Over on facebook I have issued a swift rebuttal to the rumourmongers at the BBC who have published allegations that a seriously perverted hack is at work in the vicinity of the proud county of Hampshire, sending unpleasant missives around the country, including one to our dear leader, curvaceous Gordon Brown.
Over there, I suggested that the author must be Jane Austen, as no one else in Hampshire is capable of such filth, here I can be more candid, and while much of the blame lies at the feet (or the hands, or the mouth) of the Chawton harpy, the truth is more complex.
Hampshire schools are the only ones in the UK privy to the unedited transcripts of Ms Austen’s work. Consequently, whereas the rest of the country sees her work as finely crafted ironic social commentary, albeit limited to descriptions of the interactions of a narrow social class, the children of this otherwise proud county are subjected to the language of a two centuries old sewer, and their literary style forever warped by the arcane workings of Jezebel Jane’s diseased psyche.
Near where I live, as one enters the proud county, there is a sign displaying the information “Jane Austen Country”. This is not an advertising message, it is actually a dire warning to cover the ears of young children lest they be subjected to a local quoting from the hussy in question.
No wonder that the children of Waltham Chase find Dickens so tame. At Itchen Stoke the children scratch their heads, not because they are itchin’ (geddit?) but rather because of the lack of vulgarity in Jane Eyre. Those sprung from the loins of the fine burghers of Lower Swanwick find Thackeray unenthralling.
The children are taught, however, not to use this language in front of outsiders, but obviously someone has not heeded this instruction and taken to lambasting the rest of the country with the style of Dirty Jane.
Here is a selection of some of the phrases from her works with which you may be familiar (just in case there is one of you who has not memorised her complete works) together with the original version.
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does” (Emma)
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does, so get your tits out and I’ll give you a groat.”
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London” (Northanger Abbey)
“I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London, so get your knickers off, and it will soon go in again, know what I’m saying?”
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper” (Pride and Prejudice)
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper, and banged like a shithouse door in a force nine gale”
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then” (Pride and Prejudice)
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be given a bloody good seeing to, from behind.”
I have of course, in recognition of your sobriety and delicate sensibilities, omitted more lurid examples. It does none of us any good to dwell upon this sort of writing, and I struggle to maintain the highest standards of information and wisdom on this page while being a martyr to good taste.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Less fun than some loon on a plinth.
After many years of updating this diary, it is inevitable that, from time to time, themes recur. Fortunately the majority of my readership (aMToNW) is so drug addled or mentally deficient as to not to notice.
I expect that the media has some system of ensuring that once in a while every place gets a mention in the news. As nothing of note has happened in Staffordshire since the Great Drugs Bust of 1970, there are acres of newsprint currently dedicated to the startling news that someone in Staffordshire has dug up some old stuff in a field.
This has so excited the populace of said manor, that they are queuing round the clock to see it. The old stuff, that is, not the field. Nor Staffordshire. That would be silly.
I just don’t get it. I have no desire whatsoever to see some old stuff that someone has unearthed. Even were they to have disinterred it in Shropshire or Cumbria I would have no concern. I don’t care how old the stuff is. I don’t care if it is the lost Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, Alexander the Great’s jockstrap or a polo mint half sucked by Ferdinand Magellan, I would not cross the road to see it.
Furthermore, I think that the populace of Staffordshire deserve better. They have been deprived of entertainment since the Talke Pits Development Company relocated, but surely someone can devise a more stimulating diversion than gawking at old stuff that some bloke dug up in a field.
Dullness seems to be a characteristic of the region. The dug up items might date from the reign of Wulfhere of Mercia. I do not expect many of you will have heard of Wulfhere. That is because he was basically boring, and his idea of fun was to doodle on bits of shiny metal and then bury said metal in a field. He had a more notorious brother called Peada, but on the whole it was the sort of period of English history which has resulted in generations of bored schoolchildren nodding off or indulging in unseemly activities at the back of the class while Mr Blenkinsopp tried to convey some of the enthusiasm for the subject which he so singularly failed to feel. I doubt whether many people can tell you much about Mercia. You have not missed much. In their favour, the Mercians incurred the displeasure of that tiresome god-botherer the Venomous Bede, who wanted to pop round on a Saturday afternoon and interrupt Sports Report to read to them (in Latin) from the book of Lamentations. They told him they were not interested. This was not because of any devoutness on their part, or enthusiasm for paganism, it’s just that they preferred to sit around and whittle or doodle on metal rather than go to church on their day off.
