Tricky, tricky, tricky….
Mo Mowlam’s untimely death this morning has put a bit of a spanner in Tony Blair’s holiday plans – again! Just a week after Robin Cook’s internment, Blair is faced with another tricky decision – and it’s nothing to do with which factor of Sun block to use or where else he can blag another few weeks of executive B and B…..
Does he go to the funeral of his former colleague? – And if he does, won’t that blow his pathetic excuse for not going to Cook’s funeral right out of the water? Blair quoted the old ‘security’ angle….. he didn’t want to ‘distract’ the mourning process and the Cook family service by arriving with 600 RayBann-wearing men in black. It might disrupt proceedings – and Blair, ever the kind, considerate type thought it better to avoid rainy Edinburgh and instead stay somewhere in the dreary Caribbean, relaxing on his sun lounger…. What a guy.
Of course, it sort of means he can’t now go to the Mowlam funeral doesn’t it? And if the excuse is taken through to its logical conclusion he can’t ever go to another funeral ever, ever again. (except his own, of course).
Mind you, everyone else will be there – jockeying for position, plotting, glad handing, sharpening their knives, cosying up to Gordon Brown…
Tone, I’d watch your back if I were you – and I’m not talking about sunburn…..
Friday, August 19, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Not national, not healthy and not a service…..
A few posts ago, I was severely slapped on the knuckles via the comments box for sharing my cash dodging experiences of how to get out of Hospital car parks without paying. The reason I do this is because of my fervent belief that it is fundamentally wrong to charge people for visiting a hospital – especially as the public transport system would shame a banana republic. I see absolutely no difference between car park charges and charging people at the door to get in through a turnstyle. We go there as patients or as visitors to see sick friends or relations – we don’t go there to do the shopping. I see these charges and others like them as creeping and insidious tax top-ups dreamt up by the BMW pinstripe brigade of strategic health officials.
I don’t think charging people for ‘extras’ was part of Nye Bevan’s utopian vision of free health care for all. Mind you, I reckon Bevan would be horrified to know that the NHS is no longer ‘National’ …… and to be honest, not much of a ‘Service’ either really. The NHS has degenerated into a collection of fiefdoms, run by such ‘indispensable’ middle and senior pen pushers that were all but non-existent 25 years ago.
Ever anxious to make every square yard in the hospital ‘pay its way’ at any cost. Creative thoughts from red braced power thinkers on more ways to wring even more cash out of patients that have already paid their dues via the tax system seems to be the order of the day. They have already earned the right to their treatment – ideally free of charge.
It started in the mid eighties, with the arrival of Healthcare Trusts as profit centres, actively selling and buying skills and equipment time from other like minded organisations. Pretty soon, senior management began to look at realising assets that were not theirs to realise. First the car parks were rented off to a third party to ‘administer’ and maintain them – for an annual fee, obviously. It has moved onto excessive call rates for the use of the ward phone and a particularly insidious and nasty charge to view the ceiling mounted ward televisions at exorbitant rates. These examples are small potatoes compared with the selling off of ‘redundant’ buildings to developers, however.
By ‘redundant’ I’m talking about 'unfashionable'. By 'unfashionable' I'm talking about 'assets to be flogged'...... Buildings like old people’s homes and period nursing homes suddenly being declared unsafe. The residents kicked out and re-housed in some God awful gulag – the unsafe building, usually an Edwardian Mansion suddenly being converted to executive apartments….
Such an episode happened in my own part of the world about 3 years ago. A group of old people, living in a beautiful Edwardian country house within its own grounds were suddenly being moved ‘for their own good’ to an overcrowded '70's hovel in a nearby new town. The excuse from the health authority was that it would cost too much to refurbish – and in spite of wide spread protests, the closure of the home went ahead. Within 3 days, 4 of the old people had died, within 3 weeks, the ‘dilapidated’ mansion was put up for auction. It was even featured on one of those daytime TV property programmes. The slimeball property developer thought he’d got a real bargain, paying £700,000 for the house, he reckoned that he could squeeze some 11 apartments out of it. He said the building was very, very sound – and the only work he would really have to do would be the sub division of the house into apartments. He said he would make about 2.5 mill profit….
Thankfully, local feeling and the downturn in the housing market has meant that he hasn’t sold any…… the last time I past the building he was offering substantial reductions on hastily daubed property boards.
The whole concept of the NHS providing a service – for the benefit of the people that have paid money to finance it seems to have been left behind as some sort of old fashioned reactionary nonsense. The whole concept of everyone receiving the same level of healthcare, no matter where you are and how important you deem yourself is further away than ever. Damning evidence is provided via the Government’s own figures – England predictably fare the worst of the 4 home countries, Scotland come away with most money spent per head of population.
"But why do we have to pay? Didn’t we pay for the building of that car park out of our taxes?" Shouldn’t that MRI Scanner be financed via the Treasury? This country should be sophisticated and savvy enough to organise and optimise healthcare for all throughout the length and breadth of the land. A formula of 1 MRI scanner per so many thousand of the population should not be an insurmountable problem to solve.
But the NHS isn't fair, or free or reliable is it? Live in the South East of England and you get much better cancer care than the North West. Drugs available as a right in Norwich but not in Newcastle, some hospitals are virtual death sentences, such is their awful reputation..... And then there’s the devolution debacle – free prescriptions for all in Wales by next year, nudging seven quid in England. Free dental check ups in Scotland, going up to sixteen quid in England, (if you can find a dentist in England). Fantastic old persons care in Scotland, non-existent except via pernicious means testing in England. And who knows, patients in Scotland and Wales probably get free car parking to boot!
My own local Health authority has just announced losses of 6.5 million quid. They have committed to savings of £13 million over the next 2 years in an effort to balance the books…… They rather laughingly declare that services will not be affected.
It’s all part of the Government project to get out of properly funding the NHS. I notice they have started to put their grubby little digits into the National Lottery coffers – the word from them, (from the Right Hon’ Peter Hain no less) is that apparently, the people of this Country want the lottery cash spent on Health and Education. As ever, from the mouth of Peter Hain, not true, an absolute lie. John Major’s Lottery Bill, passed in Parliament with the specific proviso that none of the money should be spent on Health or Education. He has recently accused the Government of stealing the cash – and rather wearily stated that he thinks the Government have opened the safe and will find it impossible to limit themselves to a reasonable amount. They’ll just keep going back, taking ever more outrageous amounts with them until the Lottery is renamed. – The National Health Lottery……
But the Government know they are on solid ground. They only have to ask whether money should be spent on an extra nurse or a piece of Tracy Emin modern art. Guilt and wanting to say the right thing means the question is a no brainer, but it doesn’t make it right. Adequate health services should be financed from the central purse, not from dodgy car park deals, dodgier property flog offs or planetary scale pilfering from the National Lottery.
Not paying for hospital car parks at the point of exit is my way of protesting that I’ve already paid, through my taxes.
Nye Bevan must be spinning in his grave – presuming he still has a grave and it hasn’t been flogged off for a bit of executive car parking……
A few posts ago, I was severely slapped on the knuckles via the comments box for sharing my cash dodging experiences of how to get out of Hospital car parks without paying. The reason I do this is because of my fervent belief that it is fundamentally wrong to charge people for visiting a hospital – especially as the public transport system would shame a banana republic. I see absolutely no difference between car park charges and charging people at the door to get in through a turnstyle. We go there as patients or as visitors to see sick friends or relations – we don’t go there to do the shopping. I see these charges and others like them as creeping and insidious tax top-ups dreamt up by the BMW pinstripe brigade of strategic health officials.
I don’t think charging people for ‘extras’ was part of Nye Bevan’s utopian vision of free health care for all. Mind you, I reckon Bevan would be horrified to know that the NHS is no longer ‘National’ …… and to be honest, not much of a ‘Service’ either really. The NHS has degenerated into a collection of fiefdoms, run by such ‘indispensable’ middle and senior pen pushers that were all but non-existent 25 years ago.
Ever anxious to make every square yard in the hospital ‘pay its way’ at any cost. Creative thoughts from red braced power thinkers on more ways to wring even more cash out of patients that have already paid their dues via the tax system seems to be the order of the day. They have already earned the right to their treatment – ideally free of charge.
It started in the mid eighties, with the arrival of Healthcare Trusts as profit centres, actively selling and buying skills and equipment time from other like minded organisations. Pretty soon, senior management began to look at realising assets that were not theirs to realise. First the car parks were rented off to a third party to ‘administer’ and maintain them – for an annual fee, obviously. It has moved onto excessive call rates for the use of the ward phone and a particularly insidious and nasty charge to view the ceiling mounted ward televisions at exorbitant rates. These examples are small potatoes compared with the selling off of ‘redundant’ buildings to developers, however.
