DUFF & NONSENSE!

Hammer, nut, anvil

So let me try and get this straight.  Back in 1989, nearly a hundred football fans who had arrived on time and peaceably taken their places in the Hillsborough football arena were crushed to death by, er, well, according to the latest inquest, various police officers, ambulance men and the officials running the Hillsborough stadium.  I am just a little surprised that the jury was unable to lay part of the blame on 'that woman' who was the prime minister of the day.  However, the crucial point is that absolutely no blame whatsoever can be placed on the thousands of football fans who arrived later and who pushed and shoved quietly and slowly and patiently made their way into the stadium.  They are perfectly blameless and their behaviour at all times was impeccable.

Got that?

Good!

End of!

 

Still, not all bad news, the Rio Olympics could implode

Apparently the preparations for the Rio Olympic games are edging ever closer to collapse.  Brazil is broke and most of the 'facilities' are far from ready.  The icing on this delicious cake will - or at least, maybe! - provided by that oleaginous creep, Lord Coe, who may find a crumb of courage in his old track suit and decide to ban the Russians from taking part.

The whole so-called 'Olympic movement' has become increasingly over-blown in recent decades and nothing would do it more good than a total 'collapse of stout party'!  Cheating and drug-taking are now endemic and nothing can be taken on trust.  Who, in their right mind, would actually spend their own hard-earned money buying a ticket for that farrago?  Probably, only 'Big (and 'Stoopid') Business' thinking that their customers would appreciate visiting a city and a country that is about to collapse.

I should make clear that I have absolutely no animus against Brazil and its people, quite the opposite, I feel sorry for them.  However, it was 'the people' - dread word! - who elected these crooks and buffoons to power and, alas, it is they who must take the punishment.  Still, its an ill-wind that fails to blow an old lady off her feet and provide me with a laugh, so at least I can enjoy the prospect of a summer without all those drug addicts chasing each others' tails!  I think I'll watch the cricket instead.

The Sunday Rumble: 10.4.16

'Frankly, my dear Dave, I don't give a damn!'   The pages and pages of newspaper devoted to Dave's tax return is almost enough to turn me into a tree-hugger and the volumes of hot air exhaled by pompous prats on the TV and radio is nearly enough to make me fearful of global warming.  Look, the man has done absolutely nothing wrong or illegal or even immoral.  What he has done is to follow the advice of a financial advisor whose duty it is to point out the most effective way of arranging your money to avoid paying any more tax than you absolutely have to.  Any of you who hold a tax-free ISA for precisely the same reason are no better and no worse than Dave.  Of course, the elephant in the room which everyone is studiously avoiding is the obvious fact that our tax laws are a tangled mess from which only tax consultants really benefit.  I have forgotten how many pages there are in our book of tax regulations but it must run to about the equivalent "War and Peace" x 100!  The solution is equally obvious - a flat tax for everyone on everything - no exceptions, no ducking and diving, no escape clauses.  Mr. Ted Cruz, 'over there', is, as far as I can tell, the only politician advocating it and his chances of winning are minimal.

 

The litter lout is about to strike again:   Yes, indeed, as it appears finally to have stopped pelting down with rain I am about to set off round the village stuffing yet more VOTE LEAVE leaflets through people's letter-boxes.  Incidentally, now is the time for letter-box designers to get a grip and make a letter-box that opens easily, does not obstruct the entry of letters and doesn't threaten to amputate your fingers if you're a bit slow withdrawing them.  My sympathy for 'posties' is growing!  In the meantime, and in the words of a proper British hero, "I am going out, I may be some time." (Lawrence Oates, 1880 - 1912)

 

Bloody weather!   Typically deceitful with a beautiful blue sky, big fluffy white clouds - but a gale force wind straight off the arctic!  Well, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration but I had to hold on to my hat as I staggered round.

 

As if Hiroshima hasn't suffered enough:   Sometimes the 'cousins' show no mercy. Having once nearly obliterated the city of Hiroshima (and quite right, too, in my opinion) they have now inflicted a visit by John Kerry accompanied by that utter nonentity who is, according to rumour, our Foreign Secretary.  Anyway, Christopher Booker in The Telegraph sums up 'Kerry the Klown' better than I can:

On every issue he faces, John Kerry flounders hopelessly out of his depth. From his support for the ill-fated bid to absorb Ukraine into the EU, to his obsession with global warming, which he calls “the world’s most fearsome weapon of mass-destruction”, Kerry uncannily gets the wrong end of every stick. From President Putin over Syria and President Rouhani over his “nuclear deal” with Iran, to that Paris “non-treaty” on climate change and his deal with China on reducing its “carbon emissions” by building hundreds more coal-fired power stations, the outside world runs rings round him in every direction.

And this buffoon has the temerity to tell us we must stay in the EU so if you need a reason to VOTE LEAVE, that's it!

 

He's a very naughty 'sleb':   Apparently, some married 'sleb' has been caught indulging in a sexual threesome - lucky bastard, no-one ever asks me! - and everyone in America knows who it is but we are not allowed to know because some 'Cocklecarrot' in the High Court has decided we must not be told.  But now, apparently, the Jocks know who he is because one of their papers has published the name because the power of the High Court does not extend to 'Jockland'.  How ridiculous is that?  Mind you, when eventually it's published here, which it will be, I just know my response will be, "Who's he? I've never heard of him!"

Oh, no, say it ain't so:   Apparently, Hugh Laurie and Tom Hiddlestone have ruled out another series of The Night Manager.  Very disappointing although it might just be their agents speaking through them to get the price up!  Anyway, all is not lost because so far Ms. Elizabeth Debicki has said nothing so perhaps the writers can build a story around her.  And yes, you're right, I only included this item as an excuse to publish a few of her pics:

          

Apparently she's Australian and if my e-pal, AussieD, can assure me that they all look like her 'down under there', I might reconsider my decision never to emigrate!  Incidentally, a note to my foreign readers, if you have not yet seen The Night Manager do not miss it under any circs.  It is far and away the best TV thriller produced anywhere in the last few years.

 

Poor old 'Dick 2', as though he didn't suffer enough:   I am slowly and steadily making my way through Shakespeare's Richard II, line by line by line.  It is one of the few plays written entirely in verse and one of my self-imposed tasks is to highlight the stressed elements of the iambic pentameter as a guide to actors who, given the current state of education, probably can't spell the term let alone understand it! 

It's a tedious job but oddly enough I find it rather fascinating particularly when 'our Will' suddenly changes the rhythm.  Also, it makes me wonder, given the volume of texts he wrote, if Shakespeare actually thought in iambic pentameters.  They just seem to flow from him.

 

AIE: Advanced Incurable Ennui:   Yes, that's what I'm suffering with and the litmus test is when the very best sport becomes 'boring-snoring'.  I have just tried to watch The Masters Golf on the TV.  My one and only game of golf that I took part in lasted as far as the 8th hole before I marched off in a bad temper never to return - much to the relief of golfers everywhere.  However, I used to enjoy watching it on the 'telly' particularly when the best players used to show real flair.  Today's lot are eye-stabbingly tedious, particularly that twitchy fella' Spieth who appears to suffer with St. Vitus Dance.  Why does it take him at least four tries just to address the ball, let alone hit it?  I gave up and switched off.  Is it my age, do you think?  On second thoughts, don't answer that!

No more rumbles tonight

 

My favourite Day of the Year

Yes, indeed, yesterday was Ladies' Day 'ooop in Scouseland' - who sniggered? - and it is all so, so delicious that I look forward to it more than Christmas. Here, courtesy of The Telegraph, are some of the, er, highlights:

I'm not sure which glass she is drinking from but from my limited experience of 'Scouse' ladies, probably both! 

Now here's a little, well, sort of 'little', winner.  You wouldn't stand a chance in a photo finish with that fine, outstanding example of Liverpudlian womanhood.

And now we have a superb example of the very best that 'Scouseland' can produce:

With thighs like that she should be playing centre half for Liverpool F. C.

But now let us move on to the heavy weight division:

At this point, may I ask my lady readers a technical question?  Is the partially hidden lady in the background wearing the very latest in feminine accoutrements or is it actually a manacle around her ankle?  I just ask lest H.M.'s Prison Authorities should be informed that someone has escaped!

No, no, no, this is not a re-enactment of the famous Charge of the Heavy Brigade that took place at Waterloo - do try to take this seriously!

Oh dear, 'she drank not wisely but too well', methinks!

Anyway, to finish let me demonstrate that there is some taste and refinement amongst the splendid ladies of Liverpool:

There you go, as pretty a pair as you could wish to meet after laying £50 quid on the winner of the 3.30 at 40-1!  Well done, Ladies!

 

My Easter Sunday Rumble: 27.3.16

Happy Easter? Really?   In view of the fact that some poor, young carpenter was nailed to a cross, I'm not sure that wishing you all a Happy Easter is quite appropriate but still, everyone does it, so I might as well.  Not being up on the finer points of Christianity, perhaps Easter Monday is the right day to do it because I am led to believe that was the day he miraculously rose from the dead.

 

And then there's the Irish Easter:   The Paddies are 'going off on one' in 'celebration'(!) of the Easter Rising one hundred years ago.  I try to contain my prejudices but the fact is that I can never quite warm to the Irish.  It is a prejudice, I know, because on the whole, I gather, we treated them abominably in the past and as 'the Heffalump' reminds us in today's Telegraph we have much of which to be ashamed.  Maybe so, but every time I see the smug, murderous faces of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness on my TV I instinctively reach for my 7.62 SLR which, alas, I no longer have.  As for saying sorry, as 'the Heffalump' proposes, then summoning all my throaty impersonation of an 'Oirish' accent, I say, "Never!"

Irish rebels are executed after the uprising 

 

Now Cohen joins Parris in booting Boris:   I'm almost, er, but not quite, beginning to feel sorry for Boris.  Further to my post yesterday, no sooner had Matthew Parris started kicking the 'blond football' when Nick Cohen pushed in demanding to have a go, and he was wearing studs in his boots!  Sorry, I almost forgot that Ross Clark at The Coffee House offers a defence of the rascal.  I can't say that it is very convincing.

 

The American election sinks lower:   Just when I was thinking that it can't get any more nasty and imbecilic, The National Enquirer - yeeeees, quite! - comes up with a story that Sen. Cruz had five affairs.  When 'Trump the Chump' was asked if he was responsible for this sleaze story he replied, "Who, sir? Me, sir? No, sir! Him, Sir" whilst pointing in several directions.  Personally, I think if Sen. Cruz can handle five women and a wife then he would earn my vote!

 

Never, ever, mess with me or the missus!  

No, no, no, you didn't really think that was me and the 'Memsahib', did you?  I'm about the size of one of those weights he's lifting and the 'Memsahib' is no bigger than that lady's thigh!  They are Mr. Barny Du Plessis, 41, and his fiancé, Miss Josie Beck, 42, who, I am delighted to say, are engaged to be married.  I am particularly delighted for Miss Beck because, according to the Mail on Sunday, she was, hitherto, a huge fat 'lardie' but had the absolute determination to lose the weight and follow the example of Mr. Du Plessis who is, by the way, a winner of the Mr. Universe competition.  The pair of them are obviously totally and delightfully bonkers because they have become fanatical vegans and have thus achieved those incredible physiques on a steady diet of carrots and spinach!  I wish them well and a happy life together.

 

In which I, er, stand up for North Carolina:   Well of course I do because my regular commenter, 'Whitewall', hails from those parts and the fact that the 'sillies' in Charlotte, NC, have decreed that transgender people should be free to enter whatever public toilet room they feel most comfortable in, is likely to have upset him.  Fortunately blushes have been saved all round, according to The Federalist, by the NC Assembly which voted 83-25 to strike down the ordinance.

 

I almost feel sorry for Cuba:   First they had to put up with 'Ol' Big Ears' prating rubbish at them and now a militant gang of old-age Brit pensioners has, er, rocked up and made a nuisance of themselves.  I believe they call themselves 'The Rolling Stoned' and whilst it's an amazing feat for these four ancient old geezers to travel that far, I do hope they remembered to take their, er, meds with them!

 

 

The last episode of "The Night Manager":   Thank God, my nerves are absolutely shot!  If you missed any of it then do yourselves a favour and use your 'do-flicker-catch-up-thingie'.   If you are 'over there' or 'down under there' then keep an eye on your TV schedules because you will rarely see such a genuine thriller!  I'm staggering off to bed, I'm knackered!

 

No more rumbles

The Sunday Rumble: 20.3.16

Right, pay attention Australia!   Now look here, Australia, it really is very inconvenient for me to have wake myself up at 4.00am in the morning in order to listen to the commentary on the Australian Grand Prix, so can you please wind your clocks forward, or backward, and get yourselves into a civilised timetable. Thank you!

 

Oh no, not the Air Cadets!   A headline to a story in The Telegraph warned of cuts to the Air Cadet Force.  I was shocked, I tell you, shocked because my first experience of the military was as a 13-year-old boy in my local Air Cadet unit.  I remember going on Summer camp to an RAF air base and being told that because I was under 14 I could not be taken on my first ever flight in an old RAF Anson.  I burst into tears and so the sergeant relented and let me go.  Of course then I didn't know that later in life the bloody RAF would be throwing me out of their 'planes at 800 feet!

 

Is there a more 'boring-snoring' game than rugby?   If there is, please tell me about it so that I can avoid it.  I was forced to watch yesterday's 'Grand Slam decider' match between England and France because the 'Memsahib' insisted.  I think she finds all those massive steroidal biceps and thighs rather exciting and later on as we are changing for bed I catch her sneering at my skinny slim physique.  But, my God, what a bore the whole thing is and if I have to watch wrestling in mud then I'd much prefer it was topless ladies!

 

Oh no, the 'Yerdie-durbles' have let me down:   I may have mentioned before, not least because old men tend to repeat themselves, that I am hooked on BBC4's Saturday night thriller programmes, especially those produced by the 'Yerdie-durbles', that is, the Scandinavians who produced the superlative series "The Killing".  To be fair they have never quite matched that one but I remain faithful to the genre.  Last week was the final episode of a murder mystery set in the arse-end of Iceland.  To be frank, I didn't understand what the hell it was all about but I followed faithfully to the end mostly because of the horrid fascination of the setting.  If you are thinking of holidaying in Iceland I suggest you take your meds and retire to bed until the feeling passes away!  Anyway, last night's effort was from Denmark and it was pretty hopeless, convoluted plot to do with the windfarm business which is, apparently, big in Denmark.  All very unconvincing so I am left with the problem of what to talk about with the 'Memsahib' over the next few empty Saturday nights!

 

Poor old 'Dick 2':   Be warned, I am back in Shakespeare-mode so you can expect a steady stream of tedious posts on the subject of the late but not much lamented Richard II which I am working on as a possible production next year.  By coincidence, this week's 'Speccie' has a book review of a new biography of the rascal who saw off poor old 'Dick 2'.  The 'perp', of course, was that dreadful old bully, Bolingbroke, who having 'offed' Richard, became Henry IV and father to that great British hero, Henry V.  Er, he was a hero, wasn't he?  Oh no, say it ain't so!  Anyway, the review is worth reading and I think I will also buy the book. 

 

Better than House of Cards:   Not that I have watched House of Cards, mind, but on the subject of history, I am still working my way through  John Adamson's The Noble Revolt, his absolutely brilliant history of the aristocratic revolt against Charles I.  Talk about power politics, this has everything.  My admiration for the Earls of Warwick and Bedford is unbounded.  Mind you, if you buy it, which I recommend, then buy it for your Kindle because the bloody thing weighs a ton in book form!

 

'The Glorified Ground Pounders':  No sooner had I mentioned the appalling manners of the RAF in regularly throwing me out of the back of their 'planes than I came across a series of photos of members of the US 82nd Airborne suffering the same fate at the hands of the USAF.  Honestly, what is it with these 'Fly Boys'?

http://www.msn.com/en-gb/money/technology/19-stunning-images-of-us-paratroopers-doing-what-they-do-best/ss-BBq0qvs?ocid=spartandhp

 

Is anybody paying attention to China?   I ask because via Drudge I have just read a Fox News report that China has a secret 'space station' deep in the heart of the Patagonian region of Argentina.  It is run by the Chinese military who assure us that it is for the purposes of space exploration - yeeeeeeees, quite!  Still, the full-time golfer currently occupying the White House doesn't seem bothered so why should I?

 

Pheeeew, what a corker!   Just watched the penultimate episode of The Night Manager.  Tense isn't the word.  I'm exhausted - and I'm off to my bed.

 

No more rumbles today

 

The shrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeker has gone - hoorah!

I will let you into a little secret - once upon a time I used to play tennis!  Should you be wondering how good I was let me just say that it was about on par with my amateur acting talent - and as none of you have ever had the pleasure of watching me I can leave you to surmise what that amounts to.  However, I can give you a little hint, me and my regular playing partner, an old mate who could have drunk for Britain at the Olympics, were so slow that you could smoke a fag between shots!

Anyway, like most of you, I suppose, I have always had a soft spot for tennis as a sport and ever since the days of that lovely lady who made tennis history by wearing frilly knickers I have particularly enjoyed watching ladies' tennis - yes, I know, all very 'pervie' but I am by nature a dirty old man.  Well, I did enjoy it, up until the 'shriekers' and 'grunters' arrived.  And the epitome of the 'shriekers' is that ghastly Russian woman, Maria Sharapova who, I am delighted to say, appears likely to be banned from the sport for taking a banned substance.  It's all very unfortunate for her, I suppose, because after all she was only following the very, er, finest traditions of Russian sport!

Even so, silence is golden and on the tennis court it is essential, despite the fact that during my games more than a few expletives could be heard.