To give you some idea, the collection of items includes “sword pommels”. No, I have no idea what they are, either – and points will be deducted from anyone smartarsed enough to try to inform us.
To give you a further idea, the “expert” consulted by the BBC news reporters is called “Roger Bland”.
To give you the best idea, the items are being exhibited in Birmingham.
The whole sorry episode is so incomprehensibly boring that I expect Dave is on his way over there now to have a good look.
I expect that the media has some system of ensuring that once in a while every place gets a mention in the news. As nothing of note has happened in Staffordshire since the Great Drugs Bust of 1970, there are acres of newsprint currently dedicated to the startling news that someone in Staffordshire has dug up some old stuff in a field.
This has so excited the populace of said manor, that they are queuing round the clock to see it. The old stuff, that is, not the field. Nor Staffordshire. That would be silly.
I just don’t get it. I have no desire whatsoever to see some old stuff that someone has unearthed. Even were they to have disinterred it in Shropshire or Cumbria I would have no concern. I don’t care how old the stuff is. I don’t care if it is the lost Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, Alexander the Great’s jockstrap or a polo mint half sucked by Ferdinand Magellan, I would not cross the road to see it.
Furthermore, I think that the populace of Staffordshire deserve better. They have been deprived of entertainment since the Talke Pits Development Company relocated, but surely someone can devise a more stimulating diversion than gawking at old stuff that some bloke dug up in a field.
Dullness seems to be a characteristic of the region. The dug up items might date from the reign of Wulfhere of Mercia. I do not expect many of you will have heard of Wulfhere. That is because he was basically boring, and his idea of fun was to doodle on bits of shiny metal and then bury said metal in a field. He had a more notorious brother called Peada, but on the whole it was the sort of period of English history which has resulted in generations of bored schoolchildren nodding off or indulging in unseemly activities at the back of the class while Mr Blenkinsopp tried to convey some of the enthusiasm for the subject which he so singularly failed to feel. I doubt whether many people can tell you much about Mercia. You have not missed much. In their favour, the Mercians incurred the displeasure of that tiresome god-botherer the Venomous Bede, who wanted to pop round on a Saturday afternoon and interrupt Sports Report to read to them (in Latin) from the book of Lamentations. They told him they were not interested. This was not because of any devoutness on their part, or enthusiasm for paganism, it’s just that they preferred to sit around and whittle or doodle on metal rather than go to church on their day off.
To give you some idea, the collection of items includes “sword pommels”. No, I have no idea what they are, either – and points will be deducted from anyone smartarsed enough to try to inform us.
To give you a further idea, the “expert” consulted by the BBC news reporters is called “Roger Bland”.
To give you the best idea, the items are being exhibited in Birmingham.
The whole sorry episode is so incomprehensibly boring that I expect Dave is on his way over there now to have a good look.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Another county heard from
This is a brief interruption to normal service, where I invoke my privilege to have a quiet little rant, and have disabled the comments.
I hope that normal service will be resumed shortly. Please skip the rest of this article if you, like me, think that there is no value in halfwits spouting their ill informed opinions on the electric internet.
I was perturbed to hear two separate “news” items on Radio 5 this evening, within a few minutes of each other.
The news was that:
1) Someone who had been receiving visits from his local social services flipped and killed someone.
2) Someone, and I did not listen to how they came up with the figure, neither do I give it any credence or import, that 1 in 7 medical diagnoses in the UK are incorrect.
They then proceeded to get a social work manager to apologise, and a doctor who had misdiagnosed someone to apologise.
FUCK OFF.
Social Work. Would you do it? Would you want to spend your days trying to help or monitor the activities of someone seriously mentally ill? Particularly if you knew you would never have the resources to support you? Particularly if you knew that the state of psychiatric science was in its infancy and that there are millions of people out there, fucked up beyond comprehension, with no one knowing how to treat them? And then to compound it all, as soon as you make a mistake you get the full weight of the parasitic mass media on your back, blaming you for being under resourced and under educated. Bastards. We are lucky to have any social workers at all in this country. They are underpaid, underappreciated and under supported. People going into this profession are those who want to help others. There is no other reason why you should surround yourself with so much crap on a daily basis. And then when some poor sod makes an error they are pilloried by our righteous Murdoch arse lickers and fascist tabloid twats, people who have never done any good for anybody.
