. I am happy to report that G is no longer a physicist but a computer professional. Those of us who belong to the group (loosely, in my case) of IT professionals, have a deep common understanding that what we do is of very little consequence and mostly harmless.

So, how shall we celebrate the end of the world? We have already elected Boris to be Mayor of London. We are celebrating the epitome of sporting fairness by staging the Olympic Games in the back garden of one of the world’s most totalitarian regimes. We are quibbling about what we should do about our poisoning the planet, and will do anything to stop that process as long as we can drive there to do it.

I shall continue to record all of this in Kaliyuga Kronicles. I expect that, in several billion of our years, another civilisation will find my writings, introduce them to the school curriculum, and use them to educate their young, but also to provide endless hours of bowel emptying laughter at the antics of homo sapiens.

Bozza up and running

It had been some time since Boris had used public transport, and was puzzled to find that there were now conductors on the underground. WPC Golightly tried hard to suppress her delight - she had bet £10 that PC Williams would break at least 2 of Boris's fingers.


*****

The Torygraph reports that Boris is taking advice from the LA Police Commissioner on how to cut down on crime. Excellent! No doubt he will be taking advice from the mayor of Delhi on how to cut down on poverty and homelessness, the mayor of Mexico City on how to reduce pollution and the mayor of Tehran about equal opportunities.

Clarification

Another kick in the testes for progress

I have been quick to congratulate our old friend on his wonderful success, at his web site.
Bugger me, Boris, it wasn’t a joke after all! That’ll show the Americans eh? They’re not the only ones able to voter bunglers into high office. As a regular reader do I get a free tube pass or will the handouts only be for the rich, corrupt and Tory voters?
For a more measured political analysis go and see Reg. He seems very cross for some reason.

In the very temple of delight

I am often asked by readers here (aMToNW) where my writing career began, and who were my influences.

Laurie Lee.

A man who wrote such utter sentimental twaddle that I was forced to abandon my usual surly teenage response to being asked to write a criticism – usually variations on a theme of “boring” – and write a parody.

It began something like “I remember, as a boy, running home through the village beating up old ladies, the way that boys do.” I may even have taken care to avoid repetition of the word “boy”, but I suspect not, as I only got an A-.

Inspired by this, I was driven to contribute to our school underground magazine. The magazine was called “Juggle”, due to this monstrosity that some vandal had glued to the front of the school. The culprit was an “artist” (artist in the sense that Laurie Lee was a writer) called Peter Peri. A working title for our magazine was hence “Perineum”, but this was later abandoned as being a little too close to – you know what I mean. It was here that I honed my style of lazy juvenile trash, and I have clung to that style these forty years. I have not become more sophisticated, intelligent nor wise in my writings. Of this achievement I am very proud.

One of the targets of in almost every issue of “Juggle” was Keats - always referred to as “The poet Keats”. I do not know why this form was compulsory, I suspect it derived from observation of the linguistic quirks of one of the English teachers.

I have never understood why Keats is so admired. He had little to say, (and when I say 'little' I am erring on the side of generosity) and said it in a dull and verbose way.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever”. No it fucking ain’t. It will crumble and return to dust like all things, including us. Impermanence is our condition, and a concept with which we never seem to be able to come to terms. Even I, sitting here in this perfectly honed and glorious frame, the epitome of evolution, if you will, will one day be fertiliser for a beech tree or chrysanthemum. So, bollocks to the poet Keats.

The poet Keats? Boring in 1967 and still boring today. Will that do, Miss Turner?

Bozza for mayor? Laugh, I nearly went to London.

Until I get back into the flow of writing again you will have to entertain yourselves.
Today's competition is to post an entry here, and to get it published.

Prizes for anyone who can make sense out of this.

I hope that none of you missed the rather bizarre new episode of “Lewis” that was on at the weekend. Intriguingly they have moved it to Sky Movies. I think this is a good thing. There are less advertisement breaks. This means that the fucking thing is finished more quickly.

