DUFF & NONSENSE!

"Don't mention the war!"

My title is a quote from a truly hilarious episode of "Fawlty Towers" starring John Cleese, in which the manic proprietor of a south coast Bed & Breakfast, Basil Fawlty, is totally thrown by the appearance of a German couple as guests in his establishment.  He then spends the rest of the time shouting "Don't mention the war!" at his staff but in his excitement he ends up performing goose steps in the dining room.  Difficult to describe but take my word, it was weepingly funny.

Yesterday, Herr Kommandant - ooops, sorry, I mean - Herr Ambassador Doktor Peter Ammon, the German Ambassador in London, more or less said the same thing.  Needless to say, in return he has received a chorus of raspberries and, were he to be recognised in the street, he would no doubt see a veritable forest of Churchillian V-signs!

According to the not-so-good 'Doktor', "

"How Britain stood alone in the war, how it stood against dominating Germany’, he told the Guardian newspaper yesterday that it might be ‘a nice story, but does not solve any problem of today’."

Well, thanks for that, Herr Doktor, if only because in a single phrase telling us to forget our history you remind us of just how crucial it is to remember it.  I understand your implied reluctance to say much about your own country's recent history because, apart from anything else, it would remind us all that for most of the last 150-odd years it has been despicable and therefor we should be exceedingly careful before allowing ourselves to be handcuffed to Germany with no means of escape - "For you, zee future iss over!"

Actually, hardly anyone in Britain spends much time remembering history because it is so badly taught in schools and anyway most people forget it as they concentrate on earning a living.  It is just the coincidence of the release of the film, Darkest Hour, that has reminded some people, and taught others, about one truly extraordinary event in our history which, for a change, actually reflects well on us. 

 

 

This might be as good as it gets, Donald

Or, to put it another way, it might be downhill from here on in - or perhaps that should be 'here on out'!  Don't blame me, I merely echo the thoughts of Mr. Dan McClaughlin writing at The National Review.  He simply paraphrases old Will's line to the effect that "when troubles come, they come not single spies but in battalions".  In fact, according to his analyse, there are likely to be ten battalions!  I will leave y'all to read them, depressing as they are. 

Obviously, the first cloud on the horizon is this year's mid-term elections.  Now, we have been here before when in 2016 the world and his Democrat uncle assured us all that 'HillBilly' was absolutely and definitely going to be a shoo-in for President! But, of course, that was before all those "deplorables" had a chance to see 'The Donald' in full Presidential mode and merely took him for the TV personality that he is and that they liked.  For the past year they have seen him up close and personal executing Presidential powers and whilst it is undoubtedly true that many of them are excellent, his demeanour in doing so has been abysmal.

Such is the inchoate rage of the Democrat party at losing what they believe was theirs by right that they are now galvanised.  They will stop at nothing, including criminality, to bring down Trump.  I get a flavour of this bile from Carpenter's site where the rage has reached Hitlerian, carpet-biting levels - and he fancies himself as a moderate man!  (Incidentally, I have been banned from that site which, frankly, is something of a relief!)  Mr. McClaughlin spells out some of the dangers arising from this enmity:

More broadly, in the swing from Obama to Trump, we’ve seen the continuing erosion on both sides of the aisle of any sense of the independent value of the American system of government’s federalism and checks and balances. Without those small-r republican values, our system will inevitably become hopelessly corrupted. But Trump keeps encouraging the worst instincts of the Right, while Trump Envy eggs on the Left to plot revenge; the progressive Internet is already awash in schemes to abolish the Senate and the Electoral College, overhaul how the House is elected, eliminate the filibuster, and pack the courts at the next available opportunity (if Trump gets to replace another of the five non-conservative Supreme Court justices, expect Democrats to revive FDR’s plan to expand the size of the Court).

I have said it before and I will say it again, I fear for America!

 

The movie critic of the year, nay, the decade!

I refer, of course, to Mr. Finlay Renwick who is, or so I gather, the Digital Editorial Assistant at Esquire.  Quite what a 'Digital Editorial Assistant' actually does for a living, apart perhaps from counting his fingers, I do not know but what I can say for Mr. Renwick is that with just one article he has shot to the top of my 'fav film critics' list!  Hitherto, my reliance on film critics has waned along with my interest in films so he doesn't face much in the way of competition.

Even so, with just one headline, he hit the spot - exactly:

"Tom Hanks Is The Most Boring Actor In Hollywood" 

In fact, now I think about it, perhaps it was the undoubted fact that Tom Hanks has appeared with monotonous regularity in just about every other Hollywood film produced in the last ten years that began my gradual loss of interest in movies.  Mr. Renwick puts it exactly:

If you have watched films with even a passing interest over the last 20+ years then the Hanks formula will no doubt be familiar to you: it's Hanks on an island, or a boat, or in the newsroom of the Washington Post or plummeting towards a watery death in a failing New York Airbus. He is a good man - nice even - but he finds himself in a bind. He furrows his brow and squints those gentle eyes, trying his best to find a solution.

Oh wait, there it is! Nice guy Tom Hanks saves the day... again.

He never dies. He never kills. He's hardly ever cruel. His integrity is absolute and unscathed. Always.

Oh my Gaaaaaaard, every time he furrows and squints with that oh so gentle half smile on his lips - I want to kill him!  Or to be exact, I want to kill him before I fall asleep which I just know will be the only outcome!

Thank you, Mr. Renwick, for daring to say what others only dare to think!

 

 

Is Insp. Clouseau running the Federal Bureau of Incompetence?

I pose the question after reading an odd story at Zero Hedge.  Apparently, in Nov 2015, the founder of the TV company Russia Today (RT), a certain Mr. Mikhail Lesin was found dead in his hotel room in Washington.  At the time the 'authorities' suggested it was a heart attack.  Some time later, following an autopsy, the Washington DC medical examiner and the local police announced that the actual cause of death was "blunt force injuries of the head”.  

Now the FBI have (sort of) released the results of their investigation which summarised thus:

"Mr. Lesin died as a result of blunt force injuries to his head, with contributing causes being blunt force injuries of the neck, torso, upper extremities, and lower extremities which were induced by falls, with acute ethanol intoxication” 

Aaaaaah, I see, you mean he was so drunk he just kept on and on and on and on falling over but getting up again until in the end he killed himself.

Yeeeeeeeees, quite! 

Or, as Insp. Clouseau might put it, "Ouiiiiiiiiiiii, tout à fait!"

 

Your Monday Funnies: 29.1.18

A particularly fine vintage, I believe!

As told by a lady:

I had lunch with 2 of my unmarried friends.
One is engaged, one is a mistress, and I have been married for 20+ years.
We were chatting about our relationships and decided to amaze our men by greeting them at the door wearing a black bra, stiletto heels and a mask over our eyes. We agreed to meet in a few days to exchange notes.

Here's how it all went.........

My engaged friend:
The other night when my boyfriend came over he found me with a black leather bodice, tall stilettos and a mask. He saw me and said, 'You are the woman of my dreams...I love you.' Then we made passionate love all night long.

The mistress:
Me too! The other night I met my lover at his office wearing a raincoat. Under it only the black bra, heels and mask over my eyes. When I opened the raincoat he didn't say a word. He started to tremble and we had wild sex all night.

Then I had to share my story:
When my husband came home I was wearing the black bra, black stockings, stilettos and a mask over my eyes. When he came in the door and saw me he said...........

(you’re going to love this..)

"What's for dinner, Zorro?"

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

 

My wife found out that our dog (a Schnauzer) could hardly hear, so she took it to the veterinarian.

The vet found that the problem was ear wax and hair clogging the dog's ears.  He cleaned both ears and the dog could then hear fine.  
The vet then proceeded to tell Andrea that, if she wanted to keep this from recurring, she should go to the store and get some "Nair" hair remover and rub it in the dog's ears once a month.

Andrea went to the store and bought some "Nair" hair remover. At the register, the pharmacist told her, "If you're going to use this under our arms, don't use deodorant for a few days." 

Andrea said, "I'm not using it under my arms." 

The pharmacist said, "If you're using it on your legs, don't use body lotion for a couple of days." 

Andrea replied, "I'm not using it on my legs either.  If you must know, I'm using it on my Schnauzer." 

The pharmacist says, "Well then, stay off your bicycle for about a week."

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

 

Four men, all fathers, go to the country club for a round of golf.
Three make their way to the first tee, while the fourth is detained for a minute in the clubhouse.

The three men start to talk about their sons. "I am so proud of my son," says one. "He started out as a carpenter and now owns his own real-estate development firm. In fact, he's so successful, he just gave one of his friends a brand new house as a gift."

"I am proud of my son, too," says another father. "He began by selling
cars and now owns a dealership. In fact, he just gave two brand new cars to a friend as a present."

"Well, that's nothing," pipes up the third Dad. "My son started as a
broker and now is so successful, he just gave a friend a whole portfolio of stocks."

At this point the fourth father rejoins the group. The other three tell
him what they have been talking about.

"I dunno," begins the fourth Dad. "I'm not really very proud of my son, I guess. He's a hairdresser and I just found out he's homosexual."

The other three fathers looked down and away, uncomfortable.

"But then again," says the fourth, "he must still be something special.
His last three boy-friends gave him a new home, two new cars, and a stock portfolio.

 

That's your lot, it's Monday morning and time you wage slaves started work! Remember, you can never do enough for a good boss!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 28.1.18

My bad!   Sorry about the late start but I was up very late last night - hit the pillow at about 1015pm! - because I was engaged in a ruthless, high stakes, high tension game of, er, well, Canasta, actually!  Well, it was me and my pal versus our respective wives, so no holds barred, so to speak!

 

Arty-farty #1:   Sorry, sorry but it's not my fault.  Somewhere, and I forget where, I came across an article on Edward Hopper who is, according to some people, the most boring-snoring artist ever, with the exception of that nitwit who paints square canvases all one colour.  Here is an example of his work:

See what I mean?!  And yet ... and yet ... I can't help staring at it, and wondering.  Who lives there and how do they manage to have a door over the sea?  The repeat of the angled sunlight, the little splash of red in the back room to off-set the blue of the sea.  Dammit, it intrigues!

 

How long, oh Lord, how long?   I am tempted to say that Mrs. May is leading her party to disaster but, of course, it is blindingly obvious that she couldn't lead a parade of invalids!  I had hoped that she would, by the skin of her teeth, hang in there long enough to achieve a reasonable Brexit and then call it a day but, alas and alack, the Tory party are descending into a rabble.  Her only strength is the fact that the rabble are hopelessly divided over who they would want as a new leader.  With the exception of 'The Moggman', who doesn't have chance anyway, none of the alternatives send a thrill up my trouser leg!  In the meantime, the Marxist grunts gather at the gates!

 

Plucky little Czechia did it:   They voted in, but only just, an anti-Brussels President who is pro-Russian and pro-China.  So tell me, Mr. Juncker, when you put that bottle down, how much of the responsibility is yours for ramming home your ideas of a European super state?

 

Arty-farty #2:

  

Who are they?  What are they thinking? Why are they not looking at each other?  What is the back-story?  And what is she reading?

 

Trump gets my vote - no, no, not him - her!   There is no doubt in my mind, or what passes for it - that Melania Trump is drop-dead gorgeous and is the most attractive First Lady ever:

 It is unfortunate that her English is not yet of a sufficient standard to understand and reply to the many letters I send her but it can only be a matter of time.  Mind you, 'Melly', my darling, given my age, time is of the essence!  I also suspect, judging from her public persona, that she is quietly a very intelligent woman.

