Staggering through the rye

I am obliged to my friends at BBC News who inform me that alcohol kills 1 in 20 Scots. This is very good news indeed, as I infer that 95% of my caber-tossing cousins, my porridge-devouring pals, as it were, are immune to the effects of intoxicating libations, and can indulge with even less consideration than they had shown. Good for you, McTavish!

Papal nasal hair

There are many reasons not to go into the teaching profession, children being among the more numerous of those reasons. But for those with a strange desire to spend their working lives in the arcane and underground world that is the educational system, one of the prerequisites should be that one’s name be devoid of any aspect that could be construed as silly or rude. Should, for example, your surname be Pelvicthrust, or your name Mr P. Nightly, then a career in accountancy, where nothing ever amuses anyone, is what is required.
I was at college with one young lady who had a name that is guaranteed to make anyone from the age of 3 to 93 turn purple with mirth. She went on to become a teacher. I expect that she got married and took her husband’s name before she dared introduce herself to her students. I recall only one incident involving this lady that had little to do with her name. I was paying an all too rare visit to my college, and sitting in the canteen with six or seven other young men. The lady in question entered the canteen, and commenced to hand cards to everyone at my table, except me. She had been to visit an establishment of a discreet nature in a local town, and had been advised to invite certain of her closer friends to pay a similar visit. I had very mixed emotions; delighted not to have to make that trip, but concerned as to why I had not been in the group dealt the invitations. I shall not, because I am a caring person, tell you her name, but will say that I believe it is Lancastrian in origin.
My first chemistry teacher had an even more inappropriate name. I can think of very few situations in which the name would not cause embarrassment. At the time, however, the implication in the name was not in common usage, and I was not aware of anyone who drew sexual connotations from it. It would certainly not be the case today. I very much doubt whether she lived up to her name, and I am fairly certain that I would not want to find out. My memories of her are very vague, but I do recall a dislike of her that went beyond intensity and bordered on pathological loathing. She should not have been a teacher even if she had an unamusing name, because she was crap. Note how kind I am in not identifying her.
At my junior school there was Mr Horne. Today he would have to change his name before he considered passing through the school gates. At that time, again as far as I recall, and certainly in my school, there was no rumour that the gentleman was in a state of constant arousal.
It is Mr Horne that I want to tell you about, because he was a damned good chap. He didn’t teach me, but was the teacher given the job of coaching the football team. This is because he was male, 84 years younger than Mr Stevens and 17 stone lighter than Mr Nixon. Our school football team was top rate, and one of the best in the city. I used to go to the practice and training sessions that were held one evening a week after school. I was crap. Utterly, totally, useless. There was, however, never any suggestion made that I should not attend. There were a few of us who knew we would never make the first or second team, and would rarely get a game in the practice sessions, but we loved playing and were not just tolerated but encouraged. In my last year at primary school, the football team won every game in the league (not the top division) and got to the cup final where they narrowly lost. This meant that virtually every Saturday morning in winter, Mr Horne would leave the comforts of his hearth to accompany a group of raucous pre-pubescent thugs and their supporters to wherever the game was to be played. It would probably have been less fun if the team were losing, but it still showed a fair degree of commitment.
What, however, made Mr Horne so outstanding was that, in addition to all of this, he arranged a game for those of us who were regular attendees at training, but would never be picked on merit. The team consisted, if I recall accurately, about six or seven of us donkeys, and four or five good players. I loved it, even though no-one thought to pass the ball to me, I probably got half a dozen kicks of the ball in the game, some of which may have connected, but I was really happy and proud to be in a team which bore the school’s name.
This treatment is in complete contrast to the games teachers I encountered later - a bunch of ignorant, callous fascists who only had contempt for those with little ability. I would gladly frogmarch them all out of their piss soaked retirement homes, make them dress in vest and shorts and set the bastards on a ten mile cross country run.

So, thank you Mr Horne. I hope that you are happy and fulfilled.

Palmed off with relish

I was pleased to discover a message in my Thunderbird folder this morning from a dear old friend (a Mr Trellis of North Epsom). He informs me, among many such interesting items, that his daughter is studying English at university and is partially financing this by working in a hairdressing establishment. (Keats and Cuts? Byron’s Bouffants? Our Mutual Fringe?)

