A Doctor writes

If you value honest and carefully argued debates about the benefits of a public health care system you can either listen to me suggesting that kicking Margaret Thatcher in the shins should be available for free on the NHS and that Vile Tart Palin should be euthanised, or you can read the words of my dear friend SoG.

And on Sky 3, another chance to see "Fuck up your living room"

I was interested to read the comments of a Mr James Murdoch, a purveyor of third rate toilet paper, anti-intellectual and gossip-monger, attacking the BBC.

As this is the weekend, when no bugger reads blogs, let me just say that, despite Ann Robinson et al, if the BBC is managing to annoy this dire little shit, then they are well worth double the licence fee.

Quite Easily Done

The bad news from the BBC is that the proportion of seven year olds reaching the "expected standard" in maths is falling.
The good news is that in 30 years time there will be no one around capable of working that out, so the fall will be halted.

Too easy

BBC Radio 5 reported this morning a distressing story about British Naturism.
Apparently its 16,000 members face discrimination.
You can do your own silly jokes.

I couldn't give a flying fox.

I am not entirely comfortable in the composition of this article; in order to construct it I may have overstepped one of my many strict moral boundaries.

Allow me to explain.

I tend to extract my knowledge of current affairs from upright and, as far as one can judge, reliable websites. (Of course I am privy to the workings of state, as many world leaders rely upon my counsel and wisdom, but it would be indiscrete to detail all of that here). I skip merrily through the BBC’s offerings, have a quick skim through the news service offered by Yahoo, an occasional peruse of the offerings of the Grauniad and the Indescribablyboring generally suffices, not to mention, of course, the Torygraph.

“Why do you read the Torygraph?” I hear you enquire. Well, you know where you stand with them, don’t you? Stand being very much the operative verb, as they have not moved since 1837. This week they had cause to mention Mr Bob Dylan. They explained that he was a singer and songwriter famous for “Mr Tambourine Man” and other popular ditties. I have visions of retired Brigadiers from Bishop’s Tippings, having been informed of this, dashing off to the local HMV to buy the latest cylinder, and afterwards skipping gaily down the local avenues, their senses having been stripped.

I am aware of other news sources on the electric internet, but only refer to them when someone has advised me that Dave has featured again.

I do not follow the cavorting of celebrities. I am not an expert on the adventures of Amy or the peregrinations of Paris. I would not recognise Jordan (or know if that is the correct spelling) even were she to bash me on the head with her left boob.

I am, in short, the model of decorum.

So, when I saw an article on the website of the BBC about the sex life of the flying fox, my first instinct was to ignore it. I am not interested in the fornicatory frolics of the genus Pteropus, and suspect that this healthy attitude is reciprocated. They avoid me, and I respect their privacy also. Without being too explicit, I have never, as far as my memory allows, been the victim of a peeping tom in the form of a winged mammal hanging from the ceiling whilst going about what passes for a sex life in my corner of the universe. (Unless you count Virginia Bottomley dressed in flying goggles and a Qantas flight attendant’s shirt, tied up with spaghetti on top of my wardrobe, but that could happen to anyone.)

So, dear reader, please believe me when I say that the only thing that led me to read this article was the mention of scientists “unlocking the secrets of the flying fox’s sexual success”. What a bunch of nosy bleeders. One minute they can’t make up their minds about the existence of “dark energy”, the next, instead of coming up with some form of energy that will be non-polluting, cure cancer and kill Thatcher, they are probing around the boudoir of a bloody bat. In fact, as usual, they have discovered bugger all. There is a link, apparently, between high testosterone and sexual achievement, but they have not a clue whether this is of any significance or causal. Twats. To be blunt, I could have told them that it is a fair bet that Usain Bolt is more likely to have offspring than is Russell Grant, and I could have deduced that without interrupting the vinegar strokes of some endangered antipodean guava guzzler.

*******

Points will be deducted for comments containing puns about “bats”.

Underselling

I received from a chap called Howard asking me to provide "Words from the author" to compliment a website he is creating to provide a new search engine on the electronic internet.
(I did not wish to burst his bubble that Theodore and Evadne Google are occupied full time with their nice little search facility, and so if he wanted to compete with them he would need one or even two assistants).
Anyway, here is what I sent to him. I think it is a fair and modest assessment of what these pages are all about.