The medical profession. A profession doomed to failure, because, ultimately, their job is to stop people from dying. Would you want to be a doctor? (No, Donn, the opportunity to ask ladies to take their clothes off is not a good enough reason). Spending your mornings with the sick and disgruntled, the ill and the miserable? Examining urine samples, telling people that there is nothing to be done for them. Hanging around with people that you would like to help, but can’t because of the same combination of problems as besets social workers – insufficient resources and insufficient knowledge. A nurse at the top of her profession can only be expected to be paid £40,000 a year in this country. Many are earning half of that amount. Would you do it?
Yes, I do feel sympathy for those people who have lost their friends and relations because of mistakes. But I can see no value in a witch hunt conducted among the caring professions.
And much as I enjoy listening to Peter Allen on Radio 5, he ought to be very ashamed of taking part in this disgusting display today.
This is the conclusion of today's sermon. We will now sing hymn number 72 "Let's burn Thatcher".
I hope that normal service will be resumed shortly. Please skip the rest of this article if you, like me, think that there is no value in halfwits spouting their ill informed opinions on the electric internet.
I was perturbed to hear two separate “news” items on Radio 5 this evening, within a few minutes of each other.
The news was that:
1) Someone who had been receiving visits from his local social services flipped and killed someone.
2) Someone, and I did not listen to how they came up with the figure, neither do I give it any credence or import, that 1 in 7 medical diagnoses in the UK are incorrect.
They then proceeded to get a social work manager to apologise, and a doctor who had misdiagnosed someone to apologise.
FUCK OFF.
Social Work. Would you do it? Would you want to spend your days trying to help or monitor the activities of someone seriously mentally ill? Particularly if you knew you would never have the resources to support you? Particularly if you knew that the state of psychiatric science was in its infancy and that there are millions of people out there, fucked up beyond comprehension, with no one knowing how to treat them? And then to compound it all, as soon as you make a mistake you get the full weight of the parasitic mass media on your back, blaming you for being under resourced and under educated. Bastards. We are lucky to have any social workers at all in this country. They are underpaid, underappreciated and under supported. People going into this profession are those who want to help others. There is no other reason why you should surround yourself with so much crap on a daily basis. And then when some poor sod makes an error they are pilloried by our righteous Murdoch arse lickers and fascist tabloid twats, people who have never done any good for anybody.
The medical profession. A profession doomed to failure, because, ultimately, their job is to stop people from dying. Would you want to be a doctor? (No, Donn, the opportunity to ask ladies to take their clothes off is not a good enough reason). Spending your mornings with the sick and disgruntled, the ill and the miserable? Examining urine samples, telling people that there is nothing to be done for them. Hanging around with people that you would like to help, but can’t because of the same combination of problems as besets social workers – insufficient resources and insufficient knowledge. A nurse at the top of her profession can only be expected to be paid £40,000 a year in this country. Many are earning half of that amount. Would you do it?
Yes, I do feel sympathy for those people who have lost their friends and relations because of mistakes. But I can see no value in a witch hunt conducted among the caring professions.
And much as I enjoy listening to Peter Allen on Radio 5, he ought to be very ashamed of taking part in this disgusting display today.
This is the conclusion of today's sermon. We will now sing hymn number 72 "Let's burn Thatcher".
Thursday, September 17, 2009
An object of wonder and desire
Please visit Mike's page and rejoice in knowing someone truly demented.
If you don't feel joy watching it, then there is little hope for you.
Here are the links that you will need:
http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/miketd/
and for the music:
http://soundcloud.com/miketd/mikes-plinth-mix
He will tell you when to start the music.
If you don't feel joy watching it, then there is little hope for you.
Here are the links that you will need:
http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/miketd/
and for the music:
http://soundcloud.com/miketd/mikes-plinth-mix
He will tell you when to start the music.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Showing off
A reminder to support Mike in his endeavour to be the silliest person you know.
He is performing here between 6.00 and 7.00 UK time on Thursday.
He is performing here between 6.00 and 7.00 UK time on Thursday.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Contrafribularities
Our pal Boris has chosen to mark today by eulogising Samuel Johnson, who, surprisingly, seems not to be related to him.