Of course, this combination is nothing new, I always enjoy a debate about English prose or verse when I wend my way to the barber’s shop to have my coiffure attended to.

The last few visits have been entirely been taken up with the works of John Donne. We discussed the combination of religious and secular themes in his work, his use of metaphor, how he compared with, say, Ben Jonson, (pause for inevitable athletics joke). Indeed, on one occasion we spent such a long time discussing in what way the sun could be described as a “saucy pedantic wretch” that I had to wear a wig for two weeks afterwards. In the end we concluded that Donne was just a twat.

What do you discuss with your hair technician (no cruel quips about Dave having to have very short conversations (e.g. Great Norfolk Intellectuals) because he’s never in there for very long)?

Death wish

I wonder if any of you can assist me with a little project. Do you have a current email address for Denis Healey? I have composed a little missive to him (below) and don’t really want to put it in the post, as the secret service is still notoriously Tory, and is likely to intercept it. Fortunately, they haven’t yet got to grips with the electric internet and therefore we are free to communicate unencumbered by the prospect of a dawn raid by a bunch of spooks.

Dave – are you in contact? I believe he was a contemporary of yours at school. Perhaps you still exchange advice about antirrhinums or discuss your pergola?

Donn – is the old boy on your blog followers list? I hear that he takes a keen interest in matters Winnipegonian.

Pam – have you been stalked by a senior politician famous for his facial hair?

Anyway, let me know. I lost touch with Denis because of a minor tiff about his support for the nuclear deterrent, and his failure to back me in my campaign against the Radio Times subscription department.

Anyway, the message is as follows.


Den! You old goat!

Well done!

I was quietly perusing the news sites on the electric internet this morning, when what should I find but an article about your appearing on Desert Island Discs. I’m afraid I don’t listen to it any longer, as I hate to be taken by surprise. Much as I would like to know more about the musical tastes of Delia Smith and Nobby Stiles, for example, I tend to eschew broadcasts on which some prize chump such as Brandreth might turn up, and I owe it to my readership not to get overstressed.

Anyway, the article mentioned that you have softened your stance against the Thatch, and recently gave her a hug. Blow me if two pages further on there was not an article about her being admitted to hospital with a broken arm! You crafty sod!

Do you have any plans do continue your career as a nonagenarian ninja, or was this a one off? Are you doing this as a public service, or do you take contracts?

Do you have a price list?

I have spent my life as an ardent campaigner against violence, and would therefore be less than comfortable with your swinging on a rope through the chamber of the commons and raking the opposition front bench with machine gun fire, nor would I sanction mowing down the Bottomleys in an armoured car in Farnham High Street, but my pals in the North East Hampshire Maoist Trotskyist Alliance may be able to rustle up a few quid to finance some of the following projects.

• Dunking Tebbit head first down the bogs in the Lords canteen.
• Giving Leon Brittan a Chinese burn.
• “Accidentally” urinating down Cecil Parkinson’s leg when occupying the next urinal stall at a palace garden party.
• Kneeing Cameron in the groin. Quite hard.
• A deft karate chop to Michael Howard’s teeth. Or anything else that will result in his shutting up for a time.
• Pushing Blair down the stairs. Extra if he goes arse over tit down 15 stairs or more.

You get the idea. I would do these things myself, but think that you can probably get away with it more easily, and can always blame your prostate medication if you get caught.

Let me know what you think.

I will continue to follow with keen interest your campaign to put democracy in to action.

All the best

Scurra.