 

Where is PeterG when you need him?   We all remember the affable-not, intelligent-not, educated-not, Canadian plonker who used to, er, grace these columns.  How I wish he was here to read this suggestion from the curmudgeonly old geezer who runs IHTM.  Apparently, the former Mrs. Trudeau, that is, the present PM's mother, was 'a very naughty girl' which is the reason why in the end Trudeau Snr. divorced her.  She made several visits to Cuba and she and her husband made no secret of their admiration for the hairy monster.  However, a study of the photos suggest that Trudeau Jnr., the current Prime Minister of Canada, bears a quite remarkable resemblance to his mother's, er, hero.  Also, Trudeau Jnr. was especially effusive in his funereal tributes to dear old Dad, ooops, sorry, I mean, the Dear Leader.  Jes' sayin'!

 

Arty-farty #3:   Sorry, more bleak loneliness, even in a city!  Why do I look at this stuff, it just depresses the hell out of me?  You might retitle it: 'The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Office worker'!

 

Arty-farty #4:   Well, at least there are three people in this one, practically a crowd scene in Hopper's work!  Again, it's the dramatic contrast of light and shade and the warring angles.

 

Raffles was a rat!   But William Farquhar was a true-blue, British gent of the first order.   Well, that is according to the review of a book in this week's 'Speccie' called "William Farquhar and Singapore: Stepping out from Raffles’ Shadow" written by Ms. Nadia H. Wright.  According to the lady:

Into this dusty tale Nadia Wright throws a much-needed stick of revisionist dynamite. Raffles is here portrayed as a reckless, inept opportunist, a bully and a hypocrite, who stole the crown from the man actually responsible for building the entrepot. Spare a thought for Raffles’s second-in-command, a tall, gentle Scotsman named William Farquhar.

Speaking, of course, as an old Singapore hand, don'cha know, I can testify to the fact that the name of Raffles dominates all and I have never heard of poor old Farquhar!  Mind you, if you read his Wiki entry you will note that he was the 5th great-grandfather of Justin Trudeau (see above) via the rather naughty Margaret Trudeau.  See, if you look hard enough everything and everyone is linked.

 

The final arty-farty for today:

Reminiscent of "Nighthawks" although this is from the inside looking out.  Who is she?  What is she thinking? Is she happy, sad or just thoughtful?

 

No more rumbles today

 

 

We should talk about 'Thomas Atkins'

But first of all let us remind ourselves of Rudyard Kipling's earlier and more jaundiced words:

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o'beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, ``We serve no red-coats here.''

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, go away'';

But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music 'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, wait outside'';

But it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide,

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,

O it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;

An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy how's yer soul?''

But it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll,

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an ``Tommy, fall be'ind,''

But it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind,

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an'schools, an' fires an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Chuck him out, the brute!''

But it's ``Saviour of 'is country,'' when the guns begin to shoot;

Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!

Following my earlier post on the subject of the non-existent British Defence Policy, I was taken severely to task by my good friend Richard who appears here regularly and asked for my thoughts on what, precisely and exactly, I would like to see implemented.

Nothing much, is my reply!

Well, except for using a scythe to slash down the number of senior officers which, as at Oct 15 stood at 7 Vice Admirals, 14 Lieutenant Generals (includes 3 from the Marines) and 10 Air Marshalls.  I suspect that they could be halved without much discernible difference being felt!

In so far as any of them actually think, I suspect that most of them are still thinking of war as fought in the 20th century with tanks and planes and aircraft carriers.  In this technological and nuclear 21st century I doubt that many of those 'platforms' would last five minutes!  It's boffins and swots and techies who will 'fight' the next major war so they might as well close down Sandhurst and turn it into a military technical institute!  In the meantime we should avoid like the plague any foreign ventures of the sort which have plagued our latter-day Tommy Atkins.  

However, there is one specific military potential we should absolutely and definitely expand by spending time and money on and that is our nuclear capability.  That is the one and only system which will give pause to any approaching enemy.

Right, carry on!

 

It's Friday so start the day with a chuckle

As usual on most mornings, I sit slump here in my dressing gown and 'jim-jams' in front of my 'computer-thingie' glumly trawling through the 'noos' of the day to see if there is something with which I can depress you lot!  I am usually spoilt for choice!  But today - hoorah! - I can start you all off with a laugh - oh alright, perhaps a chuckle - or maybe only a snigger - whatever!  It comes from the daily 'cartoon' at the top of one of my favourite sites, The American Thinker.  No doubt, you like me have been either amused or bemused by the ability of the FBI/DoJ/IRS/Hillary Clinton to keep losing not one, not two but 'gazillions' of texts and e-mails.  It makes you wonder if anyone knows where the President's nuclear codes are?!  At the moment it is the FBI who are leading the race to lose the greatest number of texts and The American Thinker, or to be precise, Mr. Richard Terrell of AfterMath, provides this excuse for them:

 

 

"Darkest Hour": Good drama, not so sure about the history!

I am writing this too early because I only returned home half an hour ago and I really should sleep on it before offering an opinion but, hell, you know me, ever eager to sound off with an opinion!  

This film is a very good example of historical drama even if the history is exceedingly condensed.  How could it be otherwise given the truly momentous and multi-faceted events that were hitting the British ruling classes almost on an hourly basis in 1940.  Sensibly, the film concentrates on Churchill's fight, not with Hitler but with Neville Chamberlain, the previous prime minister, and Lord Halifax. the Foreign Secretary. This 'fight' centred on Churchill's determination, as he later put it, "To fight them on the beaches", whilst the other two favoured some sort - any sort? - of peace deal with Hitler via Mussolini.

The portrayal of Churchill by Gary Oldman is simply superb and so to is that of his wife, 'Clemmie'.  Ronald Pickup, with his gaunt, ravaged features was exactly right as Neville Chamberlain.  Stephen Dillane as the smooth but defeatist Viscount Halifax was also exactly right.  Alas, I could go on through the entire cast in the same way but that would be very boring.  Suffice to say that the acting was absolutely top quality.

But what about the history?  Well, like all historical dramas it is impossible to pack everything in.  All those "events, dear boy, events" have to be trimmed and choices have to be made as to what stays in and what is removed.  In this, quite rightly in my opinion, the whole drama concentrated on the biggest decision in WWII - to keep fighting in the face of what seemed like certain defeat, or to accept the shame of seeking peace.

I was glad to see that the film-makers made clear that Churchill found himself as a wartime leader despite an entire lifetime of fairly catastrophic military misjudgements; they even mention the one that had only just ended in Norway where Churchill had mounted a ludicrous 'invasion' only to see the British army and navy beaten off with bloody noses.  Thus, before we heap abuse on Chamberlain and Halifax we should ask ourselves how much confidence we would have placed in this maverick warrior?  Again, it is to the credit of the film-makers that in the notes they screen at the end of the film they remind us that in the general election of 1945, the British people had the guts and the independence of mind to vote Churchill and his Tories out of office.  Having pointed that out, I would criticise the film-makers for introducing the ludicrous - and totally fictional - scene in which Churchill takes an underground train and the passengers gather round to give him support.

I urge you all to see this film even if it is of a sort that defies classification.  What it does show us are the almost unbearable pressures that press down on the shoulders of statesmen and which are then quadrupled in times of war.

 

My cigar, my glass of whiskey and my Homburg are at the ready!

I do realise how irritating it is to click on to this site expecting to read something new and then gradually realise as the day progresses that the old fool is either asleep or drunk or both!  So this is to warn you that I am going to be otherwise occupied until the early evening because, amongst other things, I am going to see the Churchill film, Darkest Hour.  You can expect a despatch from the front this evening!

In the meantime, I have been shocked, I tell you, shocked by the news that there was a frightfully posh, men only dinner at The Dorchester last night during which some hand-picked, lovely ladies were employed as waitresses and they were subjected to groping and fondling by the mega-rich city slickers who attended.  My question is this: where the bloody hell was my invitation?!

I know we can rely on plucky little Czechland!

Er, we can, can't we - oh no, say it ain't so!  Well, yes, of course we can, I have every confidence - despite SoD's frequent and subversive visits 'just over there' in which he spreads his pro-EU agitprop!  You see, this week end, Czechia - to give it its proper title - is holding a run-off election between the good guy in the white shorts, Mr. Milos Zeman, and the bad guy in the black shorts, Mr. Jiri Drahos.  You will have guessed that the former is decidedly cool, if not downright indifferent, to the EU, whilst the latter would kiss Juncker's arse at the drop of his trousers!

The Brussels gang are already facing mutinous opposition from two other east European nations, Poland and Hungary, so the addition of Czechia is right, fitting and proper.  Anything that keeps Brussels nervous is "A Good Thing"!  All I can do is paraphrase Claudius's injunction as he despatched Hamlet to England trusting to his execution, "Do it England Czechia"!

Hat tip to Zero Hedge

 

Wee 'Mrs. McWhinge' has a wee mind to match!

In the great pantheon of utterly useless and stupid political gestures requiring no courage and even less thought, is there anything to match that of 'Mrs. McWhinge' and her infantile decision to restrict the flying of the Union flag from government buildings in Scotland except on Remembrance Day?

Nah, thought not!

I really must try and think harder!

I have always thought of blogging as the equivalent of sundry 'gasbags' gathered in the saloon bar of the local pub.  The ratio of thinking to 'gasbagging' is embarrassingly large - and in the wrong direction!  Needless to say, I include myself among the 'honkers 'n' hooters' because, let's be honest, hard thinking is, er, well, hard!  All of that, of course, leads me to the Supreme Court of the USA - waddya mean, you'd never have guessed?

I blame that Michael Brendan Dougherty of The National Review - and yes, you're right, his name does suggest another of those bloody troublesome 'Paddies'! - who has forced open a chink in my mind, this time, concerning Justice Kennedy in particular and the Supreme Court in general.  Kennedy, of course, is famous for refusing - I almost wrote "willfully refusing" - to allow himself to be categorised as being Left, Right or Centre.  In Supreme Court terms the divide is between what might be called 'constitutionalists' and 'social activists'.  The former cleave to the constitution of the United States as a sort of Holy Grail from which no deviation must be permitted.  The latter place what they call 'social justice', which they rarely define, as being far above the requirements of some scratchy old document first written - hand written! - with a pen and ink! - my Gaaaard! - some 230-odd years ago.  Justice Kennedy delights in dancing between the two schools of thought but in a way that some people, Mr. Dougherty, for example, find puzzling because they have the suspicion that it might be vanity rather than principle providing his choreography.

Who cares, you might ask?  Well I do because (with certain reservations!) I like and admire the USA and it seems to me from 'over here' that there are great sea and tidal changes building up with - dare I say? - 'yuuuuuge' and possibly dangerous implications for the future.  Hitherto, as regular readers will know, I have cheered the fact that with a Republican Congress and President, the Supreme Court will shift perceptibly to the Right - although they need to get on with it because after the November elections that situation might not last!  I really do not wish the lady harm but at 84 years of age and with poor health, perhaps Justice Ginsburg could do one more great service to her country - and just die!

That, of course, would clinch the deal for the GOP for the next few years and it would reduce the effect of Justice Kennedy's soft-shoe shuffle from Right to Left and back again.  However, it will not calm the underlying tensions in the nation which seem to me, from the depths of deepest, darkest 'Zummerzet', to be driving America into two exceedingly hostile camps.  The corruption which is slowly but inexorably oozing into the daylight from the previous administration and their lackeys in the FBI, the Justice Department and the Inland Revenue Service will not help, anymore than the rampant fanaticism of the Left.

What must be done?  We must all think!  Yeeeeeeeeeeeees, quite!

 

Right, pay attention, this is your Corporal speaking!

So, General Carter, the Chief of the General Staff, no less, tells us that Russian military might is, to quote a word, 'yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge'!  To which this ex-corporal can only respond with 'hoonoo'?  Or to be more precise, who didn't or doesn't know because that pronouncement comes under the heading of 'stating the bleedin' obvious'?  As the Daily Mail explains and illustrates:

And Gen. Carter is ably supported by Max Hastings in an accompanying article which details the dangerous swaggering of Putin and his gangster regime and the potential threat they pose to western Europe.  All very true but the question remains, what should we do about it?  The 'Hawks', if I may call them that, would have us spend 'gazillions' of quid in a futile effort to match the Russians and protect Europe but, I would like to know before we start building even more utterly useless aircraft carriers, what, exactly and precisely, are our European so-called allies spending on what is, after all, their defence?  For decades since the end of WWII, the Germans have deliberately under-spent on defence whilst we, up until recently, have over-spent.  The result is that their economy has grown and grown and ours has struggled to keep up.  

