Justin here, and as much as I would have liked to finish off the Old Year on a positive note, I’m afraid a couple of things have got me jolly, jolly cross.
As you all know, I have publicly castigated those wicked Pay Day Loan parasites to little effect, I must admit. I will be reviewing my strategy in this area early in the New Year. However, I note that Wonga have abandoned the crass puppetry of old and invested some of their ill-gotten gains on a computer-generated advertisement wherein “Earl” [a pathetic Wonga character] plays complex guitar duets with a real guitarist, cunningly deflecting the innocent viewer’s attention away from Wonga’s disgraceful interest rates.
My plans to combat this sneaky campaign will call upon modern technology too in the form of a local Christian first film studio called, WWJHS (What Would Jesus Have Shot). Neat, eh? But more of that anon.
My greatest sorrow, and I readily accept, unbridled fury (I threw one of my lady wife’s scones across the room. It dinged the ornamental bedwarmer) was caused by an interview conducted by an ineffective, non-assertive person called Gawp with David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osborne – published the other day IN THESE VERY PAGES!
These three independently wealthy political leaders posited that their great wealth provided significant hurdles on their respective routes to the top. This is arrant, unadulterated nonsense! All three have never known real need. Not one of them has ever had a REAL job. Their ideas, beliefs even, showed a terrifying ignorance. Perhaps I might have forgiven that, but then ALL THREE of them referred to the general population as “OIKS”. Repeatedly. I think the young man with the wire in his ear was as shocked as I. I heard him mutter something I dare not repeat here, but which rhymes with “weeding bankers”. He then vouched safe that he “wouldn’t stop a round for any of those tossers”.
And yet, and yet, Hope springs eternal, and perhaps, in the marches of the night, Messrs Cameron, Clegg and Osborne might see the error of their ways.
In a happier vein, you may have noticed that my “Man of the Year” is the new, no-nonsense Pope who seems more than willing to substitute good sense and Christian virtue for the idolatrous flummery of the Roman Church. Good for him. I wonder if Mr Cameron regards the Holy Father as a Holy Oik?
So, all that remains is for me and my lady wife and the young man with the wire in his ear to wish you all, oik or toff, a Happy New Year.
Sunday, 29 December 2013
In a frank interview with Pangolin Home Affairs correspondent Tim Gawp, David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osborne look back on their harrowingly privileged lives and say, “Being a Rich Toff Didn’t Stop Me Getting to the Top.”
Tim G: So, Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister, Chancellor, I’d like to ask all three of you about the country’s painfully slow emergence from recession. Mr Cameron?
Dave [for it is he]: Now look. Let me make this perfectly clear. I’m not going to answer your question….
Nick: Sorry to interrupt, but neither am I because….
Georgie: Ooops, sorry Cleggie, but I absolutely must back the PM here. I won’t rise to the bait on that one either, especially when we all know that halfway through you’re going to hit us with the old privilege/wealth conker.
Tim G: Well, no, I….
Dave: You’re absolutely right Georgie, so let’s head that one off at the pass right now. And I’ll start by stating categorically that my vast unearned wealth and the even more vast unearned wealth of my lady wife has not stopped me from living the dream. Sure, there have been slings and arrows along the way. In a country brought to its knees by namby-pamby notions of equality, we’ve been called many things. Why even our respective childhoods have been besmirched by stories of devoted nannies and teatime crumpets. Our schooldays have been picked over by deluded lefties….
Nick: Oh absolutely! I think….
Dave: Shut up Nick.
Nick: Sorry PM.
Dave: As I was saying, even the hard work we did in the Bullingham Club has been rubbished by the very people we strove to keep in line. Oiks! Now, Nick, you were saying?
Nick: Wow, thanks PM, well like you, I’ve known the hard grind of unearned wealth. But even when I was very young something in me KNEW there was a better way. All through the painful process of growing up – the villas in the Antibes, polo, forcing myself to dine with the Great and the Good, I knew, I just KNEW that all of this class warfare was and is being caused by, as the PM so accurately puts it, oiks. People have very short memories. It's not that long ago that this England, this sceptred Isle, this realm of kings, this home of international banking, was governed by Socialists and as everybody knows, Socialists are oiks!