This important website offers the definitive analysis of the state of the planet in this time of darkness.
It offers succour to the needy, hope to the desperate, information to the inquisitive, astute analysis to the knowledge-seeker, wisdom to the student and love to all.
Diurnal study will provide weaponry against the fickleness of God and the randomness of fate.
Proud readers will tell their descendants "I read Scurra, and look where I am today!"
Thousands will campaign to have monuments erected to honour the author and grandchildren of Spielberg will be forced to admit that the making of a film could never do justice to the importance of these words.


Scurra.

Hands across the sea.

As you all know, I am very fond of a sophisticated political debate, where the arguments on each side are presented with honesty and intellectual integrity. There is no reason why one should bring the language of the gutter to such events, and it is possible to have a deep respect for those who do not necessarily share one’s own views.

In the spirit of this, I venture the following response to the nice young lady, fashioning herself “Vice Chair of Republicans Abroad” who I just heard, on the electric radio, expounding her views on the contrast between the British and American approaches to health care:

Fuck off, you supercilious twat. Take your “fuck the poor” politics, shove them up your anus, chain yourself to your vice chair, whatever the gonads that is, and have some passing Samaritan push you over a convenient cliff.

Quite a mouthful

This morning, while perambulating along the highways of Hampshire and Surrey in my internal combustion engine powered vehicle, I beheld a van bearing the motto “B J Champion”.
I confess to being intrigued.
Those of you, (aMToNW), with a curiosity that lends itself to speculation about what constitutes a champion may ask: is proficiency measured by quality or quantity, or some combination of the two? Who judges, and how do they maintain objectivity?
These were not my immediate thoughts. My first concern was why someone would choose to advertise this achievement to all and sundry. I find myself strangely unable to empathise with this person. Perhaps they are contractually obliged to advertise their achievement in order to qualify for whatever prize comes their way. (Comes their way – geddit?). Are any of you in possession of prizes, certificates or testimonials detailing your proficiency in a matter that would normally remain private?
I did not imagine this. I found a website where customers congratulate the Champ on his erection.

The doctor told me to walk ten miles every day

Say what you like about the Torygraph, but it does do some amusing little stories. Stuck in a view of the world that was popular in 1827, although not correct even then, it continues to delight and amuse. Much like Dave’s blog, apart from the delight and amuse bit.

First, it tells us that British men are the ideal partners.
Experts claim that women are more attracted to men if they believe they will help out with household chores and make an equal contribution towards childcare.
I can certainly claim to have made an equal contribution towards childcare in my house, and as for chores, well, ladies, let me know if you need your artefacts polishing.

Then there is a little story about a chap who bought a bit of coloured wood (WHAT THE FUCK FOR?) from a car boot sale, only to find out later that it was a 1300 year old relic from the Crusades. Well, you dull wassock, it’s too late to take it back now and get a new one, isn’t it? This is why I buy useless bits of coloured wood only from Harrods. They have a very generous returns policy, and they deliver.

What really caught my eye (disclaimer: this story is attributed to ‘scientists’* – please help yourself to the salt) was an article that talked about all of humanity outside of Africa being descended from a tribe of a couple of hundred people who crossed the Red Sea from Africa about 70,000 years ago. We are all brothers and sisters you see. Not only did these brave folk cross the Red Sea, but engaged in some industrial grade shagging in order to produce all of us.

They took a very long time to reach Britain, because of a virulent campaign by the Daily Mail to keep them out. (“Who”, I hear you ask, “was around to read the Mail before human beings came along?”, “Well”, I hear me reply, “the same bunch of lobotomised reptiles and diseased slugs who read it today.”).

This may not appear to be an auspicious start. Nothing much good comes of leaving Africa across the Red Sea. That arch god botherer Moses managed to con a bunch of political dissidents into a 40 year schlep round the desert in order to arrive at a destination that could have been reached by Geoffrey Boycott’s mum in seven days. But before we judge our granddads (or in Dave’s case, brothers) too harshly, let us consider the options. South of Africa lies the Antarctic. Not the sort of place to set up home in my view. They considered crossing the Med to Spain, but found that all of the beaches had already been occupied by Germans. (I am grateful to Little and Large for that joke. I am a martyr to originality.) They considered travelling west across the great ocean, but wisely decided that colonising that area would definitely lead to unassailable problems, and to the south east lay a great land mass, but research showed that there was no chance of culture developing there (thanks to Cannon and Ball for this joke).

If anyone has the names of the people who were among these two hundred, please let me know, so that I can finish my family tree. (Apart from knowing who it was who shagged my great great grandmother, Lucy).

