Young woman dies of cancer convinced Rio de Janeiro was a footballer.

Gordon Brown. What the hell was he thinking with his troublesome dirge for poor Jade? He was totally silent about Ali Bongo.

Heston Fuckwit. Peels frogs, (they were quite furious), persuades them up a pig’s back passage then detonates the lot in Cilla Black’s face.

President Obama. Comfy on the couch wasn't he, making remarks about the special Olympics. I didn’t see the suitcase with the nuclear button. He is not a real president, he is a tribute president.

Trifles.

Rockall, Sodall, Bogall…
Carlyle said that the meanest object is a window into infinitude and Grayling remarks that to say that trifles make up the happiness or misery of human life is to voice a cliché no less true for being one.
Dover, Fastnet, fishnet…

I have a young charge who worries me. He is unworldly and besotted with a knowing girl. She has him twirled around her finger leading him a merry dance. I often want to spank her; she has such a way of flicking her skirts at me as she brushes past. She is incorrigible. To make matters worse, this girl is a prodigy and favourite of her aunt, a lady-friend of mine, so I see where matters will lead.

As you know, I have lived a life after my own lights. A disastrous car crash of a life; fuelled by strong drink and a misplaced laissez-faire attitude to money and women.
Often, I have been found vomiting twin writhing serpents of guilt and alcohol down others’ pristine toilet bowls. And always, with the last aching heave, the viper of guilt releases her entwined twin, to slide backwards into my mouth, to rest calm and comfortable somewhere inside me, for another day, for another disaster. No emetic will shift that one. Not she.
A costly burden to be borne, “In Perpetua”.

To remind me, I had a trifle run up at Asprey’s. A ring I wear now and then when I feel vulnerable. It was to this ring, that I referred when I took my young charge aside to advise:

“Do you see this ring, Ewan?"
“What of it?"
“Do you see how it is formed?”
“Yes”
“Do you see how the two serpents are encoiled around an emerald named “Bile”?
“It’s ‘the ring of Barahir’, Uncle Ack”
“What?”
“Aragorn’s ring”
“No, it's Asprey’s.”
“Lord of the Rings merchandising.”
“No it’s not, it’s mine - This viper is called ‘Guilt’…”
“You can get them on eBay for £30. All the Trekkies wear them.”
“Right, here’s £50. Fuck off out of it for an hour and take Jane Marie with you.”

It’s that time again. Summer is coming and summer’s lease has all too short a date. To wit, the Guardian has published the lists of post graduate studies available to the fearful or work-shy. How times have changed. No PgD.s are available at LSE, it’s all MSc.s now. How ghastly.
I will never forget my interview with whatshisname of the Cambridge Appointments Board; I was sent for. A mid morning slot.

I told myself:
“This is it Maroon, you’ve been plucked, you’ve trailed your coat, been talent spotted and Britain’s imperial service are here for you (or Shell at the very least). Now remember kiddo, they’re not interested in the facts, just an ability to stick to a good back story.”

He was the most repellant individual I have ever seen. He drank tea throughout, never offering me a cup (rude) and he opened up his Kit Kat, spread the silver paper flat and methodically broke the fingers in two, placing the eight bits in parallel rows like soldiers. It was disquieting watching this. Distracting. He was like Joseph Mengele. He had horrible fingernails, I remember that much.
He took a while to get going.

“Any thoughts what you’d like to do when you leave here Maroon?” (what happened to Achilles, or even Ack?)
“Nuh.”
"Hmmm. Well, what are your interests? Which FIELD excites you?”

I had to stifle a snigger here, exciting fields; geddit? It’s electromagnetism!

“I hadn’t really thought…”
“Well OK. Here’s a list of courses you could probably take while you decide. Thanks awfully for coming in.”

Second top of the list was a safe berth at LSE. It was, I realise now, a contented, almost happy time. It was a little railway siding where old wagons were shunted, you know, off the Titfield branch line. I was surrounded by the kids of commonwealth diplomats who would go on to rescue Africa from financial ruin, in much the same way as political satire in 1930s Berlin cabaret, saved Germany from fascism.
Anyway, it looks as if Beecham made it to Houghton Street eventually.
Sic transit.

Kids today can choose Gender Studies (we did that), Hospitality Management (did that too), even Celtic Studies (haven’t a clue). the difference being they are all Saturday’s children now, poor sods.

It's Saturday! It's the sixties! It's the Beatles!



It's still Saturday! It's the Rolling Stones! (for Pat and me and Scarlet too)


It's still Saturday! It's the Doors! (for Sarah and me)




For Clarissa

Ali Bongo Dead!
Irish not to blame says hospital spokesman.

In a sad announcement that rocked the world of magic, the death of beloved madcap magician Ali Bongo was put down to age, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and finally pneumonia. An ashen faced agent Manny Cohen added that no Irish involvement in his demise could be found or inferred.
Last night First and Deputy First Minister of the Northern Ireland Assembly and the Irish Taoiseach were united in their relief at the conjurer’s non Irish downfall.

Muslims, ain’t they mental? Of course they are. Our boys fight for their rights and get an ear bashing on their return to barracks. We’ve given them Moslems the right to protest and the bastards have taken it. There’s gratitude for you. Manners maketh the man. They are so graceless. Luton's full of them, jumping about in inappropriate clothes, baggy pyjamas and so forth.

Go and try it in any Moslem country, Ali, and just see how far you get. In fact, just piss off out of it and take your bonkers medieval Caliphate shit with you. We’re tired of you all, you are turning into royal pains in the arse so just clear off to some wonderful muslem country. Oops there aren’t any.

And what about the Irish? They phone up the police because their window has been put in and when they arrive to help, they get shot for their trouble. That’s not War in any man’s language, that’s murder. You don’t shoot people who are trying against the odds, to help. Gits.

Cornwall, the master spy and author, returns endlessly to two themes. The small crippled double agent (whoever he was) and the immobilising anxiety borne when working in hostile territory.
As you know, I undertake business on behalf of MOSSAD and I must say it’s catching up on me. Every morning I pad the floors like Samson in the wilderness seeking what he might devour and I listen to the breaths of we innocents.
Every footfall turns my insides to junket and an evil wind gathers around the blackest kernel of my malignant soul. “Be you the white tornado?” I ask. The answer is indistinct.
“Go home to Israel.” I hear you mutter over your anti Semitic breakfasts.
Alas I cannot, for it is my purpose to bear witness, no matter the cost; and believe me, the price is high.
I observe.
I see too much. I see people laughing, shopping, couples in cars content to be going somewhere - on the move. I see the wasteland strewn with hollow lives lived to a formula handed them by a dreadful power. There is no redemption. There is no mint sauce for the lamb on their dinner plates. God help us.
I also see that the Bee and Drainpipe is open. Yes, I shall step in here for a quick gum freezer. My handler is due and I have news to impart. Not for us the rattle-tattle-tat of hidden Morse transmitters. We use the regular dialogue of lady and gentleman. Ah, here he comes, the Duke of Cambridge, I’d recognise that brisket anywhere.