I am delighted to advise you, dear reader, that the former Miss Chap has finally relinquished her claims over territories, chattels, lands and properties belonging to the Empire of The Chap.
The government of choice has been restored to Chez-Chap. (IE: Me.)
It has taken a year of my troubles and time to wrest what was always rightfully mine from her bitter, cold clench (afterall, It was me wot paid for it, guv!).
There was, unfortunately, a consideration involved, but let's face it - even Judas Iscariot got paid for his troubles.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Nil Illegetimi Carborundum
It is a sad state of affairs nowadays that a modern gentleman is pretty much expected to seek employment, as unless you are one of those nasty commercial types in the city, one doesn't have a fortune to lean upon, or a man of business to conduct one's affairs.
To whit - I have resorted of late to working some 12 hours a day to catch up from my adventure in the Great South seas, and have been depriving you, dear reader, with my little thoughts.
The days draw out, even though snow lies chill upon nature's green shores. I shall be with you soon. Needless to say - I have much to say, and even more to expose and complain about.
I will say I was cheered to note that France applied to subject itself to Pax Brittanica in the 1950s. Incredulous, yet in so many ways - right. However, my sceptical eye sniffed spin from Nanny's office. It was timed just as Gordo the Broon waxed lyrical about how proud we should all be to be British! Bit rich coming from him - he clearly fears the ides of West Lothian.
Patriotism is always the last resort of the scoundrel.
Oh and another of beauty from The Land of The Brave.
Apparently our pictish cousin's Nanny tells them how to Wash Their Hands too.
Polite doff of fez to Mr Eugenidies. Keep holding on to that rage, old boy!
To whit - I have resorted of late to working some 12 hours a day to catch up from my adventure in the Great South seas, and have been depriving you, dear reader, with my little thoughts.
The days draw out, even though snow lies chill upon nature's green shores. I shall be with you soon. Needless to say - I have much to say, and even more to expose and complain about.
I will say I was cheered to note that France applied to subject itself to Pax Brittanica in the 1950s. Incredulous, yet in so many ways - right. However, my sceptical eye sniffed spin from Nanny's office. It was timed just as Gordo the Broon waxed lyrical about how proud we should all be to be British! Bit rich coming from him - he clearly fears the ides of West Lothian.
Patriotism is always the last resort of the scoundrel.
Oh and another of beauty from The Land of The Brave.
Apparently our pictish cousin's Nanny tells them how to Wash Their Hands too.
Polite doff of fez to Mr Eugenidies. Keep holding on to that rage, old boy!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Nanny and another envy tax!
Just had a thought Chaps…..you know this road pricing hoo-hah?
Nanny wants to track my movements everywhere - you know the one?
Well, as you know, this particular Nanny and her cohorts would have trouble administering a whelk stall.
I have had a bit of a thought....
Well - it is going to be adminstered by Her Home Office - correct?
And how good are they at tracking things? Or for that matter succesfully implementing anything larger than a press conference?
Anwyay - I imagine that it will only apply for vehicles registered in the UK. Simple! Buy a right-hand drive car in Europe, register it in Holland, then 'visit'. If the blighters can't find an axe murderer who they get specifically told about how on earth will they find ten thousand of us without trackers in cars? Given sufficient demand I am sure I can come up with an export arrangement with Austin Healy or Morris Garages!
I see an opportunity here for offshore registration…..I shall discuss with My Man Of Business….watch this space!
Brooom! Brooom!
Nanny wants to track my movements everywhere - you know the one?
Well, as you know, this particular Nanny and her cohorts would have trouble administering a whelk stall.
I have had a bit of a thought....
Well - it is going to be adminstered by Her Home Office - correct?
And how good are they at tracking things? Or for that matter succesfully implementing anything larger than a press conference?
Anwyay - I imagine that it will only apply for vehicles registered in the UK. Simple! Buy a right-hand drive car in Europe, register it in Holland, then 'visit'. If the blighters can't find an axe murderer who they get specifically told about how on earth will they find ten thousand of us without trackers in cars? Given sufficient demand I am sure I can come up with an export arrangement with Austin Healy or Morris Garages!
I see an opportunity here for offshore registration…..I shall discuss with My Man Of Business….watch this space!
Brooom! Brooom!
Why is January so hellish?
At last Friday!
