Tonite, folks, it’s the Viking festival of Midsummer (yes, a bit late but blame the Christian hijackers). But the Sun god is out of sorts, it seems – widespread thunderstorms are expected to disrupt the planned bonfires and booze-ups and continue into the weekend. So the Sun will bounce across the northern horizon unseen by human eye.
And what else do the gods have in store? Spooky.
No, not tomorrow’s vote, Monday’s meeting in Nice between the rich kids of England and another, less feted team. Yes, Iceland.
It will be a win-win for the Davids, whatever the result. But for England it will not be a breeze; rather storm-force gales from the North.
Defeat should be unimagineable – but it isn’t, because as usual England are dithering, unable to stick to a plan worthy of their famous individuals.
Will Woy finally deliver? Who knows?
On my right, an elected lying toad: We’ll get a better EU deal, trust me.
On my left, an unelected lying toad: Oh no you won’t, trust me.
Sounds promising, eh?
Our beloved country is a curate’s egg. (Consult google if in doubt.)
We have a parliamentary democracy (good?) that regularly disappoints (bad?). Be honest, when did we have a competent PM unsullied by dishonest proclamations?
More importantly, we have sports teams that make inconsistent look unbeatable! Today Wales are the best, England are their usual inscrutable (and Scotland?). Come on, N Ireland!
Milk and sugar, Vicar?
A misty morning after the rain.
The big old walnut tree is loaded
 this year and maybe the parched grass
will recover soon.
The Oscar Pistorius show is back for a re-run. It made fascinating telly the first time, combining the salty ingredients of celebrity, disabled sport, gun mania and the South African judiciary. But its story-line was flawed, allowing the anti-hero to escape with a soft sentence.
Common-sense prevailed though when it came round again. People who fire guns into small rooms, suspecting they are occupied, know they can kill –dolus eventualis. And Oscar did just that.
Now it’s round three, a determined recycling of the evidence for the benefit of a court that obviously can’t read transcripts too well. Does every murderer in SA get such considerate, elaborate treatment? I hope so but I doubt it.
One has a lorra mates, in 600 charities. If only one could remember them all. So today One is inviting* a select 10,000 of their luminaries to a bijou little street party in the Mall (oh dear, is it pronounced Morl or Mell?).
*Is it a free lunch this time? If not, what is the price of a plate? And will the charities pay for their high-ups to attend? Better get out with them collection boxes quick. Just askin’.
Not for the faint-hearted, the Grauniad reveals HM the Queen’s pop picks. Few surprises of course. And if One may do it, so may we, innit?
So I’ll start you off, just to cause a mild flutter of interest or disgust here.
Michelle, the Beatles, Rubber Soul.
Road to Hell, Chris Rhea.
Let’s dance, David Bowie.
…and almost every Buddy Holly and Billy Holliday number!
So now it’s your turn. Don’t be shy.
Prof Hawking has views – and not just into space. But his feet are not on the ground, it seems. He ‘doesn’t understand’ the Donald – despite describing him as a demagogue who appeals to the lowest common denominator’. What else is there to understand about Trump? That is exactly his appeal, talking to people with a grudge.
And like a couple of thousand Cambridge dons, he is a Bremainer, talking about scientific cooperation and the movement of people, as if enlightenened self-interest won’t continue to ensure that scientists cooperate, whatever the politics; and haven’t we had enough movement of people already – for the time being anyway?
‘But what do I know?’ says Backside. ‘It’s probably rocket science.’
Boadicea's Chariot 
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