The Sunday Rumble: 6.3.16

VOTE LEAVE:   Just take a few minutes to watch this short film which offers you proof of the 'bleedin' obvious', that is, that you have been lied to over and over and over again:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRDsXPjg8XU

Then please read 'the other lady in my life', Ms. Janet Daley, who asks, in effect, who wants to be a member of a club that sends in the 'heavies' armed with baseball bats and uttering dire threats if you even contemplate leaving this, er, 'democratic' club?

 

The 'Hefferlump' warns 'HillBilly':   Most of the received opinion is that 'HillBilly' will sweep to power as a majority of the American public hold their noses and vote for her rather than the maniacal Donald Trump.  However, the 'Hefferlump' (aka: Simon Heffer of The Telegraph), will not have it so.  He thinks the deep unease, amounting to a fever, within the 'Great American Public' will sweep the 'machine pols' away and they will give 'The Donald' his chance!  It looks as though the Republican voters have just done that with the darling of the GOP hierarchy, Marco Rubio - 'whodathunkit' a few months ago?

 

Homage to Klee:   As you can see in the comments below, my old e-pal, Ortega, has kindly sent me a link to the note-books of the late and very great artist, Paul Klee.  That is all the nudge I need to publish another of his entrancing pictures:

 

Look out, Jezza, the Paras are coming:    An interesting report did the rounds last week suggesting that a multi-zillionaire had offered 'loadsa moolah' to Mr. Dan Jarvis, formerly a major in the Paras and currently a member of the parliamentary Labour party.  The aim of the exercise, we are led to believe, is to 'tool up' Mr. Jarvis for a fight with 'Jezza' and his Left-wing loonies for the leadership of the party.  Bring it on, Gentlemen, and I am prepared to hold your coats!

 

The lights are going out all over Britain:   Well, they will be unless this utterly useless, wet, Greenie government slams the brakes on its current energy policy, ignores all this carbon-fear craziness and starts to build new gas/coal fired power stations.  Is there anyone with more than three brain cells who seriously believes that windmills and waves will provide a reliable source of energy?  Christopher Booker spells it out in The Telegraph.

 

History repeats itself - again:   I have been 'Boring for Britain' recently on the subject of Charles I and his efforts to make 'law' by Royal prerogative.  What goes around comes around and so this from the ever excellent and watchful Café Hayek is instructive, particularly to my American readers:

The relevance of absolute power for administrative law became more clear when one realizes that Anglo-American law has a history of an extra- and supralegal power in what what known as the “prerogative.”  This was the name of the power claimed by the English kings, and it corresponds to the administrative power claimed by the president or under his authority.

Page 26 of Philip Hamburger’s learned, timely, and important 2014 book, Is Administrative Law Unlawful?

Also, there is some wry amusement to be had from the fact that the two noble ringleaders of the opposition to King Charles, the Earls of Bedford and Warwick, both contemplated moving lock, stock and aristocratic barrel to Massachusetts if they failed in their opposition to the King.  Back then, of course, 'His Majesty King Obama', another prince of the prerogative, was not around!

 

At least we have a new James Bond:   With Daniel Craig humming and hawing over whether or not he will play James Bond again, we can all rest easy because it is obvious after the first two episodes of The Night Manager that Mr. Tom Hiddleston, in the grey suit below, is the man!

Incidentally, I have restrained myself from going OTT on this absolutely superb series produced by the BBC based on John le Carré's novel.  Suffice to say that it is excellent and if you have missed the first episodes then get busy on your 'catch-up-thingies' because it is not to be missed.  If you live 'over there' or 'down under there' then watch out for it!  In particular, look for Hugh Laurie playing the only film villain who has ever really frightened me!  What is it about these Old Etonians that makes so many of them brilliant actors?  Dunno, better ask Dave, I suppose! 

 

Simply too, too delicious - I can't wait:   As you regulars will know, I have been a subscriber to The London Spectator for decades but perhaps what I have not made clear is that I used to be an equally enthusiastic subscriber to The American Spectator (TAS)) especially when it was under the leadership of R. Emmett Tyrrell, Jnr.  Having shuffled into the 21st century I now read it fairly regularly on the internet.  I also remember a ferocious attack-dog of a reporter for TAS who used to regularly sink his fangs into leading members of the Democrat party, especially, the Clintons.  His name was David Brock.  Then something happened, I know not what, but he went all soft and soppy in the middle and became a supporter of the Democrat party.  According to an amusing but sharp article in the TAS by Mr. Tyrrell, it all started when he got up close and personal to 'HillBilly' during research into what should have been an attack article.  Suddenly his fangs went limp!  Shortly there-after he left TAS and joined the rolling money wagons of the Left.  However, the TAS still have the original research which they intend to reprint month after month in the coming election.  The re-action of Media Matters (sole prop: David Brock) will be, well, simply too, too delicious!

 

Rugby - a real man's game:   Or at least, I thought it was:

 

That's my lot for today!

 

No more rumbles

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 17.1.16

Don't ever feel faint in Arkansas:  As you know, my spies are everywhere in 'Arkieland' and so it did not take long for me to find out that an action for damages has been filed in the Sharp County Court by the family of a gentleman who was pronounced dead despite the doubts of the coroner.  The unfortunate gentleman was shipped off to the undertakers and was about to be embalmed when it was discovered that he had a pulse rate of 30 beats a minute!  Alas, he died - no, really, really died - the next day.  Anyway, it serves to remind you of my oft-repeated wisdom that 'timing, as in sex and drumming and, er, death, is everything!'

And reports of my death are exaggerated:   Mind you, I have felt like death warmed up ever since New Year's Day.  My 'Man Flu' developed into a chest infection and I could have hawked and spat for Britain at the Olympics if asked.  Today there are definite signs of improvement and I have asked the 'Memsahib' to delay the embalming!

It's that creepy coincidence thing - again:  Apropos my earlier tale, the Memsahib, lying in bed reading a book - as is her wont - read me this extract from The Children Act by Ian McKewan.  Two lawyers meet and one says to the other:

"I read a wonderful little exchange in Stephen Sedley's new book.  Just your thing.  It's from a Massachusetts trial.  A rather insistent cross examiner asks a pathologist whether he can be absolutely sure that a certain patient was dead before he began the autopsy.  The pathologist says he's absolutely certain.  Oh, how can you be so sure?  Because, the pathologist says, his brain was in a jar sitting on my desk.  But, says the cross examiner, could the patient have been alive nonetheless?  Well, comes the answer, it's possible he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere."

 

Someone tell the BoE and the Fed Reserve:   I came across this quote the other day which just about says it all:

“There is no means of avoiding the final collapse of a boom brought about by credit expansion. The alternative is only whether the crisis should come sooner as the result of a voluntary abandonment of further credit expansion, or later as a final and total catastrophe of the currency system involved.” ~ Ludwig Von Mises

 

Why can't women cut their hair?   I grump about this because I am fed up with women on TV who constantly nod their heads to shake back the hair from their faces.  They all look as though they're suffering either with a nervous tick or a version of St. Vitus Dance.  I have just had my hair cut, No.2 all over which took all of 53 seconds and cost me £7.

 

Brilliant thinking, 'Jezza':   So 'Jezza', a life-long supporter of CND, wants to get rid of our nuclear submarines.  Alas for him, the majority of his MPs, and more important to him, most of the Trade Unions want them to be replaced with new boats and missiles.  'Jezza', along with his polit-bureau, thought long and hard on this ticklish problem and came up with a brilliant solution - yes, we'll have new, multi-zillion pound submarines but we will not put any nukes on them!  'Whodathunkit'?

 

She's back, thank God!   Who, you may ask, and I will reply with just her name because that is all that is required - Anna Raccoon.

 

A poke in the eye for Peking:   You Taiwanese are velly, velly naughty!  How dare you go against the wishes of the Chinese polit-bureau and vote into office a new Prime Minister and ruling party who are Taiwanese nationalists who wishes to maintain a healthy distance between themselves and the over-reaching Chinese.  And they did it with a huge majority!  Unfortunately, for reasons beyond my ken, she and her party will not take over government until May - so expect yet more trouble in the South China Sea in the next few months.

 

The lost keys to paradise:   I can't remember the number of times I have lost the keys to the car or to the front door but this Italian lady has set a new record by losing the key to her chastity belt!  According to The Telegraph she turned up at her local Fire Station and after explaining the embarrassing situation, asked the duty firemen to help release her.  Apparently, it was a good, old-fashioned iron chastity belt and the firemen were able to set her free.  Enquiries were made to see if she had been forced to wear it by someone else but apparently not.  Somehow, one feels, there is more to this story  . . .

 

Oh dear what a pity never mind:   Apparently, Russian oligarchs have lost $11bn in the last ten days.

 Roman Abramovich is estimated to have lost $820m since the start of the year Photo: GETTY IMAGES

And his zillion-pound 'footie' team, Chelsea, couldn't win a match against the Girl Guides.  Honestly, I think someone should organise a collection!

 

No more rumbles today

 

Don't say I didn't tell you!

It's very rare for this distinguished blog to get something right so you will forgive me if I wallow a little in self-righteousness today.  For years I have summed up the Olympic games with the rhetorical question - 'Can our drug addicts beat their drug addicts?'  Of course, that is a gross calumny on the very many clean athletes who gallantly lose to the testosterone-fuelled cheats who steam past them but, hey, everyone 'knows' so why didn't they take up knitting or some other hobby?

Anyway, the investigatory report has been made public and, I'm sure you will be surprised-not, it is now clear that the entire Russian Olympic effort from top to bottom, that is, from the government itself down to the individual athletes were complicit in forcing their athletes to snuffle more drugs than a black tenement in Chicago!  The recommendation is that the Russians be booted out of all international athletics forthwith.  The London Olympics were soiled and "sabotaged" by Russian cheating.  Given that they cost me and you quite a few quid, perhaps Dave should try suing the Russian Federation - don't hold your breath!

Of course, 'the great drug-hazed elephants in the stadium' are all those other countries who were not investigated - and I do not exclude my own country.  Instead of just banning Russia, the authorities should simply postpone the Brazil Olympics for at least two years (I suspect that financially the Brazilians would be much relieved!) whilst further detailed inspections are conducted in other countries.  Kenya would be a good start!

What a total fester-pot track and field athletics has descended to from its once high plinth as the purest form of sport.

 

 

How dare The Telegraph defy me!

I'm shocked, I tell you, shocked that no sooner do I write an elegant post in praise of a true blue, er, well, black, actually, British sporting hero endowed with splendidly eccentric characteristics - I refer to Mr. Lewis Hamilton, see two posts below - than some dandruff-ridden oik scribbling for 'Her Majesty's Daily Telegraph' has the temerity to disagree with me!  Yes, I know, unbelievable!  His name is Callum Davis and he wears a beard - yeeeees, quite so, as my old boss in army counter-intelligence used to say, tapping his nose, never trust a fella' with a beard!

However, the irony is that Mr. Davis, after carefully loading his pen prior to his assassination effort, then shoots himself in the foot by writing an article that makes me admire Lewis Hamilton even more than I did before.  It is now quite clear that any other sporting 'heroes' should watch out if ever Mr. Davis decides to praise them!

 

 

Jolly good show, Lewis, awfully well done!

By and large, taken in the round and weighing it all up, I loathe most champion 'hearties'.   Yes, of course, you are right that this stems from a secretly nurtured jealousy on my part but even so just ask yourself this, would you really look forward to dinner with a world champion in almost anything?  To be fair, I hardly follow any sports these days so yet again 'I know not where-of I scribble', so no change there, then!

Even so, I still retain a certain interest in F1 racing and I have enjoyed watching Lewis Hamilton's race to the top, not once, not twice, but thrice!  As a driver he is simply superb but what I also like about him is his persona, if I may call it that.  Gradually, over the years, he has developed into a genuine English eccentric.  Every time I catch a glimpse of him outside the race track he looks like a cross between Coco the Clown and one of those dummies in a shop window where the dressers have only half-finished changing the outfit.  Like a true eccentric, he sails through this with a complete lack of self-awareness.

Of course, we can never be party to the, er, 'conversations' that go on in the privacy of the pit garage and no doubt from time to time Lewis has indulged in 'handbags at dawn' but by and large, in public, he is always polite, pleasant and generous to friend and foe alike.  I think he is a very worthy triple champion and I wouldn't mind having dinner with him, er, especially if he sent over his private jet to whisk me off to California! 

 

The (late) Sunday Rumble: 25.10.15

Mea Culpa:   Yes, I'm sorry to be late today and my excuse is a mixture of 'Good News' and 'Bad News'.  The 'Bad News' is that I have been a bit under the weather recently such that I have no longer been able to boast/bore about my habit of hitting the swimming pool five days a week at 7.00 am - you may have noticed an unusual reticence on my part!  However, the 'Good news' is that the 'quacks' have put me on some new meds and as by coincidence we all get an extra hour in bed today, and as I feel a lot better, I decided to take the plunge.  Needless to say, most of the rest of the morning was spent recovering snoozing in bed.  This was followed by a stonking great lunch at The Tippling Philosopher pub and so I thought it best to get something down in writing before I snooze off again!

 

The war game gets, er, war-like:   Odd little story in The Telegraph this morning bringing news of an outbreak of warfare inside the 'high command' of the English Chess Federation.  Apparently one English Grand Master has defected - oh my Gaaaard! -  to the Welsh Chess Federation!  Was this, one wonders, a big mistake or perhaps a deeply cunning ploy?  Chess analysts are working on it.

 

It's 'Fuck the Frogs' year this year:   Apologies for the crude sub-title, I will explain.  Today ...

... gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day ...

because, of course, today is the 600th anniversary of the quite incredible battle of Agincourt when a small, sick, lame and halt English army (with a goodly number of Welshmen, too) literally slaughtered an enormous French army.  And, of course, as you know because I have reminded you(!), this year also saw the 200th anniversary of Waterloo.  No wonder the Frogs detest us!

 

The not quite so Secret Service:   A fascinating piece in The Telegraph, to be screened on BBC on Monday evening, by Frank Gardner, the BBC's Security Correspondent.  He obtained a sanctioned interview with two MI6 officers, one male, one female.  Of course, in the nature of such a thing it leaves more questions unanswered than otherwise but even so it provides a fascinating glimpse.  What is of great comfort to me as a died-in-the-wool traditionalist is that the head of MI6 is still referred to as 'C' and is still the only person allowed to sign letters in green ink.  Of course, whether or not they produce intelligence any more accurate than the tosh provided to Blair prior to Iraq is anybody's guess.  (Psssst!  Don't tell anyone but this is a photo of their HQ and if you slip me a few quid I'll tell you where it is!  Waddya mean, ya know already!)

 

 

"Blow the wind southerly":   Or northerly, or any direction you like, really, because it's an ill wind that doesn't blow the hot air emanating from the media back into their silly, alarmist faces.  I have more or less lost interest in global warming and all that jazz because it is now perfectly clear that the whole thing was a Leftie put-up job.  Hence, I don't visit the excellent 'Watts Up With That' site so often these days.  So I nearly missed a follow-up to all the alarmist rubbish concerning 'Hurricane Patricia' which was supposed to herald the end of Mexico but which ended up more like a wet fart.  However, what was interesting on the site was an anniversary that you will not see celebrated by 'Green War', Al Gore and their like. Yesterday, 24th October, was the 10th anniversary, or if you prefer, 3652 days (including leap years), since America was hit by a category 3 or higher hurricane.  Whodathunkit?

 

    No more rumbles tonight

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 4.10.15

It's all the 'Memsahib's fault:   Yesterday was my wedding anniversary - yes, 51 years before the mast - God, I deserve a medal! - and so I took the 'Memsahib' over to the Poole Lighthouse Theatre to see a performance of an early Alan Ayckbourn play.  His earlier plays tend to be very similar, being witty but ruthless dissections of middle-class marriage - so right for a wedding anniversary!  I am a huge fan of Ayckbourn but, alas, we left at the interval of this disastrous production.  I won't bore you with the details but this is the second theatrical production we have failed to sit through in its entirety - regulars may remember the callous 'murder' of Stoppard's masterpiece, "Arcadia" about which I spat blood and nails all over these distinguished columns.  So two theatrical disasters in a row indicates to me that 'someone is to blame'!  Obviously it can't be me so that leaves the 'Memsahib'.  In a couple of weeks we are off to see Rattigan's "Flare Path", an absolute diamond of a play which I once had the great privilege of directing.  If this forthcoming production turns out to be a stinker, too, then I will know who to blame and henceforth the 'Memsahib' will be left at home!

 

The 'splitters' will just have to, er, split:   The 'Hefferlump' in today's Telegraph points out that even a total roasting of Labour at next year's Scottish and local elections may not be sufficient to unseat 'Jezza'.  Under the dim, dumb and daft rules introduced by that intellectual genius, Ed 'Milipede', the 'Dave Spart Tendency' who now form the majority of the Labour party membership will support him to the death - and they have the numbers!  Slowly, it will dawn on the, er, normal members of the Labour party, particularly the MPs, that their only option is to split away and form a new party, either on their own or in cahoots with the Lib-Dems or even the Left-wing of the Tory party.

 

Thank God I have my own Professor to teach me:   You may have noticed a distinct lack of posts around here on the Middle East imbroglio in general, and the Russian intervention in particular.  The explanation is simple - I haven't a clue!  And where-of I know nothing I try, not always successfully, to say nothing.  At those moments I reach for my very own Streetwise Professor who has a proper brain and explains everything with absolute clarity:

1:  Russia is intervening to save Assad from imminent defeat, and to protect its ports in Syria.

2:  Isis is not the most immediate threat to either Assad or the Russian facilities.

3:  Therefore, Russia will focus on non-Isis targets, while claiming to be fighting Isis.

