Please, someone, make it stop

I am getting tired of writing about these bloody scientists. (Good. Write about something you know about. Ed.)

This morning’s news from the world of fantasy, is that the Higgs Boson has been “glimpsed”. Yes, £10billion for a glimpse. Good job that there is plenty of money to go round, isn’t it?

Then there is the exciting news of the discovery of two large black holes not 300million light years away. “How big are they?” you ask, “Fucking big” is my riposte. The reports about these holes all mention that in a black hole the laws of physics break down. The laws of physics are always breaking down, which is why I refuse to obey them. They are silly. Very silly indeed, and I wish that I had taken the time to explain this to Mr McDermott in my fourth form physics lessons so that he could have talked about something more sensible.

Not to be outdone, medical scientists are trying to grab attention on the BBC news site by proclaiming the value of faecal transplants. I shit you not. For those of you not of a scientific disposition will perhaps be aided in understanding this process by the analogy of the British democratic process. Every few years we have a transplant called a General Election, in which the same shit is moved from one set of bodies to another. Unlike the claims of our doctor friends, however, in this case nothing ever gets better.

I trust that this has cheered you all, to the extent that you can now listen to some twat playing “White Christmas” or some other seasonal shite without resorting to mass murder.

I am not a street fighting man - I'm out of here.

I was somewhat taken aback this morning to read in the Grauniad the headline reporting: “Williams: riots could happen again”.

The Williams in question is Rowan of that ilk, not Robbie or his sister Venus.

I am alarmed that the head of the church is threatening insurrection. I cannot recall this happening before. The establishment does not take kindly to the clergy interfering in matters temporal, as poor old Tommy Becket discovered. In my view, we haven’t had a decent ab of C since Sigeric the serious. Perhaps Dave might consider a move in the January transfer window.

I hope Rowan has not been inspired by my post yesterday. He ought to know I was not being entirely serious. I thought he was one of these modern clerics who did not take the scriptures literally. I see I shall have to be more circumspect.

I am fearful for the survival of our society. I do not know how I would survive were they to stop broadcasting “Have I Got News For You”.

****

The scientific community are showing signs of excitement about the discovery of the exoplanet (what that? Ed.) Kepler 22-b, which has all the signs of being able to support life. They say it is quite close by – 600 light years, but I can’t find it on the North East Hampshire bus timetable, so probably won’t make the effort of visiting, at least until the new year.

I haven’t read all of the articles, but so far haven’t found any mention of the implications of Kepler being 2.4 times the size of the earth. Unless they have more sensible scientists than ours who have abolished the law of gravity, I would have thought that the probability is that Kepler has therefore 2.4 times the mass of the earth, and therefore moving about on it would be quite tiring. This appeals to me, on balance. “Sorry, won’t be at work today, I find I that I can’t get out of my chair”.

Please let me know if any of you see a list of for volunteers to join the first trip. It behoves me to present any existing inhabitants with the friendlier face of humanity. I will do my best to make sure that all members of the party are carefully vetted. We have all seen the results of letting a bunch of psychotic god-botherers loose on new colonies, after all.

Wait for six weeks, and all you get is the same rehashed whinging

Boris is trying to make me cross again.

“What!?”, is your response, “Are you deluded, he is trying to make everyone cross!”

“What difference does that make?” is my reply. I know my Yossarian.

In the Torygraph, Boris has come clean and admitted that the future of capitalism involves all of us being able to buy expensive things that we don’t need, and because there isn’t an alternative then we should all do just that.

I suspect that the silly fucker has overspent this month, and needs some cash wrung from the labour of the world’s poor people to make him feel a bit more comfortable. Perhaps his shares in “International  Child-Murdering War Machines” have taken a dip. Let’s have a whip round for the odious tit, shall we?

There is no alternative, or so Bozza and his slimy mates would have us believe. 

They want to bring about the end of the world in an orgy of consumerist ignorance. Better use up those last few resources even if it means poisoning us all.

I would love to see an end to these bastards. I am not, by any means a man of violence, but I suspect that if someone were to build a nice long wall and line up all the capitalists, bankers and their apologists and proceed to shoot them, I doubt whether I would manage much more than a shake of my head and a loud tut as a symbol of my disapproval. 

Guess the twat

People who read my contribution to this news channel last week (aMToNW) may have been given the impression that I was lending some support to Liam Fox and his unsavoury Dickensian friend in their current troubled situation. Allow me to clarify.

I am glad to see the back of the odious little tit. What a shame that all of his friends didn’t resign with him. As the Minister of Defence, he takes some of the blame for our involvement in the currently obscene and ineffective military campaigns in Asia. It would have been more appropriate for him to have been sacked for that rather than the rather puzzling series of events that led to his ‘resignation’.

(A few years ago a UK charity sponsored a “Take your dog to work” day. I telephoned an acquaintance employed by said charity, purporting to be Jacques Costeau, and berated him in my finest French accent about how silly my dog looked in snorkel and flippers, and concluded with “ze fucker ‘as drowned”. )

Young Liam thought it was appropriate to take his friend to work. Never mind the security implications, or the fact that anyone dumb enough to befriend loony Liam was going to be neither use nor ornament.