To some, old Sam might seem like a loud mouthed twat – a partially educated Clarkson, if you will; an intolerant, cantankerous twerp of the highest order.
Boris says “He is not just sexist. He is not just xenophobic. He is a free-market, monarchy-loving advocate of the necessity of human inequality.”
Boris also says that today Sam would not be tolerated or listened to. I disagree. He would be listened to and dismissed by the majority as a twisted foolish bigot. I am trying to think of an example of a modern figure who serves as an example of this, but I am Johnsoned if I can.
To some, old Sam might seem like a loud mouthed twat – a partially educated Clarkson, if you will; an intolerant, cantankerous twerp of the highest order.
Boris says “He is not just sexist. He is not just xenophobic. He is a free-market, monarchy-loving advocate of the necessity of human inequality.”
Boris also says that today Sam would not be tolerated or listened to. I disagree. He would be listened to and dismissed by the majority as a twisted foolish bigot. I am trying to think of an example of a modern figure who serves as an example of this, but I am Johnsoned if I can.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ne-Ne-Ne-Never in the field of human congress.
I read this morning that the late queen mother's reaction to the palace being bombed during the war was that her "knees trembled a little bit for a minute or two". How extraordinary! One hears about admirable stoicism in the face of adversity but this is both brave and extremely candid. I hope she was rewarded with multiple orgasms, as the bombs fell around her, and old Bertie stammered out expletives in ecstasy.
Had the French not made the mistake of dispensing with their inspiring royal family they might have found inspiration from the copulatory activities of their king in the dark hours of the second world war, and been able to offer more resistance to the enemy.
Had the French not made the mistake of dispensing with their inspiring royal family they might have found inspiration from the copulatory activities of their king in the dark hours of the second world war, and been able to offer more resistance to the enemy.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Goodbye Mr Steak and Chips
Hats off to Andrea Charman, a ground-breaking school headmistress from Kent (why are they always from Kent?) who has made the news today.
She has decided that one of the school pets is to be sold to the local abattoir. (She claims that this was done democratically, but I suspect that the children were given the choice of “Listen brats, it’s either Marcus or one of you”)
She says that “I am trying to prepare children for the adult world in every sense”.
Good on yer, Andy!
Of course she does not go far enough.
Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to pass on the following suggestions so that she might take her laudable ambition to its proper conclusion. I would do it myself, but she scares the crap out of me.
Let the children slaughter the animals themselves. Have them shown how to sharpen the knives, discuss the best method of draining the blood. Make burgers out of the giblets. Make musical instruments out of the bones. (I was going to say make headmistresses out of the shit, but I am frightened of Ms Charman). Of course, this will not apply to vegetarian children, or “cissies” as they are known in Ms Charman’s school. They will be forced to pick the hand-reared peas that they have been growing at the back of the school prison, and pluck them from their pods, without anaesthetic.
Let’s have some marketing classes. Each hour have one class of children go round the school interrupting the other classes by trying to sell them crap that they don’t need.
Teach them about capitalism. Get them to hand over 45% of their pocket money to the Charman Investment Fund. When they leave school leaving age, they may get as much as 38% of it back, after tax.
Teach them about careers. Get them to do something entirely without merit, and then arbitrarily select one in twenty each term to be ‘made redundant’ from the class and get an “F”.
Teach them about journalism. Get the teachers to tell them a bunch of lies each day. (I suspect old Andrea will already have a good handle on this one).
For the school trip, hand out some Kalashnikovs and send the little loves to some third world country to see how many children they can murder there. Call it “democratisation awareness”.
Have a listen to Ms Charman, and unless you have children about to be put into her care, I defy you not to laugh.
I was struck by this sentence in the article:
“Mother Jo Davis said it was a disgrace that the sheep fed by hand by her eight-year-old daughter Megan was to be slaughtered and sold.” Delete the first 15 words and then you have a school policy that really reflects life in the world that we have made for ourselves.
She has decided that one of the school pets is to be sold to the local abattoir. (She claims that this was done democratically, but I suspect that the children were given the choice of “Listen brats, it’s either Marcus or one of you”)
She says that “I am trying to prepare children for the adult world in every sense”.
Good on yer, Andy!
Of course she does not go far enough.
Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to pass on the following suggestions so that she might take her laudable ambition to its proper conclusion. I would do it myself, but she scares the crap out of me.