There you are, The Streetwise Professor, everybody should have one!  If you're not convinced, read this masterly summary:

There are no good guys in Syria. Stop pretending there are: there is considerable reason to doubt there ever were. And any differences between Isis and the non-Isis Islamists the Russians are bombing are trivial. They do all pretty much look (and act) alike. And what’s more, pretty much everyone in the West looks the same to them: they all think your head would look just splendid mounted on a spike in the front yard.

 

Ben - who for President?    When Gov. Scott Walker fell victim to DES (Duff Endorsement Syndrome) in which any candidate enthusiastically endorsed by yours truly almost always comes a cropper, I decided to treat the forthcoming Presidential election with its 178 (at the last count) candidates the same way I treat the Middle East - ignore it on the basis of my ignorance!  But today I notice a report in the IJ Review claiming that far from 'The Donald' romping away with the GOP nomination, it is actually Dr. Ben Carson who is leading the race - and by a fairly decent margin, too!  Also, it is claimed that based on actual results in elections since 2004, this particular polling organisation, IBD/TIPP, consistently came out on top for the accuracy of its predictions.  Better start checking out this man who has one considerable advantage - he has never been a member of Congress which means that he can come into your house without being having to remove his shoes!

 

At last the dirty secret is oozing out:   For some time now I have insisted on my belief that rugby is a dirty, drug-ridden game.  There is no way, in my opinion, that some of those huge, bulging hulks could have reached the size they have without a little help from a laboratory or two!  Today, on the radio, I understand there was an investigative programme on the subject.  Truth will out!

 

 

No more rumbles today

 

There is a God and, lo, He hath just blattered Blatter

Be honest, there's nothing quite like a nice cup of schadenfreude to start your day, particularly when the recipient of the equivalent of a bucket of cold sick over the head is the repellent Herr Sepp Blatter, the man who has reduced the reputation of FIFA to only a fraction above that of the mafia - well, so far at least, because they don't appear to have fed anyone to the fishes - yet!

Here is the ghastly little scrote clasping hands with Michel Platini, the boss of European football and a man who now has a few questions to answer himself concerning the bung payment of £1.3 million for, er, services not yet explained!  I bet they both counted their fingers carefully after that handshake!  Now, if God is reading this - and why wouldn't He? - then He has only one more task to complete in order to ensure my conversion and thus my regular attendance at St. John's church just across the way.  That task is to disqualify both the Qatari and Russian bids for the next two world cups.  At that point my cup will overfloweth with happiness!

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 20.9.15

So 'Jezza's just like the rest of them after all:   We all sneer and jibe at politicians whose stance on any given subject is utterly dependent on the prevailing political wind but there were those - suckers! - who thought that 'Jezza' and his best two-faced mate, John McDonnell, would usher in a new, principled politics in which stout-hearted Members of Parliament would mean what they say and stand by it.  So, far the pair of them have been attempting to ride a 'bicycle built for two' backwards, as they try desperately to unsay what they said before but with a nod and wink to their comrades to let them know they don't really mean it.  Sooner or later this despicable pair will pedal off a cliff backwards - someone on the radio this morning gives 'Jezza' three years max!

 

So farewell then, you cantankerous old queen:   Yes, today we bid farewell to Brian Sewell, a man who could have played a panto Duchess without any rehearsals!  However, beneath all that 'queenery' there was a tremendously academic brain on all matters pertaining to classical art.  He really did know where-of he wrote and when he wrote about modern 'conceptual' (so-called) 'art' he was as deadly as he was accurate.  Here are just a few of them from The Mail: 

ON TRACEY EMIN ‘Art’s Jade Goody – a cunning exploitation of ignorance, irascible emotion and raw sex to draw attention to herself.’ 

ON GRAYSON PERRY ‘His pottery is ‘vulgar… most of his pottery could be intriguingly subversive if converted into table lamps.’ 

ON DAMIEN HIRST ‘To own a Hirst is to tell the world that your bathroom taps are gilded and your Rolls-Royce is pink.’ 

ON ANISH KAPOOR ‘When he puts some wonky Meccano structure up at the expense of £16 million for the Olympics, that’s a joke, that isn’t art.’ 

ON ALL FOUR ‘Tracey Emin and Grayson Perry and Damien Hirst and Anish Kapoor and whoever else really deserve every cruelty because it’s the only way. They are so accustomed to being told how wonderful they are and somehow it’s impossible to get through the complacency that is engendered by that.’ 

ON CHRIS OFILI ‘Spurious rubbish, most of it.’ 

ON BANKSY ‘He is a complete clown and what he does has absolutely nothing to do with art.’ 

ON WOMEN ‘There has never been a first-rank woman artist.’

Spot on, 'Dame' Brian, I shall miss you.

 

A quotation: discuss amongst yourselves:   The following quote from somebody called 'the Inkslinger' was sent to me.  I am in the middle of preparing around thirty little 'nibblies' for a neighbour who has invited us and others round for lunch.  I'm a crap cook but my 'nibblies' are to die for - and I do the jokes round here, Andra!  Anyway, I am just removing the pin before lobbing this into the blog: 

"Families need feminism like a head needs a bullet hole." 

 

Oooh, what a spanker!    Well, I suppose that if you are a preacher then you must have a way with words but if you are a preacher who looks like this:

but you can still convince seven women to strip off and be spanked over your knee, as Howard Curtis, 72, a former senior minister of the Coulsdon Christian Fellowship, managed to do, then you are an orator of hellfire proportions.  Of course, Mr.Curtis vigorously denies the charges but were it me I would be rather proud of my achievement - er, not that I'm into spanking, you understand, too much like hard work!

 

The Holy Month of Ruggerdan:   Yes indeed, everything will come to a halt over the next month as the High Priests of Ruggerdan, or, 'Rugger Buggers' as they are usually known, take over the news and the TV schedules as they conduct their peculiar rights using men who look like escapees from The Munsters.  Their worshippers, of course, are total loonies like this man here:

A fanatical 'Rugger Bugger' who actually cycled - repeat cycled! - all the way from 'Seth Efrica', a journey of nearly 28,000 miles, in order to watch his team - lose to Japan!  I trust that none of the well-bred, polite patrons of this distinguished blog actually giggled.  Me?  I fell off my chair howling with laughter!

  

    No more rumbles today

 

The Sunday Rumble: 30.8.15

Is Obama the most malignant president of the USA - ever?   I would hesitantly suggest the answer is 'yes' but the only reason for my slight hesitancy is my lack of knowledge of the many other presidents who preceeded him.  I chose the word "malignant" with due care because in medical terms it indicates a process that usually leads to death.  There is no doubt in my mind today that America is a very sick entity indeed!  The one thing that a black president could have done over two terms is to improve black/white relations.  Obama has done the exact opposite and instead has reduced inter-racial relationships in the big cities to an almost war-like status.  Gee, thanks, Mr. President - not!

 

Watch the BBC peanut:  Yet another example of BS baffles brains but not, thankfully, the brains of Christopher Booker in The Telegraph.  We all cheered when we heard that the Met Office had lost its contract to supply weather forecasts to the BBC but now we learn that whoever takes over will have to use Met Office data anyway!  This data come from a huge variety of sources:

ranging from its 330 UK weather stations and 16 weather radars to information from 300 ships, airliners etc, providing 106 million weather observations a day.

So with all that basic intelligence how does the Met Office get it so wrong over and over again.  The answer is simple, according to Booker:

But the chief reason why the Met Office has been getting so many forecasts spectacularly wrong, as reported here ad nauseam, is that all its short, medium and long-term forecasts ultimately derive from the same huge computer model, which is programmed to believe in manmade global warming. Hence the fun we’ve all had with those “barbecue summers” when rain never stopped, and “warmer than average” winters, which promptly saw Britain freezing under piles of snow.

So now you know not to expect much in the way of accuracy from whoever takes over.

 

See, I've been telling the 'Memsahib' that for years:   But still she moans and nags when I totter off for a mid-morning nap followed after lunch by a mid-afternoon nap. But now "truth will out and shame the devil" because 'researchers' - yes, those ubiquitous 'researchers'! - have shown that a nap a day could save your life. 

Apparently, it slows your heartbeat, lowers your blood pressure and you wake up feeling really, really pleased with yourself.  What's not to like?  So, as it's nearly 10.30am I think I'll just slope off and have a quick nap!

 

Good job I'm not one of them:   I have been reading reports about ten American 'wannabe' astronauts who have volunteered to spend a year inside a totally sealed dome with recycled air and processed food in order to test what it will be like for those who may eventually go to Mars.  All I can say is that it's a good job I'm not one of them because in a year's time when they open the doors there will only be me left!  I don't 'do' sociability and I will almost certainly murder them all.  On second thoughts, of course, they might murder me!  And on third thoughts which are slightly more realistic, as there are ladies going inside with the chaps, will there be, say, eleven of them coming out in a year's time?  Jest askin'!

 

Machiavelli funny? Of course he was!   I came across an interesting if somewhat learn-ed article that posed the question as to whether or not Machiavelli was funny.  Apparently he wrote a play that was a sort of 'Carry On Up the Boudoir' farce which, from the description doesn't sound very funny to me.  However, I can tell you that his serious books, especially The Prince is an absolute hoot.  He really tells it the way it is and at times he is so shockingly honest that all you can do is laugh.  If you have any more holiday time left, I recommend slipping a slim paperback edition of The Prince into your suitcase.

 

Total, utter gobbledegook:  A new language has evolved.  It appears to have its roots in the language of the Kalahari tribesmen who communicate with a series of clicks and grunts. However, it has also been heavily influenced by 'grunt-futtocks English' as used by footie fans.  The main practitioners of this indecipherable language are these four men:

          

  Portugese prat                        Dutch prat                 French prat             Kalahari wise man

If you are not an English footie fan or a student of Southern African tribes you will not know what on earth I am on about which is exactly how I feel when any of those three prats come on my TV and try to explain why their multi-zillion pound footie players can barely kick a ball! 

 

No more rumbles today

 

The Sunday Rumble: 9.8.15

Corbyn is no joke:  The British, well, the English mainly, have a soft spot for eccentrics and they don't come much more eccentric than Jeremy Corbyn MP, the man tipped to become the next leader of the Labour party, Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition!

I would suggest to the massed ranks of the juveniles who adore him, and the Tory prats who might well under-estimate him, that Corbyn, far from being a political clown is actually a political menace.  Regular readers will know that I like my politicians to indicate to us the main imperatives of their underlying ideology.  Corbyn, to his credit does that in spades!  He is an out-and-out Marxist-Trot who will take the main engines of the British economy under state control and, in effect, hand them over to the trade unions.  In addition, he will cuddle up to any evil 'groupuscles' who use murder as a means of achieving their ends.  Again, he makes no effort to hide his sympathies.  For such a man to run a main political party is bad enough but for him to run the country might occasion my departure for Australia.  I'm sure Andra would welcome me!

 

I am writing this whilst biting on my hankie!   Last Thursday morning you may remember that I was in a bit of a grump - oh, alright then, a rage - with that stupid woman who thinks Shakespeare got Hamlet all wrong!  I went off to do some shopping, an activity guaranteed to make me even grumpier, and returned just before lunch.  As usual, my kitchen TV, which is a bit on the titchy side, was on Sky News with the sound off and so I took a quick glance at the 'ticker-tape' and saw what I thought was "Australia all out for 60".  And no, I didn't drop the shopping and break all the eggs, I just thought to myself that I really must go to Specsavers, but then the tape came round again - and that was when I dropped the shopping!  It was true!  And by Sat morning the game was over and we had won back the Ashes.  So today I am writing this with a hankie stuffed in my mouth to stop me shrieking with joy!

 

An excellent beach read:   I have just finished An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris.  To give you a clue I will drop a name - Dreyfus!  Ah yes, I hear you mutter, know the name, Frog, wasn't he, sent to Devils Island, years later found not guilty.  Well, yes, and that was about as much as I knew about him until I read Mr. Harris's book.  This is fiction but very, very closely entwined with historical accuracy.  Like most of his books it is an excellent read even if the body count - always so important to a pulp fiction thug like me - is on the low side, er, nil, to be exact.  However, it is an excellent means of imbibing history and Harris makes it easy and understandable.  His assessment of the moral corruption in the French military is sickening.  Buy the book, and if you have already taken your holiday, then take another!

 

Hayek vs. Keynes:  The referee is John Gray and the 'fight' takes place at The New Statesman.  It's a long contest and it soon becomes clear that the 'ref' is definitely on the side of Keynes!  Even so, it's worth reading because Hayek and Keynes were giants amongst the minnows in 20th century political philosophy.

 

No more rumbles today

 

 

The Sunday Rumble: 26.7.15

'Nippon not No. 1':  In so far as I ever think about the Japanese, I lazily reach for the stereotype of a highly disciplined people trained to do exactly what they're told.  Well, according to a story at Zero Hedge, the 'natives are revolting'!  Apparently Prime Minister Abe and his magical economic theory 'Abenomics' (prop. Goldman Sachs - yeeeeees, quite) are working well for those with huge investments because it keeps the stock exchange on a high but, alas, for poor old 'Sukka Noodle' at the other end of the financial scale, times are hard.  On top of that, Abe's government is steam-rolling through a change to the post-war constitution which will lift the post-WWII law restricting Japanese armed forces to self-defence only.  Given the proximity of a mighty China just across a sea that the Chinese are claiming as their own, you can understand Abe's concerns.  But the 'People' (dread word!) 'no likee' and they are demonstrating in huge numbers.  Of course, this could just be the 'usual suspects' from the Japanese branch of the 'International Corbyn-Castro Collective' but according to the story Prime Minister Abe needs to have a care.  And 'Ol' Big Ears' needs to watch out, too, because if the Left push Abe out and then decide to cuddle up to China that will change the entire geo-strategic outlook for the Pacific.  (Are you reading this, Australia?)

 

Booker deserves his bit of triumphalism:  For years, nay, decades, Christopher Booker has been blowing raspberries and, as per the late Auberon Waugh, shouting, "Show us your willy" at all the silly 'Warmers' and their ludicrous political non-science.  Needless to say, throughout he has been subject to heavy 'incoming'.  So today he has, and deserves to have, a bit of a triumph.  In today's Telegraph he reports, with some understandable relish, that:

Two events last week brought yet further twists to one of the longest-running farces of our modern world. One was the revelation by the European Space Agency that in 2013 and 2014, after years when the volume of Arctic ice had been diminishing, it increased again by as much as 33 per cent[my emphasis]. The other was that Canadian scientists studying the effect of climate change on Arctic ice from an icebreaker had to suspend their research, when their vessel was called to the aid of other ships trapped in the thickest summer ice seen in Hudson Bay for 20 years.

And his list of similar clown-like prat-falls by sundry Greenies must surely be the stuff of a new TV comedy series:

So taken in had others been by all these dire predictions, that in 2008 the activist Gordon Lewis Pugh, after speaking at a conference alongside Al Gore, set out to paddle a kayak to the North Pole – only to have to abort his trip after a few days because “the ice was too thick”. In 2009, the three-man Caitlin expedition, sponsored by a “climate risk” insurance company, and backed by the BBC and the Prince of Wales, set out to walk to the North Pole. Their intention was to measure the thickness of the vanishing ice with an electronic instrument, but it froze so hard that they had to resort to a tape measure. Again, after a few weeks, they had to be airlifted back to a rescue ship because the constantly shifting ice was “too thick”.

In December 2013, the world followed agog the plight of yet another “scientific expedition”, when 52 climate activists, accompanied by reporters from the BBC and the Guardian, sailed into the Antarctic to measure the effects of global warming on its sea-ice. By Christmas their ship was so dangerously trapped by thick, multi-year ice that they had to be helicoptered to a Chinese ship 10 miles away, which itself then got so trapped in ice that they had to be airlifted again to two other ships even further away. 

Oh my giddy aunt, no more, please, no more, my sides are splitting.  Well done, Booker, if anyone deserves a baronetcy it's you.

 

Kiddie-winkies, don'cha hate 'em?   Well, I don't, er, not all of them and not all the time, just most of them most of the time!  No, that's not true, either.  So long as they comply with the two statutes contained in Duff's Law, that they keep still and keep quiet, then I quite like them.  I may be repeating myself here (what again?) but a few weeks ago there was an embarrassing episode at lunchtime in a local restaurant when a little kiddie-winkie kept screaming every three minutes - you could have set your watch by him.  Anyway, in due course, yours truly stood up and bellowed across the dining-room telling the parents either to shut it up or move it out.  I said this was embarrassing but not to me, only to the Memsahib and our friends!  I am reminded of all this by an article in the IJ Review in which a similar eruption occurred 'over there' and made national news.  However, the reporter goes on to feature another version of the 'screaming kiddie-winkie syndrome' in which a family with three children entered a restaurant  and the 'titch' went off on one at which point Mum heaved him out of his high chair and took him outside.  This happened for a second time and so Dad took him outside again.  Mum asked for the check but was told that it had already been paid by another customer who was impressed with her way of dealing with the brat.  This reminded me of a personal experience whilst enjoying a lunch in a coffee bar and a man came in on his own with not one, not two but three boys of double-trouble, urchin age.  Their behaviour was impeccable and whilst I didn't pay for their lunch I did pause on the way out to congratulate the Dad on his children's behaviour.  See, sometimes I can do 'nice'!

 

Jolly good show, you can always rely on an Aussie:  As you know 'games', by which I mean the sort of thing 'hearties' go in for, are not high on my list of priorities.  However, I do still keep some residue of enthusiasm for Grand Prix racing.  I was delighted today to see one of the best races for some time.  I was double delighted to see an Aussie driver take out that Finnish-Monacan-German sulk, Nico Rosberg, in the last few laps.  It's the sort of thing Aussies do so awfully well!  By doing so, he allowed our frightfully decent, British chap, Lewis Hamilton, to score some points even though he was down the field and thus extend his lead over the afore-mentioned Nico Sulk.  God Bless Australia!

