Seven deadly sins (For a chap)

I have read recently that the Papists have updated the seven deadly sins from those that are really worthy - like gluttony, avarice, etc., into the latest neo-Marxist (green) hair shirted nannyisms - such as using plastic bags, driving a thirsty car or not using the orange bin - I have been moved to update them from a chappy point of view.

So - without further ado - the seven deadly sins of chappism - one that will get you struck off the list. (Not that one exists).

1. Working hard
No gentleman should work hard. If you are forced to work for a living then one should strive to skive.

2. Auto Fellatio
It may seem clever at the time, in the dead of night to be a human hedgehog - but no amount of brushing will take that taste away.

3. Sobriety
It is unfortunate that Calvinistic swine who run the show think that the country they have created is best viewed sober. Take it from me, Mr Hendricks and Tonic takes the edge off the badger-budget.

4. Trainers
Instead of Brogues? See 2.

5. Faecal Fibre checking.
One's free time is precious. If you feel the need to do this, then you ought to be practicing 2 instead.

6. GAP
Nay, nay and thrice nay. Whilst I approve of the global manufacturing policy, one will end up permanently looking like a character on Home and Away - not for the civilised.

7. Voting Labour.
Oh 'Things will only get better' will they? They didn't and they have cut your purse open. Don't feel so progressive now, do you. At best you deserve pity, or satirical derision. Ideally pilloried and horse whipped.

The horror....

I spent an hour an a half skulking at the modern torture chamber that is the palace of physique that is my local gym this evening.

Why?

I got home to see Donna-Da-Lodga fully togged up in her liveried finest - and wafting about my abode perfumed, scrubbed and presumably ready to present herself for inspection.
She was in a state of high anxiety and looking a little like Nurse Diesel herself and soon drove me from the house. I felt sufficiently uncomfortable to be prepared to exercise to escape the burgeoning nightmare within.

Ski ski run run lift lift run cycle sweat.

I arrived home to find a white van parked on my drive.

Horror.

Fortunately they have been hiding in her rooms all evening, bar the scurrying from room to heads from time to time and the furtive giggles issues through the ceiling, I remain unexposed the sordid goings-on and doubtless sexual extremism taking place upstairs.

I am retiring soon. Aviation grade earplugs are on stand by - but i fear I may sleep through the alarm in the morning.

Watch this space, reader.

Where there's muck....revisited

I blogged a while ago in a singular piece of genius about how the invisible hand of the market would intervene where the Local council decide they will halve their rubbish service, yet charge the same fee.


In an interesting twist, not only have many of them decided to go to fortnightly (I am in one of those poor areas) but they have decided to charge extra if you create more rubbish.
Great idea - but only if you can then select with whom you pay for your services. Otherwise it is just another localised monopoly.

The bit that gets my gripe though is that these services are being reduced, but is the local bureaucracy which supports it going as well, and will my council tax bill reduce with it?
Will I get a discount if I don't fill my bin? What's stopping me taking my spare waste to the local tip and getting rid of it for free?

Methinks we will see rubbish on the streets again - just like the last Labour administration.

It is a matter of time until not only will there be an alternative to your fortnightly collection - but I reckon it will be cheaper, greener, cleaner and quicker than the one provided by the bloated state monopoly.

Just you watch.

More on my Bins prediction.....

Fez Doff at the The Telegraph and Matt.

Don't say I didn't warn you

Or......



Or......

We ARE the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain

There comes a time in a Chap's existence when the strains of the Ukulele do not merely represent the wheezing histrionics of a Lancashire fellow engaged in fenestrative cleansing duties.
They are a form of high humour and an ironic look at the modern popular culture of music.

I have seen their work on a number occaisons....

Last night I took My Particular Friend in hand and introduced her to the delights of these Fellows., dispensing their Teenage Kicks to the audience.

Believe me - I am indeed just a teenage dirt bag, baby. It has also been known for me, on some occasion, to listen to Iron Maiden, maybe.

Gosh, I am rather with-it what?

The Chap Olympics

The challenge about going to any kind of event where one is required to be attired in anything other than a smart suit and tie, is the amount of exposure where one has to travel with the Underwashed and Overscented and they are wont to stare and fail to understand the cut of one's jib.

I took my Particular friend to the Chap Olympics on Saturday.

The cut of the jib on this particular day involved presenting one's self in one's colonial attire. I drew upon my deep DNA memory of the steamy plantations of the Cameron Highlands, the sweat soaked gin dives of Wanchai and the dusty front lines of Kipling's Great Game. In other words, khaki shorts, pith helmet, Sam Browne belt and brogues.
My Particular Friend's attire said Twenties Tennis party with associated freshly steamed Panama.

And such that it was we found ourselves strolling (I said Marching - but apparently that's crass) through the Bloomsbury district of Londinium towards the site of the Chap Olympics this year.

