Elton John's latest accessory

Children are not commodities, but you are still dealing with futures.

A millionaire soon. A secret millionaire? Never.

It might go against popular opinion but I think that Julian Assange should rot in jail.
Why? Well, I just don't like the look of the guy.
(You really don't want me on your jury.)
Now I appreciate that this in itself might not constitute a significant enough body of evidence to convict him, but let me try and build a case.
He's Australian.
Remember, this is all circumstantial.
He looks like he has a cold and slippery 'wet fish' handshake. Admittedly, that is mere suspicion on my part.
He gives journalists a bad name. You can't achieve that without malice aforethought.
And when interviewed, his sentences last even longer than the one that I would like to impose upon him.
On a much more serious note, he has had a dalliance (or two) in Sweden that has led to some very serious allegations.
Far be it for me to make light of these matters, I do wonder if he would be pursued as vigorously as is the case without undue pressure being brought to bear from other quarters.
But that doesn't concern me.
I say let's pursue him anyway and if he's guilty, then let's nail him.
As the driving force behind WikiLeaks, he is the self-appointed arbiter of what he considers to be safe in the public domain
Who does he think he is?
As the recipient of two thirds of the organisation's salary budget, he is patently a self-seeking parvenu.
I now learn that he has signed a book deal worth $1.5 million in order, he claims, to fight his case and to keep his organisation afloat.
If he were a true martyr to his cause, he should hand the money over to genuine freedom fighters and then hand himself over to the relevant authorities.
Julian Assange. Aged 39.
Life, they say, begins at 40.
For him, I say, it should begin at Wormwood Scrubs.

Are Public School boys more likely to stick to their principals?

Gastroenteritis

Is it just another name for motion sickness?

I use alcohol as a crutch

So why does it always leave me legless?

The tide is high but I'm holding on

Hang on. That's a turd I've got my hands on.
And the moral of the story is:
In life, look after No. 1. Forget about No. 2.

Snow is like life...if you get my drift

I watch my feet in case I slip
This snow can be a farce
The moment that you lose your grip
You end up on your arse.

Donald Trump is a beefcake

But only insofar as a beefcake is dripping with money.

Whoever designed the suit of armour must have thought it would be alright on the knight

I recognize the handwriting on all my hate mail

Maybe I've taken this self-loathing a little too far.

Some MP's lack transparency while others you can see right through.

On average, they are a bunch of shysters.

My blog is a massive hit in the Spanish speaking world...

...ever since I recommended it to Juan and Ol.

Climate change. The evidence.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.
Not any more you don't.

I've just fitted a draught excluder to my drinks cabinet

I don't drink beer.

I'm scared. After 5 minutes of Jeremy Kyle I realised just how much I have in common with his guests.

Words fail them. They also fail me.

MY ALLOTMENT MENTALLOT TO ME

Does anyone have a 'patch' to help me get over the addiction?

This summer I made hundreds and thousands!

Nothing goes better with ice-cream.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall

Too sedentary a lifestyle. Hence his epithet.
Well, at least he could look back on a 'great autumn'.

I saw three ships

Okay, that's enough naval gazing.

Spring has sprung!

It's about time I got a new bed.

Call yourself a Barber?

What's going on? A Barber not in favour of cuts?
Well, that's the case with Brendan Barber, General Secretary of the TUC, an organisation that reads CUT backwards.
Come on Brendan, you'll soon be telling us to vote for Whigs.

I SWEAR!

Either I have Tourettes or things really DO get my goat.
I'll let you know in a tic.

Who gives two hoots? I do!

Unlike so many drivers, my personality does not transmogrify the moment I get behind the wheel of my car. I'm an intolerant and contemptuous old sod wherever I am.
But I'm working on it.
And so it was that I found myself driving to Broughty Ferry for my mandatory morning coffee when - suddenly and without warning - the car I was following took a sharp right turn.
It was at that point that I blasted my blasted horn.
I was not able to register the complexion on the face of the poor young girl who was the target of my two-note concerto because, in the short time it took for her to turn around, all colour had drained away.
But I would like you to understand that I was acting as a good citizen and a thoughtful road user.
You see, by tooting, it might just be possible that this particular offender reproaches herself on how she approaches junctions in the future. She could save a life. Maybe even her own.
And it was all down to me.
So come on, all those in favour of big hooters, let's all have a peep.

Unfortunate acronyms. No. 4. Bionic Man.

Believe It Or Not I'm Cowardly.

Is Evel Knievel's son the lesser of two evels?

Monsoon season

Could we be returning to the ark ages?
No? Ah.
Just a thought.

Miss Nomer?

If Essex Girl were to have a lisp, would she regard herself as Ethics Girl?

"This vehicle makes frequent stops."

It's the last time I buy a piece of British junk.

What's sauce for the goose...

The humanitarian in me (yes, there is a scintilla of that quality that lurks somewhere deep within my DNA) appreciates that it is incumbent on the Prison Service to afford the Soham murderer, Ian Huntley, full protection while in their care. Nonetheless, I find it difficult to shed a tear on learning that fellow inmates have meted out their own particular brand of justice.
We now learn that he is about to sue his 'protectors' (a.k.a. the taxpayer) for close on £100,000.
I say good luck to him and, for good measure, let's round it up to a cool one million.
Then, why not invite the tragic parents of the poor girls who lost their lives to sue the despicable sewer rat for every penny he gets?
Just as he seeks, let justice be done.

THE BIGGEST SPELLING ERROR EVER....?

Dynasty.
Produced by Aaaron Spelling. April 22, 1923 - June 23, 2006.

Companies don't use the word 'we' often enough in their promotional material

Especially when it is spelled 'oui'.

Retiral is an anagram of retrial. Coincidence?

11 lives lost in a single incident. £11 billion lost in a single quarter. £11 million lost in a single pension pot.
You might well ask, what is it about the number 11?
More germane, I would like to ask what is it about failure and reward?
Fred Badwin (a.k.a. Goodwin) and Tony Wayword (a.k.a. Hayward) will be remembered as the respective, but most certainly not respected, Chief Executioners at RBS and BP.
Neither could plug the leaks in their most precious resources and neither could accept that it happened on their 'watch'.
Well, you wouldn't want to tarnish a diamond encrusted gold Rolex, would you?

You wince some, you lose some.

As the rest of the western world discusses whether or not to ban the wearing of the hijab, it seems that Britain and the USA are considering drawing a veil over proceedings in Afghanistan.
Consider it done.
What Cameron and Barak would like to present as the possibility of a withdrawal next year is, in truth, an inevitability that is as clear as the nose on your face ...if only it were visible.
Two great superpowers stacked up against the Taliban who were there for the beating.
Little did we know that the cost in terms of human lives and economic woes would conspire to have us beating a retreat.
Now it's just a matter of time before terrorists beat a path to our door.
It doesn't take a mastermind to recognise the importance of "I've started, so I'll finish".

The difference between gravity and gravitas

With most composers, you always come back down to earth.
With Beethoven, Schubert and Mozart, on the other hand, their music has a gravitas that takes you to a higher a plane.....and leaves you there.
Presently, I am looking down at cloud nine.

Keeping your own counsel can mean no bullshit.....

.....and no bulls hit.

Bilge pumps at the ready!

Before I begin, I would like to put my cards on the table. I have a sneaking admiration for the sneaky - and sometimes not so sneaky - ways of John Prescott.
But before I go any further, I would also like to make it perfectly clear that there is not a single issue that he stands for - or purports to stand for - that I can agree with.
But that's not the point.
John Prescott is a politician's politician. The Norman Tebbit of the Labour Party. A pitbull on steroids. It remains a great mystery to me how he escaped the Dangerous Dogs' Act all those years ago and an even greater disappointment that he has not been muzzled ever since.
But let's not be in any doubt. There is not a single hoop that John Prescott wouldn't have jumped through in order to pursue his own ends. The hoops on the croquet lawn at Dorneywood were merely emblematic of that.
And so he is now elevated into the House of Lords as Baron Prescott or BP as I will now 'defer' to him.....that other great natural disaster to beset our beautiful planet.
I would just like to leave you with this little thought.
Having ably represented Hull in the Commons, BP has come a long way since his Merchant Navy days where he started his career clearing the bilge water from the hull of a ship.
There is also a certain irony in that he will now be spouting forth his own bilge in the House of Lords.
I look forward with eager anticipation to his 'made un' speech and even more so to its translation.
Into English.

If Robert Kilroy-Silk were to be a betting man.....

.....would that make him an amber gambler?

Unfortunate acronyms. No. 3. The Queen has a great SOD.

The Queen has a great sense of duty.

Coincidentally, she also has a great sod (Charles). It is because of her SOD (sense of duty) that she doesn't abdicate.

Unfortunate acronyms. No. 2. Doctor! Doctor! I've got a BOMB!

Doctor! Doctor! I've got a boil on my bum.

Unfortunate acronyms. No. 1. I'm going out in a BOG.

I'm going out in a blaze of glory.

Howler's English? English howlers!

On my early morning power walks, I'm rarely without my MP3 player. Occasionally, I'll select the radio mode just to reassure myself that the world still exists.

This morning I did just that, just in time to hear Radio 4's John Humphrys interview a Guardian journalist.

Oxymoron unintentional.

Now, one might be forgiven for believing that being a Guardian journalist is embarrassing enough, but that was obviously not the case for this particular hack.

He was being interviewed about his passion for collecting World Cup football stickers. A grown man with a 14-year old son! But let's not dwell on that embarrassment.

In successive sentences, he talked about the "amount of people" and the "amount of women".

For whatever reason the Guardian exists, patently they are not there to act as guardians for the English language.