By ‘redundant’ I’m talking about 'unfashionable'. By 'unfashionable' I'm talking about 'assets to be flogged'...... Buildings like old people’s homes and period nursing homes suddenly being declared unsafe. The residents kicked out and re-housed in some God awful gulag – the unsafe building, usually an Edwardian Mansion suddenly being converted to executive apartments….
Such an episode happened in my own part of the world about 3 years ago. A group of old people, living in a beautiful Edwardian country house within its own grounds were suddenly being moved ‘for their own good’ to an overcrowded '70's hovel in a nearby new town. The excuse from the health authority was that it would cost too much to refurbish – and in spite of wide spread protests, the closure of the home went ahead. Within 3 days, 4 of the old people had died, within 3 weeks, the ‘dilapidated’ mansion was put up for auction. It was even featured on one of those daytime TV property programmes. The slimeball property developer thought he’d got a real bargain, paying £700,000 for the house, he reckoned that he could squeeze some 11 apartments out of it. He said the building was very, very sound – and the only work he would really have to do would be the sub division of the house into apartments. He said he would make about 2.5 mill profit….
Thankfully, local feeling and the downturn in the housing market has meant that he hasn’t sold any…… the last time I past the building he was offering substantial reductions on hastily daubed property boards.
The whole concept of the NHS providing a service – for the benefit of the people that have paid money to finance it seems to have been left behind as some sort of old fashioned reactionary nonsense. The whole concept of everyone receiving the same level of healthcare, no matter where you are and how important you deem yourself is further away than ever. Damning evidence is provided via the Government’s own figures – England predictably fare the worst of the 4 home countries, Scotland come away with most money spent per head of population.
"But why do we have to pay? Didn’t we pay for the building of that car park out of our taxes?" Shouldn’t that MRI Scanner be financed via the Treasury? This country should be sophisticated and savvy enough to organise and optimise healthcare for all throughout the length and breadth of the land. A formula of 1 MRI scanner per so many thousand of the population should not be an insurmountable problem to solve.
But the NHS isn't fair, or free or reliable is it? Live in the South East of England and you get much better cancer care than the North West. Drugs available as a right in Norwich but not in Newcastle, some hospitals are virtual death sentences, such is their awful reputation..... And then there’s the devolution debacle – free prescriptions for all in Wales by next year, nudging seven quid in England. Free dental check ups in Scotland, going up to sixteen quid in England, (if you can find a dentist in England). Fantastic old persons care in Scotland, non-existent except via pernicious means testing in England. And who knows, patients in Scotland and Wales probably get free car parking to boot!
My own local Health authority has just announced losses of 6.5 million quid. They have committed to savings of £13 million over the next 2 years in an effort to balance the books…… They rather laughingly declare that services will not be affected.
It’s all part of the Government project to get out of properly funding the NHS. I notice they have started to put their grubby little digits into the National Lottery coffers – the word from them, (from the Right Hon’ Peter Hain no less) is that apparently, the people of this Country want the lottery cash spent on Health and Education. As ever, from the mouth of Peter Hain, not true, an absolute lie. John Major’s Lottery Bill, passed in Parliament with the specific proviso that none of the money should be spent on Health or Education. He has recently accused the Government of stealing the cash – and rather wearily stated that he thinks the Government have opened the safe and will find it impossible to limit themselves to a reasonable amount. They’ll just keep going back, taking ever more outrageous amounts with them until the Lottery is renamed. – The National Health Lottery……
But the Government know they are on solid ground. They only have to ask whether money should be spent on an extra nurse or a piece of Tracy Emin modern art. Guilt and wanting to say the right thing means the question is a no brainer, but it doesn’t make it right. Adequate health services should be financed from the central purse, not from dodgy car park deals, dodgier property flog offs or planetary scale pilfering from the National Lottery.
Not paying for hospital car parks at the point of exit is my way of protesting that I’ve already paid, through my taxes.
Nye Bevan must be spinning in his grave – presuming he still has a grave and it hasn’t been flogged off for a bit of executive car parking……
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Butterflies are back….
Up till Sunday morning, I, along with most of the nature loving population of the UK wondered where all the butterflies had gone this year. The buddleia plants in our garden are traditional butterfly food beacons, which in previous years has been choc-a-block full with vibrant lepidoptera of all colours, shapes and hues. At the moment, the plants are festooned full of magnificent aromatic blooms – but they look a bit like decorated Christmas trees without the fairy lights. The glittering twinklings of Peacock and Painted Lady wings have just not been present this year.
A bit of a shock then when I strolled out on the OK sod on this last bright, warm Sunday morning.
They’re back. Hundreds of them.
Correction, thousands of them.
Painted Ladies, Red Admirals, Large Whites, Brimstones, Peacocks, Brown Skippers, Commas, Common Blues…..
The air was full to bursting, fluttering here and there. The great conical flowers of the buddleia were sagging under the weight of bunteresque butterflies feeding for all they were worth.
They looked like multi-coloured kites pulled by invisible pixies with invisible strings. It lifted my spirits, Ralph Vaughan Williams and his fluttery lark ascending music came into my head…. My little piece of England was whole again.
I was puzzled though. If they’re all here today, then where were they yesterday and the day before that?
Up till Sunday morning, I, along with most of the nature loving population of the UK wondered where all the butterflies had gone this year. The buddleia plants in our garden are traditional butterfly food beacons, which in previous years has been choc-a-block full with vibrant lepidoptera of all colours, shapes and hues. At the moment, the plants are festooned full of magnificent aromatic blooms – but they look a bit like decorated Christmas trees without the fairy lights. The glittering twinklings of Peacock and Painted Lady wings have just not been present this year.
A bit of a shock then when I strolled out on the OK sod on this last bright, warm Sunday morning.
They’re back. Hundreds of them.
Correction, thousands of them.
Painted Ladies, Red Admirals, Large Whites, Brimstones, Peacocks, Brown Skippers, Commas, Common Blues…..
The air was full to bursting, fluttering here and there. The great conical flowers of the buddleia were sagging under the weight of bunteresque butterflies feeding for all they were worth.
They looked like multi-coloured kites pulled by invisible pixies with invisible strings. It lifted my spirits, Ralph Vaughan Williams and his fluttery lark ascending music came into my head…. My little piece of England was whole again.
I was puzzled though. If they’re all here today, then where were they yesterday and the day before that?
Monday, August 08, 2005
Getting better with age, just like a good malt….
A survey has just published some useful, ego boosting findings. Apparently men in their fifties make the very best lurvers – ever.
Of course they do for God’s sake. It's something I've always known – I’m always telling my missus…… Technique, stamina, touch, style, sensitivity and consideration – us big five–0 guys tick all the right lurve-God boxes and no mistake. Yes for us guys in our fifties, it’s not so much ‘wham, bamm, thank you ma'am. Oh no, it’s Barry White on the CD, the scent of jasmine in the air and a bottle of massage oil to hand. Slow, silky, sexy and flexy in the temple of love-action is the norm for us experts in the bedroom.
It’s not so much 'fore' as five, six and sevenplay…
Ladeez, form an orderly queue – I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished my beer and this footy match is over on the telly…… And you don't mind if I wear my socks in bed as well do you?
A survey has just published some useful, ego boosting findings. Apparently men in their fifties make the very best lurvers – ever.
Of course they do for God’s sake. It's something I've always known – I’m always telling my missus…… Technique, stamina, touch, style, sensitivity and consideration – us big five–0 guys tick all the right lurve-God boxes and no mistake. Yes for us guys in our fifties, it’s not so much ‘wham, bamm, thank you ma'am. Oh no, it’s Barry White on the CD, the scent of jasmine in the air and a bottle of massage oil to hand. Slow, silky, sexy and flexy in the temple of love-action is the norm for us experts in the bedroom.
It’s not so much 'fore' as five, six and sevenplay…
Ladeez, form an orderly queue – I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished my beer and this footy match is over on the telly…… And you don't mind if I wear my socks in bed as well do you?
Monday, August 01, 2005
Everything in the garden is not lovely……
Bad news – disease has taken root in the ancient sod that is the OK Towers back garden.
My humble crop of tomatoes are under a relentless attack from ‘brown blob’ disease. Look under the larger tomatoes and there it is – galloping ‘brown blob’. Great big blobby discs of brown – like Antarctica on the world…. Only brown.
