Rogue One

Sky Walkers Crisps

When something outrageous or provocative is broadcast on television or radio, there is a simple solution that could avoid a dangerous increase in blood pressure, impotent fury and a desire to hit the domestic appliance with an unusually heavy object. The answer is easy; change channel or switch the bloody thing off.

If the irrational ranting of an anonymous blogger pretending to be a polypropylene even-toed ungulate river horse causes outrage of such incandescence that you are moved to quote the Daily Mail as fact, do not read the blog and look instead at pictures of cats. There is, by the way, no need for any Mollie Sugden references here thank you very much.

If you take umbrage at a total stranger on Twitter or Facebook and feel the need to threaten them with rape and or beheading then the problem might be residing in you rather than in the opinions you disagree with. Try getting out more and maybe attempt to find a girlfriend or, indeed, a boyfriend or, as a short-term measure, another actual human being capable of an actual conversation that aspires to more than basic grunting.

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Will

Picasso sketch 1964

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention to describe just how bloody wonderful it is to be an Englishman living in these joyous times.

Firstly we celebrated 90 glorious years of divine monarchy dedicating a lifetime of hollow crown duty by waving a lot and having to endure the permanent smell of fresh paint. Then we commemorated our holy English values as epitomised by our noble patron Saint George. As with most versions of English history, George`s origins and ethnicity are a little vague. He might have been born in Cappadocia which would make him a Turk or he might have been born in the Roman province of Syria Palaestina which roughly translates as either Syria or Palestine. What is certain is that he was not born within the concrete O of the M25, he did not speak English and his dragon slaying activities took place far away from Albion in a place called Beirut. Crying God for Harry, England and Agios Georgios might make you sound… well… a bit foreign.

Sutton Hoo?

Something fishy

He might have a lot on his tiny mind at the moment, but it is possible that South Yorkshire PCC Shaun Wright is considering making a large donation to the election fund of the bringer of earthquakes the mighty Douglas Carswell.

As the media hoards exit Rotherham and descend upon Clacton faster than an ex-cabinet minister caught in a boys` home, Mr Wright`s sigh of relief at seeing an empty doorstep when peeking through his curtains can probably be heard as far away as Wormwood Scrubs. Along with missing Nigerian girls, missing Malaysian airliners, missing Prime Ministers, children in Gaza with missing limbs and editors completely missing the point of the Alexis Jay report, by tomorrow the media will be asking Shaun who?

Lesbian lizards from space

Via bbc.co.uk

It is surprising how quickly the world returns to normal after a week or so away and once the front door has been forced open against the pile of correspondence and once the countless emails have been ignored, it is almost as if the holiday never actually happened.

Not so this time however. Something in the glue that holds the universe together had changed and something odd seems to have provoked the entire planet to jump the shark. The first clue that the reality bill was overdue came when an anxious teenager deprived of television phoned a friend to find out what happened in the latest episode of Dr Who. Others suffering from cold turkey demanded that the call be placed onto the speaker and we heard this:
“Well the lizard lady and her maid are in a lesbian marriage and living in Victorian London with a miniature version of Eric Pickles, a T-Rex spontaneously combusted and a cyborg that looked like David Cameron was impaled on the top of Big Ben and then went to heaven.” I retreated to the comfort of news websites only to find that the surrealism was pandemic.

Deepening like a coastal shelf

Diving for pearls

Of all the important things taught at seats of learning both great and small, how to be a parent stands little chance of being included on the curriculum. Like parachuting, deep sea diving and mating, all the manuals, theory and research in the world cannot replace the hands-on experience of on-the-job training. Failure seems inevitable as attempting to channel positivity, hope, compassion and basic human decency without imposing anxiety, fear and an all consuming ambition is a balancing act that is almost impossible to carry off. Thus, misplaced and erroneous reflected parental glory came a knocking on the door on AS-Level results day.

We have tried our very best not to impose pressure in the pursuit of top examination grades preferring to allow young minds to chart their own course. We failed on occasions and with hindsight comments such as “what do you mean you can`t grasp the concept of filial piety in King Lear” and “for heaven`s sake, child, it`s only a quadratic equation” barked across the dinner table did not exactly help. After a while, the stock question “have you done your homework” was always replied with “yes” even though we knew the answer was always “no”. As one wag many years ago wrote on the wall of the gents at my student union; “knowledge wilts in the greenhouse of academia”.