Giddy Up!

That's it. Up with this, I will no longer put.
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).

However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.

There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.

1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.

2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.

3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.

4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.

5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.

Waiting for Gordo

One's blogging has been frightfully prosaic of late. I put this down to the fact that the media is totally obsessed with Gordo the Broon at the moment - it is after all - his time in the sun - and that my domestic life has been one of plaster dust, tiles and blocked pipes. Takes up the run-time, as the 'puter boffins are apt to quote.


But Back to Cyclops. The media are clearly in his gruesome thrall. One hopes that given a short period of time, the tin-plate tarnishes, and as the Sarge used to say ' You can't polish a turd sir!'
It is not as if what he is saying is terribly new. This quote from Dizzy sums it up.
What does flatten one's tonic is that it all seems so terribly populist, Napoleon's hundred days and the like.



For example: five new Bracknells will be built on the grounds that despite they will do what they always did with new towns, they genuinely believe they will not get what they previously got. Rest of it is trite media grandstanding or the sort one expects from someone on a hideous reality television show trying to boost their ratings to a duped audience at home furiously phoning in to affect a pre-made outcome.
(I think there are a number of parallels there - feel free to insert own)


So - on that theme, I await the following blandishments from Gordo to boost his ratings:


1. Jobs for everyone, everyone for Jobs.


2. The Grass will be Greener if you elect me to be your Comrade Secretary.


3. Tough on New Labour, tough on the Causes of New Labour.


4. I'm Invisible, you can’t see me.


5. A five year plan to enhance the production of Tractors in Labour marginal seats, through taxation of those who can scarcely afford welding them ever further to a cycle of grateful dependency on me, whilst sucking up furiously to growing ruling elite created by self and perpetuated because they know better.


Obviously the last one is too close to the truth for him to say.


I do wonder what bad news they have buried whilst the 'meed-yah' is in his gruesome thrall.

A night on the Tiles

Five long days since I have posted Chaps and Chapesses.
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Oh No.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.

After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.

Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)

Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.

One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.

But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.

Chop-Chop Alan!

Going...going...going...going...going...

Today the Prime Minister, Tony Bliar, announced that he will be holding a press conference launching his resignation announcement speeches. With a date set as the end of June - the knowledge of the announcement-launch announcement date will be seen to be a little premature, and that these events could have been stage managed a little better.

Tony - the People's Prime Minister picture here:

said 'I look forward to announcing my resignation speech dates soon. They will shortly be followed by Captain Chipolata, Doctor Diktat and the rest of my cronies.

In other news, Gordon Broon has announced that his campaign is 'fully operational', we will see a demonstration of it's power on Alderaan and that David Milliband will come over to the dark side, crush the Emperor and they will rule the Galaxy side by side.

Monday, Monday....

It seems like a 'docker's tea' break since been at the hamster wheel.
But now, relaxing with a cheeky Sancerre and blogging from home.
So what has gone on?
Well - Chumrade and self have had chap-day-out to France.
To whit:
Exceedingly early start and on the fast picket to Cherbourg. Straight to Normandy wines to collect SWAG. Usual shenagigans to be had tasting et al, then on to Carrefour to collect decent picnic for the boat home. Frustrating telco with the yacht club committee with usual officiousness and general malaise from the most useless collection of drips. Only people who speak any sense is the Rear Commodore and myself (One hopes beyond fair reason that he shall raise his broad pennant in good time) plus sage interventions from our newbie. She is a nice young chapess who despite benighted occupation as employee of our Uber-state manages to go out with our ace helmsman and regularly offers to run show-pillow-fights with the other girls who sail with us. This generally raises interest from the more rakish crewmen, but usually turns out to be a humorous ruse.

But what of this other half holiday?

Had house guest for part of weekend. The Lovely Young 'Half-Pint'.
Half-Pint is sweet and pretty, with cascades of blonde curls, but treats me 'as a brother'. (Pah!)
Whilst adventurous (A skiing chum, no less) and generally willing to have a go at my idea of fun, she is prone to the vapours, and found the aviation - while fun - a little much, and had to take to her bed for a period whilst she recovered her lesser humours.
The flying for me was a bit ropey too. V. Windy. Chucked about the shop like pass-the-parcel in Basra.

Rest of the weekend has been spent orbiting the seventh level of hell - or 'Homebase' as I believe it is called. I do not do DIY - unless it involves, sheds, boats or very large electric power tools. I have procured the materials for my Gentleman of Trades who is arriving tomorrow to complete the tiling phases of Chez-chap. I never realised that tiles were expensive. I have spent the equivalent of a weekend in Marrakesh on wall-coverings. This serves to remind me I am 'investing' in the property - and curtails my more lurid excesses until payday arrives. Again.

In the rest of the time, I have been finally sorting out the old type-writer-screen machine so I again have wireless interweb and it appears the rest of my software is slowly re-establishing itself.

In other news, I am delighted that the Evil Socialists have taken a bit of a kicking, and the French have elected Droopy the Dog to be their new king. Will we see another enlightenment in France? Will they take on the unions? Will they creep into the 21st century? But more important- will they restore the lands of the crown in Aquitaine?
Time will tell.

In the mean time dear reader, I shall go and press my plus-fours (Servant boy's day off), finish the Sanc and smoke a cheroot. As the wheel beckons, and Artisan arriveth tomorrow, one had better lay off the magic tincture.

Vote! Vote! Vote!

I am taking the fast picket to Normandy tomorrow morning, and returning to Blighty in the evening laden with SWAG. - Sancerres, Macons, Gigondas, Cote de Beaunes and good Rhone Rosés. I shall lunch in St Vaast and look out across the La Manche while dining and consider my good fortune.

The down side is that I will not be able to put my X in the box.

I boycott postal voting, as it is a mere ruse by the Evil Socialists to fiddle the votes Mugabe-style. I also like the ceremony of putting my X in the box with the pencil stub and putting it in the big box marked 'BALLOT BOX'.

The best bit is of course looking forward to the outcome tomorrow night. I am an election night junkie - and sit awaiting Peter Snow with his various swingometers.

Needless to say - there is only one outcome worth considering, and let us hope that we 'wipe the eye' of the Evil Socialists and the Evil Crypto-Socialists.

We are slaving under a yoke of control freakery, nannyist, corrupt, grasping, cronyist, thieving, lying, sanctimonious, patronising, deceitful, illibertarian, and big-brother government. Your freedom to live your life un-bothered by their evil nosey ways has even come down to putting cameras in your dustbin. All that is necessary for this evil to prevail is for good men (and women) to do nothing.

I urge all of you to do your duty, and go and do anything, anything, other than vote Labour tomorrow.

I shall be drinking wine and eating oysters.

An apology

On a recent post I suggested that as a reaction to further nannyist interference I will make available to my nephews a variety of things of which nanny would not approve.
Included in that item was the outrageous suggestion that weedkiller and sugar should be available to them.
This is, of course, highly irresponsible - and would encourage the toddlers to experiment with other substances, such as the modish hair peroxide and nail varnish remover, or the ever reliable C4.
In almost all of the cases the ingredients are dangerous and the results are unstable.

