Category: The Dark Side

Don’t they watch the movies?

A Prescott win would be all the more ironic, since he and the Labour Party, led by Tony Blair opposed the idea of Police Commissioners in the first place

I was amazed when England and Wales plc decided to elect Police Commissioners, politicising the management of local forces. Shades of obese, cigar-smoking, red-neck businessmen manipulating the evidence in Hollywood crime stories. Then, sure enough, enter England’s own obese moron himself, John Prescott, 74, touting for the office in ‘Umberside, Yarkshire! Two Jags, two shags, two-faced Prezza himself! Famous for illiteracy, incomprehensible declarations of principle, violent attention to opponents, no-flunkery (just before he became Lord John, ‘to please his wife’) and £500 million down the tubes when he failed to reorganise the Fire Service. The perfect candidate to oversee law and order, dontchya think? We’ll know tomorrow if he makes it. Unbelievable.

And yes, his side-kick, appropriately, is the execrable Bliar.

Another modern GF – a November pome

My teacher says Guy was a terrorist – and
The Government practised rendition back then.
Is it true that this is a protestantfest?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)

My mate and his dad made this really cool Guy,
To burn at the stake on November the fifth.
So can we have one of our own next year?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)

‘A modern GF’ – a November pome

My name is Fookes, Guy Fookes, the spook.        
Yes, Doubl’-O-K, so spell it right!
Licensed to kill, I am, and look!
I’m all tooled up and fit to fight.

You’ll want to know who runs my show.
A British ‘M’? A Euro-cell?
The Mossad? CIA? Er, no.
Thing is, I actually don’t know. Continue reading “‘A modern GF’ – a November pome”

West, West, you’re the best

I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore, is the rallying cry of a group of Conservative Eurosceptics. An emergency meeting of Tory party heavyweights have declared that the European Union is past its sell-by date. The sprouting of measures from Brussels that infringe on national sovereignty has grown too far, too fast and too furious for the right-wingers in this country. We should close our eyes and go West, say the Atlanticists. America and not Europe is where it is at.

In a startling pamphlet issued by the separatist group, “Withering Europe, a non-starter” (WEANS), they have proposed various ways of becoming closer to the United States of America. Post codes are to be replaced by the zingier method of posting known as ZIP codes. The advantages of this change are bountiful. Britons would take great delight in being asked by cold callers “What is your ZIP?”.
“She asked about my ZIP, heh, heh.”

In ZIP’s there are no letters to be remembered, only numbers, which makes it easier for this cell phone generation to take in. ZIP is faster to say than post code. And the struggling post code lottery that exists in this country would be replaced by the more snazzier titled ZIP lottery. Having a matching ZIP as someone else would be a novelty that would never wear off. Think about it. Even in ten years time, “We’ve got the same ZIP” is a good line.

Right, we should definitely look to the West as all good things are on the left hand side of the map. The land of the Free is home to Giant Redwoods and is there anything in this world better than a Hershey Bar? However, too many Hershey Bars can give you trouble fastening your zip.

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Cherished chatterers were uncharacteristically silent yesterday. I wonder why.  It can’t have been the T20 cricket ‘cos rain stopped the Yarkshire match which they might otherwise have won. Just a regular Thursday. Was it hair-washing – again? Was it a dinner to celebrate the incomprehensible, nay skeletal Lord Home becoming PM in ’63? Or the ousting of Erik Honecker in the DDR on the same day in ’89? Or the release of the Guildford Four a day later? (Pause to remember the market researcher who asked a Dubliner what he thought of the Renault 5: “Not guilty, sirr!’) Probably not. I suspect the truth is much simpler. Life.

One’s right to meddle

Let One explain. One was born fantastically superior to, well, anyone else One can think of. No, except Mama and Papa and Nanny and Spike Milligan; oh, and that Dutch-sounding guru chappie I knew for a while, who would be a teeny bit miffed if One didn’t recognise their status. Goodness knows what Nanny would have done to me. But One digresses, as so often. The thing is, One gets rather bored with all this waiting for kingship. Unlike the rest of you ordinary mortals, One has done Oneself out of so many actual things to do Oneself – like dressing, shopping, driving, digging holes for plants, visiting the cash-machine – that One has had to write letters, longhand – yes, Oneself! – to some of Mama’s ministers about things that really, really matter. One thinks immediately of architecture. It’s obvious to any man of unparallelled culture like Oneself that Britain should be exclusively populated by buildings in the neo-Tudor style. Get rid of everything else. And One has told them so. It’s not political, is it? It’s sound advice from the High Ground Highgrove perspective. And what’s more, it’s a salutary experience for those ministers to spend their time responding to One. And that Judge chappie had the affrontery to suggest that One’s correspondence with them was training for One to become King. On the contrary, One is training ministers in preparation for One’s accession. But the Judge did get something right in this case: One’s private letters are none of the plebs lower classes One’s subjects’ damn business. And when One accedes, One will rule. Rule, One says! (sounds of smashing china, screaming and soothing words from minions) 

Strangers

I don’t know about you but I am an immigrant (invandrer to the locals). And it is not a term of affection, I’m afraid. Not that I look like one. My lived-in, Aryan features are a snare and a delusion for the unwary; they offer comfort – until I open my mouth. Then I suddenly receive the looks of fear, boredom or disapproval reserved for that class of human beings called immigrants.

Continue reading “Strangers”

The Royal hunt of The Spectator

There was only one copy of The Spectator magazine left on the shelf. And it was in a crumpled state. It was obvious that it had been leafed through many times. The browsers that had violently flipped through the magazine had no consideration for the eventual buyer, if there were to be one, of said magazine. The pages were deformed and the cover had a huge fold mark on it.

Two choices were left to me. Buy this unsold second-hand copy or walk to the other side of town to purchase The Spectator in the only other shop that stocked it. There was a queue at the counter. I don’t like queues. I walked. Continue reading “The Royal hunt of The Spectator”