One can only hope that this journalist's articles are as widely 'read' as the colour that ought to be suffusing across his fizzog.

As a stickler for the language, it's enough to make John Humph.

Hear, hear!

A research team in Ghent University, Belgium has established a link between listening to an iPod and poor hearing.

Oh really?

On the face of it, such findings seem pretty obvious.

Researchers may well have arrived at the correct conclusion but, to my thinking, the logic behind the cause and effect is seriously flawed.

It is merely the Gaia Principle being applied to the human body.

The vast preponderance of those who use MP3 players listen to the biggest load of unadulterated crap that masquerades as modern pop.

Noise rather than music.

At a conscious level, this is the choice they exercise even though I think it would be better exorcised.

Their subconscious agrees with me and subsequently rejects it.

Consequently, when the earphones are removed, the body continues to reject all noise leading to the assumption that the hearing has been damaged.

I put this very point to Dr. Hannah Kempler who led the study.

Her response was quite clear.

"Pardon?"

Did she honestly not hear me or was her subconscious merely filtering out my unadulterated crap?

Now I'll never know.

Two sticks. Unstuck.

Two sticks in hand, Caveman's smug look suggested he had just lit Cavewoman's fire.

Soon they would marry, real sparks would fly and, just as he fathered a troglodyte, necessity mothered invention. The wheel was 'born', Caveman got the hell out of there and introduced wild oats to the world.

The Ten Commandments

WARNING!

They may contain nots.

United. Untied.

'Let's celebrate, darling' said the anagram crossword compiler. 'It's our Silver Wedding.'

'Silver...' she mused, sipping champagne.

'...key word...'

'SLIVER!' she garbled, choking on a shard of glass.

'Olive' he purred.

'Olive...' she mused. 'I love..? O' evil..?

The solution? A scarf made from voile.

Tightened.

Her present. His future.

A citizen's arrest

A young man detained a suspected dealer in stolen goods by sitting on him until the police arrived.

Speaking to reporters, he claimed he only recognised the accused because of his most unusual gait.

He added, "We are all stakeholders in society and I merely looked upon what I did as my duty."

In short, man sits on fence with unusual gate and a stake to hold onto.

THE AUDI. THE AUDIT. THE AUDITION.

THE AUDI

The new Audi A3.

THE AUDIT

£16,085. 41mpg.

THE AUDITION

Arrange a test drive today.

Another one of my ads that are strewn all over the cutting room floor.

Any chance of a confession?

My local priest has spent his life in vestments.

My local bank manager has spent my life investments.

What did the pheasant say to the grouse?

I'm game if you are.

Boom! Boom!

(That's them both dead.)

The first cuckoo offspring?

The cuckoo has a funny call,

it sounds just like its name.

It lays its eggs in others' nests

so others get the blame.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

I'll have a triple whisky, please.

Whatever happened to Erry Wogan?

Witter v. To talk with an annoying lengthiness on a trivial subject.

Prefix it with a 'T' and you are restricted to 140 characters.

So what happened to Erry Wogan?

Don't mention the war...especially Abyssinia

Admittedly, Italian history is not littered with stories of great war heroes. That old joke about who put the last bullet into Mussolini (twenty Italian sharpshooters) certainly rings true.

There is an impressive range of mountains that runs down the spine of Italy called the Apennines.

Try scaling them and then try telling me that Italy is spineless.

But let's not fight about it.

Full stops that are edited out of text

Are we missing the point?

Change of climate or climate change?

Having been in Italy for scarcely a week, there is little doubt in my mind that the change of climate is doing me good.

There is even less doubt in my mind about the massive effect that climate has on our lives.

However, because of the terminology, it might be easy to overlook the fact that there is more than a subtle difference between a change of climate and climate change.

When I bought my airline ticket, whether I like it or not, I voted for both.

Gotcha! Goccia!

The Italians have a word for it.

In fact, the Italians have a word for pretty well everything.

Goccia (rhymes with Gotcha) , as I have just discovered, is a game that is played at Italian stag parties.

I hesitate to call it a game because although there are rules (well, there really is only one) it is not much fun for its participant (yes, there is only one of them as well).

A drink is poured - it could be a Sambuca, possibly a Limoncello or maybe something different altogether - no rules apply.

The bridegroom is then expected to down it in a oner.

With head tilted back and glass inverted, he must then return both to their normal positions.

The glass is promptly taken away and turned upside down.

If a single drop appears, another drink is poured and so the evening goes on.

And on and on and on....

I want amore, a more, a more

I don't know if it's in my blood but there's certainly something deep within me that makes me gravitate towards all things Italian.

There are times, it seems, that my love of Italy is completely out of proportion with reality.

But then, does that not define love?

It's the ability to see beyond the warts and admire things for what they truly are.

For sure, Italy has much to admire.

It may come as a surprise to most, for example, that Italy has more rules, more restrictions and more red tape than any other country.

But the real beauty is that Italians don't pay the blindest bit of attention to any of it.

Rather than worry about the curvature of bananas, towers that lean or buildings, such as the Colosseum, that remain unfinished, Italians simply live their lives.

They could teach the French a thing or two about joie de vivre.

Or if the Romans were still around, they would tell them to stop carping on about carpe diem and simply seize the day just as I am about to seize mine.

In fact, that's something I've been just about to do my entire life.

Mañana as the say in Spain, but practise in Italy.

If you detect a funny smell, report it

Just think, nine months before Hitler was born, there was a smell of rotten eggs.

If space is a vacuum, why don't we use it to clean up the volcanic ash?

Keep young and beautiful...

..or so the song goes.

Certainly, it's easier said than sung.

Having spent a wonderful night in Pisa, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Laugh? Why not? Everyone else was.

Cry? Why not? I didn't realise they were all laughing at me.

Italy is full of beautiful people among whom I would never presume to number myself.

Not unless that number is a big deluded one.

Something went awry with my genes between my grandparents arriving in Scotland and me arriving on this planet.

And on the subject of jeans, how can an Italian seniorina, or even a seniora, wear them with such pizzazz?

Maybe it's the difference between numbers and figures....?

Although, to be fair, I don't give a number two.

Now where's that red wine gone?

To my head, I think.

Buona notte.

One, two, three O’Leary. How much more Michael?

There can be only two reasons why my grandparents left Tuscany to settle in Dundee.

The first is that they were economic migrants. The second is that they were insane.

With no history of mental illness in our family, I’ll plump for the former.

And so it is, I’m off to Sicily for a family wedding as an economic migrant of sorts – I’m flying with RyanAir.

But therein lies the myth.

RyanAir is the money magnet of the skies.

It wouldn’t do much for their bottom line if they were to stick to their fare in the headline.

That's why they look upon your pocket as the departure lounge for your money.

No need to check-in. Every conceivable opportunity to ‘cheque out’.

But hey, that’s business.

I suspect I’ll hear that sentiment a few times before I leave Palermo.

A pimple in history pimping for her husband

Ever since the day that Fergie was caught on camera purportedly getting her toe sucked by her financial adviser, I knew we had a problem.

I say 'purportedly' because my suspicion is that there was more blowing than sucking going on.

You see, the Fergie that we all know and love (to hate) is no more than an inflatable doll.

She is not just an airhead, she is all air.

But inflation is the least of her problems.

Spending is her biggest.

Fergie has blown a fair bit herself.

In fact, she is a microcosm* of Britain PLC.

It's just a matter of time before the News of the World entraps Cameron and Clegg in some seedy hotel room giving their 'all' for our country.

Despite this momentary lapse that has spanned Fergie's life, the newspaper was keen to point out that there is nothing to suggest a lack of judgement on Prince Andrew's part.

Oh yeah?

Who married Fergie?

*I withdraw my reference above describing Fergie as a microcosm lest it be construed as misrepresentation.

PSBR escalates with new coalition

With Cameron and Clegg now ensconced in No.10, the Public School Boy Ratio has reached new heights.

Sadly, if the rumour mill is to be believed, they are already fighting over the same FAG.

One Frederick Anderson Goodwin.

Let's just be thankful that there is only one Frederick Anderson Goodwin.

Your (PIN) number is up

I learned from a mini-statement in today's press that the inventor of the hole-in-the-wall machine has died.

So after years of standing outside the bank conducting his affairs, he will at long last be able to see what happens on the 'other side'.

But that raises a more serious point.

I've never quite understood the philosophy of a business that does its utmost to keep its customers outside, thus forgoing the opportunity to sell.

That was before Fred the Shed (yes, Shed) came along to shed more light on the matter.

He was inside busy filling his boots and, as a consequence of the hole-in-the-wall machines, there were no tellers to tell us exactly what was going on.

Yes, a certain inventor will have a few questions to answer at the Pearly Gates.

I wonder if there's a cash machine there?

Is Inheritance Tax the worst example of 'thinking outside the box'?

Good hearing. Poor eyesight. No foresight. Ah well.

I could hear a pin drop but I never saw the grenade coming.

The money I spent on a gastric band has all gone to waist

When I told David Miliband to BOGOF I really didn't mean 'buy one get one free'

I've just passed a motion of no confidence

That's better.

Ministry of Defence give in to Clegg

In what is being presented as a penny-pinching move, soldiers in the TA are to be limited to only 50 bullets.

With only 57 MP's in the coalition, Nick Clegg was acutely aware that his influence could be wiped out by a lone sniper.

The former Shadowy Home Secretary Chris Grayling, for example, is out on his own and is always sniping.

Never more so than when it comes to Cameron and Clegg cohabiting at No.10.

First Cabinet 'leak'?

Cameron and Clegg tell Ministers:

"We went into politics to make the world a wetter place."

Job done.

Now and then

Now:

Dave "Let's put Party Politics aside."

Nick "Yeah. Come on, let's party."

