Sunday, September 28, 2008

Down in Daaaarset

Tess Durbeyfield was a cracking bird, make no mistake. Down in Dorset things got a bit depressing, what with bastard children, drunken yokel fathers, and pursed lipped church goers giving her the old heave ho.

Life's tough in RobertHardyland. I haven't been there, but the brochure looks nice.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Bath or Bawth?

They've done one of those 'which is the stupidest accent in the British Isles' surveys again. They seem to have one every five minutes or so, and always conclude that people from Birmingham sound like gormless thickos. If I was from Birmingham I'd take umbrage. It's as though they hold the surveys on a regular basis to remind the Brummies that they sound like retarded morons, just so they don't start to get ideas above their station.

Personally I don't mind The Brummie accent, it's just an inoffensive droning monotone. A strong Belfast accent (once memorably described as 'like listening to a Glaswegian being strangled') is much harsher on the ear. As for Liverpudlians, they go in for a stream of conciousness gibberish which is comprehensible only to other Liverpudlians.

If you want to hear a really stupid accent you have to go to Devon, where centuries of inbreeding have not only produced a population of one eyed eunuchs but resulted in a sheep shagging yokel accent that definitively puts the hay in seed.

The Brummies should hold their heads high, they mightn't be popular as call centre recruits, but at least their speech is comprehensible. It's just a pity that they sound depressed all time. They really should hold a survey to find if suicides in Birmingham exceed the national average.

Perhaps I'll join the Samaritans and try to stop the Brummies from killing themselves. I should be able to talk them round, If I can stop myself guffawing at their accent.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Badiddlyboing Idaho

Sat quietly minding my own business (contemplating impending bankruptcy, nekkid Uma Thurman - that kind of thing) in my favourite Chinese restaurant I was somewhat perturbed when a large party of baseball cap wearing Americans burst through the doors.

They were definitely from hicksville; possibly Iowa, or North Dakota, but more probably Boise Idaho. There was much settling of bubble perms and rearrangement of baseball caps as they sat down to contemplate the menu. One of them exclaimed: "Gee, I can't believe we're about to eat Chinese in Scaaatland!.

What, I felt like asking, is so unusual about eating Chinese food in Scotland? What did they expect? Compulsory haggis and neeps? A chunk of smoked salmon served with a side order of lightly sautéed sporran? They must have been really confused when the Chinese waiter taking their order spoke with a Glaswegian accent.

I dare say it was a culturally enriching experience for them. Seeing the Loch Ness monster won't even come close when it comes to funding their store of after dinner anecdotes back home in Boise.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Cash is King

I imagine that lots of people are having a quiet chortle at the vicissitudes currently being suffered by the masters of the universe as their financial fairyland dissolves. The word hubris springs to mind, and it's hard to muster much sympathy for the arrogant spendthrifts of Wall Street and the City of London.

Unfortunately it's the little people who will suffer most: the secretaries, the menial clerks, the man who sorts the post. It's worth sparing them a thought when observing the Merrill Lynch 'stampeding herd' careering into a brick wall as a consequence of greed and stupidity. The big brains have proved to be a useless bunch of shysters.

Putting your money under the mattress has never been a good idea, but in current circumstances it may be the only method of ensuring a good nights sleep.

Cash is definitely king. I'd sleep on mine, if I had any.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Brave New World

The elderly huddle outside, cradling cigarettes in their gnarled hands as the rain sweeps under the awning. Inside the atmosphere has been drained, the winking and trilling fruit machine a forlorn paean to conviviality. Instead of a tobacco fug the air is redolent with efflatus and neat cleaning fluid.

The perfect public house has never existed: Orwell's The Moon Under Water was fictional, and even if it had existed would only have appealed to reactionary old men wearing tweed jackets with leather elbow patches. Everyone probably has their own ideal; ranging from bright modernist 'spaces' where elaborate cocktails are shaken by antipodean barmen to troglodyte taverns with booths suited to louche conspiracies.

Each to their own.

Apparently pubs are closing in record numbers, caught in the pincer movement of the smoking ban and alcohol taxes. I'm convinced that the smoking ban is the principal cause, removing the pub smell that obliterated the malodorous vapours emanating from the regulars. My nostrils can achieve a similar workout standing in a bus shelter, so why pay huge sums of money for beer at a hostelry?

Stuff is bad for us, so the legislators must legislate against stuff. Sometimes I think they're trying to force us into a clean white prison where mortality is illegal. Drop some Prozac and do your aerobics dear; you'll be healthier, fitter, happier, and you may get to live a bit longer on your meagre pension.

In Scotland they are planning to ban the display of cigarettes in newsagents. Under the counter items are illicit, and hence desirable. This should see sales soar.

We are governed by geniuses.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

A Rum Affair

My Bosun Higgs has been rather fractious of late. He is convinced that if we do not change course soon we will either be capsized by sea monsters or fall off the edge of the earth.

He's always been a suspicious sort, dispensing home spun wisdom and old wives tales when in his cups. I am constantly amazed by his rum fuelled loquacity, though I have to say that I am less than happy with his unhealthy interest in my cabin boy, Master Bates. Seaman Staines has informed me that on more than one occasion he has had reason to suspect that Bosun Higgs is more fond of sodomy than rum and the lash.

The bounder may well find himself at the sharp end of my cat o' nine tails, or peering at a sharks grin from the end of the plank. Standards at sea must be maintained, and I will have no hesitation in making an example of one errant crewman in order to ensure the maintenance of a happy ship.

One just can't be too careful.

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Black Flowers Blossom

This really should be digitally encoded, strapped to a satellite, and blasted off to the farthest corners of the universe. There it will be swallowed by a black hole and disgorged for the enjoyment of bemused Cadbury's Smash eating aliens.

Or something.

Take from it what you will.

Friday, September 05, 2008

Hail Palin!

I was most gratified to learn that after over 300 years of inexplicable obduracy the North American Colonials have finally had the good sense to choose a polite, well spoken, and erudite Englishman as a candidate for high political office.

I'm not sure about that John McCain. I've always been suspicious of men with square heads, and there's definitely a hint of the oblong about McCain's cranium. He looks like a suitable candidate for trepanning to me.

Michael Palin will make a perfect VP, restraining McCain's bellicose instincts with his self deprecating wit and debonair gentleman's distaste for ostentatious displays of military vulgarity.

Michael's influence will ensure that tea drinking is declared compulsory. He will also make daily 'God Save the Queen' sing-a-longs obligatory, and insist that any American who fails to realise that the word 'jaguar' has three syllables is encased in a straitjacket and confined to a mental institution for life.

Some semblance of sanity appears to returning in America. I just hope it lasts.

* This post is a bit wordy for MJ, so I suggest that instead of struggling to read it she feast her gaze on the penis/log displayed below. I know that she likes this sort of thing.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008





Apparently Canucks like to pig out on macaroni cheese. This is a strong point in their favour, but one completely counter weighed by their inexplicable liking for the ghastly poutine.

I can't bring myself to post a photo of this foul foodstuff, and I definitely won't be emigrating any time soon.