Not good. What are they and can they cross onto other species? Would I want ‘brown blobs’? – As if by magic, I saw an article in a magazine by gardening guru Monty Don…. Which is a double coincidence, because I actually saw the great Monty man in the public bogs at last weeks flower show at Tatton in Cheshire …. Amazing really, a BBC celeb actually going to the bogs and having a slash …. I guess that must mean the Queen farts as well then does it?
Anyway…
As I said, I read Monty’s article on tomato diseases and apparently I am suffering from terminal ‘Blossom End Rot’…..
Anyone got a bell to ring then?
Bad news – disease has taken root in the ancient sod that is the OK Towers back garden.
My humble crop of tomatoes are under a relentless attack from ‘brown blob’ disease. Look under the larger tomatoes and there it is – galloping ‘brown blob’. Great big blobby discs of brown – like Antarctica on the world…. Only brown.
Not good. What are they and can they cross onto other species? Would I want ‘brown blobs’? – As if by magic, I saw an article in a magazine by gardening guru Monty Don…. Which is a double coincidence, because I actually saw the great Monty man in the public bogs at last weeks flower show at Tatton in Cheshire …. Amazing really, a BBC celeb actually going to the bogs and having a slash …. I guess that must mean the Queen farts as well then does it?
Anyway…
As I said, I read Monty’s article on tomato diseases and apparently I am suffering from terminal ‘Blossom End Rot’…..
Anyone got a bell to ring then?
The last word in ‘lazzy bands…….
In view of the current vogue for elasicated wrist bands – started by Lance Armstrong’s yellow ‘Stay-Strong’ campaign, Alfie has decided to leap on the elastic bandwagon with his own tribute to an issue near to his heart…
It concerns the return of a long forgotten and much loved Hollywood superstar. Yes, ‘Lassie’ the wonder dog is making a long overdue comeback to our screens. A brand new series of films is planned. Screen tests for the lead role of the pointy nosed dog with the doggy breath and the shiny coat are being conducted. Indications are that the role will go to a canine – but Meryl Streep was reported to be making a late, desperate, last ditch bid to claim the coverted prize.
To commemorate Lassie’s return – and in the hope they will also bring My Friend Flicka, Old Yeller, Spotty Dog from the Woodentops and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo back from the taxidermy table, Alfie has brought out a hot new edition of elastic band – and everyone who’s anyone will want it……. It’s called the ‘Lassie-band’.
If you want to order one of these fantastically classy pieces of mechandise, log onto e-commerce web site at
elassie-band.com…..
I thank you.
In view of the current vogue for elasicated wrist bands – started by Lance Armstrong’s yellow ‘Stay-Strong’ campaign, Alfie has decided to leap on the elastic bandwagon with his own tribute to an issue near to his heart…
It concerns the return of a long forgotten and much loved Hollywood superstar. Yes, ‘Lassie’ the wonder dog is making a long overdue comeback to our screens. A brand new series of films is planned. Screen tests for the lead role of the pointy nosed dog with the doggy breath and the shiny coat are being conducted. Indications are that the role will go to a canine – but Meryl Streep was reported to be making a late, desperate, last ditch bid to claim the coverted prize.
To commemorate Lassie’s return – and in the hope they will also bring My Friend Flicka, Old Yeller, Spotty Dog from the Woodentops and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo back from the taxidermy table, Alfie has brought out a hot new edition of elastic band – and everyone who’s anyone will want it……. It’s called the ‘Lassie-band’.
If you want to order one of these fantastically classy pieces of mechandise, log onto e-commerce web site at
elassie-band.com…..
I thank you.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Cheapo Britain….Hospital car parks
Ever visited one of our gloriously efficient hospitals, either as a patient or visitor? If you have and you’ve driven there, then no doubt the hospital car park has ruined your day.
The bright, jolly black and yellow bar rises and you’re in. For the next 20 minutes you cruise around looking for a 5 foot wide space in a sea of metal. Of course, there are places, but only if you are a merc-driving consultant, they’ve got loads of room in their special enclave of executive tarmac.
You eventually find a space, park the car, see your Granny or have your lumps felt. Either way, you’re there because you have to be, not because you’re going shopping or whatever. You’re there because you’re seeing someone who is sick – or you yourself are sick.
So why charge people for the privilege of parking in hospitals anyway? It’s cheap, nasty and vindictive. It’s a tax on the sick and worried - and it’s a bloody disgrace.
Take a tip from me, I’ve never paid to get out of any hospital car park. I drive in, see who I have to, then nip round to the Administrators Office and explain to them that I’ve had to dash to the hospital as a matter of urgency. If they ask "Why?" – tell them to mind their own business. Quote patient confidentiality, then tell them in the rush to get to the hospital, you’ve come out without any money at all.
Before you can say ‘Health Executive’s BMW petrol fund’ – they’ll shove a car park exit token in your hand so you can drive out.
This country is unique in the way we just ‘accept stuff’. Hospital car park charges were brought in when they were given autonomy during the Thatcher era. We were told it was just for ‘administration’ purposes. Inevitably, ‘admin’ gave way to ‘cash-cow’ – charges rose rapidly and the rest is history. Pretty soon, to accompany the spiralling car park charges, exorbitant fees for watching bog standard TV programmes and breathtaking charges for phone calls made from wards followed.
If more people refused to pay, the whole ‘patient tax drive initiative’ would get binned. As a start, I suggest you all find out where your hospital admin’ office is as soon as possible….
Ever visited one of our gloriously efficient hospitals, either as a patient or visitor? If you have and you’ve driven there, then no doubt the hospital car park has ruined your day.
The bright, jolly black and yellow bar rises and you’re in. For the next 20 minutes you cruise around looking for a 5 foot wide space in a sea of metal. Of course, there are places, but only if you are a merc-driving consultant, they’ve got loads of room in their special enclave of executive tarmac.
You eventually find a space, park the car, see your Granny or have your lumps felt. Either way, you’re there because you have to be, not because you’re going shopping or whatever. You’re there because you’re seeing someone who is sick – or you yourself are sick.
So why charge people for the privilege of parking in hospitals anyway? It’s cheap, nasty and vindictive. It’s a tax on the sick and worried - and it’s a bloody disgrace.
Take a tip from me, I’ve never paid to get out of any hospital car park. I drive in, see who I have to, then nip round to the Administrators Office and explain to them that I’ve had to dash to the hospital as a matter of urgency. If they ask "Why?" – tell them to mind their own business. Quote patient confidentiality, then tell them in the rush to get to the hospital, you’ve come out without any money at all.
Before you can say ‘Health Executive’s BMW petrol fund’ – they’ll shove a car park exit token in your hand so you can drive out.
This country is unique in the way we just ‘accept stuff’. Hospital car park charges were brought in when they were given autonomy during the Thatcher era. We were told it was just for ‘administration’ purposes. Inevitably, ‘admin’ gave way to ‘cash-cow’ – charges rose rapidly and the rest is history. Pretty soon, to accompany the spiralling car park charges, exorbitant fees for watching bog standard TV programmes and breathtaking charges for phone calls made from wards followed.
If more people refused to pay, the whole ‘patient tax drive initiative’ would get binned. As a start, I suggest you all find out where your hospital admin’ office is as soon as possible….
Monday, July 25, 2005
We’re alll going on a Summer Holiday, no more working for 12 weeks or so……
No, not a tribute to Cliff Richard’s film career, this time it’s yet another post about our rubbishy MPs and their outrageous 12 week Summer junket. Easy targets I know, but it’s the pomposity of it all that I find so depressing. I mean, 12 whole weeks without Parliament sitting, 12 whole weeks without this right honourable and that learned friend poking about into the guts of our lives, interfering, lecturing, taxing.
How will we get by without all those fat baldy blue rinse busy bodies to guide us? Very well I should think. Somehow, Joe and Jane Public will just manage to survive without the help of 659 parliamentary life coaches.
But what happens to the Palace of Westminster while ‘school’s out’? Could it double up as a site for a car boot sale?…. maybe it could be opened up as a soup kitchen and take in the Capital’s homeless. The slogan to attract them could be ‘Doss where there was Dross’…..
And what of the MPs - where do you think they’ve all gone to? I shouldn’t think too many of them will be at Southport Pontins or doing B and B in Scarborough.. Most of them will be going to more exotic climes –Barbados, Kathmandu, Bangkok ……. And who knows, some of them may actually pay for their own holidays rather than going on a Parliament sponsored fact finding mission.
