How many times?

The Oscar Pistorius show is back for a re-run. It made fascinating telly the first time, combining the salty ingredients of celebrity, disabled sport, gun mania and the South African judiciary. But its story-line was flawed, allowing the anti-hero to escape with a soft sentence.

Common-sense prevailed though when it came round again. People who fire guns into small rooms, suspecting they are occupied, know they can kill –dolus eventualis. And Oscar did just that.

Now it’s round three, a determined recycling of the evidence for the benefit of a court that obviously can’t read transcripts too well. Does every murderer in SA get such considerate, elaborate treatment? I hope so but I doubt it.

Without you!

England: What a fool I was, what a dominated fool
To think that you were the Earth and sky
What a fool I was, what an addlepated fool
What a mutton-headed dolt was I

No, my reverberating friend
You are not the beginning and the end

European Union: You impudent hussy! Is there an idea in your head or a word in your mouth that I haven’t put there?

England: There’ll be spring every year without you
England still will be here without you
There’ll be fruit on the tree
And a shore by the sea
There’ll be crumpets and tea without you

Art and music will thrive without you
Somehow Keats will survive without you
And there still will be rain on that plain down in Spain
Even that will remain without you,
I can do without you!

You, dear friend, who talk so well
You can go to Hartford, Hereford and Hampshire
They can still rule the land without you
Windsor Castle will stand without you
And without much ado we can
All muddle through without you

European Union: You brazen hussy!

England: Without your pulling it the tide comes in
Without your twirling it, the Earth can spin
Without your pushing them, the clouds roll by
If they can do without you, ducky, so can I

I shall not feel alone without you
I can stand on my own without you
So go back in your shell
I can do bloody well
Without you

Luncheon is on One today (maybe)

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One has a lorra mates, in 600 charities. If only one could remember them all. So today One is inviting* a select 10,000 of their luminaries to a bijou little street party in the Mall (oh dear, is it pronounced Morl or Mell?).

*Is it a free lunch this time? If not, what is the price of a plate? And will the charities pay for their high-ups to attend? Better get out with them collection boxes quick. Just askin’.

Jefferson on Brexit

Thomas Jefferson was suspicious of power in the same way that most are suspicious of heroin. So, WWJD vis a vis Brexit? Economic arguments, I suspect, would be secondary at best. He would instead zero in on the suppression of democracy and of the ‘will of the people.’ But, hey, he is so 18th Century, isn’t he?

The oil tanker is heading for the iceberg

It will be interesting to see the share price of Sports Direct in the coming days. Even though it was a low gas, lukewarm “grilling” by the Business Select Committee, Ashley’s performance hit the zeitgeist as he played it like Trump. It’s now over to the city to see how they will react.

Your fave toons

Not for the faint-hearted, the Grauniad reveals HM the Queen’s pop picks. Few surprises of course. And if One may do it, so may we, innit?

So I’ll start you off, just to cause a mild flutter of interest or disgust here.

Michelle, the Beatles, Rubber Soul.

Road to Hell, Chris Rhea.

Let’s dance, David Bowie.

…and almost every Buddy Holly and Billy Holliday number!

So now it’s your turn. Don’t be shy.

The warm-up blog before the headliner appears

The teacher that ran our school football team was ahead of his times; he made us warm up before a match. We would do stretches and shuttle runs. Our opponents would mock us for this ridiculous new science. Nowadays only a fool doesn’t warm up. Even our five-a-side team of crocks bend their arthritic bones before an important fixture.

It’s not just sports that you need to prepare your organs for the big event. Vocalists have to exercise their tonsils by tuning up with a scale of doh, ray, me, fah, soh, la, ti (at this point the joker in the band will stand on the singer’s toes) DO-TOH.

Old cars had to be warmed up. You had to choke them.

Even writing blogs needs a warming hand. Your fingers hover over that big, empty page like a skier at the top of the piste. 1,2,3 you’re off, banging the keys until you reach the bottom.

Sometimes you make gold, other times…

Revolting Romanians.

I live in a small flat in a working-class neighbourhood with four other people. The owner of the flat is an immigrant from Bolivia who has a teenage son. She’s of the best sort. She works hard, is respectful of others, has common sense to excess and a cutting wit. Her son has his moments, teenagers often do, but is a polite, respectful and pleasant young man who happens to be very clean! Both are! They’re lovely to live with. We make sure not to violate each other’s personal space and, when we share common spaces, rarely fail to have a pleasant conversation – sometimes for hours. If ever I do her a favour she immediately repays it. For example, I helped her clean a cooking pot that she managed to burn and she gave me a few custards or I lent her a lemon and she gave me a lunch of roast meats and potatoes. Continue reading “Revolting Romanians.”