Tuesday, 2 February 2016
Whilst I remain firmly of the opinion that Church and State should remain separate to look after the secular and spiritual issues facing us, I am more than aware how our ever-increasing communications abilities are blurring hitherto clear divisions.
Recently I became aware of an extremely rich American person called Donald Trump. Apparently Mr Trump would like to be President of the United States. He has already stated that he would, given the power, ban Muslims from entering the US and, presumably, because he is a Republican, he supports an odious organization called The National Rifle Association, once the favourite club of Charlton Heston – he of the cold dead hand – and star of several Hollywood versions of the nature of God.
Mr Trump tends to appear in public with a youthful female person who I had assumed was his granddaughter. My lady wife assures me that this person is his wife. The young man with the wire in his ear assured me that this was indeed the case. Initially, I found this quite touching – that such a young woman should want to sacrifice her youth in order to help a far older man to achieve his lofty ambition. Then the young man with the wire in his ear told me that this was not the case and that she was “in it for the money”, which I found profoundly disappointing.
In the unlikely event of Mr Trump becoming President, he will hold sway over things secular and spiritual. Worse than that, young people might even start to copy his hairstyle which appears to stem from an exceptionally low crown beginning at the base of his neck.
Things follicle remind me of the passing of Sir Terry Wogan – the great communicator and champion of toupee wearers everywhere. Sir Terry’s hairpiece really did not matter. Whether sporting it whilst ridiculing Eurovision nit-wits or helping to raise millions for Children in Need, it was simply a perfectly acceptable part of who he was. Oh how I wish there might have been an interview between said Trump person and Sir Terry. A gentle demolition of greedy, narrow-minded pomposity. Sadly though, Mr Trump would not have understood the jokes.
Thursday, 28 January 2016
Remember, when you go for an interview it's important to make a good impression. One of the ways you can do this is to make conversation, and another - essential - one is to ask about the organisation you'll be working for.
The following should be very helpful to you in your quest:
The following should be very helpful to you in your quest:
- If you're a bloke, ask your interviewer if female staff have been known to make many complaints about sexual harassment.
- It's important to let women know they're attractive; it boosts company morale. Ask the receptionist if it was her you saw dancing at Juicy Lucy's Lapdancing Club.
- Explain that the reason all your exposed flesh is covered by thick cream is to blot out the sun. Let them know that, as a troll, you will turn to stone should you encounter daylight.
- (You may wish to substitute the term 'vampire' for 'troll' in the above.)
- Ask if they discriminate against people who develop appalling body odour by around 10.30am.
- Explain that your shaking is not a sign of nervousness. Let them know it means you don't have to buy batteries for your vibrator.
- Ask if they encourage employees to develop their hobbies and interests during office hours. Explain that you'd be happy to share your maggot collection with everyone.
- Examine the drinks machine - if they have one - and ask if it's OK to 'Bring a bottle" if they only serve tea and coffee.
Sorry if the above sounds a little patronising, but not everyone's got Anna Prongg's talent for small talk.
And Good Luck!!!
And Good Luck!!!
Monday, 25 January 2016
Thanks to the tireless efforts of hundreds of scientists at the Hadron Collider (a sort of underground giant circular metal tube around which stuff is fired in the hope that bits of stuff will bash into each other) it is now widely accepted that there is a little tiny thing called a Higgs Boson which can in fact travel faster than the speed of light. This means that Bosons must whizz back and forth, from dimension to dimension, creating all sorts of problems for astro physicists and mathematicians. Also, Bosons are nowhere near as useful as Teflon.
So what does all this mean to the ordinary man or woman or transgender person in the street? Well, despite my being a fairly famous scientist, having had papers published on things like why jeans manufacturers insist on using fly buttons instead of the far more efficient zip, and only last year, my controversial piece on mole masturbation, I don’t have a lot of patience with the time travel lobby. In fact, to use a technical term, I think it's bollocks.
Having spoken at length to many mystics, spiritual leaders, Churchpeople, the ghost of Arthur C Clarke, and Mrs Muriel Twite who does readings, I am convinced that past, present and future do not exist. Everything is happening all at once. OK, puny humans only last 80-odd years, but during that time, everything that has ever happened, is happening, and will happen is taking place simultaneously. Dying is but a stage in our mortal progress. Afterwards we become part of the great timeless cycle.