"Yes, I’d like to go on a most vitally important fact finding mission. It’s not for me – obviously. It’s to support a vitally important part of our manufacturing base. I’d like to take photographs of sea shells on Acapulco beach in Mexico – and compare them with the sea shells on Bridlington beach. We can learn important lessons on the making of little gaudy animals with shells, glue and nail varnish, but if we can raise Mexican sea shells then we can make bigger, better and more colourful animals. This can really help the 'gaudy animal made from shells industry'. To make the research fully optimal I may also want to compare them with the shells on Waikiki beach in Hawaii, so can you put me down for a trip to Honolulu for this time next year as well"………
No, not a tribute to Cliff Richard’s film career, this time it’s yet another post about our rubbishy MPs and their outrageous 12 week Summer junket. Easy targets I know, but it’s the pomposity of it all that I find so depressing. I mean, 12 whole weeks without Parliament sitting, 12 whole weeks without this right honourable and that learned friend poking about into the guts of our lives, interfering, lecturing, taxing.
How will we get by without all those fat baldy blue rinse busy bodies to guide us? Very well I should think. Somehow, Joe and Jane Public will just manage to survive without the help of 659 parliamentary life coaches.
But what happens to the Palace of Westminster while ‘school’s out’? Could it double up as a site for a car boot sale?…. maybe it could be opened up as a soup kitchen and take in the Capital’s homeless. The slogan to attract them could be ‘Doss where there was Dross’…..
And what of the MPs - where do you think they’ve all gone to? I shouldn’t think too many of them will be at Southport Pontins or doing B and B in Scarborough.. Most of them will be going to more exotic climes –Barbados, Kathmandu, Bangkok ……. And who knows, some of them may actually pay for their own holidays rather than going on a Parliament sponsored fact finding mission.
"Yes, I’d like to go on a most vitally important fact finding mission. It’s not for me – obviously. It’s to support a vitally important part of our manufacturing base. I’d like to take photographs of sea shells on Acapulco beach in Mexico – and compare them with the sea shells on Bridlington beach. We can learn important lessons on the making of little gaudy animals with shells, glue and nail varnish, but if we can raise Mexican sea shells then we can make bigger, better and more colourful animals. This can really help the 'gaudy animal made from shells industry'. To make the research fully optimal I may also want to compare them with the shells on Waikiki beach in Hawaii, so can you put me down for a trip to Honolulu for this time next year as well"………
Monday, July 18, 2005
Well, surprise, surprise. The BBC is not decentralising after all……
In a dramatic U turn, the BBC – slavish Government mouthpiece and ultra London-centric employer of the liberal elite, sushi eaters, the tosserati and John Motson, has decided not to relocate the Sports Department way, way, way, way ‘oop North’ to Manchester, England. Apparently this very difficult and absolutely predictable decision came about after much soul searching, navel gazing and pontificating.
The BBC commissioned a special relocation focus group with a view of finding ways to weasel out of the commitment to move - with a suitably feeble excuse. Titled ‘Operation Going through the Motions’ (or ‘Operation Dysentery’ for short) the group composed several implausible excuses before the Governors decided on the one being circulated to a gullible and fed up public.
Although the excuse proffered is about as convincing as a Tony Blair smile, it still beats some of the more fanciful meanderings that were run up the think tank flagpole.
Rejected excuses include:
1) Not enough Sushi Bars in Manchester.
2) Manchester is not in London.
3) No one at the BBC in London has a road map – and so do not know exactly where Manchester is.
4) Not sure if Manchester has got electricity yet…..
5) London sports journos not keen on tripe, black pudding, pigs trotters or Betty’s ‘Hot-Pot’ down at t’Rovers.
6) ‘Manchester’ does not sound too politically correct. It should be renamed ‘Personchester’ to reflect the equal and significant contribution that women have made to the prosperity of the city.
A bit fanciful? Maybe…..
But take a look at the one they have actually rolled out …..
Press Release:
From BBC HQ / London.
The totally crap excuse for not relocating the BBC Sports Department to Manchester is…….
"The BBC cannot move the Sports Department to Manchester because London has been awarded the 2012 Olympic Games – and the costs involved in getting journalists and researchers down to London for the whole 2 weeks that the Games are on will be absolutely prohibitive"….
Amazing – a whole 200 miles down the motorway…. it looks like it will financially cripple old Aunty for good if they move to Manchester and have to report on the Games in London from there. .
I just wonder how the Beeb survived the Commonwealth Games in Manchester a few years ago, didn’t they have to traipse up to cover it – or did they tune into ITV?…… On the other hand, what would have happened if Twenty-Twelve had been awarded to Paris, or Madrid…… or even New York for God’s sake….
Are they seriously trying to say that covering the Games from Manchester would be more expensive that going half way around the world?
And it’s a bit rich that the BBC should offer ‘expense’ as the reason for calling off the move to Manchester. Have a guess just how many BBC personnel managed to wangle a jolly for the last Olympic Games at Athens, Greece…..
Answer: 628.
Six bloody hundred and twenty bleeding eight people sunning themselves in Athens at our expense!….
(That’s around 62 people per Gold medal)……
Blair’s world of fraud….
Just a thought, our glorious and infallible leader Emporio Blair has spent the last week desperately trying to disassociate the London bomb outrages from the Iraq debacle. There’s been loads of stiff upper lipped posturing from the great man. Lots of trembling voice commitment to solidarity, determination and an implacable British spirit. It was almost as if Churchill himself had risen from the dead and dusted himself off in our hour of greatest need….
But consider the suicidal bomb attacks in Iraq over the last 48 hours. 30 kids blown to pieces in one incident, over 100 innocents burned to death on Saturday night, over 30 more killed in other attacks.
It’s bloody carnage on a daily basis – and a direct result of Bush and Blair’s mad gung-ho adventure in the land of the second largest oil producer.
Not one word from Blair, not one.
Not one word from Defence Minister John Reid.
Not one word from Foreign Secretary, the man of Straw. Nothing from anyone.
How does Blair sleep at night?
Silence is damning and talk is cheap. Does Blair think lives in Iraq are as well?
In a dramatic U turn, the BBC – slavish Government mouthpiece and ultra London-centric employer of the liberal elite, sushi eaters, the tosserati and John Motson, has decided not to relocate the Sports Department way, way, way, way ‘oop North’ to Manchester, England. Apparently this very difficult and absolutely predictable decision came about after much soul searching, navel gazing and pontificating.
The BBC commissioned a special relocation focus group with a view of finding ways to weasel out of the commitment to move - with a suitably feeble excuse. Titled ‘Operation Going through the Motions’ (or ‘Operation Dysentery’ for short) the group composed several implausible excuses before the Governors decided on the one being circulated to a gullible and fed up public.
Although the excuse proffered is about as convincing as a Tony Blair smile, it still beats some of the more fanciful meanderings that were run up the think tank flagpole.
Rejected excuses include:
1) Not enough Sushi Bars in Manchester.
2) Manchester is not in London.
3) No one at the BBC in London has a road map – and so do not know exactly where Manchester is.
4) Not sure if Manchester has got electricity yet…..
5) London sports journos not keen on tripe, black pudding, pigs trotters or Betty’s ‘Hot-Pot’ down at t’Rovers.
6) ‘Manchester’ does not sound too politically correct. It should be renamed ‘Personchester’ to reflect the equal and significant contribution that women have made to the prosperity of the city.
A bit fanciful? Maybe…..
But take a look at the one they have actually rolled out …..
Press Release:
From BBC HQ / London.
The totally crap excuse for not relocating the BBC Sports Department to Manchester is…….
"The BBC cannot move the Sports Department to Manchester because London has been awarded the 2012 Olympic Games – and the costs involved in getting journalists and researchers down to London for the whole 2 weeks that the Games are on will be absolutely prohibitive"….
Amazing – a whole 200 miles down the motorway…. it looks like it will financially cripple old Aunty for good if they move to Manchester and have to report on the Games in London from there. .
I just wonder how the Beeb survived the Commonwealth Games in Manchester a few years ago, didn’t they have to traipse up to cover it – or did they tune into ITV?…… On the other hand, what would have happened if Twenty-Twelve had been awarded to Paris, or Madrid…… or even New York for God’s sake….
Are they seriously trying to say that covering the Games from Manchester would be more expensive that going half way around the world?
And it’s a bit rich that the BBC should offer ‘expense’ as the reason for calling off the move to Manchester. Have a guess just how many BBC personnel managed to wangle a jolly for the last Olympic Games at Athens, Greece…..
Answer: 628.
Six bloody hundred and twenty bleeding eight people sunning themselves in Athens at our expense!….
(That’s around 62 people per Gold medal)……
Blair’s world of fraud….
