DUFF & NONSENSE!

'Shosta' should have written the Enigma Variations

I suppose, at heart, all men are a mystery but the late, and very great, Dimitri Shostakovich was a personal example of Churchill's famous dictum that Russia was "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma".  It hasn't helped in understanding him that so many different 'friends' and 'acquaintances' and 'experts' have written so many different, and sometime contrary, opinions about him.  Now, apparently, the novelist Julian Barnes has written a fictional book about him entitled "The Noise of Time".  It is discussed at length in The New Yorker by Nikil Saval - and no, me neither!  Even so, it is an interesting article to read particularly if, like me, you admire, nay, love, an enormous amount of his music. 

Almost his entire life was the equivalent of skating up the Moskva river the day before Spring when the ice is visibly cracking!  Constantly expecting arrest, not least because so many others 'disappeared' I don't suppose he was too surprised when he was called in for interrogation by an officer called Zakrevsky:

Before long, Zakrevsky is asking Shostakovich to “shake” his memory and “think a little harder,” especially when it comes to “the plot against Comrade Stalin,” of which he was “one of the chief witnesses.” Shostakovich prepares himself for arrest and execution. Then, like something out of Dostoyevsky, he is spared: Zakrevsky himself is taken in. “His interrogator interrogated. His arrester arrested.”

No wonder there are sometimes passages of sardonic 'humour' in some of his music!  Twice in his career, Stalin's finger was pointed at him in disapproval because his music had failed to meet with Party requirements.  From everything I read his life seems to have been one of unremitting misery and fear and yet ... and yet ... he produced some of the very greatest music of the 20th century.  Intensely moving in places even if, like me, you don't know the difference between a crotchet and a quaver!  Best to start with his 5th symphony, then perhaps his 10th, but as you gradually get to know him, treat yourself to his String Quartets which encompass most of his working life, the ups as well as the downs.  The 8th Quartet is sublime.

 

The Shakespeare enigma

For the sake of accuracy I should, perhaps, have written my title as 'enigmas', in the plural, given how many of them exist.  One of them, however, seems to predominate at the moment, and that is how best to ease access to his work which, after all, was written at least 400 years ago in a language which is increasingly hard to understand.  Ms. Emma Rice, the new Artistic Director at The Globe theatre, is determined to drag poor old Will, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century - "Oh, brave new world"!  To be fair, were old Will still cognisant, he might well be cheering her on because, I guess, like most 'luvvies' of any age, he would believe that there's no such thing as bad publicity!

I have recent experience of this problem having, until just recently, been working on the text of Richard II which I had hoped to direct next year, until "events, dear boy, events" intervened.  There is nothing like directing one of his plays to bring you down to earth abruptly from the clouds of Shakespearean purity!  John McWhorter, a "linguistics, philosophy, American Studies and music history" swot - pheeew! - touches on the subject in his critique of an RSC production of Richard II.

When Richard’s queen says, “Tis nameless woe, I wot,” only with previous study can we know that wot meant “know” in Shakespeare’s time. In a play in which keeping track of family relations is already tricky, cousin is used where we would use nephew and niece. Words such as appeach require context to understand, others such as appeal are used in ways unfamiliar today, and at times we even stub our mental toe on now-defunct usages of prepositions: Richard says “I have a king here to my flatterer,” meaning “for my flatterer.”

That's tricky but frankly it mostly sweeps over the audience who are not, 'lit-lang' critics aside, dwelling on each and every word.  However, when faced with these immortal lines from Launcelot Gobbo in The Merchant of Venice - a role I once played to thunderous snores  - then there are real problems:

An they have conspired together, I will not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year, in the afternoon.

'Stratford, we have a problem!'  Indeed we do but the instant you try to correct it you hit even more problems.  The example above was written in prose and the director's red pencil can whizz through most of it without hesitation but when it comes to his verse lines then, to quote the old song, "It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing".  Most of Shakespeare's lines are written to a rhythm called iambic pentameter which means five double beats (dee-DAH dee-DAH dee-DAH dee-DAH dee-DAH) to a line based on the syllables in the line:

Once more unto the breech, dear friends, once more

Of course, there are variations (and when they occur a good actor/director will take note!) but that is the main driving force behind his verse. Why? Because it's very like the way we speak - and we do it unconsciously, not necessarily with strict compliance but the syllabic rhythm of spoken English remains.  So, if you need to modernise an archaic Shakespearian word to help an audience understand then you must choose a replacement that maintains the rhythm.  That, let me tell you, is not always easy!  Particularly when you imagine the shade of William standing over you - glaring!

Well, directors will do what they always do, mostly muck things up, but if they do chop and change and they do it with love and respect, then I think old Will would approve.

 

Wordplay #1

Not for the first time I find myself deeply grateful to my Aussie e-pal, Andra, for making me laugh out loud.  Being of a generous disposition, even if I'm not always first to the bar to buy a round, I feel I must share them with you.  Via Andra, they emanate from the Mensa page of the Washington Post in which readers are invited to take a word from the dictionary and either change or add or subtract one letter and then write a definition.  They are exceedingly witty and I will dole them out a few at a time over the next few days:

 1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.  

2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an arsehole.  

3. Intaxicaton: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.  

4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.  

5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.  

6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

More tomorrow.

Couldn't have put it better myself

This, sent to me by an old friend, about sums it up:

Baldrick: "What I want to know, sir, is before there was a Euro there were lots of different types of money that different people used. Now there's only one type of money that the foreign people use. Now what I want to know is, how did we get from one state of affairs to the other state of affairs".

Blackadder: "Baldrick, do you mean, how did the Euro start?”

Baldrick: "Yes sir."

Blackadder: "Well, you see, Baldrick, back in the 1980's there were many different countries all running their own finances and using different types of money. On one side you had the major economies of France, Belgium, Holland and Germany and on the other, the weaker nations of Spain, Greece, Ireland, Italy and Portugal. They got together and decided that it would be much easier for everyone if they could all use the same money, have one Central Bank and belong to one large club where everyone would be happy. This meant that there could never be a situation whereby financial meltdown would lead to social unrest, wars and crises."

Baldrick: "But this is sort of a crisis, isn't it sir?”

Blackadder: "That's right, Baldrick. You see, there was only one slight flaw with the plan."

Baldrick: "What was that then sir?"

Blackadder: "It was bollocks."

Yeeeees, quite, couldn't have put it better myself.

 

VOTE LEAVE

 

Your Monday Funnies: 30.5.16

Well these should soon put a damper on your Bank Holiday Monday!

A teacher asked her class, "What do you want out of life?"

A little girl in the back row raised her hand and said:

"All I want out of life is four little animals, just like my Mom always says".

The teacher asked, "Really and what four little animals would that be?"

The little girl said:

"A mink on my back, a jaguar in the garage, a tiger in the bed and a jackass to pay for all of it.”

The teacher got a coughing fit and had to leave the room.

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A couple who work at the circus go to an adoption agency.  Social workers there raise doubts about their suitability to adopt. 

The couple produces photos of their expensive, 50 foot Prevost motor-home, which is already equipped with a beautiful nursery. 

The social workers then are doubtful about the education that the child would get. 

"We've arranged for a full-time tutor to travel with us who will teach the child all the usual subjects along with French, Mandarin and computer skills."

Then there are doubts about raising a child in a circus environment.

"Our nanny/housekeeper is an expert in pediatric welfare and diet."

The social workers are finally satisfied and they ask, "What age and sex of child are you hoping to adopt?"

"It doesn't really matter, as long as it fits in the cannon."

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Another circus joke:

A circus owner runs an advert 'Lion Tamer Wanted’ and two people showed up......

One is a retired golfer in his late-sixties and the other is a  drop-dead, gorgeous brunette with a killer body in her mid-twenties The circus owner tells them, I'm not going to sugar coat it.  This is one ferocious lion. He ate my last tamer so you two had better be good or you're history." Here's your equipment -- a chair, a whip and a gun, who wants to try out first?"

The gorgeous brunette says, "I'll go first."

She walks past the chair, the whip and the gun and steps right into the cage. The lion starts to snarl and pant and begins to charge her. As he gets close, the gorgeous  brunette throws open her coat revealing her beautiful, perfect naked body. The lion stops dead in his tracks, sheepishly  crawls up to her and starts licking her feet and ankles. He  continues to lick and kiss every inch of her body for several  minutes, then lays down and rests his head at her feet.

The circus owner's jaw is on the floor! He says,  "That's amazing! I've never seen anything like that in my life!" 

He then turns to the retired golfer and asks, "Can you top that?"

The old golfer replies, 

"Possibly... but you've got to get that lion out of there first."

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A timely reminder, Gentlemen:

We are about to enter the BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking activity . When a man volunteers to do the BBQ the following chain of events are put into motion:

 (1) The woman buys the food.

(2) The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and makes dessert.

 (3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand.

 (4) The woman remains outside the compulsory three meter exclusion zone where the exuberance of testosterone and other manly bonding activities can take place without the interference of the woman.

 Here comes the important part:

(5) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.

 (6) The woman goes inside to organise the plates and cutlery.

 (7) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is looking great. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he flips the meat

 Important again:

(8) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.

 (9) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins, sauces, and brings them to the table.

 (10) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes

 And most important of all:

(11) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.

 (12) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed ' her night off ', and, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no pleasing some women!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 29.5.16

"Oh, what a beautiful morning":   Unbelievable!  It's only just turned 10.00am as I write and I have just enjoyed half an hour of sunbathing on my patio which provides me with a panoramic view over my rolling acres, er, well, my 0.026 of a rolling acre if truth be told, but still, what a joy.  I'm not a fanatical sun worshipper but I do hate being what I call 'coffin white', perhaps because the bloody coffin is that much closer these days!

 

The blood begins to pump:   The 'Smug Brothers' (aka: Dave 'n' George), having unleashed the dogs of fear on a terrified British public in order to 'frit' them (now where have I heard that word before?) into surrender, have now suffered a vicious counter-attack by Ms. Priti Patel who is not only a Tory but also a cabinet minister and, best of all, she's hot!

 

She says, in effect, that smug, rich boys like 'you know who' only "see the benefits of migration such as cheap domestic help and willing tradesmen" and that "those leading the pro-EU campaign fail to care for those who do not have their  advantages. Their narrow self-interest fails to pay due regard to the interests of the wider public.”  Ouch!  Well said, that lady!

 

Meanwhile 'over there':   More and more of the 'intelligentsia' (who sniggered?) are spinning on the spot as it begins to dawn on them that 'The Donald' could do the impossible and actually win the Presidency - SHLOCK-HORROR!  I began on the basis that were I American, I would hold my nose and vote for 'HillBilly' despite the obvious truth that she is a lazy, stupid, self-centred, lying liar of the first water!  But gradually, as time goes by, my dislike of her is beginning to outweigh my trembling fear of 'The Donald'.  My American friends, I feel for you as the hour of decision looms closer.

 

Adverbs must definitely go!   Hands up anyone who knows what an 'adverb' is?  Yeeeeeees, quite - see "definitely" above!  But thus sayeth, Mr. Christian Lorentzen, a professional wordsmith and an 'Eng. Lang.' swot of the highest order:

adverbs modify verbs, adjectives, other adverbs, noun phrases, clauses, and whole sentences. Adverbs indicate place, time, manner, frequency, degree, certainty. Anything an adverb does can almost always be done more elegantly by the adverbial deployment of the other parts of speech. Almost always more elegantly: in most cases with more elegance.

Well, if you say so, Mr. Lorentzen but, alas, for sloppy amateurs like me, I just write as it comes whilst attempting to inject some life into what otherwise would be the dead carcass of language.  Mind you, he does remind me of the late Miss Wood, Eng. Lang. & Lit., circa 1950-55, whose death stare could drop a pupil at 20 paces!

 

Oh no, not more economists!  Yesterday I read that some 600 economists had issued a warning to 'The Great British Public' that Brexit would bring about the end of the world as we know it.  Obviously, 300 of them were the same 'brainiacs' who warned us that failing to join the euro currency would set off Armageddon.  The other three hundred were almost certainly the ones who failed to provide even a hint of the financial collapse in 2008!  'Nuff said, really!

 

Sorry about going missing:   First of all it was out for lunch with friends - to a local farm shop/restaurant called 'Udders' - yeeeees, quite but nothing to do with the delightful waitresses.  Then back home for another dose of sun-bathing - yes! - in 'Zummerzet' - wonders never cease!

 

Stand by, incoming 'SoD':  Yes, he's back but I am told that America is recovering nicely!  I have asked him to pen a description of his first impression of Boston and New York.  I can give you a teensy-weensy clue - fantastic!

 

No more rumbles today

Bloody nature! Why can't it do what it's told?