Trying to get in on the act, entering stage right, we have good old Ollie Letwin, who didn’t want to dirty the nice shiny wastepaper basket that slimy Dave had given him, so took his rubbish (official papers) out to the local park to dispose of. Picture, if you will a government minister, sitting on the banks of the Serpentine fashioning paper boats out of Top Secret documents, and then wetting himself with excitement to see which one won the race.

Now that we have dealt with those two minor loonies, can we please focus attention on the prize assholes who really need to be taken out and shot. (pls fill in the usual suspects – Gove, Lansley, Willetts, you know).

Finally, can I say how tired I am of hearing Tory politicians (yes, I know I do not need to qualify this) suffixing all of their slimy utterances with the phrase “the mess Labour left behind”. The biggest mess that Labour left behind was, and let us be clear that this is due to their woeful incompetence, a population so despairing that they voted for the current shower of shit that occupies the government benches in the commons. I am in no hurry to see (or hear) Milliband at the despatch box, nor will I ever lend my support to the lily-livered-Libdems until they apologise for supporting the current cabinet by crawling on their stomachs for 30 days through sewage and broken glass. My view is that Labour is tory-lite, and will only slow the destruction of this country due to incompetence and lack of the kind of ruthlessness shown by slimy Dave.

Bring on the revolution.

Let tolerance be our watchword

Liam Fox is being hounded by the press because he has a friend. Unusual as that is for a Tory, surely we should be congratulating him on his endeavours: he has shown ingenuity. If it transpires that he has been using the services of a website - “BefriendaTory” or some such – then I, for one, will not judge him on that.

As a treehugging, pinko, commie faggot, I firmly believe that it is possible to integrate Conservatives into our society by showing love and compassion. Just look at my record in attempting to help dear Boris become human. There are, no doubt, those out there who believe that the best remedy for our current problems is to take the current cabinet and burn them at the stake. Well, the “Disembowel Dave” movement will find no favour here. Well, maybe a bit.

I am grateful we do not live in an authoritarian regime where people who make poor decisions in their social lives are not immediately put in high security institutions. As such, Adam Werrity should be cared for rather than condemned.

Mr Werrity (even the name sounds Dickensian) should be allowed his social liberties. If it turns out that he cannot count to seven or remember the words to Humpty Dumpty as we all suspect, then attempts should be made to educate him.

Space Philology

Regular readers (a Mrs Television of North Wales) will be pleased to hear that I can no longer bring myself to watch that third rate tosh ‘Downbog Abbey’, and I have exhausted my ability to find new ways to describe how dire ‘Spooks’ is.  Instead I will compare and contrast two other recent offerings on the electric television.

I was expecting to be mildly entertained by Stephen Fry’s “Planet Word”, but held out little prospect of Jo Brand’s Big Splash being other than a schedule filler.

I was wrong.

There. I’ve said it. I was wrong.

I found Planet Word to be fairly dull, learned nothing interesting from it, and found myself becoming slightly irritated. (I know that most of you think that I spend my waking life in a state somewhere between ordinary grumpiness and blood-vessel bursting. It ain’t so.)  The programmer planners seem to think that we all want to see endless footage of recycled celebrities trekking round obscure corners of the globe (yes,  Dave, I know there are no corners on a globe, now shut up and write your blasted blog) making facile comments and expressing enthusiasm about subjects of no earthly nor celestial interest.

Thus we have Mr Fry sitting amongst some poor bastards in East Africa who had only just recovered from a visit by Gyles Brandreth making a documentary about trombone polishing. They could not understand what Stevie was saying, and he spoke not one word of their language.  I am not sure how many times my licence fee it cost the BBC to fly Fry to Eritrea to fail to communicate with some poor unsuspecting bugger who was looking forward to an evening of goat-tending, but it is too bloody many. Then we have him striding along a beach, pontificating. I do not know why he felt that he needed the Caspian Sea (no, I have no idea where it was) as a backdrop – possibly to distract from the tedium of his discourse.  

What I had overlooked about Jo Brand was that whatever she is in, she is brilliant, certainly when all she does is be herself.  I just like her, it is as simple as that. I’ve liked her ever since her early days of abrasive comedy (the “painter’s in” line was one of the greatest ever), and now, even when her humour is no longer cutting-edge, and would probably not be even remotely funny when done by someone else, whenever I see her, I get the feeling that there is room in my enormous circle of friends for her, and I would love to spend time with her. Just watch it and feel good.

Here is an example for those of you of a foreign persuasion, who may not be familiar with her stage act.

PFC Wintergreen would say "Emil Steinberger"

You will be aware that nothing inflames my ire (have you ever had an inflamed ire, missus?) more than racial stereotyping. As my dear friend Donn has just written – and please do not dismiss his work just because he is as nutty as a very nutty thing indeed – we are all cousins, and descended from the same woman (what an old slut she must have been).  Consequently, we should dwell upon the vast majority of things which we have in common rather than the superficial differences.

It is therefore with a very heavy heart that I now speculate about the shortcomings of a nation. I need to say, before continuing, that some of my best friends are Swiss. Well, Daniel is from Switzerland, and I have never alluded to any differences there might be between our two friendly nations. It was in a spirit of fraternity that one year, for his birthday, we clubbed together and bought for him a bar of Cadbury’s finest Dairy Milk, a quarter pound of medium Cheddar and an alarm clock (sans cuckoo). I need hardly provide more evidence of my tolerant and open view of mon frère Suisse.