No. In future if they request their Uncle's assistance in the creation of home made explosives I will direct them to the acres of newsprint lately on the joys of the traditional Ye Olde Englishe Plant-food and Diesel recently popularised by the 'modern retro' chaps from West Sussex shown here .
As we are now going all 'modern retro' in this arena, I look forward to Nihilists committing arson, Vitriol flinging (For real not just the people carrying out their divorces in Heat magazine) - and with any luck some decent defenestration.

PS: Does Baby-Bio and White Spirit do it?

Make mine a double, Nanny!

The Poor Little Greek Boy sums this up nicely Here.
I mean - how do they intend this to be enforced? Or will the evil socialists running the show get their way and bring the surveillance into our homes to make sure every piece of parental responsibility is controlled by the state. Polly must be delighted.

I'm not a parent, but I am looking forward to supplying my nephew(s) with ale, wine and spirits whenever they ask for them. In fact - I also intend to give them a Dunhill Junior smoker kit, matches to play with, fireworks, a chemistry set with really lurid chemicals, air guns, weedkiller and sugar (you either know or you don't), rubber bands, sharp objects to run with, dirt to eat, food that has fallen on the floor, insects and magnifying glasses, books rescued from the loft such as 'Super Simon Shoots Smiling Sambos', 'Tintin gasses the Gyspsies', 'Biggles machine-guns the Jerries', and 'Hornblower bashes the frogs'.
Why?
Because whatever you prohibit, the more people want. The more Nanny tries to re-educate us in the politically correct, the more we seek it later. I was forced to go to chapel at Stalag-Luft-school - and that would turn you away from religion.


Stopping kids from enjoying a glass of wine with their folks over Sunday lunch smacks of class warfare, because it is seen to be 'middle class' (Or responsible and independent - not slavishly doing what the Nanny state says).
Plus they will be round the back of the bike sheds guzzling white lightning anyway.

The prat who dreamed this up isn't fit to clear tables in a pub.

The Joy of Shirk

Been off the grid for a bit dear readers. This is for two reasons. Mostly I have been working like a Sherpa. Secondly the Catering wing and bathroom facilities of Chez-Chap are now being re-built to my exacting specifications, and this has eaten up a lot of run-time.
To keep myself sane have had the odd afternoon off playing with my pet Sopwith Camel and am slowly getting the hang of this 'staying up on rising currents of air' lark.

However, with my nose this close to the grind stone, I have had little time to reflect upon my environment - in the same way a fireman chooses not to reflect on the beauty of the conflagration before him - or a sea captain chooses not to dissolve into a brown study to contemplate the wonders of the deeps before him.

I have been considering the taxonomy of my female acquaintances. Mainly for amusement (and their good), but chiefly following a conversation with The Scot - whom I know to be a reader. (You know who you are my dear...how is Morocco?)
These dryadic delights exist in many forms and I believe they bear classification. The nature of which I have not had time to give more than sufficient consideration to bear out a few basic categories. I feel there may be telling amusement therein - so if / when I get around to it - watch this space.
But to my female readership - ask yourself this - how would you choose to stir paint? Your answer will give me a clue to the appropriate taxonomy.

It looks distubingly like the Proper map of the 'Good Old Days'

create your own visited country map
or check our Venice travel guide


One has to ask the following simple question about the bits I haven't been to yet:

1. Can they make a decent cup of tea?
2. Have they got proper money with the queen on it?
3. Do they play cricket?

If the answer is none of the above, then I'm sorry it is probably not worth going there.

In fact there are a few of them I have been to where they can not only fail to make a christian cup of tea, but they entertain whiggsh notions such as putting bridges on their money, and insisting that we all share it.
Savages.

Have sighted Pole star (post marked Hounslow)

I'm in T'North again. Fortunately at my favourite inn.

They have started checking the register, and 'taking the liberty' of pre-cooling a bottle of Brouilly and asking chef to keep back any game 'just in case' I should like the first refusal.

Fine fellows.

And unlike every other benighted establishment outside town these chaps know how to mix a decent bloody mary - even asked how much horseradish I would like in mine. Put in a tablespoon of sherry unbidden too.

Service like that is almost illegal. Certainly outside the better London luncheon clubs anyway.

What would Nelson say?

I have been pondering the 'plight' of the Iran 15.

I do have a couple of thoughts.

I understand the Lieutenant that when surrounded by superior gunnery, there is no shame in striking your colours to save your crew. This fellow indeed new the rules, and struck accordingly. My knowledge of current doctrine is pretty hazy, but unless the witless socialists have infected Naval doctrine, then we expect that - as we did in Soviet days - seized crew would be used as propaganda tools.
I therefore imagine they knew they would be used as such.
I do, though, want to pick up a few bits.

Compare the following:
A battered John Nichol - who had banged out of his kite when they shot his tail off with anti aircraft guns as he flew at 20 feet bombing an enemy runway - blinking out SOS on Iraqi telly….
To…….
The milksops who blubbed that nasty guard had taken his iPod, and dear Queen of Hearts Failing Seaman Faye who was prepared to 'Do Anything' to get home in time to see her daughter.

I nearly choked on my Earl Grey when I read that.

Surely that undermines having women in the front line doesn't it? Say anything to the Enemy to get home in time?

Correct me if I am wrong, but the traditions of the Service is that the RN consider themselves superior as everyone, everyone goes to the 'front line'. You all go to sea.
I have always held the Senior Service in the highest regard, but these two pointless knicker wetters have lost my sympathy.

I pay my tax so you guys go out there, shoot people, get shot at, dodge torpedoes and the like. You join the navy to go in harms way.

In the course of your duty you should also expect that your government would look after you, and if you are illegally seized then you won't rot in some third world jail or if you have to go through a show trial, they will get you out somehow.
I can understand that you know the witless socialists in charge haven't got the balls to sort anything out and would fuck up something like this, and do-gooder rules of engagement you have to work under are written by similar knicker-wetter social worker Islington dinner party types who can't tell a 4.5'' shell from a diversity outreach seminar. (Probably something in them about rewarding the anti social behaviour - or that they are failed consumers really)

Also the government spin machine probably thought we would buy this tommy-rot as counter propaganda - so got them so sell the more victimish stories on, as a tear jerker - 'Oh How they were saved.'

BUT....

Was this the same service who fought in the South Atlantic, dodging Exocets and thousand pounders in bomb alley? The same Service of Nelson's Band of Brothers? The same grit as the heroes of the Atlantic convoys?
Whining that you were roughed up, cried for your mum 'cos the nasty boys took your stereo or you would happily derelict your duty to get home for your daughter's birthday?

This behaviour we expect from the RAF, not the Navy.

Oh, and I reckon this is covered by Article 10.

On the Barky

Well yes, less said about engine trouble the better.

We all say a day on the water is better than a day in the office, even if you are stuck alongside with a busted water pump and impeller fault.

