The old memory reacted to this portrait of Dylan Thomas by reminding me that when I joined the Kit Kat team at Rowntrees, his son, Llew was a copy-writer at JWT in Berkeley Square, W1. I chatted with him in the penthouse bar during my ‘induction’ visit in 1965 – a day-trip by Pullman from York which revealed some of the inner sancta of the agency and the luminaries who populated them.
Despite the weather, it is no longer March, and St George’s Day, the Bard’s day, looms large. Soon we will lie back and think of England again, surrendering to the Missus the Muses once more.
So might one respectfully suggest the Management might update the competition links to reflect our new mood?
Smileys and things.
The media, even here in socialist Vikingland, are banging on about the cost of Maggie’s funeral – twenty new pence a head allegedly. So I thought I’d set the record straight, just to comfort the serried ranks of soon-to-be-late prime ministers who might feel obliged to decline the same honour in the interests of national thrift. Continue reading “Where’s Gordon?”
Nice toon for the time of year:
A cherished colleaugue must be able to do it: find a path around the town which crosses each bridge only once.
Time was when cricketers walked, snooker champs owned up and, yes, golfers retired when they broke a rule. The gentlemen’s code, as far as I know, never extended to tennis or any of the foootball or hockey variants – in which hoodwinking the ref has become de rigueur, nay a practised skill. Remember Bloodgate and the iconic Dean Richards? But luckily hawkeyed gadgetry is slowly replacing the human eye and on Friday a telly viewer caught Tiger woods cheating – not on his latest blonde this time but on the fringes of the 15th green during the US Masters. He later stated he’d chosen to ‘drop’ a couple of yards back to get a better lie. No behavioural change there then.
Do I care? Should you? Not really, except to bewail the loss of honesty among our heroes. But, hey! All’s fair in love, sport and war and you can’t trust a superpower to play nicely with his drones anymore .
If LW is out there somewhere, might one invite him to titillate one’s muse with a poetic challenge?
It’s an annual phenomenon: the scrubberfest at Aintree, exhibiting some of the social and sartorial fashions of modern Merseyside; ironically known as Ladies’ Day. And who should gainsay them, one asks? A brave man indeed. It’s only to be feared that the PC brigade will insist on a Gentlemen’s Day – when no doubt the even less becoming Merseyside Male would take centre stage.
Boadicea's Chariot 
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