Then.....12 months later:

Nick "Party Politics is getting in the way."

Dave "Yeah. Come on, let's part."

'til debt do us part.

The tragic tale of the housebound burglar

The real tragedy is - it was my house he was bound for.

Carry on giving and something's gonna give

It was Benjamin Franklin who once observed that there were only two things certain in life: death and taxes.

Rather than concede that he wasn't 'half right', on the contrary, I assert that he was only half right.

Death becomes us all. Of that, there is no doubt.

But tax?

Take a young girl, just out of school, not yet out of her teens, three kids, no husband - indeed, no man at all.

No job, no hope and probably no desire.

No income tax.

Ah, but surely she pays taxes on pretty well everything she buys, as we all do?

Yes. But there is a difference.

Whatever she buys, she does so with money the taxpayer gave her in the first place.

In essence, she never pays the tax.

She is merely returning some of our tax only for the Government to waste on some other worthy, worthless cause.

Gordon. It's all over bar the shouting.

"HELP! SOMEONE SAVE ME! IT WAS A GLOBAL PROBL............!"

Okay. That's it. It's all over.

Hind sight is a great thing

But not when the bloody hind is eating your favourite shrub at the end of the garden.

Let's launch The Apostrophe Party

It's time for a bit of decisiveness.

Britain's political system is in turmoil.

First of all, we need cuts. And lots of them.

There are letters all over our language that can easily be dispensed with and replaced by the much more efficient apostrophe.

Furthermore, we need to encourage ownership.

The apostrophe in its possessive form can be used to precede an 's'.

For example, Brown's recession, Freddie's pension and Mandy's boys.

But let's not stop there.

We can form a coalition with the Save the Bastardizing of our Language Party.

No more amounts of MP's, no more less seats and, above all, no more Gordon Brown.

(Okay, that last one was grammatically correct, but it's time he went anyway.)

Let's get rid of the punks and bring back punctuation.

Vote for change? Don't waste your time!

I wasn't happy with my bank, so I changed.

I wasn't happy with my telecoms, so I changed.

I wasn't happy with my gas, electricity, broadband, girlfriend, golf swing.........so I changed, changed, changed.

Maybe I just wasn't happy.

And yet every time I changed, I knew beforehand that one bank would be as bad as the next.

Ditto telecoms.

Ditto girlfriends.

Ditto.

Ditto.

Ditto.

I've been there, seen it and done it so often, I've even got the T-shirt.

Why's everyone telling me to change it?

Have you been stooped?

Candidates toady their way up your garden path and ring your bell before telling you how they are going to ring the changes.

And all you want to do is wring their necks.

They are like burglars returning to explain how they propose to spend the booty they nicked from you the day before.

It's a familiar scenario and I call it stooping.

A stoop, as you know, is another name for a doorstep.

So when a prospective MP appear on yours, rest assured, you are about to be stooped.

And there really is no level to which they won't stoop.

Pity, there was I, thinking I was safe in my high-rise flat!

New Ditty!

She was close to the end of her tether

Spending her life wearing nothing but leather.

Though there would come the day

When it was all stripped away -

She should have grazed on lucky white heather.

Nothing comes close to a day by the sea

Like a day inland.

Brown and his scorched earth policy

All going well, Gordon Brown will get out of bed on Friday morning, out of favour, out of luck and out of work.

In fact, he will have out-outed Mandy.

But Gordon is made of sterner stuff than that.

He is a son of the manse, you know.

Some might brand Gordon a liar.

Not me.

I would simply brand him GB and subsequently appoint him to head up the GB 2012 Olympic dream.

Because when it comes to embracing the Olympic ideal of "Faster, Stronger, Higher", Gordon Brown has a track record second to none.

Nobody has taken their country from boom to bust faster than Gordon.

Nobody has created a mountain of debt higher than Gordon.

And when it comes to the distinct whiff of scandal and utter ineptitude, nobody smells stronger than Gordon.

When Gordon gets dumped, Gordon gets angry. Very angry.

And what will be the nearest thing to him?

Yes, the Olympic torch.

We've all had our fingers burnt by Brown. Badly burnt.

Post-election, prepare to be frazzled.

Alex Salmond. The 'consume it' politician.

Alex Salmond is rattled. At least, he would be if he hadn't thrown his rattle out of the pram.

We were all led to believe that his moral outrage was simply because he hadn't been invited to the Leaders' Debates.

If only that were true.

A leak from Holyrood has thrown a shade more light on the matter.

(Can you get a shade more light?)

It seems that his real indignation is because he was not invited to the accompanying meals.

As such, the BBC has hatched a plan.

An insider told us "Alex will be allowed to tuck in as soon as he gets to the studio and can then go on to join the debate."

By the time he gets up from the table, I suspect we will have a new Prime Minister.

Gordon Brown. Doctor Heckle and Mr. Chide.

Gordon Brown's plea to savers

I'd walk over burning coals to save our planet

But I'm worried about my carbon footprint.

Is being vetted for a job application the same as being neutered?

The first casualty of war is truth. Ditto elections.

Just ask Sarah!

Imagine waking up on May 7th with Gordon Brown as Prime Minister.

Now imagine how that sentence would sound without "as Prime Minister".

Things could always be worse.

May 6th. Official TwitPic Day.

Pick the twit who you think will do the least damage to our country.

You know when you've been Mangoed

There can be few sights in politics more undignified than an indignant Peter Mandelson.

This week, the Daily Mail captured him at the peak of his pique and, take my advice, a peek is about as much as I would recommend.

The hacks were alerted when his hackles were raised at the alleged Tory Party smearing of Nick Clegg.

While it is quite touching that Mandy was being so protective of the fresh-faced and youthful - some might even suspect useful - Clegg, I wonder which world he has been inhabiting?

They're all at it - including Mandy.

Maybe a good slapping will bring him back down to earth.

Apologies to Tango.

No job too big. No job too small.

In fact, no job at all.

Ah well. A round of golf anyone?

Eruption or corruption? We should all blow our tops.

As the volcanic dust begins to settle, details relating to the non-flying fiasco are becoming clearer. A top secret dossier was found in a pie shop close to Westminster and although no MP has been named, it is understood that the 'Press caught' sight of the file as it was handed over to the police.

The details therein might even trigger another eruption.

It runs like this.

The recession had left the airline industry in a parlous state.

The Government recognised this but were unable to provide financial assistance because of European Law.

A plan was hatched to create a catastrophe such as the one that we have just experienced and the Government would accept complete responsibility.

Who better to blame than the Met. Office who are renowned for their crass incompetence and are roundly reviled in any case?

All that remains now is for the number crunching to be resolved.

The fiasco has cost maybe £500 million in lost revenues. Meanwhile, the airline industry is bandying around figures approaching £2 billion.

Potentially, that leaves £1.5 billion with which to cut a bit of slack.

What would have been construed as a subsidy before can now pass off as compensation and, yet again, the good old taxpayer picks up the tab.

Meanwhile, Ministers can happily continue with their foreign junkets to exotic destinations.

Normal service has been resumed.

My party is full of non-doms and non-denoms

My local MP insists he is non-denominational.

He is willing to accept £10's, £20's, £50's...

Some bloggers are like fencers

Perfect poise. The quick riposte. Skilful in making their points felt.

Some are like that other type of fencer.

They need a sledgehammer to drive home their 'posts'.

Don't tell me that nothing is impossible

I've achieved nothing throughout my entire life.

Nothing is perfectly possible.

Anonymous or eponymous?

Having just luxuriated in every sublime note of Laudate Dominum, it made me think that if Mozart had composed that and nothing else, then surely it would be enough for him to have achieved immortality.

For me, as indeed for most of us, it is unlikely that we will ever be remembered for very much at all.

How depressing.

Or is it?

Some prefer anonymous to eponymous.

Take, as an example, Tim Berners-Lee. Not only did he eschew financial rewards in creating the worldwide web, he didn't even opt for the prefix tbl, giving way instead to his partner Wee Willie Winkie.

And what about the black box found (and sometimes not) in most planes. Was there a Mr. Black? Now that would be unfortunate. (Google informs me that it was actually invented by a Mr. David Warren.)

All of which led me to ponder what I would like to be remembered for.

I think if I can make anyone remember my name, or indeed how to spell it, then that in itself would be an achievement.

Signed: Fred Blogs.

I sent a text to Gordon Brown.....

.....but couldn't get past the first two letters of his name.

I hope he gets the message.

A masterclass in whining and dining

Alex Salmond's nose is out of joint. In fact, there's not a pound on him that hangs in the right direction.

I'm not sure if scientists have ever investigated the link between an expanding waistline and an inflated sense of one's own self-worth, but Alex Salmond would certainly be a good place to start.

First of all, you might need to cajole him from the huff he is in due to not being invited to the Leaders' Debates.

What an ungrateful sod.

By virtue of his absence, the wider population couldn't learn about his abject lack of virtues.

There is also the other issue of whether he would be able to physically stand for long enough.

A more pertinent question might be whether we could stand him for long enough without being physically sick.

I suppose so, we put up with Gordon.

The Tay Bridge disaster

It leads to Dundee.

Here lies Gordon Brown.....

.....and lies.....and lies.....and lies.

It hurts me to say, but my best mate is into sado-masochism

He is a dentist during the week and a football referee at weekends.

The morning-after pill

Keep one free for May 7th.....if you don't want to go into labour.

Whatever!

The fact that a single word has the capacity to annoy me, annoys me.

Whatever!

As I don't subscribe to most of what is now regarded as popular culture, I've no idea where the roots of this word's Modern English Usage lie.

Suffice to say - and at the risk of being accused of using 'more' with a comparative adverb - it is more fouler than Fowler.

