If the Telegraph is to believed - and we here do - then Frank Cook, MP, must merit as the worst of all the worst.
For we read that he attempted to claim five pounds in expenses, that being the amount he had put into the collection plate during a Battle of Britain church service.
Read that again and does not your anger mount and your very stomach retch?
Let us wait perhaps for any repudiation or denial before gathering the faggots to build the burning pile with him atop it. But should there be no ready answer to hand, then here in my hand tonight is the box of matches to light the cleansing fire.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Bill Cash
...says it all really don't it?
He hands over the Bill and we have paid him the Cash.
Handy little aide memoire indeed should the volume and the detail of it all threaten to engulf you.
He hands over the Bill and we have paid him the Cash.
Handy little aide memoire indeed should the volume and the detail of it all threaten to engulf you.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Horse Sense...
...the selling of a beloved horse should not be trouble free. The decision, in the first place, to part with the beast in question should itself be taken not lightly.
There is, shall we call it, the professional dimension to consider: if one feels that equestrian aspirations of top-notch dressage are not within its capacity, how confident can one be that the next nag would be any better? Never is there the perfect horse; they - as their riders - all carry some degree of imperfection and only time tells if there is a possible partnership that can develop to some level of acceptable harmony and performance. When you buy you simply don't know if it will work out well or badly.
Then there is the far more potent moral matter: having committed to cherish the animal on purchase, having grown quite to love the thing over five years, how could any other person be entrusted with its care? The vetting process for any new owner has to be utterly rigorous. They are scrutinised and quizzed, third-party information is sought and considered. Only then, when that can be as satisfactorily resolved as may be, is the horse to be submitted for its own vetting.
No one of course seeks to ask the horse if she would mind awfully leaving for another yard, another rider and another life. Impossible even to let the thing know that this is what is intended. Nature has not equipped the respective species with opportunities for mainstream communication. One has, therefore, to go by clues and cues, being sensitive to both but not sure of either.
Today though our mare has spoken out loud and clear what she thinks of the whole thing. Irked by the initial proding, not happy with the eye test in a darkened stable, clearly unsettled by the intrusive flexion tests; no sooner then had E mounted to show off her paces than we were all treated to the horror show of a wild, untamed mustang-like affair, all rearing and twisting and bolting, with E at once thrown to the ground in a pained heap. Horse then bucking its way round the arena quite out of control and all character.
E is carted off to hospital for check-up, potential buyer flees in tears, vet stands aghast and we are all puzzled to have seen something so dire and unprecendented.
Later check-up calls to the stable reveal that horse has resumed its habitual stunned-donkey nonchalance, quietly munching away without a care in the world and, presumably, thoroughly happy with her performance guaranteeing she stays just where she is.
There is, shall we call it, the professional dimension to consider: if one feels that equestrian aspirations of top-notch dressage are not within its capacity, how confident can one be that the next nag would be any better? Never is there the perfect horse; they - as their riders - all carry some degree of imperfection and only time tells if there is a possible partnership that can develop to some level of acceptable harmony and performance. When you buy you simply don't know if it will work out well or badly.
Then there is the far more potent moral matter: having committed to cherish the animal on purchase, having grown quite to love the thing over five years, how could any other person be entrusted with its care? The vetting process for any new owner has to be utterly rigorous. They are scrutinised and quizzed, third-party information is sought and considered. Only then, when that can be as satisfactorily resolved as may be, is the horse to be submitted for its own vetting.
No one of course seeks to ask the horse if she would mind awfully leaving for another yard, another rider and another life. Impossible even to let the thing know that this is what is intended. Nature has not equipped the respective species with opportunities for mainstream communication. One has, therefore, to go by clues and cues, being sensitive to both but not sure of either.
Today though our mare has spoken out loud and clear what she thinks of the whole thing. Irked by the initial proding, not happy with the eye test in a darkened stable, clearly unsettled by the intrusive flexion tests; no sooner then had E mounted to show off her paces than we were all treated to the horror show of a wild, untamed mustang-like affair, all rearing and twisting and bolting, with E at once thrown to the ground in a pained heap. Horse then bucking its way round the arena quite out of control and all character.
E is carted off to hospital for check-up, potential buyer flees in tears, vet stands aghast and we are all puzzled to have seen something so dire and unprecendented.