Just a thought, our glorious and infallible leader Emporio Blair has spent the last week desperately trying to disassociate the London bomb outrages from the Iraq debacle. There’s been loads of stiff upper lipped posturing from the great man. Lots of trembling voice commitment to solidarity, determination and an implacable British spirit. It was almost as if Churchill himself had risen from the dead and dusted himself off in our hour of greatest need….
But consider the suicidal bomb attacks in Iraq over the last 48 hours. 30 kids blown to pieces in one incident, over 100 innocents burned to death on Saturday night, over 30 more killed in other attacks.
It’s bloody carnage on a daily basis – and a direct result of Bush and Blair’s mad gung-ho adventure in the land of the second largest oil producer.
Not one word from Blair, not one.
Not one word from Defence Minister John Reid.
Not one word from Foreign Secretary, the man of Straw. Nothing from anyone.
How does Blair sleep at night?
Silence is damning and talk is cheap. Does Blair think lives in Iraq are as well?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
The price of things and the value of them……
(It’s important to know the difference)
The Mersey millpond, the red duster and the waterfront…
We committed the old man’s ashes to the care of Davie Jones’ lock-up on Monday morning. The day was fine, clear and most importantly, ‘still’ as we gathered at the Liverpool landing stage and waited to board the good ship ‘SS Royal Iris’ for the committal.
The River Mersey was as flat as a millpond – which was very, very good news. Windy days and the committal of ashes do not mix…. The threat of ‘blow back’ & ‘white face’ are very real ones when there’s a force ten gale blowing. And the thought of getting an atomised gob-full of my old man did not appeal.
We huddled in the only bit of shadow we could find – shading us from the fierce Sun. It was weird, but because it was so hot, we were all dressed like we were going to the beach – everyone was wearing ‘Hawaiian-tragic’… I think my Dad would have approved. Just then, my eldest sister turned up with the urn under her arm. My Mum said "What’s that you’re carrying under your arm then?"
"It’s your husband" came the reply……
The Royal Iris steamed into view. It’s one of the Mersey Ferries fleet and takes passengers ‘across the water’ between Liverpool, Birkenhead and Seacombe. The vicar from the local Seaman’s Mission briefed us on the ceremony.
The ferry would steam straight up river at full speed. After about 10 minutes, we would gather at the stern, the engines would be cut and the service would commence. The Rev’ reckoned it would take about seven minutes from start to finish.
"Don’t they mind?" I asked. "You know, the Captain and the ferry company - won’t they mind that the ferry will be late because of the service?"…
"No, they do it all the time…..and they do it for nothing. They don’t charge a cent – except the fare, of course"…
"But what about the passengers?…. The ferry’s absolutely packed with people"…..
"They’ll have to wait – it’s a mariner thing"…
And so it was. My Dad, wartime sailor with the Atlantic and Russian convoys, was given a suitably nautical farewell into the murky depths of the River Mersey. The service was very touching, the engines died, a little reminisce, a prayer or two. A sailor then got out the board that would slide my Dad into a watery oblivion. The ashes were sprinkled onto its inclined plane. Gravity and the super-slick varnish smooth finish of the board did the job and the reconstituted bits of my Dad slid majestically into the water. "Just add water"I thought….
The engines kicked, full throttle into life and the ashes, bouquets and single roses boiled on regulo 10.in the foam below.
And that was it. A Company that knows the value of something – and recognises its marine obligations had just done something special, as a matter of course for the community – as part of its operating philosophy…. And it was all free!
Contrast that with the telecom vultures that set up the 0870 emergency help number for worried relatives of the missing victims of the London bombings. Hazel Blears, one of Tony Blair’s ‘Babe Ministers’ sought to justify the 50 pence a minute charges in the most grotesque way…… a pity really, for at the very moment she was telling the world the charges would stay, the back stabbing boys at ‘Back-Stab HQ’ were appointing Tessa Jowell, the former ‘Minister for the Olympic bid’ to be the new ‘Minister for free disaster phone calling’…
Like I said, ‘the price and worth of things’……..
(It’s important to know the difference)
The Mersey millpond, the red duster and the waterfront…
We committed the old man’s ashes to the care of Davie Jones’ lock-up on Monday morning. The day was fine, clear and most importantly, ‘still’ as we gathered at the Liverpool landing stage and waited to board the good ship ‘SS Royal Iris’ for the committal.
The River Mersey was as flat as a millpond – which was very, very good news. Windy days and the committal of ashes do not mix…. The threat of ‘blow back’ & ‘white face’ are very real ones when there’s a force ten gale blowing. And the thought of getting an atomised gob-full of my old man did not appeal.
We huddled in the only bit of shadow we could find – shading us from the fierce Sun. It was weird, but because it was so hot, we were all dressed like we were going to the beach – everyone was wearing ‘Hawaiian-tragic’… I think my Dad would have approved. Just then, my eldest sister turned up with the urn under her arm. My Mum said "What’s that you’re carrying under your arm then?"
"It’s your husband" came the reply……
The Royal Iris steamed into view. It’s one of the Mersey Ferries fleet and takes passengers ‘across the water’ between Liverpool, Birkenhead and Seacombe. The vicar from the local Seaman’s Mission briefed us on the ceremony.
The ferry would steam straight up river at full speed. After about 10 minutes, we would gather at the stern, the engines would be cut and the service would commence. The Rev’ reckoned it would take about seven minutes from start to finish.
"Don’t they mind?" I asked. "You know, the Captain and the ferry company - won’t they mind that the ferry will be late because of the service?"…
"No, they do it all the time…..and they do it for nothing. They don’t charge a cent – except the fare, of course"…
"But what about the passengers?…. The ferry’s absolutely packed with people"…..
"They’ll have to wait – it’s a mariner thing"…
And so it was. My Dad, wartime sailor with the Atlantic and Russian convoys, was given a suitably nautical farewell into the murky depths of the River Mersey. The service was very touching, the engines died, a little reminisce, a prayer or two. A sailor then got out the board that would slide my Dad into a watery oblivion. The ashes were sprinkled onto its inclined plane. Gravity and the super-slick varnish smooth finish of the board did the job and the reconstituted bits of my Dad slid majestically into the water. "Just add water"I thought….
The engines kicked, full throttle into life and the ashes, bouquets and single roses boiled on regulo 10.in the foam below.
And that was it. A Company that knows the value of something – and recognises its marine obligations had just done something special, as a matter of course for the community – as part of its operating philosophy…. And it was all free!
Contrast that with the telecom vultures that set up the 0870 emergency help number for worried relatives of the missing victims of the London bombings. Hazel Blears, one of Tony Blair’s ‘Babe Ministers’ sought to justify the 50 pence a minute charges in the most grotesque way…… a pity really, for at the very moment she was telling the world the charges would stay, the back stabbing boys at ‘Back-Stab HQ’ were appointing Tessa Jowell, the former ‘Minister for the Olympic bid’ to be the new ‘Minister for free disaster phone calling’…
Like I said, ‘the price and worth of things’……..
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Tony Blair – jammiest man in history, official.
Is he in league with the devil or what? Is one of his middle names ‘Beelzebub, or does he own a four-leaf clover farm? Maybe, along with the jam, he’s covered head to toe in the finest teflonic armour, with an accompanying sporran made from rabbit’s feet just for good measure.
It‘s as if he’s got a pact with Old Non-Stick Nick himself. Teflon Tony is flourishing. He’s just as lucky as the luckiest man in ….. Hang on a mo’ – that’s not quite right is it? There is some bad luck in Tony world isn’t there? He’s married to ‘the mad woman’. So, not so lucky in his domestic life then – but politics? As jammy as the guy with a jammy dodger fetish I reckon. Whenever our glorious Leader appears to be falling into the brown and pungent, he pops up – like a cork in a sewerage farm, without a stain on his ego or odour on his character.
"Tony, what is that God awful smell?"
"Oh that. Looks like John Prescott’s been using the Prime Ministerial toilet again, Cherie"….
Don’t you just hate it? Don’t you just hate that smirky smirk on his slimy boat? How does he always seem to get away with it?
Take this last week, lucky ‘Lionel’ Blair, kicks off by basking in the reflected glory of Live8, rubbing shoulders with Sir Bob, Bono, The Edge and Richard Curtis (I don’t know, do you reckon any of these Superstars own any nice holiday villas?) Then just as quickly he's off, over to Singapore to help bring home the Olympic bacon for 2012…..