But the thing that really annoys me is that it smacks of apathy.

I think you're a tosspot.

Whatever!

You stole my girlfriend.

Whatever!

I hereby charge you with murder. Have you anything to say in your defence?

Whatever!

It has become the ubiquitous response among those who can't engage their brains for long enough to at least try to articulate a coherent riposte.

And what makes it even worse is that they don't seem to care.

Perhaps we should think about editing the final scene from Gone with the Wind.

Whatever!

Red Rum wins 2010 Grand National

Well, he never really won it but he did cross the finishing line for his fourth Grand National.

I note that one of the jockeys had to glue part of his saddle together just prior to the race.

What are the chances of that glue having been made from the old bones of Red Rum?

Let's conduct a DNA test.

The odds are about as remote as me picking the winner.

Solar-powered aeroplane crash lands in Scotland

The Westminster Grand National

And they're off!

Cameron, just ahead by a nose, is still hoping to convert the 'don't knows'.

Brown is hot on his heels, saddled with debt, but ably mounted by Mandelson.

A good distance behind is Clegg who continues to stirrup apathy along the way. The long face doesn't help.

All three are finding it tough going. Especially on the straights.

This is developing into a two horse race with a jackass in tow.

The finishing line seems a long way off - May 6th.

That's when the real horse trading begins.

Don't forget to put your 'X' in the box on May 6th

A night on the tiles

I've always enjoyed the occasional game of Scrabble, so it was with great interest that I read about a variation in the rules.

Proper nouns are now allowed.

The opportunity to use your own name is all very well but, sadly, there are too many who even struggle with that much.

We have an education system that has failed - and continues to fail - certain children.

I know. I went to school with children. Some of them grew up to become teachers.

And although many became very good teachers, there are those who have neither been properly educated themselves nor trained to teach what little they know to anyone else.

A change in the rules of Scrabble won't do anything to remedy that.

What it will do is generate more sales.

So irrespective of how many points your name might accrue, it is only the PR department at Mattel that merits the bonus points.

That should bring a smile to their zygomata (23).

Head of BA sports new haircut

It's a crew cut.

Well, everyone's entitled to a bad 'air day.

Foolproof device to prevent online plagiarism

Write crap copy.

Call me a cynic

But whatever you do, don’t call me a cab until you’ve heard me out.

I always expect the worst from people. That way, I’m never disappointed.

Over the last few years, I’ve never failed to be never disappointed. Back off scholars, I meant that double negative.

From the Royal Family abusing its privileges through to the Catholic Church abusing our children, decadence has spread through every strand of society and it has taken less than a decade to do so.

We can’t trust our Royals, our bankers, our politicians or our clergy.

It’s where we traditionally placed our respect, our money, our votes and our faith.

I ask you, what is the world coming to?

An end, presumably. Or at least, eventually.

I just don’t want to be there when it happens because just when I think that things can’t get any worse, they probably will.

But then again, I’ll be expecting that.

Blessed are the cynics.

I've reached the age where I think I need glasses

Drinking from bottles no longer looks cool.

The Goodwin Stack

Sir Fred Goodwin, former head of the bank that he mistook (and took and took and took) for his own piggy bank, has stepped in at the last moment to underwrite the entire cost of the new Olympic tower in London.

Commenting on his new found munificence, Sir Fred told reporters "I've made a stack from the British people, I think it's only right that I give a small stack back. I'd like it to be known as The Goodwin Stack."

In keeping with the spirit of the games, organisers accepted the offer and have suggested a bungee jump to mark the tower's official opening.

Sir Fred embraced the idea almost as enthusiastically as he welcomed his own pension. So much so that he has even volunteered to be the first to make the jump.

He added "I'd like my leap to be a metaphor for the markets. Shares can go up as well as down. But no matter what happens, they usury bounce back. Sorry, usually."

Detailed plans are already being made for the 115 metre leap with tenders invited for an elasticated rope measuring 116 metres.

The project coordinator, a certain Mr. Darling, commented "There is always an element of risk with such jumps. To minimise that risk, I ask everyone to stand well clear and you won't get splattered."

Good luck Freddie. We'll cheer you all the way.....down.

By any other name?

I always understood a conning tower to be the structure on a submarine that contains the periscope.

The new Conning Tower (a.k.a The Orbit Tower) for the 2012 Olympics is estimated to cost upwards of £19 million.

A rose by any other name?

Who's conning who?

Fatten your seat belts. Alex Salmond is on board.

On my flight back from London last week, I experienced great turbulence.

Alex Salmond was on board.

Whether he was already in receipt of his £65,000 Golden Goodbye from Westminster, I don't know.

What I do know, however, is that if you were to kick him firmly in the family allowance, he would still display that smug mien that smacks of the cat that got the cream.

As indeed he did.

The look has become his 'treadmark' and I'm tired of it.

But perhaps I've been too quick to judge.

His aides have let it slip that he plans to make a "substantial donation" to a charitable foundation.

As I understand it, real charity involves the left hand not knowing what the right hand is up to.

With MP's, I think we can venture a pretty good guess at what both hands are up to.

Not to mention their snouts.

Give them the boot!

The present Government has encountered a problem.

Come May 6th, you will need to re-boot.

Try and save what you have not already lost over the last thirteen miserable years.

If you have a recovery disc, dump it. It's an illusion.

Don't patronise me about the correct use of 'there'

Their. Their. Their.

Gordon Brown's leadership was a disaster waiting to happen.

Then he cut the waiting time.

Disaster.

Opinions welcome. Remember, if you sit on the fence...

...the sheep can see you from both fields.

A short sharp sentence

There are two types of people who visit police stations. Those with blankets over their heads and those without.

Happily, on my visit to the local station last week, I was without a blanket.

It seems, however, I was not without a blank expression.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

"Yes, can you tell me where the public meeting room is please?"

"Just go into the lift and press button four."

The Dundee accent is not the easiest to translate into English and so I understood the instruction to be "...go into the lift and press bottom floor".

Hopefully I'll be out by Monday.

Go easy on the greasy pehs!

The whaling industry has returned to Dundee.

Or so you might think when confronted and affronted by the blubber that walks down the High Street each day.

Scotland is in the midst of an obesity epidemic and Dundee is at its heart.

But let’s not lose heart.

Our elected fatheads in Holyrood have at long last recognised the link between education and diet. Just how long it is since Simple Simon met a pieman I do not know, but surely that pastry encrusted clue didn’t take them that long to solve....?

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with the occasional Dundee peh, as we lovingly call our local delicacy.

It's just that we need to encourage a different school of thought as well as a more svelte school of whales.

Alistair Darling. He gave with one hand...

I warned you.

He's a one-armed bandit.

Don't confuse the palette with my palate

The blurb described my local barista as an "artist".

To me, an artist mixes black and white to get grey.

A barista mixes black and white to get brown.

I don't 'do' grey coffee.

Let's outfox Guy Fawkes and get them one by one

Cast your mind back to the dying days of the last Tory Government.

Embroiled in sleaze, my lasting image is one of Neil Hamilton clinging on for dear life to the greasy pole of power. Whenever he did slip down a tad, there was his faithful wife Christine armed with a hat pin, ready to give him an encouraging prod.

Wind the clock forward to the present debauched administration.

It's not a hat pin they need up their jacksies so much as a stick of dynamite. And yet somehow, I still don't think they will 'get it'.

But that shouldn't stop us trying.

Who's first?

King Harold - the Patron Saint of Politics?

At least he got the point.

I've just been accused of always wanting the 'last' word

Cobblers!

The crude facts of life

How often is the US accused of ‘only being interested in oil’?

Of course they are.

Why else would they concern themselves with Iraq and not Zimbabwe?

But before you join the chorus of disapproval and park your tank (petrol) down that particular one way street, why don’t you #*CK OFF?

We all have cars, fly abroad and centrally heat our homes.

We all buy food and other products that are shipped and flown in from every corner of the globe.

We all live oil-fuelled lives.

Well, most of us do.

So let’s not get hypocritical about it.

Instead, here’s a little analogy.

A hunter sees a big grizzly bear about to maul a poor defenceless man.

The hunter, who is after the bear’s skin, shoots the grizzly dead.

Does it really matter what the hunter’s motives are?

Surely the crucial point is that the man is saved from almost certain death.

Yes, the US is interested in oil.

We all are.

What’s more, we are all prone to making incorrect assumptions.

When I told you above to #*CK OFF, I meant BACK OFF!

What did you think I meant?

If I should fly think only this of me

BA is not the quickest way from A to B.

Fortune telling

Is the worry of all that money beginning to tell on Sir Fred?

Dis.

Cuss.

Is organised crime the neatest way to make a tidy sum?

I’ve made a fortune in life

But I’ve also lost two.
Ah well.

Affluence or effluence? You decide.

I’ve often had my suspicions as to why GB (the country, not Gordon Brown) is in such a mess, but now I know.
The truly gifted and talented are either writing newspaper columns or are busy blogging.
In truth, everyone has an opinion.
We all know what needs to be done – where and when and how.
Don’t ask why. Just trust us.
However, it takes untold arrogance to believe that you are the best man for the job.
Insecurity has a much more restraining influence than delusions of competence.
Meet Gordon Brown.
He has screwed things up so badly we are now completely threadbare.
And yet he still believes he is the best man for the job.
I believe that what matters to Brown is brown matter to the rest of us.
That's why I'm voting Green.

Our dumdum Prime Minister

Instead of biting the bullet and properly equipping our troops, it seems that Gordon Brown is more intent on providing extra ammunition for the opposition.
Never mind inflation and "in real terms".
In real terms, lives are being lost.

It's a horrible spectre

Having to choose between ghosting Mandy's memoirs or poofreading his manuscript.