Georgie: Well said Cleggo. Damned Socialists. For a whole country to be ruled by them with their inadequate diets, inadequate schools, payday loans and uninspiring ambitions and bad skin is simply illogical.
Tim G: Yes, er, I wonder if we could….
Dave: No we couldn’t. These are very important points. What people like you – and I strongly suspect Socialism somewhere in your background – don’t realise is how hard its been for the likes of us to pull ourselves down; to deign to stoop to conquer; to tell people exactly where they are in the social scale.
Nick: Absolutely PM, Nail on the Head. After all, we and those like us went to the best schools, are naturally very intelligent, have lovely diction, and are born leaders.
Georgie [claps hands]: Yes, yes, yes! We are, we are! Born leaders! And that’s what oiks need – leading! And I mean, we can’t do what our forefathers did and start a good old World War to get rid of loads of oiks at a stroke. It's simply not done these days, although the PM’s tried his damnedest in the Middle East.
Dave: Thanks Georgie. Yes, I did try, but you can’t win ‘em all, I suppose. But I did keep us on the right side of that Obama fellow and lest we forget, he’s got the biggest guns!
Nick: Absolutely. Leadership. Biggest guns. On the other hand, as a Liberal Democrat [audible groans] I am conscious of criticism on that point, but I will not let it sway me from supporting this government’s vigorous mission to keep the oiks in their place whilst clinging to what little power my party has had for the last 100 years.
Dave: Amen to that Nick.
Tim G: Well thank you gentlemen. That was a real eye-opener. I ….
Dave: Hush! We haven’t finished yet. Georgie?
Georgie: Thank you Prime Minister. It falls to me to scotch all the current Socialist criticisms; to demonstrate once and for all this administration’s determination to give the majority of this country’s population – most of whom are oiks – something to marvel at; something to take their collective breath away; something to make them feel proud to be British. Well, English at any rate.
I refer, of course to the very wonderful High Speed Train. Sleek, pointy and sexy, it will go “Whoooosh!” throughout the land, transporting rich and influential people hither and thither at a thousand miles an hour. Millions of oiks will crowd lineside fences waiting for a glimpse of the future. True, one or two oiks’ hovels will have to be demolished to make way for HS2, but that’s a small price to pay to be part of this epic undertaking.
Dave: Excellent Georgie, excellent! And so, in the future, when the foreigner–filled countries of the European Union come bragging about growth in their economies, we can smile and say. “Ah, but you haven’t got a pointy train, have you?”
Well Tim – it is Tim, isn’t it? That about wraps it up. Oh, he appears to have gone.
Nick: How rude!
Georgie: Bloody oik!
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
Much has been seen in the press, on televisory devices, and heard on The Light Programme recently about our beloved craft. Most people are ignorant of the disciplines fecking places upon the practitioner ; the long years of trial and error; the endless Theory study and the ability a seasoned fecker must demonstrate in recognizing a fake feck.
Public ignorance extends to the majority of the population being unable to name any of the fecker’s tools or safety equipment. Many suggested that fecking was a type of wood-turning activity, or was connected in some way to chickens.
Fecking’s recent poor publicity is due almost entirely to upper class people discovering the word and repeating it, in public, over and over. The appearance of small buttonhole badges in the lapels and mink stoles of aristocrats exiting Claridges or the Casino at Monte Carlo saying "We’re all Feckers!" does not help the situation. The present Number One hit record by the Beverly Sisters – "We Love Fecking Muffin the Mule" is more proof positive that the ancient and honorable craft of fecking is regarded as little more than a music hall joke, polluting our noble language a la smutty double entendre. Only last week, the comedian Arthur "Ooh, Aye. That’s a Biggun" Crate opened his act at the Glossop Empire with a song entitled "I Can Feck With Mey Het Orn".
So I plead with qualified professional feckers to feck in private, or if that is not possible, to refrain from fecking until present hysteria subsides.
Thus far, I have been unable to identify the source of the leak. Exactly how the Hooray Henrys discovered fecking remains a mystery. More puzzling is the fact that registered feckers must also be Masons, individuals sworn, on threat of death by fecking to secrecy. The investigation continues….