Sorry - Tone can’t stay to milk the applause, or blag his latest exotic freebee holiday. He’s got an appointment in Scotland to make African poverty history, sort the climate change challenge… And - if he’s got time after Supper, to dismantle the World’s trade protectionist cartels…..
Tony Blair seems to be able to give a Georgie Best body swerve to potential disaster, or by saying "It was him, not me" a lot. Similarly, he has a real gift to leech onto the beautiful, the brave, the successful, the intelligent …. Oh, and not forgetting the money grabbing, self obsessive, narcissistic Beckhams.
"Who’s that talking to Tony Blair, our glorious omnipotent Leader?"
"Oh him, that’s Jesus of Nazareth trying to get an introduction to Saint Bob and Bono… and a few guitar lessons from The Edge"…..
On second thoughts that would never happen would it, Jesus doesn’t own a sexy beach side villa in Barbados does he?……
Is he in league with the devil or what? Is one of his middle names ‘Beelzebub, or does he own a four-leaf clover farm? Maybe, along with the jam, he’s covered head to toe in the finest teflonic armour, with an accompanying sporran made from rabbit’s feet just for good measure.
It‘s as if he’s got a pact with Old Non-Stick Nick himself. Teflon Tony is flourishing. He’s just as lucky as the luckiest man in ….. Hang on a mo’ – that’s not quite right is it? There is some bad luck in Tony world isn’t there? He’s married to ‘the mad woman’. So, not so lucky in his domestic life then – but politics? As jammy as the guy with a jammy dodger fetish I reckon. Whenever our glorious Leader appears to be falling into the brown and pungent, he pops up – like a cork in a sewerage farm, without a stain on his ego or odour on his character.
"Tony, what is that God awful smell?"
"Oh that. Looks like John Prescott’s been using the Prime Ministerial toilet again, Cherie"….
Don’t you just hate it? Don’t you just hate that smirky smirk on his slimy boat? How does he always seem to get away with it?
Take this last week, lucky ‘Lionel’ Blair, kicks off by basking in the reflected glory of Live8, rubbing shoulders with Sir Bob, Bono, The Edge and Richard Curtis (I don’t know, do you reckon any of these Superstars own any nice holiday villas?) Then just as quickly he's off, over to Singapore to help bring home the Olympic bacon for 2012…..
Sorry - Tone can’t stay to milk the applause, or blag his latest exotic freebee holiday. He’s got an appointment in Scotland to make African poverty history, sort the climate change challenge… And - if he’s got time after Supper, to dismantle the World’s trade protectionist cartels…..
Tony Blair seems to be able to give a Georgie Best body swerve to potential disaster, or by saying "It was him, not me" a lot. Similarly, he has a real gift to leech onto the beautiful, the brave, the successful, the intelligent …. Oh, and not forgetting the money grabbing, self obsessive, narcissistic Beckhams.
"Who’s that talking to Tony Blair, our glorious omnipotent Leader?"
"Oh him, that’s Jesus of Nazareth trying to get an introduction to Saint Bob and Bono… and a few guitar lessons from The Edge"…..
On second thoughts that would never happen would it, Jesus doesn’t own a sexy beach side villa in Barbados does he?……
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Phew......
Over a whole week has gone since my last post and I still can't think of anything to write about.....
That must mean that -
a) Everything in the whole world is hunky dory.
b) Tony Blair really is the wise man from the Orange adverts.
c) Our transport system is efficient, modern and cheap to use.
d) John Prescott has finally managed to do something that actually works.
e) I've won the Lottery jackpot.
f) The cruddiness of the Country has finally done me in - and I've lost the will to moan.
The 'eff' has it I think.
Normal, one eyed observations will be resumed tomorrow.
Over a whole week has gone since my last post and I still can't think of anything to write about.....
That must mean that -
a) Everything in the whole world is hunky dory.
b) Tony Blair really is the wise man from the Orange adverts.
c) Our transport system is efficient, modern and cheap to use.
d) John Prescott has finally managed to do something that actually works.
e) I've won the Lottery jackpot.
f) The cruddiness of the Country has finally done me in - and I've lost the will to moan.
The 'eff' has it I think.
Normal, one eyed observations will be resumed tomorrow.
Monday, June 27, 2005
The kiss of death…..
Well there you go, the coup de grace has just been well and truly delivered to the London 2012 Olympic bid by an own goal to end all own goals.
And it was all going so well wasn't it? So ‘professional’, so ‘we’re coming up on the rails and we’re gonna pip Paris at the tape’ …….. but now we’re not are we? The cockneys will probably limp in somewhere behind Moscow, Bootle and Wigan…..
We’ve handed twenty-twelve on a platter with a side salad of golden laurel leaves to our French neighbours…. It’s entente cordial with ‘le knobs on’ as the French are obviously going to waltz away with the big prize now that our cock up masters par excellence, once again do their worse......
What disaster could have befallen our bid? Not enough money? …. Someone pocketing a few million quid ‘biscuit money’ expenses? ….. Bid leader, Lord Seb’ Coe found in flagrante with Anne Widdecombe in a broom cupboard? ….. No, none of those, it’s much, much worse than that.
Some divvi in the Government has just appointed one ‘John Prescott’ as the man, the man charged with ensuring all the London Olympic venues are built, on time, on spec, and on budget……
"Eh up, Coe, yer southern ponce, merk way for t’maestro…. This ‘ere ‘Twenty 12’malarky is now a New Labour prorject so shift yer posh arse, change t’name on the doower, put t’kettle on and go and get us a sack o’ pies & a side skip o' mushy peas, you great gormless posh twat"……
If you listen very carefully, you can hear Jonny Frenchman laughing his head off as he cycles down the Champs Elysee with his stripey jumper and pungent string of onions in tow….
Well there you go, the coup de grace has just been well and truly delivered to the London 2012 Olympic bid by an own goal to end all own goals.
And it was all going so well wasn't it? So ‘professional’, so ‘we’re coming up on the rails and we’re gonna pip Paris at the tape’ …….. but now we’re not are we? The cockneys will probably limp in somewhere behind Moscow, Bootle and Wigan…..
We’ve handed twenty-twelve on a platter with a side salad of golden laurel leaves to our French neighbours…. It’s entente cordial with ‘le knobs on’ as the French are obviously going to waltz away with the big prize now that our cock up masters par excellence, once again do their worse......
What disaster could have befallen our bid? Not enough money? …. Someone pocketing a few million quid ‘biscuit money’ expenses? ….. Bid leader, Lord Seb’ Coe found in flagrante with Anne Widdecombe in a broom cupboard? ….. No, none of those, it’s much, much worse than that.
Some divvi in the Government has just appointed one ‘John Prescott’ as the man, the man charged with ensuring all the London Olympic venues are built, on time, on spec, and on budget……
"Eh up, Coe, yer southern ponce, merk way for t’maestro…. This ‘ere ‘Twenty 12’malarky is now a New Labour prorject so shift yer posh arse, change t’name on the doower, put t’kettle on and go and get us a sack o’ pies & a side skip o' mushy peas, you great gormless posh twat"……
If you listen very carefully, you can hear Jonny Frenchman laughing his head off as he cycles down the Champs Elysee with his stripey jumper and pungent string of onions in tow….
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Andrew Murray - tennis wonderkind...
Listening to the radio, I have noticed how many times a drooling FiveLive commentary team are most careful to emphasise that Andrew Murray is from SCOTLAND - and not Britain..... "Murray from Scotland"... "Plucky Scot, Murray"..... etc, etc....
It's funny, but I can't remember Tim Henman - when he was regularly getting to the quarters and semis of Wimbledon - EVER being called 'The Englishman, Tim Henman' or 'England's Tim Henman' or 'England's great tennis hope, Tim Henman'...
He has always been known as 'Britain's Tim Henman'...... Hasn't he?
I'm all for national pride - so why, when an Englishman is successful, he is 'British' - and when a Scot is successful, he is 'Scottish'? And if the media start to call him/her 'British' - they are accused of 'hijacking' their own Scottish heroes...
You can see this happening all over sport today - for example, in F1motor racing. David Coulthard has a Scottish Saltire plastered all over his helmet - Jensen Button has a Union flag on his. When he changed it to a St George's cross last summer to support the England football team, he was assailed by an ITV commentator, demanding to know why he was being so 'un-British' and unpatriotic by removing the Union Flag - and replacing it with a "Red and White squiggle"..... The design was artistic, in the same way that the Union flag was, but Button still felt the need to explain and to justify it... Needless to say, he made Button feel embarrassed and uncomfortable - and sure enough, at the next race Jensen had replaced the St George's cross with the British emblem....