BA. HUMBUG.

BA BA blackleg,
Have you lost your cool?
No Sir, no Sir,
I'm on a work to rule.

5 years - it's what you get for rape, manslaughter, serious fraud.....

.....or voting Tory.

I didn't mean to call Gordon Brown a 'bloody buffoon'

It just came out as a spoonerism.

Apostasy

Ive given up believing in apostrophe's.

Michael Foot. Spinless. Gordon Brown. Spineless.

AC/DC

I learn from today's Times that Alastair Campbell is playing the part of David Cameron as Gordon Brown rehearses for the leadership debates.
AC as understudy to DC should be an easy switch.
We always suspected he was a Tory at heart.

Labour ahead by a nose

Carry on lying and they’ll win by a landslide.

Should we really give a duck?

There is a small tract of land on the east coast of Scotland just outside Aberdeen that a duck once waddled across.
That land is now sacred.
So when an American billionaire berthed his corporate ‘warship’ alongside this hallowed place of worship, hackles were raised and the locals got agitated.
To achieve this in Aberdeen, it helps if you are either cloven-hoofed or heavy-handed.
In this case, let’s go for the latter.
Donald Trump (no relation to Donald Duck) wants to invest over £1 billion of his own money in creating a world class golf course with accompanying hotel and luxury homes.
So far, so good.
At least, so you would think.
But let’s not forget about the duck.
This duck has a lot of followers and I’m not referring to its cute little ducklings.
I allude to those hobby-less members of society desperately seeking a hobby horse to mount.
Had Donald Trump known all those years ago just how much grief this innocent little duck would bring, I’m sure he would have eaten it there and then, feathers and all.
Instead, he has had to wait until now to get ‘down’ in the mouth.
The rest of the world must think we are quackers.

My entire world has been turned upside down

I think I was a bat in my last life.

Don’t let Alex Salmond off the leash

With Alex Salmond behaving like a pug with an attitude, never has it been more important for dog owners to take out dangerous dogs' insurance.
What has really got him straining at the leash is his desire to be included in the impending leadership debates on television.
Such rabidity would not be particularly nice to watch.
Neither before the watershed nor behind the bike shed.
As Scottish taxpayers, we have duty to pay and a duty to perform.
Does anyone have a scoop-a-poop?

Vote Conservative. Just because.

It’s becoming more embarrassing by the day - witnessing the Tory press groping for reasons to vote Conservative.
There ain’t any.
The hacks are beginning to take on the guise of pimps trying to procure some business for a couple of old slappers.
The only difference is, at least the slappers have a bit of experience under their belts, if you can forgive me that last metaphor.

Taken for a ride

Ballathie House Hotel is always a decent place for lunch and today was no different. More than a few visits back it was very different.
Britain was different.
The banks had just collapsed. No, not the beautiful banks of the River Tay upon which Ballathie sits. Instead, I refer to the financial leviathans that were the pension powerhouses for certain bankers.
I allude to those at the FAG end of society. (Okay, Frederick Anderson Goodwin.)
Such was the concern of our inveterate bankers, circumstances obviously weren’t bad enough for them to cancel their company day at Ballathie hosted by Ferrari and Maserati.
Looking back, I don’t know which was worse – my drooling over the cars, my salivating over lunch or my foaming at the mouth as I witnessed my overdraft heading into ‘overdrive’.
But that’s not my point.
“Have you booked, Sir?”
“Yes, Baruffati.”
The phonetics of Baruffati and Maserati are not too discordant.
For one day at least, I discovered how the other half live. And, believe me, they don’t half live.
I also discovered where our money goes.
If only they had been driving Toyotas.

Most extravagant costume. And the winner is.....

Sir Fred Goodwin.
Cost, u, me.
Billions.

Best make-up. And the winner is.....

Sir Fred Goodwin.
Could you make up a better story?

If there's one thing worse than being told you have OCD...

...then that's believing that you are a dyslexic fish.

"Suicide family did not face deportation"

Three asylum seeking members of a Russian family committed suicide by leaping from the 15th floor balcony of a tower block in Glasgow.
And as if all this wasn't tragic enough, it now transpires that, in more than one sense, they jumped to a conclusion.

Glasgow City Council Leader resigns because of 'a diction' problem

Applicashuns welcome. Call quoting Ref. geezajoab.

Has Fred the Shred been given a new identity?

He may be stinking rich but there has not been a sniff of Sir Fred Goodwin for months.
And yet there's not a plastic surgeon alive who could wipe the smile off his face.
There are, however, one or two RBS customers and shareholders who would like to give it a go.

At long last, David Cameron reveals his spending plans

"I'd like to spend more time with my family."

M.T. promises

I understand that Mark Thompson, Director-General of the BBC, signs off his memos with his initials.
Lots of empty promises there, I don't doubt.

Blackmale

Is this racial and gender profiling?

Steven Purcell. Former Leader of Glasgow City Council. Not able.

Enough space?

Steven Purcell. Notable Leader of Glasgow City Council.

I need more space.

Shucks and aah!

Gordon Brown's appearance at the Chilcot Inquiry in which he expressed his heartfelt sympathy for those who lost their lives in Iraq plumbed new depths - or should that be scaled new heights? - in cynicism. And as if to 'shock and awe' us still further, he now has the chutzpah to enunciate that when it came to the post-war planning, he "wasn't able to be more successful on pushing the Americans further on this issue".
Surely that makes him doubly guilty. To be party to prosecuting a war without having made provision for the consequences of your actions is inexcusable, especially when you are fully aware beforehand of the potential aftermath.
The only thing missing from his virtuoso performance was the plaintive sound of a violin playing in the background.
I'm convinced, however, I heard a lyre.

Rug pulled from under Lord Ashcroft's feet

Easy!
There was no tacks.
(Which was worse, the grammar or the pun?)

Gordon Brown or a front line soldier. Who is the more ill-equipped for his job?

Forget Twitter. Flutter.

Every picture tells a story, so don’t Twitter, Flutter.
Flutter a foto.
Instead of 140 characters, choose just one.
You.
Flutter your eyelashes. Frown. Smile. Scowl. Grimace. Gurn.
You choose.
Choose a clutter-free, flutter-for-free future.
It’s feature-friendly and fun.

Vote for the Stuff the Younger Generation Party

You've never had it.
So good!

The world is your oyster...and yours alone

According to the Catholic Church, Britain has become a shellfish society.
I guess that places us all in pearl.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Yeah, life can be a 'drag'.

Sharonfreude

Fortunately, that feckless fashion of lovey-dovey couples displaying their names at the top of car windscreens has gone by the wayside.
The reason I mention it is that yesterday I was parked facing one such old banger. I refer to the car and not the female at the wheel whom I assumed was called “Sharon”. At least, that's what I read on the label above her frightening fizzog. I’d no idea where “Fred” was. Maybe he had blazed a trail for the car and had already been dumped.
It got me to thinking how appropriate it would be if their names had been “Jill” and “Ted”.
I smiled at the thought.
Sharon smiled back.
I’m not smiling now.

Lord Ashcroft. Non-Domocratic.

Local Anaesthetic

I’ve just returned from my daily fix. A three shot latte.
With my caffeine intake, I remain turbocharged all day.....sometimes all night. Although it was a brisk walk back, I never sweat. I merely percolate.
Coffee pours out every pore.
This morning, however, was different.
I had just settled down to my favourite coffee with my favourite paper when my favourite person to avoid walked in.
I know him as the local anaesthetic.
There isn’t enough coffee in Brazil to keep me awake when he gets in full flow.
And when he is in full flow, I also know him as our local authority.
There is scarcely a subject that exists (and I include existentialism) that he can’t teach you a thing or three about.
But as verbose as he is, he has no understanding of body language.
I’ve tried removing subtlety and even introduced subtitles, all to no avail.
In fact, it would not surprise me if he is still talking to the seat that I vacated twenty minutes ago.
To paraphrase Mark Antony: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your years.

The Disturbing Truth or Disturbing The Truth?

So all records of UFO sightings are to be destroyed.
Either there is a conspiracy going on or, yet again, the Gods are conspiring against me.
I had long pinned my hopes on meeting some alien being.
A lass. No more.
Now I will need to focus my attention on recording another sighting of that other UFO.
Yes, that Useless F#!*&@* Oaf Sir Fred Goodwin.

“I don’t get angry. I’m just very passionate.”

Gordon: “Did the earth move for you Darling?”
Darling: “Move? It was a veritable landslide!”
Gordon: “Oooh! Don’t use that word. You know I lose all self-control.”
Darling: “Landslide! Landslide! Landslide!”
Gordon: “You certainly know which buttons to push Darling. Would you like the Defence job?”
Darling: “What, no more screwing?”
Gordon: “We are talking the ekonomy here, aren’t we….?”
Darling: “It’s the economy, stupid. I think we need another ‘spell’ in office."
Gordon: “You’re right. We need an election. I’ll write to Her Majesty.”
Darling: “Well just be careful how you spell it. But tell me, what do you need to write to Mandy for anyway?”

Mirror, mirror on the wall...hang on...is there anyone there?

I’ve just read an article about Lord Mandelson entitled “Reflections of a Life in Politics”.
Mandelson? Reflections?
Come on.

Bland Leaders

The name Google has been all over the news recently for reasons too boring to detail.
Surprisingly, for such an innovative and go-ahead company, their corporate line is no more aspirational than “Don’t be evil”.
And while Google have obviously gone for the blandishment, others prefer the bland.
Last week, the Labour Party announced their new slogan.
Surprisingly, for such a bunch of bully boy thugs, it is the perfectly anodyne “A future fair for all”.
We now await the Tory line.
Might I suggest: "Trust us to get it trite"?
Unsurprisingly, it seems to reflect exactly what they stand for.