Not remotely funny

Moping melancholy and moon-struck madness

I started to write about Armando Ianucci’s television programme about Milton and Paradise Lost, but after the first paragraph realised that, like said poem, the resulting text was much too long.
Here are the edited highlights.
The programme was average. It did not encourage me to read Milton.
There were too many changes of venue for someone who was just talking to camera.
Most annoying bit was when he compared Horton (check spelling, I can’t be bothered) in Buckinghamshire to Florence. Horton has changed a lot since Milton’s time, otherwise he would have mentioned the bloody M4 and being on the Heathrow flight path in one of his poems.
He might have mentioned the bloody M4 for all I know. I haven’t read his stuff. Don’t wanna, ain’t gunna.
Close ups of Armando were too close up. At one stage you could see right up his nostril and out of his left ear.
I don’t like poetry much. The only serious poem I really like is Gray’s Elegy. Don’t see the point of the rest. None of these guys have anything worthwhile to say. If Keats was writing a blog today no bugger would read it.
Perhaps I am Keats.
The programme failed to convince me that I should read Milton, despite the great regard in which he is held by Armando.
When people move home or job, 70% of them are moving to “pastures new”. This is Milton’s fault. Bastard.
Milton was a republican. There was a need for reform but what we got was a load of uptight god-bothering dickheads. When they turned out to be uptight god-bothering dickheads that nobody liked much, we got a return to the house of Stuart, a load of stupid dickheads, and we are still lumbered with their inbred descendants.
It should be noted that the current economic climate makes political upheaval more likely. If that happens, godelpus, we are likely to finish up with an intolerant rightwing coalition, in which the BNP is included. As with the interregnum, lots of people will dies, lots more will suffer, and we will be no better off at the sorry end of it. You may say that Bill Cash and his friends are a bunch of sleazy, disreputable, bone idle, incompetent tossers (I couldn’t possibly comment), but they are likely to be slightly better than having Kilroy Silk as prime minister.
I bet you are glad I didn’t publish the full article, aincha?

Sesquipedalian circumlocution

I mentioned in my previous diatribe the “controversy” surrounding the decision of a BNP politician to invite his hideous boyfriend, Nick Griffin, to Buckingham palace.

I see, courtesy of the BBC, that one of Boris’s underlings has written to said politician thus:

"While elected representatives may and do attend, the event is a social occasion hosted by Her Majesty and it is inappropriate to exploit this privilege for party political purposes. …. However, in the light of the views expressed by the mayor and chair of the assembly, reinforced at yesterday's assembly meeting, I am writing to say that the authority may need to review its position in relation to your nomination unless you revisit the selection of your guest with a view to avoiding further controversy and desist from any further publicity."

I doubt whether Boris could comprehend that, let alone a knuckle-dragging Hitlerite. I would have phrased it in a manner that the recipient could understand. Perhaps: “Stop hanging out with this cunt”.

As I mentioned on facebook, I have posted the following notice on my front door:

Political campaigners

Please put your literature directly into the recycling bin, thereby cutting out the middle man.

If, albeit unlikely in these parts, you are from the BNP, please put your literature in the recycling bin, and follow it by shooting yourself and recycling your putrid corpse.

This led to Adam instigating some sordid innuendo, which I am sure will not occur over here.

Turn on, tune in, drop dead

Having been somewhat preoccupied these few days, I felt it behoved me to give you a quick update, so I sashayed over to the Torygraph to pick up on any old trivia that I may have overlooked, and thence to reassure you, my dear readers, (aMToNW) that all is in order.

I was saddened to read of the passing of Albert Hoffman, who, praise the Lord, survived to the age of 102 to prove that just saying “no” is really crap advice. I have affection for him as the inventor of one of those things that made young adulthood so enjoyable. He did not lend his name to his invention, unlike the others who contributed so much to my formative years, such as Sidney Durex, Muriel Chillum and Sir Colin Stereo. Albie famously fell out with Timothy Leary.He felt that Tim was entirely wrong in promoting the recreational use of his invention, rather than preserving it as a medium for academic research. I never saw the two as mutually exclusive, although the quid’s worth that I purchased at a famous seat of learning in Staffordshire in 1970 fell short on both counts. I hope that God has prepared a banquet for old Alb, and is chilling out with him this evening. If that is the case, it may explain some of the strange phenomena around us at the moment.

I notice that our pal Boris has spoken out against the BNP being invited to Buckingham palace, and says that he is opposed to anything that embarrasses the queen. I done a lol. 98% of the people who visit the old bat would embarrass most human beings, and Bozza himself is in the upper portions of that list. I pride myself on my resistance to embarrassment, but anyone who has hung around with barmy Phil for most of her life must be totally immune.

Out-borissing Mr Johnson by some considerable distance, however, is the Roman catholic archbishop of Westminster, who has launched a scathing attack on secularists. He accuses them of encouraging intolerance. I done an even bigger lol, as did my friend Gerald Torquemada, when I mentioned it to him in Waitrose this morning. Much as I applaud anyone having a go at that prize anus Dawkins, I see little difference in the tripe that any of these god botherers purvey, whether they believe in God or not.