Here's what we should have been doing. Obviously without the leeches.

Another Bank Holiday bites the dust

IN the good old days, this Chap used to indulge himself thoroughly at Easter. I would either take the barky over to Normandy raid the wine shops, eat oysters, langoustines and scallops and go out for sumptuous 8 course dinners, then toot our way home to stay awake in the wee hours of the darker watches.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.

Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.

Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.

I had been doing my decking, borders and been to the tip twice.

He had stained his shed and made some rather fine Chili and Tomato jam.

We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.

We have both become our Dads.

This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.

Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!

We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.

Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)

Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.

An incentive to get the front lawn done.

Prune-Man exceeds like excess itself

I don't need to hat-tip or link this, because everyone else has, and it is getting blanket coverage.

But, Keith, dear boy, Keith - we were all expecting to have to snort your ashes to get that unusual high - on the grounds that you had hoovered all the good stuff up already.

Rock and/or Roll. Love it.

Back on the blockade duties

A Channel crossing, yesterday.

At last a chumrade has conspired and planning some vacational activity. This currently comprises two fiendish plots.

Plot one.

Fast packet out of Pompeii and rapid dash to Cherbourg. Baffle Les Douaniers, confound the Bonapartistes and make a dash to Normandy Wines. Purchase summer wine requirements, eat sumptuous fish luncheon in St Vaast. Drink strong French coffee, get on fast packet home. Spend rest of bank holiday communing with swag, eating off mega-grill in the courtyard (whilst throwing bones over fence into Vet's garden for added amusements) then pootle off to the flying club, where we can strafe our own airfield in return for the local pikeys not stealing our land rover again.

Nothing like a good holiday at home.

Plot two.

Same conspirator, plus a chum who is an unreconstructed champagne Marxist.
Take the barky on the slow route to Normandy from Gosport. Spend relaxing week buying wine, eating sumptuous fish luncheons in St Vaast, Honfleur and Cherbourg. Eat quantities of French meat off barbecue on back of boat, tossing bones at the marauding packs of French curs while we drink strong coffee - for extra amusement.
Then on return to blighty, throw all cheap tobacco overboard to make up for not having to queue to go through customs.
Nothing like a good holiday away.

There will be no rowing skiffs, nothing to do with the Thames and absolutely no dog coming with us, will there, Monty.

I'm.....So....Ronery...

The more I hear about Gordo the Broon, the more he is sounding like the famous Dear Leader. So much so, I shall refer to him as such from now on.
He has his teeth done with out anaesthetic, hits 18 holes in one, and trots out Tractor productioneseque statistics telling us we are all better off… as if.

No, not only is he Stalinist in his methods, but we have drifted into the sort of state we used to laugh at. But I hear a collective silence from the fourth estate media.
It still goes on about how the country was ruined in the 80s and that it was the worst thing that ever happened to us, and generally supporting the current left wing narrative that he spouts. I have been thinking about why.

To many commentators in the 5th estate we do see it clearly. We see that the liberalisation of our markets and opening up the city and all that feeds of her massive money generation took us from a sort of bottom dwelling nation of strikes, failures, massive structural problems and SuperTax to a place we can do business, as everyone seems to take for granted today.
I have been thinking about why we see this clearly, and they don't.

I believe it is because they genuinely do not grasp what happened

For many years when the country was converted from a failed central nationalised state (Sick man of Europe In 1979) to the financial powerhouse of Europe (4th largest in the world and most competitive in 1997) the state ran everything. At the time they started it, it was believed that the Man in Whitehall knew better than us.

The Man in Whitehall could see to it that it was all 'fair' (rationed) and that suits the Social theory.

As with all the great 'Social' experiments, it failed. Mainly because it took away the threat of bankruptcy and the motive of profit.

Interestingly - people almost always act in self interest - which is why liberalisation works - but on a macro scale. Macro economic solutions (The state cannot afford to keep a car plant open purely to provide jobs for car workers) are hard to sell at the 'Social Justice' level of the scale (I've lost my job at the car plant - and he works in a bank and drives a Porsche - it's not fair!).

The social justice industry is built on this precept.

If someone has what you do not, it is not fair. The bigger the gap, the less 'fair' it is. The City booming when freed from shackles and miners going unemployed is seen as unfair - but somehow charging me a fortune in tax to pay for a miner to sit around not digging coal is fair. Because he is poor and in a marginal Labour seat.

Lets turn this on it's head. If we charged nurses 85% tax to keep redundant stock brokers in a job - would that be seen as fair? Of course not - because nurses are hard workers and bankers rich gits. If you believe in a free economy, you will know that is nonsense, and the more rich bankers you have the more money is available ultimately for nurses and the like.

If you believe in a commanded economy, then all you can understand is that if someone has a lot of something, the system has failed because someone else has less…..and natural to assume that the former is doing it at the expense of the latter.

On this theory 'Social Justice' is built. Making the wiring of the commanded economy fair, or putting those wirers in to a liberal economy. The problem that brings is that the addition of these instruments of state add nothing to the productivity of the nation as a whole, and delivers benefits in diminishing returns.

Clinging to the Socialist ideology - they keep trying harder as the ship slowly sinks, in the vain belief that if we just try a bit harder, tax a bit more, few more laws, then it will work a bit. As it slows down, and things like order, families and communities breakdown, self interest takes over, whether that self interest is economically literate or not - it will start to try and defend it's interests. Hence strikes and massive demands from the Public Sector for more money feeding the fires of collapse around it.

Thatcher gave us a modern liberal economy from the ashes of a failed state in 10 scant years. It is happening all over Eastern Europe right now. The process of liberalising it means cutting out all those heavy chains of the Social Justice industry and letting solutions on a macro scale solve the real issues that Social Justice tries to address - i.e.: Poverty. You just have to get over the fact that some people are going to have more than you, life isn't fair, and if you try and make it fair, it doesn't actually work.

The problem is that isn't a nice easy to grasp idea. It isn't an idea at all. Socialism is an idea, and Libertarianism is only knowing that Socialism doesn't work. If you haven't understood that - and outside of the BBC or the Public Sector or have never had to work your way up, you rarely do have to grasp it, you will only see those years of one of unemployment and upheaval. If you can only see the micro-scale (my local shipyard has closed) you will never see the macro scale (The country has a massively large more economy than in 1978).

All you see is long dole queues, and miners on strike, and less state handouts. If you are part of the Social Justice industry, the public sector or the BBC, then it was a nightmare.
For those of us who generate wealth - wealth on which they dine, it was the shackles coming off of us, and allowing us to work for ourselves for once.

Twenty five years ago, when the memory of the 70s was fresh - Thatcher, Howe and Joseph re-built the country brick by brick, faced down an aggressive dictatorship and fought and won a noble war overseas. She came to power on a wave of euphoria delivered by Britain's working classes.

But seduced by a generation of social justice message, people have forgotten what really happened, history is being viewed through Labour tinted spectacles. The debacle of Major's collapse was not the glory days of Thatcher. The corruption of Labour now makes Hamilton taking a brown envelope to ask a question in the house look honest.