GBH

Gordon Brown's Hairdryer.

I'm a Nat...or should that be Gnat?

Tory or Labour? They both have a bad smell.
I'm caught between two stools.

Bottoms up!

Researchers have found that men who admire a woman’s curvaceous figure can experience similar highs to those achieved through drink or drugs.
Oh really? (Surprise.) Oh really! (Disdain.)
So while some scientists are stuck in a lab with rats, others are in the pub doing what we all like to do - and all in the name of work.
You would think that they would at least try to justify their research by taking it a step further.
For example, what influences the receptacles from which we drink?
Why have those old-style dimpled beer mugs gone out of fashion?
Too remindful of cellulite....?
What is the real appeal of those beautifully shaped glasses, generous up top, nice and slim below?
Does the unhappily married man prefer to take his drink the way he would like to take his wife - by the neck?
These are all questions that need answers.
And does the phrase a bevy of beauties derive from the latter being contingent on the former?
In Dundee it does.
Or maybe I’ve just been drinking in the wrong pub.
The Last Chance Saloon.

Ordinary people, if you don't want to know the score.....

It would be hard to conceive of a crueller blow dealt by fate than when Beethoven lost his hearing.
Perhaps Narcissus never being able to see his own reflection....?
Such was the mind of Beethoven, however, I suspect that despite deafness, he was able to hear his music more clearly in his own head than I ever could in a concert hall.
And therein lies the massive chasm between lesser mortals like me and the genius that was Beethoven.
When I eventually shuffle off this mortal coil, it will be the difference between "my life's over" and "Beethoven's oeuvre".

The real value of pi (Peat Inn)

The Peat Inn is neither here nor there...but I refer only to its location in the middle of Fife.
For culinary excellence, it truly has arrived as its recent Michelin Star, Restaurant of the Year and Best Chef of the Year (Geoffrey Smeddle) awards confirm.
From nowhere to now here.
But then I already knew that.
The sad truth is, there are too few places in Scotland that reach these high standards.
Sadder still, few even try.
For the most part, the Scottish culinary experience is:
Expect the wurst. Hope for the breast.

Report: 'Modern couples don’t give marriage a chance.'

Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean.

So they filed for divorce on grounds of incompatibility.

Toyota president says recall-hit firm 'grew too fast'

That sounds about right.
Maybe he should consider a 'crash' course in PR....?

Alex Salmond. Role model or roly-poly model?

Never mind the costermonger or fishmonger.
Beware the scaremongers.
If we are to believe the latest Government warnings, Scotland is sitting on an obesity time bomb.
So rather than be fat and be merry, it now seems that there really is no mirth when it comes to girth.
The SNP are proposing legislation to enforce restaurants to serve smaller portions, but I think they are missing the point.
I’m not aware of too many restaurants serving bags of crisps, chocolate, pop corn, deep fried Mars Bars, sugary drinks and all the other junk foods that provide the foundation ‘stones’ for kids’ future diets.
To me, the best measure the SNP can take is around Alex Salmond’s waist.
It might help them locate the extra pounds (1700 of them that he claimed for food from the taxpayer in 2007/08 despite voting on only six days in the Commons).
With the present economic gloom, at least we will no longer need to tighten our belts.
Our waistlines will take up the slack.

'bulLYING'

Do you see the real issue?

How do you get black and blue from brown?

Get a job in Number 10.

Knucklehead or knuckleduster?

Either Brown knuckles down or knuckles under.
Vote Labour. It's a future free-for-all.

Gordon Brown's new fistal policy

Count to ten.

©rap

Hey Dudes, it's Tiger Woods,
he's dated many ravers.
He recognised quite early on
their value as stroke savers.

o.g.

Own Goal?
Gordon Brown cost the British taxpayer £5 billion by getting out of gold just when the clever money was moving in.

Olympic Gold?
Amy Williams wins a gold medal to double Britain's remaining gold reserves.

Oh Gordon?
The question mark says it all.

Out Going?
Not nearly soon enough.

Vote Labour - a future 'mare for all.

Worth Having You

Sometimes known as Worth Avenue.
(Palm Beach, Florida.)

The EastEnders whodunnit

Had the series been called WestEnders, we would have had a dénouement.

Three cheers for the Hip Hip-ocracy Party

As they say in politics – these are my principles and if you don’t like them, here’s another set.
I despair. At least I would if I wasn’t so inured against the hypocrisy that we have to face day in, day out.
And so an opportunity exists to set up a new political party that openly pretends to care about us, our environment, our future and all that other moonshine that we continually hear.
So instead of merely suspecting politicians of lying, at least we will know that they are.
The Hip Hip-ocracy Party.
No “can”, just cant.

New Government Car Scrappage Scheme

If you own a Toyota that is less than one year old and can recall where you ditched it, you can trade it in now for a free bus pass.

The company not upfront is Toyota.

Toyota remain 'spell' bound

Too much woe, not enough whoa!

Here lies Comrade Kzryaxinski

Some people’s names are impossible to pronounce…..until they are pronounced ‘dead’.

Any takers for Sol-vit?

Vitamin D in tablet form.
I’ll take one a day.

Spread? A little hippiness.

I'm confused.
Motorist organisations keep telling us about the importance of keeping your 'spare tyre' well inflated while Government Ministers exhort us to get rid of it altogether.
The baby boomer generation, it seems, is the new target for the Government's Change4Life campaign.
I'm doing my part. I recently bought a new piece of kit to combat middle-aged spread.
I call it my Waist Disposal Unit.

MP’s caught smoking in the Commons

Either they have been indulging in that foul habit or it’s another smoking gun.
We can never be too sure because 329 MP’s have put up a smokescreen to conceal their unpaid £138,000 drinks bill.
And all this on a day when it is proposed that alcoholic drinks should carry a health warning.
That’s obvious. At £419 each, these MP’s will surely be completely ‘plastered’ while our finances continue to haemorrhage.

A specious argument?

The Duchy of Cornwall, vegetable plot to the Prince of Wales, wants to bulldoze a wildlife haven that they insist is “species-poor”.
So let’s demolish Buckingham Palace.

Much ado about...

A nurse I met asked me what my blog was all about. Her tone suggested it was a pointed question.
“It’s about A & E” I said. “Maybe you could publicise it on your hospital’s notice board....?”
It wouldn’t be a bad place to go viral.
What I didn’t explain is that my blog is about Anything and Everything.
Much of which amounts to nothing.

Myth or Mythter?

The myth about the women of southern Europe sporting moustaches has gone on for far too long.
With the exponential growth in our own coffee culture, we all ought to be aware of the problem a cappuccino poses in leaving a chocolate-coloured splodge of milk on the upper lip.
Hence the ‘moustache’.
But how do you account for the hairy armpits of southern Europe’s women?
Next time you are there on holiday, just observe the manner in which they clean their teaspoons.
Mythtery tholved.

Give them all the boot

On a recent visit to Florida, I was amused to learn that members of the local Council in Palm Beach attended meetings with flip-flops and no socks.
Nobody believed me when I told them that our elected representatives in Westminster included many ‘flip’ flops.

Atishoo of lies....? Put me down for role ‘X’.

First of all, let me make myself perfectly clear. I have the utmost sympathy for all that Gordon Brown has suffered in his private life. Nonetheless, the cynic in me suggests that he is exploiting his own personal grief for political purposes.
Alright, so he shed a tear on national television and who wouldn’t when answering such difficult questions? However, we all know that politicians are the consummate professionals when it comes to not answering the questions they don’t want to and he should have placed these firmly in that category.
Except for one thing. There’s an election looming and Gordon Brown has displayed a sense of timing up there with the very best of Swiss watches.
Perhaps he is looking beyond election defeat and is hoping for a position on the board of Rolex.
Maybe Kleenex would be more appropriate. Not to wipe away the tears but to clean up the tissue of lies that he and Blair have perpetrated since coming to power in 1997.
But whether it’s Rolex or Kleenex, ‘ex’ is beginning to adopt a rather familiar tone.

Fishes' feet, snakes' wings, bats' i’s, bulls' ding-a-lings

It’s not a very good spell, I know. But neither was the spelling of “Chiie” on that country’s (Chile!) 50 peso coins which resulted in their General Manager being short changed. Or rather, changed shortly afterwards.
But it wasn’t the only misspelling this weekend.
Dignity is not something you would normally associate with Parliament. So I was very surprised to learn that the Palace of Westminster will now allow commoners to marry within their precincts on the grounds that the venue “will support the dignity of marriage”.
Surely that should be Dignitas?
If anyone knows otherwise, please ask your spouse before you spout your opinion here.

The Blogosfear

I have this feeling that I’m about to go viral. I got a chill on the flight home last night and am now incontentinental.
Could end up on the blog all day.

Contentinental

To get to the States without getting in a state, fly Contentinental.

Oops!

The above heading could well be an acronym for ‘Out of place, sorry!’
Not that you would ever need to use it in Palm Beach, Florida.
I tried but just could not find a piece of litter, a bit of chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk or, for that matter, a single blade of grass pointing in the wrong direction.
The only thing out of place is my nose.
Well, whose wouldn’t be if you were just about to leave on the next plane for Scotland?

Beware! A Government Wealth Warning.