David's identity is strongly Scottish and that is perfectly fine.. when he is mentioned, he is 'The Scot, David Coulthard'... Button, however is always referred to as 'The British driver, Jensen Button'....
It is clear that as far as the establishment are concerned, Scottish sportsmen/women are Scottish, Welsh sportsmen/women are Welsh and Northern Irish sportsmen/women are Northern Irish.......
But what of English sportsmen/women? Well, of course, they're all from BRITAIN, obviously!!!!
Listening to the radio, I have noticed how many times a drooling FiveLive commentary team are most careful to emphasise that Andrew Murray is from SCOTLAND - and not Britain..... "Murray from Scotland"... "Plucky Scot, Murray"..... etc, etc....
It's funny, but I can't remember Tim Henman - when he was regularly getting to the quarters and semis of Wimbledon - EVER being called 'The Englishman, Tim Henman' or 'England's Tim Henman' or 'England's great tennis hope, Tim Henman'...
He has always been known as 'Britain's Tim Henman'...... Hasn't he?
I'm all for national pride - so why, when an Englishman is successful, he is 'British' - and when a Scot is successful, he is 'Scottish'? And if the media start to call him/her 'British' - they are accused of 'hijacking' their own Scottish heroes...
You can see this happening all over sport today - for example, in F1motor racing. David Coulthard has a Scottish Saltire plastered all over his helmet - Jensen Button has a Union flag on his. When he changed it to a St George's cross last summer to support the England football team, he was assailed by an ITV commentator, demanding to know why he was being so 'un-British' and unpatriotic by removing the Union Flag - and replacing it with a "Red and White squiggle"..... The design was artistic, in the same way that the Union flag was, but Button still felt the need to explain and to justify it... Needless to say, he made Button feel embarrassed and uncomfortable - and sure enough, at the next race Jensen had replaced the St George's cross with the British emblem....
David's identity is strongly Scottish and that is perfectly fine.. when he is mentioned, he is 'The Scot, David Coulthard'... Button, however is always referred to as 'The British driver, Jensen Button'....
It is clear that as far as the establishment are concerned, Scottish sportsmen/women are Scottish, Welsh sportsmen/women are Welsh and Northern Irish sportsmen/women are Northern Irish.......
But what of English sportsmen/women? Well, of course, they're all from BRITAIN, obviously!!!!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Free the ‘Plate-gate 1’ .... from this
Neil Prendergast a young driver from Manchester was caught bang to rights by the Old Bill last Friday. A plain clothes plod in a plain clothes plod-car pulled him over and slapped a 30 quid ticket into his surly, suspiciously guilty, suspiciously ordinary Astra saloon owner’s hand.
"Well, as soon as I saw him, I just knew he was a bad ‘un’. The streets are safer now this scum has been banged up" reported P.C. Agenda.
Well thank goodness for that. I can tell my old Mum she can go and get her pension in complete safety now that the law has come down on Prendergast with all the force of Charles Clarke sitting on a kitten. .
So what crime did young Prendergast commit that was just so heinous? The very worse crime of all, apparently….. a shocking and wanton declaration of identity. Yes, Prendergast (aka Baby-Face Caponee-ownee) was caught with a St George’s cross and the word ‘ENG’ provocatively and brazenly displayed on his registration plate. Sorry, it’s twice as bad as that…. He had the flag on both registration plates. And not only that, he’s obscured the Euro flag in the process – twice!……
I feel sick. There should be a list that this sicko has to register on, so the police and good citizens can keep tabs – and if necessary, send the vigilantes round to work a bit of retribution. I’d call it the 'flagophile file'…..
Alfie the man whose arm is strong - and vengeance total, has been doing a bit of detective work to get to the bottom of this ‘happy slappy, flag not flappy’ craze and has managed to find a sad and perverted enthusiast of the ‘flag on the plate’ genre.
He told me his name was ‘Reginald Plate’ – or Reg for short.
I’m not sure I believe him.
He said he originally put the stickers on to support England in last years Euro Nations Cup….. and it sort of grew from there. He’s now expanded his flag collection, nothing is off limits anymore….. car air fresheners, stickers for the back window, even the ‘Reg and Sharon’ sticker along the top of the front windscreen has been binned in favour of one saying ‘ENGERLAND 4 EVER’…….
He said that sometimes a whole load of these ‘enthusiasts’ gather at a ‘flag meet’ to wave the flag and taunt the filth. "Sometimes, it can get quite nasty when a few of us get together to try and compose a national anthem. Afterwards, we feel great... but, you know.... a bit, well 'dirty'"…
‘Sick’, just isn’t the word…. – ‘revolution’ is.
Reg Plate in front of his banned plate doing a bit of fuzz taunting.......
Neil Prendergast a young driver from Manchester was caught bang to rights by the Old Bill last Friday. A plain clothes plod in a plain clothes plod-car pulled him over and slapped a 30 quid ticket into his surly, suspiciously guilty, suspiciously ordinary Astra saloon owner’s hand.
"Well, as soon as I saw him, I just knew he was a bad ‘un’. The streets are safer now this scum has been banged up" reported P.C. Agenda.
Well thank goodness for that. I can tell my old Mum she can go and get her pension in complete safety now that the law has come down on Prendergast with all the force of Charles Clarke sitting on a kitten. .
So what crime did young Prendergast commit that was just so heinous? The very worse crime of all, apparently….. a shocking and wanton declaration of identity. Yes, Prendergast (aka Baby-Face Caponee-ownee) was caught with a St George’s cross and the word ‘ENG’ provocatively and brazenly displayed on his registration plate. Sorry, it’s twice as bad as that…. He had the flag on both registration plates. And not only that, he’s obscured the Euro flag in the process – twice!……
I feel sick. There should be a list that this sicko has to register on, so the police and good citizens can keep tabs – and if necessary, send the vigilantes round to work a bit of retribution. I’d call it the 'flagophile file'…..
Alfie the man whose arm is strong - and vengeance total, has been doing a bit of detective work to get to the bottom of this ‘happy slappy, flag not flappy’ craze and has managed to find a sad and perverted enthusiast of the ‘flag on the plate’ genre.
He told me his name was ‘Reginald Plate’ – or Reg for short.
I’m not sure I believe him.
He said he originally put the stickers on to support England in last years Euro Nations Cup….. and it sort of grew from there. He’s now expanded his flag collection, nothing is off limits anymore….. car air fresheners, stickers for the back window, even the ‘Reg and Sharon’ sticker along the top of the front windscreen has been binned in favour of one saying ‘ENGERLAND 4 EVER’…….
He said that sometimes a whole load of these ‘enthusiasts’ gather at a ‘flag meet’ to wave the flag and taunt the filth. "Sometimes, it can get quite nasty when a few of us get together to try and compose a national anthem. Afterwards, we feel great... but, you know.... a bit, well 'dirty'"…
‘Sick’, just isn’t the word…. – ‘revolution’ is.
Reg Plate in front of his banned plate doing a bit of fuzz taunting.......
Friday, June 17, 2005
The ‘E’ word has been elbowed – official…
Perusing the seats of power on the Parliament web site, I came across Welshman Alun Michael’s new portfolio. After ballsing up the countryside brief, Michael,MP for Cardiff South & Penarth has been given a job in ‘industry’. His official and pretty damn grand moniker is now – Rt hon Alun Michael, Minister of State for Industry and the Regions.
I thought it sounded a bit weird… ‘Industry and the Regions’. I mean, what does that mean then?
I decided to bang off an email to Ivory Towers Inc and find out…
Good afternoon,
I have a question and I wonder if you could clear it up for me.
The Rt. Hon. Alun Michael, MP for Cardiff South & Penarth is, I understand the
‘Minister of State for Industry and the Regions’.
Does his responsibilities include the regions of the whole of the UK?...
Or is it just the regions of England that Mr Michael has responsibility for?
And if it is the regions of England, then why not have ‘England’ in the title of his job?
Regards,
‘John’ from Alun Michael HQ got back to me quicker than you could say ‘Jobs for the boyos’ with the following reply…. (although, it might have been better if he had read ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ by Lynne Truss before he’d done so).
Dear Steve,
Alun Michael has responsibility for the nine Regional Development Agencies (RDAs) throughout the UK.
There is no RDA in Scotland or Wales, I think any issues arising are handled within the assembly's.
Hope this helps.
John
Well John, it actually doesn’t help – at all. You didn’t answer my question did you? Because you couldn’t bring yourself to say ‘the word’ – the word that cannot be uttered - ever.
Yes, the ‘E’ word has been eradicated from Labour’s lexicon of waffle….. "period" (to quote Tony Blair).