Later check-up calls to the stable reveal that horse has resumed its habitual stunned-donkey nonchalance, quietly munching away without a care in the world and, presumably, thoroughly happy with her performance guaranteeing she stays just where she is.
Monday, May 25, 2009
A Healthy Diet...
...the aforementioned Ian McCartney is, we are told, now to leave office for 'health reasons.'
Champagne diet you see. Catches up with you in the end.
Champagne diet you see. Catches up with you in the end.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Let Them Drink Champagne...
'Mr McCartney [former Labour Party Chairman] said he had claimed for a dinner set and champagne flutes because, when he was a senior minister, he had to hold meetings at his home. He said: “I had to feed people.”' - Telegraph this evening.
Well, quite.
Well, quite.
'None of the Above' - X Marks The Spot...
I may perhaps be too late, but in case not am pleased to announce the formation of a new political party set fair to storm the hustings ere long.
The 'None of the Above Party' will of course be dedicated to ensuring that none of the above candidates of any of the present and utterly corrupt political parties will gain one single, solitary vote.
They hardly will of course, but people are stubbornly attached to voting; they don't care not to make their mark even if it is for the least of all the available evils.
So NOTA - could we even, and why not, pun it 'Nota Bene' - will be there for those who yearn not to absent themselves from the democratic process. A noble and an altruistic calling you'll readily agree.
Problems will doubtless later arise when NOTA is swept to power on a wave of popular sentiment and revulsion for others in equal measure. Our candidates will surely prove as venial as other men and women.
Already - as President of this fledgling force for good - I am measuring the rectorial library for new oaken shelving, and pondering if plain calf leather is sufficient for the strictly necessary re-binding of the thousands of books therein. H would no doubt much care for - need rather - a fine new kitchen of marble and chrome, whilst how could I apply myself to national duties knowing E did not have all the horses she requires to compete at the highest level?
Subscriptions for potential NOTA members will shortly be available. Fee rates are yet to be determined, so do please just send signed blank cheques payable to me at your most earliest convenience!
The 'None of the Above Party' will of course be dedicated to ensuring that none of the above candidates of any of the present and utterly corrupt political parties will gain one single, solitary vote.
They hardly will of course, but people are stubbornly attached to voting; they don't care not to make their mark even if it is for the least of all the available evils.
So NOTA - could we even, and why not, pun it 'Nota Bene' - will be there for those who yearn not to absent themselves from the democratic process. A noble and an altruistic calling you'll readily agree.
Problems will doubtless later arise when NOTA is swept to power on a wave of popular sentiment and revulsion for others in equal measure. Our candidates will surely prove as venial as other men and women.
Already - as President of this fledgling force for good - I am measuring the rectorial library for new oaken shelving, and pondering if plain calf leather is sufficient for the strictly necessary re-binding of the thousands of books therein. H would no doubt much care for - need rather - a fine new kitchen of marble and chrome, whilst how could I apply myself to national duties knowing E did not have all the horses she requires to compete at the highest level?
Subscriptions for potential NOTA members will shortly be available. Fee rates are yet to be determined, so do please just send signed blank cheques payable to me at your most earliest convenience!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Let Them Eat Beethoven...
A Rectorial hat-tip tonight for dear Dame Liz Forgan, recently elevated to head honchess of the dreaded Arts Council.
Hear her own wonderful words:
"Throwing children alive into a boiling vat of great music does them no harm at all."
Children, so she she tells us, should be subjected to a deliberate policy of exposing them "...to what might appear to be entirely unsuitable masterpieces at an early age. I am more grateful than I can say for adults who loved music themselves, who sought to pass on that love as soon as possible Рor even sooner Рand who totally lacked the defeatism that believes classical music is inaccessible, out of reach and somehow to be approached in disguise. If I had been forced to start with clapping games, or tooting Fr̬re Jacques on the recorder, I fear I might have turned to crime or even netball as more exciting alternatives. Give them Birtwistle, Buxtehude, Finzi, Ockeghem and Beethoven as soon as possible I say."
What a fine, fine woman. E was strapped into her high-chair in front of Wagner 'ere she was one. Not particularly spotted that she's become a fan of the fellow as such, but at eighteen has turned out pretty well, which to me at least proves the case.