The Intercoastal which flows past Palm Beach is not unlike the canals in Venice. And just like the Venetian canals, this one also smells. In fact, it stinks of money.
This is where Bernard Madoff did a lot of ‘fishing’. But rather than invest, I decided to investigate.
Just south of Palm Beach is Delray Beach. It was there that I boarded the pleasure cruiser Lady Atlantic for a trip down the Intercoastal to Boca Raton. Not even the best navigation systems on the market could prepare me for what lay ahead.
Boca Raton is home to the rich and famous or, to be more precise, the second home to the rich and famous. One wonders what their permanent residences are like.
With ocean-going cruisers berthed at the foot of every garden, this was The Ideal Home Show and The International Boat Show rolled into one.
As the pleasure trip progressed, I felt increasingly like the alligators I had seen in the Everglades the day before. My jaw was permanently locked open.
But now I’m really stuck.
I don’t know if I need a Tetanus injection or a reality check.

Withdrawal symptoms

All good things come to an end and holidays are no different. Although I still have two days left, I’m already suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
I’ve withdrawn too much money from my account.

If nothing is forever...

...what's the point of being an eternal optimist?

One highly polished performance after another

The difference between the Service Industry in the UK and in the States is that in the latter it does what it says on the tin.
If you pay top dollar you get top service.
I should know, I’m busy polishing shoes.
Well, I need to work my passage home somehow.
It just wasn’t my idea of all that ‘cherry blossom’ I was promised before I came out here.

Happiness is relative

Whereas I used to be a one-pinter, now I’m an ein–steiner.
So relatively, I’m happier.

It’s an eye popping, pill popping life in Palm Beach

From our sumptuous surroundings on South Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach, we ventured past the Royal Palms and into Worth Avenue.
If there is a more exclusive place on this planet, then I’m sure it is uninhabited, having excluded absolutely everyone.
I will not even attempt to describe most of what I saw. You truly have to see it to believe it and, believe me, I struggled to believe half of what I did see.
That was certainly the case with the creature that pulled up alongside me in a limo that I can only describe as ego-friendly.
That ‘creature’, who I took a 50/50 punt on being of female origin, tried to smile at me but plastic surgery denied me that special moment. Either something would have snapped or her navel would have appeared above her plimsoll line.
Nonetheless, I was smitten.
She might have been as wrinkled as a prune, but she looked as though she had enough smooth greenbacks to lure a poor little toy boy like me.
I’ll need to keep taking the pills.

Always look on the bright side

It eclipses everything else.

Another slice of life

When Christine Cuddihy attempted to buy a slice of quiche in her local Tesco, she was both taken aback and sore affronted when asked for proof of age.
One hesitates to think about what mischief you could possibly get up to with a quiche. Terrorising steak lovers is about as far as I will ‘take it’.
Personally, I suspect that it was a simple case of bad spelling emanating from Tesco’s QH (Headquarters).
A quiche could quite easily be misconstrued as a ‘quickie’.
That reminds me, have you tried their tarts yet?

Double up for a double first

SAT exams recently? If you mean Slap And Tickle, yes.
Karl Woodgett, the former registrar at the University of Bath, was given a nine months prison sentence for issuing bogus degrees to women who participated in his pain management study.
To them, PMS. To us, spanking sessions.
Now I’m not suggesting that his name is good but it’s not a bad name for someone caught with his pants down.
Karl Woodgett whatever he wants, especially now that the old slapper is in the slammer.

Harm ‘em globetrotters

If they can’t get you, they’ll get your luggage.
Should you have ever wondered what makes the States such a great basketball playing nation, you’ve obviously never watched the baggage handlers at JFK .
They’ll lob, throw, toss, chuck, punt and pitch your luggage. And even when the easier option would be to place a bag, they’ll find it a flight path.
JFK. It’s where the globetrotters meet Harlem.

The Jelly Belly Man

It was lunch, if I can risk describing it thus on a plane 40,000 feet above the Atlantic.
Having quite enjoyed my chicken and asparagus, I looked across the aisle where a fellow passenger was about to tuck in to what seemed like a world record attempt at a jelly.
“I’ll have one of those” I said to the hostess.
Discreetly, she pointed out that my vision of what I thought was a truly irresistible blancmange, was actually the gentlemen’s gut wedged up against and sprawling all over his fold-out table.
Amused, not a little put out and most certainly put off, I ordered a few grapes.
Preferably just like his gut.
Well pressed.

Today Dundee. Tomorrow a ‘Dun deel’.

Tickets in hand, I’m off to Palm Beach, Florida.
And just in case you are thinking that I’ve had an attack of insouciance with regards to my carbon footprint, let me assure you, I am losing a lot of sleep over it.
But don’t worry, I intend to offset it against jet lag.
What’s more, as with most eco-warriors, I’ll make a lot of petty gestures that purport to save the planet while also making me feel good about myself.
First of all, I don’t intend to worry about the flight. No worries, no wind. But if things do go awry, I’ll do my best to hold back until Florida. Then I can find somewhere quiet to release all that trapped wind and, believe me, it will not be quiet for long. (In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if nervous transatlantic passengers are the reason for the hurricane season. Please note, I resisted saying "the reason ’behind’ the hurricane season".)
Secondly, I’ll be on the lookout for any shenanigans such as fellow passengers trying to set fire to their underpants. That can't be good for the environment. Let’s hope that they are as badly ‘briefed’ as the last one.
Finally, if he or she (no profiling from me) isn’t badly briefed, I intend to have a proper eco-friendly burial.
With my undying (not the best word to choose) love of the environment, cremation is the last thing I need.
Of course it is.

Toyota. The good news and the bad news.

First the bad news. That lovely new Toyota that you have just bought might have a faulty accelerator that is prone to jamming open.
And the good news? If you want Toyota to do something about it, you won't need to put your foot down.

The car in front - away out in front - is a Toyota.

Good Apple. Bad Apple.

The new Apple iPad and John 'come back to myPad' Terry.

A Nightmare in Nightwear

In a blog entitled “Every Lidl helps” that I posted on 24th November 2009, I expounded the view that we are all due Tesco a debt of gratitude.
That debt has just become greater.
By banning customers who fall out of bed and into their stores, Tesco are doing us all a favour.
For every pyjama wearer who might tempt you to turn your head, there are 99 who will turn your stomach.
I don’t know which wag it was who once observed that Tesco were created to keep the riff-raff out of Waitrose, but I just wonder where they will sleep-walk to next.
Maybe they will revert to shopping online – providing they can get their computers out of sleep mode.

Stupidity with (a) largesse

The idea of giving British taxpayers' money to the Taliban in Afghanistan as an inducement to stop them fighting our forces is Stupidity with a large ‘S’.
I would like to introduce a worthy analogy but am struggling to find one daft enough.
Try this:
Why don’t we pay Fred Goodwin £750,000 a year if he agrees to stop drawing his pension?

Alex Salmond. The virtuoso of the base line.

Whatever the discipline, I am a great fan of virtuosity.
For that reason - more than national fervour - I hope that Andy Murray wins the Australian Open on Sunday.
Except for one big concern.
Should a Scot become the first Brit in 74 years to win a Grand Slam men's singles title, the pug-faced Alex Salmond will be basking in the limelight as if he had won it himself.
I dare not elaborate on the potential for welcoming parties, official functions, etc. lest Salmond reads my blogs. The self-styled arriviste needs no encouragement.
Suffice to say he will probably trot out the usual mantra:
"It woz independence wot done it."

Belt up!

Yesterday I surmised in one of my blogs about how the less well off have to tighten their belts while the rich merely heighten them.
Imagine my surprise then to learn from today's Daily Telegraph(28.1.10.) that research has proved that the older a man becomes, the higher he wears his belt. Bearing in mind that you have to be of a certain age to have accumulated some wealth, I was not too far out.
But it does raise a couple of questions:

1. Just how old is Simon Methuselah Cowell?
2. How old and depressed do you need to be before you start slipping the belt around your neck rather than your waist?

The article in the Telegraph was by Harry Wallop whose middle name might as well be Cods.
Maybe he would like to do a guest piece for my blog.
Would that then make it a Codspiece?

Blair. The moment of truth?

Or is a moment too long?
Tomorrow, in some people's eyes, there is a score to be settled around 9/11 which led to the Iraq War.

The date tomorrow?

29 1 10

20 (a score) wrapped around 9/11.

Contrived or connived?

GO OGLE ANAL

I've heard about contemplating your navel but the above suggestion is beyond ridiculous.
Or that's what you might think until I tell you that it forms the first part of Google Analytics.
Okay, so it's still ridiculous.
But if you had experienced the problems I have with Google's tracking code, then you might glean a clue from above about precisely where I would like to stick it.
In the "Edit template" section of my blog.
Where were you thinking?

Cameron told he "must raise the game"

Does that mean he needs a grouse beater?

The economy grew by 0.1% in the last quarter

(That's lucky, 'cos I'm down to my last quarter.)
Meanwhile, Alistair Darling's nose grew by 10%.
There are rich pickings ahead.

The rich are raising the bar...and their belts

The gap between the rich and poor is at its widest since the Second World War. So while most of us have to tighten our belts, the rich, such as Simon Cowell, simply heighten their belts.

You're a star, Eurostar

I'd like to think that it was in reaction to my blog on 21st December 2009 that Eurostar have recognised the error of their ways.
From launching an independent inquiry to modifying their trains so that they actually run in the winter, the company are now back on track. And their drivers are under no illusion that just because it might be cold and dark outside, when they enter a tunnel, it should not act as a trigger for them to enter hibernation. Eurostar will even provide faster information for all customers and staff. No more: "This is the night mail crossing the border, bringing the cheque and the postal order". Pigeons are it. Or rather, with Eurostar, pigeons are IT.
But most of all, Eurostar are listening.
They have even met with customers involved in the disruption over the festive season. A spokesman for Eurostar said "Tracking them down was easy. They were still sitting on the train at Platform 1."
A very Merry Christmas to them all.