Yes, you guessed it, I have been gardening, although, to be honest, to define what I do as 'gardening' is like describing frying an egg as haute cuisine!  Nevertheless, I have been outside for what feels like several weeks weeding, and this despite my having done it all only a month ago when I planted my bedding plants.  I told my weeds then that I didn't want to see any of them again until Autumn but, just like always, they ignored me.  And the little perishers find the most awkward places to get at and then set about burying their roots practically down to Australia.  I spend most of my time bent over at the most alarming angles, trying to hold my balance and avoid inadvertently crushing my 'little babies'!  And yes, I do know that it is pathetic to humanise my bedding plants but that's what I do because I love them so much, er, well, I do just so long as they produce the magnificent flowers I expect.  Failure in this regard is met by instant death and they go the way of the weeds.

Of course, whilst I 'lurve' them all, I do have some favourites.  One species I call my 'Floppy Tarts'.  You see, I have three hanging baskets and I stuff them full of trailing begonias which are cheap and come in a mixture of vivid, tarty colours which fall all over the sides of the baskets, an image which reminds me of your average High Street on a Saturday night! 

Another of my favourites are Erysimums.  They are a shrub version of wallflowers and the great thing about them is that not only are they cheap but also they carry on flowering for about ten months of the year.  What's not to like?

I also have two bunches of what I call my 'Grandes Dames' because they are just as flash as the 'floppy tarts' but (so long as the wind doesn't blow too strongly) they remain upright, nearly 3ft tall, and lady-like.  They are also drop dead gorgeous!

Of course, any gaps and spaces are filled with a mass of pansies, a plant which matches my requirements exactly being highly colourful - and cheap!  Despite my packing them in as tight as possible, of course, my weeds still flourish in any square millimetre of any space.  In fact, I am reminded of one of Len Deighton's characters in his spy books.  He was the Head of MI6 and being somewhat eccentric he actually grew nothing but weeds in his garden.  Subtle, you see, dead subtle!

By the way, my garden is open to the public and it's free.  All you have to do is a bit of weeding.

 

 

This year the gold medal is mine, all mine!

Today, in what must count as the least surprising news since that American cyclist was found to glow in the dark, a further 26 'athletes' (I use the term loosely) have been found to have taken drugs whilst taking part in the 'Our Druggies Can Beat Your Druggies' competition which takes place at tediously regular intervals every four years.  My maths isn't too good but that must take the total number of cheats to around 2,867, give or take the odd hundred, all of whom will now be banned.

Now is my chance!  For decades I have been training rigorously for the Olympics in order to earn my place in the Egg 'n' Spoon race, or, failing that, the sack race - my 'hoppity-hop' technique which I practice on the village green is now watched in awe by an ever-increasing number of young mums and their small off-spring.  Of course, hitherto, my chosen events have been eliminated by the shysters who run the Olympics in favour of sprinting and marathons and chucking spears and all that sort of thing, frequently undertaken by 'ladies' whose musculature exceeds that of 'Mr. Universe'.

But now, we are poised to see an Olympic Games cleaned up and free of all drugs.  Unfortunately (for some) that means that number of 'clean' athletes available to undertake the usual events has been hugely reduced.  This means that there is now room for my events.  I have already taken out my athletic gear and ironed it ready for Brazil.  I think you will find that my knee-length blue shorts which fit snugly under my armpits with the assistance of tartan braces worn over my string vest will set a whole new fashion in sporting wear.  I just hope that those Brazilian ladies taking part in the volleyball competition do not become too over-excited!

And yes, you're right, I only wrote all this rubbish as an excuse to search for pictures of Brazilian ladies playing volleyball.  Sad, really! 

That 'glup-glup-glup' sound was my brain boggling

Sorry about my absence yesterday but I was hit, not once but twice, with severe GBB - that's Galloping Brain Boggling for those of you unfamiliar with the latest in 'medical-speak'.  The first attack of GBB occurred, of all unexpected places, at my local PROBUS club - and I've told you before that I am not entirely sure what 'PROBUS' stands for but in essence it is a collection of retired old farts who meet once a fortnight to listen to a guest speaker.  Yesterday, the subject was bees - yeeeeees, quite, you can see what us old farts will do to avoid being involved in housework!  Anyway, within minutes I could hear that 'glup-glup-glup' sound in my head!  Hitherto, I had dismissed bees as being one of those bloody things likely to ruin one's picnic.  I had no idea of their, literally, fantastic life styles.  Did you know, for instance, that when a bee finds a source of nectar it flies back to the hive and does some sort of a dance in the dark to indicate the direction of the food supply in relation to the position of the sun - and allowing for the fact that the position of the sun is constantly moving!  Cue: sounds of 'glup-glup-glup'!  I am now determined to find a book on bees!

Returning home with my head buzzing -  "Oh, very witty, Wilde!" - I couldn't find my book on the English civil war but I came across a book I have mentioned here before - I started it but that bloody Charles I interrupted me!  It can truly be described as a slim volume because it only has 82 pages!  Entitled "Seven Brief Lessons on Physics", it is written by an Italian physicist, Carlo Rovelli, but it has been excellently translated into English and beautifully reproduced in an elegant hardcover by Alan Lane, the publishers.  It has one other great virtue, it slips easily into a jacket pocket!

In all honesty I cannot tell you that I understood all (any?) that it explained.  As you may have noticed, I'm not that much of a swot and anyway, within a few pages that 'glup-glup-glup' noise began again!  To take but one passage as an example, it shows a reproduction of a photograph taken by the Hubble telescope in space which provided an image of deeper space than any previous telescope.  Frankly, the picture looked like the top of one of my book shelves, smooth and flat but covered in zillions of specks of dust - as the 'Memsahib' keeps reminding me!  If you could view just that image with the naked eye it would be just a tiny segment of the black sky at night.

Each black dot in the image is a galaxy containing a hundred billion suns similar to ours.  In the past few years it has been observed that the majority of these suns are orbited by planets.  There are therefore in the universe thousands of billions of billions of billions of planets such as earth. [My emphasis]

Do you know, when I read that, all of a sudden I couldn't give a flying fig for the EU referendum, or anything much else, really!  I am tempted, God help me, to quote that keen political philosopher, Hillary Clinton, and say, "what difference at this point does it make?”  Or even worse, I might dwell on Shakespeare's bleak summary of the futility of life and mutter, "As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport". But, of course, that sort of fatalism is not only fatal but useless.  We are what we are, and that means we are trapped in this galvanising existence ordained to struggle and shake our puny fists at ... well ... what, exactly?

Oh dear, glup-glup-glup . . .

 

 

Soddit, 'SoD', when will you sodding well wake up?

I don't normally speak to 'Son of Duff' like that because I have always been a gentle, understanding and very tolerant, easy-going Dad - sorry, did you say something, 'SoD'?  However, since this referendum kicked off I have been forced to read his fairy-tales in my 'comments box' in which he insists that all those pols in Westminster and Brussels will be far too busy arguing with each other for them to come up with any schemes likely to interfere with our daily lives.

I have news for you, 'SoD'!

Courtesy of Guido, I learn that the 'the Economic and Monetary Affairs Committee' in Brussels has agreed - repeat, agreed - that all individual tax-payers inside the EU will be issued with an individual European Taxpayer Identification Number (EU TIN).  According to the European Commission text:

“Proper identification of taxpayers is essential to effective exchange of information between tax administrations. The creation of European Taxpayer Identification Number (EU TIN) would provide the best means for this identification. It would allow any third party to quickly, easily and correctly identify and record TINs in cross-border relations and serve as a basis for effective automatic exchange of information between member states tax administrations.”

Hello, SoD, are you reading this 'over there' as you dance up Broadway?  Once they have everyone issued with a personal tax number, how long do you suppose it will be before they introduce a European tax?  In order to cheer up my regular commentator, BOE, I will quote the words of a Brussels-based UKIPPER:

“If we stay in the EU, we will be forced to pay a European tax. Plans for an EU taxpayer ID system – effectively a new continental National Insurance number – demonstrates their real ambitions for further integration. They are laying the foundations for an EU tax system.”

Well said, Sir, couldn't have put it better myself!

 

VOTE LEAVE

 

The handsomest stud from Arkansas - after 'JK', that is!

I'm sorry to have to report that my e-pal and regular commentator, 'JK', now has severe competition for the title of handsomest stud from Arkansas.  Of course, it goes without saying that  for years 'JK' has effortlessly maintained his superiority over the other puny studs to be found in the lovely state of Arkansas - where, according to rumour, 'the men are men and the wimmin are double-breasted'.  But alas, today he faces a stern challenge and from a black stud, no less!

I refer, of course, to Frederick, aka: Frederick the Great - natch!  He's big, he's black, he has great musculature and, although JK's hair is a wonder to behold, I'm afraid Frederick's coiffure is even more magnificent, requiring daily attention with special shampoos.  I can also report that he has already produced a  younger version of himself, perhaps not quite as many as JK has produced over the years but still, he has time on his side.

Anyway, here he is in all his glory:

 

He is a Friesian stallion and has been voted the handsomest horse in the world.  Come on, Ladies, admit it, you'd just love to ride him!  Of course, if that proves impossible I am led to believe that 'JK' is available at very short notice!

What else can one say, except possibly, 'God Bless Arkansas!'

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3604194/Frederick-Great-handsome-horse-world.html

 

 

At last, a reason to vote for Trump

It now seems more than likely that the presidential choice for the 'Great American Public' (dread words!) will be between 'The Donald' and 'HillBilly'.  Regular readers will know of my abiding affection for America, well, sort of abiding, you know, most of the time, depending . . . !  Anyway, their voters will certainly have my sympathy when it comes November, although a goodly number of them have already voted in their party nominations so they will deserve everything they get.

I don't really know whether Trump is a truly buffoonish huckster but as he makes every effort to appear like one then who am I to doubt him?  As my old Mum used to say, "He opens his mouth and lets his belly rumble!"  But on the other side we have 'HillBilly' who has spent her entire political career opening her mouth to say one thing, then doing the opposite, and then at the next election denying that she said or did anything!  There is something of a debate going on in the American media as to exactly and precisely why 'HillBilly' is so dislikeable.  No-one seems able to define it but the fact is that huge numbers of people, including Democrats, simply can't stand the wretched woman.

Anyway, this blog's editorial team, er, that's me and the bloke in my shaving mirror with whom I have long discussions, have wrestled hard to try and decide which one of these atrocious candidates deserves our endorsement - yes, yes, I know, America trembles on the decision!  Happily, a couple of days ago, something occurred which made up what passes for my mind.  'The Donald' made public a list of judges from whom he would choose a replacement for the late Judge Scalia, and indeed, who would provide replacements for any other Supreme Court judges who fall by the wayside.  I looked at the list but recognised no names so I am relying on my usual Right-wing 'commentariat' for their opinion.  Mostly it seems favourable if only on the grounds that it is anyone but Obama's or 'HillBilly's' choices.

For the benefit of my non-American readers, let me emphasise that far and away the most important decision a POTUS takes, one that will long outlive his or her "brief hour upon the stage", is who they choose to be a Supreme Court judge.  The political make-up of the SCOTUS will have an influence on American affairs that lasts decades.  At the moment, the court is split 50/50 between liberals and conservatives and whoever fills the vacant seat will tip the SCOTUS to Left or Right.

So my advice to my American readers - no, no, you don't have to thank me! - is hold your nose, block your ears and vote for 'the Donald'.  You can dig your bunker later!

 

Vote Brexit and you will DIE!!!!!!

That, in essence, is what 'Dave 'n' George' and their army of civil service toadies are telling us in an endless bog-roll of pronouncements unaware, I suppose (because whilst they're awfully posh they are also awfully dim), that in the end we will all be dead!  Of course, the quality of the journey to that inevitable conclusion is important but how much faith can we place in the dire prognostications of this Goebbels-like apparat which only 25-odd years ago was telling us exactly the same sort of thing if Britain failed to join the euro currency - by the way, my Greek, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese friends (to name but a few), how's that euro system working out for you? Alright, there's no need to be rude!

In the meantime, the Austrians came within a whisker of electing a Nazi President - golly-gosh, that brings back memories! - and crypto-Fascist parties are gaining in strength all over Europe including (natch!) Germany.  The euro currency itself is gathering momentum on its downward spiral which will only end in one of two outcomes.  Either, it crashes and everyone will be fighting their way to the exit, or, the polit-bureau in Brussels will insist that there must now be a United States of Europe, or as our German 'friends' might put it -  ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fuhrer!

I am grateful (yet again) to my e-pal, JK, who sent this observation from an American living in Switzerland who has seen the film Brexit: The Movie.

It begins with the Magna Carta, the 800th anniversary of which was celebrated last June. Our US Constitution reflects the Magna Carta. One of the many principles in that document, which King John was encouraged to sign (he liked his head where it was), was that no people would be forced to pay taxes without their lawful consent.

When one considers how the EU actually functions, and the course of events during the last 25 years, then any rational person has to conclude that the Brexit people have an argument. The EU in Brussels can hardly lay claim any longer to being “democratic.” It is indeed an ”administrative state” without a constitution and has very limited accountability to the peoples of Europe. The vast majority of EU citizenry have no clue as to how it is organized or functions.

