A certain Mandy Rice-Davies is alleged to have coined the oft-quoted question during the infamous (but juicy) Profumo trial 50 years ago; and the man himself had already averred in Parliament that there had been ‘no impropriety whatsoever’. But the papers relating to the Denning Report which wound it all up are still not available for us to slaver over, presumably because there are still some Great and Good chaps around whose reputations might fade in the glare of exposure. http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2013/jul/18/simon-hoggart-sketch-profumo-scandal-lords .
As we fully anticipated when we moved house, the C_nt’s three 500 ft. turbines have now been given an official green light (as you might say) by the Danish gubmint’s ‘Nature and Environment Complaints Committee’. So three monstrosities the size of the London Eye will soon overshadow the village a mere 600 m. away. Not to mention the poor birds whose migrations will be disturbed.
Those wonderful people at Siemens have proudly announced that these are ‘test’ mills of proportions not previously installed on Danish soil. So they couldn’t possibly offer precise data on their output of noise – or even their output of power! But hey! Who cares about a few villagers, their life-style, their properties and health? Roll up and see and hear the latest technology at work!
Not content with dishing out cash to southern states whose farming methods date back to Adam; with bailing out countries whose troubles are all of their own making, and moving their deliberations from Belgium to France for a few days every month by train (at a cost even the PoW would blush at), they now insist that convicted rapists and killers have the ‘human right’ to seek parole!
What happened to the old idea that such pests have forfeited their rights for as long as the Court decided?
If the UK’s monsters are detained ‘at Her Majesty’s Pleasure’, how can an overpaid lawyer from the Continent say they are not? Beats me.
Please indicate what you would do:
1. Hang ’em?
2. Detain them in open prisons in Dover with free one-way travel over the Channel?
2. Send them to live next door to the Eurojudges who want them freed – at the EU’s expense.
Yer gorra laff! Just picture it: a hundred and fifty lads on bikes going like the clappers for 120 miles on Corsica. Then minutes from the finish somebody jams a team-bus on the line. Panic ensues. The finish will now be 300 metres before the line; half the riders get the message and start sprinting; lots of them fall off their bikes; the bus is extracted and the finish line reinstated.
Guess who’s been using up all those illicit drugs since the big clean-up .
Big Ears is showing the way to the British monarchy of the future – in which the Old Values are re-established. Which being interpreted means that Modesty, Thrift and Self-sufficiency are for the plebs; and Conspicuous Consumption returns for the wayward Windsors. Royal trains, royal flights and liveried flunkies are so much nicer, dontchya know?
His mother chooses to travel in less style but he’ll obviously have no truck with that. I can’t wait for his accession, can you?
Cherished colleagues are known to deplore the cult of celebrity, particularly when good runners, singers, toadies and assorted prats are awarded Honours for our pains. But soft! What light at yonder window (etc.)? Allegedly it’s all in the genes – the latest and greatest excuse for almost anything you deplore.
In the dark ages social status was determined by skill at hunting, shooting and fishing, which explains why the great and good anno 2013 still set store by such qualities.
The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.
This terrifying tale, Knock, was written by Fredric Brown based on a plot by Thomas Bailey Aldrich. It’s a little story with a big history.
Seeing this yarn as a challenge to myself because I do write exceedingly short stories I wanted to outdo or out little perhaps Brown’s vignette. The bin was overflowing with discarded foolscap of inferior text and threatening to drown me with paper. Struggling to breathe over the sea of A4 at last I finished my saga.
I tap your shoulder. Boo.
These five little words are cinematic in their scope. Consider it, how many times has the camera frightened the audience by giving them a sudden jerk by revealing quickly an unknown entity in their midst. This trick is called in the game- the jump scare. My “jump scare” short story may be filmed, we’ll have to wait and see. The text is frightening enough what will it be like accompanied by creepy music?
My publisher informed me that Quick Books are interested in my work. Quick books are a new company that specialise in condensing major pieces of fiction making them accessible for readers that don’t have time to complete the full novel. Therefore they will be printing an abridged version of my tour-de-force. I am quite happy to re-print the Quick Books adaptation here for your delectation.
Just 10 days ago, Mrs J and I were shopping quietly as usual. At the checkout the machine said ‘Card cancelled’. (!)
Within half an hour we arrived at our local bank. They had no idea it had happened or why but the chip had been deactivated by ‘somebody’ and a new card was duly ordered post haste. I sent a WTF message to the netbank ‘system’ in the hope of enlightenment and received a strange reply, to the effect that the bank had been advised by the Tax Office that I did not have an address in Denmark and that the card had been duly cancelled.
That’s strange because in this police state my address is clearly recorded in the ‘folkeregister’ and accessible to banks and other institutions. And a quick phone call to our friendly local taxman confirmed that the records showed nothing which might have prompted any call to the bank. So now I await the assistance of the bank’s CEO who, I hope, was suitably underwhelmed by my experience and ready to investigate. Not holding my breath.
The mysteries of the British honours system usually leave me yawning but this time a particularly unprepossessing, second-rate actor with pretensions to adequacy as a tv presenter caught my eye.
One Tony Robinson, a non-academic dig enthusiast, ever-present at political events and a sycophant of the first water is now to be addressed as ‘sir’. Gawd ‘elp us!
Boadicea's Chariot 
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