So there you have it, when Gordon Brown, Alun Michael and even ‘John’ – the guy who doesn’t know his grammar from his grandma goes on about the Nations and Regions of the UK…. They really do mean ‘the Regions of the UK’….. I’m now a norf westerner of the UK apparently.
Alfie has resolved to reply to ‘John’ with a bit of Anglo Saxon advice on Geoggers and Eng’ Lang’ - and to also ask just why an MP with a Welsh constituency has an English only brief – I’ll keep you posted.
Perusing the seats of power on the Parliament web site, I came across Welshman Alun Michael’s new portfolio. After ballsing up the countryside brief, Michael,MP for Cardiff South & Penarth has been given a job in ‘industry’. His official and pretty damn grand moniker is now – Rt hon Alun Michael, Minister of State for Industry and the Regions.
I thought it sounded a bit weird… ‘Industry and the Regions’. I mean, what does that mean then?
I decided to bang off an email to Ivory Towers Inc and find out…
Good afternoon,
I have a question and I wonder if you could clear it up for me.
The Rt. Hon. Alun Michael, MP for Cardiff South & Penarth is, I understand the
‘Minister of State for Industry and the Regions’.
Does his responsibilities include the regions of the whole of the UK?...
Or is it just the regions of England that Mr Michael has responsibility for?
And if it is the regions of England, then why not have ‘England’ in the title of his job?
Regards,
‘John’ from Alun Michael HQ got back to me quicker than you could say ‘Jobs for the boyos’ with the following reply…. (although, it might have been better if he had read ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ by Lynne Truss before he’d done so).
Dear Steve,
Alun Michael has responsibility for the nine Regional Development Agencies (RDAs) throughout the UK.
There is no RDA in Scotland or Wales, I think any issues arising are handled within the assembly's.
Hope this helps.
John
Well John, it actually doesn’t help – at all. You didn’t answer my question did you? Because you couldn’t bring yourself to say ‘the word’ – the word that cannot be uttered - ever.
Yes, the ‘E’ word has been eradicated from Labour’s lexicon of waffle….. "period" (to quote Tony Blair).
So there you have it, when Gordon Brown, Alun Michael and even ‘John’ – the guy who doesn’t know his grammar from his grandma goes on about the Nations and Regions of the UK…. They really do mean ‘the Regions of the UK’….. I’m now a norf westerner of the UK apparently.
Alfie has resolved to reply to ‘John’ with a bit of Anglo Saxon advice on Geoggers and Eng’ Lang’ - and to also ask just why an MP with a Welsh constituency has an English only brief – I’ll keep you posted.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Free the Jackson 1…. Oh, they already have….
Whacko Jacko is: barmy, white, black, deluded, Diana Ross clone, mad, bad, sad, rad, a tad talented, innocent….
Hmmmm. Which of those boxes do you tick?
Maybe all of them? Probably not.
There’s no doubt about it, Jacko is a complex puzzle, wrapped in an ebony enigma, packaged in a white plastic bag.
He’s a middle-aged, cross-race, cross-gender, cross-wired man.
He’s 200 million dollars in debt – and he hasn’t had his invoice from his lawyers yet. (so make that 300 million in debt)
What’s left of his nose is slipping south, due to the melting point of wax being lower than the ambient Californian daytime temperature.
His relationships with women have been few and far between. Lisa Marie Presley was a passing trophy fad – and his second wife Debbie Rowe, appears to be little more than a convenient surrogate for his kids. Even their initial meeting was far from normal. He first met her in a hospital burns unit after he had been a bit too zealous slapping on the old skin whitening agent onto his scrotum. Result? 3rd degree burns to an intimate part of his body, wedding bells and a multimillion dollar pay off for Debbie.
So, after the trial and trib’ of the trial and fib, what’s Jacko going to do now?…..
Well, I don’t want anyone to panic, but the word on the streets is that the great man/boy/girl/saint/messiah is thinking of relocating to London, England.
I suggest you lock up your sons/daughters/plastic surgeons/scrotum burns specialists/and any blazers you may have with a coat of arms on the pocket. Jacko and his entourage are about to hit blighty.
Overheard on Richard ‘n’ Joody tonight…
The story: The conspiracy theory on the death of Princess Diana.
The guests: Two high powered ex Mi5 secret service people.
Joody: …"And to discuss whether Diana was killed by members of MFI, let me introduce to you our guests"….
I’m not surprised, it all makes sense now… those furniture flat pack instructions are just murder….
Whacko Jacko is: barmy, white, black, deluded, Diana Ross clone, mad, bad, sad, rad, a tad talented, innocent….
Hmmmm. Which of those boxes do you tick?
Maybe all of them? Probably not.
There’s no doubt about it, Jacko is a complex puzzle, wrapped in an ebony enigma, packaged in a white plastic bag.
He’s a middle-aged, cross-race, cross-gender, cross-wired man.
He’s 200 million dollars in debt – and he hasn’t had his invoice from his lawyers yet. (so make that 300 million in debt)
What’s left of his nose is slipping south, due to the melting point of wax being lower than the ambient Californian daytime temperature.
His relationships with women have been few and far between. Lisa Marie Presley was a passing trophy fad – and his second wife Debbie Rowe, appears to be little more than a convenient surrogate for his kids. Even their initial meeting was far from normal. He first met her in a hospital burns unit after he had been a bit too zealous slapping on the old skin whitening agent onto his scrotum. Result? 3rd degree burns to an intimate part of his body, wedding bells and a multimillion dollar pay off for Debbie.
So, after the trial and trib’ of the trial and fib, what’s Jacko going to do now?…..
Well, I don’t want anyone to panic, but the word on the streets is that the great man/boy/girl/saint/messiah is thinking of relocating to London, England.
I suggest you lock up your sons/daughters/plastic surgeons/scrotum burns specialists/and any blazers you may have with a coat of arms on the pocket. Jacko and his entourage are about to hit blighty.
Overheard on Richard ‘n’ Joody tonight…
The story: The conspiracy theory on the death of Princess Diana.
The guests: Two high powered ex Mi5 secret service people.
Joody: …"And to discuss whether Diana was killed by members of MFI, let me introduce to you our guests"….
I’m not surprised, it all makes sense now… those furniture flat pack instructions are just murder….
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Jimmy Page – short-changed again….
Jimmy Page, rock God and charity man has just been awarded an OBE by a grateful nation. He will shortly meet Queen Brenda, Phil the Greek, Chaz the human FA Cup, ‘Plug’ his wife and the rest of the Buck’ House chavs for the medal ceremony, in the very near future….
Well, whoopy do!
Better late than never I suppose? But I’d have thought a Knighthood would’ve been the very least he’d have got…..
After all, the King of the Gibson has a ton more talent than almost anyone else you can name. Plus, his charity foundation for homeless Brazilian kids has for years been quietly doing good works without the rock star hoopla of other celeb charity organisations….
But then again, if he had received a Knighthood, he’d be in the same ‘league’ as Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Jimbo Saville…..
Suddenly, an OBE seems a bit of a result….
Jimmy Page, rock God and charity man has just been awarded an OBE by a grateful nation. He will shortly meet Queen Brenda, Phil the Greek, Chaz the human FA Cup, ‘Plug’ his wife and the rest of the Buck’ House chavs for the medal ceremony, in the very near future….
Well, whoopy do!
Better late than never I suppose? But I’d have thought a Knighthood would’ve been the very least he’d have got…..
After all, the King of the Gibson has a ton more talent than almost anyone else you can name. Plus, his charity foundation for homeless Brazilian kids has for years been quietly doing good works without the rock star hoopla of other celeb charity organisations….
But then again, if he had received a Knighthood, he’d be in the same ‘league’ as Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Jimbo Saville…..
Suddenly, an OBE seems a bit of a result….
Monday, June 13, 2005
Conspiracy theory from the greyscale man’s recent transport initiative…..
Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …
The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.
The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.
In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.
I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.
The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……
"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?
You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!
"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……
"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".
"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……
The parentage of Gordon Brown…..
Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..
Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.
"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"
"Ebeneezer" came the reply……
‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…
I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….
Overheard on the radio…..
Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.
Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..
That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?
Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …
The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.
The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.
In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.
I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.
The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……
"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?
You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!
"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……
"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".
"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……
The parentage of Gordon Brown…..
Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..
Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.
"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"
"Ebeneezer" came the reply……
‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…
I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….
Overheard on the radio…..
Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.
Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..
That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Shock horror. Alfie is accused of being 3 ‘pees’ short of a pod by Auntie BBC…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