Odd how often the outsider sees more clearly than the insiders.  There's only a month to go and that will be your last chance to get out reasonably unhurt.  After that it will a slow but inevitable and monstrously appalling car crash!

 

VOTE LEAVE

 

Your Monday Funnies: 23.5.16

Not that you need cheering up this sunny Monday morning:

It was a small town and the patrolman was making his evening rounds. As he was checking a used car lot, he came upon two little old ladies sitting in a used car.

He stopped and asked them why they were sitting there in the car or were they trying to steal it?

'Heavens no, we bought it.'

'Then why don't you drive it away.'

'We can't drive.'

'Then why did you buy it?'  

'We were told that if we bought a used car here we'd get screwed ......so we're just waiting.

 

Yeah, yeah, I know but they get better - honestly!

Paddy and Mick were both laid off, so they went to the unemployment office. When asked his occupation, Paddy answered, 'Knicker Stitcher. I sew da elastic onto ladies' knickers and thongs.' 

The clerk looked up Knicker Stitcher on his computer and, finding it classified as unskilled labour, he gave him £80 a week unemployment pay.  

Mick was next in and when asked his occupation replied, 'Diesel Fitter.' 

Since a diesel fitter was a skilled job, the clerk gave Mick £160 a week. 

When Paddy found out he was furious. He stormed back into the office to find out why his friend and co-worker was collecting double his pay. 

The clerk explained, 'Knicker Stitchers are unskilled labour and Diesel Fitters are skilled labour.' 

'What skill?' yelled Paddy. 'I sew da elastic on da knickers and thongs, then Mick puts 'em over his head and says: 'Yep, diesel fitter.'

 

OK, OK, so I lie a lot.  Try this one:

I was getting close to retiring, so I went to Centrelink to apply for my pension.

The woman behind the counter asked me for my Driver's Licence to verify my age.

I looked in my pockets and realised I had left my wallet at home.

I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.

The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'.

So I opened my shirt revealing my curly grey hair.

She said, 'That grey hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my pension application.

When I got home, I excitedly told the wife about my experience at the Centrelink office.

She said, 'You should have dropped your pants.

You might have got the disability pension too!'

(Australian women can be so witty!!!!)

If you want to know who sent me that one, the clue is in the last line!  Right, one last effort:

Little Johnny was in the classroom bored to the back teeth on a Friday afternoon, and the teacher decided to have a game for the kids to get them thinking.

"Okay class. Now I'm going to give you famous quotes and the first person to tell me who said that quote, can have Monday off." said the teacher. 

'Who is credited with writing the phrase, "To be or not to be, that is the question'?" asked the teacher. 

Little Pham Lam Nguyen at the front of the class called out, 'Shakespeare' 

'Well done!' said the teacher, 'You can have Monday off." 

'No thank you Miss. I am of Vietnamese origin and it is in our culture to study as hard as we can, so I will be here on Monday studying hard.' Said Little Pham Lam Nguyen. 

'That's very good,' said the teacher. 

OK let's try another quote, "I had a dream!" 

Little Fri Sum Kat also at the front yelled out "I bereiva it was Martin Ruther King!" 

"Well done!" said the teacher. 'You can have Monday off" 

"No thanka you miss I am of Chinese oligin and we also do not take time offa school. Education is evelything to us, so I will be in on Monday studying hard too." said little Fri Sum Kat. 

'You are to be commended,' said the teacher. 

Then she heard a voice from the back of the classroom, "F***ing Asians!" 

"Who said that?" yelled the teacher in an angry tone. 

"Donald Trump!" yelled little Johnny, "See ya Tuesday ..."

Actually, I thought that was quite good but you have suffered enough - so get back to work!

 

 

Look, don't blame me, blame Channel 4

I know I have dwelt on this subject before but, as you all know well, it is not in my nature to be a bore - sorry, didn't quite catch that!  Last night Channel 4 broadcast a programme on the Battle of Jutland promising to expose hitherto unknown secrets.  They didn't, at least nothing that radically altered what I already know of the battle.  However, it was a good reminder that the 100th anniversary is approaching on May 31st/June 1st and it has prodded me into writing this.

I would rate the battle of Jutland as one of the most fascinating battles ever fought.  It had all the ingredients.  First, it was a war winning/losing battle on which the future of Europe and the world rested.  Second, it was the culmination of a frighteningly rapid development of technology the impact of which could only be guessed at.  Finally, the personalities of two of the main players were the stuff of which a William Shakespeare would have made a great play.

It was under 100 years since the first iron-clad steam ship had been launched at sea.  From modest beginnings warships developed into behemoths with huge armour-plating, massive guns capable of hurling exploding shells over huge ranges and driven at high speed by new diesel-powered rotary engines.  From the accession of (the half English) Wilhelm 11 to the German/Prussian throne it was only a matter of time before his rank detestation of all things English would lead to rising tensions and the threat of war.  Happily, in those late Victorian times the British tried as hard as possible to keep clear of European wrangles - a lesson there for the EU-lovers of today!  However, when the Kaiser determined that Germany would build a bigger and better navy than the British then 'glorious isolation' was ended.

The Germans built a massive fleet which they based at Wilhelmshaven on the North Sea.  It copied the British model in being formed mainly of Battleships - big armour, big guns but slow - and Battlecruisers - equally big guns but with much thinner armour and therefore much faster.  Immediately on the outbreak of war the British slapped on a Napolean-era blockade.  They had moved their Battleships, with overall Fleet Commander Admiral Jellicoe, to Scapa Flow in order to prevent the Germans from sneaking out of the North Sea but kept their Battlecruisers, under Admiral David Beatty, further south in the Firth of Forth (see main map).  This division of forces was to lead to problems.

 

However, it was not just the different locations that were a problem.  It was the different temperaments of both men that was to add to the difficulties.  Jellicoe was your archetypal, close-lipped, proper, Victorian, British gent, a man of few words but a deep thinker on naval strategy and tactics.  Beatty was an incredibly brave man but also hot-headed and a bit of a cad.  It was probably a relief to both of them to be stationed well apart but that did not auger well for them to work together.

The famous 'Room 40' at the Admiralty picked up the German signals traffic which warned the British that after nearly two years of hiding up in Wilhelmshaven the Germans were coming out in force.  Immediately, Beatty was ordered to race across the North Sea to find out what the Germans were up to.  At the same time Jellicoe ordered the lumbering British battle fleet to move down to the south.  Beatty bumped into his German equivalent, Hipper, who promptly turned south chased by Beatty.  In the exchange of gunfire several British warships blew up.  Partly this was due to the pre-war practice of holding gun shooting competitions in which the captains who could fire first were highly praised.  This led many of them to quietly drop the safety procedures which kept explosive charges well separated from shells inside the guts of the ships.

The charge to the south ended abruptly when Beatty realised that Hipper had led him on to the approaching German Battleship fleet.  At that point he led his ships into a 180 degree turn and raced off up north with the German fleet lumbering along behind him.   In his haste, however, he ordered his ships to conduct their turns at the same place one after the other thus allowing the Germans to pinpoint the turning point and plaster it with shells (See top right map.)  More important than all of that was the fact that as he raced north Beatty forgot to keep Jellicoe in the picture as to what was happening, in fact after a while the superior speed of Beatty's cruisers took him out of sight of the Germans - not exactly what was required of a commander whose main duty was reconnaissance!

Jellicoe was now faced with an exquisite conundrum.  His fleet was sailing in groups of squadrons but he had to deploy them into line in order to 'cross the enemy's T' - but because of Beatty's laxity he had no clear idea of what course the enemy were on and if he got it wrong it would be his 'T' that was crossed by the Germans.  Remaining totally calm - despite the anxieties in his mind - he ordered the British fleet to deploy in line to the left and shortly there-after it became clear that Germans under the command of Admiral Scheer had sailed straight into the trap - their 'T' had been well and truly crossed which meant they were approaching the British in line, one ship at a time, whilst the British could fire broadsides from all of their ships at once and thus 'chew up the line'!  Scheer, instantly recognizing his dangerous predicament carried out an emergency manoeuvre in which he ordered all his ships to do the naval equivalent of a handbrake turn and head off as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

It was at this point, with the Germans in headlong flight and the British in line behind them that Jellicoe took his toughest decision.  The likes of Beatty and an enormous number of 'know-nothings' insisted that Jellicoe, in true Nelsonian style should have ordered a general pursuit and chewed his way down the retreating German line taking out one ship after another.  Instead, as night fell, Jellicoe played safe and steered his line of ships south keeping his fleet between the German fleet and their sanctuary in Wilhelmshaven.  He, unlike the ignorant wiseacres who were to criticize him after the event, knew all too well that the fleeing German ships were likely to roll mines off the stern of their ships and one mine could cripple a Battleship.  Also their small but fast torpedo ships could dart in and out loosing off an array of torpedoes which could, in effect, break the back of the British fleet whose continued existence was absolutely crucial t0 the British war effort.

In my view, Jellicoe was a great naval commander, up there with Nelson, and Beatty was a prat!

 

And now I bring thee even better news!

Honestly, I don't know why I sit here day after day 'working my fs to the bs' as I tap my way round this internet-thingie to find you good news to start your day.  I have already provided you with a naked female cast playing The Tempest so it's a tough job coming up with something better than that.  However, as you all know, D&N is the blog that keeps on giving!  So, now let me tell you about the Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System, the biggest - and I do mean the BIGGEST - solar plant in the world.

It just caught fire!

And the fire was caused by one of its mirrors!

Oh, stop it!  You're making me laugh all over again and my keyboard almost blew a fuse with the tears dripping from my face!

According to the report at Popular Science, the frightfully brainy types who designed it all misaligned some of the mirrors which concentrated the heat of the sun in the wrong place.  All this reminds me of an equally funny story concerning a high-tech and equally 'Greenie' building owned by [cr]Apple where the solar panels in the roof caught fire,  According to the pv-Tech site, "[cr]Apple shifted the building’s purpose into that of a data centre, touting its green credentials."

Cue: hysterical laughter from deepest, darkest 'Zummerzet'!

 

Forsooth, I bring thee good and cheerful news

And I trust that you noticed the perfect iambic pentameter in my title - that Bill Shakespeare isn't the only scribbler who can do that sort of thing!  True, it's hardly an inspiring line but then every play needs a 'Third Messenger' to enter and bring news of a fresh twist to the plot and you can't give him three pages of perfect versification to say it.  Apart from anything else, darlings, most actors playing 'Third Messenger' can barely say their names let alone deliver iambic pentatmeters!  Now, where was I before I rudely interrupted myself - oh yes - Shakespeare reduced to the bare essentials!

I am thinking of booking a flight to 'Noo Yawk' because some frightfully plucky American gals are putting on an all female performance of The Tempest in Central Park - stark naked!  Yeeeeeeees, quite!  One feels, in a very profound way, that this will illuminate aspects of the play hitherto never seen before - look, could you lot please be serious for a moment, this is Shakespeare we're talking about! 

I gather from one of the reports that the ladies concerned wanted to encourage "body freedom and free expression."  One seeks desperately for a response to those profound thoughts but, alas, all I can say - again! - is, yeeeeeeeeees, quite!  Sometimes there are no words.

Actually, I've just remembered that as I write, 'SoD' is gracing Boston and New York with a royal visitation, now I know why - crafty bugger!

 

In which I venture on to the 19th tee

I may have told you my favourite my only golf story before but allow an old man to repeat himself.  It was at a time when the 'Memsahib' was mad on golf and one day I overcame my lethargy and decided to join her and her friend in a game.  They, of course, played properly but I just hacked and thrashed my way round to try and get the feel for it.  At the 8th hole I did what I had done on every other hole and skewered the ball way over to one side.  I found it halfway down a slope and I was told that the green lay over the top of the ridge.  Bar one single sapling of a tree at the top of the ridge there were no other impediments.  I took an almighty swing and, for the very first time I heard that magical ping which tells you that you have hit the ball fair and square.  My ball went streaking off like a guided missile - and hit the 6" trunk of that bloody-bloody tree.  It hit it so hard and so fast that it bounced back over my head and rolled down the slope and into a stream.  It was at that point that I retired from golf, or to be precise, I hurled the club on the ground and stomped off swearing never to play that stupid game again!

All of which brings me to the Muirfield Golf Club, apparently one of the oldest golf clubs in the world whose 100% male membership is made up, according to the commentariat, of antediluvian, troglodyte Jocks - yeeeeees, quite!  Anyway, these 'brave hearts' have displayed courage of the very highest order by refusing to pass a motion allowing 'wimmin' to become members of their all-male club.  Dammit, I am reminded of how many times the old British empire trembled in peril and was saved by pugnacious, obstinate Jocks!

