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) 

Homes under the Hammer

The Conservative Chancellor of the coalition, George Osborne, has delighted the Tory Party faithful by ruling out wealth and mansion taxes. “This Party of home ownership will have no truck with it” he said. High value property owners that have never set foot in a truck breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Osborne is in charge of the purse strings of this country and he can play any melody he wants with them. This time it’s music to the ears of the wealthy.

Into the chamber enters the spectral figure that is the government’s Business Secretary, Vince Cable. This latter-day Robin Hood is promoting a petition for a fairer tax system. “I want a new ‘mansion tax’ on the most valuable properties – we propose 1% of the value of over £2million. This will be paid by the wealthiest 0.16% of property owners. If you agree, add your name to our campaign now.” This juggernaut statement struck a discord with the better off while those in the poor seats clapped approvingly. Continue reading “Homes under the Hammer”

‘You realise, of course, that this means War.’

I was at the shopping mall at Ocean Terminal in Embra yesterday afternoon for various mundane reasons. When necessity drives me there, I always try to lift my spirits by driving to the very top parking level and looking out north over the Firth of Forth. I defy anybody not to find that a lift to the spirits.

Anyhow, I cast a soothed eye over the Western Harbour of Leith docks and saw that two of our gallant allies were present and moored yards away from the most famous denizen of said harbour. Continue reading “‘You realise, of course, that this means War.’”

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”

The anonymous likers

As Butch said to Sundance- “Who are those guys?”.
It’s probably been prevalent for some time though it’s just came to my notice about the different avatars displayed in the “bloggers like this” category on a lot of posts. One or two seem to be appearing at regular intervals. These “stRangers” hit the like button without commenting. Do they read the posts? Are they shy? Are they real? Who are those guys?
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