Sunday, 22 December 2013
(Caution: KLEENCONK suction is very strong. Should the user's brains become dislodged, push gently back into place through the ear, with pencil or similar.)
Saturday, 21 December 2013
Two Years Ago
A Product Recall notice was issued for Christmas crackers in packs of ten, made in China, marketed under the name of 'Santa's Specail Bangies' and selling for £49.99. Owing to an error in packing, these were found to contain real gifts (worth up to £4 each) destined for the 'DeLuxe Creckar Pack' of ten (retailing at £99.99) instead of the small plastic replicas intended for this product. Customers who had bought this item were asked to return it to the place of purchase in order to avoid disappointment at Christmas.
Five Years Ago
Three people were arrested on charges of causing an affray and five more taken in for further questioning at an address in Gloucestershire after discussion at a Book Club Reading Circle came to blows over the contents of 'Fifty Ways to Bake a Sponge'.
Ten Years Ago
A large audience filled the Technology Centre in London for the finals of the Young Plumber of the Year Competition. The winner was Keith Harbottle of Crawley, who left with a large cheque, along with the coveted Drain of Britain trophy. Two of the four finalists failed to appear and the third was lengthily delayed, having had to attend another event on his way over.
Twenty-Five Years Ago
A year-long survey carried out by the research organisation Worldwide Opinion Trends, Factoids & Undiscovered Knowledge (WOTFUK) revealed that in Britain 38% of the population put milk in the teacup first, 34% afterwards and 28% were Don't Knows. This showed a percentile shrinkage of differential on the figures for the previous year within statistically normative parameters of error.
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
1) That the Tories and the Lib Dems REALLY fall out – publicly via a brawl in Downing Street with shouts of 'PLEBS! PLEBS!' Shaving cream, and knuckle dusters, will feature prominently.
2) HS2 gets cancelled. Part of the savings to be spent on creating engineering apprenticeships and jobs and a little bit on making Boris (compulsory resident) King of Rockall Minus WIFI. Or phone. Or carrier pigeon.
3) That the NHS remains free and this awful government stops knocking lumps off it. That tier of management which currently do nothing but go to meetings where they create policies about writing policies will be detailed to clean up the mess in Downing Street. And they'll never be let out. Ever.
4) That the slow slide to internet anarchy for cartoons and cartooning stops and that UK publishing realises what it's killing.
5) That UK publishing houses start to be managed by editors again, not by accountants. Same goes for the NHS, but with medical staff rather than editors.
5) That UK publishing houses start to be managed by editors again, not by accountants. Same goes for the NHS, but with medical staff rather than editors.
6) That someone with Common Sense oversees – with the power to instantly delete – television advertising of beauty aids, banning digital enhancement and skeletal women.
7) That glass ceilings everywhere get smashed.
8) That people are only allowed to be famous if they've done something worthwhile.
9) That people who would have spent a small fortune on a personalised car number plate aren't allowed to do so, and are required to spend the money instead on something worthwhile.
10) Everybody (even Boris, out there on Rockall) has a bearable Christmas and an outstandingly brilliant 2014.
Sunday, 15 December 2013
Justin here! And oh, how my spirits soar at this exciting, holy and festive time of year with the Palace ringing with Christmas music and my lady wife and I looking forward to the wonderful Yuletide story coming to innocent life before our very eyes.
I refer of course to our Nativity play. This year we invited the pupils of St Brenda Without Infants to give us their version of the Birth of Jesus, and what an enlightening experience it has been. St Brenda’s is, of course, a Catholic school. I thought I’d nip in the bud moans from the cross-denominational brigade, although I do believe that because of an unfortunate dose of tonsillitis, the Ass, at very short notice and thanks to Paige Turnbull (5), is Anglican. How fitting, some might say.
I was most impressed with the patience of the teachers from St Brenda’s. Their tiny charges were lively in the extreme. The young man with the wire in his ear did not take to them. He called them “little bleeders” when his concealed firearm went missing for the third time. Thereafter, he made himself scarce, leaving myself (christened “the geezer in the frock”) by winsome, blue-eyed Winona Crate (6) and my lady wife helping to alter the script somewhat so that the manger might include a trampoline.What would Jesus have done?