Of course, Gen. Carter did not suddenly start blowing his bugle now for no reason.  A new, young whipper-snapper of a Minister of Defence has just been appointed.  This boy, Gavin Williamson MP, sent to do a man's job, is eager to make his mark but, alas, his background is hardly inspiring.  He studied 'Government and Politics' and 'Economics' as A-levels. He obtained a BSc in Social Sciences from the University of Bradford, and his only day job was working in a pottery factory - yeeeeeeeeeees, quite!  However, he has a weak Prime Minister and no doubt he thinks he will win some kudos from the Tory party by trying to muscle her into spending more on defence.  The utterly useless military 'brass' will urge him on.  They don't really know why because, as usual with them, their motto is "Crack on!" irrespective of direction or aim!

The hard, brutal truth is that this country is no longer a major military power with global reach and the quicker we accept that the better.

 

"Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri"

The long, self-inflicted drought is over!  After several years, well, two or three, at least, today I went to the pictures!  Gosh, that phrase "I went to the pictures" instantly dates me for the old codger that I am, I suppose I should have said that I went to the movies.  Anyway, that is what I did and, forced to sit through endless trailers for forthcoming films all of which looked ghastly, I was congratulating myself on my good taste in staying away and rather dreading the film I had come to watch, "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri".

It was terrific!

The film took us (almost kicking and struggling!) into 'small town America' in which, 'as any fule do no', all sorts of horrors can, and will, occur.  All quite ridiculous, of course, but then again, I couldn't help thinking of that house in 'Suburbsville, USA' in which an apparently sane couple held their 13 children in squalid captivity for years!  "Only in America", one is tempted to mutter but then a moment's thought reminds us that the dreaded 'Peeps', being 'Peeps', that sort of thing happens everywhere!

Anyway, I digress and for very good reason because I am still trying to get my mind round this superb film and compose a sensible review of it.  OK, the storyline is simple.  The daughter of a middle-aged woman has been raped and murdered.  After nine months the local cops have failed to make any progress.  The mother (Frances McDormand) has the cold, hard, unstoppable determination of a King Tiger tank running on automatic and she is determined to drive the police to do their duty and find the killer.  Her campaign starts when she hires three huge billboards on the outskirts of town and, in effect, uses them to accuse the local police commander of failing in his duty.  Everything flows from that!

I have always remembered Frances McDormand for her superb performance in an early film by the Coen brothers (than which, etc, etc.)  In this performance she is unforgettable.  I can't describe it, just see it and you, too, will never forget it.  Woody Harrelson plays the Police Chief and he has his own tragic back-story to deal with and, as usual, he is first-rate.  However, the 'new boy' to me was Sam Rockwell - how have I missed this truly excellent actor for all these years?  (Because I don't go to the pictures often enough, that's why!)  All these top-rate actors are supported by a cast, including a dwarf, Peter Dinklage, of truly excellent actors and I am delighted to say that they won an award for "Outstanding Performance by a Cast in a Motion Picture".  They deserved it because it was the professional excellence of this company that provided the warp and woof of this film.

As a former (and very amateur!) director of plays, I cannot finish without pouring my abundant praise over the head of this particular director, Martin McDonagh.  His story, his direction, his genius!  

Do not miss this film - and that's an order!

 

 

Your Monday Funnies: 22.1.18

Some side-splitters - no, really! - to start your week.

7 wheelchair athletes have been banned from the Paralympics after they tested positive for WD40

A mummy covered in chocolate and nuts has been discovered in Egypt  .... Archaeologists believe it may be Pharaoh Roche...

Just A Reminder to those who stole Electrical Goods in Last Years Riots.... Your One Year Manufacturers Warranty Runs Out Soon.

I nearly applied for a position in a mirror manufacturers. I could see myself doing that job.

I bought my wife a wooden leg for Christmas. It wasn't her main present, just a stocking filler..... !! 

Really quite angry at the moment. I went to the bank and asked the cashier to check my balance. She pushed me over!!!!

I went to London Zoo yesterday and I saw a piece of toast in one of the cages. I think it was bread in captivity.

Would you please put me back on hold I have so enjoyed listening to the music for the last 35 minutes.”

“What a relief to receive your call I have been sitting here all evening thinking about getting new double glazing.”

"Thank you for calling. I was indeed mis-sold PPI just before my accident which alerted me to the need to plan my funeral."

My hamster died today. He fell asleep at the wheel.

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VIVE LA DIFFERENCE!

NICKNAMES
If Laura, Kate, and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Kate and Sarah.
If Mike, Dave, and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Bubba, and Wildman.
 
 
EATING OUT
 When the bill arrives, Mike, Dave, and John will each throw in $20, even though it's only for $32.50.  None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back.
 
When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators.

 
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.
 
BATHROOMS
A man has six items in his bathroom: toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap, and a towel.
The average number of items in the typical woman's bathroom is 337. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.
 
ARGUMENTS
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
 
 FUTURE
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
 
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.
 
DRESSING UP
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the trash, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail.
A man will dress up for weddings and funerals.
 
NATURAL
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
Women somehow deteriorate during the night.
 
OFFSPRING
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favorite foods, secret fears, and hopes and dreams.
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.
 
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
A married man should forget his mistakes.  There's no use in two people remembering the same thing!

The Sunday Rumble: 21.1.18

Having relieved myself, so to speak, of my fear and loathing of 'Jezza' and his mob in the post below, I will now revert to my usual boring-snoring Sunday rumble.

Put this lad in charge of GCHQ:  Yes, yes, I know he has been a very naughty boy and all that but, according to The Telegraph, young Kane Gamble (15) who lives at home with his Mum managed to fool the top honchoes in the American intelligence community that he was actually John Brennan, then the head of the CIA, and thus entered into some fascinating e-mail exchanges.

He's due for sentencing in the next few days but actually they should give him a medal for showing up the security weaknesses 'over there'!

 

Welby is a wanker!   Sorry for my crudity but sometimes the so-called 'Great and the Good' are so insufferable that even my easy going, good natured patience (and I heard that!) is tested to destruction.  I refer, of course, to the utterly weasel words of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, who faced with a report that more or less completely cleared the late Bishop Bell of Chichester from the absurd accusation, made 37 years after his death, of child molestation, insisted that "a cloud still hung over his head".  Should Welby appear in public he should be pelted with rotten veg until he withdraws and apologises for his stupid, un-Christian behaviour.  My fury is stoked by the historical fact that during the war Bishop Bell was the only man with the moral courage to criticise the allied bombing campaign against Germany.   Peter Hitchens provides greater detail.

 

I would have paid money to be there!   Courtesy of the ever-excellent National Review I have just learned of the most cringingly, toe-curlingly, sweat-trickling-down-your-back, embarrassing social gathering in living memory.  For this simply too, too delicious social disaster we must thank Ms. Samantha Power, the former US ambassador at the UN courtesy of the inept 'Obamarama'.  Apparently, on election night in 2016 she organised a celebration party with a feminist touch by inviting every other female UN ambassador, all 37 of them, to hail the new age of, er, well, 'Hillaryism', I suppose.  Not satisfied with that she compounded her hideous social disaster by inviting HBO to film the whole thing!  OK, obviously I can't be there but, dammit, I would pay good money to see that film especially as news of the result trickled in like escaping sewage to all those refined noses!

 

The (really) good German:   As opposed to the fictional one featured in Joseph Kanon's book and subsequent film.  I refer to the late Friedrich Kellner, the very personification of 'an ordinary man' who had the bad luck to live through extraordinary times!

 He fought for Germany through WWI and was wounded for his troubles.  After that war he plodded his way through the minor bureaucracy of the German civil service up to and including the advent of Hitler and WWII.  He had the excellent good sense to see right through Hitler and his evil Nazi party but rather than indulging in useless gestures he confined his perceptive thoughts to a very private diary, which has now been published.  According to The Telegraph, he came close to disaster but just managed to avoid arrest.  Not a hero, not a statesman, not an intellectual, just an ordinary man who clung to greater truths and I salute him!

 

At last 'Mutti' can breathe again:   Just in time before 'Mutti' Merkel burst her corset as she held her breath, the German socialists have instructed their leaders to continue negotiating a government-sharing coalition.  Mind you, it was hardly overwhelming, the vote was 362 for and 279 against, and if and when a deal is announced it has to go back for another vote.

 

Who is Jordan Peterson and why is he following me?   In the last few days I have been repeatedly hit with articles concerned with some obscure Canadian 'psycho-babbler' called Jordan Peterson.  It was at The Coffee House that via two articles by Douglas Murray I first heard of this 'new guru on the block', so to speak.  In the first, Mr. Murray trashes Cathy Newman of Channel4 News for an apparently disastrous interview with the man.  In the second, following sundry criticism all round, he describes the follow-up in which, in typical Left-wing style, Ms. Newman's blinkered stupidity is turned on its head by Channel4 News in order to make her the victim.  Then, lo and behold, up pops an exceedingly long-winded piece in the Chronicle for Higher Education attempting to explain Peterson's persona but which was so long I gave up halfway through.  Suffice to say that the one fact I did glean was that Mr. Peterson dismisses all the ridiculous contortions of sundry idiots who insist on new rules ordering the 'correct' way to address people who claim to be trans-gender.  So, he can't be all bad in my book!

 

 

No more rumbles today

 

The Tories best hope - 'Jezza'!

The problem with the Tories is that they simply cannot govern!  Virtually all the Ministers from the top rank down to the bottom are mostly utterly useless.  You might say that it was ever thus but in 'the good old days'(!) they were supported by some superb civil servants who were capable of grappling with intricate problems and, more importantly, could see some of those problems coming over the horizon.  Today, given the pathetic nature of our 'edukashun' system they are more or less as thick and useless as their masters.  Of course, and as per usual, the 'body-politic' rots from the head down!  It is now obvious beyond contradiction that Mrs. May might wear her very highest high heels but she will remain forever under water!  I suspect that she is a very nice lady who might, at a push, run her local Women's Institute moderately well but that is no qualification for running a nation that is heading for the rocks.  The usual solution in such a dire case is to despatch the (non)leader with a metaphorical bullet to the head but given the calibre of our Ministers, they are more likely to shoot themselves in the foot!

At this point, enter stage Left, 'Jezza' Corbyn and his insane collection of commissars!  Whilst our dimwit Tory government stumblebums the country towards decline and fall, the mouth-dribbling Marxists will form us all into three ranks and march us to the gulags with red flags flying and bands playing!  It appears that most of the country has not yet appreciated that the good, old Labour party of yore is no more.  It has now been captured by one-eyed fanatics and, what is worse, they are stupid fanatics with absolutely zero common-sense.  That their so-called 'policies' can actually be written in full on a hand-held placard tells you all you need to know about their non-thought processes.  However, and even more depressing, I do not think that the dreaded 'Peeps' are yet aware that this 'collective' of stupendously stupid fanatics will, without hesitation, stoop to such measures of cruelty and injustice that have not been seen in the country for centuries.

As Dan Hodges, in effect, points out in The Mail, 'First they came for the Labour moderates'!  Every single Labour MP is now under threat of deselection and merely keeping quiet, which every single one of them has so far done, will not save them.  Cravenness is no defence!  One by one they will be eliminated and replaced with mouth-dribbling, eye-ball swivelling 'apparatchiks' who can be relied upon to endlessly screech out the simpleton's message on their placards - and put the boot into anyone who disagrees!  According to Hodges, there is now nothing the Labour moderates can do.  They played 'nicely-nicely' for too long and now 'for them the war is over'!  I beg to differ because it is never too late for a splendid if useless gesture (the sort of thing we British do so awfully well!) which, even as they lose and are destroyed, will at least alert the rest of the  country to the menace that now threatens all of us!