I have been back at the grindstone for a week now, and I am still furiously pedalling to keep up. Unfortunately, one cannot get the staff, and my minions whom I left running my affairs of business have singularly failed to do anything constructive whilst I was spreading the way of the Chap in the colonies.
Work is an anathema to a sterling Chap and it is a sign of these desperate dark days that one has to work to pay Broon and this thieving acolytes for - well - the non value they give me. Frightful, frightful state of affairs, if you ask me.
Unfortunately, I haven't had time to copy out my journal from the trip yet, and I still need to sort out the electric photographs I took to illustrate my affairs. I still do intend to split the blog out so I can share with you my thoughts on the news, plus latest views from the front line of Chappism in today's vulgar world. However, as one's Amah used to say: Warm words cook no rice! (Mind you she was a red-book carrying Maoist during the cultural revolution, lest the reds cross the New Territories and accuse anyone of being a running dog lackey of Imperialist swine)
Now January is such a dreadful time of year.
I have drunk the cellar dry of laudanum, and now instead of looking forward to an entire weekend upon one's sofa drifting in and out of consciousness I seem to be suffering from a terrifying sense of motivation.
This runs desperately against the grain. I have found myself considering altering the bathroom of my pied a terre. I have considered finally breaking the loving bonds I have with tobacco. I have even (get this chaps!) considered that I ought to lose a few pounds before I repair to my Schloss-adler in the Alps for my annual skiing adventure. Even more startlingly, this would appear to involve physical exercise.
Now the last time I felt like this, help was at hand. Fellow chaps clustered round, sat me down with a hookah filled with capital Moroccan, poured me a half bottle glass of Burgundy, placed some ripe cheese before me and bade to me 'consider what I was about'. Within in moments, I had attained a pleasant state of torpor.
BUT
Times, as I said, are hard now. The chaps have dispersed, the hookah pipe consigned to Oxfam, luxurious Turkish cushions have made way for wooden flooring and corner sofas and the outlook is bleak.
One ray of cheery light though - my particular friend is currently in the Andes. With any luck she is shamelessly exploiting the natives, shooting Guanacos and fermenting revolution.
Lord knows if she has the sense that god gave her, she will send me a bushel of those coca-leaves - they make capital after-dinner chewing, far superior to Mr Wrigley's filth.
I have been back at the grindstone for a week now, and I am still furiously pedalling to keep up. Unfortunately, one cannot get the staff, and my minions whom I left running my affairs of business have singularly failed to do anything constructive whilst I was spreading the way of the Chap in the colonies.
Work is an anathema to a sterling Chap and it is a sign of these desperate dark days that one has to work to pay Broon and this thieving acolytes for - well - the non value they give me. Frightful, frightful state of affairs, if you ask me.
Unfortunately, I haven't had time to copy out my journal from the trip yet, and I still need to sort out the electric photographs I took to illustrate my affairs. I still do intend to split the blog out so I can share with you my thoughts on the news, plus latest views from the front line of Chappism in today's vulgar world. However, as one's Amah used to say: Warm words cook no rice! (Mind you she was a red-book carrying Maoist during the cultural revolution, lest the reds cross the New Territories and accuse anyone of being a running dog lackey of Imperialist swine)
Now January is such a dreadful time of year.
I have drunk the cellar dry of laudanum, and now instead of looking forward to an entire weekend upon one's sofa drifting in and out of consciousness I seem to be suffering from a terrifying sense of motivation.
This runs desperately against the grain. I have found myself considering altering the bathroom of my pied a terre. I have considered finally breaking the loving bonds I have with tobacco. I have even (get this chaps!) considered that I ought to lose a few pounds before I repair to my Schloss-adler in the Alps for my annual skiing adventure. Even more startlingly, this would appear to involve physical exercise.
Now the last time I felt like this, help was at hand. Fellow chaps clustered round, sat me down with a hookah filled with capital Moroccan, poured me a half bottle glass of Burgundy, placed some ripe cheese before me and bade to me 'consider what I was about'. Within in moments, I had attained a pleasant state of torpor.
BUT
Times, as I said, are hard now. The chaps have dispersed, the hookah pipe consigned to Oxfam, luxurious Turkish cushions have made way for wooden flooring and corner sofas and the outlook is bleak.
One ray of cheery light though - my particular friend is currently in the Andes. With any luck she is shamelessly exploiting the natives, shooting Guanacos and fermenting revolution.