But when Broon goes on spouting his ever more spurious statistics, the MSM coo and bleat about how brilliant he is, and how life fits his statistics. It is no great leap to him getting 18 hole-in-ones, and living like Kim Jong Il. Everyone gets told how well off they are, but no one believes it. The first step is when the public see through the lies. No we are not better off from his tax rises, and he may trot out his stories about more of this and more of that - but it is now like tractor production in the Urals.
All we need is an image of him in a Chairman Mao suit, with a shark tank and a little song about being lonely, and the image is complete.
He has presided over a slide in everything other than public borrowing and public sector employment. It will not be long until we are back where we started.

Phew. That's better. Rant over.

You will, you will, you will

I found myself in T'North again, last night. I am currently taking rooms at a pleasant establishment with the traditional charms of the Olde English hotel - with special attention paid to 'feature plumbing'.
I much prefer this to the ghastly realms of the modern hotels - with their sterile rooms lack of minibar and atrocious food.

Having checked in, made my toilet a set abut exploring the premises. The Lounge was filled with deep armchairs which oozed long hours of brandy hazed Morpheus, but these were encumbered with a handful of commercial types talking about sales targets. I wend my way to the bar.

Keen young chap serves me with a creditable Bloody Mary. Worth mentioning that at one establishment I stayed in, the fellow had to go and look the ingredients up.

A deep draught of the hot spicy nectar revived my spirits somewhat, and my eye roved unto the menu.

Hello! Thinks I, pinching myself. I have surely died and ascended to the realm of choir invisible.

It took no time at all to decide upon Scallops with Black Pudding Quails scotch eggs, followed by Hare Wellington. Placing an order, I celebrated this by polishing off the bloody mary and ordering a large glass of claret while I perused the wine list.
Spotting a Brouilly, I asked the chap if I could see the label.
'I shall go an get it form the fridge, sir, It should just be at the right temperature for your main course then.'

That pretty much sealed it - someone who knows how to keep a Beaujolais and a menu like this. This almost made up for being away from home.

So I settled in with my Telegraph and polishing off my claret at my table in the cellar bar when I heard a polite yet somewhat loud cough from above me.
Glances upwards to behold an elderly fellow dressed in a priests garb. Lack of corduroy, and the glass of red wine indicated that there was a strong chance he was involved in Papism.
'Do you mind if I talk to you?' Thick southern Irish brogue, somewhat slurred through drink, soup stains on jacket, inaccurately shaved.
A Papist, indeed, but worse than that, he sounded a little too like 'Father Jack' from 'Father Ted' for a straight face to be maintained.
'Please Do', says I. Not wishing to make game of him, but thinking it would be rude to refuse and he may have something interesting to say.

He swayed down to a sitting position as my starter arrived.
"Have ye noticed that there are many pictures in honour of Madam Bollinger in her, sir?" he slurred wafts on claret fumes in my direction.

"No". I hadn't. (There were none at all, by the way)

"Well, sir, she is cursed by her workers, for she travels amongst her vineyards on a bicycle!"
(Uh-oh - I know where this is going…)

"A bicycle?"

'"No less! And would you want to know why?"
(Not really)

"Indeed," said I " For I imagine a Range Rover would be more in keeping."

"She does it to catch her workers asleep, the villain!"

He has been clearly saving this corker up for suitable occasions, to dine or drink out on.

"They are her employees, though…….she obviously pays them to work."
(Idle sods)

"Well yes," he said, "but I think this underlines some of the fundamental differences between the values of certain faiths, for she is almost certainly of a Lutheran persuasion, for they are so heavily attached to work as a virtue!"
(I am now on craggy island, and I am faced with a religious question so Father Jack to Father Jack I said)


"That would be an ecumenical matter."
(Oh god, I am going to laugh, I know. Legs cross, bite lip)

He paused while he rolled the words silently around his mouth and thought he would challenge me. But then spied my newly arrived Brouilly.

(Phew)

"Interesting," he stumbled, "I couldn't have a spot of your excellent looking wine? Blessings be upon you"

He may well have just staggered over and said:
"DRINK!"

I was walking, down the High Street, and I heard this voice behind me.....

I'm going to call the Gnome Secretary about This! .

The Real Cost of Living.

Worried that the so called Consumer Price index doesn't reflect the real cost of your lifestyle?
Simply substitute the frozen pizzas, oven chips, chicken kievs, monster munch, sunny delight, cheap lager, and iPods with the items here! .

Guess what I am doing later?

Yes, gardening.

Then popping up to Angels-five to have a bang at the villains.

Yes, I know it is a bit gratuitous, but this is free speech.

In the mean time, the lefties can wring their hands, read the Independant, rage at their inadequacies and just wish it was 'all a bit fairer'.

Spring is Sprung, de grass is riz, I wonder where de boidies is?

Picture the scene.
I and some like minded companions had been 'out' on the town.... a heady mix of music, champagne and other things of which Nanny would frown. A moment of spring sunshine gleams through the window and we are gripped by an urge to go outside and savour the morning air.

Being close to Crystal Palace park an obvious mission to go and frolic amongst the Dinosaurs in state of high minded chemically induced delirium was a clear option.
What could be better than playing on the swings with giant Dinos in our psychedelic state and get a blast of fresh sunshine at 5 am? (Other than running in to members of the general public raising a disapproving eyebrow at us)

As we skipped gaily amongst the budding flowers and congratulated ourselves with the wonder and genius of our own plans, a raucous squawking drew our beadies heavenwards.

One of the many trees in the park was festooned with bright green birds. Loud bright green birds.

'What birds are they?' Intoned one of my female companions.
Being a chap of the Colonies, the wonders of the Orient are no stranger to me.
'Come my dear, they are Parakeets'.
This was met immediately by gales of laughter at what they thought was a ludicrous suggestion.
'In London?' they chanted in unison.
At this, startled, the avians took as one to the wing - whereupon the plumed splendour, long tails and unique visage was apparent.
Open mouthed wonder abounded.

We rushed back with tales of tropical amazment - again met with derision, and derison to this day....until now.

One of the burdens of a genius of my level is that often you make statements that you know are correct, but take many years of doubt as the glacial awareness of the minions attempt to grasp what the devil you are going on about.

So, to all ye who doubted - read it and weep. .

Good enough if you are a Kiwi, but we must be protected from it

More hysteria fulminating in the press, radio interweb today.
This time it is about the age old question as to whether or not we can be trusted with moderation.

Now, as you know, this chap likes nothing more than to fry his brains to Elysium on most of the substances the good Lord gave us neurotransmitter receptors for.

One such item I have come across in my travels is BZP or 'Herbals'
What is interesting about this story .is that the usual nannyists have wheeled out a tame vox-pop to state that she:
'I felt ill in five minutes'.

Really?