 

Six Democrats who deserve a medal

The Democratic Party of the USA is, by and large, an 'anus horribilus' - and, no, I did not make a spelling error!  I sort of forgive them for putting up 'Obamarama' as President because, at face level, or perhaps that should be at 'two-face level', he appeared moderate and moderately intelligent.  Mind you, that should not have allowed them to keep the walking, talking, boring, snoring dummy in office for two terms!  However, there is a God (of sorts) and He well and truly smote them when, in a mixture of conceit and stupidity they put up the ghastly 'HillBilly' to run and, lo, the wildly eccentric 'Trumpeter' won.  Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of boys 'n' gals!

Even so, there are exceptions to every rule and today, from the Democrat ranks of the House of Representatives I give you six exceedingly honourable  and politically courageous men: Matt Cartwright of Pennsylvania, Henry Cuellar of Texas, Jim Langevin of Rhode Island, Dan Lipinski of Illinois, and Collin Peterson and Tim Walz, both of Minnesota.  These six were the only Representatives of the Democrat party with the courage to vote in support of the Born-Alive Abortion Survivors Protection Act.  This humane Act makes clear that personnel in abortion centres (or 'Killing Klinics', as I prefer to think of them) who inadvertently allow a living baby to be produced must then make every effort to treat it as a human being and do everything possible to keep it alive - or face the consequences!

It beggars belief that such an Act is even required!

 

I woke up feeling cheerful - and then

Not that there was that much to be cheerful about because outside it remains perpetually grey and damp and cold and, yes, I do realise that I am sounding like a typical moanin', groanin' Brit.  Even so, after a day off from blogging I had a few topics  with which to 'bore for Britain' so my fingers were itching to go but then I made the mistake of first reading The Telegraph.  Of course, the general news was depressing, so no change there, then, but then I went a  step too far and took a quick look at their obit page.  

 

• 

   

   

Alas and alack, the first entry was an obit for John Barton, the man who, in partnership with Peter Hall, founded the Royal Shakespeare Company in 1960.  Not that I knew at the time, nor that I would have cared that much either because whilst I had, during my early '50s education, at least picked up enough to realise that that Shakespeare fella' really was as good as, if not better than, my Eng. Lit teacher said, by the 1960s I was a squaddie with more important things on my mind, beer and women being up at the top!

It was not until the early 1980s that John Barton changed my life!  He produced a TV series called "Playing Shakespeare" which transfixed me.  In it, with the help of some of the best actors of the time, he explained and demonstrated the intricacies of Shakespeare's texts.  The result, in my case, was that where there had been darkness and incomprehension, there was now light and understanding (of a sort), and also a determination on my part to do something about it.  Of course, I did not throw everything in the air and rush off to be an actor, I had responsibilities but it did send me off to the nearest amateur theatrical companies to try, but rarely to succeed, in applying some of Barton's intelligent expertise.  By sad coincidence, an amateur actor I knew at the Richmond Shakespeare Society, my favourite company, died last week and it provoked me into glancing through my file of theatrical memorabilia.  To be honest, I can barely remember any details of my productions but re-reading the notes I composed for the programmes I can detect the influence of John Barton - not that I ever reached anywhere near his level of excellence and scholarship - but, dammit, I tried, I really tried.

So farewell, then, John Barton, and thank you.

 

So it isn't just their arms they wave about!

In a post a few days ago I asked what those chaps in full evening dress were actually doing as they stood in front of an orchestra waving their arms about?  Answers came there none from you lot, at least, nothing sensible, but today I have it on very good authority - 'The Speccie', than which, etc., etc., - that quite a few of them are given to waving other bits of their anatomies around!  According to Mr. Norman Lebrecht, very many of them were, and probably still are, 'very naughty boys', or, to put it more accurately, they are disgusting, sexual ratbags!

Conduct unbecoming: clockwise from top left, Leonard Bernstein, Wilhelm Furtwängler, Charles Dutoit and James Levine

You will have to read Mr. Lebrecht's original article to appreciate the full acidity of his disclosures but they appear to be an extension of his original book The Maestro Myth: Great Conductors in Pursuit of Power.  In the meantime, just let me say that Mr. Harvey Weinstein was a mere apprentice compared to some of these guys!

 

 

Hillary Gillard and Julia Clinton!

I apologise to my various Australian e-pals for this ghastly 'blast from the past' but some things must be faced up to, so, have a gallon of Fosters nearby and brace yourselves:

Look don't blame me, it's all the fault of that rascal at Zero Hedge who picked up a story to the effect that 'zillions' of Aussie tax-payers' money was donated to the Clinton Foundation (aka: Bill 'n' Hill's Pension Fund).

The federal government confirmed to news.com.au it has not renewed any of its partnerships with the scandal-plagued Clinton Foundation, effectively ending 10 years of taxpayer-funded contributions worth more than $88 million.

The Clinton Foundation has a rocky past. It was described as “a slush fund”, is still at the centre of an FBI investigation and was revealed to have spent more than $50 million on travel.

Despite that, the official website for the charity shows contributions from both AUSAID and the Commonwealth of Australia, each worth between $10 million and $25 million.

What's the Aussie equivalent of the old American saying, "Heavens to Betsy"?  On second thoughts, better not ask! 

 

 

Come on, chaps, just get in touch with your feminine side!

Hitherto I have remained strictly neutral on the subject of the Catalonian desire to be independent of Spain.  However, the, er, creative efforts of Snr. Alejandro Gomez Palomo to liberate men from their tailors is, I feel, a mince step too far and Catalonia deserves our support!  Snr. Palomo is determined to free men from their strict conventions and therefor he encourages them to "show their legs, wear plunging necklines and silk suspenders and proudly sport transparent dresses embroidered with pearls and sequins".

Now then chaps (and ladies, of course), before you snort with derision just pause and ask yourselves how much you would pay to see some-one like, for example, 'JK' or 'AussieD' strutting their stuff in silk suspenders and transparent dresses.  I mention those two simply because they are former matelots and, well, you know what sailors are like - yeeeeees, quite, say no more!

As Snr. Palomo made clear via Yahoo News:

[H]is style is about personal "liberation", and rejects all comparison with a gay or transvestite aesthetic often attributed to him.

"It is just a way of giving guys who might want to, the possibility to wear really sophisticated materials, and certain shapes and silhouettes that used to be associated with women's wardrobes," he told AFP before making his Paris debut.

Of course, if our former irritating wasp, 'PeterG', was still buzzing around here he might have been able to provide some insight because - and don't ask me how I know - I just have a strong feeling that he is already a customer of Snr. Palomo!

 

 

Don't bother about what he says or tweets, just watch what he does!

My title to this post more or less sums up my approach to President Trump.  It is not an easy stance to maintain given that so much of what he says and tweets is incomprehensible or, if you like, tweets as twaddle!  Equally, as a Brit viewing the scene 'over there' from way 'over here' it is not easy to catch much of the detail.  Thus, once again, I am grateful to Victor Davis Hansen at The National Review for resetting my American view-finder.  

He reminds us that both the 'freaky-shrieky' Left and the grumpy 'Never Trump' Right are incapable of seeing through the miasma that arises from the unstoppable conflagration of Trumpian verbiage, either verbal or keyboard.  Thus, neither of them are quite grasping the revolutionary - I use the word deliberately! - results of what Trump is actually doing.  In the title to his essay, Prof. Hansen, renames him "President Nobama" and that is a deadly accurate summation.  He is indeed the personification of the 'anti-Obama'!

For a start, by luck or by judgment, Trump's eccentricities have blind-sided his critics by offering them so many inconsequential outrages that in their inchoate fury they are missing the realities of what he is doing, bit by bit, as he dismantles the tentacles of the Obama-socialist machine.  If you want a prize example, take a look at The Carpentariat, a blog-site I visit fairly frequently and from which the late and very unlamented 'PeterG' emerged - yeeeeees, quite!  This blog actually prides itself on being a middle of the road, non-extreme 'Democratic Socialist' site but when you read their non-stop ravings you would be excused for thinking you had entered a 19th century loony-bin!

Of course, as they busy themselves fulminating across their spittle-flecked keyboards, the Trump deconstruction machine trundles on, as Prof. Hansen points out:

Yet for the most part, since 1989, we’ve had lots of rhetoric but otherwise no serious effort to prune back the autonomous bureaucracy that grew ever larger. Few Republicans in the executive branch sought to reduce government employment, deregulate, sanction radical expansion of fossil-fuel production, question the economic effects of globalization on Americans between the coasts, address deindustrialization, recalibrate the tax code, rein in the EPA, secure the border, reduce illegal immigration, or question transnational organizations. To do all that would require a president to be largely hated by the Left, demonized by the media, and caricatured in popular culture — and few were willing to endure the commensurate ostracism.

Happily, President Trump's response appears to be, "Bring it on!"  Of course, he is helped enormously by a Republican-controlled Congress but whether that will last through the forthcoming midterm elections no-one can tell for a certainty.  We must all just cross our fingers and hope for the best.

 

Alas, 'The Onedin Line' sank without trace!

Last night, the 'Memsahib' and I took a cruise down memory lane (That's enough nautical allusions - Ed!) by watching a recording of 'The Onedin Line', a 1970s TV series on which we, indeed, everyone, were totally hooked back 'the good ol' days'.  The entire series is being repeated by one of the obscure TV stations and I am recording them all.  Last night, with the main channels filled with the usual 's.f.a.', we settled down to watch one of the episodes.  Oh dear, "what a falling off was there"!  

How can I put it?  Whilst all too aware of my own multitude of amateurish thespian efforts, the sad fact is that this production was as clunkily amateurish as anything I have ever done.  The actors did their best with what they had but what they had was truly second-rate.  Or to be more precise, judged by today's standards it was second-rate but, of course, now we take the mostly slick production standards of today for granted.

Mind you, this was an early episode set almost entirely in the coastal waters of Cornwall so those great seascapes and magnificent sailing ships of later episodes are yet to come.  And, of course, it featured that stroke of genius by some musical director who decided to use the magnificent music of Khachaturian's Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia as the theme for the entire series.

We shall watch some more episodes which I am sure will improve because we were truly captivated by it 'back in the day'.

 

Only 'E' for Effort, Mr. ex-President

I don't quite know why ex-Presidents of the United States insist of having grandiose buildings designed and built as monuments to their usually incompetent reigns.  They often call them 'Presidential Libraries' although I doubt that many of them ever read a book.  The latest effort in this peculiar habit comes from 'Obamarama' and it can only be described as both a 'hit' and a 'miss'.  First of all the 'hit' bit is spot on because it is so eye-stabbingly bland that it captures the very essence of the 'Man Who Bored for America'.  On the other hand, it is so pristinely, virginally white that it makes you wonder if secretly he himself wished he had been just a tad whiter?  Also, it has enormous hips!  Now, y'all know my aversion to 'psychobabble' so I will not pursue that line of thought.

It is, of course, a dribblingly delicious irony that this monument to a 'community advisor from Chicago' has been roundly condemned by, er, well, the community in Chicago!  In an open letter from various luminaries at the University of Chicago, they complain that the whole damned thing is too big, too expensive (the community will have to pay for, dare one say, 'yuuuuuuuge' changes to the local infrastructure and the entire project involves giving away public land to a private entity, that is, the Obama Foundation.  (Heh, that's socialism for ya!)