Lord knows if she has the sense that god gave her, she will send me a bushel of those coca-leaves - they make capital after-dinner chewing, far superior to Mr Wrigley's filth.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Jet Lagged into a Stupor.
Hello dear reader, the Chap is Back.
I have thermonuclear levels of jet-lag as a consequence of spending 31 hours crammed in a tube with the underwashed, and not a free upgrade in sight. Not a happy chap.
Was back in Blighty Saturday night, but stuffed up my sleep patterns, so despite being back at my hamster wheel, I am staring glassily at my monitor with nausea and exhaustion.
Now, I have tales of derring-do, quelling the natives and spreading the word of Chappism amongst our colonial chums, but as I haven't been on for nearly a month, and I want to keep this column pithy, pertinent and present-tense. Thus I shall set up a separate thread for 'The traveling Chap'. I can encompass my notes from France (Now yellowing on the parcel shelf of the Chapmobile) and more of the tales from 'Our Bastion in the Pacific - a Chap heads south.'
Can't promise it today, but I have so many tales of which the Night with the Oil chaps was mild to say the least - it would distract from the day to day joys I need to share with you all.
What I will say is this, 13 hours of time difference plus 31 hours in transit seemed to have the same affect on my body as taking a handful of Naughty Tablets, but without the pleasant sensations associated with those little pills for the first six hours. In other words, this feels like the come-down from hades. I intend to slink off early, dose my self with a thousand drops of laudanum (Or Gin) and allow a suitable brown study to slip me into morpheus' tender embrace. Sleep may yet evade me tonight as I ran out of vallium as well, having scoffed my stockpile to get me through what Virgin Atlantic call 'In Flight service'. Personally I call it recycled cool-brittania imagery that looks so 1997, and stomach churning vids of the satan of self promotion trying to convince us poor blighters that he gives shit about my pending thrombosis instead of the value of his media profile.
Oh, and having Vic Reeves voice over the safety video just shows the Vic is desperate for work not that you are in someway 'with-it'.
As you see, Jet-Lag removes my natural sang-froid. Next time, I shall take the Imperial service via Sydney, Darwin, Singapore, Rangoon, Calcutta, Bombay, Bahrain, Alexandria Brindisi, Le Touquet and Croydon Aerodrome. Air travel should include wicker chairs and well shaken martinis.
I have thermonuclear levels of jet-lag as a consequence of spending 31 hours crammed in a tube with the underwashed, and not a free upgrade in sight. Not a happy chap.
Was back in Blighty Saturday night, but stuffed up my sleep patterns, so despite being back at my hamster wheel, I am staring glassily at my monitor with nausea and exhaustion.
Now, I have tales of derring-do, quelling the natives and spreading the word of Chappism amongst our colonial chums, but as I haven't been on for nearly a month, and I want to keep this column pithy, pertinent and present-tense. Thus I shall set up a separate thread for 'The traveling Chap'. I can encompass my notes from France (Now yellowing on the parcel shelf of the Chapmobile) and more of the tales from 'Our Bastion in the Pacific - a Chap heads south.'
Can't promise it today, but I have so many tales of which the Night with the Oil chaps was mild to say the least - it would distract from the day to day joys I need to share with you all.
What I will say is this, 13 hours of time difference plus 31 hours in transit seemed to have the same affect on my body as taking a handful of Naughty Tablets, but without the pleasant sensations associated with those little pills for the first six hours. In other words, this feels like the come-down from hades. I intend to slink off early, dose my self with a thousand drops of laudanum (Or Gin) and allow a suitable brown study to slip me into morpheus' tender embrace. Sleep may yet evade me tonight as I ran out of vallium as well, having scoffed my stockpile to get me through what Virgin Atlantic call 'In Flight service'. Personally I call it recycled cool-brittania imagery that looks so 1997, and stomach churning vids of the satan of self promotion trying to convince us poor blighters that he gives shit about my pending thrombosis instead of the value of his media profile.
Oh, and having Vic Reeves voice over the safety video just shows the Vic is desperate for work not that you are in someway 'with-it'.
As you see, Jet-Lag removes my natural sang-froid. Next time, I shall take the Imperial service via Sydney, Darwin, Singapore, Rangoon, Calcutta, Bombay, Bahrain, Alexandria Brindisi, Le Touquet and Croydon Aerodrome. Air travel should include wicker chairs and well shaken martinis.
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