Category: Chips on Shoulders

It’s Greek to me

Not surprising perhaps. Phil has done some unusual things over his 97 years. He also seems to be stubborn to a fault.  Driving alone after a road accident he seems to have caused and without a seat-belt qualifies as evidence.

Today he is reported to have ‘surrendered his licence voluntarily‘. Which I’m sure is RoyalSpeak for being banned from driving. I mean, if I wanted to give up driving, I’d simply stop – with my licence intact. ‘Surrendering’ it implies police involvement – which I expect will lead in due course to serious charges.

O tempora et cetera

Yesterday I passed on to my reader Backside’s aversion to anthropological fantasies purveyed by the meeja; from Twilight to Harry Potter to Game of Thrones to Watership Down, all celebrating the supernatural or the improbable ad nauseam.

Today his other pet hate was exhibited: the propensity of celebrities to parade their emotions before the cyberpublic, presumably seeking sympathy and even greater celebrity = money. This time a fine tennis professional who regrettably lacks the dignity and self-respect to avoid the camera when he is overcome by sadness at his own fate (or rather the impending end of his playing career). Yes, I know it’s the fashion but p-lease!

No deal? Hurray!

Sorry to talk about this but in two days’ time Drunker will  tell us the EU’s rules on ‘no deal’. Ain’t that just typical? They’ve got rules about everything, even when we’re not negotiating! But the important thing is: no deal means we’re are out, Brexit is done and dusted, the political playground is finally closed and commercial reality in the shape of the WTO takes over. What’s more, Britannia and her acolytes will have the whip-hand again. She will choose where to go for trade – and sucks to Brussels. Next please.

New neighbours in Novopangea

In a couplahundrend million years or so, according to the DM, our soon-to-be-former-Euromates Spain will be cheek-by-jowl with Kenya, GB with Morocco, Alaska will be a lot warmer, penguins will overrun Chile, the Alps will be cosying up to the Himalayas – and OZ? Land-locked! No worries there then – except perhaps from China.

 

Clash Of The Titans

The following is based on a true story that happened on MyT

It was the irresistible force vs the immovable object. It was Ali/Frazier, Creed/Balboa and Butcher/Aggie all rolled into one. Both parties claimed a win the day they jousted on a blog. I’ll let the Charioteers decide whom was the real winner.

In the Red corner- Ana The Imp: erudite, sophisticated, a voracious reader, mixes at the top of society, well-travelled,  a supernatural dream weaver entity, she owns a horse! She enters the ring to the hair raising orchestral strains of Dance of the Knights.

In the Blue corner- JW: unlearned non-googler, luddite tendencies, tractor blogger, usually found in the pub, day dreams a lot, owns a piggy bank! He enters the ring to the sawdust floor foot stomping The Sideboard Song.

This mismatch went the distance. Continue reading “Clash Of The Titans”

The book is better

Only a couple of weeks ago I read A Legacy of Spies, published last year; as ever with le Carrè, having to concentrate hard on the intricacies of the plot while drooling with appreciation at the vibrancy of his descriptions, both of people and places. And now I have almost finished re-reading Smiley’s People – written 40 years ago and as intriguing as ever. Continue reading “The book is better”

Conspicuous consumption

Yes, dear reader, it’s a tradition. A society wedding like tomorrow’s is larger-than-life, extravagant to a fault and (dare one say) more than a little vulgar. And that’s only the bride’s mother. At least our favourite iconoclast, Prince Philip, seems likely to avoid her altogether. Will he want to sit next to her? He’ll decide when he wakes up. Camilla has already made her choice – to stay away, citing other ‘duties’. Luckily for his new in-laws, the groom is able to keep them in the manner to which they have always aspired. Jolly good match, what, what?

Log on?

It was  picture-postcard romantic to live deep in the beechwoods in a thatched cottage built for the game-keeper in the mid 1800s, wood-smoke curling up from two tall chimneys every morning as the mist cleared in the Spring sunshine.

But these days our little friends Elf and Softy are daring to point out that even the newest, tightest, most efficient woodstoves pump invisible particles into the rooms they heat. And this time they are absolutely right! Much to the chagrin of the green wellie brigade and other country dwellers with a preference for traditional heating.

I acquired ‘solid’ evidence during the Viking years. First, a dripping nose which coincided exactly with winter sojourns at home; second, the state of the fly screens which we needed in the woods and which were yellow with smoke-dust after a few months’ use (there was no dust outside in the woods!).

So before you chuck another log on, you might want to think again.