Student Politicians

....and lots of free beer please.

Within approximately ten minutes of ceasing to be a student most people develop a wholly justified hatred for the malingering little scrotes. It was all very well and good for highly gifted and intellectual types like myself to stay in bed until late afternoon before repairing to the public house, but the illiterate numbskulls these days who have the temerity to do so would be better off spending their time in remedial English classes.

I imagine that the student politicians still exist. They will be big cheeses in the National Union of Students, honing their political skills for the day when they will mesmerize the House of Commons with their oratorical pyrotechnics. Although a bit thick, they will be in love with the sound of their own voices and will have already begun sharpening their knives to back stab their way to the glittering prizes.

The House of Commons is stuffed to the rafters with student politicians. None of them will have actually worked in the real sense, preferring instead to idle in local government, or pen 'lifestyle' pieces for the Guardian before wangling nominations for a safe seat.

The only solution to governance by dimwits that I can see is to remove all student politicians from public office. Unfortunately hanging, drawing, and quartering is off the agenda these days, but they should at least be pelted with rotten eggs as they trudge off into the realms of irrelevance where they rightly belong.

I would take considerable pleasure in accompanying Black Rod as he set about the egotistical little shits with his.....er, rod.

Vote Borrock

Far be it for me to attempt to sway Americans in their voting intentions, but I do feel that they will be making a grave error if they fail to support the political aspirations of Barack Obama.

Barack would definitely get my vote. I believe the correct pronunciation of his name is 'Borrock Obawma', a moniker that frankly sends shivers down my spine. He has sticky out ears. Having suffered this affliction during my yoof I feel a strong empathy with him. Most vain politicians would pin back their wingnuts with chewing gum, but Borrock is happy to let his flap gaily in the wind. If that isn't testament to his political incorruptibility I don't know what is.

Borrock may one day stand on the White House lawn as the sun shines through his ears. They will glow like beacons and summon the friendly aliens to come park their space ships and repast on eyeggs and baycon.

Man kinds salvation stands ready and waiting. I just hope the Americans have the courage to grasp the nettle.

Proper Nosh

Having overdosed on bagels the size of my head, consumed eggs Benedict on muffins roughly the size of Yorkshire, and discovered that the American for 'regular' translates as 'try and swallow that lot without exploding like Mr Creosote', I have returned to the joys of this postage stamp sized island and a howling gale.

Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow doesn't bear much resemblance to 5th Avenue, but it is good to hear incomprehensible Glaswegians shouting 'get tae fuck' at innocent passers by. It warms the cockles of me old heart.

Having overdone the calories I decided that the best thing to do on my return was to eat some proper food.



Smashing.

And no, Americans can't make tea.

At This Time

I love the United States, I love the brusque politeness, I love the easy provison of victuals and water.

I have developed a serious addicton to Snapple Grapeade.

What annoys me is the use of the phrase "this service is not available at this time."

When will the service be available? The Big Bang? The second coming of Christ?

It's hard to tell.

Leave-Taking

The Voice

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.

Thomas Hardy


Come back Arabella.

Come to think of it that won't work, but this might. I've always admired gals who admire a three string guitar tuned to an open G.

.

The Hound of Ulster

I thought I was through with mid life crises; the lost weekend in Dublin with Nina that extended to three months of unexpurgated hell having cured my 32 year old soul of any lingering notions of romanticism. Unfortunately they recurred at the ages of 34, 36, 37, and 39.

My age today is irrelevant, I'm past caring about the encroachment of the boys bump starting the hearse. The thing is, I've bought a wafer thin digital camera that can photograph toenails at twenty paces. This has got me thinking.

My late Great Uncle Harold didn't exactly live in squalor, it's just that he accumulated piles of newspapers and was able to extract one (Sept 12, 1937) and opine that it contained a particularly interesting article on the state of pig breeding in County Tryone. He also had a wind up bakelite telephone that connected him directly to the exchange. I've no idea why he kept a loaded Lee Enfield rifle propped at the end of his bed, unless it might have come in useful if any ne'er do well had jumped through his bedroom window and attempted to steal his Woodbines.

I appear to span two centuries, and I'm not sure which I would prefer to live in.