Praise the Lord and pass the salt

And so it came to pass that the people were sore afraid as their credit was crunched.
So did they turneth their eyes towards the Heavens in supplication and, with much wailing and waving of arms, did cryeth with one voice: “Sort out this bloody recession, will you?”

Then lo, across the horizon, the dark sky began to lighten, and a tumultuous noise was heard approaching. And as the light grew lighter, so the noise grew noisier, until a cavalcade of black limos screeched to a halt.

And thus did arrive the Angel of the Economy and did speaketh thus: “Fear not, for thy salvation is nigh. Believe in me, for I shall taketh thou to the Promised Land.”

So did the people listen as the white haired, white eyebrowed saviour told them to tighten their belts, for he would tax the rich to give to the poor, but keep a big chunk for himself.

And then did he call down the wrath of the gods on the deadly sins of fags, booze and petrol, but threw out a few bits of bread and omega-3-rich fish to appease the masses.

But lo, the people were not a happy lot, and did they raiseth their voices as one, saying: “Is that it? What about the workers? Me pint’s gone up. Pass us a bit of that bread. We want Gene Hunt. There’s only one United,” and the like.

But the Angel of the Economy spoke back, saying: “Lo, the world is consumed in sickness that devours the very souls of those who do not believe; a corruption that blackens good hearts and destroys all that is held dear.”

And the people replied: “Do what? Rubbish! Buggerroff.”

So he did.

And the moral of this story is that if you start a blog with a good idea, make sure you have a decent ending lined up.

Suspicious minds

We are now recruiting trainees for the Los Angeles Sherriff's Department. If you are big, strong, and stupid, we want you!
(Sic ‘em Pigs, by Canned Heat)

With a hey-nonny and a fol-de-rol!

What a joy it is to live in merrie olde Englande, where men are men and the women are grateful.

What a delight it is skip gaily along the spring-flowered greenswards.

How pleasant to hear the sound of leather on willow, or police baton on human bone and flesh.

How the heart lifts and sings as the birds nest and scores of people are arrested “on suspicion” that they are about to launch a political protest.

The smell of newly-mown grass lingers on the senses, assaulted only by the stench of something rotten in the state.

And how we laugh at the very thought that we once lived in a land of free speech and freedom of expression.

How we now applaud as those who dare to object are battered and bruised by our boys in blue.

What joy that dissent has been dissolved and intent resolved by those who promote the creeping paralysis that is slowly enveloping us.

How grateful we are that intentions can be read, thoughts analysed, dreams and aspirations firmly nipped in the bud, resistance crushed, democracy deflowered.

And are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Only if I can get through the armed roadblock, snarling Alsatians, barbed wire, ID checks, CCTV cameras, intimate body searches, metal detectors, police in full riot gear, pompous stewards, officious health and safety inspectors and that curmudgeonly old git on the gate.

I blame the parents

Having been born on a different planet and a couple of dozen decades ago, I can only look on with open-mouthed astonishment at the names with which celebrities burden their innocent offspring.
The latest newborn to be saddled with ridiculous monikers is Jame Oliver’s third daughter who, Gawd bless her, will have to grow up in the same house as the people who named her Petal Blossom Rainbow.
Petal Blossom Rainbow?
Which court in the land would find the poor lass guilty if, in her teenage years, she flipped and gunned down her parents in an act of stonkingly bonkers but cacklingly joyous revenge?
Mind you, Jamie and Jools have previous in this area. Already they have presented the planet with Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo.
Now I’m not privy to this couple’s private life, and what, if any, recreational drugs they like to indulge in, but surely alcohol – at the very least – must play a part in this.
Like eating a kebab, nobody would come up with those names when stone cold sober.
Unless, that is, they had been watching some of those films apparently so enjoyed by the husband of the Home Secretary
Not that really silly names are anything new. Some of a certain age will remember a geezer called Frank Zappa, who called his kids Moon Unit and Dweezil, and there have been dozens since.
My favourite in the Psychologically Damaged For Life category goes to the distressed little mite lumbered with Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii – true, every word.
But in a merciful act of sanity, a judge in New Zealand made her a ward of court so she could get shot of it. We are not told what new name she chose, which is a pity as we could have had even more fun.
Indeed, various countries ban parents from giving kids silly names, but all countries should have one strict no-no.
Under no circumstances whatsoever should a child be named after the place of conception (please note, Posh and Becks).
And if you don’t agree, I’d like to introduce you to Number 16 Bus Shelter.
Honestly, cross my heart and hope to die.

Watching With Mother

Like all the most articulate and well-informed discussions on sensitive and delicate topics, this one started in the pub.

But the spectacle of half-a-dozen middle-aged blokes arguing about who watched what with mother and when was, I can assure you, not an edifying one.

Now as I remember it – although I have been wrong before, once, in 1979 – the sequence was: Mondays – Picture Book; Tuesdays – Andy Pandy; Wednesdays – The Flower Pot Men; Thursdays – The Woodentops; Fridays – Rag, Tag and Bobtail.

This, however, was not quite how some others saw it, with Picture Book on Mondays just about the only point on which everyone agreed – which, of course, means it is probably wrong.

But I can tell you that it is rather difficult to take someone’s point of view seriously when they are expressing it while doing a Spotty Dog impersonation, accompanied by background “Flobba-dobble-ops,” “Arf-arf-arfs” and the occasional “Weeeeeeed” (as you can see, the verbal standards of children’s TV hasn’t changed much in the best part of 50 years).

Must have been a bit of a hoot for the rest of the pub punters, though, ’cos the landlord has booked us for the next two Saturday nights in place of the karaoke.

He’s calling it Live Male Menopause-aoke.