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.