However, none of you will have failed to be orgasmatised by the news from Geneva this day that they have found a particle that is moving faster than the speed of light. The best way of describing what this discovery means would be to say that if this particle had written this little essay, then this sentence would have appeared two paragraphs earlier. And probably would not have had the word “this” in it so many times.

It is a well-known scientific phenomenon that the observation of an experiment affects the outcome. I have secretly been fearful of the choice of Cern as the venue for the collision of particles. Until now I have held my peace, and therefore cannot truthfully say “I told you so”, but “I thought you so” is certainly not an exaggeration. It comes as no surprise to me that if you conduct experiments in Switzerland then the results are likely to be suspect. You see, the Swiss are so fucking efficient. Of course their particles will arrive early. They will also be formally dressed, know automatically which side of the collider to drive on, and answer all questions fluently in at least five languages.

“Splendid!” you may say. “Piffle!” would be my riposte. These chaps are looking for the elusive “God particle”. Switzerland would not be my choice. 

Yes, I must confess that I would enjoy the universe much less if God were Swiss, or even had Swiss characteristics. Go on, name a famous Swiss comedian. If you fancy a damned good belly laugh, would you go to Basle? Guffaw in Geneva? Laugh in Lucerne? Titter in (find me a Swiss town beginning with ‘T’, Ed.)?

No! If you are looking for God in the Alps you are going to find a very boring God indeed. Efficient, disciplined but totally lacking in joy and spontaneity. When I was at school we learned about the Reformation. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that they attempted to teach me about it. There was a Swiss chap called Zwingli. He was so dull that I can remember nothing about him. What I do remember is that the arch-miseryguts Calvin – one of the most confirmed joy-suckers in the whole sorry history of religion – fled to Switzerland. He felt at home there, and was never troubled by concepts of happiness and fun.

They should have built the collider somewhere more redolent of the type of God that this world needs. Ireland, perhaps; they would give short shrift to precocious particles. Gaelic gluons would not be in such a damn hurry. They could at least have moved over the Alps to Italy. You may not be very impressed with Italian organisational skills, but there would be a damn sight more collisions than those over-polite Helveticans can produce.

There will, no doubt, be very many more discoveries from this overblown circus. None of them will be very interesting, and none of the news will be good. You mark my words.

Is it safe?

Regular readers – (A Mrs Trotsky of North Wales) will have been monitoring updates to this site in order to keep up with news of the revolution.  Keen to be first to read of the overthrow of capitalism, and the establishment of the People’s Republic of the Earth, where men can live as brothers, women can live as sisters, (this may involve relaxation of strictures against incest), there will be a just distribution of the world’s resources so that no-one need die of malnutrition, there will be no shortage of things to laugh at, and marketing will be abolished.

(I had a telephone call from someone the other day who said that I need not worry (I wasn’t worried anyway, so they need not have worried to tell me that), they weren’t selling anything, but just wanted my opinion. This proved to be a lie. When I started to give them my opinion, they rang off.)

I hope that you have all realised by now that I am not a man of violence. I would prefer Mr Murdoch, for example, to realise his mistakes by my reasoned argument about why greed is not good for anyone or the planet on which we live. I would like to see Slimy Dave educated (unlikely, I know, while Wackford Gove is in charge) and work out for himself that constantly overproducing goods which no-one needs does not serve a useful purpose.

My position was further reinforced by my visit to the dentist this morning. It turns out that he did not take kindly to my lambasting the Tory government, I learned, while he was probing my pre-molars (or bashing my bicuspids, if you will), that, in his view, this government was not Tory – they had liberals in the government, that Tony Blair was a socialist, and that – well fill in the rest yourself. During this dental diatribe, I did not contribute much in the way of cogent counterpoint. (I did, at one stage, say “mgffllbt”). My position, I realised, was not so much that of a man of peace, but that of a committed coward. My militancy does not extend to confront armed opponents, whether they be wielding assegais, machine guns or extracting forceps. I left the dental surgery this morning, paid the £17 fee for having to listen to Norman Tebbitt while he ascertained that I didn’t need any treatment, and I didn’t even mention Nye Bevan.

So, here is the revised plan for the revolution:

1. Tut a bit when you hear Vince Cable on the electric radio.
2. Get quite cross when someone says “entrepreneur” and means it in a good way.
3. Call Wackford Gove a pillock
4. Er …
5. That’s it.

Something for the weekend

The good news for stargazers this weekend is, according to all reliable news sources (oxymoron? Ed.), the explosion of a supernova in a nearby galaxy.

Supernovae are phenomena caused by inhabitants of planets causing their sun to explode after realising that they were surrounded by people who had actually voted for the current Tory government. Scientists have calculated that, given the billions of stars in the universe there is what amounts to a certainty of there being at least 44 other Wackford Goves in existence.

I am not quite at the point of despair. Not quite ready to nip down to Homebase to pick up their “Blow up the sun” kit – 2 for the price of one offer while stocks last. I am determined to persevere through the winter months, in the sure and certain knowledge of seeing the All Blacks win the world cup, Viru surpassing 400 runs in a test and finishing reading the pile of books currently at the side of my bed. I will do all this, and more, before I am so disheartened by the list of knuckle-draggers who are the potential candidates for next president of the USA that I consider halting the orbit of the planet.