On top of all that, the whole damned thing is so ugly and such was the level of protest that the Foundation agreed to a redesign:

It now looks like one of those buildings in Damascus which has been raked with shrapnel!  'The One', himself, has let it be known that the museum building represents "ascension, hope and what ordinary people have the power to do together."  Or to put it another way, I know best what is best for you so just s.t.f.u.!  A very suitable monument, don'cha think?

Hat tip to Thomas Lifson at The American Thinker on 10th January and again on 15th January.

 

 

Farewell to a gallant Naval 'sawbones'

A quick dip in the obit columns of the Daily Telegraph today revealed the death of Surgeon Captain Rick Jolly RN who earned gallantry medals from both the British and the Argentinians for his service in the Falklands.

According to the DT, he was sent with the expedition forces to the South Atlantic in 1982.  During the course of the action he jumped into the freezing sea not once but twice to rescue injured sailors following an air raid. Later he was put ashore to set up a field hospital in what had been a meat freezing warehouse.  He and his team operated on about 650 casualties both British and Argentinian.

When invited to visit Argentina in 1998, Jolly had sent a list of Argentines he had treated, requesting information about their welfare. This was the first intimation in Buenos Aires of the extent to which the British medic had also treated Argentine wounded.

More than 50 survivors were invited to a ceremony in Buenos Aires, where they met Jolly and he was appointed to the Order of May, with Merit, an honour given to “foreigners who distinguish themselves by service or personal achievement, or who have gained the nation’s gratitude”, for his work in saving the lives of many wounded Argentine soldiers and airmen.

Much of his Falklands service was spent with Marine Commandos and Paras which was a pleasure for him having served with both in Northern Ireland some ten years earlier.  At a mere 71 years of age his death seems too early for such a gallant man.

 

Your Monday Funnies: 15.1.18

Another Monday and another week at the coal face for all you wage slaves but these should cheer you up - no, really!  Frankly I don't understand the first one.

I just got off the phone with a friend living in northern North Dakota near the Canadian border.  She said that this morning, the snow is nearly waist high and the temperature is 30 below zero, with the north wind blowing near gale force. Her husband has done nothing but look through the kitchen window for the last ten minutes and just stare.
 
She says that if it gets much worse, she may have to let him in.

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A woman was having a daytime affair while her husband was at work. One rainy day she was in bed with her boyfriend when, to her horror, she heard her husband's car pull into the driveway.

'Oh my God – Hurry! Grab your clothes and jump out the window, my
husband's home early!'

‘I can't jump out the window, it's raining out there!'

'If my husband catches us in here, he'll kill us both!' she replied,
'he's got a hot temper and a gun, so the rain is the least of your
problems!'

So the boyfriend scoots out of bed, grabs his clothes and jumps out the
window.  As he ran down the street in the pouring rain,he quickly discovered he had run right into the middle of the town's annual marathon, so he started running along beside the others; about 300 of them.

Being naked, with his clothes tucked under his arm, he tried to blend in
as best he could.  After a little while a small group of runners who had been watching him with some curiosity, jogged closer.

'Do you always run in the nude?' one asked.

'Oh yes!' he replied, gasping in air, ' it feels so wonderfully free!'

Another runner moved a long side, ' Do you always run carrying your
clothes with you under your arm?'

'Oh, yes' our friend answered breathlessly, 'that way I can get dressed
right at the end of the run and get in my car to go home!’

Then a third runner cast his eyes a little lower and asked, ‘Do you
always wear a condom when you run?'

'Nope, just when it's raining.'

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Six retired Italian Floridian fellows were playing poker in the condo clubhouse when Guido loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest, and drops dead at the table.

Showing respect for their fallen comrade, the other five continue playing, but while standing up.  At the end of the game, Giovanni looks around and asks, "So, who's gonna' tell his wife?" 

They cut the cards. Pasquale picks the low card and has to carry the news. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don't make a bad situation any worse. 
 
"Discreet?  I'm the most discreet person you'll ever meet.  Discretion is my middle name.  Leave it to me!"

So, Pasquale goes over to the Guido's condo and knocks on the door.

The wife answers through the door and asks what he wants?  Pasquale declares:  "Your husband just lost $500 in a poker game and is afraid to come home."

"Tell him to drop dead!" yells the wife.

"I'll go tell him." says Pasquale.

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 An old country preacher had a teenage son, and it was getting time the boy should give some thought to choosing a profession. Like many young men his age, the boy didn't really know what he wanted to do, and he didn't seem too concerned about it. One day, while the boy was away at school, his father decided to try an experiment. He went into the boy's room and placed on his study table four objects:
 
1. A Bible.
 
2. A silver dollar.
 
3. A bottle of whiskey.
 
4. A Playboy magazine.
 
'I'll just hide behind the door," the old preacher said to himself. "When he comes home from school today, I'll see which object he picks up.
 
"If it's the Bible, he's going to be a preacher like me, and what a blessing that would be.
 
"If he picks up the dollar, he's going to be a business man, and that would be okay, too.
 
"But if he picks up the bottle, he's going to be a no-good drunken bum, and Lord, what a shame that would be.
 
"And worst of all, if he picks up the magazine, he'll be a womanizer all his life!"
 
The old man waited anxiously, and soon heard his son's foot-steps as he entered the house whistling and heading for his room. The boy tossed his books on the bed, and as he turned to leave the room he spotted the objects on the table. With curiosity in his eye, he walked over to inspect them.
 
Finally, he picked up the Bible and placed it under his arm. He picked up the silver dollar and dropped into his pocket. He uncorked the bottle and took a big drink, while he admired the magazine's centerfold.
 
"Lord have mercy," the old preacher disgustedly whispered. "He's gonna run for Congress."

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

 

This will no doubt have AussieD and Andra in fits of laughter but personally I don't get it!!

 

A lady walked into a Police Station and the desk Sergeant said, "Can I help you?” 

"Yes," she said, "I'd like to report a case of sexual assault." 

"Where did it happen?” the Sergeant asked. 

"In the park just down the road," she replied.  

"Can you describe what happened?"

"Yes, I was walking along the footpath in the park near the trees when a man jumped out of the bushes and dragged me in there, removed my knickers, then he dropped his pants and had his way with me."

"Could you give me a description of him?"

"Yes, he was wearing white shoes, long white trousers, a white shirt and he had these two big long pads from his feet up to and over his knees, one on each leg."

"Sounds to me like he was a cricketer, most probably a batsman," said the Sergeant.

"Yes," said the lady, "He was an English cricketer."

"That's very observant" said the Sergeant. "You worked that out from his accent?"

"No," she replied. "I worked it out because he wasn't in for very long."

That's your lot!

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 14.1.18

I have this deal, you see:   With a friend and neighbour.  I give him my copy of 'The Speccie' after I have read it and he gives me the Saturday Review section of The Times.  The fact that no money passes between me and my ex-best friend, 'Rupe', adds to the pleasure!  The January 6th edition was a corker and I confess here and now that most of my 'rumbles' today stemmed from there - well, waddya expect here - original thinking?!

 

A very secret loony:   What is it about secret intelligence services that attract so many nutters?  I am provoked to this question by the review of a biography of the late James Jesus Angleton.  He it was who, whilst maintaining a ferocious campaign within the CIA to clear it of Russian spies, 'fell in love' with a frightfully smooth, posh, MI6 agent called, er, Kim Philby who was, 'as any fule do no now', a Russian agent!  I hasten to add that when I use the expression "fell in love" I do not imply any sexual attraction but the fact is that Angleton, the brilliant spy-catcher, was totally besotted with Philby who spent years feeding him false intelligence and passing on American secrets to the Russians.  Not even 'John le Carré ' could have made that one up!

 

I may, just 'may', be about to change my mind:   Who said, "What mind?"  Look, a few years back I gave up on theatre, not just my own amateurish efforts but professional theatre as well.  I also gave up on cinema.  No doubt I could whistle up some fancy excuses but the truth is that old age and idleness played their parts.  However, recently and suddenly I have felt a flicker of interest - I wonder if the same could happen to my sex drive?  Yesterday, I reported that Shakespeare's Globe Theatre was, at last, under new management and already I am trying to work out how I can get there.  Then there is this film about Churchill, Darkest Hour,  which is receiving rave reviews from people whose opinions I trust.  To clinch the argument there was an interview with the actress Kristin Scott Thomas who, apart from her failure to reply to my letters, is a very intelligent woman and who plays the important role of Winston's wife, 'Clemmie'.  Then there is the release of a new film with the very intriguing title of "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri" which has also received 'rave reviews' which does not surprise me since it stars Frances McDormand and Woody Harrelson - so what's not to like?!

 

Every little helps:   According to Anthony Watts, who is, of course, 'a very, very naughty boy', there were 485 scientific papers published last year, all of which in their different ways, cast doubts on the supposed (very 'supposed') "97% consensus on Anthropological Global Warming".  Why am I not surprised?

 

What I think about Meghan Markle:  Well ... er ... that is ... on the one hand ... but there again on the other ... and sort of ... well, you know ... perhaps ... but maybe not ... and taken in the round, so to speak ... oh bugger it!  The fact is that I do not think anything about Ms. Markle one way or t'other, any more than she thinks about me!  She is obviously an exceedingly attractive lady and I really do hope that she and Harry enjoy a good life but I do just wish that the bloody newspapers and sundry publicity seeking 'slebs' would just s.t.f.u. about her!  Harrumph!

 

Snigger factor AAA+:   The grumpy, old git who runs the 'I Hate The Media' site needs to be preserved in aspic after receiving a Congressional Medal.  Today he reports that a Democrat lawyer candidate for the role of Attorney General in Illinois, was robbed at gun point in Chicago - where else?:

A candidate running for Illinois attorney general was robbed at gunpoint while he was taking promotional photos for his campaign Thursday afternoon in the Northwest Side ward where he’s also the Democratic committeeman, according to his campaign manager and authorities.

Aaron Goldstein, 42, and several members of his campaign team were in the middle of taking publicity shots when the robbery happened, according to Goldstein’s campaign manager. [...] One of the men flashed a handgun and demanded the camera equipment and other personal belongings from the team, according to police.

Needless to say, none of these 'peace 'n' love' Dems had a legal concealed weapon, oh dear me, no, that wouldn't do at all!  Even if robberies have gone up 132% in three years and the murder rate has gone up 41% in four years, it just goes to show that there is no fool like a Dem fool!

 

No more rumbles today 

 

 

Absolutely spiffing good news!

This blog, being owned by a grumpy, old git, has a tendency to be a tad grumpy, old and, er, git-ish!  Sorry about that but, hey, when there is good news I am the first to tell you.  So, sit back comfortably and be prepared to smile - oh come on, you can do it if you try!

Over the last couple of years you may have caught the odd 'grump' from me concerning the fate of Shakespeare's Globe on the South Bank of the Thames in London.  This was entirely due to the collection of 'Dogberrys' who (allegedly) run the place and who appointed a know-nothing dimwit to be artistic director.  Happily, she has been exited stage left and her replacement, another lady, has just announced her new programme for this year.  She is Ms. Michelle Terry who looks about 141/2 - mind you virtually everyone looks that age to me these days! - but, judging from a report in The Times, she sounds like an enormous improvement.

For a start, she has made it clear that she herself will not be directing because she is an actress not a director.  Secondly, it appears that she will revert to the old ways that made The Globe, the old and the new, such a magical experience.  All the modern anachronisms which blighted the efforts of the last artistic director are gone.  Amongst this year's programme there will be Hamlet, Othello, As You Like It and Love's Labour's Lost.  Who could ask for anything more, er, well, me actually because I am desperate to see a really good production of old Will's second best play, Troilus and Cressida.

The other day I moaned about London being such a dump these days but a visit to The Globe, with St. Paul's gleaming on the opposite bank, is the very stuff of heaven.

Mr. President, you really must stop telling half truths!

