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.

Badgering the badgers

There are many things in this life which conjure up the most bizarre images, William Hague’s recent Parliamentary reference to Gordon Brown in his Speedos being one of the more unpalatable ones.
But the announcement that the Government is to tackle the spread of bovine TB by inoculating badgers is just a scream.
Presumably officials will retrieve, from a data base they have not yet lost, the names and addresses of every badger in the country and send each one of them a letter giving them a day, time and place for an appointment.
The badgers will then form a long, cute black and white stripy queue to see the nurse, who will ask them to roll up the fur on a front leg so she can administer the injection.
Ah, I hear you cry, but what about that hard core who ignore the letters, eschew the idea that they are carriers, or may have moved house?
The Government has a Plan B. They will set traps for these unwary types and give them a jab in the bum (flaws, there are a few, but then again, too many to mention).
And for those who shy away from needles or swoon at the very thought?
Why, Plan C, of course. Oral vaccination. Ha! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
So if you go down to the woods today and come across discarded syringes or little plastic cups scattered around, think not ill of our younger generation but rather smile knowingly and remember that we are paying these goons to dream up this garbage.
And if you meet a cow with TB, tell her it’s her own fault.

WARNING: Do not read this

This blog may be short. It may even never appear. In fact, I may well have wasted my time writing it.
In another fact, if you cannot see or read this, let me know at once and I shall alert some technical type.
Yep, as you may have guessed, its new software (or something) time at Chronicle Towers, although we were assured that it was only a minor upgrade.
There is a word to describe “minor upgrade” but because children under 12 may be reading this I am apparently not allowed to say “bo**ocks” so I’ll have to stick with cobblers. (That could become a slogan for saving shoemakers: Stick With Cobblers: Make Them Last – last, geddit? Not to worry).
So, minor upgrade. That’s minor as in everything you used to do has been abolished and nobody is telling you how to do it the new way.
But are we downhearted? Are we depressed? Bloody right we are.
That’s why I’m swanning off to Cornwall for me hols (times are hard).
No doubt it will all be fixed and sorted by the time I get back.

That just takes the biscuit

They just don’t get it, do they? Amateurs who dunk are like ladies who lunch – superfluous to the real world.
The tough dog-eat-dog biscuit world of professional dunking was rocked this week by the news that some geek of a professor has concluded that the chocolate digestive is the best biscuit for dunking because the melting chocolate helps to bind the biscuit together for longer.
No, no, no no!
Fools! Idiots! Incompetents (OK, that’s quite enough exclamation marks for one blog!).
Does this bloke not realise that the Society Of Dunkers’ Institute of Technology (SODIT), which runs all competitive dunking, from local leagues to the biennial World Championships, banned chocolate coverings from all dunking years ago because it gave an artificial and unfair advantage.
Why, it was only five years ago that the Greek dunker Theo Slopadopollop was thrown out of the competition for coating his little dunkee in a thin film of almost invisible white chocolate which enabled him to set what, briefly, was a new world record in the Morning Coffee event of 23 seconds before break-up.
As this was 20 seconds longer than the previous record it was regarded with some suspicion. As Slopadopollop had promptly eaten the evidence he seemed to be in the clear but a sliver of dunkee was found in his saucer and subsequent lab tests led to his downfall.
Now we get some boffin praising choccy coverings without any thought for the ramifications (I love that word – might use it again in a minute) for the sport.
Simply encouraging youngsters to dunk choccy bikkies could rob the whole dunking world of its youth policy, with no promising youngsters coming through the ranks for the Ginger Nut Tremble, Rich Tea Shake or Plain Digestive Wobble.
Ramifications.
There, I feel better for that.
(By the way, a recent survey said McVitie’s chocolate digestive was the most popular dunkee among the hoi-polloi. I wonder which biscuit brand commissioned the survey? Answers on a postcard to the Do They Really Think We Are That Stupid Department).