Many fellow scientists scoff at my beliefs (Oh yes they do!). They ask stupid questions like; if its all happening at once, why can’t we see it? I would have thought that was obvious. Life as we know it would become impossible if we were trying to complete our daily tasks when in one corner of the room Anne Boleyn was having her head chopped off whilst in the other the Germans were marching into Poland. Fortunately all these things are usually kept separate by infinitesimally thin cosmic dividers. I say “usually” because very occasionally beings from one dimension stray into another. These are called Ghosts and are a damned nuisance.
Happily, unlike the ideas of the boson advocates, my theory is easily proved. All it takes is a comfortable chair, low lighting, Enya on the gramophone, a fat joint and a large bottle of Rasputin vodka. Enjoy!
Dr P J Whimbrel
Monday, 18 January 2016
First, my apologies for not wishing you all a Happy New Year on the stroke of Midnight a few days ago. This was caused, in the main, by fallout from our recent misunderstandings about Christmas decorations. I had to become counsellor and confessor among my immediate flock, seeking, as Jesus would, to heal the wounds of disagreement. In the end, the young man with the wire in his ear sprayed our Nativity scene silver (Ford Mondeo “Shimmering Lake”, apparently) and everyone, including Mr Hassan, thought it looked most attractive although I myself have reservations about metallic cattle.
The Junior Choir carried all before it in a great musical swell of Christmas praise. Even after 14 renderings of Hark the Herald Angels, there were cries for more.
And now, of course, we are faced with all the hopes and fears of a New Year. I have had several suggestions for a theme for my forthcoming sermon. I note Mr Hassan’s. He is incensed at the recent failure of London Transport’s Oyster card which apparently enabled thousands of tube users to travel free. In point of fact, Mr Hassan does not travel by tube or bus, being a Palace resident, but feels very strongly that, and I quote, “If all that lot get something for nothing, why can’t I?” There IS a theme there somewhere, but I have yet to grasp it.
Closer to home, my lady wife is opposed to me using reference to the English cricket team’s recent, glorious match victory over South Africa. She pointed out that there are another three Tests still to play and went on to observe that our cricketers are past masters of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Therein, another theme looms. I shall think on it.
And of course now, as I write, days of hope come to an end and our doughty cricketers have emerged victorious. Thanks be, thanks be indeed!
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
I want to tell my bloke to stop talking. He's been talking non-stop for four years now - including during his sleep - and I've tried to mention it but I couldn't get a word in edgeways. Ironically, he actually goes on and on about how women never stop talking (I'm a woman, by the way) and I'm now working on a way of silencing him which won't lead to me receiving a lengthy prison sentence.
Any ideas? I could always record a couple of hours of his 'conversation' and play it for the judge in mitigation I suppose.
Yours in anticipation,
Camilla Sludge (aged 27, going on 75)
Dear Ms Sludge,
You are not alone. In fact there are one or two celebrated cases - Wetwang v Thighgripper, Bloan v Tucknip and Flume v Schnott to name but three which came to court because of circumstances very similar to yours. In all three cases, the accused, Thighgripper, Bloan and Flume were found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. Thighgripper [Muriel] for squirting superglue up Arnold Wetwang's nose; Brenda Bloan for battering Terence Tucknip to death with a sockful of rancid custard, and Edna Flume for attacking Gaylord Schnott with a pair of heavy-duty nutcrackers.
Sadly, dear girl, there is only one answer. Leave him. Move far away. Do it NOW!
Dear Lady Violet,
I want to know how to stop making a complete prat of myself in public. Every time I see my current main squeeze's boss (who's Chancellor of the Exchequer, by the way) I can't stop myself whacking him round the face with a wet fish. I've apologised countless times, but each occasion is the same.
I once tried leaving the two-week-old plaice at home rather than popping it in my handbag, but that was no good because I nicked a plate of someone else's salad and whacked him with that instead - and that was worse, if anything. On each occasion I felt propelled by alien forces I couldn't control.
What should I do?
Love and kisses,
Drusilla Frogsbourne, OBE
My Dear Ms Frogsbourne,
Frogsbourne. Osbourne. Is there something here I don't know about? No matter. I would suggest very strongly that you try very very hard to ditch all this fish nonsense. You are, after all, via your gentleman friend, in the presence of greatness. Our Chancellor is a lord amongst men; a shining example of all that is good and honourable in this troubled world, and he can well do without his aides turning up smelling of haddock.