I'm no mathematician but I think it sound to suppose that in amongst the torrent of words that issue forth from President Trump's pouty, little mouth, or from his itchy fingers on a keyboard, there will be some truths.  For example, in his depiction of various, but un-named, countries as "shit-holes" he was spot on!  As a rough generalisation I would suggest that the entirety of Africa from north to south and from east to west, is one gigantic "shit-hole" even if some nations might smell a little sweeter than others.  Much the same could be said of most of South America which appear to be a giant conglomeration of 'gangsta' regimes run entirely for the benefit of the interchangeable thugs who "strut their hour upon the stage".  No-one who could not afford their own private army would dream of moving to either place.

Even so, it must be asked whether it is the job of a President, particularly the President of the greatest power in the world, to go around telling the 'truth' in 140 characters?  'Truth' is a mightily complicated and nuanced entity which is why attempts to define it in any particular context usually result in 'yuuuuuuuge' books, so heavy and so complex that hardly anyone reads them. So my advice, Mr. President, is that you should stop attempting to tell the truth, after all, it is the business of politicians to lie and it is what we, 'The Peeps', expect, not least because the truth almost always hurts and it is not something up with which us 'Peeps' can cope!  Of course, like everyone else, er, outside of Africa and South America, you are free to express your opinion but, you see, that is the difference between being a President and just being an ordinary 'Peep'!  You have the power - in your case enormous, even 'yuuuuuuge', power - to follow up your opinions with actions and that makes the rest of us somewhat nervous.

You must try relaxing with some golf, Mr. President, I have it on good authority that there are some excellent courses in bonny Scotland but, whatever else you do, don't try telling the Jocks any home truths, they can be a tad sensitive!

 

A marriage made in hell

The ceremony commences:

Will you, Paratrooper Bloggs take this man Marine Commando Crabbs as your lifetime partner in drunken mischief-making, punch-ups and making war?  (Oh!  Right! Take that 'Foxtrot Oscar' as a no, shall I?)

Apparently, the Top Brass, under pressure from the Treasury, have decreed that the Parachute Regiment and the Royal Marine Commandos must be merged - well, not exactly merged but moved together to form a new combined formation.  We are assured that this will make a new and formidable fighting unit but most important of all - it will save money - yeeeeeees, quite!

Actually, it is not such a bad idea.  During the Falklands war the two formations worked well together and achieved their objectives not least because they are of similar ilk.  In fact, the whole subject of Britain's defence arrangements needs to be thought through very carefully and analytically.  We are no longer a world power and shortly we will not be much of a European power either so the question needs to be asked - what, exactly and precisely, are our armed forced for?

Answers on a postcard, please!

 

Thanks, Donald, I owe you one!

These days, happily, I never go to London.  The last time I was there wandering around the supposedly 'glamorous' West End I thought, what a dump!  Tatty, grey, untidy, full of grotty little cafes and crowded with the dreaded 'Peeps'.  The only good thing was the trains were actually running so eventually "I made my excuses and left"*.  This morning, 'the Donald' has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to visit either and I would like to take this opportunity, on behalf of all 'the Peeps' who are forced to work there, to express our gratitude.

Alas, the only certain outcome of a visit by 'the Gingah Ninjah' would be the biggest riot in London's history.  All the brain-dead, knuckle-draggers would emerge from their Marxist communes and all hell would be let loose.  Now what with train strikes and terrorist attacks and endless road works, working in London is a hellish business at the best of times.  If you add to it every 'Corbynista' troglodyte in the country making for London with venom in what passes for their brains, the results do not bear contemplation.  So thank you, Mr. President, and by the way, as I told you earlier, your new embassy is a joke that makes Battersea Power Station look rather charming!

*For the benefit of both my foreign and younger readers I should explain my frequent use of the expression "I made my excuses and left".  This harks back to the, er, good old days of 'The News of the World', Britain's premier scandal sheet which was, of course, known universally as 'The Screws of the World'.  It's intrepid reporters would use every trick in the book to interview naughty ladies privately in order to discover the names of their clients, at which point they would raise their hats politely, say thank you and insist in their story that "I made my excuses and left".  Of course you did, darling, we all believed you!

 

 

He wasn't all bad, that Harvey Weinstein!

A delicious piece in The Telegraph today which left me unsure whether to laugh or cry.  Well, not really, because laughing won hands down!  It concerned that fat, whiskery slob, Harvey Weinstein who is, 'as any fule do no', a very, very naughty boy.  Not satisfied, apparently, with running his hands over every female member of the Hollywood harem, he ran mega-rich marketing campaigns to push his own productions to the top of the Oscars competition combined with vindictive, underhand practices to denigrate any competitors. 'Whodathunkit?'

Apparently, his trickery/business acumen (you choose) reached its heights (or depths, you choose again) with the successful campaign he mounted to drive the Miramax film "Shakespeare in Love" to the Best Film award despite running against "Saving Private Ryan" - and in America, too!  Now seriously, 'Whodathunkthat?'  Of course, it is true (because I say so!) that "Shakespeare in Love" was the better film, not least because most of the script was written by the most brilliant playwright of the last 50-odd years, Tom Stoppard.  It is a witty romance of the highest quality.  Alas, "Saving Private Ryan", despite being made by arguably the greatest film-maker of recent decades, Steven Spielberg, lost its way after the first superb 20-odd minutes when the beach landing scenes ended.  After that, despite a heart-warming story line, it reverted to a typical Hollywood war movie.

However, these revelations showing the 'dirty tricks of the trade' practiced by Weinstein, serve a greater, if unintentional, benefit by demonstrating that all these so-called artistic prize award competitions are putrid rubbish.  I have ignored the Oscars for decades, they are, with a hat-tip to Shakespeare, tales told by idiots, for idiots, and which signify nothing!

 

 

More war - sorry!

I have already provided as close as I can achieve in giving a rave review of the late Robin Neillands' book "The Battle of the Rhine 1944" but now I must 'ice the cake', as it were, by praising his other WWII history "The Battle of Normandy 1944".  I am still only part way through it but it confirms my opinion that Neillands, although not a historian in the classical sense, is a superb chronicler of WWII, perhaps the very best and my reading goes back to the mid-'50s and Chester Wilmot's "The Struggle for Europe" and innumerable books since then.  Neillands was a Brit but never once do I detect any national bias in his telling of these dramatic events.  Yes, he lays into Patton for being the total arsehole that he was but equally he damns Montgomery for his manifold personal faults which only harmed the joint cause everyone was fighting for.

However, part way through the Normandy volume he raises a subject which has barely impinged on me despite all my reading and that is the exceedingly awkward and tricky strategic problem faced by Rommel and his immediate superior von Rundstedt.  It is worth pondering because it sums up the sort of diabolical choices which face all commanders of all times prior to battle - do we follow Plan A or Plan B?

In late '43 and early '44, the Germans were well aware that an invasion of NW Europe via the French coast was imminent.  Rommel was convinced that the allies needed to be held on the beaches and absolutely everything should be hurled at them before they could bring ashore their armour and their big guns.  He was probably right but one factor he did not take sufficiently into account, possibly because he was a German army officer with little or no experience of naval warfare, was that the huge resources of the Royal Navy would be crammed in as close as possible to the shoreline and their guns would blow beach defences to pieces.

Von Rundstedt, by contrast, believed that the German reserves should be held back until such time as it was absolutely clear exactly where the main invasion was taking place before they were released to crush the enemy and push them back into the sea.  In the meantime, he insisted that all the ports should be heavily defended in order to deny them to the allies and to cut down their sources of resupply.

Happily, as an ex-Corporal (substantive, mind!), that sort of decision-making was way above my pay-grade.  In pondering the issue, once again I join those who with far greater qualifications than me constantly offer prayers of gratitude to Hitler's stupidity in invading Russia, and Russia's incredible endurance in tying down the bulk of the German army on the steppes of Russia!

 

 

'We need to talk about America'!

Well, like most of you, I guess, I gulped hard when 'The Donald' won the presidency.  Well, I'm a 'nimsy-pimsy' Brit so I'm not used to flamboyant characters like him running half the world, er, well, at least, not since Winston Churchill packed it in!  To say that 'The Donald' did not then - and still does not now - inspire total confidence is a 'yuuuuuuuge' understatement!  Even so, after a year in office during which we could actually watch what he was doing rather than listening to what he was saying - or tweeting! - I did begin to relax slightly.

But then, with truly appalling inevitability, from the hallowed halls of the Golden Globes awards, we learn that yet another 'TV personality' has thrown her hat in the ring to indicate that she might well run for the presidency.  I refer, of course, to Ms. Oprah Winfrey who at least is neither ginger nor male but even so gives the impression of being a black, female equivalent of Donald Trump!  Honestly, I really don't think I can take much more of this, and if 'Jezza' moves into Downing Street I may consider moving to Pyongyang for a quiet life!

 

How does Mrs. May manage to put two feet in one leg of her tights?

I ask the question because, alas and alack, she seems incapable undertaking the simplest tasks without tripping over her own leopard skin shoes, as yesterday's micro-cabinet reshuffle proves.  Having taken a wise decision, given the fraught political situation, not to shift any of the (so-called!) 'Big Beasts' in the cabinet, she then makes a complete arse of reshuffling the equivalent of the office boys and girls and ends up looking as though she has both  legs in just one side of her tights!

She attempted to move Jeremy Hunt, the Health Minister, and he obviously told her to stick it where the sun don't shine.  He has been doing the job for five years now and I would guess that he is the only person in the country who has the remotest idea how the NHS works - and how it doesn't!  Obviously such practical experience plays little part in what passes for thinking in the PM's mind.  Then she forces the resignation of Justine Greening whom she, herself, appointed to the Ministry of Education only 18 months ago!  At a stroke, to quote the old phrase, she now has two bitter, female enemies on her back benches, both former ministers of Education, Greening and Nicky Morgan, both sacked by her.  Jolly well done, Prime Minister.

Perhaps the only sensible change was to put a new, younger man in charge of the Tory party machine, er, if 'machine' is quite the word to describe the clapped out, miss-firing engine that has over recent years chugged ever more slowly as Party members jump off after years of being treated, mainly by Cameron and his public school chums, as the British equivalent of "a basket of deplorables".  Consequently, the grassroots Tory party, you know, the people who actually get out on the ground during elections, has shrunk to a miniscule size.

It takes some doing but Mrs. May has actually achieved the near impossible by making 'Jezza' look competent!

 

I wish I could read this book

Not, mind you, that I am short of books, in fact, that is one of the problems with Kindle, you can rapidly build up a entire library without being threatened by a teetering pile of 'waiting-to-be-read' books.  Happily these days in my dotage, rather like attractive ladies, there are some books which instantly fire my interest but a moment's thought makes me admit that I could not cope with them.  Such a book is "The Vienna Circle and the Epic Quest for the Foundations of Science" by Karl Sigmund which is reviewed at the WaPo.

I came across that gang of ferocious swots, aka: 'The Vienna Circle', years ago when, in my more youthful cockiness, I sought to read and understand one or two of them. Yes, you're right, Big Fail, but, dammit, I tried, I really tried.  People like Karl Popper, Albert Einstein, Bertrand Russell, Kurt Gödel and Ludwig Wittgenstein fascinated me because whilst I could never understand the totality of their thinking, I could, very, very occasionally, just catch a glimpse of their brilliant intelligence.  Not, of course, that they were always and forever right about everything, as some of them admitted.  Even so, from 1924 to 1936, every other Thursday evening, some 10 to 20 of them would meet informally to express and discuss and no doubt disagree with the truly great and complex ideas that concerned them.  Was there ever, before or since, a greater collection of intellectual power gathered in one place?