Of course, the events visible in the UK this weekend actually happened 21 million years ago. I suppose most of us will prefer to stay warm and watch Saturday evening terrestrial television, which has only been the same for just over 13 million years.

Assholes of the week. (Same as last week)

Slimy Dave was on the electric radio this morning, being pressed (not literally, alas) about the parallels between the recent display of youthful exuberance on the streets of London, and the dreadful criminal activity of the terrorists in the Bullingdon Club during his youth. His first response was that the London rioters were organised. Let us all hope that he has learnt since those days. Wouldn’t it be awful if the first lord of the treasury was lacking in basic abilities such as organisation and planning. I am confident in his capability to inflict the light hearted antics of his school pals on the rest of us in an efficient and calculated manner.

Elsewhere, his pet moron, Wackford Gove, has hit upon the splendid notion of using ex-service personnel to bring some backbone to the teaching profession. He has the foresight to realise that these young people have had it far too easy for too long. His new education act, subtitled “Shoot the little fuckers” will pass through parliament next year. In the meantime, let’s welcome the first of the new qualified ex-military teachers to the profession.

Henry V Part III

Regular readers  (come on, you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?) will be delighted to discover that my muse, far from having died, has just been on a rather lengthy summer break, and is now back, keen to tackle the major news stories of the day.

So invigorated am I by her return, and also inspired by the wise decision to remake “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” as a moving picture performance, that I plan to embark on number of projects to improve the intellectual and cultural climate.

There are some stuffed shirts who would opine that to tamper with what they see as perfection in the Alec Guinness portrayal of George Smiley. “Rubbish!” I say, the arts are fuelled by innovation and are constantly improving. Who among you would not prefer to listen to Jedward rather than have to endure the tedium of Bach or Handel? The new “Tinker” adaptation will feature Arnold Schwarzenegger as Smiley, Max Boyce as Control, Vin Diesel as Esterhazy, Roseanne Barr as Ann Smiley and Amitabh Bachchan as Bill Haydon.  This is the way le Carré planned it.

I have written to the Pope, offering to freshen up the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. I understand that magnolia is very much in vogue, and might brighten it up here and there with a strategically placed poster on a religious theme – Cliff, perhaps.

I am working on enhancing the Kreutzer sonata by scoring parts for percussion, bassoon, didgeridoo and voice (I need hardly tell you that I am thinking of Madonna for the first performance).

My update of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner will be in blank verse, (so it won’t be a rime at all), and will follow the more relevant story related by the Mariner (now completely land-based – I am thinking of his telling the tale of his journey from Yeovil to Halifax, avoiding all the motorways) in which he actually rescues endangered species. No albatross will be harmed in my version, oh no!

I may write more about my other current project “Oh, here’s Godot now!” when I have added a little more structure and moulded the characters’ personalities.

No News of the World. Get your cheap filth here

I have been urged by a certain East Anglian cleric to update this little corner of the internet. Quite why it stresses him so much I do not know, but, as you know, I am always willing to help.

I have chosen for my sermon the theme of thingy, you know, nudgenudgewinkwink. Coitus. This is not because of any attempt to court controversy, but simply because TCM have got it wrong again, unless my friends at the Torygraph have, heaven forefend, failed to report accurately. Scientists have, according to a science correspondent who looks barely old enough to have begun puberty, discovered the point of sex. When they mean the point they mean the purpose, rather than any unnecessary sharp objects that might form part of the ritual.

Here is the reasoning. When a new being is created as a result of two other beings of the same species being a bit bored and/or horny, then that being is better equipped to deal with biological enemies such as parasites because of what is quaintly called the blending of genomes. Have you had your genomes blended, missus? By combining we keep ahead of parasites that are evolving to do a better job of consuming us

.

This may make sense; I care little. They now, however, say they have “solid evidence”. Here it is:

“After exposing them to a harmful bacteria, worms that reproduced through sex survived fairly well while those that were asexual died rapidly.”

To this I say ‘balderdash’. I would say that if your life prospects were limited to performing self-stimulation and cloning yourself entirely to satisfy the perverse curiosity of nerds, while you could see your mates in the next box along were going at it like the clappers all hours of the day, would you not be more inclined to roll over and look forward to some more satisfactory pastime in the next life?

Lactose Intolerant

You can tell Andrew Lansley is crap at his job by following this train of logic.

He is the Health Secretary. He makes me fucking sick.

The headline in the online version of the Torygraph (doesn’t even come with a health warning) is “’Reform or die within years’ Andrew Lansley tells NHS”. “Go to hospital and die within days” will be his legacy.

I hope that the Lord, in all his mercy, strikes down dead any Tory who thinks that they are fit to intervene in running what is left of the NHS after the ravages of Thatcher and Blair.  I have already expressed my views about this enough, and like to avoid too much repetition.

Lansley’s only valid contribution to the NHS would be as an organ donor, although he clearly doesn’t have a functioning heart or brain. Perhaps it would be simpler for him to just fuck off.  There you have it, profound and carefully reasoned political analysis. This is what my public desires.

******

The Grauniad, on the other hand, prefers to bring us news that is not quite so new, about our ancient ancestors.

“Study suggests females roamed far and wide on reaching sexual maturity whereas males stayed near their birthplace”

Whereas today, of course, it is the women who sit at home watching football all day while the men like to spend their Saturdays picking up bargains at the shops.

