(To the tune of the Coventry Carol)
Eheu, eheu, my little tiny sprout
Left on your frozen stalk
They’ve made the meal and left you out
Far from a festive fork
Category: Chips on Shoulders
The gospel according to Matt
As old Groucho remarked, “I don’t care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.” And my prejudice is now fully justified by the very idea that the word ‘marriage’ might be misused/re-interpreted/ hijacked to include seeking supernatural approval for conjoining ‘members’ of the same gender (Gerrit? Sorry, Vicar).
Singalongabing
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we’ve no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
– not that we have any choice here in the Baltic Badlands ‘cos we have a snowstorm right now and are promised 10 inches today. Very pretty – not.
Oh, a sparkler would make me better
I’d don a thick warm sweater
And write rude words and show
That I don’t much approve of the snow
It’s so lonely
I commented at 7.57 and dropped in this evening to discover that eleven hours have passed – with no further comments at all.
LW has posted an ad for his pome comp but otherwise I am all alone – with only Backside for company.
If you have something to tell me, whether it concerns my person or my politics, just do it. A single voice will cheer me up disproportionately.
Anglican angst
I’m popping orf to Olde Englande on the morrow for a gathering of the clan. So naturally my thoughts turned again to Justin Wellby, who has received his first hospital pass even before he starts his new job. It seems a bit odd really, although that may be because I am not privy to the inner workings of Lambeth United.
One fat lady’s meals
I used to enjoy the two fat ladies’ cookery programmes – mostly for their clipped vowels and social comments which had their roots in feudal practices long forgotten by normal folk. Unfortunately one behemoth flew too close to the flames and passed on to that Aga-equipped kitchen in the sky, leaving Clarissa bereft of her long-time playmate.
Don’t they watch the movies?
I was amazed when England and Wales plc decided to elect Police Commissioners, politicising the management of local forces. Shades of obese, cigar-smoking, red-neck businessmen manipulating the evidence in Hollywood crime stories. Then, sure enough, enter England’s own obese moron himself, John Prescott, 74, touting for the office in ‘Umberside, Yarkshire! Two Jags, two shags, two-faced Prezza himself! Famous for illiteracy, incomprehensible declarations of principle, violent attention to opponents, no-flunkery (just before he became Lord John, ‘to please his wife’) and £500 million down the tubes when he failed to reorganise the Fire Service. The perfect candidate to oversee law and order, dontchya think? We’ll know tomorrow if he makes it. Unbelievable.
And yes, his side-kick, appropriately, is the execrable Bliar.
That naughty little sister
Backside’s a shameless name-dropper, so when he saw today’s headline about Princess Margaret (a lunch companion many incarnations ago) he insisted I should mention that the good lady was famous for putting it about a bit (and not just the smoke from her ever-present cigarette holder). So maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that a chap in Jersey claims to be her secret son. Continue reading “That naughty little sister”
It might as Welby
On paper the new head honcho at Lambeth Palace has nothing going for him: Eton and Cambridge, a number-crunching career in big biz, severe francophilia and by all accounts a thoroughly nice bloke. Hardly the qualities one expects of the Anglican Anachronism. He’s even talking about rethinking his own opinions on touchy topics! P-lease! To top it all, he’s only been in the first team at Durham for a year; hardly the practice ground for the Lords* work. But not being on the supernatural xmas card list, I don’t have a vote and can’t possibly comment – so this is Justin jest.
*select your own apostrophe, depending on your interpretation of my point.
One way traffic
Is it just a British thing or is authority a dirty word everywhere? I mean, a politician swears at the cops for enforcing some no-go rules in Downing Street (did he say plebs or plods?); and now a football referee is accused of verbal retaliation after an ill-tempered match in which both sides harrassed him constantly over his decisions. More generally, school teachers are verbally abused every day but would be sacked for answering in kind. Is this the price every ‘authority’ figure pays for their job? Is respect only to be accorded to self-selected groups of misfits defined by celebrity, wealth, social disfunction, ethnic origin, sexual proclivity and religious bent?
Boadicea's Chariot 
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