 

The 'Kiddie-Winkies Kollective' kould win! Sorry, sorry, I kouldn't  couldn't resist the alliteration.  What I mean is that it appears to be the kiddie-winkies who are rushing to join the Labour party and vote for Comrade Corbyn.  I have remarked before on the 'juvenilation' of British (and American) politics since the ridiculous notion of lowering the voting age was agreed.  The juveniles are joined - and encouraged - by many older, more cynical realists from the old Communist party and Militant Tendency - remember them?  Thought the Labour party had smashed them back in the '80s, did you?  Then think again, they're still around and they could capture the Labour party if 'Karl' Corbyn wins the leadership.  That would be a disaster for everyone but the prospect does contain one gleam of gold.  There are already mutterings from the Left for the Labour party to swing against the EU in the forthcoming referendum.  That, as they say, could very interesting!

 

Emperor Obama scores another one:   And so, slowly but surely, the American constitution is tipped on its arse and more and more power moves to the White House and away from the Congress.

'The Cousins', given their history of malfeasance by government departments, have a system where-by Congress can appoint Inspector Generals with powers to enter and search all documents, paper or computer based, if there is suspicion of wrong doing.  Not any more!  The emperor has spoken, or his satraps have, and from now on the Inspector Generals Corporals will have to ask permission of the Cabinet minister concerned first!  The Conservative Treehouse sums it up in pictures:

 

 

No more rumbles today  

 

First it was endless 'plink-plonk', now it's 'tippy-tappy-putt-putt'!

A few days ago I was moaning about the endless 'plink-plonk' showing on my TV screen as the entire country came to a halt for Wimbledon.  No sooner was that gone, along with 'grunt-grumble' Murray, than we're now into non-stop 'tippy-tappy-putt-putt' from somewhere north of the border.  I gather this particular location is the premier golf course in the entire world.  Well, I can tell you now, having gazed at it for two days, it has to be the most boring bit of Jock countryside you could ever wish to avoid.  It's as flat as a witch's tit and you can see miles and miles and miles of endlessly boring Jock countryside.  The course itself is covered in a thousand and one little hillocks and is regularly swept by gale-force winds which change direction every hour on the hour. Thus, the result of the game is a total lottery!

Of course, 'back in the day', the golfers indulged their eccentricities by dressing up for pantos, wearing ghastly, loud check-trousers, hideous shirts covered, occasionally, by even more hideous sweaters and that at least provided us all with some good belly laughs as we realised what appalling taste they had.  But today, under the iron grip of their sponsors, they all dress more or less the same in grey/blue/black track suit uniforms of the sort you see chaps wearing down the gym - or in jail!

That's not to say that there hasn't been some amusement to be derived from this eye-stabbingly tedious 'game'.  There has been the sight of the great Tiger Woods being well and truly out-played by amateurs - too, too delicious!  Then there was Sir Nick Faldo - 'Sir'!  What's he ever done to deserve a 'Sir-hood' when a Great Man of the Theatre such as myself who has electrified audiences the length and breadth of, er, well, Twickenham passes unrewarded by Her Maj?  Where was I?  Oh yes, poor old Faldo being driven up and down the course in a little buggy because he'd lost his balls - or something like that!

I realise I may have ruined several old friendships with mates who live and breathe 'tippy-tappy-putt-putt' and I'm sorry but, honestly, there's only so much one can put up with.  Thank God it only lasts four days! 

 

Who will rid me of this never-ending plink-plonk?

God, Wimbledon fortnight is 13 days too long!  I have mentioned before my hatred for all hearties, well, with one or two, or maybe three, exceptions but these 'plink-plonk' merchants drive me up the wall.  My normally serene, even temper - did you say something? - is tested to the limit not least by the fact that the 'Memsahib' has Wimbledon running on both of our TV sets so there is no escape.  Still, at least I can sit in one room with the sound turned off and thus escape the shrieks from the so-called ladies and the grunts from the, er, well, 'grunts'!  Of course, one or two of the 'gels' are rather attractive but do remind me not to make a pass at Miss Sharipova, I dread to think what she sounds like at, if I may put it delicately, a climactic moment which, naturally, she would quickly reach in my arms - look, if you're going to keep interrupting!

Then, dread thought, there is the 'MacMurray' phenomenon!

 

          

               Judy Murray                                                        Andy Murray

Look, I'm sure if you met him you would find him to be a dear, sweet, wee bairn and it is just an unfortunate defect of birth that he has a mouth the size of the Channel tunnel.  Can't think where it came from.  Anyway, none of that would matter if he would just stop issuing forth from it a series of incomprehensible Jock grunts and mumbles.

Oh Lord, the ladies' final is about to start so I think I'll just slip out and do some gardening!

 

A quick ramble

OK, this time I really am back in business after my peregrinations. Alas, I don’t have a well-crafted essay to offer you explaining, say, the political situation in South East Asia, so instead this will be a rambling meander through various topics that (sort of) interest me.

First, I thought I should announce my candidature for the job of POTUS.  Well, everyone and his uncle seem to be eager to join the fray so why not me?  I realise, of course, that I am only a third-rater but most of the others are fourth, fifth or even tenth-raters.  You may wonder what principles I am standing for, so let me tell you that I am standing for me, that’s me as in me, me, ME!  Most of my opponents are standing for the same but they haven’t the guts to say so!  Some of my picky American friends might complain that I am disqualified because I am a Brit.  Nonsense, of course, the White House is in desperate need of a bit of class and an elderly British gent like me would be perfect.

Second, we can all look forward to the new TV series, “FIFA is fucked!”  ‘This one will run and run’ and a ten-box DVD pack can be expected at the end.  Everyone is looking forward to the last scene in which Sepp Blatter is seen in his yellow prison suit shuffling with his shackled ankles through the main gate of the biggest, hardest prison in America.  There’s nothing I like better than a good hearty laugh!

Alas, the Greek tragedy, like its ancient, classical predecessors, seems to be going on and on and on.  Will the Greek virgin be sacrificed on the altar of the cruel ‘Juncker the Drunker’ or, with one bound will she be free to be herself as the Greek tart flogging her assets to the highest briber?  I don’t know but I think I should be told because the whole bloody rigmarole has gone on for far too long.

I’m off for a swim now, see you all later.

Riviera rambles

Sorry to have been absent for so long but what with having to accompany George baby and his new wife (my dears, simply far too thin!) to the film festival and then have Lewis Hamilton ring me for advice on the best line to take through the chicane just outside the tunnel ('SoD' and I sat in the stand just above it back in, well, whenever), life has been anything but a holiday.  However, I am delighted to see that the weather back in England is typical for a Bank holiday weekend - atrocious! - so I can feel a bit better about the fact that it isn't too good here, either - French bastards!  I have picked up a bit of a tan but, dammit, nothing that is going to knock out the old ladies at my local swimming pool when I return.  Incidentally, I am due back late next Friday, so normal service, or what passes for it here at D&N, will resume next Saturday - who groaned?

I have been following the news as best I can from The Daily Telegraph via this infernal 'do-flicker-thingie' but it's just not the same as slumping in my comfortable office chair in my jimjams and my faithful, threadbare dressing gown bearing the encrusted detritus of a thousand ancient breakfasts spread down the front, and with my big screen, my faithful mouse and a bloody big 'box-thingie' under the desk that does all the work and, more-over, does it in a way I am used to - which is more than I can say for this fancy-dancy do-flicker-thingie!

Not mind you, that there is that much in the news as far as I can tell.  The Great National Bore-athon, that is our renegotiation/surrender with the Berlin-Brussels axis, has begun and already the BS is seeping under the conference-room doors.  "This one will run and run".

I will try and keep the odd post going during the week although I confess to a certain degree of Mediterranean lethargy.  Down here, somehow, nothing seems that important anymore.  Perhaps that's why they're all going broke!

 

Er, 'Ladies Day' ooop in Scouseland!

Courtesy of The Telegraph I am pleased to bring you a pictorial impression of 'Ladies Day' (who sniggered?) at Aintree yesterday.  A very fine stable of young fillies, I'm sure you will agree.  Full of breeding, well, they tend to go in for a lot of, er, breeding 'oooop north' and all imbued with that sense of style and good taste that you would expect.  I think, come Royal Ascot, our splendid young Essex gals are going to have their work cut out to match these, er, robust Scouser birds:

 

Such a wonderful, elegant occasion, I can't imagine why Her Maj failed to attend!

 

 

Exceptions to the rule

In my previous post I gave forth a wide, sweeping assertion - no surprise there, then! - to the effect that these days all 'hearties' are a total pain.  Now, my regular readers will know that that sort of all-encompassing generalisation is not the sort of thing you would expect to read on this blog, famous as it is for its nuanced, careful, even forensic, weighing of the pros and cons of any subject before a judgment is issued forth!  So my conscience has been well and truly pricked - and before you start I do the jokes round here!  Anyway, since writing that post I have been trying desperately to think of any contemporary 'hearties' who actually conduct themselves in a sporting and gentlemanly way.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeees, quite!

However, one did occur and I give you as a disproof of my previous conclusion - Mr.Roger Federer.  Now, I seem to remember that way back in the days of his youth he was given to occasional outbursts of yobbery but I am inclined to forgive him because ever since he has been a model of impeccable behaviour both on and off the tennis court.  But ... but ... where are the others?  Come on, people, help me out here because surely there are other sportsmen possessed of similar Corinthian values.  I realise, alas, that no track and field athlete can be considered even if they are as clean as a really clean thing because their entire sport has been besmirched by doping scandals such that no-one can be trusted.  Similarly, of course, with cycling which appears to shift more drugs than a street corner in Harlem!

Cricket has been hit for six by constant tales of illicit gambling, and the 'Aussie' practice of vile 'sledging' has grown apace so that all indulge in it today.  Rugby can be ignored - all you have to do is look at the man-mountains who waddle out onto the pitch barely able to take a step because their steroid-induced thighs are so huge.  The same thing, I suspect, holds good (or bad!) for American football.

Oh hell, I give up on the lot of them which is a pity because sport at its very best was an enormous pleasure to me as it was to millions of others.  So come on, give me some real, clean heroes to worship.

 

I hate 'hearties'!

Or to be precise, I hate quite a lot of 'hearties' but most of all I hate, almost without discrimination, all the pursuits followed by 'hearties'.  What I'm trying to say via this phony, public school voice I have adopted is that I loathe all sport!  I am uneasily aware that within seconds, nay, nano-seconds, 'JK' will be diving through my blog history to find all those admissions I have made from time to time to the fact that first thing every morning I listen to 'TOOOOOORKSPOOOOOOORT', a radio station given over almost entirely to 'footie' matters with the occasional dollop of cricket and rugby thrown in. 

Of course, like all 'men of a certain age' (which means old!) I look back to a 'golden era' in my youth when splendid chaps, and a few 'chapettes', excelled at various sporting activities and did so in the proper Corinthian manner, always abiding by the rules and prepared to admit that the best man won even when it was their opponent. Needless to say, winning at all costs, even including cheating, was unheard of.  Yeah, yeah, I know, the other characteristic of old age is not only a bad memory but a selective one as well!

Of course, 'back in the day' we were not, so to speak, up front and personal with our sporting heroes in the way we are today with TV cameras and long distance mics.  We would listen avidly to a BBC radio commentator describing a 'footie' match with perfect enunciation and without a hint of excitement and, of course, he would never describe the trajectory and make up of the gobbets of spit expelled by 'footie' players every five minutes which today we can see close up and in glorious technicolour in our sitting-rooms.  We are no longer detached observers, instead we are in there with them, dammit, we can almost smell them!

The first time I noticed the rot setting in was when that loud-mouthed Irish-American, McEnroe, went off on one at Wimbledon aiming a torrent of abuse at the umpire.  I say, old chap, I thought at the time, that's really not on, you know, this is Wimbledon!  Actually, I didn't think that at all, I thought what a yob, why doesn't someone break a racket over his thick 'Oirish' skull?  And thus was I, an innocent spectator, dragged down to his gruntish level.

I have tried very hard to think of a sport that has not yet descended to knuckle-dragging boorishness but the only one that just about maintains proper behaviour is golf, although that is strained to the limit every two years by the Ryder Cup competition when the players come close to emulating the 'footie' yobs.  Perhaps the greatest tragedy has been the descent into near criminality of track and field athletics where doping is rife.  I think back with genuine nostalgia and fondness to those old black and white newsreels of Bannister breaking the 4-minute mile, a time when track and field was clean and honest.

Anyway, I'll just shuffle off now, muttering under my breath that things were never like that in my day ... oh dear me, no ...

 

The Sunday Rumble: 22.2.15

The Israelis win again:  Yes, sorry, America, but last night I watched the first two episodes of the original Israeli TV series of 'Hostages'.  The 'cousins' attempted to remake it but after about four episodes I gave up.  However, so far the Israeli version seems pretty good and anyway the lady doctor in it is hotter than the American one.  You see, you do need that sort of keen artistic judgment to really grade these things!

 

This man really could shag for France at the Olympics:  Yes indeed and I look forward to the formation of the SKP, the Strauss-Kahn Party - no, no, not that sort of party, I mean political party!

 

Assuming Dominic Strauss-Kahn gets off all charges which looks likely then I think he would be mad not to run for the Presidency.  After all, he'd get every true-blooded Frenchman to vote for him and also, I suspect, ahem, quite a few of the ladies!  Vive La France!

 

In which I help keep Oliver Kamm in style:  Well, it's the least I can do, really.  I mean, he used to be a City banker but then he fell on hard times and became a scribbler for my ex-best friend, Rupe, and we all know that he only ever pays peanuts even to his leader writers - Rupe begged me to write some leaders for The Times but he never even got close to my fee!  Anyway, in an obvious attempt to put some caviar on the table, Oliver has written a book which I will have to buy.  It is called:

This is a book I have been waiting for because, according to the reviews, it will make me feel better about my 'Eng. Lang'.  This is a subject which has given me severe psychological problems ever since Miss. Woods, Eng. Lit & Lang, circa 1950-55, transfixed me with terror and a feeling of inadequacy as she lasered me through her rimless bi-focals.  With Oliver's book, all my phobias will vanish. 

However, in case he fails to cover it I have one question for you all.  As you know I over-use commas, particularly inverted commas.  Normally that's OK but when the object I wish to emphasise in some way by placing it inside inverted commas is itself a possessive word, say, Roger's, then I am flummoxed.  Do I write 'Roger's' which seems a bit excessive in the comma department even for me?  Or do I write 'Roger's?  I dunno - ooops, bad spelling, don't tell Miss Woods, I beg you!

'

The DUFF:  Not to be missed!  It's a film, 'stoopid'!  And no, I haven't' the faintest idea what it's about because on the Youtube video-thingie the language is incomprehensible.  Well, it's spoken, or regurgitated (hey, that word again!), by sundry American teenagers who might as well be speaking Martian for all the sense an elderly British gent like me can make of them.  But anyway, with a title like that it's bound to be a huge hit and I'm only surprised that it's not up for an Oscar tonight!

 

More Eng. Lang. commentary from Dr. Dalrymple:  And he's like Oliver Kamm, you would not voluntarily wish to cross him!  The good Doctor now writes regularly at Taki's Mag.  He's always worth reading and here he is on the subject of written English: 

Whether looseness of language is a consequence or a cause of looseness of thought I cannot say. No doubt it is sometimes the one and sometimes the other. Perhaps—to indulge in a little looseness of thought and language of my own—the relationship between them is dialectical. But certainly there is often a hinterland of notions, even an entire world outlook, behind certain loose ways of putting things. 

Looking at the Guardian website I noticed two instances of looseness almost straight away. The first was in an article reporting the death of a New York Times columnist, a man called David Carr, in the newspaper’s office. He was a man unknown to me, either personally or through his writing, though a passage of his work quoted in the Guardian’s article, presumably selected as a representative sample of his style and wit, does not encourage me to read much further in his work: 

"If you’re gonna get a job that’s a little bit of a caper, that isn’t really a job, that under ideal circumstances you get to at least leave the building and leave your desktop, go out, find people more interesting than you, learn about something, come back and tell other people about it—that should be hard to get into. That should be hard to do. No wonder everybody’s lined up, trying to get into it. It beats working."

Oh dear, even I could do better than that but would I want to work for the New York Times?  Yes, you can take that as a 'No'!

 

Do those 'Warmers' ever read each other?  Two items from the excellent - and hilarious - Climate Change Predictions site:

Fire strongly influences carbon cycling and storage in boreal forests. In the near term, if global warming occurs, the frequency and intensity of fires in boreal forests are likely to increase significantly.
Eric S. Kasischke and others, Ecological Applications, Vol 5, No 2, (May 1995) pp 437-451

.............................................................................................................................................

Despite increasing temperatures since the end of the Little Ice Age (circa 1850) wildfire frequency has decreased as shown in many field studies from North America and Europe. We believe that global warming since 1850 may have triggered decreases in fire frequency in some regions and future warming may even lead to further decreases in fire frequency…

The simulation and fire history results suggest that the impact of global warming on northern forests through forest fires may not be disastrous and that contrary to the expectations of an overall increase in forest fires there may be large regions of the Northern Hemisphere with a reduced fire frequency.                          M.D. Flanagan and others, Journal of Vegetation Science Vol 9, Issue 4, pages 469 – 476, August 1998

Well, you won't catch me having a picnic in a "boreal forest" - whatever that is? 

