It’s best to keep new year’s resolutions to oneself. That way, breaking them inspires least hilarity or contempt in others. Backside’s irritating irony would always be too much for me. But for all that, I can reveal I am resolved to kill the gadfly which my other head too often allows me to employ at others’ expense. I will brave his efforts to persuade me to harness a new one whenever I feel the urge. So! That’s done. And yes, I feel better already and hope that you, friends, will let us know how you intend to conduct yourselves in 2017. Or have you resolved to tell nobody?
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!
English football is an enormous business, so why is it incapable of employing top people who have the talent to keep its house in order and control its excesses and self-destructive urges?
I’m afraid the answer lies in the boardrooms of the biggest clubs, which pull the strings of the FA, ensuring it employs only second-raters who will not threaten their own PR needs.
No FTSE-100 company would have hired Woy or Sam as England manager. The hiring process would have exposed their weaknesses – Woy’s spinelessness, Sam’s cupidity.
So Alan Shearer is correct: English football is a laughing-stock. The corruption is only now beginning to be exposed – and I’ll whisper ‘drugs’, the next scandal to break. Mama mia!
Le petit Nicolas schemes his way back to the top, despite his criminal cases. Will he be given another chance? Will it make any difference to France’s failing fortunes and Europe’s little local difficulties? Probably not, mes amis.
The gardening lobby are a dismissive lot. According to them everything else is as exciting as watching paint dry. Bog Sage, these are the people that watch grass grow!
A garden should consist of a flat lawn and that’s it. Nice and simple, nothing fancy but the world is full of would-be Percy Thrower’s. Who really wants the hassle of extra work and of doing it outdoors? Mowing, sowing, cutting, potting, digging, raking- boring. All those -ings are nothing more than a recipe for sleeping. Endlessly working, always renovating, this gardening charade is nothing more than being an eternal horticultural barber. Just give it a Kojak and be done with. Read more…
In case no-one knows, today Oz is going to the Polls. It’s a bit different from the UK.
Polling Day is always a Saturday, the polls open at 8.00 am and shut at 6.00 pm and voting is compulsory – fines apply for not voting – and every polling station has a sausage sizzle (no fines apply for not buying or eating the same). Read more…
“Unlike the truest kind of genius, he did not grow artistically”
These words of critic, John Simon, on the shortcomings of the career of Tennessee Williams could be applied to the musical form that is self-proclaimed as classical. Classical, my baroque left Bechstein pedal.
The classicists are stuck in a time warp. They listen, over and over again, to the same pieces of orchestral music; a blaring maelstrom of noise. And they party like it’s 1799. Honestly, some of the ghastly tunes sound as if they’ve been composed by a deaf man. And the titles are boring New York street numbers: Mozart’s piano concerto no.25, Haydn’s symphony no. 76, Bach’s cantata no. 211, Balfour’s bagpipe quartet no.1872.
This dripping tap is driving me Miss Daisy. Is there a plumber in the house? Help!