******

The BBC, on the other hand, report on a galaxy similar, according to “astronomers”, to the Milky Way. It is called NGC 6744. That does not seem very friendly. If I wish to add some of its inhabitants as my facebook friends, then I feel that we should, as a minimum, give their galaxy a more descriptive name. Not that “Milky Way” is very appealing – I wouldn’t want that in my address. After all, they have named some dwarf galaxy “Magellanic Clouds”. Not that I can be much bothered – I haven’t even given my house a name. So, sod it, NGC 6744 it is.

Carefully constructed reasoning.

Just in case I have been equivocal about the state visit of president Obama, let me try to add some clarity.

State visit. Bollocks.

Official reception. Bollocks.

Hands across the sea. Bollocks.

Oldest allies. Bollocks.

Black tie dress code. Bollocks.

Star studded dinner. Bollocks.

7.823 squillion pounds security budget. Bollocks.

Endless patronising platitudes. Bollocks.

Special relationship. Bollocks.

Royal family. Bollocks.

Land of opportunity. Bollocks.

Working towards world peace. Bollocks.

Get it while you can

Our dear friend, Former Frontier Editor, has moved into the sphere of public service broadcasting.

I got 75% on that

After a day in which I played my part in rejuvenating the economy, I turned on my car radio and was greeted by someone whose voice I did not recognise talking about examinations, of the academic kind. Several times they mention “rigorous exams”. I wondered whether anyone could use that term without reference to judging, or not having the Latin, or even mining. Who, I pondered, could this person be, so lacking in the rudiments of humour?

In my defence, I will claim tiredness, for there is only one person walking the planet so boring and humourless to miss that opportunity. Yes, you are faster than me, it was the idiot Gove. I am convinced that were he still with us, Gandhi would have given this idiot a sound kicking. If Gove lived in India, Jains would form knife wielding gangs and attack him. Members of the Society of Friends are locked in their homes when Gove is in town lest they are tempted to knee him in the groin. Even when he says something with which one might find some common ground the instinct is always to reassess one’s position. Whatever he says, I’m against it.

When the education system first welcomed me to its bosom, the Minister of Education was David Eccles. He held this position on a part time basis, as his other job was in the Goon Show. Eccles later became Minister of Someothershit and is famous for introducing entrance fees to our museums. Tit. I am not sure how much influence he had on me personally during my early years at school, and I don’t harbour any lasting grudges. The old fool is dead now, and I have no desire to seek revenge for whatever early trauma I suffered at King Richard III school, so full of dismal terror was the time.

We have, in this country, a proud tradition of allowing total twats to be in charge of education – I can recall Quinton Hogg, Patrick Gordon Walker, John Patten and Shirley Williams being put in charge. Rivalling Gove for being totally unsuited were Keith Joseph – mothers wouldn’t even let their children look at, let alone speak to him, and of course, everyone’s favourite aunty Mag the Hag. Even among all of these psychos, Gove stands out. I cannot explain why. Fortunately, I do not need to. You only have to listen to him for two minutes. I will not be so cruel to say that looking at him for two seconds would have the same effect, as I pride myself on not judging people by their appearance. Please help me to maintain these minimum standards. Let our views of him be formed by his policies not his face. Even if you would rather have a man dressed as a chicken formulating plans for our schools.

Now wash your hands please

As my closest fans will know, I recently passed the landmark indicative of being six sevenths on the way to my allotted term in this body. I enjoyed a quiet celebration, once the super models, Hollywood sirens and the duchess of Cornwall had been fought off, the interviews for the Tatler and “Twilight Twinks” given, and gallons of Mrs Heckmondwike’s Herbal Infusion consumed.

I naively expected that achieving this age would bring me some recognition of my status, and there would be some modest financial benefits coming my way. I believed that the caring, loving and compassionate government we all didn’t elect last year would be keen to enlist my support by, at the minimum, sending informative and interesting information my way.

I was soon disabused of this idea. Have no fear, dear reader, my spirits have not been dampened. My cheery disposition is unaffected. I can still be observed skipping gaily and energetically down the byways of North East Hampshire, a smile on my lips and a cheery greeting exchanged with fellow residents. But a lesser being may not have survived the disappointment of opening the first official missive that arrived after my birthday. What, you may be keen to discover, were the contents of this communication? Well, I might reply, they were these. I received a pamphlet outlining the danger of bowel cancer. “Happy birthday, Scurra!”, they exclaimed, “you are evidently not much longer for this earth, here’s our first guess at the disgusting ailment that might provide the finishing nudge towards the eternal abyss.”

In short, those nice people in charge want me to send them some excrement via the royal mail. I had some Conservative party leaflets nearby, and was tempted to forward them, but then considered how thoroughly miserable it must be to have a job in the postroom at the screening programme headquarters without subjecting them to vile photographs of slimy Dave. Turds not Tories is their motto.

This is our fine Big Society. Serve your time, work for most of your active life completing (or not) meaningless tasks, pay your taxes, contribute to the economy, and, just as you round the final bend and the finishing line is in sight, we will invite you to shit in a bag. 