Let the children slaughter the animals themselves. Have them shown how to sharpen the knives, discuss the best method of draining the blood. Make burgers out of the giblets. Make musical instruments out of the bones. (I was going to say make headmistresses out of the shit, but I am frightened of Ms Charman). Of course, this will not apply to vegetarian children, or “cissies” as they are known in Ms Charman’s school. They will be forced to pick the hand-reared peas that they have been growing at the back of the school prison, and pluck them from their pods, without anaesthetic.
Let’s have some marketing classes. Each hour have one class of children go round the school interrupting the other classes by trying to sell them crap that they don’t need.
Teach them about capitalism. Get them to hand over 45% of their pocket money to the Charman Investment Fund. When they leave school leaving age, they may get as much as 38% of it back, after tax.
Teach them about careers. Get them to do something entirely without merit, and then arbitrarily select one in twenty each term to be ‘made redundant’ from the class and get an “F”.
Teach them about journalism. Get the teachers to tell them a bunch of lies each day. (I suspect old Andrea will already have a good handle on this one).
For the school trip, hand out some Kalashnikovs and send the little loves to some third world country to see how many children they can murder there. Call it “democratisation awareness”.
Have a listen to Ms Charman, and unless you have children about to be put into her care, I defy you not to laugh.
I was struck by this sentence in the article:
“Mother Jo Davis said it was a disgrace that the sheep fed by hand by her eight-year-old daughter Megan was to be slaughtered and sold.” Delete the first 15 words and then you have a school policy that really reflects life in the world that we have made for ourselves.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Another attempt to get into the New Year's honours list
"If you think I'm going to put that in my mouth and lay myself open to some juvenile twat adding puerile captions to the photograph on his bollocky blog you can fuck right off."
Special trained troops help to escort Camilla from the "all you can drink" whisky exhibition.
And so the agent says "And what do you call the act?" and the little girl says "The Aristocrats!"
Every year, it fell to Hamish to get rid of the unwanted (i.e. all) haggises.
Liz fails to find any amusement at Philip's antics. Again. She has seen him give a 'Glasgow kiss' before, albeit never to the winner of the 'Glamorous Granny' competition.
"Oh, look Charles, whatever is Camilla doing now?"
"I'm not sure mater - Ann, isn't that the chap that you introduced to Camsy as 'Mr Caber'?"
"Heather? A bunch of fucking heather? You mean to tell me that the head of the British Commonwealth, the chuffing queen of England comes to your poxy locality, gets bitten by 2 squillion fucking midges, is forced to eat local fucking 'delicacies' that a starving dog would vomit up, has to listen to the worst music in the solar system (apart from country and fucking western) and watches a loaded of hairy-arsed twats in skirts hurl wood about in sub-zero temperatures, and all you can give her is a bunch of fucking heather? You didn't even bother to buy something from the BP station, did you? No, that would have meant sticking your hands in your pockets, you tight-fisted brat. No, you thought 'Oh, there's some weeds at the side of the road, that will do fine', didn't you. I've got a good mind to make you sit on Philip's lap for the rest of the afternoon. White Trash
You may be surprised to learn that I was momentarily distressed this morning to read the Telegraph headline "Thatcher ready to quit Britain", and even surpriseder to learn that I was relieved when it turned out that the witch in question was the totally-without-redeeming-features Carol of that ilk.
"Why was I sad? And later desaddened?" I hear you ask.
Well, I saw it as a potential final kick in the teeth for those of us who number among her majesty's unemployed, and are therefore not particularly "flush" as the colloquialism goes. Were the vile old bitch to be interred overseas, where, I ask would we find the funds in order to be able to make the pilgrimage to dance on her grave?
"Why was I sad? And later desaddened?" I hear you ask.
Well, I saw it as a potential final kick in the teeth for those of us who number among her majesty's unemployed, and are therefore not particularly "flush" as the colloquialism goes. Were the vile old bitch to be interred overseas, where, I ask would we find the funds in order to be able to make the pilgrimage to dance on her grave?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2009
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.
Apparently its 16,000 members face discrimination.
You can do your own silly jokes.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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”.
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”.
Friday, August 14, 2009
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.
(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.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 24, 2009
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."Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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.”
“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.”
Friday, July 17, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 10, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)