These things take an hour to dissolve in your stomach. She then goes on to have spent two days in hospital and two weeks off work.
That’s right - she took a worming tablet and spent two whole weeks off work. And suffered flashbacks.
Nothing to say this was an allergic reaction or anything.
My experience of these things is that you are able to get up and go to work the next day. She does point out that it takes her 'all her time to swallow a paracetomol.'
This individual is clearly a delicate flower - and yet these are the opinions being used to shape public viewpoints?

Yet again - more hysteria being promoted about the toxicologically safe, yet outside the reach of the tax-grabbers, and therefore 'Evil'. As with most of this country's policy on drugs, it is shaped not by reason, but by the eye catching headline.

Interestingly whilst Nanny's mouthpieces deride these things as unsafe - New Zealand sell them over the counter in licensed premises legally, manufactured legally, and sold with health guidelines and recovery items. No recorded deaths or injuries either.
The ones in the picture appear to be the very ones sold in New Zealand.

So - another case of Nanny saying things being far too dangerous for us here, yet perfectly safe for the colonies?

Blinded by the light!

Now the ZanuLab conspiracy which runs our crumbling land would have us believe that those coves over in Europe (Pronounce it 'Yurp' to really bait the lefties..) are master gizmos at transport, and that they know all there is to know about the Autobahn.
Can they explain why I spent 6 hours in jams only in Germany.
Dual-cabbageways almost exclusively, and they can't make up their mind if they are using 'E' or 'A' nomeclature.

As much as it sticks in this chap's craw - I breathed a heady sigh of relief when I crossed the frontier into Belgium. An extra lane, fully lit and wider on all counts. Managed to get the old Alvis up to just under warp 9 as well. Cracking.

Have been back a while, but as is the way with these things - events, dear boy, events - soon take over, and I have had my face pressed up against glass of the window of life while I get everything sorted after taking a week out to play with Walter and the Abominable Strudelmen.

Big grey doesn't change though - always plenty to keep the hamster wheel a-spinning.

I will say though that spring for me has sprung, as the old conk is back on sniffle duty. Nothing to do with the Bolivians but it is the pollen that has made a comeback from hiding 'neath winters chill shroud.
Makes the country look rather comely from 2000' though and it reminds me how lucky I am to have the wit and ability to drag myself out of bed and make something of my life - instead of slothing it up on benefits and dissolving into a diet of Tea and Tricia.

Funny time of year for me though - the barky is out for her careening session as well. So I have DIY at home and afloat - a thought enough to bring down a fistula - or a serious bout of duvet lassitude.

So - to get me back in the swing of writing again....

In a piece of startling insight the government has discovered the answer to overcrowding on the trains . Yes, that’s it, put more carriages on them. Soon they will run them along the M4 bus lane.
Ten long years of careful study has shown our betters what should have been blatantly obvious to anyone who can count past three on one hand. Mind you, this was Two-Jags job when he started, wasn't it? All of a sudden you can understand that the cogs have ground themselves to dust on this one.

In other blinding flashes of common sense, the government will announce that ID cards are a waste of time and that we would be idiots not to have nukes with the Froggies still hanging on to theirs.
Given some of our lot's way - we would have Madam Guillotine in Picadilly and those filthy whiggish swine over here, eating our women, burning our babies and raping our cattle.

Counter-revolutionary lickspittle running-dog swine!

I am delighted to discover that some fellow in China has deemed that I am too disturbing to be read. I have been BANNED IN CHINA.

Find out if you are a revisionist CIA conspirator like me.

Gosh. I am honoured.

Fill her up please my good man!

Ischgl

Have you noticed that all the political coves have dropped of the radar while we worry about petrol?
Stunning coincidence methinks. When the knocks get a bit hot over the Sith, Milburn and Clarke (has a ring to it, what? Like Humpty and Dumpty) slip some sugar and baking soda into the petrol supplies and bang, off the beeb's front pages faster than you can mutter 'state mouthpiece'.
This chap is not convinced. It is on the front pages at home, yet all the overseas press is still obsessed with the collapse of yet another socialist administration in the UK. You would think the great British Public would have learned by now, wouldn't ya?

Anyway - I owe a few namechecks to the coves I met out here.
Big warm hello from the blogsphere to the Midlands Ski club, who despite sitting a few feet from me everyday at brekkie, singularly faled to fill the amaretto glass. However, you all seemed nice chaps.

Extra special hello to the others -

James and Julie the newlyweds who despite deep snow and fresh air contrived to look pale and tragic.
Gothic skiing. The Sisters of Mercy remixing ski sunday. Classic.

To Kate (that name still makes me shudder) and her girlfriend Anna and the other two delightful gay girls in their company - Josephine and 'Bailey'.... May Ischgl remind you of an ice filled waterbed winter wonderland midnight love cruise to island of Lesbos.

So.

Me and the Alvis hit the road tomorrow. 9 hours of heated seats and lantern jawed dashing across Europe awaits. Just as well she runs of my own mix of avgas and tractor vapourising fluid.

I'm sick of strudel, schnitzel and schnapps. I need boiled sprouts, warm beer and plumbing which does not challenge you to check for fibre content.

Vexed

Ischgl
For some reason I have lost my hit counts and blog roll items. As the dasboard here is in German, I can't fathom how to fix it. Rest assured to my reciprocators I will repair it all when I am back in blighty.
Heavy on the pistes today as there was an astonishing amount of new snow. So much so that the anti-avalanche-artillery was in action.
It gives a satisfying 'crump' noise. Well from a distance anyway. Wouldn't want to find meself downhill of that lot.

To blighty tomorrow. The downside of using the tunnel is that one isn't given that welcoming sight of the white cliffs to know you are returning to decent beer, proper tea and dodgy petroleum. Someone probably slipped some scone-mix into it.

We are happy cows...we chew the cud and browse

Ischgl
Well dear reader I have been putty in the hands of Walter.
Walter has been mein Instruktor on the pistes for the last few days, and I have learned much. Mein angulation has improved, and das parallel turning and das kompression in the turning on das fall line is muchly improved too.

Now, I am at heart an indoor cove, unused to the great outdoors. Despite my stoical efforts, Walter saw I was suffering on the second day.

'Ja, das pain is güt mein herr, for your Englischer body is soft unt veak, and das pain teaches you to be alive!'

Conan the ski-instructor is alive and well.

After another blood curdling descent to what apeared to be certain death we were on a lift trundling back into the clouds.

I was wondering through a haze of endorphins what these fellows do when they haven't got tourists to shame. I struck up a conversation wit the chap, on a cheery note....

Now turns out he was an agricultural fellow - he farms sheep and cows in the valleys and high alpine pastures around here. In a feeble attempt to distract him from punishing me for my flabiness, I set about engaging him on a conversation about his cows.