 

Your Monday Funnies: 8.1.18

Actually, the most hilarious 'funny' for some time finally reached its pathetic punchline yesterday.  I give you - no, please, take it! -  the England Test Match team, talk about laugh, I nearly did!  And in that spirit:

An English father goes into his daughter's bedroom and sees a letter addressed to "Mummy and Daddy" on the bed. With a heavy heart he opens it and reads:

Dearest Mummy & Daddy, It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm telling you that I've eloped with my new boyfriend. I've found real love and he is so nice - especially with all his piercings, scars, tattoos and his big American motorcycle. But it's not only that, I'm pregnant and Ahmed said that we will be very happy in his caravan in the bush. He wants to have many more children with me and that's one of my dreams, too. I've learned that marijuana does not hurt anyone and we'll be growing it  only for us and Ahmed's friends. They're the ones providing us with all the cocaine and ecstasy we could ever want. In the meantime, we'll pray for science to find a cure for AIDS so Ahmed can get better. He really deserves it. Don't worry about money. Ahmed has arranged for me to be in films that his friends Leroy and Jahmal make in their basement. Apparently I can earn £200 per scene, and I get a £200 bonus if there are more than 3 men in the scene and an extra £100 for the sheep. Don't worry, Mummy, now that I'm 15 I know how to take care of myself. Someday we'll visit you and Daddy so that you can meet your grandchildren. Your loving daughter, Sarah.

P.S.. Daddy, it's not true - I'm watching television with Jessica and her parents next door. I just wanted to show you that there really are far worse things in life than England losing The Ashes.

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

 

A man and his young son are in the drugstore when the son comes
across the condoms and asks his father what they are.
 
The dad replies, "Well, son, those are condoms and they're for
protection when you're having sex."
 
The son then picks up one of the packs and asks why it has three
in it.
 
The dad replies, "Those are for high school boys.  One for Friday, one for Saturday, and one for Sunday."
 
The son then picks up one with six condoms and asks, "Why six?"
 
The dad replies, "Well son, those are for college men.  Two for Friday, two for Saturday and two for Sunday."
 
The son then notices the 12 pack of condoms and asks the same question.
 
The dad replies, "Son, those are for married men.  One for January, one for February, one for March...."

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

 

A man returns home a day early from a business trip.  It's after midnight. 

On the way home, he asks the cabby if he would be a witness. The cabby agrees for $100.  The man suspects his wife is having an affair, and he wants to catch her in the act.

Quietly arriving home, the husband and cabby tippy toe into the bedroom.

The husband switches on the lights, yanks the blanket back, and there is his wife, naked as a jay bird, with a man also nude.

The husband puts a gun to the naked man's head. 

The wife shouts; Don't do it!  I lied when I told you I inherited money.
HE paid for the Porsche I gave you.
HE paid for your new 25ft Ranger Fishing Boat.
HE paid for your Football season tickets.
HE paid for our house at the lake.
HE paid for your Golf Trip to St Andrews and your new 4 x 4.
HE paid for our country club membership, he even pays the monthly dues.
And because of HIM, I put an extra $2,000 in our checking account each month."

Shaking his head from side-to-side, the husband lowers the gun.
He looks at the cabby and says, "What would you do?"
The cabby replies, "I'd cover him with that blanket, before he catches a cold."

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

 

Two old guys talking.

One said to the other: “My 69th birthday yesterday. Wife gave me an SUV”.

Other guy: “Wow, that’s amazing! Imagine, an SUV! What a great gift!”

First guy: “Yup. Socks, Underwear and Viagra!”

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

 

For those of my generation who simply do not, and cannot, comprehend why Facebook exists.

I am trying to make friends outside of Facebook while applying the same principles.
 
Therefore, every day I walk down the street and tell random passers-by what I have eaten, how I feel at the moment, what I have done the night before, what I'm doing now, what I will be doing later and with whom, and where I'm going next.
 
I then ask them to follow me along the street and watch me be important.
 
I give them pictures of my family, my dog, and of me gardening, taking things apart in the garage, watering the lawn, standing in front of landmarks, washing the car, driving around town, eating lunch, getting a haircut, and doing what anybody and everybody does every day, including taking selfies of myself in the bathroom.
 
I also listen to their conversations, give them the "thumbs up" and tell them that I like them and will be friends with them.
 
It all works just like Facebook, only I do it face to face, not on a little glass screen…

I already have four people following me: two police officers, a private investigator and a psychiatrist.

 

Back to work, all of you!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 7.1.18

It woz George Neumayr wot dunnit!   George - who?  Neumayr, he writes for The American Spectator and he wrote an article titled: Fire and Fury Signifying Nothing.  It must have been that choice of words with its Shakespearean connotation that nudged me into my silly mistake yesterday.  A perfect example of the power of suggestion!

 

Not one, not two but FIVE Grand Panjandrums were wrong:   I refer, in no particular order of incompetence to:

The World Bank

The International Monetary Fund

The OECD

The CBI

Goldman Sachs

All of these mighty organisations shrieked and moaned the equivalent of "Woe is me!" at the possibility of Brexit.  UK growth would barely reach 1.2% or 1.3% or, at best, 1.5%.  It reached 1.8%!  Goldman Sachs assured everyone that sterling would drop from $1.25 to $1.14, instead it grew to $1.35.  The CBI also forecast that retail sales would plunge but instead they grew by 1.6%.  A pro-Brexit organisation, 'Leave Means Leave', can barely contain its giggles in the report in The Telegraph, nor can I!  (Stand by for incoming 'SoD'!)

 

Polly gets her bum smacked!   Simply too, too delicious!  I refer, of course, to the insufferably sanctimonious and hypocritical Polly Toynbee, the columnist for 'The Graun' - who else?  Apparently she crossed swords (or perhaps that should be 'claymores') with Fraser Nelson, the Scottish editor of the 'Best Magazine in the World' - The Spectator, of course!  They were debating the merits or otherwise of the appointment of Toby Young, deputy editor of 'the Speccie', to some educational quango.  Ms. Toynbee sniffed that Toby Young's campaign to create new 'Free Schools' was merely a device to ensure his own kids a place.  'Jock' Nelson instantly 'put his head in with his bonnet on' (an old Scottish practice!) and suggested that it was better than sending your kids to private schools like, er, well, Ms. Toynbee, actually!

 

Sorry, sorry, sorry!   Alas, earlier today 'I lunched not wisely but too well' with old friends.  On return, I rose up to the seventh level of inner awareness and when I woke up came back to earth, I suddenly remembered that I had two recorded episodes of "Spiral" to watch in which, I might add, my darling Audrey Fleurot was raped - shockin', shockin'!  I am now too distraught to think of anything sensible to say - and don't think I didn't hear that! - so I will close down for the night.

 

No more rumbles today

 

 

Be more careful with your Shakespearean quotes, Mr. Wolff

It is, of course, quite wrong and sometimes very silly to judge a man by his appearance.  Even so, there are always exceptions and in the case of Mr. Michael Wolff, the author of what appears to be a less than rigorous appraisal of President Trump who appeared, briefly, on my 'telly' yesterday, I have to say that I was underwhelmed. 

My instant reaction to the sight of this peculiar-looking 'slaphead' was, to use an old colonial phrase, that 'he's not quite 16 annas to the rupee'!  My suspicions were confirmed when I read reports that his book contains verbatim conversations to which he was not a party and of which there are no recordings!

I am also intrigued, and I must rely on anyone who actually wasted spent their money buying his book to inform me, as to whether he made clear the full Shakespearean quote he used for his title "Sound and Fury"?  As the well-educated readers of this blog do know, because I told them the other day, the full line is:

It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

Is Mr. Wolff subtly hinting that his particular tale is actually somewhat idiotic and contains absolutely nothing of significance?  Even, perhaps, that whole chunks of it are entirely made up, or, merely the totally unconfirmed and spiteful venom of Trump's enemies?

I cannot tell because I have not read the book and have absolutely no intention of doing so.  Many of the assertions seem to ring true and there can be little doubt that Mr. Trump is exceedingly eccentric.  But then again, I try to watch what he actually does, rather than listen too carefully to what he says - or tweets!  As Mr. Jim Geraghty reminds us at The National Review:

Does Trump deserve to be trusted with the powers of the presidency? The question is pretty much moot at the moment; he’s been in the job for a year and the earth has not yet crashed into the sun. In fact, things are going pretty well on a lot of fronts. A massive tax cut has been signed into law. Obamacare’s individual mandate has been repealed. A slew of regulations have been rescinded. The markets keep hitting new record highs, unemployment is low, and wages are up. The Islamic State is pretty much obliterated as a state. The federal judiciary is being filled with conservative all-stars. Illegal border crossings are down dramatically.

The only other thing I would add to that list of achievements is that the President has induced an epidemic of 'Trump-mania' amongst the more hysterical factions of the Democrat party and it is hilarious to see and read.

Correction:   First thing Monday morning I shall set about dis-inheriting 'SoD' and instead I shall leave my overdraft to the Labour party because, of course, 'SoD' caught me out in a 'yuuuuuuge' mistake by reminding me that the title of Mr. Wolff's book is "Fire and Fury" not 'Sound and Fury'!  That, of course, makes this entire post a complete waste of space - so no change there then!

 

No, no, this will cheer you up, er, despite the photo

Yes, I apologise for the picture which you should keep well away from children or elderly aunts!  However, it may - repeat "may"! - be a harbinger of joy according to Mr. Nick Cohen, a good, old-fashioned Leftie of the better sort, over at The Coffee House.

The 'scrote'-like character on the right is, of course, Mr. Len McCluskey, the Kommisar-for-Life, oooops, sorry, I mean the General Secretary of the UNITE trade union.  Most observers would categorise Mr. McCluskey as an extreme Leftist.  That would be quite wrong.  He is, in fact an ultra-extreme 'McCluskeyite', he is all for McCluskey!  He has been the General Secretary for so long that no-one can recall a pre-McCluskeyite era! 

However, all good things (I use the term loosely!) risk coming to an end and so they might with Brother McCluskey because he is due to face re-election.  Needless to say, as Mr. Cohen explains, every dodgy trick in the book, and quite a few from outside it, are being used by McCluskey and his 'comrades' at the top of the union to ensure that he is re-elected and the upstart challenger, who was sacked from his union job for his impertinence, is utterly crushed.  Needless to say, the lawyers have been drafted by both sides and now a retired judge is to conduct an impartial enquiry.  

Meanwhile, we can all enjoy the thought of how a McCluskey defeat might effect the other old 'scrote' in the picture!

 

Feeling cheerful? I'll soon put a stop to that!

I was looking at a map of the Middle East this morning.  Not a pretty sight!  

I was prompted to it by an article over at The Coffee House by Mr. Seth J. Frantzman (no, me neither!) who informs us that President Trump is not alone in his ridiculous tweeting habit.  Apparently, that thug, Recep Erdogan, who runs Turkey these days, has taken exceptional displeasure at a tweet by the Foreign Minister of the U.A.E., a certain Sheik Abdullah bin Zayed.  Here's a photo of these two, er, 'lovelies' taken in happier, non-tweeting days! 

 

Alas, young Abdullah forgot his diplomatic niceties and recently tweeted to the effect that Turkey had committed a war crime in 1916 - shockin'! shockin'! - and the Turks were not amused!  The Mayor of Ankara threatened to rename the street in which the U.A.E. embassy is situated after some Turkish military commander from the Ottoman era.

 

Of course, this diplomatic hissy-fit is merely part of a gradual re-alignment of powers in the Middle East which, quite apart from national egotisms is further bedevilled by fundamental - and I do mean fundamental! - religious differences.  As I have mentioned before, my knowledge of the Middle East is limited to the end of runway #2 at Bahrein airport where I lived in a tent for nearly a year in the early '60s with occasional forays across to what was then called the Trucial Oman states to 'play at soldiers'.  Needless to say, like so many Englishmen before and since, I instantly turned into a desert-lover!

 

I assume that buried somewhere in the Foreign Office there are some Middle East swots who actually have a detailed knowledge of affairs in that perpetually blood-soaked region.  Mind you, as you can see from my map, it is a colossal area and apart from the actual delineated nations, there are swarms of sub-groups most of whom, these days, are exceedingly well-armed as well as ferocious.  My advice, as 'an old Middle East hand', is just keep the hell out of it - but be nice to the ones with oil!