No, not Tebbit

As part of a comment on a young person's status update on facebook, I left the criticism:
"Not to mention the ubiquitous superfluity of the word indicating similarity."
She affected (blaming inebriation) not to understand.
I expect all of you to know exactly what I meant, even without seeing the context.

Have you noticed how sales assistants of the female tendency use the word "lovely" when the transaction is completed.
I usually agree with them and say that I am lovely.
They usually laugh at this. I suspect that they are laughing at, rather than with, me.
My loveliness is obviously only revealed to those who have a perspicacity well above the norm.

No, not the least bit amusing

Squeaky clean

Say what you like about the Torygraph (pause while correspondents dutifully vent spleen about fascism, right wing propaganda, Conrad Black, anachronistic jingoistic clap trap and so forth), but they do have good investigative journalists.

The secret behind the delay in the reopening of the meccano set in Switzerland has been revealed.

Brian Nerd, the Torygraph’s science and jolly wheeze’s reporter tells us:
But just 10 days later an electrical fault led to a catastrophic leak of helium used to cool the machine's powerful magnets, causing a complete shut-down.

The world assumed that there was something fundamentally flawed in the design that had to be fixed, or they couldn’t get a plumber for six months, or they had lost the blueprints, or there were no spare parts and then B&Q closed down before they could fulfil the order. This is all nonsense. Switzerland was chosen because of its inherent efficiency (and also because we all thought it would be bloody funny that if there was a small black hole created it would be these smug cheese chewing protectors of nazi gold hoarders who were the ones who copped it).

We can deduce that the actual mechanical problems were quite minor, it is just that every time someone said “pass the wrench, Ludwig” (I have no idea what a wrench is) everyone else would fall about laughing at the silly voice. I can report that something in excess of 212000 litres of urine has had to be removed from the floor during the repair process.

Now that the effects of the helium have worn off, everyone is speaking in a normal voice, and the tedious and ostentatious malarkey can recommence.

On maintaining standards

I wish to draw your attention to my continuing efforts to help young people.

I have just posted the following on the facebook page of a dear friend.

You will see that it is couched in terms of concern and kindness. Please let me know if I can be of help with any of your younger friends and relatives who might benefit from my wisdom and compassion.


Much as I am loath to disturb you, I feel that I must draw to your attention a transgression by your younger son.
I was quietly going about my internetual activities this morning, when I was somewhat perturbed to find the following message from said offspring on my facebook page:
“well done you nob jocky”
I am not a judgmental person, and recognise that **** (name changed to protect the little git) has lacked the presence of a suitable male role model during his formative years, but I cannot sit by and watch this sort of display without protest. You were involved in the teaching profession for some years. I am therefore reticent to advise on a suitable deterrent, but in my day repetitive correction was deemed to be effective. May I suggest that you get him to write, 2000 times:
“Well done, Uncle Vicus, you knob jockey.”
I trust that you and your dear husband are in rude health and continuing to contribute to society. I am sure you will both join with me in my on-going efforts to stamp down on poor grammar and spelling.

Speak roughly to your little boy.

I would like to make it abundantly clear that I am contrite and very sorry.
My father-in-law, a devout Hindu, offers the imprecation "Sita Ram" when he sneezes.
I admit there is nothing clever or even mildly amusing about my saying "Sonny Cher" when I sneeze.
I am not sure at this stage which of world's religions I have most offended, and am therefore not totally clear as to which hell I will be consigned to. I don't really mind, as long as they like a good laugh.

Wallet emptying opportunity

For those of you who don't read lovely Lin regularly (and if you don't, why not? you some sorta idjit?)
Please go over there and donate some money. It doesn't have to be a lot, but do it now, please.

Yes, it's Henry Fonda in "On Golden Shower"

I am obliged to my dear friend Carol for drawing my attention to the following news item from my home town.
I was at school with Carol, and, incredibly, she is still alive. I have no embarrassing stories to tell about her as she was, as are all of my friends, a careful and well behaved young lady.