For example - what breed are they, is it a dairy or beef herd? Are they Fresians for example?
At this, he made a spitting sound.
'Ach, zey are fat unt flabby breeds for the swampy countries like England or Nederlands. Zeir milch is not fit for das schweins no?'
He then laughed.
'Zey are hard mountain breed wiz strong shins for ze high pastures, zey eat little fodder, but give good Austrian Milch! Ja!'
He slaps his thighs and makes a fist gesture.
'Güt Milch for Austrian children to make strong bones so Austrian children grow to make fine skiers and strong farmers! Ze children in your country grow veak and flabby, but we are strong! Jawohl!'
It was a captivating display and I feared he would break into song. Possibly one involving uniforms and a bit of marching. You never know with Austrians.

'They sound like rather fetching beasts old boy - are they cozy in their winter stables?'

'Oh ja, zey are warm and and dry, and zey have ze calves wiz de big beautiful brown eyes, zey are proud beasts! I am proud of zem! Not flabby cows from ze lowlands, zey grow to be strong Austrian cows!'

'So Walter, what breed are they?'

'Zey are Jersey!'

Straight face.
No irony.

Couldn't make 'em up.

Sound fellow, and bloody good skier though.

Update

Ischgl
Unfortunately I am blogging from a outpost of Das Fatherland.
This means das kontrols of die blogger dashboard are in foreign, meaning I have had some comments, but I'd be blown if I could Publish them.
So - to my commentator who would call herself 'Marjorie' (You know who you are)

Heaven is England, in June.

Churchbells in the distance....
Stwawberries and cweam for tea....
Thrashing Australia in the cricket...

Anyway, my dear - you can plan menus with cook. I have badgers to gas in the meadow.

The Hills are alive with the sound of 'Heeeeyy Baaaaby!'

Ischgl

Hit the slopes like a battering ram on a silver black phantom bike.
Sort of.

Tad rusty on the pins, glissadded around like a barbary ape for most of the day. I can still parallel turn, but the light was as flat as a dutchman's paddock, subsequently I barrelled around the place in little control.
As this holiday is a personal indulgence and I have no chumrades along to impress or disappoint I can pretty much set my own pace. to that end, rather than the ignominius boot camp that is skischule, I have engaged the services of a mountain guide, porter and personal ski trainer. Kurt (for I am certain that is to be his name, whether he likes it or not) shall be on hand to give tuition on the finer points of this art.

It has been sometime since I engaged the services of a local in this manner.

The last time was in the Canadian dominions. My young snowboarding instructor then was a zealous young buck but with a hint of wisdom beyond his years. He understood that to serve his masters well, he should know them well too - and that a little personal service will impress greatly, so much so that we would bestow upon him a gratuity. I need not prevail upon you the economics of the like. Suffice to say, they pay these coves buttons and they are absurdly grateful for gifts, tips and hard cash beyond their meagre rations.

During A post lesson beer with a couple of us, the subject came to music and he extolled the virtues of the current developments in British music of that time. He and his other gang snow chaps also bemaoaned the little access they had to it in the wastes of Alberta. Never fear quoth I! I had a large collection of CDs with me (This was before ipods and other such knavery) The duly set about 'ripping' the 'phat tunage'. Before long they were sharing a cultural cigarrette with me, and of rather profound cultural significance too.
Espying my delight, they offered me a portion of 'homegrown' to soothe my aching muscles.

Who was I to refuse?

The hand-over took place and we had a bowl of this rather nice herbal accoutrement.

You know what is coming don't you.

The last time I had smoked anything as strong as this was on a lost weekend in Holland. I was to spend the next two hours with these fellow doubled over in bacchanalian delight, as visuals skated across my vision and hilarity bubbled forth at the most trivial.
I then recalled I had a steak and lobster engagement with my ski group, and in the current state I was in - I could not be seen in public. I then spent the next hour desperately trying and failing to straighten up.
My stomach growled but my head whirred. I was tripping the proverbials off.

An hour later, I was eventually composed enough to depart and on leaving one of them said - 'Your bag!'. I had merely assumed I would be engaged for a few smokes. as they said - it was homegrown, and a gift from the grateful peoples.

Crikey.

I had over a ounce of this astonishing mundungus.
And I wasn't taking it home.

Only one thing to do. Have a word with some of the chaps I know with me.
'Chaos, old boy'
'Yessir'
'Fancy a doob? I seem to have rather a lot.'

His eyes went from wonder to delight.

Amongst about four of us we smoked the weed we endeavoured to get through it all. In the end, all we could do was give it away to a another couple we identified a the end of the week who would benefit. They got three quarters of an ounce.
It is my firm belief that when one does a deed like that - they get passed on to others. I hope to imagine many people that winter had a mountain high in Canada.

So.
One wonders what doors Kurt will open for me here? Pathways to elysium or roads to hell? With luck, he has a soul mired in hades and shall not spare form when it comes to pleasing his new master.
Either that or it will be like going for a light workout under the tutelage of Arnold Schwarzenneger.
Das flesh is veak English dog, but like Conan, I make you strong, Ja?

We have a rendezvous at five thousand feet.

PS: If you reconised that headline, it is one of Austria's few contributions to modern culture. It keeps the local buffoons dancing on tables high on that other contribution Red Bull.

Musings on a trip across the strange continent

Ischgl.

Hello dear reader,

there is free interweb access in the hotel in which I have taken rooms, and I am shamelessly exploiting it. So I am sat here at angels-four in the alps with a glass of what passes for claret in these parts.

Today has been a adventure - of sorts. Other than me trying to touch type with a keyboard set to foreign that is.

I visited chums in S London last night to start the hols with a bang. Discretion prohibits me from furnishing you all with the riper details of my escapades - suffice to say I awoke with a start fully clothed - an hour late for my trip, and had to hot foot it across The garden of blighty to get to the tunnel on time. This I failed to do - but those splendid coves at TransManche sorted me out and I only missed a hour off my journey.

Consequently I found myself in the Pas de Calais with a grade two eye twister and 1100 foreign miles to thunder to my desitination. Fortunately, the Alvis was going like a dream and barring a moment's hesitation here or there, I found myself on the Brussels ring road.

I reflected momentarily on the vista laid before me in the drizzle.

This has to be why we own atomic weapons I pondered. One day - our benighted leaders will take it upon themselves to use them on this town. Even the Belgians will finally thank us for turning this place into glazed glass. In the long run.

But I could not dally. I had a schedule to keep. To the frontier!

And so I continued across Belgium, Holland and even - dare I say it Germany. The only crumb of comfort I had was 10 cds of unabridged Patrick O'Brian to keep me company. The hours oozed by as I soaked up the tales of glory and sailcloth and the Alvis ate the miles. The exchange rate for foreign miles is about the same as their strange money to The God Given Pound - so it seemed even faster.

Finally the frontier into Austria lay before me, as I purchased my motorway ticket for the country.

We all draw inspiration from our environs - but still my thoughts were dry, focussed and - frankly - dull. I was hoping for musings concerning Eagle's nests, lederhosen, edelweiss et al. No. All that was going through my head was a resolute and lantern jawed determination to get to the chap-pad have a shower and settle in.

