Who says big biz has no sense of humour?
Guess who’s buying the baby formula giant! The owner of Durex. That’s all about preparing for the worst, I suppose. Buy me and stop one or if not……….
It’s been a while since I reported on the royals. Probably because Kate can do no wrong and Wills is doing his best, bless him.
But sources tell me that the PoW is side-lining his rapacious brother whose strings are obviously still being jerked by the inimitable Fergie. Andy’s been whining about his daughters’ having to work for living – which they seem do do but rather spasmodically – arguing that the Heir’s lads are fully subsidised royals. With his nose well and truly out of joint, Andy asked HM the Queen to intercede on his behalf – and got what can only be described as the bum’s rush from the Palace too.
Come on girls! Use your natural talents, tap into Daddy’s well-oiled connections, marry well – and Chuck’s your uncle!
As an aspiring writer, my big breakthrough piece of fiction is still unwritten, I have always wanted to visit the Cheltenham Literature Festival. The chance to hob-nob with fellow unpublished sorts and to see in the flesh real authors would be happiness unbound.
Mingling at social gatherings with the lit-set I would forgo the glasses of bubbly on the trays and demand a beer from the Jeeves-like waiter. After all, With Faulks’ powers faltering, I’m the next big thing in town. I’d also ask Jeeves for the big daddy of vol-au-vents, a scotch pie. And I’d tell him to drown the pastry with Bertie Worcester sauce. Read more…
‘Alice is marrying one of the guard. A soldier’s life is terrible hard,’ says Alice.
‘Hum hum hum. Nobody can be un-cheered with a balloon.’
Even a Primate can’t choose his family, it seems.
It turns out that that there was quite a lot of monkey business in Churchill’s corridors of power – and an ocean of alchol (hic) to wash away the detritus. So Justin’s mother, Mary, managed to conceive only days before her marriage but it has taken her 60 years (allegedly) to find out that Justin’s father wasn’t the man she wed. Despite the clear facial resemblance between her paramour and her son. She blames the booze.
I suppose if Justin had stayed in the oil biz nobody would have taken much notice, but you’d think the Lord would have arranged things a bit more decorously, wouldn’t you? Or perhaps it’s another of his little jokes.
Just another Canterbury Tale really.
As our music editor has opined, the world has changed since the digital revolution.
Remember Kim Philby, who spied for the USSR? Fiendishly clever? Ahead of the technological game? A modern spook whose expertise led his British masters up the garden path?
Well – no. A filmed master class he conducted in the DDR in ’81 shows what an amateur affair it was. He ‘borrowed’ paper files every day, took them home to be copied and returned them the next day! No fancy equipment, no 007 tricks, no subtlety at all.
The Beeb has the story. Fascinating.
Well, akshully I was in a pub in Bootham, York, when our boys beat Germany 50 years ago. And believe it or not there was a telly, very small, b & w but a telly nevertheless. A group of maybe 20 enthusiasts huddled round it and cheered for England.
Tonite, they meet again. In colour. Without Kenneth Wolstenholme (sp?). Not really a friendly. See you there.
I know that short stories are not really in demand on The Chariot these days but after reading a few Russian novels I decided to throw up a fable set in the Motherland. I wrote it quickly as I was Russian to finish it in time for tea. There are a few modern influences in the tale though the joke is an old one. However, as the story takes place in the 1850s maybe this was its first airing. Apologies for any grammatical errors in advance. I know what you lot are like.
Read it or don’t read it. You have your choice. I have a massive back catalogue of blogs on MYT with no views and no comments so I’m not bothered if this is sent to Siberia.
Pass me the wooly hat. Read more…
No, seriously, it was a crisis! Suddenly our (cough) pipes of pan were blocked. In fact nothing would leave the bathroom at all. So I said to Mrs J, who was a girl guide before the Flood, ‘Doesn’t Arkela do it in the woods?’ If looks could kill.
Within a desperately long five hours (y’know how it is – when yer gotta go….), Monsewer Rasmussen drove up in his ‘normous tanker. In a trice he exposed our person-holes (very pc ‘ere, innit?), thrust his long black tube therein and sucked fit to bust, pointing out that we have a diameter problem; which was nothing we could fix without rebuilding the house. Apparently size is everything in his business. He could even smile, seeming happy with his lot.
So it all panned out well. I suppose we could have called the cops, but they’d have had nothing to go on.
Danish telly eventually offers interesting stuff. Today it was the tale of Hardy Amies of whom it has often been said. And it’s true. But did you know he was an SOE hitman in WWII? OK, you did. But did you know I worked with him on his interior decor range in the 70s? No, you didn’t.
He was an ultra polite, rather uptight man who seemed, if anything, not superior but guarded, for all his talent. With a fascinating cv – see wiki.