 

 No more rumbles today

 

 

In which my interest in 'footie' is re-awakened

 

I know, I know, I've told you before 'many a time and too oft' that my method of watching 'footie' on the 'telly' is to have the sound off, merely glancing up from time to time to realise that I have missed all the goals!  That might sound daft to you but consider for a moment. Most of what goes on during a 'footie' match is totally tedious with all that 'tippy-tap' passing, usually backwards, very occasionally sideways and only rarely forward.

However, 100 years after the first time, we are again indebted to Serbia for injecting some excitement into our lives!  Yesterday, they were playing Albania and during the course of the match an Albanian, who can only be described as "a very, very naughty boy" sent off a small drone bearing the Albanian flag.  This was steered, allegedly by the brother of the Albanian prime minister who was present, across the pitch at head height - although he denies it vehemently.  It was caught by a Serbian player and at that point all hell broke loose - just like last time!  The Austrians insisted on a 10-point grovelling apology from Serbia, the Russians mobilised, the Germans blew the dust off the Schlieffen plan (nah, they never really got rid of it!), the French insisted on the immediate return of Alsace-Lorraine, forgetting in their excitement that they already had it, and the British, in the form of the referee, blew a whistle.  The Sea Lords at the British Admiralty spent all last night searching for the British fleet.  A spokesman said that they knew it had to be somewhere but they had put it down and no-one could quite remember where.

Anyway, if this is the new style 'footie' then I shall watch it with the sound full up!  Let's hear a cheer for 'plucky little Albania'!  And also let us remember the gallant words of dear, old Sir Henry Newbolt, "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

 

Photos courtesy of The Daily Telegraph

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Shall we dance?

On seeing this photo in The Mail today I was reminded why 'footie' managers are the funniest thing since circus clowns:

 

All these two clowns need are the red noses, the baggy trousers and a pail of water each.  For the non-footie fans amongst you, let me explain that the one with the flying red tie (it should have been a spinning bow-tie, in my opinion) is Arsene Wenger, the manager of Arsenal F.C. and a man 'oo eez soo Frenchie-poo' he makes the late Gen. de Gaulle sound positively Atlanticist! The one with the pretty dimples is the Chelsea F.C. manager, Jose Mourinho, also known as the man who put the 'F' into Flamboyant.

The photo shows them enjoying a 'handbags at dawn' moment on the sidelines of yesterday's match.  I don't quite know what it is about footie that makes grown men go off on one like a pair of girls at a party realising they are both wearing the same dress.  You can, sort of, understand the actual players becoming a little heated as, say, the star centre forward realises that the right back on the other side seems fairly determined to break his leg in at least three places, but these middle-aged men in their £1,000 suits and hand-made shoes simply look ridiculous.  This is because, in a very deep and meaningful way, they are ridiculous!  They cavort about on the touchline waving their arms and shaking their fists and afterwards, when forced to face the ratbags of the media, they produce endless streams of clichés and so contorted are their speech patterns that it is is to difficult to tell the foreigners from the Brits - except possibly that the Brits intersperse their tedious spiels with rather more grunts than the foreigners.

It is true that you cannot rely on me for an expert opinion on footie because, as some of you regulars will know, my method of actually watching footie is somewhat eccentric in that I have the sound off and read a book, only glancing up from time to time to realise that I have missed all the goals!  And now, of course, since my falling out with my ex-best mate, Rupe, because of his ridiculous charges, I now 'watch' very little footie.  Happily, the 'pat-a-cake-pat-a-cake' incident above was repeated on the news and cheered me up no end because I realised that I am not the only silly old fool who should know better - as the 'Memsahib' describes me!

 

You vill play cricket, zat iss an order!

 

Sometimes irony can come in the most surprising form.  The picture above is a delicious example.  You can see a huge playing field on which not one but two cricket matches are being played.  OK, you might mutter and suggest that it is somewhere in England or Oz, perhaps, but you would be wrong.  It is Germany and, to add that last mouth-watering dollop of irony that only us true aficionados can appreciate - er, that's irony aficionados not cricket ones - it is the very same field where the late and utterly unlamented Herr Hitler held his ghastly, tasteless mass rallies for the dimwitted dummkopfs of the German population.  How one wishes it were possible to bring him back from the dead in order to show him that if, in that bunker in Berlin, he wasn't quite convinced that he really had lost the war then cricket being played on the same fields where his nazi jackboots had marched was the clincher.  'For you, zee var iss over, Herr Hitler!' 

All this nonsense is provoked by an article in The Telegraph by Renuka Rayasam who describes the renaissance of cricket inside Germany.  It was originally introduced by the British army but following their withdrawal the game, which never caught on with the Germans (can't think why!), gradually withered away.  But now the Germans are suffering, if that is quite the word, with yet another invasion, this time from Indian and Pakistani immigrants who have brought their bats and balls and stumps with them, and the game of cricket is flourishing again in the Fatherland.  The rumble you can hear is Hitler spinning in his grave!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 21.9.14

It's not idleness, honestly!  I enter that plea in mitigation early because I may not get around to depositing too many gems of wisdom on today's Sunday Rumble.  Domestic duties loom large including, perhaps, my attempt to create a Pork Fillet Wellington for dinner tonight.  I will be taking instructions from two head chefs, the 'Memsahib' and 'SoD'.  I may lose my temper and throw a wobbly!

 

Should Ed Miliband have joined the army?   I ask because one of his 'bruvvers', the former minister Alan Johnson, suggested that he might have been improved by the experience.  It made me wonder which regiment or corps he might have been best suited.

                                      

Well, it's obvious really - the Intelligence Corps.  A splendid body of men comprising of some the biggest goofballs and nut-jobs you could ever wish to see outside of a circus.  I write, of course, as a particularly fine example being an ex-corporal of that splendid organisation.  Ed would have fitted in just perfectly!

 

What a stupid game!  So, there I was hammering the two halves of the pork fillet flat (whilst thinking of various politicians!), mixing up the stuffing of sage and onion, breadcrumbs and chopped apricots, whilst listening to the commentary of the Man United vs. Leicester footie match.  At half-time it was 3-1 to Man United which was hardly surprising given that they have just spent £150 million on various world class, supermen which makes the worth of their team roughly ten times more expensive than Leicester's.  Some visitors suddenly arrived and after their departure I thought I would catch the last few minutes which I did and heard with total lack of surprise that the score was 5-3.  However, some minutes later I nearly dropped my precious pork fillet on the floor because it turned out that it was Leicester who were leading!  I wondered, for roughly 2.8 nanoseconds, how the Glazers were feeling over in the US of A.  They own Man United and they sign the cheques.  Shoulda' stuck to American football, boys!

 

A daily Janet Daly is good for you:  Yes, once again the lady pulls together a multitude of strands and makes a coherent pattern.  She offers no solution to what will be an intractable problem for Dave, Ed 'n' Clegg to solve but she does remind us of the final safeguard, the castle keep within the castle, where we may all shelter in safety away from the politicians, the agitators and the know-it-alls:

No, the great triumph [in the Scottish referendum] lay not in the quality of public debate (which was often breathtakingly dishonest) or the extent of popular participation (which was frequently ugly and demeaning). The key to the real source of democratic freedom was in the result: what became clear was the sacred function of that late historical reform to the electoral system, the secret ballot. [My emphasis]

 

No more rumbles today .

 

In which I switch sports

Waddya mean, you never knew I was into sports in the first place?!  Well, of course, I, personally, am not a partaker of sporting activities but that doesn't mean I'm not a fan and, for the right sport, I am a fervent fan.  For example, I have long been a very close follower of the Brazilian Ladies Beach Volleyball team.  I have found over the years that it is a game of infinite variety and sophistication and only a really up close view of proceedings will give you the full flavour:

 

 

It's true that the ladies seem to suffer with a certain amount of gusset problems but I blame the Brazilian authorities for issuing them with those voluminous knickers - they're far too big for athletic young gals to jump about in.  What they need is something more minimalist.  I have offered my services as an advisor but so far my letters remain unanswered!

And that brings me to the Colombian Ladies Cycling Team to whom I have switched my lust love and support.  At least they have a governing authority that provides them with suitable kit for their, er, sporting activities:

 

By jove, that's more like it - and I want the job of that smug bastard man on the right.  So come on, gals, knees up, feet down, pedal for Colombia and let's see what you're made of!

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/11096585/Colombian-women-cycling-team-kit-Vagina-like.html

 

The Sunday Rumble: 14.9.14

Will 'MacChavez' win?   I dunno!  Nor does anyone else.  The polls are all over the place.  I fear that the decision either way may be very small which will be the worst of all possible outcomes because it means the interminable arguing will go on and on.  Alex Salmond is the epitome of the big-mouth agitator spouting emotional nonsense which he knows will appeal to the lowest common denominator.  Politically, of course, he is a national socialist (please note lower case lettering) and those sort of people have history.  One of the more recent was the late Hugo Chavez in Venezuela who led his people up the garden path and out into a desert.  Venezuela has bigger oil reserves than Saudi Arabia and after several years of rule by Chavez and his successor, the country is now importing oil!  Wake up, Scotland, before it's too late!

 

Wisconsin on my mind:  Yes, I might be up to my ears in cooking, housekeeping, shopping and nursing (feeling sorry for me, are you?) but I still try and keep half an eye on the Wisconsin election.  Even from this distance I have some considerable admiration for Republican Gov. Scott Walker who is a 'doer' not just a 'talker'.  Having won the Governorship against the odds he immediately took on the giant public service unions and their Democrat puppets and despite them using every trick in the book - he won!  One of his prime aims was to enforce voter registration and I am delighted to say that a suitably high-level court has endorsed the procedure.  Not, of course, that I am suggesting that Democrats would pay people, including the dead, to vote several times over - perish the thought!  Thanks to IHTM.

 

The Deltoid Tabernacle Choir warms up:  Well, as I told the little Deltoids during my last visit, they really do need to wrap up warm if they intend to take part in the march on New York to raise awareness of global, er, warming:

Called the “largest climate march in history” by organizers, the “People’s Climate March” will occur on Sept. 21st, a few days before the United Nations will attempt to draft a “global warming” treaty on the same level as the controversial Kyoto Protocol.

According to reports temperatures have reach record lows across the north of America and several States have experienced heavy snowfalls.  The 'Deltoid Tabernacle Choir', an Aussie group whose rendition of 'I Belieeeeeeeeeeeeeve' is a hit the length and breadth of, er, downtown Goondiwindi in Queensland, need to take precautions against the freezing weather.

 

A pair of interesting loons #1:   There appears to be a plethora of loons around at the moment but I have chosen just two of them for comment.  By "interesting loons" I mean that they are mostly bonkers but in the highest traditions of English eccentricity.  The first is Peter Tatchell.  According to The Coffee House, he has just been awarded some totally useless academic bauble in honour of his fight/agitation (you choose) on behalf of LGBTI (or is it ITBGL, or perhaps TIBLG? Oh, hell, I dunno!)  Anyway, in a spirit of generous pig ignorance he has 'donated' his bauble to the Palestinian Authority.  As Rod Liddle points out: 

Let’s just briefly compare the treatment of LGBTI people in those two territories, then – Free Democratic Palestine and the Vile Fascist Entity. 

The Palestinian National Authority awards the death penalty for homosexuals. In Israel homosexuality has been legal de facto since 1963 and de jure since 1988.

 Palestine does not allow same-sex adoptions or the recognition of same-sex relationships. Israel allows for both.

See what I mean about loons!

 

My second interesting loon:   I give you - Mr. Joey Barton, 'footie' player, thug, convict - and philosopher!  It is all too easy to write off Mr. Barton as an irredeemably thick, Scouse git whose mouth out-measures his brain by several factors of ten.  His record - innumerable yellow and red cards from referees, to say nothing of his jail-time for assault and the almost non-stop use of his mouth to no good purpose - is there for all to see and shake their heads at ... and yet ... and yet.  Henry Winter, an exceptionally good sports writer at The Telegraph, digs a little deeper and uncovers two interesting facets to Mr. Barton's personna - an ability to look at himself honestly (not many of us can do that!), plus, intellectual curiosity: 

“I got in to a few scrapes. I was living this Peter Pan existence of never ever growing up. Emotionally I was stunted. Is football an industry that allows people to develop emotionally? I’d say not. That’s the nature of the beast. You’re one bad injury from the end. You are one bad season from a dramatic change to your earning capacity. In football you’re always building towards a cliff, and then you go over it. I know there’s a void at the end of my career. We are all insecure. I just mask it better than other people."

[...]

He has enrolled on a philosophy course at Roehampton University. “The other   students at Roehampton get annoyed with me at times because I can draw out   an hour lecture into two hours asking questions. I have an inquisitive brain. It’s the one thing I’ve been blessed with. In lectures I don’t think about how I can improve QPR [Queens Park Rangers]. I just think about the ultimate, about what we are here for.

[...]

“I carry a bag of books around with me at all times. I’m reading Machiavelli’s The   Prince. All the stuff in class at the moment is about dualism, materialism and Epicurus’ Letter to Menoeceus. In the physio-room we have a lot of debates. I come in and say: ‘This is the   question posed today: Is death bad for the person who dies?’ The lads will chip in. As a young footballer I made the stupid mistake of dumbing down.   Footballers aren’t dumb.

For what it's worth, I wish you well, Mr. Barton, you sound like the sort of man it would be worth having dinner with - and there aren't too many of them! 

 

Over here and over there it's the same old same old:  Janet Daley in today's Telegraph sums up exactly the malignancy which afflicts both Britain and America.  I will not attempt to summarise it because it really should be read in full.  However, I will add that I think one of the important factors behind the increased disillusion with our respective political classes is the fact that in these modern days we know so much more about them and the ways in which they manipulate the political process.  Just a generation or two back, all we knew about our political class was what was printed in the somewhat staid newspapers of the day.  Today politicians can barely pass wind without us receiving a whiff!  Thus, knowledge, or at least, partial knowledge grows - and with it, cynicism.  Not necessarily a good thing!

 

  

No rumbles today - I have the evening meal to cook!!!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 3.8.14

Tricky things, tunnels:  Like you, I guess, I have been somewhat bemused by the Israeli operations in Gaza.  They seemed to be floundering about with no very clear objective which is most unlike the IDF but, according to the Jerusalem Post, this was far from the truth.  Their main objective is, and remains, the destruction of the tunnel network built at eye-watering expense by Hamas (and their Iranian ally).  Apparently Israeli intelligence had a very good idea where most of them were situated but like all intelligence it was not 100%.  I think also that the sophistication of these tunnels has taken them by surprise - Hamas has actually equipped some of them with motor-bikes so that their fighters can take them above ground and use them for greater speed and mobility.  In retrospect the Israelis were rather wise to hold their hand until huge amounts of money and effort had been epended by Hamas before moving in to wreck them.  Perhaps, Hamas will think twice before trying to rebuild a tunnel network that will take years of effort and zillions of Iranian dosh.

 

Right, pay attention 'over there'!   With the sort of generosity for which 'old Europe' is famed the length and breadth of, er, well, 'old Europe', we have kindly sent over our World Cup 'footie' tournament which attracted huge TV audiences 'over there' not least because your own team played enormously well.  Also, several of our top club 'footie' teams are with you to play friendly matches with each other by way of warming up for the new season.  One match attracted a stadium audience of over 100K!  So, by now it must be perfectly clear to you all that you can stop playing rounders and netball and certainly there is no need to bore yourselves rigid watching great big grunts deliberately run into each other!  Your new national game is 'footie' - hurrah!

 

So, today's the day:   Yes, indeed, 100 years ago today Great Britain took the first action that was eventually to eliminate the word 'Great' from our title.  Of course, it also eliminated around 800,000 men!  As an ex-soldier and an exceedingly amateurish historian I feel, somehow, that I should mark the event with some noble words but the fact is that there are none.  I can't cry and I certainly can't cheer.  About all I can do is mutter some curses under my breath aimed at the idiots, most of them Germans, who with an arrogance and certainty that defies belief, marched into the slaughterhouse.  I hope they rot in hell!

 

Confirmed - avoid the Edinburgh Festival:   I have never been tempted to attend any of the myriad of literary and musical festivals which abound in this country.  Even if you live in a village with five houses and a pig farm some 'artyfarty comunity activist' will insist that you all get together and hold a 'festival' of some sort - musical pig-roasting, perhaps.  Anyway, courtesy of The Telegraph I have their choice of the five best jokes from the Edinburgh Fringe.  Oh goodie, I thought, I can nick a few of those for my 'Monday Funnies' spot   Well, talk about laugh - I didn't!  In fact, I failed even to crack a smile, partly I suspect, because I didn't understand some of them.  If you are suffering with a surfeit of good humour, not a frequent experience around here, go and read them, it will soon cure your condition!

 

Sperm banks for lesbians:   According to the prints today, our wonderful Nationalised Health Service is to provide lesbians with a sperm bank from which, presumably, they can withdraw the, er, necessary deposits!  Honestly, you'd think they might have asked me!  I, as it were, stand lean flop ready to supply their every need, although a few intimate piccies might be required to, er, stiffen my courage, so to speak.

 

Give our 'gal' soldiers proper support, I say!   I was shocked, I tell you, shocked, to learn via The Telegraph that our brave young 'gals' in the army are not provided with proper support in undertaking their duties.  No, indeed, they are forced to buy their own bras to help keep order in the ranks, or something like that.  Because, you see, when the RSM has them marking time on the spot and eventually shouts, "HALT!", they find it impossible to all come to a halt together - as it were!  At least, I think that's what the complaint was about but the result is that these poor wee lassies have been forced to go out and spend their money on providing their own sports-type bras.  Has no-one ever told them that in the entire history of the British army the 'Toms' (and now the 'Tomettes') have always had to buy their own gear because the stuff in the QM's store was, is and forever will be - crap!