Imagine my joy at beng greeted with valet parking and a free glass of champagne! Elysium be here! Only fly in the ointment was the desperately camp reception cove.
No - I can handle my own luggage, no, I don't need you to turn my bed down, no I can collect my keys from reception. Listen old chap - don't be offended, but please stop cooking up ever more tenuous excuses to come to my room. He appeared crestfallen. Or it was gas. These continental types are a bit inscruitable. And a they have a prediliction to obscene quantities of pickled cabbage - at least to levels that do not befit a gentleman.

Have prepared the tweeds for outdoor activities tomorrow by rubbing them liberally with rendered seal blubber - i shall be warm and waterproof and should I desire an evening's 'Clubbing' I should at least smell moderately Canadian.

I shall report with more tales of wonder tomorrow. I plan to set up a conrol room at the top of the cable car, after I have rented some ice-axes, a JU 87 and resurrected the ghost of Richard Burton to look after the radio.

Schitzel count: 1.
Strudel status: Negative. However, they give them free with schnapps here. I fear for my body beautiful.

Adieu! Adieu! To Yiue and Yieu and Yiue!

PS: Will probably get over the Sound of Music references in good time.

Fame at Last!

I have been blogrolled by guano forks. I am honoured!
I can now watch my hitcounts soar.

Chapsticks - where two's company and three's a readership.....

Broadsword calling Danny Boy

Off to Austria effective tomorrow.

As you know - Am off to Schloss-Adler (Ischgl). Rather than taking the Alvis across the frontier and grappling with the lunacy that is the French traffic system, I shall parachute in.

Here's me doing it last year:

Note the stern gaze, dashing uniform and attendant double agent to help me give Jerry the slip.

Now the biggest problem with skiing in Europe is the queues. Again taking a leaf from danny-boy above - have devised system to cope with said cable cars. This is illustrated here as well - but it doesn't leave a lot of room for error.

If fatigue, sore limbs, breakages, or sinister blonde chaps in slightly camp uniforms do not detain me overly, I may yet blog strudel-status from out there.

As ene fule kno

Fortunately, I passed my theory exam last night with the sort of mark which would belie a 'swot'. (No honest, i work everything out from base principle - I did no swottin chiz chiz) i was deklaired to be the class swot and so i can justify me bein just as fotherington tomas and sa hullo clouds hullo sky.
The other apes of the clas sa you are a swot mr d and truly a wet, and we diskard you and I sa i forgive you for those uncouth words and see yu at five thousand feet in my wiz glider zoom zoom

Too Posh to Pooh

A chumrade of mine has asked me on what I can describe as the oddest adventure.
Now, she hails from north of the Tartan Curtain, but she has other more notable faults. Shameless castle-creeping, obsessive materialism, the stalker like pursuit of hedge-fund johnnies and other such misdemeanours of the Nouveau Riche bejewel her character like Rubies at a WI benefit and indeed this suggestion smacked of 'Ladies What Lunch'.
However the nature of her suggestion really caught my eye, and reminded me of so many of those headlines in those celeb magazines that this poor misguided lass worships.

'Let's go for a joint colonic irrigation session' she suggested.

I thought about this for a moment.

'The opposite of dinner I suppose, but pricey nonetheless' I said (Not dismissing it out of hand mark you - I get to see someone push a tube up her bum, a tale on which I could dine out on for while).

She then suggested we could go Dutch. I immediately thought - 'ah - ever the romantic', but then the wordplay was too tempting...Dutch colonic irrigation! - Images of Amsterdam, windmills, and fingers in dykes - this too, too priceless.....
Not for her the prosaic dinner in another identikit Islington restaurant. Oh No. She would like us to go out, and have tubes stuffed into our rears and warm soapy water pumped through until a state of Persil-fresh gussetry is achieved.

Now I have done some research into his, and other than the obviously hair-raising elements - it is supposed to be addictive.
Those of us gifted with addictive personalities should be warned to steer clear of such things - as the expense soon out weighs the benefits - and a grisly spiral of an andrex free existence combined with jugs, tubes and commodes awaits.

Imagine the scene - Chap at home with Memsahib:
'Sorry dear, I have blown the money we saved for that Chalet in Verbier on Colonic Irrigation. We shall have to go to Bognor.'
A scene reminiscent of the treatment will probably ensue, except I can imagine it would involve the poker instead.

Still - don't knock it till you try it, I say.

Prolific today!

This is wonderful. I may yet purchase one.

Dark Satanic Mills

What-ho reader! I am currently in t' North, spreading the word of chappism in Britain's colonies north of the Trent.
York is steeped in queer ways and customs. My favourite on is that you are obliged to meet in one of the spectauclarly haunted pubs, so that the resident ghosts can give guided tours of the local actors.
There is also the local stationery musuem which I can't wait to visit - the Jorvik Viking Direct centre.
I am travelling home on the train - which I board next to the steam museum. Feel free to insert your own joke here.

Big exam tonight. I have hat, goggles and white silk scarf bought just in case.

My friend picture here will be at my side, trusty copilot that he is.

Startling eh?

Chum of mine sent me this. Rather tickled me, but then I thought....who would do this, and why?
The answer came in a flash! Our transatlantic cousins!
Rather comely though, isn't she?

Normal service will be resumed

You may have noticed dear reader that I have been a little quiet of late. This is because I have examinations.

Now, as you know Nanny would rather the way for us to get about is to be under her control, and going places to which she deems suitable. This means queuing up for hours to be shouted at by frightful individuals in ill fitting polyester uniforms, then crammed into a dreadful tin-can with two hundred of the underwashed and overscented while ladies as orange as their uniforms refuse to sell me gin, but insist on my purchasing lottery gizmos.

To ensure we don't take matters into our own hands, she insists that if I am to take an aeroplane to the heavens on my own then i must have my wit and intellect tested.

Being vulgarians of the highest order in her employ - the cut of my tweeds, the firmness of my handshake and the clubs to which I belong count for nought.
These benighted officials insist that I must jump through hoops to learn all sorts of byzantine regulations so that I can be priveliged to move about the skies as nature intended.

Many of these are counter intuitive to a free born chap as they largely concern laws, safety and sobriety. Reading between the lines they merely demonstrate the joyless lives these individuals lead - devoid of the deeper pleasures that nature has gifted us with enjoying.

Personally I believe that provided one can master a 2G turn without losing the baccy from the briar or spilling the scotch and soda then that really ought to suffice.
They will be asking me for credentials for my ability to command the propulsion of the old trusty Alvis next.

Problems with Blogspot

Is it me? Are my posts going straight to archive?
Blast this interweb thing.

Word Spreads!

I see Mr Eugenides also reads Patrick O'Brian.
Someone else will know the significance of the weather gauge, running alongside and boarding in the smoke and losing not a minute.

I salute you sir, with thirteen guns. You are welcome on my quarterdeck for a glass of sillery at any time.