I feel sure that by Christmas Eve all the little snags, such as the rap version of “Away in a Manger” will have been ironed out. And looking at the intense creativity at work during the production process, I am even more convinced that Mr Gove is wrong, wrong, wrong. Why, without the sparks of young imaginations, our Nativity Play would be sans the Ox arriving via a trampoline.
Then, of course, when the tinies have charmed us all and helped us to focus on the real meaning of Christmas, it will be the turn of the adults and teenagers of the Palace Choir. Their rehearsal was at once professional and and personal, bringing first a feeling of holy confidence in a well-trained body of singers, and then one of deep sympathy for my lady wife. She has always been, as they say, a sucker for “In the Bleak Midwinter”. The emotional charge of that mournful entreaty coupled with the 23 sherries downed whilst grappling with the problem of rap and Nativity and reasoning with Wayne Tucket (5) and Ayeesha Plume (6) rendered her, for want of a better term, all of a heap. I’m afraid she was forced to retire early with a large packet of Co-codamol.
Nevertheless, I feel sure that all will be fine on the night, and I am left with a feeling of closeness with the directness of children, with echoes of “Oi! You in the frock. All the KitKats have gone!”
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
‘Morning. Old Archie calls me The Young Man With a Wire in His Ear. I do have a name, but if I told you what it is, I’d have to kill you. Only joking. Sort of. Anyway, I said to Archie, I said, look Archie, I know your schedule backwards; I go everywhere with you (apart from the bog, but there’s a P56 minicam in there) and even though I think you’re a bit wet and posh, I have to admit you’ve got guts and your heart’s in the right place. That’s why I let you think I don’t know how you smuggle your TftDs out of the Palace. And I like the fact that you had a pop at those little bleeders at Wonga although all that guff about “What would Jesus have done?” doesn’t cut it with me. The odd inexplicable house fire and some very explicit stuff in Inboxes (untraceable, natch), and dead rats turning up in tumble dryers would have floated my boat.
But I suppose the Arch of Cant can’t really waltz about the place roughing up the bad guys. I’ve always found that a good going over, a pre-emptive smack in the gob, so to speak, works wonders in the mind-changing department. You’re a bit on the puny side though, aren’t you? So you’ve got to do it your way. And I’ll do it mine. But I’ll be doing it for you and yours, Archie. I’m part of the great Unseen. I alter stuff. Look at those money-lending leeches who are about to appear before a Parliamentary Sub-Committee. They don’t HAVE to be there. But after a visit from myself and Brenda (PGRU - Pain Gets Results Unit), Wonga and the other greasy little creeps decided that they should. Don’t worry, the marks won’t show.
What I’m trying to say, Archie is – I’m on your side. You’re one of the good guys. So when it's all looking a tad hopeless; when your patience and understanding are getting you absolutely zilch then suddenly main planks of the opposition (a lot of them ARE planks) have heart attacks in Spanish Jacuzzis, or peg out after a spot of skinny-dipping in Coniston Water, that’ll be the Young Man With a Wire in His Ear doing what Jesus probably wouldn’t have done.
Saturday, 7 December 2013
Five Years Ago
It was an expensive round in the clubhouse for golfer Geoff Slewitt, who for the third time in a week landed a hole in one at Piddinghoe. As before, the feat was slightly marred by misdirection, the ball having been sliced each time off the 4th tee to land in the nearby hole of the 3rd green alongside.
Ten Years Ago
'Into The Void: New Perspectives on the Nihilistic Trope in Visual Perception' was the arresting title of the degree show put on at Bootle College of Art by final year student Troy Biles. Visitors to the Private View found an empty space, devoid of content, but warmly praised for its boldness by department lecturers, London critics and collectors from around the country. There was also interest shown by potential buyers from across the Atlantic. Respecting the key principles underpinning the exhibition, Biles chose not to attend in person.
