No I’m not teed off, just a bit putt off maybe. The competition links are need of a some attention, maybe ‘ead’ittin’, although that’s the wrong game.
The latest photo comp and pome comp are both due for adjudication after 31st March, if any cherished creators can drive themselves to compete.
Can anything be dune about it, please? Thank you and see you at the nineteenth.
Thinks: I wish he’d stop banging on about the Koran and the rôle of women
I pop up to North Britain now and then, cybernautically speaking, to see what The Scotsman has to say. And today I see that some denizens of the Northern Isles would prefer to go it alone, perhaps as a Crown Dependency à la Isle of Man, rather than remain part of an independent Scotland. That would scupper the new Scotland’s financial plans which are based on oil galore, much of which is in the ‘territorial waters’ of the Northern Isles.
Which set me wondering whether this modern fad for home rule shouldn’t be allowed to benefit any community with enough wonga ‘of its own’. Knotty Ash, awash with treacle. Cornwall, replete with pasties. You get the idea. What about Knightsbridge and its resident billionaires? There could be hundreds of little Liechtensteins all over the country, independent in all but reality. Slackey Bottom would ally itself to Monaco and have the best casino ever.
Just a thought.
Yes, it’s a special Easter this year, with a new man at the Italian Head Office n’ all. Such stuff that poets’ dreams are made on indeed!
But let’s not confine our flights of fancy to an Argentinian supernaturalist or those nibbled chocolate animals – however much we feel for them.
Bugger his Mary Poppins hobbies, I represent the Falklands branch!
Cherished archive-trawlers will discover that when the Savile scandal broke last year I said his crimes were common knowledge oop narth!
It now transpires that in 1964 he was accused and allowed by police to ‘walk’ because of his celebrity.
Not long after, the stories were whispered widely around Leeds and I heard them first from a friend who worked at the big hotel where all the ‘stars’ used to stay.
As time went by, his appearance anywhere was heralded by the same whispers and for me the greatest scandal is that nothing was ever done about them to in his lifetime.
The Beeb continues to amuse us with the outpourings of a holy ‘professor of ethics’: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-21658218
Pinch yourself, to ensure you are not dreaming this drivel – which culminates with a cracker: “accountable to a board of directors: God Himself…the Blessed Trinity”. As with most analogies, the Rev’s attempt to explain the RC biz as a huge corporation runs out of rational, if not supernatural road.
I know that the cherished friends’ breath is suitably bated until I tell you the latest in the windmill saga. So ‘yer ’tis, as they say in Cornwall.
The C_nt has had his surveyors out with their laser-thingies, measuring access roads and tricky corners, so we know he’s going ahead and we’d better get outta here pronto, Cisco! For reasons best known to themselves (are they masochists or wha’?) the wannabe new occupants of our former idyll still want to live here, so we have identified our new abode – pictured above. It’s in the midddle of a beech wood with a family of deer for neighbours. The barn/garage is also thatched – for architectural consistency, you know – and it is q-u-i-e-t. No traffic noise, just the birds and the occasional hunter. Ten minutes to the nearest town/shops/doctor/hospital – the main concerns of people like us.
Can’t wait to move!
Sometimes (or is it often?) I despair at the ‘insights’ offfered us by journalists. Or am I missing something vital here? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-21633960 – all about wars being unwinnable.
Ever since the Trojan Horse episode, clever tacticians have managed to thwart the efforts of mere generals by the use of informal methods of warfare. And of course that really gets up the generals’ disrespected noses. They of course always liked it to be predictable – in serried ranks with breaks for tea and unseasonal showers. A favourite tactic was to settle the whole thing with the help of Sir Knight and his trusty lance, while the cannon fodder waited in the wings with their Woodbines, cakes and ale (anachronistically speaking). In more modern times they have been particularly offended by human shields and enemies who refuse to wear uniforms and keep hiding in caves; downright un-British, what? Continue reading “Blinding flash”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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