* One of the ‘scientists’ is identified as “a senior lecturer in archaeogenetics at Anglia Ruskin University”. Bugger. I wanted that job.

There was a young lady from Glasgow.

I have just listened to the poet laureate (Karen Stuffy – check this for me later, please) reading a poem what she writ to commemorate the death of Henry Allingham.

I couldn’t make it beyond the first 20 seconds.

I am putting it on record here that no matter how famous I may become - if my words here are recognised for their inherent genius and become part of the English Literature ‘A’ level syllabus, if I am chosen as the first president of the People’s Republic of Britain, if I save 50,000 children from suffering and pain, if I discover a cure for Thatcherism – I do not want this dull trollop spouting her gonad-aching tripe on the occasion of my death. In fact, now that Adrian Henri is no longer with us (“You make me feel like a septic bowel, You make me feel like Enoch Powell, Enoch, we hate you”) I could well do without any poetry to mark my contribution to the well being of the planet, thank you very much.

On the other hand, our dear friend Donn has composed a nice essay today. Please sit comfortably while you read it.

When you have done that, try to complete the limerick I began in the title, or send me a nice Clerihew about Ms Chuffy.

Here are the answers to last week’s quiz.

1) “Eight miles high” by the Byrds
2) Dame Vera Lynn and Graeme Souness
3) With one hand firmly cupping the right heel.
4) In 1908, with a score of 76.
5) Venezuela
6) This was a trick question – it’s never been done!
7) Greek Orthodox
8) Halitosis
9) Bob Monkhouse
10) Only during the months of November and May

Well done to all of you who tried.
Dave got all of the right answers, but to all of the wrong questions.

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

Just in case you have failed to notice the return to the internet of one the universe's foremost chroniclers, (Four most chronic what? Ed.) may I draw your attention to the re-emergence of dear old Mark.
He withdrew from blogging shortly after my visit to him, so is obviously of a shy and gentle disposition, please be tender with him.
I can guarantee that his latest little composition is of a higher standard than anything you will read in the Sunday newspapers.

The queen attends the annual ceremony of mallard molesting, or whatever the bollocks it is called.

"And what do you do?". Same damn silly question every year, I was going to say "A bloody sight more than your bloody family," but Bert tried that last year and finished up on the table at Windsor with half a watermelon up his arse.

"Oh look! Your hats are the same colour as your jackets! Whose dumb idea was that?"


"And how long have you been a swan?"


Representatives from the Henley Aqua Sports club demonstrate the dying art of swan juggling.

From an early age the birds are taught to bow in the appropriate manner.


Liz is less than amused to find that, due to the credit crunch, her trip to Anchorage will take longer than anticipated.

"Then you snap the neck just here."

Clarification

For those of you not of the British persuasion, this is the Mr Goodwin referred to in the previous post.
I'd trust him with my savings.

Countdown to the Royal Divorce, part 23

It is seldom that Camilla displays anything other than her cheerful and carefree disposition. She should be congratulated for this when one considers what up with which she has to put. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found her at the end of the electric telephone, venting spleen and breathing molten lava. It took me quite some time to ascertain the cause of her angst. She seems to live her life in a stream of consciousness that is flowing without direction or consistency.

“Nasty little git! It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was sure Chuck told me it was Ken Goodwin we were going to have lunch with. He was always one of my favourites. I even rehearsed saying ‘we’re having a good time, aren’t we?’ in a gormless northern accent.”

“Calm down, old octopus,” I said, in my most caring manner, “give me a few minutes while I try to work out what the buggery you are referring to”.

“Lunch!” she exclaimed.

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t, “I never know what to have, either”.

“No, you soft sod, I am alluding to the two (seemed like thirty) hours that I had to spend with that odious little tit Fred Goodwin. Apparently he is standing down as something to do with the Prince’s Truss” (sic) “and Charlie, dumbass that he is, thought it appropriate to have the tosser round for lunch”.

“Oh come on, old platypus,” I interjected, hoping to relieve her ire, “consider some of the other twats you have had to dine with in your official capacity – George Bush, David Frost, Lloyd Webber …”

“Bollocks!” She was having none of it. “At least they didn’t try to sell me insurance during the fish course, or enquire, halitosis prominent, whether I needed a new mortgage for Highgrove. The moron didn’t even take the hint when I covered my head with the table cloth and affected to have died.”

“I’m sure you didn’t let him get away with it, ducky.”