I am Syrian, and don't call me Shirley

Ere we start living in paradise

Those of you foolish enough to have been nominated as my “friends” on facebook will have noted that I am in danger of being subsumed by the ridiculous posturings of the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan and their periodic celebration of “finding a girl thick enough to marry one of the throwback offspring”. I would hate to be responsible for fuelling the hype surrounding this obscene display of egregious frippery and luring some poor soul into thinking that it might be of interest, or there being some inherent value in following the proceedings.

Please, therefore, consider yourselves licenced to exclaim “Enough, Scurra! No more of this feudal fucktardery! Tell us tales of the Higgs Boson or the exploits of Michael Gove. Engage us with treatises on the wisdom of the saints, sages and poets.”

I am only here to serve.

A welcome return.

From last night’s Lewis:

Hathaway to Lewis: “You had no idea the killer would strike again”

Which is quite true, unless he had seen any of the other previous 214 episodes of Morse and Lewis. 

Public Service Notice

I stumbled upon this little missive that I composed several years ago. I trust that it meets your satisfaction.
I could do this sort of thing for a living, I think.

A few weeks ago I ordered by telephone two replacement filters for my ***** kettle.

On 25^th February I reported to you that they had not arrived. I was called the next day with a suitable apology, and told that the goods were being despatched immediately.

I was therefore very pleased to receive a parcel from you yesterday.

Unfortunately, the parcel contained two packets of vacuum cleaner dust bags for the “Dirt Devil” model.  They do not appear to fit my kettle, and leave my chosen beverage “Mrs Arkwright’s Elderberry Herbal Infusion” with a distinctly papery taste.  I have not, as yet, experimented with my vacuum cleaner as a food preparation device, but would welcome your views as to the likelihood of the results thereof being satisfactory. It would, however, provide me with the opportunity for the first time in 20 years of consuming meals of the highest possible quality, to tell my wife that her cooking sucked.

I have opened up a little ‘book’ with a close circle of friends and neighbours to predict what will be in my next parcel.  I do not wish to restrict your imagination, but if the parcel was to contain a collection of shrunken heads of the Burmese dancing ferret, then I would be a couple of quid to the good.

I am sending this missive to the fax machine at your ****** branch, and to your email address.  Next time I will not be so conservative in the scope of my distribution list. I am not one to resort to threat, but I would point out that I do have the ear of a Mr Bush of Texas, and that a Mr Hussein of Baghdad once sent me the incorrect spare parts for my model 2976 left handed aubergine seeder.

Asterisks entered to protect the stupid.

Watch the blackboard while I go through it.

A few months ago I attended an event at my former school. I had a very nice time with old friends, and was moved to write a little treatise about education for my loyal readers here (aMToNW). Like most of my homework, I have still not finished it, and will probably end up with an E. In fact, until tonight I have not started it. Might have started once and discarded it. The dog might have eaten it. Who knows?

Anyway, when I turned on the electric radio this afternoon, the idiot Gove was on - for a very long time indeed. I do not understand why the BBC (for it was they) believed that anyone apart from Mr Gove and his family had any interest whatsoever in what Mr Gove had to say. I doubt whether his family find him interesting, in fact, but I hope that in the interests of humanity that someone is fond of him, even if he is an unlikely recipient of love.

One of the real reasons that I did not finish the essay alluded to above was the fear that I could not summarise my feelings in what is acceptable in a blog. I don’t like reading long blogs, and expect that many of us are of the “tl;dr” persuasion.

Let me try to be precise.

Gove is an arse. He knows fuck all about education. I sometimes find myself agreeing with parts of what he says, but then realise that he must be wrong because he is an arse.

My headmaster, E. Sprope, knew lots about education. He knew (belief is not a strong enough term to describe his conviction) that if you provided young people with an environment in which they were supported and encouraged, they would succeed. In essence, human beings are fundamentally good. I tried to thank him for what he had done for me, but he countered with the view that I had done it myself. To argue with him would have been to contradict his underlying principles. The smart arse.

What else do you need? Well, young Johann wrote this nice essay the other day. Have a good read. It is very good. I was tempted to steal it and present it as my own work, but you know that even if I have a quarter of  the ability to write this well, I seldom have the inclination.

To sum up, children are generally nice. If you love and respect them they will flourish, and become the sort of people we want to live among. It might be good if, during their school years, they learned a few skills to help them function in the world. Maybe stuff like being able to count, read, write, enjoy learning, present their ideas clearly, perhaps even be clever enough to expand the limits of our knowledge. Beyond that, I don’t care much. My view is that we have more than enough accountants, bankers, marketers, salesmen, entrepreneurs (some people use that word as if it is a good thing, ffs!), and Goves.

I think that was pretty much it.

*** My headmaster was not really called E. Sprope, that was his sobriquet  in our semi-underground student magazine. His name is Andrew Finch. He is by far the most intelligent person I have ever met. I hope he lives healthily and happily for at least another 90 years, and is recognised for the fine human being that he is.

Two from the top, please, Carol.

I am not altogether surprised that my recent treatise on filth attracted more comment (but only slightly) than my thoughts on the state of the universe. It seems that I have now found the level of my readership (aMToNW).

There may be some of you not familiar with the programme on the electric television called “Countdown”. (It has only been on for 25 years, Dave). It is a quaintly British institution, invented in France, where the last few dozen people in the country capable of spelling and counting compete with each other in order to win a teapot.