A fix for a fix

The more I read about bankers and their bonuses, the clearer it is becoming.
They have a problem which, in effect, is our problem.
Bankers have an addiction and bonuses are their fix.
So what can we do about it?
As part of their ongoing training, it is proposed that bankers should spend one week every year in The Priority Clinic.
On admission, they will be introduced to method one.
That involves going straight into de-talks. No glib gibberish. Just action.
They will be taught where their priorities ought to lie rather than habitually lie about their priorities - as is their wont.
And to help them understand that there are consequences to their actions, a series of potential pitfalls will be set up throughout The Priority Clinic to test their progress. For example, in the gym there will be a huge pile of cash. When a banker attempts to remove it, a large weight will come crashing down in the hope of knocking some sense into him.
The scheme has already been trialled with rats as it was felt that they were as close as it was possible to get to a real banker.
In time, the rats returned happily to their sewers.
Hopefully, bankers will do likewise.

It beggars belief

The streets of London, they say, are paved with gold.
Try telling that to a beggar who receives his pay in his cap.....or to a banker at Goldman Sachs whose pay has also been 'capped'.
At a poultry £1 million a year.
How will they both get by?

PS. Yes, I meant 'poultry'. After all, £1 million is chicken feed to a banker.

Heartache or headache?

I note that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have been seeking advice on how best to split their £205 million fortune as they decide to go their separate ways.
Now that's what I call a splitting headache.

Prepare for battle

So it's official. The General Election will be on May the 6th.
Either Bob Ainsworth thought the date was a no-brainer or he has no brain.
Let the voters decide.
As Defence Secretary, I wonder which other 'buttons' his finger might be on.....?
The exit button?

The taxman is among my favourites!

Sunday morning seemed like as good a time as any to pay my tax, so that's what I did.
Online and on time.
I was doing very well to block out of my mind the things that my tax might be used for until I reached the point where I had to fill in an imaginary security question.
What about: if Fred Goodwin were a plant, which would it be?
(That's when I remembered where all my tax was going.)
I thought that 'nettle' would be a pretty decent answer as we've all been stung by one.
Then I began to worry that nettles were not severe enough until I thought: you can make soup from nettles and that is precisely where we've all ended up.
Thanks Fred.
I just wish that he had come from better stock.

Payment complete, I was then invited by HMRC to bookmark their website to make future payments easier.....but no less painful.
So I did and up popped a box "Add as Favourite".
The taxman? A favourite? Who said irony was dead?
However, this is where I arrive at my real concern.
Whenever I visit a website, I worry about the possibility of a virus.
If you accept the loose definition of a virus as something that gets up your nose and causes nausea, I think it is fair to assume that the taxman is a virus.
And, as we all know, a virus can be difficult to avoid.
Unless, of course, you are Fred Goodwin.
The swine flu abroad.

My writing is losing me work

As a freelancer, my writing goes on working for my clients much longer than I do.
You could say I've been sentenced by my sentences.

The Original Man of Straw?

The possibly eponymous and most emphatically pusillanimous Jack Straw attended the Iraq Inquiry this week. It transpires that he sent a letter marked “secret and personal” to Tony Blair expressing his concerns about the impending war in Iraq. Patently, he was not concerned enough to resign from his post on a point of principle.
What amused me, however, was the thought that he might have abbreviated “secret and personal” and addressed the letter to Blair as “Sap”.
Coming from Jack (the man of) Straw, that really would plumb new depths of cynicism.
Maybe we can hold an inquiry to find out the truth. We seem to be holding inquiries for just about everything else.

Placebo Domingo does nothing for me

Brown bred

In a recent interview Gordon Brown proudly asserted that the motley crew who we know as his cabinet are all of his own choosing.
To me, that makes the Labour Government Brown bred as well as brown bread.

Blair's Day of Judgement

Much was made of Tony Blair's highly publicised conversion to Roman Catholicism. While his Government professed - perhaps that should read confessed - to "not doing God", one always sensed that his faith played a big part in the big decisions.
That's why next Friday will be a big day for our former PM.
He will appear before JC or, to give him his full title, Sir John Chilcot who is conducting the Iraq Inquiry.
The Ten Commandments were given to Moses on two tablets of stone so maybe we should just send Blair away with the advice "keep taking the tablets".
Like the rest of us, he will be properly judged at the end of time.

Be more fly than a spider

A spider moved its furtive way
across my bedroom wall,
and as I lay and watched it creep
my flesh began to crawl.
While there upon an old pot plant
its web it did detect.
And yet for reasons known too well,
it just could not connect.

And the moral of my story is: if at first you don't connect, try a new provider.

One a day keeps the doctor away

The Daily Mail, that is.
Open it any day of the week and you will find a miraculous cure for one medical condition or another.
From flat feet to curvature of the spine, from feeling the blues to squeezing blackheads and from a failing memory to that other condition that begins with a 'p'. Oh yes, incontinence.
Sometimes I think the Daily Mail is taking the proverbial p#*s.
That's why I choose to spend my recommended daily allowance on The Beano.

On the pull

I note in my local supermarket that they are now grading their chickens according to how well they were brought up or, perhaps more pertinently, reared.
Grading is all very well but, personally, I find it degrading that I have to seek recourse in the poultry section in my quest to find that 'Class A bird' that has always eluded me.
On the other hand, I ought not to complain if she is happy with being corn fed.

No comeback with Ryanair?

What is it about Ryanair that they have taken to advertising one way tickets?
Surely most of their customers need to return....?
Today's ad in the Daily Telegraph is a case in point.
One way to Porto - £10.

Could it be because:

1. the return fare is so outrageously expensive, the total price is no different from any other airline?

2. the airport that Ryanair flies you to is so remote from the destination city advertised, they realise that you only have a remote chance of finding it again?

3. your experience on the way out was so bloody awful, you would rather crawl back on all fours while pushing a pea with your nose along the way. (Travellers please note, the 'pea' will cost you more on Ryanair.)

Whichever way I choose to go on holiday this year, there is 'one way' I certainly won't be going.

With those crack of dawn, fly-by-nighters.

I've just completed my self-assessment

Tall, good looking and talented.
Would like to meet girl with huge rebate.

'Split' timing

When the property market collapsed, I timed my house move to perfection.
Three in the morning.
Just don't tell the bailiffs.

The Scotsman has had its chips

Blaming Buckfast for the ills of society because of the potent mixture of alcohol and caffeine contained therein is like blaming the Scotsman for the poor health caused by the greasy chips served in yesterday's paper.
The editorial in today's Scotsman is wrong to blame the drink.
God forbid - and I use that term advisedly - that the Benedictine monks who make Buckfast ever get together with the Capuchin monks after whom the cappuccino is named.
All hell will break loose - and I don't use that term lightly.
.

Want to hear a joke?

Good one.
Sorry, Goodwin.
Surely RMJM are not serious....?
The architects who were complicit in building our Scottish Parliament at Holyrood, a memorial to one of the most shameful episodes in our history, have appointed Fred Goodwin as goodwill ambassador.
When even architects don't know where to draw the line, we have a problem.
As for Fred - who we know is drawing a decent pension - what is he thinking about?
Alright, it has been a severe winter and Fred probably isn't quite old enough to qualify for cold weather payments, but hell would need to freeze over before he had to sit up and take notice of a heating bill...or indeed, take the blame for his misdemeanours.

Off the hook!

Today marked the beginning of the salmon season on the River Tay in Scotland.
I've often worried about those among us who choose to spend their spare time trying to outwit a fish.
But now I'm really worried.
Once caught, anglers have agreed to immediately return the salmon to the waters whence they came.
The belief is that this 'catch and release' policy will help to replenish the stocks.
On the one hand, I am inclined to believe that the memory of such a ghastly experience would deter the salmon from ever returning to the Tay, thus depleting their numbers even further.
On the other hand, this 'catch and release' policy has worked wonders for our ever-increasing criminal underclass.
It's a 'reel' dilemma.

World Exclusive. An interview with Sir Fred Goodwin.

I tracked down Sir Fred Anderson Goodwin to Sicily where he is living in a small pensione. The irony of his abode did not escape me.
He agreed to meet me in a local hostelry overlooking the Mediterranean on one condition: I paid for the meal. Some things never change.

Me: Fred, why Sicily?
FAG: I wanted to experience life down at heel. But seriously, I like the people here. They are honest. I trust them and they trust me. They are good at keeping secrets.
Me: Regrets?
FAG: I’ve had a feud.
Me: Would you like to expand….?
FAG: No, I made that mistake at RBS.
Me: How do you fill in your day?
FAG: Each morning I wake up, I count my blessings. It’s much quicker than counting my money.
Me: How would you like to be remembered?
FAG: I’d rather people forgot. You’ll not tell them I’m here, will you?
Me: Do you believe in reincarnation?
FAG: I have to. I killed off RBS and just look at it now.
Me: If you had the choice, what would you like to come back as?
FAG: Probably a rat.
Me: Sorry Fred, you can’t be the same thing twice.

And at that, Sir Fred stormed out. I forgot to remind him that this was a cliff top trattoria and that it is not only shares prices that can plummet.

2010. A year of two halves.

Pre-election. Post election.
Whether you vote Brown or Cameron, they both have what it takes to take what you have.
So what you have now, you can halve later.

He low, he low, he low!

You might need to work on that headline as it falls a bit short of my usual standard, but that's just the point.
I was approached by someone in the High Street (a most unfortunate street name in this case) who greeted me in the time-honoured way.
"Hello, hello, hello."
Who said that?
It was a five foot tall policeman. His 'headline' also fell a little short.
Even the PC's have gone PC.
Not only are they looking younger, they are actually getting smaller.
Maybe they should consider a new recruiting campaign:
We don't discriminate, we only discriminalate.