Anyway this episode was almost surreal. It was called “Becoming Jane”. Hathaway went undercover to infiltrate a group of loonies, one of whom thought she was Jane Austen. This poor deluded woman (played by an actress called Hathaway – what the fuck are they doing?) may have dressed as the silly old trout Jane Austen (she is a neighbour of mine, as you well know) but had none of the wit or dexterity with words. Poor Hathaway was meant to get into her knickers, (in the usual rather than the literal meaning of that phrase), but obviously failed, as he was pining for Lewis. It must have been agony for him. I am not sure where Lewis was in this episode. Perhaps he was so deeply undercover that I failed to spot him. However as no one was murdered (the majority of the action took place in North East Hampshire, after all) there was no need for him. Had I been the director then that is one thing that would have been remedied. There are few scenes less likely to have me yelling for a serial killer or a troop of psychopathic Samurai than a circa 1800 country house ball. What a bloody dire scene that was, a bunch of upper class twats moving around exchanging meaningful glances. Either a troop of psychopathic Samurai or Sid James would have done the trick.

I have a slight suspicion that the splendid Kevin Whately may actually have been the female lead, although, if this was the case, then the relationship between Lewis and Hathaway was very strange indeed. I give up. My reason for suspecting this is that the loony who thought that she was Jane Austen often lapsed into an accent that I could have sworn was Geordie. Even stranger, Hathaway’s undercover character was called “Wisley”, which is almost an anagram of Lewis. In one scene, the lead female, who may have been Lewis, joined in a game of cricket. Had she managed to get into the England team, her nickname would have been “Lewisy”, which would have been an anagram.

I really don’t understand what was going on. Perhaps one of you more familiar with the homosexual lifestyle would care to comment and perhaps remove some of my confusion.

I am sorry if all of this is less than lucid. (Not that anyone would have noticed the difference).

Anyway, the episode also featured Maggie Smith and Ian Richardson, and managed to completely avoid using their thespian excellence – quite an achievement.

One of the main threads of the plot seemed to be a conceit that suggested that Jane Austen had a bit of a shagless affair with that bloke out of “Shameless”, and drew on this relationship in order to produce her literary works. What a load of bollocks. They will continue this theme with Shakespeare bumping off his missus in order to find inspiration for Othello, Dostoevski murdering old women and Dickens being guillotined.

More worryingly, if this experiment proves successful (and who is to say what criteria equate to success when we are presented with such dire entertainment) then the next episode of Lewis might find him and Hathaway relocated to North East Hampshire. I suppose that they have already bumped off every academic in Oxford, so why not. If they do move down here, then I shall be more circumspect about my home security – evidence suggests that no one is safe with those two clowns in senior positions in the local constabulary. Please be vigilant. If anyone does manage to bump off Ms Austen, then I am the obvious next in line. I have often considered a career on the stage or screen, but don’t really fancy playing a decaying corpse while Lewis and Hathaway mince around discussing my soft furnishings.

Is it possible for scientists to co-exist with normal people?

Yes, apparently.
This takes just under 20 minutes.

I bloody nearly got him that time, didn't I?

Before I launch into an attack on the padre, let me first mention that I know that he has been less than well, and I wish him a speedy and complete recovery.
Wishes also to Sharon, who has been in hospital, and is not yet back on line.
Similarly, Pamela has been overdoing it, and consequently been more than a little run down. Best wishes to the dear, lovely old ratbag.
Zoe is also back up and posting, nice to see her getting better, if not better-tempered.

(that’s enough good wishes. Ed.) So the rest of you can just bloody well pull yourselves together.

I have grown to rely upon Dave to point out important dates in the calendar, so you can imagine my shock when he failed to report the first day of summer, which fell on Wednesday.