Thirty Years Ago
Armed police equipped with tranquilliser darts surrounded a Cumbrian Mint Cake Factory believed to have been broken into by Minnie the Missing Marmot, absent for twelve days from the nearby High Hills Wildlife Park and Rainforest Visitor Centre. A Press blackout was put in force by senior police officers, keen to avoid a stand-off situation between man and marmot.
Fifty Years Ago
Hoots of disbelief and derision greeted the keynote speech delivered to the Annual Conference of Town Planners meeting in Harrogate. Visionary architect and radical thinker Ernst Scheidtweiler asked a packed hall to imagine a Britain in the 21st century with town centres where butcher and baker, greengrocer and draper were no longer to be found, their spaces filled instead with coffee shops, nail bars, tattoo parlours and hairdressing salons, with the odd betting-shop, charity outlet or discount store thrown in for good measure. Quizzed on the likelihood of shoppers then all travelling between home and town centre by jetpack, the Swiss guru described instead a vision of town centres criss-crossed by people on planks with small wheels. This drew further laughter.
Wednesday, 4 December 2013
Sept 1919 - Dec 2013
Inventor of the ever-so-slightly ginger hairpiece beloved of balding men the world over, Carl-Gustav was also famous for keeping a bowl of whelks inside his jacket.
Peacefully at home.
Aug 1921 - Nov 2013
Much decorated liar and scoundrel, de Ferrette was the darling of London society during the inter-war years. Much has been written about his exploits as a double agent and bounder.
He is remembered by Dougal McTeeth, Scots curling cheat as 'That one-eyed bastard who still owes me fifteen and sixpence'.
Monday, 2 December 2013
Well! Nice, fuzzy, touchie-feelie, funny Boris has morphed into what he really is; a rich Tory baron who honestly believes that he is one of the Princes of the Universe.
Greed is good. High IQ is good, and if you're not rich it's because you're STUPID. If his speech didn’t bear directly on to this government’s policies it would be funny; Pythonesque in its veneration of privilege. Boris pointed out that some people in the UK have an IQ of 80. Well of course they have, you Old Etonian duffer! The average IQ is 100. 80 provides one of the figures required to arrive at an average, DOPE!
Then this silver spoon-fed toff (IQ at least 267) went on to outline a society which in part exists already, where the rich (greedy intelligent people) get richer and the poor (those, according to Boris’s thinking, with an IQ of 100 or less) either stay poor or get poorer. That is happening even as I type.
This has caused some consternation among Pangolin staff. Despite all appearances to the contrary, some of the crew have an IQ well in excess of the 130 points required to join the Boris Band of the élite, and are wondering what's been happening to their pocket money. Uncle Tarquin was sufficiently exercised to be seen walking up and down on the hearth rug in his carpet slippers, muttering something about having met a rich person once: "Boring, talentless git. Hadn't even made a forest with mashed potato and broccoli florets when eating his (public) school dinner..."
Murgatroyd (who, you will recall, is a particularly fine example of manis pholidota) scratched his nose with the tip of his tail and pondered. "So the top 2% IQ-wise are the richest? Is this stupid apology for a yard brush really trying to tell us that the Beckhams have brain cells? Doubt they could scrape together 130 points between 'em!"
What of compassion, Boris? What of the little old ladies who find that the £200 heating allowance – probably no more than you and your privileged cronies would spend on a half-way decent bottle of wine – isn’t enough to keep them warm?
Anyway, let’s hope that Boris’s speech helps put an end to the Tories’ disgraceful feudal rule. Our lovely Miasma - who admits to having a bit of a crush on Boris - said "I just wish he'd shut up. He's just such an adorable little weebly-bum when he keeps his trap shut. And he's just such a totally unadorable little fascist eugenicist whenever he opens it. But he looks so adorable when he carries a yard brush...."
Elsewhere in Pangolinland we’re wondering about Scots independence and as with the ongoing stupidity with HS2, failing to see how that will work financially. Maybe England should push for independence from Scotland.
Happily, Old Bill (senior citizen who helps around the office) got his battered little Alfa 147 back from the menders after it was smashed up by a street-orc [IQ unknown] and it looks wonderful and can now resume its runabout duties whilst the big beast Jag remains in the garage, only growling forth for longer journeys.