This item refers to unruly and antisocial behaviour by a group of senior citizens, in a cinema during sessions when they were allowed discounted prices.

I have left a comment on the site thus:

Allow me to speak up on behalf of the disruptive forces described in your charming little essay.
When I reach my threescore years and ten I hope to display the same sort of behaviour as those fine citizens so cruelly lambasted by the running dogs of commercial fascism. I doubt whether I will ever attend one of these orgies in the Freeman's common Odeon, but if I do I shall exercise my right to stand on my head during the national anthem, make loud sucking noises during the dirty bits, boo Clint Eastwood and goose the young lady selling choc ices.
The majority of these people have worked for over 40 years to earn their right to enact displays of mindless vandalism during "Carry on Constable".
How dare anyone encroach upon their basic human rights?

UPDATE: My comment appears to have been deleted. The Leicester Mercury was always run by fascists. Nothing has changed.

Cross of St George? Not as fucking cross as I am

Bollocks to it all.

It gets worse each year. In a futile and frenzied attempt to deny the trend of the breaking down of national characteristics, we are bombarded on the electric radio by an assortment of halfwits and jingoistic knuckledraggers to celebrate the day of loony George and the cult of Englishness.

Bollocks to it all.

George, who probably never existed, was born, if he ever existed which is doubtful, in Turkey, so his name was not George, but some Turkish/Arabic version of said sobriquet, never came to England, had nothing to do with England, would never have heard of England, Britain or Milton Keynes even if he had existed, which he probably didn’t, never killed a dragon, because the dragon certainly never existed, and neither did George, and if we are to believe the myths surrounding his doubtful existence, he was so many parsnips short of a casserole that he chose to give his non-existent life rather than renounce his religion. He was exactly the sort of dickhead that should be chosen as symbol of English greatness.

Bollocks to it all.

I am a citizen of the world. I am not particularly proud of it, considering the destruction that my species has unleashed on the planet that it depends upon for survival, but I will not compound that stupidity by identifying with an arbitrary section of the globe and the xenophobic portion of the population thereof that wants to promote divisiveness and conflict.

Bollocks to it all.

The hanging baskets of Surbiton

In an attempt to beat some life into this apparently slowly dying blog, I thought I would encourage some audience participation. If there is still anyone out there who could be bothered to check whether there has been an annual update.

Anyway, I have a very dear friend, who, like the majority of you, I have never met. A few days ago she posted a little item on facebook to the effect that one of the things that she wanted to do before leaving these islands to return home was to see “Stone Hedge”.

This may be a typo, a misapprehension of stunning proportions or some witty use of the language. As she comes from the same state as Adam, any of those could be possible, although the third would probably be a tad unlikely. When I say “state” I mean geo-political entity, rather than some bizarre consciousness that is a fusion of unfortunate genetics and unfortunater narcotics.

The main target of this information was initially unwilling to join in, so I pointed out that Stone Hedge was roughly midway between the Towel of London and the Severn Fridge.

Now it’s your turn. Which tourist attractions would you recommend to visitors? Points will be awarded for adhering to the precedent of mundane household and garden objects, for silliness and for being bothered to take part. Perhaps we could all meet at the most dull sounding attraction this summer?

I’ve already had my say about Stonehenge, several times. If any of you would like to see Stone Hedges, we have them in North East Hampshire. Round these parts we call them, somewhat quaintly, “walls”.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 22

I am grateful to my friends at the BBC for reporting that Phil has overtaken the record of Charlotte the Harlot and become the longest serving royal consort in these islands.

They inform us that: “The 87-year-old Duke, who is known not to like a fuss ….”

Well, he’s certainly chosen the right fucking career then, hasn’t he?

The suggestion is preposterous. The old git loves every minute of it, not just the whole ceremonial nonsense with uniforms, security guards, inspecting troops and meeting other unemployable heads of state and sharing banquets of undercooked offal with them, but the attention that he gets from the household staff and family.