Hear her own wonderful words:
"Throwing children alive into a boiling vat of great music does them no harm at all."
Children, so she she tells us, should be subjected to a deliberate policy of exposing them "...to what might appear to be entirely unsuitable masterpieces at an early age. I am more grateful than I can say for adults who loved music themselves, who sought to pass on that love as soon as possible Рor even sooner Рand who totally lacked the defeatism that believes classical music is inaccessible, out of reach and somehow to be approached in disguise. If I had been forced to start with clapping games, or tooting Fr̬re Jacques on the recorder, I fear I might have turned to crime or even netball as more exciting alternatives. Give them Birtwistle, Buxtehude, Finzi, Ockeghem and Beethoven as soon as possible I say."
What a fine, fine woman. E was strapped into her high-chair in front of Wagner 'ere she was one. Not particularly spotted that she's become a fan of the fellow as such, but at eighteen has turned out pretty well, which to me at least proves the case.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Swine Flu Joke - Pandemic Alert
As the World Health Authority appears to have missed a trick here, it falls upon me to raise a level 6 alert regarding a clearly now pandemic swine 'flu joke.
You know the one I mean, beginning "I phoned the swine 'flu hotline..." and ending "...but all I got was crackling." Well of course you know the joke, it has spread around the world in a fevered flash.
I caught it from Deirdre our wondrous Community Nurse yesterday morning, passed it on to three family members before lunch, two parishioners pip emma, also to find that Sal in our local off-licence had already been infected from another source by the evening.
The good news is that the joke does not appear to have mutated in any manner so far. Structural analysis would also seem to confirm that it will not change, though there is of course the ever present risk of conflation with another, entirely different, swine 'flu joke creating a synthetic new variant.
Symptoms of first exposure to the joke appear to be quite strong. Not often indeed would H or E genuinely laugh at any witticism of mine, though in this case both did. Self-immunity though does rapidly build-up it seems, for neither found it anywhere near as amusing when given a second dose of the joke over supper.
I should indeed have expected Sal to have been infected, as her day job is at our local hospital where the risk of exposure to gallows humour of all kinds will be a systemic occupational hazard. Not aware that she is a separated at birth twin of mine, but no sooner were the first words out than Sal was mouthing the punchline as one ever accustomed to finishing my sentences for me.
Developing then the theme, it was interesting to learn that not only does our local slaughter-house not have any of the right sort of face masks to offer its nursing staff, but also security guards have needed to be hired as it was found that the doctors were nicking the Tamiflu.
Stands then the NHS ready, willing and able to cope with a swine 'flu pandemic in this land? Don't make me laugh! That is no joke at all, sadly.
You know the one I mean, beginning "I phoned the swine 'flu hotline..." and ending "...but all I got was crackling." Well of course you know the joke, it has spread around the world in a fevered flash.
I caught it from Deirdre our wondrous Community Nurse yesterday morning, passed it on to three family members before lunch, two parishioners pip emma, also to find that Sal in our local off-licence had already been infected from another source by the evening.
The good news is that the joke does not appear to have mutated in any manner so far. Structural analysis would also seem to confirm that it will not change, though there is of course the ever present risk of conflation with another, entirely different, swine 'flu joke creating a synthetic new variant.
Symptoms of first exposure to the joke appear to be quite strong. Not often indeed would H or E genuinely laugh at any witticism of mine, though in this case both did. Self-immunity though does rapidly build-up it seems, for neither found it anywhere near as amusing when given a second dose of the joke over supper.
I should indeed have expected Sal to have been infected, as her day job is at our local hospital where the risk of exposure to gallows humour of all kinds will be a systemic occupational hazard. Not aware that she is a separated at birth twin of mine, but no sooner were the first words out than Sal was mouthing the punchline as one ever accustomed to finishing my sentences for me.
Developing then the theme, it was interesting to learn that not only does our local slaughter-house not have any of the right sort of face masks to offer its nursing staff, but also security guards have needed to be hired as it was found that the doctors were nicking the Tamiflu.
Stands then the NHS ready, willing and able to cope with a swine 'flu pandemic in this land? Don't make me laugh! That is no joke at all, sadly.
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