 

 No more rumbles today

 

 

The way to cripple Russia? Give them more prestigious sporting events!

It's hard not to laugh when a man's hat is blown off in the wind and he trips and falls in a puddle whilst chasing it and is then run over by a bus.  Well, it is when you know the man and he's a total pain in the rectum!  When similar events afflict an entire country, and moreover, one that it is under the command and control of murderous, thieving gangsters then, in a gloomy world, one is deeply grateful for a chance to cry with laughter rather than anguish.

So an article in Spiegel has risked causing my keyboard to short out as the tears of laughter roll down my cheeks.  Some economic swots in Zurich have produced this table comparing the cost of individual seats in the World Cup stadia when worked out against total construction costs: 

• South Korea/Japan 2002:     estimated $6,000 per seat 
• Germany 2006:                       $3,200 
• South Africa 2010:                 $5,000 
• Brazil 2014:                             $6,500 
• Russia 2018:                       $11,500

The cost of each seat in the main World Cup stadium in St. Petersburg is estimated to be around $16,500.  The stadium was started in 2007 and - please don't snigger - was expected to be finished at the end of 2008:

It was supposed to cost $415 million, but current reports indicate the price tag has risen to as high as $1.2 billion. The opening is now planned for 2016. To be on the safe side, the city of St. Petersburg recently even considered constructing a back-up stadium with 25,000 seats just in case.

The late and dead crafty Prince Grigory Aleksandrovich Potemkin-Tavricheski, the constructor - 'builder' is an insult to a noble profession - of all those Potemkin villages which so entranced Empress Catherine as she watched the happy peasants dancing and prancing happily(!) for her on her grand tours must be enjoying a ghostly laugh of his own when he realises that an old Russian tradition, roughly translated as 'bullshit baffles brains' is still going strong helped, no doubt, by the fairly recent examples of Stalin's tractor stats.

Still, one feels a twinge of sympathy for Sports Minister Mutko (or possibly 'Mugco'!) who had the temerity to seek to put a ceiling on all stadia costs.  Enter stage right, with smoke and drums, Gennady Timchenko, the owner of Russian engineering and construction company Stroytransgaz.  He is an old mate comrade of 'Vlad the Impaler' and not only is he opposed to any limits, he is actually demanding even more money!  So, word to the wise, 'Mugco', old chap, shut the fuck up, take the bung and live a long life!

Needless to say, all these bright, new, shiny Potemkin stadia will never be used again.  The big ones can seat 75,000 people but the average gate for the top teams in Russia is 12,500.  It's all hilarious until you suddenly remember the ordinary people, thousands of whom have probably been thrown out of their homes to make way for all this Putinesque grandeur.  Pass the sick bag!

 

The Sunday Rumble: 13.7.14

Well done, 'The Speccie':  In the face of this howling gale of national hysteria concerning old pervs and gropers from decades ago which seems to have blown all commonsense out of the window, the dear old 'Speccie' has not one, not two but three articles this week advising our less-than-glorious leaders to calm things down.  The heading to Matthew Parris's excellent piece says it all: "There's no fighting paedophile panic. But I'll try".  Douglas Murray bemoans the lack of any authority figures these days who might knock some sense into the scaremongers and Rod Liddle does, well, a Rod Liddle, need I say more?

Thank God it's nearly over:  Tonight is the final performance in the latter-day Ring Cycle otherwise known as the World Cup.  I use the word 'performance' not in the sense of athletic abilities demonstrated but in the strictly theatrical sense.  As far as I could see from the various bits and pieces I watched before invariably dozing off, most of them could get jobs as film extras in big battle scenes after they retire because they can fake serious injury better than any luvvie can.  Should any player (what an appropriate word!) inadvertantly sneeze you could bet the deeds of the house on at least three opposition players falling to the ground writhing in agony.  I think Will's advice to the 'players' is pertinent:

suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special, o'erstep not
the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the
mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature,  scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone,
or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance
o'erweigh a whole theatre of others.

"Adrift":  No, no, not my mind, the film I watched last night.  You see, I fell asleep during the footie and woke up somewhat refreshed so I didn't feel like going to bed.  Flicking around aimlessly I tried the movies channel and inadvertantly caught the film "Adrift" about 15 minutes in.  I remembered vaguely that the story line was that some people on a yacht in the middle of nowhere all entered the water and were unable to get back up the smooth sides of the vessel.  It was sort of intriguing, enough anyway to keep me watching to the end.  However, having missed the beginning in which, presumably, the characters were introduced I remained confused as to who was who and who was paired off with who.  Anyway, it was fairly gripping not least when I realised that on board was a sleeping baby belonging to one of the couples.  The writer/director added a touch of sadism by showing that the mother had left a baby alarm on deck so that when the child awoke and began to scream they could all hear it in the water.  Not a great film - the ending is confused and confusing - but good enough to keep me up.

The social event of the season:   Oh yes, indeed, yesterday was THE event for which every 'wannabe sleb' would die for a ticket.  I refer, of course, to our annual church fête to which flock thousands hundreds dozens of people.  There was added spice to the occasion because we now have for the first time a 'vicarette'.  Alas, I missed the lady, probably because I had my nose buried in the home-made cake stand!  Also, to be honest, I found a new-to-me Linwood Barclay thriller on the second-hand book stand so I thought to myself, what the hell am I doing here with all these old ladies when I could be home reading a book by one of the very best thriller writers in the business?  In the immortal words of several generations of News of the World reporters, 'I made my excuses and left'. 

Who do I cheer for?  Germany vs. Argentina in the World Cup Final.  Both old enemies of Britain, well, the Germans are, the Argies are latecomers, but still . . . who do I cheer?  I suppose if they both play as tediously cagey as all the semi-finalists played then like last night I will doze off.  So perhaps I will just applaud brilliant play from whichever side produces it.  - and may the best team win!

 

No more rumbles tonight

 

Will they burn down Rio tonight?

It's half time in the semi-final between Brazil and Germany and the score is - wait for it - 5-0 to the Germans.  And it's not as if the Germans were playing that well, it's just that the Brazilians have obviously put their boots on their wrong feet!  I can't watch anymore, it's simply too embarrassing.  I mean, if it was England I wouldn't be too surprised but Brazil . . . ?

Anyway, I'm off to bed but I can't help wondering if when I wake up in the morning the news will be about the Barrios errupting and burning down Rio?  If you were dirt poor with little or no chance of ever getting out of the slums and your sole pleasure in life was following the exploits of your national football team then you might, just might, swallow your rage as the government spends 'gazillions' building useless stadia on corrupt contracts for the international rich-set to swan in and watch the games you can't afford to see but, when your team is utterly humiliated inside the first 25 minutes of the match, well, what would you do?

Well, I just hope the good people of Brazil can contain their feelings and not give their cruel and useless government any chance of cracking down on them even harder than is the daily norm.  And I hope in the very near future, as they get the next round of extravagant bread and circuses (without any bread for them) in the form of the even more wretched and profligate Olympic games that they will continue to control themselves.

 

The Sunday Rumble: 6.7.14

'Ya gotta have the poifict beach body': According to The Telegraph this morning, it is now de rigor to have the sort of abs 'n' pecs that line up like guardsmen if you wish to be seen on the better sort of beaches, you know, the sort you find in the Carribean, or Mauritius, or, er, Sidmouth in South Devon where, as it happens, I was a few days back.  Here's a photo of me:

Er, I'm on the right, or is it the left?  I'm not sure - perhaps I should have gone to Specvsavers.  Anyway, I can tell you that as I strolled nonchantly along, well, more like hobbled and tippy-toed because its a pebble beach which absolutely ruins your manly gait, I could see the ladies nudging each other and pointing at me.  And, yes, I know the average age at Sidmouth is around 82 but just as it takes an old drinker to really appreciate a superb claret, so, the final accolade for a bit of manly beach candy like me is the approval of some ladies who have, so to speak, been around the block a few times!

 

Bloody, bloody postal service!  Obviously the Royal Mail has cocked up again because I failed to receive my invitation to The Spectator Readers Tea Party - yes, I know, shockin', shockin'!  Given the amount of free publicity I provide for them here at D&N to my huge readership - sorry, did you say something ? - it can't be that they left me off the list.  Here is a photo of Taki (wearing a tie, of course, because although he's a love-rat of the first order, he is, of course, a gentleman) and Michael Heath, the cartoonist:

The footnote to this photo is as follows:

Taki and Michael Heath (the only person who has been at the Spectator longer than Taki) He’s brought a bottle of 1995 Lagavulin for me, to make up for the one he drank at the same event last year.

 

I have tried to ignore the Rolf Harris show: It's been difficult because he's been everywhere you look in the media for the past, well, forever, really!  By and large, I tend to accept whatever juries decide which is not the same thing as believing that they are always and forever right. Rape and sexual assault cases, being usually private occurrences, are particularly difficult to prove and I would have thought accusations made after 30+ years were almost impossible to decide upon with accuracy.  But, as I say, I do not know the details of this case - but I know a man who does!  I am grateful to the redoubtable Anna Raccoon for pointing me in the direction of James Rothbard's blog in which he applies some cool reasoning to a very complex matter.  I'm not saying he is right but then I'm not saying the jury was right either.  'I dunno' seems to sum up my position!

 

Just follow the money: Because of my shuffle leap into the 21st century with MS 8.1 (or is it 1.8?), I have rather lost touch with the chap who runs Coyote Blog and even worse I have forgotten his name - mea culpa!  However, I have found him again and as usual he is spot on.  In this post he derides the constant accusation by the 'Warmers' that the sceptics are receipt of huge amounts of money from 'Big Oil'.  The fact is exactly the opposite:

The big money has always been in climate alarmism.  Climate skeptics are outspent a thousand to one.  Here is just one example:

It sounds like the makings of a political-action thriller. The National Geospatial Intelligence Agency (NGA) has awarded Arizona State University a five-year, $20 million agreement to research the effects of climate change and its propensity to cause civil and political unrest. [...]

I can tell you the answer to this study already.  How do I know?  If they say the security risks are minimal, there will be zero follow-up funding.  If they say the security risks are huge, it will almost demand more and larger follow-up studies. What is your guess of the results, especially since the results will all be based on opaque computer models whose results will be extremely sensitive to small changes in certain inputs?

'Big Oil' and the Koch brothers might have 'loadsa' money but it's peanuts compared to 'Big Government'!

 

Brief, to the point - and funny: Here's a couple of 'quickies' that made me smile.  The first came from the lovely Andra who features so regularly in my Comment threads: 

After Nigeria was eliminated from the world cup the Nigerian captain personally offered to refund all the expenses of fans who travelled to Brazil.  

He said he just needs their bank details and pin numbers to complete the transaction. 

And this from those 'very naughty boys' at IHTM:

Global warming is creating MORE ice: Antarctic levels reach a record high because of climate change, scientists claim. Remember, next time you want ice cubes put the ice trays in the oven and bake.

 

Aw, hell, it's Sunday so relax and enjoy:   According to the experts, the greatest 'tapper' of them all and I am obliged to Paco of Paco Enterprises for providing the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lF_e-6LuB0U

And I never knew she was married to Glen Ford, one of my favourite actors of 'yonks' ago.

 

And, lo, my faith in sport was restored: Well, not that it was that high in the first place given that our rugger buggers failed miserably in Oz, our batters and bowlers should have stuck to rounders and our over-paid footie plonkers played like big girls, so, it was a real pleasure to see Lewis Hamilton romp home first in the British Grand Prix.  And to put the icing on the cake, the final of the men's singles at Wimbledon between Federer and Djokovic was a titanic struggle between two superb athletes both of whom played the game like gentlemen.  Not the least of its virtues was that neither of them indulged in that up and down pumping action with a closed fist so beloved of 'Andy McGrunt'.  I am led to believe that it has vulgar connotations but of course I wouldn't know what they were! 

 

No more rumbles today

 

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Sidmouth Seafront and Promenade, Devon

Off to sodding Sidmouth

Will someone, anyone, please say something nice about Mr. Sepp Blatter

Take that as a 'no', shall I?  Well, in that case I will because no-one outside of an Auschwitz Camp commandant can be all bad;  surely, everyone has one tiny bit of good in them somewhere even if finding it is like looking for a Higgs Bosun particle.  Mr. Blatter, as we all know, do we not?, is the 'Mr. Biggie' of international football.  For what seems like the entire history of the game he has presided over the global competition that leads eventually to the World Cup.  He has managed this, and now intends to stand yet again for a further term, despite the stench of corruption forcing people to clench their teeth to avoid gagging whilst simultaneously several tons of opprobrium are tipped over him by the media of the free world rather like a council refuse truck emptying its contents at the end of a busy day.

Well, I am not going to attempt to deny all those accusations but I do want to try and find just one good thing to say about dear old 'Seppy-baby'.  It took some finding, I admit, but here it is: some years back Sepp Blatter was the leader of another international body, the 'We Love Suspenders Society'.  Now, Gentlemen (it's no good asking the ladies!), who would not have supported such an organisation had we known of it back in the day?  Alas, I cannot claim to be an expert in the field - not that it wasn't for lack of trying - but I am of an age and generation that lived through the great transition from suspenders to tights.  Let me tell you younger chaps, tights were, are and always will be an abomination!

                        

     Tight tights                                                  A tight git                                                    Suspended bliss

This is, of course, a blog of the highest possible taste and discernment and so it is difficult for me to find the correct word to sum up what makes one piece of ladies' wear attractive to men whilst the other is detested but I think the word I am looking for is accessibility!  Need I say more?  Didn't think so!  'Sepp-baby' might well be a total Swiss swindler when it comes to dodgy deals with international football federations but when it comes to women's underwear he was spot on!

(By the way, I must now go and lie down.  Looking through all those sites for suitable images to illustrate this post has left me tired and emotional - and I don't mean Sepp Blatter's picture - which is not surprising when you realise I have been looking, er, conscientiously for six and a half hours!  Honestly, you have no idea the sacrifices I make to bring you all the very latest news and views - pheeeeeeeeew!)

 

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The Sunday Rumble: 23.3.14

'Footie':  As you may have realised over the years - er, you have been reading this blog for years, haven't you? - I am a 'take-it-or-leave-it' football fan.  I only watch the occasional match on the 'telly' and I do that with the sound off whilst reading a book!  However, because I am a regular early morning listener to 'TOOOOORKSPOOOOOORT' radio which burbles non-stop for 24-hours on the subject, I am actually quite knowledgeable, well, in a theoretical way, that is!  Even so, I am beginning to be hooked on the drama of it all this season.  Last Wednesday when 'Man U' were playing that unspellable Greek team and were already 2-0 down from the first match, I was so captivated I actually put my book down and the sound up which had the added advantage of driving the 'memsahib' into the kitchen!  They won 3-0 and thereby went through to the European Championship.  Then yesterday there was real theatre (yes, I know that's an oxymoron!) when 'Rooney the Rug', with exquisite timing and skill from just inside the halfway line, lifted the ball up and over the dozy goalkeeper who had wandered too far from his line.  Everyone watching thought instantly of David Beckham's similar goal some 15 years ago and then, lo, the cameras swivelled and there sitting in the stands with his sons was the man himself applauding Rooney's shot.

 

So what do we really think of the EU?   Not much, according to a poll organised by Lord Ashcroft who, I suspect, 'Dim Dave' thinks is "a very naughty boy" because one outstanding result of this poll of 20,000 people shows a huge majority doubting Dave's ability to change anything very much as far as the EU is concerned.  It is also worth noting that on the big IN/OUT question, 4 in ten want IN, and 4 in 10 want OUT, so you fence-sitters had jolly well better do what I tell you if and when we ever get a referendum!  The most amusing item, almost equal to my "Political Joke of the Year" (see three below) is that according to 'The Sun - We Love It!':

British people have a more positive view of war-mongering Russia than of the EU, the poll shows.

The European Parliament comes fourth from bottom in a league table of 27 “liked” countries and institutions. Only SAUDI ARABIA and the rogue states of IRAN and NORTH KOREA were placed below it.

 

Drudge shows up their ignorance:  Here is a photo of the man himself and I would like to know why he has never been on the cover of Time magazine as their 'Man of the Year'? 

 

 

Well, we all know why, don't we, because he constantly shows up America's so-called newsrooms for the soppy socialist prats that they are.  He's just done it again, according to Breitbart, by announcing to the world that he has just been forced to pay his fine 'tax' for refusing to sign up and pay for the individual mandate for 'Obamacare'.  Cleverly, he calls it a "liberty tax"!  Cue: the White House throwing a hissy fit and every ignoramus in every left-wing newsroom in the USA (that's more or less all of them) calling Matt Drudge a liar because individuals who opt out don't have to pay their fine 'tax' for another year. After which, Drudge pointed out that he is a self-employed individual and therefore he does have to pay this month!  So not only are they biased but they're pig-ignorant as well - but, hey, that's not 'noos'!

 

Flight 370: the last turn of the screw from the one-child policy:  I hope you noticed that I have refused to enter the endless speculation on the fate of Flight 370 for the fairly obvious reason that I do not have a clue what happened to it.  However, there is an ancillary matter which is worth considering.  The majority of the passengers were Chinese and a large number of them were young Chinese.  Understandably the families have become distraught at their loss and furious at the lack of information.  However, hardly anyone has looked for a deeper reason for their impassioned misery which is that their lost children are their only children!  The despicable and cruel 'one child ' policy, a typical product of a mad Marxist regime has had several unintended consequences, not the least being the constant murder of girl children, and this is merely the latest manifestation of its evil.

 

AS weird headlines go  . . . This one, from Yahoo News via Drudge, caught my eye:

Germany seizes cocaine-filled condoms sent to Vatican

There's going to be a few mea culpas offered up in the next few days and the confessionals will make for fascinating listening!