Bedford Square Gardens on a July afternoon. Sun dappled lawns. Cool, white pavilions of calm to entertain the troops and a brass band to provide a musical accompaniment to an afternoon's athleticism.

We passed through the formalities at the gate and presented ourselves to the popsies handing out Gin vouchers. We duly identified ourselves as competitors and had a christian handful of free G+T tickets thrust into our eager mits.

We beheld the scene momentarily and then reviewed our appearance. Until now, we had felt confident we were quirky and unusual enough.
The scene before our eyes was somewhat remarkable.

Ladies in forties dresses, veils and seamed stockings.
Gentlemen dressed as 18th century parsons, explorers and Victorian hunters.

Fortitude was clearly going to be required and I fled to the refreshment tent.

I handed over the Gin voucher to the young lad behind the bar and demanded Military Strength sustenance.
He promptly half filled two high ball glass with Gin, then with ice and topped up the last inch with tonic and cucumber.
Military strength indeed.

I returned to find My Particular friend perusing the programme with a slight furrow in her brow, and a flare to her nostrils. She was concerned.

I read her thoughts quickly and summised we needed to re plan our attendance. No plan, after all survives contact with the enemy.

'I say, Ms A, let's view this as a recce?' Said I adjusting the Sam Browne belt and adopting a slightly rakish angle to the pith helmet.
She pondered this for a moment, while a relieved smile played across her lips.
'Splendid Idea Mr. D. Let's check out the situation, enjoy what appears to be unlimited Gin, and plot our return next year.'
'Quite, my dear.'
'We can review the crowd and think of a unique theme....'

We discussed many thoughts that day. As they are likely to be employed on various chappist activities, I am not at liberty to discuss the nature of the schemes we hatched.
Consequently, we thus devoted the rest of the day to enjoying the Gin to the full force of the liberal behaviour of the staff - I was pouring my own by the end of the afternoon - and some serious people watching.
The events were hilarious, the people delightful and the atmosphere terrific. After all - in the words of Max Boyce - 'We Were There'.

We finally took the public train home and reviewed the experience. It was a delight and it was certainly worth blogging about.

Pics Here.

This was our first official engagement, and I rather think it was a hit. It doesn't count as a cultural exchange, as you may recall it was rather her idea.

T'North - A solution to their woes!

Northern types off to refresh the collective revolutionary consciousness

Alas - the monsoon hit the north rather hard this year - so what to do?

Well given the view from my window in the first class compartment as I trundle my merry way T'North - traditional arable agriculture is obviously waterlogged. Mile after mile of soggy field.
I have had a thought. This should be seen my our enterprising chums in T'North as an opportunity!

What wisdom can I - Chap 'o' T'North impart on my comrades?

Yes, comrades.

As they are as a rule a bunch of unmitigated socialists - who somehow believe in the inherent nobility of toil in fields, mines or the like, then my suggestion will suit them down to ground.

RICE!

What are the benefits...?

They get to do back breaking toil bent over in waterlogged fields bare foot in freezing water (loads of scope of whining about the toil)

They get to go back to their classical agrarian roots

They get to wear the same black Viet Minh pyjamas and coolie hats - loads of revolutionary cred and solidarity with their Viet worker brothers (if somewhat 30 years out of date)

Lots of trudging nobly behind water buffalo

The return of decent illnesses like Dhobey rot and Trench foot.

We can even set up speakers at all the corners to play stirring revolutionary songs to them while their children denounce their parents for harbouring bourgeoisie tendencies.

Loads of red flags everywhere.

Gordo gets to wear a Chairman Mao suit while telling even more outrageous lies of how glorious everything is under him while his cabinet of muppets bark on about how their own slice of the cultural revolution is perfect.

AND….the final boon - price of basmati falls to reasonable levels - it's practically extortion in Waitrose.

So - I ask you….what's wrong with a bit of Maoism? It could be what we need in this country. Just so long as in a few years the benighted squad of onanists in Downing street get toppled in a very bloody counter revolution and we embrace Singapore / Hong Kongesque ultra capitalism, then it might be worth enduring the appalling tailoring and the water buffalo crapping everywhere.

My Latest Invention

One of my particular friends who visited me to celebrate my impending eld on Saturday rather took to Donna-Da-Lodger's dog.

Stoney (The Dog, not the Friend) is a delightful mastiff. An amiable, if somewhat odorous brute - who is totally hand tame, but has a taste for soft furnishings and is bright enough to remove most obstacles placed on the sofa - thereby allowing him forbidden luxuriation.
As with most large dogs, they tend to have a weak spot - and Stoney's is his ears. He is a sucker for having his ears rubbed. He will snuffle, snort and generally drool on one for a rub of his large velvet ears.