Now, to be honest, I, personally, would not wish to be a member of a male-only club for the simple reason that the vast majority of men bore me to death, not least because I frequently find that I am far more intelligent than most men!  I have also found that the ladies are usually more amusing, witty and lively than chaps.  However, I defend to the death the right of boring old codgers to form private clubs whose membership is restricted to yet more boring old codgers.  If you, dear reader (or readerette), are not convinced then allow me to point you to a pair of worthies who have expressed their 'shock 'n' horror' at this male-only decision, they are Ms. Nicola Sturgeon and Ms oops, sorry, Mr. David Cameron.  Whatever those two tits are in favour of, I am against!

 

There's donkeys and then there's Supreme Court judges

       

                      A donkey                                               Lord Pants ooops, sorry, Mance

So here's the situation.  A certain 'PJS' married to a certain 'YMA', a world 'sleb' of the first order, and both parents to two small children, asked another couple if they fancied a threesome in a bath of olive oil - as you do!  Needless to say, he was ratted out to the press but, faster than you can say, 'More oil, sweetie?', he slapped privacy injunctions on everyone in every newsroom in the land.

Equally, needless to say, those dandruff-ridden hacks 'over there', showing their usual lack of respect to British Law Lords (shockin', shockin'!), published the story across the internet.  Then, to add a dash of 'Irn Bru' to this brew, the Jocks went ahead and published the story 'up there'!  Thus, the end result is that everyone and his uncle all round the world, including Scotland, can read the oily details - except Her Britannic Majesty's subjects in England!

The Appeals Court gave their opinion that any privacy was now well and truly void and that the injunctions should be lifted.  But then, the donkeys on the Supreme Court trotted up, led by some total 'Cocklecarrot' called Lord Mance, and with one noble exception proved what we have all suspected that they actually inhabit the Planet Zog by insisting that the injunctions must remain in place.  Why am I not surprised?

I am closing comments on this lest any of you inadvertently mention names and land me with a zillion pound fine from 'Mance the pants' and his coterie of 'Cocklecarrots'!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3598396/Married-star-threesome-couple-gets-identity-SECRET.html

 

 

 

So, Mr. President, after nearly eight years why is your country going mad?

It's not an unreasonable question to ask given that the majority of Americans appear to have placed their political faith in three of the greatest 'dipsticks' ever to run for the presidency.  Of course, there have been the odd - very odd sometimes!- candidate before but usually they are squished early on in the campaign leaving the field to people with some sort of grounding in politics.  They may not have been the greatest of political philosophers but, in their stumblebum way, they were, so to speak, of this world.

Today, the Left and the Right of American politics are represented by two escapees from 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', and yet both of them are attracting huge support from the American voters.  The third candidate is as ineffably stupid as the other two but, even worse, she is suffering with CSD (Compulsive Lying Disorder).  Christopher Buckley sums it up very wittily in today's Spectator:

The difficulty with limning a template of a Hillary Clinton administration is that her existing template is unlimnable. That is, fuzzy. It’s not so much a template as a palimpsest. Mrs Clinton’s policy positions are rarely fixed points. They have a tendency to get up and wander about, whether it’s the Iraq war vote, or the trade deal she was so in favour of until she wasn’t, or the minimum wage of $12 or $15 an hour, or the Benghazi attack being the fault of that asshole in California streaming that totally inappropriate Islamophobic video, or the private emails with the nuclear launch codes and George Clooney’s recipe for penne arrabiata. If Mrs Clinton had an escutcheon, its motto would be ‘Whatever’ (Quisquis? You Brits all know Latin, right?) The catalogue of Clinton policy books has more positions than the Kamasutra. As Groucho Marx said, ‘I’ve got principles. And if you don’t like them, I’ve got others.’

Mind you, his summary of what a Trump presidency might be is even more tremble-inducing:

Predicting what might happen in a Donald Trump presidency is easy. Day 1: A fabulous, really great inaugural, the best ever, with amazing entertainment by fabulous, top people. Day 2: War with Iran. Day 3: War with North Korea. Day 4: Mexico builds a wall to keep out Americans.

Mr. Buckley does not have too much to say about Jeremy Corbyn's long-lost brother, Mr. Bernie Sanders, beyond describing him as:

a 74-year-old rumpled lefty with Paleo-Marxist cuckoo ideas, attracting massive crowds of young people.  Comrade Sanders’s message may be flawed (rich people bad; government control of the economy good), but it is at least a message. Mrs Clinton has no message other than ‘I am so owed.’

Now, the American people cannot evade their own responsibilities because they have indicated in their different ways that one of these three 'loopy-loos' should be their next president.  Even so, we, and they, are entitled to ask 'Father Superior' in The White House what exactly has he been doing for the past nearly eight years that has driven them to insanity?  I mean, is he really satisfied that his one great, lasting achievement is to allow men into ladies' toilets?

 

There's no fool like an old fool

"As any fule do no"!  Once again an explanation is required.  I may have mentioned that a few months ago I offered myself up as a candidate to direct a production of Richard II for my AmDram club in Twickenham.  I have done this before despite living down here in Somerset when I directed Hamlet and Ghosts.  But, alas and alack I had forgot, that was five or six years ago and at my age those few years make a difference, as I found out the hard way on Monday night.

Last Monday I drove up to Marlow to have lunch with a friend, and then on to Datchet to touch base with another friend, and then into Twickenham to pick another pal in order to go into Kingston for dinner and to see a production of King John at the new(ish) Rose Theatre.  All that went fairly well, although I was stunned by the density of traffic in the London suburbs.  Alas, the show itself was a disaster even though it was directed by my 'hero', Trevor Nunn.  King John is not one of Will's better efforts, as I found out the hard way when I directed it nearly 30 years ago.  Even so, this production was awful!  They all did it at high speed and in full-on 'shouty mode'!  Totally tedious!

Anyway, we staggered out with bleeding ear drums and I dropped my friend back home before setting off on a journey home I am quite used to which is basically, straight down the M3 and then on to the A303, so mostly dual-carriageway and not much traffic.  Big mistake!  No sooner was I on the M3 when up came the warning signs - M3 CLOSED FROM EXIT 3 TO EXIT 5.  There then ensued a long dog-leg diversion down the M4 to Reading and from there to Basingstoke and eventually I reached home at just after 2.00am! 

I understand that St. Paul received his message on the road to Damascus, I received mine on the M4 motorway and, lo, God said unto me to stop being a silly old fool and recognise that I am not quite the vigorous old chap of yesteryear!  In my best regimental signallers' jargon, I replied, "Yessir, roger, over and out, sir" and the next day I withdrew my bid to direct 'Dick Two'.  I sensed two huge sighs of relief, one from the 'Memsahib' who thought I was as daft as a brush for volunteering in the first place, and the other from the committee of my club!

So there we are and quite how theatre will manage without me, heaven only knows!

 

This'n 'ere Zummerzet do be a funny old place

Once again my 'gob has been well and truly smacked'!  As you may have noted - because I made damn sure you all had plenty of notice although none of your gifts have yet arrived! - yesterday was my birthday.  Thus, I was taken out to lunch by some old and dear friends.  We drove off into the 'Zummerzet' countryside but instead of heading towards any of the main towns we just went deeper and deeper into a never-ending vista of fields, cows, woods, more cows, more fields and then some sheep!  Good grief, I thought, surely we're not going to have a picnic!  Eventually, in the middle of nowhere, we left the road lane and entered a farmyard - yeeeeees, quite!  There was a series of very old, stone-walled buildings and somewhat to my surprise the carpark was exceedingly busy.  We entered one of the buildings and - lo! - there was a very smart, very busy restaurant - the Roth Bar & Grill.

It had one of those open kitchens which I rather like because you can see the food preparation.  It also had some of the prettiest young waitresses I have ever seen which is rare in 'Zummerzet' where, like Norfolk, the locals all look suspiciously like each other!  My appetite (in all things!) these days isn't quite what it used to be but the food was excellent.  But then my kind and generous hosts told me that the surrounding farm buildings were actually art galleries and the whole complex was owned by Hauser & Wirth, international art dealers.  Unfortunately, the day we were there for lunch, the galleries were closed because the exhibitions were being swapped over.  On their website, Hauser & Wirth describe their far flung art empire as being based in Zurich, London, New York, Los Angeles and, er, 'Zummerzet'!  What can one say, except possibly, 'ooh ar!'

The whole day was a surprise and delight and I count myself lucky in my friends.

Apologies

Yes, indeed, apologies to you all on this joyous occasion if the cheers of a celebrating populace, the pealing of church bells and the 99-gun salute woke you early from your slumbers on this momentous occasion but it is, after all, my birthday so you will understand and will, no doubt, wish to mark the event in your own way, er, but please don't send me the bill afterwards!  You may well ask what I have learned after 77 years of existence and I shall tell you, er, when I can remember, that is!  Have a nice day!

Your Monday Funnies - on Sunday: 15.5.16

Yes, alas, my busy social calendar means that I am away from early-ish morning until late.  Amongst other things I am off to see King John at the Rose Theatre, Kingston directed by Trevor Nunn, the best theatre director I know of.  So the Minister for Industrial Production has been in touch to plead with me to publish my Monday 'funnies' early in order to avoid a drop in production and a run on the pound!

 

A good looking man walked into an agent's office in Hollywood and said, "I want to be a movie star."  Tall, handsome, and with experience on Broadway, he had the right credentials.

The agent asked, "What's your name?"

The guy said, "My name is Penis van Lesbian ."

The agent said, "Sir, I hate to tell you, but in order to get into Hollywood , you are going to have to change your name."

"I will NOT change my name! The van Lesbian name is centuries old, I will not disrespect my grandfather by changing my name. Not ever."

The agent said, "Sir, I have worked in Hollywood for years...you will NEVER go far in Hollywood with a name like Penis van Lesbian ! I'm telling you, you will HAVE TO change your name or I will not be able to represent you."

"So be it! I guess we will not do business together," the guy said and he left the agent's office.

FIVE YEARS LATER......The agent opens an envelope sent to his office.  Inside the envelope is a letter and a check for $50,000. The agent is awe-struck, who would possibly send him $50,000? He reads the letter enclosed:

Dear Sir,

Five years ago, I came into your office wanting to become an actor in Hollywood , you told me I needed to change my name. Determined to make it with my God-given birth name, I refused You told me I would never make it in Hollywood with a name like Penis van Lesbian.  After I left your office, I thought about what you said. I decided you were right. I had to change my name. I had too much pride to return to your office, so I signed with another agent.

I would never have made it without changing my name, so the enclosed check is a token of my appreciation. Thank you for your advice.

Sincerely,

Dick van Dyke

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

"Mommy, Mommy," she yelled, "we were counting today, and all the other kids could only count to four, but I counted to 10.  See? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10!" 

"Very good," said her mother. 

"Is it because I'm blond?" Jenny asked. 

"Yes, it's because you're blond," said the mommy. 

The next day the girl came skipping home from school. 

"Mommy, Mommy," she yelled, "We were saying the alphabet today, and all the

other kids could only say it to D, but I said it to G.  See?  A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" 

"Very good, Jenny," said her mother. 

"Is it because I'm blond, Mommy?" 

"Yes, it's because you're blond." 

The next day Jenny came skipping home from school. 

"Mommy, Mommy," she yelled, "we were in gym class today, and when we showered, all the other girls had flat chests, but I have these!" 

And she lifted her tank top to reveal a pair of 36Cs. 

"Very good," said her embarrassed mother. 

"Is it because I'm blond, Mommy?" 

"No honey, it's because you're 24!"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

A man and his ever-nagging wife went on vacation to Jerusalem. While they were there, the wife passed away.

The undertaker told the husband, "You can have her shipped home for $5,000, or you can bury her here, in the Holy Land, for $150."

The man thought about it and told him he would just have her shipped home.  

The undertaker asked, "Why would you spend $5,000 to ship your wife home, when it would be wonderful to be buried here in the Holy Land, and you would spend only $150?"

The man replied, "Long ago a man died here, was buried here, and three days later he rose from the dead ... I just can't take that chance."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;

 

File this one under the heading "Not All Blondes Are Dumb"!

A middle-aged, frumpy couple returned to a Mercedes dealership where the salesman had just sold the car they were interested in to a beautiful blonde.

"I thought you said you would hold that car till we raised the $75,000 asking price," said the man.

"Yet I just heard you closed the deal for $65,000 to the lovely young lady there. You insisted there could be no discount on this model."

“Well, what can I tell you? She had the ready cash and, just look at her. How could I resist?" replied the grinning salesman.

Just then the young woman approached the middle-aged couple and gave them the keys.

"There you go, Dad ", she said, "I told you I would get this dope to reduce it !!! "

 

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 15.5.16

Boris 'tells truth and shames the Devil':  Huge SHLOCK-HORROR today as Boris states 'the bleedin' obvious' by telling us that the EU monolith is intent on establishing a supra-state to rule the entire European continent a la Hitler and Bonaparte.  It is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and lest you doubt me (er, and him) then go ask the Greeks!