Camilla and I have been planning a celebration of this day for some time, “I hope the old twat doesn’t pop his clogs the day before,” she confided, “I do so hate to waste my time.” We both cracked up at this. “When was the last time you did something worthwhile then, you daft trollop?” I enquired. “You’d be surprised, you cheeky boy,” she riposted “only last Thursday I took a pair of the old girl’s corgis for a walk in Hyde Park and exchanged them for a couple of shabbier versions belonging to a passing pedestrian. She won’t notice, will she? Well, not until one of them gives birth to a mongrel mixture of corgi, Scottish terrier, dachshund and Shetland pony in about seven weeks time!” She was so amused by this that her breakfast of vodka and pepsi cola was expelled through her nostrils. I find it expedient not to get too close.

If all goes according to plan, the auspicious day will unfold thus. Phil will be served breakfast in bed by a skimpily clad, well oiled out of work actor from Helsinki who was the star of the auditions we held. I made sure he was awake by calling at 5.30, purporting to be the Irish representative of a local double glazing firm, offering to pop round for an estimate. I didn’t hear all of the response. After six minutes I put the telephone down, made myself some breakfast and checked on the progress of Celine Dion on facebook, and when I came back he was still swearing, this time in German. It does him good to get the old ticker pumping first thing, which is not easy to do these days. When I say these days, I refer to the period since the unfortunate birth of Edward, since when Liz has had nocturnal and morning headaches every day, if you get my drift.

The morning will be spent allowing him to inspect troops. He loves this, as they are not, of course, allowed to answer back. Camilla has been trying to find a Welsh guardsman with Tourette’s for the occasion, but I have not had any reports on her success thus far.

There is nothing special planned for the afternoon – I expect it will be a typical Saturday, with him lurking in the background, breaking wind and blaming the dogs, while she goes all orgasmic watching the horse racing on Channel 4.

I am sorry to build all of this up and then let you down, but I cannot divulge much about the stellar evening that we have concocted, as many of the performers at the cabaret request zero publicity at these events. I can reveal, however, (and even I find this in bad taste) that Ray Winstone has agreed to do one of his infamous queen mother impersonations. The evening will conclude with the ceremonial burning of a portrait of queen Charlotte in the gardens. I am trying to get word to Fergie not to show up, just in case he sneaks up behind her and pushes her onto the bonfire.

What have you been doing this week?

Something to engage you until I get back/

Who says there are no good White heavyweights?

In a weekend full of sporting drama, not the least of which was Macheda's goal, this perfectly executed right wins my nomination as Sporting Highlight of the Week.

More horseshit

I note from reports in her majesty’s press that yesterday there was a horse race in Liverpool. I have little interest in these matters, but am opposed to the whole thing in general.

I am not an animal lover. My bargain with the animal kingdom is that I do not eat them and would prefer, all things being equal, that they reciprocate the arrangement at least until after I have died sleeping a deep and exhausted satisfied sleep during the night of my 112th birthday, having romped in a style that does not deserve further description here with several young ladies bearing a likeness to the young Goldie Hawn.

My dear friend Tom makes a living from pandering to the whims of horses. I do not criticise him for this, and indeed it seems to be a fairly clever way of keeping his contact with the rest of humanity to a minimum. I hasten to add that this is humanity’s loss – it is their effect upon Tom which concerns me. He finds human behaviour bizarre, and, as a friend, I keep my contact with him to a brief telephone call every 4 years or so, and a periodic check with his dear wife that matters are not out of control.

Anyway, to end that diversion, I see that one of the horses in yesterday’s abomination died. This is not unusual in these events, and quite often animals get injured and someone decides it would be better off if they were turned into dog meat as a result. (Yes, Dave, it might be more accurate to say that they are turned into horse meat, but you have again overestimated how much I care).
For once I am at a loss as to suggest a fitting way to curtail this cruelty.
Here are a few suggestions.

1) Any owners, trainers and riders of a horse which dies during a race should also be put down.
2) Anyone gambling on an event in which an animal dies should pay a fine of four times their gross annual income.
3) Spectators at an event at which an animal dies should be deprived of a limb of their own choosing prior to being allowed to leave. The limb should be one that is attached to their own body, Dave.
4) John McCririck should be sent to North Korea.

Help me out here, what do you think?

I can hardly wait for the next one

The following contains a spoiler. I added this line too late for my dear friend Kaz, I am very sorry, Kaz. Didn't think anyone else watched it.

I owe all of you my apologies for my neglecting to keep you up to date with important events in our world, not least of which is the latest instalment of the hot man-on-man pornfest “Lewis”.