Friend was playing with said ears, when he was seized by a motivated to clean them. They needed doing, and he also felt motivated to comment on their state whilst he and dog frolicked on the quarter deck.
'I'm most concerned for his ears', he said with a worried look.
'Indeed.' I responded, pouring the chilled Sancerre into a large glass which I had inspected for spots, dead insects and other detritus one expects from taking supper Alfresco.
'There is so much wax- seems such a waste of resources - is there any use we can put it to?' He asked.

I pondered the prodigious wax-like effusions and it stuck me.

'We could make particularly disgusting scented candles.'

I have since pondered what to do with a dog-ear scented candle. Other than for the purpose of attracting blue-bottles, I can think of no other practical application.

The only purpose of attracting blue-bottles could be a morbid desire to experiment with maggots - betraying yourself to be desperately unpleasant - or have a liking to catching Tench. Neither pastime of which is suitable for a gentleman of style and panache. (Barbel - maybe, but Tench, never.)

I shall add them to my useless inventions list. I may return to that theme at other points. In my various conversations with my chap-orientated chums, one often dreams up such odd juxtapositions which makes one smile to oneself on the train - and it is high time I recorded them for posterity.

In a Twist of Fate....

Rather Bizarrely, the Sultry Journalist is slithering her way around a conference in the Frozen Wastes, ('oop North) cutting deals, wheeling, dealing, ducking and if I be as bold to venture - diving; where as I am stuck in South London writing turgid copy for an in-house publication.

Obviously without the Gala Luncheons and friends in the 'Media' - but other than that, a role reversal of sorts!

Speaking of the Fourth estate - everyone will have seen the 'Go To Work On An Egg' thing being banned, with usual rent-a-quotes wheeled out by the MSM and the dead-tree brigade. My fave quangocrat was the bod from the Egg Information Board. It brought to mind my favourite quango - here.



Look 'em up - can anyone beat that?

Carbolic for the gums

I shall soon gargle with TCP, wash with Coal Tar Soap and use Vosene for that authentic Carbolic aroma.

I know everything

Read Chapsticks and get ideas likeThis !
It would be unseemly of me to gloat, as predicting an unintended consequence would take great wisdom. But then I am a GENIUS.

Sly wink to a mystery Journo who tipped me off.
Gushing thanks to the rest of the world for letting me share my GENIUS with you all.

Where there's muck....

A bin, yesterday.

I suspect a lot of hot air (pun fully intended) will get generated over the latest thing by the councils - what with cameras in bins, and areas (mine included) going to fortnightly collection.
I now have three bins outside. One for garden waste (I have a patio courtyard), one for normal kitchen waste, and they are upgrading the orange bags to bins for my newspapers, light card, glossies and placky bottles.

I am fortunate to have fitted one of those machines to the sink that chews up food waste, flushing it harmlessly down my drains (I really should be very careful there - given the sensitivity of my local drainage). All in all this means I am very little affected by the changes. I live alone, don’t generate much waste and dispose of what I create sensibly.
Now a chap looks at this and thinks in two ways. One could get a bit heated and fulminate to the authorities and say that I am paying you for this. One would like to review the spreadsheets where they work out the likely volume drop in landfill, versus the tax increase. One suspects that there increase in tax, versus the likely drop is less than the money saved by alternate collections. That's what should come of my rates. This implies a single local monopoly as the government knows best what I need and determines how my services are provided and my acceptance that this is the right way.

Or….

The enterprising amongst us looks at the industrial waste removers, and think ' Hello - gap been created in the market'
I can see it now….'' We will Come and have your bin sanitised and emptied once a fortnight for a fee''. I am certain there is a margin between the £/tonne landfill tax, and the collection costs for such waste - versus the rate the market (us) will bear for having our bin emptied and sweetened. (Bins with Grins!!)

There could well be a boom in competitive local services, offering competition to local politicised monopolies (Councils). All that is necessary now is a quick switch to allow you to opt out of the services your council can provide but you can buy cheaper elsewhere. With the technology going in - it could easily be tweaked to manage account information so that your personal rubbish service only charges you for what you create. Even better- the Polluter pays. And there is a huge disincentive for your to be over productive with sprogs - as you have to bear the real cost of ownership, instead of it being carried by the state.

At a stroke - Domestic services have real local competition, things get efficient and we move to a beautiful sunlit uplands with empty bins.

I bet Cyclops and which ever of his running dogs thought this up didn't think it could end there.
As ever with the big statist solution to local problems - it is the unintended consequences which bring the most interest.

Oh I am sure those statist among you will insist that only the government know best how to empty your bins, or some stuff about it will 'exclude' those who can't afford private collections. Stuff, I say Stuff! Their bins get emptied now, do they not? Why should that change?
It is the same argument that water and food is too important to be left in the hands of grubby commercialists, and a nice fair Board of Supply will take care of you.

So in summary - I welcome the move!

PS: If you think competition is wrong - I don't suppose you remember the days when you had to queue up at the GPO shop to order a telephone, and wait three months for it to be delivered- or only being allowed to buy a fridge form your Electricity board shop.... it wasn't that long ago....