You didn't read this here:   So once again the 'Cocklecarrots' in their infinite stupidity issue a blanket injunction forbidding anyone - and that means you, too, Duff! - from mentioning a story which, needless to say, is freely available 'over there' at the click of a button.  Suffice to say that an exceedingly brave man who took on the might of the Kremlin's  apparat and who fled, like his murdered friend, the late Mr. Litvinenko, for refuge in Britain, has been charged by the CPS (yeeeeeees, quite!) with possessing and making child pornography.  The accused has issued a writ for libel against the CPS but in view of the stern admonition of Mr. Justice (who sniggered?) 'Cocklecarrot' that all references to this court action are to be forbidden then I must tell you that under no circs should you visit The National Review and read this article.  You have been warned!  And I don't want any comments about it either!

And here's another forbidden subject:   The 'Euro-nightmare Song Contest'!  And no, of course I didn't watch it, what do you think I am, some sort of masochist?  However, I would like to congratulate my Aussie friends for failing to win the ghastly thing but most of all for knocking the Russkies down to third place!  I will avoid asking the obvious question as to what the Aussies are doing in a European song contest, suffice to say that they did their duty and gave the Russkies a smack!  Anyway, next year I suspect that 'the cousins' will be invited to join.  I urge them to avoid it like the plague because irrespective of the quality of their entry it will be used as a means of humiliating them by placing them next to the Brits at the bottom of this non-musical manure heap!  In the meantime, let's hear it for that gallant little Ukrainian gal who stuck it up Putin's pipe!

I'll be the judge of that:   To add another story to the six volumes of How and When Did Our Police Go Bonkers, I gather from Her Majesty's Right Royal Telegraph today that two high-ranking lady female police officers became embroiled in a very loud and very public altercation over which of them possessed "the best boobs"!  One of them, an Assistant Chief Constable, no less, has been suspended - and I don't want any auto-erotic comments on that particular image!  Even so, the matter cannot be left, as it were, to hang there, a decision must be taken.  On the basis of my considerable experience, I once went out with a police woman but found the buttons on her tunic far too difficult to deal with, I am prepared to offer myself as judge and jury on this delicate case.  Yes, I know, my innate sense of public duty is endless!

The 'Hefferlump' joins Boris (and me!) in telling EU how it is:   Yes, Simon Heffer joins the throng pointing at the mammoth German elephant in the room:

Five years ago I wrote a piece referring to the control Angela Merkel exerted over Europe as “the Fourth Reich”. I was accused of a horrible breach of taste. However, when one looks at German power today one realises that, when I wrote, she had hardly even started. The key to German success is this: it participates in a weak currency (whose value would collapse without it) enabling its exports to sell far more cheaply than had it retained the Deutschmark. Therefore, it continues to grow in economic strength relative to its partners – including us – but especially those in the eurozone, notably France and Italy, who would benefit greatly from restoring the Franc and the Lira.

The 'Hefferlump' also reminds us that the euro currency will eventually collapse under its own contradictions and the 'SHLOCK-HORROR' result from that will outweigh even that forecast by the chorus of wailing nuns produced last week by 'Dave 'n' George'.

Lewis vs. Niko:   Only four corners in and the Mercedes drivers took each other off at the Spanish Grand Prix.  Someone is to blame - but who?  Well, it's obvious, innit?  Lewis is a fine, upstanding, young Brit (alright, his dress sense is a bit off) and Niko is a damned Hun.  Need I say more?  (You see, you can always rely on this blog for absolutely fair and unbiased commentary - sorry, did you say something?)

In which I raise a forbidden subject:   Well, it's my blog so I can ignore my own instructions, can't I?  I am referring to the 'Euro non-Song Competition' which, happily, I missed last night, and last year, and the year before that, and so on ad infinitum!  Well, actually, I do vaguely remember when that British gal sang a song whilst wearing no shoes but don't ask me who she was let alone what the song was!  Anyway, I refer you all to Fraser Nelson over at The Coffee House where he opines that the reason we always finish near the bottom is because the BBC doesn't know how to 'do light entertainment'.  If that is true then I am delighted just so long as they follow Mr. Nelson's advice and hand the entire thing over to ITV.  A BBC TV free of pop songs sounds like heaven!

Your Monday Funnies will appear on Sunday:  This is because I am out and about all day tomorrow and given that the economy is wobbling on a precipice, I cannot allow morale to drop amongst the wage-slave class!  So later tonight you will have a sneak preview.

 

No more rumbles today!

 

Well, are you really, really "frit"?

I use that 'Thatcherism' in my title because I have enjoyed imagining her re-action to the endless stream of pompous, incompetent and possibly criminal prats paraded before us under the aegis of 'Dave 'n' Georgie' in order to frighten our pants off were we, the plebs, ooops, sorry I mean, we the people to have the infernal cheek to defy our Public School and Oxbridge masters and vote to free ourselves from the Berlin-Brussels hegemony.  We've already had to put up with 'Ol Big Ears', a man who makes Joe Biden look intelligent, and his tendentious and sonorous warnings for us to stay in the 'Greater Reich' lest we be sent to the back of the queue.  I suspect that she would have come out of her corner with handbag swinging!

Then, 'Dave 'n' Georgie, wheeled in that Canadian banker (steady on, I do the jokes round here!) who has succeeded in getting most of his forecasts wrong including when interest rates would rise. Given that he is the governor of the Bank of England you would think he would, at the least, get that one right.  I gather that he has political aspirations back in Canada - as though the 'Canucks' weren't about to suffer enough given that they are now run by a soppy socialist.

Next up was 'Miss Perma Tan' herself, Christine Lagarde, head of the International Monetary Fund and a former French minister of finance.  A woman of impeccable probity who is, er, currently facing trial for some financial 'misunderstandings' - yeeeeeees, quite!  This morning's papers were full of pictures of Mde. Lagarde and little Georgie striding along together almost hand in hand.  One day, he might, just might, come to regret that display of togetherness!

In the meantime, in case you haven't got the message, 'Dim Dave' has warned us all that 'Armageddon is nigh' should we have the temerity to tell him to stuff the EU where the sun don't shine!  So, again I ask, are you really, really 'frit'?  Or are you beginning to smell a particularly disgusting rat?  So far 'Dave 'n' George' have run a campaign that makes Tammany Hall sound respectable.  Without so much as a 'by your leave' they helped themselves to £9 million of tax-payers' money to send out their disgraceful leaflet singing the praises of the 'Greater Reich'.  According to Charles Moore in The Telegraph:

Young special advisers in 10 and 11 Downing Street frantically draft public letters and statements from industrialists, retired US secretaries of state, ex-Nato secretaries-general, former spies and senior soldiers, environmentalists, existing university vice-chancellors. Sometimes, in their haste, they forget to consult all of those whose signatures are appended.

Is that what we pay their salaries, perks and pensions for?

There is, I detect, a tinge of panic about all this.  None of these SHLOCK-HORROR tales seem to be working.  The GBP (Great British Public) seem inert.  And now, 'Dim Dave', precious little flower that he is, has refused point blank to go up against either Boris of Gove in a one-on-one debate.  So perhaps my original question was misdirected. Instead of asking you, I should have asked 'Dave 'n' George, "Are you really, really frit?"

 

 

"It's the same the whole world over"

This is an idle rumination on the subject of titles.  I am provoked to it by Mr. Kevin D. Williamson, a witty fellow and a regular writer at The National Review, who has pointed up the odd habit of our American friends who, whilst constantly claiming that there really is such a thing as 'American exceptionalism', nevertheless, keep copying us! 'Over here', of course, the pursuit of titles is endemic whether it is a Dukedom or merely a Knighthood or just one of those brass baubles 'Her Maj' dishes out every so often to all and sundry, er, except me, nudge-nudge, Ma'am!  Whilst the late Mr. Oscar Hammerstein II (note how often our 'cousins', in royal style, add on a numerical suffix to their names) might well have been correct when he wrote that "there is nothing like a dame" let me tell him that there is nothing like a Dame-hood either as any of the successful ladies who have received this prize will remind you, particularly if you forget to use it!  We Brits, I suppose, may at least claim a couple of thousand years of history as an excuse for our love of titles but what excuse can our American friends offer?

Mr. Williamson begins his tirade by aiming at that annual, 'boring-snoring' farce 'over there' which they call 'the State of the Union' address:

I may have mentioned before that I detest the State of the Union address, that batty, pseudo-monarchical pageant that serves as the Easter Vigil Mass in the presidential cult. And while that horrifying spectacle may be the worst of our national offenses against good taste and republican manners, there are a few other similar indicators of the fact that our political leaders sometimes forget who works for whom.

In passing he takes a swipe at the practice amongst American government offices of hanging portrait photos of their political bosses in every possible room:

Presidential and vice-presidential portraits in federal offices, and those of Cabinet secretaries, too. The need to have Dear Leader’s visage, or that of one of his minions, looming over every government office represents the worst kind of toadying before power. The State Department couldn’t be bothered to keep track of Mrs. Clinton’s criminal mishandling of classified documents when she was secretary of state, but her underlings managed to find the time to hang her portrait all over the place. There is, of course, an “official portrait” of former secretary of state Hillary Rodham Clinton, in which she wears an expression that makes one nervous for Hansel and Gretel.

Surely being forced to work day in, day out, under the constant image of that ghastly 'HillBilly' woman constitutes 'cruel and unusual punishment'!  Then there are the constant motorcades insisted on by 'the Great and Good' (well, sort of great-ish and good-ish) guaranteed to screw up a city's traffic flow for hours leaving the poor shmucks who live there fuming even harder than their trapped automobiles!

Then there is the phoney-baloney nonsense of politicians saluting soldiers who are saluting them!  It is particularly nonsensical when see you 'Ol Big Ears' prancing down the steps of Airforce One with his limp wrists dangling in front of him trying to snap off a suitably masculine salute at the poor squaddie standing at the foot of the steps.  What, one wonders, will 'HillBilly' do when she takes over - blow him a kiss? "Oh, the horror, the horror!"

Finally, Mr. Williamson reminds us of the peculiar habit American politicians have of insisting on keeping their former titles.  Thus, henceforth and forever, they will be known as 'Mr. President', or 'Madame Secretary', or 'Governor This', or 'Speaker That', as though, dimly (and I do mean 'dimly'!) they fear that somehow they will be diminished without their old titles even if, or perhaps especially if, they made a complete cock-up whilst they were in the job!

I suppose that it all goes to show that human nature is a constant universal.  In the meantime, I await patiently a letter from 'Buck House' advising me of my knighthood for distinguished services to Blogdom - who sniggered?

 

So it's true then, John Major is a total tit

In so far as I ever think about him I think of John Major as the forgotten man of British politics, in fact, I forgot about him even when he was prime minister!  Needless to say, he was more or less utterly useless in the job.  Mainly he is remembered for doing 'a grand old Duke of York' who, you will recall:

... had ten thousand men;
He marched them up to the top of the hill,
And he marched them down again.

John Major, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had 50+ million Brits who, in his mad European fanaticism, he marched up into the European Exchange Rate Mechanism, a precursor to the euro, and then, as prime minister, marched us all down again when it turned into a total shambles.  That day is etched on my memory because during the course of it interest rates were raised to 15% which meant my mortgage interest hit 18%,  Sitting at home in a state of shock I was contemplating driving down to my bank and tossing the keys of the house over the counter because I was done for!  I gather that this mammoth error of judgment cost the nation around £3.3 billion!

Yesterday, this stupid man - stupid because he has learned nothing from his mistakes - railed against those of us who are deeply opposed to remaining in the Greater Reich, oooops, sorry, I mean the European Union.  He tells us that we are at best foolish and at worst malignant for worrying about immigration.  Only a prize chump like John Major could come out with this on the day we learn that the government's Office of National Statistics admits that when they told us, officially, mind, that there were only (only?) 0.9 million European immigrants in the country, well, that was, actually, a teensy-weensy error and that the real figure was - wait for it - 2.4 million.  In other words, they lied to us!

So out pops John Major like a village 'plod' telling us that 'there's nothing to see here and just move along'!  In another indication of this man's sad lack of intelligence he blames the distinct sense of unease felt throughout the land at this huge influx of foreigners, not on the various governments who have allowed it and then lied about it, but on the absolute rotters (in his dim view) who keep telling the truth!  And if you are uneasy now, then 'stick around, kid, you ain't seen nuttin' yet'.  The 'Greater Reich', in its infinite 'wisdom', is all set to allow 75 million Turks to have complete freedom to enter and roam around Europe.  Ah but, you may say, our current prime minister has, many a time and oft', sucked in his little lips and absolutely insisted that our borders are safe and that he will, absolutely and definitely, cut immigration into 'this septic Isle'.  Need I say more?

 

VOTE LEAVE

IT'S YOUR LAST CHANCE!

 

My dears, it's simply not to be missed!