No more rumbles, I'm outta here - until tomorrow!

 

 

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The Sunday Rumble: 9.3.14

I have left the "Hostages" to their fate:  I tried, dammit, I tried!  I knew it was an absurdity from the very beginning - the family of a famous surgeon in Washington held hostage so that she can kill the president as she conducts some minor surgery on him.  As far as I can tell there is not just a double-cross in this higgledy-piggledy story, there are a series of multi-crosses and I have now run out of fingers to count them all!  Pity, because I was really hoping the tread-head kids 'would get what was coming' because I loathed them so much.  In fact, now I think about it, the body count is amazingly low, just one nurse so far.  Ah well, now I will never know.

 

But I am persevering with "True Detective":  Even though the dialogue remains impenetrable!  Not only is it muttered through barely opened mouths in a deep southern drawl, but also the Matthew McConaughey character is given screeds of cod-philosophy-psychology nonsense to drone out at length.  Why do I watch it?  Two reasons, really.  First, I am fascinated - and repelled - by the Gulf shoreline scenery of Louisana which might actually be improved by a nuclear bomb or three!  Then there is the cover story - that is, the story of the murder that is being investigated took place some years previously but now the two investigators are themselves being investigated but it is not yet clear why, so we flash back and forth in time.  We shall see.

 

By the little things shall you know them:   Yes, yes, of course, I know you all suspected some time ago that 'Dim Dave' was, er, dim but sometimes in this busy-busy world we need a reminder - a confirmation, perhaps - just so we do not forget.  Here you have it:

A carefully posed 'selfie' taken by our Prime Minister whilst allegedly 'talking' to the President of the United States.  Actually, it looks as though 'Boring Barack' is doing the talking and 'Dave' is doing the listening and here, at least, he has my sympathy because were the POTUS to bid me 'Good day' I suspect I would be asleep by the second word!  That 'Dave' was dim enough to release this laughable image, which has since become a global joke, is all you need to have your worst fears concerning his lack of intelligence confirmed in spades.  However, I would like to take advantage of his dimwittery by offering you all a competition.  I want you all to imagine a cartoon-style bubble coming out of his mouth and for you to write in it what 'Dim Dave' is actually thinking or is about to say.  I will begin with this:

"Barack - who?  No, no, I already have an immigrant servant but thank you for calling."

 

Make her Prime Minister:   I have only just met this lady but she can give me a beauty treatment any time she likes, oh, and she can also run the country as far as I am concerned.

She is, of course, the very attractive Miss Gemma Worrall, a beautician from Blackpool where, I suspect, her services are much in need!  However, this lady has just 'enjoyed' her five minutes of fame, although I admit that it passed me by until I read Fraser Nelson's piece over at The Coffee House.  Apparently, the lovely Miss Worrall took to Twitter and offered this keen geo-political insight:

"Why is our president Barraco Barner getting involved with Russia, scary."

Why, indeed?  And, yes, it is "scary", not just for its potential but for the fact that "Barroco Barner" is stupid enough to go swaggering into someone else's backyard on the other side of the world from his and start laying down the law.  As Mr. Nelson emphasises in his gallant defence of the gorgeous Miss Worrall, it is an excellent thing that she obviously pays no attention to her own or anyone else's political leaders because it is only in totalitarian states that it is necessary to parse the language of 'The Dear Leader' carefully in order to survive.  Happily in this country, and so far in America, too, it is only necessary to shout "Show us your willy!" once every four years and in between we can forget about them - er, well, except for boring old bloggers like me!  Anyway, I wonder how I would look after a beauty treatment - no, don't tell me!

 

The first woman POTUS:  This piece by Matthew Continetti at The National Review had me sniggering contentedly.  It is impossible to paraphrase so I will give you the essence and leave you to read it all.  He begins by expressing his huge disappointment that despite the promise of 'HillBilly' and 'MDS' (My Darling Sarah) back in the run-up to the election of 2008, the USA did not get a woman president - but then he thinks again:

Only now do I see how mistaken I have been, how shallow my thinking, how guilty of succumbing to the confines of the hetero-normative imagination. If Bill Clinton “displays almost every trope of blackness: single-parent household, born poor, working-class, saxophone playing, McDonald’s-and-junk-food-loving boy from Arkansas,” and for that reason could be named by a Nobel laureate as “our first black President,” “blacker than any actual black person who could ever be elected in our children’s lifetime”; if Barack Obama “had to come out of a different closet,” had to learn “to be black the way gays learn to be gay,” if his “discovery in adulthood of a community not like your own home and the struggle to belong in both places, without displacement, without alienation” mirrors “the gay experience,” making him “the first gay president”; and if his positions on Israel make him, in the words of a former employee, “the first Jewish president,” then our ascription of gender identity need not be based on chromosomes or sexual characteristics, on hair style or costume, on self-identification, on arbitrary and socially constructed discourses of macho and feminine. It is clear to me now that we have had a woman president since January 20, 2009. Barack Obama’s story is America’s story. It is our story. It is the female story. [My emphasis]

 

Lest we forget, MDA provides a timely reminder:  Yes, indeed, 'My Darling Ann' (Coulter) provides a brief history, not of the ups and downs of Democrat presidents, but of their more frequent downs and downs and even further downs!  The potted version might read:

    JFK and how Kruschev smacked his bottom

    LBJ and Vietnam - say no more!

    Carter and Iran - and still we live with the consequences.

    Clinton and the many missed chances to hit OBL - what kept him so busy?!

    Obama and, well, almost everything really but especially Iraq.

But do read the whole thing, no one does acid better than MDA! 

 

Phony pomp & circumstance:   I don't know why so many little things irritate me these days, perhaps it's just getting old does it.  I have just watched on television England play Wales at rugby and I am reliably informed that we won although, as I cannot make head nor tail of the great piles of heads and tails to be seen in a game of rugby, I must take it on trust.  However, what I did see before the match began was a sort of opéra bouffe, or perhaps a sort of cut-price version of a Wagner extravaganza.  Anthems were sung - at least I assume they were anthems because, of course, I had the sound off - by pretty ladies and the mouth-breathing giants all hugged each other as they sung along with tears in their eyes.  There were giant flags of the two nations guarded by soldiers and at appropriate moments a couple of somewhat pathetic flame-flares went off in an example of premature ejaculation.  Needless to say, sundry 'likkle-kiddie-winkies' were brought on as well.  The whole thing was like a cut-price version of some South American dictator celebrating his inaugeration.  Perfectly ghastly!

 

Let's hear it for the 'Bus-Pass Elvis Party':   Oh, yes, the BPEP are deserving of your support at the next election.  Not only did they beat the il-Lib-non-Dems into fifth and bottom place in a recent council election in Nottingham, but also their leader, Elvis fan, David Laurence Bishop (aka 'Lord Biro'), has proposed that brothels be made legal and old-age pensioners be given a 30% discount!  What's not to like?  I am obliged to the Metro site.

 

The best prog on the BBC:   Well, next to 'Line of Duty', that is, is CountryFile.  It takes me effortlessly into the wonderful world of the countryside.  Yes, I know I live in it now but I don't understand any of it and that, frankly, makes me very uneasy.  All those cows and crops, sheep and shit, fertiliser and fornication [That's enough alliteration: Ed!] is all a mystery to me, but CountryFile explains it so well and sets me at ease.  Now I can drive by a field full of sheep and nod wisely and, no, I don't know why I am nodding but it make me feel better about myself!  Actually, I sense that my nodding on this occasion is due to the jug of dry martini the Memsahib mixed for me prior to dinner tonight and so before I write any further nonsense I think I should call it a day!

 

No more rumbles today.

 

The Sunday Rumble: 16.2.14

Did Monty Python invent the Winter Olympics?  I ask because there is more than just a hint of 'the Ministry of Silly Walks' in some of the competitions going on in Sochi, many of which remain totally incomprehensible to me.  Mind you, I barely give them a glance as I pass to and fro through the kitchen so I don't have much time to stop and work them out.  Actually, I am thinking of suggesting to 'Dim Dave' an entirely new Olympic competition - the Underwater Olympics!  Of course, it would have to be staged here given that most of England is now underwater and it will be such fun to watch 'Dave' give the opening speech underwater with the strong possibility that he would drown!

 

Putin Pukes: Just sometimes this Olympic nonsense is worth it and yesterday was surely the highlight of the 'games' when the USA ice-hockey team beat the Russians under the glacial blue eyes of dear old 'Vlad the Impaler' - what's the Russian for 'pass the sick bag'?  Just to add a bucket of hot chilli sauce to Vlad's popcorn, one of the two referees was an American and they both disallowed a Russian goal.  Simply too, too delicious!

 

Sligo, sling your hook! First a translation for my foreign readers: Dame Julia Sligo is the head of our less-than dearly beloved Met Office, and 'sling your hook' is an old English slang phrase which roughly translates as 'eff off'!  Two days ago Dame Sligo opined that all this rainfall was probably due to climate change. Three months ago, in November, the Met Office of which she is the boss, forecast high pressure for the winter which was "likely to lead to drier-than-normal conditions across the country".  Yeeeees, quite!  Anyway, today, one of her own top experts in weather systems informed us all that the bad weather was due to the jet stream (no, me neither!) being stuck further south than usual and that this unusal situation was nothing to do with global warming.  Cue the 'Milipede' wading in (with water coming over his 'wellies') repeating Sligo's crapulata and warning that climate change was a matter of "national security".

 

Hail and farewell, (Sid) Caesar:  It wasn't until 1965 that I came across Sid Caesar who died a few days ago.  I lived in Singapore and the TV station tended to rebroadcast old shows from America of which his was my favourite.  I lost count of the number of times I would roll off the settee onto the floor howling with helpless laughter.  For me, he was the greatest clown-comedian ever on television.  Watch and laugh:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNbT9Lf9xZo

 

Nice guys really do finish last:  And Mitt Romney is a prime example, as R. J. Moeller points out in a sympathetic  article at The American Spectator.  As he reminds us:

Mitt has no record. He’s never done drugs. He’s been married to the same woman
for over forty years. He’s got a loving family and five impressive sons. Aside
from his politics – which the bulk of the media and entertainment world despised
– he was most often attacked for being a square loser who was too nice to be
relatable and too successful in his private life to know how to manage the
beleaguered economy.

But that's "all blood under the bridge" now and for a direct comparison for the future one need look no further than the dreaded 'HillBilly'.  Vicious, tenacious, driven, vengeful and utterly ruthless she is the (almost) certain winner of the Democrat party nomination for the presidential election in 2016 and for a variety of reasons I suspect she is likely to win the big race, too.  It comes back to Machiavelli - and 'Vlad the Impaler' - as to whether, as a prince, it is better to be loved or feared.  The Americans, like their Russian counterparts, seem to prefer the latter.  We Brits, on the other hand, seem on the whole to prefer dollops!

 

Growling Cowling!  The name of the late Maurice Cowling is known to me, indeed, I actually have one of his books - unread, mea culpa! - but all I know of the man is that he was a terrific Cambridge history swot who could rarely pass an orthodoxy without pissing on it!  Judged by this description in a recent assessment of him by Matthew Walther at The American Conservative, I may have missed something:

 

“Argument,” Maurice Cowling wrote in 1981 to the editors of the London Review
of Books, “is not what it seems to me suitable to do with opinions. What one
does with opinions—all one needs to do with them, having found that one has
them—is to enjoy them, display them, use them, develop them, in order to cajole,
press, bully, soothe, and sneer other people into sharing (or being affronted
by) them. To argue them is, it seems to me, a very vulgar, debating-society sort
of activity.”

Hmmmmn!  I suspect that this capo di capi of Cambridge dons - Peterhouse, natch! - might have been a very interesting teacher.  If I had know there were profs like him at universitues I might have tried harder in my schooldays.  Mind you, I suspect he was something of a rarity.

 

If the nukes don't getcha' then the bugaboos will!  I have just watched CountryFile on the BBC, always rather a good programme.  Tonight I was particularly impressed with a segment dealing with some weird cow disease which all stems from a single-cell 'microbe' which develops inside dog poo.  Farm dogs, and countryside walkers' dogs, of course, poo anywhere in the fields and the grass becomes contaminated, the cows eat the grass and then find that they abort any subsequent calves.  There is no cure except strict control of dogs in the first place.  I wonder if some microbiotic bugaboo will eventually bring the human race to an end?

 

"Help for Heroes" is a very real help:  The charity, 'Help for Heroes', set up by Prince Harry and intended to offer aid and assistance to wounded ex-servicemen was also featured in tonight's 'CountryFile' programme.  On the edge of Salisbury Plain they have bought a lovely old house.  Salisbury Plain is a sort of 'home from home' to most British soldiers who spend an immense amount of time training on it.  Anyway, this house has been transformed into a R+R home for wounded ex-servicemen with gyms and sports facilities.  However, best of all it is surrounded by Wiltshire woods and countryside and the men, and some women, are trained by experts in the arts and crafts of the countryside.  One man, an ex-sniper, had been trained as a fully accredited woodsman.  All of them remarked on the balm and calm to be had from life in the country.  Next time I see a 'Help for Heroes' tin I will slip a few quid in.

    No more today

 

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This says it all:

 

 

Ooops!  So that's one electrician who'll be off for, er, 're-education'.  Well, 'Vlad the Impaler' twitched ever so slightly when he saw the error so that means trouble for someone.  Still, in the very finest traditions of Mother Russia, the truth was quickly hidden from the poor suckers Russian people when the TV director rapidly switched to a recording of the rehearsal opening.  However, some eyebrows, well, American eyebrows to be exact, were raised when a former Russian skating champion was given the central act of lighting the Olympic flame.  This, er, lady is also famous (infamous?) for producing this doctored picture on her Twitter or Facebook or whatever.

 

 

She is now a practicing politician, by which I mean that she is practicing hard to say "Yes, Mr. President" loudly, clearly and several times over.  Well, obviously Vlad approves of that, shows unity and all that sort of thing!  However, what he does not approve of is the lights going out over Sochi, so feel a twinge of synpathy for that poor little electrician!  Also, perhaps, as those smug, crooked politicians, thugs and murderers watch those thick-as-planks athletes wasting their and everyone else's time sliding about on snow that had to be trucked in, spare a thought for a nearby resident I read about but, alas, forgot to bookmark, whose family house, which he had built himself over several years, was bull-dozered flat to make way for these 'games' and he and his family cast out without a rouble of compensation.

Please, oh please, dear Lord, take some of this rain away from Somerset and send it over to Sochi and let it wash away all the snow - it would make an old man very, very happy!

 

What's the Russian for 'clusterfuck'?

I ask because the Russian-organised Winter Olympics looks like becoming a monumental clusterfuck of epic proportions.  According to the WSJ, the two brothers who managed to smooth their way into a huge contract for building the site and the ski jumps have left the country and now reside in England - for the good of their health, possibly!  Apparently 'Vlad the Impaler' was not amused when:

Mr. Kozak, the deputy prime minister, told Mr. Putin that the ski jump was more than two years late—and four times over budget. "So 1.2 billion turned into eight billion," Mr. Putin said, seething with displeasure as he repeated the figures. "Well done," Mr. Putin said acerbically. "Good work. Let's continue."

I think his final remarks were the nearest you can get to irony in Russian!  Anyway, all we can pray for now is no snow!  If that happens you may hear a strange noise, it will be my hoots and cackles of undiluted joy reaching round the globe!

And talking of sporting clusterfucks, in the spirit of everything is bigger and better in America, I gather that their Super Bowl was in fact a super bore with one side thrashing the other 43 to 8 but still taking 36 hours to do it - and if it wasn't in fact 36 hours those who watched it said it felt like it!

 

Talking of blood sports . . .

This would be a blood-fest of epic proportions and I for one would pay good money to sit ringside.  According to Fraser Nelson, editor of The Spectator, he has received a fascinating letter from 'a reader'!  It is addressed to 'Taki' Theodoracopulos, the 'zillionaire' author of the Spectator's High Life column. 

‘Dear Ms Taki [sic],

Although the Spectator is a lovely read, I always skip your column, I’m afraid.

I am simply not interested in your social life.  I know that you delight in telling readers that your friends of Prussian nobility find you hilariously entertaining company at their swanky Europoncy parties.

But it was very hapless of you to spring to Nigella’s defence last week, as she always found you toe-curlingly vile, and would have been aghast at having you as her valiant supporter.

People tell me that in your unreadable column you also like to brag that you are a Black Belt at karate. Well, me too, old boy. But apparently your ‘fights’ are genteel affairs, against other soppy geriatrics rolling around the floor in crisp white outfits, in some bit of judokai nonsense.

Mine take place in cages, 20 feet square, unofficial little events with no gloves, no rules, and the loser being carried out, usually battered to bits.  You will understand why I laughed out loud at your schoolyard boast that I should try throttling a real hard case like you.

Yours,

Charles Saatchi’

 

 

 

 

                        Charles Saatchi                                                          'Taki' Theodoracopulos

 

'Taki' is a seriously good practitioner of karate, up to Olympic standards, I believe.  Having read his excellent columns for over thirty years that is no surprise to me but I never knew that Saatchi was a cage-fight specialist!  Well, the challenge has been extended and, apparently, 'Taki' has accepted:

‘I am 77 years old, 5ft 9in and weigh 185lbs. I am willing to face him any time under cage-fighting non-rules, which will be a first for me. I need three days’ notice.’

Fraser Nelson has offered the garden at the Spectator premises as a venue with all ticket proceeds going to The Boxing Academy in East London.  Now, if only 'Taki' could entice the lovely Nigella to be in his corner what a punch-up we could all enjoy!  And even more enticing if Saatchi could get his latest 'squeeze' in his corner then the girls could indulge in a bit of cage-fighting themselves.  Oh dear, I'm becoming rather excited  . . .