May I begin, in a somewhat anti-synchronatic manner, by pointing out, before I forget, how much I loathe the sodding music?

The latest episode is so far up its own fundament that if it were to have a mouth capable of being opened, then one would be able to see the parting in its hair protruding from the tonsil area.

There has been a return to the theme of making the victims part of the academic community. If this community is anything like that portrayed in this televisual entertainment then I suggest we fight for the release from prison of all of the guilty persons so far banged up, in order to continue their splendid crusade.

By the way, do you have any idea how much I abhor the bloody music?

This week we saw Art Malik poncing about for no reason to do with the plot, as far as I can see, in the role of a stereotypical academic. If you want to have a picture of what constitutes an Oxford academic according to the writers/directors, then just conjure up an image of Anthony Blanche, (perhaps a tad toned down) and you will have it.

Do you mind my telling you now how much I detest the arsing music?

The clever bit of casting this week was to have the father of the actor who plays Hathaway (Laurence Fox) appearing. Many of you will be familiar with the splendid career of Michael J Fox, although up until his appearance here I would never have thought him to be old enough to be Lazza’s dad. A very versatile actor – you would hardly recognise the star of “Family Ties” and “Spin City” behind the makeup, and one could almost, but not quite, forgive his dire attempt at impersonating Brian Sewell.

Lest it slips my mind, can I declare at this stage how much I can’t abide the pissing music?

There was also an appearance, again for no reason that I could detect other than to show off, by the lovely Selina Cadell. She breezed in, stole a couple of scenes (a much lesser actress could have done that), and then sodded off.

Thrown in to the damn silly plot was a load of intellectual farting about, featuring Lewis Carroll, C S Lewis and Sophocles, among others. To support the Carroll angle, one of the characters was called Alice. How bollocky clever is that? All of this gives young Hathaway a chance to demonstrate his erudition (missus), which only seems to endear him further to Lewis.

May I ask your leave to declare my hatred of the buggery music?

Anyway, were all this not enough to over egg even the mostly sickly pudding, Chief Superintendent Innocent (in a working class version of this series she would be called C.S. Bang-to-rights-you-toerag) has picked up on the sexual tension between her two colleagues, and decides to try to fix Lewis up with a friend of hers. If any of my gay friends are reading this, I hope that you realise that male homosexuals are only of that persuasion because they haven’t met the right girl yet.

Guess what? It turns out that the Super’s friend is actually the psychotic killer that they have been looking for all along. Gosh! What a turn up, eh?

I realise that there is a matter of etiquette that I have neglected in writing all of this, that is to point out, at the beginning, that it contains what is called a “spoiler”. However, I could not “spoil” this entertainment even if I were to vomit all over it and introduce a scene with princess Michael of Kent stripping.

Does anyone know where I can buy an LP of the music?

P.S. While I have been composing this, the lovely Mrs S has been watching “ER”. I grew bored with it years ago, but I just caught the following piece of dialogue:

“Shall I call the OR?”
“What is it?”

If the first character had replied “It’s a very clean room where they cut people up, but that’s not important right now” I would buy every episode of every series on DVD and watch them all ten times.

Roadside flashing

It is incumbent on me to pass on to my readers (aMToNW) vital items of information that I discover. Indeed, I am still, despite my noted erudition, willing to learn. 

Whilst reading a novel by that nice Mr Le Carré this evening, I found a reference to a time when there were Belisha beacons and no zebra crossings in the UK. I had always assumed that the two went together. This was, of course, before my time. 

What is most peculiar is that I have read this book before, and must have forgotten this important historical fact. Fortunately, this ignorance has had no important damaging consequences. 

My research indicates that the beacons predated the markings on the road by some 15 years. 

When zebra crossings were first introduced, they were blue and yellow. I have no idea what they were called at that stage. As far as I can tell, there have been no recorded instances of blue and yellow members of the genus equus. I can think of no land mammals coloured blue. I am told by my friends at the Oxford dictionary that the word “zebra” is of Italian, Spanish or Portuguese  origin and means “wild ass”. Of course it would be inappropriate to have wildass crossings on our highways. 