I refer, of course, to the social event of this and every year - Mr. Rod Liddle's forthcoming garden party.  As, er, the host himself insists, you are simply no-one going no-where if you are not invited to this exclusive gathering of the really, really beautiful people.  He makes it all sound very enticing although I am not sure exactly where I will fit in:

Naked transgendered dwarves, sprayed gold, pass from celebrity to celebrity with trays of delectable morsels balanced on their shaven heads. There is an unending supply of the most expensive champagne and vast pools of scrumptious dips. You can’t come, I’m afraid – it’s only for A-list celebrities, people who have holdings in Panamanian bank accounts and one or two Russian oligarchs plus their whores.

See what I mean?  That's real class, that is!  Also, Mr. Liddle tells us that he has picked three 'slebs' who will be invited to give brief speeches to the distinguished gathering.  The first two are, Mr. (or is it Mrs?) Elton John and Mr. Hugh Bonneville, the actor, although I would not like to hazard a guess (and I don't want any from you lot either!) as to quite why those two have been chosen!  The third is Mr. Alan Pardew, the manager of Crystal Palace Football Club, usually a man of few words, most of them rarely heard in public!

Further and better particulars over at The Coffee House. 

 

Thank you, Dame Cicely

I refer, of course, to the late, great Dame Cicely Veronica Wedgwood (1910-1997), a superb historian, an unashamed lesbian and a highly intelligent and gracious lady.  She, like me today, was fascinated by the English civil war.  She wrote several histories of the period under the simple name of C. V. Wedgwood in order to disguise her femininity which might, back in those days, have affected her reputation in a male dominated discipline.

As you all know, because I never stop boring on about it, I have become hooked on the civil war period and having finished two excellent histories I came across a rather battered and tattered paperback edition of "The King's War" written by C. V. Wedgwood.  Alas,  the font size is so tiny my poor old eyes cannot cope and, about to give up in despair  because I was enjoying the book so much, I suddenly remembered my local 'Eldorado', or to be precise, Bookbarn International, just up the road from Shepton Mallet, a few miles from here, a warehouse stuffed to the rafters with second-hand books!  They have a proper full-size edition of the volume, it might be a bit scruffy but at least I will be able to read the bloody thing!

I have linked above to C. V. Wedgwood's Wiki entry which provides an outline of her life but more revealing is the obit produced by The Economist at the time of her death.  She sounds like a very principled and intelligent woman.  She lived happily with her female partner for nearly 70 years.  She warded off the sniping of the mostly male historians of her day whilst at the same time receiving much praise from others of them including the usually ultra-prickly A. L. Rowse - another 'hero' of mine.  From what I have read so far, I like her writing style and the signs of a judicious intelligence at work.  Above and beyond all other things, she was, apparently, a keen supporter of Margaret Thatcher - so what's not to like?!

 

Pots and kettles, Dave

Normally, if asked, I would prefer to read Vince Cable's laundry list than plough through one of his political essays but there is always an exception to every rule.  At The Coffee House yesterday, he poked 'Dim Dave' in the eye with a sharp stick following Dave's inadvertent admission that, in effect, Nigeria and Afghanistan are up to their fat necks in corruption.  Normally, of course, I would shrug and mutter 'so what?' and move on but then I recalled that Dave sends Nigeria around £300 million of MY money every year.  So what's going on, Dave?  If I was still a shifty, cynical, second-hand car dealer I might think 'you was on a bung, know wot I mean, Dave?' Happily, these days I am an elderly retiree with impeccable credentials, well, I printed them myself!  Dave, of course, calls it 'aid' but given that Nigeria is attempting to operate its own space agency do they really need any aid?

Again, some equally shifty types, I refer to that band of back-stabbing 'bruvs', the London estate agents, might suggest that eventually all that bent dosh comes home to Mummy in the form of galloping price rises in the London housing market - or at least, the posh bits of London, so what's not to like?  Possibly but if you're a nurse or a bus-driver trying to house your family in London then rocketing house prices do not help.

Mr. Cable also points out, no doubt with malice aforethought, that if Dave, and by implication, George, really think something must be done they should make a start with the various so-called 'Crown territories' who supply most of the safe havens for ripped off money.

Half of the companies featured in the Panama Papers were registered in British-administered tax havens.  These overseas territories vary in the degree of venality and abuse they accommodate but collectively they are dragging our British brand through the mud. And they all depend on secrecy. After all, money laundering is not just linked to lavish lifestyles; it is also tied up with tax evasion, illegal arms dealing, drug smuggling and fraud.

So come on, Dave, purse those little lips of yours to show how much you really, really care and at your forthcoming PR junket conference on international corruption lets hear you spell out exactly what measures you will take against these British dependencies and their corrupt practices.

 

'Ding-dong, the witch is dead'

And, as we all cheer and shout 'good riddance to bad rubbish', we bid farewell to Frau Margot Honnecker who died, roughly 80 years too late, at the over-ripe age of 89. 

Perhaps, like me when I read her obit in The Telegraph, the name rings a vague bell.  She was, God rot her bones, the wife of the former 'kommissar' of East Germany, Eric Honnecker.  She, herself, was the Minister for Education - please, no vomiting! - for 26 years:

As minister of education from 1963 to 1989 she used her role to politicise the GDR’s state education system, saturating the curriculum with Marxist-Leninist propaganda and introducing military and weapons training in schools for an expected future confrontation with the West. Teachers were ordered to report all incidences of deviation by pupils from the communist line.

In addition, this ghastly woman:

was active in organising a policy under which the children of “enemies of the state” – dissidents and people who attempted to flee to the West – were forcibly and permanently separated from their parents. Many were placed in foster homes or state adoption institutions, or with the families of childless Communist Party activists.

She remained unrepentant to the end:

“I have had enough of the persecution that is inflicted on former citizens of the German Democratic Republic,” she declared in 2009. “We lived good lives in our GDR. You can say what you like, but the facts can’t be ignored.”

As the obit reminds us, there are still some 2,000 families trying to trace family members who were ripped from them by this ghastly harridan.  Even so, having scooted from the collapsing East German regime to seek shelter with President Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua (again, why am I not surprised?), nothing stopped her from complaining vociferously about the fact that she was only paid £1,250 per month by way of pension from the German government.  I would like to report that she only died after years of suffering with a hideously painful and incurable cancer but, alas, the details are not available.

 

For you, Herr Cameron, ze var iss over!

'The Sun - we love it" dropped a bomb on Downing Street by printing Ian Duncan Smith's revelation that 'Dim Dave' was called to her jackboot heel by the 'Kaiserin' as he tried his pathetic best to insist on a British veto of EU immigration laws.  Why am I not surprised?

According to IDS, it was only hours before 'Dim Dave' was set to announce his basic demands for a new settlement between the UK and the EU when the Berlin boot hit him in the backside of his Saville Row suit. 'Nein! Nein! Nein!', shouted the Kaiserin, 'nur über Ihre Leiche!'  which translates roughly as 'only over your dead body'!  At which point, the boy David sucked in his little lips and said, "Was auch immer Sie sagen, Mama" ('whatever you say, Mummy').

It's interesting that, as Tom Goodenough reminds us at The Coffee House, those famous renegotiating terms that 'Dim Dave' once proudly waved like a banner have barely been mentioned since.  According to IDS, in the discussions prior to Britain presenting its 'demands':

“There was a spare chair for them – called the German Chair. They have had a de facto veto over everything.”

At the risk of repeating myself, well, actually, repeating the words of the late Nick Ridley, "The whole thing is a German racket!"

VOTE LEAVE

 

 

First, let's burn all the 'Greenies'

I am obliged to my regular commenter and old pal David Morris - and he's a real pal because he once sat through one of my boring-snoring talks! - for politely reminding me to look beyond the headlines.  Thus, on the subject of the catastrophic fires in Canada he pointed me towards this site which in turn pointed an accusatory finger at environmental extremists who, despite a similarly devastating fire, refused to allow sensible measures to be implemented, such as cutting down trees close to buildings and to roads.

Intrigued, if not surprised, I hunted around the internet for any confirmations.  I found this post from 2014 reporting a similar disaster in the American north west:

So the question is why are we losing so much forest? And the answer is very simple… the forests are being mismanaged through the continued bungling-intervention of the EPA, the ‘environmentalists’ and the ‘green’ movement into the arena of forestry.

I know something about the subject of forests and forest management since I grew-up living, working, hunting and fishing in the area of the forests that are being consumed by these incredibly massive fires, which have become a recurring annual theme over the past two and a half decades since the intervention of the ‘environmentalist’ into the area for forest management practices. But who are these ‘environmentalists’ anyway.

Generally speaking (and there are exceptions), the ‘environmentalists’ who have taken an interest in controlling how our public forests are used don’t live in the forests, and they view the human race (you, me our families and friends) as less valuable and relevant than a frog, fish, or a tree. [My emphasis]

The man who wrote it was an experienced forester.  Rather like this man in 2011, as reported by Townhall.com, when huge forest fires broke out in Arizona:

His father, who will turn 90 in March of 2012, saw a fire like the Wallow coming for years based on observations of the green movement’s influence on how the U.S. National Forest Service (USFS) has managed, or rather grossly mismanaged, the forests for years.

“I predicted years ago that when the weather conditions were right, the Gila Wilderness, a waste of natural resources and the Gila National Forest would go up in flames. Much to my sorrow that day has gone,” Emil Kiehne wrote in a letter to his son. “All of this is a result of overprotection of our natural resources, timber and grass that has grown into a dog hair thicket that cannot be contained. The USFS must go back to allowing multiple use of forest lands to prevent forest fires.”
 
Under the disguise of non-profit organizations and saviors of the environment and endangered species, groups like the Sierra Club, Friends of the Forest Guardians and the Center for Biological Diversity have been strong advocates against logging, the burning of small natural fires, and grazing on federally held forest land. Excessive Forest Service regulation, Endangered Species Act regulations, clean water regulations and more, prevent the salvaging of dead trees and cleanup of excess dead vegetation. This has resulted in a dangerous and large build up of extremely dry dead trees, excess brush and thick vegetation undergrowth. A ticking time bomb waiting for a single lightening strike to set it off.

“We can’t go in and do anything now because essentially the greens control the USFS,” R.J. Smith, director of the Center for Private Conservation at the Competitive Enterprise Institute tells Townhall. “The environmental regulations and the philosophy prevents them from doing anything to restore the forests to a healthy condition. You literally can’t go in anymore.”

And so it goes on and on, not just 'over there' but 'over here', too, because you may remember that much of the blame for the flooding of the Somerset levels was placed on dipstick 'Greenies' who would not allow rivers to be dredged in case it disturbed the newts or something.  Needless to say, the 'Greenies' have high-jacked the management of forests 'down under there' which is probably why they have had so many huge forest fires recently.  Ray Evans in an article in The Quadrant last year:

Now a department of state which has management responsibilities for forests on Crown land (an area in Victoria comprising one third of the state), but which is staffed at senior levels by officials who believe that trees are sacred, and are there to be worshipped rather than exploited for the use of mankind, cannot manage the forests. Because an explicit avowal of such beliefs would, at this stage of the Green Revolution, be premature, the sacred nature of forests is euphemised by words and phrases such as “old-growth forests”, the incommensurability of “wilderness”, and by appeals to the over-arching importance of biodiversity and the necessity, therefore, of leaving forests untouched and dead trees on the roadside undisturbed. Biodiversity is a magic word which is used to legitimise the expropriation of private property (amongst many other uses).

Is it time, one wonders, to insist that 'Greenies', like the carriers of plague in 'ye Goode Olde Days', should be forced to carry and constantly ring a warning bell where-ever they go?

 

Oh dear, what a pity, never mind: #6,289

You'm do take your chances if'n you do come down 'ere to deepest, darkest Zummerzet!  As the owners of these three cars found out the hard way, or perhaps, the wet way on the beach at Burnham:

What is it about schadenfreude that makes it so utterly delicious?  I'm almost (but not quite!) ashamed of myself.  Mind you, in these cases no one was hurt except, possibly, in their wallets when their insurance comes up for renewal.  However, even I can't raise even a smile at the thought of those thousands of Canadians hit by that cataclysmic fire storm.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods,

They kill us for their sport.

Sometimes - most times? - the cartoonists say it best

My debt to the Guido Fawkes site grows and grows.  Today, my special thanks go to 'Rich', his in-house cartoonist for this absolute corker:

 

This morning I had the misfortune to switch on my radio and catch an interview with some stuttering, waffling, old prat called Sir Jonathan Day who was, God help us, once head of the Joint Services Intelligence Committee.  Originally he trained as a solicitor but then jumped aboard the Civil Service gravy train where, obviously, he greased his way onwards and upwards.  In his interview he attempted to parrot what Dim Dave' is going to say later this morning which is that without Europe "We're doomed, I tell you, doomed!"  What a pathetic bunch of spineless wankers they all are!

