It's truly mental.
No matter what I do. or how hard I try, I cannot cannot cannot get to the fucking library (sorry Pat) on a Tuesday Thursday or a good godamn Saturday to get on the net.
I don't know what to do. I really, really, don't.

It's like a conspiracy, or is that my solipsism talking?
Only Kim can tell.

As you will have surmised by now, I am a Knight of Malta. I’m not meant to talk about it but we Maroons have been Templars in unbroken line from Robert de Marron, who as you know was cousin to Kenneth Mac Alpine on the distaff side and nephew sinestra to Guy of Warwick. Currently, I’m waiting for Our Holy Father in Rome to call me up and begin the Counter Reformation. My task will be to post copies of the Catholic Herald through The Queen’s letterbox. And this brings me to my next point: that of our prime minister encouraging everyone to wear their uniforms in public again.

You will be too young to remember, but time was when any city street would be full of nurses in capes and commissionaires in vestibules all spick and span and ready for inspection Sah! A time, not long ago, when everyone wore a uniform. I like uniforms me, but, as a Soldier of Christ, I’m not sure multi ethnic Britain would be ready for me trotting round Asda in my livery. It’s not the chain mail or the broadsword, surely a common enough sight in our supermarkets these days, no, it’s The Cross.

The traditional big red cross on a white sur-coat is bad enough, but we go one better. Our big red cross is eight pointed and is repeated on the shoulder of the cloak. I should have mentioned; there’s a big fancy cloak as well, with hood proper, well it’s more of a cowl than a hood truth be told, and golden spurs of course (I’m a knight), and pointy chain mail sock things and a pointy shield, again with red cross motif. I admit it’s a little bit “corporate branding” that cross, but I’d bet no-one would count my items in the express line. No, I’m not worried about buying twenty Rothmans in my uniform, but what about going for a pint afterwards? For a kick off, chain-mail plays merry hell with your body hair and you daren’t cross your legs, (there’s no give) and any trip to the lavatory is out of the question so it’d be half pints only and nips of whisky to make up for it and so you’d be pissed in no time, looking for heretics to burn. No: uniforms and cross cultural binge drinking would never work.
Gordon Brown is such an idiot!

remedial filler



http://www.itv.com/News/Articles/Most-advanced-warship-tested-at-sea-658563374.html

For 34 days!


Twentyfive found guilty!

Hardy har haar.


Your comments to the previous bit are all terribly kind and generous, except Ayres' which I find subtly disapproving and mean spirited.

He's the phone stalker by the way.

Perv.

Dateline Thursday 1st May.

I still got nothing.

Nada.


Except, I 've picked up a phone stalker.

You heard me. Started on my birthday, (18th April) and continued last night. How mental is that?

That and the death recently announced of Hoffmann the researcher (bio chemistry) at La Roche who stumbled on LSD while fiddling with ergot. (sp?) The rye fungus.

It's gonna take ages to reply to all your kind comments.


Oh and this.

buggeration! Can't find the post.

Found it! December 2005 ! didn't realise it was so far back.

" Anyway because of my superb globetrotting remedial work, it’s now safe again to fly off to your favourite Christmas destinations.I’m positive it is. Yes. No I’m quite sure. Yes I’m certain. Avoid older MD80s"

and then THIS happens!

http://www.aviation.com/travel/080327-ap-delta-american-cancel-flights.html

stick with me folks. I'll keep you right.

Thierry Henry kicks his cat and never phones his mother. He quite possibly smells and his name is back to front. Personally I have no time for the man.

As you will know, 60 nautical miles is one degree on the surface of the earth meaning that 360 degrees is 21 600 nautical miles.

What you probably DIDN’T know, is that my year (boar) has just ended and the time of the dirty rat has begun.

Inauspicious.

Don’t ask for the fish in China for it will not be sole nor even a nice haddock; it will be an innocent goldfish wriggling on a skewer!

Sometimes foreigners know fine what you’re talking about, they just like taking a rise out you. They stare glumly while yours truly explains with pen and paper what the modern offside rule means in terms of playing with two attacking fullbacks. It’s better just to fill up on beer and noodles and stare back at them and see how they like their own medicine.

Luckily for all of you, I am a very important and clever person and I’ve been flying the flag of British exports, keeping our balance of payments in the black, and showing some true steel. Actually it was a complex alloy that costs a fortune but that’s none of your business.

Last night at half past six, a palsy of depression fell on me like a cloak. It was as sudden as a switch being turned off. There was no warning. It had lifted by 10 o’clock but it left me frightened and anxious.

The Prince and The Paupers


Harry: Oh Papa, I am so tired shootin’ peregrines an’ red kites and badgers, may I not go to Afghanistan and shoot some fuzzy-wuzzys instead?
Charles: Ask your grandfather
Phil: Course you may m’boy, just make sure you wear a British uniform this time: leave Uncle Wolfgang’s armband at home.

And so it came to pass that the creepy little prince got his wish to go to a far off kingdom and bring down death upon the heads of the poor superstitious people in the fields of their own land using stand off weapons guided by British R.A.F. technicians 7000 miles away in the Nevada Desert of the Americans.

“They never knew what hit them, the silly things.” he sniggered, as the burning Afghans ran away screaming.

Oh how the young prince danced with glee...until his ripping good fun was stopped and the precious little prince was dragged home to protect him (from the enemy).
No one mentioned how sick it all seemed, or asked why the insufferable little scrub was there in the first place instead of wasting his subjects’ money in nightclubs.

“If it wasn’t just to indulge his morbid proclivities he must surely stay and fight on, taking his chances with the rest.” suggested nobody.

“What a thoughtless little weirdo.” said no one else.

I cannot tell you the gratification I feel when I read your comments after a hiatus.

I am literally sworn to secrecy, but being of a reckless kidney, I am not afraid to say that I been in Cathay! Land of the Chicken Maryland with banana fritter? (I wish!)

This means that I have now been in (on?) every continent on (in?) the world. Except South America and Antarctica of course but then who wants to go to South America?


10 Cathay facts

1. They (Chinamen) are OK but utter pains in the arse to a man.
2. They do not eat Chinese food!
3. They eat fermenting vegetables that smell like garbage.
4. “Your food smells like garbage” is a grave insult to a Chinaman.
5. Access to this wonderful blog is blocked in China!
6. Twenty Major’s foul mouthed blog is not blocked.
7. They all stay in Mega City One which smells of mothballs.
8. They hate the Nipponese.
9. They understand English but prefer to show dumb insolence.
10. There’s thousands of them, all pushing and shoving disagreeably.

The flight back from Pying Pyong Bhat was the best flight I have ever had; BUT, I was reasonably sick into a paper bag on the one up from London ( another first for me!) The paper bag was very warm and very heavy when the stewardess took it off me. She sort of looked at me as if to say “Not bad, but I want more next time.”
My luggage, which was purchased for the trip because it looked expensive, arrived at the house in an unmarked van the next day but I wasn’t giving a damn by then.
I bet the nosey bastards at Heathrow have been through my underpants and stuff.
Perverts.