Merry Chrimbo from Bonny Jockland

This teacake emporium is closed until further notice.

Overindulgences of a various nature and much repairing to the public house will prevent postings.

Until my return I wish all and sundry a happy Christmas. May the domes of your teacakes prosper.

The Sad Decline of the Y

I occurred to me today that despite my metrosexual carapace I am, to all intents and purposes, a hunter gatherer. My life consists of an inextricably linked nexus of getting and spending. Unfortunately the latter is somewhat compromised by the powers that be insisting that I cough up a portion of my hard earned to ensure that munchkins are not taught to read, write, or do hard sums.

Scientists have concluded that I am a species on the verge of extinction. Apparently my Y chromosome is so badly frayed at the edges that my kind will be extinct in 120,000 years time.

This news should depress me, but I try to look on the bright side. The likes of MJ putting the gnome in genome give me hope for the future. Given that we've managed plenty of killings and wars in the last 10,000 years the next 120,000 are sure to be eventful.

Weapon of Mass Destruction

My wholly justified hatred of ghastly Oirish crooner Daniel O'Donnell has caused me to overlook another utterly loathsome example of the type of lachrymose musical whining that calls for nothing less than hanging drawing and quartering to be reintroduced to the Statute Book.

Those of you who haven't heard of Chris de Burgh should be grateful. He is repulsive in the way that only the truly vacuous can be; an asinine insult to the gods of art and lyricism.

Apparently he is to be permitted to serenade the Iranians, presumably because the chances of any knickers being thrown in his direction are minimal. The mullahs must be rubbing their hands at the prospect of grooving on down to 'The lady in Red'.

With any luck the CIA will have surreptitiously strapped a mini thermonuclear device up his jumper; thus ridding the world of badly dressed religious nutters and a talentless Oirish tosspot simultaneously.

That outcome would, I am sure, have us all dancing in the aisles.

Full credit to the forty faces you created

Everyhing seems to have gone all 1970's recently. What with spacehoppers and Led Zeppelin reunions I fear that it's only a matter of time until men start growing gigantic sideburns and women begin burning their bras.

The current Zeppelin fixation worries me. When I was at School only the nerds listened to them: everyone else concurred with Paul Simenon of the Clash that "just looking at one of their album covers makes me want to throw up". A bit harsh maybe, but the hairy ones had split up a few years earlier and everyone with a bit of nous was listening to the Smiths. Nigel and Raymond with their unfashionably long hair and zoso t shirts may not have been social pariahs, but they certainly didn't get invited to the best parties.

These old geezers reunions don't really don't do much for me. A bald, half deaf, arthritic Pete Townshend attempting to windmill, or Jimmy Page gurning from beneath a mop of white hair, smacks of parody.

As for Led Zeppelin. Were they the greatest rock band of all time? Probably. For me that's not really the point. They weren't likeable, and although they had millions of fans, they certainly weren't loved.

There's enough of the punk in my DNA for me to wish that someone had fired a heat seeking missile at their privately chartered Boeing 747.

"I'm a golden god!". Of course you are Robert, you're from Brirmingham. Now kindly fuck off.

Handbagged

All this talk of credit crunches and incipient financial meltdown is starting to get me down. Even the Big Issue sellers are starting to look worried, which is conclusive proof of imminent blood on the high street.

We can, of course, blame the Americans for their sheer financial genius in approving mortgages to subnormal IQ numpties with no job, income, or assets. Clearly these people have been sold products which they didn't understand, although an inability to comprehend what happens when you don't pay your interest suggests that they couldn't even understand simple arithmetic.

The way things are going we're all clearly in serious danger of having to survive on windfalls and tinned sardines. I'm already thinking of pawning my Daimler to tide me over the worst of it.

The way I see it the only hope is for women to keep their chins up and maintain their lavish spending on handbags and shoes. Expenditure on these items is the bedrock of western capitalism and the key to consumer confidence.

Get your credit cards out girls; splash out on those Jimmy Choos; indulge yourself with a diamante encrusted Hermes handbag. You represent our last and only hope.

American Teeth

I don't know when British Television news ceased to be a fount of world class journalism and decided that flashing white gnashers was what the public really wanted.


Kate Silverton likes to flash her pearl likes at the camera as she announces the latest genocide in Darfur.


Natasha Kaplinsky enjoys airing her molars coquettishly as she lists the latest serial killer victims.


Christine Bleakley's* permagrin suggests that she suffers from Tourettes syndrome.

As far as I'm concerned the BBC might as well employ Ken Dodd to present the news. He's been about a bit, knows the ropes, and can emphasise points of interest with one of his tickling sticks.


It's about time some seriousness was reintroduced to this news presentation business.

*Christine isn't a newsreader, but I thought I'd include her as I fancy the pants off her.

Trumped

I am suffering from a serious inferiority complex.

Anyone who doesn't have an 'Organization', or a 'Signature' collection of designer clothing and accessories really has to count themselves among life's most pitiful inadequates.

I've tried grrrrring at myself in the mirror each morning, but no amount of self motivational "go get 'em son" imprecations have proved successful in garnering the billions that are rightfully mine. My clothes are made in Indonesia and my Daimler is an antique grandfather clock. This is a grossly unacceptable state of affairs.

What I need is my own golf course complete with condominium development and an international class hotel with monogrammed bath robes and individually wrapped wafer thin chocolates.

Trumpie wants to build his in Aberdeenshire but is having trouble persuading the inbred local yokels that this is a good idea. What he doesn't realise is that I have pipped him to the post with my own golfing proposal.



Look on my works ye mighty and despair. Megalomania beckons.