The frozen wastes of Croydonia

Took the old Alvis skating this morning. Numpties everywhere, who shouldn't be permitted on the public highway without the red-flag chap running them in line ahead.
Being a chap of lantern-jawed resolve, and the skill at anything only found in Chap Of The Colonies, driving said horseless carriage to the old hamster wheel was a doddle.
More than can be said for the rest of the buffoons glissading their way across the highways of the Southern Smoke. The best thing to do is reside indoors, slip on your favourite dressing gown and slippers, load up the hookah, and await the soothing unctions of finest Lebanese take away your desire to venture forth. It may come to pass dear reader, that you will need food/ale/chocolate digestives/rizlas. and the garishly lit aisles of Mr. Tesco will require a visit. You will soon start to wistfully gaze upon your car keys and thinking about a fools errand. Fear not - a Chap is always prepared! Hear is my 'Cut-out and Keep' guide to winter driving:

1. Wear warm clothing. Stout tweeds, and insulated fez and double-glazed monocles should suffice. The wearing of gloves, mufflers or 'utility clothing' merely marks you out as hoi-polloi, and liable to rendering your porters restless.
A good lady friend swears by woolly tights. Naturally a chap should avoid such things unless of a theatrical persuasion, or if you suffer from cold knees. In which case, prepare a ready excuse for your lady wife when she occasions upon them in the laundry basket - 'They are my secretary's' normally works.
The snow is also the only time that brown brogues are permitted inside the M25.

2. Engage the correct number of porters. These will be required for the radios, supplies, botanising equipment and medicinal properties. They can also be on hand to bribe local officials, and to take the whip to any buffoon who gets in your way. 153 should suffice. bear in mind, they will need careful handling, and are liable to mutiny if you do not maintain an air of absolute authority. A sign of weakness, hesitation whilst under danger, or even a shiver against the cold will be seen as weakness, and they will exploit that to the full. I find selecting one at random in the morning and thrashing him is good for their behaviour and your amusement.

3. Hot food is essential. Should one find yourself awaiting the poltroon in the jack-knifed lorry to finally work out that he should call the RAC, one will need hot nourishing sustenance that is both filling and portable. I recommend a tureen of kedgeree is kept on a spirit burner on the back seat, and a warming Irish stew is kept at a suitable temperature in the engine bay. Your Moroccan boy will only be too delighted to remain within the engine compartment for stirring duties - as it will be a dash-sight warmer than the streets of South Norwood. Porters can be sent to forage for fresh rolls from Mr Greggs. Binders Butter Beans are a good addition.

4. Medicinal supplies. Should one find oneself in a crevasse, trapped on an ice-wall or short in sight of the summit, then strong medicine is required - and Champagne is strong medicine indeed. It should be only administered under the strictest medical supervision, or on the direct orders of the expedition leader. Use wisely, but apply liberally. See below for dosages. Morphine is recommended too. I prefer it in the Laudanum form, as this is especially useful for numbing the bone shattering pain of a supermarket checkout queue.

5. Rescue and scientific equipment. A minimum list includes: Crampons, 100 yards manila rope, four ice axes, pneumatic ice shovel, avalanche mortar, Lee-Enfield rifle (Yeti basher as we call 'em), lancet, 100 leeches, large canvas mess-tent, paraffin stove for 6 pans, carpet slippers, short wave wireless telegraphy set, marine sextant and reduction tables, two shovels, life belt, glacier cream, 100 gold sovereigns, two packets milk chocolate, a pint of brandy and 240 bottles of champagne. Anything else is a little trivial, and would overload your facilities.

6. Finally you should ask - is my trip really necessary - why should I go? If the answer is 'I must go to work', then it most certainly is not. if it is 'I need a new corkscrew to open a fresh bottle of Aloxe-Corton', then venture you must - for Bacchus must not be denied!

So - suitably equipped, one should find the drive to Mr. Tesco's pleasant and and enjoyable adventure for all the family.

Had a conversation with another leftie the other day.

She was bemoaning her current workload. She's a Surgeon in the Workers Popular Front (NHS) and has to get up at the crack of 8 O'clock to spend 30 minutes in her new car driving (Horrors!) to the Congress of the People's wonders (Hospital) where she operates on her patients.

I feel sorry for her. I mean - fancy the horrors of having scrape yourself out of bed at 8 am five whole days a week? And she is going to have to do it until she is 50 to get an 80% pension which isn't even in the city - it is only funded by our tax!

Poor girl.
Next time I am up at 05.30 to travel 300 miles on a monday to help close down a factory, and chuck 400 poor sods out on the dole so we can afford to keep going at all because these leftie thieves have put our taxes up again to pay for the privilege of her work ethic, I will remember to feel sorry for her.

Sorry folks, Icy calm deserted me there. Normal service will be resumed after a Gin and Tonic and an hour on the hookah.

I'd wager you a ha'penny bun to a pound of dried bananas....

Dear reader, as you know, we find ourselves in ever benighted times. Now as much as it brings joy to me that yet another socialist administration is on the ropes - I have to temper the desire to dance a jig, as their end is not yet nigh.

So - I must content myself with the ongoing tweaking of the nose of Nanny, statists, lefties, the so called liberal media progressive consensus, the subsidariat and their toadies of all forms.
I urge you dear reader to do the same.

'But how?' I hear you clamour…
Well chaps and chapesses across the land must rise to the challenge and confront the perils of being told how to wash our hands, what vegetables to eat and their spouting of their variegated 'me too' pseudo populist claptrap.

Now these types are tricky to confound, as they cloak themselves in veneers of smug superiority on the grounds that they odious ideas are good ones.
How do I do it? Humour, at their expense.

A recent example.

As you know I am plagued with the current need to work for living. This is largely because I would rather spend my time tinkering with engines, flying a motorless aeroplane, sailing into Cowes for a jug of Pimms and I am afraid that these things cost pennies.
This unfortunately brings one into contact with all manner of unsavoury types some of which despite joining the productive part of the economy still act as though they are part of some people's revolutionary front. One in particular thinks it makes her popular. (She reads the Independent and the Grauniad - need I illustrate more?)
A coffee machine (I know, grisly thought) conversation travelled as thus - she was busily waxing lyrical that the new casinos shouldn't be 'allowed'.
'Oh', says I, 'why not?'
'Because people will get addicted to gambling, and they need to be stopped'.
Oh-ho methinks Nannyism at work….time for a feint to the northwest I reckon…..
'But what about the controls that whassherface is talking about? They seem frightfully well structured'
'Not far enough! These things will only encourage people to become further in debt!'
…..Ah I muse, like artificially low interest rates, easy bankruptcies and the welfarism of the modern age doesn't….
'Well I reckon people aren't affected by such things, you know' quothe I, building up to a punch line…..
'Of course they are, everyone knows that!' …..Coffee table points of view again….
'Goodness - would you?'
'No - I know better…'
'Really? Well, I bet you a fiver you are…'

There was a delicious pause when she realised I was tweaking her nose

'That's not funny!'

Actually I think it is. Damn chit has no sense of humour, but then Lefties rarely do. One up for me I reckons.

I have slipped the surly bonds......

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.