 

Your Monday Funnies: 8.5.16

I am tempted to put the Telegraph headline in as the first 'funny' today: "David Cameron: Brexit could lead Europe into descending into war".  To which my first re-action is, if they're that antagonistic then the quicker we get out the better!  But enough of that, now is the time to cheer up all you wage-slaves.  The first, in a spirit of European co-operation is 'Oirish':

 

John O'Reilly hoisted his beer and said, "Here's to spending the rest of me life, between the legs of me wife !"

That won him the top prize at the pub for the best toast of the night !

He went home and told his wife, Mary, "I won the prize for the Best toast of the night." She said, "Aye, did ye now. And what was your toast?" John said, "Here's to spending the rest of me life, sitting in church beside me wife."

"Oh, that is very nice indeed, John!" Mary said.

The next day, Mary ran into one of John's drinking buddies on the street Corner. The man chuckled leeringly and said, "John won the prize the other night at The pub with a toast about you, Mary."

She said, "Aye, he told me, and I was a bit surprised myself. You know, he's only been in there twice in the last four years. "Once I had to pull him by the ears to make him come, and the other time he fell asleep."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Larry and Bob, two friends, met in the park every day to feed the pigeons, watch the squirrels and discuss world problems. 

One day Larry didn't show up. Bob didn't think much about it and figured maybe he had a cold or something. But, after Larry hadn't shown up for a week or so, Bob really got worried. However, since the only time they ever got together was at the park, Bob didn't know where Larry lived, so he was unable to find out what had happened to him. 

A month had passed and Bob figured he had seen the last of Larry but one day Bob approached the park and -- lo and behold -- there sat Larry!  Bob was very excited and happy to see him and told him so. Then he said, ‘For crying out loud Larry, what in the world happened to you? 

Larry replied, 'I have been in jail.' 

'Jail!' cried Bob. ‘What in the world for?' 

'Well,' Larry said, 'You remember Jane, that cute little blonde waitress at the coffee shop where I sometimes go?'

 ‘Yeah,' said Bob, 'I remember her. What about her?’ 

'Well, one day she filed rape charges against me; and, at 89 years old, I was so proud that when I got into court, I pleaded 'guilty'. 'The damn judge gave me 30 days for perjury’.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Time is like a river.  You cannot touch the water twice, because the flow that has passed will never pass again.  Enjoy every moment of life.  As a bagpiper, I play many gigs.  Recently I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a pauper's cemetery in the Nova Scotia back country. As I was not familiar with the backwoods, I got lost and, being a typical man, I did not stop for directions.

I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight.  There were only the diggers and crew left and they were eating lunch.  I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late. I went to the side of the grave and looked down and the vault lid was already in place. I did not know what else to do, so I started to play.

The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around.  I played out my heart and soul for this man with no family and friends. I played like I have never played before for this homeless man. And as I played "Amazing Grace", the workers began to weep.  They wept; I wept; we all wept together.  When I finished, I packed up my bagpipes and started for my car. 

Though my head was hung low, my heart was full. As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, "I have never seen anything like that before, and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years."

Apparently, I am still lost ... it’s a man thing.

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An Arab had spent many days crossing the desert without finding a  source of water. It got so bad that even his camel died of thirst. He crawled through the sands, certain that he was breathing his last  breath, when suddenly he saw a shiny object sticking out of the and several yards ahead of him. He crawled to the object, pulled it out of the sand, and discovered that he had a Manischewitz kosher wine bottle.

It appeared that there may be a drop or two left in the bottle, so he unscrewed the top and out popped a genie. BUT this was no ordinary Genie. This genie appeared to be a Chasidic Rabbi, complete with black alpaca coat, black hat, side curls, and tzitzis.

'Vell kid,' said the genie, 'you know how it voiks. You got tree vishes.'  

'I'm not going to trust you,' says the Arab. 'I'm not going to trust a  Jewish genie!'

'Vott you got to lose? Looks to me - you're a goner anyvay!'  

The Arab thought about this for a minute, and decided that the genie  was right. 'Okay, I wish I were in a lush oasis, with plentiful food and drink.'                                                                                                                               

POOF - the Arab found himself in the most beautiful oasis he had ever seen and he  was surrounded with jugs of wine and platters of delicacies.

'Okee-dokee kiddo, vat's your second vish?'  

'My second wish is that I were rich beyond my wildest dreams.'                             

POOF -  The Arab found himself surrounded by treasure chests filled with rare old  coins and precious gems.

'Okay kid, you got just vone more vish. Best you should make it a good  vone!'           

After thinking for a few minutes, the Arab says, 'I wish that no matter  where I go, beautiful women will always need and want me!' 

POOF -  He was turned into a tampon.                                                                          

THE MORAL OF THE STORY: If you're an Arab doing business with a Jewish genie, there's going to be a string attached!

 

That's your lot but before you start retelling them round the water-machine check out the ethnicity of your audience!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 8.5.16

Khan can:   Can - what? you might well ask, no doubt irritated by yet another of my cryptic headings.  Let me explain.   Mr. Sadiq Khan, a Muslim, has just been elected mayor of 'Londonistan', as one of the American papers put it.  As usual, this blog attempts to peer through its usual fog of ignorance and try to assess Mr. Khan and what effect he will have.  Alas, I know next to nothing of the man so any views expressed here need to be taken with even more scepticism than usual.  However, one fact appears to be established and that is his inherent dislike of 'Jezza' who failed to turn up for Mr. Khan's investiture.  Already there is journalistic talk of Mr. Khan challenging 'Jezza' for the leadership of the Labour party - splendid!  Personally, I was not too surprised at his success in the London mayor election.  The dimwits who appear to run the Tory party chose an utterly pathetic candidate in the form of the multi-zillionaire, Mr. Zac Goldsmith, and he received the thrashing he deserved.  Given the fact that London is now, to all intents and purposes, a foreign city inside England, then Mr. Khan is not an unreasonable choice to be its mayor.  From the very little I know of him I think he is a good choice although, no doubt, he will make his mistakes.  But more important, I think he stands as a symbol for moderate Muslims in this country who can see that one of their own can rise to high office.  And there are, indeed, a great many moderate Muslims in this land.  There are constant 'SHLOCK-HORROR' stories concerning the 600-odd Muslim youths who have gone to Syria to fight for ISIS but my reaction is to ask, 'is that all?'  Young men always want to pick up a gun and go to war and Muslim young men are no exception.  Most of those that don't get killed will eventually come back older and wiser!  Anyway, good luck to Mr. Khan.  I hope he can keep clear of the graft and bribery that is endemic amongst so many of his fellow Muslim politicians - and occasionally their Christian counterparts.  We shall see what we shall see!

 

My American affairs correspondent, JK, turns up Trumps:   He pointed me towards an article by Glenn Greenwald at The Intercept in which Mr. Greenwald, who is a very naughty boy, reprinted links to all those distinguished media commentators, including 'The Kraut' (such lèse-majesté!), who snorted their derision at the possibility of Trump winning anything other than a booby prize.  "Oh dear, what a falling off was there"!  You have been warned, do not, under any circs, assume that 'The Donald' will fail against 'HillBilly'!

 

Time to dance a jig on the political body of George Galloway:   Some of my regular commenters are doing their impersonations of Pte. Fraser from Dad's Army as they insist that following the election of Sadiq Khan, "We're all doomed!"  However, such is their anguish that they have missed the really great, heart-warming news from the London mayoral election which Robert Colville at The Coffee House has much pleasure in rubbing in - the fact that George Galloway has been totally and utterly humiliated by finishing bottom of the candidates having gained only a miserly 1.4% of the vote.

Will that be the last we see of this dreadful old chancer?  Probably not because Ken Livingstone and Seumas Milne of the (so-called) Labour party would like him back in the fold.  Incidentally, Milne, that ex-public schoolboy and virulent Marxist is claimed by Galloway to be his best friend.  With friends like that who needs enemies? 

 

Will she or won't she?   This is the predominant question of the day.  I refer to Ms. Katie Hopkins who, to my surprise, writes for The Daily Mail which the 'Memsahib' insists that I buy everyday.  I do read it, or at least, skim it, but Ms. Hopkins has eluded my scrutiny - until now!  Apparently, she vowed that if Sadiq Khan beat her favourite, Zac Goldsmith, she would run naked up Regent Street with a sausage up her bum!  I assume that out of religious discretion it would not be a pork sausage!

I am also hoping that this is not a picture of her practicing to insert the sausage!  You may remember that Mr. Dan Hodges once promised to streak down Whitehall in a Nigel Farage mask if UKIP exceeded a certain percentage of the vote.  Eventually he kept his promise although to avoid the attention of 'the plod' he did wear his underpants.  Apropos these two similar promises, it is interesting to note that Mr. Hodges, a proper political commentator, chose Whitehall as his venue where-as Ms. Hopkins prefers Regent Street.  See, you just can't stop these ladies from window shopping at the best fashion houses whatever the circs!

 

And talking of the estimable Mr. Hodges:   I am missing him at my usual first stop at The Telegraph each morning.  However, all is not lost because he now seems to be writing a weekly column for The Mail on Sunday.  His reports on the civil war now raging inside the Labour (non)party are illuminating.  Today he points at 'the bleedin' obvious' that the only way forward for Labour is to split and the sooner it happens the better for what I might call 'the normals':

It is a fantasy. A fantasy that Jeremy Corbyn, John McDonnell and Diane Abbott can happily – or even grudgingly – exist alongside Chuka Umunna, Dan Jarvis and Liz Kendall. Pick any issue of import. Defence. Foreign policy. Law and order. Immigration. Welfare. Economic policy. The two Labour parties do not just hold different opinions, they sit on opposite sides of diametrically opposed ideological battle lines.

The Lib-Dem rump should pay close attention because it's not the US cavalry that potentially is riding to their rescue but the 'normals' from the Labour party who constitute the second coming of the SDP who rescued them back in the '80s.  Proof, perhaps, that what goes around, comes around.

 

Is this really JK's house?   As you all know, 'JK' is a regular contributor to this distinguished blog and his home state is Arkansas.  The Mail is running a story today illustrating the most expensive houses for sale in the USA, state by state, and this is the winner in 'Arkieland':

I can believe it might be JK's place because it obviously has large storage facilities at ground level which JK's business partner, Mr. Barney Magroo, 'Purveyor of Fine Wines to the Arkansas Gentry', could store his, er, product pending distribution!  All yours for a mere $5 mil! 

 

No more rumbles today

 

Not nearly enough blood!

Once again the GBP (Great British Public) ignored my orders - put those people on a charge, Sar'nt-Major! - and failed to execute a suitably bloody massacre of the Labour party at Thursday's local elections.  Instead, I was forced to rely on the Jocks to put them to the claymore thus reminding me that you can always rely on the Jocks for some blood-letting, er, provided you pay for the whisky!

In 'mimsy-pimsy' England they couldn't bring themselves to do the dirty deed and so 'Jezza' lives to cock-up another day!  Perhaps that is all for the best because it means that, barring Dave 'n' George having to use the courts to protect their identities in some sex scandal involving a couple of goats and three boy scouts, the Tories should cruise to another victory at the next election.  However, the after shocks of the referendum, and there will be some whoever wins or loses, have yet to be felt and the Tories, being on the whole the 'Stoopid Party', are quite capable of self-harming to dangerous levels.

To me it seems impossible to work out the future of the Labour party.  Their 'normals', having surrendered their power to the 'abnormals' by offering membership and a vote to anyone and their 'Uncle Joe' for £3 are doomed to the loony-bin of politics until they split.  It is worth remembering that in the great Labour party scheme of things, 'Jezza' is merely slightly eccentric.  The really dangerous mouth-dribblers have yet to take over.  As the time approaches for the current MPs to face reselection by their local parties you will see the sort of massacre that the GBP failed to inflict.

In the meantime, the 'Dave 'n' George' show stumblebums on with policies flourished bravely and then binned at the first sign of opposition.  You, the Great British Public, have one last chance to kick these posh boys where it hurts, so this time just do as I tell you and

VOTE LEAVE

 

In which Ms. Anna Raccoon almost drools with pleasure

I must tread carefully here because, as a rough rule of thumb, I try to avoid mixing it with lawyers.  Even more, as a born-again wimp, I would not to wish to cross swords with the ultra fierce, Ms. Anna Raccoon, a former lawyer herself.  Happily, on this occasion I can sit back and enjoy her (barely disguised) enjoyment of the apparent fact that some very big lawyer outfits are about to receive a mighty kick in the SRA, er, that's the Solicitors Regulation Authority, the body that runs the 'rules 'n' regs' for solicitors.

Apparently there has been a change in the law such that, if 'Mr. A' makes a claim against a company, say, 'B&C Ltd', on the grounds that he suffered injuries because of their incompetence and/or carelessness and during the course of the trial it becomes clear that 'Mr. A' is lying through his teeth probably because he had been tempted by all those personal injury ads on the 'telly', then henceforth the costs involved in that lost court case will not only be laid against 'Mr. A' but also against his lawyers, such as the famous 'Messrs. Sue, Grabbit & Runne'.