                      

A vintage year for mega-sport clusterfucks!

I am a sports fan.  Well, to be more accurate, I am a fan of sporting clusterfucks and, yes, that makes me a mean-spirited, old curmudgeon but, heh! - that's the way I like me!  Actually, the recent death of Sir Chris Chataway reminded me of the way sport used to be, that is, genuine amateurs giving every ounce of effort in pursuit of a sport they loved.  (Incidentally, Chataway's Wiki entry is worth reading for the story of a life well-lived.)  Alas, global communications led to massive audiences and that was when the 'filthy lucre' flowed in and sluiced most sports down the sewer.  Today we have these bloated international leviathons like FIFA and the International Olympic Committee led by pompous, slippery, jumped-up toads like Sepp Blatter.  Thus my love turned to hate but as these monstrosities have grown ever-larger so their propensity for gigantic clusterfucks has grown with them.

The 2012 London Olympics was a huge disappointment to me - it worked, more or less.  Of course, the private company responsible for security ripped off the government but, honestly, who could blame them?  Anyway, as so often in the past, the British army was available to haul the government's arse out of trouble. (Today, another 1,500 soldiers will receive the government's thanks in the form of redundency notices - so no change there, then!)  However, this year us spoil-sports are set to enjoy double-bubble!  First, we have the Russian Winter Olympics which has already started badly with 'Vlad the Impaler' trying hard to mask his real feelings by passing a law against homosexuals - come off it, Vlad, darling, you're not fooling me!  Where-ever you are in the world I promise you will hear my whinnies of unadulterated pleasure if two men (or better still, women!) give each other a big snog on the podium as they receive their medals.  More serious, indeed, anything but a joking matter, is the very real possibility of a terrorist attack which I pray does not happen.  However, even the threat of it should reduce the number of visitors by tens of thousands and hopefully a few corrupt Russkies will go broke!

Next in line is this year's football World Cup.  It is no longer enough for the England football team to finish next to last like the big bunch of jessies they are because we have all become used to that.  What we want is a truly epic clusterfuck and, given recent reports on the unfinished condition of just about everything the Brazilians promised would be finished well before the start date, this year could truly be a champion disaster!  Oh, please, if there is a god of disasters, then let it be!

 

'E's not all bad, that Bernie Ecclestone

Instead of reading this rubbish you would do much better to read Matthew Norman's witty summary of the rise and rise and just possibly the fall of Bernie Ecclestone, the man who turned what had hitherto been a hobby for petrol-heads into a global industry sport.  No one tells it better than Matthew Norman but I will add my own personal memory of Bernie, a man, so they say, who were he to shake your hand you would be wise to count your fingers afterwards!  As we all know, he is shortly to stand trial in Germany for bribery.  Well, sharing as I did with Bernie, membership of that exclusive gentlemen's club, the second-hand car trade, I was shocked, I tell you, shocked!  However, if you fancy a little punt I would advise placing a few quid on Bernie to beat the rap.

Anyway, here is my personal memory of the one and only time I (sort of) met him.  Years ago I took 'SoD', then a nipper, to the British Grand Prix where I managed to get a photo of him next to his hero, Carlos Reutemann, one of the great drivers of the period.  Somewhat surprisingly given my ineptitude with cameras, the photo turned out rather well so I had it enlarged and took it back with 'SoD' to the next British Grand Prix.  We waited patiently by the Brabham paddock for Reutemann to put in an appearance so that we could ask him to autograph it.  Alas, no sign of the great man but who should tootle by but no less than Bernie who owned the team.. He spotted the photo, snatched it from 'SoD's hand, took it into the garage and re-emerged with it duly signed by Carlos Reutemann.  The photo with autograph was framed and I think 'SoD' still has it.

Funny how you never forget little kindnesses like that, so here's wishing you the best of luck, Bernie!

 

The last Sunday Rumble of 2013

Are there signs of panic in the newsrooms?  I do sense a certain desperation at Sky News, my favourite newsroom, as they scratch about trying to find, er, well, some news, actually!  I mentioned a few weeks back how deadly quiet this battered old globe of ours has become which is "A Good Thing", of course, but leaves the imagination free to worry about what might be approaching from a direction none of the so-called experts ever told us about.  Ah well, fingers crossed!

The end of a beautiful friendship:  I have mentioned before, 'many a time and oft',  'my mate Rupe' with whom hitherto I have enjoyed an excellent friendship mainly on account of him sending me - free of charge! - a satellite dish and a dead-clever recording-thingie.  Alas, I should have known that there is no such thing as a freebie from an Aussie and when I realised that I was paying £63 a month for the pleasure of not watching almost total 24-hour crap I'm afraid our friendship ended.  The only thing I shall really miss will be Fox News which I rather enjoyed - on an occasional basis - although no doubt some comms swot will tell me that you can watch it live via computer.  Perhaps when the 'Memsahib' runs off with the milkman I might just dispense with TV for ever.

The 'Milipede' is crawling towards victory:  That is, according to Matthew d'Ancona in today's Telegraph and he is echoing what most other commentators are forecasting for the election in 2015.  If it happens and if the first thing the 'Milipede' does inside No.10 is to ring up the UNITE union boss, Ed MacCluskey, for instructions, and if Ed Balls moves into No.11 to hone his borrowing and spending 'skills' then the result is all too obvious, simply look over the Channel and see what is happening in socialist France!  However, even for a reckless ( and usually wrong) forecaster like me, it is far too early to call.  Even so, 10-year bond yields for both the UK and the USA have now moved over 3%!

"Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry":  So go the words of the old song and between them the Telegraph and the Spectator do their best to comply.  If you really are in need of more melancholia then try Bruce Anderson whose title says it all: "The West has lost control of the world and disaster awaits".  He starts with the death of King Frederick III in 1888 and it's downhill from there on in!  But if it's 'cheerful chappies' you're after then look no further than Daniel Hannan in the Telegraph and Fraser Nelson at The Coffee House.  He provides this cheerful diagram:

 

There, feeling better already, aren't you?  Hannan adds to the jollity by reminding us that doomsters like Prince Charles, Steven Guilbeault and Chris Rose, both of Greenpeace, all share the same characteristics - being prats and being wrong!

A New Year puzzle for you all:  Here is a sonnet, rather a plodding sonnet, I'm afraid, written in 1936 by Mr. David Schulman to honour one of America's heroes and entitled:

Washington Crossing the Delaware

A hard, howling, tossing water scene.
Strong tide was washing hero clean.
"How cold!" Weather stings as in anger.
O Silent night shows war ace danger!

The cold waters swashing on in rage.
Redcoats warn slow his hint engage.
When star general's action wish'd "Go!"
He saw his ragged continentals row.

Ah, he stands – sailor crew went going.
And so this general watches rowing.
He hastens – winter again grows cold.
A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold.

George can't lose war with's hands in;
He's astern – so go alight, crew, and win!

You see what I mean about 'plodding' but there is a secret and brilliant catch to this poem and if you can deduce what it it is there are two prizes to be won.  The second prize is that you will be sent advanced copies of every forthcoming blog post on D&N, the first prize is that you will not!

Hat tip to Mick Hartley

 

They should all be made to wear burqas:  Well, there's ugly, then there are footie fans and then, dread sight, there are footie players!  I have just watched Arsenal play Newcastle and it looked like a mass escape from the nearest 'Ugliest Man in the World' exhibition at the local fairground.  I am astonished that these young men are not satisfied at being just plain ugly but they needs must add to the sorry state of their features by smothering their bodies in hideous tattoos and hair cuts executed by sundry drunken barbers who obviously hate footie players.  When I am reminded that they earn more in a week than I do in a year my facial tic re-appears, my fingers flex and small flecks of foam appear on my lips and I mutter to the 'Memsahib', "Fetch my meds - quick!"

Just in case you were feeling cheerful after your Christmas break:  I thought this story from The Mail would return you quickly to the 'glums' you are used to:

A leading figure in the Ministry of Defence has claimed more than £100,000 expenses in his first year of work, it has been revealed.

Bernard Gray, who was appointed to help manage the budget, enjoyed 106 stays in London and Bristol hotels, for £23,000, despite his home being less than a 60-mile drive from both.

He was also given an official car and chauffeur, costing the department £65,531.

Official documents, seen by the Sunday People, reveal he also spent £17,929 on planes and trains, and £280 in taxis in 2011-2012.  In the months since, he has spent £14,457 travelling abroad.

Mr Gray, who earns £220,00 a year as Chief of Defence Material, was taken on in 2010 to help target waste in the department.

Presumably this was what 'Dim Dave' was referring to when he told the troops in Afghanistan, many of whom now face redundancy when they return from 'the sharp end', that it was "mission accomplished!" For who, Dave, tell us that, for who?

  

No more rumbles today

 

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A tad busy off and on today, just like you, I guess, so this will follow the form of my regular 'Sunday Rumbles' in which random burps thoughts will be expressed as and when they occur to me and in between the list of 'to dos' provided by the 'Memsahib'.

Post-mortem pandering:  So the 'soppies' have had their way and a Queen's pardon has been offered to a dead 'queen' who broke the law of the land 60-odd years ago.  Of course, this particular 'queen', Alan Turing, was central in the effort to break the German 'Enigma' code and thus helped us to win the war and that makes him the perfect symbol for the 'soppies' to wage their never-ending campaign for us to indulge in abject self-flagellation for the perceived sins of the past.  Preposterous posturing, I call it!

Well, a man may hope, may he not?  Well, Andrew Haldenby does in The Telegraph.  Apparently, Ed 'Milipede' has very quietly slipped out a policy paper entitled "Zero-based Review".  The main thrust, I gather, is that the Labour party now believes that all public expenditure - that's 'all' as in no exceptions at all - must be justified down to the last pound.  I'm not sure whether this 'revolutionary' policy (for the Labour party) was slipped out so surreptitiously because Ed didn't want the other Ed to know about it or whether he was trying not to let the real leader (perhaps 'owner' is a better word!) of the Labour party, 'Bruvver' McCluskey, find out.  Of course, it won't last five minutes if they get into power but still, it's interesting that even in theory they are admitting that not all government spending is justified.

Joke of the Year:  Actually, I missed the chance to put this in my 'Monday Funnies' slot yesterday probably because when you think about it it's not at all funny.  Anyway, for what it's worth I give you - The Joke Of The Year:  The England cricket team!  Yeah, well, I did warn you it wasn't funny.  Alas for them (not that I feel much pity) the whole team is now tarnished by the 'drama queen' flouncings of Graeme Swann.  What a gutless, miserable specimen of so-called sporting manhood - all mouth and nowt else - as they say 'ooop north'!

Good riddance to (very) bad rubbish:  As a rule of thumb you would never want your sister to marry an MP.  That is unfortunate for the (very) tiny minority of MPs who do their best to live up to their parliamentary titles as 'Honourable Ladies and Gentlemen'.  However, the wisdom of the rule is confirmed by the 'ex-Honourable Gentlemen - not', Denis MacShane - I was tempted to try a pathetic jest by calling him 'MacShame' but instantly realised that he doesn't possess any!  He always came across in his public interviews and appearances as a smooth-talking smart-arse.  I do hope he doesn't try to pull his superiority 'schtik' with 'Big Bubba' in D-wing who has a way of, er, cutting people down to size!  Of course, his enforced absence means that MacShane's current lady friend, Vicky Price (Huhne), is now free and available but given her proximity to men who end up in the slammer who, in his right mind, would take her on?

 

Why am I not surprised?  There is a report in today's Mail, although I can't find a link, claiming that there was one particular regiment which did not take part in the famous Christmas truce in 1914.  Needless to say, it was the first Battalion of the Cameronians whose grumpy ranks were filled, and I trust my e-pal Jimmy is reading this, with men 'frae Glasgie'.  A game of football in no-man's-land was offered by the Germans but flatly refused by the Cameronians who claimed, not unreasably, that they couldn't trust the Huns not least because they had been shooting at them for the last four months!

 

Fantasia:  Slumped in Christmas Eve inertia - it's a sort of practice for tomorrow! - I watched Disney's Fantasia. It must be nearly 70 years ago when I first saw it and I'm not sure I remember any of it bar The Sorcerer's Apprentice.  I'm also not sure what to make of it today.  Frankly, I was rather bored in places and simply closed my eyes and listened.  On the other hand, some of the imagery is sharp and witty, and given the 'easy-peasy' nature of cgi effects these days, I can only stand silent and doff my hat to the memory of those 'cartoonists'.

 

A fantastic idea!  I have just woken up from 'Midsomer Murders' with a totally brilliant idea.  Next year I will write the Xmas murder mystery to end all murder mysteries!  Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple will find themselves alone on a desert Island.  One of them will be murdered but, and this is the clincher, it will not be a mystery as to 'who dunnit?' but 'who copped it?'  I know, darlings, a talent like mine is wasted on this blog!

 

No more considerations - until Boxing Day!

 

Related articles

The new old leader of the Labour party

Queen grants gay war hero Alan Turing a posthumous pardon

Denis MacShane Jailed Over Expenses Claims

The Sunday Rumble: 8.12.13

Bashing the 'boomers':  Amongst the wittiest of American writers, P. J. O'Rourke turns his laser-like humour on his own kind - the so-called 'baby boomer generation' in America.  He knows where-of he writes because he is, well, a less-than-proud member of it!  His opening paragraph gives you the flavour:

We are the generation that changed everything. Of all the eras and epochs of Americans, ours is the one that made the biggest impression—on ourselves. That's an important accomplishment, because we're the generation that created the self, made the firmament of the self, divided the light of the self from the darkness of the self, and said, "Let there be self." If you were born between 1946 and 1964, you may have noticed this yourself.

 

There's poor and then there's, like, er, really, really poor:  I shall forever remain grateful to Mr. O'Rourke who, in one of his books, provided me with the answer to a question I had asked constantly on various Left-wing blogs, that is, how exactly and precisely do you define 'poverty'?  Lefties never stop prating about poverty but most of them seemed to think that living in a council flat on benefits and eating KFC three times a day is real poverty.  O'Rourke, who has seen the grim reality in various parts of the world, gave this definition - no chickens!  According to him, just about everywhere you go in the world's impoverished locations you will usually see a few chickens scratching around and you will know that whilst life is tough it is not totally lost.  It's when there are no chickens to be seen that you have the stark proof of real poverty.

 

A right royal double-act:  I am more and more impressed with our brace of royal grandsons, Wills and Harry.  Like all the very best double-acts they appeal to both sides of our sentiments.  Wills satisfies that part of us that understands that good sense and good behaviour are re-enforced by a good marriage and fatherhood.  Harry, on the other hand, appeals to the 'wannabe' playboy in us all as he parties and shags for Britain whilst - and this is important - he does some time up the 'sharp-end' in Afghanistan and then takes part in some tough charity events, like trudging across Antarctica.  Her Maj, of course, has been absolutely brilliant as Queen and if and when Charles takes over in his dotage he and his eccentricities will be looked on with fondness.  By then Wills will be fully matured, and no doubt some American heiress will have pinned Harry down, so all's well with the Royal family - God bless 'em!

 

Bloody computers!  I have remarked before on the unmitigated catastrophe that would ensue following a cyber attack.  I don't think any of us have any real idea of just how much of our modern lives are utterly and totally dependent on the constant stream of 'mega-ga-zillions' of noughts and ones that go to make up 'information technology'.  This week we have had two tiny reminders - 'tiny' because they are as nothing compared to a full shut down - when a bank's computer system went tits-up and then yesterday the air traffic control system followed suit.  Instead of wasting money on two useless aircraft carriers the MoD would be better employed spending the money on cyber security systems.  But then, when did they ever plan for the future war as opposed to the last one?!

 

Never trust the experts:  Of course, by and large we do because we have no alternative but in a sea of uncertainty it never does any harm to cling to a buoy of scepticism.  I am reminded of this by memories from two months ago when the 'footie' season opened and all, not just some but all, the experts on 'TOOOOORKSPOOOOORT' laid into M. Hulot, ooops, pardonnez-moi, I mean Arsene Wenger, the French manager of Arsenal F.C. and accused him of being a short-sighted (well, to be fair he never sees any of the fouls committed by his players but can spot an opposition penalty at 50 yards!), tight-fisted, stubborn, old fool who never spends enough on new players to refresh his team and they all predicted disaster.  As of now (15.15 hrs.) his team is top of the table with four points more than his immediate rivals and with a match in hand, and after this evening he could be seven points ahead.  As he might put it, "Celui qui rira le dernier ne comprend pas la blague!"

 

Film of the week:  Not to be missed - and that's an order!  On BBC1, Tuesday evening at 11.40pm, The Painted Veil.  Based on the Somerset Maugham story, it is absolutely terrific - and not just the jaw-dropping scenery to be seen in the China scenes.  A tale of moral weakness eventually reconciled by greater strengths.  You are not to miss this film and you may have to write an essay on it Wednesday morning!  Those of you living in Australia are excused!

 

Vermeer: Artist or Artificer?  I have mentioned before my coolness towards the paintings of Vermeer which was enforced by reading that he, and some of the other 'masters', had used the camera obscura to aid their apparantly 'amazing' technique particularly in regard to perspective.  Courtesy of the indispensable Arts & Letters Daily I have just read a fascinating article in Vanity Fair describing the activities of a certain Tim Jenison who can only be described as a monumental polymath.  I hadn't realised that much of the, er, 'Arts' world were still adamant in their refusal to accept that Vermeer and his ilk had used anything other than their genius in executing their paintings.  However, Mr. Jenison (with the aid of Penn and Teller, the famous magicians) has demonstrated exactly how Vermeer pulled off the trick. Worth reading!

 

 

No more rumbles today!