The Belisha beacon was named after the Minister of Transport who introduced them – Mr (later lord) Beacon. His full name was Mr Hore-Beacon. Wisely, the government of the day decided that it would not be fitting to have Hore crossings on the High Streets of this fine nation. That would have been silly.

So, now you have this vital data to hand. I hope that you will be able to remember it all.

I hope that this helps.

Not 'alf

Over at the Torygraph a young man has drawn up his 100 top songs. 

I have 28 of them on my MP3 player, including 5 in the top 10, surprisingly, but none of his top ten would be in my top 10.

How did you score? 

Anyone brave enough to list their favourite 5 or 10 songs, so that we can all ridicule you?

Frog porn (geddit? (ribbit))

My dear friend ILTV has just posted an interesting little missive some of which concerns natural history.

Can you please advise me about a phenomenon that occurred this morning? It was annual breeding days for the local amphibians. I counted 15 frogs. I did this from a distance, as I am not voyeuristic by nature, and did not wish to disturb them. I am concerned, however, that if there were no more frogs present, then perhaps someone was without a partner. Do male frogs have more than one partner during their annual shag? I do hope so, or someone missed out, which would not be too bad, except that this happens only one day a year. Need I try to find the virgin and console them with some nice spiced spinach? How will I tell which one it is? The one not lying back smoking? They all look fairly lugubrious – I suppose that other frogs see some charm in them. I shall not be able to sleep peacefully until someone provides the answer. 

Stop bothering me and try someone else

For those of you not aware of this young lady's work, try this.

This will be next week's quote of the week. In Twat's Weekly

In celebration of being chosen as the New Statesman's political quote of the week, I thought that I would educate the many new readers sent here by that esteemed organ by sharing some insight into our culturally diverse society and providing some helpful analysis of the complex political choices that we face.

Then I thought, bollocks, I will follow the example of my dear friend Rog, who found this well of wisdom on his own and didn't need it to be approved by the New Statesman.

Rog has told a little story.

I have one also, although most of you will have heard mine.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto are out riding one day when Tonto dismounts (No, it's not that sort of story, Dave, you can use this one in your next sermon) and puts his ear to the ground.

"Buffalo come"

"How can you tell?"

"Face sticky".

Thank you. I am here all week.

You know the one - Geoff Robinson's crooked mate

The young lady depicted above is the delightful Leila Deen. This is not a treatise about young ladies in handcuffs, or bondage, or any other pursuit best carried out in private. Those in search of such titillation may find other places on the electric internet that cater for their curiosity, although I find it hard to believe that there are many. This is a salute to the workings of democracy and Ms Deen’s attempts to pursue said workings.

This morning lovely Leila threw some green custard over Peter Mandelson. For those of you unfortunate enough not to be of the British persuasion may not know about old Pete. He is an unelected member of the government, currently Minister for being an odious little tit with no principles and devoid of standards, to give him his full title. He is also a member of the House of Lords – Lord Shitpisswankfuckcunt of Bollocks is his title there, I believe. I cannot, of course, condone the throwing of custard, unless it was entirely vegan; there are more effective methods of overthrowing the lickspittles who run this country, but most of them involve armed insurrection, and I don’t want to get hurt.

Leila is no stranger to political process, but does not get all of the publicity that she deserves, largely because her sympathies are often at odds with those of her majesty’s press. 

This morning she was on the electric radio. “The only thing green about Mandelson is the slime coursing through his veins”, she said. I doubt whether this was a comment made up off the cuff (cuff – geddit?), but I was enchanted by it. It set the slime that is in my veins racing, and warmed the outer edges of my heart.

If any of you are friends with Leila, let her know that I would like to become her adoptive uncle. In case any of the perverts made it past the second paragraph, I should be clear that the relationship I have in mind involves no commitment whatever on either side, other than my right to say “that is my niece, you know” when she is hauled off to the Tower.

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

Just to give you something to do until I find time to write something, here is a little competition.

My dear friend Max has just described "Paradise Lost" as an "infernal portfolio of wank". And there were y'all thinking that today's students have no grasp of literary criticism. Can any of you provide a similar brief assessment of a major work of art?

I have never read any of Milton, so I cannot judge how accurate Max is. Similar ignorance will be the criterion by which I judge your efforts.

Some sophistication