So far so good but Ms. Raccoon saves the best for last.  Apparently, that very distinguished and, of course, highly proper firm of lawyers, Slater & Gordon, who are leaders in the field of personal injury claims, recently paid a fairly massive wedge to a Mr. Rob Terry for his legal company called Quindell which had fallen on difficult times.  It now transpires that thousands of the cases they paid good money for were personal injury claims so one must hope and pray, along with the partners of Slater & Gordon, that all those claimants are true-blue, truth-tellers whose stories will stand up in court.

I should add, without even a hint of a snigger, that Slater & Gordon are an Australian firm of lawyers, one of whose partners was the delicious and delightful, if incomprehensible,  former prime minister, Ms. Julia Gillard.  Yeeeeeees, quite!

http://annaraccoon.com/2016/05/05/slater-gordon-ouch-edition/

 

Today's the day

Well, not for all of us but it is for those of you in 'this septic isle' who have the chance to vote in your local elections.  'Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood' and all that sort of thing but above all show no mercy, Jezza's Marxist Labour party must be put to the sword.  Under his 'leadership' it has become a bunker for every vile, anti-democratic 'Billy No Brains' in the land.  It is unfortunate that in this massacre many innocents will perish because there are some good people in the Labour party even if I disagree with much of what they do or say.  However, they have all become infected with virulent lice and only a wholesale cull at the polls will rid them of this infection.  If you are a decent, longstanding member of the Labour party then grit your teeth and vote for anyone, anyone at all, rather than your erstwhile 'brother'.  Just remember, sometimes it is necessary to be cruel to be kind and if a sufficient quantity of political blood is spilled it may just give your MPs the courage to rebel against this collection of fanatical Trots who have nicked your party from under your noses.

Go to it!

 

Cruz Trumped!

So poor old Ted Cruz has been well and truly 'Trumped'.  Alas, from 'over here' it is difficult to analyse the whys and wherefores.  My instinctive re-action is to shrug and mutter that Trump has no chance against the implacable 'HillBilly' but I must confess that the fact that he has reached this high is making me feel distinctly uneasy.  Also, it is worth remembering that all the 'experts' said at the beginning of the Republican race that Trump stood no chance of winning the nomination.  Also, bear in mind that there is an exceedingly dark legal cloud hovering over 'HillBilly' which may yet produce rain on her parade!

So what, if anything, can one make of Mr. Trump?  On the face of it he cuts a ridiculous, pompous, buffoonish figure which must be reducing 'Vlad the Impaler' and the normally impassive members of the Chinese polit-bureau to helpless giggles.  And yet ... and yet ... they should have a care because this impulsive man seems capable of almost anything.  In fact, he is as hard to read as those tight-lipped, po-faced, Chinese leaders because suffering, as he appears to do, with verbal diarrhoea it is almost impossible to discern  in any particular situation exactly what he means and what he will do.  It is also important to bear in mind that no-one ever knows for sure how anyone will cope with the burden of the presidency - until they are President!

What worries me most in this particular American election cycle are the huge gulfs that have deeply divided the (dis)United States of America.  Trump has obviously aroused the profound and resentful belligerence of the white working-class, whilst Bernie Sanders, in Jezza-style, has whipped up juvenile enthusiasm for his daft semi-communism.  'HillBilly' floats uneasily on a sea of nervous, bewildered middle-classes who are lost in a riot they cannot understand.

I haven't started digging in yet but I have checked that my spade is in working order!

Every so often even I am right

I can't remember how long ago it was that I warned 'Dim Dave' that all those squillions of quid he is spending on French-built(?) aircraft carriers could go down in history as the biggest waste of time, money and effort since, er, well, whatever was the last big spend by his daft government.  I warned that small, mobile, robot, weapon platforms would soon put aircraft carriers our of business.  This from the Stars and Stripes site:

The military is starting tests on the world's largest unmanned surface vessel — a self-driving, 132-foot ship designed to travel thousands of miles out at sea without a single crew member on board.

The so-called "Sea Hunter" has the potential to revolutionize not only the military's maritime operations but commercial shipping, according to military officials. If successful, it could usher in the arrival of unmanned cargo vessels moving between countries.

Sorry, Prime Minister, but the world has moved on since you were taught our glorious naval history at Eton!

 

Tom who? says watch out!

I refer to Mr. Tom Harris who, amongst other things, has taken over from Dan Hodges as The Telegraph's in-house Labour party commentator.  To be honest, I have missed Hodges opinions but judged by today's effort Mr. Harris might be a worthy successor.  He is a former Scottish Labour party MP who lost his seat in 'the massacre of the (not so) innocents' at the last election when the Scots Nats went on the rampage.

Today he warns us in general, and 'Jezza' in particular, to beware of John McDonnell, the deputy leader of the labour party, bearing apparent gifts!  In comparison to 'Jezza' who more and more resembles one of those scrofulous old men who wander the streets talking to themselves, McDonnell gives the appearance of normality.  But Mr. Harris warns us, in effect, that 'white-haired man speak with forked tongue':

The hard Left had as much regard for the Labour Party as a tick has for a sheep.  It might seem discourteous to categorise the Shadow Chancellor, John McDonnell, as a blood sucking, parasitic insect, except for the fact that he himself has declared his contempt for the beast on which he is currently riding: “I’m not in the Labour Party because I’m a believer of the Labour Party as some supreme body or something God-given or anything like that. It’s a tactic. It’s as simple as that. If it’s no longer a useful vehicle, move on,” he once said.

All the talk is of a Right-wing coup against 'Jezza' even if none of them seem to know how or when to try it, let alone who to offer up as an alternative.  Mr. Harris reports that McDonnell's normally snarling attitude to what may be called the 'normals' in the Labour party has changed recently and he has been pouring honeyed words into any receptive ears.  However, they should remember that McDonnell is:

a man who was sacked as chair of finance at Greater London Council because he was too Left-wing for Ken Livingstone’s liking. [My emphasis] Who praised IRA terrorists (though naturally not describing them thus) for their “armed struggle” and believed they should be honoured. Who suggested that striking workers should spit in their bosses’ tea. Who defended a thug who almost killed a police officer by throwing a fire extinguisher from a rooftop during a student riot.

In other words, he is an even nastier piece of work than 'Jezza'!

 

Another good reason to VOTE LEAVE

The Coffee House, an adjunct site to The Spectator, publishes a story about a story!  The intro reads as follows:

Note from the editor. The Spectator has been informed that, due to an EU Court ruling, the below article will now longer show up under Google search results. Here’s the rather creepy email:-

 

Needless to say, The Coffee House have instantly reprinted the story, which is actually fairly boring but it's one in the eye for whichever Big Business fat cat used pernicious EU law to stop us reading about them.

VOTE LEAVE!

 

Your Monday Funnies: 2.5.16

A tad late this morning but it being a Bank Holiday, needless to say the 'Memsahib' had a list of jobs as long as her arm!  I begin with some sage advice from 'down under there':

It's only when you see a mosquito landing on your testicles that you realise there is always a way to solve problems without resorting to violence.

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Two obnoxious businessmen in a new shopping mall were sitting down for a break in their soon-to-be new shop.

As yet, the shop wasn't ready with only a few shelves set up. One said to the other, "I bet any minute now some senior pensioner is going to walk by, put their face to the window and ask what we're selling." 

No sooner were the words out of his mouth when, sure enough, a curious old woman walked to the window, had a peek and in a soft voice asked, "What are you selling here?"  

One of the men replied sarcastically, "We're selling ass-holes."

Without skipping a beat, the old dear said, "Must be doing well ...  only two left."

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And here is a very useful language guide for your next overseas holiday:

"I LOVE YOU" IN 10 LANGUAGES English I Love You Spanish Te Amo French Je T'aime German Ich Liebe Dich Japanese Ai Shite Imasu Italian Ti Amo Chinese Wo Ai Ni Swedish Jag Alskar Dig Lithuanian As Tave Meliu Alabama, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Louisiana, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida, Mississippi, Kentucky, North Carolina, West Virginia, Virginia. Nice tits, get in the truck.

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Four old timers were playing their weekly game of golf and one remarked  how nice it would be to wake up on Christmas morning, roll out of bed  and without an argument go directly to the golf course, meet his buddies and play a round.

His buddies all chimed in said, "Let's do it! We'll make it a priority; figure out a way and meet here early, Christmas morning."

Months later, that special morning arrives and there they are on the golf course.

The first guy says, "Boy this game cost me a fortune! I bought my wife a diamond ring that she can't take her eyes off it."

The second guy says, "I spent a ton too. My wife is at home planning the cruise I gave her. She was up to her eyeballs in brochures."

The third guy says "Well my wife is at home admiring her new car,  reading the manual."

They all turned to the last guy in the group who is staring at them  like they have lost their minds.

"I can't believe you all went to such expense for this golf game. I slapped my wife on the bum and said, 'Well, babe, Merry Christmas! It's a great morning -- intercourse or golf course --' She said, "Don't forget your hat."

That's your lot, have a good day!

Another of my heroes bites the dust

I must confess that even in my increasingly ripe old age, I still maintain that childish admiration for the men and women who fought in WWII, particularly the flyers.  Today, The Telegraph reports the death of yet another, Wing Commander Arthur Gill at the good old age of 100.

He spent most of the war in the Far East flying Vengeance fighter/bombers commanding 84 Squadron.  His operations were mainly dive-bombing attacks in support of ground troops and such was the high level of skill and accuracy that he and his comrades achieved that they frequently received the thanks of units on the ground.  I must confess that I have never heard of the Vengeance fighter/bomber, one of the lesser known American aircraft.  However, in Gill's hands it became a very potent weapon.

Apparently Gill was much admired and liked by subsequent members of 84 Squadron many of whom joined him to celebrate his 100th birthday.  Alas, he died just a few hours after the party - perhaps a suitable exit for an old WWII flyer.

The Sunday Rumble: 1.5.16

The 'Heffalump' is spot on:   Once again I am obliged to Simon Heffer in The Telegraph for explaining the apparent madness of 'Jezza' and his Labour party.  If you, like me, are bemused by what looks like its deliberate campaign to lose the local elections next week then the 'Heffalump' offers the obvious (when you think about it) reason - they don't care!  You see, the majority of the membership are revolutionaries, so mere elections are nothing to them, they simply dream on the Coming of the Great Day when, armed with the modern equivalent of pitchforks, the masses arise and burn down parliament hopefully with most of its members locked inside!  Well, what can one say except, perhaps, dream on!

 

Bill Cosby has Presidential competition:   No, no, not in the business of groping ladies, poor old Barack wouldn't dare with Michelle glaring at him, not least, because she has the advantage of height, weight and reach!  No, I mean in the business of telling jokes.  I only saw excerpts of his annual speech yesterday at the annual White House Correspondents' dinner but for a change he delivered the speech rather well and the jokes were witty.  Well done, Mr. President, but the exit's over there!

 

I couldn't have put it better myself:   "England in effect is insular, she is maritime, she is linked through her interactions, her markets and her supply lines to the most diverse and often the most distant countries; she pursues essentially industrial and commercial activities, and only slight agricultural ones. She has, in all her doings, very marked and very original habits and traditions."  Thus spake not Zarathustra but Charles de Gaulle in 1963 before he did us a favour by kicking our application to join the EU into the Channel. Merci, mon ami!  VOTE LEAVE!

 

Vive la difference!   I have just been sent some very profound thoughts on the differences between us and them, er, that's us chaps and you girlies.  It is too long to print in full either now or in tomorrow's Monday Funnies but here are some particularly keen insights:

MARRIAGE: A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn't.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won't change, but she does.

OFFSPRING:  Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about 
dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favourite foods, secret fears and hopes 
and dreams. 
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.

ARGUMENTS: A woman has the last word in any argument. 
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

MONEY: A man will pay $2 for a $1 item he needs.
A woman will pay $1 for a $2 item that she doesn't need but it's on sale.

Thanks, AussieD, you blokes 'down under there' are obviously natural born philosophers.


Sooner or later ya gotta start payin' the 'vig':   How did ya - I mean, how did you - like my de Niro 
accent?  Oh, as good as that!  Anyway, my American friends, that is one message you will not hear 
from any candidate in your current election process, as Mr. Robert Tracinski reminds you all, over at 
The Federalist.  The amount of money you are borrowing year after year is growing astronomically 
and, if the subject ever comes up, the politicians will shrug and say, in effect, we'll just borrow some 
more.  The main spender is your Social Security and Medicare which swallows humungous amounts 
of money, all of which is borrowed.  According to Mr. Tracinski, by the time your next president 
comes to the end of his/her second term, the 'vig', the interest on your borrowings, will be the third 
biggest item on your national budget.


I'll believe it when I see it #3,854:   According to reports, we in this 'septic Isle' are about to 
experience weather which will make it warmer here than Istanbul.  
HEALTH WARNING: These reports emanate from the Met Office - yeeeeeeees, quite!


      No more rumbles today