 

 

"The envy of the world" - NOT!

I refer, of course, to our less than wonderful National Health Service which, just like last winter, and the winter before, and the winter before that, and so on ad infinitum, is close to chaos.  Of course, finding a solution to its problems is harder than finding the square root of -1.  That difficulty is easily avoided by all those 'sillies' who, rather than think, simply shriek louder and louder that more money must be poured into a bottomless cavern.  As Mr. Ben Ramanauskas of the Taxpayers' Alliance points out, it's not the amount of money that is spent on the NHS but the way it is spent!

Moreover, a report by the National Audit Office found that as funding for the NHS has increased, productivity has decreased [my emphasis].  The head of the National Audit Office said: “Over the last ten years, there has been significant real growth in the resources going into the NHS, most of it funding higher staff pay and increases in headcount. The evidence shows that productivity in the same period has gone down, particularly in hospitals.”

It is perfectly obvious, in fact it has been obvious for decades, that the current system, a perfect example of silly socialism, needs changing radically.  Private enterprise and insurance systems are required with competition between suppliers to be essential.  As I have mentioned before, many a time and oft', the very best aid to a good health is good food.  Without food we would all die slowly and painfully.  So why haven't the silly socialists insisted that the supply of food should become a state-run enterprise?  They could tell us all that food will be provided free of charge.  Does anyone think they could run that better than the constantly competing supermarkets?

Of course, changing the NHS will take an enormous amount of time and will involve re-educating the 'the peeps' in the new system but unless we get on with it that great, swollen, state-run behemoth will swallow us all!

 

Please, Mr. President, just s.t.f.u.

Either that or will someone in the White House please amputate his Twitter finger!  

I have long had my doubts concerning 'The Donald' but up against 'HillBilly' and her vile, corrupt crime-family there was little choice and I have just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.  Alas, today we read that his response to the child-like 'Fat Boy Kim' boasting that he has a nuclear button on his desk, Donald responds that his button is bigger than Kim's!  For God's sake - no, for all our sakes - these two adolescents are reducing nuclear warfare to the level of an argument in a school playground!

Where will it all end?  Don't ask!

Sick bags may be required!

I am not a religious man and I never believe there is a Heaven to which I might aspire but even so, sometimes, just sometimes, I fervently pray that there is a Hell, a truly scorching, sulphurous place of infinite pain and suffering.  Just occasionally I come across people who would be on my candidates' list for entry but today, in the august columns of REASON.com, I came across a man who would not only qualify for my list but move instantly to the very top.  I refer to the late, and utterly despicable, Roger Nash Baldwin, 1884-1981.

This monster, and I use the word carefully, was a founder of the ACLU, the American Civil Liberties Union.  In 1926 he visited the USSR and saw at first hand the atrocities inflicted on the Russian people by their Communist party.  He excused them all!  In 1928 he wrote a book titled, without a hint of irony, "Liberty Under the Soviets".  In it, he described more or less accurately what the people of Russia were suffering under the Communist regime but excused the cruelties as being, in effect, all to their own long-term good.  It was not until 1938 and the signing of the Nazi-Soviet pact that this criminally stupid man finally admitted his errors.  In the final year of his life, Jimmy Carter, arguably the dimmest POTUS of recent years, awarded this vile man, the Medal of Freedom.  Pass the sick bag!

 

 

Boring-snoring sports

What is the most boring-snoring sport?  I asked myself, and you, that question because the news broke overnight that there is a new world champion in the sport of, er, well, darts, actually - do wake up at the back there!  Unfortunately, whilst pondering this intensely difficult subject this afternoon, I fell asleep!  Certainly darts would be a contender but once you start to think about it there are so many others.  I apologise to my American friends when I suggest as a real snore-fest what they are pleased to call 'American football'.  This is a game in which, it appears to me, that more time is spent not playing than actually playing!  Of course, they would probably counter that by suggesting test match cricket which can last up to five days but I would respond by telling them test match cricket was actually designed to be boring although I can't think why!

Bowls is another tedious sport but again that was designed to be tedious because it is simply an excuse to sit by an immaculate lawn set inside beautiful gardens.  Golf, too, can have a soporific effect but just sometimes great golfers can pull off tricky shots brilliantly and the applause will wake you up.  Virtually all of athletics is utterly boring because you just know that really it's a competition between drug companies.  

There is, of course, only one sport that remains intensely exciting, especially to elderly gents like me, and that is Brazilian Ladies Volley Ball but, dammit, it hardly ever features on my 'telly'!

 

Better watch out, the 'Thugskis' are coming!

Actually, my title is wrong, the 'Thugskis', by which I mean Russian gangsters, are already here and have been here for years, certainly as long as Putin has been the 'Commisar Capo' running Russia.  Last night the BBC broadcast the first episode of a new thriller called, for no reason I can think of, 'McMafia'!  This is based on émigré Russian gangsters whose accents are unintelligible whether they are speaking English or Russian.  Needless to say, given that this is a BBC production, the subtitles provided during the Russian-speaking scenes are so tiny that you need to be on your knees before the screen to be able to read them!  To add to the confusion, it appears that many of the 'Rooskies' are actually Jews!  Given the confusing Scottish title to this series, for the first time ever I am looking forward to some broad Jock accents to really add to the already incomprehensible performances.

In another of those weird 'coincidence-thingies' which plague my life, during the night I heard on my radio an interview with some expert on Russian affairs who claimed, and I believe him, that Putin has, in effect, sold Mother Russia, or at least, all her major industries, to various gangsters in order to keep them in support of his 'kleptocracy'.  Fair enough, I suppose, given that Russia has always worked with variations on this theme but I can't help wondering what will happen when either 'Vlad' is fitted with concrete boots or the Russian 'peeps' wake up and realise that all that 'bread and circuses' routine with which they have been captivated over the years has been reduced to just 'circuses', like the eye-wateringly expensive winter Olympics or the World Cup, and that the actual 'bread' has disappeared?

 

Auld Duff's Almanack for 2118

(Yes, yes, I know the date is wrong but I'm not daft enough to forecast what will happen this year, I might get it wrong and you would all begin to doubt my wisdom - and I heard that!)

JANUARY:  Donald Trump will admit that s/he is transgender, er, although s/he is not too sure in which direction but whatever "It's gonna make America great again!".

FEBRUARY:   'Mutti' Merkel and Mrs. May resign and run off together to Richard Branson's tropical Island to cavort, topless, on the beach. (Oh the horror, the horror!)

MARCH:   Jeremy Corbyn, Dianne Abbot and Emily Thornberry resign their positions and go off to live as a threesome in a yurt at Glastonbury.

APRIL:   On the first of April, appropriately, the United States of Europe will be proclaimed.

MAY:   On the first of May, Spain invades Catalonia, Sardinia invades Italy, Germany invades everywhere and France surrenders.

JUNE:   'Fat Boy Kim' inspects his very latest rocket and whilst sitting on the nose of it being photographed some rascal lights the blue touch-paper and now he's in orbit.

JULY:   Our good ol' buddy, JK, signs the Pledge and Barney Magroo goes broke!

AUGUST:   President Macron marries his wife's mother who is 93 but, as he puts it, "A woman is like a fine wine, the older the better!"

SEPTEMBER:   Jean-Claude Juncker follows the example of 'JK' and he too signs the Pledge.  The entire Calvados region slumps into bankruptcy.

OCTOBER:   Icebergs disrupt shipping in the Mediterranean and Michael Mann blames global warming.

NOVEMBER:   Hillary Clinton decides to join 'Mutti' Merkel and Mrs. May in a ménage à trois.  Photos are forbidden world-wide.

DECEMBER:   President Trump undergoes major surgery for a hair transplant operation.

 

 

Your Monday Funnies: 1.1.18

Here we go, another year of jokes and jollity . . . no, really . . .

 

A Navy Captain was about to start the morning briefing to his staff. 

While waiting for the coffee machine to finish its brewing, the Captain decided to pose a question to all assembled. He explained that his wife had been a bit frisky the night before and he failed to get his usual amount of sound sleep. 

He posed the question of just how much of sex was "work" and how much of it was "pleasure”? 

A Commander chimed in with 75-25% in favour of work.  A Lieutenant Commander said it was 50-50%. 

A Lieutenant responded with 25-75% in favour of pleasure, depending upon his state of inebriation at the time. 

There being no consensus, the Captain turned to the Leading Seaman who was in charge of making the coffee and asked what was his opinion?

Without any hesitation, the young Leading Seaman responded, "Sir, it has to be 100% pleasure."

The Captain was surprised and, as you might guess, asked why?

"Well Sir, if there was any work involved, the officers would have me doing it for them."

The room fell silent.  God Bless the lower ranks.

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Feel free to spread this warning throughout your friend base.

Please, take care of yourself out on the roads this holiday season.
A recent joint study conducted by the Department of Health and the
Department of Motor Vehicles indicates that 23% of traffic accidents are alcohol related.

This means that the remaining 77% are caused by arseholes who drink bottled water, Starbucks, soda, juice, energy drinks, and shit like that.

Therefore, beware of those who do not drink alcohol. They cause three times as many accidents.

This message is sent to you by someone who worries about your safety.

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

 

A burglar broke into a house one night.  He shone his flashlight around, looking for valuables, and when he picked up a CD player to place in his sack, a strange, disembodied voice echoed from the dark saying, "Jesus is watching you."
 
He nearly jumped out of his skin, clicked his flashlight out and froze.
When he heard nothing more after a bit, he shook his head, promised
himself a vacation after the next big score, then clicked the light back on and began searching for more valuables.

Just as he pulled the stereo out so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he heard, "Jesus is watching you."

Freaked out, he shone his light around frantically, looking for the
source of the voice.  Finally, in the corner of the room, his flashlight beam came to rest on a parrot.

"Did you say that?" He hissed at the parrot.

"Yep," the parrot confessed, then squawked, "I'm just trying to warn you."

The burglar relaxed. "Warn me, huh? Who the hell are you?"

"Moses," Replied the bird.

"Moses" the burglar laughed. "What kind of stupid people would name a parrot Moses?

The bird promptly answered: "Probably the same kind of people that would name a Rottweiler 'Jesus'!"

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

 

A chicken and an egg are lying in bed together. 

The chicken is smoking a cigarette with a smug satisfied smile on it's face, while the egg is frowning, and looking a tad put out.
 
The egg mutters to no one in particular...."I guess we answered that
question then."

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Three couples, an elderly couple, a middle aged couple and a young newly wed couple wanted to join a church.  The pastor says, "We have special requirement for new parishioner.  You must abstain from having sex for two weeks." The
couples agreed and came back at the end of two weeks.
 
The pastor goes to the elderly couple and asks, "Were you able to abstain from sex for the two weeks?" The old man replies, "No problem at all, Pastor."
 
"Congratulations! Welcome to the church." said the pastor.
 
The pastor goes to the middle aged couple and asks, "Well, were you able to abstain from sex for the two week?"
 
The man replied, "The first week was not too bad.  The second week I had to sleep on the couch for a couple of nights but, yes we made it."
 
"Congratulations!  Welcome to the church." said the pastor.
 
The pastor then goes to the newlywed couple and asks, 'Well, were you able to abstain from sex for two weeks?"
 
"Well Pastor, we were not able to go without sex for the two weeks." the young man replied.
 
"What Happened?" inquired the pastor.
 
"My wife was reaching for a can of corn on the top shelf and dropped it.
When she bent over to pick it up, I was over-come with lust and took advantage of her right there."
 
"You understand of course, this means you will not be welcome in our church," stated the pastor.
 
"That's okay." said the young man, "We're not welcome at the Supermarket any more either."

 

There, that's got your New Year off to a cracking start - sorry, did you say something?