On Friday’s edition the competitors were required to make the longest possible word out of the letters “LAFTEINLO”. They failed miserably. The winning competitor offered “ELATION”, and Susie “that’s fantastic” Dent only managed “FLATLINE”. I saw the nine letter word immediately, and have been disappointed ever since not to hear it enunciated on mid-afternoon television.

Any commentators using the “a bit of a mouthful” comment will have 10 points deducted.

And your homework for today is ....

This is public service posting. I am trying to limit the amount of smutty innuendo that is typically generated when a noteworthy news source broaches the subject of ‘thingy’.

The Torygraph, peace be upon it, this morning has an article about sex education in primary schools. This is a very serious subject, so let me clarify some of the points that they make to prevent an outbreak of sniggering and other generally immature behaviour. I will take the unintentionally ambiguous sections of the report in turn.

***

 “ … may be employing classroom materials that cover subjects such as orgasms and foreplay.”

‘Materials’ refers to printed, descriptive items. It does not mean any kind of object used to achieve orgasm. The British education system is founded upon the principles of children being denied any avenue of enjoyment, and has worked successfully on this premise for many years.

***

“One book for children aged just five contains cartoon images of a couple having sexual intercourse and another compares sex to skipping.”

The skipping reference is entirely to do with (and you would know this if you read the entire article) the sort of activity that “you can’t do all day”.

Is that clear? There are no other similarities.

I have not skipped for over 40 years. The last time that I did, I fell over and got a nosebleed, and took several minutes to extricate myself from the rope.

***

“The Christian Institute – a charity that promotes Biblical teaching – said parents were being kept in the dark”.

There is nothing wrong with this. Some people are shy. How and when they conduct ‘thingy’ is entirely their own concern. On balance (no innuendo intended), it is probably better that they conduct these activities in their own homes in the dark than in full daylight in the middle of a nearby traffic island, Pamela.

Cox and Fox

Sebastian Faulks has just completed a documentary series on the electric television about literature. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I have read some of them. They were good. I doubt whether I will read them again. They weren’t that good.

His television series was informative and well presented, putting various aspects of the novel into context. It helped that I had read nearly all of the books he talked about. He seems to be an excellent choice as presenter - articulate and interesting.

The only slightly off-putting aspect was of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places (usually associated with the location of the novel in question) to talk to the camera. An interesting choice of locations, and probably better than an hour of him sitting on a sofa in Potters Bar.

Brian Cox’s documentary currently showing on the electric television is one quarter of the way through, and is about the universe. I watched it. It was good. He has written some books. I haven’t read them, and probably won’t.  He has been on television quite a lot, being quite photogenic as physicists go. And as physicists go on, he went on. (Thank you, H H Munro).

The programme was interesting and well presented, and at the end of it I had a better understanding of the second law of thermodynamics than I had at the beginning. Whether that will help me in my construction of my sandwich for lunch tomorrow remains to be seen.

The only slightly off-putting aspect of the series was his habit of popping up in strange places to talk to the camera - Peru, Namibia and Costa Rica for example. When you are talking about the age of the universe, you don’t really gain much by trying to measure it against human time frames, or even time frames comprehendible by the human mind, so I don’t know why he felt the need to go to these places. The sea turtles in Costa Rica shared my reservations. “Fuck off, I’m trying to lay my eggs in peace, you fucking pervert” one of them said. At least I think that is what she said – they speak Spanish with a funny accent down in Costa Rica.

Beyond that, it is difficult to compare the two programmes. The novel can give us an insight into the human condition, and stir our feelings. If we can put the writer and his times into context, it might help us to understand it better.

Despite whatever I have written about the silliness of scientists, I can be equally stirred by their pursuit of understanding, and mankind’s attempt to put his existence into perspective by considering his place in the universe. The second law, which is pretty much accepted to be quite accurate by most of the scientific fraternity postulates that the universe will eventually end. Energy will be dissipated, matter will be broken down into radiation and disappear, and there will be nothing left. The good news is that there will be lots of it. A little on the bleak side, but it won’t happen before next Tuesday, so no need to fret just yet.

Here’s what I reckon:

• I am going to die at some stage. Probably before the end of the universe.
• I do not have the capacity to understand the universe
• The collective understanding of the total scientific community to date is miniscule and as likely to be seen as quaint in 200 years time as Jane Austens’ view of society is judged today.
• There are some things, and the essence of human existence is at the core of these things, that are too beautiful and mind blowing to be conceived or understood, and we are better off experiencing them than trying to explain them. Our explanations, whether religious or secular, scientific or mystical, are incapable of even beginning to approach the utter bliss of being.

Frustrate their knavish tricks

Some of you may have formed the view that I am not always entirely of the monarchist persuasion. Some of my writings may have hinted that I would be in favour of the wall building industry, resulting walls (keep it up, padre!) being used for various sections of society being lined up against in order to facilitate the shooting thereof.

I cannot comment on these speculations, as, as you well know, I prefer not to broadcast my opinions and prejudices like some tupenny Rothermere or Murdoch.

However, you may have noticed that Andrew Saxe Coburg Gotha has been attracting some unwelcome publicity over these few days. In addition to being a not entirely gifted academic, with poor choice of spouse, reactionary views and no social conscience (these characteristics are, after all, mandatory for the British ruling classes), he has been castigated for his choice of friends.

