By the end of 2016, we can expect the world to be changing. Oh yeah, I hear you say, you Januarians always say that kind of thing but nothing really happens.
Well, try this for size:
The confused EU will suspend Shengen without admitting it and immigration via Turkey will virtually cease, following the disappearance of Erdogan and Co.
The UK, led by its Intrepid Triumvirate, will announce a formula for Brexit which safeguards trade with individual Euromembers and drives a coach and four through the EU’s ‘four freedoms’.
President Trump will put the USA into lock-down, by limiting relations with the real world, diplomatically, militarily and commercially. (That will of course exclude his private business interests.) Guns will be issued to the few households not yet/no longer sporting them.
In the wake of the disaster that was Rio 16, international sport will become a rarity, with only football teams going abroad, employing their own armies for protection.
And President Putin will still be missing.
Vincent van Gogh will be getting the Book of the Week treatment next week on Radio 4. The book is unimaginatively called Van Gogh’s Ear. Poor Vincent, all those sunflowers and wheat fields stem into insignificance next to his self-mutilation that fascinates us to this day. Not even the subsequent self-portrait with bandaged ear could get him noticed in the art world. Only in death would VVG become famous.
My first impression of this painter was in a negative light and my post-impressions haven’t changed. Canvases smudged with more paint than a courtesan’s make-up. Unrealistic facial portraits and inaccuracies in anatomy. Then there’s all those flowers. He should have cut them up.
I’ve avoided the temptation to put this painter in the Overrated series because all painters are off their head. Hours puzzling over light and shade. Mixing oils and cleaning brushes. All this painstaking preparation when the landscape or sitter could be captured with the click of a camera.
My ears have heard many pronunciations of the painter’s last name. Obviously, I use the popular Goff but other versions include Go and the guttural Hock. Maybe, it’s Hoff or Ho, who knows?
Lastly, it was in 1888 that Vincent took the razor to his ear. What a terrible year was MDCCCLXXXVIII. Jack the Ripper was serial killing in Whitechapel and the seed was planted that birthed an Austrian monster.
Your friendly, neighbourhood contemporary culture editor is back again. (Stop groaning at the back)
The only show me the money to be made in Hollywood today is in Superhero flicks. The Days of Wine and Roses are gone replaced by spandex and CGI. Even a devoted Marvel Man like me is getting tired by the regurgitated clunkers that have been produced recently.
The latest shlocker is by our Distinguished Competition (That’s DC, folks!) and is called Suicide Squad. It has been hyped to the gunnels and expected to break all box office records. One thing going for it is it features an up and coming starlet from Australia named Margot Robbie. She’s currently at the cinema appearing as Jane in The Legend Of Tarzan. (Still think Maureen O’Sullivan is the ultimate Jane. That time she started the fire with a couple of twigs in Tarzan and his Mate. Yodel-Lodel-LEEEE)
Margot, naturally, cut her teeth in Neighbours. That soap opera has produced more studs and mares than the Darley Arabian. Here’s a wee photo of Margot as a super baddie.
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…
This is the President of Europe! The EU’s public face!
Now he pokes petty jibes at BJ and NF for deserting the Brexit fold.
Why does he care – apart from the fact that he can’t handle criticism? Has he no dignity on behalf of ‘his’ institution? Does he imagine his childish behaviour will influence the negotiations in any way? Answers: no and yes!
He is clearly surplus to EU requirements – so how long will he survive? I forgot – it’s time for the interminable Continental holidays – so expect action in September.
A Happy Independence Day to our American cousins. Enjoy it as it will be your last.
It is time that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland ruled the world again. We will start by taking back our lost Thirteen Colonies. Soon the globe will be re-drawn with Union Flags all over it, where they used to be. And if we have sturdy enough winter wear, we will put in the east a British Russian empire.
God Save The Queen.
You Huns! Accepting defeat with grace ain’t your bag, eh?
Lewis caught up with Nico and passed him on the final circuit but Nico didn’t like it, caused a little prang and kept on driving with a damaged car. The stewards penalised him, not Lewis.
German fans then booed Lewis on the podium.
And today it will be the yellow-clad Aussies’ turn to show decorum on Centre Court when their potty-mouthed hero meets Andy. Will Nick manage it? Cliff-hanging stuff.
Help me out here.
As far as I know, nobody has a good word for Tony Bliar – do they? Think British and foreign gubmints, the British Labour party, the unions, the ‘British establishment’, the Kremlin, the White House, etc. ad nauseam.
So why do the meeja continue to present his BS utterings as news? Who is pulling their strings?
To be clear: no, the UK does not wish too pay him megabucks to negotiate Brexit. No, we do not need him to explain how serious a matter it is.
And frankly, why does he still believe anybody wants to listen to him?
I blame the Vatican.
For every match the players at Wimbledon are issued with two towels. These are the property of the All England Club. Post-match the deal is they are returned to the nearest ball boy. Not so. The players walk off court with them. Stealing in plain sight. The used towels are then given to friends, family or auction. You can never be too wealthy.
I’ve written before on the despicable practice of the players towelling off then hurling their sweat-drenched towels to ball boys between every point, passing on all their germs. I’d now like to chastise their manner when “asking” for the towel; they point at it: fetch. The slave children then serve their masters with this greasy piece of fabric.
Why don’t the players ask the child, nicely, to hand them their towel? Do they think our young are stupid? The bright young things are more multi-lingual than their ancestors were at that age. I’m sure they would know a smattering of Serbo-Croat, a slice of Swiss, a chip of Czech, and, naturally, be faultless at French.
Our ball boys are too nice but it would be good if at the end of the contest they employed their linguistic skills to volley abuse at the robbers. Stop złodziej oddać nam nasze ręczniki kurwa.