Dirty days hath September
April June and November
From January up to May
The rain it raineth every day
All the rest have thirty-one
Without a blessed gleam of sun
And if any of them had two-and-thirty
They’d be just as wet and twice as dirty.”
Tum-te-tum-te-tum….Stuck a feather in his cap and called it Macaroni…..
Not only that, mes braves! He blew beaucoup de euros on face-paint too. Mais pourquoi?
- Does he have something to hide?
- Did he tell his wife, ‘I will if you will?’
- Does he want to look like Angela?
- Is he having an affair with his make-up artist?
- Is he advertising a well-known brand of cosmetics?
- Or wha’?
Like Sheona, I need help with vocabulary.
Tennis fans yesterday witnessed our hybrid Brit hero(ine), Johanna Konta, beaten comprehensively by the elegant Murican Venus Williams. I wanted to say she gave Jo a ‘master-class’, but our other hero, Andy, would have disapproved on feminist grounds. So what is the right word?
As a long-time tie-sporter, I invite you to spot every ‘tell’ revealed by the two bossmen’s neckwear.
The choice: Don’s says he’s the one. A faux-regimental or wannabe academic flourish? Vlad positively conservative.
The knot: A full Windsor each – the only way for any chief.
The length: Both afraid of a half-mast solution.
The tuck: Don letting it all hang out, Vlad avoiding any stray egg and soup.
The tie talk: Reticent smile vs. Brash bravado. Says it all.
Entertainment in the ’50s and ’60s was all about sound, not so much about images. The wireless played a leading rõle in family life, with the morning pips reminding us we were already late, the evening news gathering us together at 6 o’clock and favourite programmes on weekdays and at weekends. And in our house the cricket coverage was eagerly awaited, especially the voice of John Arlott.
So it was probably my generation of listeners who first welcomed what is now known as TMS; a sporting institution. Down the years Brian Johnston (sans the ‘e’) and his younger pupils have bemused and amused us every year.
But Henry Blofeld has been a star in the firmament, with erudition and wit we should hardly expect from a mere sport programme. And now he too is going to retire.
Thank you, Bloers!
There’s a plan to honour Maggie with a statue in Parliament Square. And why not? The Iron Lady was responsible for so much that needed to be done in the ’80s. Even the Poll Tax, her downfall, was well-intentioned. Is there a fairer, less discriminatory way to tax a population? Scargill and his ilk were bankrupting British industry. And Argentina needed a good slap, even when the Americas couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to agree.
Her daughter, Carol wants her image to carry her iconic handbag, but this new work omits it. It certainly epitomises Maggie’s approach to Europe.
It was love at first sight. The moment I set eyes on Cordelia I wanted her with a passion my wife neither understood nor forgave for years. Cordelia was resting on the mud, her distress obvious to me, yet her lines were classically beautiful. She had aged well, but neglect has taken its toll. She looked like a proud old lady who had fallen on hard times. She was, in fact, stronger than she appeared and cradled gently, she made the journey by road to her new home on the banks of the Thames.
Continue reading “Cordelia: A Short Story”
Our favourite future King is a smart cookie (© Don the One), preparing for the sponsorship of the monarchy – the Waitrose Organic King Charles III.
* sic, according to the delicious Daily Mail today.