For those of you unfamiliar with saint’s days and so forth, I probably need to remind you that the first day of summer is marked by the arrival on my doormat (or, in this year’s case, in a slightly non-conformist manner, in my garage), of Wisden. This year I have opted for the new(ish) large size, partly to show that I am not so far a victim of old age that I am afraid to flaunt convention. Let me be even more controversial by saying that there are parts of it that I never read in full, and seldom refer to. The section on the laws of cricket is fingerprint free in every copy that I have. I do not have much time for religions that are full of “do”s and “don’t”s.

Whether cricket evokes memories of glorious June sunshine at Grace Road, or 98 gallons of rain on a cold April morning in Chesterfield it is the True Faith that unites us all. No one who ever witnessed a Tom Graveney cover drive can seriously question the nature of the Almighty or fail to understand the meaning of life.

Music, words and parrots.

Have I told you how much I like my ipod? (That was a rhetorical question, you moron, I am going to tell you anyway). It is lovely.

One of the many advantages is that it cuts out external sound. Let me be specific. If there are good earphones, and you put the appropriate end in your ears, and attach the other end to an ipodic device, having taken care to switch it on and play some sounds on it, it means that the telephone conversation of the vile old ratbag 7 rows of seats away in the railway carriage will no longer be audible. You may consider that not knowing how long it will be before he/she reaches home, how well the presentations went and what Anthea said to her in the office might be detrimental to the completeness of your collected knowledge, and I would defend your right to this view, however misguided, but, so far, I have managed to get through the day furnished with ignorance.

I have two thousand nine hundred and eight tracks of music on my ipod. That will get me to my office and back about a thousand times before I need to start again. I use the shuffle feature, which means I never know what is coming next. It is always very exciting, because I have chosen all of the music and know that whatever comes next is something that I like. (User tip – don’t add any music that you don’t like.) So far I have avoided singing along. I wouldn’t mind singing along, but amongst the many traits stored in my genes is a mild form of tone deafness, which means I will never be a professional singer and, unlike Barry Manilow, choose not to inflict my vocal talents on the rest of humanity. (Most of my mother’s family possess/possessed this defect. My mother was profoundly tone deaf and dumb. She could not recognise any piece of music. I had an uncle who was a minister, and he had to hold his hand over the microphone while hymns were being sung in case the congregation took flight.) I also suppressed, today, the desire to get up and do an idiot dance on the 12:53 to West Byfleet when Hawkwind suddenly began to play one of their charming ballads.

However, I recognise a slowing down in my desire to collect the latest boy’s toys. This is a welcome relief. It would be awful to have as one’s last regret the lack of the latest entertainment device among one’s possessions. As it is, I look forward to spending many years at the “Sunny Catheter” retirement home with only my ipod, the complete “One Foot in the Grave” DVD series and a slow internet connection allowing me to keep abreast with the latest news of the health of the Rev. Dave.

Rol has been naughty of late, trying to provoke me by mentioning “Morse” among his top ten UK television series. Not only did I not join in, I even fought away the temptation of doing my own top ten. I have to confess this was not only due to my declining number of “bloke” cells, but also because I realised I would have to list at least 25, and would never have managed to put them in a satisfactory ranked order. Anyway, Rol has a little competition that requires only six words, so most of you will be able to join in with that. (Tom, the aim of this is to sum up your life in six words. I can lend you four if you are struggling.) Please go and join in.

Finally, this highly reliable news source has an amusing little tale. I urge caution in believing everything here, though, because they have got the caption wrong in the first picture. The parrot is on the left.

Coming soon - rhino wrestling from Alice Springs

Following on from the recent tale (brought to you by the leading provider of human interest stories on the net (that's enough self-glorification. ed.)) of the snake-punching Sheila from south Queensland (that's enough strained alliteration. ed.) I now introduce Mr Norm Moreen, a typical self-deprecating Aussie bloke, whose idea of a fun night out is to jump on a crocodile and poke it in the eyes. I'm not really sure why this made the news. I have chased many a cat - including toms! - out of my garden, but I don't get the fucking Grauniad coming round with a posse of photographers.