He has apparently given lunch to a member of the deposed Tunisian dictator’s family, and now it is revealed that he is good friends with a chap who likes to play hide-the-sausage with girls who are underage.

These revelations have resulted in the level of tutting in rural Kent, Surrey and Sussex to an unacceptably noisy level.

Young Andy must be feeling quite fed up.

But now I find myself springing to his defence. The knuckle draggers in the UK Government have announced that the duke enjoys the full confidence of Mr Cameron. Talk about kicking a chap when he is down. I say “Enough is enough”. It may be time to recognise that Baron Killyleagh would not be most people’s choice as an envoy of any sort, unless you were on a campaign to address a shortage of  morons, and should be relieved of his responsibilities and left to get on with his stamp collection. However, by comparison to other members of the family, he is fairly harmless, and should not be subject to further humiliation by being labelled as a “friend of Dave”.

Two and a half minutes.

Some of you (AMToNW) will have read this morning of the attacks made by Mr Charles Sheen, a little known thespian, on the writers of a programme on the electric television in which he currently ‘stars’. He has said that the writers have used his real life activities as inspiration for some of the plots in the programme.

You might be surprised to find me in sympathy with Mr Sheen (pause for third rate puns about household polishes), but I have felt similarly exploited on several occasions. I was close to suing Ian Fleming at one point, until he agreed to introduce a less than moral lifestyle to his most famous character (no, that boy, not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, you oaf). Despite having little interest in archaeology, there were times when I had to engage in tough dialogue with Mr Spielberg about the character of Indiana Jones.

Those of you with longer memories will remember the kerfuffle that Dave had with Granada TV about Albert Tatlock.

Calm down.

A report in a reputable newspaper (oxymoron) this morning reports that the leading factors in risking a heart attack are drugs, overeating, anger and sex.

I am concerned for my readership. Many will be very cross to hear about these risks, thereby qualifying for the last criterion.

Please stop what you are doing – there is no need to shove so much in your mouth – and, gently chewing (remember to chew each mouthful 40 times) a small lentil rissole, read an improving journal, such as this one.

I hope that this helps.

Worth every euro.

Startling news from Geneva, according to my friends at the Torygraph.

"By the end of next year, we hope very much that we will be able to say something about the Higgs," Felicitas Pauss (for it is he).

I suspect that I am not alone in my ability to say something about it now, and I only have a grade 3 CSE in physics.

I could say a lot about Mr Pauss. I suspect that his or hers is a made up name. I cannot condone the use of exotic soubriquets. It undermines not only scientific research, but the veracity of the reporting thereon.

Nicholas Hadley, from the University of Maryland's who is a member of the research team for the LHC's Compact Muon Solenoid detector, told reporters: "If we don't see it, we will be very excited.”

Well, Nicky, I can’t see the bastard, and I am bored shitless. 

Countdown to the next royal wedding, part one.

I have held my counsel, missus, long enough about the forthcoming orgies of self-indulgence. I have to admit that my heart was not in the prospect of the endless cycle of email messages from all of you asking about whether there was any way that I could get an invitation for you.

Now that the missives have been despatched, it is too late. (Philip was on the telephone four times this week, complaining about having to seal the envelopes. I said “It’s the economy, old baboon, we’re all having to cut back. No self-seal envelopes except for the very rich and recklessly careless”. Actually, now that he can no longer be left unsupervised, even for ten minutes, they have to invent activities for him. Camilla reckons that he has licked in excess of 47,000 envelopes these two weeks, while the Duke of Kent was in the next room steaming them open, and the Duchess reapplying the glue. Once they got a barrow-load, one of the under-footman would wheel them back round to Philip).

You have not been invited, and your presence is not required. Call me cruel for being so blunt, but there it is.

Fear not, I shall not be attending either. I have given my tickets to the in-laws of Mr Protheroe at number fifty-six. He (the in-law, that is) suffers from Tourettes and his wife from chronic flatulence. Again, you might think me cruel, but you have no idea how badly my hibernation has been affected by the constant wailings of these people, all labouring under the huge misapprehension that I gave a shit.

Even my most avid admirers would have tired by now had I inflicted the daily round of nonsense upon you. Some bastard even gave young Katherine my number. To say that she is brighter than the average addition to the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan is hardly a compliment. A scratched and defaced hatstand would raise the mean IQ. I have had my first conversations with her, gawdelpus, and I will not fatigue you with the details. I have had previous dealings. I wrote her dissertation for her degree – they felt that it would be unseemly for a future queen to fail a course in the History of Art. This was not as easy as you might think, as I had to tone it down. No one would have believed it had she got a first. I expect that within a few years my references to Constable being a professional racing cyclist and the strange prandial activities of Claude Monet will find their way into Wikipedia, if not serious academic tomes.

More of young Ms Middleton later. More too, or perhaps ”more on” would be more appropriate, of the dreadful Zara. I am torn as to whether to tell her that my telephone is not equipped to receive ‘text’. I do not see why, at my time of life, I should feel compelled to learn a new language. The alternative is only slightly better, if at all, I get woken at all hours by someone whose job it is to convert the ‘texts’ into a spoken form. It makes no more sense, and is delivered in stilted and error-strewn English; you will not be surprised that it has led to appalling nightmares centring on the subject of “the best man’s speech”.