“You’re right there, I waited for a quiet spot in the conversation – everyone had been lulled by Charles’ soliloquy on organic marrows – and told Farty Fred he had only been given the position in the first place when someone told Charles that Himmler was dead, and the Yorkshire Ripper had turned it down. I also pointed out that I had switched my account to the Orkney and Shetland Building Society when Coutts had been taken over by the RBS, as I had heard there was some bollock brained crook in charge who wasn’t to be trusted, and perhaps ‘Sir’ Fred had heard of him. I then proceeded to slurp my Angel Delight very loudly while Goodwin attempted to engage some poor sod in a discussion about fly fishing in Monmouthshire.”

“And with whom are you dining today, dearie?” I cheekily enquired.

“No idea, but I’m taking an extra pair of ear plugs and a triple Courvoisier as protection.”

It's called a "Family Tree" because some people are descended from vegetation

I switched on the electric television yesterday to watch a programme that I follow regularly called “Who do you think you are?” The format remains the same. Some ‘famous’ (i.e. you stand a 38% chance of having heard of them before) twassock is invited to have genealogists research their family history while they make inane comments about it. I have written about this before – there was a splendid episode with Boris thinking that King George was English, and some dull tart called Jodi Summat who got a Ph.D. in senselessness.

Last night was the turn of someone called Davina McCall. I had heard of her and recognised her face, she must have been on one of the comedy panel shows that it is my habit to view, I guess, but I had no idea what she has done to make herself famous. After watching the programme, I gathered that she has something to do with the televisual banquet called “Big Brother”. Had I not learned this, I would have assumed that she had attained stardom by winning a competition to find the country’s leading gormless twat. I don’t know much about “Big Brother”, I have never watched it, and never will, voluntarily, but I believe that the premise is that you lock a bunch of arseholes in a house for a few weeks and film them. If the participants are as alluring as Ms McCall, I suggest that you slightly improve the format by taking away the filming part, and extend the duration by a few years.

At this point, I should declare an interest, one which has maybe tainted my objectivity. I have, as you may remember, been researching my family history for some time. It is a very time consuming pastime, and not without cost. I would love the BBC to spend a fraction of the amount they spend on transporting morons such as McCall around the world so that they can make fatuous comments to camera, and be seen making erudite statements such as “Hello” to the drones who have had to do the hard work of research, on helping me unblock the dead-ends I have encountered in my research.

There is a great lesson to be learned from all of this. If you watch this programme, you will become aware that it is very important to be circumspect about your choice of mate. Lack of care in this area may lead you to becoming the great-grandparent of some empty-headed dollop of vacuity such as Davina McCall.

Normal service will be resumed shortly

You will all have seen the excellent news that North East Hampshire is to get its own ecotown.
North East Hampshire is always at the forefront of movements that will help to shape the future of our planet, and this is no exception.
For those of you who have been too busy watching the sainted Andrew Strauss scoring runs at Lords, I should explain that someone has decided that if we are to provide housing for the increasing population, then that housing should at least be constructed with care for the environment.
There are those who say that this is all bollocks, we shouldn’t build anything anywhere, at least near where I live, blah blah blah.
Bollocks. I welcome the new neighbours. I hope the whole thing is as a success. If I still live here by the time it is finished (about 10 or 15 years from now) the construction will be a great inconvenience to me, no doubt, and there is a possibility that the view from my house will be spoiled by the reopening of a stretch of railway that the twat Beeching had closed down. (Beeching is still in hell, been raped on the hour by Himmler, and will remain there for the next 7,000 years.)
Bordon/Whitehill is described as a garrison town. This means that the major occupier and owner of land is the Ministry of Defence, and that the town is a very undesirable place to live, even for those such as I who have very little appreciation for town planning and architecture. It has little to offer, every other shop seems to be a purveyor of fast food of dubious quality, and in general it looks as though it has staged a dress rehearsal for the bombing of Dresden. When the army vacates, during the next couple of years or so, then there will be large tracts of brown belt land available for redevelopment.
I have disabled comments on this little tract, as I don’t want anyone to think that my opinion or that of anyone else who visits here is worth anything. If you want meaningless debates there are lots of outlets for them on the internet and elsewhere.

Thank you, I'm here all week.

I am glad to pass on the news, thanks to my friends at BBC news on line, that my admired cousins in the scientific community have turned their attention to another line of research that will help to advance our knowledge and consequently improve the human condition.

They are trying to find out why cheetahs are so fast.



Unfortunately, they are unable to start their research, because they haven't been able to catch one yet.

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.